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JULY 2024

“I like Yuju.”

“…What?”

“I like Yuju.”

You blink. 

“Okay.”

You push the door to close it, only to have it stopped mid movement by Keonho's hand.

“I need your help.”

“Yeah, you do need help. A rehab centre could do it.”

He pushes the door wider, suddenly revealing a second Keonho in the dark right next to him.

You almost jump back in surprise–oh, nevermind. It’s just Seonghyeon.

You rub your eyes, still half asleep as it was 4:50 in the morning. “Why’s he here?”

“Emotional support.” Seonghyeon supplies very unhelpfully.

“Can you let us in? We wanna sleep in here. And I kind of need your help.” He adds that last part quickly, making you internally groan.

“No.”

Besides your very clear words, Keonho barges in anyway, although it only ends up with him stubbing his toe against the door, hard.

You and Seonghyeon stifle a laugh as he lets out a silent scream.

He grimaces immediately but hops further into your room before falling into your bed.

You both hold in your laughs, trying not to be too loud in case it would wake someone up.

Although it doesn’t seem to work, as one of the doors just down the hall opens.

You pull Seonghyeon by the wrist inside the room and close the door carefully, trying not to make any more noise than you already had.

You look back at Keonho who still lays down on your bed, dramatically clutching his foot while looking out the window.

(Although you’re not too sure what he’s trying to look at, seeing as it was still dark the curtains covered up anything outside).

He lets out a few emotional wails, ones that you were sure would’ve landed him an Oscars nomination. You have half a mind to smother him with that pillow he brought along for some absurd reason, but decide against it when Seonghyeon speaks.

“It’s just our manager.” Seonghyeon says, his ear pressed against the door like he was in a spy movie.

He steps away from the door, his attention caught back onto the boy tragically sniffing on your bed.

“I just wanted to ask for help, and now I’m left, injured and hurt.” Keonho says, turning over and lying on his back while pressing the back of his hand to his forehead like those Victorian ladies in paintings.

Both you and Seonghyeon ignore him and fall into the bed next to him, turning over and staring at the ceiling.

“No but seriously, I need your help.”

“With what?” You yawn, tugging the blanket under him so you could be more comfortable.

He shifts his weight so you could grab it before answering your question.

“I just don’t know what to do. Like, I want to be with her, but I don’t think she sees me that way.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t either.” Seonghyeon mumbled out, trying to get under the blanket with you.

You spread the blanket between you two, gesturing for him to move closer. He listens and and moves, your shoulders now brushing up against one another’s.

Keonho furrows his eyebrows. “What do you mean by that?”

“He means that instead of a love interest, you act like that annoying little brother in every k-drama.”

Seonghyeon nods at your words, closing his eyes as Keonho whines.

“So how do I get her to not see me that way?”

“Uhmm, how about you do nothing?” You shift over to your right side, facing Seonghyeon. Keonho notices your change in position and slips his pillow under your head to make it more comfortable for you. “We’re only supposed to make music and you’re here trying to make love island.”

“What the hell is love island?”

“Nevermindd.” You drawled.

Keonho groans, shifting around so fast that it instantly makes your forehead collide with Seonghyeon’s shoulder.

“Bro!” You say in unison, lifting your heads up to face Keonho, who does nothing but snicker.

“My bad.” He simply says. 

Silence finally settles between all of you, the only sound in the room being the occasional hum of the heater.

“Oh, and I think Juhoon likes her too.”

You snap your eyes open and lift your head up once again.

“Juhoon? Not Martin?”

“I thought he liked her too, but all his actions with her have been way too friendly for there to be any romantic tension.” He shifts onto his elbow. “Can I get under the blanket too?”

Seonghyeon shook his head fast. “Nooo, the heater’s already on. It’s gonna be too hot.”

Despite Seonghyeon’s refusal, you make space under. “Eomji, move.”

He complies with a sigh, moving forward as Keonho shifts under the blanket too. Keonho smiles, laying his head on the same pillow he laid under you.

Even though your bodies are unbearably close to each other, not a single one of you felt uncomfortable.

It felt like being a kid again, sharing a bed with your siblings.

You all lay in silence once more, closed eyes and breathing in sync.

You can feel yourself drifting to sleep, eyes tired and mind wandering off.

You’re all awoken by a soft knock to the door.

You open your eyes slowly, feeling a random weight over your shoulders.

It turns out that Seonghyeon and Keonho had migrated from their original positions, with Keonho’s arm and leg over you while Seonghyeon’s face was right next to yours.

You don’t mind the proximity, and just slowly sit up.

 “What’s going on?” Keonho suddenly mumbled.

After a few seconds, your door is gently opened by your manager. “Oh, you’re all here…” he looks at you three with slight judgement in his eyes, but eventually sighs in acceptance. “Same schedule as usual, we might have a few interviews but overall just give it your best.” He gives you a thumbs up before closing the door.

Seonghyeon sits up, scratching the back of his neck. “What should we eat for breakfast?”

You look over at Keonho who seems to already have something in his head.

“Ramen?”

“Throw that packet at me one more time, Keonho. I dare you.” You point the chopsticks threateningly at him, watching as he slowly grabs the seasoning packet off the counter.

Seonghyeon stands next to you, mixing eggs together while you heat up the pan. A joint effort into making your shared breakfast–omurice.

“Fine.” He grumbles. “You guys are taking too long though.”

“Just wait two more seconds. You’ll get your ramen soon.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Seonghyeon finishes mixing shortly after, handing you the bowl.

Keonho walks over too, wanting to watch you make the omelette.

You pour the egg into the pan, quickly handing Seonghyeon the bowl and mixing the egg with the chopsticks.

One thing about omurice was that you had to be careful on how to cook it. If you got the egg too undercooked, it would be too runny, but if it was too overcooked it would be too dry.

You had perfected it years ago with the help of your parents, but this part always made you a little nervous.

You mix it perfectly and separate the edges of the deconstructed omelette from the pan.

Seonghyeon and Keonho watch in satisfaction as you move like a professional, flicking the omelette up with a carefulness that even they could tell you had done it over a hundred times.

After a few more seconds, you lay it perfectly over the rice, hearing the way Keonho and Seonghyeon wowed in amusement.

You grab the ketchup that you had convinced James to buy for you, and draw a tiny design of a cat.

Keonho visibly scrunched his nose. “I don’t get why you draw with the sauce. You just end up ruining the design when you cut into it.”

Seonghyeon nods beside him. “It just seems like a waste of time.”

“Seonghyeon, keep talking like that and you’re not getting a single bite.” You casually say, now drawing stars over the cat.

He makes a zipping action with his mouth, firmly shutting his mouth by pressing it into a thin line.

As soon as you cut into it, it was like everyone else spawned in.

“Why are you guys up so early?” Martin asked, his voice still hoarse.

“It’s eight.”

He shrugged. “Same thing.”

Yuju bounded over, stars already in her eyes.

“Can I perchance… have a bite?” She asks with the voice of an exaggerated anime girl voice, a running joke between the two of you.

You nodded with a snort and watched as Keonho had already fetched her a spoon.

Both you and Seonghyeon looked over at each other with a knowing look, stifling your laughs as Yuju said ‘thank you’.

“You’re welcome.” Keonho mumbled.

You had to physically turn away to not laugh out loud.

You take the plate to the living room shortly after Keonho finishes making his instant noodles, both him and Seonghyeon following closely behind.

As soon as you did, Juhoon entered the living room.

He doesn’t say anything, but as soon as he sees your breakfast, he stretches out his hand for the spoon.

You inch the plate closer to him while Seonghyeon sets something up on his laptop.

Juhoon crouches down next to you, cutting into the egg and taking a big bite. He chews and gives you a nod of approval before standing up and walking over to the kitchen.

“Where’s James?” Martin asks.

“I’m here.”

Both you and Keonho whip your heads around, finding James standing right in the hallway.

He enters the living room with the fashion of a zombie, swaying side to side and steps uneven.

He stretches his arms, letting out a groan while walking over to the couch.

“Where’s our manager?” His voice is, if not just as hoarse as Martin’s.

Seonghyeon looks up. “In a meeting.”

Just as he says that, you hear the faint clattering of pots and pans, presumably Martin trying to cook up his fifth egg fried rice breakfast in a week.

James hums in acknowledgment. “What’s the time?”

This time Juhoon answers. “9:20.”

“And what time do we leave?”

“Manager said 12.” Martin yelled out from the kitchen, although it was barely audible as he and Yuju were cooking something up at the same time.

James doesn’t seem to react, instead just staring into space before suddenly getting up and walking into the kitchen.

A beat passes before Keonho decides it’s his chance to talk. 

“Do you guys think James likes Yuju?” He quietly asks, casually eating his noodles to make it look like life-changing information wasn’t about to be shared.

“I think he does. I saw him watching a movie with her last night.” Seonghyeon says without missing a single beat.

Keonho whips his head around, his thick eyebrows knitting together. “What?”

“Yeah, I even saw them doing that thing from the movies–y’know, when the main leads reach in for popcorn at the same time and their hands touch.” He says it all without looking up from the laptop screen.

You cringe, imagining the scene. “Wait, we had popcorn?”

He nods. “Martin bought some.” He turns in your direction with his mouth open, a sign you had come to know as ‘feed me’.

You cut into the egg and rice, making sure to get some parts of the ketchup and spoon feed him.

He chews, staying silent while Keonho silently panics beside him. 

“They…watched a movie together?” He mumbled, his eyes falling from the previous happiness he once had.

You pat his shoulder, not really aiming to comfort him.

“It’s okay Keonho.” You say, looking at the laptop screen while Seonghyeon clicks on a track you worked on the night before.

He fake cries, even burying his face into his hands.

You and Seonghyeon ignore him, even as his fake crying gets louder.

“You should put the bass line onto the drums…”

“Do you think that would make it sound better?”

JULY 2024

“We need to decide if there’s a storyline and there’s no need for us to talk or lip-sync. We need to say something–I’m talking about the visual mood.”

You’re all sitting around the living room, holding a meeting for the ‘JoyRide’ music video.

“Like the situations we imagined while writing the lyrics,” Martin continued for James, already picking up on what he was saying. “Something like that, or we could also start here, acting like we’re eating and writing lyrics then suddenly run out the door.”

Seonghyeon comes out of his laying position and sits up, ready to give his input. “Even if we were to act, rather than lipsyncing on screen like that, I think it’d be better to just set the camera somewhere and capture us moving naturally.”

You sit next to Keonho on the couch, listening carefully to each word everyone is saying.

A music video is hard to plan out, especially when there’s already seven ideas that each person wants to share.

It’s difficult to hear everyone out, and considering that it was given to the responsibility of teenagers puts the pressure on everyone.

Despite that, everyone does their best.

Later that day, you’re all in a meeting with the A&R team–Jiyoon June Kwon, Sohee Lily Min, and Seoyoung Kim–right after another session.

Keonho starts. “While working on the lyrics for ‘JoyRide’, we wanted to express that ‘live wild, play wild’ vibe,” he shifts around in his spot, trying to think of his words. “We wanted to show our message exactly as it is in the video.”

“Our first stop is Griffith Observatory. There’s a path that leads to a trail nearby with a full view of LA. We’re thinking of shooting our outro scene there.”

You had all agreed on Griffith Observatory after seeing the location and views it offered online, plus the trail was pretty much open to everyone at any time.

The meeting ends shortly after, everyone standing up and bowing to each other.

That night, you’re all in the living room once again, still deciding on what to do about the music video.

“I’m not sure about where we should lie down or sit or what would look best.”

“We can figure it out when we get there tonight.” Keonho says, still looking at his laptop screen.

Martin whips his head around. “Good idea–that’s actually a good idea.”

As soon as he says that, one of your managers cuts in. “Then, are you pulling an all-nighter and heading there now? To check out Griffith and Sunset?”

Martin turns to the group. “I’m down.”

“Please decide amongst yourselves.” Your manager says before going back on her phone.

“Who’s in?” Martin and James immediately ask.

Juhoon nudged you to gain your attention, raising an eyebrow to see if you were going too.

You hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation much, as you were already feeling tired.

You look down on the floor, spotting Yuju kneeling next to the couch while talking to Keonho about something.

The two who asked raised their hands immediately. “Agreed?”

“Let’s all just go,” Keonho turns to face the manager. “We’re all going!”

“Everyone?”

“Yes.”

A few more choruses of ‘yes’ and ‘lets go’ occur before the guys suddenly start clapping with their feet, leaving you even more confused.

Normally, you would usually match their energy and be excited that you were going to pull an all-nighter just outside, but for some reason you couldn’t even attempt to cheer.

Everyone seems to have the same idea of changing out of their clothes, all deciding to run down to their rooms.

You follow them, dragging your feet as you walk down the stairs.

For some reason, your mind was completely blank, like your brain was doing everything in its power just to keep you walking.

You changed into jeans and a long-sleeve, already missing your comfortable sweats.

After a quick stop at a 24-hour cafe, you’re all walking the trail to Griffith observatory.

It’s cold and dark, two things that would usually hinder everyone’s mood, and yet they all seem to be happy.

You can’t lie–it’s a beautiful sight. Spots from all over LA seem to be lit up with the same red and green lights, creating the beautiful ambiance of the city late at night. It still feels oddly alive at some point, with all the cars still moving around even at 1 AM.

James turns the camera on, fiddling around with the settings.

“Where are we now?”

He flips it to Seonghyeon in front of him who was drinking a vanilla-latte in the dark.

Seonghyeon turns, a smile of excitement already on his face. “We’re at Griffith Observatory.”

You watch from behind with Yuju, walking slowly as the cold night air seeps into your bones.

She shivers next to you, her breathing leaving behind fog.

“Should’ve brought my hoodie…” you hear her mumble. You nodded in agreement, your teeth chattering lightly as another gust of wind blew.

Everyone’s footsteps crunch against the dirt, creating an odd feeling of comfort as you spot their phones’ flashlights flickering everywhere. You hear Martin and Keonho talk in clipped and loud conversations, their energy oozing out from meters away.

You hold your phone up, trying to make sure you don’t accidentally bump into anything.

As soon as you reach a clearing, Keonho and James immediately start talking.

“Yo, it’s crazy up here.”

“It’s so nice.”

“Let’s go further.”

The filming finally starts when James writes JoyRide in the sand like it’s a permanent marker.

After getting a few clips of the city view, everyone starts to mess around again.

Seonghyeon especially decided to take off his hoodie, revealing only a tank top. Even though it’s cold and everyone keeps breathing right into their palms, he decides to keep it off, proving he could ‘stand the temperatures’.

You carry it for him, a little grateful that his body heat had rubbed off on it.

You all walk closer to the observatory, hearing James’ complaints about the sun not rising yet.

The view from the observatory is even more beautiful–it’s much wider compared to the clearing, and the crisp air feels like drinking cold water after playing around in the heat.

It’s nice. 

Even though you feel tired and sleepy, your mind feels at rest here.

In just a few hours, you would have to go back to the rental and probably watch as James and Martin decided what to do with the clips.

But right now, at this very moment, you feel at peace.

You all film various parts of the experience–running down and up the hills, lipsyncing while walking, the sun rising–it’s all weirdly nostalgic.

Although, you’re sure that was what James wanted to capture with the music video.

You’re not sure why, but a part of you knows it’ll miss the simpler times like these–when you could just walk around freely and pull an all-nighter simply because you felt like it.

It didn’t feel like seven coworkers being forced to film their day, it just felt like seven teenagers having fun.

At some point you’re all walking back down, and Martin and Yuju have oddly decided to just lay down on the ground while James and Keonho film everything.

It’s fun, and you find yourself laughing as everyone just jumps and fools around. 

You’re all cracking jokes left and right, and you can’t count how many times you doubled over and almost tripped over a rock.

Everyone is smiling as you keep walking back down–waves to the camera, up-close and funny shots that are sure to capture the essence of ‘JoyRide’.

It all feels too bittersweet.

You’re happy in the moment, but you know it won’t last.

The last part of filming comes at a random building, where all of you are sitting on a parapet.

You swing your legs around, following everyone’s advice to just act like a normal teen.

You look over your shoulder, finding the view of the sunrise.

You weren’t sure why, but a part of you wished that day that the sun wouldn’t rise that day.

Maybe it was because you didn’t want to feel the sweltering heat of the sun, or maybe it was because you didn’t want to go back to just working that monotonous schedule everyday.

But you knew that in that moment, all you wanted to do was laugh in the dark with them just one more time.

AUGUST 2024

“Juhoon you’re gonna make it spill!”

“Huh? Oh, sorry.”

You look up, finding his gaze wandering outside the dorm.

You were back in Korea now, but the title track still wasn’t there yet.

None of you were sure how to go about it, plus after the events of the song camp, you were even more sure that you weren’t just completely lost, you were down in the middle of nowhere with no map, no water, and not a single ounce of dignity.

“Are you gonna confess to her?” You quietly ask, not looking up as you pour the flour through the sifter.

It was obvious he was staring at Yuju.

After the events of last month's song camp, it became completely apparent that he liked her.

You weren’t sure how you didn’t notice it before.

The longing gazes, lingering touches, and the amount of time he kept spending around her honestly felt like watching a movie.

A painful one.

“I don’t think she views me that way.” He mumbled.

You finish pouring the flour and gesture for him to sift it while you grab the eggs.

“Are you sure about that?”

He silently shakes his head, a disappointment evident in his eyes.

“I’m not sure about anything with her.”

You grab two bowls, cracking the egg on the side before splitting it open and separating the yolks. “Well, you won’t know unless you try.”

He puts the sift into the sink, walking over and helping you with the eggs. “That’s what James said.”

You chuckled. “He’s right–what’s that one quote? ‘You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t make’.” He cracks an egg open, copying your movements of separating the yolks, although it turns out to be unhelpful as the egg white falls onto the floor.

You both stare at it for an awkward amount of time.

“You’re cleaning that.” You flatly say, walking around the egg accident and washing your hands.

“I know.”

“You dropped it.”

“I know.”

He immediately gets to work, grabbing a paper towel and wiping it off.

“How do I do it though?” He throws the crumpled sheet into the bin. “I don’t have anything special, and James and Keonho have a much higher chance of getting with her than me.”

You silently listen to him, cracking another egg and separating the yolks once again. 

“I joined really late, and they’ve known her so much longer than I have,” He continued. “I just don’t think she’ll ever want me as much as I want her.”

“I don’t think it matters much. If you really wanted her, you would stop comparing yourself to others and just focus on her.” You grab the hand mixer, turning it on and letting the noise swallow your words.

You mix for 30 seconds and add the tartar before talking again. “I mean, the whole point is for you to get with her, and getting jealous and sad that the other guys have a ‘higher chance’ isn’t going to help you.”

You mix for another 30 seconds, adding sugar as it goes on. Once it’s done, you turn and face him. “If you really wanted her, you wouldn’t be complaining about it, you would be actually doing something about it.”

His facial expression is completely unreadable, and he gives you that blank stare he always did whenever he was trying to process something.

“You’re a good guy and she’d be stupid to not see it. Plus, there’s other fish in the sea.” You say as you squeeze a few drops of red food colouring into the meringue, mixing it until the colour turned into a light pink.

“But, I only want her.” He says. “She occupies my thoughts almost every day, and I can’t imagine my days without her.” He looks down at the floor clenching his fists.

“I don’t want her to be with another guy.” He whispered.

You stay silent, going back to the meringue. You want to cringe at his words but decide against it, primarily because Juhoon was never this open to you.

Who knew all you had to do was bake for him to tell you his feelings?

You grab a spatula and scrape it out of the bowl and into the batter. 

“So go for it. No one’s stopping you other than yourself.”

“Okay.” He says faintly, walking over and watching as you mixed the two together.

It combines in a dry swirl, the batter smooth as the light pink tries to mix in.

“Do you want help with that?”

“Yeah, my arms are starting to hurt.”

AUGUST 2024

“Sometimes I get jealous of you.”

“How?”

You drag the brush over Yuju’s nails with a practiced swipe, making sure that the blue polish looks even. You are painting her nails with an assortment of colours, but the real treat was the glitter polish you were planning on using for the details. You were both sitting on her bed while a murder documentary played off of Martin’s laptop.

“It sounds dumb right? ‘Why would someone older than me be jealous?’ That’s what you’re thinking, right?” She lets out a pained chuckle, staring at the screen.

You don’t say anything, carefully painting her nails and making sure the polish didn’t get anywhere else.

“I don’t think it’s dumb.” You mumbled. “Envy is a pretty common emotion.”

She shakes her head, a sigh escaping her lips. “It is dumb. I shouldn’t be jealous of a girl younger than me, and yet I am.”

You look up from her nails, meeting her eyes. “What are you even jealous about?”

She presses her lips into a thin line, embarrassment evident in her narrowed eyes.

A few beats pass without an answer. “It’s okay if you don’t want to say it.”

