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choerrypuffs · 8 months

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what the puck!

pairing: hockey player!donghyuck x reader

genre: fluff, slight angst, a crackfic turned way too serious lmao

word count: 11.6k

synopsis: you hit the university’s star hockey player with your car. shenanigans (and maybe even a little romance) ensue.

author’s note: sorry i came back after almost an entire year and dropped this instead of anything people actually asked for teehee 😋 also i know nothing about hockey so none of the sports stuff makes sense pls kindly ignore <3 big shoutout to miss cat and moon for coming up with the only good parts of this fic

warning(s): brief descriptions of injuries

playlist: and july (feat. dean and dj friz) by heize ― mixtape 2003 by the academic ― chit chat by beach weather ― 1983 by neon trees ― fearless by taylor swift

part i. lee taemin once said his ideal meet-cute is a girl running him over with her car <3

First off, to set the record straight—

You are not a bad driver.

There just so happened to be a bad thunderstorm, and your windshield wipers happened to malfunction, and you happened to lightly tap someone with the front of your beat-up Toyota Prius. Honestly, the person probably did more damage to your car that’s one airbag deployment away from spontaneous combustion than the car could ever do to him.

However, for some reason, the blurry figure that you can barely make out through the onslaught of rainfall doesn’t seem to be getting up off the ground.

Hurriedly putting your car in park, you clamber out in a panic as water pelts you in the face like one of those super strong hoses set on sprinkler mode. Without even asking if the person is okay, you lift him up by the shoulders and shake him violently.

“Oh my God, please don’t die! I literally can’t afford to pay for someone’s funeral right now,” you wail.

You’re met with a pained chuckle, and a hoarse voice replies, “I’m not dead, but thanks for the concern.”

His words cut through your blubbering like the sun peeking through the dark rain clouds, and the violent storm that nearly killed him five minutes ago suddenly subsides into a pleasant drizzle. Now that you can open your eyes without getting waterboarded, you blearily blink at him, finally able to get a good look at your victim.

Even though he’s soaked to the bone with rain, the guy in front of you takes your breath away. He has angled features but big, round doe-eyes and heart-shaped lips that brings a softness to his face. His dark hair, presumably having been styled before this whole fiasco, is flat against forehead and falls into his eyes, brushing against his eyelashes. If you hadn’t just almost committed vehicular manslaughter against him, he’d definitely be someone that you would make eye contact with by chance and have delusional fantasies of living in domesticity with him before looking down at your feet and making a beeline in the opposite direction.

His expression is a bit dazed, a half-smile tugging at his lips, as he makes eye contact with you―almost like he isn’t aware that he’s smiling. You grow a bit concerned, wondering if he’s fallen into a stupor because of the adrenaline.

However, there’s another thing that’s been bothering you more.

And it’s the fact that he looks so familiar―

Then, it suddenly hits you (no pun intended).

You know exactly who this guy is because you pass by a banner with his face on it twice a week on your way to your statistics class.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, “you’re Lee Donghyuck.”

A star hockey player whose talent hasn’t been seen in generations, the guy that is single handedly carrying the university’s legacy on his back, a permanent fixture in recent sports news cycles, the shoo-in for the upcoming NHL draft, and someone who definitely cannot afford to be injured just as he’s reaching the peak of his career―that Lee Donghyuck.

“Yep, that’s me,” he replies with a fairly cheerful demeanor for someone who was just hit by a car. “And you are?”

You just stare at him for a beat before you realize that he’s actually talking to you. “Oh, I’m Y/N.”

Donghyuck goes to say something but stops, clenching his jaw. He reaches down and grasps his right leg, face twisted in pain. Dread sinks into you with the pressure of a dozen semi-trucks.

Before you can bring yourself to look at how bad the damage is, you pray to every god that you can think of that it’s just a teensy-weensy little scrape and Donghyuck has a low pain tolerance. After all, you may not be particularly religious, but you consider yourself a pretty decent person that hasn’t committed a sin grave enough to incur this kind of punishment.

Unfortunately, the gods don’t seem to agree because when you look down, Lee Donghyuck’s calf is bent at an angle that no human’s calf should ever be bent at, his leg resembling an extremely grotesque and mangled L-shape.

You may not have to pay for Donghyuck’s funeral, but you might be holding one of your own.

“Yeah, it’s broken,” the ER doctor says matter-of-factly.

You put your head in your hands, feeling the urge to curl up in a hole and die as if it were your career on the line.

“You’ll be out for six to eight weeks. But on the bright side, it was a pretty clean break, so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting back on the ice once you’re healed,” the doctor continues, thumbing through the X-rays on his clipboard. “You were hit in a very methodical way.”

Whipping your head back up and nearly snapping your neck, you gawk at the doctor. “Why are you saying it like I did it on purpose?”

“Hm,” is the only response you get before he turns back to Donghyuck, patting the latter on the shoulder. “Anyways, just know that the whole staff here are huge fans of you, and we’re all rooting for ya. Get well soon, and make us proud.”

Donghyuck just gives him a strained smile, stiffly trying to sit up on the bed without jostling his leg that’s been propped up in a heavy, thick cast. The doctor fanboys a little more before finally leaving, drawing the privacy curtain closed behind him.

An extremely awkward silence hangs in the air between the two of you. You wait for him to start crying or screaming or have some sort of emotional outburst. However, he doesn’t react at all, just quietly sitting and fiddling with the heart rate monitor clipped on his finger.

“So, um, are you…are you okay?” you ask quietly.

Donghyuck laughs. “I think that’s the first time you’ve asked about my wellbeing since we got here.”

That’s the second time he’s smiled in front of you. You don’t understand why he hasn’t reached over the railing of the bed and throttled you yet. You can’t even imagine how frustrated and disappointed he must be right now. While the doctor did say he’ll be fine once he’s healed, it’ll take at least a month for him to fully recover. That means he’ll be missing at least 7 or 8 games―games that will undoubtedly have important scouts present.

Hell, Donghyuck even had to pay the ER bill too (luckily, his insurance covered the majority of it).

“I’m really sorry,” you sigh, finally giving him a well overdue apology. “I wasn’t thinking straight back then. When I panic, my head goes empty, and I just blurt out stupid shit all the time. I know saying sorry isn’t nearly enough, but if there’s anything I can do for you, I will do my best to make it happen.”

You watch him pause to think. “You know…there actually is.”

You lean forward eagerly, nodding for him to continue. You’re expecting something labor-intensive or gross, like cleaning his house or doing the hockey team’s laundry.

“Could you drive me to and from my classes and practice?” he simply asks. “My parents live out of state, and my teammates’ schedules are always packed, so I kind of need someone to help me.”

You blink at him.

He blinks back.

“You want me to drive you around?” you ask slowly. “In the same car I hit you with?”

“Well,” he shrugs, “I’ll be in it this time, not in front of it.”

You’re not sure if you should be impressed or concerned by his faith in your driving ability.

“If you’re too busy then―”

“No, no! I can,” you quickly interject, “As long as you’re okay with it.”

You still find it surreal how calm he is about everything.

Donghyuck beams. “Perfect. Because I have practice in twenty minutes.”

“Wait, you want to go to practice now? But shouldn’t you go home and rest?”

“Eh, I’ll be fine. Even if I can’t play, I want to show up for moral support,” he replies nonchalantly. “Plus, I still haven’t told them that my leg is broken.”

You make a mental note to casually slip out of the room when that conversation takes place.

“Um, okay then,” you start hesitantly, “once you’re discharged, I’ll drive you there.”

He gives you another grin, and it suddenly hits you that you’ve just committed a whole month of your life to chauffeuring the pride and joy of the hockey world.

Then again, you’ve already hit him with your car, so surely nothing worse could happen.

Right?

When Donghyuck is finally discharged from the ER, you help him hobble along to your car with his crutches and carefully into the passenger seat. You had already haphazardly swept all the empty water bottles, crumpled receipts, and miscellaneous trash under the backseat, so luckily, he doesn’t notice the absolute abysmal state of your vehicle.

You play some music once you hit the road, and he hums along, tapping his uncasted foot to the beat. You, on the other hand, can barely hear the song. You keep your back ramrod straight and grip on the steering wheel so tight that your knuckles turn white, driving with the focus of a Secret Service agent escorting the President.

“So, what’s your major?” Donghyuck asks jovially.

“What?” you jolt. “Oh, um, communications.”

“Oh cool,” he says, sounding genuinely interested. “What do you want to do when you graduate?”

“Uh, just a typical 9-5 office job, I guess,” you answer half-heartedly.

When he doesn’t immediately respond, you hurriedly continue, “I’m not a very ambitious person, as you can see. It probably sounds so mundane to a hotshot like you.”

“You think I’m a hotshot?” He waggles his eyebrows.

You give him a confused look. “Your face is literally plastered all over our school.”

He shrugs like you have a point.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with mundane,” he continues reassuringly, “Besides, I doubt a communications degree would entail a super flashy job or anything.”

You shift in your seat, now feeling strangely defensive over a degree that you care nothing about. “Well, I could be, like, a PR manager for a celebrity or something.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you really want to clean up the messes of a bunch of entitled millionaires that would probably treat the gum stuck to their shoe better than you?”

You rack your brain for a clever retort and eventually give up when your silence drags on much too long for a quip, no matter how smart, to have any merit anymore.

“No,” you finally admit, shaking your head like a toddler who just got caught doing something bad.

“Aw, don’t look so down,” Donghyuck says, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. “Don’t worry. If I become a professional hockey player, I’ll hire you.”

Now it’s your turn to raise an eyebrow. “So when you become an entitled millionaire, you want me to clean up your messes while you treat the gum stuck to your shoe better than me?”

“Ah, but you see,” he trails off dramatically, “the twist is that I’m going to remain my angelic self as always and then you won’t have any messes to clean up. You’ll basically just be paid for sitting around and doing nothing. It’ll be a nice, easy, cushy job. Perfect for someone with no ambition.”

You laugh, leaning back in your seat. “How generous of you to offer a job to someone who almost killed you a couple of hours ago.”

“Bygones,” he says breezily. “What do you think? I promise I’ll treat you well.”

Donghyuck puts his elbows on your center console and props up his face in his hands, batting his eyelashes at you.

“I think the doctor might have given you too much morphine,” you reply, rolling your eyes.

“Is that why I’m seeing so many shapes and colors?”

You whip your head towards him in concern.

“Just kidding.” He winks.

“Not funny,” you grumble.

“I think I heard your neck crack.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you know what tech neck is?”

“Are you always this annoying towards strangers?” you demand.

“Oh come on, we’re not strangers anymore,” he insists. “We’ve become trauma bonded.”

You actually can’t dispute that.

“And are you always this chipper after sustaining a severe injury that inhibits your burgeoning career?”

“Only when I have good company,” he replies smoothly.

While your eyes are focused on the road, you can still see him through your peripheral vision. You know he’s looking at you, feeling his gaze like a beam of sunlight shining directly on your face (also probably why it feels so warm). He has one arm on the center console, covering his mouth with his palm, but you can tell he’s smiling by the way his animation-like eyes crinkle in the corners and how his cheeks are puffed up.

You’re not sure how to respond to a joke like that; rather, you’re not really sure how to respond to Lee Donghyuck at all.

“Oh, we’re here!” you announce, sounding a little too relieved when you see the skating rink right up ahead.

Much to your surprise, you do an amazing job at parking, carefully easing into the lines with a doctor’s precision. Performance anxiety really does make a person thrive.

