I’m So, So Glad You Enjoyed It! Feel Free To Request Again! 🫶

I’m so, so glad you enjoyed it! Feel free to request again! 🫶

──── * ˚ ✦ THE LAST STRAW ( stray kids )

❛ After a final argument with your toxic, manipulative mother over your irresponsible younger brother, you decide to cut ties with your family, only to be overwhelmed by doubt and panic until your supportive boyfriend, Felix, reassures you that choosing yourself was the right decision.

𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐱 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 )

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 14 mins

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ Here's a wonderful request made by @lixies-favorite-cookie! I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Non-Idol AU, emotional abuse, family conflict, mommy issues, mental health struggles, parental neglect, parental favoritism, depression and self-worth issues, let me know if I missed anything!

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )

The kitchen feels like a war zone, the air thick with unsaid accusations and the sharp remnants of long-festered wounds. Your mother stands at the sink, her back rigid and unforgiving, hands submerged in soapy water as she scrubs a dish with a ferocity that speaks louder than words. Each stroke of her hand seems to scrape away at the silence, but instead of clarity, it only stirs the storm between you. You can almost see the tension rippling off her like waves of heat from a furnace, feeding the blaze that has been building in your chest, threatening to consume you.

“So, that’s it?” you ask, your voice taut, straining against the anger simmering just below the surface. “You’re really going to ignore everything I’ve said and expect me to drop everything—again—to drive him around?” There’s a tremor in your tone, a plea for acknowledgment masked by the bitterness of your words. But she doesn’t turn to face you. Instead, she sighs, a heavy, exaggerated breath that fills the room with disdain, as if you are the one being irrational, ungrateful.

“He doesn’t have anyone else,” she replies, her voice dripping with exasperation, as if you should already know this. “And it’s not like it’s a big deal—you’re already out and about. What’s a little detour to help your brother?”

Her words hit you like a slap across the face, stinging and familiar. “A little detour?” you echo, a disbelieving laugh slipping out, sharp and brittle. “Mom, I have a job. I have classes. I’m barely keeping up as it is. But sure, let’s add ‘chauffeur for the man-child’ to my list of responsibilities.”

At this, she finally turns, her face set in that hardened expression you know so well—eyes narrowed, lips pulled into a thin, unforgiving line. “Don’t talk about him like that,” she snaps, her voice a low warning. “He’s your brother. He’s just going through a rough time.”

A bitter, exhausted laugh escapes your lips, and you can feel the years of buried frustration rising up, threatening to overflow. "A rough time?" you repeat, your voice growing louder, each word carrying the weight of all the grievances you’ve kept bottled up for so long. “He’s been ‘going through a rough time’ for the last five years! And every single time he screws up, you’re right there, wiping his slate clean, making excuses for him. He never has to face the consequences of anything, and somehow, I’m always the one left to pick up the pieces!”

Your voice cracks, and the room seems to tremble with the force of your words. All the times you’ve been overlooked, all the sacrifices you’ve made without a second thought, all the nights spent wondering why you were never enough—everything comes crashing down in this moment. You stand there, breathless, waiting for something, anything, that resembles an acknowledgment of what you’ve endured.

But she doesn’t see it. She doesn’t hear it. She doesn’t even flinch. And that, more than anything, is what breaks you.

"That's not true," your mother snaps, her voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip, cold and biting. "You don’t know what he’s going through. You’ve always been so hard on him, never understanding." Her words hang in the air, thick with accusation, and you feel a familiar frustration beginning to coil tightly in your chest.

You scoff, the sound escaping before you can stop it, disbelief etched across your face. "Understanding?" you fire back, voice laced with incredulity. "You mean like how you’re 'understanding' when he crashes his car because he was out partying, and you expect me to drop everything, put my entire life and future on hold, to make up for it? Or how you’re 'understanding' when he blows all his money on God knows what, and I’m the one who has to lend him my hard-earned cash so he can pay his rent? You’ve always been ‘understanding’ of him, but when have you ever been ‘understanding’ of me?"

For a moment, the room falls silent, heavy with the weight of everything that has been left unsaid for far too long. Your mother’s eyes flash dangerously, a mix of anger and frustration, a glare that once would have made you swallow your words, scramble to backtrack and apologize. But not today. Today, the exhaustion has settled too deeply in your bones, mingling with the anger that has simmered for years, bubbling to the surface.

"You think I don’t care about you?" she spits out, her voice rising, each word sharp and defensive. "I’ve done everything for you! You grew up with food on the table and a roof over your head. You have a job now, you’re in college, you have everything going for you. Do you think that just happened by itself?"

Her audacity stings, her self-righteousness fanning the flames inside you. Every vein feels like it’s on fire, adrenaline surging through your body. “No,” you say, voice trembling but strong, each word pushed out with a force that surprises even you. “Don’t you dare take credit for what little good I have in my life. Don’t you dare. Everything I have going for me is because I worked for it. I was the one who graduated as valedictorian in high school—not you, not him. I worked my ass off to get into college, scrapping for every scholarship I could find so I wouldn’t have to drown in debt later. I found my own place to live, found a job so I could pay my own bills, held myself together when everything around me was falling apart.”

Your words pour out like a flood, each one more bitter than the last. You can see her eyes narrowing, her lips tightening, but it only pushes you to keep going. “But you? Sure, you fed me, you put a roof over my head—like the law says you should. But you only ever noticed me when I was useful to him, when I made things easier for your golden child."

The silence that follows is deafening, filled with the echoes of things that have finally been said, the raw truth laid bare between you. The tension in the room is electric, the weight of years of imbalance, neglect, and misplaced loyalty pressing down on your shoulders. But for the first time, you feel something shift inside you—a spark of liberation, a sense that perhaps, just perhaps, you’ve finally stepped out of the shadow that has loomed over you for so long.

"You're being so selfish," she spits, her voice trembling with a barely controlled fury that makes the walls tremble. The dishes slip from her hands, clattering into the sink with a loud clank as she whirls around to face you. Her eyes are wild, nearly bulging out of her head, her face flushed with indignation. "You have no idea what it's like to be a parent, to have to make these kinds of decisions." The venom in her words seeps into the air, choking you with its bitterness.

But you don’t flinch. Your fists curl even tighter at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you stand your ground, locking eyes with her. "I'm selfish?" A bitter laugh escapes you, sharp and brittle, and you can feel the hot sting of unshed tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "Do you even hear yourself? You've spent years bending over backwards to coddle him, to fix every single one of his messes. And every time, it's me who gets caught in the crossfire. It's always me who’s expected to be the 'responsible one.' And what do I get for it? Nothing. Not a thank you, not a 'good job,' not even a fraction of the support and understanding you so eagerly throw at him."

Your mother’s hand slams down on the counter with a thunderous bang, making you jump. Her face is a twisted mask of rage and frustration. "You've always had a chip on your shoulder about him," she sneers, her tone dripping with condescension, as if speaking to a petulant child. "Maybe if you weren't so jealous—"

"Don't even start." You cut her off, your voice cracking under the weight of everything you’ve kept bottled up for so long. "I'm not jealous, Mom. I'm tired. I'm tired of being the one who has to sacrifice everything while he coasts through life, knowing you’ll always be there to bail him out. I'm tired of you making me feel like I’m never enough, like I’m only here to clean up his messes and make things easier for him."

The air thickens, a suffocating silence falling between you. Your mother’s face hardens, her eyes narrowing into icy slits. "If you don't like it, then maybe you should just leave," she says, her words cutting through the tension like a knife. "You're an adult now, aren’t you? You can make your own choices."

Her words hang in the air, daring you to speak, to react. For a moment, you’re stunned, the breath catching in your throat. Then, softly, like a truth you've kept buried, you say, "Maybe I should." The words taste like freedom on your tongue, a release from years of guilt and fear. "Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep letting you use me to prop him up while you tear me down. I deserve better than this."

For a fleeting moment, something flickers in her eyes—something almost vulnerable, almost human. But it vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by the same cold indifference that has always been there. "Fine. Do what you want," she says dismissively, her tone devoid of emotion. "But don’t come crying to me when you realize you can’t handle the world I’ve protected you from."

A humorless laugh bubbles up in your throat, but you swallow it down, taking a deep breath instead. You feel the weight of years of resentment, of pain and unspoken truths, settling into place. "I won't," you reply, voice steady as a stone. "Because I've been handling the world all my life. You never protected me from it—you only ever protected your golden child. And I’m done."

You turn away, leaving her standing there, leaving behind the suffocating grip of a mother who never truly saw you. You walk out of the kitchen, out of the house that never felt like a home, and with each step, the air feels a little lighter, the world outside a little more open. For the first time, you feel the distant, hopeful glimmer of something new—something that belongs to you, and you alone.

You sit in the driver’s seat, fingers clenched around the steering wheel with a grip so tight that your knuckles have turned ghostly white. Each breath you take is shallow and ragged, barely filling your lungs. Your heart hammers in your chest, erratic and wild, a drumbeat of panic. The weight of the argument you just had with your mother crashes over you like an unrelenting wave, cold and suffocating. It presses down on you with a force that makes you feel as if you’re drowning, gasping for air but finding none.

Your eyes remain fixed on the house in front of you—your childhood home, a place that should have held comfort and warmth but instead feels like a prison. Each window, each door, every familiar detail seems to glare back at you like a hundred judgmental eyes, watching, waiting. This is where you learned the rules of a game you never asked to play. A place where love was conditional, tethered to sacrifice and silence. And now, it’s a place you’ve walked away from—perhaps for good.

Your vision blurs with unshed tears, and you let out a shaky breath that comes out more like a sob than you intended. You blink rapidly, trying to clear the sting from your eyes, but it’s useless. You can’t stay here, not in front of this house where the walls seem to whisper accusations, where every step closer feels like sinking deeper into quicksand. You can’t risk your mother storming out with that familiar fire in her eyes, her voice like a vice, twisting your emotions to suit her will.

With trembling hands, you fumble for your phone, fingers unsteady as they swipe through your contacts. You need an anchor, something to steady you before you’re pulled under by the crushing weight of it all. You find his name—Felix. Your thumb hovers for a moment, then presses the call button. You raise the phone to your ear, the screen blurring with tears as you pull out of the driveway. You don’t have a destination in mind; you just need to be moving, to put distance between you and that house.

The line rings once, twice, and with each unanswered ring, the panic coils tighter in your chest, rising into your throat like bile. What if he doesn’t pick up? What if he’s busy? What if you’re left alone with the noise in your head? But then—

"Hey, sunshine," his voice breaks through, warm and steady, like the first rays of dawn piercing through the darkest night. His tone is so familiar, so safe. "You okay? I'm just—"

You don’t let him finish. Your voice cracks as you speak, holding back the sob that threatens to spill over. "Felix...I—I did it. I told her...I told her that I'm done. I can't...I can't believe that I actually did it." The words rush out of you in a breathless stream, a confession that feels both terrifying and freeing.

There’s a pause on the other end, a silence that feels heavy with the weight of his understanding. You can almost hear him processing your words, feel the concern threading through the line. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, careful. "You talked to her?" he asks, his tone gentle yet laced with worry. "What happened?"

His question hangs in the air, pulling at your heartstrings, inviting you to pour out the torrent of emotions swirling inside you. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like you can breathe, even if just a little, knowing that someone is there to catch you as you fall.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, a futile attempt to push back the tears that threaten to spill over. Your heart is pounding in your chest, a heavy, uneven rhythm that matches the chaos in your mind. When you open your eyes again, you force yourself to focus on the road, blinking rapidly to clear the blurriness from your vision. You suck in a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, to find some semblance of calm amidst the storm raging inside you.

"It was about my man-child of a brother again," you start, your voice wavering as you speak. Each word feels like a shard of glass, cutting through the tightness in your throat. "She wanted me to...to fucking drop everything and take care of his mess again. He crashed the damn car, and she’s not even mad at him. She was actually more pissed at me for not wanting to drive him everywhere." The bitterness in your tone is unmistakable, tinged with a raw edge of frustration that’s been simmering for far too long. "And I just...I couldn’t take it anymore, Lix. I told her I’m done. I told her I wasn’t coming back."

Your breath hitches, and a sob finally breaks free, raw and unrestrained, as you come to a stop at a red light. The tears you've been holding back spill over, warm and unwelcome, streaking down your cheeks. "But what if I made a mistake? What if I’m wrong?" you choke out, the words heavy with doubt and fear. "I mean, they are my family at the end of the day, and I’m nothing without them. What if I...what if I shouldn’t have done this?"

On the other end of the line, you hear a soft rustling, a familiar sound that brings a small measure of comfort. You know he’s moving, pacing like he always does when he’s worried. Felix’s voice comes through, steady and gentle, like a lifeline. "Hey, hey, take a breath for me, hmm?" he murmurs, his tone soothing. "Just breathe. In and out, yeah? I’m right here."

You try to follow his instructions as you ease off the brake, the traffic lights changing to green. You take a deep breath in, filling your lungs, and then let it out, but the exhale is shaky, faltering, as if your body is resisting the calm he’s trying to instill. The tears keep flowing, unchecked, but his voice remains a steady anchor amidst the turbulent sea of your emotions.

"You did the right thing, love," he continues, his voice firm with conviction—a conviction you desperately need to hear right now. "You’ve been dealing with their bullshit for so long. Too long. You deserve to let it go. You deserve to be free of it all."

Without much thought, you turn the car to the right, feeling the pull of his reassurance guiding you, even if you’re not quite sure where you’re going. "But what if...what if Mom’s right?" you whisper, your voice trembling with uncertainty. "What if I am being selfish? I just...I grew up with this rule in my head that family always helps family, so what if I’m being a shitty person by refusing?"

For a moment, there’s a pause, a breath of silence that hangs in the air, heavy with all the questions and fears you can’t quite voice. Felix’s next words are gentle, but they cut through that fog with a clarity that brings you back from the edge. "You’re not selfish," he says quietly but firmly. "Sometimes, family isn't about blood; it’s about who stands by you, who sees you. And you’ve been standing on your own for a long time. It’s okay to want more than just survival."

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting, blurring your vision as they cascade over your skin. You press the heel of your hand against your eyes, trying to stem the flow, but it’s like trying to dam a river with a single stone—futile. The weight of everything, the argument, the years of silent endurance, crashes over you in waves, threatening to pull you under. With a shaky breath, you pull onto the side of the road, the tires crunching over gravel, and the car comes to a halt.

"I’m scared, Lix," you confess, your voice breaking, small and fragile as it escapes you. "I’m scared that I’ll regret this." The words hang in the air, and for a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath with you. Your heart is a clenched fist in your chest, squeezing tighter with each passing second.

Then, his voice breaks through the silence—a warm, comforting presence that feels like a soft embrace, wrapping around you when you need it most. "You won’t," he says, his tone gentle yet firm, a soothing balm for your frayed nerves. "You know why, huh? Because you’re finally choosing yourself. And that’s not something to regret, not ever. Love, I’m not trying to say it’ll be easy from now on, but you deserve to be happy. You deserve to be loved for who you are, not for what you can do for someone else."

A shaky breath escapes your lips, and the tightness in your chest starts to loosen, if only a little. His words are like a lifeline, grounding you, pulling you back from the edge of your doubts. Deep down, beneath the fear and the uncertainty, you know he’s right. You’ve carried this weight for so long that it feels strange to think of setting it down. But his words are a steady anchor, keeping you from drifting away.

"Can I come over?" you ask, your voice almost a whisper, raw and vulnerable. "I don’t... I don’t want to be alone right now." The admission feels like exposing a wound, but with Felix, it’s okay. It’s always been okay.

There isn’t a moment of hesitation before he responds, his voice filled with that unwavering reassurance you’ve come to rely on. "Of course. I’m not home right now, but I was already on my way from class, so I’ll meet you there, okay? Just stay on the phone with me until I get there. We’ll figure everything out together."

You nod, even though he can’t see you, feeling a small, tired smile tug at the corners of your lips. There’s still a lingering ache in your heart, but it’s softer now, more manageable. "Thank you, babe," you whisper, the words heavy with gratitude and love.

"Always," he murmurs back, his voice a soft promise that settles deep within you. "Just keep breathing, sunshine. I’ve got you. I always will."

With his voice still in your ear, you restart the car, feeling his presence as a guiding light through the darkness that’s clouded your path for so long. The road stretches out before you, uncertain and unfamiliar, but with Felix by your side—even if only through the phone—it doesn’t seem quite so daunting.

For the first time in what feels like years, there’s a flicker of something warm blooming in your chest. Hope. Fragile, tentative, but undeniably there. And for now, that’s enough.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx @sunnyrisee @jisunglyricist @nxtt2-u @nebugalaxy @bokk-minnie @tajannah-price1 (Click on the link to join! All you have to do is answer a few questions to help me stay organized!)

🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS!

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lee felix lee yongbok felix stray kids stray kids felix felix x reader lee yongbok stray kids stray kids lee yongbok yongbok x reader

More Posts from Minhosbitterriver and Others

minhosbitterriver

1 year ago

hi green !!

i hope im not mistaken, but i believe today’s your birthday...?? so happy birthday love, i wish you all the best and i hope you’ll spend your day surrounded by people who love you and care about you<3

eat well and take care, happy birthday again !!<3

you’re not mistaken, it is my birthday! thank you so much!🥹🥹🥹 you’re so sweet, i’ll for sure will be eating today…probably won’t be considered healthy eating but hey! it’s my birthday! i’ll have ice cream for breakfast if i want to!!

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birthday wishes you’re so cute 🥹 thankiuuuuuu

2 notes View Post

minhosbitterriver

8 months ago

💐 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 ( xdinary heroes )

❛ As you step into a new, more masculine identity, your nerves are eased by the unwavering support of your friends and boyfriend.

𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐤 𝐣𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 + trans boy reader ೯ ( 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 )

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.9k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 7 mins

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This is probably one of my favorite pieces I've written, it was so self-indulgent as a masc non-binary fan of XDH, so I absolutely adored this request (made by my wonderful 🩷 Anon! I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Established relationship, Y/N recently came out as a trans guy, mentions of wearing a binder for the first time, the rest of the members of Xdinary Heroes are dressed femininely to support you since it's the first time you go out in public dressed so masculine, mentions of anxiety, mentions of people staring.

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 )

꒰ 🫙 ꒱ ミ Tip Jar!

You anxiously pace around your apartment, your steps quick and uneven, a reflection of the turmoil inside you. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second echoing your mounting nerves. Every few moments, you dart back to the mirror, adjusting the binder Jiseok had surprised you with and smoothing out the more masculine clothing you’ve chosen for the first time. The reflection staring back at you is both unfamiliar and oddly liberating, but the anxiety still gnaws at you like a persistent shadow.

Jiseok, lounging on your couch, watches you with an expression that blends amusement and tenderness. His phone lies forgotten in his hand, abandoned in favor of observing your restless movements. His eyes, filled with warmth and affection, follow your every step, a silent but reassuring presence amidst your growing apprehension. Despite his frequent reassurances that you look undeniably handsome, the unease remains, a gnawing uncertainty that refuses to fade.

This moment is significant for you, a departure from the familiar into uncharted territory. The binder and the new style represent more than just a change in wardrobe; they symbolize a step toward embracing a more authentic version of yourself. Yet, even with Jiseok’s repeated affirmations, the anxiety of stepping into this new self is palpable, a heavy weight that clings to your chest.

You cast another glance at your reflection, searching for flaws, for something that might unravel the confidence you’re trying to muster. The mirror shows a version of yourself that feels both empowering and vulnerable, a delicate balance that is hard to navigate. Each adjustment of your clothing, each smoothing of your hair, is an attempt to find comfort in this new skin, but the anxiety persists, whispering doubts into the corners of your mind.

Jiseok’s eyes, however, remain fixed on you, his amusement softened by a deep, unwavering support. His presence is a quiet counterpoint to your inner turmoil, a constant reminder that you are not alone in this journey. Though the anxiety continues to gnaw at you, the steadfastness in Jiseok’s gaze and his gentle reassurances offer a flicker of hope and a promise of acceptance.

Suddenly, your lifelong best friend and boyfriend excuses himself into your bedroom. You barely have time to wonder why before a knock on your front door interrupts your pacing. Heart racing, you sprint to answer it, only to be rendered speechless by the sight before you. While you had expected to find your friends, you hadn’t anticipated their striking transformations.

Gunil stands confidently at the forefront, his cropped top revealing a sliver of toned midriff, and his eyes accentuated by grungy makeup that sharpens his features. His bold look radiates a daring defiance, setting the tone for the unexpected ensemble before you.

Jungsu catches your eye next, sporting a mid-thigh length plaid skirt that sways slightly with his movements. His shirt is neatly tucked in, giving him a polished yet rebellious air, and his hair is adorned with colorful clips that contrast playfully with his otherwise composed appearance. The sight of Jungsu, usually so serious, embracing this vivid and whimsical style stirs a mixture of surprise and admiration within you.

Seungmin’s outfit is equally captivating, his cropped top paired with a flowing black skirt that grazes just above his knees. The eyeliner framing his eyes adds a dramatic flair, highlighting his expressive gaze. The combination of soft and edgy elements in his look mirrors the complex layers of his personality, leaving you both intrigued and impressed.

Hyeongjun, in a long denim skirt you've seen him wear before, exudes a quiet confidence. His hair is styled into a half-up, half-down look, softening his features and adding a touch of elegance to his casual attire. The familiar yet refreshed appearance of Hyeongjun brings a comforting sense of continuity amidst the surprising changes.

Finally, Jooyeon stands out with his short plaid skirt paired with fishnets, his hair styled into playful space buns. The juxtaposition of the classic plaid and daring fishnets creates a bold statement, and the space buns add a whimsical charm to his look. Jooyeon's daring fashion choice radiates a fearless confidence that resonates with your own journey of self-expression.

As you take in the sight of your friends, each embracing their unique styles with unapologetic confidence, a wave of emotion washes over you. The anxiety that had gripped you moments ago begins to melt away, replaced by a profound sense of camaraderie and support. Their bold transformations echo your own struggle and triumph in embracing your true self, reminding you that you’re not alone in this journey.

Your heart swells with gratitude and admiration for your friends, who have shown up not just in presence, but in spirit, celebrating your courage with their own. The sight of them, so different yet so authentically themselves, fortifies your resolve and fills you with a renewed sense of confidence. With a deep breath, you step forward, ready to embrace the evening with the unwavering support of your lifelong friends by your side.

"You all look amazing," you manage to say, still trying to process the vibrant array of styles before you. As they step inside, your eyes remain wide in shock and admiration. Their response is immediate and heartwarming; they shower you with genuine compliments, each remark about how handsome you look in your new style making your cheeks flush a deep crimson. The sincerity in their voices and the pride in their eyes fills you with a warmth that eases your earlier anxiety.

Just as you begin to relax into the moment, you hear Jiseok clear his throat dramatically behind you. Turning around, you gasp at the sight that meets your eyes. Jiseok stands there, still wearing the striped sweater he had on before disappearing into the bathroom, but instead of jeans, he’s now donning one of your old, long black satin dresses underneath the sweater. The elegant fabric sways slightly as he moves, creating a surprising yet strangely harmonious blend of casual and formal.

The absurdity of his outfit doesn't stop there. Perched atop his head is a plastic tiara, catching the light and adding a whimsical touch to his ensemble. His lips shimmer with glittery lip gloss, completing the playful and unexpected transformation. The sight is both ridiculous and endearing, a perfect encapsulation of Jiseok's ability to make you smile even in the most unexpected ways.

A light chuckle escapes your lips as you take in the full extent of his getup. The laughter bubbles up, mingling with the lingering remnants of your earlier anxiety, and suddenly, the room feels lighter, filled with an unspoken understanding and acceptance. You step forward, closing the distance between you and Jiseok, and press your lips against his in a tender kiss. The glitter from his lip gloss transfers slightly, adding a touch of sparkle to the intimate moment.

As you pull back, your eyes meet Jiseok's, and the look you share speaks volumes. In this small, affectionate gesture, there is an acknowledgment of the journey you've both been on, the courage it took to embrace your true self, and the unyielding support you have from him. Surrounded by your friends, all uniquely expressing themselves in your honor, and with Jiseok by your side, you feel a profound sense of belonging and love that fortifies you for whatever comes next.

Once the flurry of compliments had settled, you all made your way out the door, heading to a nearby restaurant as planned. The group walks in unison, a vibrant parade of diverse styles and unapologetic self-expression. As you move through the streets, you notice the curious and occasionally puzzled glances from strangers. However, the once-daunting stares no longer feel as terrifying with your friends and boyfriend by your side, their bold attire a testament to their unwavering support.

Gunil’s grungy makeup and cropped top, Jungsu’s plaid skirt with colorful hair clips, Seungmin’s flowing skirt and eyeliner, Hyeongjun’s elegant denim skirt and styled hair, and Jooyeon’s plaid skirt with fishnets and space buns create a striking visual that draws attention. Despite the occasional odd look, there is an undeniable sense of solidarity that envelops you, making the world feel a little less intimidating.

The endearing sight of your friends and boyfriend dressed so uniquely to support you fills your heart with warmth. Every step you take is lighter, buoyed by the camaraderie and love that surrounds you. The anxiety that had once gripped you now feels distant, replaced by a profound sense of acceptance and belonging.

As you approach the restaurant, the looks from passersby seem less significant, their judgmental gazes overshadowed by the strength and unity of your group. Your heart swells with gratitude, knowing that these extraordinary individuals have not only embraced their own authenticity but have also empowered you to embrace yours.

The evening air feels crisp and invigorating as you walk together, and with each passing moment, the bond between you and your friends deepens. Their willingness to step out of their comfort zones and dress in a way that challenges societal norms just to support you is a testament to their love and friendship. The thought fills you with an overwhelming sense of pride and joy.

Jiseok’s hand remains firmly intertwined with yours throughout the entire walk, his touch a comforting anchor amidst the sea of emotions swirling within you. Every so often, he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear, and whispers how ridiculously handsome you look, how he can’t get over the transformation. His words are like honey, sweet and soothing, each one sinking into your heart and settling there.

He tells you how obsessed he is with you, his voice filled with a sincerity that makes your heart flutter. Each declaration of his pride in you, his honor to be your boyfriend, sends a fresh wave of warmth coursing through your veins. The intensity of his feelings is palpable, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon, and you can't help but blush profusely at each affectionate confession.

With every step, Jiseok’s grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly, a silent reassurance of his unwavering support. His presence, his whispered affirmations, create a bubble of intimacy amidst the bustling streets and curious onlookers. It’s as if the world fades away, leaving just the two of you wrapped in a moment of pure connection and love.

His words are a balm to your anxiety, each one meticulously chipping away at the insecurities that have long haunted you. The way he looks at you, with eyes brimming with adoration and pride, makes you feel seen in the most profound way. It’s not just about the clothes or the outward changes; it’s about the courage to embrace your true self, and Jiseok's endless support amplifies that courage tenfold.

Every time he leans in to murmur his adoration, your cheeks heat up, a blush spreading across your face. The sincerity in his voice, the warmth in his eyes, makes each compliment feel like the first, filling you with a sense of joy and affirmation that you hadn’t realized you needed so desperately.

