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purpleyoonn · 11 months

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red string 2

“our connection is determined by a tiny invisible string”

summary: you figured it was too late for your string to solidify, used to the idea of finding someone on your own, who also never got their string. However, your string began to tug when you least expected it, to the last person or people you would have ever thought.

genre: soulmate au, red string of fate au, poly au,

pairing: BTS (Yoongi centered) x Reader

status: ongoing (random updates)

warnings: slight yandere themes, insecure reader, alcohol, talks of jealousy, soul bonds, mentions of past abuse,

chapter warnings: soul pain, first meetings, running away, mc didn’t really want a bond, cinderella-esque plot line, mc is cynical, allusions to past abusive relationship, bad flashbacks, kind-of kidnapping but not really??, soul tug, mc has ptsd,

I am not going to have a taglist for this fic. I will only be using the permanent taglist as its intended for all of my fics.

permanent taglist: @m1sss1mp @yourleftsock @skyys-universe @cryingpages @strxwbloody @drissteele @dustyinkpages @iamkookiesforyou @crushedblackroses @fluffy-canada-pancakes @blaaiissee @iiitsmaria @carolinexkpop @azazel-nyx @strawberry-moonpies @g-h-o-s-t-b-a-b-i @knjkitten @foreverweareyoung7 @lachimolala22019 @namuficxs @94z-93 @kimgmzmc @thenaverse @dahliasbouqet @black-rose-29 @tinyoonsblog @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @stellauniverse @stupendouscookiehumanmug @tinyoonsblog @veronawrites @tatyhend @singukieee @m0v3m3ntsblog @exfolitae @butterymin @queen-in-the-shadows @anaspectoflife @welcometomyworld13 @slinekyu @ghostlyworld@svnbangtansworld @loisje123 @i-have-no-life-charlie @danielle143 @jcrml@softieyn @kyuupidwrites @friedlollipop @lulu-83 @tokiodori

masterlist // part 1 // part 3

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Previously on Red String:

“If Mr. Min saw you carrying her, you would need the medical room.” The guard’s words were blunt, but a little worrying.

“Mr. Min? You don’t mean…” Hong visibly paled as he looked down at you, his mind making the connection you didn’t want to say. His grip loosens as Hyunsoo takes you from his arms.

“I don’t need to remind you of the NDA you signed, do I, Hongmin?” The man who found you shook his head quickly, before looking down at you once more and walking away. You could almost see his body shaking as he did so.

Still unable to move your neck, you grumble into the guard’s chest.

“So, how’s it goin?” You ask, your brain’s defense system seeing sarcasm as its only choice.

The guard assigned to you was immensely stoic; silent in a way you couldn’t even crack a smile out of the man as you grumbled to yourself.

“You know, this was not how I wanted to spend my birthday. I imagined, well, hoped for, a nice drink and take out with a crappy movie I could laugh mindlessly to. Not having fate move against me and trap me against the bathroom door.” The guard just kept walking, sometimes stopping to adjust you in his arms as your body arguably continued to let gravity do its job, more or less against your will but who were you to fight against fate when it went with your own wishes.

“So, where are we goin?” You asked him, trying to get the man to crack, but he just continued to ignore you. You weren’t going to give up though.

You could vaguely hear the music playing, the concert still happening as you were being brought to your doom. You wondered where the man was taking you, only slightly correct in the idea that you would be brought to a waiting room of some sort. However, you realized you were wrong when you were brought to a very nice room, three big couches taking up the left of the room while a couple of tables and vanities took up the other half.

The guard, and consequently you, only made it a couple of steps in before the door was being opened again. Well, more like the door was slammed open, almost flying off its hinges as the man you were trying to run from pushed his way into the room. You would have laughed at the growl coming from Yoongi’s lips if it wasn’t aimed in your direction, and a shiver raced up your spine. You were practically shaking in the guard’s arms!

Yoongi was surely gone, Agust D taking his place as the dark look in his eyes takes in your figure, resting in the arms of the guard he had assigned to watch you. He couldn’t explain the rage he felt when he saw you in the arms of someone else; someone who wasn’t him! You were his bond, his red string! He could feel the growing possessiveness he held for you, his instincts screaming at him.

“Sirs, I—” The guard tried to explain but began to stutter after being pinned with six other glares that accompanied Yoongi’s; looks that radiated anger and power looked at him, and only then did the guard realize what he was doing wrong. He didn’t understand why the guard was holding you when he said not to touch you.

Yoongi just held his hand up, stopping the man from continuing his apologies, and stepped forward, arms reaching to take you from him. You only grunted, not exactly wanting to be in Yoongi’s arms but unfortunately, the stupid soul tug was still in effect. You couldn’t fight against the idol who now tightened his embrace around you and cradled you to his chest like a lost kitten. Like he expected you to jump from his arms any second and run.

Well, he wouldn’t be wrong.

It’s not like I could make it far anyways. You answered the stupid voice in your head.

You ignored the warmth building in your veins, ignoring the way Yoongi’s touch had your body unwillingly relaxing into his arms as you tried to move your head to see where your strings led.

You had almost forgotten about your fourth string, now split into four other pieces, each leading to the members you had yet to meet. You had seven total strings and each one led to one of the boys.

Man, Lindsey was right.

Let’s not tell her that, though. You internally cringed, knowing exactly how your best friend would react. The words “I told you so” would not be the last thing leaving her mouth, unfortunately. She would never let you live this moment down. Ever.

You couldn’t hear anything Namjoon was saying to the guard who brought you here, only seeing the dragon eyes aimed at the shorter man, and the way the guard was nodding every couple seconds. Within a minute the guard had all but ran out of the door, Namjoon turning to you with a smirk on his lips.

You were about to make some remark to the taller man smirking at you but your breath whooshed out instead when Yoongi turned you around and sat down with you still in his arms. He adjusted you so your head was resting back against his shoulder and you were facing the room, feeling entirely too exposed.

“You’re not very good at running, are you?” Yoongi murmured into your ear, causing that stupid, heated blush to creep up your neck and ears. You could practically feel the damn smirk creeping on his lips.

“You knew I’d be here.” You stated, now having put everything together. They were responsible for your and Lindsey’s seat changes and for the guards keeping an eye on you., making you feel watched and panicked.

“We did say we wanted to speak with you in private…” You turn your head to see Taehyung and Jimin seated on a smaller loveseat to your right. Taehyung had a neutral expression but you could see in his eyes something different, while Jimin was just hopeful, watching your own facial expressions carefully.

You look down at Taehyung’s words, feeling the pain of rejection and hurt all over again. You didn’t think you wanted to have a conversation that would lead to where you thought it was going to, so you wanted to avoid it all together.

It seemed Yoongi could tell where your thoughts were going, moving his arm from around your waist to slowly trail his fingers up your arm and to your wrist, turning your left hand over connecting his palm with yours, intertwining his fingers with yours causing the thick, dark red string connecting you to glow for a couple of seconds before returning to normal. The bond snapping back into place after being incomplete from your first meeting.

The first stage of the bond, the soul tug, was meant to ensure that the bond was being completed. This meant you now couldn’t go be more than a few feet from any of the boys once you had physical contact. By you running, and now Yoongi holding you, the first stage had begun.

You try to leave his grip, feeling the tingling and numbness in your toes starting to disappear, but unfortunately, the rest of your body was not so lucky. When Yoongi noticed your attempts, he smiled smugly, taking advantage of the fact that you couldn’t move or leave him by holding you tighter against him.

“Do you not feel the tug? Do you not feel the way your body relaxes against Yoongi’s touch, even against your own subconscious?” Namjoon’s questions have you tensing again, not wanting to answer his question, instead you stare at your bonds, noticing the tugging sensation and the ripples in color whenever one of them moves.

“Do you not feel the bond you so obviously share with us, the one you continue to fight against?” Namjoon continues, frowning as Yoongi leans back to rest against the back of the couch, your body unhappily following along. Your cheeks grow hot again, your body working against you and showing the way you feel about the answers to his questions, completely giving you away to the intelligent leader.

“Ignoring the feelings you have for the bond; it does not ignore the fact that we are soulmates. Your strings are connected to ours. You are ours whether you like it or not. We aren’t going to let you go and we aren’t going to just let you walk out of here without us by your side.” You open your mouth in shock at the leader’s words, wondering where in the hell he got is audacity from?! The rest of the boys were nodding their heads in agreement, as if they had already discussed this.

Which they probably did, the little voice in your head tells you.

You ignore the voice and you ignore the butterflies in your stomach at Namjoon’s claim. You hadn’t realized how much you would love the idea of being claimed until it was staring you in the face, with a little tilt of the head and a raise of the eyebrow.

Before you could argue against his words, you could feel your phone in your back pocket vibrating. You sighed out in relief and hoped you could use this as an excuse to leave.

Lindsey you are a life saver! You praised your best friend in your head, only to start cursing as you felt Yoongi reaching for your phone, his hand resting just a little too long against the curve of your ass before taking your phone out of your pocket.

“Give me—" You’re cut off but Yoongi pressing the answer button and pressing your phone to his own ear.

“Where the hell are you dude? You disappeared and missed the entire concert! I’ve been looking for you everywhere and trying to think nice thoughts while one of those guards from earlier follows me around!”

“I’m sorry about that. You must be Lindsey?” Yoongi’s voice was soft, like velvet as he spoke to your friend. You were in shock at the change in his voice, from sultry to being as sweet and innocent as can be.

“Who is this and why do you have my best friend’s phone?”

“This is—”

“Is this Yoongi? Oh my god! Uhm, you know what, never mind. Just make sure she goes to bed on time. She gets cranky in the mornings.” Yoongi wasn’t even able to get a couple words out before Lindsey recognized his voice.

Hmm. It seems our little soulmate told her friend about us. And she approves. Yoongi hummed to himself as Lindsey hung up the phone after promising she would give your things to the guard following her, assuming that he was working with the boys and she was right.

“Well, it seems as though your friend is just fine with you coming home with us.” Yoongi’s smile brightened as he watched the others faces light up, Jungkook was especially excited as he knew you were his age. He hoped you liked to cuddle, seeing as the others never liked to stay in bed as long as he did.

“What… I…uh?” You stammered, brain moving too slow as you tried to come up with a way out if this, forgetting the fact you still couldn’t move.

You hear a slap and see Jungkook bouncing in his seat, clearly excited for you to come home with them. He was slapping his thighs and talking animatedly to Jin about all of the things he planned to do with you. You would have been completely endeared by his plan to play video games with you if you weren’t internally freaking out.

“I can’t go with you!” You blurted out, cringing a little at how loud you were.

“Why not?” Hoseok inquired; eyebrow raised as he watched you come up with an excuse.

“I, uhm, don’t have any clothes.” You replied, a little proud of your quick answer only for your smile to shatter at Jimin’s words.

“We can give you some!” You paled at his own excitement, not wanting to crush his plainly obvious feelings of hope. Strike one.

