krissie

The shift was supposed to be quiet. Since the Monday evenings on campus cafe is usually very quiet and empty, you often find yourself doing your assignments on the shift. No one came in the last one hour, so you were sitting deeply invested in your statistics homework. That was your first mistake.

The door swung open, bell ringing violently as a group of tall, loud guys poured into the cafe like they owned it. Sweat, laughter, the squeak of sneakers against tile.

Basketball team. Obviously.

You didn’t even look up as you called out, “Hello, please order at the self checkout kiosk.”

None of them acknowledged your presence or greeted you back. You rolled your eyes as they were talking loudly, laughing and hitting each other like elementary school students.

One of them leaned over the counter anyway.

“Hey, can we get...”

“No,” you said flatly. “we only take orders through the machine over here”

A pause. Then a laugh deep, rough, unmistakably amused.

You looked up.

He was big. Broad shoulders, messy hair still damp, deep blue hoodie half zipped, eyes sharp and a little too confident. He stared at you like you were interesting instead of irritating.

“Wow,” he said. “Didn’t know customer service came with attitude.”

You smiled sweetly. “Didn’t know basketball players came with short temper.”

His teammates lost it.

“Gotak she got you.”

“Bro, that was clean.”

His jaw tightened.

“What’s your problem?” he asked.

“My problem,” you replied calmly, “is six grown men yelling in my cafe.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Then quit.”

You met his gaze, unflinching.

“Or you could behave like adults.”

Something sparked in his eyes, annoyance mixed with something else.

He straightened slowly, like he’d decided not to bite back yet.

“Adults, huh,” he said, clicking his tongue. “You talk a lot for someone working alone. The customers are waiting.”

You shut your notebook with a soft thud and turned, meeting him eye to eye across the counter. Up close, he was even more irritating, too tall, too broad, too aware of it.

“And you’re loud for someone who can’t read a sign,” you replied, pointing behind him. SELF CHECKOUT ONLY was printed in bold letters.

One of his teammates snorted.

“Hyung, she’s right.”

Another added, “Just use the machine, man.”

He didn’t look away from you.

“Now please go stand in line like the rest of your friends.”

A beat. Then laughter exploded behind him.

“Damn, Gotak, she’s scary.”

“Is she your girlfriend already?”

He shot them a glare sharp enough to cut glass. Silence followed instantly.

Gotak exhaled through his nose and stepped back, muttering, “Unbelievable,” as he turned toward the kiosk.

You sat back down, heart thudding harder than you wanted to admit.

Ten minutes later, the printer beeped.

You stood, grabbed the tray, and called out, “Americano. One protein bar.”

Gotak walked over, took the cup and frowned.

“…This is iced.”

You blinked. “You ordered iced.”

“I said hot.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

You stared at him. He stared back. The air tightened.

From behind him, one of his friends whispered, far too loudly,

“Hyung, you definitely clicked iced.”

Gotak’s ears went red.

You tilted your head, lips curving. “Want to apologize to the machine too?”

For a second, you thought he might actually snap. Instead, he grabbed the cup, took a long sip, then grimaced. “Whatever.”

He paused, then added, quieter, “It’s fine.”

You didn’t know why that surprised you.

As he turned to leave, one teammate lingered behind, a taller guy with a friendly grin and zero shame.

“Hey,” he said, nodding toward you. “I’m Baku. Sorry about him. He’s a bit grumpy today.”

You glanced at Gotak’s back, then back at Baku. “I noticed.”

Baku laughed. “See you around?”

“Probably,” you said.

Gotak shot Baku a look. “Move.”

They left in a rush of noise and sneakers, the bell ringing violently again.

The cafe fell quiet.

You stared at the door for a second longer than necessary, then shook your head and reopened your statistics notes.

Great, you thought.

Another campus menace.

You didn’t know yet that this wouldn’t be the last time you saw him. Not even close.

Few days passed since that evening. Your life was going normally as usual. School, part time job, home and repeat again and again. 

But for last few days you barely slept.

Between rehearsing your slides in your head and triple checking your notes, your alarm felt like it went off the moment you closed your eyes. Still, you got up, showered, and dressed with the kind of care that made your stomach twist.

Black blazer. White blouse. Pressed slacks. Hair neat. Minimal makeup.

You looked… professional. Exactly the way your professor demanded.

Forty percent of your grade, you reminded yourself as you stepped out onto campus. Just get through today.

The hallway outside the lecture building was busy. People were rushing, laughing, cutting through crowds without looking.

You hugged your laptop to your chest and kept walking while repeating your speech in your head. That was your second mistake.

“Yo, pass it!”

Something collided with you hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.

You stumbled back a step as a splash of cold liquid spread across your chest.

You froze. Slowly, horrifically, you looked down.

Iced coffee. Brown. Soaking into your white blouse.

“No,” you whispered.

“No, no, no”

“Oh... shit.”

That voice.

You looked up.

The rude basketball player from that night stood in front of you, eyes wide, cup still tilted in his hand like he couldn’t believe what just happened. He was laughing with his friends a second ago. Now he looked… genuinely stunned.

“Watch where you’re going!” you snapped, panic and fury crashing together.

“I was...” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “You walked right into me.”

“I was walking,” you shot back. “You were running like a child!”

One of his friends burst out laughing behind him.

“Hyung, you killed her outfit.”

Gotak shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

You pressed your laptop tighter to your chest, heat burning behind your eyes.

“This is a presentation,” you said, voice shaking despite yourself. “A formal one.”

He looked down again, really looked this time. The blazer. The blouse. The spreading stain.

His brows knit together.

“…You serious?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m serious!” you hissed. “Do you think I dress like this for fun?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His friends shifted awkwardly, the humor draining from the situation.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said finally, lower now. “I’ll...”

“You’ll what?” you cut in. “Unspill it?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again. Ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I’m late,” you said, stepping past him. “Thanks. Really.”

You walked away before he could say anything else.

You locked yourself in the nearest bathroom stall and stared at the stain like it might disappear if you glared hard enough.

It didn’t. You dabbed at it with wet paper towels. It only spread.

Your phone buzzed. A text from your teammate.

"You coming? You know you have to be here 10 minutes before the presentation starts, right?"

Your throat tightened. Get it together, you told yourself.

You straightened your blazer, took a deep breath, and went to class anyway.

You were already standing at the front of the room when the door opened.

Your professor glanced up sharply. “No one should step into this classroom after me.”

“Sorry,” a familiar voice muttered. Your heart sank.

Gotak slipped into the back row, basketball jacket thrown over one shoulder. His eyes flicked up and landed on you.

Recognition hit. Then his gaze dropped to the stain. His expression changed instantly.

You didn't know at the time that Gotak followed after you to your class (while skipping his own one) to explain the incident from earlier if your professor points out your coffee stained outfit.

You turned away, face burning, and began your presentation.

Your voice was steady. Your slides were clean. You answered questions clearly.

Still, you felt it the weight of eyes, the whisper of judgment, the humiliation crawling under your skin.

When you finished, the professor nodded once. “You may sit.”

As you walked back to your seat, you risked a glance toward the back.

He was watching you. His jaw was clenched, his posture stiff, guilt written all over his face.

When class ended, you packed up quickly, determined to leave before he could say anything.

Too late.

“Hey,” he said, stepping into your path. “Wait.”

You stopped but didn’t look at him.

“I said I’m sorry,” he added, quieter now. “I really am.”

You finally met his eyes.

“Apologies don’t fix grades,” you said flatly.

Something in his expression faltered.

“…Let me make it up to you,” he said.

You laughed once, humorless. “You can’t.”

He hesitated. “At least let me try.”

You studied him for a second, really studied him.

Then you sighed.

“This isn’t over,” you said, stepping past him again.

And for the first time since you met him, he didn’t talk back. He stood there for a second after you passed him, fingers curling at his sides like he wanted to grab the words back and redo them properly.

“Hey,” he called again, not as sharp this time. “At least...”

You didn’t stop.

So he lets you go.

The rest of the day blurred together.

You replayed the presentation in your head over and over, every slide, every pause, every question you answered, trying to convince yourself the stain hadn’t mattered. Trying to believe the professor hadn’t noticed. Trying not to feel the humiliation simmering under your skin.

By the time your cafe shift rolled around that evening, exhaustion sat heavy in your bones.

Monday nights were quiet. Too quiet.

You wiped down the counter slowly, glancing at the door out of habit.

He won’t come back, you told yourself. Why would he? And why am I expecting him anyways?

The bell rang.

You closed your eyes for half a second before looking up.

Gotak stood there alone this time. No teammates. No noise. Just a navy hoodie, backpack slung over one shoulder, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets.

He hesitated when he saw you, like he wasn’t sure if walking in had been a mistake.

“…Hey,” he said.

You straightened, professional mask snapping into place. “Self checkout’s over there.”

He winced. “Yeah. I know.”

