Oh To Be Building Furniture With Jeon Wonwoo

oh to be building furniture with jeon wonwoo

as sweet as peaches | jeon wonwoo

wonwoo sits cross-legged on the floor, ikea manual laying open on his lap. the half built coffee table sits upside down in front of him, loose screws and nails scattered around the piece of furniture.

“did you find the piece that goes in this corner?”, you ask in confusion from your spot on the floor opposite wonwoo, one hand holding what you think is one of the legs of the table. “is it this one?”

your boyfriend looks up at you and breathes out an amused laugh, cheeks puffing up. “that’s the spare piece, gorgeous”.

you look at him, cocking an eyebrow, “you sure, wonu? because the last time you said something was a spare”, you point at the singular leg attached to the table, “that fell off”.

he grins sheepishly, “well… uh, maybe it could come in handy”. you shoot him a fond smile.

you both work on the piece of furniture for a while, sneaking glances at each other and giggling at lame jokes, before you stand up and wordlessly walk over to the kitchen. wonwoo follows your movement with his eyes, pushing his glasses up his nose as he does so.

you disappear behind the kitchen counter before re-emerging with a plate of sliced peaches and tangerines. setting it on the floor beside wonwoo you mumble, “odd combination, but it’s all i could find”. you peer at him and the softness you see in his eyes makes heat crawl up your neck.

“i love you”, he whispers.

“because of peaches?”, you ask shyly, taking a seat beside him.

“nope”, he breathes out, “peaches are just a bonus”. he picks up a fuzzy slice and holds it up to your lips. you accept the bite gratefully.

“the tangerines, then”, you mumble around a mouthful of fruit.

wonwoo laughs, it’s a very pretty sound, you think. low and deep, yet airy and relaxed. your giggles join his, the room filling with innocent delight.

the two of you continue to tinker with the coffee table, occasionally nibbling on pieces of fruit. with the build almost complete, you lean back on the heels of your palms, surveying your work.

“not bad for two amateurs”, you declare with a grin. “i think we could build all of ikea if we wanted to”.

wonwoo chuckles, “we’ll have many days of building furniture in our future”. you look at him in question. “dressers, bookshelves, cribs”, he elaborates.

your eyes widen and you feel your cheeks burn fiery red. cribs… baby cribs? did you hear him wrong? did he say it on purpose?

he turns to you, eyes dancing and cheeks slightly pink. oh. definitely on purpose.

you look at him, lips parted ever-so-slightly.

“one day, i mean… if you want to”. he whispers.

you don’t have a response. you’re breathless and giddy and so in love.

leaning forward, you press your lips against wonwoo’s. soft and careful. he hums in contentment against your mouth, kissing you back with fervour.

his hand trails up your arm to your cheek, cupping your face like you’re as delicate as fine china. his other hand snakes behind your waist, resting against the small of your back. he kisses you slowly, and when he feels you smile against his lips he melts. to him, this is bliss.

you pull away, breathless and heart racing. and suddenly, you’re 16 again. too shy to meet wonwoo’s eyes, a soft blush colouring your cheeks when he squeezes your hand with a hum.

“baby?”, he peers at you, trying to catch your attention.

when you finally look up at him, he’s dazzled by the stars in your eyes. the very same ones he thinks you hung up in the sky.

“you’re too much”, you mumble, just above a whisper. the chuckle it coaxes out of him drives the feeling deeper.

he drops a quick kiss to your cheek, his eyes dripping honey.

you point to the unfinished coffee table in front of you with furrowed brows, “we’ve been neglecting our magnum opus”.

his bright laughter booms throughout the room. “i don’t think an ikea coffee table is our magnum opus, baby”. he thinks he knows what will be, but he doesn’t say it. he’s hinted at it enough today. instead, he picks up a handful of screws and the last remaining leg of the table.

you take up a purely supportive role. handing him missing screws or nails you see him hunting for. you lean against the couch behind you, silently watching your boyfriend finish the rest of the build. you admire the way his hands move deftly to hammer in nails, the way he pushes the sleeves of his sweater further up his arms, the way he adjusts his glasses on his nose when they start to slip.

you’re happy, you think. just silently being in his company.

“finished”, he declares, pushing himself off the floor and offering you a hand to pull you to your feet. you stand beside him and look down at your work.

“not bad, jeon wonwoo”, you praise.

“not bad yourself”, he responds with a squeeze of your hand. he smiles fondly when he feels you squeeze back.

he looks at you, eyes warm, and drops a chaste kiss to you lips.

warmth floods your body. he’s just so sweet, you think.

“you taste like peaches”, he mumbles.

as sweet as peaches.

—

ahh wonwoo…

writing this was really fun!! sweet wonu thinking about how urs and his masterpiece will be ur baby…omg

i hope u enjoy this one! as always, my requests and asks are open <3

He owns me

hello and good morning to fluffy woozi and fluffy woozi only

I am actively hoping someone will ask me to write something so I can avoid my thoughts

reader, i [kissed] him | Choi San

summary: you have a dumb rude rich dad who hired a bodyguard because he's paranoid...enter choi san who is literally the man dreams are made of but he works for you so that's weird. you're a lit student and you've been giving him book recs. warnings: absent/sucky dad, mention of papercuts, a few minor jane eyre spoilers?, storm, fire

You look up at the sound of a book shutting. San pulls his glasses off and rubs his eyes. “Finished,” he says.

You shut your textbook. “What did you think of the series?”

He leans back in a stretch. “You were right,” he admits. “Percy Jackson is pretty meaningful for a kids’ story.” He replaces his glasses, smiling at you. “So what’s next for the book club?”

You chuckle. “Are you enjoying my reading assignments?”

“Honestly, yeah. I can’t believe I’m getting paid to read books with you,” he says. “There are literally no downsides.”

“You’re getting paid to protect me,” you correct, a teasing smile playing about your lips. “Keep an eye on these books. They’re notorious for giving me paper cuts.”

“I will personally destroy any book who dares to mess with your fingers,” he vows dramatically, and you laugh. “But seriously, are you done studying for the day or do I get another reading assignment?” 

“I still have a bit of work to do,” you say, pulling out your copious notes. “So you get another hour or so to read. Don’t you want to choose one?”

He shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “I’d rather live inside your head for awhile. Why? Did you run out of books?”

You make a mock-offended face. “Absolutely not,” you say. “I just wanted to give you the option to read what you want to read, instead of what I want you to read.”

“What you want me to read is what I want to read,” he tells you, standing up. “Now, lay it on me.”

“Jane Eyre,” you say. “It’ll be in the B section.”

