Dragons' Scars
dragons' scars
summary: And after the events that happened during Lady Laena’s funeral at Driftmark, two dragons were left scarred.
pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader
word count: 6.4k
warnings: blood, fighting, grief, graphic description of wounds, vomiting, probably medical inaccuracies, representation of alicent and viserys' failmarriage at its best
author's note: whoof. this was a whole lot to write. sorry for the delay, I've been on vacation, but I still hope you all like it! in the next few chapters we'll see reader head first in her position as heir and enter a bit of a rebellious phase. i'm not sure i'm completely satisfied by this chapter, but i hope you all enjoy!
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The raven announcing Ser Harwin Strong’s death arrives at Dragonstone barely a day after the one announcing Laena Velaryon’s passing — as if moving to Dragonstone hasn’t already been hard enough on your family. Now not only is your father unresponsive, but your mother, too.
Laenor had taken quite badly Lady Laena’s passing. He disappeared until supper, only to come back completely black out drunk after, carried by Ser Qarl. Your mother didn’t have the heart to get mad at him, and simply asked the knight to accompany him back to his chambers; she is closing off, too.
You’re left to look after your brothers, since your parents are still barely at the start of their grieving; you visit them in the nursery, you play with them, you tell them how good they did with their lessons. You suspect Jace knows the truth about Ser Harwin probably being their real father and maybe he would like to drown in his own misery, too, but you won’t let him. Not when your parents are already going downhill.
None of you knew aunt Laena, even if your father had promised multiple times to bring you to Pentos to visit her, but her death is still a tragedy. Burnt by her own dragon, per her own request, during childbirth. The fact that your mother survived the same thing not too long ago makes you shiver.
It’s night when you hear the door of your chambers being opened, and you rouse, a bit alarmed, until you recognize the silhouette of your father under the moonlight. “Father? Is– is everything alright?”
He sniffs, standing beside your bed, then sitting down on the ground. “Do you mind if I stay here? Even for a little while will do.”
“I… sure. For as long as you think you need, father.” He reeks of wine, but you don’t point it out to him, turning in the bed so that you’re facing him. You give him your hand and he gladly takes it, squeezing it. “You know,” Laenor mumbles, “She would’ve loved you.” he wipes his nose with the back of his free hand, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. “I promised you that one day you would have met her, but I couldn't keep my promise. I was waiting for her to come back to Westeros — but I should’ve just flown to Pentos once you were born. Now my sister never got to know my daughter — nor any of my children.”
He laughs; a bitter, teary laugh. “She would’ve really loved you. You could’ve ridden Vhagar and Nādrēsy together — the biggest dragons in the world finally flying together.” another sniff, “I always wrote to her about you, and she said that she had bought some jewellery to give to you. That was years ago, though.” he lets out a choked sob, “I haven’t heard from her in what feels like a lifetime.”
You can’t even imagine being away from Jace and Luke for more than a sennight — Joffrey, maybe, yes, but that’s just because he only cries, eats, sleeps and poops. In a few years you won’t be able to part from him either, let alone grieve for him. You’ve known your brothers for most of your life, while they’ve known you for the entirety of theirs. Losing them, in such a way… you don’t even want to think about it.
“Where’s aunt Laena now?” you ask him. She may have passed, but she has to be somewhere, right? How can a person just… stop existing?. She still has to be somewhere. Maybe she’s with Merrax.
Your father shakes his head. “I don’t know. For us Velaryons, once we die, the sea takes us back. We’re buried in it, so that it may take back all that we owe it. But Laena was also a Targaryen, and for Targaryens death means going back to Old Valyria with their dragons — but Vhagar’s still alive, so I don’t know how she could be able to reach Old Valyria. For the Faith of the Seven, there are Seven Hells and Seven Heavens, and everyone is judged for their sins and actions, and put where the Gods find adequate.”
“I don’t want to be judged when I die. Isn’t death a punishment enough as it is?”
“I…” Laenor shakes his head. “I understand that for you it might be hard to comprehend, but death isn’t exactly a punishment. Truth is, men are executed just to prevent other people from committing their crimes by scaring them, and also to prevent them from doing it again; but death itself isn’t a punishment. Sometimes it’s a relief. I suppose that’s how your aunt perceived it.”
You confusedly nod, still not understanding how she could find it a relief. She had two daughters, a husband, a good name for herself; some people would have given anything to be her. So, why?
Your father has tears in his eyes. “There are fates way worse than death. I guess Laena thought she had enough.”
He leaves you to sleep with a choppy kiss on the forehead and a cracked goodnight, but you barely close an eye. You ask yourself if your mother would have ever left you and your brothers in favour of a quick death, had the situation been the same.
Three days later, you depart for Driftmark on your dragons. Your parents carry one of your brothers each, while Joffrey is left on Dragonstone under the attentive care of the wetnurses and maids. The ride to Driftmark isn't too long, and you're one of the last ones to arrive for the funeral — as your grandsire, along with your uncles and his entourage, is already there, and so are many others.
You see what probably is your uncle Daemon with his daughters, Baela and Rhaena, talking to your grandparents — Corlys a collected expression on his face, Rhaenys with teary eyes. There are a few Velaryon family members, who you recognise from your various visits to Driftmark in the last few years, and your grandsire, sitting on a makeshift throne under the gazebo of High Tide’s courtyard — where the tables with wine and refreshments are already placed.
A guard announces the start of the ceremony, for Laena’s casket has been placed and is ready to be honoured, and you all move towards the cliff, where your aunt's body is ready to be dragged down and thrown onto the sea; you hold on tight to your father's hand as uncle Vaemond starts his eulogy. He squeezes back, sending you a tender glance full of tears.
The eulogy is in Valyrian, and you are surprised to find barely any mentions of Laena's life. It sounds more like a praise to House Velaryon, of the thick blood that runs through it, and somehow an attempt at something. You can't decide if he's referring to your brother's not-so-Valyrian features or if he's simply trying to get on your grandfather's good side. Probably both.
“Salt courses through Velaryon blood. Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.”
Laena's casket is slowly dragged down the rocks, and soon enough, it falls into the waters below.
You look up at your father, tugging on his vest. “Father, will we be buried like this too?” you whisper.
He shakes his head. “I will be. One day, I shall be united with my sister again and join her in the sea. But you'll be buried like a Targaryen, sweetling. You are destined to be something far greater than to be just a Lady Velaryon.”
You don't like it. You don't like the way he's saying it, like being a Velaryon is a curse. “Why? I want to be buried with you.”
He shakes his head again, almost stoically. It seems this is a talk that, at this moment, is too difficult for you to understand. “You'll be a Targaryen, sitting on the throne. You're destined to be burned by dragonfire.” he sniffs. “Or, or maybe you'll be buried by your lord husband’s family traditions; that's not unusual. I'll be a mere Lord, one day. I am your father, but I am not your duty.”
Your lower lip is trembling, and you bite it to hold in the tears that almost manage to escape. “Father, what are you even saying?” it isn’t fair that you can’t choose where to end up, even in death.
He grimaces. As soon as the ceremony ends, he lets go of your hand and simply disappears, as you all gather back in the courtyard stationed on the cliffside of High Tide. Your mother quickly comes to the rescue, holding you under one arm and your brothers under the others, promising you all lemon cakes and sweets once the ceremony is over.
You soon go to your grandparents, giving them your condolences like your mother told you to and then hugging them tight. Rhaenys almost bursts into tears, but actually, she’s great at hiding them for someone who just lost her only daughter. She pats you on the cheek and just stares for a moment, like she’s searching for something, before your grandfather brings her out of her stupor, gently nudging her to other courtesans.
You greet your grandsire after that, who kisses your temple and hugs you tight, blabbering about how much he has missed you. “The Red Keep has become dull,” he murmurs, coughing a bit. “My children are in no way as bright as you are. Why don’t you come visit sometime? I could use some laughter, you know, and with your witts you often bring me to tears from it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Grandsire, I’ve been gone for not even a moon.”
He huffs. “Forgive this old man for missing his only granddaughter. You and your brothers are children, behaving like children; that's why your presence is dearly missed.” his gaze goes to your uncles; Aemond is staring dully in the distance, and Aegon is eyeing the maids while being on his… what? Fourth cup of wine? “Meanwhile, I’ve got… children behaving like forsaken adults. A drunkard, a spiteful brat, and… I don’t even know what to say about Helaena. At least she’s quiet.”
You’ve never understood why everyone describes Aemond as spiteful. He’s awkward, maybe even unpleasant at moments, but you wouldn't say exactly spiteful. “Grandsire, that is not a nice thing to say. Helaena is very good at embroidering, for one. Aemond is good with books. Aegon… well, I’m not really sure what, but there has to be something good about him.”
He lets out a disappointed noise, shaking his head. “They all excel at giving me headaches. But you know who’s best at it? Their mother.” he grunts, “She’s been insufferable as of lately. I fear I will go mad.”
You desperately try to take the conversation away from your uncles and aunt, not liking the way he talks about them. “If the Queen gives you trouble, I have a dragon. We could either run away on Nādrēsy or make sure he takes care of her.” as if on cue, a dragon roar is heard from the other side of the cliff.
Your grandsire chuckles and pinches your cheek. “Aren’t you a little rascal? That could be considered treason, sweetling. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Soon after you leave him, too, in favour of your cousins Rhaena and Baela. They stay out of the crowd, sitting on a little bench, looking completely inconsolable. You near them, not quite knowing how to start a conversation, since they must have heard condolences all day.
“Uh, I, uh,” not really the best ice breaker, but you surely have their attention now. “I have some dresses — they do not fit me anymore. But I think that they’d fit you both nicely. If you ever need to take a breather, or, or, some time to think and have some fun, you could come to Dragonstone.” you try to smile, but surely it comes out crooked. “I’d be delighted to have you there. I’m always available if you need me.”
Rhaena tries to smile, too, while Baela barely nods. “Thanks, cousin.”
Corlys comes up to you three, laying a hand on your shoulder. “Could you go fetch your father, dear?” He looks stiff, and you soon understand why: your father is standing in the waters below, on the beach, kneeling in the saltwater and looking completely lost. It does not take you long to join him, holding up your dress so that only your shoes and collants get wet.
“Father,” you call out. You can’t go too much farther. “Father, are you alright?” He doesn’t reply. He just stares ahead of him, into the vastity of the Narrow Sea, like he can almost see his sister again. You’ve never seen your father so lost, so… unlike himself. It’s like Laena brought with her a part of him. Is he buried in the sea now, too? Am I destined to never see him again? Not even in death?
“Father,” you try again. You get a bit closer, the cold water biting your skin. “Please.”
Laenor barely turns his head to look at you. He looks like a shell of himself, and you think that maybe, it’s just now that he has realised that Laena’s never coming back. Earlier, he had you to ground him; but once he let go of your hand, he suddenly understood that he was alone. His sister is dead. There’s no one else with whom he has shared the same experiences he shared with her, no one else so willing to understand him as she was, no one else who will look at him as an older brother.
Laena Velaryon is no more, and you are sure she has dragged your father with her in the depths of the sea.
It’s well past midnight when you are rudely woken up. It’s Rhaena, you realise, and she is calling your name quite insistently. “What?” you hiss, softening once you remember that you were the one to tell the twins that you were always available if needed. You intended by day, but if they need you, then you’ll gladly get up and get going.
“Someone has stolen Vhagar,” she murmurs, tears brimming in her eyes. You can hear the she-dragon roaring outside, and she doesn’t sound too happy. “Jacaerys, Lucerys and Baela are already going out — but you have a dragon. Can’t you just… follow her?”
She doesn’t have to repeat it twice, because you’re already putting on your riding pants and a tunic, going for the balcony and calling for Nādrēsy. The infamous Cannibal doesn’t take long to arrive, always at your beck and call, and you soon mount him, as Rhaena runs off — probably to where your brothers and her sister were headed.
It’s almost impossible not to spot Vhagar: she’s an old, gigantic dragon, that in the years has lost all her spikes and now looks like a giant lizard. Her scales are green, fading into a deep bronze, and her saddle is vacant — not really, you think, as you see your uncle Aemond barely clinging to the ropes of the saddle, almost flying away.
Nādrēsy roars, unhappy to see his mother, you imagine. He moves to turn away, away from her, and you try to hold tight on the reins, keeping him in place. “Daor, Nādrēsy, daor!” No, Nādrēsy, no!
He whines, rebelling against you for what is maybe the first time in over two years, and you can feel how unsettled he is. It radiates off of him, and before you can even understand what is happening, he’s turning back and going for the beach — searching for a landing. Every attempt to stop him, to make him obey, is vain; he roars over your voice, tuning you out, even when you punch and kick at his neck — it seems the only one hurt by this is you, actually. His spikes are not going to fall off for a while, it seems. Unlike Vhagar he still has them all.
He lands on the beach, roaring loudly and huffing fire. Since now Vhagar is landing, too, and she is pretty far away, you decide to forget about the stunt your dragon has just pulled in order to catch up with the others — you’d hate to miss Rhaena and Baela, or anyone really, going ballistic against Aemond.
Except, once you finally reach the entrance of High Tide, you find yourself in front of a scene that will surely haunt you in your dreams for a good while.
Now, you don’t like Aemond. Not really, since he supports his brother in constantly calling your brothers bastards and mostly keeps to himself. That doesn’t mean that him being beaten up by four children way younger than him isn’t honestly pitiful. You had hoped for a fight, yes, but the kind with screams and insults, not the kind with punches and blood, where one of your brothers could easily get injured.
Aemond is three-and-ten. The twins are a year younger than you, while Jace is six, barely a year older than Luke. The way they easily win against him almost saddens you, and despite the fact that you have nothing against seeing him beaten to a pulp, your mother is already having a hard time adjusting to the changes of the last few weeks — Joff’s birth, Harwin’s death, moving to Dragonstone — and, you think, your brothers and cousins killing your uncle surely wouldn’t help her. So, against all your best wishes, you stand up for Aemond.
“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?” you scream, prying them all off of him. You take Jacaerys and Luke by their ears, making them whine as you throw them around. “Is this what Ser Cole taught you? Four against one? It’s not a fair fight!”
“Whose side are you on? He stole my dragon!” Rhaena screeches, outraged. “Vhagar was supposed to be mine!”
“Well, now it isn’t!” you find yourself saying. “I lost my dragon too, and guess what? I found another one! If he was able to claim Vhagar, then maybe she wasn’t meant to be yours. And I say that with the utmost respect and affection for you, cousin, trust me. If Vhagar accepted him, then maybe she’s not worth that much.”
You turn, leaving your brothers with red ears, looking at your uncle, left groaning on the ground. You offer him your hand, leaning a bit. “Uncle, let’s just go to sleep and forget about all that has happened.”
He glances at you, then at your hand. He takes it, and before you can react, he drags you down towards him.
He’s got a pointed rock in his free hand.
Luke and Jace scream before you even feel the impact of the stone with your temple, and it’s not a light throw. It’s one with intent, probably aimed to kill. The pain explodes and leaves you in shambles on the ground where your uncle was just a moment ago, and as he prepares himself for another hit, Jacaerys tackles him.
Aemond lets go of the rock to fight against your brother, who apparently didn’t come here unprepared, because he’s got a knife that he promptly sheathes. “How dare you?” he roars. “My sister helped you! She reprimanded us about not fighting fairly and you maim her!”
He tries to fight off the grip on his wrist, his knife pointed at Aemond’s throat. “She should’ve let us kill you!”
His uncle manages to shove him off, throwing him on the ground right next to you, barely conscious and hopefully still breathing. “Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” you never quite understood why people described Aemond as spiteful, but now, laying on the ground in a pool of your own blood, you incoherently understand why. “You will die screaming in flames like your father did, bastards!”
The knife is on the ground, too, but as Aemond reaches for it, Lucerys is quicker.
When the Kingsguard finally comes to the scene, they find a disfigured prince and an unconscious — dead-looking — princess, both still bleeding, both in immense pain.
The first to snap out of his daze is Ser Harrold, who immediately comes to your side, glancing at the open wound and reaching for his handkerchief, pressing on the bleeding gash with it. This seems to snap you out of your trance, too, because you let out a blood curdling scream, thrashing against him. “Princess!” he exclaims, trying to calm you down. “I am merely trying to stop the bleeding!”
But it looks like you don’t comprehend anything anymore, blood covering your face and teeth, you find yourself spitting it. All you can think about is the fact that Aemond was going for a second strike. And suddenly, you hold no more pity for him, and find yourself agreeing with your grandsire. A spiteful brat, he had described him.