“No, I brought it up. Of course I’ll say it.” She sits up, the bed slightly dipping from her actions. “It’s because of how close you are to the guys.”

Huh, not the answer you expected.

She notices your confusion and elaborates. “Seonghyeon and Keonho specifically. You guys are all the same age, so it makes sense that you three would get along the best, but it still stings whenever I see you three together all the time, and the rest of us are kind of just at the side.”

She sighs once again. “I shouldn’t be jealous, but whenever I hang out with Juhoon, Martin and James, I don’t get that same feeling you guys have. You guys are always laughing and smiling together like how teens should be.”

Yeah, because those three are pretty much in love with you. A part of you wants to say, but holds it back as she continues.

“Not to mention that you’re creative, and all the guys respect every single one of your opinions. You’re also nice, and you don’t even care that I’m saying all this. Even now, you’re painting my nails while I complain about how jealous I am.”

You look up, finding her looking at you with sad eyes.

“I wish I was like you.”

You stay silent, putting her nails under the portable nail lamp she had set up on a random book.

The murder documentary plays on in the background, one of the victim’s family members talking about their experience.

“I don’t think you want to be.” You mumbled.

She gives you a moment to elaborate, but you don’t take it.

She doesn’t say anything and lets the documentary take over the silence.

Then, she leans her head on your shoulder, a pained air now shared between you two.

Some days you liked being around the guys, but it was days like these you really appreciated, especially with Yuju.

SEPTEMBER 2024

Keonho lies on his stomach next to you, scrolling through another photo dump his mother had sent him of his dog, Cookie.

“So cute…” he mumbles, a lazy smile stretched over his face.

You’re both laying down in Seonghyeon’s bed, while the guy himself was reading a book on Keonho’s bed.

Time off like this was rare.

When the group didn’t have anything to do for a couple of hours, this was the way for everyone to calm down and have their own space. 

You set your phone aside, deciding to take a break from staring at the pixels for so long.

As soon as you do, an idea seems to pop into Keonho’s head.

“Do you guys wanna sneak out?”

“This is such a bad idea.”

“You can literally turn back around, like no one is stopping you.”

Seonghyeon and Keonho bicker in front of you as you swing your leg over the gate, your ‘escape’ now successful.

“We’re going to get in trouble.” Seonghyeon said.

“If we get caught.” You and Keonho said in unison. You walk in between them, their bodies close to you as you walk through the roads. Although LA was still awake at this time, no cars ever ran through the neighbourhood you were staying in so late at night.

“What are we gonna do if we get into real trouble though? None of us have data.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“There’s an app that lets you get free data depending on how much you pay.” You simply shrugged.

“There’s an app for that?”

“Yeah, because some of us actually prepared.”

You walk around, the cool air of LA something you had already gotten used to.

This was your second song camp of the year, and what a surprise it was still in LA.

You had all gotten used to just being around the place and didn’t need a manager or staff around.

Seonghyeon rubs his hands together to warm them up. “What are we even going to do here?”

“Well, Keonho and I just wanted to visit the city.”

“But that’s a 40 minute walk?”

Both you and Keonho shoot each other a mischievous look.

“We’re pulling an all-nighter.”

You and Keonho laugh as you watch the light in Seonghyeon’s eyes basically disappear.

You all but dragged him to the city, intertwining your arms with both of theirs as you walked.

None of them mind physical contact like this, which was weird, because just a year ago you couldn’t even imagine getting close with them.

You walk through the streets with no purpose, just three teenagers wandering through LA.

“This oddly feels like vacation.” Keonho had said. You couldn’t help but nod in agreement.

You reach a 7/11, to which Keonho immediately tried going into, dragging you and Seonghyeon inside.

“I just want one slurpee.”

“No, you’ll get one slurpee and then finish it in five seconds, and then tell us you want two more.”

“Please! Just one! Just one and then we can go wherever you want.”

After much convincing, you all walked inside, the doors sliding open in a fast zip.

“I swear if you get–“

Your words are cut off when Seonghyeon grabs the back of your head and pushes it down, making you duck.

You look over to him. “Yo what the hell.”

He was looking outside the glass, so you followed his gaze.

“Is that…”

“Yeah.”

“I mean I knew that Martin liked her but damn..”

“Yeah.”

Martin and Yuju were walking outside together.

Martin.

And Yuju.

Were walking outside together.

The sun might as well have exploded on you.

They were walking with the same distance you had with Keonho and Seonghyeon–so basically none.

You watch as they tease each other, bright smiles and laughs carrying through the night. 

“Oh, we forgot to tell you but Keonho’s kind of over her now.” He casually says, pulling your attention and walking over to the slush machine.

You whip your head back around. “Seriously?”

He nods, watching Keonho choose all his favourite flavours. “Kind of. He says he is, but I still see the way he watches her like he’s her favourite movie.”

“Ew.” 

“That’s the appropriate reaction.”

“What are we talking about?” Keonho jumps in, walking over with a full cup.

“Who’s paying for your slurpee–Hyeon, go pay for his slurpee.” You push him towards the counter, a smile tugging at your lips.

He doesn’t complain, but a groan escapes him as he goes over to the counter with Keonho, his card in his hand.

DECEMBER 2024

“Martin, I swear if you drop my suitcase..”

“I won’t!”

You all walk up the stairs to your new dorms, where you guys would officially live in from now on. The elevator was somehow out of service, but the stairs were supposed to be a short walk.

You had played rock-paper-scissors with Martin, saying the loser had to carry the winner’s suitcases.

Of course he lost, which is why Seonghyeon and James were forced to hold his other suitcases.

And why you, were happily bounding up the steps, holding nothing but one of Martin’s light bags.

(You felt bad he had to carry so much, but not bad enough you wanted to carry your own suitcase.)

After much complaining and groaning, you reach the dorms.

Your manager says the door’s code to everyone, repeating it to make sure everyone remembers it.

As soon as you enter, everyone immediately bursts in surprise.

They get loud, leaving their suitcases in the living room and walking around the apartment. For some odd reason, they had about four different hallways all leading to their rooms. 

You walk with Keonho to his, Martin’s, and Seonghyeon’s room. 

“This is really big…”

“There’s a bathroom!”

You all wander around the place, finding sliding doors and rooms everywhere. You didn’t expect for the company to get them an apartment so good. Their shouts of excitement and joy pretty much echoed through the place as they found new random things that they never had before.

“New washing machine!”

“You can change faster with this door here.”

There was even an audio machine in the kitchen, which made all the guys try it out. They made random noises into the receiver and played it back, cheering when it did.

Then, your manager calls out for you and Yuju.

“Your dorm is right next to theirs!”

You grab your suitcase off the floor and follow his voice, walking out the apartment and into yours.

Your apartment was significantly smaller, seeing as it was really only supposed to fit two people.

It had everything you needed, so you couldn’t really complain.

Later that night, you sit on the floor as they set the Christmas tree up. They had bought it ages ago, and wanted to set it up now.

“You’re holding it upside down..”

“Wait, we don't have a star.”

You hung up a few baubles, humming a random Christmas song while chaos surrounded you.

“Did you get that star from the trophy?”

“Wait, we have fairy lights!”

“Turn off the lights then when we hang them up.”

It’s only after a few arguments, a few minutes of silence, and somehow a cracked bauble does everyone finally hang up the lights over the tree.

A Korean Christmas song plays from someone’s speaker as you get to work, holding up the cords as everyone moves.

“If you hold it like that it’ll get tangled…”

“It’s not supposed to be like that! I’m supposed to move here and you’re supposed…”

Almost 20 minutes later, Seonghyeon comes back into the apartment holding Jjajangmyeon.

You sit at the new table, quietly chewing on noodles as they chatter.

It was already late at night, so everyone was already tired.

“Has anyone heard when we’re debuting?” Martin asks, leaning back on his chair once he had finished.

“From all the meetings I’ve been in, it seems like we’ll just keep going until we’re ready.” James says. “So, there’s no need to rush. But, we should still aim to be a little better everyday.”

“We just need to keep going until we’re good.”

©wukiyo.

(note) I hope you guys liked the rewrite! Apologies if there are any mistakes.

It had all started a few months into your first year of high school. You had been walking home, earbuds in, the entire world muted. Your mind was already halfway through the chapters you needed to read for tomorrow, your fingers tracing the spine of your worn-out library book.

A blur of motion, a flash of dark blue fabric, and a solid thud sent you stumbling sideways. Your earbuds ripped out of your ears, your book flew from your hands, and you were suddenly very, very aware of a warm grip on your elbow keeping you from face-planting into the concrete.

"OH SHIT—I'M SO SORRY—ARE YOU OKAY—"

The voice was a cannon blast to your carefully constructed silence. You blinked, disoriented, and glanced sideways.

Keonho stood beside you, eyes wide with genuine panic as they scanned your face, his school blazer half-falling off one shoulder. His hair was a disaster, like he'd run through a wind tunnel, and his backpack was hanging open, pens and crumpled papers threatening to escape. He was still gripping your elbow like you might evaporate if he let go.

You quickly regained your footing, standing upright. His hand lingered on your elbow for a second longer before he dropped it, flustered.

"I'm so sorry, Seonghyeon was being an idiot and—" his lips moved at a thousand miles a minute as he crouched down, his hands scrambling across the floor to pick up the small pile of scattered books. You bent down beside him, attempting to help though it became impossible when his fingers latched onto each spine just as you reached out, leaving you squatting there awkwardly whilst words continued to pour out of his mouth. "—I really should have been looking where I was going—wait, are you hurt anywhere? Please tell me you aren't injured—hang on… aren't you in my chemistry class?"

To be completely honest, you were unable to process any of the rapidfire comments thrown at you, far too enclosed in your own mind's attempt to make sense of the situation you now found yourself in.

You stood up slowly, deeming it far too awkward for you to remain at eye level with the boy. He was soon to follow, his hands fiddling with the books as he tried to organise them, clearly stalling.

"Uh—here—" He thrust them toward you, his fingers fumbling. "Your books. I think they're all here. I didn't—I hope I didn't bend any pages—"

You took them carefully, clutching them to your chest. "It's fine," you murmured. "They're fine."

"Oh. Good. That's—good." He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes darting everywhere except your face. "I really am sorry. I wasn't looking. Seonghyeon bet me I couldn't make it to the fountain before he counted to ten, and I'm an idiot who takes dumb bets—"

"Keonho."

He stopped and blinked. "Yeah?"

You didn't say anything else. Just gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment that held a hint of forgiveness, and turned to leave.

You made it three steps before his voice caught up to you.

"Wait—I never got your name."

You paused and glanced back over your shoulder. He was standing there, his fingers fiddling with the ends of his untucked shirt, looking almost nervous.

"Y/N." You told him quietly, then you turned back around and kept walking, tucking your earbuds back in, drowning out the world.

You thought that would be the end of it. An awkward collision that would be instantly forgotten by the likes of someone like Keonho, but the next day in chem class, you felt eyes on you.

You turned to see Keonho sat across the room, chin propped on his palm, head tilted. When your eyes met his, he didn't look away. Instead, his lips curved into a smile: small and almost private, nothing like the loud, performative grins you'd seen him flash at everyone else.

He raised a hand in a tiny wave.

You stared at him for a beat, then turned back to your notes, your face unexpectedly warm.

After that, Keonho couldn't help but notice you at school now, and much worse, he wouldn't stop trying to talk to you.

The next morning, you spotted him in the hallway before he spotted you. He was surrounded by a cluster of friends, laughing at something one of them had said. His head was thrown back, the sound of it carrying easily over the morning chaos, bright and unguarded. 

You ducked your head and kept walking, fingers tightening around the spine of your book.

Despite your best efforts he noticed you and ran to catch up to you by the lockers, slightly out of breath. "Hey," he said, falling into step beside you. "You walk fast."

You didn't stop. "I have class."

"I know, me too." He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, his steps slightly uneven as he matched your pace. "I just wanted to say sorry again for yesterday. I felt bad all night."

"You said sorry already."

"Yeah, but I meant it." He shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second. "I don't usually—I mean, I'm not usually that clumsy. Well, okay, I am—but I don't usually knock people over. That was a first."

You glanced at him. He was looking at you now, his eyes earnest in a way that caught you off guard.

"You already said sorry," you repeated, softer this time.

"I know but I still feel bad." He kicked at an invisible pebble on the floor, his sneaker scuffing against the tile. "So I was thinking… I owe you a hot chocolate… To make up for it."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I know but I want to."

You didn't respond to that and he didn't push, he just walked beside you in surprising silence, his usual energy dialed down a few notches. It was almost comfortable, as though he already knew you weren't going to fill the space, and he was okay with that.

When you reached your classroom, he stopped at the door. His hand came up, hovering for a second like he wanted to touch your arm, then dropped back to his side. "See you around, Y/N," he said softly.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the flow of students.

The next day, he waved at you from across the cafeteria. You pretended not to see, and in response he only waved harder, nearly smacking the person next to him, and you could feel his eyes on you even through the chaos of the lunch rush.

You gave a tiny nod and turned back to your tray.

Mina followed your gaze, her line of sight slightly blocked by the passing students. "Who's that?"

"No one."

"He's staring at us."

You didn't look up. "He's not."

"He definitely is." Mina leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Wait… Is that Keonho? The Keonho? The one who's literally everywhere and in, like, every club ever and knows everyone?"

You shrugged, pushing rice around your bowl.

Mina's eyes widened. "How do you know him?"

"I don't. He ran into me."

"He ran into you." Mina's voice went flat with disbelief. "And now he won't stop staring at you?"

"It's not—" You glanced up despite yourself. He was still looking, a small smile on his face. When your eyes met his, he tilted his head, like he was checking if you were okay. You looked away quickly. "It's nothing."

"It's definitely something." She let you brood with that comment, choosing not to push you any further.

He found you in the library after school a few days later. Not intentionally—at least, you assumed not. He walked in with a friend and spotted you in your usual corner before you could disappear behind your book.

"Oh hey!" He dropped onto the chair across from you without asking, his bag thudding onto the floor. His friend lingered awkwardly for a moment, clearly not expecting to be ditched, before wandering off toward the fiction section. "Didn't peg you for a library person. Actually, wait, that's exactly what I'd peg you for. That came out wrong."

You closed your book slowly, marking your page. "What are you doing?"

"Studying. Obviously." He pulled out a crumpled worksheet from his bag, its edges soft and worn from being shoved around. "I need help with chem. You're good at chem, right? You look like you're good at chem."

"I'm average."

"Average is better than my 'please don't fail me' energy." He slid the paper across the table, his fingers tapping against it. "One question, that's all I'm asking, then I'll leave you alone."

You stared at the worksheet. The handwriting was messy, loops and squiggles in places where he'd clearly rushed. The first problem was partially solved, the steps correct until they suddenly weren't.

You pulled the paper toward you.

His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, the tension leaving his frame. "Thanks."

It quickly became a routine. He'd show up at the library, always with "one question" that somehow stretched into an hour of him talking about everything except chemistry.

His dog named Cookie who he claimed was smarter than him and had once eaten an entire pizza off the counter. His failed attempt at baking a cake for his sister's birthday that caused the smoke alarm to go off and the fire department to almost show up, and somehow the cake was still raw in the middle. Seonghyeon, who apparently had the worst impulse control of anyone he'd ever met and had once thrown his phone into a tree just to prove he could.

You'd half-listen, half-study, and he never seemed to mind that you barely said two words. Sometimes you'd glance up and catch him watching you, eyes boring into you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he found interesting. His gaze would flick away immediately, but not before you saw the faint flush creep up his neck.

One day, he didn't show up.

You told yourself it was fine, he didn't owe you anything. You weren't friends, and this totally wasn't a thing.

Though you spent the entire hour staring at the same paragraph in your textbook, reading it seven times and even then still had no idea what it said.

By the time you packed up your bag, you were annoyed at yourself for caring as much about that strange boy as you now apparently did.

The next morning, he appeared at your locker before you even had your combination turned.

"Sorry about yesterday," he said, slightly breathless, he'd apparently run the entire way. "Seonghyeon dragged me to some event. His younger sister's band was playing and he made me go. I didn't want to, I wanted to come with you. I swear I didn't ditch you on purpose."

You pulled out your textbooks, keeping your face neutral. "You don't have to come every day."

"I know." He leaned against the lockers, arms crossing loosely. "But I like coming, you're good company."

"I don't talk."

"That's what I like about you." He said it simply, without his usual theatrics. "You don't fill the silence with nonsense. You just sit there and listen. It's nice. Peaceful."

You didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever called your silence peaceful before. Most people found it uncomfortable, a void they needed to fill or else it felt like the ground would swallow them whole from awkwardness.

He held out a granola bar, slightly crushed at the edges. "Here, to make up for yesterday."

You took it slowly, your fingers brushing his though he didn't flinch or pull away. "You don't have to keep making up for things," you said.

"I know." He shrugged, already falling into step beside you as you started walking. "But I want to."

It went on like that for weeks, and somewhere along the way, you started noticing things.

His laugh changed when something genuinely caught him off guard—loud and surprised, all of his usual composure crumbling. His hands moved when he talked, always in motion, sketching shapes in the air. His voice dropped just slightly when he said your name, like it was something delicate he was handling carefully.

But most of all, he never pushed, never asked why you were so quiet, never made you feel like you needed to perform for him.

He just stayed, and you didn't quite know what to do with that.

It was Mina who finally asked, after watching him wave at you across the courtyard for the third time that week.

"So what's the deal with you two?"

"There's no deal."

"He follows you around like a puppy."

"He's just apologetic for running into me." You kept your eyes on your book, even though you'd stopped reading. "He only appears, like, once a day."

"Okay, first of all, it's been weeks since then, he should be over it by now. And second of all, that's literally following." Mina poked your arm. "And you just let him."

You didn't have a response to that because she was right, you did let him. You could've walked away, told him to leave you alone, stayed quiet and distant in the way you did with everyone else.

But when he sat across from you in the library, chattering away about nothing, you found yourself glancing up more often, even listening closer. You didn't mind his noise the way you minded everyone else's.

At some point across the many days Keonho spent in your orbit, your feelings about him began to shift.

It wasn't a single moment. There was no dramatic realisation, no sudden bolt of lightning. It crept in slowly, quietly, the way morning light fills a room before you notice it's no longer dark.

You caught yourself looking for him in the hallways. Your eyes would just wander, scanning the crowd, and when they landed on his familiar mop of messy hair, something in your chest would settle as though you'd been holding your breath without realising it.

You started noticing the small things he was doing for you. The way he always made sure to leave you the last bite of whatever snack he brought, and he'd angle his body toward you when he talked, like you were the only person in the room. He'd also pause mid-sentence when you finally spoke, giving you his full attention like what you had to say mattered more than whatever he'd been saying.

The library became a sacred place for the two of you.

He'd show up after school, drop his bag on the floor, and slide into the seat across from you like he belonged there. Which, you realised, he kind of did now.

Sometimes he studied, though more often he talked. 

You never offered much in return, but he never asked for more than you were ready to give.

"I don't even know your favourite color," he said one day, looking up from his worksheet.

You blinked. "Why does that matter?"

"It doesn't, I just want to know." He shrugged. "I want to know everything about you."

You told him it was purple. Deep purple, like the sky right before it goes dark. He smiled because you'd finally, finally,  given him something personal. "The color of the sky," he repeated. "That's really pretty."

You felt heat creep up your neck and looked back at your book.

It was on one of these evenings that you realised it had already happened.

He was rambling about something you could no longer remember, and you were pretending to read, but really you were just watching him be his naturally extroverted self.

And you thought, oh.

You liked him. Not just tolerated him, not just got used to him. You genuinely, completely, helplessly liked him.

You didn't know what to do with that. You'd never felt this pull toward someone before, this warmth that spread through your chest when he smiled at you. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

You didn't tell him in that moment because you weren't sure you could.

But he noticed something had changed. Of course he did, he was far too observant of your tells for you to be able to hide something as big as, what you believed to be, unrequited love from him

"You're staring," he said one afternoon, looking up from his phone. "Not that I mind, but you're staring."

You looked away quickly. "I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying." He leaned forward, a teasing grin on his face. "You're thinking about something. What is it? Are you finally going to admit I'm charming?"

"You're insufferable."

"Keep telling yourself that."

You laughed and his grin softened into something deeper, warmer.

"I like that sound," he said quietly.

"What sound?"

"You laughing." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I like making you laugh."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest as you quickly moved your gaze downward, hoping he didn’t notice the blush rapidly creeping onto your cheeks.

The weeks blurred together. His presence became a constant in your life, something you'd started to rely on without admitting it to yourself.

He'd find you in the mornings, falling into step beside you with a half-eaten breakfast bar or a coffee he'd grabbed for you. He'd walk you to class, talking the entire way, and you'd listen and nod and pretend you weren't memorising the way his hair fell across his forehead. He'd wave at you across crowded rooms, his grin wide and unashamed, and you'd feel a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the temperature.

