Take Me To Church | Choi San

take me to church | choi san

We’re back with another San work bc he’s hot and I love him. Genres: fluff, religious differences (but not like in an angst way, it’s really all fluff) Warnings: reader jokes about dying. Heavy discussion of religion, specifically Catholicism. Characters attend mass and confession. Brief sacrilege? Idk they kiss in a cathedral, so if you are Catholic and that’s offensive to you, probably don’t read this. San has unbelievable rizz (needs a warning) and is sometimes a bit suggestive.

“It took you long enough,” you tease, looking up from your book at the handsome young man holding two coffee cups and waiting for you to notice him. “You’ve been staring at me for a good long time.”

He grins at this. “Can I sit down?” he asks you, offering you one of the cups.

You take it and sip gingerly. “How did you know?” you ask him suspiciously.

“‘Apple cider with a shot of cinnamon and caramel syrup, warmed for one and a half minutes instead of two’,” he recites. “How long have we both been coming here?”

“Well, I’ve been coming here a month,” you tell him. “I don’t know how long it’s been for you.”

“It’s been a month for me as well,” he says. “The first time I saw you was my first time here.”

“Really?” you ask with an eyebrow raised. 

“Yeah, after that I just kind of decided it was my favorite,” he says, something wicked dancing in his eyes as he smiles at you. 

You shake your head with a scoff at the audacity of this man. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “They have good coffee too.” He leans back in his seat and takes a sip.

You size him up -- broad shoulders and a well-muscled chest under a white henley shirt and puffy jacket to protect against the wintery cold, square jaw, high cheekbones, those dangerous brown eyes, and black hair styled up and off his forehead in a swooping Clark Kent-esque style -- and the verdict is easy. Gorgeous. But for one thing, you’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing you feel that way. For another, you know his type. He has the air of the frat boys from college who threw ragers and took bets to see if they could get in your pants.

So you sip your drink again. “So, what’s your schtick? Tell me so we can stop wasting each other’s time.”

“Time spent enjoying yourself is never wasted,” he shoots back. “And I don’t have a schtick. I just want to get to know you better.” He seems unruffled by your aloofness, the hint of a smile still playing about his lips.

“There isn’t a lot to know,” you counter. 

“Everyone says that, but it’s never true,” he says. 

“How many other girls have you tried this approach on?” you ask him with narrowed eyes.

“Enough,” he allows with another smile. “Although this is the first time I’ve waited so long to make a move.”

“I’m flattered,” you deadpan. “Lost your nerve in your old age?”

“Maybe I learned the value of patience,” he says, undeterred. 

You weren’t expecting him to keep up with you for this long, so you simply look at him for a moment. “You got a name?” you finally ask, and his smile grows wider.

“Choi San,” he says. “You?”

“No,” you reply lightly.

For the first time, he looks taken aback. “No, like, you don’t have a name?”

“No like I’m not going to give it to you. Yet.” 

“Yet?” he complains. “Damn, you’re one tough cookie.”

“You have no idea,” you say. “Speaking of which, I have somewhere to be.”

“Let me join you,” he says immediately, standing as well. 

“Oh, as much fun as that would be, I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” you tell him with a laugh, putting on your hat and coat and making for the exit of the coffee shop.

“Why not? Are you going to a doctor’s appointment or something?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply as you push open the door, shuddering against the cold air. “I have six months left to live.”

San’s eyes go wide before he realizes you’re messing with him. “You’re awful,” he chides, nearly running to keep up with your quick stride. 

“And you’re persistent,” you say over your shoulder. “Seriously, I’m not going anywhere fun. You should go back inside where it’s warm. You’ll catch a cold.”

“Are you worried about me?” he asks with a teasing smile.

“Extremely. You seem very unhinged.” But you’re laughing at the way he’s dodging the crowd of people on the sidewalk walking the opposite direction so that he can keep sight of you, and this seems to spur him on. Even as San apologizes to an elderly group of women for colliding with them, there’s a determination in his eyes that makes your heart beat quicker than is strictly necessary.

“Oh, I am,” San retorts. “I need someone to take care of me.”

“Call your mother.”

“I would, but she lives in Korea.”

“Call a friend. Do you have any of those?”

“I have plenty, but there’s a very specific cure for my ailment that none of them can provide.”

You stop in your tracks and he nearly runs into you. “What do you want from me?” you ask, half annoyed, half impressed at all the smooth-talking.

