⋆｡°✩ [ch.3] For When You Want Me

⋆｡°✩ [ch.3] for when you want me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 2.8k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

The cold Manhattan air gave you a chill as you walked towards the path from East 5th. Swimming through the dozens of people that got to their own businesses for the day, Jay’s business card only felt like burning a hole in your side pocket.

You hadn’t slept.

Not after the bar. Not after you met him.

The card was still there when you woke up—creased from how tightly you’d gripped it, the edges digging into your palm like a guilty secret.

You should’ve thrown it out, yet here it is..

Instead, you found yourself standing outside Yves' Bean Over Eat, the café you and Jay used to haunt during finals week. Back then, the place had been a refuge—scented with overroasted beans and the sharp tang of sharpie ink on disposable cups.

Now, it was polished. Trendy. The kind of place you assumed Naomi would approve of.

"The usual?" The barista—new, unfamiliar—smiled expectantly.

You hesitated.

"...Yeah."

The lie tasted bitter. There was no usual anymore. Not since Jay left. Not since you traded slow mornings for studio call times and press junkets.

Luckily, they got your order right. You took a seat by the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of gray and gold.

Resting your back on the wooden furniture, your phone buzzed.

Mira: Atlas wants you in the studio by 11. New single’s getting pushed up.

You exhaled through your nose.

You: I’m asleep.

Mira: Clearly you’re not.

You: I’m sick?

Mira: Don’t ask me now?

You: Family affair?

Mira: What family?

You: Tell them I’m dead.

Mira: They’ll prop your corpse up on stage with a backing track.

You snorted into your matcha.

Then the bell above the door chimed.

And suddenly, Jay was there.

Blond hair slightly windswept, glasses that fit onto his face so perfectly, and a dark loose turtleneck kept in wraps under a plaid sleeve clung to his shoulders like it was made for him.

At that one second, his eyes locked onto yours, wide with surprise—as if he hadn’t spent the last 24 hours lying awake hoping you’d come.

As if he hadn’t spent the last four years regretting everything.

Slowly, he walked himself up to where you were, hesitant at first to really know if it was really you.

With enough courage to muster, he spoke words like it was his first time doing so.

"H-hey," he said, his voice rough.

Your grip tightened around the cup. "Hi."

Jay hesitated, then slid into the seat across from you. Close enough to touch. Too far to reach.

"...You came."

You shrugged, staring into your matcha. "I like the foam here."

A lie.

Jay knew it.

Somehow, he always did.

His fingers tapped restlessly against the table—a habit he’d never kicked.

"Listen, about last night—"

"Don’t." You cut him off, sharper than intended. "Just… don’t."

Jay flinched.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Outside, a taxi honked. A couple laughed. Life moved on.

Then, softly—

"I miss you."

Your breath hitched.

Jay wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at his hands, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the table. "I know I shouldn’t say that. I know it’s—fuck, it’s selfish. But I do."

The admission hung in the air between you, fragile as spun glass.

You could shatter it with one word.

Instead, you whispered—

"I miss you too."

Jay’s head snapped up, eyes searching yours like he’d misheard. Like he’d dreamed this moment a thousand times and still wasn’t prepared for it.

Then his phone buzzed.

Unknown Caller.

The damage was done.

You stood abruptly, chair screeching against the floor. "I should go."

"Wait—" Jay caught your wrist. His touch was warm. Familiar. "Please."

You froze.

His thumb brushed over your pulse point—once, twice—before he let go. "...Can we try this again? Just… us. For real."

You wanted to say yes.

You wanted to run.

In the end, you did neither.

"I’ll think about it," you murmured.

Jay exhaled, slow and shaky. "Okay."

You left before he could see your hands tremble.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

The studio lights were blinding.

You squinted against them, headphones crushing your skull as the producer’s voice crackled through the intercom.

"One more take. From the bridge."

You clenched your jaw.

This song was garbage.

Poppy, soulless, manufactured—everything you’d sworn you’d never make. But Atlas had quotas. Algorithms. A bottom line that didn’t care about artistic integrity.

You took a breath.

And sang.

The lyrics tasted like ash.

"I’m over you, I’m over us—

don’t need your love, don’t need your touch."

A lie.

The worst kind.

When the track finally ended, you ripped the headphones off, tossing them onto the console.

Mira arched a brow from the corner. "Dramatic, aren’t we?"

"Buzz off," you laughed dryly.

She tossed you a water bottle. "So. Jay."

Your throat closed.

Mira smirked. "You’re worse than a telenovela, you know that?"

"I hate you."

"Liar." She nudged your shoulder. "Talk."

You slumped against the soundproof wall, sliding down until you hit the floor. "...I don’t know what I’m doing."

Mira joined you, stretching her legs out. "Do you want to know?"

That was the problem.

You did.

And it terrified you.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

The call came at 2 AM.