You noticed how he was different with you than with everyone else.

Around his friends, he was loud and performative, always the center of attention, always making people laugh. But around you, he dialed it back. He still talked—he'd never stop talking, you were absolutely sure of that—but it was quieter. More genuine, as though he felt like he didn't need to impress you or perform.

"You're the only one who sees me," he said one evening, his voice soft. "The real me, not the show."

You looked up from your book. He was staring at the table, his fingers tracing the wood grain.

"What do you mean?" You asked, brows furrowing.

"I mean—" He paused, searching for the words. "Everyone expects me to be a certain way. Loud, funny, always on, and I can do that. It's easy. But sometimes it's exhausting pretending to be that version of myself all the time."

He looked up at you. "With you, I don't have to pretend. You don't expect anything from me, you just let me be."

Something in your chest tightened. "I like the real you," you said quietly.

His eyes met yours properly, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn't awkward. It felt like something was being shared.

"Yeah?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah."

He smiled softly as you both continued what you had been doing before, choosing to ignore the way something in your gut had flipped.

It was late November when the first real change happened.

He'd walked you to the bus stop like usual, but the bus was late. The sky was dark, the air cold, and you were shivering in your thin jacket.

"Here." He shrugged off his hoodie and handed it to you without a second thought.

"You'll be cold."

"I'll survive." He shoved his hands in his pockets, not taking it back. "You need it more than me."

You hesitated, then pulled it on. It was too big, drowning you in fabric, but it was warm and smelled like him: something clean and faintly sweet.

He stared at you for a second longer than necessary, then cleared his throat. "It looks better on you anyway."

You rolled your eyes at his attempt to flirt, but you were smiling.

Then one afternoon following the weather turned. A grey sky that had been threatening rain all day finally opened up, dumping sheets of water across the pavement. You'd left your umbrella at home.

You stood under the overhang of the school entrance, watching the rain come down, mentally calculating your chances of making it to the bus stop without getting soaked. Your jacket was thin. Your books would be ruined. You'd survive, but it wouldn't be pleasant.

"Forgot your umbrella?"

You turned. Keonho was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets, a knowing smile on his face.

You sighed. "Don't say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're about to say."

"I was just going to say," he said, stepping beside you, "that I have an extra. Because I'm always prepared. Very responsible, ask anyone."

He pulled out a large umbrella, bright red, and held it out to you.

You stared at it. "You brought an extra just in case?"

"I brought an extra because I know you never carry one."

You blinked. "You’re watching me?"

"Always." He said it so casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Then he seemed to realise what he'd said, his ears turning pink. "I mean—I noticed. In passing. I pay attention to things."

You didn't say anything. Just took the umbrella, your fingers brushing his.

"It's too big for one person," you said quietly. "You should share."

He blinked at you, like he hadn't expected that. Then his smile widened, slow and surprised. "Okay," he said, stepping under the umbrella with you. "Okay. Yeah, that works."

You walked to the bus stop together, close enough that your shoulders brushed. The rain pounded against the fabric above you, loud and steady, but underneath it, everything felt strangely quiet.

He didn't say much and neither did you.

The bus arrived just as you arrived, and you moved towards it. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch your wrist.

"Hey." You turned. His face was close, closer than it had ever been. "Can I ask you something?"

You nodded, your heart suddenly loud in your ears.

"Are you ever going to tell me how you feel?" His voice was soft, uncertain. "Because I've been trying to figure it out for weeks, and I think I know, but I don't want to assume, and—"

"Yes."

He stopped, eyebrows raising in surprise. "Yes?"

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it, your palms were sweaty, and you'd never felt more exposed in your entire life. Every instinct screamed at you to look away, to retreat back into the safety of your silence, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"I like you," you said, the words barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just happened. And I don't know what to do with it, and I don't know if you'd want someone like me when you could have anyone, but—"

You didn't get to finish.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his palm warm against your skin, and then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was soft at first, his lips brushed against yours gently, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn't want to, you couldn't imagine wanting anything else in that moment.

Your eyes fluttered closed and everything else faded, there was only him, the warmth of his hand on your cheek, the softness of his lips, the faint scent of him that you'd grown so familiar with over the past weeks.

His thumb traced a gentle path along your jaw, and you felt yourself lean into him, your body moving on its own accord. Your free hand came up to grip the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, needing something to anchor yourself.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed and his breath warm and uneven against your skin. When he opened them, they were bright, almost dazed, like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "I've wanted to do that for weeks. I just needed to know you felt something too. I didn't want to—"

You pulled him back.

This time you kissed him like you meant it, like you'd been holding it in for weeks and finally had permission to let it out.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, threading through your hair. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you let him. You let yourself be pulled into his warmth, into the circle of his arms, into this moment that felt both terrifying and right.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours again, his eyes still closed, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. That was—"

"Yeah," you agreed, your voice coming out shaky.

He laughed, bright and surprised, and pulled you into a proper hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You buried your face in his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat against your ear.

His hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle and soothing.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he murmured into your hair. "You have no idea. Every time you looked at me, every time you laughed, every time you said my name—I just wanted to—"

He broke off, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"You're really something, you know that?" He said. "You're quiet and you keep to yourself and you never told me how you felt, and somehow you're still the most interesting person I've ever met."

You pulled back to look at him, your face warm. "I'm not interesting."

"You're the most interesting person I know," he insisted. "You have a whole universe inside your head, and you let me see little pieces of it. And I just—" He shook his head, smiling. "I love that. I love you."

Your heart stopped.

He seemed to realise what he'd said, his eyes widening slightly, but he didn't take it back. He just looked at you, vulnerable and hopeful.

"I mean it," he said, his voice softer now. "I know it's fast. I know we haven't even been—but I've felt it for a while. I didn't want to say it too soon, but—"

"Keonho."

He stopped.

You reached up to touch his face, your fingers tracing his jaw the way you'd wanted to for weeks. "I love you too," you said.

His face broke into the most genuine smile you'd ever seen on him: wide and unguarded and full of so much emotion it made your chest ache.

"Yeah?" He whispered.

"Yeah."

He kissed you again, slower this time, pouring everything he couldn't say into it. His lips were warm and soft, his hand gentle on your waist, and you felt like you were floating.

When he pulled back, he was grinning. "So," he said, his voice breathless. "Does this mean I can walk you to the bus stop holding your hand now?"

The days that followed were different. Not in any huge, obvious way—he was still loud, still talkative, still showed up at your locker every morning. But something had shifted between you to the point where there was a new awareness, a new intimacy.

He started holding your hand everywhere: in the hallways, at the library, at the bus stop. He'd lace his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you'd let him, surprised by how right it felt.

His friends noticed. Seonghyeon had raised an eyebrow the first time he saw you two together. "So this is the quiet girl?" He’d asked, looking you over. "The one you've been obsessed with?"

"I'm not obsessed," Keonho said, his ears turning red. "I just—"

"You literally followed her around for months."

"I didn't follow—"

"You made a spreadsheet of her favourite books."

Keonho groaned. "Seonghyeon, shut up."

You blinked. "You made a spreadsheet?"

"To figure out what you'd like," he mumbled, not meeting your eyes but keeping his hand locked onto yours throughout. "For future gift purposes. It was strategic."

You laughed, bright and surprised, and he looked at you like you'd just handed him the world.

"You're so weird," you said.

"Yeah, but you like me anyway."

You did. You really, really did.

The two years passed in a blur of shared moments.

Winter mornings where he'd show up with two cups of hot chocolate, one for each of you, his nose red from the cold. Spring afternoons where you'd study in the library, his head resting on your shoulder while he pretended to read. Summer evenings where you'd walk home together, the sun setting behind you, his arm slung loosely around your shoulders. Fall days where he'd kick through piles of leaves just to watch you smile.

He was still loud, still talkative, still the boy who knew everyone and was friends with everyone.

But he was yours, and somehow, impossibly, you were his.

Something in Keonho seemed to switch off whenever he was around you.

It was the first thing you'd noticed about him, back when he'd started showing up at the library—how the loud, performative energy that he carried everywhere else would dim the moment he settled into the chair across from you. His shoulders would drop, his voice would soften, and his hands would still. 

You'd never said anything about it. You weren't sure he even noticed himself, but it was there, always, a quiet shift that happened the moment he was in your orbit.

Now, two years later, you were sitting on his parents' couch in his living room, your legs tucked beneath you, a book resting open atop the little space remaining on your lap. Keonho was sprawled across the length of the couch, his head resting in your lap, his eyes closed. His hair was a mess—it always was—and his shirt was rumpled from a long day of doing absolutely nothing.

His parents had gone out for dinner, leaving the two of you alone in the house. It wasn't unusual, you'd spent countless evenings here, the two of you sprawled across this same couch, doing nothing and everything.

His hand was resting on your knee, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on the fabric of your jeans. His breathing was slow and even, the tension that always seemed to live in his shoulders completely gone.

"Are you asleep?" You asked quietly.

"Mmm." He didn't open his eyes. "Maybe."

"You can't sleep. You're supposed to be spending time with me."

"I am spending time with you." His lips curved into a lazy smile. "I'm lying on you. That's quality time."

"That's not how quality time works."

"Sure it is." He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, his hair tickling your bare arm. "I'm touching you, I'm breathing your air, I'm in your presence. This is the most quality time I've had all week."

You shook your head, but you were smiling. "You're such a know it all."

"Yeah, but you love me."

"I do," you said, and the words came easier now than they used to. "Somehow."

He opened one eye, turning to peek up at you. "Somehow?"

"You're very high maintenance."

"I'm not high maintenance." He closed his eye again, nuzzling the side of his face against your thigh. "I'm just... particular."

"You're particular."

"Very particular. About you. I'm particular about you."

Your heart did that thing it always did when he said things like that—that soft flutter that had become so familiar over the past two years.

"You're also very cheesy," you said.

"Cheesy and yours." He grinned, still not opening his eyes. "That's the deal."

You went back to your book, one hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His hand on your knee had stilled, his fingers loosely curled around your leg.

The house was quiet, the only sounds were the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft rustle of pages as you turned them. The winter sun was setting outside, casting long shadows across the room, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.

It was peaceful, perfect, and so utterly Keonho and you that you couldn't imagine it any other way.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft, barely above a murmur.

"Hmm?"

"Remember how we met?"

You looked down at him. His eyes were still closed, but his smile had softened into something thoughtful.

"You mean when you tackled me when I was walking home?" You said, raising your eyebrows slightly. "And nearly killed me?"

"I didn't nearly kill you." He opened his eyes, turning and looking up at you with mock offense. "I gently collided with you. Don’t be so dramatic."

"You knocked me over and my books went flying."

"Okay, but I picked them up for you." He grinned. "That was very chivalrous of me."

"You just shoved them in my hands while apologising at a thousand miles an hour."

"I was panicking." He reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "I'd just run into the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. What was I supposed to do? Stay calm?"

You felt your face warm. "You didn't think I was pretty then."

"I did." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I thought you were pretty the moment I looked up and saw you standing there. I just didn't say it because I was too busy apologising and making a fool of myself."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Really." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "I went home that night and told Seonghyeon I'd met the most beautiful girl in school and I'd nearly murdered her."

You laughed, bright and surprised. "You did not."

"I did." He was grinning now. "He told me I was being dramatic, and I told him he didn't understand. I was very dramatic about it. That's just who I am."

"I know. I've noticed."

"Yeah, but you don't mind." His voice was warm. "That's why you're my favourite person."

Your heart swelled at his words, the feeling of heat creeping up your neck. "You're my favourite person too."

You felt him smile against your leg. "I love you," he said, his voice soft and sure. "I don't say it enough. But I love you."

"You say it plenty."

"I know. But I still don't say it enough." He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek. "I love you, Y/N. I love the way you read books and ignore me. I love the way you laugh when I say something stupid. I love the way you let me be quiet around you, even though I'm not good at being quiet."

"You're good at being quiet around me."

"Because you make it easy." His thumb traced your jaw. "You make everything easy. You make me feel like I don't have to perform all the time. Like I can just... be."

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You can just be," you whispered against his skin. "That's the whole point."

He closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

You went back to your book, and he went back to tracing patterns on your knee. The sun dipped lower, the room growing dimmer, but neither of you moved to turn on a light, existing in your own, quiet, ecosystem.

Of course, though, Keonho was still Keonho. And that meant he'd still have moments where his usual energy would come roaring back, filling whatever room he was in with noise and chaos. But even those moments—especially those moments—somehow made you love him more.

One Saturday afternoon you were curled up on his couch again, a book in your hands that he had recently gifted you. Keonho was in the kitchen, supposedly making cookies, though you'd been hearing a lot of noises: cabinet doors opening and closing, the clatter of dishes, something that sounded suspiciously like a pan being dropped on the floor.

"Are you okay in there?" You called out, glancing down the hall.

"FINE!" His voice was too loud, too cheerful. "EVERYTHING IS FINE. I AM VERY CAPABLE."

You were about to go back to your book when you heard a crash followed by a rapid string of curses that would've made your grandmother faint.

You sighed, marking your page, and made your way to the kitchen.

Keonho was standing in the middle of what looked like a war zone. Flour dusted the countertops, the floor, his shirt, and somehow even his hair. A bowl was overturned in the sink, and there was something suspiciously charred smoking in a pan on the stove.

He turned to you with a sheepish grin, his face dusted with white powder.

"Hi," he said. "I was making you cookies. It's not going well."

You looked at the chaos around him. "I can see that."

"It's okay. I have a plan." He held up a bag of pre-made cookie dough. "I was going to do it from scratch, but then things happened, so I'm pivoting."

"Things happened."

"Things happened." He gestured vaguely at the mess. "I don't know what things, they just happened."

You bit back a smile. "You set the kitchen on fire."

"It was a small fire! A contained fire! I put it out immediately!" He paused. "Okay, the fire alarm went off, but I handled it."

"How?"

"I waved a towel at it."

You couldn't help it and laughed, bright and surprised, his face lighting up like you'd just given him a gift.

"You're laughing!" He said. "At my pain. You're laughing at my suffering."

"I'm laughing at your baking," you corrected. "Never your pain."

"The baking is the cause of my pain." He grabbed the bag of cookie dough and held it up triumphantly. "But this is my redemption arc. Watch and be amazed."

He tore open the bag with more force than necessary, and a puff of flour exploded in his face, leaving him standing there frozen and blinking.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh.

"Don't," he warned. "Don't you dare."

You immediately burst out laughing, bending over slightly to catch yourself.

He groaned, but he was smiling. "This is bullying. This is emotional abuse."

"You're the one who decided to bake."

"I was trying to do something nice!"

"I appreciate the effort." You walked over, brushing a smudge of flour off his cheek with your thumb as your palm cupped his jaw. "But next time, maybe just buy cookies."

"Where's the fun in that?" He leaned into your touch, his eyes soft and shining as they looked into your own. "I wanted to do something special for you."

"Keonho, you're special enough."

He dropped the bag of cookie dough and pulled you into his arms, flour and all. His chin rested on top of your head. "You're too good to me," he murmured.

"You're the one who almost burned down your kitchen."

"I would burn down a thousand kitchens for you." He paused and you could practically hear the wheels turning in his brain. "Wait, that's a terrible thing to say. I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

"You do?"

"Mmhm." You pulled back to look at him, his face still covered in flour. "You're ridiculous, but you're my ridiculous."

He grinned, wide and unguarded. "I love you."

"I know." You reached up, wiping a smear of flour from his nose. "I love you too. Even if you can't bake."

"That's offensive. I can bake. I'm an excellent baker in fact. This was just a test run."

"Of what?"

"Of my ability to make cookies." He paused. "I failed, but I'll get there, just give me time. Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Rome didn't have you."

"Exactly. So imagine what I can do."

The sun had fully set by the time you moved to your natural positions on the sofa, the room dark except for the soft glow of the streetlight outside. 

"Hey," you said softly.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you tackled me on my walk home."

He laughed, quiet and warm. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "I wouldn't change a thing."

He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek, and pulled you down for a proper kiss. You both melted into it, the pure feeling of love swelling so deeply in your chest you couldn’t focus on anything but him. It was soft and slow and full of everything he couldn't say.

When you pulled back, he was smiling.

"Me neither," he said. "Not a single thing."

On paper, you and Keonho made absolutely no sense.

You were polar opposites. A quiet girl who disappeared into the background and a boy who lit up every room he walked into. 

But none of that mattered because somewhere along the way, you'd realised that opposites didn't have to clash. Sometimes, they just fit perfectly and effortlessly.

He was the sun, bright and uncontainable, and you were the moon, steady and still, and you'd learned that the sky was big enough for both. That the most beautiful moments happened when the sun and moon shared the horizon—when the world was painted in shades of gold and silver, light and shadow dancing together in perfect harmony. The sunset wasn't beautiful despite the coexistence of day and night, it was beautiful because of it.

The sun didn't dim for the moon and the moon didn't fade for the sun, they simply existed together, each making the other more breathtaking.

The first time you'd really noticed him, he almost hit you with his skateboard.

It was the second week of junior year. The leaves were turning, and you were walking across the courtyard with Hana, mid-sentence about someone's ugly backpack—"I'm just saying, if you're going to spend four hundred dollars on a bag, at least make it look like four hundred dollars"—when a blur of motion came flying around the corner.

Shhk shhk shhk. Wheels on pavement. Then a body slammed into your side.

Not hard enough to knock you over. Hard enough to send your phone flying out of your hand and skidding across the concrete, face-down, the sickening crack of impact echoing off the fountain your family had donated.

"Shit—sorry—"

You stumbled, caught yourself on Hana's arm, and whipped around.

A boy you'd never seen before was already crouched down, scooping up your phone. His skateboard had rolled several feet away, still wobbling on its side. He was wearing the school uniform, but barely. The tie was missing and the top button of his shirt was undone. His dark hair was a mess under a gray beanie, and there was a small scrape on his palm where he'd caught himself.

He stood up and held out your phone.

The screen was cracked. A spiderweb of fractures spreading from the top left corner, right through your home screen. Your perfect, carefully curated home screen.

"You broke my phone," you said. Your voice was flat and cold. 

He looked at the screen. Then at you. Most people would have started apologising immediately, groveled, turned red, stammered, promised to pay for it, even got down on their knees if that's what it took.

He just shrugged. "It's just a screen. You can get it fixed."

Just a screen.

As if you hadn't spent hours picking out the perfect case. As if the crack didn't ruin the entire aesthetic of the phone you'd only had for three weeks. As if he hadn't just barreled into you like a human wrecking ball and then had the audacity to act like it was nothing.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" you asked.

He tilted his head, studying you with an expression that wasn't quite recognition. More like mild curiosity. The kind you'd give a mildly interesting bug on the sidewalk.

"No," he said. "Should I?"

Hana snorted behind you. You could feel her phone already out, probably recording or texting the group chat. 

You snatched the phone from his hand, holding it up so he could see the full extent of the damage. "This is a thousand-dollar phone."

"It was a thousand dollars," he corrected. "Now it's a thousand-dollar phone with a cracked screen. Still works, probably."

"Probably."

"Did you check?"

"No, I was too busy being hit by a skateboard."

He didn't apologise and didn't even look sorry. He just walked over to his board, kicked it up into his hand with a smooth, annoyingly practiced motion, and slung it under his arm.

"You should watch where you're going," he said. "You walked straight into my path. I had the right of way."

"Right of way?" Your voice came out half an octave higher than usual. "This isn't a road. It's a courtyard. For walking. There's no such thing as right of way."

"There's always right of way. It's basic physics. Object in motion stays in motion. You were an object. I was in motion."

"You're not a physicist. You're a guy on a toy."

His jaw tightened, just a fraction. "It's not a toy."

"It's a board with wheels."

"It's transportation."

"It's a mere hobby."

"At least I have a hobby." His eyes swept over you, slow and deliberate. "What's yours? Judging people? Making lists? Seeing how many compliments you can fish for in one outfit?"

Your mouth dropped open. Actually dropped. Nobody talked to you like that. Nobody. Not the teachers, not your parents, not the other kids who whispered behind your back but smiled to your face. Nobody had the nerve.

"I don't fish for compliments," you said.

"Sure you don't." He nodded at your outfit: designer boots, perfectly pressed skirt, blazer that cost more than most people's rent. "You just dress like you're going to a brunch meeting with your publicist because it's comfortable."

"I like fashion."

"You like attention, that’s obvious."

Hana made a small, strangled sound that was either a laugh or a gasp. You couldn't tell. You couldn't think. Your face was hot, your hands were shaking, and this absolute nobody was looking at you like you were a puzzle he'd already solved.

"My family donated that fountain," you said, pointing to the marble monstrosity in the center of the courtyard. "My name is on a plaque in the main hall. I could make one phone call and you'd never eat in this courtyard again."

He looked genuinely unimpressed. "Cool. Doesn't make you immune to the walkway."