You quickly get out and grab the crutches from the backseat before going over to the passenger side door, where Donghyuck is balancing on one foot as he tries to exit the car on his own.

“Be careful,” you scold, immediately grabbing his arm and looping it around your shoulder. “Wait for me to come get you. I’m supposed to be helping you.”

“But I want to look cool in front of you,” he replies sheepishly. “Want you to see my swagger when I walk.”

Rolling your eyes, you hand him his crutches and hold him steady until he’s able to stand on his own. Even though he insists that he’s fine now, your arms still hover by his side, ready to catch him at any moment if he slips.

Just as the two of you are about to reach the entrance of the rink, you see another guy walking towards it as well. He’s carrying a hockey stick covered in tape and a giant duffel bag that isn’t zipped fully, overstuffed with what you can only presume to be hockey gear. His red and blue jersey has the number 2 and the name ‘LEE’ printed on the back of it.

Hearing your shuffling footsteps, he glances over and catches Donghyuck’s eye before doing a double take when he realizes that the latter is in a cast.

“Dude, what the hell?” he gawks, marching right over to Donghyuck. “What happened to your leg?”

“Mark, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Mark,” Donghyuck quickly introduces the two of you, ignoring Mark’s question completely. Mark gives you a confused wave before turning back to Donghyuck and raising his eyebrow.

“Anyways, Y/N hit me with her car,” Donghyuck explains casually.

You gasp, nearly punching him in the arm but holding back just in time because a) he’s already injured and b) he’s right. You just wish he didn’t say it like that.

Mark’s expression grows more bewildered when he looks at you. “Why? I mean, I know he’s annoying and a bit of an eyesore, but he’s still a pretty good guy…”

“Accidentally,” you clarify through grit teeth. “It was an accident.”

“Oh okay,” Mark nods as if everything suddenly makes sense now. “You know Coach is gonna lose his shit, right? We have a month before playoffs.”

You let out a small squeak of fear even though Mark isn’t talking to you anymore.

Donghyuck certainly never mentioned that. Your guilt only grows tenfold; of course, you couldn’t just hit this prodigy player on any random Tuesday. You had to hit him right before the playoff games that determine the championship.

“Yeah, well,” Donghyuck mumbles, shrugging. “At least you boys will be treated to a nice show.”

Mark snorts before grabbing the handle to the door and holding it open for the two of you, gesturing for you to walk in first. You feel both of their expectant gazes on you, waiting for you to move, but your feet feel like they’ve been bolted in place.

“What’s wrong?” Donghyuck asks, shifting all his weight onto one crutch so he can lean forward and look at your face. “Are you feeling sick?”

“You could say that,” you mutter, “I suppose the crippling fear of being skinned alive by your coach might be the reason why I’m so nauseous and sweaty.”

“Don’t be afraid,” he reassures you, puffing up his chest. “I’ll protect you!”

“How are you going to protect me?” you demand. “You’d last three seconds against him with that leg and then we’d both just die.”

“You could use him as a human shield,” Mark suggests. “Just throw him at the Coach as a distraction and then run away.”

“No,” you sigh. “He’s too heavy with that cast. I can’t lift him.”

“Ack,” Donghyuck gargles dramatically, “Did you hear that? That was the sound of a knife entering my back. Et te, Brute?”

“It’s Et tu, genius,” you correct, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah, dumbass. Didn’t you read Julius Caesar in high school?” Mark sneers.

“Sorry that I was cool in high school, ” Donghyuck retorts, “Get out of my way, nerds.”

You chuckle as he hobbles past you and shoves Mark on the way, heading into the rink at a snail’s pace. After lightly bullying Donghyuck, you feel much more relaxed than before. Even though you’re still terrified of the reactions you’ll be met with later, you decide to finally gird your loins and step foot into this godforsaken place.

Donghyuck and Mark kindly give you an informal tour as you make your way down to the skating rink, pointing out the locker rooms and where the student section is in the seats. It astounds you that you’re only a couple quarters away from graduating and yet you’ve never been here before. You have some friends who are fans or just show up to ogle hot players, and they’ve invited you to games, but you’ve just never really cared about the sport in general.

How ironic, you think to yourself and stifling a slightly hysterical giggle.

The rest of the team are doing warm-up exercises on the ice, and you notice the burly-looking coach watching over them with a hawk eye and a whistle in his mouth, arms crossed. His face is turned downwards in an extremely scary scowl.

Your palms start to grow sweaty and your footsteps become heavier again, and Donghyuck seems to notice instantly, turning around and giving you a wink.

“I got this,” he says coolly.

You watch Donghyuck confidently swagger (as best as he can) towards the coach, who looks at him like he just saw a ghost, all the blood draining from his face. The coach’s mouth hangs wide open, the whistle slipping out of his mouth and hitting his chest.

The sounds of the blades of the skates skidding across the ice come to a sudden halt as everyone in the room stares at the cast on Donghyuck’s leg and slowly starts to register what that means.

“Heeey, Coach!” Donghyuck walks up to him and does jazz hands like an idiot. “What’s kickin’? Haha, not me!”

And you realize that Donghyuck does not, in fact, got this.

You might as well just grab a shovel and start digging your own grave.

“Lee Donghyuck, stop dicking around and get your ass on that ice now. I don’t have time to deal with another one of your pranks. Not when playoffs—”

Donghyuck, the little arsonist who likes to dump fuel on the fire he is, takes out the X-rays of his broken bone from his pocket and proudly presents it to the coach.

“What the hell did you do?” The coach asks after staring at the X-rays like they had complex quantum physics equations written on them.

“I got hit by a car?” Donghyuck answers sheepishly, holding his arms out as if he were announcing something grand.

You watch as the gears start falling into place in the coach’s head.The blood that had drained from his face earlier suddenly comes rushing back, and you’re surprised steam doesn’t come out of his ears.

“Did I or did I not tell you to not act like a little shit before playoffs? I asked you to behave for just once in your life and then you go and get yourself hit by a car!” The coach hollers, fuming. “What, did you finally piss someone off enough? Who hit you? I want to meet them and ask why they didn’t just kill you right off the bat. You’re of better use to me dead because then at least I would be sad for you. What the hell am I supposed to do with you now? Limping around like a three-legged dog.”

“Aw, Coach, you’d be sad if I died?” Donghyuck sniffles. Judging by his reaction, you can tell this isn’t the first time he’s been chewed out by the coach before. Despite the coach's harsh words and tone, it’s clear that he has a strong familial bond to his players.

“Get out.”

“I get that you’re mad, but it’s kind of rude to compare my gait to a three-legged dog’s, as adorable as they may be. Admittedly, my swagger is kind of off, but I’d prefer you call it something with a little more pizazz. Like ‘fracture swagger’ or—”

“Get out!” The coach hurls his whistle at Donghyuck’s head.

Even with his injury, his athlete instincts kick in and he dodges it with ease.

On the other hand, you—who had sneakily slipped behind Donghyuck without him noticing in an attempt to hide yourself—not so much.

Luckily, the metal whistle doesn’t hit your face, but the lanyard it’s attached to slaps you across your cheek like a whip. You let out a yelp, but it’s not really out of pain. It’s more out of surprise and terror of being on the receiving end of the coach’s wrath.

“Are you okay?” Donghyuck asks immediately, looking way more concerned than he should be. “Did it hit you in the eye?”

“Nope. I’m totally good,” you answer a little too quickly, nodding like a bobblehead.

He hesitantly reaches over but drops his hand right as his fingers brush your jaw. Turning away stiffly, his concerned expression quickly morphs into a glower.

“Coach,” he says, all humor draining from his tone. “Apologize.”

Donghyuck lowers his voice, but the weight of his words loom in the air like a rumbling storm cloud—the ones you see on weather satellites that eventually amasses into a hurricane.

“I’m…sorry,” the coach stammers, clearly taken aback.

You feel like all of the air is being sucked out of the room, so you just give him an awkward thumbs-up.

Another beat of silence passes by before the coach snaps out of his surprise and yanks Donghyuck by the ear. “You have a lot of nerve talking to me with that attitude, little brat. Especially after the stunt you pulled today. Who the hell is she anyways?”

“Owie,” Donghyuck whines, pawing at the coach’s wrist before finally being released. “Oh, that’s Y/N.”

As if it were just a blip in time, that unimaginable pressure dissipates in an instant. He goes back to his mischievous self so smoothly that you wonder if you had just imagined everything before.

“Hello,” you greet, trying your best to smile naturally even though it probably looks like you’re just opening your mouth and showing your teeth.

“She’s the one who hit me with her car—”

In that moment, the gods suddenly decided to grant you the same athlete instincts that Donghyuck is graced with because you lunge forward in a blur, slapping a hand over his mouth. The clap reverberates throughout the whole rink, but you just smile sweetly.

“Accidentally. It was an accident. I’ll be driving him around until his leg heals.”

It takes another second for the coach to register what you mean, and you brace for the worst, expecting another object to go hurtling towards you—this time with intent.

Instead, the coach glances at Donghyuck before looking back at you, a knowing smirk on his face.

“Welcome to the team, I guess.”

Despite your initial qualms, you adjust to your new norm pretty quickly.

In fact, it’s kind of surreal how suddenly you were thrust into Donghyuck’s world and how perfectly the pieces of your life and his mesh.

He’s a morning person, so he’s always ready and lively when you pick him up at 7AM, even if you’re running late. But no matter how late you are, the two of you always get coffee first. It’s become a routine that actually makes you look forward to waking up at the ass crack of dawn.

Your classes also end an hour earlier than his, so you have time to grab food for the two of you before screaming Taylor Swift song lyrics together at the top of your lungs in your car on your drive to practice. You watch all of the practice and official games with him, and he tries his best to explain what’s happening, though the terminology mostly flies over your head. You’re on first-name basis with all of his teammates and even managed to ingratiate yourself with the coach by offering to help him fill up water bottles. Everyone treats you as if you were part of the team; though they were already a completed puzzle, they softened their edges to make room for your mismatched piece.

It’s unnerving how attached you grow to them—to Donghyuck—since it will all go away in a month. You feel like you’re a part of something here; Donghyuck makes you feel special, as if he’s made a place just for you in his life.

You suppose time truly flies when you’re having fun because, before you know it, three weeks have already passed by.

The team’s last official game before playoffs is finally here.

When you pick Donghyuck up to take him to the game, you can tell he’s a bit off today. He still puts on a brave face and tries to goof off like he normally does, but you know he’s nervous by the way he’s nervously tapping his uncasted foot to the music. In fact, you’ve been sensing his growing anxiety at the past games for a while now. The team has been holding their own relatively well without him, but their momentum has definitely started to slow as they get closer to playoffs.

You can’t really blame him for getting antsy; he may have been eerily calm and in good humor when he first got injured, but you’ve realized that his playful nature is often used to deflect from his actual feelings. You used to think he did it to push other people away, but it’s really so he doesn’t crumble under the weight of the immense pressure he puts on himself.

You won’t mention it, of course, since you’re probably not supposed to know that.

Instead, you turn the music up as loud as it’ll go and grab his hand, yelling at the top of your lungs, “You take my hand and drag me head first, fearless!”

Donghyuck tries to sing with you, but his voice catches in his throat and cracks.

