#ylangelegy buzz x svt

[studioeisa]

cables and crackle 💽 jihoon x reader.

wondering why you're so nervous 'round your so-called 'friend'.

★ co-producers jihoon x reader. ★ part of buzz (seventeen's version). ★ word count: 13.8k ★ genre/warnings: romance, fluff. producer!reader. feelings realization and denial, jihoon has a crush <3, pining/yearning, first date and confessions. references to producing (that may or may not be accurate).

When you first started working with SEVENTEEN three years ago, Jihoon wasn't all that excited to have you around.

Perhaps it was his pride. BUMZU and PRISMFILTER had been the company's go-to's until they decided they wanted to bring in someone fresh, new, up-and-coming. You had been the result: Someone two years younger than Jihoon. Scrappy and hungry. Experimental, ambitious.

His hesitance at your music production has morphed from begrudging respect, to genuine appreciation, to something akin to admiration. Jihoon would never say it out loud, but you've grown to be one of his favorite producers to work with. (He doesn't have to say it, really. Everyone is already privy to Jihoon's biases.)

Now, three years in, Jihoon finds himself trying to reckon with a foreign feeling—

The flutter of his chest as you walk in to the studio. The stutter in his pulse as your fingers lightly brush over the digital audio workstation. The hitch of his breath as your head, ever so lightly, falls on to his shoulder the longer the evening drags on.

Jihoon is a 27-year-old man. As he tries to stay absolutely still, there's only one thing on his mind: Wasn't he too old to have crushes?

You could usually keep up with Jihoon when it came to these long-night sessions. One had to, considering how he was practically nocturnal at this point. But it had been a long day of minor misfortunes, the type that wear you down bit by bit.

You don't even seem to notice that your head is lolling to one side. When your cheek lands on something solid, you might think it's the back of the chair next to you— except it's Jihoon's shoulder, and he absolutely freezes underneath you.

He would be the first to admit that this isn't the first time you've ever been this close. There's been many times your bodies have gravitated to the same spot on the couch, or times when your heads are practically glued to one another while your hands are both at the keyboard, or during the times your feet accidentally meet with each other under the desk.

It's just never been this close, where Jihoon can feel the brush of each of your lashes against his neck every time your eyes fall shut.

He think he might pass out if he dwells too much on it.

He watches from his peripheral vision as your eyes flutter shut, and he thinks, for a moment, that you're out of commission. But then, you mumble, "The reverb on the snare, just now."

If you hadn't been right next to Jihoon's ear, your words might have been drowned out by the speakers. But, as it is, he hears you loud and clear. "Too heavy," you go on to say, without even opening your eyes. "We need to dial it back for a cleaner sound."

There it is, he thinks with both awe and bitterness. Even half-lucid, even half-asleep, you're still as brilliant as you've ever been.

"Mhm," he hums lowly. "I'll adjust it."

He does as you've asked. When he runs the track back, you let out a soft sound of contentment and shift slightly in your seat, blissfully unaware of how you're leaning more weight in to Jihoon's side. It's absolute torture, he thinks.

"Better," you mutter. A beat. Your drowsy inquiry comes in next. "How do you feel about the tempo in the bridge?"

He forces himself to pay attention. He runs the song back once more, this time paying particular attention to the bridge. It doesn't take him long to identify the issue— one of the main ones, anyway.

"A little too dragging," he replies. "It slows the track down a bit too much. I think it disrupts the flow. Makes the chorus—" He suddenly stops mid-sentence.

Because, for some reason, he's become acutely aware of the way your head fits perfectly into the crook of his shoulder.

He's now fully conscious of how close you are. Of the way your breath fans against his neck. Of the way your knee seems to bump against his whenever you unconsciously readjust your position.

Jihoon feels his pulse pound at his chest as he tries to keep his tone steady.

"It disrupts the flow," he repeats, his voice slightly gruff. "Makes the chorus less of a… high, for lack of word."

When your initial response is a thoughtful hum, he bites back the urge to smirk. It should come to no surprise that you're about to disagree with him. More often than not, you butted heads over minor things like this.

"Thought it was too fast," you grumble, somehow sounding a little sulky because of your drowsy state. You're usually a lot more adamant and fiery when it comes to asserting your opinions. But in the late— or early, since it's already past midnight— hour, you've tamped down my temper.

It does absolutely nothing for Jihoon's poor heart.

Your cheek nuzzles against Jihoon's sweater as you shake your head in a very that won't do manner. "The lyrics might suffer. Try slowing it down by 8 BPM so we have more space for vocal delivery."

8 BPM? Jihoon nearly chokes on an incredulous laugh. The number is so arbitrary, so out of pocket. "The tempo's already sitting at 139 right now," he bites out. "It's not like slowing it down by another 8 BPM is going to—"

Jihoon makes the mistake of glancing down at you, and damn it. You're not just leaning against his shoulder at this point.

You've practically cuddled into him.

Jihoon's breath catches in his throat as you shift once more, leaning your chin against his shoulder.

He finds himself wanting to wrap an arm around you and pull you closer. Press you into his chest until your cheek is up against his. Until your head is tucked right under his chin.

But then you're grumbling out your next words. "139?" you repeat. "Notch it down by 9, then."

The slur in your tone is just enough to remind him that you're not entirely coherent. He swallows hard, his fingers a little too gentle as he inputs the changes. 9 BPM it is.

It's a bad call, one that's made abundantly clear when Jihoon plays the track back. He doesn't even have to tell you; you're already groaning, pressing your face in to his shoulder. Your words are muffled against the soft material of his sweater.

"You were right. Should have amped it up instead of slowing it down," you mutter, though there's a distracted edge to your tone. He gives it a cursory couple of seconds, letting you gather your thoughts.

"There's an issue with the kick and the bass, isn't there?" you note.

He listens closely— and, as always, you're right. There's a dissonance between the kick and the bass.

Jihoon frowns, a little more focused now. "Yeah, I hear it too," he manages to say succinctly.

His brain is still trying to conjure up a solution when you let out a slight huff and finally peel away from Jihoon's side. He doesn't know if he's grateful or disappointed because of it.

You're bleary-eyed and your fingers fumble but your work is efficient as you click away at his mouse, at his digital audio workstation. He watches with a straight face as you add sidechain compression to the bass, as you drag the bridge's BPM up.

It's not just the music that's synced, but the way the two of you work as well. A little push, a little pull, and you manage to find balance. You know exactly what to do, even when you're tired.

Jihoon listens closely as soon as the bridge plays back and he's pleasantly surprised.

"That fixed it," he says, his eyes darting rapidly as he takes in the revised audio levels. "Yeah, I think it's good. We should move on to verse three now."

"Jihoon."

He blinks and glances over at you. You've slumped back heavily in to your chair; it spins slightly on its wheels when you do.

"I'm not going to make it through another verse," you warn. "I think I need, like, a power nap."

"Power nap?"

Despite Jihoon's best efforts, a corner of his mouth twitches. A glance at the clock tells Jihoon that it's past one in the morning. They'd been working on the track for a solid eight hours now.

He lets out a low, considering hum, before looking back at you with a slight frown.

"How long is this power nap supposed to last?" he asks dubiously.

"I only need fifteen minutes," you respond.

There's a decisiveness to you tone, one that brokers no argument even if you're rolling your shoulders from sheer exhaustion.

"You're too stubborn for your own good," he replies, though not unkindly.

He rolls the chair back, moving so that he's facing you fully. One leg is crossed over the other, his eyes studying you carefully. He's going to attempt to convince you, obviously.

"You need a good night's rest. You won't be any use at all when you're this tired," Jihoon insists, but he immediately regrets his choice of words when he sees you wince slightly.

You're no stranger to his bluntness; you know just as well that he can be both brutally honest and painfully inconsiderate. That he shows his care and concern in much more roundabout ways compared to others.

And so when you insist that you'll be good as new in fifteen minutes, he can only sigh, leaning forward to rest his forearms against his knees.

"And if you're still tired after fifteen minutes?" he counters. His tone is gentler, softer, this time.

"I'll go home," you grumble, like the thought physically pains you. "If I'm still out of it after my nap, I'll go home."

Jihoon feels some of the tension in his shoulders abate as you finally agree to a compromise. "Fifteen minutes," he reiterates firmly, holding up a single finger for emphasis. "And if you're not ready to work again by the end of it, I'm driving you home."

You open your mouth, almost like you're about to argue at the thought of Jihoon driving you home, but then you opt to purse your lips. You know how the two of you can go in absolute circles some days and so you merely shoot him a heatless glare before stalking over to his studio's couch.

It's not really the type that should be slept on. With its stiff, black leather, the couch is an awful makeshift bed for anyone. But you and Jihoon have figure out little workarounds after spending so much time working together— like the fluffy, folded comforter at the foot of the sofa and the throw pillow that's shaped like an onigiri.

Jihoon watches with a small smile as you curl up on the sofa, underneath the blanket and with the pillow. "G'night," you call out mid-yawn. "See you in fifteen."

He watches you for a beat longer, his eyes tracing the way your expression relaxes, just a little, as your head hits the pillow. After a moment, he manages to tear his gaze away. He really had to work on his habit of staring.

"Yeah," he huffs as he tries to go get a head start on the third verse. "Night."

It's difficult because he can't help but steal glances, and every single time he does, he's struck by a wave of affection. You're so small, so fragile-looking, burrowed in to the sofa. He notes the way the pillow's slightly squished underneath your head, your face half-buried in the plush material…

He almost feels the urge to take a picture just to capture the scene.

And then he realizes: Why not? You're friends, aren't you? And friends take embarrassing photos of each other.

He picks his phone up from his pocket with one hand and angles the camera with the other. He knows just what he wants to take a picture of. The way your cheek is squished against the rice ball pillow, just barely visible underneath the edge of your tangled mess of blankets. The way your expression is relaxed, softened in sleep, with the slightest pucker to your lips.

He presses down on the snap button, and the shot is just perfect. The way the glow of the monitor catches in your hair, bringing out the natural color. The way your eyelashes fan out over your cheek, and the way the shadows highlight the sharpness of your features.

Jihoon's eyes linger on the image, something akin to longing twisting in his gut.

This time, he doesn't bother to push the feeling away. He does go back to work, though.

Fifteen minutes pass. And then twenty, thirty. The longer you sleep, the more Jihoon's guilt gnaws at him.

He knows he's about to wake you up, to ruin the temporary blissfulness that sleep has brought you. He knows he's about to drag you back to the studio to work again, despite the bags that are under your eyes and the exhaustion that is evident in every line of your body.

He knows he's going to be the cause of your fatigue. And he hates that— hates himself, just a little, for his need, his drive.

Still. At the thirty-minute mark, he makes his way over to your side. He reaches out, fingers hesitating for a second, before he gently shakes your shoulder.

"Hey," he calls, his tone soft and neutral. "Wake up. We need more work done."

It's very likely that the unceremonious way you've been dragged out of your sleep has gotten to you, because how else can Jihoon explain the way you drowsily move to hold him?

Your fingers reach up and curl gently around his wrist. Your eyes are still closed as you exhale, "Jihoon-ah."

It's more of a whine than anything, really, but it's one that he can't deny, not when you clutch his wrist like that. "What," he asks, his tone flat out of panic. "What is it?"

It's surreal, in a way. The way your tiredness has loosened your inhibitions, has stripped you down to the simplest, most vulnerable version of yourself, one that's practically begging for closeness.

You give his hand a gentle tug. "Come nap with me. Y'need to rest, too."

Jihoon's mind goes blank the moment the words leave your mouth, his whole body freezing. Because no, he didn't just hear that, you didn't just ask that—

And then you tug on his wrist again, and he swears his heart stutters.

On one hand, the rational, reasonable part of his mind is screaming at him to push you away, to reject the idea entirely. He needs to focus. He needs to finish the track. He needs to work, not rest.

But then he looks down at your sleepy form, the way you're clinging on to him, and all those thoughts are thrown out the window.

Slowly, Jihoon lowers himself onto the couch, his body sinking against the plush material. It's a tight squeeze. Months ago, the two of you might have called each other ridiculous for even trying to fit in a piece of furniture that was clearly not for two people to lay on.

The thick of comeback season absolutely shatters any attempts of appropriateness or discretion. As Jihoon complies with your absurd request, you somehow manage to throw the blanket over the two of you.

Jihoon isn't a stranger to casual touches— he's had to survive through years of constant skinship between the members— but there was something different about this.

The feeling of your body, curled against his own. The way you hold his fingers in your grip, like a comfort, like an anchor. The scent of your hair, so close he could just nuzzle his face into the messy strands.

He tries very hard to focus on the negatives. On how cramped and uncomfortable the couch is, how he's going to end up with a backache—

— but his mind doesn't want to cooperate. Because all he can see is you, all he can feel is you; the way your soft, warm body is pressed against his own, the gentle rise-and-fall of your chest against his, you, you, you.

His mind goes blissfully vacant, and before he can even think to stop himself, Jihoon is wrapping his free arm around your waist, drawing you in.

Jihoon doesn't mind the sudden increase in body heat that comes with having you pressed so close to him, not when your back is solid and warm against his chest, not when the curve of your hips slots so smoothly against the shape of him.

He lets out a shuddering breath as you press his palm against your stomach, the fabric of your shirt slightly rucked up by the motion. You're so soft.

