⋆｡°✩ [ch.4] For When You Know Me

⋆｡°✩ [ch.4] for when you know me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 2.2k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

The studio smelled like overpriced candles and desperation—vanilla and bergamot masking the stale coffee and exhaustion clinging to the air.

You slumped in the vocal booth, headphones pressing into your skull once more like Atlas' hands around your throat. Your forehead was drenched with nervous sweat as you stared at the lyric sheet through blurry eyes.

"Again," the producer's voice crackled through the intercom, not looking up from his screen where waveforms pulsed in hypnotic patterns. "From the bridge. And this time, I need you to feel it."

“Again?” You tried to retort.

“Don’t you dare. We’ve barely got any material.” The rude operator just kept on going.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you closed your eyes and sang the same hollow lyrics for the seventeenth time that day, your fingers twitching against your thighs with each forced note.

"I don't need your love, I don't need your touch—"

A lie. Every word.

With every inch of her might, she pushed the heavy studio door to crack it open. Ariana Grande slipped in like sunlight through storm clouds, her quaint dress complimenting her petite frame.

The scent of her perfume momentarily cut through the studio's stale air as she caught your eye through the glass and mimed playing a small violin—her signature this is torture face, complete with exaggerated pout.

You choked back a laugh that threatened to turn into something more fragile.

"Break time!" she announced, marching in before the producer could protest. Her manicured fingers plucked the headphones off your head with practiced ease, the sudden absence of pressure making your ears ring.

“For real?” You asked.

"Come on, superstar. Five minutes won't kill your track." She winked. "Unless we're aiming for that post-crying vocal texture?"

“That’s a you thing.”

“Blah blah, just get outtt~”

The second you were out of earshot, she shoved a matcha latte into your hands. The cup was still warm, condensation beading on the cardboard sleeve.

“You got this from Mira?” You asked, hesitating at first as you received the cup.

“I’m appalled.” She muttered under her breath. “I know your blend. I’m a Grande, if that helps.”

You rolled your eyes as you rolled with her puns and so.

It was as if a lifetime ago when you were only dreaming of getting tickets to one of her shows. Now, you were rubbing elbows with one of the industry’s finest. You could say it was one of the perks of being an artist, to get a glimpse of those who really have inspired you since the beginning.

As for why she’s here, it’s complicated. At one point you babbled to a bunch of staff people that you’d die to get your favorite artists on your next album, projected by almost any stat person to be a Grammy nominated album at minimum.

Atlas heard, and Atlas gives. You could say you were thankful for them being greedy to get someone as Grande. It was a dream come true made reality for you.

"Breathe," she murmured as she sat on one of the round chairs, her usual bubbly persona dropping for a rare moment of sincerity as she studied the dark circles under your eyes.

You took a grateful sip, the familiar bitterness grounding you as it burned your tongue. "They're gonna fire me."

Ari rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful, leaning against the leather couch that had seen brighter days. "Please." She flicked your forehead lightly, her diamond ring catching the studio lights. "Atlas would sell their firstborn to keep you."

When you didn't smile, she nudged your knee with her own. "You're their only cash cow this decade, and we both know it. Remember Tokyo?"

The memory surfaced—Dior's store opening, the two of you hiding in a dressing room with smuggled champagne, laughing until your stomachs hurt about all the industry nonsense.

That had been...what? Eight months ago? It’s a crazy world to be an artist in.

The studio door cracked open again. Mira hovered in the doorway, her tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. The fluorescent hallway lights backlit her frazzled bun. "Uh...sorry to interrupt, but—"

Ari waved her off without looking away from you. "Five more minutes, Mira. The man's about to have an aneurysm." She gestured to your white-knuckled grip on the latte cup, where your nails had left crescent moons in the cardboard.

Mira hesitated, biting her lip hard enough to leave marks, then stepped fully inside. The door clicked shut behind her with ominous finality.