“I don’t have any of my things.” Someone knocked on the door, Jin moving around to reveal a man holding onto your bag making you rest your head back against Yoongi’s shoulder, trying to think.

“Look, your bag is right here.” Strike two.

“You guys must be really busy. I don’t want to bother you or anything…” Your last hope to weasel your way out of the situation was destroyed by Taehyung, his smile wide as he counters your words.

“Actually, we planned for you to come with us anyways. We have the next couple of weeks free. You know, we don’t want the soul pain to start.” Taehyung has his own moment of satisfaction as he sees your face pale at his words, knowing all of your plans to leave were thwarted by him.

Fuck, you cursed.

How in the world did you forget about the soul pain period?

It’s not my fault! I forget a lot of things.

Well, now you can’t be more than a couple feet from them without immense pain. Good job.

You had completely forgotten that when a bonded person meets their soulmate or soul group, completely, for the first time, the string snaps together, leaving each person with only a few feet of leeway to move away. It could last for several days or weeks, depending on the bond and how many people are connected. With your luck and how the universe seems to be against you, you guessed it would be months before you were able to leave.

Strike three and you’re out.

-*-*-

You pouted the entire way to the boy’s home, unable to move even an inch from Yoongi’s arms without the slight pain tugging at your chest making you groan out and want to gouge your heart out. How dare your body do this to you?

The boys, on the other hand, were all making bets on how long you would try to fight them. They could tell this was just some sort of defense mechanism and were all building their own individual plans to make you theirs. They knew it was only a matter of time before you were seeking them out.

“Welcome home, baby.” Jin smiled down at you as he unlocked the door. It made your insides tingle and made your head hurt all at the same time. For a second you couldn’t remember why you were fighting against this, everything becoming jumbled together in your head. You couldn’t remember the fear you felt for the bond, the trauma from your last relationship almost disappearing from your mind as Jin smiled at you.

Your thoughts were forgotten when Namjoon placed his hand on your back, helping you inside, through the living room and down the hallway until you appeared at the entry of a room with a very large, wall to wall bed. It looked like the comfiest cloud of softness you had ever seen.

You were practically melting at the idea of being able to lay in the soft warmth you could only imagine you would feel.

“Why don’t you get changed, baby.” Jungkook couldn’t help but smirk at your face, the way it changed from adoration to a deadpan as you looked up at him.

“I’m not changing in front of you.”

“Baby, I can almost guarantee you’re going to want to strip in front of me eventually…if it’s not me undressing you.” Jungkook retorted, smirk growing into a devilish grin as your eyes narrowed.

“You wish I would undress for you.” You snap back, trying to take a step back only for the tug to bring you closer than before. This makes Jungkook’s grin widen.

“Baby, it’s not a wish.” Jungkook pushes further, an inch away from being able to steal a kiss from your lips, and boy was he tempted!

Until he noticed the fear behind your eyes, causing him to step back and turn around. He was mortified! You had thought he was going to force himself on you?! He needed to talk to the others, but how were they going to do that when the soul tug was active?

When you were finished changing into the oversized shirt and shorts, you timidly tapped on Jungkook’s shoulder.

“I’m uh, I’m changed now.” Your entire demeanor had shifted, flashback after flashback trying to steal your vision as you forced yourself not to shake. You were scrappy, you knew that, but only to defend your own mind from what it saw as a threat.

You could not put yourself in a position to be vulnerable again. (But you also didn’t want to let on that anything was wrong. You couldn’t have that conversation. Not right now, hopefully not ever.)

“I’m sorry if I pushed you. I was only teasing.” Jungkook tried to apologize, his hand reaching out to grasp onto your arm but you flinched away from him, the soul tug allowing you a few feet leeway.

“It’s uh, it’s okay.” You rushed out, trying to end the conversation before you could imagine where it would go. But Jungkook was observant, and he could practically feel the pain in your heart. Something happened. Something that had you flinching away and fighting a soul bond.

And he had a bad feeling about it.

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bonvoyagenoona · 2 years

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A Map of Mrs. Kims | KSJ, KNJ, KTH | North: 03

🧭 Fic Masterpost and Schedule 🧭

Chapter Pairings: Taehyung x female OC; Bongseon x Jihu (that’s right, we’ve got another taste of smut goin’ on)

Chapter Rating: 18+ | Explicit | Mature

Word Count: 13k | read on ao3

Series Synopsis: Mrs. Kim is tired of being accosted in the grocery store, at her art class, and even in the country club restroom about her three incredibly gorgeous but stubbornly single sons. So many women are vying for a spot on Jin, Namjoon, and Taehyung’s arms, but these three boys are dead set against settling down. Hopefully, Mrs. Kim’s trusty map of the city’s fourteen top bachelorettes will finally guide them to true love.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Kim line as brothers, slice of life, family drama, enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, unrequited love, fluff, angst, smut (food play, oral sex, vaginal sex)

Author’s Note: This is my love letter to our funny, sweet, and heartwarming ARMY, and it is particularly dedicated to all of you who have been so kind and generous with your time, your laughs, your feels, and your own beautiful stories! You can read the original ask that prompted the idea, check out the asks and snippets that have followed, and follow #amomk to check out all the still-ongoing asks / snippets / drabbles!

Taglist (italics mean I couldn’t tag but will get you the fic!): @acertifiedhoe @acsycharm @afangirllikeme-blog @apprentlyeveryusernameistaken @arandomcyborgsayshi @awinkies @babycoffeefire @bluejin0812 @btseditsworld @codeinebelle @dearbambideer @downbad4yoongi @dreamamubarak @ducksflysblog @dvalitaes @effielumiere @elyte @emmmui @firesighgirl @greezenini @helenazbmrskai @hobiiiiiworld @imaginativedreams @jimcartop @jkkit @kflixnet @lynnloveslokiredacted @m-yg93 @miffy1997 @miscelunaaa @missbickerbocker @mochilatae @morti13 @pb-n-juju @purpleheartsfortae @purpuravm @qhuedie21 @raplinesmoon-main @reliablemittenmain @rurugoeson @shina913 @skyys-universe @somewhereofftheglobe @sumzysworld @sunnietee @svgahigh @takaiko @tryagain-84 @yuugehn

Yoongi grimaces at the inefficacy of this 1-ply piece of paper in getting all of the sticky, maple icing out from the corners of his lips. He means well, but his eyebrows are tight and stitched together when he asks, “How was it?”

Namjoon shrugs, content with letting doughnut crumbs fall where they may. It’s Friday, anyway.

He grins, but it’s just a one-dimple grin.

“Ah, maybe the next one will be better,” Yoongi mutters, taking another hungry bite. “And you’ve got, what, at least two or so dates after that, right?”

“Yeah.”

Both of them stare out at the wisps of cadet blue slowly starting to etch themselves into the sky as they sip their iced coffees in silence, perched side by side on the hood of Yoongi’s mid-level sedan, which is parked in its usual place and highly coveted spot, over by the side exit, just by the band hall.

Yoongi’s left boot heel slips a little on the bumper. When he readjusts, he looks left to see Namjoon chewing his bite of doughnut very slowly. Effortfully. Jaw flexing and releasing way more than it needs to. As if speaking aloud the words that are forming in Namjoon’s racing brain.

“Was she… mean?” Yoongi asks.

Namjoon lets whatever thought he was crafting fall away like his crumbs.

“Actually,” he says, icing flying out of his mouth as he smiles again and turns to face Yoongi, “she was really nice. And really smart.”

“Hmm. Nice and smart.”

“I mean, who doesn’t like nice and smart?”

“Apparently, you,” Yoongi jokes, smirking and taking another sip of coffee.

Yoongi watches as Namjoon sets down the rest of his Boston cream doughnut in the box and closes the lid, placing the box between them and looking back out at the sky.

Yoongi nods while he presses his tongue against the edge of his straw, taking a quick gulp as the rising column of liquid gets pinched off and slides back down into the rest of his drink. He licks his sweet lips and swirls his ice.

“Was she nice and smart?”

Namjoon turns to Yoongi. His chin wrinkles, and his brows rise in question.

“The Sadness Girl?” Yoongi tries.

Namjoon laughs.

Normally, he has three distinct laughs.

And Yoongi pairs them with situations like a sommelier pairs wine with food.

Yoongi’s favorite is Namjoon’s oldest laugh. The laugh that probably burst forth from him when he was a baby. The laugh encoded by his genes. It’s his truest laugh. Not that Namjoon has a fake laugh, really. Honest, and showy, arguably to a fault, with his emotions, Namjoon could never disguise something as wonderful as joy. So, in that vein of honesty, it should be labeled as Namjoon’s completely unencumbered laugh — which, despite every attempt to look away, cover his face, and redirect its energy out of other people’s faces — completely trumpets out of Namjoon’s wide-open mouth in all directions, quickly filling the air with musky, buoyant, balsam notes of cedar and winter berries. It’s full. It echoes. A real chortle. And he chortles when he’s caught off-guard, but pleasantly surprised that he’s also kind of right about something. It pairs exceptionally well with finger pointing, “I knew it!”s, and “I told you so!”s.

There’s also Namjoon’s giggle. Like gears that stick a bit. The sound of a ratchet adjusting a bolt. Metallic. Grinding. Shorter spurts, forced through his pinched throat, hovering teeth, and two-( always two-)dimpled smile, more air and spit than voice. It’s percussive. Quick. Kekeke. It doesn’t last long. All treble and mid-tones, zero bass. It’s meant to dart through conversation, zipping things up to make sure that everyone safely gets to the next topic. His nostrils flare when his giggle comes out. It needs more air to push it through. It pairs well with his look of momentary confusion, the top of the bridge of his nose caving in a bit as it strains under slight worry, until he can see the rest of the conversation through.

There’s even Namjoon’s sheepish, high-pitched, sing-song, tee-hee. Soprano and sweet. Like a moscato. A dessert wine of a laugh, let out at the end of a highly satisfied meal of his favorite things. An inadvertent, shared look with Taehyung when losing his turn at a hand game in the backseat of a long, long drive. A muttered, impatient joke that slips from his Jin-hyung’s lips as they help their Appa check the foundation of the front porch swing every fall. When an annoyed Yoongi stands his ground during weekly department meetings about the disappointing size of the tangerines in the cafeteria. It even has citrus notes itself. It pairs well with his chin rising, a quick, backward thrust of his head, and squinched eyes. Fond. Like when he spots something tiny, adorable, and cute.

But this laugh?

It’s different.

It’s not even really a laugh. It’s more of a punctuation mark. One of those abstract ones that was ahead of its time, like the interrobang, intended to try to convey something that everyone knows and feels, but can’t quite describe, and can kind of already express in other ways. Just as his jaw had been working at imaginary words, so too does this laugh work at the prospect of something being funny but not… quite. It’s low. Barely perceptible. Almost nonexistent. A hush. Something finished before starting. A punctuation mark at the end of no sentence.