Your grip on Ser Harrold’s arm would surely draw blood if it wasn’t for his armour, and you can see the terrified gazes of your brothers and cousins, clouded with tears, as the guards keep them away. As your vision darkens and your head spins, you think you can hear Nādrēsy roaring from outside.
You are unable to stay conscious for much, slipping between being completely passed out and being awake but quite comatose, and you barely register Ser Harrold taking you in his arms — a guard with a screaming Aemond right behind — and getting you out of there. The thundering from your dragon outside just keeps getting louder and louder, pounding in your ears and shaking High Tide.
The Grand Maester looks horrified when Ser Harrold brings you into his chambers, screaming about needing immediate help, but soon gets to work. Him and his apprentices work overtime, roughly patching Aemond up for the meanwhile because they have a dying girl in their hands, and it doesn’t take much for you to be mostly drunk off of milk of the poppy.
When you wake, your head is in a tight bandage, and you’re laid down on a daybed, Rhaenys and Corlys by your side along with your brothers, still covered in blood. Their little butchered faces make you want to cry — you failed. As an older sister, you have one job — protecting your brothers — and you have failed.
“Mummy,” is the first word that comes out of your mouth — like the scared little girl you are, you are searching for the comfort of the same person who has always given it to you, ever since you were but a blob in her womb: your mother. It’s rasped and barely a whisper, but Luke hears it.
“Sister!” he screams, jumping on the daybed. “You are awake!”
Your head is pounding and your vision is blurred, but you recognize this room to be the best guest chambers of High Tide, the ones your grandparents sometimes let you to sleep in. If you are correct, right now it’s your grandsire who resides in them. There are murmurs around you, a maester nearing, and a heavy hand settling on your shoulder.
“She’s not here, sweetling,” it’s your grandfather Corlys, but you don’t recognize him. “Daddy?” you ask, as the maester puts in your trembling hands a calice. You hesitantly drink from it, but as soon as the liquid touches your lips, the first instinct is to spit it out. Corlys grimaces. “He’s… he’s not here either, but we sent for them. They both should be here any moment now.”
“I thought you had died,” Jace sobs, “I could see your skull.”
“It will surely scar,” the maester murmurs, tightening the bandages. “Hopefully, it will do only that.”
A wave of nausea comes over you. The maester seems to notice, and he’s quick to ask for a bucket, passing it to you and patting your shoulder as you vomit in it, ears ringing. “That’s normal. She’ll probably have constant nausea for a while.”
The people around you murmur, and another voice makes itself known in the crowd. “—re’s my granddaughter? Where’s my granddaughter?!”
It’s your grandsire, the King, and he stops once he sees you, bandages bloody and bleary eyes, skin pale and covered in sweat. “What have they done to you, my girl?” he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. He looks at the maester, “Is it serious?”
“I– we have no actual idea of how much it’ll affect her in the long term. In the best scenario, it’ll only scar and leave her with migraines every once in a while,” he grimaces, probably fearing for his life as the King looks furious, “I– in the worst… it, it could have some… permanent effects. Intellect-wise.”
Your grandsire shakes his head. “If you really value your head, dear maester, then you’ll make sure she doesn’t have any repercussions. Don’t forget you have the heir to the Iron Throne in your hands.”
The maester gulps, and Viserys sits by your feet on the daybed, gently placing a hand on your knee. “How are you feeling, sweetling?”
You whine, too nauseated at the moment to speak. The door is thrown open, your mother and uncle Daemon running in, Rhaenyra screaming your names. “Jace, Luke– dear Gods, my girl, what has happened to you?”
Her trembling eyes are frantic, looking at your bandaged wound and the blood splattered on your face, but she is quick to compose herself, putting up a facade in front of the whole court. Later, in the privacy of her chambers, she will hold her three babies and weep as much as she needs, but for now, she has to stay strong.
Unexpectedly, it is you who starts crying first. Just a little girl crying for her mother, covered in blood and scared for what’s to come. Are you going to be ridiculed for your scar as Mushroom the fool is for his height? You sure hope not.
This enrages your grandsire even more, and he raises back on his feet, throwing his hands in the air. “Gods be good, how could this happen?” he turns to Ser Harrold, “How could you allow such a thing to happen?”
“The princes were supposed to be abed, my King,” the knight replies, tense himself.
Viserys snarls. “And who had the night watch?”
The Lord Commander’s eyes dart towards Ser Criston, who speaks before he can even be interpelled. “The Prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace.”
Viserys barely spares a glance at Aemond, sitting by the fireplace, his left eye socket being stitched by the Grand Maester. “The Prince?” he says in disbelief. “The Prince? The heir to the Iron Throne could've been killed! You swore to protect my blood!”
A moment of silence. Ser Harrold speaks up. “I’m very sorry, Your Grace.”
Ser Criston straightens. “The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from other princes, Your Grace.”
“That is no answer!” your grandsire yells, shaking his head. He looks at the Grand Maester, who is now almost finished with Aemond. “It will heal, will it not?”
“The flesh will heal, but the eye is lost, Your Grace.”
The King sighs. Rhaenyra nods. “That is not even near enough punishment for what he has done to my daughter.”
Alicent’s eyebrows raise up to her hairline. “What he has done? My son has lost an eye. Over what? An innocent scuffle?” “That’s not true!” Jace screams. “He attacked Baela!”
“He broke Luke’s nose!”
“He stole my mother’s dragon!”
“He tried to kill our sister!”
“Enough!” Viserys rages, immediately shutting down the children. He looks over to you, eyes softening. “My dear, dear girl, are you able to tell me what has happened?”
You sniff. The tears have stopped by now, but the ringing is persistent. “I arrived a bit later than the others.” you murmur, eyes downcast, to your hand, tightly held in your mother’s grasp. “I… I tried to help Aemond. Gave him my hand.”
You raise your eyes, still full of fear and regret. “Grandsire, he went for another strike.”
“It should be my son telling the story!” Alicent interrupts, voice cracking. “Lucerys Velaryon had a knife– Aemond was ambushed! They meant to kill my son!”
Before your grandsire can reply, you shake your head. Your mother is surprised to find no rage in your words, only… confusion. Disbelief, maybe. “Your son maimed at me when I was simply trying to help him.”
She scoffs. “He was merely defending himself.”
“I gave him my hand to help him off the ground. I had no bad intentions nor weapons with me.”
You are just discovering one of the bad traits of the human species, Rhaenyra realises. Betrayal, and the worst kind. The one that comes when the intentions are the purest, but the receiver takes advantage. She wonders if after this you’ll be able to help anyone without doubts or second thoughts ever again.
“He aimed for a kill.”
Viserys turns to his son. “Aemond, I will have the truth of what has happened, now.”
He looks lost. A little kid coming up with a lie. He’s older than you and yet so stupid. “T… they attacked me.”
“That's not true!” Jace bursts. “You called us bastards!”
Silence falls upon the room; you stare at your brother. Had you known that was the motif of the whole ordeal, you would have happily let them beat Aemond till he was no longer recognisable. Your mother pales, and opens her mouth to speak again. “Your Grace, my sons were attacked and forced to defend themselves and their sister, already struck down. My daughter is heir and my sons are in line for the Iron Throne; this is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might know where he heard such slanders from.”
“Over an insult?” Alicent asks, voice trembling. “My son has lost an eye.”
“Your son has permanently damaged the heir to the Iron Throne,” Viserys corrects her. “Now, you tell me, boy. Where did you hear these lies?”
“The insult was but a training yard buster,” his wife interjects, again. “The lot of boys. It was nothing.”
“Aemond,” your grandsire presses firmly. “I asked you a question.”
“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? Where is the children’s father? Perhaps he might have something to say on the matter.”
“I…” your grandsire seems to agree, even if doubtfully. “Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?”
“I do not know, Your Grace,” your mother quickly replies. “ I... could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.”
“Entertaining his young squires, I would venture,” the Queen mumbles. The King chooses the best strategy — just ignoring her. “Aemond, look at me. Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”
This is turning messy, you think, too many cards on the table. Your injury, Aemond’s lost eye, your brother’s questioned legitimacy, your father’s absence. For what specific thing are you here? For the fight that broke out or the years of bottled up rage and hatred?
Aemond’s trembling too, you realise. Yet, for the first time in your life, you can’t find it in yourself to hold even a little bit of pity for him. “It… it was Aegon.”
His brother stands straighter beside him, taken aback. “Me?”
“And you, boy? Where did you learn such calumnies?” the boy hesitates, “Aegon! tell me the truth of it, now!”
“I…” your uncle sighs, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “We… we know, Father. Everyone knows. Just look at them,”
Your grandsire is silent for a moment, shaking his head. “This interminable infighting must cease! All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it!”
You’ve never seen him so enraged — Viserys The Peaceful, the smallfolk calls him, and not as to jest. He really is a calm and collected person; he has simply had enough, it seems.
“That is insufficient,” Alicent declares. “My son has been damaged permanently, my King. ‘Good will’ cannot make him whole.”
Your grandsire sighs. “I cannot restore his eye, Alicent. He has wound the heir to the throne. He should repute himself lucky to not have lost his head.”
His wife shakes her head, bewildered. “He is your son, Viserys, your blood! There is a debt to be paid!”
“My granddaughter has already paid more than enough for your son’s thoughtlessness!” Viserys screams. “He wounded an innocent child who was acting in good faith! She helped him and he spat in her face! That is how you are raising your children, Alicent? Aemond is three-and-ten, almost a man, and yet he attacked a girl not even nine summers old! He should be ashamed of himself.”
The Queen looks dazed. “He has paid more than it is acceptable.” her eyes flicker to you; a glimmer of greed, typical of HIghtowers, sits in them. “We… we could wed the children. Who would want the Princess, now that she has been ruined? My son would have a bride as consolation for the lost eye and she wouldn't have to worry about her future husband finding her… hideous, or worse, not finding a husband at all.”
Viserys takes a deep breath. “Alicent, the girl is only eight…”
Rhaenyra's eye twitches. The only thought of one of Alicent’s spawns getting on the throne by marrying you would've been enough to send her on a rampage. "So that she can say that her husband abused her even before the start of their marriage and you can have one of your children on the throne? I would rather my daughter die a spinster than to see that happen. Besides, she’s a Princess — a scar inflicted by your animal of a son could never manage to taint her beauty. It surely won’t help him in the search for a bride, though, so I can’t say I’m really surprised by this proposal.” your mother is trembling in anger as she says this, “I had already proposed something like this, Your Grace, so I don’t see why my proposal should be denied while you expect yours to be happily welcomed.”
A piece of information is missing, you realise, because you have no idea what your mother is talking about. “Very well,” replies Alicent, voice stone cold. “There is still a debt to be paid, and if the King doesn’t bring justice, the Queen will. I shall have one of your sons’ eyes in return. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”
Luke screeches and you jump up from the bed, fighting nausea and headache, just to try to keep him safe. Your mother is already making sure of that, hiding him behind her, grabbing you too in the meanwhile, holding you close to her. “Mother!”
“Alicent,” your grandsire chastises.
“He can choose which eye he wants to keep — a luxury that was not granted to my son.”
“You will do no such thing,” the King commands to the knight, who looks conflicted. “Stay your hand.”
“No, you are sworn to me!”
It seems Ser Cole is not that much of a fool to cut a prince’s eye out of his socket, and he takes a step back. “As your protector, my Queen.”
“Alicent,” your grandsire starts, “this matter... is finished. Do you understand? And let it be known, anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra's sons should have it removed.”
Your mother takes a breath, and her grip on you and your brothers loosens. “Thank you, father.”
It all happens so fast.
In a second or two, Alicent has a knife in her hands — snatched from your grandsire’s belt — and your mother has bolted forward, holding her wrist in place, preventing her from attacking any of you. “Stay behind!” she yells, barely looking at you all — and before you can move to obviously disobey and try to smack Alicent as hard as you can, it’s uncle Daemon who comes up behind you to hold you back as the guards do the same to your brothers.
You shriek, “Let me go, let me go! I’ll cut her eye out since she wants one so bad!”
“And then what?” he taunts, putting a hand over your mouth. “For this all to escalate even more?”
“Stay with the King!”
“Alicent!”
“Hold your approach!”
“Stay your hand, Cole!”
Your trashing and turning against Daemon’s hold doesn’t cease, only worsening as your mother grunts in fatigue. “You’ve gone too far,” she grits, glaring at the Queen, steadily holding her wrist and preventing her from wounding her.
“I?” Alicent asks. “What have I done but was expected of me?” she shakes her head, trembling. “Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law, while you flout it all to do as you please!”
“Alicent, let her go!”
“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It's trampled under your pretty foot again!”
“Alicent, release the blade!”
“And now you take my son's eye, and to even that, you feel entitled!”
“Your son almost killed my daughter!” your mother screams, her rage finally exploding. She snickers, but it’s clearly sarcastic. “Exhausting, isn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.” she shakes her head, and her voice softens. “But now they see you as you are.”
Alicent manages to free herself from your mother’s grip; Rhaenyra is sent tumbling behind, but luckily there’s your grandfather to catch her. Her arm is profusely bleeding — the wench managed to cut her — and the dagger falls on the ground with a loud thud.
Daemon finally lets you go, and you sprint to your mother, holding her wounded arm tight and sniffing into her dress. Despite everything, she still manages to hold you close — as she always does — pressing her nose into your hairline, murmuring sweet nothings and reassurances.
Your grandsire is speechless; his eyes dart to your mother, then to Alicent, then to your mother again. In the end, he looks at his wife, an unreadable gaze in his eyes. “I accept Princess Rhaenyra’s proposal of marriage,” he declares, the room eerily silent. “and I declare my youngest daughter, Helaena, and my oldest grandson, Jacaerys, betrothed, to put an end to this rift between our family. They are to be married once the boy reaches the age of sixteen.”
His face holds something you’ve never seen in his face, as he looks at the Queen. Is it disdain? You are too young to really know. “I hope you are happy now, wife.”
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folded ✸ jww
Cursing, overthinking, mentions of kissing, sasaengs | masterlist
📞 love GRAMs: @seokmn @wonkierideul @kissbyoon @paradiseoflosers @savemyheart101 @reiofsuns2001 @ateez-atiny380 @peraltasvibe @raintapestry @jihoonsbbygirl @fluerchive
BED CHEM
SUMMARY: you and mel walk down the hallways of piltover university when suddenly, you encounter two men trying to break into a professor’s laboratory.
AUTHORS NOTE: hiii!! so sorry i haven’t posted in a while. season 2 of arcane broke my heart, but it was so cool. anyway, im working on an ashley and ada writing atm, but pls be patient. this is 1.2k words and something i randomly thought of because of a pinterest comment under a photo of viktor
WARNINGS: trying to break into a room, reader is interpreted as feminine because of a long dress and heels, reader is a councilor, not proofread
as a new member of the piltover council, you’ve been the busiest you’d been in your life. constant laws to vote on and tedious, frequent meetings could make you feel annoyed at times. however, you made a new friend, who you’ve become extremely close with in the past couple of years.
you and mel knew each other when you were younger, just never hung out as much as you do now. despite not having strong connections to one another at a young age, it opposes how you are now. she’s invited you to her nightly scouting at piltover university.
it isn’t an interesting activity to do, but you love hanging out with mel. during these times when you explore the large university for hours, you find much time to converse with the noblewoman. sometimes you and she hold your giggles after telling the other a joke, not wanting to alert a trespasser.
this night doesn’t seem to be unlike all the others. you walk down the decorated halls of piltover university with a flashlight in hand. your flowy black dress hangs low to your ankles, and your and mel’s heels clack against the tile floor.
you and mel whisper amongst one another, she asks, “have you had your eye on anyone lately?” smirking softly and side-eyeing you.
you gasp and your cheeks flush, “‘course not, mel! i just… have not found the right person yet, i guess.” your smile diminishes.
your heels continue to clack against the ground, and you feel a cold breeze on your bare arms and leg, exposed due to the slit dress. you shiver and rub your hand on your arm, keeping the flashlight in front of you.
there’s a moment of silence between you two when mel hesitatingly speaks up, “maybe jayce has a friend you will feel… attracted to.”
“eh, i’ll just not do much. maybe let the universe pull me to the right person instead, yeah? i would hate to waste my time on the wrong person—“
she places her arm in front of you, squinting and giving you a look. you tilt your head before you begin to hear voices, and you quietly turn your flashlight off. mel keeps hers on, and the two of you tip-toe closer to the noise. it seems to be close to heimerdinger’s office, if you remember the university layout correctly.
