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You’ve been living in Jumin’s penthouse for some months now.
It’s not like you didn’t enjoy it per se. You know with unquestioning certainty that you love Jumin. Waking up every morning to his weight by your side, eating pancakes, and seeing him talk to Elizabeth the 3rd with babying voice are just some of the joys you got to experience ever since you moved in.
It’s just, sometimes it’s strikingly clear how out of your league he is.
That conclusion wasn’t made out of bitter self-resentment and other bullshit - although you have plenty of those. You spent weeks evaluating your position, putting yourself in situations expected out of a Mrs. Han . It was emotionally and physically taxing, but you drilled through it, hoping to find respite and assurance.
Unfortunately, it only proves further how unqualified you are for the position.
You downed your beer and even that act alone made you sick to your stomach with guilt. Mrs. Han doesn’t drink cheap, convenience-store beer. Mrs. Han drinks expensive Ch âteauneuf-du-Pape wines and other pretentious-sounding beverages. Mrs. Han , most of all, wouldn’t spend Friday night lying at the cold rooftop, getting drunk and eating fried chicken, stargazing and loathing herself.
The wind picked up, sending chills through your bones. It was odd-hundred stories above the ground, after all. You didn’t dare peek down from the ledge, the height causing vertigo although you’ve joked enough times about wanting to fling yourself off a roof. You’re quite content lying on the concrete, looking at the sky and the few stars that managed to come through despite the light pollution.
You raised your hand to the sky, the diamond ring on your finger glinting in the half-darkness.
You love Jumin with all your heart, but the diamonds and silks and luxuries are stifling you.
Jumin proposed within the first week of you moving in.
You should’ve expected it, looking back. He isn’t exactly subtle hinting about wanting to get married. To you , specifically.
To be fair, he had proposed, back then, at the party. It’s not exactly what you called an ideal proposal, and there were no rings, so you were quite vague on where you actually stand. You’re not confused for long, however, because if Jumin Han’s anything, he’s scarily efficient.
It was a romantic affair, and you loved every moment of it.
He picked you up at 7 on a warm Saturday night. You were dressed in a light blue wrap dress that swished lightly at your heels, and you’ve spent the better part of the evening spinning around the living room, loving how airy the dress twirled and loving Jumin . You have cringed slightly at the designer label and the price range it entails, but the thought quickly evaporated when you see Jumin at the front door, dressed sharply (he is always dressed sharply, but tonight especially so. You recognized the special set of cufflinks and tie he wore for special occasions), carrying a bouquet of white orchids.
The two of you dined at the best restaurant in Seoul, which were strangely empty despite the time of the day. The string quartet played a gentle melody, and you remembered the way Jumin stared at you, so softly and so full of love you can’t help but look away bashfully.
“Aren’t you going to eat, Jumin?” you asked.
“I can’t help it,” he sighed, an action that surprised you and sent sparks down your spine, “You’re here before me, in a dress that I picked out. It’s only natural I can barely eat.”
You blushed furiously. “Still,” you cleared your throat, “you should eat well for your health.”
He smiled gently. “How could I refuse when you asked me so lovingly, my love.”
He finally picked up his knife and fork and started eating.
Dessert came around. You’ve ordered crepes to share between the two of you, but instead, the maître d' brought out a plate with a pair of marzipan doves on sitting top.
“Excuse me, but we didn’t - “ you started. But before you can finish, Jumin is already on one knee, holding open a box with a single diamond ring inside.
You clasp a hand to your mouth. Your last brain cell finally made the connection between Jumin’s position right now and the ring.
“MC, I know this might be sudden. We have known each other for an entirety of twelve days. And MC, they are the happiest twelve days of my life. Although we've known each other briefly, my feelings for you are sincere and overflowing. I love you MC, and I want to make you happy for the rest of your life, if you’ll have me.
So let me ask you properly this time. MC, will you marry me?”
You’re torn between crying or laughing, so you did both. “Of course. Jumin, of course I’ll have you!”
And suddenly, you’re enveloped in a warm hug. Jumin lift you from your seat and twirled, and you squealed in joy. Tears shone in his eyes, but the smile on his face left no question about his apparent happiness. The music swelled, like the love you felt for Jumin right at that moment. You vaguely remember the cheers and claps from the waitstaff, but it’s quickly forgotten as Jumin meet you halfway in a tender kiss.
So the party happened. Your cheeks still warmed when you think about the semi-proposal he did in front of the reporters and you’re positively combusting when you think about the actual proposal Jumin did in the restaurant. You still can’t believe that this is not a dream .