Oh, that’s another thing about him—he can dish it but he can’t take it. He’ll flirt with you like there’s no tomorrow, as if he were a corny protagonist from a dollar store romance novel, but the moment you get too close to him or brush his arm as you walk past him, he suddenly becomes petrified like he looked into Medusa’s eyes. He reacts like he couldn’t even fathom you reciprocating his flirting, and you’re not sure if it’s because he thinks you’re that much of a loser. Either way, it also makes you flustered in turn when he acts like that, so the two of you just end up awkwardly standing there like two embarrassed fools.

But this is different. This isn’t just simple flirting; this is…something else.

So you squeeze his hand tightly and sing even louder, hoping it’s enough to drown out his worries even if for a little bit.

There’s only a minute left in the third period of the game, and the score is tied 3–3, but you can’t even focus on the game.

You’ve never seen this kind of expression on Donghyuck’s face before.

Despite the fact that he’s sitting right next to you, you can tell by the glisten in his eyes that he’s feeling all of the emotions that his teammates on the ice are. Hockey usually brings out a boyish energy in him, as if he were a child full of wonder. Yet here, he looks down at the rink with a wistfulness, a sense of longing. A homesickness.

So when the opposing team scores a last-minute goal, followed by the blaring buzzer that signals the game is over, you know that Donghyuck is blaming himself for the end of his team’s winning streak—when he should be blaming you for hitting him with your goddamn car.

He was born to be on the ice, to be a champion. He doesn’t belong here in the stands, to be a spectator on the sidelines.

That role has always been meant for you.

You don’t realize you’re crying out of frustration until the tears hit the back of your hand, the warmth a stark contrast to the chilly temperature of the rink. Donghyuck turns to you to say something and jolts in alarm when he sees your state.

“Wha…What’s wrong?” He leans in closer when you try to turn away, grasping your forearm gently. “Are you not feeling well? Do you feel sick? Is it too cold? Do you want my jacket?”

You shake your head, trying to choke down the ugly sob in your chest.

“Is it because we lost?” He asks hesitantly. “Don’t cry, Y/N. I’m gonna recover in a jiffy, and we’ll breeze through the playoffs—”

You shove him weakly before the wail you’ve been holding back rips through your throat like projectile vomit. Fat tears fall freely from your cheeks, and you’re pretty sure snot is dripping from your nose. “You’re an idiot!”

Donghyuck stares at you in bewilderment before slowly saying, “Well, I can’t really dispute that, but may I ask why?”

“Stop being nice,” you blubber, “Just get upset because I know you are. It’s my fault that everyone lost. You should just cuss me out or something. Or punch me in the nose. How about you hit me with your car to make things even, huh?”

You’re far too gone to know what you’re saying anymore, just blurting out your stream of consciousness.

“You want me to hit you with my car because we lost one game?” Donghyuck laughs. He gazes at you with a mix of disbelief and awe—the same way he looked at you when you first met him. You wonder if his eyes warmed with adoration like this the first time too.

“—and you’re supposed to be the protagonist while I’m just a side character. Me hitting you with my car derailed the canon event of your undefeated season. I ruined your life—”

“Okay, okay,” he finally interrupts your nonsensical rambling, brushing the tears from your face with his thumbs before dabbing away the snot from your nose with the sleeve of his jacket. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying, so no more of that.”

But you’re inconsolable, holding your head in your hands. “It’s all my fault. I’m the reason you lost. The team lost because you weren’t there.”

“You know, going by that logic, that means you’re also the reason why they won the last couple of games without me,” he points out. “So, I guess that means I should also cry and thank you.”

“What? That makes no sense—”

“Thank you, Y/N,” Donghyuck says softly, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone, running along it with a feather touch. “For crying for me. For comforting me.”

“You’re so full of shit,” you sniffle, swatting his hand away in annoyance. “You’re the one comforting me right now. I haven’t done anything to comfort you. ”

“You’d be surprised,” he whispers underneath his breath, but his words are lost among the bustle of the packed rink.

Not that you would’ve heard him anyways.

Now that you think about it, there really hasn’t been a single thing you’ve done for him other than driving him around, but that doesn’t count. You want to do something for him—something that would make him look the way he does when he’s excitedly telling you about a good hockey play that you didn’t understand but nod along anyways to.

And you have just the idea.

part ii. hey girl are you the american healthcare system? because i’ll be indebted to you for the rest of my life <3

You drum your fingers in against your steering wheel in anticipation as you wait for Donghyuck’s last class of the day to end. When you see him walking out of the building and to your car, you try to act cool, but it’s hard when you’re literally bouncing in your seat.

Naturally, Donghyuck notices.

“You’re in a good mood today,” he teases as he buckles himself in. “Did you do well on that statistics quiz from last week or something?”

You’re surprised he even remembers that; you had only mentioned it in passing.

“No way. I definitely failed that,” you dismiss, waving your hand to shoo off the negative energy if that cursed quiz. “I have a gift for you.”

“For lil’ ol’ me?” He gasps loudly, covering his mouth and fanning his face.

Ignoring his theatrics, you whip out your phone from your back pocket and present it to him proudly. “Ta-da!”

“Wow,” he claps politely. “You finally got your screen replaced. I was worried you would slice your thumb with how cracked—”

“Shut up,” you cut him off, “You just ruined my dramatic reveal.”

Unlocking your phone, you go to your photo album and show him the video you took a couple days ago. “Look! I asked your coach which team you guys would be up against first in the playoffs and did some old-fashioned espionage by sneaking into one of their games and filming everything. Your leg is healing pretty fast, so I figured you’d want to study their playstyles before you got back on the ice.”

Much to your satisfaction, Donghyuck seems genuinely surprised. He gingerly takes the phone from your hand and presses play on the video, and you see that spark in his eyes that you so desperately missed.

Eagerly leaning on the center console, you point out of the players and say, “You see Number 30? I’m pretty sure that guy is the you of his team. He scored three goals in one game—oh wait, you told me that’s called a ‘hat trick.’ Anyways, he did a hat trick, and the last goal actually won them the game. So we have to make sure to tell the team to watch out for that guy. Oh my God, and halfway through the game, Number 21 and Number 4 started fighting! Dropped their gloves on the ice and started punching each other while the referees just watched. I know you said fighting is allowed in hockey, but it was still wild to see in 4K like that. Hold on, let me fast forward to show you—”

When you glance over at him, Donghyuck’s face is about four inches away from yours, and he isn’t paying attention to the video at all. You’ve never seen this kind of expression on Donghyuck’s face before. If hockey brings out a boyish joy in him, then you wonder what this is.

He gazes at you with a mellow softness, as if you were a moment of peace from the glaring stage lights, screaming crowds, and thunderous applause. Like you were a cloud of warmth enveloping him after braving through the unforgiving cold of the ice. He looks at you with a sense of longing—but it’s different from the way he looked at the game. That was wistfulness, a homesickness. A responsibility that he bears.

This is reverie, a daydream. A moment of escape.

Suddenly, your arms, which had been holding most of your weight on the console, give out. Your shoulder smacks into his, jostling the two of you out of whatever trance you had been under. Recoiling at supersonic speed, your face burns as your sputter, “J-Jesus, you scared me! Why aren’t you watching the video and just staring at me like the blue-eyed Miley Cyrus meme?”

Donghyuck drags a hand down his face, and you see his ears turn a bright red. “S-Sorry. I didn’t even notice I was doing it—Hey! That’s rude. I’ll have you know that I’m often told that I have innocent Bambi doe-eyes.”

You know he’s trying to give you an out by cracking a joke, and you’re grateful. Any more of that and your heart would’ve jumped out of your mouth.

“Whatever. Just watch the video. I worked really hard to get it, you know. I even wore one of those oversized hoodies and giant sunglasses with a scarf to hide my face so I couldn’t be incriminated.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You wore sunglasses inside? What are you, a Republican?”

“Do you want the video or not?” you snap.

“Hey, you can’t give me a gift and then threaten to take it back,” he retorts before quietly continuing, “Thank you, Y/N.”

You try to ignore the way your heart swells at his sincerity.

“You’re welcome,” you mumble.

On the drive to the skating rink, neither of you notice that there isn’t any music playing—too distracted by the butterflies in your stomachs.

When you pull into the parking lot, you spot Mark getting out of his car. Desperate to escape this suffocating enclosed space with Donghyuck, you nearly tumble out of the door after him.

“Oh, look, there’s Mark,” you say hurriedly, “I’ll show him the video too.”

“Wait, Y/N—” Donghyuck calls, trying his best to hobble after you.

Mark spots you in his peripheral and stops, waiting for the two of you to catch up.

“Why are you running?” Mark asks when you jog up to him. “If you’re trying to get away from Donghyuck, all you need to do is power walk. Or you could hit him with a car again and break this other leg.”

“Very funny, dickwad,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “And to think I did you a favor.”

“You did?” He looks confused, but you’ve realized that he always perpetually looks confused.

You go to show him your phone, but Donghyuck finally catches up and squeezes in between the two of you. “Wait, I need to talk to Mark—”

“Hold on a sec, dude. Let me see this first. I’m curious now,” Mark huffs.

“I asked Coach which team you guys would be up against first in the playoffs and snuck into their game to film it, so you could watch it and learn their tricks,” you announce proudly.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Mark replies breezily, “We already have recordings of a bunch of their games.”

You slowly lower your phone, nearly letting it slip out of your hand.

“What?”

“Donghyuck didn’t tell you? We always review our opponents’ games before playoffs,” Mark explains, glancing between you and Donghyuck and realizing a beat too late that he said something he wasn’t supposed to. “Oh, I guess he didn’t, huh…”

“You have literal shit for brains, Mark Lee,” Donghyuck says through grit teeth. “How many years have we played together and you still can’t take a hint?”

“Sorry! I thought Y/N knew—”

“Just go,” Donghyuck sighs, shaking his head.

Mark runs away so fast that he almost leaves a puff of smoke in his wake like a Looney Tunes cartoon. Once he’s gone, Donghyuck cards a hand through his hair and turns to you with an apologetic look on his face.

“Y/N—”

“You could’ve told me,” you say quietly. “Instead of making me look like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” he responds almost immediately. “You just looked so happy, and it made me happier, so I kept quiet. Besides, the video does help.”

You laugh bitterly. “In what way? Was it funny watching me get all excited like a fool, thinking I had actually done something for you?”

“Why are you being so harsh on yourself?” Donghyuck asks, putting a hand on your shoulder. “I mean it. The video really does help.”

“I’m not being harsh on myself. I’m telling the truth. All I’ve done is just screw up your life, and when I try to help even a little bit, it just hinders you more,” you say in frustration.

You’re not sure how the atmosphere grew so somber, but you suppose that's the energy you’ve always brought to him. You’re just a dark rain cloud to his sunny skies.

“Come on,” Donghyuck says, grabbing your hand and tugging you towards your car. “Let’s go to the mall.”

“What? Why? What about practice?” you ask, completely caught off-guard by his seemingly out-of-nowhere suggestion.

“Coach won’t even notice that we’re not there, and if he does, he’ll get over it,” Donghyuck replies. “Now come on.”

“But I don’t want to go to the mall,” you say petulantly, pouting like a child and wanting to wallow in your own misery.

“We’re going.”

“You know you can’t go anywhere without me driving you, right?”

“Then you better hurry up and get in your car unless you want to unleash this traffic hazard onto the streets,” Donghyuck says, pointing to his leg.

The two of you have a staredown before you finally relent, begrudgingly getting into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. He beams at your silent agreement to go, and you’re suddenly not as upset as you were earlier, though you still maintain a pissy expression because you’re dramatic.