“so far, so good—“ a man with a thick accent whispers, as if trying to hide his actions.
mel turns the flashlight on, and you cross your arms. the two men shield their eyes, and you recognize one as jayce talis. you tilt your head at the sight of the other man with brown hair and a defined jawline, who is turning a key into the door labeled ‘pf. heimdinger.’
mel taunts, “hmm. willing to risk exile for your endeavor. that’s quite the conviction.”
“councilor!” jayce interrupts, “what a surprise to see you, huh?”
then, the mysterious man comes up with an excuse, “wait a minute, this isn’t my bedroom. how could i have…”
jayce stands up from his knees and pleads with you and mel, “please. we can prove that it works.”
mel comes up with a contradiction as fast as lightning, she hums, “hmm. you couldn’t do so earlier today, how is tonight any different?”
“we figured out how to stabilize it.” the pale man replies.
he eyes are sharp toward the noblewoman until his gaze travels to you. his eyes widen and his cheeks flush, he can feel himself becoming warmer and warmer. you can tell he’s observing you and your actions, as well as your attire.
god, you’re beautiful.
he doesn’t say many words over the next couple of seconds, but you smile at him, warming his heart quickly. he’s knocked out of his mind when mel speaks.
“you’re the professor’s assistant,” she refers to the man with the keys.
jayce disagrees, “no, he’s my new partner.”
you nervously chime in, sticking close to mel, “even if you manage to prove your theory, the other council members would destroy it.”
“heimerdinger will recognize the potential, miss l/n,” the handsome man says.
he knows your name!
mel scoffs, and she’s not having any of their crap, “he already does. it scares him. it scares them all.”
“what about you, miss l/n? you are on the council, correct?” jayce’s partner asks. his eyebrows furrow in curiosity, and your heart melts at his eyebrows twitching upwards.
you ponder for a few seconds, staring at him and slickly moving closer to the man. you respond, taking a few moments to think of how to form a sentence in front of such an attractive guy, “i think any worthwhile venture includes risk. and please, call me y/n.”
you hear whistling from the hallway, and you give mel a glance that makes her infer, ‘we need to make a decision quickly.’
“councilors, this technology, it’s real. and no matter what happens here, it’s going to change our world. we should be the ones to lead it. piltover, the land of progress, equality, innovation. i know it sounds impossible, but when have we ever let that stop us? please, just give us a chance.” jayce explains.
you glance at mel, and you assume she’s left the decision to you. you reply with a sigh, “one night, you two. i want to see in the morning how you have progressed your technology.”
“thank you, councilor l/n,” the one in the white tie thanks.
you quietly nod and smile, waving to them as mel gently pulls your arm and turns the flashlight off. she goes on to distract and talk to harold, the enforcer. as you step down the hall, you glance behind you to hardly see the nameless man staring at you back. he then gets pulled into the room by jayce, who seems urgent to work on the high-end technology.
as councilor medarda’s flashlight flicks off, and you and mel walk away, viktor’s still standing near the entrance of the laboratory. he sees a shine in your eyes even through the dark hallway, however, he doesn’t know if you can see him as well.
he doesn’t even notice jayce has unlocked the door until he gets pulled in by the taller man.
“you were ogling at councilor l/n.” jayce grins, teasing his partner.
“i was not. that would be unprofessional and inappropriate. plus, we are here to work on hextech,” he attempts to change the subject, “we should get working on it.”
“i’ll work with mel to set you two up.” jayce objects, rolling his eyes and chuckling at the slender figure.
viktor couldn’t pass up that opportunity.
“who’s the cute boy with the white jacket and the thick accent?” you ask mel, walking away from the enforcer.
she grins at you, showing her perfect teeth, “that was viktor. and from what i can tell, he’s interested in you.”
as you continue to walk down the hallway, leaving the university to travel toward your bedroom, you go to sleep with a happy feeling in your chest.
A couple drinks
Pairing: Slash / Saul Hudson x reader
Info: fluff and smut and 5 seconds or so of angst; 4231 words;
A/N: Hey guys. Here’s another fic for you. I am doing my best to work on the last requests, but I’m also working on a multi-chapter fic that I hope you guys enjoy <3
Keep reading
vernonboxd 🎥 vernon x rockstar!reader.
movie nights are sacred to you and vernon. a little extra for my catch you when i can verse. ♡
ⓘ established/long-distance relationship, fluff, use of pet names, movie 'reviews' as headcanons. referenced this letterboxd list for some movies vernon has mentioned or recommended.
OOO VERNONBOXD.
Recent Reviews of letterboxd.com/11203km
The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) ★★★★ Watched April 9, 2022
🐻❄️ says: visually pleasing, classic anderson. saoirse ronan if u read this im free on thursday night and would like to hang out. please respond to this and then hang out with me on thursday night when i'm free. (jk 🎸 ily)
🎸 says: apology not accepted ^ but i loved the tongue-in-cheek humor & deadpan dialogue. agatha & zero's romance >>> would watch again if i needed to see something pretty.
edited to add: if u need to see something pretty, just look in the mirror. ;) yours, 🐻❄️
Spirited Away (2001) ★★★★ 1/2 Watched June 10, 2023
🎸 says: breathtaking, show-stopping, one of ghibli's bests. a crown jewel of animation. incredibly word-building and i will die on that hill despite SOME PEOPLE'S contrasting opinions. i want it on record that i wanted to give this five stars. alas, 4 and 1/2 is a compromise.
🐻❄️ says: not arguing w a rockstar. whatever u say beautiful.
Luca (2021) ★★★★ Watched November 4, 2023
🎸 says: andiamo! has all the elements of a feel-good pixar flick. setting, dialogue, friendship. "we underdogs have to look out for each other, right?" need to go to italy. wink wink, nudge nudge.
🐻❄️ says: booking that flight rn. anyway: well-paced comedy, stunning animation, reminds me a lot of finding nemo. powerful & moving ending (surprisingly). can also open some discussion re: climate tolerance.
edited to add: wait you're kinda hot for that.. - 🎸
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (2013) ★★★ Watched December 20, 2023
🐻❄️ says: one-time watch typa beat. peaked at the cinematography but story, script, and pacing could have been better. loses composure because of how fantastical it is. overall, just ok.
🎸 says: not much to say about this movie, but i did like the quote -- "to see the world, things dangerous to come to, to see behind walls, draw closer, to find each other, and to feel. that is the purpose of life." words to live by.
Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022) ★★★★★ Watched January 21, 2024
This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
🐻❄️ says: can't wait to do laundry and taxes with you in this life. (:
› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
Down The Road (F1 x Reader) SMAU Season 1
>> Down The Road 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩
➡ Previous Part : Next Part
Taglist: @raizelchrysanderoctavius , @laura-naruto-fan1998 , @jpg3 , @tsukishimawhore , @minkyungseokie , @roseseraj , @bbhyuneee , @omgsuperstarg (If you want to be added in this fic, just tell me in reply )
A/N : I'm trying to write in time for the #QatarGP because I want the storyline in Part 2 to continue in real-time (spoiler alert: from Episode 3 onwards, there will be a one-year time skip). I hope you enjoy the racing and the fic too. If you do, don't forget to like and reblog. It's great encouragement for me, who has been sitting with a sore back at the computer for hours to write this SMAU fic
note ; age-gap, a bit of mentor/student relationship
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Season 1 : ── 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐬 ── (Lewis Hamilton x Reader) S1 : E02 𝐾-𝑝𝑜𝑝 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟
Beyond the thrilling competition on the F1 track, the off-track relationships of F1 drivers have also become an exciting topic for fans. That's precisely what's happening with Y/N, a rising star in motorsport, whose relationship with Lewis Hamilton, a seven-time World Champion, is being closely watched. Is it real, or is it just a theory from fans? It's a tough question to answer definitively, as only they can shed light on the situation.
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Source : GQ Sports (On YouTube)
On this episode of "Actually Me" Formula 1 driver Y/N goes undercover on the internet and responds to real comments from fans on Twitter, Instagram, Wikipedia, Reddit, YouTube, and TikTok. How does it feel to be the only woman racing in Formula 1 today? How does she handle the pressure of competing in a male-dominated sport? Which driver is she closest to? And the most pressing question everyone wants to know : What is the true nature of her relationship with Lewis Hamilton? Are they friends, colleagues, competitors, or something more?
For this final question, she simply laughs and replies cryptically, “You guys should ask him (rather than asking me), because I’m curious too.”
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Source : Formula 1: Drive to Survive (On Netflix)
In the show “Formula 1: Drive to Survive” Lewis Hamilton finally opens up about his relationship with Y/N for the first time after it became a hot topic on Twitter world recently. Hamilton said “It’s hard to explain, but we have a very special bond because we’ve known each other for a long time,” He further defined her as the ‘special one’ in his life, yet he still remained enigmatic regarding whether their relationship contains romantic aspect or not.
Additionally, he delves into their personal closeness, mentioning that Y/N is very much a Gen Z personified, enjoying Twitter and often sending funny memes to everyone. He humorously reveals that she sometimes replies to him "OK Boomer," when he doesn't quite grasp the memes she sends.
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Source : Lewis Hamilton's Instagram Story (update)
Lewis Hamilton posted a picture of himself wearing friendship bracelets and tagging @Y/N on Instagram Story before deleting it 11 minutes after
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Source : Twitter (update)
Rumors about a romantic relationship between Y/N and Lewis Hamilton started circulating after a Twitter exchange between the two, leading fans to speculate and gather evidence suggesting they might be dating.
This wave of speculation has received both positive and negative reactions from fans. Some fans disagree with the dating rumors, while others support them. drawing parallels to the F1 version of Tom Holland and Zendaya
While the rumors have been hot topics among F1 fans on Twitter, there has been no confirmation from either Y/N or Hamilton.
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Source : Y/N’s instagram (update)
"Get in, loser We're going to do hotlap"
Y/N posted on Instagram that she will be doing a hot lap for the team's VIP guest in #QatarGP There's speculation that the guest might be a fellow racing driver like Alex, Albon, or George Russell, especially after she previously did a hot lap with Russell without any sign of Lewis Hamilton
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Source : Lewis Hamilton's instagram (update)
"Ready to go with the winner @Y/N"
Lewis Hamilton posted on Instagram, confirming that he is the VIP guest who will get a hot lap with Y/N. Followed by a massive response from fellow F1 drivers and fans who are closely watching their relationship.
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Source : Y/N and Lewis Hamilton's instagram (update)
Y/N and Lewis Hamilton have arrived at the Lusail International Circuit to prepare for the #QatarGP race tonight. The media has been informed by their respective teams that there will be no interviews or comments regarding the rumors about them. They will solely focus on their performance in this race.
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Source : @PopBase
Reportedly the famous spanish singer Úrsula attended the Formula 1 race at #QatarGP amidst fresh rumors among fans that she might be rekindling her relationship with Y/N. This comes after her recent divorce from the Hollywood actor last month.
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𝙏𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙚𝙙 (in the next chapter)
If you like it, don't forget to like and reblog for me.
Cr.https://x.com/PopBase/status/1708629114025116047?s=20https://twitter.com/GridRivalhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b025AznQiGk&ab_channel=GQSportshttps://www.instagram.com/p/CyBimW-Ocyr/
LOVER OF MINE (01)
SYNOPSIS note to self, don’t break a singer’s heart. their next album will be about you. charlie bushnell can speak from experience.
CONTENT 1 death joke and maybe a sexual joke if u see it that way
NOTE set before pjotv airs, but the cast have been announced for awhile, honey is only just now seeing it. tatertitty = tate
DISCLAIMER i don’t own these pictures, i found all on pinterest! also the reader’s fc is asian and reader does play cindy moon, aka silk, in the marvel universe but feel free to change that to something that fits you!!
charlie bushnell/fem. reader smau
series masterlist. prev.
hanihoney just posted to instagram!
Liked by jennaortega, tatemcrae, ynupdates, and 284,963 other people.
hanihoney hey
View all 72,839 comments.
ethanitup heyyyyy
user0 lmaoo not the 5 y’s…
user1 i love women
jennaortega 😳😳
hanihoney heyyyyy
user2 HELLO???? i miss u guys aww
oliviarodrigo matter of fact where’s everybody from
Liked by creator.
user3 does anyone know what happened between her and her ex she never posts him anymore 😭😭
user4 guess they broke up. which is so saddd they were so adorable
user5 who even was her bf
user6 we dont know 😭 she never posted his face
ynupdates so pretty :(
hanihoney no, you :(
user7 YN1 WHEN ITS BEEN MONTHS…
user8 i have a feeling in my boob that its soon
user9 u mean heart…? user8
user8 no user9
rachelzegler FACE CARD NEVER DECLINES
user10 this is a face economy actually
shessogone just posted to instagram!
Liked by olivvy and others.
shessogone tell me why i just saw that my exbf is gonna be playing luke castellan in the percy jackson series
View all comments.
ethanitup i thought there already was a pjo series
ethanitup lmao i just realized why is ur exbf playing ur childhood crush😭😭
shessogone my childhood crush was book percy actually 🖐️ get ur facts straight ethanitup
tatertitty u could play silena
shessogone id rather die!
olivvy pls tell me this means yn1 coming sooner than later
shessogone 🤔
🧾 © timefight
𝔍𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰
Masterlist
Contains spoilers of season 2!!
Paring: Chishiya x blind!reader
Warnings: death, blood
Word count: 1161
Chishiya placed a hand on your back when you arrived to the game. He said that he only wanted to make sure you were following him since you never knew what may happen. Especially after you had to put on a collar.
You lost your ability to see as a child, but you were not helpless. You can navigate by making little noises like humming, and predict walls, stairs, distances, and much more. You could typically go around without assistance, but when there were a lot of people at a game or at the beach, you could get disoriented. You met Chishiya in a game and even saved his life thanks to your incredible hearing abilities and he hasn't left your side since.
"Do you hear this?", you inquired after coming to a halt.
You most likely arrived in the room where the game started. At the very least, Chishiya came to a stop. A strange noise was heard a few minutes later. Was it… skin slapping? Chishiya chuckled at your expression as you realized what it was.
More and more people entered the room, and with each one, you came closer to Chishiya. According to their steps, there are at least 21 people in here.
The rules were then explained, and your heart almost stopped beating. You couldn't help Chishiya. How was he going to survive? You couldn't tell him what his symbol was.
"Calm down," Chishiya said as he noticed you becoming anxious.
A girl approached you and invited you to join her group. Chishiya poked your arm, signaling that he was right and accepted her offer.
After a few rounds, nearly everyone was dead. Even Chishiyas' new friend died in the last round. He was a kind person, perhaps too kind for this world.
"Chishiya, I'm sorry.", you mumbled.
You sat down in the storeroom and drank a soda. A guy left just moments ago and he didn't want to tell Chishiya his symbol.
"It's not your fault.", he groaned as he rubbed his temple.
"You know something right? You need to know something. You always do."
"Not at the moment."
Chishiya stood up and walked away a few steps. You heard some rustling and a few moments later you felt something in your hand.
"What is this?" you questioned, attempting to guess the thing.
"My favorite snack in here," he grumbled.
Meanwhile, another person entered the room. It was the lady. The sound of her shoes was familiar to you.
"Would you mind telling me my symbol?"
Chishiya stood up to ask her, but all you could hear was rustling from the same direction Chishiya had been minutes before. Said man continued trying to convince her, but she turned around and headed straight toward you.
"Hey, could you please give me this?" she asked, undoubtedly pointing to the pack of cookies in your hand.
"They can't see what you're pointing at." Chishiya remarked instead.
"I'm sorry I didn't realize." The noises her clothes made and her silence meant she bowed, what made you chuckle.
"Just take it.", you said, perhaps a little harshly.
Did Chishiya knew that she was coming? Whatever his reasons were, the woman took the snacks and walked away quickly.
"She didn't even say thank you.", you muttered as Chishiya sat down for the third time.
"Maybe, but now I have a chance to win."
"What do you mean?", you asked confused, but still a bit happy.
"Sometimes it's annoying that you can't see, otherwise you would have noticed it too. I'll give you a hint: these cookies have four different flavors."
Four different flavors? What is the importance of this? After some thinking, you understood what he was talking about.
"She communicates with this other guy who was here earlier! I assumed they just ate a lot because they came here every round. So the bag cookies you handed me were the last of its kind?"