However, when you returned to university, you’re once again reminded on how real it is.
And the magnitude of the situation.
Your face was thankfully blurred in the articles they published about you and Jumin, but your name was not, thanks to Jumin’s romantic speech, and it doesn’t take a genius to see the resemblance between the photo and you.
So Monday morning you came in and you are immediately swamped by a hoard of curious classmates.
“MC! You’re that MC, right?”
“Congrats, dude! Geez, I’m so jealous. You’re set for life now, no, for generations .”
“You don’t even have to job-hunt anymore, lucky bastard!”
Your friends have good intentions, you know. But it doesn’t help that the entire class hears and now knows . As a result, before lunch, the entire campus practically knows and everywhere you go, people are buzzing with gossip.
Once class ends, you go to get lunch at the cafeteria with friends. The lunch lady scooping rice into your tray looks delighted to see you.
“Are you MC? You must be MC. Congrats dear! Here, I’ll give you extra, for the future wife of CEO Han,” she giggled happily. Behind you, you heard the students whisper among themselves.
“ She’s MC?”
“I can’t believe she goes to our uni.”
“She’s not even that pretty.”
“What the hell did he see in her? Is she also an heiress or something? ”
“ Gold-digger. ”
You quickly turned around, seething, an unfamiliar feeling threatening to make you sick at the pit of your stomach. You fight back the burn in your eyes of tears threatening to spill. The lunch lady just looked sheepishly. “Now, now - “
“Hey. Fuck you.”
You turned and give the finger to whoever said that. Without missing a beat, you picked up your lunch and stormed off to where your friends are seated.
As you go, you can’t help but hear, “ And she’s rude to boot .”
You tried to be patient. You let the whispers wash over you, ignore them, sweep them under the rug. But around the tenth or eleventh time you heard the word gold-digger , you finally explode.
“What is wrong with people!” you cried once your evening class ended. Your friends pat you on the back empathetically.
The professors weren't any better. She had been taking attendance. When she came across your name, she had stopped, and looked up to where your hand was half-raised already.
“MC? Are you that MC? Congrats, dear,” she said with a cheeky smile. The entire class had turned to stare at you. Some whoot, most of them snickered, and you had bit the insides of your cheek in an attempt to stop yourself from bursting into tears.
It’s not that you’re embarrassed to be engaged to the most eligible bachelor in South Korea, but it’s been 3 days, and so far, that’s all the professor had done in every single class .
You’re seriously going insane.
Not only did it bares your private life to the open, it seriously meddled with your studies because you find yourself distracted by the snickers and unwanted commentary from the people around you.
“Can’t people just,” you gesture wildly, “shut up for a minute.”
“Yeah, it’s been like, days already,” your friend said, still patting your back. “Hang in there, my little celebrity and whoa is that diamond? ”
You looked at the ring on your finger sheepishly. “Uh… sort of.”
“ Dude . I mean, I know people’s kinda being a dick about it. But like. You had it good, man. They can talk shit all they want but you really, really had it good.”
“Oh shut up,” you said exasperatedly. “You don’t know how it feels to have literal strangers whispered really loudly about you being an ugly, gold-digging whore.”
Your friend slung a hand on your shoulders. “They’re jealous, my man. Honestly, complain all you want, but at the end of the day, you’re still going home to your loving soon-to-be hubby in an upscale Gangnam apartment and warm Michelin-star dinner.”
You pushed her away, feeling unfamiliarly sick to your stomach. “You’re not even in my shoes, man.”
“I wish I am ,” she laughed. “If it’s so bad, just trade places with me.”
You laughed but it doesn’t sound right to your ears. “ As if. I love Jumin too much for that.”
You instantly felt better after you said that. Your friend just fixed you a very disgusted look and made exaggerated retching noises.
You laughed, and it sounded right again.
It was not long after your engagement. Jumin, despite his busy schedule, had arranged time for them to go shopping.
“But Jumin,” you had asked over the phone, “aren’t you supposed to be on a business trip? Southern France, wasn’t it?”
“MC, you have a good memory,” Jumin said. “But don’t worry about it. I’m planning on pushing it back. After all, my wife-to-be is more important than anything.”
You have sputtered, feeling warm instantly. The sentiment is sweet, but… still. “Jumin, don’t do that. Poor Jaehee’s gonna have to reschedule everything, rewrite reports, and deal with unamused investors. It’s not… effective, business or moral wise. Even if it’s for me.”