Your phone lit up the darkened bedroom, Unknown Caller flashing across the screen like a ghost.

You stared at it.

Let it ring.

On the last vibration, you picked up.

"Hey." His voice was rough with sleep. Or something else.

"...Hey." You could hear relief at some point by the way he answered you.

A beat. Then—

“Sutton Place, was it?”

Your face crumpled in curiosity. “Say that again?”

"I’m outside."

Your heart stopped.

Slowly, you padded to the window, peeling back the curtain.

There he was.

Leaning against his car, face tipped up toward your townhome. The streetlight caught the gold in his hair, the curve of his jaw.

God did he look so beautiful.

You swallowed hard. "...Why?"

Jay’s breath crackled through the speaker. "Because I can’t stop thinking about you."

Simple. Honest.

Devastating.

You closed your eyes and made your choice.

The predawn air bit at your exposed ankles as you descended the townhouse steps, the wrought iron railing cold under your palm.

Jay stood exactly where you'd seen him from your bedroom window—not under the glow of the streetlamp like some romantic cliché, but half-shadowed where the light didn't quite reach, as if even now he couldn't fully step into the light.

"You came down," he said, voice scraped raw. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to reach for you, like they'd forgotten they weren't allowed to anymore.

You tugged the sleeves of your sweatshirt nervously, fingers curling into the worn fabric. "You called. And here I am, against my better judgment."

A taxi rumbled past, its headlights catching the hollows under his eyes, the new sharpness to his jaw. This Jay was both familiar and foreign—the boy you loved sanded down into a man by time and choices and the kind of regret that carves itself into bone.

The Bentley parked haphazardly behind him gleamed under the streetlights, but neither of you mentioned it. Some truths didn't need saying out loud.

"You shouldn't be here," you said, but your feet stayed rooted to the pavement.

Right there, he can only reciprocate a breath — eyes tracing your tousled hair, and even the worn NYU sweatshirt you’d stolen from him years ago.

You tightened your arms around yourself. "You’re blocking a five-million-dollar driveway, by the way."

Jay snorted, raking a hand through his windswept hair. "Still can’t believe you live here. When I saw the address on your tour rider, I thought it was a typo."

You sighed, knowing full well how he was able to get that kind of information. He was always smart when it came to you and your whereabouts.

“Leah?”

“Sarah, actually.”

“Oh …. that also makes sense.” You laughed it off.

The city air was quiet, almost as if it was drowning you both in the most tender moment between night and dawn.

"Atlas pays well for selling your soul," you said, watching his smile die.

Jay exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "You would say that."

The first time he'd shown up unannounced back at your old dorm, it had been 2 AM after a fight with his father. Now here he was again—your personal ghost, arriving at the most liminal hour between dusk and dawn.

"Let's go somewhere," he said, nodding toward his car.

You could have said no. Should have, probably. But the look in his eyes—that quiet, shattered hope—had always been your undoing.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

The diner was nearly empty, the vinyl booths cracked with age and the air thick with the scent of burnt coffee. You slid into the corner seat—your seat, the one you’d claimed a lifetime ago during late-night study sessions and stolen kisses over shared milkshakes.

Jay paused by the table, his fingers brushing the chipped laminate. "Jesus. They still haven’t replaced these?"

"Some things don’t change," you said, watching as he eased into the seat across from you. The booth was smaller than you remembered. Or maybe you’d just forgotten how close you used to sit.

The waitress—Marge, according to her nametag, though she hadn’t been here last time—dropped two menus on the table without looking up. "Coffee?"

"Please," Jay said.

"Cola." you added. Jay looked at you with concern etched on his features.

Marge grunted and shuffled off, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the tile.

“At three in the morning?”

“You know I stack up Diet every day for this.” You smiled. “That small fridge we had was my lifeline.”

“To this day?” He spat in shock, but not surprised. Almost as if just taken aback of the old habit.

“I mean, I can afford a mean inverter double door refrigerator.” You jest. It is true, you can definitely afford that luxury now.

“I wasn’t talking about the amount of colas you can stack in a fridge.” Jay sighed, your usual bickering setting the tone for the conversation—familiar, easy, the kind of back-and-forth that used to mean something more.

But it didn’t mean that now.

There was no playful shove after, no rolling your eyes just to hide a smile. No lingering glances that said I’m only joking, teasing to see your face crumple so cutely.

Before, this would’ve been the part where you leaned in, just a little, brushing your lips against his cheek before he could finish his next sentence. Before, he would’ve reached under the table, fingers threading through yours like it was nothing, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Now, it was just words. Just two people talking, nothing hiding between the lines.

And that was the worst part—knowing exactly what it wasn’t anymore.

“It’s better than whiskey.” You retorted. Jay can only look at you with a simple gaze.

Jay drummed his fingers against the table — still the nervous habit he’d never kicked.

