Chapter Text
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Porsche hadn’t asked for it this week. He hadn’t asked for any of it.
And yet, somehow, Mile kept appearing.
At first it was mildly annoying — the kind of thing that made him roll his eyes, sigh into his coffee, and tell himself, this guy has way too much free time. But by the end of the week, Porsche couldn’t deny it anymore: it wasn't a coincidence. It was persistence. It was warm. And against all his stubborn refusals, it was working.
Day 1 — The Coffee Spot
Porsche liked routine. Mornings before work, he stopped at the small coffee stall tucked between a laundromat and a stationary store. The barista knew his order by heart: iced Americano, no sugar. Quiet place, decent coffee, minimal human interaction.
But that morning, when he turned the corner, he saw him.
Mile. Leaning against the side of the stall like he belonged there, holding a steaming cup and smiling as though he’d been waiting.
“You again,” Porsche muttered before he could stop himself.
Mile straightened with dramatic surprise. “Me? No, no, I’m just a humble traveler guided here by fate.”
Porsche arched a brow. “Fate buys you overpriced cappuccino?”
“Fate buys me courage,” Mile shot back with a grin. “This cup just keeps me warm while I wait for destiny to walk by.”
Porsche snorted, trying hard to hide the twitch of amusement tugging at his lips. He placed his order, ignoring the way Mile sidled closer.
“You don’t even like sweet drinks, do you?” Mile said. “Black coffee, no sugar. Because life is bitter enough already.”
Porsche glanced at him. “Are you spying on me now?”
“Not spying. Observing. There’s a difference.”
“And the difference is…?”
“Spying is creepy. Observing is romantic.”
Porsche took his cup, muttered, “You’re insufferable,” and walked off.
But later, at his desk, sipping the bitter Americano, he realized the corner of his mouth was still tilted upward.
Day 2 — The Bookstore
Porsche had a habit of visiting the little independent bookstore tucked between a laundry shop and a noodle stall. Funny because this habit of him got him the job to work on one of a tucked bookstore in the busy street of the city. Bookstore always gives him the peace that he always craves for. And it was quiet, smelled of old paper and faint incense, and most importantly—no one ever bothered him there.
At least, until today.
He was flipping through the crime fiction shelf when a familiar voice drifted over his shoulder.
“Let me guess… you’re the type who reads the last page first to see if the detective survives?”
Porsche stiffened. He didn’t even need to turn around. “Why are you here?”
Mile leaned against the same shelf, holding a random book he clearly hadn’t even looked at. His smile was annoyingly calm, like he’d just stumbled across Porsche by accident, but Porsche wasn’t buying it.
“This is my bookstore,” Porsche muttered, turning back to the shelves.
Mile tilted his head. “Bold claim. Should I ask the owner if that’s true? Or is it like how cats think everything they touch belongs to them?”
Porsche rolled his eyes, shoving a book back a little harder than necessary. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously charming,” Mile corrected without missing a beat. He reached over and plucked a book from the top shelf with ease, glancing at the cover. “Ah. Poetry.”
Porsche snatched it from him. “That’s not for you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’d ruin it.”
Mile placed a hand over his heart, staggering back a step like Porsche had stabbed him. “Harsh. Poetry deserves to be shared, don’t you think? Let’s compromise—I’ll read you one line, and if you hate it, I’ll shut up.”
“You never shut up.”
“True. But today could be different. A miracle day.”
Porsche sighed heavily, like he was seconds away from walking out. But something—maybe annoyance, maybe curiosity—kept him rooted to the spot. “Fine. One line.”
Mile flipped through the pages, stopped at random, and read aloud softly, his voice dropping just enough to sound intimate in the quiet shop:
“Love comes like a thief, gentle until it is everything you own.”
The silence stretched.
Porsche looked anywhere but at him. The books, the floor, the faint dust motes in the sunlight. Anything. “Corny.”
Mile smiled, closing the book with a soft thud. “Maybe. But true things usually are.”
And for reasons Porsche couldn’t explain, he didn’t walk away. He just let Mile follow him through the aisles, their shoulders brushing every so often, like Mile was quietly rewriting the rules of Porsche’s solitude.
Day 3 — The Walk Home
That evening, Porsche left the subway station and nearly tripped when Mile popped up beside him.
“You really have to stop doing that,” Porsche said, clutching his bag tighter.
Mile matched his pace. “Can’t help it. What if the city swallows you whole? I’d never forgive myself.”
“The city isn’t a monster.”