Luckily, the mall is about a fifteen minute drive from the university, so you get there rather quickly. You wait for Donghyuck to explain why he randomly insisted on this impromptu trip, but he keeps mum about it, simply leading you to the lowest floor of the mall—where the skating rink is. Other than the handful of staff who are all either on their phones or hiding in the break room, the two of you are the only ones here since it’s the afternoon during a weekday.

“So we left that skating rink to go to another skating rink?” you ask wryly.

“Yup. Wait here,” Donghyuck says, leaving you in the changing area while he goes to the front desk. You awkwardly sit at a bench and twiddle your thumbs until he comes back with a pair of skates in hand.

“What are you doing? I know the doctor said you can walk on your leg now, but he definitely did not say you could skate,” you scold.

“Good thing I won’t be skating,” he answers nonchalantly, handing you the pair of skates. “I didn’t know your exact shoe size, but these should fit.”

“No way,” you shake your head. “Nuh-uh. I haven’t skated since I was, like, seven.”

“Well, you’re about to receive a lesson from a damn good teacher,” he says, nudging your foot. “Hurry up and put them on.”

“How are you going to teach me with that giant walking boot? Are you just going to get on the ice without any skates?” you demand.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” he counters, “It’s not like the staff are going to call me out.”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” you sigh. Nevertheless, you slip your shoes off and put the skates on. “And I still don’t think you should be on a slippery surface even if you’re not skating.”

“And I don’t understand why you’re getting a communications degree with you when you have a PhD in nagging,” Donghyuck teases.

“You’re a douche,” you say, giving the laces on your skates one final tug before standing to your feet, albeit wobbly as you try to remember how to keep your balance on the blades. “Let’s get this over with.”

Donghyuck offers to hold your hand as you make your way to the entrance of the rink, but you quickly swat him away in fear of dragging him down with you if you fall and injuring him further.

Your legs tremble like a newborn fawn when you finally step foot onto the ice, clinging onto the side railing with a vice grip. Donghyuck, despite his five-pound walking boot, comfortably walks onto the ice and maneuvers around as if he were uninjured.

“Is this some sort of sick humiliation ritual? Is this how you’re going to get your revenge on me, by having me bust my ass on this ice?” you ask, voice wavering like just the rest of your body.

“And you say I’m a drama queen,” he mutters. “Why do you always think of such dark scenarios? You were like this when we first met too. You just assumed I was dead first before asking if I was okay.”

“I like to assume the worst,” you reply matter-of-factly, “Lowers my expectations. Makes my life a lot easier.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it does,” he says sarcastically before gently grasping your wrists and carefully dragging you away from the railing. “Now stop hiding in the corner like a small injured animal. There’s only room for one injured animal, and that’s me.”

“No, no, no. I’m going to fall,” your voice slowly escalates into shriek as your nails dig into his forearms. The ice is too slippery, too slick, and you feel your knees start to buckle as you lose your balance.

But you don’t fall. Instead, Donghyuck wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you against him, keeping you upright even with your jelly legs. You feel the taut cord of muscle in his arm flex as he holds you, and he sucks in a sharp breath when your chest presses to his. Your breath comes out in labored white puffs from the temperature, and you curl your fists into his shirt, clinging onto him for dear life because you know you’ll crumple to the ground if he loosens his grip even a little bit.

Even though your mind is whirring with a million thoughts and you feel like you’re about to have a heart attack, your body reacts naturally to him, curving to fit with his just right. The warmth of his calloused fingers splayed across the small of your back anchors you, and you feel so secure in his arms; he cradles you against him as if you were made of glass.

“I got you,” he reassures you, his breath rustling your baby hairs. “Okay?”

You give a small nod, and he takes a small step back. And another. And another.

Slowly but surely, he manages to pull you to the center of the ice, where the logo of the mall is printed.

“Do you remember what position I play, Y/N?” Donghyuck asks, leaning back so that he can look at your face.

Now that you’ve regained some strength in your legs and have grown a bit more comfortable on the ice, you start to relax your grip on his poor shirt. You even manage to tear your eyes away from your feet to meet his gaze.

“Center,” you answer. A fitting title, indeed.

“So you’re not just a black hole of hockey information, after all,” he sniffs. “I’m so proud.”

“Get to your point quickly,” you warn.

“So impatient,” he tuts before breaking out into a smug beam, “You’re standing right where I usually am at games.”

“You dragged me all the way out here to flex?” you gawk in disbelief.

“Of course not!” He raises an eyebrow.. “But are you impressed?”

“Take me back, you ass.”

“Kidding,” he quickly says, stifling a laugh, but you still feel it rumble in his chest.

“Why are we here, Donghyuck?” you ask again, exhausted.

He pauses, and everything goes perfectly still.

“You know, this is the first time I’ve stood here in a month,” he muses, almost unaware that he’s speaking aloud. “This is the first time I’ve been on ice in a month.”

“Well, you were injured—”

He shakes his head. “Hockey players play with worse injuries than this constantly. If I had really wanted to get back on the ice, I would’ve done it.”

You don’t say anything.

Donghyuck looks around the empty skating rink. “It’s big, isn’t it?”

You follow his line of sight and scan the vast expanse of the ice. From a distance, it doesn’t seem so big, but the ice feels like it stretches on for miles when you’re standing in the middle.

“Yeah, it is.”

“I thought so for a while too. Trying to get to the goal felt like climbing Mount Everest. I loved that feeling of the cold air freezing my lungs, the air getting thinner as I got closer,” he describes before trailing off. “But one day, the rink felt like it was shrinking, closing in on me. I was being chased instead of the other way around. Centers cover more ice surface than any other player, but I was being held down. Anywhere I skated wasn’t far enough. But that didn’t matter. I had a championship to win. A team that I couldn’t let down. Scouts that I had to impress. A talent that I worked my entire life for. A career that people would kill for. It didn’t matter that I felt like I was suffocating every time I put on my uniform.”

Your first reaction is to say something, anything to comfort him, but his expression tells you that the best thing you can do right now is hold your tongue and just listen.

“And as comical as it sounds, being hit by your car couldn’t have come at a better time for me. For the first time in my life, I was relieved that I didn’t have to play. Even though my career could’ve been over, I didn’t feel a thing. I just wanted to quit everything, but the thought of throwing my whole life away terrified me too. I thought maybe if I attended the practices and the games that it would make me want to get back on the ice, but it didn’t. It wasn’t the game that made me want to play again. When you cried for me after we lost—”

Donghyuck draws in a shaky breath.

“I had forgotten what it felt like—to have someone cry so wholeheartedly for you. To be yelled at for pretending to be okay. To be seen. Being with you has made me realize that maybe my world isn’t so small after all—that it isn't collapsing in on itself like I thought. You make me feel free again.”

He lifts his hand and brushes a stray lock of hair from your face. You watch as his eyes drag across your features, going from your eyelashes to the slope of your nose before lingering on your lips.

“I wasn’t lying when I said your video helped,” he reiterates, “When you showed me your phone with that spark in your eye, it made me want to play hockey again. I want to see it the way you do. I want you to see me.”

Your breath hitches in your throat when he leans in, resting his forehead against yours. The hand on your back brings you closer while his other hand reaches down and grabs your own.

“I’m really glad you hit me with your car, Y/N,” he whispers, a bright laugh escaping his lips.

That sentence cuts through war raging in your head, and you let out an involuntary snort, giving him a half-hearted shove. “Stop making it seem like I did it on purpose.”

“That’s all you have to say after I just poured my heart out to you?” he asks, raising his eyebrow in amusement.

“No! I just…I’m thinking,” you mumble, head swimming with the scent of his fabric softener. The way he talked about you, the way he’s looking at you—doesn’t that mean he likes you? But that makes no sense. The two of you are…well, you’re not sure what you are.

“About?” he hums, lacing his fingers through yours and playing with your hand.

“I—I don’t know. You’re being very distracting,” you sputter. Has he always this suave? You distinctly remember how he would turn bright red whenever your hand would just accidentally brush against his, and now he’s grown so emboldened seemingly overnight.

“I am?” He blinks innocently.

And you know you’ve got it bad when you even find that somewhat adorable.

“Okay, back up, buster,” you order, pushing yourself off him. “I need five feet between us, so I can properly think.”

“Wait, Y/N—”

In your frazzled state, you forget that you’re wearing ice skates that you are very much incapable of standing upright in without Donghyuck’s help. You feel yourself beginning to tip backwards and shoot your arms out behind you to break your fall.

Crack.

“Yeah, it’s broken,” the same ER doctor from your last visit announces, flipping through yet another set of X-rays. “Not as clean of a break this time. Probably going to take at least twelve weeks to heal.”

If you could put your head in your hands, you would, but your right arm is currently in a thick cast and hanging from a sling. Not to mention it hurts like a bitch.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Donghyuck winces, “It’s my fault. I should’ve caught you.”

“No, it’s fine. This is divine retribution, I’m sure,” you sigh.

“If I may ask, what exactly do you two get up to in your spare time?” The ER doctor looks from Donghyuck to you and then back to Donghyuck.

“I actually decided to pivot to a career in amateur wrestling, and Y/N agreed to be my practice partner, and sometimes we get…experimental,” Donghyuck responds without blinking an eye.

“No,” you snap.

The ER doctor gives the two of you one last side eye before leaving, drawing the privacy curtain behind him.

“Why do you always insist on embarrassing me in public?” you ask, shaking your head.

“I simply have a natural calling for it. Like Michaelangelo and sculpting,” he insists.

“I hate you.”

“Well, that’s a shame because I really, really like you,” he smiles.

And you think he really, really means it too.

You look away, still unsure of how to answer him. You know it doesn’t go unnoticed by Donghyuck, but he changes the subject anyways.

“I guess it’s my turn to drive you around now,” he says in a sing-song voice.

“How the hell are you going to do that with the boot?” you ask, giving him a dubious look.

“I’m getting it off in two weeks,” he points out.

“So you want me to miss two weeks of school?”

“No,” he sniffs, “I’ll get Mark to drive us.”

“Mark’s car is filthy!”

“Are you really one to talk?”

You shut your mouth after that.

The two weeks whizz by, and Donghyuck finally gets his walking boot removed in exchange for a much more discreet brace. The doctor even gave him the OK to play but only for short increments at a time and no more than ten minutes.

With Donghyuck so focused on his recovery in addition to the fact that the two of you have been carpooling with Mark, you and Donghyuck haven’t really had a chance to properly talk alone since the mall—not to mention the fact that you’ve been avoiding him like crazy. It’s also pretty hard to think about anything else other than how much your arm hurts and how sweaty your cast gets.

However, despite everything, you still show up to watch Donghyuck practice for his first playoff game. He texted you that he could pick you up in the morning, but the thought of being alone with him after all this time made you feel way too jittery, especially since you were still trying to sort your feelings out. In the end, you lied and said your arm hurt too much, skipped your classes, and told him a friend would drop you off in time for practice (you just called an Uber). Since you leave your house a bit late, practice has already started.

You see Donghyuck doing laps around the rink, warming up. This is the first time you’ve seen him in his uniform in person, and you realize that this is how a hockey uniform is supposed to be worn. You’ve always thought that hockey players always looked a bit like the Michelin Man with how bulky their gear is, but Donghyuck looks like he belongs in a modeling catalog.

This is so pathetic. He gives you a little bit of attention and now you’re fawning over him like you’re sixteen again.