He didn’t move right away. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I didn’t skip class to mess with you earlier.”

You paused. “That’s not comforting,” you said, flat.

“I skipped it,” he continued stubbornly, “because if your professor said something about the stain, I was gonna explain. That it was my fault.”

Your hand tightened around the cloth you were holding.

“And if he didn’t?” you asked.

“Then I’d shut up,” he replied. “Which I did.”

You finally looked at him.

His jaw was tight, eyes serious, not defensive, not annoyed. Just… sincere. Uncomfortable with it, but sincere.

“…Why?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged, then immediately scowled like he hated himself for doing it. “Because it was my fault.”

You turned away, pretending to reorganize the cups. “You already apologized.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m bad at saying things right.”

“That’s obvious.”

A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. He walked to the kiosk, ordered, then lingered by the counter instead of waiting at a table.

“So,” he said after a moment. “Did it… go okay?”

You hesitated.

“…I think so,” you admitted. “I won’t know until grades are out.”

He nodded slowly, absorbing that. “Good.”

The printer beeped.

You slid his cup toward him without comment.

“…Thanks,” he said, then paused. “For not throwing it at me.”

You huffed a quiet laugh before you could stop yourself.

He caught it. His eyes softened just a little.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said again, gentler now. “Not today. Not like that. Just… eventually.”

You studied him over the counter. Still loud. Still annoying. Still the guy who spilled coffee on your blouse and nearly wrecked your morning.

But also the guy who followed you to class without being asked. Who stood in the back like a silent apology.

“…We’ll see,” you said.

Gotak nodded once, like he understood exactly what that meant.

He lingered by the counter, shifting his weight like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself now that the apology was out there.

Silence stretched.

“…I never said my name,” he muttered.

You glanced up briefly, noncommittal. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. Just I caught your name from the slides earlier” He scratched the back of his neck anyway. "And it's weird if only I know your name.”

You waited.

“Go Hyuntak,” he said. “Most people call me Gotak.”

The name clicked instantly, his teammates yelling it, the way it carried authority without him trying.

“Okay,” you replied. “Gotak.”

Something in his expression shifted at that. Just a quiet acknowledgment.

“…Nice to meet you,” he said, a beat late, like the words didn’t come naturally.

You raised an eyebrow. “We’ve met twice already.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Didn’t go great.”

A small pause.

“I play basketball,” he added, gesturing vaguely to himself. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”

You snorted despite yourself. “I gathered.”

He exhaled, relieved, and picked up his cup. “I won’t bother you tonight.”

“That would be great,” you said lightly.

He huffed a laugh short, surprised and headed toward the door. Before leaving, he stopped and looked back.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, quieter now, “you didn’t deserve that this morning.”

Then he left, the bell chiming softly behind him.

You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, fingers resting against the counter.

Go Hyuntak.

Great, you thought. Now he has a name. And somehow, that made everything more complicated.

The bell rang again the next evening.

You didn’t look up right away.

“Hello. Self checkout’s over there,” you said out of habit, eyes still on the register screen.

“…Yeah. I know.”

You paused.

That voice again. You looked up.

Gotak stood just inside the cafe, alone, hoodie zipped up this time, backpack hanging off one shoulder. He wasn’t loud or grinning. Wasn’t surrounded by chaos.

He looked awkward yet excited.

“Oh,” you said. “You.”

He nodded once. “Me.”

A beat passed.

Then he turned and walked straight to the kiosk, tapping the screen with far more focus than necessary. You watched from behind the counter as he frowned at the options like they’d personally offended him.

The printer beeped.

You tore off the receipt. “Americano. Iced.”

He glanced over. “I didn’t...”

“You did,” you cut in calmly.

He sighed. “Figures.”

When you slid the cup across the counter, his fingers brushed the lid by accident. He pulled his hand back immediately, like he’d touched something hot.

“…Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, neutral.

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he hovered near the counter, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. You wiped down the surface slowly, waiting him out.

“So,” he said eventually. “You always work on Mondays and Tuesdays?”

“Usually.”

He nodded, filing that away. “Makes sense. It’s quiet.”

“It is,” you agreed. “Until it isn’t.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. Before either of you could say more, the door flew open.

Noise flooded in. Sneakers, laughter and familiar voices.

“Oh! There she is!”

Baku spotted you instantly, grinning like he’d just found something shiny. “Yo! Cafe boss!”

You blinked. “Hi?”

Gotak closed his eyes. “I told you idiots to wait.”

“Relax,” Baku said, already leaning on the counter. “We’re just grabbing drinks.”

Another teammate nudged Gotak. “Hyung, is this the scary girl you told us about?”

“I didn’t say scary,” Gotak snapped.

“You implied it,” Baku said cheerfully.

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m standing right here.”

Baku beamed. “See? Terrifying.”

Gotak groaned and turned away, rubbing his face. “Order and leave.”

They didn’t. Instead, they crowded around the kiosk, arguing loudly about protein shakes and caffeine limits, completely ignoring the line they were creating out of thin air.

“Guys,” you said evenly. “One at a time.”

Baku glanced at Gotak, impressed. “Wow. She’s got authority.”

Gotak muttered, “Told you.”

The orders went out. The team filtered toward a table near the window, still loud but at least seated.

Gotak lingered again.

“I should go,” he said. “Before they get worse.”

“Good call.”

He hesitated, then added, “See you.”

Not tomorrow or later. Just see you.

You nodded once.

“Yeah.”

The next day, you nearly ran into him in the hallway. Literally. You both stopped short at the same time.

“Oh sorry,” you said automatically.

“Yeah,” he replied, just as quick. An awkward half second passed. Students streamed around you like water around rocks.

“Uh,” he said, gesturing behind him. “I’ve got practice.”

“I’m heading to the library.”

“Right.”

Another pause.

Then Baku’s voice echoed down the hall. “HYUNTAK! WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO YOUR CRUSH WITHOUT ME?”

Gotak spun around. “SHUT UP.”

You kept walking, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

After studying at the library for two hours your phone buzzed.

Sis: are you on campus rn

You: unfortunately

Sis: good. i’m outside the gym. come save me

You sighed, already turning on your heel.

When you reached the gym entrance, you spotted her immediately, arms crossed, expression unimpressed. In front of her stood a very familiar tall guy, animated hands, loud voice, zero shame.

“…so yeah,” Baku was saying, grinning, “I don’t usually do this, but you seem cool, and I was thinking maybe coffee? Or dinner? Or both?”

Your sister stared at him. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” he said proudly.

She glanced past him and locked eyes with you. Help me.

Before you could step in, another presence slid into your peripheral vision.

Gotak.

He stopped short when he saw you, then looked between Baku and your sister like he’d walked into the wrong scene.

“…What are you doing,” he muttered.

Baku turned. “Oh! Gotak. Perfect timing. This is...”

“Don’t,” Gotak said flatly.

Your sister raised an eyebrow. “Is he always like this?”

“Unfortunately,” you said, deadpan.

Gotak glanced at you. Then away. “You know her?”

“She’s my sister,” your sister answered before you could, sticking her hand out toward Baku. “And you’re…?”

“BAKU,” he said immediately, shaking her hand way too enthusiastically. “Basketball. Business major. Extremely single.”

Gotak groaned. “You didn’t need to add that.”

“Yes, I did,” Baku replied. “Transparency builds trust.”

Your sister laughed despite herself.

You noticed Gotak notice it. He shifted his weight, jaw tight, eyes flicking between them like he was calculating damage control.

“So,” your sister said, pulling her hand back, “do you flirt with every girl who stands still long enough?”

Baku blinked. “Only the pretty ones.”

She stared at him for a second.

“…Bold,” she decided.

“Is that a yes?” he asked hopefully.

“It’s a ‘you’re weird,’” she said. “But not in a bad way.”

Baku beamed like he’d just won a championship.

Gotak leaned closer to you, voice low. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” you asked.

“For him.”

You huffed a quiet laugh before you could stop it.

He caught it. Noticed it. Didn’t comment but something eased in his shoulders.

Your sister checked her phone. “I have to go. You coming?”

“In a second,” you said. She walked off anyway.

Baku watched her go, dreamy. “I think she likes me.”

Gotak snorted. “She doesn’t.”

“She laughed.”

“She pitied you.”

Baku ignored him and turned to you. “Your sister’s cool.”

“She knows,” you replied.

An awkward pause followed as Baku finally took the hint and jogged to the gym.

That left you and Gotak standing there, the noise of the gym spilling out around you.

“…So,” he said.

“So,” you echoed.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Your presentation...”

You tensed instinctively.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” he added quickly. “I just heard some girls from my English class talking about it after.”

“…Okay.”

“They said you did good,” he continued. “Like. Really good.”

You hadn’t expected that.

“Oh,” you said. “Thanks.”

He nodded once, satisfied, as if he had checked something off the list.

Awkward silence stretched between you two again.