"Not exactly, I hid the rest, but it still worked. Matsushita, the guy who she cooperates with took the same one as her, even so she had hearts."
"So he is the jack of hearts!"
"Yes. So, based on Kotoko's response when I mentioned having clubs and the fact that Matsushita most likely lied. I must have diamonds or spades."
"At least you have a fifty-five chance now. Couldn't you just ask someone else?"
"That's not a good idea. The time is nearly over, and I'm not sure if they'll tell me the truth."
You both returned upstairs, but were interrupted by none other than the criminal himself.
"Hey you!" You stopped, but to your surprise Chishiya didn't.
"Who do you think is the jack of hearts?"
He caught you off guard, but you just brushed it off.
"Perhaps it's me."
"Than you would have a stupid strategy. Be honest."
"You're not dumb. Why don't you figure it out yourself? Must be easy with a partner like yours."
"Well then. This guy you're walking around with has a diamond. I hope you survive, the fun only starts now, would be a shame if you miss it."
🂡🂡🂡
You were eventually permitted to go after fourteen hours. Banda told Chishiya his symbol for the last round, and you thanked him excessively. He just laughed at you, but you didn't care.
"Hey, Y/n?", Chishiya asked when you walked away from the arena.
"Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, listen, I'm not a man of great words, but I want you to know how much you mean to me. That's why I don't want you to play in the next game, alright?"
"I don't want you to risk your life alone, Chishiya."
"I understand, and I also understand that the king of spades is dangerous, which is why you will wait near the arena. Nobody is playing games to extend their visa anymore. They are well aware that the end is near and that playing games is the only way to avoid the king of spades."
"Are you trying to say that my visa doesn't matter anymore, because we will get home soon?"
"I will make sure of it."
"Chishiya, you've changed. To be honest, when I first met you, I hated you."
"I don't blame you. Back then, I was a jerk."
"Yes you were.", you mumbled before leaning closer to him.
You kissed his cheek lightly, and Chishiya was relieved that you couldn't see him blush.
"I might have hated you before, but I can tolerate you now."
"Looks like more than tolerating to me.", he joked, throwing his arm over your shoulder. "You're lucky, I like you. When this is all over, maybe we should go on a date."
When you started walking, you smiled like a child. Perhaps you should, and perhaps he was right. Maybe it'll all be over soon.
ADORE YOU ; KR7
kimi raikkonen x mclaren driver!reader
. . . your relationship with kimi was always civil, not too close like friends, but not too far apart like strangers. somehow you got stuck in a situation leaving both of you confronting your feelings for each other.
amgf still one of the best things i wrote, ever. this is my baby, the time i spent making the radio graphics was all worth it, i love this so much ughh
death of a bachelor ; masterlist
Getting called in for a private meeting with the team principal is always worrying. Usually you’re called for one of two reasons, either you’ve done exceptionally well or if you’ve fucked up. With how things are looking up, you’re clearly called in because you’ve fucked up and one of the sponsors has found something to complain about.
You were used to it, sadly. And despite his constant reassurance, you know Fernando doesn’t have that much power to help you. Paired with his recent win in the driver’s championship you kept your mouth shut from the pressure held on you.
The last thing you want is to take away the spotlight from him, it was his win after all. Despite the number of news outlets questioning his position, and the ambiguity of it all with you in the center of controversy.
All because of some harmless photos with Kimi, one that caught him off guard. Not because he was unknowingly involved, but with the fact that he only knew then just how many people loathe you in the industry who are constantly waiting for you to fuck up.
Breathing out, you shake off the million thoughts running in your head. There’s no use overthinking what has been done, standing in front of the team principal’s door you brace yourself for the worst that could happen.
Thinking to yourself that maybe this is the end of it all, that maybe they’ve finally succeeded in leaving you without a seat for the next season. The worst that could happen is Renault pulling out your contract early, and you were preparing for the worst.
The person out of your equation is Kimi Raikkonen himself- the first person your eyes landed upon entering the room. Looking around your eyes scan the room, your teammate nowhere to be found. It’s just you, Kimi, and your team principal.
“Good Morning.” You’re voice curt and short as you feel the dry scratch at the back of your throat. Sitting beside Kimi you lean towards him whispering, “What are you doing here? Did McLaren form a complaint?”
Next to you, Kimi shrugs his shoulders equally unaware. “I was called in when I arrived earlier, I thought you were the one with the complaint.”
Brows raised, you let out a small sigh in disagreement, “I don’t think I’m in a position to complain, you on the other hand, God knows what people are saying.”
You don’t notice the frown forming on Kimi’s face, his brows furrowed in annoyance, “How are you empathizing with me right now? God knows how much worse you’re having it, and here you are worrying about me. I don’t care what they say about me, as long as they don’t involve you in it.” Kimi scoffs, watching the corners of your lips curl into a small smile.
“You must hate being involved with me that much.” Teasing him, Kimi shakes his head with his eyes rolling back.
A cough breaks your attention away from Kimi, reminding you that you’re here for a serious meeting with your team principal. Turning your head you see him with a big smile on his face.
Huh.
“Do you know why I called you here?” His voice reverberates in the room, leaving your throat dry. Your eyes widen, gulping before attempting to answer.
“No, you don’t have to answer.”
Pressing your lips, you shrink down back in your seat feeling the drops of sweat press against your team shirt. Your eyes widen, avoiding contact, you prepare yourself with the worst anticipating the next words out of his mouth.
“It’s all going well in fact that I’ve decided myself to let you continue with what you two are doing.”
An audible gasp left your lips, “But there’s nothing, we aren’t doing anything,” quickly defending yourself from your team principal’s accusations.
Bewildered, a loud cackle escapes his lips leaving you and Kimi in confusion, “That’s even better. Honestly, you don’t have to date each other, just continue what you’re doing.”
Kimi shakes his head, “Doing what exactly?”
“Listen, all you need to do is be seen in public. Think of it as a fake secret relationship. Just like you said, if there’s nothing going on with you two then there is no need to confirm it. Just to keep the sponsorships happy, and free publicity for both teams.”
You share a look with Kimi, gauging from his reaction he doesn’t seem to mind. Then again it’s not like anything is happening between you two, it’s like hitting multiple birds in one stone. You can keep being friends with Kimi, you keep your seat, and you keep the sponsors happy with the advertisement.
Clearing his throat, Kimi speaks up first, “You know if you don’t want to-”
“I don’t mind.” Giving him a small smile, you assure him of your consent, “I’d rather it be you than someone else, plus we get to hang out more often. Unless you don’t want to, then we don’t have to-”
“I’m okay if you’re okay with it.”
Clasping his hands your team principal is smiling over the moon, at least someone is happy with the situation,
“Well if you have no other questions, you’re free to leave Kimi.” Your team principal dismisses the Fin, leaving an uncomfortable taste in his mouth.
“Why? If you have something to say to Y/N you can say it to me as well. What are you going to scold her for? You should’ve been there to defend her against the comments, I won’t leave. Whatever you say to her, I will be here and listen.”
His sudden outburst caught you off guard, uncharacteristic for Kimi to go over his emotions like that. Though his outbursts are short it’s usually directed out of frustration, but this was out of nowhere. Your eyes dart back and forth Kimi and your team principal with conflicted feelings.
While you feel proud that Kimi defended you, on the other hand you grimace at the sight of your team principal, still and speechless.
“Well, you’re more than welcome to wait for Y/N outside but Fernando is coming along in a while- we’re having a team meeting for the next season.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll guide Kimi on the way out, you know in case he reads any of our world winning strategies.” Standing up swiftly, you pull Kimi’s arm, dragging him away from the office and out to the paddock.
It wasn’t until then you realized the awkward silence looming between you two. Looking up to his eyes, you stare at his blue ones, getting lost into the deep hues akin to a storm. In the silence, a mutual understanding was built.
And unbeknownst to you, it was the beginning of a deeper relationship with Kimi.
You were on your way to Maranello when the announcement of your transfer was released. Sinking in your seat you close your phone, thankful to be on a plane avoiding the constant ping and ringing of your phone.
It was a short-lived moment of relaxation, not long after the seat beside yours was occupied. Observing the person, your eyes squint at the sight of a familiar face.
"Kimi? I didn't know you were on your way to Italy as well."
Turning around, Kimi blinked slowly taking in your presence. "Was staying with me that bad that you need a different vacation?"
Scoffing at him, you shift in your seat facing his, "As much as I want more time for vacations unfortunately I'm going to Italy for work."
Kimi tilts his head, "Didn't know Renault moved to Italy. Are you going over factories?"
You still yourself, contemplating telling him the truth or getting away with a little lie. Not in the mood for conversation, you chose the latter.
"Something like that. They want me to check something personally. My manager arranged it for me so, I really don't have a say."
Kimi nods again leaving you to do your own things, something that you appreciate when you're with him. There's no need for small talk, it's always comfortable silence.
A few people you feel comfortable being with for long periods of time, it's either him or your teammate Alonso. Contrary to popular belief, there's no "feud" between the three of you– more on the two of them, you were somehow stuck in between their "rivalry" and just how the company milked the media for more coverage.
Truthfully faking a secret relationship with Kimi was one of the easiest things you had to do last year, purposefully being seen hanging out, going on "dates" and vacationing together without having to confirm anything, you were winning.
And the end of it all with you getting a seat with Ferrari. It was a whirlwind of emotions, not just for you but for your teammate Alonso who was poached to McLaren.
A secret you had to keep from Kimi while vacationing together. You did carry a smidge of guilt hiding him from his new teammate, but vacation meant time away from work and racing. And one thing you learned about Kimi is that he hates race talk at the dinner table.
You sit in silence catching the last hours of sleep. By the time you wake up, the plane has already landed. You feel the seatbelt around your waist, scouring the area you look for Kimi.
"You were asleep the whole flight, I put on your seatbelt for you." You blink your eyes, in an attempt to keep yourself awake.
"When did we land?" Your voice is croaky and dry, you squirm in your seat yawning and stretching.
A small smile can be seen from Kimi's face as he hands you bottled water. "We just landed, you want to go now or wait for a little while?"
A small pout forms your face as you unbuckle your seatbelt, grabbing the bottled water from his hands you take small sips feeling more awake by the minute.
"I want to go now, I want to change clothes before going to the factory." Grabbing you things you stand up leaving the plane with Kimi beside you.
"Is someone picking you up or do you want me to drive you to your hotel?" Kimi offers, putting his bags at the trunk of a Ferrari 599. The way his arms flex, as he pushes his weight, leaning upon the frame of the trunk.
You shake your head off your thoughts, "You don't have to, someone is picking me up. I guess I'll see you around then." Frankly, you booked a one-way ticket to Emilia-Romagna as soon as your break with Kimi was over.
Spending your vacation with Kimi was one of the best things you've done, but the longer you stayed inside the bubble that is Kimi Raikkonen, the more you realized your conflicting feelings towards him.
And that is something you're not prepared to confront yet.
Nonetheless it seems as though the universe has a way of bringing you together— it comes in the form of sitting beside each other on the plane ride, and now seeing him through the glass window in Ferrari's headquarters.
not for sale (mingyu x reader).
⤿ a four-part series featuring celebrity!mingyu and small business owner!reader.
𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 —
💍 part one, or SELLING POINT.
your small business sees a sudden skyrocket in sales and your loyal customer 'k mg' might just be the one to blame.
💍 part two, or A STEAL.
mingyu tries to talk himself out of his crush on you. it doesn't really work.
💍 part three, or FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH.
your business is presented with the opportunity of a lifetime, but you're on the fence about taking it.
💍 part four, or CLOSING THE DEAL.
mingyu is all in. are you?
ⓘ celebrity!mingyu, small business owner!reader, fluff, romance. cussing/swearing. more tags to be added.
with love, kae ✎ @maplegyu and i lovingly call not for sale our middle child because, at any given moment, we have at least four kmg stories in the works 😆 i was in love with this plot the moment she made the req, and so there's not a single doubt in my mind: this one is all yours, maple.
part two's estimated post date is january 2025, while part three and four should be out in february 2025. see you all for not for sale!
› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
Lost Star | l.jh
Pairing: Producer Woozi x ex-trainee reader
Genre: First Love, Reunion, Second Change
Type: Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff
Word Count: 14k
Summary: Jihoon had lost the star of his heart a long time ago. However, 11 years later, his lost star appears, and his heart never feels more conflicted.
Jihoon counted his steps from his new apartment unit to the convenience store with a slow, measured pace. The clock pointed to four in the afternoon, and all he needed was a single pack of ramen—something simple to soothe his mind. Soonyoung had visited the day before and deliberately left it off Jihoon's grocery list, citing health reasons with a smug grin.
"We're in our thirties now. Let’s eat healthier, Jihoon."
Did Jihoon care? Not really. He’d been going to the gym religiously for years. Ate vegetables and fruits after every meal like some disciplined monk. But sometimes—like today, when his brain felt sluggish and creativity hit a wall—he just wanted to boil a portion of ramen. Let the MSG fill his kitchen, fog up his windows, and trick his dopamine into working again. Sometimes, that salty warmth was all it took to unlock a melody worth recording on his phone.
So now he had to get it himself. Again.
Exposing himself to the daylight wasn’t the worst thing, he figured. One of the reasons he moved to this new neighborhood was because it was closer to the company building. Seungcheol had said the area was peaceful, and Jihoon agreed—at first.
That was before he saw you again.
Before the surreal gut punch of recognizing you behind the counter at the convenience store.
Before the awkward silence that stretched too long between two people who used to dream under the same roof.
He could walk to that store. The one where you worked. Pretend to be just another customer craving the nation’s favorite instant noodles. But his heart wouldn’t let him. Not after that accidental reunion. Not after your eyes widened just a little, then dropped just as quickly. Not after both of you pretended it didn’t happen.
For the past two days, Jihoon had been walking around with this subtle ache in his chest—a kind of guilt he couldn’t explain. Maybe it wasn’t his fault you disappeared, but somehow, the silence that followed still made him feel like an asshole.
Meeting you again was never on his to-do list for the year.
Not after eleven years.
Not after your sudden disappearance during the trainee days—when everything had felt like it was about to begin, and then you were just… gone.
But who would’ve expected you to work there too?
The further convenience store. The one Jihoon deliberately chose to walk to—solely to avoid seeing you again.
“Is it possible to work in two different convenience stores?"
He found himself asking that question to his manager, offhandedly, while they were on the way to a schedule a day after he saw you for the second time that week.
It haunted him.
Not in a horror-movie way, but in that quiet, persistent kind of way that made his chest heavy and his mind foggy. So much so, he’d forgotten how to make music.
He couldn’t even count the hours he’d spent staring blankly at his studio screen, letting beats loop endlessly without direction. Every time he sat down, memories of the trainee days swelled like echoes in the room. His keyboard—usually his safe place—suddenly looked like the old one from the practice room.
And just like that, he’d be back in time. Sitting beside you, both of your fingers grazing the keys, your heads low in shared concentration while chaos unfolded around you—Soonyoung falling over, Seungcheol screaming his puberty out, the usual mess.
“I think it’s possible,” his manager said. “With different shifts, I mean.”
“Why? You thinking of working at a convenience store now?” his manager joked, glancing over while keeping one hand on the wheel.
Jihoon let out a small chuckle.
He had too many zeros in his bank account for that kind of lifestyle—and far too little energy to immerse himself in a brand-new job culture. Honestly, just the idea of small talk with strangers all day made him tired.
“If you were talking to Dino, he might say yes to your suggestion, hyung,” Jihoon replied, resting his head back against the seat.
His manager laughed. “I know, right? But still, it’s the first time I’ve heard you bring up something so... not you. Lee Jihoon, behind a convenience store counter?”
Jihoon grinned, a little more amused than he expected. “Hey, I might be great at it. I was a hard worker during trainee days, remember? You forgot already?”
His manager—one of the oldest on the team, someone who’d seen Jihoon through his fiery teenage years and his stubborn perfectionist era—just let out a warm, knowing laugh.
“Trainee days must’ve been tough, huh?” he said after a beat. “You did well, Jihoon. Seriously. Good job.”
And for a moment, Jihoon didn’t say anything. The corner of his lips twitching up. Compliments always made him awkward—but coming from someone who saw the whole messy journey? It settled differently. Deeper.
“Hyung… do you remember a female trainee named Ji Y/n?”
His manager glanced at him, then nodded. “Of course. She was an ace. Everyone thought she’d debut for sure. But she just... disappeared. I always wondered what happened. Did the company drop her? Did you ever hear anything?”