“Your name, first,” he says. “And then maybe a phone number. That’s all. I swear.”

You consider him, biting back the thought that he looks even handsomer than normal because of the cool air tinging his cheeks pink and the sunlight in his eyes. “Tell you what,” you say. “You make it through this, and we can talk.”

San’s eyes follow your finger to where you’re pointing -- at a towering cathedral ornately decorated with statues of staring saints. He looks at you with wide eyes. “You’re a church girl?”

“Decidedly so, yes,” you say. “You sit through one mass and I’ll give you my phone number.”

He still doesn’t seem to be worried about any of this. “If I do confession, can I have a date?” he asks hopefully.

“I think if you do make confession, we’ll be in there so long we won’t have time for a date,” you tell him with a roll of your eyes. “Now come on.”

He grins. “You already know me so well. Take me to church,” he says.

The other regulars in the congregation eye you and San with interest as San follows your lead, watching how you dip your fingers into the water at the entrance and then cross yourself. He tries, but ends up crossing himself the wrong way, and you have to stifle a giggle as the little old lady who sits up front gasps loudly. 

San looks at you in alarm. “What did I do wrong?” he asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. “She just has a spiritual gift for seeing when someone is trying way too hard to get someone’s number.”

He shakes his head and follows you into a pew. “How long have you been Catholic?” he asks in a whisper.

“Officially, I’m not,” you say. “But I’ve been coming to mass for about a year, ever since my grandmother died. She used to come twice every week. It’s been…comforting. I feel closer to her this way.”

A light of understanding moves across his features. “I see,” he says. “That’s a good way to honor her.”

You are amazed at the sudden tears that threaten to spill over in your eyes. “And you? Are you religious at all?” you ask as a distraction.

“Not really,” he whispers. “I sang in a church choir once, but that’s about it.”

He notices how your eyes light up. “Do you sing, then?” you ask with interest.

“Yeah, a bit,” he admits. “Why? Is that a dealbreaker?”

You laugh quietly. “No, not at all. I just didn’t expect it.”

He shrugs. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

You roll your eyes again. “So do you believe in God?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

“Do you believe in anything?”

“I believe in plenty,” he replies. “Fate…love at first sight…”

“I’m being serious,” you insist. “I don’t know if I can see myself with someone who doesn’t have some kind of guiding principle that gives them integrity. It doesn’t have to be religion, but you have to have some kind of moral compass.” 

He thinks for a moment. “Well, I guess I believe that we should treat others well,” he starts.

“Why?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away — and you appreciate that he actually does seem to take the genuine questions you’re asking seriously. After a minute he replies, “I guess because I’ve personally found the highest level of satisfaction in my life when I’m in harmony with those around me. And that’s something I can control. I can’t stop others from disliking me or not sharing my opinions, but I can always treat them well regardless of those things, and we can coexist.”

The priest begins the processional just after San finishes talking, and so you don’t get to tell him how impressed you are with that answer. But you find yourself glancing over at him during the service, giggling softly when he repeats back to the priest later than everyone else, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks when he catches you staring and shoots back a subtle wink. 

And then when mass is over, and he leans over to you and you can smell the spicy-sweet scent of his shampoo, you have to catch your breath. “So, what now?” he asks with that same suggestive glint in his eyes.

“Now I need to go to confession,” you say firmly, although you can’t help a grin.

“I’ll come too,” he says, but you tug him down before he can fully stand up. 

“Hold your horses,” you say, and although you’re nervous in a way that makes you feel like your skin is on fire, you fix him with a stare, your expression serious. 

You take a breath. “Seriously, why me? I’m sure there are other pretty girls you’ve seen before, but it’s a little extreme to go to all this trouble.”

His smile softens. “You’re worried about my intentions?” he asks lightly, sliding across the bench to sit as close to you as he can.

“Shouldn’t I be? I mean, you’re a stranger who followed me into church,” you joke quietly. And you’re surprised to realize as you say it that even though he’s been persistent, you never felt unsafe. Indeed, you have the feeling that if you had ever seriously told him to get lost, he probably would’ve listened to you.

San seems to watch all these thoughts passing through your head, and he pulls one of your hands into both of his own. “Give me a shot,” he says softly. “If we’re talking about belief, let me tell you something else I believe in. I believe that sometimes you can get a sense about someone before you really talk to them. And this is going to sound crazy, but if there was such a thing as past lives, I’d be certain I knew you long before I saw you in that coffee shop.”

