MANIAC #1: Chris Bang (Full Story)

MANIAC #1: Chris Bang (Full Story)

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WOLF BY THE TAIL

📜13.5K words | Approx. 60-minute read 📓One-shot, Explicit 🖤Bang Chan x (afab) Reader 🪐Prison AU, Inmate/Gangster!Chan (feat. hardcore simping) 🏷️Angst, Smut, Psychological, Crime 🚨Please see the series masterlist for general warnings: May contain factual inaccuracies (just play along), self-harm, Machiavellianism (severe manipulative tendencies), themes of cheating, themes of revenge, referenced miscarriage, professional ethics going out the window, crime of passion, referenced murder, prison violence, referenced breaking and entering & attempted physical/sexual assault, confrontation, emotional turmoil/severe internal conflict, wound suturing (mention of needles), desacralization (sexual acts taking place in a confessional), masturbation, first time oral sex (f receiving), semi-public sex (in non-residential environments), implied breeding kink, strength kink, oral sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fully charged vibrators will be recommended per usual. 📻Accompanying soundtrack 💭Reblogs & comments are always appreciated and please keep in mind they are the ultimate motivation fuel. 🍮Like my content? Consider supporting my work with a pudding!

The charmer of the Aussies. Jewel of The Crown Street Cartel. Fucking pride of his area code and his pack with a gigantic “Kia Kaha” tattoo on his back. Inmate Christopher Bang.

“Kia kaha!”

“KIA KAHA!”

Stay strong. And the rest will follow.

It wasn’t the sheer thrill of breaking the rules that drove Chris to the convoluted world of crime. He let himself ride the wave of his bad decisions to see where it was gonna eventually take him. Apparently, it would make him crash his surfboard into the shores of opioids, sandy beaches that you could snort by yourself or trade for some moisture. Whether it was the alcohol, bodily fluids, or spit spewing from angry mouths over a deal table, the incessant heat emitted from his lust for life would make it evaporate just to condense in the sky and rain back down again as dollar bills.

Silver rings on those long, dexterous fingers, silver necklace around the neck that held his head way too high, silver tongue in that mouth home to all kinds of sins. Inducing immediate envy in anybody who witnessed how easy he made it look to get rich or die trying, immediate desire in anybody who caught a whiff of his wind as he walked by. Fucking charmer and the pride of his area code if not the entire continent, bound by the extreme loyalty he possessed for the pack he belonged to. The rivals of The Crown Street Cartel could do nothing but seethe in their intense loathing toward him, prompted by the mere fact that Chris just existed. He was the epitome of being devious; so much so that he could literally walk right off anything by just talking his way out of it.

Needless to say, nothing, absolutely nothing satisfied the aforementioned bitter foes more than hearing the word that shit indeed hit the fan for The Crown Street.

“They got Jake.”

Jake. The deranged troublemaker hopped up on adrenaline, aggressively looking up to Chris and way too impatient for his own good. His sworn protégé. The cause of the emergency get-together with the boss man Oliver and their designated lawyer Jun to come up with a strategy dedicated to saving his ass for the umpteenth time.

“What are our options? Give it to us straight,” Oliver demanded.

Jun heaved a deep sigh, “Jake has priors. This doesn’t look good,” he stated bluntly, “If he talks, this time around he’s getting locked up for at least ten years with no chance of parole if not a life sentence.”

Chris held his head between his hands, utterly frustrated and cursing Jake’s ass off inside for not being more careful. For not being more patient. For having this unnecessary desire to prove himself.

“Is there nothing we can do?” Chris appealed emphatically, “I’m not gonna let the kid rot in a hellhole.”

Jun leaned back in his chair and looked dead into Chris’ eyes albeit with a defeated expression.

“Hypothetically speaking, if someone else with no priors on paper owns up to it, I can negotiate a deal for as little as five years.” 

“How the fuck is five years little?!” Oliver yelled while slamming his fist on the circular mahogany table.

“Under these circumstances, it actually is. You’re lucky we’re not trying to dodge a death penalty here,” Jun declared, “All you gotta do is find someone to take the rep. Play nice and he can get out on parole in a year or so.”

Fascinating thing, loyalty. Things that would never even pop up in your wildest dreams, it would make you do without blinking an eye. What was there to even think about when you knew someone’s fate was lying in your hands, especially if that someone meant the world to you?

“I’ll confess to it.”

“Chris, no.”

“What’s the alternative, huh? He’ll get jumped before 3 PM on his first day,” Chris countered immediately, “Jun’s always had our back. If this is the lesser of the two evils, I’ll do it. He says I can be out in a year.”

“But what if you can’t?” Oliver implored him to see reason, “This is jail time we’re talking about, mate, not fucking community service. ”

Chris’ eyes were dripping with determination and Oliver knew what that meant. Once he set his mind to something, it was impossible to talk Chris out of it no matter how obvious the end result was. He was just one of those people who had to experience things firsthand, either to brag an ‘I told you so’ or to finally acknowledge what a horrendous mistake that was.

“You already know I’m well-versed in the art of surviving, brother.”

That very sentence ended up being one Chris had to serve. Luckily for him, it at least had a full stop at the end of it although it ran on for an entire paragraph. But anything to protect one of their own.

Stay strong.

Kia Kaha.

I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.

It was an oath you had taken. Well, you had to because apparently some dude named Hippocrates was extremely triggered by the concept of perjury some centuries ago, so either swear to it and make the unbreakable vow, or fucking rip your diploma in half, which cost you a hell a lot of money, and ironically enough a little bit of your own sanity in the process.

Or, you know, a good deal of it.

It wasn’t the sheer nobility of the profession that drove you to become a doctor. The design of the human body and mind had always fascinated you, so why not make a career out of it while you were getting goddamn intrigued by the total length of an average adult human’s blood vessels? Out of all the places you could have picked, you took a job in a prison as the chief attending physician because, hey, multiple birds with one stone. 

I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.

Nobody told you to take on the challenge of serving the most disturbed crowd that you could possibly come across, but you did it anyway as if this was the only correct way of practicing your craft. At a correctional facility. Since you couldn’t think of a more infirm population than a building full of captive lunatics…

“I’m leaving. Will you be home by dinner?”

“I’ll try.”

Not even a ‘Have a good one on your first day, sweetheart’. Fuck that, not even a curt ‘Good luck’.

The awkward tension between you and your husband wasn’t always this palpable to cut with a knife. Not that anything specific happened to cause that, but somewhere along the way, you did feel something snap causing both of you to grow apart day by day. Maybe it was the unbearable heaviness of the mundane, coloring your entire marriage in the bleakest shade of gray. The affection? Gone. The desire? Gone. You were like two roommates at this point because you didn’t feel like doing anything for him anymore. Why bother when it was one-sided? Why bother getting a gift for someone imagining how happy it was going to make them when they couldn’t even care less? Why get upset when they didn’t react exactly in the way you pictured they would? No one put a gun to your head to get the said gift in the first place, which meant they didn’t owe you shit, did they?

When it was your spouse in question, it felt like they did. For wasting years of your life trapping you in a loveless birdcage if not for anything else. Cue the unsolicited advice from the spectators of your life.

Why do you keep doing this to yourself?

Get a divorce.

You can’t fix him. Just walk away.

How fucking easy was it to tell someone to make a drastic change in their life in a split second? Would you stop drinking coffee just because someone told you to? 

No. Unless you believed it was not doing you any good anymore.

Even then, you would find a substitute first, see how it works. Or you could try to see how well you were adjusting to the complete lack of it, if at all. Everyone’s tolerance to change was different, after all; some welcomed it with open arms, and some avoided it like the plague. In any case, when you felt confident about your eventual decision, when you felt ready, then and only then would you make the change.

Not because somebody told you to because nobody was going to go through the consequences on your behalf if shit went south, nor were they going to take the blame for your prospective unhappiness with the outcome.

I will not be ashamed to say "I know not"...

Your marital bed that was empty most nights was not your place of work. Breaking an oath within the confines of your suffocation was not going to harm anyone.

Other than yourself.

Inmate 8MS3HF92. 

That was what Chris was known as for the past ten months. No name, no surname, nothing that could humanize him. Mere letters and numbers. Another statistic to quote in recidivism reports maybe. The only time he would be reminded of his identity was when he was addressed by his prison family as ‘Bang’, the circle of people showing him the ins and outs of navigating the hell simulator with as little damage and as much profit as possible. To all the guards, to the warden, to everybody else, he was just ‘inmate’.

Not for long, though.

Do not pick fights no matter what and survive.

Survive.

That was exactly what he had been doing.

The plan was quite straightforward on paper: he was going to endure this for two more months, go up against the parole committee, and get the hell outta there for good, quite possibly getting another assault charge within his first hour as a free man by beating the shit out of Jake. If he dared press charges against his role model, that was.

Chris was one sly man that took particular, not to mention excessive, pride in the way he operated. He would never get his hands dirty. He wanted something? He would talk his way into it. He detected a threat? He would orchestrate the subtlest of feuds and have someone else get rid of it on his behalf. Obviously, ‘on his behalf’ did not mean that you would do it in full awareness that this was in Chris’ best interests. He would pitch it to you in such a manner that you would have no choice but to believe the threat was actually posed to you. 

Yeah, he needed to survive, but being in the only place where you could make the most twisted but most lucrative connections, he was not going to waste that opportunity. Prison? More like a gangster's LinkedIn. After successfully outlining the food chain and making several rounds of meet and greets, Chris finally located where the drug ops ran from, and obviously getting himself assigned to any other place would be out of the question. 

“Work detail assignments. Bang, you're working in the kitchen.”

“Oh, am I now? What a pleasant surprise.”

Ever the smooth talker, yes, but Chris still managed to make a few enemies wherever he went. That was both the curse and the blessing of being a charmer: If you didn't annoy the fuck out of somebody along the way, you were doing it wrong. That being said, the closer his parole hearing date approached, the more intolerant people became. He could just breathe in the general direction of someone he never talked to before and still manage to irritate them. That was the tradition of this place. You’d go through the hazing when you were about to graduate, not during orientation.

“Bang. A word.”

He was being called by Andrei, the head honcho of the kitchen, right before lunch. Chris wiped his hands on his apron and followed suit behind him.

“What's up, boss?”

“We were expecting a little delivery from the commissary two days ago. What the fuck happened with that Aussie boy?”

“Yeah, about that,” Chris scratched his nape with a look feigning an apology in his eyes like he was oh so sorry, “We’re experiencing a little hiccup. Should come in no later than Friday, though.”

“That's not what we agreed upon.”

“I know, but I'm also leaning on other people here. I can't exactly go out to personally bring in your heroin now, can I?”

Andrei cornered Chris against a wall and slammed both his hands on either side of him. 

“I don't appreciate being played for a fool, Aussie boy.”

“Chill, mate. What the fuck are you busting my balls for?”

“Because your goddamn smug face gets on my last fucking nerve.”

“Have you looked in a mirror recently?”

The loud sound of a jar crashing alerted the two guards on the floor, prompting them to immediately dash towards the kitchen. 

“Break it off! Break it off now!”

Chris might have managed to dodge getting his throat ripped, but a large piece of glass still made its way to his chest area, cutting a wound open below his left collarbone. A couple of centimeters more to the south and it could have easily been a slasher movie. He was immediately escorted to the infirmary to get patched up, which was hilarious in itself for Chris. He couldn't think of anything more ironic than nursing someone back to health just so they could rot some more. He waited and waited and waited on that gurney for someone to appear, washcloth still pressing on the bleeding wound and annoyed out of his mind.

“Hey doc, can we get this shit over with already? I kinda need to be somewhere right now.”

“Please excuse the tardiness to your schedule, your majesty. We're a little shorthanded around here,” you walked into the room.

Whoa…

Chris briefly wondered whether he in fact died on that floor due to blood loss because there was no other way he could see angels clad in white in broad daylight, not to mention in that dementor den.

“Who the fuck-? I mean…”

“It's fine, I've been called worse,” you responded without taking your eye off the incident report in your hands, “I'm Dr. Y/N Y/LN, the new chief attending physician,” then you met his eyes at long last, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance inmate 8MS3HF92 that got jumped in the kitchen.”

“Pretty name, huh? It’s French,” he grinned, “Chris Bang for short would suffice, doc.”

You knew what you were getting yourself into when you started working in this prison, and your contract with Hippocrates included one thing in its essence: Help the sick and do no harm. In that particular moment, however, you crassly fistbumped him for blessing your eyes by sending in this Olympian contemporary of his for a change. Yes, this might have been an inmate in front of you, but all your suppressed urges could register was a pair of thick forearms adorned with bulging veins all the way down to his hands; long, slender fingers pressing on his wound, and thighs spread wide almost invitingly…

…if you were anywhere else but in a prison at that moment, that is.

“Take it off, please.”

Chris’ mind was also somewhere else, so he wasn’t able to instantly comprehend your request, “Uh- Take what off?”

“Your top,” you pointed your pen at him, “So that I can examine the injury.”

He proceeded to do exactly as you said, but never in your entire professional life did you have to contain something primitive threatening to rear its head inside you. You bitchslapped your lizard brain really hard to remind yourself once again that this was a goddamn patient you had to attend to. Little did you know that you weren’t actually alone in this struggle.

Your smell was making Chris dizzy and he couldn’t control the arousal that forced a mild erection when you ran your hands on his chest, which was actually on his wound, but he couldn’t care less. It didn’t matter whether they were hidden under latex gloves since his goddamn touch starvation was through the roof already. To top it all off, you looking like that? It was a miracle he didn't blow in his pants right then and there. 

You finished stitching his wound in complete silence while he watched you with his lips slightly parted, and only when you informed him you were done was he able to come back to reality.

“Come back next week, okay?”

Once he snapped out of it, Chris immediately wore his other personality on his sleeve as a knee-jerk reaction.

“Why don’t you just say you’re gonna miss me? I can even come back tomorrow,” he smugly grinned. You looked at him with a confused look.

“To get your stitches removed, Bang. The fuck is wrong with you?” you scoffed, “You can go back to your easy bake oven now.”

Not easily charmed, huh? I fucking love that in a woman.

“Thank you for taking care of me, doc. I’ll see you soon.”

Chris left the infirmary that day with a smile glued to his lips, full-on launching the crescent craters adorning his cheeks and secretly hoping you found dimples attractive in a man. 

One borrowed touch was all it took. He caught himself counting down the days to get his stitches removed instead of his parole hearing.

All of a sudden, the walls weren’t closing in on him as much anymore. His breathing was still a little irregular but seemingly for different reasons than the humidity crawling in the stone walls. He had trouble falling asleep no matter how much he forced himself because his mind wouldn’t shut up about you. If only he could fall asleep, maybe he could see you one more time.

One day. Three days. Five days. And finally back to the infirmary again. God, if that didn’t feel longer than the time he had served…

“Hey, doc!”

You looked up at the unusually chirpy voice that most certainly did not belong to the dismal backdrop of this place. It was the stitches dude that looked more like a sculpture with a chip on it.

“Feeling good today, are we?” you commented while wearing your gloves to check the healing status of his scar, “Are you getting out or something?”

Chris actually had a snarky comment ready for you but as soon as your hand brushed against his, he forgot what he was going to say due to the sudden jolt he felt.

“There’s uh- fish tacos… for lunch.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the unexpected answer, “I take it you’re very easy to please, Bang.”

Fucking yes. Let me borrow your lips just once and watch the fireworks go off.

As you got to work with a pair of tweezers to remove his stitches, Chris was watching you completely awestruck as if he was appreciating a piece of fine art, right click saving everything he could observe about you into his mind. Your brows that creased whenever you were focused on something, beautiful lips you licked every now and then, hair that looked like it was made of pure silk, skin that most certainly felt like velvet to the touch…

God, you're like a queen. 

“All done. Don’t run around with scissors, okay?” you smiled and got up from the stool in front of him.

“Thank you.” 

The gratitude was pretty much redundant considering this was your job; you were literally on payroll to take care of people. Nevertheless, you actually appreciated it since the stitches dude was quite literally the first person to thank you for your services.

“I uh- I'll see you around, doc.”

“I hope not. That would mean you injured yourself again or something,” you giggled and gently squeezed his shoulder, “Stay out of trouble, Bang.”

Oh, I don’t think so, my queen.

Chris tossed and turned in his bed for what felt like hours to him that night because his mind wouldn’t shut up about the burn on his shoulder caused by the first ‘unprotected’ touch you shared without a layer of latex between his skin and yours. If only he could fall asleep, maybe he could see you one more time.

Then again, he didn’t actually have to wait for that when you were all that he saw whenever he closed his eyes, so he did. His hand moved inside his bottoms as if it had a mind of its own. 

And there you were. Your attention completely on him, your tongue glazing your lips every now and then. Why were you licking them, though? Was it because you also felt your throat getting dry? Was it because you also wanted to press them against his?

Fuck, I’d kill to feel those lips on me.

Your face. The way the corners of your mouth curled when you smiled at him. The way you slightly squinted your eyes when you were focused. Was that what you looked like when you were turned on?

I want you. Oh god, I want you so bad.

Your poise. The way you carried yourself. Firm steps, determined voice, very obviously not taking shit from anyone. Grace materialized.

I wanna be the floor you walk on, fucking christ.

Just your sheer beauty. The way you oozed sexiness without revealing any piece of skin. The way you moved. The way you knew exactly what you were doing. Did you also know what exactly pleased you? Did you know all the things he was willing to do just to please you?

“Ah, fuck!”

Chris didn’t even care that he made a hefty mess on himself as he arched on that god-awful mattress. The convulsions spreading throughout his body as he came were a different kind of intense. Up until that moment in his life, he had climaxed infinity times either with the assistance of third parties or all by himself; sometimes manifesting as an unimpressive shiver and some other times mind-numbingly hard.

But not once, never once did it feel like surrendering his soul to someone.

If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. 

Above all, I must not play at God.

Chris wasn’t aware of what the Hippocratic oath contained, nor did he have to take it. Ergo, he was free to ‘play at god’ all he wanted whenever the fuck he saw fit. Much like that day when he overheard the Irish circle indulging in a little locker room talk while Chris was watching TV with his own entourage.

“Have you seen the doctor chick yet? Complete cumdump material if you ask me.”

“You just know she likes it dirty, sassy-ass bitch.”

Every time Chris felt the onset of a rampage coming on, he knew exactly what to do: remove himself from the environment until he could think straight. That being said, the loud sleazy waves of laughter coming from right behind him triggered him so hard that it took everything in his willpower not to crash his chair on this O’Connell lowlife’s face and scatter his brains out right then and there. He clenched his teeth and his fists really hard to control his emotions, and jumped to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Noah asked him.

“The gym, mate. Been slacking off on them weights lately. I’ll catch you later.”

Technically, Chris didn’t lie. He was indeed going to the gym, but not because his body craved that post-workout dopamine release. He knew the one man he needed was always in the gym during those hours.

“Paco! My main man,” he got behind the bench his friend was lifting weights on.

“What's good, Bang?”

“Can't complain. Can't complain.”

Chris helped him with the next set of benchpress as if his sole purpose was just that all along and put the weights back in their place once the set was done.

“You already know you're my brother around here, right?”

“Damn straight, man. Ride or die.”

“Something came to my attention, so I thought I'd let you know.”

“What is it?”

He offered Paco a towel and leaned into him like he was about to reveal top secret information.

“You do remember how O'Connell ratted you out to the guards about the whole cellphone situation, right?”

“Yeah?”

Chris glanced over the gym door and turned his attention back to Paco again, “He told people he turned it in but I heard it on the grapevine that he’s indulging in a little hotline bling action for himself. The fucking audacity of this guy to fuck his girl through something that doesn't belong to him...”

“That MOTHERFUCKER…”

Chris placed his hand on Paco’s shoulder, “Just between you and me, but I think he is out to colonize all your outside resources, mate. I'd put a burner up his ass before he could even plan to do something if I were you,” then he continued after giving his friend a bottle of water, “If you wanna take back what's yours, you know where to go, brother. Find me if you need anything, yeah?”

“I owe you one, Bang. I won’t forget this.”

It was that easy. None of these people knew how to burn that sugar as brain fuel, so nobody ever questioned anything. In Chris’ defense, it took a lot of actual snitching for the ploys to work. Trust needed to be earned first - respect naturally followed. Now he could just sit back, relax, and watch the altercations unfold as the tension between the parties escalated through the roof.

Because he never got his own hands dirty. 

Now he could channel all his attention to the only thing that mattered to him. You.

You would never visit the gen pop wing, so Chris’ only chance of seeing you was coming to you at the infirmary. Of course the guards would never let him leave the wing unless he absolutely needed medical attention, which meant intensive brainstorming sessions on Chris’ end to put on successful performances to convince them he was either sick or injured. If that meant standing in front of the ventilation grates blowing cool air right after taking a freezing-ass shower, so be it. Risking pneumonia was so worth it if it meant seeing you again.

“Does it hurt when I press here?” you gently sank your fingers into his chest after listening to his breathing.

“I can’t tell. Do it again.”

“You do realize we’re not having outercourse, right Bang?”

“Says you,” Chris mischievously smiled, “You’re very much getting to second base with me right now, doc.”

You applied pressure to the area right under his jawline sharper than your scalpels to check for swelling, and grabbed a throat swab for a strep test.

“Open wide.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Bang…”

“Okay, okay. Please don’t be mad.”

You got your sample for a throat culture and went back to the back of the room to properly label it. Chris sat there in silence for some time and spoke with a soft voice.

“I don’t know why the fuck you care this much, but I’m grateful that you do, you know?”

“It’s my job to care,” you responded without looking at him.

“I know, but…” Chris trailed off, “Nobody else bothered to care about me my entire life unless I was useful to them in some capacity. You’re the first person that does it.”

You didn’t want to assume anything but when your eyes met his, you felt like you saw something glinting with a faint shade of pink, terribly reminiscent of adoration. Chris got up to head back to his wing again.

“I owe you my life, doc.”

This was his third time in the infirmary within a span of two weeks. How this man functioned in a cartel while hurting himself this much was appalling, really. Then again, maybe he didn’t and that was what landed his ass in prison in the first place.

“What is it this time, Bang? Tripped on a flat surface?”

His face lit up like a Christmas tree upon your sight, “I thought you'd like to see your favorite inmate.”

You furrowed your brows with a mildly nauseated expression, “Yeah, that's not a thing, and don't say that ever again. What do you have for me today?”

Chris spread his legs for you to show you the cut on his inner thigh, blood oozing from it now dried.

“I wasn’t being careful with the knives during the kitchen duty. We gotta be fast to feed this many people on time, you know.”

You put on your latex gloves, the supply of which was being frequently used for Chris nowadays, and examined the wound, “Looks like a clean cut, but you'll need stitches again.” Then you retorted while preparing the suture, “Just bring a fucking design next time so I can tattoo it on you. At least it'll look pretty. Drop your pants.”

Chris was tremendously grateful you were facing away from him as he gulped really thickly, experiencing a sudden case of cottonmouth. He knew the remedy to that was hidden between your lips of course, but that was neither here nor there, and certainly not to be brought up right that second. Nevertheless, he was still acutely aware of the fact that he was putting himself on display for you in some capacity.

You pulled a stool right in front of him to get to work, your instruments neatly placed on the surface right next to you. When you locked your eyes on your target, you got momentarily furious at yourself for wondering whether his thighs were always this sculpted or he shaped them out during his time here. Heaving a deep sigh, you penetrated his skin with a needle to proceed with stitching his wound, but that wasn’t when he hissed. Chris let out that sharp inhale when you placed your hand on his inner thigh instead.

“Am I hurting you?”

“A little, but it’s fine.”

Of course he was going to lie his ass off. He wasn’t about to tell you how that contact went straight to the synapse connected to his X-rated inner mind theatre and prompted a chain reaction reaching all the way down to his crotch.

Control it.

You broke into a sarcastic smirk, “A little pussy of you to gasp at a little needle when you’re in a fucking prison, don’t you think?”

Chris chortled in slight surprise at your commentary, “You usually swear this much, doc?”

“On the regular,” you replied with a firm voice, your eyes still glued to his thigh, “That’s how you motherfuckers learn to check yourselves around me. As you should.” Then you briefly looked up at him.

“Doesn't seem to be working on you that much, though. You keep showing up here like this is a restaurant.”

“So what?” he responded with a nonchalant smile, “I like how you take care of me. I don’t think that’s grounds for violating my parole chances.”

Like you were the one to talk. You really wished you could help the smile he elicited out of you as if you were two people flirting over drinks in a goddamn restaurant.

Fucking charmer.

“Don't you think we got a little more than a Hippocratic relationship going on here, doc?”

His words landed like a nuclear bomb in your office and Chris noticed that pause in your movements even though it didn't take any longer than two nanoseconds.

“I see how you shudder when you touch me.”

“Bang, stop.”

“You know it's true, though.”

His voice had become deeper all of a sudden like he was trying to get a message across. It didn't matter whether that message was in a glass bottle floating its way into obscurity without a proper address attached to it.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I'm married.”

