Sound Of Vengeance | C. Sc
Sound Of Vengeance | C. Sc
Genre: action, angst, arranged marriage au!
Summary: after happily living an arranged marriage, he found out that his charismatic, flawless, and admirable wife has a secret hiding from him.
Warning: mention of violence, car accident, blood, knife stabbing, gunshot, stuff.
Seungcheol watched you from his position, his ears tuned to the men’s conversation, but his eyes were fixated on you, following your every move. He noted how your gaze lingered on the speaker’s lips, how your expression shifted subtly with every word. That smile—poised, eloquent, and effortlessly charming—spread across your face, leaving no one in the room unaffected. A sharp pang of jealousy coursed through him. His grip tightened around the glass in his hand, the cool surface grounding him against the rising heat in his chest. It was supposed to be his. His lips. His gaze. The attention you dared to lavish so intensely on anyone but him.
"How do you think, Seungcheol?"
His father's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Seungcheol turned slightly, meeting the older man’s expectant eyes. The glass of wine in his father’s hand swirled lazily, a stark contrast to the tension in Seungcheol's.
"Don't pressure him, Mr. Choi," another man interjected with a chuckle. "The younger generation these days—they’re different. They won’t rush into having children immediately."
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened as he registered the conversation. Children. Family. An image of you flashed through his mind, your soft laughter echoing in a distant memory. His shoulders squared as he finally replied, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge.
"We’re working on it," he said smoothly, casting a brief glance your way. "My wife and I want to have a child as soon as possible, but with business being so hectic, it’s been a challenge."
The men nodded in understanding, their attention shifting back to him. Seungcheol seized the opportunity to steer the conversation away.
"Speaking of challenges," he continued, his tone shifting effortlessly, "how’s the harbor, Mr. Kim? Has your son resolved the issues with the government yet?"
Mr. Kim let out a disgruntled sigh. "It’s been nothing but delays," he grumbled, shaking his head.
Seungcheol leaned in slightly, his presence commanding yet unassuming. "Delays can be costly," he remarked. "If you need additional support, let me know. I’ve had some success navigating similar situations."
As the conversation deepened into business matters, Seungcheol's gaze flickered back to you. You were laughing now, your head tilting slightly as you responded to someone. His chest tightened again, the earlier jealousy morphing into something deeper—something unspoken, buried under the weight of his responsibilities.
But for now, he played his role, the perfect husband in a room full of expectations.
Seungcheol excused himself from the group, his movements purposeful as he made a beeline toward where you were standing. You turned toward him, sensing his presence before he even spoke, and the corner of his lips twitched in satisfaction. Without hesitation, his hand found its place on your waist, a silent claim that did not go unnoticed.
“Choi Seungcheol, Ji Y/n’s husband,” he introduced himself to the man in front of you, his voice firm and polished.
The man extended a polite smile. “I’m Hong Jisoo. I attended your wedding a few months ago. Nice to meet you.”
Seungcheol nodded curtly, his sharp gaze scanning the man before replying, “From Hong Property, I presume?”
Jisoo chuckled softly, shaking his head. “That’s my father and brother. I work in a hospital,” he clarified, pulling out a business card and offering it.
Seungcheol accepted the card, his eyes briefly scanning the text. Dr. Hong Jisoo, Psychiatry Department. His lips curved slightly, though his grip on your waist tightened almost imperceptibly. When he glanced up, his gaze landed on you, noticing how your eyes flickered to his lips, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Just like every day. Just like how it was supposed to be.
“I wasn’t aware my wife was acquainted with a psychiatrist,” he remarked, his tone casual yet laced with an underlying edge.
“Old friend,” you replied smoothly, your tone light as you cast a brief glance at Jisoo.
That glance didn’t sit well with Seungcheol.
His thumb gently brushed against your side, a subtle reminder of his presence, as he straightened slightly. “I’m sorry, but we have to leave,” he said, his voice firm yet polite. His attention shifted to you, softening just enough to mask the possessiveness simmering beneath the surface. “Love, should we go home?”
You nodded, offering Jisoo a polite smile. “It was nice catching up, Jisoo. Take care.”
“Likewise. Have a good evening,” Jisoo replied, his tone warm yet reserved.
Seungcheol didn’t wait for further pleasantries. With his hand firmly on your waist, he guided you toward the exit, his strides confident and unwavering. The air between you carried a tension he couldn’t quite articulate, but the quiet sense of satisfaction in reclaiming your focus was enough for now.
Seungcheol used to be just a man obsessed with his work, a relentless workaholic. His life revolved around business—expanding, negotiating, multiplying his family’s wealth tenfold. Relationships? They were an afterthought, a distraction. Blind dates came and went, each one predictable and forgettable.
That was, until his parents introduced him to you.
He approached the blind date with little expectation, assuming it would end like all the others: polite small talk, forced smiles, and no sparks. But with you, everything was different.
The moment your eyes fixated on him, he felt it—a current of electricity that surged through his entire being. The way your gaze roamed over him, studying him with quiet intensity, left him unnerved in the best way. You started with his eyes, then trailed downward, your focus lingering on his lips just a second too long. That moment branded itself into his memory, leaving him restless and preoccupied for a week.
He couldn't get you out of his mind. And that was how he agreed to an arranged marriage, a decision that surprised even himself.
Now, months later, he lay beside you in the dim morning light, the quiet intimacy of your shared space filling the air. As he felt you stir awake in his arms, he opened his eyes, his thoughts drifting to the night before. He had been a little rough, a little too consumed by the jealousy that burned in his chest when he caught you looking at someone else’s lips.
“Did I go too rough with you last night?” he murmured, his voice husky and low, thick with concern as he tightened his embrace around you.
You squirmed slightly, shifting to face him, your sleepy eyes meeting his. He searched your expression, his brow furrowing as silence stretched between you.
“Was I too rough? Are you okay, love?” he asked again, his worry evident now.
You shook your head slowly, your lips curving into a soft smile. Reaching up, your hand cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin as you pulled him closer. Without a word, your lips met his in a tender, reassuring kiss, melting away the tension in his chest.
When you pulled back, your voice was gentle, teasing. “Was something wrong last night? You seemed… different.”
Seungcheol hesitated, the tips of his ears flushing red as he avoided your gaze for a moment. How could he admit that the fire in him last night was born of jealousy? That the mere thought of your attention lingering on someone else’s lips had driven him to near madness?
Instead, he exhaled softly and shook his head, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he lied, his hand sliding up your back to rest between your shoulder blades. “I just can’t help myself around you.”
You laughed lightly, the sound warm and soothing. “Good,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss him again, your lips brushing against his like a promise. Because, as much as Seungcheol tried to play it cool, you already knew—you had him completely undone.
"We’re going to be late if we don’t start getting ready now," you told Seungcheol, glancing at the clock with mild urgency.
He chuckled, his deep voice laced with mischief as he leaned closer. “Five more minutes,” he murmured, his hand brushing yours before pulling you along with him toward the bathroom. A teasing grin spread across his face. “Together, of course.”
Later, as the two of you settled at the dining table, Seungcheol joined you with a fresh, clean look and a calm demeanor that betrayed none of his usual morning rush. “I’ll drive you,” he said casually, sipping his coffee.
You blinked, looking up from your plate in surprise. “What?”
“I’ll drive you,” he repeated, meeting your gaze. “And I’ll pick you up today.”
His firm tone left little room for debate, but the soft warmth in his expression made your heart flutter. You quickly nodded, taking the last bite of your sandwich with a smile tugging at your lips.
At the office, Seungcheol was all business. The moment he stepped through the door, his trusted right-hand man, Lee Jihoon, was already waiting with updates and a detailed briefing.
“Today’s schedule is packed,” Jihoon began, keeping pace with Seungcheol as he strode toward his desk. “The shipping updates are as follows: the cargo from Incheon has cleared customs, and the team is preparing the distribution reports. The Hong Kong shipment—”
“What’s the status on that?” Seungcheol interrupted, his sharp eyes flicking toward Jihoon.
“It’ll arrive tonight,” Jihoon replied promptly. “Do you want to oversee it yourself?”
Seungcheol shook his head as he sat down, loosening his tie slightly. “No need. I trust you to handle it. Just make sure everything is documented thoroughly.”
Jihoon nodded, jotting down a quick note. “Understood, sir.”
As Jihoon left to attend to the shipment, Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, glancing briefly at his watch. His thoughts wandered to you, wondering how your day was going and reminding himself to clear his evening to pick you up as promised. Balancing business and you wasn’t always easy, but for him, it was a priority he wouldn’t compromise.
*
There were a few strict rules in your office, and everyone at Ji Art Gallery knew to follow them without question.
Rule one: never speak to you with your back turned. Communication had to happen face-to-face, ensuring nothing was misunderstood.
Rule two: click the light switch whenever someone entered your office. You always had a mountain of tasks, and multitasking was not your forte. The light switch was an unspoken signal to gain your attention without disrupting your workflow.
Rule three: lunch hours were sacred. During this time, you watched the news alone. No one was allowed to enter, except for your family. It was an unbendable rule, one you wished could explain itself.
To everyone else, you were a perfectionist boss, firm but fair. What they didn’t know was that behind the rules lay a quieter truth—you are deaf, relying on observation and lip-reading to navigate the world.
It wasn’t perfectionism that demanded your routines. It was survival.
As you worked, engrossed in reviewing a painting’s exhibition proposal, the door to your office suddenly opened, and your mother stepped in unannounced. She clicked the blinds shut with a sharp movement before tossing a branded paper bag onto your desk.
"Here," she said brusquely. "Wear this for your next intercourse with Seungcheol."
You glanced at the bag, your expression calm despite the storm brewing inside. The name of an expensive lingerie brand was emblazoned across it in bold letters.
"I’ll send some herbal remedies to your house later,” she continued, her tone cold and matter-of-fact. “Make sure you get yourself pregnant within the next two months."
She flopped onto the couch in your office, crossing her legs elegantly as if she hadn’t just barged in to dictate your life. Her sharp eyes focused on you, scrutinizing every detail of your reaction—or lack thereof.
"Why don’t you say something? You’re deaf, not mute," she snapped, her words slicing through the air.
You sighed softly, your eyes fixed on her lips as you watched each word fall out of her mouth with precision and purpose.
"Yes, Mother," you replied, your voice measured, betraying none of the turmoil inside.
A smile curved on her lips—a smile that never reached her eyes. "Be a good girl for me and your stepfather, Y/n. You have a lot to repay. No one wants to raise a deaf child," she said cruelly, standing up with the air of someone who believed they were owed the world.
Her words were poison, but you stood stoically, refusing to let her see the cracks she left behind.
"But," she added, adjusting the hem of her designer jacket, "once you have the Choi family heir growing inside you, we’ll all be fine. So, make sure you do your job."
Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heels, the sound of her expensive shoes clicking against the floor echoing in your office. The door slammed shut behind her, leaving a suffocating silence in her wake.
You sat still, staring at the paper bag she had so carelessly thrown onto your desk. The weight of her expectations pressed against your chest, but you forced yourself to exhale, straightening your shoulders.
Every day, you practiced watching the news, focusing intently on the movement of lips to perfect your ability to read them. It was a quiet, relentless routine, your way of ensuring no one would ever discover your deafness. You wanted people to communicate with you comfortably, unaware of your secret.
It was a weakness you’d been forced to accept 15 years ago. The result of a tragic car accident that not only robbed you of your hearing but also took the life of your stepsister.
You still remembered waking up in the hospital, disoriented and frightened. The first thing you saw was your mother, her face twisted with rage as she screamed at you. Her mouth moved furiously, but you couldn’t hear a single word. You could only guess at her accusations, but you were certain of one thing—she wished it had been you who died instead of your stepsister.
That was the turning point.
From that moment on, you became the scapegoat of the Ji family, the one burdened with their collective frustrations and failures. Surviving that accident, instead of being a blessing, turned into a curse. They treated your survival as an inconvenience, a debt you were expected to repay with unwavering obedience.
“You survived, his daughter didn’t,” your mother’s lips had said once, her voice forever silent to you but still haunting in its clarity. “So make yourself useful.”
From then on, you learned to carry their expectations silently, shouldering the weight of their contempt while striving for perfection. You worked tirelessly, honing your skills, building your reputation, and hiding your deafness as if it were a crime.
Being the "goat" of the Ji family meant you were their sacrifice, their scapegoat, but it also fueled your determination. If survival was your punishment, you would ensure it wasn’t in vain. You would rise above their cruelty, even if it meant enduring the pain of their indifference and the burden of their demands.
You weren’t just surviving anymore—you were fighting. And every day you practiced, every lip you read, every rule you enforced in your life was proof of that.
Every moment of intimacy with Seungcheol was blissful, a haven where the world outside ceased to exist. Even though you couldn’t hear the sounds he made—the soft gasps, the whispered words you imagined he might say—you felt every touch, every movement, as if they spoke directly to your soul. But you always wondered if he felt the same way. Did he share the same satisfaction, the same warmth, the same euphoria at the peak of it all?
You wished you could hear him. Just him.
Seungcheol always looked at you with such tenderness, his gaze soft and unwavering. It made your heart ache with guilt. The guilt of knowing that you and your family had trapped him in this marriage. The guilt of hiding your secret from him—your deafness, the one part of you you couldn’t bring yourself to reveal. And the guilt of knowing your family was draining his wealth under the guise of a business arrangement.
Every time he smiled at you, every time he touched you like you were his world, the weight of your lies grew heavier.
How could you allow yourself to be happy in a marriage built on deception?
The warmth you felt with Seungcheol was tainted by the cold reality of your circumstances. He deserved honesty, love without strings, a partner who could give him everything. And yet here you were, bound to him by a contract you had never wanted but couldn’t escape.
Every night you lay beside him, listening to the silence that enveloped you, longing for a world where your love could be as pure as the way he looked at you.
*
Seungcheol was always amazed by how poised and graceful you carried yourself in public. As a Ji, it was expected, but being married to you had brought a constant stream of surprises he never anticipated.
One of those surprises came during a business meeting involving Wen Junhui, the son of a long-time Chinese producer Seungcheol had worked with for years. Since the business had been handed down to Junhui, negotiations hadn’t been as smooth as before. Seungcheol hoped that meeting in person during Junhui’s visit, accompanied by his wife, would be the perfect opportunity to revive their partnership.
But what Seungcheol didn’t expect was what happened next.
Junhui’s wife, Daisy, had been deaf since birth. It was something Seungcheol had learned in passing but hadn’t given much thought to—until now. As he turned to look for you, he saw you standing with Daisy, engaging her effortlessly in sign language.
His breath hitched. You moved your hands with such confidence and fluidity, your expression lighting up as Daisy responded with equal enthusiasm. Neither Junhui nor Seungcheol could hide their surprise.
“Your wife is incredible. I didn’t expect this,” Junhui said, clinking his glass lightly against Seungcheol’s. “Daisy rarely gets to meet someone who can sign fluently. Thank you for bringing her; she’s finally relaxed for the first time in a long while.”
Seungcheol offered a polite smile, but inwardly, he was stunned. “Thank you,” he said simply, his eyes drifting back to you.
Junhui glanced at his wife before turning back to Seungcheol. “I heard you wanted to negotiate the pricing of our products.”
Seungcheol’s attention snapped back to the conversation. He nodded eagerly. “Yes. We haven’t found a supplier with the same quality as yours. I’d like to propose that we continue the terms we had before. Would you have time tomorrow? I’ll bring the paperwork.”
Junhui thought for a moment before nodding. “Sure. But how about bringing your wife as well? Daisy seems comfortable around her, and it would be nice for her to have someone to talk to while we discuss business.”
“Of course,” Seungcheol agreed, still taken aback by what he’d just witnessed. “I’ll speak to her about it.”
As Junhui moved to speak with someone else, Seungcheol found his gaze lingering on you. He had never known you knew sign language, let alone that you were so fluent. Seeing you connect with Daisy in a way so few others could made him feel something deeper—a mixture of awe, pride, and a touch of guilt for underestimating just how remarkable you truly were.
As Seungcheol mingled with a group of businessmen, his mind was suddenly pulled elsewhere when he realized he couldn’t spot you anywhere. A twinge of unease crept in, but he brushed it off—until his phone vibrated in his pocket. Glancing at the screen, he was surprised to see your caller ID.
You never called.
In fact, you hated calling, even in emergencies. It was a well-known rule that anyone needing to contact you had to text or call your secretary, Seo Myungho. For you to call directly was entirely out of character.
Seungcheol excused himself from the lively conversation, weaving through the crowd toward a quieter area. Pressing the answer button, he brought the phone to his ear.
“What’s wrong, love? Where are you?” His voice softened, filled with concern.
The voice that responded wasn’t yours. It was sharp and unfamiliar, carrying a sinister undertone that sent a chill down his spine.
“‘Love?’ Very funny, Choi Seungcheol. Didn’t your father ever teach you not to care too much? Makes you weak, vulnerable.”
Seungcheol froze, his jaw tightening. The words hit like a taunt, a deliberate jab meant to rattle him.
“Who is this?” he asked, his voice dropping to a cold, controlled tone.
“Relax. I’m just a fan of your wife. She looks stunning in black tonight. I’d love to—”
“Where is she? Why do you have her phone?” Seungcheol snapped, his composure slipping as his eyes darted across the ballroom.
A low laugh came through the receiver. “You know, secrets can be dangerous, Seungcheol. Especially the ones your lovely wife is keeping from you.”
“Stop playing games! Tell me where she is!” His voice was edged with desperation now.
The call ended abruptly, leaving Seungcheol gripping the phone tightly, his knuckles turning white. His heart pounded as he scanned the room again, his mind racing.
“Ji Y/n!” he called out, his voice booming across the corridor.
There was no sign of you. The air felt heavier with each passing second, the tension clawing at his chest. He dialed your number again, but the call went straight to voicemail.
Just as he rounded a corner, his hurried steps brought him face-to-face with someone. Relief flooded through him when he realized it was you.
“Cheol?” you asked, startled by his sudden embrace. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his breath uneven as though he’d been holding it in.
“Thank God,” he whispered, burying his face into your shoulder for a moment.
“What’s going on?” you asked, confused by his reaction.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes scanning you as if to ensure you were unharmed. “Where were you? Where’s your phone?”
You blinked, frowning at his intensity. “I don’t know. I can’t find it,” you admitted, rummaging through your clutch only to find it empty.
Seungcheol’s expression darkened. Without another word, he pulled out his phone and called Jihoon. “Get the car ready. We’re leaving now.”
The ride home was tense and silent, the weight of his unspoken thoughts filling the space between you. You glanced at him repeatedly, but his stern expression gave nothing away. His grip on your hand was firm, almost as if he feared letting go.
Once home, Seungcheol ensured you were safely tucked into bed. “Get some rest. I’ll handle this,” he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead.
After he left, you stared at the closed door, unease creeping into your chest. Something was wrong, but you knew better than to press him when he was in this mood.
Meanwhile, Seungcheol retreated to his office, his hands trembling slightly as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. The liquid swirled in the glass, much like the chaos in his mind.
He dialed Jihoon again. “Trace her phone immediately. Whoever has it was at the event. Secure the guest list and cross-check everyone.”
Jihoon hesitated. “That’s going to take time, sir. We’ll need to involve third parties.”
“I don’t care how long it takes. I want answers,” Seungcheol growled, his voice low but seething with authority.
After ending the call, he sank into his chair, his mind running over every possible angle. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest as he stared at the glowing city skyline through his office window.
“Who are you?” he muttered under his breath. The question gnawed at him, the weight of it pressing heavily on his chest.
And more importantly, why would anyone dare to use the person he loved most to threaten him?
*
Seungcheol jolted awake, his breath hitching when his hand reached out to find the other side of the bed cold and empty. A sense of dread gripped him as the events of last night resurfaced in his mind. The mysterious phone call and its ominous implications lingered like a heavy shadow, refusing to let him rest. He’d only managed to get some sleep because you had come into his office and practically dragged him to bed. But even now, his thoughts raced—who was the caller? What secret could they possibly be referring to?
His heart pounded as he sat up, scanning the room for any sign of you. Then, a faint sound from the bathroom caught his attention. He was out of bed in an instant, his strides purposeful as he approached the door.
“Y/n?” he called, his voice laced with concern as he pushed the door open.
There you were, crouched in front of the toilet bowl, your body wracked with discomfort as you emptied the contents of your stomach. The sight made his chest tighten.
“You okay, baby?” Seungcheol took a step closer, but you weakly waved a hand, signaling for him to stay back.
“Don’t… I’m fine,” you muttered between breaths, your voice strained.
Ignoring your protests, Seungcheol was by your side in seconds. He knelt beside you, his large hand gently soothing the back of your neck while his other gathered your hair to keep it out of the way.
“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured softly, his concern palpable.
When you were finally done, he helped you to your feet, steadying you as you rinsed your mouth at the sink. His hand remained firm on your waist, his protective instincts in full swing.
“Talk to me,” he said gently, guiding you back to the bed. “What’s wrong? Do you want me to call the doctor?” His brows knitted in worry as he tucked you in, his hand brushing stray hairs from your damp forehead.
You shook your head weakly. “I think it’s just food poisoning from last night’s dinner,” you murmured, offering him a faint smile in an attempt to ease his concern.
Seungcheol let out a small chuckle, though the tension in his eyes didn’t fully dissipate. “Food poisoning or not, I’m calling Dr. Kim just to be safe. No arguments.”
You sighed but didn’t resist, too exhausted to protest further.
“And no work for you today,” he added firmly, sitting on the edge of the bed as he reached for his phone. “I’ll let them know you’re not feeling well. Just focus on resting, alright?”
You nodded, your eyes fluttering shut as his soothing presence eased some of the discomfort. As he dialed the doctor, his gaze lingered on you, the lines of worry deepening on his face.
Jihoon’s phone buzzed just as Seungcheol finished his meeting with a client. He glanced at the screen before answering the call from Dr. Kim, a slight frown crossing his face as he listened. Seungcheol, sitting across from him in the car, noticed the shift in Jihoon’s expression.
"Yes... she is? I see." Jihoon’s voice was calm, but Seungcheol's instincts told him something was off.
After a beat, Jihoon ended the call and turned to Seungcheol, his face betraying nothing but the weight of the news he was about to deliver.
"Your wife is pregnant, sir."
Seungcheol’s heart seemed to stop, his entire body going still as the words hit him like a cold wave. But it wasn’t just the pregnancy that unsettled him. The next words were the ones that sent a flicker of anger through his veins.
"But your wife is in the office now," Jihoon continued, his voice measured. "She has an important meeting with the curator that she couldn’t leave."
Seungcheol’s pulse quickened, the fury within him rising. The news of your pregnancy only added to the questions swirling in his mind, but the fact that you were in the office—at this very moment—was what pushed him over the edge.
"Drive me to her gallery," Seungcheol ordered, his voice dangerously cold.
Jihoon nodded, without a word, and signaled to the driver to make a sharp turn. Seungcheol’s thoughts raced as the car sped toward the gallery. His heart pounded with a mix of emotions—anger, confusion, and a deep, gnawing worry.
Seungcheol arrived at your office just in time to see your psychiatrist friend, Dr. Hong, leaving. His heart skipped a beat as he watched the man walk out, the realization settling uneasily in his chest. He turned to Myungho, your assistant, who had stepped forward to greet him.
"I heard she had a meeting with the curator. Is the curator... apparently also a psychiatrist?" Seungcheol asked, his words barely more than a murmur as his thoughts raced.
Myungho looked momentarily taken aback, his eyes widening before he answered, "Are you referring to Mr. Hong, sir?"
Seungcheol shook his head, frustration mounting as the weight of the situation pressed down on him. The events from last night, the shocking news of your pregnancy, and the fact that you had still gone to work this morning despite his request—everything was colliding in his mind, leaving him on edge.
"Is she free? Can I see her?" Seungcheol asked, his voice quiet but firm.
Myungho nodded without hesitation, immediately leading him to your office. He announced Seungcheol’s arrival before stepping out, leaving the two of you alone.
You looked up from your desk as Seungcheol entered, your gaze softening at the sight of him. "Seungcheol, you're here," you said gently as you stood up.
He approached you slowly, his fingers reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His voice was softer than usual, a tenderness beneath the usual calm. "I told you not to work," he murmured, his gaze searching yours.
You met his eyes, guilt flickering across your face. You bit your lip slightly, feeling a pang of regret. "I'm sorry. But I had a meeting with a foreign curator earlier. I'm glad it went well," you said, offering him a small, reassuring smile.
Seungcheol’s expression softened as he leaned in and kissed your temple, his lips lingering for a moment longer than usual. "I heard about it," he said quietly, his smile widening. "We're going to be parents." The excitement in his voice was undeniable as he took your hands in his. He looked at you with a warmth that melted some of the tension in the air.
You smiled weakly, leaning into his embrace as your head rested against his chest. His comforting presence grounded you, even as the weight of the moment settled over you both.
"You’re going to be an amazing mother, love," Seungcheol whispered, his hands gently cradling you as you closed your eyes, basking in the sincerity of his words. The world outside the two of you seemed to disappear as the reality of your future together began to take root.
*
You stepped into your childhood home, the weight of the news you had to share pressing heavily on your chest. Your mother’s wide grin greeted you before you even crossed the threshold, her hands moving wildly as she signed with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Oh, look who’s finally here," she signed, her expression one of mock excitement. "What’s the good news, Y/n?"
You hesitated for a moment before signing, "I’m pregnant."
Her hands froze mid-air, her face flickering with surprise, but it didn’t take long for that emotion to morph into something much darker. She straightened up, her sharp gaze locking onto you. "Pregnant?" she signed, her movements quick and sharp. "Of course, you are. The Choi heir..."
You fought to steady your breath, trying to brace yourself for the storm you knew was coming. But your mother’s expression softened into something far too calculating. "This will fix everything, Y/n. You’ve done your part, finally. You’ve done something right," she signed, her eyes now gleaming with something almost predatory, like she was already envisioning what this could do for her.
The sting of her words was familiar, yet still sharp. You looked away briefly, trying to gather your thoughts before signing back, "This isn’t what I wanted."
Her laughter was sharp and cruel. "Oh, please," she signed, her tone dismissive, as if your words had no weight at all. "What else could you possibly want, Y/n? You’ve got the Choi family wrapped around your finger. You’re carrying the heir. " Her hands moved with exaggerated flourishes, her gestures mocking the sincerity of your feelings. "You should be thanking us."
You could feel the bile rising in your throat, but you bit your lip, refusing to let her see how much her words stung. "I didn’t ask for this," you signed again, more forcefully this time.
She shook her head, her expression almost pitiful. "Of course, you didn’t," she signed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Who would, right? A girl like you—deaf, unremarkable, never good enough for anything more than a marriage of convenience. But look at you now. You’ve done it. You’ve secured your place."
You bit your tongue, trying not to let the tears sting at your eyes. She had always been this way, using your deafness to remind you of how little she thought of you.
Her next words were even sharper, and you could feel the coldness in every words as she signed, "You’ll never be anything more than a stepping stone for your husband's wealth and power. Look at you, finally fulfilling your role as a good little Choi wife."
You flinched at the bitterness in her words, but you held your ground, trying to keep the hurt from showing on your face. It was clear now that she wasn’t speaking to you as a daughter but as a means to an end. You were nothing more than a transaction in her eyes.
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, signing with as much defiance as you could muster, "I’ll make my own future, with or without your help."
She rolled her eyes, signing back with a mocking smirk, "You think you’ll be anything without us, Y/n? The Choi family is your ticket. Don’t you see? You’ve got your future set, and this baby—this baby—is the final piece. You’ll be taken care of for the rest of your life, all thanks to us."
The words hit you like a slap to the face, but you didn’t react. You didn’t need to give her the satisfaction of seeing you break.
With a final glance at her, you signed, "I’ll make my own choices. You can’t control me anymore."
Your mother’s lips curled into a sardonic smile, her eyes never leaving yours. "Oh, sweetie," she signed, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. "You never did have any real choices, did you?"
The finality in her words hit you hard, but you turned your back on her before she could say more. It didn’t matter anymore. You had made your decision long ago. The Choi family may have given you a life of comfort, but at what cost?
You left her house feeling emptier than when you arrived, the weight of your family’s expectations a bitter reminder of the path you had been forced onto.
"You've been silent. You don’t like the food? I can ask the cook to make you something else," Seungcheol’s voice was soft but laced with concern as he noticed you staring blankly at your plate, barely touching the food. You shook your head, offering a weak smile in his direction, though it didn’t reach your eyes.
"It’s just... I don’t feel like eating," you mumbled, your voice barely a whisper as the weight of everything you were feeling pressed down on you.
Seungcheol sighed, his expression tinged with worry as he leaned forward, his eyes never leaving you. "Do you have anything in mind that you want to eat? You have to eat, love," he urged gently, his tone firm yet filled with care.
You shook your head once more, the knot in your throat tightening as you stood up from the dining table, your legs feeling heavier than usual. "I’m going to bed. My head hurts," you said, avoiding his gaze as you walked away, the words feeling suffocating in your chest.
Seungcheol didn’t push further, though his worry was palpable. He nodded quietly, watching you retreat to your shared bedroom. The soft click of the door closing behind you left an unsettling silence in the air, one that lingered in the room long after you were gone.
As soon as the door was shut, the weight of everything that had been building up inside you crashed over you. You let the tears fall, each one a painful reminder of the life you had been forced into, of the expectations you could never seem to escape. The facade you’d held up for so long finally crumbled, and you were left in the quiet emptiness of your own despair.