You draw in a shaky breath, your heart soaring in elation at this confession in spite of yourself. He’s playing with your fingers, his eyes flickering in the dim light of the church. And he looks so adorably nervous at the admission he’s just made that you can’t help but nod after only a second’s consideration. “Okay, Choi San. I’ll give you my phone number. A deal is a deal, after all.”

He hands you his phone. “For the record, mass was pretty interesting too,” he tells you.

You scoff. “Like you were paying attention at all,” you say as you type in your number, which you’ve saved under the name “church girl” with a black heart emoji.

“I might have been a bit distracted,” he allows, “but I do also like learning about things like this.” He takes his phone back from you and laughs at the contact name. “Wow, when do I get to know your name? At our wedding?”

“Maybe after our third kid, I’ll consider it,” you say dryly, standing up and tucking your jacket over one arm. “Now, I have some sins to confess.”

He stands up with you. “I’m coming too,” he says.

“Don’t you have everything you need?” you ask him with a grin, gesturing at the phone still in his hand. 

“Almost,” he says. “But I’ve done a lot of sinning in my life. Maybe I’ll have a religious epiphany if I talk to someone about it.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you in an anthropology class right now? Like, this has gotta be homework or something at this point.”

He laughs. “No, I am genuinely interested to know what confession is like,” he assures you. The both of you make your way to the confessional. “What do I say?” he whispers as you get close. 

“You start with crossing yourself,” you say, and you guide his hand in the correct motions. “Then you say ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he repeats. “Then what?”

“List your sins,” you say. “But don’t say all of them. He doesn’t have all night.”

“Okay,” he says in amusement. “Anything else?”

“At the end say ‘I’m sorry for this and all my sins’.”

“What if I’m not sorry?” he asks.

“Then say it anyway,” you say with a shrug.

“Isn’t that lying, though? Which is also a sin?” 

You have to bite back another laugh at his question. “I think you’re taking this a bit too seriously,” you say. “Maybe only confess the sins you feel sorry for if it offends you to lie to a priest.”

He nods. “Fair enough. Can you confess sins you haven’t done yet?” he asks, feigning innocence, but you know exactly what he means.

You snort, swatting his arm. “Um, that’s called the sale of indulgences, and the church stopped doing that in the 1500s I’m pretty sure.”

He tsks in disappointment. “Oh, well. I guess it was worth a shot. Do you want to go first? I’m sure you’re going to take a lot less time.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “I wouldn’t be so sure. There’s a lot that you don’t know about me, either.”

He shakes his head. “That was sexy,” he whispers after you as you move past him toward the confessional. 

You shush him. “Don’t say stuff like that in church. You’ll get struck by lightning.”

“That’s why I whispered it,” he says defensively.

“God can still hear you,” you say, giving him a little wave as you shut yourself in the booth.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you say, crossing yourself. “It’s been a week since my last confession.”

“Hey,” the priest says casually behind the grille. You recognize the voice of your favorite priest, Father Paul. 

“Hi, Father Paul,” you say.

“Doing missionary work, I see,” he says. 

“Huh?” you say. 

“The young man you brought with you today,” he says, a hint of humor in his voice. 

“Oh, that. Um, I didn’t bring him, he followed me,” you say. 

“He didn’t seem to bother you,” Father Paul observes. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much in church.”

You blush. “Are you gonna let me confess my sins, or what?”

“Fine,” says Father Paul, and you can hear the eye roll in his voice. “But next week you’d better have some more interesting sins for confession.”

“Father Paul!” you exclaim. “Isn't it a sin to encourage others in sinning?”

Father Paul gives a derisive laugh. “My child, I sit here in this booth for four hours twice a week and listen to people confess their problems with a spouse or disagreements with a neighbor. And now you come in here with a man who looks like that? Is it a greater sin to give in to the natural man, or to refuse to acknowledge a blessing when it comes?”

“This is a conversation I absolutely did not expect to have...ever, in any place, but definitely not here,” you say, your whole face redder than a tomato.

“Well, let me give you some revelation from beyond, then. If I were your grandmother, God rest her soul, I would tell you that seeing you alone for so long has been difficult for people who care about you. It may be time to let someone in.” He clears his throat. “Now, you may make your confession.”