“MC, don’t sell yourself short. I told you I’ll make you happy when I proposed - “
“Jumin, honey, calm down,” you said softly. “We got plenty of time. Don’t worry, I’ll still be here.” You can hear Jumin relax at the other end. “Let’s go after your trip.”
“I still want to dress you, though,” Jumin said and you laughed at the petulance in his voice. How cute . “I’ll send someone to deliver your clothes.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll wear them,” you smiled into your phone. “Don’t overwork yourself. I love you.”
That was a few days ago. You’ve smiled into your phone like an idiot after the call, feeling so loved. But now, as the courier rolled in rack after rack of clothes, you felt the growingly familiar nausea at the bottom of your stomach.
It’s too much, a rotten part of yourself whispered. You quickly shushed them, smiling tightly at the courier as you close the door behind you.
You looked at the racks of clothes. Brand names, beautiful dresses. You didn’t expect any less from Jumin, but still… you looked self-consciously at your knitted sweater, feeling terrible.
You’ve promised Jumin, however. So the next morning, you walked out of the apartment wearing the most inconspicuous-looking shirt you can find and a patterned skirt, paired with white sneakers and a scarf in your hair.
When you walked into class, your friends positively beamed.
“MC! Finally!” one of them said.
“What? What’s wrong?” you asked, taking a seat.
“Finally you start to dress like you’re engaged to a corporate heir? Not to be jealous on main, but damn girl , you’re wearing my entire tuition today.”
“It’s a great look,” another chimed in. “Very bourgeois. I like it. Really brings out the engaged-to-a-CEO in your eyes.”
You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt. “Is it really that obvious?”
They all collectively laugh. “Oh MC,” they said. “Balenciaga sneakers. Gucci shirt. Burberry scarf. Bet that skirt some name-brand too. The only thing’s out of place is that ugly bookbag.” You handled your usual white tote bag offendedly, the only item you’re not willing to part ways with. It has a print of a cartoon shark bursting out of water with jaws open wide.
“Shut up, it’s cute,” you cried, patting the shark as if comforting it. “You guys are being horribly materialistic right now.”
They laughed again and MC can’t help but resent them for it. “You’re in no position to talk, dude.”
“Come on, guys,” another of your friend had just came, and she took a seat next to yours. “MC looks horrible . Like she has an appointment with a guillotin at 4 o’clock. What happened to the tacky sweatshirt and knitted sweater thing you got going on? You looked cuter in those.”
Although she just practically called you tacky, you can’t help but smile gratefully at her. “Thanks Lee.”
Lee flicked your forehead. “I just called you ugly, stupid. Come on, class is starting soon.”
After class ended, you walk with Lee, who ended up with you at the back of your group of friends.
“You looked really uncomfortable back then,” she said, hooking her arm through yours.
“I am,” you admitted. “I’m in no position to complain, but honestly?” You pulled at your shirt exasperatedly. “I prefer my ugly sweaters any time.”
Lee shrugged. “Just wear those. What’s wrong with that?”
“I threw them away.”
“ What .”
That was a lie. Your sweaters are still in your old apartment. You had deserted them the day you moved in, opting to bring your nicer clothes and simple tees instead, feeling self-conscious in the fancy, upscale apartment to wear nothing but the best . But it’s easier to lie. “Jumin bought me these. I thought… I should at least appreciate his sentiment.”
“Dude, you love those sweaters!” Lee cried. “If your fiance’s so embarrassed to see you in those, then - “
“No no no no! He’s not embarrassed!” you quickly cut her. “He’s not!” you said, reassuring yourself.
“Then are you?”
You fell quiet. You thought about the malicious whispers you heard in passing, the polite look the receptionist at the apartment gives you every time you come back without Jumin, and most of all, the look of absolute disgust and contempt given by the Choi sisters back at the party.
Why her?
You laughed sheepishly, breaking the silence. “I guess what people said finally get to me,” you said, and you hate the bitter note in your voice.
Lee nodded. “It’s only natural. It’s okay, MC, you’re no weaker because of that. Hang in there.”
You sagged in relief. For once, you felt actual support from your friends. “Thanks, Lee. I’m not trying to ungrateful, but I really need that.”
She gives you a half-hug. “Anytime, MC. If you have to wear expensive clothes for a while to feel a bit better, you’re still perfectly valid. But still, talk to him.”
“Yeah. I will,” you answered, finally smiling. “Thanks.”
