#this was the first song from ghost i listened to in full and what a fitting beginning

[motorsportbarbie13]

Hurricane - Part Three

{Emma blinks in surprise but manages to hold eye contact with Max. “I wasn't aware 'emotional support assistant' was my new job title.” She quips, grin ghosting at the edge of her lips. For what feels like the first time all weekend, Max laughs. It’s loud and genuine and sends a shiver of pleasure dancing over Emma’s skin. He shakes his head, scrubbing at his tired face with his rough, calloused hands. “I don’t want to be alone and I don’t want to go with anyone else.” }

warnings/notes: no warnings in this one, its pretty fluffy. thank you to my writing therapist @lestapiastrisgirl for holding my hand as i crash out on a nightly basis and reassuing me that i do not, in fact, suck at this whole writing thing. pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (fem original character) word count: 4.6k words

read hurricane on ao3 hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

Max slept in the next morning, something he didn’t often allow himself to do. He was drained from the past week, despite it being an off week, so he figured he had earned a little respite. Between the struggles he’d been having in the car since mid-last season to the drama around the second Red Bull seat, Max felt wrung out emotionally and just wanted to have a moment to breathe. Leaving Milton Keynes early the day before had been a start and even just one night in his own bed had him feeling back on the road to feeling better. 

The earthy scent of his favorite coffee brewing mixed with the smell of something sticky sweet drew him out of the deep sleep he’d been in. After coming home last night and hearing Emma play, the pair had spent a quiet evening with takeout and a movie before Max had turned in early, exhaustion from the week’s excitement making his bones ache. 

He’d woken up around 1am to the sounds of Clair de Lune floating through the cracks in his bedroom door and had stayed up longer than necessary listening to Emma play. It was a song he knew well and he had recognized it the second his eyes blinked open. His mother had played the song frequently when he was growing up along with a lot of classical music and the strains of the song provided him with a sense of nostalgic comfort that he’d been craving lately. The memories that the notes elicited grounded him in a way that nothing had been able to do in a very long time. 

The sunlight streamed into the bay windows that lined one of the walls of his bedroom as Max dug around in his closet for a clean t-shirt and shorts before wandering out to the open-concept kitchen. He paused in the archway, just out of Emma’s sight, as he watched her float around the kitchen. All four burners on the stove were switched on and Max strained to see that there were sausages and bacon sizzling away, what looked to be French toast nearly ready to be flipped, and scrambled eggs frying up in a pan. Two coffee mugs sat on the counter, one full of the dark liquid, the other sitting empty, presumably waiting for Max to wake up. 

Emma had on an ancient looking crewneck sweater, the vibrant crimson color faded to almost a purplish pink, sleeves shoved up above her elbows to keep them out of the feast she was in the middle of preparing. Half of her hair was tied up and away from her face, secured in place by a giant claw clip that managed to handle the thick locks without breaking. Her legs were nearly bare, the sleep shorts she wore were sinfully short, her mile long tanned legs on display for only Max to see. 

He swallowed thickly at the sight in front of him, the sheer domesticity of it making something in his chest ache for a life he never knew he yearned for. He’d never been one to dream about the day he settled down, got married, had kids and a home. It wasn’t him, wasn’t how he was raised. Jos always told him there would be time for that after racing and that if he allowed anything to get in the way of his laser sharp focus, Max’s career would suffer. 

The song Emma hummed in the back of her throat was familiar but not something he could totally place and the look on her face was open, bright, beautiful. She seemed so comfortable in his space, so at home in a kitchen that was usually sterile and bare and the way she brought life into Max’s home with barely any effort made Max’s chest ache in the most unfamiliar way. 

Max didn’t know how long he stood there, watching Emma move around his kitchen with a practiced grace that spoke of quiet confidence in a space where she felt like she belonged. It was heart achingly familiar and brightly brand new all at once, almost too much for Max to handle.

Eventually though, the spell was broken as Emma sensed she wasn’t alone anymore. When her eyes snagged on his frame, the smile that fluttered across her face nearly sent Max into cardiac arrest. 

“Good morning, sleepy head.” She teased, turning around to take the waiting coffee pot off the warmer and pour a generous amount into the waiting cup. “Milk? Sugar? There wasn’t any creamer in the fridge when you left so I didn’t know how you usually take your coffee or what to buy as a replacement.” 

The gesture was nice on the surface but Max knew there was an underlying anxiety to her monologue. From the short amount of time he’d spent with Emma, he’d clocked the fact that Emma was a textbook definition of people pleaser, almost to a painful level. She was constantly looking to him for approval, for confirmation that she’d done a good job or that Max wasn’t mad at her. The history behind those habits were an unknown to Max but he recognized a coping mechanism when he saw it.

“Whatever milk you have is fine. Sugar too.” 

Emma looked relieved as she turned to the fridge to get the small carton of milk. A bowl of sugar appeared shortly after too, in a ceramic dish that Max hadn’t even known he owned. They were quiet for a beat as Emma turned away to make sure the sausage wasn’t burning. 

“You’re in a good mood this morning.” Max commented over the rim of his mug, eyes not leaving Emma for a moment longer than necessary. 

Emma turned around, gaze instantly flicking towards the piano in the corner of the living room before darting back to look at Max. Those normally stormy gray eyes were bright this morning, happier than Max had seen them the entire time she’d been staying with him. A small smile tugged at the corner of Emma’s lips as she took a sip of her coffee. “Yeah,” She breathed, the sound sending a shudder down Max’s spine, “I guess I am.” 

There’s another lengthy pause, the silence blanketing the pair comfortably before Emma pushes a plate of French toast towards Max. “I know you’re probably on some sort of super strict diet for the season but once I start cooking it’s a little hard for me to stop.” 

Max grins as he stabs a piece of French toast with his fork before reaching for the butter. Emma slides the syrup over. “I think we can make an exception for this spread. Everything looks so good, Em.” 

Emma preened at the praise that tumbles from Max’s lips like it was the first time she’d ever heard a positive affirmation in her life. Not for the first time since Emma had come to stay with him did Max want to throttle whoever had caused her to behave like she was constantly making mistakes. 

 After one bite, Max hums, the sound low and satisfied, working it’s way across Emma’s skin. “And it tastes even better.” He says around the mouthful of food. 

As he digs into the plate Emma had piled high with food, his eyes wander around the expansive kitchen and living room. For the first time since arriving home, Max noticed something was different about his apartment. Nothing obvious, just a few quiet things that anyone else might’ve never notice. It was still his apartment of course. Nothing major had been moved or tucked away, it still felt like the place that he had settled into over the last few years.  

The cords on his sim right were a little more tidy, the brand new citrus candle that was burning low in the living room, the twin cat beds that had appeared underneath the piano while he had been gone. It made the apartment feel cozier somehow, like the place had been missing these small, gentle touches of a feminine hand. It should have had the hackles on the back of his neck rising, having someone that deep in the place he guarded so closely but having Emma there felt natural, like she was the last piece of the puzzle he’d been missing. 

Swaying a bit at the overwhelming realization, Max blinks and shakes his head in a desperate attempt to clear away the cobwebs of dangerous attraction that had no business being in on his mind. 

“I hope you don’t mind the cat beds I bought. Jimmy and Sassy kept trying to climb into the piano while I was playing and it was the only way I could keep them out and still practice.” Emma says halfway through the meal. 

Max grins in that genuine, open way does when he’s truly pleased. The corners of his eyes crinkled up, lips curling up in a lopsided boyish smile. “I appreciate you taking care of them, they’re social cats and I hate leaving them. They seem to be quite taken with you.” 

Emma leaned down scratch at Sassy’s ears after she had wandered into the kitchen as if she knew she was being discussed. “They kept me company while I had my quarter-life crisis on your couch for two days. We bonded.” 

“And what did you come up with while experiencing this crisis? Anything life changing?” Max hadn’t wanted to push last night to talk about the future. He hadn’t want to bring up Emma leaving because if he was being honest, and he quite often wasn’t with himself, he was enjoying having her here. It had been less than a week but she’d already imbued herself deeper into his life than he could have ever anticipated. 

“I’ve decided I’m going to marry rich and become a trophy wife.” She announced, eyes glittering as a wicked smirk kicked up at the edge of her mouth.

Max was so startled by her declaration, he choked out a laugh so loud Sassy went flying across the kitchen floor in a startled terror. 

Emma made a sound of offense before rolling her eyes. “I’m insulted you think my goal of being a trophy wife is so lofty. Am I really that hideous?”

When she sticks out her bottom lip in a pout, Max had to physically restrain himself to keep from reaching out and swiping his thumb across her outstretched lip, his fingers digging into the sides of his chair so hard his knuckles went white. Before he can come up with a response though, Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Reluctantly pulling it out, he’s unable to bite back the groan that starts in the back of his throat. 

“Everything okay?” Emma asks before popping a bite of bacon into her mouth. 

“Christian won’t stop emailing me about the stupidest shit after hours and on weekends. Marko too. It’s never anything important and most of the time could wait until I see them again.” Max frowns, reading the subject line: ‘NEW PR IDEAS FOR YUKI’. “I’m about to block them both.” 

Emma reaches out with her hand, motioning for him to hand over his phone, “I have an idea, can I try something?” 

Max easily slides the phone across the counter and watches, mesmerized, as Emma starts tapping away at his phone for several moments, her eyes fixed on the screen. As she works, she catches her bottom lip in between her teeth, nearly sending Max into another spiral so quickly he has to look away. 

“And…done! There you go, that should take care of your problems.” Emma looks up, sly grin stretching across her face as she hands back the phone. “I created a few rules in your inbox. Now anything that Christian and Helmut send you after hours will go directly into a separate folder instead of in your main inbox so you can choose when you want to look at their stuff instead of being bothered by their lack of boundaries.” 

Max tilts his head, eyes narrowed as he lifts his gaze from his phone to meet Emma’s eager expression. He’s quiet for so long that Emma shifts uncomfortably, wondering if she’d crossed a line. Maybe he didn’t like his things messed with. Maybe she had gone too far with her desire to help and it had made him angry. 

Why was she always messing everything up?

“Marry me.” Max mutters finally, half joking and half deadly serious and Emma blinks over at him. “Marry me and become my trophy wife, please.” 

Emma can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her at the sheer ridiculousness of the request. “You’re insane.” 

Max just smirks, sinking into the sound of her laughter. It’s light, sweet, and everything that he craves as the sound rakes itself over his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “I’m serious. You come in here, clean up my place and make it look like someone actually lives here, fill my fridge with all of my favorite things, and banish my bosses emails to a folder I never have to look at? That’s wife behavior right there, schat.” 

Emma’s cheeks go crimson but she manages to roll her eyes, “That sounds a lot like personal assistant behavior to me and if you need a lecture in the differences between wifey and assistant behavior, we have bigger problems on our hands, Verstappen.” 

“Then be my assistant.” 

Emma doesn’t have a response to that because she can’t quite tell if Max is still teasing her or not. The look on his face shifts into something more serious though and she struggles to catch up. She was still trying to recover from the faux proposal moments ago, the thought of marrying Max suddenly making her throat feel tight and cheeks feel hot. “Wait. What?” 

Max shrugs, feigning nonchalance as best as he can. “Horner has been after my ass for years to hire a personal assistant. He claims I miss too much and am spread too thin. To be honest, he’s probably just bitter I never return any of his emails but he does have a point.” He pauses, flipping his phone around in his hands as a way to channel the nervous energy buzzing through his veins. He hadn’t meant to ask her to be his assistant but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he didn’t want to take them back. 

“I don’t have any experience in your world, Max.” Emma says, worrying the corner of her lip. 

“You don’t need experience in motorsport to help me run my life. You need a job, a place to stay, a steady paycheck, right? I can give all of those things to you, Em. Let me help?” 

Emma drops her gaze away from Max’s for a moment, contemplating the offer. He was right, of course. She had nothing holding her back, no prospects. She’d spent the better part of the time alone in Max’s place searching for something, anything for her to do. Jobs that she was qualified for were few and far between in Monaco. The thought of going back to teaching and the politics that came along with it, made her stomach churn. Working for Max would save her from having to go back home with her tail tucked between her legs. 

“At least until you figure out what you want to do going forward.” He says quickly to fill the silence that filled the space between them. “You don’t have to be my assistant forever, just until you get back on your feet and decide what’s next.” 

A small grin ticks up at the corner of Emma’s lips and Max knows he’s got her.

“Alright, yeah.” She pauses, drawing in a deep inhale. There was a significant shift in the air as she studied Max sitting across from her, it was charged with something that neither of them were quite ready to face yet but they both knew was meaningful in a way they hadn’t ever anticipated.

“And who knows, maybe I’ll even find a rich race car driver to trophy wife me up, right?” 

Emma winks over at Max but the only thing that scuttles through his mind in response is ‘yeah, and that man will be me.’ 

The sun in Bahrain was relentless. While Emma considered herself relatively well traveled, she’d never been to the Middle East before. After going to Japan last week with Max, her head was spinning with how different her life had become literally overnight. 

After she had accepted Max’s offer, it had been decided that the easiest thing to do was hire Emma via Red Bull and pay her that way. This protected everyone involved and gave Emma the stability she’d been craving since being fired from her nightmare of a nannying job. It also gave legitimacy to her being in the paddock and the access to places where Max needed her to be. 

It was a simple enough job when it all came together. Manage Max’s email and personal schedule, make sure his meals were what his trainer needed them to be, when they needed to be there, ensure Jimmy and Sassy were visited by the pet sitter 3 to 4 times a day, handle his personal appearance requests that didn’t go through the Red Bull PR department. The tasks were easy for someone as organized and type A as Emma and she fell into the role seamlessly. 

Japan had been easy because Max had a mega weekend and the team was on the upswing. 

And then Bahrain happened. 

Emma was walking towards the parking lot of the paddock after the race Sunday night with another Red Bull employee when the shouts of someone calling her name stopped her in her tracks. The race had gone horribly wrong for Max and he’d told her to go ahead to the hotel without him because he’d be at the track for hours pouring over data with GP and the engineering team. Emma had wanted to get a head start on packing, for both Max and her anyway, so she had agreed and found a ride back with someone else. 

She turned around to see one of the PR interned sprinting after her, wild panic in her eyes. 

“Laurie, what’s wrong?” Anxiety fluttered in her chest briefly. Max had made it out of the car in one piece and as far as she was concerned her job was finished for the night.

Laurie struggled to catch her breath as stopped short of Emma and Rachel, the engineer she was getting a ride with. “Max. Refusing to do media. Won’t talk to anyone but you.” 

“What?” Emma shot a confused look at Rachel before returning her gaze back to the young woman. “Laurie, take a few deep breaths. Did you run here from the media pen?” 

Laurie nodded before dragging in a few more ragged breaths. It took a few more moments but eventually, her chest stopped heaving like she had just finished a marathon. 

“Ok, now slow down.” Emma started, placing a hand on Laurie’s shoulder. “What is going on? Where’s Max?” 

“He’s refusing to go to the media pen and do his interviews. The FIA officials are threatening fines, Horner is about to combust, and he says he’ll only talk to you.” 

Emma’s brows rose into her hairline as she exchanged another surprised look with Rachel. “Well, I guess I’m not going back to pack right now, am I? Go ahead without me, I’ll get a ride back with Max. Thanks Rachel.” 

Rachel nodded before wishing her good luck and turning back towards the parking lot. 

Emma turned back to Laurie, “Okay, where is he?” 

“Driver’s room.” 

“Okay, go to the pen and tell everyone Max wasn’t feeling well after the race. Blame the heat or something? And that he’ll be along in less than 20 minutes.” 

Laurie nodded before jogging off towards the media tent. Emma turned down a quiet alleyway on her way to Red Bull’s hospitality. 

It only took a few more minutes before she was standing in front of Max’s drivers room on the second floor of the suite. She’d spent most of her time in the room this weekend, watching the practice sessions and qualifying while working on getting Max’s inbox under control (something that was still a work in progress and causing her almost as many headaches as the driver who was currently throwing a tantrum). As she stood in front of the closed door though, there was a heavy air of anxiety and anger that hummed through the space. She knew what she’d find behind the door, had seen the way Max had looked furious when he’d gotten out of the car. 

Emma only had to wait a few moments after knocking softly to hear a strangled “Come in.” 

Pushing the door open with a gentle shove, Emma took a few steps into the room before spotting Max. Her heart ached when she saw the way he was folded in on himself, shoulders hunched, race suit still half-on, head in his hands. Despite it being a rough weekend for the team, Max had tried to take most of it on the chin. His temper had flared a few times here and there, a few stiff words for GP during the race, a few angry glances lobbed at a mechanic that happened to be in his way. No one had thought much of it as it happened. They were used to his moods, GP assured Emma a few dozen times there was nothing she could do to help. It was just something Max had to work through on his own. He’d done it before and he’d do it again. 

But this? The way he was curled in on himself like he wanted to shrink down to a size that couldn’t be seen, the way he refused to look up when Emma stepped into the room, the way his fingers gripped at his hair like he was trying to rip the pain away from his head? This was all a new side of Max that Emma had the feeling not many people had ever seen. 

In a flash, she was crossing the room before crouching in front of him. She doesn’t touch him, despite every inch of her body screaming that she should. She didn’t quite trust herself in that moment. Didn’t quite trust herself to be able to stop with a simple touch on the back of his hand. Emma was worried she’d want more and that? That was dangerous. 

“Max, what’s going on?” 

“I can’t do this.” He laments, eyes finally lifting up to meet hers. 

The pain and embarrassment sitting so plainly in his eyes had Emma’s heart squeezing painfully.  

“The car is just…I can’t drive it. I lost count of how many laps I spent stuck behind a fucking Alpine. An Alpine, Emma!” 

Emma nodded like she knew what that meant as Max stood to pace the small room. “Max,” She tries to placate, knowing that the time is limited and he was staring down the face of a hefty fine. “I bought you some time with the FIA but they’re out there yelling about fines and I think Horner might be close to having a stroke.” 

Max turns on her, eyes wild with rage and something else that looks a lot like anguish. “Well that makes two of us then.” He says miserably. “I’m not going to Jeddah.” 

The statement stops Emma in her tracks. “Wait, what? Max, I know the race was bad but you can’t just quit four races into the season.” 

“I’m not quitting, Em.” He says with a roll of his eyes and Emma resists the urge to swat at him for the sass. “I just need a few days to clear my head before I go straight into another race weekend.” 

“Okay, I can work with that. Let me get on the phone with your pilot and see what your options are while you’re doing media. I’ll figure out a place where you can go for a few days while I head to Jeddah to make sure everything is set up for you.” 

Max shakes his head, “No.” 

Emma pinches at the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. “Oh, God bless it.” She sighs deeply, shaking her head. “The hell do you mean, ‘no’? You literally just said you didn’t want to go to Jeddah?” 

“I’m not going without you.” 

Emma blinks in surprise but manages to hold eye contact with Max. “I wasn't aware 'emotional support assistant' was my new job title.” She quips, grin ghosting at the edge of her lips.

For what feels like the first time all weekend, Max laughs. It’s loud and genuine and sends a shiver of pleasure dancing over Emma’s skin. He shakes his head, scrubbing at his tired face with his rough, calloused hands. “I don’t want to be alone and I don’t want to go with anyone else.” 

Again, Emma found herself narrowing her eyes in a vain attempt to understand the man in front of her. “That…makes no sense. You want to be alone but you want me to come with you?” 

“I don’t want to go with anyone else.” Max pouts. 

Pouts. The four-time world champion that was known to make even the most experienced mechanic cower pouts at Emma. 

“Will you go out to the media pen and not be a sarcastic brute to the reporters if I agree to this?” 

A sly grin slips onto Max’s face as he nods, realizing he’s won. 

Emma sighs, the fight draining out of her as quickly as the tension seemed to be leaving Max’s body. “Fine.” She relents, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “But you owe me, big time. I had planned to spend the next few days comatose in a hotel room doing nothing but watching bad reality tv and eating even worse takeout.” 

Max’s grin widens, the relief evident in his suddenly brighter eyes. “I promise I will make sure I buy you the best takeout wherever we end up and you can even pick the TV we watch.” 

Emma levels a pointed look at him as she throws a bottle of water his way, “And you! You will be polite out there. You will answer their questions, even the stupid ones, without rolling your eyes so hard you risk a sprain. And you will not, under any circumstances, blame Jack or Pierre for your…unfortunate race. Got it?” 

“Deal.” Max agrees quickly, already moving towards the door. The heavy cloud of anger that had clung to him all weekend seemed to have lifted, replaced by a restless energy that was something Emma could make work. “What are we thinking? Somewhere with a good beach? I haven’t spent a day near the ocean in too long.” 

Emma follows him, grabbing his discarded team jacket from the back of a chair before wrapping herself up in the oversized garment. “Hold your horses, Verstappen. You still have about fifteen minutes of explaining to do to a very angry and tired contingent of journalists. Lets get through that first and then your ‘emotional support assistant’ will work her magic and find us the perfect escape.” 

As the pair walks out into the paddock and towards the media tent, a small smile plays on Emma’s lips. Emotional support assistant. She had to admit, the title had a certain ring to it, even if it made her sound completely ridiculous. And if it meant seeing that genuine smile on Max’s face again, she was willing to take on the role. Jeddah could wait an extra few days. Some bad TV and questionable takeout with a surprisingly vulnerable racing driver suddenly sounded like a far more interesting proposition. 

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[copia]

THIRTY-ONE DAYS OF GHOST ⛧ DAY TWO

the song that made you a fan — Spillways

“This is an elegy for the darkness that most people have inside. When you have a dam, spillways are the run-offs so the dam won’t overflow. That darkness inside us needs to find its way out,” — Tobias Forge

Job 10:1 "I loathe my own life; I will give full vent to my complaint; I will speak in the bitterness of my soul."

[beloveds-embrace]

(a very low-effort post abt 141 x their new hacker- you. For better immersion, click on the song link during Soap’s workout! <3)

The first time you make contact, it’s through their personal phones.

Not the official military-issued devices- no, those would be too easy. You wanted to make an impression.

So when Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap each glance at their personal screens, expecting the usual notifications from Laswell, they’re instead greeted by:

(¬‿¬) Hello, boys.

Price sighs like a disappointed father, having been forwarned of your antics, and still immediately calls Laswell.

“Care to explain why my phone just got hijacked?”

Laswell doesn’t sound surprised. If anything, she sounds like she’s been expecting and waiting for this- for his phone call specifically about getting hacked. “That’s your new hacker.”

Price pinches the bridge of his nose, while the others exchange Looks of Consideration™️. “That’s how she introduces herself?”

“She’s efficient.”

“She’s cheeky.”

“She’s listening,” you interject, making them all jolt as your voice plays from the phone speakers, honey-sweet and undeniably smug.

There’s a long silence. Then Gaz whispers: “What the fuck?”

You giggle. (≧◡≦) flashes onto all their screens right after that, just as cheeky as your tone.

“So she’s just gonna creep around in our phones now?” Gaz asks after that, wary, an eyebrow raised and his arms crossed.

In response, just his screen flickers, and a new message appears.

(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ Rude.

Laswell sighs again, much like an exasperated mother, and gestures at their phones. “Give her a chance. She is, despite everything, good at what she does.”

And so from that that moment on, you’re everywhere; they don’t see you, but they feel your presence. You’re in their systems, their devices, and their comms.

Ghost boots up his laptop one day, only to find that his standard background has been replaced with a pixelated skull and crossbones- like those they did on pirate ships in movies. Below it, in small text:

For the spookiest boy.

He says nothing, just tilts his head slightly before closing the laptop.

And when Price logs into the briefing room terminal, instead of the standard military insignia, the screen briefly flashes with the words:

WELCOME BACK, CAPTAIN DILF.

Soap loses it. Price glares at him, then at the screen, then sighs, muttering, “Christ.”

Soap isn’t free from your shenanigans, though.

One day, while doing his usual workout, he pulls up his playlist. The moment he presses play, his music app forcefully closes and reopens with “The Drunk Scotsman” blasting at full volume.

“NO, NO, NO-“ Soap scrambles to shut it off as the entire base turns to look at him.

On his screen, once the app is blessedly closed, a message pops up:

(ʘ‿ʘ) Dance, pretty boy.

And then Gaz’s torture is quieter, but no less effective.

Every so often, while he’s texting, his camera light flickers on. Not long enough to take a photo- just a brief, eerie blink before an emoji appears on his screen:

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

He groans. “She’s messing with me.”

“You mean flirting?” Soap smirks, leaning closer to the phone and chuckling as the camera light flickers back on for just another few seconds.

Gaz scowls. “…I hope so.”

Still, despite all your antics, you’re brilliant at what you do. And they learn this firsthand during their first mission with you.

“All teams, check-in.” Price orders as they move through a darkened compound.

Instead of Laswell’s voice responding, it’s yours. Soft, smooth, and playful.

“Five by five, Captain.”

There’s a pause- brief but notable. Then, Price exhales. “You hacking my comms now, too?”

“Wouldn’t be a very good hacker if I couldn’t, would I?”

Soap snorts, snickering with Gaz. “She’s got a point.”

Ghost, listening quietly, murmurs: “Thought you didn’t speak.”

“Only when necessary. Or when I feel like annoying you.”

Your voice is warm, teasing. If Ghost were anyone else, he might have smiled. And then, just like that, you’re all business.

“Sniper on the rooftop, two o’clock.”

Ghost adjusts, and then fires. A body drops.

“Price, your six.”

The captain pivots, taking down the enemy creeping behind him.

“Soap, slow down.”

“I got this,” Soap insists- only for a grenade to go off near him. “…I don’t got this.”

“Clearly.”

“…Shut up.”

With you in their ears, everything runs smoother. Their feeds don’t lag. Their encryptions are tighter. They feel- secure. With you and Laswell? Almost untouchable, but they don’t let it get to their heads.

When they return to base, exhausted but alive, their phones light up with a single message:

(￣︶￣) Good job, boys.

They stare at their screens, and then Price huffs a laugh. Soap grins. Gaz shakes his head. Ghost, unseen beneath his mask, smirks.

They don’t know your face. Haven’t met you in person.

But they decide you’re theirs, and they are yours. Even if you’re just unknown- for now, anyways.

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt. Dead on main. Singer! Phantom x Red Hood!Jason

Laws are easily changed if businessmen smell money.

Paulina and Sam suggest Danny to try to become a singer in order to change society's opinion about ghosts a little. In the end, the otherworldly sound of his voice can at least be used for the benefit of Realms.

And it seems like the Everlasting Trio is really liked by the public. At first they just release a few songs (Exams kill, Battle with myself, What an Autopsy Won't Show, Among the stars). But a mysterious atmosphere mixed with understandable teenage problems begins to take over teens playlists. Their fans want more and more.

So, when under the pressure of the public and profit-hungry bigwigs all bans on the presence of ecto creatures in the United States are lifted, the Trio goes on their first Tour.

~~~~~

Jason stumbles upon Phantom's songs completely by accident. It was painful to hear them for the first time but at the same time it was as if he could breathe again because he had found someone similar. Someone who understands, and who doesn't judge him for coming back wrong. Jason listens to his voice on repeat and the rage seems to recede and subside. There is sadness of loss and fear in the songs but most of them end bringing some hope and this thought gives Red Hood more strength not to break down for another day. and then another, and another..And one day, the green eyes in the mirror do not scare Jason but shows him that he belonging to something more. Todd can't explain it more precisely, but it was as if the waters of Lazarus inside him had calmed down and he was no longer enemies with them. He even jokes with Tim that he is finally rest in peace and ready to live a full undead life when his brother (God, his lil brother whom he wanted to hurt recently because of his own stupidity), asks him about his strange behavior.