As you walk together, hand in hand, Jiseok’s unwavering support and constant reassurances weave a tapestry of love and confidence around you. His pride in you is evident in every word, every touch, and every glance. With each affectionate whisper, the bond between you strengthens, reinforcing the belief that together, you can face anything the world throws your way.

By the time you reach your destination, the anxiety that had once threatened to overwhelm you has dissipated, replaced by a profound sense of love and belonging. Jiseok’s constant reminders of how handsome you are, how proud he is of you, and how honored he feels to be your boyfriend, have fortified your spirit. Blushing and beaming, you step into the restaurant with him by your side, ready to face whatever comes next, knowing that with Jiseok's love, you are unstoppable.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ My permanent taglist is open! (Click on the link to join! All you have to do is answer a few questions to help me stay organized!)

🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS! STAYBLR FUNDRAISER!

Tags

trans masc kpop kpop fanfic kpop requests xdinary heroes gaon kwak jiseok kpop bands xdh xdh x reader xdinary heroes fanfic xdinary heroes x reader xdh gaon gaon x reader xdh fluff xdinary heroes fluff xdinary heroes gaon kwak gaon jiseok x reader jiseok jiseok xdh gaon x trans guy reader trans guy reader kpop rock band kpop request kpop queer fic 🎸: xdinary heroes (one-shot) 🎸: kwak jiseok (one-shot)

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minhosbitterriver

9 months ago

The amount of love the teaser has received is insane! Thank you all so much! I’m so excited for this to be posted this Thursday, so stay tuned! The taglist for this post is still open by the way!

( 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑 ): Release Date: August 8th

💻 LOOK UP TO YOU ( enhypen )

❛ In which you’re the idol and they’re your fanboys.

𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐲𝐩𝐞𝐧 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) 12.8k

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This was anonymously requested! Reblogs for this teaser are always appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Y/N is an idol, the members of Enhypen are not idols but they are your adorably dorky fanboys.

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 )

Want to be alerted when I post this? Let me know in the comments so I can tag you!

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enhypen heeseung enhypen x reader niki x reader enhypen imagines nishimura riki enha x reader lee heeseung x reader enhypen fluff enhypen fic enhypen fanfiction jungwon x reader jay x reader sunoo x reader sunghoon x reader sim jaeyun enha enhypen fanfic park jongseong enhypen: ot7 sim jake x reader enha scenarios enha imagines kim seonwoo enhypen scenarios enhypen headcanons enha fluff enhypen au enha au

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minhosbitterriver

11 months ago

hello my lovely friends!

with the end of the school semester, i return to you guys. i hope everyone did well with their finals, although these grades do not define you intelligence or worth so please don’t be too hard on yourself if it didn’t go as well as desired.

unfortunately, i wasn’t able to write much throughout the months i’d been away since i was so busy or suffering from writer’s block. however, i do have three series i have plotted out and want to share with you guys as soon as i have the first chapter written. so i’ll explain each of them and then i’ll add a poll in the end so you guys can pick which ones you want to read first!

i’ll link the post with the summaries!

Tags

green is BACK actually this time i’m so sorry for disappearing AGAIN

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minhosbitterriver

8 months ago

Thank you so much 🥺🫶

☔️ BLUE LEMONADE ( newjeans )

❛ A chance meeting over a blue lemonade at a coffee shop sparks an awkward crush, culminating in a rainy-day confession that transforms your timid connection into the start of something new as you walk to school together.

𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢 𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐦 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 )

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.5k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 22 mins

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ Say hello to my very first girl group request (made by the lovely @dgybbvrcsacgswtcbkyv)! And honestly my first published girl group piece in general! Hopefully more will be posted soon! I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: High School AU, Strangers-to-Crushes, Y/N works at a coffee shop in the mornings before school, Hanni is the school's popular girl, they're both painfully awkward and a little dorky, Y/N gets ghosted for two days, Y/N is implied to be a bit taller than Hanni, let me know if I missed anything!

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )

The first light of dawn had only just begun to stretch across the city when you found yourself tucked behind the counter of a quaint coffee shop, the scent of freshly ground beans swirling around you. The world outside was still waking, the streets bathed in the soft glow of early morning, with only a few souls braving the chill air. It was a quiet hour, the kind that allowed your thoughts to drift as you worked, hands moving almost on their own as you prepared each steaming cup.

It was in this serene moment that the melodic voice of Hanni Pham cut through the stillness, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. "Aren’t you from my school?" she asked, her tone curious yet soft, as if the question itself carried the weight of familiarity.

Startled, you looked up, your heart skipping a beat as you met her gaze. There she stood, the popular girl everyone knew, her presence commanding the small space. Her dark hair fell in soft waves around her face, and her eyes, bright and inquisitive, were fixed on you.

You had always admired Hanni from afar, her warmth and kindness setting her apart from the rest, but in this unexpected encounter, you couldn’t help but brace yourself for the worst. The echoes of cruel laughter from your peers lingered in your mind, and despite knowing that Hanni wasn’t like the others, a part of you feared that she might still find a way to mock you, just as so many others had done before.

Yet, as you stood there, words caught in your throat, you realized that the girl before you seemed genuinely interested, her expression free of malice. There was no hint of the cruelty you had grown accustomed to; only the simple, honest curiosity of someone who recognized you and wished to connect.

You watch her through the veil of your lashes, barely daring to breathe as you hum in response to her question. The gentle sound of your confirmation seems to light up Hanni’s face, and you find yourself captivated by the way her smile widens, a warmth blooming in her eyes that seems to chase away the lingering shadows of the early morning.

“That’s so cool,” she murmurs, her voice soft and almost reverent as she takes in the cozy atmosphere of the café. The sincerity in her words takes you by surprise, and before you can stop it, a faint blush rises to your cheeks, your heart fluttering in a way that’s both unfamiliar and strangely comforting.

Gathering the courage to speak, you mumble, “What can I get you?” The words are barely above a whisper, your anxiety weaving them into a quiet melody that seems to float between you. Yet, despite your hushed tone, Hanni hears you, her gaze shifting to the menu hanging above you as she ponders her choice.

Her cheeks puff out slightly as she thinks, a gesture so endearing that it momentarily distracts you from your own nerves. You can’t help but notice the way her fingers fidget with the straps of her backpack, a subtle sign of her own anxiety. Somehow, seeing this small vulnerability in her makes you feel a little more at ease, as if you’re not the only one grappling with uncertainty in this unexpected moment.

“I’d like a lemon poppy seed muffin,” Hanni finally decides, her voice breaking the quiet. You quickly enter her order into the register, your fingers moving almost automatically as you try to steady your racing thoughts. Just as you’re about to hand her the receipt, she speaks again, her next question catching you off guard.

“What cold drink would be good with the muffin? There are so many options here that I wouldn’t know where to even start,” she admits with a light laugh, her eyes meeting yours once more.

The question hangs in the air, and for a moment, you’re at a loss for words. But then, you realize she’s genuinely seeking your opinion, and the thought fills you with a quiet sense of responsibility, as though this small decision is more important than it seems.

You take a moment to consider her question, the weight of her expectant gaze making your heart flutter. After a brief pause, you finally gather the courage to speak, your voice soft but sincere. “Well, I personally am a fan of the blue lemonades we have here. It’d pair well with the muffin.”

The morning light seems to dance in Hanni’s gentle eyes as she listens, her smile widening with a warmth that feels like the sun’s first embrace. She nods, her decision made with an easy grace that makes your chest tighten in the best possible way. “Well, then please add a blue lemonade to my order,” she says, her tone filled with a sweetness that lingers in the air like the scent of freshly baked pastries.

You nod, feeling a sense of quiet satisfaction as you prepare her drink, the task becoming almost meditative under the soft glow of her attention. The way she watches you, so trusting and kind, makes you want to do everything just right, to ensure that her experience is as lovely as she is.

When you finally hand her the cool, vibrant blue lemonade, the smile that spreads across her face as she takes the first sip is nothing short of enchanting. There’s a delightful hum that escapes her lips, a sound of pure contentment that resonates in the small space between you, and it’s all you can do to keep your composure.

Even as you clock out and begin your walk toward school, the memory of that moment clings to you like a cherished melody. You can still see her, bathed in the soft morning light, savoring the drink you had carefully prepared. The image of her satisfied smile and the gentle hum of approval replay over and over in your mind, a loop of warmth and wonder.

As you walk, you can’t help but marvel at how someone could possess such an infectious gentleness, a quality that seemed to radiate from her in waves, touching everything around her with its light. It leaves you pondering the possibilities of what it would be like to know her better, to be in the presence of someone who carries such precious warmth within them.

Throughout the day, you caught fleeting glimpses of Hanni as she navigated the bustling corridors of the school, her presence commanding attention without effort. She moved with a graceful ease, surrounded by the usual throngs of admirers and friends, her laughter a melodic thread that wove through the cacophony of voices. It was nothing out of the ordinary—just Hanni being the bright, beloved figure she always was.

But then there was that moment. A moment that took you by surprise, slipping into your day like a whispered secret. Seeking refuge from the noise and chaos of school life, you had retreated to your usual hiding spot behind the school building. It was a place technically off-limits, a secluded nook that offered a rare pocket of silence, where you could steal a few precious moments to yourself. Despite the risk to your perfect record, the solace it provided was worth it, and so you continued to visit, cloaked in the comfort of your solitary sanctuary.

Unbeknownst to you, Hanni had spotted you slipping away and, driven by a quiet curiosity, decided to follow. You were completely unaware of her presence until you looked up to find her standing there, her figure framed by the soft light filtering through the trees. She smiled down at you with that same kind, gentle glint in her eyes, the warmth of her expression melting away the edges of your solitude.

Caught off guard, you felt your heart race as you struggled to find something—anything—to say. Your hiding spot, once a bubble of safety and comfort, suddenly felt exposed under her gaze. Yet, there was no judgment in her eyes, only a serene interest that made you feel oddly understood, as if she, too, sought moments of quiet in a world that never seemed to slow down.

As she approached, your thoughts wavered, torn between wanting her to stay and wishing to retreat back into the silence that had been your companion. But before you could resolve the conflict in your heart, the moment was interrupted. Hanni’s name rang out from across the courtyard, one of her friends calling her back to the lively world she inhabited.

For a brief second, Hanni hesitated, her gaze lingering on you. Then, with a timid wave and another one of those radiant smiles that seemed to light up the air around her, she turned and rejoined her friends, leaving you alone once more. But even as she walked away, the flutter in your chest remained, a gentle echo of the unexpected encounter that left you wondering what might have been had she stayed just a little longer.

You had initially assumed that Hanni’s sudden interest in you, sparked by that brief encounter at the coffee shop, would fade into a distant memory by the next day. It seemed impossible that someone like her would remember you, let alone seek you out again. So when the gentle chime of the bell above the door signaled the arrival of a new customer, you had no reason to expect anything out of the ordinary.

But as you turned your attention from the old, well-worn coffee machine to the door, your breath caught in your throat. There she was, Hanni Pham, her presence as radiant as the morning light spilling through the windows. Her bright eyes locked onto yours, and her smile—so warm, so familiar—seemed to light up the entire room. In that instant, you froze, your mind struggling to process the reality of her standing there, just as it had the day before.

For a moment, you could only stare, wide-eyed and motionless, as she patiently waited for you to finish preparing the coffee for the customer before her. Her unwavering gaze held a kindness that made your heart skip a beat, and by the time you moved back behind the cash register, your hands were trembling, betraying the nervous excitement bubbling within you.

“Hi again,” she greeted you with a polite bow, her voice carrying a surprising cheerfulness that contrasted sharply with your own weary state. There was no trace of the exhaustion you felt from the early morning hours, only an infectious energy that made it impossible not to smile in return.

Despite your nerves, a timid smile found its way to your lips as you mirrored her bow, your heart fluttering at the sight of the school’s most popular girl standing before you once more. Hanni’s presence seemed to fill the space around her with a brightness that made everything else fade into the background, and as you met her gaze again, the familiar sensation of your pulse quickening reminded you just how deeply her unexpected attention affected you.

“Hello,” you managed to reply, though your voice was softer than you intended, a reflection of the sudden shyness that had taken hold of you. There was a slight tremor in your words, a delicate vulnerability that felt impossible to hide. “Welcome back. What can I get for you today?”

Hanni’s smile remained unwavering, a warm, gentle curve that seemed to carry the morning’s light within it. You couldn’t help but notice how the early sunrays, filtering through the shop’s windows, wrapped around her figure like an ethereal halo, casting her in a soft, almost angelic glow. It was as if the world conspired to make her appear even more enchanting, and you found yourself momentarily lost in the quiet radiance she brought with her.

“Yesterday’s muffin was delicious,” she began, her voice as sweet as the treats you served. “But my favorite was the blue lemonade you suggested. So I came back to order it again.” Her words were simple, yet the sincerity in her tone made your heart flutter. As she stepped closer to the counter, resting her elbows on the surface and cupping her cheeks with a childlike charm, you felt a warmth spread through your chest.

The proximity between you suddenly felt too close and yet not close enough, creating a dry lump in your throat that you struggled to swallow. Her presence was almost overwhelming, an intoxicating mix of kindness and curiosity that left you feeling exposed. You nodded timidly, your fingers moving to enter her order into the cash register, though your mind was a flurry of emotions that threatened to unravel your calm facade.

The price of her order tumbled out of your mouth in a hurried, tangled mess, your voice betraying the nervousness that had taken root within you. Desperate to escape the intensity of her gaze, you quickly turned your back to her, focusing all your attention on preparing her drink. The simple task became a lifeline, something to anchor you as you navigated the storm of feelings that her presence had stirred up.

Even as you busied yourself with the routine motions of mixing the drink, you couldn’t shake the awareness of Hanni standing just a few feet away. Her energy filled the space between you, a subtle yet undeniable force that pulled at the edges of your composure. You wondered if she could sense the effect she had on you, if she noticed the way your hands trembled slightly as you worked. And as you prepared her blue lemonade, you couldn’t help but feel that this small, shared moment was something more—something significant that neither of you fully understood yet.

Eventually, you mustered the courage to turn and face her, offering a shy smile as you gently placed her order onto the counter. Hanni hadn’t moved from her spot, still resting her elbows on the counter, her face delicately cradled in her hands. There was a peculiar sense of intrigue in her gaze, a quiet curiosity that sent your heart into a sudden, uneven rhythm. The way she watched you, as if you were the most fascinating thing in the room, made it nearly impossible to meet her eyes.

With a polite bow, you expressed your gratitude for her purchase, though your voice felt small under the weight of her attention. But Hanni didn’t move, her fingers tightening slightly around the paper bag that held her breakfast, a subtle sign of nervousness that mirrored your own. You tried to focus on anything else, but the magnetic pull of her presence was inescapable.

As the silence stretched between you, curiosity finally got the better of you, and you hesitantly looked up, wondering if there was something more she wanted. But the sight that greeted you left you breathless—a soft gasp escaping your lips as your eyes fell on the small daisy held delicately in her free hand. The sight of it was unexpected, and yet it felt like a small, precious gift, laden with unspoken meaning.

Hanni’s cheeks were tinged with a delightful shade of crimson, her flustered expression revealing a vulnerability that only endeared her to you more. There was something so sincere, so utterly charming about the way she stood there, clearly uncertain but still daring enough to offer this simple token.

Before you could find the words to respond, Hanni quickly placed the daisy on the counter, her movements rushed and clumsy, as if she were caught in a whirlwind of emotions. And just as swiftly as she’d offered the flower, she turned and hurried out of the store, her departure leaving you standing there in a daze, the tiny daisy resting between you as the only evidence of the moment you’d just shared.

As you stared at the delicate flower, a smile slowly spread across your face, the warmth of the encounter lingering long after Hanni had gone. There was a quiet magic in that brief exchange, something that left your heart fluttering with possibilities you hadn’t dared to imagine before.

The delicate petals of the daisy, left thoughtfully on the counter, held your gaze as you turned it over in your fingers. It seemed to have been plucked from someone's garden, its simplicity making the gesture all the more touching. A warmth spread through your chest, swelling your heart with a mix of surprise and quiet joy. You couldn't help but giggle softly, the sound escaping as you replayed the moment in your mind—the timid way Hanni had offered the flower, her usual composure replaced by an endearing awkwardness.

It felt almost surreal to think of Hanni Pham, the girl admired by so many, standing before you in such a flustered state. At school, she was always the picture of confidence, effortlessly navigating the throngs of students who adored her. Yet here she was, reduced to nervousness by something as simple as a daisy. The contrast was striking, and it made the encounter feel all the more intimate, like you had glimpsed a side of her that few others ever saw.

As your shift came to an end, you reluctantly changed into your school uniform, your thoughts still lingering on the unexpected exchange. Carefully, you slipped the daisy into the front pocket of your shirt, feeling its gentle weight against your heart. The thought of seeing Hanni again at school filled you with a mix of anticipation and hope. Perhaps she would notice the flower in your pocket, and understand just how much you appreciated her sweet, unspoken message.

But as the day wore on and you wandered the familiar hallways, your eyes scanning the crowds, a sense of disappointment began to creep in. No matter where you looked, Hanni was nowhere to be found. The absence of her bright smile and warm presence left you feeling strangely empty, as if a small but significant part of your day was missing. And as the hours passed, you couldn't help but wonder if the moment you'd shared had meant as much to her as it had to you, or if it had simply been a fleeting gesture, lost in the flow of time.

Two days had slipped by since Hanni Pham last stepped into the cozy coffee shop where you worked, and though she had only visited twice before, her absence was keenly felt. A quiet sense of disappointment settled over you, mingled with confusion at the sudden shift between you. What had changed? Had you somehow messed up her lemonade in your nervousness the last time she was there? The thought nagged at you, as did the unsettling possibility that her visits had been part of some cruel joke—a way for her and her friends to laugh at your awkwardness.

Yet, despite these doubts, the daisy she left behind held your skepticism at bay. It was a simple, delicate thing, but it had spoken volumes—a gesture that seemed too genuine to be part of any prank. The memory of that moment, her flustered expression and the way she had hurried out of the shop, kept replaying in your mind, offering a glimmer of hope amidst your uncertainty. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to her visits than met the eye.

Since then, you had crossed paths with Hanni a few times, though each encounter was more awkward than the last. Every time your eyes met across the school grounds, a flush would creep up her cheeks, and she would quickly avert her gaze before hurrying off, leaving you standing there with a mix of bewilderment and curiosity. It was as if the daisy had created an invisible thread between you, a connection that neither of you fully understood yet couldn’t ignore. And as the days passed, you couldn’t help but wonder what had really changed, and whether that fragile thread would ever be strengthened—or if it would simply unravel, leaving you with nothing but the memory of a fleeting smile and a flower wilting in your pocket.

You found yourself staring through the large windows of the coffee shop, eyes narrowed at the relentless downpour outside. The rain fell in heavy sheets, turning the world beyond the glass into a blur of gray and silver. The day had begun with a slight humidity hanging in the air, a remnant of the previous night's showers. You'd assumed that as the hours passed, the weather would warm, and the clouds would part. Yet here you were, watching as the rain refused to let up, silently cursing yourself for not bringing an umbrella—just in case.

Frustration simmered within you as you glanced toward your sleepy boss, who was slowly shuffling through receipts at the counter. Hope flickered briefly as you approached him, thinking perhaps he might have a spare umbrella stashed away somewhere—something to shield you from the impending drenching on your walk to school. But when he looked up at you with a pitiful expression, his lips forming a small, regretful frown, your heart sank. The unspoken words hung between you: there was no umbrella, no shelter from the storm.

The realization settled over you like a damp fog, and your shoulders slumped in resignation. You would be forced to face the harsh rain, its cold fingers reaching for you the moment you stepped outside. The thought of trudging through the downpour, schoolbag clutched protectively to your chest, sent a wave of irritation coursing through you. Yet, beneath that frustration, a quiet resolve began to form. You could handle a little rain, even if it meant arriving at school soaked to the bone. The day, after all, had to go on, and so would you—even if it meant battling the elements on your own.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for the discomfort awaiting you—a day where your clothes would cling to you like a second skin, soaked through with rainwater. The thought of spending hours in a wet uniform, cold and miserable, while enduring the stares of your classmates made your stomach twist with dread. There was no escaping it now, though, and no one to blame but yourself for not being wise enough to carry an umbrella, despite the unpredictable weather.

As you stepped out onto the slick sidewalk, the rain assaulted you immediately, each droplet stinging like a million tiny needles against your skin. You broke into a brisk jog, your feet splashing through puddles as you hurried toward the school. The dark clouds above loomed ominously, their wrath evident in the relentless downpour that showed no signs of relenting.

Clutching your backpack tightly to your chest, you bowed your head low in a futile attempt to shield your belongings from the soaking rain. The chill of the wet fabric seeped through your uniform, clinging to your body uncomfortably, making every movement a reminder of your unfortunate situation. With each step, the wetness seeped deeper, the cold tightening its grip on you as you pushed forward, determined to reach the relative shelter of the school as quickly as possible.

A torrent of curses swirled in your mind as you hurried through the relentless downpour, your drenched hair constantly slipping into your eyes, obstructing your vision. Each time you swiped it away, the rain would only force it back, a ceaseless battle that left you increasingly frustrated. Your breath came in ragged, exhausted pants, and with each step, a wave of pure misery washed over you as you realized just how much further you still had to go before reaching the safety of your school. The thought alone was enough to make your heart sink even deeper into despair.

Then, as if the universe had decided to offer you a sliver of mercy, you heard a voice—a familiar one—shout your name from behind. Startled, you nearly stumbled, your momentum causing you to skid to a halt as you spun around, searching for the source of the call. You didn't know who it could be, but you certainly hadn't expected to see Hanni Pham, completely dry under the shelter of a bright blue umbrella, sprinting toward you with surprising speed.

Her cheeks were flushed, though you quickly rationalized that it must have been from her running. You stood there, drenched and slightly bewildered, as she closed the distance between you, your heart racing—not just from the physical exertion but from the unexpected sight of her. Hesitantly, you waited, unsure of what to expect, as she caught up to you, her presence like a beacon of unexpected warmth in the cold, miserable rain.

Hanni reached out clumsily, her hand gripping your shoulder as she stumbled, nearly colliding with you in her haste to stop. She barely managed to avoid knocking you over, her breath coming in short, labored gasps as she tried to regain her balance. The umbrella she held hovered above the two of you, offering a small but much-needed refuge from the relentless rain. You couldn’t help but release a relieved sigh, though you had to hunch down slightly to fit under the cover, given her shorter stature. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, you tried your best to ignore the maddening flutter of your heart caused by her unexpected kindness.

While you were grateful for her sudden appearance, a mild irritation simmered beneath the surface. It had been two days since Hanni had seemingly vanished from your life after being so unexpectedly kind toward you. And now, here she was, as if nothing had happened. To you, it didn’t matter that, according to the unspoken rules of your high school’s social hierarchy, someone as beloved and popular as Hanni Pham wasn’t supposed to be seen interacting with someone like you, someone considered so low on that very same ladder. You were well aware of the invisible barriers meant to keep your worlds apart, but in that moment, none of it mattered.

What did matter was the fact that Hanni had, of her own volition, turned your plain and awkward interactions into something else when she plucked a daisy and left it for you at the coffee shop, her cheeks ablaze with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn’t fair for her to initiate such a change and then leave you hanging, avoiding you as if nothing had happened. As Hanni finally straightened her posture, catching her breath and seemingly ready to speak, she was met with your carefully guarded but unmistakably annoyed expression. You regarded her with a mix of curiosity and frustration, waiting for the explanation you felt you deserved.

Despite the chilly edge in your gaze, Hanni made an effort to appear nonchalant. Her laughter, though light, betrayed a tremor of nervousness as she twirled the ends of her slightly damp hair around her finger. Even in your state of irritation, you found yourself inexplicably charmed by the sight of her. Her eyes, despite the oppressive gray clouds and relentless rain, sparkled with a warmth reminiscent of the gentle morning sun that would occasionally filter through the coffee shop's windows, casting a soft, inviting glow.

You maintain your composure, raising a single eyebrow at her as she fumbles to address the situation. “Uh, it’s a good thing I spotted you and had my umbrella,” she murmured, her voice nearly swallowed by the cacophony of rain. The casualness in her tone only served to heighten your irritation. It was clear she wanted to gloss over the fact that she had vanished for two days without a word, and you were determined not to let her do so.

With a hint of measured annoyance, you replied, “It’s good to see you again, Hanni.”

Her reaction was immediate—an almost imperceptible wince at the subtle bite in your voice. For the first time since her transfer to your school, you saw her frown, and the sight of it struck you with a pang of guilt. The weight of knowing you were the cause of that rare expression was almost suffocating. Yet, despite the tug of empathy in your chest, you knew you had to stand firm. You weren’t someone to be manipulated or dismissed, and you refused to be treated as a mere pawn in whatever game she might have been playing.

"I noticed you kept the flower I gave you in your front pocket all day," she began softly, her gaze fixed on the wet pavement as if seeking comfort in its familiarity. "It looked really nice." Her words were barely above a whisper, and you responded with a half-hearted hum, trying to ignore the rapid fluttering of your heart. Hanni let out a quiet, defeated sigh as she finally summoned the courage to meet your unyielding gaze. "Look, I panicked, okay?"

Her sudden confession caught you off guard, your eyes widening in surprise as your lips parted slightly. A deep crimson blush crept up her cheeks, but despite the embarrassment, she held her gaze steady, even as her hands trembled while keeping the umbrella positioned over both of you, shielding you from the relentless downpour. "You’ll probably think I’m some crazy stalker, but here goes: I’ve had this silly little crush on you for the past year, and it all started one Saturday while you were working. I just stood there, watching you do your thing. You have this kind and soft smile that really caught my attention. And I promise, I wasn’t following you or anything, but after that, I just kept seeing you everywhere. You’re so quiet, and I really wanted to get closer to you.

"One day, I decided I’d try sitting with you at lunch, but you kept disappearing somewhere, and I could never find you. So, I kind of gave up for a while. Then, the other day, I forgot to eat breakfast and ended up stopping by your shop, not even knowing you worked there in the mornings. And, well, the next day, I stupidly gave you that flower out of nowhere, and then I just got really embarrassed. I couldn’t look at you after that because I was so sure you thought I was some weirdo or something. And maybe I was because I kept watching you from afar, hiding, and I noticed you were looking for me in all the places I usually hung out. But I still couldn’t bring myself to come out. Until today."

Hanni inhaled deeply as she concluded her startling confession, her chest rising and falling with the weight of words she had kept bottled up for so long. It dawned on you that she hadn’t taken a single breath as she rambled on, pouring out her heart without pause. You stood there, stunned, as her words echoed in your mind, causing a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts to spiral within you.

You struggled to make sense of it all, your mind racing back through the year’s memories, searching for any sign that might have hinted at her feelings. But try as you might, you couldn’t recall a single instance where Hanni had paid you any mind. All this time, you had believed you were invisible to her, just another face in the crowd, irrelevant in the bright, popular world she inhabited. The realization that you had been wrong, that she had noticed you all along, was a revelation you never expected—certainly not now, and certainly not like this.