“I’ll see you around,” he said eventually.

“Yeah.”

He took a step back, then hesitated. “Uh. Good luck. With… everything.”

You smiled for real.

“Thanks, Gotak.”

He froze for half a second at his name.

Then nodded and walked away, hands in his pockets, ears just a little red.

You watched him disappear into the crowd and exhaled.

It's kind of fascinating how often you run into each other. Maybe you always did and passed without acknowledging each other's presence.

Now that you know him, his name and the fact that he will be out somewhere in the campus, you somehow want to wander around the campus a little longer.

The gym was loud in that specific way that made your chest vibrate, sneakers squealing, whistles sharp, the bass of the crowd rolling like a wave. You hadn’t planned on coming. Your sister had.

“Come on,” she’d said, already pulling you by the wrist. “You’ve been holed up all week. And the basketball team’s actually good this year.”

You sat halfway up the bleachers, jackets folded on your laps, knees brushing because the place was packed. Your sister leaned forward, elbows on her thighs, scanning the court like she was looking for someone. You noticed. Of course you did.

Then the team ran out.

You didn’t mean to look for him. Your eyes just… landed there.

Go Hyuntak. Gotak was impossible to miss. Broad shoulders stretching his jersey, jaw set, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was already irritated at something. He clapped once, hard, shouting something you couldn’t hear. The sound carried anyway.

Your sister nudged you. “Isn’t that the guy from the...?”

You groaned. “Don’t.”

“He’s kinda”

“Don’t,” you repeated, but you were smiling despite yourself.

The game started too fast. Gotak played like everything was personal, driving hard into the paint, stealing passes with a sharpness that made the crowd gasp. Every time he scored, the bleachers erupted. Every time someone fouled him, he argued like his life depended on it, veins standing out in his neck.

He was hot headed. You’d been right.

Somewhere in the second quarter, you noticed another presence, louder, flashier. Number eight. Big grin, constant trash talk, blowing exaggerated kisses toward the stands after a clean three pointer.

Baku.

You felt your sister stiffen beside you.

“Oh my god,” she muttered.

You followed her line of sight. Baku was waving. Not generally. Specifically at her.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled something. You couldn’t hear the words, but the intent was painfully obvious. Your sister dropped her face into her hands.

“I hate him,” she said. “Why does he keep doing that?”

“You don’t hate him,” you said dryly. “You’re just mad it’s working.”

She shot you a look. “Shut up.”

On the court, Gotak noticed. You saw it happen for the split second glance toward the bleachers, the way his mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh. He shoulder checked Baku as they reset, muttering something that made Baku cackle and almost miss the inbound.

The crowd roared.

By halftime, your throat hurt from cheering. You hadn’t realized you were doing it until Gotak sank a brutal layup through contact and you were on your feet, shouting his name like you’d been doing it your whole life.

He looked up then straight at you just for a moment.

It wasn’t a smile. Not really. Just the corner of his mouth lifting, like he’d clocked something interesting and filed it away for later.

Your stomach flipped, sharp and unwelcome.

Your sister leaned close. “He saw you.”

“I know,” you said, too quickly.

The second half was messier. Fouls, shoving, tempers flaring. At one point Gotak nearly got a technical, chest to chest with an opponent, Baku dragging him back by the jersey and yelling, “Bro, relax! She’s watching!”

You nearly choked.

When the final buzzer went and their team won by six, the gym exploded. Music blared. People poured down toward the court.

Baku, sweat soaked and grinning, jogged straight toward the bleachers.

“Hey!” he called, stopping in front of you. He pointed at your sister like he’d finally found Waldo. “You came.”

She crossed her arms. “You play better when you’re not busy flirting with strangers.”

“Ouch,” he said, hand to his chest. “See, Gotak? She’s mean to me.”

Gotak came up behind him, towel slung around his neck, breathing heavy. Up close, he smelled like sweat and detergent and adrenaline.

“Don’t drag me into your mess,” he said, then glanced at you. “You two enjoy the game?”

You nodded. “You almost got thrown out.”

He huffed a laugh. “Worth it.”

Your eyes met again. Closer now. Something unspoken pressing between the noise and the heat and the fact that this definitely wasn’t the last time you’d run into each other.

After that day, It started quietly. Too quietly to call it flirting.

Gotak begins showing up on your shifts. Not every day, only Mondays and Tuesdays, just often enough to feel intentional. Always around the time the campus cafe slows down, when the espresso machine sighs instead of screams.

He orders the same thing every time. Iced Americano, no syrup.

He sits at the same table in the corner. Back to the wall with his laptop open, notebook beside it, basketball bag at his feet like he doesn’t quite trust the world not to steal it.

At first, you pretend it’s coincidence. By the third week, it’s not.

“You work late,” he says one night, glancing at the clock as you wipe down the counter.

“Home is close, so not a huge problem,” you reply.

He shrugs. “Someone’s gotta walk you home.”

You freeze for half a second. Long enough for your heart to misbehave.

It becomes a routine. Homework silence broken by small things, for instance him complaining about group projects, you venting about professors who think deadlines are suggestions for suffering. Sometimes he waits. Sometimes he doesn’t. When he does, he walks you back to home like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The tension creeps in sideways.

His knee brushing yours under the table when the cafe is empty. The way he hands you your jacket instead of tossing it.

How he remembers you are not liking the people from your group project and brings you a canned peach drink without being asked.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says, simple. “I want to.”

That’s the problem.

Your sister notices before you say anything.

“He likes you,” she declares, spoon paused mid air.

“He’s just nice,” you argue.

She snorts. “He glares at men who look at you for more than three seconds.”

You choke on your drink.

It’s stupid. You know it is. But you start letting yourself imagine things. Him asking you out properly. A date that isn’t just studying side by side. His hand warm around yours instead of hovering a respectful inch away.

The cafe closes late, and Gotak waits like usual, leaning against the brick wall outside with his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t say anything when you lock up. He just falls into step beside you, matching your pace without trying.

You’ve walked this route together enough times now that the silence feels comfortable, familiar and most importantly safe.

“You eat?” he asks halfway down the path.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

That’s it. That’s the conversation.

You reach the corner where your paths split. He slows.

“Text me when you get in,” he says, casual like it’s nothing.

“I will.”

You do.

He always replies with a single 👍 or good. Then goodnight.

That’s how it’s been.

So when you see him again later that week, you’re not expecting it to hurt.

You’re crossing campus with your sister, arms linked, complaining about an assignment, when she stops short.

“Oh,” she says. “Isn’t that your man?”

You follow her gaze.

Gotak is near the gym entrance, standing off to the side like he’s waiting for someone. His hoodie is zipped up, backpack slung low, posture tense.

Then a girl approaches him. She’s smiling in a comfortable that doesn’t need permission.

You slow without realizing it. Your sister keeps walking, not noticing. You let your arm slip from hers.

“Go on,” you say quietly. “I’ll catch up.”

She nods, distracted, and disappears into the crowd.

You stay where you are. Half hidden behind a column. Close enough to see, far enough not to be seen.

The girl says something you can’t hear.

Gotak exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. He looks tired but not annoyed, just worn down.

She steps closer.

You tell yourself you’re overthinking it.

Then she reaches for him just… naturally. She wraps her arms around his waist like she’s done it before.

Gotak just stands there. Your breath catches.

He doesn’t hug her back. But he doesn’t move away either.

She says something again, quieter this time, face tilted up toward him. Her hand presses flat against his chest and starts leaning toward him on her tiptoes.

You don’t wait for the rest.

You turn away before your eyes can betray you, heart pounding so hard it makes you dizzy.

You don’t see him step back. Don’t hear him say her name sharply. Don’t hear the edge in his voice when he tells her to stop.

All you know is what it looked like. And that’s enough.

You don’t tell anyone. Even your sister, your friends and not even yourself, really.

You just… adjust.

You switch your cafe shifts to earlier ones on different days. You tell your manager it’s for academic reasons. It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Gotak shows up on a Monday and doesn’t see you. He checks the schedule on the wall.

Shows up Tuesday. Still nothing.

By the third time, he asks.

“Did she quit?” he says, frowning at the barista.

She shrugs. “Nah. Different shifts now.”

His chest tightens. He texts you.

"hey. didn’t see you this week."

"yeah, my schedule changed." you reply hours later.

"oh okay."

He tries again. Shows up earlier. Stays later. Misses part of practice once and gets chewed out for it.

After two weeks, he finally catches you restocking cups one afternoon.

“Hey,” he says, relief flashing across his face before he can stop it.

You barely look at him. “Hi.”

“You’ve been… busy,” he says carefully.

“Yeah.”

Silence stretches.

“I did something wrong?” he says eventually. Not accusing, just tired.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Then what...”

“I should get back to work,” you interrupt, already stepping past him.

That’s when he knows you don't want him around you. That's when he knows he lost you but not knowing when and what went wrong.

