Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Jeonwoo Entertainment is now the fastest-growing conglomerate in Asia, with a net worth of $295.93 billion." The news reporter’s vioce carried through the TV's tinny speakers.

The television's blue glow painted shadows across the empty boardroom. Wonwoo sat motionless, thumb hovering over the remote, as his father's face filled the screen—that practiced smile, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

The hand that landed on Wonwoo's shoulder in the footage was heavier than he remembered. "I'm proud to announce that my son will be taking the helm."

The camera found him then. There he was—Wonwoo watched himself, sitting up straight, smile pleasant and empty, the same expression he'd been making at these things since he was sixteen. The kind of smile that didn't promise anything. Didn't ask for anything either.

"What led to the decision—"

"—leadership transition affect—"

"—immediate priorities—"

One voice cut through the rest. Sharp. Female. A woman in the third row stood up. He remembered her—"Sir, for decades, omegas have faced systemic disadvantages in the corporate world." The reporter leaned forward, her microphone extended like a weapon. "Yet you've chosen to hand your company to an omega. Your son. Could you explain the thought process behind this... groundbreaking decision?"

There it was. Groundbreaking. Like he was some kind of social experiment.

Another reporter, this one with silver-rimmed glasses that caught the light. "Mr. Jeon, as a dominant omega stepping into the CEO role, you're breaking a significant barrier. How do you intend to leverage your unique position to lead this company?" A pause, measured. "And what would you say to those who question whether an omega has the temperament for this position?"

Temperament. That's what they were calling it now.

Wonwoo switched off the TV. He'd heard enough.

This is torture.

He dropped the remote onto the glass conference table. The sound echoed in the empty room—too loud. His hand was steadier than he'd expected.

He'd been sitting in the empty boardroom for—what, an hour? Longer? The press conference had ended, everyone had left, and he'd just. Stayed. The building was quiet in that specific way buildings get after business hours, all that corporate energy dissipating into nothing. Just air conditioning and the distant hum of floor buffers.

His father's office was down the hall. His office, technically. As of 4 PM today.

Wonwoo still hadn't gone in.

He made himself stand up. His legs had gone stiff. The glass table reflected the city lights from the windows, all those tiny squares of yellow and white, and his phone was face-down where he'd left it after the twentieth congratulations text from someone whose name he had to look up.

It was still buzzing. He could hear it vibrating against the glass, a sick little rhythm.

He picked it up. Fifty-eight unread messages. Fifty-nine. The number ticked up as he watched.

Names he recognized but had never actually spoken to. People who'd looked past him at company dinners, who'd nodded politely when his father introduced him and then immediately shifted their attention to literally anyone else. Executive assistants who'd called him Mr. Jeon in that specific tone that meant they didn't think the title fit.

Now they couldn't text fast enough. So well-deserved. Excited to see your vision for the company. Looking forward to working under your leadership.

Under. Right.

Wonwoo locked the phone. Unlocked it. Locked it again.

His father's office was sixty steps down the hall. He'd counted once when he was younger, bored during some endless shareholder meeting. Sixty steps from the boardroom to the center of everything.

The door was already open when he got there. Motion-sensor lights flickered on, cold and bright and wrong. His father never used the overheads—always the desk lamp, warm light, made everything look softer than it was.

The chair was exactly where his father had left it. Pushed back slightly, like he'd just stepped out for a moment. Like he was coming back.

Wonwoo stood in the doorway. The nameplate outside still said Jeon Woosung in brass lettering that had probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

He should go in. Sit down. Start figuring out what the hell he was supposed to do tomorrow when everyone showed up expecting him to have answers.

The leather chair probably still smelled like his father’s pheromones. Sandalwood, cedar, something else underneath that Wonwoo had never been able to identify. Thirty years of twelve-hour days soaked into the material.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

The city stretched out beyond the windows, all light and distance. Sixty-three floors up, you couldn't hear the traffic. Couldn't see individual people. Just shapes and movement.

Wonwoo thought about the reporter's question. Temperament.

Not capability. Not experience. Temperament.

Like he might suddenly lose control mid-board meeting. Like being omega meant something fundamental was missing, some crucial piece that alphas just had naturally.

He'd spent his entire life being good. Being quiet. Being exactly what they needed him to be so they'd stop looking at him like a liability. And now—

Now they'd made him CEO, and they still couldn't decide if he was capable of it.

His phone lit up in his hand. Another message. Someone had sent a news article—he could see the preview. OMEGA HEIR TAKES CONTROL OF JEONWOO—

The screen went dark.

Wonwoo pressed his thumb against the power button until it turned off completely.

"Sir, for decades, omegas have faced systemic disadvantages..."

Systemic disadvantages. What a clean phrase for what was really a polite way of saying we never thought you'd make it this far. His reflection caught in the dark window. Thirty-three years old. CEO of a $295 billion empire. An omega.

The holy trinity of things that shouldn't go together.

Wonwoo exhaled slowly, the only sign of the exhaustion creeping up his spine. He pressed two fingers to his temple, felt the beginning of a headache brewing there.

They hand you the throne and call it progress.

He looked back at the dark TV screen, at his own faint reflection in the glass.

Then ask if you're strong enough to sit on it.

________________________________________________

Sometimes employees fucked up. It happened. That's when Wonwoo had to step in—not to hold their hands, but to make sure they unfucked it themselves. Give them what they needed, clear the path, let them do their jobs.

A knock—three crisp raps that meant someone either had very good news or very bad news.

"Come in."

Cho Hyungsoo walked in like he was heading to his own execution. Competent guy, usually. Good with numbers. But the sweat on his forehead wasn't doing him any favors right now.

"The financial record was due at five, right?" Wonwoo knew it was. He knew everything that was supposed to cross his desk.

Hyungsoo's eyes landed somewhere left of Wonwoo's face. "Yes, sir."

Wonwoo had already skimmed the report two hours ago. Caught the error on page two without even trying—column three, numbers that didn't reconcile. Sloppy work. The kind of mistake that shouldn't have made it past Hyungsoo's own desk, let alone his.

He picked up the folder anyway. Made a show of opening it, finding the problem. Let Hyungsoo sweat for a few extra seconds.

"There's an error." Wonwoo kept his voice level. Bored, almost. "Redo it."

All the blood drained out of Hyungsoo's face at once. "Sir, I—there's no time, the presentation's tomorrow morning—"

Wonwoo just looked at him.

Didn't say anything. Didn't move. Just held eye contact and waited. One second. Two. Five. Ten. Hyungsoo shifted his weight. Swallowed hard enough that Wonwoo heard it.

"Make time," Wonwoo said finally, and pushed the folder back across his desk.

The sound of paper sliding over wood was the only noise in the room.

Hyungsoo grabbed the report. His hands weren't quite steady. "Yes, sir."

"And Hyungsoo?" Wonwoo leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked. "Check your work twice before you bring it back to me. I'm not interested in doing your job for you."

It came out colder than he'd planned. Whatever. The point landed.

Hyungsoo bowed so fast he almost lost his balance, then backed out of the office like Wonwoo might change his mind about dismissing him. The door shut with a quiet click that somehow felt loud.

Wonwoo stared at the closed door.

Exhaled.

Turned back to his computer.

His father would've handled that differently. Louder. Would've made Hyungsoo feel about three inches tall, probably called him incompetent, maybe suggested he'd be better off working in the mailroom. That was Jeon Woosung's style—big, aggressive, effective. People feared him the second he opened his mouth.

Wonwoo couldn't do that.

When he raised his voice, people didn't just think he was angry. They thought he was losing control. Emotional. Unstable. All the things they already suspected about omegas in positions they shouldn't have.

So he stayed quiet instead. Stayed cold. Let the silence do the work his father's voice used to do.

It was just as effective. Usually.

He pulled up the next file. Budget projections for Q3. The numbers blurred together a little. He blinked, rubbed his face.

Seventeen hours today. Eighteen yesterday. Maybe four hours of sleep total in the last forty-eight. His assistant had brought him green tea around six. It was still sitting there, cold now, a weird film forming on the surface.

He drank it anyway. Tasted like nothing.

The office was always too quiet after seven. The rest of the staff went home to their lives—dinner, family, Netflix, whatever normal people did. Wonwoo stayed. Reviewed reports. Signed contracts. Fixed mistakes. Drank cold tea and answered emails that couldn't wait until morning, even though most of them could.

His phone lit up on his desk.

Text from his father: Board meeting moved to Thursday. Don't embarrass me.

Wonwoo turned the phone face-down without responding.

The view from his window used to be his favorite thing about this office. Seoul at night, all those lights stretching out forever, endless and bright and alive. Now it just reminded him how high up he was. How far there was to fall.

He opened the marketing department's budget request. They wanted a thirty percent increase for Q3. They always wanted more.

He approved fifteen percent. Cut the rest. Left a note in the margin: Justify the ROI or don't come back with this.

His eyes burned. He blinked hard, tried to focus.

Hyungsoo was probably still at his desk right now, redoing those financial records. Would probably be there until midnight, maybe later. Would probably resent the hell out of Wonwoo for it.

That was fine.

Wonwoo wasn't here to be liked. Wasn't here to be anyone's friend. He was here to make sure things got done right, even when it meant being the cold omega asshole who made people's hands shake.

Even when it meant sitting alone in this too-quiet office every single night, surviving on cold tea and three hours of sleep, trying to remember the last time he'd talked to someone about anything that wasn't work.

Another email. Another problem.

He clicked it open.

This was his life now. This office, these files, this chair that still smelled faintly like his father. Fixing other people's mistakes. Meeting other people's expectations. Proving, over and over and over, that he belonged here.

Outside, Seoul kept moving. Down on the street, people were living. Laughing. Going home.

Wonwoo opened the next file.

The screen blurred again. He ignored it.

Someone had to keep this company running.

Might as well be him.

________________________________________________

Three floors down and two blocks over, the merger team was celebrating.

The air was thick with smoke and laughter, red plastic chairs scattered around a table covered in empty soju bottles and half-eaten plates of tteokbokki. Someone had loosened their tie. Someone else had lost theirs entirely.

The merger had closed at 6 PM. By 8 PM, they were three bottles deep.

"Truth or dare," Dahyun announced, pointing at Yeonjun with her chopsticks.

"Oh god." Yeonjun looked around the table for help. Found none. "Uh. Truth?"

"Coward," Sooyeon sang.

"Smart," Seokmin corrected, grinning.

Dahyun considered him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. Then: "Who do you think is the most intimidating senior?"

The table went quiet for a beat. The kind of quiet that meant everyone already knew the answer but wanted to hear someone else say it first.

Yeonjun didn't even hesitate. "Mr. Jeon."

A collective groan rippled through the group.

"Of course," Minhee muttered.

"I'm not just saying that 'cause he's constantly on my ass," Yeonjun added quickly, like he needed to defend himself. "I'm serious. Last week he looked at my report for maybe, three seconds, and I thought I was gonna pass out."

Sooyeon cackled, nearly spilling her drink. "Three seconds! That's generous. He once told me to 'try again' without even opening the file."

The others burst into laughter.

"What about you, Dahyun?" Sooyeon nudged the woman next to her, who'd been quietly nursing the same beer for twenty minutes.

Dahyun grimaced. "I mean... yeah. That's Mr. Jeon's whole thing, right? He's—" She paused, searching for the word. "—intense."

"Intense," Minhee repeated, leaning forward. Her face was already red from the alcohol. "He's terrifying. He almost made me cry last month." She pressed a hand to her chest dramatically. "He's as good-looking as a prince, but he sure doesn't talk like one."

"Wait, wait—" Sooyeon's eyes lit up with the glee of fresh gossip. "Didn't Mr. Jeon compliment you earlier? I heard him in the hallway."

Minhee's expression soured immediately. "I don't know if I can call that a compliment."

"What'd he say?"

"He said, 'The presentation was acceptable. Next time, lead with the data instead of burying it on slide six.'" Minhee did a surprisingly accurate impression of Wonwoo's flat tone. "Like—he could've just said it was good and left it at that, right?"

"That's basically a love confession coming from him," Dahyun muttered into her beer.

The table erupted again.

Then Lee Seokmin—the oldest of the group, who'd been with the company for five years and had the stress lines to prove it—raised his glass. His eyes were half-lidded, lazy with alcohol, but his voice was steady. "I think Mr. Jeon loves us too much."

Everyone stopped.

Yeonjun blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Hold on." Sooyeon set her glass down with exaggerated care. "You like how stuck up Mr. Jeon is?"

"He's not stuck up." Seokmin shrugged, completely unbothered by the looks he was getting. "To him, this company and the employees—we're his everything. Have you guys never noticed how he looks at us?"

Silence. The kind where they weren't sure if Seokmin was drunk-philosophizing or actually making sense.

"What are you talking about?" Minhee asked slowly.

"When he's ripping into you," Seokmin said, gesturing vaguely with his shot glass, "there's anger, yeah. But there's something else too. He cares. Like—actually cares whether we do well or not." He knocked back his soju in one smooth motion. "He's helping us grow. It's all connected."

Dahyun stared at him. "Didn't he blast you yesterday? I heard him through the glass."

Seokmin grinned, lazy and unbothered. "Yeah. That's what I'm saying. That's love."

Yeonjun looked like he'd been slapped. "That's... that's not love, hyung. That's workplace abuse."

"You're new," Seokmin said, waving him off. "You'll figure it out eventually. We're still in the early stages of our relationship." He poured himself another shot. "It's all just part of the process."

"You sound insane," Dahyun said.

"I'm evolved," Seokmin corrected.

The table dissolved into laughter again, louder this time, loud enough that the ajumma running the tent bar glanced over with mild concern.

Someone called for another bottle. Someone else started arguing about who was paying. Yeonjun asked if they could please pick someone else for the next round because his heart couldn't take another question.

Surprisingly, Seokmin's drunk speculations about Jeon Wonwoo were spot on.

After all, even a broken clock is right twice a day.

_____________________________________________________

Wonwoo glanced at the clock. 8:47 PM.

He opened the next file.

His office was silent except for the hum of his computer and the faint sound of traffic far below. Everyone else had gone home. Had lives to get back to. People waiting for them.

He pulled up the financial projections. Started reviewing the numbers, line by line.

His phone buzzed. Dating app notification. He'd downloaded it three weeks ago during a moment of weakness at 2 AM, convinced himself he'd delete it in the morning, then forgot about it until notifications started rolling in.

SK_2000 sent you a message!

Wonwoo swiped it away without looking.