~~~~~

Jason forgets how to breathe again. His favorite band, and most importantly his favorite vocalist, is coming to Gotham with a concert. For many years now, none of the nonresidents have dared to take such a risk, but it seems like Phantom has absolutely no instinct for self-preservation. Well, as a true fan, Red Hood will do his best so that none of the gothamites spoil the Trio's impression of their first concert here. Danny is beside himself with excitement. Their concert in the hometown of the Red Hood was approved. Of course, there is no chance that he would be able to meet such a busy vigilante but Phantom continues to dream. If he'll fly a little over the city instead of sleeping after rehearsals, maybe he'll get an autograph from at least one member of the bat clan.

~~~~~ Phantom: Thank you very much Mr. Nightwing sir. Just sign it for.. Nightwing: For a Phantom, right? Huh, I recognized you, my brother has poster in his room. Nice hairstyle by the way. Danny*urgently*: Which one of them?

Nightwing: Jeez, and I thought it was just a stage image. Ghosts are kinda creepy. Terribly persistent, to be precise. And yeah, Jason, he absolutely not against you as a vigilante. You can safely ask Phantom to sign your helmet, I promise. Man was so happy when find out you're listening to his songs, you have no idea.

Jason *holds out a hand*. Nightwing: What? Jason: If you dared to meet Phantom before me, then where is my autograph? Nightwing: Em..oops? I gave him mine if it helps.

Jason: *sounds of an angry lazarus demon*.

[theplotdemandsit]

When Five finally makes it back home with his siblings, finally makes it back to the right timeline, he finds he’s still holding his breath. 

“Is it really over?” He thinks out loud. 

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” comes Luther’s response. 

So they do. And everything seems…normal?

But as much as Five wants to sleep for ten days straight, he can’t help but feel on edge. He spends his time visiting each sibling, popping in for dinners or briefly making sure they haven’t felt anything out of the ordinary. One day Allison asks him if he actually wants there to be an approaching apocalypse. His eyes fall onto Claire who’s catching him up on High School Musical the Musical the Series.

“No,” he answers. “I really don’t.” 

They make time for family dinners every Sunday. They still bicker and maybe swing some fists every now and then, but everyone is fast to apologize and laugh again. With room to breathe again without high stakes, the hurt finally begins to heal. They had been family before, but it slowly begins to feel like a real family. 

And for the first time, they really get to know each other. For all the crap they gave Luther about the moon, they listen as he shares the misery and loneliness and betrayal he felt. Allison describes her time as a Black woman in the 60s without her voice. Literally. Viktor tells them about what it was like growing up powerless only to end the world twice. How he lost his memory and found the one he loved only to lose that too. 

Klaus manifests Ben (who is still a ghost but as alive as he could get) and together they tell of their adventures growing up and the cult Klaus accidentally created. In between laughs, they also learn about Klaus’s harrowing experiences with drugs and death.

And Five? He has over 40 years of stories, and at first he doesn’t want to share any of it. His time in the Apocalypse, his time in the Commission, murdering for the sole purpose of survival in order to get back to his family—it’s not a side to him he wants his family to know about. 

But at the same time for reasons he can’t explain, he does want them to know. For the first time, he wants to talk to his family, the family he worked tirelessly to save. 

Little by little, he does just that. Every now and then he will start a sentence with, “Back in the Apocalypse…,” during dinner or his visits with them. Silly ones at first, like the time he had the nasty Twinkie. The time he sang all the Beatles songs he could remember and pretended he was having a concert. The time he found Umbrella Academy action figures and reenacted missions with them. 

When it’s just him and another sibling, he starts sharing some of the hard stuff too.

He tells Allison how he starved during his first winter alone and hallucinated that she had helped him find food. When he woke up he found himself in a storage house full of canned goods and bawled his eyes out.

He tells Diego about the first time he killed someone. How the scariest thing was that he wasn’t shaking. 

He tells Viktor how he sometimes still wonders if he deserves everything he got for messing with time in the first place. How he’s afraid that one of these days he’ll wake up and be alone again.

He tells Klaus about the time he thought about giving up and ending it all. 

He tells Luther about Dolores. About how even though he knew he was crazy for talking to a mannequin, Dolores was the better part of him that salvaged his sanity.

He tells Ben (and Klaus, by default) that his biggest regret is not being there. That he tries not to think about how things might have been different if he’d stayed.

Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, the tension eases from his shoulders. He stops worrying so much about the world ending and how to keep everyone alive. Instead, he spends his time going to the park with Claire, helping Diego and Lila with the babies, having midnight food outings with Klaus, and listening to Viktor play his music.

At their weekly family dinner, Luther tells Five he has a present for him and pulls out a box of Twinkies, saying, “I know you want to try one.”

Five gives him a practiced glare and says, “I would rather swim in a pot of boiling oil.”

Before, his family might have stared at him like he grew two heads, but now they laugh and think his retort is hilarious. Luther opens the box and pulls out a bag of marshmallows instead, and Five can’t help but crack a smile. 

One day they ask him what his plans are—what’s next for the oldest sibling.

Five warms his hands on a hot mug of coffee. “I’m tired of thinking about the future,” he tells them. “Right now, I just want to spend time with my family.”

That earns him plenty of “aww”s and “You’re such a softie, Five.” He waves them away and tries to duck out of their hugs, but they get him in the end. And even if he could teleport, he doesn’t want to.

He hadn’t been looking for happy, but he found it anyway.

Now cross-posted on Ao3 under the same handle!

[epicthemusicalstuff]

My Thoughts On The Vengeance Saga!

I’m Not Sorry For Loving You: I feel we pretty much had the full song before hand? So it’s not too much new? But the vocals were so pretty!! Definitely the most grounded song in the saga!

Dangerous: First of all- the little Full Speed Ahead? With the 600 men bit? That had me so emotional already- the fact that there was no response when he said ‘with one goal in mind’ and there was a silence where they normally would have said ‘make it back alive to our homeland’. THEN HERMES IS BACK! WITH THE WINIONS???? AND THEY HAVE THE BAG AGAIN FOR HIM??? I went crazy over that- did they get Aeolus’ help? Did the winions go rogue and since they liked Odysseus they trapped it themselves??? Anyways. RUTHLESSNESS MENTION.

Charybdis: I love the overall vibe of this song! Again- very much like the snippets we heard- but that doesn’t make it less awesome! (I will also say I loved durning the animatic when he started getting all blurred with his speed). HE SAW ITHACA AND IT WAS SO TOUCHING THEN HE DIDNT GET TO GET THERE YET!!!

Get In The Water: I LOVE THE OPENING INSTRUMENTAL PART. CHILLS. I was screaming- I still am screaming as I relisten to it! POLITES, EURYLOCHUS, AND ANYICLEA JUMPSCARE! One of the songs that I feel so much better about listening to this morning, with just the music and none of the chaos of last night or the stream.

Six Hundred Strike: Okay- lots of thoughts on this one folks- the Six Hundred Men being chanted part? Amazing- does that count as when I said the vocals of his crew would be back? HE WILL GET BACK TO HIS SON. AND HE WILL GET BACK TO HIS WIFE. He avenged his comrades!!!!

Speaking from a position of just listening to the song instead of the provided visuals- I visualize something different happening. Like in terms of the wind bag, I like the idea it is used to blow away the layers of Poseidons water shell- to leave just him in the middle. And then the 600 Strike bit- perhaps the ghosts of all his crew appear and each get their own strike at Poseidon, with Odysseus dealing the last one before Poseidon starts singing again?

YOU IDIOT got me. THE ODYSSEUS’ WENT ABSOLUTELY FERAL? STABBING POSEIDON??? LIKE WHAT? I WAS SCREAMING- the raw vocals were amazing too-

NEXT TO MY WIFE

[xitsensunmoon]

Moon was never the one to use more words than needed.

Short, restrained and stingy. It didn't take long to get used to it. Truly, his soft glowing presence meant more to you than he'd ever know.

Sometimes, in the most deafening of nights, you had the honour to hold your breath and listen. Every syllable falling out of his voicebox left a strange weight on your shoulders you couldn't quite decipher. Yet, you treated his offerings like gold.

But mostly, he preferred to mimic the pale celestial body he represents. The silent, but attentive observer, always burning a hole in your back with its eyes.

You weren't alarmed. You were its favourite star after all.

Yet, secretly, it was something you deeply disliked about him. Part of you scraping at the back of your throat every time the room falls silent. And it's not that the calm bothered you. No. No.

You just wish you could hear his voice more often.

His raspy, rumbling tone scratching your brain so nicely, so right, your head snapping in its direction every damn time. Please, just one more word. The night is so much more beautiful when the moon is generous.

Sun said he wasn't always like this. Lullabies and storytellings, book readings and games, little ones falling asleep so swiftly under the gentle melody. Memories stored far away, tarnished with sorrow.

You wondered if there was anything to tug at the strings of his past self. To get him to talk more. To get him to want to talk more.

You wish you could take your words back. But the cost was too high, for him and for you.

...

Your hand cups the side of his faceplate, his voice, seeping into the air in endless vows and pleas, tirelessly infinite like the night itself. For the first time since you knew him, your ears could have him in his full glory.

You wish it wasn't so full of despair. So full of grief. So full of fear.

His hands cradle your body, so cold and sharp, like the gentlest of daggers. Your life spilling onto the bouncy floors in swirls of red.

You can't bring yourself to care. Your eyelids feel heavy, but his voice clings to your very soul, firmly holding onto you, snatching you from death's embrace. His voice, cradling you better than the fluffiest of graves.

His tears burn your cold face like acid. Your mouth moves as you choke on metallic tanginess, the words bleed onto your soaked shirt in language no one but ghosts can understand.

Please, don't cry. I love you. I love you. Your voice is so beautiful.

For once, you're the silent observer. For once, he's the one begging you to speak. He will not ask for forgiveness. Just keep your eyes on me.

Please, just one more word.

The sight of him, your world, fades into darkness. Your ribs nearly crack under the suffocating weight of his prayers. His voicebox whines and screeches, words inaudible but his.

It sounds like a song.

His last gift. Your last lullaby.

What a lovely sound to fall asleep to.

[lexalith]

SOMETHING REAL || Choi Seunghyun (T.O.P)

summary: you never expected him to matter this much. at first, seunghyun is just the annoying guy from class—the one who gets under your skin without even trying. but somehow, he becomes your best friend, the one who listens when no one else does. you both have your own lives, your own relationships. it’s never supposed to be more than that. but then the way he looks at you lingers a little too long, his touch starts to feel like something you don’t want to live without. and when love starts to feel like loneliness, he’s there. what if he was the right one all along?

warnings/this story contains: (reader discretion is advised), seunghyun and the reader are both in their early twenties, slowburn, enemies to friends to enemies (?) to friends to lovers (lmao help), smut (oral sex (f receiving), p in v, dry humping, fingering, slight overstimulation, praising, lowkey rough sex), seunghyun and the reader struggle with insecurities, mentions of cheating, emotional cheating, mild angst (miscommunication, heartbreak, ghosting, lies, bickering), fluff (toward the end, seunghyun’s down BAD), a loooot of artsy talk and an insane amount of yearning.

a/n: this is an au! seunghyun’s not an idol and he was born in the early 2000’s. this is loosely based on real events (my life, lmao), some stuff has been altered for artistic reasons and to fit seunghyun’s persona. enjoy this fragment that i couldn’t resist sharing, because it’s the most bookish thing that’s ever happened to me—basically the closest i’ve ever been to feeling like the main character. help. anyway! english isn’t my first language so mistakes should be present!! lower case is intended. reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, like always, this is LOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs: i love my boyfriend — princess chelsea || delicate — taylor swift || sure thing — miguel

three minutes. that’s exactly the time you have left before your next class starts. you’re walking briskly across campus, your coffee in one hand, your backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to make sure you don’t arrive late (again…). but then, out of nowhere, someone bumps into you. it’s not even a light brush—it’s a full-on collision that sends the hot coffee sloshing out of your cup and spilling all over you. you gasp, looking down at your favorite blouse, now stained with dark coffee, and a surge of frustration rises in your chest. the guy who bumped into you stumbles back, clearly just as startled as you are, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring at him. he’s awkward, shifting on his feet, like he doesn’t know what to do. “uh… i didn’t see you,” he says, but his voice trails off. his eyes flicker down to the stain, then back to you, but he doesn’t move to offer help. “clearly,” you huff. he seems to be about to offer something—an apology, maybe—but the words never quite make it out. this is so ridiculous. it’s not like you expected him to drop to his knees asking for forgiveness, but at least do something. instead, he just looks at you, and says, “it’s just coffee.” it’s clear he didn’t mean to spill the drink, but the last thing you need right now is him trying to downplay it. you roll your eyes, your patience wearing thin. “yeah, and now it’s on me!” he raises his eyebrows, almost amused by your reaction. “it’ll probably come out in the wash.” “i can’t go to my next class like this!” you don’t have time for this. “yeah… i—i’m sorry,” he finally says.

you stare at him for a moment, and at first, you almost want to believe his apology, but then you see it. his lips twitch. it’s so subtle, like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, but it’s enough to set you off. your blood boils with frustration, and you glare at him, your patience completely gone. “great. just great,” you snap, your voice dripping with sarcasm. without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and start walking away, the coffee still soaking through your blouse, irritation simmering beneath your skin. “sorry!” you hear him call after you, but it’s distant. and just before you disappear around the corner, you catch it—the soft sound of a laugh. he’s laughing at you! what a fucking douche! you want to spin around and yell, but you don’t. you’ve got bigger things to worry about. like, for instance, the argument with your boyfriend earlier. it started as something small—just a misunderstanding, a simple disagreement about plans for the weekend—but somehow, it escalated. words were exchanged, and now you’re both giving each other the silent treatment. it doesn’t help that you haven’t had the time or energy to smooth things over. so now, you’re walking around campus, wearing a coffee stain bigger than your damn head, replaying the argument in your mind over and over. it’s like everything is spiraling today.

you’ve officially become a hater of the coffee-spiller guy. it doesn’t take long for you to realize that fate has an awful sense of humor. a couple of days later, when you walk into your ‘history of art’ class, you spot him. there he is, sitting at the back of the lecture hall. you freeze for a moment and his eyes catch yours almost immediately. you can see it—the flicker of recognition, the split second where he remembers exactly who you are. but he looks away quickly. you roll your eyes and find a seat far away from him, making a mental note to never, ever, be near him in this class.

every little thing he does in class irritates you. the way he taps his pen against the desk, that awful, self-satisfied look he gets when he answers a question correctly. then there’s his laugh. it’s loud, obnoxious. you swear you can feel the vibration of it in your chest, like it’s shaking the whole room. and god, don’t even get started on the way he taps his foot incessantly, like he’s got some sort of rhythm problem, the way he flips through his notebook with unnecessary speed, flicking each page with an irritating snap. it drives you crazy. if you could, you’d throw your notebook at him just to get him to stop. but you don’t. because, well, you’re trying to act like an adult. by the end of each lecture, you’re fuming, but the worst part is—you’re starting to remember his name. choi seunghyun.

the next week, your friend doesn’t show up to class, and empty seat where they should be. and it’s a problem, because when the professor starts assigning partners for the semester project, you don’t have one. and of course, because the universe fucking hates you, guess who also doesn’t have a partner? “choi seunghyun, you’ll be with…” the professor scans the room, and your stomach drops before she even says it. your name. you blink. “what?” “you two will be working together on the project.” “can i do it alone? i don’t need a partner,” you say, shaking your head. the professor doesn’t even look up from her notes. “it’s a paired assignment.” “okay, but my partner’s just absent today. they’re still in the class, they’ll be back.” “you’re with seunghyun,” the professor says, finally looking at you, exasperated. you turn in your seat to glare at him, and of course, the asshole looks completely unbothered. you take a deep breath, grip your notebook a little tighter, and push yourself up from your seat. if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that seunghyun isn’t about to haul his ass over to you. which means, unfortunately, you have to go to him. it shouldn’t annoy you as much as it does, but everything about this situation is already pissing you off, so what’s one more thing?

you drop your stuff on his desk and pull out a chair, not waiting for an invitation. “let’s just get this over with.” seunghyun barely glances up. “eager, aren’t you?” “i actually want to pass this class,” you snap, unfolding the project sheet. and then, as your eyes land on the topic, your irritation dims—just a little. “ancient greek sculpture,” you mutter, reading over the details. seunghyun leans back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair. “not bad, huh?” “could’ve been worse,” you admit, tapping your pen against the desk. “greek sculpture is foundational. proportions, movement, realism—this stuff shaped everything that came after it.” he smirks. “glad you won’t be completely miserable, then.” you huff, crossing your arms. “trust me, if i had a different partner, i’d actually be excited about this.” his grin widens. “so i’m the problem?” “seunghyun,” you deadpan, “that was never in question.”

seunghyun doesn’t know why it feels so strange, hearing his name come from you. but it sticks in his head. he keeps his eyes on the project sheet, pretending to read while his mind is somewhere else entirely. you sit across from him, your fingers lingering on the corners of each page before turning them, and every so often, you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking. he shouldn’t be noticing these things. but he does. you’re pretty. no, beautiful. sitting this close, it’s impossible to ignore. the way the light catches your eyes, the faintest crease in your brow when you’re thinking, the soft curve of your cheeks when you huff in frustration. there’s something about it—something that makes him glance away too quickly when you look up. but when you start talking, it’s even worse. your voice changes when you talk about art. there’s a spark in it, something alive, something that makes him sit up just a little straighter. you don’t just like this stuff—you care about it. and he gets that. because he cares too. he watches the way your hands move, the way you gesture like your words aren’t enough on their own. the way your eyes light up when you explain something, like you’re seeing it in your head as you say it. and it’s… nice.

as the conversation drags on, you feel the irritation you’ve been holding onto slowly start to slip away. at first, you thought seunghyun’d be the type of guy who leaves you to do all the work. but as he starts talking, you realize something you hadn’t anticipated. there’s this calm reason to his words, like he’s thought about what he’s saying before he says it—a kind of maturity in the way he talks. it’s not just facts he’s spitting out, it’s a genuine understanding. he’s making connections between things you hadn’t considered, filling in gaps you didn’t even know were there. and damn it, it makes you think twice. it messes with your entire perception of him.

“so, who’s your favorite greek sculptor?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost like he genuinely wants to know. you pause, considering. “it’s hard to pick,” you say, tapping your pen against the desk. “but if i had to choose, i’d go with praxiteles. he was one of the first to really capture natural human beauty. his sculptures, like the ‘hermes and the infant dionysus’, they’re just… they look like they could breathe, you know? like they’re alive.” you glance up to see him nodding. “yeah,” he murmurs. he falls silent for a moment, his eyes drifting down to his notebook. “for me, it’d probably be phidias,” he says. “the one who worked on the parthenon. his sculptures, especially the statue of athena… it’s just incredible.” he looks up at you then, a small, almost hesitant smile on his face. “there’s something about the way he made the gods feel so… human. like they were both divine and reachable at the same time.” “mhm.” you nod slowly. it’s strange—how much you find yourself agreeing with him.

he shifts in his seat, looking at the paper between you two but not really focusing on it anymore. “so, uh…” he starts, trailing off for a second like he’s trying to find the right words. “what do you usually do outside of class?” you glance at him, a little surprised by the sudden change in topic. “outside of class?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “yeah,” he says, shrugging slightly. “just curious. got any weird hobbies?” you chuckle at the thought, leaning back in your chair. “weird hobbies? i don’t know about weird, but i like to read. i write a lot, too. and i sing, sometimes.” his eyes widen, and he looks at you with a kind of surprised excitement. “wait, you sing?” you nod, a little unsure of his reaction. “yeah, just for fun, though.” he’s practically leaning forward now, his voice more animated. “seriously? i like to sing too! but not like—i don’t perform or anything, but i mess around with writing songs sometimes.” you blink at him, surprised. “you write songs?” “yeah!” he says, his eyes lighting up as he talks. “mostly rap songs! just stuff i keep to myself. i don’t know, it helps me get my thoughts out.” you’re taken aback, not expecting that from him at all. “that’s… actually pretty cool! i didn’t think you’d be the type.” he chuckles a little, almost shy now, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i don’t know, music’s kind of a big deal for me.” “i get that. i mean, i feel the same way about writing. it’s like… the only way to really get everything out.” his smile softens, and he nods, almost like he’s relieved that you get it. “exactly. it’s the only way i know how to say what i’m feeling.” he pauses, then adds, “i guess we’re not that different, huh?” you grin, a little more comfortable with him now. “guess not.”

weeks go by, and somehow, without you really noticing when it happened, you stop dreading working with seunghyun. at first, it was just about getting the project done—tolerating his presence, keeping things academically professional. but somewhere along the way, that changes. you start meeting up outside of class—not just in the library, but in the university cafeteria, sometimes even grabbing a table outside when the weather’s nice. at first, it’s always under the excuse of we need to finish this, but little by little, the project stops being the main focus of your meetings. it starts with small things. “you drink your coffee black?” you ask one afternoon, watching as he stirs his drink. he glances up at you, raising an eyebrow. “sometimes. why?” you wrinkle your nose, shaking your head. “no sugar, no milk… nothing?” “nope. not today,” he says, taking a sip like it’s no big deal. “you think that’s weird?” “oh, definitely.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “coming from someone who drowns theirs in sugar? right.” you scoff, feigning offense. “excuse me for liking some flavor in my life.” he only smirks, taking another sip of his coffee. and you don’t know why, but you find yourself watching the way his fingers wrap around the cup, the way he always waits a second before actually drinking. “talking about coffee,” seunghyun clears his throat. “i—i’m sorry for bumping into you that day. and for your blouse.” you blink, a little thrown by the sudden apology. you hadn’t expected him to bring it up. for a second, you almost forgot about that. but the memory comes back in full color—the embarrassment, the heat of the coffee soaking into fabric, and, worst of all, the way you heard him laugh right after. you shrug, forcing a small smile. “it’s fine! stuff happens.” but it doesn’t come out as smooth as you want it to. he notices. “look, i—i wasn’t laughing at you.” you don’t say anything, just arch a brow. “i mean, yeah, i laughed. but it wasn’t, like—fuck, i just do that when i’m nervous.” he lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “it’s a stupid reflex. i wasn’t trying to be an asshole.” “nervous?” you echo, curiosity edging into your voice. he hesitates for a second. “i don’t know. you caught me off guard.” “it’s okay! really.” “it won’t happen again, i promise.” “what, spilling my coffee? or the nervous laughing?” you grin. “both. if i can help it.” he smiles back.

one afternoon, you’re both hunched over your notebooks at your usual table in the cafeteria, trying to put together a proper analysis for the project, when he suddenly groans, running a hand through his hair. “okay, i need a break.” “agreed,” you sigh, stretching your arms over your head. “i think my brain is melting.” he leans back in his chair, exhaling. “we should just drop out. open a karaoke bar instead.” you hum, pretending to consider it. “tempting. but i think we’d go bankrupt in a week.” “probably,” he admits, smirking slightly. then, a sudden gust of wind blows through the open door. a few loose sheets of paper fly off the table, and you both reach for them at the same time. your hands brush, just for a second. you freeze. he does too. but instead of pulling away immediately, he hesitates. it’s barely noticeable, but you feel it—his fingers just lingering before he finally lets go. you don’t look at him, just focus on gathering the papers, but your heart beats a little faster anyway. he clears his throat, sitting back. “we should probably staple these,” he says, voice a little quieter than before. “yeah,” you mutter, shuffling the pages together.

another day, you find yourselves in the campus library, tucked away in a quiet corner where barely anyone goes. at first, it’s about the project—like it always is—but before long, you’re talking about anything but that. “okay, real question,” you say, tapping your pen against your notebook. “if you could live in any painting, which one would it be?” seunghyun leans back, arms crossed. he barely takes a second to think. “anything by kandinsky.” “oohh! good choice!” “right? it’d be like living inside music.” you nod, smiling. “i guess that suits you.” “what about you?” he asks, gaze flicking to you. you think for a moment before saying, “‘the garden of earthly delights.’” he lets out a low laugh. “crazy choice.” “shut up.” you laugh too. “i mean, it’s chaotic, sure, but it’d never be boring. plus, i’d be surrounded by nature—which i love—and i’d also get to hang out with weird little creatures all day.” seunghyun has to stifle the loud laugh scratching his throat. “it’s an orgy,” he says. you blink. “what?” “‘the garden of earthly delights.’ you picked a medieval sex party. should i be concerned?” you burst out laughing and a student a few tables away shoots you a look over their glasses, pressing a finger to their lips. “okay, first of all, that is not the reason i picked it.” you whisper, biting back another laugh. “but it’s there,” he insists, raising a brow. “like, everyone in that painting is naked.” “but they’re just eating fruit,” you retort. “yeah, and fruit is like… the biggest metaphor for sex ever. come on now.” you shake your head, still laughing softly, trying to contain yourself. “i just like that it’s weird, okay? it looks like something out of a fever dream. plus, i feel like bosch was on something when he painted it, and honestly? i respect that.” “so what you’re saying is, you wanna live in chaos.” “no, i wanna live somewhere that would never be boring. kinda like you picking kandinsky. kandinsky is chaos too, just in a different font,” you tease, arms crossing over your chest. “dude’s entire thing is just shapes and color explosions. what does that say about you?” he grins. “it says i’m fun.” “it says you have the attention span of a goldfish.” his mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “okay, rude.” your laughter spills out again, earning you another round of disapproving stares from a group of students at a nearby table. one of them—not even looking up from their notes—goes, “shhh!”

seunghyun leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. his eyes flicker over your face, thoughtful. “what?” you ask, raising a brow. he shrugs. “nothing. just… you’re different from what i expected.” “that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” his lips twitch. “take it as a compliment.” he grins, but there’s something in his expression—something a little too observant, like he’s picking apart a puzzle piece by piece. “so? what did you expect?” he hesitates for just a second before saying, “i don’t know.” he does know, or at least, he has some idea. he expected someone easier to read. but you’re not easy to read, and now he’s realizing that the more he pays attention, the more there is to figure out. he just doesn’t know how to say it. but he’s also noticed the cracks, the way some days you seem a little quieter, like you’re carrying something heavier than you let on. he wonders if you even realize it, how your guard slips in the smallest ways. maybe he shouldn’t say anything. maybe it’s not his place. but the words slip before he can stop himself. “i’ve noticed some days you’re different. like… sad.” it catches you so off guard that you don’t even know what to say for a moment. you force a small scoff. “everyone has off days.” he doesn’t buy it. “yeah, but not everyone acts like they don’t.” his voice is softer now, more careful. “i just—i think you’re good at keeping people out.” “most people aren’t worth letting in,” you reply. “i get that. sorry, i’m—i mean, i notice because i do the same thing,” he admits. the way he says it, like he actually sees you, makes your chest feel tight. you press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. “i think you like analyzing people too much.” seunghyun snorts. “only when they’re interesting.” you open your mouth to respond, but you hesitate, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. when did he lean in like that? or were you the one who moved? “right, okay,” you clear your throat, shifting in your seat and looking down at the books in front of you. “so, back to the hellenistic period. sculptures are less perfect compared to the classical period, more real. i’ll do the analysis of venus de milo, you can work on laocoön and his sons, if that’s okay with you.” he chuckles softly. “sure. sounds good to me.”

and when you’re walking together out of campus after—the sun already starting to set outside—he asks, “wait, have you ever been to the art gallery downtown?” you blink at him. “which one?” “the modern art gallery,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, hoodie pulled up over his head. “they’ve got an exhibit on abstract and expressionist paintings right now. thought you might be interested.” you hesitate for a second, caught off guard. “you’ve been?” he nods. “yeah. went last week.” “alone?” “yeah.” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “sometimes it’s nice to go without distractions.” “weirdo,” you joke, and he chuckles. then you hum, considering it. “maybe i’ll check it out.” “you should,” he says, then—after a pause—“i could go again. if you wanted.” you glance at him, but he’s looking straight ahead, like he didn’t just say something that makes your stomach feel weird. you don’t answer right away. but you don’t say no, either.

a few days later, you end up at a park near campus, sitting on a bench. “okay,” you say, exhaling, “this is officially the furthest we’ve strayed from our project.” he smirks. “we could talk about it now, if you want.” you groan dramatically, leaning your head back. “ugh. please, no. let me live.” he chuckles, shaking his head. then, he tugs his hoodie over his head, the fabric bunching up around his face when he pulls its strings slightly. you watch him for a second before the thought slips out. “why do you do that?” his gaze flicks to you. “do what?” “pull your hoodie up like that. you do it all the time.” he exhales a quiet laugh, looking away. “i just… i don’t know. makes me feel more… covered?” he hesitates, then adds, almost like it’s an afterthought, “and i don’t like my ears getting cold.” “your ears?” “yeah.” but you know that look on his face. and you know the feeling, too. the urge to shrink youself, to avoid giving people something to make fun of. “i like your ears.” his head lifts slightly, eyes meeting yours in surprise. “what?” you shrug. “they’re nice.” for the first time, he actually looks caught off guard. “that’s… weirdly specific,” he laughs softly. “just take the compliment, hyun,” you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. he freezes for half a second. hyun? since when do you call him that? do you even realize you said it? he clears his throat, shifting like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself. it’s just a nickname. it’s not a big deal. people shorten names all the time. but there’s this weird warmth settling in his chest, and he hates how much he notices it. “it was… it was genuine,” you add. “i used to be really insecure about them. my ears, i mean. well, actually… i used to be really insecure about a lot of things when i was younger.” “really?” “yeah. and people can be brutal. i got called all kinds of things. made me not want to talk much, not want to draw attention to myself.” your brows pull together as you listen. he’s opening up, letting you see a part of him that he probably doesn’t show most people. and you don’t take that lightly. “i’m talking too much again, aren’t i? i’m sorry—“ “you can talk about it,” you reassure him. “i’m listening.” you care? he wasn’t expecting that at all. “i just… never really felt comfortable in my own skin.” “i get that. i… i feel the same way.” “seriously?” “yeah. when i was younger most people thought i was weird. and i’ve never been the prettiest either. no one really looked at me.” “that’s crazy to me.” “why?” you ask, frowning. “why? are you kidding me? look at you!” his eyes flick away, like he just realized what he said. “i mean—” he clears his throat. “i don’t think you’re weird at all. you’re—you’re kind, and sweet, and funny, and smart as hell, and understanding…” he pauses. “and i think you’re very pretty, too.” you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “thanks, seunghyun,” you smile at him. “but—“ “ah, ah.” he shakes his head, pointing at you with his index finger. and in the same tone you used earlier, he says, “just take the compliment.” and you both laugh. the conversation drifts after that. you talk about books, music, childhood stories. and at some point, you glance at him and realize—he’s not as bad as you once thought. you could even consider him your friend at this point. and before you know it, you’re kind of looking forward to these moments.

saturday morning. it’s supposed to be a normal day. just you and your boyfriend, going from store to store, him carrying the bags while you browse through clothes, debating whether you really need another sweater. you don’t expect to see him. but then, as you’re exiting a store, laughing at something your boyfriend says, you hear a familiar voice. “oh. hey.” you stop mid-step, looking up. seunghyun is standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised. and he’s not alone. next to him, holding onto his arm, is a girl. she’s pretty. really pretty. she has that effortless kind of elegance, the type of girl you’d expect to see in an old film, with delicate jewelry and a perfect smile. you weren’t expecting this. you weren’t expecting him at all, let alone with someone. for a second, no one speaks. then, because you have to, you clear your throat. “uh—hey.” he nods, glancing at your boyfriend, then back at you. oh. right. introductions. that’s what people do, right? introduce their significant others? “so uhm… this is my boyfriend,” you say, nudging him slightly. your boyfriend extends a hand. “nice to meet you, man.” seunghyun hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—before shaking it. “yeah. you too.” then, as if remembering his own situation, he shifts slightly. “and… this is my girlfriend.�� girlfriend…? she smiles, polite. “hi.” you don’t know why it feels weird. you force a small smile back. “nice to meet you.”

there’s a beat of silence, awkward and heavy, before your boyfriend gestures to the shopping bags in his hand. “someone got a little carried away,” he chuckles. “hey!” you nudge him, feigning offense. “i needed all of this.” seunghyun huffs a quiet laugh, barely noticeable, but you catch it. “are you guys shopping too?” you ask, because the silence is unbearable. “not really,” his girlfriend answers before he can. “just walking around, grabbing coffee.” “oh, nice,” you say, nodding, even though that doesn’t really keep the conversation going. you glance at him, searching for something else to say. “so no shopping spree for you?” he shakes his head. “no, not today. i don’t shop that much.” “right. you’re more of a ‘spend hours in an art gallery alone’ kind of guy.” you were trying to bring some humor into the conversation but oh my god. why did you say that? was that even a joke? (literally no one laughed…) his lips twitch slightly, like he wants to smile but doesn’t. “yeah.” another silence. his girlfriend tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking between the two of you. “so… how do you guys know each other?” “we’re working on a project together,” you say quickly. “for our ‘history of art’ class,” seunghyun adds, voice quieter than yours. she hums, nodding. “that’s nice.” you don’t miss the way she squeezes his arm slightly, like a subconscious claim.

your boyfriend, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice the awkward tension, but you do. seunghyun does. maybe it’s because, for weeks now, it’s just been you and him, meeting up, talking, working together. and somehow, in all that time, neither of you ever mentioned the people waiting for you outside of those moments. “we should—” you start, at the same time he says, “well, we—” you both stop. you let out a small, breathy laugh, and he exhales, shaking his head. “see you in class,” he says eventually. “yeah,” you nod. “see you.” and then you’re both walking in opposite directions, like that wasn’t weird at all.

it shouldn’t feel weird. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but your mind keeps circling back to it a day after. to him. to her. you don’t know why it caught you so off guard. or why it lingers now. maybe it’s the fact that you spent all these weeks talking to seunghyun, learning little pieces of him in a way that felt… too personal. and neither of you ever mentioned having a significant other. why? because he never asked? because you never did? because it never felt necessary? or because, deep down, some part of you didn’t want to say it? you swallow, shaking off the thought, forcing yourself to focus on something else. you’re just overthinking the situation. you have a boyfriend and seunghyun and you are just… classmates? friends? whatever.

class feels different on monday. not in a way anyone else would notice, but you feel it. in the way you and seunghyun settle into your usual seats, in the way neither of you says anything at first. usually, by now, one of you would’ve made some kind of comment, but today, there’s just silence. you busy yourself by flipping through your notes, pretending to be more focused than you actually are. he clears his throat. “did you finish the research on the kouros statues?” you nod. “yeah. i wrote some notes about the stylistic differences over time.” “good,” he says. “we can work on the structure later.” and that’s it. just straight to business. what a great way to start the day…! it annoys you. so, before you can stop yourself, you blurt it out. “you never told me you had a girlfriend.” you try to say it in a playful tone but you fail terribly at it. he looks at you. “you never told me you had a boyfriend,” he replies in the same awkward way. there’s a beat of silence after that, just enough for the words to hang between you two. then, unexpectedly, he chuckles—soft, like he’s trying to shake off the awkwardness. “guess we’re both bad at this,” he says, half-smiling. you snort, rolling your eyes. “yeah, apparently.” he leans back in his seat a little, fingers tapping lightly on his notebook. “so, how long?” you raise an eyebrow. “how long what?” “how long have you been with him? if you don’t mind me asking.” you bite your lip for a second, debating how much to share. “like… a little under two years,” you say finally. “we met online.” seunghyun raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “online?” “yeah, on instagram. i posted a picture, and he texted me after that. i know, it sounds kinda pathetic, but that’s how it happened.” you can’t help but feel a little embarrassed admitting it, but you shrug it off. “we’ve been together ever since… he’s my first love.” “not judging,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. you’re grateful he doesn’t make you feel weird about it. “what about you two?” “we’ve been together for a while too. a year and a few months. she’s also my first love. i met her through a mutual friend,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “we were hanging out at one of his parties, we started talking, and… here we are.” “that sounds more normal than my story.” he shrugs, a small grin tugging at his lips. “hey, it worked out, right?” “yeah, it did,” you agree, smiling slightly.

but oh, if only he knew. the last couple of months have been… hard. a constant string of arguments, over the smallest things. it’s like every time you talk, it turns into a fight. you thought it was just a rough patch, but it doesn’t feel like a patch anymore. it started small at first—just him being a little distant. but it kept growing. he used to say “i love you” all the time, like it was the easiest thing in the world. but now? it’s like those words are stuck in his throat, like he’s forgotten how to say them, or worse—like he doesn’t want to say them anymore. you’ve noticed how he’s been putting others before you too, choosing to hang out with his friends or canceling plans with you last minute without a real reason. it hurts, and you don’t know how to fix it. but you can’t tell seunghyun that.

but to your surprise, after a beat of silence, seunghyun says, “it’s funny.” voice quieter than usual, almost like he’s not sure whether he should admit this. “things have been a little… rough with my girlfriend lately.” you blink. there’s something about hearing him say that, something about knowing you’re not the only one struggling, that makes you feel a little lighter. not because you want him to be going through something hard too, but because it makes you feel like it’s normal. like maybe every relationship has its bumps.“what do you mean?” you ask, leaning forward slightly. “i don’t know. we’re just… not clicking like we used to. it feels like we can’t talk without it turning into an argument, and i hate it.” he pauses. “like—when you made that joke the other day, about me going to art galleries alone, she got mad at me for even telling you about it. she said it ‘put her in a bad light’ because she doesn’t do those things with me… but she’s the one who doesn’t want to come, even when i ask.” you feel a pang of guilt, like your joke somehow made things worse. "sorry," you say, glancing at him. "i didn't mean to stir anything up." seunghyun shakes his head, like it's not a big deal at all. "oh, no. it was just an example. it's not your fault," he says. then, he shifts in his seat, suddenly looking more uncomfortable than before, like he’s regretting saying anything at all. “look, i didn’t mean to dump that on you,” he says quickly, his voice awkward now. “i… i love my girlfriend, you know? i’m just frustrated. it’s not… it’s not that bad or anything.” you can see the nervousness in his eyes, the way he avoids your gaze, trying to brush off what he said. it’s clear he wasn’t expecting to let that out. but you can also see how much he’s trying to act like everything is fine, even though it’s obvious he’s not. just like you. “hey,” you say softly, reaching across the table just a little, enough for him to hear the sincerity in your voice. “it’s okay. i get it. relationships aren’t always easy.” you take a breath, then decide to be honest. “i’ve been feeling the same way with my boyfriend. we’ve been fighting a lot lately, and it’s… tough. we’re just… constantly butting heads.”

he goes quiet after that. like, really quiet. there’s something in his dark eyes—hesitation, maybe. or relief. like he needed to hear that he wasn’t alone in this, that someone else out there was struggling with the same messy, frustrating parts of love. and then, almost abruptly, he suggests it. skipping the rest of the day. just ditching everything and going to that same art gallery. it catches you off guard, but you don’t even hesitate before nodding.

the gallery is damn near empty at that hour, just the two of you wandering through halls lined with color and shadow, bathed in soft overhead lights that make everything feel a little more intimate. there’s something about being here, surrounded by all this art, that makes it easier to breathe. you both stop at the first painting that catches your eye—a massive canvas of deep blues, layered thick like it’s been slathered on with a palette knife, with jagged streaks of gold cutting through the darkness like lightning. you let out a quiet ‘fuck’, barely above a whisper. seunghyun huffs a small laugh. “looks like someone was trying to do rothko but got pissed off halfway through.” you smirk, tilting your head. “nah, this is too aggressive for rothko. feels more like franz kline, but with, like… a caravaggio-level obsession with drama.” his lips twitch. “yeah, i see that. but notice how the gold isn’t just random—it’s balanced. it pulls your eye across the whole thing, cutting through the shades of blue.” you’re quiet for a moment, taking it in. “dependency,” you say. “the gold wouldn’t mean anything without the darkness of the blue.” he looks at you, eyes glinting under the gallery lights. “exactly.” and that’s how it goes. you move through the gallery slowly, stopping at every piece, actually talking about the art, finding beauty in all of it. even the weird, messy, seemingly meaningless ones. it’s easy, because you both get it. you see the details, the choices, the way every piece has something to say. you pause in front of a sculpture—a chaotic mess of rusted metal, welded together at impossible angles. “brutalist, but trying to be constructivist,” you murmur, circling it. “like… it wants to have structure, but it’s resisting.” seunghyun chuckles. “or maybe it’s collapsing. like tatlin’s tower, if they’d actually built it and just let it rot.” “okay, points for that reference.” he grins. “i know my stuff.”