And not knowing why hurts worse than anything else.

Baku figures it out last which is impressive, honestly.

“Okay,” he says one day, sitting between you and your sister in the library like he belongs there. “So something happened.”

“No it didn’t,” you say.

“It absolutely did,” your sister adds.

Baku grins. “See? Teamwork.”

You glare at him. “Go away.”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully. “Because Gotak’s been miserable, and you’ve been weird, and I refuse to believe that’s a coincidence.”

Your sister watches you closely. “You saw something, didn’t you?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t answer.

That’s answer enough.

Baku leans back, hands behind his head. “By any chance, was it a girl?”

You freeze.

“…What girl?” your sister asks.

Baku groans. “Oh my god, you didn’t know? I think I told you about it when we were going to that...”

“Shut up. Know what?” she presses.

“That Gotak’s ex transferred back this semester,” Baku says. “The one who dumped him for that baseball player right before finals last year?”

Your chest twists.

“She tried to get back together with him,” Baku continues. “He shut that down.”

You laugh weakly. “That’s not what it looked like.”

Baku sits up. “What did you see?”

You hesitate. Then, quietly, “I saw her hug him. Then leaning for a kiss... And he didn’t stop her.”

Your sister’s eyes soften immediately. Baku swears under his breath.

“He froze,” Baku says. “He always does when she pulls that crap.”

“That’s not better,” you whisper.

“No,” your sister says gently. “But it’s not what you think either.”

Baku leans forward. “He told her no. Immediately after.”

Your heart stutters.

“Maybe you ran without seeing the whole thing,” Baku says, stating a fact

Silence crashes down.

Your sister reaches for your hand. “You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want it to be real,” you admit.

"Can we stop talking about it?" you stand up, grabbing your water bottle.

After you went to refill your water bottle, Baku exhales. “Okay. New plan.”

Your sister blink. “What plan?”

He grins. “We fix this.” Your sister nods. “Together.”

Somewhere across campus, Gotak sits alone on a bench, phone in his hands, staring at a text he’s typed and erased five times.

He has no idea but help is finally on the way.

You don’t know it yet, but the next Thursday is doomed the moment your sister insists on dragging you to dinner.

“Baku invited us,” she says, already slipping on her shoes.

“That’s suspicious,” you mutter from the couch.

“He invited me,” she corrects, not looking at you. “You’re collateral.”

You narrow your eyes. “You hate basketball boys.”

“I hate loud ones,” she says lightly. “He’s… loud in a manageable way.” That alone is concerning.

By the time you realize you’re being set up, it’s too late.

The restaurant is just off campus. Small and warm. It's the kind of place people go when they want to talk without being overheard.

Baku is already there when you arrive, standing up from the round table that's too big for two people to pull out chairs like he’s auditioning to be someone’s decent boyfriend.

He grins when he sees your sister. Not his usual over the top grin but in a softer, quieter way. He hands her a menu before she even sits.

You clock it immediately. Since when does he do that?

“Hey,” he says to you, casually.

“Hi,” you reply, suspicious.

Your sister sits beside him without thinking. Their knees brush. Neither of them move away. Interesting.

“So,” Baku says, once you’ve ordered. “Funny story.”

“No,” you say immediately.

He laughs. “Just wait.”

You don’t have to wait long. The door opens.

You know it’s him before you see him.

The air shifts just enough to make your chest tighten. You look up on instinct.

Gotak freezes in the doorway.

He’s wearing a hoodie you recognize. The one he used to walk you home in. His eyes sweep the room, land on Baku, then... On you.

For half a second, he looks like he’s been punched.

“…What?” he mutters.

Baku raises his hand cheerfully. “Hey, man! Over here.”

Gotak’s jaw tightens. 

You don’t look away. You can’t.

Your sister glances between you two, then smoothly reaches for her water like nothing is wrong.

“Sit,” Baku says. “Food’s good.”

Gotak hesitates. You almost hope he won’t.

He sits across from you anyways. The table suddenly feels very small.

For a while, no one says anything meaningful. Small talk fills the space, classes, practice, a joke about Baku getting fouled too easily.

Your sister laughs at something Baku says, leaning closer without realizing it. Her hand rests briefly on his arm. He stills like it matters.

You notice. Gotak notices too. His eyes flick to them, then back to you.

“You changed your shifts,” he says quietly.

You stiffen. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Baku opens his mouth. Your sister kicks him under the table.

“Gotak,” she says evenly, “maybe...”

“No,” he cuts in, not raising his voice. “I want to hear it from her.”

Silence drops like a held breath.

You stare at your plate. “I told you. School.”

“That’s not all of it.”

You look up then. “Why does it matter?”

His hands curl slightly on the table. “Because you stopped looking at me.”

Your heart stutters.

“That’s not...”

“Two weeks,” he continues, controlled but fraying. “Two weeks of pretending I don’t exist, and I don’t even know what I did.”

Baku shifts uncomfortably. “Okay, maybe this isn’t...”

“I saw you,” you say suddenly.

Gotak stills.

“…Saw me?”

Your voice is steady. It surprises you. “By the gym with her.”

The realization hits him instantly. “Oh,” he says. Then softer, “Oh.”

“You two seemed so close,” you continue, words tumbling now that they’ve started. “She leaned in. And you didn’t stop her.”

“I did,” he says immediately.

“You didn’t,” you snap, louder than you meant to. A few heads turn. You lower your voice. “I was right there.”

His brows knit together. “You were?”

“Yes.”

He exhales sharply, frustration flashing across his face. “Maybe you left before...”

“I didn’t want to watch.”

“I told her no,” he says. “Right after.”

You shake your head. “That’s not what it looked like.”

“I froze,” he admits. “For a second. Even though she hurt me, she's still a woman. I can't just shove her off.”

“That second mattered.”

Silence stretches.

Your sister reaches for Baku’s hand under the table. You catch it out of the corner of your eye. He squeezes back without thinking. They really are a team now.

Gotak’s voice softens. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

You swallow. “Because I didn’t want the answer.”

He looks at you like that hurts worse than the misunderstanding.

“I wait for you,” he says quietly. “I walk you home. I sit in that stupid cafe just to be near you. Do you really think I’d be doing that if I was with someone else?”

You don’t answer. Because part of you already knows.

Baku clears his throat. “Okay. I’m gonna take your sister to the bathroom.”

She gives him a look. “I don’t need...”

“Bathroom,” he insists, standing and pulling her gently with him.

She sighs but goes, shooting you an encouraging look over her shoulder.

And then it’s just the two of you.

Gotak leans forward slightly. “I didn’t push her away immediately because I was tired. Not because I wanted her.”

Your throat tightens.

“She hurt me,” he adds. “You didn’t.”

That lands. Hard.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “But you could’ve told me.”

“I was scared,” you admit. “I was already letting myself want things.”

He nods slowly. “Me too.”

Baku and your sister return a moment later. “Okay,” Baku says, clapping his hands softly. “We done yelling?”

No one answers.

"I think it's better if we just leave them alone, right?" your sister says looking at Baku. They left in a second.

Gotak stands. “Walk with me.”

It’s not a question.

You hesitate, then stand too.

The night air is cool enough to sober you up from the warmth of the restaurant. Streetlights stretch long shadows across the sidewalk, and the city feels gentler at this hour, quieter, like it’s giving the two of you space.

Gotak walks beside you, close but not crowding. His hands are in his jacket pockets again, shoulders relaxed in a way you don’t remember seeing before.

“You didn’t have to walk me all the way,” you say, even though you slow your steps just a little.

“I know,” he answers. A pause. Then, softer, “I want to.”

There it is again. That same simple sincerity. It still makes your chest feel strange.

You walk in silence for a bit, the comfortable kind this time. The kind that doesn’t ask to be filled.

“I was really nervous earlier,” he admits suddenly.

You glance at him. “You? You barely talked.”

“Exactly,” he says dryly. “That’s how bad it was.”

You laugh, and he smiles like he caused it on purpose.

“I kept thinking I’d mess it up,” he continues. “Say something wrong. Push too hard. Or not enough.”

You stop at a crosswalk, the light still red. He stops too, turning to face you properly. The city noise fades into background static.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he says, serious again. “About wanting to do this right.”

You hold his gaze. “Okay.”

A beat. Then, quieter, “I don’t really know what right looks like. I just know I don’t want to lose you again.”

Your breath catches. “You didn’t lose me.”

“I did,” he says. “Even if it wasn’t on purpose.”

The light changes, but neither of you moves.

“I should’ve asked,” you say. “I should’ve trusted you enough to talk to you.”

“Yeah,” he agrees gently. “But next time, we will.”

Next time. The words settle warmly between you.

You start walking again, fingers brushing. He hesitates for half a second, just long enough for you to notice and then... laces his fingers with yours. His hand is warm, steady and grounding.

You squeeze back.

When you reach your building, you linger by the entrance, neither of you quite ready to end the night.