Shaken, you do this quickly. Father Paul absolves you, and you clear out the booth. 

San is waiting right outside. “So, you’re forgiven,” he says, in the tone of someone observing the weather.

“Spic-and-span,” you say. “Your turn. You remember what to do?”

“I’ll figure it out,” he says, heading into the booth.

You head from the confessional into a tiny room where votive candles and a small statue of Mary Magdalene are kept, keeping the door open so that San will be able to see you after he leaves confession. You sit at the small bench, breathing deeply, trying to calm yourself. 

You aren’t used to being affected so much, but the man making what is certainly one of Father Paul’s more interesting confessions has upended everything normal in your life. You know what your grandmother would say -- “God likes to keep us on our toes.” “Well said, Granny,” you murmur to yourself, watching one of the flames flicker mesmerizingly in the otherwise dark room.

“Hey, Church Girl,” says a voice behind you. 

You jump and turn around. It’s San, standing there in the doorway watching you carefully. You stand, suddenly flustered. “Uh, hey. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he says, looking at you strangely. He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you reply breathily. “Um, just thinking about my grandma.”

“Got it,” he says, empathy at the corners of his tone. He comes to stand beside you. “I’m sorry to have interrupted.”

You give him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, really. So, you didn’t take very long in confession.”

“Nah, I don’t regret very many of my sins,” he says easily. “Father Paul seems cool, though.”

“He introduced himself?” you ask, surprised.

“Yep,” he says. “He talked about you.”

“Oh, did he?” you ask nervously. “What did he say?”

“He told me to take care of you,” he says simply.

“And what did you tell him?” you ask suspiciously.

He hesitates. “My sins,” he says finally. “Which turn out to be my failings as a romantic partner. I just told him all the ways I was worried I’d disappoint you.” He gives a soft laugh, and you look him up and down, fixating on his hands. 

They’re shaking.

Before you can think, before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab him by the front of his coat and pin him against the wall closest to the door. And then you tell him your name before pressing your lips to his.

He catches your face in his hands as you do, the pads of his fingers slightly rough but warm against your cheek and jaw and the back of your neck. His lips on yours are hungry but gentle, and his hands pull you back whenever you try to come up for air. You have to clutch at him to stay upright as the room starts spinning, and he moves his arms to your waist to support you as he kisses you again and again and again, until your lips feel bruised and you can hardly remember anything but the feel of his skin under your fingertips.

Finally, you break apart, gasping for breath. San’s chest heaves against your own, and he leans his forehead to yours. “What was that for?” he asks breathlessly.

“That was the trade-off,” you say with a laugh. “Phone number for mass, kiss for confession.”

“For real? What do I get if I go every week?” he asks eagerly.

“I guess we’ll see,” you say, brushing a stray strand of hair off his forehead.

“I like the sound of that,” he says, his arms tightening around your waist.

You lean against him, letting your head rest on his chest. “Me too.”

On the real how r u ppl all friends with each other? Being on this website feels like I’m looking through a window at yall havin fun like the little match girl or smth

For the request game!

Fall With Me - The Wild Reeds

SVT

Enemies to lovers

Ahhhhhh omg ok. Since no member was specified im gonna just choose one :) Warnings: a bad kiss is discussed, also they do make out, lawyer!jeonghan and he's a menace as per usual

The annual best friends’ trip would be going much better if it weren’t for the presence of a certain attorney.

The first time you’d met Yoon Jeonghan had been during a dizzying cross-examination of your expert information in a high-profile criminal case. As a forensic speech-pattern analyst, you had taken your job as an expert witness to testify against an almost-certainly guilty extortionist very seriously, but Jeonghan had managed to twist every one of your facts to the advantage of the man, creating just enough reasonable doubt to get the man off with a slap on the wrist.

You had sworn to hate the handsome, smooth-talking defense attorney for as long as you lived -- so imagine your shock when your friend had brought him along with the group as her plus-one because her boyfriend couldn’t make it. As her cousin, and the closest male relative she had, he was more than happy to tag along, he’d said. 

And now you watch him across the room, schmoozing over your friends, unable to break it to them that he was the evil attorney that you’d complained about for weeks after the trial.