somewhere along the way, the conversation shifts. you start talking about relationships, about the ways they fall apart. but it doesn’t feel heavy. because you’re realizing how fucking similar your relationships are, and in a way, how similar you and seunghyun are too. it makes you feel less lonely. “it’s always the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. “getting angry when i ask what’s wrong, giving me the silent treatment, then blaming me about every bad-fucking-thing that’s ever happened to him—calling me a crazy bitch just to come back a day after, acting like everything’s fine.” “yeah, fucks with your head, makes you question if you’re actually the problem when really, he’s just deflecting.” he shifts his weight, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “guys like that, they don’t know how to handle their own shit, so they make it yours.” he glances at you, voice softer now. “but you know that, right? that it’s not you?” you let out a bitter laugh, rubbing a hand over your face. “i mean, i tell myself that. but after a while, it’s like… how many times can someone treat you like shit before you start wondering if maybe you deserve it?” “you don’t,” he reassures. seunghyun’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking away for a second. “i know that feeling too.” he hesitates, like he’s debating whether to say it. “with my girlfriend, it’s different, but also not. it’s like—she just won’t fucking talk to me. she gets mad at me for not knowing what’s wrong, but then when i ask, she shuts down. and she treats me like shit when that happens too. she yells at me, calls me names, ignores my texts… makes me feel like an idiot for even trying.” “like she expects you to read her mind.” he nods, huffing a short laugh. “exactly. and then when i give her space, it’s ‘you don’t care.’ when i push to talk, it’s ‘you don’t respect boundaries.’ i can’t—i don’t know, everything i do is fucking wrong in her eyes.” you scoff. “god, it’s the same thing. like, just say what you want! say what you mean! don’t make me guess.” seunghyun lets out a sharp exhale, like he’s been holding that in for too long. “right?! i hate that shit. like, i’m here. i want to fix it. but how the fuck am i supposed to do that if she won’t even let me in?” there’s a pause, the weight of both your words settling in the quiet gallery. “makes you wonder if it’s even worth it,” you murmur. seunghyun’s lips press into a thin line, his fingers tightening in his pockets. “yeah.” he exhales, looking up at the ceiling like it might have the answer. “but then they apologize, and suddenly it’s like none of it ever happened. and you want to believe it, because for those few hours or days, it feels good again.” you nod, because you know exactly what he means. “and then it starts all over.” he looks at you then, eyes meeting yours like he’s searching for something. “yeah.”

silence settles between you and your gaze drifts to the painting in front of you. but your eyes don’t stay on it for long. without really meaning to, you glance at seunghyun. he’s standing there, just a little in front of you, his gaze fixed on the painting, like he’s seeing something no one else can. the soft lighting catches the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, his dark hair falling just a little out of place—it’s almost unfair how effortlessly attractive he is. you should look away. but you don’t. and then, like he can feel your gaze, he shifts. his eyes flicker toward you, catching you in the act. your breath stumbles. but he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze for a second too long, a knowing smile tugging at his lips before he looks back at the painting. and you swear the air feels warmer after that. what the hell is happening to you?

months pass, and you’re closer than ever. one day, he’s just some guy you had a class with, and then, somehow, he’s your best friend. the project you worked on together? you absolutely crushed it—high marks, glowing feedback from your professor, the kind of result that makes all the half-serious arguments about formatting feel worth it. now you hang out all the time. and not just around campus—you start meeting up outside, too. going to the cinema together, picking dumb movies just to make fun of them. letting him come over to your place, where he inevitably kicks your ass at whatever game you decide to play—but then grumbles when you start getting better and actually put up a fight. some days, you just drive around aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing, stopping for food at sketchy places that somehow have the best food you’ve ever tried. you also help him with his relationship problems, and he helps with yours. well, help is a strong word—mostly, you just sit around, venting, analyzing every little thing your significant others do, trying to make sense of it all. sometimes, you’ll lie on his couch, scrolling through texts, trying to decode what a delayed response or a vague message really means. other times, he’s the one ranting, pacing the room, running a frustrated hand through his hair. neither of you have any real answers, but somehow, just saying it out loud makes it easier to carry.

the texting never stops either. even after spending the whole day together, even when you know you’ll see each other tomorrow. memes, whatever pops into your head at midnight, reminders about class or inside jokes from earlier in the day, thoughts about love and life. messages that start lighthearted but end up lingering in your mind long after the conversation ends. he’s the person you call when something good happens. he’s also the person you call when everything sucks. he becomes part of your life in a way that feels permanent. like even if everything else changes, he’ll still be there.

well, surprise! you are very wrong! it happens slowly at first, so slowly that you almost don’t notice it. a missed call here, a delayed text there. seunghyun stops responding as quickly, but you tell yourself it’s nothing—maybe he’s just busy. but then, suddenly, there’s no texting at all. he stops reaching out, and when you text first, the replies are short, distant, like he’s talking to a stranger instead of you. at first, you brush it off. maybe he’s just going through something. you give him space, waiting for him to come back on his own. but then he starts avoiding you in person, too. in class, he stops sitting next to you. when you try to talk to him, he keeps it brief, like the past few months never even happened. so you try. you crack jokes, hoping to lighten the mood. he barely reacts. you ask if he wants to grab coffee after class, and there’s always an excuse. but you’re stubborn. you keep trying, keep telling yourself that maybe he just needs time. maybe if you push a little harder, he’ll tell you what’s wrong. maybe he’ll go back to being the seunghyun you know. but he doesn’t. so eventually, you stop. because there’s only so many times you can knock on a closed door before you realize no one’s going to open it.

but fuck, you miss him. you miss seunghyun so much… in all the small, stupid ways that sneak up on you. you miss the way he used to walk you home after class, even when it was completely out of his way. how he’d always offer you his jacket without making a big deal out of it, just drape it over your shoulders. you miss how he’d send you voice notes instead of texts when he was tired, his voice soft and half-laughing as he complained about his day. like how he accidentally bought decaf coffee and didn’t realize until he’d already had two cups. or when he got locked out and had to convince the neighbor to let him climb across their balcony to reach his window—commentary and all, like he was narrating his own survival special. you miss sitting next to him during boring lectures, passing notes like you were in high school again—little doodles, sarcastic comments, the occasional ‘want to skip and get tteokbokki?’ scrawled in messy handwriting. how he’d always save you a seat beside him, even when he didn’t need to. you miss sharing your music with him, like that rainy afternoon you spent at the bus stop together, both of you soaked and laughing, sharing one headphone while waiting for a bus that never came. you miss how he’d always remember the little things—your favorite candy, the name of that song you liked for two weeks straight, the way you hated talking on the phone but would answer when it was him.

you love your boyfriend. you do. you’ve fought for this relationship, worked through the rough patches, stayed when it would’ve been easier to walk away. so why does your heart feel so heavy when you think about seunghyun? why do these stupid little memories of him make your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with losing a friend? and then it hits you. you were starting to fall for seunghyun. the realization slams into you like a truck, knocking the air right out of your lungs. your stomach twists, guilt rising up so fast it makes you dizzy. you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head as if that’ll get rid of the thoughts. it’s nothing. just stupid feelings messing with you because you miss seunghyun as a friend. that’s all. it has to be. but deep down, you know. you don’t want to deal with this. any of it. it makes you sick. you try to shove it down, bury it deep where it can’t touch you. but the more you try to push it away, the worse it gets. anger starts to creep in, and you start resenting seunghyun. resentment is easier. that’s what you tell yourself. it’s easier than facing the awful, sinking truth—that you like him. that, somewhere along the way, he started meaning too much. so you turn that feeling into something bitter. it’s easier to hate him for pushing you away without an explanation.

you don’t say hi when you pass each other on campus. he doesn’t either. you just walk by like two people who never meant a damn thing to each other. in class, is where it’s the worst. you’re stuck two rows apart, forced to exist in the same space, forced to hear his voice, and it pisses you off. everything about him pisses you off again now. so when the discussion turns to a painting you know he’s wrong about, you jump at the chance. “that’s not what it means,” you say. seunghyun pauses mid-sentence. his jaw tightens slightly. “i wasn’t talking to you.” “yeah, well, you’re still wrong.” you lean back in your seat, arms crossed, glare locked onto him. “the artist literally said in an interview that the painting was about grief, not isolation.” “and what, you suddenly know more than everyone now?” “i know how to read.” he exhales through his nose. “interpretation exists for a reason. it doesn’t have to mean just one thing.” “so your interpretation is just better than the artist’s own words? that makes total sense.” someone snickers a few seats over. the professor looks unimpressed but doesn’t step in. “are you done?” he asks. “no, i’m not,” you reply before stating your opinion and interpretation of the painting. seunghyun shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.

the bickering continues for months. that class turns into a battlefield, every discussion an excuse to dig into each other. it doesn’t even matter what the topic is anymore—if seunghyun says one thing, you find a way to contradict it. if you make a point, he challenges it. he acts like he doesn’t care, but he does. you see it in the way his jaw tightens when you cut him off. in the way his fingers drum against the desk when your words hit a little too hard. in the way his voice gets sharper, more clipped, when he finally bites back. good! you want him to feel as frustrated as you do, as angry as you do. but one day, when the class ends and you’re gathering your things ready to leave, you feel fingers wrap around your wrist. firm, but not rough. seunghyun. your breath catches. he’s barely touched you before, but now, he’s pulling you aside, out of the classroom, into the quieter hallway. “why are you doing this?” he asks, frustrated. you snatch your wrist out of his grasp. “doing what?” he lets out a slow breath. “you know what.” you do. of course you do. “you should know.” his eyes search yours before his shoulders drop slightly, and he steps back. “okay.” you scoff. “okay? that’s all you have to say?” “what else do you want me to say?” “i want an explanation.” the words snap out before you can stop them. “you just—you just left, seunghyun.” his jaw clenches. “that’s not—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “nothing happened.” “what?” “nothing happened.” he repeats, like that somehow makes it better. “there’s no explanation. i just—” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “it’s nothing.” “don’t lie.” “i’m not lying.” “yes, you are!” you snap. “you don’t just wake up one day and decide to cut someone out of your life for nothing.” he doesn’t say anything. you narrow your eyes. “was it because of her?” his brows furrow slightly. “what?” “your girlfriend.” you say, sharper this time. “is that why? she didn’t like me or something?” his whole posture stiffens. “no. that’s not—” he shakes his head. “this has nothing to do with her.” “then why?” “i don’t know what you want me to say.” “i want the truth.” “there’s no—” “you always complained about her not telling you what was wrong, even when you asked. now i’m asking you, hyun,” your voice sounds almost pleading. “i’m asking you to be fucking honest with me. did i do something wrong? i just—please. please, tell me.” for a split second, something flickers across his face. something real. but then it’s gone, buried under that frustrating, detached calm of his. seunghyun swallows, his gaze dropping to the floor. “i already told you. there’s nothing to explain.” and that’s when it really sinks in. he’s not going to tell you. he’s not going to give you answers. you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your throat tightens. “okay,” you say quietly, almost in a whisper. “have a good day, seunghyun.”

when the academic year ends, you feel like you can finally breathe. the weight of seeing seunghyun every day finally lifts, and you don’t realize how much it was draining you until it’s gone. summer feels like a breath of fresh air. no classes to deal with, no more running into him on campus. you actually start to feel better. the long days blend into each other, and the heat is almost a relief, as if the sun can melt away the last remnants of all the mess that’s been building up inside you. you spend time with friends, with your boyfriend, with family, dive into your hobbies—things that make you feel again, instead of being stuck in that heavy, frustrating place you were in just a few months ago.

the day feels like any other. it’s one of those lazy summer days, the kind that stretches on, with no obligations in sight. you’re in the kitchen, a soft hum of music filling the space as you chop vegetables for your lunch. it’s a soothing task, one that lets you lose yourself in the rhythm while the world spins on without much thought. then, your phone rings. the sound slices through the calm, pulling your attention to the screen. the moment you see the name, your heart skips a beat. seunghyun. you freeze, knife halfway through slicing a carrot. the world feels like it slows down for a moment. it’s been months since you last heard from him, since that final conversation you thought would be the last. you can feel your breath catch in your chest as your mind races. why is he calling now? what could he possibly want? you stare at his name, watching the screen flash. your fingers hover over the phone, torn. there’s a part of you that wants to ignore it, to send him straight to voicemail. it would be easier, right? just let him stay in the past where he belongs. but another part of you wants to know why he’s calling. you’ll regret it if you don’t pick up.

with a sharp exhale, you swipe your finger across the screen. “hello?” your voice sounds smaller than you expected. there’s a long silence on the other end. you can hear faint sounds—shuffling, soft breaths, maybe a sniffle—and then, his voice cracks through, shaky and broken. “hey…” your stomach drops. there’s something wrong. something off in his tone. “seunghyun?” you whisper, suddenly feeling the weight of his name. he doesn’t respond right away, and you can hear him sniffle again. “i—” his voice cracks. “are you okay?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, panic creeping up your spine. there’s a long pause. you wait, heart pounding in your ears. and then, his voice comes, quieter this time. “no. i’m not okay.” you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the tension in his voice seeping into your bones. “what’s going on?” you ask, your words coming out urgent, concerned. “hyun, talk to me.” there’s a shaky breath on the other end before he finally speaks. “she cheated on me.” it’s the last thing you expected to hear. you swallow. “what? your girlfriend?” “i found out a couple days ago,” he continues, his words slow, like he’s choosing each one carefully. “she… she left her phone unlocked. and i didn’t mean to snoop i swear, but i saw messages—pictures, stuff i shouldn’t have seen. i knew something was off before, but seeing it…” you wince, not sure what to say. you can’t imagine what he must’ve been going through. “i’m sorry,” you say quietly, the words feeling too small. he lets out a shaky sigh, and you hear him breathe in like he’s trying to pull himself together. “yeah, well… it’s done now. we argued for days, but today, i… i ended it. it’s over.” “oh. i’m sorry, hyun, i… i don’t know what to say.” there’s a long pause, and when he speaks again, it’s with an almost defeated tone. “i… i didn’t mean to call you. i just—i don’t know,” he says, his words stumbling over each other. “i didn’t want to bother you. i-i shouldn’t have called. i don’t know why i did.” he’s almost apologizing, and the guilt in his voice makes you frown. “don’t hang up,” you say quickly, before you even think about it. “please don’t hang up.” “i’m sorry for calling you out of nowhere.” you feel a pang of sadness at his words. “it’s okay,” you reply. “you don’t have to apologize for calling. i’m here, okay? you can talk to me.”

seunghyun sits there, phone pressed to his ear, wondering how you can still be here for him after everything, after he pushed you away. the guilt eats at him, every part of him screaming that he doesn’t deserve to have someone like you by his side. “i thought you’d be done with me by now,” he says, almost in a whisper. you shake your head even though he can’t see you, your hand gripping the phone a little tighter. “we were friends, seunghyun,” you remind him, your voice gentle. “i know things got messed up, but… we were friends. best friends. and i told you i’d always be there for you.” you pause, chewing on your lower lip for a moment, before you finally say what you’ve been thinking. “if you want, i can come over. we can talk… or not talk. whatever you need.” you hold your breath, waiting for his response. there’s a long, stunned silence on the other end. “you want to see me?” he asks, like he can’t believe it. “yeah, of course.” “i don’t deserve your help.” “you do. please, let me.” there’s a slight hesitation before he speaks again. “okay. i won’t keep you long. i don’t want to be a burden.” “you’re not,” you assure him. “give me an hour and i’ll be there.”

as soon as you reach his place, you knock lightly, your heart hammering in your chest. the door creaks open a few seconds later. he looks awful. his eyes are red and swollen, his hair messy. he’s in a hoodie that hangs loosely on his frame, and the exhaustion in his face makes him look smaller. for a moment, neither of you move. no words are exchanged. then, without overanalyzing, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. he tenses at first, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he just… melts. his arms tighten around you, his face burying into your shoulder as his body shakes. and then, quietly, he starts crying. you feel his tears soak into your shirt but you don’t pull away. you just hold him, one hand running soothingly over his back.

you spend the entire summer trying to pull seunghyun out of the darkness he’s buried himself in. he barely leaves his house, barely eats unless you remind him, barely sleeps. and you can’t stand it. you can’t stand seeing him like this—so broken. so you do what you can. you show up. every single day. some days, it’s just sitting with him in comfortable silence, letting him exist without forcing him to talk. other days, you try to drag him outside, finding little excuses to get him moving. “come on,” you tell him one afternoon, standing in his living room with your hands on your hips. “let’s go get ice cream.” he’s curled up on the couch, hood pulled over his head, despite the unbearable heat outside. you’re not surprised—he once told you he likes to be covered up. “i’m good,” he mumbles, not even looking at you. you roll your eyes and walk over, grabbing the hood and yanking it off. “no, you’re not, liar. you haven’t left this room in days. come on, seunghyun. you love ice cream.” he sighs, rubbing his face. “i’m not in the mood.” “that’s exactly why we’re going.” you grab his arm, pulling until he finally gets up.

one day you even made him dance with you. it was late, music playing softly from your speakers. you were already swaying to the beat, grinning at him from across the room. “come on, dance with me.” he scoffed, arms crossed. “yeah, no.” “why not?” “because i don’t dance.” you rolled your eyes. “don’t lie. you literally have like five videos on instagram of you dancing in front of your mirror.” “that’s different,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “is it?” you raised an eyebrow. “what about that time you started dancing in the middle of the crosswalk because that one guy’s car stereo was blasting usher?” he tried to suppress a smile, but failed. “okay, that doesn’t count either. i was just being silly.” “be silly with me now, then. everyone dances, hyun.” you stepped closer and grabbed his wrists, trying to tug him away from the wall. he resisted at first, feet planted like a grumpy little kid, but you didn’t let up. until finally, with a dramatic sigh, he let you pull him toward the center of the room. “this is dumb,” he grumbled. “you’re dumb,” you shot back. “just move.” at first he was stiff, awkward, his shoulders tense and eyes focused anywhere but on you. but you didn’t care. you kept swaying, guiding him with a light grip and a grin, your voice humming along with the music. and slowly he loosened up. just a little. “see? not so bad.” he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, his eyes flicking down to you, soft around the edges. like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have it in him. not when it was you.

eventually, he started coming back to himself. making jokes like he used to. but the first time you heard his real laugh again, after months, it nearly made you jump out of your seat. it happened at his house. you were sprawled out on his couch, flipping through a magazine, when you made an offhand comment about his wardrobe. “you literally have like three hoodies. and you wear them every day.” “rude,” he said flatly. “i have five.” you snorted. “right. and they all look exactly the same.” “it’s called having a brand.” “your brand is sad boy chic.” he tried to hold it in, pressing his lips together like that would stop it—but the laugh still slipped out. your eyes widened. “oh my god.” you sat up, staring at him. “are you laughing?” he shook his head, even as his mouth twitched up. “i’m not.” and then another chuckle escaped. your grin stretched wide. “you are!” he groaned, running a hand down his face. “shut up.”

one evening, you’re both out on his balcony, the sun just having dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of deep orange and purple in the sky. the air is warm but cooling down, the distant hum of the city below mixing with the occasional rustling of leaves. seunghyun leans against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. he takes a slow drag, exhaling the smoke into the evening air before wordlessly handing it to you. you hesitate for half a second before taking it, bringing it to your lips and inhaling just enough for the burn to settle in your lungs. you pass it back, watching as he taps the ash over the edge of the railing, gaze distant. he hasn’t said much in the past few minutes, which isn’t unusual, but there’s something about his silence that feels different. after a while, he sighs. “i need to tell you something.” you straighten a little, looking at him. “what is it?” “i think… i think i owe you an explanation,” he says. your stomach tightens. you know exactly what he means. “you don’t have to,” you reply, even though you’ve spent months dying to know. “i wasn’t honest with you back then. and… i want to be.” he pauses, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, gaze fixed on the darkened skyline. “the reason i… the reason i stopped talking to you is because—” he hesitates, jaw clenching. “because i liked you,” he finally says. your breath catches. “what?” he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. “i liked you. as more than a friend.” but even now, standing here with the truth hanging between you, he knows he’s still holding back. liked—he said it like it was past tense, like it was something he’d moved on from. but that’s a lie. he still does. you don’t know what to say. don’t even know what to feel. “seunghyun…” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i had a girlfriend. you had a boyfriend… well, you still do.” his voice drops at that last part. he clears his throat, looking away again. “i loved her. and it was wrong. so i told myself that those feelings for you would go away if i put enough space between us.” your fingers tighten around the railing. your voice is barely above a whisper when you ask, “did it work?” “no.”

silence settles between you. you want to admit it, too. that you felt the same thing. but where would that even get you? you’re still in a relationship. and you love your boyfriend (at least that’s what you tell yourself…) you know better. you can’t complicate things again now. so instead, you force yourself to ask, “why are you telling me this, hyun?” he frowns. “i don’t know, i just—i thought you should know.” he pauses. “i’m sorry for disappearing like that.” “it’s okay—” “no, it’s not.” he sighs. “i shouldn’t have… i shouldn’t have cut you off. i hurt you and you didn’t deserve that.” the guilt has been sitting in his chest for so long, pressing down on him every time he thought about you—which was always. you know you should be angrier, that you should make him sit with the weight of what he did a little longer. but the truth is, you missed him. you missed him so much it ached. “yeah,” you say quietly, “you did hurt me. but i get it, hyun.” he frowns slightly. “you were confused. and scared.” and you know that, because that’s exactly how you felt too. “but that doesn’t justify—” “seunghyun.” you cut off, shaking your head. “no it doesn’t justify it, but you apologized. i forgive you. it’s okay. don’t be—don’t be hard on yourself.” oh man. he wonders what he did in another life to deserve you being so good to him in this one. “i’m sorry too,” you continue with a smile tugging at your lips. “for snapping at you all the time in class.” he lets out a small laugh. “it’s okay,” he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “i thought it was kinda cute.” “cute?” you snort. “yeah. but don’t worry,” he says, forcing a smirk, like he’s trying to play it off. “it’s in the past. we’re good friends.” and for some reason, that stings.

summer ends before you even realize it. the warmth starts to fade, the days growing shorter, the air losing its heaviness. you’re back on campus, slipping into the routine of lectures and assignments. but everything shifts—just a few days into the new academic year, it all comes crashing down. the fight with your boyfriend starts like any other argument. but then, somewhere in the middle of it, he snaps. says something he can’t take back. something that makes your stomach drop. he’s slept with multiple girls behind your back. you don’t remember what you said after that. don’t remember how the argument ended. all you know is that it’s over. and now, somehow, the tables have turned. it’s seunghyun showing up at your door this time, no hesitation in his eyes when he pulls you into a hug the second he sees your face. it’s him dragging you out of your house when you don’t want to move, sitting with you in coffee shops and parks and anywhere that isn’t your room, distracting you with dumb jokes and conversations about nothing. it’s him texting you at random hours, u good? or let’s go get food or just a simple i’m outside when you need it the most. he doesn’t push you to talk. doesn’t force you to open up. he just stays—sits beside you when you don’t feel like speaking, lets you cry when you need to. and slowly, piece by piece, he starts pulling you back together.

by the time october rolls around, you’re a new person. the heartbreak doesn’t sting anymore, the anger has dulled, and you’re genuinely happy after what feels like a lifetime. seunghyun has a lot to do with that. and maybe that’s why, when the invitation for a halloween party from some classmates rolls in, it doesn’t feel so strange that you and seunghyun are each other’s default plus-one. the house is packed, every room overflowing with people. music booms from the speakers, the bass so heavy it vibrates through the floor, making the half-empty bottles on the kitchen counter tremble. laughter and shouting fill the space, blending with the music, with the sound of ice clinking in cups, with the occasional crash of something breaking followed by a drunken chorus of “ooohhh!” you and seunghyun arrive together, dressed in matching costumes—him as an astronaut, you as the moon. your dress is a soft, silvery white, made of a flowing fabric that shimmers with every step, catching the dim party lights. the bodice is scattered with tiny embroidered stars, and the skirt has a subtle iridescence, shifting between silver and pale blue as you move. your jewelry is just as delicate—dangling earrings shaped like crescent moons. atop your hair sits a headband, adorned with silver moons and twinkling stars. seunghyun had grinned when he saw you, adjusting the nasa patch on his astronaut suit before reaching out to spin you in place.

you don’t separate when you step inside. instead, his hand stays on the small of your back. someone shoves drinks into your hands the second you reach the kitchen—something bright and sugary, probably way too strong—but neither of you mind. a group is playing beer pong in the living room, another is huddled around a tiny table, laughing over some drinking game with cards. in the corner, someone’s passed out in a vampire cape, an empty bowl of candy resting on their lap. the night moves in a blur. you and seunghyun barely leave each other’s side, moving together through the party, dancing till his hair starts sticking to his forehead from sweat. between songs, you weave through the party together, stopping to talk to friends, laughing at half-drunken conversations, clinking cups and playing games. someone compliments your matching costumes, and seunghyun just grins, tugging playfully at the fabric of your dress. “told you we’d have the best costumes. i mean, what’s an astronaut without his moon?”

eventually, the heat and the crowd become too much, and seunghyun leans in close, voice just loud enough over the music. “let’s go outside for a bit.” you follow him through the packed room and out the back door, the chilly night air biting at your skin. the backyard is quiet compared to the chaos inside, just the faint murmur of distant conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. seunghyun pulls a cigarette from his pocket, then offers you one without a word. you take it, watching as he lights his first, the glow flickering against his face before he leans in to light yours. you take a slow drag before exhaling. “having fun?” he asks. you smirk. “define fun.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “you took more shots than me earlier. you’re definitely drunk.” “tipsy,” you correct, nudging him with your elbow. “big difference.” he hums in response, taking a drag of his own. for a moment, there’s only silence, the two of you standing side by side, watching the way the smoke curls into the cold air. “the party is actually good,” he says. “way better than i expected. i was killing it at beer pong.” “you lost.” “okay, but it was a close game.” you shake your head, laughing. “so this is a ten out of ten night for you?” “pretty much,” he grins. “good music, free booze, and…” he hesitates for a second before saying, “you. what more could i want?” you feel warmth creep up your neck, but you keep your expression neutral, taking a slow drag of your cigarette. “drunk flirty hyun… that’s new.” he scoffs, shaking his head. “that wasn’t—” he starts, but then he stops, like he realizes mid-sentence that there’s no point in denying it. instead, he exhales, flicking ash off his cigarette. “i was just being honest.” he takes another drag, exhaling slowly after, watching the way the smoke drifts into the cold air before his gaze drifts back to you. he’s so screwed. because you’re smiling, the glow of the party lights casting this ridiculous golden halo around you. your lips are glossy, your smile lifting your cheeks, making you look even cuter, and your hair—god, your hair—looks so soft he has to physically stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers through it. you’re beautiful. and he’s so stupidly in love. you turn to look at him, brows raising slightly. “what?” you ask, amusement flickering in your eyes. seunghyun blinks, realizing too late that he’s been staring. “nothing,” he says, a little too quickly, taking another drag of his cigarette like that’ll somehow make him look less obvious. you tilt your head, the corner of your lips quirking up. “you sure?” you press, watching him. seunghyun hesitates for half a second, then just smiles, soft and a little shy. “yeah. just… spaced out for a second.” “mhmm,” you hum, clearly unconvinced, but you don’t push. instead, you take another slow drag of your cigarette. after a moment, you flick the end of it away, stretching slightly. “wanna go back in?” he nods. “yeah.” “only if you take another shot with me.” seunghyun huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “figured there was a catch.” “come on, hyun,” you grin, tugging at his sleeve. “just one more.” and he’s already moving, already following you back inside, because he’s so far gone for you it’s pathetic.

after a couple of hours, when the party starts to lose its spark and exhaustion settles in, he leans in, voice low near your ear. “you wanna head out?” you nod, stretching your arms with a yawn. “yeah, just need to grab my coat. left it in one of the rooms.” he doesn’t say anything, just follows when you turn to go. the house is still loud, music pulsing from the main room, but out here in the hallway, it’s quieter, the chatter more distant. you push open the door to a small room, stepping inside. your coat is draped over the back of a chair, right where you left it. seunghyun’s inside too, standing just a few steps away. you shake out your coat, ready to slip it on, but before you can, he steps closer. “here,” he offers, voice quieter now, more careful. “let me.”

you hesitate for half a second before nodding, handing it over. he takes it gently, holding it open as you slide your arms through the sleeves. his hands brush against your shoulders as he settles it into place, a touch so light it barely lingers, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. neither of you move right away. you can feel him behind you, his warmth, the way he still hasn’t stepped back. slowly, you turn to face him. his gaze flickers over you, taking you in like he’s memorizing every detail. then, so quietly it almost disappears into the space between you, he says, “do you wanna know what i was thinking before? when we were outside?” you hum in response, nodding slightly. “i was thinking… you’re beautiful. you’re so, so beautiful.” “you’re drunk,” you say, but it comes out quieter than you intended. he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “i know what i’m saying.” you hold his gaze, fingers curling inside your sleeves. “you sure?” you laugh softly. his voice is quieter when he speaks again. “yeah. it’s not a bad thing. thinking you’re beautiful… calling you beautiful.” his gaze flickers, dropping briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you shouldn’t look at me like that,” you say. he steps just the slightest bit closer, gaze never leaving yours. “like what?” “like that,” you mutter, looking away. he’s quiet for a moment, then—“maybe you should stop looking at me like that, too.” your eyes snap back to his, heart pounding in your chest. “i’m not,” you argue, but it’s unconvincing. he smiles. “yes, you are.” you blink, heat spreading through your cheeks. “hyun…” you start, but the words catch in your throat. his smile lingers. “what?” “don’t do that.” “do what?” “act like you know what’s going on in my head.” his expression softens just slightly, but there’s something careful in the way he tilts his head, watching you. “don’t i?” of course he does. it’s infuriating, really, the way he can pick apart your thoughts without you saying a word. his eyes search yours, and then, he studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide if he should even say what he’s about to say at all. but the words escape his lips before he can stop them. “i still have feelings for you.” “hyun—” “they never went away,” he cuts in. “you never noticed?” “i don’t—i don’t know.” “i thought you did,” he murmurs. “sometimes, it felt like you did. but maybe i was just seeing what i wanted to see.” he pauses. “sorry, i don’t want to make things weird, i know the breakup is recent for you, i just—i needed to say it,” his voice is quieter now, like he’s already made peace with whatever answer he thinks is coming. you glance up at him and he looks like he’s already preparing himself for the worst. and that’s what does it. that’s what makes the words slip past your lips before you can overthink them. “i… i do too.” “what?” “i have feelings for you too,” you say. “for a while now.” his expression softens, something flickering in his gaze—relief. “really?” “mhm.” you nod with a shy smile.

he exhales, like he’s been holding in the breath this whole time. and then, before you can process it, he takes a step closer, hand reaching up to brush against your cheek, gentle. your breath stutters as his face inches closer, his eyes flickering to your lips, giving you time to pull away if you want to. but you don’t. except, just as his lips nearly graze yours, panic flares in your chest, and you instinctively turn your head. “wait—” he freezes immediately, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “oh. sorry. too fast?” “no, no.” “what’s wrong?” you press your lips together. “i just… i haven’t kissed anyone other than my ex before.” your voice is small, embarrassed. “i don’t know—i don’t know how to do this. i’m nervous.” his brows lift slightly before a small smile tugs at his lips, understanding. “you think i have?” “what?” “you’re the only person i’ve liked other than my ex. i haven’t kissed anyone either.” the confession eases some of the nerves coiled in your stomach. “it’s okay to be nervous,” he says softly. “we don’t have to rush anything.”

you chew on your bottom lip. the way he’s looking at you makes you feel a little braver. seunghyun hesitates, then asks, “do you want to try?” he’s waiting—patient, not pushing, just letting you decide. and that just makes you want it more. “yes.” your voice is quiet. “i want to try.” his lips twitch up in a small smile, and he nods once. his gaze dips to your lips for just a second before meeting your eyes again, waiting for you to make the first move. you take a shaky breath before you lean in. it’s barely a kiss, just the softest press of your lips against his. you pull back almost immediately, nerves sparking in your chest. he stays close, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at each other. “you okay?” he murmurs. you nod quickly, cheeks burning. “yeah.” a small, shy smile on your lips. his own smile widens just a little. “can we—can we try again?” you whisper. this time, when you lean in, he meets you halfway. the second kiss is different. his lips fit against yours like they were always meant to. you feel his hand slide to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing your skin so delicately that it makes your stomach flip. your fingers find the fabric of his costume, curling slightly as you let yourself lean into him, let yourself fall into the moment. the kiss deepens naturally, neither of you rushing, just learning each other in quiet, stolen seconds. he tilts his head slightly, and the shift makes it even better—your lips molding together, the warmth of him surrounding you. his nose brushes against yours as you part. your lashes flutter open, meeting his gaze. “was that okay?” he murmurs. you let out a breathless laugh, nodding. “more than okay.” “good.” he laughs too.

you spend more time with each other after that night, if that’s even possible. it becomes routine. you wake up expecting to see him at some point in the day. if you don’t, it feels off, like something’s missing. sometimes, you’ll spend hours together without saying much, just existing in the same space. other times you’ll talk for hours, trading secrets you’ve never told anyone, laughing until your stomachs hurt. seunghyun is so in love. oh, so in love… sometimes, when he’s lying awake at night, staring at his ceiling, he feels almost angry at himself—for waiting so long, for not realizing sooner. he thinks about the time he wasted, stuck in something that was never meant to last, convincing himself that love was supposed to be hard, that it was supposed to be painful and exhausting. but with you, it’s so fucking easy. he’s starting to believe what people say. first love is beautiful, sure. but second love? second love is real. second love is unforgettable. seunghyun is down bad. your presence alone is enough to set every nerve in his body on fire. and when you laugh—god, when you laugh—he thinks he could live off that sound alone. and maybe it’s crazy, but sometimes, he finds himself thinking—this is it, isn’t it? this is the kind of love people write about. he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that no one—not his first love, not anyone—has ever made him feel like this. he’s never felt love like this before. but he never wants to go another day without it. without you.

the way you kiss him it’s intoxicating. seunghyun has kissed before, obviously. with you, it’s different. because when you do, slow, like you’re savoring every second, it makes his head spin more than anything else ever has. because the way you pull back just to look at him, eyes flickering between his—your hands on him, like you need to be touching him—makes his chest ache in the best way. makes him feel like the most important person in the world. sometimes, it starts soft, just a lingering press of lips. other times, it’s urgent. but you don’t push for more, and neither does he. not because you don’t want to, but because that’s already enough.

that’s why he doesn’t expect that, one day, while you’re making out on his couch, you straddle him—your knees pressing into the couch on either side of him, your hands settling on his shoulders. and seunghyun? he forgets how to breathe. his brain short-circuits. like, completely shuts down. his hands hover awkwardly at your waist, fingers twitching, unsure if he should actually touch you or just die right then and there. because holy shit. you don’t seem to notice his internal crisis, too caught up in the moment, too focused on the way his lips and tongue move against yours. but he notices—notices the way your body presses flush against his, the way your weight settles onto his lap, the way your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly. his self-control? hanging by a thread. your breath is uneven when you pull back to meet his gaze, your lips a little swollen. “is this okay?” you ask, voice soft. he exhales, hands smoothing over your waist. “yeah,” he breathes. “is it okay for you?” “mhm,” you nod.

you kiss him again, and this time, it’s different. it’s charged. seunghyun feels it in the way your hands slide from his shoulders to the nape of his neck. he feels it in the way your lips move against his. but most of all, he feels it when you shift in his lap, pressing down. just the slightest movement. he inhales sharply, his grip on your waist tightening as his body tenses beneath you. it’s not even really a movement, more of a hesitant roll of your hips against his, but fuck, it sends heat straight to the bulge in his pants. his brain barely has time to process what’s happening before you do it again. this time, he can’t stop the quiet groan that slips past his lips, low and almost pained, his hands digging into your hips on instinct.

he lets you. lets you move against him however you want, lets himself feel you. your movements start slow, almost experimental, like you’re figuring this out as you go, like you’re getting used to the feel of him beneath you. but when you find a rhythm—when you finally press against him fully, rolling your hips down just right—oh boy. his head tips back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, a shaky breath slipping past his lips. he’s done for. you lean in, pressing a kiss just under his jaw, and he groans, low in his throat, his hands sliding down to squeeze your ass like he’s trying to keep himself together. “fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you. “you’re gonna kill me.” you smile against his skin, and it’s unfair, so unfair, because you know what you’re doing to him. you know, and you keep going. the friction is perfect—every movement sending a pulse of heat through his body, enough to drive him crazy, enough to have his dick twitching in his pants.

his breathing comes out in short, uneven gasps as he grits his teeth, trying to hold on, trying to stay in control. but he can’t. because the way you sound—soft, breathy little moans escaping your lips—paired with the friction of you against him? it’s too fucking much. he’s already so close, already on the edge before he even realizes it. and when you press down just right, his stomach tightens. “shit—!” his whole body tenses as the pleasure hits him, crashing over him before he can stop it. his breath catches in his throat, a choked moan slipping past his lips, his fingers gripping your ass hard. he stills completely, chest rising and falling against yours, and it takes a second before he realizes what just happened. he ruined his pants. fuck. his face burns as the reality sets in. you blink at him, confused at first, before realization dawns in your expression. “oh.” seunghyun groans, tilting his head back, dragging his hands down his face, mortified. “don’t.” his voice is muffled against his palms. “don’t say anything.” but it’s too late. you giggle, and that just makes his ears go even redder. you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and whisper, “cute.” “i’m sorry,” he says, embarrassed. “it’s okay, baby,” you giggle again. after a moment, he laughs too.

the physical side of your relationship isn’t something either of you are shying away from anymore. the kisses get longer. deeper. and there’s more touching now. it starts happening more often, too. you’re figuring each other out, taking your time. memorizing the way each other moves, the way each other reacts. you’re learning him, and he’s learning you.

it’s natural that you start wanting more. that’s why, one night, late in his room, you find yourself lying beneath him, bodies tangled in his sheets. hands are everywhere. his lips leave yours only to trail down your jaw, down your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. he loves this—loves the way you shiver, loves the way your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly when he nips at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “seunghyun,” you breathe, and he swears he could die happy right now. his hands slide lower, fingers on your right thigh. you shift beneath him, pressing closer, sighing when his hand finally trails higher. his fingers move along the fabric between your legs. his touch featherlight, barely-there, but still enough to make you squirm. oh lord jesus, he nearly loses it right there. “you’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters against your skin. “my pretty, pretty girl.” you’re warm and soft, reacting to every little touch, every slow drag of his fingers. he can feel your heartbeat beneath his mouth as he kisses along your throat, your chest rising and falling a little too fast. his own breathing is just as uneven as yours now. he’s so hard it’s almost embarrassing. “tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs. “i’ll give you anything, just—” “touch me, seunghyun,” you say softly. oh, you don’t need to tell him twice! he unbuttons your pants, sliding them down slowly. his fingers hook into the waistband, knuckles brushing against your hips as he tugs the fabric down, past your thighs, past your knees, until they’re bunched at your ankles. he takes his time pulling them off completely. his fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of your underwear next, dragging them down until they’re gone.