Yoongi notes that it pairs well with wide, glistening eyes that are so black that they almost seem blue.

“They told you about her, huh?” Namjoon asks, turning his black-blue eyes out to the cadet blue sky, like the good soldier that he is.

Yoongi stares at him for a moment, pupils unwavering. And then, he crams the rest of his doughnut in his mouth, giving up on the tissue-thin napkins that have all but dissolved, choosing to wipe his hands on his pants instead, and stretching backwards, palms and fingers spreading across the cool, red metal, a little wet with some reformed dew.

Through hastily chewed doughnut fluff, Yoongi says, “Ma did, actually.”

“Eomma? Really?”

“Yeah. Last time I came for dinner.” Yoongi swallows. “She cornered me by the bathroom next to her studio.”

“That’s why we never use that one.”

“Well, she asked me if you were secretly seeing anyone, and I said, ‘Since when has Namjoon been able to keep anything a secret?’”

Namjoon scoffs.

“Obviously,” Yoongi goes on, reaching for his iced coffee, “I told her no. And then she told me to encourage you to take a look at the version of the map that she had at the time. She said the top picks in your candidates all had Sadness Girl qualities.”

“Sad Girl.”

“Mm?”

“Just Sad Girl.” Namjoon shrugs. “And you don’t have to call her that.”

“Oh, then, what was her na—”

“You don’t have to call her anything.”

Namjoon glances over at Yoongi to see how the sentence lands. He always forgets that he doesn’t have to do that with Yoongi. Yoongi always understands, and he shows so with a series of slow, wavy Yoongi nods that pair well with a contemplative lick of his lips.

Yoongi smirks. “She was also trying to give me the most updated version of her application form for my own map.”

Namjoon’s eyes brighten with just a bit of gold. “You should take her up on it! She’s really systematic in her approach— We could go through this madness together!”

“Don’t you already have brothers for that?”

“So then all the brothers would finally be in on this,” Namjoon points out. “If anything, it’d be a great story! Y’know, ‘Hey, Yoongi, remember the time eomma helped you find your soulmate?’”

Yoongi’s shoulders sink. Not out of embarrassment. They sink because, around the Kims, he can actually relax.

But then he spots something that reminds him that they need to get on with their day.

Hopping off the hood, Yoongi says, “This is y’all’s story. Not mine.”

Namjoon smiles. “If it’s ours, then it’s a little bit yours.”

Yoongi chuckles as he throws open the driver door, quick to throw the flimsy box with its flimsy napkins in his seat.

“C’mon. We’ve gotta go.”

“But—”

“Bro, get the lead out of your big, goofy feet — I’m trying to help you here.”

Namjoon frowns. “Help me? Help me with what?”

“Yoongles!”

The sound of a new voice pairs well with a thin streak of pink starting to thread through faint, white clouds starting to wake and fluff together for the day.

When Yoongi sighs in annoyance, he almost blows them away.

“Yoongles, I know that’s your car, and I brought the maple—”

The figure stops in her tracks. Namjoon can just make out her arms falling to her sides. Something seems to topple to the ground. Another box of doughnuts? The logo looks so similar.

“Is that…” Namjoon blanks on the name. “She teaches those seminars for the gifted kids? There’s, like, a physics one? Wait, is it physics? I know it’s something with a P—”

“Like I said,” Yoongi says, nearly halfway to the school’s entrance as more and more of the faculty’s cars pull into the parking lot, “I’m trying to help you here. Let’s get inside before the parents start to queue up for drop-off.”

Namjoon scrambles off the hood of Yoongi’s car, grabbing his half-full iced coffee and clutching the strap of his messenger bag resting at his chest.

“Yeah, some kind of stomach flu,” Jin replies.

He listens as his boss’s pleading voice drones on in the back of his head, but his attention is paid in full to the words on his screen.

“Bit of a fever,” he reads. “Some cramping. I think it’s some bad seafood that I ate.” His boss’s voice is only getting stronger until he reads, “Diarrhea! Loads and loads of diarrhea.”

He swivels his desk chair around and stares out the window.

“I don’t know about you, sir, but I’ve never had it this bad before. Honestly, like, I had to use an app to order some cleaning supplies because I haven’t been able to get off my toilet — let alone out of my apartment! — long enough to shop for my—”

His boss’s words start decreasing. Decreasing in count. Decreasing in fervor. Decreasing in demand to rethink taking one measly day off. Jin has only worked for one company, and he’s banked nearly 365 of them during his stellar tenure.

“Thanks for being so understanding,” Jin says, voice sweet but eyes rolling, “I really appreciate your kindness during my, uh—”

How should he phrase it?

“Time of, um, need.”

Just a few, short words later, Jin puffs out his cheeks and triumphantly blows out some air at the sound of his boss disconnecting from the call.

It’s frustrating to call for a day off when his mind is still technically working. It’s just working at something else entirely.

He pulls up his dear eomma’s map. Smirks at how he can hear her voice narrating each aspect in sing-song during family dinner earlier that week. Even though he won’t go through with any of this, not for real, he has to admit that it’s nice to see his eomma so well-intentionally passionate about something again.

Three down, and eleven to go.

He isn’t sure about the first (he’ll wait for Namjoon’s sappy playback later), and he’s already said goodbye to the second, with an egg white omelet, some back and forth about when they’re going to see each other again (they won’t), and one last kiss on Kamou’s sweet lips.

But it’s the number 13 that still weighs on his mind.

He drags the window of his eomma’s email to the left and snaps it to lock. Then, he clicks on a new tab and drags it to the right, doing the same. He smiles as the corners adjust automatically. It’s so satisfying when things just do what they’re supposed to do.

In the new tab, Jin looks up the old Camp Kanu website, wondering if there would be any photos from his time there.

Their time there.

It stings a little that he finds them in the Archives section of the site.

She looks the same.

Jin wonders if he looks the same.

He looks up his work profiles. There are so many professional networking sites with the same, standard, simple headshot of Jin in a suit.

He thinks he looks the same.

At least, it’s plausible that someone from his past could recognize him.

It’s happened before .

His phone rings.

It has moved from his pocket in his pants on the floor to his pocket in his pants on the bed to his desk, right next to him, after having put his clothes in his hamper and getting changed into a fresh pair of sweats. “Hi, Eomma,” Jin says after putting her on speaker, his voice tight, hoping that because his keyboard is clacking right next to the receiver, she won’t be able to tell that anything’s different.

“Seokjinnie, don’t forget that the annual boat race is this Sunday,” she replies. “The weather forecast said it might rain, but the club said they were going through with the event no matter what. You boys are still planning on racing, right?”

A needless question.

“Of course, Eomma.”

The line goes quiet, but when Mrs. Kim says, “Hmm,” or maybe as far back as when she called in the first place, Jin knows that this conversation was never really about the boat race, and that it is far from over.

“Is it a slow day today?” Mrs. Kim asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Usually, there’s always people chattering in the background. Even this early.”

Jin didn’t realize how attenuated his office’s background noise had grown to him, but that tends to happen when you’ve stayed in the same place for nearly ten years.

“Ah, yes, well,” Jin replies, clearing his throat and suddenly keyboard smashing DFJKSLJWWTJ OIF NKLJDSFKLJSDFOKAALKJJKLSDFJLKSDF into the search bar in an effort to, well, do what, exactly? Feign preoccupation? Express surprise?

Vent?

“Well,” Jin repeats, “I decided to log on from home today.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Should I move the date days to a weekend?” Mrs. Kim asks. “The date didn’t tire you out, did it?”

Jin smiles.

“Seokijinnie?”

“Let’s just say that it put more than a little pep in my step.”

“Seokjinnie.”

“And I think it did for her, too.”

“Seokjinnie!”

“What?”

“You didn’t!”

He giggles.

“Kamou is a great candidate, and so lovely and sweet, and I wrote in the rules that—”

“Don’t worry, Eomma, everything is on track with your plan,” Jin interrupts, though he’s deleted the random keyboard smash from earlier and is instead typing a name, a well-constructed, melodious name, into a search bar.

Song Mari.

“Well, since I’ve got you,” Mrs. Kim says, too eager, “why don’t you, y’know, tell me about it!” Jin can hear Mrs. Kim’s eyebrows knit together. “The nice parts, I mean.”

Mari apparently has over 500 work connections. Her profile picture is of her shrugging, as if she doesn’t know what to do with them.

Jin laughs.

“Ooh, does that mean that you had a good time, then?” Mrs. Kim asks hopefully. “Had fun? Good conversation? Good food?”

Jin starts perusing some of the posts on the site. Shared job postings. Encouragement for colleagues. She’s a designer now? That plays. She was always the best at making those plastic, criss-cross-y, keychain or backpack zipper, um, thingies.

“The restaurant was a little cold, the bread basket was stale, and the steak was overdone,” Jin rattles off. “But Kamou is a—”

He can’t help but smirk again. Kamou’s thighs around his waist. Her nail-dug trenches still present on his back. Her lips pouting, and sucking, and skating, wet against his cheeks as she moaned what she wanted next.

Things can also be satisfying when they do what they aren’t supposed to.

“—a good girl.”

“Good.” Mrs. Kim sighs. Relaxed. “Good.”

Jin looks back at the map. His hardworking eomma has put so much detail into every aspect. The grayed out city blocks, carefully traced and stitched together from several different satellite maps and even updated to reflect areas under heavy construction. The precise rating system, with every compatibility percentage denoted in scientific notation, carried over to two decimals. The iconography, the incredible iconography, consistent in design style and color, cartoonish in tone, perhaps for levity. So much time, and love, and care, put into each heart. Every star.

The black dot, in comparison, looks like a keyboard smash.

Jin tilts his head. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course. You know I always encourage that. You can always ask people things.”

Jin isn’t so sure.

“How did you find her?” he wonders.

“She filled out an application.”

“Right,” Jin says, blinking and straightening. “I know she filled out an application, but, like, how do you judge the applications, really? Are you soliciting applications from anyone and everyone? Do you have certain core criteria, or…?”

“Oh, so now you’re interested in the specifics!” Mrs. Kim chuckles.

“I guess you just did such a good job with my first date that I wanna pick your brain,” Jin says, glancing at the screen once more before spinning his chair to the right and getting up.

He talks as he walks back out to the kitchen, suddenly craving something sweet.

“What is it that you liked about Kamou so much that made you think to pair her with me?”

Does he have any fruit?

“Was it an instantaneous thing?”

He might not actually have diarrhea, but it is true that he hasn't gone shopping in a while.

“Or did it take some time, triangulating what you know about me, and what you learned or observed about her, and the answers that she gave?”

He stands over his fruit bowl, at the sad smattering of not-yet-but-nearly-bad apples, grapes, and bananas. He should pick one of them. Before he knows it, they'll turn, and he’ll just end up throwing them out.

“Well, seeing that she wanted kids definitely put her in the running,” Mrs. Kim laughs.