What was even worse about it was that he kept catching your eye from where he sat playing cards with your childhood friends, framed in the big windows like an angel wreathed in light, his fine features sly and knowing, more and more aggravating with every glance. You knew he remembered you by the way his eyes lit with recognition as they’d taken in all the faces in the spacious cabin. You groan internally -- this man must be your own personal demon, sent to torture you for some long-forgotten sin. And he just has to look good while doing it, doesn’t he?

“Hey, are you even listening to me?” your friend Seokmin says, suddenly.

“Oh!” you exclaim, turning back toward him with a sheepish look, but he’s grinning at you.

“You aren’t the only one staring at him,” he says. “Look at Juliette.”

Sure enough, your old college roommate is eyeing Jeonghan in interest. You know that look -- she’s going to do something she’ll probably regret later if she doesn’t get distracted soon. A part of you wonders why it always seems to be down to you to prevent disaster as you excuse yourself from Seokmin with a hurried excuse, making your way over to Juliette with a request for some snowshoeing in the newly-fallen snow outside.

But of course, the odds are not in your favor today. Jeonghan stands up, tossing in his cards after what you clock as his third poker win today. “I’d better quit while I’m ahead,” he says, and then looks up at you. “Did you say something about snowshoeing?”

Well, you can’t exactly lie to his face while all your friends are looking at you expectantly, so you give him a curt nod. “Can I come?” he asks, and there is an amused undertone to his voice that brings your already-hot temper to a boiling point.

Juliette answers first. “Of course!” she chirps, and you have no choice but to trudge into the mud room with them, your jaw set in a hard line and your eyes flashing. You suit up wordlessly while the other two make flirty conversation, somehow growing even more peeved as you listen to them. 

Finally, you’re walking out into the calm, quiet forest, the snowshoes keeping your boots from sinking into the deep layer of snow frosted over the ground. You find yourself trailing behind Jeonghan and Juliette, listening to them chatter happily together, for the entirety of the hike, only finding a brief moment of relief from the anger when you pause at an overlook. Here, white-dusted fir trees spill by the thousands down a steep incline that leads to a small valley, and the sun slowly sinking seems to light everything in a pinkish glow. It’s breathtaking. You can’t help but smile.

Except for when you turn and catch a glimpse of Jeonghan staring at you.

His expression is mirroring your own: complete awe, a dumbfounded smile, eyes wide as though afraid he won’t be able to take it all in. Except he’s not looking at the view — he’s looking at you.

Juliette notices and makes a lame excuse for why she needs to head back to the cabin, ignoring your protests and leaving you alone with Jeonghan. “You remember me, don’t you?” he asks instantly when she’s out of earshot. 

“Of course I do,” you say, bristling. “Liar.”

He chuckles, and you hate how cute he is when he’s laughing at you. “It’s actually ‘lawyer’, but that’s an easy mistake,” he says, unbothered by your venom.

“Look,” you say, trying to keep a moderate tone, “in case it wasn’t already clear, I really don’t like you.”

“Why not?” he asks innocently. “Because I’m good at my job?”

“Because you helped a guilty person escape justice!” you say loudly. A raven in a nearby tree takes off in fear.

His face seems to harden a little. “Tell me what you know about the defendant.”

This request takes you aback. “I don’t know anything about him,” you tell Jeonghan. “Other than his speech patterns and what they indicate.”

He looks at your face — seeming to debate with himself for a moment. Then he speaks. “He is the only caretaker for both his elderly mother, who is blind, and a young daughter still undergoing treatments for an aggressive cancer. The company he worked for was scamming its employees out of money, so he pulled a clever scam back and was able to make enough off of it to pay for his daughter to be treated at a top hospital and for his mother to have a seeing-eye dog. If he went to jail, where would they be?”

The information you’re receiving weighs on you heavily as you listen to him, and you feel your face burn with a guilty flush. “I had no idea.”

He nods shortly. “Not everything is as black-and-white as you think.”

He begins to walk away, back toward the cabin, and you have no choice but to follow him. As you enter the mud room again, stripping off your snow clothed and hanging them to dry, Jeonghan gives a soft chuckle. “Were you really that mad?”

“Yeah,” you admit, allowing him a small smile although your ego is still a bit bruised. “You made me sound like an idiot in court. I’m quite good at my job, you know.” You internally cringe at self. Why do you feel the need to justify yourself to him?

He nods in understanding. “I know you are. And you’re cute, too.”