And then he just walked away with his skateboard under his arm and his beanie pulled low. His shoulders were loose, like he didn't have a care in the world, like he hadn't just committed social suicide in front of half the junior class.

You stood there, frozen, watching him disappear around the corner.

"Who the hell was that?" Hana whispered.

"I don't know." You were gripping your cracked phone so hard your knuckles went white. "But he just declared war."

The next day, you found him in the cafeteria.

He was sitting alone at the end of a table, eating what looked like a convenience store sandwich. The same gray beanie. The same frayed hoodie under his uniform blazer. His skateboard was propped against the table leg, and he was scrolling through his phone with his free hand, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone in the room was stealing glances at him.

Or maybe he wasn't oblivious and he just didn't care.

That made you angrier than anything else.

You walked straight up to him, dropped your bag on the table with a loud thump, and planted both hands on the surface before leaning in, making sure he couldn't ignore you.

"You owe me three hundred dollars for the screen repair."

He looked up slowly, still chewing on his sandwich before he eventually swallowed. 

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. You broke it."

"You dropped it." He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. Arms crossed. One eyebrow raised. "I bumped you. You dropped it. That's on you. Physics."

"Don't start with the physics again."

"Why not? It's a solid argument. Cause and effect. Your hand let go of the phone. My skateboard didn't even touch you. I touched you. With my body. Which is flesh and blood, not a weapon."

He shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich, chewing with his mouth open just to annoy you. You could tell but you didn’t say anything, too shell shocked from someone actually biting back.

"You've been thinking about me all night, haven't you?" He said, gesturing at you with the sandwich. "Couldn't sleep. Just lying there, replaying it, getting mad all over again."

Your face heated. Because he was right. You had been up half the night, tossing around, furious at the memory of his stupid face and his stupid skateboard and the way he'd looked at you like you were nothing. Like you were just another person, instead of the person.

"I don't think about you," you lied.

"Sure you don't." He picked up his sandwich again. "That's why you tracked me down in a cafeteria with like two hundred people in it. Because you don't think about me."

"I didn't track you down. I'm eating lunch."

"You don't eat in the cafeteria. Everyone knows that. You eat in the courtyard with your friends." He nodded toward the window. "The courtyard you apparently own. The one with the fountain. Your fountain. The one your family donated."

Your nails dug into the table. "How do you know where I eat?"

He shrugged. "I notice things."

Something about the way he said it so casually made your stomach flip. A tiny, traitorous flip that you refused to acknowledge.

"Three hundred dollars," you repeated.

"Zero dollars."

"Two hundred, then."

"Still zero."

"One hundred and fifty. Final offer."

He set down his sandwich and looked at you properly for the first time. His eyes were dark and warm, with little gold flecks you hadn't noticed before, not that you cared anyways.

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Never."

He sighed theatrically and reached into his pocket. Pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Worn soft, the edges frayed. He slid it across the table toward you.

"That's all I have. Take it or leave it."

You stared at the twenty. Then at him. Then back at the twenty.

"You're serious."

"I'm a skateboarder, not a trust fund kid. Sorry I don't have a fountain donation in my back pocket."

The jab hit exactly where he meant it to. You snatched the twenty off the table and stuffed it into your blazer pocket.

"This isn't over," you said.

"I know." He picked up his sandwich again. "See you tomorrow, fountain girl."

"It's Y/N."

"I know that too."

He smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make you want to throw something at his head.

You turned on your heel and walked away, Hana falling into step beside you, already asking a million questions you didn't have answers to.

After that, the arguments became routine.

Every day, you found a reason to cross paths with him. Every day, he had a lazy comeback that made your blood boil. Every day, you walked away angrier than before, promising yourself that tomorrow you'd ignore him completely.

And every day, you never did.

"You're obsessed with him," Hana said one afternoon, watching you scan the courtyard for the familiar gray beanie.

"I'm not obsessed, I'm just dedicated like I always am."

"No, this is something else."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've been looking for him for ten minutes. We haven't even sat down yet."

"I'm not looking. I'm observing my environment."

Hana gave you a long, flat look. "Your environment is a courtyard full of people eating lunch. What exactly are you observing?"

You spotted him near the bike racks where he’d moved to eat lunch after your canteen run in, the same as every other day, lacing up his skate shoes, and your feet were already moving before your brain could catch up.

"Keonho!"

He looked up, and that small smile appeared. The one that made you want to scream.

"Fountain girl. Right on time."

"Don't call me that."

"Okay… princess." He said it under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch. Your jaw dropped.

"Princess? Did you just call me princess?"

"You heard me." He didn't even look guilty. Just went back to tying his laces, all casual, like he hadn't just committed a felony against your entire brand. "You prefer 'your highness'? Because that feels like a mouthful. Lots of syllables. I might get tired halfway through."

"I prefer my name."

"Right. Y/N." He drew out the syllables like he was tasting them. "Y/N, who crossed the entire courtyard just to yell at me about a twenty-dollar bill I already gave you. A transaction which we both agreed was final."

"That twenty dollars didn't even cover the tax on the repair."

"Not my problem."

"Everything is your problem. You're the one who hit me with your skateboard."

"You walked into me."

"I was walking. On my feet. Like a normal person."

"So was I. On my skateboard. Which is a form of transportation, last time I checked. Legally recognised. Some cities have lanes."

"Skateboards don't belong in lanes. Skateboards don't belong anywhere near people."

"They belong everywhere. That's the beauty of it. I can go anywhere. No rules or restrictions. Just me and the board and the open road."

"You sound like some lame commercial."

"You sound like you've never had fun a day in your life."

The words landed. You felt them land. Your face went hot, then cold, then hot again.

"I have plenty of fun."

"Name one fun thing you've done in the past month."

"I—that's—that's none of your business."

"That's what I thought." He stood up, grabbing his board. "No fun. Just school and social obligations and making sure everyone knows you're the most important person in the room."

"I don't have to make sure. Everyone already knows."

"Sure they do." He spun the board in his hand, a lazy, practiced motion. "That's why you're here. Talking to me. Because everyone already knows how important you are, and you're bored of it."

"I'm not bored."

"You're definitely bored. You're the most bored person I've ever met. You have everything, and you're still bored. That's kind of sad, actually."

Your heart was pounding and your hands were shaking. How on earth could he read you so easily?

"You don't know anything about me," you said quietly.

"I know you're still standing here." He tilted his head, those dark eyes boring into yours. "I know you could have walked away five minutes ago. I know you didn't. I know you won't."

"Maybe I will."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "But probably not."

He started walking, and you fell into step beside him without thinking. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"I've been eating lunch by the bike racks for two months since you banished me from the canteen," he said. "You'd never been here once before that. Not once. Now suddenly you're here every day?"

"Maybe I wanted a change of scenery."

"Maybe you wanted a change of someone."

You stopped walking. He stopped too, a few steps ahead, looking back at you with that insufferable half-smile.

"What is that supposed to mean?" you asked.

He turned to face you fully. The courtyard was mostly empty, everyone else already inside. It was just you and him and the sound of wind through the bike racks.

"It means," he said, taking a step closer, "that you're not as complicated as you think you are. You've got your perfect life and your perfect friends and your perfect little routines, and you're bored. And I'm the only thing in this school that doesn't bore you."

"That's not—"

"It means," he continued, like you hadn't spoken, "that you don't actually hate me. You just don't know what else to do with me."

Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. "And what do you want to do with me?"

The question hung between you, heavier than you'd intended. His smile faded, just slightly, and for a second he looked almost... serious. Almost vulnerable.

"I don't know yet," he said. "Guess we’ll have to figure it out."

He turned and kept walking toward the side door of the science building.

"Hey, Keonho?" you called out.

He looked back.

"You still owe me a hundred and thirty dollars."

His laugh echoed across the empty courtyard. "Keep dreaming, fountain girl."

"Stop calling me that!"

"In your dreams!"

You grabbed a pebble from the ground and threw it at him. He dodged it easily, grinning, and disappeared through the door.

You stood there for a long moment, alone in the cold, your left eyebrow doing something you couldn't control.

You don't actually hate me. You just don't know what else to do with me.

The worst part was, you were starting to think he was right.

Weeks continued like that. The arguments became the best part of your day.

It was strange, admitting it to yourself. You'd spent years building a life that was supposed to make you happy: the right friends, the right clothes, the right words at the right times. You were good at it. Everyone said so. You had everything anyone could want.

But nothing had ever made your heart race like stepping into the courtyard and spotting that gray beanie.

Some days you found him at the bike racks. Some days near the vending machines. Some days you'd round a corner and there he'd be, like he'd been waiting, like he knew you were coming before you did.

"You're late, princess,” he said one Tuesday, not looking up from his phone.

"I'm not late. Class ran over."

"Excuses."

"It's not an excuse. It's an explanation."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

He looked up then, and that small smile was there. The one that made your stomach flip.

"You always have to have the last word, don't you?"

"Obviously."

"So do I."

"Then we have a problem."

"We've always had a problem." He pocketed his phone and leaned back against the bike rack, arms crossed. "That's kind of our whole thing."

You hated how easily he said it. Our whole thing. Like there was an us to have a thing.

"There is no our," you said.

"Sure there isn't." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "That's why you're here. Every day. Like clockwork."

"I'm here because the courtyard is crowded."

"The courtyard is always crowded. You've been eating there for two years. You never left before."

Your jaw tightened. "Maybe I wanted a change."

"Maybe you wanted me."

Your heart stopped. Then restarted at double speed. "That's—you're—no."

He laughed. Actually laughed, his whole face lighting up in a way you'd never seen before. It was annoyingly beautiful. His nose crinkled and his eyes disappeared into crescents. He looked like a completely different person.

"Your face is so red right now," he said.

"It is not."

"It's the color of your bag."

You looked down at your pink designer handbag. You wanted to throw it at him.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Then why are you still here?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

He seemed to be the only person able to leave you speechless

The turning point was February. Valentine's Day, actually, which made it worse.

You'd been crying in the greenhouse behind the science wing. Not because you were sad, exactly. Because your mother had called and she'd reminded you, in that sweet, sharp voice she used when she was disappointed, that your "little art hobby"— the one thing you actually cared about, that made you feel like a real person instead of a performance—was "lovely but impractical." That you should probably focus on something that would "actually matter" in college applications. That there were expectations.

You'd thought you were alone.

You hadn't been.

Keonho was sitting in the corner, behind a rack of potted ferns, eating a granola bar. He had his beanie pulled low and his knees drawn up. He'd clearly been there first. Maybe he'd been there for a while.

"Go away," you said, your voice thick.

He didn't move. "No."

"I said go away, Keonho."

"And I said no." He took another bite of his granola bar, chewing slowly. "You're not gonna throw things at me, are you? Because you have scary good aim and I'm not trying to catch a rock with my face."

You stared at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, too exhausted to even be properly angry. "Why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like you don't care about anything."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I care about stuff. I just don't care about the stuff you're supposed to care about."

Something about that, the simplicity of it, the way he said it like it was obvious, made something crack inside you.

You sat down on the dirty greenhouse floor. Right across from him. And you cried for real. Not pretty tears. The ugly ones that left your face blotchy and your nose running and every single wall you'd ever built crumbling into dust.

He didn't say anything. Didn't try to comfort you with empty words. He just handed you a crumpled napkin from his pocket and waited.

When you'd finally stopped, you looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and said, "If you tell anyone about this, I will end you."

"I know," he said. And then, so quietly you almost missed it: "I won't."

You sat there for a long time in silence. The greenhouse was warm and smelled like dirt and flowers, the ferns cast dancing shadows on the floor. Eventually you pushed yourself up, walking away without looking back.

After that, the hatred started to feel different.

Like a game neither of you were really playing anymore, but neither of you knew how to stop. The insults got softer. The fights got shorter. You found yourself seeking him out in crowds, just to see what he was doing, just to make sure he was still there.

"I think he likes you," Hana said one afternoon, and you laughed so hard you choked.

"He doesn't like me. He's messing with me."

"That’s the same thing sometimes."

It wasn't the same thing. It couldn't be. Because you didn't do boys like Keonho. You did boys with trust funds and family names and futures already planned out. Boys who understood the rules and played by them. Boys who would never dream of sitting on a dirty greenhouse floor or eating convenience store sandwiches or looking at you like they could see every single crack in your armour.

You didn't do boys who made you feel seen.

But maybe that was exactly the problem.

"Judging me again, princess?"

He was sat under the bleachers, back against the chain-link fence, knees drawn up with his skateboard across his lap. The afternoon light filtered through the metal slats, casting stripes of gold and shadow across his face. His beanie was crooked, his uniform shirt untucked, and he was looking up at you like you were exactly who he'd been waiting for.

You stood in front of him with your arms crossed, heels sinking slightly into the dirt. "I'm not judging. I'm wondering how you haven't been expelled yet."

"Charming."

"I'm serious. You don't do the work. You don't follow the rules. You show up late every single day. What's the point of even being here?"

He set his skateboard aside and leaned back on his hands, tilting his face up toward you. "Free wifi. Heated building. Sometimes they hand out granola bars in the front office."

"That's not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be funny. Was trying to be honest." He shrugged. "You should try it sometime."

"I'm always honest."

"No you're not." His voice was flat. Certain. "You've never had an honest conversation in your life. You just say whatever keeps you on top."

Your jaw tightened. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you fake-laugh when your friends make jokes that aren't funny, which is all the time. I know you wait until everyone's looking before you do anything nice. I know you've never apologised to anyone for anything, ever, because that would mean admitting you were wrong." He tilted his head. "Should I keep going?"

"You don't know me."

"I know you better than your friends do."

"Stop."

"Why? Because I'm right?"

"Because you're insufferable." Your voice was rising now. You could feel the heat climbing up your neck, the tightness in your chest. "You think you're so smart. You think you've got everyone figured out. But you're just a guy with a skateboard and a chip on his shoulder who can't even afford—"

You stopped yourself. The words hung in the air, half-finished.

He stood up slowly. Brushed the dirt off his pants. His face had gone very still.

"Can't even afford what?" His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

"Nothing."

"No, go ahead. You were saying something. Don't stop now."

"Keonho—"

"Can't even afford what, Y/N?" He stepped closer. "New shoes? A car that isn't fifteen years old? Lunch that didn't come from a gas station? What was it? What were you about to say?"

You took a step back. Your heel caught on a rock. You stumbled, caught yourself, and hated him for making you stumble.

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You were. You always are. That's your whole thing." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You walk around this school like everyone beneath you is a bug you might step on. You think I don't notice? You think I don't see the way you look at me?"

"How do I look at you?"

"Like I'm dirt." He jabbed a finger toward his own chest. "Like I'm something you stepped in and can't scrape off your shoe. And you know what? Fine. I don't care. I've been looked at like that my whole life. By people richer than you. By people meaner than you. By people who actually had a reason."

"I have a reason."

"What reason? Because I bumped into you one time? Because I didn't fall on my knees and beg for forgiveness when your precious phone cracked?"

"You called me fountain girl."

"And you’ve called me poor."

You flinched. He saw it. His eyes narrowed.

"I didn't mean—"

"You’ve meant every word. That's what kills me. You're not even pretending to be sorry. You just stand there with your arms crossed and your perfect hair and your perfect shoes and you look at me like I'm the problem."

"You are the problem!"

"How? How am I the problem, Y/N? Because I don't bow down to you? Because I don't laugh at your jokes? Because I won't pretend you're something you're not?"

"Because you won't just leave me alone!"

The words tore out of you. Loud and raw, echoing off the metal bleachers above.

He stopped. Blinked.

"You heard me," you said, your voice shaking now. "You won't leave me alone. You're everywhere. The bike racks. The vending machines. The greenhouse. Every time I turn around, there you are, with your stupid beanie and your stupid skateboard and your stupid eyes."

"So now I'm the problem because I exist?"

"Yes! No! I don't—" You pressed your hands to your face, breathed in, breathed out. "I don't know what I'm saying."

"Yes you do. You're saying you can't stop thinking about me."

Your hands dropped. "That is not what I'm saying."

"That's exactly what you're saying. You're just too proud to admit it."

"I am not—"

"You are. You're standing under a set of bleachers with me instead of eating lunch with your friends. You're shouting at me instead of ignoring me like you ignore everyone else. You're here, Y/N. You've always been here. You just don't want to admit why."

"Don't tell me what I want."

"Then tell me yourself. What do you want?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your temples.

"Nothing," you said.

"Liar."

"I want you to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop making me feel like—like—" Your voice cracked. You hated that it cracked. You hated him for making it crack. "Like I'm not allowed to just dislike you. Like I have to have a reason. Like I have to justify it."

"You don't have to justify anything. You just have to admit it's not dislike."

"It is dislike."

"It's not." He stepped closer. "You don't seek out people you dislike. You avoid them. You destroy them. You don't show up to them every single day with your arms crossed and your face flushed like—"

"My face is not flushed."

"Your face is so flushed right now." He laughed. Not the mean laugh from before. Something almost... fond.

You stood there, frozen, your arms still crossed, your heart still pounding, your face definitely still flushed. He was too close. He'd been too close for months. Too close in the hallways, too close in the greenhouse, too close in every argument that had somehow become the best part of your day.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Then why are you still here?"

The question hung between you. Heavy. Electric. Inevitable.

"Because—" You stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Because I don't know what to do when I'm not here."

His expression shifted. The teasing faded. Something else took its place: something softer, something almost tender.

"Y/N—"

"Don't." You held up a hand. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you care."

"Maybe I do."

"Well, stop. People don't care about me. They're afraid of me. That’s how it’s supposed to be."

"Maybe," he agreed quietly. "But I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."

"I'm not."

"Then you're stupid."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "Or maybe I just see something everyone else is too scared to look at."

Your throat was tight. Your eyes were burning. You weren't going to cry. You weren't. You'd cried in front of him once and you'd sworn you'd never do it again.

"What do you see?" The words came out smaller than you wanted. Quieter.

He stepped close enough to the point that you could smell him: cold air and soap and something warm underneath.

"I see someone who's exhausted," he said. "Someone who's been performing for so long she forgot there was a person underneath. Someone who's smart and talented and so terrified of being ordinary that she'd rather be hated than ignored."

"You're wrong."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me what I'm missing. Tell me what I'm saying wrong. Tell me you don't lie awake at night wondering what it would be like to just stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop performing. Stop pretending. Stop being the person everyone expects you to be." His voice dropped. "Tell me you've never looked at me and thought about being free."

Your breath caught.

"I've seen you," he continued, quieter now. "In the art room. When you think no one's watching. You make things; real things, messy things, things that aren't for anyone but you. That's who you are. That's who you could be all the time if you weren't so busy being who everyone else wants you to be."

"You don't know anything about my art."

"I know you're good at it. I know you care about it more than anything else in your life. I know you'd rather be in that room than anywhere else in the world."

"Stop."

"And I know," he said, stepping even closer, "that you feel more alive arguing with me than you do with anyone else."

"Stop."

"Why? Because I'm right?"

"Because you're—because you can't just—because—" Your voice was rising again, cracking again, falling apart in your hands. "Because you don't get to stand there and see me like that. Because no one sees me like that. Because if you see me like that, then I have to be real, and I don't know how to be real, I only know how to be her—"

"Then stop being her."

"I can't—"

"Yes you can." He grabbed your arms, not hard, just firm enough to stop you from pacing, from running, from falling apart completely. "You can. You just don't want to."

"I don't know how."

"Then let me help you."

"You can't help me. You're just a guy with a skateboard. You don't have a plan. You don't have a future. You don't have anything."

The words landed like stones. Heavy and unforgivable.

His hands dropped from your arms. His face went blank.

"Wow," he said quietly. "Okay."

"Keonho—"

"No, you're right. I don't have anything. I don't have a trust fund. I don't have a fountain with my name on it. I don't have a future planned out for me by people who care more about appearances than they care about me."

"That's not what I meant—"

"It's exactly what you meant." He stepped back. "It's what you always mean. You just said it out loud this time."

"I didn't—I was angry—"

"You're always angry. That's not an excuse."

"I know, I just—"

"You just what? You just wanted to hurt me? Congratulations. You did." He ran a hand over his beanie, hair poking out at the ends. "You always do. And I always let you. Because some part of me thought maybe underneath all the armour there was someone worth waiting for."

Your heart stopped.

"But maybe I was wrong," he said. "Maybe there's no one underneath at all. Maybe you're just the armour."

"That's not—"

"Then prove it." His voice cracked on the last word. "Prove me wrong. Show me there's someone in there. Just once. Just for a second. Please."

That broke something in you.

You didn't think. You just moved.

You grabbed the front of his stupid, frayed, too-big shirt,and yanked him down. The fabric bunched in your fists, pulling him off balance, forcing him to stumble forward into your space as you twisted awkwardly. His hands shot out instinctively, bracing against the chain-link fence on either side of you, caging you in without meaning to.

And then your mouth was on his.