When it came to the company, Wonwoo's emotions would intensify tenfold—whether from anger or love, it didn't matter. The dial just turned up. So it was no coincidence that all his former flames had been men who were hardworking, passionate, and good-looking.

However.

I'm sick of alphas, Wonwoo thought, signing off on a requisition form without really reading it.

The fantasy was always the same: a well-established, hardworking alpha. Gentle yet passionate. Someone who could match his intensity without trying to dominate it.

The reality? Alphas were short-tempered and overly meticulous. Or maybe it was just Jeon Wonwoo who was cursed. Each new relationship only seemed to add evidence to his growing case file of disappointment.

Three months with Seunghyun, who couldn't handle that Wonwoo made more money.

Six months with Jiyoon, who'd said—actually said—"You're too much work for an omega."

Two months with Yohan, who'd been perfect until he wasn't.

Wonwoo didn't understand the nature of alphas.

Frankly, he didn't want to anymore.

He set the pen down. Stared at the requisition form he'd just approved. Facilities was requesting new carpet for the third floor. He had no idea if it was necessary. Had signed it anyway because his brain was somewhere else entirely.

The problem wasn't that he couldn't find someone. The problem was that everyone he found came with the same script, like they'd all attended the same workshop on How to Date a Dominant Omega.

First, they'd be intrigued. Fascinated, even. A dominant omega CEO? That's so rare. You must be incredible.

Then they'd get to know him. See the late nights, the impossible standards, the way he couldn't turn off his brain even during dinner. The way he'd correct their thinking mid-conversation, redirect plans without asking, make decisions without needing input.

Then came the comments.

“You're kind of intense, you know?”

“Do you ever relax?”

“I thought omegas were supposed to be—”

They never finished that sentence. Didn't have to.

Wonwoo picked up his coffee. It was cold. Had been sitting there since his ten o'clock meeting. He drank it anyway, tasting nothing.

Seunghyun had been the first real attempt. Met him at a conference, both of them in suits, talking mergers and acquisitions over terrible hotel coffee. He'd seemed different—ambitious, driven, secure enough in himself that Wonwoo's success wouldn't threaten him.

Lasted three months. Ended the night Wonwoo closed a deal worth more than Seunghyun's entire annual revenue.

"It's just weird," Seunghyun had said, not quite meeting his eyes. "You know? Like, I'm happy for you, but—"

But.

There was always a but.

Jiyoon had been worse. Six months in, which was long enough for Wonwoo to actually care, actually think maybe this time it would work. They'd been good together—had the same taste in wine, same weekend habits, same 6 AM gym routine.

Then Jiyoon's mother had come to visit.

The dinner had been fine. Polite. Normal. Until she'd asked, casual as anything, when Wonwoo was planning to step back from work.

"Step back?" Wonwoo had repeated, not understanding.

"Well, eventually," she'd said, smiling that specific smile mothers gave when they were being helpful. "When things get serious. You can't run a company and a household."

Jiyoon hadn't said anything. Had just looked at his plate, jaw tight, like he'd been waiting for this conversation to happen and had decided to let his mother do it for him.

They'd fought about it later. Wonwoo had said things he regretted. Jiyoon had said things he probably didn't.

"You're too much work for an omega."

That one had stuck.

Yohan had been different. Yohan had seemed to get it—was a beta, actually, which Wonwoo thought might make things easier. No biological urges to compete with. No ingrained expectations about who should lead.

They'd lasted two months. Good months. Easy months. The kind where Wonwoo almost let himself believe he could have this and the company.

Then Yohan had met his father.

One dinner. That's all it took. His father serious, talking assets and shares and expansion strategies, looking at Yohan like he was interviewing him for a position he hadn't applied for.

Yohan had gone quiet. Stayed quiet. Three days later, he'd ended it over text.

I don't think I can do this. Sorry.

Wonwoo hadn't bothered asking what "this" was. He knew.

His phone buzzed again. Different notification this time. Work email. Something about the Singapore office needing approval on a contract revision. He opened it, skimmed it, sent back notes.

Easier to think about contracts than relationships. Contracts had clear terms. You knew what you were getting into.

The dating app notification was still there when he went back to his home screen. SK_2000 sent you a message!

He should delete the app. Should've deleted it two weeks ago. Should probably accept that work was his relationship now, had been for a while, would be until—what? Until he figured out how to be less? Until he met someone who could handle more?

Neither seemed likely.

Wonwoo locked his phone. Set it face-down on his desk.

He was tired.

His phone buzzed one more time.

He didn't look.

______________________________________________________

The lobby was glass and marble — the kind of room that was designed to make visitors look small, and the firm look limitless. Wonwoo was practically halfway to the bank of elevators, already rehearsing his answer to the board's latest series of useless questions, when a voice cut through his trance.

"Waiting long, Mingyu-ya?"

Seokmin's voice. It was bright and warm, always had been, like he'd never experienced a bad day in his entire life.

Wonwoo's feet slowed.

Not intentionally. His body just—stopped. Like someone had hit a spur-of-the-moment emergency brake he didn't even know existed.

He shifted his head, subtle enough to pass for careless, just enough to catch—

The delivery man was against the reception counter, down one shoulder slung his thermal bag. He was tall—taller than Wonwoo, which didn't happen often—and down-messy black hair that seemed to look like he'd forgotten to brush it. He was laughing at something Seokmin was saying, his head back, one hand massaging the base of his neck.

Wonwoo's chest constricted.

He didn't know why.

The man looked—

Familiar wasn't the right word. Familiar was safe. Recognizable. This was something else. Something that sat wrong in his stomach, made his skin prickle with awareness he couldn't name.

Like déjà vu, but worse.

Like forgetting something important and having your body remember it for you.

"Who is that guy?" someone murmured near him.

Wonwoo's head jerked to the side.

Soonyoung was standing there in torn jeans and an oversized sweatshirt with a tiger logo. His platinum blonde hair this week. Purple last week.

"You—" Wonwoo's voice was croaked. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean what am I doing here?" Soonyoung readjusted the strap of his crossbody bag, utterly unaffected by the suspicious glances of passing employees. "I said yesterday I was gonna drop by."

"I thought you were kidding." Wonwoo grabbed Soonyoung's arm, attempted to pull him towards the elevators. Away from reception. Away from—

His gaze tugged back to the delivery guy without permission

He was still chatting with Seokmin. Casual. Unfazed. Like it was just any day, another delivery, nothing out of the ordinary.

He had not glanced at Wonwoo even once.

"You okay?" Soonyoung's tone lowered, alarmed now. "You're being strange."

"I'm fine." Wonwoo jabbed the elevator button. Once. Twice. "Let's just leave."

"Who is that guy?"

"No one. Just a delivery guy."

"Doesn't look like 'no one' to you." Soonyoung was staring at him too intently now, that particular expression he had when he thought Wonwoo was going to do something reckless. "You've got this. expression on your face."

"What expression?"

"Like you've seen a ghost."

The elevator stopped with a gentle ding. Wonwoo more or less pushed Soonyoung through the doors.

But as the doors began to close, he couldn't resist.

One final look.

The delivery man was still standing, still chuckling, still utterly oblivious. The thermal bag had slipped down over his arm. His shirt had ridden up the tiniest bit, revealing a sliver of tanned skin.

Something flared at the fringes of Wonwoo's mind. Something warm and near and—

Gone.

The doors to the elevator slid shut.

Wonwoo let out a slow breath. His hands were trembling. Why were his hands trembling?

"Okay, what the fuck was that?" Soonyoung twisted to regard him in a full-body scowl, arms folded. "And don't tell me 'nothing' because you're white as a sheet."

"I don't know." Wonwoo rubbed his fingers against his temple. The start of a headache was already beginning to build there. "He just—he reminded me of someone."

"Familiar how?"

"I don't know!" It sounded harsher than he had intended. "I don't—I've never even seen him. I don't think. But something about him—"

He was unable to continue.

Soonyoung's face changed. Concerned. "When did you last sleep?"

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't what I was asking you."

The elevator ascended in quiet. 2. 3. 4.

Wonwoo gazed at the floor numbers. His own reflection in the shiny doors appeared tired. Pale. That kind of tired that sleep could not cure.

"Perhaps you should go home early today," Soonyoung said softly.

"I have three meetings this afternoon."

" Wonwoo—"

"I'm fine," Wonwoo said again, but even he didn't think so this time.

The elevator stopped at the sixty-third floor. The doors slid open with a silent hiss, revealing the corridor that led to his office. The same corridor he trudged down every day. The same drab corporate carpet, the same inspirational posters someone in HR had posted last year.

All was right.

Except nothing was right.

Wonwoo emerged. His legs were weird. As if he'd forgotten how to walk and needed to learn again over the course of thirty seconds.

"You know," Soonyoung trailed behind, "regular people don't act like that to random delivery dudes."

"He wasn't—" Wonwoo paused. Began anew. "It wasn't like that."

"So what was it like?"

Wonwoo didn't respond. Couldn't. Because what did he have to say? That he'd sensed something shift inside his chest the moment he'd laid eyes on that guy? That his body had responded to something his mind wouldn't let him recognize? That for one fleeting, horrifying instant, he'd felt—

What?

He didn't know.

They arrived at his office. Wonwoo's receptionist Lee Ji-eun looked up from behind her desk, began to speak, and then appeared to reconsider when she took in his expression.

"Take my calls," he instructed, not slowing.

His office door closed softly behind them.

Soonyoung plopped down into the chair in front of his desk—the fancy one designated for board members and investors—and propped his feet up on the armrest like he was at home. "So. You going to explain to me what's going on, or are we playing the game where you ignore that something's wrong until you break down at 2 AM?"

"There's nothing going on."

"Bullshit." Soonyoung cocked his head, looking at him. "I've known you since college, Wonwoo. I know what your 'everything's fine' face looks like. This isn't it."

Wonwoo lowered himself into the chair. His chair felt off. Too hard. Too stiff. Like even the furniture was out to get him today.

He flattened his palms on the desk. The wood felt cool beneath his palms. Grounding.

"I don't know who he was," he said at last. Softly. "But when I looked at him, I felt—"

He paused. Struggled to put into words something inexpressible.

"It was like—have you ever forgotten something? Not just ordinary forgetting, but the kind where you know you're missing something crucial, and you can feel the shape of it but you can't recall what it was?"

Soonyoung's expression shifted. Something flickered across his face—concern, maybe. Or recognition. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

"That's what it felt like." Wonwoo leaned back, suddenly exhausted. "Like I should know him. Like I do know him. But I don't. I've never—"

He pressed his fingers harder against his temple. The headache was getting worse.

"Maybe you saw him before?" Soonyoung suggested. "Like, passed him on the street or something?"

"Maybe." But it didn't feel like that. Didn't feel like the vague recognition of a face in a crowd.

It felt personal.

"You're scaring me a little," Soonyoung said, and he actually sounded worried now. "Should I be worried?"

"No." Wonwoo forced himself to straighten up. To look normal. To be normal. "I'm just tired. You were right. I haven't been sleeping well."

"How many hours?"

"Enough."

"Wonwoo."

"Three. Maybe four." He waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. I've functioned on less."

"That's not healthy."

"I don't have time to be healthy."

Soonyoung made a face. "God, you sound exactly like your father."

That landed differently than Soonyoung probably meant it to. Wonwoo felt something twist in his chest.

"I'm nothing like my father," he said, quieter than he intended.

"I know." Soonyoung's voice softened. "Sorry. That was—I didn't mean it like that."

Silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just heavy.

Wonwoo stared at his desk. At the stack of files that needed reviewing. At his computer screen, where emails were probably piling up by the minute. At all the normal, everyday things that suddenly felt impossible to care about.

His phone buzzed. Work email. Something about the Singapore contract.

Wonwoo picked up a pen. Put it down. Picked it up again. His hands still felt strange. Unsteady.

"I need to get back to work," he said, but didn't budge.

"You need to go home."

"I already said, I have meetings—"

"Cancel them."

"I can't just cancel—"

"Wonwoo." Soonyoung leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You just had a full-body reaction to a random delivery guy in your lobby. You can barely string a sentence together. You look like crap. Cancel the meetings."

Wonwoo wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Soonyoung he was fine, that he could get by, that he'd been getting by on worse for years.

But the lie wouldn't come.

"Fine," he said. "One meeting. I'll cancel one."

Soonyoung sighed. "I'll take it."

His phone buzzed again. Then again. The emails were piling up.

Wonwoo looked at the screen. Didn't read them.

Instead, his mind kept circling back. To the lobby. To the delivery guy— laughing with his head tilted back. To the way Wonwoo's body had stopped moving without his permission.

It didn't make sense.

Nothing about today made sense.

_________________________________________________

Three hours later, Soonyoung was sprawled across the leather couch in Wonwoo's office like a cat who'd found the one spot of sunlight in the room. His thumbs flew across his phone screen, chasing some digital dragon or zombie or whatever the hell people played these days.

Wonwoo worked quietly at his desk, red pen moving across reports in steady, decisive strokes. Budget approvals. Profit margins. Projected growth for Q3.

He was doing an excellent job of staying focused.

The delivery guy had barely crossed his mind.

(That was a lie. He'd thought about him fourteen times in the last hour. He'd counted.)

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Come in."

The door swung open and Seokmin entered, all brightness and smile. "Sir, here are the financial records from yesterday's merger." He crossed the room and placed a manila folder on Wonwoo's desk, perfectly aligned with the edge.

Wonwoo nodded. "Thank you—"

"Hey, Seokmin!" Soonyoung sat up so fast his phone nearly went flying. "That guy you were talking to earlier—at reception—who was that?"

Wonwoo's pen stopped moving.

Every muscle in his body went rigid.

He didn't look up from the report in front of him, but he wasn't reading it anymore either. The words blurred into meaningless shapes.

Seokmin blinked, momentarily thrown, before his face lit up with recognition. "Oh! You mean Mingyu?" He smiled wider. "He's a friend of mine. Delivers for Jjigae Junction—that place we order from all the time."

Mingyu.

The name fell into Wonwoo's chest like a rock dropped into black water.

He knew that name.

He didn't know how he knew it, but he did. It lived somewhere in the back of his mind, in the gaps between memories, in places he didn't look at anymore.

"The food there is amazing," Seokmin continued, warming to the topic. "Mingyu's a great guy, really. Super friendly. Remembers everyone's orders, asks about your day—though he's a bit clumsy sometimes." He laughed, fond and easy. "You should order from there, sir. The food is incredible."

Wonwoo's grip tightened on his pen.

"Lee Seokmin," he said, his voice perfectly level, perfectly controlled. "You're dismissed."

The brightness in Seokmin's expression dimmed. "Oh... yes, sir."