his hand goes right back where you want it. two of his fingers slide against you, teasing. feeling exactly how wet you are for him. the way your juices coat his fingertips, makes him groan, the sound vibrating low in his throat. his thumb drags over your clit, rubbing slow circles, and the reaction is immediate—your breath catches, your thighs twitch and your hips jerk slightly, a soft moan escaping your lips. oh that sound… his cock throbs in his jeans. “tell me if it’s too much. or if you want more.” your response comes fast—a shaky, desperate whisper. “more.” you beg, voice trembling. “more, seunghyun.” “more what, baby?” he teases, his thumb still working your clit. you whimper. “y-your fingers.” he chuckles softly, one of his fingers gently parting your folds before he pushes it in, sinking into your pussy with no resistance. “like this?” you nod, biting your lip. he begins pumping his finger slowly in and out and your breath comes faster, mingling with the wet sounds of his finger fucking you. when he adds another finger, your hands grip his arms, trying to hold onto something. he watches you, completely transfixed by how beautiful you look right now—lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “that feel good, hm?” he asks as he curls his fingers inside you, pressing against that one spot “y-yes! o-oh my—!” so he gives you more. his fingers thrust deeper and faster, curling just right, and your moans turn into whimpers. your thighs tremble and seunghyun can feel how close you are, how your body is tensing, your gummy walls squeezing his fingers. “hyun, i-i’m—i’m gonna—!” “i know, baby… give it to me.” one more thrust of his fingers, one more firm stroke of his thumb against your clit and your back arches—a sharp, desperate moan spilling from your lips—your body shuddering, clenching down around his fingers. he gives you a moment to catch your breath before he leans in. he presses a kiss to your forehead. “next time,” he murmurs against your skin, pressing another kiss, “i’m using my mouth.”

and he keeps his promise! it happens on a lazy sunday morning, right before your scheduled museum date. he shows up at your place a few minutes early, too excited to see you, too impatient to wait. maybe he had good intentions, but the second he sees you in that dress… he almost wishes to be a father. because what the fuck—you just look so good. soft and pretty, hair still slightly messy from getting ready in a rush, your perfume fresh in the air… his hands are on you before he even realizes it, pulling you in by the waist. you blink up at him, confused at first, lips parted, breath hitching slightly at the way he’s looking at you. that man is hungry. and he shows it with his kisses. “we—” you try to speak in between them. “we’re gonna be late—” “don’t care, i wanna taste you,” he mutters against your lips, hands sliding beneath the hem of your dress. “can i?”

and not even three minutes later, his head is buried between your thighs, his grip firm as he holds you in place. the first taste of you nearly ruins him—his low groan vibrating against your skin as his tongue works with a hunger that borders on desperate. your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging when he flattens his tongue against you. “s-seunghyun!” you moan loudly. music to his ears. he loves the way you whimper, the way your body shudders when he flicks your clit with his tongue, then sucking it just enough to make your thighs tremble. his grip on them is borderline bruising, but you don’t care—not when he’s got his mouth on you like this. “fuck, you taste so good,” he mutters against you, breath hot, voice thick with need. “so fuckin’ sweet.” “y-you always this needy?” you manage to tease, but your voice is shaky. he chuckles. “says the one trying to suffocate me with her thighs.” you open your mouth to fire back, but he circles your clit with his tongue, and whatever you were about to say turns into a sharp gasp. he grins against you, pleased with himself. and god, you’re already so close. he can feel it in the way your body tenses, the way your legs try to close around his head, the way your breath stutters into these soft, broken little moans. but he’s not done. he slides one hand up, fingers teasing at your entrance before slowly sliding inside. “fuck! f-fuck, hyun!” you cry from pleasure. “yes—ngh!—y-yes, baby, just like that! just like that!” your whole body jerks as his fingers move in perfect rhythm, tongue working you over even faster. “c’mon, baby,” he coaxes, pulling away just for a moment. “be good for me.” and that’s it. you choke on a moan, back arching as pleasure crashes through you. you cum on his tongue and he works you through it. licking and sucking even when your thighs shake. and when you try to pull away from the overstimulation, he doesn’t let up—not until he’s sure he’s gotten every last drop of it. finally, he pulls back, lips slick, eyes dark as he looks up at you, taking in the mess he’s made of you. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking before crawling up to press soft kisses to your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your lips—gentle, like he’s trying to bring you back down. “you okay?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “mhm,” you nod, still breathless. “yeah… just feel like jello.” he chuckles. “you’re so cute.” there’s something soft in the way he’s looking at you. your heart stutters, warmth blooming in your chest. “you’re such a sap,” you tease. he just grins, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “only for you.”

when valentine’s day rolls around, seunghyun makes sure you have the best one yet. he remembers—of course, he does—how you once mentioned that your ex never really cared about it, brushing off the day like it meant nothing. seunghyun, though, he isn’t like that. so when you walk through the door after a long day at university, you almost miss it at first. your brain is too tired to register the burst of color sitting on the living room table. but then, your eyes land on it, and for a second, you think you’ve walked into the wrong place. a massive bouquet of flowers sits right in the center, petals soft and vibrant like they belong in a fairytale. two—no, three—boxes of chocolate are stacked neatly beside it, ribbons tied in perfect bows. you blink, then blink again. “what the…” you murmur, stepping closer, fingertips grazing the velvety petals. there’s a small note tucked between the stems, and when you pull it out, your lips part into a slow, disbelieving smile. ‘because you deserve to be spoiled. i’ll pick you up for dinner (make sure to wear that beautiful smile of yours). happy valentine’s day, baby. — your hyun.’ you don’t even realize you’re smiling so hard until your cheeks start to hurt. warmth spreads through your chest, making you feel a little ridiculous, a little too giddy, but you don’t care. grabbing your phone, you call him immediately. “hi, baby—” “you’re insane,” you cut in, still staring at the bouquet. “this is—seunghyun, what the fuck?” his soft chuckle comes through the speaker, warm and just a little shy. “so, you liked it?” “liked it?” you echo, shaking your head. “i love it. i—how did you even—when did you—ugh. you didn’t have to, baby.” “i wanted to. your parents helped me set it up.” his voice is so sure, so simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. and maybe it is—to him, at least. “thank you.” your fingers play with the edge of the little note, eyes flicking over the words again. “did you read the note?” he asks. “yeah,” you nod, even though he can’t see you. “i read it. where are you taking me?” “surprise.” “hyun—” “you’ll see later.” “i need to know so that i can—” “huh? wait—hold on, i think you’re cutting out.” his voice suddenly sounds distant, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth. “hello? can you hear me?” you narrow your eyes. “don’t even start.” “ah, damn. i think my signal’s bad.” he makes a few static noises with his mouth, so ridiculously fake you almost drop your phone from laughing. “you’re a dork, you know that?” more static—or at least his sad attempt at it. “what? i—i can’t—losing connection—” “seunghyun, you’re literally at home.” he clears his throat. “gotta go, baby, see you at seven!” the call ends before you can say another word. you stare at your screen, completely unimpressed, but also grinning like an idiot. he’s gonna be the end of you.

he takes you to one of the fanciest restaurants you’ve ever been in, which makes you wonder how the hell he managed to afford all this. but knowing him, he’s probably been saving up for weeks, quietly planning everything down to the last detail. dinner feels like time slowing down in the best way. seunghyun watches you more than he eats, eyes crinkling whenever you ramble about something or get too caught up in telling a story. and when the check comes, you barely get the chance to reach for your purse before seunghyun is already handing over his card, like every time you go out. stepping outside, the cool air wraps around you, crisp and refreshing after the warmth of the restaurant. seunghyun is close beside you, his hand brushing against yours before he finally just takes it, fingers slotting together. you squeeze his hand lightly, glancing up at him, but he’s already looking at you, eyes soft under the glow of the city lights.

as you settle into the car, seunghyun doesn’t start the engine right away. instead, he reaches into the pocket of his coat. you stare at him, curious, but before you can ask, he pulls out a small, velvet box and holds it out to you. “i got you something,” he smiles, voice a little quieter than usual. “what—? hyun—” “shh, let me spoil you,” he chuckles. your fingers hesitate for a second before you take it, the soft material cool against your palm. your chest tightens slightly as you flip it open, revealing a delicate necklace inside. the pendant is small, understated, but beautiful—exactly the kind of thing you’d pick for yourself. you exhale, running your thumb over the tiny charm. “oh my—i love it!” “i saw it and thought of you.” “it’s perfect, baby. thank you.” his lips twitch into a small smile. “let me put it on you.” you turn slightly, gathering your hair to one side as he takes the necklace from the box. he fastens it behind your neck, his fingers brushing lightly along the back of your shoulder. he lingers, adjusting the clasp, making sure it sits just right before letting his hands drop. you glance down, fingertips brushing over the pendant as a soft smile tugs at your lips. seunghyun leans back slightly, eyes flickering over you before settling on your face. “my pretty, pretty, pretty girl.” you shake your head with a small laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “okay, your turn.” his brows furrow slightly. “my turn?” you reach into your bag, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped package before placing it in his hands. “yeah. you didn’t think you were the only one with surprises tonight, did you?” “you got me something?” he’s not used to being on the receiving end of surprises. “of course, i did,” you say, handing it to him. “now, open it.”

as soon as the paper wrapper falls away, his expression shifts. a hardcover book with a deep, star-speckled cover. his fingers graze over the title—the art of the cosmos—a collection of celestial-inspired artwork, paintings, sculptures, and photography, all centered around space. he flips through the pages slowly, carefully, eyes taking in the images of galaxies captured in oil paint, nebulas carved into stone, planets sculpted from glass. “i know how much you love space,” you say, watching his reaction closely. “and art, of course. so… i wanted you to have something that combined the two things you love the most, something that feels like you. it’s not—it’s not as fancy as… everything that you’ve prepared but—” before you can finish, seunghyun leans in, pressing his lips to yours. when he finally pulls away, he stays close, forehead barely an inch from yours. “don’t ever say that again.” “say what?” “that it’s not—” he exhales, shaking his head. “you could’ve given me a damn rock, and i’d still love it because it’s from you.” your heart stumbles a little, and you let out a soft laugh. “this is perfect, baby,” he says, flipping through the pages again. “you’re really the best.” you smile, watching the way his eyes soften as he takes in every detail. “i’m just glad you like it.” he sets the book down carefully on the dashboard before turning fully toward you.

he smiles, but there’s something behind it—something hesitant, like he’s trying to work up the courage to say something else. his knee bounces slightly, and his fingers tap against his thigh, a sign that there’s more on his mind. you tilt your head. “what?” he exhales sharply, shaking his head before letting out a soft laugh. “nothing, just…” he looks down at your hand resting between you, then, as if on instinct, reaches for it. he rubs his thumb over your knuckles, staring at your joined hands for a second before finally speaking. “let me be your boyfriend,” he says. “i know we haven’t really put a name on what this is, but i want to. i want you. i don’t want there to be any doubt about where we stand.” you must’ve started smiling like an absolute idiot because the second he sees it, he starts smiling too. “seunghyun, you’ve been my boyfriend in my head for months now,” you laugh, shaking you head. “so… that’s a yes?” “of course it’s a yes!” without giving him time to react, you press a quick, fleeting kiss to his lips. but before you can even pull away, seunghyun tugs you back in, kissing you with a much deeper intensity. your lips part instinctively, letting him in, his tongue gliding against yours. your fingers find his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, thumb brushing gently over his cheek as you do everything in your power to keep from moaning into his mouth. he’s such a good kisser… his lips hot and soft against yours, tilting his head so that you fit just right… his lips leave yours only to trail along the corner of your mouth, before sliding down to your jaw. he takes his time, lingering there, and then he makes his way down. his face buries into the crook of your neck for a moment, and you can feel his smile against your skin. you run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck before pulling back just enough to look at him. “i love you,” he says. your lips part slightly, something swelling in your chest so big it almost hurts, and then you’re smiling. “i love you too, hyun.”

you can’t lie—loving seunghyun is kind of terrifying. not in a bad way, not in the he’s going to hurt me kind of way, but in the this is real and i don’t want to mess it up way. you’ve both been through it. cheated on, strung along, left to piece together whatever crumbs of affection your exes were willing to throw your way. it’s hard to unlearn that, hard to trust that someone wants you without expecting you to beg for it. and even though this is different—he’s different—it’s hard to shake the nerves, the fear that if you let yourself have this, really have it, something will go wrong. maybe that’s why, even now, after a long, perfect night, when you’re curled up with him on the couch, a movie playing but barely holding your attention, you still feel jittery. and when things start heating up (like they usually do) you feel embarrassingly new to it all. like you’re back at square one. like you’re a virgin all over again. “you’re shaking,” says seunghyun quietly, breath shuddering when his condom-wrapped tip presses slightly against your entrance. “we don’t have to do this—“ “i want to,” you reassure him. “i really do. i’m just… nervous.” intimacy can be scary, especially when it’s with someone new. “i know, baby. me too,” he admits. “i’ll go slow. just hold onto me.” so you do. your hands find his arms, gripping them lightly as he hovers over you, his eyes locked onto yours. “kiss me,” you whisper. he smiles before he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. then, as he moves, as he pushes into you, a sharp gasp escapes your lips, breaking the kiss. your fingers tighten around his arms, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you adjust to the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. he’s holding himself back, he’s trying to let you set the pace. his lips brush against your jaw pressing soft kisses on your skin before he kisses the side of your neck. “hyun… you—” your words falter as he presses in deeper, your back arching instinctively. “shit! you feel so good.” “tell me what you need, baby,” he says. your body already knows the answer before your lips do. you move your hips slightly, urging him deeper, making him exhale. “deeper,” you reply. “and faster. please.”

the room turns into a mess—moans, heavy breathing, the sharp slap of skin against skin. seunghyun’s fucking into you like he’ll never get another chance, and all you can do is take it, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails dragging down his back as he fills you over and over again. he leans in, mouth hot against your neck. “you like that, baby?” his teeth graze your skin before he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss just beneath your jaw. “y-yes!” he’s deep, so deep, hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open, too lost in the way he’s ruining you to say anything coherent. “can f-feel you squeezing me—a-ah! fuck, baby!” he moans. and the desperate sound you make back only seem to push him further, make him rougher. your body responds instinctively, meeting his thrusts, rolling your hips slightly against him. oh, fuck. oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. he’s barely holding it together as it is hearing you moan under him like that, but that thing you just did? it almost sends seunghyun to an early grave. his hips snap into you harder, completely abandoning whatever self-control he thought he had, grip tightening on your hips so hard he’s pretty sure he’s leaving marks. “shit!—h-hyun! ah, fuck! f-fuck, y-yeah! baby, mmph!” you sound so fucking good, all needy and breathless, and he wants to loop it in his brain forever, build a shrine to the way you just moaned his name like that. he knew sex with you would be good, but this? this is some life-altering, religious experience type shit.

the pleasure is intense, rolling through you in waves so strong it’s almost embarrassing how quickly you start feeling your orgasm build up in your lower stomach. seunghyun’s entire body is tight. muscles straining, his thrusts turning more desperate, more frantic, because he can feel how close you are, the way your thighs are shaking, the way your moans are turning higher, almost pleading. and fuck, he’s so close… but he needs to take you with him. his grip shifts, one hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. the second he rubs tight, messy circles over it, your whole body jerks beneath him, a gasp breaking from your lips. “that’s it, baby,” he breathes, “cum… cum with me.” your walls flutter around him, clenching so tight it nearly sends him into another dimension. and when you finally snap, it hits hard—your back arches, your thighs shake, and your moans are loud enough to make your neighbors hate you. thank god your parents aren’t home. seunghyun groans, slamming into you a few more times before he loses it, burying himself deep as he follows right after, cursing under his breath. for a second, all you can hear is the sound of your ragged breathing and the rapid thud of your heartbeat. his forehead drops against your shoulder, both of you still panting, his hands lazily running over your skin. his body feels wrecked in the best way, his mind still floating somewhere between reality and the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s ever had. his lips press against your temple as your breathing slows. “come on, baby,” he murmurs. “let’s shower.” you groan in protest, making him chuckle. so fucking cute. he kisses your lips. “you wanna sleep like this?” he teases. you sigh dramatically, blinking up at him with that hazy, fucked-out look that makes his stomach clench. “fine, let’s go shower,” you laugh softly.

the bed is soft, the sheets cool against your skin as you sink into them, your body still warm from the shower. you barely have time to settle before seunghyun climbs in beside you, immediately pulling you against him. his arms wrap around your waist, tugging you close until your back is flush against his chest. his body is warm, solid, and when he exhales, you feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your spine. one of his hands slips beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt, really—his fingertips tracing patterns along your stomach. his lips press against the back of your neck, soft, before he nuzzles into you, his nose brushing against your hair. you smile, closing your eyes. nothing else has ever felt this right. your fingers move against his hand, barely tracing over his skin, and he hums in response, shifting slightly to bury his face further into your hair. “comfy?” he murmurs, voice lower now, sleepier. “mmhm.” you squeeze his hand, barely awake. “you?” he presses another kiss to the back of your neck. “always. i love you.” “i love you too,” you whisper. “sleep, baby.” and right before you drift off, you feel it—his lips pressing one last kiss to the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

two years have passed. but it doesn’t feel like two years. it feels like forever. like there was never a version of your life before him, only with him. when you sleep together, mornings always start the same: seunghyun wakes up first, but he never gets out of bed before you. instead, he buries his face into your neck, pressing lazy kisses against your skin until you finally stir. you’ve built a life together in these little rituals—the way he always holds your hand when you walk anywhere, the way you sit between his legs on the couch when you watch movies, your back pressed against his chest, his arms locked around your waist. the way he’ll randomly pull you onto his lap while he’s studying at his desk, murmuring “i concentrate better like this.” knowing damn well he doesn’t. and talking about studies… you two can barely focus, study sessions always turn into giggling messes where he pretends to be paying attention to his notes but spends half the time sneaking glances at you instead. cramming for exams together is another challenge, he makes flashcards and tries to quiz you, only for you to distract him by climbing onto his lap, trailing kisses down his neck until he groans and tosses the cards aside. you’re both exhausted half the time, pulling all-nighters with caffeine and takeout, but he’s there, and that makes it bearable.

you travel together, not often but enough—weekend getaways, road trips that always start with him in control of the music and end with you fighting over who gets to dj. there was the time you went to a cabin in the mountains, curled up by the fireplace with wine, the two of you getting way too competitive over board games. or that one chaotic trip where you completely missed your bus, got lost trying to find your hotel, and ended up walking for miles in the rain. you were so close to breaking down, but seunghyun just pulled you into a convenience store, bought you a hot drink, and said, “we’ll figure it out, baby. we’re together, that’s what matters.” and somehow, it turned into one of your favorite memories.

his mom adores you. always sends you food, always texts you on random days asking how you’re doing. one time, she pulled out his baby pictures, and now you will never let him live them down. his dad always cracks jokes about how he’s never seen seunghyun this soft before. your family adores him too, inevitably hyping him up for any polite gesture, since they’re not used to you having someone so nice by your side (your last boyfriend was a questionable human being…) they always gush about how sweet seunghyun is, how he takes such good care of you.

two years of love slipping into every part of your life—small, everyday things turning into your things. you have a shared playlist called ‘let me spill your coffee’. it’s a mix of songs you love, songs that remind him of you, and stupid meme songs he adds just to annoy you. the bookshelf in the corner of your room is overflowing, pictures of the two of you and a few stuffed animals he’s gifted you shoved in between. a small framed picture sits on the very top shelf, one from a winter night when the world outside was covered in snow. you’re bundled up in his scarf while he stands behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. there are tiny snowflakes caught in his hair, and even through the blur of the picture, you can tell he’s smiling. there’s a strip of photo booth pictures tucked behind a stuffed bear he won for you at a carnival. in the first frame, you’re both grinning wide; in the second, he’s caught off guard as you surprise him with a kiss on the cheek. by the third, he’s laughing, and in the last one, he’s holding your face between his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. another picture taken on your second new year’s eve together. you’re curled up next to him on the couch, confetti still in your hair. he’s looking at you instead of the camera, a small, stupidly in-love smile on his face. you hadn’t noticed it at first, but when you did, it made your chest ache in the best way. and then, tucked behind a row of books, there’s the oldest one of all. the very first picture you ever took together, when you were only friends. it’s a little blurry, the lighting terrible, but you remember everything about that day. how he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. how you didn’t know then what you know now—that this would be the first of many.

above your bed, there’s a painting. one he made for you on your first anniversary. deep blues and purples, swirling together like a galaxy, with tiny flecks of gold scattered like stars. in the bottom corner, barely noticeable unless you look closely, he wrote ‘us’. you didn’t see it at first, but when you did, you nearly cried. the record player he bought you for your birthday sits by the window, a vinyl still on it from the last time he was over. and your toothbrush sits next to his in the cup by the sink. there’s also an extra charger on your nightstand—his, since he spends so much time at your house. there’s a worn-out polaroid tucked into the frame of your mirror, slightly bent at the edges from how many times you’ve taken it out to look at it. it’s your favorite picture of the two of you—summer night at the beach, your hair messy from the wind, his arm slung over your shoulders, both of you grinning like you have the entire world in your hands. because it felt like you did. and it still feels like you do. because somehow, even after all this time, nothing has faded. two years of love wrapped around your life, yet every touch, every glance, still feels like the first. and every single day, in a million different ways, you keep choosing each other.

i hope you enjoyed! thank you for reading <3

tag list: @kaerasti49

[felassan]

Thread: Sylvia Feketekuty on the influences of Emmrich and the Mourn Watch

The rest of this post is under a cut due to length and possible spoilers.

Sylvia Feketekuty: "I think I've gotten to most people’s questions, and I promised I'd talk about influences on Emmrich and the Mourn Watch before wrapping this up. So here we go! It took me while to figure out Emmrich's character voice. I'm happy with where I landed, but he was a tough one. A few books helped me out. MR James' Collected Ghost Stories (1890-1930) My favourite ghost stories of all time. James excels at building dread, at writing people finding strange things in books, or around the corner, or in the old lane at night."

"He was also an antiquarian and a scholar at Cambridge. I wanted Emmrich and the Watchers to feel formal, but not like they were from another epoch. James’ language, polished by a rich academic career, was an excellent benchmark for 'older, but not ancient'. E.g.: if using contractions was appropriate for James' time, it was appropriate for Emmrich. It freed me up, mentally speaking, to deploy them whenever they improved cadence or flow. Thomas Ligotti's Songs of a Dead Dreamer Fellow Ligotti fans may already be thinking Emmrich doesn't really share the philosophy underpinning Ligotti's work, and they’re right. However!"

"Songs of a Dead Dreamer is filled with fantastical imagery that’s a bit lusher than that found in Ligotti's later works. It was really good at bringing to mind the kind of moody, expansive dreamscapes I think our necromancer mentally occupies. It’s from a different book (Noctuary), but Ligotti’s “The Spectral Estate” also merits a mention. If you plunked it down in front of Emmrich to read, he’d know exactly what it was on about. The Romantic poets (or any poetry on similar themes: overpowering swells of emotion, the grandeur and awe of nature, love and loss and grief.) Palgrave's Golden Treasury was usually in reach."

"If I was in a jam, or psyching myself up for a scene, sometimes I’d read a few poems to get into the proper head space. Or just for the pleasure of it. Poems are great! Please take a link to Shelley's "A Dream of the Unknown", one of my favourites. [link] I also read a few books by morticians and funerary directors. A friend lent me Smoke Gets in your Eyes and From Here to Eternity by Caitlin Doughty (probably the most famous mortician on the internet?) I also checked out Nine Years Under: Coming of Age in an Inner-city Funeral Home by Sheri Booker."

"These books were full of lessons about how people react to death, how different cultures treat it, how anger and grieving express differently but come from the same wellspring. Very humane looks at how we deal with loss and other people. Moving on to non-books: My First Cadaver, a podcast of stories from medical students and medical professionals."

"I listened to a few episodes My First Cadaver, and there were some incredible tales in there. Gross (I could never be a doctor) but incredible. And I was struck by was how much students working on donated cadavers got attached to them. I can’t remember if it was in MFC or not, but there was one story about a medical student introducing his date to the cadaver he was working on like she was a beloved aunt. It was very sweet! Peter Cushing in Horror of Dracula (1958) and The Curse of Frankenstein (1957) These films are filled with handsome costumes, ominous sets, and the oversized passions I associate with gothic melodrama. Cushing's perfect in them."

"His portrayals of Van Helsing and Baron Frankenstein are brisk, determined, obsessive, and brimming with energy; they’re scholars who are experts in their field, yet still men of action. They felt like natural touchstones for a professor suddenly called to grand adventure. I also ended up reading Cushing's memoirs. In a bit of strange synchronicity, there were similarities between his life and traits I'd already decided to give Emmrich. Cushing came from a working-class family, had an intense phobia (his was of the dark), was vegetarian, and so on. I'd had no idea."

"(Humans tend to pattern-match, but it was a little eerie.) A side note: I've seen people speculate Emmrich was based off of Vincent Price. There’s a bit of the good Mr. Price in there, but Cushing got to play more heroic roles than he did. He felt more right to me. A second side note: did you know Vincent Price was a gourmand who loved to entertain? He and his wife Mary put out a beautiful cooking book, A Treasury of Great Recipes, filled with warm and charming commentary. If you're interested in that kind thing, highly recommended!"

"One influence when I was pitching the Memorial Gardens to the rest of the team was Swan Point cemetery in Rhode Island. It's where Lovecraft was buried, and like many a Weird Tales nerd before me, I was curious and wanted to see it."

"I wasn't prepared for was how lush the plants and flowers were, and how beautifully landscaped everything there is. Swan Point is a historical burial place, and also a carefully tended garden and arboretum. It stunned me. I'd never been in a cemetery like it. Emmrich complains about Hezenkoss making him play complicated wargames when they were students, and that one in particular had three separate rulebooks."

"I've seen people guess whether I was referencing D&D or Warhammer 40K. D&D was formative, and I know a frankly embarrassing amount about WH40K at this point (No regrets. Necrons and Admech 4-ever.*) But the origin is even sillier. *Why yes, Mechanicus 2 IS my most anticipated upcoming game. I used to own the first edition of a board game called Mansions of Madness, and was supposed to learn the rules so I could lead my friends through it. But come the day, I’d procrastinated, and was running short on time."

"Fantasy Flight's previous game in the same vein was Arkham Horror, and AH is not a simple game. But I remember being hopeful, as I peeled the shrinkwrap off, that maybe MoM would be easier to learn than AH. Have streamlined rules, or fewer things to remember. Then the top popped off, and three separate rulebooks fell out and slithered to the floor. (The DAV game’s not meant to be MoM, but the absurdity of that moment stuck with me.) (It's not the game's fault, by any means, that I was unprepared, and the session went as well as it could have with me flipping through the books going "Okay wait...hold on...I think that was here...no, wait.") The Nevarran hazelnut torte recipe is actually a family recipe from my grandmother, on my father's side. I’m beyond delighted people have actually made it. (Our recipe uses metric measurements, but the DA style guide uses imperial, so I was worried about the conversion. Looks like it went okay.)"

"On my mother's side of the family: my grandmother cooked and cleaned for a living, and my grandfather was a butcher. He passed away before I was born, and my grandmother when I was very young. So I gave Emmrich’s parents those professions as a little nod to the grandmother I only knew very little, and the grandfather I never met at all. I would’ve liked time with them both. And to end on a lighter note, "Ever thought of becoming a hat person?" is an extremely oblique reference to a line spoken to one of gaming's greatest characters: Murray, the demon skull from Curse of Monkey Island. (Curse is the first Monkey Island game I ever played, and therefore my favourite.)"

"Small bonus: here’s the music I listened to most while working on Emmrich and the Watchers. Some of it probably only makes sense to me, some of it seems thematically obvious. (I don’t have Spotify so best I can do is an itunes screenshot.)"

"Not on the screenshot because I changed PCs halfway through, but I also listened to a lot of music from Cryo Chamber, a great dark ambient label. [link] And their sister label, Cryo Crypt, which does "Dark Fantasy Dungeon Synth." [link] And also Allicorn IS on the screenshot but I think I've listened to his stuff on every game I've worked on by now. [link]"

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Bonus: follow-up comments and exchanges -

User: "I KNEW the torte was somebody’s family recipe!!" // Sylvia: "My only regret is that the icing was originally a stove-boiled icing made with eggs and chocolate and butter emulsified together. I couldn't get it working, however, these past few years. I think we lost some crucial part of the steps when trying to write out a clean copy. So I went with ganache for the game, because I didn't want to print something that didn't work, and I've used ganache myself. It's good! But I'm going to try to replicate the original again one day." [source, two] // User: "I noticed that sometimes, ingredients doesn't react the way they used to and part of that is probably due to some "industrial" changes in the recipe for ingredients like chocolate or butter to cut the cost of making them, imho. It's sad because it means we lost a very specific way to do things..." // Sylvia: "Yeah, that was the first thing a friend who bakes a lot suggested. I wonder if I was a victim of "Buttergate" when Canadian cows were being fed so much palm oil butter was harder to spread as a result. After a long search, I found a local place that makes butter that actually tastes good, which is an incredibly sad sentence to have to type out." [source, two]

Sylvia, re: Vincent Price being a gourmand and his cooking book: "It's extremely cool. My library had a copy and I remember it being pretty big, too." [source]

User: "I was following this thread and I'm delighted about all of these facts and information. Thank you for sharing!" // Sylvia: "Aw thank you! And thanks for reading, it was nice to unpack all the stuff kicking around my mental attic." [source]

User, re: MFC: "Sorry to post again but this one got me- my mom is a doc, and i remember her telling me stories of the cadaver she worked on (evidence of different surgeries she had, the cancer she had, etc), and mom always ended her stories saying how thankful she was to her. It really does stick around." // Sylvia: "No need to apologize, I liked hearing about your mom's reaction! It's exactly what I kept hearing and reading about, a sense of reverence for the gift." [source]

Sylvia: ""The irony that I had to convert the measurements back to metric" Haha. I tried to get as close as I could. Here's the written down metric version of the cake batter. It's an older recipe so I had to try to guess what a "knife tip" ended up as." [source]

A user on the torte being a family recipe: "Oh my gosh 🥹 that makes it all even lovelier!" // Sylvia: "Thanks! I was really excited to share the family recipe, it's a bit of work but it's one of my favorites." [source]

A user under the post about MR James' Collected Ghost Stories: "So you're probably the one behind the mysterious bronze whistle, I take it?" // Sylvia: "Haha, guilty. Cameron Harris, our editor, helped me figure out a phonetic guide to the latin. (If it fails anywhere it's very likely my fault.)" [source]

User: "As an avid Emmrich lover & someone trying to write some Emmrich POVs in my Emrook fanfictions, I can not thank you ENOUGH for this wealth of info / music inspo to go off of" // Sylvia: "Thank you! (Seriously though some of those songs probably only make sense to me, they're not all thematically on point, but some are. Hope you enjoy!)" [source]

User: "As another "needs a million hours of droning ambient music to write" writer I appreciate these greatly" // Sylvia: "We both have good taste! 🎶" [source]

User: "Thank you for writing out this list!! Peter Cushing makes so much sense as an influence. I love the variety of media here, it gives me so much new stuff to check out!" // Sylvia: "Thank you for reading! If you do check out some of this stuff, hope you enjoy!" [source]

Sylvia: "thanks so much, and for reading the thread! It was fun to write." [source]

User: "Thank you for sharing these books!I was looking for a good ghost book" // Sylvia: "Thanks! Hope you enjoy James. "Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad" was the first story of his I read and I'll never forget that experience." [source] // Sylvia: "I just love the mood James could create, so much." [source]

User: "ELECTRIC SIX MENTION" // Sylvia: "My greatest favorites, now and forever." [source]

Sylvia: "Please archive away, I am intent on deleting the account eventually but it'd be nice to know people could look this stuff up later if they're curious. (Future generations need to know which Atrium Carceri tracks I listened to!)" [source]

User: "Amongst many things, not the least of which is the gratitude and delight of having your fantastic insight into the writing process of Emmrich, my grandmother’s hazelnut torte is fantastically close to the Nevarran version which was a delightful discovery." // Sylvia: "Ah now nice. I assume she was also central/eastern European then? I suspect it was a popular recipe at a certain time." [source]

User: "As an ex-mortician turned game writer, this was a FASCINATING read!" // Sylvia: "Haha, I definitely took inspiration from morticians! (Thank you for checking it out, that thread got long)" [source]

User: "ATRIUM CARCERI - Such a perfect band for the Mourn Watch!" // Sylvia: "I stumbled on Atrium Carceri when I was a student, and there's happily so much dark ambient available now, but Simon Heath's particular vibe can't be beat." [source]

User: "Rockefeller Street is just like that, man. It's sticky." // Sylvia: "Yes! It's so good, it just hits a certain mood dead center." [source]

Sylvia: "Ginkys of BlueSky has created a Spotify list of the music I listened to when writing Emmrich and the Watchers! Almost everything's on there. Thank you Ginkys. (FYI: Not everything I listened to matches the MW vibe, sometimes it was just a song that got stuck in my head for a few weeks.) - [link]" [source]

User: "I appreciate Replay being on here so muuuuch" // Sylvia: "My favorite song on the album! Though 911 was also real solid." [source]

User: "Love that there's Lady Gaga" // Sylvia: "Friend just sent me Abracadabra, I'm excited for the Gothic Camp here." [source]

Sylvia, about the torte recipe: "If it's useful, here's the full thing in metric. WARNING: Last two times I tried this cooked icing, it failed. I'm not sure whether I miscopy a crucial step, or if changes to local butter were the culprit. Either way, proceed with caution. A ganache is way safer, and very similar." [source]

^ User: "Thank you! That's helpful. I haven't baked many cakes before so I'll do some research about icing/ganache before trying. Hopefully looking at local (Swedish) recipes will give me a hint of what to be careful with." // Sylvia: "Ganache is SUPER simple (you basically heat cream and pour it over chopped chocolate), so I lean even more towards recommending you go with that instead of the cooked icing. Hope you the baking." [source]

[thread source link]

[heartepub]

the cities in which

summary. three lives are tied together across cities and oceans. in this life, and perhaps in others. ft. lee seokmin, chwe hansol, afab!fem!reader genre/tags. angst, fluff, romance, inspired by past lives (2023), "what if vernon never emigrated", copious wong kar wai mentions, one (1) glück poem mention, there's korean but you'd understand the convo even wo translation, unbeta'd and not proofread (mistakes my own) warnings. alcohol, two allusions to offscreen sex, no physical description of reader but she grew up in skorea and speaks korean wc. 10k 17k suggested listening. hey, that's no way to say goodbye, leonard cohen // quiet eyes, sharon van etten // paper houses, niall horan // when we were young, adele // stay, cat power // the view between villages, noah kahan

notes. a day late (crying) but happy birthday 218 bros! i followed a lot of the original (full credits to celine song and the writers for those parts), but deviated as well ! no photo borders for each small scene jump cos of the limit. korean dialogue is only italicized when all three of them are together. not fully happy so may return to it for edits, you have been warned.

ACT I: SEOKMIN

24 years ago

“Do a diamond next.”

You oblige him, yet the marker barely touches his skin before Seokmin snatches it out of your hand.

“Hey!” You whine.

“Don’t use red, that’s for rubies!” 

He hands you a pale blue marker, already uncapped, before resuming his former position, shoulder to shoulder with you. His forearm is nestled between both of yours, which are already covered in his doodles. Seokmin’s breath ghosts over your cheek as he leans in, observing. Unbothered, you carefully draw a crystal shape, adding sparkles around it for good measure. He giggles as the felt tip drags on his skin.

“Don’t move, you’ll ruin it!” You swat his back. He yelps.

“But it tickles!” You just grip his arm tighter as he whines and giggles.

It’s as easy as breathing to lean into his weight as he curls against you, laughter shaking his shoulders. The rest of the classroom fades away, nothing else being quite as important as the way your sides almost fully touch each other, despite sitting on separate chairs.

--

You first befriended Lee Seokmin on the margins of one of your mother’s bookclubs. Fellow skirt-clingers turned partners in crime. He told you he would often nag his mom to finish her book more quickly just so that he could come over sooner; what a revelation it was, then, that you could see each other outside of those chatter-filled meetings. More so when you found out you’d be going to the same elementary school.

It was an easy friendship, one filled with scabbed knees and marker-filled arms. The occasional covert homework-copying. He keeps two extra pencils with him in the same way you have an extra stash of pad paper (which unfortunately the rest of the class has become privy to). Your parents would scold you for the telephone bills because of the days you’d spend ours talking, as though you hadn’t just spent the whole day in school together.

In the years you were not in the same class, Seokmin would wait outside every day without fail, just to walk home together, until the fork in the road where he’d bid you goodbye with the same blinding grin. Sometimes, you’d buy hotteok wrapped in newspaper from the stands and laugh when the print transfers onto the fried dough. He tried some tteokbokki from the stall a few streets down, but forced you to finish it once he realized it was too spicy for him.

These were days when sunlight streamed, golden, through the windows of both your lives.

--

Boxes litter the floor of your home, some full, but most still half-empty. Sunlight filters in through the windows, skimming over cardboard and wood tile alike and casting a burnished-golden glow. From your father’s office, there are soft strains of music and the faint lingering smell of tobacco smoke. 

You look around. The posters have been taken down, separated into those you plan to bring and others you are either to throw or give away. Nothing else is on the once-messy desk save for the notebooks and pens needed for this week’s schoolwork. The walls are bare, the only reminder of the pictures you had being the faint tape marks and spots where the paint peeled off as you tried to remove them. Even your bed is absent of the plushies you used to have surrounding you, most of them already sealed and packed in one of the boxes outside. All that’s left is the bedsheet, so that you won’t be sleeping on a bare mattress.

Your room no longer seems your room.

--

“Darling.” You don’t look up from the book you’re reading.

“Hm?”

“Is there anyone in school you really like right now?”

You think about it. A smiling face emerges in your mind’s eye. The ghost of a weight presses against your side. 

“…Seokmin,” you decide.

“Lee Seokmin? Why?”

“He makes me laugh. I think I’ll marry him someday.”

“Really? Does he want to marry you too?”

“I think he does. Or he will if I tell him to, anyway.” You shrug.

Your mom mulls over this as she sorts the papers on her desk. On it are your immigration documents, including passports, birth certificates, and the family registry. The edge of your picture can be glimpsed from where the passport lifts, not quite laying flat on the wood.

“Do you want to go on a date with him?”

You nod enthusiastically.

--

“Seokminnie.”

“Hm?” he peeks at you from behind the concrete block. You giggle, shoving his shoulder in a clear message of tag! before sprinting away. He lets out an indignant squawk before giving chase. 

You evade him for a few breathless minutes before he eventually swipes his hand across your back. Shrieking, you shift your weight and lunge with your hand extended, which Seokmin swerves to avoid with a triumphant cry. Gleeful taunts echo across the space.

Your mothers have taken you both today to an unfamiliar place, one somewhat reminiscent of both a yard and fortress. There are large stone installations in the outdoor space, ones perfect for chasing each other around until you are out of breath from both running and laughing. Eventually, too tired to continue, you both lean against the twin stone faces, facing each other. Your eyes rove over Seokmin’s features, watching him do the same.

Though she did not say it outright, a little part of you senses that this date was part of a goodbye. She had warned you, as you all began to pack, that you might need to begin your goodbyes soon, lest dumping the surprise of your moving on your friends ends with you leaving on bad terms.

Your classmates, you did not mind; but Seokmin is your best friend. You know he would sulk and hold it against you to the ends of the earth if you could not even say goodbye. Yet goodbye feels too real for a day that has been as light as a dream.

As you leave, the sun is just beginning to set; the car was a wash of orange and pink light moving across the seat. Leaning your body on Seokmin, you rest your head on his shoulder, and feel a responding weight on the top of your head. Fingers tangle with your own, slotting together as they had done a thousand times before. Like this, you drift further into dreams.

--

You break the news over recess. The marker hovers over his skin. Sighing, you remove the cap nocked on the top of the marker and closing it over the tip. Seokmin glances at you, confused.

“My family…we’re leaving.”

“Like, a trip?”

“No. Forever.”

“Forever? But…why?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug helplessly. “Mom and Dad said so.”

“Do you want to?”

And because you cannot be anything but kind with him, you try to play it off. “No. But,” you inject the truth this time, “I don’t hate Mom and Dad for deciding to leave. It could be fun.” Seokmin stares at you, his gaze unreadable. For the first time in what feels like forever, the air between you is tense

“Huh, you’re leaving?” A classmate interjects. 

The moment is broken; you look up, a little startled. It takes a moment to reply.

“Yeah. To America.” More people begin to crowd your space, and Seokmin untangles his arm from you. You glance at him. Seokmin’s face is a mask.

“Like, never coming back?” Another classmate asks. You turn your focus back to the growing crowd.

“Yeah.”

“But why?”

“Because Mom and Dad said so. Besides,” you puff your chest, “I want to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Can’t really do that here.”

Your classmates tilt their heads, completely clueless. Seokmin says nothing.

--

Today is your last day in Korea. Seokmin still hasn’t spoken to you.

As the clock strikes for dismissal, you wonder, for a split second, as you have these past few days, whether Seokmin would even want to walk home together. Each time you flounder, unsure, yet each time all he does is stand and look at you expectantly. Today is no different. Almost robotically, you sling your back and follow behind him. You leave together as always, and you wave at the classmates shouting their well-wishes with a smile.