Jihoon slowly shook his head, eyes shifting toward the road outside. A convenience store passed by in a blur, and for a second, his heart clenched.
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Everyone asked around back then. It was just the four of us at first—me, Soonyoung, Coups hyung, and her.”
His voice softened at the memory, almost reverent.
Jihoon hadn’t realized it until recently, but somewhere along the way—after he debuted, after the whirlwind of success—he had stopped questioning your disappearance. The noise of the industry had drowned out the ache. He buried it under practice schedules, tour dates, and deadlines.
But the truth was...
Somewhere deep inside his heart, there was still a space carved out for the quiet longing.
A small, unspoken ache that whispered, Where did she go? Is she okay?
And now, after seeing you again—after all these years—he wondered if that ache had never really left.
Maybe you were the ghost that had always haunted him.
*
Back then, small Jihoon didn’t know what to do with himself during his early trainee days. Everything felt overwhelming—the routines, the expectations, the constant pressure to improve. But he was quietly relieved to find comfort in two people: an older boy named Seungcheol, and a same-age friend, Soonyoung. The three of them stuck together, quietly enduring every class, never once daring to complain out loud.
Then one day, a new face entered the frame.
The vocal instructor introduced her as a transfer trainee—someone with experience from a major entertainment company. They were told to learn from her. Study her discipline, her skill, her presence.
And that’s when you, Ji Y/n, walked into the green practice room with an assertive smile painted confidently on your face. Like you had no doubts. Like you already knew your path. Like the stage was already yours.
You glowed.
It wasn’t just your visuals—though Jihoon would admit, even then, you were an eye candy in the middle of their hard, exhausting days. But it was more than that. You had aura. The kind that lit up the room. The kind that made people look up when you passed by.
You shared generously with them—tips, stories, encouragement. You could sing. You could dance. You even rapped with surprising ease. Every evaluation, you impressed the supervisors without fail. And of course, everyone expected no less from someone who had come from a bigger company.
Jihoon remembered watching you from the back of the room, sweaty from practice, trying to hide the envy in his eyes behind admiration.
You were everything he wasn’t yet.
And everything he quietly wished to become.
Jihoon clearly remembered the day you casually mentioned that you were learning how to produce music. You said you’d picked it up from an older trainee at your previous company, brushing it off with a humble smile. “I’m not that good,” you claimed.
But to young Jihoon, Seungcheol, and Soonyoung, you might as well have been a genius. The three of them watched you with stars in their eyes, completely captivated. It was their first time witnessing someone actually create a song—piecing together melodies, layering harmonies, experimenting with beats—and it lit a spark in them. In Jihoon especially, something shifted.
“Did you learn it from G-Dragon of Bigbang?” Soonyoung had asked with innocent curiosity, eyes wide.
Everyone laughed, but Jihoon didn’t forget that moment.
Looking back, he realized—
That was the exact point when he started seeing you as a star.
Jihoon leaned back in his studio chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling as an old song played softly in the background. It was one he had produced years ago—rough around the edges, unfinished, but alive with memories.
He had sent nearly ten messages to Seungcheol earlier, pestering him about whether he still had the old folder filled with their trainee-day demos. And now, with the files finally playing through the speakers, Jihoon felt himself slipping into the past.
None of the tracks were perfect. Far from it. But each one carried a piece of who they were back then—ambitious, reckless, hopeful.
Seungcheol’s voice came in first, mid-puberty and full of effort. His rap stumbled a little, but the fire was there. Jihoon chuckled when he heard the word “Elevation” in one of the lines. How did teenage Seungcheol even know that word? Had he been reading dictionaries between dance classes?
Then came your voice.
Soft. Grounded. Not the kind of high-pitched perfection producers chased today, but something more—something real. There was honesty in your tone, a raw emotion that pulled him in even after all these years.
Jihoon closed his eyes.
Do you still sing like that?
*
Jihoon didn’t see you when he first stepped into the convenience store tonight. The last time he came, it was during the night shift—maybe this time, it wasn’t your turn. A small part of him felt relieved.
He walked through the automatic doors with the simple intention of grabbing another pack of ramen. A soft hum echoed faintly through the aisle, and as he turned the corner, he found the source.
There you were—crouched down, restocking shelves.
You flinched at the sudden awareness of his presence, nearly losing your balance.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming,” you said quickly, bowing your head politely before walking away with a full restock basket in hand.
Jihoon parted his lips, wanting to say something—to stop you—but the moment passed too quickly. You were already gone.
He turned his eyes toward the rows of ramen, but his mind had long wandered. The image of you behind the convenience store counter was a stark contrast to the version of you etched into his memories.
You—once the ace trainee, confident and radiant, someone the instructors praised, someone the rest of them watched in awe—now stood beneath flickering fluorescent lights, wearing a clerk’s uniform and scanning barcodes. It was jarring. And it hurt in ways Jihoon couldn’t name.
“What is this?” Soonyoung pointed at the suspiciously large stack of ramen stuffed into one of Jihoon’s kitchen cabinets while he rummaged around for coffee.
With arms crossed and a judgmental stare, he turned toward the living room where Jihoon was sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to his phone as he mindlessly scrolled through the webcomic he’d been hooked on lately.
“What?” Jihoon lifted his head lazily, following Soonyoung’s gaze toward the open cabinet.
“There’s like… fifteen packs of ramen in here. Do you even eat these?” Soonyoung asked, brows furrowed in disbelief.
Jihoon nodded, eyes flicking back to his phone. “I do. Sometimes,” he replied nonchalantly, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.
Soonyoung tilted his head with a mix of annoyance and concern. “Didn’t I tell you to stop eating junk? What happened to eating healthy?”
Jihoon let out a soft chuckle, amused. “You sound like a wife.”
Soonyoung scoffed dramatically as he finally located the coffee powder and slammed the cabinet shut. “I’d make a great wife, thank you very much.”
He shot Jihoon a look as if daring him to disagree, but Jihoon just smirked, raising an eyebrow like he agreed—at least a little.
Soonyoung didn’t say anything after that. The kitchen fell into a soft quiet, broken only by the clinking of a spoon stirring coffee. Jihoon stayed on the couch, but his thoughts wandered.
He thought about his new, strange habit—buying a pack of ramen almost every night. Always just one. Never to eat. He let them pile up in the cabinet like forgotten mementos. He never said why. Because he knew the reason. And saying it out loud would make it too real.
“By the way…” Soonyoung broke the silence as he walked over to the couch, settling beside Jihoon with a glass of iced coffee in hand.
“The convenience store a block from here—”
Jihoon’s body tensed. His eyes shot up, and he sat up straighter, alarmed. “Why?” he asked, a little too quickly.
Soonyoung blinked, startled by the sudden reaction. “What’s with you?” he asked, puzzled.
Jihoon quickly shook his head, brushing it off. “Nothing. Just—keep going. What about the store?”
“I was just gonna say…” Soonyoung sipped his coffee, still eyeing Jihoon. “They started selling Kkokkalcorn and Matdongsan again—the ones we used to destroy during trainee days.”
Jihoon let out a soft sigh. The tension left his shoulders as quickly as it had appeared. He leaned back against the couch cushions again, suddenly feeling silly. For a second, he thought Soonyoung had seen you.
“Oh,” he mumbled. “Cool.”
But the tightness in his chest didn’t fully fade. Because while Soonyoung was thinking about snacks, Jihoon was still thinking about you.
*
Jihoon raised his brows in confusion, standing still in front of the cashier counter. You had just slid a small bottle of vitamin drink across to him after he’d paid for what must’ve been his twentieth pack of ramen this month.
“You should start taking care of your health,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eyes.
He blinked. Did you really think he was eating all those ramens? Of course you did. Anyone would.
He took a quiet breath, a little too sharp, and grabbed the vitamin drink. “Thanks,” he mumbled, voice slightly rough as if it had caught on something in his chest.
With that, he turned and walked toward the door. His steps felt heavier than they should, dragging under the fluorescent lights and quiet pop music in the background. The clock behind the register read 2:04 a.m.—his work could wait. That wasn’t why he came tonight anyway.
He stopped just before pushing the door open, something tugging at him.
“You still sing?” he asked, without turning around at first.
When he finally looked back, his eyes met yours.
The question lingered in the air between you—simple, but heavy. Like it had taken him years to ask, and now that he had, everything might shift.
You looked taken aback by his question. “Me?”
Jihoon nodded slowly. “Yeah… do you still sing, Ji Y/n?”
Silence settled between you. Not awkward—just heavy, like the universe paused for a moment to let Jihoon hear himself say it. After nearly a month of seeing you again—glimpses, passing words, late-night convenience store visits—he had finally asked the question that had haunted him more times than he could count.
But you tilted your head slightly, your voice light, accompanied by a soft, teasing smile. “No ‘how are you?’ first?”
Jihoon huffed out a breath, half-laughing at himself, shaking off the embarrassment. Of course, that’s what you’d say. You were always that girl—calm, confident, casually radiant in your own way. You knew how to disarm people without even trying.
Taking a few steps closer, he gave in. “Okay, fine. How are you?”
This time, your smile softened into something real. “I’m great… How about you, Woozi?”
Jihoon’s heart clenched at the nickname. Not in a way that hurt—but in a way that burst something open inside him. Warm. Familiar. Breath-stealing.
Woozi. You were the one who gave him that name.
There was a phase when you grew close to some of the senior artists in the company. They adored Jihoon, calling him in a playful, affectionate tone that never failed to make you laugh during practice.
“Our Jihoon… Our Jihoon…”
“Our Jihoon got the step wrong?”
You’d mimic them with a teasing grin, and the other trainees would burst into laughter. Jihoon, on the other hand, could only lower his head, trying to hide the pink dusting his cheeks. No one needed to know just how much that nickname affected him.
“Uji?” Soonyoung, who had just proudly settled on his stage name ‘Hoshi,’ chirped excitedly, offering the shortened form of Uri Jihoon—Our Jihoon.
Jihoon groaned in frustration, clearly unimpressed. “Please, no.”
The room echoed with laughter, everyone amused by the suggestion—everyone except Jihoon.
But then your voice cut through the noise, calm and certain. “Woozi… sounds more sophisticated, right?”
Jihoon turned his head, catching the gleam in your eyes. You were seated cross-legged on the studio floor, marker cap between your fingers, looking at him like he was something more than just another trainee. Like you saw something already formed within him.
Without waiting for approval, you stood up, walked to the whiteboard, and uncapped the marker. With neat, confident strokes, you wrote the name.
Woozi.
Jihoon took a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the slippers on his feet before slowly lifting back to where you stood behind the counter.
"I'm..." he started, arms falling open at his sides as if gesturing to his entire self—his tired eyes, messy hair, and the bag of ramen crinkling in his hand.
You let out a soft laugh at his little gesture.
"I'm still the same," he said with a shrug and a small, helpless smile.
He saw you glance down, a chuckle slipping from your lips as you bit back a smile, covering it with your hand. "That’s great," you said, voice warm, eyes flickering up to meet his.
Then you tilted your head, teasing lightly, "So... does ramen help with your music now or something?"
Jihoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "It’s not the ramen," he murmured, and something in his tone hinted that there was more to the story.
A gentle silence settled between the two of you, stretching just long enough for both your hearts to beat twice. Then Jihoon spoke again, voice quieter this time.
"I'm glad you're okay."
You nodded slowly, a small but genuine smile tugging at your lips. "Me too."
The soft chime of the door interrupted the moment as a new customer entered. You turned immediately to greet them, your professional smile slipping into place as you lifted your restocking basket again and headed toward the drink section.
Jihoon lingered for a second longer, watching your back before finally stepping out into the night—with a heart that, for the first time in a long while, felt a little lighter.
*
How could someone be this chronically offline?
Okay, Jihoon was, too—kind of. But not like this. He had social media, even if he barely posted, and his company profile existed with at least a few photos and a bio. But you? You were a complete digital ghost.
No record. No trace. No tagged photos, no mutuals, nothing.
Were you using a different name now? A secret username?
He rubbed his temples in frustration, eyes scanning the last of the open tabs before giving up.
Jihoon sighed heavily and dropped his head beside the keyboard, forehead grazing the cool surface of his desk.
He'd started to question if you were even real—or some elaborate figment from his overworked, nostalgic brain.
"Is she a ghost?" he muttered, his voice half annoyed, half amused, as he sat back up and began closing one social media tab after another.
Click. Click. Click.
With five tabs gone and zero results to show for it, Jihoon finally leaned back in his chair and returned to his work—though your absence lingered louder than any background noise.
The next day, Jihoon invited Hansol to his studio, letting him be the first to hear the song he had worked on the night before.
“It’s not perfect—it’s still raw,” Jihoon said, his voice quiet but edged with anticipation as he clicked the play button.
The room filled with the soft rise of synths, layered with ambient textures that pulsed gently through the speakers. Hansol raised his brows in surprise, the corners of his mouth twitching into an impressed smile. He began nodding along, fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest of the chair.
“This is... very different from your usual stuff,” Hansol said, glancing over with interest.
Jihoon nodded slowly, already aware. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes focused on the screen even though he wasn’t really looking at anything.
“Yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”
Hansol chuckled once the song faded out. “Last month you said you lost your sense. What’s this then?” he asked, amusement flickering in his tone.
Jihoon let out a laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe moving out sparked something. Change of scenery might’ve rebooted my creativity.”
Hansol pointed a finger at him knowingly. “Exactly! So, how’s the new house?”
“It’s great. Bigger space, definitely more comfortable for me. The cats are still going crazy trying to adapt, though.” Jihoon smiled faintly, eyes softening at the thought. “But I feel at ease. Finally.”
Hansol nodded, genuinely listening. “I figured as much. I was worried about you, hyung. Even Coups-hyung mentioned you asked the staff for old pre-debut folders. I thought, ‘Oh no, Jihoon’s really at his breaking point.’”
Jihoon chuckled, clearly entertained by Hansol’s concern. “Nah, not yet. I’m grateful it hasn’t hit the limit.”
“Good,” Hansol said, leaning back in relief. “Because if you go down, we all go down.”
Jihoon smirked. “Then I better stay afloat, huh?”
A heavy silence settled between them, stretching long enough to feel intentional. Jihoon tapped his fingers lightly against his knee before finally speaking, his voice low.
“Do you remember that one female trainee who just disappeared one day?”
Hansol’s expression shifted instantly. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “She was in the debut line. Y/n, right?”
Jihoon nodded slowly, eyes drifting toward the studio wall. “Yeah… I ran into her recently.”
Hansol straightened a little. “Seriously? Where?”
“At a convenience store,” Jihoon replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “She works there now.”
Hansol looked genuinely surprised, his brows lifted. “Wow. That’s... unexpected.”
Jihoon didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the floor, lips pressed together. “She looks the same,” he said softly. “But there’s something different too. I don’t know... It messed with my head a bit.”
Hansol tilted his head. “You talked to her?”
“A little. Nothing deep.” Jihoon rubbed the back of his neck. “But just seeing her again... it brought back more than I thought it would.”
Hansol leaned back in the chair, a nostalgic smile spreading across his face. “She was pretty much a celebrity back then.”
Jihoon gave a small scoff, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yeah… everyone knew her name. Even the vocal trainers talked about how fast she picked things up.”
“She had that vibe, you know? Confident. Chill. Like she didn’t need to try too hard,” Hansol added, his voice tinged with fondness.
Jihoon hummed in agreement, eyes lost in some far-off thought. “Yeah... she always felt like she was meant for something big.”
Hansol glanced at him. “So what happened? Did she say why she left?”
Jihoon hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I didn’t ask.” A beat passed. “And I don’t think she’d tell me, even if I did.”
Hansol didn’t push further. Jihoon’s voice had softened into something almost unreadable.
There were things Jihoon wasn’t saying. And maybe he wasn’t ready to.
Not yet.
*
Jihoon sat at the small table in front of the convenience store, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling as he waited for your shift to end. Earlier, he had walked into the store with all the courage he'd gathered since stepping out of his apartment. He needed you to hear the song. The thought had been haunting him for days, and tonight, he was being braver than he’d ever been.
“When does your shift end?” Jihoon asked, setting a bottle of Zero Coke on the counter.
“In twenty,” you replied, a little caught off guard by his sudden visit.