“You still looked really ugly, though,” Lee interjected. “Everyone calls you ‘dude’, you get drunk on cheap beer, and you scrimped like hell . Bourgois is so not you. The only cute thing about you is that shark-bag.”
You punched her jokingly. “You’re absolutely right, dude.”
The other thing you absolutely hate is the penthouse.
It’s grand, upscale, luxurious, and terribly uptight .
But that night, as you entered in your brand new clothes, you felt the receptionist’s smile warmed a little.
You hated it to your guts.
You thought people will grow tired of you and your apparent engagement to Jumin Han in a few weeks. You were wrong, because a few weeks have passed and people are still being dicks.
It has mostly gone away. You still have people staring sometimes, but you’ve grown used to is. The whispering has toned down somewhat, tired of calling you gold-diggers and instead, opt to discuss just when your wedding will take place. That you can tolerate.
However, one day, someone walked up to you, carrying a can of something. Upon closer inspection, it’s a can of beer.
“It’s for you,” he said, handing the can.
“Sorry, I don’t accept drinks from strangers,” you replied.
“Really? Was it because it’s from a stranger or was it because you’re pregnant?” the guy said, smirking.
“ Excuse me?"
He forced it into your hand and winked. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“ I’m not pregnant," you said, incredulous.
“Then prove it,” he said triumphantly. You can see a group of boys in the distance, looking intently from behind a tree, obviously with this rude bastard. You’re tempted to smash the can on the unsuspecting boy’s face, but you grit your teeth and swallow your pride in order to avoid lawsuits.
“That’s unnecessary now, isn’t it? I don’t owe you shit, neither does my fiance. Don’t waste your time over baseless rumors and have some common fucking courtesy," you said coldly.
He turns red in anger. “Hey! I was asking you politely, you bitch.”
You felt a vein snapped. “Polite? Then I’ll be polite . You think people got married after they knocked someone up because that’s the only way you’re gonna get married to anyone and I feel sorry for you,” you spat, “And even that still leaves room for doubt because I doubt any girl would want to ever got close to you, much less have sex. So until then, I suggest you either find a personality or find a therapist willing to pull your head out of your ass ‘cause I don’t see you doing that by yourself anytime soon.”
You dropped the can to the ground and promptly walk away.
You heard him yell out expletives at you, but right now, he’s too shell-shocked to run after you. You walked calmly until you turned a corner, then you break out into a full-blown sprint, eyes burning with tears and feeling sick to your stomach.
Your only respite came at night.
You discovered the rooftop accidentally. It was during the brief stay you had before the party. You were suffocating inside, bored out of your mind. So you wandered around, and when it still left you feeling tightly wound, you asked around for a place to get some air without actually going outside.
Most of them had suggested the greenhouse, but it’s still technically inside . You spent an hour looking around the exotic flowers it houses, but what you actually longed for is the warmth of the sun on your cheeks and perhaps some breeze.
A janitor had tapped your shoulder shyly back then.
“Um, Mrs. Han,” he said, looking around nervously, as if someone’s gonna chide him for talking with Mr. Han’s... esteemed guest .
You smiled as warmly as you can, trying to ease the man’s nervousness. “I’m not a Mrs. Han… yet,” you added as an afterthought.
“Ah! I’m so sorry, Miss!” he cried. “I don’t mean to assume!”
You laughed lightly. “Hey, it’s fine. What can I help you with?”
“O-Oh. I heard Miss is looking for some fresh air. There’s a place in the building, although it’s not technically allowed. But I’m sure if it’s Miss…”
You beamed with hope. “Really? Can you show me where it is?”
He nodded. “It’s the rooftop. There’s a helipad, but it’s locked most of the time. I have the key, though.”
The janitor showed you to the topmost floor, and up a series of stairs. He unlocked the door and you stepped out into the sun and light breeze.
You positively squealed in joy.
The janitor, bless his soul, gave you a copy of the key ( If it’s Miss, I’m sure it’s alright… ) From that day onwards, you’ve spend at least an hour everyday, looking at the clouds and enjoying the breeze.
Then, university starts. You don’t really need your daily dose of sun and breeze anymore, but the thought that your little hiding place exists itself is a huge comfort, especially on days like these.
The little stint with your ignorant friends (save for Lee, the little angel), left you feeling more wound up than ever. It’s a Friday, so you stopped by the convenience store to buy a few cases of beer. There are wine at home, but you’re not really a wine person. And if you remember the price tag of some of those bottles… you shuddered at the thought.