“So,” you say, rocking back on your heels. “This was… a date.”

His mouth quirks. “Not an official one.”

“And you’re going to ask me out officially?” you tease.

He steps closer, voice low. “I was hoping you’d let me.”

You smile up at him. “I will.”

Relief flashes across his face, unguarded and real. “Good.”

He walks you to the door, waits while you unlock it. You turn back to him before going inside.

“Text me when you get home,” you say.

He grins. “I always do.”

You hesitate, then lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s brief, sweet but when you pull back, his ears are bright red and he looks like he forgot how to breathe.

“Goodnight, Gotak.”

“Goodnight,” he manages, still stunned.

You go inside with a lightness in your chest you haven’t felt in a long time.

Sieun got into one of the most prestigious schools in the country with perfect grades, flawless exam scores, exactly where everyone expected him to end up. What he didn’t expect was how quiet everything would feel once he got there.

Since the friend group is a mix of a bunch of different personalities with different priorities, everyone started their own journey after high school.

Suho threw himself into plans for a small business, burning with a kind of ambition that demanded constant motion.

Gotak and Baku disappeared into a university famous for its sports program, their lives suddenly ruled by training schedules and competitions.

Juntae left the country altogether, studying in Japan.

For sure they plan hangouts and try to meet weekly but adult life is just so busy. Everyone had chosen different paths, and Sieun… kept moving forward alone.

He sat alone during orientation week, notebook already neatly organized, listening to professors drone on about syllabi. Around him, people whispered, laughed, exchanged socials like it was second nature. Sieun didn’t join in.

Then his phone buzzed.

Gotak: You got a minute?

He stepped out into the hallway, leaned against the cool wall.

“Yeah.”

“I just heard from my aunt that my cousin got accepted into the same university as you. Same department.”

A pause. “Thought you two should meet. You’ll probably survive better that way.”

He didn’t argue. He rarely did with Gotak. Some people knew how to see through him without effort.

You met him at the campus café two days later.

You recognized him immediately since Gotak had shown you pictures before but seeing him in person was different. Smaller frame than you expected. Beautiful big eyes that catch attention immediately.

“Yeon Sieun?” you asked, holding your iced coffee.

He looked up from his phone. “You’re Gotak’s cousin.”

You smiled a little. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It simply hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet. You sat down anyway, as if that decision had already been made somewhere outside the two of you.

That was how it started. Not with sparks or tension sharp enough to notice. Just two familiar names clinging to each other in an unfamiliar place.

By mid-semester, you’d fallen into a routine.

You sat next to each other during lectures if you arrived around the same time. If not, one of you saved a seat without mentioning it.

“You taking Advanced Statistics next semester?” you asked one afternoon, scrolling through course listings.

Sieun leaned over, eyes scanning your screen. “I am already taking it this semester.”

Your shoulders slumped. “Is it bad?”

“…Don’t take it with Professor Kim,” he said after a beat. “He changes grading criteria halfway through.”

You laughed. “Noted. You just saved my GPA.”

He shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Sometimes it was like that small moments you almost missed if you weren’t paying attention.

Late nights in the library. The hum of fluorescent lights. Pages turning. Sieun pushing a bottle of water toward you without looking up.

“You’ve been staring at that page for ten minutes,” he said.

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“…Okay, maybe both.”

You packed up together, walked toward the exit. Outside, the campus was quiet, lampposts glowing softly.

“You heading this way?” he asked, nodding toward the subway entrance.

“Yeah.”

So you walked side by side, steps matching without effort.

He never asked personal questions. Never talked about himself unless you asked. But he remembered things.

“You said you hate morning classes,” he said once, casually, when helping you plan your schedule. “You prefer handwritten notes.” “You get migraines if you skip meals.”

It was strange how he noticed without making it feel invasive. And sometimes...sometimes you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. His gaze thoughtful and focused.

It made your chest feel warm. And confused.

Sometimes your conversations drifted five minutes longer than necessary. He’d walk with you to the subway station, telling himself it was efficient, logical. You lived in the same direction.

Months passed.

Your relationship never crossed into anything obvious. No flirting or late night messages. Just reliable presence.

You told yourself not to expect more. But waiting quietly has a way of wearing you down.

It happened on a normal afternoon.

You were standing near the student center, scrolling through your phone, when someone spoke up beside you.

“Hey, sorry... are you in Professor Lee’s sociology class?”

You looked up. Friendly face. Easy smile.

“Yeah.”

“Same. I’ve seen you around. Thought I’d say hi.”

The conversation flowed easily. When he asked for your socials, you hesitated just for a second.

You thought of Sieun.

Of all the almosts.

Of how he never stepped closer, never claimed space.

So you said yes.

Across the quad, Sieun stopped walking.

He hadn’t meant to stare. He’d just recognized you immediately, he always did.

Then he noticed the guy standing beside you, and what struck him wasn’t the presence itself so much as the ease of it.

It was the way your smile came without hesitation as you handed over your phone, an intimacy so casual it lodged itself somewhere tight and unfamiliar in his chest.

His thoughts moved automatically, as they always did, breaking the moment down into explanations that could be weighed and justified.

But this time the process collapsed halfway through, because the feeling refused to align with logic or reason.

That night, alone in his dorm room, he sat with his phone resting loosely in his hand, eyes fixed on your chat as if something might change if he stared long enough.

There were no unread messages, nothing pressing or urgent, yet the quiet pressed in on him all the same, heavy and alert in a way it had never been before.

Waiting, he realized, was no longer neutral. If he continued like this, he would lose you, and the understanding left him with a bitterness toward his own hesitation that he had never quite felt before.

At first, he tried to convince himself it meant nothing, reminding himself that conversations and smiles often carried no weight beyond the moment, that people exchanged socials for reasons that were practical rather than personal.

It was easy enough to imagine harmless explanations, a shared class or a group assignment, something that required coordination and nothing more.

And the logic settled over him like a shield he repeated silently while sitting across from you in the library two days later, afternoon light filling the space you usually occupied together.

You flipped through your notebook, humming under your breath, while he stared at his screen with a focus that felt forced even to him.

“Hey,” you said suddenly.

He looked up at once. “Yeah?”

“There’s this guy from my sociology class,” you said, your tone deliberately casual, as if the words carried no special meaning. “He asked for my socials the other day.”

The sentence landed with an unsettling neatness, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

“Oh,” Sieun replied, waiting for the tightness in his chest to ease, though it stubbornly refused to do so.

You went on, either unaware of the effect or choosing not to acknowledge it. “We’re supposed to study together sometime. He seems nice.”

He nodded, the movement automatic. “That’s good.”

His voice sounded steady, and he resented it for that.

“What?” you laughed lightly. “You look like you’re about to overthink it.”

“I’m not,” he said, the lie slipping out easily because it was small.

He told himself that talking didn’t immediately turn into something else, that significance announced itself when it mattered, and that if you wanted him to understand, you would say more.

You returned to your notes, the moment passing on the surface, even though something beneath it had already shifted.

You did start seeing the guy, in a way that never felt intense or urgent, just a gradual accumulation of time spent together over coffee, walks, and casual dinners near campus.

Nothing changed between you and Sieun in ways that could be named. You still sat beside him during lectures, still asked him for advice, still texted when assignments confused you, and that constancy made everything worse.

Because between dates, you caught yourself wondering why it felt wrong, even though the guy was attentive and clear about his interest, easy with laughter, thoughtful in the ways people were taught to be.

And still, when he spoke, you found yourself imagining how Sieun would have answered instead, and when his hand brushed yours, your mind drifted back to quiet walks toward the subway with someone who never touched you and yet never felt distant either.

You had no idea what to do with that contradiction.

Sieun unraveled just as quietly. He noticed the details he pretended not to see, the way you sometimes left campus with someone else, how often your phone lit up, how your attention slipped during conversations, and he reminded himself again and again that he had no right to feel any of it.

You were just university friends. He had never said anything. He had never chosen.

That, more than anything, was what hurt.

This wasn’t like exams or strategy, problems with clear answers and methods to follow.

There was no correct move he could calculate, no precedent he could rely on. He had never wanted something without knowing how to act on it, and the unfamiliarity left him restless at night, staring at the ceiling as he replayed every interaction, weighing possibilities that all felt equally wrong.

Speaking now seemed too late, staying silent somehow worse, and he couldn’t understand how people managed to risk rejection so easily when the cost felt this high.

The family gathering was loud, warm, familiar.

Food crowded the table. Voices overlapped. Gotak sat across from you, watching you push rice around your plate.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said. “Everything okay?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah. I mean… kind of.”

Gotak raised an eyebrow.

“I’m seeing someone,” you admitted. “But I don’t think I like him the way I’m supposed to.”

“Oh?” he leaned back slightly. “Why keep seeing him, then?”