Till when do I have to endure this kind of life?
The question echoed in your mind, unanswered, as the tears continued to flow.
*
Seungcheol received a package that morning, its plain exterior offering no hint of the chaos it would bring. At first, there was nothing suspicious about it. But as he opened it, his stomach churned. Inside was a pair of women’s underwear, carefully folded, accompanied by a note that sent a cold shiver down his spine:
"Do you like it when she stares at your lips? I like it too."
Seungcheol crumpled the paper immediately, his fists tightening around it. His heart raced, not from surprise, but from the overwhelming disgust he felt. He knew exactly what the note was referring to—and he hated it. Hated that everyone found your gaze just as captivating as he did. It made him furious, this feeling of possessiveness creeping over him.
"Who sent this?" Seungcheol demanded, holding up the package to Jihoon.
Jihoon glanced at the contents, his brow furrowing with concern. Without hesitation, he dialed the security team. Moments later, he turned back to Seungcheol, his face tight with frustration.
“They said it was just a courier,” Jihoon informed him.
Seungcheol scoffed in disbelief, tossing the crumpled paper onto the desk. "A courier? That’s all they have? I want more than that."
"Can we track the sender?" Seungcheol pressed, his voice sharp with impatience.
Jihoon took the package from his hands, his eyes scanning it briefly. "I’ll get on it. I’ll let you know what I find," he assured him.
Seungcheol wasn’t satisfied, but he knew there was little else to do but wait. He ran a hand through his hair, the frustration building in his chest. There were still so many questions left unanswered.
“What about the person who took my wife’s phone? Have you found them?” Seungcheol asked, his voice hard.
Jihoon handed him a file, his tone quieter now. "The phone was found near the hotel the next day. Whoever took it must have gotten rid of it immediately. It’ll take some time to track the voice, though."
Seungcheol flipped through the file, his gaze hardening as he processed the information.
“Are you familiar with the voice?” Jihoon asked, sensing Seungcheol’s growing unease.
Seungcheol shook his head, frustration bubbling inside him. "No. I don’t think they’re from anyone around me. And as for the Jeon family… Haven’t heard from them since Wonwoo got married."
He said it with a bitterness that was hard to miss. The Jeon family, once a rival of the Choi family, had always been a thorn in his side when it came to business dealings. And now, with a situation like this unfolding, it didn’t feel like a coincidence. Seungcheol couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than simple revenge or some random act.
"Whoever’s behind this is going to regret messing with my family," Seungcheol muttered under his breath.
The same threats arrived with relentless frequency—through emails, packages, and anonymous phone calls. But Seungcheol had long since stopped letting them consume him. None of it mattered as long as he knew you were safe with him. He’d doubled the security around your gallery and fortified the guards at his house. With his child growing inside you, his protective instincts had only intensified. You and the life you carried were his priority—his entire world.
For a while, that mantra kept him grounded. But by the fifth month of your pregnancy, as your belly began to show, the threats took a darker turn. They became more pointed, more unsettling. One email read, “Close her eyes and see what she heard.” Another note taunted, “She’ll never listen.” Each message seemed to inch closer to the secret they claimed to know.
He kept the weight of it all to himself. He couldn’t bear the thought of burdening you. You already endured enough—carrying his child, enduring the discomfort of pregnancy from morning until night. The last thing you needed was to shoulder his fears. No, this was his fight, and he was determined to keep it that way.
“As long as she’s safe.” That was the mantra he repeated to himself every day. It was his anchor, the thought that kept him moving forward despite the shadow looming over him.
“Do you think it could be someone from your past, sir?” Jihoon asked one evening, breaking the silence in Seungcheol’s office. He looked frustrated, just as perplexed as Seungcheol about the source of the threats. Ten years of working together still hadn’t prepared Jihoon for something like this.
Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know. I’ve pissed off plenty of people, sure, but nothing to warrant this kind of obsession.”
Jihoon frowned, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. “It doesn’t make sense for this to be random. Someone claims to know her secret. Someone knows you.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. That was the part he couldn’t wrap his head around. He’d always been someone who preferred moving forward rather than dwelling on the past. That was how he lived—how he thrived. But now, the threats weren’t just confusing; they were demanding something he didn’t know how to give.
“I’m not sure what they want. But they’re not getting her. They’ll have to go through me first,” Seungcheol said, his voice low and resolute.
Jihoon nodded, his expression grim. “We’ll figure this out, sir. But the longer it takes, the more dangerous it gets. These messages aren’t empty threats.”
“I know,” Seungcheol said quietly, his gaze hardening. He looked out the window, his hand instinctively resting on his phone in case you called. As long as she’s safe, he reminded himself. That was all that mattered. For now.
*
On your first anniversary, Seungcheol wanted to celebrate with an intimate dinner at home. He hired a renowned chef to curate a fine dining experience and had the house meticulously decorated with flowers and candles. It was meant to be a perfect evening, a celebration of your bond and the life you were building together. You were unaware of his plans, but a single photograph shattered the illusion.
The picture showed your home transformed into a romantic haven, the dining table adorned with delicate arrangements and warm, glowing lights. But as you stared at the photo, your surroundings brought a stark contrast. You were seated in a dim, suffocating room, the air damp and reeking of decay.
Jisoo stood before you, his face illuminated by the faint glow of his phone as he grinned. He closed the device with a soft click, his demeanor unsettlingly calm. You struggled to process the situation, piecing together fragments of memory.
Jisoo had offered to drive you home, assuring everyone—Myungho, the guards, and even yourself—that you were safe in his care. Yet here you were, trapped in a place you’d never seen, with a man you thought you trusted.
"Even like this, you still look pretty," Jisoo murmured, his voice gentle but laced with something sinister. He crouched down to meet your gaze, his hand brushing against your cheek in a mockery of tenderness.
It took a moment for the realization to sink in: Jisoo had kidnapped you. The man who had been your psychiatrist, your lifeline when you lost your hearing, had betrayed you. He wasn’t the kind and attentive figure you had thought; he had been paid by your parents to ensure you stayed functional, nothing more.
"It took me months to get to this point, Y/n, so you better cooperate," Jisoo said, his grin widening. "Or else I’ll reveal everything to Choi Seungcheol."
Your stomach churned as his words sank in.
"A pretty girl like you doesn’t deserve him, to be honest," he added, almost as if he were musing aloud. "But hear me out. You’ll leave him in a month. Come with me, or no one will be able to protect you."
"What are you talking about, Jisoo?" you asked, your voice trembling as your hands instinctively moved to shield your growing belly.
Jisoo chuckled, leaning back as though amused by your confusion. "Don’t act so innocent. I know you didn’t marry him for love. It was all for your family’s benefit."
You froze, his words striking a chord of truth that left you paralyzed.
"The investment the Choi family made into your family’s business—it saved them from ruin. But it wasn’t enough, was it? Your parents wanted more," Jisoo continued, his gaze dropping to your stomach with a flicker of disdain.
"No one wants this baby to disappear except for you and me, Y/n," he said, his tone softening into a chilling whisper. "I can give you the life you deserve, away from all of this."
His words sliced through you, leaving a gaping wound of betrayal. You had trusted Jisoo, confided in him during your most vulnerable moments. He had been there when no one else was, not even your mother. You had believed in his kindness, even supported him when he confided about the pain of losing someone he loved. But now, that same man was holding you hostage.
"You don’t understand, Y/n," Jisoo continued, his expression darkening. "All your secrets—your deafness, your marriage—they’ll all come out eventually. Seungcheol will find out everything. And when he does, he'll destroy you. But you don’t have to wait for that to happen. Leave him and run away with me."
"And if I don’t?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.
Jisoo’s grin faded, replaced by a cold, menacing stare. "Then you and the baby... will get hurt."
Your heart pounded as you sat frozen in the suffocating room, his words reverberating in your mind. The man you had trusted was a stranger, his obsession and bitterness now a threat to everything you held dear. Betrayal tightened its grip around you, suffocating and inescapable. This was not a situation you had ever imagined for yourself, and yet here you were, trapped in a nightmare.
"Happy anniversary, love." Seungcheol’s voice was warm as he leaned down to kiss your temple. You barely managed to stand in front of him, your legs shaky and your heart heavier than ever as Jisoo’s words echoed in your mind.
"Seungcheol will find out everything. And when he does, he’ll destroy you."
Your eyes wandered across the room, taking in the meticulously arranged decorations, the fragrant flowers, and the elegant dinner set for two. The sight should have filled you with joy, but instead, it suffocated you. This wasn’t a celebration. It was a cruel reminder of everything you had been hiding. Every affectionate gesture, every whispered “I love you,” all laced with deceit.
Your chest tightened as you looked at Seungcheol. He stood before you with a loving smile, holding a bouquet in his hands, radiating pure happiness. Yet all you could see was the weight of your betrayal pressing down on you.
"It was all for your family’s benefit." Jisoo’s voice rang in your head, relentless and unyielding. You tried to silence it, but it only grew louder, drowning out the world around you.
Every night, as you lay beside Seungcheol, watching his peaceful figure in the dim light, you were reminded of the lies. The way his chest rose and fell with steady breaths, his features soft in sleep, it made you ache. He was so innocent, so trusting, so undeserving of the darkness you had brought into his life.
"I love you," Seungcheol said, his voice steady and sincere. The three words you feared most hung in the air, piercing through your facade. They weren’t just words to him—they were a promise, a testament to how deeply he cared for you. And you had used that love as a weapon, a means to an end.
Your family’s plan had succeeded flawlessly. They had wanted him to fall for you, to depend on you, to bind him to your family with a child. And now, here you were, carrying his baby, living a life built on manipulation.
"You’ll leave him in a month. Leave him and run away with me." Jisoo’s words were a persistent shadow, haunting every step you took.
You wished you could hear Seungcheol’s voice in this moment, soothing and full of love, reassuring you that everything would be alright. But you couldn’t. The silence in your world was unrelenting, leaving you trapped with only your thoughts and regrets.
And you wished you could hear yourself. Maybe then you would know how broken your voice sounded as tears streamed down your face, how your words betrayed your trembling resolve.
"I’m happy," you whispered, a lie wrapped in fragile sincerity. You weren’t happy—not with this life, not with the choices forced upon you. But you had made your decision. You had chosen to stay, chosen to protect the baby growing inside you, chosen to shield Seungcheol from the pain of the truth.
Because despite the lies, despite the betrayal, you couldn’t bear to hurt him. Seungcheol was the first person to love you without condition, without ulterior motives. And you couldn’t bring yourself to destroy the one person who had shown you what real love could be.
*
Seungcheol came home with his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing. Earlier that evening, Seo Myungho, your assistant, had paid him an unexpected visit at his office. It was past working hours, but the usually quiet and composed man had come with urgency etched across his face.
"I'm sorry for taking your time, but there's something you need to know," Myungho said, pulling out a photograph.
Seungcheol leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. Myungho placed the picture on the desk.
"I've worked for your wife for years, and my observations have never been wrong," Myungho began cautiously.
In the photograph, you were stepping out of a building with Jisoo, and the timestamp matched the day of your anniversary.
"I was supposed to drive her home that afternoon," Myungho continued, "but Mr. Hong insisted on taking her instead. I followed them. It took them two hours to get home, and this picture was taken while I was tailing his car."
Seungcheol's brows furrowed deeply. "Are you trying to say she's cheating on me?" he asked, his voice tight with disbelief.
Myungho hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "It's not something I can confirm, sir. But I will say this—she hasn’t been the same since that day. If they were involved in an affair, she wouldn’t have told me to stop letting Mr. Hong visit her gallery."
Seungcheol’s jaw clenched as he leaned back in his chair. "What exactly are you insinuating, Seo Myungho?"
After a pause, Myungho finally said what had been weighing on his conscience. "Your wife… I think she’s in danger."
The words hit Seungcheol like a thunderclap.
When he stepped into the house, his voice echoed through the empty halls. "Y/n!" he called. There was no answer. He hurriedly searched every room, his calls growing louder and more frantic.
"Y/n!"
Finally, he made his way to his home office. That’s when he noticed your phone lying on his desk, ringing in response to his calls. The top drawer of the desk, where he kept the bank books, was slightly ajar. His stomach twisted when he realized the bank book with your name was missing.
Unlocking your phone, Seungcheol’s blood ran cold. On the screen was a series of messages, the tone eerily similar to the threats he had been receiving over the past months.
"Leave the house now, or I’ll tell everything about your secret."
Seungcheol’s grip tightened around the phone as he immediately dialed Jihoon. His voice was steady but filled with urgency as he barked orders. "Mobilize everyone. Start searching for her now."
He scanned the phone again, another message flashing on the screen.
"I’ll wait for you at the park near the bank."
Seungcheol sent Jihoon the location before sprinting to his car. He had no doubt now—whoever had been threatening him was after you too.
"My boss… your wife…" Myungho’s earlier words echoed in his mind, the revelation twisting like a knife in his gut.
"She’s deaf," Myungho had said quietly. "She lost her hearing in a car accident. I overheard a conversation between her and her mother once."
Seungcheol pressed harder on the gas pedal, weaving through traffic as Myungho’s voice played on repeat in his head.
"Do you know how much your wife has suffered in this marriage? I thought she found solace in Mr. Hong at first. But then she told me to stop allowing him to visit, and that’s when I realized—he wasn’t helping her anymore."
Seungcheol gripped the wheel tighter, fury and dread clawing at his chest.
"Mr. Hong likes your wife, sir. And I believe he’s the one behind these threats."
The puzzle pieces clicked into place. Jisoo had been manipulating everything, orchestrating the threats, and now he had escalated to targeting you. Seungcheol’s heart raced as he sped toward the park, the weight of the truth pressing down on him.
"What is his deal?" Seungcheol muttered under his breath, frustration bubbling in his chest as he raced toward the park. His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp ring of his phone. Seeing Jun’s name on the screen, he immediately answered, his voice commanding, "Speak!"
"Sir, where are you?" Jun’s voice came through, laced with confusion. "Everyone is in front of Seoul Bank, but we don’t see you or Mr. Lee here."
Seungcheol’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as anger flared in his chest. "It’s the park near SK Bank, not Seoul Bank!" he snapped, his voice booming.
Jun hesitated for a moment, clearly taken aback, before replying, "But sir, Mr. Lee instructed us to gather at Seoul Bank."
Seungcheol’s jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white against the steering wheel. His mind raced as he processed the situation. Why had Jihoon sent his team to a different location? Was it a mistake, or was there something more sinister at play?
"Forget what Mr. Lee said and head to SK Bank immediately," Seungcheol barked.
"Understood, sir. We’re moving now," Jun replied before the line disconnected.
Seungcheol’s mind churned as he pushed the car to its limit. Was there something he was missing? Jihoon was one of his most trusted people, yet this discrepancy felt off. A sinking feeling settled in his chest, whispering that this was more than just a miscommunication.
Every second felt like an eternity as Seungcheol’s thoughts spiraled. Had Jihoon deliberately sent his team elsewhere to buy time? If so, why?
His gut told him the pieces of the puzzle weren’t adding up. If Jihoon was involved in this, there would be hell to pay. For now, all that mattered was finding you.
*
Seungcheol first met Jihoon during the interview for his secretary team recruitment. Even then, he could see the passion and fire in Jihoon’s eyes—a fighting spirit that convinced him this man could help navigate the treacherous waters of the dark business he was trying to expand. Back when Seungcheol left his position at his father’s company to build his own empire, Jihoon had been his first hire, his personal assistant. For the past ten years, they had been inseparable, working side by side through every challenge and victory. Jihoon wasn’t just an employee; he was someone Seungcheol trusted with his life.
But that trust was now hanging by a thread.
Seungcheol’s heart dropped when he saw Jihoon’s car parked by the curb. He hurried over, peering inside only to find it empty. His gaze darted around the area, but there was no sign of Jihoon—and more importantly, no sign of you.
Panic mixed with fury as emotions churned violently inside him. He clenched his fists, his breathing ragged, and immediately dialed Jun. His voice was sharp and commanding when Jun picked up.
“Track Jihoon’s location. Now. He’s missing,” Seungcheol ordered.
“Understood, sir,” Jun replied quickly, not daring to ask further questions.
Seungcheol ended the call, his mind racing. Jihoon had been the first person he’d confided in about the threats. He’d trusted Jihoon to investigate, to handle everything discreetly. But now, the puzzle pieces were falling into place. Jihoon had sent the team to the wrong location deliberately—to buy himself time.
And that could only mean one thing. Jihoon wasn’t just aware of the threats. He was one of them.
A cold realization settled over Seungcheol, chilling him to the core. The man he had trusted for a decade had betrayed him, and now you were in danger because of it.
Seungcheol gritted his teeth, gripping his phone tightly as he fought the urge to call the police. That wasn’t an option, not for him. He’d made the mistake of involving the police before and paid dearly for it. His hands weren’t clean, and he knew better than to invite unnecessary scrutiny into his life.
All he could do now was rely on his people, his resources, and his determination. He couldn’t afford to let emotions cloud his judgment. He had to focus on two things: finding you and finding Jihoon.
And when he did, Jihoon would have to answer for everything. For the lies, for the betrayal, and most of all, for putting you in harm’s way.
A phone call shattered the tense silence as Seungcheol sat in the living room of his parents' house. The air was heavy with shared worry and shock, each family member struggling to process the sudden revelation of Jihoon’s betrayal.
Seungcheol’s spine stiffened the moment he heard the voice on the other end of the line. It was unmistakable—Jihoon. The man who had been his closest confidant for ten years had finally revealed himself.
“Choi Seungcheol,” Jihoon’s voice came cold and calculated, carrying a chilling undertone.
Seungcheol sighed deeply, the weight of realization pressing down on him. “So it’s you,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
A low, mocking laugh echoed through the line, and Jihoon’s voice followed, dripping with venom. “Hong Jisoo did a great job moving Y/n. He’s a better player than I expected.”
Seungcheol gripped the phone tightly, his knuckles whitening. “What do you want, Jihoon? What dragged you into this madness?”
Another laugh escaped Jihoon’s lips, sharper and colder this time. “Beg, Choi Seungcheol,” he hissed. “At least suffer for a bit. That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Ruining lives and walking away.”
“Stop speaking in riddles!” Seungcheol barked, frustration and desperation mingling in his voice.
But Jihoon’s next words stopped him cold. “You killed my mother that night,” Jihoon spat, his voice trembling with years of suppressed rage. “Do you even remember? Or is it just another ghost buried under the weight of your family’s sins?”
Seungcheol froze, the accusation hitting him like a freight train. “I never killed anyone! Especially not a woman!” he shouted, his mind scrambling to make sense of Jihoon’s claim.
Jihoon let out a bitter laugh, his tone growing harsher. “Oh, maybe it wasn’t you. Maybe it was your father. Honestly, I don’t care anymore. Your entire family is a wreck!”
“Jihoon,” Seungcheol started, trying to piece it together. “What are you talking about? What happened to your mother?”
Jihoon’s voice cracked with raw emotion. “You could’ve saved her, Seungcheol. You were there. You saw her lying in the street after that accident. Instead of helping, you let your driver speed off. You left her—my mother—alone to die at the crossroad near Jongno.”
The memory stirred faintly in Seungcheol’s mind, a shadowy fragment from years ago. A car accident. A desperate night. Could it be true? Had his family been responsible? Was this all Jihoon’s revenge?
Seungcheol swallowed hard, his voice low and steady. “Jihoon, if what you’re saying is true, let’s talk about it. Let’s fix this.”
But Jihoon’s response was icy. “Fix it? You can’t fix what’s already broken, Choi Seungcheol. Your family destroyed mine, and now it’s my turn to take everything from you.”
There was a pause on the line, a dreadful silence that made Seungcheol’s heart race.
“Let’s see if your wife survives this,” Jihoon said, his voice eerily calm.
And then, a deafening gunshot rang through the phone.
“Jihoon!” Seungcheol yelled into the receiver, his voice cracking with panic. But the call had already ended, leaving him in a suffocating void of silence and dread.
*
"You promised not to hurt her!" Jisoo shouted, his voice trembling as he held up a gun, his eyes wide with panic. He had just witnessed Jihoon aiming the weapon at you, your unconscious form sprawled on the cold floor. At the last second, Jisoo lunged, shoving Jihoon’s hand away. The gun fired, the bullet ricocheting off the far wall, narrowly missing you.
Jihoon snarled in frustration, swinging his arm to shove Jisoo aside. Jisoo stumbled and fell hard onto the floor, the gun now pointed directly at him. Jihoon’s gaze burned with fury.
“This is your fault,” Jihoon hissed, his voice like ice. “You left her phone at Seungcheol’s house. Do you realize how close he came to finding us?”
Jisoo glared up at him, his expression a mixture of anger and betrayal. “This isn’t about her! What you want is Seungcheol! There’s no need to hurt her!”
Jihoon let out a cold, humorless chuckle. “Seungcheol made me lose someone I loved. Isn’t it only fair he loses his? Who told him to have a weakness in the first place?”
“You’re insane, Jihoon,” Jisoo spat, his voice rising with disbelief. “This was never the deal!”
“I make the deal,” Jihoon said with a cruel smirk. “I decide how it plays out.”
Jihoon had pieced everything together when he discovered who had called Seungcheol using your phone that fateful night. It was Hong Jisoo—your old friend and, ironically, your psychiatrist. Jihoon’s curiosity was piqued. Why would an old friend go so far as to threaten his friend's husband?
The answer came quickly: Jisoo was in love with you. He had been ever since you became his patient. Jihoon saw the truth in Jisoo’s eyes—the way he lingered on your name, the way he spoke about you with barely contained bitterness. Jisoo had been waiting patiently, hoping for his chance. But that chance never came. Your family, powerful and calculating, had arranged your marriage to the Choi family. To someone far wealthier, far more influential than Jisoo could ever be.
Jisoo felt betrayed. Everything he’d done for you, all the time he’d spent caring for you, meant nothing in the end. His motives became clear: he wanted to end your marriage at any cost. And when Jihoon offered an alliance, Jisoo jumped at the opportunity, even if it meant working with someone as dangerous as Jihoon.
The final piece of Jihoon’s plan clicked into place when he saw you. The day of your blind date with Seungcheol, Jihoon had been there, driving the car to pick up his boss. He noticed you speaking with someone in sign language, your hands moving fluidly as you signed, “I can sign because I’m deaf.”
It was a fleeting moment, but it struck Jihoon deeply. His mother had been deaf too, and in that instant, he saw the vulnerability Seungcheol had brought into his life. Jihoon began to watch closely, waiting for Seungcheol to fall for you, and when he did, Jihoon knew he had found the Choi family’s Achilles’ heel.
You.
Seungcheol’s love for you had turned you into his greatest weakness. Jihoon’s plan had been carefully orchestrated, each move designed to exploit that vulnerability and make Seungcheol pay for the sins of his family.
And now, standing over Jisoo with a gun in hand, Jihoon felt the culmination of his years of planning. The question was no longer whether Seungcheol would suffer—it was how much.
Jisoo’s hands trembled as he slowly pushed himself off the ground, his gaze locked on Jihoon, who stood menacingly with the gun aimed at him. The weight of betrayal, desperation, and fear swirled in Jisoo’s mind.
“I won’t let you do this,” Jisoo growled, his voice raw with emotion.
Jihoon cocked his head to the side, his smirk unwavering. “You won’t let me? What can you possibly do, Jisoo? You’ve already played your part. It’s over.”
But it wasn’t over—not for Jisoo. In one swift motion, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a knife, the blade gleaming under the dim light. Without hesitation, he lunged at Jihoon with all his strength, his movements driven by pure instinct and fury.
Jihoon’s eyes widened in surprise as Jisoo’s body collided with his. The gun went off, the sound of the shot reverberating through the air, but the bullet missed its mark, hitting the wall instead. Jihoon staggered back, his grip on the gun faltering as Jisoo shoved the knife into his side with brutal force.
A guttural cry of pain tore from Jihoon’s throat as he felt the blade sink into his flesh. Blood seeped through his shirt, staining the fabric crimson. Jihoon’s hand instinctively tightened around the gun, his vision blurring from the searing pain.
“You think this will stop me?” Jihoon hissed, his voice strained but laced with venom.
Jisoo didn’t respond, his breathing ragged as he pushed the knife deeper, his resolve unshaken. He could feel Jihoon weakening beneath his grip, but he underestimated just how dangerous Jihoon could be, even in his wounded state.
With a surge of adrenaline, Jihoon raised the gun and fired again, this time hitting Jisoo square in the shoulder. The force of the shot sent Jisoo stumbling backward, his grip on the knife loosening as he fell to the ground.
Both men were now gasping for air, their bodies trembling from the pain and exertion. Blood pooled on the floor between them, the room thick with the metallic scent of violence.
Jihoon clutched his side, his hand slick with blood as he leaned against the wall for support. His gaze flickered to Jisoo, who lay sprawled on the floor, clutching his bleeding shoulder and groaning in agony.
“You really thought you could outsmart me?” Jihoon sneered, though his voice was weaker now, his energy draining rapidly.
Jisoo coughed, his chest heaving as he glared at Jihoon through the haze of pain. “You’re no better than the people you claim to hate,” he spat. “You’ve become the monster you wanted to destroy.”
Jihoon’s expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the gun. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his tone cold. “But at least I’ll have justice for my mother. You? You’re nothing but a coward, Jisoo. Hiding behind your obsession.”
Jisoo’s hand twitched, reaching for the knife still embedded in Jihoon’s side. But before he could grab it, Jihoon raised the gun again, aiming directly at Jisoo’s chest.
“I warned you,” Jihoon said, his voice icy and devoid of emotion. “Stay out of my way.”
The sound of another gunshot echoed through the room. Jisoo’s body went still, his eyes wide in shock before they slowly fluttered shut.
Jihoon let out a ragged, shaky breath, his knees giving way as he collapsed to the floor. His hand instinctively moved to the knife buried in his side, but he didn’t dare pull it out, knowing it would only hasten the flow of blood. Pain shot through him with every shallow breath he took, sharp and unrelenting, as if his body were punishing him for every choice that had led to this moment.
His vision blurred, the room tilting as the strength in his legs failed him completely. He pressed his back against the wall, trying to steady himself, but the cold surface only amplified the chill spreading through his body. Each heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears, a reminder of how quickly his time was slipping away.
As his gaze wandered across the room, it landed briefly on the lifeless form of Jisoo, crumpled a few feet away, his blood staining the floor in dark, viscous pools. The memory of the fight replayed in Jihoon's mind like a broken record—Jisoo’s desperate lunge, the glint of the blade, the deafening crack of the gun.
Jihoon’s breath hitched, his hand pressing harder against his wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. The edges of his vision darkened, the world around him losing focus. His chest heaved as he tried to stay conscious, but the weight of his injuries was too much to bear.
The room felt eerily quiet now, the echoes of their struggle replaced by the faint, distant hum of the city beyond these walls. Jihoon tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling as a bitter smile played on his lips.
*
Seungcheol’s heart hammered in his chest as he and his team stormed through the abandoned harbor. The old warehouse loomed ahead, a towering silhouette against the dark sky. Every breath felt heavier as he pushed forward, each step fraught with mounting dread. They had tracked Jihoon’s location down to this forsaken place—now, all he could think of was finding you, ensuring you were still alive.
The sound of his boots pounding against the cracked pavement echoed in the still night air as he reached the heavy doors of the warehouse. With one forceful push, they creaked open, revealing the cavernous interior dimly lit by flickering overhead lights. The air was thick with the smell of rust and dampness, the kind of place that whispered forgotten secrets.
But what greeted him inside was far worse than he’d imagined.
Blood. It was everywhere. Pools of dark crimson staining the cold concrete floor. A wave of nausea threatened to overtake him as his eyes darted across the scene. His team fanned out, but Seungcheol’s gaze was drawn to the lifeless body of Jisoo, sprawled across the floor in an unnatural position. The unmistakable evidence of a gunshot wound on his chest confirmed that he was beyond saving.
Seungcheol’s pulse quickened, a suffocating pressure forming in his chest. He couldn’t stop his legs from carrying him toward the body. His eyes briefly shut as the weight of the situation settled into his bones. Jisoo—dead.
But where were you?
His breath hitched as his gaze swept the warehouse. There was no sign of you. No trace of Jihoon. The blood led into a narrow corridor at the back of the warehouse. His pulse raced, the fear gnawing at him like a festering wound.
“Search the entire place. Don’t leave a single corner unchecked,” Seungcheol ordered, his voice tight with barely controlled panic.
His men scattered, checking every shadow, every room, but still, no sign of you. His heart sank with every passing second. The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of their frantic searching.
Seungcheol moved toward the back, following the blood trail. It led to a door cracked slightly open, its edges stained with crimson. Without hesitation, he pushed it open, his eyes scanning the area for any clue, anything that could point him to you.
There were drag marks. Disturbingly faint, but they were there. Leading toward the docks.
His mind screamed at him to hurry. “Get to the docks! Block all exits!” Seungcheol barked. He could barely hear his own words over the rush of blood in his ears, his vision narrowing with each second.
He needed to find you. He would find you. No matter what it took, no matter the cost.
The water lapped softly against the shore, the only sound that seemed to break the tense stillness. Seungcheol stared out at the dark horizon, feeling the weight of the past few hours pressing on him. Was it too late?
“I’ll find you,” he whispered, barely audible to anyone but himself, as he squared his shoulders. “I swear I will.”