Of course, you had always found Hanni intriguing. There was something about her that drew your gaze whenever she was near, a quiet magnetism that you could never fully explain. But you had kept your distance, never daring to imagine that your paths would ever truly cross. It was safer that way, you thought—to admire her from afar, to keep her at the edges of your thoughts, a fleeting presence that you could easily dismiss. That was, until she walked into the coffee shop where you worked for the first time, shattering the careful distance you had maintained.

You couldn't help but feel a wave of fondness wash over you as you observed Hanni, her wide eyes filled with anticipation, brows furrowed in a mix of worry and hope. The frown that lingered on her lips tugged at your heartstrings, and despite the frustration you’d felt moments ago, your resolve began to crumble. Slowly, a warm smile spread across your face, softening the tension that had hung between you.

“You’re so silly, you know that?” you teased, letting out a light giggle as you playfully poked her cheek. The irritation you’d held onto melted away, replaced by the warmth of the moment.

Hanni let out a sigh of relief, her own giggle bubbling up to join yours. The sound was contagious, and you found yourself laughing along with her, the earlier awkwardness dissolving into the gentle rhythm of your shared laughter.

“Let’s walk to school together, yeah?” you asked, your voice tender and inviting. You could hardly contain the surge of affection that welled up inside you when Hanni’s entire face lit up in response. Her eyes sparkled with a happiness that was impossible to miss, and she nodded vigorously, her excitement palpable.

Without another word, the two of you turned to walk side by side, the rain now a mere backdrop to the warmth that blossomed between you. For the first time, you found yourselves heading to school together, a quiet sense of joy settling into the space you shared.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ My permanent taglist is open! (Click on the link to join! All you have to do is answer a few questions to help me stay organized!)

🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS!

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minhosbitterriver

10 months ago

can i be the 👽 emoji for your anons??? i wanna interact with you more than just liking and reblogging but i’m scared to do it off anon

Hello! Yes, welcome to the family! I really appreciate all the support and love you’ve given me and I’m so excited to have gained a new friend!

How are you? How’s life treating you?

Also, I’ve seen your request and will get to it as soon as I can!

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minhosbitterriver

8 months ago

Can I be added to your perm taglist please I love your stuff so much 🥺🫶🏻

Hey, yes of course! You just have to fill out this form (it’s literally just a handful of questions, I just like to stay organized) 🥹🫶 Thank you for all the love!

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minhosbitterriver

8 months ago

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊ send these stars 🌟✨💫 to your favorite blogs and remind them how bright they are! ெ♡༚

Aw you’re so cute I could cry 🥹 thank you so so much I love you so much MUAH MUAH MUAH!!!

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minhosbitterriver

10 months ago

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD (but guys it’s so good you HAVE to read it IM BEGGING ON MY HANDS AND KNEES CRYING SCREAMING THROWING UP ABOUT IT)

hands-down, undoubtedly, definitely my favorite chan fic ever 🥹 i can’t even begin to explain just how much i absolutely LOVED every single word of it. i loved the message behind this story: it’s okay to lose sometimes, it’s okay to be imperfect, it’s okay to fail. i think these are things that we as a society really struggle to accept especially when it comes to ourselves and there was something so beautiful about him finding himself in the end and coming to terms with the fact that yeah, he’s a loser and what about it?

SPOILER OVER (but again y’all READ THIS MASTERPIECE PLEASE)

and to star, i just wanna praise-bomb you so bad because you so so so deserve it. you’re such a phenomenal writer and i honestly just always enjoy your writing, WELCOME BACK! thank you for sharing your work, and thank you for the comforting advices you’ve offered through this fic, i love you so so much MWAH 🩷

No Guts / No Glory

Read part 2 here.

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem reader

W/c: 26.2K

Warnings: depictions of bodily harm, descriptions of blood, mentions of drinking, dry-humping, oral sex (male receiving)

Synopsis: Conducting a series of interviews about up-and-coming boxer Bang Chan leading up to his title fight puts you in a complicated situation when you begin to develop feelings for him.

18+. Mdni!

•

“I believe the second most intimate thing you can do with a person is interview them. If I can’t kiss you, I think it’s only fair you indulge me in a story.”

•

Calloused fingers adjust the lavalier microphone a little higher up onto the collar of his button-down shirt- knees bent, legs spread to occupy a generous amount of space, even for a guy as big as he is. A gentle noise emits from the silver chain around his wrist as he interlocks his fingers together, twiddling thumbs and placing them neatly onto his jeans. And then he takes a deep breath, as the door across the room swings open, outlining your intimidating figure.

The room is tense when you finally saunter in, clipboard balanced in the crook of your elbow as you do your best to avoid eye contact with the subject of the video while you assume your position on the chair across from him.

Your hand darts out to greet whom you can only assume to be a manager of some sort, giving him a closed-lip smile and a polite nod before taking your seat again. And when there’s nobody else in the room requiring your attention, you let your gaze fall to him at last, doing a once-over of his intimidating figure.

Warm tan skin complements his lightened brown hair, swept neatly out of his face to reveal his narrowed honey eyes. His sharp eyebrows seem to straighten, pulling down into a stoic expression as he observes you right back. His wide nose flaunts a sharp bridge, much like the masculine jawline that clenches as he remains quiet- and juxtaposed against all of it, soft, plump lips, which form into a smile as he greets you, pulling back to expose a dazzling set of teeth.

“Christopher Bang Chan,” he says to you, reaching a hand out and clasping his fingers around yours. His grasp is firm, but intentional, like he’s making every effort to seem professional. And it’s nothing you haven’t seen several times before- in wrestlers, and swimmers and boxers alike.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you say to him, omitting any form of introduction entirely. “Just answer as honestly as you can.”

“Are we rolling?” Chan asks, gesturing to the camera with a wave of his index finger.

“This is just a test for my use,” you explain to him. “You don’t need to acknowledge the cameras.”

He gives an understanding nod, sitting up a little straighter and clearing his throat. And then, as the little red blinking light indicates that the camera is indeed recording, you begin to speak.

“Could you state your name for the camera? In a full sentence, please.”

“Hi,” he begins with a nervous chuckle. “My name’s Christopher Bang Chan. You guys know me as Bang Chan- or just Chan, really.”

“And you’re a boxer.”

“I am a boxer,” he affirms.

“How long have you been boxing?”

“I’ve been boxing for…” his eyes roll up to the ceiling, hand finding its way to his chin as he remains lost in thought for a moment. “About fourteen years. Started when I was twelve, never looked back. Still have my first pair of boxing gloves hanging in my mom’s house, if you can believe it.”

Amused laughter fills the room, Chan’s eyes forming little crescents as he thinks back to the bright blue Kanpeki sparring mitts that hang on a single nail in his parents’ living room.

“Chan- why boxing?”

“Why not?” He retorts with a cheeky smile. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Seriously, boxing…boxing is… something that makes me feel alive. When I’m in the ring throwing punches like I’ve been trained my whole life to do, and people are standing behind me who’ve been there the whole way and I can hear them cheering, I’m alive. There’s nothing else that matters in that moment. It’s just pure skill, pure passion for what I do. I don’t feel that way about much else.”

His accent is thicker than you’d anticipated it to be- a sultry, Australian accent accompanies his serious intonations, and he speaks as though he’s telling a story, pulling you in captivating you with his entire being. He sounds smarter than the other athletes you’re used to, as though he could have done a variety of career paths if not for boxing. At least something relating to speaking, you’re sure, as he concludes his response with a gentle nod.

“And you’re just months away from the biggest fight of your career,” you then say, cocking your head slightly.

“Can you tell us about where you’re at with that, mentally?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s really nothing I haven’t trained for before,” Chan replies candidly. “I’m at the gym training every single day, we’re working around the clock to make sure I’m at my best for this event. And at the same time, I’m new to title fights- I really have no expectations going into it. I just want to do my best.”

Chan’s lips purse together as he scans your expression for a reaction to his statement, but all he’s met with is a nod as you gesture to the cameras.

“That’s all we need for now,” you call out to the camera crew. “You can wrap up while we finish discussing.”

Chan’s eyebrows are raised as he glances around the room curiously, staff members conversing amongst themselves as expensive-looking cameras are disassembled and stowed away into leather casing.

“I’ll give you a minute,” his manager says, rising from his spot to rush after another staff member. And just as you’d feared, it’s just Chan and yourself at a painfully close proximity.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Chan chimes in from his spot on the chair, observing the way you shuffle through a stack of papers.

“Y/n,” you say plainly. “The interviews and filming will take place over the next month. Think of it as a sort of docuseries for sports fans- the next hottest thing since last year’s boxing burnout.”

“Hottest thing?” he repeats curiously. “That’s a generous compliment, I wouldn’t call myself the hottest-”

“Up-and-coming,” you correct him. “New, fresh. Fascinating to the masses. They love you now, they’ll be itching to see how you perform. And then you’ll be in the big leagues with all the other athletes. It’s the sort of people I interview.”

Chan purses his lips together again, scratching the back of his head awkwardly and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“How long have you been interviewing?”

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say sternly. “I don’t expect anything from you. Just show up, give me answers and don’t be late. Anything else I can assist with?”

Chan searches for something to say, wanting so badly to work some of his classic athlete charm on you the way he has for his entire career thus far. But as you pull off your glasses again, tucking them into the pocket of your blouse, he realizes he’ll just have to come to terms with the professional dynamic you’ve so boldly established here with him already.

“That’s all,” Chan says finally. “I’ll see you at the next one, then?”

“Don’t be late,” you say again.

And he can still catch a glimpse of your ponytail as you exit, swaying side-to-side in tandem with purposeful strides as you disappear from his sight.

“How’d it go?”

“Standard.”

“Anything notable?”

“He’s a boxer, Lin. Just like anything you’d expect from them- immersed in his sport, rich, not much substance to him.”

“Then I presume the docuseries is going to be smooth sailing from here.”

Lin prods at a particularly thick piece of lettuce in her salad, an obnoxious crunch filling the silent space that falls over you both amidst the otherwise loud cafeteria. Of course it’s natural for her to draw this simple conclusion- one of the lead producers, she’s always heads down in the editing portion of your films, trimming out unnecessary dialogue and uploading B-roll to accompany the complex story behind your subjects. But it’s always the same story- soulless, busy men, far too consumed by their own masculinity and an insatiable appetite to win, no matter the cost.

At first it’s the local media who take a particular liking to them, publishing flashy articles about all their grand endeavors and illustrating the glass shelves of trophies their parents flaunt. And then by some “miracle”, sometimes a “gift from god himself”, they land a title fight- describing the opportunity with stars in their blank eyes, all the while still media trained to project a humble image. That’s where you come in, a journalist with a keen eye to see right through them, still earning the big bucks as you assist in upholding the headache-inducing humble image they’re so set on. And following a series of interviews, once they’re far too gone to even assimilate with normal folk like yourself, they’ll win said respective fight, make it on to the biggest blogs and television publications, and then effectively lose themselves to the new celebrity title. You’ve seen it several times now- in tennis players, wrestlers, swimmers. And boxers- especially boxers.

As you watch Lin poke around at the remainder of her salad, you glance at the room beyond her seated figure, where your colleagues are busy with their own lunches and still heads down in their work, laptops propped open and hands typing away as they chew. It’s always like this when a new series of yours is in its early stages of filming, everybody scrambling to prepare their notes and film work as the schedule is finalized. Not a minute can be wasted on a project like this- the subjects’ time is more valuable than anything right now. Every minute Chan graces the studio, every word he utters is footage, publication- more money.

“Y/n?” Lin questions, snapping you out of your visible trance.

“Hm?”

“I asked if you have everything you need.”

You ponder her words for a moment, thinking back to your itinerary, to the list of printed questions still secured on your clipboard and even Chan, the image of the lavalier mic hanging loosely from the collar on his shirt replaying in your head.

“I think so,” you say finally, shrugging and prodding your index finger at the still-wrapped sandwich that rests upon the table.

“Come on,” she says with a sigh. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. You just have to suck it up for a few weeks, and the pay-off will be worth it. Remember the last one? People are still crazy about that guy, and it’s all thanks to you.”

“Yeah, I remember. I’m just tired, I guess. It’s all so voyeuristic. It’s exhausting trying to learn the details of somebody’s life like this.”

“Voyeurism can be a good thing,” she interjects. “The more intimate this process is, the better. We want the people to know every inch of him.”

“I know,” you reply sheepishly. “You’re right.”

“We have to see right through ‘em,” she responds, securing the lid on her Tupperware and rising from her seat. “Hey, I have to go edit another thing. I’ll see you when the next set of footage is done, though?”

“Yeah,” you say to her, watching as she stuffs her belongings into a canvas bag and hoists it over her shoulder.

“This could totally be another big break,” she states, as she begins in the other direction. “This could be huge for us all over again.”

It’s typically recommended to arrive at least 15 minutes early to every studio interview. In some cases, 30 is more favorable. And yet it’s a notion athletes just can’t seem to comprehend most days, sauntering in well past the starting time with a duffel bag slung over their broad shoulders, not so much as an apology uttered as they assume their spot across from you.

And Chan, you learn very quickly, is no different from the rest.

“Sorry,” he says as he finally enters, your gaze fixed on the wall across from you as the floodlights illuminate his muscular figure in your peripheral vision.

You say nothing in return, gently tapping a capped pen on the exposed flesh where your skirt meets your upper thigh. And Chan takes reluctant strides toward you, cocking his head slightly as he glances around the room and gestures to the vacant chair across from you.

“Is this… should I sit down? Or…”

Your figure remains turned away from him, giving a small nod as you remain in your spot, ushering for Chan to take his seat. And he does, slinging his bag onto the floor and leaning back in his chair.

“Wow, it’s bright in here,” Chan remarks, chuckling lightly.

“You’re late.”

He’s quiet for a moment, swallowing nervously as he scans your cold expression. Narrowed eyes meet his, not a hint of a smile present on your pursed lips as you convey your vexation.

“I’m sorry,” Chan says nervously, his eyes softening in attempts to reconcile the tension he’s brought upon you. “My training ran a little longer than I hoped. I tried to leave early, but my coach-”

“Look,” you interrupt, finally letting your gaze meet his and sighing frustratedly. “I interview guys like you on the daily. You show up late, zero regard for my time or my effort, play the game and then win all the prizes that come with it. This is just a stepping stone in your career- I get that. Just please, could you at least try to make this as easy as possible for both of us so that we can be done faster? We’re gonna be stuck with each other for a while, let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be.”

Chan falls silent when you finish speaking, smoothing a loose strand of hair down with his index finger and nodding politely.

“I’m sorry,” he voices for the second time today. “It won’t happen again. This series is really important to me.”

“I would hope so,” you tell him. “Now state your name for the camera. Full sentence, please.”

“This camera?” He inquires, pointing at one straight across from him. “Or that one over there?”

“Just state your name,” you repeat. “I have you at all angles. It doesn’t matter where you look.”

“Can I look at you, then?”

You sigh for what feels like the millionth time today, pinching the bridge of your nose in annoyance and crossing your legs at the ankles. You can’t quite tell if he’s doing this on purpose, or if he genuinely hasn’t conducted a formal interview like this prior to yours.

“Yes, you may look at me. That’s typically how a conversation goes.”

“Right, then. My name is Christopher Bang Chan.”

“And you’re a boxer.”

“I am a boxer,” he affirms with a grin.

“Chan, in just three months you’ll be competing in the biggest fight of your life- the Golden Gloves Championship, against your counterpart Kang-Dae, a competitive boxer who’s been training almost as long as you have. In a recent interview, he told me the two of you are making a deliberate effort not to meet just yet, despite training at some of the same local spots. Can you tell us your reasoning for that, as well as what that’s felt like up until now?”

A short breath escapes Chan’s lips, his eyes rolling to the ceiling as he thinks it over.

“I’ve heard remarkable things about Kang-Dae,” Chan begins. “It was something we made a mutual decision to follow through on. You know, just being mindful of training techniques and respecting each other’s space. It feels a little weird sometimes when I remember while I’m training- it’s like, was he using this bag before I was? I’ve sort of built him up to be this really dedicated player to the game, in my head at least.”

Chan smiles back when you do, taking note of the way your shoulders seem to visibly relax in his presence. He lets his ankles uncross, twiddling his thumbs as his legs spread loosely in front of him.

“So uh… yeah, it’s been… it’s not easy, knowing we’re going head-to-head in just one month. But I’m training really hard, and I know he is, too. I have a lot of respect for him.”

You nod at his words, glancing down at the clipboard of questions and notes on your lap in front of you.

“Chan, you’ve mentioned several times how hard you’ve been training for this. From the gym, to practice with your coach, to mentally preparing for all of this. What are you doing when you’re not training?”

The question marks the first of a series of personal ones, ones that really seek to tear down your subjects’ walls and reveal their true identity to audiences. They love the voyeuristic aspect of gory details- and your subjects love to talk about themselves.

“I’m hardly ever not training,” Chan says with a shrug of his shoulders. “But I guess I just sleep as much as I can. If not maybe… running, doing stretches, all that. I’m at the point where I have to be physically pried away from the gym by my coach. It’s that bad.”

He laughs lightly as he speaks, his eyes forming little crescents the way they always do when his plump lips pull into a grin. And then you mirror his expression, lips pulling into a smile as you pry for more answers.

“Can you tell us how you first got into boxing? What was that like?”

“First time,” he echoes. “Was when I was 12 years old. My dad bought me a pair of gloves after I saw this series about Baik Hyun-Man, an Olympian boxer who swept his category in… 1988? 89? God, he was phenomenal.”

“A docuseries?” You chime in, furrowing your brows together.

“Yeah. Think it was like, 4 episodes where they interviewed him following his sweep at the Olympics that year. I remember him being so well-spoken and fascinating.”

A small smile tugs involuntarily at your lips as Chan speaks, a sort of glint present in his eyes as he recalls the events. He seems so full of passion when he speaks of his source of inspiration, the same way he speaks of his own craft.

“That was made by our network,” you say finally. “That was one of the first series I saw, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you reply, maintaining a keen smile. “It made me want to get into interviewing. He had such a way with telling his story.”

The room falls quiet as a sharp breath escapes Chan’s lips, a look of disbelief painted upon his chiseled features. He begins to say something, and then he’s quiet again, craning his neck at the camera to the right of your seated figure.

“Sorry,” you say with a sheepish shake of your head. “I don’t mean to get off topic here.”

“No, it’s… that’s really fucking cool. I mean, what are the odds, you know?”

It’s really not some miracle that you happened across the same formative media- you’re pretty sure every parent had Baik Hyun-Man’s docuseries playing on television on repeat shortly after it aired. The way he spoke of his achievements, so self-assured in the way he gestured directly into the camera and urged kids to chase their dreams, too. Inspiring journalists and athletes alike- it was the network’s biggest thing the year it aired. And evidently, a boxer’s dream, to put the sport on pedestal for the whole world to admire.

“Anyway,” you say finally, glancing back down at your clipboard. “You were indulging me in the details of your start to boxing.”

“Right,” Chan voices. “I was 12, with these clunky boxing mitts- blue ones, just like I asked for. And one of those inflatable punching bags hanging in our garage. At first, it was just jabs, I wasn’t really interested in classes or anything like that. It wasn’t until I started boxing with my dad, that’s when he pushed me to keep this going. Said I threw punches like a pro- at least the best I could do at age 12. I owe a lot of this to my dad, I don’t think I would’ve pushed myself to do any of this without him. And to chase this dream, of winning a title fight.”

“Well your dream doesn’t sound very far out of reach, by the sound of it,” you say to him, raising a singular eyebrow and cocking your head.

Chan just smiles, an earnest expression washing over him, and you take note of the way his ears flush a deep shade of red. He’s not one to take compliments very well- he falters somewhere between confident, yet flustered, and it’s endearing, like much of his persona is. Though it may be well-crafted, it’s still charming.

“I dunno,” Chan says with a click of his tongue. “Losing is always a possibility.”

“It is,” you affirm. “But I’m sure you’ve faced your share of losses in the past, too. What does losing mean to you?”

Chan furrows his brows together, a little thrown off by the question posed to him. He’s not sure he’s ever carefully dissected the implications of what it means to lose something- to funnel your entire being into what defines you, only for the tangible payoff to slip from your grasp and dissipate into a void of nothingness. And consequently, to familiarize yourself with the suffocating emotions of regret, pain, loss- even shame. It’s never been an option for him- it’s never even been an occurrence.

“I’ve never lost,” he says finally, a soft chuckle emitting from his lips.

“You’ve never lost?”

“I’ve never lost,” he repeats. “I’ve played matches that weren’t as good as others, or just barely scraped by with a win. But I’ve never lost.”

“So losing isn’t something you’ve even considered.”

“No, I’ve definitely considered it,” he contends. “Some matches, you take a good long look at the guy across from you, and it’s sort of like staring your future in the face. Like, this is it, this is the guy I’m going to lose my streak to.”

“Yet it’s never happened?”

Chan clicks his tongue again, crossing his legs at the knees this time and cocking his head, the same overconfident expression painting his chiseled face.

“I don’t lose,” he states simply. “There’s always the chance that I may lose. But I never do.”

A simple nod of your head signifies the end of this portion of the interview, and Chan finally exhales a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding all this time.

“I think I have all I need for today,” you say to him, avoiding the meticulous eye contact he seeks from his spot across from you. “Could you just leave your mic on that table over there?”

“Did I sound a little cocky there?” Chan queries as he fidgets with the lavalier microphone. “I didn’t mean to, it’s just a stupid fact I like to toss around.”

“Facts are facts,” you respond, toying with your own lavalier microphone, yet not moving from your spot. “You’re permitted to say whatever you want. This is your series, after all.”

“Yeah, but I’m not trying to scare people here. I’m just-”

“Frighteningly competent?” You interrupt. “Well-versed in the art of boxing? Aware of the power you hold?”

He’s quieter now, lips pursed together and eyes scanning your expression for a hint of forgiveness. But you don’t grant him any- in fact, you’re admittedly a little disenchanted by his words, which seem to put him right up against all the other boxers you’ve interviewed. Impetuous words which detract from his character as a whole, emphasizing only his worst traits. Self-righteous, self-centered, disdainful, even.

“I’ve interviewed a lot of people like you,” you explain to him, for what feels like the second time this evening. “If you sound cocky, it’s because you are cocky. You’re allowed to be, though.”

“But that’s not what I want people to get from this series.”

“Then what is it that you want?” You ask Chan, rising from your seat and gathering your papers, his gaze fixed on yours still.

He’s quiet, no adequate wording passing him by that may sum up what he seeks to put out into the world. Perhaps he’s never looked so introspectively like this before- perhaps he hasn’t even considered what he wants the world to make of him.

“I’m telling your story, not writing it,” you continue.

His lips part to say something, but a silence overtakes the room once more, words which seek to defend himself dissipating in the back of his throat much like his thoughts do.

“Just something to think about,” you conclude, the lavalier microphone rolling around between the pads of your fingers as you meet his gaze finally.

His eyebrows arch in an almost pleading manner, as though he hopes you might have a change of heart and take some mercy on a skilled boxer like himself. But you don’t- not when you have the ability to see right through him like this, the same way you do with all the others.

An arrogant athlete, on an exponential and unbroken winning-streak, complete stranger to the concept of losing or being humbled.

“Losing isn’t something you’ve even considered,” your words replay in his head. “What is it that you want?”

He ponders, to no avail, as the floodlights outline your departing figure.

“So he’s just never lost a match?”

“Never. And he’s a cocky prick about the fact.”

“That’s unprecedented. I don’t think we’ve ever interviewed somebody with a winning streak like his.”

Lin’s fingers hover over the keyboard of her laptop, slicing footage and importing b-roll as you assume the spot next to her. She moves quickly as she always does, hardly even needing to decipher whether the clips flow into each other adequately- it’s second nature for her to know.

“This looks good,” she voices, pupils rapidly scanning the bright screen which reflects against the lenses of her wireframe glasses. “But the network agrees we need to get a little more personal.”

“What do you mean?”

She pauses her actions, pulling off her glasses and snapping them closed between her teeth before she speaks.

“You guys had a moment somewhere in there. It’s undoubtedly the most interesting bit. There’s a bit of chemistry when you’re relating to him.

“What?” You question, furrowing your brows together as she continues to work.

“Baik Hyun-Man,” she remarks. “I mean, it’s remarkable you found something in common with the guy. Knackered journalist and devoted boxer set aside their differences to agree on one thing- ‘The Iron Gentleman’ really was a sight to marvel at.”

“We didn’t have a moment, Lin. He’s watched a series almost every athlete did when it aired.”

“I’m just saying there’s something… very human, about the whole thing. Try to get to get closer to him. Corner him- find out what makes the guy tick. I need you to read him like a diary and publicize it to the masses. It’s not going to be easy- that’s why you’re doing it.”

Your gaze remains on her computer screen, eyeing the footage you vividly remember having filmed alongside him. It’s paused on a still-shot of you sitting across from him, transfixed on his chiseled features as he explains something indistinguishable to you, playing back at Lin through the chunky black headphones she wears around her neck.

The thought is migraine-inducing, to attempt to get any closer to Bang Chan than you already are. Upon your two interactions, you’ve already taken him to be as arrogant, conceited and obsessed with his sport as you’d assumed him to be. And while it rings true that there may be more to him than meets the eye- a story trying to reveal itself to you, a truth yearning to make itself known among all this superficiality, it’s likely one he’s not keen on making known to you.

“First part airs this Friday,” she states, nodding her head to some electronic background tune as she resumes her editing. “Just promise me you’ll try to get more personal with him. Find out where he trains, scope out the spots he frequents.”

“I’m not stalking the man for the purpose of a series, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“It’s not stalking,” she counters quickly. “It’s familiarizing yourself with the video subject.”

You chuckle lightly at Lin’s request, holding your hands up in surrender and rising from your spot beside her.

“Sure, fine.”

Lin’s hands cup the speakers of her chunky black headphones, finally adjusting them over her ears as she continues working. And she shoots you one last thumbs-up before you retreat from her office.

For several days thereafter, the thoughts consume you, to recall Lin’s requests for a more personal relationship to the interview subject. There hasn’t been an instance yet in which you’ve been made to falsify the closeness of a subject to you- in fact, you’re usually encouraged to keep your distance, knowing very well that a story can get compromising when the lines between boundaries are almost blurred.

You think back to her suggestion to scope out the spots he frequents, which seems like an impossible task when you’re already bearing the burden of trying to know him at all. And one evening, as her words replay in your troubled mind for the umpteenth time, the solution finds you first- in the form of said cocky athlete himself.

The streets are eerily dark at the hour, nothing more than the occasional pass of a car along the blackened road as you keep to the sidewalk, hands shoved in the pockets of your coat and your gaze fixed on the towering buildings ahead. It’s not uncommon to depart the office at ungodly hours during the process of filming a docuseries like this one, especially since you usually opt to keep Lin company while she makes final edits. The neighboring buildings are already cleared out for the night, the parking lots are mostly empty, and the world is quiet as you trudge the short walk back to your apartment.

At the corner of the intersection, a small convenience store, dimly lit by the ominous flicker of street lamps, and largely uninviting to the fleeting passerby. But one you’re familiar with, often opting to make a quick stop for a bite to eat before you go home for the night.

The chime of a bell on the door announces your arrival, making your way past shelves of baked goods to where the pre-packaged foods lie. And aside from the slow lull of jazz music over the muffled speakers, it’s quiet in the convenience store, nothing except the faint sounds of shuffling surrounding you as a cashier stocks produce by the register.