You stared down at your hands. “Because he’s clear about his feelings and cares about me. And I’m tired of guessing.”

Gotak didn’t interrupt.

“I think I like someone else,” you continued softly. “But… we’ll probably never find out how he feels. We’re both shy. Introverted. Nothing ever happens.”

You laughed weakly. “So I guess this is easier.”

Gotak didn’t laugh back. He watched your expression carefully.

A few days later, Gotak found a moment to talk to Sieun privately during a group hangout.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, already pulling out a chair.

Sieun nodded. “Go ahead.”

“So,” he said lightly, “how’s uni life treating you?”

“Fine.”

“Anyone interesting around?”

Sieun paused. “What do you mean?”

Gotak shrugged. “Just wondering. You’ve been spending time with my cousin, right?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Sieun stared into the ground intensely. “And nothing.”

Gotak watched him for a long moment.

“You know,” he said casually, “sometimes people don’t wait forever.”

Sieun’s grip tightened.

“They assume silence means no.”

The words hit harder than Gotak probably intended.

Sieun didn’t respond.

Gotak stood up a moment later, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Just saying.”

When he left, Sieun sat frozen.

For the first time, the truth was unavoidable.

You weren’t drifting away because you didn’t care. You were moving because he never moved at all.

You really tried.

You told yourself this time would be different if you leaned in enough, if you stopped comparing, the feeling would come.

The restaurant was warm, crowded with soft chatter and clinking glasses. The guy across from you smiled easily, confident like he always was.

“So,” he said, reaching across the table, fingers brushing yours. “I was thinking… maybe we should make this official.”

Your chest tightened.

Official.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“I...” You laughed nervously. “Can I think about it?”

His smile faltered. Just slightly. “We’ve been seeing each other for weeks.”

“I know. It’s just”

“Just what?” His tone sharpened. “You still hung up on that friend of yours?”

Your heart dropped.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he scoffed. “Every time you zone out, it’s him. The nerd one.”

“That’s not...”

“Come on,” he leaned back, irritated. “If he wanted you, he would’ve done something. Instead, he just watched while I actually showed interest.”

The words stung more than you expected.

You stood up abruptly. “I need some air.”

He followed you outside.

“Don’t make this a thing,” he said. “You’re leading me on.”

You turned to face him, eyes burning. “That’s unfair.”

“What’s unfair is how you are wasting my time because you’re stuck on some coward who can’t even confess.”

Something snapped.

“Don’t talk about him like that.”

He laughed, sharp and cruel. “So it is about him.”

Tears blurred your vision. “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

His expression hardened. “Don't think of yourself highly. You were just one of my options.”

You didn’t wait for more.

You walked away tears forming on your eyes.

The hallway outside the lecture building was loud.

Voices bounced off concrete walls, shoes scraped the floor, someone laughed too hard. Sieun was walking through it all on autopilot, earbuds in, mind half on an unfinished proof. Then he heard your name.

Not clearly at first. Just enough to make him slow.

“That y/n bitch...”

He stopped. He turned his head slightly, just enough to hear without being seen.

The guy’s voice was familiar. Too familiar.

“I swear, she wasted my time. All those dates, all that money for what? Acting all conflicted like she’s some kind of prize.”

Someone snorted. “Didn’t you say she was hung up on another guy?”

“Yeah,” the guy scoffed. “Some quiet coward from her department. Probably never even touched her.”

Sieun took out one earbud. The world narrowed.

His heart started racing. He stepped forward.

“Say it again.”

The group fell quiet. The guy turned, irritation already on his face until he saw who it was.

“…Wow look who is here. That fucking nerd,” he said slowly. “The one she likes.”

Sieun stopped an arm’s length away.

“You talked about her,” Sieun said. Not a question.

The guy laughed, sharp and careless. “So what? She led me on. I’m allowed to vent.”

“You called her a bitch.”

“So?”

The word landed wrong.

Sieun leaned in slightly. His voice dropped.

“If you talk about her again,” he said, “if you call her names, if you bother her even once more”

The hallway noise seemed to fade.

“I will kill you. For real.”

The guy stared at him, and the smile gone. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Sieun replied. “But I’m very serious.”

He straightened, met the guy’s eyes once more, cold, unblinking.

“Stay away from her.”

Then he turned and walked away, pulse steady, jaw locked so tight it hurt.

He didn’t look back.

You were sitting on the steps near the library when Sieun found you.

Your bag lay forgotten beside you. Your shoulders were drawn in, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to disappear.

He stopped a few feet away.

“…Are you okay?”

You looked up.

Your eyes were red not from freshly crying, but close enough that it hurt to see.

You tried to answer. You really did.

Nothing came out.

Instead, you stood, crossed the distance, and pressed your forehead into his chest.

Then you broke.

You didn’t say his name. Didn’t explain.

Your fingers fisted into his coat, breath shuddering as everything you’d been holding back finally spilled out.

Sieun froze for half a second.

Then he lifted his arms awkwardly, unsure to hold you.

Not tightly also not loosely. Just enough.

His chin rested against your hair. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure you could hear it.

He didn’t ask what happened. He just stayed.

And for once, that was enough.

You sat across from each other in his dorm room, silence heavy between you.

The city lights filtered in through the window, soft and distant. Somewhere outside, people were laughing and living.

Sieun broke first.

“I heard him,” he said quietly.

You looked up. “He said things?”

“Yes.”

Your shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was like that.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Sieun said immediately.

He paused, then added, slower, like each word had to be wrestled free.

“I should have spoken sooner.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

He swallowed.

“Wanting you felt… irresponsible,” he said. “Like something I hadn’t earned. I thought if I stayed useful, helped you with classes, stayed close but quiet, that would be enough.”

His hands clenched together.

“But watching someone else hurt you,” he continued, voice cracking just slightly, “made me realize something.”

You waited. The room felt unbearably still.

“I like you,” Sieun said. "I don’t know how to do stuff like this and....”

He looked at you then, eyes bare.

“If you don’t feel the same, I’ll accept it,” he said. “But I needed you to know. I needed to stop being silent.”

Your throat tightened.

“Sieun,” you whispered. “I was never waiting for anyone else.”

He blinked.

“I was waiting for you,” you said. “To choose me.”

Something in his face broke just a little.

He reached out, hesitated, then took your hand like it was something fragile and real.

“I’m choosing you,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

You squeezed his hand.

Seongje’s lifestyle was a quiet kind of self-destruction. Like his motto in life was "Die young, but not today".

Smoke clung to him like a second skin. Cigarettes between his fingers, too many a day to count. Instant ramen cups stacked by the sink, half empty energy drinks on the floor. Sleep came in pieces, short and sharp, never enough. Meals were an afterthought. Haircuts only happened when someone nagged him long enough.

That someone was you.

You weren’t perfect. You skipped workouts. Ate junk when stressed. Slept late when you shouldn’t. But you try to take care of yourself. And when you looked at him, you couldn’t understand how someone could care so little about staying alive.

“You’re smoking again,” you said, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom.

“That’s your third time since I came here.”

Seongje didn’t look up from where he sat. “Fourth.”

It came out lazy like a useless fact he was proud of.

“That’s not funny.”

He exhaled smoke through his nose and finally glanced at you. A crooked half-smile tugged at his mouth.

“It is to me.”

The way he said that was just… dismissive. Like your concern barely registered as something worth responding to properly.

You sighed, stepping inside, toe nudging an empty ramen cup. “At least eat something real. And don’t eat at three in the morning. Your stomach’s going to...”

“Stop acting like my mother or something”

The words were sharper than before. He flicked ash into the tray without looking at you, like you were background noise interrupting a thought he’d rather keep.

You hated how easy it was for him to cut without raising his voice.

Still, you tried again. You always do.

When his work with the Union went badly, when deals stalled, when territory slipped, when people didn’t fall in line the way he expected, you were there too. Honest. Maybe too honest. Definitely too concerned. You couldn’t help the fact that you loved him in a way that made silence feel like neglect.

“You’re burning yourself out,” you said in a softer tone while sitting on the edge of his bed. “You can’t just punch through everything. You’re not invincible.”

That was when his jaw tightened.

“I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

“I’m not lecturing. I’m worried.”

He stood up too fast. The sound of the chair scraped harshly against the floor was ugly and sudden. His eyes were already dark, restless, like something had been building long before this conversation started.

“Stop telling me what to do. Don’t act like you know what’s best for me.” he snapped.

Your chest tightened. “I’m just asking you to take care of yourself.”

“Stop trying to fix me,” he shot back. “I’m not something you’re trying to make.”

“You knew who I was,” he continued, voice rising now, control slipping. “If you can’t accept me the way I am, if my way of being is bothering you that much then don’t be near me..."

You stared at him, stunned. He’d been mean and careless to you before. But never yelled this loud. Never stared at you with eyes that looked like they were actually burning.

The fury behind them as he'd finally stopped holding himself back was what scared you the most.