There is a conspicuous distance between you as you trudge up the sloping roads. The silence stretches it even wider. Neither of you try to bridge it, not even as you reach the fork in the path where you part ways.

After a long moment, Seokmin whips around to face you. “Hey!” he says, voice loud. 

You turn, finding the tears shining at the corners of his eyes. A part of you, the one always helpless to his tears, bursts into life, surging painfully against your chest. The leaving never felt real until now.

“Seokminnie—” 

He gathers you in a hug, nothing like the gentle embraces you used to share, even as the contours of his body is familiar. He shoves you away, still roughly. 

Something opens up here. You gaze at each other from opposite sides of a chasm too wide to cross for two people so young. Seokmin stares at you hard, struggling to speak.

Eventually, he just slumps. “Bye,” he settles on, before walking away.

There is nothing to do but watch him leave.

12 years ago

You flick through the papers, skimming the notes you made from the feedback session on your latest screenplay draft. The desk is white and sparse, nothing like the gorgeous mahogany you remember of your mother’s study from your childhood. Overall, the dorm is just a generally unremarkable space, though it does its job of being a place for eating and sleeping in between your writing classes.

The comment about your lackluster desk makes it to your mother, on the phone as you prepare the takeout you had just bought from the Chinese place at the ground floor. She laughs.

“Yes, well, you should have the shitty desks before you have the nice ones, so you appreciate them more.” You laugh, nodding along as you open the still-hot pack of chow mein, tilting the water on the lid to flow into a napkin. Your mother carries the conversation along as you begin to eat.

“Have you tried looking up some of your old classmates on Facebook?”

“No? What’s up?”

“Do you remember Jiwon? She’s a lawyer now.”

An image of a girl tilting her head at your mention of the Oscars flashes across your mind. You swallow your mouthful before responding.

“Really? I never would have thought. We covered up for each other once when she forgot her homework and I peed my pants.”

“A forgetter and a bedwetter, making their way in different parts of the world, eh?” Your mother remarks, and you snort.

“Mm.” You unlock your computer, stretching your hands over your food to open Facebook and type her name. True enough, the first post on her profile is her brand-new photo as a passer of the bar exam. Other photos include her skincare routine, makeup preferences, and some club-hopping shenanigans. Just another normal girl in her 20s in Korea. 

You click on the search bar, pondering. “Ah, but Mom, who’s the boy again? The one I had a huge crush on.”

“Oh, we took you to Gwacheon, didn’t we? Hm…”

“Seokminnie,” you say, as your mother says, “Lee Seokmin.” You type his name into the search bar. A low sound of exclamation leaves your throat.

“Whoa, that’s crazy. He’s been looking for me.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He posted on Dad’s page.” 

Hello, the post reads. I am your daughter’s childhood friend. I’d like to get in touch with her. You click the name on the post, opening the page to his profile.

“Oh, wow,” you whisper.

Though older, you recognize his face immediately. The same sharp jaw and soft eyes. A smile that lights up his face. There’s just something ever-so-slightly different about his nose, but you chalk it up to either puberty or the all-too-common plastic surgery in Korea.

“Mom, I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Mm, okay.” You hang up. Clicking on the Message button, you tap your laptop, figuring out what to say. Eventually, you settle with: Seokminnie, it’s me, your Gwacheon date. Do you remember me?

--

Up until this point, Seokmin thinks he’s lived quite an ordinary life. There is little that would sway him into thinking otherwise. Blearily, he blinks at his blaring alarm clock before slamming his hand on the snooze button. God-forbid there would ever be a night drinking with Soonyoung and Seungkwan that would not end with an awful hangover.

There is a vague memory, one of Soonyoung’s warbly comments after the third bottle of soju: Do you have a girlfriend? Who the hell…is messaging you at this time?

He opens his phone, scrolling through last night’s notifications. Seokminnie, it’s me, your Gwacheon date. Do you remember? The message reads. He clicks on the profile, and is transported to the past.

“Whoa.” He smiles, even as his head is pounding, zooming in on the face in the profile. While it was true that he did his best to find you, asking through your old classmates and even finding your mom’s writing page on Facebook, the sheer lack of any good leads had chipped away at any hope of it going anywhere. A response, after all the searching, still seems unbelievable.

Somehow, your face is the same as he remembers, even as it is twelve years older.

“Seokmin-ah! Wake up!” His mother’s voice pulls him from his trance. He glances again at his phone. The same smile, though he notices now more softness in some places in the jaw and some sharpness in others.

Somewhat reluctantly, he rolls off the covers. Even now, his mother enforces a rule of no phones on the table.

From the dining room, the smell of spicy broth hits his nostrils. His mouth waters. There is already rice on the table. His mother carries a bowl of soup where Seokmin is already seated. Beside her, his father is handing out the chopsticks. He and his sister receive their pair with a quiet thank you.

“Thank you for the meal,” he murmurs. The metal clangs softly against the bowl as he scoops a spoonful of spicy broth and beansprouts into his mouth. With every bite, he feels his hangover slowly subside.

“Did you drink a lot last night?” His mother asks.

“Kinda? Soonyoung-hyung just got broken up with, though, so he drank the most.” His father chuckles quietly, commiserating. His sister squints at Seokmin.

“But you look happy today? Why?” He looks up, the smile frozen on his face.

“Aren’t I always a little happy?”

“Hm,” his mother regards him critically. “You are, more so than usual.”

“Ah.” He should know better than pretend his parents cannot read him. “I am,” he admits. “I think something amazing is about to happen.” He leaves it at that, playfully deflecting his family’s grilling, even as his sister threatens to stalk him to figure out the mystery.

--

The Skype seems to take forever to load. Seokmin drums his fingers on the touchpad, each tap coming faster than the last. Finally, it does, with an add friend? notification already blinking at him. He beams, accepting the add and pressing the video call button without delay.

As though from a dream, a familiar yet different face stares at him from the laptop. Seokmin can’t help the smile that blooms on his face.

“Whoa,” he says softly.

“Whoa,” the dream echoes, voice a little staticky, somehow both everything and nothing like he has imagined.

Seokmin chuckles, breathless. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me. And you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He’s at a loss, and it seems you’re the same. Only your chuckles fill the sound of the call. Eventually, Seokmin says, “I can’t believe we’re meeting again like this.”

“I didn’t even know you were looking for me! Or that you remembered! I just looked you up by chance, and saw the message you left on my dad’s page.”

“Oh, well, it wasn’t by chance for me.” Seokmin scratches his cheek. “It just became a challenge, and the harder it got the more I wanted to be able to find you. You don’t go by your Korean name anymore.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Huh…so that’s why it was so hard to find you…” he trails off as he catches sight of your face. You seem to be squinting at him. 

“Is your nose different?” You blurt, catching him off-guard. Hurriedly, you begin to explain, “it doesn’t look bad, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a little…more striking than I remembered.”

“Oh!” Heat flushes his cheeks, and Seokmin chuckles, surprised and flustered at the comment. “Yeah, I had an accident while in the military, and had to have a minor surgery on my nose. It’s okay, then?” He touches his nose self-consciously.

“Yeah, you look great,” you reply honestly.

With the heat not quite receding from his face, Seokmin changes the subject. “S-so, are you based in New York, now?”

“Yeah, I’m a writer here.”

“Oh, a little like your mother?”

“That’s right—” You seem to be saying something, but the Skype lags. Seokmin only catches the tail end of your words. “—hear me? Seokmin?”

“Hey, I can hear you now. Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Oh, I was just asking about what you’ve been up to.”

“Well, I finished military service a few years ago, nose and all.” You hum in acknowledgement. “I’m doing something a little related to your work, actually. Well, kind of?”

“What’s that?”

He begins to explain. “My parents wanted me to get an engineering degree, and I’m finishing that up, but I wanted to try some singing, so I auditioned for some small plays here and there.”

“Really? That’s exciting!” You seem to come to life then. “I don’t know much about engineering, but you’ve been trying out for musicals?”

“Yeah, nothing too intense since I’m doing it in between studying for the engineering exam, but it’s been fun.” He sings a quick tune from his latest audition, the smile bleeding into his voice as he sees your expression, full of wonder.

“That’s lovely, Seokminnie.”

The chatter lasts for hours. Seokmin glances at something above him and seems to realize something.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “but I have to go to class soon.”

“No problem,” you respond, tamping down the disappointment. “I have to get started on my assignment and eat dinner, anyway.”

“Oh, you haven’t eaten yet? Isn’t it late?” He’d added your timezone in the world clock on his phone yesterday.

“Midnight,” you confirm.

“Huh?” Shocked, Seokmin splutters. “Go eat now! Jeez.”

“Okay, okay.”

Seokmin shifts, his stare at you softening into something familiar yet unreadable. At his continued staring, you raise an eyebrow.

“What?”

Seokmin scratches his cheek. “I don’t know if it’s weird to say.”

“It’s fine, what is it?”

He pauses, hesitating, before he continues. “Is it strange to say I missed you?”

Your expression softens. Pixelated as it is, Seokmin catches your eyes rove over his face, as though like him, you are cataloguing new features. Familiar, yet so different. “Of couse not, Seokminnie. I missed you too.”

A weight in him lifts, and Seokmin chuckles, soft and warm, relishing in the sound of soft laughter from his headphones. He should hang up now, but he hesitates. It seems you do too, until you huff a little laugh and offer a small wave. The movement is so achingly familiar that Seokmin’s chest clenches.

“Call later?”

He brightens. “Sure!”

--

“Hello?” The Skype opens to you rubbing your eyes.

“Don’t you only get up at like, 10AM?” Seokmin watches you, amused yet endeared.

“Mm,” you murmur sleepily. “But you said this is the only time that works for you.”

--

It becomes routine.

Good evening’s are replied with Good morning’s, calls connect over his commute while you eats dinner.

“Your Korean has gotten rusty,” Seokmin teases.

“Aish—I only get to speak Korean with you. Even my parents have gotten to using English more.”

“What’s that been like?”

“Hm?”

“Learning English, going to school…” he trails off. “It’s amazing that you’ve ended up pursuing writing in English too, of all things.” On the screen, your mouth parts in surprise.

“Oh, well…it’s been hard, of course, especially when you’re new. Different places, different food, different people. You have no choice but to go along with it, even if you don’t really belong.”

“Did you cry?”

“Sometimes,” you admit, briefly checking on something behind the screen before returning your focus to him. “Especially at first. But eventually I realized that no one really cared.” Despite your words, there is little sorrow on your face. Your expression is distant, reminiscing, as though time had sanded down the sadness into nostalgia.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He doesn’t really know what to say except for that.

You grin. “Ah, don’t be like that. It’s been a long time, and as you said, I’m even writing in English now.”

“That’s right. You even said you wanted to win the Nobel. How’s that going?”

“Nowadays, I’m interested in the Pulitzer.”

Seokmin cracks up, and you begin to laugh too. He smiles at the screen. “You’re the same.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Greedy.”

You level him with a glare that’s only partially offended. “You can’t go by life without wanting anything.”

“Yeah, but you want everything.”

“Nooo,” you drag it out, only half-denying, as Seokmin continues to laugh. 

--

Seokmin looks up the Pulitzer in between classes.

--

Seokminnie, I’m sorry! I had a bender and couldn’t wake up early enough. Did you wait long?

No no, it’s okay! How are you?

--

It takes longer than normal for the screen to load. The internet connection today isn’t the best. He isn’t quite sure if it’s his or yours that’s slow.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

--

 Would you ever come to New York?

I don’t know.

--

How did your audition go this time?

Ah, I didn’t get in.

Oh, I’m sorry.

--

The screen does not load for a very long time. The call fails.

--

Would you ever come to Seoul again?

I don’t know.

--

“Look, you can see the skyline from here.” Seokmin flips the camera on his phone, showing the view from the top of the Wonder Ferris Wheel in Gyeonggi-do.

“Oh, it’s pretty.” You are silent for a moment. “Wish I were there.”

“I hope you can see it some time. Let’s go together.”

“I mis—” the sound cuts off. Seokmin stares at your image, frozen midsentence. In front of him, the sun sets over Seoul’s skyline. The lights blur and swim, ever so slightly. As do you, still unmoving.

The view is beautiful, regardless. Heartbreakingly so.

--

Can we talk?

--

He senses something is off the moment he answers the call. Your expression is different. You fidget with the hem of your sweater offscreen. He checks the time on the world clock. 2AM.

“You aren’t asleep yet?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you answer.

“You okay?”

“Mm. Of course.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Hypothetically…how long before you can come visit me in New York?”

Seokmin considers it, visualizing his calendar, the course program he’s in, along with his current responsibilities. “At least a year and a half. I’m studying for the PE exam, and I have to pass it to be an engineer, so…”

“No need to explain,” you cut him off, kind despite the firmness in your voice. “I also won’t be able to visit you soon. I’m apprenticing under a director here, and there’s a writing residency I’ll be joining soon, too. It’ll be at least a year until I can go to Seoul, assuming I even have the money.”

He closes his eyes at your next words, already anticipating them.

“I think…” you begin carefully. “We should stop talking to each other.”

“Why?”

“I just…I’m here now, not in Korea. I uprooted my life twice, first when my family moved to Toronto, and then now when I came to New York. I can’t keep living in the past; I can’t keep looking up flights to Seoul.

“And it’s not fair to you; you’re studying to be an engineer, and finding a life of your own…” you trail off. If anything, he tries to find solace in the heartbreak he hears mirrored in your voice. Solace, yet at the same time there is no small amount of guilt that he is drawing comfort in another’s pain.

“So you want to stop talking?”

“Just for a while.”

“I finally found you after twelve years…”

“You aren’t losing me, Seokminnie.” The gentleness in your voice feels like ruin. “It’s not for forever.

“Seokmin, please don’t hold a grudge,” you beg, speaking again as he does not reply. “We’ll be back talking before you know it.”

“No, I—you’re right,” he admits. It isn’t a platitude. He stares at his reviewers, stacked beside the laptop, the calendar with dates encircled in red pen. And yet he can’t help but want to cry. “It’s a good idea.” 

You look away. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. We’re not dating or anything.”

“Yeah.” You stare at each other from across the Pacific—eleven thousand kilometers.

“Bye,” Seokmin whispers, already feeling the weight of the silence. He reaches a hand out, touching the screen. Inevitability does not lessen the heartbreak. Seokmin finds this out the second time, no longer too young to understand. 

You attempt to offer him a smile. “Talk to you soon, Seokminnie.”

“Yeah.”

He hangs up before the tears begin to fall.

ACT II: VERNON

6 months later

In the writing residency, only one other person is also from New York. Roughly your age, he extends his hand toward you, all thick eyebrows and finely-sculpted features. There is an echo of something in his face, features you would only really see in someone with mixed heritage.

“Hi, I’m Hansol Chwe,” he says. “But I usually go by Vernon.”

You shake his hand, replying in English with your name and a quick nice to meet you before switching to Korean. “반쪽 한국인인가요?”

There’s no recognition in his eyes, and you quickly realize your mistake. “Sorry, I can only understand tidbits. But that was Korean, right?”

“Oh, um. Yeah, I just asked if you are half-Korean. I just thought, with Hansol…”

“I’m third-gen. My father’s parents immigrated.”

“I see.” The embarrassment doesn’t quite abate, but Vernon confirming your hedge does make gratification ease it a little.

“Are you Korean? You talk like a native.”

“I grew up in Seoul before my parents moved.” You keep the chatter as you enter the cabin. He offers to help you with your bags, which you accept with a grateful smile.

To both of your pleasant surprise, your rooms are not so far away. He set down your bag outside the door labelled with your name. For a moment, the conversation stills, and you just stare at each other. After a beat, the corner of his lips quirks upward.

“See you around, then?”

“Yeah,” you smile. “See you, Vernon.”

--

There’s something wonderfully easy about being with Vernon, and you often find yourself gravitating toward him and his feedback as you go about the residency. You aren’t the only one; the lingering glances in his direction are obvious to any keen eye, though how much is for his acuity in commenting on syntax and how much is for the way he runs his fingers through his hair remains to be seen.

You feel those stares at the back of your head now.

“Kimchi with cream cheese?” 

Vernon’s mouth quirks upward at your incredulous voice. “Yeah.” 

“The most I’ve seen people do to tone down the spice was when my mom would wash the sauce off with a little bit of water when I was a kid. But cream cheese?”

“It’s like pink sauce, you know? Like you mix tomato with cream for penne ala vodka.”

“Yeah, but tomato and kimchi are two different things.”

“Hey,” he says in mock offense, “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Maybe there’s an Asian mart here somewhere and we can go on a grocery run.”

To be fair, it’s almost both your turn to take charge of cooking; the participants had all agreed to divvy up the tasks while you all were in the cabin, and you had both volunteered for Wednesday’s dinner. You frown, trying to imagine the taste before giving up.

(No, don’t buy that much, he advises you a few days later, walking through the imported goods aisle. The fridge will smell like kimchi for the rest of our stay. Just enough for the one meal.)

(Pairing kimchi and cream cheese together wasn’t bad, per se, but your idea of adding gochujang into the tomato-based pasta was a much bigger hit among the other writers. The kimchi itself was not as good as the one you could buy from the ahjumma across the street of your old home; but here, you allow grace. Some tastes that are more nostalgia than anything else.

You do, however, phone your family to ask for some kimchi to be sent to you after you’re back in the mainland.)

--

“Can’t sleep?” You nearly jump out of your skin from fright, swearing in a voice a little too loud for a 2AM sneak-out.

“What the fuck. Vernon is that you?” 

“Yeah.” He looks a little sheepish from his spot on the couch, laptop casting a dull glow on his face.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack, oh my god.”

“Sorry. But you too? Can’t sleep?”

“Mm.” You grab a glass and the juice carton from the fridge, pouring yourself a drink. “Thought I fixed my sleep schedule, but turns out it’s not that easy.”

“I’m watching Days of Being Wild, if you wanna join me.”

“Ooh, I’ve watched all of Wong Kar Wai’s movies, but I wouldn’t mind watching them again.” Intrigued, you approach him, going around the kitchen counter to settle on the couch. The screen is frozen at the scene where Maggie Cheung’s character is walking with the policeman. Vernon presses play, and you nurse your glass of juice as you watch the tangled lives of Leslie Cheung, Maggie Cheung, and Andy Lau play out across both Hong Kong and the Philippines. 

As the movie fades out with Tony Leung walking out the door, it’s just past three. You’re fighting back a yawn. Vernon closes the tab, turning to you curiously.

“Do you have a favorite? Wong Kar-Wai film, I mean.”

You try to think about it for a moment. “It’s been a while since I watched any of his work. But…right now, and this is gonna sound really basic,” you warn, “the first that comes to mind is In the Mood for Love.”

He huffs a little laugh. “That is basic, but I’m just as bad since I like Chungking Express the most.”

Your body chooses this moment to yawn again, inordinately long. Almost immediately, you cover your mouth, mortified. “Oh my god. That was not a commentary on Chungking Express.” At your expression, Vernon’s shoulders begin to shake, and he hunches over to muffle his chuckles. You swat his back. “Hey!”

He waves off your embarrassment, straightening. The corners of his mouth are still twitching upward. “No harm done. But,” he adds, “I do have Chungking Express and In the Mood for Love on my laptop. We can see whose favorite holds out better tomorrow night?”

His boyish smile is disarmingly charming, even more so in the low light. You grin back, feeling your heart flutter in a way that feels both familiar and new. “Deal.”

--

Of course, there are days when Vernon’s blunt honesty grates on your frayed nerve endings. 

Yesterday you had to explain again to your mom why you had lost touch with Seokmin—he’s taking the PE exam that you need for an engineer’s license, and I’m here pursuing my own dream, besides there’s nothing stopping us from talking again after we’re both settled with our lives—which she never quite understands. She and your father had, after all, been the type of people who stayed together amid individual tumults; in her opinion, the Pacific Ocean shouldn’t stand in the way of childhood friends. You begged to differ; it wasn’t just the Pacific that was the problem.

Today had you irritable, noise-sensitive, and frankly, not at your best.

“To be honest,” he says, flicking through your latest output, “I think you’re just not that good at handling soulmates. I don’t feel much of you in the writing.”

“Bold of you to say you know how I feel in writing.” Your reply is just shy of a bark. Vernon startles, his gaze snapping to you where it was roving again over his scribbled notes. His face jolts you back to yourself. You shove the irritation back behind your teeth.

“Sorry. It’s not been a good day.”

“Er, it’s fine.” His fingers pinch the pages, restless. “Do you want to write about something that feels out of a fairy tale? Or something more like real life?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the problem.” The story you crafted was about two childhood friends who were soulmates, yet one moved away before they could discover it. Time and distance had rendered them different people, yet as their souls recognized each other—even the jagged pieces fit together.

In Vernon’s reading, it seemed that there was a relationship forced between two characters with little chemistry. Which hit entirely too close to home.

“This isn’t my own advice, so take it with a grain of salt,” he starts slowly. “But the voice we find in our writing isn’t always the one we wanted to have. Like, even if, say, I wanted to sound like Garcia Marquez talking about love, sometimes it’s just gonna feel weird actually doing it. And when I find a certain style fits me, I get disappointed when I compare it to the voice I initially wish I had.”

“In this analogy, am I trying to be Garcia Marquez?”

“I guess? I’m not saying whatever style you do have, it’ll be bad,” he hurries to qualify, “it’s just that you don’t have to force your voice or story to fit into something it’s not trying to be.”

You sit back, stunned a little at the sageness of his words. “Oh, wow, Vernon.”

He scratches his cheek, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “It’s not my advice, stop acting like I gave it. I read it from somewhere.”

Some old emotion stirs in you—hunger, competitiveness, desire—that old friend that carried you across fields and deserts in the name of continuous improvement. 

Despite no real incentive toward being the “best” in this residency, you are sharply reminded that this is a program where the bright gather. It would not do to half-ass anything. You remember what your mom had said, the first time you moved to Toronto: Some things must be set aside for new things to grow.

As you tap your pen on your little black notebook, a smile begins to bloom. “It’s great advice. Is it from a book?”

--

You stretch, the cushion of the couch shifting as you move your weight this way and that. On the table, the credits to Chungking Express play. Vernon pauses the roll of names before turning to you.

Apropos of nothing, he asks, “What was the biggest culture shock you had as a kid?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, silently asking if he’s going to explain why he raised that to you out of the blue. Vernon just looks at you, expectant. Deciding to humor him, you tilt your head, running through possible answers in your head. “Do you want a funny answer or a depressing one?”

He blinks. “Whichever you want to share, I guess?”

You lean aganst the headrest, focusing on some spot on the ceiling obscured by the darkness. “I don’t know how to decide what was biggest, but definitely the first one that comes to mind would be the lunchboxes.”

“Oh, like, packed lunch?”

“Yeah, or like, the food they’d have in the cafeteria. All the kids would call mine—”

“Stinky,” the both of you say in unison. You laugh, nostalgic. “Yeah. I was also pretty bad at English, back then, since the kind you learn in Korean school is different from the ones kids actually use. I remember only liking Math, just because numbers are the same whether you’re in Canada or Korea.”

Vernon’s eyes are soft as he regards you. “It must have been hard to make friends.” The words are simple, yet you feel the sincerity all the same. An understanding that comes with knowing what it means to be different, and living through it. You shift your head, turning to face him.

“I can’t imagine it’s been easy for you either,” you acknowledge.

“Mm. Kids could be particularly cruel.”

“Yeah, but I’m thankful all the same. I can’t imagine doing all the hellish cram school stuff just to get into SNU or something like that. And then work under a chaebol.” Perhaps it would have been be you in a different life, but in this one, the image feels like one from far away.

“You’re okay here? Not gonna fly somewhere else?” He references the ending of the movie. 

“I’ve had enough of travelling, to be honest.”

“Yeah?” The stare he levels at you is weighted, the air charged with something you don’t want to name quite yet. You hold his gaze.

“Yeah.”

Eventually, the corner of his lips quirk in a smile. The air eases up, and you inhale, only then realizing you have been holding your breath the whole time.

“Okay, then.”

--

Despite the call with your mother having gone better this time, something weighs your bones down. It’s fortunate that the cabin is a short walk from the shore.

You leave your shoes on the dry part of the beach, folding the hem of your jeans up to just above your calves.

The saltwater laps at your bare ankles. It’s that magical hour between sunset and dusk, when blue washes the world in quiet melancholy. Your gaze is trained north, but it is not New York you’re thinking about. Home has been a concept—less a house with roots, more a nebulous idea that you could never quite hold, like water or dry sand. 

The first time you left home—with all its hotteok stands and sunlight-dappled mahogany desks, it was at the behest of your parents. The second time, it was a choice of your own: a leaving on your terms. It was a whiplash of its own kind, one where you had to brave New York alone as a still-struggling college student. Home has always felt like something always just out of reach—is it something to find in the past, or is it waiting for you some place else?

Lost in thought, you murmur some lines of your favorite poem. Despite your finger bookmarking the page in the book in your hand, you know the words by heart.

“You ask the sea, what can you promise me…and it speaks the truth; it says erasure.”

On your lips is the taste of salt and loneliness.

--

Vernon looks up as you finally step into the living room, settling beside him.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you sigh. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries,” Vernon says. His finger trails quickly over his laptop’s trackpad, rebooting it from when it had fallen asleep. He doesn’t comment on your slightly windswept appearance, but he does eye the thin, well-worn book you have with you. “Glück?” He asks, gesturing.

“Yeah.” He seems to sense your melancholy, and leaves it at that.

As the movie plays, you dare to rest your head against his shoulder. He says nothing, but he wriggles a little, letting your weight rest more comfortably against him. Like this, you watch Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung yearn under the smeared lights of retro Hong Kong.

--

Vernon wonders if it was the tragedy that first drew him in. One so much like his, yet different in many ways.

It was the defiant tilt of your chin even as you remained open to the chatter around you; the intensity with which you approached your work; even the indecipherable array of micro-expressions that crossed your face when you first bit into the store-bought kimchi from the only Asian mart you had found in Montauk.

Most writers are tragic creatures; especially those who made it this far to make it a career. Vernon knows this. At the very least, there is something in their souls that could taint a page with words—either a hunger or too-muchness (or both) that needed some kind of release.

“I never got to ask,” he begins, “but I noticed in our conversations that you’d mention not just Korea, but Toronto too. You immigrated twice?”

“Pretty much,” you nod. First from Seoul to Toronto, then Toronto to New York. You explain this to Vernon, who shakes his head in amazement. Despite no longer having any reason to meet each other at the couch—the premise of watching Wong Kar-Wai behind you—you still, without fail, emerge from your room at some ungodly hour. And he’s always there, waiting. Vernon knows your routine, now: setting the electric kettle to boil before spooning some honey citron tea (from the jar that cost a ridiculous amount in the Asian mart, yet split the bill of nonetheless) into two mugs. Offering him the other while you settle beside him on the threadbare sofa.

“Is that what you meant when you had enough of travelling?”

“You remember that?”

He turns his head to look at you, confused. “Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You keep your gaze to the ceiling. “Didn’t expect you to, sorry. But yeah, that’s why. Does this have anything to do with Wong Kar-Wai?”

“Nah, just wanted to ask.”

“Okay.”

“Must have been lonely, huh?” 

You turn to him, still leaning against the couch, tilting your head. The cushion dips under your temple. “Didn’t we have this conversation before?”

“Sure, but I didn’t know you immigrated twice. I was born here; technically I never immigrated at all. Everything I know of Korea is from my parents and grandparents.”

“Huh.” You mull that over. “Did you ever think that home was actually there, not here?”

“…Sometimes,” he eventually admits. “But it’s more imagination than reality. I’ll probably be too American there, just as I was too Korean here. Might even be worse since I don’t speak the language.”

You don’t offer an answer to that, but you do shift your body to lean on Vernon’s shoulder, a quiet gesture of comfort. Both of you settle yourselves in the silence until Vernon eventually speaks again.

“Immigrating twice, though…that’s a different kind of tough.”

“I guess. But I don’t regret it, on the whole. At least the second time, it was my choice.”

“Does that make it better?” He asks, genuinely curious. 

“I used to think so. Now…hm, it’s both better and worse. Canada does have better healthcare, though.” Vernon chuckles at that. “This time, I decided to leave, not my parents. I’d rather…I guess write my own story than live someone else’s out. Or have it written by someone else.”

He inhales, muscles in his jaw feathering as his mind conjures up the vivid memories of his childhood. Not quite fitting in. Big emotions, too big for a child’s small hands. Choices he had to carve out for himself. 

“I know what you mean,” he whispers.

Your reply is half a yawn. “Good.”

In this dream-like space between sleeping and waking, you nestle deeper into Vernon’s warmth. Your head lolls, dropping softly onto his shoulder. You smell like the bergamot-scented body wash stocked in the bathrooms.

He closes his eyes, letting this moment sink into his memory.

(Eventually, he carries you to bed, leaving a message both on your bedside and through email—the only contact he has of you right now. Vernon waves off your embarrassed thank you the next morning, his fluster betrayed only by the red that lingers on the tips of his ears. Neither of you speak of it, even as you sit together again for that morning’s plenary.)

--

The last night in the cabin is marked by an especially voracious round of drinking in the gazebo. Empty bottles of beer and wine are scattered on the marble table, a wooden chopping board still adorned with the last few slices of ham and crackers.

“There’s this word in Korean,” you begin, swirling the last dregs of beer left in your bottle. “Inyeon. My dad first introduced me to the term. It’s like…fate, or providence, but specifically on the relationships between people. There’s a little of Buddhism and reincarnation in it.

“It’s inyeon when two strangers walk by and their clothes accidentally brush. Even then, for that to happen, there must have been something between them in their past lives. They say that if two people marry, there are eight thousand layers of inyeon over eight thousand lifetimes.

“Or, like…the cop with the pineapples and the undercover thief in Chungking Express, that’s Inyeon. Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung in In the Mood for Love, that’s also inyeon.” You make eye-contact with Vernon, who watches, amused, as you explain a Korean concept with Cantonese movies. A reference only he, out of everyone in this writers’ residence, would understand with special acuity.

Questions are thrown, and you answer, a little tipsy. Vernon coaxes you to let go of your now-empty bottle for a glass of water, which you readily take from his hand with a sort of smile you’d only make while drunk. Eventually, the conversation moves to different topics, until, either one-by-one or in groups, excuse themselves for bed.

It’s only the two of you now in the gazebo.

The water has made you a little more sober, and you allow yourself to indulge in the sight of Vernon under the outdoor string lights. The warmth paints his skin a soft gold. 

He’s watching you, too.

“I’ve been thinking about it, but both movies…you could say they both discuss loneliness in different ways.”

“Yeah. And they all had some kind of inyeon, but that didn’t mean they were meant to be. But ’s nice to think of a past life where they were. Not that they exist outside of the screen, though—I don’t know where I’m going with this,” you admit, cutting off your own ramble. Pointedly, you swallow a gulp of water, ignoring his amused stare.

The conversation tapers off, nothing but the distant sound of waves lapping at the sand. You swirl the glass of water in your hand, tongue moving with your thoughts again.

“Maybe… maybe you and I were somebody to each other in a past life.”

The air holds your words, suspends them for a moment in the silence. 

“Do you believe that?” Vernon asks eventually. He’s searching your face—cataloguing, perhaps, how drunk you are for those words to have tumbled out of your mouth.

“What?”

“That we knew each other in a past life?”

“What, because we’re here now—this night, in the same residency, in this gazebo?” You don’t know what’s so funny about what he said, but you can’t seem to stop giggling.

Vernon huffs that quiet laugh of his. “Isn’t this,” he gestures to the both of you, “inyeon, too?”

“My dad would think so.”

Vernon hums. “And you?”

“Me?” Under the table, your thighs brush. Your laugh stops, and you realize the weight of his gaze has never abated. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to the intensity of his attention. A part of you hopes you never do.

“What do you think?”

Alcohol loosens your lips enough to be brave. Or maybe just stupidly honest. “I’m not thinking about inyeon,” you confess. “I just want to kiss you.”

His eyelids flutter, those unfairly pretty lashes casting a subtle shadow across his skin. The upward quirk of his lips is a mix of smug and abashed. “Yeah?” 

(Tomorrow morning, you will chalk it up to lowered inhibitions: the sunlight will stream through curtains not drawn, the first thing that will tell you it is not your room you wake up in. The second thing will be the weight of an arm thrown across your waist; the third, a soft breath against your neck. Tomorrow, you will pretend you didn’t know better.

Tonight, though, you lean in, as close as you dare. A toe dipped into the sea. You catch the remnants of a haze over his eyes, the reminder that he’s also drunk, just more adept at hiding it.)

“Yeah,” you whisper. He seems to absorb this, quiet even as the sound of the waves is drowned by the blood rushing in your ears.

After a beat, Vernon closes the gap even further, head tilting, lips maddeningly parted…and then stops. His pause prompts a soft, impatient noise out of your throat, one that, based on the smirk that pulls up the corner of his mouth even higher, has not gone unnoticed.

Despite the relatively cool night, the air is heavy with promise.

Your tongue flicks out to wet your lips. His focus darts down, following the movement, before flicking back up to you, the question evident in his eyes. His restraint, even with alcohol in his system, is simultaneously maddening, thrilling, and endearing. You give a miniscule nod.

It’s a clumsy kiss, a bit too much teeth—both of you are evidently drunker than you’re trying to come across. Yet it’s enough for him to pull away with a soft hum before leaning in again, meeting your mouth with much more finesse and a hand cradling the back of your neck. You tangle one hand in his hair, feeling the thickness of it around your fingers. You’re not sure who presses closer, only that your world has narrowed into the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and his cologne. Him, him, him.

Not many words are exchanged after that.

(The clothes come off in the morning, not in the middle of the night, but that’s neither here nor there.) 

(The pretending lasted all but ten minutes.)

ACT III: YOU

Present day

The pedestrian streetlights blink green. From the other side of the street, the funny face you’re making at him dissolves as you begin to walk. Vernon’s still chuckling as he meets you halfway, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before walking together. 

As you reach the sidewalk, you press his usual coffee order into his hands. “Double shot sea salt latte to get you by today’s book signing.”

He grins. “Thanks.” Vernon swirls the cup before taking a sip, relishing in the cool drink amid the current heat.

“I’ll be late tonight,” you begin, apologetic. He looks up at you as you talk. “Rehearsals might run until after dinner. Your mom asked me to help her a while ago, though—she stocked our ref with the newest batch of grandma’s kimchi.”

“Right, it’s almost the production.” Vernon squeezes your hand, reassuring. You smile, before looking at the amount of coffee left and batting his arm.

“I bought you that to drink during your signing!”

“But the ice will dissolve by the time I get halfway through the line,” he protests. “Might as well have it while it’s not salty coffee water.”

You just roll your eyes, stopping as you arrive at the back entrance of the bookstore he’s holding the signing in. “Fine. But make sure to eat, okay?”

“I should be telling you that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, the director said she’ll be treating pizza tonight.” You check your watch. “I got to go. See you later!”

Vernon leans forward, pecking your lips even as you rummage your purse for your phone. You bat his arm again before waving as you jog away.

--

You trace mindless patterns on his arm, staring at the ceiling. Around you, the duvet is a mess, mostly because of his leg, thrown over yours, which rests on top of the covers. He doesn’t understand how you want to burrow under a blanket after sex, but you insist that he just runs hotter than you.

“배고파요.” Vernon tests it on his tongue, feeling the words.

“Mm. Me too.” 

“뭐 먹고 싶어요?” 

You ponder it before shrugging, turning to bury your face into Vernon’s neck. “Dunno,” you murmur sleepily into his skin. He shifts his one arm so he can better cradle your head. Your arm shakes off the covers to fiddle with his hair, still freshly cut into its current length. The sun peeks through your blinds, intent to ruin your intention to stay in bed this weekend.

After a few moments, you speak again. “I got it. Know what I want?”

“What?”

“Chicken wings.”

“Ohhh.” Vernon groans, even as he doesn’t move. His breath fans against the top of your head. “Genius. Holy shit.”

“Yeah?” You smile against his neck.

“Yeah. Brunch?”

“Yeah.”

--

“What’s on your mind?” You look up from your plate of wings. Something crosses your face, a mix of not-guilt and trepidation that makes Vernon pause from deboning the chicken in his hands.

“Do you remember I told you about Seokmin?”

Ah. “Is that this week?”

“Yeah.”

“Why is he coming here, again?” He resumes his task, popping the meat in his mouth after cleanly pulling out the two bones.

“Vacation, I think.”

Vernon just hums.

--

The restaurant smells like smoke, grease, and alcohol. Before them, the grill sizzles with both thick-cut and thin-cut pork. Seungkwan stirs the thin slices with a pair of metal tongs, letting the fat render so it unsticks from the metal.

Soonyoung picks a piece of the thicker pork off the grill, blowing into it. “Why are you going to New York, again?”

“Vacation,” Seokmin replies as he wraps meat, rice, and ssamjang into a piece of lettuce. “Sightseeing, eating, having fun…” He opens his mouth wide, shoving the wrapped meat into his mouth.

Seungkwan eyes him. “You’re not going there to see that girl, right?”

Mouth muffled with food, Seokmin asks, “Huh? Who?” Soonyoung scoffs.

“What do you mean, who? Her, y’know. Your first love? Seems convenient you’re going to New York just when you’ve broken up with your girlfriend.”

Seokmin just snorts, swallowing his food before giving a wry chuckle. “Hyung, she’s married.”

“Really?” Soonyoung seems genuinely surprised. “How long now?”

“Like…seven years? I think?”

Seungkwan ooh’s as he pours Seokmin and Soonyoung a drink. “She married early.”

“Mm.” They clink glasses. 

Seungkwan unlocks his phone, checking something before clicking his tongue. “Hyung.” His voice is a mix of amused and commiserating.

“Mm?” He holds up his phone.

“it’s gonna be raining the whole time you’re there.” Seokmin and Soonyoung stare at his phone, the weather app pulled up.

After a beat, Soonyoung begins to cackle, slapping Seokmin’s arm, who yelps as he barely saves his beer from spilling over the grill. “Ya!”

Soonyoung ignores him. “Aigo, you poor bastard!”

“No way. Really?” Seokmin squints at the screen, willing the forecast to change. Already, he feels a slump settling on his shoulders.

--

True enough, Seokmin makes a break for it after getting off the taxi. He had hurriedly retrieved his luggage from the trunk, then dashed to the hotel he had booked for the next two nights. New York is miserably wet, and he feels self-conscious as his shoes squeak and drip rainwater onto the carpeted floor as he checks himself in. His English is not very good, but he does have Papago to help him stumble through the conversation with the receptionist. He receives his key card and room number.

Seokmin moves as fast as he can to the elevator, mindful of both his appearance and the need to get the wet cloths off him as soon as possible.

Finally, finally, he lugs his damp body and luggage into his empty room. There is a window overlooking the city, yet it is only grey with rain. Droplets cover the glass. Seokmin sighs, and shucks off his windbreaker, slipping into the bathroom to hang it and his other damp clothes.

It seems his plans of sightseeing would not be a go.

--

Unexpectedly, at around midnight, the rain had stopped. The clear weather continued through the early morning, until this moment. Light flicks off the small puddles left on the pavement, and is reflected, serene, on the surface of the pool. Fresh off the bad weather, there are not much people around the garden.

Seokmin stands off to the side. Though the surroundings are quiet, his mind is awhirl with the significance of today. He finds himself fiddling with his fanny pack and rubbing the strap with his thumb and forefinger, regressing to his childhood habit.

Time passes painfully long; he is half-tempted to begin bouncing on the balls of his feet just to release more of the nervous energy plaguing his body. He doesn’t know how much that face would have changed, yet he trusts in himself enough to recognize both the face and the soul behind it.

“Seokmin!” He turns.

You appear from behind one of the trees, and Seokmin knows. You catch his gaze, and he sees the moment you also know. You begin to walk toward him, circling the edge of the pool.

Seokmin is frozen. It feels like coming face to face with a ghost.

There are subtle differences—your style is a more comfortable mix between business and casual. The way you carry yourself is more relaxed, assured in a way that only ever comes when the weight of adulthood has nestled itself in one’s bones. You stop before him, seeming to be equally shocked. 

He feels you taking him in, too; suddenly, he’s hyper-conscious of the shirt he chose for today, the comfortable sweater and light-wash jeans a little too strange against the smarter, albeit dressed down look of your blouse. It’s not like you’re a couple trying to match, he chastises himself.

Seokmin stares at a person he has not seen in more than twenty years, and he watches you do the same.

The distance that stood between you at your first and second goodbye’s lingers, still not crossed. So much has changed, and he doesn’t know yet what remains the same. His body is hot, then cold. Every emotion overtakes him—shock, sadness, disbelief. Yet the one that settles most comfortably into the moment is simply relief. Seokmin exhales.

“Wow.” He chuckles softly.

“Wow,” you echo, your laugh breathless as it hangs in the air between you. You close the distance first, wrapping your arms around his neck in a fierce hug. Startled, Seokmin’s hands hang in the air before he relaxes. He should have expected this of you. His own arms encircle your waist, pulling you in. You smell faintly of soap and ink, nothing like the shampoo he remembered from when you were children. 

Twenty years.

The utter physicality of your presence is overwhelming.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, mouth a little behind your ear. Your chin grazes against his shirt as you nod before stepping away. 

A beat passes, and you start to laugh.

After a moment, Seokmin joins in, not quite sure why you’re both laughing, but it’s definitely much better than crying. For now, he just lets the amazement at the situation wash over him. Eventually, the laughter settles, and fades. 

“I really don’t know what to say,” you murmur, smiling at him.

“I don’t, either,” he confesses. “What should I say? It’s just been so long. Like, twelve years?”

“Yeah, around that much.” You look around, suddenly noticing the relatively quiet park. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin smiles. “Tour me around your city.” You fall into step beside him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, still not quite believing it. That gaze remains, even as you usher him into the New York subway, eventually forced into sharing a pole to hold onto as the car crowds with passengers. You catch his gaze, and smile, the same mix of giddy, disbelieving, and shy.

It really is so good to see you.

--

You walk along Dumbo pier—like the flying elephant? Seokmin had asked, to which you nodded with a, Yeah, same spelling, but it’s actually an acronym—having just gotten off the R Train to Brooklyn Bridge Park. Seokmin’s eyes wander around, absorbing the New York scenery. You walk down a narrow, well-maintained path, the edges lush with shrubs. A faint breeze blows, rustling the leaves around you. This close, Seokmin can also here the river’s gentle murmurs.

