I check my phone. Again.
7:58 AM.
He’s late.
I cross my arms, tapping my foot against the pavement in front of the hospital entrance. The morning is crisp, the air buzzing with the usual rush—doctors arriving, patients being wheeled in, visitors coming and going. I ignore them all, too busy glaring at my phone.
I knew he would forget.
Which is why I made sure to call him. Seven times.
And send four messages.
And then, for good measure, one last call where I may or may not have yelled into the receiver: "Han Wool, if you make me wait one more second, I’m tattooing ‘Forgetful Idiot’ on your forehead.”
He groaned and hung up, but at least I knew he got the message.
And then—finally—I hear the familiar hum of an expensive engine rolling up the street.
A sleek, black car pulls up in front of me, looking ridiculously out of place among the ordinary sedans and taxis.
The window rolls down, and there he is.
Han Wool, looking bored, sunglasses perched on his nose, one hand lazily gripping the wheel.
“Get in.”
I stare at him. “Get out.”
His head tilts slightly. “…What?”
I nod toward the door. “I said, get out.”
His brows furrow behind his shades. “Why?”
“Because,” I say simply, “I’m driving.”
A laugh bursts out of him, short and incredulous. “You’re what?”
I motion at the car. “You heard me. Get out.”
He shakes his head, leaning against the seat. “Ye Na, this is a Mulliner Batur. Do you even know how much this costs?”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he deadpans. “More than your annual salary for ten years.”
I sigh dramatically, circling to his side of the car.
He watches me warily as I stop right beside the driver’s seat.
Then, with exaggerated slowness, I reach for the door handle.
Han Wool stiffens.
“Ye Na—”
Too late.
I yank the door open, stepping closer, effectively trapping him.
A flicker of surprise crosses his face as I lean slightly down, our faces now uncomfortably close.
“Get out,” I murmur.
Han Wool swallows.
He shifts in his seat, clearly not expecting this approach.
“Ye Na,” he starts, voice lower than usual.
I raise a brow. “Han Wool.”
His jaw tightens, and for a brief second, he looks like he’s considering not moving.
Which, honestly, would be fine—because I will drag him out if necessary.
But then—finally—he exhales sharply.
Muttering something under his breath, he unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out, towering over me for a brief moment.
I smirk up at him, triumphant. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
YOU ARE READING
When the Clock Strikes|Pi Han Ul x Reader|
FanfictionBeak Cheonga never expected much from life. Not love, not warmth-just survival. Adopted into a wealthy family that never truly wanted her, she learned how to exist in the empty spaces between their affection. Transferring from Daehwa High to Yusung...