You watch as his broad shoulders retreat into the library shelves, admiring the muscles clearly visible underneath his tight black shirt. Shaking your head, you turn back to your studies, reminding yourself that ogling your bodyguard is a fruitless and unnecessary activity that will not help you pass your college classes.

He takes a seat shortly afterward, holding up the copy of Jane Eyre. “Why this one?” he asks — his constant question before he reads any of your suggestions. 

“Well,” you say carefully, “it’s actually…my favorite.”

His eyes get wide. “This book is your favorite?” he asks, pointing to the gray cover. 

You nod. “My absolute favorite, of all time, ever.”

“I thought you were gonna save your favorite for graduation,” he says. “Why are you moving it forward in the queue?”

“Because I feel our friendship will remain intact even if you don’t like it,” you say. “I wasn’t sure for awhile there.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Are you saying you’ll still love me even if I don’t like your favorite book?” he asks with a glint of humor in his eyes.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” you say. “Although it’d be hard for me. This book is a must-read if you hope to understand anything about me.”

He leans back, opening the book to the first page. “Then I don’t see how I couldn’t like it,” he says. “I don’t know why you were worried. Brief summary?”

“Terrible childhood, brooding gentleman, house with a dark secret, romance.” His eyes stay on you as you list the themes. Then suddenly your phone buzzes. You look at it and make a face.

“Your dad?” San guesses.

You nod, answering the call. “Hello?” you say in trepidation.

“Where are you?” he barks. 

“At the library at school,” you say, trying to keep a calm tone. “I’m studying.”

“Good,” he says gruffly. “Is San with you?” 

You sigh quietly. “Yes,” you say. 

“Perfect. I’ll be gone the next few days for a trip. Don’t call.”

“Okay, I won’t,” you promise, hanging up.

“What happened?” San asks immediately. “Was he unkind?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “No more than usual,” you reply. “He’s going out of town and wanted to make sure I knew not to call.”

San’s jaw clenches briefly, before turning his attention back to the book in his hand. “So why is this book your favorite?”

You consider him for a moment. You know a major motivation for him to ask you this question is to distract you from thoughts of your father, but he nonetheless looks earnest, so you answer honestly. “The book is written from the point of view of a young woman whose frank honesty is pretty inspiring. She doesn’t extol her virtues or edit out her failings. And it’s a story of how she comes into her own and finds herself. I don’t know, it’s just compelling.”

He gives you a large, dimpled smile -- that smile that stops the world, that makes you want to give him everything he ever wanted. “She sounds like you,” he says.

You blush. “Well, I haven’t found myself yet,” you say. “I’m still looking.”

“You might not be perfect yet,” he admonishes, “but you know yourself well. Now get back to studying or else we’ll be here all night.”

You can’t help but smile softly to yourself as you turn back to your books.

***

Later that night, you’re alone in your room with a candle burning, the window open to the cool night air. Your father’s large house is quiet, and you thumb through your personal copy of Jane Eyre, remembering how when you and San had left the library, he insisted on checking it out. “It’s your favorite,” he’d said, confused, when you asked him why. 

You smile in spite of yourself once again, thinking about how all the things you want feel just out of your reach. You have family — but they aren’t close. You have money — but no ability to use it due to your father’s curmudgeonly nature. And here is the perfect man — silly, intelligent, handsome, and the kindest person you’ve ever known, and yet he works for you. That is a line you know it would be unfair to him to try to cross, especially with a father like you have. 

Lost in thought, you slip on your favorite blue nightgown. Perhaps tonight, with the chill air on your skin, you’ll wander the halls of the house with your candle just like the secret Mrs. Rochester herself. You even consider going down the hall to where San sleeps to see if he’s made it to that part yet, but stop yourself when you realize just how inappropriate that would look. Instead, you sink into your bed and stare at the ceiling, urging sleep to come and whisk you away into a dream world that is hopefully happier than the one in which you live. 

You have scarcely closed your eyes when the rumble of thunder wakes you. The open window is swinging dangerously on its hinges as a storm rages outside. You shriek as rain begins pelting the carpet, and hop up to shut the window. With the sound of the storm now muffled, you try to flick on the bedside lamp, but either the bulb is burnt out or you’ve lost power. You go to the main light and flip the switch — nothing. You sigh. It’s about to be very cold.

Just then there’s a knock at the door, making you jump. You crack it open to see San, in his pajamas, holding a candle. “Everything okay in there?” he asks you. “I heard a scream.”

“Yeah, I just forgot to close the window before I fell asleep, and then the storm started,” you say sheepishly. “Sorry to wake you.”

He shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says. His eyes travel down your body, taking in the sight of you in your nightgown. Goosebumps erupt on your arms, and he notices right away. “Are you cold?”

You shiver. “Uh, yeah,” you say. 

He smiles. “Your dad’s sitting room has a fireplace. Let’s go.”

“Won’t he be mad?” you say, even as you step out of your bedroom with a blanket. 

“He’ll never even know,” San assures you. Minutes later, you are sitting on a couch with a blazing fire in front of you, blankets tucked around you as San leans his back against the couch, looking proudly at the fire he made. 

You adjust the strap of your nightgown, looking at him shyly. “Thanks,” you say.

He smiles in reply. “So, Jane’s quite the heroine,” he says, shouting you a glance.

You smile. “How far did you get?”

“I’m at the part where the fortune teller talks to the party guests.”

Your eyes get wide. “What? That’s pretty far.”

“It’s pretty good,” he says earnestly. “I’ve always wanted a little girl like Adele.”

“Pretty?” you ask him.

He grins. “Spoiled,” he says. “Although I’d be sweeter to her than Mr. Rochester is.”

“I’ll bet you would. What do you think about Mr. Rochester so far?”

He shrugs. “Probably similarly to how most people in his life feel. He’s a mysterious man. I don’t think I trust him.”

“Can I give you a tiny spoiler,” you beg, and he laughs. 

“I think I am contractually forbidden to say no to you,” he says, “and also, yes, as long as it isn’t major.”

You lean forward, nearly whispering to him. “The next bit is some of the spookiest stuff in the book.”

You move your legs to give him room on the couch as he stands up to sit next to you. “Am I gonna get scared?” he asks. 

“You’re a bodyguard. Aren’t you supposed to be brave?” you tease.

He scoffs. “Being brave isn’t about not being scared. It’s about facing the fear.”

You nod, impressed. “Ah, how well-said. You know, for a bodyguard, you’re quite eloquent.”