So beer. You were about to open them and sink into the couch, but you suddenly remember Jumin is going home in a few hours and you didn’t really want to stink up the whole place with the smell of alcohol. You remember your little secret hiding place at the rooftop, so you resolve to go up there and drink yourself to the ground.
It’s well past sunset when you finally made it to the rooftop. The sun’s long gone and the winds chills you to the bone.
It’s perfect.
You opened your first beer.
You wondered when was the first time you started hiding things from Jumin. You’re a terrible liar, so you tried not to. But the act of not-telling is a different story altogether. It probably started during your brief stay at Jumin’s penthouse. You’ve felt scared, uneasy, trapped. You chose not to say anything back then, opting to comfort rather than complain.
And hey, that had worked perfectly.
You started your second beer.
It not exactly a lie. Jumin never really asked her, but every time you sipped wine with Jumin at some upscale restaurant or another, you wished you were sipping on beer instead. You have to agree with Zen on that matter. But it’s nothing major, just like favorite foods, it all came down to preferences in the end.
You took another sip gingerly.
And then, there were houseparties. You love parties, love dancing around and getting drunk. But you don’t want to go home in the middle of the night, reeking of alcohol and maybe vomit, waking up Jumin when he already has so much to do. Jumin doesn’t need to see that. Jumin doesn’t deserve that.
The first time the offer came around, you’ve declined. The second time, you said you’re staying over for a group project and proceeded to get drunk on cheap vodka and beer in some frat house.
Your first lie.
You opened your third can, feeling lighter with every sip.
Then, the rumors. It’s always there, incessant, like flies over trash. You bitterly thought to yourself, trash . You ignored them at first, but unknowingly, the words they said started creeping in, chipping away at your resolute little by little.
Because deep down, you know you’re so out of league with Jumin Han. You’re just a naive, idiotic college student who doesn’t really care whether to live or die, who followed a stranger’s instruction to an empty apartment, and proceed to enter a mysterious organization without question, without hesitation.
And just for some reason, God had decided to smile at you back then because hey, fortunately the RFA isn’t some human trafficking ring. Fortunately the hacker left you alone. Fortunately you didn’t end up dead in a ditch. Fortunately, Jumin Han fell in love with you.
God, you really are an idiot. You wondered how you can end up with such an amazing man.
You downed your third can, and continued with a fourth one.
Then. Then . When you’re the luckiest woman on earth. When you have it so good . You’re bitching about it. Getting drunk about it. You can’t just entertain that Jumin might love you despite you being not really as you were in the chatrooms.
Because it’s not really possible. The real you is a mess. The real you doesn’t really understand people. You have none of the charisma or confidence of Rika. But you tried, dear God, you really try to understand, put yourself in others’ shoes, and somehow, somehow, your simple act of basic courtesy managed to pass as good talker, warm person, and on top of it all, kind-hearted.
You felt like a liar.
You curse. You get drunk. You party. You wear mismatched clothes and ugly sweaters. You’re not cute, or gracious, never mind beautiful. You have come to terms with these facts, planted your roots around them, and live with them while trying your best.
Then suddenly, Jumin burst in and threw it all away to the wind. He came in and call her kind, call her gentle and soft-hearted. Call her beautiful and gracious and cute and everything you know aren’t true. You don’t even know me , you thought bitterly. Yet you tell me such beautiful lies. And I believed them .
You told yourself I deserve this as you accepted his proposal some odd-weeks ago. Or at least, I’ll learn to believe that I deserve this .
You’re not one to let rumors get you, you swear to yourself. Yet, it seems, when it comes to Jumin, you can’t help yourself.
“I’m so pathetic,” you cried to yourself, downing the fourth.
“MC?”
“Now I’m even imagining things,” you sobbed to yourself, closing your eyes as you lie at the concrete.
“MC! What are you doing?”
You opened your eyes, and Jumin’s head swam into view.
“I’m without a shred of conscience,” you muttered.
You suddenly sit up, the action making your entire field of vision swim. “Juminnn!” you slurred, grabbing both of his shoulders. “Let’s get married!”
Jumin laughed, although his eyes are still filled with worry. “MC, you’re quite intoxicated. We’re already engaged, see?”
He held out his hand, where a titanium band sits on his ring finger. He gently took your hand, and you see a matching ring on yours.
“Diamond!” you squealed.
“Yes, my love. Only the best for you.”