Jin sighs and abandons the fruit. He already knew that he wanted cereal. He always wants cereal. And he’d been craving it since making that egg white omelette a few hours ago. He should’ve just poured himself a bowl then.

He does now.

“That isn’t the only reason, though,“ Mrs. Kim replies, amidst the clinking of corn flakes.

The plastic bag inside of the box of cereal slides back down as Jin angles the cardboard back.

“It’s not?”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Kim says softly. “Is that really what you think this is about?”

Mrs. Kim turns to her husband, still snoring, lying in bed beside her, blissfully unaware of the resulting smile that she has on her face. She isn’t careful about not waking him when she gets out of bed. She doesn’t have to be. He’ll be out for at least another hour, when she finally decides to start frying up some sausages. Or maybe it’s that she just automatically starts frying up sausages when she intuits that he’s about to get up. Frankly, Mrs. Kim can’t tell anymore, and Mr. Kim will really only be concerned about the sausages.

Shuffling in her house slippers toward the front door, Mrs. Kim clicks her tongue and asks, “Haven’t you been listening to me this entire time?”

“I have!” Jin protests, mouth full of cereal.

“Have not!”

“Have too!”

Mrs. Kim opens the door, leans out the door jamb, and checks the mailbox on the wall.

“I think about your personality. You’re so kind. Generous. Charming. Sometimes, to a fault.”

Coupons, some bills, and some local ads.

“I think about your interests. Talents. Sense of humor. Funny. Also, sometimes, to a fault.”

She smiles at Jin’s soft laugh.

“Your big hyung heart.”

More bills. There’s a flea market event coming up. That might be fun.

“And I think about what you need.”

“Need?”

“Yes, Seokjinnie. You know, you do need things.”

“Uh-huh. A strong six-figure salary. A happy family life. Fun times, great friends, and good food. Except maybe that steak.” Jin scoffs. “Please, Eomma, tell me — what exactly do I need?”

Mrs. Kim closes the door behind her and shuffles back toward the kitchen.

“You need someone who has all of those same beautiful qualities of yours that I just listed, and to shine them back onto you.” She tilts her head. “Plus a healthy amount of patience. The easy kind. Someone who wouldn’t necessarily say they have that quality. Patient without even realizing it.”

Jin smiles. Fiddles with his spoon a bit. Watching the light, and his distorted reflection change, nose widening as he turns the spoon over to face its shell.

“Sooooo… thennnn… what are the things that help you, like, cross people off your list?”

Mrs. Kim tosses the sorted mail down onto the kitchen table.

“Well, for starters, I cross off anyone who doesn’t have a stellar career, who didn’t get high marks in school, who doesn’t have a healthy family history, who don’t have blood types and Myers-Briggs answers that aren’t compatible with yours, and who don’t want marriage or kids.”

“Wow.”

“But that’s just to start.”

Jin shakes his head, a heavy, unsurprised breath escaping out of the right side of his mouth.

“Only kidding,” Mrs. Kim says.

Though she isn’t.

Not entirely.

“It really comes down to genuineness. Do they seem to want to get to know you? And to be honest, sometimes, it’s not even about getting to know you, specifically.”

Mrs. Kim walks into the kitchen and flips on the light switch before reaching for the refrigerator door, cradling the phone with her shoulder and pinning it to her ear, and pulling out the clear pitcher of water.

She reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a glass as Jin scoops up another bite of cereal.

“It’s about someone who is open to getting to know someone. Anyone. Open to all that it takes. The discussions. The empathy. The time. The sacrifice.”

She sniffs.

“But it also wouldn’t hurt if they were an ENTJ fire sign with at least a Master’s degree in a lucrative field that gives her a yearlong maternity leave package for each of your five kids.”

Jin holds his breath like his next spoonful, just hovering in front of his mouth. Like Mari’s breath against his ear, carrying a secret. Like Kamou’s breath washing, warm, over his lips, carrying seduction.

He lets the breath out.

“Well, if you’re so decided… then why did you entertain a black dot at all?”

He lowers his spoon just a bit.

“Why did you ask Tae-Tae to torpedo his date with Mari instead of just rejecting her from the process completely?”

Mrs. Kim frowns. “Ugh, that was more of an unavoidable favor.”

“For who?”

“Her eomma.” Mrs. Kim frowns. She reaches into the fridge for the opened, now half-pack of sausages.

Jin’s next questions will have to wait.

He stuffs his spoon into his mouth.

“Do you know how Tae-Tae’s date with her went, by the way?” Mrs. Kim asks quickly.

He places his spoon in his bowl, empty of cereal but still full of milk. “No,” he says. “We’re catching up later, though. Around dinner.”

“Alright.” Mrs. Kim reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a pan, setting it on the stove. It lands with too sharp of a clang! , though it isn’t loud enough to rid her of the storm of thoughts that are forming. “Anyway, I hope that’s the last we see of her.”

“Mm.” Jin places his bowl in his sink. “OK, well, I should go now. Do some work.”

“OK, then.”

Mrs. Kim draws in a short, soft breath.

“Seokjinnie?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Eomma.” He pauses, heart swelling. Growing heavy. A little too heavy. “And, well, thank you. Y’know. For…” He smiles. “Just. Thanks.”

Mrs. Kim grins with satisfaction. The satisfaction of having raised a kind, appreciative son. The satisfaction of being right. And doing right by him.

“Bye, sweetie. Have a good day.”

“You too. Bye.”

Mrs. Kim switches on the burners. She smiles at the sound of the flames coming to life. And she smiles even wider as she hears something beside her. A quiet, familiar scuffling of slippers against the kitchen tile.

She turns to find a glasses-less, squinting Mr. Kim in his robe, hair a mess, eyes heavy with sleep and fingers scratching his white tee-covered belly.

“Sausages?” he asks hopefully.

Taehyung tells them that it was much later in the evening than anticipated, so he wasn’t sure if there would be any tacos left when he ordered his usual. He doesn’t know why he always picks tacos. Yes, they’re cheap. And he can always count on his usual place being open late.

But there’s just something about them.

There was something about the way the tortilla chunks, cheddar cheese strips, and lettuce shreds sprinkled across his sheets, like confetti celebrating the moment, little breadcrumbs detailing the trip from her thumb in the corner of his mouth, to the heated kiss, to those first bites into her skin.

“Damn, not too hard,” she moaned, as Taehyung pulled away from her collarbone and unwound their legs from around each other.

He lifted her shirt, up and over, smiling at the sight of her breasts jiggling in their bralette.

“Sorry. I’m hungry.”

“Then here.” She smirked with such glee as she reached over for the box, pulled out another taco, and said, “Though I wonder if you’d like to eat a different kind of taco.”

There was something about the sound and feel of the shell crisply breaking against his cheek, as she smushed the taco into his face, cackling with laughter as he playfully narrowed his eyes.

He rested back on his knees, straddling her thighs, and glaring down at her. “What are you playing at?”

“Me? You’re the one who brought these into the bed!”

There was something about the way sour cream looked when painted over her skin. And like her jeans had so easily slid down and off, the sour cream moved so easily too, barely nudged by Taehyung’s index finger, tracing cloud-like lines up the side of her thigh, to her hip, across her stomach.

He licked at the dollop that he had placed on her navel, letting the tang of that cream mix with the salt of her sweat, pressing it against the roof of his mouth to let it spread over his tongue.

“Gonna paint you with more,” Taehyung murmured, licking the trail of sour cream down to her shaven mound.

She squirmed when he said that, twisting the other way and whining when his tongue delved into her folds and tasted an unanticipated dessert.

“Mmm, you’re sweet,” he observed, taking a moment to nibble on her lips.

She reached back and gripped his headboard. Slid her hips down his sheets a little. Made sure she was right up against his chin.

He opened his mouth wider, grabbing her thighs and digging his cream-covered nails in as his neck craned left and right, head bobbing slowly until she started to whimper.

His thumbs reached inside and spread her wider, and his head shook from side to side, faster and faster as she rolled against him in desperation.

Just as she was about to come, he let go, and pulled away entirely, a mix of cream, spit, and her arousal glimmering on his nose, lips, and chin.

Her eyes flashed open at his sudden absence, and her hips started bouncing up and down in want.

Taehyung only smiled as he reached for the box of food.

He chose blindly, but the first hot sauce packet that he picked had a funny little message: Burning For You.

She snorted as he giggled and placed the perforated edge of the packet in his teeth and ripped, hot sauce spraying out, dabs of it getting on her face and chest.

There was something about the way those packets of hot sauce dripped all over her body. The heat took on a different quality as he licked each drop.

She was so soft that he couldn’t help running his tongue, and his hands, rough and calloused near his nail beds and on the sides of his knuckles, all over her, the hot sauce stinging in places where he bit and chewed.

Her skin was perfect.

He guessed, at least.

If there were blemishes, or bumps, or scars, or moles, Taehyung’s fingers didn’t catch them, though that’s not to say he wouldn’t love to get more time to find out where each and every single one of them were.

But maybe that would be for the next time.

Tonight, he was too focused on the way she moved against his body, the hot sauce starting to get sticky, their skin starting to peel away when they would come apart.

He wasn’t the only one who was hungry. She took every inch of him, though it was a bit of a squeeze to get all of him inside. He’d push slowly, and then have to wait while her body wriggled around him. From her throat, an urgent groan would signal she wanted more of him. And then he’d push slowly again, his head hanging forward, eyes squinched shut so as not to lose composure, tongue busying itself by licking hot sauce from her gorgeous nipples as he waited for her pussy walls to relax just a bit more.

And then he’d push slowly again.

The time came for him to move faster, though, cock pulsing as he slammed inside.

“Gonna? Paint? Me?” she panted.

“You want it?”

“Yes, god.”

Taehyung’s hips shifted into double-time, his hands gripping her shoulders, dimples forming in his ass cheeks as he clenched and strained.

She clenched, too. Warm. And needy. He could feel her sucking him in deeper, and when he moved with her, he started to feel the tip of his cock hitting her innermost wall.

Her squeal turned into a wandering moan, high-pitched and tense.

“T-too much?” he panted.

She shook her head no and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her and lifting her legs in the air.

He grunted, clasping her even tighter, moving his arms under hers and circling them up to grip her shoulders from behind.

He left his lips by her ear.

“Where do you want it?”

“My tits.”

She squeezed her eyes closed even tighter, wrinkles forming in the corners.

“Ah, fuck, Tae, I’m gonna come so hard.”

Taehyung’s right hand slid up against the pillow behind her so that he could cradler her head.

She came apart, shaking, legs unable to hold themselves up. He caught her right leg, his hand whipping back, the inside of his upper arm pinning the side of her knee to his waist. Her left leg quivered as she did, kicking out to the side and sending tortilla, cheese, and lettuce bits into the air.

She laughed as she came, letting out a surprised shriek during an aftershock.