“And for a pretentious academic, you’re quite down-to-earth,” he teases. “However, I will say that you don’t strike me as someone who’s scared of much.”

You think for a moment. “I suppose I’m not,” you say slowly, “although it isn’t quite that simple. I do have anxiety.”

“What’s the difference?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious. 

“I’m not scared of spiders or the dark or storms or even dying, necessarily. But any one of those things could make me overthink myself into full-on panic. I got bitten by a spider and it made me so anxious that I was convinced I would die every night.”

He nods, thinking, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. “What does it feel like for you?” he asks softly.

“Like a weight on my chest,” you respond immediately. “Sometimes it’s so bad I can hardly breathe.”

You have to turn away as he looks at you. His expression is so compassionate you are afraid that his empathy will pick up on the very real feelings you have for him. He asks a new question. “And joy — what does that feel like?”

You look at him, eyebrows raised. He raises both his hands in an innocent gesture. “You have such colorful descriptions,” he says. “I just want to get a little deeper into your headspace. It’ll probably help me do my job better.”

You shoot him a skeptical glance before giving in. “Joy feels like…the first step out the door when the air starts to turn cold and crisp for fall. It’s like something new but also so familiar.” You think about the feeling you get every time he smiles. “It’s…expansive. And warm.” You turn to him. “What about you?”

His eyes widen in surprise to have been asked. “Oh. Um…” he thinks for a second, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Joy feels like music to me, like the best part of your favorite song.”

“Beautiful,” you say, smiling back at him. “And fear? What does that feel like?”

“Being trapped. No freedom,” he says. He hesitates before he asks the next question. “And…love?”

You blush. “Love isn’t an emotion,” you protest, looking away from him. “Love is a verb. It’s an action.”

“You’re right,” he allows, “but it comes with a very specific feeling. How does that feel? For you?”

You look up at him, finally, unable to look away. “That’s one I’m not sure about.” You force yourself to ask what you don’t want to know — because he’s a little older than you, and has lived a whole life apart from you, a life that must have involved the whole spectrum of human emotion and loss and love, but to hear of him falling in love is too much — “Maybe if you describe it, I’ll recognize it.”

He opens his mouth, then pauses, searching your face before smiling bemusedly. “It’s…it’s this heat, everywhere,” he says. “Almost like you’re being lit up like a candle from the inside, almost like if someone were to really look at you, they’d be able to see light coming from every part of you, even…even underneath your fingernails.”

Your heart nearly stops as you realize he’s describing almost perfectly how it feels for you to be around him. You swallow nervously before replying. “It sounds…intense.”

He chuckles. “It is.” And then he does something so unexpected that you gasp. He leans in and catches your cheek in his hand. “When I’m around you,” he says, and his voice is shaking, “it sometimes feels like I might explode — it’s like you are firelight, filling up all the parts of me that used to be empty, and then some. I’m surprised you can’t see my veins from the outside, because I swear to God, I can feel you lighting them up. You’re everywhere.”

He gently brings your face forward so your lips are practically touching. “Everywhere,” he whispers once more, before closing the gap and kissing you. 

He pulls you into his lap as he does, cradling you in his arms, and you have to hold on to his shirt for dear life as you kiss him back. When he finally pulls back slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, he asks you quietly, “this, what does this feel like for you?”

You consider, touching his face with your fingertips as his eyes bore into your own. He looks positively desperate to know. After awhile you answer. “All the voices that are usually shouting at me in my head are suddenly very quiet.”

“And that’s…good?” he asks intently.

“It’s…more than good,” you admit with a blush.

“Do you want me to keep going?” he says, and his voice is breathless, his chest heaving.

“More than anything.”

He smiles, kissing you again. 

The Hope in the Fault Lines, Part 2

I was expecting this part to take much longer to write.............but here it is!! part 2 of 5 in the series. Go read Part 1 if you haven't already!! Warnings: implied sexual behavior, sick child, one scene takes place in a hospital, implied PTSD (it's never said but she has it), death of sibling, this part is a bit of a rooooooooooough time but bear with me Word count: 5.6 k for part 2

par t 1 | part 3 | part 4

Before

You bit your lip as you looked at Jeri in the mirror. “You look beautiful,” you had told her, your voice hesitant.

“You sound so convincing,” she said sarcastically, adjusting her veil and smoothing her hands over the sleek bodice of her minimalist-chic wedding dress. “What’s your deal?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” you had asked her. “Get married? I mean, that means you’re stuck with him.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Not everyone is a workaholic and commitmentphobe,” she reminded you. “I’m in love with Jisung, sweetheart. We’ve been together for two years.”

“Is that long enough?” you had wondered out loud. “I mean, what if there’s something bad you don’t know about him? What if he committed a crime or something?”

Jeri gave you her best “you’re being ridiculous” look. “You remember who we’re talking about, right?” she asked you. “Jisung gets stressed out if he accidentally forgets to signal when he changes lanes. There’s no way he could commit a whole crime.”

You had to admit that was fair. She took your hands in hers. “I know what this is really about,” she said. “And I’m not making the mistake that mom made. I know what I’m doing.”

You had smiled at the confidence in her tone. In that moment, she seemed so mature and self-assured that you forgot she was your younger sister. Somewhere in this beautiful house, you knew Jisung was coming apart at the seams, and the thought of how the man must be panicking over every single detail of the day while your sister waited calmly to walk down the aisle was suddenly very funny to you. Downstairs, the music started, and you squeezed Jeri’s hands before tucking one of them into the crook of your elbow. 

“Ready?” you asked, feeling a whirlwind of emotions -- pride, worry, joy -- but giving your sister a smile.

“Ready,” she confirmed, and together you had headed down the stairs, where everyone in the wide chapel room had stood and turned their heads to gaze open-mouthed as you, Jeri’s only sibling, walked her down the aisle.

***

“Thanks for texting,” you say as you arrive home and Mingyu hands Sara into your outstretched arms. “The updates are really great. And thanks for grabbing the books! I’ll read to her tonight.”

The first two weeks of Mingyu’s employment have seen a drastic improvement in your mental state. For one thing, Mingyu keeps the house clean, so there isn’t the added weight of messiness and clutter. For another, you are able to work without the mental load of being away from Sara because you receive regular updates throughout the day. And finally, though it’s a bit embarrassing to admit, Mingyu is just a soothing presence. You only see him for a few minutes before work and after work every day, but it’s always so easy and pleasant to talk to him that you genuinely look forward to it. 