“Do you guys have them in yet?” A voice calls loudly as the door swings open, the bell ringing erratically with its movement. It’s piercing- obnoxious, even, to disturb the once much-appreciated peace of the shop like this. And who else present to disturb the peace at this hour, except for an athlete, a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder as he takes long strides toward the fridge.

“Oh, you do!” he emphasizes, pulling open the handle of the fridge in a hasty motion, as he begins to pile armfuls of what appear to be popsicles in the desperate grasp of his toned arms.

“Did you know these are like, three times the price if you purchase them online?”

The cashier says nothing, giving the athlete a small bow as he continues stockpiling and talking his ear off to no one in particular- and then the athlete pivots on one foot, locking his gaze with yours, a soft chuckle emitting from between his plump lips.

“Are you following me?”

“Me?” You counter, scoffing lightly at him. “I was literally in here before you.”

“I always come here after practice. I’ve never seen you around before.”

“I’m always here after work,” you argue, crossing your arms and maintaining your stance. “I could say the same.”

He rolls his eyes, gesturing to the counter with a nod of his head. “Put it down. I’ll pay.”

“What- no, there’s no need to pay for me. I’m just leaving.”

“Come on,” Chan protests. “You’re trailing after me as though I might be in here buying something seedy. It’s clever- I’ll give you that. Let me pay for you.”

Your eyes narrow in response, reluctantly approaching him and setting down your own dessert of choice onto the counter by the register. The cashier begins to scan your items, the rhythmic beep filling the awkward silence that overtakes you two as Chan keeps his gaze fixed on your standing figure. And then he pulls a black leather wallet out from the loose-fitting gym shorts he wears, grasping a card between his middle and index finger and handing it to the cashier.

He says nothing still, maintaining an almost satisfied expression on his face as the cashier bags his horde of popsicles, and then he gestures to the door once again with a nod of his head.

Chan assumes a spot on the curb by his parked car- a fairly humble two-seater. And the plastic convenience store bag sits open between the two of you as he works on his first popsicle of the evening, twirling the wooden stick between his slender fingers as the sticky residue trickles down and houses itself on the concrete below.

“How’s it coming along?” Chan breaks the silence, eyeing you out of the peripherals of his big brown eyes. “The series, I mean.”

“Fine,” you reply, doing your best not to mirror his mess as you work on a small cup of vanilla ice cream. “The first interview is all set to air.”

“I heard. I hope you didn’t have to edit out too much of my awkward conversation.”

A light chuckle escapes your lips, shaking your head as you dip the wooden spoon back into your cup.

“No, you did well. I’m actually surprised at how genuine you come off to the cameras.”

“Surprising that I’m genuine? I’ll do my best to take that as a compliment.”

“It’s hardly one,” you voice back. “All you athletes are the same. But I suppose you are well-versed in the art of boxing and media-training alike.”

You’re quiet for a moment as you observe the quiet streets across from you both.

“I’ve always said the second most intimate thing you can do with a person is interview them. You make an impressive subject.”

“All me, thank you very much.”

Chan chuckles and shakes his head as he practically chews through the remainder of his popsicle, toying with the bare wooden stick as a silence overtakes you both.

He studies the concrete for a moment, the gentle scrape of the wooden popsicle stick on the ground making itself known as he searches for the words to say. And then the soft rustle of the plastic convenience store bag, as he digs through and collects his second popsicle of the evening.

“Are you scared?” You query, your voice a little quieter than before as you prod at your vanilla ice cream with the wooden spoon.

“Scared?”

“Yeah, for the series to air. People are going to start recognizing you when you go out. It always happens.”

Chan cocks his head in response, a satisfied smile pulling onto his lips as he ponders your words. And then his expression seems to drop again, grasping the popsicle stick between his fingers as he observes the way it melts in his touch, the residue trickling gently onto the pads of his fingers and down the bases of his wrists.

“I’m not scared,” Chan says finally. “I get punched by people for a living. There’s so little that actually scares me at this point.”

You think back to Lin’s request to get a little more out of him, pondering his words for a moment as you inhale before speaking once again.

“Then, if I may ask- what does scare you?”

And deep down, you know it’s unlikely you’ll receive a substantial response- it’s like pulling teeth searching for honesty from an athlete, and Chan is evidently no stranger to this phenomenon of insincerity and projection.

The low hum of a car engine is heard as the only other car in the parking lot begins to exit. You take note of the still-flickering street lamps, the vacant roads across the convenience store. And the way Chan’s breath hitches in the back of his throat, as if he’s conjured up an answer far too heavy to relay from between his parted lips, letting it instead dissipate once more as he laps at the sticky popsicle residue on his inner forearms.

“What scares me,” he begins, tongue tracing the outline of sherbet liquid along his veiny arms. “Is the rest of these popsicles melting. Come on, I have a freezer back at the gym.”

“Are you asking me to go with you? I’m going home, not to some sweat-ridden gym with your stash of popsicles.”

“I’m not letting you walk home at this hour, if that’s what you think you’re doing. Come on, it’s just a two minute drive from here and then I’ll take you back to your place.”

“I’m fine, thank you very much.”

Chan waits for you to say something else, silently hoping you’ll just agree without protest. But when you don’t, he gathers the plastic bag by the thinning handles, steadying himself with one hand on the concrete and standing up beside you.

“I’ll meet you in the car,” he says plainly, brushing his shorts off and averting your gaze.

The blinding glow of his car’s headlights reflect off the convenience store windows across him, and Chan watches as you bring a hand up to shield your eyesight while you rise from the curb. You can’t make out his expression in the flood of light that now surrounds you, but Chan’s lips curl into a knowing smile as you approach the passenger’s side, letting yourself in beside him and shifting the bag of popsicles out of your spot.

Of course, he’ll never know that you’re only agreeing to tag along in the unique instance you can gather something of substance for the purpose of your series, the way the network is now pushing you to do.

“Two minutes,” you voice back to him. “And then I want to be dropped off at my place.”

“Seatbelt?”

Your hands find their way to the buckle, pulling it across your torso and fastening it with a frustrated sigh.

“Two minutes,” you emphasize again.

Chan just chuckles lightly, extending an arm behind your headrest as he begins to pull out of the parking lot. And then he begins toward his training gym, in the same direction as your place of work.

“Don’t touch anything. I’m just gonna pop these in the freezer.”

Chan takes long strides down the gym with his plastic bag in hand, flipping on a series of light switches as he passes and illuminating the space with harsh white lighting.

At one end of the room lie rows upon rows of heavy weights, scattered carelessly and in no particular order along the rubber carpeted flooring. The other end of the room houses a long line of punching bags, cylindrical black leather masses that hang from metal chains and adhere to the dark gray walls that border the gym. And in the corner of the gym, your eye is drawn to a large boxing ring, elevated onto a black square surface, with tight black ropes that line the perimeter.

Though you’ve interviewed your fair share of athletes, you’re not sure you’ve ever been so intimately close to their place of work like this before, and it’s admittedly fascinating to finally visualize the gym he speaks of when he interviews.

Your hand caresses the rope which lines the boxing ring, looped around and pulled taut around each metal pillar at four of the corners, and you wonder how many times Chan has ducked to traverse beyond these ropes in a practice run or even a match. It’s the same ring which plays a role in his winning streak- and the same ring his opponent, Kang-Dae practices in, making strategic entrances around the clock so as not to accidentally run into each other.

As you admire the boxing ring, you fish a small digital camera out from the purse slung around your shoulder, snapping a generous set of photos and zooming in to all the intricate details.

“It’s been around since the 80’s,” a voice says, startling you amidst the silence. “Home to some of the greats. I practically live here.”

Chan’s hands are stuffed in the pockets of his shorts, the plastic bag now absent as he examines the boxing ring, too.

“The same one Kang-Dae practices in,” you reply.

“Exactly.”

He nods toward the back of the room, the curls of his hair largely concealed by the black beanie he wears on his head falling loosely into his eyes as he glances over at a boxing bag.

“I’m told he’s partial to the ones at the back of the room. I never use those ones- it’s weird using the same equipment he does.”

You nod slowly at his words, imagining what you envision Kang-Dae to look like, throwing punches at the bag in the back of the room. He’s probably similar to that of Chan’s stature- lean, muscular, chiseled features. And maybe even a handsome face to go with all of it.

“Which ones do you use, then?”

Chan chuckles lightly, meeting your gaze as he answers. “Middle of the ring,” he states with a shrug. “Gotta get used to standing in it.”

You observe the way Chan glances back at the boxing bag hanging in the center of the boxing ring, the chain fastened along a metal track so that it can be moved in and out of the vast space. And then you toy with the camera in your grasp once more, your fingers delicately grazing over the shutter release as you eye the space ahead.

“Could I…record you in it?” You ask him hesitantly, averting his curious gaze when he turns to look back at you.

“For the series?” He asks, a growing smile making itself known as he gestures to the ring.

“Yes, for the series. I’m not really looking to have a personal collection of photos of you, if that’s what you think is happening.”

Chan tosses his head back in amused laughter, and then he gestures to the ring with a wave of his hand, bowing a little and instructing you to lead the way.

The ring is considerably more intimidating from the center of the elevated platform. A glance around the room feels like you’re in the middle of an active match, and you can’t possibly comprehend how Chan does this with hundreds of eyes on him, analyzing his every move and holding him to the standard of a consistent winner. In fact, you can’t imagine how anybody could muster up the courage to be stood here on their own accord.

“This is where the magic happens,” Chan says, his hands on his hips as he cranes his neck to examine the top of the punching bag.

You bring the camera up as he speaks, shutting one eye and snapping a photo of Chan next to the punching bag, adjusting the zoom a little to more closely capture the scene as you snap a few more photos. When you’ve gathered an adequate amount, you then transition to record the scene, holding the camera in front of your chest as you watch Chan position himself in front of the punching bag.

“Can you show us a few tricks?”

Chan’s eyes form little crinkles as he smiles, cocking his head and stretching his arms up above him in preparation. His black tank top rides up a little as he does, exposing the toned strip of flesh between his waistline and the hem of his shirt, and you shake your head a little when you take notice, forcing your attention back on his upper body.

“Anything?” Chan asks, glancing at the camera.

“Yeah,” you shrug in reply. “Just show us a few moves.”

His hands form fists in front of him, knees bent slightly and his legs angled toward the punching bag. And then he pulls back, chin tucked against his upper body, swiftly pushing his fist forward and hitting the bag with an echoing thump.

“That’s a cross,” Chan explains, glancing back toward the camera. “Just a straight punch.”

He pulls back once more, delivering another harsh punch to the bag, and then his right arm bends out at the elbow, striking at an entirely new angle.

“That one’s a hook,” he says a little louder this time. “Sort of how you get in from the side.”

“Show us your hardest,” you call out to Chan, adjusting the lens to capture his full stance. “Imagine it was somebody you hated.”

Chan cocks his head slightly, an overconfident smile on his chiseled face as he positions his arms in front of him. And then he retracts again, throwing a much stronger punch this time, his hand shooting upward from waist-level, a harsh thud echoing around the ring as his fist makes impact. He throws another one with the other hand now, and then another, and then several more, teeth gritting as sharp breaths escaping his lips while he throws punch after punch, the bag swaying with every firm strike.

Your camera lens adjusts as he moves, capturing the entirety of his swift movements, zooming into his skilled hands and then panning up to his face, where his nostrils flare and his eyebrows seem to slant into a frown.

He looks passionate as he moves, his whole being seeming as though it’s being overcome with intense emotion, namely some form of resentment, you think, as he strikes the bag over and over again. You watch through the viewfinder of the camera as he keeps his angry gaze on the bag, growing irate when it sways back toward him, where he proceeds to hit back ten times harder. You study his face through the grainy film, at an expression you’ve never studied on him before this. He looks different- almost scary.

“That’s good,” you call out, to no avail, as Chan delivers another robust hit to the bag.

“I got it,” you call out a little louder, and after one last strike from the angle of the exposed flesh on his stomach upward to the bag, he finally stops, catching the bag when it sways back toward him and grasping it firmly in both hands.

Chan keeps his head down, looking a little ashamed as he catches his breath. You can hear the heavy pants that escape his lips when he turns to meet your gaze at last,

his eyebrows narrowed sternly as he looks at you. And then he brings a bruised knuckle up to his forehead, wiping off beads of sweat that trickle down his temple and flicking them off to the side with a wave of his hand.

“Uppercut,” he says hoarsely.

“Hm?”

“The move,” Chan continues. “Good for opponents.”

And then he hangs his head once more, flipping up his shirt to wipe off the remainder of sweat that accumulates on his tanned skin. You force your gaze onto his concealed face, not daring to examine the toned set of abs visible to you at this proximity.

“Best for people you hate,” he then speaks into the fabric of his shirt. And you simply nod meekly in response, stuffing the camera back into the pocket of your coat.

“Say it again, but to the camera this time” You say to Chan between laughter, as he brings another wooden stick up to his lips, working his tongue around the base with a harsh sucking noise.

Two minutes at Chan’s training gym have quickly turned to two hours, and in all his persuasive athlete ways, he’d somehow convinced you that he required another popsicle before drawing a close to the evening.

“These are the best popsicles in the city,” Chan states, holding the half-melted treat up by his face as though he’s advertising it.

“It’s just the right amount of sherbet. Not too much, but just enough to satisfy a sweet tooth. I’m genuinely convinced there’s not a single thing that couldn’t be cured with one of these things.”

“Got fired at work,” you challenge.

“Easily cured by a popsicle.”

“Fight with your spouse.”

“Popsicle.”

“Lost a boxing match,” you voice to him, almost doubling over in laughter when he sucks in a sharp breath and cocks his head.

“It’s a tough one. But with the right amount of sherbet, I promise you’ll make it out unscathed.”

Shared laughter fills the room as he laps up the remainder of his dessert, and then he tosses yet another popsicle stick aside, swinging his legs off the ledge of the raised boxing platform and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. As you set aside the camera once more, he hoists himself up a little further as he grasps the taut strings that surround the ring, and then he lies back entirely on the smooth surface, shutting his eyes briefly as a silence washes over you both.

Chan’s hands fold over his chest, atop the thin fabric tank top that rides up again to expose the band of his boxers, and when he feels you staring, one eye opens to meet your gaze again, a curious smile on his face.

“What?” He asks.

“Nothing,” you reply quickly, shaking your head to avert his stare. Your fingers loop around the taut rope, too, plucking at the wired material and watching it vibrate with the recoil.

Chan maintains the smug smile for a moment, a little amused at your evident shyness. And then he pats the spot behind you, beckoning you to join him in assuming a spot on the floor of the boxing ring. You begin to tell him that you should really be heading home, well aware of how long you’ve already occupied the gym, likely committing some form of trespassing by staying here. But as your eyes scan his lying figure, you think back to the interviews- it’s a miracle you’ve gotten him to loosen up even this much around you. Maybe if you stay, you can coax some form of truth out of him; a story worth telling.

So with a gentle sigh, your fingers loosen their grasp around the rope, lying flat against the smooth surface of the ring, at a close proximity alongside Chan’s languid body. It’s probably prohibited somewhere within the unspoken rules of being an earnest journalist, to lie down beside an interview subject like this. But when your hands finally fold over your own chest, the only feeling present is that of calmness, of unwavering stillness, as the low buzz of the overhead lights emits from above you.

Chan keeps his eyes shut for a while, and amidst the deafening silence, it’s almost too loud when he finally swallows a knot in his throat and speaks in a voice just above a whisper.

“Sometimes I wish I could just turn my brain off,” Chan admits quietly. “I feel like I can still hear the commotion all around me.”

Echoes of training ring through his ears as though they’re lullabies engrained deep into his memory- the strikes to hanging leather bags, the heavy grunts that escape parted lips as men lift weights three times their size, the hot showers that run around the clock as athletes relish in their wins and dwell all their losses. Even with eyes shut tightly, Chan swears he can still see pairs of eyes observing him carefully, analyzing his every move and holding him to the standards of a consistent winner.

Angle your fist upward. Quicker on the footwork. Harder. Faster.

Atta boy. Be a man. Be a winner.

It’s only when his coach has gone home for the evening, when the other athletes file out of the training gym one by one, towels slung over their broad shoulders and duffel bags packed with spare gloves and changes of clothes. It’s when he’s the last shower of the night, letting scorching water roll off his toned body, steam fogging the mirrors until his own reflection is indistinguishable to him once more. And it’s when he’s concluded throwing practice punches in the now-empty ring, his muscular back parallel to the floor of the ring just like this, and his eyes fixed on the gray industrial ceilings and recess lights. It’s only then that he isn’t so easily defined by a winning streak.

In fact, his wins mean nothing in the absence of other athletes, who are also defined by the numerical realities of trophies gained and matches lost. The world feels much clearer to him like this, no longer clouded by the gym chatter and bruised knuckles that seek permanent shelter in his conscience. He’s just Bang Chan- not a winner, not even a boxer. Just Chan.

And though he allows it to consume him entirely, often replacing his curiosity for the world around him and a lingering loneliness with the insatiable appetite to fight, win, conquer- he knows deep down that it’s still not all of him. There remains a sort of fragility tucked somewhere beyond all this rigidness- there’s still a heavy humanness underneath these conjectures that he’s the ‘perfect boxer’.

What is a winning streak relative to an empty boxing ring? What is a spectator relative to a participant? What are concealed identities relative to a lifetime of falsifying new ones?

“What does it feel like?” You ask Chan, and he opens his eyes to examine the gray pipes that run along the ceilings once more.

For a fleeting moment, the dual identity he keeps tucked away makes its way to the forefront, silently admonishing how this all really feels to him- how the sounds that ring throughout his ears are far too loud at times, among a myriad of other admissions.

“It’s a bit much,” Chan responds with a deep sigh. And then he sits up once more, gesturing to the wall of photos across you, neat rows of famous boxers who once inhabited this ring so triumphantly assuming a spot within these gym walls permanently.

“See that?” Chan queries. You sit up, too, following his gaze to the largest photo in the middle, a confident smile painted on the monochrome subject’s face.

“Baik Hyun-Man,” you voice from beside him. “The boxer.”

He’s a little impressed when he turns to face you again, perhaps not having taken you very seriously the first time you dubbed yourself a fan of his, too.

“I want to be like him,” Chan confesses, his voice just above a whisper. “I want to be a winner. I want people to view me like that- always.”

Your words don’t make it past your tongue, which you bite impassively, instead nodding your head and letting a silence fall over you both. You don’t grant him the encouragement he seeks- in fact, you don’t even grant him a proper response.

You simply hum- and whether the verbalization serves as a form of agreement, or as utter dismay for concealing anything beyond the most predictable version of him he brings to you- that is for him to decipher.

Part one of Chan’s docuseries is aired that same week, just after five, on your network’s channel.

You watch on your television, completely immersed, as the familiar tune of your intro starts up, your phone already flooded with texts from colleagues who also tune in to the event.

“He’s so charming,” one texts you, as Chan appears on the screen, recalling stories of his early boxing days and verbally admiring the efforts of his opponent, Kang-Dae.

“Great start to the series,” your boss relays in her message to you, as Chan details his impressive his winning streak, a cocky smile plastered on his handsome face.

“I feel like you bring out something special in him,” Lin’s text reads- one which you read over several times, while your shared moment with Chan plays in the background, both of you reeling over the old documentary which preceded your careers. The very same clip you requested Lin cut out of the docu series- a clip that wasn't planned.

Your attention falls entirely on the way his face lights up as he speaks of the Iron Gentleman, contrary to the rest of the interview, where he delivers otherwise predictable responses and maintains a polite disposition. There’s a lighter tone to his voice when he’s made aware that you’ve also seen the series- and a visible sparkle in his eyes when he looks at you, impressed by the niche similarity you both share. Although unplanned, Lin is right- it’s undoubtedly the highlight of the interview, to watch him break down his walls and give the audience a glimpse into something beyond his boxing career. Part one of his series is certainly not a complete story- but it alludes to the notion that he does harbor a much more complex version of it, somewhere deep down inside of him.

And when the first reviews begin to roll in , Lin is the first to greet you, a piece of paper grasped firmly in her hands as she rushes up to meet you before you’ve even made it to your desk.

“The people love him,” she says enthusiastically, trailing beside you as you shuffle past to your desk.

“Listen to this,” she continues. “The network follows up-and-coming boxer Christopher Bang Chan as he prepares for the biggest fight of his life- in what just may be the biggest docuseries since that which preceded Hyun Man’s championship ring fight.”

“What?” You exclaim, halting your motion of digging through your purse to lock eyes with her ecstatic expression.

“I know!” she replies, practically shoving the paper toward you and directing your gaze upon the printed words. “Read the rest of it!”

Your eyes scan the dark black ink printed along the top of the newspaper, Lin’s finger directing you to where the paragraph continues with the gesture or her manicured finger.

“We were immediately captivated not only by Bang Chan’s remarkable looks, which seem to give models a run for their money, but by the essence in which he speaks of his craft- educational, yet alluring. It’s hard to ignore the chemistry in which interviewer y/n maintains as she tells his story, and we’re equally as satisfied with both subjects’ visible passion for the athletes which once dominated the network’s airtime. The series, which will air until Bang Chan’s Golden Gloves Championship fight, will follow his tale to stardom- and the underlying story he seeks to share with the world in the process.”

Lin lets out an excited squeal when you conclude speaking, patting your hand as she retrieves the paper once more and scans the bold text for the nth time this morning.

“People are seriously into him,” she emphasizes, raising her eyebrows in a knowing manner. “All these intimate looks at his life have people talking like crazy. I mean, we haven’t seen ratings this high since I can’t even remember when.”

You chuckle lightly, fishing around again for your phone in your purse and shrugging in her direction.

“Sure, he’s a little charming, I’ll give him that. People are just sorta drawn to people like him, I suppose.”

“Sorta?” Lin questions. “There’s other networks calling us to request they take over the series from here. They’re dying to know everything about him. Especially because of his winning streak.”

With your phone in hand, you pause again, meeting her gaze and furrowing your brows.

“Really? Why’s it so special to everybody?”

“Because,” she begins. “There hasn’t been an athlete competing in the Golden Gloves Championship with a winning streak like his in maybe 20 years. It makes his title fight appealing to everybody that way, not just to sports fanatics. He’s a handsome boxer and who never loses- and our network’s about to capture the biggest win of his life.”

You finally assume your spot on the swivel chair by your desk as she hovers over you, trying your best to make sense of the words as they leave her lips.

All around you, the office seems particularly busy today, colleagues chatting amongst themselves, sauntering quickly by your desk with video equipment and manila envelopes in hand. The sounds seem to crescendo as you take note of the phone lines that ring nonstop, filling the space with a constant shrill sound as colleagues rush to take messages. Amidst the overlapping voices, you can hear them conversing about ratings, requests for interviews and plans for the remainder of the series. And as you turn back to Lin, you also take note of the big smile plastered across her face- an expression you don’t typically see on an otherwise aloof producer like herself.

“You took my advice, and look where it’s gotten us already,” she says to you. “If you can manage to pull more out of him, I think we’ll have something really good here. Get closer- dig deeper.”

“I’m really trying here, but I don’t know how much closer I’ll be able to get,” you tell her.

Lin shrugs as she watches you glance at your phone, your eyes widening at the sight of several missed calls and texts.

“Took a message for you,” she says with a subtle purse of her lips. “He asked you to swing by the gym. Get out there- and bring every camera you have. He doesn’t take a breath before the camera shoots it.”

You glance past Lin’s standing figure at the giant glass windows of the office, the sun largely obscured by the cloudy weather and the towering buildings that surround it. It’s suffocating at this hour, just a little too busy for your liking, the atmosphere looming with talks of Chan and Chan and more Chan.

You know stopping by the gym will likely just irritate you more, and yet when Lin’s eager expression scans the paper in her hands once more, pupils dancing over written accounts of Chan’s passion for boxing and an underlying story the general public is somehow convinced you’ll unveil to them, you let out a frustrated sigh, gathering your purse once again and pushing your chair back in against your desk.

And Lin shoots you a small, yet knowing smile, as she observes you make your way back to the office entrance.

“Harder. No hooks this time.”

Hit.

“There you go! Now let’s see it all together.”

Chan ducks as his trainer throws a hit, and then his left fist darts out to deliver a harsh jab as he maintains his quick-paced footwork around the ring.

You watch from the entrance of the gym as he circles around the ring, eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration and beads of sweat trickling down his clenched jaw. His punches echo thunderously around the gym, his sneakers squeaking along the floor as he ducks again to evade another hit. And then he delivers one more hard punch to the palm of his trainer’s mitt, pulling away when his trainer gives a simple nod in response.

“Very good. Take five.”

Chan lets his head hang loosely as he catches his breath, his trainer undoing the velcro mitt straps around his wrists and making his way to the equipment room with them. You approach cautiously, one hand clutching the strap of your purse over your shoulder, as the other fiddles nervously with the hem of your shirt.

Chan takes note when you approach, his head snapping in your direction from where he remains standing. And then he approaches, too, a smile on his lips as he struts toward you and adjusts the black bandages around his knuckles.

“You actually showed!” Chan remarks with a chuckle.

“You asked me to stop by,” you say in response, observing the way he pulls the wires border apart to duck and hoist himself off the platform, now standing in front of you as he leans casually against the ring.

“I know. I just didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have much of a choice. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Chan chuckles lightly. “I just like your company.”

“That’s it? You know I’m supposed to be working, right?”

“Relax,” Chan assures you. “I called your office this morning. Told them we needed you here to collect some boxing paraphernalia of the sort. Didn’t get any protest from the big boss.”

Your eyes narrow as Chan reaches behind him and brings forth a plastic water bottle, bringing it to his lips and taking a generous swig. You observe the way he downs half of the bottle in one guttural swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing twice as he now finishes off the water, and then pulls it away from him once more with a gentle pop as the suction from between his lips is broken. A single drop of water trickles down beside his plump lips, and he brings one veiny arm out in front of him to wipe it with his inner wrist, careful to avoid making contact with his bandages.

When Chan notices you staring, he gestures to his bandaged hand with a nod of his head as he speaks. “They get all gross when I wet them,” he explains simply. “Ever had athlete’s foot on your hands?”

“Ew, no,” you say with a small laugh.

He holds your gaze for a moment, as though he wants to ask something, and then he rejects the idea entirely, standing up a little straighter when his coach returns from the equipment room at the back.

“Who’s this?” The man asks, a stern expression on his face as he approaches.

“Oh, uh… sorry, I’m-”

“This is y/n,” Chan interjects. “She’s the interviewer we’ve been talking about.”

“It’s you!” His coach exclaims, scoffing as does a once-over of your timid figure. He’s much broader than Chan is, his buff arms folding over themselves as he leans back against the ring beside Chan. You quickly recognize him as the gentleman who accompanied Chan during your first introduction to him.

“I watched the first part when it aired,” he states. “You somehow make him seem interesting. Didn’t know that was possible.”

Chan laughs and shakes his head, a pink blush creeping upon his cheeks as you laugh, too.

“You can call me Mr. Seo,” his coach says finally, extending a calloused hand to you, his fingers grasping firmly around yours as you shake. “I’ve been training the guy since he was just a little shorter than he is now.”