Chris' face dropped ever so slightly, barely noticeable to the naked eye, but he knew. He knew that was a formality. He knew you just stated a fact. He knew that wasn't an invitation for him to make himself scarce.

“Doesn't take a genius to conclude it's not a disgustingly happy one if you ask me,” he declared, “Is it because he works so late? Doesn’t cherish you like you should be?”

“It's none of your business.”

He kept examining your face as you kept stitching him up like the answer was written there somewhere.

“Or is it because he's out a little too much? Doesn't come home for dinner anymore?”

You involuntarily flinched at his words.

“Oh, so that's why,” Chris tilted his head and continued, “Why do you fucking put up with that, doc? Knowing he was out, probably calling someone else a slut or whatever... Do you still let him go down on you with that mouth?”

You hysterically laughed in response, “Maybe it worked out for the best that I don't need to worry about anyone going down on me. Hold this,” you handed him the antiseptic trying to brush away the interrogation over your failing marriage.

“What do you mean?”

“You need to know the taste of something to crave it, Bang,” you heaved an annoyed sigh and blew on his wound, “This should heal nicely.”

Chris’ eyes widened upon your words like you just told him he was getting out the following day.

“You… You mean you've never been…”

While you were putting your instruments away, you felt your face getting hot as if you stayed under the sun for five hours straight. You must have been beet red, but you kept your composure nevertheless. Chris, on the other hand, was very much amused.

“No shit, you really don't know what it's like to be eaten out, do you, doc?” he chuckled.

You didn’t answer. Not that there was anything to be replied to. His question was rhetorical after all, but he kept on pressing for a further comment.

“It's phenomenal. Nothing quite like it,” he squinted his eyes and continued, “Especially when you eat pussy with enthusiasm. Takes a woman like you to induce that appetite.”

You returned to the stool to clean around the wound without saying anything since you were almost sure nothing intelligible was going to come out of your mouth. He kept painting you this picture and forced you to look at it. Forced you to witness how tantalizing it was. Your mind was getting infested with the image of Chris between your legs, slowly killing you with curiosity to snap and find out whether it was true, whether it was really that hell of an experience like he was promising.

If you don't have something to retort with, then shut the fuck up.

“But you're not terribly upset with me, are you doc? This doesn't bother you as much as you believe it should.”

You were wondering whether Chris somehow managed to install wires in your mind, narrating your own thoughts back to you shamelessly. He tugged at the stray hairs right in the intersection of your nape and your ear. You shuddered at the sensation.

“Why else would you close your eyes when I touch your hair?”

He placed his hand on your cheek that was warm to the touch, courtesy of his relentless flustering attempts. You found yourself leaning into it, not a shred of courage present in your soul to open your eyes and look at him. You didn't want to burst with anticipation and you were desperately looking for the whereabouts of your sanity but it was nowhere to be found. And then…

You felt his lips on yours, asking for permission to stay a while longer, begging you to not send him away. Soft but wet. Warm but intense. Tender but passionate. And it was gaining speed like a plane was about to take off with his fingers brushing your hair, his tongue clashing with yours, his lips consuming yours, and your hands trying to find their way to his face. If you didn't take the last exit right about now, you were fucking doomed.

“No,” you pulled away from him hurriedly like someone told you to cut it off, trying to catch your breath, “Go. We're done here.”

“Are we, though?” he flashed the faintest but still a knowing smile.

“You don't have to come in every time you sneeze, Bang. Stay out of trouble,” you quickly made your way to your desk to occupy yourself with filling out some patient forms.

Chris exhaled and got up to his feet to make his way back, “I would hold that thought if I were you. This is a fucking prison after all. The only place worse than here would be the third circle of hell.” Then he stopped right behind you and whispered in your ear.

“We'll pick this up where we left off when I come in to get my stitches removed, doc,” he placed the softest of kisses on your earlobe.

Chris was aware that playing doctor with you was not that sustainable in the long run. He had to come up with an idea that would position him around you much more frequently so that he didn’t have to remind you of his existence at regular intervals, and he had to do it without the risk of inflicting permanent damage on himself.

Naturally…

“A proposal, brother,” Chris spoke to Noah in their cell, “Don’t you think it would be a more lucrative move if I was in the infirmary instead? It's literally the chemical stash of this fucking prison. Besides the commissary I mean.”

“Where did that come from all of a sudden?” Noah eyed Chris.

“The current tension between us and the Lurkers. I wouldn't have to watch my ass every five seconds to avoid getting jumped. Consider it protective custody until my parole hearing.”

Chris liked to think that he was smarter than most, if not all people, but apparently there was something about him that he wasn’t quite able to conceal.

“And you’d swear this has nothing to do with the doctor lady?” he asked, briefly stunning Chris in the meantime.

“It’s no-”

“Bang,” Noah immediately stopped him, “Fake it to whoever the fuck else you want. Not to one of your own.”

Chris looked at his cellmate’s face to decide whether there was any chance at all that he could fake it. His fingers inadvertently touched the wolf tattoo on his inner left arm and he heaved a deep sigh that was colored with all the shades of yearning that ever existed.

“She seeped through my skin, mate,” he said with a broken smile, “She lives under my skin like a fucking tattoo.”

Contrary to Chris' expectation, that moment of honest vulnerability actually elicited a comforting pat on the shoulder from Noah.

“Looks like you grabbed the tiger by the tail this time, mate,” Noah broke the news to him and pointed at his tattoo, “Or in your case, a goddamn wolf.”

“Bang? What are you doing here?”

It had been a while since you last saw Chris, so you expected some banter exchange with his usual flirtation frosting over whatever klutzery he dabbled in this time, but not only Chris looked very much healthy, he also responded to you very nonchalantly.

“Shift in work detail. I’ll be working here, doc.”

“Doing what?”

“Helping you?” he shrugged, “Weren’t you the one complaining about being shorthanded? Just dump whatever manual labor and paperwork you have on me. I know how to read.”

Chris had decided to maneuver to be less aggressive in his advances towards you, thinking to himself that just being close to you would be enough for the time being and he could somehow work his way up from there. At least he tried. As much as he could.

He really really tried his utmost best as much as he could, but the more time he spent breathing the same air as you, the more hopelessly he was falling in love, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.

He initially didn’t want to assume anything but could swear he felt it the day he kissed you. You didn’t give an immediate automatic rejection like you would have if you weren’t the slightest bit interested in him. You did kiss him back. For quite a bit. For Chris, that instantly meant your marital status didn’t mean jack shit to you. Why would it when you were so obviously unhappy anyway?

One day. Three days. Five days. Veiled glances. Stolen touches. Catching whiffs of scent in passerby winds. Yearning. Yearning. Yearning.

He tried his best as much as he could.

“Need a hand with that?” Chris made his way in front of your desk as you were labeling documents to archive them properly while standing.

“Felt lonely by the file cabinet?” you smiled at him. Although your intentions were to bounce snark off of each other to end the tiring day on a lighthearted note, you didn’t expect such a response.

“I just wanna be next to you.”

You stopped trying to cram a piece of paper in a sheet protector and looked at him. His eyes were clouded with something akin to sorrow. It didn’t suit him. The only thing fit for that face was crescent eyes and those dimples that chipped away at his dangerousness.

“Bang…”

“I wanna feel you. I wanna kiss you.”

He was talking without looking at you, hands still busy with sorting out documents like he wasn’t saying what he was saying. Even a man of his usual composure had his limits since he was a human being after all. A human being with needs taking over his sanity.

“God, I really wanna taste you,” he dropped the paper on the desk and finally reciprocated your gaze. It held so much meaning that you whimpered inside but it was quite audible to you. He was trying. He was really trying to control his urges but he found himself walking behind you nevertheless.

“We’re alone now. Nobody will know.”

Chris touched the strands of stray hairs on your nape again, knowing damn well what it did to you, and whispered into your ear, his voice slowly changing colors as he kept talking.

“You surely heard about it, didn't you doc? How good it feels when a tongue swipes on your folds?”

You inadvertently closed your eyes and exhaled. His hands found their way to your waist.

“How wet it gets? How warm it is?”

He was brushing your cheeks now. You leaned into the feeling.

"How it glides against your wetness? God, so fucking slippery."

The very same fingers dragged down your neck and cupped your breasts over your lab coat. Your heart was pounding in your chest.

“Having a pair of lips wrapped around your clit? Sucking your soul out of you?”

And he finally guided them right over your core still clothed with your dress and very unnecessary underwear.

“Getting that clit teased until it melts in the mouth?”

Chris turned you around with one harsh movement and trapped you between your desk and his frame, his face way too close to yours.

“I wanna see what you look like cumming, doc. I wanna hear what you sound like moaning.”

He placed a very soft kiss on your forehead as if his intentions were as pure as they could ever get. His whisper in your ear felt like it was blasting from loudspeakers, sending an immediate shockwave to your core.

“I wanna be a slave to my queen.”

You were in complete disbelief over what his mere words were inducing in you, appalled that you would even consider something like this. This beautiful demon with that silver tongue of his… It was next to impossible to resist him. 

That being said, even a woman of your usual poise had her limits since you were a human being after all. A human being with needs that weren’t catered to for what seemed like forever taking over her sanity. Chris was closing the distance between you to mere millimeters and if you didn't take the last exit right about now, you were fucking doomed.

“Let me. Let me, please.”

Please.

You didn’t take the exit and allowed all your defenses against him to collapse instead. Fuck the exit. In fact, you slammed on the gas pedal really hard and drove past it leaving a trail of dust clouds behind you. Finally. You finally leaned into his lips and let him electrocute your entire body. Chris held you in his arms like he was reunited with something he had lost a long time ago, so glad that he found it but terrified to let go for fear of losing it again. His hand reached down your core under your dress and when he slid your underwear to the side to feel your wetness at long goddamn last, he hissed at the sensation.

“Oh, god,” he groaned into your mouth. He brought his fingers to your eye level so that you could see the trail you left on him and watch him taste you as he sucked on them.

“You taste amazing. Fucking amazing.”

As you leaned against your desk, Chris got on his knees for you, eyes never leaving yours for one second. He slid the skirt of your dress up just enough so that you could watch the arson he was about to commit on your body.

And you were absolutely paralyzed.

“Do you have any idea how fucking hot you get me, doc?” he gently spread your legs apart and placed kisses on your thighs, stroking your legs up and down in the meantime, “You just… exist. And I'm fucking gone.”

Oh, this goddamn charmer and that silver tongue of his. That was about to take you on a ride.

“God, you do feel like satin under my touch.”

Chris slid your underwear down your legs while keeping your gaze all the while and contorted his face in utter pleasure when he finally witnessed your exposed wet folds for him.

“Chain me between your legs. I wanna be buried here. Drown me in your ocean.”

And when the warmth of his mouth covered your pussy…

“Oh, fuck, Chris!”

Chris. You called him Chris. He wrapped his arms around your ass in return, indeed burying his face in you.

You had never felt anything like this before in your goddamn life. It was everything Chris told you it was going to feel like and then some. Much more stimulating than having fingers clumsily pressed against your clit, wetter than you could possibly get yourself watching the hottest porn, instant source of buzz traveling your entire body at lightspeed like someone injected desire in your veins in lieu of pure heroin. You knew Chris wasn’t a death row inmate but he was eating you like he was one and you were going to be the last thing imprinted on his palate before leaving this world for good to burn in hell for all eternity.

“I'm not touch starved. I'm you starved, baby. I've been starving my entire fucking life.”

You held onto the edges of your desk and threw your head back, unable to do anything else besides letting out those quiet moans Chris’ delightful ministrations were forcing out of you. You wanted to fucking combust.

“You're just so delicious. A goddamn feast right between your legs.”

Swipe.

Swipe.

Swipe.

“Shit.”

“Found a spot we like, did we?” Chris grinned at you, “Is it this one, baby?”

He latched back at the spot he just discovered and started lapping at it.

“Ah, please!”

“Right there, isn't it baby?” he went on to gently suck on your clit now.

“Chris… Oh, god!”

Chris. You called him Chris. 

“Wanna tease it until you go crazy for me. You're ruining me. Fucking ruining me.”

He wasn’t in any kind of rush as if you were in his actual bedroom, taking his time to make sure you were relishing this sensation. Like he was a plug sneakily handing you a pill to pop because no harm in just once. Like he was trying to get you addicted to his tongue.

“It's rising, isn't it? I feel that tide rising in you, baby.”

“Please, fuck, I'm so close. Don't stop, please. Please!” you tugged at his locks.

“Hold onto me. Pull me closer.”

You pressed his head into your pussy more as his hands traveled upwards and Chris intertwined his fingers with yours. He wasn’t applying too much pressure over your clit so as not to overstimulate you but he made up for it with pace. 

“I'm- Oh, fucking god!”

He talked against your pussy with eyes closed, “Cum in my mouth. Let me get you so damn high,” then he dragged his tongue all the way from your entrance up to your clit again and looked at you with eyes overflowing with sheer want and passion.

“Let me be your first, baby.”

Chris finally moved on to land the coup de grâce, trapping your clit between his plush lips, sucking on it, teasing it with his tongue at a gradually increasing pace. Third gear. Fourth gear. Fifth gear. Fucking NOS mode on overdrive.

“Fuck, cumming. Oh, Chris!”

Chris. You called him Chris while you violently arched into him. He squeezed your hands in return.

That tidal wave absolutely washed over you. You were drenched. Everywhere. Chris looked so beautiful with his eyes closed like that, never unlatching himself from your clit, still moaning into your pussy as he let you roll your hips against his face to ride out your orgasm, resolute to elicit every last drop he could suck out of you. For him. Because of him.

“First. I'm your first now. It will never change.”

That orgasm went straight to your head so hard like a brainfreeze that it took a hot minute for you to come down. Chris chuckled between your legs.

“Came so hard. You were throbbing in my mouth.”

He put your underwear back on as you were still panting, struggling to catch your breath and trying to put the floating pieces of your reasoning back into their place.

“That's what it feels like,” Chris got up to his feet and brushed your hair back, “Wasn't that just phenomenal?”

It indeed was. You had literally never cum like that before. Not by yourself, not with someone else, not through anything. It felt like Chris opened a door to a dimension that you never knew existed. Maybe Atlantis was indeed real and it was located in his mouth.

“Kiss me again. Taste yourself on my lips. See for yourself how sweet you taste."

You were so fucked out that you were having trouble even keeping your eyes open, but you welcomed Chris into your mouth with open arms and let him coat your tongue with yourself.

“Will you let me visit you after dinners? I promise I’ll be good. I'll be fucking exemplary to earn dessert, just say yes.”

It actually looked kinda cute that he was this eager. You tried. You tried really hard to come up with a reasonable response to this, but your sanity was long gone.

“You'll let me do it again right? Fly you out of your body again?” Chris kissed your neck and spoke softly into your ear, “Anytime. Anywhere. Just ask for me and I'll come rushing.”

At that moment, the siren went off signaling headcount. You didn’t know why that was a source of disappointment for you.

“Just know that you got me right where you want me, doc,” Chris stole a kiss from your lips and made his way back, clearly extremely reluctant to do so.

Chris had been losing sleep over you for quite some time already, but this time it was different. This time not much was left to his imagination since he had actual references now. He knew what you smelled like, what you tasted like, what you felt like, what you looked like, what you sounded like, overloading all his senses with just you. You. You. You. You. You. 

Tonight, he was gonna cum to the instant replay of how he ate you out. How you kept calling his name.

‘Oh, fuck, Chris!’

Just like that. Say my name.

What if he mustered his courage a little earlier? What if the siren didn’t go off before knowing what you would feel like around his cock?

Bet you're so tight from being touch starved. Ready to kill. Kill me already.

He soaked his entire palm and squeezed his length, imagining you clenching around him out of sheer neediness. 

‘Chris… Oh, god!’

Oh, your pulse, baby girl. Your heart beats so hard I can feel it in me.

He closed his fist tighter and picked up his pace.

GOD, I wanna die in that pussy. Stretch it all good, mold it for myself.

Faster.

Do you go to bed wishing you would see me in your dreams tasting you? Do you randomly imagine me, too? 

And faster.

Do you want me as bad as I want you? 

And faster.

Nothing sounds as pretty as you. Nothing I’ve ever felt was this true.

‘Fuck, cumming. Oh, Chris!’

Oh god, I love you. I fucking LOVE YOU.

“Baby, fuck!”

Chris had lost count of how many times he came to the thought of you in his bed, in bathroom stalls, in the shower when no one was around. Up until that moment in his life, he had ejaculated in different holes of different people just for the heck of it.

But not once, never once did he experience an immediate jealousy fit afterwards.

Didn’t even sip on you once when you taste like that, fucking waste of oxygen. Doesn't even appreciate you when that's all he should be doing.

Chris closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, throwing his arm over his forehead.

You should be mine, baby girl. Only mine.

Thursdays. Thursdays were your on-call duty days where you spent the night at the prison. And somebody was of course aware of that.

He was also aware that you were preparing a report for the warden for a while now, and you were supposed to hand it in on Friday. It was a Wednesday when Chris hid it six feet under your computer so that you would think you had lost it for good. He just needed an excuse to spend the Thursday with you so that he could whip out your hard work on a Friday and save the day. No harm done, and in fact, two birds with one stone.

Fucking genius.

“Thank you for helping me with this. I can’t believe how I managed to lose it. It was right fucking there just yesterday!”

“No thanks necessary doc,” Chris talked while entering a bunch of data on the screen, “It’s my job to help you.”

You smiled, being reminded of the moment you told him something with the exact gist. The fact that he remembered tickled something inside you.

Nobody was good at remembering stuff about you.

“But I’m still a firm believer of positive reinforcement,” he grinned, eyes still glued to the screen, “If I do a good job, then you’ll let me have dessert.”

“Will you stop?” you landed a light punch on his shoulder.

“No, I won’t,” he mischievously smiled in response, “I’m missing dinner for this, doc. You gotta make it up to me.”

You had already crossed a line with Chris. An inmate. A patient. 

Then why the fuck the prospect of the same thing repeating itself flared something inside you despite your better judgement?

“I can hear you thinking about it. To answer your question, that's the charm of the Aussies.”

You were taken aback by the unexpected comment that spoke directly to your concern.

“Are all of you like that?”

“No. That's a me-exclusive thing,” he stopped typing and looked up at you sitting on your desk. His eyes darted to your lips and Chris slowly scooted the rolling chair closer to you. You knew where this was headed.

“Are you sure you’re not just missing your girlfriend?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend, doc. Nor do I want one.” 

He grabbed your hand and placed the softest kiss on it prompting you to close your eyes on cue.

“Unless it’s you.”

“Please, Bang.”

“Don’t call me that! I want you.” 

Chris got up to his feet to be on eye level with you and cupped your cheeks.

“And only you.” 

It was like a learned reflex at this point. Whenever Chris leaned in, you braced yourself for the impact on your lips. So soft. So wet. So full of need.

“I miss you, baby,” Chris spoke from your neck, “You miss me, too, don’t you? I know you do.”

“Jesus-”

His hands didn’t mind going on a field trip this time around. He dragged his fingers from your neck to your cleavage, witnessing you shudder under his touch fully anticipating his next move. Chris thickly gulped when he fondled your breasts, letting them fill his palms to the brim.

“You do things to me. You do things to my body.”

“Chris…”

“Touch me. Please.”

Zing!

Nobody wanted you this bad before. Nobody lusted after you to the extent of causing earthquakes on your core. Nobody begged for your touch like they were praying for you to declare war.

And obliterate them into tomorrow.

You lost it.

“Fuck me, Chris.”

Did he… did he hear you right? Did you actually say what he thought y-?

You grabbed him by his nape and pulled him in for a hungry kiss. Like you had been Chris starved your whole fucking life. 

“Show me how much you want me.”

Chris' jaw hit the floor. He was really hoping you were able to register what was coming out of your mouth because he was on the brink of snapping himself.

“Are you… Are you su-?”

“I want you.”

Do you want me as bad as I want you? 

He finally got his answer.

“Touch me. Fucking touch me, baby.”

You slithered your hands under his sleeveless shirt and damn was that whole turn-on by itself. Solid pecs under your touch begging you to drag your nails, your lips, your tongue on them. Chris got rid of your underwear with one swift move as you yanked down his bottoms to finally finally see him in the flesh. As he spread your legs apart on that desk he was losing his mind over the amount of gloss coating your pussy while you were going insane over a man looking like Chris being rock-hard for you. Because of you.

“I’m gonna-”

If he could just shut the fuck up for two seconds trying to announce everything he was about to do to you since the consent was already very clearly established by you. You wrapped your legs around his waist to harshly pull him into you so that he would get the message.

As soon as he pushed himself into you with an obscene squelch, Chris snapped.

“Fuck! That stretch. As tight as I’ve always imagined.”

As he’d always imagined. So he had been imagining you.

“Oh god, faster Chris.”

You wanted faster? He’d give you faster and then some. Anything for you. Chris placed a hand over the small of your back as support and started ramming himself into you.

“I’ve only dreamed of fucking you this good. Can’t believe how well you’re taking me, fuck!”

“Ah, please. Please, more!”

“Feel how good I’m fucking you. Feel it, baby. Clench for me.”

Chris angled himself a little upwards so that the curvature of his cock would hit that spot to get you to see the stars and he went harder.

“Goddammit, Chris!”

“It’s a fact, baby girl. You were fucking made for me, my god! Clench harder, come on.”

Oh to lose yourself in someone. To descend into insanity together with them. Nothing but two souls. Nothing but two bodies.

Nothing but the lunacy called love.

“Call me yours. Make me your man. I’ll be your man instead.”

Nobody pleaded to be yours before. Nobody fucked you into forgetting how your heart was sore.

“I promise I’ll give you everything you deserve, baby. Just be mine.”

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Please, I’m gonna cum!”

“I'm so fucking in love with you, oh god!”

“Chris, FUCK!”

Between these walls, behind the bars, in a stone box where people were punished was the liberation you wanted to feel all along. As you came really hard on his cock, Chris buried his face into your lips. Needy, lustful, passionate. 

He tasted like nothing but freedom.

The next day he magically retrieved your file for you first thing in the morning and went to have a stale breakfast as a changed man. It never tasted this delicious to him before. After he was done eating, he made his way to the library where nobody ever came in, and took out Paco’s cellphone he stole back from O’Connell, which was hidden behind the ventilation grates.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Chris?!”

“I don’t have much time,” Chris checked the door to see if anyone was nearby and lowered his voice, “I need a favor, mate. No questions asked.”

There were two reasons the warden would call someone in. Either regarding disciplinary actions or to break some bad news. In any case, it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Your heart started thumping in your chest as you made your way to his office. You noticed the gen pop manager was also with him in the room.

“I'm afraid we have some bad news, Dr. Y/LN.”

A part of you was relieved this didn’t have anything to do with your little fling with an inmate, which was definitely grounds for a disciplinary hearing if not getting your license revoked, but you no way in hell were you expecting the news of your husband’s passing due to a heart attack induced by excessive drug use in a hotel room.

“We thought you would like to know that the person instigating the event is found to have ties to The Crown Street Cartel and she confessed to the crime. She will be moved to a correctional institution for women tomorrow morning. We’re really sorry for your loss.”

That whole string of information landed like a bomb in that dark room, rendering you completely shocked. You didn’t know what to be upset over first. Your husband gone. Being divorced by death. Apparent adultery involved not that you were pure as the driven snow. And the cherry on top, The Crown Street Cartel.

No.

You passed on the offer to give a eulogy for your husband at the funeral. What were you going to talk about anyway? How you hastily got married over the scare of a pregnancy and how things were never the same after your miscarriage? How he didn’t even make one attempt to maybe reconcile things? How he either spent his nights out or on the couch, forcing you to drown yourself in impossible amounts of work so that you didn’t have to think about it all? How he died right before you actually mustered the courage to tell him that you didn’t wanna live like this anymore?

IS THAT WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO TALK ABOUT???

You didn’t even take time off to properly grieve, since there was no loss to be experienced anyway. It had always been kind of there. However, there was still a confrontation to be had, driving you much antsier the more it approached. It approached. It approached.

And finally arrived at your office door one morning.

“You’re back!” Chris beamed up at the sight of you and attempted a hug.

“SAVE IT!” you yelled at him a lot more loudly than you anticipated while pushing him away and pointed your finger at him with a trembling voice, “I’m gonna ask you point-blank. Do you or do you not have anything to do with my husband’s death?”

“Baby, I-”

“ANSWER THE QUESTION!”

Chris’ silence seemed like the answer you were dreading to hear all along. You scoffed.

“You can guess why I became a doctor, right Bang?”

Bang. You called him Bang.

“Didn’t I save your ass every single time you fell down? Didn't you tell me you owe me your fucking life, huh? That’s what you do for me in return?”

You approached him with slow steps and stopped right in front of his face.

“Is fucking ruining my life what you do for me in return, Bang?!”