Your weekend time with Sara seems to be improving, too -- perhaps she can sense you’re breathing easier, which makes her less fussy, or maybe she’s just gotten used to you. Either way, she’s becoming more like she was before the accident, which does your heart a lot of good. And you love holding her, talking to her, and hearing her little babbles and shrieks. Obviously the circumstances of your parenthood are shit, but the actual parenthood part is turning out to be better than you thought.

“Just a heads-up -- I think she might be a little under the weather. She’s been fussy and low-energy today.” Mingyu looks between you and Sara, a little worry tinging his voice.

You look down at Sara’s flushed pink cheeks in worry. “Oh no,” you say. “Um, thanks for letting me know.”

“I got baby cough medicine,” he tells you. “So if she does come down with something, it’s in the cupboard where you keep your vitamins.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you breathe. “Thank you.” You stroke Sara’s head, which she’s buried in the crook of your neck in exhaustion. “Don’t wanna say bye to Mingyu?” you ask her softly.

He brushes a broad hand over her black curls. “Bye, Sara. See you tomorrow.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” you say suddenly. “I have to leave Thursday night for a short day trip for the magazine. It’s nothing major -- I’m only staying overnight because the city is a couple hours away and I don’t love driving at night. Would you be alright staying with her?”

He nods. “As long as you’re paying me, I’ll be here,” he jokes.

“You’re a star,” you say, and he chuckles. “I’ll pay you time and a half for overnight stuff.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’ll let you get her to bed, then.”

He gives you a smile that would make anyone weak in the knees, and you can’t help but smile back as he leaves. Turning your attention to Sara, you inspect her face. “Hmm,” you say, your brow creasing in worry at her dull eyes and ruddy cheeks. She does look ill, and this thought seems to hover uncomfortably in the back of your mind as you sit her in the bathtub. She fusses and cries during her bath, which is uncommon -- she loves splashing around, and usually bathtime is full of giggles and smiles. You bite the inside of your cheek and wash her off, toweling her dry a bit more thoroughly than usual to make sure she doesn’t go to bed with any part of her still wet.

You bring her to bed with you instead of putting her in her crib. You used to do this because you were so exhausted during nighttime feedings, and falling asleep in the rocking chair meant an aching neck in the morning. You still remember how terrified you were that you would roll over Sara and suffocate her. But gradually you learned that you woke with any small noise of Sara’s, and your fear had subsided. Now, she slept in your bedroom more nights than she slept in her crib -- and tonight, it felt extra necessary to keep a close eye on her.

Sure enough, around four in the morning you wake to sniffles punctuated by soft coughs. Sleepily, you lift Sara into your arms. She nuzzles into you, and you relax a bit -- clearly she is well enough to at least be aware of you. Allowing yourself to doze off, you wake up just before 5:30 and decide to actually get ready before Mingyu arrived.

You lay Sara back on the bed with a small kiss on her cheek, noting that it isn’t much warmer than it usually is (which means no fever), and take an open-door, open-curtain shower -- one where you could still see Sara’s little figure swaddled in the bed. You don’t get your hair wet, and you curl it once you get out. Finally, you actually put on makeup for the first time since your sister died. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you realize that you barely recognize this creature staring back at you. Her hollow cheeks and dark under-eyes have been concealed by an artful hand, but the colors in her gaze betray her. Perhaps it was just because you knew everything you’d gone through, but it is obvious to you that the eyes tell all -- the crushing nothingness of grief, the bitter rage, the dimness of despair. You remind yourself to avoid looking at the mirror too closely from now on.

Sara is still fast asleep when you finish around 6:45. You decide it’s best if she stays asleep for the sake of her health, so you carefully move her to her crib just as Mingyu’s knock sounds at the door. You tip-toe down the stairs to get it. “Hi,” you whisper to him as you open the door.

He seems taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly. “Hey,” he says at a normal volume as he strides over the threshold and removes his shoes. “You look really nice, boss.”

“Oh!” you say, still whispering, remembering the makeup and the woman you couldn’t say was you in the mirror. “Um, thanks. Uh, Sara’s still asleep.”

He nods, looking a bit sheepish at how loud he’d been, and that little pinch of worry reappeared between his eyebrows. “Did she sleep okay?” he whispers back.

“She slept through the night, actually,” you tell him. “I’m thinking we should just let her sleep as long as she wants -- her body needs rest.”

Mingyu nodded. “That sounds like a good idea. How did you sleep?” he asks you, eyeing you carefully.

“Not too bad,” you say, feeling a little anxious under the weight of his gaze. “I woke up a little earlier than normal, but I got enough.” You give him a small smile. “How did you sleep, now that we’re at it?”

He grins. “I slept great. Thanks for asking.”

“Good to hear,” you say. 

You just stand there in the kitchen, smiling awkwardly at each other, before Mingyu says, “so...have you eaten yet?”

“Oh! Um, no,” you say, wondering why you’re always surprised whenever he chooses to speak to you even though you’re literally the only one in the room.

“Let me make you something,” he says. “We’ve got a lot of time until you need to leave, and I’ve never seen you eat breakfast.”

“I’m surprised you noticed that,” you say quietly. 

He winks at you. “I notice everything,” he says. “So, do you like eggs?”

He goes to the fridge and starts removing things. “Yes, I do,” you say, sincerely hoping he was just teasing and he doesn’t notice how you’re blushing. 

You only realize you’re staring him down when he looks at you with one eyebrow raised. “You in there?”

“Oh,” you say, yet again. You’re flustered today -- for some reason, it feels like your thoughts are taking a longer time than is average to come out of your mouth in any way that makes sense. You fixate on his broad hands chopping some garlic, and suddenly you’re speaking. “Yeah, sorry. It’s just...it’s a little stupid, but Jeri -- my sister, you know -- she was the one who always made me breakfast when we lived together in college. Even...even years later, she’d still text me occasionally to make sure I’d eaten.”

Where had that come from? Sure, it was all true -- the hard lump in your throat that made it difficult to say was evidence of that -- but why had you suddenly confessed such a thing to your nanny? You sigh. “Sorry, I don’t -- don’t really know why I just...told you that. Out of nowhere.” You look down at your hands, embarrassed.

He nods slowly, and his smile is tinged with sadness. “It’s okay,” he tells you. “I don’t mind.” He begins cracking eggs into the pan, stirring them with a pair of chopsticks to scramble them up. “What was your sister like?”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “What?” he says. “I’m curious. You don’t have to tell me, but I do genuinely want to know.”

Your mouth twists into a half-smile. “Well, she and I were like two sides of the same coin,” you say, going to sit at the island in the middle of the wide kitchen so he can hear you over the sizzling vegetables and eggs in the pan. “Inseparable since childhood, you know. She’s two years younger than I am, but it always felt like we were twins, somehow. She was...” 