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

"So… his name is Mingyu," Soonyoung said quietly.

Wonwoo didn't respond. He set his pen down with careful precision, like if he moved too fast something inside him might break.

"Won," Soonyoung's voice was gentle now. "Do you know him?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Because—"

"I said no." Wonwoo turned back to his computer, pulled up his email. Anything to have something to look at that wasn't Soonyoung's too-perceptive face. "I don't know him. I've never met him. He just—he looks like someone. That's all."

"Who?"

Wonwoo didn't answer.

Because he didn't know.

And that was the problem.

His inbox was a mess of unread messages. Forty-seven since this morning. He clicked on one at random. Budget proposal from marketing. He'd already seen this. Had already sent notes on it.

He opened another email. Then another.

None of them made sense.

All he could see was the delivery guy—Mingyu—leaning against the reception desk. The way he'd laughed. The way his shirt had ridden up when the thermal bag slipped.

The way Wonwoo's entire body had recognized something his brain refused to.

"Mingyu," Soonyoung said, testing the name out. "Common enough name. You probably just—"

"Can we not do this?" Wonwoo's voice came out harsher than he meant. "I'm trying to work."

"You're staring at an email you've already responded to."

Wonwoo's eyes snapped to the screen. Soonyoung was right. The email was from three days ago. He'd sent a response the same afternoon.

He closed it without a word.

The office felt too small suddenly. Too quiet. The air conditioning conditioning whirred in that particular manner that normally helped him focus but now just made his head hurt worse.

"Maybe you should take a break," Soonyoung suggested. "Get some air. Clear your head."

"I'm fine."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

"Is it?"

Wonwoo finally looked at him. Soonyoung's expression was worried. "I don't know what you want me to say," Wonwoo said finally. Tiredly. "That I saw some random delivery guy and it messed me up? That I can't get this guy out of my head even though I've never met the guy? That his name sounds like something I should know but can't?"

"Yeah, actually. That's exactly what I want you to say."

"Well, congratulations. I said it." Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, suddenly exhausted. "Now what?"

Soonyoung was quiet for a moment. Then: "Do you want to order from that place? Jjigae Junction?"

"What?"

"Order food. See if he shows up again. Maybe—I don't know—maybe talking to him will help. Put a face to whatever your brain is freaking out about."

The suggestion was ridiculous. Completely illogical. Wonwoo had work to do, meetings to prepare for, reports to review.

"No," he said. "That's—no."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm busy."

"You're always busy."

"Exactly."

"Wonwoo—"

"I said no, Soonyoung." He picked up his pen again. Found a new report to mark up. "Let it go."

Soonyoung sighed, but mercifully dropped back onto the couch without another word.

The afternoon dragged on.

Wonwoo addressed two additional reports. Answered twenty emails. Approved three of the budget proposals and rejected one. Called the Singapore office regarding the contract amendment. Sat through a video conference with the marketing team regarding Q3 projections.

Normal things. Productive things.

Things that should've taken up all his attention.

But every few minutes, his mind would wander. Back to the lobby. To the way Mingyu had smiled at Seokmin. To the odd, hollow feeling in his chest that wouldn't go away no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

Super friendly. Remembers everyone's orders.

Of course he did. That was what good service staff did. It didn't mean anything.

A bit clumsy sometimes.

Wonwoo didn't know why that detail stuck. Why it felt important. Why it made something in his chest twist painfully.

By six PM, Soonyoung was asleep on the couch, phone abandoned on his chest. His platinum blonde hair was a mess against the dark leather.

Wonwoo should wake him up. Send him home. Get back to work himself.

Instead, he found himself pulling up a search engine.

Typed: Jjigae Junction Seoul

Hit enter.

The restaurant had a basic website. Menu, hours, location. Photos of steaming bowls of jjigae that probably looked better than the actual food. A phone number.

Wonwoo stared at it.

This was stupid. He was an idiot.

He closed the tab.

Opened it again.

The name Mingyu sat in his head like a weight. Like a key that didn't fit any lock he could find.

His phone was in his hand before he realized he'd picked it up.

The restaurant's number was already in the dial screen.

He stared at it.

One call. That's all it would take. Order something. See if Mingyu delivered it. Talk to him for thirty seconds and realize he was just some random guy who happened to have a familiar face.

Put this whole strange, unsettling day behind him.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

Soonyoung shifted on the couch, mumbled something incoherent.

Wonwoo locked his phone.

Set it face-down on his desk.

He had work to do. Three more reports to go through before tomorrow's board meeting. The Singapore deal still required his sign-off. Marketing team waited for his comments on the Q3 campaign.

Routine things.

Significant things.

Things that counted.

So why did it feel like the only thing that mattered was a name he shouldn't know and a face he couldn't forget?

Wonwoo picked up his red pen.

Tried to focus.

Failed.

Outside his window, Seoul was transitioning into evening. Lights flickering on one by one, the city coming alive in ways it didn't during daylight hours.

Somewhere out there, Mingyu was likely making another delivery. Smiling at yet another customer. Living a wholly normal life that had no connection whatsoever to Jeon Wonwoo.

And Wonwoo was sitting here, in his expensive office with his expensive view, feeling like he'd lost something he never had in the first place.

The feeling didn't make sense.

Nothing about today made sense.

But the hollow ache in his chest was real, and it wasn't going away, and Wonwoo didn't know what to do about it except keep working and hope that eventually, it would fade.

His phone buzzed. Work email. He ignored it.

The restaurant's website was still open in his browser.

He should close it.

He didn't.

___________________________________________________

It was too quiet in the apartment.

Wonwoo found himself in the kitchen at 8 PM, gazing at the meal prep container from Tuesday as if it had the answers to questions he couldn't even form.

He didn't feel hungry. In fact, he hadn't felt that way in weeks, possibly months. To him, food was just something to keep his body running for those long eighteen-hour shifts. Beside the container, his phone sat on the counter, its screen dark, with Jjigae Junction's menu still open in his browser. Just one click.

That was all it would take.

Kimchi jjigae. Extra tofu. A side of rice. It would take about 35 to 40 minutes.

Maybe it would be worth it.

Maybe-

Wonwoo shut his eyes.

What on earth was he doing?

He didn't know this person. Didn't know why seeing him had felt like stepping on a bruise he didn't know he had. Didn't know why the name Mingyu settled into his chest like something that had always belonged there.

He opened his phone.

Clicked order before he could talk himself out of it.

Confirmation screen. Estimated delivery: 35-40 minutes.

He set the phone down.

Walked to the bathroom.

Looked at himself in the mirror.

His reflection looked back—exhausted, pale, too thin. When had he gotten so thin? The t-shirt hung loose on his frame, and there were shadows under his eyes that concealer couldn't quite hide anymore.

He looked away.

35 minutes.

He went back to the living room. Sat on the couch. Checked his phone.

33 minutes.

This was pathetic.

He was the CEO of a $295 billion company. He had board meetings and merger negotiations that could make or break careers.

And he was sitting here hoping a delivery guy he'd seen for thirty seconds would show up at his door.

30 minutes.

He stood. Paced to the window. The city stretched out below, all light and movement and people living their lives.

27 minutes.

He checked his reflection in the window glass. His hair was fine. Why was he checking his hair?

25 minutes.

Back to the bathroom. The t-shirt was fine. Everything was fine. Except nothing was fine and he was losing his mind over someone whose face he'd seen for maybe ten seconds.

Twenty minutes.

His heart was beating too fast. He could feel it in his throat, in his wrists.

Fifteen minutes.

He forced himself to sit back down. Pulled up his laptop. Tried to focus on the Singapore office's report.

The words blurred together.

Ten minutes.

He stood again. Sat down. Stood up. Paced to the kitchen. The meal prep container was still there, untouched. He should eat it. Should cancel the order.

Five minutes.

He didn't move from the living room. Just stood there, staring at the door like it might have answers.

Three minutes.

Two.

The doorbell rang.

Wonwoo's entire body went rigid.

He stood frozen for a second. Then another. His hands felt strange.

He walked to the door. Smoothed his shirt even though there were no wrinkles. Why was he doing that?

One breath.

Two.

He pulled the door open.

And—

A delivery guy stood in the hallway. Thermal bag in hand. Polite smile on his face.

Shorter. Older. Tired eyes. Name tag: Junho.

Not him.

Something in Wonwoo's chest collapsed.

Relief?

Disappointment?

He couldn't tell. Couldn't separate the two. They felt like the same thing, heavy and sick.

"Jjigae Junction?" Junho asked.

"Yes." Wonwoo's voice came out flat. Empty. "That's me."

The transaction happened quickly. Payment processed through the app. Food handed over in its thermal bag. Practiced pleasantries exchanged that meant nothing.

"Thanks. Have a good night."

"You too."

The door closed.

Wonwoo stood there, holding two containers of jjigae he didn't want, ordered for reasons that felt stupid now.

His phone buzzed.

Soonyoung: did you order it

Soonyoung: DID YOU

Soonyoung: tell me everything

Wonwoo stared at the messages.

Typed: Different guy.

Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Soonyoung: oh

Soonyoung: you okay?

Wonwoo didn't answer.

He set the containers on the counter. Looked at them. They were still warm. The smell of kimchi and tofu filled his kitchen, rich and savory and completely uninteresting.

He opened one. The jjigae looked good. Probably tasted good too.

He took one bite.

Tasted nothing.

Set it aside.

His phone buzzed again. Soonyoung, probably. He didn't check.

The apartment felt bigger than it should. Too much space. Too much silence. Just him and the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic from thirty-two floors below.

He looked at his phone.

The Jjigae Junction website was still open in his browser. Their operating hours: 11 AM - 11 PM, seven days a week.

He could order again tomorrow. Different time. Different delivery driver rotation.

The thought made him feel pathetic.

He closed the browser.

Somewhere in this city, Mingyu was delivering food. Smiling at customers. Remembering their orders. Being clumsy sometimes. Living a normal life that had nothing to do with Jeon Wonwoo.

And Wonwoo couldn't explain why that felt like shit.

He went to bed at nine, which he never did. Lay in the dark with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think.

The thing was, he'd been alone before. Had chosen it, even. Work was easier when you didn't have anyone expecting you home for dinner. When you didn't have to explain why you were still at the office at midnight. When you could pour everything into the company without feeling guilty about it.

It had never bothered him.

So why did it bother him now?

Why did seeing some random delivery guy make his entire chest hurt?

His phone lit up on the nightstand. 10:47 PM. Soonyoung again.

seriously are you okay

call me if you need to talk

or if you need me to come over

i have ice cream

Wonwoo turned the phone face-down.

He wasn't okay. Knew he wasn't okay. But he didn't know how to explain what was wrong, so what was the point?

3 AM rolled around eventually. It always did. The time when his brain was too tired to lie to itself anymore.

He thought about a laugh he'd heard from across a lobby. About the way his body had stopped moving without permission, like it recognized something his mind couldn't place.

About the name Mingyu and how it felt like coming home to a place he'd never been.

About how stupid it was to feel this much about someone he didn't know.

About how that didn't make the feeling any less real.

Sleep didn't come.

It rarely did anymore.

He closed his eyes anyway.

Tried very, very hard not to think about what it might feel like to be known by someone. Really known. Not as CEO Jeon Wonwoo or the omega who broke barriers or the cold bastard who made employees redo reports at midnight.

Just... known.

The way Mingyu apparently knew people. Remembered their orders. Asked about their day.

Small things.

Normal things.

Things Wonwoo had forgotten people did.

___________________________________________

Dawn came eventually. Grey light filtering through the curtains. Another day starting whether he was ready for it or not.

He got up.

Showered.

Put on a suit.

Made coffee he wouldn't finish.

Left the jjigae containers in the fridge, untouched.

Went to work.

And tried to pretend that nothing had changed.

Even though everything had.

Chapter Text

The quiet in the bullpen was heavy with it—the kind that pushed against your eardrums and made your heartbeat sound too loud in your own head.

Yeonjun's question was barely above a whisper, but in that stifling silence, it was like a shout. "Did something happen to him?"

Sooyeon never glanced aside from the frosted glass of Wonwoo's office door. Her fingers had frozen on her keyboard five minutes prior, hands suspended above the keys. "It looks like Mr. Jeon is angry."

Angry. The term was too small, like naming a hurricane a little wind.

The yelling had begun twenty minutes ago—muffled at first, the sort you could nearly talk yourself out of really hearing. Then it had intensified. Cleared up. The allegedly soundproof walls of Wonwoo's office doing absolutely nothing to contain the tempest raging within.

"---completely unacceptable---"

A pen was dropped on the desk. No one stooped down to pick it up.

"---did you even glance at the numbers before---"

Yeonjun's shoulders were up around his ears, his entire body tensed like he was bracing for impact. Across from him, Jiwon had abandoned all pretense of working, her eyes fixed on that frosted glass like she was watching a car crash in slow motion.

"—three years at this company and you still—"

Minhee's voice came through, softer, pleading. The words weren't understandable, but the tone was—apologetic, pleading, attempting to explain something that apparently wasn't catching.

Then Wonwoo's voice snapped through again, cutting almost to the bone.

"I don't want apologies. I want competence. If you can't deliver that, then maybe you should ask yourself if you're even in the right place."

The man next to the copy machine—Taehyun, from accounting—actually winced, his hand jerking hard enough to scatter papers all over the floor. He didn't get up to pick them up.

Jaemin was green. The intern had been here only three weeks, still wide-eyed and enthusiastic every morning, still thought that trying hard and doing your best actually counted for something. He was discovering otherwise in real time.

The door creaked open.

Not slowly. Not carefully. It swung wide enough to strike the stopper and rebound an inch, the noise echoing off the bullpen like thunder.

Minhee staggered out.

One hand was pushed across her mouth, trembling fingers against her lips. The other gripped a folder to her chest—the presentation documents, likely. The ones with the error. Her cheeks were mottled and red, tears streaming down her face more quickly than she could brush them away, not that she tried. She was devastated. Hollowed out.

"Oh—Minhee—"

Sooyeon was already in motion before anyone else could respond, her chair backing up as she stood up. Three hurried steps across the industrial carpet and then she was there, arms folding around Minhee's shoulders and pulling her tight.

Minhee's knees weakened. She slumped against Sooyeon as if her legs no longer had the strength to support her anymore, shoulders shuddering with tears she was fighting hard to contain. Professional, even at this point. Even disintegrating.

No one else stirred.

Thirty-or-so individuals were scattered across the sixty-third floor, and all of them remained seated behind their desks. Tense shoulders. Eyes pointed very hard, very deliberately anywhere but the still-a-jerking-open doorway of Wonwoo's office.