But it’s hard not to fawn when he looks so natural on the ice. Even though he’s not at his prime, the way he glides so smoothly across the rink and how he dribbles the puck with his stick all feel like second nature for him. Every move he makes seems purposeful, graceful.

You make Donghyuck want to play hockey again? Impossible.

Not when he belongs on the ice.

But why does he hold you in such high regard? Why does he make you feel so special? He makes you feel like you belong with him. The spot beside him is not a place someone like you could ever dream of taking, yet he makes you want to. He makes you want to be selfish, to expect something.

Even if he does like you, he can’t possibly like you more than you like him. He may have been reliant on you this past month, but you’re going to need him more than he would ever need you.

The more you watch him on the ice, the more you feel like you’re looking at the banner of him on your way to statistics. He’s not really a person that you know anymore but a pillar. A pillar of everything that is out of reach to you. You’ve gotten to see a different side of him for a short period of time, but you’ll be nothing but a blot of the past once he’s fully recovered. He’s going to graduate college and become a professional player in the NHL. He’s going to make a name for himself. You’re just going to be in a cubicle for the rest of your life.

The two of you make no sense.

It’s easy to not want something that you’ve never had, but it’s so much harder to let go when you’ve been given a taste.

It’s a sobering feeling—reality.

“Y/N?”

You startle, turning to see Mark.

“Hi, Mark,” you say, voice wavering between octaves.

“You’re here to see Donghyuck, right?”

“No, I—”

“Donghyuck!” Mark calls out loudly, cupping the sides of his mouth with his hands. “Y/N’s here!”

You wince at the echo of his voice, but Donghyuck’s head shoots up when he hears your name. A huge grin breaks across his face, and he gestures for you to wait while he starts to skate off the ice, ripping off the bulkier padding of his uniform and taking off his helmet as he goes.

“Hey,” Donghyuck says, making his way up to you. “You didn’t have to come if you weren’t feeling well. How’s your arm?”

“Fine,” you squeak out a bit too fast.

“You don’t sound fine,” he points out, completely unconvinced.

You curse yourself for being such a shitty liar, avoiding his gaze like a criminal being interrogated. You absolutely do not need him to psychoanalyze you when you’re in such a vulnerable state.

You can feel Donghyuck’s knowing gaze sweep across your features. “This isn’t about your arm, is it? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

Your silence is confirmation enough for him. “Y/N, I just wanted to tell you how I feel. You’re under no obligation to like me back. If you want me to pretend like it never happened, I will, but please don’t—”

You really don’t want to have this conversation here or ever, but you suppose you can’t exactly ignore it any longer.

“I do like you back,” you say gingerly. “Much more than you know. Much more than you like me.”

He goes to protest, but you cover his mouth. You want to say it all at once because you know he’ll change your mind if you let him talk.

“I’m not an ambitious person, Donghyuck,” you whisper. “I know when I don’t belong. There’s no place for me here. We only have a little bit before graduation, and then we’ll probably never see each other again.”

His expression wrenches. He looks like he’s in more excruciating pain now than he did when he broke his leg.

“I know you say I always think of the darkest scenario, so I’ll try my best to be optimistic this time,” you continue. “Once you become a famous hockey player, treat me to a meal or something if you remember me. Or we could have a listening party when Taylor’s new album comes out if you still like her music by then. But I don’t think we’ll be any more than that. We can’t.”

“Why?” he asks harshly, grasping your wrist and removing your hand from his mouth. “Why are you deciding that before anything has even happened?”

“I’m trying to make your life easier, Donghyuck,” you say, exasperated. “So you won’t have any baggage when you leave here. You’ll forget about me in no time.”

“You are so mean,” his voice cracks on the final word, “I wish you just told me you hated me.”

“I’m so—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts coldly, and you’ve never heard him speak like this to you before. “Don’t apologize. Just—please just leave.”

You know he’s crying by the way his shoulders shake when he turns away from you. He doesn’t return to the ice, instead opting to head back to the locker rooms. Every step he takes grows more and more sluggish, and you’re worried that his leg is giving him trouble. You watch his figure disappear behind the double doors and stand there silently, listening to the sound of a whistle cueing drills followed by the ice skate blades skidding across the ice. They’re noises that you’ve heard thousands of times over the course of the month, but you think you’re going to miss them a lot.

You’re going to miss him.

This is for the better, you keep telling yourself.

Eventually, the words don’t even make sense anymore.

Against your better judgment, you decide to attend the first playoff game.

You haven’t spoken to Donghyuck since you rejected him—is it really a rejection if there was nothing to reject in the first place?—but it doesn’t change the fact that you care about him more than anyone. You want him to succeed. You want to support him, even if that support is unwanted.

You tell yourself that you’re going to be selfish one last time and then you’ll let him go.

As to not be a distraction to him in case he somehow spotted you, you decide to wear the same attire you wore when you snuck into the opposing team’s game, sunglasses and all. Luckily, by the time you arrive, the rink is already packed to the brim since it’s Donghyuck’s comeback game.

You find an area in the back to stand, lowering the brim of your hat to avoid any unwanted camera shots on the big screen. Shortly afterwards, loud music starts to blare from the speakers and you spot the team skating out on the rink. Donghyuck leads the line to wild applause from the crowd, and you clap along as well, but your stomach turns at how exhausted he looks. He smiles and waves for the cameras, but his face is pallor and there are deep bags underneath his eyes.

This isn’t what you wanted.

You wanted him to thrive, much more than he would’ve without you. You wanted him to forget about you and focus on his career. You wanted him to be okay.

So why do you keep hurting him?

You dig your nails into your palms as you watch him skate to the center and take his position. There’s a momentary hush that falls over the crowd as the referee holds the puck above him and the other center’s head before dropping it between them, and the game is off to the races.

Donghyuck ends up playing for way longer than ten minutes, throwing all caution to the wind, but he moves like a lightning streak across the ice—scoring a hat trick before the first period is over. His momentum carries onto the last two periods as well as he absolutely demolishes the opposing team. He is especially persistent in hounding Number 30, the player you warned him about. You almost feel bad for Number 30 since he is most definitely on the receiving end of Donghyuck’s poor mood.

With only ten seconds left in the third period, Donghyuck scores a buzzer beater and the winning goal of the night. The crowd is on their feet, clapping their hands and stomping their feet so strongly that the whole stadium shakes.

You feel like crying again as you watch Donghyuck’s teammates descend on him in happiness.

They don’t understand.

He’s playing like he did before—like he’s being chased. Like he’s being slowly crushed between walls of the stadium. It’s a lifeless victory, and it’s your fault.

You were wrong.

He’s not okay. You hurt him more than any physical injury ever could.

You should’ve just thrown yourself into his arms, your fears of being hurt be damned. You should’ve believed in him, believed in his feelings. You should’ve at least given him a chance to prove you wrong. You should’ve just allowed yourself to like him first and foremost.

When you look back at the rink, you see a reporter making her way onto the ice with a camera crew. Donghyuck’s face is suddenly on every screen in the skating rink.

“So how does it feel to score so big after being away for more than a month?” she asks, handing him the mic.

Donghyuck looks up—past the reporter, past the cameras, past the audience, past the lights.

He sees you.

Even with your sunglasses on, you feel how piercing his stare is. The mist that had clouded his gaze the whole game dissipates almost instantly. His eyes shine clearly, and you see that spark that you thought you had single handedly stomped out.

“Hey,” he breathes out, clutching the mic so tightly that his knuckles are white. “Hey, girl wearing the sunglasses inside like a Republican.”

You freeze as the crowd starts to mutter to each other, confused as to what he means.

“You lied to me. You said I would forget about you, but I see you even in my dreams. And now you’re here too. Why are you tormenting me?” he demands.

You hurriedly start to make your way down the stairs and to the entrance of the rink, not wanting him to say something he would regret in front of a live audience. When he sees you coming down, he skates over to meet you.

“You were wrong,” he continues. “I like you way more than you like me.”

“Donghyuck, I—”

“I’m an ambitious person,” he states. “I can be in love and be a professional hockey player. I know I can. I’ll have enough ambition for the both of us, so please be with me. You belong right here with me, Y/N.”

You finally make it down to where he is, trying to catch your breath as he watches you, looking at you as if you were just a figment of his imagination.

“I promise I’ll treat you well,” Donghyuck says softly, lowering the mic. You realize that he’s echoing the words he said to you the way you met him, and you wonder if you’ve been in love with him since then.

There are so many things you want to say to him, an apology especially, but you decide to save those words for when the two of you are alone.

Instead, you march right up to him, loop your sling over his neck so that your cast can rest comfortably on his shoulders before cupping his cheek and pressing your lips against his.

It only takes him half a second to kiss you back, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you off your feet. You can feel the tension physically leaving his body, as if he finally released a breath he had been holding for a long time.

When you pull apart, you ignore the loud whooping and hollering of the crowd, leaning in just close enough so that only the two of you can hear what you’re about to say. Your lips brush against his again when you say:

“I’m really glad I hit you with my car, Lee Donghyuck.”

“Wow, I must say, that was like a scene straight out of a romance movie!” The reporter gushes excitedly. “So how did you two meet?”

You and Donghyuck exchange glances.

“Well…”

#nct imagines #nct scenarios #haechan fluff #haechan angst #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct dream imagines #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 angst #nct 127 imagines #haechan #nct #choerrypuffs

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choerrypuffs · 2 years

Text

fast times.

pairing: co-worker!donghyuck x reader

genre: fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.6k

synopsis: throughout the snapshots of your life, lee donghyuck is always there. (or, you realize that you’re in love with the bane of your existence.)

author’s note: i started grad school and it’s literally eating me alive so i wanted to write something short and sweet to de-stress and then it ended up being almost 8k words 😭

warning(s): excessive drinking, family tension

playlist: fast times by sabrina carpenter ― the bottom by gracie abrams ― stress by taeyeon ― ruin my life by zara larsson ― cruel summer by taylor swift

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating

Liquid courage, as the poets say.

Well, don’t fact check that, but surely Wordsworth or Coleridge or whichever poet that Taylor Swift talks about in the lakes mentioned something about getting shitfaced during a St. Patrick’s Day office party.

Regardless, you’re going to pretend like they did because it’s a lot less romantic (lowercase r, not capital like the movement) if you’re just drunk off your ass at an office party without an artsy-fartsy literary reference to back you up.

You’re one too many shots of tequila deep, swaying to the shitty techno music that someone is blasting from their pretentious Spotify playlist while stumbling past the office cubicles, including yours and He Who Shall Not Be Named’s, on your wobbly trip to the bathroom.

Despite the copious amounts of alcohol in your system, the remaining coherent part of your brain is sounding the alarms that you’re probably going to throw up soon. You wish that part of your brain would just shut the hell up because you don’t want to think rationally right now.

You don’t want to think about He Who Shall Not Be Named and how he’s in love with your best friend. You don’t want to think about how his eyes found her the moment she walked into the office, how his gaze melted into a pool of honey, his head swiveling towards every direction she went like a stupid bobblehead. Not that you blame him; everyone is in love with Karina. It’s not his fault, but you’re mad at him anyways.

Ugh, see? You’re thinking about him again.

Anyways, you’re also grateful for that part of your brain because the poets definitely do not write about spewing chunks in front of your co-workers. You just want to hurl in peace and wallow in your misery with the porcelain toilet bowl by your side.

The poets probably wrote about that.