“You’ve clearly never tried crossing traffic at rush hour. That’s basically teeth.”
Porsche snorted despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe. But at least I’m a ridiculous guy making sure you get home safe.”
Porsche should’ve told him off. Should’ve said he didn’t need anyone walking him.
But when they reached his apartment building and Mile gave a small bow, saying, “Until tomorrow, my unwilling prince,” Porsche couldn’t bring himself to slam the door.
Instead, he watched him walk away under the streetlamps, and his chest felt annoyingly light.
Day 4 — The Food Delivery
Porsche was unlocking the bookstore door the next morning when he heard a voice behind him.
“You looked hungry in my dreams last night.”
He froze, hand still on the key. “Don’t start.”
Mile was standing there holding a paper bag that smelled suspiciously good. “So I made sure you didn’t starve today.”
Porsche turned the lock, trying to fight the twitch of his lips. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Probably,” Mile said, handing him the bag. “But at least you won’t be out of food.”
Inside were neatly packed boxes — homemade. Rice, stir-fried vegetables, grilled chicken. Porsche blinked at them, suspicious. “You cooked this?”
Mile shrugged. “My mom taught me. Cooking is like love. You have to stir it gently, or it burns.”
Porsche gave him a long, exasperated stare. “…That was the worst line yet.”
“And yet you’re still holding my food.”
Porsche sighed, defeated. “Fine. But only because I skipped breakfast.”
Mile smiled so wide Porsche had to look away.
Day 5 — Karaoke Night
It was Tong’s idea — drag Porsche out to karaoke to “stop moping like an old man.” Porsche hadn’t expected to find Mile there already, waving wildly from a booth.
“You sing?” Porsche asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Like an angel,” Mile said, then butchered a pop song so badly Porsche nearly cried from laughter.
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Porsche muttered when Mile sat down beside him again, flushed with laughter.
“Worth it,” Mile said, sipping his drink.
“Besides, you’ll remember this moment forever. My voice, your eyes, the way the spotlight made me look like a tragic hero.”
“You sounded like a dying dog.”
“And yet you smiled,” Mile countered, smug.
Porsche realized with horror that he had.
At some point, Mile shoved the mic into Porsche’s hands. “Your turn.”
“No.”
“Yes. Come on. Just one.”
The room erupted in cheers. Reluctantly, Porsche sang — low, rough, not really trying. But when he glanced up, Mile was watching him with a softness that shut out the noise.
For the first time, Porsche’s voice faltered.
Day 6 — The Rain
The downpour started suddenly. Porsche ducked under a shop awning, cursing himself for forgetting an umbrella. A moment later, Mile appeared, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his forehead.
“Did you follow me again?” Porsche asked.
“Follow the rain, find the rainbow,” Mile said, grinning.
“You’re dripping all over the place.”
“Then stand closer. I’ll drip on you instead.”
Porsche rolled his eyes, but when Mile shook his head like a dog and water splattered everywhere, he laughed — really laughed, chest-deep and unguarded.
Mile froze. His grin softened into something tender. He didn’t say anything, just looked at Porsche like he’d found what he’d been chasing all along.
And Porsche, heart racing, looked away first.
Day 7 — The Corny Line
The week had stretched strangely long, filled with moments Porsche couldn’t quite push away. And that evening, as they stood on the rooftop of Porsche’s building, watching the city lights flicker alive, Mile finally said it.
“You know,” he murmured, voice low but steady, “I think I’ve been searching for you my whole life. Like every wrong turn, every missed chance… was just leading me here. To you.”
Porsche groaned, covering his face. “God, that’s so corny.”
“Yeah,” Mile admitted, smiling softly. “But it’s true.”
Silence stretched. The city hummed below. And Porsche realized his chest hurt, but not in a bad way.
Slowly, he lowered his hand, meeting Mile’s eyes. “You’re really not going away, are you?”
“Not unless you kick me out for good.”
Porsche hesitated — then sighed, long and tired, like surrender. “Fine. Stay.”
And when Mile’s face lit up, brighter than all the city lights combined, Porsche thought — maybe, just maybe — this strange week had been worth it.
Some weeks change everything without asking permission.
For Porsche, it was seven days of persistence, laughter, and one man who wouldn’t stop showing up.
For Mile, it was proof that corny lines and stubborn hearts can soften even the sharpest edges.
And for us, maybe, it’s a reminder: sometimes love doesn’t arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it sneaks in, day by day, until you realize you don’t want it to leave.