Jihoon simply nodded, paid with his phone, and grabbed the drink. “Okay. I’ll wait for you,” he said casually before turning on his heel and walking out, not giving you time to respond. He didn’t dare look back. He was too nervous to care how confused you looked.
Now, he watched from the table as you reappeared, changed out of your uniform and ready to go. You walked over holding another vitamin drink, setting it in front of him as you sat across the table.
Jihoon chuckled at the sight. “I don’t have those unhealthy habits anymore, Y/n.”
“So you eat your vegetables now?” you teased.
Jihoon laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m not that hopeless.”
You leaned back slightly, eyeing him curiously. “So what is this, Jihoon? What do you want from me?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled out his earphones and plugged them into his phone. “You know I don’t do small talk,” he muttered, handing you one of the earbuds. “I want you to hear something. It’s rough, the lyrics are still nonsense, but… I want your opinion.”
You raised an eyebrow. “My opinion? You’re the one making a living writing songs, Jihoon.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “Just listen first.”
“This isn’t your style,” you said once the song ended. Your voice was calm, almost casual, but there was a trace of something else—familiarity. Like you knew his sound, like you’d been paying attention all along. And something inside Jihoon stirred with quiet hope.
He nodded slowly. “It’s not. It’s yours.”
You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. “I don’t have a style, Jihoon.”
Without saying anything, Jihoon opened his phone and pulled up a SoundCloud profile. He turned the screen toward you. “This is you, right?”
There it was—your old stage name as the username, your song watermark sitting in the bio like a timestamp from a past life.
Your eyes widened. “You looked for that?” you asked, half laughing in disbelief. “You’re crazy.”
Jihoon shrugged, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe. But it was the only place I could still hear your voice.”
You stared at the screen for a second longer before looking up at him. “So… what’s your intention with all this, Jihoon?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the bottle of zero coke in his hand, thumb running absentmindedly along the rim. Then he looked at you, fully, like he was trying to read something in your face before saying it.
“I want you to sing it,” he said quietly. “For the demo.”
You blinked. “What?”
Jihoon took a deep breath. “I wrote it with your voice in my head. I don’t know why, but I kept hearing you. Not just any vocal—it had to be you.”
You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek. “Jihoon… it’s been years.”
“I know.”
“I haven’t even sung properly in—”
“I know,” he interrupted gently. “I just… I couldn’t let this one go. I need your voice to bring it to life. Even if it's just a demo.”
His voice was calm, but you could tell it was costing him everything to stay that way.
You looked at him again, brows slightly furrowed. “And after that?”
Jihoon hesitated. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
A quiet laugh escaped you, more out of nerves than amusement. “That’s very unlike you.”
“I know,” he repeated, softer this time. “But this… this just felt right.”
You looked at him for a long moment, the weight of shared history hanging between you.
Then your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers brushing against the condensation on your drink bottle. “I don’t know if I can, Jihoon.”
He tilted his head, watching you quietly. “Why not?”
You took a breath, but the words felt heavier than you expected. “Because music… it used to mean something different to me. It was everything, and then it wasn’t. And now, I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I am with it.”
Jihoon didn’t interrupt. He waited, the silence around you stretching like a safety net rather than pressure.
You forced a laugh, more bitter than you intended. “You said you heard my voice, but I haven’t even let myself sing in years. I don’t know if I even like how I sound anymore. What if I’ve forgotten how to feel it?”
Jihoon leaned back, resting his arms on the table. “Then let’s just try. Not as a job. Not for the industry. Just you and me, like we used to.” His eyes softened. “You don’t have to be who you were. You just have to be honest.”
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers now picking at the edge of the label on your drink. “It’s complicated. You don’t understand, Jihoon.”
*
You stared at the old blue mp3 player Jihoon had left for you. Not a file sent through a messaging app, not an email attachment—just this little, scratched device loaded with his new demo. A relic of the past, almost stubborn in its simplicity. Holding it felt like touching a memory, one that pulled you back to a time when everything was filled with laughter and reckless dreams. No tears of regret, just passion.
With a quiet sigh, you set the mp3 player on the chipped table in your cramped studio apartment and shuffled toward the tiny kitchenette. The kettle’s hum filled the silence as you reached for another cup of instant noodles. You had lost count of how many you’d eaten this week. But counting anything had become pointless long ago—especially the years since your parents died.
You were eighteen. It was just another exhausting training day when the manager called you out of the practice room, his expression uncharacteristically somber. He told you, in a voice that tried to sound steady, that your parents had been in a car accident. Out of town. Fatal.
Shock was too small a word. You didn’t know what to feel, didn’t know how to react. You hadn’t been close with them—not in the way families in dramas were. No warm hugs, no heartfelt talks. Just the distant, dutiful exchanges of a family that functioned but never flourished.
Your uncle and aunt arrived in Seoul a day later, somber and silent. They promised to take you home to South Jeolla—promised you would return soon, that you could continue chasing your dream. But those promises were lies, whispered only to keep you from protesting.
Seoul faded into the rearview mirror, and so did your dream. What was once a life bursting with dance practices, vocal lessons, and late-night laughter with your trainee friends turned into the quiet humdrum of rural life. The city lights you once knew blurred into distant memories, and the path you’d so fiercely pursued buried itself with your parents.
You sought help from the company, but by then, everyone already knew. Knew your parents were gone, knew your uncle had taken over their business, and knew he’d cut off the funds your father used to send every month. Sympathy turned into avoidance. Promises of support dissolved into awkward silences. No one listened. No one reached out.
And so you were alone—alone with a dream that withered before it could bloom.
You didn’t finish school. Never went to college. No work experience worth mentioning. Your uncle’s family kept the business for themselves, never offering you a share, never once asking what you planned to do with your life.
"Life is so full," you muttered as you settled back at the table, snapping your chopsticks apart before stirring the steaming noodles. The warmth touched your lips, a poor but familiar comfort—the only warmth you’d felt in a long time.
"Full of shit." Your gaze drifted back to the mp3 player.
There was no way Jihoon was serious about wanting to hear you sing again. Not after everything. Not when you’d buried that part of yourself so deeply, you almost forgot it was ever real.
*
You went to Seoul without anyone knowing a year after Seventeen debuted. Covered from head to toe, you slipped into a crowded broadcasting show, watching them perform with the same intensity as always—driven, passionate, like nothing had changed. But for you, everything had.
As if fate couldn’t resist irony, you bumped into an old manager. His eyes widened, recognition breaking through his initial shock.
"Y/n?" he whispered, his voice tight, as though saying your name might summon a ghost.
You stood still, hands shoved deep in your pockets, your expression unreadable. "I heard the girls are debuting," you said simply, ignoring his question.
He glanced around nervously before grabbing your arm, pulling you aside. "You shouldn’t be here. The vice president is here."
"Can I talk to him?"
"What are you thinking? You can’t just disappear and then show up expecting to talk to him."
"Disappear? I didn’t disappear. Everyone knows what happened to me. They knew, and no one looked for me."
You found yourself humming to the demo Jihoon handed you. Your hand paused mid-motion, a soda can hovering just above the fridge shelf. You had listened to it, finally—maybe not much, or so you told yourself. But you listened until you fell asleep. And now, without even realizing it, you’d been humming it all day. The melody lingered, familiar and strange, wrapped in the warmth of guitar riffs and a band sound Jihoon rarely touched before.
Later, you caught yourself typing sentences into your phone’s notes. Drafting lyrics, deleting one word only to replace it with another, trying to fit them against a melody that seemed to cling to your thoughts. You were even considering a theme—the song didn’t even have one yet. What were you doing?
Jihoon stepped into the convenience store, the familiar chime signaling his entrance. He glanced toward the counter, but you weren’t there. Instead, faintly, from the back room, he heard it—a soft, almost tentative melody.
His brows knit together as he moved closer, ears straining to catch the sound. It was his song. And it wasn’t just playing—it was being sung.
He paused by the door to the storage room, not daring to move any closer. Your voice, clear and a little rough around the edges, wove through the notes with an effortless familiarity. You were humming the melody, occasionally mumbling words that you hadn’t quite settled on yet, but the sound was unmistakably yours.
Jihoon didn’t breathe for a moment, his chest tight. You didn’t even notice him, too caught up in the rhythm, stocking shelves while lost in the music.
A smile broke out on his face, small but undeniable. He hadn’t heard you sing in years, not since back when everything was simpler, when music didn’t feel like a burden.
Suddenly, you spun around, a soda can still in your hand, and froze. Your eyes widened, caught mid-hum, and Jihoon had to bite back a laugh at how startled you looked.
“Oh,” you managed, your voice betraying both surprise and a hint of embarrassment. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Jihoon leaned against the doorframe, his smile soft but genuine. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, his tone low and careful. “You sounded... really good.”
You looked down, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “It’s just—just stuck in my head,” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant as you resumed stacking the cans.
Jihoon hesitated, unsure if he should push or let it go. But the chance felt too precious to pass up. “That’s a good sign, right?” he asked, stepping further into the room. “Means it’s catchy.”
You shrugged, still not meeting his gaze. “Maybe.”
Jihoon shifted his weight, trying to keep his voice casual. “Were you… coming up with lyrics earlier?”
You froze for a fraction of a second, fingers hovering over the last soda can. “Maybe.”
“Do I get to hear them?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes a little too hopeful.
You straightened, closing the fridge door with a soft thud. “No.”
He blinked, surprised by your bluntness, but there was no sting—just a quiet laugh. “Why not?”
“Because they’re not ready. They’re just… thoughts,” you muttered, crossing your arms, feeling defensive even though he hadn’t done anything. “They might not even make sense.”
Jihoon nodded slowly, stepping back slightly to give you space. “Okay. No pressure.”
But that only made you feel worse. You leaned against the wall, letting out a heavy sigh. “It’s just… I don’t even know what I’m doing, Jihoon.”
“Writing lyrics, apparently,” he teased, but his voice was gentle.
You glanced at him, and the earnest look on his face melted away some of your frustration. “The theme… it’s about being there for someone. Like… promising to be there, even when they think they’re alone.”
Jihoon’s smile faded, replaced by a quiet understanding. He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. “That’s… powerful,” he murmured. “It’s honest.”
You bit your lip, hesitating again. “I don’t know if it’s any good.”
“I want to hear it,” he said, voice unwavering. “Even if it’s just a draft.”
You stared at him, searching for any sign of pity or insincerity. But Jihoon was just there, waiting—patient, unwavering.
Finally, with a sigh, you pulled out your phone, scrolling to the notes app. “Fine, but if you laugh—”
“I won’t,” he promised.
You stepped closer, handing him the phone. Jihoon’s eyes scanned the words, his expression shifting subtly as he read. His fingers lightly brushed the edge of your phone, his lips moving soundlessly along with the lyrics.
Seconds stretched into a minute. Then another.
When he finally looked up, his eyes were a little brighter, his voice softer. “Y/n… this is beautiful.”
You swallowed, feeling your chest tighten. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” Jihoon whispered. “It’s… it’s everything I wanted the song to say but didn’t know how.”
You looked away, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “Well… now you do.”
He chuckled, the sound light and almost relieved. “Now I do.”
And for a moment, standing there in the quiet hum of the storage room, it felt like you were back in a place where music was more than just sound—where it was a language, something only you and Jihoon could speak.
*
You sat on the leather couch in a studio, fingers twisted together, watching Jihoon work in his element. He hadn’t said much since you both arrived—just a few clicks of his mouse, a quiet hum under his breath, and the soft glow of the monitor lighting his focused face.
Your gaze wandered, from the cables snaking across the floor to the soft, ambient lights lining the room. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but you could feel the nerves crawling up your spine, your thumb unconsciously tracing the edge of your phone.
Jihoon hadn’t turned around, but you knew he sensed it. Maybe it was the way you shifted on the couch, or how your voice had gone quieter since you both stepped inside.
He paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Do you want some water?” he asked, not even turning, voice calm but carrying a gentleness that tugged at you.
You almost laughed. “Am I that obvious?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “A little.”
Silence settled again, but it was softer this time. He adjusted the volume of a track, listened, then leaned back in his chair.
“Y/n,” he said suddenly, and you straightened slightly. “Just sit there. You don’t have to do anything else.”
“I know,” you whispered, but the words felt thin against the weight in your chest.
He leaned his head back, finally meeting your eyes. “I brought you here because I want you to feel it again. Not because I expect you to perform.”
You swallowed, nodding, but you didn’t trust your voice.
“Besides,” he added with a gentle laugh, “I need you here. You have better taste in lyrics than me, remember?”
The tension in your shoulders eased, just a little. “You used to hate it when I nitpicked your lines.”
“Maybe I did. Or maybe I just hated that you were right most of the time.”
You smiled, leaning back into the couch, your fingers finally relaxing.
Jihoon turned back to his screen, but not before you caught the faintest look of relief in his expression. He wasn’t just working—he was making space for you, creating an atmosphere that felt safe, unhurried.
“Wanna try it?” Jihoon asked, casually, but his gaze was attentive.
Your heart skipped. “Sing it?”
He nodded, not pushing but not letting you hide either. “Just try. No pressure.”
You leaned back, taking a deep breath. “Okay… just… play the track.”
Jihoon adjusted a few settings, and soon the familiar sound of the demo filled the room. The gentle guitar strums, the soft beat—familiar yet new, warm and inviting.
You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling around the edge of the couch. And then, with a voice that felt shaky at first but gradually steadied, you began.
“Come stop your crying, it will be alright…
Just take my hand, hold it tight…”
Your voice wavered, but you pushed on. Jihoon’s eyes remained on the screen, but you could see the subtle way his head nodded, following your rhythm.
“I will protect you from all around you…
I will be here, don’t you cry…”
Jihoon made a few adjustments, lowering the instrumentals slightly, letting your voice shine just a bit more.
“For one so small, you seem so strong…
My arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm…”
The nerves twisted inside you, but the words carried you. They weren’t just lyrics—they felt like a promise, a warmth you had missed, a memory that still lingered.
Jihoon’s hand reached out, his index finger tapping a small rhythm on the desk, a silent gesture of encouragement.
“This bond between us can’t be broken…
I will be here, don’t you cry…”
As you reached the final line, your voice softened, but it didn’t shake. It flowed.
“You’ll be in my heart…
Yes, you’ll be in my heart…
From this day on, now and forevermore…”
Silence followed, the track fading into nothingness. You barely realized you were gripping the edge of the couch until you felt the tension in your fingers.
Jihoon turned, a soft, almost amazed smile spreading across his face. “You’re still incredible.”
You looked away, feeling your cheeks warm. “It’s… it’s just a draft.”
“A beautiful one,” he corrected. “And your voice… it’s still there, Y/n. Stronger than you think.”
You bit your lip, a small laugh escaping. “I was terrified.”
“And yet, you sang like that.” He leaned back in his chair, his smile growing. “You wanna try another take? Just to warm up more?”
You met his eyes, a quiet spark of excitement finally breaking through your nerves. “Yeah… I’d like that.”
Jihoon leaned back in his chair, the soft glow of the studio lights casting a warm hue over his face. He was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest, eyes still on you. You expected another round of feedback, another subtle correction. But instead, he smiled—a slow, thoughtful smile.
“I think we should release it.”
You blinked. “Release? Like… as in, actually put it out there?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees. “We could release it as an indie song. No heavy promotion, just… something real. Something raw.”
“Jihoon, I haven’t sung in years,” you whispered, your fingers instinctively curling into your sleeves. “I mean… this was just—”
“Beautiful,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “This was beautiful. Your voice, the lyrics… it’s all there.”
Your lips parted, a hundred protests dancing on the tip of your tongue. The fear, the anxiety, the echo of all those years wasted, the bitterness of dreams abandoned—they all screamed at you. But beneath them was something else, something softer and far more dangerous.
Hope.
“What if…” you hesitated, your gaze falling to the polished floor, “what if no one listens?”
“Then it’s just a song we made,” Jihoon said easily, his voice calming. “But if someone does… if it reaches even one person, then it’s worth it.”
Your gaze met his, and you saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes. No judgment, no pity—just that quiet, unwavering faith Jihoon always seemed to carry.
“But… it’s just a draft. It’s not perfect.”
“Then we’ll perfect it. We’ll record a proper take, polish the instrumentals, mix it right.” His voice grew animated, that spark of creative energy you knew so well lighting up his expression. “It can just be under a simple artist name—no big reveal, no pressure.”
You bit your lip, a nervous laugh escaping. “I don’t even know what name I’d use.”