“Alllll right,” Chan interrupts with a chuckle. “You’re free to go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Seo retorts sarcastically. And then turns to face you once more, furrowing his brows as he points a finger in your direction and cocks his head slightly.

“You’ll be at the fight, correct?” He inquires.

“We’re televising it,” you respond with a nod. “I’ll be there to watch.”

Chan’s eyes flicker over your gaze momentarily, and then over Mr. Seo’s expression as he nods.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Mr. Seo says with a chuckle. “I think there’s still a person somewhere deep inside there.”

Chan shakes his head sheepishly and then averts your gaze when you turn to look at him again.

“We’re done for the day, yeah?” He asks in a low voice, practically begging Mr. Seo to make his departure from the gym.

“Yeah,” Mr. Seo responds, his eyebrows raising in your direction as he cocks his head again. “I’m on my way out. It was great meeting you!”

You nod at Mr. Seo, watching as he gathers a black bag off the floor and hoists it over his shoulder.

Chan keeps his head hung as Mr. Seo gets further away from both of your still-standing figures, and then he glances up only when he hears the heavy door push open to indicate his exit.

For a moment, neither of you say anything, a heavy tension making itself known between you. You wonder briefly what could have offended Chan about Mr. Seo’s remark- and then you make a mental note to badger Chan about it later, when he’s properly on camera.

“I need to make a little day trip,” Chan finally says with a click of his tongue. “So you’re coming with.”

“Depends where we’re going.”

“About an hour up north. I left some boxing equipment, and I need it back.”

You hold back a smile as Chan leans back against the ring once more, his eyebrows raised at the same time his lips pull back into a smirk. He maintains a knowing grin as he holds your gaze, as though he already knows you can’t decline the offer. And he’s right- despite fulfilling the role of a work subject, and being forced to spend time with him at practically all hours of the day, there’s something about him you just can’t bring yourself to say no to.

You also can’t help but wonder what’s in this for him- sure, he maintains the fact that you need video footage. And you do, still finding yourself eager to capture all the intimate moments of his life which you already know contribute to his charming persona, one which audiences have been captivated by after just one episode of his series. But you can’t help but feel as though he may possess more motives for keeping you around this closely. Maybe it’s a product of the series’ early success- and maybe it has something to do with the truths he can’t seem to utter.

True to the way he lives his life at full-speed, Chan drives fast. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel, making smooth turns with the palm of his hand as he sits slouched comfortably in the driver’s seat, his vacant hand resting over the center console between you.

The conversation flows with ease, as though you’ve always known him, and Chan details all the mundane intricacies that come with being a boxer for the entirety of the car ride. He doesn’t speak of anything more personal than his start to boxing, yet he upholds his privacy with such dexterity, making cautious attempts to reroute the conversation when it steers any closer to him than he intends it to. And though he makes himself out to be one of two things at any given moment, chuckling lightly as he defines himself somewhere between “perfervid and steadfast”, there’s an underlying tenderness to him, the kind you can observe only in the transient moments in which he doesn’t speak of his work.

You catch a glimpse of it when he laughs at his own jokes, eyes forming little creases under his temples when he fills the space with the melodic sound of “ha ha’s” at tales of his childhood. You notice it in the way he speaks of the people he holds close to him, dubbing Mr. Seo a “lifesaver”, a “best friend” and a “hero” in the same breath. And it’s present every time he asks you a question, his eyes full of concentration as he waits for you to detail your work to him in return, usually met with the gentle reminder that he need not interview the interviewer. Yet he remains the first athlete to try and do so in your presence- a fact you’re undoubtedly charmed by.

When Chan announces your arrival at the undisclosed location, you do a double-take, furrowing your brows in confusion when he comes around to open the passenger’s car door for you.

“Where are we?” You query, stepping out and glancing at the scenery which surrounds you both.

You’re knee deep in the suburbs and well on the outskirts of city life, the clean-paved roads lined with modest-sized homes and yellowing lawns. The overcast skies are much clearer without the obstruction of skyscrapers and billboards, and in the far distance, you can make out the euphonious hum of a mourning dove’s coo.

“I told you,” Chan replies. “Here for some equipment.”

He gestures for you to follow up the cement steps that lead to a single painted door at the front, and once you’re both positioned at the entrance, he rings the doorbell confidently, glancing down at the coir doormat and prodding at it with the sole of his shoe.

“Mom bought new ones,” he says simply, and your head snaps in his direction.

“Mom?”

Before he can properly answer, the door is swung open with the heavy creak of the latch, and you’re met with who you can only presume to be Chan’s mother, a warm smile on her face as her arms extend out to him for an embrace.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming!” She exclaims, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders and laughing lightly. Her eyes form little crinkles the same way his do, and her features robustly resemble all of his.

“And you,” she now says as she pulls away. “Must be the movie-maker.”

You smile politely at her, eyes flickering over Chan momentarily before you nod in response.

“I’m just the interviewer,” you say in response. “I do get a few pieces of footage here and there, too. It’s nice to meet you.”

Your invitation for a handshake is interrupted by her arms embracing you, too, which you reciprocate in a warm hug.

“I left my training gloves,” Chan voices to her. “Did you see them anywhere?”

“I left them on the console table. You’re always forgetting something.”

Chan smiles in response, and then he kicks off his shoes when she gestures for him to come inside. You mirror the action, following his lead into their house, and then you trail after Chan to the console table where a pair of black boxing gloves lie.

As he collects them, you take in the atmosphere, eyeing the decor curiously as his mom assumes a spot on the couch.

It’s a humble little household, no bigger than any of the other houses on the street, but there’s clear indication that it’s lived-in, from the framed photos that line the walls, to the cabinets of trophies that accompany the furniture. You thumb over the strap of your camera as you walk in strides, knowing the network will be elated you managed to get this close to your interview subject. From the photos in frames atop the glass coffee tables, to the collection of medals that decorate the space by the cabinets, every reward and heirloom is more footage, more praise, higher ratings.

And above the couch, a pair of bright blue boxing gloves hung on a single nail, exactly like Chan previously mentioned.

“Are those your first boxing gloves?” You ask suddenly, drawing attention from Mrs. Bang as she cranes her neck to look at them. Chan gives a half-smile as he turns to look at them, too, and then he nods before speaking.

“Yeah, that’s them. They were a little too big for me when I bought them.”

“I was so proud of him,” Mrs. Bang chimes in. “I had to buy a second pair just to display his first.”

You smile in her direction as she folds her hands in her lap, and then your hands run over the bag you wear slung over your shoulder.

“Could I possibly film you answering a couple questions?” You ask Mrs. Bang suddenly, fishing around for the digital camera you brought along with you. “Just a few basic ones about Chan. I promise it won’t take long.”

Your gaze turns to Chan to gauge his reaction, and you’re met with an encouraging nod as he gestures to his mother.

“Of course!” his mom says, smoothing down her dress as she beckons you over. “I’m an open book.”

You take the seat across from her, running your index finger over the release shutter as you fidget with the settings. And then you catch Chan’s gaze once more, your eyes flickering at his anticipatory expression and then beyond his figure into the hallway.

“Chan, do you mind if I interview her… alone?” You request, heartbeat quickening in your chest. “These are really basic questions. I just find that people are a little more detailed when the film subject isn’t directly present.”

Chan shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants awkwardly, chewing nervously on the inside of his lip as he glances at his mother. A silent few seconds go by, and you conclude that his lack of response indicates disapproval of the request.

“I can also just not conduct the interview if that’s better for you-”

“No, that’s fine,” Chan says finally. “I’ll wait out in the garage.”

He gives a small nod in the direction of his mother, as if to request that she uphold the self-contained image he projects, and then he pivots on his heel, disappearing past the hallway toward the direction of his once makeshift gym.

“I wanted to ask you about what Chan was like growing up,” you begin as you turn toward her again, positioning the camera on a side table and adjusting to fix on her face. “Was he always so set on being a boxer?”

“Oh, precisely,” she says, folding her hands over her crossed knees. “I couldn’t get him to do nearly anything outside of going to the gym. At age 12, he was lifting weights twice his own. And by 14, he was training with Mr. Seo. Did you know he missed his own graduation ceremony to participate in some fight?”

“I didn’t know that,” you say with a chuckle.

“He did. He’d also box himself inside that little garage every summer, just practicing. I had to drag him inside for dinner most days.”

“So he’s always had this sort of tunnel vision.”

“Yes, I think so. He was never outside with the other kids, never really had many friends. It wasn’t for a lack of making them- he just found more joy in training with Mr. Seo than doing anything else a typical kid his age would do.”

You nod as she speaks, and then you watch as her lips curl into a small smile.

“In the summer, he would practice all day long in our dingy little garage. It was always scorching hot, so I’d bring him his favorite ice cream to cool down. I think watching his excitement for those ice cream bars is the last time I can recall him feeling like a little kid. He grew up so fast.”

“Sherbet ones,” you voice to her, and she points to you with a cheerful smile on her face.

“Yes, those ones!”

You chuckle as you think of the ones she speaks of, not having guessed they were a staple which preceded his career, and not just some random fixation of his.

Mrs. Bang shakes her head as she recalls memories, and then she cranes her neck to eye the hanging boxing gloves again.

“Sometimes I worry about him,” she confesses in a low voice.

You observe the way her eyebrows furrow into an expression of concern, and you tilt your head when she hangs hers, trying your best to make sense of the shift in tone.

“What do you mean?” You ask, knowing very well these aren’t in fact, the basic questions you promised Chan you would be aiming at her.

“He gets so wrapped up in it- especially when he has a fight around the corner. It’s all he does, all he thinks about.”

Mrs. Bang shakes her head for a moment, and then she meets your gaze again, speaking in a rushed tone.

“He didn’t sleep for three days once,” she announces. “Do you know how hard it was to see him like that?”

You don’t reply immediately, taking note of the visible tears that brim her eyes, which she wipes away with the gentle stroke of a manicured finger.

“He’s so down on himself all the time,” Mrs. Bang continues. “He’s so preoccupied with being the best at what he does. And I can’t help but think there’s something keeping him down.”

“Like what?”

She sniffles loudly once, shrugging her shoulders and flickering her gaze over the camera, as though suddenly remembering she’s being recorded.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Bang admits. “Maybe you’ll figure it out for us.”

She purses her lips sheepishly when she concludes speaking, resuming the action of wiping off her runny mascara, and then you turn to the camera quickly, shutting off the recording and collecting it in your grasp once more.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it so depressing,” she says in a frail voice.”I think a lot of us are just worried about what this fight could mean for him. For his future.”

“No, please don’t apologize,” you say to her quickly. “It’s admirable that you’re so preoccupied with his career. I can just cut out that last part.”

Mrs. Bang just folds her hands neatly in her lap, but she says nothing to you, no verbal request to omit the footage or steer clear of publicizing the concern she houses for her own son. The thought passes you by, momentarily, to ask her if she’s okay being this vulnerable on camera- but when Mrs. Bang clears her throat and speaks again, you swallow your words, straightening your posture and turning your attention onto her seated figure once more.

“He’s a born winner,” she finishes. “I guess that comes at a cost.”

And the cost isn’t so easily visible to you at such proximity to Chan, who spends the duration of lunch shoving food around his plate with the tip of his fork, uttering a simple “yes” when asked if he’s been sleeping, and “maybe” when asked about his interest in a family trip after the big match. And then he turns the attention back to you, with a nod of his head in your direction, urging you to detail your career back to Mrs. Bang, the same way he does.

“I’m a journalist,” you tell her, politely dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin. “I interview a lot of athletes. Your son’s just one of many.”

“How riveting,” she says back, resting her chin atop her folded hands. “So I assume you’ve grown rather close in the process, then?”

You chuckle lightly, biting back from divulging her in the fact that you’ve only agreed to be here because your network is keen on the confidentialities of Chan’s personal life.

“You could say that. I always joke that the second most intimate thing you can do with a person is interview them.”

Chan keeps his chin tucked, eyes glued to his plate as you glance over at him as Mrs. Bang lets out a laugh.

“He’s very talented, though,” you continue. “It’s an honor to know him like this before his biggest win.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Mrs. Bang chimes in. “And so the purpose of this is to capture his life before the title match?”

Chan’s head lifts a little to look at you, knowing very well that he’s the defining factor in all of this, and yet he doesn’t take the liberty of making it known to his mother.

“The purpose is whatever he chooses it to be,” you explain to her. “It’s a story- more like a message of sorts. Really anything that defines him as a person, not just an athlete.”

Mrs. Bang nods once more, and then her eyes flicker over Chan as he evades her eye contact.

“I’m excited for part two,” she finishes. “I think you’re doing a fine job at knowing him."

“He took you to meet his mom?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” you reply quickly, as you gesture to the camera Lin grasps between her hands. “He needed to get some equipment. It just happened to be at his mom’s place.”

She scoffs as she thumbs over the camera buttons, her lips pulling into a smile as she observes the thumbnails of your various clips.

“It’s a fucking gold mine,” she emphasizes. “This is exactly what we’re looking for.”

Lin watches curiously as one of the clips begins to play, an indistinguishable dialogue emitting from the camera as a close-up shot of his mom is shown.

“What’s the gist of them?” She inquires, toying with the camera strap.

“His mom seems worried for him,” you remark, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over the palms of your hands as you speak in a reluctant tone. “She alludes to something he’s hiding- maybe some sort of double life he leads. Of course I don’t think he’s that interesting, but he’s definitely a little closed-off when he wants to be.”

“She couldn’t say more?”

“She doesn’t know more. He’s a mystery to his own family, it seems.”

Lin lets out a singular breathy chuckle before ejecting the memory card and grasping it carefully between her fingers.

“Nice work,” she voices. “Part two is finally going to get personal.”

You think over her words momentarily, envisioning the way Chan so confidently brought you along with him that evening, allowing you to photograph the cherished corners of his childhood home, from the blue boxing mitts his mother held onto all those years, down to the sacred conversations of his mother in clear distress. And although you weren’t explicitly ordered not to publicize the footage, it feels wrong- just a little too… voyeuristic, to pass along to the network like this.

“Wait,” you say to Lin, uncovering the palms of your hands and gesturing to the memory card. “There’s a few clips on there I meant to delete.”

“Like what?”

“Just some extra footage we didn’t need. I’ll delete it and give it right back-”

“We can sort it out later,” Lin says, with a shake of her head. “I’ll give you a once-over before we publish the next part. Don’t worry about it.”

You meet her gaze as she finishes speaking, and she shoots you a small smile before setting the memory aside on her desk.

“Tell me,” Lin begins, leaning back in her desk chair. “What’s he like?”

You chuckle softly, leaning back in your own chair, as you shrug in response.

“I don’t know. He’s a perfectionist, that’s for sure. And he’s a little hesitant to be honest about himself.”

And then you sigh, locking eyes with the ceiling as you avert her gaze. A small smile creeps upon your face, as you think of Bang Chan, and the charming way he recounts stories of his career, always keen on asking about yourself in turn and maintaining his polite composure.

“He’s not as bad as I thought,” you then admit to her, after a brief moment of silence. “Of course he’s still an unbroken winner, at the end of the day. And that has its own implications. But I suppose he’s not all bad.”

Lin smirks a little at your confession, nodding as she folds her hands in her lap and raises her eyebrows.

“He seems to have taken a liking to you,” she teases. “He requests for you an awful lot these days.”

And you shake your head in response, your gaze falling to the memory card still placed on the desk in front of her.

“He just wants company,” you say to her, thinking back to the footage of him that exists on the little plastic card. “He just likes good company.”

And perhaps “good company” really is all which Chan seeks, you grow to realize, as the occurrences in which he’s dragging you along to some mundane task grow tenfold during part two of his series’ filming sessions. You familiarize yourself with his gym, his childhood home, even the leather interior of his two-seater when he’s speeding down the highway and indulging you in stories of his days spent training. Always a camera aimed at him, always a frame-by-frame analysis of how much he’s grown to love heavy lifting days the most, or how he’s partial to darker clothing because it offsets the paleness he flaunts when he’s been inside training all day. The monotonous setting of your office is quickly transitioned to that of Chan’s training gym, where you’ll typically occupy a bench by the gallery wall while he throws punches with Mr. Seo in the ring.

Chan is well aware of your tendency to film him during training sessions, earning the new title of a “show-off” by Mr. Seo’s standards, when he’s perfecting all his jabs in front of you, keen on his footwork and lifting weights three times his normal. And from behind the lens, you often hold his gaze a little too long, cocking your head to observe the way his brown tresses cling to his chiseled face with sweat. Or perhaps the way his thin athletic t-shirts seem to ride up his body with every punch, exposing the thin strip of flesh where his toned obliques grace your presence.

And the high ratings mean the network is eager to get more out of him, encouraging you to stay a little longer where you can, or to ask questions that scrape below the surface of who Chan really is.

Be intentional with your questions. Get him vulnerable.

And you certainly make attempts to, especially persistent at following all of his intimate moments with a camera in and hand a series of follow-up questions.

Of course Chan certainly won’t admit it, far too caught up in the pressure to maintain the image of a “perfect boxer” to let his guard down around you, but he is comfortably vulnerable in your presence, fascinated with the prospects of the series as it pertains to his winning streak, and often immersed in thoughts that don’t only involve himself.

As a memory card remains plugged into your laptop, importing clips of Chan’s conversations of carefree footage for Lin- laughing, smiling, your eyes scan the still frame of him, beaming, one popsicle in hand and a hand outstretched to the camera. He looks lighter this way- in fact, you’re not sure you would take him to be a boxer at all if not for the knowledge you possess.

When Chan concludes his round of punches, he makes his way toward you in purposeful strides, hoisting himself off of the ring and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“What are you thinking about?” He queries, assuming a spot on the bench beside you and slouching back comfortably.

“You don’t need to interview the interviewer,” you remind him, fingers hovering over the mousepad of your keyboard. He shoots you a knowing smile, the flesh by his lips creasing as he holds it there momentarily.

When you look up to meet his gaze, he holds it- a little too long to feel appropriate, but not in a way that begs you to cease your actions. He’s still just as charming as you’d concluded him to be following your first interaction- but he’s also real, tantalizing. The look is almost dizzying when a soft hum emits from the back of his throat, as though he’s laughing at you, as though he knows he drives you mad in more ways than just one.

And his intense brown eyes seem to soften as he flickers his gaze over your contented expression.

“Let’s do something tonight,” Chan says in a mellow tone. It’s hardly a question, and more of a command, as he drums on his knees with the pads of his fingers.

“Why, you need another grocery run?” You retort with a smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as he holds your gaze.

“I like your company,” Chan confesses. “This gym wears me out.”

You turn your attention back to your computer as a blush creeps on your cheeks- Chan knows very well that your camera is now well saturated with footage- in fact, you could probably go several days in his absence and still have enough footage to pull together the next part.

“And by ‘do something’ you mean what, exactly?”

“There’s a bar down the street.”

“I don’t like bars.”

“Me either,” Chan says quickly, followed by a soft chuckle.

You turn to hold his gaze once more, narrowing your eyes a little as though you’re challenging him.

“Bad practice for athletes,” he states simply.

“Then I guess we’ll have to forfeit.”

Chan pauses for a moment, and then his lips pull into another smile, a small blush making its way on the tips of his ears before he speaks again.

“Come to my place,” he says plainly. It’s a request perhaps too bold for somebody who’s meant to serve the sole purpose of a video subject, and yet the offer is nothing short of tempting- for video purposes, and possibly for your own interest, too.

He thinks it over a moment, not having devised any form of a plan for the evening, but holding onto his hopes that you’ll agree, nonetheless.

“Just… indulge me in your presence, yeah?” he finishes.

You begin to tell him that you can’t, that this is probably going too far as it stands, to be spending every waking hour with him the way you now do. But the reminder lingers, that you’re meant to be breaking down his walls, gathering all of his private affairs for the purposes of this series. And perhaps, also, because he’s still hard to say no to.

“Can I bring my camera?” You ask him, and Chan nods, amused.

“You can bring your camera,” he affirms. “Film whatever you want.”

He keeps his gaze on yours again, his brown eyes flickering over your pursed lips as you observe him at this painfully close proximity. A single bead of sweat trickles from his temple down to his cheek, and as your hand instinctively reaches out to wipe it off of him, the echoing sound of footsteps interrupts you, your head snapping in the direction of a voice as it calls out to you both.

“Popsicles are out,” Mr. Seo says when he appears, boxing mitts grasped firmly in his grip. “I’m out of here for the evening, but you’re free to go restock if you feel so inclined.”

Your bodies almost force themselves away from each other, and you rise from the bench to give Mr. Seo a small bow when he’s stood in front of you.

“Hi Mr. Seo,” you say nervously. “I can make a quick trip-”

“We’ll go together,” Chan interrupts.

Your gaze snaps in his direction, where he’s now standing, too, and he nods again to affirm his answer.

Mr. Seo glances at you briefly, perhaps at just enough of an angle to presume that he knows your emotions are a little elevated. But then he simply shrugs, nodding affirmatively in your direction.

“Yeah,” he says plainly. “I’ll see you for tomorrow’s session.”

That same evening marks the first instance in which Bang Chan is reminded that he’s now perceivable to the masses- in the form of sold out popsicles. You watch as he cluelessly questions the cashier, furrowing his brows and recalling how they had restocked just days prior.

“Why would popsicles be sold out so quickly?” Chan voices, staring down the freezers against the wall as though his favorite dessert might somehow materialize from nothing.

And as your eyes remain fixed on the A4 paper that hangs loosely from the glass door, detailing “no popsicles” in scribbled handwriting and adhered by a single strip of masking tape, you make sense of it before you can even verbalize it.

“Because of you,” you voice with a chuckle.

“Me? That’s a stretch, I bought, like, three the last time I was here. That’s hardly enough-”

“Your series,” you interrupt, approaching the fridge and giving it a once-over. “You mentioned them in the first part. I think your fans have taken a liking to them.”

Your gaze meets Chan again, waiting for him to say something along the lines of what the athletes typically do when they’ve had their first brush with newfound fame. And yet Chan doesn’t smile back- in fact, the expression he wears on his face is anything but content, his lips pulling into a frown you can only describe as somber.

The chime of the door indicates the arrival of more people, and suddenly Chan can feel pairs of eyes boring into his soul from every corner of the convenience store, the undivided attention of customers analyzing his every move and holding him to the same impossible standard he’s become so accustomed to.

He’s aware that they’re picking apart his appearance, his mannerisms, translating his pixelated figure into the real-life tangibility of his broad stature. The girls seem to laugh into their sleeves as they traverse the store, and the men shoot him envious looks, as though any one of them might be Bang Chan’s opponent in the flesh. He thinks back to his opponent, who he knows trains in the same gym near this very convenience store. And then his eyes scan the room nervously, calculating the chances that one of these men may indeed be Kang-Dae. The men he rules out are paired against the likelihood that they’re either for him, or entirely against him, like they might actively be rooting for his downfall. Like they may eagerly be awaiting a broken winning streak.

And if the sight of an empty freezer isn’t soul-crushing enough, he may very well mistake this to be a boxing match, by the way his heartbeat quickens in his chest, eyes on him eagerly awaiting his next move and silently commentating as though they control him. The thoughts race through his mind once more, as he ponders the relativity of a winning streak to an empty boxing ring, a spectator relative to a participant. A city-wide obsession with popsicles for fleeting, superficial fame- and a voyeuristic fascination with the sacred intricacies of his personal life.

What are you so afraid of?

Your voice rings in his mind, and he cringes when he takes several steps away from your looming figure, averting the gaze of every customer in the store as his own heartbeat echoes loudly through his ears.

“Let’s go,” he says, beginning toward the door again.

“Already?” You question, glancing at the full shelves of alternative dessert options. “You don’t want to grab something else?”

“I want to go home,” Chan emphasizes through gritted teeth.

And when he’s exited the store before you, the blank stares shared amongst you, and the store clerk, and the customers who most definitely recognize him, seem to only affirm the discomfort he feels.

Home to Bang Chan isn’t always the one he grew up in- it’s also his humble apartment on the east side, up three stories high, the walls heavily resembling that of a bachelor pad’s. It’s not very hospitable, you quickly notice, as the room is only incrementally brightened by the on switch of a floor lamp in the corner. And as he gestures to a black leather couch across a luxurious flatscreen television, you can’t help but wonder how many girls he’s charmed into this exact position, comfortably sat on his couch as he makes his way over with two glasses of white wine.

“I’m impressed,” you say quickly, giving the living room another once-over.

“How so?”

“You have good taste in furniture. And your hosting qualities aren’t too shabby. Is white wine your go-to for journalists?”

“Very funny,” Chan says with a grin. “You’re the first to have made it this far.”

“Then can I ask what the occasion is?” You inquire, as he assumes the spot beside you. “Aside from indulging you with my company.”

Chan sets his glass down on the coffee table in front of you both, exchanging it for a remote control and switching on the television.

“Something I wanted to watch with you,” he says simply. You observe as he starts up what you think to be a movie at first, his arm sprawling over the back of the sofa as he sits back comfortably. And then, when the familiar sound of an introduction fills the room, you don’t have to wait long to know what it is.

“I should’ve guessed,” you say quietly from your spot next to him, as you bring the glass of wine up to your lips. Chan nods, a smile upon his face as renowned boxer Baik Hyun-Man assumes a seat in a studio much like yours, and then begins to speak.

“I’ve been boxing for ten years,” he says, following a brief introduction. “It’s my passion. My life’s dream.”

The peripherals of your eyes shift to Chan’s seated figure, where he’s watching intently, a sort of shimmer in his eyes as he indulges in the film for what may be the hundredth time now. It’s one you remember well, too, always having memorized his graceful responses to questions and his aversion to engage in any form of slandering his opponents.

And as Chan watches, you make careful movements to retrieve your camera from your bag, starting up a fresh recording and angling it toward him.

“God, isn’t he the coolest?” Chan remarks, and you chuckle lightly.

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool.”

He gestures to the television with his index finger, sitting up a little when Hyun-Man is filmed pulling on a pair of blue boxing gloves.

“Those are the ones!” Chan says excitedly. “That’s why I picked blue ones for my first pair.”

You chuckle at Chan’s enthusiastic reaction, and then you adjust the camera so that it’s zoomed into his face a little more.

“Chan,” you voice to him, and he turns a little to face you, humming in response. “What exactly is it about him you’re so fascinated with?”

He thinks it over momentarily, and before he can answer, you’re speaking again.

“He was only a championship boxer for a whole two years, you know. He holds one of the shortest-spanning careers in your field.”

Chan purses his lips, hanging his head as he thinks over your words.

“I know,” he responds.

And he’s very knowledgeable of the fact that although Baik Hyun-Man was the first heavyweight boxer of his kind to make it to the Olympics, he was retired and gone just two years after his biggest fight. Not a product of fading relevancy, but rather a personal choice of his, to step away from the spotlight, step down from his career and live a life beyond just the sport in which he excelled at.

“You will face your share of losses,” he had said in his final speech to the masses. “And you can’t let it retract from the rest of life you have to live. It’s been an honorable two years, I’m going to live the rest of it now.”

Chan looks at the television, and then at you once more, an indistinguishable expression painted across his face.

“He didn’t want all of this,” Chan says finally. “And sometimes I don’t, either.”