For once, Jihoon finds himself hating everything else— the studio, the album, the uncomfortable sofa, this damn comeback for robbing him of an opportunity to simply hold you.

Jihoon swallows, his throat suddenly dry as the words slip past his mouth before he can even stop himself.

"You're too close," he mutters in your ear, his lips so close to the shell that he's half-convinced you were going to feel his words against your skin. He's being a hypocrite, really, since he's the one holding you, but he needs to maintain some sense of propriety.

"Mmm," you hum, still more asleep than awake. You exhale an apology as you try to sleepily shift away, mumbling something like "didn't notice" in your languid effort to disentangle.

Your movement has to be the most half-hearted attempt at putting space between the two of you. So Jihoon tightens his grip, his fingers curling over your hip to keep you from shifting away.

He doesn't want you to move, not even an inch— and it's greedy of him, really— but the thought of losing the heat from your body is more than he can bear, not when you're here and you're so close.

His hold is firm, almost demanding. As you settle back down, Jihoon buries his face against the back of your hair, his mind going blissfully quiet.

"Dunno why y're so cozy," Jihoon murmurs, his words slightly slurred with the exhaustion that's catching up on him now, too.

He tries not to think too hard about it, the intimacy of it all. He tries not to focus on how he's practically molding his body against yours.

Just a nap, he thinks. It's just a nap.

Your voice is so soft, so quiet, nearly lost against the sound of Jihoon's thrumming pulse in his ears. He catches it anyway. Your quiet murmur of "G'night, Jihoon-ah."

He feels strangely light-headed. It's hard to focus, hard to think, his thoughts fuzzy around the edges as he slowly starts to succumb to drowsiness.

Jihoon lets his lids flutter shut, his mind sinking into darkness. "Sweet dreams," he mumbles back.

In the end, Jihoon is the one who has sweet dreams.

They're fractures of a bigger picture, pieces to a puzzle he could never piece together.

He sees your tired smile, hears your soft laugh, feels the brush of your hair against his chin. He sees you in flashes, in glimpses, always out of reach. Never close enough.

They're so vivid, these dreams— so real— that Jihoon swears he can almost feel you, can almost hold you. When he reaches out for you, for the dream version of you, it feels like he's grasping at air.

There are hints of other things— flashes of studio lights, melodies and songs that drift in snippets. But they all fade to the background in the face of you, the way you shine in his dreamscape like a sunbeam.

Seungcheol is the one who finds Jihoon and you the next morning— or, rather, the next early afternoon.

He's not surprised to hear that Jihoon didn't come home to the dorm. He's not surprised to find Jihoon asleep in his studio. He is surprised to find Jihoon spooning you— his co-producer, the one they all thought he was a little too soft towards.

Seungcheol's eyebrows raise to his hairline. Jihoon was never the affectionate type. And yet here he was, curled around you like a parentheses. Seungcheol takes a quick picture on his phone before gently nudging Jihoon with his foot.

"Yah," the leader says, his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants; his tone, a little too-amused. "Jihoon."

It takes a few nudges for the words to register, for Jihoon's sleeping mind to slowly come back to the world of the living.

He feels… groggy. Exhausted. And strangely warm.

After several long moments, reality catches up with him. As his sleep-addled mind slowly pieces everything together, Jihoon's eyes flutter open and it takes all of two seconds for him to process the fact that he's spooning you.

Jihoon's eyes widen, and his head snaps up to a grinning Seungcheol.

"This isn't what it looks like," Jihoon says immediately, his words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush.

He almost screams when he tries to move away, when he tries to untangle himself from you, and your soft, sleepy whine sounds more like a protest than anything.

He should've let you go. He should've, but when you make that noise, when you curl in closer to him, the part of Jihoon's brain that's awake shuts down entirely.

Jihoon freezes and tries desperately to ignore the way Seungcheol snickers.

Seungcheol keeps his hands in his pockets as he watches Jihoon with growing amusement. Put-together, frumpy Jihoon, stunned in to silence because his co-producer is latched on to him.

It is, as Jihoon had said, very much not what it looked like. Seungcheol can see that the two of you are still fully clothed. Hell, he wouldn't have even imagined Jihoon going that far when the boy barely thought of romance that way.

Still, it's just a little funny. "Long night?" the leader drawls, not even trying to conceal his sheer mirth at the situation.

Long night is a huge understatement, and Jihoon shoots Seungcheol an acerbic look that's not nearly as effective as it normally might be. Not when he's still trying to detangle himself from you without waking you up.

"You have no idea," he grumbles under his breath, his eyes flickering down to your exhausted expression as you cling to him.

He can feel the way his heart stutters at your closeness, the way his chest tightens. Not the time, he scolds himself.

"We were working on the album," Jihoon says, as if that explains everything.

He's given up on trying to move, because he knows that if he keeps trying, you're going to stir— and the last thing Jihoon needs is an awake you, all warm and soft and adorably disheveled.

"Can you... leave?" he croaks to Seungcheol. Jihoon's cheeks are tinged with a furious red color; he prays to any deity that Seungcheol will simply chalk it up to shame. "I'll give you details later, just..."

Jihoon shifts minutely, and a muted noise of protest escapes from you. He shuts his eyes and sends a silent plea at the ceiling of Please, God, not now.

Seungcheol, for his part, lets out an amused huff, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Alright, alright," the leader says, holding his hands up to show he's conceding. "I'll leave. I'll talk to you later."

He grins. "And try not to have too much fun, yeah?"

The smirk only widens when he sees the flush on Jihoon's face. The leader saunters out of the studio, the door clicking shut behind him.

And Jihoon is... well... left with you.

Silence descends, and it's deafening.

Jihoon can feel each and every beat of his own heart, can hear your slow, soft breath coming out in steady, even exhales. You're asleep— still clinging on to him, your body pressed firmly against his own— and Jihoon tries not to focus on the feeling, tries not to think about how you're so soft, so warm.

He should move, he thinks. He should untangle from you, put at least two feet of space between you, and yet.

Jihoon can't, not when you look so peaceful against him. Not when you're making little noises every now and then, the soft, low sounds coming from somewhere in your throat.

It's a special kind of torture, having you so close when he knows he can't do a single thing about it. Just a taste, an inkling of closeness— and now he's hooked, wanting for more.

He knows it's selfish, what he's doing. To have his arm wrapped around you, holding you tighter than he should. To relish in your warmth as you sleep— but Jihoon can't help it, not when he knows this might be the only way he could ever get to hold you.

He knows you're not his. You can't be his, for several reasons.

But for this brief, quiet moment in time, you feel like you could be.

There's no way of telling how much longer you stay there. To Jihoon, it feels like an eternity and then some; in reality, it's probably only a couple more minutes. You shift in your sleep, letting out a big yawn. Jihoon tries to not flinch when you stir.

For one ridiculous moment, he considers closing his eyes and pretending to sleep, so he can have a few more seconds, a few minutes longer with you in his arms. But then you're moving again, and Jihoon can feel his heart in his throat as you blink, shifting to look up at him.

"Huh," is the first thing you say as you squint up at him. "Hi."

"Hey," is his lame response, his tone oddly, uncharacteristically soft. He swallows when he catches the way your eyes flicker all over his face, as if drinking him in.

There's a lot to take in, he's sure. His arm is still around your waist and your leg is slotted between his. The blankets are a mess; the noonday sun, peeking through the studio's heavy curtains.

As your mind finally seems to catch up, you let out a groan. "S'rry," you slur, voice still thick with sleep. "We overslept. I'm a bit clingy when 'm tired."

Yeah, right. Clingy is not a strong enough word for what you had become in your sleep.

Jihoon tries to ignore the feeling of your legs tangled together, the way you're practically molding against him. He tries to tamp down the way his breath hitches, to ignore the way his heart skips a beat when you let out a sleep-filled groan.

"You were hanging on to me for your life," he remarks in a tone that is far more amused than exasperated.

"Yeah, I figured," you say wryly, glancing over at the clock to see the damage. Jihoon's eyes follow your gaze. Two in the afternoon. Your shared 'nap' had lasted a full twelve hours.

"Wow," you huff. "We were out for a while."

"That we were," Jihoon agrees, and he's more than a little reluctant when he lets you go, unravelling his own limbs from yours. The space between your bodies feels like a physical blow, but Jihoon tries not to seem too put off by it.

He sits up, running a hand through his hair. "I haven't slept that long since I was a trainee."

"That's unhealthy."

"Pot calling the kettle black."

There's a calculated casualness in your next words. "Did you at least sleep well?"

The slight concern undercutting your tone makes Jihoon rather light-headed. "I slept like the dead," Jihoon answers easily, and he doesn't even have to lie about that.

His rest had been more peaceful than it had been in years, and if he's truthful, he'd blame it all on the fact that you were wrapped so firmly around him, all soft skin and sleepy warmth. You'd fit so perfectly with him and Jihoon is fairly sure he's never going to get the sensation of you pressed against him out of his mind.

A corner of your lip twitches upward. "Don't say that," you tease as you stretch your arms over your head. "Because we may actually be dead soon enough."

There's still an album to finish. A couple more tracks due in mere days. But Jihoon's suddenly feeling much better in a way that he hasn't in a while.

Even the ever-present stress and exhaustion feels almost like an afterthought, like it's barely even there. In the midst of it all, there's only you, still mussed from sleep.

It helps that you're taking the little cuddle session with surprising grace. "Wanna order in breakfast? Lunch?" you inquire, like you can't quite decide what to call your first meal of the day when it was well in the afternoon.

"Breakfast-slash-lunch sounds good to me," he answers, a hint of a smile visible in the curve of his mouth.

You order Chinese food. Something proper and real, a break from the convenience store rice balls and energy drinks. In the time it takes for the takeout to come, you and Jihoon speed through the song that had been plaguing you both last night. It seemed that being well-rested did you both well.

When the food comes, you go to collect it. In your absence, Jihoon finally checks his phone.

Suddenly, the studio feels ice cold, because he has seventy-something unread messages from his group chat with the boys.

He clicks the little arrow that takes him back to the first unread message, and surprise, surprise— it's from Seungcheol. The stolen snap of Jihoon and you cuddled together glares up at the producer, paired with the world's most annoying message.

🍒: Our Woozi-yah's a big boy now. ㅋㅋㅋ

The messages don't stop there, because Seungcheol had essentially given the others the green light to blow his phone up.

Jihoon scrolls through them, his expression growing more and more irritated as he reads through the suggestive and ridiculous messages the boys have chosen to send.

⚔️: Jihoon-ah~ Who knew you had it in you~ 🐈‍⬛: finally! 🦦: LET'S FUCKING GOOOO

Jeonghan, as per usual, is the worst offender of them all. Jihoon is just about to try and get a word in when a new, rapidfire sequence of texts pop up, the second eldest member clearly having entirely too much fun with this.

👼: So cozy, our Jihoon-ie! So cozy ♡ ♡ ♡ 👼: Finally, our Jihoon found himself a pretty girl 👼: We didn't know you were such a cuddler~~~

Jihoon's fingers are itching to reply something back, but it's hard to even make sense of the messages; they're coming in so fast. Every time he tries to type something back, another notification pops up with more texts, so he's forced to sit and watch as the members tease him relentlessly.

But then—

🐱: Cough up @Joshua @Vernon 🐢: dammit. couldn't have waited four months, woozi hyung? -_- 🦌: I didn't lose as much, so it's okay~ 🐯: WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER

The other boys all chime in with their own odds, and Jihoon realizes with horror that his bandmates had bet on him.

The horror quickly morphs into disbelief mingled with irritation.

So they'd bet on him? And on what exactly? That he wouldn't fall for a girl over the course of three years working together?

He doesn't even look at the odds before he types an aggravated reply.

🍚: You guys bet on me???

No one even tries to deny it. Soonyoung, the menace that he is, is the first to respond.

🐯: Not all of us ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ 🐈‍⬛: and it's just if you'd get with your fav producer. lol

It occurs to Jihoon, then and there, that the boys presume him and you are dating. It's a misconception he has to amend before any of the twelve can make some wisecrack about it in front of you.

🍚: We're not dating.

Jihoon doesn't bother to hide his irritability.

🍚: We were just napping together.

It's not the last of it, as it turns out.

More texts flood in after his message, and while there aren't as many jokes as before, it's easy to tell that the members are just dying to tease him about this whole thing.

When you return to the studio bearing your takeout, you're greeted with Jihoon typing furiously away at his phone, a disgruntled sort of look on his face. "You alright over there?" you call out amusedly as you pad over to the studio couch.

"Yes, and no," Jihoon answers shortly, a hint of petulance to his tone. If he looks up at you, it's only for a moment.

For someone who tends to be stoic and brooding, he's not exactly having the best morning right now. Jihoon is more than a little annoyed from the relentless teasing, and while he tries to fight it, there's a lingering feeling of humiliation, too.

A part of him wonders if this is what he deserves— for having had that moment with you this morning.

"Well, whatever it is—" you give a dismissive wave of your hand before plopping down on the couch.

He almost smiles at that; you've known each other for an odd number of years. It was enough time to be fairly acquainted with each other's habits and mannerisms, to know when something was worth pressing in to or not.

"Come on," you urge him. "The faster we eat, the sooner we can finish."

"Okay, yes, I'm coming," Jihoon answers hurriedly, and he makes a hasty beeline for the coffee table, where your takeout boxes are set out neatly.