He furrowed his brows and his expression was unreadable. It could have very well been interpreted as being upset, angry, sad, or whatever the fuck he claimed to feel.

“But you… You didn’t love him. You love me, baby. We love each other!”

“WHO gave you the right?” you pushed his chest, “What the fuck would you know about love, huh? Do you know what it takes to love someone? What you have to sacrifice for them? Loving someone means you want them to be happy!”

“Do you know what it takes, doc?” Chris countered, “You’ve been trapped in a prison of your own for god knows how long. I set you free so that you could be happy!”

“At least I fucking know it’s not an excuse to play god and take someone’s life away!”

Chris was heavily breathing from his nose, trying so hard to find the right words to sate you, but it felt much like the day your hand brushed against his for the first time.

“Then maybe you’ve never been in love before.”

You looked at him with incredulous eyes as he approached you.

“Please, baby. I lov-”

“Go,” you stopped him and turned away, “We’re done here.”

And that was exactly what Chris did. After watching your back like he was witnessing you evaporate into thin air like smoke, he turned around and left.

After that day, you started paying frequent visits to the prison chapel. Not to pray, it was actually for meditation purposes since it was quiet. Not the kind of deafening silence crawling at your house and driving you absolutely crazy. It could be the pretty stained glass windows, but you felt a piece of peace there. Every day during lunch, you borrowed the key from Father Moreno, locked the door behind you and just sat there, trying to hear yourself think. Just breathe.

After that day, a week passed, but you weren’t grieving as much as you should have. Neither were you turning Chris in. Unfortunately for you, not because you didn’t have anything to pin the crime on him. You literally had a confession directly coming from his mouth.

You painfully realized that it was because you didn’t want to.

I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.

Not only could you not prevent it, but it was also well on its way to metastasizing in your heart.

Chris was losing sleep over you again. Not because of the butterfly riot inside his stomach but due to this crippling restlessness over you not wanting to see him in any capacity. One day. Three days. Five days. Looking at your bobby pin he stole from your desk for hours on end. Yearning. Yearning. Yearning.

“Bang. The doc wants to see you.”

“SHE DOES?!”

He jumped from his seat and dashed to your office like he was trying to break the Olympian record for running. He actually hated hospitals. He hated that antiseptic smell. He hated the color white, but yes. Yes to everything for all eternity if he could be with you again. Your back was turned when he finally made it to that doorframe.

“Finally, baby. Finally you asked for me! Do y-”

“You're way over your head with this shit, Bang. WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING???”

When you turned around to face him Chris didn’t know whether he should have dropped to his knees or go on a fucking rampage. There were bruises on your face. Scratches on your arms. Your lip was busted.

“Baby, wh- What happened to you?”

“Are you really gonna pretend you didn’t unleash some fucking lunatic on me because I didn’t want anything to do with you anymore?!”

“A WHAT?”

Your eyes were crawling with hatred and it was killing Chris inside one step at a time.

“He was one of you, too, wasn’t he? Don’t lie to me, I saw the goddamn boomerang necklace.”

Boomerang necklace.

Noah’s crew.

“I swear I don't have anything to do with this. I'd die before letting anything happen to you!” Chris was on the brink of tears, but you weren’t able to pinpoint the root cause of that. Anger? Sadness? Confusion?

Why would we cry anyway?

Million-dollar question: Why would a man who didn’t even flinch while confessing to orchestrating a murder feel the need to lie about an assault ambush?

Unless he actually didn’t have anything to do with it, that was.

“Please,” Chris enveloped your hands in his, moments away from wrapping you in a tight embrace to shelter you from whatever demons were after you and not giving a fuck if you wanted to curse him to the bottom circle of hell, “Please. Tell me everything. Tell me what happened. I’m begging you.”

Since you informed Chris that you pressed charges against the culprit, he was after his person of interest relentlessly to see which prison he was going to end up in. He should have asked for a million dollars instead because the man came on a silver platter right through the front door. Chris didn’t even need the whole spiel to locate the guy. All he had to do was scan the newcomers that would end up with the Aussies. ‘A family welcome’ was the tradition around here, and he was most certainly going to wear an iron ore boomerang necklace. 

“What are you in for, mate?”

“Nothing that major, brother,” the guy slapped a crooked smile on his face, “I took a little field trip to a house I thought was empty. I should have just left when I emptied the safe, but a hot piece of ass lying in bed like that? That was gonna be a dumb move not to hit that, you know what I mean?”

How dare you talk about my girl like that you fucking cocksucker.

Chris forced a sleazy smile while dying inside, “Did you… Did you get to…?”

“Nah, man, the bitch had an iron bat and damn did she know how to use it,” he cackled, “I was actually fucking turned on by it.”

“Better luck next time, huh?” Chris slapped his shoulder harsher than intended, “Take it easy.”

Fuming out of his nostrils, he made his way to kitchen and slammed his fist into the refrigerator, drawing the attention of Paco to himself.

“I don’t mean to diss your clan, but that asshole gets on my goddamn nerves, Bang. It hasn’t even been 24 hours and the fucker acts like he’s the king running this shit.”

Chris looked at the shelf of jars in front of him and then Paco’s nauseated face, which sparked an idea in his mind.

“We both want the same thing, brother. What if I told you, we can do it?”

Chris wrapped a towal around one of the empty jars to function as a silencer, and slammed it on the metal counter. Paco raised his brows upon the sight.

“You’re legit considering to take out one of your own?”

“He’s not one of my own. One of my own would never disrespect me like that.”

Paco dropped the carrots in his hands and walked towards Chris, still panting out of sheer rage.

“The doc isn’t your girl, brother.”

“She might as well be.”

“The dude didn’t even know who she was, man.”

“Then he should have had a fucking revelation, Paco.”

Chris grabbed a plastic pickle can and started rolling it on the broken glass, almost crushing it into dust. 

“We use a different kind of seasoning in Sydney, you know? Fit for the kings.”

Paco maniacally smiled at Chris’ insinuation.

“You’re one sick motherfucker, you know that right?”

Chris called the gesture and raised it with an even more psychopatic grin.

“That’s some god-tier praise, mate. Appreciate it.”

It took about a week. About a week of pretending to be chummy with the guy Chris couldn’t be bothered to learn the name of so that nobody would suspect anything. About a week of feeding the fucker crushed glass instead of salt, slowly nudging him into his much deserved demise due to an internal hemorrhage. About a week until the body ended up in your office so that you could call the time of death before sending it to the morgue while feeling the most fucked up kind of satisfaction inside.

You plopped down on your chair and noticed an envelope on your desk. It had a hurriedly scribbled note inside along with what looked like crushed pieces of iron.

Anything for you, my queen.

You were in the chapel by yourself again. After locking the door behind you, you opted for going to the confessional this time instead of sitting down one of the benches. You felt like just silently thinking about the gigantic knot inside of you while looking at the pretty colors breaking through the stained glass was not going to cut it. You wanted darkness. You wanted to hide. You wanted your presence to be erased so that you could find peace for once. Weeks of burden piling up on your shoulders finally crushed you under it and you started uncontrollably sobbing. Just letting it out. Only when you said it out loud in between your hiccups did you realize how fucked up beyond repair you were.

“I can’t fucking believe I fell in love with a murderer.”

You eventually ran out of tears to cry and calmed down. You kind of wish you did that sooner because for some reason you felt ten pounds lighter. 

“Anything else you wanna confess?”

That voice…

You felt like you got suckerpunched.

“I know you’ve been coming here a lot, doc.”

No fucking way.

“Were you…? All this time…?”

“Yes.”

The door in front of you opened slowly and you saw him again. You saw one beautiful man fucked up beyond repair looking at you with raised brows, almost scared you were gonna run away, eyes looking like they belonged to a puppy rather than the sick motherfucker you knew him to be. 

“Yes, I have one more thing to confess,” you got up to your feet and extended your hand to him to hold. When he did, you gently pulled him inside.

“Turns out you just cannot love Chris Bang by choice.”

If you didn’t know any better, you would say Chris was welling up a little bit behind that bright smile he broke into. It was obvious how dire his you-starvation was because his kisses shapeshifted. Wetter. More passionate. Even more full of need like that was possible.

“You have my soul on a leash. Anything for you.”

He was trying to take his time with his touches, fighting his craving as much as he can, trying so hard not to give into the urge to take you as hard as he can, and you knew it. Something else you knew, however, was what got him to go full unhinged, filling him with the sole thought of claiming you and you goddamn had enough of your solitary confinement.

“Chris.”

“Fuck, baby, I need you.”

You knew. You could see it in the way he licked his lips every time he caught a glimpse of you. You could smell it in his natural musk getting denser by the second. You could feel it in his touches loaded with the hellfire that scorched your skin after he discarded your underwear. You could hear it in the way he moaned your name with so much need. You could taste it in his lips that you were convinced were made to be kissed by you.

“I think we’ve established that we’re going to hell after this.”

“Isn't this what's called a correctional practice? I’m repenting,” Chris chuckled while lifting you up at one go and pushed you against the wooden wall as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You never felt this close to him before and there was something about the way he moved you around however the fuck he pleased that was just so…

“I’m repenting between these thighs, baby. Everything I need is between these thighs,” he buried his lips on yours again, his body weight pinning you against the wall as he dropped his bottoms with one hand.

“Ah, Chris!”

One push inside of you and he lost all the battles against his urges. Chris was fucking into you hard like he was trying to make up for all the years that passed by without feeling you around him.

“God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You just feel too good, baby. Too good.”

“Faster, Chris.”

“I can't fucking control how much I want you. Fuck, I'm so sorry.”

The way his facial features beautifully shattered with every thrust, your moans melting together, pure desire ruling over that tiny confined space felt like everything you had ever wanted. The strange sense of completeness. The belongingness. The door of your solitary cell getting bombarded with a loud crash every time Chris whispered sweet nothings into your ear.

“Fuck, I missed you. I missed you so fucking much. Give it to me baby, come on.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and dove into his lips headfirst. Whenever he moved his tongue inside, it felt like he was licking your entire body, overloading you with carnality that was beyond this world.

“Do y- Do you wanna cum inside?”

You felt how hard he twitched inside you, and that was almost what got you to cream on him.

“FUCK, you’ll- You’ll really let me?”

“Yes. Fucking yes!”

Chris started fucking into you with an afresh fervor, fully determined to chuck both of your souls in the wildfire he started in that booth.

“Fucking hell, let me claim you like I should, baby. Be mine. Be mine forever.”

Every thrust felt like a soothing touch on your charred soul. Every kiss felt like falling in love with him all over again. Every moan felt like an ode meant to be sung after your beauty.

“Kiss me. Kiss my soul out of me, baby.”

Baby. You called him baby.

“Fuck, I love you. I’m so fucking in love with you, OH GOD!”

You had literally never cum like that before. Not by yourself, not with someone else, not through anything. It felt like Chris opened another door to a dimension that you never knew existed. Maybe Narnia was indeed real and it was located in his kisses. In his moans silenced by the harsh press of your lips against his. 

It happened again. He tasted like nothing but freedom.

That just couldn’t have been a coincidence anymore.

I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.

The time you had served in the prison provided enough baggage for you to last a lifetime. You opted for not spending whatever little sanity you had left there and resigned, deciding that you would be better off taking some time away from all the insanity and open a new chapter in your life. You could lean on your savings for a little while, and although opening a little practice seemed like a feasible option for the time being, who knew what the time was going to bring? You hadn’t planned on getting your heart stolen by some fucking charmer, either, had you?

You got out of the car after spotting a movement in your peripheral vision to your left and hugged him tightly like you hadn’t seen each other in forever. His kisses still tasted like freedom, but for good reason this time around. As he settled down in the passenger seat, you asked him:

“Where do you wanna go on your first day as a free man?”

I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.

You couldn’t prevent it, but so what if you couldn’t? Maybe some cures were hidden in the disease itself and they could actually be good for you. Weren’t antidotes made out of venom anyway? Loving Chris this much may have permanently placed you under the category of the infirm, but who was to say you didn’t have the very same special obligations to the only person that mattered? 

Yourself.

Chris grabbed your hand to kiss it and looked into your eyes dreamily with a smile.

“To heaven, baby. In your bed this time.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE

🍮Like my content? Consider supporting my work with a pudding!

Welcome to the first installment of the insanity marathon! I really appreciate you being here (✿◠‿◠) I figured, what better way than to kick off the event with a BANGer (see what I did there?). Hope I was able to do it justice and serve the Christopher trash community accordingly. If you enjoyed this story, please feel free to yell at me in reblogs, tags, or in my inbox. I tremendously enjoy it! (●'◡'●)

Regarding updates: I had initially announced that I was going to post a story every Monday until Halloween, but considering the current obligations of my life and the volume of the stories, it doesn't seem very likely. There will still be eight stories posted (hopefully) by Halloween, but let's not expect military precision on the updates ^^' Once again, thank you so much for tagging along!

-R. (CB97%)

«GENERAL MASTERLIST» · «ABOUT/FAQ» · «ASK/REQUEST» · «TREAT ME TO PUDDING?🍮»

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MASTERLIST | disclaimer! i cannot control what you come across on the internet, but i do ask that you please do not interact with my mature rated content if you are under 18 years old! all works are entirely fictional and not related to stray kids or the members in any personal way. stories that are written that are based off dramas/films are plotted differently and not attached to the original work. some works linked are connected to my main writing blog! i am retired in writing for skz, but enjoy <3

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Scarlet Red

Pairing: Hyunjin x Fem Reader

Summary: A young talented artist has caught your attention. Now you want nothing more than for him to be successful. (Non idol au)

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI due to adult content. Unprotected sex, fingering, and use of pet names.

Word Count: 6,200+ and some change

Author’s Note: The chokehold this man has on me right now. I hope you guys enjoy!

Tag List: @lee–felix, @lex-thesimpzzz, @nymeriaaa, @hyuckilstan, @joti17, @9900z, @jess-1404, @weusteezmakes1team, @formysakeamaryllis, @skzflix-au, @downforseochangbin, @lotus-dly, @cb97percent, @svintsandghosts (Message me if you’d like to be added. You’ll be notified when I post)

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call from an australian phone number

part five of sharp edges | part one | part two | part three | part four | 《 masterlist 》

—hyunjin x reader (f) (other skz members (minho, jisung) are prominent in this chapter) —word count: 17.8k [ao3] (due to formatting issues, I split what was going to be the final chapter in two parts. I hope this is at least a little bit worthwhile regardless ♡) —genre: non-idol au, painter!hyunjin au, romance, explicit/adult themes. 18+ minors dni —warnings: angst/hurt. dark thoughts. hurt/comfort. explicit & adult themes. this chapter does not contain smut but it contain references to explicit sexual themes (vanilla). characters consume alcohol and eat food. → playlist on spotify!

That is all they see in you. The damage, the landmines that Hyunjin left behind when he went away. The scratches, the dents. The void that you became. The fallen angel that you became. Like a person who forgot what watermelon tastes like. Like a painter who can no longer tell the difference between blood red and strawberry red. 

You do not hurt alone. 

But you hurt. 

There is very little space in your mind for suppositions about love at first sight, whether it is true or not, whether it matters or not, or what it does to you once it strikes your heart. There is very little space in your mind for thoughts about light pink roses or jade green book covers. There is very little space in your mind for anything other than the relentless ache of the now.

People who say that living in the present moment is the key to happiness never had their body painted in red watercolor. They never had their atoms rearranged. They never had the chance of learning how someone’s brush sounds when stroking a canvas. They never had the chance of learning how to mix and blend certain colors because of someone’s mouth.

People who say that living in the present moment is the key to happiness never ate a Jeju mandarin that tasted like kisses. 

But this is all you have—the present moment. Every second is spent trying to redirect your thoughts toward anything but him, the painter, the dancer. The boy whose eyes haunt you in your sleep or when you are wide awake. The boy whose voice is as sweet as honey, whose hand always sought yours to hold. The warmth of his body and the feeling of it against you. Inside you. His mouth, his sinful mouth—the way it felt when he kissed you. Sometimes the mandarins tasted like kisses and sometimes the kisses tasted like mandarins. Or like strawberries. Or like you.

The way it felt when Hyunjin made love to you, painting you with kisses, blending touches into you, dancing his soul and his love on or under your body. The way he would not just hold your hand, how his thumb was always tracing circles on the back of it, delicately, reminding you that he was not just passively holding your hand—he was doing it to feel you. 

He would never not love you, he said. And you know he meant it. You will never not love him and you will never not see him in everything. Couples everywhere on the street, walking by, holding hands, sharing ice cream or bubble tea. A bouquet of roses. Cold mornings, warm afternoons. Raindrops. Teardrops—your tears, which you are so terribly ashamed of despite having no witnesses to them except for your pillow and the empty side of your bed. 

Every day, you think you have cried the last tear. But then, Hyunjin haunts your dreams by being painfully absent from them. 

One day, you woke up to a text message from Hyunjin. It just said ‘Going into surgery today. I will be thinking of you when they put me under.’ You had gone to work but you had not been able to work. You had barely managed to make your way back home. It was after a dinner you hadn’t managed to eat that you had gotten another text message.

‘I’m fine, my angel. They say it was a success. They fixed my hip. They fixed me. I thought of you when I woke up.’

Today, you wake up, your eyes sore from last night’s tears. You do not remember your dream but you know Hyunjin wasn’t in it, for if he had been, you would remember it.

It’s as simple as that.

The sunrise fills your room but it is still empty. The light reaches you, warming up your arms, your neck, your chest. 

But you are still empty. 

There is an unread text message waiting for you. You do not hurt alone. It was sent to you at some point during the night, after the wine and tears had lulled you to a sleep too deeply to hear the notification.

Lee Minho: Are you free tonight at 7? The school is having a showcase for our top groups. Teachers will have one too. 

He hurts, too. Minho. He’ll never admit to it, but you see it in his eyes, how Hyunjin haunts him by his absence. How Hyunjin left the both of you stranded, anchorless, stunned. 

“When I saw him on Hongdae Street,” Minho had told you one drunken night, and this is the most he had ever told you about it. “I thought I’d have him again.” 

You know better than to press Minho into talking about his feelings. Sometimes, you cry, and he holds you. He doesn’t know what to say and there is nothing to be said about it anyway, so he just holds you. But you know. You know he does it so you can hold him, too. 

You do not hurt alone. But you hurt more than you thought you ever could—and you had gone through a lot in your life already. Nothing could have prepared you for the empty void Hyunjin would leave when he left. Nothing could have prepared you for it, for the amount of hope your heart tries to give you, and how keeping it down is a full-time job with very few employee benefits. 

But you can't let your heart give it to you, this hope. That Hyunjin will be back and his body will be fixed and his soul will be fixed and he will love you the same as he did before. Nobody can go through so much and come back as they were before. Maybe he will never come back. 

It’s Saturday morning. You stretch in your bed, exhausted even after sleeping, but you shower. You do not cry, you just shower and brush your hair and get dressed. Soon, your apartment smells like coffee, but it won’t smell like anything else. You are not hungry. But you grab your phone, reading Minho’s text again. 

You: I’m free tonight. See you there. 

It’s the hardest thing you ever had to do. You let Hyunjin go, and you kept existing. It meant getting up in the morning and showering and drinking coffee and admitting you should have breakfast but knowing you won’t. Knowing you will eat anyway because you do not hurt alone. It meant going to dance showcases even if it will remind you of him, Hyunjin, but going anyway, because Minho invited you there. 

It’s Saturday morning. Soon, you will be headed to the painting class that you give. You tie your hair in a ponytail so you do not have to style it. Love, when you had it, used to look good on you. Sorrow, now that you have it, is obvious on you. 

Longing, now that you have it, is all that you do have. 

Your phone vibrates but you know it’s not Minho again—he wouldn’t text you an unnecessary response, certainly not at this hour of the day. You know exactly what to expect when you pick up the device after drinking the last sip of your coffee.

Jisung: I’m here. You ready? 

You: Yes, give me a minute. 

You set the empty mug in your sink and make sure everything is alright in your apartment before you leave. You left your purse and bag of supplies near the door last night in preparation for today, and you take one last look at the painting on the wall as you pass it—the portrait of you that Hyunjin painted. You look at it, you let your fingertips brush on the canvas, basking in the beauty he gave you, the beauty you only have in his eyes. 

That is another thing that you lost when he left, this beauty—he is no longer here to see it in you. 

Jisung is waiting for you on the sidewalk, as he does every Saturday morning. You do not hurt alone. Sometimes, you wish you did. But your friend offers you a warm smile, and you’re thankful for how persistent he is. How stubborn he is. To just not leave you alone for too long. How, so often, your phone vibrates with a notification from him and it’s little nothings, always. A picture of the sky. His dinner. Another sky photo, a song. He sends a lot of music. He sends jokes sometimes, often as audio clips. He knows that, otherwise, your apartment is dark and quiet. 

Recently, he has started sending you whole playlists of carefully picked tracks. ‘For mornings’, ‘for good days’, ‘for not good days’. You could never repay this to him—how considerate he is. This relentless kindness. How could you repay this to him?

Jisung waits for you on the sidewalk and he’s holding his bag of supplies as well as a bag of food for the two of you to share before the class begins. 

“You’re kind of Pavloving me, Ji,” you tell him as the two of you make your way towards the bus stop. “I’m never hungry on Saturday mornings because I know you’ll bring food that’ll make me hungry later.” 

“I think it’s the other way around,” Jisung points out, his smile still lingering on his face. He seems okay. Better than he was at first. “You’re Pavloving me. I know you’re not going to eat on painting class mornings, so now I get a sudden craving for gilgeori toast every Saturday when I wake up.” 

You smile back at him and it feels strange, bitter, unwelcome. But you smile anyway and by now, you’ve practiced enough that your smile looks convincing to everyone. Except to your mother. Your mother can always tell. 

But you get on the bus with him and Jisung tells you about his work week, how there has been restructuring in the company and it might affect his job, but he hopes it does so in a positive way. You nod, kind of listening to him. But the other half of your brain is trying to chase away hope again, and it is no easy feat.

You give the Thursday painting class, too. It’s the same class level, the same art studio as the Saturday class. It’s after your work hours and you are always tired when you head there but you do it to honor Mrs. Yoo, honor her wishes, honor what she gave you—she, after all, is the one who gave you Hyunjin and it was not her fault he went away. 

The class always goes smoothly. The easel that you once occupied is always taken by an old man, who is retired and likes to paint. The easel to the left of that one is occupied by a younger man who sees the older man as his mentor. 

Your gaze rarely shifts there or toward the door behind on Thursday nights.

But on Saturday mornings, it does. Your eyes shift to those two easels constantly, to the wooden table in between them. But more importantly, it’s the door that bothers you. How it stays closed during the class. How, through his absence, Hyunjin haunts that class. By not stepping through the door. 

You keep hoping that he will. You try to keep it on a leash, this fucking hope of yours. To tame it, not to let it roam too far—but just like the love you have for Hyunjin, the hope of seeing him go through that door is too big, and you can’t control it. You tried. You still try. But you can’t.

Jisung hands you your breakfast sandwich as you head out of the bus, as always. You take a few bites from it, walking in silence with your friend who comments extensively on how delicious the food is, as he always does. You nod, chewing a small bite of the sandwich, trying very hard to enjoy it. You pass through a little street market and find yourself enjoying the lively conversations around you a lot more than the food. You will eat it, though. You will.

On your left, a flash of orange catches your eye. 

It is mandarin season. 

You turn toward the street vendor—a woman behind a small but inviting stall. Her smile is as bright as the orange of the mandarins. The sign above the stall says GROWN DELICIOUSLY ON JEJU ISLAND. 

You are still holding the sandwich that Jisung brought you, but you make your way through the crowd. 

“We’ll be late!” Jisung says somewhere behind you, but you’re already too far to hear the rest of his sentence. 

You reach the stall where two clients, a couple, are already busy purchasing considerable amounts of citrus fruit. You wait, your eyes unable to focus on anything but the large crates of mandarins. Jisung joins you finally, and you hand him back his sandwich, so he just takes it to put it back in the bag—he understands. You know he does.

It is mandarin season once again, and you need to bite into a fruit that tastes like kisses. 

You buy one. Just the one, and walk away. You will not eat it now. You want to, so badly, you want to feel the supple flesh of the fruit break apart on your tongue, want to feel the sweet juice of it fill your whole mouth, you want it dripping on your chin.

You want Hyunjin to kiss your mandarin mouth, lick the juice away, you want him, him, him. 

But you put the fruit in your purse, carefully, delicately, and head towards the art studio without a word, Jisung by your side. 

Not a word is spoken between the two of you. You make it to the studio, where a little more than half of the students are already there. They greet you and you greet them, too, offering them the same smile you would have if there was not a Jeju mandarin in your purse. 

“Let’s discuss today’s class, shall we?” you tell the students. Your students. Not so long ago, it seems, you were one of them. Forever ago, it seems, you were one of them, sitting on that easel near the door, painting your broken heart away, thinking, this is the saddest I will ever be. But that was before your atoms had been rearranged. “It’s December. What do you guys like about December?” 