Taehyung slowed to enjoy the scene before him and take pride in the art he had created.

But his cock was throbbing with need.

He grunted and started pumping again, and as she nodded yes with more fervor, his strokes became longer.

His hips used that backward motion to propel him out, a string of precum still linking him to her until it tore apart at the rush of cum spurting out of him, mixing with the hot sauce on her breasts, swollen from the friction.

She rubbed her fingers in that incredible mess as he took deep breaths to calm down, before rubbing those same fingers across his chest in contemplation.

She traced a trail up his neck.

She smiled wildly when he lifted her wrist to lick himself off of her fingers.

And when Taehyung proudly recaps all of this in detail during their video call, Namjoon laughs and says, “That reminds me of something Jin-hyung did.”

Taehyung frowns, and then pouts in annoyance. “What??”

All Jin and Taehyung can see is Namjoon’s ceiling, so they miss the way that Namjoon smirks, as he palms the wall, kicks off his shoes, and uses his socked feet to set them upright by the front door.

“Eomma was telling me about this thing hyung did whenever she was pregnant with me, and then you,” he goes on. “Something about painting her stomach with food. Jin-hyung was so eager to feed us that he would slather her with stuff. Oatmeal. Ketchup. Peanut butter . Other stuff . She had to leave it on her stomach for a little while and wash up when hyung wasn’t looking, or he’d get frustrated and insist that she sit back down on the couch so that he could ‘feed’ you all over again.”

Jin grins. “Copycat!”

“There are even pictures!” Namjoon answers, his eyes lowering, and then moving side to side as he picks up his phone from the floor and starts to type.

As a picture of toddler Jin, baby Namjoon, and a younger Mrs. Kim pops up in the group chat, and Jin and Namjoon’s exclusive laughter has the audacity to fill his living room, Taehyung gets further lost in his faraway look. But it quickly dissolves when those laughs turn into long stretches of high-pitched, increasingly satisfied breaths.

He twists his face and stares at his own, motionless thumbs propping up his phone screen.

“Not every single one of my personality traits is one of your hand-me-downs, you know,” Taehyung scowls. “Plus, technically, Namjoonie-hyung, you were copying Jin-hyung, too!” His voice is starting to get louder, but also waver. “A-and, and—”

“OK, OK,” Jin says quickly. “No one’s really a copycat. We’re brothers, and best friends. It’s normal for us to do things alike, isn’t it?”

Namjoon chuckles teasingly as Taehyung rolls his eyes.

“Anyway, say more about your date,” Jin goes on, a little flatly. “Sounds like you and Mari ended up having a fantastic time.”

“No, hyung, this was with Dal,” Taehyung clarifies. “My friend, from that shop.”

Jin stops chewing.

“Weren’t you paying attention?” Taehyung asks, delighted in his hyung’s expression, and no longer able to mask the bit of a grin that he’s been holding inside all along. “It’s like I said. I didn’t have to launch any torpedos. Mari-noona ghosted.”

It’s been a couple of years since she last taught an art class, but Mrs. Kim will never forget the concept of a classroom “T-zone”. She can still see the ancient, Java-coded graphic in the first tabbed section of every start-of-semester manual. This T-zone referred to the students who tended to sit in the front row and middle column of the classroom. With clean, bright, eager, shining faces, they’re the ones who, sometimes thankfully, sometimes annoyingly, always showed up. They always listened. Always participated. The overachievers. The high performers. The elite.

She was always grateful for them.

But Mrs. Kim herself was decidedly not one of them.

She still isn’t.

Every week, she chooses the easel in the back, by the window, next to the instructor's bookshelf. There’s something familiar about it that she can’t quite name, something that helps her access an aspect of her creativity that feels so much like her old self.

Her young self.

Today’s topic hits close to home, too.

“This feeling that we’re trying to evoke,” the instructor goes on, cleaning her brush and eyeing the next color on her palette, a pale, Atlantic green, “is the feeling of being by oneself.”

Mrs. Kim feels her heart twinge. Not for herself, back then, or now. She can be by herself, no problem. But it’s been three whole lifetimes since she’s been completely by herself. And, unlike those three lifetimes, she knows what it truly is. How it truly feels.

She tries to forget Taehyung’s most recent text message.

Tries to stop thinking of ghosts.

She paints a black streak on her canvas. In warning.

“You may know the feeling as loneliness, which is when we are by ourselves and fraught with anxiety. There is pain. There is fear. There is the sense that you have been abandoned, perhaps due to your own actions, or due to some kind of inherent flaw.”

As the instructor dabs gently at their canvas, Mrs. Kim nearly pokes a hole in hers.

“But there is also another feeling. One that is peaceful, and content. One that reminds us that we are whole, and enough. Just by ourselves. That we aren’t inherently missing anything. That life is additive, never subtractive. That everything we receive, we receive because we are ready for it. We are gifted, never punished.” The instructor smiles at their work, and then smiles at the class.

Mrs. Kim looks up and raises her eyebrows, her arm slowing under the instructor’s gaze.

“That feeling, my lovelies, is called solitude,” the instructor finishes, nodding once. “Blissful, content, wholesome solitude. Don’t take it for granted, friends. Some people go their whole lives mixing up the two, finding an inability to appreciate neither.”

Mrs. Kim looks back at her tortured canvas, all poked and prodded, and lets out a tiny, contemplative breath.

As the class begins to pack up, her eyes shift over to the easel next to her. A gorgeous, serene canvas of pastel pinks and purples, with something small in the background. A building of some sort? Or a figure, way in the distance?

“Is that loneliness, or solitude?” Mrs. Kim asks.

The girl who painted it stops what she’s doing and smiles back.

“Probably a bit of both, to be honest. I don’t know if there's as distinct a separation between them as our instructor thinks. But what do I know?”

What could she know, Mrs. Kim thinks, looking at the girl’s sweet face, unmarked with life’s trials. But, surprisingly, just as memorable.

“I think I know you,” Mrs. Kim realizes. “I saw you at the grocery store a little while ago, right? You were with your mother, outside?”

The girl nods happily. “Yes! I’m, uh, Yang Hwan?” she answers. Mrs. Kim lights up at the name, remembering the shy girl, always in braids, who also didn’t sit in the T-zone. “I also took beginner and intermediate art with you in school.” She giggles. “But that was a very long time ago.”

It can’t have been that long ago, given Hwan’s apparent age. But Mrs. Kim still feels her own age at the comment.

“Ah, how are you?” Mrs. Kim asks, grinning. “Has life treated you well?”

Hwan nods. “Very well. Got my family. My art. Studying it in college now. Can’t complain. Very grateful.”

She clearly means it, but Mrs. Kim notes the clipped sentences, different from the pastel-colored melody with which she spoke of the blurring between loneliness and solitude.

“You’re an artist,” Mrs. Kim sighs, her heart soaring. “How are you finding it? The journey?”

“I can’t see myself doing anything else,” Hwan admits, brightening. “I obviously wasn’t very good when I was in your class. But you and some of my other teachers really sparked a passion for me. I became obsessed.”

She leans forward and shows Mrs. Kim her wrist, where there is a tiny tattoo of a paint brush, with some royal purple paint dripping from its tip.

Hwan smiles sadly at her tattoo.

“But do you buy…”

When she meets Mrs. Kim’s curious eyes, Hwan decides to bail.

She pulls her sweater sleeve over her tattoo.

“Well. Anyway.” Hwan picks up her bag of supplies. “I’ll get out of your hair. See you in class next week?”

Mrs. Kim smiles.

“Actually, I was going to ask if you’d maybe want to have some coffee or tea with me?”

The café one block over thankfully always has free tables. After putting their supplies in their respective cars, and more coins into their respective parking meters, Mrs. Kim and Hwan swing in through the café’s aqua doors and settle at one underneath a pretty, golden chandelier, sitting down in two lemon curd-colored, velvet chairs, in front of one mug of matcha tea, and one tall taro boba.

“Thanks,” Hwan says, both to the server setting her boba down in front of her, and Mrs. Kim placing her credit card back into her wallet.

“Thanks for the company,” Mrs. Kim says, smiling knowingly. “I usually come alone and read or call my boys.” She tilts her head. “Besides. I wanted to know what you were about to say. It sounded like you had a thought forming.”

They both take a drink, each of them savoring the sweet, creamy, mild tastes.

Ironically, it’s Hwan who feels steaming heat in her cheeks.

She gulps down her sip, her cooled tongue now able to move a little easier.

“Formed,” Hwan clarifies. “Always forms. Keeps reforming. Duplicates. Grows. Every day. Without fail.”

Mrs. Kim knows to stir her matcha a little more. Not to pry. To wait. To let Hwan chew and swallow her boba uninterrupted, so that she can work out each letter of every word.

“Someone in our class asked you how you knew you wanted to be an artist,” Hwan recalls, her chipped jade fingernails fiddling with her thick, plastic, pink-lined straw, “how you knew you’d be fulfilled. How you knew you hadn’t made the wrong decision.”

Mrs. Kim grimaces. “And then I said something trite and stupid, didn’t I?”

Hwan laughs, and Mrs. Kim takes delight in seeing youthful stars in Hwan’s bright eyes.

“You told us that making that decision, or any kind of big life decision, is never going to be easy. That we’re never going to be 100% sure of anything. But, also, that nothing is 100% permanent. So, we should always work hard, and be prepared, and go with what’s in our hearts. Even if it changes. Especially when it does.”

Mrs. Kim nods slowly. “OK, that wasn’t terrible advice.”

“It wasn’t. It was pretty good advice, actually.” Hwan smirks. “Got me this far. And, not to be judgmental, but I’m relatively unscathed, especially compared to some of my friends who, incidentally, didn’t take your class.”

Mrs. Kim chuckles, raising her mug to her lips.

Hwan watches as Mrs. Kim takes another sip. And, amazingly, instead of launching into some parable or spiel, Mrs. Kim simply sets her mug back down on the table and waits for Hwan to go on.

“Uh… well, so,” Hwan stumbles, “it’s like, y-y’know…” She sighs. “It’s like this.” She grips the bottom of her drink, swirling it around on the table, condensation on the surface tracing the pattern, pulling apart, and then reforming again. “I don’t know if I buy what our instructor said about being whole, and that being enough. I know I love creating art with every single muscle fiber and electrical impulse in my heart. But… the older I get… it just feels like something is always…”

Her drink comes to a stop, leaving on the table several wispy, watery circles, not quite attached.

“…missing.”

Mrs. Kim nods. “Mmhmm. Been there.”

Hwan blinks. “Y-you have?”

“Of course. I find myself there from time to time, even now.”

Mrs. Kim’s gentle, kind eyes soften at Hwan’s speechlessness.

“I’m a human,” Mrs. Kim replies, “and a woman. Doesn’t exactly make things easier in this world.”