He gives the group chat a final glance, just to make sure they're not texting anything too embarrassing. The more he scrolls the more he's bombarded with messages about you, and you would have thought the group chat was dedicated entirely to you, considering the number of texts.

He groans and locks his phone, turning it face down on the table as he takes his seat.

"Here," you say as you gently place Jihoon's order in front of him. Chao fan with a side of sweet and sour pork; a can of cola.

The way you seem to automatically know all the things he orders, the way you know what the right order to pick for him is, it almost gives Jihoon the sense that you've been working with him for even longer than three years.

He's not sure what to make of it, but it feels strangely nice, somehow, knowing that there's always something or the other that you would already know. He takes a bite out of his meal, wondering when it was that this relationship of his with you had become so comfortable.

It's an odd sensation, really.

Jihoon had always been more than content to keep to himself. But there's no denying that he feels a certain kind of peaceful contentedness when he's with you.

Perhaps it's how the two of you work so seamlessly together. Perhaps it's how you somehow managed to get under his skin. There's a certain comfort that Jihoon isn't used to having that's settled around the two of you.

And it's the kind of comfort that might make him vulnerable.

He can't have that, so he privately decides to keep you at a distance.

It's a distance you reciprocate. Both Jihoon and you know better than to tread the careful line of your friendship, especially in your line of work.

The two of you work like a well-oiled machine, like a lit match being tossed in a haystack. Jihoon and you are relentless, as always, and you finish off the rest of the mini-album in the next three hours.

There's still fine-tuning to hurdle through, but as Jihoon and you replay the last track for the first time, he has to concede. The worst is over.

You slump forward in your chair, your forehead resting against the work desk of his studio. "Done," you breathe. After a moment, you add, "For now."

"For now," Jihoon echoes.

There's a long pause between the two of you as you both relish the peace and quiet of a fully completed mini-album.

"Let's go for coffee?" he finally asks, glancing to where you're slumped in your chair.

You tilt your head ever so slightly until your cheek is pressed against the desk and you're looking up at Jihoon. You smile ruefully as you speak, your tone almost apologetic. "No to coffee. I think I want to go home and knock out for twelve hours."

You go on, "You should do the same. We've been in this studio for…" You pause like you're doing the mental math, and then a disbelieving laugh slides past your lips. "About thirty-three hours, Jihoon-ah."

Thirty-three hours is almost incomprehensible. Jihoon isn't even surprised, because of course, that's the kind of work ethic you've come to expect from an idol— but, thirty-three hours?

Jihoon's head is spinning. There's a strange, odd kind of haze settling around him, almost like he's caught between a dream and consciousness. He's tired, yes, he's more than tired, but Jihoon knows that he doesn't really need to go home to sleep.

Except he can't say no, not when your words are coming with all the weight of a command, not when you're looking at him like he's some helpless, pitiful wreck, needing some sort of care. He hates it.

He hates that you see him.

"Okay, okay," Jihoon says in a rush, standing from his chair. "I'll go home."

He's always known that any work done with you ends with him doing exactly as you say. You might have never said the words to his face before, but Jihoon isn't an idiot.

He's wrapped around your goddamn finger some days.

The thought that he's now more than willing to do whatever you want from him has never occurred to him before now, and it leaves him feeling slightly shaken, slightly unsure of everything.

It takes you both about ten minutes or so to get everything in order, then another seven minutes to head out of the company building. The relief Jihoon feels as you finally find yourselves outside is immense, even if it is a chilly, early winter evening.

You glance at your wristwatch before distractedly asking him, "You'll be okay behind the wheel?"

"'Course," he says as he fishes for his keys. For a moment, he contemplates asking if you want a ride home. It'd be out of his way, but it's something he's almost willing to bear.

Almost.

Instead, he forces himself to say, "See you. Take care."

You give the same pleasantries back before beginning your trek to the train station. Jihoon, for his part, finds his car in his designated parking space.

The drive home is the most boring and uneventful thing ever— except when Jihoon looks in his rearview mirror. The sight of you disappearing into the distance makes him feel strangely hollow and a bit wistful.

His stomach gives a weird, twisting lurch, and he's tempted to make a U turn right there and then and find a reason to be back in his company.

Maybe he'll tell you just how alone he can sometimes feel after an album is completed. How there's always this sort of lull in the days, hours after his work; how he fights it off by doing more work, even if it's not all that necessary.

He wants to ask if you ever feel the same way, too.

But you had never really been a part of that loneliness, and now you were leaving. And— just for the night— Jihoon can't help but feel more lonely than ever.

He doesn't want to be lonely.

He wants to be left alone, in a company of his own thoughts, with nothing and no one to distract him. But, for some odd reason, he wants you around.

It's almost too much to bear, so Jihoon turns the radio on louder and lets the sounds of music drown out the patter of his ragged heartbeat.

Jihoon and you are forced to reconvene a couple of days later, albeit on circumstances that neither of you are particularly fond of.

Sungsoo, the company's CEO and executive producer, is already seated at the head of the table when you walk in. Jihoon sees the way your eyes scan the meeting room; he tries not think too much of the way the tension in your shoulders seem to ease when you spot him.

The sight of you makes Jihoon's heart do a little dance, which makes him want to both pull you close and run far, far away from you.

For now, he just gives you a nod of acknowledgement and shifts his eyes back to the older man sitting across the meeting table from the both of them.

You sit across from Jihoon. Sungsoo doesn't even bother to sit; he merely launches straight in to his agenda.

"Good work on SEVENTEENTH HEAVEN," Sungsoo says right off the bat. Jihoon knows it's more of a cursory greeting than anything; there was always going to be more than just a pleasant compliment.

The other shoe drops soon enough. "I think there's more work to be done, though, specifically on three tracks," the CEO presses on.

Three tracks.

Jihoon feels his jaw clamp tightly. He's been through these kinds of corrections before, of course, both from himself and the company. Sungsoo says things about the lyrics of Back 2 Back, and the organization of Yawn, and the chorus of Diamond Days.

And while Jihoon has been through this, has needed to take things apart or put stuff together to appease the higher-ups, it's never any easier. His hands are clasped tight, and he's trying his best to hold himself together, but on the inside, he wants to scream.

This is a part of him. These are all parts of him, big and small, and it's always just a bit of a jab— to have his heart put in someone else's hand, and then to watch that heart be poked and prodded for the sake of... what? Commercial gain?

At one point, Sungsoo pauses to look between Jihoon and you. "Are you not going to take notes?" the older man asks.

You respond before Jihoon can. "Rewrite the second half of Back 2 Back, tweak the instrumentation balance and structure of Yawn, adjust the rhythm for Diamond Days' chorus," you rattle off. "I— we got it, sir."

"Right. Good," he says, and Jihoon doesn't like the condescending tone that Sungsoo uses with you, but at least it's not aimed at him.

The older man sits back in his chair, and Jihoon lets his eyes drift away from the company boss just for a moment to look at you. A strange feeling fills him. He wants to name it appreciation, wants to claim it's nothing more than a little admiration.

But then he'd be lying to himself. Because that warm kind of feeling shifts into— just a little— something a bit more than what he's supposed to be feeling for a co-producer.

Before he could dwell on this thought any longer, Sungsoo clears his throat and Jihoon quickly tunes back in. He's not thinking about that right now, and that's final.

The meeting wraps up not too long after with some parting reminders on deadlines and the upcoming comeback. Jihoon can tell by the look on your face that you're a bit dazed, and Sungsoo's parting words only add gasoline to the fire.

The CEO says both your names as he readies to dismiss you. "The two of you are a good pair," he notes, and Jihoon almost short-circuits.

Pair.

Right. A good pair of co-producers. Not anything else, not anything more.

Both of you mumble your appreciation for the CEO's remark. And Jihoon, like the fool that he is, feels that warm, fuzzy glow bloom again. He doesn't care what it signifies; at the moment, he's just too happy to work with you again.

By the time you head back to his studio, there's not much that either of you can really say. Marathon edits were not new to either of you; you both slide in to work mode without much preamble.

The music starts playing and the edits start pouring in, and the five or six hours spent on the three tracks fly by without Jihoon even noticing it. It gets to the point where he's working on autopilot— one hand on the mouse, fingers flying across the keyboard.

The thing about working on autopilot was that it made the process quicker but left little room to feel or think, which was both a blessing and a curse.

At the six-hour mark, he finally deigns to glance at you. Your gaze is focused on the digital audio workstation as you cut some low frequencies from the guitar on Diamond Days, but there's a slight quiver in your hands as you do it.

While Jihoon doesn't see what you're having trouble with, he can sense that you're off. He knows the signs of stress and exhaustion better than most, what with the hours he puts in.

"Aigo," he calls out to you, and his voice is a little raspy— hoarse— because he's been humming and singing for the better half of the evening. "Are you okay?"

"Still in the green," you say wryly. You had a bit of a traffic light system to refer to when talking about how far gone either of you were.

He watches intently as you implement the changes to Diamond Days, as you give a disapproving shake of your head at the revision. Still not to your standard.

Of course you wouldn't be at the red light stage— not even close, he muses. But in Jihoon's head, there was already one foot on the red light spectrum— and it wasn't just because of the revisions.

"Let's take a break," he suggests.

The idea comes out of absolutely nowhere, even for him. A break—? When was the last time he had voluntarily done that?

Jihoon's been having more questions than answers lately, but he just chalks it all up to being stressed. And maybe a little tired.

Anything except what it really is.

This time, you actually do glance up from the workstation. There's mild surprise on your expression as you tease, "Yah, who are you and what have you done to the indomitable WOOZI?"

"Huh?" he deflects. For a brief moment, he almost feels a little shy around you.

"I'm just bored," he explains, and he's surprised that he can lie so well and sound so casual. "You don't need to come if you don't want to. I just wanted to get some air."

But of course you're coming, already pushing back against the table at the rare invite from Jihoon. "The usual?" you prompt.

To others, a 'usual' might have indicated a trip to the cafeteria, a smoke break on the sidewalk. But Jihoon and you both hated the company's food and neither of you smoked, and so your breaks were spent somewhere a little more unorthodox.

"The usual," he agrees.

He leads you across the company building, the walk to your destination full of comfortable silence. Eventually, you make it to your designated break place: The company's rooftop.

Jihoon takes his usual seat at the far end while you sit closer to the ledge. The atmosphere is thick and humid from the weather, but there's a breeze to keep the heat bearable.

When Jihoon said he wanted to get some air, he meant it quite literally.

He doesn't want to give away his real intentions on calling for the break. Still, he can't help the question that slides out of him as he watches the glittering lights of Seoul beneath the two of you.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asks, glancing at you.

"I am," you answer quietly, your gaze still fixed on the city. "Thanks, Jihoon-ah. I needed this."

He almost smiles. "Of course."

This was the first time since he's met you that he'd asked you to do something just because he thought you needed it. And it isn't long until that fact has Jihoon wondering why the heck he's been putting things off so much lately.

He doesn't get to mull over his thoughts for long though— not when there's a sudden urge to do another thing that he realizes he hasn't ever done.

He takes out his phone and opens up the camera app. "Yah," he calls. "Look here for a second."

You do as he asks, glancing over your shoulder, and the soft click of his phone breaks through the white noise of the city below. When you let out a surprised laugh, he thinks it's the second best thing he's ever heard. Only after music.

"What are you doing?" you chide, a bit of a giggle in your tone as you raise your hand— palm facing Jihoon— to your face, as if trying to shy away from the camera.

"I don't know," he admits. A laugh tumbles out of him, and he knows he's blushing— but he's not ashamed of it this time, not really.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," he assures you. He holds in a chuckle at the way you're blocking your face and snaps another picture.

Maybe he's delirious from all his work. That has to be it, he thinks, as he clicks away despite your sputtered protests.

"Alright, fine," you huff, feigning annoyance. And then— oh.

You brace your hands against the ledge and tilt your head to one side so you can flash Jihoon an easy, practiced grin. "Cheese," you sing-song.

It takes quite a lot of willpower for Jihoon not to just sit and stare, that strange feeling welling inside of him coming to fore. He's not proud of it, but it's there, and the fact that there's something about you that makes him feel this way makes everything a little bit more complicated.

"Cheese," he agrees, taking just one more picture of you.

He knows he's smiling too hard, his eyes turning in to crescents with just how damn fond he feels to be snapping photos at your side.

You can never tell from the expression on his face, but he's wrecked with the knowledge that he had just done three things he had never done before:

He's asked you to do something solely because he thought you needed it.

He's taken a picture of you (with your knowledge, this time).

And he's let this thing he has for you be so in control of him.

It's a damning thing, he muses as he tucks his phone away. What would happen next was up to the universe.

Admittedly, it almost all felt like a test, and Jihoon is terrified he had failed.

But then you reach out, your hand casually resting atop of Jihoon's. You don't clasp your hands together or intertwine your fingers. You merely keep it there as you cast your gaze back down at the city, like you're giving Jihoon a chance to pull away.

It's almost instinctual, how he turns his hand over and links his fingers together with yours. His fingers are longer, so your fingertips curl over his and you’re left holding his hand for the first time.

You don't say a thing about it. Jihoon tries to rationalize the action on your behalf. Maybe you're just delirious and tired, too. Maybe it's cold and you need something to hold on to. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

All the while, his heart thumps in his chest.

Did he even deserve this? Was this okay?

Would it be okay if he just sat there, looking down onto the city, holding your hand and nothing more?

His brain refrains the earlier remark he'd given you. It doesn't have to mean anything. It's just a hand in his, a quiet evening, a moment that will eventually pass.

It doesn't have to mean anything, but why does Jihoon want it to?

Back in the studio, neither of you say a word. Not about the photos of you that Jihoon now has in his phone; not about the way you initiated holding his hand. Not about how the two of you held on for just a bit too long before heading back from your break.

The two of you do what you do best: You throw ourselves in to the last of your work.

It takes you two a record of fifteen minutes to fix what had been wrong with Diamond Days, and then some twenty more minutes to make sure the three other tracks are alright. Jihoon does the honors of sending them over to Sungsoo for some final checks.

Once the email goes through, you lean back in to the couch of Jihoon's studio. "And now we wait," you exhale, sounding equally exhausted and elated.

With your work for the day done, it feels like whatever veil of formality had held the mini-album together is broken— and you're now just two people in Jihoon's workplace, tired, and done working for the day.

Jihoon stretches his arms out and sags against his chair, letting out a groan.

"And now we wait," he repeats. A beat, as he keeps his eyes trained to the ceiling. Then, softly, he adds, "You did good, you know."

He sees you glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. "You, too," you offer quietly, sincerely. "You did well, Jihoon-ah."

His eyes remain on the ceiling, his mind taking him back to how it felt when your hand rested atop of his. It had felt strange and it had felt good— and the fact that you'd so boldly initiated it in the first place made it even better.

The thought that there was a possibility of it being a one-time thing made him almost want to cry, for whatever reason.

It's just so weird, and Jihoon has never felt like this before. He's never caught in a complicated sort of feeling like this. But the way you'd held his hand was different— and the more thoughts he thought about it, he realized that your touch was different from the touch of anyone else's.

"Can we talk for a second?" is all he finds himself able to ask, and it's a surprise to him— considering how much the two of you have never talked about things that were just about you and him.

Still, he wonders that perhaps now, with everything that's happened here, there was something he needed to tell you. Something he wanted you to know.

He hears you shifting on the couch, spots a corner of your lip quirking upward in a show of interest. When he fully turns to look at you, he notices the way you've braced yourself against the back of the couch to meet his gaze.

"Sure," you say. "What's on your mind?"

Jihoon rubs his hand over his mouth as he thinks of a way to articulate his thoughts.

There are so many words here that don't need to be said. There are some words that he wants to say but that you simply don't need to hear.

There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but he needed to filter them very well because he wasn't sure if they'd cause a misunderstanding.

"I'd like to keep doing this," is what eventually comes out.

His fingers find his earlobe out of nervousness. His heartrate only seems to spike when you stare back at him for a moment, your eyebrows raised like you're waiting to see if he'll elaborate.

And so elaborate he does. "All of this," he goes on. "Producing for the group, collaborating with you, just… seeing you and talking to you and… having you around."

It feels a bit weird to express after three years of working alongside each other, but it's also the first explicit admittance Jihoon has made abut wanting to keep up your collaboration.

He's not surprised when you try to pass it off with some humor. "I'll stick around for as long as you'll have me," you say almost jokingly, but there's almost a desperate weight of truth in your words.

Jihoon sighs, his expression tightening. There was a whole lot he wanted to say to you— he wanted to make a lot of things very clear— but he also wanted to keep whatever was blooming between the two of you going.

He tries not to dwell on it. Not now, with his feelings as fresh as they were.

"I've been thinking," he starts, his voice quieter now. "Maybe we could… get to know each other or something. Spend the day together— away from the company. Away from this life. Just as… two normal adults."

Another pause.

"Are you asking me out on a date, Jihoon-ah?" you kid after a torturous minute.

Jihoon goes quiet for a moment, the gears turning in his head.

He really was asking you out on a date, wasn't he? How would he even spin this as something simple and innocent?

What had he been expecting in return when he asked you? Why did he ask in the first place if it wasn't to actually find out who you were and why you were the only person he could really say he wanted to spend time with?

Questions, no answers. He's going to go insane.

"You know what," he blurts out before he can lose his nerve. "Yeah. Yes, I am asking you out on a date."

You're both stunned in to silence, and you look like you're just about to say what you should. A 'no'. Something about this not being proper.

But then there's a faint ding from Jihoon's laptop, and he glances over just in time to see that Sungsoo had responded in the affirmative to your revisions for the group's eleventh mini-album.

A stuttering, relieved breath escapes you. Jihoon, for his part, lets out a huff, his shoulders falling. He hadn't even meant to ask you out on a date; he was only going to ask you to spend the day with him.

Now, though, it was out in the open. And he'll be damned to take it back.

"Looks like we're free now," he muses, far too prideful to let Sungsoo derail this conversation. Jihoon's voice is edged with hope as he goes on, "So, what do you say?"

Jihoon has no way of knowing this, but you admire his persistence. When you laugh, it's what changes your mind, what privately convinces you to take him up on his offer.

Because Jihoon had still somehow managed to make you laugh despite it all.

"You know what? Okay," you say readily, one shoulder raising in half a shrug. "Let's go on a date next week, Jihoon-ah."

It would definitely beat sitting in Jihoon's studio, alone and bored, until Sungsoo had sent over their next project.

"Okay," he repeats, his lips curling in a tentative smile. "I'll let you know what plans I come up with, then."

"Alright." You're already rising from the studio couch, preparing to take your leave for the evening.

As you gather your things, Jihoon tries to look back at his workstation instead. Like the sight of it might somehow give him the answers to where to take you, what to do, how to go about all this.

You pause at the door of his studio. "Text me," you say.

It's nothing short of a miracle, how Jihoon is able to respond "I will."

And then you're gone, but the loss doesn't feel as prominent as it usually does. Because now, Jihoon has something to look forward to.

He doesn't remember the last time he allowed himself to be so selfish.

His thoughts over the next few days are consumed with the upcoming date.

Everything he does seems to center around how the date will go, where he'll bring you, and how he would survive a day in your presence without completely humiliating himself.

He takes his time planning. By the time next week rolls around, he's a mess.

His ears are burning as he dials your number and presses the call button.

Your tone is casual on the other line. "Hey, Jihoon-ah," you greet. "What's up?"

Jihoon takes a moment to just hear your voice. He internally groans at how a simple what's up already has his heart rate picking up like nobody's business.

"Hey," he finally says after he gathers himself, his free hand shoving into his pocket. He's pacing his apartment bedroom, fighting for his life to keep calm. "I… just wanted to call about tomorrow."

When you respond, your voice is cautious. "Sure. What about tomorrow?"

There's a slight pause again, and Jihoon can already feel the sweat forming on the inside of his palm.

Surely, you wouldn't think he was calling to cancel? Why would he have waited until the day before?

"Just needed to ask you about something," he admits, his free hand coming up to fiddle with the hair on one side of his ear. "I just wanted to… ask a question. Uh…"

"What… are you going to be wearing?" he finally spits out, his face already going red as the words leave his mouth.

Why the fuck can't he be cool about this? Why can't he be casual and chill about the date and about seeing you? It's so goddamn frustrating— he needed to get a handle on himself and soon, he thinks with despair.

"Oh. Uh…" From the other end of the phone, you seem to be shuffling around. "I was actually going to ask what our plans were," you admit rather meekly. "So I can dress accordingly."

Jihoon's eyes widen, and for a moment, he feels even more like an idiot than he usually does.

You had no idea where you were going, he realizes, and as a result— you had no idea what to wear.

"Oh… right," he says, mentally facepalming himself. He was supposed to be the one giving you information, not the other way around. "Yeah, okay. That makes sense."

He takes a second or two to collect himself, because— God, he did not want to mess this up. If you found out about the amount of work and effort he'd put in this thing, you'd definitely laugh at him.

"Nothing too formal, but don't be super casual," he says slowly. "You'll want a jacket, maybe. And wear comfortable shoes."

He takes another deep breath, steadying himself before he adds, "And I'm going to pick you up at ten. Is that alright?"

Jihoon's instructions are a touch on the vague side, but you don't seem to mind as you let out a huff of amused laughter. "Dress warm, comfortable jacket and shoes, ten in the morning," you repeat. "Okay. Got it."

You go on, "I'll text you my address. I— we've known each other so long, but I don't think you've ever come over, have you?"

Another good point. Jihoon and you spent most of your time at the company. There were rare occasions where you'd join the group's post-comeback celebrations with the rest of the staff, but those were always at some rented-out restobar.

"Yeah. Well. Just text me, then," he says lamely, already mentally berating himself for how much of a fool he's acting. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow, Jihoon-ah," you bid, and he can hear the smile in your voice.

Just like that, Jihoon's heart rate picks up again— except this time, it's not just nervousness he feels.

There's that strange sense of anticipation, the slight thrill of excitement he gets with the mere thought of seeing you the next day, and he nearly lets out an exhale to quell all those feelings.

"See you," he says finally, his voice barely above a murmur.

And then suddenly— he's hanging up, the realization of everything finally settling on him. This was actually happening.

He sits on his bed for a moment, just mulling over the conversation, before he lets himself fall back onto the mattress in horror. He had just hung up, hadn't he? Did he even say goodbye? Did he even say something nice? He was a mess.

He lets out a long, pitiful whine in to a pillow as he wonders for a second or two if he should call back just to say good night to you properly.

In the end, he decides against it. He didn't want to come off as desperate and it was pretty likely that he'd just dig a deeper hole for himself.

Still, he can't help but let out an annoyed, strangled sound as he turns to look at the ceiling.

He was going to have to put a lot of effort if he didn't want to embarrass the hell out of himself.

Come the next day, Jihoon is standing outside your apartment at exactly ten in the morning.

He knocks almost tentatively, and he's only a little surprised that you swing the door open without missing a beat.

You flash him a smile in greeting. "Come in," you say, ushering him in to what he can only describe as uncharted territory. "Can I get you something to drink? Water, juice?"

He's so tripped up over how you look— the smart-casual outfit, focused on warmth, as he'd advised— that he almost misses the offer.

"Ah," he stutters. Barely a minute in and I'm already done for, he thinks ruefully. "Do you have— cola?"

You give a small sound of assent as you move further in to your apartment, towards what he assumes is the kitchen. "Make yourself at home," you call, and Jihoon is left to bear witness to your space.

It looks very much like that of an artist's. There's floor-to-ceiling corkboards on almost every wall and a blackboard full of chalk markings— bearing everything from concepts to half-finished lyrics.

You have bookshelves groaning under the weight of music albums— Jihoon sees a number of SEVENTEEN's— and instruments crammed in to nooks and crannies.

He suddenly remembers how, for some reason, you had never really let him come over to your apartment before. And now, he understands why, because your apartment almost felt like a reflection of your own brain— chaotic, but brilliant. It was a creative genius's studio, and it was more than just a little bit captivating.

You return with a can of Coke. "It's a lot, isn't it?" you muse.

Jihoon shakes his head. It is a lot. But also— he knows how gifted you are, knows how driven you can be. Seeing it here, so openly on display, has something stammering in his chest.

"Is this all your work?" he asks a moment later, still glancing around. "Is this… everything you've been working on? You've been keeping it here?"

"Not all of us have separate studios," you shoot back. There's an easy smile on your face, indicating that you're just teasing.

When you seem to realize that your initial jab hasn't answered Jihoon's question, you amend, "It's not all of my work. You should see my childhood bedroom back in Jeju."

"Jesus," he says with a slight chuckle, his fingers pressing around the metal of his soda can.

He doesn't know why the thought of your childhood room in Jeju having more of this surprises him. But, then again, that was just the kind of person you were. An ambitious, freethinking, creative genius, the same qualities he'd grown to appreciate over time.

And now he was about to go on a date with you. How the hell had he gotten this lucky?

He isn't quite sure what compels him. All he knows is that the question, almost rhetorical in nature, is out of his mouth before he can reel it back in.

"You really love music, don't you?"

The question seems to throw you off-kilter, but you recover surprisingly fast. You're thoughtfully smoothing out the patches on your denim jacket as you retort, "I love it about as much as you do."

If it had been any other person, Jihoon might have scoffed, might have privately thought they were cocky or just outright lying. But it's you, and his heart twists in to a knot at the thought of how willing he is to accept that cardinal truth.

That you and him loved music in equal measure.

In a hopeless attempt to collect himself, he shoots back his soda in several big gulps. The carbonated drink burns as it goes down his throat; he forces it to stay down.

"We should probably get going," he prompts once he's done with his drink.

"Right, of course."

You go to throw away his empty soda can for him, and the way you move makes it abundantly clear that you're unaware of the effect you have on him.

As the two of you step out of your apartment and find your way to Jihoon's car, he can only hope that it won't be that long of an afternoon.

Despite the way he keeps both hands on the steering wheel, Jihoon can still feel the nerves racing up and down his spine. He's nervous, excited, his emotions a mess as he tries to get himself together.

He can't believe that after years of talking about music and just working together, after all this goddamn time, you were finally going on a date together.

The car radio is just a touch too loud, which is to be expected, considering that it was Jihoon's vehicle. You have to pitch your voice above it to be audible.

"Where are we going?" you ask as he peels in to traffic.

"You'll see when we get there," he responds.

The disapproving pinch of your expression draws a laugh out of him. He doesn't give you the opportunity to press any longer as he fiddles with the radio dial, upping the volume just a touch more.