You trail off, thinking. Mingyu is glancing between you and the eggs on the stove, but you can tell he’s listening. Maybe it’s the quiet of the morning, and maybe it’s just him, but the dam breaks, and words spill out. “She was just as stubborn as me, but she didn’t have the ambition I have, or maybe the better word is ‘hubris’. I wanted to build something that would outlast me, but she just wanted to live somewhere quiet with her husband and a houseful of kids. But neither of us ever...ever tried to talk each other out of what we wanted. We both knew, I guess. She knew I couldn’t stand being mediocre, and I knew she hated the spotlight. And God, I loved that about her. She never resented me for my success or my money, because there was no competition.”

Mingyu takes the eggs off the stove and plates them in one smooth move, setting them in front of you as you finish speaking. He smiles at you as he hands you a fork. “She sounds great,” he says. 

“She is,” you say. “Was,” you correct. Your eyes suddenly burn, and to distract yourself, you pick up a glob of eggs with the fork and blow on it, eating it. Your eyes go wide. “These are good!” you exclaim.

Mingyu gives a sarcastic little bow. “Thanks,” he says. He’s interrupted by a cry from the baby monitor -- Sara seems to have woken up.

You move to stand up to grab her, but Mingyu stops you. “You eat,” he instructs. “I’ll go get her.”

You watch him go up the stairs with the trace of a smile as you continue eating the eggs. He comes downstairs with Sara a few minutes later, and her little head is resting against his big shoulder. He’s bouncing her gently, and you are struck for a moment at how tiny she looks in his thick arms.

In minutes you’ve finished your eggs, knowing you don’t have long until you need to leave. But you do wash your plate and the pan that Mingyu used to make the eggs, despite his protests. “I may not have given the impression that I know how to do the dishes the first few weeks you worked here, but I promise I do,” you tease. 

He shakes his head, amused. “I know you do, you just don’t seem like someone who should wash dishes.”

“Why?” you ask indignantly.

He shrugs. “Kind of like how a queen shouldn’t make her own bed in the morning. You’ve got me for that.”

You actually laugh at that. “Are you calling me a queen?”

He nods his head emphatically. “Of course you are,” he says with a grin. 

Your smile is big enough that it’s hurting your face. “Well, thank you,” you say. “But you’re not my maid. In fact,” you continue, and grab your now-clean fork, “I think you deserve a promotion.”

In a dramatic march, you make your way over to Mingyu, who watches you with amused eyes as you stop in front of him, reaching up to tap both his shoulders with the fork before tapping the crown of his head. “You’ve been knighted,” you say seriously. And he giggles at you -- a surprisingly high, breathy sound that instantly fills you with warmth.

“I’m gonna ask all my friends to call me Sir Mingyu,” he tells you. 

Solemnly, you nod. “I’m glad to know this went straight to your head.”

He laughs again, and you start to walk away. “Well, Princess Sara and Sir Mingyu, have a lovely day. The queen needs to go to work.”

He’s still grinning at your antics by the time you make it out the door.

On the drive to work, you catch yourself smiling to yourself. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been silly like that -- it had probably been since college, and even then that side of you didn’t come out often. You had grown up far too fast, a necessity in a household like you grew up in, and the only person who really could bring it out of you had been Jeri, whom you had been that way for to try to save her from growing up too fast, too.

When Mingyu had entered your house today, he’d been your employee, but when you’d left the house, you felt that you had kind of become friends. The thought, as odd as it was, was also comforting. Because raising a child with a nanny felt clinical and business-y of you, but raising a kid with a friend was probably the closest this could get to how it should be. You make a mental note to make a raise schedule for Mingyu so that he never ever ever leaves your employment.

***

Before

You look between Jisung and Jeri with a raised eyebrow. Letting out a puff of air, you lean forward. “The things I have seen today,” you say while pinching the bridge of your nose, “are things I never thought I’d see when I asked you to house-sit for me. And things I’m expecting and hoping to never see again. Are we clear?”

Jisung’s face is bright red, and Jeri looks traumatized. They both nod.

“Although I am pretty impressed at your creativity,” you continue, feeling the need to lighten the mood in the room. “The kitchen island, Jisung? I mean, that was acrobatic of you both.”

The two of them look at each other and burst into giggles. “Okay, we’re sorry,” Jeri says, her face just as red as Jisung’s, but she can finally look you in the eye. “But can you blame us? I mean, we’re newlyweds.”

“Newlyweds who got carried away,” you agree. “Jisung, it’s okay. I’m not going to commit any murders today. You can look at me.”

“I am so embarrassed,” your sister’s husband groans. “It was my fault, I just --”

Jeri cuts in. “No, it was me, I just --”

You roll your eyes. “I really don’t care who started it. I just care that every single inch of this kitchen is sprayed with medical-grade chemicals and that you promise to never ever ever let me catch you like that again. Especially in my own house.”

“Deal,” says Jeri. Her eyes are twinkling with humor, and you have to concentrate to keep yourself from grinning at her. Because she knows what you’re about to say as Jisung hurries out of the room for the bleach.

“Damn, girl. Good for you.”

***

“Boss?” Cory’s voice sounds as though it’s coming to you from down a long hallway, and you snap back to earth with a little shake of your head.

“Sorry, Cory,” you say, shifting in your seat and reaching for your glass of water. “What were you saying?”

Cory picks at the potatoes on his plate and looks around the fancy restaurant at anything but you before fixing you with a blue-eyed gaze that is surprisingly intense. “I figured this would be the best time to confess.”

What? You’re sure you misheard him. “Confess?” you repeat.

“Yeah,” he says, and in spite of himself, he’s grinning. “Listen, we’ve worked together for seven years. We met freshman year of college, and you really believed in me more than anyone ever has in my life. I -- I’ve kept this in for a long time, actually. Years.”

“Are you telling me you have feelings for me?” you ask him bluntly.

“Well, yeah,” he says, and he blushes. “Are you telling me you had no idea?”

“I seriously didn’t,” you say, your head spinning. You take a deep breath and pray you’ll find the right words. “Listen...I appreciate you so much, Cory. I couldn’t ask for a better editor, and you’re absolutely right -- I have so much faith in you and your skills. This business, my business, wouldn’t be anywhere without you.”

He gives you a sad half-smile. “But?” he says.

“But,” you say, nodding. “But my sister just died, like, three and a half months ago. And I’m still trying to figure out what my life looks like from here. A lot is changing for me...and even if it weren’t, I still don’t think I’d be sure how I felt about being in a relationship with anyone.”