“But you have a career?” Hwan sputters. “And a husband? A-and a family? And your family, your sons, your husband, your career, are all so successful, I—”

Hwan’s eyes start darting around the room. To the cash register. To the doors. Up to the chandelier. Over to the bit of lemon curd yellow chair back that she can see between Mrs. Kim’s left arm and torso.

“Everything OK?” Mrs. Kim asks, furrowing her brow.

Hwan’s eyes grow wider. “No! Well, I mean, obviously not! As accomplished and content as you are, you still feel like something’s missing?”

Mrs. Kim bites her lip and wishes she could go back in time and bite her tongue instead. “See, I knew I wasn’t always great at advice.”

The table starts to shake. It’s barely noticeable, but Mrs. Kim realizes it’s because Hwan’s leg is starting to bounce.

“What’s got you worried?”

“I guess I was kind of hoping for a different reaction from you,” Hwan admits, eyes still darting around, but contained to the table top.

“What were you hoping to hear?”

Mrs. Kim doesn’t need to ask. She’s got enough life experience to know what Hwan was hoping to hear.

Hwan doesn’t have as much life experience, but she is smart enough to know what she wants to hear, though, she is perhaps even smarter for knowing that Mrs. Kim won’t say it.

“That if I just stay the course, I’ll figure it out,” Hwan offers anyway, voice dripping with dejection. “That, eventually, I’ll find whatever’s missing. That it’ll all fall into place.”

The street is starting to fill up with more people. People spilling out of all sorts of Saturday morning classes. Art classes. Yoga classes. Kickboxing classes.

Mrs. Kim’s eyes trace their outlines. “Actually,” she says, “I’ve found that you can always help things along. That you may even need to help things along, from time to time.”

All of these Saturday morning students start to bunch up into blobs. Group into families. Cluster amongst friends.

Pair off into couples.

Mrs. Kim’s eyes settle on one man standing by the bookstore entrance, looking out at the street periodically while checking his phone.

“Can I ask you a question?” Mrs. Kim ventures.

“Sure,” Hwan replies, smiling politely through her nervousness, “although, given what I just opened up to you about, I don’t think I’ll have any answers.”

“I think you will.”

Mrs. Kim furrows her brow.

“What does it mean when someone gets ‘ghosted’?”

Hwan’s eyes widen. “Oh!”

“Not to insinuate anything other than my old age,” Mrs. Kim says warmly. “I think I might know what it means, but even if I don’t, I still don’t like the sound of it.”

“W-why?” Hwan asks. “Wait, did one of your sons— No, they’re too nice to— Unless, was one of your sons— But that’s, I mean, that’s impossible, because there’s a whole line of— A-all the applications, and the standby li—”

She shakes her head.

“Sorry. You asked about ghosting.”

Hwan picks up her boba and cradles it with both hands, leaning forward slightly and speaking before taking a long sip. “Um, well, it means that someone didn’t show up.”

The rage is starting to bubble up Mrs. Kim’s throat. “Like getting stood up?!”

“Y-yes,” Hwan confirms carefully, “uh, l-like getting stood up.”

Mrs. Kim figured as much.

How sharp is her paint trowel? Is it in the car?

“But!” Hwan adds, “I feel like getting stood up has a certain connotation of rejection to it. Ghosting isn’t exactly the same.”

“So, that’s it, then? There’s nothing else behind it? Nothing…” Mrs. Kim’s eyes narrow. “Unpleasant?”

“Actually, usually, it’s because people want to avoid unpleasantries.”

Hwan sets down her boba but keeps her hands, still tucked into her sweater sleeves, around it.

“Ghosting is much easier than showing up and facing situations. And it’s not just used in dating types of situations. People ghost on stuff like hangouts and job interviews all the time now. It might be weird to think about, but my friends and I even have this unspoken understanding. It’s just kind of expected that even though you might make plans for something, other factors, like how you feel that day, or other things that pop up along the way, or maybe even nothing at all, might change the energy around it. It’s almost like there is no such thing as making concrete plans anymore.”

Mrs. Kim shakes her head sorrowfully. “But to disappear like that? With no communication, whatsoever?”

“It doesn’t feel great,” Hwan says quietly. “But I think there’s… It’s…” She takes a deep breath that starts unsure but comes out decidedly. “Things just feel so overwhelming. Don’t you feel that? There’s just so much more. Many, many more things to face. More people to face. And so many more ways to avoid facing them.”

Mrs. Kim tilts her head. She’s no stranger to meeting things, and people, head-on. But it’s because there were only a few ways to meet them. Jin’s always complaining about how exhausting it is to work his fancy, cushy desk job, and it hasn’t been until recently that Mrs. Kim has realized that it must be overwhelming, being able to be reachable no matter what, whether it’s through his personal or work emails, his personal or work phones, or his company’s four platforms for direct messages, of which only two seem to work properly at a semi-consistent clip.

“That may be true,” Mrs. Kim concedes, but I don’t think I approve of ghosting. Communication is always multidirectional. And there’s something to be said for accountability.”

Mrs. Kim is surprised that Hwan merely sips her boba tea. That she isn’t more outraged by this.

How many times has Hwan been ghosted?

Has Hwan ever ghosted anyone else?

As she tries to read too-neutral Hwan’s face, Mrs. Kim wonders how many times she has technically been ghosted herself. Her one-track mind wouldn’t have noticed, let alone kept a tally, before moving on to the next thing.

Mrs. Kim has no time for ghosts.

Then again, if all the ghosts in Mrs. Kim’s or Hwan’s lives had actually materialized, what would have gone differently? Would they be sitting here now, in this lovely little café, two pairs of charcoal and paint-stained hands sharing two delicious drinks on a sunny Saturday afternoon?

“Thanks for explaining it to me, though,” Mrs. Kim adds. “With your context I think I’m beginning to understand. Appreciate the, uh, perhaps… generational… differences.”

Her smile softens, like a line of charcoal smudged. Maybe not as bold, but just as present, and just as wonderful.

Hwan sits up suddenly, her hold on her drink loosening just a tad. “I’m glad I could actually be valuable to someone!”

Suddenly, Hwan is standing, thanking Mrs. Kim for the drink, explaining that she needs to head home, and leading the way back to their respective parking meters.

And as Mrs. Kim stands by her car, watching Hwan wave as she drives away, Mrs. Kim wonders what in the world would make Hwan ever think she wasn’t.

“C.”

“Hmm?”

“The answer is C.”

“Ah.”

“Do you know why?”

“What?”

“Do you know why the answer is C?”

Jihu blinks, and everything becomes clear again. He looks at the group around him, each person shooting haughty smirks right at him.

“Uh—”

He looks down at his book and realizes that he’s not even on the same page as the others.

“Sorry, what question are we on again?” he asks, flipping forward a few pages, checking the others’ books for the page number, and flipping back again.

“Chapter 15, practice question 32,” Yong-hyun replies, with the haughtiest smirk of them all.

Jihu starts to read the question, lips moving along, shaping another unfathomably polysyllabic chemical compound, when Yong-hyun’s finger lands on the page, right on top of the diagram just above practice question 33.

“Beckmann rearrangement,” Yong-hyun says. “Note the oxime.”

Jihu nods quickly. “Right. Right. The oxime.”

“Alright, out with it,” Mi-rae says, elbow landing in the spine of her open book, chin resting in her open palm. “You’ve been so distracted.”

“Oh,” Jihu laughs softly, “I just thought I saw—” His eyes widen. “Um, I just thought I s-saw someone I, uh, know. Sorry to derail things. We can pick back up.”

“It’s not just today,” Jung-kwon says. “You’ve been late. Hard to get a hold of. Especially for our late-night study groups. And your wardrobe.”

Jihu frowns as he looks down at his white button-up and black slacks, perfectly pressed. “What about it?”

Jung-kwon exchanges a knowing glance with Mi-rae.

“I smell a girl.”

“Mmhmm. Thought so, too.”

“Someone finally worthy of the Kim name?” Yong-hyun asks. “Your parents must be thrilled. Especially after hearing all of your bitter diatribes against tradition.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Jihu replies, throat flexing to keep his vocal cords calm. “I’ve just been… I don’t know. Tired or something.” He scratches at his collar. “And I ran out of clothes. A-and I thought I saw someone I know.” His eyes crinkle a little. “Someone who, uh, owes me money.”

“Oh shit, a good ol’ Kim family shakedown.” Yong-hyun claps his hands and rubs them over one another. Like a crime boss. Or a hamster. “How much do they owe you?”

Jihu shrugs. “Not much.”

“Isn’t any amount too much?” Yong-hyun points out.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Mi-rae echoes in warned surprise.

“Want us to get it for you?” Jung-kwon asks. “Even with what went down, you still have a reputation to uphold.”

“No, no,” Jihu insists, “that’s really OK—”

“Now’s not the time to be proud, Jihu,” Mi-rae replies. “Everyone knows you’re clever. But it’s not an easy thing to deal with, being cut off so suddenly. We’re trying to help.”

Jihu looks around at the group and can’t help but notice the haughty smirks haven’t really left their faces. And maybe Jihu hasn’t really left the world that has plagued him with so many more questions than answers.

“Thanks, but, really, I’ve got it,” he replies.

He closes his book, the thick halves slamming dully.

“I should try to catch up with them. See if they have the money.”

“Want us to come with?” Jung-kwon tries again, as the group watches Jihu collect his things. “Backup support?” He leans forward in his chair and gestures to the black leather jacket draped across its back. “Rode my motorcycle today.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Badass intimidation factor.”

Jihu snaps his mouth shut as he swings his right backpack strap over his shoulder, and his dimples deepen as he forces a tight smile, gives a wave, and walks away.

He glances down at his shoes. Makes sure that his laces are tied. Reminds himself not to break into a run. Takes extra care not to stumble.

Because if there’s anything unworthy of the Kim name, it’s absolutely the fool who stumbles on his way to meet Bongseon, draped gossamer, peony pink, waiting at the top of the spiraling library staircase.

Her cheeks start to match that pink when she catches sight of Jihu walking— jogging— walking toward her.

And her voice is sweet as peonies when she squeaks, “Hi.”

“Hey.”

Jihu leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead. “You excited?”

Bongseon keeps her eyes closed a second longer. Everything is somehow warmer, better, when Jihu is around. “Honestly, no,” she finally answers, opening her eyes and looking up at him. “I feel pretty numb.” And then a smile peeks through. “Well. Felt.”

Jihu giggles softly. “Gross. What’s happening to you?”

“I know, right?”

She rolls her eyes and clasps Jihu’s hand.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

“Thanks for inviting me.” He squeezes her hand a little. “And thanks for… y’know. Understanding.”

Bongseon nods. “Of course.”

He tilts his head and gazes at her, the wrinkles in her forehead slowly disappearing. It’s, frankly, a prize in and of itself to get to be one of the few people in the world who gets to see it. But he still isn’t exactly sure why this merits an “of course”.