*
You ran, your heart pounding in your chest as the cold night air stung your skin. Your feet, bare and scraped from the rough pavement, barely registered the pain as you pushed your body to its limits. You could still hear the haunting memory of Jihoon’s voice in your head, feel the weight of Jisoo’s betrayal in your bones.
They wouldn't come back. They couldn't come back.
The thought of them finding you again, of them dragging you back into their nightmare, was enough to keep you moving even as exhaustion threatened to pull you under. Your breath came in shallow gasps, your throat dry and tight with thirst, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.
And then, just as you were beginning to feel your legs betray you, you saw them—a group of women, dressed in thick wetsuits, their movements confident and assured. They were divers, the kind who harvested abalone, their hands strong from years of working the sea. They noticed you before you could stagger past them, their trained eyes immediately scanning your bloodstained dress and the wild, frantic look in your eyes.
"Young woman? Are you okay?" One of them called out, her voice gentle but concerned.
You lifted a hand, weakly waving in their direction. You could feel your body weakening, the adrenaline finally starting to wear off. The ground beneath you tilted, and your knees nearly gave way. You knew you couldn’t keep running for much longer. Your vision blurred, but you forced the words out.
“I was kidnapped…” Your voice cracked, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. The truth hung in the air like a heavy weight. They could see it in your eyes—the terror, the exhaustion, the desperation.
The women exchanged quick glances, scanning your disheveled state, the blood on your dress that stained the night darker still. They didn’t question you. Instead, one of them stepped forward, her tone gentle but firm.
“Come with us,” she said. “You’re safe now.”
You didn’t have the energy to protest. Your legs wobbled beneath you as they carefully supported you, guiding you away from the dangers you’d just escaped.
With each step, you felt yourself slipping closer to unconsciousness. The dim lights of the village shimmered like a distant dream, and you clung to the hope that, maybe, for the first time in what felt like forever, you were finally safe.
*
"What happened that night?" Seungcheol demanded, his voice cold and heavy as he confronted his father. The room was dimly lit, the weight of the topic casting a suffocating shadow over them. The matter at hand was the death of a woman his father’s car had struck 15 years ago—a moment that had come back to haunt them both.
His father took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. "She was a cleaner at our company. But before that, she was a witness to one of our transactions. She confronted the leaders and threatened to report everything to the police unless she got paid off." His tone was calm, detached, as though recounting a mundane business deal.
Seungcheol’s fists clenched. "And?"
"I gave her enough money to raise her children. More than enough. I even found her a job. She was deaf, Seungcheol, and no one was willing to hire someone like that back then."
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened as the pieces fell into place. Jihoon’s mother had been employed as a cleaner for several months before that fateful night. But it didn’t end there.
"She demanded more money," his father continued, voice devoid of remorse. "She wanted more, and I had no better option than to make her disappear."
Seungcheol felt a wave of nausea as his father’s words hit him. He nodded grimly, the memory of that night flashing in his mind. "That’s what I knew. She wanted more money," he muttered, almost to himself. "That’s why I left her that night. I thought she was just another extortionist."
There was silence between them until his father broke it. "And your wife? Has anyone found her?"
Seungcheol shook his head, his heart sinking further into despair. "No. Neither her nor Jihoon." His voice cracked slightly as he spoke. The thought of you out there—alive or worse—was unbearable. You were the first person he had ever truly loved, and now you were gone, all because of the vengeance Jihoon had carried for years.
His father frowned, his brows knitting together. "No body was found in the water either?"
Seungcheol exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. "No. But there was blood on the edge of the dock."
His father’s eyes darkened. "Do you think it was Jihoon’s?"
Seungcheol hesitated, biting his lip as his gaze met his father’s. "I wish it was. But..." He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
His father studied him carefully before speaking. "There’s something else, isn’t there?"
Seungcheol’s throat tightened as he admitted quietly, "was it possible? She’s pregnant."
The weight of the revelation hung in the air. His father nodded in understanding, his expression grim. "We’ll send more people tomorrow," he said firmly, rising to his feet. He placed a hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder, his grip surprisingly steady. "We’ll find closure, one way or another."
Seungcheol didn’t respond, his thoughts spiraling. He didn’t want closure. He wanted you. And the uncertainty of whether you were alive or gone was a torment he wasn’t sure he could endure.
One week.
Two weeks.
A month.
Three months.
Time crawled by as the search for you carried on, only to come to a devastating halt. After three agonizing months, Seungcheol made the painful decision to officially call off the large-scale search. The slowdown in the business was affecting countless lives, and he couldn’t justify sacrificing so many for his own personal grief. Yet, in his heart, the search never truly stopped.
Every weekend, Seungcheol would find himself wandering from one village to another near the abandoned harbor, relentless in his quest. He’d strike up conversations with locals and ask questions.
“Do you have a picture of her?” a villager would ask.
Seungcheol would pull out the photograph, his fingers trembling slightly as he handed it over. You always looked beautiful to him, flawless in every way. Even now, with the ache of your absence, he could only see perfection in your face. The day he’d first laid eyes on you, he’d been captivated, unable to believe someone like you could exist.
The truth of your deafness, which your parents finally revealed to him on the night you disappeared, hadn’t changed his view of you at all. If anything, it made him ache more for what you had endured.
“It was my idea to hide the fact she is deaf! Please forgive me, Son-in-law,” your mother had pleaded, her voice cracking with guilt.
Seungcheol had stared at her, his chest tightening with anger and disbelief. “Tell me one reason why her deafness was a secret.”
“Because a woman’s obligation as a wife is to listen,” she replied, the words cutting through him like a knife.
His hands clenched at his sides. He couldn’t imagine the kind of torment you must have endured growing up in a household like this. The burden of expectations, the cruel standard you were forced to meet—it was suffocating to even think about.
Your mother continued, as if the words excused her actions. “We were relieved when we found out she was pregnant. At least she fulfilled one of her obligations. She lost so much after the accident...”
“Stop,” Seungcheol snapped, his voice laced with restrained fury. “Stop speaking about her in the past tense. She’s still with us. She has to be.”
But even as he confronted your mother’s callousness, doubt and fear gnawed at his heart. Every village he visited, every person he spoke to, left him with nothing but disappointment.
“We’ve never seen anyone like her,” a villager said, shaking their head. “She’s so beautiful. Is she your wife?”
Seungcheol nodded, a faint, hollow smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, she’s my wife.”
That evening, as he drove back home, the weight of his failure pressed down on him. The house, once filled with your warmth, now felt unbearably quiet. The memories of you lingered in every corner—the way you smiled, the way you turned your head to face him whenever he spoke, the way you stared at his lips, a habit he’d never fully understood until now.
It was during those lonely nights that everything started to make sense.
Your habit of always needing to face him when he spoke. The lack of phone calls. The way you’d tilt your head and say, “What?” if he wasn’t looking directly at you.
You couldn’t hear him.
And he’d never realized it.
He thought back to all the times Hong Jisoo had tried to hint at the truth through his cryptic threats. Jisoo had known, just as your parents had, that you had been forced into the marriage. Seungcheol clenched his fists, anger and regret churning inside him.
He felt like he had failed you—not just as a husband but as the man who should have protected you from all of this.
And now, you were gone.
His phone rang in the dead of night, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the room. Seungcheol groggily reached for it, his heart sinking at the thought of more bad news. But when he saw the caller ID, his exhaustion was replaced by curiosity.
Seo Myungho.
Your former assistant had never called him again after that time, let alone at this hour.
Seungcheol answered, his voice hoarse, “Hello?”
“I found her.”
Three words. Just three words. But they hit him like a lightning bolt, sending him bolting upright from the bed.
“What did you say?” he asked, his voice sharp and desperate now, as if he couldn’t trust what he’d just heard.
“I found her, sir.”
*
Myungho’s search for you had been relentless, driven by a determination he couldn’t explain but refused to ignore. He carefully tracked your weeks, estimating your birthing date. His method was simple but meticulous—he regularly visited hospitals and clinics in the areas surrounding the harbor where you had last been seen. It was a grueling process, but last week, his persistence paid off.
He spotted you stepping out of a small clinic, your rounded stomach unmistakable. Myungho’s heart skipped a beat. If his calculations were correct, you were due any day now.
Discreetly, he followed you back to a modest village nestled along the coastline. There, he discovered an elderly woman had taken you under her wing, providing you with shelter and care during these past months. Myungho watched from a distance, observing how you seemed to have created a life for yourself despite everything. He saw you teaching local children sign language, your hands moving gracefully as the kids mirrored your gestures with bright, eager faces.
“What are you doing here, young man?” A gruff voice startled him one afternoon. He turned to see an elderly man approaching, his gaze sharp but curious. “You’re not from around here. Are you from the city?”
Caught off guard, Myungho scrambled for a believable response. “Uh, yes. I’m here looking for a great restaurant,” he said quickly. “The kind that serves abalone.”
The old man’s face brightened. “Well, you’re in luck! I’ve got the best abalone in the area. Come on, come on, I’ll serve you myself!”
With little choice but to follow, Myungho was soon seated at a modest table in the man’s small home. A steaming plate of abalone was placed in front of him, the rich aroma filling the air.
As the man chatted, he grew more animated. “You know, there was a big fuss a few months ago. A young woman came here—a deaf woman, staying at Mrs. Jeong’s house. They say she ran away from her husband. Nobody knows what really happened to her, though.”
“Enough, old man!” a woman’s voice scolded. Myungho turned to see the man’s wife slapping his arm lightly. “It’s supposed to be a secret!”
“I was just talking,” the old man grumbled, rubbing his arm.
The woman sighed and turned to Myungho apologetically. “Mrs. Jeong is a respected figure in this village, and she asked us to keep the young woman’s presence a secret. I hope you understand.”
Myungho nodded, hiding his relief. Mrs. Jeong. Now he had a name—a connection to you. He had finally found the key to bringing you back.
When the due was coming, the pain from the contractions gripped your body like a vice, leaving you breathless. The small clinic in the village had tried their best, but it quickly became clear they couldn’t handle the complications of your delivery. You needed a cesarean, and time was running out.
As you sat hunched on the clinic bench, clutching your swollen belly, Myungho appeared. His presence was unexpected, his expression calm but urgent.
“I’ll take her to the hospital,” he said firmly, addressing the worried midwife.
The midwife looked at you, hesitant. “It’s a long drive, and the baby could come anytime,” she said.
Myungho met your gaze. “We don’t have a choice. Let’s go.”
You blinked, stunned by his sudden appearance. “Why are you here?” you asked weakly, the pain stealing the strength from your voice.
He didn’t answer immediately, guiding you carefully toward his car. His hands were steady but firm as he helped you into the passenger seat. “I’ll explain later,” he said, closing the door and rushing to the driver’s side.
The contractions were coming faster now, each one making you grip the seat harder. The car sped down the uneven village roads, Myungho’s hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“Breathe,” he said, glancing at you. “Focus on breathing.”
You tried, but the pain was overwhelming. Sweat dripped down your temple, and your vision blurred. Between the waves of agony, your mind buzzed with questions. How did he find you? Why was he here?
The ride felt like an eternity, each second stretching into minutes. Myungho’s jaw was tight, his focus unwavering as he navigated the winding roads.
When the lights of the hospital came into view, a weak sigh of relief escaped your lips. Myungho pulled up to the emergency entrance and jumped out, shouting for help.
Within moments, a team of medical staff surrounded you, gently lifting you onto a gurney. Myungho stayed by your side until the doors to the operating room loomed ahead.
You reached out, grabbing his sleeve. “Why are you here?” you asked again, your voice trembling.
He paused, looking down at you with an intensity that made your heart ache. “Because someone had to protect you,” he said softly. “And I owe it to him.”
Before you could process his words, the doors swung open, and you were whisked away. As the bright lights of the operating room blurred your vision, one thought lingered in your mind—was he talking about Seungcheol?
*
Seungcheol stormed into the administration ward, his breath ragged as his frantic eyes scanned the room. When he spotted Myungho standing near the counter, clutching a pen and a clipboard, he closed the distance in long, hurried strides.
Without hesitation, Seungcheol grabbed Myungho’s arm, his grip firm but trembling. His voice was raw, almost pleading. “Tell me she’s alive.”
Myungho looked up, startled but composed. “Please calm down, sir,” he said, his tone steady yet empathetic. “I assure you, she’s fine. She’s in the operating room right now.”
Seungcheol’s eyes widened in shock, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The operating room? Why? What’s wrong?!” His chest tightened with dread as scenarios raced through his mind.
Setting the clipboard aside, Myungho placed a reassuring hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder and guided him toward the waiting lounge outside the operating room. “Today is her due date,” Myungho explained as they walked. “She’s giving birth to your child.”
The words hit Seungcheol like a tidal wave, rendering him momentarily speechless. He stopped in his tracks, his gaze fixed on Myungho as if needing confirmation that he’d heard correctly. “My… child?” he echoed, his voice laced with disbelief and a glimmer of hope.
Myungho nodded firmly. “Yes, sir. She went into labor earlier, but the clinic in the village couldn’t handle the delivery. It’s a cesarean operation. That’s why I brought her here.”
Seungcheol’s shoulders sagged, a mix of relief and anxiety washing over him. He pressed a hand over his mouth, his thoughts racing between fear for your safety and the realization that he was about to become a father.
“I need to see her,” he said, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to maintain his composure.
Myungho shook his head gently. “The doctors are doing everything they can. All we can do now is wait.”
As they reached the waiting lounge, Seungcheol sank into one of the chairs, his head falling into his hands. The sterile smell of the hospital and the faint hum of medical equipment filled the silence around him.
“She’s strong,” Myungho said softly, standing beside him. “She’s been through so much, but she’s strong. And she’s going to make it through this.”
Seungcheol nodded, his jaw clenched as he fought back tears. “I should’ve found her sooner,” he whispered, his voice heavy with regret. “I should’ve protected her.”
“You’re here now,” Myungho said firmly. “And that’s what matters.”
Time crawled by with agonizing slowness as Seungcheol remained in the waiting lounge. His gaze never left the double doors leading to the operating room. The fluorescent lights above cast a harsh glow on his anxious expression, emphasizing the deep lines of worry etched into his face.
He tapped his foot impatiently, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Every passing second felt like an eternity, the weight of uncertainty pressing heavily on his chest. Myungho sat a few seats away, silent but observant, giving Seungcheol space while staying close in case he was needed.
Finally, the double doors swung open. A doctor stepped out, his surgical mask still in place, his face partially obscured but his eyes calm and professional. Seungcheol shot to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribcage.
“Doctor, how is she? Is she okay? And the baby?” he asked in a rush, his voice trembling.
The doctor gave a small, reassuring nod. “Both the mother and baby are safe. The operation went smoothly.”
Relief flooded through Seungcheol like a wave, his knees threatening to give out beneath him. He exhaled deeply, pressing a hand to his chest as if to steady his racing heart. “Thank God,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“The mother is resting now, but you can see her shortly,” the doctor continued. “The baby has been moved to the nursery for observation, but everything looks good.”
“Thank you,” Seungcheol said earnestly, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out and shook the doctor’s hand firmly, his gratitude evident in his grip.
Moments later, a nurse led Seungcheol to your recovery room. The sight of you lying in the hospital bed, pale but peaceful, made his chest tighten. He approached cautiously, his footsteps soft as if afraid to disturb you.
You stirred slightly, your eyelids fluttering open. When your gaze met his, a flicker of recognition crossed your tired face. “Seungcheol…” you murmured, your voice weak but laced with emotion.
He sank into the chair beside your bed, his hands trembling as he reached for yours. “I’m here,” he said softly, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry for everything. For not finding you sooner, for everything you’ve been through…”
You managed a faint smile, your fingers curling weakly around his. “It’s okay,” you whispered. “You’re here now.”
Seungcheol leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “And I’m never leaving again,” he vowed.
The nurse returned moments later, wheeling in a small bassinet. Inside, a tiny bundle of life stirred, letting out a soft cry. Seungcheol stood, his breath catching as he saw the baby for the first time. The nurse carefully lifted the infant and placed them in your arms.
You both gazed down at the child, a mix of emotions reflected in your tired but radiant faces. “It’s a boy,” the nurse said with a smile before quietly stepping out to give you privacy.
Seungcheol leaned over, his hand resting gently on the baby’s tiny head. “He’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice filled with wonder.
For the first time in months, the weight on Seungcheol’s heart lifted as he held onto the two people who now meant everything to him.
*
"We don't have to talk about anything yet. Your recovery is my priority now," Seungcheol said softly, his voice steady but filled with emotion. He gently tucked the blanket around you, his touch as careful as if you might break. Leaning in, he placed a tender kiss on your temple, the warmth of his lips lingering like a silent promise.
"Choi Doahn," you whispered, the name slipping from your lips as you cradled your baby for the first time. It was barely audible, but Seungcheol caught it. The way you spoke the name—so full of love and meaning—etched itself into his heart. From that moment, he began calling the baby Doahn.
Doahn now rested peacefully in the small crib beside your bed, his tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm with his soft breaths. Seungcheol couldn’t take his eyes off him. The baby was so small, so delicate, yet he already held a monumental presence in Seungcheol’s life. He crouched beside the crib, his hand hovering over Doahn as if afraid his touch might disturb the baby's perfect tranquility.
Seungcheol’s heart ached with a bittersweet mix of love and regret. How much of this had he missed? The small kicks, the first signs of life, the moments you must have longed to share with him during your pregnancy—he hadn’t been there. He had failed to protect you both when you needed him most.
When the nurse handed Doahn to him for skin-to-skin bonding, Seungcheol felt his breath hitch. The baby stirred slightly in his arms, a soft murmur escaping his tiny lips before settling again. As Seungcheol cradled him against his chest, the warmth of Doahn’s fragile body against his skin unleashed a flood of emotions he had held back for too long.
Tears streamed down Seungcheol’s face, unbidden and unstoppable. They weren’t just tears of relief, but also of guilt, sorrow, and overwhelming love. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Doahn’s head, his lips trembling as he whispered, "I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. But I’m here now, and I’ll never leave you or your mother again. I promise, Doahn."
You watched from the bed, your heart full despite your exhaustion. Seeing Seungcheol with your baby, the tenderness in his touch, and the raw emotion on his face reminded you of the man you fell in love with—the man who always cared so deeply, even if he didn’t always know how to show it.
Seungcheol turned to you, his tear-streaked face breaking into a soft, grateful smile. "Thank you," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Thank you for giving me him… for fighting through everything. I don’t deserve either of you, but I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you both feel loved and safe."
In that quiet room, the three of you found a moment of peace amidst the chaos that had brought you here. It wasn’t the end of the journey, but it was the beginning of a new one—a chance to heal, to grow, and to finally be a family.
It was late afternoon when Seungcheol finally broached the subject. The soft glow of the sun streamed through the hospital room window, casting a warm light over you as you rested in bed. Doahn was asleep in the crib beside you, his small form wrapped in a blanket. Seungcheol sat on the edge of your bed, his hands clasped tightly together, as though gathering the courage to speak.
"I think we need to talk now," he said gently, his voice low so as not to wake the baby. He searched your face, his eyes brimming with unspoken emotions.
You nodded, your fingers fidgeting with the blanket draped over your lap. You had been waiting for this moment, dreading it but knowing it was inevitable. "Where do we start?" you asked softly, your voice carrying both hesitation and resolve.
Seungcheol took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "I want to start with an apology," he said, his tone steady but thick with emotion. "I failed you, love. I should’ve protected you, been there for you when you needed me most. Instead, you had to face all of this alone." His voice cracked slightly, and he paused, looking down at his hands. "I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through. And I’m sorry for not realizing sooner… about your hearing. I should’ve known."
You swallowed hard, feeling a lump rise in your throat. "It wasn’t your fault," you said after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper. "I kept it a secret because I was scared. My parents…" You hesitated, the memories of their harsh words and expectations still painful. "They told me I wouldn’t be good enough for anyone if people knew. I didn’t want to burden you with it."
Seungcheol’s heart clenched at your words. "Y/n, you’re not a burden. You never were, and you never will be. I hate that they made you feel that way." He reached out, his hand covering yours. "You’re perfect to me, just the way you are."
Tears welled up in your eyes as you met his gaze. "I was so scared, Seungcheol," you admitted, your voice trembling. "When Jihoon took me, when I was alone in that village… I thought I’d never see you again. I thought you’d given up on me."
"I never gave up," Seungcheol said firmly, his grip on your hand tightening. "Not for a second. I searched for you every day. Even when the official search ended, I couldn’t stop. I knew you were out there, and I had to find you."
You nodded, the sincerity in his words soothing some of the pain you had carried. "I know now," you said softly. "And I’m grateful. For everything you’ve done for me and for Doahn."
Seungcheol’s eyes softened as he looked at you. "We’ve both been through so much," he said. "But I want us to move forward together. As a family. No more secrets, no more fear. Just us, starting fresh."
Seungcheol had been watching you with quiet anticipation, his gaze filled with patience and love. You took a deep breath, meeting his eyes with a resolve you hadn’t felt in years.
"If.." you began, your voice steady but laced with emotion. "If we’re going to move forward, I need you to know there are things I can’t compromise on anymore."
Seungcheol’s brows furrowed slightly, his concern evident, but he nodded. "I’m listening," he said softly, leaning closer.
You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. "I want my freedom," you said firmly, your voice carrying a weight that left no room for doubt. "I want to be free from my parents’ control. They’ve dictated so much of my life—how I should live, how I should act, even who I should marry. I can’t go back to that."
Seungcheol nodded slowly, his expression serious. "You won’t have to," he assured you. "I’ll make sure they understand that you’re your own person now. Whatever it takes, I’ll stand by you."
Tears pricked at your eyes, but you pressed on. "And also...," you said, your voice faltering for a moment. "I… I want to hear. I want to try to get my hearing back."
Seungcheol’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "You mean… surgery?"
You nodded, swallowing hard. "I’ve been thinking about it for a while," you admitted. "Living in that village, teaching sign language to those kids… it made me realize how much I’ve missed out on. But more than that…" You paused, your voice breaking as tears rolled down your cheeks. "I want to hear you, Seungcheol. And I want to hear Doahn."
The raw emotion in your voice made Seungcheol’s chest tighten. He reached out, taking your hands in his. "Love," he said softly, his voice steady and full of warmth, "if that’s what you want, then we’ll make it happen. Whatever the cost, whatever the process, I’ll be with you every step of the way."
You let out a shaky breath, relief washing over you at his unwavering support. "Thank you," you whispered, your fingers clutching his as though he was your lifeline.
Seungcheol smiled faintly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "You don’t have to thank me," he said. "This is your life, your choice. And I’ll do everything in my power to help you live it the way you want."
In that moment, you felt a surge of hope—hope for a future where you could finally take control of your own life, where you could experience the world in ways you’d only dreamed of. And with Seungcheol by your side, you knew you wouldn’t have to face it alone.
*
Months passed, and the promise of a new beginning grew stronger with each passing day. With Seungcheol’s unwavering support, you underwent the delicate surgery to restore your hearing—a decision that filled you with equal parts hope and fear. The process wasn’t easy; it was marked by long days of recovery, uncertainty, and moments of self-doubt. Yet, every time you felt like faltering, Seungcheol was there, holding your hand, his quiet reassurance anchoring you to the dream of what could be.
When the moment finally came, when you heard Doahn’s soft, melodic coos for the very first time and Seungcheol’s deep, steady voice calling your name, it was as if the world had burst into vibrant color. A rush of emotions overwhelmed you, tears spilling down your cheeks as you clutched Doahn close to your chest, his tiny hands gripping your shirt.
"He sounds… perfect," you whispered, your voice trembling with wonder, every syllable carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions.
Seungcheol knelt beside you, his gaze filled with warmth and relief. Resting his hand gently on your shoulder, he whispered, "Just like his mother." His voice, rich and tender, was the sweetest sound you’d ever heard.
With your hearing restored, the world transformed into a symphony of wonders. Every sound was a discovery—the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore, the laughter of children playing. Even the hum of the city streets, once distant and imagined, felt alive and vibrant. But nothing compared to the sound of Seungcheol’s laughter. The way his voice softened when he spoke your name made your heart swell, reminding you of how far you’d come together.
Seungcheol honored his promise to give you the freedom you craved. The chains of old expectations were broken, and you stepped into a new chapter of your life with a renewed sense of purpose. You found joy in teaching sign language, helping others rediscover their voices, and advocating for those who had been silenced by circumstance. Doahn grew up surrounded by unconditional love and support, his first words—soft and innocent—brought tears to everyone’s eyes, especially Seungcheol’s.
Though the scars of your past lingered, they no longer defined you. Instead, they became a testament to your resilience. Seungcheol, too, carried the weight of his guilt but turned it into strength. He made it his mission to make up for lost time, pouring his love into every moment he shared with you and Doahn.
One quiet evening, the three of you sat by the ocean, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of gold and amber. Doahn toddled between you and Seungcheol, his giggles echoing like music against the gentle waves. You leaned into Seungcheol, resting your head on his shoulder as a soft sigh escaped your lips.
"This is freedom," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with certainty and peace.
Seungcheol turned to you, his lips brushing your temple in a kiss as tender as his words. "And it’s just the beginning," he replied, his voice brimming with quiet determination and love.
In that moment, you knew that despite everything—the pain, the struggles, the loss—you had finally found your place in the world. A place where love, freedom, and hope could coexist, and where the future stretched out before you like the endless horizon.
*
The moon was about to cast its pale light on the quiet dock as you dragged Jihoon's limp, injured body toward the water. His breathing was shallow, labored, and each step you took felt heavier than the last. Blood seeped through his torn shirt, staining your hands as you struggled to pull him closer to the edge. He groaned, a faint sound of resistance, his body twitching in pain as he fought to stay conscious.
"Stop..." Jihoon rasped, his voice weak but filled with defiance. His head lolled to the side, his eyes flickering open to meet yours.
You crouched beside him, your breath coming in shallow pants. For a moment, you simply stared at him, the man whose vengeance had cost you so much. Despite his condition, Jihoon’s gaze burned with stubborn determination.
But you didn’t speak. Instead, you raised your hands, signing slowly and deliberately so he could follow your words.
“눈에는 눈, 이는 이로는 세상은 눈먼 자들로 가득 찰 것이다.” (An eye for an eye will leave the whole world blind.)
Jihoon’s brows furrowed as he struggled to focus on your hands, on the message you were conveying. His lips twitched, forming the faintest shadow of a bitter smile.
“Do you think…” he coughed, blood specking his lips, “… that this will change anything?”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you signed again, your hands moving with precision, your expression unwavering.
“복수는 또 다른 상처를 남길 뿐이다. 넌 네 복수의 무게를 견딜 수 있겠어?” (Revenge only leaves another wound. Can you bear the weight of your vengeance?)
Jihoon’s head sank back, his strength waning as he closed his eyes. You could see the conflict in him—the doubt creeping into the cracks of his resolve. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, and for a moment, silence enveloped the dock, broken only by the gentle lapping of the water against the wood.
“You… don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It wasn’t just revenge… It was justice.”
You shook your head, your hands signing one final phrase, your movements deliberate and steady.
“정의는 희생으로부터 나와야 한다, 증오가 아니라.” (Justice must come from sacrifice, not hatred.)
Jihoon’s eyes opened, tears brimming at the corners as he gazed at you, his face a mixture of pain and regret. The weight of your words—or perhaps the truth in them—seemed to settle on him like a crushing tide.
You stared down at him, your heart pounding. For a fleeting moment, your resolve wavered. Memories of the good times—of his laughter, his loyalty—flashed through your mind. But those moments were gone, drowned beneath the weight of his betrayal.
“Goodbye, Jihoon,” you signed slowly, the finality in your movements echoing in the air between you.
Then, with a steady breath, you placed your hands on his shoulders and shoved.
Jihoon’s body slid across the wooden planks, his weak protests lost to the flow. The splash as he hit the water shattered the stillness, ripples spreading out in every direction.
You stood at the edge, watching as he sank beneath the surface. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the water settling, the ripples fading into stillness once more.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides as you turned away, the weight of your actions sinking in. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.
The dock felt endless as you walked away, the stars overhead offering no solace. Whether Jihoon would rise from the water or disappear into its depths was no longer your concern.
This was the end of the path you had both walked together—and the beginning of a new one, without him.
The end.
More Posts from Swanprincess16 and Others
rb to tell ur mutuals ur fond of them
seungcheol's mad. the members know just how to calm him down.
"YN! yn! you need to come to the practice room right now. seungcheol's furious!"
that's all you need to know before you leave your office in the pretext of grabbing lunch and head towards seungcheol's company building. even in the crazy traffic of the afternoon, the only thing running in your mind is the image of your angry boyfriend, eyes wide and lips pouted in annoyance.
which is exactly what greets you when you reach the boys' usual dance practice room that seungkwan called you to. you push open the door and see a few of them sitting down, faces pale from exhaustion, a few scattered doing some random tasks, and jeonghan standing next to seungcheol, chewing on his lips.
but seungcheol doesn't notice anything: he doesn't notice the way chan gently tugs at his shirt; the way his teammates take tense, heavy breaths in worry; the way jeonghan now pats his back, and certainly not your arrival into the room. you sidle over to seungkwan, who's face melts into relief at seeing you. he pulls you aside to brief you about the situation.
"the thing is, last week, we were told that we could take tomorrow off. but then they came in a few minutes ago, saying that we'd have extra practice tomorrow, since they pushed the broadcast recording a week earlier," he takes a moment to pause and looks over at seungcheol, who's still very unaware of everything around him.