"It's...it's really urgent. Mr. M's waiting upstairs. He said—" She cut herself off, glancing nervously at Ariana, her fingers tightening around the tablet.

Ari raised one perfectly arched eyebrow but didn't press.

“Ah. Him again?”

“It’s always him.” You sighed.

Looking at you, she squeezed your shoulder, her touch warm through the thin fabric of your t-shirt.

“Have you been working out?” She blurted.

“You know I do—”

"Go," she murmured, just for you. "We'll pick this up later."

As you stood, she added quietly, "And text me if you need an alibi. I've got a great story about a karaoke bar and three backup dancers ready to go."

“Wait, three?”

“It’ll be five if you agree on a time today.” Ari winked with mischief.

–––

The elevator ride to the executive floor felt like ascending to the gallows. Each passing floor number blinked accusingly, the mirrored walls reflecting your tired expression back at you from infinite angles.

You fixed your hair with trembling fingers, tucking the loose strand behind your ear, but it was a losing battle—you looked exactly like what you were: exhausted.

Mr. M's office was all sharp angles and cold light—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan that did nothing to warm the space, a massive oak desk that probably cost more than your first car, its surface polished to a mirror shine.

He didn't stand when you entered, just gestured to the chair opposite him with the gold-plated pen in his hand, the overhead lights glinting off his Rolex.

“New watch?” You flick your gaze to his wrist, smirking. “Let me guess—gift from HR after they finally capped your sexual harassment complaints?”

The air conditioning kicks on. Or maybe it’s just the ice in his stare.

“Cute.” He doesn’t blink. “You’d need a personality to weaponize before it’d land, though.”

You lean in, sugar-venom sweet: “And you’d need a dick to compensate for before I’d care.”

His knuckles whiten around his coffee cup. There it is—the crack in the armor. You file it away for later. Also, you killed that delivery though.

"Sit."

You remained standing, your back straight despite the ache between your shoulders.

“Difficult artists…” Mr. M muttered rather underhandedly as he slid a tablet across the desk with one finger, the movement precise and controlled.

The TMZ article glared up at you—grainy but unmistakable, the timestamp reading 3:17 AM in the corner.

You and Jay in that diner booth, his hand hovering near yours like he couldn't quite help himself, the neon sign casting both of you in pink light. The headline burned your retinas:

ATLAS’ GOLDEN ACE SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY MAN! Insiders say the late-night meeting has Atlas execs "concerned"

Mr. M tapped the screen with his pen, circling the title with the sound so crisp it nipped at your ear.

“I’m taking it their talking about you?” You tried to lighten the mood. “You do look ‘concerned’.. time isn’t kind to those like—”

"You’d do well to quit the quips and explain, boy." Mr. M huffed.

You kept your voice level through sheer willpower.

"An old friend."

Oh, joy.

"An old distraction," Mr. M corrected, his Italian loafers hitting the carpet as he leaned back, the leather chair creaking under his weight. "Do you know how much we've invested in you? Your image? Your brand?" His fingers steepled, the diamond pinky ring catching the light.

"Jongseong Park—former law school trust fund kid, now what? A music theory professor?" He scoffed, the sound dripping with disdain. "How...quaint."

He didn’t have to force that into your throat, the bitter fact that Jay made such a decision.

Just for the sake of you, needing no confirmation from him.

You knew Jay would do anything for you, but it still ached you. Ached your heart.

He really loved you that much, and you felt undeserving of all of it.

Your nails bit into your palms, the pain the only thing keeping you grounded. "He’s a respectable professor at NYU."

"Exactly." Mr. M's smile was all teeth, the kind that never reached his eyes. "And you're here. In the big leagues." He stood abruptly, circling the desk with slow, measured steps.

You couldn’t help but shoot a glare at the man before you—but what of it?—you’re stuck in this golden pit he’d call his home.