There’s a silent sort of buffer between you, as though both of you were equally conscious of not wanting to be perceived as a couple. Occasionally, a ship horn blows, distant yet cutting.

“Before I got married,” you begin, “Vernon and I visited Korea.” 

Seokmin suppresses a wince; it’s the first time you mention your husband to him. “I know.”

“I emailed you, but you never replied.”

 “I’m sorry.” He saw it; he just couldn’t bring himself to respond. It was a good year before he could bear to delete the long email he had kept in his drafts—only for you to message him, four years later, just not for the reason he was expecting. Or hoping.

“It’s okay,” you reply eventually. Seokmin feels your eyes on him, considering. Your steps, slightly ahead for the past few minutes, slow down so you walk together. He keeps his eyes forward, trying not to fidget.

“I wanted to meet your girlfriend too, actually. Is she doing well?”

“Oh, we’re not…we’re not together right now.”

“What happened? You broke up?” You sound genuinely concerned.

“No, not really.” You find a spot by with a good view of the pier, gesturing for him to join you. Seokmin obliges, continuing, “We just need time to think, I guess. We’ve started talking about getting married.”

“Do you not want to get married?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s holding you back? You love her, right?”

He stares at Manhattan, but his mind is hundreds of miles away. “I always thought if you get married, you have to be responsible. You have to have enough money, you know? She’s an only child; her parents will have high standards for her husband.”

“What does she think, though?”

“Oh, she’s more up for it than I am. But I just…thought things should be…more, you know?”

You tilt your head; he shifts, not expecting the sudden intensity in your gaze. There’s a light furrow in your brow. It strikes him, then, that he’s talking about this to someone already married. “Is it hard to get married if you don’t make tons of money?”

“At first we didn’t think so, but eventually we started thinking that way.” As the words leave his mouth, Seokmin feels the inextricable weight of age on his shoulders. You look away, equally quiet. The sun is already quite high up; in front of him the water glitters, beautifully clear. 

At the end of the path, apparently, is the edge of the riverbank. You’re much closer to the water now; if the wind was a gentle breeze a while ago, now it’s stronger, blowing against his hair. Seokmin pushes back the strands that fall against his eyes. 

“Do you want me to take a picture of you?” You ask suddenly.

“Oh, sure.” Seokmin stands by the railing.

It starts innocuous, at first. But a bit of the old theater flair takes over him, and he strikes a pose, flicking his wrist over his eye. You giggle, stepping out to a lunge so you could get more angles of him. At some point, he turns his back to the camera, jutting his hip out. You screech a little, doubling over even as you continue pressing the shutter button. After a few poses, you straighten and hand the phone to him, eyes bright with the remains of your laughter.

“You look good! Sorry if the camera shook while I was taking some of them, though.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “That’s fine, part of the memories.”

--

“Did you continue theater? After the last time we talked.”

“Not really, no. I stopped auditioning while studying for the PE, and just never tried again.”

“I see.”

The pier is lovely, the view even more so—the expanse of water juxtaposed by both the modern, urban feel of the buildings and the older, stately bridge. It’s just that there are couples everywhere—holding hands, whispering with their heads pressed together, one pair even full-on kissing in broad daylight. Seokmin subtly shifts his body away from the latter, trying to hide his discomfort.

He glances at you right as you crane your neck in the couple’s direction before quickly looking away. He gives you a look, which you return with a grimace. Even if neither of you are here on a date, the suffocating romance all around certainly makes it feel like one.

“Did you come here often with your husband?”

“Yeah, we lived nearby before moving to our current apartment. We dated here, though we’re not as bad as them.” Seokmin suppresses a laugh at your disgruntled expression. “Oh, and we fought here, too. A lot,” you add the last bit with a small smirk.

“Really? You fought?”

“Oh yeah, especially during the first year we married. We didn’t fuck around.”

Seokmin chuckles disbelievingly, floundering between concerned and amused. “Why’d you fight?”

“A lot of reasons,” you shrug, leaning against the railing. “It’s like…planting two trees in a pot. Our roots needed to find our place.”

Behind you, as the day grows darker, the carousel’s lights begin to turn on.

“Do your families get along?”

“Oh yeah, Vernon’s family loves that they have a whole bunch of people to speak Korean with. His grandma and my mom are quite close.”

“Oh, but does he speak Korean too?”

“Not as much; him and his sister don’t, and his mom is the American one—they know a few phrases, and he’s been practicing with me, but aside from that…” you trail off. Your gaze remains at the horizon. “He’s great at Hwa-Too, though.”

“Hwa-Too?!”

“Mm,” you turn, grinning at his surprise, pride shining in your eyes. “Beat my dad a few times, even.”

Seokmin whistles. “He’s not fucking around.”

“He’s not fucking around,” you agree, huffing a small laugh. Seokmin catches the way your eyes light up as you speak of your husband, gaze slightly distant, your lips curling up almost unconsciously. You turn to him. “Did you fight with your girlfriend too?”

“No.” You raise an eyebrow, disbelieving, until Seokmin relents. “Fine. Yes. Even though she’s not my girlfriend right now.”

“If you’re just as bad of a sulker—” you begin, “Never mind, I don’t want you upset at me.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I’m not that bad.” You just snort, nudging him lightly. He elbows you back, feigning a pout before the act cracks and he breaks into chuckles. 

When your laughter trails off to a comfortable end, you smile at him, the edges of your eyes crinkling slightly. The sky has painted New York pink, orange, and gold; Seokmin quietly admires a single golden ray that runs from your cheek down to your neck. “You should get married well.”

“You’re worrying about me?”

“Sure. Getting married is hard for idealistic people. Like you.”

“I’m not that old yet,” he retorts. “Let me worry about it when I’m past forty.”

You just smile, and huff a little laugh before returning your focus to the horizon. Your expression does not waver, still with that mysterious and distant affection, as though you were privy to something he has yet to understand. Perhaps you are. In silence, Seokmin watches you enjoy the sunset.

--

Seokmin and you sit on the steps by Jane’s carousel, the day’s walking finally felt the moment you eased yourselves down. Seokmin has his legs sprawled, long limbs stretching down the steps as he gazes up at the sky, now a stunning shade of twilight blue. Behind you, the playful music of the carousel plays on loop. The day has passed, and at this moment, there is no need to fill the silence with words.

The quiet stretches the twilight. Eventually, you turn to look at him. Seokmin meets your gaze, steady.

“Seokmin.”

“Hm?”

“Why did you look for me?”

His gaze turns curious, yet you remain quiet, waiting for him to respond.

“Twelve years ago?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you really want to know?” You nod. He looks directly at you, gaze intense yet open.

“I just wanted to see you one more time.” Seokmin pauses, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “You just left so suddenly, and I was pissed off, y’know? I thought of you, from time to time, while I was alone. You disappeared, and suddenly I found you again.”

Each word fuels the complex mix of emotion swirling in your chest, and you tamp down the expression that’s fighting to emerge on your face. You pinch your lips together.

“Sorry.” It’s all you can bring yourself to say without everything else spilling out.

“What are you sorry about?”

You exhale, quick and short. “Right. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” For that first time, at least—that immigration. Seokmin continues.

“I thought about you. During the military, even as I passed the PE…even when I realized I stopped pursuing acting seriously, I wondered if you’d be disappointed.” He laughs, self-deprecating.

Even before he finishes, you’re already shaking your head. “I would never judge you for that.” 

“We were babies back then,” you comment softly.

“I know,” he replies. “We were also babies when we met again twelve years ago.”

You tilt your head, considering him. Your eyes wander over his face, doing the same thing you’ve repeated throughout today: cataloguing the minute changes from the last time you saw him twelve years ago. Not much has changed with his face—he must have a solid skincare routine, possibly the fault of his girlfriend. His hair is more styled, though the breeze had tussled it somewhat. But he carries himself with a little more worldliness, even as his words are of the boy twelve years ago. Life had become a jacket he wore a little more familiarly around his shoulders.

“We aren’t babies anymore,” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

--

After dropping Seokmin off at his hotel, you return home.

From the living room, you hear the faint sound of Vernon’s latest game, and the clack of the buttons as he presses them rapidly. You shut the door quietly, toeing off your shoes and setting your bag on the hook by the entryway before you approach him. He’s already shifting, making space for you to squeeze yourself beside him on the loveseat, even as his eyes never leave the screen.

“Hi,” you mumble.

“Hi, love.” Onscreen, Vernon’s character is winning, little sound effects echoing around as he levels attack after attack at the level boss. You keep silent, choosing to talk once he’s done, but he speaks anyway. “How was it?”

“You were right.”

“I was?”

“He came to see me.”

Vernon glances at you quickly, catching the expression on your face: lips pursed, eyes a storm cloud of emotions. 

He pauses the game.

--

“It’s just crazy to see him be a grown-up man with a job and everything. And parts of it are so…Korean.” You dab a dollop of moisturizer on your cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin before rubbing it in with your fingers. “I mean, neither of us stayed with our parents once we started working. But he still lives with them. He’s not stoic, or conservative, or anything like that, but there are moments I feel like I’m talking to one of your grandparents.”

Behind you, sharing the small mirror, Vernon is patting on the last dregs of the toner you made him try. He stares at you through both your reflections. “Is he attractive?”

You squint a little at him, trying to parse what he’s saying through his question. Curiosity, perhaps, and some jealousy. Answering honestly, you reply, “sure, he’s handsome, and he smiles a lot. I mean at least one person has been attracted to him—his girlfriend. Or, not quite-ex.”

“Are you attracted to him?”

This time, you scrunch your face. “What? No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.” You face away from his reflection, turning to your husband. “He’s just this boy who I left, and who was just a face on my laptop for the longest time, and now he’s here. It’s just overwhelming, physically, I think. But no, I don’t think I’m attracted to him. I just missed him a lot. I missed Seoul.”

“Did he miss you?”

“He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.” You pause, contemplative. “I think he misses the twelve-year old me, who would tease him while he cries until he starts laughing instead. We were both crybabies, you know.”

“I didn’t know you were a crier.”

“Yeah. But I always tried to never cry when it was him crying. Not that it always worked.”

Vernon hums, expression unreadable as he crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. The air is tense as he opens and closes his mouth, figuring out what to say. After a long beat. He settles with, “When is he leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

You sit beside him on the bed, tentative. “Are you mad?”

“No.”

“It feels like it.”

Vernon sighs, running his hand through short, choppy strands—not quite as buzzed as last month. “I don’t have a right to be mad.” 

Your brows furrow. “What? Of course you have the right to be mad.”

“That man flew thirteen hours to see you, I’m not about to say that you can’t see him or something. He’s your childhood sweetheart. And it’s not like you’d run away with him.” You laugh, loudly. Vernon seems to hesitate, swiveling to face you. He looks only half-joking. “Are you?”

Deadpan, you reply, “Sure, I’ll run away with my childhood sweetheart to go to Seoul and leave my entire life behind.” Vernon just raises an eyebrow. Exasperated, you continue, “You know me. I won’t skip rehearsals for a dude.”

You crawl into the bedsheets, lifting the corner of the duvet and wrapping it around you. You’re in your baggiest sleep shorts—the one you only wear when it’s your period. The edge of it peeks from under the comforter. Vernon looks at you for a long moment, gaze softening as you frown at him, still sitting down.

“I know.” The edges of his mouth pull up in a small smile. “I know you.”

--

Grumbling, you nose into Vernon’s neck. You know he’s awake. “If another truck honks at 2AM, I’m going to lose it.”

True enough, Vernon offers a sleepy chuckle, tilting his chin so you can nestle better against him. The room is dark, silent save for your breathing and the occasional noise from outside. The lights are off, but the lone streetlight visible from the window casts a dull glow over the duvet. 

Suddenly, he chuckles dryly.

“What?” you whisper.

“Just thinking how good of a story this is.”

“Seokmin and I?”

“Childhood sweethearts who reconnect twenty years later and realize they were meant for each other.”

You huff. “We’re not meant for each other.”

Vernon ignores you, continuing. “I’d be the fake Korean standing in the way of destiny.”

At that, you cackle, though it’s muffled by your position against his neck. “Shut up. Fake Korean?”

“We’re just sound so boring in comparison, I dunno. Met in a writer’s residency, flirted, watched a bunch of Wong Kar-Wai, slept together because we were both single. Then moving in together in New York to save rent. Until we decided to get married, but moved plans up so you could get your green card.”

“So romantic, when you put it like that,” you reply dryly.

“No, exactly, I’m the guy you leave when your ex-lover-slash-soulmate takes you away.”

“He’s neither of those things.”

Vernon’s hand comes up, creeping along your arm and tracing patterns on the back of your shirt. “What if you met someone else, someone who knew, maybe not Wong Kar-Wai, but Orson Welles? What if there was some other writer also from New York who knew the same movies, read the same books, and could correct you on your manuscripts and listen to you complain about rehearsals?”

“Mm. That’s not how life works.”

“Yeah, but still. Wouldn’t you be here with him? If you didn’t leave Korea, would you be with your childhood sweetheart?”

“Again, that’s not how life works.” You relent, though, and indulge him. It’s a rare moment where Vernon seems to be seeking solace in you, not the other way around. “This is my life. This is our life. Now. And we’re together.”

A beat passes. Something comes to mind, a memory from that first writing residency.

“Do you remember the first time I got mad at you? It was a bad day and you were giving feedback on that one horrible manuscript.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?” 

“…No?”

“I remember it word for word. ‘You don’t have to force your voice or story to fit into something it’s not trying to be,’ you said to me.” Even now, the advice makes you smile. He must feel it against his skin.

For a while, it’s silent—nothing but the low hum of the air con and his hand, playing with the fabric of your shirt. You feel his breath fan over the top of your head. “It’s just that you make my life so much bigger,” he murmurs, “and I don’t know if I do the same for you.”

“You do.” Shifting, you crane your neck, taking care not to bump against his chin. Your eyes meet his. “You’re forgetting the part where I love you.”

“I don’t forget it, I just have trouble believing it sometimes.”

You burrow into him insistently, throwing a leg over his hip. “I’ll do better then.” Vernon’s familiar huff of a laugh vibrates against your forehead.

“You already do enough.” He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

He and you lay there, in comfortable silence. You listen to his heartbeat, steady against your ear. Vernon returns to tracing mindless patterns across your back.

“Did you know you only speak in Korean when you talk in your sleep?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You never speak in English. You only dream in Korean.”

“I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

“Most times, I think it’s cute, but…I don’t know. Sometimes I get scared.”

“Why?”

Vernon’s chest caves slightly as he exhales. “You dream in a language that I can’t quite understand. I’m still trying, but I can’t help but think that I was supposed to understand this whole time.”

He leans back a little to stare at you, a small, bitter smile on his face. You reach a hand up, cupping his cheek. Vernon softens slightly, leaning into your touch as he continues.

“I think it’s part of why I’ve been trying harder to learn lately.”

“You want to understand me while I’m sleeping?”

“Yeah. Is it stupid?”

You smile a little. “No. Well maybe, since I’m pretty sure I’m just saying gibberish.” He hums.

“You know, what if there’s a life where you never left Korea, and I actually did immigrate the way my parents planned to when I was a toddler. Would we have met then? Still gotten married?”

“You mean inyeon? Who we are to each other in another life?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a thought, for sure. But I chose you in this life. That’s what matters most to me.”

It’s quiet after that, Vernon absorbing your words in the way he always does, with that almost uncanny acuity. After a beat, he pulls you even closer, until there’s barely space between your bodies.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

--

Seokmin is already lined up for the ferry by the time you meet him.

“Hey!” You’re slightly breathless, having run to meet him upon getting his message. He beams, eyes turning into half-crescents.

“Hey! Did you get home safe last night?”

“I did, thanks. Sorry I’m late.” It seems more people took yesterday’s sunny weather as a cue that the past week’s rain finally passed; the train was more crowded than usual.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

Seokmin unslings one strap of his backpack, rummaging before brandishing out a bagel sandwich for you. “Here?”

You accept it, mouth parted in surprise. “For me?”

“Yeah.” You bite into it with a vengeance. Seokmin grins as you eat.

This early, people are just starting to file in; the queue progresses quickly. You both shuffle forward every few seconds. As the boarding point to the ferry grows closer, Seokmin turns to you.

“I forgot to ask you something yesterday.”

You swallow your current bite before answering. “What is it?”

“What prize do you want to win nowadays?”

“Hm?”

“Before you left, you wanted to win the Nobel. Twelve years ago, you said it was the Pulitzer. What about now?” Seokmin clarifies. You look at him, a little lost. Things like that haven’t been on your mind for a long time; you tell him this, a little abashed. He just shakes his head with a little smile.

“Try to think about it,” he encourages. “There must be something you want.”

“…A Tony?” You try, and he laughs.

“Still the same.”

“Greedy?”

“Greedy.”

--

Today is more suffocatingly romantic than yesterday. It’s bad enough that someone had offered to take a photo of both of you together, confused when you turned her down. You lean against the ferry railing, keeping a safe distance from Seokmin.

Under you, the water churns into white foam as the ferry route curves into the view of the Statue of Liberty. As the right angle approaches, you tap Seokmin’s shoulder.

“Here, I’ll take your picture.” He positions himself near the railing, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “A little to the left.”

When you return your phone to him, he raises it up with the front camera. “Selca?” Obliging, you sidle next to him before laughing at the screen.

“That’s too close!” You step back, pressing your back lightly against the railing. Seokmin snaps a few photos, each with a silly face that you match in turn. In one of them, you raise a hand, smiling, the ring on your hand briefly catching the sun. Behind you, Manhattan sprawls, gleaming in the morning light.

--

“Oh, pretty.” Seokmin taps your screen, flicking through your wedding photos. The ferry is now returning to Manhattan, and you’ve both taken to the empty seats near the middle row. Seokmin looks between the you beside him and the you in the photos. His brow furrows ever so slightly. “You look young.”

“We were young,” you reminisce. “The wedding happened earlier than planned because of my green card.”

You smile, staring at the screen. Right now, it’s on a picture of you and Vernon, his hair not yet buzzed, frozen mid-laugh. You’re clutching your bouquet with one hand, his shoulder with the other. When he laughs, really laughs, Vernon’s face is almost elastic in its expressiveness; you had to insist on a copy of this photo, after Vernon’s embarrassment at the way his eyebrows looked comically curved. You don’t remember why you were laughing anymore, only that this was your favorite photo purely because of how unscripted it was.

Seokmin hums, continuing to scroll through your wedding photos.

--

Vernon fidgets with his phone, distracted. He had gotten your message about an hour ago; you were on the way home, bringing your friend after he had checked out from his hotel. Tonight was supposed to be a dinner with the three of you before Seokmin leaves for Korea on an early morning flight.

He had spent part of his afternoon cleaning, both itching to release nervous energy and wanting to make a good impression. It took him twice as long as usual to pick a shirt to wear, unsure of what kind of impression he wanted to give to this man, as his childhood sweetheart’s now-husband. Eventually, he settled with a clean button down tucked into jeans.

After what seems like forever, he hears the faint jangling of keys, and then the door opening.

“Vern?”

He stands, smoothing down his shirt. There, by the doorway, bathed in warm light, is you, greeting him with a soft smile. He relaxes, shoulders settling more comfortably. Turning, you gesture to someone. 

“들어와.” A figure ducks through the doorway, already toeing off his shoes. And it is here that Vernon meets him for the first time.

Seokmin is a tall man. You were right; he is handsome, in the way Asian men often are—youthful, more innocent than his other burly, White colleagues, who grow their beards and prefer to exude a more rugged appeal. As you stand there, together, both staring at him, you reassuring and Seokmin tentative, Vernon suddenly understands. This is a person from another life of the woman he loves. He and Vernon are connected, not just through heritage, but with their love for you. Simple as that.

Vernon smiles warmly. “안녕하세요. 만나서 반가워요.

Seokmin startles a little before smiling back, hesitant but bright. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you too,” he replies in stilted but clear English. They both laugh awkwardly. Seokmin glances at you. “그는 한국어를 잘한다.”

Vernon can understand that much. “아니, 아니요.” You just look at him at Seokmin’s pronouncement, smug. Vernon feels his ears turn red. “배고파? Hungry?”

“Um, yes.” As though on cue, his stomach rumbles. You and Vernon exchange a glance, amused. Vernon turns to him. “뭐 먹고 싶어요?”

“Uh…pizza!”

“Pizza? You like pizza?”

Seokmin nods. “Yes!”

Vernon steals a glance at you again, biting back a laugh. “Okay, then. Pizza it is.”

--

The three of you walk the streets of East Village. It is well into the evening, and the streets bustle with people checking out the hole-in-the-wall, indie restaurants that are scattered around. You and Vernon walk beside each other, while Seokmin keeps a polite but still friendly distance from your husband.

“So what did you guys do today?”

“The, uh…” Seokmin tilts his head, opening and closing his mouth to reply, brow furrowing. Instead, he just raises his hand, miming a torch.

“The Statue of Liberty,” you supply. Vernon’s brows lift in realization.

“You took the ferry?” You nod.

“It was, uh, nice,” Seokmin says. “Uh, beautiful view.”

“I’ve never been.” You and Seokmin, on either of his side, look at him, shocked for different reasons. Seokmin shifts his focus to you, still incredulous.

“야! Why haven’t you gone with your husband there yet?”

“I don’t—” you look at Vernon, surprised and more than a little guilty. “You’ve never been? We’ve never been?”

Vernon huffs a laugh at both of your exclamations. “Yeah, I’ve actually never been.”

You look at him, eyes wide, even as he levels a smirk at you, amused at your reaction.

--

The pizza was everything he dreamed New York pizza to be—thin, large in serving, and just the right mix of fat from the cheese and acidity from the tomatoes. Both you and your husband had remarked that this was one of the better places, at least as far as both your palates were concerned. Vernon taught him, you translating at some junctures, how to fold the slice before eating it, prefacing it by saying that neither of you would judge if he just opted to cut the slice with a knife before eating. Adamant, Seokmin insisted on “the New York way,” to both your amusement.

After dinner, the three of you relocated to a small, nearby speakeasy. Faux-incandescent bulbs cast a warm light over the space, and you took your seats at the counter. You sat in the middle, translating between the two of them.

“At twenty-four, I, um…” he tries to think of the word, but falls short. Seokmin mimes shooting a rifle, and both your eyes widen in recognition.

“군대?”

“Military service?” Both you and Vernon speak at the same time.

“Yes!” Seokmin looks at your husband, who understands the question in his eyes.

“I didn’t go, I chose US citizenship at eighteen.” Seokmin’s mouth parts in an o, nodding as the pieces click in his mind. Vernon addresses him. “How was it? Did you like it?” You translate for him your husband’s question. Seokmin bites back a sheepish smile.

“No.” You and Vernon laugh. “I got accident,” he adds.

“Really?” Your husband leans forward, intrigued. Seokmin points to his nose, and you gasp as the memory finally returns to you. He levels a quick grin at you, knowing why.

“My nose was, uh, broken. Needed surgery to fix.” Vernon nods. His face is wonderfully expressive as he absorbs this new information. 

Looking at his nose, then the rest of his face, he replies, “it looks good. Healed well.”

“Thank you.” Seokmin scratches his nose, the unconscious habit returning for a moment. “But, uh, military and work…same.”

“Same how?”

“You have, uh…boss.” Both you and Vernon release a chuckle. He turns to you, switching to Korean. “There’s overtime pay here, right?”

You nod. “Of course. Why? Don’t you have?” He shakes his head. You stare at him, incredulous, before turning to Vernon, who makes a similar face when he hears your translation. “There’s no overtime pay in Korea.” To Seokmin, you ask, switching back to Korean, “Really?”

Seokmin nods. “In Korea, you do all you boss’ work, then your own, then you can go home. And you don’t get paid well.”

“That’s shitty. And hard.” Seokmin nods, face comically down.

He tries his best to translate, catching Vernon’s expression—who seems to be doing his utmost best at keeping up with the limited Korean he knows, but not understanding the important bits. “Boss work first, then your work. End late, but um…bad salary? Cheap?”

“I see,” Vernon says, and levels him a grateful look. Seokmin smiles sympathetically, catching his gaze. They hold it for a moment too long, and Seokmin is the first to look away, suddenly feeling awkward. Despite tonight’s relatively smooth camaraderie, they remain strangers.

Seokmin instead turns to you, switching back to Korean, finding comfort in the way the syllables rest on his tongue.

“It was good that you immigrated.”

You smile, responding in kind. “I think so too.”

“Korea’s too small for someone like you. It can’t satisfy your greed.” Both of you laugh softly. Seokmin swirls the drink in his hand, the ice clinking against the glass.

“Thank you for introducing me to your husband. He seems to love you very much. And he’s been so nice to me.”

Your smile widens, enough for light crinkles to appear at the edges of your eyes. “Of course. I love that you get along.”

Seokmin downs his drink. Gazing at the leftover ice, he murmurs, a little drunk, “I didn’t know getting along with him would hurt this much.”

You stare at him, mouth parted. He turns to look at you, mouth quirked in a bitter, sardonic smile. Around you, the speakeasy’s noise fades into a dull buzz. Your body swivels a little, facing him more.

After a long beat, you simply reply, “Really?”

“Really.”

It’s probably pathetic of him, to be so open to you, risking your husband understanding a conversation about him, but he’s drunk, and it’s his last night with a person whom he’s only ever seen in increments of twelve years. For all he knows, twelve years later he may not be as lucky.

The silence is intolerably suffocating.

“When we stopped talking,” Seokmin starts, “Did you miss me?”

“Of course.”

“But you met your husband, then.”

“You met your girlfriend too,” you reply, a little too sharply. The air is tense. From behind him, Seokmin spies Vernon glance at your direction, noting the change in your tone. After a few seconds, he returns to his phone. The sight of him makes him scrunch his face. Are you really both being jealous while your husband is a few feet away?

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking away. Shame swirls in his stomach.

“It’s okay,” you reply quickly. “I’m sorry too.”

“I just…Being here with you gives me weird thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘I found my first love twelve years ago, should I have just not let her go?’” He barrels on, clocking from your expression that you wouldn’t know what to say in reply anyway. “‘What if I went to New York when you asked? Or if you had gone to Seoul when I asked? What if you never left? Would we have gotten married? Have kids? Would we have dated? Broken up?’ Things like that.”

For once, Seokmin is thankful for the alcohol loosening his tongue; if anything, he can say that he at least poured his heart out to you, the one thing he hadn’t been able to do before. He breathes in, shaky, pushing back tears.

“But what I learned coming here, is that you had to leave because you’re you. And the reason I liked you is because you’re you. And who you are is a person who leaves.”

You close your eyes at that.

After a long pause, you open them, gazing straight at Seokmin as you speak. There’s a small upward curve at the edge of your mouth, even as your eyes glisten, suspiciously shiny, under the warm light.

“The girl you remember doesn’t exist here,” you say softly.

“I know.”

“But she did exist. She’s not here in front of you, but that doesn’t mean she was never real. I left her behind in Seoul with you, more than twenty years ago.” The gentleness of your voice feels like some necessary ruination.

“I know. And though I was just twelve years old, I loved that girl.” His smile trembles as he says it, and so does yours as you try to return his grin with one of your own.

You huff, a little watery. “You psycho.” His laugh, too, is wet. Seokmin sniffles as discreetly as he can. You hand him a tissue, which he accepts with a soft thank you.

You begin to speak again, one finger swirling around the water that had dripped down onto the wooden surface of the table. “I think there was something between us in our past lives. There’s no other reason for us to be here, in this city, twelve years after we reconnected, another twelve years after I left. It’s just that we don’t have the inyeon to be that for each other in this life.”

“I think so too,” Seokmin replies softly. “What do you think we were? A general and a concubine?”

You scrunch your nose at the image, even as you huff, amused. “A political marriage,” you propose. “And we haaated each other.”

“Or maybe just a bird and the branch it landed on.” Seokmin swirls his glass, drinking at the bits of water from the melting ice. “Even your husband, you know? Maybe in another life, he was in Korea.”

“Maybe you met in the military.”

“Maybe we all were in the same train. Or a bus and we occupied one row of seats.” He must be a masochist, bringing even your husband into this discussion of who you could be to each other. “In this life, you and Vernon have the eight thousand layers of inyeon. To him, you’re someone who stays.”

Seokmin breaks his own heart with his words, yet his smile is open, flayed as he feels. You smile too. On your other side, Vernon has perked up again from where he was scrolling through his phone, hearing his name. You finally turn to look at him.

“Just talking about you.” He smiles, a little unsure.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile at your husband, eyes alight—the same glimmer that accompanies your smile every time he’d come up in your conversation. And just like that, Seokmin knows he is right on who you are to each other.

--

“I’m sorry we speak alone.” Vernon looks up at Seokmin, having just signed off on the bill. “We will stop.”

You’re off to the bathroom, but it’s taking longer than usual. Seokmin and Vernon had been sitting in silence for a handful of minutes, neither of them willing to begin the conversation until now.

“No, it’s fine, you both have a lot to catch up on.” Vernon swivels in his seat to face him, and laughs a little, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d be part of something like this.”

“Hm?” Seokmin tilts his head. Vernon gestures.

“Sitting with you.”

Seokmin understands, offering him a smile. His eyes are still rimmed slightly in red, and he hopes your husband does not notice.

“Do you know, um…inyeon?”

Vernon nods. “A bit of it, yes.”

Seokmin mirrors his earlier gesture. “You and I…We…”

“Yeah,” Vernon huffs a small laugh, “you and I are inyeon too.” He swirls his glass, the ice already fully melted. There’s a smudge of condensation left behind when he moves his glass. “Thank you for coming here. It was the right thing to do.”

For the second time, Seokmin feels his vision blur. He looks away quickly, blinking back the tears. He can’t help but betray himself to your husband, the one person whom he probably should not be giving such a display to. And when you are absent, to boot. But when he finally manages to pull himself back together, Vernon has returned his focus to the table, drawing patterns with the smudge of condensed water. He does not say anything else, even as you return with an apologetic remark about the long lines in the womens’ bathroom.

He makes no mention of Seokmin’s tears.

It strikes him, again, that even to him, your husband is kind.

--

Seokmin picks up his luggage, which he had left in your shared apartment. While he’s checking his things, and lacing up his shoes, you reach out, squeezing Vernon’s hand softly. He looks at you. 

“I’ll just walk him to his Uber.” The night had steadily grown colder, and in response, you threw on a cardigan.

“Okay.” Vernon squeezes back.

In front of him, Seokmin straightens, facing him before bowing a little. “Nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too.”

“Visit me in Korea.”

He offers Seokmin a half-smile. “Of course.” 

“I’ll be back,” you murmur. He and you exchange a glance.

Vernon nods. “Okay.” Your lips quirk up, and you release his hand, stepping back to reach for the knob. The hinges creak as you both step outside.

(For a moment, he’s terrified. Stay, he almost says.)

The door closes behind you softly. Vernon stands there, alone, staring at the door, allowing himself this moment of silence.

--

Seokmin’s Uber has a pickup point some ways away from your apartment. It’s just past one block before Seokmin stops, as per his phone’s instructions. You follow suit behind him.

“Will it be here soon?” You ask.

“Yeah. Two minutes.”

Neither of you speak after that. Silence stretches each second one hundred and twenty-times over, and he can do nothing but look at you, and have you look at him in return. He looks at this face, the one he’s only ever seen whenever time has already done more than a decade’s worth of work. He’s spent yesterday and today cataloguing your features; yet as he does it again, today, for the last time, he can’t help but be afraid he’ll forget the particulars of your face.

The Uber arrives, braking to a stop in front of you. Seokmin gathers you into a hug—a gentle one, like the many ones you’ve known before, the one he wished he gave you in that very first goodbye. You squeeze him back, tightly, face pressed against his shirt. It takes a while before he lets go, but when he does, you laugh softly at the wetness already glistening in his eyes, offering him a tissue you had kept from the bar in your pocket. He accepts it with a teary grin.

You watch as Seokmin loads his luggage into the trunk. He’s about to open the passenger door, when he turns. 

“Hey!”

Just like that, he’s twelve years old again. He’s twelve, and so are you. 

You raise an eyebrow, waiting.

“What if this is already a past life, and we’re already something to each other in the next one?” He exhales. “Who do you think we are to each other then?” 

Silence. You offer him a small smile. “I don’t know.”

He returns it, heart miraculously light. “I don’t either. But see you then.” Seokmin folds this memory quietly into his heart, willing to himself that one day, the thought of you will no longer ache as much. And that even as the ache will be gone, the love will remain.

Seokmin enters the car, closing the door firmly behind him.

--

The walk back to your apartment is agonizing.

After the tenth step, you’ve rolled your cardigan sleeves up, tracing patterns on your arms. A heart. A rocket. A crystal. Each step feels like one further from a life you never realized you were still holding on to. Despite your attempts, you begin to cry after the thirty-second step.

You reach the front gate of your apartment at the two hundredth and eighteenth step, finding Vernon sitting at the steps, lost in his own world yet already waiting for you. He looks up as you approach. He opens the gate with one hand, stepping down until he stands in front of you.

There are no words needed. You fall into his arms, dissolving into tears. Vernon embraces you, gentle in all the right ways, quiet as you sob and sob and sob. 

Behind both of you, it is almost the beginning of dawn.

[…] I enter, without retreat or help from history, the days of no day, my earth of no earth, I re-enter the city in which I love you. And I never believed that the multitude of dreams and many words were vain.

— the city in which i love you, li-young lee

[violettwrites]

dancer in the dark — daryl dixon

fem!reader x daryl dixon — france

WE’RE BAAAACK !!!

i’ve been rewatching the daryl dixon spinoff and i missed my daddy so here you go !! this is heavily based off the vibes of gibson girl by ethel cain so i highly reccomend listening while you read. enjoy !!

p.s i don’t usually write third person but i was kinda writing from daryl’s point of view so it just fit better 😭

the demimonde was a world of its own. the glow of dim red lights bathed the club in something intimate and sinister, like a place where secrets came to dance and never left. the air was thick with perfume and cigarette smoke, the kind of haze that softened edges and blurred reality, making everything feel just a little more unreal.

daryl dixon had seen his fair share of places like this before the world ended— seedy bars, dim-lit dives, places where people went to forget. but demimonde was different. it felt like another world entirely, like he was stepping through a door into something he wasn’t supposed to witness.

he didn’t belong here. he knew that much. his boots were too worn, his vest too rough, and his presence too heavy for a place where people pretended the world outside didn’t exist. but he didn’t care about fitting in. he was here for information— tracking a lead.

and then he saw her.

she moved like smoke curling from a lit cigarette— slow, deliberate, intoxicating. dark lashes framed eyes that held a spark of mischief, lips painted a shade that belonged to trouble. she was just a dancer. no. she owned the stage like she had carved it from the bones of this broken world herself.

daryl had never given much thought to performances like this, but he couldn’t look away. the way she swayed, the way her fingers traced the air like she was speaking something only the lucky ones could understand. it had his breath catching in his throat.

when the song ended, the spell she seemingly had him under didn’t break. she locked eyes with him as she stepped off the stage, as if she had known he was watching all along. the corner of her mouth curled up ever so slightly— not a full smile, just enough to tell him she knew exactly what kind of effect she had.

daryl swallowed hard, fingers flexing at his side nervously. he had seen a lot of beautiful things in his like, but this was different. she was different.

and for the first time in a long time, he wanted to get closer.

she moved through the club like she owned the place. people parted for her without realising they were doing it— drawn in by whatever force she seemed to carry with her. daryl watched, his fingers moving to tighten around the strap of his crossbow, his heartbeat a little too steady for how damn unsettled he felt.

now, he wasn’t the type to get shaken by a pretty face. he’d seen plenty in his time— before, after. but this? this was something else. something slow and dangerous, like the feeling you got right before a storm broke.

she finally reached him, leaning one hand against the edge of the table he was standing at, her nails tapping against the worn wood in a rhythm only she knew. up close, she smelled like smoke and something sweet, something expensive, something that didn’t belong in a world this broken.

“you don’t look like you belong here.” her voice was smooth, low, teasing. she was american. he could tell by her accent, and the way she held herself, like she had seen something of the old world before it burned. it made him wornder how the hell she ended up here, in france, in this den of ghosts and whispers.

daryl raised a brow, his lips quirking just slightly. “neither do you.”

that made her grin, slow and knowing. “maybe,” she shrugged her shoulders, “but i make it work.”

she comfortably leaned on the table, like she had all the time in the world. the red light caught on the curve of her collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat from the stage still clinging to her skin.

“what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this? an american, too,” she asked, tilting her head.

daryl exhaled through his nose, leaning back. “lookin’ for someone.”

her grin widened, almost sinister. “hope it’s not me. that’d make things too easy.”

that made him smirk— just a little. he took her in, the way she held herself, the way she seemed to be measuring him just as much as he was her. he wasn’t sure what he had expected when she sauntered over, but he was definitely not expecting this.

“got a name?” he asked, his voice gruff.

she leaned in, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin. “depends on who’s askin’.”

daryl held her gaze, steady, unwavering. “daryl.”

she let his name settle between them, rolling it over like she was trying to decide if it suited him. then, finally, she spoke.

“nice to meet you, daryl.” she leaned back again, that same teasing smirk playing on her lips. “you can call me whatever you want.”

daryl huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “that right?”

she shrugged, eyes gleaming in the low light. “sure. long as you say it nice.”

something about her— hell, this whole place —felt like walking a tightrope over a pit he couldn’t see the bottom of. but hell if he didn’t want to take another step forward. he wasn’t sure what it was; her confidence, her sharp tongue, or the way she looked at him like she already had him figured out.

“think i’ll stick with the truth,” he said, his voice low, steady. “what’s your real name?”

she considered him for a moment, tapping her nails against the tabletop again. it was a lazy rhythm, but he got the feeling she was testing him, seeing if he was the kind of man worth answering.

then, finally— “(y/n).”

he nodded, letting her name roll of his tongue. “(y/n).”

she liked the way he said it. he could tell by the way her lips twitched, just a little.

“so,” she hummed, leaning her chin in her hand. “who’re you really looking for, daryl?”

he glanced around the club, scanning the dark corners, the clothes of people drinking and talking in low voices. “a man named quinn.”

her expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes sharpened. “can’t imagine why someone like you would be looking for someone like him.”

daryl lifted a shoulder. “got somethin’ i need.”

she studied him for a beat, like she was weighing something in her mind. then, slowly, she leaned in again, close enough that he could see the smudge of her lipstick.

“quinn doesn’t deal with just anyone,” she murmured. “but me? i might be able to help.”

daryl didn’t move, didn’t let himself react too much. “that right?”

she smiled, slow and dangerous. “that’s right.”

a slow song started up, something haunting and sensual. (y/n) stood up straight, stepping back, tilting her head toward the dance slow. “c’mon,” she said. “dance with me.”

daryl scoffed, shaking his head. “ain’t much of a dancer.”

she grinned. “didn’t ask if you were good at it.”

he exhaled through his nose, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. every damn instinct told him to stay seated, to keep his guard up. but there was something about her, something that made him want to throw caution to the wind— just for a minute.

so, against all better judgement, daryl dixon followed her out onto the dance floor.

the moment daryl stepped onto the dance floor, he knew he was in over his head. the red light above cast everything in a slow, fever-dream haze, and the music— low and sultry —seemed to vibrate through the floor beneath his boots.

(y/n) turned to face him, tilting her head, a lazy grin tugging at her lips. she didn’t reach for him immediately. instead, she let the moment stretch, like she was giving him a chance to walk away.

he didn’t.

“relax, daryl,” she murmured, stepping closer. her hands found his shoulders, fingers light but sure, sliding down his arms before guiding his hands to her waist. he tensed— only for a second —before exhaling through his nose, letting himself follow her lead.

“see? not so bad.”

he huffed at her, shaking his head. “ain’t exactly waltzin’ here.”

she laughed, low and sweet, the sound curling around him like a slow burning fuse. she swayed, guiding him into the rhythm of the music, her body moving in time with his. daryl was stiff at first, unused to this kind of closeness, this kind of softness. but (y/n)? she moved like she belonged in moments like this, like she’d done it a thousand times before.

“you’re holding on like you think i’ll disappear,” she teased, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “you nervous, cowboy?”

daryl scoffed at her. “ain’t my first time dancin’.”

that made her smirk. “no? could’ve fooled me.”

he rolled his eyes, but she caught the way his fingers tightened slightly at her waist. it was subtle, but it was there— that shift, that moment when he let himself sink into the moment.

“you always drag strangers onto the dance floor?” he asked, voice low.

she hummed, pretending to think about it. “only the ones i like.”

daryl didn’t say anything, just held her gaze. steady and unreadable. but there was something in his eyes— something dark and curious, something hungry but restrained.

the song dragged on, slow and hazy, stretching time into something almost unreal. (y/n) pressed a little closer, her lips near his ear now, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath.

“quinn won’t trust you,” she murmured. “not right away.”

daryl stiffened slightly at her words. “that supposed to mean somethin’?”

she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “means you’re gonna need me.”

daryl searched her face, trying to figure out what game she was playing. but it this was a game, she placed it well. too damn well.

before he could answer, the song ended, and (y/n) stepped back, her hands slipping from his shoulders like a whisper.

“meet me after my next set,” she said, flashing him one last slow, knowing grin. “i’ll see what i can do.”

then, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd like smoke, leaving daryl standing there, his hands still tingling from where he had held her.

yeah. he was in deep now.

[practicalgauntlet]

Alexithymia

(n.) Inability to describe emotions verbally

PART ONE

Synopsis- You and Spencer share music on the jet after a grueling case.

Category- Fluff