"hyung's losing his mind because we'd all made individual plans for tomorrow. some of us were gonna go home for the weekend..." seungkwan's lips turn into a pout as he becomes aware of the fact that now he won't be able to. you turn around to look at your boyfriend.
"i want you to tell us why you preponed the date without consulting us first. it's not the extra practice we're worried about. it's the fact that you didn't care to ask us in the first place! aren't we the artists- no, i need you to listen to me right now- don't tell me to calm down!"
your lips press together in concern as you walk over to him. he doesn't see you even when you're standing right beside him, more intent on getting his point across.
"we've been working overtime since last month..."
"seungcheol..." you call him.
"...and yet, we haven't gotten a single break day-
"seungcheol."
"-and then you expect us to do our best and get more wins-"
"love..."
you hold his chin with your hand and gently turn his face towards you. the sudden shift in his glance is noticed only by you. the angry, outraged expression of his turns into a soft, meek look with just a single touch, sparkles automatically forming in his eyes as they focus on you. the staff beside you bows and leaves the room. your eyes follow them until they shut the door before moving back to his.
he slumps into your hand as you lean in to press a kiss, and wraps his around you, body feeling heavy. jeonghan nods and you lead seungcheol out into the breakroom.
his face still hangs low, lips losing their pout only when you press your lips to them. his frown turns into the smallest of smiles.
"thanks for getting me out of there. i was starting to lose my mind."
"kwan told me you were furious. i had to come running," you hold his cheek and he leans into your touch. his stomach grumbles in response.
"you might have been a little hangry back then. come on, let's get you some food," you drag him out of the building to a cafe nearby you often visit.
"sho you mean to shay you'd alwaysh come for me?" he mumbles through a mouthful of the hideously large croissant he'd ordered, a few crumbs and some chocolate filling dusting his lips.
"i don't like to be rushed..." you lean forward to wipe it off with your thumb with a fond smile, before licking it off.
"...but for you, i'd always come running."
inspired from this video on twitter (that completely, absolutely destroyed me because LOOK AT HIM?! adorable pouty cutie pie
Seventeen: The Xperiments Masterlist
Growing too strong to stay at the lab you grew up in, you’re shipped off to South Korea to continue your life in their much bigger and more high-tech lab. That’s where you meet thirteen other experiments who are just like you, only knowing life inside the labs which consists of constant inhuman studies and awful mistreatment. However, being kept solitary for your whole life, you find it difficult to trust even the experiments who know exactly what you’ve gone through. But the labs simply creating these experiments because they can may not be the only reason for your existence, and trusting the other experiments might be your only way to freedom – assuming you can stay hidden from the white coats.
»»————- ————-««
(More parts will be added as they’re written)
Intro/Part One: New Home
Part Two: First Impressions
Part Three: Talk
Part Four: Five Days
Part Five: Flashbacks
Part Six: Why
Part Seven: Wild Card
Part Eight: The Final Decision
Part Nine: Into Action
Part Ten: X
Part Eleven: Off The Grid
Part Twelve: Burned Out
Part Thirteen: Psycho-Something
Part Fourteen: Too Much
Part Fifteen: Body Count
Part Sixteen: The First Family Outing
Part Seventeen: Partners In Crime
Part Eighteen: The Forgotten Experiment
Part Nineteen: Worth It
Part Twenty: Reconnect
Part Twenty-One: What Happened to Dr. Eric
Part Twenty-Two: The Date
Part Twenty-Three: Unexpected Visitor
Part Twenty-Four: Fight or Flight
Part Twenty-Five: The Final Plan
Epilogue
»»————- ————-««
Moodboards
Chan
Hansol
Jeonghan
Jihoon
Joshua
Junhui
Minghao
Mingyu
Seokmin
Seungcheol
Seungkwan
Soonyoung
Wonwoo
Reader/YN
»»————- ————-««
Misc
The Xperiments as a Netflix series
' THE WAY BACK ' | c. seungcheol
synopsis : fans reminisce on your relationship with seungcheol pairing : rapper!seungcheol x gn!, actor!reader genre/s : mini smau, angst, fluff, some humor mixed in
part one : memory lane | part two : hopelessly devoted | part three : beginning, middle, the end
from reese, with love <3
highkey inspired by a vague memory of what my tl looked like when hyuna and dawn broke up and as you can see... this is a three-parter hehe. no promises on when the next parts will be out, but if you want to be tagged for the other parts, just send me an ask or reply to this post :) thank you for reading! i'd really love to know what you think for this one bec i had a lot of fun making it :> hope you're all doing well and taking care !
Cherry Picker [teaser]
![Cherry Picker [teaser]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/7eb6be9a7a205fb79f1a4731b0f15437/c71b26cbc779d508-40/s500x750/c44ac1576bc2294bb1afbb19bdd15f66afde528d.png)
part of the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios!
Choi Seungcheol x reader
est. word count: um 30k (?)
est. release date: January 10th
warnings: Hockey player! Seungcheol, figure skater! reader, *deep breath* ENEMIES TO LOVERS, angst, fluff, smut [MINORS DNI], more to be added in final post
synopsis: Cherry Picking [ice hockey]: a manoeuver in which a player, the floater, literally loafs (spends time in idleness) or casually skates behind the opposing team's unsuspecting defencemen while they are in their attacking zone. There wasn't much you counted on in life; just your skates, your drive and how it felt to win. And of course, your local ice rink, that is now being colonised by an obnoxious hockey team in all their big, loud, stinking glory. Neither does it help that one particular red donned specimen forgets to leave his cherry picking on the ice.
‼️ JOIN THE TAGLIST by sending an ask or replying under this post. AGE INDICATORS ON YOUR BLOG ARE NECESSARY. ‼️
[a/n]: I first wrote hockey player Cheol quite literally a full year ago and I promised to expand on the concept, so here we are!!! im so excited for y'all to read this bc im genuinely putting my heart and ass into this fic. lmk your thoughts about the teaser!!! please remember to support the rest of the fics coming out in association with the winter with you collab, all of these writers are working so hard to bring you fics you're going to love 🥹
masterlist
![Cherry Picker [teaser]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a6f2f880fe36287662072ef4991a47a4/c71b26cbc779d508-c3/s500x750/451dfb177f740a1bb9f7ea32012dee6f3e81d3e8.jpg)
The ice is empty, mostly. Placing your laptop in the sound booth and your shoes under the benches, you step foot on the ice. They’re there, on the other end, sitting on the cold ice with their jerseys still on, eating what looks like cups of dippin dots.
Seungcheol and Jeonghan, you remember from Lorelai’s squealing, either don’t notice you on the ice, or simply choose not to. Because it’s easy as you skate up to them, gaining speed from across the rink, you slide to a stop, sending a perfect spray of ice from your skates, directly into their cups.
Seungcheol’s full spoon hangs mid air, halfway to his mouth, now garnished with ice shavings.
“Thought you’d have the respect to keep the dippin dots out of this,” Jeonghan comments, disbelief in his eyes as he looks up at you.
“Ice is booked.”
“What time?” Seungcheol asks. Your gaze flickers to the left side of his face, a nasty bruise blooming purple and blue that you hadn’t noticed before.
“Two sixteen. It’s nearly fifteen minutes past.”
“You’re only one person.”
“And?”
“And…you have about 97% of the rink to yourself.”
You raise your brows, hands on your hips. “But I booked 100% of it. So I’m gonna need that plane of ice you’re currently sitting on.”
“What if I don’t move?” Seungcheol presses. It’s menacing, the way he looks at you, like he’s a dragon only waiting to be provoked.
“We’ll find out another day,” Jeonghan sings before you can snap back, grabbing onto the collar of Seungcheol’s red and white jersey to yank him up. He continues to glare as he obliges with his friend’s tugs, nearly as angry as you are. “Let’s go, sport.”
You watch as they walk to the exit of the ice, realising they’re wearing their shoes instead of their skates.
Jeonghan calls from the benches, right before he and Seungcheol move out of view. “Trash those for us, would you?”
Their half eaten dippin dots cups, with the ice now melting on them remains on the floor of the rink.
Once again, the unexplainable urge to kick something befalls you, hearing them laugh and talk from far away as they exit the rink behind their long gone teammates.
You give in, swinging a leg over to kick the cups and spoons, dippin dots and plastic scattering across the ice. It’s another sprawl of mess you’ll have to clean up, but it feels good to ruin something of his, no matter how inconsequential.
The empty rink is only encouraging you, needing to scream so loud the plastic barriers crack and break. You know it’s impossible, but that doesn’t stop the urge.
You channel it into the most aggressive warmups on ice you’ve ever done. Your spins are faster, your jumps higher. But this also means you crash heavier, fall harder.
It’s then, sitting on the bench to take a break, breathing so heavy you can hardly sip your water, you find an unmistakable headline on your browser home page.
Everything stops.
!HOT TOPIC!
SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here!
Cherry Picker [1]
![Cherry Picker [1]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/7eb6be9a7a205fb79f1a4731b0f15437/6c04ec963ffb0d78-12/s500x750/69fd682f95d199389da2b2c67f9fa1d5cf5328d6.png)
«« "Do me a favour and forget your mouth guard next time. Let the puck punch you in the mouth if I can't." »»
Choi Seungcheol x reader | part of the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios!
Part 1: 19k | Part 2
warnings: Hockey player! Seungcheol, figure skater! reader, *deep breath* ENEMIES TO LOVERS, angst, fluff, smut [MINORS DNI], toxic friends, cheol has anger issues, kkuma appearance, @miniseokminnies makes also makes a fluffy appearance, injuries, mentions of blood, smut tags in the next part
synopsis: Cherry Picking [ice hockey]: a manoeuver in which a player, the floater, literally loafs (spends time in idleness) or casually skates behind the opposing team's unsuspecting defencemen while they are in their attacking zone. There wasn't much you counted on in life; just your skates, your drive and how it felt to win. And of course, your local ice rink, that is now being colonised by an obnoxious hockey team in all their big, loud, stinking glory. Neither does it help that one particular red donned specimen forgets to leave his cherry picking on the ice.
[a/n] (it's a long one but PLEASE read) : ITS HERE FINALLY this was an extremely bumpy ride and I wouldn't have finished it without all of my friends who quite literally kept me going. I know I made an update saying this was gonna end up being 20k max but it turns out my yap-itis is for life </33
the posting schedule for this fic is going to be a little less predictable, I will try to get part 2 out asap but I do not currently have a date for you.
big thank you to @highvern for betaing and making me feel better about this fic, @amourcheol for talking me out of meltdowns multiple times and for giving me some really good scene pointers, @ugh-yoongi for being so patient w me and explaining how ice hockey works with so much patience. ty to @the-boy-meets-evil @tusswrites @lovetaroandtaemin for also proof reading for me 🥹
HUGE thank you to everyone at @camandemstudios who agreed to be part of this collab and being part of the journey as we grow 🫶 please check out the collab masterlist linked above, there's already so many amazing fics posted ready for you to read <33
that being said, I know more about figure skating than I do about hockey, but even so there are defo some inconsistencies in terms of accuracies in this, please bear with me 🫶 remember to reblog or send me an ask telling me your thoughts, id love to hear what you guys think 🥹 masterlist
![Cherry Picker [1]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a6f2f880fe36287662072ef4991a47a4/6c04ec963ffb0d78-99/s500x750/6d5ed7edad84b214806365fdbf3ed9be74b9bbeb.jpg)
“CAN I HELP YOU?”
“I’m sorry,” you gravel out.
“Sorry isn’t gonna give back my hour and thirteen minutes.”
The strap of your gym bag cuts into your bare shoulder where the collar had slipped, the tight threading sure to leave a scratch by the time this is bound to be done. You’d managed to avoid coach Carroll’s morning cornering for a couple months, going above and beyond by showing up to the icy rink before she could even pull up in the parking lot in her blaring red Porsche, let alone before her ten minute meditations in her cream coloured seats.
“There was an accident on the highway. Truck tipped over.”
“It’s eight in the morning,” Carroll points.
“Illegal truck, I guess.”
Teeth to tongue, you know you’ve done it.
She’s in her usual tracksuit, green today, that contrasts her bright red hair in its tight curls. Her glasses are her sensible Ralph Laurens, eyes piercing through the tinted lens as she holds her chin in her hands. Silent, calculating.
“Fine. Change.”
Your legs want to give out before you can even get your skates on.
There were many things Isabella Carroll was good at. The industry would have one of them be a good coach; one of the most expensive, the one that squeezed the life out of her students to inject into the golds, silvers and bronzes they would then bring her on an equally diamond encrusted platter.
She has also mastered the art of impeccable dressing downs.
The fact she chose to skip out on verbally humiliating you meant you’d managed to strike that cord. She might be leaving in the next 45 minutes, but she has a very particular way of stretching the minutes into years.
Like a whipped horse, you scurry into the locker rooms, skin crawling. Your gym bag is positively launched into your designated locker, shoes kicked off as you attempt to stick your right foot into your skates, narrowly missing your heel as it grazes right past the toe pick.
You slow down after that, not needing a scar on your heel to match the large one on the side of your calf.
By the time you jog back out, unzipping your jacket to throw onto one of the benches, coach is on the ice, following Marina who zips around on the other end of the rink in her step routine.
It’s difficult to not rush through your warmups when you’re already late, your splits hardly pushed out as you pray all that running around in the desolate locker rooms was enough to stretch everything out.
There’s a crash on the illuminated ice as you slip off your skate guards, Marina already practising her Salchows. “You’re in the air for enough time, why can’t you rotate?!”
Right blade first, you step into the cold encircling, gliding into the centre to begin making your usual rounds around the circumference.
There’s a positive screech of your name from across the ice, wind blowing in your hair as you turn to look. “Do I need to hire someone to hold up your free leg? Fix it, girl!”
Holding your left leg more taut, you attempt to transition into a jump and spin. You fail, landing on both feet. Somehow, falling on your ass felt like a better conclusion to that arc.
“Wonderfully executed! Let’s try both hands on the ice too next time, really complete the contemporary finish,” coach hollers out to you as she continues to follow Marina at the same time.
Trying again, you manage to land on your outer left blade. You receive no comment.
You try the jump again, pushing into a sit spin.
The momentum is enough to begin the familiar slack in your scalp, your bun loosening its grip on your hair. Biting your tongue would be dangerous right now, but you would if you could, especially considering the ramifications of your hair coming undone in front of her.
The crouch as you spin burns your thighs like you’re being branded, pulling yourself back up as you finish abruptly. Still no comment, the unintelligible string of nagging coming from the other side of the rink.
Marina stands hands on her hips, breathing so heavily she’s nearly heaving. Her blonde hair is loosening far worse than yours, strands framing her face. Coach Carroll waves her hands and shakes her head so quickly you wonder how her glasses haven’t flown off. You didn’t get to see what cardinal sin Marina committed to warrant this reaction, but you feel better knowing she’s exhausted enough to let her insults swim past.
Ten seconds is enough to catch your breath, moving to do something busy enough to avoid another being screamed at across the ice, again.
By the end of the remaining forty five minutes, you realised your punishment was also punishing Marina. Coach Carroll remained tailing Marina as you attempted to do everything that would please her, far away from her. Not a direction, praise or neutral comment in sight or sound, sealed with her always expected retorts.
She leaves without a word, leaving you scrambling to the benches for a seat. Putting your skate guards on is torture, your legs refusing to pull up to reach them. You hardly notice Marina slam down into the seat beside you to mimic you slumped down and head lolled back, eyes closed to the bright ceiling.
“These skates are gonna kill me,” you whine once you’ve caught your breath, unlacing them to inspect the blistering damage.
“They’re brand new, what did you expect?” she retorts, moving to sit up straighter. Of course, you were grappling at straws expecting anything akin to sympathy from Marina.
It was your misfortune that the day you had to break in your skates was the day you’d be late, your heavily bandaged foot still aching as you sit idle.
Your lungs are still burning when you pull yourself back up, knees buckling the absolute slightest bit as you attempt to take the first baby step back onto the ice.
“We need to get back to it,” Marina says, and you have half a mind to bite that you were up before her.
She’s faster at slipping off her skate guards though, and you watch her back as she glides back onto the ice. You follow suit, trailing her as you speak.
“Hey, I’m sorry Carroll was on your ass because of me. My alarm didn’t go off this morning, I overslept.”
She turns to look at you, ghost of a smile on her face. “Time to go old school I guess, I think my brother left behind his old alarm clock from college.”
“I guess—”
“Besides, I needed that. Wouldn’t have known my Salchows were sucky otherwise.”
She doesn’t let you respond and you’re left to watch as she takes off to warm herself back up.
Strange as it was, you’ve found her behaviour simply doesn’t affect you anymore, choosing to take her as she was. She pushed you to be better, to work harder. Even now, as your ankle burns and your hip screams, you brace yourself into another axel entry, trying your hardest to keep up with Marina.
It’s another couple hours when Marina leaves for her second appointment with her personal trainer, leaving you alone.
It’s less crowded now, despite the head count going from two to one, but you appreciate the alleviation as you continue to practise for the rest of the morning. The rink feels more vast and your hip has stopped its incessant aches.
Having finished a run through of your routine without music, you move towards the sound booth to turn on the tail end of your track, skating back to the echoing rink to brace yourself for the next four agonising minutes.
You’ve adjusted your starting position about ten times by the time the silence of the song restarting settles. And then it begins, soft piano as you push yourself off into the throngs of this hellsent routine.
It’s muscle memory by now, but your stomach lurches before you push into a jump anyway. There isn’t much time to ponder when you’re midair, tight yet contorted, trying to land on the right side of the blade. But there’s a phantom pain in your right ankle, right when you’re at the point of your arc, and you feel the all too dreaded panic flood in.
You land on both feet, less than ideal but with no one to watch the fail, it was better than falling on your ass. There’s been worse outcomes, so there’s little you can do but continue into the step sequence.
Trying to shake off that bout of panic, you briefly wonder if the music suddenly had more bass than you’d last checked. Perhaps you just hadn’t been practising like you should, but you make a mental note mid-spin to listen to the track again later tonight for any tidbits you’d missed.
Your heartbeat is trying to accommodate more air than you can let it, especially as you feel the pulse in your ears quicken as you approach your final jump sequence. The music is louder yet muffled all the same, there’s an incessant banging that you can’t figure out is from your head or a corrupted music file. But you find that sweet spot, deciphering through the ruckus in your brain, and you jump.
It happens again, the strange ache in your ankle that should be long gone, and just like that, all that panic you shook off in the interim comes hurtling back. The world’s gone silent, blaringly so, and for some heaven known reason, you’ve closed your eyes.
You aren’t so lucky this time round, landing directly on your back with a spectacular crash, the ice cutting cold through your thermals as you slide in the direction of your epic fall. Eyelids opening, they’re met with the spotlighted ceiling, head cushioned by the hard plane of ice beneath you.
The pain in your ankle’s escaped like a fugitive, done it’s damaged and left you crumpled on the floor. The adrenaline is rushing just enough to keep you from identifying any other awakened aches, but you have a sneaking feeling your hip is going to hate you after this.
You’re still laying flat on the ice when you realise you're laying in mostly silence. Your music is off, and has been since you came to on the floor. The banging, you realise, wasn’t just in your head either. The unmistakable reverberation of the locker rooms is loud and assuming, noises rattling all the way out onto the echoing rink.
It takes the strength of a village to pull yourself up, but you do it anyhow, ignoring the blatant protests of your mind and soul as you squint across the rink to the sound booth.
As you skate towards the gate, you assume it’s Hansol trying to get your attention by disrupting you mid session, but the figure shuffling into view is telling you otherwise.
It isn’t anyone you know, clearer as you grow closer to the gate. It’s obvious he’s the culprit that turned off your music, your laptop shut and the wire to the speakers disconnected from the port.
You stare at it pointedly as you grapple for your skate guards.
The man does nothing but remain with his hands in the pockets of his bright red hoodie, hovering over your laptop as he watches you struggle with your skates. SVT stitched onto the back in black. He’s as blank faced as ever, a stark contrast to your heavy breathing as you come round.
Standing up straight, you dart between your laptop and this person, waiting for an explanation that seems to be lost in the void. You’re still heaving slightly, scowl forming on your face as this strange man offers you nothing.
“Um, did you—”
“Yeah. It’s four,” he responds, like it was supposed to explain enough.
“And that means…?”
“We have the rink reserved.”
“But it’s Monday,” you respond. It sounds stupid, but it meant something. The rink was reserved on the weekdays for coach Carroll’s mentees, the weekends for the public.
This man and his big brown eyes gaze directly into your soul as he responds, “And that means…?”
You’re sweaty and tired, your feet ache with about five new blisters from the last time you checked, and you’re sure you need to get your hip checked out. Perhaps that’s why there’s this unreasonable surge of irritation that rises in the back of your head, irrational and half blinding.
“That means—”
“Seungcheol! Get your ass in the locker room before I drag you in there myself.” The voice that rings out is heavy and has you flinching, the man’s order echoing from somewhere in the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.
The man you assume is named Seungcheol begins to walk away from you without a word or gesture, and you can only blink at his retreating back.
“Hey! Do you mind not touching my stuff next time round?” you call out as a last ditch attempt to have the last word. He turns his head to you, eyebrows raised and a smirk of mild disbelief growing on his face. Nothing is said as his head turns back to the front, strutting into the tunnel.
He lets you have your last word as he walks away, your gaze the same shade of crimson as his retreating form.
“AND THEN—THESE—HUGE dudes with fucking botox or fillers in their shoulders storm out—”
Your vent is interrupted by Lorelai who’s burst out laughing mid bite of her sandwich, “What?”
“Botox!” she muffles a shriek through a full mouth.
“They were shoulder pads or something, you get it!”
The air in the outside seating of this cafe is stellar, the perfect in between you wait for all year. The parasol above you is enough so you don’t have to squint your eyes in the late afternoon sun, the wind perfectly paced in a breeze. Your own sandwich remains untouched, the bread gone stale as you pick at the corner of the crust.
“Apologies,” she yips. “So you're saying we’re being partially colonised by hockey players?”
“I don’t know! Was it a one time thing, a weekly thing? It can’t be a weekly thing, Monday afternoons are routine practice days.”
“The routine you’ve been practising for the past year and a half?”
“I can’t afford getting rusty.”
Lorelai drops her head like she’s had enough, “Maybe these hockey jocks are a blessing.”
“What?”
“Nothing! Hey, do you want cake, they have cheesecake, I could get some!”
“Lorry!”
“Okay,” she huffs, dropping back into her seat with blown cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
Lorelai has a sense of humour that took you more than enough time to decipher, but that wasn’t nearly the first thing you noticed about her. She was beautiful, even more so with the sun gracing her like a loving embrace. The highlights in her otherwise dark hair make the hazel of her eyes pop like two perfectly welcoming cliffs to jump off from. She was the definition of spunk and valour, yet graceful in everything she does. Even now, as she picks up her smoked turkey on honey oat, complete with every fixing and condiment on earth, you question how she can wrench her mouth open to take a reasonable bite; but she does, not a crumb out of place.
“I have to share a rink with dudes whose hockey sticks are gonna make craters in the ice, why are you not mourning with me?”
“Pretty sure your toe picks do the same thing.”
“Lorelai!”
“Not the government name!” she wails as though woefully wounded.
“You’re impossible.”
“Carroll didn’t hate me for no reason.” She smiles in her pride.
Lorelai’s competitive skating career came to an end sometime last year before the Grand Prix, a decision she announced gracefully with the words BITE ME etched with sharpie on her brand new competition skates. It was difficult to erase the mental image of the scarlet of Carrol’s face when Lorelai marched in with her hair chopped so short it’d be impossible to pull into a bun, marked skates in hand and a mask of determined rebellion on her face. Of course, the whole ordeal could’ve been an email, but it simply wouldn’t have been Lorelai.
“It’s not like you were trying very hard to please her,” you grumble, nibbling on a fry.
“Why would I try pleasing that woman?”
“For one thing, your sponsors were paying a bucketload so you could have her.”
“I didn’t want Carroll as a coach. Ever. I wanted Jameson. The only reason they put me with Carroll was because they were putting you and Marina with her.” Her voice is hard, eyebrows raised the slightest bit.
“What does Jameson offer that Carroll doesn’t?!”
“Oh! I don’t know, let’s see,” she raises her voice as her sarcasm begins to simmer with a lethal edge. “Maybe the fact that an hour training with Jameson doesn’t feel like the subjected wrath of a world war two dictator!”
“Carroll is not that bad!”
“God, you become more like Marina everyday.”
You frown, “What does that mean?”
“It means—!” Lorelai pauses to close her eyes, and you can almost hear her counting in her head. “It means nothing. Eat your sandwich before the bread starts molding.”
“Ew.”
Lorelai smirks. “Bite me.”
You attempt to channel some of that Lorelai energy when you get to the rink past noon on a weekday. You hope you’re reasonable in your hope that Hansol will be in his office as you walk towards the door.
Three rapt knocks before you hear a muffled voice telling you to come in. The door creaks when you open it. Loudly, might you add.
“How long is it gonna sing every time I come in here?” you grimace.
Hansol looks at you from behind his laptop with a tight smile. “For as long as I keep forgetting to oil the hinges.”
Hansol, for as young and qualified as he is, is only the rink manager because his family owns the place. Having graduated the year before with a shiny new law degree, he opted to take a break from moving forward with his career to “slow down” as he put it. The rink was as slow as it could get for him, betting the only important thing on his laptop screen currently was solitaire.
“Did you also forget that I have the rink during the day on weekdays?
“Ah. You’ve encountered the hockey team.”
“Yes. They turned off my music mid routine.”
“They're only here till the renovations in their home rink are done, we’re the only other rink in town that’s closed to the public on weekdays.”
“But they’re cutting into my practice time?” you add, brows furrowed.
Hansol opens his mouth before closing it again, eyebrows raised. “You clock in here five days a week, ten hours a day.”
“And?”
Hansol huffs out a breath. “Listen, I know you and the other skaters like having the rink to yourselves, and I’d be happy if it was always just you guys. Trust me, these jocks are impossible to clean up after, let alone deal with. Between the launch pad calibre noise and the stupid plastic barriers I have to put up on the railings, I’d love for it to just be you guys. But the only times you officially have the rinks booked is in the mornings when you’re training with coach Carrol, the rest of the week is technically up for grabs.”
“Let me book the rest of the slots then.”
“SVT’s already booked most of the remaining hours.” Hansol’s voice is sympathetic, but his words seemed final. You aren’t sure how bad your face was contorted, because suddenly he’s adding, “But hey, you can look at the leftover hours if they work for you.”
He pulls out the roster on a tablet before handing it to you. It only takes you a minute to scroll before you realise the only viable options were past 10 PM. The rink closed at 11.
You sigh, shoulders visibly sagging as you let out a bated breath of tension. “It’s fine.” You hand the tablet back to Hansol. “I’ll figure it out.”
Turning on your heel, you make a move to leave the premises. Hansol calls out your name.
“I’m sorry. Really.”
You muster a smile, one that you cannot feel the slightest bit. “It’s alright.”
“Only a few months.”
Something in your smile sours, and you nod absentmindedly. “Only a few months.”
THERE WERE OTHER WAYS the universe could have let it happen, someplace where you might have forgiven yourself. Someplace you had reason to be.
You were accustomed to physical exertion, how could you not be when you were what you were, but hiking on an incline was never something you fancied yourself with. Gyms and coaches and paved running trails are nothing like rocky terrains and steep mountain paths with no guide but a mobile map.
The semi finals had passed you by, handing you a gold medal along the way as you thrust yourself into bliss. It was a job well done, so much so that you allowed yourself a weekend of something other than skating rinks and training sessions. So many nights that you can hardly remember, yet flash like lightning under your eyelids. Where you sobbed into your pillow and cursed yourself for ever having the gall to take a step back, to be so arrogant and blustering to announce yourself away from the thing that should’ve mattered the most.
It only took one tiny crater in the path to twist your ankle so hard you crumple to the ground with a scream you cannot remember. More hands than you have holding on to your searing ankle, like they were holding it together with nothing but their palms and fingers. Lorelai was talking, and talking and talking, but all you could hear was the roaring question in your mind.
Why did you bring me here?
Six weeks.
You watched with your own eyes as the Grand Prix final shuttered away on a reel, like you were watching a movie from an age you could not visit.
Six weeks.
Marina sat beside your bed and said words you’d never forget.
“I’m sorry, but…this is your own fault.”
Six weeks.
Lorelai wept, and said the same words for an entirely different reason.
“I’m sorry. This is my fault, it was my idea.”
Six weeks.
Carroll kept face, but you could see past the mask. A sigh that said more than any words of reassurance. Disappointed but not surprised.
Six weeks you were bedridden with an ankle that refused to support your weight on the surface area of your bare foot, let alone on the 3/16th of an inch on a blade.
Bedrest, meds, physical therapy, and still. The ache in your ankle follows you like a ghost haunting you of your worst mistake.
It was your fault. You chose to put whimsy above everything you laboured for, for years and years. You chose to look past your shortcomings like they would not become your achilles heel. You chose to get on that trail. You chose to walk out on crutches.
You, who could land a jump on a fraction of an inch of steel, could now barely stand on her own two feet.
You’d decided on that day, that you were as pathetic as they come.
IT WAS THE MOST natural decision to drag Lorelai out of where she rotted in bed to come with you to the rink.
“You want me to fight them?” She’s wearing her Winnie the Pooh fuzzy pyjama pants and a university hoodie on top, her short hair concealed in the hood she’s pulled up. “They are hockey players. We are twigs!”