You finally make it to the hall where the bathrooms are, having steady yourself against the wall as you make your way down because walking in a straight line has become a luxury. However, you only get about five steps (at least you think it’s five, numbers are hard) when someone grabs your arm. You don’t even realize your legs are in the process of buckling until there’s a pair of hands supporting your waist to keep you upright.

“Jesus, Y/N,” someone breathes in relief, exhaling loudly.

You’d recognize that condescending tone anywhere.

He Who Shall Not Be Named carefully leans you against the wall, one hand still on your waist while the other removes the bottle of Jack Daniels that you didn’t even know you were clinging onto from the nook of your arm. With one smooth motion, he tosses the bottle into the trashcan and doesn’t even flinch when the bottle very audibly shatters inside.

“I know you’re a loyal worshiper of mine, but just Y/N is fine,” you slur, not sounding nearly as cool as you’d hope, “though it’d be pretty fucking funny if you washed my feet.”

He huffs and pauses, like he’s debating on whether or not he should say what he wants to say next. And because he’s a piece of shit, he says it:

“For the record, Jesus washed his disciples’ feet. Not the other way around.”

You groan, shoving him hard. He barely budges, so most of the force in your shove kicks back to you. Feeling yourself tip forward, you grab his shoulders out of instinct to avoid busting your head open against the hard tile. In the process, your forehead slams into his chest, and he lets out a soft grunt. His hands grip your elbows, fingertips warm against your even warmer skin.

“I hate you,” you sniffle, burying your face in his shirt. He smells exactly like a fluffy towel that just came out of the dryer. “You’re tactless and you never let me win and you have shitty taste in movies.”

“And you’re drunk,” he replies nonchalantly, “Why do you drink so much when you’re such a lightweight?”

“You don’t deserve Karina,” you continue angrily.

He actually laughs at that. “Okay, young lady. I’m going to drive you home now. Come on.”

You lift your head so fast that you nearly slam it into his jaw; luckily, he sees it coming and steps back before you can knock his teeth out.

“Don’t,” you hiss, poking his chest. “I don’t want you to drive me home. Don’t drive me home unless…”

He raises an eyebrow. “Unless what?”

“Pretty boys can never be trusted,” you hiccup.

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about, but let’s continue this discussion when you’ve sobered up,” he sighs, crossing his arms. “And when you are sober and realize that you don’t want to talk about this anymore, like I suspect you’ll do, I’ll even pretend like this conversation never happened because I am a gentleman.”

��Do you think I’m pretty?” you whisper blearily.

You’re wearing a green t-shirt that has “Kiss me, I’m Irish” plastered across the chest in big, bold white letters. You borrowed it from Karina when you realized you didn’t have any green in your closet. Of course, only Karina would look good in something like this, but you really didn’t want to be pinched the entire night. Someone had plastered four-leaf clover stickers all over your face, though you’re not sure how many of them are still on at this point. Your makeup should be intact since you haven’t been sweating, even if you probably have mascara residue under your eyes. You’ve certainly looked better, but this definitely isn’t the worst state you’ve been in.

It’s a stupid question though, really. No matter how pretty you are, he’s already chosen Karina.

When you glance back up at him, he looks like one of those cartoon characters that have two perfect red circles on their cheeks when they blush.

You haven’t seen him this flustered in a long time. He’s always had this smug, impenetrable mask of an expression that you want to punch off his face―like he’s constantly one step ahead of you in something.

You want to take out your phone and take a picture of his expression so badly.

Instead, you hunch over and throw up on his expensive shoes.

VALENTINE’S DAY 2018 my feelings used to be serrated, but you speak in such a perfect cadence

Pretty boys should never be trusted.

That is your ultimate mantra in life.

Especially pretty boys that claim to be “nerdy.” The ones that smell nice and aren’t misogynistic but also like games and anime and know how to code. The ones that wear indie band t-shirts and actually enjoy the band but don't care if you wear the same t-shirt just because you like the aesthetic. The ones that wear rings on their fingers and metal-rimmed glasses on the tip of their noses.

The ones that other girls would claim were “written by women.”

It’s all a trap.

If anything, they’re worse than the obnoxious frat boy chads. At least those are straightforward about what they want. Nerdy pretty boys are professional manipulators, meticulously slicing your heart into thin little pieces to use as a garnish for their own ego.

So when the new intern swaggers into the office, hands tucked into the pockets of his designer slacks, your Pretty Boy senses start to tingle.

He’s wearing a crisp white button-up (not a band tee since he’s at work), and he’s got rings on his fingers and metal-rimmed glasses right on the tip of his nose. His hair is a little curly and falls into his eyes in that messy but charming look. He’s got a round face and pouty lips, looking just sweet enough to disarm someone.

After he walks in, the CEO of the company follows, and now everything makes sense.

“Everyone, this is my grandson, Donghyuck,” Mr. Lee explains, smiling warmly.

Nepo baby, you realize, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

“I want you all to know he won’t be getting any special treatment,” Mr. Lee says firmly, “He will have to work his way from the bottom, just like everyone else.”

Right, that’s why you’re personally introducing him to us, you think wryly.

After receiving a load of ass kissing from the employees, Mr. Lee finally leaves, and your team leader points Donghyuck to the empty cubicle right next to yours. He strolls over with an ease as if he owns the building (he technically does) and takes a seat. He smiles at you, though it reads as more of a smirk than a good-natured smile.

“Hi, I’m Donghyuck.”

When he looks at you, he does so with his whole body. His lanky frame is completely angled towards you as he unabashedly drinks in your side profile with his mischievous, twinkly eyes. The way he stares at you with such intrigue makes you jittery, and you keep your line of sight glued to your computer screen, refusing to indulge him even through your peripheral.

He’s deploying his Pretty Boy tactics, you warn.

“I know,” you snap back. You don’t mean to come off that aggressively, but you just know he’s trouble. In an attempt to remedy your curt response, you softly tack on, “I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” Donghyuck asks, the quirked grin on his face growing.

You blink in surprise. You were not expecting him to say it so straightforwardly. “I…just met you.”

“You’re not answering the question.” He tilts his head, though he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it. Rather, he probably already knows the answer.

You’re not sure what to say to that, and Donghyuck doesn’t try to continue the conversation either. Instead, he begins to unpack his stuff and set up his work space. When he turns on his personal laptop, you see League of Legends downloaded onto it.

Yikes.

Like the standard pretty boy, he starts hanging up an indie band poster, along with some anime ones you don’t recognize and―a Twilight poster.

Your eyes nearly pop out of your head when you see it. Men, even the pretty boys who are trying to make themselves as appealing to girls as possible, rarely ever admit to watching, much less enjoying, Twilight.

Okay, so maybe your Pretty Boy tingle got one thing wrong, but it doesn’t change the fact that he checks most of the Pretty Boy boxes―

“Are you Team Edward or Jacob?” Donghyuck asks, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

You have no one else to blame but yourself for snooping, but you still grow hot from your face to the tips of your ears and all the way down your neck.

“I’m Team Charlie,” you reply breezily, sounding pretty calm for someone who’s screaming on the inside.

His eyebrows slightly raise, and he just laughs quietly to himself.

You relish in that tiny victory.

As it turns out, Donghyuck is an extremely fast learner.

And despite being a nepo baby, he puts his money where his mouth is. He picks things up extremely quickly and utilizes everything he has learned efficiently. In fact, he’s doing so well that he’s starting to threaten your position as the office’s favorite intern.

And of course, on today of all days, you fuck up.

Another intern messed up the report, and you somehow overlooked it while you were checking. However, the responsibility falls on your shoulders because it was your job to make sure the report was correct. You get viciously chewed out by your team leader, and you’re guaranteed to have to work overtime to fix everything.

Ultimately, it is your mistake, and you’re not disputing that; you just know that you’re being made an example of so the office can look good in front of the CEO’s grandson.

So, while everyone is gathering their stuff to leave, you’re the only one still at your cubicle, fingers clicking away on the keyboard. Your eyelids are already starting to droop, despite the fact that you have at least a couple hours left of work. Giving yourself a couple of smacks on the cheeks, you try to shake away the brain fog and keep going.

You’re so immersed that you almost don’t notice Donghyuck set down a cup of coffee on your desk.

“I bought two for myself, but I think you need it more than me,” he admits, actually seeming a little sympathetic.

“Thanks,” you say, a little wary but still appreciative. You’re too tired to even question his motives.

He gives you a wave before leaving. Once he’s gone, you turn back to your computer and start to work again. You nearly forget about the coffee until you pause to take a big stretch, noticing it in your peripheral. Picking it up, you notice there’s a message scrawled on it.

happy valentine’s day! maybe i’ll grow on you :)

You smile, but only a little bit. Only because he’s a little cute.

When you finally take a sip, you nearly spit it all over your computer screen.

It’s so bitter that it sends a shudder throughout your whole body. You start to cough, feeling like even a single drop of that coffee getting in your system is going to make your short circuit. You’re not even sure if this poison could be considered black coffee. It might be actual black tar. Frantically digging through your drawers to find some candy or gum to offset the bitterness, you begin to curse Donghyuck in your head.

When you finally find a half-melted caramel cube and pop it into your mouth, it occurs to you that Donghyuck didn’t even have a cup of coffee in his hands even though he said he bought two.

“That asshole,” you whisper.

Cracking your knuckles and rolling your neck, you start to type again with a renewed vigor, thinking of all the ways you were going to make Donghyuck pay to power you through the rest of the night.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating

You’re not sure how He Who Shall Not Be Named manages to clean himself up and wrangle you into his car in such a short timespan, but he does it. Most of it is a blur to you, though you do recall him throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carrying you through the parking garage after you started trying to fistfight him.

Now, you’re leaning your head against the cool window, watching all the buildings whizz by, as he drives in silence. Well, not complete silence. Music is being softly played on the radio. It’s that stupid indie band he likes, and you hate that you know exactly what song it is. You remember it from last time.

I’ve only been in his car twice, including now, you think groggily to yourself.

He must really like this song.

APRIL FOOLS 2019 three stories up here contemplating, but what the fuck is patience?

“Is this some sort of sick April Fools’ joke?” you demand.

“Come on, Y/N. Surely, you don’t think a prank of mine would be this lame,” Donghyuck retorts, offended.

The two of you are fighting again. At this point, it’s a daily occurrence in the office. In fact, Karina likes to say that the official work day doesn’t really start until you and Donghyuck start going at each other’s throats. You feel bad that everyone has to constantly deal with your bickering, but Donghyuck asks for it every time.

“You can’t just take someone else’s client,” you say through gritted teeth, wanting to smack that insufferable look right off his face.

“I didn’t take anything,” he corrects haughtily, “I was assigned your client, who is now my client. Take it up with the team leader.”

“The team leader would suck a fart out of your ass if you asked him to,” you hiss back.

He shrugs like you have a point.

“Fine,” you snap, grabbing your bag. “I’ll go talk to my client myself. I’ll get them to request to be transferred back to me.”

Before marching out, you grab the coffee on your desk and down it all in one go. It’s been sitting there for a couple hours, so it’s ice cold. The cold temperature in combination with the extreme bitterness is just the right mixture to light a fire in you.

Unfortunately, that fire is dimmed when you step foot outside and realize it’s thunderstorming heavily. The wind howls so piercingly that it almost hurts your ears, and the onslaught of rain is so strong that you can barely see the cars on the streets. You weigh your options: you have no car, there’s no way you can wait for a bus, and there sure as hell aren’t going to be any available taxis.