"So."

"So."

Another silence. The kind that should’ve been awkward but wasn’t. The kind that felt like picking up a conversation you’d only paused.

Jay sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don’t know where to start."

"Try the beginning," you said softly.

He met your gaze then, his dark eyes searching yours. "The beginning’s messy."

You huffed a laugh. "Since when have we ever been squeaky clean?"

Something in his expression fractured. For a second, you thought he might reach across the table. Might bridge the distance with his fingertips like he used to.

Instead, he folded his hands together. "I was wrong."

The words landed like a punch.

"About what?" you asked, though you already knew.

"Everything." Jay’s voice cracked. "The band. The label. You. I thought—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I thought I was protecting you. From the industry. From selling out. From … losing yourself."

Your chest ached. "And instead?"

The words sat there, heavy between you, like waiting for a wound to finally bleed.

"Instead—" He stopped, jaw tightening like the words were sharp in his mouth, like they might cut him on the way out. His voice dropped lower, rough at the edges.

"I lost you."

Just like that. No take-backs, no pretending it didn’t happen.

Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. You could hear his breath, uneven, like he’d been holding it too long. Like he hadn’t meant to say it—or maybe he had, and that was worse.

And there it was, laid out between you: the truth, bare and ugly. With no way to get it back.

Marge returned with your drinks, the mugs landing with a sharp clack against the worn formica. The drinks you’ve ordered sloshed over the rims, bearing no noise as the silence surrounded you. You waited until she’d shuffled off, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the linoleum, before speaking.

"You didn’t lose me," you said, so quiet the words barely carried over the hum of the neon sign outside. "You let me go."

Jay flinched like you’d struck him. His fingers tightened around his mug, knuckles whitening, but he didn’t look up.

Outside, a garbage truck groaned past, its headlights cutting through the diner’s grease-smeared windows. For a second, the light caught the lines around Jay’s eyes—new ones, ones you didn’t recognize.

The clock above the counter ticked, each second louder than the last, marking time you couldn’t get back.

Funny, how everything kept moving. The world didn’t stop just because something broke.

He stared at the chipped mug the waitress dropped in front of him. "I dream about this place," he admitted quietly. "Wake up reaching for you across cold sheets."

Your breath caught. Four years. Four years of radio silence, of carefully curated distance, and he says this like it's nothing. Like the words weren't grenades.

"Why now?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jay's fingers traced along the table napkins he has on the table—around and around in a nervous circle. "Because I saw you play last week. Really play, not that polished Atlas bullshit." His eyes met yours, dark and desperate. "And back at the wedding? You forgot the lyrics to 'Way Back Into Love' again. Just like you always did."

The admission hung between you, fragile as the morning light beginning to creep through the diner's grimy windows.

Jay reached across the table, his fingers hovering just shy of yours. "I thought I finally nailed it and I was doing the right thing. Letting you chase your dreams without me holding you back." His throat worked as he swallowed.

"But watching you up there in person again after all this time—you looked just as trapped as I felt."

The truth of it lodged in your ribs. Atlas's golden cage. The songs you didn't write. The versions of yourself you'd whittled away to fit their mold.

Jay's phone buzzed—once, twice—lighting up with Naomi's name. He didn't reach for it.

"I should go," you said, standing abruptly.

Jay caught your wrist, his grip feather-light. "Please, stay."

Two words. That's all it took for the walls to crumble.

His request hung in the air, simple yet devastating.

The radio in the kitchen crackled to life with your latest hit—all polish and production, nothing like the raw songs you used to write. Then your voice floated through the static, singing lyrics you barely remembered writing. The label had polished every rough edge off that song, sanded it down until it was shiny and hollow. A hit, but not yours. Not really.

Jay’s grip on your wrist tightened slightly, his thumb finding the flutter of your pulse.

"You must hate that song," he murmured.

You swallowed hard. The chorus swelled, saccharine and overproduced. "I hate most of them now."

Jay stood slowly, his free hand lifting—hovering near your cheek, close enough that you felt the warmth of his palm but not the touch. Waiting. Always waiting for your permission, even now.

The diner’s door chimed as another customer entered, the bell jangling. A gust of cold morning air rushed in, carrying the smell of the city streets and exhaust. Neither of you moved.

"Call me," you whispered, pulling away. Your voice barely carried over the radio. "This time, when you’re really ready to talk about … us."

You stepped out into the dawn, the weight of his gaze following you like a second shadow. Behind you, the phone buzzed again—persistent, impatient.

You didn’t look back.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — THIRD ONE OUT!!1 ive got a week off and i'm sooo gonna rest, but ofc i an't forget my duty as a humble writer, and so here it is!! the third chapter ... oooh fascinating developments~ we'll see how it boils down!!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — tagging @kaiyunsim @firstclassjaylee @ryes-brownies08

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

legacy masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