“Lorry. Have you ever thrown a punch in your life?” you ask her as you pull your hair back into a loose bind.
“No?”
“Then why on earth would I ask you to fight goblins triple our size?”
Her mouth is gaping in disbelief. “Why am I here then?”
“You,” you start, grabbing your skates and moving out of the locker rooms. “Are gonna sit pretty in that sound booth and make sure nobody touches my laptop.”
“…you realise Hansol has security cameras right?”
“Are you planning on robbing my laptop?”
“No. Although it does have nice specs.”
You ignore her as you walk towards the benches. “That stupid hockey team needs to know I have reinforcements of my own.”
Lorelai stands there, brows furrowed and in clothes that drown her. She glances down at her outfit and then back up at you. She deadpans, “This is the most unthreatening I have ever looked.”
“Just—” You stand up too quickly and feel yourself wobble. The railing is hardly a foot away, your hand moving over to grab it. Except your palms feel nothing but the flat of something smooth and hard, fingers bumping into the feeling of something unfamiliar.
You manage to find your balance with a yelp, immediately snapping up to see where you missed the railing. The railing was still there, perfectly within arms reach. There’s a glare in your vision, like looking through a screen. Higher and higher, you realise quickly that you’ve been looking through a clear barrier so high up you can hardly find where it ends in its erect standing.
Lorelai speaks up first, her voice resonating loudly, “Isn’t that supposed to be on the other side of the railing. Stupid, stupid Hansol.”
It looks like it stretches throughout the circumference of the rink, wrapping whoever’s inside in a giant plastic fish bowl.
There’s a clench in your jaw you can’t control, something a little more than annoyance building in your senses. It should be an easy thing to ignore, especially regarding its practically invisible nature, but its presence is all you can think about, even as you step your right blade onto the ice.
Skating towards the middle of the rink, you feel claustrophobic.
“Woah! You look like a zoo animal,” Lorealai adds unnecessarily.
“Just play the track,” you grumble.
“There should be a don’t tap on the glass sign,” she says, voice muffled as yells from the benches. “You already look like a weasel, can’t have confused people in the stands.”
“Lorry!”
“What?” she yells, her voice muffled as she yells from the benches.
You curse the plastic that cages you as you yell louder, “Play the track!”
Lorelai nods and makes a noise of understanding, and you watch her as she disappears into the sound booth.
Taking your starting position, you wait for the quiet lull of the track before the beginning of the unmistakable piano; the low tremor in the beginning existing to prepare you to jump into the routine. You stand there with your arms out like a swan, waiting for your cue that won't seem to arrive.
You almost yell out at Lorelai again before you suddenly hear the resonating shrill of the piano notes, startling yourself out of your first push. It’s fine, you’ll recover. You’re distracted by your staggered start and it’s enough to have you miss your first jump. It’s fine. You’ll recover.
By the time the four minutes are up, you’ve missed two of your five jumps, a spin gone wrong, and nearly crashed into the plastic barrier. Not to mention, the aches in your body are enough to seem impossible to geographically pinpoint.
It’s pointed, the way you make a beeline for the benches, refusing to look at Lorelai. You can almost imagine her expression, the poker face she has when she’s trying to think of ways to structure her next words nicely.
“What was that?” she deadpans, voice a little far away. Your body hurts enough to take your focus away from her.
“I don’t know.”
“I thought your ankle was fine now?” she asks.
You grit your teeth. “It is.” Lies. The way it was hurting you right now was making sure to remind you of that.
“You know, you did pick back up a lot earlier than we thought—”
“I said I’m fine, Lorry,” you snap. “Now can you please play the track again.”
You finally look up, and she looks like she wants to say something. But you’re on the ice before she can.
You adapt to the excess muffle of the plastic barriers, ears straining to hear the beginning of the piano before you jump into the choreography smoother than last time. This time round, it’s better. The pain in your ankle and the budding one in your hip is apparent, but it’s suddenly easier to drown it out. Focusing on the music, keeping your centre of gravity, pushing into your jumps and spins with enough vigour to hold to what you are.
Another four minutes pass and it’s over. Immediately, you swing over to the soundbooth to find Lorelai, only to find her joined by an extra set of people.
Impossibly, your blood runs cold.
There’s a sneaking suspicion you know who it is despite the two men having their backs turned to you, especially judging by the obnoxious red jackets they have on. SVT. You can hear Lorelai speak indecipherably, her voice stern.
“And you are?” one of them asks. You don’t recognise him, but you do the other one. The one who turned your music off the first day him and his team stepped foot in here.
“Lorelai!” she yells it for no reason.
“Gilmore?” The one you recognise snorts. Seungcheol, that’s what they called him the last time you saw him in the sound booth.
“I’m worse,” she states.
“Lorry?” you interrupt, arms crossed and gaze directed at her.
“Lorry?” The one you don’t recognise says. “Like a truck?”
“You think you’re funny?” Lorelai takes a step towards him, a fair attempt to look threatening if it weren’t for her very unthreatening attire.
“Oh look at her pyjamas! It’s Pooh bear, Cheol,” he exclaims. That seems to irritate him.
“Can you replay the track, please, I have to smooth things over,” you intervene. In your mind, ignoring their presence in your space was the best solution, refusing to give them a way to merge into your lane.
“Woah, we have the rink booked today,” Seungcheol stops you. “4:30.”
Snapping around to find the clock on the adjacent wall, you read the time. “4:17. You can wait.”
He raises his eyebrows. “And thirteen minutes makes what difference?”
“You said 4:30. It is not 4:30 yet.”
The other one thumps him on the back, all smiles. “We can wait, right, Cheol? Besides, we have to put our skates on.”
His gaze is hard and doesn’t leave yours. “Fine.”
You break away first to find Lorelai still in the same position, staring at the exchange. You ignore the two men that stand there and address her, “Play the track.”
Before the music begins, you glance back to the benches where the two men have seated themselves, apparently strapping in to watch you. You dig your nails into your palm to reign yourself back in. No point in getting upset.
The piano begins, and you're determined to not mess up. Especially not right now.
It goes well for all of 45 seconds, you're hitting the right beats, you feel like water. But then the first jump comes along and you see a flash of red from the stands. An irrational feeling hits you as you push into the first jump, it’s enough to make you stumble when you land. You manage to not fall, but it’s obvious you’ve messed up.
Somewhere beyond the music you hear a distinct, “Solid 4!”
It distracts you again, and you miss a move. Somehow your second jump ends up worse, and you feel your bottom hit the hard ice.
“8 point 5! Nice!”
It doesn’t take long for you to realise what they’re doing, anger crashing into you like a flash flood. Scoring your falls? You’re determined to make the next jump combination. You make it fine, but your quad Salchow turns into a triple. The oafs are too shallow to notice, so you hear no jeer.
But you know that you messed up the only quad in your entire program.
The last jump goes from a triple axel to a double, and you want to break something.
The song ends, and you know you have another nine minutes left to yourself, but all you can think about is getting out of the vicinity as soon as possible. Away from all of the eyes that are trained on your hunched form.
There’s nothing you know about Seungcheol, and yet, the thought of him even looking at you right now is unbearable. Twice you fell, countless times you failed.
Lorelai says nothing while you pack up, and nothing as you leave the rink.
“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL, CENTER,” LORELAI reads aloud from your bed with her mouth still full of salt ‘n vinegar chips.
“Perfect, he already thinks he’s the center of the universe,” you grumble from your position on the floor of the bedroom. Your foam roller feels like heaven under your calves, but the position is beginning to cramp.
“Surprised you haven’t heard of him, he’s half a celebrity.”
You turn to her, “I have two gold medals and five podiums for every major skating event.”
“Do I ask for your autograph?”
“He’s not special.”
“Hm. His skill and popularity would beg to differ.”
“Why are you so hellbent on liking him?”
“Because he’s cute,” she grins wide. “Although the other one was cuter, very angel-like. And he liked my Pooh Bear trousers. Can’t find his name on the team roster though.”
“He was wearing the same stupid jacket—”
You’re cut off by a gasp, a loud one at that. “He coaches the babies!”
Her face is contorted into something between an “aw” and a sob.
Lorelai’s phone is dropped dramatically on the bed as she thrashes on your made (now unmade) bed. You swipe the phone and read. His picture is there, the name Yoon Jeonghan, Junior League Coach.
“Good for him.”
“He just got five times hotter,” she states like she’s out of breath.
“Give it another meeting and he’ll give you five other reasons to hate him.”
“God, you’re so negative,” she huffs.
“They’re hogging my rink!”
“It is not your rink.”
“It’s as good as!”
“Whatever.” Lorelai rolls her eyes and sets back on the bed, no doubt searching the man up by name.
“Ow!” you yelp as you stand up from the ground, ankle twisting slightly in the process.
Lorelai jumps. “What?”
“Nothing,” you mumble quickly, hoping she’d drop it. But she catches your lingering stare on your bad ankle.
“It’s still hurting, isn’t it?”
“I just twisted it weird,” you defend, walking to pack up your foam rollers.
You’re met with silence, but you know she’s thinking. Lorelai speaks, “Maybe you should skip out on the shelter today.”
You snort, “Why would I do that?”
Once, sometimes twice a week, you’d volunteer at the local pet shelter. It wasn’t hard work, mostly taking the bigger, more energetic dogs for their runs because it seemed you were the only one who could keep up with their stamina. And now Lorelai is trying to take that away from you.
“I saw how you struggled at the rink today, there’s not a day you don’t rest. Like, actually rest.”
“That has nothing to do with me struggling!” you retort.
“What is it then?” she asks, sitting up straighter, defiance in her gaze. “What is it that’s making you skate like you bought your first pair yesterday?”
The irritation is growing into something hotter, her defiance pushing you into a corner.
“I know what you want to hear from me.” Your voice is shaky. “I’m not going to say it.”
“Because it’s not true? Or because you’ve been convinced it’s not?”
You know what she’s talking about, and you know you’ve been avoiding the topic like it’s the plague. The ache in your ankle comes alive, and in that moment, you cannot tell if you’re imagining it or not.
“Convinced by who?” you snap, shoving the box of foam rollers under your desk.
“Does that have to come from me too?”
“Lorry, I don’t know what you want from me!”
“I—”
There’s a knock on your door, loud and demanding. Wrenching it open, you find Marina behind it.
She has a frown on her face. “You’re still here? I thought you were running with the dogs today?”
“It’s none of your business if she goes or not, Marina.” Lorelai’s tongue drips with venom most commonly reserved for her most hated people.
Marina, still in her workout clothes and duffel bag, furrows her eyebrows. “Who shoved a pole up your ass?”
“I’m leaving in five,” you hiss, before making a motion to close the door.
When you turn around, Lorelai is still on your bed, hands in fists like she’s holding herself back. There’s more behind her eyes than you could even consider unravelling.
She leaves before you.
THE ENTIRE WAY TO the rink was just one constant string of prayer.
All of them go unanswered when you walk in to find the rink full of hockey players in red and black gear.
The only thing you can do is curse under your breath, only watching frozen in your tracks as a million players skate across the rink passing and yelling at each other. No one you recognise, their helmets and gear eluding any semblance of individuality.
Where you stand, a little ways away from the plastic screen and the benches, a dark circular puck suddenly slams directly into the boundary at eye level. On instinct, you flinch at the loud bang, half expecting to get hit.
When you open your eyes, somebody’s skating up to the boundary, and you lock eyes through the cage of his helmet.
Your blood is suddenly charged with something electric, fingers curling into fists on instinct.
Suddenly, all that rings in your ears is the distinct jeers of numbers over the muffle of plastic as you continue to fall, and fall, and fall on the cold, unforgiving ice. The amusement in your failure, the joy in your defeat.
Spinning on your heel, you stalk to Hansol’s office.
In your blinding anger, you take a wrong turn, looking up to realise you’ve walked into the locker rooms. You’re one step into the men's locker room when you come back to your senses, startling yourself once again as you spin back from where you came, only you’ve been caught.
For all the luck you’ve received in this life, it seems to opt out at that exact moment as you hear the unmistakable noise of a herd of ogres walking in, the glare of red on the walls surrounding them. Frozen in your spot, you can only grip the straps of your duffel bag harder, tense up like you were preparing for impact. When they turn the corner, the brilliant idea of simply walking towards the women’s locker rooms befalls you. But it’s too late.
Seungcheol saunters into the hallway, leading the pack.
His helmet is in his hands instead of on his head, revealing a sopping mop of hair drenched in what you can only imagine is sweat. He’s laughing at his teammate who’s making futile attempts to escape his own helmet, not noticing you in the way.
Until he does. His smile fades immediately, eyebrows raised as he registers you in the doorway. You feel his gaze on you for a few silent moments, his teammates shushing at the shift in the air. Seungcheol opens his mouth, and you already know all that’s going to leave it is dung. “Didn’t realise the rink had a vacancy. Do I need to show you my ID to take a shower?”
A rustle of chortles and chuckles flitter from the group. “Go ahead. I don’t need an ID to tell you need a shower.”
Somebody ooh’s, despite it not being your best work. You suppose it was your delivery that did it. Deciding to continue riding that high, you simply turn towards the women’s locker rooms, refusing to give Seungcheol the luxury of your eyes on him.
Hurtling into the women’s locker room, you throw your duffel bag somewhere you’ll regret and crumple into one of the seats. You count to ten, attempting to take the image of Seungcheol out of your brain.
It was difficult to rile you up to this extent, a trait you needed to possess if you were to be coached by Carroll in any capacity. There was so much you heard from her mouth, swallowing it like a prescribed pill and nothing more. Take what you were given, because it was given by the best, bought for you by the best.
Yet for some reason, Seungcheol manages to irk you in ways you previously have never encountered. Irritating people come and go, but you doubt you could place him as something as simple as just irritating. His presence felt like an intrusion, his air was thick like a concentrated gas. Everything he’s said to you so far has come from nothing but disdain and condescension, his haughty personality the only takeaway when he enters a room.
You’re still in your outdoor shoes and jacket by the time twenty minutes are over, coming to a conclusion as you get up from the empty, soulless locker room. Hansol is in his office when you make the formality knock before barging in. His head is on the desk, like he’s asleep. It takes him a second, by he lifts his forehead from the papers on the tabletop to regard you at the door. You hear him sigh.
“The hockey team’s done. It’s two.”
“I wanna book a slot.”
“The rink’s empty you don’t—”
“Let me book the slot, Hansol.”
“For fuck’s sake, you’re turning out worse than those baboons,” he curses before setting his forehead back onto the table. “Write it on the sticky note, I’ll put it in the schedule.”
“Now. I wanna book a slot for right now,” you grit.
Hansol whips his head up again, eyes wide like he’s holding himself back, nodding furiously as he pulls his keyboard towards himself with an unnecessarily aggressive tug. “Fine. 2:16 till closing. Enter. Print. Here.”
He hands you the printed receipt of your slot, ripping it from the printer tray as he does it. You take it from him in the same vigour, hardly a thank you as you spin on your heels and walk out the door. You stop for a minute, turning back around to yell into the office.
“Go home if you’re just gonna nap on your desk!”
Not waiting for a response, you stalk towards the locker rooms. Within minutes you’ve tugged on your skates, laptop and shoes in each hand as you emerge out the tunnel to the rink.
The ice is empty, mostly. Placing your laptop in the sound booth and your shoes under the benches, you step foot on the ice. They’re there, on the other end, sitting on the cold ice with their jerseys still on, eating what looks like cups of dippin dots.
Seungcheol and Jeonghan, you remember from Lorelai’s squealing, either don’t notice you on the ice, or simply choose not to. Because it’s easy as you skate up to them, gaining speed from across the rink, you slide to a stop, sending a perfect spray of ice from your skates, directly into their ice cream cups.
Seungcheol’s full spoon hangs mid air, halfway to his mouth, now garnished with ice shavings.
“Thought you’d have the respect to keep the dippin dots out of this,” Jeonghan comments, disbelief in his eyes as he looks up at you.
“Ice is booked.”
“What time?” Seungcheol asks. Your gaze flickers to the left side of his face, a nasty bruise blooming purple and blue that you hadn’t noticed before.
“2:16. It’s nearly fifteen minutes past.”
“You’re only one person.” He’s significantly more annoyed than when you saw him outside the locker rooms just minutes ago.
“And?”
“And…you have about 97% of the rink to yourself.”
You raise your brows, hands on your hips. “But I booked 100% of it. So I’m gonna need that plane of ice you’re currently sitting on.”
“What if I don’t move?” Seungcheol presses. It’s menacing, the way he looks at you, like he’s a lion only waiting to be provoked. Maybe he’s already halfway there, because it sure looks like it.
“We’ll find out another day,” Jeonghan sings before you can snap back, grabbing onto the collar of Seungcheol’s red and white jersey to yank him up. He continues to glare as he obliges with his friend’s tugs, nearly as angry as you are. “Let’s go, sport.”
You watch as they walk to the exit of the ice, realising they’re wearing their shoes instead of their skates.
Jeonghan calls from the benches, right before he and Seungcheol move out of view. “Trash those for us, would you?”
Their half eaten dippin dots cups, with the ice now melting on them remains on the floor of the rink. Once again, the unexplainable urge to kick something befalls you, hearing them laugh and talk from far away as they exit the rink behind their long gone teammates.
You give in, swinging a leg over to kick the cups and spoons, dippin dots and plastic scattering across the ice. It’s another sprawl of mess you’ll have to clean up, but it feels good to ruin something of his, no matter how inconsequential. The empty rink encourages you, needing to scream so loud the plastic barriers crack and break. You know it’s impossible, but that doesn’t stop the urge.
You channel it into the most aggressive warmups on ice you’ve ever done. Your spins are faster, your jumps higher. But this also means you crash heavier, fall harder. It’s then, sitting on the bench to take a break, breathing so heavy you can hardly sip your water, you find an unmistakable headline on your browser home page.
Everything stops.
!HOT TOPIC!
SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here!
!HOT TOPIC!
SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here!
Choi Seungcheol’s seat for next season at risk? Insider reports that the hot headed center may be at risk of contract termination due to recent controversy. The hockey player, renowned for his aggressive playing tendencies, seems to be taking his temperament outside of the rink. Multiple games played by SVT have been subject to eventful halves and quarters, the center seen getting violent in the benches with opposing team members, and sometimes even team members of his own! While his short temper has always been a recurring subject in the news, his skills as a player have always remained top notch—we do wonder if he even has to try! The tables seem to turn a little differently this time around, because it looks that SVT higher ups have been fed up with the increasing reports of Choi’s aggressive behaviour. Insider sources report that talks of a contract termination may be coming into order. While he has proven to be an effective player on the ice, it seems as though it won’t be saving him from this particular ramification!
Stay tuned, hockey fanatics, as we bring you more updates on Choi’s sticky situation!
BEFORE EVERYTHING, BEFORE YOUR ankle, before it began to feel like your world was crumbling at your feet, came the scar on your leg.
In hindsight, it feels like it was the very thing that set the ball rolling, the beginning of your demise.
Coach Carroll was only on her first handful of sessions with you, Lorelai and Marina, all of you still learning her quirks and expectations as a coach.
It happened when you were on the sidelines, hanging over the boundary as Lorelai handed you a water bottle from the benches. Marina was practicing her routine, taking up most of the ice as Coach followed on the side. It seemed unclear, to this day, whether you’d drifted inwards on the ice as you sipped from the bottle, unaware. But when you felt the hot searing pain in your calf, there were only two people on the scene.
Marina skated past, her free leg in the air, meeting your calf as she skated past, effectively slicing into your leg in a deep gash. Blood was wiped off the ice, your leg bandaged and wrapped. Not without Coach and her comments, of course.
You heard her berate Marina from the other room, for moving closer to the boundary than what was required for her routine, heard the way she gave her the blame. And then she round up on you.
“Idiot! No reason to be on the ice when you aren’t practicing, did you want it to be your ankles too?!”
It was the first time you realised that Carroll was beyond your perception of the word demanding, her gaze remained in a high place, no regard for what it took to get there. Even if it meant destroying her skaters.
Marina apologised. “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t see you there, I would’ve dropped my leg—”
“It’s okay, Marina. Really,” you smiled through the still aching wound. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
She smiled a little too, “Lesson learned, I guess. Don’t loiter on the ice.”
It was difficult to keep the smile from fading as you heard her say that.
“What shit apology is that?!” Lorelai yelled as soon as you mentioned it to her later. You cringe as you realise what slipped, and to whom it slipped to.
“It’s the best I’m gonna get from her, Lorry. Honestly, I don’t care.”
“You’re out of service for a week till that slice heals and that’s all she has to give you?”
Lorelai is breathing heavily, mostly because she’s been practicing her triple axels for her routine, but also because she’s extensively heated for you. You watch her from the benches.
“Lorry,” you sigh.
“Listen, I wanna win too but—”
“Are you trying to say she did it on purpose?” you ask.
“No! Let me finish, woman,” she snaps. “I wanna win, you wanna win. We’re doing everything we can because we want to win—”
“So this was a subconscious attack?” you interject.
“Fuck this, I’m leaving,” Lorelai begins to skate backwards and away, leaving you on the bench.
“NO! Wait, okay, I’m sorry I won’t interrupt.”
“Too late.”
“Lorry! Lorelai!”
It wasn’t until you were back in your shared apartment, Marina out doing whatever while Lorelai hijacked your bed that she got to finish her sentence. She was rubbing ointment on a bruise while you changed the bandage on your calf.
“Her need to win is ruining her. And it’s like she’s taking us down with her. I know she doesn’t mean it like that, doesn’t want to hurt us. But she thinks this kind of hurt is good, if it’s the kind of hurt that pushes you to win.”
You cringed at the sight of the wound, still red and ugly.
“She might not have meant to hurt your leg, but—don’t loiter on the ice? Really?”
“She only meant it as a reminder.”
“Exactly! You don’t need that reminder because I think you’ve learned better than anyone else to not stay on the rink when someone is practising. A couple weeks ago she made some stupid comment because I left the gym early. Nothing inherently rude, she’s never actually rude. But it was pointed anyway. I’ve been up since six in the morning I think I deserve slacking off a little, it was nearly midnight for fuck’s sake!”
Cleaning the wound was taking everything you had, the need to hiss at the contact of the wet cloth was near abominable.
“Her…her perception’s a little warped. But her heart’s in the right place!”
Lorelai had rolled her eyes, screwing the cap of her ointment tube back on with unnecessary force. “I never said it wasn’t, just—stop defending her! I’m sorry but half the reason she continues to act like this is because you listen to her.”
At that moment, you felt a little offended. Of course, Marina had her moments where she’d say something a little less than healthy, especially coming from a friend. But you’d always thought you handled it better than most.
You met Marina when you were still only splotchy faced preteens, during a competition where she came second and you came third. She’d been skating for longer, so it was expected, but you also couldn’t conceal your surprise when you’d found the state of her later on. You were ecstatic simply because you managed to make it to the podium, but it seemed Marina’s tears held another thought process for her.
You found her crying in the locker rooms later on, her coach who looked like she…should’ve been comforting her, but it was more like a stern talking to, to suck it up and work harder next time round.
When you tried to help her, out came words you felt oh so strange coming from a stranger. “What do you know? You came third!”
It hurt. Possibly the first genuine stab of the feeling you’d ever felt. In the following weeks, when Marina apologised and you’d begun to build a friendship, you felt something peculiar. Practice sessions on the ice became harder, your two hour sessions were suddenly extending to four, sometimes five hours a day. All of it, your own doing.
It was subconscious when it was happening, the silent tug of You came third! What you first considered an achievement became an intermediate step.
If there was anywhere that you’d pinpoint the shift, from when figure skating went from fun to a responsibility, you’d pick that exact moment. When someone congratulated you later on, it wasn’t a big smile and a thank you.
“I only came third.”
Your calf healed and all that was left was a scar, but there in the discolouration of your skin, also lay a realisation.
SEUNGCHEOL HOSTS ABSOLUTELY ZERO thoughts in his mind as he shoves the collar of his hoodie over his head. Slamming the door shut on the rest of his red SVT paraphernalia, he makes quick work of his hair, shoes on and out the door within the minute. Jeonghan is still fast asleep when he leaves, mouth open and drooling onto his pillow when Seungcheol walks into his room to let him know he’s leaving.
Jeonghan might tag along to practice for the fun of it despite leaving his competitive hockey career behind him, but his distaste for 6 AM practice remains forever unchanged. He’d see him later though, on the rink lingering once the sun is higher in the sky and Jeonghan deems it less of a sin to be awake.
Seungcheol leaves without a response from his friend.
By the time he gets to the rink, most of the team has already geared up. The locker room is splotched with red, moving towards the back of the room to get to his own locker. They weren’t assigned, but he liked to have his claim. He had one in the old rink, the one locker everyone knew was his. And now he has one here, despite the temporary nature of the ordeal. The rest of the boys know to steer clear, as does he for the others who have their lucky spots.
Mingyu bumps into his shoulder when Seungcheol is looking down, immediately whipping around to bow a full ninety degrees. He’s laughing as he apologises, not really sorry, but Seungcheol is too exhausted to humour him too much.
He’d been up playing games all night, under the covers in the dark, his phone brightness up too high and his eyes too wide open. He could feel the regret when his alarm blared while it was still dark outside, his eyelids stuck together, refusing to open. It cost him fifteen minutes of warming up, but he’d make it somehow.
Seungcheol can hear coach Mason’s booming voice from outside, moving closer and closer to hustle the rest of the boys out onto the rink. He shoves his foot into his skates, making sure all that’s left is to lace them up.
“Look alive, boys! I want you on the ice within the minute,” he booms into the locker room.
Seungcheol doesn’t look up. When he gets up to leave the locker rooms, his hockey stick and helmet in hand, he’s the last straggling few to leave. Chan earns himself a hard thump on the back from Coach as he scurries out.
There’s a hand on Seungcheol’s chest as he’s about to exit, Coach stopping him from leaving.
He looks up, expecting a hard look from Mason, ready to hear a mildly violent threat about being late to call time again. Except Seungcheol finds him with his own gaze on the floor.
“Rink manager said I could use his office. We should talk there.”
Seungcheol could’ve said he knows what this was going to be about. The game last weekend had less than ideal results, not because they didn’t win, but more so because of the WWE level brawl that went down in the benches during one of the intermissions.
He tenses, but it was more like he was squaring up. His shoulders are hard, his grip on his hockey stick tighter. Of course, he wasn’t about to swing at his coach, but one could say it was simply a subconscious response.
The entire walk to the office, Seungcheol thinks of new ways Coach could address his issue. But the gist was always simple.
Choi, stop fucking fighting.
He’d usually just rip Seungcheol a new one in front of the boys, berate him and verbally throttle him in the hopes that he’d keep his anger under check. But as they turn towards the door to the office, Seungcheol has to remind himself that this was a first. Being led aside, like he was being led into some formal meeting.
A plea deal, perhaps?
Choi, what is it going to take?
The office is barren, hardly looks like it’s used with how sparse the equipment is. The amount of dark brown gives it enough warmth to not make it look like some sick form of solitary confinement. That doesn't stop Seungcheol from feeling a hint of pity for whoever has to work here. There’s no nameplate.
Coach doesn’t take a seat, opting to lean against the table in front of him instead. His arms are folded, and he’s not looking him in the eye. A crawl of suspicion creeps up Seungcheol’s neck, as though in an attempt to ambush him.
It’s silent in the room as he waits for Coach to speak, refusing to be the one to break it.
When he does speak, it’s not in his usual Coach voice. Without the built in bass and tremors he was born with.
“There’s no easy way to break this,” he starts, eyes drifting up to somewhere on the barren walls. “But I’m gonna try my darndest.”
Finally, he feels Coach’s gaze lock with Seungcheol’s expecting pair.
“They wanna drop you.”
“What?”
Coach squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s recalibrating. “Your contract is up by the end of the season. And the tie wearers and the shoe shiners don't wanna re-sign you.”
Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean don’t wanna re-sign me, on what grounds?!”
“You’re temperament—”
“I’ve scored at least two goals for every game you’ve put me in, I’m your most consistent player!”
“They have no qualms with you when you’re on the ice.”
Seungcheol knows where this is going. He knows what knocked up alley this is turning to and he hates it. “Which is all that should matter.”
“In most cases.”
“Is this about last weekend? You didn’t hear him, he deserved more than a broken fucking nose—”
“I didn’t need to hear him, because I know. I know he’s a jackass, I know they’re all jackasses! They know that too. You need to learn to let things go, let them chirp—”
“He was coming on to my mother!” Seungcheol bellows, now properly angry. He remembers the guy’s name, Jason or something.
“His coach came onto my entire bloodline when we were young, this is Kim’s strategy! You’re playing right into their hands like a dog! For fuck’s sake, Choi! Punching someone in the chiclets isn’t always the answer!” Coach Mason is shaking his hands in front of him like some violent prayer.
Seungcheol drops his hockey stick and helmet, mouth open as he huffs and puffs. He wants to pace, wants to point his fingers at Coach and make a few threats of his own.
“Just—”
Seungcheol rounds up on him. “Seungkwan punched a guy in the mouth. Wonwoo kicked one in the balls.”
“Seungcheol. This is becoming nearly. Every. Single. Game. Not the occasional tousle we can pull people out of. You can’t keep sending people to the hospital, it’s a wonder nobody's pressed charges yet!”
“So that’s it? I’m being punished because some dick runs his mouth?”
“This is about you, Seungcheol. You need to get a fucking grip. You’ve started picking at your own teammates, shoving Mingyu around—seriously?”
Seungcheol’s mouth opens but nothing leaves it. He ends up gaping like a fish.
For all that it was worth, for everything he’d been through, Seungcheol always assumed his seat was safe. Always assumed he’d have the position he does. Because he showed results, won them nearly every game and put up a damn good fight in the ones they didn’t.
Seungcheol knew he was an asset, but not for one minute, stop to realise that this was all
conditional.
For everything he did for this team, for every fiber of his being he poured into its chalice, they were spitting it all right back into his face. Chewed and warped and rid of anything worth salvaging.
The red in his chest, back, stomach, spelling out the unmistakable letters of his team. The red in his helmet that rests beside the red in his hockey stick.
“Listen, as much of a pain in the ass you are, you’re good fucking player. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters. But it’s not up to me, so we need to work around that. They’re worried about the repercussions of your behaviour. And you are gonna make sure you keep yourself in check.”
Coach walks closer, finger digging into Seungcheol’s chest through his jersey. “I want no more fights, no more kicking and punching and swearing no matter how much that motherfucker deserves it, I don’t care. Do whatever it takes. God knows I’ll never forgive you if you make me agree to those prissy hands in suits.”
Coach left Seungcheol in the barren office, stepping over his stick and helmet as he exited the room, leaving him alone. His fingers flex under his gloves, like he’s trying to remind himself to stay in the moment. His exhales are stronger than his inhales, his vision blurring as the desk turns into two, and then disappears for a second.
He can hear the distinct sound of the puck slamming into hockey sticks. Practice had started. By the time Seungcheol walks out, he’s the last person to go through the mandatory drills.
The rink is mostly empty as the team gears up for a practice match, leaving Seungcheol enough reign to slam into every puck like he had some personal vendetta against every last one. It’s one after the other, sent directly into the open net, waiting.
Practice goes fine, as good as it could go with the scrambled eggs that had become of Seungcheol’s mental state. He found himself whipping his head around to Jun when he fumbled an assist, face scrunched under his helmet as he prepared to send him to hell in a handbasket.
He sees Jun physically tense up in defense, and the insult (for once) dies on Seungcheol’s tongue.
“Just—keep up, alright,” he says instead. His tone is empty, and on a downward slope.
If anyone finds it odd, they don’t say.
It’s a couple more hours of passes, assists and hollers across the ice, regrouping the teams every so often to keep the rotation consistent.
Over here, everyone is in red, everyone is on his side. The bleachers are empty, devoid of spectators to watch him lose his cool on anything. But he thinks of the way Jun recoiled, like he was preparing for the worst of his teammate’s words. He and Jun are friends.
Somewhere amidst his thoughts, the puck flies directly into Seungcheol’s face, banging into the cage of his helmet with a noise that resonates across the rink. He’s startled enough to skate back a little, not before hearing another resounding thwack! from next to him. The puck rebounded from his helmet and hit the plastic barrier with a noise that had everyone looking over.
Skating up to where the puck fell back onto the ice, he looks up to where it hit the barrier.
Through the plastic he sees…you. You're staring at the same spot he is, where there’s a slight mark from the force of the rubber.
And then your eyes drift up, locking with his own.
Like every other person he’s around, he watches you tense up. But it’s laced with something more than just bracing for impact.
It’s apprehension, your form turbulent and agitated. It’s all he can see when you spin on your heels and walk away in the opposite direction from him.
The all too familiar irritation sparks in the back of Seungcheol’s mind, as it does when you’re around. All he does is slam his stick into the ice with force, pushing the puck back into the middle of the rink.
They’re nearly done by that point, and he finds that Jeonghan has graced himself in the benches. He’s wearing his old jersey, likely because he doesn’t want Coach to notice him and accuse him of distracting his players.
Jeonghan would’ve gotten away with it anyway.
Seungcheol tells him to wait up, walking towards the locker room with the rest of the rest of the team to wash up. He finds some reprieve in Seungkwan’s attempts at fumbling with his helmet, letting out a laugh as he fights with it. Looking up as they take the turn towards the locker rooms as a group, he somehow finds himself in your presence, again.
It’s the same thing, like you’ve been connected to a faulty circuit and you’re trying not to show it. You look like you want to say something but all Seungcheol can do is send a snarky remark of his own.
Even as you walk away after the ordeal, he feels anything but settled.
It’s like the world has it out for him, because as he opts to stalk back to where Jeonghan was, forgoing a shower, there’s only another calamity waiting for him.
Jeonghan is in the rink, sitting on the ice with two cups of what looks like dippin dots. He looks up when he hears his treads on the ice, having taken his skates off already. Seungcheol crumples to the ground and on the ice next to his friend.
The first words he utters are the only ones that’ve been on his mind all day. “They want to drop me.”
Jeonghan only grimaces in response, only running his hands through his hair as he sighs loudly. “I know. I heard.”
Seungcheol perks up, head lifting from the ice. “...How?”
That’s how Seungcheol has Jeonghan’s phone so close to his face he’s hardly an inch away from the screen. He reads and reads and reads. And his blood boils and boils and boils.
!HOT TOPIC!
SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here!
Choi Seungcheol’s seat for next season at risk? Insider reports that the hot headed centre may be at risk of contract termination due to recent controversy. The hockey player, renowned for his aggressive playing tendencies, seems to be taking his temperament outside of the rink. Multiple games played by SVT have been subject to eventful halves and quarters, the center seen getting violent in the benches with opposing team members, and sometimes even team members of his own! While his short temper has always been a recurring subject in the news, his skills as a player have always remained top notch—we do wonder if he even has to try! The tables seem to turn a little differently this time around though, because it looks that SVT higher ups have been fed up with the increasing reports of Choi’s aggressive behaviour. Insider sources report that talks of a contract termination may be coming into order. While he has proven to be an effective player on the ice, it seems as though it won’t be saving him from this particular ramification!
Stay tuned, hockey fanatics, as we bring you more updates on Choi’s sticky situation!
Of course, to add to the absolute media pandemonium, you had shown up on the rink itself after Seungcheol had to read through the entirety of that stupid article. Jeonghan was smart to pull him away from the situation before he wrapped both his hands around your neck in an ultimatum.
The way you stood there, hip popped like you owned the damn place, face haughty and demanding. You stood while they sat, looking down at Seungcheol like he was some pesky ant. There was nothing he would’ve rather done in that moment than swing his leg clean across your ankles, and watch in delight as you crash onto the ice in front of him.
“What the fuck is her problem?” he grits as soon as he’s in the locker rooms. Collecting his things to leave and take a shower at home.
Jeonghan walks behind him, hands in his pocket in idleness as he watches his friend pack up. He’s humming a tune that’s possibly too familiar to Seungcheol. “Hm. She does seem a little wound too tight.”
“Wound too tight?! I’ve seen her thrice just today and every single time she looks like she wants to skin my fucking hide!”
Jeonghan only snorts. “Thing two isn’t any better. She’s cute though.”
Seungcheol whips around. “Who gets that territorial over a sound booth?!”
“Down, boy,” Jeonghan soothes, half in jest. “Surprised she isn’t here today either.”
“Yeah, you’d like to see her.”
“I would, actually, yes. What was her name?”
“Something to do with a train or a bus or something—”
“Lorry! Right,” Jeonghan furrows his brows. “I don’t think that’s her real name.”
Seungcheol throws his duffle bag over his shoulder as he motions he’s done. “I don’t think anyone who actually loves their child would name them after a bus.”
Jeonghan halts in his steps. “My dead dog’s name was Lorry.”
Seungcheol is extra nice for the rest of the way home.
SEUNGCHEOL CAN'T SLEEP.
His dreams are full of voices, of every single teammate he’s ever had. The junior league, his high school team, up to his college team, and finally, his team right now.
They’re all murmuring like they were paid to do it, uttering the same things, over and over. He doesn’t belong here, they don’t want him here, he doesn’t deserve what he has.
And with the way his heart is racing when he jolts awake, cold sweat and all, he realises he’s kicked his blanket off of him sometime during the night. He looks over to his alarm clock that glares bright in the dark of his room; 5:08 AM.
He doesn’t need to be up, but it seems his own subconscious has given him a good enough scare to make sure every last essence of sleep escapes him. He lays on his back, catching his breath like he just ran a marathon.
Seungcheol hasn’t woken up from a nightmare like this since middle school, one that knocks the breath from his lungs and fills his head with all the horrible things in the world. With every moment that passes after that conversation with Coach Mason, his ordeal becomes increasingly real.
In that moment, laying in his bedroom, staring blankly at the dark ceiling above, he wonders if he’s made the right choice to come this far.
With all the confidence he’s exuded, the thought is downright terrifying.
Seungcheol was a difficult child. Too much energy, too much to say, too much to do. His parents didn’t know the first thing about hockey, just that it involved enough hitting and running and practice to let their son let out all that pent up energy, so maybe, just maybe, he’d sit still and do his homework. While they attempted to sign him up at the local rink, he was already zooming out towards the benches to see the fabled giant block of ice his parents told him about.
And there it was, just like in the movies, a giant expanse of ice that made him shiver even in his thick Winnie The Pooh puffer vest. There’s sounds, loud ones, of deep clacks that echo across the rink. It seems to be coming from the dozens of people skating on the rink, decked out in red gear.
SVT, he reads on their jerseys.
His mother chides him for straying when they finally find him near the gate, watching the team practice. The rink manager is there as well, showing his parents around.
“The SVT’s practice here and have a junior league too, but I’m afraid it’s full. But our coach is great too, I’m sure he’ll do well.”
Seungcheol’s parents didn’t mind, but he wanted those jerseys, wanted his name in red splashed across his back as he glided across the ice.
It didn’t take long for his coach and his parents to realise that putting him in a helmet was a good idea. He was smoking the rest of the kids from day one, his balance on the ice better than any other his age, his hold on a hockey stick like second nature, his aim as he hit his first puck, dazzling.
As he got older, entering his preteen and teen years, he had another realisation. That he was as horrible at school as he was good at hockey.
“Perhaps you should take a break from hockey,” his high school guidance counsellor had said. His grades were displayed in front of her like a case study, the hopeless clear in her intermittent sighs and the occasional purse of her lips. “Utilise that time to fix at least one of your grades. Pour all your eggs in one basket.”
The thought was absurd. No, he would not be dropping hockey when it was the only thing that pushed him to wake up in the morning.
He’d felt the tremble of irritation rise in himself, sitting there in that office. It angered him, made him feel like his success was measured by a criteria not made for him. He had said nothing as he slipped out of chair and left the room.
The day before his graduation, sweat dripping onto the ice as he sent free pucks into the net, he was missing more than he was getting in. It was making him more mad than it should, hands shaking with fury as he berated himself for not being able to succeed in something so simple.
His last puck was before him, and he swung his stick harder than ever and watched as it flew directly into the net. The sound is louder than usual, resonating across the rink. Seungcheol looked down at the detached pieces in his hand and quickly realised that he’d effectively broken his hockey stick.
It wasn’t expensive, so the quality wasn’t nearly what it should be, wasn’t nearly as durable. But this was new to him. He’d never broken a stick before.
Anger. Perhaps that was what he'd forgone, perhaps that was what he needed. To get on his knees from his back, to get on his feet from his knees.
When he graduated the next day, Seungcheol knew what he was going to do with his life. Finally had an answer for the infinite questions about his future.
Hockey. Seungcheol was going to play hockey for the rest of his life. He was going to get into SVT, he was going to become the best player they’ve ever had. He was going to make more money than what he would have as a doctor or a lawyer or whatever else the entire world wanted him to do instead.
Seungcheol was going to be on the ice wearing red if it’s the last thing he does.
That’s what pushes him out of bed at 8:45 in the morning, his dream that was once in his hands now flitting through the gaps of his fingers.
The anger that pushed him here, was now pushing him out.
He packs his things and leaves the house, welcoming the cold of the outdoors.
There’s the distinct sound of blade cutting through ice when he gets nearer to the rink itself, a shout of a shrill voice he can’t decipher. Official practice doesn’t start for another couple hours, and he doesn’t remember Coach Mason cutting the pitch in his voice for anything ever. There’s only one other person that could possibly be gracing the rink.
Seungcheol finds three people on the rink. The bright red curly mop of hair catches his eye first, her arms folded over her green puffer jacket, apprehension in her entire posture. He assumes this is your coach.
There’s a blonde one breathing heavily as she straightens out of a spin, listening to the coach as she shakes her head violently as she speaks.
Seungcheol finds you a little ways away from the pair, practising jumps.
He doesn’t emerge into the benches, remaining in the shadows where he wouldn’t be so blaringly obvious. There’s no reason for him to hide, but he doesn’t think of this as hiding.
Seungcheol watches for the next few minutes, watches you make most of your jumps, fall for some. Your coach shouts for particular names for jumps, something about axels and lutz’ that he can’t tell the difference from when put into action. At least he thinks that’s what you’re doing.
And then he hears it as your coach moves closer to the barriers. “What’s gotten into you? Keep acting this stupid and I’ll excuse myself from the job, I have better people to coach.”
Her tone, her words, the sharp edge of her tongue, it’s all triggering a very specific part of Seunghceol’s brain.
“Is it your ankle? Because if it is, then I’m here to tell you to get out of your own head. Your ankle is fine, you wouldn’t be able to get on the ice at all if it wasn’t.”
There it comes. Those words aren’t directed towards Seungcheol, nor could they apply to him in any capacity. But the way this coach is speaking is making him irrationally angry.
“Are you gonna keep pretending you have a handicap? Because if you are then I have no work here.”
“I’m sorry.”
For whatever reason, the sound of you apologising makes the fire rage doubly. It’s enough to blur his vision, enough to make him question what on earth this coach could have on you to let her speak to you in that way.
The choice words are already in his head as he claps back in his own head, like he was the one at the receiving end.
He doesn’t stay, disappearing even further into the tunnel to where the locker rooms are. He doesn’t understand why he’s huffing and puffing as much as he is. All that occupies him is what possible reasons you could have to just take it lying down.
Seungcheol’s phone vibrates in his pocket, slipping it out to realise it’s Jeonghan.
He picks up, and barely has time to say hello before his voice perks up from the other line. “Where are you?” He sounds like he just woke up.
“I’m at the rink.”
“Why is your angry voice on?”
“My angry voice is not—” he begins to grit, seething, but closes his eyes and takes a moment. “I’m not mad.”
“Do I need to sing?”
“No, you do not have to sing—”
“Everything is honey—”
“Jeonghan, stop!”
“—everywhere I see—”
Seungcheol hangs up before he can go on. To his utmost irritation, he feels significantly calmer.
The rink is devoid of your red headed coach when Seungcheol makes his way there after a few minutes. The blonde one is nowhere to be seen, leaving you alone in the rink as you skated across the expanse. He only watches as you land the couple attempts at jumps, the ice breaking ground in a spray every time you put pressure on your blades.
Seungcheol is just standing there, blank faced with an empty head. His mind was quiet for the first time since he’d woken up that morning.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing there, standing idle as he follows your figure around the rink like a fixation point.
The sound is more consistent, less of the loud jabs of hockey sticks meeting the ice, more constant lines of scraping as you migrate across the rink. The speakers boom no sound, but the musicality in the noise of the ice is enough to imagine a rhythm.
No part of him desires getting on the ice to oust you out, no part of him wants to touch his hockey stick that sits in the locker room. He doesn’t need extra practice, not with hockey at least.
And when you notice him, unmoving in the benches, he watches as something hard overcomes your expression. You skate over, and he keeps his gaze fixated on the ice.
Skating up to the gate, he sees in his peripheral vision as you slip on your skate guards, stepping out into the real world.
“You don’t have the rink booked, I checked,” you huff, moving to find your things on the other set of benches.
Seungcheol’s jaw tenses. “I don’t want the rink right now.”
“And yet the ghost loiters.”
“I’m here to tell you to start filling in the stupid craters your skates make in the ice. The guys keep tripping.”
“You big hockey thugs getting defeated by a toe pick?”
Seungcheol turns to finally look at you, and you look nothing as graceful as you did on the ice. He wants to scoff.
You continue, “I have to deal with your stupid barriers fucking up my sound system. I think your guys can deal with a couple digs in the ice.”
“Great, we’ll just lose a couple teeth, who really gives a fuck.”
“If this is about giving fucks,” you get up from your water break, leaving the bench. “Do me a favour and forget your mouth guard next time. Let the puck punch you in the mouth if I can't."
Seungcheol’s entire being is ablaze. He reshuffles his footing. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“My problem?” you repeat, voice moving a pitch higher. “My fucking problem is that you and your overgrown posse of baboons drop in here out of the blue and then act like you own the damn place!”
“Right, because it’s your name on the fucking lease. Excuse us for trespassing on public property!”
You’re yelling. Seungcheol is yelling. It’s either that or the hollow of the rink is now carrying your voices farther out.
“I’ve had enough of you acting like you don’t take up this entire fucking space!” Your arms wave wildly, gesturing to the large area of the rink. “You’re everywhere, all the fucking time, it’s sickening!”
“Everywhere, huh?” He takes a step closer to you. And then another. He revels in the sight of your face turning a splotchy red. “Thought I was only a bother on the ice? Where else have I been plaguing you in mystic hallucinations?”
Seungcheol’s eyes give away nothing but provocation. He knows he didn’t start this, but in the true essence of who he is, he would be the one to end it.
It’s clear you’re taken aback. At this moment, he’s the closest he’s ever been to you. But it’s for nothing if it isn’t to press on you further, to tower over you and your outburst.
“Get your head out of the gutter, you brute.”
“Then is it not me taking up all your space?” he asks. “Because there’s three feet of air between us, and yet the least in our very short time together.”
He watches as you take a small step back.
“So where else have I been any closer, so consistently, if it wasn’t part of your imagination?”
There’s a certain kind of venom in your stare, in the sneer that lifts your mouth, enough to ensure that it’d render him six feet deep. But he lives in reality, so he deems it safe to take another step closer.
“You’re a screw up,” you almost whisper. Appalled and scandalised.
“So I’ve been told,” Seungcheol breathed. “But something tells me we’re not so different in that department.”
“You don’t know a thing about me.”
“I know that I’m all you can think about,” he says, eyebrows raised. “That feels like a lot. You’d agree, because everywhere, all the fucking time is a lot.”
Seungcheol has hardly finished his sentence before he feels the light breeze of you gathering your few things, shouldering him hard and walking away from him. Into the tunnel, into the locker rooms, into hell, wherever it was that you ended up by the close of the day.
He isn’t afraid to admit that he stumbled.
LORELAI HAD MADE IT quite clear that any figure skating talk was off the table, and talk surrounding Marina even more so. You tried not to point out the obvious predicament, but the fact that you lived with Marina did not affect her demand.
Miraculously, not talking about skating or Marina was the most free you’d felt in ages. It was mildly embarrassing in the beginning, when on a run with Lorealai who was also helping out at the dog shelter, because you realised all you talked about was, maybe not Marina, but definitely a lot of skating.
You slow down a little to give Kkuma a couple minutes to breathe, but Lorealai is still running at her pace with her significantly more energetic husky, Bennie.
“Stay there, I’ll catch up!” she yells over her shoulder as she takes the left around the block to circle back.
You oblige, moving to a walking pace as Lorelai appears from behind you after a couple minutes. She slows to a jog and loiters around you for a minute, you increase your speed to match hers.
“Jeonghan…” she pauses to take a breath. But your interest is piqued, especially if she was talking about the same Jeonghan you were thinking about. “Jeonghan invited me to the game this weekend.”
Hold.
“What?” you snap.
“Game. This weekend,” she huffs, still breathing heavily.
“Like, a hockey game?” you ask, brows furrowed.
“No, for disney on ice,” she announces. “They’re doing beauty and the beast, Jeonghan’s the beauty, Seungcheol is the beast. It’s a whole production, really. Real good stuff.”
You can only roll your eyes at the elaborate sarcasm. She continues, “Of course, it's a hockey game! What else do they do at that rink all day?”
“Gosh, sorry,” you frown. “Since when do you talk to Jeonghan?”
She looks over, wicked smile on her face. “Since I found him on Instagram.”
“You followed him?”
“No, why would I do that? Bumped into him at the gym a while ago, and we went out for coffee afterwards.”
Nothing of the ordeal is making sense, your brows still knit together and your mouth downturned in confusion.
“Catch you in a minute!” she yelps as she takes off into a run again, Bennie right next to her as she circles round again.
The few minutes that it’s just you and tiny Kkuma are flooded with questions. How did she just bump into Jeonghan? Lorelai hardly goes to the gym. Asking her to come to the hockey game?
And then worst of all.
Are they dating?
By the time Lorelai is back, she’s out of breath again, and fully unequipped to answer all of the questions you shoot at her like rapid fire.
“Why were you at the gym? He’s a junior league coach, he’s not even gonna be playing!”
“God!” she groans, heaving. “Slow…down.”
“Fine!” You stop in your tracks entirely, to which Lorelai is happy to oblige as she crouches with her hand on her knees. Bennie tugs at her leash, the big bounding ball of fluff ready to race the winds again.
You count to ten, hands on your hips as Kkuma lets out a small, confused yip now that you’re completely idle on the track.
“Talk.”
With an all too dramatic flip of her short hair, she pulls herself up and into an explanation. “I couldn’t tell you because we weren’t talking when it all happened.”
It’s true, it did take a while for you to go back to normal after that run in with Marina in your bedroom. You suppose it won’t be happening again with the new no-Marina-talk rule, since she seemed to be quite the common factor in many of your rifts over the years.
“I went to the gym to blow off some steam—don’t look like that, I’m being serious!”
You make an attempt at fixing your face as she continues.
“He saw me first and came up to say hi. Went our separate ways but once we finished up he asked if I wanted to grab a coffee since we were both done working out.”
“And you said yes?”
“I said yes. Because he is cute, and I had been stalking his very public Instagram and it was just the perfect opportunity!”
“So you’re dating?” you ask sharply.
“I don’t know.”
“He asked you to the game?” you point out.
“Well, yes, but he hasn’t asked me asked me.” Somewhere in her voice there’s the tiniest hint of disappointment. “Besides, he said to bring you as well.”
“Fuck no.”
“Come ooon! Jeonghan’s gonna be in the benches and I don’t know anyone else there!” she whines.
“Hey, we should switch dogs!” you announce as you yank Bennie’s leash out of Lorelai’s hands, stuffing Kkuma’s leash into her free hand.
You take off into a sprint, and Bennie is happy to keep up with you as you quite literally run away from the situation. Lorelai is yelling your name, her annoyance abundant.
Ignoring her is easy. Just the thought of walking into one of those games is enough to force a scoff, to watch your rink inhabited with like minded buffoonery as they ruin the bleachers and the ice.
By the time you make it back, the hilarity of the situation hasn’t left you. And it seems neither has Lorelai, who remains standing with Kkuma at her feet, waiting to trap you.
It’s the easiest thing to do, to turn right back around and circle the other way.
“You can’t run away from me forever!” she shouts behind you as you disappear again.
Maybe you couldn’t, but you wouldn’t go down without a fight.
“You can’t run away from Seungcheol forever! Quit pretending like you aren’t dying to fall into those giant arms!” Lorelai has a very specific talent of injecting all the drama in the world in the tone of her voice. She’s sure to utilize that skill as she hollers after you.
That seems to do it for you, slowing down, half ready to whip around and holler a profanity or two right back.
You’re more triggered than usual, but mostly because all the jab does is remind you of the last time you saw him. The arrogance in his demeanor, the way he belittled you with just his eyes, the shadow of his towering frame, caging you like a lost animal.
You hated it. Despised it. Despised him. His disgusting innuendos, the all so misleading innocence on his face as he cornered you with both his body and his words.
Lorelai could deal you whatever card there was tied up her sleeve, but getting you anywhere near the rink for the game this weekend was going to require more than just dessert bribes and sweet talking. Dragging you by the ankles could be a possibility, but all for naught when you dig your nails in anyway.
It was impossible. Not doable. Non-existent in the cards of your destiny. A repelling force.
So why, would one ask, were you decked out in the most heinous red scarf with the letters SVT stitched on like a warning, sitting in the bleachers and looking down at the same rink you practice your spins and jumps in everyday?
Neither you or Lorelai could answer that question, both your stories as blurry as fog as to how either of you managed to get you in that fabled seat.
You could see the exact place you and Seungcheol had your last showdown, the opposing team in black now occupying that side of the benches. The thought puts you in an impossibly sour mood. It’s not like Lorelai could say anything about it, half because she knows you’re one snide remark away from jumping into the merch table, and half because she was too busy making heart eyes at Jeonghan who’s just spotted her in her seat.
“I’ll be back,” she informs haphazardly as she positively bounds down the steps to the end of the bleachers, where Jeonghan waits for her. The people in their seats shuffle, annoyed at the overenthusiastic fan who practically slides down in front of their legs towards the railing. But Lorelai couldn’t care less, not with what stood beyond that very railing.
Tearing your eyes away from the lovebirds, you take in the hustle and bustle of the pregame happenings, most of the bleachers in disarray as they humour the merch stands and the food stalls. The rink smells different because of it, both the added number of food trucks and drink stands, but also with the amount of people that occupy the expanse.
The only times you see the rink this packed is when you’re too wracked with nerves to notice anything other than your own two feet. Hands wringing and head spinning, the chaos of the world is nothing against the pandemonium in your mind. You’re usually wearing a sparkly dress that glitters even from the very last row of bleachers, hair taut and makeup caked on like a layer of icing.
Taking your time, you let your eyes flit over all that you forgo the other times. The stands are a mix of red and black, and so are the benches and ice that are occupied by men in full hockey gear.
You’re too high up to make out the names on the back of all those jerseys, let alone a face underneath the already concealing helmets. The problem is forgotten when you feel the weight of two hands slam against your folded arms, tugging you out of your seat like it was stolen property.
“Jeonghan said we could sit closer to the benches downstairs!” Lorelai is frantic, like this wasn’t a matter of reserved seats but the last plane to leave hell itself.
“Lor—” Finishing a sentence when she’s in this state is a luxury you learn quickly to live without, because all that concerns her right now is getting closer to the man that seems to have enraptured her like never before.
It’s disgusting. But you follow her anyway, down the steps that you nearly eat shit on, gracefully of course, because what figure skater doesn’t fall with an epic crash worthy of an Expendables cameo. You stabilise yourself enough to get to the seats Lorelai is talking about, and sure enough, Jeonghan would barely have to get on his tiptoes to hoist himself into the bleachers altogether. You question the safety of the context but decide that it wasn’t your problem if someone decided to pounce on one of the players.
Besides, you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t revel in the absolute scene of Seungcheol getting jumped by an over-passionate fan. You’re suddenly very grateful for the front row seats.
There’s a bucket of chicken tenders and fries in your lap out of nowhere, matching the one in Lorelai’s hands. “Also Jeonghan?” you hum as you inspect the sauce options.
“Mhm, he’s friends with the vendor outside,” she grins.
You narrow your eyes at the revelation, finding it utmost strange how close he seems to be with nearly everyone. “Why is he on the benches, again?” you ask.
“Because—” she draws before you cut her off.
“Friends with the coach?”
“How’d you know?!” she exclaims. Her attention is diverted as the speakers suddenly boom with something other than generic pop music. So is yours, when you hear a deep baritone of a commentator’s voice carries throughout the rink.
The shuffle around you is suddenly doubling in speed, everyone getting into their seats. You look over in front of you, where the benches are in an equally panicked shuffle. You spot Jeonghan easily, mostly because he’s one of the few in the vicinity without a helmet or what looks like a giant space suit. The next thing you note is the person he’s talking to, his back turned to you, but familiar all the same.
CHOI, 95, reads his jersey. Automatically, your jaw clenches. “Don’t look over there!” Lorelai chides, grabbing your jaw and moving it to force you to rip your eyes away from him.
“Lorelai, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but unlike your boy toy, he’s actually gonna be on the ice,” you verbalise through clenched teeth.
“Don’t look at the ice,” she blurts.
Rolling your eyes, you only listen as she realises what she’s said. “Okay, um, look at Jeon instead! Or Kim, or Boo, just. For god’s sake, there’s fifty other players on the ice, just don’t let one of them ruin your night!”
“I’m fine,” you grumble, sinking into your seat.
It isn’t long before your eyes trail over anyway, and Seungcheol still doesn’t have his helmet on. You can see his face now, and he looks like he’s mad at Jeonghan about something.
Inevitably, your mind wanders to the fated article that somehow made its way into your recommended, the certainty it put in you that Seungcheol didn’t stand a chance in his team anymore. It seemed true enough, his anger, that he continues to display, seemed to be his default emotional setting.
Your hockey knowledge was subpar at best, but one thing you did know was the aggression factor of the sport. Of all the things that could cut his career clean down the middle, this was the last of your guesses.
Even now, as you watch him absentmindedly point and jerk like his supposed friend had managed to bring him something that was personally offensive, it’s all connecting too well.
But when you snap into reality, you realise very quickly that he was pointing…at you.
Seungcheol is mad that Jeonghan (effectively) brought you to the match.
A chortle of disbelief is quick to make itself known, wanting to yell across the throng that you were every bit as upset that he was in your vicinity too. It also brings you satisfaction, a pure grain of hope, that maybe this would be enough for him to completely fuck up on the ice today.
You say a quick amen before the baritone of the commentator makes itself known again. The echo is too much for you to decipher what’s going on, but you have your answer when you watch the reds and the blacks form what looks like a line across the width of the rink, right in the center.
