Back when I was three, when the clock struck 3pm at Sunshine Daycare, I would run to the windows and press my face against the foggy glass. Holding my breath, I counted the seconds until loud sirens blared through the street and a flashy police car pulled up to the building. 

Dad would step off and wave up at me, then tip his policeman hat at the other parents who were irritated at his noisy arrival. 

While other kids were frightened by the loud police sirens, to me it was equivalent to the sweet tune of an ice cream truck. In fact, even better, because sirens meant Daddy was near. 

“Dad!” I scream, heart pounding as I unbuckle my seatbelt and shove open the car door. I tumble to the concrete sidewalk, scrambling to my feet and making a beeline for my father.

Throwing my arms around his neck, I bury my face in his chest and Dad laughs into my hair. He smells like brown sugar and gunpowder, a wild contrast of scents. 

“Oh, my sweet girl,” my 50-something father laughs in delight. My feet leave the ground and he twirls us 180 degrees, arms tight around my upper body, the same way he’s greeted me since I was three.

“You told me you were out of town,” I mumble against his blue uniform, taking a step back to get a good look at him. 

I am the spitting image of my father. We have the same button nose, the same doe eyes, and pretty much the same wacky brain. We both see the world as one big puzzle, and we both itch to piece it together. 

He cups my cheeks and I trace the wrinkles on his forehead with my worried eyes. Time is stripping him of his youth. 

Dad calls wrinkles memory lines. He embraces them, claiming that each crease represents a meaningful moment in his lifetime and that they’re proof of his hard work. Beautiful way to think of them, but all I see is age. 

“Had to rush back here to follow up on a case,” Dad explains, smoothing down my black hair, the one feature we don’t share. 

Dad’s hair shines brown under the sunlight, but mine is as dark as midnight, just like Mom’s. It’s the feature I both love and hate the most about myself.

“Not skipping school are you? What are you doing here?” Dad’s tone becomes stern, and I shake my head aggressively.

“I’m only here for three days. I’m not missing anything important,” I assure him and he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Alright,” he gives my shoulders a light squeeze and then glances over my head into the car. Lowering his voice, Dad’s bushy eyebrows knit. “Does Yeonjun know you’re vacationing with a group of guys? You’ve never introduced me to these boys.”

I inhale sharply. Yup. I’m a chicken. I haven’t told Dad about Yeonjun yet, partly because it slipped my mind and we rarely talk, other than the biweekly phone call to check if I’m still alive. 

Dad and I live separate lives. We share a mutual understanding that I’m old and responsible enough to take care of myself, and that our careers- mine a student, and Dad a police officer, dictate our lives. We’re busy, so we don’t make a fuss about calling or texting each other every day. 

The other 50% that made me hesitate is the fact that Dad owns a gun. Multiple. My father is a good shot, especially with a pistol, and thanks to his 30-year job experience in law enforcement, he knows how to get away with murder. Long story short, Yeonjun’s a dead man if Dad finds out he cheated on me. 

Dad wouldn’t hurt a fly, but for me, he’d drown the whole world with exterminator spray.

“Uh-,” I stutter, turning slightly to glance at Jeno’s half shocked half anticipatory expression. My fake boyfriend raises an eyebrow and I end up blurting. “Friends,” I tell my father. “They’re my friends. Don’t worry, Daddy. They’re good. You know I always pick the good ones.”

A smile tugs at my father’s mouth. He gently moves me aside and bends over to lean his wrists on the windowsill. Jeno bows his head politely and my Dad returns his driver’s license.

“I was just messing with you, kid. No one’s going to jail for kidnapping,” he chuckles, a deep baritone. Jeno breathes a relieved sigh, and Dad waves at Mark, who has his phone stuck to his nose, recording the whole scene. “You can stop recording, son. I’ll let you go with a free pass, but make sure you get that tail light fixed before you hit the road again.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeno replies, his soft smile not reaching his eyes. He flexes his fingers around the steering wheel, and I pat my father on the back.