You like to hear them. The students. Your students. There are a few new faces, and they are always welcome to tell you whatever they wish about their lives. Sometimes, you tell them about your life. Little nothings. It distracts you. For a while, anyway.

A few weeks ago, a young woman stayed after class, much like you did the first time you went to speak with Mrs. Yoo—she took her time gathering her supplies, pretending to be really absorbed by a few of the paintings left to dry. Jisung was on his phone, waiting for you—you always get lunch with him after the Saturday classes.

So you had told Jisung to wait for you outside while you closed up, and once you had been alone with her, the young woman had spoken.

She was not happy. She had a bright future ahead of her. She was a beautiful girl, you thought, with big, dark-brown eyes and a voice infused with kindness. There was a little mole in the white of her right eye. She was as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. But her parents didn’t believe in her the way they should. She had no one, she thought, who could support her through that bright future of hers, the future that she hoped for.

So you make a point of it now. Every week after the class, you remind her that she has paint and a canvas and that she has to pretend like it's enough. That even if it isn't, it has to be enough. 

That she shouldn’t think she is not enough even if she has no one to support her —she has herself. You see it in her dark-brown eyes, the willingness, the strength. Life can be so unfair, and, realistically, putting colors on a blank canvas cannot and will not support a person throughout their life.

But maybe it will. Maybe, just maybe, by painting one’s own sorrow, blending its complex colors, one can hope to achieve some sort of healing journey. One can hope to drain those somber colors out of their minds just by pouring them into art pieces, making something beautiful out of them, facing them day after day. Learning them by heart. This is what hurt me. This is what hurt me. This is what hurt me.

This is what keeps me alive. This is what keeps me going. 

Here is the truth: there is an entire universe between being alive and living. The two concepts are entirely different and have very little in common, except that they both involve a beating heart. One is the ocean and the other is the sky—these two elements are strikingly beautiful when put together in a photograph, a drawing, or a painting, but in reality, the ocean and the sky are thousands of miles from one another. 

Here is another truth: you keep telling this young woman that it will get better, that there will be light at the end of this dark era, that the sky will fall down upon the ocean and they will finally merge, making being alive and living synonyms of one another. And you truly believe that for her. For her.

For her.

“What about December, Miss?” a student asks politely but with curiosity in his voice. 

You truly believe that for her, for him, for Jisung, whose gaze often returns to an easel now occupied by a woman who just started her retirement, the easel where Seo-yeon used to sit at. You believe that for him too, someday, the sky and the ocean will become one.

But you do not believe that for you. Maybe you just don’t live in the same world as them. Maybe you live under a different sky, on a different ocean, in a different plane of existence. A place where hope is prohibited. A place where the relentless ache of living in the present moment is all there is.

“What does it inspire you? The month of December?” you ask your students, looking around as they suddenly become excited, almost like children, from your question. 

“Christmas!” 

“Big snowflakes!” 

“Dumplings! I always get dumplings with my dad in December, at the Christmas market.” 

“Jeju mandarins.” Your heart skips a beat. And another. And another. 

You turn to face Jisung, who just spoke out loud. He's staring at the blank canvas in front of him, his gaze emptier than the white linen. The whole class turns to him, too, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Jeju mandarins,” he goes on, finally raising his eyes in your direction, still ignoring everyone else around. “Jeju mandarins and laughter and hot chocolate.”

You know this had been his and Seo-yeon’s ritual. To go for hot chocolate after class. You wonder if he misses her soft hair, her chocolate-flavored kisses, or just her. You wonder if regret ever inhabits Seo-yeon the same way it inhabits him. You wonder if she ever misses Jisung. 

Often, you wonder if Hyunjin misses you the same way you miss him.

A few students know. They remember Hyunjin’s habits, they remember that whenever he was here, he brought with him the sweet scent of fruit. The sweet scent of love. These students turn back to look at you, expecting a tantrum, possibly, a shriek, expecting anything, everything. 

You blink, looking into Jisung’s sad eyes. Love, when he had it, looked good on him. Sorrow, now that he has it, is obvious on him. It might be even worse in his case—he seems to have decided to burden himself with your own torment as if his own wasn’t enough. 

He still hasn’t been able to escape the guilt he feels. As if it had anything to do with him, Jisung, if Hyunjin had demons in his mind he needed to run away from.

“Jeju mandarins and hot chocolate,” you echo in the silence of the art studio. “Cinnamon in the hot chocolate?” 

“Always.” Jisung’s voice doesn’t quite sound like him. He sounds choked up, frightened, like he’s on the edge of a cliff. Ready to jump. Ready to climb back up. “Vanilla, too.” 

“Warmth.” You turn to the students again, most of them confused, a few of them most likely a little uneasy and a little sad. You see that on their faces. 

You knew that there would be a day when Hyunjin would leave you. That day, you wanted to hurt alone, so that people didn’t take one glance at you, see the pain in you, and walk away. 

That is all they see in you. The damage, the landmines that Hyunjin left behind when he went away. The scratches, the dents. The void that you became. The fallen angel that you became. Like a person who forgot what watermelon tastes like. Like a painter who can no longer tell the difference between blood red and strawberry red. 

“We seek warmth in December,” you keep going, unbothered by the fact that you’re not only displaying your damage—it is also spilling out of your lips, big, heavy drops of red and black. “Warmth in December. Would you guys like it to be today’s theme?” 

A few nods, many gulps, a reasonable amount of ‘hm hms’. Good enough.

The class paints in silence today, except for the usual ‘could I borrow your extra flat brush’, ‘I’m out of green, can I have some?’, and ‘Wow, this looks amazing’. You hear but you do not listen. All that you think of is the Jeju mandarin in your purse, waiting for you. 

You could step out of the studio and eat it. Hell, you could peel it right here, right now, for everyone to see. Let them see the juice coat your lips the way you once coated Hyunjin’s beautiful mouth. Let them see the grief hit you as the flavor dances on your tongue, the way Hyunjin’s taste once danced on yours. 

There are interesting things on your students’ canvases today. A pair of fuzzy mittens, a mother putting a blanket around her child’s shoulders, a bowl of soup. A wall-mounted radiator, the portrait of a beautiful girl with a soft smile on her face, the right corner window of this very art studio.

A small wooden table with, on it, one mug of hot chocolate and one mandarin orange.

You do not hurt alone. Jisung hurts, too. 

Love at first sight? What about it? 

It might be real but it is also a myth, as in mythical. As in delusory, idealistic, seemingly out of reach. Love at first sight is much like winter—one day, it’s not there and the next day it just is, changing nothing yet everything, transforming people’s daily lives. Making them dig into a closet for a hat and a warm jacket to put on before heading out. Making them stop on their way for hot chocolate.  

It turns out that life does imitate art. It also turns out that love at first sight is the kind of love that can rearrange the fuck out of your atoms. It turns out that it is very real. 

It happens to be the kind of love that can’t seem to be washed away, not by seasons, not by an unoccupied apartment slowly filling up with art pieces, not by a door that remains closed on Saturdays. 

You did not believe in love at first sight, but you are standing here today and you are not the woman you were before Hyunjin took the seat to your left. But he did take that seat and you did fall in love with him. Love at first sight, it turns out, is the kind of love that can’t be washed away, not by a stained silk ribbon, not by gilgeori toast, not by videos of a boy that once danced like a demi-god. 

Time doesn’t help either. Time is your greatest enemy. The more time goes on, the more time has passed, the longer you have been without him, without Hyunjin. Persimmon season is over already and there is a mandarin from Jeju in your purse. It will not be that long before you bite into a ripe strawberry, the juice of it staining your mouth the same way Hyunjin once stained you with watercolor. 

“I like the orange that you mixed,” you tell Jisung, sitting at the easel you were sitting at when the atoms that make you you got rearranged for good. “It’s very lifelike.” It really is. 

“Thank you.” There is some of it on his fingers, but he makes little effort to wipe it off. “You didn’t eat your sandwich. Aren’t you hungry?”

You shake your head. “Not really, Ji.” Besides, he always takes you to lunch after class. 

The studio is quiet, so quiet that you hear the symphony of brushes gliding on canvases. You used to listen to Hyunjin when he painted, recognizing his brush strokes so clearly that you could have kept your eyes closed and guessed accurately what he was painting. 

You didn’t have a lot of time with him, but the time you did have, you learned him. Learned his ways, learned his taste, the way it felt when he sank into you, his face over yours, his big eyes in your gaze, the tip of his hair tickling your neck. Him, taking up all of the space within you. Making you forget for a few instants that there would be a day when he would leave you. 

The young woman with the dark-brown eyes comes to see you just before the end of the class. You’re standing at the back of the studio, looking at the final results of everyone’s painting session. It is so beautiful you have tears in your eyes as she approaches you, telling you that she had found strength in colors, just like you had told her she would. I think I will be okay, Miss, she tells you. You offer her a smile, but when you turn away, the tears threatening to overflow from your eyes roll onto your cheeks.

Love, when you had it, looked good on you. Yearning, now that you have it, is the only thing that keeps you going. 

The door stays closed until the end of the class. 

You get noodles with Jisung—something simple, something you can eat quickly. You tell him about Lee Minho’s dance showcase and Jisung admits he is also meeting people later, so it’s alright if you leave now. But you’re not quite sure you believe him. Maybe he only says that to ease your conscience, as the post-painting class lunch is quite obviously the highlight of your week for the both of you, and you don’t think he would purposefully book another gathering on the same day. 

Sometimes, after lunch, you both walk to Hyunjin’s apartment—your art studio—and he sits somewhere or takes a nap while you paint or sort through your paintings. There are so many of them. Too many of them. You paint to forget the longing, to pass the time, to stop time. So far, there are twelve portraits of Hyunjin, which you keep in the closet of what once was his bedroom. There are other things too—paintings of light pink roses or nephrite jades or baskets of strawberries. Stormy nights, sunny mornings. 

Raspberry-colored lips on a neck, so lifelike you could almost feel Hyunjin’s breath on your skin as you painted it. A cloud in a blue sky. A color study of orange and red and black. An empty dance studio. You paint, you paint because it reminds you of the pain that you have, you paint because it makes you forget. There is no other way to explain it. 

The bus leaves you near the street market. There is still a Jeju mandarin in your purse when you reach your building, and you find a letter in your mail. There are a few flyers too and a notice from your insurance that you were about to forget to renew. 

The letter has an Australian stamp on it—of course. 

There are still several hours before you have to be on your way to meet Minho at the dance school. You rarely read Hyunjin’s letters when you are sober, but you don’t think it would be a good idea to drink at this time of the day… 

So you sit on the floor of your living room, figuring that it’s best to make bad memories in a neutral place such as the floor instead of your bed. Your nights are sleepless enough as it is anyway. You also can’t read that letter in your kitchen—what if it’s a really bad letter and you never get hungry again after reading it? 

You really ought to start reading these letters outside of your home entirely. 

My angel, 

I write this letter to you from outside, on the tiny balcony of the small apartment I rented. Felix insisted that I could stay with him, that it was okay, but, I don’t know. He matters a lot to me, but I need to be alone, sometimes.

Isn’t it strange how I never felt this way with you? 

I’ve known Felix for a long time, I love him a lot. He is like a brother to me. He’s helped me in the darkest times of my life—both times. So why do I sometimes need to be alone, to be without him, just for a few moments?

Why did I never need to be without you? 

Now, I know what you are thinking, angel love. That I did move to another continent, away from you. And… you’re right. But you know what I mean, right? Do you? I hope you do. If you don’t, please try to understand. That your presence was never a burden to me. That you were, and still are, the only person with whom I could be myself, my true self. Even if I didn’t tell you about the accident, my hip, the dancing. I hope you understand what I mean. Please try to understand.

I miss him. The me I could be with you. But more than anything, I miss you. 

I am outside. The sky is blue. It reminds me of you, of the painting you painted for Chan’s parents, remember? He wanted a bright blue sky, and you spent hours looking at pictures of the sky for reference until it drove you crazy. Until I reminded you that all you had to do was to look up—the sky was right there, the real sky, not through a screen, for you to see. For you to paint. You painted such a pretty sky, my angel. I wish you’d send me more pictures of your paintings. I miss you. 

I missed painting, too. Which is partially why I rented this apartment in the first place. To set up a little corner where I can paint and draw. Since Felix’s parents helped me get a work visa, I have more money now, so I bought an easel and some supplies. It’s not that I needed a lot of money—his parents are very generous and my aunt left me everything she had, which was a lot more than I deserve. 

But. When I moved here, I brought with me the paintbrushes you gave me last Christmas. Some of them direly need replacing, but I will not throw them away. Sometimes, when I hold them, it almost feels like I’m holding your hand. Sometimes, when I miss you so badly that my heart hurts, I brush the bristles against my face. Softy. I pretend it’s your hair. When that isn’t enough, I press my fingertips to my lips. I pretend it’s you. But that doesn’t fool me. Nothing could fool me.

In your last letter, you said that your sister was pregnant. Will you please pass on to her my congratulations? I hope she and the baby are healthy. I hope she is happy. I know how much she wanted this baby, so I know this child will grow up in a home full of love like I did. Like you did. Does it matter in the end, you think? The home we grew up in? 

Are you paying attention to the world around you, my angel? Did you know that I keep the orange plushie on my bedside table, still? It’s the first thing I see every morning when I wake up. I wonder what you see when you wake up.

Felix tells me that you have become friends with Minho. Does he treat you right? Don’t let him bully you. But do let him cook you some of his chicken soup, yeah? I’m not angry at him anymore. I know I shouldn’t say this to you, I should say this to him… But it’s hard. I miss him too, you know. But he betrayed me. This unspoken promise we had—that we had to do everything we could to make it. They didn’t need me. They could have kept going, could have done the audition without me. They should have. Minho said no. Felix followed. Felix doesn’t resent him, he even says he agreed with him. I don’t. I don’t agree with him at all. Did he not realize? The burden that would fall upon me? 

The burden of their failure? Failure to even try?

But my brain doesn’t really short-circuit anymore. Not like before, anyway. It does sometimes when physical therapy doesn’t go the way I want… but when I got the surgery… they made me see many doctors. I didn’t tell you that before. I’m sorry, my love, but now I will tell you. They gave me some medicine… They said that I went through a lot of trauma with the accident and the failed first surgery and that I shouldn’t have pretended to be okay when I wasn’t. I take the medicine. I see a therapist. I think it helps. No, I know it helps. 

They told me I should have started this treatment a long while ago. I disagree. I know it’s wrong, but I disagree. If I had been alright, I wouldn’t have had the need to paint. 

I wouldn’t have met you. 

I went through all of this so that I could kiss you, my angel. I’m sure of it. This was fate. And it was worth it. If I had to choose, I’d do it all over, just so I could make love to you again. Just so I could love you again.

Are you waiting for me, still, angel? I hope you are not. If Lee Minho wants to kiss you, let him. If someone else wants to hold you, let them. If you fall in love, fall in love. You’re too striking, too bold, too beautiful, to waste yourself away like that. People will fall in love with you and you might love them back, and it is okay. You’ll always be my angel. I’ll come back someday, and if you love another when I do, I’ll be your friend if you want me around. If you don’t, I’ll understand. But you’ll still be my angel. 

I know you. I know what you think. That you will never love again. I remember that you thought this before we met. That you couldn’t fall in love, that your heart was cold and damaged. Well, you fell in love with me, didn’t you? And me with you, despite my broken heart and body and brain. 

Let your heart run free. It’s so beautiful. You can’t keep it hidden away just for me. You can’t keep a bird in a cage for too long, it will die. You have to set it free.

Be happy, I beg you.

My angel my angel. My angel,

I will never not love you.

Hyunjin 

You did not think that you could exist without Hyunjin.

But you are forced to do so. And it is the hardest thing you ever had to do.

There is still a Jeju mandarin in your purse when you enter the dance school where Lee Minho teaches. The crowd is scattered around the main room on the first floor for the pre-show party. You’ve been here many times before, but you’ve never seen this many people here—this is the first showcase you attend. 

You often end up here in the evenings, sometimes staying all night or else leaving at 2 or 3 in the morning. You do not dance, of course,—Minho does. One will text the other, checking on their sleep situation, and if both of you are unable to find rest, this dance school is where you meet. He lives closer so he leaves the back door unlocked for you, but you lock it behind you after you get in. 

By the time you make it to his favorite studio—the big one on the second floor, with the corner windows—he’s already dancing. You do not need to talk to each other and that’s not why you meet anyway. You usually bring your laptop and you do some work from there, or you have a book that you can read. Sometimes, you bring a pen and paper, and you respond to Hyunjin’s letters while Minho practices relentlessly. You do not think he needs much practicing—he is very skilled, learns choreography in a matter of minutes, and can begin teaching it immediately.

But he dances to forget, to remember. The way you paint to forget and to remember, too. 

Some nights, Minho has it in his mind to show you a few moves, so you indulge him. You really didn’t want to at first, because he moves like water, because his movements are so precise they could be considered science, mathematics. But you indulge him because sometimes, he smiles while he looks at you in the mirror, observing your attempts at replicating a dance segment. 

You are not a dancer. You are a painter. But you find colors in dancing, and the red you feel when you dance is not the same red as the one you paint. You used to paint lifelike reds, but you’ve lost your muse, your reference. But you keep painting so that you never forget the color of Hyunjin’s lips.

Tonight the first floor is crowded and you see no familiar face to keep you company, so you find an empty corner and stay there for a little while, listening to the conversations around you. You wonder how many of these people hold sorrow in their chests and are burdened by it. You can’t seem to find it obvious on anyone, not the way it is on you. 

“You’re here.” Minho appears to your right, wearing what must be his performance outfit—ripped jeans, a loose button-up white shirt, and his favorite sneakers. 

“Hello, Min.” You smile. You try to. You’re not sure what it looks like, but he nods and the corners of his mouth raise a little. In your purse, there is a Jeju mandarin and a letter from Hyunjin. “You look good. Not too nervous?”

“Not for me. My students are nervous, but I taught them well.” He reaches for you and feels the fabric of your jacket underneath his fingertips. “You look good too. Is that new?”

“My sister took me shopping yesterday,” you explain. “But really, she’s just trying to find reasons to go get more baby clothes and accessories.” 

“It’s an addiction, seems like.” Again, the corners of Minho’s mouth raise slightly into this almost-smile of his, and he looks into your eyes. “Excited to be an aunt?” 

Yes, you are. You are happy for your sister, as this child is something she deeply desired. You remember the morning she came to your apartment, confused and lost, because she was not sure that her husband wanted the same future she did at the same time she did. That day is the day you told her about Hyunjin. That day is the day you showed the world, in exact detail, how and why your heart would inevitably break.

But you do not know if you will ever be able to hold this not-even-born-yet-baby and not wonder what if. What if he had not left you. What if Hyunjin’s brain had stopped short-circuiting at some point, and he would still be here?

You will never not see Hyunjin in everything. In the things that he liked, the things he didn’t like, in all of the forevers he couldn’t give you. You don’t think you will ever be able to hold your sister’s baby and not think, I wish Hyunjin were here, I wish I were holding our baby, I wish Hyunjin were here. 

“Yes, very excited, I bet I’ll be a cool aunt,” you tell Minho. But you know he sees the truth in your eyes. You know longing is obvious on you, and it is all that you do have. 

His almost-smile is gone, and soon he is gone too, as the show will begin in just a few minutes. You follow the crowd’s movement as everyone is guided toward the biggest studio, the one used for small concerts. You find a comfortable spot to hang out, leaning against the wall, and you watch. 

For about forty-five minutes, you don’t have to think about anything. You can’t help but wish Hyunjin were here too, commenting on the way the little ones execute their choreography, putting his hand on your lower back, reminding you that he is in love with you and you with him. 

The teacher’s performance is kept for last. You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket, and decide to have a look at it just to make sure it’s nothing urgent. 

Lee Minho: do you think you could film me, please? Lee Minho: the performance 

You look at the stage where the owner of the dance school is giving a speech about the great work of his teachers and their students. 

You: you mean, like a fan cam? 

You can practically see it, his almost-smile. Maybe a little more than almost, even. 

Lee Minho: yeah, like a fan cam. of course. if it pleases you to say so. Can you, please? 

You: of course, Min Oppa. Don’t worry. I’ll go at the front and get the best angle for you

You swear you hear laughter from backstage, but you make your way through the crowd as respectfully as you can and find a good spot from which you can record the performance. 

The song is very upbeat but has a few slower points which offer an interesting contrast in the choreography. You’ve seen Minho rehearse it a dozen times, if not more—hell, even you know parts of it—so it’s very easy to follow him with your phone camera, capturing the way he makes it look so effortless. He is the best dancer in the group. 

He dances to forget. He dances to remember. Sorrow is obvious on him, too. 

They get a lot of applause, especially from their own students. You see it now. That Minho was meant to be an instructor. He was meant to share this talent—not every person who has a skill is meant to teach it. But he really is. 

You wait for him outside after, to congratulate him and thank him for the invitation. The night is cold, but for once you feel in your element. You don’t wait for him too long. 

Minho finds you leaning against the large storefront window of the school. He says nothing at first, but when you straighten up to face him, he pulls you against him. Sometimes, Minho holds you so that you hold him, too. 

So you wrap your arms around his body. He’s warm. 

“I’ll send him the video,” Minho says, his mouth in your hair. “Through Felix.” 

You stay in Minho’s arms, but you know that in your purse there is a letter that has the power to unmake him, to make him whole again. It scares you—if you tell him the words on this piece of paper, Minho will not need you to hold him anymore. 

But that is selfish. And you are not selfish. 

“Do you want a ride home?” Minho offers. “Or do you want to come over for dinner? It’s late, but—”

You hold him tighter. While you can. “Dinner.” You twist your neck to look into Minho’s cat-like eyes. “Will you cook it for me? The chicken soup?” 

He smiles, for real, not almost, and nods slowly. “Of course. Let’s go, my car is at the back.”

Minho’s apartment is small but welcoming, and cozy. The living room is tiny—just enough space for a wall-mounted TV, a nice couch, and a coffee table—but it’s your favorite room. There is a window, there, and in front of it, there is a gray and white cat tree for a gray and white cat.

“Jellybean!” She’s the first thing you notice when Minho lets you in first. The feline, who had been asleep in her cat tree, opens her eyes and stares at the both of you with disgust. 

“Did we wake you up, sweetheart?” Minho says with a soft laugh, making his way to his cat to pet her gently. She brushes her face on his hand before laying back down, closing her eyes. “That’s it, go back to sleep, baby.” 

You join Minho in the kitchen. He adds kibble to Jellybean’s food bowl and washes his hands before going to the fridge. He changed back into casual clothes after the performance—comfortable trousers and a t-shirt. 

“Can I help you?” you ask, but you know what he’ll say. 

“No, you’re my guest. You can go watch TV if you want. Keep Jellybean company.” 

So you do that. You sit on the couch and the small cat joins you, stretching her whole body before rolling into a ball of cat on your lap. You caress her soft fur, white and pale gray, making a point of feeling her breathing patterns. The warmth of her, in this gloomy December. 

When she is not asleep, she has curious blue eyes and a bad habit of chewing on shoes. But she is Jellybean, so her flaws are forgiven. In Minho's eyes, she is a perfect little angel, anyway.  

You watch TV. There is not much on TV, but halfway through the cooking, Minho brings into the living room a glass of white wine for you and wet food for Jellybean. You take that opportunity to get up and grab your purse, just to hold the Jeju mandarin in your hand. 

This is the best soup you’ve ever had, hands down. You eat it in the living room, on the couch, getting tipsy on wine, exchanging stories. Minho talks a lot more when he drinks wine. In your purse, there are words that will change him. 

But you honor his cooking by finishing your meal, even if you are not really hungry. You really wanted to taste this soup, and now you have. You rarely get what you want and when you do, it is usually taken away from you soon after. Such is your life. Your luck. Your curse. 

After dinner, Minho asks you to please transfer the performance video to him so he can send it to Felix. It happens very naturally, but you finish your third glass of wine before handing him the envelope with an Australian stamp on it. 

“What?” Minho takes a look inside, at the carefully folded sheets of paper with neat handwriting on them. “Why are you showing me this?”

That’s a good question. You don’t need him to read the whole thing—you could show him just the paragraph where he is mentioned. But you want him to witness it. This love. This watercolor-saturated love. This oil paint stained love. You want him to witness it, to make it real again. To make you remember. To make you forget. 

“Just… read, Min.” Jellybean lets out a soft snore from her cat tree. 

You watch him as he reads the letter. You watch his brows stitch together, his lips sometimes mouthing a few words here and there. He doesn’t want to let it show, but sometimes he takes a break from reading, just a few seconds. In the same way you want to do just that when you read Hyunjin’s letters, but you can’t. You’ll never have enough of him. 

But Minho doesn’t even make it to the end. 

He hands you the letter back after folding the sheets again and meticulously putting them back in their envelope. He, too, finishes his glass of wine, turned away from you, staring at his cat who is peacefully asleep by the window. 

