https://open.spotify.com/track/3yLOy7bjC1dDeOh4MArkq8?si=ed7866237df942df Phoenix - Stray Kids

Water scrapes its way out of Jisung’s lungs in a sharp, painful rush as he jerks awake, sucking in air like he’s never been properly introduced to it before. The world turns violently around him, tossed in the laundry on spin cycle, blue sky an endless whirlpool, the slap of the lake deck, the echo of someone calling his name--

Jeongin’s hands are on his shoulders, easing him into position. Jeongin’s face is right there in front of him, blocking out the searing sun and the endless sky, eyes blown wide, lashes clumped together with water. His chest is heaving like Jisungs, but not quite as ragged. Jisung knows he must have gone into the water after him, but he can still tell that there are tears on his cheeks, salt raking its unmistakable tracks through everything.

“Oh,” Jisung croaks. His voice might be wrecked but he can still lay down a good one. “Damn. Mouth to mouth already? You usually make me buy you dinner first.”

Jeongin's face crumples as he lets out a broken laugh that splits halfway into a sob, and smacks Jisung weakly on the chest. “You fucking--asshole.”

Jisung grins, winces, forces up another grin. “Jumping bases already—”

“You almost drowned” Jeongin snaps, voice cracking. One of the hands cradling Jisnug's head tightens into a fist in his wet hair, like he’s afraid of Jisung slipping out of his grip.

Jisung shifts, quickly sobering, and heaves his aching body into a more upright position to pull Jeongin in properly, presses in close until their foreheads knock into each others shoulder.s “Oh, dear aegi,” he murmurs, voice still rough but hopefully gentler now. “Hyung can’t die, you know that. I’m, like--invincible. Steven Yeun style.”

Jeongin sniffles. “You don't even know how to fucking swim and you jumped in after my stupid phone.”

“A miscalculation,” Jisung concedes easily. If he's honest he wasn't really thinking about the phone, he was reaching to pull Jeongin away from the edge before he fell in--None of that matters now though. He tightens his arms as best as he can, trying not to be obvious in the way his body trembles in Jeongin's embrace. “But it's still cool, as long as you’re around I’ll always come back.”

Jeongin doesn’t hit him again or even try to keep scolding him. He just holds on.

https://open.spotify.com/track/7polyembHZBHwSveAXE4cX?si=faff8216b0684f0b Flowers - Aespa

The bell over the door gives a sweet little jingle when Chan pushes into the flower shop. She knows how she looks right now; rather wrecked beyond belief, underdressed for the brunch she's already late to, coat half-buttoned, hair pulled back so sloppily it must look like she gave up halfway through the decision, dark circles she only has herself to blame for. For a moment as she crosses the threshold, she pauses to breathe in damp greenery and soil, bracing herself for the last non-stress inducing interaction she'll have all morning.

“Hi,” she says finally. “I'm looking for some help with a bouquet, for my, uh--mother-in-law.”

The young man behind the counter looks up from his book. He takes her in with one slow, assessing glance--then smiles. Pleasant, if a little sharp.

“How much do you hate this lady?”

Chan blinks. “I--I don’t.” She licks her lips. Feels cracked and frayed all over. Then, softer, more honest; “It’s complicated.”

the man hums. “Say less.”

He moves through the shop with practiced ease, selecting stems without asking another question. He works quickly, decisively, like exhausted, pathetic women with "complicated" in-laws wander in all the time. As he assembles the bouquet, he explains each flower's meaning:

“Yellow roses,” he says, tucking them in first. “are traditionally for jealousy, or, if you’re being generous, strained affection.”

Chan, against her best interests, lets out a breathy laugh. “Okay.”

“Striped carnations are for regret, but not apology,” he adds with a raised finger. “Important distinction.”

He adds petunias next. “Resentment. Very pretty and very polite resentment.”

Chan watches, fascinated, as the bouquet takes shape--perhaps not her first choice in terms of colour selection but the flowers themselves are undoubtedly beautiful and lush. And apparently, undeniably hostile if one knows how to read them properly.