“Daddy, shall we get dinner while I’m here?” I ask, but Dad’s quick to sigh and shake his head.

“Got stakeouts scheduled tonight and tomorrow, sweetheart, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

I shrug off the disappointment. I want to have dinner with him so I can break the news about Yeonjun. We’ve been together since I was in high school, and unfortunately, Dad’s fond of that cheating bastard. They go fishing together every first week of December, a tradition my father always looks forward to because for a reason I can’t comprehend, he loves spending hours by a river bank, holding up a fishing rod until his hands cramp. 

Truth be told, I know he loves it because he enjoys Yeonjun’s company. Dad always wanted a son, for me to have a baby brother, and a boy to share his love for fishing with. Yeonjun filled that hole in his chest, and I don’t have the heart to tell Dad he’ll have to fish alone this year. Perhaps with a juicy steak in front of him and a glass of wine, he’ll take the blow better. But dinner’s a no-go, and ignorance is bliss, so Dad will just have to be kept in the dark for a while longer.

“Alright, enjoy your stay here in Busan,” Dad tells us as I slide back into my seat, buckling myself in. 

“You got it, sir.” Haechan shows him a thumbs up. I purse my lips, winking at him, our way of sending each other kisses. 

“Keep my daughter safe, boys,” Dad’s tone is strict, then he kisses the air and winks at me. 

Once he steps away from the car, Jeno rolls up the window, and I almost break my body in half, twisting in my seat to wave at Dad through the rear windshield as we drive away. 

“Your dad’s a cool guy,” Haechan comments and I nod.

“The best,” I sigh happily, leaning back against my seat. 

The Justin Bieber song resumes and I lean my cheek on my shoulder, staring at the Busan beaches. Even with Bieber playing and Mark singing along in the background, it still feels a tad bit too quiet, and my hands are icy cold. 

Jeno’s eyes are glued to the road, as they should be, but I demand his attention by poking him in the ribs. 

“What do you think of my dad?” I ask, expecting a cheeky comment or a snarky quip. 

Instead, Jeno tightens his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles blanching white. He shrugs impassively. “He’s cool.” Tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, Jeno adds, “I’m glad he knows we’re friends.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, lips jutting out into a pout as I refocus my attention on the view outside. Well, how am I supposed to reply to that? An octave drop at the word friends? That means something, right? That-

Jeno exhales loudly, and as I turn my head to flash him a curious look, he reaches over the console to take my hand. I fight back the smile that threatens to peek out as he laces our fingers, squeezes my palm, and continues to drive. 

I grew up in a bungalow and must have watched too many thriller movies because big houses scare me. Too many rooms for serial killers to hide in, too many stairs to run down, and too many doors to lock at night. Just saying, it is much easier to lock up and stay safe in a bungalow, since there’s no room for shadow-lurking creatures.

Mark lets out a low whistle, hands in his pant pockets as he stares at our home for the next three days. “This place is sick.”

“Yeah?” Haechan grins, grabbing his backpack from the trunk. “My mom was in an intense bidding war over it. Apparently, the seller was going through an ugly divorce and didn’t wanna risk losing this place to her ex-husband, so she put it on the market.”

Haechan fishes a key out of his jacket pocket, tossing it to Mark. “Almost lost to the Na’s but mom offered up her rare Hermès bag and won. She still cries about losing her beloved one-of-a-kind bag whenever she’s drunk,” Haechan snorts, and I watch Mark unlock the front gate.

“Na’s?” I ask. As in Jaemin’s family? From what my best friend tells me, they’re the only chaebol Na family in Busan. 

Haechan nods and the thought disappears because I’m now enthralled by the architectural masterpiece that lies in front of me. 

My eyes bulge as I take in the three-story beach house with rainbow-stained glass windows and a spiral water slide attached to the third-floor balcony. There’s a private pool, jacuzzi, and a flower garden that’s straight out of a storybook. 