Tonight, Lee Minho’s eyes are glistening with tears. Sorrow, when he had it, was obvious on him.

Hope, now that he has it, looks good on him. 

After a while, he holds you, not because he wants you to hold him back, but because he needs something to do. Something to anchor him. You just unmade him. You just made him again. He holds you close, and you feel his lips graze your temple, you feel his hands on your skin. 

“I’m sorry,” is all that Minho manages, holding you tighter. You’re not sure what it is that he’s sorry about. “I’m sorry.”

When he pulls away from you, he gathers the empty plates, offering you to spend the night. This is not the first night you spend on Lee Minho’s couch. You’re tipsy, tired, heartbroken. You see Hyunjin in everything. The taste of his kisses is waiting for you in your purse. 

When you lie down on the couch, Jellybean joins you, curling up near your head. You scratch the top of her head and close your eyes. 

You sleep. You rarely sleep but that night, you do, for a little while, until Jellybean decides it’s time to walk on your face to get off the couch on her way to her food bowl. 

You hear Minho’s voice, low, but unmistakable. He’s in his bedroom with the door closed so you can’t make out the words, except for one word that you’d recognize even if you were deaf—Hyunjin. Is he speaking with him?

You get up, listening more closely. It’s rude to listen to other people’s conversations, but you can’t help it. 

In any case, he isn’t speaking to Hyunjin—he’s on the phone with Felix, talking at a fast pace, obviously excited. Hope sounds good on him, it really does. 

You return to the couch, looking at your phone to check the time. It is 2 AM. You see Hyunjin in this, too. Some nights, he would make love to you until morning, both of you insatiable. You could never have enough of him, his tongue on your body. How he would take his time tasting you, his face disappearing between your legs for what might have been forever, or a minute, or a hundred lifetimes. How he responded to your sighs, your moans. 

You always felt it in his mouth—you felt him exhale in your pussy, moan into it, whisper his love into you then eat it out of you. They made you cum. The words he would speak into you, like secrets, like prayers. But it would not stop him. It never stopped Hyunjin—he used to make you scream in orange and red, make you moan in blue, make you see in black and yellow and purple and teal and pink and green. His fist in your hair. His voice in your ear. His cock inside of you, painting you white. Making and unmaking you, over and over. 

It is 2 AM and you are empty, filled with multiple voids, chasing for something you can’t have. But you grab your phone.

You: Are you asleep, Hyun? 

The answer doesn’t take very long. You haven’t called Hyunjin since he left, and texted rarely. But still, he responds.

Hyunjin: Angel love. Is everything alright? 

Is everything alright? You want to throw your phone by the window. Is everything alright? Nothing has been alright since he left. Nothing. Not you, not your life. No one sees beauty in you anymore, you are alone, alone, alone. It is mandarin season once more, and there is a single mandarin in your purse, no one you want to share it with. No one to kiss you, to paint your body, to fuck you hard or slowly all night. 

You: Yes

I miss you, you want to type, but you don’t. He knows that you do. He doesn’t need to read it tonight. 

You: How are you? Physical therapy? The.. other therapy?

Hyunjin: Good. Better.  Hyunjin: Minho is on the phone with Felix and I Hyunjin: He wants to come teach me dancing. I have to learn again. Seems fitting that if he taught me the first time, he should teach me the second time too. 

You knew. You knew that showing that letter to Minho would make him and unmake you. 

You knew that one day, Hyunjin would leave. That day, you wanted to hurt alone, but you had not been granted that. But it looked like you were on your way to this goal of yours now. 

Hyunjin: How is life treating you, my angel?

You look at the screen, at the words on it, not knowing how to respond. Life, on a daily basis, treats you alright. You’re fortunate. You have a job—no, two, even—a roof over your head, food on the table, a family. You’re going to be an aunt. You’re healthy, you don’t struggle financially. You’re alright. So why is your world so dark?

Is your brain short-circuiting? Is it what that feels like? 

You remain like that for a long time, sitting with your legs underneath you on Minho’s couch. In the dark. It’s cold, and you see snowflakes through the window. 

You jump when your phone rings. 

It’s Hyunjin calling from his Australian number. You haven’t spoken to him in months. He sends you a lot of letters, and you send him a few. He texts you once in a while and you respond—but that’s it. Somehow, it made it all easier. You haven’t heard his voice in months.

You stare at the device in your hand for what might have been forever, or a minute, or a hundred lifetimes. But you pick up. It is one of the hardest things you ever had to do, but you pick up the phone. 

“Angel love—” Hyunjin’s voice cracks immediately, cutting his sentence short.

You swallow a sob, then another. It is one of the hardest things you ever had to do, but you speak to him.

“Hyun—” your voice cracks, too. And you can no longer repress the sobs, the tears. 

He is crying as well, softly. But you listen to it, to him, his breathing. The muffled sounds his mouth makes when he gulps. His voice when he tries to speak to you. 

Before this phone call, your longing felt like a dream, a nightmare—not quite real, despite it leaving very real impressions on your life. But now that you are hearing Hyunjin cry, now that you’ve heard his voice and that it called from an Australian phone number—it became very real. Like ink spilling from your heart all throughout your insides, staining you black. The ink tastes bitter. The ink unmakes you. 

“Angel, I—” more cries, away from the phone, this time. You cry, too. 

“It’s okay—” you manage, your voice rendered ugly by the sobs and the cries and the pain. “Keep getting better, Hyun.” You hesitate, but ultimately can’t help but add: “I miss you.”

A choked sob. “I miss you too.” He has written you these words countless times, but to hear him speak them out loud is different. Hearing it absorbs some of the ink away, making that reality a lot more tangible. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. But it’s real. You are in love with Hyunjin and he is in love with you.

You are an ocean, he is the sky—nothing else needs to be said. You both hang up at the same time. 

Jellybean comes to the rescue, quickly followed by Minho—he finds you with his cat in your arms, crying silently on the couch, watching snowflakes twirl in the window of his living room. 

“I know you’re leaving,” you tell him, but you don’t look at him. Not yet—you need a few more moments to gather yourself. 

“You should come with me.” A pause. From the corner of your eye, you notice that Minho is also looking outside. “Why can’t you come with me?”

“He won’t heal the same if I’m there.” You can’t explain it. Hyunjin can’t explain it. But it is true. Not all truths are meant to be understood. You look down at the fuzzy creature on your lap. “I’ll take care of Jellybean while you’re gone. She’ll come live with me” 

You look at him then, Minho, and he looks at you, biting his lower lip, reaching to Jellybean to pet her softly.

“I’ll bring him back to you.” This, he says with his eyes directly in yours, staring at you like you are an ocean and he is a mountain. “Hyunjin. I’ll make him the dancer he once was—no, better than before, even—and I’ll bring him back to you. I promise you. I promise.” 

You want to believe him. Hope looks good on Minho, but it does not transfer to you when he holds you, when he kisses the top of your head, when he parts from you, grabbing his laptop so he can request a visa for his travels. 

You do not know if Hyunjin will ever come back and if he does, he may not love you anymore. Maybe he only loved you because his brain had short-circuited too many times, because it was too dark in his life, because he couldn’t see in the dark, and he stumbled upon you by accident. 

For so long, you had to keep hope on a leash. To make sure it stayed away from you. But it had escaped, and it had not gone to you—it had run away from you. Just like Hyunjin.

You thought you would be enough for him. For Hyunjin. You know you’re not much. You work, you paint. You smile when the sky is blue and when it rains, too. You laugh and you cry when you watch TV, you get over-excited at the most mundane things. You like coffee, your father collects minerals. You’re not much, but you thought you would be enough for Hyunjin—you thought that the love you had for him would suffice.

For you, there is nothing bigger in this world. The multi-colored, atom-rearranging love you have for him. 

But, turns out, it wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough.

When Minho’s bedroom door closes behind him, you gently put Jellybean back on her cat bed, grab the Jeju mandarin in your purse, and peel it slowly while watching the snow through the window. The scent is enough to make you dizzy—as if you’ve jumped through a portal that brought to the moment when, a year ago, he sat to your left. He had a single mandarin with him that day, but its smell filled the room when he peeled it. The juice trickled on his chin when he bit into it. After that day, mandarins never tasted the same to you.

You leave the peels with your empty wine glass and return to the window to taste it. The Jeju mandarin. As if it meant everything. As if it would bring Hyunjin back. As if it would make you become enough for him. 

But you take one slice in your fingers, deposit it gently on your tongue, and close your mouth around it. 

The orange bursts with flavor, with juice, with sunshine. It bleeds yellows and reds, it tastes like love, like kisses, like a woman that once had it all. The juice coats your lips, and you go for another slice. This one tastes like when Hyunjin pulled you on top of him to fuck you from below while you sank onto him, this one tastes like sleepless nights and a bedroom that smells like sweat and sex and forevers. 

The third slice tastes like a light pink rose and chocolate cake. Like a portrait of you with so much beauty painted on you that you see it, too. Like a warm hand on the small of your back. It tastes like uncontrollable laughter at one in the morning with no apparent cause for it apart from the fact that you are in love with Hyunjin and he is in love with you.

In this Jeju mandarin, you taste your first kiss with Hyunjin, the first time he made love to you, you taste the crescent-shaped scar on his upper thigh. You taste the time he painted you red just to see himself on you, in you. You taste his cock, feel his smooth skin under your tongue, you taste him the way you did when you swallowed him all. After the pulses of his cock in your mouth unmade and made you. 

The last slice of the mandarin tastes like the day you said goodbye to him. The tears on his lips, both yours and his, when you kissed him for the last time. It was the hardest thing you ever did. You let him go, and you kept existing.

But you hurt. You hurt. You hurt. 

It snows all night. You do not even cry. But you do not sleep either. You just stare at the snow. Only love can hurt like this.

Love at first sight? What about it? 

Turns out, it is very real and nothing can wash it away. Not the ocean of black ink inside of you, not the hand-written letters that are accumulating in a box in your apartment, not the purrs of a gentle and cuddly cat. 

And not time either.

It is strawberry season once more. Time is a peculiar thing. Once upon a time, you did not believe in love at first sight. You thought that it was a man-made concept, you thought that someone couldn't fall in love with another without knowing them. You had no idea that someone’s atoms might need another person’s atoms close by so that they could be rearranged and fall in the right order. 

But now, time is a mystery. You’ve been hurting for so long that you got used to it, but the passage of time eludes you. Or you elude it. You’ve been hurting for so long but always in the same amount, the same way—so does it really matter if that sorrow has been with you forever, for an hour, or for a hundred lifetimes? 

Today is Friday night, and there is no painting class tomorrow as there is maintenance to be done in the building where the studio is located. You’ve known for two weeks. For two weeks, you’ve wondered what you will do that day, that empty Saturday. That day is tomorrow and you still don’t know, but you assume you will be painting.

Soon, there will be very little space left in Hyunjin’s apartment to stock your paintings. You accumulate them and sometimes you give one away. To your parents, your sister. You gave her a few, actually—a series of flower paintings to decorate her little girl’s bedroom. She is not born yet, but this baby is loved deeply already. Already, she is enough.

Were you enough, back then? When you were still in your mother’s belly? When your father was painting your bedroom walls a lovely shade of yellow? 

Were you enough, back then? When did you stop being enough? 

The young woman with beautiful dark-brown eyes texts you in the afternoon, to let you know that she is doing alright, that she is painting a lot and working on her studies to make sure her future would be as bright as what you told her she deserved. You smile at your phone. You don’t often smile, but you do when you see hope flourish in others. It looks good on them. 

While you’re on your phone, you check Lee Minho’s Instagram page, as he had messaged you earlier and you forgot to look at it. You are in your office, on your own, and feel comfortable enough to use your phone as your boss left for a meeting on the other side of town after lunch. He even told you to finish the report you were working on, and leave after—no extra work for today, he said. But you don’t mind work. You never have enough of it. It occupies your mind, so you don’t have to remember. So you don’t have to forget. 

Minho: he doesn’t know I’m sending you this Minho: but… I thought you’d like to see.

It’s a video. From the thumbnail alone you can guess what you are about to watch—the still image shows the dance studio where Danceracha has been practicing for the past few weeks. Just above Minho’s message is a picture you sent him—it shows Jellybean comfortably asleep on your pillow, basking in the morning light. 

Maybe you shouldn’t watch this here. Much like Hyunjin’s letters, some things are better ingested in a neutral location. The bathroom of a restaurant you will never return to. Randomly generated coordinates that end up being a small park that you’ve never been in, and will never look for again.

But this is not the kind of thing that can wait, you don’t think. So you click on the video, and you watch. 

It’s just him. Hyunjin. But it's more than enough. He makes sure the phone is recording and backs away. He looks different, but you can’t tell how exactly. You’ve seen pictures of him from his time in Australia—sun-kissed skin, sun-kissed hair, sun-kissed eyes. He looks healthier. But he is still Hyunjin, his hair tied up at the back of his head, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, wiping sweat off his forehead as a popular pop song begins playing in the studio. 

And he dances. 

He hurts, but sometimes, pain is just pain. He hurts when he stretches his body a little too much—you see it in his eyes, the pain. But you see fire too. You see life. 

Elation looks good on Hyunjin—and it is what keeps him going. 

As he is dancing, his eyes never leave the mirror he's facing. He calculates every single movement he does, he lets the music cradle him into this dancer’s euphoria that you’d seen on him in the footage you have from before the accident. He hurts when he moves his hips too suddenly, too widely, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it over and over again, the undulations of them hypnotizing, mesmerizing, sinful, and each time on beat with the song. He dances the same way he used to make love to you—every motion is saturated with purpose, with color, with love.

It is not perfect. The dancing. You are not a dancer, you are just a painter. It is not enough, but you have spent enough time with Minho to know that Hyunjin’s speed was lacking a little, as well as his footwork. 

But he is dancing. He is dancing. He is dancing. 

And your heart may be black and cold and damaged, but it beats in your chest and swells with pride after witnessing this accomplishment. You almost cry but you don’t. You wish you could cry, but you can no longer do that, it seems.

You: Thank you for this, Min You: he's doing really good.

He responds immediately. 

Minho: Of course he is. I’m his teacher Minho: Don’t let Jellybean take up all the space in your bed. You’re spoiling her. She'll forget about me!

You are spoiling her a little. But she is the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning, her big blue eyes, her soft gray and white fur. She is always warm. She likes to lick the corner of your eyes as if she was always expecting you to cry. But you do not cry anymore. Is it possible to cry so much for a while, that you no longer have tears? 

Jisung texts you as you send Minho a goodbye text, wishing him a good Friday night. 

Jisung: Are you busy tonight? Jisung: Do you want to have dinner with me? Jisung: I won’t cook, promise. Pizza? 

You: Yes, pizza's good. I’ll be there at 7:30 

You don’t particularly want pizza, but you don’t want to be alone. Tomorrow will be empty enough as it is, it’s best if you spend some time with Ji today. You don’t have much that keeps you going—the painting class is one of the things that do.

It’s 7:26 when you get to Jisung’s place. The weather shifted suddenly as you went home from work, the evening shaping up to be warm and humid. It is only strawberry season, however, warm days and nights can happen at this time of the year, so you simply showered quickly, put your hair into a bun, put on a comfortable sage green midi dress, and left. But not without showering Jellybean with love. And giving her plenty of wet food—you’ll miss her when Minho returns. 

If he ever does. 

Somedays, it feels like they’re all going to stay out there in Australia, leaving you here to mark the passage of time with the fruit you eat. 

These days, your lips are often red with the juice of strawberries. You are a painter and you know color intimately. You are in love with another painter who blends colors like no living being ever did. But these days, red is just red.

“Pizza just got here,” Jisung informs you, letting you in. “Glad you made it before the storm.”

“Me too,” you admit, offering your best approximation of a smile to your friend. “I brought beer, though. Bought it just around the corner, so it’s still cold.”

“Awesome.” He, too, pretends to smile for you, and you follow him into the kitchen. 

You help him put food on plates, and soon enough the both of you are sitting at the dinner table to eat. Jisung turns on the radio to put some background noise. He doesn’t watch TV a lot, but if tonight is like the other nights, you will end up on the couch anyway to watch a blockbuster movie. Something dumb but entertaining enough to captivate and keep your minds busy for about two hours. 

“How’s your sister?” Jisung asks over pizza after drinking most of his beer in three big gulps. He seems nervous. 

“She’s alright.” You take a deep breath. “She’s scheduled to give birth in three weeks, so she’s a little on edge… but that’s normal, right?”

“Must be.” Jisung nods, understanding. “I’d freak the hell out if I was about to have a baby, honestly. Like… I’m the baby.” 

You chuckle, and the chuckle turns into a laugh. Jisung looks at you with wide eyes—he must think you are becoming crazy. You haven’t laughed in a long time, not like this. But he joins you, he laughs too. He laughs in periwinkle blue and you in creamsicle orange. A little desaturated, but laughing still. Still. 

“You’re too funny, Ji,” you say with a sigh after the laughter subsided. But it left a pleasant aftertaste in your mouth, that your next gulp of beer doesn’t wash away. 

“I wasn’t even joking!” But he laughs again a little, and so do you.

You finish the beers, and Jisung goes to get more. You quickly drink that one too, and you ask him about his mother, who had unfortunately broken her arm two weeks ago in a minor car accident. 

“She’s fine,” he assures. “It drives her crazy to stay home and do nothing, though. But at least it’s not her dominant arm.” He pauses. “I brought her some painting supplies. Just watercolor. To pass the time.” 

Time is so peculiar. 

Jisung watches you in silence for a while, chewing his pizza. Normally he’s the kind of guy to finish his food while you’re still halfway through yours. But something is different in him tonight, and you can’t quite figure out what. He has worse days than others—maybe today is one of those days. Maybe he just has a different way to have it worse today. Maybe his guilt is taking up too much space in his heart.

So you wipe your hands, and you slide your chair to sit right next to Jisung, pulling out your phone.

“Another Jellybean video?” Jisung asks, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He has grown rather fond of the cat even though he won’t admit it.

“No.” You open Instagram and immediately go to the video Minho sent you. “He’s dancing again.” 

Nothing else needs to be said. Jisung watches in silence, his hands under the table, his gaze never leaving the screen, his irises following Hyunjin’s wide movements across it.

“He’s good,” is all he says at first when the video is over. “He’s really good. Does that mean he’ll come back, now?” 

You take a deep breath. “No, Ji. Not yet.” You gulp. “Maybe not ever, you know?” 

He knows, and nothing else needs to be said.

You eat dinner. You eat pizza and drink beer, and talk about your work. But you see the hesitation in Jisung’s eyes, you feel it in him, smell it on him. As soon as he’s done eating, you’re the one to grab the empty plates and bring them to the sink to rinse them up, but Jisung quickly follows you.

“Don’t do that, come on, your pretty dress.” You feel his hand brush the fabric of it, gently, on your back. “Let me do it.” 

There is a window above the sink in Jisung’s kitchen. You put down the plates, rinse your fingers and stand, watching the storm unfold in the window. Lightning flashes all over the black sky, and you hear the thunder better than you did a moment ago. You feel it. 

Jisung’s hand is still on your back. You think about your heart and how Hyunjin compared it to a caged bird. You wonder what would happen if you did set it free, but you do not think it would fall in love with Jisung. Or with anyone. But you do wonder where the bird would fly to. 

You turn around and see the reflection of lightning in Jisung’s eyes. You see ghosts, you see blue paint spilled on a black canvas. You see the kiss he is about to give you. 

You do not stop him. You do not think you could fall in love with him, but when Jisung pulls you close, when he puts his hand on your face and kisses your lips, you let him do so. You kiss him back, even, expecting tears, expecting to scream, expecting to die. But it does not unmake you. It does not make you. It just is.

Jisung’s lips are cool from the beer, and he parts yours open gently. This kiss is long overdue. But you have failed him. You have failed him as a friend—you only seem to get close to him when Hyunjin is away. This is wrong, so wrong. Jisung deserves better.

But you kiss him back, cocking your head to the side, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close. Your ass hits the counter behind you and Jisung moans softly in your mouth, his hands traveling on your back, feeling you, touching you. 

You are an ocean and Hyunjin is the sky. Jisung is the cliffed coast you crash up against—your waves unpredictable, uncontrollable—when the high tides come in. 

“Wait—” Jisung pulls away from you, just a little, his forehead pressed against yours. “It’s wrong,” he whispers, his lips so close to your mouth that you feel them, still. Soft, warm. Nice. 

It is wrong. He is right. 

“Remember when I told you about work? How they're restructuring,” Jisung goes on. A strange conversation to have mid-kiss, you think. “They’ve offered me a better position in Busan.” 

You had prepared for the day Hyunjin would leave you, but you had not prepared for this. You had failed Jisung in so many ways and you had even failed to anticipate losing him, your friend whose soul is bluer than the sky. 

“Ji—that’s great news, why aren’t you happy?” Why did you kiss me? You want to ask him, but you owe him that at least. A kiss. “Busan is so pretty, too.” 

He nods slowly, pulling away from you a little more, but keeping you in his arms, and you keep him in yours. “I… It feels wrong to leave you, after everything. I don’t want to go. I’d rather stay here. I don't want to leave you alone.” 

But you cannot let him do that. All that you are doing is waiting for a painter, a dancer, that may never come back. You’ve failed Jisung in many ways, but you cannot fail him this time around. 

“Jisung, that’s nonsense.” You shake your head. Somewhere over you, thunder rolls louder than ever, as if to underline your point. “It’s your career, it’s everything. You… I’ll be fine. We’ll still call each other. I have Jellybean. And my sister is giving birth in three weeks. I’ll be busy for a while.” This isn’t quite true—your mother will temporarily move in with your sister to help her and her husband. But Jisung doesn’t need to know that. 

“They want me to transfer in two, three weeks, yeah…” Jisung lets the end of his sentence stop there, but it’s okay. Nothing else needs to be said. 

“There’s a sky in Busan,” you go on. “You’ll still send me pictures, right?”

“Of course.” The ghost of another, different smile haunts Jisung’s lips. “I’ll miss you.. and the painting class… I’ll visit though, sometimes. Will you let me into the class if I visit on Saturdays?” 

You smile. You haven’t been able to cry in so long, but you wish you could today. You wish you could. But maybe it’s better this way. Maybe Jisung can remember you the way you are tonight, your sage green dress, and your almost honest smile. It’s better than remembering you with tears on your face.

“Always.” You squeeze his shirt in your closed fists. “You’re a VIP, Ji.” 

He smiles, for real, but not for long. 

“It feels wrong,” he says again, his voice low, his eyes on your lips. 

You pull him close again, kiss him again. Kissing him feels right. It doesn’t mean it means anything other than that, just that, a kiss. His tongue brushes against yours, exploring your mouth, chills spreading all over your body as Jisung leans on you, his body warm, warm, warm. 

Jisung is kind. His kisses are soft and gentle, like his hands and the way he touches you. The way he touched your heart, too, and the ones of everybody around him. The way he would always notice if someone in the painting class wasn’t doing too well, offering them a few extra jokes and a hug. 

He has not been okay since the day Hyunjin left. Guilt, now that he has it, is all that he does have.

And soon after Hyunjin, Seo-yeon left too. Because she only wanted Jisung when he was happy. She did not know how to handle a heart that hurts. Maybe she wasn’t that nice after all—but maybe her own heart hurt in its own way. The hows and whys do not matter here. 

Jisung has been hurting for a while. You feel it in the way he kisses you, his mouth open, warm, wet. It makes you wet a little. You are not in love with him and it is just a kiss, but you feel Jisung’s longing for happiness in this kiss. Nothing else needs to be said. 

“Ji—” It almost pains you to break the kiss, but you must. You must let him go. He has always deserved better anyway. 

He stares at you, his eyes full of tears. Full of uncertainty and certainty. Like he knows everything that should happen, that will happen, but he needs to hear it from you. 

“Go, Ji,” you whisper, cupping his cheek in your palm and brushing your thumb under his eye. “Your heart is beautiful. Like a bird. You can’t keep a bird caged up for too long, it will die. You have to set it free. You have to go, Jisung. Maybe it will heal you. You will send me pictures of the sky and I will send you pictures of my paintings. But you will heal. You will forget your guilt. You just have to set your heart free.” 

“You keep telling me this, but I can’t forget that. Fuck, I can’t. What if I hadn’t taken you guys to the arcade. I’m sure Hyun—”

“Ji.” You sigh, locking eyes with him. “That’s what I mean. No matter the number of times I’ve told you, or the words I choose to explain this to you… you still don’t believe me, almost a year later. But he would have left anyway. For another reason. Another time. I’m sorry that you can’t help being burdened by this, Jisung. I wish you weren’t. But it’s not your fault. It’s Hyunjin’s brain.”

A nod. “The short circuits.”

“The short circuits.” You nod, too. 

He clicks his tongue softly, the tongue that just kissed you. He knew all of that, he just needed to hear it from you. He kisses you again, deeply, but not for long. It's okay. It is enough.