But everyone could see him anyhow. Peripheral vision was a traitor like that.

He was standing behind his desk, absolutely motionless in a manner that somehow seemed more menacing than had he been prowling back and forth. His hand was flat on the dark wood surface, fingers splayed wide as if he physically needed to anchor himself in position. His jaw was clenched tight enough that the muscle twitched, visible even from a distance across the bullpen.

His face was—

Wrong.

This was the phrase that kept going around in Yeonjun's mind, persistent and disturbing. Wrong wrong wrong.

Because they'd all seen Wonwoo angry before. They'd all felt the sharp-edged critique of his, clean and precise cuts and somehow, inexplicably, made you want to work harder just to get it right, to prove him wrong. That was normal. Expected, even. Being part of working under someone who cared about the quality of the work.

This wasn't that.

This was raw and explosive, something held in check just barely. Like he was seeking a target and didn't much care who it was, as long as he could direct all that anger somewhere.

The door shut. A definitive click that seemed to be the end of things.

The bullpen remained quiet.

Sooyeon led Minhee towards the ladies' room, her arm still draped over Minhee's shoulders, muttering something too low for anyone else to make out. Minhee's sobbing had turned into rough, ragged breathing—the sort of thing that hurt to hear.

"What did she do?" Jaemin's voice was so soft, spoken to Dahyun at the next desk.

Dahyun did not avert her gaze from her computer screen. Her own face in the monitor reflected her biting her lower lip. "Slipped up during this morning's presentation. One of the projected growth percentages was half a percentage point off."

Jaemin blinked. "That's." He appeared to be wrestling with the numbers, trying to calculate how much it must be to equal what they had just seen. "That's hardly anything."

"I know."

The inference fell upon them like ash. Sour and thick and unspeakable.

This had nothing to do with the mistake.

This had nothing to do with Minhee.

The day crept along too slow.

At 2:15, Wonwoo summoned Hyungsoo to his office. The internal auditor had been slumped over his desk for an hour double-checking numbers he'd already audited twice. When his phone vibrated with the call, his shoulders stiffened. He adjusted his tie—once, twice—before rising. The trip to Wonwoo's office was a shorter one than he'd experienced before, each step paced, calculated. Like a man stepping into a guillotine who still wished the blade would somehow miss.

He knocked. Entered. The door clicked shut behind him.

Ten minutes and he came out looking like he'd been drained of all substance. His face pale except for two patches of color high up on his cheeks, his hands—his hands shaking as they gripped a new report, the pages a little creased where his fingers curled too tightly around them. He didn't glance at anyone as he walked back to his desk. Just sat down heavily, staring at the report as if it would bite him.

Nobody asked what happened. Nobody needed to.

At 3:30, it was Chanwoo from marketing.

The younger man had been restlessly fidgeting all afternoon, one leg wobbling under his desk, but he'd looked warily optimistic when he'd packed up his materials. The presentation format was clean, professional—the client had already approved it last week. This should have been a formality.

It wasn't.

The shouting voices echoed through Wonwoo's shut door, but not loudly enough for words to be discerned. Just tone. The harsh bite of Wonwoo's voice slicing through Chanwoo's explanations, each one falling like an axe. Then silence. Then Chanwoo's voice once more, tiny this time. Then Wonwoo's last word, flat and unyielding.

When Chanwoo emerged, his face was a burning red, that flushy mottling that is the result of anger and humiliation combined until it is impossible to know where one starts and the other leaves off. His jaw was set so hard the muscle worked, and his hands trembled as he pulled the rejected files against his body. He looked down, avoiding everyone's eyes, as he walked back to his desk.

Someone had overheard it. Jihae, whose cubicle was nearest Wonwoo's office.

"He told him it was lazy," she whispered afterwards, her head bent in towards Sooyeon. "Told him it was an example of a 'fundamental misunderstanding of the client base.' Wouldn't even let Chanwoo clarify that the client had signed off on it. Just shut him down and told him to re-do it and return it by end of day."

By five PM, the whole floor had altered.

Individuals typed softly, fingers just grazing the keys, as if noise alone could be hazardous. Discussions occurred in hushed tones or not at all. Gaze turned into a liability—if you stared at someone, they could stare back, and then you and they would both be seen, noticed, and being noticed today was risky.

The typical day's end energy had vanished. No one was closing up early or discussing plans for the evening. They simply worked, heads bent, shoulders knotted.

Sungjay, never fazed, was reading his third time through a report that was already flawless the first read. He scrolled and scrolled, eyes fixed on the same lines repeatedly, looking for any conceivable flaw, any infinitesimal mistake that would get him called to the CEO's office. His coffee had cooled an hour earlier. He hadn't touched it.

"This is bad," Sooyeon grumbled, low enough that only Dahyun and Jihae were privy to it. She wasn't gazing at them—she was glaring at her screen, but her eyes were stationary. Not reading. "I've never seen him like this."

"He's always intense," Dahyun supplied weakly, but even she didn't believe it.

"This isn't intense." Sooyeon shook her head slowly, still refusing to glance away from her screen. "This is."

She left off. Didn't conclude.

Didn't have to.

The word lingered there anyway, unuttered but implicit: wrong. Something was wrong. Not merely bad-day wrong or frazzled-about-a-deadline wrong. Something deeper with teeth.

No one argued.

The office remained hushed. Everyone continued working, kept their heads down, hoped that whatever was brewing in Wonwoo's office would blow past them.

But no one really thought so.

_____________________________________________

At 6:30 PM, the majority of the floor remained at their computers.

They should have broken an hour ago. Some of them had dinner reservations, children to retrieve, lives awaiting them beyond these walls. But they sat, slumped over keyboards that had nothing further to offer them, resetting emails that didn't need resetting, feigning productivity as their stomachs twisted up further with each ticked-off minute.

Because leaving felt dangerous.

Not in words. Wonwoo had not mentioned staying late. Had not issued any memo or made any announcement. But the fear existed in the areas between words, in the recollection of Hyungsoo's trembling hands and Chanwoo's red face. In the certainty that Wonwoo would come out of his office, would glance at vacant desks, might perceive their emptiness as something it was not—lack of commitment, lack of dedication, lack of whatever expectation he held them to today.

So they lingered.

His office light remained on. They could sense it even without making a direct glance, that shine seeping out around the edges of his door. Through the frosted glass, his silhouette sat still at his desk. Not moving. Not typing. Just sitting there like a statue, or a man who'd lost the ability to do anything else.

Sungjay had been staring at that shadow for the last twenty minutes, his own task forsaken. Something about the quiet was unsettling. Something that made his chest constrict.

Then Seokmin showed up in the doorway of the bullpen.

The mood shifted at once, though only slightly. Heads turned. Bodies straightened ever so slightly, that reflexive reaction to the arrival of someone who could perhaps have solutions, perhaps have salvation.

But Seokmin's smile was missing. He just stood there, staring at them—at really, truly, finally looking at them—Dahyun's stiff back, Jihae's white-knuckled grip on her pen, Sooyeon darting surreptitious glances toward Wonwoo's office as if it might blow. His eyes passed over the rest of the staff, approximately a dozen or so people who had been fired long ago and for good reason, and something in his face altered. Relaxed. Not out of pity, necessarily. Out of comprehension.

He recognized what a day it had been.

"Everyone," he said, and his tone was soft in a way that relaxed the tightness in the room by a fraction. "You can go home. Mr. Jeon will not be calling anyone else today."

For an instant, no one did anything.

They simply sat there, immobile, as if they couldn't quite absorb what he'd just told them. Or couldn't believe it. Sooyeon's fingers wavered above her mouse. Sungjay's gaze darted between Seokmin and Wonwoo's door and back again.

"Continue," Seokmin said, softer now, and almost tempting. "It's been a long day."

That lifted the spell.

The evacuation was rapid but quiet—no relieved laughter, no boisterous farewells. Only the deliberate, methodical collection of possessions. Bags hoisted off under tables without the floor scraping. Computers powered down with soft clicks. Jackets put on with swift, frugal motions. They were anxious to get out, but not wanting to appear as if they were fleeing. Not wanting to appear too desperate, lest that desperation come back to haunt them later.

Dahyun left first, Jihae following hot on her heels. Sooyeon lingered at her desk, looking back once more into the darkness of Wonwoo's office before reaching for her handbag and making for the elevator. Sungjay closed out the procession, his steps deliberate, controlled, the pace of a man who'd lived through something and wasn't about to mess it up now.

Ten minutes went by, and the floor was deserted.

Apart from Seokmin.

He remained there in the quiet, in the area the staff had vacated. The empty desks seemed out of place under the dim overhead lighting—coffee cups still half-filled, a lost sweater tossed across a chair back, someoane's phone charger still in the wall. Proof of lives cut short.

He went toward Wonwoo's office after a moment.

The light remained lit. The shadow remained sitting, immobile.

Seokmin hesitated outside the door, his hand up to knock. His knuckles hovered an inch from the wood, close enough that he could sense the cool surface without making contact.

He held that position for a considerable span of time. Ten seconds. Twenty.

Then he dropped his hand.

Some storms, you simply had to let burn themselves out.

Seokmin whirled and walked towards the elevator, his footsteps ringing out in the vacant corridor. The noise seemed too large, intrusive, and he caught himself walking softer, lighter, as though the building itself had grown brittle.

Behind him, Wonwoo's office light remained lit.

The silhouette did not shift.

And Seokmin left him there, alone with whatever demon was devouring him alive from the inside

___________________________________________

Inside, Wonwoo sat in the growing darkness.

He hadn't flipped on the desk light. Hadn't had to. The city was doing it for him, inch by inch, building by building—windows coming on all over the skyline like stars forming. Gold and white filled the windows, and every now and then the flash of a red from a neon sign down below. The light came through his windows, illuminating his office in that odd twilight that wasn't quite day anymore but hadn't quite made it to night.

His throat hurt.

Not badly. Not badly enough to make him cough or grab for water. Just a dull, raw burn from hours of abusing his vocal cords like a battering ram. From screaming. From interrupting people in midsentence. From telling people things that didn't need to be told in the way he'd said them. The hurt lingered there at the bottom of his throat like a reproach, like his body's voice telling him what he already knew.

His chest felt hollow.

Worse than the throat. That was the hollowness that had plagued him all day, maybe longer—he couldn't recall when it had begun anymore. It lay behind his ribs like an empty space, as if someone had hollowed out all the important bits and left behind only the framework. His lungs moved still. His heart pulsed still. But everything was automatic, mechanical, as if his body had lost track of why it was paining.

And all he could see—etched into his head like an afterimage, the sort you get from looking at something too bright for too long—was that smile.

That idiot smile.

Real. Familiar in a way that crawled under his skin because he should know it, should be able to put it, but couldn't. The shape of it was right there in his head, sharp and clear, but the context was gone. Who. When. Why it would ever matter. The questions ran in circles behind him, wearing grooves into his mind, and he couldn't cease it. Couldn't release it.

Couldn't help breaking down his own peace of mind over it.

Over a smile. Over something that may not even signify anything.

Wonwoo buried his head in his hands.

The motion was abrupt, ungraceful. His elbows struck the desk more forcefully than he'd intended, a muffled thud that rang through the deserted office. His fingers dug into his temples, palms spread across his eyes, shutting out the city lights and the blackness and all of it. But it didn't work. The smile lingered, poised behind his eyelids.

What is wrong with me?

The question lingered in his chest, accusatory and heavy. He didn't voice it out loud—had no need to. It was loud enough inside his head, on repeat, keeping rhythm with his heart until he couldn't differentiate between them.

But he knew the truth.

Even if he wouldn't admit it. Even if saying it was like baring something that was meant to be left unexposed.

He was alone.

The word was bitter. Pathetic. He owned a company. Had workers who took orders from him, worked for him, cowered from him apparently. Had Seokmin, who had been by his side for years. Had dinner meetings and conference calls and a penthouse apartment that rented for more in a month than many people made in a year.

And he was alone.

Alone in the way that rendered everything distant, as if he were observing his own life through a pane of glass. Alone in the way that made tiny annoyances become fury, that caused him to snap at individuals who were merely attempting to do their work. Alone enough that a random smile from a stranger was able to burrow under his skin and reside there for days.

Angry.

That was easier to confess. Frustration was workable, nearly. You could do something about frustration—try harder, press harder, ask more. Only he'd been doing that, hadn't he? And it hadn't worked. It had just left his throat sore and his office deserted and his staff cowed.

And he'd lashed out at people who didn't need it.

Hyungsoo, whose paper was likely okay. Chanwoo, whose report was already approved. All the rest of them throughout the day whose names he couldn't recall now, whose faces he barely remembered because he'd been so caught up shredding them apart to really look at them.

The realization didn't improve his mood.

It should have, perhaps. Identifying the issue was supposed to be the beginning, wasn't it? That's what everyone said. Self-knowledge is the door to change.

But it only made him feel worse.

Because understanding that he was lonely didn't make him any less lonely. Understanding that he was lashing out at innocent people didn't reverse the damage. Didn't remove Hyungsoo's shaking hands or Chanwoo's red face or the way the whole floor had shifted like injured animals by the end of the day.

He pushed his hands harder against his eyes until colors burst in the blackness. Red and purple and gold, meaningless shapes. His breathing was light. Controlled. The kind of breathing you use when you don't want to feel anything, when you don't want to let everything unravel.

Outside, the city continued to light up. Cars crawled down streets beneath it, headlights outlining paths on pavement. Somewhere, people were heading home. Sitting down for dinner. Laughing at something silly on television. Living lives that seemed complete.

And Wonwoo sat by himself in his office, dark, with a smile he couldn't account for and a void in his chest and the bitter taste of his own self-consciousness on the back of his tongue like poison.

He didn't budge for a long while.

____________________________________________

Wonwoo exited his office at 12:30 AM.

The building was deserted by then. Only him and the empty ring of his footsteps on marble floors that had accommodated thousands of people today and now had space for just one. The night security guard stood at his post near the main entrance—older man, salt-and-pepper beard, the kind of face that had witnessed everything and resolved most of it wasn't worth reacting to. He nodded as Wonwoo went by, that guarded neutrality of a person who knew better than to make inquiries. Knew that men who were leaving this late were either fleeing something or towards something, and neither was his concern.

On the lower floors, the cleaning staff was busy. Wonwoo heard the whir of vacuum cleaners down the stairwell, that industrial hum that somehow made the quiet everywhere else more oppressive. They'd be there for hours yet, wiping away the tracks of the day—coffee rings and fingerprints and papers scattered across the floor. Erasing everything so it would seem nothing had occurred.