“If you can’t handle it,” he said coldly, “then leave.”

You didn’t yell back or cry in front of him. You just grabbed your bag and walked out.

After that, you stopped messaging about every single little thing that happened to you like he was your personal diary. You stopped sitting beside him in the lecture hall. There were no calls, no texts, no contact between you two.

You tried your best to avoid him and not to make eye contact.

At first, Seongje told himself it was fine. She’ll come back like she always does. He thought if he didn't put his foot down early, you will try to twist him around your little finger. That's what girls do right?

Days passed. Then more.

He lasted exactly four days.

On the fifth, he saw you across the courtyard, laughing softly with someone else. You were not flirting. More like unbothered and... alive maybe.

Something in him snapped.

“Hey.”

You turned. Froze.

He was already standing beside you.

“Don’t ignore me,” he said.

“You told me to leave,” you replied, voice flat.

The guy you were chatting with stood up and left awkwardly.

“That’s not what I meant.” Seongje said looking at your eyes directly, hands in his pocket.

“You said if I couldn’t accept you, I shouldn’t stay.”

His jaw clenched. He looked away for half a second, like the words tasted bitter.

“You don’t get to disappear like that.”

You laughed once, sharp. “You don’t get to tell me how to care about you either. And who am I to you? Ordering me to leave, go and then what? Complaining about me disappearing like you're not the one who wanted me to."

The way you said these words, the blank expression on your face, the emotionless tone in your voice was throwing a thousand needles into his heart.

“I was trying to help.”

That did it.

Seongje exhaled slowly, hand dragging through his hair. “I know.”

“I don’t like being told what to do,” he continued. “It feels like… control. Like you’re trying to change me.”

“I’m not,” you said. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“You’re the only one who does that. I don’t know how to be better. But when you leave, it gets worse" he said, voice low.

“Scold me. Yell at me. Get mad. Just don’t disappear.” he said softly as stepping closer and closer.

You swallowed.

“I can’t love someone who keeps pushing me away.” you started putting the books in your hands to your tote bag, signaling you no longer want to participate in this conversation.

He nodded once slowly.

“You can't expect me to ditch who I am in overnight,” he said. “Just… stay. I’ll meet you halfway.”

You didn’t answer right away.

That alone was new.

Seongje was used to reactions. Your anger, tears, raised voice. He knew how to deal with those. What he didn’t know how to deal with was your silence when it wasn’t fear this time, but distance. Chosen distance.

“I can’t love someone who keeps pushing me away,” you said again, quieter now.

He watched your face like it might give him instructions. It didn’t.

“I said I’ll meet you halfway,” he tried. His voice was controlled, but there was something wrong underneath it. Something thin.

You tilted your head slightly. Studied him the way you might study something you once needed to understand, but didn’t anymore.

“That’s not halfway,” you said. “That’s you asking me to stay while you figure yourself out.”

“That’s not...”

“You only ran after me because I stopped chasing you,” you continued, calm as glass. “If I’d come back on my own, you’d still think you were right.” The words landed clean and precise.

Seongje’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you said. “Because I know you.”

That might have been the cruelest thing you could’ve ever said. Because it was true.

He searched your face for something familiar. Concern and softness that clinged to you all the time. The version of you that folded yourself smaller to fit around his edges.

It wasn’t there.

“You’re acting different. Stop trying to be tough.” he said.

You shrugged. “I had to be.”

For a moment, he looked angry. Then more frustrated. Then something closer to panic crept in, slow and unwelcome.

“So that’s it?” he asked. “You’re just done?” his voice slightly cracked for a second.

You thought about it.

“No,” you said. “I’m just not coming back to the same place.”

He scoffed, sharp and defensive. “You think you’re better than me now?”

“No,” you replied. “I think I finally stopped thinking I could save you.”

He chuckled to himself like he couldn't believe in his ears. He was pretty sure you would take him back if he just approach you first. You always soften when he apologizes.

“You don’t get to decide this alone,” he said, stepping closer before he could stop himself.

You didn’t move back.

“But you already decided alone,” you answered. “When you told me to leave.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it. For once, there was nothing sharp to throw back.

“I still want you,” he said, quieter now. Just an admission that sounded almost humiliating coming from him.

“I know,” you said. That hurt more than rejection would have.

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. The gesture was casual. You looked at him for a long moment. And just walked away.

Seongje didn’t move.

People passed through the courtyard laughing and talking. Someone bumped his shoulder and muttered an apology. He didn’t hear it. He stood there with his hands loose at his sides, posture still straight, expression unreadable.

If anyone looked at him, they wouldn’t see a man falling apart. They’d just see someone who had lost something and didn’t know where to put his hands now that it was gone.

You didn’t disappear. That was the part Seongje hated the most.

You were still there on campus, in the same buildings, laughing with the same ease you used to save for him. You walked differently now. Straighter, like you weren’t bracing for impact anymore.

You stopped dressing like you might end up staying the night somewhere you didn’t plan to. Stopped checking your phone every five minutes. Stopped waiting.

You looked… well.

That realization settled in his chest like something rotten.

At night, he replayed conversations he used to tune out. Your voice nagging him about sleep. About food. About smoking. At the time, it sounded like noise and control. Now it sounded like care he hadn’t known what to do with.

He cut back on cigarettes without telling anyone. Not enough to matter but just enough to feel stupid about it. He ate real meals sometimes. Not because he wanted to, but because the silence afterward was unbearable and chewing gave his mouth something to do.

Nothing fixed it. You were gone in the worst way. Neither angry nor dramatic. Just finished as if everything you two had meant nothing after all. Three months and eleven days. Three months and eleven days without you by his side.

The fight happened late, almost midnight.

Rain-slick streets and the neon lights bleeding into puddles.

It was a Union dispute about territory that had already been unstable before you left and only now, Seongje wasn’t thinking clearly. He was slower. Sloppier. Tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix.

Someone brought a knife.

He didn’t see it until it was already too close.

By the time he hit the ground, he was barely aware of the pain but only the warm, terrifying thought that maybe this was it.

Maybe this was how his lifestyle finally caught up to him.

When a call from an unknown number came you were getting ready for bed. You almost didn't answer.

A stranger’s voice talked in a calm, practiced way that meant something was wrong.

“Are you Geum Seongje’s emergency contact?”

You said no.

Then you paused.

“…I’m listed on his phone?” you asked.

“Yes,” the nurse said. “Under a heart. So we thought you might be someone close to him."

Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

You were at the hospital twenty minutes later, hair still damp from the shower, shoes half-tied. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That concern didn’t equal forgiveness.

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and stale air. Machines hummed. Someone cried behind a curtain.

Seongje looked smaller in the hospital bed. Bandages wrapped his ribs. A bruise bloomed dark along his jaw. His hand rested limp on the sheets, knuckles scraped raw.

For a second, just one... you forgot how to breathe.

Then you remembered everything. You stepped closer anyway.

Seongje didn’t know any of this yet. Because he didn’t wake up.

He drifted in and out of something thick and dark. Voices came and went. Doctors. Machines. Footsteps.

And then quiet. Not empty kind of but occupied quiet.

Your presence felt different from memory. He couldn’t see you, but he knew when you were there. The air changed. Like it used to be when you stood in a room with him, only now, you weren’t bending yourself around his edges.

He slept for exactly six days. You stayed for all of them.

His eyes open on the seventh morning. The first thing he notices is the clean, antiseptic, wrong kind of smell. The second is the weight in his body. The third is you.

You’re sleeping beside the bed. Hands folded in your lap, bag at your feet and jacket still on like you never meant to stay this long.

He swallows. It hurts.

The nurse wake you by tapping on your shoulders lightly. Seongje didn't dare to wake you up. What if you will be gone after seeing he is alright now? He wanted to be in the same space with you as long as he could.

“…You came,” he says.

Your eyes lift to his. No relief flooding your face. Just a slow, measured look.

“I was called,” you reply.

That’s it. Not "I missed you." Not "thank God you’re awake."

He lets his head fall back into the pillow.

Of course you’d be like this.

“I almost died,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you answer.

Silence fills the space between you, thick and careful.

He studies you the way someone studies a place they used to live in, familiar, but no longer theirs.

“You stayed,” he says quietly. Not a question.

“Six days,” you answer.

Something in him loosens painfully. Then he says, softer, almost hopeful, “I did try. You know that, right?”

Your gaze drops for half a second. “I know,” you say.

And that’s when he realizes this is worse.

“I cut back on smoking,” he continues, voice hoarse. “I eat better. I sleep more. Not great but better. I...”

“I know,” you repeat, firmer this time.

You finally look at him fully.

“You started changing after I left.” The words are calm. Stated like a fact that doesn’t need arguing.

“I didn’t stop caring because you were unhealthy,” you say.

“I stopped because loving you meant disappearing myself. After breaking up with you, I noticed how much I have been neglecting myself.”