He'd planned this date carefully after spending far too much time agonizing over all the details. He was damned if he wasn't going to keep some things in the dark.

It's a quiet drive for the most part, with only the radio keeping the silence from being too deafening. But, frankly, Jihoon isn't too bothered by the silence because it gives him ample time to collect his thoughts, to try not to focus on the way your hand is right there, a few inches away from his on the gear shift.

He keeps his eyes on the road, keeps his expression neutral, and keeps his cards as close to his chest as possible.

Once Jihoon is finally pulling in to a parking lot, he manages to find his voice. "We're here," he notes, like it's not the most obvious thing in the world.

He waits a moment for you to also unbuckle your seatbelts, and only then does he climb out of the car. He quickly walks around to your side, pulling open the door for you and gesturing for you to follow him as he crosses the parking lot.

"What is 'here', exactly?" you ask Jihoon as you walk up to the building in front of you. It looks rather unassuming; nothing on the outside giving out what it might be. Just white walls and a sign outside that's still too far to read.

Jihoon catches the way you try to make out the sign, and he can't help but find himself feeling a touch flustered because goddammit, was he allowed to find everything you did endearing?

He clears his throat before finally answering. "A planetarium."

Now, Jihoon definitely doesn't miss the way your eyes widen, nor the small tone of excitement that betrays the otherwise casualness of your voice.

"That's cool," you say with your hands shoved in to the pockets of your jacket. "Never been to one before."

He can clearly see how excited you'd gotten just at hearing where he'd brought you. And, frankly, it just makes his pulse race all that much more.

"Well, let's go in and have a look then, shall we?" he offers, his voice a little on the quieter side as he tries valiantly to not mimic your excitement.

As you approach the building façade, the signage comes in to better view. It boasts of an immersive planetarium experience, but what stops you dead in your tracks is a note tacked on the front door.

Closed for a private event.

"Oh?" you're saying, a slight edge of disappointment in your tone. "It's looks like it's—"

But before you can finish your sentence, the door is pulling open, and an important-looking man— the manager— is already stepping up to address Jihoon.

"Mr. Lee, right on time," the employee greets with a bow. "We've set everything up for you."

The oh that escapes you, this time, is a lot softer.

Jihoon can't help the small grin that immediately works its way across his lips at your reaction. He'd been hoping to catch you by surprise, and he can tell that it worked.

He gives a polite, somewhat formal half-bow in return to the manager before glancing over his shoulder to you. There's a hint of smugness in his voice as his gaze lands on you again. "C'mon," he says as he starts making his way in to the planetarium.

The inside is mostly dark; Jihoon gives his eyes a moment to adjust to the change. There's no one else here but the two of you, and Jihoon isn't really complaining about the emptiness. It just means he can have you all to himself, without having to worry about having anyone else around.

He can hear your footsteps, following behind him, and he has to mentally remind himself to keep himself together before he finally glances over his shoulder at you.

"Surprised?" he teases, the ghost of a smirk making its way on to his face.

He revels in the look of awe on your face, the way you all but ignore him to pull a couple of steps ahead. You're surveying the lobby like it's already the main exhibit, and Jihoon has the sudden urge to rent out every gallery in Seoul for you to see.

Your next words are one-two punch on Jihoon's poor, poor heart. "I think you've got some nerve, Jihoon-ah, pulling out all the stops on our first date," you muse, your face still upturned to the entryway.

Jihoon almost trips right over his own two feet as the casualness of your words registers in his mind.

Multiple dates. You were implying that there might be multiple dates to follow. That you wanted there to be multiple dates.

He takes a quick breath, trying to maintain any semblance of a nonchalant attitude as he responds. "What?" he says, the smirk just a touch more shaky on his lips. "You think this is 'going all out'?"

He continues to walk, catching up to you a few moments later. "I'm offended. How dare you think that I'd settle for anything less than perfection."

"If this isn't 'all out' yet for you," you quip. "I'm a bit nervous as to what is."

He only responds with a small chuckle. "You'll see."

He leads you to the next room over, and this particular one is far more darker. The only source of light is from the projector against the back wall, projecting a constellation map on the opposite wall.

Jihoon glances over his shoulder once more, watching the small look of wonder on your face. He leads you to a small couch in the center of the room before sitting comfortably beside you on it.

His face is partially illuminated by the lights of the projector, and he can clearly see the way you're taking in everything around him.

"You like it, hm?" he gently prods, watching you again.

It's a lot to take in, honestly. The high ceiling, the projected constellations, the lights dancing across both your faces. Even the way the room has been rearranged— the single plush couch, the type that allows you to recline and gaze up at the faux sky of constellations— is all so damn good.

"I like it," you concede, your voice barely above a murmur. You speak like you're scared that talking any louder will break an illusion. "It's— yah, Jihoon-ah. It's so pretty."

In that moment, Jihoon almost forgets how to breathe.

There's something so soft and gentle and fond to your voice as you speak, and the way your words came out almost reverently does something to Jihoon that he couldn't quite explain.

"Pretty," he repeats, eyes still trained on you. "It is, isn't it?"

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a long time; Jihoon still watching you instead of the exhibit. You didn't just say it was pretty. You'd said it with words and tone and expression that told him just how much you loved it.

Christ, he was a goner. He was far gone for you.

After what feels like both an eternity and a second at the same time, Jihoon finally shifts his gaze away from you, glancing up at the ceiling above him. He's quiet for a few more moments before he finally speaks again.

"Y'know…" He starts, the sound of his voice just a touch quieter than usual. "When I was a kid, I always thought the stars were my favorite thing."

Jihoon glances over at you again, noticing the way you were still practically enchanted by the projected stars above you. It makes him bite back a small, amused smile, before he continues.

"I used to sit out in the field by my house and count them, name them, make up my own stories for each of them. I thought they were the most magical, most incredible things in the whole universe."

He thinks of his home back in Busan, the way the moon reflected over the sea water. He thinks of a version of him from lifetimes ago— a boy he'll never be again.

He almost misses him.

Jihoon lets out a soft huff. "And then I got older, and life got really shitty and busy, and..." His voice falters a bit. "The stars were no longer as important to me as they were before."

He exhales, the sound filling the quiet room. He can feel you listening, can feel you taking in every sincere word of his. And that's enough. That means something.

"But..." He goes on quietly. "Sometimes, there are moments that come, and the only things that matter are the stars again."

It's just like Jihoon to spew something poetic without pretense or shame. In his peripheral, he sees you glancing at him, and it takes everything for him to not let this feeling overwhelm him.

"I hope you have more moments like that, then," you say, your voice equally soft.

There was something so endearing about the sentiment you'd said, and he knew that you meant every word of it. And that made it all so much worse for his heart.

He's so whipped, it almost makes him want to laugh.

This is one of those moments, he almost says. Even if it's not real stars.

He can't help it anymore. Despite all the times he's had to keep up his usually cool, calm demeanor with you, despite his usual attitude, despite his usual shyness, the urge is just too much and—

He slides his arm around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer.

That was one thing the stars could do: Give him a bit of courage.

When you don't resist his gentle tugging, he figures he can do just one more thing.

His free hand moves to your chin, gently coaxing your head up so that you’re looking at a specific point up at the ceiling.

You're so focused on the stars, you barely even register the sound of Jihoon’s voice again.

"The most special stars," he murmurs. "They all have names."

He’s still speaking into your ear, and you can feel his warm breath against your skin. "That one," he says, his voice like gravel. He slowly, carefully tilts your chin up just a little more. Coaxing you to look up even further. "Is my favorite."

His calmness is belied by the fact that his heart is a jackhammer in his chest. All he can do, really, is try to get you to look at one of the larger stars that's almost dead center in the middle.

"Why is it your favorite?" you inquire, the genuine curiosity in your tone almost mistakable for breathlessness.

"It's the brightest star in the entire sky." His gaze darts between the star and your face, the shadows of the room hiding the way his chest tightens at the sight of you listening intently. "It's called Sirius."

His voice is still soft, but there's a new note to it that you've never heard before. It's quiet, reverent, almost like he's about to tell you a secret.

"The Romans called it the 'dog star'," he continues. "Because it's the brightest star in Canis Major, the big dog constellation."

He lowers his head a little so that his chin is almost resting on your shoulder, and his arm around your shoulders tightens just a fraction.

"But to the Chinese, it was known as the 'heavenly river commander'," he goes on. "And the Arabs called it the 'chief star in heaven'."

Jihoon is getting nervous, now, but he has to do this. He has to.

It feels like the first flicker of a neon sign as he goes on, "To all those different people, it was all of those things. To me—"

He pauses, feeling the words stick in his Adam's apple.

The brightest star in the night sky.

For the longest time, Jihoon had wondered whether he would find something to call it, too. The closest he's come has been the boys, his music.

But that felt like an understatement. They weren't just a group, after all; they were his whole life. And so it was more apt to describe them as the universe, as the entire planetarium.

Which left him with the brightest star—

"To you?" you repeat, tilting your head back to meet Jihoon's gaze head on.

"What's it called to you?" you prompt.

In the relative darkness, he can't read you as well as he might have wanted.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't change what's he's going to say, anyway.

He gives you his answer—

He says your name.

And then he leans in— his heart at your feet, all yours for the taking.

[studioeisa]

take my word for it 🧭 junhui x reader.

when bitterness bites, novelty is nectar.

★ almost-lovers junhui x reader. ★ part of the angst olympics collaboration & my personal buzz (seventeen's version) project. ★ word count: 2.9k ★ genre/warnings: angst, childhood friends, idiots in love, right person/wrong time. obscene use of em-dashes (sorry). based on NIKI's take care. ★ footnotes: this is an overdue update to buzz (svt's version), and my official entry to me & the bestiesss' angst collaboration 🫶 missing junhui hours are always open, i fear.

The first time you see Jun again, it’s been three years. 

You don’t realize how much time has passed until he’s standing in front of you, taller than you remember, sharper in the angles of his face, but with the same lopsided grin that once got him out of trouble with your teachers.

“You’re late,” you tell him, though your annoyance is betrayed by the smile threatening to fill your face. 

Jun snorts, adjusting his cap lower over his eyes, though it does little to hide the way they crinkle at the corners. “Nah,” he says. “I think I’m just on time.” 

He isn’t, you want to insist. He’s thirty minutes late. (Maybe years late, if you really think about it.) But there are only so many hours that you and Jun have with each other, and you don’t want to squander it with a petty argument. 

You’re standing outside a familiar café tucked into a quieter part of Nanshan, the same place you used to visit after school when Jun had big dreams and no schedule to keep him away. He used to drape himself over the chairs, drinking lemon tea and sighing dramatically about one thing or the other. 

Now, he’s here on a two-month film shoot. Slipping into your hometown like a whisper, never staying long enough to settle.

You push open the door, the bell chiming softly as you step inside. The place hasn’t changed much— same dark wooden tables, same warm scent of coffee and osmanthus pastries. It feels almost untouched by time. A sharp contrast to Jun, who moves with the ease of someone who belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

The two of you take a seat in the corner. The air between you should feel heavy with all the things unsaid, but it doesn’t. Jun always knew how to make things easy.

“So,” he starts, stirring his iced coffee with a straw, “care to tell me just how much you missed me?” 

You scoff. What an opener. He keeps you waiting for half an hour, and the first thing he does is try and wheedle a confession out of you. 

“Not a lot,” you shoot back. I catch you on television plenty of times, you consider saying. You’re on the billboards I see on my morning commute. You’re right there, whenever I open SNS. How could I miss you? It’s like you never left. 

“Ouch.” Jun clutches his chest, feigning hurt. “I come all this way, and this is the welcome I get?” 

You shake your head, fighting down a smile. Like he’s never left, indeed. 

The conversation flows as it always has—effortless, like slipping into an old song. You talk about your job, your family, how your parents still ask about him like he’s their long-lost son. He tells you about the movie, about co-stars you only vaguely recognize, about how his director keeps yelling at him to stop using his “idol face” when he acts.

Time bends and blurs. It’s too easy to pretend nothing has changed, that he isn’t someone the world watches with hungry eyes, that you’re both still sixteen and untouchable.

Then, somewhere between the laughter and the nostalgia, the conversation stills.

Jun looks at you, really looks at you, and something in his expression shifts.

Don’t, you mentally beg him as you avoid his gaze. Don’t say what’s both on our minds. Don’t make it real. Don’t make me want— 

“Have you—” He hesitates, taps his fingers against the table. “Have you ever thought about leaving Shenzen?” 

You blink. “What?” 

You’re suddenly acutely aware of the shared language you speak and how it’s marred by minute differences. You, with your unburdened Mandarin; Jun, whose accent carries hints of all the places he’s been. All the people he has to be. 

He tilts his head and studies you like he’s memorizing something. “You always talked about going somewhere else. Trying something new.” 

The words feel like a physical blow to the chest. 

There’s no delicate way to put it. That ‘you’ who had dreamed of bigger things and faraway places was a distant memory. That was a version of you who hasn’t existed in a long, long time. 

That was a version of you that once existed alongside a starry-eyed Jun, but the stars in your friend’s eyes have long since burned out— snuffed by the weight of his responsibilities. 

You plaster on a smile. “Not everybody gets to chase their dreams, Junnie,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. 