"We own your voice. Your face. Your story." His hand landed on your shoulder, heavy as a shackle. "And your story doesn't include some washed-up law school dropout playing teacher."

The words hit like a slap, each syllable a hammer blow to your ribs.

"Damage control," Mr. M continued, straightening his cufflinks with a practiced flick of his wrists. "Rolling Stone next week. You'll say he's … consulting on new material." His smile turned razor-sharp, the kind that promised consequences.

He inched a bit closer to you, much to your disdain.

"You'll smile when you say it."

—

The last student trickled out of the lecture hall, the door swinging shut behind them with a hollow thud that echoed through the suddenly empty space.

Jay slumped against the piano, his fingers absently tracing the keys without pressing down—a habit he'd picked up after quitting law school, when the weight of his parents' disappointment still sat heavy on his shoulders and the only comfort was the familiar topography of black and white ivory.

The late afternoon sun’s rays slanted through the high windows of Steinhardt, painting the hardwood floors in gold. Dust motes danced in the beams, swirling around sheet music left abandoned on stands. The air smelled like rosin and old books, with the faintest hint of lemon polish underneath.

Jay closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. The lecture had gone well—better than well, actually. His students had been engaged, asking thoughtful questions about modal interchange that showed they'd actually done the reading. It should have felt like a victory.

Instead, all he could hear was your voice cracking on that diner's cheap speakers last night, singing words you'd once whispered against his skin like secrets.

"Professor Park?"

Jay turned, expecting another eager undergrad with questions about their midterm or perhaps the department secretary with paperwork.

Instead, Naomi stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the sunlight streaming in from the hall.

Her crisp navy blazer was wrinkled from travel, her usually impeccable ponytail slightly askew. A rolling suitcase stood at her side, its wheels still damp from New York's unpredictable spring showers.

"Surprise," she said softly, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she approached. The sound was measured, precise—like everything Naomi did.

Jay's stomach dropped. She wasn't due back from Washington until tomorrow. He'd planned to—well, he didn't know what he'd planned.

Clean the apartment, maybe. Buy flowers.

Pretend last night hadn't happened.

“You could’ve called me.” Jay forced a smile on his features. “Feeling alright?”

There were no words—nothing but silence that only drowned their presences together. There was no way to measure the volume of how deafening it was.

Naomi’s gaze did look longer as she always did, slowly leaning in as she reached into her briefcase, her movements deliberate.

The leather creaked as she pulled out a folded tabloid, sliding it across the piano lid without a word. The paper made a soft scraping sound against the polished wood, the movement sending a few sheets of music fluttering to the side.

The New York Post, its cover page loaded with one giant headline image.

The grainy photo stared up at him—you and him in that diner booth, caught in some unguarded moment he couldn't even remember. Your fingers had been inches from his, your face tilted toward him in the pink neon glow like you were sharing a secret. The headline was bold and brutal:

MIDNIGHT RENDEZVOUS! Who is the mystery man stealing pop's golden ace's heart?

Jay's throat closed. His fingers twitched toward the newspaper, then pulled back, leaving it lying there like an indictment.

Naomi didn't yell. Didn't cry. There was no trace of any emotions that tore her face anew.

Just studied him with those keen lawyer's eyes that missed nothing—not the way his breath hitched, not the flush creeping up his neck, not even the promise ring he suddenly found himself twisting around his finger.

The silence stretched between them, taut as a high wire, the only sound the distant chatter of students passing in the hall outside and the metronome-like tick of the classroom clock.

"I know." She said simply.

And that was worse than any accusation.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — okay i gotta admit this is too fast for an update and i was supposed to publish a ni-ki fic but THIS IS MY MAN'S DAY SO WE GOTTA CELEBRATE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY BELOVED POOKIE ROCKSTAR RAAAAAAAAA LYLYLYLYLYL MAWMAWMAMWA

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — tagging @kaiyunsim @firstclassjaylee @ryes-brownies08

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

legacy masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