You don’t register when the puck landed, or if it was always there, just that the loud clacks and bangs are in tandem with the cheer from the crowds. The puck is an impossible commodity to keep up with, even with just your eyes. It appears for a moment before it’s lost again, shooting around in your peripheral vision like a pesky fly you can never get a hold of.
“What is happening?” you whisper to yourself.
Lorelai answers anyway, snorting, “Fuck if I know.”
The numbers on the lit screens are doing nothing to help out your predicament, too much happening for you to even begin to deconstruct. You choose to lay back and enjoy your chicken tenders and fries, complimenting the sauce choices to Lorelai along the way, who continues to calibrate her attention on the man that remains in the benches. Jeonghan looks over periodically to send her a wave and a blinding smile.
You’ve made a good enough dent in your chicken and fries bucket by the time it’s intermission, about ready for a drink by now. Lorelai makes herself useful and runs down to get you both something, mostly because Jeonghan was now more focused on the team that’s huddled around one another, another man you assume is their coach huddled right with them.
The scores are 2-2, as provided by the person behind you who was apparently sick of your placid obliviousness. It did feel slightly awkward to be the only person not as excited to be front and center, so you remind yourself to thank him profusely.
Your attention drifts back to the benches, inevitably as you’ve been so unfortunately placed to be able to breathe down the player’s necks. They’ve dispersed from their huddle, but are not yet on the ice. They’re sitting down, catching their breaths, drinking from water bottles. On the other side, the opposing team, a sea of black and white flooding their own end of the benches. It’s a sinking colour, not an ounce of depth in the shade. It’s taking over the benches.
Except it’s the players that are moving, like they’re diffusing into the scarlet territory.
You watch, as one player in black moves his mouth, speaking, upturned and eyebrows cocked. It’s clear he’s gone well past enemy lines, the front lines suddenly at attention. There’s not much you can make out, nothing much besides the very haughty expression on the player’s face. His eyes are covered by the sweaty mop on his head, but you don’t need to see them to find the malice that infiltrates his entire stance.
The scene, where both sides seem to be closing in on each other, has you automatically sitting up straighter. The air is going static, especially as you realise the player's mouth is moving faster as he jabs at — Seungcheol.
They’re fighting, only verbally for now, but it’s undeniable the way the heat grows by the second. All you can see is the back of Seugncheol’s jersey as he begins to step back from the ordeal, like he was fighting the urge to take a step forward instead.
Jeonghan’s hand is on Seungcheol’s elbow, and one glance at the rest of the players on this side shows every last one on edge. Their coach is nowhere to be seen.
But he doesn’t stop talking, still standing in their territory. He yells something loud enough to hear the pitch of his voice, but not nearly enough to understand what he’s saying.
You could see it on the player’s face. Hook, line and sinker.
It happens so suddenly. Seungcheol surges forward like a dart, something flies out and hits the player square in the face.
Seungcheol had spat his mouth guard into his face.
You gasp out loud as you register what’s happening. The player removes his hand from his face, and for some reason, emerges grinning.
Seungcheol swings first, his fist rising and coming down on his cheek with a sound you can hear. You feel nauseous.
It’s pandemonium. You can see Jeonghan practically on top of Seungcheol, a number of other players attempting to get him off the man he continues to grab and shake up like a fugitive. The other player is throwing his own punches.
For one, horrifying moment, the force of the punch pushes Seungcheol’s face towards the stands enough to let you get an eyeful. All you see is red, beyond just his jersey. His mouth is full of blood, the front of his jersey dripped with it, his knuckles clustered with it.
The hand clasped around your mouth is your own, eyes blown in horror.
All around you, the world has their phones out like it was some show meant just for them, like this was exactly what they came here for.
It’s sickening. Sickening.
You brave another look, and they’ve been yanked off of one another. Seungcheol is being pushed down the tunnel and away from sight. Jeonghan has his hands clutched around Seungcheol like he’s nearly ready for another outbreak, his face grim.
Your eyes keep away from Seungcheol’s face on purpose. “Goodness, what is going on, I could barely get through the crowd,” Lorelai’s irritated voice infiltrates your ears, and you’re immediately brought back down to earth.
Arms full of more snacks and drinks, it only takes her one look at your rattled self to know.
“What happened?”
“I…they were…fighting. I don’t know, it just—Seungcheol was throwing punches and there was…blood, so much blood.”
She’s gotten a grip on your hand, her fingers warm under your cold, shivering ones. “Do you wanna leave?” she asks slowly.
One look over her shoulder is enough to tell you it’d be impossible. Everyone was too excited to care to cater to two people going in the opposite direction of the action. So you tell her there was no point, and you attempt to calm your racing heart as she sits next to you.
Snagging one of the packs from her mountain of snacks, you rip it open and let the sickly sweet smell infiltrate your nostrils. Popping one of the confections in your mouth, it’s hard to not make a face. It’s the sourest thing you could’ve picked, the tartness enough to distract you from the outside world. Eyes scrunched closed, you swallow the rush of saliva to ask Lorelai what the fuck she brought.
You chortle, and it has Lorelai looking over. “Whoops! That one’s mine.”
She snags the bag from your loosened grip, replacing it with a tamer bag of original flavoured potato chips. The chips are trying, but there’s not much you can do besides wait for the residues of the godawful candy to subside.
The ordeal seems to have calmed you the slightest bit, finally able to turn back to the ice. The rink is back to being occupied, players from both ends pouring onto the ice. You note a minor shoulder shove at the gate, but look away like it’d stop the calamity from intensifying.
The game ensues as normal, but you note the blatant absence of CHOI in the sea of red and white jerseys. You don’t mention it, and neither does Lorelai.
You’re about to burst by the time the finals moments are upon the game, the overtime minutes beginning to tick as the crowd grows restless by the second. With the little you’ve managed to grasp, you’re sure that SVT is only one goal away from the overtake. It’s making you nervous, like you’re waiting for your own score to be announced after a free skate.
The puck is a mere percentage easier to navigate after a couple hours of keeping after it; it skips between players you’re beginning to recognise from the back of their jersey. Kim, Boo, Wen, Kim, Lee. The opposing team intercepts for a moment, and you find yourself letting out an irritated shake of the shoulders. Back to Kim, Lee, Lee, and then, right into the net.
The jittering crowd suddenly went so silent you could hear a pin drop.
And then the world around you erupts. It’s impossible to classify the sound as cheers when racketeers off your entire being like an unearthly sound, the stands on their feet hollering and screaming and yelling at their players that are fighting to keep their new overtake in the final seconds before the game officially ends.
And when it does, you’re sure you need to get your ears checked out.
Looking over, you catch Lorelai’s eye, and you can’t help but laugh. A delightful laugh that releases itself in the midst of the chaos of red, scarlet and cherry. Somebody’s thrown a red blanket over you, another has begun to hand out congratulatory cherry lollipops (you pass, but Lorealai would be damned if she did), people are hugging each other so tight and you get the inkling they’ve only met each other today.
The ice is one giant dogpile, red on red as they suffocate one another in celebration.
Perhaps you didn’t realise how important the game actually was, or maybe every game is like this, loud, proud and exultant. You find yourself imagining how they feel.
The lost feeling of bouquets and flowers whisked in your direction, stuffed animals and hundreds of other things that scream adoration as your performance comes to a close. It’s a physical manifestation of an adoring crowd, as though making it tangible makes it a little more real.
The rush, you can feel it resonate off of the scarlet side of the benches, and it’s enough for you to realise that yes, this was an important match. For them anyway.
The way out of the rink is reasonably packed, but you manage to squeeze through the doors and towards where Lorelai had parked with fewer than expected obstruction. “Thought you might wait to see Jeonghan before we leave,” you hum as you walk to the parking spot.
“I was going to, but he’s probably dealing with what happened,” she utters slowly. A flash of red at the mention, gone as soon as it came. Lorelai adds with a little extra pep to her voice, “It’s okay! I’ll send him a text, we were planning on dinner tomorrow anyway.”
The side eye you send is met with a light shove. “This one seems serious. Dragging me here for his sake and now dinner with him?”
Lorelai was infamous for taking it excruciatingly slow, the time between the talking stage and the first date stretching for months. She claims it’s to make sure she's not roping herself into something she’d regret, which you’ll admit has seemed to work out in her favour. Her last relationship lasted years before Josh had to move away.
Jeonghan seems to have her under some warped spell, because Lorelai was hurtling into this relationship like a too compressed cannon ball. There was nothing you knew about Jeonghan other than his friendship with Seungcheol, his position as junior league coach and his habit of loitering on the ice; which means there wasn’t much opinion to be had on the whole conquest. Regardless, you decide to caution her some other day, when she’s not glowing and over the moon like a robust teenager.
Slipping into the passenger seat, you slump like never before, already dreaming about the bedrotting session you’re about to have; glorious enough for the books.
“Do you wanna grab food and rot on the couch?” she asks.
“You’re still hungry after all that?” you huff, your mouth still flavoured with artificial sweetness paired with the savoury of the chicken and fries. You pull out your phone for the first time in nearly three hours, the home screen alarming full of missed notifications. Text messages, mentions and phone calls. For whatever reason, you swipe right past and open your browser.
“It’ll take about an hour till we’re settled, should be hungry enough by then,” she comments, a gentle growl coming from beneath you as the engine comes to life.
Somewhere between the lines of the seatbelt sign pinging, and the radio blaring itself into the space, you’ve read a headline that’s enough to halt your world.
“There’s this new Chinese place that opened nearby here. Or this Persian restaurant but it’s like 20 minutes in the other direction. Or do we just do soup—”
“Lorelai.”
She turns to look at you in the passenger seat, seatbelt alarm still dinging as you remain with your seatbelt off as she pulls out of the parking space, like the official soundtrack to your doom. She brakes, hard. Lorelai is always Lorry with you, her full name only ever when you’re feigning irritation.
There’s nothing irritating about the situation, but everything is wrong with it.
It’s like you were in the benches, taking punches while simultaneously throwing a few yourself. You’re out of breath still seated, your skin tingles like a million arachnids crawling under your skin under your layers. You’re in the eddy of a horrifying whirlpool, that’s pulling you down, down, down, down, down, down—
!HOT TOPIC!
FIGURE SKATER OR FIGURINE? NOTHING GRACEFUL ABOUT Y/N L/N’S FALL FROM THE PINNACLE OF THE SKATING WORLD. Read from the Source!
From a pocket princess, to a rising star. From a rising star to the top of the world. From the top of the world to… a bottomless hell? How did Y/N L/N end up here?
It’s nothing new that L/N’s presence was notable during the flashy ISU Grand Prix held in Beijing last year, the podium notably shuffled as a result. The skater’s ankle injury was never awarded a career ending title, but with the way her comeback remains as foggy as it did since the initial announcement, one must begin to wonder if we’ll ever see L/N on the competitive ice again.
Or perhaps she’s simply lost her spark?
Trusted sources report that L/N’s sponsors are growing weary of her extended vacation, and are just about ready to pull the rug! In addition, sources also report her floundering lack of consistency in practice sessions on the ice, her condition beyond someone as onerous as even Isabella Carroll to manoeuvre into success. Talk about futile!
Now, we’re all hoping that our glittering gold medalist is only a victim of mindless chatter, however, we must concede, neither we nor our sources are holding on to too much hope.
Keep on the lookout for more updates from us on our fallen (?) star!
[a/n]: hehehehehe remember to reblog and tell me your thoughts
This makes so much sense
PEDAL TO THE METAL (series masterlist)
🏁 IT'S LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO! 🏁
Welcome to the world of F1, where the cars go fast, the stakes go higher, and the drama never lifts off the throttle. Seventeen rules the grid—from precision strategies to podium glory. Whether it’s navigating a hairpin turn or a tricky love confession, the tension is always at maximum revs. So tighten your harness and adjust your visors—this isn’t just a race; it’s the ride of a lifetime.
🏁 N O T E S : this has been in the works for far too long, and i owe it to @ylangelegy for yanking it out of my head and putting it on paper. i hope you love my magnum opus as much as i love writing it <3 without further ado, welcome to pedal to the metal !
🏎️ in the cockpit: ferrari driver!jeonghan x journalist!reader
𖦹 track: humor, fluff, angst, smut
🏆 qualifying results: read the teaser here! 🏁 race results: read the full fic HERE (part i) and HERE (part ii) 🚥 sprint results: [on the record] [off the record] [bad for business]
📝 post race analysis: jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.
🏎️ in the cockpit: ferrari driver!soonyoung x publicist!reader
𖦹 track: humor, fluff, angst, smut
🏆 qualifying results: read the teaser here! 🏁 race results: read the full fic here! 🚥 sprint results: read associated drabbles here!
📝 post race analysis: a ferrari driver who loathes media day, a publicist who’s one press conference away from losing it, and enough tension to power the entire grid—because apparently, managing his PR disasters isn’t in the job description for falling for him.
🏎️ in the cockpit: mclaren driver!mingyu x strategist!reader
𖦹 track: humor, fluff, angst, smut
🏆 qualifying results: read the teaser here! 🏁 race results: read the full fic here! 🚥 sprint results: read associated drabbles here!
📝 post race analysis: when the fastest driver on the grid has a habit of ignoring orders and the loudest strategist in the paddock has zero patience for his antics, the result isn't what everyone expects. but one thing's for sure: everyone hears the team radio.
🏎️ in the cockpit: aston martin driver!seokmin x f1 vlogger!reader
𖦹 track: humor, fluff, angst, smut
🏆 qualifying results: read the teaser here! 🏁 race results: read the full fic here! 🚥 sprint results: read associated drabbles here!
📝 post race analysis: for the first time in his life, seokmin realizes he wants something he can’t just reach out and take.
𝜗℘ CAN I BE HIM?
❛ 𝘪 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘪’𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘯𝘰. 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴— 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 '𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯? 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘪 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘪 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮? ❜
timeline: 2017 & 2018
synopsis: Amid the tangled emotions between Luna, Jeonghan, and Mingyu, unspoken confessions and lingering hopes weave a bittersweet narrative of love, regret, and the desperate longing to be chosen.
warnings: angst, multiple povs, narrative description heavy, cursing, crying, mentions of rejection, heartbreak, jealousy, regrets, unrequited love (?), sad!Luna, jealous!Jeonghan, jealous!Mingyu, lowkey possessive Jeonghan, secret feelings, confusions and realizations, acceptance, unrequited love, everyone is lowkey sad
read If Only first before this if you haven’t already! this one-shot is the aftermath of that story. this is also inspired by these request by you lovely humans: (request 1), (request 2), (request 3) & (request 4) happy reading, my loves 🤍🤎
sidenote… my heart aches for the three of them cause i have been on their shoes before… all three of them (also, i made myself cry again)… i promise, they’ll be fine 🥹🤍
“and when i felt like i was an old cardigan under someone’s bed, you put me on and said i was your favorite.” listening to Cardigan while writing this is not for the faint hearted…
╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰ ౨ৎ writings masterlist
Can I be him?
The thought crossed Mingyu’s mind as he sat on the cold floor of the practice room, his back propped against the wall. His dark eyes were fixed on Luna, who was across the room, quietly stretching. Her movements were methodical, almost robotic, as if her body was going through the motions her heart wasn’t in. She tilted her head to one side, letting out a soft laugh at something Dokyeom had said, but Mingyu wasn’t fooled.
That smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Her eyes told a different story.
Slightly swollen, rimmed with a faint red that hadn’t been there the day before, they seemed heavier today, carrying the kind of weight that only came with a sleepless night and a broken heart.
Luna’s smile faltered just slightly as she stretched her arms over her head, her gaze dropping momentarily to the floor. But she recovered quickly, plastering on the same bright expression that fooled most of the room.
Most of the room— but not the members, not him, and definitely not Jeonghan.
Mingyu’s gaze drifted from Luna to her shadow.
Jeonghan sat across the room, leaning against the mirrored wall, legs sprawled in front of him. His usual air of calm amusement was absent. Instead, he looked subdued, almost tired. His sharp eyes followed Luna’s every movement, his expression unreadable except to those who knew him best.
Mingyu could see the sadness there, the guilt. Jeonghan wasn’t the type to wear his emotions plainly, but Mingyu knew him too well to miss the subtle signs.
Mingyu let out a quiet sigh, his chest tightening as he turned his attention back to Luna.
She was so good at pretending.
Too good.
But not good enough to fool him.
Despite his reputation for being loud and playful, Mingyu was surprisingly perceptive, especially when it came to his members. He had a knack for reading the room, for picking up on the things people didn’t say.
And Luna, with her slightly too-wide smile and tired eyes, was screaming in silence.
His mind wandered back to the night before, right after they had wrapped up a grueling day of comeback promotions. They’d all piled into the van, worn out but satisfied with their progress. But something had been different. The usual chatter and teasing had been dampened by a palpable tension that no one could quite name.
He remembered how Jeonghan had broken the silence as they pulled up to the dorms.
“Can you guys give me a moment with Jiyeon?” Jeonghan had asked, his voice calm but carrying an edge of urgency that couldn’t be ignored.
The members had exchanged glances but ultimately agreed, leaving Jeonghan to chase after Luna to the elevators.
Mingyu had lingered just a moment longer, glancing back to see Jeonghan jogging after Luna, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
Desperate, almost.
The elevator doors had closed, muffling whatever conversation took place between the two.
By the time they arrived at the practice room today, they had both looked… normal. Talking, laughing, pretending nothing was wrong. But it was clear as day that something had changed. Luna moved with less energy, her usual spark dulled. And Jeonghan— he looked like a man carrying a secret too heavy to bear.
Then there was the matter of Luna’s swollen eyes. She’d walked in and mumbled something about it being allergy season.
Allergy season.
The excuse might have flown with someone else, but Mingyu wasn’t buying it. He knew better.
Luna wasn’t allergic to pollen— or anything but mushrooms, for that matter. And while the other members had let it slide, choosing not to push her, Mingyu had spent the entire morning unable to shake the image of her red-rimmed eyes.
It wasn’t allergies. It was something else.
Mingyu’s chest tightened again as he watched Luna push her hair behind her ear, her focus entirely on her stretches.
Luna wasn’t looking at Jeonghan. She hadn’t looked at him directly all morning. And yet, her entire body seemed to lean in his direction, like she couldn’t help but orbit him.
Her heart was crying for Jeonghan, Mingyu realized.
Whatever had happened between them last night, it had left her raw. She was trying so hard to act normal, to be okay, but it was written all over her face.
And Jeonghan— Jeonghan’s face held an ache that mirrored hers.
Mingyu had always known Luna to be someone who wore her strength like armor. She was tough, fiercely independent, and had an almost stubborn determination to handle her own struggles.
Over the years, he’d watched her laugh off bad days, push through injuries, and hide her tears behind radiant smiles.
He knew why she did it— she hated the idea of being a burden to anyone.
Even now, when her swollen eyes and tired demeanor betrayed the storm inside her, she continued to act as though everything was fine.
But Mingyu also knew her tells.
He knew the little cracks in her facade that most people missed. The way her laughter came a beat too quickly, or how she busied herself with menial tasks when her thoughts became too loud. And he especially knew how she would retreat into herself, bottling everything up until she couldn’t anymore.
In those moments, there was always one person who could reach her— Jeonghan.
Jeonghan had a way of being exactly what Luna needed.
He was always the first to notice when something was wrong and the first to drop whatever he was doing to listen to her. No matter how busy or chaotic things got, Jeonghan would sit with her, offering his undivided attention and quiet reassurances until she felt safe enough to open up.
But not today.
Today, Jeonghan was the reason for the sadness she was hiding, and Mingyu knew she wouldn’t be going to him. Not with the way she avoided looking in his direction or the way she flinched just slightly when his name was mentioned.
Mingyu had decided then and there that if Jeonghan couldn’t be the one to catch her this time, he would.
Even if it wasn’t his place.
Even if it hurt.
He’d made it his mission to be the shoulder she could lean on, at least until she and Jeonghan could figure things out.
Mingyu didn’t need to replace Jeonghan in her life— though the selfish part of him ached to hold even a fraction of the space Jeonghan held in her heart.
No, Mingyu would happily be whatever Luna needed him to be. Because she deserved to have someone in her corner.
The practice session dragged on, but Mingyu barely registered it. His attention kept flickering to Luna, who worked quietly in the corner, tying her hair up into a ponytail as the rest of the members milled about the room. She was doing her best to blend into the background, her movements measured and unhurried. But Mingyu could see the way her hands trembled slightly as she twisted the hair tie around her fingers.
He didn’t hesitate.
Before she could finish, Mingyu crossed the room in a few long strides, his heart thudding in his chest as he approached her. Without a word, he gently turned her around to face him and wrapped her in the biggest, warmest hug he could manage.
Luna froze in his arms, caught off guard by the sudden embrace. For a split second, she didn’t know who it was, but the familiar weight of Mingyu’s biceps around her shoulders was a dead giveaway.
Her body tensed at first, stiff and uncertain, but then it melted against him. Her arms came up to wrap loosely around his torso, and Mingyu felt the tension in her shoulders ease. She sank into the hug as though it was exactly what she needed but didn’t know how to ask for.
Neither of them spoke. The world around them seemed to fade away, the noise of the practice room becoming distant and inconsequential.
Mingyu rested his chin on the top of her head, his large hands moving gently to the loose tie of her hair. He pulled it free, his fingers working carefully to gather her strands and tie them properly. Luna stayed in place, her arms still around his waist, her face pressed lightly against his chest.
When he finished, Mingyu pulled back just slightly, cupping her neck with both hands as he tilted her head up to look at him. His thumbs brushed softly against her skin, and he offered her the gentlest smile he could muster.
“You did good today,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m proud of you, Lulu-ya.”
Luna’s eyes went misty at his words, her lips curving into a sad, soft smile. “Thank you, Gyu-Gyu,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Mingyu’s chest ached at the sight of her.
That smile— bittersweet and fragile— made him feel both helpless and fiercely protective all at once. He knew his words weren’t much, but she deserved to hear them.
Luna’s heart ached, too.
Jeonghan was always the one to tell her these things. After every practice, every performance, every small accomplishment, he would praise her for things she didn’t even realize mattered. “You did so well,” he’d say, whether it was after a grueling practice session or after a performance or something as simple as finishing her meal.
Mingyu wasn’t trying to replace Jeonghan, and deep down, she knew that. But it hurt all the same because his words reminded her of what she had with Jeonghan. And yet, it also made her heart swell with gratitude for Mingyu.
Mingyu felt the weight of her emotions, even if she didn’t voice them. He didn’t say anything, letting the moment hang between them before speaking softly again.
“Let’s eat together later,” he offered, his voice calm and reassuring. “I’ll come to your place, and we can hang out. Just you and me.”
Luna hesitated, her brows furrowing slightly as she considered his words. “You don’t have to, Gyu…”
“I want to,” he interrupted gently, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “You can tell me everything if you want or we can just watch something, okay?”
Her lips parted as if she wanted to argue, but she stopped herself. Instead, she nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said softly.
Mingyu smiled again, his hands still cupping her neck as he gave her a small nod. “Good. I’ll bring something over later. We’ll make a night of it.”
“Okay,” she repeated, her voice a little steadier this time.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And for now, that was enough.
Across the practice room, Jeonghan now stood, his against the mirrored wall, his arms crossed against his chest. Dino and Dokyeom were animatedly chattering beside him, their voices rising and falling with excitement as they recounted some trivial story from their schedule earlier that week. Jeonghan nodded absentmindedly, his lips curling into an occasional smile to show he was listening.
But he wasn’t.
His eyes were elsewhere, fixed on Luna and Mingyu, who were still locked in that quiet, private moment.
Jeonghan’s gaze lingered on the way Mingyu’s large hands cradled Luna’s neck with such gentleness, the way he tilted her head up to meet his gaze as if she were something precious. The way Luna’s tired face softened in response to Mingyu’s words, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Jeonghan didn’t even realize he had stopped nodding along to Dokyeom and Dino’s conversation until Dokyeom nudged his shoulder, snapping him out of his trance. “Hyung, are you even listening?”
Jeonghan blinked, his head turning slightly toward them. “Hmm?” he murmured, feigning nonchalance as he offered them a distracted smile. “Yeah, I heard you.”
Satisfied, Dokyeom launched back into his story, and Jeonghan gave another vague nod. But his attention drifted back almost immediately, his gaze locking onto Luna once again.
Jeonghan wasn’t sure what he was feeling.
There was a tightness in his chest, a gnawing sensation that twisted uncomfortably in his gut. It wasn’t something he was particularly familiar with, and yet, it felt impossibly loud in his head.
He watched as Mingyu’s hands lingered at Luna’s nape, his fingers brushing lightly against her skin before he stepped back, giving her a reassuring smile. He watched the way Luna’s shoulders seemed to relax under Mingyu’s touch, how she nodded at whatever Mingyu said with an almost imperceptible hesitation, as if she was letting down a guard she didn’t even know she had raised.
And then, like a whisper in his mind, the thought came unbidden— Can I be him?
Jeonghan’s chest constricted at the question, his heart skipping a beat as if the thought itself had startled him. The weight of those words settled heavily in his mind, lingering like a bitter taste he couldn’t shake.
But almost as quickly as it had come, the thought shifted, his mind backtracking with a sharp pang of realization.
I was him.
His fingers curled against his thighs as the words echoed in his head, quiet but insistent. He was the one Luna used to lean on, the one she sought out when the weight of the world became too much to bear. He was the one who used to coax those smiles out of her, who knew exactly what to say to make her laugh, to make her feel seen.
And now, someone else was standing in his place.
Jeonghan’s jaw tightened as he forced himself to look away, his eyes dropping to the floor. He hated how his thoughts were spiraling, how his emotions felt tangled and messy in a way he couldn’t quite unravel.
“Hyung?” Dino’s voice pulled him back to reality again, and Jeonghan glanced up, his expression carefully composed.
“Yeah?” he asked, his tone calm and even.
“Are you okay? You seem… distracted,” Dino said, his brow furrowing slightly.
Jeonghan gave a small laugh, shaking his head as if to brush off the concern. “I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all.”
But as he glanced back across the room, his eyes catching the tail end of Luna and Mingyu’s conversation, that gnawing feeling in his chest remained.
He told himself it was nothing. Just a passing moment of jealousy, perhaps. Nothing he couldn’t shake off.
But deep down, Jeonghan knew better.
Luna knew better as well.
She knew this quiet evening with Mingyu, as comforting as it was, would inevitably end with her peeling back the layers of her conflict with Jeonghan.
She knew Mingyu well enough to recognize that he wasn’t here just to keep her company or to feed her. He was here because he cared, because he had always been the kind of person who would wait patiently until she was ready to share the weight she carried.
Later that night, just as planned, Luna and Mingyu found themselves in her cozy apartment. The smell of her vanilla perfume lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the soft citrus scent of the candle she had lit on her kitchen counter. They were supposed to order takeout, but Mingyu, ever the culinary enthusiast, had other plans.
“You know, you could just sit there and be pretty while I do all the work,” Mingyu teased as he rummaged through her fridge, pulling out ingredients with practiced ease.
Luna, standing across the kitchen island with her arms crossed, raised an eyebrow at him. “And why would I do that when I can help? You do realize I’m capable of cooking, right?”
Mingyu paused, a dramatic look of skepticism plastered on his face. “Capable? Sure. But am I willing to risk my life testing that theory? Not really.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched upward despite herself. “Oh, please. I could outcook you any day.”
“Oh, really?” Mingyu leaned against the counter, smirking at her.
“Really. I’m an amazing cook, Gyu,” Luna huffed, grabbing a wooden spoon from the utensil drawer. “I’m helping, whether you like it or not.”
Mingyu grinned, knowing she wouldn’t back down. “Fine, fine. I’ll give you a task so you don’t feel useless.” He gestured toward the living room with his chin. “Go pick something for us to watch. Something good, okay? No pressure.”
Luna narrowed her eyes at him, but she set the spoon down and wandered into the living room, already knowing exactly what she’d choose.
When she returned a few minutes later, the television glinting as the screen flashed and showed what she chose. Mingyu burst into laughter. “‘Tangled’,” he said, shaking his head fondly. “Why am I not surprised?”
“What’s wrong with ‘Tangled’?” Luna asked, feigning offense as she arranged the table in front of her.
“Nothing,” Mingyu replied, turning back to the stove. “I just knew you’d pick it. You’re predictable, Lulu-ya.”
“Predictable? I’ll have you know that this is a classic,” she said, plopping down on the couch and throwing a cushion at him for good measure.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Mingyu called back, dodging the cushion with a grin.
The sound of vegetables sizzling in the pan and the faint background score of the movie filled the apartment, creating a warmth that wrapped around them like a blanket.
When the food was finally ready, they settled on the couch with plates in hand, the coffee table serving as a makeshift dining area. The meal was simple— kimchi fried rice with chicken and some stir-fried vegetables— but it was perfect.
As the movie played, Luna found herself laughing more than she had in days. Mingyu kept up a steady stream of commentary, poking fun at Flynn Rider’s exaggerated smolder and mimicking Maximus the horse with over-the-top gestures.
It was silly and endearing, and it was exactly what she needed.
But Mingyu never pushed. He didn’t ask her how she was feeling, didn’t pry into the thoughts she was clearly holding back. He just let her exist, let her enjoy the moment, and it made all the difference.
For now, Luna didn’t have to think about the ache in her chest or the unspoken tension that lingered between her and Jeonghan.
For now, she could just be.
But deep down, she knew better. She knew that before the night was over, the words she had been swallowing all day would finally spill out. And somehow, she also knew that Mingyu would be ready to catch them when they did.