His lips press together in a thin, disappointed line. “I know.” He glances away, around the café that once witnessed all your scheming, before he fixes that searching look back on you. “But you should have.” 

The words sit between you. Neither heavy nor light, just true.

A part of you wants to ask if he ever thought about staying. If he ever looked back. If he ever wondered what would have happened if he had been a little less brilliant, a little less meant for something bigger.

But you don’t.

Instead, you sip at your drink and ask Jun about Jackie Chan. About the twelve boys he calls brothers. About everything that has to do with nothing, just so neither of you have to deal with the suffocating elephant in the room. 

The night ends quietly as it began. Outside, the Shenzhen air is thick with the lingering warmth of spring, the streets humming with soft life. You and Jun walk together for a while, your arms brushing but never quite linking.

There’s a metaphor here somewhere, you think amusedly, and you fight the urge to tease Jun about it. 

For ten points, you almost ask him, can you tell me why we won’t just hold hands, Wen Junhui? 

At the corner where the roads split— his back to his hotel, yours towards home— the two of you hesitate. Jun grins, tilting his head. “Are you gonna say it, or should I?”

You shake your head, exhaling. “Take care, superstar.”

His smile softens. You used to call him that all the time, used to tout his impending stardom like it was as certain as the blueness of the sky. “Yeah,” he says. “See you around, alright?” 

You nod, but you don’t look back.

And Jun— Jun watches you disappear down the street before turning away, hands in his pockets. He whistles a tune neither of you ever got the chance to finish.

It’s been two years since you last saw Jun.

This time, you don’t meet at a café. There are no warm pastries or quiet corners, no scent of lemon tea curling through the air. Instead, there’s the sharp scent of rain-soaked pavement and the dull glow of a street lamp flickering above you.

You weren’t supposed to see him today.

You had known he was back— of course you did. His face was impossible to miss, plastered across the city on every advertisement, playing in every store you walked past. He was here for another movie, another fleeting return, and you had told yourself you wouldn’t reach out this time. Why say ‘hello’ if you would only be risking another ‘goodbye’? 

You spot him first, half-hidden beneath the awning of a convenience store, scrolling idly through his phone. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His cap is pulled low, his shoulders hunched against the drizzle, but it’s him. You’d know him anywhere.

You could walk away.

You should walk away.

But instead, you step forward, letting your umbrella tilt slightly so the rain dampens your sleeve. “Didn’t peg you for the type to loiter outside a convenience store like a delinquent,” you joke.

Jun looks up, startled, and then his face splits into a slow, disbelieving grin. “And I didn’t peg you for the type to stalk me.”

There it is. The first words exchanged in what feels like a lifetime. It’s like a Band-Aid to a bullet wound— a cut put there by Jun’s texts that have gone unanswered. Let’s meet up, he had asked you days ago, and you let the message collect dust in your inbox. 

A part of you dreads the thought of him bringing it up. Here, now. But Jun also knows better. Knows why the two of you can’t keep indulging each other. 

But fate seems to have other plans.

“You’re the one standing outside my usual store,” you shoot back with a half-hearted roll of your eyes. 

He laughs, soft and familiar, and suddenly the past two years don’t feel so far away.

“Guess that means I owe you something,” he says, nudging open the door with his shoulder. “Come in. I’ll buy you a drink.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You should say something polite and leave, pretend you never saw him, pretend this doesn’t mean something. But then Jun lifts an eyebrow, tilting his head in that way he always does when he knows he’s winning, and you find yourself following him inside. 

You always did let him win, didn’t you? 

The store is nearly empty. The hum of the refrigerator and the occasional beeping of the cashier scanning items are the only sounds filling the silence. You make a beeline for the drink aisle, Jun trailing behind you.

“You still drink lemon tea?” he asks, side-stepping you. 

You nod. He plucks a can from the shelf without hesitation before grabbing a coffee for himself. 

You remembered, you think, and the thought must be clear as day on your face because Jun lets out a snort of laughter when he looks at you. “What kind of monster forgets their best friend’s favorite drink?” he quips.

There it is again. That careful, unspoken line. Best friend. Like a safety net stretched between you, always just enough to keep the two of you from falling. 

You don’t respond, just follow him to the counter where he pays, ignoring the way the cashier does a double take when she recognizes him.

Outside, the rain has slowed to a drizzle.

“You have somewhere to be?” Jun asks, handing you the can. 

In the corner of your eye, you can see the cashier fiddling with her phone. Probably trying to look up Jun. 

You shake your head.

“Walk with me for a bit,” he says, and it’s a plea as much as it’s a question. 

So you walk. Past neon-lit storefronts, past the murmuring voices of late-night diners, past streets that still hold echoes of your childhood. One of the few things that you still share.

Jun talks about the film, about how he barely has time to sleep, about how his co-star is absurdly talented and makes him feel like a rookie again. You listen, nodding in the right places, letting his voice fill the spaces between you.

He gives. You take. It’s always been this way. 

You’re in more familiar neighborhoods when Jun asks you, blunt as ever, “Have you been happy?” 

You don’t know how to answer.

You think about your job, steady but unremarkable. You think about your apartment, neat and quiet. You think about the life you’ve built, the one you never dreamed of but somehow ended up with anyway.

You think about how the only time you ever feel sixteen again is when Jun is standing beside you.

“I’m fine,” you say at last. “I have everything I need.”

Almost everything, you add in your mind as your free hand twitches at your side. The empty spaces between your fingers feel glaringly obvious, feel like some place where Jun could rest if he deigned to. 

Jun studies you for a long moment. Then he hums, low and thoughtful, and turns his gaze back to the road. The walk continues, but something has shifted. The silence is heavier, the air thicker. The distance between you is measured in more than just footsteps now.

You stop at the same corner as last time. His hotel. Your apartment. 

Jun shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels. “I leave in two weeks,” he says. 

“I figured,” you respond. Not unkindly. 

“Maybe we can—” he starts, and that mental litany starts up in your head once again. 

Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to yourself. 

He hears it, he must, because he trails off and shakes his head like he’s ridding himself of wishful thinking. “Nevermind.” 

It’s the smartest thing he’s done tonight. You lift your can of lemon tea in a mock toast. 

Here’s to us, you want to say, the two biggest idiots in the goddamn world. 

Instead, you leave him with the usual. “Take care, Junnie.” 

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Always,” he shoots back. “Take it easy, you.”

Again: You don’t look back. 

And Jun— Jun watches until you’re gone before turning away, taking slow steps back into a city that no longer feels like home.

This time, it’s been four years. 

Four years of Jun slipping in and out of Shenzhen like a ghost, four years of you pretending not to notice. You’ve kept track, of course. Not through texts— those stopped after the last time— but through the city itself. His presence lingers in the posters at subway stations, in the muted sound of his voice filtering through a store’s speakers, in the occasional mention of his name in casual conversation.

You told yourself you wouldn’t see him again. That after the last time, after the rain-soaked streets and the unfinished words, there was no point in waiting for another return.

Your bags are packed, your ticket is in hand, and Shenzhen— the city that once held all your dreams and disappointments— is about to be nothing more than a place you used to belong to.

And yet, somehow, in this vast, transient space of the airport terminal, you find him.

Or maybe he finds you.

Jun stands near his gate, his hoodie pulled over his head. But you would recognize him anywhere. Even if it had been another four years. Even if it had been a lifetime.

He spots you. For a second, he looks almost startled— like he wasn’t expecting this, like he had finally convinced himself you weren’t going to be a part of this place he keeps leaving behind.

Then, slowly, that familiar smile tugs at his lips.

It must take a mammoth effort for him to weave through the fans dying to catch a glimpse of him, through the security detail who are paid thousands to keep him safe. He manages. He forces himself to. 

When he reaches you, his voice is softer than you remember. “You’re kidding.” 

You huff, shaking your head. “I wish,” you say. 

He glances at your suitcase, at the boarding pass clutched in your hand. His smile falters. “Where are you heading?” he asks, like the thought of a Shenzen without you is a travesty in its own right. 

You give him a tight-lipped smile. I can’t answer that, your grin says, and he seems to understand. It’s the only safeguard that will keep him from jet-setting to wherever you are, from walking through street after street in hopes of running into you. 

Fate can only do so much for you and Jun. It’s given you chances, given you hope, and yet the two of you continue to scorn it. 

“Why now?” he asks of your departure. His voice is careful but not unreadable. He wants to know if you’re running toward something or just running away.

It’s a little bit of both, admittedly. 

You shrug. “Figured it was about time,” you say instead. 

Time. You and Jun once had it in spades. He exhales, tilting his head like he’s processing the weight of the moment. With a humorless chuckle, he says, “Guess we really are bad at timing, huh?”

The announcement for his flight crackles overhead. A final boarding call.

Jun lingers, watching you, something flickering behind his gaze. He hesitates, like he wants to say something— something real, something that won’t disappear the moment he steps on that plane.

But you already know what he’ll say.

And you already know how this ends.

So before he can ask, before he can make this any harder than it already is, you step forward and do what you’ve never done before.

You reach for his hand.

For a second, Jun freezes. Then his fingers curl around yours, warm and familiar, like they were always supposed to fit this way.

You hold on. Just for a moment. Just long enough to let yourself wonder what it would have been like if things had been different. If you, if he had been different. 

Fate has given up. This is your fate, now— the meeting, the leaving. The loss.

You pull away first. Jun blinks, startled, and you can see the question forming on his lips. But you don’t give him the chance to ask.

“Take care, Junhui.” 

Not superstar. Not Junnie. He’s neither of those things anymore. 

He’s not yours anymore. (Was he ever?) 

His grip tightens around the handle of his suitcase.

With a small, resigned smile, he nods. “You, too,” he says quietly. “Take care.” 

And, this time— you both walk away.

🎧 BUZZ (SEVENTEEN'S VERSION) TAGLIST — @cherrylita @cookiearmy @cunfnxxx-blog

🏆 THE ANGST OLYMPICS TAGLIST — @lovetaroandtaemin @bokk-minnie @gyuhao365 @supi-wupi @rizzus @callmehoweveruwatblog @pleasetellmenow @giverosespls @seikwans @cookiearmy @mingumis @yuyuloverrr @chanranghaeys @starstrawb @catiekayy @choco-scoups @wonuilu @flickhurstyles @yayayayana @lizza2001 @bibblemiluvr @alyssa19123456 @skzbangchanniee @whoa-jo @brownbunnyb @sennasiempre @idubiluranghae @bvrin

[studioeisa]

just a little too soon 🃏 wonwoo x reader.

was it hidden in the cards that i'd lose you?

★ part of buzz (seventeen's version). ★ word count: 4k ★ genre/warnings: angst, romance. alternate universe: non-idol, established/long-term relationship, pet name ('babe'), alcohol consumption, tarot card references courtesy of labyrinthos.co.

There was a time where Wonwoo used to greet you at the front door.

He used to be so particular about it, too. lt had been a little routine that lasted for a good couple of months. You'd text once you were heading home and he'd respond with anything from take care to missed you today.

He made sure you never had to pull out your key. All you had to do was knock thrice. He'd then swing open the door— his glasses slightly askew, his mop of dark hair bearing the indent of his headphones— before softly saying, "Welcome home, babe."

But that had been years ago. The homecoming has since faded into something less ceremonious; his responses to your texts, if any at all, now more of can you get some soda on your way home and don't forget to pick up the laundry.

As your key unlocks the front door, you feel that small flicker of nostalgia— and something else entirely. That feeling you can't quite name. Because how can you miss someone who's still there?

As you step in to your shared apartment, you can hear the distant sounds of a game being played. It takes you only half a minute to figure out what your boyfriend's poison is tonight: League of Legends, based on the muffled commands that he's barking out.

You feel an ounce of pride when you pad in to his game room and realize that you're right. Wonwoo's gaze briefly flickers away from his computer screen.

You wave at him. He gives you a grin in return.

He mumbles something in to his microphone before hitting something on his keyboard, seemingly muting himself. When he looks up at you, his smile has become a touch more sheepish. You already know what he's going to ask before the question comes.

"Just one more match," you warn, like you always have.

He adjusts in his swivel chair. "Three more?"

Both of you know where this is heading. "Two," you say in unison.

Your strict gaze softens; Wonwoo's smile becomes a little more genuine. He beckons for you to come closer and you make a show out of it— faking a sigh, dragging your feet.

He rolls his eyes but reaches out for your hand all the same. Once your fingers are intertwined, he raises your clasped hands to his lips and presses a chaste kiss to the back of your knuckle.

"Thank you," he mumbles against your skin, peering up at you from behind his glasses.

You feel like a bit of a fool, to still find the action heart-fluttering after all this time. You bite back the pleased smile that threatens to fill your face as you disentangle your hand to briefly press your palm against Wonwoo's cheek.

"I'll order takeout," you tell him. "Be done before it comes."

"I'm not really in charge of the game being done by a certain—"

"Wonu."

"Fine, fine."

As you make your way out of his room, he calls after your retreating back. "No Chinese, please!"

You order Chinese anyway. Partly out of spite; partly because it's what you want.

When Wonwoo emerges from his room after the vouchsafed two matches, he lets out a displeased sound at the sight of paper pails resting on the dining table. "I said no Chinese," he grumbles.

You don't even look up from the manual in your hands. "I got you the mapo tofu you like," you say with a dismissive wave of your hand. "And some spring rolls."