You owe that to him—to let him go. You thank him for the pizza. You tell him to keep the beer, you make him promise to call you if he needs help packing boxes. He obviously doesn’t want you to leave, not right now, but he needs you gone. Still, he insists—says he will call a taxi for you because it’s raining and there is a storm. But no. It has to be now. You have to let him go.

“Goodbye, Ji.” Your hand finds his face once more, and his yours. “Allow yourself to be happy, yeah?” 

He gives you another kiss, and you kiss him back again. But you turn away and exit the apartment, closing the door behind you. You feel him through the door, the walls, and feel Jisung’s urge to pull the door open again. So you walk faster, running down the staircase, putting as much distance between the two of you as you can. 

There is a sky over Busan, too. He will look at it from there and you will look at it from here. It will be the same sky. It will comfort you—maybe not as much as Jisung’s actual presence did, but it will comfort you. The blue of it, the clouds. Sunrises, sunsets. You’ll have to get your own gilgeori toast on Saturday mornings, but the breakfast sandwiches will taste like the color blue from now on. 

The rain is relentless, but you walk to the nearest bus stop, just to get away from here. Who will heal you now? Who will keep your mind busy so that you do not think about all of the ways that you hurt? What will you do tomorrow if there is no painting class?

It is one of the hardest things you ever did. Letting others see the damage, the scratches, the dents in your soul. Letting others see your sharp edges. But it was through this courageous act that they were allowed to support you. It was the only thing that kept you together. 

Love, when you had it, looked good on you.

And now, what do you have?

Love at first sight? What about it? 

Love is extensive—you fall in love with one person but they come with baggage. Sometimes, baggage is a crescent-shaped scar. Sometimes, it’s red on a white silk ribbon. Baggage isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes, it’s people. Good people.

You do not hurt alone.

Jeongin: You probably took a wrong turn! Did you go left or right after the park?

Jeongin: You were supposed to go left! I can go pick you up

You: No, no, I got it. I’m almost there. 

You carefully negotiate the turn that you so fatally missed earlier—but you are extra careful because, after all, you did borrow your sister’s car for this—and find yourself on your way, finally, to Bang Chan’s backyard party.

It is peach season, and last week, Yang Jeongin called you after your painting class to invite you to his boss’ party on his behalf. The guys all miss you, he had said. Well, you missed them too. But then, you miss a lot of people. Love, when you had it, looked good on you. Longing, now that you have it, is all that you remember. 

You find Chan’s house—it’s nice but humble—and hear the music in the backyard as soon as you get out of the car. You grab the gift you brought for Chan and his wife—a basket of Gyeongsang peaches as well as a bottle of wine and some chocolates. 

You think that, maybe, you will cry when Chan’s wife guides you to the backyard and you find them there. Jeongin’s face lights up with joy at your sight and he pulls you in for a hug as if it hadn’t been over a year since you last saw him. Chan thanks you for the gift and mentions he’d really like to speak with you about another commission—but another time. Because today is all about celebrating the end of summer, all about fun. Or so he says, at least.

Time is so peculiar. When you hurt and all you do is hurt, time no longer matters. In the same way that it does not matter whether you fell in love at first sight or at third sight or much later. Because in the end, you did fall in love, and it did rearrange the atoms that make you you. 

You think that, maybe, you will cry after you’ve said hello to everyone, and you follow Jeongin at the tables with all the drinks. He wants you to taste something. The something in question is a mandarin liqueur that was apparently sent from Australia to Chan, as a congratulatory gift from Hyunjin when Chan got a big promotion. 

But you do not cry. 

You watch Jeongin pour you a shot of it while he lists some of the cocktails that are apparently very good with it. 

It tastes a little bitter, but it warms you up in this already very warm August afternoon. You do not cry, but you do not smile either. 

“How is he?” Jeongin asks you after pouring himself a gin and juice, and just juice for you. 

How is Hyunjin? 

Today is Saturday. You came here after the painting class. But today, you woke up a little late because you drank yourself to sleep last night. You showered quickly but you almost didn’t make it in time for the class. You’re not the kind of person to be late to places, but the past few months have been a lot. After all, Jisung isn’t there to motivate you to get up anymore. 

You have to do it yourself. It is one of the hardest things you ever had to do, but you do it—every morning you wake up, and you exist.  

Last night, you were scrolling your phone with one hand—the other hand was petting Miss Jellybean who has made herself quite comfortable in your life. And, you let her. Hyunjin doesn’t use social media that often, but you saw that he had been tagged by Felix in a series of pictures. The pictures were all taken at some sort of bar or restaurant and showed a group of about 7-8 people. 

The whole setting doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that Hyunjin was sitting next to a girl, and he had his arm over her shoulders in one of the photos. And in another one, she was speaking to him in his ear with her hand on his thigh. 

The rest doesn’t matter. Nothing else needs to be said. 

You pour yourself another shot of the mandarin liqueur. It must be quite expensive, considering it was sent directly from Australia. Hyunjin seems to like Australia quite a lot—the dance studios, the beaches, the food. The girls. With pretty hair and a pretty face, and with his arm around their shoulders. The mandarin liqueur must be expensive but apparently, Hyunjin has a good amount of money that he inherited from his aunt—you’ve recently been notified that the lease on his apartment is continuing and is fully paid for. For another year. 

So you pour yourself another shot. And another.

“Didn’t you drive here?” Jeongin asks, his voice low, turning to you. 

You ignore that. “Hyunjin is doing well,” you reply, making yourself smile. Most people are fooled by your smile, but it doesn’t seem that Jeongin is one of them. “I’m sure he misses you, guys.” 

You look at the small crowd around the yard. A lot of people you don’t really know with some that are familiar. Chan and Changbin are having a conversation, but you wonder if you should try to have someone’s arm around your shoulders, too. If it would feel good. You kissed Jisung but it didn’t make anything better. 

“We miss him too,” you hear Jeongin say in your back. There’s a long pause, during which you are trying to decide whether Changbin is the kind of mistake worth making. “I’m sorry I suggested to Chan… that he should invite you. I’m sorry. Maybe it wasn’t a very good idea…” 

Here is the truth: Hyunjin is healing—away from you, apart from you. He is growing, he is sending mandarin liqueur to his former manager and to you, he sends letters. His absence takes up all of the space in your life. You will never not see him in everything and he will never not love you, and you, him. 

Here is another truth: the sky is blue, summer is ending, and you are healing, too. Because you are hurting doesn’t mean you aren’t healing—in fact, you’ve come to realize it was quite the opposite. You do not cry anymore. Jellybean makes you laugh when she does little things like eating your shoes or curling up in your neck at night. Your sister is glowing. She is a wonderful mother, and she is teaching you how to be a wonderful aunt. You love her little girl. You will never not see Hyunjin in everything. 

He will always be a part of you. No matter where he is in the world. No matter whose hand is on his thigh. 

Love, when you had it, looked good on you. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips red from strawberry juice, lips red from kisses.

Sorrow, now that you have it, isn’t all that you have. 

You’re not much. You work, you paint. You smile when the sky is blue and when it rains, too. You feel true emotions when you watch TV. You like coffee, your father collects minerals, and you could hold your niece in your arms for hours and hours. You’re not much, and you weren’t enough for Hyunjin, his brain that short-circuits, his atom-rearranging heart. You’re not much, but you thought you would be enough for Hyunjin—you thought that the love you had for him would suffice.

Maybe it was a mistake that night after he gave you the rose. To let him tell you why he bought it for you. To let him tell you he fell in love with you at first sight. To let him kiss you and make love to you. To let his atoms touch yours, to let him in.

But some mistakes are worth making. 

Letting him go was the hardest thing you ever had to do. You were not enough for Hyunjin, maybe. But everything else—the sky, the feeling of a brush smearing paint on a canvas, biting into a ripe peach, existing, existing, existing—

it has to be enough for you. 

Love at first sight? What about it? 

Turns out, you can fall in love with someone based on the way their hair frames their face, based on the color and shape of their lips, based on the way they hold their bag, based on the fact that the seat next to yours was always empty. Turns out, you can fall in love with someone before they finish speaking their first sentence to you. And it can be the best, or worst, kind of love. 

But it is real. 

It is persimmon season. Again. It is also Saturday, and you are sitting in the empty studio after the painting class, sharing persimmons with the young woman who has beautiful dark-brown eyes. She has moved away from her parents and their inability to love her right, to believe in her. She tells you she will be a doctor someday, and you believe her. The persimmons are perfectly ripe and juicy, filling your mouth with their unique flavor. These ones leave a cinnamon aftertaste. You wonder why Hyunjin doesn’t like them.

You see him in everything. It used to drive you crazy. Now, you’re just grateful—if it is the only way you can feel him, remember him, you’ll take that over nothing.

Love, when you had it, looked so good on you. A delicate smile on your face, a warm hand on the small of your back, fresh flowers in your apartment. 

And now, what do you have? 

You wouldn’t call it hope. You wouldn’t give it a name, this new thing that has taken up residence in your ribcage. You don’t know why it’s there and who let it in, but you know better than to question its presence. You let it be. You think it must be a little bit of everything, scraps left there to rot that became something new. Sorrow, longing. Laughter, blue skies, roses, and a baby’s hand on your cheek. 

Sorrow. Longing. 

The young woman hugs you tightly before she leaves the studio, closing the door behind her. Once upon a time, it was you hugging Mrs. Yoo like that after class. Sometimes, life does imitate art. Art also imitates life. And it’s enough. It has to be. 

Time is peculiar. You feel older, everyone around you is older. But when you hurt long enough, the passage of time no longer matters, the same way it does not matter if you fell in love with someone immediately or later. When you look in the mirror, you see the woman you once were and the woman you are now. Her hair is a little shorter, barely brushing on her shoulders, but it shines under the sun. 

You still feel it. What it was like. When Hyunjin’s fist closed in your hair, when he fucked you, made love to you. You still feel it, his lips on your neck, between your legs, his tongue planting sins all over your body. How it felt when he looked at you over his cup of coffee in the morning. Like he was a dying man and you were his absolution. 

Except you weren’t. You’re not much. You work, you paint. You smile when the sky is blue and when it rains, too. You’re a fun aunt, you give your time to your family, your students, your coworkers. You’re not much, and you weren’t enough. 

This is what will follow you until the end of you. Until you are unmade for good. 

You hear it first—the handle, the slight creak—when the door opens. You don’t even want to look up from the persimmon you were slicing. 

Love, when you had it, used to look good on you. 

Hope, you never really had it. You knew there would be a day when Hyunjin would leave you. That day, you wanted to hurt alone. And you did. You still do. You hurt. You hurt. You hurt. 

Hope, you never really had it until today. That door always stays closed during class—but today, someone pushed it open. 

So you lift your head, your eyes immediately finding the newcomer, standing in the frame of the door. Just there. 

Hope, when you had it—

You didn’t have it for long.

“Who are you?” you ask the stranger in the frame of the door that was supposed to stay closed until Hyunjin decided to come back. “Why are you here? Class is over.”

“I know.” The stranger looks nervous, but he makes his way to you. The more you look at him, the less of a stranger he is. “I’m sorry if this isn’t a good time I can always come back, I, uh—I was looking for the woman who painted the golden tree, about two years ago.” 

A long time ago it seems, you were that woman. You painted a golden tree once. Hyunjin did the background—teal and pink. Bold brush strokes, perfect blending. 

“It’s you,” the stranger goes on, and you suddenly remember who he is. “I recognize you.”

“I went to your exhibition. At the art gallery,” you recall. That night, Hyunjin left you for the first time. You were wearing his fleece jacket. He was crying. His brain short-circuited that night. “I remember.” How could you not?

The man nods, visibly nervous. He looks mostly the same as he did back then, you think. Clean haircut, pleasant face. A few years older than you. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, so you push the plate with the persimmon toward him. He takes a slice and eats it in silence. 

“Why are you here?” You eat a slice of persimmon too. “I don’t think you need painting classes.” 

He chuckles, nodding slowly. “No, I came to speak with you.” He wipes his fingertips on his black trousers and leans against the wall next to your desk. “I’ve never forgotten that painting.”

“My partner painted the background,” you state, doing your best to remember, to forget. To keep a straight face. “It was a team effort.” 

“Mr. Hwang is a talented painter, indeed.” The man sighs, eyeing the peeled and sliced persimmon. You nudge the plate toward him again—you’re not hungry anymore. “He’s the reason I’m here today, to meet with you.” The man fumbles in his jacket for a while before handing you a business card and taking some more of the persimmon. 

The man’s name is Chun Min-jun. His business card is clean and simple. You take it between your fingers.

“Mr. Chun.” You dip your head politely and give him your name in return, but you can’t manage a smile. He doesn’t seem to mind. He just takes another piece of persimmon. “How can I help you? The painting of the golden tree isn’t for sale.” The painting of the golden tree is in Hyunjin’s apartment, with all of the other paintings that you can’t let go of.

“Oh, I don’t want to buy it.” He takes the time to swallow the last of the fruit in his mouth, really letting the flavor hit his soul. “I have another kind of offer for you.”

This is the offer he has for you—Chun Min-jun is part of an artist collective who, together, can get more visibility for their art. They promote healing and soothing themes and organize exhibitions and events. Most of the profits they make go to children who wouldn’t otherwise be able to experience art in any way—they buy supplies for them and provide safe studios for them to paint and draw. The exhibition where you met him, two years ago already, was one of those events. 

“Unfortunately, one of the artists who was supposed to be in this year’s December exhibition won’t be able to make it. They backed off at the last minute because of family issues,” Min-jun explains. There is only one slice of persimmon left, and you wave it away, offering it to him, but he finishes his speech before biting into it. “I… While I don’t know him too well, I am aware of Mr. Hwang’s work, I am particularly fond of his blending technique… So I approached him to be part of the exhibition instead.” 

“He’s in Australia,” you point out, wondering what any of this has to do with you. “He’s dancing.”

“Yes, I was told about this…” the man takes his time eating the last of the persimmon. “I’m sorry, I—I know it may come off as ungrateful, but I promise you that your golden tree hasn’t left my mind since I saw it. Miss, would you like to be a part of the exhibition?” 

You look at him, the way he bites his bottom lip—he is visibly uncomfortable.

“Why me?” you ask. “You’ve only seen the golden tree, which I didn’t even do the background for, I hardly qualify to have my stuff shown in an art gallery, I—”

“Actually, no.” He cuts you off, quickly pulling his phone out only to show you that he has a small collection of pictures of your work. You know these pictures. You know who took them, making sure they were always shown in the best lighting, in their best angles.

“Hyunjin sent you these.” You received the blow but you are waiting to see how it feels. For now, you just feel empty. You often feel empty, these days. 

“He said you would be a perfect candidate for the exhibition and he immediately sent me these, yes.” Min-jun takes a deep breath, walking the few steps that separate you from him, standing right in front of your desk. “When I saw your work, I fell in love with it at first sight.”

Love at first sight? What about it? 

Some time ago, you wouldn’t have believed him, Min-jun, if he had spoken these words to you. But your atoms have been rearranged. But you’ve been given a light pink rose. But you’ve been kissed by lips that are dusty pink and all of the other shades of pink at once, too. But you’ve been given one or a hundred Jeju mandarins. 

“I know what it seems like,” Min-jun goes on. “That you’re my third choice, my last resort—we do have to send our final lineup tomorrow before midnight. But I promise you, Miss, that if I had seen your work before, you would have been my first choice. Especially considering the theme of this year’s exhibition.”

There are voices in your head, reds and blacks spilling in your heart but you try to even your breath and lick your lips slowly. They taste like persimmons. God, you miss the time of your life when they tasted like Hyunjin—like love. 

“The theme?”

“I found that a lot of your works resonated with this year’s theme, and are beautifully painted. Exquisitely, even. Has anybody ever told you how delicate your brush strokes are? Your colors, your lighting? Has anybody ever commented on how lifelike your reds are?” 

Lifelike reds. Delicate strokes. Hyunjin’s painting style was—still is—bold strokes, strong blendings, and vivid scenes. No, actually, nobody really ever calls your art delicate. They say it’s beautiful, or pretty. No one has ever used words like these to talk about your art.

Except for Hyunjin. The way he would sometimes stare at your paintings for so long that you would wonder if he had fallen asleep, but really, he was studying it. I’m learning from you, he would say, squinting, his face just inches away from the canvas. One time, you had painted his favorite mug, half-full of coffee, with his hand around it. On his wrist you had painted your fingers, holding him gently. As if saying goodbye. As if saying no, stay. This was a while before he left for Australia, but he had cried looking at the painting. And then he had fucked you hard against the wall. 

God, you miss him. Love, when you had it, looked good on you. 

You haven’t looked good in a while. 

“What’s the theme?” You find yourself asking, your voice trembling almost as much as your hands. Remembering Hyunjin like that is too much. It’s almost as if you can sense his presence in the room. Why couldn’t it have been him who pushed the door open? 

Min-jun offers you a soft smile, a sad smile. “The theme is love languages.” 

Love languages.

Sometimes, love looks like a mandarin shared with a person you met last week. Sometimes, love looks like sharing more mandarins with her until you become acquainted. Until one asks the other out for lunch. And another lunch. And dinner. 

Sometimes love is a fleece jacket on a cold night, a small orange-shaped plushie and expensive paint brushes. Sometimes love looks like a light pink rose and a white silk ribbon, like a first kiss. Sometimes, love is introducing him to your family because you trust him enough with your future and with your heart to do so. Sometimes, love looks like pain. 

Sometimes, love looks like demons dancing in his eyes. Sometimes, love looks like a photo album put together to make sure you would never forget him. Love looks like handwritten letters. Dozens and dozens of them. Portraits painted. More paintings. Red on skin, red in the eyes, in the soul. Love is red, red like Hyunjin. Love looks like Hyunjin. Hyunjin Hyunjin Hyunjin. 

Love looks like letting Hyunjin go, allowing it to unmake you.

You lock eyes with Min-jun. You don’t know what kind of facial expression you’re making but judging by his, it must be something. 

“Love languages,” you echo, taking a deep breath. “I’ll do it.” Saying this to Min-jun, it was one of the hardest things you ever did—but you do not cry. 

a/n: hello!! ♡ again, I apologize that I had to split the chapter in two parts, but I hope there were moments that you enjoyed in it! as always, i wish to thank my faithful readers. the ones that reblog my works, the ones that slide into my DMs or my askbox to let me know if I did anything right. ♡ your support is greatly appreciated and makes a huge difference ♡ ps: I am aware that a lot of this chapter is... dark. if you ever need to talk about anything, please know I am available to chat through DMs.

taglist ♡ : @cb97percent @changbinluvr @koorumis @neosracha @svintsandghosts @hwan-g | @hh0320 @streetlight-s @j-0ne25 @hyuneater @simpsarzie @taeriffic @kittykatprincess15

Are you ready, angel? | CH9

𝐆𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: It all begins when Somi declares that she's on a sex ban for three months. You remind her of this when your life is turned upside down. And when everything finds its place again, you reconnect with him in a way you never would have expected.

You're new to this avenue of pleasure, Hyunjin isn't. Who can be better to guide you through this journey of self-discovery? And maybe Hyunjin has a few things to learn about himself.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Hyunjin x Reader (female)

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: strong language, pining, angst, lots of crying, sappy feels, baby fluff, sexual tension

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 6K

𝐀/𝐍: You guys owe me. I felt bad leaving you with that cliffhanger. For this chapter: sorry at the beginning, you're welcome at the end, and expect feels throughout.

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @justoutfromdead @amelialistree @aerastus @purehyunida @danyxthirstae01 @moasworld @c-atitos @hyunee1 @bangtanskz @jisungsleftcheek @uwusforateez @keehoslove @hyynee @a-person-with-void @castielsfrillywhiteknickers @mtkdukart @ninjaleeknow @hiraemy @minaamhh @sermed @97lovestay @kpophoe22 @lyralurexrattle @arraby2 @internetmemeofficial @byunhoebaek @baekxhwa

(Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list)

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For a long moment, you are lost in Hyunjin.

His expression is openly wrecked, his jaw working and his brow creased, his impossibly deep eyes betraying a storm of emotion.

And you are lost in him, wishing that you knew what it is that he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. That you can hopefully understand everything swirling through his mind right now.

You ache to ask, but your mouth is dry, your throat so rough you’re sure any words offered would get caught before Hyunjin could hear them, anyway, and so watching him is all you can manage, and all it seems he can, too.

It feels like eons pass like that — gazes locked and hearts caught — but in reality, you know it’s barely been a few seconds. Hyunah can’t stay quiet that long, and her curiosity is quick to get her talking.

“Mummy,” she says, tugging at a strand of your hair, a fail-proof method she’s learnt will gain her mum’s attention.

Blinking back your tears, you look at your daughter, giving her a smile you hope looks relatively normal. “Yeah, my baby?”

“What’s that?” Hyunah asks, face pressing into your neck.

“Who’s that,” you correct, running a hand through Hyunah’s hair. “He’s a friend of Mummy’s. His name is Hyunjin.”

Hyunah twists in your arm, enough to look at Hyunjin more directly. When his gaze settles on her, it softens. “Hyunjin,” Hyunah says, trying out the name.

“Hyunjin, that’s right.”

“Like my name!” Hyunah starts to chirp as she waves her arms around, and you laugh quietly as you manage to dodge a slap to the face.

“Yeah, button. Hyunjin, just like your name.”

Your gaze again draws to him, but he doesn’t break his nerve-racking silence. And you need him to, need him to reassure you in some way that this can be salvaged. If only you could convince him to come over tonight, give you a chance to explain. That need has your heart beginning to race, your jaw trembling, and –

“Hyunjin,” you say, stepping closer. His name is soft despite your body feeling like live wire right now. “Can you –”

“Where’d you go, loser?!” A voice calls, startling you both. Your eyes close briefly – you’re shit out of luck today – before you look past Hyunjin, to a woman about your age, pretty, in the limited sense you can appreciate right now. This, you’re guessing, is Yeji. “Seonghwa is waiting at the community centre for you.” Reaching them both, she takes in your presence properly. “Who’s this?”

While you’d hoped the direct question would be enough to get Hyunjin talking again, it apparently isn’t. Offering the woman a hand, you feel your heart sink within your chest, dread washing over you uncomfortably.

“I’m Y/n,” you say, noticing the recognition your name strikes in Yeji’s sly smile.

“Yeji, Hyunjin’s friend,” she responds, shaking your hand. “And who’s this precious girl?”

“This is my daughter, Hyunah.”

“Well, aren’t you just a sweetheart,” Yeji says, voice rising in the way adults’ always do when talking to little kids, seemingly oblivious of Hyunjin now. Still silent, not having moved an inch. “Look at these gorgeous locks. Just like your mumma, hey?”

Hyunah giggles, and you have to swallow past the lump in your throat. Yeji could have been as doting to Hyunah as Somi is.

“Yeah, I’m not sure how she’s managed to have hair of this length.” You clear your throat, looking down to smile at Hyunah. “Button, you wanna say hello to Yeji?”

“Occi!”

You laugh, though it sounds weak even to yourself. “No, baby, not Occi. That’s her toy,” you add for context. “Yeji.”

“Occi!”

Yeji grins. “That’s alright. You can just call me Occi, if that’s what you want.”

"Occi,” Hyunah repeats, burying her face back into your neck and peaking out only with her eyes. The speed in which she can shift between shy and outgoing is ridiculous. Yeji seems to find it amusing, at least.

“You know, when Seonghwa mentioned you had a kid, I just assumed it was a baby. How old is she?”

"Two–"

“About two and a half.”

Finally, you get something out of Hyunjin.

But it’s this choked, distraught sound, one that’s reflected in his expression when you let yourself look at him again. Face split open, heartbreak written across it.

Your entire being aches for him, and if you were more confident in the fact that he wouldn’t flinch from your touch, you might have considered reaching for him.

“Hyunjin?” Yeji’s voice is filled with concern. From the corner of your eye you can see as she looks between you and Hyunjin, before finally settling on Hyunah. The moment of realisation is clear. “Two and a half years,” she echoes, reaching out to Hyunjin’s shoulder, but he shakes off even that. “Hyunjin…”

It’s with a shake of his head that Hyunjin turns and walks away, without so much as a word.

“Hyunjin,” you call out, the pleading note breaking his name, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hesitate, leaving you with a completely different Yeji than you met a minute ago.

Face stormy, eyes burning with the sort of fury that’s fuelled by love, she looks at you with such anger you can’t help but wilt under it. Thankfully, you’re only subjected to it for a few seconds before she turns, too, chasing after Hyunjin.

You watch as they go, Hyunjin’s shoulders drawn tight, his steps almost jagged. Shock and hurt carve their way into your chest. You didn’t think it could go this badly, didn’t think Hyunjin would react this way, didn’t think —

“Bye-bye,” Hyunah says, drawing your attention again. She’s waving goodbye to the two retreating friends, and while she doesn’t seem too fussed when they don’t turn back, that hurt in your chest sharpens and finds home.