“Then we can come up with one.” Jihoon’s grin widened, his excitement infectious. “Or we can just go with something simple. Y/n. Nothing to hide.”
Something in your chest tightened at that—your name, out there again, but this time without the weight of forced expectations or shattered dreams. Just you.
“You’re serious,” you whispered, a hint of awe slipping into your tone.
“I am.” He leaned forward again, his voice softer now. “You deserve to be heard, Y/n. Even if it’s just this one song. Even if it’s just this one moment.”
Your throat tightened, and you looked away, blinking quickly. You didn’t want to cry—not now, not in front of him. But you couldn’t stop the smile that spread slowly across your face.
“Then… let’s do it,” you whispered, barely trusting your own voice.
Jihoon’s smile softened, relief and pride mingling in his expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You let out a shaky laugh. “Let’s do it.”
*
The song was out—and it was a hit. More than just a quiet indie release, it spread like wildfire, carried by word of mouth and algorithmic whispers. People were captivated by the raw emotion in your voice, the honest lyrics, and the gentle but powerful production. It didn’t take long for listeners to notice the signature touch in the arrangement. Soon, word got out: Woozi of Seventeen had produced it.
Suddenly, you were no longer just a voice behind an anonymous track. Labels started reaching out, messages flooding your inbox with offers and promises. It was overwhelming, surreal.
Jihoon was there, calm and steady as always, sifting through the chaos with you. He recommended a label—one he trusted, one that would nurture your talent without forcing you into a mold. And you listened, handing in your resignation at the convenience store without a second thought.
Your world changed. You went from late-night shifts stocking soda cans to late-night sessions in recording studios. The label signed you, and they were careful, letting you be yourself, preserving the authenticity that made your first song a success.
And now, here you were, standing under the stage lights of a bustling university festival. A gentle breeze rustled your hair, the warm glow of the sunset casting an amber hue over the crowd. You sat with a guitar in your lap, the mic waiting. Nervous? Absolutely. But the moment your fingers found the strings, a familiar calm washed over you.
You played Jihoon’s song—no, your song. Your voice carried over the crowd, clear and heartfelt. People swayed, some holding up their phones, and you lost yourself in the music.
In the audience, Jihoon stood beside Hansol, his cap pulled low but not low enough to hide the proud smile tugging at his lips. His gaze never left you, watching every strum, every note you sang.
Hansol leaned over, his hands in his pockets, his voice a mix of honesty and admiration. “I thought you were going to give this song to Dokyeom hyung.”
“I was about to, for his solo.” Jihoon’s eyes softened, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling in. “But this song found its owner first.”
Hansol chuckled, his gaze shifting back to you. “I guess it did.”
Jihoon didn’t reply, but his heart swelled with pride, watching you command the stage with a quiet, soulful power he always knew you had. And he couldn’t help but feel like this was just the beginning—your beginning.
*
“I don’t know if you’re the type who likes staring at the stars.” Your voice teased Jihoon, a soft laugh lacing your words as both of you lay side by side on the rooftop of his place, the summer night sky stretching endlessly above. A gentle breeze rustled, carrying the scent of warm grass and distant city lights.
Jihoon had picked you up from a performance at a local music festival, a quiet but thoughtful way of celebrating the first anniversary of your debut. The night air felt cooler up here, the world below seeming a distant hum.
“I always enjoy nature,” Jihoon muttered, a hint of mock annoyance in his voice. “Wonwoo’s not the only one who’s romantic in our group.” But his expression betrayed him, a playful grin spreading as he turned to see you laughing.
“You sure? Because he sets the bar pretty high.”
Jihoon’s grin softened, his gaze wandering back to the stars. For a moment, a comfortable silence wrapped around you, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled.
“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice a touch quieter.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
“Surreal.” You breathed out, the word slipping past your lips like a confession. Your fingers traced idle patterns on the cool rooftop surface, searching for words that didn’t feel cliché. “I don’t know, honestly. Everything was hard—very hard. I was just... surviving. Then suddenly, I woke up one day, and I was on stage, singing. Living my dream.”
Jihoon listened, his gaze steady, his silence an invitation for you to continue.
“But sometimes, it still feels like a dream I might wake up from. Like I’m just waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and tell me it’s over.”
“Then why did you stop?” Jihoon’s question was gentle, but it hit deeper than you expected.
You hesitated, watching a faint cloud drift across the stars. “Because it felt like the world I knew crumbled overnight. Everything I thought I’d always have just… disappeared. I thought my dream went with it.”
Silence settled between you two, the gentle rustle of the summer breeze the only sound. Jihoon’s gaze remained on the stars, but his focus was entirely on you.
“What happened back then?” he finally asked, his voice cautious, almost hesitant.
You didn’t answer immediately, your fingers nervously tracing the rough texture of the rooftop. “It was… well, you know, my parents died in an accident. The business went to my uncle, and they kept me there. I was… stuck. And the company didn’t reach out either.”
Jihoon turned his head slightly, concern darkening his eyes. “I… I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but a hint of bitterness slipped through. “I don’t know what the company told everyone, but once my uncle stopped funding them—the monthly support my father used to send—suddenly, I didn’t exist to them anymore. I wasn’t even a memory.”
Jihoon’s brows furrowed, his expression a mix of anger and sadness. “That’s… that’s awful.”
“It was.” You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Being forgotten hurts more than losing everything else.”
You took a deep breath, letting the summer air fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. “Thank you, Jihoon.”
His gaze shifted to you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “For what?”
“For everything.” Your voice was softer now, carrying a weight you hadn’t meant to show. “There was a time when it felt like everyone had forgotten me. My family, the company… even the dream I once had. But you… you didn’t.”
Jihoon’s lips parted, but no words came out immediately. His fingers fidgeted slightly, a nervous habit you had come to recognize.
“I didn’t do much,” he finally murmured. “I just… I just gave you a song.”
“That’s more than enough.” A gentle smile tugged at your lips. “It wasn’t just a song, Jihoon. It was a reminder that I could still be someone. That I could still do something I love. And you listened. When no one else did.”
He looked away, staring back at the stars as if they had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
“Maybe.” You leaned a bit closer, your shoulder brushing against his. “But I’d rather give it to you than let myself think I did this all alone.”
A quiet chuckle slipped from him, a hint of warmth returning to his voice. “Well, I guess I can accept that. Just don’t forget that I’m still your producer. I’m allowed to be bossy.”
You laughed, a genuine, lighthearted sound that seemed to lift the weight from your chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
*
Jihoon leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting between the scattered lyric sheets on the table and the two figures beside him. You were seated cross-legged on the couch, your phone in one hand as you scribbled words onto a notebook with the other. Seungcheol sat beside you, far too close for Jihoon’s liking, his shoulder pressing against yours as he leaned over, peering at your notes.
“Are you sure that line flows well?” Seungcheol asked, his voice a low murmur close to your ear, his hand resting casually on the back of the couch—dangerously close to your shoulder.
You smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think it captures the feeling. But I’m open to suggestions.”
“Here,” Seungcheol’s fingers lightly grazed your wrist as he reached for your pen. “What if you say—”
Jihoon’s jaw tightened, and he reached over, pulling his keyboard closer with a faint, intentional clatter. “Let’s focus on the melody first. No point in perfecting lyrics we can’t fit to the music.”
You glanced up at him, your expression caught between amusement and gratitude, while Seungcheol just laughed, leaning back but making no move to create more distance.
“Of course, Producer-nim,” Seungcheol teased, though his tone was light. “I’ll leave the melody to the master.”
Jihoon’s fingers danced over the keys, the soft piano notes filling the room. But even as he worked, his eyes would occasionally dart back to you and Seungcheol. He saw the way Seungcheol would lean in, his hand sometimes brushing against yours, his quiet chuckles always a little too close. And you… you seemed oblivious, focused on your lyrics, nodding at his ideas, but never quite leaning back into his touch.
Still, it was enough to gnaw at Jihoon.
“I think this transition needs more impact,” he finally said, a little louder than necessary, his gaze meeting yours. “Y/n, try humming it with me?”
You perked up, nodding. “Sure.”
You moved slightly forward, leaving Seungcheol’s side as you walked over to Jihoon’s setup. He adjusted the mic stand for you, his hands lingering for a second, his voice softer now. “Just follow my lead.”
The melody played, and you hummed along, your voice blending seamlessly with his instrumental. As you sang, Jihoon’s tense shoulders seemed to ease, and the faint hint of a smile played at his lips.
Seungcheol watched, a knowing smirk crossing his face as he leaned back against the couch. “Wow, Producer-nim really knows how to bring out the best in his artists.”
Jihoon’s fingers paused on the keys, his gaze flicking to Seungcheol. “That’s the job.”
But beneath the calm expression, his focus never strayed from you.
The door clicked shut behind you, leaving a quiet stillness in the studio. Jihoon leaned back in his chair, exhaling as his fingers tapped rhythmically against his armrest. He began to tidy up the lyric sheets scattered around, but his calm didn’t last long.
“You know, I should start charging for my acting,” Seungcheol's voice cut through the silence, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I mean, watching you go all stiff with jealousy was worth every second.”
Jihoon’s eyes shot up, narrowing. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, please,” Seungcheol laughed, casually leaning against the back of the couch. “The way you practically glared holes through me every time I leaned close to Y/n? The piano smashing was a nice touch too.”
“I wasn’t glaring,” Jihoon grumbled, shuffling the lyric sheets with unnecessary force. “I was focused on the work.”
“Sure. Because ‘Let’s focus on the melody’ wasn’t you screaming ‘Back off’ in music producer language.”
Jihoon’s cheeks tinted the faintest shade of pink, and he spun his chair around, refusing to face Seungcheol. “You were the one being unnecessarily touchy. That’s a cheap move, hyung.”
“Cheap but effective,” Seungcheol sang, walking over to Jihoon’s desk. “I just wanted to see how far you’d go. Honestly, I thought you were going to throw that keyboard at me.”
“I considered it,” Jihoon muttered, his grip tightening around the edge of his desk. “Don’t push it.”
Seungcheol chuckled, leaning closer. “You should just tell her, you know. You’ve already done the hard part—writing with her, watching her grow, supporting her in the background. The only thing left is saying it.”
Jihoon’s shoulders tensed, and for a moment, his eyes softened. “She… has a lot going on. And I’m…”
“A coward?”
Seungcheol had known about Jihoon's little crush on you since predebut. It wasn't anything Jihoon ever said—it was everything he didn’t. The way his eyes would follow you just a moment longer than anyone else, how his usually stoic expression softened whenever you spoke, and how his rare laughter seemed to come easily whenever you made a joke. Jihoon never talked much, but when it was with you, his words seemed to flow a little easier.
But Seungcheol had kept quiet, just observing, thinking it was just a passing crush. After all, they were all young, chasing dreams, busy with practices, and dealing with the pressure of a debut that seemed just out of reach. Feelings were bound to get tangled.
It wasn’t until years later, when he heard Jihoon was producing a song for you—your first song, the one that became a hit—that Seungcheol realized it wasn’t just a crush. Jihoon didn’t just work on your song; he poured himself into it, perfecting every note, making sure the melody brought out the best in your voice. It wasn’t just a project to him.
So, one night, when the two of them were alone in the studio, Seungcheol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Jihoon fine-tune your track for the hundredth time. The younger one didn't even notice him at first, too lost in his world.
“You like Y/n, don’t you?” Seungcheol finally asked, his voice calm but direct.
Jihoon’s fingers stilled over the keyboard, a faint hesitation hanging in the air. He didn’t turn around. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on,” Seungcheol chuckled, pushing off the doorway and walking in. “Don’t pretend. I’ve seen how you look at her. I saw it back then, and I see it now.”
Silence. Jihoon’s shoulders seemed to tense slightly, and then he exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Seungcheol frowned, taking a seat on the couch. “You’re making her first song. You’re working harder on it than any other track you’ve touched lately. If that’s not a confession in itself, I don’t know what is.”
“She deserves something good. Something that works,” Jihoon mumbled, his fingers fidgeting with a pen.
“Yeah, because she’s talented. But for you? It’s more than that.”
Jihoon finally turned to Seungcheol, his expression unreadable. “What if it’s pointless? What if she doesn’t see me that way?”
Seungcheol leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You won’t know unless you try. And you know Y/n. She’s not the type to run away from something honest.”
Jihoon’s gaze dropped to the floor, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting his lips. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Well, maybe not by glaring at me every time I joke with her,” Seungcheol teased, lightening the mood.
Jihoon rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth in his expression now. “Maybe I’ll throw the guitar at you next time.”
“Sure, sure. But just so you know, if you keep pretending you don’t care, someone else might show up and make her fall for them.”
That thought alone seemed to light a fire in Jihoon’s chest, and Seungcheol caught it—the brief flash of determination in his eyes.
*
After that night, Jihoon began to change in ways that were almost too subtle to notice—unless you were paying attention. Jihoon was still Jihoon, calm and focused, but now there was a quiet sort of energy around him whenever you were near.
He started texting you more often—just small things, like asking if you got home safely after a late recording session or sending you a link to a song he thought you’d like. He listened intently when you spoke, his gaze never wavering, and his usual brief responses grew a little longer, more thoughtful.
In the studio, he would suggest a break whenever he noticed you seemed tired, even going as far as bringing you your favorite drink without asking. Once, he even swapped his hoodie with yours when you shivered slightly from the cold air conditioning.
You noticed it too. The way he would look up when you walked in, how his usually distant expression softened, or how he would stay in the studio a little longer when you were there, even if his part of the work was done.
One evening, as you tried to perfect the chorus of a song, your voice cracking slightly from overuse, Jihoon stood up and gently took your wrist. “Let’s take a break. Pushing won’t make it better.”
“I’m fine. I can—”
“You’re not a machine, Y/n,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “Come on.”
He led you out of the studio, the warmth of his hand lingering on your skin. Outside, the cool breeze swept across your face, and you sighed, leaning against the wall.
“Thanks,” you murmured, looking at him.
Jihoon nodded, but his eyes lingered on you, as if there was something more he wanted to say. But instead, he just stayed there, standing beside you in the quiet hallway, his presence alone enough to calm your nerves.
Seungcheol noticed too—how Jihoon’s attention seemed to orbit around you. He watched with a grin whenever Jihoon would get subtly annoyed if someone else got too close, how his friend seemed to naturally gravitate toward you.
“Man, I never thought I’d see Woozi being soft like this,” Seungcheol teased one day when you left to get water.
“Shut up,” Jihoon muttered, pretending to focus on his laptop.
“You’re not even hiding it anymore.”
“I’m just making sure she’s okay.”
“Yeah, and I’m the president,” Seungcheol laughed. “Just admit it, you care about her.”
Jihoon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flickering to where you stood by the water dispenser. “I do.”
“You should tell her.”
“Easier said than done,” Jihoon mumbled, but the way his eyes followed you spoke louder than any confession he could make.
The quiet hum of the studio equipment filled the room, a gentle backdrop to the creative chaos surrounding you. Papers scattered on the table, some scribbled with half-finished lyrics, others with scratched-out chords. You sat on the couch, your guitar resting against your thigh, and Jihoon was beside you, his laptop open, the familiar glow illuminating his focused expression.
You strummed a gentle melody, your fingers moving almost automatically, but your mind was elsewhere—specifically, on the way Jihoon’s gaze kept flickering toward you. He wasn’t obvious, but you’d known him long enough to recognize when something was on his mind.
“Let’s try it again from the second verse,” he said, his voice steady as always. But the way he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against yours, felt different.
You cleared your throat, trying to shake off the slight flutter in your chest. “Okay, but I still think the transition feels awkward. It’s too sudden.”
Jihoon hummed, leaning back, but even then, his arm remained against yours, his warmth grounding you. “Then let’s smooth it out. Maybe extend the line or add a softer bridge.” His fingers tapped on the keyboard, adjusting the track.
You glanced at him, trying to focus on the work, but the closeness was impossible to ignore. “You’re getting really good at reading my mind, you know that?”
Jihoon smiled, a gentle, almost shy smile that you rarely saw. “Maybe I’ve just been paying attention.”
Silence fell again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You played the melody, humming along, your voice blending with the soft notes. Jihoon’s gaze didn’t leave you, his eyes tracing the way you lost yourself in the music.
“Your voice… it always suits this kind of song,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You stopped, cheeks warming slightly. “You think so?”
“I know so.” His tone was soft, but there was a quiet certainty to it. “You bring the lyrics to life. That’s why I knew this song was meant for you.”