His fingers curl into the sheets.

“I didn’t know how to change with you there,” he admits.

You nod once. “And I felt like if I stopped watching, you’d die.”

That sentence lands heavier than any accusation.

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then you add, quietly, almost reluctantly,

“I didn’t come back because of this.”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

You hesitate, not out of guilt, but because this is a boundary you didn’t plan to cross today.

“I’m seeing someone,” you say.

The words don’t register at first. They pass through him like static.

“…Who?” he asks, voice low.

You don’t flinch.

“I don't think you know him."

"Just tell me his fucking name" his breath stutters.

“His name is Ahn Suho and... he said he heard about you before,” you add, just honestly.

That does it. That one line cracks something deep in his chest.

“So you replaced me,” Seongje says quietly.

“No,” you reply immediately. “I didn’t replace you.”

You stand, adjusting your bag like this conversation has already taken everything it was going to take from you.

“I chose something that didn’t hurt all the time.”

He closes his eyes.

You didn’t leave because he was broken. You left because staying meant breaking yourself.

"So he treats you right?" he said not opening his eyes as he was afraid of seeing the truth in your eyes.

"Yeah, he treats me right."

“I don’t hate you,” you say at the door.

“And I don’t regret loving you.”

He opens his eyes again.

“But I can’t come back just because you learned how to survive without me. I hope you keep going,” you add. “Even if I’m not there to see it.”

The door closes softly.

Seongje stares at the ceiling, the machine beside him still counting out his breaths.

For the first time, he understands that changing wasn’t supposed to bring you back.

Baku hadn’t planned on watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. It all started when he invited you to his place for sleepover since his dad was away from town for a few days.

He’d planned on bad comedy movies, snacks spread across the bed, maybe falling asleep halfway through with you curled against his side. But the second you mentioned the live premiere, your eyes lighting up like it was a national holiday, he caved instantly.

Now he was sprawled on his bed, the laptop balanced on him, one arm lazily wrapped around you as you lay half on top of him, chin propped on his shoulder.

“As long as you’re happy,” he’d said earlier with a grin. And he meant it. Baku is a simple man. His girl is happy, then he is happy.

“This one with the bow is so cute... oh, wait, no, this one’s better,” you said for the fifth time in a row, pointing excitedly at the screen as another model stepped onto the runway.

Baku laughed softly, eyes flicking between the screen and you. “You want a bra like that?”

You shrugged easily. “I usually don’t wear bras.”

That made him look down at you properly. “Oh. Really? I thought wearing them was, like… mandatory.”

You chuckled. “I’m just more comfortable without them. And it’s not like I have much going on there anyway.”

That did it.

His eyes widened, brows knitting together in immediate confusion. “What do you mean, baby?”

You gestured vaguely toward the screen. “My boobs are small. Mine don’t look pretty like theirs.”

Baku actually scoffed, the sound loud and offended. “Hey. No. Absolutely not.”

You blinked at him, startled by how serious he suddenly sounded.

“Everything about you is pretty,” he said, voice firm and unfiltered like always. “You’re the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen. And I know that part of you is just as perfect.”

You laughed, trying to brush it off. “Okay, calm down.” Then you smirked. “And how many pairs of boobs have you seen to decide mine would be the prettiest? You haven’t even seen mine.”

He hesitated for half a second.

“…I guess only my mom’s when I was little,” he muttered, then immediately waved his hand. “But that’s not the point.”

You burst out laughing, burying your face in his chest. “Baku”

“No, seriously,” he insisted, shifting beneath you so you were facing him now. “You keep saying stuff like that, and I don’t like it. I also remember you joking with your friend about getting your boobs done or whatever”

You looked up at him. “Why?”

“Because talking about yourself like this is just unfair,” he said simply. “I really don't like it.”

His large hands rested on your waist, warm and familiar, thumbs rubbing absent circles like he always did when he was thinking. His tone wasn’t angry. It was just honest, earnest in that very Baku way.

“You know,” he continued, “I don’t get why you think smaller means worse. Stop comparing yourself to people on a screen.”

You swallowed. “I’m just saying”

“I know what you’re saying,” he interrupted gently. “And I’m saying you’re wrong.”

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours.

“And maybe,” he added, voice dropping just a little, “I should prove it to you so you stop talking like that.”

Your heart skipped. “Prove it how?”

His grin turned playful again, that familiar mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. “Relax. I’m not saying anything wild.”

Your brain started imagining things when he put the laptop aside and one of his hands slid up your side, slow and gentle stopping just below your ribs.

Of course there is fair enough intimacy between you two. You makeout all the time when you're alone together in each other's room. He likes to put his hands on your stomach when they're cold and sometimes rests his hands on your thighs and squeezes them. Also you slap his ass as a joke sometimes but this closeness... He was close enough to make your breath hitch, far enough to keep the tension buzzing.

“I just want you to understand something,” he murmured. “I don’t know when and why you started thinking your boobs are not pretty or enough. I think every part of you is already enough and beautiful. Even though I haven't seen them, I already know they're the hottest".

"Do you wanna see them?" you don't know why you said that. Maybe the tension in the room was making you say questionable things which you would die of embarrassment if you said that any other time.

You felt his body tense beneath you.

A sharp inhale pressed into your hair, warm breath fanning against your temple.

For a split second, Baku didn’t say anything. His hand stayed exactly where it was, thumb resting lightly against your side like he was grounding himself.

Then he laughed quietly, a little disbelieving, the sound vibrating through his chest.

“Are you serious right now?” he asked, voice lower than before, rougher around the edges.

Your heart was pounding. “I... I mean”

He shifted, just slightly hovering above you. His other hand came up to steady your waist or maybe steady himself.

“You know,” he said, leaning in so close his nose brushed yours, “you can’t just say stuff like that and expect me not to react.”

His grin was still there, but it was softer now. Less teasing. More intent.

“You drive me crazy sometimes.”

The words settled heavy and warm in your stomach.

You lifted your top nervously, exposing your bare chest to him. “Oh my fucking god,” he whispered, breath shaky, pupils dilating as his eyes traced you like he was trying to memorize every detail at once.

You swallowed, then reached for his hands, guiding them gently until they rested against you.

“What do you think?” you whispered, barely audible.

His touch froze for half a second not from hesitation, but from awe.

Your breath hitched when his forehead rested against yours, the space between your mouths barely there. You could feel his heartbeat fast and it made your chest flutter.

Baku pulled back just enough to look at you properly, eyes searching your face like he was checking in, like he always did when things got serious.

“My brain is malfunctioning due to your hotness level,” he muttered, then chuckled, clearly trying to ease your nerves with one of his corny jokes.

He looked back down at you again, hands still warm and careful, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Baby, look,” he said softly, almost reverently. “They fit perfectly in the palm of my hands. How cute is that? Don’t you think so?”

His voice was full of wonder, not teasing, more like he’d just discovered something precious.

“And look,” he added, grinning again, a little louder now. “They move so perfectly when I do this" he said while slapping your boobs lightly.

He glanced back up at you immediately, eyes searching for your reaction, for permission, for reassurance the way he always did.

“Do you touch them like this when you’re alone?” he asked, curiosity genuine, not crude.

You could barely keep a straight face at how earnest he sounded.

“I think I’m in heaven right now,” he sighed dramatically.

He just wouldn’t shut up while touching you. Every thought spilling out of him as his hands lingered, eyes flicking back to your face after every sentence, silently asking Is this okay? Do you like this?

Then he paused, squinting slightly like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“Am I hallucinating,” he asked seriously, “or are your nipples actually getting bigger?”

That was what broke you.

You burst out laughing, the tension finally snapping as you hid your face against his shoulder. He looked confused for exactly two seconds before laughing too.

You always found it adorable when he asked questions like that. So genuinely curious about the most obvious things.

“Yeah,” you said between laughs. “That means I’m aroused. You’re doing a good job, Humin.”

His ears turned red instantly.

“Oh,” he said, clearly processing that. “Oh.”

And then his grin came back wider, brighter, proud.

“Good,” he said. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

He spent the rest of the evening with his tongue and lips playing with your exposed nipples while you stroke his hair while he plays with them. The way he occasionally sucks your hard nubs made you go crazy, squirming under him.

The way he basically worshipped your chest introduced you to new kinds of pleasure you've never ever felt before. Every soft sound, every breath, every reaction felt new, overwhelming in the best way.

You’d never been touched with that kind of reverence before, never had someone take their time like this, as if there was nothing about you that needed fixing or improving. Only appreciating. Only wanting.

It wasn’t just physical. It was the way he made you feel seen.

Maybe your so-called “not pretty, not enough” breasts weren’t a flaw after all. Maybe they never had been. Maybe the problem was never your body but just the way you’d learned to look at it.

Later, when you were tucked against his side, his arm draped comfortably around you, Baku pressed a lazy kiss into your hair and sighed like the world had finally settled into place.