He should leave.

The idea occurred instinctual, capable. He had a conference at eight. The investor call he'd been rehearsing all week—the one that counted, the one that made or broke the Singapore launch. Crucial. High-stakes. The sort of meeting that needed him razor-sharp and in a state of crystalline focus and impeccable calm, the rendition of himself others paid for.

Whereas, he discovered himself strolling.

Not to the parking garage. Not to the subway. Just. walking. Three blocks east, north half a block more. His feet leading the way before his mind could catch up. By the closed boutiques with their shuttered windows, the convenience store still ablaze like a beacon, the restaurant with chairs stacked on tables.

To a bar he'd walked by a hundred times but never gone into.

The outside sign was discreet—simply a name in brushed steel letters affixed to brick: Liminal. No neon lights. No gaudy boasts. The type of establishment that served those who wanted to be able to drink quietly without being disturbed by thumping music or rowdier patrons..

Perfect.

The door was heavier than it appeared. Wonwoo pushed it open and into warmth and dim light and the scent of aged wood and fine liquor.

Inside was all dark wood and amber lighting—not the pseudo-rustic look that hip spots used, but actual age, actual wear. The bar itself was down the length of the room, a sweeping expanse of smooth mahogany that picked up the light in warm gold stripes. Half the stools were vacant. The other half contained individuals who appeared to have had days like his, or weeks like his, or perhaps lives like his. Muted. Isolated. All of them lost in their own unique type of misery.

The bartender looked up as he came in. Woman of about forty, an alpha, with silver strands streaked through dark hair pulled into a neat knot. Gave him the kind of once-over that sized him up and discarded him in the same motion—not a regular, won't cause any trouble, just another corporate weasel in need of something to burn off the stress—began to polish glasses with a white rag that had had better days.

Wonwoo occupied the corner of the bar, at a distance from the handful of other customers spread around the room. The stool groaned slightly beneath his weight. The leather was worn in spots, the sort of wear caused by many people sitting in one place, wearing the same groove into being.

"Whisky," he said when she reached him, not even calling out a greeting. "Neat."

She filled in silence. No inquiry as to what sort, no promotion to premium. She just took down a bottle of something amber and respectable, poured two fingers into a heavy glass, and put it in front of him with a quiet clink. And then backed away to the far end of the bar, leaving him room.

He drank it in two gulps.

The burn was quick, brutal—slipping down his throat and into his chest like liquid fire. Didn't help. Made nothing better. Just provided something for him to feel other than the hollowness or the anger or that damned smile that refused to quit haunting him.

He caught her gaze. Rapped on the glass.

She filled another without saying a word.

By drink number three, the edges of his anger had begun to get fuzzy.

Not gone. It was still there, settled in his chest like something with teeth. But gentler now. More controlled. Less likely to have him saying things he'd regret to people who didn't deserve it. The whisky enfolded it like cotton, dampening the jagged edges until they couldn't cut quite so deeply.

His phone vibrated on the bar.

The wood was loud with the vibration, insistent. He glanced down.

Soonyoung: seriously where are you

Soonyoung: answer me you idiot

Soonyoung: im worried

Wonwoo glared at the messages. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, the cursor blinking in the text field. He should answer. Should let Soonyoung know he was okay, just got some air, would be home soon. All the things a reasonable person would do.

He locked the phone instead. Placed it face-down on the bar, screen against wood, the light bleeding out around the edges.

The bartender materialized at his elbow, refilled his glass without invitation. The bottle against the rim—a small sound that somehow felt too loud.

"Rough day?" she asked, her voice flat. Not intrusive. Just recognition.

"Something like that," Wonwoo grunted.

She hummed, low in her throat, and leaned against the rear counter. "You want to discuss?"

"No."

"Okay then." She stepped back again, honoring the boundary. No pushing. No advice offered. Just the room to just sit with whatever he was sitting with.

His phone buzzed again.

He sensed it rather than heard it—that vibration coursing through the wood of the bar and into his forearm where it lay against the edge. He did not turn it over. Did not glance.

Soonyoung: im serious wonwoo

Soonyoung: call me

Soonyoung: or at least tell me youre okay

He did not glance at it.

Fourth drink.

The bartender's eyebrow creased slightly as she poured but she said nothing. Just placed the glass and backed away again. Professional. Done it all before.

Couldn't see the delivery guy.

The thought had risen unbidden, drifting up through the whisky mist like something that had been dead rising from the depths of a lake. And Wonwoo snorted out a caustic laugh—brusque, quick, utterly without humor. The noise caused the businessman two stools away to look over with a benign worry before concluding it wasn't his business and returning to his own drink.

This was crazy.

All of it. The entire goddamn day. He was furious—really, irately furious—because he hadn't encountered someone. A stranger. A delivery driver whose name he only knew because he overheard another person mention it, whose face he'd only seen in passing, who likely didn't remember him.

He'd screamed at Minhee today. Made her cry. About a mistake so small it wouldn't have even been noticeable on an ordinary day—a misplaced decimal point that she'd already caught and corrected before he'd even opened the file. And Hyungsoo. And Chanwoo. He'd stormed through his staff like a fire, destroying all in his path because he was angry and didn't know how else to manage.

Because some nice-smiling guy with pointy teeth had found his way into Wonwoo's head and set up residence there.

Because for one week—one whole fucking week—Wonwoo had experienced something besides fatigue and duty and the weight of expectation. Had experienced something that could have been interest, or curiosity, or the very faint glimmer of hope that perhaps there was something in life worth anticipating. And then it had been taken away from him before he even knew what it was, and he was back to this: hollow chests and empty offices and drinking by himself at one in the morning because he did not know what to do.

Fifth drink.

The bartender cocked an eyebrow this time—really cocked it, a definite sign he was getting close to a line. But she served it anyway. Placed it more carefully than the rest, looking at him with the sort of intensity that indicated she was measuring if he was going to be a problem.

Wonwoo took out his phone. The screen was too bright, so he had to squint. 1:15 AM.

His vision was beginning to blur slightly at the edges. Not drunk—not exactly. He could still create coherent thoughts, could still sense his fingers and toes and the pressure of his own head on his neck. But most definitely beyond the point where he could drive himself home. Beyond the point where the world had that bright, hard clarity he normally worked with. Everything was slower now. Soft. Like someone had applied Vaseline to the lens.

He should call Soonyoung.

Should let his bestfriend pick him up, sit through the inevitable lecture about self-destruction and healthy coping strategies and all the other things Soonyoung would say because he cared, because he was a good friend, because he was right.

He scrolled past Soonyoung's name.

Opened the driver app instead.

The screen focused slowly, the icon swimming in and out of focus. He blinked repeatedly, attempting to eradicate the blur, then again when that didn't assist.

Request a ride.

His thumb functioned almost as if on its own, the muscle memory of a thousand other rides requested at odd times for good causes.

The app came up. That tiny circle spinning, searching.

Searching for drivers.

A profile.

Driver: Park Yunho

Rating: 4.9 

New driver

The profile picture was generic—a gray silhouette, the default icon when one hadn't yet uploaded a photo. Faceless. Anonymous. Could be anyone.

Wonwoo glared at it.

Something at the back of his mind—the part that wasn't awash in whisky, the part that tended to keep him from getting into trouble—whispered to him that he was supposed to notice that. That he was supposed to notice the absence of photo, the "new driver" label, the way that profile had been hastily constructed.

Later—much, much later, when all had descended into chaos—he'd recall that he was supposed to pay attention.

But his head was reeling and his chest was empty and he just wanted to go home, to his bed, to unconsciousness that would end everything for a few hours. So he clicked Accept.

Driver assigned. Arriving in 8 minutes.

"Last call for you, I believe," the bartender said softly, materializing at his elbow once more. Her tone had changed, from neutral to tentatively worried. "You want me to call you a cab?"

"Already did." His speech was slightly slurred. When did that begin? The syllables were blurring at the edges, his tongue too heavy in his mouth.

"Mm-hmm." She didn't believe him. "Drink that while you wait." She pushed a glass of water across the bar—tall, ice-cold, condensation already forming on the outside.

He did it mechanically. The water was almost startlingly cold going down, a different kind of burn than the whisky, that made his teeth throb. His phone lay face-down on the bar, still radiating around the edges.

It buzzed again.

Soonyoung: if you dont reply in the next 5 minutes im calling the cops

Wonwoo struggled with the phone, fingers awkward. Typed: Im okay. See you tomorrow.

Three dots popped up immediately—Soonyoung writing, likely furious or panicked or both. But Wonwoo locked his phone before the reply could get through, shutting down whatever lecture was on its way.

1:30 AM.

By the time he finally emerged outside—paid his bill using a card he had to insert twice, brushed off the bartender's second offer to call him a cab—the crisp night air slapped him in the face.

It was sharp. Abrupt. Cold enough to water his eyes and shut down his lungs for half a heartbeat. The temperature had dipped since he'd entered, the late-October chill that warned winter wasn't far behind. His head reeled, the world canted a little bit to the left before righting itself with a yank that had his stomach twisting.

He leaned against the brick building wall, eyes shut, breathing slowly in through his nose. The brick was rough against his shoulders, chilly even through his coat. He concentrated on that—the texture, the chill, the hard fact of it. Try to get his balance back.

His phone beeped.

Driver is here.

The vehicle was a black sedan, neat and business-like. Black paint that reflected the streetlights, interior with a subtle chemical air freshener smell—that imitation new-car smell that was never quite bad enough to overcome the underlying staleness. Wonwoo eased into the back of the car, the leather cold even through his trousers, and provided his address in a voice that was almost normal. Almost drunk.

He allowed his head to drop back against the headrest.

The city crept by the windows—blurred lights and deserted streets, the sort of late-night Seoul that seemed like another world from the one he lived during the day. Day Seoul was movement and noise and purpose. Night Seoul was different. Smaller. More lonely. The same streets, but with the people and the sound gone, like a stage set when everyone went home.

The driver was quietly sympathetic. Didn't ask how he'd been, didn't say anything about the weather, didn't attempt to fill the silence with the sort of pointless small talk some drivers appeared to believe necessary. Simply drove through the deserted streets while Wonwoo sat in the back and attempted not to think.

Tricked his brain not to dwell on bright teeth and hot laughter and the way his chest had bulged when he locked eyes across a lobby—that fleeting, spark-like instant when the world had reduced to the two of them and possibility had floated in the air like something tangible.

Tried.

Failed.

The ride seemed long. Too long. Seoul at 1:30 in the morning was a ghost city—deserted roads and traffic lights flashing red and green for nobody, convenience stores shining like isolated lighthouses through smeared glass. The sort of landscape that made you feel like you were the last one on earth, like everyone else had disappeared when you weren't looking and just left you to walk around the ruins.

Wonwoo shut his eyes.

Pathetic.

That was what he was. Sitting in the backseat of a rented car at almost two in the morning, drunk on whisky and spinning head, all because he couldn't manage his own feelings like a grown-up. Couldn't just realize that sometimes things did not work out. That sometimes you met someone great and then they just went away and that was just life. Normal. The way things were.

Rather he'd lashed out at his employees. Had made Minhee cry. Had intimidated people who were merely trying to do their job, merely trying to get through the day without being collateral damage to his own crisis.

The alcohol wasn't doing the job. His head pounded, the dull pain behind his eyes threatening to be merciless by morning. His gut churned, that queasy roll that indicated he'd passed a boundary somewhere between drink three and drink five. And he couldn't stop thinking about the delivery man—about the smile, about the way he'd been so wonderfully, inexplicably familiar, about how pathetic it was to care so hard about a person he didn't even know.

The engine purring beneath him, smooth and—

Wait.

The purr was altering. Becoming louder. More high-pitched.

They were moving faster.

Wonwoo's eyes flickered open.

He raised his head from the headrest, slowly, his neck grumbling about it. Glanced out the window. The streetlights were whizzing by faster now, blurring into smears of orange and white rather than distinct points of light.

His inebriated brain attempted to compute it. Perhaps they were merely on a straightaway. Perhaps the driver was attempting to catch up, get him home sooner so he could collect another passenger. Routine driving.

But the acceleration never ceased.

The vehicle jerked into motion, a jagged spurt of speed that shoved Wonwoo hard into the seat. His gut lurched—that roller coaster sensation, twisted and all wrong on dry pavement.

"Hey," he said, his voice raspy, catching a little in his whisky-roughened throat. "You're going too fast."

There was no answer.

The driver didn't shift in his seat. Didn't brake. Didn't even look in the rearview mirror to nod that Wonwoo had said something.

The speedometer was in his line of sight from the back seat, the glowing numerals rising steadily. 80. 90. 100 kilometers an hour on a city street with traffic lights and crossroads and the possibility of pedestrians even at this time of night.

"Hey!" Wonwoo's hands clung to the lip of the seat, his fingers sinking into the leather tight enough to be painful. "Slow down!"

Nothing.

The driver slumped over the wheel, chin thrust forward at a peculiar angle—not the pose of a person focused on the road, but another. Something amiss. Something wrong. His shoulders drooped, his back curved in a manner that hinted at lack rather than vigilance.

Totally unresponsive.

Adrenaline sliced through the drunken haze like a knife slicing through water.

Sharp. Now. Wonwoo's heart surged into gear, his pulse slamming in his ears and covering up the sound of the engine. The whisky fog that had been blurring everything receded, leaving his mind sharp and horrifyingly clear.

He made himself sit up, bending between the front seats. The seatbelt bit into his shoulder as he shifted. "Are you—what the hell—"

He shook the driver's shoulder hard.

The man's head dangled to one side like a doll's.

His eyes were shut.

He was asleep.

Or unconscious.

Or—

"Fuck!" Wonwoo shook him harder, both hands grasping the man's shoulder now, trying to rouse him, trying to get some sort of response. "Wake up! WAKE UP!"

The vehicle swerved, the tires screaming as they slid across lanes. The noise was piercing, terrible, slicing through the darkness like a scream. Wonwoo's heart banged against his ribs, each contraction agonizing and too rapid.

He reached for the steering wheel, trying to correct their trajectory, but from the back seat the angle was impossible—his arm wasn't long enough, couldn't get the leverage, the wheel jerked under his hand but didn't turn properly.

Light.

A single headlight, bright and getting brighter, cutting through the darkness ahead of them like a knife.

A motorcycle.

Right in their path.

Time didn't slow down. That was movie nonsense. Time accelerated at precisely the same rate it always had—Wonwoo became intensely aware of each split second. The motorcycle was there, headlight blinding. They were going to crash into it. There was nothing he could do. All of this occurred in under two seconds.

"NO—"

The collision was thunderous.

Screaming metal on screaming metal, the vicious crunch of impact felt in Wonwoo's bones. The bike skidded away like a flung toy, rolling end over end across pavement with a deafening boom, flaking off into bits and scattering.

Wonwoo was hurled forward—

The seatbelt enveloped him across the chest with savage force, the webbing tightening so quickly it stole his breath in a single, furious blast. A agony flared where the strap pierced his sternum, hard and instant and spreading outward. His head jerked forward with the force, then snapped back, whiplash sending stars streaking through his eyes—brilliant flecks of light that were not streetlamps.

The vehicle skidded sharply to the right, tires screaming in protest, before jerking to a halt against the curb. The collision rattled his teeth together.

All stopped.

Absolute stillness.

Wonwoo could not breathe. Not would not—could not. His lungs had lost the memory, the mechanism ruptured. His chest was constricted, compressed, as if something weighed upon it. His head clanged like someone had rung a bell within his skull, a high-pitched note that did not cease. The booze in his system caused everything to spin—he had no idea if the crash or the whisky or the whiplash was causing it or all of them mixing together into one sick-making haze that caused the world to lean on its side.

 Wonwoo's hands were shaking.

No—Wonwoo's whole body was shaking. Shudders coursing through his arms and legs like a jolt of electricity, entirely outside his control. He could not make them cease.".

For a single impossible second, everything was absolutely, totally still. Quiet. Like the entire world was holding its breath.

Then his mind began to catch up with what had just occurred.

The motorcyclist.

"Oh god—oh fuck—"

He struggled with the door handle, his hands trembling so hard he could hardly hold on. Fingers slipping off smooth metal, finding finally a hold, yanking hard. The door burst open and he half-fell out of the car, stumbling on the asphalt. His legs didn't want to support him. They were foreign, someone else's limbs obeying commands too late. The earth rotated to the side and he braced himself against the car door, flat palms against cold metal.

The motorcyclist was lying on the ground.

Twenty feet off, reclining on the black roadway like a discarded puppet. One arm was bent at an unnatural angle, curled in a direction arms weren't meant to be curled. The motorcycle itself was farther down the road, a twisted wreck of metal and shattered lights, parts spread over two lanes like an explosion had blown them there.

The motorcyclist did not move.

Total silence. No groaning, no rolling, no indication of awareness.

The sort of silence that indicated—

No.

Wonwoo's eyes tunneled, the periphery fading into darkness and uncertainty until all he could perceive was that form on the ground. His chest tightened—whether from the blow or fear, he no longer could say. Breathing was a chore, his lungs refusing to fill with air.

This wasn't happening.

This wasn't real.

They'd murdered someone.

He'd murdered someone.

The road was deserted. No other vehicle looming around the bend. No bystanders popping out of shops. Only the cold orange light of streetlights shining on the wreckage and the body and the hideous, horrific truth of what had occurred.

The body.

Oh god, the body.

Wonwoo's gut heaved. He doubled over, his hands clasped on his knees, desperate to catch his breath against the sickness. The whisky rose up through his throat again, its burning a sear at the back of his mouth. Bile and booze and fear coursing together into something poisonous.

Not now. Not now. Concentrate.

He's dead. We killed him. Oh god, he's—

Then: movement.

Tiny. Nearly nonexistent. But there.

The body on the ground moved, rolling over onto his side with a low, pained groan that was loud enough to hear from where Wonwoo was standing—low and pained and utterly, wonderfully human.

Relief washed through him so hard his knees nearly buckled. He had to lock them to remain standing, his legs shaking with the exertion.

Alive. He's alive.

Thank god. Thank god, thank god—

Behind him, the opening of a car door.

The driver.

"Hey!" Wonwoo wheeled around, the motion making his head spin viciously. Anger and fear fought for supremacy, his hands knotting into fists. "Where the fuck are you going?!"

The driver never glanced in his direction. Never met his gaze. Just began to walk, brisk paces that progressed into a run, moving away from the wreck, away from the motorcyclist, away from accountability.

Running.

He was goddamn running.

"HEY!" Wonwoo leapt forward instinctively, his body ahead of his mind. He clamped a bruising hold onto the man's shoulder, fingers sinking into cloth and muscle beneath. "You can't just—"

The driver was more muscular than he appeared. He yanked free with so much strength that Wonwoo lost his footing and staggered backward, his alcohol-clouded balance totally defeated. His legs got caught up in each other—left foot in right ankle—and down he went, hard. His palms struck pavement first, the brunt of the fall crashing onto them. Pain ripped across both hands, skin being scraped away, gravel digging into raw skin.

By the time he struggled up again—palms scorched, blood still warm on his skin—the driver was halfway along the block, fading into the dark between streetlights. A shrinking black shape, getting away.

"STOP! SOMEONE STOP HIM!"

But there was nothing. No passing cars. No onlookers. No one to listen. Just Wonwoo and the ruins and the impossible predicament he'd landed himself in.

The motorcyclist.

Still rolling. Still conscious.

Wonwoo compelled his legs to take him forward, every step tottering, his head reeling with the drink and the adrenaline and the absolute fear of what had transpired. He tasted bile at the back of his mouth, his stomach a churning ball of agony, threatening revolt. Blood fell from his palms, staining the pavement with dark spots.

The motorcyclist was upright now, his movements stiff and obviously pained. One hand pressed against his ribs, the other against the earth.

"Are you—" Wonwoo's voice trembled, cracking on the words. "Are you alright? Don't move, I'll call—I'll get assistance—"

His hands wrestled with his phone, almost dropping it twice before managing to get it out of his pocket. His fingers were not cooperating, shaking too wildly, slipping on the slick screen.

He had to call for an ambulance. The police. Anyone.

But first—

Evidence. He required evidence. The man had fled but perhaps there was something in the vehicle, some trace to identify him, to ascertain what occurred.

Wonwoo reeled back to the vehicle, almost stumbling over his own legs. Flung open the driver's side door.

The interior light came on, harsh and yellow.

The front seat was vacant save for—

Nothing.

No wallet. No phone. No personal effects of any sort. Not even a coffee mug or receipt or any of the usual bits and bobs of everyday life. The car was spotless. Too clean. Sterile.

Wonwoo's blood ran cold, that creeping feeling that began at the base of his spine and spread down the length of it.

He grabbed for the driver's license that was supposed to be clipped to the sun visor—mandated by law for ride-share drivers, always on display.

It was there. But when he got closer, when his eyes were able to see through the adrenaline—

The picture was incorrect. Whole different face from the one who had been behind the wheel. More rounded features, wrong hairline. And the name—Park Yunho—was written in a font that wasn't exactly like the official licenses Wonwoo had seen previously. The plastic also didn't feel right. Too smooth. Too new.

False.

This was a false ID.

This driver had been sent. Someone had done this. Set him up to get into this very car with this very unconscious driver on this very isolated piece of road.

Someone had—

"Hey—"

A voice. Gruff. Painful. But human.

Wonwoo's head jerked around so violently it was like he'd gotten dizzy.

The motorcyclist was sitting up correctly now, one hand still clamped to his ribs, the other reaching up to grasp his helmet. His movements were stiff, guarded, the body language of a person taking stock of their wounds.

"I'm calling an ambulance," Wonwoo murmured, his voice trembling as he turned back to him. His phone was in his palm but he hadn't started dialing yet, couldn't get his fingers to cooperate. "Just—just remain still, don't attempt to—"

The motorcyclist removed the helmet.

And Wonwoo's world went blank.

Chapter Text

The emergency room was not only bright—it was punishing. The white lights buzzed along a sort of angry persistence, like they always seemed to in spaces that were meant to keep you awake no matter what. They pierced through Wonwoo's shut eyelids, filling the space behind them with a throbbing red-orange that sent his head pulsating along with his heart. When he eventually gave up and opened his eyes, the ceiling tiles would not remain steady. They floated like continents, moving apart and coming back together, and he was forced to close them again before his stomach launched another revolt.

All of it smelled like industrial cleaner attempting and failing to mask something worse. Beneath the pungent bite of antiseptic, there was the sweat of fear and blood and the specific mustiness of somewhere that never really cleared out, never really cleaned. And regret. All of the room stank of it—other people's, for the most part, but Wonwoo was doing his share.

He slumped on the examination table, paper rustling beneath him as he moved. The blood pressure cuff encircled his arm in repetitive squeezes, tightening and tightening as his fingers began to tingle and numb. A physician who couldn't have been older than thirty stood before him, reading from her tablet in the flat, automatic tone of someone who'd given this same speech at least a dozen times tonight alone. She had the sort of bone-tired look in her eyes that came from working too many late shifts, from watching too many people ruin themselves in wholly preventable ways.

"—mild concussion, although really you're lucky it's not worse with your blood alcohol level—"

Wonwoo winced. The motion brought a new burst of pain from the base of his skull where he'd apparently gotten himself in the way of something. Details were hazy. Most of the night was hazy, in fact, which was a blessing or something else to put on the list of reasons why he should be a bad person about himself.

"—and you'll have to take these twice a day with meals. No drinking for at least two days, better still."

The doctor's gaze darted up from her monitor, catching his for the space of only a heartbeat to express precisely how much stock she put in his capacity to obey that specific directive. Which was to say: zero. She'd seen this before. Seen him before, or at least a hundred iterations of him. The I-can-handle-it guy who very obviously could not, in reality, handle it.

"Drink lots of water, rest, and if you feel any aggravating symptoms—dizziness, nausea, vomiting—"

Too late for that, Wonwoo realized, and had to gulp hard over the ghostly taste of bile still in his throat.

___________________________________________

Three hours ago.

The streetlight lit first on tangled black hair. Then on the hard edges of a turning face, features taking shape out of darkness and fluorescent light. Then—

Oh.

Wonwoo's breathing caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

It was the motorcyclist. The one he'd struck. The one with the bike that was now lying crumpled on its side ten feet away, engine still sputtering as it cooled. The guy was reaching up with his right hand—his left hung wrong at his side, bent at an angle that made Wonwoo's stomach drop—and pulling off his helmet.

The helmet removed, and—

Mingyu.

It didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. Because Wonwoo had only laid eyes on this person once, hardly, in a marble lobby while Seokmin muttered something that Wonwoo hadn't been paying attention to. A flash. Nothing more. Some friend of an employee whose name he'd stored and immediately forgotten because that's what you did with strangers, with people who resided on the edge of your life and never came in.

Except his body didn't agree with that. His chest didn't agree with that. Something deeper than memory, something that resided in his bones and his blood and the hollow behind his ribs, knew this face. Recognized it past logic altogether and went straight to raw, animal instinct. Like recognizing someone from a dream you'd forgotten you'd had.

Mingyu turned his head, cautious and slow, to test whether anything else was fractured. Blood streamed from a cut above his eyebrow, a thin black line against skin which was somehow still golden even under the bilious yellow streetlights. He raised his good hand to touch his face, fingers coming away crimson, and then—

Their eyes locked.

The world didn't stop. It broke. Sound receding, eyes tunneling down to a point that Mingyu filled, time stretching and wrong and elastic and impossible. Mingyu's eyes widened—in dark shock and something else that Wonwoo couldn't identify through the whisky still churning in his blood and the adrenaline freezing his hands.

Mingyu's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again as if he was searching for words and finding none. He was looking at Wonwoo with a face that was—what? Worried? Confused? Frightened? Wonwoo couldn't decipher it. Couldn't decipher anything except the blood on Mingyu's face and the bad angle of his arm and the realization, suffocating and unavoidable, that he'd done this.

"Oh god—"

The words tore out of him before he could catch them, raw and awful. He leapt forward, legs in automatic motion, every fiber screaming to do something—help, repair it, rewind the last five minutes, rip a hole in the world and walk back through to when he was still sitting at that bar and could choose not to get in the cab.

The street slanted.

Not softly. Brutally. As if someone had taken the world by the corners and pulled it forty-five degrees to the left. The road under Wonwoo's feet ceased to be concrete and began to be theoretical, a notion of floor that his body couldn't quite hold onto. His inner ear howled contradictory messages—you're standing, you're falling, you're both, you're neither—and his stomach, which had been clinging by its fingernails since he'd opened the door of his car, declared it was finished faking that everything was okay.

The whisky surged back up his throat in a scalding torrent. Acidic and foul and instant.

"Sir—hey—"

Mingyu's voice sliced through the static in Wonwoo's brain, bright with warning, and then there was a hand on his arm. Firm. Comforting. Real in a way nothing else was at the moment. Strong fingers encircling his arms, holding him still though Mingyu's other arm was obviously damaged, obviously hurting him and he wasn't letting it show in his tone.

But he didn't let go. Didn't pull away. Didn't even pull back when he would have, when any other normal person would have.

Their eyes met once more. Closer this time. Close enough now that Wonwoo could see the blood wasn't only from his eyebrow—there was a scrape on his cheekbone as well, raw and red and still dripping. Close enough to notice the worry etched into Mingyu's face, the way his eyebrows furrowed in spite of everything, in spite of the fact that he was the injured one, the one who should be concerned with himself. But he was staring at Wonwoo like—

Like he was going to fall over.

Which, hey. True, even.

Wonwoo's gut twisted in on itself.

No, he thought frantically. No no no not now not like this—

He parted his lips—to apologize, to caution Mingyu, to at least provide him some fighting chance to back away—

What emerged was not speech.

It occurred in slow motion and simultaneously, as if the world wanted to ensure Wonwoo went through each agonizing millisecond of it. Five whiskeys and whatever he'd stress-snacked at the bar (peanuts? pretzels? regret?) curdled together into one dramatic, unstoppable arc.

And since the universe had a wacky sense of humor, since this evening wasn't catastrophic enough already, it didn't just go down.

It went everywhere.

Mingyu's jacket took the major hit—a direct strike that would've made a lesser man flinch. His black shirt was next, then his jeans, then somehow, impossibly, his shoes. It was like Wonwoo's body had calculated the exact trajectory needed for maximum coverage and gone for it with the precision of a heat-seeking missile.

The smell came at him like a punch. Harsh and acrid and so deeply humiliating that Wonwoo would have happily requested the ground to yawn open and devour him whole.

There was a pause of utter stillness.

Mingyu stared at himself. Down at the vomit now adorning him from head to toe like the worst Jackson Pollock work ever. His good hand still clinging to Wonwoo's arm, rigid, as if his brain had just failed to keep up with what had occurred.

Then back at Wonwoo.

Their gazes clashed.

And Wonwoo stood there, in the present, while Mingyu's face cycled through every emotion from shock to disbelief to what suspiciously resembled the beginning of hysterical laughter that he was standing physical restraint to keep from bursting out with. 

"Oh—"

Mingyu's arm around him tightened, moving but for some reason, some impossible reason, not releasing him despite being literally smeared in vomit. "Okay. Okay, you're—breathe, it's okay—"

Fine. The sentence was so ridiculous that if Wonwoo still had the ability for rational thinking remaining, he would've burst out laughing. Or wept. Or both. Everything about this wasn't fine. He'd just run over this individual with his vehicle, shattered his arm, caused him to bleed, and then, as if the cosmos desired to make absolutely sure that this was the worst first impression in the history of mankind, vomited on him with the extent of coverage that is generally only given to car washes.

Wonwoo attempted to move back. Attempted to step back, to at least be not touching this person he'd just attacked in every single way. But his legs had officially abandoned the entire "standing" idea. They folded like origami, knees unlocking simultaneously, and then the floor was rushing up at him—

Mingyu caught him.

With one arm. One definitely-should-not-be-moving, broken arm dangling uselessly at his side and one good one around Wonwoo's chest, holding him up with every ounce of strength he had despite being drenched in vomit and having absolutely no reason at all to do so. Somehow Mingyu was able to set him down instead of dropping him, leading him towards the asphalt with a consideration that made everything even worse because Wonwoo didn't deserve it, didn't deserve any of this special care.

Wonwoo found himself on his knees, then on his side, curled around himself with the hardness of the street biting into his cheek. It was still hot from the sun's heat, gritty and hard and real in a way everything else wasn't. His head reeled, the world spinning and tilting around him as if he were on some hellish carousel that refused to slow.

"Hey—stay with me—" Mingyu's voice was close to his ear, low and urgent and somehow still gentle despite everything. Despite the vomit. Despite the broken arm. Despite all of it. "Don't pass out, okay? I need you to—"

But Wonwoo was already falling. The blackness at the periphery of his eyes was coming in rapidly, engulfing the streetlights and Mingyu's face and the sky overhead. His body was distant from him, as if it didn't belong to him, as if he was seeing this happen to someone else from a long way off.

The last thing he noticed was the scent—blood and antiseptic somewhere, exhaust, his own vomit (god, everywhere), and beneath it all something else. Something that could have been Mingyu's pheromones, though at this point it was really impossible to say.

The last thing he remembered was the strong arms holding him still, not letting him fall even as Mingyu had every reason to set him free, to walk away, to let Wonwoo crash to the ground and face whatever came next for his own stupidity.

But he didn't.

He hung on.

And then the darkness consumed everything, and there was nothing remaining but the lack of light and noise and the awful, crushing burden of realizing he'd ruined something before he'd even had the opportunity to learn what it was.

Also, he'd puked on him.

That as well.

_______________________________________________________

Present

"---come home right away." She wrote something on a prescription pad with quick, economical motions. "Do you have someone who can sit with you tonight? You shouldn't be left alone with a concussion." 

"Yes," Wonwoo lied reflexively. 

The doctor's pen hesitated. She gazed up at him—really gazed, the kind of tired cynicism born of years of having people lie to her in her face—and drew up one eyebrow.

"Yes," Wonwoo said, looking back at her with all the conviction he could bring to bear while perched on a hospital bed in whisky-and-shame-scented clothes.

She looked at him for another three seconds, then let her eyes fall to the paper. "Here." She ripped off the prescription and handed it to him. "The pharmacy downstairs is still open. Take them as instructed. And for real—no booze. Your liver will appreciate it."

"Thanks."

She departed without comment, the door swinging closed behind her with a gentle pneumatic whoosh that somehow seemed disapproving.

Wonwoo sat there in the sudden silence, staring at the prescription in his hand.

His head pounded. Not the stinging, abrupt hurt of the crash—that was dissolving into a dull, steady ache that throbbed with each beat of his heart. Each beat sounded like someone was tapping a miniature hammer against the inside of his skull. Tap tap tap. Reminding him of all the bad choices he'd made over the past six hours.

The bar. The booze. The car. The wreck.

Mingyu.

God, Mingyu.

The memory slammed into him like a punch to the stomach, and Wonwoo pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see spots explode behind his closed eyelids.

It was Mingyu.

I vomited on him.

I fainted.

He caught me.

That part at the end was somehow the worst. Because out of the haze of fainting, Wonwoo remembered vaguely and terrifyingly being held—gently, carefully, with one good arm and one broken arm—while Mingyu yelled for help.

While he was vomiting all over himself.

Wonwoo's vomiting.

He wished he could die.

Actually, truly wished the ground would just open up and swallow him whole, taking this whole hospital with it so there'd be no witnesses to his humiliation.

How did you do this? he thought nastily, pressing his fingers more aggressively into his temples. How could you be so much of a disaster? So much of a—

His chest hurt where the seatbelt had grabbed him. A heavy, bruising ache that made it hard to breathe. He moved gingerly on the exam table, trying to get a position where his ribs wouldn't scream, and saw himself in the little mirror hung on the wall.

He was a mess.

Pale. Drawn. Dark circles under his eyes that had nothing to do with the crash and everything to do with three-hour nights for weeks and cold tea and trying to keep the company together while disintegrating bit by bit himself.

His shirt was crumpled, splattered with—he didn't want to know what. His tie was missing. The paramedics probably had removed it. His hair was tousled, standing up in every direction where he'd kept running his hands through it too many times.

He resembled exactly what he was: a thirty-three-year-old CEO who'd gotten drunk by himself at a bar, gotten into a car with a stranger, hit someone, vomited all over them, and then passed out.

Professional, he seethed. Very fucking professional, Jeon Wonwoo.

Mingyu was likely here as well. Somewhere in this hospital. Getting his arm fixed, his cuts stitched, sitting in some other examination room attempting to tell some other weary doctor about how he'd wound up covered in vomit that belonged to someone else in the middle of the night.

And at some point—likely soon, likely much too soon—Wonwoo was going to have to stand before him.

Was going to have to say sorry.

For running into the car. For puking on him. For passing out and having Mingyu catch him with a broken arm. For—for all of it.

His gut twisted at the recollection. Not nausea this time—just plain, unadulterated fear.

What do you even say? he thought, looking at his reflection. 'Sorry I destroyed your evening and your jacket and maybe your trust in human nature'? 'Thanks for not leaving me on the sidewalk to die unconscious'?

Nothing was enough.

Nothing ever would be enough.

The door exploded open with enough force to jerk Wonwoo's head back, agony flashing through his neck from the shock of movement.

"JEON FUCKING WONWOO."

Wonwoo's whole body stiffened.

Kwon Soonyoung filled the doorway like an avenging angel in torn jeans and a hoodie that declared TIGER ENTHUSIAST in glittery script across the front. His platinum blonde hair was disheveled, standing on end like he'd been raking his hands through it, and his face was between utterly livid and actually scared.

"You—"

Soonyoung's voice broke. "You piece of shit—you—how—"

"Soonyoung—"

"The HOSPITAL called me!" Soonyoung strode into the room, pointing a finger at Wonwoo as if he were personally to blame for all of Soonyoung's woes. "The fucking hospital, Wonwoo! Told me you'd been brought in following a car accident and I just—I thought you were dying—"

His voice cracked on the final word.

Really broke, and all at once Wonwoo was able to see beyond the rage to the fear beneath. The real, deep-down fear of receiving a phone call at three in the morning from a hospital informing you that your best friend had been in an accident.

"I'm fine," Wonwoo said softly.

"You're fine?" Soonyoung's laugh was a little hysterical. "You're sitting in a three-in-the-fucking-morning emergency room and you're fine?"

"I'm not dying."

"That's a low bar, Wonwoo. That's a really low bar."

Wonwoo's eyes dropped to his hands. They were trembling. He folded them into fists to make them stop. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"You didn't mean to get in a car accident?" Soonyoung's voice rose. "You didn't mean to—"

He cut himself off.

Gazed at Wonwoo.

And then something changed in his face. The anger and fear dissolving into something else. Something that looked very much like—

"Wait," Soonyoung said slowly. "Wait wait wait. The nurse—she said—" His eyes widened. "Oh my god."

"Soonyoung—"

"You vomited on him!"

The words were shouted and wheezed and came tumbling out, and then Soonyoung doubled over, hands on knees, laughing so hard he couldn't catch his breath.

"Stop—" Wonwoo's face was on fire. "It's not—"

"You puked on your delivery guy crush!" Soonyoung wheezed for air, still doubled over. "Oh my god, I can't—I can't breathe—"

"Soonyoung, please—"

"Your soulmate reunion arc—" Another wheeze. "—just became a fucking biohazard!"

Wonwoo tossed one of the flimsy hospital pillow at him.

Soonyoung caught it without even glancing, still laughing, still wheezing, tears streaming down his face. "On him! On his—his face? His chest? Where—"

"Everywhere," Wonwoo replied bluntly, resigned. "It went everywhere."

That made it worse. So much worse. Soonyoung actually fell into the visitor chair, holding the pillow to his chest, making noises that weren't quite human anymore.

"I'm glad you find this amusing," Wonwoo growled.

"Amusing?" Soonyoung rubbed his eyes, smile creasing his face. "This is the most hilarious shit that's ever happened to you. This is legendary, Wonwoo. People are going to talk about this. Your grandchildren are going to—"

"I won't have grandchildren if you continue with this because I'll die of shame first."

"No, no—" Soonyoung was attempting to regain control of himself, struggling visibly to hold back another laugh. "No, see, this is not how this goes. You don't get to die. You get to live with this. You get to go around for the rest of your life with the knowledge that the first time you actually met up with the guy you've been pining for, you puked on him."

Wonwoo hid his face in his hands.

"Like—" Soonyoung was warming up, getting into it. "That's not a meet-cute, Wonwoo. That's a meet-eww."

Another pillow whizzed across the room.

Soonyoung easily dodged it, still smiling like Christmas had come early. "I'm just saying! You could've—I don't know—said hello like a normal human? Brought him coffee? Asked for his number? But no. No, you had to go full disaster omega and aerosol him with—"

"If you complete that sentence, I will kill you."

"You can't." Soonyoung rested against the back of the chair, appearing much too smug with himself. "You're too busy dying of embarrassment. Oh, also—minor logistical query—" He raised a hand as if he were at a conference. "Was it like a gentle fountain scenario, or more like Old Faithful?"

"SOONYOUNG."

"I require information, Wonwoo! This is serious! Did you—"

The third pillow struck him squarely in the face.

"Okay, okay!" Soonyoung raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, fighting to hold back more laughter. "I'll stop. I'll be a good boy now."

"Please."

Soonyoung drew a deep breath, struggling visibly to calm himself. His face resolved into a more somber expression, though his eyes still twinkled with barely controlled mirth. "Alright. Serious face. The point is—"

He hesitated.

Looked into Met Wonwoo's eyes.

"—you two are alive."

The words hit harder than Wonwoo had anticipated. The laughter left the room, and something more subdued took its place. Something more true.

"Yeah," Wonwoo whispered. "We are."

"And he asked for you," Soonyoung said his voice softer now.

Wonwoo's head jerked up. "He. what?"

"The delivery guy. Mingyu." Soonyoung's face had changed entirely, all signs of levity erased. "He's in the next ward over. Broken arm, concussion, and apparently covered in—well, you know—and the first thing he did when the nurse came in was ask if you were all right."

Something in Wonwoo's chest did something twisted. Complicated. Hurt.

"He asked about me?"

"Said, and I quote: 'The guy who came in with me, is he okay?'" Soonyoung rested his elbows on his knees. "Which, by the way, may be the most considerate sentence ever uttered by a person who has just been hit by a car and then used as a human barf bag."

"Oh my god." Wonwoo's voice was strangled. "I can never show my face again."

"Too late for that," Soonyoung replied, although his voice was gentle. "Because if you think I'm not pulling you over there to apologize, you're crazy."

Wonwoo stared at him. Actually stared at him. At the worry beneath the joking, at Soonyoung's still-shaking hands from the adrenaline of receiving that phone call, at the fact that he'd upped and left at three in the morning to be here.

"Thank you," Wonwoo murmured. "For coming."

Soonyoung's face softened entirely. "Always, you idiot." He reached across and pinched Wonwoo's shoulder once. "But for real—when you go apologize to him? Brush your teeth first. You reek of a distillery."

The pillow flew back at him.

Soonyoung batted it away, laughing again, and Wonwoo felt something inside his chest relax just a little bit.

At least they were both breathing.

At least Mingyu had checked on him.

That had to count for something.

Even if Wonwoo had literally vomited on him first.

________________________________________________

Next morning. 9:47 AM.

Wonwoo leaned in the hospital corridor, glaring at door 312 as if it were going to sprout teeth.

He'd been loitering here for—he glanced at his phone—eleven minutes now. Eleven minutes of standing in a hall that reeked of floor cleaner and agony, gazing after doctors and nurses who shuffled by with faces that went from professionally worried to vaguely accusatory, while his legs wouldn't follow simple motor instructions.

He'd reached the door already. Had his hand on the handle, the cold metal against his palm, the subtle give of the mechanism. Then his mind, ever so benevolent, had chosen to replay last night's highlights in glorious full-hi-definition: the vomiting, the blacking out, being cradled while smeared in his own—

He'd spun on his heel and taken fifteen paces down the corridor before he'd caught himself at it.

This is humiliating, he thought angrily. You're a CEO. You command boardroom meetings with investors who'd devour you for demonstrating weakness. You make choices that impact hundreds of people's living. You can enter a hospital room and say sorry like a grown-up.

His hand was back on the door handle.

Through the small window—narrow, institutional, meant to allow staff to monitor patients without being intrusive—he could barely see at an angle. The hospital bed. Stiff, white sheets that seemed uncomfortable. And Mingyu, sitting up with his left arm in cast and sling, looking down at his lap with an expression that made something queasy twist behind Wonwoo's ribs.

Blank.

Not blank-neutral, the way one looked when they were just being in a moment. This was blank-empty. The type of face that resulted from feeling too much and needing to close it all down just to remain operational. As if someone had drawn a curtain over everything below and opened only the surface.

Wonwoo recognized that look all too well. He'd caught it in his bathroom mirror more times than he could remember, typically at three in the morning when the insomnia was particularly bad and his face belonged to a stranger.

Mingyu slumped his shoulders in a posture of pain or fatigue or both. His good hand was laid upon the cast, immobile. The bandage across his brow was unraveling at one corner, peeling off, and no one had seen fit to repair it yet. A breakfast tray sat unused on the rolling table next to the bed—toasting growing cold and white, orange juice sweating droplets of condensation onto the plastic tabletop.