“Your parents really aren’t coming?” Jihu asks. “No one in your family? No siblings, or aunts, or uncles, or—”

“No, but even with everything you told me, I’m excited to meet yours,” Bongseon replies.

She lets go of Jihu’s hand and starts off in the other direction.

As her black heels clack against the floor, Jihu accepts that maybe this is a bit of an escape. From an uncomfortable conversation. From a seemingly painful past. From the intensity of whatever has been building between them. But Jihu will always revel in the feel of Bongseon’s hand nervously slipping from his.

Because it means that he got to hold it in the first place.

The top floor of the library wasn’t the first choice for this exhibit, but it quickly became a contender when funding finally came in for the leaky roof, stained floors, and air conditioning renovations. Judging has been taking place all day, streams of people weaving in and out of each piece of art on display, those in blue ribbons noting their comments on cards that are placed into a black box in the center of the room. But students and faculty alike don’t care as much about that. They shelled out for tickets to see the architecture of the new ceiling, the imported couches and carrels, and the fancy glass floors that, due to one embarrassing yet thankful mishap with the dean’s secretary, became frosted just a week before an unsuspecting Bongseon bought this dress.

“A vast improvement,” Bongseon observes, looking around. “I can see myself studying here.” She winces. “That is, if I’m still around.”

Jihu wraps his arm around Bongseon’s waist and turns her a little, aiming her toward the one familiar thing in this room.

One big frame, housing one big charcoal sketch of multiple layers of Jihu’s form, his body in slightly different positions in each layer. Sitting. Reading. Talking. Laughing. Watching. Everything that Jihu was. Is. Encapsulated into one frame.

“You see that?” Jihu asks, gazing at Bongseon’s wide eyes.

“I’ve seen it once or twice.”

Jihu pinches Bongseon’s side, and she lets out, and quickly muffles, a squeal.

“Well, I know a secret about them.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jihu leans down to whisper that secret into Bongseon’s ear. “I hear they’re going to win this competition.”

Bongseon gnaws at her lip, and in the process, smudges her lipstick just a bit.

“Don’t do that.”

Jihu blinks.

“Do what?”

Bongseon frowns. “Don’t pretend to give me something that you know you can’t.”

Jihu’s hold on Bongseon’s waist loosens a little.

And at the sound of the second familiar thing in this room, his hold dissolves altogether.

“Jihu??”

Bongseon decides right there and then that Jihu must be an anomaly. An alien of some sort. Adopted, at least. Because Director Kim and his wife, the Mrs. Kim that she’s learned so much about over the past few months, project anything but warmth.

They project strength. They command respect. And they elicit fear. It resonates in the way they march forward, like troops toward battle. The way they scan the room, seemingly for threats. And the way they furrow their brows upon coming toe to toe with their son.

Bongseon can feel Jihu tense up. So she follows suit. But she waits to ball her fingers into fists.

“Jihu,” Mrs. Kim repeats.

Jihu can feel the nearly invisible hairs at the tail of his spine stand on end, and he straightens unnaturally to let them unfurl.

“Eomma. Appa.”

Director Kim is barely there, silently counting down the minutes until this ridiculous event is over, and he can get back to his chair in his study.

“I thought that you had your study group with Yong-hyun and the others?” Mrs. Kim asks. “We saw them taking their places at a table about an hour ago, and they said that you were going to join them.”

“I did,” Jihu says. “But—”

“It’s good that you’re here,” Mrs. Kim replies. “There are many wonderful people here to introduce you to.”

Jihu’s eyes brighten, and his dimples appear as he pulls his cheeks into a small but happy grin. “Funny you should say that because—”

“Haneul!”

The face that turns at the call of that name is a face that all the other campus golden ratio girls would envy. She smiles politely and raises her eyebrows before turning back to the professor with whom she was speaking.

“Hmm, seems she’ll be just a moment,” Mrs. Kim observes.

“Good, because, uh, actually, I was going to say that I wanted to introduce you to someone, too,” Jihu persists. “This is Pan Bongseon.”

His arm circles around Bongseon’s waist, firming with resolve, and making Bongseon’s lips curl into something instead: a surprised, proud smile.

Bongseon’s waist bends, her hips supporting a perfect, 90-degree angle, and her strategically chosen dress revealing nothing except her obligation to honor.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Director Kim, Mrs. Kim.” She smiles weakly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Have you?” Mrs. Kim asks, bored. She looks around Bongseon, eyes never quite meeting. “Then again, most everyone in this room has, ah, heard so much about us.”

She shoots Director Kim a pleased look that goes completely missed.

“Yes, what with your illustrious careers,” Bongseon remarks, hoping that she’s not nodding too eagerly.

“Talk about illustrious. Bongseon’s one of tonight’s finalists,” Jihu says proudly. He gestures to the piece behind them. “Her piece is right here. The medium is charcoal. Isn’t she phenomenal?”

Director Kim stands in place while Mrs. Kim walks forward to get a better look.

“I don’t get it. Who is it supposed to be?”

“It’s not supposed to be any one person,” Bongseon answers. “The prompt called for human models to depict life in motion.”

Mrs. Kim frowns. “But he’s sitting?”

“I wanted the piece to show how we spend most of life moving time forward,” Bongseon answers. “By ourselves. In these small moments.”

Mrs. Kim stares at the piece again. “Well, the piece certainly feels small.”

Bongseon scowls.

“It kind of looks like you, son,” Director Kim chimes in, with an air of intrigue.

“Just, ah, Bongseon’s ability to c-capture the Everyman, I guess,” Jihu stammers.

Feeling unnerved, Bongseon says, “It is him. He saw my ad for models. I paid $50 for a session.” She crosses her arms. “He was very kind, and very happy, to take the job.”

Mrs. Kim smirks. “Fascinating.” She steps closer toward the plaque next to Bongseon’s piece, hunching forward slightly, crossing her arms and squinting her eyes to read the summary, as if needing more proof. “You know, Jihu, if you need money, you could always just come home.”

“Not now, Eomma.”

Every time Jihu says it, he says it with a little more determination. As if the “not now” is slowly but surely transforming into a “never again”.

Mrs. Kim turns to Bongseon, arms still crossed, eyes still narrow. “If you think trying to buddy up with my son will nab you this scholarship, you’re sorely mistaken. We merely paid for the renovations and are attending this function in order to see the changes. We have no stake in who wins or loses. Though I certainly have an eye for prediction.”

Bongseon places her hands on her hips. “Then we have two things in common, it seems. An eye for prediction, and deep care for your son.”

Jihu brightens again, dimples deepening.

Mrs. Kim’s face sours as her head turns, chin moving over her shoulder. Her eyes scan the room again. “Professor Im!” She uncrosses her arms and waves for Haneul to join them. “You’re hogging her!”

Haneul sheepishly grins to the sweet, older man speaking with her. She says something seemingly equal parts charming and kind, given the way he smiles and nods gratefully. After a gentle handshake, Haneul makes her way over to them. She parts a crowd that has gathered around one of the sculpture entries, the figure of a ballet dancer mid-twirl. And like that ballet dancer, she strides, long, and graceful, toward Mrs. Kim, smiling politely and perfectly when she says, “Hello, Mrs. Kim. Everyone.”

Haneul doesn’t bow. At first, Bongseon wonders if that gives her a leg up in the real competition for the evening. Until she realizes that Haneul doesn’t need to bow.

And at that realization, Bongseon starts to shrink, wondering how hard and for how long she would need to stomp her feet to fall through the frosted glass.

“Haneul here is a scholar set to go abroad to study political science,” Mrs. Kim introduces. “Jihu, I think you and Haneul would make great friends.”

“I’ve been looking forward to getting to know you,” Haneul says happily. “Your eomma has bragged about you non-stop since I’ve met her.”

“It’s because I haven’t hit on every accomplishment yet,” Mrs. Kim says with glee, smoothing a slight ruffle in the shoulder of Haneul’s pure white blouse. “Come to our dinner party in two weeks’ time. I’ll send your mother the invitation, and I’ll seat the two of you together. You can catch up then.”

“I won’t be attending the party, Eomma,” Jihu insists.

“Nonsense, you’re coming,” Director Kim replies. “Your grandfather will be in town.” He leans forward. “Whatever else is going on in our lives… well, you’d better be there to see your grandfather.”

“Excited to be a part of it,” Haneul says, grinning at Jihu. Her eyes shift to Bongseon. “I don’t believe we’ve met, but I think I might be in the same dorm as you. I’m in 205, with my suite mate.”

“308.”

“Lucky! You got the single dorm!” Haneul smiles. “Will you be at the Kims’, too?”

Bongseon tries to remember how to speak. That she is worthy of speaking. “Oh, I—”

“Family only,” Mrs. Kim says, with an encouraging wink.

Haneul’s head dips back slightly, and Jihu rolls his eyes.

“It’ll be a wonderful event,” Haneul says diplomatically. “They always are. But if you’ll excuse me? I’m volunteering at this event, and I believe I need to help set the stage up for the announcement of the winners and the dean’s closing remarks. We’re due to start in about fifteen minutes.”

“Go shine, Haneul, like you always do,” Mrs. Kim replies, nodding with proud approval.

“Thank you, Director Kim, everyone,” Haneul says respectfully. “And thank you for the donations to get these renovations done. Our student body is so grateful.”

As Haneul takes her leave, elegance and class wrapped up in the human form, Bongseon feels her own body disappearing into nothing. A better reflection of what she is.

“Go shine?” Jihu mutters. “Haneul volunteered. She’s just setting up the stage. Not even standing on it. Bongseon got here due to her artistic excellence. ”

Mrs. Kim tosses the statement right through Bongseon’s chest, Mrs. Kim’s eyes still not quite landing anywhere near Bongseon’s face.

“Please, Jihu. Only stars shine.”

“Fuck my parents,” Jihu says.

Bongseon stops on the second stair of the entrance to her dorm, her purse swinging under her shoulder. Her long lashes blink in surprise. Despite the issues they had, Jihu had never used disrespectful language about his parents.

“I-I’m sorry, did you just—”

“Fuck! My! Parents!” Jihu repeats, stronger now.

Bongseon looks around.

“C’mon. Let’s go inside. Someone might hear you.”

Jihu can barely keep his words in his mouth, muttering the entire time it takes for them to get from the front door of the building to Bongseon’s single dorm.

“They didn’t cut me off,” Jihu bursts, not even a full second after Bongseon closes her door. “I need you to know that. I need you to know that they didn’t cut me off, and that I’m the one actually refusing to accept their money.”

Bongseon raises her eyebrows. “OK.”

“They try to wire me my tuition every month, and I rip up the check. Every time. Because it’s the principle of the thing.”

“I hear you. Understood.”

“You could make something out of those ripped checks. Whatever that art style is. With all the bits of paper, and the glue, and you turn it into something else.”

“Papier mache?”

“Yeah. But not really. Because I threw all the scraps away.”

“Papier mache isn’t really my forte, anyway.”