Renjun whacks the back of my head. “Stop gawking like a french bulldog and help us carry stuff,” he grunts and I stick my tongue out at him, reaching for my suitcase.

Jeno beats me to it. “I got it,” he pants, balancing a duffel bag on his shoulder and clinging onto two other backpacks. 

I make a face at him. He doesn’t got it. But if there’s one thing I know for sure about the male species, it’s that carrying heavy stuff is how they boost their egos, so I ignore his strenuous groans and skip past him to explore the beach house.

The interior is modern and chic with splashes of nautical decor. There’s a large abstract painting made of different shades of blue and yellow in the foyer and surfboards are displayed above the massive TV in the living room.  

Haechan and Mark race up the spiral staircase to call dibs on the bedrooms while I linger in the kitchen, pulling open random drawers. 

Jeno strolls in as I’m inspecting a bottle of champagne I snagged from the liquor cabinet. 

“That’s worth more than you,” he snides with a small smirk and I hiss at him. 

It but he’s right. This bottle is worth more than the profit I’d make selling all my organs on the black market.

After carefully returning the pink bottle to the shelf, I dust my hands off while watching Jeno stretch his arms over his head and roll back his shoulders. He grimaces slightly, forehead puckered. 

He must be sore from all the driving. 

Rounding the kitchen island, I attack him from behind, shoving him onto a red bar stool and grabbing his tense shoulders. Jeno attempts to smack my nosy hands away, but the moment I squeeze, he melts.

“Mhm, that’s the spot,” he moans approvingly, and I pound a fist to his back like he’s a slice of uncooked chicken. 

“How rich is Haechan?” I blurt the question, and I hear the smug smirk in his voice.

“Not as rich as I am,” Jeno replies and I slap his head. He chuckles boyishly and I massage the base of his neck. 

“This place must have cost millions,” I remark and he nods. 

“Haechan’s mom is a shopaholic, but their annual net income can feed an entire country, so I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” Jeno informs me and I scoff. Rich people.

“What about you?” I ask and Jeno slides off the stool. My arms fall awkwardly to my side. 

“I can feed an entire continent.” He tweaks my nose then brushes past me. I hop after him and follow him up the stairs, staring at his Gucci wallet wedged in his back pocket. Must be nice being filthy rich.

“No! Again!” Haechan shrieks as we arrive at the second floor. The three of them are huddled together at the top of the stairs, glaring at each other as they battle it out with rock paper scissors for the master bedroom which has a hot tub in the bathroom. A private hot tub! That’s insane. 

“You cheated!” Haechan accuses, shaking his fist in Mark’s face. 

“How?” Mark exclaims, strangling the air in frustration. 

“You were 0.1 seconds slow,” Haechan snarls, demanding they start over. 

Jeno shakes his head as he playfully rolls his eyes, then jerks his chin to the last flight of stairs and leads me to the third floor.

“We get the whole floor to ourselves,” Jeno says as we climb up.

The third floor gives off a renovated attic vibe. It’s one massive room, with a carpeted floor, low and exposed beam ceiling, and the cherry on top, a trail of rose petals leading to a king-sized bed. 

My heart skips a beat, a smile tugging at my mouth and even Jeno’s laugh is pleasantly surprised. He falls to the edge of the bed and picks up a petal. My cheeks flush as red as the flowers. 

Crossing my arms over my chest, I tilt my head at him, biting back a grin. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He shows me his palms. “Not me,” he insists.

“Oh?” I wiggle my brows and my ears pick up hushed whispers by the stairwell. Jeno and I share an amused look before turning around to find three fluffy heads and googly eyes peeking through the railings. 

“Do you think she likes it?” Mark whispers a bit too loudly.

“Totally. Girls love this type of ,” Haechan replies, equally as non-discreet.

“Shush, they’ll hear us,” Renjun scolds, and I can’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl who’s in on a big secret. 