It wasn't gentle or soft. It was months of frustration and confusion and the unbearable weight of being seen finally cracking open. You kissed him like you were trying to win an argument. Like you were trying to prove a point. Like you were trying to shove every word you'd never said directly into his lungs and make him breathe them.

Your lips crashed against his, off-center at first, your nose bumping his jaw before you corrected course. You didn't care. You couldn't care. Your fingers were still twisted in his shirt, knuckles pressed against his collarbone, and you were pulling him closer even as you were kissing him harder.

His lips were warm and softer than you expected for a boy who spent his afternoons falling off skateboards. The contrast sent something sharp and electric down your spine.

For a single, suspended second, he was frozen. Completely, utterly frozen. His body went rigid against yours, his hands still pressed flat to the fence, his lips parted but unresponsive beneath yours. You could feel his breath: caught somewhere between an inhale and an exhale, trapped in his throat like he'd forgotten how to let it out.

Then something shifted.

His hands uncurled from the fence. His fingers found your waist, the touch light at first, almost questioning, as if he was waiting for you to shove him away.

You didn't.

You kissed him harder. 

His lips finallymoved against yours. Slowly at first, like he was waking up from a long sleep. He tilted his head, adjusting the angle, and suddenly the kiss fit differently: better, deeper. 

Your fingers loosened in his shirt, then tightened again, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. His chest pressed against yours, firm and solid. His heart was pounding—you could feel it, or maybe that was your own heart, maybe they'd synced up somewhere in the chaos of the kiss. You couldn't tell anymore.

His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide, pressing you into him. The other hand came up to your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone, tilting your face up to meet his more fully. He kissed you deeper now, with more confidence, like he'd finally caught up to what was happening and was making up for lost time.

Your head was spinning. Your lungs were burning. You couldn't remember how to breathe through your nose, and you didn't care, because pulling away meant stopping, and stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant admitting what you'd just done.

So you didn't stop.

You kissed him until your lips were numb. You kissed him until his thumb was tracing patterns on your jaw and his other hand was pressed flat against your spine and the chain-link fence was digging into his knuckles and neither of you cared. You kissed him like you were trying to crawl inside his skin, like you were trying to prove that you were more than armour, like you were trying to make him understand something you didn't have words for.

And then, finally, you pulled back.

Your hands uncurled from his shirt. The fabric was wrinkled now, permanently creased where your fists had been. You sideways, one step, then two, putting distance between you. Your heels sank into the dirt. Your chest was heaving. Your lips were swollen and wet and tingling.

You crossed your arms. Locked your knees. Lifted your chin.

And you looked at him with the most neutral expression you could muster.

"You talk too much."

Keonho was still standing before the fence. His hands were braced where you had left them, fingers curled around the chain-link like he needed it to stay upright. His beanie had slipped sideways, and a strand of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and his lips were parted, pinker than before, slightly swollen.

He looked like someone had reached into his chest, rearranged his organs, and forgotten to put them back in the right order.

"You—" His voice came out rough. Cracked. He stopped, swallowed, and tried again, turning to face you fully. "You just—"

"I just what?"

"You kissed me."

"Did I?" You tilted your head, fighting the smile threatening to break across your face. 

He blinked. Once, then twice. His hands dropped from the fence, and he ran one of them over his mouth, fingers pressing against his lower lip like he was checking to make sure it was still there.

"I'm—you can't just—" He stopped. Ran his hand through his hair, dislodging his beanie entirely. It fell to the ground. He didn't pick it up. "You can't just kiss someone and then act like—like that—"

"Like what?"

"Like you didn't just short-circuit my entire brain."

You shrugged. One shoulder. Casual. Like your whole world hadn't just flipped upside down, and your lips weren't still buzzing, and your heart wasn't threatening to beat its way out of your ribcage.

"Maybe you should stop talking so much," you said. "I warned you."

"You didn't warn me about anything—"

"I've been warning you for months."

He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

And then something shifted in his expression, the shock faded, the confusion cleared,  something else took its place.

"You think you're funny," he said slowly.

"I think I'm hilarious."

He was at a loss for words and you watched him struggle, try to reach for words that weren't there, his hands flexing at his sides as if he was trying to physically grasp a sentence and failing. His chest was still rising and falling too fast. His lips were still parted. His eyes kept darting from your eyes to your mouth and back again, like he couldn't decide which one to focus on.

"You're staring," you said.

"I'm not staring. I'm... processing."

"Process faster. You're making it weird."

"I'm making it weird?" He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You just—you just kissed me. Out of nowhere. In the middle of an argument. While I was begging you to be real with me for one second. And now you're standing there like you didn't just—like you didn't—" He gestured vaguely at the space between you, at his mouth, at the air itself. "Like you didn't just do that."

"What do you want me to do? Apologise?"

"I want you to acknowledge it!"

"I acknowledged it. I kissed you. You were there. You felt it."

"That's not—that's not acknowledging it, that's just doing it—"

"Same thing."

"It's really not!"

"It really is."

There was a beat of silence. He stared at you and you stared back. The afternoon light shifted, stripes of gold sliding across his face, catching the flush on his cheekbones.

The wind picked up, rattling the chain-link fence beside him. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. The world was still moving, still spinning, still completely unaware that yours had just cracked open and rearranged itself into something you didn't recognise.

Keonho bent down and picked up his beanie. He didn't put it back on. Just held it in his hands, twisting the fabric, avoiding your eyes.

"Why did you do it?" he asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Kiss me."

"You asked me to prove you wrong."

"That's not—" He let out a breath, slow and shaky. "That's not a reason."

"Sure it is."

"No, it's not. It's an impulse. It's a reaction. It's not a reason." He looked up at you then, and his eyes were different: softer, almost vulnerable, stripped of the emotionless facade he usually wore. "I've been asking you for months. Months. To just be honest with me for five seconds. And you finally do something real, and I just... I need to know why. It wasn’t just because you were trying to win an argument or to shut me up, you know that. Just tell me why."

Your throat tightened.

You could lie. You were good at lying. You'd been lying your whole life, to everyone, about everything. You could tell him it meant nothing, and you were just frustrated. You could tell him a hundred different things that would make this easier, simpler, less terrifying.

But he was looking at you like he could see every crack and he'd been waiting inside one of them for months just hoping you'd eventually climb down to meet him.

"Because I couldn't not," you said.

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"I couldn't not do it." Your voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual sharpness. "You were standing there, and you were saying all those things, and you were looking at me like… like you actually wanted to see me." You paused, swallowed, forced yourself to continue. "And I thought about walking away. I thought about saying something mean. I thought about every single thing I usually do to keep people at a distance. And then I thought—what if I just... didn't. For once. What if I just did what I actually wanted to do instead of what I was supposed to do."

"And what did you actually want to do?"

You met his eyes. Held his gaze. Let him see.

"I wanted to kiss you," you said. "I've wanted to kiss you for weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know. I wasn’t keeping track."

The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and enormous.

Keonho didn't move. Didn't speak. His hands had stopped twisting his beanie. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and dark and unreadable.

"You're not joking," he said finally.

"No."

"You're not trying to mess with me."

"No."

"You actually—" He stopped, swallowed, then started again. "You actually want—"

"Don't make me say it again."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not good at this. I'm not good at being real. You know that. I’ve never known how to be anything other than what I’ve always been at this stupid school."

"And now?"

You looked down at your hands. They were shaking. You curled them into fists, then uncurled them, then curled them again.

"Now I don't know what I am," you admitted. "But I know I'm still standing here with you and I'm not running away."

He took a step closer and his beanie dropped to the ground again, forgotten.

"You're really bad at this," he said softly.

"I know."

"The whole vulnerability thing. You're terrible at it."

"I know."

"It's kind of endearing, actually."

"Keonho."

"Y/N." He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the individual lashes framing his eyes, the small scar on his chin, the way his lips were still slightly swollen from your mouth. "You kissed me."

"I'm aware."

"You said you've wanted to for weeks."

"I'm aware of that too."

"And now you're standing here, shaking, looking at me like you're about to either kiss me again or throw up."

"I’m not throwing up—"

"So kiss me again."

Your heart stopped.

"What?"

"You heard me." His voice was low, steady, certain. "You kissed me to prove a point. Now kiss me because you want to. No argument. Just you and me."

You looked at him and saw it all: the mess of his hair from his hand running through it too much, the frayed shirt collar, the dark eyes that had been seeing you for months when no one else bothered to look.

"You're annoying," you finally whispered.

"I know."

"You're insufferable."

"I know."

"You're—"

He kissed you to shut you up and it was nothing like the first kiss.

His fingers slid into your hair at the nape of your neck, not pulling, just there, a warm weight against your scalp. His other hand found your waist again, palm spanned the curve of your side like he was memorising the shape of it. His thumbs pressed lightly into the fabric of your shirt, and you could feel each individual fingertip through the thin material.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

Where your mouth had been frantic and desperate against his, his was deliberate. Measured. His lips moved over yours slowly, like he was learning you from the start, like he was tracing the outline of something he'd been waiting to touch for months. He started at the center, pressing his mouth to the seam of your lips, then tilted his head and tried again from a different angle. And again. And again. Each kiss was a question. Each press of his lips was a sentence he didn't need words for.

Your hands, which had been hanging uselessly at your sides, found their way to his chest. Not pushing him away, nor pulling him closer. Just resting there, palms flat against the worn cotton of his shirt, feeling his heartbeat under your fingers. It was fast, much faster than his movements suggested. The contrast made something in your chest tighten.

He pulled back just far enough to breathe, his forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were still closed. His lips were parted, slightly swollen, and you could feel his breath warm against your mouth.

You stayed like that for a moment, his thumb still tracing small circles on your waist and his fingers still tangled in your hair. The world under the bleachers had gone completely silent, like even the wind was holding its breath.

Then he kissed you again.

This time, his mouth was softer. He brushed his lips over yours once, feather-light, then again, then a third time, each touch gentler than the last. It was as though he was asking permission for something he'd already been given and he couldn't quite believe you were still there.

When he finally pulled back, after many more minutes, his eyes were open and he was watching you like you were something precious and breakable and he was terrified of dropping you.

His thumb came up to brush across your lower lip, where his had just been. The touch was so light it was almost not there.

"Say something," he whispered.

You couldn't. Your voice was gone, lost somewhere in your throat, buried under the weight of everything you'd just felt.

So instead, you pulled him down by his shirt again. And you kissed him.

Slower and far more certain this time.

His mouth met yours halfway. His hand cradled the back of your head. His body pressed against yours from chest to hip, and you could feel the warmth of him through both your shirts, solid and real and there.

You kissed him until your lips were numb and your lungs were burning and you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.

And that was the start of whatever was going on between the two of you.

Neither of you named it. Not that day under the bleachers, not in the weeks that followed, not even when you found yourself seeking him out between classes or staying late after school just to walk with him. There was no conversation about what you were, no labels, no promises. Just the quiet, unspoken understanding that something had shifted, and neither of you knew what to do with it.

The arguments didn't stop. If anything, they got worse.

Because you were still you: sharp-tongued and quick to deflect, armoured in expensive clothes and sharper smiles. And he was still him: infuriating and observant, unwilling to let you hide behind your walls now that he'd seen what was underneath. You'd crack open for him once and now he expected cracks all the time. Expected you to be soft. Expected you to be real.

And you couldn't. Not when the hallways were full of eyes and the courtyard was full of whispers and your whole life was a performance you'd been rehearsing since birth.

So you fought. Loudly and publicly. You called him a burnout to his face in front of the vending machines. He called you a robot in front of the bike racks. You told him he had no future ahead. He told you your designer bag cost more than his mom's rent and what did that say about you, really?

People stared. People whispered. People placed bets on when one of you would finally snap.

What they didn't see was what happened after.

The way you'd find him behind the gym twenty minutes later, breathless from running, your hands shaking as you grabbed his shirt. The way he'd already be waiting, like he knew you'd come, like he'd been counting on it. The way he'd pull you into the shadow of the building and kiss you like the argument had never happened—or like it had, and this was the only way to finish it.

"You're late," he'd murmur against your mouth.

"I hate you," you'd breathe back.

"Sure you do."

And then you'd kiss properly, desperate and hungry, your fingers twisting in his frayed collar, his hands pressing into your waist. You'd stay there until the bell rang, until the world demanded you return to your separate lives, until you could compose your face into something that didn't look like a girl who'd just been kissed within an inch of her sanity.

Then you'd walk back to class. Straighten your skirt. Lift your chin. And pretend nothing had happened.

People noticed, though. How could they not?

You'd always been careful; meticulous, even. You knew where every camera was, where every teacher stood during passing periods, which stairwells stayed empty and which bathrooms had broken locks. You'd spent years cultivating your image, protecting your reputation, making sure no one ever saw anything you didn't want them to see.

But Keonho made you sloppy.

It started small. A hallway glance that lasted a second too long. A pause by the bike racks when you should have kept walking. The way your eyes shone when they tracked him across the courtyard, following the gray beanie like a compass pointing north.

Hana noticed first, because Hana noticed everything.

"You keep looking at him weird," she said one day at lunch, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.

"I'm not looking at him weird."

"Y/n, you literally look at him like he’s the answer to everything."

"I’m looking at him the same as I’ve always done."

Hana stared at you. You stared at your salad.

"You're seeing him, aren't you?" she said quietly. "Like, seeing him seeing him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Y/N."

"Hana."

She leaned closer, dropping her voice. "I saw you. Last week. Behind the science building."

Your heart stopped and your face went cold. "You saw what?"

"Nothing. I didn't see anything. That's the point." She paused. "But I saw you go behind the science building. And I saw him go behind the science building. And then you both came out five minutes later looking like—" She gestured at your face. "Like that."

"Like what?"

"Like someone who just got kissed and is trying really hard to pretend she didn't."

You set down your fork very carefully.

"You didn't see anything," you said.

"I know."

"Because there's nothing to see."

"I know."

"And if you tell anyone—"

"I won't." Hana held up her hands. "I'm not an idiot. I'm just... surprised."

"At what?"

"That you picked him." She glanced across the courtyard, where Keonho was sitting alone by the bike racks, eating his usual gas station sandwich. "I mean, he's cute. In a scruffy way. But he's not exactly... you know."

"Not exactly what?"

"Your type."

You looked down at your salad. At your perfectly manicured nails. At the designer bag hanging off the back of your chair.

"Maybe I don't have a type," you said.

Hana didn't respond. She didn't have to. Her silence said everything.

After that, you tried to be more careful.

You stopped seeking him out between classes, started taking different routes to the vending machines, sat with your back to the bike racks so you wouldn't be tempted to look.

It lasted three days.

On the fourth day, you found yourself behind the art building at 3:15, your back against the brick wall, his body pressed against yours, his mouth locked on yours.

"We have to stop," you whispered, even as your fingers tightened in his hair.

"I know," he murmured against your lips.

"We're being stupid."

"The stupidest."

"Someone's going to see."

He pulled back just enough to look at you with slightly swollen lips.

"Then stop me," he said.

You didn't.

You kissed him instead. Harder than before. As though you were trying to memorise the shape of his mouth, the taste of his breath, the way his hands felt on your waist.

And you were terrified of how much you didn't want to stop.

The first time anyone properly saw you alone together was behind the bleachers.

Someone's little brother was looking for a lost phone and he found you instead.

You were sitting with your back against the fence. Keonho was lying with his head in your lap, eyes closed, your fingers absently running through his hair. Neither of you was talking. Neither of you was fighting. You just... existed.

His hair was softer than you expected. His breathing had evened out until you weren't sure if he was awake or asleep. The late afternoon sun made everything gold and warm and stupidly cinematic.

You should have moved. The moment you heard footsteps crunching on the gravel, you should have shoved him off and stood up and smoothed down your skirt and pretended this never happened. The old you would have sensed someone coming from a hundred yards away. The old you was always watching, always calculating, always performing.

But the old you hadn't spent the last hour with her fingers in Keonho's hair, watching the clouds drift past, feeling something in her chest unfurl like a flower she'd forgotten she'd planted.

You looked up. The kid was standing at the edge of the bleachers, frozen mid-step. His mouth was open. His phone was in his hand, must have found it, and you realised with a sinking feeling that he'd been taking pictures. Or filming. Or both.

You didn't say anything. Neither did he. For one long, suspended second, the three of you existed in perfect, terrible stillness: you with your hands still in Keonho's hair, Keonho still half-asleep and oblivious, the kid staring like he'd just witnessed a unicorn.

Then the kid turned and ran.

His footsteps echoed off the floor, fast and frantic, disappearing around the corner. 

Keonho stirred. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Sounded like someone running."

"It was nothing." You pulled your hand out of his hair and your fingers felt cold without him. "We should go."

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, his hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. He looked at your face and something in his expression shifted.

"Someone saw us," he said. Not a question.

"Someone's little brother."

"Did he—"

"He had a phone."

Keonho was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned back on his hands and tilted his face toward the sky.

"Well," he said. "That's that, then."

"What do you mean, that's that?"

"I mean people are going to talk. Your friends are going to freak out. The whole school's going to know by tomorrow morning." He looked at you sideways. "You okay with that?"

You should have said no. You should have stood up and walked away and never looked back. You should have spent the rest of the week damage-controlling, spin-doctoring, finding ways to convince everyone that what they'd seen wasn't what they thought.

Instead you said, "I don't know."

Keonho nodded and didn't push any further.

"Come on," he said, standing up and offering you his hand. "I'll walk you to your car."

You took his hand and let him pull you to your feet, your fingers lingering in his for a moment longer than necessary.

"Your hair's a mess," you said.

"You're the one who did it."

"You shouldn't have fallen asleep on me."

"You shouldn't have been playing with my hair."

You took a good look at him: his crooked smile and his tired eyes and his stupid, beautiful, infuriating face.

“Your hair was too soft for me to stop," you said quietly.

His smile softened and he squeezed your hand once before letting go.

"Come on, fountain girl. Let's go cause some rumors."

The school lost its collective mind.

The photos spread like wildfire, your friends asked countless questions on if you were really dating him of all people.

Hana seemed to be the only one capable of at least showing a bit of support, in her own way of course.

"Okay, I don't understand it and I think you're making a mistake and I think you're going to get hurt." She reached to take your hand. "But you're my best friend. And if this is what you want then I'm not going to stand in your way."

"He's not—I don't—" You stopped. Took a breath. "I don't know what I want. I just know I'm tired of pretending I have it all figured out."

Hana squeezed your hand. "Then stop pretending."

You looked down at your joined hands and saw her perfectly manicured nails next to yours. 

"I don't know how," you admitted.

"Figure it out." She let go of your hand. Leaned back in her chair. "But do me a favor?"

"What?

"Next time you're going to make out with the skateboard boy behind the bleachers, maybe pick a spot without a line of sight to the school."

Your face went hot. "We weren't making out—"

"Your lips in those photos say otherwise."

"The photos weren’t taken after we—he was sleeping—"

"Sure he was."

“He was! His head was in my lap and he fell asleep and he I was just playing—”

“Uh huh.”

"Hana."

"Y/N." She smiled a real smile, the first one you'd seen from her all day. "I'm teasing. Mostly. But seriously. If you're going to be with him, be with him. Don't sneak around, or lie, or pretend he's something you're ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed of him."

"Then don't act like you are."

And from then on, you didn’t hide. You stopped crossing to the other side of the hallway when you saw him coming. Stopped pretending not to know where he ate lunch. Stopped taking the long way to class just to avoid being seen walking next to him.

Everyone now knew that you two were a thing of some sorts, and maybe it was better that they all knew. The secrecy had been exhausting. The sneaking around, the lying by omission, the constant fear of being caught; it had been eating at you, wearing you down, making you someone you didn't want to be.

Now there was nothing to hide.

You no longer had to explain why you’d stopped driving to school just to be able to walk with him, his skateboard rolling beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours and your shoulders bumping as you talked. Or the new scratches on your knees, the scuffs on your formerly pristine shoes, the tiny bruise on your palm from catching yourself when you fell from Keonho attempting to teach you to ride his skateboard.

"You're doing it wrong," he said one afternoon, watching you wobble across the parking lot after school.

"I'm doing it exactly the way you showed me."

"You're doing it exactly the way I told you not to."

"You told me to not lean back, so I'm leaning forward."

"Don't do that either." He ran his free hand through his hair, the other reaching up to grab your arm, steadying you before you could tip over. His fingers wrapped around your bicep firmly, keeping you upright. "Leaning forward is just as bad as leaning back. Actually, it's worse. When you lean forward, the board shoots out from under you and you land on your face."

"I'd rather land on my face than on my back because I’ll catch myself before I hit the ground."

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"I've said stupider things."

"Name one."

"I told Mina her new haircut looked good."

He stared at you. "That's not stupid. That's just mean."

"It was stupid and mean. Her haircut was terrible."

He adjusted his grip on your arm, his thumb pressing into the inside of your elbow. "Okay. Listen. Actually listen this time."

"I always listen."

"You listen to argue, not learn."