Just as you begrudgingly decide to do the walk of shame back into the office and wait out the storm, you hear a loud honk and see an obnoxiously red Ferrari pull up. The tinted window rolls down, and you find yourself staring at nepo baby Lee Donghyuck.

“Need a ride?” he shouts over the pouring rain.

“Not with you!” you holler back, turning to go back inside.

“Are you really going to wait it out?” he teases. “Their office closes in twenty minutes.”

You want to keep walking and ignore him, but your traitorous feet plant themselves on the concrete and refuse to let you take another step.

“Thanks for the new client, I guess!” he continues in a sing-song voice. A car behind him beeps, and you hear his window roll back up as he slowly starts to drive away.

“Damn it,” you mutter. Not giving yourself to think, you whirl around and dash out into the rain. Luckily, he decided to leave at a snail’s pace, so you have time to fling his car door open and slip inside.

Even though you were only in the rain for a few seconds, you’re soaked to the bone. Your pants make a squish noise when you settle yourself into his expensive leather seat. You want to make a joke about ruining his seats, but your teeth are chattering too hard for you to even speak.

Donghyuck reaches over and turns your seat warmer on before also blasting the heater. Your thin blouse has become see-through, and you awkwardly cross your arms over your chest, hoping he hasn’t noticed. Unfortunately, he has noticed, judging by the way he loudly clears his throat and reaches into the backseat to give you his hoodie.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, pulling it over your head before slipping your arms through. The sleeves are too long, so you roll them up to your wrists. His hoodie smells like fabric softener.

“No problem.” His voice cracks.

Neither of you say anything after that, only the sound of the rain pitter-pattering against his car filling in the silence. Eventually, he turns on the radio.

It’s a song you don’t recognize, but you deduce it’s from one of his indie bands when he starts humming along. You’re not even sure he’s aware that he’s doing it, though you don’t really mind. He’s not a bad singer, and you actually enjoy the song.

The two of you spend the remainder of the drive just listening to music, neither of you really feeling the need to speak. It’s a calm, comfortable silence―something that you never thought would be achievable between you and him. Rather, you wish you had more moments like this.

By the time you arrive at your client’s office, the rain has stopped. You assume he’s going to leave after dropping you off because it’s not raining anymore, and especially since the meeting ends up lasting way past the office’s closing, but you see his Ferrari still there when you come back out.

Walking over to him, you knock on the window.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” you say when he rolls it down, slightly touched.

“You have my hoodie,” Donghyuck states plainly.

Well, there goes the moment. You can always count on him to say something to piss you off.

“Right.” Rolling your eyes, you start to take off the hoodie in the street.

“I’m just kidding, Y/N,” he grins, “Come on.”

You let out a small huff, even though you’re smiling too, and you climb in. He turns the radio on again, and the two of you fall back into the ambiance. It occurs to you that Donghyuck’s car smells overwhelmingly like rain and leather and him. When you cross your arms, the scent of the fresh fabric softener from his hoodie wafts back up to you. You feel warm―the kind of warmth that blooms in the pit of your stomach and then melts throughout your body, like when you take a sip of hot chocolate on a cold day.

“How was it?” he finally asks after the song ends.

“Who do you think I am?” you scoff. “Of course I got them back.”

He smiles, and it makes you feel proud.

“You can tell the team leader to suck the fart out of my ass,” you retort.

This gets a laugh from him before he hesitantly adds, “I really didn’t want to take your client.”

You’ve never heard him sound so serious and so…vulnerable before. He says it with a slight desperation, like he doesn’t think you’ll believe him.

“I know.”

And much to your own surprise, you do know.

Now that’s a sick April Fools’ joke.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating

“You don’t deserve Karina,” you mumble, coming in and out of sleep.

He Who Shall Not Be Named laughs again at that, though he sounds a lot more exhausted. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Don’t think I didn’t see it,” you slur. “You were making those stupid moon eyes at her all night long. Looking like some lovesick puppy. Gross.”

He laughs for a second time, but there’s not a hint of humor in it.

What if it had been me, you want to ask him.

NEW YEARS EVE 2019 tiptoeing past so many stages, but what the fuck is patience?

You’re not sure what possessed Mr. Lee, probably the fact that his grandson works for the company, but he randomly announced one day that the entire office was getting an all expenses paid trip to a fancy ski resort as a New Years present. Needless to say, everyone was absolutely ecstatic.

But you should’ve known something was going to go wrong when Karina suggested that the two of you leave the bunny slope and move straight into the advanced slope, despite the fact that neither of you have ever skied in your lives until now.

You’d like to think that Karina’s sudden bravery was due to the adrenaline of being on such a luxurious trip. You’re going to blame your lack of judgment on the adrenaline rush as well because you actually agreed to it.

Of course, things derailed almost immediately and literally because the two of you ended up veering off the course due to your lack of steering abilities and somehow found yourselves in a random, remote wooded area off the edge of the slope. Karina also twisted her ankle after landing incorrectly, so there’s that too.

Oh, and there’s a snowstorm.

Well, it’s not really a snowstorm. It’s more of a flurry, but it’s terrifying nonetheless because of your current situation. Karina can barely move, and neither of you have any clue where you are nor do you have any sort of communication device since you left it all at the resort. It’s not like you can leave Karina by herself to get help either. You can really only hope that someone finds you before the frostbite starts settling.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Karina sniffles, her nose redder than Rudolph’s.

You hug her tightly, both to comfort her and to keep the two of you as warm as possible. “Stop crying, you’re going to dehydrate yourself. You can apologize when we get out of here.”

She chokes back a sob.

You want to cry too, but you bite down on your lower lip and just cling onto Karina harder.

“Damn, and I was finally going to follow through with my New Year's resolution of fixing my sleep schedule,” you joke, voice trembling.

Karina laughs weakly at that too. “You say that every year.”

“I know,” you admit sheepishly, “but I really am going to this time. I need to make sure I’m in tip-top condition because there’s no way in hell I’m letting Lee Donghyuck get that promotion over me.”

That’s right, you tell yourself. I can’t die here. Not before that dumbass.

You’re not sure why you’re suddenly thinking about him again, but it makes you feel a lot less scared when you picture his dumb smirk and that sly glint in his eyes when he’s gearing up to say something to piss you off. He always knows which buttons to press on the exact wrong day to press them.

You kind of wish he was here now. He would probably be cracking stupid jokes and distracting you―

“Y/N!”

Blinking the snowflakes out of your eyes, you squint past the sheet of snow and tall trees, trying to make sure you aren’t hallucinating. You see a blurry figure running towards you and Karina, the beam of their flashlight peeking through the darkness. When did the sun start setting?

Speak of the pretty boy, and he shall come, you suppose, because Lee Donghyuck is suddenly kneeling in front of you.

The smug look he always dons is wiped clean from his face, instead, his eyes are wide like two saucers and his hands are trembling. You can feel how tightly he’s clutching your arms even through the thick material of your parka. His hair is damp against his forehead; whether it’s from snow or sweat or both, you’re not sure. His face is flushed, and his nose is red like Karina’s, but you want to reach out and boop it for some reason. You can see his labored breath come out in white puffs due to the temperature.

“I found them!” Donghyuck calls out, turning behind him. A couple of your other colleagues emerge from the trees, all holding flashlights. Then, he reverts his attention back to you. His face is all furrowed up, like he isn’t sure whether to be mad at you for being reckless or collapse with relief.

“Are you hurt?” he eventually asks, voice strained as he helps you to your feet. He brushes the snow out of your hair and lifts your ski goggles from your eyes, scanning your face.

“Karina twisted her ankle,” you reply numbly, unable to feel your lips.

He glances over at Karina, who’s being helped by your other co-workers, before looking at you again. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head.

Donghyuck exhales loudly, and you watch his shoulders relax. Then he says, “What the hell were you thinking?”

You flinch at his sharp tone. He’s never raised his voice at you before. You’ve always been the one yelling at him.

“You can’t even drive a car, so what on Earth possessed you to try and ski on the advanced slope?” he continues to reprimand you. “What’s the point in being this smart if you’re not going to use common sense―”

You burst into tears.

You cry for many reasons: the sheer terror you’d been trying to keep at bay finally catches up to you, you’re grateful to be alive, you’re upset that Donghyuck is scolding you, you’re happy that Donghyuck is scolding you, and most of all, you know he’s right. He’s right, and you’re glad he’s right. You’re glad that he’s standing in front of you.

“You’re such a dick,” you wail, “I can’t believe you’re yelling at me when I almost died. Why can’t you just comfort me like a normal human with empathy?”

Donghyuck grows quiet, and you see his expression soften. Sighing, he reaches over and swipes the tears from your face. When you sniffle, he takes his expensive cashmere scarf and wipes your nose with it. He doesn’t even blink at the snot on it as he cups your frozen cheeks with his gloved hands. Grinning evilly, he squishes your face together, a mush of tears, snot, and puffiness.

“I’ve never wanted you more,” he teases.

“I’m going to kill you,” you grumble, shoving his hands away. Though you do find solace in the fact that he’s making fun of you again.

Your colleagues call the two of you over for help, and you make your way to Karina, who’s still unable to get up.

“Hyuck, do you mind carrying her back to the resort?” One of them asks, their hands too full with Karina’s skis and their own emergency supplies that they brought.

Donghyuck hesitates for a moment, his eyes inadvertently flashing towards you, before he kneels down and turns his back to Karina as he prepares to give her a piggy-back ride.

“I’m heavy,” Karina warns as she carefully climbs on.

“Don’t worry, I do five pushups a week,” he replies breezily, and despite his joking, he stands to his feet without a problem.

She laughs at that, sounding like an angel descending from the heavens.

He adjusts her thighs in his arms slightly, pausing to ask, “That didn’t hurt your ankle, did it?”

She shakes her head, and he says something else that makes her laugh again.

It’s not that you’re jealous that he’s carrying Karina. After all, she’s injured, so it would be a bit obnoxious to be upset over something that isn’t anyone’s fault. And it’s not like you’re any more special to him than Karina.

No, this feeling isn’t jealousy. It’s…uncertainty.

You’re uncertain that he would do the same for you if you were in Karina’s position. Has he ever reassured you with such ease like he did with her? Has he ever treated you like you were made of glass? Has he ever spoken to you so tenderly like that?

You suddenly feel so cold.

Three.

When you get back to the resort, there’s an ambulance waiting to take you and Karina to the hospital for a checkup. You try to tell everyone that you don’t need to go to the hospital, but your colleagues, Karina, and the paramedics insist on you doing so.

“Your glove is torn.”

Before you can even register his words, Donghyuck is holding your hand and flipping your palm over. The fabric of your right glove is ripped, exposing the tip of your pointer finger. You must’ve scraped it against something in the middle of all the chaos because there’s some dried blood caked around your nail.

“You should go,” he says softly, giving your hand an encouraging squeeze before letting go.

Once Karina is properly settled on the gurney, you’re ushered into the ambulance after her. As the doors close behind you, you catch Donghyuck’s eyes one last time. You don’t get to see what his expression is because you look away almost immediately, focusing your gaze on your finger.

Now that the adrenaline has worn off, it does sting a little.

Two.

Once the hospital finally discharges you and Karina in the middle of the night, the two of you call an Uber back to the resort and clumsily stumble up to your room like two people that just came home after a long night of partying, completely exhausted.