Cory seems to chew on these words as you speak. “Well, I can’t say that comes as a surprise to me,” he says after awhile. “But it was getting to be too much for me to hold in.”

“I understand,” you say, avoiding his gaze.

“Listen,” he says, and he reaches across the table to put a hand over yours. “I want you to take your time and think about it. Think about me, in that way. Figure out if it makes sense in your head like it makes sense in mine. I won’t give up on you, so take your time.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he says -- but you aren’t apologizing for anything you said. You’re apologizing for the way you want to run out of the restaurant, far away from the yearning look in his eyes.

***

Before

“But what if --”

“Save it,” Jeri says, brushing mascara over your eyelashes. 

“Seriously though. What if I --”

“You’re not going to mess it up,” she tells you. She closes the tube of mascara and then pulls the graduation cap from your bag. “Just do the speech like you practiced. You ran it through with me like a thousand times.” She pins the cap on in record speed.

“But what if I do mess it up?” you finally say.

She puts both her hands on your shoulders and gives you a look that shuts you up right away. “If there’s one thing I know about my sister, it’s that she is always prepared.”

You swallow hard at this. “Oh, God,” you breathe. “I’m not sure...”

“Why are you so nervous? You were fine yesterday,” she asks you.

“Because what if it all fails? Not just the speech,” you clarify at her quizzical glance. “All my plans, the magazine, the business...what if it all just fails?”

She gives you a gentle look. “Then we’ll start over. We always do.”

This is what gives you the strength to walk onto that stage: the knowledge that even if the worst possible thing happens, you and Jeri will always have each other.

***

There is, in your opinion, nothing worse than being exhausted and anxious. It creates the perfect storm: desperately wanting to close your eyes and escape the thoughts swirling around in your brain, but also being entirely unable to relax, which is the state you find yourself in after the dinner with Cory. So you toss and turn in your hotel room, a three hour drive from home, and wonder how Sara is doing.  

Your last text from Mingyu had come in at around 7pm, and he was putting her to bed then. According to his updates, her cough had gotten worse. Cory’s confession truly couldn’t have come at a worse time, when you were already so preoccupied with Sara’s health. At 10:57pm you check your phone one final time before your exhaustion beats back your anxiety with a stick and you reluctantly sink into uneasy dreams.

It seems like minutes of sleep before you wake to your phone ringing. Your eyes fly open, but you suddenly realize your arms and legs aren’t working as you try to reach for it. Your breath speeds up, but you can’t open your mouth to scream. And spiders seem to be crawling out of the shadows on the walls.

Finally you can twitch your fingers, then move your arms, then sit up and grab your phone. Still shaking, still hyperventilating, still sick with worry, you check the caller ID and your stomach drops -- it’s Mingyu. 

You quickly answer. “Hi,” you say breathlessly.

His voice is slightly muffled. “I’m taking Sara to the hospital,” he says, his tone urgent. “I don’t think she’s breathing very well.”

The air has left your lungs. You hear yourself answer him -- something about thanking him and you’ll see them soon -- and then you drop the phone. For a split second you’re frozen in panic. Then, you leap into action. You grab your keys from the nightstand, leaving everything behind but your phone and its charger, and race down the hallway to the elevator in your pajamas.

What follows is the most tense three hour drive of your life, riddled with flashbacks to phone calls from police officers on the highway. “You’re sister’s been involved in an accident,” you hear over and over in your head. “Come to the hospital.” You’re gripping the wheel so tightly that your knuckles ache, and you alternate between struggling to breathe and silently weeping. There are whole minutes, maybe more, from the drive that you don’t remember. You don’t know if you’re speeding. You don’t know what time it is. The only thing you can think is Please God, don’t let another member of my family die in that goddamn hospital. 

You had hoped you’d never have to walk into this lobby again -- never have to smell the chemicals or see the doctors or talk to the front desk people and tell them who you’re there for. You never wanted to be in this same elevator, going up to this same floor, possibly to the same hallway you’d visited nearly four months earlier. And yet, here you are. It’s like your brain can’t believe it -- nothing feels real. If things got any weirder, you’d be tempted to reach your hand out to the nearest wall, half-expecting it to dissolve into smoke in your hands. 

You round a corner, arriving in another one of those identical hallways, your heart in your throat, and you see him. Mingyu is standing about halfway down the hallway, talking to a doctor, his shoulders set in anxious tension, and before you can stop yourself you’re calling for him. You don’t even register his shocked expression as he turns to see you, and you don’t even realize that you’re running to him before he opens his arms to you and your collide with him.

He wraps you up tight in his grasp. “Hey,” he grunts in your ear, probably from the speed at which your body crashed into his, but his voice is calm. “She’s okay, they’ve got her on an oxygen machine. They’re giving her great care. She’s gonna be fine.”

The doctor clears her throat. “Who is this, Mingyu?” she asks. 

Mingyu doesn’t let go. “She’s the child’s legal guardian,” he explains over your head. 

The doctor makes an understanding noise. “I’ll let you have a minute,” she says.

Mingyu turns his attention back to you. “Breathe for me,” he says. “Big deep breaths.”

You try to obey, and the only thing you can think about is how shaky the breath sounds as it enters your lungs. “Can I see her?” you say, and your voice comes out in a raspy whisper.

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s just in here.”

He ushers you into the hospital room, where Sara lies in a little crib, her nose hooked up to a cannula pumping oxygen into her lungs. You approach her sleeping form, only vaguely aware of Mingyu’s arm across your shoulders, and bend down to brush a trembling hand over her forehead.

“She’s really going to be fine,” Mingyu murmurs to you. You look up at him, and for some reason, the way he is looking at you is what tips you over the edge. The emotions spill over, and you find yourself burying your face in his chest as you sob.

He doesn’t say anything. He just wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer into him and letting you cry. You don’t even have it in you to be ashamed of how desperately you’re clinging to him, fingers bunching into the fabric at the back of his shirt, crying the first tears you’ve shed in front of another person besides Sara since the funeral. His grip on you tightens the harder you sob, and you dazedly consider the idea that Mingyu might be trying to squeeze the sadness out of you. It’s an oddly comforting thought, and soon enough you’ve released all your emotions, the evidence of them two unflattering tearstains on Mingyu’s tee.

You take a calming breath in, pulling back to look at his face. His eyes are red, and his face is set in stony lines. It is then that you realize he’s not okay. 