"I don't know what that means."

"Yes you do."

"Stop talking."

"Stop proving me right." He stepped around to face you, both hands on your arms now, looking down at you with that exasperated expression you'd grown weirdly fond of. "Keep your weight centered. Right over the board. Imagine there's a string pulling you up from the top of your head."

"That's the worst visualisation I've ever heard."

"It works."

"It works for you because you're weird."

"I'm not weird. I'm effective."

"You're weird and ineffective."

"I taught myself to skateboard when I was twelve. I think I know what I'm talking about."

"You taught yourself. That explains why you're such a bad teacher."

"I'm not a bad teacher. You're a bad student."

"I'm an excellent student. I get straight A's."

"In history. This isn't history. This is physics."

"It's a board with wheels, Keonho. It's not that deep."

"It's literally that deep. Center of gravity, momentum, weight distribution—"

"You're using big words to sound smart."

"I'm using big words because they're the right words."

"The right words are 'stand still and don't fall.'"

"The right words are 'engage your core and relax your shoulders.'"

"My core is engaged. My shoulders are relaxed."

"Your shoulders are up by your ears."

"No they aren’t."

"Princess, they're literally trying to escape through your neck right now."

You glanced down at your shoulders. They were, in fact, up by your ears. You forced them down. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Don't be sarcastic."

"I'm not being sarcastic. I'm genuinely ecstatic that your shoulders are no longer trying to flee your body."

"You're so annoying."

"You're so tense."

"I'm not tense. I'm focused."

"You're so focused that you're forgetting to breathe."

"I'm breathing fine."

"You're holding your breath."

"I'm not holding my breath."

"You just turned purple."

"I did not turn purple."

"You turned a very lovely shade of lavender."

You exhaled. Hard. Right in his face.

He didn't flinch. Just raised an eyebrow.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"No."

"Then take a real breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth."

"I know how to breathe."

"Then prove it."

You took a breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth straight onto his face again. He blinked.

"Did you just exhale onto me again?"

"Maybe."

He just sighed, already realising he was losing this battle, and let go of your arms, stepping back. "Okay. Try again. Keep your weight centered. Shoulders down. Breathe. And for the love of God, stop leaning."

"I'm not leaning."

"You're leaning."

"I'm standing perfectly upright."

"You're leaning so far forward you're practically bowing."

You wobbled as you adjusted but managed to catch yourself.

"Look," he said, smiling at you softly. "You're doing it."

"I'm doing it."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed with myself—"

Before you could even finish your gloating, your weight shifted. One moment you were upright, almost steady, almost balanced, almost doing it. The next, the board slipped out from underneath you like the ground had turned to ice. Your arms windmilled. Your center of gravity betrayed you completely. And then your knees hit the asphalt hard: a sharp, jarring impact that sent shockwaves up your thighs before Keonho could even properly react and grab you.

His hands reached for you a second too late, fingers closing on empty air where your arm had been.

You stayed there for a moment, on your hands and knees, breathing hard. The asphalt was rough and warm beneath your palms, little bits of gravel digging into your skin. Your knees throbbed. Your pride throbbed harder.

"Y/N." His voice was closer now. His hand landed on your back, warm and steady. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You're not fine. You're on the ground."

"I'm resting."

"You're bleeding."

"I'm bleeding and resting. Multitasking."

"Y/N."

"Keonho."

He crouched down beside you, his face level with yours and his eyes wide, scanning your face, your knees, your hands. "You went down hard."

"I've gone down harder."

"That's not—" He stopped. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not the flex you think it is."

He reached for your arm, gently pulling you up from the ground. His hands were more careful than usual, and you let him guide you to your feet, wincing as your weight settled onto your scraped knees.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"I can walk."

"You're limping."

"I'm not limping. I'm just… taking my time."

He shook his head, but he was smiling. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

He led you to the concrete steps outside the gymnasium, and you sat down heavily, stretching your legs out in front of you. The damage was worse than you thought: both knees scraped raw through what used to be your favorite pair of tights, thin lines of blood beading up through the torn fabric.

Keonho sat down next to you, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours. He pulled a crumpled gas station napkin from his pocket and held it out to you.

"That's not going to be enough," you said.

"It's all I have."

"Then get more."

"Where am I supposed to get more?"

"I don't know. The bathroom. The nurse's office."

He ignored you and dabbed at your knee with the napkin anyway, gentle and inefficient, the cheap paper sticking to your skin. You hissed through your teeth.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"You should be. This is your fault."

"How is this my fault?"

"You're the one who put me on the board."

"You're the one who wanted to learn."

"I wanted to learn from a competent teacher."

"I am competent."

"You let me fall."

"You fell before I could catch you."

"You were literally right in front of me."

"You went down way too fast for me to react."

“Well maybe next time I’ll get an actual competent teacher to teach me how to skate.”

“Oh really? And would that competent teacher still be here tending to your wounds?” He looked at you and something in your chest tightened. You looked away, down at your scraped knees, at his hand still holding the crumpled napkin against your skin.

"You're bleeding too," you said.

He looked down at his own hand. There was a small scrape on his palm, must have happened when he reached for you and caught the asphalt instead.

"That's nothing," he said.

"It's bleeding."

"It's a scratch."

"It's bleeding and you're not even complaining."

"Why would I complain?"

"Because that's what people do when they're hurt. They complain."

"I'm not hurt. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're bleeding."

"It's a scratch, Y/N."

"It's a bleeding scratch."

He stared at you. Then he started laughing, bright and surprised, his whole face lighting up.

"What?" you demanded.

"Nothing." He shook his head, still laughing. "You're just—you're sitting there with two knees that look like ground beef, telling me my paper cut is a medical emergency."

"It's not a paper cut. It's a gash."

"It's literally smaller than my fingernail."

"Size isn't everything."

"That's not—" He stopped, his smile wide whilst he rubbed his hand over his face. "You're looking way worse than me."

You wanted to be annoyed at the fact that he was still laughing, his shoulder shaking against yours. You wanted to push him away and tell him this wasn't funny, that your knees were ruined and your tights were ruined and your pride was in shambles on the asphalt.

But instead, you started laughing too.

It bubbled up from somewhere unexpected, somewhere you'd forgotten existed. You laughed until your stomach hurt and your scraped knees throbbed and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You laughed because you'd just fallen off a skateboard in front of half the school and Keonho was sitting next to you with a napkin stuck to his palm, his eyes full of light, watching you finally, finally, be yourself.

When the laughter finally faded, you were both breathing hard. His shoulder was still pressed against yours. His hand had somehow found yours, fingers laced together, resting on the concrete step between you.

You eventually leaned your head against his shoulder. Just rested it there, your temple pressing into the worn fabric of his hoodie. He didn't move. Didn't pull away. Just sat there with you in the warm afternoon sun while the rest of the world went on around you.

At some point he turned his head and his lips brushed against your hair so softly you almost missed it, but you felt it. You felt everything.

People walked past, some gawked at the sight of you, others turned and whispered amongst each other, but neither of you seemed to care.

That seemed to become a recurring thing. The stares and the whispers. People still took photos when they thought you weren't looking. The speculation never ended: were you dating? Were you enemies? Were you friends? Were you something in between that no one had a word for?

But you stopped noticing. Or maybe you just stopped caring.

They couldn't understand what was going on between you two. How you'd go from wanting to strangle each other to cuddling up just a second later. How you'd be screaming in each other's faces one moment and then sitting in comfortable silence the next, your head on his shoulder, his hand in yours. How you'd call him every name in the book and then defend him viciously when someone else tried to do the same.

It didn't make sense. Not to them. Not to your friends, who still looked at you like you'd grown a second head every time you walked past the bike racks without stopping to sneer. Not to his friends—the few he had that you had only learnt about recently—who raised their eyebrows every time you appeared and said nothing.

And, to be honest, neither of you understood it either.

But none of that mattered. 

Not when he'd sit there and let you ramble for hours about whatever new person who annoyed you had done. How a girl had worn the same dress as you to a party and actually looked good in it: "She had no right, Keonho. No right. I specifically told her I was wearing the green one with the flowers, and she showed up in the exact same dress like it was nothing." Or how Hana had started talking to her ex again, the one from the football team, the one who'd cheated on her at summer camp two years ago: "I don't understand it. I don't understand her. He literally lied to her face for a whole weekend and she's just going to pretend that didn't happen?"

He never interrupted. Never told you to calm down or change the subject or stop caring so much about things that didn't matter. He just listened with his eyes half-closed, his head tilted back, and his fingers absently tracing patterns on his knee. Sometimes he'd nod. Sometimes he'd make comments like "that's messed up" or "she sounds exhausting" or "you're right to be annoyed." Sometimes he’d just watch you, a look in his eyes that made you feel giddy.

Not when he laid on your bed, still watching you pace back and forth whilst on a call that felt never ending. 

He should have been paying attention and following the conversation, tracking the drama, even offering the occasional grunt of acknowledgment. But his eyelids were heavy, his body was warm, and the sound of your voice, even when it was sharp, annoyed, and mid-takedown, was somehow the most soothing thing he'd ever heard.

”Okay, call me later once she replies.” 

Keonho perked up as he heard you wrapping up the call, his chin lifting from his arm. His eyes tracked you still walking back and forth, back and forth, like you couldn't quite remember how to stop.

"You're gonna wear a hole in that ridiculously expensive rug," he commented, his voice thick with sleep.

You ignored him. Kept pacing. Kept muttering under your breath, something about ‘can't believe she said that’ and ‘who does she think she is’ and ‘wait until I get my hands on her’.

"Y/N."

Nothing.

"Y/N."

"I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking for like ten minutes. Think quicker.”

“I’d be able to if you shut up.”

He just blinked at you, slow and unbothered. “I’m not the one who’s been pacing around for an hour.”

”It was literally twenty minutes, and last I checked you were asleep.”

”That was before you left me all by myself.” He pouted, his bottom lip jutting out, his eyes wide and faux-tragic, and you scrunched your face in disgust, though you'd never admit it secretly made your heart swell. The stupid, infuriating, adorable pout. The way his hair was all messed up from the pillow. The way the pink blanket was pulled up to his shoulders like a child who didn't want to get out of bed.

He mumbled something you were only just able to catch, his voice thick and sleepy: "Twenty minutes too long."

"I was on the phone."

"You were on the phone without me."

"You were asleep."

"So? You could have woken me up."

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face before stepping forward. He twisted to lay on his side, the pink blanket pooling around his waist, and lifted the blanket up at your approach.

You climbed under the blanket with him, the sheets cool against your legs, the duvet soft beneath your head. His free arm enveloped you immediately, your face pressing into his neck, your nose brushing his collarbone, and your breath warm against his skin.

”You’re so clingy.” You grumbled.

"You love it."

"I hate it."

"You love hating it."

You elbowed him and he didn't even flinch, just tightened his arm around you, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you.

"I was in the middle of something," you said.

"You were in the middle of pacing."

"I was strategising."

"You were spiraling and I needed to stop it."

His hand found your hair. His fingers threaded through it, slow and steady, the way he knew you liked. His thumb brushed against your scalp, gentle circles that made your eyes flutter closed.

"I'm still thinking about it," you murmured.

"I know."

"I'm going to keep thinking about it."

"I know."

"I'm going to talk about it. A lot. For a long time."

"I know."

"And you're going to listen?"

"I'm going to try. No promises. I'm very tired."

"You're always tired."

"You're always thinking too much."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to fire back something sharp and cutting that would wipe that sleepy smile off his face. But his hand was in your hair and his heartbeat was steady under your ear and the world outside your bedroom door had stopped mattering.

"She's going to reply later," you said. "And when she does—"

"You're going to do nothing."

"I'm going to do something."

"You're going to do nothing," he repeated. "Because it's late. And you're tired. And whatever she said, it'll still be there tomorrow."

"But—"

"Tomorrow," he said. "You can destroy her tomorrow. Right now, you're going to sleep."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"I just did."

"And I'm not doing it."

"You're literally in my arms with your eyes closed."

"That doesn't matter." Despite your words, you snuggled into him tighter, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, your face pressing deeper into the hollow of his throat. He was warm, so, so warm, and his heartbeat was slow and steady beneath your palm, a rhythm your own heart had started to match without your permission.

You felt him press a kiss onto your hair, it seemed to be a thing he did subconsciously now.

"Mhm." He just about managed to say, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. His arms were loosening around you, his grip going slack, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. He was drifting off, you could feel it in the way his breathing had slowed, in the way his hand had stopped moving in your hair, in the way his heartbeat had dropped to a deep, steady thrum.

You lifted your head just enough to look at him as you felt him settle.

His face was soft in the dim light. The sharp lines of his jaw had blurred, his lips were slightly parted, his dark lashes fanned out against his cheeks. His hair was a mess across his forehead and he looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the boy who argued with you in parking lots and more like the boy who pressed kisses to your hair when he thought you weren't paying attention.

You should have woken him up. Should have told him to go home, to sleep in his own bed, to stop taking up space in yours.

But you didn't.

Instead, you reached up and brushed the hair off his forehead. Your fingers lingered there for a moment, tracing the line of his brow, the curve of his temple, the soft skin just above his cheekbone.

He didn't stir. Didn't wake. Just sighed in his sleep and pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist even as he dreamed.

You smiled, just a little, placing a featherlight kiss onto his jaw.

"You're impossible," you whispered, so quietly that not even the fairy lights that hung above your bed could hear.

Then you settled back against his chest, closed your eyes, and let yourself drift.

Tomorrow, you'd argue. Tomorrow, you'd pace and mutter and plot revenge. Tomorrow, you'd be sharp and cutting and impossible in all the ways you knew how to be.

But tonight, you let him have the last word.

“I just don’t get it.”

You had complained to your two friends, Stella and Ian as you sat in the large classroom (if you could even call it that).

“You don’t get what? Music?” Stella chuckled, an amused expression on her face.

“Kind of? I mean, obviously I like listening to it, but making it is a whole other process.”

Ian nods, seeming to agree with your statement. “I get that. Making music is hard when you’re not particularly passionate about it.”

“I guess. But hey, if you’re really struggling just ask Martin.”

“Who?”

She responds to your question by turning around, presumably to look for this ‘Martin’ fellow.

When she does find him, she points and turns her head back around. “Him.”

It’s kind of hard to miss Martin.

He’s tall, with blonde hair that’s easy to spot in the sea of brown and black hair. Plus, you would be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive.

“He’s kind of a genius when it comes to music. Although don’t expect anything else.” She adds begrudgingly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She thought that because he was so smart at music, he could tutor her for math.” Ian answered for her.

Stella huffs. “I failed the exam because of him.”

You look over, watching as he talks to his friends.

You think about it for a moment–it wouldn’t hurt to ask for a bit of help, but a part of you would rather rot away than ask for help in music composition.

“It’s fine, I think I’ll manage anyway. How hard could music composition even be? All you’re doing is arranging beats.”

It was, in fact, harder than you thought.

“42.” Your teacher says as she hands the marking paper back. “Not the lowest mark I’ve seen in this class, but at least you tried your best.”

You look dumbfounded as you look at her feedback–

‘Beat is incoherent. Too many bass lines.’

‘Drums are all over the place.’

‘Did you use the metronome like I said?’

Stella reaches out, looking at the paper.

She stifles a laugh and points at the feedback, showing it to Ian as you stared into space.

Failing a subject was bad enough, but failing music?

You would like to call yourself an avid listener of music, but that horrendous mark proved the exact opposite. If you couldn’t even understand basic scales and tones, how the hell were you ever supposed to pass this subject?

In the midst of your silent panic, Stella taps your shoulder with an incredulous laugh. “Hey, I think it’s time for you to ask Martin for help.”

Those words are how you find yourself in the cafeteria at exactly 1:37 in the afternoon.

Your uniform suddenly feels too big, you're too aware of the strange smell the food gives off, and your hands feel like they're sweating way too much.

All you’re doing is going up to a guy and asking for help.

So why is your body reacting like you’re about to ask him out?

Nonetheless, you take a deep breath and walk up.

He sits with his friends, loudly talking to them about something while everyone else just seems to ignore it.

You stand behind him, tapping his shoulder lightly.

He whips his head around fast, a look of surprise on his face.

“Can I talk to you?”

The two boys who you recognise as Keonho and Seonghyeon look at you with the interest of a zoo photographer. They looked at each other with a smirk before immediately bursting out laughing, making you even more nervous.

Martin nodded, saying a quick ‘see you later’ to his friends before following you to the hallway.

“What did you wanna ask me?”

Suddenly you’re very aware of how tall he is, and how you basically had to crane your neck up to look at him.

His Adams apple bobs up and down as he looks down at you, like he was the nervous one.

“I need your help with music.”

His right eyebrow raises slightly in surprise.

“Music? Uh, okay but why’d you ask me?”

“You’re the top student in it. Plus, Stella is busy with her student council stuff.”

He seems to accept that answer. “Okay then. Do you want me to like, tutor you? I can show you how scales and chord progression work, but you could really just go on youtube and search it up.”

“I deleted youtube.”

His eyebrows knit together. “Why?”

“Too many ads.”

Martin

we can meet at my place

i can teach you there properly

“I can’t believe the first time you spend one-on-one time with a boy is because you’re failing at music.” Ian had said to you after class, waiting as you locked your phone and packed up your books.

“Well it’s not like I want to date the guy.”

“Yet.”

You roll your eyes at her. “I don’t like the guy.”

“Right, and the sky is green. You can lie to others all the time but don’t act like you don’t find the guy attractive.” She folds her arms, like she fully caught you in a lie.

“Yeah because I want to shove my tongue down his throat. Just go to your reading club and leave me alone.” You joked.

She holds her palms up like a caught criminal. “Okayyy, but don’t blame me if you guys suddenly make out or something.”

You walked her to her club room, saying a quick bye before walking out of the school’s gates.

He had already sent you the location to his place, which was surprisingly only a ten minute walk.

You reach his place–surprise, surprise, ten minutes later.

You press the doorbell as a cool breeze blows past.

You didn’t bother changing out of your uniform, seeing as he had already told you the session wouldn’t take long.

The small ring sounds across the whole house, making you curious as to what it looked like.

It was clear by the grass that his dad was probably one of those serious lawnheads, and the flowers around the door added a cute touch.

After a few seconds, the door roughly opens, revealing an out of breath Martin, like he had run down just to not keep you waiting.

“Hey, you can come in.”

You give him an awkward nod, taking off your shoes as the smell of vanilla envelopes you.

“My mum is kind of on another baking spree, so if you smell something sweet that’s probably just another one of her desserts.”

He had changed out of his school uniform, now in comfortable sweatpants and a hoodie.

You follow him around–family photos hang perfectly on the walls, making you curious as to what the tall boy once looked like.

You see a photo of him in a choir, then another where he was in Kindergarten. You have the slight urge to laugh at how adorable he used to look but decided against it.

After a few seconds, he leads you straight to the kitchen.

“Martin! Taste this–oh hello!”

A sweet voice said from the counter. You look from behind Martin, finding a very nice woman with an apron covered in flour.

Even though she was just taller than you, it was clear how strong the Edwards’ Genes were.

“You didn’t tell me you were inviting someone! What’s your name?”

You tell her your name, feeling a little embarrassed as she ushers you to come taste some of her treats.

“These are what you teenagers call ‘Brookies’! I tried my brownie and cookie recipe, so hopefully you’ll like it.” She cuts a piece out of it, offering it to you on a pretty plate.

Martin doesn’t say anything, just seeming to wait around until his mother is finished.

After she hands you six more desserts, she pushes you towards Martin and tells you to go upstairs. 

“Don’t do anything stupid!”

Martin’s ears turned slightly red at her statement, but you were too busy eating her brookies (which were absolutely delicious) to notice.

You reach his room in no time–it was surprisingly clean, seeing how most teenage boys his age would at least have a couple of clothes on the floor.

You shiver, remembering the stories Stella told you about her exes.

He gestures for you to sit next to him on what you assumed was a small bench. His setup was surprisingly big too–two monitors and even the whole recording setup you would see in an artists booth.

“Uh, so what specifically do you need help with?”

You sighed, running your hands through your hair. “Just about everything.”

“Oh. So you’re pretty much hopeless?”

“Hey!” You lightly smack his shoulder. “I’m not hopeless, I just need more help than most people.”

He chuckles, the sound of his raspy voice suddenly sending a warmth up your neck.

“Okay, I guess I’ll teach you scales–these pretty much decide the mood of the song, depending on which notes you use of course. Uh, do you know the notes of a piano?”

You shake your head. “No, I don’t even know how to play that instrument.”

“…right. What’s your grade in this class again?”

“I got 42 in the last assignment.”

You can basically see his soul leaving his body.

“Nevermind my score though, just teach me how this works!”

“Alrightt.”

To no one’s surprise, it took you two hours just to understand how scales worked. Although, during that time you had truly understood how good Martin really was.