You’re so busy fumbling with your room key and nearly miss the gift that someone has set in front of your door. Picking it up, you realize it’s one of those hot chocolate sets that come with a cute little mug and are wrapped in holographic plastic. There’s also a separate bag of marshmallows beside it.

You don’t really examine it that much, simply handing it off to Karina.

“Looks like you’ve got a secret admirer.”

One.

Karina doesn’t notice the note tucked into the holographic plastic until she’s hobbling to the trashcan to throw it away.

happy new year! maybe i’ll grow on you :)

She turns to you to ask you about it, but you’re already tucked in bed fast asleep. Shrugging, she crumples the note up and tosses it away without another thought.

“Happy New Year,” she whispers to you before crawling in bed herself.

It’s a shame you didn’t get to see the fireworks.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating

“I’m hungry,” you whine, jolting awake and hitting your head against the hard leather headrest on your seat.

“Probably because you emptied out the contents of your stomach onto my Air Jordans,” He Who Shall Not Be Named says wryly.

You ignore him, getting distracted by the hot dog vendor that you drive by.

“I like hot dogs,” you say absentmindedly.

HALLOWEEN 2021 picturing us in all these places, ahead of myself’s an understatement

You just wanted to get away from the crowd, really.

The party was getting a little stuffy, and it’s pretty easy to get overheated when you’re in a thick Teletubby onesie. You and Karina had the bright idea of dressing as the purple and red Teletubby, but neither of you considered just how hot it would get.

So, that’s why you’re wandering around the dim hallways of the office, munching on a handful of candy―only to end up hearing a conversation you shouldn’t have.

“You are my biggest failure.” That’s Mr. Lee’s voice, hushed but angry.

“More than my mom? I’m honored.” It’s Donghyuck this time. He laughs, a bitter and choked sound.

You nearly yelp when the sound of a loud slap echoes down the hallway. No one else talks after that, and you only hear the sound of footsteps walking away.

Actually, walking away sounds like an absolutely amazing idea, so you turn on your heel to make a quick escape―

And of course, on today of all days, you fuck up.

All of the candy that you had been clutching to your chest slips from your sweaty palms, clattering to the floor. Every single clatter makes you shrink further and further into yourself, and you have no choice but to step out from the corner you were hiding in.

In probably one of the most poorly-timed situations of all time, you have to face Donghyuck while dressed as the purple Teletubby, and he has to face you while dressed as a hot dog―right after you just involuntarily witnessed a glimpse of his strained familial relationships.

“Hi,” you greet awkwardly, gesturing to all the candy that just fell on the floor. “You, uh, want some candy?”

When he looks at you, all the words die in your throat. There’s a red mark on his cheek, and he looks like a little boy again. He stares at you like a deer in headlights, a mixture of horror, embarrassment, and frustration all over his face. He seems so lost and alone, and you don’t know what to do to help him.

“No thanks, Tinky Winky,” he finally replies. He gives you a half-smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What?” You blink.

“You’re dressed as the purple Teletubby, and you don’t even know his name?” He raises an eyebrow as he sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall.

“I think it’s weirder that you do know his name,” you try to tease.

He doesn’t react to that, and you just stand there. Not wanting to leave him alone, you squat down and start to pick up the candy on the floor to keep yourself busy.

“You should go back to the party,” Donghyuck says quietly.

“It’s too hot,” you complain.

“Y/N.”

“Wanna watch Twilight?” you suddenly ask.

He stares at you for what seems like forever, his expression unreadable as he searches your face. After a bit longer, he just says, “Okay.”

You gather up the rest of the candy before taking a seat on the floor right next to him, brushing your shoulder against his. Pulling out your phone, you open the Netflix app and start to play Twilight.

You pretend you don’t feel him trembling, and you tell yourself he’s crying because he knows Bella will eventually choose Edward over Jacob. The two of you watch in complete silence; he doesn’t explain, and you don’t ask.

Instead, you push your hood off so you don’t poke him in the face with your triangle antenna and lean your head against his shoulder. Then, you lace your fingers through his and hold his hand without a word.

A hot dog and Tinky Winky the purple Teletubby watching Twilight, who would’ve thought?

ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 sun’s up too soon like daylight savings, mixed emotions are congregating

“I hate you, Lee Donghyuck.”

He doesn’t say anything to that.

CHRISTMAS 2021 outlines on bedsides, give me a second to forget i ever really meant it

It happened on the last day of work before Christmas break.

You gawk at the opened box in your hands, a pair of fluffy white angora gloves wrapped in fancy wrapping paper staring back up at you. Even though there’s no receipt included, you already know that these gloves cost more than three month’s worth of rent for your apartment.

“Did you steal these? Is that why you’re giving them to me? So you can frame me for your crime?” you ask suspiciously.

“Please,” he rolls his eyes, “as if I’d let you take the credit for any one of my crimes.”

You carefully take the gloves out before tossing the box at him. Catching it deftly and handing it back to you, he pretends to wipe away a tear dramatically.

“I went through the trouble of remembering how your gloves were ripped during the ski trip, so I meticulously picked these out for you,” he whines. “And I can’t believe you’re now questioning my goodwill.”

That makes you pause.

Is he talking about those cheap gloves that you used only once for that disastrous ski trip and then threw out immediately afterwards? The gloves that you haven’t thought about once since then? The gloves that you had to rack your brain to recall when he started talking about them just moments before? You can’t believe he remembered something so random.

Why did he remember?

It’s a question that haunts you on the entire plane ride back to your hometown and follows you throughout all of your family dinners and even when you’re lying awake on your cramped childhood bed.

It’s a question that both baffles and angers you at the same time. You wish he didn’t remember, and you wish he never gave you those gloves in the first place. The company is always generous to their employees around the holidays, and you know that this isn’t anything special, but it makes you feel special. It makes you want to be special. To him.

He is just a pretty boy. A pretty boy that likes indie bands and wears rings on his fingers and metal-rimmed glasses on the tip of his nose. A pretty boy that likes League of Legends and Studio Ghibli and Twilight and that one Hallmark movie you once caught him watching in the break room. A pretty boy that drinks black coffee. A pretty boy that drives a red Ferrari. A pretty boy that gave you a ride in that red Ferrari when it was raining. A pretty boy that looked for you for an hour during a snowstorm. A pretty boy that dressed as a hot dog for Halloween. A pretty boy that gave you expensive gloves because he remembered.

When did he go from Pretty Boy to Donghyuck?

But he can’t be Donghyuck. He can’t just be Donghyuck to you. Because that would be too real, too unrestrained. Because Donghyuck makes Karina laugh, so he can’t make you laugh. There needs to be decorum, after all. If he’s just Donghyuck, then what happens after?

That’s right. He can’t be Donghyuck. From now on, you won’t say his name. You’ll only know him as He Who Shall Not Be Named.

It happens when your mom tells you to take the casserole out of the fridge.

You see it, that traitorous pack of hot dog sausages.

You think back to Halloween, and then―

Oh my God, I like him.

“What the fuck,” you groan loudly.

That gets you a couple of gasps from your elderly relatives and an asswhooping from your mom.

ONE DAY AFTER ST. PATRICK’S DAY 2022 ― PRESENT fast times and fast nights, no time for rewrites

For the record, Donghyuck was not looking at Karina.

And if you’d stop avoiding him like the plague, he would be able to explain that to you.

He honestly applauds your ability to ignore the elephant in the room, considering that his cubicle is right next to yours. You’ve continuously managed to give yourself more work or conveniently slip away to the bathroom during any moment of down time. His patience is honestly starting to grow thin, but you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t wear it down to the wire.

Donghyuck finally manages to hunt you down in the same hallway where you threw up on his shoes. It’s hilariously ironic, and he would normally make a joke about it, but he’s in a bit of a time crunch. You look like a spooked cat, preparing to dart away the moment there’s an opening.

“Surely, someone as smart as you is aware that you can’t just avoid me forever.” He tilts his head.

“Well, if you move, we can find out if I can or not,” you reply, refusing to look at him and trying to walk past him.

“How’s your hangover?” he asks cheerfully, stepping to the side and blocking your way.

“Awful.”

“Do you remember what happened last night?”

“No,” you say instantly. You’re such a terrible liar.

“You said you hated me,” he starts softly. He isn’t sure why he’s saying this. This isn’t what he wanted to talk about first. The order is getting jumbled in his head. “Do you?”

You suck in a wobbly breath. “No.”

It doesn’t hit him until after your answer how deathly afraid he was of you hating him. He has grown so desensitized to the word “hate,” yet it’s only when it comes to the person he cares about the most that the gravity of that word becomes so apparent.

“I like you, Y/N.”

This isn’t exactly the grand declaration of love that he was imagining; he was thinking more along the lines of The Notebook or any romcom from the early to mid-2000s, but it felt like the right time to just say it now.

Your reaction isn’t exactly what he had in mind either.

You’re gawking at him like he just grew another head. He isn’t sure why you’re so surprised; he hasn’t exactly been subtle about his crush on you.

“No, you don’t,” you say in an accusatory tone. Leave it up to you to even argue with him on his own feelings.

Now it’s his turn to gawk. “What?”

“You don’t like me,” you state firmly, but it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself. “How could you like me?”

Donghyuck raises an eyebrow, and he starts listing off reasons with his fingers. “I start a fight with you every morning because I want to have an excuse to talk to you, I bring you coffee everyday, I drove you to my client’s office in the middle of a storm so you could take back said client, I nearly shat my pants when they said you were missing at the ski resort and also bought you hot chocolate and a huge bag of marshmallows for New Years, and you were the only one I gave a Christmas present to last year.”

“You bought the hot chocolate and marshmallows?” You blink in surprise.

“Is that all you got from what I just said?”

“But Karina―”

Oh, right. He wanted to say this first.

“I wasn’t looking at Karina,” Donghyuck finally confesses, “I was looking at you. It’s always been you.”

That’s right, it’s only ever been you.

The stupid green “Kiss me, I’m Irish” shirt. Your smeared lip gloss that he wanted to kiss right off. The sparkly stickers all over your cheeks that made you look absolutely adorable. The way you buried your face into his shirt. How you fit right into his arms. Even when you threw up all over his favorite pair of shoes, there was no place Donghyuck would rather be.

Do you think I’m pretty? you had asked him.

Yes, you’re pretty. You’re so pretty that he feels like his heart will stop every time he lays his eyes on you. You’re so pretty that he can’t even think about the seasons without thinking about you and how you’re so much more beautiful than autumn, winter, spring and summer and anything in between. There’s never been a moment when you weren’t stunningly, breathtakingly, and heart-stoppingly pretty in his eyes.

“But―But that doesn’t make any sense,” you sputter, “You can’t like me!”

“Why not?”

“Because you just can’t.”

“Do you like me?”

“Yes―no! Regardless, you can’t just suddenly decide you like me―” you begin to explain.

“I’ve always liked you,” he points out.

“We’ve spent four years hating each other, and now all of sudden, we like each other? It’s too abrupt―”

“Y/N.” Donghyuck reaches over and grasps your wrist, his warm fingers against your even warmer skin as his thumb traces circles against the back of your hand. “Will you go out with me?”

When he looks at you, you have the same expression on your face as when he first met you and caught you staring at his Twilight poster. Your eyes dart around nervously, your pulse pounding against his fingertips, and he knows he has his answer.

“Okay,” you breathe.

He sighs, coiling an arm around your waist and pulling your body flush against his. Leaning his forehead against yours, he whispers, “Now was that so fucking hard?”

He kisses you, and you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of and more.

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