Biting back what feels like a sob, you give yourself a moment to gather yourself, taking a long, deep breath. “Come on, baby,” you say, even managing a genuine smile when Hyunah looks up at you with a grin. “Let’s go home.”

***

Brittany and Anthony are thankfully at some spa retreat for a weekend away together, which means that when you return home with Hyunah, it’s without any need to explain why you look like crap.

Messages of excitement and requests for a housewarming have come through from your friends, but you can’t find it in yourself to reply. Honestly, you can’t find it in yourself to engage in anything more than simply holding yourself together.

Your afternoon is instead spent focusing on your daughter: playing together and having dance parties, making dinner and watching Hyunah feed herself, the much-needed bath with bubbles and her rubber-ducky that comes after. You cherish every moment, each smile and laugh from your daughter, easing the weight that’s settled in your chest since your run in with Hyunjin. Hyunah is the best remedy for even the worst of days, and thankfully, she's feeling either kind or compliant, because she even gets through the bedtime routine without any tantrums.

Drifting off to a bedtime story you have read to her a hundred times before, Hyunah’s eyes close and her breathing evens out, and you lean down to press a kiss to her little forehead.

“Night, button,” you whisper, easing out of her bedroom quietly, feeling the anxious tension simmering within you pull taut as soon as you close Hyunah’s door.

It’s not surprising; now that your body knows Hyunah isn’t around to see it, it demands you feel the full weight of emotion pressing at the seams of your control.

You make your way quietly downstairs, pouring yourself a very large glass of wine, even though you know you shouldn’t be indulging. You’ll only get wine-sad on top of your more legitimate sadness, but still, you settle in with it on the big armchair downstairs, curling up for what you anticipate will be a good cry.

Today went worse than you ever imagined it could have.

Without meaning to, hope had grown strong and insistent from that first moment you saw Hyunjin. And within five minutes, that hope was tugged sharply from your chest, uncaring of what else it would unravel with its exit.

These past three years, you have had to come to terms with being a single parent. To be honest, with all the support you have had from your family and friends, sometimes it’s barely felt like you are; you have been luckier than so many — even those with partners themselves — are. But there’s no denying there have been moments where it’s been brought into such sharp focus, that you were going through the terrifying, wonderful experience of becoming a parent alone.

Ultrasounds, watching little blobs on screen morph into a proper baby, or the first time hearing Hyunah’s heartbeat, quick and strong. Marvelling over your baby kicking, or the fact that even in the womb, she could hiccup. Going through hours of labour without Hyunjin’s hand to hold onto, or cry with at the first glimpse of their perfect daughter. Rocking Hyunah to sleep at all hours of the day, soothing her cries throughout the night. First words and first steps, tantrums and I love yous, playing in the park and reading before bed. Birthdays and Christmases and Halloweens. So much more that you can’t remember, all the little in between moments that make up the bulk of life.

And it’s not Hyunjin’s fault. You know that.

He didn’t know Hyunah existed, and you've always tried to believe that if he had, he would have been right there with you through everything.

But maybe, coming in three years late, it’s too much for him. You had months to prepare for becoming a parent, and he had no warning at all, not so much as words to soften the revelation. Only a nod to confirm what he already suspected.

The shock, the heartbreak, plays in your mind again. Hyunjin’s face, cracked in half, raw emotion pouring from it — in a way that feels close to whatever’s going on in your own chest now.

And despite the crushing disappointment of extinguished hope, the only way you can manage to tend to the hurt is hope again. That, in time, Hyunjin will understand, and you will be able to share this with him. Show him how wonderful their daughter is; why she’s the absolute best thing in your world.

With tears on your cheeks, and tired from the ragged breaths of an intense cry, you put your wine down and snuggle into the armchair.

You will go upstairs in a minute, but for the moment, you just need to rest your eyes.

***

The incessant buzzing of your phone wakes you from a light sleep.

Through blurred eyes, you see that you have only been dozing for about half an hour, and more importantly, you have been woken because of Hyunjin. Eight missed calls and five texts are displayed on your home screen. You quickly swipe it open, blinking through the residual stickiness of tears to focus on his words.

Hyunjin: Please call me when you can

Hyunjin: I know today didn’t go well

Hyunjin: Even if you just want to text

Hyunjin: Or I can come over. Whatever works best for you. I just want to talk in some capacity

Hyunjin: Fuck I hope I haven’t ruined things completely. Even if you don’t want to talk properly if you’re awake can you please let me know you’re okay?

Heart beginning to race, you read over the texts three times before you can properly comprehend them. Your thumbs twitch over your phone, but you don’t know what to say, how to begin to bridge the space between them.

In the end, you type out your address, send it before you can think the better of it. Ellipses pop up within two seconds.

Hyunjin: I’ll be there in half an hour

You're not sure how you spend the time waiting for him, your mind and body overcome with a myriad of thoughts and emotions, but before it feels possible a knock is sounding at the front door. You're more thankful than ever that your mom and Anthony aren’t here.

Pulling the door open, everything within you quietens at the sight of Hyunjin before you.

He looks awful, hair a mess and eyes creased with exhaustion; you're sure you're not faring any better.

“Hyunjin.”

He’s pulling you into him before the broken sound of his name is even finished, the hug so unexpected, so disarming, you feel yourself tear up all over again.

“You’ve been crying,” he says, sounding absolutely devastated about the fact. His grip on you only tightens when you nod, and you sink into him. Despite the years that have passed, his strength, his warmth, even his scent, is so familiar. So comforting. “If it makes you feel any better, so have I.”

A wet laugh catches in your throat, and you pull back from him, just enough that he can see your smile. “It doesn’t.”

“Yeah, neither.” With far too much ease, he wipes a thumb beneath your eyes, clearing your tears. “You tried to call me, but my phone was stolen.”

“Yes.” His smile is full of sorrow and regret, and you understand immediately. “You thought I didn’t want you to know.”

“I should’ve known better, but–”

“Don’t.” Shaking your head, you pull him into the house, close and lock the door behind him. Despite summer nearing, it still gets cool overnight. “It’s been three years, it’s understandable you came to that conclusion. Do you want some tea? Coffee?”

“You have anything stronger?”

The question is asked with a soft, wry smile, and your laugh is about the same. You nod towards the kitchen, and he follows you over. The bottle of wine you opened earlier sits in the fridge, and when you offer, he accepts. Pouring yourselves a glass each, you hope the bit of alcohol will ease what is going to be a heavy hour or so.

“You’re not breastfeeding anymore?”

It’s a surprisingly strong opener, one that cuts the lingering tension. You laugh, and can’t help but appreciate the boldness. Despite the stereotypical obsession over women’s breasts, you have found out that most men aren’t keen to bring up breastfeeding so openly.

“No, we weaned off last year. But you can still drink when you’re breastfeeding. You just have to time it correctly.”

Hyunjin nods. “I hope that didn’t come off as judgmental; I was genuinely curious.”

You take a sip of wine, smile. “How about we make a deal to take everything at face value tonight? I won’t try to read unintended meanings behind your words, if you do the same.”

“That would be — yeah, that sounds good.”

“Good. So, what do you want to talk about tonight?”

“I guess the first thing I should say is: I’m all in on this, Y/n.”

The words wind you. From across the kitchen bench, Hyunjin watches you with a serious sort of intent as you process them, the hope that had been ripped from you returning with a heady warmth that fills your chest.

He’s all in.

Swallowing past the sudden emotion that’s overcome you, your voice reflects the hope, shrouded in exhaustion. “Really?”

“Yes. Of course.” Keeping his gaze fixed on you, as though to ensure full transparency, he continues. “I never really had a dad to look after me, or my mom. He was there, but away workinh most of the time. I don’t want to be like that.” He pauses, and you can practically feel the weight of his next breath. “It’s not the only reason. It’s not just a sense of obligation. I want to be in her life. Fuck, Y/n. I want to be in her life so much.”

His confession overwhelms you. These are words you have been imagining in some shape or form for over three years now. To actually hear them aloud, thick with not only emotion, but conviction, is more than you ever allowed yourself to wish for.

“I can’t believe how much I’ve missed,” he continues after a beat, eyes growing glassy, though he still keeps them steady on you. “I just — I can’t believe you had to go through this by yourself. All of it. And your daughter — my…daughter — she didn’t have me. And fuck, that sounds so fucking selfish. This isn’t about me.”

“Hyunjin—”

“She has my eyes.”

“I know.”

Finally, he averts his gaze, focusing on a point on the kitchen counter. “Yeji wanted a test. She said I couldn’t be certain.”

“We can do a test.”

“Fuck, that’s not what I—” Looking back to you, he shakes his head. “We knew each other for barely two weeks, Y/n. I know I should want a test, but even more than that, I know that you wouldn’t be lying about this. And Jesus… she has my eyes.”

His trust is staggering. After three years, you wouldn’t be offended for anyone needing a test to prove paternity. That he doesn’t feel like a confirmation to know if you have pretended you haven’t wanted casual sex since he left: that your time together meant as much to him as it did to you.

Leaning over the kitchen bench, you take his hand, its rough warmth somehow familiar. There’s no guide to navigating this situation, and you’re not even sure what it is Hyunjin’s hoping to get from tonight. Ultimately, it’s easiest to just ask.

“What do you need tonight?”

He studies you for a few moments, as though to gauge whether the question is being asking in earnest, and you see the moment he recognises that it is. Face relaxing, eyes crinkling with gratitude.

“Can I apologise for today?”

While you don’t feel you need one, it’s clear this is something Hyunjin needs to do for himself. You nod towards the lounge room. “Let’s go sit,” you say, letting go of his hand and leading him towards the couch. You anticipate this will be a long night; you may as well be comfortable.

He settles at the other end of the couch, careful to give you space as you tuck your legs beneath yourself and face him. Silence settles between you, but you don’t mind. If he needs a moment to compile his thoughts, that’s one of the easiest things you can give him right now.

“Seonghwa didn’t mention that you’d had a baby,” he eventually says, voice rough despite the wine he’s drunk. “So I honestly had no warning when I saw her… Hyunah today. But as soon as I saw her, I had a feeling. She’s — well, she looked the right age. And I couldn’t think of another reason you wouldn’t have already told me about her. I thought your—” His voice catches, and he clears his throat. “When you apologised, I thought it was because you’d kept her from me. I thought you didn’t want me to know. That was — fuck, that was awful of me. I should’ve known better, and I’m so sorry that I didn’t.” Meeting his eyes, you can recognise the genuine remorse he’s battling with. “I couldn’t think straight at the time, and it was even worse when Yeji came over. She was all over her, and all I could think was that someone else got to talk to my… to my daughter, before I did.”

“Hyunjin—”

“It doesn’t excuse my behaviour, especially when Hyunah was there to see it all. I shouldn’t have stormed off like that, no matter how confused and angry I was at you. So — fuck, so, I’m sorry I did that. I’m sorry I was so mad at you, and that I didn’t give you a chance to explain.”

Again, you reach across the space between the two of you, and take his hand.

“I forgive you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Hey.” Your voice is sharper now; he doesn’t get to decide your response to this. “I forgive you. And I don’t blame you. It’s — it’s okay, Hyunjin. I promise you that it’s okay.”

The reluctance to accept your words is written plain across his face, but when your gaze doesn’t waver, he eventually nods. You can’t be sure whether he’s appeasing you, or can recognise that you're truly not angry at him; that you understand his reaction was based on facts that lacked context, and don’t blame him for the conclusions he jumped to, even if they hurt.

He’s here now, trying to make things right.

Tonight, you can’t ask for more than that.

“Do you want to know what I did when I found out I was pregnant?” You ask, after a moment.

Hyunjin cocks his head, brows drawing. “Okay.”

“I blamed Somi.”

With a bark of laughter, he’s smiling again. “What?”

“Yeah.” That three years have passed since that afternoon on your bathroom floor is something of a mind-fuck. It simultaneously feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago. “She’s the one who convinced me to message you in the first place, after all.”

Hyunjin chuckles. “I do recall that.”

Ducking your head, you feel your smile waver with embarrassment. Now that you're sharing this moment with him, you can recognise just how ridiculous it was. The cliche of cliches.

“Well, yeah. I told her it was her fault I was pregnant, and then I proceeded to laugh hysterically.”

“Yeah?”

“I did,” you say, shaking your head at the memory. “God, I was such a mess. I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

“You look like you’ve worked it out, now,” Hyunjin offers, probably without realising the immediate impact his words have on you, your chest filling with warmth.

“I’ve been luckier than a lot of people would be in the same situation. But, I like to think I’m doing an alright job.” Clearing your throat, you avert your gaze from Hyunjin’s intensity; the vulnerability that comes with any sort of assessment over your single-parenting feeding into embarrassment. “Anyway, my point is, first reactions aren’t everything. I blamed my friend for what’s turned out to be the best thing in my entire world. And you… you didn’t know, Hyunjin. I’m not going to hold that response against you. Especially not when you apologised as soon as you figured out what happened. That’s what matters, Hyunjin. That’s all that matters to me.”

He nods, eyes flicking to your hands. “Can you tell me about her?”

As redirections of a conversation go, it’s not the best, but you know that now is not the time to push the point any further. Besides, from the vulnerability threaded into the question, you're sure he actually does want to hear about Hyunah. This is a convenient segue, sure, but one that’s important to him, and one that makes your entire body hum with such simple happiness.

He wants to know about their baby.

“My first ultrasound was with Somi. It was to confirm the pregnancy, so obviously I was pretty emotional.” As you recount this, his smile grows, soft and curious. “I looked at my first sonogram photo for weeks after the appointment. I’ve still got all of them, on my laptop and in a — Hyunah box, kind of? Just stuff of hers that I’ve kept, photos and that little wrist tag from hospital, some of her first baby gear. I can — I’ve got it upstairs, if you’d like me to get it?”

Hyunjin nods, his voice soft but serious: “I’d love that.”

Thankfully, with the recent packing, you know exactly where the 'Hyunah box' is, and bring it downstairs quickly. You settle in closer to Hyunjin this time, pull the box into your lap to find the picture you're after.

“Here.” Handing it to him, you watch the emotion that shifts across his face as he takes it in. “It’s not really much of anything, but it made everything feel so real at the time.”

“It’s amazing,” Hyunjin says, lips pulled into a soft, longing smile, and you swallow down the swell of your own emotions to keep going.

“Yeah, it was — it was wonderful. And shit scary. I’ve got the others here, too.” You hand the photos over, pointing out where the date is on each one, and how far along the pregnancy you were at the time. Hyunjin takes in each one slowly, with a reverence you recall well, and you watch together as the little bean grows into an actual baby. “I was huge by the end of it, and so ready to meet her. She loved to kick; I was sure I’d have a soccer kid on my hands. I’ll need to see if she wants to play when she’s older.

“I went into labour a few weeks before I was due. I was Christmas shopping at the time, but came back here pretty quickly to wait out the beginning of labour. It was around midnight when I went into hospital; Somi and Mum were with me in the delivery room, and after a few stupidly exhausting hours, she was born. Four twenty-three in the morning on the 10th of December.”

The next photo you hand Hyunjin is Hyunah’s first real one. Bundled up in a soft towel, face pink and eyes wide, resting on your chest. You yourself have the smile of an exhausted woman in total awe, your eyes fixed on your tiny daughter. It’s your first photo together, and one of your favourites.

From the look on Hyunjin’s face, you think it could become one of his favourites, too. His eyes sweep it for a long minute, taking in every little detail, face creased in not only awe, but longing, too.

“A December baby.”

“Yeah.”

“I wanted one.”

Surprise catches you. “You have thought about it?”

Hyunjin nods without taking his eyes off the photo. "Yeah. My friends would say I will have a December baby judging by my "character".”

His voice wavers but there's laughter too, and you have to take a breath. “Do you want me to keep going?”

Finally, he looks at you. You don’t mention the sheen in his eyes, and he offers the same kindness. “Yes. Please.”

Squeezing his hand, you nod.

You tell him about your daughter, Hyunah’s life in broad brush-strokes. The fear and excitement of taking her home for the first time, getting to learn your new baby, to navigate becoming a parent while simultaneously feeling exhausted and elated. That first Christmas and New Year, cursing the existence of fireworks. How quickly your first year went by, how you denote it with a few key memories and facts: the stories of her first steps and words, Hyunah’s love of babbling and squealing — basically making all the possible noise that she could. How she used to inadvertently flash you in public, her way of indicating she was hungry simply tugging at your top in the hopes of finding a nipple, and that she was dancing as soon as she could keep herself upright, little arms flailing to music as she bounced up and down in place.

You talk about the shift to work, and then back to university, being waitlisted for a daycare for longer than Hyunah was even alive. Hyunah’s first birthday and second Christmas, the presents she was showered with from family and friends, including her favourite toy Occi that Chan bought after a trip to the aquarium together. The other ridiculous things your friends have done: Somi’s continued use of little alien, and Changbin’s ill-guided purchase of a mini keyboard that you made him suffer through when he babysat. Ryujin and Hongjoong’s tendency to buy tiny costumes they insist Hyunah will love, despite her growing out of them in barely two months. Felix baking Hyunah tons of soft cookie-cakes.

The utter, humbling joy of watching Hyunah grow into her second and now third year, become her own little person, with thoughts and feelings and a personality  you’re sure will be a handful soon enough. The joys of potty training and temper tantrums. How exciting — and sometimes frustrating — each new word is, having Hyunah talk more. Understand more, learn new things each and every day. She’s a gun on her little scooter now, and she’ll read a book with anyone she can coax into narrating. She’s a bit of a show off, in that natural way so many kids are: always eager to boast new additions to her repertoire of colours and numbers and animals, to sing along to her favourite nursery rhymes to someone new.

And then there are the smaller things, the finer details to fill in the gaps. How Hyunah makes the most adorably frustrated face when she’s fighting sleep, and that she lights up every time she sees a dog. That the swings are her favourite part of the playground at the moment, but that she also enjoys giving you mini heart attacks by challenging herself on the jungle gym. How, no matter your efforts in braiding her hair, she always manages to pull them out in a couple of hours, despite hating when her hair falls into her face. The expression that she pulls when she’s concentrating, one you have been told on many occasions is a mirror image of your own, a flash of scary resemblance that gives no doubt to Hyunah being your daughter.

It’s close to midnight by the time you trail off, your mind searching for anything new you can share, but finding nothing. You have shifted closer over the past couple of hours, turning to face each other with Hyunah’s box between you, allowing you to drink him in with each new story or particularity of Hyunah’s.

Now, you sit together in a wistful but comfortable quiet, heads resting on the back of the couch. Hyunjin’s smile is soft, creased with an understandable sadness that you feel yourself, in the subdued ache within your chest. It’s a lot to process for both of you, though you know his longing and regrets will extend further than you’ll ever understand. While you have missed sharing these moments with him, Hyunjin’s missed them completely.

Still, the smile that pulls at his mouth tells you that despite this, he’s going to be okay.

He wanted to know about his daughter, and now he does. The rest will come with time, and the bond that comes through the time spent together.

You let everything settle, holding the silence for a few minutes, but eventually, you offer the last thing you think you can tonight: “Do you want to see her?”

Despite the exhaustion etched into his expression, Hyunjin’s face brightens, a cautious optimism that makes your heart swell. “Are you sure?”

“I’m certain.”

A flood of emotion runs across his face, though you recognise the gratitude, the excitement, easily. Ignore the way it makes your own body light up. He really, truly wants this, and it’s enough that if you had had just one more glass of wine, you may have confessed how much this means to you.

How much you have wanted this, from the very beginning. Him, by your side, wanting to be a father to their daughter.

Instead, you lead Hyunjin upstairs, to Hyunah’s bedroom.

She’s still sleeping soundly, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths, Occi tucked close by her side. That sweet little face of hers relaxed so peacefully, a perfect, quiet moment for Hyunjin to catch her in.

“She’s perfect, Y/n,” he whispers after a long moment, voice rough with tears you can again see shine in his eyes.

It’s the exact thought you had the first time you saw your daughter. Squeezing Hyunjin’s hand, you nod, feeling that hopeful warmth bloom in your chest again. That this is all going to work out. That they can do this together.

“Yeah,” you say, letting your head rest against his shoulder, as you watch your daughter together. “She is.”

***

“Are you still free on Wednesday?”

“Yeah, I should be.”

“Okay, well maybe we can still grab—”

Your words fall short when, without warning, Hyunjin steps into your space. Hand threading through your hair, he closes the space between you, lips sliding over yours with an ease that shouldn’t be possible after three years.

No, no, no. This is wrong. So, so wrong.

But your body runs alight at the very first touch, responds without any input from your mind: lips opening to the first press of his tongue, allowing the kiss to grow deeper, hands sliding up his chest, curling tight into his hair. It’s a spark that spreads with a fervour you haven’t felt in years, the fire that comes from wanting, and being wanted in return. And fuck do you want it. Want him, and so you keep him close, despite knowing better.

The familiarity of it stuns you, the softness of his eager lips, the smell of him pressed so close. The way he tastes licking hot and perfect into your mouth, the growing desperation as the kiss turns wet and heated, his huge hands running down your sides to find your ass. Squeezing, pressing you impossibly closer, letting you feel the hardening length of him beneath his pants, and you whine as a thrum of arousal lights up at your core, knowing how perfect Hyunjin would feel, if you let him continue.

Slide down your shorts and panties, turn you around, and fill you where you're hot and aching for him.

And fuck this is bad. It’s wrong.

But it’s the undeniable rightness that catches you, and that realisation is enough to make you stop.

Breaking away, you lean your forehead against his, heavy breaths filling the small space between them. You allow yourself a moment to indulge in this tempting closeness, before untangling yourself from him, hands moving to the relative safety of his chest.

“Hyunjin,” you say, your voice barely more than a breath. When you open your eyes, it’s to find him already watching you, gaze heavy with an intensity that extends beyond simple lust. “We can’t do this.”

His eyes fall closed again, and when his forehead comes back down to rest against your own, you don’t pull back. His hands find your waist, and you linger in this in-between moment that doesn’t feel wholly like reality. Just your slowing breaths, and the warmth of your bodies close in a way you haven’t felt in years.

“I know,” he says after a long moment, voice so hoarse you can almost feel it in your chest. “Fuck, Y/n, I know. I’m — I’m sorry. I can’t believe I — I’m sorry.”

He steps back completely then, and when you feel the absence immediately, you tell yourself it’s a good thing.

“It’s okay. It’s not like I stopped you when I should’ve.”

The look you share is thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings, and god, do you wish you didn’t have to be responsible right now. Wish you could pull him back to you and drag him into your bedroom, to finish what they started.

But you can’t. Neither of you can. This situation is complicated enough, and you don’t need to be furthering that by giving into this urge, no matter how tempting. You can’t do that to your daughter.

“So, Wednesday?” You ask, trying to compose yourself, watching as Hyunjin does the same.

Clearing his throat, he nods. “Of course.”

“We can talk, work out our… situation.” Such a simple word to describe something that already feels so messy, you would cringe if Hyunjin didn’t find it amusing, his laugh breaking the lingering tension.

“Sure. Sounds good, Y/n.” He opens the front door, steps out of the house, to a safe distance. “I’ll see you then.”

You smile. “See you then, Hyunjin.”

Locking the door behind him, you close your eyes, knocking your head lightly against the solid wood.

“Fuck,” you whisper, the weight of his hands, his lips, still branded in your skin, despite his absence.

Fuck indeed.

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Are you ready, angel? | CH4

𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: It all begins when Somi declares that she's on a sex ban for three months. You remind her of this when your life is turned upside down. And when everything finds its place again, you reconnect with him in a way you never would have expected.

You're new to this avenue of pleasure, Hyunjin isn't. Who can be better to guide you through this journey of self-discovery? And maybe Hyunjin has a few things to learn about himself.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: nothing happens except for pregnancy related stuff, hint of angst(?)

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Hyunjin x Reader (female)

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 5.5K

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @justoutfromdead @amelialistree @aerastus @purehyunida @danyxthirstae01 @moasworld @c-atitos @hyunee1 @bangtanskz @jisungsleftcheek @uwusforateez @keehoslove @hyynee @a-person-with-void @castielsfrillywhiteknickers @mtkdukart (let me know if you want to be added to the tag list)

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It has been over a month without any calls, texts, or any surprising Facebook friend requests.

To be fair, you haven't tried contacting him either, so you figure you don't have any right to be upset. And regardless of the disappointment that’s occasionally gnawed at your stomach, you know that it’s easier this way. Easier just to sever all ties; not draw out the process painfully.

And you’re okay, as well.

You can’t deny that the first week after Hyunjin left was tough, sorting through your things for the upcoming college quarter only to find your caricature key ring from your day at the Designing Plaza, or reaching out for him blindly in bed, before you’d properly woken and remembered he’d gone back to New York. But soon enough you were thrown back into college and work, and you didn’t have a spare minute to mope, or contemplate a future you know wouldn’t exist, regardless of Hyunjin’s whereabouts.