Several pieces of the puzzle that is the man in front of you seem to collide together in your brain at once: the way he talks about kids and the ease with which he interacts with Sara; the way the doctor seemed to know him on a first name basis; the way he’d held you almost as though he was also trying to hold himself together too. Mingyu is familiar with this particular part of this particular hospital. Mingyu has had personal experience with sick kids.

But you don’t say anything about it yet -- you know it would be too much to ask him to explain what is most probably a complicated and painful history. So you just give him a watery smile and say, “thank you for being here. And for taking such good care of her.” You pause and draw in a hitching breath before adding, “Sir Mingyu.”

He gives the tiniest smile. “I’m glad I was able to get her here in time to get her help.”

“Well, you’ve got a job until Sara moves out,” you promise him.

The smile gets bigger. “That’s a long time,” he says in a falsely skeptical tone. “You sure you won’t get sick of me?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh yeah, I forgot that you’re incredibly unpleasant to be around,” you say scathingly. “But seriously. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to take care of Sara. You need a raise or something.”

He shakes his head. “Just pay Chan a finder’s fee instead,” he jokes. “I’m sure he’d love that.”

“He probably would. And I probably owe him one,” you say, wiping the sticky tear residue from your eyes.

To your surprise, you once again find yourself wrapped up in a tight squeeze from Mingyu. “Thank you for getting here so fast,” he says quietly.

“Of course,” you say. You hesitate before winding your arms around him and squeezing him back -- perhaps hearing the unspoken truth that Mingyu needed you there as much as you needed him.

***

Before

“I’m never going hiking again,” Jeri complains, and Jisung laughs.

“You’re going to see the view, and you’re going to change your mind,” he predicts. 

You grin at their banter -- this is only the second time Jeri has invited her new boyfriend along on one of the hikes, but you can tell he really likes her. And according to that last comment, he also knows her pretty well.

Cory is nearly sprinting up the trail ahead of you. “Come on, guys!” he calls. “We’re almost there.”

You’re feeling a little irritated with him because he tried to guide you in the complete wrong direction, but you try to keep that off your face as you trudge up the mountain. Sure enough, around two more bends is the summit. You are looking into a deep valley with a crystalline lake at the bottom, and the sight pricks your eyes with emotion. You refuse to cry in front of Cory, though, so you instead turn your attention to Jisung and Jeri, the former of whom is carrying your sister the remaining fifteen feet to the summit.

But when your sister sees the valley and the lake, she hops off her boyfriend’s back and scurries nearly to the edge. You have to grab the back of her backpack to stop her from overextending herself and hurtling over the edge of the cliff. “Easy there,” you say to her, but she’s not listening, her eyes shining with the sight. 

“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?” Jeri asks. 

You look back at Jisung, and you can see it in his eyes -- he’s absolutely whipped for her. You’re almost surprised that he doesn’t kiss her in front of all of you. Exasperatedly, you chuckle, thinking privately that you should probably start adding to Jeri’s wedding fund. 

You stay up there for almost an hour before disaster strikes, but surprisingly, it’s you who twists an ankle tripping over some rocks. You wince as the group is making its painfully slow way down the mountain, your ankle throbbing with every step. “I need a breather,” you tell them. “Go on without me.”

But as Jisung and Cory start to move away, Jeri plants herself beside you. “Go on without you?” she repeats. “But we’ll be so entirely lost without you. Don’t worry. I’ll stay with you.”

***

The hospital keeps Sara in for one more night before she’s improved enough to be off the breathing machine. You can’t help but tear up as they place her into your arms, and she reaches up to your face to pat your chin clumsily. “Hey, baby girl,” you coo. “You did so good.”

Alone, you soak in the feeling of her comforting weight on your chest for a few more minutes before gently laying her in her carrier. She fusses a little, and you speak in soothing tones: “Shhh, it’s okay, my love. We’re going home. You won’t have to be in there for too long.”

And then finally, finally, finally, you get home. Walking in the front door with Sara to the empty house feels both soothing and incomplete, and you realize as you hoist her carrier to her bedroom so you can sit in her rocking chair that your mind is on that tall, dark-haired man who laughs at your ridiculousness and held you when you fell to pieces. You had bullied Mingyu into going home to rest, knowing that if he had stayed with you like he planned, he’d be in caretaker mode. You don’t regret your choice to send him home, but you also realize that you feel that he should be here, with the both of you. The fact that he isn’t leaves a small empty space in your heart.

Still, it’s heaven enough to hold Sara and rock her and clean her stuffy nose off every few minutes. Settling back into the chair and letting Sara’s weight onto your chest, you think that there’s almost nothing that could make this moment more perfect. 

And then, you cough.

Wedding Bells

Summary: Choi Seungcheol, your bff's older brother, is at your house when you get home from a very long day.

TW: Academic abuse of power, s3xual harassment

1.8k

Leave it to you for him to be here right now. Seungcheol, your best friend’s older brother, who had won your heart when you were twelve years old when he, two years older than you, had punched a school bully who was picking on you, just had to be there on the worst possible day for him to be sitting at the kitchen table.

You had had a tough childhood. The best thing about it had been meeting Bug in the second grade, when Seungcheol had been in fourth grade and you both still believed the opposite gender had cooties. You had grown up side-by-side, spending time at Bug’s house more than your own, and for the first several years you knew him, Seungcheol was just a thorn in your side: the one who teased incessantly and ruined perfectly good fun. 

But then, you had gone to junior high. Within weeks, you’d become the target of the local bully. He had singled you out because you were quiet and studious and tried not to draw attention to yourself, and he had made your life miserable for two weeks straight. He never touched you, though, so it was difficult to catch him at it. Until one fateful day when he had tripped you, sending you stumbling into a thorny bush and knocking your mouth against a curb. You still remembered the taste of blood as you pushed yourself up, crying.

And then it happened, so fast you barely registered. There was a thick smacking noise, and the bully tumbled backwards, landing on his butt in the dirt. You looked up to see Seungcheol standing there, his eyes flashing with rage. “Pick on someone your own size,” he’d growled. 

His eyes grew tender as he turned to look at you. “Are you okay?” he’d asked, helping you up and dusting you off. He winced when he saw your bottom lip, which was still bloody. “That looks bad.”

Your eyes had spilled over. Seungcheol had waved away the group of people who were staring at you before holding you against his shoulder and calling your mom to come get you. You had cried quietly into his school uniform until she’d come, but that day had changed the way you saw Seungcheol forever. 