Notes- fluff, no smut, confessions without words, Mutual pining, tension, very little dialogue, short one-shot, canon typical violence, mentions of death and murder, takes place between season one and season six but nothing about the show is mentioned just an overall vibe for Spencer, the reader has Maladaptive Daydreaming Syndrome, softcore flirting, I don't believe in Dom!Spencer so don't expect it, a vague description of the music you listen to because I refuse to describe the reader in any way.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The case had been grueling. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, a mother had killed her children, or that's what the unsub wanted you to think. Hotch was the first to deduce that Sherl McCain was as much a victim as her three beautiful babies.

They were brutalized, beaten, and bloodied beyond recognition those children. It broke your heart to see them like that, their faces permanently screwed in terror as they reached out for their mother.

Throughout the week-long case, where you and the team chased lead after lead only to end up at a dead end, a pit of dread hung heavy at the bottom of your stomach. Your heart was breaking for that family, and the two others that died before you could catch him.

Even with the sick bastard forever behind bars, you couldn't shake the absolute anguish that had etched itself into your bones.

You and the team loaded into the jet, exhausted and ready to get back home. Morgan was fast asleep in his chair, Emily and J.J. sat at the back talking amongst themselves, and Hotch and Rossi were going over the case at the front.

You were thankful no one wanted to talk to you at that moment, desperate for some sort of escape, even if it was short-lived. So you dug through your bag for your MP3 player and headphones. With years of songs downloaded, all you had to do was hit shuffle and you already felt better.

The plane ride was supposed to be long, so you got comfortable, leaned your head back, and let your music take you to another place. A place where a mother and her children weren't murdered in cold blood because some psychotic fucker thought it was thrilling.

Not three minutes in, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turn your head and see Spencer looking at you curiously. It took effort not to roll your eyes when your daydreams were interrupted, but Spencer's soft voice made it all worthwhile.

"What kind of music are you listening to?"

Before you answer him, you pause your music, giving him your full, undivided attention. You notice, that if it were someone else, you would have pretended to be asleep just so you wouldn't have to stop listening to your song. "Nothing you'd like, Boy Wonder."

He sat down next to you and then motioned to an earbud. "Let me be the judge of that."

You shrug, knowing that the music you were about to play was a far cry from the songs Spencer listens to. But you couldn't lie to yourself, the idea of sharing earbuds with him had butterflies flapping around in your stomach. So, instead of telling him no -which you find yourself unable to anyway- you offer him your left earbud and press play.

The song's thrumming beat continued, and you were right back in your daydream. You felt yourself drift away, your body and mind floating towards a world different from yours. Just as you were dozing off, lulled to relaxation and comfort within your own mind, you felt Spencer lean over. His breath was hot against your ear, and the ghost of his lips made a shiver crawl down your spine.

"I've always wondered what put you in a trance, you have good music taste."

You turn your head slightly, his face so close to yours, that you could reply without the music drowning out your voice. "I didn't take you for the type."

He simply hummed and turned his head away from yours, his eyes closing as the bridge of the song ended and the beat picked back up. Minutes pass by and you feel yourself drifting off again, your gaze locked on some minute detail of the seat in front of you but you never really register anything that crosses into your vision. Spencer's shoulder was suddenly pressed to yours, his thigh closer than before, warming you like you were placed in front of a crackling fire. Not just because he was a walking space heater, but because you feel your blood pressure spike, your cheeks and neck warming with a blush you knew was on full display.

You didn't know when he scooted closer, you only knew when he was so close you could time his breaths. Taking a sweeping look around the cabin you make sure none of the other members were looking at you with that knowing, mischievous smirk they always wore when they saw you and Spencer together. Maybe they knew of your blatant and undeniable crush on him. Deep down you hoped you weren't so obvious but in a room of profilers, no secret remained hidden.

Quietly, you hear Spencer humming along with the song, the timbre of his voice relaxing you back into that trance you so often put yourself into.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A bout of turbulence woke you up from a sleep you don't remember falling into. The lights in the cabin were off save for the small overhead light Hotch always kept on. That small glow allowed you to see that everyone was asleep.

It took you longer than you liked to admit that the comforting, heavy warmth clinging to your left side was not a figment of your imagination. Sometime during your sleep, you had curled yourself around Spencer's side, laying your head on his shoulder and entangling his arm with yours.

You stiffen with embarrassment, ready to swiftly untangle yourself from him with a groveling apology for taking away his sacred personal space. But when you look up at him, you notice that he too is asleep.

Selfishly, you took this time to admire him. His sharp jaw, the way his lips slightly parted with each exhale, the column of his throat. All the things you greedily gobbled up in short, quick glances were now on full display for your glutinous gaze. He was so pretty, carved straight from your dreams; mind, body, and soul.

You didn't dare reach up and tuck that stray strand of hair behind his ear, didn't dare move to trace his lips with the pad of your fingers. You refused to risk the possibility of waking him up and having to awkwardly explain why you were ogling him like a love-sick puppy.

Your efforts were in vain as the jet shuddered and rocked some more, startling Spencer away with a snort. He looked around, rubbing the bleariness out of his eyes with his free hand. Before he could look at you, you quickly close your eyes and pretend you were still asleep. Maybe if he thought you were asleep, he'd let you cling to him for just a while longer.

Instead of shoving you away or even waking you up, you heard his soft chuckle. It took so much effort to not open your eyes and search for the object of his amusement, but you remained strong, using your training to keep your face neutral. He didn't say anything for a long time and you thought he had fallen back asleep, but when his hand slipped across your cheek, you just about jolted upright and ruined everything.

He kept his palm there for a few seconds, just cradling your face where it rested on his shoulder. Spencer moved his thumb in small circles, tracing the curve of your cheek before moving lower to swipe across your lower lip.

Your heart was racing, beating erratically against your ribcage like it was demanding a way out. A few times you almost break the ruse, desperate to see what the hell his face looked like as he touched you so gently, but you had a feeling that if you opened your eyes now, he'd scramble away from you and hide. So you kept still, reveling in the fondness of which he touched you.

Spencer pulled your bottom lip down for a second and you felt a puff of air spread across your face. Softly, so quiet you almost couldn't hear it over the soft music now playing and the roar of the plane engine, you heard him groan. But before you could do anything with that information, his hand slipped into your hair and he pulled your earbud out.

Without the music, you could hear his movements more clearly. Rustling fabric, a zipper, and then more rustling fabric. Not to mention it felt like he was trying to wiggle away from you but keep you glued to him all at the same time. Then, with a gust of stale cabin air, you were tucked further into him and something warm was placed over your shoulders.

It hit you then when the unmistakable smell of Spencer enveloped you, that he had used his suit jacket as a makeshift blanket. As he settled into the seat, you felt him lie his cheek atop your head and intertwine your fingers with his.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You were jostled awake again by a gentle shake of your shoulder. At first, you didn't know where you were, your sleep so deep and relaxing that you forgot everything you had witnessed both on the case and in the darkness of the plane's cabin.

"Hey, we're back at Quantico." Spencer's voice was low and gravely like he too had just been rudely awoken.

You were still wrapped up in him, still clinging to his arm and tucked under his chin. The reality of the situation hadn't hit yet, your brain was still addled with sleep as you nuzzled deeper into his warmth. "Hmm?"

"Come on, sleepy head, let's get you home."

You shoot up, now aware of your predicament and how embarrassing you must look. Refusing to meet his eye, you gently extract yourself from his side and stand up on wobbly legs. "Oh, my god. I'm so sorry Spence..."

Spencer stood too, stretching his arms high above his head, and chuckled. "It's no big deal, really. I-" He paused, straightening his shirt and ducking his head down to meet your downcast eyes. "I quite enjoyed it."

This had you looking up at him, the memory of the previous night flooding your mind and you felt yourself glow from how bright and hot your blush ran. "I, um..." You didn't know what to say, pinned by his intense gaze and bright smile.

Instead of saying anything else, he takes your bag off the floor, shoulders it, and grabs your hand. He leads you out of the plan, through the building, and to the street before hailing a cab. It wasn't until you were watching him stand there, a look of longing spreading across his face as his eyes trailed after the departing cab, that you realized you were still wearing his coat.

[mrsholmesreid]

ONE MORE CHRISTMAS, PLEASE | spencer reid x reader

summary: after your passing, spencer spends years suffering with the grief of your loss. on this christmas eve, though, something different happens. under a shooting star, he makes a wish he never imagined, not even in his wildest dreams, would come true. but it does, and he gets to have you for one more day before you're gone for good once again.

pairing: spencer reid x reader

word count: 10,2k

content warnings: angst, battling grief, mentions of drug abuse and withdrawal, brief mention of needles, brief mention of hurling, mention of failed su!cide attempt, unprotected penetrative sex.

author's note: despite the content warnings, i don't think this is a very heavy fic. it's mostly about grief and deep emotions, meant to stir longing within you and the pain of missing someone you love, but who isn't around anymore. this is my first ever published one shot, i hope you enjoy it! i write character.ai bots and this was based on a bot i wrote inspired by the song "another christmas missing you" by tors, and the fic was also inspired by "lover, you should've come over" by jeff buckley. here's the link to the bot:

check the ending to see some amazing fanart my friend cami (@/camiwhatuwant on twitter) drew for this story!!

playlist <3

i also made a playlist to go with this fic! 🥳

you can play it in order while you read, but if you don't like listening to music while reading, i suggest at least listening to the first song before starting to get in the mood or just listening to it whenever you need a good cry :)

The holidays were always the hardest. Spencer spent most of the year pushing through—lectures, cases, flights—losing himself in the quiet hum of his routines, but December always found the cracks in his armor. It was your season. Not his, or anybody else’s. Nothing ever bloomed as beautifully as you did during the holidays. It was like your soul had a special link to it, a connection way beyond this realm. There was something in the twinkling lights, the sound of carols, the scent of pine needles and cinnamon—that simply screamed you. Each one would later become a quiet reminiscence of your light, souvenirs from a long-lost love lingering like ghosts he couldn’t let go of.

You loved Christmas. Spencer used to think it was impossible for someone to be so full of joy over something so small. To him, this holiday never carried much meaning. His mom usually forgot to get him presents, and the colorful Christmas lights rarely ever lit his childhood living room. The warmth of this special shimmer—far from the literal aspect—was unknown to him. So, up until he met you, December was nothing but another month, piling up with all the others he had to drag himself through.

But you had a way of turning the mundane otherworldly. He could still picture the way your eyes lit up when the first snowflakes of the season fell, or the childlike glee in your voice as you took him to tree farms and Christmas markets. Your demeanor became so joyful, that he couldn’t help but think you looked even prettier under the blinking lights from the Christmas tree you decorated together. Like tattoos etched in his brain, each time he laid to rest, you were there—eyes boring into his own behind closed eyelids. Or so he wished.

You’d tease him for grumbling about the crowds and the too-cold-to-be-outside weather, but he always let you pull him along, secretly charmed by your enthusiasm. It didn’t matter what it was, if it was worth a smile on your face, Spencer would do it—no questions asked.

“Come on, Spence,” you laughed, tugging on his gloved hand. “Take a moment to feel it. Cherish this sensation, it’ll be over before you know it.” You stopped him in the middle of the park one afternoon, as you strolled through a thin cascade of delicate snowflakes. “You go on and on about your so-called ‘magic’ tricks, but you forget that the real magic lies here.” You took off his glove, the brisk air sharp against his skin, and placed his bare hand over your chest. The soothing rhythm of your beating heart—oh, how he missed that melody now,—thumped against his palm through the thick layers of fabric between you.

In that moment, your wide eyes glued to his, he felt it for the first time: the magic you were so zealous about, right beneath his fingertips. Your cold, pale hand suddenly felt warm against his own, and for a second, he believed you. Not because of the snow, or the whimsy, or the chirping of birds that he, only now—in the quiet of your bubble,—seemed to be aware of—no. It was because of you. You and the love he grew up believing didn’t exist outside of fairytales—and now, outside of you.

When you were looking at him like that, your cheeks flushed from the cold, your smile brighter than the lights strung overhead; there was not a single thing in the world he couldn’t do for you. Not a single word you could say that would change the heat creeping up in his chest.

I love you whispered in his veins, I love you with every beat of his heart, I love you strung all of the muscles contracting with his breathing. In and out, in and out, a never-ending cycle that once was his personal prison—but you showed him there was freedom within the litany. A lifetime of exhale after inhale—all this air he breathed, and yet there’d never be enough of your essence for him to capture. The very sound of his blood ran with a touch of you.

You were light, and life, and warmth; and Spencer had the blessing—a word he didn’t use very often, but your love was nothing short of divine—to have been yours.

Have been. Ouch. Past tense, that stings.

But then again, you were gone now.

Not even the holiest of prayers would bring you back to him, no matter how bright with deity was your soul. At the end of the day, your body was meat like all others. Being made of crushed little stars didn’t keep you from the harsh reality.

Mother Earth spares no one.

Every atom bathed in the sinful sanctity of your mist, like all others, must return to the ground, and the sky, and the very core of life itself—and you, of all people, could never be the one to cause imbalance to this perfect equilibrium. What pains the most is that the only path to such magnificent eternity is through death, and god help Spencer, but he couldn't keep you from it—no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he prayed.

It’s a selfish thought, he’s well aware of that. What could he, a being just as mortal as you, want from the beauty that is your body? And no, all of the lust-filled images he could fathom from that very sentence couldn’t be further from what he meant this time. This time.

The beauty in reference here goes way beyond what hungry eyes can see and eager hands can touch. It is heavenly, a beauty not to be seen, but felt with the heart. And that—well, that, wasn’t his to keep. However much he craved it. He’s always been a little greedy anyway.

Grief brought with it a flood of well-meaning platitudes, each one more infuriating than the last. Spencer had once heard someone say, “Good things perish so better things can flourish." What a cruel lie. Nothing could ever be better than you.

He had always prided himself on his ability to handle death. The sight of rotting bodies, though unsettling at first, became just another part of the job. Over time, he’d grown adept at compartmentalizing, studying the end of life with a detached curiosity that most couldn’t muster. Death was a process, a scientific inevitability, and he knew far more about it than he wished.

But now, that knowledge was a curse. The thought of microorganisms gnawing at your skin beneath a flower bed made him physically ill. The clinical detachment he’d once relied on had abandoned him, leaving only the unbearable truth: you were gone, and the earth was consuming what was left of you.

No one dies pretty.

Your turn seemed to be unfairly tragic, though. A stake to the gut so he could watch as all the light, life, and warmth that you carried and he worshipped, drained away, leaving your body limp—an empty shell of what once was the love of his life. No amount of scrubbing until his hands were raw to the bone would wash away the stain of your dry blood off of his skin. No time in prison, no death sentence, was enough to punish the man that did this to you, right before Spencer’s eyes. There weren’t enough new memories in a lifetime to erase the sight of your eyes blurring with eternal sleep.

Perhaps his opinion on this was a little biased, but how could it not be? The only times in his three decades of living he ever felt unapologetically loved, were when you were around. And now this? Can you blame him for wanting to do anything and everything it takes to have you back?

Well, actually, you can.

In the years you spent together, you pulled Spencer from the bottom of more pits than you could count. Through each high and each low, you held his hand and helped him past it. That’s why it hurt him even more when the familiar sting of a needle found its way back to his arm. It had been years since the last time he used it—but desperate times called for desperate measures. Right?

Wrong.

He only went through a couple of bottles before the shame overpowered the numbness and taking Dilaudid became no longer worth the knowledge that he was disappointing you, wherever you were. Withdrawal wasn’t half as bad as the first time, because now, he knew a pain far worse. He spent those weeks kneeling in his bathroom, switching from unconscious to barely there—the quick flashes of awareness used exclusively to beg for forgiveness and the occasional hurl.

He felt ashamed beyond redemption.

There was one night—right in the beginning—when the pain was so bad, he tried to join you. The fraction of his world left without you seemed no longer worth living in. He could swear that after the seventh pill, he almost felt the warmth of your arms around him, the color of your eyes in the back of his mind. Thankfully, his body knew better than to let him make the worst mistake he'd ever make, and he managed to reach his phone and call Hotch on speed dial. He didn’t remember much from that evening, but at the same time, it was impossible to forget about it—especially since no one on the team ever looked at him the same afterward.

It had been years now—years of learning to live with the you-shaped hole left behind in his life. Grief played its tricks, but for the most part, things were better. Over time, he managed not to cry himself to sleep every night. He managed to finally put your things in boxes in the basement—he wanted to keep them just the way you left them, but in one of JJ’s visits, she convinced him it was better to let go—and through the year, life went relatively smoothly. But December really was something else.

Spencer tried to honor you in little ways: putting up the tree, unboxing the ornaments you loved, whispering “Merry Christmas” to the silence. He told himself it was enough. It had to be. But his cup had been half empty for longer than he could remember, and that wasn’t about to change.

This year, though, the emptiness felt heavier. The tree stood half-decorated in the corner of the living room, its lights twinkling faintly—even they seemed sadder without you. It was Christmas Eve, and Spencer sat alone by the window, staring out at the dark winter sky. Snow fell softly, blanketing the world in quiet. His hands trembled as he held a mug of cocoa, untouched and lukewarm, the tiny marshmallows you always loved now drowning in the liquid. The sight made a tear stream down his face, but it wasn't enough to make him want to drink it. He settled the mug down to wipe the tears off of his eyes with quivering fingers. All seemed hopeless, the weight of knowing he was about to add another Christmas without you to his growing collection was heavy in his chest—until something lighting up the dark blue sky caught his attention.

Spencer was never one for superstition, but when he saw that shooting star streaking across the night, he broke. His voice cracked as he whispered, “Just one more Christmas. One day, please.”

It was all he could wish for at that moment. As selfish as it sounded to wish for you to spend one last Christmas with him, to take you from the peace of heaven—which he prayed every night to exist, despite not being religious, just for the hope of you being there—he couldn't help himself. 

It wasn't like it mattered either way, it was just a shooting star. A pretty name for a meteor, a piece of space dust flying inside Earth's atmosphere and creating a tail of fire as it burned. It was beautiful in its own, realistic, way; but as Spencer got back inside to call it a night, his heart clenched at the idea of never getting to see you again.

When he woke up the next morning, the world felt different. Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, bathing his bedroom in an unusual warmth for such a cold day. Then he saw a small snow globe you had gotten him as a gift on one of your trips, sitting next to a picture of the both of you on his nightstand. He had found it a couple of days ago when going through the ornaments and decided to put it there to decorate the bedroom. Then it hit him—

It was Christmas. He was barely thinking about that detail at that moment, but as soon as it settled in, his heart ached. Another Christmas missing you.

He had learned not to stay in bed mourning over the years of grief, so he pushed the bad thoughts away, mentally encouraging himself to find things to occupy his mind with for the day—which was bound to be long.

Then he turned—and his heart stopped.

You were there.

Lying beside him, wrapped in the sheets, your chest rose and fell with slow, peaceful breaths. Your hair spilled across the pillow, and Spencer forgot how to breathe. He stared at you for long moments, studying your blissful expression and how the air flowed in and out of your nostrils.

Impossible.

He was completely frozen in place. He had to be hallucinating, right? You were dead, buried six feet under. He saw the life leaving your eyes, for god's sake, he was replaying the memory in his mind right then and there. But still… you were there now, next to him. Unmistakable, as beautiful as ever.

Still in utter shock, he tried to speak, but his voice failed as he reached out with trembling hands, afraid to touch you—afraid you’d disappear beneath his fingertips.

You stirred, your face scrunching before a sleepy smile tugged at your lips. “Morning, Spence.”

The sound hit him like a punch.

“Pinch me.” He whispered.

“What?” You mumbled sleepily, rubbing your eyes.

“I said pinch me. Now, please.” His tone was serious, making you cave and reach forward.

Your fingers hesitantly curled tightly around the skin of his arm, eyebrows furrowed in confusion—but before you could process it, you were in his arms, listening to his sobs.

Tears slid down his face, soaking your hair as he held you in a warm embrace, clutching you like you might vanish. “You’re here,” he whispered, his voice breaking and his shoulders shaking. “You’re here.”

“I know,” you murmured softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Merry Christmas.”

He let out a soft chuckle, sniffing as he struggled to stop crying. “Merry Christmas.”

“Why are you crying, baby?” You pulled back just enough to look at his face, concern etched on your features. You wiped his tears away with your thumbs and he let out another chuckle that did nothing to quell your confusion.

Why was he crying? You were back. He could feel you in his arms, your scent in his nostrils, your lips on his skin. Somehow, miraculously, you were back. A myriad of thoughts ran through his brain. Had he died too? Was your death just a bad dream? It didn't make any sense, but at that moment, technicalities were his last concern. His dream had come true.

“I'm crying because you're here,” he muttered as if it were obvious.

Your eyebrows furrowed further and he could read the confusion in your eyes as they searched his face.

Then it hit him: the shooting star.

It all started clicking in his mind, and before he could say anything, you broke the thick silence.

“What's going on?” you sounded concerned.

“You don't know, do you?” His voice was steady, but the tone betrayed the pain he felt.

“Know what?” you asked innocently.

His heart clenched at your naivety. He didn't want to tell you, yet he couldn't keep it from you either. Something about this was very wrong, but he didn't know on which end yet—yours or his.

With a swift motion, he stood from the bed and ran to the closet, making you gasp.

“Spencer, what's going on?” you sat up on the bed, but then he opened its doors. “Where are my things?” you asked at the sight of your side of the closet completely empty.

He turned to you, shoulders slumped.

“Something's going on,” he began, as if he had barely processed your question, going back to bed with his heart aching now that he knew it wasn't just a bad dream. You really were gone.

“Yeah, I can tell,” you added. “Care to explain?”

He inhaled deeply, bracing himself for what was about to come.

“I will… but I'm not sure either. Firstly, what do you remember?”

“’What do I remember?’ I don't know, Spencer!” You let out, your patience wearing thin.

“I mean, what's your last memory? The last thing that happened before you woke up now?” He held your hands, calming you down, but the worry in his eyes made you uneasy. As you tried to recall what happened the night before, your brain struggled to find the answer.

“I… I don't know…” you let out, searching your mind for something, anything, but didn't find it. “It's like… It's there somewhere, but I can't place it.”

He took another deep breath, squeezing your hands gently. He never thought he'd have to do this, actually sit down and explain everything to you. From the day of your death until the shooting star the night before, he tried to cover everything that happened, fighting against the knot in his chest as he relived each and every painful memory with your eyes staring into his.

Your face was unreadable. A mix of confusion and comprehension, pain and anger; flashed across your features. He couldn't pinpoint whether you believed him or not, and as the seconds after the last of his explanations ticked by, his heart stammered against his ribs.

“Are you okay?” he tried.

“Okay is a strong word. I'm… processing.” You muttered, avoiding his gaze, your hands cold against his.

“Do you believe me?” he whispered hesitantly.

“Yes,” you replied after a beat. “Yes, I do.” 

He nodded, patiently waiting for when you were ready to talk about it.

“So we only have today? Then what?” your eyes finally met his.

“I don't know, I think so,” he replied, his gaze reassuring. “Listen, I didn't think it was actually gonna happen when I wished for that last night, or else—”

“Don't,” you interrupted him, reaching out for his arm, the touch making his skin shiver. “I'm glad you did.” A faint smile played on your lips.

You shared a long gaze, probably the deepest, most meaningful you ever had, and his eyes watered once more. The mere sight made you cry as well, and the unmistakable redness on your nose as the tears spilled from your eyes only made him cry harder. In the ocean the two of you filled together, there was pain, longing and somehow gratitude. Love. No matter the circumstance, you were together. That's all that truly mattered.

He chuckled softly as the two of you sat there, crying and holding hands, laughing softly at the absurdity of that moment.

“I love you,” he muttered between tears.

“I love you,” you replied in an instant, your voice cracking.

With one swift, messy motion, both of his hands reached for your face, cradling it carefully as he crashed his lips against yours. The saltiness of your tears mingled with each of your kisses, sloppy and filled with a bitter kind of yearning. 

“No more tears,” you murmured against his lips as he rested his forehead against yours. “You have to promise me, no more tears.”

“Can't promise that,” he let out a humorless chuckle.

“No, but you can,” you insisted. “If we only have today, you must promise me. No. More. Tears. It goes both ways.” You gestured between the two of you.

After a couple of thoughtful moments, he took a deep breath and replied, “Deal. No more tears.”

Then his lips were on yours again, but this time, with a renewed sense of hunger.

It was as if that promise tied the darkness between you in a safe, securely tucked away from the present moment, where you finally had the liberty to lose yourselves in each other.

He pushed you back gently against the bed, his body hovering above yours as your lips moved together in perfect sync. Your tongues intertwined in a sensual dance, loving and enticing. He took your bottom lip between both of his own, sucking gently. The soothing motion made a soft gasp escape his lips, eliciting a smile from you.

Your hands explored and caressed his back with a reverent curiosity, and under your fingers, he felt safe. His skin shivered beneath your careful touch, and craved more of it. Suddenly, his clothes felt wrong, almost sinful to be blocking his skin from the wonders of your own.

“Need you now,” he muttered against you, his lips attached to the sensitive skin of your neck.

No further words were needed. His hands were under your shirt in no time, pulling and tugging at the fabric desperately. You didn't waste any time either, your fingers working expertly as you tossed his own across the room.

You were both more than used to it, the movements to this heated choreography memorized like second nature by now. And yet, it never felt so unknown.

As your bare bodies tangled beneath the soft sheets, the cold outside was long forgotten. The warmth of your skin seeped through Spencer's, only adding fire to his growing desire. His lips trailed messily across your neck and collarbone, occasionally drifting back to the safety of your mouth, making him uncomfortably aware of just how badly he missed this.

The taste of your skin on his tongue, the perfect hills and valleys his hands and lips traced along your curves—a landscape he'd never grow tired of. The scent of your hair, the soft gasps his ministrations begged to elicit from you, and the sweetness of his name spilling from your throat. 

When your ankles crossed behind his back, he knew he was done. A low moan left his lips as he ground down against you, your hips moving in practiced synchrony, following each step of your choreography perfectly.

His eyes met yours, and in a second of shared understanding, he knew you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

The moment your bodies connected in the most intimate way possible, he was home. There was truly no other way to describe the sanctity of your warmth, the safety of your grip, other than home. A home he wished for so long to return to, finally back around him. 

“Goddamnit, I missed this,” he let out almost involuntarily.

A soft gasp escaped your lips, one that made his entire body shiver. With slow, unhurried thrusts, he began moving within you. He could feel your body reacting to every movement of his, your eyes glued to each other's. It was like your souls became one in your little bubble of love.

Your nails dug into his back, little red half-moons left behind as a trail of your longing. The slight sting of pain only urged him on, his movements growing deeper and faster.

Your moans filled the room, a beautiful choir singing with his low groans and harmonized by the soft sounds of your coupling. Your breaths mingled in the small space between your faces, bare chests pressed together snuggly as you let yourselves be overtaken by the maddening friction between you. His face buried in the crook of your neck, and as he made love to you, all that crossed his mind was how lucky he was for having you. Right then and there, he couldn't find enough strength to care about the technicalities of this. He was home, for heaven’s sake. After years of not truly belonging anywhere. And he'd be damned if he didn't enjoy it to bits.

He could feel the familiar warmth coiling in his lower stomach, the pressure enough to fasten his pace—which didn't go unnoticed by you. He felt your legs tighten around him, your breaths growing faster and more shallow.

He knew you were close too. It was evident in your touch, written in the shimmer of your eyes.

“I can't get enough of you,” he admitted, small beads of sweat pooling on his forehead as he drove into you, each thrust deep and meaningful.

“You’re so cheesy,” you teased with a breathless chuckle.

“But I'm serious,” his eyes met yours, and even through the thick haze of desire, you saw the rawness in his statement. “I can't get enough of you. I take, and I take, but it's never enough. I need more of you, I need all of you.”

“You already have all of me,”

No, I don't.

The three words threatened to escape his lips, but he caught them before it was too late. The obvious silence that followed made it clear that you could hear even his unspoken words, read them through his eyes. For a moment, he could tell you had realized your slip-up, but he didn't care to point it out. The rhythm of his hips faltered for a second, but he quickly picked it up again, averting his gaze from yours as he struggled not to cry.

“Hey,” you whispered, making him look back at you with reddened eyes. “No more tears.”

The echoed promise was like an anchor, pulling him back to the present moment and making him focus on the heat in his core. No more tears. 

He leaned in and captured your lips again, swallowing the heaviness that had formed between you until the only thing left was love. His hands squeezed your hips tightly, the kneading of soft skin an anchor to the present, grounding him back to you—and in that moment, he knew: that was what he was put on earth to do. To love you.

Your tongues battled for dominance as your hips moved together desperately. He angled his thrusts, determined to hit that special spot inside you every time, needing to make you see stars. You moaned his name, and it went straight to his crotch. He groaned against the shell of your ear, his movements becoming harder and more needy. He was close. Agonizingly close. His eyes sought yours and found his desire mirrored in them, your lips slightly parted as you struggled to hold back.

Bring me home, whispered with each slap of your skin, pull me closer, his body begged with every in-and-out movement. He didn't want to leave, not just yet, but the pressure in his lower abdomen was overwhelming. Knots tied together pleaded to be undone, and he couldn't help but want to give in. His hand reached between your bodies to rub tight circles around your most sensitive spot, set on bringing you with him. Your soft moans became louder, the sounds like music to his ears for now he knew he had you with him.

Your legs trembled slightly around his waist, letting him know exactly what he had to do. With the last of his strength, he continued driving deep into you, his thrusts growing faster by the second and bringing both of you impossibly closer to the edge. His rhythm was clear and purposeful, back and forth then back again until he felt you unravel in his arms. Flowers blossomed in your core as you came undone, the soft brushing of the petals against his skin enough to tear him apart. He found shelter deep inside you, burying himself as close as humanly possible as he met the peak of bliss within your heat.

Home. He was home.

His chest crashed down on top of yours, your bodies tangled and limp against the mattress. You struggled to catch your breaths, minds still hazy with ecstasy.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” you muttered back, and it was like the world wouldn’t be complete without those three words coming from your lips. He’d waited years for that sound—years of whispering it to the silence and falling apart with the void left without the echo of your voice after his. But now you were there, saying it to him, and that’s all he could think about.

Soon after, you were padding down the hallway toward the kitchen in one of his shirts. He followed right behind you, watching every step you took.

“You kept the pictures,” you mentioned, pointing at the frames in the hallway, all filled with pictures of the both of you.

“JJ helped me take them down once, but I put them back up,” he explained quietly.

“It's not fair to you,” you added.

“That's what she said.” His voice was steady as if trying to end the subject. He already knew what you were going to say. That he deserved to move on and be happy, find somebody else and leave you in the past. He didn't want to hear that now—or ever if he was being honest. 

“I want you to be happy without me,” you insisted.

He let out a soft scoff, “I know you do.”

“Well, are you?” 

The words hung heavy in the air between you. You turned back to look into his eyes, but he was quiet. He didn't need to say anything, you already knew the answer. He could see it in your eyes, though, the whirlwind of words you wanted to say but didn't. You knew they were useless.

“I'm sorry,” you broke the silence.

“It's not your fault.”

“I know,” you replied in a heartbeat. “But I'm still sorry. And I wish I could change things.”

He took a deep breath, pondering what to say, but nothing felt right. “No more tears, right?”

“Right,” you nodded, averting your gaze and trying to ease the atmosphere.”No more tears.”

He followed behind as you continued your way to the kitchen, separated by a counter from the living room. Everything looked the same as you remembered—the plates were still organized on the corner shelf the way Spencer always insisted on doing, and the cups were carefully aligned on the cupboard. One thing was out of place, though. There was a mug on the table near the window, something he never left behind.

“What's this?” you asked, curiously stepping closer and taking it in your hand.

“Oh, that's just, uhm—”

“Hot chocolate,” you interrupted. “You don't drink hot chocolate. Or marshmallows.” You said, stirring the now cold liquid and mushy little white marshmallows, soaked and melting from being left there, untouched for too long.

“Yeah, but you do,” he said. “I made your recipe last night since I never admitted to trying it.”

“But you didn't drink it?” You asked.

He was quiet for a moment before replying. “Didn't feel like it,” he simply shrugged.

You stared at him then turned to the sink to pour it down the drain.

“What are you doing?” He asked, confused.

“I'm making you the real thing. You clearly added too much cocoa powder, that was undrinkable.” You replied with a plainness that made a shy smile appear on his lips.

“Yeah… too much cocoa,” he sighed, admiring the way you walked around the kitchen gathering items to make him the beverage.

“What are you doing just standing there? Go grab the cinnamon,” you said, already mixing up ingredients.

“Right, of course,” he straightened up with a smile, quickly obeying and grabbing the cinnamon to help you.

You two moved about the kitchen in a quiet, domestic dance. Handing each other ingredients, standing by the stove together with his arms around your waist as you stirred the pot—it felt so natural, it almost made him forget you weren’t truly there.

He could feel you, yes, the taste of your skin on his lips when he pressed a kiss to your shoulder blurred his senses; but you weren't truly there. You were like an idea he wished he could bring to life, not just for a day, but forever. He needed you forever.

You sat on the couch, your legs draped over his lap, hands clutching a warm mug of hot chocolate. He stared at you as you took a sip, quietly amazed by the way you blew on the liquid not to burn your mouth.

“You're not gonna try it? I came back from the dead to make you some of my delicious hot chocolate and you're not even gonna try it?” You joked, noticing the way his eyes were glued to your every move.

Stolen from his musings, he lets out a soft chuckle. “Of course I will try it. Can't a man enjoy the view for a moment?” He teased back, looking down at his own mug.

You watched as he brought the rim to his lips, carefully sipping on it and savoring the taste on his tongue. “So? Is it good?” You asked eagerly.

He took a deep breath before saying, “It's good.”

You leaned in when he smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips, “Told ‘ya.”

He blushed, meeting your eyes with a soft gaze. He lost himself in them for a moment, drowning in the color of your irises and the depth of your wide pupils taking him in. He looked at you like he wanted to memorize it—as if he hadn’t already. That tone, that specific shade so uniquely yours, was his favorite color—and he missed it more than he could have expected.

“Does it bother you?” He broke the comfortable silence as you nursed on your mug.

“Does what bother me?” You asked, eyebrows frowning slightly with curiosity.

“That there isn’t an afterlife. That you simply didn’t exist when you were… you know,” he added awkwardly.

“Oh,” you let out, not expecting that question. “I don’t know, Spence. I didn’t even know I was dead before waking up next to you today. Maybe if it weren’t for that shooting star, I never would have known. I think maybe it was like sleeping, but then again, I can’t be sure.” You searched your brain for a better answer, but there really wasn’t one. He could see right through you.

“Don’t you wish there was a heaven? I prayed every night for heaven to exist, just for you to be there,” he admitted quietly.

Your eyes softened at his admission, your gaze averting for a moment as you thought about his words. Not that you needed to, though, the answer was right on your lips already. 

“No,” you said without hesitation. “Even if there was something like that, it wouldn’t be heaven. Not without you.”

His heart sank at your words, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. If asked this question, he knew his answer would be the same.

You shared that moment for long minutes, sipping on your hot chocolate. He told you about his job and his friends, about his mom and his trips to Las Vegas, about his newest favorite books and spots to read. You listened intently, enchanted by the way his lips moved and how passionately he spoke about his interests. He loved it—being under your admiring gaze.

The quiet warmth of the moment gave way to an idea. Spencer stood, gently pushing your legs off his lap and offering you his hand. “Come on,” he said softly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s go outside.”

You raised an eyebrow but took his hand without question. Moments later, you were bundled up in warm coats, stepping into the crisp air of the backyard. Snow blanketed the ground, shimmering under the faint winter sun. The world felt still, as if time itself had paused to make room for this fleeting miracle.

Spencer watched as you took a few steps into the snow, your breath visible in the chill. You tilted your head back, eyes closed, letting the delicate flakes fall onto your skin. He stood frozen, his heart aching at the sight. You were alive, somehow—more alive than he’d ever seen you.

“I missed this,” you murmured, turning to him with a wistful smile. “Snow always felt like magic to me. Like each flake carried a tiny piece of the universe’s secrets.”

He smiled, though his chest tightened. You always spoke like that, weaving poetry into the mundane, seeing beauty where others saw nothing. He never realized how much he needed that until it was gone.

As you wandered, something caught your eye near the edge of the yard—a patch of wildflowers poking through the snow, defying the season. You crouched down, carefully plucking a few stems. “Look at these, Spence. They’re still blooming.”

He joined you, kneeling in the snow as you began weaving the flowers together with deft fingers. “How do they survive in this cold?” you mused aloud, your tone soft and full of wonder.

“Maybe they’re like you,” he replied quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “Something too beautiful, too stubborn, to be snuffed out.”

You paused, your fingers stilling on the flower crown you were building as his words settled between you. Slowly, you looked up, your eyes meeting his. No more tears. But this time, the promise was harder to hold onto. Spencer felt the weight of his words but didn't press you to say anything. Your smile was more than necessary.

You swallowed hard as you finished your creation. “Hold still,” you whispered, leaning toward him. Gently, you placed the crown on his head, shifting it until it sat just right above his messy curls. “There. Perfect.”

He chuckled softly, the sound catching in his throat. “A flower crown? Really?”

The snow fell quietly around you, a fragile peace settling over the moment. You adjusted the garment on Spencer’s head, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Mhm. And you look ridiculous,” you teased, your voice light but warm.

He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “I think you just wanted an excuse to make me wear this.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, tilting your head to study him. “But it suits you.”

Spencer’s smile softened, his eyes tracing your face. “You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Make the smallest things feel… infinite,” he said, his voice catching slightly. “Like this moment will last forever… you always find a way to do it, even now—even when…”

You reached out, placing a hand on his wrist. “Don’t,” you said gently. “Not today.”

He hesitated, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “It’s hard not to think about it.”

“I know,” you replied, your voice steady. “But we promised, remember? No more tears.”

“No more tears,” he echoed, though his voice wavered.

Your breath hitched, and you looked down at your hands, twisting a stem of the leftover flowers between your fingers. “But it can, you know,” you continued quietly. “Last forever. If we let it.”

He tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “How?”

You reached out, your fingers brushing his cheek. “By holding onto it. By remembering it—not with sadness, but with love.”

Spencer closed his eyes at your touch, his voice soft and full of longing. “I don’t want to remember, though. I just want to stay here… with you.”

You smiled, though your chest ached. “Then let’s stay here. Just for now. Don’t think about what comes next for a minute. You’ll have forever to worry about that.”

He opened his eyes, and for a moment, it felt as though the rest of the world had disappeared. “You’re right. No more thinking about it now,” he whispered.

And for a while, the two of you simply sat there, wrapped in the quiet peace of the moment, the snow falling around you like a blessing from a world that had finally stopped spinning.

The afternoon unfolded like a dream, each moment sharper and more vivid than the last. Spencer couldn’t stop watching you, memorizing every detail—the way your laugh filled the air, the sparkle in your eyes as you teased him, the warmth of your hand in his. You played around in the yard, throwing snowballs at each other and laughing together. Those moments were fleeting but eternal at the same time, lasting far less than what Spencer wished they did. But he knew he’d have them in his heart forever.

Yet the weight of the looming evening seemed to get heavier by the second.

Both of you knew it was bound to happen. You couldn’t simply come back from the dead, life was never that simple. So despite the obvious hope Spencer had been feeding throughout the day, he knew it was unlikely for you to be back for longer than one day. Life had never been kind to him before, why would it start now?

This was typical Spencer Reid. Finally getting something really good only for it to be ripped from his hands.

You'd been leaning against the porch railing for some time already when the sun began to set. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, filled with the weight of words unspoken, of feelings too big to contain.