"The mapo tofu you like." Wonwoo takes a seat across from you. Despite his complaints, he's already digging through the takeout to find the meal you've chosen for him. He's too used to these little stunts of yours to be fazed.

The two of you have been dating for four years, after all— living together for a little over half that time. It's a quaint, two-bedroom apartment. More often than not, you share the same bed, but the other room is there for when the other needs their privacy.

The domesticity that you two have cultivated came with its own set of growing pains. But— for the most part— you've both learned how to make it work. Respective chores around the household. Shared meals and moments like these, where neither feel a need to fill the silence.

Except, tonight, there's the introduction of something novelty, something worth talking about.

"Hm?" Wonwoo cranes his neck over at the cards spread in front of you. There's half a spring roll hanging out of his mouth as he tries to catch a glimpse of what has your attention. "Are those— tarot cards?"

You give him a small nod of acknowledgment. "Soonyoung gave them to me as a gag gift," you note. "He says that I need to get a hobby."

Wonwoo finishes off the spring roll in his mouth as he lets out a derisive scoff. "And he suggested tarot reading?"

"Hey," you say defensively. "I think it's interesting."

"I think it's bullshit."

"You think a lot of things are bullshit."

"This one especially," Wonwoo insists. "It's just a bunch of scam work."

You press the bridge of your nose with your thumb and your index finger. Wonwoo catches the action and immediately backs down, placated by the telltale sign of your growing annoyance.

"I'm not about to start charging people to have their fortune read," you say exasperatedly. "I just wanted to try something new."

Wonwoo doesn't push it. He only lets out a low hum as he picks at another roll. A pregnant silence stretches between the two of you for a couple of minutes before Wonwoo says, "Try it on me, then."

You look up from shuffling the deck. An eyebrow of yours arches upward when you notice the lack of any outwardly hostile expression on your boyfriend's face.

"You're just going to make fun of me," you grumble.

"I swear that I won't." Wonwoo pauses and meets your skeptical gaze. "I swear that I'll try not to," he amends.

It's as good as you're going to get, you decide. With a defeated sigh, you hold out the deck. Wonwoo gingerly plucks a card out, placing it face-up on to the table between you.

Amid your takeout lies a card depicting a man suspended upside-down, hanging by his foot from a tree. "The Hanged Man," you read aloud, needing to slope across the table because it's facing Wonwoo.

"Very original."

"You said you'd try to be nice!"

"I was just saying!"

For a moment, the two of you just stare at the card. "Well?" Wonwoo prompts. "What does it mean?"

"Er..." You scramble for the manual that came with the box of cards. As you skim over the descriptions, you feel your eyebrows knitting together with slight confusion. "Oh, it matters if it's upright or reversed."

"Facing who? Me or you?"

"I— it doesn't say."

Wonwoo lets out an exhale. His expression seems caught between exasperation and fondness.

"You could just tell me anything and I'd believe it," he says dryly.

"That's not the point."

Wonwoo shakes his head at your whining and pushes back against the table, his chair scratching against the floor. You pore over the definitions as Wonwoo gathers up the dishes; it seems that, for him, this conversation is already as good as done.

He has some sense to lean down to leave a quick peck on the top of your head.

"Whatever it is," he mutters against your hair, indulging you for only one more moment. "I'm sure it's a hundred percent right."

You glare at his back as he walks over to the kitchen sink.

🃏 The Hanged Man understands that his position is a sacrifice that he needed to make in order to progress forward — whether as repentance for past wrongdoings, or a calculated step backward to recalculate his path onward. This time he spends here will not be wasted, he does this as part of his progression forward.

When you date someone for long enough, their friends tend to become your friends.

That's how you've ended up here on a Thursday evening— even though you'd much rather spend the weeknight recuperating from your day at work. Admittedly, all you had wanted was some time with Wonwoo.

But Mingyu was broken-hearted, he had reasoned, and he couldn't say 'no' to his best friend. In hindsight, you probably could have opted to have the apartment all to yourself, could have had your quiet night to yourself.

Neither of you were willing to give way for what you each wanted, and so this is the compromise: You, tagging along to the speakeasy where Mingyu is drinking himself silly over some girl who didn't give him the time of day.

Wonwoo and you are seated on either side of Mingyu, while Soonyoung sits across from you three. Jihoon had passed on the whole thing— to be expected— and Junhui is running late.

That leaves you three to pick up the broken pieces of a distraught Mingyu.

"You'll find someone else, Gyu," you offer.

Wonwoo pats the younger man on the back. "It's not the end of the world," your boyfriend adds.

"Easy for you two to say!" Mingyu takes a long swig of his fourth, maybe fifth bottle of beer. "You two are, like, solved."

"Solved?" you and Wonwoo echo. You, with a half-smile; Wonwoo, with an arched eyebrow.

"Solved," Soonyoung pitches in, hiccupping as he speaks. "You've got it figured out. Aish, couples shouldn't be giving advice to heartbroken people."

That draws a chuckle out of you and Wonwoo. Neither of you make an effort to push back on Soonyoung, instead opting to mumble plattidues to a Mingyu that is getting progressively drunker.

As the night wears on, the conversation veers in to more common territories. Mingyu's apartment-hunting endeavor. Soonyoung's shitty boss.

At one point, Soonyoung chirps to you, "How are you liking the tarot set?"

Wonwoo lets out a derisive snort mid-sip of his beer. You reach behind the back of Mingyu's chair to playfully smack your boyfriend on the shoulder.

"I've been having fun with it," you say with a sniffle. Wonwoo raises his hands in a show of surrender.

"Think you're ready to do readings?" Soonyoung asks, and there's no teasing in tone. Just a genuine sort of excitement. It's in such contrast to Wonwoo that you're momentarily thrown off-kilter.

When you realize that Soonyoung is waiting, that he's expectant, you brighten up just a bit. "Actually—" You begin to dig through your purse.

Wonwoo shoots you an incredulous look. "You did not bring it," he says, sounding mildly horrified. You ignore him in favor of fishing out the tarot set that Soonyoung had gifted you.

Immediately, Soonyoung is moving aside the bottles and glasses on the table so you have space to shuffle the cards. The three boys have varying expressions on their faces: Soonyoung is enthusiastic, Mingyu is curious, and Wonwoo is resigned.

"Me," Mingyu croaks, putting down his bottle. "Can you read for me?"

"It helps if you ask a question," you say.

Mingyu looks like he's thinking long and hard about his query, though the thoughtful expression is frayed by the way he's already fairly tipsy. Soonyoung and Wonwoo share a laugh as they wait for Mingyu, who eventually blurts out—

"What will my love life look like for the rest of the year?"

It's to be expected, considering the whole reason you're out tonight is because of Mingyu's failed romantics. Soonyoung goads him and Wonwoo snickers, but you take the question in stride. "Tell me when to stop," you say as you shuffle the deck.

Mingyu watches your hands with laser focus. After what feels like an eternity, he solemnly calls, "Stop."

A card peeks out of the spaces between your fingers. You place it face-down on the table before flipping it for everyone to see. Soonyoung leans over. Even Wonwoo can't hide his mild interest as he eyes the suit.

An upright Wheel of Fortune.

"A wheel always turns," you note to Mingyu, pointing out the imagery on the card. "It can mean that— despite being in a bad situation right now, that can easily change. Nothing, bad or good, is permanent."

There's not really much more that you can say. You weren't really in the business of taking card-reading seriously; if anything, you're treating it more like a party trick.

And it works, based on the way a smile breaks out on Mingyu's face, and the low whistle that Soonyoung lets out. Wonwoo, as you had anticipated, looks far from impressed.

"Me next, me next," Soonyoung chants, only to seemingly change his mind last minute as you go to reshuffle the deck.

Soonyoung turns to Wonwoo. "You next!"

Wonwoo takes another sip of his drink. His arms are casually crossed over his chest and there's an almost piercing glare behind his spectacles. All of you are a little too accustomed to his sharp eyes and his dry humor to be unnerved.

"I already had my fortune read," your boyfriend says.

"You can always have it read again," Mingyu whines. The whine is a telltale sign that he's heading to 'far gone' territory; your friend group knows better than to try and reel in a drunk Mingyu.

Soonyoung sing-songs, "We should ask about when the two of you are going to get marriiied."

The jabs about marriage aren't anything new. Having dated as long as you two have, you and Wonwoo are often subject to such questions from everyone around you— concerned family, impatient friends, nosy co-workers. You've both talked about it, of course, but in no certain terms.

With a laborious sigh, Wonwoo leans over Mingyu to pluck a card from your deck.

"Yah!" you complain mid-shuffle, swatting at his hand, but Wonwoo is already unceremoniously throwing the card face-up on to the table.

"Our marriage fortune," he announces, his tone edged with sarcasm.

The card features a woman sitting between two pillars— but, this time, it's reversed. You sift through your brain for what it means upside down.

"Upright, it means listening to your intuition," you offer.

None of the boys are any wiser about the fact that you're supposed to be spewing the reading for a reversed version.

"Wonwoo!" Soonyoung says excitedly. "Isn't your intuition saying that you should propose right now?"

A panicked Mingyu laments, "Wait, I'm not ready to be best man yet!"

Soonyoung seems to take serious offense at that. "Who said you're going to be Wonwoo's best man?" the boy demands. "I've known him longer!"

The two go on to bicker about the hypothetical ceremony and the groomsman line-up as you and Wonwoo stare on incredulously. After a moment, Wonwoo huffs out a laugh that only you catch. "Idiots," he grumbles fondly.

He finishes off the last of his drink. You're not sure if you've been lumped in to the half-insult, but you don't have the time to dwell on it.

Instead, you absentmindedly play with a corner of the reversed card as you contemplate calling it a night.

🃏 When it comes to the High Priestess reversed, it can mean that you are finding it difficult to listen to your intuition… Something has been telling you to follow your gut, but you may be ignoring the call. There is a lot of confusion around you, and your actions may feel contrary to what you know is right.

Here's how it gets you, weeks down the line.

On the surface, it looks like something small being blown out of the water. A date night postponed because of yet another friends who 'needs' him.

"We live together," Wonwoo sighs, running a hand through his hair. The argument takes place in your bedroom, where there's a chasm of space between you. You, sitting on the edge of your bed. Him, already standing by the door.

"We literally live together," he repeats. "We see each other every day."

"You barely even look at me nowadays," you snap, and despite the haze of your anger, you're lucid enough to wonder— where the hell did that come from?

Wonwoo's visible confusion mirrors your internal one.

"What—" he starts. What does that mean?, he probably planned to ask.

Instead, he grits out, "I'm looking at you right now."

And he is. Of course he is. It's a familiar expression; the set of his jaw, the spark in his eyes. He is trying and failing to keep his tone level, to not give in to the punches that you're throwing.

But when you love someone, you can be so cruel to them. Perhaps crueler than anyone else.

It goes both ways. Your mutual refusal to budge. Your tendency to let all the resentment build. And Wonwoo—

"You care more about being good than being good to me," you accuse him.

The frustration on Wonwoo's face only deepens. "Isn't that the same thing?" he asks.

"No, it isn't." Your voice is softer, now. More genuine in its ache. "There's a difference."

As if on cue, the muffled sound of his phone ringtone begins to blare from the living room.

You and Wonwoo regard each other in the low lighting of your bedroom. You, dry-eyed and hurt. Wonwoo, tightly wound and prideful.

The ringing of the phone ceases, only to start up again. Wonwoo makes his choice.

"I won't be coming home tonight," he says, his voice wretched. "Don't go looking for me."

With that, he takes his leave, slamming the bedroom door behind him. The force knocks over some of the things atop a nearby dresser— your set of cards, a stray lip gloss tube, the picture frame holding a photo from your first anniversary.

You don't pick them up just yet. You stay at the edge of your breath, holding your breath for so long that you feel your chest begin to burn, as you strain your ears for the sound of Wonwoo moving across your shared apartment.

His heavy footsteps get more distant. The lock on the front door clicks.

The chasm grows, and grows, and grows.

Only then do you go to assess the damage. The lip gloss tube has rolled too far under the bed; you resolve to figure that out in the morning. The picture frame remains miraculously intact.

(You don't notice this until much later, but there's the tiniest crack on an edge of the glass. A cobweb-like fracture that you will only see once you hold it up to the light.)

You go to gather up your deck of cards, and your eyes stray to the only one that has fallen face-up.

A lightning bolt striking a tower that's on fire.

🃏 The Tower represents change in the most radical and momentous sense… The old ways are no longer useful, and you must find another set of beliefs, values and processes to take their place.

WONU 🐈❤️ 1:43 AM You really didn't come find me

YOU 2:06 AM u told me not to.

WONU 🐈❤️ 2:19 AM Right

WONU 🐈❤️ 3:03 AM I think we need to talk.

YOU 3:33 AM yeah. we do.

It's quiet as you two pack up.

You're not ignoring each other, no. There are still a couple of amicable exchanges, like do you want to keep the blankets and I don't have space for any more of the succulents. Occasionally, you'll reminisce over some small thing.

The stubborn bathroom grout that had given you both grief. The burn mark in the kitchen from when Wonwoo had first attempted to cook.

"It's like we're looking through a museum," you say as you shove the last of your clothes in to your suitcase.

"A museum of our failed relationship," he muses thoughtlessly.

You wince and his expression softens imperceptibly, but he doesn't apologize. The silence stretches on for a little more.