He didn’t do relationships. It’s what you keep telling yourself.

It’s about a month before you have to sit the last exam you will ever take as an undergrad, that you and Somi are once again strolling through the drugstore. There’s a sale on, and  you're feeling crappy and stressed, and Somi all but forces you out of your bedroom-turned-hellish study room to get some fresh air, and indulge in the particular joy of aimlessly wandering the aisles of a shop you don’t need anything from.

The past week has been the chaotic kind of stressful, you reaching the tail-end of your degree and readying yourself for finals, whilst simultaneously preparing for your exams to enter a super-specialisation college for obstetric surgery. Meaning that, basically for the first time ever, you have got an actual plan you want to work with after graduation. And given you’re the kind of person who finds comfort in the security of a plan but was never able to formulate one which wasn't influenced by your mother, it’s a decision that’s required a big mental adjustment, and you're aware that neither the exams nor the course will be easy.

Still, it was the right one, your nerves over the unease definitely preferred over the unknown that curled low in your stomach whenever you thought about spending a drop year contemplating whether you want your career in this field or not. Hyunjin was part of the decision, you know, but Somi and Chan were the ones to ultimately convince you to call your mother and make it official. 

It went better than expected, not living up to the tense showdown by your mother that you're well-versed in. You are still on somewhat shaky ground, though you honestly can’t blame your mother for needing some time to adjust when she had no indication of the doubts you had about your super-specialisation course. You know that your mother is just looking out for you. But your mother reluctantly accepted what you said, and while you didn't exactly need her permission, you were happy to receive her somewhat support and not press you for taking neurology or oncology. Overall, it’s a relief, but it still leaves one burning worry for your future: will you be able to work on your plan?

“Just work while you figure it out,” Somi tells you, not for the first time this past week. “You’re only twenty two, Y/n. It’s not like your life will be over if you take a drop year after graduating. There's still time and maybe you won't need a drop year and you'll manage your studies and exams.” 

You sigh. “And rationally, I can recognise that. But still, l'm anxious because I don't wanna score less, and then I won't have other plans.”

“I know. It’s why you’re so uptight.”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously, I thought getting laid would help, but a month back at college and you’re all stressed and tense again. At least make use of your vibrators, babe.”

You ignore her, instead nod to Somi’s side of the aisle. “Grab some aspirin.”

Somi does, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously? That bad?”

“Yeah. I just feel shitty at the moment, I don’t know,” you say, rolling out your shoulders in an attempt to relieve some tension.

Somi frowns. “You think you’re getting sick?”

“Nah, I’ve just been achy and tired. I think I’d have gotten worse by now if I was properly sick.”

“It’s probably just stress,” Somi reasons, looking you up and down with an appraising gaze, as though she could figure out what’s wrong with you by eye. If anyone could, it’d be Somi. “With everything that’s been going on, your body’s probably just like fuck, you know?”

“Maybe,”  you say, unsure. You know how you feel when you’re busy and stressed, and it’s not like this. This is different, almost like you are about to get your period, though it’s been going on too long to be that.

It hits you all at once, and you stop in your tracks, your stomach dropping with sudden panic.

You skipped your period last month. Hasn’t had one since… well since before Hyunjin.

You stop Somi, curling a hand around her arm. 

Somi glances at you, concerned. “What’s up?”

Your eyes are wide as you swallow past the lump that’s formed in your throat. “Somi, I think I’m pregnant.”

It takes Somi a moment to process your words, shock creasing her expression as she stares at you. “Because you feel sick? Babe, you might just be coming down with something.”

You shake your head. Swallow again, trying to keep your throat from closing up. “I haven’t had my period in a while.” Fuck. “A while as in… before Hyunjin.”

“Before Hyunjin? How could you not realise you missed your period for an entire month?”

“I don’t know, Somi. I’ve been busy. It just… didn’t cross my mind.”

Somi winces. “Sorry, that sounded judgemental, it’s just…” She cuts herself off, and you can see her mind working, trying to come up with an alternative explanation. “You’re on the pill. Maybe you just skipped the week for your period and don’t remember?”

You shake your head again. “I didn’t. I, uh – my prescription actually finished about a month ago, just after Hyunjin left. I haven’t had time to make an appointment yet, and I figured I wouldn’t be getting laid again any time soon, so I haven’t rushed to get it refilled.”

“But you were safe?”

A slow breath as the weight of this admission settles. “We may not have used a condom every time,” you admit, wincing when Somi’s expression grows incredulous. “What? I was on the pill and we were both clean! You can’t tell me you’ve used one every single time you’ve had sex.”

“Okay, point. But…” Again, she cuts herself off, perhaps recognising that this is one thing they can’t logic their way out of. Softening, she takes your hand. “We should probably get a test to make sure, yeah?”

You nod, barely registering the tests Somi grabs on the way to the checkout, and barely two minutes after the thought of pregnancy even crossed your mind, you and Somi are out of the store, Somi keeping a hold of your hand as you walk back to your apartment.

***

Your phone confirms what you already knew: you haven't had your period in almost two months.

You’re sitting on the couch, eyes set on the app, and wondering how the fuck you missed it. Not your period –  you're pretty sure you know how you missed that. But how did you miss missing your period? You're organised, responsible. Always have been. And while you can’t say that your period comes every four weeks on the dot, unless you skip it, it does always come. And as an organised, responsible person, you should have noticed when it didn’t.

You can’t believe you didn’t notice.

You have been home for a while now, and though you know you need to, you can’t find the strength to get up and take the test. You know what the result will be. But still, you don't know. You could be wrong. While stress has never resulted in you missing a period before, it could be the case now. This could all be a scare. One that’d take a while to move on from, but – well. Less time than a pregnancy would. Less time than raising a child would.

You’d be raising a child. A real life, tiny human, who would rely on you to live.

The weight of Somi’s gaze is heavy, though  your own eyes are still focussed on your phone in hand. You haven’t spoken since arriving home, and honestly, it’s a surprise that Somi’s waited as long as she has before snapping.

“Y/n!” she says, and it’s enough to have you meeting Somi’s gaze, recognising both the frustration and concern. Whatever your face is doing, though, has Somi softening again, and she comes down to sit by your side. “I know this is scary, babe. But whatever happens, we can deal with it, okay? The first step is taking the test, and then we go from there.”

You nod, release a shaky breath, and find your resolve.

Somi waits with you, after you have read the instructions and peed on the stick. You sit together on the bathroom floor, your backs against the counter, a three minute timer counting down next to you.

When it chirps, there are two red positive signs.

From the corner of your eye, you can see Somi watching you, but you can’t tear your eyes away from the test. Those two positive signs. Two life-changing positive signs.

Without a word, you go to the kitchen, pull out the largest glass and fill it with water. Drink it all in a gulp and repeat two more times, before you are back in the bathroom and opening another packet.

Three tests later, you are sitting back against the counter with Somi. All four tests are lined up in front of you; now eight red positive signs clear as day.

“Well, fuck.”

Somi puts her hand on your shoulder, gently. “It’ll be okay, babe.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. The reality of this situation is sinking in. “Okay?” you demand, turning around to face Somi. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yeah, you! You and that stupid fucking bet. I never would've texted Hyunjin if you hadn’t used your sexless life to guilt trip me.”

It’s probably not entirely true; Somi’s ability to convince you into things is almost worrying. If it hadn’t been the argument of the sex ban, it would’ve been something else. But hysteria is coming easier than logic right now.

“Is this some kind of breakdown? Are you having a breakdown right now?”

“Of course I’m having a breakdown! I’m fucking pregnant, Somi!” Before she can even try to soothe you, you burst out laughing. Somi’s responding alarm is probably fair. “Oh my god, I’m pregnant,” you say between gasps of air. “From a guy I knew for a week and haven’t spoken to in over a month.”

You start laughing again, feeling the hysteria bubble up into your chest, and soon enough Somi’s joining in, the absurdity of the situation too much to deal with. It feels good, if you’re being honest. Better than crying, which  you're sure is what you’re meant to be doing right now. But eventually the energy rattling around in your body calms, and you feel your smile fall.

You take a deep breath. In and out. “I’m pregnant.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“Woah.”

“Woah.”

“This is like, a life-changing event right here.”

Somi takes your hands, runs a soothing thumb over your palm. “Only if you want it to be,” she says, careful. “You have options. You know that, right? And I’ll support you whatever decision you make.”

Fuck. Options. Of course, you have options.

And it would be ridiculous of you not to think this through, consider each of them thoroughly. But you can’t deny the tug that you already feel; it’s barely been an hour, but you can’t think of anything except keeping the baby.

You shake your head, look down at your crossed legs. “I don’t think I want an abortion,” you tell Somi quietly. “I just – I don’t know. I’m completely pro-choice, and I would never condemn anyone else for their own decision, but… that’s not what I want.” You worry your lip, look back up at Somi. “It’s ridiculous that I’ve made that decision this quickly, right?”

“If you know it’s not what you want to do, you know,” Somi tells you, squeezing your hand in comfort. “You don’t have to justify it, Y/n. Especially not to me.”

You nod, offer your friend a shaky smile. You are so incredibly lucky to have Somi. Always, but especially right now. She pulls you into a hug, and you tuck your face into her neck. 

“I’ll be with you every step of the way,” Somi says, quiet, but with enough conviction that  you find yourself smiling a little.

“Thanks, Somi.” 

Within an hour, you have set up a doctor’s appointment.

“Wednesday at eleven,” you tell Somi, slumping down next to her on the couch, a tub of ice cream and two spoons in hand. “Earliest I could get in.”

“I can come with you,” Somi offers, accepting a spoon to dig in. She’s got Friends playing in the background, but her attention is entirely on you. “But I’ll have to go for a walk after.”

“No, that’s fine. I have work after, too. But that’d be good, having company. Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“No, seriously. Thank you for being with me today. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She rolls her eyes at your snappiness, shoves you on the shoulder.

“Hey, I have a baby on board!” Somi chokes on a laugh, and you make a face at your own lack of tact. “Sorry. Bad joke. It’s been a weird day.”

Somi chuckles, hands back the ice cream like it’s some cure-all. “I don’t think weird is the word I’d use. But yeah, it has been.”

The rest of the afternoon passes probably as easily as it can, given the situation. Meaning that you don't break down crying, but you do spend a solid hour googling pregnancy-related topics, only stopping when Somi confiscates your laptop. You sleep restlessly that night, and through all the tossing and turning and agonising, counting each hour you’re losing, your mind offers one very unhelpful thought, over and over., and you try not to think about the scary part right now.

Positively, you label staying awake as a probably good practice.

***

The following day is Mother’s Day, and you wonder what you did in a past life to deserve that from the universe.

Thankfully, your mother’s working, so you don't have to find an excuse not to see her. Four pregnancy tests but no confirmation from a doctor puts you in a state of limbo, knowing but not knowing, and you don’t want to have to navigate a day with your mum like that. You can’t tell her until you're certain yourself. So it’s a relief, not having to worry about it for at least a little while longer.

Instead, you spend the day at home, foregoing Somi’s offer to have brunch with some college friends, and huddle into bed with far too many pillows and another tub of ice cream. Since you are pregnant, it’s probably something you need to stop indulging in.

Your day starts out quite productive, finishing off an essay and catching up on some surgery notes, but by mid-afternoon you are scrolling through an online childrenswear store, looking at fucking baby clothes. It is, by all accounts, a terrible idea, and if you had better self control, you’d stop the spiral early. But you don’t, and with your emotions running high, it’s not long before you’re losing it over a fucking tiny onesie, half the length of your sweatshirt, with even tinier elephants on it.

The emotional exhaustion of the past twenty four hours finally catching up to you, the tears come quickly, and in the privacy of your own bedroom, you just let yourself cry. Clutching tight onto one pillow and sobbing into another.

You haven't cried so hard in years, probably not since your dad died, and a renewed surge of grief hits you with the thought. Your dad, who’d be so incredibly supportive, will never meet his grandchild. He won’t be someone you will have to tell; won’t be there to look at ultrasound photos, or coo over little baby clothes. He won’t meet Hyunjin, or mildly interrogate him in a way you're sure he’d want to, if he were here.

And Hyunjin. After trying your best not to think about him these past weeks, trying to get over a heartbreak you didn’t have any right to, you will have to tell him. Call him up from across the globe and tell him that he’s going to be a father. If he even wants to be a father.

He’s not a relationship guy, but he’s a good person, you know that much for sure. He will want to be a part of the baby’s life, even if he doesn’t want to be involved with you yourself.

You have to believe that.

It’s then that you realise you're thinking about this baby as a complete, real thing, not four pregnancy tests waiting for confirmation on Wednesday, and when you stop crying you realise you have got a hand pressed to your stomach, almost protective. It sends you into another tailspin of emotion and hazy, half-formed thoughts, but eventually exhaustion wins over – the combination of a restless sleep and an hour of crying draining you of any energy – and you fall asleep, not caring that it’s still light out.

***

It's dark when you wake next, and you check your phone to find it's only just past five in the morning. You must have gotten almost twelve hours of sleep last night, but considering your far clearer head and surprisingly well-rested body, the extra hours were much-needed, even if you probably fucked up your sleeping pattern. Your laptop’s not on your bed, your slippers are no longer on your feet, so you assume Somi came in to check on you when she got home. Such a simple gesture, but one that has you filled with warm and fuzzy appreciation, that, at a more reasonable hour in the morning, has you up and making pancakes. A breakfast thank you.

As always, Somi’s running late, but she lingers long enough to get some pancakes in tupperware, smack a kiss on your cheek, and tells you in no uncertain terms that you are not to jump the gun on online shopping: baby clothes edition.

Appropriately warned, you leave your laptop alone as you start on your own stack of pancakes, grabbing a notepad and pen instead. What you need is a list, to bring order to the current chaos that is your life. You can’t let this derail you for longer than it already has. Finals, unfortunately, do not wait for crises to be resolved, and a little more pressing is your shift later this morning, which, while not requiring you to be at full brain-capacity, you’d at least like to not be an active mess at.

You jot down the first point.

1. Get results.

Stare at it for a beat, before allowing yourself to amend it.

1. Get results. Freak out.

There, then the freak out is planned and scheduled, and can be ticked off the list upon completion.

The next items come as you stuff the pancakes into your mouth, and later, you’ll have to make another list of more long-term considerations. Learning to cook should probably be on the top of that.

Still, this list does its job, both in getting your thoughts onto paper, and providing a little structure for the coming weeks, no matter how crude. Despite work being slow, you manage not to spiral again, even when researching both the validity of home pregnancy tests, and what a positive can mean if it’s not pregnancy. By the time Seonghwa is arriving for his usual evening class, you have even made some progress on your surgery notes, and manage to hold a decent conversation when he mentions it’s his last week at the community centre, having been accepted to an art program in Italy and one in America.

While you didn’t know each other super well, you have always been friendly, bonded over your appreciation of art, so your congratulations are genuine. Mentally, you add another item to the longer-term list: accept you will not be having any European adventures of your own, at least not for a few years.

But that’s a later consideration. Now, you have got more timely ones, and a list that, upon arriving home, you find has been scrawled over to include Somi’s input and additional... points.

1. Get results. Freak out. (?) Will it be worse than hysterical laughter??

2. Call Hyunjin Yes

3. Tell mum Yes

4. Tell friends eventually? alternatively prank potential to not mention anything until someone finally brings up your baby bump

5. Uni arrangements/grad programmes WE TALKED ABOUT GRAD PROGRAMS

6. Work arrangements/working in a bar/maternity leave Knowing the shit they already come up with, I cannot bear to imagine what gross, drunk frat bros would say to you, BUT if you still want to work I will 1v1 chris (kick shit) in your honour where needed

7. Freak out Read 1

8. Buy a pregnancy book ??? A whole book? Google, you weirdo

9. Living arrangements Did an unknown third party in this apartment kick you out?

10. Accept that you’re going to get ^even huger tits than usual!

11. Can you buy nice maternity clothes? Potential antithesis, but surely someone’s rectified this in the 21st century?

12. Write a proper list if you’re actually pregnant But this one’s so wonderfully crap

You laugh, send Somi a kissy heart emoji to convey your appreciation, and on Wednesday, it’s appreciation for your friend that doubles, as you sit together in the waiting room of your doctor’s practice.

A little past eleven, Dr. Jung Hyunwoo calls you up, and you run through a list of questions, ending with him asking about your last period. “If you’ve done four at-home tests, I’m pretty confident that any test you take here will be positive,” he says, after entering each of your answers into his computer. “But I’m just going to get you to do one more, and then we can do a trans-abdominal ultrasound, okay?”

“Okay.”

He passes you a test that you are already intimately familiar with, and you go to the bathroom. Five minutes later, you get the result you knew you would. This time it’s two pink lines.

“Okay, Y/n,” Hyunwoo says, as he ushers a woman into the room. “This is Park Yoora, our ultrasound technician. She’s going to perform a trans-abdominal ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy.”

You nod and smile at Yoora, and Yoora gestures for you to sit on the table. 

“So, Y/n. Hyunwoo tells me that the first day of your last period was around March. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, great,” Yoora says, sitting down to face  you properly. She goes on to explain the ultrasound she will be performing and what the possible outcomes will be, and after asking you if you’re ready, tells you to lie down on the ultrasound table. “Now just roll your pants down for me,” she asks, setting up the machine and getting the probe ready. “I’m sure you’ve heard this already, but the gel might be a little cool. It’s normal, so don’t worry.”

“Okay,” you breathe out, reaching out for Somi’s hand. The gel is cool, but you keep your eyes on the screen as Yoora starts to move the probe over your stomach.

She stops soon enough, when what is definitely something comes up on the screen. “There,” she says, pointing out the tiny white, bean-shaped smudge. 

Your grip tightens around Somi’s hand. “Oh my god,” you whisper, voice threaded with wonder, completely flawed by the rush of emotion that overcomes you. It’s not much of anything – not what ultrasounds will look like in the coming months – but it’s enough to have something warm, something tender, swelling in your chest, even with the underlying nerves hammering away. You have never been particularly maternal, but you already feel so much for this baby. Your baby. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Somi agrees, and when you finally glance her way, you share an awed smile.

After giving you some time, Yoora begins to explain how the baby is. 

“It’s all looking great, Y/n,” she says with a smile. “Given the dates you’ve given me and what I can see on the ultrasound, I’d say you’re a little over eight weeks along. The baby’s about the size of a raspberry at the moment.” 

She prints off a few photos, handing them to  you after she cleans off your stomach. 

“You’ve got a Christmas baby on your hands,” she says. “The due date is the 22nd of December.”

Christmas baby, you think as you look down at the photos, a smile pulling at your lips.

After the ultrasound, Hyunwoo returns, offering his congratulations before diving into the next step of the appointment. With your pregnancy confirmed, he asks some further questions on your medical history, takes a blood sample, and completes a physical exam, before scheduling another appointment in a few weeks’ time.

He gives you a few pamphlets on the way out, and you make a note to read through them and come up with something of a game-plan in the next few days. But for the moment, you have work, and so does Somi.

“You’ll be okay?” Somi asks as you make your way back to the car park.

“Yeah, I think so. It’s a lot, obviously, but I should be able to get through my shift. Might be a good distraction.”

Somi snorts a laugh, and the look that she gives you tells you you’re kidding yourself. “Yeah. Good luck with that, babe.”

“Shut up. I’ll be okay at least until I finish my shift. Promise.”

“Okay. And after that, you can freak out as much as you need.”

“Thanks, Somi.” you tug her in for a hug, squeeze her extra tight. “You’re the best.”

Somi’s response is all self-assuredness. “Yeah, I know.”

***

In all fairness, you get through most of your shift without freaking out. And you probably could have made it all the way through, too. It may be a Wednesday afternoon, but there’s enough work to do that there’s rarely an opportunity to stop and overthink.

But then you go into the backroom to grab a mint, and the ultrasound pictures slip out of your bag, and, with it right there in front of you, it’s impossible to pretend like everything’s normal. You are happy – more so than expected – but that doesn’t dispel everything else. The nerves or the worry, the undeniable fact that your life is about to change. Monumentally.

All of a sudden, it makes you feel incredibly young, and you are hit with a brand of longing you’ve not felt in years that covers you easily enough, and with Wooyoung starting in half an hour, you try not to feel too guilty that you are leaving early to go see your mum.

It’s Anthony who answers the door, his surprise visible, which is probably fair. You haven’t been back since you and your mother talked about college. It's almost funny how insignificant that crisis seems now. An unplanned pregnancy sure does a good job at putting things into perspective.

“She’s in bed,” he tells you, though he gestures for you to come inside. Seemingly, he can gauge that this is a visit that can’t wait. “Got home about half an hour ago after a pretty long shift. Can I get you anything?”

“No,” you say, shooting him a smile. He’s a good guy, even if you don’t know him particularly well. “Thanks, Anthony.”

Thankfully, your mother is not sleeping yet, and she peers over the book in hand when  you knock and quietly step into her bedroom. “Y/n,” she says, and though weariness is evident in her voice, concern still cuts through. “Darling, are you okay? What’re you doing here?”

You nod, though now that you are here, nerves swell to form a knot in your chest. It’ll be the first time you’ll be announcing it, and while you and your mum have definitely mended your relationship over the past year, part of you still worries that this will be another thing to push you and your mother apart.

“I’m okay, but… I have to tell you something.”

Brittany sits up properly, and pats the place next to her on the bed. Waits until you join her to respond. “Is this about college? Because I’ve thought about what you said, and you have my full support. Truly.”

It sounds rehearsed, but that’s okay, because without your mother intending, she’s said the exact right words to soothe you. It’s this side of your mother that you need. The one who loves you unconditionally, supports you no matter what.

“Thanks, mum,” you say, and, releasing a shaky breath, you find the confidence to get the words out. “But that’s not it. I’m actually – I’m pregnant.”

Your mother's mouth opens and closes a few times, her brows furrowing as she searches for something to say. But she doesn’t seem to find anything, so you keep talking.

“I had an ultrasound today,” you explain, and despite your efforts, a familiar burn starts in your eyes. “And I just… I needed to tell you. I needed my mum.”

Brittany’s face softens completely, and as the first tears begin to fall, she pulls you into her arms, stroking your back like she did when you were a child, upset about something or other. “Oh, baby girl,” she says quietly. “You’re okay. Let it out.”

You nod, tuck your face into your mum’s neck, breathing in her familiar smell, and with the permission, you let yourself cry. You stay like that for a while, until the knot in your chest has unravelled, and your tears have stopped.

Pulling back, you offer your mum a small smile. “Sorry for derailing your sleep. Anthony said you had a long shift.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m glad you came,” Brittany says, with a comforting kind of finality. “Now, do you want to stay for dinner? Tell me more?”

You nod, though you're wondering the best way to explain everything. You haven't recounted the whole story to anyone yet, and given that a large part of the story is a weeklong fling, it’s an odd one to talk to your mum about. But Brittany will find out eventually, so it’s best to just be honest, and rip the bandaid off.

“Yeah, that’d be good. I’ll just text Somi that I’m here, so she doesn’t worry.”

“She knows?”

“Yeah. Sat with me while I took the tests, and came to the appointment this morning.”

Brittany smiles, and you're reminded of the funny relationship she and Somi have. After Somi’s accident, your mother managed to pull some strings for her to help with the resulting physical therapy, and through that, they got to know each other pretty well. It was an odd time for you, given your own relationship with your mother was still quite strained, but Somi never interfered, and as you and Brittany started repairing what grief had done to both of you, all she offered was encouragement.

Now, you message Somi, then follow your mum downstairs, to where Anthony is cooking some dinner.

He takes the news with startling ease, though  you guess you don’t know each other well enough for him to respond otherwise, and surprisingly, you don’t mind him being here, as you bring Brittany up to speed.

You tell them about meeting Hyunjin, and showing him around the city, given his week here coincided with your break between college terms. The fling part is a little awkward, but given you're pregnant, it’s not as though anyone can be surprised you have had sex recently, and your mother doesn’t appear scandalised.

Instead, when you finish by passing over the ultrasound photo tucked in your bag, she softens, a small smile growing on her face.

“I’m going to be a grandma,” she says, wondrous.

"I skipped being a dad, but I'll be a grandpa now, so I'm the one who has to adjust the most," Anthony adds, laughing.

You laugh, taking back the photo after Anthony has had a look, too. “Yeah. And I’m going to be a mom.” It’s the first time you have said it aloud, and it’s as though everything hits you all over again. You look at the photo, trying to reconcile that this little smudge will grow into a baby. “And Hyunjin is...” You cut yourself off, heart clenching within your chest. “I should probably call him.”

“I think that’s a good idea, darling.”

You nod, and with the momentum of the evening behind you, you grab your phone and go to the lounge room. Try to stay still as you navigate to your contacts and pull up Hyunjin’s number, your mind working to find the words you will say once he picks up.

But he doesn’t pick up.

Instead, an automated voice sounds over the phone.

The number you have dialled is temporarily unavailable, please try again later. 

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