This boldness shocks you into silence, and he gives a small giggle that almost undoes you.  “I wanted to talk to you after trial, but the look on your face was…”

“Radiant?” you say, recovering quickly with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, you were certainly radiating something,” he allows. “I was scared you’d bite me.”

You laugh. Time to play his game, you think. “I still haven’t ruled it out.” 

You saunter past him as his jaw drops, taking a seat beside Seokmin and letting out a deep sigh. There’s still a nagging tension in the air though, especially when Jeonghan stations himself across the room from you with his cousin and some other friends, only to meet eyes with you every few minutes with a sparkle of curiosity in his wide eyes.

As night falls, the lights dim. One by one, people start excusing themselves to go to bed, until it’s just a gaggle of you left, you and Jeonghan included. You keep expecting Jeonghan to get up and go to bed -- you noticed on the first night of the trip that he tires easily and usually is in bed earlier than the rest of your friends -- but he never does. Instead, the air gets thicker as Jeonghan moves next to you on the couch, as nonchalant as anything, and you feel your cheeks heating up. Eventually he turns to you as the others become engrossed in their own conversation.

“So, if you knew that today was the last day of your life —“

“Are you serious?” you groan. “I’m disappointed in you.”

He looks indignant and taken aback. “Well, I’m trying to get to know you,” he says defensively.

“Yeah, but you’re asking the manic-pixie-dreamboy questions,” you tell him. “Start with something normal, and then maybe I’ll tell you my hamartia or whatever.”

He bites his bottom lip. “Uh, okay. What made you want to be a speech pathologist?”

“That’s much better,” you commend him. “And I actually have a little brother who grew up with a speech impediment that made him difficult to understand, and I spent my whole childhood translating him for others. So I guess it was something I knew I could do. Plus it was interesting to know how to help similar kids.” 

Jeonghan nods. “I guess that makes sense.”

“What made you want to be a lawyer?” you shoot back.

His response is immediate. “I’m a master manipulator, and I wanted to make a lot of money. It seemed like the logical choice.”

You can’t help but laugh. “That’s the reddest red flag I’ve ever heard,” you say. “I should be running for the hills.”

“So why aren’t you?” he asks with a sly smile. 

“Must be colorblind,” you say dryly. “But it’s actually because master manipulators usually aren’t so upfront with their gifts.”

He grins. “Well, I really am good at … influencing people, to a degree. But I guess I became a criminal defense attorney to broaden my view on humanity. There are people I’ve represented in court that I would hate to be alone with, and yet somehow I’ve learned that they all have a level of humanity that would surprise most people. They weren’t all good people, but they were all still people. And I think that’s made me a better person overall.”

You grin to hide how impressed you are. “And the money is good too.”

He nods. “Well, obviously.”

This earns a giggle from you, and Jeonghan turns his body to face yours. For the next three hours, you talk about everything, even as the last of the stragglers disappear with tired farewells into their bedroom. Finally, it’s just you and Yoon Jeonghan, sitting at opposite ends of a broad brown couch, laughing about one of your awkward dating stories. 

“And after all that,” you say, wiping a tear of derision and amusement from your eye, “he has the nerve to kiss me!”

Jeonghan’s eyes go wide. “Did he ask first?” he asks. 

“Well, yeah,” you say.

“Why did you say yes?!” he groans through laughter. 

“I was so taken aback! And also, he was pretty hot,” you admit.

He looks at you skeptically. “If I asked you a question, would you answer honestly?”

“Depends on the question.”

“Give me just this one,” he pleads.

“Okay,” you say, giving in easily at the sight of his puppy eyes.

“Was he hotter than me?” he asks.

Your jaw drops. “Yoon Jeonghan.”

“You said you’d answer the question honestly,” he reminds you.

You begrudgingly consider him. “You’re hotter,” you finally answer, glad he probably can’t see you blush in this low light.

He nods, satisfied. “Okay, go on. What happened next?”

You laugh at the nonchalant way he’s handled this news. “Oh, he was a terrible kisser. All of those looks just for him to have no sensitivity at all. Jammed his tongue down my throat and everything.”

“You should’ve told him no,” he says quietly, moving almost imperceptibly closer.

“I really should’ve. Anyway, that was actually the most recent kiss I’ve had, so my experiences with kissing are all being viewed through that lens, and it’s kind of ruined for me now.” You make a face as you remember the date, and the associated kiss. By the time your shudder brings you back down to earth, Jeonghan has moved just one inch closer on the couch. You pretend not to notice.