A mutual decision, both of you had told all your friends. For the better.

You, moving back home for a bit. Wonwoo, opting to room with Mingyu again.

As you tape up the last of your cardboard boxes, you speak up. You're not looking at Wonwoo as you say, "It wasn't a failure. It just—"

Your words fail you. You only really want to communicate to him that your four-year relationship wasn't something that you had wanted to regret, that it's not, by any means, a dead loss.

It's a small grace that Wonwoo understands you, still. That, even now, he can hear what you don't, what you can't say.

"Yeah," he mumbles. He's already doing final checks to see if either of you had forgotten anything. "I know."

Some years ago, that might have been enough. To be known and to be loved.

But as you hoist a box up in to your arms, as you face Wonwoo who is looking at everything else but you, you realize that there is only so much that knowing can do. For you. For him. For anyone.

"I'm going to start loading things in to my car," you inform him.

"Right."

"You'll stay behind?"

He nods. "Going to give the keys back to the owner."

"Okay." Your voice is low, again. Like you're scared you'll drive Wonwoo away if you speak any louder. "Alright."

A beat.

And then Wonwoo finally looks straight at you.

There's nothing on his expression that gives away what he's feeling or thinking. He's always been the harder to figure out between the two of you. You spent years and years trying— trying to read him, trying to decipher every little thing.

You no longer feel that urge. It's a bit freeing, really.

"Take care," he says after a long pause.

"You, too."

Wonwoo doesn't call out your name as you walk away. That's not his style. In all the time you've known him, he's never been the type to beg, to grovel.

Wonwoo always knew when it was time to call something quits, when it was time to head home. You try to embody that as you walk past the front door, as you head down the hallway.

Before you round the corner, though, you glance over your shoulder.

Faintly, you can make out Wonwoo crouched over one of your boxes. The ghost of a smile tugs at your lips when you see him hold up and squint at a card.

A part of you wants to head back in, just to see what he's looking at. Just to see the last trick that the fates have up their sleeve.

Instead, you head for the elevators.

🃏 The Fool card is numbered 0, which is considered to be a number of infinite potential. Consider him a blank slate, for The Fool has yet to develop a clear personality. He is the symbol of innocence — his journey to come will shape his character yet.

Here's how it gets you, years and years later.

It starts with the hotel key card. When you press it to your designated room's door lock, the machinery lights up red and lets out a low beep. You try one, two more times, only to get the same results.

It starts with your free hand reaching for your cellphone. Your first thought is to call Soonyoung. He had made the arrangements, after all, being the pedantic groom-to-be that he was.

It starts with the door swinging open right before the call can go through.

Soonyoung picks up on the other line. "Have you met your roommate?" the bastard says in lieu of a greeting.

"I'm going to kill you," you say in to the receiver before promptly ending the call.

Wonwoo leans against the door frame, a half-smile on his face. His hair is shorter, now, but his glasses are still just a touch lopsided.

It starts there— the way he looks older and yet still very much like the last time you saw him. The way his expression is a lot less guarded and a lot more open. How you can tell there's a fondness that lingers; how your own heart, like a traitor, skips a beat at the sight of it.

It starts with Wonwoo half-jokingly saying, "Welcome home, babe."

[studioeisa]

no one and nothing 📄 seokmin x reader.

you call your sweetie when you can— a minute in and it’s bitter again.

★ part of buzz (seventeen's version). ★ word count: 1.5k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: non-idol, established [and dissolving] relationship, divorce, hint of an unreliable narrator, angst, i swear this is happy if you really think about it. based off of NIKI’s nothing can; also inspired by ruth lepson’s ‘the day of our divorce hearing’. ★ footnotes: wrote this in one sitting at an overpriced cafe. it’s more prose-heavy than anything, in part because i wanted to experiment with an older writing style. while short, i felt like this is one of the sadder fics i've ever written, and @chugging-antiseptic-dye upon beta-reading described it as something "tired, weary, [and] fatigued." sounds about right. p.s. this was inspired by a conversation with @diamonddaze01, who will likely despise me for seeing this through. it is what it is. 🫡

The tiramisu is perfect, cruelly so. 

You’ve complained about not having any good ones for a long time and, unbeknownst to you, Seokmin has made it his personal mission to try every Italian restaurant within a ten-kilometer distance. It’s not the nicest thing he’s done for you, which is saying a lot. 

Which makes the divorce papers— sitting in a brown envelope; printed on crisp, legal paper— cruel. So, so cruel. 

“You’ve done it again,” you say, your tone edged with amusement as you lick your fork clean. 

From across the table, Seokmin offers you a meek smile. In the split second that it takes him to respond, you hedge your bet on what he’ll say. It’s nothing or you would’ve done the same or—

“It’s just tiramisu,” he says. 

It’s not just tiramisu. It’s never just tiramisu, and the two of you know that. Does it make it worse? Does it make it better? You haven’t decided. Maybe someday, when you’re older and wiser, you’ll have an answer. 

Today, you only have a divorce hearing. 

The fact looms over the two of you. It makes the food taste a little bitter, makes the awkward silences a lot louder. 

When some of the pasta sauce dribbles down the front of Seokmin’s shirt, you resist the urge to draw parallels to your first date. You were kids back then. Babies, Seokmin used to joke. In your early twenties, sick of swiping right to find someone worth your time. Desperate for something real, for someone who would still be there in the morning. 

Fools, you used to think in the thick of your despair. You had been fools who were willing to settle for the first hint of goodness, fools who didn’t know the first thing about being grown-ups. 

Present-day you doesn’t reach out with a tissue like you might’ve early on in your relationship. Present-day you doesn’t shoot him a glare like you might’ve when you first started resenting him. 

You just— tell him the truth. 

“Still such a slob,” you say, half in jest and half as a fact. 

He offers you a rueful grin as he tries to rub the offending spot out of his shirt. A shirt you gave him several Christmases ago, you realize, and my God, what a choice. All the clothes in his closet and he goes for the very first polo you’d given him. 

“Hey, I clean up pretty well,” he shoots back, and you resist the urge to answer Yeah, I know. 

The sauce doesn’t come out completely. It stays a red stain over his left breast. 

A bleeding heart, you think, but then you banish the thought. 

Not everything has to be a metaphor. 

It’s just a stain. This is just a lunch. And Seokmin is just your soon-to-be ex-husband. 

Not the loss of your life. Not the human embodiment of all your failures. Not living proof that you cannot be saved. 

Soon-to-be ex-husband. That’s it. That’s all. 

Seokmin pays for the bill. When you make some joke about alimony, you pointedly ignore how he winces. (Too soon? Too soon.) 

He tips the overzealous waitress generously. Maybe too generously, because she lights up and asks if the two of you want a picture together. 

“Uh…” Seokmin hesitates, glances at you. “Sure.”

The waitress takes his phone. You give him The Look. Sorry, he soundlessly mouths to you, but he’s also not sorry enough to take it back. 

It’s over faster than the waitress can chirp “Cheese!” You lean over the table to see the result. The picture is a touch overexposed, and your smile is tight, and Seokmin’s gaze is unfocused. It may very likely be your last photograph as Mr. and Mrs. Lee Seokmin. 

“Thank you,” Seokmin tells the waitress. His voice is soft. Unbearably so. 

You take your separate cars to the courthouse. There’s no need for opening statements; the two of you are not here to tear each other’s throats out. This is not a ‘contested’ divorce, as your attorney likes to remind you.

It is a ‘mutual’ decision, and so the hearing is an amicable affair. You’ve had worse days together.

There’s that one Christmas you don’t like to talk about, and the summer road trip that Seokmin always conveniently forgets. Vacations marred with minor inconveniences. Anniversaries and birthdays foregone in favor of things deemed more ‘important’. 

You’ve had bad days, and your divorce hearing not being one of them is both a blessing and curse. 

There is no kicking, no screaming, no tears. Just the flourish of your signatures and the bang of a gavel. On an unassuming Saturday afternoon, your marriage with Lee Seokmin ends. 

(You are not the twenty-something-year-old fool that you once were. Which is to say: It probably ended way before this. It ended the first time you tried to say divorce out loud, your tongue curling around the word like you were a child learning to cuss. It ended on that one drive back from couple’s therapy, where Seokmin mumbled at a red light, I think we should stop going.

It ended the night you two slept together for the last time— how you were sick to your stomach at the thought of treating this like a Band-Aid, how Seokmin had to call it quits midway because he couldn’t stop crying. It ended a dozen different times, a dozen different ways before today.

Today, it’s just final. Today, it’s on paper, on record, made known to everyone outside you two.) 

The walk back to the parking lot is heavy in its implication. You can’t decide if you want to drag your feet or if you ought to make a run for it, so you decide to match Seokmin’s pace. 

And Seokmin takes his time. He fixes his shoelaces twice. He goes down the wrong corridor. He lingers; you let him. 

All roads lead to the end, though, no matter how much time he tries to buy. 

Seokmin’s grin is far from the smile that could rival the sun. Right now, it’s an acquisition. A kindness that no longer matters. “Any last words?” he asks as he fiddles with his car keys. 

“I’m tired of being the one who sums things up,” you say. “You get the last word.” 

You try to sound cheeky but you come off more sarcastic than you probably intended. And— with the way your voice quivers on words— there might also be some fear. Fear of a future, a life without the man who you once thought you’d see grey-haired and wrinkled. 

(This will be your last image of him: Dark-haired, dead-eyed, putting on a front. You will not watch him develop a midlife crisis. You will not see him in his old age. The Lee Seokmin you loved and lost will always be twenty-eight in your head.)

Seokmin considers it for a moment. This impossible task. This opposite of an honor.

The last word.

“You never needed it,” he decides. 

“‘It’?” 

“Saving. You never needed saving.” 

It’s perfect— cruelly so. Seokmin, who in his wedding vows had promised to always keep you safe. Seokmin, who was seriously upset when he first found out he wasn’t your emergency contact. 

Seokmin, who thought loving you was synonymous to rescuing you. 

From what, you never did know. Lonely nights? Expensive rent? 

Yourself?

(Later, you will realize that his words were a callback to one of your therapy sessions. You had told your shrink something along the lines of I am not some broken thing that has to be fixed, and I don’t think he understands that. You had been so mad, so hurt; raring to be anything but your husband’s damsel in distress. And Seokmin had been so tired. So willing to give you anything you asked.) 

You never needed saving, he tells you now. The words that might have changed everything—

Realistically, maybe not. It might have given you an ounce of fight. It might have kept you in place for a couple more years. 

But it was all bound to end here. A Saturday, a parking lot, a final word as sweet as your favorite dessert. 

You do not know if you can afford him the same grace, so you give him the next best thing. 

“See you around, Seok,” you say, even though it’s unlikely. 

“Yeah,” he lies just as easily. “Don’t be a stranger.” 

You get into your car. He doesn’t get into his until you’ve pulled out of your parking space, and so you’re treated to the sight of him fading in the rearview. 

Your husband— sorry. Your ex-husband, once larger-than-life, once the personification of love itself. Now nothing more than a story you’ll tell however you see fit. 

Seokmin was always nice to you, even on the days that you didn’t deserve it. Especially on the days you didn’t deserve it. 

Seven years of being together and one failed marriage later, this turns out to be the nicest thing Seokmin has done for you. 

Watching you leave. 

Letting you go.

[studioeisa]

BUZZ (SEVENTEEN'S VERSION). 🎵

An anthology of thirteen drabbles inspired by NIKI's Buzz album— one track for each boy of SEVENTEEN.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ TRACK LIST . . . HIT PLAY?

🔊 01. BUZZ ─ JIHOON. The song's about to start. (Can you hear it?)

🔖 co-producer!reader, feelings denial/realization, confessions.

🔊 02. TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING ─ CHAN. Oh, baby, look me in the eye and say you don't got it bad.

🔊 03. COLOSSAL LOSS ─ JEONGHAN. What happened to making light of every problem?

🔊 04. FOCUS ─ VERNON. Are you The Exception or do I just like your music taste?

🔊 05. DID YOU LIKE HER IN THE MORNING? ─ MINGHAO. And does it feel heavy now to look at me instead?

🔊 06. TAKE CARE ─ JUNHUI. So you take it easy, and I'll take my time.

🔖 childhood friends, idiots in love, right person/wrong time.

🔊 07. MAGNETS ─ SOONYOUNG. I'd rather die than be friends.

🔊 08. TSUNAMI ─ JOSHUA. It's like you've known me through all my past lives, what an evil thought.

🔊 09. BLUE MOON ─ WONWOO. Was it hidden in the cards that I'd lose you?

🔖 long-term relationship, angst, tarot card references.

🔊 10. STRONG GIRL ─ SEUNGKWAN. Goddamn it, I'm at least somebody's strong girl.

🔊 11. PATHS ─ MINGYU. My youth is in your past; you'll always have that.

🔊 12. HEIRLOOM PAIN ─ SEUNGCHEOL. You will fall in love and fuck up, too.

🔊 13. NOTHING CAN ─ SEOKMIN. No one'll ever save you; no one and nothing can.

🔖 divorce, angst.

🎹 Work under the series will be tagged with #ylangelegy buzz x svt. If you want to be tagged for any specific member (or the entire series), drop a reply! Stories may not be published in age/track order. Please anticipate slow updates since this is just a little passion project. Looking forward to it! ꒰ •ᴗ•｡꒱۶