Eventually, the cold began to seep through your layers, and Spencer noticed the way your shoulders trembled. 

“I think it's time we go back inside,” you broke the silence, turning to face him. The flower crown still hung loosely over his head. You reached up to grab it with a smile on your face, fiddling with the small flowers between your fingers.

“You're right, it's getting too cold,” Spencer said, wrapping his arms around you, not wanting to leave this moment just yet. You set the crown on the railing to curl your hands over his arms that were crossed on your stomach. He leaned in close, his breath warm against your neck as he savored your scent.

Your eyes fluttered shut, relishing the sensation of having him close. A soft hum escaped your mouth, the gentle vibration trembling against Spencer's chest pressed on your back.

“We really should go, though, it's getting late,” you muttered quietly, though none of you made the effort to leave.

“Mhm,” he hummed in agreement, squeezing you tighter.

It was as unfair as unfairness could reach. He was sure, right then and there, that there was nothing in his existence that could feel more right than this—than you, in his arms. But the moment was slipping from his fingers like water, and he could feel it. He tried to grasp it. His hands tried to reach that water, to hold it and keep it to himself—desperately trying to make the feeling linger for a split second longer if it could. But it didn't.

One moment you were outside, and the next, you were inside again, the faint glow of the Christmas tree casting soft shadows on the walls. The night darkened the room through the windows, and it only made the realization that the day was almost over even heavier.

The living room felt warmer than it had that morning, as though the house itself had soaked up the joy and sorrow of the day. You sank onto the couch, pulling a blanket over your lap, and Spencer joined you, sitting close enough that your sides touched. Your head fell softly against his shoulder, the weight a comforting reminder that you were there—but also, not for long.

The Christmas tree lights blinked softly, almost sadly with the room's atmosphere, their rhythm hypnotic in a way. You stared at the ornaments, each one a tiny fragment of a life you used to know.

“It’s almost over,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Spencer turned to you, his expression pained. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you said, your eyes fixed on the tree. “The day’s ending, and so is this. I can feel it.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t want it to end.”

“Neither do I,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “But we can’t stop it, Spence. We can only… hold onto what we have left.”

He reached for your hand, gripping it tightly as though he could anchor you here, as though his touch alone could defy the inevitable.

“I wish…” His voice cracked, and he looked away, blinking rapidly. “I wish I could have more time.”

You turned to him, your heart aching at the sight of his tear-filled eyes. “Spencer,” you said softly, cupping his face in your hands. “We had today. That’s more than most people ever get. We had this.”

“But it’s not enough,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’ll never be enough.”

You pulled him into your arms, holding him tightly as his body shook with silent sobs. “I know,” you said, your voice thick with tears. “It’s not enough for me, either.”

“I wish I could go back in time and wish to have you back forever, and not just for one day. Man, am I stupid,” he let out a humorless chuckle, the sound muffled against your hair. You chuckled back, wiping your eyes with the back of your hands.

“I wish I could go back in time and not leave in the first place.”

The way you admitted that stung like a knife in his chest. Suddenly, he was brought back to all the painful memories from the first months after your passing. The relapse, the withdrawal, the attempt… All of it ached as if the wound was fresh. He couldn’t say anything, he didn’t want you to know all that he went through trying to get over your death. You didn’t deserve to know it, not during your last moments with him. So he simply pressed his lips to your temple in a gentle, lingering kiss. He wished you hadn’t left in the first place either.

The two of you stayed like that for what felt like hours, clinging to each other as though you could merge into one being.

Eventually, Spencer shifted, pulling you into his lap. You curled into him, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped around you, holding you as though you were the most precious thing in the world.

The lights from the tree reflected in his eyes as he looked down at you, his fingers brushing through your hair. He noticed your red eyes as if you had been holding back tears for hours. “No more tears,” he whispered, though it was mostly to himself—he needed to be convinced, somehow, that crying at this moment was useless.

You smiled faintly, your eyes glistening. “No more tears,” you echoed.

But the promise was impossible to keep. The weight of the moment, the knowledge that this was fleeting, was too much. A tear slipped down your cheek, and he kissed it away, his lips warm against your skin.

“I love you,” he said, his voice breaking as he leaned down to press a gentle kiss on your lips.

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice steady despite the tears. “You did an awful job decorating the tree, by the way,” you chuckled softly, the sound muffled by your tears.

Spencer let out a breathy laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “I’m not half as good at this as you. I use the same decorations you did, but my lack of talent makes me barely want to try.” He joked, but the words had a bitter flavor.

You tilted your head up to look at him, your smile sad but genuine. “Well, you’ll have to try harder next year. I’ll find a way to haunt you if you don’t.”

His face crumpled, and he pressed his forehead to yours, the laughter fading as the weight of your words sank in. Next year. The words hung in the air, a bittersweet hope neither of you dared to believe in. Next year. Next year you wouldn’t be there. Again.

And as the night deepened, the two of you sat by the tree, wrapped in each other’s arms, mourning the end of the day but cherishing the miracle of having had it at all. The world outside faded into darkness, but inside, beneath the glow of the Christmas lights, time seemed to stand still, holding you both in its tender grasp for just a little while longer.

The blinking lights of the tree cast soft patterns on the walls, the room dim and quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the sound of your breaths mingling. He wanted to hold onto this—onto you—for as long as he could.

But Spencer knew it was useless to hold onto a moment that barely existed. Whatever this day had been, the miracle that was to have you in his arms again—even for just another heartbeat—was too good to be true. He knew it didn't matter how much he prayed, how much he begged the skies down on his knees. You'd never be back, not the way he needed you to. He could feel the way gratitude warred with downright bitterness in his chest.

Spencer could never hate anything responsible for bringing you—the light of his life—back, even if it were just for a day, but he'd be damned if he wasn't already blaming himself for the heightened pain of your absence that already began to stir within him. It was like the quick sample of what it was like to have you with him again made his already unbearable pain even worse.

But then your whisper broke the silence, soft and comforting, your voice trembling slightly, “Come to bed.”

Spencer hesitated, his arms tightening around you as though letting go, even for a moment, might break the fragile spell keeping you there. He knew what going to bed meant. He knew that going to bed would be officially saying goodbye to the last shred of you he'd ever grasp. Going to bed meant fully acknowledging the ending of this day—this perfect, painful day. But he nodded, his lips brushing against your temple. “Okay.” There was nowhere to run, and he didn’t want to make this any heavier on you.

He helped you to your feet, his hand gripping yours tightly as though afraid you might disappear too early if he let go. The walk to his bedroom was silent, the air thick with unspoken fears and lingering sadness.

You climbed into bed together, the sheets cool against your skin as Spencer pulled you close. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, and you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Neither of you spoke, the silence filled with the weight of everything you couldn’t say. His fingers traced absent patterns on your back, and he clung to you like a lifeline, unwilling to let go.

“Spencer,” you whispered after a while, your voice barely audible.

“Yeah?” His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion.

“If I’m not here tomorrow…” You paused, your throat tightening. “I want you to promise me something.”

He stiffened, his arms tightening around you. “Don’t,” he whispered.

“Please,” you said, your voice breaking. “Promise me you’ll keep going. That you’ll let yourself be happy again. I know what we talked about earlier today, and I know it's not that simple. But please... Promise you'll try. Not for me, for you.”

He didn’t answer at first, his breath hitching as he tried to hold back the tears. He knew that was a promise he couldn't keep. Losing you—yet again—felt like a battle he could never win. He didn't want to lie to you, but the thought of waking up to an empty bed again, especially after what you lived that day, was a pain he could barely fathom—let alone expect to ever get over.

Yet he couldn’t help but consider it. The tone in your voice, the genuine pain in your eyes—it got to him. He needed this, despite not realizing it through the immense agony the idea of being left alone without you again brought him. He knew it was what you wanted for him, and deep down, it was what he wanted for himself as well. It would take a while to process it, but it was inevitable—he’d have to learn—because regardless of everything that happened, he could never regret meeting you, having you. Spencer knew that no matter how much suffering he went through, how many tears he shed because of you; if he could go back in time, he’d do it all over again without changing a single thing. Even if it meant reliving your loss, the aching your absence left behind, the dark places his mind stayed in for years… it also meant reliving the firsts, the kisses, the hugs, the love… and he’d never seen or felt anything more beautiful in his life.

Regardless of everything, having had you, however long for, had been his biggest blessing. His one true miracle. And for you, he’d do anything and everything. Even if meant going on without you, even if it meant getting over you. Having had the chance to taste your love was enough. It had to be.

Finally, he nodded, his voice trembling. “I promise.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his chest, right above his heart, your tears soaking into his shirt. “Thank you.”

The two of you lay there, clinging to each other as though you could freeze time, as though the night would never end. The question of whether you’d still be there in the morning loomed over you both, unspoken but ever-present. But for now, you had this moment, and being in each other's arms made itself enough to silence your fears for a handful of moments.

The seconds stretched on, but they were like a blanket that could never cover you both. Spencer could feel it slipping away along with your incoming slumber, but the moment you shared lingered, somehow. And neither of you was willing to let it go.

Before either of you could realize it, sleep overtook you. Tear-stained cheeks pressed closely, arms entangled as if their mere closeness could defy nature's rules and keep you there a little longer. Let your warmth remain forever tingling on his skin.

In his dreams, Spencer had you. It didn’t feel painful, though. All he felt was your love. It overwhelmed his finally resting mind. It had been years since he’d had dreams like that, dreams that felt like a balm to his aching soul instead of thorns coiling all around his chest. It was as if the dreams were there to ease his heart through your departure—and in a way, they did. His sleep was peaceful and undisturbed, unlike the rest of his day. It healed him in a way.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and soft, casting an eerie stillness over the room and pulling him back to sensibility. Spencer’s eyes fluttered open slowly, his body surprisingly light despite the weight of sleep, but there was something else—an ache that gripped his chest. He reached out instinctively, but his hand met only the cold sheets beside him.

The bed was empty. The house was quiet.

You were gone.

For a moment, he lay still, hoping that you’d walk back in, your smile lighting up the room. But the silence stretched on, and he knew.

You weren't there, and you’d never be again.

He closed his eyes tightly, a sharp pang cutting through him as reality settled in. He missed the dreamland of sleep, where he was sheltered from the pain of reality and could only feel the light of your love. Of course you weren’t there. He’d known, deep down, that you wouldn’t be. The day before had been too perfect, too fleeting to be anything but a cruel dream.

Spencer lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his heart heavy and his throat tight. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to face the emptiness of the house without you. But then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the silence.

He reached for it with a trembling hand, his vision blurry as he read the message from Morgan:

["Merry Christmas, kid. I know this time of year is tough for you. I’ll swing by later to drop off your gift. Hang in there, alright?”]

Spencer sat up, frowning. Christmas? But… yesterday was Christmas… Wasn’t it? There was the shooting star on Christmas Eve, then he woke up with you the next morning and you spent Christmas day together, right? He stared at the message, confusion swirling in his mind.

If today was Christmas, then… when had you been here?

His heart raced as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his mind replaying every moment of the day before. It had felt so real—your touch, your laughter, the way you’d smiled at him like nothing had ever changed. Too real to be a dream. Too dreamlike to be real.

He pushed himself off the bed and made his way down the hall, his steps slow and hesitant. The house was quiet, almost unbearably so, and the absence of your presence was palpable.

Confusion stirred within him, but at the same time, it felt only natural. He had to have dreamed it, it was grief playing tricks on him once again. But still… if it had been a dream, it was one like none other he’d ever had. One that messed up his concept of time and reality, making him pinch his skin softly, as a reminder and confirmation of his own existence.

He was there. You weren’t.

Spencer turned on the radio, needing something—anything—to fill the silence, to quell his racing mind. The soft, mournful strains of Lover, You Should’ve Come Over by Jeff Buckley filled the room, the lyrics cutting through him like a knife. He’d never been one to relate much to music. He’d learned it from you, the beauty of song. This time it felt like a curse, though, the relatability of the mellow lyrics burning in his chest.

"Maybe I'm too young

To keep good love from going wrong

But tonight you're on my mind

So... you'll never know

Broken down and hungry for your love

With no way to feed it

Where are you tonight?

Child, ya know how much I need it

Too young to hold on

And too old to just break free and run"

He sat by the window, watching the snow falling. The ache in his chest was different now—not the sharp, relentless pain of loss, but something softer, warmer. He could still feel your hand in his, still hear your laugh echoing in his mind. And as the song played, each lyric seeming like it was leaving from his own lips, each chord sounding like it was being played from his own heartstrings, the moment sank in.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad that it had all been a dream after all. Maybe it was exactly what he needed. But yet, the warmth of your presence loomed over him with a heaviness that felt nearly unnatural. You had really been there, one way or another. He was sure of it.

"So I'll wait for you, love

And I'll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?"

He could feel you. Even now. He knew it wasn’t over—it would never be.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered to the silence, a tear slipping down his cheek.

And somewhere, he knew you were whispering it back.

He sank into the couch, his head in his hands as the song played on, each word twisting the knife deeper.

"It's never over

My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder

It's never over

All my riches for her smiles

When I've slept so soft against her

It's never over

All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter

It's never over

She is the tear that hangs inside my soul forever"

The tears came then, hot and unrelenting, as he mourned the loss of you all over again. Regardless of their newfound taste after the collection of memories he gathered with you, whether it was a dream or not, the bitterness in his tears remained unmistakable. 

But then, through the blur of his grief, something caught his eye. He froze, his breath hitching as he turned toward the window.

There, like a mirage—a window to the unknown, a sight he’d never expected—sitting on the porch railing, was the flower crown you’d made during the day before. Just where you’d left it. The lines between dream and reality blurred, but Spencer didn’t question it. You had been there. And that was enough.

"Lover, you should've come over

'Cause it's not too late"

—————————————————————————————————

author's note 2: this is it!! i hope you guys enjoyed it, and thank you sooo much for reading it all the way! please share and let me know your thoughts on this :)

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check out these amazing fanarts my dear friend cami (@/camiwhatuwant on twitter) drew for this story!! i'm in love, they're so perfect <3

[tojirights]

okkkkk listen im sure this has been done before but i can't stop thinking abt astarion's bite having an aphrodisiac effect on you sighs. :\ this is completely my headcanon, I do not know what an actual vampire bite in D&D would entail don't hate me 😭

The first time Astarion asks to bite you, you decline for obvious reasons. But the next night he comes to you, he seems unwell, and your heart struggles to still see him as the manipulative monster you know vampires tend to be, and you give in. It was only one little bite, right? You've quite literally been stabbed in the gut before, you figure it's no big deal and it would benefit the whole group in the long run for Astarion to be at full strength.

What Astarion doesn't tell you, and he's fully aware of, is what the after effects of being bitten are. You body immediately heats, pain and an odd sensation of pleasure shoots through your body. Even as Astarion releases your neck, a dribble of your own blood leaking down his lip, you feel warm. Too warm.

Your mind immediately jumps to "oh shit im dying. How could I be so stupid?", but you start to realize that the dizziness hitting you seems to be not only from lack of blood, but the movement of blood down your body. Astarion tries to sneak away but even in your weakened state, you grab his arm before he moves. "Don't." You say sternly, starting to breathe heavily. "What-" Your body shudders. "Is this feeling..?" Astarion almost looks guilty when he sees your forehead start to sweat, clear signs of arousal coming from your body.

"And what do you mean, darling? Lightheaded? Why, that's makes sense, does it not?" His tone is smart, and if you were thinking right, you'd slap the shit out of him. You shake your head, the burning hot heat moving down your stomach before settling in your gut. "You best be honest with me, my dagger has your name all over it right now." You shoot him a weak glare, to which he chuckles.

Astarion leans in close to your ear, his breath ghosting the fresh wound he inflicted just below. "Well... If you must know..." He starts explaining, his voice low in his throat and making your body react in ways you've never felt before. "There's a not commonly discussed after effect that some people experience after being bitten." He watches as your body shudders, taking in the flush on your cheeks. "It can cause... temporary, insatiable lust." He draws out the last words in a whisper, smirking to himself as you squirm.

You groan outwardly, frustration minging in the wake of arousal. "And you knew this would happen?" You ask, but Astarion just hums like he's unsure. "Not really, like I said, it doesn't happen to everyone." He moves over top of you slowly, his eyes locking with yours. "From what I know, this only happens when there's already some strong feelings developed." He teases, enjoying how your face somehow turns even redder. "You're fucking with me." You say flatly, though you can already feel a familiar wetness forming between your thighs.

Astarion smirks as he looms over you, seemingly enjoying your current struggle. "I wouldn't dare." He defends. "Besides, you can't tell me that you aren't... needing some relief." He says in a sultry tone as he leans for the other side of your neck. You gasp when his lips find your skin, his kisses leaving fire behind on your skin. "W-what, no." You scoff, trying to deny your primal urges, but you're not in your right mind. Your hips sqiurm underneath him, seeking any sort of friction.

Astarion's no stranger to this song and dance, but he admits it feels a little more deceitful than normal. He isn't here to just use you and toss you to the side, or even worse, bring you back to Cazador. Honestly, he's not sure why he even crawled into your bed like this at all. Muscle memory, perhaps. But the sight of you writhing under him certainly has his mind a little clouded.

He pouts, pulling away from your body entirely. "Why, of course then dear. I'd never want to push you into anyth-" His sentence ends abruptly when your hands find themselves tangled in his hair, pulling him back to you and kissing him feverishly. "You owe me." You breathe in between kisses, the soreness in your neck a reminder of why you're here. Astarion just chuckles against your lips, the vibration making you shiver. "I suppose you're right." He says in a hushed tone. "Don't worry, I'll take care of this little problem for you darling."

You'd again be furious at him and his smart mouth if you could think about anything other than his hands all over your body. His knee slots between your thighs, shifting your legs further apart and giving you just enough friction that you can't help the moan that follows. Astarion shushes you, his finger to your lips while he keeps pressing his knee closer to your center. "Quiet, my dear." He coos, watching you grind helplessly against his leg. "Do you want our little friends to see you so utterly desperate for me?"

There's a rush of embarrassment that surges through you, knowing to any of your companions, you probably look pretty ridiculous under him, but you can't seem to care as his hand travels down your throat. His fingers lightly brush over his handiwork, watching the way your face gives a quick twist of pain, yet your voice conjures such a pretty noise. Astarion sighs to himself, quickly feeling himself hardening in his sleep pants at the sight of you.

"You really are quite beautiful, you know?" He whispers, almost as if you're not meant to hear it. Your body responds on its own, a quiet whimper leaving your mouth before you can stop it. "Don't make me beg, Astarion..." You shudder, your tone pleading enough to make your needs known. Astarion's own desire starts to overwhelm him, his need to have you all to himself winning over his wants to keep teasing you. His hands slide down your sides, slipping under your shirt to feel the way your muscles tense with every touch.

Astarion sighs dramatically, acting offended to your desperate pleas. "Normally?" He starts, watching you glare daggers at him. "You'd be begging until your voice went hoarse, but since you were such a good girl for me and helped me, I won't keep you waiting." His words make your core ache, your hips grinding against his leg as a groan leaves your lips.

Astarion's fingers dance up your stomach, pushing your shirt up as he moves. His eyes linger a little too long as your breasts come into view, perky as his imagination had guessed, and your nipples hard and just begging for his mouth on them. He decides to indulge, kissing up your chest until his lips find the hardened bud. As soon as he latches onto you, it's as if all your self control flies right out the window. Your fingers desperately tangle into his hair, your back arched into him as his knee forms at least some sort of friction for you.

"My my, I've barely even touched you." He remarks as he watches you crumble beneath him, every single touch pushing you towards an embarrassingly early orgasm. You find the strength to punch his arm, but it obviously doesn't do anything but make him laugh. His tongue swirls your nipple, almost distracting you from the feeling of his hand traveling south, nimble fingers sliding under the waistband of your pants.

You're already teetering on the edge, his teeth nipping at your flesh much more gently than he had latched onto your neck earlier, the sensation causing surges of pleasure to run down your spine. As soon as his hand slips beneath your pants, he can feel your warmth, he knows just how much you've been dying to be touched this whole time. "Poor baby..." He coos. "Is this what you've been waiting for?" Skilled fingers find their way to your clit, and Astarion can't contain his groan as he feels just how wet you've gotten from this.

He's not surprised, of course, knowing your body is processing the effects of his little nibble, but he likes to think you've been pining this whole time, just waiting for him to take you. His mind paints all these pretty pictures of you with your hand down your pants, lip between your teeth as you touch yourself to the thought of him. "K-keep going, I'm so-" You gasp out, Astarion's attention shifting fully to you, the look on your face making his cock throb with need.

Astarion's thumb rubs circles around your clit, almost distracting you as he slides a slim digit inside your pulsing pussy. Your breath catches in your throat as you do your best not to be too loud, but Astarion curls his finger, sending flames through your body as your orgasm rolls over you. "A-Astarion yes-" You whimper as intense pleasure surges through you. Astarion buries his face into the crook of your neck, muffling his groan as he feels you squeezing around his finger.

"Gods, how pretty my name sounds on your tongue." He mutters to himself, lips latching to your sweat slick skin as he works his finger out as your orgasm fades. It did nothing to relieve the burning in your gut, if anything, you feel even worse. "N-need..." You gasp out, barely even knowing how to finish that sentence. Astarion's already shifting, removing his pants just enough to free himself.

"More." Astarion grunts, finishing your sentence for you and lining his cock up with your still needy cunt. Anticipation swirls in your gut, and luckily for you, Astarion's feeling a similar amount of desire, so he doesn't keep you waiting. "I know, darling. You need more." He says in a low voice, barely over a grumble as he finally slides inside. Your eyes lull shut, your mouth open as an incredibly desperate noise threatens to fill the silence of the night as Astarion fills your pussy with an agonizingly slow movement.

His one hand finds your hip, while the other cups your face and covers your mouth. "Keep your lips shut and your eyes on me." The commanding tone of voice forces a whimper from your throat, luckily muffled by his palm. Astarion's control slips from his grasp, his hips meeting yours in quick snaps as he keeps your eyes locked with his. "Yes, darling, just like that." Astarion purrs, watching the way your body accomidates him so well, how your legs seem to open more and more so he can push himself deeper within you.

Every thrust brings you right back to the edge, your mind blanking on everything around you besides him. Astarion's attempt to keep this quiet and subtle falls flat while the slide of his cock in and out of your cunt makes an obscene wet squelch, your juices covering his length enough to be making a mess down your thighs as well. You're sure at least someone is listening, but you're entirely too far gone in the pleasure of it all to even care. "Mmff, I-I'm..." You mumble into the palm of his hand, your body clenching around his cock as your orgasm rapidly approaches.

Astarion groans, his rhythm faltering with the way your pussy tightens, threatening to milk the cum from him right then and there. "How badly I want you to scream my name, to wake everyone from their tents as you come apart underneath me..." He breathes, something dark flashing in his eyes. Your hands grip desperately at his biceps, anchoring yourself as his words push you over the edge.

"That's it, pretty girl." Astarion sighs, recognizing the way you squeezed his finger earlier as you cumming on his cock. Your body shakes with the aftershocks of pleasure, Astarion's cock making you see stars as he angles your hips up. Its only a matter of a few more thrusts, the tip of his cock pressing snug against your cervix for his own orgasm to win over. You moan beneath his hand, feeling as each thick rope of cum coats your insides. "Gods, you're perfect..." Astarion shudders, pumping his hips lazily as your pussy clenches to make sure not a drop is left.

As you both lay, heavy breathing and sweaty bodies, you almost start to laugh. "You really are an asshole, you know that?" You say, yet your words lack any actual bite. Astarion slowly slides himself out, his mind taking a quick mental photo for later as he sees his cum seeping from your cunt, how it mixes with your arousal to make quite a beautiful mess. He chuckles as he reaches for an old rag, making sure it isn't dirty before gently cleaning you up. "And why am I an asshole, exactly?" He hums, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

"If you wanted to sleep with me, you could've just asked." You sheepishly bite your lip, still feeling a low burning flame of arousal in your stomach. Astarion sits next to you, letting you shift to lay your head on his leg. "I- well..." He clears his throat, and you swear he looks embarrassed. "I figured this was a win-win, you know?" He smirks, watching you glare at him. "Thank you, by the way..." He says in a soft whisper. "I feel much better." You roll your eyes, yet your heart flutters to know you did in fact help him.

"Don't ever let me catch you trying to bite me in my sleep again, you got that?" Your eyes shut, exhaustion starting to take you. "Just ask..." You barely get the words out, but Astarion knows. He lets you relax for another moment, your breathing settled into a light sleep.

That went better than he could've expected...

He slinks back to his tent when he thinks you're fully asleep and thinks of how he'll mess with you in the morning when the rest of camp questions that little love bite on your neck.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face, despite his better judgement.

[narcissistcookbook]

I'm finally listening to Myth, and man. Your works always make me want to tell stories. I just wish I knew how to find the stories inside of myself. The most I seem to be able to do is leapfrog off an existing story, weaving frayed ends of canon into something that feels more complete to me and in conversation with itself, adding onto characters so they're more than just a 2d cutout.

Theres always these recurring themes that appear in what I've made, though. I know those must be what the stories rotting in my throat are about- I just don't know how to extract them.

I'll figure it out one day.

(Sorry for the long ask, the details just felt appropriate for these albums in particular.)

okay, well, maybe this will help

the album MYTH is a big hodgepodge of different influences. details below the break for people who don't want the album demystified

the core idea draws on the relatively contrived PR narrative surrounding Bon Iver's first album ('he's just a regular dude with a guitar who got broken up with and recorded an album in a cabin' ) and The Lost Songs Of St Kilda (a collection of lofi recordings of piano melodies written on the real life isolated island of St Kilda before it was cleared, performed by a dying man in assisted living who had learned them from his childhood piano teacher who had grown up on St Kilda)

the idea of being compelled to tell fairytales against your will is lifted heavily from Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange And Mr Norrell (in which a character is cursed to tell surreal fairytales whenever she tries to tell people a secret). i also found out after publishing it that a very similar fate befalls a character in the Sandman series although i've never read it

the idea of layered recordings with some kind of entity buried beneath the layers - this is getting into lore than isn't directly referenced on the album - is loosely based on the 1972 horror film The Stone Tape (where a ghost haunting a castle is revealed to be a 'recording' in the castle's stone walls of someone who died of fright - when they wipe the recording the ghost disappears, and is replaced by the even stranger and more frightening entity that scared her to death)

the layers commenting on and later conversing with each other is a trick i vaguely remember in House Of Leaves although i haven't read it since it came out

the islanders who have a cult-like relationship with a magical being is such a well-worn trope i shouldn't even need to reference it

Heavy Rain On Hot Tin Roofs is a reworking of a shitpost i wrote years earlier advertising a pub trivia night i run. it wasn't supposed to even be a story, the characters didn't exist in my head until years after i wrote it. i do wonder sometimes if the notion of writers experiencing their characters as real, living beings inside their minds is an unhelpful myth. a character is a magic trick you are playing on your audience, and the purpose of a magic trick isn't to fool yourself. a lot of writers won't find their characters as convincing as they want to because they know how the tricks they're pulling to make them seem real to everyone else

the fairytales themselves are told in fragments because that was all i had. i knew i wouldn't have time for whole stories so i skipped to the parts of the stories / images that resonated most with me - but also, writing traditional narratives isn't one of my strengths, and i knew fragments that tease the existence of longer stories would be more evocative than any full story i could write

these are only the examples i can think of off the top of my head

my point is, if you sit around waiting for your work to not feel derivative you're robbing a potential audience of your take on familiar ideas. the way ideas and settings and characters you've nicked from other places brew and stew in your mind is unique to you. no one steals like you do 💜

[locomoqo]

just one night

— samuel seo x reader

details: NSFW under the cut, fem bodied reader, p in v (samuel puts you in full nelson), cunnilingus, nipple play, possessive sex, he slaps your kitty, mirror sex, slight exhibitionism, public sex (?), unprotected, toxic rs

A/N: this is for all my ppl who rq'd samuel smut and also i kindaaa went overboard (2.4k wc) with this bc i was listening to house of cards and a bunch of the weeknd songs🥸

You and Samuel's relationship, to put it lightly, had always been a roller coaster. Sure, you had your happy moments, but they never lasted long before you were fighting over something. And when you weren't fighting, you both became ghosts to each other—minimal interactions, going to bed with your backs turned. You tried to end things multiple times, and Samuel let it happen. Because one thing Samuel knew for certain was that you'd always come back.

The first time you broke up with him, he was desperate—begging you to come back, and you did. After that, though, it became a routine. He no longer took the breakups seriously, knowing that with enough sweet words and pleading, you'd always return.

But this time was different.

This time, he miscalculated. He didn't take the breakup seriously, and that was his mistake, because this time you stood firm. No amount of texts, missed calls, or even the bouquets he sent to your door swayed you. You stayed gone. And it took him a while to realize you meant it this time.

So he tried to move on. He cut contact, tried to distract himself. But the truth was, he hadn't moved on at all.

Curiosity got the better of him after a few months, and he found out you were seeing someone else. What's that saying again? Oh, right—curiosity killed the cat.

That was what brought him here, to this crowded club. Samuel wasn’t here to meet new people—well, maybe that was part of it—but the real reason was to drown his sorrows. He knew he looked pathetic, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t like he could just start beating some random person to release all his pent-up frustration.

Fuck. He shouldn’t be so affected by this. He should have moved on by now, yet just seeing your face in his mind was enough to send him right back to square one.

From the corner of his eye, he saw someone sit down beside him, but he didn’t pay it any mind.

"Hi there," a voice said, and it was a voice he knew all too well. His eyes slowly shifted from the bottle of soju in front of him to you, sitting right next to him. He was speechless. Maybe he’d already had too much to drink.

"Don’t look at me like that. Is there something wrong with my face?" you said with a friendly smile. Too friendly.

“You…” Samuel breathed out.

“Me?” you asked casually, glancing down at the menu in your hand.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice gruff. “I’m with my friends,” you replied. With your friends, Samuel repeated silently in his head. Was the guy you were seeing here too? Is that why you were acting so composed while he sat there looking like a washed-up loser?

Samuel ran a hand through his messy hair, then reached for another bottle. “I’ll pay,” he suddenly said when he saw you about to order a drink. You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips. “If you say so,” you hummed, not passing up the opportunity.

Samuel’s thoughts were a mess. He couldn’t quite settle on what he wanted to say to you. It was like there were too many emotions swirling in his head, all fighting for dominance.

“…And what are you doing here?” you asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Just wanted to relax,” he replied. A half-truth.

“Didn’t know clubs were your thing,” you said, watching him down the rest of his drink.

“They’re not,” he responded bluntly. You noticed the sharpness in his tone and decided to drop it.

A few moments of silence passed before he finally asked, “So… what have you been up to?”

“You know, the usual,” you said as your drink arrived.

Samuel couldn’t help but look at you. His heart felt heavier with each glance. You both talked for a bit, exchanging stories about what had been going on in your lives. It was almost surreal, sitting here, talking like this after everything. "And what about that guy you're seeing? Is he with you tonight?" Samuel asked, trying to sound indifferent but not quite succeeding. You froze for a moment, awkwardly tracing the rim of your glass. "Oh… uh, no. He’s, um, busy," you mumbled.

Samuel stared ahead, but a smirk tugged at his lips. He knew that look, that tone—a sign of trouble. "Too busy for you?" he asked, tilting his head, testing the waters. You nodded, still focused on your glass, completely missing the way Samuel was watching you now, like a predator who had just spotted an opening.

"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with faux surprise. "That’s a shame. I thought you two were doing well."

You could hear the mockery in his voice. “Samuel—” you started.

"I had a feeling he wasn’t good enough for you," he interrupted, his eyes really meeting yours for the first time that night. "Don’t," you said, your voice carrying a warning that wasn’t as firm as you intended it to be.

Samuel leaned in, his hand lightly brushing against your arm before he gripped your wrist, pulling you closer. "Tell me I’m wrong," he challenged, his voice low. "Tell me you don’t miss me. Tell me you don’t miss us."

Your eyes flicked between his hand on your wrist and his face. You bit your lip, glancing elsewhere, unable to meet his intense gaze. "We broke up for a reason," you muttered, more as a reminder to yourself than to him. He grinned, leaning even closer until his lips were just inches from yours. "People make mistakes. Doesn’t mean we can’t fix them."

Your breath hitched as you looked up at him. There was hesitation in your eyes, but there was something else there too. Something dangerous. That same fire that once burned between you two was beginning to ignite again.

Samuel could see it in the way your eyes trailed over his features.

He leaned in even further, his lips brushing against your ear. "I can make you forget about him," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Just give me one night."

Your breath was shaky as you exhaled, and in that moment, he knew he had you. You didn’t say a word, but the way your fingers curled into his shirt and pulled him closer was all the confirmation he needed.

Just like that, you were lured in, caught in the hunter’s trap once again. 

But you could hardly care about that now, could you? Not when his tongue is tangled with yours in a passionate kiss. The bathroom is dark and, surprisingly, fragrant.

Samuel hoists you onto the counter, his hands sliding up your thighs, bunching your dress around your hips as he positions himself between your legs. His hands roam your body, alternating between groping and kneading, desperate to feel as much of you as he can. He breaks the kiss, trailing his lips down your neck, sucking and leaving marks on your collarbone.

It’s as if he’s been starved of touch, and you’re the first to offer it to him. In a way, that’s exactly how it feels, considering how much he’s buried himself in work just to try and forget. “Missed you so much, princess,” he murmurs against your skin, continuing his descent.

He pulls down the front of your dress—along with your bra—to take one of your breasts into his mouth. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you sigh in pleasure, his mouth on one breast while he kneads the other. His hand slides down to your waist, tugging your underwear off in one swift motion.

Samuel pulls back for a moment, your hardened nipple glistening with saliva in the dim light. He drags you closer to the edge of the counter before dropping to his knees, pressing his face between your thighs. Your legs instinctively close around his head at the sudden rush of contact, and he pinches your thigh lightly in response. A gasp escapes your lips as he begins devouring you like a man starved. His thoughts are singular: He’s missed you, your taste, the way you feel, and the sound of your moans, even if they’re muffled by your hand.

“No one’s going to hear. Put your hand down,” he orders, his voice rough. It’s not a suggestion; it’s a command. But since when have you ever listened to him? You shake your head, and he rolls his eyes.

“Suit yourself,” he mutters before diving back in, tongue plunging into you. Flicking, sliding, and pressing that soft muscle against your core until your mind starts to blur. The room seems to fade into nothingness.

The only thing you’re aware of is the soft, warm slide of his tongue, the pressure he applies in just the right spots, and the ragged sound of his breathing as he loses himself in the moment. His hands grip your thighs firmly, grounding you, yet the way his mouth works against you sends your mind spinning, your heart pounding in your ears.

“Sammy—! Sammy, ’m gonna—” You choke out, teetering on the edge of release, your body trembling under the intensity. Your body arches involuntarily, your breath catching in your throat. A warmth floods through your veins, a mix of anticipation and inevitability as you teeter on the brink. Your hands grasp for anything—his hair, the countertop—desperately seeking an anchor as your mind goes blank, overwhelmed by sensation.

He doesn’t let up, continuing his relentless attack on your body. No, he plans to make you cum twice—maybe even three times—on his tongue before he even considers fucking you. And when he does, it won’t be in this tasteless club bathroom. Oh no. He’s going to take you home, or maybe to a nearby hotel, where he can have you all to himself.

This place isn’t worthy of what he has in mind.

The thing is, you’re still hesitant. Samuel would’ve let it slide—he would’ve—if he hadn’t caught the way you kept glancing at your boyfriend’s messages. Something in him snapped.

You were worried about that guy when Samuel was right there? Yeah, forget the nice guy act. He’s going to make sure you forget all about that boy tonight. He’ll make sure you’re so utterly consumed by him that you won’t even remember anyone else’s name but his.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he growls, his voice thick with authority as he grips your jaw, forcing your gaze forward. His fingers press against your cheek, making sure you watch—making sure you see. You can see yourself, spread so sinfully wide as he thrusts his cock into you.

Your knees are pulled back towards your chest, his strong arms wrapped securely around your thighs, his feet planted firmly on the bed. Your hands cling weakly to his strong arms as he pounds into you, every brutal thrust making your body tremble, tears forming in your eyes, and drool pooling at the corner of your lips.

“You’re drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he rasps, fingers pressing harder into your cheeks. “The nerve you’ve got—” Plap! “to still be texting—” Plap! “that guy, after what we did in that bathroom?” The wet slap of skin meeting skin punctuates each word, echoing through the room. “Didn’t mean to—jus’—ah! I wanted t’check my—” you sob, unable to finish your sentence. “Your notifications?” he spits out, finishing for you. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I know you’re still thinking about him.” His voice is venomous, and you can only shake your head in a weak attempt to deny it.

Irritation flares in him, and he goes harder, his pace relentless. You can’t do anything but moan and whimper, your nails digging into the inked skin of his forearms. The bed creaks beneath you as he takes you harder, faster, as if punishing you for daring to think of anyone but him. Each punishing thrust sends him deep, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over again, the hard press of his hips making your whole body rock. 

“I’m gonna ruin this pussy for him,” he growls into your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as if to mark you, to brand you as his. “Fucking ruin it f’anyone. You’ll be mine. You hear me? All. Fucking. Mine.” His fingers release your face to give your clit a sharp slap, the line between pleasure and pain dissolves completely.

The sting sparks through you, making you whimper, but you can’t even register the pain anymore—not when the pleasure has you teetering on the edge of something overwhelming. The sound of your voice, broken and breathless as you cry out his name, drives him to push you closer to your breaking point

You can barely think, let alone speak. Only nodding in compliance, your body wracked with orgasm after orgasm, your walls spasming around him as you come undone again and again. 

Suddenly, the sound of a phone ringing cuts through the haze. Was it yours or Samuel’s? A quick glance tells you everything—it’s yours. Samuel’s eyes follow yours to see your boyfriend’s name flashing across the screen. His expression shifts from displeasure to something far more wicked, a twisted smirk spreading across his lips.

“Go on, answer it,” he whispers in your ear.

“But—” you try to protest, but one sharp look from him silences you. That look, the one that always makes heat pool between your legs. Reluctantly, you reach for your phone.

“Hello?” you manage to say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. Samuel watches you, his possessive gaze locked on your face, savoring every second of your struggle. For a moment, he slows his thrusts, allowing you to speak—just long enough to give you a false sense of control. Then, with one brutal motion, he drives himself deeper into you, hitting that spot inside you that makes your mind go blank. 

You nearly choke on a gasp, but you stifle it with your hand. You glance at Samuel, only to be met with his smug, shit-eating grin. Another brutal thrust, and suddenly, he’s back to his relentless pace, dragging his cock in and out of you with such savage intensity that you can’t hold back anymore.

You bite down on your lip, eyes squeezed shut as tears of pleasure stream down your cheeks, your phone slipping from your grasp.

Samuel catches it effortlessly, pressing it to his ear. “Too bad you’re not here to see her like this. But don’t worry—I’m taking good care of her,” he taunts, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction. The panicked voice on the other end makes him chuckle before he ends the call, setting your phone to ‘do not disturb' and tossing it aside.

The night isn’t over. Not by a long shot.