Eight, Bongseon notices. Jihu has angrily paced the same line back and forth eight times. But now, he comes to a stop.

He scoffs. “Can you believe them? I was so excited to introduce you to them, introduce your art to them, and they just pulled their same old shit! And now I have to go to this dumb dinner and meet this girl? All because they’re so threatened that I could dare to see things differently than they do, that I could open up to someone who makes me feel—!”

Jihu catches Bongseon’s thoughtful gaze.

At the sight of her, his eyes widen and blink rapidly behind his glasses.

Bongseon’s eyes linger on him for a moment.

And then she takes a couple of steps forward.

Reaches up for his glasses.

Folds the earpieces down.

Sets them on top of a stack of books on her desk, just to her right.

“What do you feel?” she asks quietly.

Jihu’s eyes soften.

“That’s it,” he admits, shrugging. “You… y-you make me feel.”

It’s surprising that it doesn’t happen in her studio, which is where he’d imagined it happening. With the door locked, it’s quite private. So much of her passion resides there. And it’s where they met, so it seemed like the most obvious place. He can’t believe that it happens in her dorm. He can’t believe how lucky he is to be able to be in her living space, where she eats, and sleeps, and lies on her couch while watching TV, and does her dishes. He can’t believe that this is where he’s cupping her cheek in his hand and kissing her with such intensity that he knows this is where it’s going to happen.

Her hands reach for his belt.

“We don’t have to,” he whispers quickly, lest he get his hopes up too early.

But Bongseon smiles the way she usually smiles.

Confidently.

“After tonight? Everything that you’ve said? How can we not?”

Jihu moans as he rushes forward for another kiss, and then another.

The peony pink dress looks at home on the couch. So does his button-up and slacks.

Her white, lacy bra and matching panties look beautiful on her floor. So do his dress socks, and his boxers.

And Bongseon looks exquisite in her bed, naked and excited, pulling Jihu on top of her and hooking her left arm around his neck.

That excitement. Contagious and thrilling.

Jihu realizes that that’s one of the feelings he always has with Bongseon.

The feeling of being wanted.

“I’m so glad you want it too,” he confesses, his hand snaking between her legs.

She bites her lip and lets out a moan at the feel of his fingers spreading her apart, slowly rubbing back and forth to coat his hand in her abundant arousal.

“Badly,” she whispers. She grips his wrist. “Can’t you tell?”

Jihu nods into their kiss, and his fingers massage her clit, hand staying where she holds him, as her hips start to rock back and forth.

Bongseon lets out a moan, head hanging back, teeth raking against her lips as she sucks in a breath to last her. As she moves, she raises her chest to him, and his kiss-swollen lips stamp a trail down her neck, and between her breasts.

She hoists herself up, and hugs his neck, while his free hand curls into a fist, the tops of his knuckles digging into her mattress like his knees are, springs creaking as she bounces heavier, and heavier, against him.

Her throat closes up. All of her muscles tense. A scream presses against her tonsils, but they refuse to let it out. All Jihu can hear are his fingers sloshing around inside of her, and his own quiet, eager grunts.

When she comes, she lets go completely, her back hitting the bed, head landing on her pillow, hair strewn around her.

She lets out a gasp, air rushing into her body. She moans in delight, which turns into a more than satisfied, “Mm- hmm,” before rolling onto her belly.

Jihu lets out a quiet sigh as her ass slopes into view, her back arching, her hand combing through her long hair, and her pretty eyes peeking through as she looks back at him.

He bite his lip as he lines up behind her.

He’s patient as he slides into her. He’s so thick, and she’s so tight, that her juices are more enjoyable rather than useful. Still, she’s dripping everywhere, making an absolute mess.

Jihu loves getting to make a mess.

“Deep,” Bongseon instructs. “Long, and deep. Slow at first, yeah?”

She feels his nod, as it waves down his body and through her mattress’s springs.

A moan of ecstasy escapes her open, wet mouth as Jihu goes as deep as he can, cock curving slightly up, tip touching the back of her walls.

When his hips start to pull away, the suction created by their tight, wet muscles makes them both double over, as it pulls him inside again.

Without looking, she reaches for him. Intertwines their fingers. Presses the back of his hand against her chest.

He fights through the suction as he pulls back. He nearly slips out of her. But then he pushes his cock head deeper, and his shaft rushes along her walls to slam into her again.

Bongseon’s head angles back, and she lets out a low, intrigued moan.

“What you had in mind?” Jihu asks through grit teeth.

Whimpers are all that come out of Bongseon’s mouth. There’s barely any room for anything else against her gulping, heaving breaths.

He bends down, his lips lightly brushing against the back of her shoulder as they move together, full, and slow.

“You know how long I’ve thought about this?” he whispers. “How many times I’ve drifted away and pretended I was kissing you? Fucking you? It’s all I wanna do.”

“Jihu.”

His cock fills her up with the same heat that radiates from his gaze. His smile. His broad chest. Every smirk, every kiss, every long day of work ended with a hug to cover up all the unspoken words, her temple pressed against his beating heart.

He plunges deeper, stuttering on the way in.

Bongseon bites her bottom lip so hard that she thinks it might rip off and expose the bone

“Deep. Slow. You knew exactly what to tell me. You’ve thought about it, too. You’ve wanted it, too.”

Bongseon isn’t usually one to show her hand, but it’s getting harder to fight the “yes” es collecting in her throat.

She wonders if he’ll fuck her there, too. Fuck them out of her. Fuck all the words, and thoughts, and spirals out of her seemingly ever-busy mind.

How does he do this? Torture her and make her feel so at peace, so whole, at the same time?

Their backs arch and curve, sometimes snaking to opposite sides, playing with angles that release curses and unlock bursts of pleasure, sudden tension of hands gripping and teeth biting when it’s especially good.

“Tell me,” Jihu pleads, voice still low, but thinning with urgency. “Tell me this is what you wanted.”

Bongseon whines, squeezing his hand tight, and squeezing her flesh tight, making Jihu moan into the back of her neck.

“Tell me you want more. Wanna give you more.”

Bongseon sucks in another breath, moving her hips back against him, telling him the only way she knows how. The only way she can. Her throat is too tight, voice too lost.

“Wanna give you everything.”

She nods, and Jihu slides his right hand along the seam of her right thigh, fingers finding her clit.

Bongseon bucks back, letting out a yelp as his fingers gather together and start to circle, pressure building.

“Want it all,” Bongseon finally admits, her voice far away. “Want you. All of you.”

As they move, they dip into the mattress and bounce up, rocking gently.

And then, violently.

Bongseon’s chin hits her pillow, and she starts to splay out, barely able to stay as tight as she has been. Her walls are fluttering, and Jihu knows that she won’t be able to last.

“Just let go,” Jihu murmurs, placing his left palm in the small of her back as he speeds up.

She nods. Doesn’t even bother moving her hair out of her face. Just lets her body take over, spasms and movements seemingly just as incoherent as anything that she tries to speak aloud.

When she comes, she wails, spit landing in her strands.

He comes soon after. Repeated grunts, soft “ohh, ohh, ohh” s, match each explosion of cum that springs from him.

When he collapses on top of her, she reaches back for him, fingers finding the back of his head.

She taps him twice.

“Well done.”

He laughs, lips brushing against her cheekbone.

“Now, get off of me. I wanna do something.”

Jihu rolls onto his side, kissing her there before she jumps out of bed, hair flowing behind her, footsteps punctuated by excited giggles.

She gets to her desk and looks around. Even with the clutter, her sketchbook is easy enough to find. Her pencils, though, always go missing. Remembering that she was last sketching when lying on the couch, she picks up Jihu’s shirt, and then her dress and purse, and finds the near-stub of a pencil between two cushions.

She sets Jihu’s shirt back down. As well as her dress.

But she holds onto her purse.

She grabs the pencil and sets it atop her sketchbook on her desk.

But then she opens her purse.

Stares at the first place certificate.

As well as the check.

They each have her name on them, printed carefully, in elegant cursive on her certificate, and in serifed, clear, official font on her check.

She sets the certificate and the check on her desk, both face-down.

And then she grabs the sketchbook and pencil.

She jumps back into bed, having returned with a pencil and a sketch pad.

“Stay still, OK?”

Jihu grins. He knows not to talk as she primes her space.

After a moment, Jihu can’t help himself. He rushes forward and presses his lips to her bare shoulder, making her laugh and gently protest, as she flips her pencil under her index finger and over her thumb and middle, as her palm presses against his chest to push him back against the headboard.

Jihu’s never seen someone so consistently and intensely focused. And he’s not seen Bongseon like this, fresh off the glow of a win. In more ways than just one.

He lifts an arm and bends it behind him, resting the back of his head on his forearm. And, as he’s done for the entire time he’s known her, he watches her work.

It’s amazing how content he feels, just watching her. He’d watch her for as long as she’d let him. And he’d watch her do anything. Sketch another scholarship-winning piece while bathed in the afternoon sun. Read on the top floor of the library. Cook. Laugh. Sleep. Think.

Come.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” Jihu tells her, making Bongseon roll her eyes. “I mean it. Just thinking about the way you looked when you…” He smiles. “I’m gonna be thinking about that for a while.”

“Not the only one,” Bongseon giggles, half of her brain in that moment, and half of her brain focusing on how to make sure to get the line of his left pec just right.

“Bongseon.”

“Mmm?”

“I hope this isn’t a one-time thing.”

“Me neither.”

“Good.”

Jihu doesn’t need a breath. Doesn’t stutter. Her confidence is so contagious.

“Because I think I may be falling for you.”

Bongseon looks up from her sketchbook, eyes wide.

Jihu snores.

Loudly.

And a lot.

Bongseon can’t help but fondly chuckle every time Jihu lets another one out. Though he’s loud, and the rattle in the back of his throat might raise concerns about his health, it’s indescribably comforting to watch him sleep so deeply, to know that he’s so comfortable in a place that has only ever been hers.

He doesn’t stir when she gets out of bed. He continues snoring when she makes some tea. He sleeps right through the kettle whistling. So Bongseon is sure that he definitely won’t wake up when she slips out of her room, just for a few minutes.

She takes the stairs instead of the elevator, as if trying to keep Jihu from hearing that, too.

She pads down the hall. Everyone else is definitely asleep. But she has no qualms about waking a particular person up.

She knocks on the door, and when it opens, Bongseon feels so relieved to know that she’s memorized the number correctly.

Bongseon looks up into Haneul’s tired but curious eyes.

Hanuel’s voice cracks when she speaks.

“Y-yes…?”

Her realization grows as more light enters the room and enters those curious eyes, helping her to answer her own question.

“You’re the artist?” she asks, voice still not warm enough. “From today?”

Bongseon nods. “Yeah.”

“Um… well… Congratulations, again?” She raises her eyebrows. “But why are you—”

“I’m really, really sorry to wake you,” Bongseon replies, “but I need your help.”

“Right now?”