Is he hurting? Wonwoo asked himself, and the question came with an unpleasant jolt of something that felt suspiciously like caring. Did they give him enough painkillers? Is his arm—

Mingyu's head came up a little, and even at this angle Wonwoo could observe the meticulous manner that he moved. As if his whole body ached. As if he was putting an awful lot of effort into not letting it show, not letting anyone else see.

Something in Wonwoo's chest creaked. Not shattered, but fractured. A hairline fissure admitting something through.

Idiot, he said to himself—although he wasn't quite certain whether he was referring to Mingyu or himself.

Likely both.

He opened the door.

The hinge creaked nearly silently—only a soft whisper of metal on metal, the sort of noise that should have been drowned by the background whine of hospital equipment and muffled conversation. But Mingyu's head jerked up as if he'd been expecting it. As if he'd been monitoring for any difference in the acoustics of the room that would tell him he was no longer alone.

The stoic expression fell away.

Just—vanished. Erased like someone had pressed a reset button. Replaced in an instant by something bright and warm and so truly happy to see another human being that Wonwoo literally froze in place mid-step, one foot still in the hallway.

Mingyu smiled.

Not the courteous smile you offered strangers in elevators. Not the customer service smile you had for delivering service to clients. Just—smiled. Unguarded and simple and for Wonwoo as if his presence in this room was the highlight of the morning. Like he hadn't spent the last twelve hours confined to a hospital bed because of a car accident Wonwoo had been in.

"Hello, sir."

The smile struck like a physical object. Right to the middle of Wonwoo's chest, causing his heart to do something complicated and unpleasant and totally in the way. His ribs hurt—the seatbelt bruise reminding him—and for a moment he couldn't say whether the ache was physical or something else. 

His expression did not reflect any of it.

His face, as Soonyoung had so obligingly reminded him around seven thousand times throughout the years, was forever fixed in what others tactfully referred to as "resting professional mode" and everyone else referred to as "resting bitch face."

It wasn't on purpose. It just—occurred. When he was thinking, his eyebrows came together. When he was focusing, his mouth set into a stubborn line. When he was doing the information-sorting thing, his jaw clenched and his eyes became faraway and seemingly the cumulative effect gave him an air of being personally affronted by the very presence of joy.

Soonyoung got it. Soonyoung had taken the trouble to study the microscopic facial distinctions between Wonwoo's "I'm thinking" face and his "I'm angry" face and his "I'm desperately trying not to show emotion at the moment" face.

But Soonyoung was Soonyoung. His college buddy, who'd hung in there through thick and thin and was more familiar with Wonwoo's tells than Wonwoo was himself.

Nobody else did bother.

Everybody else just—assumed. Made up their own stories. Judged him cold or cruel or unfeeling strictly based on what his face was doing while his mind was three steps ahead figuring out problems they hadn't even realized yet.

And Wonwoo had learned, over years of being misread and misunderstood, that fighting it was pointless. That explaining "no, I'm just thinking" made people think he was defensive. That trying to smile more made him look like a serial killer, according to Seokmin's extremely unhelpful feedback during that one disastrous team-building dinner.

So he'd stopped trying.

Let others think what they pleased. Let them construct their own theories and dwell in them. Let his face serve as a weapon he could not lay aside, a wall he could not bring down even when he wished to.

It was simpler than being concerned with what strangers perceived of him.

He walked all the way in, allowing the door to close behind him with a gentle click. The antiseptic scent was more pronounced in here, blended with something else—the coppery whiff of blood, perhaps, or merely the plastic-chemical odor of medical gear cooked under fluorescent lights.

"How's your arm?"

The words were colder than he'd meant to speak. Flatter. As if he were inquiring about quarterly forecasts rather than a broken bone. As if this was some sort of business deal rather than—whatever this was.

Mingyu's smile didn't even flicker. If anything, it got warmer, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that suggested this was his natural setting, not something he had to work at. "It's fine. At least it doesn't need stitches." He lifted the cast slightly, careful and demonstrative. "Doctor said it should heal clean. Six weeks, maybe eight."

Of course he's smiling still, Wonwoo thought, and couldn't decide if the sensation in his chest was exasperation or something warmer. Something perilously close to fondness. Of course he is.

There was a chair next to the bed—institutional blue plastic, constructed with the express intent of being uncomfortable enough that visitors wouldn't linger. Wonwoo did not sit in it. Just stood there, three feet from the bed, hands disappearing into his pockets because he didn't know what else to do with his hands and having them just flailing there seemed awkward.

The silence between them pulled like taffy.

Mingyu was staring at him now, openly curious, tilting his head slightly to one side as if he were trying to solve a puzzle. Not hostile. Not uncomfortable. Just—interested. Truly interested in whatever Wonwoo would do or say next.

Like Wonwoo was actually worth noticing.

Wonwoo despised it.

Not because it was invasive—it wasn't, somehow. But because it made him want to talk. To explain. To just fill the silence with something about himself that he'd learned years ago to keep bottled up where it couldn't hurt him.

"I'm sorry," he said at last.

The words were like they had to claw their way out, crawling over stacks of pride and humiliation and the utterly humiliating replay of last night's catastrophes that his mind kept trying to stuff into his awareness.

Mingyu blinked, his smile dissipating into one of confusion. "What are you sorry for? You weren't driving. The driver is the one who fled." His voice became softer, something beneath it now. Something raw. "That was—that was really frightening, actually. Just seeing him run like that. Like he didn't even care what happened."

"I'm not sorry for that," Wonwoo said, pushing the words past the tension in his jaw. His shoulders were tense. His whole body shut down. "I'm sorry for puking on you."

Mingyu's eyes widened for a half a second—true surprise—before gentle amusement creased them, furrowing the edges in the same effortless manner. "Oh. That."

"Yes. That."

"Fine. It's fine. Really." Mingyu's smile reappeared, smaller but no less sincere. "Happens to the best of us."

"I highly doubt that," Wonwoo grumbled.

Mingyu cocked his head, looking at him once more with that open curiosity that made Wonwoo want to avert his eyes. Made him want to take out his phone or look for a place on the wall to stare at or do anything at all besides be seen this directly. "You're not much of a chatterbox, huh?"

Wonwoo breathed through his nose. "I'm not much of a throw-up person, either, but here we are."

Mingyu smiled—startled and real and cut short when the movement jarred his arm. "Ow—okay, don't make me laugh."

"That wasn't supposed to be a joke," Wonwoo said dryly.

"It was, though." Mingyu's smile returned, more subdued but in some way warmer. The sort of smile that didn't require anything in return. Just simply was, easy and unproblematic. "Seriously, I'm okay. No grudge."

Wonwoo's eyes fell to the cast. Even from beneath the plaster, he could tell the swelling was there—fingers a little puffy, the skin at the edges darker than it ought to be. Bruising that was still forming, still advancing. And that dressing on his forehead was most certainly coming undone now, one edge curled up to reveal the line of stitches beneath.

"Your dressing needs to be changed," Wonwoo said. Not a question. Just a statement of fact.

Mingyu looked up as if he'd not remembered it was there. "Oh. Yeah, I guess so. The nurse said she'd return but—" He shrugged his good shoulder. "Hospitals, you know. They're full."  

"And swelling." Wonwoo pointed at the cast. "That is worse. You should get someone to look at it."  

Mingyu stared at his arm, then back at Wonwoo with something that was almost surprise. "You're very aware of things."

"You're really careless," Wonwoo retorted, but there was no bite in it. Just fact. Just observation.

A silence fell between them—brief but filled with something Wonwoo couldn't quite put his finger on. Something that hung there in a way he didn't want to investigate too closely.

The sunlight streaming in through the window caught in Mingyu's hair, tinging the black with a slightly bronzed edge. His face was battered on one side—jaw, cheekbone, the bruising showing even with the bandage partially masking it. And he was still smiling, still staring at Wonwoo as if this were just an ordinary Tuesday morning chat rather than something that had occurred because Wonwoo's car had driven him over.

Why are you smiling at me like that? Wonwoo needed to ask. I've ruined your night. Broke your arm. Vomited all over you. Why are you staring at me like—like this? Like I'm not—

But he didn't say it.

Merely stood there, hands still in his pockets, jaw still clenched, sporting his resting bitch face like armor that he had been issued at birth and never knew how to remove.

"You should rest," Wonwoo said finally. The words came out softer than he'd intended. Almost reluctant, like they didn't want to leave. "Your body needs time to heal."

"I will," Mingyu said. Then, quieter: "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming."

Wonwoo blinked. "You were hurt because of me. It would've been rude not to."

"Most people would've just texted," Mingyu pointed out. "Or sent flowers with an apology card and called it done."

"I didn't have your number."

"That can be arranged."

The words were flippant, almost joky, but beneath them was something that made Wonwoo's chest perform that gnarled trick again. That twist-and-pull that was a warning and a wanting, simultaneously.

He turned his head away, fixing on a patch of wall just beyond Mingyu's shoulder. A hand-washing poster. Extremely important. Extremely fascinating. "You're very direct."

"Always," Mingyu replied, and Wonwoo could hear the smile from where he stood without needing to look. "Makes life easier."

Wonwoo hummed without commitment.

His hand jumped in his pocket—the desire to go against some other. Some other that wanted to remain. To sit in that awkward blue chair and keep talking until Mingyu's smile ceased to make his chest ache in ways he didn't know or wasn't allowed to know.

Which was dangerous.

Which was precisely the sort of thing Wonwoo had trained himself not to do.

Because he knew how this went. He'd lived this cycle enough times to see every step before it happened, like watching a car crash in slow motion and being unable to stop it.

First, they were charming. Warm. Empathetic. They could laugh and smile and make you feel like maybe, maybe this time would be different. This time you'd found someone who truly understood.

Then you let them in.

And then they saw the actual you—the seventy-hour work weeks, the never-dropping standards, the manner in which your mind was three steps ahead and resented everyone else for not being able to keep up. The manner in which you would not quiet your thoughts at dinner, could not cease to dissect issues which had no relation to them, could not simply relax the way regular people somehow managed to.

Then the remarks. Minor to begin with. Simple to dismiss.

"You're a little intense, you know?"

"Do you ever just. ever stop working?"

"I thought omegas were meant to be—"

They never completed that sentence. Did not need to. The inference hung in the air anyway, thick and indelible: softer, more compliant, easier to get along with, less demanding, more interested in nesting than quarterly earnings.

And then they departed.

Or they attempted to transform you, to sand your edges until you became what they thought you ought to be.

Or worse—tried to control you. Tried to boss you around, make decisions for you, coax you down into something more palatable. Because being omega meant you needed someone to boss you around, right? Someone to take care of things so you didn't have to work so hard, think so hard, be so much.

Mingyu looked different now. Looked nice. But Wonwoo had discovered—painfully, again and again, with growing certainty—that seeming and being were two quite distinct things.

Everybody had a tragic past. Everybody had baggage that justified their actions. And Wonwoo was fed up with being someone's emotional support omega. Fed up with men who believed knowing his designation was equivalent to knowing him. Fed up with the ones who took him like a prize to be won or a problem to be solved or a puzzle that just needed the right key.

He would not fall for it again.

Would not allow himself.

Even though Mingyu's smile hurt his chest in ways he wouldn't want to acknowledge.

"Take care of your arm," Wonwoo told him, withdrawing his hand from his pocket. The words sounded flat. Remote. Walls gliding shut behind him again with the smoothness of long habit. "And have that bandage changed before it becomes infected."

Mingyu's smile did not falter, but something in his face shifted. A flash of—disappointment? Understanding? Wonwoo couldn't tell—it was gone before he could read it, eclipsed by that constant warmth.

"I will," Mingyu said quietly. "And. thanks again. For calling to check in."

Wonwoo nodded once—brief, professional, the same nod he used at the end of board meetings—and headed for the door.

He'd nearly escaped, hand on the frame, when—

"Wait—"

Wonwoo paused. Half-turned, one foot still bent for fleeing.

Mingyu was gazing up at him with something puzzled and eager in his face, head cocked in that very interested manner. "You didn't say your name."

Wonwoo paused.

It would be so simple to just leave. To maintain this anonymous, transactional. To get up and leave before this had to be something that needed maintenance, before it became another relationship he'd have to deal with and inevitably see deteriorate.

But then he remembered the smile. The way Mingyu had inquired if he was alright even with vomit all over him. The tender care in how he'd gently caught Wonwoo when he'd almost fallen over, holding him aloft on one working arm while his other dangled broken.

The fact that he was still smiling at Wonwoo despite everything. Despite all of it.

"Jeon," he said at last. "Wonwoo."

He observed Mingyu's expression intently for the moment when recognition would dawn. For when the name would register, when Mingyu would know precisely whom he was in conversation with. CEO of Jeonwoo Entertainment. The corporation whose lobby he passed through, whose staff he greeted warmly on handing over lunch orders, whom he delivered food to on a regular basis. But if Mingyu recognized the connection, he wasn't showing it on his face.

His face just—relaxed. As if the name was something he cherished to cradle gently, to recall precisely.

"Jeon Wonwoo," Mingyu said aloud, slowly, as if he were savoring each syllable. Exercising how it felt in his mouth, ensuring he did it correctly.

And the manner in which he spoke—slow, measured, as if he was memorizing it with the sort of focus most people reserved for things that actually counted—made something inside Wonwoo's chest turn so sharply it had almost hurt.

"Nice to meet you, Jeon Wonwoo," Mingyu murmured.

Wonwoo didn't respond.

Couldn't respond. His throat had constricted around words that refused to take shape anyway.

Simply nodded curtly and departed, the door shutting softly behind him with a finality that seemed entirely too great for what it was.

He got it precisely three paces down the corridor before he had to catch himself against the wall. His face was burning. His heart was performing acrobatics in his chest that had nothing whatsoever to do with the concussion, or the hangover, or any other physical condition he could think of.

Good to meet you, Jeon Wonwoo.

The way Mingyu had spoken his name—like it was significant, like he was significant—

Wonwoo shut his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nostrils.

He was so far in over his head.

So. Far. In. Over. His. Head.

Because despite everything—despite his walls, despite his experience, despite knowing exactly how this would end because it always ended the same way—

Part of him wanted to go back into that room.

Wanted to sit in that uncomfortable blue chair and stay until visiting hours ended.

Wanted to see Mingyu smile at him again like his presence was something good instead of something to be tolerated or managed or fixed.

And that terrified him more than any car crash ever could.