Something in your chest tightened at his words, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around you. “Jihoon, I—”
The door swung open, and Seungcheol peeked in. “Still at it? I knew you two would be here until dawn.”
You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of the closeness. Jihoon leaned back slightly, his expression returning to its calm, composed look. “Almost done. Just refining.”
“Of course.” Seungcheol grinned, stepping in. “But don't overwork her, Woozi. She still needs that voice tomorrow.”
Jihoon rolled his eyes. “I know. I’m not a slave driver.”
But as you tried to refocus, you couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of his words—or the way his gaze had softened when he looked at you.
The door swung open again, and Soonyoung waltzed in, carrying two plastic bags that crinkled noisily. “Midnight snacks! I bring salvation in the form of tteokbokki and kimbap!”
“Finally,” Seungcheol cheered, abandoning his spot by the soundboard to raid the bags. Jihoon, ever the disciplined one, simply raised an eyebrow, though the faint smile on his lips betrayed his amusement.
“You two are gonna spoil her,” Jihoon muttered, but he didn’t stop you when you reached for a kimbap roll.
“Oh, please. She’s working too hard. A little late-night energy won’t hurt.” Soonyoung plopped down on the couch beside you, practically beaming. “So, what are we working on?”
Jihoon tapped on his laptop. “Just fine-tuning the second verse. Y/n thinks the transition’s too abrupt, and I agree. We’re trying to find a smoother flow.”
Soonyoung leaned forward, chewing on a piece of tteokbokki. “Why don’t you add a two-bar instrumental bridge? Something subtle, like a rising piano line to ease the mood?”
Jihoon’s eyes lit up. “That could actually work. Give me a second.” He started tinkering with the software, and the room filled with the delicate rise of soft keys, fitting perfectly between the verses.
“I’m a genius,” Soonyoung declared, looking smug. “I should get producer credits.”
“You wish.” Jihoon snorted, but he saved the updated version, clearly pleased.
As you sipped on a can of soda, feeling the comfort of the warm, slightly chaotic atmosphere, Soonyoung’s voice suddenly cut through, clear and casual—too casual.
“Didn’t you like him in the past?”
Silence. An absolute, crushing silence.
The room seemed to freeze. The soft hum of the equipment suddenly felt louder. You stared at Soonyoung, your breath caught, the half-chewed kimbap in your mouth suddenly dry.
Jihoon’s fingers, which had been moving so fluidly over the keyboard, halted mid-gesture. His gaze snapped to you, a mix of shock and confusion. Seungcheol looked up, a piece of tteokbokki half-raised to his lips, his jaw slack.
“I—What?” you managed to say, your voice smaller than you intended.
“You forgot?” Soonyoung looked genuinely surprised, blinking at the stunned faces around him. “I remember you told me about that on our way to the dorm. You thought Jihoon was cute—especially when he got all serious with his lyrics.”
“I—That was…” Your voice faltered, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I was young. We were all kids.”
“Soonyoung-ah,” Jihoon’s voice was a warning, but the redness creeping up his ears betrayed him. He still hadn’t looked away from you.
Soonyoung seemed to sense the tension he’d stirred up, but instead of backtracking, he leaned back with an amused smile. “Hey, I’m just stating facts. And now look at you two, making music together all over again. Feels like fate.”
You tried to focus on your food, each bite feeling heavier than before. Jihoon’s gaze flickered away, his attention returning to the screen, but his fingers hovered, unsure.
The warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. Jihoon’s eyes met yours once more—fleeting, almost shy—but in that glance, there was a question, a hesitant spark. And your heart raced just a little faster.
*
The chaos erupted like a wildfire.
You had just stepped off the stage after another successful performance, the bright lights still lingering in your vision when your manager rushed toward you, her expression pale. “Y/n… you need to see this.”
She handed you her phone, and there it was—a news article that had already gone viral. The headline screamed: "Rising Star Y/n Accused by Family of Theft and Runaway: The Truth Behind Her Past."
Your heart dropped. Your uncle’s name was right there, and his words were cruel and twisted.
“She stole from our family, took a large sum of money, and disappeared to Seoul. We tried to help her, but she betrayed us,” the article quoted him. He painted a picture of you as an ungrateful, deceitful child who had thrown away family for fame.
Panic twisted your stomach. Your manager’s phone kept vibrating, notifications pouring in—fans commenting, people demanding an explanation, other news outlets picking up the story.
“How… How could he…?” your voice was barely a whisper, your hands cold
“Y/n, we need to make a statement,” your manager urged. “We have to clear this up.”
Clear it up? What even was there to clear up? It was a complete lie. You knew the truth, Jihoon knew, but would anyone believe you over the man parading as your family?
Your mind spun with memories—the suffocating isolation back then, your uncle holding back your inheritance, his family treating you like a burden. You had nothing when you left, nothing but the tiny bit of courage you had left to chase a life they tried to take from you.
The staff members whispered, your phone buzzed incessantly. Social media was already flooding with comments—some defending you, others calling you a fraud.
*
Jihoon’s phone buzzed endlessly. Notifications flooded in, messages from the members, the manager, and even his mother, asking if he knew about the chaos involving you. His jaw tightened, a sense of dread clawing at his chest. He had just seen you hours ago, your smile bright after another successful performance. How had everything fallen apart so quickly?
He dialed your number, pressing his phone to his ear, but the call went unanswered. Once, twice, three times. Panic gripped him tighter with each failed attempt. He paced his studio, his fingers tapping against his thigh, a nervous habit he couldn’t shake.
The headlines were ruthless, and the comments even worse. People who didn’t know anything about you were already labeling you a liar, a thief. Jihoon knew better. He knew how you had struggled, how you had clawed your way out of the darkness they had thrown you into.
Finally, he grabbed his keys and stormed out. He wasn’t going to just sit there. He needed to find you.
As he sped through the city, he tried calling you again. This time, he called Seungcheol.
“Hyung, where is she? Did you get to her?” he blurted the moment Seungcheol picked up.
“Jihoon?” Seungcheol's voice was muffled, the sound of a car engine in the background. “Yeah, I have her. We’re heading somewhere safe. Soonyoung’s coordinating with the legal team, but things are blowing up fast.”
“Is she… Is she okay?” Jihoon’s voice softened, betraying his fear.
“She’s in shock, I think. Trying to stay calm, but you know Y/n. She’s… trying to hold it together,” Seungcheol explained, his voice quieter. “But Jihoon, she’s hurt. Her own family did this to her.”
Jihoon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles pale. “Where are you taking her?”
“To my place for now. It’s better if the press doesn’t know,” Seungcheol replied.
“Stay there. I’m coming.” Jihoon didn’t even wait for Seungcheol’s reply before ending the call, his foot pressing harder on the accelerator.
His mind raced, thinking of what to say to you, how to comfort you. But all he knew for sure was that he needed to be there. You weren’t going to face this alone. Not again.
*
When Jihoon stepped into Seungcheol’s apartment, the air was thick with tension. The lights were dim, and Soonyoung stood in the kitchen, whispering urgently into his phone. Seungcheol was by the window, his gaze shifting between the streets below and the silent figure curled on the couch.
And then he saw you.
You were sitting there, knees drawn to your chest, your face buried against them. Your shoulders trembled slightly, and even from across the room, Jihoon could see your fingers gripping the fabric of your pants so tightly your knuckles were pale.
“Y/n…” Jihoon’s voice was barely a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the room.
You didn’t look up immediately, but when you did, your eyes were glassy, lost. A faint, broken smile appeared on your lips, but it crumbled just as quickly. “Jihoon… I…”
Before you could finish, Jihoon crossed the room, kneeling beside the couch. He didn’t hesitate, reaching out to gently hold your hands, prying your fingers free from their tight grip. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
You shook your head, a choked laugh escaping you. “It’s not okay. They’re saying… they’re saying I stole from them. That I ran away with their money. That I… Jihoon, I didn't do that. I swear—”
“I know.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I know you didn’t. We all know.”
Your breathing was unsteady, each gasp catching in your throat. “But the whole world thinks… They’re calling me a thief, a liar. My own family did this… Why? Why would they—” Your voice broke, and tears slipped down your cheeks.
Jihoon’s heart twisted painfully. He had never seen you like this—so exposed, so lost. The woman who stood on stage, who wrote lyrics with such passion, who fought to rebuild her life, now reduced to this fragile state.
“They’re scared, or greedy, or just cruel. But none of that is your fault,” Jihoon whispered, his thumb brushing away your tears. “We’re going to fix this. I promise you.”
You stared at him, searching for something—reassurance, hope, anything to hold on to. “Jihoon… I don’t know what to do.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours, letting you feel his warmth, his steady presence. “You don’t have to know. You just have to let us help you. Let me help you.”
A quiet sob broke from you, and you leaned into him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders. Jihoon’s arms enveloped you, holding you close, his chin resting on your shoulder as he whispered, “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”
Across the room, Seungcheol looked away, giving you both a moment. Soonyoung stepped out to the balcony, continuing his call but throwing a quick thumbs-up toward Jihoon. The world outside might be cruel, but here, you had them—people who knew you, who cared, who would fight for you.
*
Within hours, statements from both your label and Pledis were released, carefully crafted yet resolute in their tone. Your label firmly denied your uncle's accusations, clarifying that his claims were false and rooted in a personal dispute. They acknowledged the difficult situation you faced in the past, explaining that you were a young trainee who had to abandon her dreams due to unforeseen family circumstances.
Pledis, under the direct supervision of Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Soonyoung, released their own statement. They confirmed your history as a promising trainee who was forced to withdraw from debut due to family complications. They expressed regret that you had to leave under such circumstances but emphasized their support for you now.
The company stood by your truth, and it wasn't just words on paper. Seungcheol was the one who demanded the statement be released immediately, his voice firm and unwavering in the meeting room. Jihoon insisted on the wording, making sure every detail reflected the reality of your situation without exploiting your trauma. Soonyoung, surprisingly serious, went as far as personally reaching out to industry connections, making sure the narrative didn’t spiral out of control.
With their combined efforts, the public's perception shifted. Sympathy replaced doubt, and the comments under your social media flooded with support.
Alongside the official statements, photos of you with Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Soonyoung began to circulate on social media. Some were candid shots—Seungcheol playfully ruffling your hair, Jihoon walking beside you with a faint smile, and Soonyoung making exaggerated faces to make you laugh. Others were from studio sessions, showing you deep in conversation with Jihoon or Seungcheol leaning over to check your lyrics.
Fans started piecing together the connection. Jihoon, the genius producer behind almost all your songs, wasn’t just a collaborator—he was a steadfast presence in your life. Seungcheol and Soonyoung, who were known for their loyalty and protectiveness over their members, clearly extended that same care to you.
Online discussions swelled with sympathy. “If Seungcheol and Jihoon trust her, then I trust her too.” “You can see in their eyes they genuinely care about her.” “Jihoon produces all her songs—there’s no way she’s the person her uncle described.”
A week after the tide of public opinion began to shift in your favor, Jihoon arrived at your doorstep unannounced. The moment you opened the door, he stepped inside with quiet confidence, his eyes searching the small space until they found you standing there—alone, vulnerable, yet somehow still holding on.
He said nothing, letting the silence fill the room before slowly opening his arms wide. Without hesitation, he pulled you into a deep, unwavering embrace. Your body shook as the walls you’d built crumbled, and the sobs you had kept buried for so long spilled out uncontrollably. You melted into his chest, feeling like fragile glass finally cradled safely after a storm.
Jihoon’s arms tightened gently around you, his steady heartbeat resonating against your ear like a calming rhythm. In that quiet moment, his presence spoke louder than words ever could—he was here, unwavering and steadfast, ready to be the anchor you needed. No matter what had happened, no matter how far you had fallen, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Jihoon’s hands slowly stroked your hair, his touch gentle and soothing as if trying to erase every trace of pain you’d carried alone for so long. He whispered soft reassurances, low and steady, barely more than a breath.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he murmured. “I’m here. We’ll get through this—together.”
His voice held no pressure, only quiet strength that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. As your sobs softened, you clung to him tighter, letting yourself finally rest, finally breathe. For the first time in a long while, you felt seen—not as someone broken or forgotten, but as someone worthy of care and love.
Jihoon held you like that until the world outside faded away, and all that mattered was the steady beat of two hearts healing side by side.
After a while, Jihoon gently pulled back just enough to look at you. The two of you settled on the worn-out couch, close but not crowded, the quiet hum of the city outside your window filling the space between you.
He studied your face with soft concern. “How are you feeling? Really.”
You hesitated, then let out a shaky breath. “Honestly? Still fragile. But... better, now that you’re here.”
Jihoon nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “It’s okay to take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
His words wrapped around you like a shield, giving you the courage to admit the weight you’d been carrying, the fear that had made you shut down for so long. In that moment, sitting side by side, you realized maybe—just maybe—you could start to heal.
You looked down at your hands, twisting the edge of your sleeve nervously. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely steady. “For everything that happened—how I disappeared, how I pushed people away... especially you.”
Jihoon’s hand found yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, none of that was your fault. You didn’t ask for any of this.”
“But I still feel like I should’ve done better. Stayed strong—for myself, for everyone who believed in me.”
He shook his head gently, eyes soft but firm. “You’ve been through so much. It’s okay to be human, to stumble. What matters is you’re here now, and we’re going to face this together.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat, grateful for his steady presence. “Thank you... for not giving up on me.”
Jihoon smiled, a quiet promise in his gaze. “Never.”
Jihoon’s grip on your hand tightened just a little, his eyes searching yours with a seriousness that made your heart skip. He took a slow breath before speaking, his voice softer than before.
“Y/n, I’ve been holding this in for a while… but I can’t anymore. I like you. More than just a friend, more than just someone I want to help. I’ve liked you since before you even knew I existed.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden confession, your heart racing.
“I didn’t say anything because I wanted to be there for you, not add any pressure. But seeing you now, vulnerable and still so strong—it’s made me realize I don’t want to hide it anymore.”
He gave you a small, hopeful smile. “I want to be by your side. Not just as your producer or friend... but something more, if you’ll let me.”
Your breath hitched, and a heavy wave of doubt washed over you. You looked down, voice barely a whisper.
“I... I don’t know if I deserve this—deserve you. After everything I’ve been through, all the mistakes, all the pain... How could someone like you want someone like me?”
Your heart ached with a mix of gratitude and fear, the weight of your past pressing hard against the hope Jihoon’s words had sparked.
Jihoon reached out, gently lifting your chin so your eyes met his. His gaze was steady, full of warmth and certainty.
“Y/n, you don’t have to be perfect for me to want you. I see you—everything you are, everything you’ve been through—and it only makes me want to be by your side more.”
He smiled softly, his voice low and sincere.
“You deserve kindness, love, and a fresh start. And I want to be part of that with you.”
You searched his eyes, vulnerability and doubt still lingering in yours. “Jihoon… are you sure you won’t regret this? Being with someone like me—after everything?” Your voice cracked, heavy with the weight of all the pain and uncertainty you carried.
He held your gaze steadily, no hesitation in his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head, a gentle but unwavering smile playing at his lips. “Never. I’ve waited so long to tell you this. You don’t have to be anyone else for me—I like you exactly as you are.”
Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached out and cupped your cheek tenderly. The world around you seemed to quiet as he leaned in, closing the distance between you. His lips met yours softly at first—warm, comforting—like a silent promise that he was here to stay, no matter what.
You melted into the kiss, feeling a fragile hope bloom inside you for the first time in so long. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And in that moment, that was enough.
His lips brushed against yours with a softness that took your breath away, gentle like the first drop of rain after a long drought. The kiss deepened slowly, tender but full of meaning, as if every unspoken word between you was being conveyed through this quiet connection.
Jihoon’s hand moved from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, steadying you, grounding you, letting you know he was there—completely present. You felt the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, the faintest tremor of emotion in his touch.
It wasn’t hurried or desperate; it was patient and sincere, like a promise that no matter how broken or uncertain your past had been, he wanted to be part of your future. Your heart hammered wildly as the kiss lingered, a delicate thread weaving your two souls closer in that perfect, fragile moment.
After pulling back just slightly, Jihoon rested his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours with a quiet intensity. His voice was soft but certain, carrying all the emotions he had kept hidden for so long.
“I love you,” he said simply, as if those three words held the weight of everything between you. “I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you, even when I didn’t say it. And I want to keep loving you—if you’ll let me.”
He gave you a small, hopeful smile, his hand still gently holding your face.
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
The end.
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