He reaches forward again, grasping the stem of his wine glass between his fingers and downing a generous mouthful.

“What do you mean?”

“All the fame,” he says, pulling the glass away from his lips again. “And pairs of eyes constantly watching your every move. It gets exhausting.”

He then slouches back a little further into the cushions, shutting his eyes momentarily.

“Made worse when you’ve never lost,” he finishes, opening his eyes again to meet your gaze.

His eyes flicker briefly over your lips, and then back up to your eyes, which carefully examine the state of him. You’re hardly ever at such intimate proximity to a video subject like this, but you can tell again that he looks tired, his eyes outlined by deep, purple bags and a sorrowful expression. You wonder when the last time is that he got a full night of rest, or even consumed something that wasn’t just a snack in between training sessions and interviews.

“Is that what you want for yourself?” You ask him boldly, the tips of your fingers tracing the shutter release on the camera.

He gets quiet, a little reluctant to answer the question- and rightfully so, never having seriously thought about letting go of all of this.

“I don’t know what I want,” Chan admits after a moment of silence. He turns to face you again, shrugging his shoulders and positioning himself to face you fully now. And then he cocks his head, furrowing his brows as you continue to toy with the shutter release.

“Are you recording?” He asks with a breathy chuckle, gesturing to the camera with the point of his index finger.

You chuckle in response, too.

“It’s just for my personal use,” you assure him. “It won’t make it past this memory card. I’m just picking your brain a little.”

He seems satisfied with the response, knowing too that he’s most transparent when he has a camera aimed somewhere at him. Chan sighs, exhaling once before folding his hands in his lap.

“Everyone wants me to tell my story,” Chan says in a shaky voice. “I feel so suffocated these days.”

“Rightfully so,” You echo back at him. “There is a lot of pressure on you leading up to the fight.”

“Something like that. The worship feels… well, it feels suffocating.”

He gets quiet again, eyebrows arched as he meets your gaze, in hopes you’ll make sense of his nervous conciseness.

“Like the popsicles,” you remark, nodding your head once.

You recall Chan growing strangely quiet at the knowledge that he had not only cultivated a loyal fan base after just one episode of airtime, but that just like the audiences at his matches, they were keeping careful watch of his every move, imitating him and placing him on a pedestal like he’s bound to experience for the remainder of his career.

“Yeah,” Chan affirms. “Like the popsicles. It’s like nothing is sacred anymore.”

The popsicles, you remember, have been a childhood staple of his since he still wore the blue mitts to matches that his mother now boasts so proudly. They’re out of reach now; unattainable. Much like a life not tainted by the pressure to win is.

You nod once at his words, and then you reach out to pat his knee encouragingly, smiling when you speak again.

“You said it yourself,” you say to him. “Not much scares you these days. Maybe this is just the product of the anticipation leading up to the fight. I mean, do you really think Baik Hyun-Man wasn’t scared when he was the first boxer to-”

“Losing scares me,” Chan interjects, the pupils of his eyes trembling when he speaks. A deafening silence falls over the room, and you can make out the sound of when he swallows nervously at his own state of vulnerability.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” Chan repeats, and it’s when you meet his gaze once more that you take notice of the tears which brim his eyes, his lower lip trembling nervously as he struggles to speak.

The only other time you’ve seen him display any emotion besides than the charming, mesmerizing persona he flaunts, is when he’s boxing- and right now, juxtapositioned against his otherwise calm demeanor, he seems almost stricken with sorrow, tears beginning to cascade down his reddened cheeks and find purchase on the sleeves of his shirt.

“Sorry,” Chan breathes out amidst the silence, hiccuping when more tears stream down his face.

For a moment, you can’t find the words to say, simply observing his state and trying to understand where he’s coming from with all of this. Yet it doesn’t require a considerable amount of thought- perhaps somewhere deep down, you already know this of him, well aware of his tendency to pull away and shut himself off from the heavy emotions he harbors. It’s made clear when he diverts from the topic of fear, directing the conversation back to Mr. Seo, or his mom or even yourself. It’s evident in the way he seems to be bothered by his own solitude, dragging you along under the guise of “good company”. And it’s made painfully obvious in the way he’s so frightened at the notion of losing all things sacred to him- remnants of his innocence, the people around him and especially a commendable winning streak.

“What if I lose this match?” Chan ponders out loud, his eyebrows arching as he shrugs sheepishly. “What’s going to become of me? Of all this?”

Your hands are the first ones to beckon for his, palms outstretched as he reciprocates with the gentle placement of his fingers in yours. And then your thumb caresses his knuckles tenderly, cocking your head as you feel the smooth metal of his silver rings in your touch.

“So what if you lose?” You question back boldly.

“Then I’m a loser,” Chan says quickly. “And I don’t want to be a loser. I know I was born to win this thing- I’ve been training for this my whole life.”

“You’ve been training your whole life,” you echo. “But this is only a fraction of it. You’re still going to do remarkable things, whether you win or lose this. Everybody loves you.”

“I don’t,” he says quickly, a breathy chuckle involuntarily escaping his lips. He holds your gaze a moment, and then his expression grows serious again.

“I hate who this has turned me into,” he continues. “I’m a… I’m a coward. I shut people out, I can’t even be honest with them about how terrified I am of being a loser. And the only time I’m honest with myself is when I imagine it’s me I’m punching in that ring. Just a shell of who they think I am. A fucking loser.”

You think back to the way Chan delivers hits to the bag in that raised platform of the gym, teeth gritting and beads of sweat collecting along his brow, as he hits harder, and harder and harder, until the bandages around his knuckles can do nothing to shield the pain of self-inflicted wounds. One hit and a black eye, two hits and a cracked rib, a myriad of strikes and uppercuts and hopefully the numbness of all the self-loathing thoughts that follow.

“I’m so tired,” Chan then confesses quietly. “Can you tell I haven’t slept in days?”

And you say nothing back to him, your eyes flickering over the apples of his cheeks all glossed with tears, the bags under his eyes appearing an even darker shade of deep gray as his eyebrows slouch down into a sorrowful expression. He looks more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him, almost miserable, as he waits for you to say something. And when you don’t, he quickly regrets the stream of consciousness, shaking his head as he pulls back his calloused hands from your grasp.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “You’re a journalist, not a therapist. I shouldn’t have been so honest-”

“None of that makes you a loser,” you interject with the shake of your head, and then a small smile. “All your fears, and your hangups and your reservations. They’re little burdens you carry with you- but they’re all human. You don’t have to apologize for any of it. They’re simply part of the story you’re telling.”

It’s Chan’s turn to get silent, his lips parted ever so slightly as he studies the way you gauge his reaction back. It’s unclear what he thinks, and you fear momentarily that you may have somehow offended him with your response.

Nothing is spoken for a passing moment as you exchange curious glances with each other. When the camera shifts a little in your lap, you shut off the recording, pushing down on the shutter release with the dip of your index finger and letting it rest atop the crack of the couch cushions.

And then before you can utter some form of apology to him for actions unbeknownst to you, he’s leaning in a bit closer, eyes nervously darting over your lips and back up to your trembling eyes.

Chan’s heartbeat quickens in his chest as he searches for the right words to say- perhaps some thanks for the reassurance, another apology, or even a confession of emotions he’s not fully come to terms with yet. An attractive athlete like himself is no stranger to the process utilizing his eloquent flirting skills, and yet the words escape him, as he understands finally that you don’t feel like a stranger to him at all.

Not when you’re accompanying him to the convenience store by the gym for late night popsicles, or observing the way he trains from behind the lens of your camera. Not when you’re in the intimate setting of his mother's house, graciously conversing with her as he stews in thoughts of self-deprecation. Or when you’re in the passenger’s seat of his car, laughing at tales of his summer days spent confined to that dingy little makeshift gym in his garage. Perhaps the words are lost to his own doubts when he begins to confess that you’re more than just “good company”- that his world doesn’t feel so centered around a sport when he’s in your presence. That for a fleeting moment, he feels like there is a life beyond that of an athlete on a rampant winning-streak, and that the thought of losing doesn’t feel half as scary when he’s sitting beside you.

You’re no stranger to Chan- a fact that rings true when he finally presses his lips to yours, his hand rising to caress your cheek gently as you kiss him back, eager and full of a soft yearning for him.

You remain like that for a moment, aware that it’s entirely wrong and you shouldn’t even be in a subject’s house at this proximity. The flavor of his salty tears mixed with white wine upon his lips is less noticeable as you work to kiss it off him entirely. And when you pull away once more, it’s not for a lack of enjoying it, more so than your guilty conscience weighing on you.

Chan observes your expression, worried he’s crossed a boundary when you pull back gently and give him a sheepish smile.

“What is it?” He asks, one hand coming down to rest on your knee, his thumb rubbing in comforting back and forth motions over the denim of your pants.

“You taste like wine,” is all you utter in response, and Chan chuckles, not moving his gaze off yours.

“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he remarks.

“I know you’re not,” you say simply. “But… what exactly are we doing?”

“You tell me,” he says, expression unchanging. “We don’t do anything if you’re not comfortable with it.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s wrong,” you voice quickly, posturing yourself a little further from him now. “This is strictly a professional relationship. We’re not supposed to be wrapped up in this.”

Chan nods just once, making no effort to try and change your mind. He knows this is a possible outcome, having replayed it in his head several times since the moment he understood that his desire to kiss you was only worsening by the day. So true to the gentleman he is, Chan pulls away, too, sprawling the palms of his hands over his knee caps and pursing his lips.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Okay.”

“I want to,” you interject, the sleeves of your sweater swallowing your own hands as you fidget nervously. He meets your gaze again, blinking just once as he waits for you to speak.

“I think you’re amazing,” you continue. “And I think in any other context, things might be different between us. But I can’t risk your career, my career- this whole series, and whatever’s waiting for you after all of this. You’re going to do great things after your big win. I’m just a stepping stone in it.”

And there’s an ounce of truth in your words- you do find yourself drawn to Chan, thoroughly enjoying the late night escapades alongside him and getting to know his character beyond that of just a boxer. But the truth stands, that this level of intimacy only exists to uncover his story, not because you’re destined for any sort of relationship to him. In due time, he’ll be in the big leagues with all the other famous athletes, and you’ll still be a journalist. You’re just the storyteller- not a part of the story.

Chan furrows his brows, shaking his head as he replays your words in his head. He begins to piece together the admission that he’s regretful these are the circumstances, and that reducing you to the role of a stepping stone feels like an injustice for the sheer honesty you’ve managed to coax out of him.

“You’re more than that,” is all Chan can utter, with the gentle shake of his head. He’s quiet for a moment when he locks his eyes with yours, letting out a sharp breath before speaking again.

“You’re the only person I haven’t felt inclined to shut out in years. I know it’s probably just this series, and I’m supposed to be telling a story. But having you here, being honest with you and having somebody who listens to me instead of praising me for all these fleeting brushes with fame- it feels so right. It feels so right here with you.”

His words are simultaneously like a pierce to your beating heart, and the catalyst for you to kiss him just once more, your hands finding purchase on the leather beside him as you waste no time pressing your lips to his, a small gasp escaping his lips into your mouth as he shuts his eyes and kisses you back. His hands find the small of your back, assisting you toward him and onto his clothed thigh, where your legs now straddle the denim fabric of his jeans as your fingers tangle in his hair.

Chan’s breaths are heavy against your mouth as he feels you rock your hips gently toward him, practically rutting against his toned muscle as his kisses move to the column of your neck. And as his calloused hands grip your waist tenaciously, moving your parted thighs back and forth along him, allowing the rough fabric to satisfy the rhythmic ache between your legs with every slight movement, you press two hands to his chest once more, pushing him away from you gently and watching as he halts his movements.

“What is it?” Chan asks again in a low, breathy voice. You can feel his quickening heartbeat as your fingers graze the thin fabric of his t-shirt, your gaze unmoving as you position yourself off his lap and onto your knees. His entire disposition is overtaken by nerves, afraid of losing two things now, as he waits for you to speak. You take note of the visible worry on his face, the way his eyes are still glossy from crying and outlined by a clear lack of sleep. His hair is tousled from the tangle of your fingers in it, his lips remain parted nervously as he observes the way you sit up a little straighter and scan his eager frame.

He’s already pitched a tent under the fabric of his jeans, his cock visibly straining against the confines of the denim fabric, cringing to himself when he sees you eye his crotch curiously from where you’re sat. His eyes then widen when you slot yourself between his legs, his expression appearing animated for the first time in weeks, as the gray bags under his eyes seem to deepen with his confusion.

“Just relax for me, okay?” you reply in a low voice.

Chan watches as you pull a hair tie from around your wrist between your teeth, simultaneously gathering your hair into a ponytail, and then securing it back tightly, looping it skillfully around just twice, until it’s pulled taut and effectively out of your face.

He begins to say that there’s no obligation to finish the job he initiated, and that he’s in no position to contradict the truth that he’s just a video subject to you, in what’s meant to be a strictly professional relationship. But when you shoot him a saccharine smile from between his muscular thighs, hands traveling to the waistband of his jeans and unfastening his belt buckle, he can do nothing except remain fixed on the sight of your manicured fingers undressing him. Chan sits up momentarily to allow his jeans to pool around his ankles, his belt hanging open at his sides, as the gentle clink of the buckle falls upon the leather sofa beside him. And then your hand finds his still-clothed erection, cupping a hand around him and meeting his gaze once more when he lets out a little gasp.

“Is this okay?” You whisper up at him, your hand distancing itself from his cock as you await his reply.

Chan nods before he speaks, swallowing nervously as he comprehends what’s about to occur. He’ll never tell you that he’s dreamt of this for so long- that he’s fantasized about circumstances in which you’re so much more than just a journalist to him. Circumstances in which he’s permitted to kiss you in front of all the watchful eyes, or make love to you right there on the floor of the boxing ring when the gym’s already empty for the night. Ones in which you’re a lover he’s brought home to meet his mother, not just an interviewer or a stepping stone in his career. And where you’re a part of his story, not just fulfilling the mundane task of telling it.

A journalist relative to its subject- the relativity of one storyteller to another. But your relativity to Bang Chan’s- the relativity of one lover to the next, of sweet nothings left unsaid and learning to embrace the intricacies of his own vulnerability.

“Yeah- yes,” Chan vocalizes back in a shaky manner, earning a small chuckle from you, as you loop your fingers in the waistband of his boxers and rid him of those, too.

He’s bigger than you’d anticipated, and harder, the tip of his cock flushed a bright shade of red as you observe it grow against his abdomen once he’s fully exposed. Chan takes a sharp breath when the cool air grazes his bare flesh, wincing, as he watches you sit up on your knees a little straighter. Your hand reaches out to grasp the base of his cock between your fingers, not yet moving, as you gather a generous wad of saliva between your pursed lips. And then Chan’s eyebrows arch in anticipation when you near him, a small dribble of spit already finding purchase on your lower lip.

“Close your eyes,” you tell him. Chan nods eagerly in response, shutting his eyes and leaning back a little further into the couch cushions. He takes a sharp breath when he feels you stroke his length just once, maintaining a light hold of him as you bring your lips to his tip. And then he gasps involuntarily, when he feels you press your drooly mouth against his flesh, pressing a single kiss to his cock and smiling against him while you feel him writhe in your touch.

His chest rises and falls with anticipatory breaths as he waits for you to do more- and in mere seconds, you’re taking him in your mouth, his girth stretching the corners of your lips as you work yourself down halfway and back up again.

“Fuck,” Chan breathes, his eyes trembling as he struggles to keep them closed, his thighs tensing when he feels you work your mouth down his length once more, this time a little bit further down.

His hands grasp desperately at his sides, searching for something, anything, to hold, practically clawing at the taut leather as he lets out another fervent moan. And with nothing within reach, he lets his hands fold behind his neck, throwing his head back in a state of pure bliss as you continue to work him so skillfully.

Your lips grow wetter as you do, a mix of his precum and your saliva glazing the length of his cock as you move down, and up, and down once more, picking up the pace when you hear him let out a heavy grunt at the sensation. He’s tense beneath you, but still in a blissful state of pleasure, breathing cuss words into the air above him and letting his mind stray far from the burdening thoughts that typically plague him. None of it matters when your mouth is working him to his finish, your hands gliding along his shaft in tandem with the rhythmic bobbing of your head along his hard cock, gulping desperately for air when you pull away from him momentarily. He can’t possibly lose when he’s shivering in your touch and letting little moans escape his plump lips- he’s nothing but a winner like this in your presence.

Strings of saliva connect you to him still, glistening under the dim lights the same way your runny makeup now does. He exhales little pleas for a release when you attach your lips to him once more, swirling your tongue around the base before trailing little kisses down his length. And then he feels his hips jerk forward just once, squeezing his eyes shut a little tighter when you hum around his shaft.

You smile with him in your mouth, still, knowing he’s on the cusp of release, his eyebrows knitting together as he makes every effort to stave off his orgasm. You take note of the way his fists clench, intertwined with each other behind the beads of sweat that graze his neck, and then his moans seem to heighten in pitch when you swirl your tongue around his base once more.

You glance up at him from between his legs, his adam’s apple bobbing with every slight noise emitting from the back of his jutted throat.

“Fuck, that’s so good,” he gasps in response to your quick movements. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna finish.”

And it’s already evident by his facial expressions, which contort into a desperate, silent plea for a finish, as his head jerks forward in a sudden motion.

His eyes squeeze tighter, heartbeat ringing throughout his ears in combination with the erotic, squelching noises of your lips gliding along his shaft. And then you pause for a brief second with his tip between your mouth, still.

“Chan,” you say to him tenderly. “Open your eyes.”

He obeys, eyes fluttering open to marvel at the sight of your hands with his length in their grasp, your pink lips continuing to work needy kisses down his dampened flesh. He exhales sharply at the sight of your mascara, now pooling beneath the apples of your cheeks as you stare up at him through hooded eyelids.

And when you take him in your mouth again, working your throat down to the base of his cock, his hips buck up toward the back of your tongue, earning a drooly gag as you struggle to keep him there.

He practically melts into the couch while your throat adjusts to the new position, his cock twitching upon your flattened tongue as you attempt to lick a stripe up his length. And then his heartbeat quickens when you begin a rhythmic bobbing action again, his mind dizzying at the erotic sight of you like this.

The room fills again with the sound of your tongue working his flesh. And he’s strangely brought back to the memory of popsicles, on a hot day- working his tongue around the base and gathering every last drop of sherbet between his wetted lips. Ridding himself of the sticky residue that finds purchase along the veins of his forearms, tracing his tongue along his skin, the same way you do along his shaft. When his hands come down to grasp his knees momentarily, his gaze falls to your face, and he admires the way you taste him with such desperation, as though he may be the one sacred thing left for you, too. There’s such a juxtaposition between the innocence he’s brought back to- carefree days spent collecting popsicle sticks along the pavement as the consumption of his favorite dessert was made with equal desperation. And the lewd sounds of you humming around his cock, the vibration of your throat sending delicious reverberations along his flesh and causing him to let out a breathy gasp at the sensation.

“I’m gonna cum,” Chan says, for the second time this evening.

“Yeah, cum for me,” you coo tenderly back at him, pulling away from him briefly to hover over his tip with your mouth. “Want you to feel good. Just relax for me.”

Chan’s hardly ever known relaxation- not in the sleepless nights he spends thinking about his career, or when he’s standing in the ring with copious amounts of eyes on him. Not when he’s filming a series for the whole world to scrutinize, or when he’s made aware of the publicity somewhere as unsuspecting as a convenience store.

But he knows it now when he’s with you, lying parallel to you in the same boxing ring after hours, his mind completely void of any self-loathing. He knows it when he’s imagining circumstances in which your careers don’t dictate the inevitable outcome of your relationship to each other.

And he knows it when he finally cums for you, his eyes not leaving the sight of your lips wrapped around his cock as he finds his release, shooting a thick, generous amount of his milky white load onto the flat of your tongue. At first he feels almost guilty, when you finally pull away from around his girth with a gentle pop. And then he muses curiously as he watches you swallow his arousal entirely, wiping the corners of your mouth with the backs of your hands and cleaning the remainder off your fingers with the lap of your tongue.

He almost grows hard all over again watching you devour him entirely, not letting a single drop go to waste, the same way he does with his popsicles. The gentle sounds of your tongue working along the pads of your fingers, swirling around the patterns of your fingertips like they’re just stained orange popsicle sticks. His mind at ease once more, nothing but a stillness in the air and the fleeting presence of another sacred moment to him- this time in the form of yourself.

His body drapes languidly over the couch, too exhausted to speak, simply getting clothed once more as you undo the hair tie and let your hair fall loosely over your shoulders again. Chan extends his hands, helping you off the floor again, and your sore knees straddle him once more, hoisting yourself onto his lap and letting your hands find the back of his neck.

For a minute, he says nothing, completely fascinated with this side of you, as his hands find your waist again.

“Let me return the favor?” Chan inquires just above a whisper, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. And you shoot him a small smile, shaking your head in response as he cocks his head to look at you.

“I… shouldn’t” is all you breathe back, hanging your head as he tries to meet your gaze.

He begins to ask why, but he stops himself, knowing that your previous statement still stands. This is wrong- you’re a journalist and he’s just a video subject. Not to mention, he’s just weeks away from the biggest fight of his life- and neither of you intend on ruining any of that for him. He knows all of this as much as you do- but he’s still disappointed that the circumstances appear to be unchanging.

Chan nods as you hoist yourself off his lap and back onto the leather of the couch, and then he reaches for his glass of wine again, scanning your expression in his peripheral vision as you fix your tousled hair. From beside him, your gaze meets his again, giving him a small shrug.

“I’m sorry,” you say to him, toying with the stitching on the leather of the couch. “You probably have tons of girls practically throwing themselves at you as it stands. I don’t need to be another.”

Chan chuckles, shaking his head and setting down his glass of wine. He fidgets with the lobe of his ear as he admires the blush upon your cheeks when you look at him once more.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he admits shyly. “But I’m sure you have your fair share of athletes trying to score a chance.”

It’s your turn to shake your head, chuckling softly as you avert his gaze.

“Not exactly,” you voice back at him. And then your gaze lingers on him, observing the way his lips appear to be smudged with your lipstick.

“Just one,” you conclude, hands finding purchase on your own knees as you maintain a comfortable distance from him.

Chan begins to say something, but then he’s silent again, awkwardly crossing his legs once more and forcing his attention on the television. Though the docuseries continues to play faintly in front of you, it’s painfully quiet between your breathless bodies, and Chan can’t seem to stop himself from catching glimpses of your seated figure while you try not to engage in eye contact with him. You know that if you do, it’ll only result in you practically throwing yourself at him all over again, so you remain facing the television, saying nothing in efforts to not warrant anything more between the two of you. It’s Chan who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat before grasping the remote between his fingers and lowering the volume to just above a muted speech.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, not meeting your gaze as you sit comfortably beside each other.

“No need to interview the interviewer,” you say back to him, doing your best to evoke a nonchalant disposition. You bite back a smile, as does Chan, while he observes the interview that plays on the television.

“I beg to differ,” he then chimes in. “I believe the second most intimate thing you can do is interview somebody. If I can’t kiss you, I think it’s only fair you indulge me in a story.”

The docuseries fills the silence that overtakes the room with hushed chatter as Chan awaits a response from you, and he watches as you lean forward to grasp your glass of wine between your fingers before speaking again.

“I’m just a boring journalist,” you say to him, keeping your gaze on the television. “I collect stories the same way you do medals. There’s not much else to say.”

And the statement is only half true- there’s certainly more you can indulge him in pertaining to your career as a journalist. Details of past athletes you’ve interviewed, moments you’ve shared that permanently altered your life, for better or for worse. Restless nights spent gathering footage, following orders from the crew to get closer, be intentional with your actions. You’re as enthralled in your own career as Chan is- perhaps not at the same level, but devoted, nonetheless.

“Do you like all of this?” Chan inquires a little quietly.

You’re silent for a passing moment, and then you take another sip of wine before answering.

“It’s complicated. I like telling stories. Not always the process it takes to uncover one. Sometimes it’s a little…” you ponder the words briefly, and Chan takes a sip from his glass, too, his eyes darting in your direction as he interjects.

“Voyeuristic?”

You meet his gaze again, not having taken him as someone who could read you so carefully.

“Yeah,” you respond. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

Chan slouches back into the sofa, downing the rest of his wine, and then he sighs deeply, a level of contentedness present in his tone.

“I can’t believe you got me crying on camera,” he says with a chuckle.

You chuckle, too, mirroring his relaxed posture.

“Trust me, the footage isn’t going anywhere,” you say to him. And then you pause, before speaking once more.

“Thank you,” you continue. “For being so honest with me. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a loser.”

Chan turns his head in your direction, shooting you a small smile and a nod. He looks much more relaxed now, his once teary eyes now replaced by the glazed appearance of his blissful state. He looks comfortable like this- happy, even.

“Thank you,” he echoes. “For letting me be so honest. And for what it’s worth, I think you do a pretty damn good job at collecting stories.”

He turns back to the television, folding his arms over his chest now, as do you. And then he raises the volume on the television again, letting Baik Hyun-Man’s words echo in the otherwise quiet space between you.

“Sometimes we win, and sometimes we lose,” the familiar words play from the television.

“And knowing that, maybe through tales like mine, of guts and glory, we find our footing in the knowledge that we tried.”

Sherbet popsicles remain out for the foreseeable future. Convenience stores are cleared of theme entirely, every freezer in the city decorated with an impromptu sign detailing the status of them.

The environment of the gym seems to grow heavy with anticipation as every passing day brings you closer to Chan’s title fight.

And perhaps the only thing harder than unveiling the very real fears Chan harbors toward his title fight, is resisting the urge to kiss him again.

At first you’re not sure it ever happened, when Chan greets you at the gym with a casual salute, as though he’s greeting his trainer.

“My partner in crime!” He’d exclaimed, like you hadn’t been practically pleasuring yourself on his lap just days ago, mouths breathing hot gasps into each other and hands grasping desperately at his toned muscles. As though you hadn’t devoured him entirely on the sticky leather of his sofa, the flavor of his salty release still familiar to you when you graze your fingertips along your lips.

And with the passing days, he assumes the role of a video subject painfully well, detailing all of his best techniques behind the lens and keeping a comfortable distance from your camera. Part of you is relieved, of course, as you witness Chan do exactly what he’s promised- after all, mixing business and pleasure comes at a cost to the entirety of the project. But when he intentionally averts your gaze while he trains with Mr. Seo now, or refrains from speaking of anything more personal than the mundanes of his daily routine, you can’t help but miss the Chan that was only just beginning to grace you with the details of how all of this really feels to him.

How the sounds that ring throughout his ears are far too loud at times, or that he can’t stand the way his tangible memories seem to slip from his grasp when they’re no longer sacred to him. And a myriad of other admissions, including the painful truth that he’s taken a remarkable liking to you, and yet he’s forced to pretend it’s nothing more than his erratic emotions leading up to the fight when he’s intentionally ignoring you like this.

At just a little over two weeks left until his title fight, Chan is visibly distressed, though he makes his best efforts to mask the fact, growing quiet when you’re not asking him questions, and evading any talk of his fears. It’s worrying to see him like this, and you think back to when his mother previously detailed his tendency to shut himself off from the world in response to his heightened emotions.