“I hate it.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Y-You hate it?” he asked, voice strangled. He looked down in disappointment and confusion.
“I hate it,” you repeated, nodding. “I also hate the clothes. I hate the restaurant. I hate the stupid penthouse. I hate y - “ you stopped. You looked carefully at Jumin, still having a vice-like grip on his shoulder.
Jumin looked absolutely shattered.
Oh no , you thought absentmindedly. Oh God, what have I done .
“But I don’t hate you!” you yelled, back-pedalling vigorously. Then, you quickly added, “I don’t hate that you gave me expensive clothes. I don’t hate that you gave me the best ring. I don’t hate that you arranged a very romantic dinner to propose. I don’t hate that. In fact, I’m positive I love that.”
Jumin gingerly pulled you closer, into his embrace. “MC, just what are you saying?” he sighed.
“I love you,” you blurted out. “I hate that I do. Because of everything, that’s what I don’t deserve the most.”
He wrapped his arms around you tightly, hugging you as if you’re going to break apart. “Just what are you saying .”
“It’s just…” you started carefully. “We don’t really know each other, Jumin. You saw in me what you wanted to see. What if - what if that’s not really who I am?”
He started rubbing circles in your back, and you desperately wanted to melt into his touch. But you resist. You pulled away to look at his face. It’s marred by sadness, but still, he look at you gently, lovingly .
“Why do I love you, MC? Have you ever asked yourself that question?”
You shook your head. “Wasn’t it because I’m kind? Beautiful? Because I don’t - I’m not.”
Jumin patted your hair soothingly. “It’s because you choose me first, MC. You took one look at me, at my lame jokes, at my obsessions, and decided you want me. You choose to be kind. You choose to listen to my troubles. You choose to comfort me. And don’t tell me you’re faking it, MC, because I’d know if it wasn’t. I’d know.”
You eyes burned with tears. You looked down, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden. “You’re putting me on a pedestal.”
“Maybe,” Jumin agreed, and you’re surprised how quickly he agreed. “But MC, we have time. I have shown you what I am, so you can also show me what you are. We have the rest of our lives to change, hopefully for the better. And I’m ready to change too, MC, if it’s for you.”
“What if I’m not kind,” you sniffled.
“Then, I’ll choose you,” Jumin said, and your heart swelled with how loving he said those words. “I’ll choose your unkindness, your mistakes, just like you choose mine first. I don’t know how horrible you think you are, but I’ve decided and you can’t change my mind.”
He said that with the stubbornness of a five year old, and you can’t help but smile. “That’s a lot of work.”
“Try me,” he said. “I manage international-level corporate business. You have to try a lot harder to convince me ‘a lot of work’.”
At that, you finally cracked a laugh. Tears are streaming down your cheeks in fat drops, but they’re no longer full of regret. Instead, they were thankful.
“I’m so drunk,” you cracked, “and so in love.”
“You better remember all of this tomorrow morning,” Jumin said warningly. He gently lifted you to your feet and you managed to walk while leaning on him heavily. “After my great love confession.”
“I won’t forget,” you promised, more to yourself than to him. Because, even in your current state, Jumin’s words are already ingrained deep into your heart. It’ll take a lot of work to undo them.
“I’m sorry you have to doubt yourself,” he murmured into your ears. You were taking shaky steps, but Jumin is guiding you. “I should’ve taken care of you better.”
You nodded drunkenly. “Yeah. It’s disheartening. The rumors ‘n all.”
Jumin opened his mouth in loud indignation but you shushed him. You’re too drunk to discuss about the reality of their relationship, how it’s practically bare for everyone to see and pick on. Jumin might have enough money to sue all the people who had slandered you, but that’s not what you want.
All you want is to fall in bed in Jumin’s arms.
Tomorrow you’re going to have to talk. You have to talk about a lot of things, from your toxic mentality, to Jumin’s apparent unhesitating will to dive headfirst into a life commitment. It’ll be long and messy and perhaps unpleasant. But if it’s the path you have to take in order to walk with Jumin without shame and without doubt, then by God, you’re willing to try.
As the two of you made your way across the rooftop, chilly night wind whistling between you, you’re suddenly hit with the realization that this moment - you, leaning heavily on Jumin’s shoulder, drunk off your ass, and him, supporting your weight, wearing tear-stained suit while dragging your drunk ass back home - is perhaps the closest you’ve ever been to be his equal. Not college girl and CEO. Not troubled man and savior. Not even the age gap between the two of you.
Just two lovers, reconciled.