Jeno pats the empty space beside him and I join him on the bed. We both fall back to stare at the wood ceiling, my arms are strewn above my head and Jeno’s tucked under his neck. 

“I don’t know what those idiots are up to,” Jeno sighs, delighted eyes curved into crescent moons.

“They’re good wingmen,” I compliment, and Jeno’s chest trembles as he laughs. It’s a charming melody I wish I could rewind.

“So do you? Like this sort of stuff?” He questions and I grab a handful of petals, tossing it at him. A petal lands on the tip of his nose and Jeno adorably goes cross-eyed to look at it.

“I prefer romance that’s sustainable,” I tell him and he cracks a lopsided smile. 

“Noted. Plastic flowers, next time.”

“Next time?” I snort, rolling onto my side to get a good look at him. 

Jeno’s jaw flexes as he suppresses a smile. Let it out, I chant in my mind. Smile. It’s pretty.

He tilts his head to glance at me, dark hair falling onto his forehead. Our eyes connect and I’m fascinated by the glimmer in his deep-set eyes. 

Lee Jeno is a book I want to read. To flip through, to study every chapter, to find the meaning behind every word. I wonder if he’ll let me. 

Jeno’s not an open book, I am very much aware, because the stars in his midnight pupils slowly disappear, replaced by a flicker of fear that I’m delving too deep into the windows of his soul. 

He shuts me out. His bright expression dulls and he clears his throat, sitting up and mumbling something along the lines of needing to use the bathroom. He leaves me wondering if I’ll ever get past his cover page. 

Unpopular opinion: I’m not a big fan of pizza.

I confess this to the group while we discuss dinner options and they’re all offended. Haechan says I must have been dropped on the head as a baby and Renjun, being the psychologist he is, asks if it’s because of internalized trauma. Mark says I’m broken as if I’m a machine with a loose bolt and Jeno demands we break up.

Jokes on him, because you can’t break up with someone you’re not actually dating. They guys end up ordering three large meat pizzas for themselves and a large order of fried chicken for me. 

The food arrives in a swift fifteen minutes and we eat dinner on the living room couches, a sappy romance K-drama playing on the TV. 

“Oh no,” Mark gasps, and I snap my head up to meet three disgusted gazes. 

I flail my oily hands. “What?” I demand.

Renjun elbows Jeno in the side, who’s chewing a mouthful of pizza. “Dude, you have to break up with her,” he hisses.

“What?” I exclaim. The guys continue to stare at me like I’m an extraterrestrial creature, so I continue what I was doing. Meticulously stripping the fried breaded skin off my piece, I set it aside on my paper plate.

“She’s peeling her fried chicken!” Haechan wails and I drop a drumstick in my lap. 

Picking it up, I correct him. “No. I’m skinning them.”

“What did fried chicken ever do to you, Jang-mi?” Renjun huffs. “Why do you feel that it deserves this kind of treatment?”

I chuck a wad of tissue at him. “This isn’t therapy, Renjun,” I snap. “And it tastes much better like this. You take a bite of the flesh and pop a piece of skin in your mouth. This way, you’ll have skin and meat in every bite!” I explain and the guys all grimace. 

“Don’t hate it until you try it!” I plead but they decide I’m a food criminal and declare I’m banned from dinner tomorrow night. 

Other than the dirty looks I get for peeling my fried chicken, dinner goes by smoothly and before I know it, we’re all yawning and heading to bed. 

Drained from the trip here, spending the afternoon doing a grocery run for the next three days, and holding Mark’s screw thingy for thirty minutes while he fixed the taillight, Jeno mumbles a “good night, princess” and blacks out. 

Exhausted, I tuck myself under the covers and drift to slumberland the moment my head meets the plush pillow.

Unfortunately, sleep is not always peaceful, and I gasp awake at 2 am with hot tears running down my cheeks. 

I fist the sheets, breathing heavily as the remnants of the nightmare diss