“He gets so wrapped up in it,” she had explained somberly. “especially when he has a fight around the corner. It’s all he does- all he thinks about.”

It’s made clear to you now when Chan trails off from his sentences, staring off into the distance as though he’s being overcome with disdain for himself. You can see what he means about thinking of himself when he boxes, as he throws particularly harsh uppercuts at the bag in the ring, his face glazed with a sheen layer of sweat as he avoids your concerned gaze from across the room. And when you find yourself alone with him again, he doesn’t so much as crack a smile from beside you, simply lying parallel to the floor as his eyes scan the now dark ceilings of the gym at nighttime.

The photographs on the gallery wall are too shadowy to make out at this hour, except for the one in the middle, the pearly white grin of renowned boxer Baik Hyun-Man beaming down upon your languid bodies as you remain there, in complete silence. Chan thinks back to his schedule for what feels like the millionth time now- a training session tomorrow in the morning, a tour of the title fight ring in the afternoon, a series of smaller interviews to fill the week and a meeting with some of the sports directors leading up to his match. And following the eventful few days, part two of the docuseries’ broadcast. It’s one of the first times he’ll spend a few days without you in a while, and it feels admittedly unnerving to him, he realizes, as he chews on the inside of his cheek.

“What are you thinking about?” You break the silence, not breaking your eye contact from the pendant lamps that line the ceiling. He’s quiet for a moment, and then he shrugs casually.

“Not much,” Chan fibs.

Fulfilling the demanding traits of a perfect boxer. The fact that he hasn't slept properly in well over three days. Winning. Losing. Especially losing.

“Getting nervous for part two?” You query, and Chan’s eyes dart to your figure briefly.

He thinks back to the docuseries and all the interviews thus far, and then he shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows as he speaks again.

“Nothing to be nervous about,” he lies again. “You’ll make me look like a winner.”

Chan’s chest rises and falls as he grows quiet once more. He thinks back to the success of part one, where he gained more respect than perhaps ever before, thousands of fans eagerly anticipating how he’ll perform on the evening of the title fight. And then he lets out a deep sigh, shutting his eyes momentarily.

“I miss popsicles,” Chan confesses.

You don’t find the words to reply for a passing moment, thinking back to the bright orange dessert he speaks of, perhaps not having realized he hasn’t consumed one in several weeks now. Chan sighs again, and then he repeats himself, his gaze now finding the wall, at Baik Hyun-Man’s beaming smile.

“I really fucking miss popsicles,” he says a little quieter this time around, and by the way he delivers the confession, you become aware that perhaps it’s not popsicles at all he speaks of.

Rather, Chan misses his innocence, his youthful days when none of this mattered so much to him. He misses training with Mr. Seo in his garage, a bright blue pair of kanpeki mitts around his bruised knuckles as he delivered much softer hits to the punching bag. He misses days spent at his mom’s house without these heavy burdens he bears- a lifelong promise to himself to make her proud, and simultaneously pushing her away, because he knows his obsession with boxing only brings out the very worst in him. He misses the summer days he lost to training sessions, he misses the life he knew before a winning streak was ever uttered in reference to him.

And he misses you, although you remain at this comfortable proximity to him- no camera in sight and a yearning to know him as intimately as he longs to know you. But the truth remains, that you’re just here to tell his story, not be a part of it. The relativity of a journalist to an athlete- new burdens he bears, new fears he harbors.

“I have an interview with Mr. Seo,” you voice from beside him. “Anything in particular I should ask about?”

Chan chuckles at your ability to ground him once again, and then his eyes scan the ceiling as he thinks it over.

“Anything you want,” he says simply. “He probably knows me better than anybody else.”

The cogs turn as you think over the seemingly endless possibility of questions for Mr. Seo- a voyeuristic journalist’s dream.

“I’ll see you after part two airs,” you say to him, sitting up from your spot on the ring. “And then we just have your final interview, following the match.”

Chan is quiet for a moment as he sits up, too, leaning back on the palms of his hands and observing the way you gather your bag from beside you. He thinks back to the start of this series, when you’d scolded him for being late, and when he first detailed to you his start to boxing. It feels like a lifetime ago that you were first stating your introductions to each other, and now you’ve quickly become just as important to Chan as boxing is.

“Everything’s going to be different,” Chan says, as you hoist yourself off the platform and sling your bag over your shoulder. You meet his gaze with furrowed brows, humming in response, as he brings his hands forward and toys with the taut bordering wire.

“Hm?”

“Things are just going to be different after this airs,” he concludes. “It happened the first time. It’s going to happen again. I can feel it.”

Whether he speaks of his upward trajectory to fame, the likeability of him to the masses, or his relationship to you, you’re unsure. But you entangle your fingers in the bordering wire across from him, too, letting your fingers caress the stringy metal as you meet his gaze.

The vibrating sound of the wire’s recoil fills the space between your bodies, so close to each other and yet worlds apart, as you let the pads of your fingers brush against his, and then you allow his fingers to intertwine with yours, the bruised knuckles of a boxer’s embracing the silky smooth flesh of a knackered journalist.

He brings your hand up as though he’s going to seal the action with a kiss, yet he doesn’t, simply letting your fingers graze along his lips as he waits for you to say something.

“Are you scared?” You ask him again, not yet moving your gaze from his tired eyes.

He doesn’t blink, or even let his racing heart produce another beat before he’s answering you truthfully this time, his breath tickling your knuckles as he exhales a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding in all this time.

“I’m terrified,” Chan confesses. And from the gray bags under his eyes, to the somber expression painted across his face, you catch a glimpse of the vulnerable state only you’ve had the pleasure of becoming so acquainted with.

The evening of Friday is the fourth day spent in the absence of Chan.

As he busies himself with smaller interviews, meetings with sports directors and preparations for his title fight, you occupy the office space with members of the network, the common area transformed into a makeshift theater as they project part two of Chan’s series on a large screen.

“A toast,” Lin says, grasping a glass of wine between her fingers as she holds it up to clink against yours. “To y/n, who managed to piece together a hell of a story from our stubborn boxer.”

Your colleagues fill the room with laughter and praise, and you shoot them a sheepish smile, shaking your head as they start up the series.

You think back to the reserved fears Chan carries with him, and the way he’d only uncovered the rest of his story to you- all of his worries, the reality of his exhaustion with boxing and how he’d taken a liking to the one person who made all of this feel a little less important in the grand scheme of things. And it’s a story that will never exist fully in its publication, per your promise to Chan to maintain its secrecy. It’s the one thing still sacred to him- the one thing that still belongs to him.

Lin mutters quietly as Chan’s interview plays in the background, leaning in to not disturb the careful focus that falls upon the employees as they watch him speak.

“Sometimes you have hundreds of eyes on you,” he voices on screen. “You have to be intentional with your actions. You have to know what to show people.”

As he recalls one of his early matches, Lin sets her glass of wine down on a table, folding her arms over her chest and leaning into the shell of your ear.

“Listen,” she says reluctantly. “You did a fantastic job getting all this out of him.”

“Thanks,” you say with a chuckle. “Wasn’t easy, but I think it’s sufficient.”

“We did manage to go in a… different direction, than what was originally passed along.”

You pause your actions of taking another sip of wine, turning to face her as she continues to face the projection screen.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Lin explains. “It just wasn’t the same without it. Of course we tried different angles, but the footage on those memory cards- it was a lot to work with.”

As she speaks, your gaze falls back to the projection screen, where Mrs. Bang appears, hands folded nearly in her lap as she details all of Chan’s tendencies to shut himself off from the world.

“He’s so preoccupied with being the best at what he does. And I can’t help but think there’s something keeping him down.”

And then just as you’d feared, and although you specifically requested the footage be omitted from the film, Mrs. Bang begins to cry, expressing her worry for Chan and his future.

“You kept that footage in?” You say out loud, earning a few glances from your colleagues around you.

Lin gestures for you to lower your voice, taking a sharp breath before explaining.

“It wasn’t me,” she voices in a whisper, fidgeting with a ring on her finger. “The network wanted it personal. It was still on the card when it was imported, and I was told to leave it in.”

“I can’t believe it,” you say, in disbelief as the footage continues to indulge a painful amount of personal information- albeit filmed, not intended for the docu series.

“What else did you keep in?” You say to her, heartbeat quickening in your chest when you remember your conversation with Chan. She scratches the back of her head awkwardly, failing to give an answer, and then without missing a beat, you lunge forward to collect the remote control, fiddling nervously with the buttons as you fast forward through the footage.

The room grows quiet as the footage scrolls rapidly through part two- candid shots of Chan in his car, more interviews, his blue boxing mitts, his training sessions in front of Mr. Seo.

And then before you can begin to ask her about it, your heart sinks in your chest when you’re met with the scene on-screen; one of Chan crying, his head hung in defeat as he sits on the familiar leather couch in his apartment.

“Losing scares the shit out of me,” he says between sniffles, as your camera captures him at a painfully close proximity.

All eyes are on you now, a heavy tension falling over the room as Chan continues to speak on the projection screen. He begins to detail the burdens of valuing his winning streak so much, and you can hardly make out his sentences as you practically toss the remote at Lin and gather your purse once more.

“I can’t believe this,” you say to her, scoffing as you meet her blank gaze. “That was supposed to be for my use. Not for the series. I mean, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“It wasn’t my decision,” she explains, trailing after you as you begin out of the common area. “They loved how personal it got. I’m just here to translate it into the series-”

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t listen to me. God, I should’ve checked the fucking memory card.”

“We wouldn’t have had the ratings we did for part one without this level of closeness,” Lin explains. She follows as you saunter to your desk, gathering a stack of papers and shoving them into your bag.

“I never should have listened to you,” you explain, as a stream of tears finally makes its way onto your reddened cheeks. “All this push to get closer to him, and for what? So you can get your stupid ratings? Well congrats, I hope you got what you were looking for.”

Lin pauses for a moment, and then she scowls in response. For a fleeting moment, you assume she’s going to apologize, or maybe offer to take the fall for you. But when she speaks once more, you’re disenchanted to find it’s the complete opposite.

“I hadn’t taken you to be one to put pleasure before business,” she begins. “He’s just a video subject. Unless there’s more we’re not seeing?”

“He’s a human being, first,” you interject. “His lows aren’t some sick form of entertainment for you to cash out on.”

“Then why were they filmed?” She wonders out loud, and you grow quiet at the question.

You want to argue back, and yet you can’t, not possessing a clear answer to the very fair question she poses to you.

She’s right, to some degree- perhaps in your desire to know Chan so intimately, you’d also begun to house a fascination for the way he opens up to you, recounting stories of his childhood and confessing to a long list of fears he harbors deeps down under the facade of a “perfect boxer”. The lines between business and pleasure had been blurred long ago- as were your intentions when you filmed him every chance you got. Perhaps in navigating the painful reality that you will never be more than a keen journalist relative to a charming boxer like himself, you’d put him on a pedestal the same way many now do. And now you’re no better than the voyeuristic tendencies your network pushed you to possess.

Bang Chan is not some “perfect athlete”, nor can he be reduced to the numerical value of trophies and medals. He doesn’t fit within the binary of a “winner” or a “loser”, and he certainly isn’t some cocky sports fanatic like you’d once taken him for.

He’s a human being- with tangible fears, and hopes for the future, and a profound love for the people who shaped him to be the person he is today. And though the fact remains, that he’s on an unbroken winning streak and about to participate in the biggest fight of his life, it’s just a fraction of who he really is.

“Did you really think this was going to end differently?” She voices. “You really don’t think that you played a role in his exploitation, either?”

“Stop,” you practically beg, glancing past her figure at the caravan of colleagues who’ve now exited the common room, too. They eye you curiously, whispering amongst themselves and awaiting your next move. For a moment, you’re reminded of the boxing ring in Chan’s gym- it’s as though you’re there on that raised platform, pairs of eyes eagerly anticipating your next strike from across your opponent. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears, glancing around the room with such desperation as her words play in your head over and over again.

“If I recall correctly, the second most intimate thing you can do is interview somebody,” Lin states, using your own words against you.

Her voice is like an uppercut to the jaw, leaving you breathless and full of disdain, as she gives you a small shrug. And then before you can strike back, she pivots on her heel, joining your colleagues once more as she departs from your trembling figure.

In the context of this docuseries, you’re entirely complicit in the unjustified publication of Chan’s vulnerability to the whole world.

And in the context of a boxing match- perhaps nothing more than a loser.

Part 2.

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minhosbitterriver

9 months ago

You guys are insane (affectionate)! Thank you so much for all the love you’ve given this piece 🫶

──★ 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ( enhypen )

❛ In which you’re the idol who somehow snatched the members of Enhypen’s heart at first sight.

𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐲𝐩𝐞𝐧 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) 8.8k

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated! Requests are currently open! All of the members are found below the cut! Enjoy! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Love at first sight trope, Idol Y/N AU, inconsistent POV, whether Y/N is a solo artist or a member of a group varies from member to member, lots of mentions of being stressed with work, Y/N in Jake’s piece has some negative opinions on the HYBE company (which doesn’t reflect my own personal opinions), Y/N and Sunghoon are drunk together but it’s all pretty mild, meet-cutes for all members except for Jake — his is more of a one-sided enemies-to-lovers trope, let me know if I missed anything!

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 )

이희승 ── LEE HEESEUNG.

An exhausted sigh brushed past Heeseung's lips as he trudged into the empty elevator of his company building. With his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, he leaned heavily against the cold, metallic railing at the back of the enclosed space. The hum of the elevator's ascent seemed to echo his own weary thoughts, a turbulent mix of pride and anxiety swirling in his mind. Images of the countless posters featuring his face, alongside those of his members, plastered all over town flashed before his eyes. Despite the pride he felt in the fanbase Enhypen had garnered since their debut, a gnawing fear tugged at his heart — a fear that after all the sacrifices made for this new comeback, it might still fall short of expectations.

Lost in his own tumultuous sea of thoughts, Heeseung was jolted back to reality by the sudden chime of the elevator, signaling its stop. The sound snapped him from his reverie, and as the doors opened, he stumbled out onto the wrong floor, colliding gently with someone exiting the opposite way. His face flushed with embarrassment as he muttered a hasty apology, realizing he had disembarked prematurely. Flustered, he shoved his arm between the closing doors to force them open again, avoiding eye contact with the stranger who had witnessed his blunder. The mortification deepened as he heard the soft, amused chuckle from the person he’d bumped into.

In the brief moment of awkward silence that followed, your melodic voice broke through, catching Heeseung’s attention. “Aren’t you one of the members of Enhypen? Heeseung, right?”

His gaze, which had been fixed on the floor in embarrassment, hesitantly lifted to meet your bright eyes. The connection felt electric, as if a spotlight had suddenly focused on you, illuminating the exquisite details of your face. Heeseung was struck by an overwhelming sense of awe, his heart racing as he tried to gather his thoughts. Unfortunately, his voice seemed to have abandoned him completely, leaving him with no words other than a timid nod.

The smile that graced your lips was like a burst of sunshine, sending Heeseung’s heart into a whirl. Your eyes sparkled with genuine excitement, and he could almost feel the warmth of your enthusiasm radiating towards him. It was a small yet endearing display of your excitement that tugged at his heartstrings.

“I honestly can’t believe I’m meeting you,” you said, your voice bubbling with unfiltered joy. “I’ve already listened to every song on your new album, Romance: Untold, and it’s truly amazing. My favorite is definitely ‘Moonstruck’ — I’ve had it on repeat so much that it might be considered a bit of an obsession.”

Heeseung managed to curl the corners of his lips into a shy grin, chuckling softly at the sight of your unrestrained praise. Though his mind was still blank and his ability to articulate a response seemed impaired, the sight of you raving about his work was heartening. You didn’t seem to mind, as you turned your attention back to the slowly descending elevator, which gave Heeseung a clear view of your slightly flushed cheeks.

Suddenly, a realization seemed to hit you, causing your eyes to widen in a mixture of panic and embarrassment. “Oh no, I hope you don’t think I’m just a weird fan who snuck in here! I’m actually one of the members of a new group that debuted a few months ago. I’m the eldest member, actually. Um, I’m Y/N.” Your once bold and outgoing demeanor gave way to a nervous, stammering apology as you quickly rattled off your introduction. Heeseung couldn’t help but chuckle softly, the sight of your flustered state easing his own tension.

As if sensing your discomfort, the elevator doors slid open with a familiar chime, allowing you to bow hurriedly before slipping out of the confined space. Heeseung, feeling a sudden surge of determination, followed you into the lobby. His hand reached out, gently grabbing your wrist and bringing you to a stop. The startled look on your face, accompanied by your crimson cheeks, made Heeseung’s heart race. The way your eyes gleamed with curiosity and surprise left him breathless, and he felt a rush of courage to keep you from walking away.

“I – I really appreciate you enjoying our album,” he blurted out, his voice trembling slightly. His eyes darted around, searching for the right words to extend the fleeting moment. “I’ll admit that I haven’t heard your music yet, but... um, if you’re free now, maybe we could grab a coffee? I’d love to hear more about your group and listen to your stuff.”

The transformation in your expression was instantaneous. The soft gasp that escaped your lips, combined with your shy nod of agreement, filled Heeseung with an exhilarating sense of relief and excitement. If the thread of his life had been cut at that moment, he would have died the happiest man on earth. Your smile, so bright and genuine, breathed new life into his day, turning a simple encounter into something extraordinary.

박종성 ── PARK JONGSEONG.

As the award show neared its conclusion, the atmosphere of genuine enjoyment gradually gave way to a palpable restlessness. Idols, exhausted from hours of watching performances and listening to repetitive acceptance speeches, were eager to leave.

Jay, seated among the sea of idols, found himself particularly conscious of the numerous cameras stationed around the venue. Each lens seemed to capture his every movement, broadcasting it to the fans watching from the comfort of their homes. Normally, he was accustomed to this constant scrutiny, but tonight felt different. The hours seemed to stretch interminably, and he watched as a parade of performers and winners he barely recognized took the stage.

His body ached from the relentless dance and vocal rehearsals leading up to their next comeback, the dull pain in his muscles a constant reminder of his exhaustion. Despite his best efforts to maintain a stoic expression for the sake of Engenes, Jay felt the strain, his neck twinging painfully with every attempt to relieve it.

The host, a familiar figure in a sharp suit, made his way to the center of the stage for the final time. Adjusting his tie with a practiced charm, he flashed a bright grin that could be seen even from the back rows. Jay barely registered the words as the emcee began his closing speech, his mind focused on the discomfort in his neck.

“What a night, what a night,” the host began, his voice tinged with rehearsed sentiment. “I can comfortably say that this will be an unforgettable evening for many — myself included.”

He paused, glancing around the audience with a knowing smile. “I know I’m supposed to end the night with a heartfelt speech, but we have one final surprise that I’m sure you’ll all enjoy — a special performance.”

Confusion rippled through the audience as murmurs filled the room. Jay furrowed his brows, intrigued yet weary.

“As you all know, there is a nationally beloved solo artist who has been on hiatus for seven months.” The anticipation in the room grew palpable. “Yes, you know exactly who I’m talking about! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back our one and only — Y/N!”

The moment you stepped onto the stage, the audience erupted in applause and cheers. Your emotional grin barely concealed the tears threatening to spill from the overwhelming support. For Jay, the world seemed to collapse in on itself, leaving only the ethereal vision of you. The simple act of walking and smiling was enough to leave him breathless.

As you took your place at the center of the stage, the music began, and the cheers gradually quieted. Every discomfort Jay had felt moments ago vanished as he watched you raise the microphone to your lips, your eyes turning into crescent moons with your unwavering smile.

Your voice was enchanting, filling every corner of the stadium and striking the hearts of everyone present with its raw emotion. Jay was no exception. He was captivated by the intensity and beauty of your performance, feeling every note resonate deeply within him. As the final gentle notes faded, tears you had held back began to roll down your cheeks, ruining your makeup but enhancing your vulnerability.

The audience's applause was deafening, a testament to their love and admiration. Despite the chaos, your heart swelled with gratitude at the sight of so many people celebrating your return.

The award show faded into a distant memory as you found yourself surrounded by people offering heartfelt praise and excitement. Your cheeks ached from smiling, but the bliss of the moment was worth every second. Faces blurred together as you moved from one conversation to the next, each interaction a reminder of how much you were loved and missed.

Throughout it all, Jay watched you from a distance, his group members having long since left. He desperately wanted to approach you but felt intimidated by the constant stream of admirers. Eventually, he resigned himself to the idea that he might not get the chance to express how profoundly your performance had affected him. With a heavy heart, he signaled to his bodyguard that he was ready to leave.

Outside the stadium, the noise of the city offered a reprieve from the weight of his celebrity persona. Jay enjoyed the simple act of watching cars pass by, lost in thought. He didn’t notice you until you sighed contentedly and took the empty spot beside him.

“Pretty night,” you said softly, your voice tender and soothing. Jay turned to you, stunned into silence by your presence. The fluttering in his stomach intensified.

In an effort to compose himself, he looked back at the road. “You must be tired,” he said, trying to sound casual. “After so long away from the spotlight, I mean.”

You giggled, a sound that squeezed his heart. “Blissfully drained.”

Jay chuckled, stealing a quick glance at you before returning his gaze forward. The comfortable silence between you was enough, each moment charged with unspoken emotions.

“You know,” you began, “I watched your performance from the dressing room. I really enjoyed it.”

The blush that crept up Jay’s ears was immediate, followed by a shy smile. Your compliment left him feeling both flustered and elated. You turned away slightly, your own cheeks flushed.

Before Jay could respond, a black Cadillac pulled up in front of him, signaling it was time to leave. Panic set in as he realized he hadn’t said everything he wanted to. You, however, seemed unfazed, your confident smirk never wavering.

“May our paths cross once more,” you said with a warm smile, taking a step back and waving.

Jay watched you disappear into the night, your words echoing in his mind. He hoped fervently that this wouldn't be the last time he saw you.

심재윤 ── SIM JAEYUN.

Amidst the cacophony of angry voices clashing like a storm, your blood boiled at the pure entitlement of the people standing before you. You'd barely managed to set your bag down on the leather couch of the recording studio you had waited weeks to finally use when the door burst open, revealing the breathless mess of a manager responsible for some boy group you couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge. He claimed that there had been an error in the schedule for the room, that it was supposedly meant to be occupied by his group—never mind the fact that your name had been very clearly stated in the timesheet for weeks.

The sour taste on your tongue intensified as soon as you noticed a group of six boys hesitantly approaching the tense situation, led by a younger-looking boy with almost cartoonishly big doe eyes. His brows furrowed as he tried to decipher the not-so-clean words being exchanged between both teams. Letting your own manager handle the mess, you remained seated on the couch with your arms folded over your chest, hoping you'd be compensated for the reserved time you'd lost to this fiasco, though you were almost certain you wouldn't be.

Somehow maneuvering themselves around the strife, the newcomers entered the recording room, only to awkwardly stand before you as if expecting you to explain the situation. Despite your clear distaste, you let your hands fall limply onto your lap with a frustrated sigh.

"I reserved this room for today weeks ago," you said, the acidity in your tone unmistakable. None of the boys seemed too bothered by it as they continued to watch you intently. "Your manager, however, decided it would be a good idea to waste everyone's time by claiming there must have been some kind of oversight since apparently he also reserved this exact time for you guys."

"Uh, I think there might have really been a misunderstanding since we were also set to record here," Doe-Eyes responded quickly, glancing back towards his manager anxiously as if unsure of his own words. You couldn't help but scoff and roll your eyes.

Pulling your phone out of your back pocket, you didn't try to hide the incredulous shake of your head. Once you found the confirmation email you’d received upon booking the studio, you turned your screen so that all six boys could read. “Unless you also have an email similar to this— which, by the way, your manager has failed to show us instead of calling his boss—then I don’t think there’s really any room to call this a ‘misunderstanding’.”

Almost immediately, Doe-Eyes pulled his own phone out of the pocket of his hoodie, hurriedly scrolling through it while taking a seat a little further down the same couch you'd been glued to for the past twenty minutes. The rest of the members didn’t seem to have anything else to say as they either pursed their lips awkwardly or whispered amongst themselves, their furrowed brows signaling their own concerns about what it would mean for them if you were to keep the studio. And although you were confident that you and your team had done everything right, you were barely able to suppress your own fear of being left high and dry. It wasn’t uncommon for solo artists such as yourself to have no other alternative than to fight tooth and nail for fair treatment in an industry with a clear preference for boy groups like the ones present at the moment—and the company you were currently working for was really no different, as evidenced by the infuriating stories shared by the painfully sparse number of solo artists you’d met in this very building.

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, Doe-Eyes whipped his head around as though looking for someone. “Where’s Jake?”

The other members uselessly copied their friend’s action, shrugging silently. “I think he was talking with his mom on the phone when we left, but he said he wouldn’t be too long.”

Almost as if the act of voicing his name could summon him, a very disheveled seventh boy skidded to a halt behind the ongoing commotion taking place right outside the studio. His eyes widened in bewilderment as he processed the admittedly rare scene unfolding before him. His attention quickly shifted to the group of idols crowding the already confined space as one of the members waved at him to join them, a silent command that didn’t need to be repeated as he squeezed his way inside. Once he made it past the door, he hunched over breathlessly, a string of gibberish pouring out of his mouth as he tried to explain his tardiness—not a single word of it being even remotely comprehensible to you.

Ultimately, the boy’s excuses didn’t matter as everyone’s attention was drawn to the familiar authoritative figure who finally made his appearance (as requested by the boys’ manager) to solve the ridiculous dilemma, the typical severe expression etched onto his face. You tried to brush aside your rising anxiety to no avail, your leg subconsciously bouncing up and down.

While your mind raced with worst-case scenarios, Jake—the boy who’d just arrived—found himself stilled by the mere sight of you. Encircled by a heavenly bubble that seemed to drown out his surroundings, he found himself captivated by the worry tainting what he was positive would otherwise be the most heart-mangling pair of eyes he’d ever seen. Even with your entire essence emanating a mixture of irritation and anxiety, Jake was sure his eyes would never find anything or anyone that could compare to the profoundness of your beauty. He almost questioned if you were real, or if he had lost his sanity to a sweet hallucination, though he quickly pushed the idea out of his mind for fear of losing sight of you.

“Hi.” It was all that Jake could muster, hoping his heart wouldn’t suddenly stop when your weary eyes landed on him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

Several conflicting emotions passed through your face as you tried to make sense of the unexpected contrast between the serious situation and his dazed expression. In the end, all you could do was scoff nastily at his lack of ability to read the room, a reaction that still made Jake feel as though he could levitate since your simple acknowledgment of his existence was enough for him to obsess over for the rest of his lifetime.

The sight of the newcomer was almost ridiculous as you shifted in your seat almost uncomfortably, unable to understand what could possibly be going through his mind.

“Okay, let’s do this.” The authoritarian voice of your superior was enough to drag your attention away from the oddity of this boy. “Since Enhypen’s comeback is set at a sooner date, I suggest Y/N allow them to use the room first. I’ll be sure to postpone the reservations of the people meant to come here today or tomorrow. That is my final say on the matter.”

He raised his hand in a stern manner the moment he noticed you quickly jumping to your feet to argue, immediately shutting you up as your lips curled into a disgruntled snarl. Even though a part of you had predicted this outcome, you still couldn’t believe it as your eyes found the familiar pair belonging to your exhausted manager.

Since it was clear that you and your team had no other option but to pack up what little had been set up before this whole fiasco began, you begrudgingly snatched your bag to sling over your shoulder—though not before scowling in the boys’ direction, causing them to wince back. Except for Jake, who annoyingly remained in his spot, smiling stupidly at you.

Hours after being kicked out of your own appointment, you found yourself sitting alone under the shade of a large tree at a nearby park. Bitterness still possessed your heart despite coming here to calm yourself in the comforting alternative universe that only seemed to exist in this very spot, usually waiting for your return whenever life took a rough turn. Every other time, the gentle kisses of the wind against your skin, the delicious warmth that dwelled just under the surface of the ground, or the simple serenity that washed over your troubled mind as you listened to the natural melody of small animals and children playing would immediately comfort you. However, your little piece of paradise did not spare any mercy for you today. The chilly wind nipped at your reddened cheeks and nose, the ground beneath you was still moist from the light rain of the previous day, and all you could hear were the exhaustive sounds of distant traffic and the robotic voices of business people on their phones. Your little piece of paradise, your alternative universe hidden in plain sight, had become distressingly bleak.

You were just about to abandon your spot, the disappointment becoming overwhelming to the point of blurring your vision with unshed tears, when the sound of cautious footsteps from behind alerted you. Breath catching in your throat at the thought of what could possibly happen, you hoped whoever was approaching would just walk past and prove you to be foolishly paranoid.

“You hide well, Y/N.”

The sinister words unmistakably belonging to a man hung in the air, making you consider breaking into a run—or perhaps attempting to kick him in the knees to temporarily incapacitate him and give you more time to escape. A million thoughts stormed through your head as your heartbeat picked up.

“I’m sorry about what happened with the studio.” The specificity of the man’s apology made you pause. You noted that he had stopped moving, evidently standing just a foot or two away from you. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn around. “After you and your team left, I was finally told what went down, and I felt guilty. Obviously, you have every right to be upset considering your name was the only one that appeared to be scheduled.”

Only a moment passed before the owner of the mysterious voice stood before you, sporting a shy smile while holding a brown paper bag close to his chest. It was the boy who had arrived late to the recording session, the one with the dazed look in his eyes — the same one still present as he looked down at your sitting figure. His presence reignited the smoldering anger you’d managed to suppress over the past few hours. You didn't bother holding back the immediate glare directed at him, a glare that would have made anyone else shrink back. But he seemed unfazed, his smile only growing into a full, boyish grin that vaguely reminded you of a Golden Retriever, with an infectious warmth that was hard to ignore.

He stood there, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the bag crinkling slightly in his grip. His tousled hair caught the last rays of the setting sun, creating a halo effect around his head that softened his features. Despite your irritation, you couldn't help but notice the genuine innocence in his eyes, as if he truly had no intention of causing any harm — deep down, you were well aware that your anger was misdirected, though your pride didn’t let you back down.

“Anyway, I'm really sorry about earlier," he repeated, his voice gentle and sincere. "I know things got messed up, and it wasn’t fair to you."

The softness of his tone momentarily disarmed you, but you quickly remembered the frustration of being pushed aside. You folded your arms across your chest, maintaining your steely gaze. "It's not your fault, but that doesn't make it any less infuriating," you replied curtly, though a part of you felt a pang of guilt for being so harsh.

He nodded, understanding. "I get that. I really do. That's why I wanted to apologize properly." He held out the bag towards you, his eyes pleading for you to accept his peace offering.

You hesitated, your curiosity piqued despite yourself. Slowly, you reached for the bag, feeling the crinkle of the paper beneath your fingers. Peeking inside, you were met with a colorful assortment of convenience store sweets and chips. The sight was so unexpected that it momentarily broke through your anger, leaving you both surprised and amused.

“Hold on, what is this?” you asked, incredulous, pulling out a pack of sour candies and a bag of your favorite potato chips.

He lifted a shoulder into a half shrug, the motion causing his tousled hair to fall slightly over his forehead. A dark blush tinted the tips of his ears, standing out starkly against his pale skin. “I wasn’t really sure what you might like, so I got everything.”

You couldn't help but let out a disbelieving chuckle. The gesture was absurdly extravagant, almost comical, but undeniably thoughtful. Your gaze shifted from the bag to his face, taking in the earnestness in his eyes. The softness of his brown eyes, filled with a mix of anxiety and hope, caught you off guard. Despite the frustration and anger still simmering within you, the sincerity of his actions tugged at your heartstrings.

The gesture was ridiculous, you decided. But as your eyes finally locked with the softness of his brown ones, you couldn’t seem to ignore the swelling in your chest. The warmth of his gaze, combined with the blush that refused to leave his ears, chipped away at your resolve. A smile forced its way onto your lips despite your desire to maintain the angry mask.

“Well, I guess it’s a start,” you conceded, the corners of your mouth curling up despite your best efforts to remain stern.

He exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding, relief washing over his features. “I’m really sorry about today. It wasn’t fair to you, and I wanted to make it right, even if just a little.”

You sighed, feeling some of the tension leave your shoulders. “It’s not your fault. It’s just... this industry, you know?”

He nodded, understanding evident in his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. It can be tough. But hey, at least you’ve got some snacks now.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sound lightening the oppressive atmosphere that had settled around you. “True. Thanks for that.”

He grinned, the boyish smile returning and making him look even more endearing as he took a seat in front of you. “Anytime.”

As the two of you continued to talk, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the park. The earlier tension seemed to dissipate, replaced by a tentative camaraderie that hinted at the possibility of something more. For the first time that day, you felt a glimmer of hope that things might just turn out okay.

박성훈 ── PARK SUNGHOON.

Under the soft glow of city lights and the gentle hum of midnight traffic, Sunghoon stood apprehensively at the entrance of a seemingly lavish apartment complex. The crumpled invitation from Jake was like a heavy weight in his pocket. An internal turmoil raged within him — whether to keep his promise to his friend and attend the gathering or to retreat to the comforting solitude of his bedroom. The flurry of potential outcomes made his head spin, leaving him frozen in place. He couldn’t help but notice the curious glances from the woman behind the front desk, her occasional head tilt suggesting she was trying to figure out what he was doing there, even as she returned her focus to her laptop.

Social gatherings had stopped being Sunghoon’s forte somewhere along the transition from his teenage years to his recent adulthood. Normally, he would have turned down Jake’s invitation without a second thought. But his mother’s worried voice echoed in his mind from their recent phone call, her concern palpable. “You used to have me worried sick every single night when you would go out to all these parties, and now you have me worried sick every night you tell me you’d rather isolate yourself in your room, love.”

Taking a deep breath, Sunghoon willed himself to move forward. The memory of his mother’s concern pushed him to break free from his self-imposed isolation. He finally pressed the buzzer, his heart racing. When the door clicked open, he stepped inside, feeling the unexpected warmth of the building wrap around him in a soothing manner. He sent Jake a quick text, letting him know he would be up in a minute or two.

The elevator ride to the top floor felt interminable, each second stretching out with mounting anxiety. When the doors slid open, he was met with Jake’s bright smile and slightly unfocused eyes. “You made it!” Jake exclaimed, pulling him into a quick hug. Sunghoon managed a smile, the familiar comfort of his currently tipsy friend easing some of his nerves.

As they walked down the corridor towards your apartment, Jake’s enthusiastic chatter filled the air. He rattled on about everyone who’d made it, the music, the food, and all the games he’d missed. Sunghoon tried to absorb some of his friend’s excitement, though part of him still longed to retreat to the safety of his room. The door to your apartment was slightly ajar, and lively music and intoxicated laughter spilled out into the hallway.

Inside, the atmosphere was warm and inviting, with a soft, ambient glow from various lamps and candles. Sunghoon scanned the room, taking in the mix of vaguely familiar and unfamiliar faces. He was pleased to find only a small group present, just as Jake had promised. His eyes finally landed on you, who effortlessly commanded the room’s attention with a level of self-assurance Sunghoon could only yearn to achieve. As if sensing his eyes, you glanced in his direction, finally taking notice of their arrival before making your way over, a welcoming smile on your face that had Sunghoon’s stomach performing pirouettes.

“Jake, you’re back!” You cheered tipsily before focusing on the visibly anxious new guest, bowing as a polite greeting — an action immediately returned. “Is this the friend you told me about? Park Sunghoon?”

The way Sunghoon’s name rolled off your tongue with such sweetness had him reeling. Jake responded for him with an animated nod, slinging his arm around his friend’s shoulder despite being shorter.

“I’m very happy you were able to make it, Sunghoon!” You giggled lightly — a heavenly melody that tugged at Sunghoon’s erratic heart. “Please make yourself at home. There’s food and drinks over there,” you added, gesturing to a table laden with various treats.

As the evening progressed, Sunghoon found himself slowly relaxing, the initial tension easing away. Although he’d made the conscious decision not to consume any alcohol so that he would still be able to bring Jake and himself back home safely, he joined in the laughter, engaged in conversations with other idols, and sampled some of the food. Despite his initial reluctance, Sunghoon was beginning to enjoy himself.

During a lull in the conversations, Sunghoon found himself standing alone on the balcony, looking out over the city lights. The cool night air was a welcome respite from the warmth inside, and he took a moment to breathe deeply, savoring the tranquility. However, his head was tormented by thoughts of you as he almost obsessively replayed a mental film he’d recorded of you throughout the night, capturing candid scenes of you leaning against the wall while talking to one of your guests, sipping your drink between bursts of laughter, engaging in an impromptu dance competition with Jake, and the times he’d catch you watching him from the opposite side of the room with an unreadable expression before looking away timidly. These were memories he hoped to hold close to his heart even if the two of you never crossed paths again after this night. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear you approach until you stood beside him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” You spoke softly, eyes fixed on the glittering skyline. Sunghoon nodded, feeling an electrifying jolt rush through his veins at the unexpectedness of your company, followed by a strange sense of calm that soothed the fresh spike of his anxiety. The two of you stood in comfortable silence for a while — you simply enjoying the view, and him almost hearing the soft whirring of his mental camera as it recorded the moment for him to save.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” you eventually said, turning to face Sunghoon. There was something in your twinkling gaze that made Sunghoon’s heart skip a beat, an unspoken connection passing between you both.

“Me too,” Sunghoon replied, surprised to realize he meant it. As the two of you continued to talk, an unexpected warmth blossomed in his chest, sensing the creation of an unbreakable red thread that linked you to him. It was both thrilling and terrifying. For the first time in a long while, Sunghoon felt as though he was exactly where he was meant to be.

As the night wore on, the two of you found yourselves drifting away from the main party, your conversation deepening with each passing minute. You discovered shared interests and experiences, revealing parts of yourselves neither were usually eager to share with others. Sunghoon was captivated by the stories of your early days in the industry, the struggles and triumphs that mirrored his own journey.

There was a moment when the laughter died down, and the air between you seemed to crackle with unspoken words that neither of you was brave enough to voice out loud but both seemed to understand. Sunghoon looked into your eyes and felt a magnetic pull, an undeniable connection that made his heart race. He wondered if you felt it too, this strange and exhilarating sensation that was both new and familiar.

You broke the silence, voice soft and sincere. “You know, I’ve been where you are now. The isolation, the doubt…it can be overwhelming. But sometimes reaching out, even if it’s just for a night, can make all the difference. So I’m really glad you’re here tonight.”

Sunghoon nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “I didn’t expect to feel this way tonight,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, a warm and understanding expression that made Sunghoon’s heart flutter. “Neither did I,” you replied. “But I’m glad we both took the chance.”

The city lights continued to sparkle below you both, a silent witness to the beginning of something new. As the night drew to a close, Sunghoon knew that this had been more than just an ordinary gathering. It was the start of a bond that held the promise of something deeper, something that could change both of your lives forever.

김선우 ── KIM SEONWOO.

As the limousine pulled up to the grand entrance of the high-fashion show, Sunoo took a deep breath, steeling himself for the evening ahead. Being a part of a rapidly rising KPOP group, he was accustomed to the spotlight, but attending this event alone felt different. The opulent venue buzzed with the energy of the fashion elite, cameras flashing and voices blending into a hum of anticipation.

Stepping out onto the red carpet, Sunoo was immediately enveloped by the dazzling lights and the flurry of activity. He straightened his impeccably tailored suit, aware of every eye on him. Yet, despite the familiar pressure, there was a unique thrill in the air tonight. As he prepared himself to move forward, his eyes were immediately drawn to a striking figure across from him — another idol, unknown to him, yet governing everyone’s attention with an effortless grace.

You strolled down the velvet red carpet, pausing every few steps to allow the photographers to capture the stunning design adorning your figure, which had been made especially for you. Your movements were fluid, each step exuding confidence and natural charm. As the ambassador for a rival brand, an impeccable aura of sophistication rolled off your skin with an ease that captivated Sunoo in an instant. The way the rays of the setting sun seemed to favor you, casting a perfect golden glow on your flawless features, made it impossible to look away.

Sunoo’s trance was disrupted by the heavy hand of the security guard who had kindly opened the limousine door a moment prior, silently urging him to make haste before the next celebrity arrived. He quickly gathered himself, offering a polite nod to the guard before making his way down the carpet. By the time Sunoo returned his gaze to where your mysterious essence had stood, he was surprised to find you already inside, leaving behind an air of secrecy that lingered in Sunoo’s mind.

Entering the grand hall, Sunoo was greeted by a sea of fashion icons, designers, and celebrities from all around the world mingling under the shimmering chandeliers. The atmosphere was electric, filled with the buzz of conversations and the clinking of champagne glasses. Yet, amidst the glamorous chaos, Sunoo’s thoughts kept drifting back to the enigmatic memory of you.

He navigated through the crowd, exchanging polite greetings and smiles, but his mind was elsewhere. The brief glimpse he had caught of you had sparked a curiosity he couldn’t shake as he found himself subconsciously searching for you. Who are you? What is your story? The questions swirled in Sunoo’s mind, adding a layer of intrigue to the already dazzling event.

As Sunoo settled into his seat, the lights dimmed, signaling the start of the show. The runway came to life with models showcasing the latest collections, each piece more stunning than the last. But even as the fashion show unfolded before him, Sunoo found his eyes wandering to the rows opposite him, searching for that familiar face.

And then, there you were. You were seated just a few rows away, attention fixed on the runway. Sunoo took the opportunity to observe you more closely, noting the confident way you carried yourself, the subtle elegance in your every movement. There was something magnetic about you, a presence that drew Sunoo in and refused to let go.

The fashion show progressed, each segment more captivating than the last, but for Sunoo, the true highlight was the possibility of a single minute with you. As the final model strutted down the runway and the audience erupted into applause, Sunoo knew he had to find a way to introduce himself. This night, under the dazzling lights of the fashion elite, gave him the unmistakable sensation that it might mark the beginning of something extraordinary — such a thing being yourself.

Following the fashion show, Sunoo took a moment to collect himself. The applause gradually subsided, and the room buzzed with excited chatter as attendees began to mingle and move toward the reception area. Sunoo’s heart raced with a mix of anticipation and nerves as he scanned the crowd, seeking another glimpse of you.

The hall was now a swirl of elegant gowns, tailored suits, and sparkling jewelry, with everyone engaged in animated conversations regarding the slew of unique designs they’d just witnessed. Sunoo made his way through the throng, offering polite smiles and hasty bows while his thoughts remained fixated on you. He couldn’t shake the sense of urgency, the need to introduce himself and learn about you who had so effortlessly stolen his sanity.

As he approached the bar, Sunoo finally spotted you standing near a cluster of fashion executives and designers. You were engrossed in conversation, your laughter echoing like a melody above the hum of the crowd. Sunoo hesitated for a moment, gathering his courage before making his way toward you.

Just as he was about to reach you, a voice called out his name. He turned to see his brand’s creative director, a smile on her face as she beckoned him over. Sunoo’s heart sank slightly, but he knew that ignoring her was not an option. With a polite bow, he approached her, engaging in a brief yet lively discussion about the evening’s show and their brand’s latest collection.

As soon as the conversation reached its natural end, Sunoo didn’t waste a second to glance back to where you had been, only to find you had moved on. Panic set in, though he took a deep breath, determined not to let the opportunity slip away. He began to weave through the crowd once more, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of you.

Finally, he spotted you near the entrance to a quieter lounge area, a serene space with plush seating and soft lighting. Sunoo made his way over, his steps quickening as he neared you. He paused just a few feet away, taking yet another deep breath to steady his nerves.

“Excuse me,” Sunoo said, his voice somehow calm yet tinged with an anticipation you didn’t miss. You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his with a curious, welcoming gaze that weakened his knees. “I couldn’t help but notice you during the show. I’m Sunoo, from Enhypen. It is a true honor to meet you.”

A smile spread across your face, genuine and warm. “Hello, Sunoo. I am Y/N from SM Entertainment. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

The conversation flowed easily from there, a mix of introductions, shared experiences, and mutual admiration for the evening’s fashion showcase. As the night wore on, the initial spark of intense curiosity between you grew into a deeper attachment. The surrounding chatter and movement seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of conversation and laughter.

By the time the evening came to an end, Sunoo knew that the unignorable sense of tonight marking a thrilling new beginning had been correct. As you exchanged contact information and made plans to meet again, there was an unspoken understanding that this thread that linked the two of you, born under the dazzling lights of the fashion elite, held the promise of something truly special.

양정원 ── YANG JUNGWON.

It had been an excruciatingly long time since Jungwon had danced purely for the joy of it, even if he kept this yearning to himself. He was well-aware of the sacrifices demanded by his career when he first started as a trainee, and he would make that commitment again without hesitation. Yet, the craving for dance, like a dormant ember, flared up intermittently, refusing to be extinguished by the relentless demands of his life.

At the moment, Jungwon felt an urgent need to escape, a desperate desire to retreat into solitude where he could breathe without the relentless pressure of work bearing down on him. The large headphones that had pressed into his ears for the duration of the recording session now hung around his neck, heavy with the weight of his mounting frustration. As he watched the producing team, whom he had come to know through each Enhypen album, huddled in private discussion, he felt increasingly isolated. The mics were off, their muted voices blending into an unwelcoming silence that amplified his sense of failure. He had repeated the same lines over and over since he first entered, unable to capture the performance they sought. It was baffling why something that should be simple had become so exasperatingly complex.

After what felt like an eternity, the producers nodded curtly at each other, signaling their agreement. They turned to Jungwon through the subtly tinted glass, their faces betraying a hint of resignation.

“Jungwon,” one of them sighed into the microphone, the voice slightly distorted as it came through the speakers. “I think we should try again next Monday. Please take this time to rest.”

Disappointment pierced through him like a cold, sharp blade. He slumped his shoulders, his gaze dropping to the floor as he gave a solemn nod. Swiftly, he removed his headphones and gathered his belongings. The room was filled with pitiful smiles from the team, but Jungwon was too eager to escape to notice. The confined space was stifling, and he was desperate for freedom. As he trudged down the nearly vacant corridors of the company building, his frustration simmered, bubbling up like molten lava, searing through him with each step.

He searched his mind for a place where he could be alone. Going home was not an option with half his members there, their typical boisterousness far from the sanctuary he craved. Restaurants and coffee shops were possibilities, but he lacked the appetite for anything. And then, as if the universe had taken pity on him, memories of hours spent dancing alone in the company’s dance rooms flooded his mind. It was enough to redirect his aimless wanderings. He made a beeline for the elevator, his steps quickening as excitement surged through him, a welcome escape from the stifling environment. He reveled in the knowledge that no one would question his whereabouts, believing him to still be at the recording booth.

With his heart pounding a rhythm of genuine elation, everything around him blurred into insignificance as he focused solely on his destination. The seconds stretched painfully as he awaited the elevator doors to open. The tip of his tongue seemed to taste the sweet promise of freedom as he finally reached the end of the hall, where the rarely used dance room stood, its door a familiar friend in his moment of need.

Had Jungwon not been so absorbed in his whirlwind of emotions, he might have noticed the soft strains of music emanating from within. Instead, he burst into the room, breathless, only to find himself frozen by the sight before him. There, bathed in the warm, gentle light, was you—dancing with a grace that seemed to defy the ordinary.

You were lost in your world, every movement flowing effortlessly with the tender rhythm of the music. There were no goals to reach, no steps to follow—just a pure expression of emotion that dripped from your every move. You danced as if the weight of the world had melted away, a blissful freedom that Jungwon hadn’t felt in ages. Your dance was a vivid reminder of what it was meant to be before fame had ever touched his life.

To Jungwon, who stood silently by the door, watching in awe, you were completely absorbed in your own realm. The peaceful, contented look on your face made it clear that you were in a moment of serene solitude. He tried to retreat quietly, but stumbled over his own feet, causing you to stop abruptly and turn toward him with wide, startled eyes.

In that instant, the world seemed to collapse around you both, leaving only the connection between your eyes and his. The silence stretched, laden with awkwardness, and you were the first to look away. Jungwon’s heart sank, wishing he could lose himself in your eyes forever.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice tentative. “I was just finishing up. I’ll get my stuff and leave.”

The last thing Jungwon wanted was for you to leave in such a rush. He was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions—entranced, confused, dazed, distressed—but the most powerful feeling was the undeniable pull toward you. You, who had suddenly appeared in his world, who moved with effortless grace like a bird in flight, and who had given him the briefest of smiles that seemed to halt his heartbeat. You were an enigma he felt destined to connect with, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Before you could slip past him, Jungwon found himself instinctively reaching out, his hand landing gently on your shoulder. The contact elicited soft gasps of surprise from both of you. His eyes locked onto yours, desperately trying to savor every detail of your features. He realized there might never be enough time to fully appreciate your beauty, but all he wanted was a single minute to bask in your presence. He was acutely aware of his own vulnerability as the desire to remain near you replaced his previous yearning for solitude.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen someone dance the way you just did,” he said, his voice barely audible. The blush that colored your cheeks was all the confirmation he needed that you heard him.

“Oh,” you blinked, caught off guard. “Thank you.”

“If you’re not busy,” Jungwon continued, though he was unsure of where his words would lead, “please stay.”

You studied his face, searching for sincerity and intent. Perhaps it was the raw desperation in his brown eyes or the electric tingle of his touch that convinced you. Whatever it was, you decided to stay, offering him a shy but genuine smile. Your heart raced as you noticed the dimples that appeared on his cheeks, a sign of his radiant smile.

And so you stayed. What began as a moment stretched into hours, then weeks, and eventually a lifetime. In that dance room, amidst the echoing melodies and fleeting moments, something truly extraordinary was born.

西村力 ── NISHIMURA RIKI.

In the bustling expanse of the airport lounge, the soft hum of conversations mingled with the distant announcements of flight departures provided a backdrop to the whirlwind of thoughts in Ni-ki’s mind. Seated amongst his fellow members, sought a fleeting moment of tranquility before their flight to Tokyo, the next stop on their concert tour. From such a young age, normalcy had been a distant concept, eclipsed by the relentless rush of performances and public appearances that left little room for peaceful introspection. The early morning departure had left them all groggy, their energy sapped by the unforgiving schedule that defined their lives.

Ni-ki leaned back in his seat, his eyes closing as he sought to capture a fleeting sense of peace amidst the chaos. The lounge, a hive of activity, was populated with travelers—some dozing off in their seats, others engrossed in their devices, and a few engaged in low murmurs of conversation. The atmosphere was a curious blend of anticipation and exhaustion, a microcosm of the frenetic life Ni-ki had come to know so well.

When Ni-ki opened his eyes, his gaze drifted across the room, taking in the varied faces of fellow travelers. His eyes settled on a vaguely recognizable group of young idols seated across the lounge, their presence unmistakable even amid the sea of people. Your group, though from a different agency, radiated a camaraderie and vibrant energy that felt oddly familiar. Among them, you stood out—a figure of serene poise amidst the lively chatter of your companions.

Ni-ki’s attention was drawn to you, his curiosity piqued by the quiet aura you exuded. There was a subtle grace in your demeanor that captivated him. You sat with large headphones covering your ears, occasionally glancing around the lounge as if seeking a moment of solitude amidst the bustling environment. Your hair fell gently over your eyes as you absentmindedly adjusted your oversized hoodie, a small, seemingly insignificant action that made you appear both approachable and endearingly shy.

Minutes stretched into an hour as you and Ni-ki waited for your respective flights. While his group members were absorbed in their own activities—some napping, others lost in games or music—Ni-ki found himself increasingly drawn to you. There was something magnetic about your presence, an unspoken allure that made his heart race each time your eyes briefly met. The pull he felt was inexplicable yet undeniable.

You possessed an effortless charm, a quiet confidence that set you apart from the crowd. Ni-ki found himself imagining what your voice might sound like, wondering what thoughts occupied your mind, and what music you might be listening to—all while grappling with his own doubts and shyness that held him back from approaching you. The mystery surrounding you only deepened Ni-ki’s fascination, turning mere curiosity into a profound longing to know more.

Across the lounge, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. At first, you thought it was a trick of your imagination, but the sensation persisted. Your sensitivity to the energy around you made Ni-ki’s gaze feel like a gentle but persistent tug. Despite your attempts to focus on your group’s animated conversation, your thoughts kept drifting back to the boy who seemed so captivated by you. You wondered what had caught his attention—was it your appearance? Clad in an oversized hoodie and leggings, with minimal makeup, you certainly didn't stand out in the traditional sense. Or was it your demeanor? You had done little more than sit quietly, attempting to conserve your energy and maintain a reserved presence. Though outwardly calm, your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, adding to the enigma Ni-ki seemed drawn to.

Finally, a boarding announcement for a flight to Osaka broke Ni-ki’s reverie. He watched as your group began to gather their belongings, preparing to leave. A pang of disappointment struck him, realizing that his chance to approach you and strike up a conversation was slipping away. Just as he was about to redirect his attention back to his own group in a silent acceptance of defeat, he noticed you had lingered behind, your eyes meeting his for a brief, charged moment.

In that fleeting exchange, there was an unspoken connection, a shared understanding that transcended the chaos surrounding you both. You offered a small, almost shy smile before rejoining your group, leaving Ni-ki with a lingering sense of anticipation and curiosity. The way your eyes had held his, as if conveying a silent message, made his heart flutter with a strange, exhilarating hope.

As you followed your group to the boarding gate, you couldn't shake the feeling of Ni-ki’s eyes lingering on you. It was both thrilling and unnerving, sparking a curiosity of your own. In the subtlest way possible, you stole one last glance over your shoulder, finding Ni-ki still watching with an intensity that made your heart race. You smiled to yourself, wondering if fate might bring the two of you together again in the near future.

As you and your group disappeared through the boarding gate, Ni-ki was left contemplating the possibility of your paths crossing again—perhaps amidst the vibrant streets of Tokyo or in the backstage corridors of a concert venue. The brief interaction had left an indelible mark on him, a spark that refused to be extinguished by the routine of his life. Settling back into his seat, Ni-ki’s thoughts drifted back to you, imagining potential conversations, shared laughter, and the possibility of a burgeoning friendship—or hopefully something more—that could blossom in the most unexpected of places.

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