And then it did happen.
It happened in a flash, so subtle yet so significant, that Luna barely registered the words leaving her mouth until it was too late.
Mingyu stood from the couch, stretching his long limbs before heading toward her pantry. He ran a hand through his hair and casually asked, “You want a glass of wine? Thought it might as well be our dessert.”
She was mid-laugh, relaxed for the first time in what felt like ages, when the words slipped out, unbidden. “The last time I drank, I got fucking drunk and told Han I–”
The room fell into an unnatural stillness as her sentence cut short. Her breath hitched, and she froze, eyes dropping immediately to her hands. Her fingers instinctively twisted the gold rings she always wore, a habit Mingyu had seen countless times before. It was her tell, her silent admission of unease.
Mingyu turned slowly, his hand still hovering over the wine bottle. He studied her with the kind of calm that came only from years of reading people. He released the bottle without a sound and walked back toward her.
He didn’t speak, didn’t push, simply sat beside her, his broad frame a steady presence in the quiet room.
Luna felt the couch shift under his weight, but she couldn’t look at him. Her fingers kept twisting, the band of her rings cool against her warm skin. She felt a hand gently rest atop her head, and her tense shoulders eased just slightly at the comforting gesture.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, until she finally closed her eyes and sighed, long and weary. She knew Mingyu wouldn’t force her to speak. But that was precisely why she wanted to.
He deserved to know.
After everything he had done for her tonight— his lighthearted banter, the warm meal, the quiet reassurance he provided without ever needing words— he deserved this piece of her, no matter how raw it felt to offer.
And maybe, just maybe, she needed this too.
“The last time I drank…” she started, her voice shaky, barely above a whisper. She forced herself to keep going, the words tumbling out like a confession she had been holding too tightly for too long. “I got drunk and told Han… told him that I liked him.”
Her voice cracked at the last word, and she bit her lip, still unable to meet Mingyu’s gaze.
Mingyu had known.
He had always known.
From the moment they had met as trainees, it was as clear as daylight. Luna’s feelings for Jeonghan were written in every lingering glance, in the subtle softening of her features whenever he walked into the room, in the way she instinctively gravitated toward him no matter the situation.
It was in the way her eyes sparkled like stars whenever Jeonghan praised her, the way she seemed to orbit around him without even realizing it.
Mingyu knew it because he felt the same way about her.
He knew how it felt to linger in the background, to notice every small detail about someone and hope they’d see you too. He knew how it felt to hide his feelings behind jokes and smiles, burying them so deeply that no one would ever guess.
The difference between them was that Luna’s feelings were as evident as the sun at noon, while his were a well-guarded secret. He had mastered the art of pretending, of hiding his heart in plain sight.
He watched her, his heart aching as she twisted her rings even harder. It was as if she were trying to ground herself, to stop herself from breaking apart completely.
“…And the next day, in the elevator, he told me we wouldn’t work.”
The quiet admission shattered Mingyu’s trance.
His eyes snapped down to her, and he saw her finally look up at him. Her dark eyes were rimmed with tears, glistening under the soft light of her apartment. She blinked rapidly, as if willing them not to fall, but her lips trembled despite her effort to keep her composure.
“Am I too hard to love, Gyu-Gyu?” she whispered, her voice so soft, so heartbreakingly vulnerable, that Mingyu’s chest tightened.
His breath caught, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words. He could only see the pain in her eyes, the self-doubt she had no business carrying, and the weight of her question that hung in the air between them.
Mingyu swallowed hard, his fists clenching against his knees as a bitter thought crept into his mind.
Can I be him?
Could he be the one who made her laugh, made her cry, made her feel so deeply? Could he be the one her heart longed for so desperately?
Mingyu had tried to push those feelings down for so long, telling himself it was enough just to be her friend. But seeing her like this, so broken over someone else— it hurt. It hurt more than he could have imagined.
Why can’t I be him?
And yet, even as the thought consumed him, Mingyu couldn’t look away. All he wanted, more than anything, was for her to smile again. Even if it wasn’t because of him.
Because that was what love looked like.
And right now, love was a battlefield he was losing.
He wanted to tell her so much— that she wasn’t too hard to love, that she deserved more than she was giving herself credit for, that if only she would let him, he would love her in ways she couldn’t even begin to imagine.
But he also knew this wasn’t about him.
So, instead, he cupped her face in his large, warm hands, his thumbs gently brushing against her cheeks as he steadied her gaze.
“No,” he said, his voice firm yet impossibly soft. “You’re not hard to love, Jiyeonie. Not at all.”
Her tears spilled over then, and Mingyu felt his heart splinter in ways he didn’t think were possible. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, as if he could shield her from every hurt she had ever felt.
And for tonight, he promised himself he would be that person for her— the one she could lean on, the one who wouldn’t let her fall apart.
Luna broke.
It was slow at first, a trembling exhale that Mingyu barely heard over the rush of his own thoughts. Her body stiffened against him, her small frame caught in the vice grip of emotions she could no longer hold back.
Then, with a sound that tore straight through his chest, she broke completely.
Mingyu felt the full weight of her grief as her fingers fisted tightly into his shirt, clutching him like he was the only thing tethering her to the earth. Her tears spilled freely now, soaking the fabric of his shirt as sobs wracked her body.
He didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the slow, soothing circles his hand traced on her back. He held her tightly, anchoring her, silently telling her she wasn’t alone in this.
It was the first time she’d let herself cry again after last night’s explosive breakdown. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since she’d stepped out of that elevator, leaving Jeonghan behind with a reassuring smile she’d fought to muster. She’d told him it was fine, told him she understood, before the doors slid shut and she was finally, mercifully, alone.
The second she’d stepped into her apartment, the dam had burst. Every ounce of strength she’d held onto collapsed under the weight of his polite rejection. She had screamed into her pillow, sobbed until her chest physically hurt, and curled into herself as the words replayed in her head like a cruel melody:
“…we can’t do this.”
And now, here she was again, sobbing uncontrollably, except this time she wasn’t alone.
Mingyu said nothing as her cries poured out against him. He stayed rooted in place, steady and quiet, letting her grief unfold at its own pace. His hand never stopped its gentle motion against her back, his other arm a firm yet tender hold around her.
He didn’t mind that his shirt was drenched, didn’t care that her nails were digging into him.
All he cared about was her.
When her sobs finally began to soften into quiet sniffles, he shifted slightly, but only to press his lips to the crown of her head in a gesture so soft it was almost reverent.
“You are not hard to love, Jiyeonie,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. He pulled back just enough to tilt her tearstained face up to meet his gaze. His hands cupped her cheeks gently, his thumbs wiping away the streaks of tears on her flushed skin. “You are far from that. In fact, you’re so easy to love.”
Her swollen, teary eyes locked onto his, and he could see the raw emotion swimming in them. Confusion, sadness, disbelief— all of it was there, but she didn’t pull away.
Luna let him hold her, let him speak.
Mingyu exhaled softly, his thumbs brushing over her skin again as he continued. “You care so deeply about the people around you. You go out of your way to make everyone feel seen and heard, even when you’re struggling yourself. You light up every room you walk into, Lulu-ya. People gravitate toward you without even realizing it because you make everything feel lighter, better. You’re kind in ways that most people can’t even fathom. You make people laugh, you make them feel safe. You make me feel safe.”
His voice wavered slightly at the last admission, but he pressed on, unable to stop the words tumbling from his heart. “You’re the type of person who loves so selflessly, and I don’t think you even realize how rare that is. You’re easy to love, Bae Jiyeon. So easy. Anyone who tells you otherwise doesn’t deserve you.”
He let out a shaky breath, the weight of his unspoken feelings threatening to overwhelm him. This wasn’t just about reassuring her— it was a truth he’d been holding onto for years, a truth he’d never been able to say out loud until now.
Luna’s lips parted slightly as she stared up at him, her wide, tear-filled eyes searching his face for something she couldn’t name. She didn’t speak, but she didn’t need to. Her silence said more than words ever could.
Mingyu’s gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there for a moment too long before flickering back to her eyes. And then back again. His breath hitched, and he realized just how close they were, her face cradled in his hands, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.
Her eyes held sadness, yes, but there was also a flicker of confusion, a question she didn’t yet know how to ask.
His head dipped slowly, so slowly that time seemed to stretch around them. He could feel the pull, the magnetic force drawing him closer to her, but just as his lips were a whisper away from hers, he stopped.
Mingyu froze, his breath shaky as he closed his eyes and let his forehead rest gently against hers.
He sighed deeply, frustration and guilt clawing at him as he scolded himself silently.
What are you doing, Kim Mingyu?
Luna didn’t need this. She didn’t need more confusion, more complications. She didn’t need him taking advantage of her vulnerability.
Luna nudged her forehead against his, a small gesture of concern that only deepened his guilt. “Gyu-Gyu?” she whispered, her voice laced with confusion.
He opened his eyes slowly, finding her gaze still locked on him, her brows knit together as if trying to piece together what he was feeling.
Without a word, Mingyu pulled back just enough to place a soft, lingering kiss on her forehead. His lips pressed against her skin with a tenderness that conveyed everything he couldn’t say aloud.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes met hers again, and he offered her a small, reassuring smile. “You’re going to be okay, Jiyeonie,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a conviction he wasn’t entirely sure he believed. “You’re stronger than you think.”
Mingyu took a deep breath, steadying himself as he stared into Luna’s tear-streaked face. Her eyes, still wide and brimming with confusion, searched his for answers he didn’t yet have the strength to give. But there was one thing he knew with unwavering certainty, one thing he could promise her.
“I’ll make sure you’re okay,” he said, his voice soft yet filled with conviction. His hands, still cradling her face, fell to her shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t know how long it’ll take or how much it’ll hurt, but I promise you, Jiyeonie, I’ll be here. Whatever you need— whenever you need it— I’ll be here.”
The words hung in the air like a vow, unspoken yet understood. He didn’t need her to respond. Her silence, the way her fingers clung faintly to his wrist, was enough.
And with that, he stayed close, letting her process everything in her own time, his presence a silent promise that he wasn’t going anywhere.
And Mingyu kept that promise.
Through the days, the weeks, the months that followed, he was there. Quietly, steadfastly, he became the anchor Luna needed as she worked through the storm raging inside her.
He was the one who showed up unannounced at her apartment with her favorite takeout when he suspected she hadn’t eaten. The one who filled her living room with laughter when he pulled out his collection of terrible dad jokes. The one who dragged her out for morning walks when she felt too drained to even leave her bed, promising her that fresh air and sunshine could do wonders for her soul.
Whenever self-doubt crept into her voice, Mingyu countered it with an unwavering confidence in her. “You’re stronger than this,” he’d say, “and I’m not just saying that because I care about you. You’ve gotten through so much, Jiyeonie. You’re going to get through this, too.”
Whenever fatigue settled into her bones or fear whispered cruel lies into her ear, Mingyu was there. He’d sit with her in silence on her toughest days, a steady presence she could lean on without judgment. He gave her space when she needed it and filled it when she asked.
Mingyu knew when to push and when to wait.
There were days when she would cry, and he would simply hold her. Other days, she would rant about how lost she felt, how fragile she had become, and Mingyu would sit there, listening to every word without interrupting.
Mingyu didn’t try to fix her. He just let her feel what she needed to feel.
And slowly but surely, Luna began to heal.
Her laughter returned, soft at first but growing stronger with each passing day. Her confidence, once so shaken, began to rebuild itself. She started to hum absentmindedly again, a habit Mingyu had always found endearing.
Even her relationship with Jeonghan began to return to normal.
The awkward silences that had once stretched between them disappeared. The lingering tension in their stares faded, replaced by the easy camaraderie they had always shared. They laughed together again, talked as though nothing had happened, and spent time with the rest of the members without the weight of unspoken words hanging between them.
Jeonghan, true to form, never brought up what had transpired between them months prior. He respected her unspoken boundaries, never prying, never pushing. Luna, for her part, was grateful for that.
But no matter how much Mingyu helped her heal— no matter how many of her insecurities and doubts he managed to soothe— there was one thing he couldn’t replace.
Her feelings for Jeonghan.
Even after all this time, even after nearly a year of distance and rebuilding, her heart beat only for him.
It was Jeonghan she thought of in quiet moments, Jeonghan whose laughter still echoed in her mind, Jeonghan whose touch she longed for.
Her heart ached for him, yearned for him, and no amount of time seemed capable of changing that.
Her heart beats only for him; it longs only for him, an unyielding melody that no one else can rewrite.
And Mingyu… Mingyu was content with that.
Because if there was one thing he knew about love, it was that sometimes, love meant putting someone else’s happiness above your own. It meant helping the person you loved most find their happiness, even if that happiness didn’t include you.
After all, you would do anything for love— even if it meant helping your love with their love.
Mingyu marveled at his own heart sometimes, at its strength.
How was it possible to love someone so selflessly, to give so much of yourself knowing you might never get anything in return?
He didn’t know, but he also didn’t regret it.
Then again, Luna’s heart was just as strong, if not stronger.
She had endured the kind of heartbreak that could shatter a person, and yet she had chosen to keep loving. She had chosen to persevere, to hold onto that love even when it felt impossible.
Mingyu thought of her often, of the quiet resilience she carried, of the way she smiled even when her heart was heavy.
She amazed him, and in some ways, she inspired him.
If Luna could endure so much and still love so deeply, then who was he to do any less?
And so, Mingyu stayed by her side, his heart heavy yet full.
Because loving Bae Jiyeon— helping Bae Jiyeon—wasn’t a burden.
It was a privilege.
Jeonghan feels the same.
It was a privilege.
It was a privilege to know Luna, to stand beside her through the years as they navigated the treacherous waters of the idol world. A privilege to work with her, to watch her light up stages with an effortless grace that took his breath away every time. A privilege to call her his best friend, the one person who could read him like an open book even when he thought he was being clever.
And above all else, it was a privilege to be loved by her.
Jeonghan had known since the moment she confessed to him in her apartment, her words slurring slightly from the alcohol but her heart painfully clear.
Luna’s love for him wasn’t something fleeting or shallow. It was deep and real, a kind of love he’d never dared to believe someone like him could deserve.
But it terrified him.
The moment in the elevator the night after when he told her, “We can’t do this,” he knew he’d made a mistake.
The look in Luna’s eyes— the fleeting flash of pain she couldn’t quite mask before she quickly plastered on a smile— was something that haunted him.
He remembered the way she reassured him, her voice trembling slightly as she said, “It’s fine. I was drunk and being stupid.” And then she left the elevator, her head held high, as though the weight of his rejection wasn’t bearing down on her.
But Jeonghan knew her better than that.
He always had.
That night, he couldn’t sleep. His mind replayed every moment of their conversation, every little detail he wished he could take back. He pictured her walking into her apartment, finally letting her guard down, finally allowing herself to cry.
The thought of her alone, her shoulders shaking with sobs he knew she wouldn’t let anyone else see, made his chest ache.
The next day, he noticed the shift immediately.
Luna avoided his gaze in schedules, her usual bright smiles now tempered, softer, almost rehearsed. She threw herself into work with a single-minded focus that even the other members started to comment on. He could see it in the way she laughed at jokes— polite, short, never reaching her eyes. He could see it in the way she distanced herself, not just from him but from everyone, wrapping herself in a cocoon of work and solitude.
And then there was Mingyu.
Jeonghan noticed how Luna began to gravitate toward him.
It started small— a lingering conversation here, a shared laugh there. But it grew, and before long, Mingyu became her shadow, her support, her confidant.
Jeonghan should have felt envious, should have felt angry, but all he felt was gratitude.
Because if anyone could help Luna when she refused to help herself, it was Mingyu.
Jeonghan knew how Luna was.
She wasn’t the type to openly share her emotions, not unless she was pushed. She was the type to bury them, to lock them away until the weight of them became unbearable. And Mingyu… Mingyu had a way of drawing people out, of making them feel safe.
Jeonghan was thankful for him, even if it hurt to watch them together sometimes.
And so, Jeonghan watched.
Silently, slyly, like a fly on the wall, he kept an eye on her.
He noticed the little things— the way her smile faltered when she thought no one was looking, the way her hands fidgeted nervously during group meetings, the way her laugh sometimes felt just a little too forced.
Jeonghan noticed how she stopped seeking him out the way she used to, how her lingering stares disappeared, replaced by a pointed avoidance that cut deeper than he wanted to admit.
He noticed, too, the way Mingyu seemed to bring back pieces of the Luna he knew.
Little by little, she began to laugh more freely, her eyes regaining some of their sparkle. She started to hum to herself again, a quiet melody that Jeonghan hadn’t realized he missed until it returned.
But even as Luna began to heal, Jeonghan couldn’t shake his regret.
He regretted the fear that had gripped him in that elevator, the fear that had made him choose the safe path instead of the one he truly wanted.
Jeonghan regretted making her feel like her love wasn’t worth the risk, like she wasn’t worth the risk.
He regretted the way he had hurt her, the way he had driven her away, the way he had made her question herself. And he regretted most of all that he hadn’t been brave enough to tell her the truth.
Because the truth was, Jeonghan had loved Luna for as long as he could remember.
Jeonghan was in love with Luna.
Hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her in a way that defied logic or reason. It wasn’t something he could pinpoint to a single moment or a singular trait.
From the moment they met as trainees, there had been something about her that drew him in. Maybe it was despite her cold outward appearance, she smiled so beautifully, so bright and unguarded, or the way she laughed, unabashed and full of life. Maybe it was the way she looked at him, like she could see straight through the facade he so carefully crafted.
It was everything, all at once.
It was the way she scrunched her nose when she laughed too hard, her giggles filling the room like sunlight spilling into a dark corner. It was the way she remembered the little things— like how he liked his coffee or how he always needed a nap after a long schedule.
It was the way she seemed to know him better than he knew himself, calling him out on his tricks and teasing him just enough to make him feel seen but never exposed.
He loved the way she carried herself, too— quietly resilient, endlessly kind, and fiercely loyal.
Luna was the type of person who gave her all to the people she loved, and Jeonghan had been one of the lucky ones to be on the receiving end of that love.
Jeonghan loved her then, and he loved her now.
But he had convinced himself that love wasn’t worth the risk.
That the friendship they had built, the bond they shared as members of the same group, was too important to jeopardize. That their careers, their futures, couldn’t withstand the weight of a love like theirs.
And so, he had told her no.
Even now, after everything, after he had hurt her, rejected her, and created a chasm between them, she treated him with the same warmth she gave to everyone else. He could see it was different now, of course— more guarded, more deliberate— but it was still there.
And it made him ache.
Jeonghan had spent countless nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment he told her no.
But now, as he watched her from afar, as he saw the way she smiled at Mingyu, as he noticed the way she seemed to come alive again under his care,
Regret was a constant companion, whispering in his ear, reminding him of what he had given up. It wasn’t just her love he had rejected— it was the possibility of something more, something deeper, something that terrified him because of how much he wanted it.
He wanted to make things right, to take back the pain he had caused her, to give her the love she deserved. But he didn’t know how.
But he was determined to make things right, no matter how long it took.
So, for now, he watched. And he waited.
Even if they could only ever be friends, Jeonghan was willing to accept that. He would rather have her in his life in any capacity than risk losing her completely. He was willing to put in the effort, to prove to her that she was safe with him again, that he could be someone she could trust. He was willing to push his own feelings aside if it meant seeing her happy.
And he hoped, with everything in him, that one day he would find the courage to tell her the truth.
But it wasn’t easy.
Even after months of careful rebuilding, after they had returned to a semblance of normalcy, Jeonghan could still see how Luna clung to Mingyu.
He didn’t blame her. Mingyu had been her rock during the time Jeonghan had faltered, the one who had stepped in when he had stepped away. And Mingyu, ever the gentle giant, had been exactly what Luna needed.
They were behind the scenes of a photoshoot when Jeonghan saw it again.
Luna’s laugh rang out, bright and unrestrained, as she squealed and called for Mingyu. “Gyu-Gyu, look at this!” she said, her voice laced with excitement. She held up her phone, waving it at him as he approached, his face lighting up in that easy, boyish grin Jeonghan had come to know so well.
Mingyu leaned down to look at her phone, his broad shoulders nearly swallowing her small frame as they shared a moment of quiet laughter.
Jeonghan watched from the corner of the room, his hands loosely clasped in front of him, his heart constricting painfully at the sight.
He was happy to see her smile like that, truly happy.
It was the kind of smile that reached her eyes, the kind of smile that had been absent for so long. And he was thankful for Mingyu— deeply, profoundly thankful— for being the one to bring that smile back.
But despite the gratitude that swelled in his chest, another thought crept into his mind, unbidden and unwelcome.
Can I be him?
The question lingered, heavy and bittersweet.
It mirrored the thought that had crossed Mingyu’s mind so many months ago, the same quiet longing, the same resignation.
But where Mingyu’s question had been born from the pain of unrequited love, Jeonghan’s was laced with guilt and regret. Because he could have been him. He could have been the one to make her laugh like that, to stand by her side, to be her rock.
But he wasn’t.
And now, as he watched her with Mingyu, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had forfeited his chance entirely.
Jeonghan’s gaze lingered on them, his heart twisting with an ache he couldn’t quite put into words. He saw the way Luna tilted her head up to meet Mingyu’s eyes, her expression soft and full of trust. He saw the way Mingyu looked at her in return, his own gaze steady and unguarded.
It was a silent conversation, a quiet understanding, and Jeonghan felt like an intruder simply for witnessing it.
It was ironic.
Both Jeonghan and Mingyu were caught in the same cycle, both willing to put their own feelings aside for Luna’s happiness. Both of them aching for something they could never truly have. And yet, where Mingyu’s strength lay in his ability to give selflessly, Jeonghan’s strength was still a work in progress.
He wanted to be better for her. He wanted to deserve her.
But as he stood there, watching her laugh with Mingyu, the question lingered in the back of his mind, haunting him.
Can I be him?
Jeonghan’s breath caught in his throat as he stood frozen, watching the scene unfold before him. Luna and Mingyu were standing just a few feet away, their heads bent together over her phone. She laughed again, her voice light and melodic, and something inside Jeonghan twisted painfully.
She looked so happy.
The kind of happiness that was effortless, unguarded, real.
And yet, all Jeonghan could think was, Am I still the one?
The question clawed at him, desperate and raw, filling him with a fear he couldn’t shake. It wasn’t just the sight of her smiling at Mingyu or the way she leaned into his presence like he was her safe harbor.
It was the possibility that somewhere along the way, Jeonghan had lost her— lost the part of her heart that once belonged to him.
Had she moved on? Had her feelings for him faded, dissolved into nothing but a distant memory of what could have been?
Jeonghan’s fingers tightened into fists at his sides, his chest heavy with the weight of uncertainty. He had no one to blame but himself. He had been the one to push her away, to draw that invisible line between them, to let fear and doubt dictate his choices.
But what if, in doing so, he had extinguished the flame that once burned for him in her heart?
Jeonghan’s mind raced, desperate for answers.
He thought back to every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every smile she had ever given him. He thought about the way she used to look at him, her eyes filled with a kind of quiet adoration that made him feel like he was the center of her universe. He thought about the way she used to laugh at his jokes, even when they weren’t funny, and how she always seemed to seek him out in a crowded room, as if drawn to him by some invisible thread.
Was any of that still there? Or had it all been erased, replaced by something else— someone else?
Jeonghan swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. Please, he thought, his heart aching with the weight of his unspoken plea. Please let me still be the one.
He wanted so badly to believe that he was.
That somewhere deep inside, Luna’s heart still called for him, still craved him, still loved him. That despite everything— despite the hurt, the distance, the months of uncertainty— he was still the one she wanted.
But the fear was relentless, gnawing at the edges of his hope.
What if he was wrong? What if she had already let go? What if Mingyu had become the person she turned to, the person she leaned on, the person she loved?
The thought was unbearable, and yet it lingered, taunting him with its cruel possibilities.
Jeonghan’s eyes flickered back to Luna, watching the way she lit up in Mingyu’s presence, her smile brighter than he had seen it in months. He felt a pang of gratitude for Mingyu, for being there for her in a way that Jeonghan hadn’t been able to. But that gratitude was overshadowed by a deep, aching longing— an unrelenting desire to be the one who made her feel that way.
I can be him, Jeonghan thought, his mind racing with determination. I can be whoever and whatever you want me to be. Just don’t let go of me. Please, Nana-ya. Don’t give up on me.
The words burned in his chest, desperate and silent. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on to this hope, this fragile, flickering belief that he still had a chance.
Jeonghan just needed to know. Needed her to give him a sign, a hint, anything to tell him that he wasn’t too late.
Wait for me, he thought, his gaze softening as he looked at her. Just a little longer. Don’t let go. Don’t let me go, pretty angel.
Because if there was even the slightest chance that he was still the one, Jeonghan would fight for her. He would fight with everything he had, against every fear and every doubt, to be the person she needed.
To be the person she loved.
Jeonghan just needed her to wait. Just a little more.
He can be the one.
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Searching you
Genre: hurt/comfort, angts ??, very domestic fluff.
Pairing: Seungcheol x gn!reader.
Warnings: Reader is ill, couple arguments, crying, scoups being a walking green flag.
- Yuin’s note: At this point it is no longer necessary to say that every time I get sick, I write something that completely reflects how I feel.
Seungcheol knows how individual you are and respects that. He understands that you like to do things on your own, how difficult it is for you to ask for help, and even thought he is very proud of you, he will not hesitate to help when the opportunity arises.
However, that day he did not feel very proud. Seungcheol had returned from running some errands and when he entered the dining room, the first thing he saw was an unpleasant surprise. You were slumped over the table, your arms crossed as a pillow, with a thick blanket over your body.
He set the groceries down on the counter and approached, careful not to wake you up, but he barely got closer when you raised your head with clear agitation.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” he said, almost in a whisper. “What are you doing here? You should be resting.”
“Waiting for you…” you replied in a broken tone, looking down at the table.
Seungcheol pressed his lips together with frustration, and when he tried to place his hand on your shoulder, you shook him off a bit roughly, turning your face away to avoid seeing him. But that didn’t stop him.
“y/n,” his voice sounded kind and firm at the same time, but it became steady when you shrugged your shoulders and ignored him. “I’m talking to you, look at me.”
You pushed the chair back with a heavy noise, standing up to face him as if confronting an enemy. Not even his concerned gaze made you tremble; in fact, it might have made you even angrier.
“Where the hell did you go?” you asked, raising your voice slightly.
“I went to buy medicine and something for you to eat,” he replied calmly, trying his best to not pay attention to your irritable behavior.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” You took a step forward as if you wanted to intimidate him, but Seungcheol stood his ground.
“I wanted to, but you couldn’t sleep last night because of the fever,” Cheol took a step forward trying to reach out to you; however, you stepped back two paces, curling up a bit under the blankets. He swallowed hard. “You needed to rest.”
“That’s just an excuse,” the sad tone of your voice reached Cheol’s ears like a loud noise, and your tear-filled eyes made his hands tremble in a mix of panic and confusion. “I needed you, and you left me!”
A heavy silence filled the apartment. Seungcheol looked at you with a downcast gaze, unsure of what to do. He felt rejected. He was trying to respect your space, your feelings and your illness. The only thing that mattered to him was you to be okay, even if it meant swallowing his pride and pleasing you.
However, his heart skipped a beat when he felt a familiar weight on his shoulder, as you were wrapping your arms around his waist in a desperate attempt to hug him.
He embraced you gently, placing one arm over your shoulders and using the other to pull the blankets away, gripping your waist to draw you closer to him. Your body was trembling with fever, so weak that you couldn’t even cry; still, you clung to him like the world’s gonna end, resting your face against his shoulder as the tears started to flow by itself.
After a few minutes, you regained your breath and barely pulled back to look into Cheol’s eyes, letting him wipe your face with the sleeve of his sweater. He felt that if he broke the hug, you would too, and kept his hold on as the moment lingered.
“I had a nightmare,” you said, tightening your hands around his torso. “I woke up scared, shaking, and when I saw that you weren’t there, I got angry.”
“I'm sorry,” he replied, caressing your cheek with his thumb.
“No, I'm sorry,” you rested your face back on his shoulder, adjusting the hug a bit. He instinctively did the same. “I got mad, and you were just trying to help. You’re a sweetheart.”
Cheol smiled, leaving a little kiss on your shoulder. “I think the fever went up, your skin is burning and you’re saying weird things.”
A slight whine made him chuckle softly. “Why are you never serious?”
Seungcheol moved back a little, holding your face between his hands, giving you a big smile, and finally kissing you on the forehead.
“Don’t you like how I am?” He raised an eyebrow, making a face that made you laugh.
“No… I love you just the way you are.”
Cheol gave you another peck on the forehead before picking up the blanket from the floor and guiding you toward the bed. He went to the kitchen to fetch some medicine along with a glass of water, and as he returned to the room, you were sitting at the edge of the bed waiting for him.
“you're so stubborn” he said in a resigned tone and huffed, making you laugh. He was happy to see you in that state despite the sickness.
After taking your pills, you curled up in the blankets. Seungcheol sat on the floor, his arms crossed over the bed with his chin resting on them, wanting to stay by your side until he was sure you were asleep, no matter how long it took.
Your eyes slowly opened, and when you saw him, you couldn’t help the shy smile that spread across your face. You reached out your hand towards him and he took it, tenderly kissing your knuckles.
“Thanks for everything,” you closed your eyes again and squeezed his hand. “You really are a sweetheart.”
“You make me one” He smiled to himself as he pecked your knuckles once more. “I love you.”
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