He pins you with his gaze, though. “Are you being coy on purpose?” he asks through narrowed eyes, making another small move in your direction.

“What do you mean?” you ask him, suddenly nervous.

“We’re alone, and you openly admitted I’m hotter than the last guy you kissed --”

“After you coerced me into telling you,” you interject, amused.

“And now you’re talking about how bad he was at kissing,” Jeonghan finishes, undeterred. “Tell me what kind of conclusion I’m supposed to draw from that.” And with that, he closes the gap between you, moving so close that your thighs are touching.

You look into his eyes. This was a plot twist you didn’t see coming -- you hadn’t been able to figure out why he’d stuck around when everyone started going to bed, but his reasons for doing so were becoming more and more clear, and although you woke up this morning as his sworn enemy, you have a feeling that everything has changed.

So you stare, wanting to fall, but also wanting to stay in this moment, right here, contemplating the risk. Maybe you’ve got it wrong -- it’s certainly possible. But maybe, just maybe, you’ve run out of options for things to say, leaving just the one thought you had when he’d moved closer and asked you to tell him what to think.

“Well, you’re the lawyer,” you finally answer, barely above a soft whisper. “Figure it out.”

You catch a hint of a smile before Jeonghan’s hands are reaching up to cradle your face, bringing your lips gently, but ever so insistently, to his own. 

His lips are soft and light on your own, a massive upgrade from the clumsy kisses of whoever had come before. You can’t remember that man, nor anyone else, for that matter. You barely register the feeling of the coarse couch cushions beneath you, sinking under your combined weight as Jeonghan pulls you onto his lap to continue the kiss. The light brush of his tongue over your bottom lip has you reaching for him hungrily, pulling him closer to you so you can feel his heart beating against your own.

It takes a particularly loud squeak from the couch for the both of you to realize how loud you were being. You both freeze and look at the stairs, terrified that one of your friends has caught you, before you both realize and explode into quiet giggles, pressing your foreheads together.

“Do you want to sleep in my room tonight?” you ask him breathlessly.

“I could never fall asleep with you in the same room as me,” he replies with a wicked grin.

diamond days :: wonwoo 💎

🫠🫠🫠

sometimes seungcheol looks at you and it feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.

sometimes, like now, watching you work away at your laptop, he’s hit with an overwhelming flood of feelings. feelings that maybe he shouldn’t really have, seeing as he’s your friend and nothing else. maybe your best friend, but nothing more than that.

you don’t even know — you’re preoccupied, typing and retyping, completely oblivious to his anxious agitation. you’ve always been oblivious, and seungcheol has always been in love, and sometimes he think it could be this way forever.

he can’t stop the way he feels about you; and he’s tried. he’s tried so many times, but something about you, and the way you laugh, and the way you make him laugh, and your pretty fucking eyes, and pretty fucking lips — you make it impossible for him to get over you.

you look up now. you’ve probably felt his eyes on you, he’s been staring for too long, but you’re already smiling at him so he doesn’t have time to pretend. “what are you staring at?” you say, with half a laugh and eyes that shine in the light of his bedroom.

“nothing,” he defends, after a pause that stretches too long.

“paper not going well?” you ask softly, tilting your head to the laptop resting on his thighs. the two of you had been deep in a study session before his thoughts had taken a tangent.

“hm?” seungcheol shakes his head, as though snapping himself out of a trance. “no, yeah, it’s okay,” he breathes, glancing at his blank google doc. “i’m good.”

“sounds suspiciously like you’re not good,” you say lightly, and again, that easy laughter of yours slipping out. “you sure?”

seungcheol really, truly means to say yes. yes i’m fine. yes i’m sure. instead, what comes out is just;

“i love you.”

you’re still smiling, even if you look a little surprised. “i know, cheol. i love you too.”

for the thousandth time, seungcheol curses your oblivious nature. “no,” he says, steeling himself with a deep breath. “i mean, i love you.”

seungcheol has always prided himself on being able to read your face, and so he sees the hundred emotions that flit over your features in the space of the second. and he sees the one you settle on.

still smiling, but it’s softer now. more private; more gentle; like it’s just for him. “i know, cheol,” you repeat. “i love you too.”

an / shy!cheol is such a concept breathe if u agree

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I’m so fond of them.

13 YEARS OF NAMGI