He explained it in an easy way, even for someone who was completely clueless like you to understand. He was patient too, answering your questions with a calm and gentle voice that made you feel at ease.

He even showed you a few of his tracks, which in your opinion (although you don’t think it really mattered much to him) actually sounded really good.

“I don’t get how that took so long.” Martin mumbled.

“Well, not all of us were born with musical talent.” You say, chewing through another brookie while tweaking a track he wanted you to work on.

He told you that he intentionally messed up the chords, and wanted you to fix it into a ‘jazz’ piece.

It was a bit of an exercise, but it wasn’t that hard.

He shoots you an unimpressed look.

“Is that the last one?” He points to the dessert in your mouth.

“No, there’s two more.”

He leaned over, his arms just barely reaching the edge of the plate. You hadn’t noticed how close he had gotten, as you were too focused on what was on the screen.

After a few more replays, you decided it was good enough and turned your head in his direction.

Although as soon as you did, your lips met his.

The touch was so brief you almost couldn’t even tell it happened, but as soon as he flinched back and touched his lips, you knew.

He turned red fast, the light coming from the computer making him look an odd shade of purple.

“I'm sorry!” He quickly said, sliding himself to the edge of his bench.

Oddly enough, you didn’t seem to care, like at all.

Although, that’s just what he thought.

Inside, every single muscle and bone inside your body felt like it was on fire.

“It’s fine. Uh,” you cleared your throat, rubbing the back of your neck. “Can you tell me if this sounds good?”

“Yeah, sure.” He went back to his original position, although this time he kept inching away as he listened to the track.

For some reason, the moment kept replaying in your head.

He was so close…

During that short moment, you had noticed the way his mouth was slightly parted, and how soft and plump his lips felt against yours.

You look over to the side–his jawline looked sharper in this lighting, and his hair fell over his face perfectly.

For some reason, you felt yourself missing how close he used to be.

At the end of the track, he nods in approval. “You fixed it up nicely. I don’t have many notes but do you want to try another one? Maybe rock or hiphop?”

He looks over to the side, making eye contact with you.

You snap your attention back to the screen, looking at the notes and bars staring at you.

“Uh, I think I can try hiphop.”

He nods shortly after that, checking his folders in case he already had something for you.

You look over at the desserts, which were basically the whole reason why you felt this way in the first place.

They mocked you, staying perfectly still while that strange flush crawled up your neck to your cheeks.

Get yourself together! You didn’t even know he existed until two days ago!

After a few seconds of waiting, you snatch the plate up and offer them to him, almost forgetting that he wanted them in the first place.

He looks down at them, but he shakes his head.

“It’s fine, I already tasted them from you.”

You snap your head in his direction.

“Are you…teasing me?”

He doesn’t look at you, still looking at the screen. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

You don’t respond, too dumbfounded to even think of your next words.

A silence settles between the two of you, although surprisingly it doesn’t feel awkward.

After one more hour, you were finally done.

Even though your thoughts had gotten sidetracked, you had learned a lot from him.

“Thanks Martin. I really don’t know what I would do without you.” You say, putting your shoes on. “I promise I’ll repay you soon.”

Even though the connotation behind those words were innocent, you can’t help but look up to see his expression.

His eyebrows had slightly raised at that sentence, sending the butterflies in your stomach in a frenzy. “Why not repay me now?”

“Huh?”

He chuckles at your expression. “It’s not anything bad.”

He leans down to your height, his cheek directly in front of your face.

“Just a kiss.”

Your mind goes blank.

Seriously? Martin Edwards was asking you for a kiss on the cheek.

You wanted to hit him in the face, but another part of you wanted to comply.

“Well?” His raspy voice snaps you out of it.

Now, you weren’t sure what thoughts led you to doing the next few actions (you probably weren’t even thinking of anything), but you reach up and grab his jaw, twisting his head to make him face you.

You then leaned in and pressed your lips against his, hard.

Fuck, you were really doing this.

You shut your eyes fast, not wanting to see his expression. Your other hand snaked up into the back of his neck, pushing him further into the kiss.

A surprised noise escaped from his mouth, but he leaned into it, placing his hands on your waist. 

He pulled you against his chest, his thumb rubbing against the material of the uniform. He kissed you like he had been waiting for it for years, the touch of his lips warm and filled with need.

You stay in that pose for the next few seconds before parting, roughly pushing him away.

“Bye, Martin.” You breathed out, turning around before he could say anything else.

You could feel the warmth in your cheeks more clearly now, your head still full of the feel of his lips.

You had just walked a few strides away when you looked back around, finding him standing completely still at the doorway.

He looked completely red, his hands held out in front of him like he was missing something.

You chuckled, the cool night air calming your nerves.

where i’ve been & why

so basically guys i;ve js been hanging out with seonghyeon like everyday 😋😋 LOL......... ok fine

originally i planned on coming back from hiatus sometime in june… and then the universe decided to fucking humble me 😆

for starters… I GRADUATED!!!!! 🎓🎓🤑🤑🤑🤑🤑 which is absolutely insane to say out loud. after graduation i spent a lot of time out of town, on vacation, and just hanging out with my friends before the great separation n shiii.. i’ve js really been trying to enjoy this little chapter of my life while i still can AND THEN… bc apparently life thought i wasn’t busy enough… i broke my fuckass ankle the last week of may 😐 like i ACTUALLY broke it. i ended up needing surgery and now i’m just recovering 🙄🙄🙄🙄 the silver lining though… being stuck at home means i actually have time to write LOL. so maybe this was the universe’s very weird way of forcing me to sit still for once lol

yo ok the rest of this section of the post is me js ranting n shit so u can skip but … i have not consumed a SINGLE piece of cortis content in what feels like FOREVER 😭😭😭

like genuinely i have been so disconnected from my own fandom it’s actually embarrassing 😕 i miss them BADDDDDD. i need to catch up on everything i’ve missed because i know i’ve got HOURS of content waiting for me 🤣 so if u suddenly see me tweaking over clips from like… weeks ago… mind ur business alr...

dude ok i swear i’ve manifested a situationship/sneaky link after writing about them for so long because WHY AM I LIVING IT NOW 😭🙏 my instagram followers have unfortunately witnessed this entire saga in real time LMFAOOOOO.

i’ve unlocked a whole new level of “writing from experience” and i fear u guys are going to suffer the consequences 😈😈😈 every confusing text, every mixed signal, every SINGLE SECOND IVE BEEN “what does this even mean???” IT’S ALL GOING IN THE DOCS 🤣🤣🤣

i’ve had situationships before aight BUT THIS ONE????? this shit was DIFFERENT LMFAOOOOO. like i’ve liked this dude for a hotttt min on and off and somehow i ended up living the most wattpad ahh, sneaky, “if anyone found out we’d actually be cooked” experience of my life 😭😭

it wasn’t even the “omg we kissed once” type of situationship 😭 this was DEEP.... ts marinated in group hangouts for WEEEKSSS bro i fear i have become the idiot girl in a situationship against my will 🤣 lowk i don’t even know if i should tell u guys the full story because i genuinely think i could turn the entire thing into a fic 😨😨😨😨 like deadass. every time i remember something that happened i’m like… “hold on… this would cook on da blr”

SO… maybe i’ll gatekeep it for a little bit until i steal enough material from my own life 😈😈😈 all i’m saying is… if my situationship writing suddenly gets significantly more detailed… just know i have unfortunately acquired knowledge,,

Lol who missed my story times 🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️

what happens to my blog now

first things first… I NEVER STOPPED WRITING

i write whenever inspiration hits and whenever i have the time. even while i wasn’t posting, i was still opening docs, writing scenes, brainstorming, and working on my stories. i genuinely feel like i owe it to these pieces to finish them because i love them just as much as u guys do 🥹🥹🥹 also u guys know my brain js does not stop lol

as for my WIPs… TAOR is SOOOOO close to being finished 🤞 🤞 🤞 the final part is completely written!! all i really have left is editing it (YAY!!!!)

and powerplay… yes i know. LMFAOOOO 😭😭😭😭 many of u are angryZzz i promise i have not forgotten about the cliffhanger i left u guys on. i think about it more than u do, trust me 🙏🙏 i fully intend on finishing it once im happy w the ending bc its literallt 98% finished

ANDDDD i also have a couple drafts i’ve never posted before 👀👀

as for my inbox… errr 😭😭😭 i have… quite a few asks to get through. some are from before my hiatus and some are newer, so pleaseeee bear with me while i work through them 😅 but honestly, i’m just really happy u guys still felt comfortable sending me asks even while i was gone. it made me smile every single time i checked my inbox 🥹🫰🫰

going forward, i do want to be honest and say i probably won’t be spending 100% of my free time on tumblr the way i used to. life has gotten busier, and i think i’m learning how to (sorta) balance everything a little better now. as my older followers know, i jumped into tumblr late last year incredibly hard and fast and wanted to keep my followers happy and myself busy(INCREDIBLY UNHEALTHY MINDSET… u should wrte for urself…)

that being said… I AM NOT DEAD 🤣🤣🤣🤣 i’m still here writing n i’m still thinking about my fics every day. and i’m SO excited to finally share them with u guys again. AND NEW THEME SOOONNNNNNN it’s been this for sooo long 🙏🙏

thank u all for sticking with lovhyeon. it genuinely means more to me than u know.

He looks at you for a long moment. Not with pity, not with softness, but with a kind of restrained intensity, like he’s trying to keep something under control.

“You’re still here,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “You told me not to move.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches, the closest thing he has to relief.

He walks toward you, hands on his sides, shoulders tense. He stops in front of you, eyes scanning your face, your red nose, your trembling hands.

His voice drops. “Yn, you’re freezing.”

You look away, embarrassed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

It comes out sharper than he intends.

He exhales, softer. “You’re not.”

Your chest tightens at the shift, the way his tone dips, the way he’s trying not to sound worried. It makes something warm and painful bloom under your ribs.

He crouches down, but not gently. More like he’s annoyed at the ground for being wet, annoyed at you for sitting on it, and most of all annoyed at himself for caring.

“Stand up,” he murmurs.

You hesitate, and he notices. His eyes flick to yours, and for a second, something unguarded flashes there, something that makes your stomach flip.

He reaches out.

His fingers brush your wrist, tentative at first, giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t. Your breath stutters at the warmth of his hand.

He pulls you up slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll break.

You stumble forward, but he catches you naturally. His hands grip your arms, firm, steady, and warm. Too warm. Warm enough that your throat tightens and your eyes sting again.

“Careful,” he mutters, but the word is softer than the tone.

You look up at him, and for a moment, he looks away, as if meeting your eyes is too much.

Then he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. This time, he doesn’t pretend it’s practical. He doesn’t pretend he’s annoyed. He just does it.

And your heart aches. Again.

“Why are you being nice to me?” you whisper.

He freezes. His eyes lift to yours, and you swear the world narrows to that single moment.

“I’m not,” he says too quickly.

You almost laugh, a small, imperceptible sound, because he absolutely is.

“You are,” you whisper. “And it’s confusing me.”

He looks away again, jaw tight, like he’s fighting himself.

“Get in the car,” he says, voice low. “Please.”

You blink. The word hits you harder than it should.

“You said please.”

He closes his eyes for half a second, like he regrets it instantly.

“Don’t make me take it back.”

You should be offended. You should roll your eyes. You should snap at him like you always do.

But you don’t.

Because the truth is, you’re freezing. You’re exhausted. And the way he’s looking at you right now, guarded, tense, but undeniably worried, makes something inside you unravel.

You get in the car.

He closes the door gently, not slamming it like he usually does. When he gets in on his side, he doesn’t start the engine right away. He just sits there, hands on the wheel, breathing slowly like he’s trying to steady himself.

Finally, he speaks.

“You shouldn’t have been alone tonight.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t mean to call you.”

“I know.”

His voice is quiet.

“But you did.”

You look at him, and he finally meets your eyes. The look he gives you makes your heart stumble.

“Next time,” he says, voice low, “if you’re hurting like that… call me on purpose. Okay?”

Your breath catches.

You don’t know what this is. You don’t know why your chest feels too full. But suddenly you’re not cold anymore.

“Okay.”

The engine hums softly as he pulls away from the curb, the sound barely audible beneath the distant noise of the city.

Streetlights slide across the windshield in long ribbons of gold and white, briefly illuminating the sharp lines of Seonghyeon’s face before disappearing again. The city feels strangely far away from inside the car, as though the two of you exist in a separate world suspended between one destination and the next.

Seonghyeon doesn’t speak, not once. Not even a sigh. He just drives.

His jaw is tight enough that you can see the muscle twitch every now and then. His eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, dark and unreadable beneath the glow of passing lights. His hands rest steadily on the steering wheel, fingers curled around it with quiet control.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable.

You sit curled into the passenger seat, wrapped in his jacket. It’s much too big for you. The sleeves cover your hands, and the scent of him lingers stubbornly in the fabric, clean detergent mixed with his distinct cologne. The warmth sinks slowly into your skin, into your bones. Into the hollow places that have felt cold for too long.

You pull the jacket tighter around yourself.

For a moment, your eyes drift to the window. The city passes by in a blur of neon signs, traffic lights, and reflections dancing across rain-dark pavement. Everything outside keeps moving, but inside the car time feels stretched thin.

Your gaze finds him again. You tell yourself not to look, but you do it anyway.

The curve of his nose, the tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps swallowing like he’s holding something back.

You wonder what he’s thinking. You wonder if he’s angry at you for calling him out of the blue. You wonder why he came so quickly.

The questions pile up until they become impossible to ignore.

“…Thank you.”

The words leave your mouth so quietly you’re not even sure he heard them. But he does. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

It's silent again. For a second, you think he is not going to answer.

“What for?” His voice is low and careful.

You stare down at your hands hidden beneath his sleeves.

“For coming.”

The words scrape painfully out of your chest.

“For…” Your voice catches. You hate that it does. You hate how fragile and pathetic you sound.

“…for not leaving me there.”

The car fills with silence once more.

Seonghyeon exhales slowly. A long breath, as though he’s been holding it since the moment he saw your name flash across his phone.

The streetlight above casts a brief glow across his face.

For the first time all night, you catch something crack through the composure he’s been wearing.

“I wasn’t going to leave you there.”

The words come out barely above a murmur, soft and immediate, like there was never another possibility.

Your breath catches.

His eyes remain on the road.

“Just…” He pauses. The single word hangs between you.

“Don’t make me worry like that again.”

The world seems to tilt, just slightly, just enough to steal the air from your lungs.

You stare at him, but he refuses to look back.

His jaw clenches immediately afterward, like he regrets saying it, like the truth slipped out before he could stop it.

The vulnerability of it hits harder than anything else.

Seonghyeon never says things he doesn’t mean, and those words weren’t casual, polite, or out of obligation.

They were honest.

You look away first. Your heart beats unevenly against your ribs.

The rest of the drive passes quietly, but it doesn’t feel empty anymore. Every second feels filled with things left unsaid.

The warmth of his jacket, the memory of his voice, the way he had looked at you earlier when he thought you weren’t paying attention, the way he had shown up without hesitation, the way he had stayed.

Outside, neighborhoods begin replacing city streets, then familiar roads, familiar houses, and finally your home. Too soon.

You hadn’t realized how badly you didn’t want the drive to end.

The car slows as he turns onto your street.

You glance at him one last time. He notices, you notice he does, but neither of you say anything.

The porch light flicks on the second his headlights sweep across your driveway.

The front door opens before the car has even fully stopped. Keonho appears immediately, panic written across every inch of him. His hair is messy, like he’s been running his hands through it for hours.

His eyes scan the car frantically. The moment he spots you, relief crashes through his expression so hard it’s almost painful to watch.

“Yn!”

He’s moving before you can answer.

The passenger door flies open. Cold night air rushes inside.

“Are you okay?” he asks breathlessly.

His hands hover near your shoulders as if checking for injuries.

“Why didn’t you call me? I was worried sick. I was about to go looking for you—”

Then he notices who’s standing beside the car.

Seonghyeon.

The words die instantly in his throat.

For a brief moment, neither of them speaks.

The porch light casts long shadows across the driveway.

They look at each other, and a silent understanding passes between them.

Keonho exhales heavily. The tension drains from his shoulders.

“Thank you.” His voice is sincere with gratitude.

“Really. Thank you for staying with her.”

Seonghyeon glances briefly toward you.

“She shouldn’t have been alone.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

He says it so simply, as though it were obvious. As though anyone would have done the same. Yet somehow you know they wouldn’t have. At least, not like he did, without hesitation.

Keonho helps you out of the car.

The moment your feet hit the ground, exhaustion crashes over you. The night’s emotions suddenly feel ten times heavier.

“You should get inside,” Keonho says gently.

You nod quietly, but your eyes keep drifting back.

Back to him.

Seonghyeon stands beside his car with his hands shoved into his pockets.

The night breeze ruffles his dark hair. The porch light catches in his eyes.

He’s looking at you.

For one long moment, neither of you looks away, and something inside your chest twists. A strange ache.

Then, finally, he lowers his gaze, turns around, and slides back into the driver’s seat.

The engine starts again.

You watch until the taillights disappear at the end of the street, until the darkness swallows them completely. Only then do you go inside.

Hours later, you’re lying on your bed.

The house is quiet.

Keonho checked on you three times before finally leaving you alone.

The hallway light glows faintly beneath your door.

Everything should feel normal again, but it doesn’t.

You roll onto your side and pull Seonghyeon’s jacket closer. The fabric bunches beneath your fingers. His scent still lingers there, faint and comforting. Far too comforting for a boy you’re supposed to hate.

Your eyes close. Immediately, memories replay.

His voice when he picked up the phone. The shift when he heard you were crying. His face when he arrived. His hand reaching for yours. The warmth of his jacket settling around your shoulders. The look in his eyes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. And those words.

Don’t make me worry like that again.

The sentence loops endlessly through your mind. Nobody has ever made worrying sound so gentle, so honest, so personal.

Your chest aches. But for the first time since the breakup, the ache feels different. As though something new had quietly slipped into the space where all the hurt used to be.

You stare at the ceiling in the darkness.

Your fingers tighten around the sleeve of his jacket.

Despite everything you’re feeling, the heartbreak, the confusion, the exhaustion, one thought keeps returning. One thought you can’t seem to silence.

Out of all people, Seonghyeon showed up. The second you needed him, he came.

And somewhere in the middle of all your grief, all your loneliness, all your broken pieces, you realize he’s there now, too, quietly, patiently, waiting in the corners of your thoughts, tangled somewhere between comfort and longing.

You'd marched them all to the main lodge, mustered your most authoritative counselor voice, and launched into a speech about boundaries, respect, and the importance of not locking people in confined spaces.

They'd stood there in a ragged semicircle, faces arranged in expressions of performative contrition—and then one of them had pointed at your hair and whispered, "It's still there."

Another had started giggling, then another.

Within thirty seconds, the entire group had devolved into helpless laughter, tears streaming down their faces as they pointed at the glitter still stubbornly clinging to your part, your temples, the collar of your counselor polo, all the while you tried to maintain your composure. 

Then you'd glanced at Seonghyeon, who had somehow gotten it worse: his entire left shoulder sparkled like a disco ball, and there was a particularly stubborn cluster of purple flakes stuck to his eyebrow, and you'd lost it too.

The "talking to" had devolved into all of you laughing so hard the camp director had come outside to check if someone was dying.

Safe to say, you deemed the whole thing a wash and the lecture was officially canceled. The campers had won yet again.

And so, in your own stubborn and unrelenting methods of punishment , you refused to allow the campers to see you interact with Seonghyeon at all in the hopes that eventually the campers would stop being so persistent.

It was petty, sure, but seeing their faces: the way their eyes would light up whenever you so much as glanced in his direction, and they'd scramble for that ridiculous notebook, then they'd start narrating your every move like you were characters in their personal drama—it all made you want to scream.

So you'd decided: no interaction, no eye contact, no accidental hand brushes, no standing within ten feet of each other. No anything that could be documented, analysed, or turned into another entry in Operation Summer Romance.

You were going to starve them of content.

It was a brilliant plan. Foolproof. Diabolical, even.

It lasted approximately one day before collapsing.

You had started the morning off strong, positioning yourself on the complete opposite end of the counselor’s dining table to Seonghyeon, as far away from him as physically possible.

The campers noticed immediately, and you watched their faces drop, eyes darting between the two of you.

"Why is she sitting so far away?"

"Is she... avoiding him?"

"Why would she avoid him? They were literally trapped in a closet together yesterday."

"Maybe she's embarrassed."

"Maybe he did something wrong."

"He wouldn't do anything wrong. He's perfect."

"Nobody's perfect."

"He is. He's perfect for her."

You stabbed your oatmeal with unnecessary force.

Seonghyeon, at the opposite end of the table, was pointedly not looking at you. You could tell he was trying not to look at you. His eyes kept drifting in your direction, then snapping away, like he was fighting a physical urge.