You had spent your teenage years being quietly smitten with him -- popular, funny, talented, and smart, there had been plenty of girls who had liked him, and even a few he’d dated. You tried not to let it get to you, but you’d spent plenty a lonely night wishing it was you he was asking out. It was, to date, the only secret you had ever kept from Bug.

When time had come to select a college, you knew where you had wanted to go -- wherever he was. The college was close enough to home that it wasn’t suspicious why you’d like to go there, and Bug got in too — an easy excuse. You knew you’d wanted to study journalism since grade school, and the program was just what you needed. Within your first two semesters, you worked hard enough to make honor roll and dean’s list, although the highlight was still seeing Seungcheol’s eyes light up with pride whenever you mentioned a new achievement. Even if he still thought of you only as a little sister, his support meant everything to you.

“So it’s been that kind of day,” Seungcheol says languidly, turning his attention back to his phone. 

“You be quiet,” you say indignantly. “I’m not in the mood.”

He looks a bit surprised and displeased at your tone. “Bug isn’t here,” he says, standing up, “so if you’re going to be rude, you can do it by yourself.”

“This is my apartment,” you remind him, eyes on your papers, “so if you don’t like it, you can always go back to your own house.” You mentally curse your voice for how it shakes toward the end of the sentence. 

He notices the change in your tone, watching you now, eyes sharp and discerning and almost black in their intensity. “Hey,” he says, his voice gentler. “What happened? Why are you especially prickly today?”

You look at him to check if he’s sincere. His phone is nowhere to be seen, and his dark eyes are steady on your face. So you breathe in deeply, and then let it all out. “It’s that guy in my graphic design class again.”

Seungcheol wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Not that guy,” he groans. “What’d he do this time?” 

You robotically pull a microwavable burrito out of the fridge and unwrap it. “He just…said something really gross,” you say, still avoiding his gaze.

“Gross?” he presses, walking to stand across the table from you with his hands in the pocket of his gray sweats.

“It’s really not worth repeating,” you say, putting the burrito in the microwave looking through your tote bag for your laptop charger, although you feel Seungcheol’s gaze on you like a laser beam.

“No,” he says, moving closer, so that he’s standing right beside you, and places a hand on the countertop to prevent you from brushing past him. “You never go into detail, and I’m starting to get worried that that’s because it’s worse than you’re letting on.” 

When you still don’t look at him, he leans down toward you so that his eyes are nearly level with your own. “Hey,” he says, soft but firm. “Look at me.”

You finally do. He’s looking at you with a gentle half-smile, one dimple visible. He nods encouragingly.

You rub at your forehead in distress. “He told me that the teacher probably gives me extra credit for the way my legs look in these jeans.”

Cheol’s expression shifts, his gaze going icy. He raises an eyebrow, and his jaw flexes for a split second. “Is it always that bad?” he finally asks in a slightly strained voice, tense as a rubber band pulled tight over a watermelon.

“Well,” you say, hesitantly, “That’s actually pretty mild, but the real issue is…”

“Is what?” Cheol asks sharply. “Please tell me how this situation can become any less awful for you.”

You close your eyes as though trying to block out the memory. “He’s faculty,” you finally admit. “Tenured faculty.”

Your hands are shaking with anger. You brush your hair out of your face to try to hide it, but Cheol catches one of them and holds it. “Hey,” he says again as tears sting your eyes. “Look at me, love.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze. A single tear slips out, and he brushes it away with the hand you’re not holding. “I am so sorry,” he says, “And I’m going to do what I can to make it right, okay? No girls should have to deal with that.”

You nod. He’s looking at you with a burning look, worry mingled with iron-hot rage. “And I hope,” he says, his voice low, “That you’re not forgetting that you are the reason you’re here. Nobody else gave you your drive or your intelligence. You worked so hard and pushed yourself to succeed, and you have.” He hesitates, seeming to catch himself in his passionate words. Then, in a tender tone you rarely hear from him, he says, “I’ve never met anyone who does it like you.”

You look up at him, and his eyes are burning with something like anger — fierce and fiery, but not quite as hard. Your vocabulary has never failed you, and it doesn’t take long before you can name what you see on his face. Desire.

He’s still really close to your face. But now you’re looking at him with a question like his eyes know the answer. And they do — for a split second, they flick to your lips. He leans in slowly, and you involuntarily find yourself reaching for him as he closes the distance between you. 

He brushes your lips with his so softly at first — more of an experiment than a kiss, really. He pulls back to look at you again, and his face is red and his eyes are wide. Somehow, your hand has found its way to his cheek, and you brush the redness that has appeared there with your thumb, feeling your heart pounding. He seems to process for a moment — and then his face lights up with a realization. He leans in again, more sure of himself this time, and kisses you more deeply.

You wrap your arms around his neck as he does. Somewhere between kisses you feel him lift you off the chair into his arms, and he carries you to the couch where you kiss some more. Finally you slowly ease slightly apart, your foreheads still together, both of you breathing heavily. 

“Whoa,” you say, smiling at him sheepishly.

He laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Have you been wanting to do that awhile?”

You roll your eyes, blushing furiously. “Since seventh grade,” you admit, and he chuckles, pulling you into his chest so you’re snuggled in tight. 

“You mean that time I slugged that dude?” he laughs. “I’ve wanted to too,” he says, “except for me it was like two years ago.” He tucks your hair behind your ear. “But it felt like forever,” he complains.

“So…just so we’re clear,” you say, sitting up to look into his eyes, “that wasn’t a one-time thing, right?”

He scoffs. “Absolutely not. I would never think of kissing you like that if I wasn’t at least planning on dating you, but I’m pretty sure I’m planning to marry you.”

“Come on, be serious,” you protest, slightly panicked. 

He smiles. “I am so serious right now,” he says, cupping your face with his hands. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head for two years straight. You’d think that amount of time to fantasize about kissing you would make the actual first kiss a total letdown, but it was somehow better than I thought it would be.”

You gape at him. The door opens and shuts, and you hear Bug’s voice. “Hey, where are you guys,” she calls, then walks into the kitchen to see you snuggled up with her brother. 

She pauses for a minute to look at you. “So is this finally happening now?” She asks, a knowing half-smile spreading on her face. 

“Bug, your brother just told me he wants to marry me,” you say incredulously. 

“That’s great! Now he can stop telling me about how he wants to marry you. You probably like hearing it a lot more than I do.” She heads to the fridge and starts putting groceries away. “Just don’t make out in front of me,” she warns.

You look at Cheol. He is beaming at you, looking utterly in love. “I can’t wait to file a lawsuit to get your teacher fired,” he says, rubbing the back of your arm with his hand. “Happy day one of being my girlfriend.”