The florist finishes with a small clutch of pretty pink flowers, nestling them near the center. “And cyclamen, meant for emotional distance. Fuck off, lady.”

He wraps the stems neatly and turns back to her. “I hope you were taking notes.”

Chan blinks. "Even if I was I don't think I'd capture your charming presentation," Chan stares at the bouquet, then at him. “I’m impressed.”

The florist shrugs, winding the twine he used to bind the stems around the spool once more. “People usually are.”

Chan should expect it, probably, the way their fingers brush when he hands the bouquet to her. It’s brief, completely accidental, she knows--but then her hand shifts, and the light above them catches hard on the large, and embarrassingly flashy cut of her engagement ring.

Chan looks up again so find the florist looking at her. His mouth curves. Not unkindly, but not quite kind either.

“Well,” he says, punching in her total, “give us a call if you decide to go through with preparations. We have great wedding packages.”

It’s deeply inappropriate. Chan should feel fury rising in her chest rather than laughter. Where does this guy get off on insulting a paying customer--questioning her, a woman he knows nothing about? Instead, Chan finds herself snorting as she taps her card. The best she can do is resolutely avoid the name tag she sees glinting in the corner of her eye, dangling from the florist's breast pocket.

She shakes her head once the payment goes through, and she gently takes the bouquet fully into her arms, cellophane crinkling against her coat. When she says, “You’ll see me again.” she's pretty sure she means it.

Seungmin meets her eyes, and something knowing seems to flicker there. “I’m sure I will.”

https://open.spotify.com/track/08AznbP5RLxjaFOZTqOI9w?si=8564150465eb470c Cops and Robbers by underscores

Chan is halfway through counting the camel smooths when he hears someone clear their throat in front of the register. He looks up, expecting another regular with a lottery ticket or a pack of gum.

Instead, he finds the same man who walked in five minutes ago—the one with the sunbeam smile so blinding Chan nearly knocked the box of beef jerky he was setting up off the counter. Except now, the smile is gone, and he’s pointing a gun directly at Chan’s chest.

“Fuck, are you serious?” Chan blurts before he can stop himself.

The man’s eyes flicker with amusement, gestures slightly with his gun. “Does this look fake to you?”

Chan looks. It does not look fake. Not even a little. His throat tightens, his heartbeat trying to outrun the rest of his organs. He raises both hands slowly, palms out, because he has seen movies and watched the training videos (albeit at x2 speed) and none of them end well starting with sass.

The man tilts his head, a few locks of dyed blond hair brushing his cheek, the freckles scattered around his eyes. This man—robber? Feels corny.—is stunning. Ridiculously so. Which feels like an extra insult layered on top of the life-or-death situation.

“O-okay,” Chan stammers. “What do you want?” He immediately feels like an idiot, the man must be able to tell judging but the way the corner of his mouth quirks up.

“Well,” The man says lightly, “we can start with the register. And maybe the safe, if you’re feeling generous.”

Chan's fingers shake as he types in the override code, flustered. He can feel the man observing him, eyes a physical weight on his hands, his neck, his back, everywhere.

The drawer pops open. The man whistles low. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Chan feels himself flush with shame and embarrassment while the man sweeps the bills into his open backpack with quick, practiced motions. It should be horrifying, and it is, to have a gun close enough that he could touch it, would probably taste a bullet before he could. But in his shock, or perhaps just some new state of insanity that has seized him, Chan can't help but focus on how striking this man's features are up close—sharp cheekbones, lashes for days, a heart shaped freckle near his left eye that Chan might be hallucinating under this amount of adrenaline.

The man steps back, zipping his bag shut. “You’ve been lovely, Chris,” he says, dark voice brightening just a little as he reads from the crooked name tag on Chan's chest. When a stunned laugh escapes Chan, unbidden, the man flashes the same sunny smile he saw when he walked in, pure warmth.

As he backs toward the door, a finger pressed to his lips, telling Chan to shhh, he adds a playful wink. “See you around.”

And despite the threat of dying of it all, Chan really hopes he will.