It was kind of adorable, but you weren't going to think about that.

The whispers continued as breakfast finished up, it was only natural for them to speculate anyways, they had quite literally witnessed you two fall into each other laughing upon your release from the closet. The sudden switch up from "they're obviously in love" to "she won't even look at him" was jarring, even for the most dedicated investigators, especially considering both you and Seonghyeon still had the remnants of glitter dusted across you, so what could have possibly happened in that short time period?

You could feel their confusion radiating from the other side of the dining hall like a physical force.

Eventually you pushed your bowl away, your oatmeal a lost cause.

Standing up, you collected your tray and turned to your campers, who were still huddled together, watching you with the intensity of hawk-eyed detectives.

"Clean up," you said firmly. "We have archery in twenty minutes. I don't want to hear any excuses about being late."

Your campers exchanged glances. They clearly wanted to ask more questions and demand answers, but something in your tone made them hold their tongues for now.

You walked toward the tray return, keeping your gaze fixed straight ahead. You could feel Seonghyeon's eyes on you from across the room, the weight of his attention like a physical presence, warm and steady and impossible to ignore.

You didn't look back, you refused to.

That afternoon you were walking back from the archery range when you saw him coming the other way, flanked by his campers. The path was narrow, there was nowhere to go, and you were going to have to pass him.

You squared your shoulders and lifted your chin, prepared to walk past him like he was a stranger, a complete non-entity, someone you'd never met in your entire life—

"Counselor Y/N."

His voice stopped you in your tracks.

You turned to see his campers watching with barely contained glee. Your campers were watching from a distance, having somehow materialised out of thin air the moment they sensed an impending interaction.

"Yes?" You said, keeping your voice flat.

Seonghyeon smiled that soft, private smile that was only ever for you. "You have something in your hair."

"Really."

"Really."

"Let me guess, glitter?"

"Purple."

You reached up. Your fingers brushed against a cluster of stubborn sparkles still clinging to your part. You tried to pull them out, but they were completely stuck despite your insistence.

One of Seonghyeon’s campers squealed quietly, barely able to contain her excitement as she watched Seonghyeon’s smile turn even fonder than it already had been, "He's going to help her."

"He's going to touch her hair." Another responded, swinging the arm of the camper beside them in uncontrolled glee.

Seonghyeon stepped closer, his hand already reaching out towards you. "Do you want—"

"I've got it," you said quickly, far too quickly. "I'm fine. Thank you."

You turned and walked away, continuing your trek down towards the camp. Behind you, the campers gasped. "She walked away!"

"He looks so confused." Your camper whispered behind her hand, watching Seonghyeon carefully from a distance. The crowd of kids surrounded him like concerned bodyguards, all of them tracking his every micro-expression following the... rejection, if you could even call it that.

"He looks hurt."

"She hurt his feelings."

One of the younger campers pouted dramatically, her lower lip wobbling as if she'd personally been rejected. "Why would she do that? They were so happy yesterday."

"Maybe she's playing hard to get."

"What do we do? We can’t let this stand." Seonghyeon’s camper declared, shaking his head dramatically.

"We'll fix it, somehow."

“How???”

What every single one of them failed to notice, in their mass whispers of shock and concern, was the smirk that now rested on Seonghyeon's lips as he watched you go.

He had worked out almost immediately what you were doing. The moment you'd sat at the opposite end of the breakfast table, refused to make eye contact, and now walked away from him on the path—he'd seen right through it.

You weren't rejecting him.

You were testing him, or rather, you were testing yourself. You were trying to prove that you could resist him, that you could keep things professional, that the campers hadn't already won.

It was absolutely adorable, and also completely, utterly futile.

He watched you disappear around the bend, your shoulders still squared with your chin still lifted and your hair still glittering with purple sparkles that caught the afternoon light like tiny stars. You were trying so hard to be strong, distant, and untouchable.

But he knew you.

He'd known you for three summers. He'd watched you comfort homesick campers at midnight and laugh so hard at a camper's joke that you'd snorted juice out of your nose.

He'd even watched you fall in love with him—just as he'd fallen in love with you.

This little performance of yours wasn't going to last, he'd make sure of it.

"You know," he said, not turning around to face his campers, "she's very stubborn."

"Yeah, we noticed."

"She's SOOOOO stubborn."

"Stubborn enough to walk away from true love."

Seonghyeon chuckled. "She's also very determined. Once she decides on something, she doesn't give up easily."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing?"

"It is when she's determined about the right things." A camper pointed out.

"And right now, she's determined about the wrong thing."

"Don't worry," Seonghyeon said, finally turning to face his campers. His smirk had softened into something warmer and more certain. "She'll come around."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know her." He tucked his hands into his pockets, already planning his next move. "And because I'm very, very patient."

"Patient for what?"

"For her."

The campers exchanged glances. Then, slowly, their expressions shifted from despair to hope, realising they had maybe underestimated their counselor.

That evening, you found yourself back in the boys' cabin.

It wasn't by choice, exactly. The glitter situation in the storage closet had become a genuine hazard—campers were tracking purple sparkles everywhere, and you'd drawn the short straw when it came to cleanup duty. So there you were, knee-deep in craft supplies, trying to contain the chaos that your campers had unleashed.

The irony was not lost on you.

You were just reaching for a particularly stubborn cluster of glitter that had somehow migrated to the ceiling when you heard footsteps behind you: the soft tread of sneakers on wooden floorboards that were familiar and unmistakable.

"I'm not talking to you," you said without turning around.

"I didn't say anything," Seonghyeon replied.

"Your presence is saying plenty."

"My presence?"

"Yes. It's very... present."

He laughed warmly, making your stomach flip. You'd heard that laugh a hundred times before, but somehow it still managed to catch you off guard and make your heart do that annoying little skip it had been doing for three summers now.

You refused to acknowledge it.

"I was just passing by," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "I didn't realise you'd be in here."

"Liar."

"Excuse me?"

"You're a terrible liar, Seonghyeon. You always have been." You finally turned to face him, still holding the glitter container like a shield. "You knew I'd be here. One of your campers told you, didn't they?"

He had the decency to look slightly caught out. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck—a nervous habit you'd noticed years ago, one that he only ever did around you.

"Maybe," he admitted.

"Maybe?"

"Okay, yes. Jungwoo mentioned it during free period. He said you were 'on a glitter crusade' and that I should 'seize the opportunity.'"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "They're coaching you now?"

"They're very invested."

"They're meddling."

"They prefer the term 'facilitating.'"

"Seonghyeon."

"Y/N."

You stared at each other across the small cabin. The evening light slanted through the windows, catching the glitter dust still floating in the air like tiny purple stars. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Somewhere further away, campers shouted and laughed and continued their endless chaos.

But in here, it was just the two of you.

"I'm doing this for a reason," you said.

"Which is?"

"The campers. They're watching us all the time, and if we give them any more material, they're going to—" You gestured vaguely. "—do something. I don't know what. Something worse than the closet."

"Worse than the closet?"

"Yes. They're creative and unhinged. They have that stupid notebook, for god’s sake."

Seonghyeon took a step toward you. "So your solution is to pretend I don't exist?"

"It's a temporary measure."

"For how long?"

"Until they lose interest."

He raised an eyebrow. "They're not going to lose interest."

"They will eventually."

"Y/N. They've been watching us for weeks. They locked us in a closet. They have a Venn diagram." He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of colour in his eyes. "They're not losing interest."

You swallowed. "So what do you suggest?"

He reached up, very slowly, very deliberately, and brushed a cluster of purple glitter from your hair, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I suggest we stop pretending," he said quietly. "They already know. Everyone already knows. The only people who don't seem to know are us."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

You opened your mouth to respond, deflect, argue, do anything other than admit that he was right, and then you heard it.

A soft gasp from behind you. Barely audible, but unmistakable.

Your eyes widened. You started to turn to see who was there and had been watching, ready to question how long they'd been listening—

But Seonghyeon's hands were suddenly on your cheeks, cupping your face, gently but firmly holding you still. His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones, warm and steady, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"Don't turn around," he murmured.

"Seonghyeon."

"Don't."

"Seonghyeon, I—"

"Just look at me." His voice was soft, almost pleading. "Please. Just look at me."

You wanted to argue and pull away to see who was at the window and put an end to whatever scheme the campers had cooked up this time.

But his hands were so warm, his eyes were so steady, and the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the world, like nothing else mattered, like the campers could be watching or not and it wouldn't change a single thing—made it impossible to move.

"Seonghyeon," you said again, and this time your voice came out as a warning, low and threatening. The kind of voice you used when campers were about to do something stupid.

He just tilted his head, his expression entirely innocent. His eyelashes fluttered and he smiled so softly you felt your heart clench.

"Yes?" He asked, his voice dripping with false sweetness.

You stared at him and he stared back, completely unrepentant.

Despite everything surrounding you at this moment, you felt the fight drain out of you.

You sighed, a long, defeated exhale that seemed to come from somewhere deep in your soul. "You're impossible," you said.

"I know."

"This is exactly what they want."

"I know."

"And you're just... going to give it to them?"

He smiled, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks. "I'm not doing it for them," he said quietly. "I'm doing it for us."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Seonghyeon..."

"Y/N." His forehead touched yours. "I've been waiting for three summers. I've been patient. I've been professional. I've been careful." He let out a soft breath. "I'm tired of being careful."

"You're tired of being careful?"

"I'm tired of pretending I don't want to kiss you every time you laugh at one of my jokes, and watching you walk away and not following. I'm tired of—" He stopped, his voice catching slightly. "I'm tired of loving you from a distance."

Your breath caught. "Seonghyeon..."

"I know the campers are watching." His voice was barely a whisper now. "I know they're going to make this into a whole thing and we're never going to hear the end of it." He smiled, soft and warm. "But I don't care."

"They’re going to actually plan our wedding."

"I figured."

"Seonghyeon."

"Y/N."

He was so close. His hands were on your face, his forehead was against yours, and somewhere behind you, through the window, a dozen campers were watching with bated breath.

But in this moment none of it mattered.

"You're not worried?" You whispered.

"Not even a little," he whispered back, his lips curving into a smile.

And then, before you could overthink it, you surged forward and kissed him.

His lips were warm, slightly chapped from the summer sun, the way they always were this time of year, and you'd noticed that detail a hundred times before without ever admitting it to yourself. You'd noticed the way he bit his lower lip when he was thinking, the way he licked them before he smiled, the way they curved around words that made you laugh.

But you'd never let yourself imagine what they'd feel like against yours.

Now you knew.

His hands were still cupping your face, and as you kissed him, his thumbs traced slow, reverent circles across your cheekbones. The gesture was so tender, so careful, that it made your chest ache with something you couldn't quite name.

You felt his breath hitch against your lips—a soft, surprised sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands then slid from your cheeks into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, pulling you closer, deeper, like he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life.

Which, you realised with a jolt, he had.

Three summers. Three years of stolen glances and accidental touches and breakfast cleanup shifts, three years of watching you from across the dining hall, of finding excuses to be near you, of loving you from a distance.

And now, finally, finally, you were here.

The kiss deepened, and you felt his body press against yours—warm and solid and real. His chest against your chest, his hands in your hair, his lips moving against yours with a slowness that felt almost deliberate. 

You reached up, your fingers finding the collar of his counselor polo. You tugged him closer, and he made a soft sound against your lips—a sound that was half laugh, half sigh, entirely content.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, his lips parted slightly.

"Y/N," he whispered, and your name sounded softer on his lips now.

"I'm here," you whispered back.

He opened his eyes. They were bright, warm, filled with something that made your heart stutter in your chest. "I've wanted to do that for so long," he said.

"I know."

"You know?"

"You signed up for breakfast cleanup on your off days for three summers, Seonghyeon. I wasn't oblivious." You smiled, your fingers still tangled in his collar. "I was just..."

"Scared?"

"Patient."

"You're not patient. You're stubborn."

"Same thing."

He laughed and pressed his forehead more firmly against yours. "I love you," he said quietly. "I've loved you for three summers, and I'm tired of pretending I don't."

"I know."

"Say it back."

"Seonghyeon."

"Say it back," he repeated, and his voice was soft but insistent. "Please."

You looked at him, seeing his warm eyes and his soft smile and the single purple glitter flake still clinging to his eyebrow. He was the man who had been waiting for you for three summers, who had signed up for shifts he didn't need and duties he didn't want, who had loved you from a distance and never once given up.

"I love you too," you said.

His smile was the brightest thing you'd ever seen. "Say it again."

"I love you too."

"Again."

"Seonghyeon."

"Again."

You laughed, pulling him closer. "I love you. I love you. I love you." You pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his nose, then the corner of his mouth. "Is that enough?"

"Not even close," he murmured, and then he was kissing you again: deeper this time, slower, like he had all the time in the world.

Behind you, the campers erupted.

“THEY’RE KISSING!!!” One shouted as the two campers beside her screamed and covered their eyes, trying to erase the sight from their memories.

“WE DID IT!”

“OPERATION SUMMER ROMANCE IS COMPLETE!”

You felt Seonghyeon smile into the kiss as the campers voices filtered in through the cracks of the window, the sun shhining bright onto the grounds. Maybe it was time to give in and accept that the campers were victorious, though if it meant you got to kiss Seonghyeon more often, you weren’t going to complain.

EXTRA ::

The sun hung low and golden over the lake, casting long shadows across the water as the final afternoon of camp drew to a close. The air was thick with the scent of pine and sunscreen and the bittersweet weight of endings. Summer was almost over, the campers would leave tomorrow, the cabins would empty, the laughter would fade into memory.

But not yet. Not quite yet.

You stood at the edge of the dock, the wooden boards warm beneath your bare feet. The water lapped gently against the pilings, a soft, rhythmic sound that seemed to echo the beating of your heart. Beside you, Seonghyeon's hand was warm in yours, his fingers laced through yours like they'd always been there.

The campers were gathered on the shore, a chaotic cluster of cabin shirts and sunburned noses and glitter-covered notebooks. They'd been watching you both all week—following you around like ducklings, documenting your every interaction, adding to their ever-growing collection of evidence that you were now, officially, a couple. 

"Are you ready?" Seonghyeon asked softly, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the campers' chatter.

You turned to look at him. The golden light caught the edges of his face, illuminating the warmth in his eyes, the soft curve of his smile.  "Ready for what?" You asked, though you already knew.

He smiled gently. "To make a memory."

Your heart swelled in your chest. "I've already made enough memories with you to last a lifetime."

"Then make one more."

The campers on shore were growing restless. You could hear their whispers and excited murmurs. "They're holding hands."

"They're always holding hands now."

"It's so romantic."

"It's so gross."

"Shush!! It’s beautiful."

You laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. Seonghyeon's hand squeezed yours, and you turned to face him fully. "Together?" You asked.

"Together," he confirmed.

And then you jumped.

The water was cold and shocking and perfect. It closed over your heads like a curtain, muffling the sounds of the world above. For a moment, there was nothing but the weight of the water around you, the pressure of Seonghyeon's hand still gripping yours, the strange, suspended feeling of falling without falling.

You then kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.

The air was warm against your wet skin. The sun was bright in your eyes. The campers were screaming from the shore, their voices a chaotic chorus of excitement and disbelief.

But you barely heard them because Seonghyeon was there, treading water beside you, his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes bright and laughing. Water droplets clung to his lashes like tiny diamonds and his smile was the widest you'd ever seen it.

"You're crazy," you said, laughing.

"You're the one who jumped with me."

"I didn't say I wasn't crazy too."

He laughed heartily and pulled you closer. His hands found your waist beneath the water, steadying you, anchoring you to him. "I love you," he said, and the words came easy now, as natural as breathing.

You smiled, water dripping from your chin. "I love you too."

He kissed you.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt your feet leave the bottom of the lake. You floated together, suspended in the golden water, the world reduced to the warmth of his lips and the steady beat of his heart against yours.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed.

"Best summer ever," he murmured.

"Best summer ever," you agreed.

From the shore, the campers had lost their collective minds.

"THEY KISSED IN THE WATER!"

"THAT WAS SO ROMANTIC!"

"WE DID THIS! WE'RE MATCHMAKING GENIUSES!"

"WE'RE LEGENDS!"

Then, without warning, the first camper jumped.

A splash followed by a shriek and a burst of laughter, then another, and another.

Within seconds, the air was filled with flying bodies and screaming children and the unmistakable chaos of two cabins' worth of campers launching themselves into the lake with absolutely no regard for safety or dignity or the fact that they were all still wearing their clothes.

"CANNONBALL!" One shouted before they hit the water, you quickly turned your face away to avoid the spray of water from hitting your eye.

You watched in horror and delight as the chaos unfolded around you. Campers splashed and shrieked and laughed, their voices echoing across the lake like the sound of pure, unfiltered joy.

And then, as the realisation hit you—

"WHERE ARE YOUR LIFE JACKETS?!" You shouted, your counselor instincts overriding everything else.

A camper paddled past you, grinning. "Relax, Counselor! We're in the shallow end!"

"The shallow end is still deep enough to drown!"

"We're fine!"

"You're not fine! You're going to drown!"

"I can swim!"

"That’s not the point!"

Seonghyeon laughed beside you, his arm still wrapped around your waist. "They're not going to listen."

"Seonghyeon."

"Just let them have this."

"Someone's going to injure themself!"

"Well at least they would be having fun whilst doing so."

You turned to stare at him. "Did you just joke about campers getting injured?"

He grinned, water still dripping from his chin. "I'm very funny."

You splashed him in response.

The water caught him square in the face, and his head snapped back with a startled laugh. For a moment, he just froze: jaw dropped, eyes wide, water streaming down his cheeks like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

Then he turned to you, and his grin turned wicked. "Oh, it's on."

Before you could react, his hand came down in a sweeping arc, sending a wall of water directly into your face. You sputtered, gasping, as the lake water invaded your mouth and nose.

It quickly devolved into the two of you splashing water at each other relentlessly, wide grins on both your faces: your hands churning the surface into a frenzy, his laughter echoing across the lake as he dodged and retaliated. Water flew in every direction, catching the golden sunlight like scattered diamonds.

One of your campers shouted: "WATER FIGHT!"

It then became an all-out war. A free-for-all, even.

Campers descended from every direction, shrieking and laughing, their bodies cutting through the water like torpedoes. You couldn't tell who was an ally or an enemy anymore—only that you were aiming to stop swallowing so much water. Hands splashed from every angle, faces appeared and disappeared in the chaos, the lake had become a battlefield of pure, unfiltered joy.

You spun in circles, trying to defend yourself, but it was hopeless. There were too many of them and they were everywhere: behind you, beside you, in front of you. Water filled your eyes, your nose, your mouth. You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, you caught a glimpse of Seonghyeon. He was surrounded by at least five campers, all of them splashing him relentlessly, and he was laughing so brightly his cheeks were turning red. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt clung to his chest, and you realised truly that you'd never loved him more.

The sun shone brightly above, its rays gleaming against the rocking water. The lake sparkled like a sea of scattered stars, each ripple catching the light and throwing it back toward the sky. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of summer. The sounds of laughter and splashing echoed across the water like music.

In the middle of it all, surrounded by chaos and campers and the golden light of the setting sun, you found yourself thinking that this was it. This was the moment you'd remember forever.

The summer you fell in love.

The summer the campers won.

you straighten up. “i’ll text you when i get home.”

he nods, but his hands don’t drop. they tighten instead, pulling you back a step until your spine meets his chest, nestled. he buries his pretty face in your shoulder, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

you laugh softly. “james…”

he shakes his head against your skin. not a no—just a quiet plea.

hiss arms slide fully around you now, locking you in place. he sways a little, like holding you is calming him down. his heartbeat is fast, too fast, and you feel it through his chest.

you try to turn around, but he hugs you tighter, chin hooking over your shoulder.

“just… stay like this,” he whispers, voice small.

you relax into him, and he exhales shakily, hands flattening against your stomach like he’s grounding himself. he presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck, lingering—not sexually, not horny, just needy.

when you finally pull away, he follows your movement automatically, like his body refuses to let you go. you cup his cheek, and he leans into your palm instantly, eyes half‑closed. his lashes gently brushing your skin.

“i’ll miss you,” he murmurs.

you haven’t even left yet.

KIM JUHOON

juhoon doesn’t grab you.

he doesn’t beg.

he just… attaches.

you’re lying on his bed scrolling your phone, and he quietly climbs in beside you, sliding under your arm like he belongs there. he rests his head on your chest, one hand gripping your shirt lightly—not enough to trap you, just enough to whisper “don’t move.”

you stroke his hair—soft and sliky, and he melts instantly, his whole body relaxing against yours. his breathing evens out, slow and warm against your ribs.

he doesn’t talk. he doesn’t need to.

every time you shift even slightly, his fingers tighten, pulling you back into place. when you try to sit up, he makes a soft sound—not a word, just a tiny, desperate noise, a whimper almost—and buries his face deeper into you.

you settle again, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath.