Blossom Network

You rinse your mouth, grin at your reflection, and text back:

You: Sure. My place or yours?

A second later:

San: Mine. Got snacks. Bring yourself.

You shake your head, half amused, half too aware of the flutter in your chest. You’ve had movie nights before—sometimes with friends, sometimes just the two of you—but lately there’s been something different.

More pauses. More glances that linger a second too long.

More moments where neither of you wants to be the first to move.

You grab your hoodie, check the mirror one more time, and tell yourself it’s just a casual night. Just another evening. Just San.

Right.

The apartment door opens before you can even knock twice.

He’s in a faded black t-shirt and gray sweats, hair a little messy, like he ran a hand through it on his way to the door. The light from the living room hits his cheekbones just right, and you forget for a second that you’re supposed to say something.

“Hey,” he says, easy grin spreading across his face. “You made it.”

“Of course. You said snacks.” You lift the small bag in your hand. “I brought backup popcorn.”

He laughs, stepping aside to let you in. “I respect your priorities.”

The familiar warmth of his apartment hits you: soft amber light, the faint scent of clean laundry and cedarwood candles, the couch with the slightly crooked throw blanket.

It’s homey in a way that feels almost dangerous—because it’s not yours, but you could imagine it being yours too easily.

He walks toward the kitchen, calling out, “You want something to drink? I’ve got soda, juice, or—” He opens the fridge, pauses. “Mystery sparkling water I don’t remember buying.”

“I’ll take the mystery one,” you say, perching on the arm of the couch.

He tosses you the can, and you catch it midair. The little things—the casual toss, the smirk when you catch it—somehow feel like a dance you’ve both learned by heart.

“So,” you ask, cracking the can open, “what’s the pick tonight? Please tell me it’s not one of your weird artsy thrillers again.”

He feigns offense. “Those have depth.”

“They have ten minutes of people staring at the rain.”

He grins, unbothered. “Fine. No rain this time. I figured we could go classic action—explosions, sarcastic heroes, bad CGI.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You picked an action flick? You?”

He shrugs, settling next to you on the couch. “I thought you might like it.”

The sentence lands heavier than it should. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but you feel the meaning underneath, warm and unspoken.

The opening credits roll.

You both sink into the couch, legs stretching out, shoulders almost touching. Almost.

The movie wastes no time—gunfire, car chases, quippy one-liners. The kind of over-the-top chaos that makes you laugh more than flinch. You toss popcorn at San every time the hero says something ridiculous.

“‘I’ll be back… for dessert?’ Really?” you snort.

San catches a piece midair with his mouth and grins. “That’s poetry.”

“That’s brain rot.”

He nudges your leg with his knee. “You just don’t appreciate cinematic genius.”

“Oh, please,” you say, leaning into the banter. “You’re only defending it because of the explosions.”

“Explosions are art.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he says, pretending to flex his bicep.

You throw another piece of popcorn at him, this time deliberately missing. “You’re impossible.”

“Admit it,” he says, voice low and teasing. “You’d miss me if I wasn’t.”

You open your mouth to retort, but he looks at you just then—really looks—and your brain short-circuits for a half-second. The flickering light from the TV paints gold across his jawline, the curve of his lips. He smiles, softer this time, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You clear your throat. “Focus on the movie, superstar.”

He chuckles, eyes still on you. “Right. The movie.”

The movie hits one of its quieter scenes—low dialogue, dim lighting, the soundtrack settling into something slow and moody. You shift slightly to get more comfortable, and that’s when San reaches for the popcorn bowl.

He leans past you, and his arm brushes against yours.

A simple touch. Barely a graze.

But it sets your nerves on fire, every inch of your skin lighting up like it’s been waiting for that exact contact.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on the screen.

Totally normal. Totally friendly. Nothing to obsess over.

But then, halfway through the film, San stretches—casual, like he’s just loosening up—and drags his arm along the back of the couch behind you.

Slow. Unhurried.

His fingers settle just behind your shoulder, warm and a little hesitant.

For a second, that’s all it is.

A friendly gesture.

Perfectly platonic.

At least, that’s what you try to tell yourself.

But you lean into the touch anyway.

San stills.

Completely.

Then, almost cautiously, his fingertips begin to trace slow, absent circles on your upper arm.

Barely there. Featherlight.

But the sensation is dizzying—every nerve under your skin buzzing like static.

You risk a glance at him.

His eyes stay glued to the screen…

…but his jaw is tight.

Focused in a way that has nothing to do with the movie.

Emboldened, you shift slightly closer until your thigh brushes his.

Then, with a breath you hope sounds steadier than you feel, you let your hand come to rest on his leg just above his knee.

The fabric beneath your palm is soft and worn—smooth cotton, warmed by his body heat, giving just enough resistance under your fingers to make you hyper-aware of every point of contact.

His breathing hitches—a sharp, quiet intake of air that feels like the most thrilling sound you’ve ever drawn out of someone.

You lift your brows. “You okay there?”

He scoffs lightly, trying—and failing—to sound unaffected. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure,” you say, amused. “Totally calm. Unbothered. Completely fine.”

He shoots you a look that’s all bravado on the surface but cracked around the edges, the truth bleeding through.

Then he shifts, turning his body more toward you. His arm slips from the back of the couch to wrap securely around your shoulders, pulling you in.

You melt into his side without thinking, your head finding the warm curve of his neck.

You can smell him now—clean soap, subtle cologne, and something warm that’s just… him.

It settles into your chest in a way you’re not ready to unpack.

And with your hand still resting on his leg, you let your fingers slide a little higher, your thumb stroking the inside of his thigh.

He tenses, a shiver running through him.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your hairline—soft, barely-there contact that steals your breath.

“Maybe I like the heat,” you whisper back, tilting your face up toward him.

San’s hand rises, hesitating for only a heartbeat before his thumb grazes your cheek, then your lower lip.

A soft stroke.

A question.

A warning.

All at once.

Your breath catches.

His eyes lock onto yours—dark, focused, hungry in a way he no longer tries to hide.

He leans in.

And then, finally…

His mouth meets yours. It wasn't a gentle, exploratory kiss. It was hungry, full of all the pent-up tension. Your lips parted under his, and the world outside ceased to exist.

The kiss deepened, turning frantic. Your hands fists in his shirt, pulling him closer as his tongue meets yours. He breaks away, breathing heavily, shifts you both, guiding you until you're straddling his lap, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. The position being incredibly intimate, the weight of him solid and thrilling beneath you.

"Is this okay?" he asks, voice thick with desire, hands resting lightly on your waist.

You nod, words falling. Better than okay. Perfect.

This is when the real teasing begins. You rock against him, a slow experimental grind. The texture of his sweatpants creates a delicious friction. A low groan escapes him, his hands slide down to your hips, encouraging the movement.

"Like this?" he breathed, eyes locking on yours.

"Yes," you gasp, increasing the pace. The pressure was building, a warm, insistent throb between your legs. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against his pants, and the knowledge of what you were doing to him sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

His hands moved from your hips, sliding under the hem of your shirt. His palms, warm and slightly rough as they played across the bare skin of your back. He pulled you closer for another searing kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of your hips. You were lost in it, in the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of his strong body under you.

Then one of his hands ventures lower, slipping past the waistband of your pants and your panties. His fingers, so damn skilled, found you wet and aching. You cry out against his mouth as he touches you, a single finger circling your clit with an agonizingly perfect pressure.

"San," you moan, your hips bucking against his hand.

"I've got you," he whispers, his voice rough with need. He adds a second finger, sliding inside you with an ease that makes you see stars. The stretch is exquisite, filling you just right. His thumb kept up its relentless circles on your clit while his fingers moved inside you, a steady rhythmic pulse that had you trembling.

Your movements on his thigh became more frantic, less controlled. The combined sensations were overwhelming. The soft cotton of his sweatpants, the expert work of his fingers inside, it was too much, and not enough.

"I'm close," you pant, forehead dropping to his shoulder. Your whole body was coiling tight, a spring about to snap.

"Look at me," he commands softly.

You force your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. His face flushed, lips parted. He watches you, drinking in every twitch, every gasp. Seeing his own desire reflected in his eyes pushes you closer to the edge.

"Cum for me," he says, his voice a low growl that vibrates through your entire body.

It was the permission you didn't know you needed. The coil snaps. A wave of pure, white-hot pleasure crashes over you, so intense it's almost painful. Your back arched, a broken cry torn from you as you clench around his fingers, your body shaking uncontrollably against his. The sensations seem to go on forever, each pulse a fresh shock of ecstacy.

As the waves finally begin to subside, leaving you boneless and panting against his chest, You feel his own body tense beneath you. A sharp, guttural groan escapes his lips, hips jerking upward, pressing his thigh even more firmly against you as he finds his own release.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the forgotten movie's end credits music. You became aware of the damp spot on his pants, the stickiness between your legs, the heavy, satisfied weight of your limbs.

Slowly, carefully, he withdraws his fingers, his other arm holding you tight against him. He presses a soft kiss to your temple.

You nuzzle into his neck, a languid, content sigh escapes you. The credits continue to roll, casting shifting lights across the room. San's voice was a soft murmur, his lips still against your hair. "So...what happens now?"

You breathe out a shaky laugh into his neck. "I don't know. You tell me. You're the one who started making out with me like the world was ending."

He huffs a quiet, disbelieving sound. "Okay...you kissed me back like you were trying to win a competition."

"That's because I was," you mumble. "And I think I won." He leans back just enough to look at you, eyes warm and a little dazed, hair a completed mess. "Oh really?" he asks. "That’s what you're going with?" "Absolutely." He snorts, but the smile tugging at his mouth betrays him. "You're ridiculous." "Enh. You like me anyway." "Yeah," he says softly, thumb brushing your cheek, eyes flicking over your face like he still can't believe you're real. "Yeah, I really do."

You grin, trying to defuse the rising warmth in your chest. "Good. Because it would've been super awkward if you didn't and I was just...here. On your couch. With your shirt half-" He groans dramatically and drops his forehead to your shoulder. "Please spare me. I'm already dying of embarrassment."

"Oh? Now you're shy?" you tease, patting his back. "After everything that just happened?"

He lets out a helpless laugh. "That's different."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

He lifts his head, eyes narrowing playfully. "I can't stand you sometimes."

"Liar."

"Okay, fine," he admits, voice softening. "I can't stand how much I want to kiss you again."

Your heart flips, traitorous and loud. "So... what happens now?" you echo.

He kisses your forehead, slow and certain, like he's answering without words. "Now?" he whispers. "Now we figure it out. Together."

You smile into the curve of his neck. "Sounds good to me."

He pulls you closer, arms tightening around you, warm, steady, grounding. Outside, the credits continue to roll.

Inside, it feels like something new just started. 

The morning started like any other. You walked into class, backpack slung over one shoulder, heart still carrying the gentle warmth of last night’s date with Sungho. His hand in yours, the soft drizzle, the quiet laughter — it all replayed in your mind like a cherished melody.

But nothing felt ordinary anymore.

A hush fell over the room the moment you stepped through the door. Whispers rippled like a current, eyes flicking toward you, some wide with surprise, others narrowed with judgment. You froze, instinctively scanning the classroom. And then you saw it: the phone screen propped on a desk, glowing with a familiar image.

It was you and Sungho. Hand in hand, under the flickering streetlights, the faintest drizzle caught in your hair, his mask lowered, his smile soft and unguarded. The picture was perfect. Too perfect.

And now it was everywhere.

Your classmates’ murmurs swelled into conversations that you couldn’t ignore.

“Did you see this?” someone hissed, pointing.

“Who even is she?” another whispered, voice laced with contempt.

You felt your stomach drop. The warmth from yesterday, the quiet security of holding his hand, evaporated instantly, leaving a cold pit behind your ribs.

Sungho arrived moments later, his usual calm facade a little too strained. He noticed the screen first, then the crowd of classmates craning to see. His eyes met yours for a split second — worry there, and something heavier that you couldn’t quite name — before he straightened his shoulders, forcing his smile into place.

But it didn’t matter. The floodgates had opened.

By lunchtime, the picture had circulated online. Social media accounts, fan pages, anonymous posts — the comments came faster than you could read. Accusations, insults, threats:

“He’s ruining his career for her!”“Who even is this girl? Stay away from our Sungho!”“She’s only after attention. He deserves better!”

Your phone buzzed incessantly, notifications piling up like snowdrifts you couldn’t escape. You tried to scroll through, but the words blurred together, each one cutting sharper than the last.

At school, whispers followed you in the hallways. Chairs scraped too loudly when you walked by. Notes were shoved into your locker: “Idiot fan,” “Stay away from him,” “You don’t deserve him.” And somewhere in the shadows, you could feel eyes watching, lingering a little too long.

Sungho tried to be your anchor. He walked with you between classes, whispering reassurances, keeping his hand tight around yours when no one was looking. But even he couldn’t shield you from the world. Every glare, every message, every comment chipped away at the fragile bubble you’d built around your love.

After class, he pulled you aside behind the gym, his voice low, almost desperate.

“I know it’s a lot,” he murmured, fingers brushing your cheek. “I know it’s unfair. I… I don’t want this to ruin anything for you.”

You shook your head, trying to smile, but your lips trembled. “It’s not just me… it’s you, too. Everyone’s… everyone’s angry at you, Sungho.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “I don’t care. I don’t care what they say. I want us to be us. Isn’t that enough?”

You wanted to believe him. You really did. But the knot in your stomach wouldn’t loosen. Outside the gym windows, the world continued — phones flashing, fans commenting, strangers pointing. The photo that was meant to capture a happy memory had become the first spark of a fire you couldn’t see how to put out.

And that fire was only beginning.

The world had turned against you, and it felt impossible to breathe.

At school, every step was a minefield. Hallways that once felt familiar now seemed to close in, eyes watching your every movement. Snickers followed you; whispers trailed behind you like venom. Classmates you thought were friends avoided your gaze entirely, some even actively shoving you aside. Your locker became a shrine of cruelty — notes crumpled into hateful messages: “He’s ours, not yours.” “Go back to being a fan.” “You don’t deserve him.”

You crumpled each one, but the words burrowed under your skin, leaving a constant ache.

And it wasn’t just school. Online, the attacks were merciless. Every scroll of your phone felt like wading through acid. Comments and posts piled up:

“She’s just a fan leeching off him.”“He’ll regret this forever.”“This girl is ruining everything we built.”

Your phone buzzed relentlessly. Every ping sent your stomach twisting, your chest tightening as if the world itself were squeezing you. Sungho tried to shield you, walking beside you between classes, whispering reassurance that barely reached past the veil of fear and anger pressing in on both of you.

He was breaking too.

Late nights, you’d find him staring at his phone in silence, eyes red from scrolling through comments, muttering curses at the faceless horde he couldn’t reach. Practice wasn’t an escape; it was a battlefield where every smile had to be measured, every word controlled. His hands shook slightly when he reached for yours, the warmth you had relied on now tinged with desperation.

“I can’t protect you from them,” he whispered one night, voice low, trembling. “I can’t stop it. And I… I can’t stop them from hating me for loving you.”

You felt helpless, powerless to shield him from his own company, the fans, the world. “We’ll get through it,” you tried to say, voice cracking. But even as the words left your mouth, you knew it was a lie.

The first direct confrontation from his company came at the worst possible moment. An assistant arrived unannounced, expression tight. “Sungho, this relationship… it’s untenable. The backlash is escalating. We need you to—”

“I don’t care about the backlash!” he snapped, voice cracking. “I care about her! About us! How can you ask me to—”

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes, trying to keep control. You reached for his hand, pressing your palm against his trembling fingers.

“They’re… hurting you,” you said softly, though it felt like a whisper against a storm. “And I can’t make it stop.”

He shook his head violently, shoulders trembling. “I don’t care! I’ll take it all! The comments! The stares! The lies! Just let me be with her!”

But the company’s gaze was unyielding, and even his defiance faltered under the weight of the impossible demands.

That night, you sat on the bed in silence, the sound of his quiet, shaky breaths filling the room. Tears slid down your cheeks, mirroring his own silent heartbreak. You wanted to fight, to scream, to pull him into your arms and tell him it would be okay — but you couldn’t. The world outside your door was too cruel. The pressure too heavy.

Even holding each other didn’t erase it. You could feel the tension, the fear, the helplessness, as if loving each other had become the cruelest act of all.

Somewhere deep inside, you knew the storm was far from over — and you feared it might be the storm that finally tore you apart.

The rain fell in sheets that afternoon, drumming against the rooftop where you stood side by side, though neither of you spoke. The city below shimmered in a blur of neon and puddles, distant horns and chatter muted by the downpour. Sungho’s hands were clenched at his sides, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the gray horizon.

“They want me to end it,” he finally said, voice raw and trembling.

You felt your stomach drop. You had expected this confrontation, feared it, but hearing the words out loud still stole your breath. “They… can’t,” you whispered, though your voice quivered. “We… we’re fine. We can manage it.”

His shoulders slumped, and he turned to look at you, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice breaking. “They control everything. My career. My future. Everything I’ve worked for. And because I love you, they’re telling me I have to throw it all away.”

You shook your head, trying to swallow the lump forming in your throat. “I don’t care about their rules. I don’t care what anyone says. I just… I just want you.”

“I want that too,” he whispered fiercely, stepping closer. “I want you, more than anything. But… it’s not enough. They’ll ruin us. They’ll ruin me.”

The tears started then, and neither of you bothered to hide them. Rain soaked your hair, ran down your cheeks, mingled with the salt of your sorrow. Sungho reached for your hands, holding them tightly as if his life depended on it. “Please,” he pleaded, voice hoarse. “Please don’t walk away from me. I’ll fight them. I’ll—”

But you shook your head, tears spilling freely now. “I can’t,” you whispered. “I can’t make it stop. I can’t protect you from them, Sungho… and I can’t let them destroy you because of me.”

He faltered, jaw trembling, eyes wide with disbelief. “No… no, there has to be another way!”

“There isn’t,” you said softly, pressing your forehead against his, feeling the hot sting of tears on both your faces. “I love you. I always will. But… maybe in another life, we’re just classmates.”

The words hung in the air like a fragile thread. His grip faltered, his eyes glistened with unshed tears as he searched your face, desperate, unwilling to accept them. You could see the fight in him — the fight for you, for your love, for your stolen happiness — and it shattered your heart even further.

The world around you blurred — rain, city lights, distant noises — and yet this moment stretched, impossibly long. His hands slowly fell from yours, and your own trembled as you stepped back, taking the first painful step away from him.

He tried to reach for you, stumbling slightly, voice breaking: “Don’t go… please don’t go…”

But you did.

Every step away felt like a jagged knife twisting in your chest. Every blink was heavy with the memory of his desperate eyes, the warmth of his hand slipping from yours, the faintest echo of your laughter together.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

And somewhere, high above the city, rain washing away the light from the neon signs, two hearts were breaking in parallel — one forced to let go, the other forced to watch it happen.

The storm wasn’t over. But for now, it had claimed everything.

Months had passed, but the ache lingered. The halls of school felt quieter now, emptier, as if the weight of what had happened had stripped color from the world. You walked among your classmates, keeping your head down, phone tucked away, trying to be invisible. You were no longer “the girl he loved.” You were just… another student. Another fan. Another stranger.

The concert hall was enormous, lights glittering like stars suspended in the air. You found your seat among hundreds of screaming fans, your chest tight, every heartbeat echoing the memory of him. Sungho had returned to the stage, flawless as ever — radiant, confident, commanding the spotlight with a skill born of years of training. But your eyes searched past the crowd, past the stage lights, looking only for him.

And when he appeared, even from a distance, even through the layers of persona and performance, something inside you ached. You remembered holding his hand in the rain, whispered confessions on rooftops, stolen laughter in quiet streets. You remembered the last time you had seen him, rain-soaked and desperate, hands trembling as they slipped from yours.

He sang, moved, performed, and the world adored him. And yet… you noticed the subtle glances, the way he occasionally scanned the crowd, searching for someone. For you.

You remembered your words on that rooftop — “Maybe in another life, we’re just classmates.”

They echoed in your mind now, heavy with loss and longing. You whispered them to yourself, a soft confession carried only by your own breath.

And for a fleeting moment, just a moment, you felt him there. Not on stage, not as an idol, not as the world’s Sungho — but as the boy you had loved. The boy who had loved you back.

The lights blazed, the music soared, and yet the ache remained, tender and raw. You clutched your hands in your lap, tears brimming but refusing to fall. Somewhere in the blur of movement and melody, the memory of your love lingered — fragile, bittersweet, and eternal.

Maybe in another life, you thought, swallowing hard, the world would be different. Maybe then, you would have been lovers. Maybe then, you could have loved him without fear, without consequence.

But in this life, you were only a fan. Only a classmate. Only someone who had once held the hand of the boy who had made ordinary days extraordinary — and had let him go.

The song ended. The lights dimmed. And though the crowd roared, your heart remained quiet, echoing the truth that some loves, no matter how deep, were not meant to survive the world they had to live in.

creds: heart by @anitalerina, pearl and lace by @cursed-carmine, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @ilysungho @pupillary @taestulipss @leehanaholic @beomtomie @mwotgata @kaixlix @haede-shi @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

The night was already too loud before Sungho even stepped on stage. The penthouse was filled with industry people — half-bored, half-hungry — the kind who watched a rising rockstar like a future investment. You hated these events, hated the artificial glamour, hated the way people acted like they knew him just because they’d been in the same room twice.

But you came anyway. You always came. You never admitted why.

Your friends had teased you for months after that first infamous night — the one where he’d looked you dead in the eye during soundcheck, smirked, and said, “Crush already?” And you’d answered with that scoff he liked too much.

He never stopped flirting. You never stopped pretending you were immune. And then one drunken hotel hallway moment shattered all of it.

What you refused to name became the thing that ruined you.

Tonight, it was worse because he looked… tired. Eyes heavy, voice rough, posture slightly slouched like tour life was starting to dig its claws in. And yet, somehow, he looked better like that — like a little undone, a little real.

Exactly the Sungho you weren’t supposed to want.

You were halfway through your drink when he started singing the acoustic set, his voice low, smoky, dripping with something too raw for this polished crowd. His gaze swept lazily over the room, but every time it landed near you — not even on you — your stomach tightened.

Then you saw her.

Tall. Gorgeous. Some model-slash-influencer. The kind of girl who fit the environment. She leaned in while he sang, her fingers ghosting his arm like she owned the right.

And Sungho didn’t move.

He didn’t encourage it — but he didn’t stop it either.

Your heartbeat turned into static.

You looked away too sharply, telling yourself it didn’t matter. You weren’t his girlfriend. You’d said so many times that labels ruined things. You'd thrown those walls up to save yourself.

But tonight, you could feel every brick cracking.

Your friend nudged you, whispering something, but you barely heard it. The crowd blurred, the lights blurred, everything blurred except the sound of his voice echoing the lyrics that now felt pointed, too pointed:

“Girl, tell me what you’re doing on the other side…”

You swallowed. You hated that the lyrics felt like accusation now.

You left the room. Quietly. Not dramatically. Barely noticeable to anyone except the one person you didn’t want to notice.

The hallway felt colder, quieter, like air returning to lungs you didn’t realize were suffocating.

You leaned against the wall. Counted your breaths. Tried not to replay the image of her touching him.

You failed.

You didn’t hear him approach — only his voice, low and rough, like gravel dragged across velvet.

“Don’t tell me you’re hiding again.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m not hiding.”

“You always say that right after you run.”

You turned. He was standing there, jacket off now, hair messy, sweat shining faintly on his throat. He looked like a problem people wrote songs about.

Your voice came out cooler than you felt. “It was stuffy inside.”

He stepped closer, hands shoved into his pockets like he was restraining them. “Right. Nothing to do with the girl practically sitting on my lap?”

You rolled your eyes. “You can flirt with whoever you want.”

“Funny. Didn’t answer the question.”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

“Bullshit.”

His tone was soft — but sharp. Like a quiet knife.

You crossed your arms. “Why do you care?”

A humorless laugh escaped him. “You really don’t get it.”

You didn’t react. You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

But he kept going, because Sungho was the kind of man who didn’t know how to stop once he started unraveling.

“You think this is nothing? You think we’re nothing?”

You forced a shrug.

“We’re not together.” Your voice betrayed nothing. Your heart betrayed everything.

He inhaled sharply, almost like it stung.

“Tell me we weren’t just friends,” he said quietly, painfully. “Tell me those nights— those looks— that fucking hallway— meant nothing to you.”

You stared at him, throat tight.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Oh, I am?” His voice rose. “Because I saw you last week.”

Your stomach dropped. “What—?”

“At the bar,” he snapped. “With that guy touching your waist like he already tasted you.”

Your breath caught.

“You’re imagining—”

“No,” he bit out. “I’m finally not imagining anything. I’m seeing exactly how little I matter to you.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Then give me yours.”

Silence. Hurt. Heat. Static.

His jaw clenched.

“Just give some time and space, right?” he said bitterly. “Isn’t that what you said last time you disappeared on me? While you were busy lying, sleeping around—”

“I didn’t sleep with him.” Your voice cracked. He froze.

“He walked me home,” you whispered. “That’s it.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. Like he didn’t know what to do with that information.

“Why?” His voice softened despite himself. “Why let him even get that close?”

“Because,” you said, hating how small you felt, “I thought if you saw it, you’d stop looking at me like I matter.”

Dead silence.

Something broke in his face.

“Why the hell would you want that?” he whispered.

“Because it scares me.”

He stepped forward before you finished speaking.

You backed up, instinctively, until your shoulder hit the wall behind you. Sungho stopped inches away, breathing unevenly, eyes burning with something raw and unguarded.

“You matter,” he said softly, fiercely. “To me. You matter too much.”

Your voice trembled. “And what if you don’t mean that tomorrow?”

“Then I’ll fight myself until I do.”

“Sungho—”

“No.” His hand lifted — slowly — until his fingers brushed your jaw, tentative like you might vanish. “You don’t get to pretend anymore. Not after this.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I’m not ready,” you whispered, echoing the song in a way you didn’t mean to.

His lips parted like you’d punched the air out of him.

“I wasn’t either,” he breathed. “But I am now.”

That was when he kissed you.

Not like before. Not heated or chaotic or born of frustration. This kiss was slow, trembling, careful. The kind that made your knees weaken and your fingers shake in his shirt.

His thumb brushed your cheek. Your hand slid to the back of his neck. He exhaled into the kiss like he’d been holding his breath for months.

When he pulled back, barely an inch, his forehead rested against yours.

“You run,” he whispered, “and I chase. That’s all we’ve ever done.”

You whispered back, “Then stop letting me run.”

He laughed — soft, disbelieving — before kissing you again, deeper this time, his hands settling at your waist like they belonged there. Your back pressed to the wall, your fingers curling into the warm fabric at his shoulder, your breaths tangling with his.

Nothing explicit happened — but everything intimate did. The way he murmured your name against your skin. The way your fingers slid into his hair. The way he pressed you closer like he was memorizing the shape of you.

It was the kind of closeness that meant everything you never said.

When he finally pulled away, his voice was barely steady.

“Come with me tonight,” he murmured. “Don’t go home. Don’t disappear.”

You hesitated — for once — not because of fear, but because it felt real. Too real.

He sensed it. He always did.

“I’ll stay,” you whispered.

His relief was visible. Palpable.

That night, in his hotel room, you lay beside him while he traced slow lines down your arm, his fingers gentle and grounding. You kissed, soft and lingering, until the world dimmed to the sound of his heartbeat under your ear. He held you like he didn’t want anything else.

Before you fell asleep, he whispered:

“I give you my word — I’m not running anymore.”

You whispered back, “Neither am I.”

He smiled into your hair.

And for the first time since everything began, you let yourself believe this wasn’t doomed. That maybe the chase was finally over.

That maybe he was yours. And maybe you were his.

Tour life didn’t pause just because you and Sungho finally stopped running. The next city hit fast — neon signs, humid air, a venue bigger than the last, security rushing him from van to backstage like he was something fragile that needed guarding.

You stayed close behind him, quieter than usual, soaking in the unfamiliar comfort of being… allowed. Allowed to walk beside him. Allowed to be someone he reached for without hesitation. Allowed to feel him brush his hand against yours as if he couldn’t help it.

But comfort never lasted long with the two of you.

Because the universe threw another test at him the moment the backstage door opened.

And this test had a mouth, a camera, and no sense of boundaries.

It was a reporter — early twenties, bright smile, aggressively friendly — the same one who’d been trying to “get access” to Sungho for weeks. She swooped in the second she spotted him, touching his arm like they were old friends.

“There you are! Sungho, can we get a quick interview? Just a short segment for our behind-the-scenes series.”

He stiffened. Gave her a polite half-smile. Nothing more.

But then she turned to you.

“Oh! And you’re…?” she asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity and calculation.

You opened your mouth — no idea what to say — but Sungho beat you to it.

“She’s with me,” he said simply.

The reporter blinked. Twice. Her smile faltered. Then returned too sweetly.

“Oh,” she said. “With you. Right.”

Her gaze slid over you — assessing, dismissing, threatened. You felt it. The way her eyes narrowed just slightly. The way her pink glitter nails trailed up Sungho’s arm again as she leaned closer.

“So… what exactly are you two?”

The air froze.

Your stomach knotted. Sungho’s jaw clenched.

He didn’t answer.

Not fast enough. Not loud enough. Not clear enough.

And your chest suddenly felt too tight because old fears had sharp teeth.

Before either of you could react, the reporter laughed lightly and said, “Just friends then? Cute.”

You didn’t know what hit you — jealousy, pride, fear, habit — but your face shut down. That silent, emotionally-neutral mask you always used when the ground under you shook.

Sungho noticed instantly. Of course he did.

“Hey,” he murmured, reaching subtly for your hand. “Come here—”

But you stepped back. Just slightly. Just enough for him to feel it.

His entire expression changed.

Not anger. Not confusion. Something more dangerous.

Possession and panic tangled.

But the show was starting, so he was pulled away. You stayed backstage, arms crossed, pretending your heart wasn’t spiraling.

He kept looking for you during soundcheck. You kept looking away.

And by the time the show ended, both of you were full of electricity and nowhere to put it.

He found you the moment he got offstage.

“What was that?” Sungho demanded, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly to pull you into the hallway.

“What was what?” you asked, too cool, too distant.

“That thing you did,” he snapped. “That shutting down. That walking away.”

“That reporter made an assumption,” you said flatly. “And you didn’t correct her.”

“I was going to—”

“But you didn’t.”

He stared at you like the world tilted. And then he laughed — low, disbelieving, almost pained.

“You’re jealous,” he said softly.

Your eyes flashed. “You were jealous last night.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I admit it.”

You flinched. He noticed.

He stepped closer, crowding your space, voice dropping from frustration to fractured sincerity.

“I wanted to tell her,” he said. “I wanted to say you’re not just someone. I wanted to say you’re mine.”

Your breath caught.

“But I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

Silence slammed between you.

You blinked. Hard. The hallway blurred at the edges.

“If I say you’re mine,” he whispered, “are you going to run again?”

Something in you snapped at the vulnerability in his voice.

Your reply came out sharper than intended.

“I wouldn’t run if you didn’t flirt with every pretty girl who breathes near you.”

His eyes widened. “I don’t flirt with them.”

“Sungho—”

“I flirt with you.” His voice was rough. Raw. Real.

That’s when the fight erupted.

Not with yelling — too many people around — but with low, heated, razor-edged whispers that cut deeper than shouting ever could.

“I saw her touching you,” you said. “What should I think?”

“That I didn’t touch her back!”

“You didn’t move away.”

“I didn’t want to cause a scene!”

“You think I care about a scene? You think I care what they think?”

“You should care what I think.”

That stopped you cold.

Because Sungho rarely said things like that. Rarely said things that revealed how much you affected him.

But tonight he was stripped open.

“Tell me what we are,” he demanded, voice trembling with something dangerously close to fear. “Tell me what you want.”

Your lip parted. No sound came out.

He stepped in, closer, closer, close enough that his breath brushed your cheek.

“You want a public fight?” he whispered. “Fine. Here it is. I want you. I want us. I’m done pretending I don’t.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

You swallowed, barely able to form words. “Sungho…”

And then it happened.

The spark that always lived between you finally caught fire.

He grabbed your waist — not harshly, but with desperation — pulling you into a dim corner backstage where shadows swallowed the two of you whole.

His forehead pressed to yours. His voice a low growl.

“You drive me insane,” he breathed.

“You first,” you whispered back.

His lips brushed yours — barely, barely — just enough to make you whimper. He inhaled sharply at the sound.

“You want honesty?” he murmured against your mouth. “Here’s honesty: I can’t focus when you’re in the room. I can’t breathe when you look away. I can’t—”

You kissed him.

Hard.

Fierce.

Messy.

His hand slid up your back, fingers curling in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. Your hands gripped his shirt, tugging him down into you like gravity was suddenly optional.

This wasn’t the soft, trembling kiss from the night before.

This was everything you both tried to ignore — jealousy, longing, frustration, want — crashing together all at once.

He kissed you like he needed you to understand something wordless and urgent. You kissed him like you were finally letting yourself feel it.

His mouth trailed to your jaw, your throat, slow enough to undo you, fast enough to feel like he was barely holding back.

He whispered your name like a confession. You whispered his like a promise.

Your bodies fit together too perfectly. His breath hitched when your fingers tugged his hair. Yours caught when his hands tightened at your hips. Your forehead pressed to his while his thumb traced your lower lip, swollen from kissing.

It was intimate in every way that mattered.

And then his voice — low, hoarse — cracked the world open.

“Say you’re mine.”

You blinked up at him, chest aching.

“Only if you say you’re mine.”

He exhaled shakily.

“I’ve been yours,” he said. “You just didn’t want to believe it.”

Your throat tightened.

“I believe it now,” you whispered.

He kissed you again — softer this time, but deeper — like he was sealing the words between your mouths.

When he pulled back, his smile was small, broken, relieved.

“I’m ready now,” he murmured.

You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “So am I.”

He rested his forehead against yours one last time, breathing you in, steadying himself.

And then — quietly, sincerely —

“Let’s go home.”

creds: bow by @ianrkives, pearl and lace by @cursed-carmine, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @ilysungho @pupillary @taestulipss @leehanaholic @beomtomie @mwotgata @kaixlix @haede-shi @niiqv @kwnnies @starriniqhts @coriihanniee @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

The first day of the new term was supposed to be ordinary. The classroom buzzed with the usual kind of energy that came with seeing familiar faces again after a long break: friends clustered together to share stories, the air filled with chatter and the scrape of chair legs against the floor. The smell of fresh textbooks and ink lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the faint hum of the air conditioner.

But today wasn’t ordinary. Not with the rumors that had been circling for days.

“Did you hear?” someone whispered from the row behind you. “They say an idol’s transferring here.”

“Seriously? Like, a real one?” another voice chimed in, half skeptical, half giddy.

You tried not to listen, though the words curled around you anyway. Your fingers tightened slightly on your pen as you pretended to be absorbed in doodling on the margin of your notebook. You already knew who they were talking about — of course you did. Everyone did.

Park Sungho.

You had followed him for a long time, long before this day, long before the whispers began to spread through the hallways. You knew his songs, his stage presence, the smile he wore for cameras, the subtle ways his voice softened in interviews. He wasn’t just a star on a screen to you; he was someone whose music had kept you company on lonely nights, whose laugh you could recognize instantly.

And now, unbelievably, impossibly, he was about to walk into your classroom.

The door slid open just then, as if the universe had timed it perfectly to heighten the anticipation. The teacher stepped in first, but behind them was a tall figure — familiar, yet impossibly out of place in this mundane setting of scratched desks and fluorescent lighting.

Sungho.

Gasps rippled through the room. Even those who hadn’t cared much about the rumors sat up straighter, curiosity sparking in their eyes. He bowed politely, his posture neat, the kind of trained grace that came from years of being watched.

“Please welcome our new classmate,” the teacher said, gesturing toward him. “Introduce yourself.”

His voice, when he spoke, was calm and steady, though you caught the faintest trace of nerves beneath the surface. “Hello, I’m Park Sungho. Please take care of me.”

Your classmates murmured in excitement. Some giggled, others elbowed their friends, and a few phones were already being unlocked under desks. You, on the other hand, felt your heart stutter in your chest. Seeing him here, not through a screen but in front of you, made something in your chest ache with disbelief. He looked different up close — softer, almost. Less like an idol, more like a boy your age who just happened to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Why don’t you take a seat…” the teacher scanned the room before pointing, “…there. Next to Y/n.”

Your entire body froze. The room seemed to tilt slightly as all eyes turned to you.

Of course they knew. Everyone in class knew you were his fan. You hadn’t exactly been subtle about it over the years — your notebooks, your lock screen, the way you’d light up whenever his group came on the classroom speakers. It had been harmless teasing before. But now, it felt like the universe had decided to make a joke out of you.

Sungho walked toward the empty desk beside you. Each step seemed deliberate, careful, though you wondered if he felt the weight of the stares too. When he finally sat down, you risked a glance at him, and for the briefest moment, your eyes met.

He gave you a small smile. Not the wide, dazzling kind he wore onstage — but something quieter, genuine.

Your throat went dry. You barely managed to nod back, your pulse hammering as if you’d just run a race.

Around you, your classmates exchanged knowing looks, some muffling their laughter, others whispering too loudly for you to ignore. But strangely, for once, you didn’t care. Because for the first time, Park Sungho wasn’t just someone you admired from a distance. He was here. Sitting beside you. Close enough that you could hear the faint sound of him breathing, the scratch of his pen against paper as the lesson began.

And even though you told yourself to stay calm, to act normal, one thought lingered stubbornly in your chest:

This was the start of something.

It didn’t take long for everyone to notice.

By the end of the first week, it had already become a kind of unspoken game in class — finding excuses to place Sungho near you. At first, you thought you were imagining it. But when group projects were announced and the class president, with a suspiciously wide grin, paired the two of you together, you knew. When someone “accidentally” saved him a seat across from you at lunch, you knew. When the teacher asked who could help Sungho catch up on missed lessons, and half the class volunteered you before you could even open your mouth, you knew.

The teasing wasn’t cruel, exactly. It was playful, conspiratorial. Everyone already knew you were his fan, and maybe they thought they were being helpful, nudging the two of you closer. To you, it felt equal parts humiliating and surreal. You didn’t want him to see you as the fan who couldn’t stop blushing every time he spoke. You wanted him to see you as… just you.

The problem was, he noticed everything.

“Do they always do this?” he asked one afternoon, voice low, after you’d been assigned yet another group activity together.

You nearly dropped your pen. “W-what do you mean?”

His lips quirked slightly, almost amused. “They all keep pushing me toward you. Like they’ve already decided we’re supposed to sit together.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you scrambled for words. “They’re just… like that. Don’t mind them.”

He hummed, not pressing further, but there was something thoughtful in the way his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he bent back over his notebook.

Despite your best efforts to act unaffected, being around him began to feel strangely… normal. During study sessions, he’d frown at his math problems in a way that made him look younger than his stage persona allowed. During lunch breaks, he’d complain about cafeteria food in the same tone as everyone else. Sometimes, when you joked with him, his laugh came out unpolished, not the practiced kind fans knew — and you felt almost guilty for treasuring that sound like a secret.

One afternoon, after school, you found yourselves alone in the classroom, desks scattered with notebooks and pencils. He leaned back in his chair, stretching, his sleeves falling back to reveal his wrist. He caught you staring and tilted his head.

“What?”

You blinked quickly, embarrassed. “Nothing. Just… it’s strange, seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like a classmate,” you admitted. “Not… an idol.”

He studied you for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he smiled — soft, genuine, the kind that didn’t reach the cameras, only people close enough to earn it.

“I like it better this way,” he said quietly.

The words lodged themselves in your chest, simple yet heavy.

And later, when the two of you walked home together — classmates trailing behind, giggling quietly at the sight — you noticed the way his shoulder brushed yours, how neither of you pulled away.

Time, it seemed, had a way of softening edges.

By the middle of the semester, sitting beside Sungho no longer felt like something surreal or borrowed from a dream. It felt routine — almost ordinary, though never in a way that dulled the spark of it. The initial tension of being his fan had shifted into something gentler, like your nerves had learned how to rest in his presence.

Study sessions became a regular thing. After school, the two of you would linger in the classroom long after most students had gone home, desks cluttered with open notebooks and scribbled formulas. Sometimes he’d hum under his breath while working through problems, his voice soft and absent-minded, carrying melodies that were never meant for a stage. Sometimes you’d catch him staring at the window, distracted, and he’d admit he wasn’t thinking about math at all but about lyrics that had been stuck in his head since practice.

One evening, as the sunset bled gold across the desks, he sighed dramatically, collapsing forward onto his arms.

“I can’t do this,” he groaned. “Numbers don’t like me.”

You laughed, nudging his notebook toward him. “That’s because you don’t like them first.”

He cracked one eye open at you, mock-offended. “So it’s my fault?”

“Yes,” you teased, grinning. “You’re in a one-sided war with math.”

His laugh burst out then — unguarded, warm, nothing like the polished one fans always praised online. You found yourself laughing too, not because the joke was particularly funny, but because hearing him like that felt rare, like stumbling upon a secret.

At lunch, it was the same. He’d slide his tray down beside yours without hesitation, ignoring the chorus of whispers that followed. Sometimes he’d trade you side dishes with no explanation, quietly slipping his kimchi onto your plate when he noticed you liked it more. Other times, he’d talk about mundane things — a TV show he’d started, the way the weather made practice exhausting, how he missed sleeping in on weekends.

“I forget what normal feels like,” he admitted once, picking at his rice. “But being here… it’s close.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you only smiled, letting your knee bump against his under the table.

There were bigger moments too. A school festival, where your class had to run a booth. You’d been assigned together — of course — and spent hours stringing decorations, his fingers clumsy with tape, your laughter slipping free every time he struggled.

By the end of the night, when the festival lights flickered across his face, you realized you were no longer thinking of him as “the idol who transferred into your class.” He was just Sungho. The boy who walked home with you. The boy who hummed melodies under his breath while pretending to do math. The boy who looked at you sometimes like you were more than just another classmate.

And though neither of you had said it out loud, something was already blooming quietly between you — delicate, inevitable.

The school year slipped by in a rhythm that almost felt like a dream. Days blurred together — mornings spent passing notes across your desks, afternoons where he’d tug you toward the convenience store on the way home, evenings filled with shared laughter over small, ordinary things.

The strange thing was how quickly it all became natural. Sungho had started as a distant figure, someone you admired from afar, but by the end of the year, he was woven into the quiet fabric of your life. He wasn’t just an idol anymore. He was your classmate, your friend… something more you couldn’t quite put into words.

The summer heat pressed heavily against the walls of the classroom on the final week of term. Teachers were distracted, students restless, and everything smelled faintly of sun-warmed paper. By then, your classmates had grown used to the sight of you and Sungho together, their teasing softening into knowing smiles rather than loud whispers.

One evening after the last bell, he lingered by your desk instead of packing up quickly. “Walk home with me?” he asked, his tone casual, though the way his fingers fiddled with the strap of his backpack betrayed his nerves.

You nodded, pretending not to notice.

The air outside was thick and warm, cicadas humming loudly from the trees that lined the schoolyard. The two of you walked side by side, your shadows stretching long across the pavement. Conversation came easily — about tests you were glad to be done with, about the summer festival happening next week, about nothing at all.

But as you reached the familiar street where your paths usually split, he stopped walking.

“Wait,” he said, his voice quieter now. He turned to face you, eyes reflecting the last slant of sunset. For once, he didn’t look like the boy on stage or the classmate everyone adored. He looked uncertain, raw in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“There’s something I…” He trailed off, exhaling slowly, gathering courage. “I know this might sound reckless, but… I like you. Not just as a classmate. Not just as a friend. I’ve liked you for a while now.”

The words hung between you, fragile and glowing all at once. Your heart raced, the world around you fading into the background hum of cicadas.

You opened your mouth, but he rushed on, almost as if afraid he’d lose the moment. “When I’m with you, it feels like—” he searched for the right words, then smiled softly, almost shy — “like I get to just be me. Not an idol. Not someone everyone’s watching. Just… me. And I don’t want to lose that.”

Your throat tightened, emotions tangling, but you managed to smile through it. “I like you too, Sungho.”

For a second, relief washed over his features, brightening into something unguarded and pure. He laughed softly, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it. Then, tentatively, he reached for your hand.

His fingers curled around yours — hesitant at first, then firmer when you didn’t pull away. The warmth of his palm seeped into yours, and something inside you settled, like this was how it was always meant to be.

Dating Sungho didn’t feel like stepping into something entirely new. It felt more like slipping into a rhythm that had already been quietly written between the two of you, waiting for the right words to bring it to life.

The first few days after his confession were shy, tender. Holding hands was enough to make your heart race, fingers brushing beneath desks, your knees knocking under cafeteria tables. Sometimes he’d glance at you in class, catch your eye, and immediately duck his head with a grin that belonged to no stage, no camera — just you.

But as weeks passed, you both grew bolder. He would walk you all the way home, even if it meant an extra twenty minutes to his own place. During study sessions, he stopped pretending to do homework altogether, sprawled out across the desk with his chin in his palm, watching you scribble notes.

“I could stare at you forever,” he murmured once, so casually it made you drop your pen. He laughed at your expression, reaching out to poke your cheek. “What? I’m being honest.”

Small rituals formed: exchanging snacks in class, sending each other scribbled doodles in the margins of notebooks, waiting together under the awning when it rained. With him, the ordinary felt luminous, transformed by the knowledge that he was choosing you — despite everything, despite who he was.

And sometimes, when no one was looking, he’d slip his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close like the world couldn’t touch you.

Your first ‘real’ date was simple — a tucked-away café on the edge of town, the kind where the windows fogged in the summer rain and the smell of roasted coffee clung to the air. Sungho wore a bucket hat and a mask, though you teased him for how little it disguised his tall frame and unmistakable posture.

“You look suspicious,” you whispered, tugging at his sleeve.

He leaned closer, eyes crinkling above the mask. “Suspiciously handsome?”

You rolled your eyes, but your laugh betrayed you.

The two of you claimed a quiet corner, drinks steaming between you, conversation flowing as easily as it always did. He told you about practice, about a melody he’d been working on, about the way the other members teased him when he smiled at his phone too much. You teased him back, but your chest warmed at the thought of being the reason for it.

Later, you walked together through the dim streets, rain puddles glittering under neon signs. He held your hand tightly, swinging it between you like a kid, humming under his breath.

That was when it happened — a flash of light, faint but unmistakable, from across the street. Someone had raised their phone just as Sungho leaned closer, his arm brushing yours, laughter caught mid-sound.

Neither of you noticed right away. The city was always alive with movement, lights, noise — a single click didn’t stand out. You were too busy soaking in the glow of his smile, the way the night felt like it belonged only to the two of you.

But somewhere, on someone’s screen, the picture existed: Sungho, mask pulled down, his fingers laced with yours. Proof of something that wasn’t supposed to be seen.

After the photo was taken — completely unnoticed — the two of you finally slowed your pace, ducking under the awning of a small shop to shake off the drizzle. The city lights shimmered on the wet pavement, reflecting in tiny pools around your feet. The air smelled faintly of rain, asphalt, and the sweet scent of street-side bakeries.

Sungho turned to you, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face. “You’re soaked,” he murmured, concern soft in his voice.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your cheeks warmed at his closeness.

He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned down, just slightly, enough that your foreheads nearly touched. His hand found yours instinctively, fingers curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Promise me something?” he whispered, his voice husky in the quiet hum of the city.

“Anything,” you breathed.

“Promise me… no matter what happens, we’ll remember this,” he said, eyes searching yours, soft and steady. “Even if… even if everything changes, this — right now — us —” He tightened his hold just a fraction. “— this is ours.”

You nodded, heart thundering. Words felt unnecessary; the warmth of his hand, the tilt of his head toward yours, the faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips said it all.

“Then it’s a promise,” you murmured, brushing your thumb against his knuckles.

He smiled then, a quiet, satisfied smile, before resting his forehead fully against yours. The city bustled around you, strangers passing, cars rushing, lights flickering, but in that small bubble of space beneath the awning, time slowed. There was only him. Only you.

For one perfect, fleeting moment, the world didn’t exist outside the two of you. And as he let out a soft, contented sigh, you thought — maybe this is what happiness felt like.

creds: heart by @anitalerina, pearl and lace by @cursed-carmine, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @ilysungho @pupillary @taestulipss @leehanaholic @beomtomie @mwotgata @kaixlix @haede-shi @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

The first morning without him felt like waking in a stranger’s bed. The sunlight filtered through the curtains the same way it always had, warm and indifferent, but something essential was missing. The other side of the mattress had already gone cold, the indentation fading as though erasure could happen overnight. You lay there staring at the empty space, willing it to mean nothing, but the silence pressed down heavy, suffocating.

Days blur, but not enough to forget. His absence doesn’t dull; it sharpens, like the edges of glass left scattered across the floor. You find yourself stepping on it constantly — a mug he always reached for, the half-empty bottle of cologne on the dresser, the dent in the couch cushion that refuses to spring back. Every room is haunted, not by ghosts, but by the stubborn persistence of memory.

You stop cooking the meals you used to share. Cooking for one feels pathetic, like pretending at domesticity when the other half of the equation has vanished. Instead, you eat whatever’s easiest, most of the time standing in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open, chewing absently while staring at shelves that still hold sauces he insisted you needed, spices he swore were essential. The flavors linger in the air, taunting reminders that he once existed here, in this space, in the rhythm of your days.

Nights are worse. Nights stretch long and unrelenting, the bed cavernous without his warmth, without his slow, steady breathing that used to anchor you. You leave the lights on. At first, you told yourself it was habit, but habits are supposed to break. This one doesn’t. If anything, it becomes sharper, a ritual of defiance against the darkness. A silent signal you don’t admit to anyone: I’m still waiting, even if I’ll never say it out loud.

You imagine him sometimes, walking through his own nights. Does he lie awake too? Does he think of you when the world quiets and nothing’s left but the echo of what you had? You’ll never ask. You’ll never know. Pride is the wall you’ve built brick by brick, and it’s too high now to scale. You think of dialing his number, your fingers itching with the familiar sequence, but you never press the call button. The phone lies beside you, screen black, like an accusation.

And still, despite everything, you find yourself performing the small, absurd acts of loyalty that make no sense for someone who is gone. His side of the closet remains untouched, though it’s empty now. You straighten the sheets each morning as though he’ll crawl back into them at night. You can’t bring yourself to change the lock on the front door.

It’s pride that keeps you apart. But it’s love that keeps you tethered, quietly, invisibly. You imagine him carrying his pride like a shield, just as you do, both of you waiting for the other to break. Neither of you willing. Neither of you brave enough to surrender the war you started, even if the battlefield is littered with the wreckage of what you once were.

The house grows quieter as time drags on, but still you leave the lights on.

Because deep down, you’re terrified of what it will mean the day you don’t.

Time doesn’t heal; it calcifies. The days grow heavier, not lighter. People tell you that moving on is natural, that it’s human. They don’t understand that this house still breathes him, exhales him, that every corner is etched with the memory of his presence. You live inside a mausoleum of the living.

At first, you wait for him. You tell yourself that he’ll forget his pride before you forget yours, that one evening you’ll hear the lock turn, the sound of keys clattering onto the table, his voice low and tired as he calls your name. But weeks pass. Months. The seasons shift and he doesn’t return. The lamp in the living room burns night after night, a lonely lighthouse guiding no one.

You begin to resent it. The glow taunts you now. It marks your weakness, your refusal to sever the invisible thread that binds you still. And yet, each evening, your hand moves automatically to the switch. You flick it on without thinking, like muscle memory, like prayer.

Dreams betray you. Sometimes you wake gasping, certain you’ve heard his footsteps in the hallway, certain you’ve felt the mattress dip beneath his weight. You reach out blindly in the dark, fingers brushing nothing but air. You lie there with your hand outstretched, chest heaving, and you wonder if he dreams of you too, if his body still remembers yours even as his mind refuses.

Eventually, even the house begins to give up. The scent of him fades from the sheets, from the closet, from the air. Dust gathers in corners he once complained about. The walls no longer echo with his voice. And yet, every night, the light remains.

It isn’t love anymore, not really. Love is tender, forgiving. This is something else. A ritual of suffering. A pact you made with your own stubbornness. You’d rather rot inside this emptiness than admit you want him back.

The final night comes without warning. It’s raining, the kind of rain that makes the windows shiver, that wraps the world in a constant hush. You walk through the rooms slowly, barefoot, the wooden floor cold beneath you. Your fingers trail along walls, doorframes, the backs of chairs — touching the spaces that once held him. The rooms don’t respond. They don’t know his name anymore.

You stop in front of the lamp. The soft yellow light pools across the floor, familiar and sickening. You stare at it for a long time, waiting for the usual swell of hope, of desperate imagining. Nothing comes. Only exhaustion.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the switch. For months, it’s been the only flame you’ve allowed yourself, the only proof that some part of you is still waiting. Turning it off feels like an execution.

But you do it.

The click echoes, sharp and final. The room plunges into shadow, and for the first time since he left, the house is truly dark.

You stand there, heart hammering, as if expecting him to walk in that very second, as if the act of surrender will summon him. He doesn’t. The silence holds.

And that’s when it settles in you — the truth that’s been circling since the beginning.

This house isn’t yours anymore.

It never will be again.

creds: sparkle by @viviansturns, pearl by @cursed-carmine, lace by @cursed-carmine, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @ilysungho @pupillary @taestulipss @leehanaholic @beomtomie @mwotgata @kaixlix @haede-shi @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

The practice room was its own small universe — too bright, too cold, too honest.

The fluorescent lights buzzed above you in an unrelenting, high-pitched rhythm, a constant hum that seemed to seep into your bones. Each flicker caught on the mirrored walls, bouncing back every movement, every twitch, every drop of sweat until it felt like you were surrounded by hundreds of versions of yourself. Some perfect. Some failing. Some gasping, trembling, desperate. The mirrors didn’t lie. They reflected your exhaustion in sharp, cruel clarity, exposing the tremble in your calves after too many repetitions, the way your arms ached even when you thought you were holding them steady, the slight hitch in your breathing that you tried to mask.

The air had weight. It smelled of disinfectant — clean and biting, tangling with the faint iron tang of sweat that clung stubbornly to the polished floorboards. Occasionally, a metallic sharpness would sneak into your nostrils, like ambition had been left out too long, drying, sticky, and almost unbearable. There was something else in the air, too, hard to name, like the residue of dreams compressed into a single room: the faint sweetness of protein drinks, the cloying odor of banana milk spilled over practice mats, the sharp tang of tape and bandages from minor injuries left to heal in corners. Every breath felt deliberate — too clean, too sharp, too exposing.

The room was cold. Not just physically — though the AC hummed relentlessly, blowing icy air down your spine — but emotionally, in the way that the silence made every mistake feel bigger, heavier, more permanent. You could hear every sound amplified: the scrape of shoes on wood, the snap of stretch bands, the soft thump of music leaking through a neighboring door. Footsteps echoed like accusations. A cough bounced from one wall to another. Every time the door swung open, the click reverberated, announcing intrusion, interruption, judgment.

By now, you had memorized the rhythm of the building. Footsteps thinned after nine; laughter faded by ten. By midnight, the only sounds were the low hum of the air conditioner, the muted beat of music leaking from adjacent rooms, and the desperate, uneven breaths of whoever had chosen to stay, clinging to the floor, the mirrors, the lights as if they were the only things keeping them tethered. You moved in harmony with this rhythm, a quiet participant in a ritual of persistence and exhaustion.

The mats on the floor were worn and curled at the corners. Scuffs marred the polished wood, darkened by years of shoes, sweat, and spilled drinks. Occasionally, a patch of water glistened under the lights, left from an earlier practice session, reflecting the buzz of fluorescents in distorted, broken lines. The mirrors themselves bore faint scratches — like the ghosts of failed repetitions, the echoes of ambition leaving marks that would never fully disappear.

Every sense in the room screamed for attention. The smell, the light, the cold, the ever-present hum, the vibrations in the floorboards — even the taste in your mouth, faintly metallic and dusty, reminded you that you were always, constantly, being tested. Every movement mattered. Every breath, every second, every heartbeat.

He was always one of them.

Kim Woonhak. Younger than most, sharper than anyone expected, restless like he was carved from raw energy itself. You noticed him before he ever spoke, before anyone else seemed to notice anything at all. He stayed later than the rest, moving with an intensity that seemed impossible to ignore. His shirt clung to him from sweat, the damp fabric marking the angles of his shoulders and spine. His hair fell in damp strands across his forehead, and each movement — the flick of his wrist, the snap of his knee, the subtle shift of weight in a pirouette — was precise, intentional, but restless, like he was trying to measure his own limits.

Sometimes, his reflection would catch yours in the mirrors, and in those moments, the entire room seemed to hold its breath. He looked at you with tired, intense eyes that felt like they could pierce through everything — your defenses, your self-consciousness, your exhaustion — and see only the truth. For a heartbeat, you were mirrored, doubled, trapped in the same reflective universe as him, and it was impossible to look away.

The floors creaked under your shoes; the mats groaned faintly with every stretch; the lights hummed in a way that felt almost alive. Time slowed in these moments, stretching until a single breath felt like a lifetime. Outside, you could hear faint traffic, muffled voices, the occasional distant siren — a reminder that there was a world beyond this room, but right now, it didn’t matter. Right now, the room existed for only you and whoever else had stayed late enough to inhabit this strange, luminous, cold universe of mirrored reflections, sweat, and relentless drive.

The longer you stayed, the more you became aware of every small detail. The way dust motes floated lazily in the harsh light, catching like tiny stars in the otherwise sterile environment. The way the air smelled sharper near the mirrors, heavier near the corners where spilled drinks had dried. The way the music from next door seemed to thrum directly under your skin, vibrating through the wood and into your bones. Every inch of this place was etched into your memory, and every moment you spent here, you became part of the room, part of its unspoken demands, its quiet judgments, its relentless honesty.

And then, almost inevitably, you noticed him: Woonhak. Always there. Always moving, always pushing, always leaving a trace of himself behind in the room that had begun to feel like its own living, breathing entity. His energy was palpable, even from a distance, like a magnet pulling your attention, your thoughts, your heartbeat. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence alone made the universe of the practice room more vivid, more tense, more alive.

He was a force within the fluorescent-lit prison of mirrors and polished wood, a single constant in a room defined by transience and exhaustion. And somehow, without knowing how it started, the way he moved, the way he breathed, the way he existed in the margins of the room, became the axis around which your own universe began to turn.

He was a force within the fluorescent-lit prison of mirrors and polished wood, a single constant in a room defined by transience and exhaustion. And somehow, without knowing how it started, the way he moved, the way he breathed, the way he existed in the margins of the room, became the axis around which your own universe began to turn.

—-----

At first, it was nothing. Or it felt like nothing.

A shared water break. A nod exchanged through reflections. A moment when he stepped aside to give you space on the floor without being asked.

But small things become big things when you’re exhausted, lonely, and seventeen.

Sometimes, when you bent to retie your shoelaces, you’d catch the echo of his voice through the practice room walls — low, breathless from dancing, occasionally sharp with frustration when a move didn’t land the way he wanted. The sound buried itself into your nerves. His laugh — rare, short, unexpectedly bright — felt like a mistake the universe had allowed to slip through the cracks.

And he started noticing you too. Subtle at first.

You’d be practicing a sequence alone, counting beats under your breath, and he’d glance up from across the room, his reflection overlapping yours in the mirror. Not judgmental. Not competitive. Something else — something sharper, more attentive, more aware than you were ready for.

“Your foot’s too angled when you turn,” he said once, late into the night, voice rough from hours of overuse.

You froze. Not because of the critique — criticism was oxygen in this place — but because he had chosen to speak. To you.

He stepped closer, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His breathing still uneven. His eyes unreadable in the reflection.

“Here,” he said quietly, crouching down. He tapped the floor lightly with two fingers. “You’re pivoting here. It should be an inch left.”

An inch. Such a small measurement for something that felt like it cracked the room open.

You adjusted. You turned. The movement felt smoother — cleaner — almost effortless.

You didn’t know if it was the correction or the fact that he was watching you.

When you stopped, breathless, he nodded once. A tiny praise, almost invisible. But your chest fluttered like you’d been thrown into the deep end of a cold pool.

“Better,” he murmured, already turning away, going back to his side of the room as if he hadn’t just altered something fundamental in your chest.

After that, things shifted.

Not dramatically. Not loud. More like the way the temperature changes just slightly before rain — subtle, delicate, inevitable.

He started staying on the same side of the room as you. Not next to you, but close enough that your reflections touched at the edges. When you practiced your routine, he would watch just long enough to catch your mistakes. When he practiced his, you pretended not to watch, though your eyes kept drifting to him — the clean line of his posture, the quiet strain in his shoulders, the way determination lived in the space between his brows.

There were nights when neither of you spoke. Nights when you existed in the same atmosphere, breathing the same cold, sterile air, moving to different songs but orbiting the same exhaustion. You learned his rhythms — the way he liked to warm up slow, the way he would always do one more repetition than necessary, the way he sometimes muttered counts under his breath like a prayer.

He learned yours — though he never admitted it.

You found out because every time you stumbled, he looked up. Instantly. Like your body had tugged invisible strings tied to his attention.

And then there was the night you really talked.

It was past two in the morning. Your legs were shaking; every muscle in your body felt like it had turned to hot sand. The room was pitch black except for a single light left on above the mirrors. Your playlist had ended. The building was silent.

You didn’t hear him enter — you just saw his reflection behind you.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice soft in the kind of exhaustion that strips you down to your truth.

“So are you.”

He huffed a barely-there laugh. “Yeah, well. I had a bad evaluation today.”

You turned toward him. His hair was still messy from practice; a faint bruise bloomed along his hip like a watercolor stain. The sight tugged at something inside you — something protective, something tender.

“Want to talk about it?” you asked, surprised by your own boldness.

He didn’t answer at first. He walked past you and dropped down against the wall, pulling his knees up, resting his head back. The light cast a faint halo around him, sharp on the angles of his jaw, soft on the roundness of his cheeks.

“You ever feel like everyone else is getting better and you’re just… stuck?” he murmured.

You slid down beside him. Close enough for warmth, far enough that neither of you would bolt.

“Every day,” you admitted.

He turned his head, eyes drifting to yours. That moment — that look — felt like a door creaking open between you.

He didn’t smile. But something in his gaze warmed.

“You work harder than anyone,” he said quietly. “I… notice that.”

Your heart thudded hard enough to shake the floor.

“I notice you too,” you said, before your brain could stop your mouth.

The silence that followed was dangerously soft.

He didn’t look away. He didn’t tease. He didn’t pretend he didn’t understand what you meant.

Instead, he said:

“…Good.”

Just that. One word, dropped into the stillness like a stone into water — ripples spreading, unstoppable.

From then on, there was no going back.

He held doors open for you without thinking. You shared protein bars and cooling spray. He corrected your form with the backs of his fingers brushing your hips, your elbows, your shoulders — light touches that felt like electric burns. He waited for you after practice. You waited for him when he stayed even later.

Your universes merged slowly, quietly, intimately — like two shadows blending into one under the fluorescent lights.

You both pretended it meant nothing. You both knew it meant everything.

And it was in those late nights — breathless, exhausted, shining with sweat under the indifferent lights of the practice room — that you learned something dangerous:

Kim Woonhak wasn’t just a constant. He was a gravity.

And you were already falling.

The knock at the door shattered everything.

A single sharp rap — too loud, too abrupt — slicing through the thick, humid air. You and Woonhak jerked apart like you’d been caught doing something forbidden, though the truth was softer, smaller, more terrifying: you had only been standing too close. Breathing too close. Thinking too loudly.

Another trainee poked their head in, sweat-damp hair sticking to their forehead.

“You guys almost done?” they asked, oblivious.

“Yeah. In a minute,” Woonhak said, voice clipped with that unmistakable edge he only ever had when someone interrupted him. Interrupted you.

He didn’t look at you. You didn’t look at him. The air between you had become too fragile, too hot, too full of everything you nearly said without speaking.

The trainee left, letting the door close with a soft click — so soft it should’ve vanished instantly into the hum of the building, yet it echoed like a closing curtain on a scene neither of you had meant to stage.

You bent down to grab your water bottle only because you needed something — anything — to anchor yourself. Your hands were trembling. Your pulse thundered in the hollow of your throat. Every place his fingers had touched on your waist burned like the imprint of a hand pressed into soft clay.

He didn’t move at first. You felt his eyes on your back, heavy, conflicted, charged.

When he finally stepped away, the sound of his shoes brushing against the wood floor felt too loud in the quiet room.

The mirrors were fogged at the edges from the broken AC. Through the haze, your reflections looked unreal — blurry, too close, too intimate. It felt like the room itself had witnessed something it wasn’t supposed to.

He grabbed his bag. You did the same.

But the walk to the hallway was agonizing — your steps out of sync, your breaths uneven, both of you silently trying to rebuild the distance that had evaporated between you moments before.

It didn’t work.

Outside, the hallway lights were dimmer, softer. The air smelled faintly of pine cleaner and something warm — something human, like late-night leftovers from staff. It felt safer somehow, quieter; like the kind of place where someone could whisper a secret and it would stay suspended in the air forever.

You thought he would walk ahead. You thought he would pretend nothing happened.

But instead, he stopped just outside the practice room, one hand still gripping the strap of his bag, the other curling into a fist against his thigh. His chest rose and fell with the residue of exertion, breath slow but heavy.

“Hey,” he said.

Just that. One word, gentle but strained. When you looked up at him, his expression was unreadable except for the flicker of something soft beneath the exhaustion.

He didn’t meet your eyes at first. He stared at the floor, the wall, the faint scuff mark by his shoe — anywhere except directly at you.

Finally:

“…Sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he said, barely above a whisper.

It broke you a little.

You shook your head immediately. “You didn’t.”

His eyes snapped to yours — fast, searching, almost desperate. Like he was terrified of misinterpreting you. Like some part of him needed to be sure.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

For a moment, the hallway lights buzzed, flickering slightly, casting faint shadows across his face. You noticed everything: the wrinkle between his brows, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to the line of his jaw, the slight pink tint at the tips of his ears. He looked younger like this — vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening just a fraction.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Good.”

But “good” didn’t cover it. Not for him. Not for you.

You both knew something had shifted.

He didn’t walk away. He didn’t fill the silence with forced small talk. He just stood there, close enough that the edges of your bags brushed when either of you breathed too deeply.

And then, without warning, he reached out.

Not to touch you — not really. His hand simply hovered near your elbow, fingers curled slightly inward, like he was fighting the urge to close the remaining inches between you. His hand stayed suspended, caught between wanting and restraint.

The gesture nearly undid you.

“Let me walk you downstairs,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question. But it wasn’t an order either. It was concern wrapped in uncertainty, offered like something small and fragile.

You nodded.

The walk to the stairwell was a slow collapse of space. You didn’t speak. He didn’t either.

But your shoulders brushed once. Then twice. And neither of you stepped away.

The stairwell smelled of metal and musty concrete, the air warmer than the hallway. The hum of city traffic seeped through the cracks of the old ventilation system, blending with the faraway echo of a late-night trainee practicing vocals on the floor below.

Halfway down the stairs, you stumbled — simply from exhaustion, from slippery steps, from the weight of the night pressing down on your bones.

He caught your wrist instantly.

His hand closed around you with a gentleness that contradicted how fast he moved. His thumb brushed your pulse — not intentionally, not teasingly — just a natural consequence of where he grabbed you. But the contact was enough to send goosebumps rushing up your arm.

“You okay?” he breathed.

You were. And you weren’t. Not when he touched you like that. Not when every inch of your skin still remembered his hands on your waist.

You nodded again, throat dry.

He didn’t let go immediately. His fingers lingered, just long enough for the moment to become something real. Something undeniable.

When he finally forced himself to release you, the absence felt like a drop in air pressure, like the world had suddenly pulled away from you.

The city lights outside the back exit flickered through the stairwell window. Blues, pinks, and soft neon whites streaked across his features, painting him in shifting shadows you wished you could memorize.

He pushed the exit door open for you, letting the cool night breeze rush in — sharp, fresh, cleansing.

But when the wind swept between you, your hair fluttering slightly, he froze. Not at the breeze. At you.

He looked at you like he was realizing something too late — something inevitable, dangerous, impossible to ignore anymore.

That he cared. Too much. More than trainees were allowed. More than he was supposed to. More than either of you had admitted until now.

His voice was low, rough, unsteady when he finally spoke again.

“Don’t… overwork yourself so much,” he said. “You really scared me earlier.”

Your eyes widened. “Scared you?”

He swallowed, jaw clenching as though he regretted saying it. But he didn’t take it back.

“You push yourself past your limit,” he said, softer now. “I see that. I see… everything.”

Everything. The word lingered between you like smoke.

He hesitated, then added in an almost inaudible whisper:

“I don’t want to watch you break.”

Your breath caught.

Not because of what he said — but because of the way he said it.

Like it hurt him. Like your pain registered on his body as much as his own. Like somewhere in the long nights of practice and exhaustion, he’d tied some fragile piece of himself to you.

He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t do the stupid, reckless thing and close the space between your bodies.

But he didn’t have to.

His restraint said enough. It said too much.

That night marked something irreversible.

After it, everything between you was different — not spoken, not acknowledged, but living quietly in the space between breaths.

He started locking the practice room door when you were the last two inside. You started recognizing his footsteps from entire floors away. He began bringing extra snacks without admitting they were for you. You learned to sense his mood before he opened his mouth. When he laughed, it was softer around you. When you cried, he somehow always noticed — even if you hid it perfectly. He started saying your name differently. You started hearing hope in his voice when he said it.

And every night — every long, aching, quiet night — the distance between you grew thinner.

One breath. One heartbeat. One shared moment away from something you both pretended wasn’t happening.

But it was.

He was becoming your home. And you were becoming his.

That’s what made what came next hurt so much more.

In the days after that night, something fragile and electric threaded itself between you and Woonhak — something neither of you acknowledged, but both of you moved around with unconscious care, like it might shatter if you breathed too hard.

It showed in the little things first.

How he started arriving to practice just a few minutes after you, even on days he was scheduled elsewhere. How he’d linger near the back wall of the room instead of immediately throwing himself into warm-ups, eyes trailing after you with a softness that didn’t belong in a trainee building.

How your water bottles began to match — his because he always forgot to buy one, yours because you always bought two now.

How his voice changed when he said your name. How yours softened when you said his.

And then came the night everything truly cracked open.

It was raining — the kind of ugly, heavy rain that drenches the sidewalks until reflections ripple like distorted dreams. The kind that makes the city hum darker, thicker, like it’s breathing differently.

You had lost track of time again, lost in the choreography for next month’s evaluation, repeating the same eight-count until the muscle tremor in your legs made your balance tilt. You were alone in the far practice room — or you thought you were.

You didn’t hear the door open. You only heard the rain.

Hard, violent sheets of it slamming against the windows, turning the city lights into a smear of watercolor neon.

You were mid-spin when you felt it — that unmistakable presence, warm and quiet, filling the room like another heartbeat breathing beside your own.

You stopped so fast you nearly slipped.

His reflection appeared behind yours in the mirror — dark hoodie, damp hair plastered to his forehead from the rain, chest heaving slightly like he’d run the whole way.

“Why are you here?” you managed, breath catching.

His eyes lifted to meet yours through the foggy glass.

“Because you didn’t answer your phone.”

You blinked. “My phone—?”

He lifted it. Your phone. In his hand.

“You left it in the vocal room,” he said, voice low, almost tired. “I went looking for you.”

Your stomach sank — not with fear, but with something softer and heavier that lived under your ribs.

“You could’ve just left it at the desk,” you whispered.

“I could’ve,” he echoed.

But he didn’t.

He crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, controlled. You could hear the squish of water in the soles of his shoes, could smell the faint clean scent of rain clinging to him — sharp, cool, and somehow grounding in the hot, suffocating air of the practice room.

He stopped in front of you. Not close enough to touch. But close enough that you felt the shift in temperature.

“I thought something happened to you,” he admitted softly. “You weren’t replying. It’s late. It’s raining. And you…” He paused, struggling with the words. “…you push yourself too hard. I know you do.”

Your chest tightened.

He looked exhausted — not from the day, but from worry. From the haunting knowledge that you could break at any moment and he wouldn’t know how to stop it.

You took a shaky breath. “I’m fine. Just practicing.”

He closed his eyes like the words physically hurt him.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said quietly. “Not you.”

You froze.

Not because of the plea — but because of the pain stitched between the syllables. His lashes were wet, either from rain or sweat or something deeper, and when he opened his eyes again, the emotion there made your throat burn.

He stepped closer.

Barely a breath away now.

“Show me,” he murmured. “The part you’re stuck on.”

You hesitated — pride, embarrassment, exhaustion all twisting in your chest.

But he didn’t move from your space. Didn’t rush you.

He simply waited, breathing quietly, eyes steady on yours.

So you turned, started the sequence again — your legs heavy, your form unsteady, your mind split between the counts and the awareness of him behind you.

Halfway through the routine, your ankle wobbled. A small misalignment. Barely anything.

But he moved instantly.

His hands caught your arms from behind, steadying you before you could fall — warm palms wrapping around your forearms, pulling you back into stability, into him.

You gasped softly. His breath hit your shoulder. Your sweat mixed with his rain.

And in the mirror — through the fog, through the dim blue glow of the hallway lights bleeding under the door — you saw the truth clearly:

You looked like two people who belonged to each other.

His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a breath.

“You’re hurting yourself.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m not trying to.”

“I know,” he whispered. “That’s what scares me.”

Your heartbeat stuttered. The room felt too small, too bright, too intimate.

His hands didn’t leave your arms. If anything, his grip tightened — protectively, almost desperately.

You turned slowly in his hold until you were facing him. He didn’t let go.

And when your eyes met his, everything stopped.

The rain. The hum of the AC. Your fear. Your exhaustion.

All of it faded beneath the sound of your heartbeat and the warmth of his hands still wrapped around your skin.

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

“I don’t want to watch you destroy yourself,” he murmured.

You breathed in — shaky, raw. “I’m okay.”

“No,” he whispered, stepping even closer. “You’re not. And I know you’re not, even when you pretend you are. I see when your legs shake. I see when you hide your limp after a bad landing. I see when you’re on the verge of crying but you smile at the instructors anyway.”

Your lip trembled. You didn’t mean for it to.

“And I can’t—” His voice cracked, quiet enough to be mistaken for breath. “I can’t pretend I don’t care.”

The room tilted.

Your whole body went still.

He exhaled shakily, eyes flickering down to your mouth for a split second — a split second that set your nerves on fire.

“I shouldn’t care this much,” he whispered. “But I do.”

Your breath hitched. His hands stayed on your arms, warm and steady, anchoring you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

“Say something,” he murmured.

You didn’t know if it was a plea or a warning.

But you did know that your voice wouldn’t come out at all. Not when your heart felt like it was splitting under the weight of everything you had never allowed yourselves to express.

A single tear slid hot down your cheek.

His eyes widened — softening instantly, painfully — and his thumb rose, slow and unsure, brushing the tear away with a gentleness so careful it felt like reverence.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered. “Not because of me.”

It was the closeness.

It was the honesty.

It was the way his fingers trembled even though he tried to hide it.

Something inside you twisted, then unraveled.

You exhaled his name — broken, whispered, fragile.

And it was enough.

His breath hitched. His hands slipped down to your elbows, firmer now, more certain. He leaned in — not closing the distance, but collapsing half of it.

Enough to feel his warmth. Enough to feel his hesitation. Enough to feel his longing.

“We can’t…” he whispered, voice trembling.

But he didn’t pull away. Not even a fraction.

And that was the moment you both knew:

You were already too far gone.

His breath hovered just inches from your lips — warm, uneven, trembling like he couldn’t decide whether to move closer or run. Your heart beat so loudly you were sure he could hear it, echoing off the mirrored walls and the rain-drummed windows.

He wasn’t touching you, not anymore. At least… not with his hands.

But the air between you felt touched. Charged. Shivering.

You were the one who broke first — or maybe it wasn’t breaking at all, maybe it was just gravity, or honesty, or the inevitable pull of something that had been growing between you for months without ever being named.

Your gaze flicked down to his mouth.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. It just happened.

And the second it did, you felt him inhale sharply, like the sight alone knocked the wind out of him.

His fingers twitched at his sides — restrained, too restrained, like he was fighting the instinct to reach for you again. Your arms still tingled where he had held you.

“Don’t—” he whispered, voice thin. “Don’t what?” your voice came out softer, smaller, barely your own.

He swallowed, eyes flicking to your lips and away again with painful precision.

“Don’t… look at me like that.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like…” He exhaled shakily. “…like you want something you shouldn’t.”

Your stomach flipped, heat flooding your chest. You took half a step closer — maybe without meaning to, maybe because you were tired, or lonely, or because the room itself felt tilted toward him.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

His hand came up like he was about to stop you — but it didn’t land. It just hovered near your shoulder, trembling slightly.

“We can’t,” he breathed.

You whispered back, “I know.”

But neither of you moved.

The rain kept pouring, loud and relentless, sealing the room in a cocoon of sound. You could hear his breaths between the drops — quick, shallow, like the moment itself was squeezing his ribs.

His eyes finally met yours. Not the careful, safe look he always used.

Something rawer. Bare. Not meant for anyone else.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly. “If I… if we…” He shook his head, helpless. “It isn’t just about rules.”

You waited, heart pounding against your ribs hard enough to hurt.

“It’s about what it’ll do to you,” he whispered. “To your career. To everything you’ve worked for.”

You felt something splinter inside you — frustration, longing, fear, all tangled together.

“So you don’t want it?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

His reaction was instant.

His face cracked — a quiet, devastating break in his expression, like the question itself wounded him.

“Don’t say that,” he said quietly, desperately. “Please don’t.”

You breathed out. “Then what is it?”

He looked down — at your hands, at the space between you — then back into your eyes. And something in him finally gave way.

“I want you,” he admitted, voice cracked open, bare and trembling. “God, I want you more than I should.”

Your knees almost buckled.

His hand finally landed — fingers brushing your waist, feather-light, almost reverent. Like he was testing the boundary he’d been terrified to cross.

Your breath caught in your throat. He stepped closer. Close enough that your clothes almost touched, close enough that you felt the warmth of him through the thin fabric.

He leaned in — not fast, not careless, but slowly, cautiously, like he wanted to give you a chance to stop him.

You didn’t stop him.

Your eyes fluttered closed. His forehead touched yours.

Your heart stuttered violently, painfully. His breath ghosted over your lips — warm, soft, trembling.

And then—

A buzzing sound broke the moment like glass.

His phone.

He froze. You froze.

The ringtone buzzed against the silence, harsh, mechanical, slicing through the fragile space between your lips. Neither of you moved at first — you were both suspended, still caught in the gravity of what almost happened.

Then he pulled back, just a few inches, but it felt like a canyon opening.

He didn’t step away, didn’t drop his hand from your waist, but his breath steadied, then grew shallow, then steadier again like he was forcing control back into himself.

He looked at your lips one last time — a final, aching trace of longing — before he whispered:

“We… almost…”

His voice broke.

You nodded, just once.

His thumb brushed your waist in a tiny, involuntary motion. Like he didn’t want to let go. Like letting go hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” you breathed.

“For wanting you this much.”

Your heart clenched painfully. But before either of you could say another word, he stepped back — slowly, reluctantly — and answered the phone.

His tone flipped instantly.

Professional. Controlled. Like the last five minutes hadn’t happened at all.

But his eyes kept drifting back to you. Over and over. Like he was afraid you’d disappear.

The moment was gone. But the damage was done.

You couldn’t go back now. And neither could he.

—---------

Something changed after that night. Not loud, not dramatic — small things, quiet things. The kinds of shifts only noticed by people who have spent too many hours inside the same rooms, breathing the same cold air, carrying the same exhaustion in their bones.

You felt it first in the way he avoided your eyes.

He didn’t ignore you. He wasn’t cruel. He was just… careful.

Painfully careful.

He’d walk into the practice room and greet the others with the same easy smile, that spark in his gaze, the bright laugh he always had ready.

But with you? His voice softened. His steps slowed. His smile trembled at the edges, like he was forcing himself to keep it light.

When your eyes met through the mirror, he looked away too quickly — not with disgust, not with regret, but with fear.

Fear of repeating what almost happened. Fear of what it would mean if he didn’t stop himself next time.

You felt the distance like a bruise.

He stopped staying exactly until you left. He stayed later still — but he left gaps, little buffers of time where he wouldn’t risk being caught alone with you. He’d wait in the hall until you walked out. You knew because sometimes you heard his steps starting up again as soon as the elevator doors closed.

He changed the choreography during duo drills. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough to avoid touching your waist again.

He kept his hands to himself. Always.

But you felt them still — ghosting along your skin, memories of warmth from a touch that had lasted two seconds too long. They lingered, sunk into your wrists, your ribs, the back of your neck where he had stood too close that night.

—------

It didn’t take long for the staff to sense the shift.

Not because you two slipped. Not because of anything obvious.

Just the tension.

The way he stiffened whenever someone walked in while you were talking. The way he looked at the floor before speaking to you. The way you tucked stray strands of hair behind your ear whenever he was near — a nervous habit that you didn’t realize you’d developed.

One of the choreographers watched the two of you stretch before practice and made an offhand joke:

“Careful,” he teased lightly. “Rumors start when trainees act weird around each other.”

Woonhak froze mid-stretch. You saw the panic flicker across his face. He recovered fast, too fast, faking a laugh that sounded thin.

But after that day?

He kept even more distance.

When you sat on the floor, tying your shoes, he chose the opposite corner. When you both reached for water bottles, he pulled his hand back instantly, like your fingertips were fire.

When you walked into the room, he didn’t look immediately, didn’t smile immediately. He forced himself to look busy, distracted, unaffected.

But you felt his eyes on you the second he thought you weren’t paying attention.

He watched you like someone memorizing a danger zone. Like someone trying to train themselves out of wanting something.

—------

It happened three weeks after the almost-kiss.

You were both practicing late — not intentionally together, just unlucky timing. The air felt thick, weighed down by unsaid things. You could barely breathe without feeling the tension scrape your ribs.

He was stretching, back against the mirror, sweat dripping down the side of his neck. You were packing your bag, pretending not to notice how he kept glancing at you in the reflection.

You weren’t going to say anything.

But then— He spoke first, voice hoarse.

“You should go home early.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He swallowed. “Just… you’re tired.”

“You’re tired too.”

“That’s different,” he muttered.

“How?”

He didn’t answer.

Your fingers tightened around the zipper of your bag.

“Are you avoiding me?” you asked quietly.

His breath hitched. He didn’t turn around.

“I’m not—” he started, then stopped. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

Another silence. Thick. Heavy.

Finally, he pushed himself to his feet and faced you — not close, but close enough that you could see the exhaustion in his eyes. Not physical exhaustion. Something deeper.

“You know why,” he said quietly.

You shook your head. “I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No. I really don’t.”

His jaw clenched, frustration flickering like a spark.

“You think it didn’t mean anything?” he whispered. “You think I didn’t— you think I didn’t feel it too?”

Your breath caught.

He continued before you could respond.

“That’s the problem,” he said. “I felt it too much. I still do.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“Then why are you punishing me for it?”

He flinched.

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“By pushing me away?”

“Yes!”

The word burst out of him — too loud, too desperate.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes tight.

“If we get caught— if we slip— even once— they’ll blame you.” His voice cracked. “They always blame the girl.”

Your chest tightened.

He looked at you like the truth hurt him physically.

“You can survive without me,” he whispered. “But you’ll lose everything if this gets out.”

“And what about you?”

He gave a broken, bitter half-smile.

“I don’t care what happens to me.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until he stepped forward — half a step, instinctive, like he wanted to wipe the tears from your cheeks.

He stopped himself.

His hand hung in the air for a moment before curling weakly into a fist and dropping back to his side.

That hurt more than if he’d slapped you.

You whispered, voice shaking:

“You’re hurting me.”

He closed his eyes, pained.

“I know.”

“Then stop.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

He opened his eyes again — and you had never seen him look so torn apart.

“Because,” he whispered, voice barely holding together, “the moment I stop pushing you away… I’m going to kiss you.”

Silence. Thunderous. Heart-shattering.

“And if I kiss you,” he continued, “I won’t be able to stop.”

Your breathing trembled, knees weakening.

He took a tiny step back, like each inch away from you was agony.

“I can’t ruin you,” he said softly. “I won’t.”

His voice was breaking.

“And I’m scared,” he admitted. “I’m scared I already have.”

—----------

The building was too bright that night — harsh, clinical lights blinding you in the hallways. Evaluations always felt like judgment day, but something was different this time. The tension was thicker. Whispered conversations stopped whenever you walked past, and a few trainees gave you looks you didn’t recognize.

Not cruel. Not curious. Something… sharper.

You tried to ignore it.

Tried to focus on your performance, the choreography you’d practiced until your feet throbbed and your vision blurred.

But when you walked into the practice room for last-minute rehearsal, you saw him.

Woonhak.

Standing alone in front of the mirror, breathing hard, hair damp with sweat. He looked exhausted. More than usual. Like something was eating him alive from the inside.

He saw you the moment you stepped inside.

His shoulders tensed. His jaw, too.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even look away.

He just stared at you with this… hollow, conflicted expression, like you were both the thing he needed most and the thing he needed to escape from.

You pretended not to notice. You started stretching in silence.

But he couldn’t keep quiet this time.

After a minute, he spoke — voice low, tight, unsteady.

“You should go to a different room.”

You froze. “Why?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“It’s better if you’re… not here.”

You forced a laugh, quiet and shaky. “Am I that distracting?”

His eyes dropped to the floor.

“Yes.”

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t teasing. It was confession.

Soft, honest, dangerous.

You felt your heart crack in one clean, bitter line.

But before you could respond, the door swung open. A staff member stepped inside — clipboard in hand, expression unreadable.

Their eyes flicked between you and him. Once. Twice.

A too-long pause.

And then the staff member said, casually but not casually:

“You two spend a lot of time practicing late. Together.”

Your stomach dropped. Your pulse hammered so hard it ached.

Woonhak didn’t move.

The staff member’s tone wasn’t accusing. Not yet. But it held warning, suspicion, caution, all wrapped together in a neat, poisonous package.

“Be careful,” they added lightly. “Rumors start from nothing, you know.”

Nothing.

You felt Woonhak tense beside you. Not small — a full-body flinch.

The staff member left as quickly as they’d come.

Silence swallowed the room whole.

You turned to him, voice barely a whisper.

“That’s not a big deal, right? People practice together all the time—”

“Not like us,” he cut in.

The words hit you like a slap.

“Not like us,” he repeated, voice cracking. “People see us and they think— they think something’s going on.”

Your throat tightened. “And whose fault is that?”

He looked up, startled, hurt.

You stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough to feel the heat radiating from him.

“You look at me like— like that,” you said, voice shaking. “You push me away but you still— you still look at me like you want to kiss me every time we’re in the same room.”

He inhaled sharply. Pain flashed across his face.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered.

“No,” you said. “What’s not fair is pretending it’s all one-sided.”

He stiffened. The room grew colder.

You continued, heart pounding painfully:

“You’re the one who can’t decide what you want. You keep telling me to stay away, but then you act like— like—”

“Like I care,” he finished softly.

You blinked. Your voice cracked.

“Yes.”

His expression twisted — guilt, longing, fear, all tangled together.

“That’s exactly the problem,” he whispered.

Before either of you could speak again, another knock hit the door.

A different staff member peeked in. Older. Higher-ranking. The kind people listen to.

They didn’t ask permission. They stepped inside fully.

Their eyes swept the room, then stopped on you.

“Trainee ___,” they said. “Come with me.”

Your stomach turned. Their voice had no room for argument.

Woonhak’s eyes widened. He looked like he wanted to protest, step in, say something — but one warning look from the staff member shut him down instantly.

You followed them down the hallway.

They didn’t speak until they reached an empty meeting room. They shut the door.

Then, calmly:

“You’re very close with Kim Woonhak.”

You swallowed. “We just practice together.”

“That isn’t what people think.”

You froze.

The staff member leaned back in their chair, arms crossed.

“This industry is difficult enough for female trainees. You’ve worked hard. You’re talented. Don’t throw that away.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

“I’m not— we’re not— it’s not—”

“One of you,” they said pointedly, “needs to take responsibility and step back before this becomes a problem.”

Their meaning was clear.

It wasn’t going to be him.It needed to be you.

You left the room shaking.

Woonhak found you half an hour later.

He must’ve run — he was breathless, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Where were you?” he demanded. “What did they say? Did they— did they tell you something happened?”

His panic was raw, uncontrolled.

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

And for the first time, you saw it:

He was terrified. Not for himself.

For you.

Tears blurred your vision.

“They told me to stay away from you,” you whispered.

His breath hitched.

“They said— they said I can’t be close to you anymore. That it’ll hurt me. That it’ll ruin me.”

His expression crumpled — visibly, painfully. Like someone was crushing his ribs from the inside.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The same words as the night he almost kissed you. Except this time they felt final.

“I told you,” he said, voice breaking. “I told you this would happen.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“You could’ve fought it,” you whispered. “You could’ve said something. You could’ve—”

He stepped back.

Not forward. Back.

Like your words were knives.

“I can’t,” he said.

Your heart cracked.

“Why not?”

His jaw tightened. His eyes glistened. He forced each word out like it hurt to speak:

“Because if I stand up for us… it means there is an us.”

Your breath stuttered.

“And if they know that—” His voice dropped to a whisper. “…they’ll choose me over you every time.”

Silence. Devastating.

You stared at him, numb.

“So that’s it?” your voice trembled. “You’re choosing your career over me?”

“No,” he whispered. “I’m choosing yours.”

Something inside you shattered.

He took one more step back. Like he was afraid that if he stayed close, he’d take it all back.

“This is the last time we talk like this,” he said softly. “We have to stop now. Before they force you out.”

Your breath cracked. Your vision blurred.

“Please,” you whispered. “Don’t do this.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Don’t make this harder,” he begged. “I’m already— I’m already barely holding it together.”

You took a step toward him.

He took a step away.

Your hands shook. Your voice broke.

“You’re really leaving me.”

He shook his head weakly.

“No,” he whispered. “I’m staying right here.”

Then—

The final blow:

“But not with you.”

He left first.

Not dramatically. Not angrily.

Quietly.

He walked past you, the distance between your bodies inches, miles, impossible. His shoulder brushed yours by accident, and the contact visibly hurt him — his breath hitched, his steps faltered.

But he didn’t look back.

Not once.

The door closed behind him.

A soft click.

A small sound.

Too small to justify how much it destroyed.

tags: @eovieeo @@ilysungho @pupillary @taestulipss @leehanaholic @beomtomie @mwotgata @kaixlix @haede-shi @fruiteronet @k-records @daydreamnet @blossomnet [wanna be tagged in the next episode? comment on this post or on the masterlist!!]

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ back to main masterlist

The throne room had always been a place designed to swallow people whole. Every inch of it was built with the intention of reminding you that the crown you wore did not belong to a person, but to an idea. Sunlight leaked through tall, narrow windows cut into pale stone, casting long, geometric shadows that stretched across the marble floor like prison bars. The banners hanging from the ceiling were impossibly high, their colors shimmering faintly in the draft, as if they, too, watched every movement with silent expectation. When you sat on the throne—its gold polished to the point of harsh reflection—you felt like a single living thing stranded in a world of unmoving, unfeeling monuments. The air was perfumed with the faint scent of parchment, candle wax, and old dust, and it carried with it the heavy, suffocating echo of centuries of rulership. You had grown accustomed to the oppressive weight of it all, and yet some days, beneath your calm expression, the pressure felt almost unbearable.

The council stood in a wide arc before you, their carefully curated outfits gleaming with jewels and insignias that proclaimed their ancient bloodlines. They spoke in turns, their voices blending together in a drone that tugged relentlessly at your composure. Lord Halvern was the worst—his monotonous tone could leech the vitality from even the most alert listener. His thin fingers traced over maps and ledgers as he explained, for what felt like the hundredth time, the logistical nightmare of the western granaries. You tried to follow the threads of the conversation—grain storage capacity, transport routes, budgets—but each detail seemed to slip from your grasp like sand through your fingers. The nobles watched you all the while, their eyes sharp and hungry. They were always looking for cracks in your façade, always measuring your competence, your strength, your humanity. Perhaps especially that last one.

Your gaze drifted down the hall, not really focusing on anyone or anything. The way the sunlight struck the far end of the room made the dust particles glow like suspended stars, and for a fleeting moment, you let your mind float away from the drudgery of politics. Your back ached from holding yourself upright for so long. Your jaw tensed, your fingers curled slightly against the armrest. You were tired—exhausted in a way that reached deeper than the body. The kind of exhaustion that came from being watched, being needed, being demanded of every waking hour. The kind that burrowed inside you until even breathing felt like an obligation.

You inhaled, slow and steady. Then you let it out.

The sigh echoed.

Not loudly—but enough that the council noticed. Enough that a few nobles exchanged pointed glances, their lips tightening. In the throne room, even the smallest sign of fatigue was a confession. And confessions were ammunition.

“Your Majesty,” Lord Halvern said slowly, as if speaking to someone delicate, “are you quite well? Perhaps we should—”

The doors slammed open before he could finish.

A burst of color exploded into the cold, disciplined chamber—a jingle of bells, a flash of ribbons, the thud of hurried footsteps skidding across marble. The contrast was so jarring, so violently out of place, that several nobles recoiled as though they’d been struck.

And then there he was.

Riwoo—the jester, the court’s sanctioned chaos, the walking apology to formality itself—slid dramatically into the center of the room, arms spread wide as though he were presenting himself to the gods. His costume was a riot of vivid reds and golds, mismatched in a way that somehow felt intentional. Bells hung from the trailing ends of his sleeves and chimed like laughter each time he moved. His hair was tousled in a manner that suggested he’d either sprinted here or taken a creative detour to get the perfect amount of disarray. Greasepaint curved over his cheeks in a permanent, exaggerated grin, and yet somehow his real smile—the one just beneath it—was brighter.

“Good morning, esteemed members of the Most Dreadfully Boring Council!” Riwoo announced, sweeping into a dramatic bow deep enough to nearly scrape the floor. “I bring grave tidings: after careful observation, I fear you all may have lost your joy. Don’t panic, it happens to the best of us… though perhaps less often to the rest of us.”

A few servants choked back laughter. A few nobles looked ready to combust.

Your lips twitched.

He saw.

He always saw.

Riwoo hopped up the steps toward your throne with the kind of confident disregard for protocol that should have gotten him thrown out years ago. But he moved lightly, not quite touching the ceremonial rugs, weaving between the markers of tradition like someone who had memorized exactly where he wasn’t allowed to step. His grin softened into something more personal when he neared you—an expression only meant for you, one too gentle for the mask he wore.

“You look awful,” he whispered loudly, a hand raised to his mouth as if he were sharing state secrets with the entire hall. “Not physically—physically you look like a painting I’d steal. Emotionally? Dead.”

You cleared your throat, fighting back a laugh you didn’t dare let escape. “Is that so?”

“Oh, undeniably. Terribly. Tragic. If boredom were a battlefield, Majesty, you’d be lying heroically among the fallen.”

Lord Halvern sputtered. “This is a council meeting—”

“—and I’m saving the crown,” Riwoo declared. “You’re welcome.”

Your shoulders relaxed. Just a fraction. But enough that he noticed. Enough that you noticed he noticed.

Then he lowered his voice.

“Walk with me,” he murmured, the playfulness dissolving into quiet sincerity. “Just five minutes. Before you sink into the marble and become part of the architecture.”

You hesitated.

For all the reasons you should.

A ruler did not abandon the council. A ruler did not indulge whims. A ruler did not follow a jester anywhere.

But Riwoo’s hand hovered near yours—warm, hesitant, uncharacteristically gentle.

And you were so, so tired.

You rose.

The hall gasped as if you’d committed treason in real time.

Riwoo’s fingers closed around your hand, warm and grounding, pulling you down the dais steps and around a marble pillar where the council couldn’t see your expression. The sudden privacy felt almost sinful. You leaned back against the cold stone, lungs aching from the sudden release of tension.

Riwoo watched you carefully, almost timidly.

“Breathe,” he said, softer than you’d ever heard before.

You exhaled.

The air leaving your chest felt like it had been trapped there for hours—maybe years.

He saw the shift in your shoulders and smiled, not his stage-smile, but the real one. Small. Warm. Honest.

“There you are,” he whispered. “I knew you were still in there somewhere.”

You met his eyes fully. For the first time that morning, you felt… human. Not a ruler. Not a symbol. Just a person.

“Thank you,” you said, barely above a breath.

Riwoo froze, as if the words stunned him more than any reprimand ever could. His features softened in a way you weren’t sure anyone else had ever witnessed.

“Anytime, Majesty,” he murmured. “Any time you need saving, call me. I’ll come running.”

A council member shouted your title from across the hall, their voice sharp and accusing.

Riwoo stepped back instantly, mask sliding into place with practiced ease. The jester’s grin returned, bright and disarming.

He twirled once, bells chiming, ribbons swirling as he transformed himself back into the court’s harmless fool.

But as he danced into the open hall again, casting jokes like petals to soften the tension he himself had created, you couldn’t look away from him. You watched him weave laughter into the suffocating decorum of the throne room, watched how his steps never missed a beat, watched how he glanced toward you every few seconds as if to make sure you were still there, still breathing.

Something inside you tightened with a mix of fear and longing.

Because you knew, in a way you didn’t want to admit, that this— this boy, this jester, this impossible burst of color— was going to change everything.

And the crown, heavy as it was, would not forgive you for it.

The bells always announced Riwoo before his footsteps ever did. Soft, chiming notes that drifted through the grand hallways like tiny ghosts, echoing between the marble pillars and gilded arches. They should have sounded cheerful. Whimsical. Something to fit the palace’s beloved jester — the boy with paint-bright smiles and hands quick enough to spin sorrow into laughter. But to you, those bells had always sounded like warning chimes, delicate and trembling, as if they carried a message no one else could hear: I’m performing. Do not look too closely.

You had learned to read him early — the micro–flicker in his eyes before he put on a grin, the millisecond of hesitation before he leapt into a somersault, the brittle way his laughs sometimes cracked around the edges. The court never noticed; they never cared to. They only saw the spectacle, the glitter, the bright red smudge of a painted smile. But you, seated on the throne that felt more like a cage than a seat of power, saw the person behind the paint. And the more you watched him, the more you realized that Riwoo performed as if the world would collapse if he stopped.

The first time you spoke to him alone, he’d looked almost frightened. The other courtiers had filtered out, leaving him standing in the middle of the throne room under a column of dying sunlight. His bells chimed once as he shifted his weight, hands clasped behind his back like a child waiting for a scolding. But you didn’t ask for tricks. You didn’t demand entertainment. You only asked, quietly, “Do you ever get tired?”

For a moment, the entire world paused. Riwoo blinked, and his painted smile faltered — not fully, just enough that you glimpsed the exhaustion beneath it. Then he laughed, soft and musical.

“Tired?” he echoed. “Your Majesty, if I stop moving, I’ll fall apart.”

He’d meant it as a joke. He always did. But you felt the truth buried underneath — a truth that tethered your gaze to him far too often, in moments when you should have been watching nobles, enemies, advisers. Riwoo caught your eyes more than any court official ever could. Not because he sought your attention, but because he seemed made of contradictions: joy and sorrow, performance and honesty, light and shadow. A jester who smiled with his whole face yet held grief like a secret he feared would spill out if he breathed wrong.

As weeks turned to months, the palace changed. The court grew colder, tension coiling in the halls like a sleeping serpent as factions whispered and nobles sharpened their ambitions into blades. But somehow, Riwoo always found you. Always drifted into your orbit with soft bells and softer grins. When he stood beside your throne, performing badly timed tricks just to make you laugh during mind–numbing council meetings, you often caught him glancing at you — quickly, nervously, like he was afraid to be caught caring.

And maybe you shouldn’t have encouraged it. You were the ruler. He was the jester. The boundary was older than your dynasty, older than both of your families combined. But in quiet moments — late nights in the library, stolen mornings in the courtyard where the roses grew wild and untrimmed — the roles blurred.

There was one moment you never forgot: A warm dusk, the sky dipped in orange and violet, Riwoo sitting on the stone railing with one leg dangling off the edge, juggling apples as if gravity was just another court rule he could ignore. And you, standing close enough to feel the breeze of each toss.

You had reached out on impulse, catching one of the apples mid–air. Riwoo’s eyes widened in surprise, then folded into a grin so bright it felt like a small rebellion in itself.

“You should warn me before you steal my spotlight,” he teased.

“You never warned me before stealing mine,” you replied.

His juggling faltered. One apple slipped. He caught it late. He laughed it off — but his cheeks turned pink, and the bells at his wrists jingled like flustered heartbeats.

From that day on, the palace whispered more than usual. About you. About him. About how the jester lingered near the throne too often, how the ruler’s gaze softened too visibly when the boy with bells entered a room. Nobles watched. Advisers frowned. But Riwoo never pulled away. If anything, he stepped closer, like he was daring fate to notice.

Maybe he shouldn’t have.

Maybe neither of you should have.

Because affection within a palace is never just affection. A smile is never just a smile. A jester is never just a jester — not when the court needs someone to blame.

And soon, long before you or Riwoo realized what was coming, the kingdom began to crack.

The storm didn’t arrive all at once. It crept in quietly, like a draft slipping through a window that had been left slightly ajar. The court had always been a nest of whispers, but now those whispers sharpened into something barbed. Conversations cut short when you entered a room. Advisers glancing nervously at you when Riwoo performed. Nobles offering tight, polite smiles that didn’t touch their eyes. Power had a scent—thick, metallic, suffocating—and you could feel it gathering like humidity before a downpour.

What changed first were the courtiers’ laughs. Not long ago, when Riwoo danced across the hall with ribbons trailing from his fingertips and bells chiming bright and clear, the room used to erupt with applause. But slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, their laughter stiffened. Smiles looked forced. Reactions delayed. The joy drained from the performances, not because Riwoo faltered, but because the court had begun to look at him differently—too closely, too coldly, too calculatingly.

They grew suspicious of anything that pleased their ruler too much. And you, without meaning to, gave them reason.

It happened the night of the Harvest Ball. The ballroom glowed with golden lantern light, dancers swirling across the marble floor in layers of silk, pearls, and velvet. But Riwoo stood out the way a flame stood out in a room full of candles—brighter, wilder, dangerously alive. He moved through the crowd effortlessly, weaving illusions from sleight-of-hand tricks, making children gasp and nobles pretend not to be impressed. When he reached your throne, bowing low with an exaggerated flourish, he tilted his head up just enough for only you to see his real smile. The one with no paint.

Your breath caught. Just slightly. Enough that one lady-in-waiting noticed. Enough that an advisor’s expression tightened. Enough that the High Chancellor, a man who measured power the way other men measured coin, narrowed his eyes at Riwoo like the boy had suddenly grown fangs.

Later that night, after the guests had retired and the music faded, you found Riwoo alone in the west corridor, sitting on the cold stone floor with his back against a pillar. The moon washed over him in pale silver, turning his makeup into something almost ghostly. He didn’t hear you approach; his shoulders were slumped, his hands limp in his lap. The bells at his ankles barely stirred.

You sat beside him without a word. For a long time, the two of you shared a silence broken only by the faint croak of crickets outside the window.

“Did I do something wrong?” Riwoo asked suddenly, voice small in a way he never let others hear. “Everyone kept staring tonight. Not the usual way. More like they… expected something.”

Your chest tightened. You hesitated too long. He heard it. He always did.

He turned his face toward you, paint cracked slightly at the corners from hours of forced smiles. “They’re thinking something, aren’t they?” he pressed. “About me. About us.”

You opened your mouth— but before you could speak, he laughed. Soft. Sad. Resigned.

“Don’t worry, Your Majesty,” he said, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “People like them only need one wrong note to turn a song sour. And I’m… I’ve always been an easy one to blame.”

You wanted to reach out. You wanted to tell him he wasn’t wrong, that the court had already begun spinning its threads of suspicion.

But your role was to speak with clarity, not affection. Your heart, however, didn’t know the difference.

You stayed with him until the torches burned low, until the night grew too cold. And when you finally rose to leave, Riwoo stood too—except he didn’t follow you back to your chambers. He lingered in the hallway, staring at the moon with a look you couldn’t decipher. A mix of longing and fear and something like acceptance.

That night became the turning point. Not because of anything either of you said. But because someone saw you together.

Two days later, the rumors began.

At first, they were murmur-level: the jester grows bold, the ruler grows soft. Then sharper: is he influencing decisions? Is he distracting the monarch? Then poisonous: the boy must have a reason for getting so close. No one climbs so high for free.

And beneath it all, a darker theory brewed—one whispered behind fans, behind closed doors, behind the backs of guards:

Perhaps the jester is not merely seeking favor. Perhaps he is a threat.

It escalated fast. Faster than you could stop it. Faster than Riwoo could hide behind jokes.

One morning, you entered the council chamber to find tension thick enough to swallow whole. Documents piled high. Accusations veiled in polite phrasing. The High Chancellor tapping an ink-stained finger against a parchment labeled Security Concerns.

And when Riwoo entered the room, carrying a tray of tea because he had offered—foolishly, kindly—to help the kitchen staff after a stressful week—

Every head turned toward him with suspicion sharp enough to cut.

He froze. You saw the exact second his smile faltered. You saw the moment the court stopped seeing him as harmless.

You stood so quickly your chair scraped the floor.

“That’s enough,” you said, voice ringing through the chamber with royal authority.

The Chancellor bowed his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. But a sovereign must be careful who they trust.”

Riwoo lowered the tray onto the table with steady hands, but you saw them tremble. Just barely. Only you would have noticed.

“Apologies,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

And then, for the first time in all the years he had served the palace, Riwoo left a room without a joke, a dance, or even the faintest jingle of bells.

The silence he left behind was somehow louder than laughter had ever been.

The palace always felt too large when it was quiet. Its marble floors were made to echo music, footsteps, chatter—life. But now the corridors seemed hollow, as if each hallway had forgotten how to breathe. You noticed it first when you realized you hadn’t heard Riwoo’s bells in almost a week. No chiming from the courtyard. No laughter drifting from the kitchens. No bright streak of color slipping between pillars. The silence felt pointed. Almost intentional. As if he’d folded himself into the walls and refused to come out.

Rumors grew wild in that silence. The rebels were gathering near the southern borders. Some nobles were funding them. Some others supported you only out of fear. And the entire court whispered the same poisonous idea:

The jester was distracting the ruler from their duty.

You fought it every time. You shut down accusations, challenged implications, demanded evidence. But power doesn’t need proof—it only needs a vulnerable target, and Riwoo was the easiest target the kingdom had ever been offered. The court didn’t need him to be guilty. They only needed him to be close to you.

He didn’t help himself either. He grew quieter. More nervous. Jokes came out flat and hollow, like he was reciting lines from a fading script.

One late afternoon, when shadows stretched long across the stone floors, you found him sitting alone in the empty grand hall. No audience. No props. Just Riwoo, cross-legged on the cold floor, staring at his hands like he didn’t quite recognize them. His bells were silent, wrapped carefully around his wrists to stop them from making sound. The gesture felt symbolic in a way you didn’t want to understand.

“Riwoo,” you called softly.

He didn’t startle. He just looked up at you with eyes no one else had seen—unpainted, unguarded, exhausted in a way that made your stomach twist.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured.

“Why not?”

“Because they’ll say you came looking.” A humorless smile tugged at his lips. “And maybe you did.”

He stood slowly, like every movement hurt. The afternoon light spilled across him, catching on the faint smudge of faded makeup beneath his eyes, on the slight slump of his shoulders, on the tremor he couldn’t quite hide. He looked smaller without laughter. Less like a performer, more like a boy someone had squeezed too tightly until all the brightness leaked out.

“Riwoo… what did they tell you?”

He swallowed. Hard. “Enough.”

Then his gaze flickered away, like he couldn’t hold your eyes for too long. “They think I’m using you. Manipulating you. Distracting you from ruling. Some think I’m part of the rebellion.” His voice cracked on that last part, so faintly you might have missed it if your heart weren’t tuned to the sound of him. “They think I’m a danger to you.”

“You’re not,” you said immediately.

He laughed—soft and broken, like a bell struck too hard. “Aren’t I?”

The question hung in the air like smoke. And you suddenly realized something—you weren’t the only one the court had been cornering. They had been isolating him too. Whispering. Probing. Threatening in ways too subtle for anyone but the victim to understand. They had been trying to break him.

And maybe they had succeeded.

Before you could think of what to say, what to promise, what to swear on your crown, the doors burst open.

The Chancellor entered with a cluster of nobles behind him, their expressions drawn tight with urgency.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “The rebellion has reached the inner city. We must prepare your evacuation.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Evacuation meant one thing: the city had fallen faster than predicted. And if the rebels were already that close, the palace would soon be surrounded.

You turned back to Riwoo—only to see something shift behind his eyes. Something dark. Something electric. Something you had never seen before.

He stepped forward, bells still muted beneath his wrapped wrists. “Let me go,” he said.

The Chancellor stiffened. “This is not a conversation for—”

“Let me go,” Riwoo repeated, sharper. A note of steel in his voice. “They want someone to blame? Let them blame me.”

The room fell cold.

“What are you talking about?” you whispered.

But you already knew. You felt it in your bones. You saw it in the way Riwoo stood—still, steady, almost frighteningly calm. He had made a decision. The kind of decision only someone pushed to their very edge could make.

“The rebellion didn’t appear out of nowhere,” he said quietly. “They’re angry. Scared. Looking for proof they’ve been wronged.” His lips twisted into a small, dangerous smile. “And the court’s been feeding them stories about me for weeks.”

“No,” you breathed. “Riwoo—”

“If someone needs to be the monster,” he whispered, gaze softening as it met yours, “I’d rather it be me than you.”

There it was. The breaking point. Not the moment Riwoo shattered— but the moment he chose how he would be broken.

The Chancellor stepped forward. “If he admits guilt, the rebellion might stand down long enough to—”

You spun on him, fury crackling in your chest like lightning. “He is guilty of nothing.”

“True guilt is irrelevant,” the Chancellor replied calmly. “Perception is everything.”

Riwoo touched your sleeve, gentle, careful, like he always was with you. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “Really. If my disappearance keeps you safe—if it keeps the crown stable—then it’s worth it.”

“It’s not,” you said, voice breaking.

But he only smiled. A quiet, heartbreaking smile. The kind that held both devotion and resignation.

“Your Majesty… I was never meant to be anything permanent in your world.”

He sounded like he believed it. And that hurt worse than any rebellion ever could.

Before you could protest, the Chancellor spoke again:

“We will take him into custody for questioning. For the safety of the throne.”

Riwoo didn’t flinch. Didn’t run. Didn’t argue.

He simply lifted his bound wrists, exposing the bells beneath the cloth. “Then take me,” he said.

The guards seized him gently—almost respectfully—and for the first time since you’d known him, Riwoo didn’t fight the ropes. Didn’t resist. Didn’t perform.

He only looked back over his shoulder as they dragged him away.

Not with fear. Not with anger. But with a soft, aching smile:

“I’m glad it was you.”

And then he disappeared behind the heavy iron doors.

The palace dungeon wasn’t built for people like Riwoo. It was meant for hardened criminals, rebels, spies—men who carried blood on their hands and treason in their hearts. But now its stone walls held a boy who once danced across banquet tables and painted laughter on dreary winter mornings. A boy whose hands had only ever held ribbons, juggling balls, and fragments of other people’s joy.

The Chancellor told you Riwoo had been “cooperative.” Translated: he hadn’t tried to run.

You felt sick at the thought.

The rebels had broken through another district. The court was pushing evacuation plans. The kingdom was fracturing at the seams. And through it all, your mind circled the same gravity-warped thought:

He thinks his suffering will save you.

When the council finally allowed you one private audience—one last meeting before the court delivered him to the rebels as a “peace offering”—you didn’t wait. You didn’t breathe. You practically ran through the lower halls, ignoring the startled guards, ignoring the Chancellor’s cool reminder that “Your Majesty, emotional attachment will compromise your judgment.”

As if judgment mattered anymore.

The dungeon corridor was cold enough that your breath misted, torches burning weakly against damp walls. You heard nothing except the drip of water and the distant groan of rusting hinges.

And then— a soft chime.

One bell. Just one.

Your legs nearly buckled.

When you reached the cell, Riwoo was sitting on the floor, back against the far wall, wrists still bound loosely in front of him. His bells—they had returned his bells to him. As a cruelty? As a symbol? As mockery? You didn’t know. But one of them had rung faintly when he lifted his head at the sound of your footsteps.

He looked up at you, and the sight carved through your ribs.

Gone was the playful smile. Gone was the paint. Gone was the glittering confidence he wore like armor. His hair clung to his forehead, damp from the cold. His lip was split—nothing severe, just enough that someone had struck him once. A warning, maybe.

What hadn’t changed were his eyes. Still warm. Still gentle. Still entirely focused on you.

“Your Majesty,” he whispered, as if the title mattered anymore. “I didn’t think they’d let you come.”

You approached the bars slowly, gripping the icy iron so tightly it hurt. “They won’t let me free you.”

He gave a soft laugh, one that shivered and broke halfway. “Of course they won’t. That would ruin the story.”

You swallowed hard. “Riwoo—tell me what happened. Why did you confess? Why would you say you helped the rebels?”

“I didn’t say I helped them.” He tilted his head with a familiar, almost teasing tilt—except there was nothing lighthearted behind it. “I just didn’t tell them I didn’t.”

The simplicity of it made your vision blur.

“You can’t do this,” you whispered. “You cannot take the fall for them. For me. For any of this.”

He shrugged weakly, bells giving a tiny, fragile jingle. “Someone had to.”

His voice was steady. Steadier than yours.

“You are innocent,” you ground out.

He smiled. A sad, empty smile. “That’s the funny thing about innocence. It’s useless when you’re in the way.”

The torch crackled softly beside you. A drop of water hit stone. Somewhere above, a distant horn wailed—the rebels breaching another gate.

Time was running out.

“Riwoo,” you said, stepping closer until your forehead pressed against the bars. “I can fix this. I can make them stop. I can—”

“You can’t.” He cut you off gently, with the first firmness you’d heard from him since this nightmare began. “You can’t throw away your kingdom for me.”

“I would,” you breathed.

He closed his eyes. Pain flickered across his face—not for himself, but for you.

“That’s why you can’t,” he whispered. “You are the ruler. They need you. The people need you. If I run, if you protect me, the court will turn on you. The nobles will revolt. The kingdom will break completely.”

“And if I let them take you?” Your voice cracked open. “What does that make me?”

He looked up at you with something devastatingly tender. “It makes you a ruler who chose their people.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you felt it. Riwoo moved closer—not all the way, he couldn’t—but he knelt near the bars and raised his bound hands. You took them instantly. His palms were cold. His fingers trembled.

“You can’t ask me to watch them kill you,” you whispered.

“I’m not asking,” he murmured. “I’m telling you that I’m not afraid.”

“You should be.”

He shook his head. “I’m only afraid of something else.”

You looked at him, breath uneven. “What?”

“That you’ll think any of this was your fault.” His voice softened even further. “That you’ll carry me like a wound instead of a memory.”

Your fingers tightened around his wrists. “Riwoo—don’t do this. Don’t make this choice alone.”

His eyes crinkled, like he was about to smile. Except he didn’t. He just leaned forward until his forehead touched the bars—touching yours through the cold metal.

“I’m glad,” he whispered, “that I got to spend my borrowed time with you.”

A twist of pain cut through your chest so sharply you couldn’t breathe.

“Borrowed,” you repeated, voice breaking.

He nodded. “People like me… we don’t get futures in places like this. But you—you still have one. And I won’t be the reason you lose it.”

You reached through the bars, cupping his cheek with a shaking hand. He leaned into the touch instantly, eyes fluttering shut, as if he’d been starved for warmth and was finally allowed to taste it.

His voice dropped into something barely audible. A confession disguised as a goodbye.

“If someone has to be the monster, let it be me. If someone has to be forgotten… let it be me.”

You felt yourself shatter.

“Riwoo—”

He opened his eyes, meeting yours with a softness that hurt. A softness that felt like a final gift.

“You gave me a place in your world,” he whispered. “Let me give you back your world in return.”

A key rattled in the corridor. Footsteps approached. The Chancellor’s voice echoed distantly.

“Your Majesty. It is time.”

Riwoo didn’t move. Didn’t look away. Didn’t let go of your hand.

He just smiled—a small, devastating, peaceful smile.

“I’m glad I made you laugh while I could.”

And then the guards came.

And separated you.

And the bells didn’t ring again.

creds: lace by @cursed-carmine, lines by @enchanthings, rose & dots & please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @ilysungho @pupillary @taestulipss @leehanaholic @beomtomie @mwotgata @kaixlix @haede-shi @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

loves making small surprises for you, like your favorite snack or a warm drink after a long day

always remembers the little things you say — like how you like your pillows fluffed or your tea a certain way

enjoys lazy mornings together, staying in bed just to talk or scroll through memes

will tease you gently when you’re being stubborn, but it’s always playful, never hurtful

likes doing chores together — cooking, washing dishes, or folding laundry becomes a mini date

keeps a playlist of songs you both like and plays it quietly when you’re chilling at home

casually holds your hand while walking

will make sure your room is cozy before you settle in — blanket ready, lights dimmed, little things in place

wakes up early just to make you a cup of coffee or tea the way you like it

enjoys grocery shopping with you — argues playfully over snacks, but secretly loves your choices

folds your laundry just the way you like it and teases you about your “weird” folding style

likes lazy Sunday mornings where you stay in pajamas, reading or scrolling together

randomly sends you funny memes during the day just to make you laugh

likes to “decorate” your space subtly — lighting a candle, fluffing pillows, or putting a small plant somewhere

runs errands with you, making even mundane tasks fun by holding your hand or joking around

sometimes plays little games with you at home, like board games, video games, or mini challenges

will carry things for you without asking — your bag, umbrella, even your groceries — just because he wants to help

hugs you from behind when you’re focused on something, just to feel you close

kisses your forehead, nose, and cheeks often — small gestures of reassurance

leaves cute, short texts throughout the day — “thinking of you,” “hope you’re smiling”

loves cuddling on the couch while watching dramas, sometimes stealing popcorn from your bowl

brushes hair out of your face while staring at you like he can’t believe you’re real

loves slow, lingering hugs where he rests his head on yours

kisses your knuckles, shoulder, and neck when you least expect it, making your day

enjoys whispering little compliments during quiet moments: “You look amazing,” “I love how you laugh”

loves walking hand-in-hand in the rain or snow, pressing close to keep you warm

when you’re upset, he’ll silently hold you, rubbing your back until you calm down

surprises you with small romantic gestures, like a flower, a note, or planning a mini date

will gently hold your face during emotional conversations, making sure you feel safe and heard

enjoys long, slow late-night talks, lying next to each other, talking about dreams, fears, or nothing at all

enjoys long walks at night with you, hands intertwined, talking about everything and nothing

protective in subtle ways — walking on the outside of the sidewalk, making sure you’re comfortable in crowds

whispers little compliments in your ear, making you blush without needing attention for it

after disagreements, is the first to gently reconcile, always careful with your feelings

secretly checks on you even when he says he’s busy, just to make sure you’re okay

keeps a mental note of things you like and brings them up later as “random thoughts”

smiles when he sees you laugh at small things — sometimes replaying those moments in his head

saves little trinkets or souvenirs from your dates in a drawer he never opens for anyone else

writes down ideas for gifts or surprises for you, even if it’s months in advance

replays funny voice notes or videos you’ve sent him when he’s alone

sometimes talks about you to his close friends in a way that makes him soften, even if he plays it cool

saves photos of you and looks at them when he’s missing you

keeps track of your routines and little quirks so he can make your life easier without you noticing

makes mental notes of what makes you smile and tries to recreate it subtly

sometimes talks to himself about you when he’s alone — “She’d like this…” or “She’d laugh at that…”

has a favorite hoodie or shirt of yours he secretly sleeps in because it smells like you

keeps small mementos from dates or moments — ticket stubs, wrappers, receipts — tucked away

replays little conversations or moments in his head that made him happy, just to feel close to you

quietly worries about you without making it obvious, like checking the weather, your messages, or your schedule

creds: bow by @dollywons, pearl by @cursed-carmine, scalloped by @chrisssiren, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @ilysungho @pupillary @taestulipss @leehanaholic @beomtomie @mwotgata @kaixlix @haede-shi @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

The house doesn’t go quiet overnight. It lingers.

Even days later, the silence clings to the corners, heavy and unrelenting, as if the walls themselves are holding onto his absence. You try to move through it like normal — make coffee in the mornings, toss laundry into the machine, sit at the kitchen table with your laptop open — but nothing feels normal anymore.

It’s the little things that undo you. His jacket still draped across the back of the chair. The toothbrush still standing next to yours in the bathroom cup. The drawer by the bed that holds his socks, folded messily the way you used to tease him about. Each object is loud in its stillness, each one shouting he was here, he was here, he was here.

You tell yourself you’ll start packing tomorrow. But tomorrow comes, and all you can do is open a single box, fill it with books, and then close it again when your hands start to shake.

The house feels alive with his traces. When you open the closet, his cologne hits you so strongly it feels like he’s standing behind you. When you pass the couch, you swear you hear the low rumble of his laughter tucked into the cushions. The bathroom mirror still fogs in the shape of his showers, the faintest streaks on the glass where he wiped it clear with his hand.

Every room still smells like him.

One afternoon, you find yourself standing in the kitchen with one of his mugs in your hands. It’s chipped at the rim, the one he always claimed tasted better because it had “character.” You should put it in the box marked donate. Instead, you set it back on the shelf, like muscle memory won’t let you erase him completely.

You hate yourself for it. You hate how hard it is to sever the ties, how much of him lingers in the air you breathe. And yet — you don’t pack the mug. You don’t wash the pillowcase. You don’t touch the plant he left on the windowsill.

Because no matter how much it hurts, you’re not ready to erase him. Not yet.

You start noticing how the house remembers him better than you do.

Everywhere you go, there’s an echo. The bathroom light still flickers the way it always did when he flipped it on in the mornings, making you think for half a second you’ll hear his voice humming through the shower curtain. The dent in the couch cushion keeps its shape, a hollow where his body sank most nights, remote in hand, eyes heavy but stubbornly refusing to sleep until the movie ended.

You can’t walk down the hall without catching yourself glancing at the bedroom door, expecting it to creak open, expecting him to step out, rubbing his eyes, hair tousled. Your chest tightens every time the doorknob stays still.

Even sound betrays you. A floorboard creaks in the middle of the night, and your heart leaps before you remember: no one else is here. The wind rattles the windows, and you imagine the jangle of his keys instead, the low click of the lock turning. Silence is supposed to mean safety. Now it feels like punishment.

The house has become a graveyard of small rituals.

The chipped bowl he always ate cereal from. The half-empty bottle of his shampoo. The stack of vinyl records, one sleeve still bent from when he shoved it carelessly onto the shelf. Even the trash carries him — the faint crumple of his receipts in the bin, notes scribbled in his handwriting that you can’t bring yourself to throw away.

And the worst of it is the smell. That faint, stubborn trace of him — laundry detergent and cedar and something warmer, something that was only ever his. You try to scrub it out, open the windows, air out the rooms. But it clings, no matter what. Some nights, it’s comforting. Most nights, it’s unbearable.

You find yourself wandering the house without purpose, fingertips brushing the walls as if you’ll feel him there. You pause in doorways, linger in rooms you don’t even need to be in. It’s like you’re waiting for the house to give you back what you lost, some sign that this was more than a place where two people came together only to fall apart.

But the house doesn’t answer. It only holds the echoes, the scents, the weight of everything you can’t yet let go of.

The first box takes you two hours.

It shouldn’t be this hard. Just cardboard, just tape, just a collection of objects to be placed inside. But every time your hand closes around something, it feels like it bites back.

You start with the bookshelf, because books should be neutral. Safe. But the first one you pull down is a novel Jaehyun gave you for your birthday. His handwriting lives on the first page — Thought you’d like this more than flowers. Don’t dog-ear the pages, please. You laugh, except it cracks halfway, turning into something ugly in your throat. The book goes back on the shelf.

The next one is no easier. Neither is the one after that. By the time you tape the box shut, it holds almost nothing.

The kitchen is worse. The mugs are an army of memories: the one from that trip you took together, the one he always used even when you hid it in the back of the cabinet, the chipped one that should’ve been thrown out months ago. You put one in the box, then take it out again, then put it back. It feels like betrayal either way.

You pause at the spice rack. Tiny bottles, all half-full, some with his handwriting labeling the tops. Cinnamon. Oregano. Chili flakes. His voice is still there, teasing you about adding too much garlic, grinning as he made you taste-test his late-night experiments. You shut the cabinet door too fast, as if slamming it can make the ghost of him disappear.

By the time you reach the bedroom, you’re unraveling. The closet is a battlefield. His shirts hang limp on their hangers, shoulders still shaped to him, collars faintly scented like him. You reach for one, fingers brushing the fabric, and your knees almost give. You press your forehead against the wood of the doorframe and let out a sound that isn’t quite a sob, but close enough.

The truth is inescapable: every object is a wound, every box a coffin. And no matter how many you tape shut, you can’t pack away the weight of what’s been lost.

You end up back on the couch again, surrounded by half-filled boxes, the tape roll slack on the floor. Your hands are raw from folding cardboard, but your heart feels worse. The house looks emptier already, and somehow that makes it hurt more.

Because with every box you close, the smell of him grows fainter. And you’re not sure which is worse: drowning in it, or losing it completely.

You don’t hear the key in the lock at first.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, cardboard box half-filled with things you can’t look at for too long — a sweatshirt that still smells like his cologne, a tangle of old charging cables, a photo frame you turned face-down before slipping inside. The tape roll sits beside you, untouched. Your head is in your hands, elbows on your knees, when the sound comes: metal twisting, the faint click of a door opening.

Your chest goes tight.

For a moment, you wonder if you’ve imagined it. But then you hear it — footsteps, steady and careful, moving across the threshold.

“Jaehyun.”

His name leaves your lips before you’ve even decided to say it. He freezes in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks different and exactly the same — hair a little longer, dark circles under his eyes, but still him. Always him.

“I—” He swallows, eyes flicking to the boxes scattered around you. His voice comes out low, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to use it here anymore. “I came to get my stuff.”

You nod, though your throat is too tight for words.

The silence that follows is unbearable. He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and suddenly the house doesn’t feel empty anymore — it feels crowded, like every memory you’ve tried to pack away has surged back at once.

He walks past you toward the bedroom, and you can’t help but notice how careful he is, like he’s afraid to touch the walls, to disturb the air. You sit frozen, staring at the space he’s left behind, until finally your legs move you to follow.

The bedroom is worse. Watching him open drawers, pull his shirts from hangers, fold them with steady hands — it feels surgical. Detached. And yet his jaw is tight, his shoulders rigid, betraying the strain he won’t show.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, though it’s more to hold yourself together than anything else. “You could’ve told me when you were coming.”

He doesn’t look up. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

The words hit harder than they should. You force out a breath. “It does.”

That makes him pause. Just for a moment, his hands still, fingers clenching around the fabric of a sweatshirt. His shoulders rise, fall, and then he’s moving again, as if nothing happened.

The room fills with the sound of zippers and the rustle of clothes being folded away. You can’t stand it. “Do you hate me that much?”

His head snaps up. His eyes lock on yours, dark and sharp, but underneath — God, underneath, there’s so much ache you almost can’t bear to look at it.

“I could never hate you,” he says, and it comes out so fast, so raw, it feels like it burns the air between you. Then, softer: “But I don’t know how to love you without breaking myself.”

The silence after is worse than shouting.

You want to reach for him. You want to scream. You want to do anything but stand here, watching him pack away the pieces of himself, the pieces of you, into a bag he’ll carry out of this house forever. But your feet don’t move.

Neither do his.

The space between you yawns wider, until the only thing filling it is the sound of the zipper closing, final and sharp, like a period at the end of a sentence you never wanted to finish.

When he slings the duffel bag over his shoulder, the weight of it feels like the weight of finality. You know, without being told, that everything of his is inside. That when he walks out that door, there won’t be any excuses left for him to return.

You follow him back to the living room, the silence stretching between your footsteps. The boxes sit like open wounds on the floor, half-filled, half-forgotten. He pauses in front of them, gaze lingering on the sweatshirt spilling out of the top, on the picture frame with its glass turned inward. His mouth parts slightly, like he might say something, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he adjusts the strap of the bag and keeps moving toward the door.

“Jaehyun,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

He turns. His eyes meet yours, and for one breathless second, it feels like the house remembers. Every laugh, every whisper, every night spent pressed together under the hum of the ceiling fan — it all presses against you at once.

“Do you—” The words catch. You swallow, try again. “Do you ever regret it?”

His jaw works. He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence between you feels like it might crush you both. Finally, he exhales, shoulders dropping just slightly.

“Every day,” he says.

The words gut you. They’re everything you wanted to hear, and yet nothing that can save you. Because even as they leave his lips, you can see the wall he builds behind his eyes — the pride, the stubbornness, the refusal to reach back for what he already let go.

You take a step forward. He takes a step back.

His hand finds the doorknob. His voice, when it comes again, is quiet, almost apologetic. “But regrets don’t change the ending.”

The door opens. A wash of cooler air slips inside, brushing against your skin like the echo of his touch.

You want to stop him. You want to say his name again, louder, as if that alone could rewind everything. But your throat locks, and your pride — the same pride that tore you apart — holds you in place.

So you just stand there, watching him walk out.

The door shuts, and for a long moment, the house is utterly still.

Then you realize: it’s quieter than it’s ever been.

And that’s how you know — this house isn’t yours anymore.

creds: sparkle by @viviansturns, pearl by @cursed-carmine, lace by @cursed-carmine, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @ilysungho @taestulipss @pupillary @beomtomie @leehanaholic @mwotgata @kaixlix @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

The house is too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, not the kind where you can hear the hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the clock and feel safe in the stillness. This quiet is jagged, heavy, broken only by the shallow sound of breathing that doesn’t match yours. Every second stretches sharp, like the air itself is waiting for one of you to say something that will finally snap it all apart.

You sit on the edge of the couch, elbows pressed to your knees, fingers twisted together until they ache. The room is dim — blinds half-drawn, casting stripes of late evening light against the walls. A half-finished mug of tea sits abandoned on the coffee table, the steam long gone cold.

Across from you, Jaehyun paces. Not in circles, not aimlessly — just a steady back-and-forth in front of the window, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatpants. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. You already know the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders tense when he’s trying not to shout.

It’s been like this for weeks. Months, maybe. The kind of tension that builds in layers — first, in sighs left unanswered, then in conversations cut short, then in nights spent turned away from each other in the same bed. Tonight feels like the end of all those small endings.

“You’re not even listening anymore,” you say finally, voice thinner than you mean it to be.

Jaehyun stops walking. His eyes flick toward you — quick, sharp — then away again, fixed on some point on the floor. His tongue runs across his bottom lip, like he’s weighing the words before he lets them go. When he does, they land heavy.

“I’ve been listening,” he says quietly, but the quiet doesn’t soften it. “I’ve been listening this whole time. You just don’t like what you hear.”

The words sting because they’re not entirely wrong. But they’re not right, either.

You swallow hard, nails digging into your palms. “Do you even care anymore? About us?”

That makes him laugh — not the laugh you used to love, the one that spilled easy and warm. This one is sharp, humorless. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t still be here.”

The silence after that presses against your chest until it hurts. You want to throw something, scream, make him feel even half of what’s rotting inside you. Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and force yourself to look at him. Really look. The boy you fell in love with is still there, standing barefoot in your living room, hair messy from running his hands through it too many times. But he feels so far away you could swear he’s on the other side of the world.

“I don’t recognize you anymore,” you whisper, and it’s the most honest thing you’ve said all night.

For a second, his expression cracks — something flickers in his eyes, grief or guilt or maybe both. But then it shutters, and his shoulders square again. “Maybe you’re not supposed to.”

The clock ticks on the wall. A car passes outside. And in the space between those sounds, you both realize the inevitable: this isn’t just another fight. This is the one that’s going to break you.

The quiet stretches until it feels unbearable, until even the sound of your own pulse in your ears makes you want to scream.

You rise from the couch, the movement abrupt enough that Jaehyun’s head jerks toward you. Your hands are trembling, though you curl them into fists before he can see. “So that’s it? We’re just supposed to live like this? Pretending we’re strangers under the same roof?”

His mouth parts, then closes again. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?” Your voice cracks, the anger spilling through the cracks of hurt. “Don’t call it what it is? Don’t admit we’ve been lying to ourselves for months?”

His eyes flash, and suddenly he’s not avoiding your gaze anymore. He’s meeting it head-on, sharp and unflinching. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel it too? Every day, I wake up and it feels like—like I’m losing you, piece by piece. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

The confession should soften you. It doesn’t. It only makes the ache sharper. “Then why didn’t you try harder? Why did you just… let us get to this point?”

That’s when his voice rises, louder than it’s ever been with you. “Because every time I tried, you pushed me away!”

The words hit like a slap. Your throat burns. “So this is my fault now?”

His chest heaves, his hands balling at his sides. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m saying we both let it rot.”

The honesty of it is unbearable. You want him to be wrong. You want a villain in this story, someone to blame so the pain makes sense. But there’s only the two of you, both guilty, both bleeding.

Your eyes blur, but you refuse to let the tears fall. Not in front of him. “I can’t do this anymore, Jaehyun.”

The way his name sounds in your mouth — like surrender — makes something flicker across his face. Panic, maybe. Or the realization that you mean it. His voice drops low, rough. “Don’t say that.”

But you do. Because it’s the only thing left. “We’re done.”

The silence after is worse than the shouting. His jaw works, like he wants to argue, to fight, to say something that could stitch the pieces back together. But nothing comes. His hands shake as he grabs his hoodie off the back of the chair.

When he moves toward the door, your heart lurches. For a second, you think he’ll turn back. That maybe, even now, one of you will break and close the distance. But his hand closes around the doorknob, knuckles white, and he doesn’t look at you.

The door opens. The night air rushes in. And then it shuts behind him, leaving you in a house that suddenly feels cavernous, empty in a way it’s never been before.

You sink back onto the couch, the fabric still warm from where you sat earlier. The mug of tea stares back at you, untouched, like a cruel reminder of a life that’s already slipped through your fingers.

And for the first time, you realize the truth: it isn’t the fight that broke you. It’s the silence that followed.

The sound of the door closing lingers long after it’s gone.

It echoes in the walls, in the floorboards, in your chest, like the house itself knows something has broken. You wait — one breath, two, three — as if he might come back, as if footsteps might return, hesitant but sure, carrying him back into the room. But the silence holds. He’s gone.

Your body feels heavy as you push yourself up, drifting toward the door without meaning to. His shoes are still there, the pair he never bothered to put away, scuffed at the toes from months of wear. You stare at them, throat tight, then reach out like you’ll move them — but your hand falls short. They sit untouched, like he might need them again.

The house feels different already. Every room is soaked in him, but it’s only absence you feel now. You move to the kitchen and find the sink still wet from when he rinsed a glass this morning. His jacket is slung over the back of a chair. A book lies face-down on the arm of the couch, the spine bent where he left it. All of it remains, but he doesn’t.

You walk back into the bedroom. The sheets smell like him — faint cologne and detergent, layered over something warmer, something you can’t name. It hits you so hard you stumble, sitting at the edge of the bed with your face in your hands. You want to tear the sheets off, throw them into the wash, scrub the ghost of him away. But you can’t. You lie back instead, burying your face in the pillow that still holds the shape of his head.

And it feels pathetic, how much you want him even now. How badly you want the sound of his footsteps in the hall, his hand reaching across the bed in the dark. But all that’s left is the faint ticking of the clock and the whir of the air conditioner.

You get up again because lying there feels like drowning. You wander the house like a stranger — touching the picture frames, the chipped mug in the cabinet, the plant he swore he’d take care of but never watered. All these things, pieces of him, pieces of you. Pieces of a life you built together.

The things you never took.

It’s past midnight when you finally stop moving. You leave the lights on, every single one, like you’re warding off the emptiness pressing against the walls. You curl onto the couch with a blanket that doesn’t smell like him and stare at the ceiling until your eyes burn.

Sleep doesn’t come. Only the thought of him walking out the door, and the echo that still hasn’t stopped ringing in your chest.

creds: sparkle by @viviansturns, pearl and lace by @cursed-carmine, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @ilysungho @taestulipss @pupillary @beomtomie @leehanaholic @mwotgata @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

always makes sure you have a warm drink in the morning, whether it’s coffee, tea, or cocoa

enjoys playful mornings in bed, stretching and teasing each other before actually getting up

loves cooking with you — sometimes ends up in a playful food fight while cooking

folds your laundry, helps organize your room, and pretends he’s “super strict” about tidiness

likes spontaneous indoor picnics — blanket on the floor, snacks, music, maybe a movie

will carry heavy bags or groceries for you without you asking

enjoys shopping with you and makes it fun, teasing you about cute or silly choices

occasionally surprises you with your favorite snacks or desserts, just because

loves rainy days where you two stay inside, drink something warm, and talk for hours

loves holding your hand while walking, fingers intertwined tightly

hugs you from behind while you’re cooking or reading, resting his chin on your shoulder

forehead kisses are frequent; they’re soft, reassuring, and make you feel protected

enjoys slow cuddles in bed, resting your head on his chest while you both scroll phones or talk

whispers compliments and encouragements in your ear, making you blush

enjoys quiet night walks together — sometimes under streetlights, sometimes in parks

likes leaving little love notes in places you’ll find them unexpectedly

occasionally brings you small flowers or cute gifts just to see your smile

after arguments, he’s patient and gentle, always making sure to fix things before going to bed

keeps your selfies and small videos saved in his phone to look at when he misses you

remembers tiny details you mention — your favorite snack, how you take your coffee, or a song you like — and surprises you later

sometimes talks about you quietly to himself when he’s alone, smiling at the thought

replays small, happy moments you’ve had together to cheer himself up

keeps small keepsakes from your dates tucked away — ticket stubs, notes, wrappers, little mementos

secretly loves wearing something of yours, like a hoodie or scarf, just because it smells like you

gets soft and flustered around you in ways he hides from everyone else

occasionally types long, sappy messages to you but deletes them before sending, only to send something shorter instead

creds: bow by @dollywons, pearl by @cursed-carmine, scalloped by @chrisssiren, please support by @dollywons ♡

tags: @ilysungho @taestulipss @pupillary @beomtomie @leehanaholic @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

inspired by my friend that i mentioned in this post. this was a convo that we had, and a convo that i hold dear. my mental health challenges peaked when i was in highschool and i just couldn't understand why it had to do so during what i regarded to be one of the most important years of my academic life. no one will ever have a clear answer as to why, but she said that "it's called mental health challenge because it's difficult" and for some reason, that simple explanation just kept me going. it's hard to describe, but i think i just needed someone who understood and put it into words.

It's one of those days when you can't understand yourself or the world around you. When the aching heart beat pounds too harshly on your chest and against your eardrums, and the sweat around your forehead and fingertips. With no clear reason to be feeling this way, you could only slump against the kitchen bench, sliding your back against the surface to sit on the floor.

You're blanked out, eyes staring mindlessly at an imperfection on the wooden floor. You're breathing the cooling air, but you can't feel your lungs taking any of it. Your lips are chapped due to the hour-long waterfall of tears. You try to rehydrate yourself, but the coolness of the glass makes you retract your hands, as if the temperature were the complete opposite.

Your golden retriever, Sunny, first sensed your anxiety flaring up before you did, and he's been carefully trailing you from behind. Now, completely defeated on the ground, he carefully taps his paws on your thigh. The small touch makes you turn your head to him, and you give him a faint smile. It's the sign you give to allow him to climb onto your lap. When he does, he tries to breathe calmly and hopes yours will sync with his soon. Your jittery fingers pat his back, trying to focus on his soft fur amidst the chaos.

The idea to adopt and train Sunny for health purposes was none other than your loving boyfriend's. Yunho knows that anxiety attacks have no scheduling or time limit, and he fears the times that he's not there to hold you close. The last time you had a major attack and he was out of the house, you passed out on the floor due to exhaustion. Staying in the hospital for a full day wasn't fun for him, but he could only imagine the excruciating moments that led you to be there.

Sunny nudges the home telephone that he had in his mouth into your hand. You know exactly what he's telling you to do and what you should do; what you've promised to do. Currently, Yunho is out with his friends. You know he wouldn't be mad if you asked him to come home and hold you tight with no words. But you couldn't bear being the person who would cause the smile on his face to drop. Even though you would do it for him if he were in your situation, you couldn't dare pick up the phone and dial his number.

It's so complicated to know that someone else would drop everything for you, not get mad, yet because of the past, everything you do is calculated with doubt.

You shake your head. "Let's just give him a few more minutes. I'm sure he'll be home soon." Sunny whines, his eyes and ears drooping at your reply. Your words weren't comforting to him, and it sure wasn't for you as tears prickled on the corner of your eyes.

You hum to yourself as you close your eyes, trying to picture a memory that brings you peace. It starts with meeting Yunho and his cheerful personality. The way his cheeks flushed red when he first asked you out. The first time he asked if you could be his first kiss. The day you and him bought this house that you both call home together. Jeong Yunho has been part of all your milestones, and you're the luckiest person in the world to have him.

Your heartbeat steadily calmed down, a gentle smile overtaking your frown. If it wasn't for Sunny wagging his tail, you would've missed the unlocked door and the car keys being set on the trinket bowl.

"Y/N, I'm home!" Out of energy, you couldn't respond to him, but you turned towards the direction of the kitchen entry, waiting for him. "Y/N?" he calls out for you. When he steps into the kitchen, his furrowed eyebrows of confusion are immediately replaced with alarmed eyes.

The paper bag in Yunho's hand is set down on the table over you, and he joins you by your side. Your hand is immediately in his, and he slips his arm behind your neck so that you can rest on his shoulder. Yunho doesn't say anything else and kisses the crown of your head.

"I'm here," he whispers. "Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

Your eyelids shut once more. "Just stay here with me."

"Done."

Sunny extends his front paws to Yunho, catching his attention. Yunho scratches Sunny's head and mouths a 'good boy' to the companion who kept you grounded. Sunny looks over to the discarded phone, and Yunho pulls a tight smile at it. He checks the call logs quietly, confirming that his phone isn't broken. It's not the time to talk about it now, he thinks. All that matters is to make sure you're feeling better.

"I know you think I should've called you," you break the silence. "I'm sorry that I didn't. It's not that I don't trust you or anything like that, Yun."

"No, I know," he reassures. "I know that it's hard to lean on someone when you're not used to it." He wants to continue with a 'but'. To remind you that he would always drop everything for you. But sometimes genuine words could scare a person more than it could comfort them, even if they mean good.

You lift your head from Yunho, already missing his warmth and touch. Slight shaking, you face him properly. "I'm sorry. I know I'm hard to comfort and get through-"

"Hey, hey, no. Don't apologise." Yunho cups your cheeks with his palms. His thumbs slide across under your eyes, ridding any leftover tears. "You're not, Sunshine. Don't say that. Let's take this step by step, okay? Of course, I wished you had called me, but I know reaching out is hard for you. I'm here to remind you that I'm always here. No matter what."

It's weird that he's calling you 'sunshine' when it's he who gives bright energy. When you ask him why he calls you the name with such love, his eyes soften and he leans for a sweet kiss: "Because you always make my days brighter. No matter what."

Your lips quiver at his understanding. His orbs shine for you, and the light touches he offers only make you break out into a second round of tears. Yunho's heart twisted at the sight of you fighting and bearing everything alone. He's here to remind you that he'll always be beside you, and he has every single time. You just need more time to dial his number. It's an improvement from the previous time when you slid the phone across the room.

Yunho extends his legs, patting his thighs for you. You take his offer and sit on his lap. He tucks your face under his chin and hums a calming melody. His fingers brush through your hair, and the one holding you across your back steadies you. To the beat of his melody, he taps your waist, bubbling a light chuckle from you.

"Tickles?"

You shake your head. "Perfect."

"Just like you," he confesses from the bottom of his heart, and you know he means it. "I love you and I'm so proud of you, Sunshine. I'll always be by your side."

His grey shirt hues darker from your tears, and Yunho whispers sweet nothings continuously. You could only nod, whimpering into his chest and keeping your heart warm.

"I love you, Yunho. Thank you for always being with me."

"I'm all yours, no matter when and where." Because his love for you is stronger and truly has no schedule or time limit.

navi/masterlist!! 🤍 ateez masterlist 🤍 part of 'especially to you...'

myung jaehyun

“C’mon, sit next to me—I’ll keep things interesting.”

Jaehyun slides into the seat beside you with a playful grin, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder to make sure you’re comfortable. His energy fills the cramped train space, making it feel alive even though the car is packed.

As the train lurches forward, he leans close enough for your shoulders to brush, and he grins mischievously when you gasp slightly at the contact. “See? That’s why we stick together,” he teases, though there’s a softness in his gaze that catches you off guard.

He pulls a small snack from his bag, offering it with a wink. Between bites, he whispers jokes just for you, fingers lightly brushing against yours as he nudges your hand. Even in the cramped, bustling train, the playful intimacy feels like a private world.

By the time your stop comes up, Jaehyun’s hand finds yours, fingers curling around yours naturally. He leans back against the window, smiling in that teasing way that makes your chest flutter, and the simple act of commuting together becomes a cozy, heartwarming memory.

park sungho

“Stay close—don’t let anyone bump into you.”

Sungho guides you through the crowded train, hand brushing against yours as he steers you to an empty pair of seats. He sits beside you, subtly adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder so it’s comfortable. The hum of the train fades slightly as his presence takes over your attention.

You can’t help but notice how attentive he is, offering a small smile whenever someone accidentally bumps your shoulder. When the train jerks forward, he instinctively reaches out, fingers brushing your hand. The simple, fleeting touch makes your heart leap, and you feel warmth creep up your neck.

He pulls a travel-sized snack from his bag, offering it to you with a teasing grin. “You’re too quiet,” he murmurs softly, nudging you gently. You laugh and take it, and he watches you with that soft, familiar look that makes your chest tighten.

As the scenery blurs past the window, Sungho leans slightly closer, resting his shoulder against yours. Small conversations, shared laughter, and stolen glances make the ride feel intimate, even though you’re surrounded by strangers. By the time you reach your stop, your fingers are lightly intertwined, and his teasing grin hides the way his gaze lingers a second longer than necessary.

lee riwoo

“Let’s sit together… it’ll be easier this way.”

Riwoo quietly guides you to a seat on the train, his calm presence immediately grounding. He sets his bag down, glancing at you with a faint smile as he shifts to make space beside him. The chatter and hum of the commute fade into the background, leaving only the warmth of his company.

You sit close, knees almost touching, and feel him subtly adjust his jacket to shield you from the draft near the door. When the train sways, his hand lightly brushes yours, an almost imperceptible gesture that makes your heart flutter. He doesn’t comment, but the soft warmth in his gaze speaks volumes.

Riwoo pulls out a small snack from his bag, offering it to you with a quiet smile. You accept it, and he leans back, running a thumb across your hand in a gentle, reassuring gesture. It’s intimate without being overt, and the comfort of his calm energy makes the ride unexpectedly soothing.

As the scenery passes, he occasionally glances out the window, then back at you, watching your reactions to the outside world. By the time your stop approaches, his hand lingers just a little longer on yours, and the gentle closeness of the ride leaves a quiet, lingering warmth in your chest.

han taesan

“We should sit… it’ll be more comfortable for both of us.”

Taesan guides you to a quieter section of the train, gently maneuvering past passengers with careful attention. He sits beside you, subtly adjusting your bag so it rests comfortably at your side. His quiet focus makes you feel safe and cared for.

When the train sways, his hand brushes against yours, and he doesn’t pull away. It’s a soft, deliberate gesture, one that makes your heart flutter in a slow, warming rhythm. He doesn’t speak immediately, letting the comfort of his presence linger between the two of you.

He offers you a small snack from his bag with a shy smile, and you accept, fingers brushing as you take it. The quiet intimacy of sharing something so small, combined with the rhythmic hum of the train, makes everything feel unexpectedly tender.

As the scenery passes by the window, Taesan rests his shoulder lightly against yours, glancing down with a soft smile. By the time your stop approaches, his hand lingers on yours, subtle yet deliberate, and the ordinary commute transforms into a moment you won’t forget.

kim leehan

“Stick with me—these trains get crowded.”

Leehan guides you through the bustling train, smoothly navigating the throng of passengers to a seat where the two of you can sit side by side. He subtly adjusts his jacket to shield you from the draft near the door, offering a reassuring smile that makes your chest warm.

As the train starts moving, his shoulder brushes yours, fingers occasionally grazing in an almost teasing way. Every light touch sends a small thrill through you, and you can’t help but laugh quietly at his little nudges.

He passes you a snack, and as your fingers brush, he smirks softly. His attention is playful yet warm, making the crowded train feel like a private space just for the two of you.

As the cityscape blurs past the windows, he leans back slightly, letting you rest comfortably near him. By the time the stop arrives, his hand finds yours naturally, fingers intertwining, and the simple, everyday commute becomes a moment of subtle, tender intimacy.

kim woonhak

“Sit close… it’ll be easier to talk this way.”

Woonhak guides you to a seat on the train, his calm, quiet energy immediately easing the chaos of the crowded car. He slides in beside you, adjusting your bag slightly to make sure you’re comfortable, and the simple attentiveness makes your heart flutter.

When the train jerks forward, his hand brushes against yours, lingering just long enough to make you notice. He doesn’t comment, but the quiet warmth of his gaze and presence speaks volumes.

He passes you a small snack with a faint smile, fingers brushing lightly as you take it. The intimacy of sharing a mundane moment like commuting together, the gentle touches and quiet gestures, make your chest feel unexpectedly full.

As the ride continues, Woonhak leans slightly closer, letting your shoulders brush. By the time your stop approaches, his hand finds yours naturally, fingers intertwining, and the ordinary commute feels quietly magical because of the simple closeness you share.

creds: lace by @viviansturns, heart line by @enchanthings, pearl by @cursed-carmine, scalloped by @chrisssiren ♡

tags: @ilysungho @taestulipss @pupillary @beomtomie @blossomnet @daydreamnet @k-records [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry!!]

➷　　　　︵ WHEN WILL MY LIFE BEGIN ?

rapunzel ! myung jaehyun x flynn rider ! reader

ᘒ SYN . Jaehyun has been stuck in his tower alongside his mother for his whole life, 21 years of keeping himself busy with various hobbies he taught himself. No matter how much his caretaker warns him about the world outside, he longs to feel the grass that he sees under his feet. His wish is granted when you show up, a daring thief who happened to stumble upon his tower.

⠀ ────⠀ genre : romance , angst , fluff , strangers to lovers

⠀ ────⠀ cw : violence , manipulation , near character death , skin ship , suggestiveness

author : @moesthinking

➷　　　　︵ I WON’T SAY I’M IN LOVE !

megara ! yoon keeho x hercules ! reader

ᘒ SYN . A tale between a man who sold his soul for a girl who ended up betraying him and a powerful yet clueless woman who is the daughter of a well renowned god. Love sparks between them, but unfortunately so does Hade’s everlasting blaze. Can they withstand the wrath of the god of the underworld ?

⠀ ────⠀ genre : romance , angst , fluff , betrayal , strangers to lovers

⠀ ────⠀ cw : violence , action , skinship , suggestiveness , death threats

author : @leeknowramona

➷　　　　︵ TOUCH THE SKY

merida ! han taesan x witches apprentice ! reader

ᘒ SYN . Han Taesan has always been a reckless child, rebellious, with a fighting spirit. His defiance becomes a problem when he refuses to accept an arranged marriage his parents set up for him. Out of a fit of rage, he travels to the nearby witch and her apprentice who promises to change her mother’s mind with a spell. All backfires when the potion turns her mother into a bear, and comes running back to you for help.

⠀ ────⠀ genre : drama , romance , violence , strangers to lovers , angst , some fluff

⠀ ────⠀ cw : conflict , hurt and comfort , mental health topics , skin ship

author : @moesthinking

➷　　　　︵ HERE I STAND , HERE I STAY

elsa ! choi theo x knight ! reader

ᘒ SYN . Ever since he was born, Theo was told to conceal his powers, and never let anyone know. On coronation all fails when his powers are revealed after an argument with his brother, and he runs away. He builds a castle, a life for himself away from the place that trapped him for years. He thinks he’s free from arendelle, until you show up, insisting on his return.

⠀ ────⠀ genre : romance , violence , angst , fluff , acquaintances to lovers

⠀ ────⠀ cw : heart break , betrayal , near character death , mental health topics , skin ship

author : @leeknowramona

➷　　　　︵ HOW FAR I’LL GO

moana ! kim woonhak x demi god ! reader

ᘒ SYN . Expectations are Kim Woonhak’s biggest weakness, especially when it’s a future of being a leader of an island full of people. His calling is the water, adventure, but his father is adamant of him staying away. With the loss of most fish due to the rot spreading through the island, Woonhak knows he has to do something. After the death of his best friend, he escapes his island with the heart of tefiti. His goal? Find you, a power demi god to assist him on his journey.

⠀ ────⠀ genre : romance , action , angst , fluff , strangers to lovers

⠀ ────⠀ cw : major character death , grieving , skin ship

author : @moesthinking

➷　　　　︵ I WONDER

aurora ! hwang intak x prince phillip ! reader

ᘒ SYN . Hwang Intak was cursed to prick his finger on a needle and be sent into an eternal sleep ever since he was born, to prevent this the three fairies that protected his kingdom take him into the woods to live a remote life in a cabin under a different name, away from the world outside. On his 22nd birthday he meets you in the woods, a peculiar princess, and he swears he’s met you before. Unfortunately, he’s forced to travel back to the kingdom, under the belief the curse has been lifted. Out of a twist of fate, he pricks his finger and falls into an eternal slumber, and only a true love’s kiss from you can save him.

⠀ ────⠀ genre : drama , romance , angst , fluff , strangers to lovers , violence

⠀ ────⠀ cw : heavy angst , mental health topics , skin ship

author : @leeknowramona

SERIES TAGLIST (OPEN) : @trulytaesan @ajjaehyun @sincerelysungho @lovehakie @riumori @mochamvgz @beomtomie @wooahoe @bookkeepersnook @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @taestulipss @saintriots @bee-the-loser @literallynpbody @woonbabie @bambispostsblog

The school should have been empty. It should have been silent, every hallway echoing nothing but the faint hum of old fluorescent lights and the occasional distant drip of water somewhere behind the walls. But as you step past the heavy wooden doors, flashlight clutched so tightly your knuckles ache, you realize that silence is not simply the absence of sound. Silence is alive here, dense and tangible, curling around the corners of the lockers, pressing into the seams between walls and ceiling, waiting, almost expectant. Each footstep you take seems impossibly loud, bouncing back at you in warped echoes that stretch on far too long, twisting the familiar into something alien and uncanny. You remind yourself of the dare, of the cruel grin of your classmates as they shoved the flashlight into your hand: “Stay the night if you’re brave enough. You’ll see him for yourself.” Brave? Perhaps. Or maybe just foolish. Stubborn enough to risk something no one else would, stubborn enough to find out whether the stories were truth or nonsense. Your stomach twists into knots as the air thickens, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible scent of old chalk, dust, and something older, something like forgotten tears.

A thud comes from the far end of the corridor. A dull, hollow thunk that makes your chest leap. Rationally, it could be a fallen book, a rodent, the wind rattling a loose windowpane. Rationally, you should ignore it. But your pulse hammers like a drum in your ears, your breath catching, fingers tightening around the flashlight until the plastic digs into your palms. Another thud follows, softer this time, accompanied by a shuffle. Hesitant. Awkward. Almost apologetic. Your throat constricts. “Hello?” you whisper, voice small, cracking. Silence stretches out like a living thing, thick and oppressive, until you begin to think the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting for you to speak again.

And then it happens. A stack of books, tall and precarious, slides from a shelf across the hall. Not violently, not with the malicious intent of some horror story, but clumsily, tumbling in a way that seems… human. Your heart leaps violently into your throat. Before you can react, there’s a sudden movement in the corner of your eye, and your flashlight beam catches him—leaning against the lockers, hunched slightly, hands fumbling against the metal as if he isn’t sure how to hold himself upright, hair falling in messy dark strands that almost hide eyes too alive to belong to the dead yet too hollow to belong to the living.

You take a step forward, breath trembling, and in that moment, he flinches. Too fast. Too sharp. His foot catches a loose tile, scraping against the floor with a sound that makes your stomach lurch violently. Books topple from a nearby shelf in a loud crash that reverberates like thunder in the empty hallway. You stumble back, flashlight slipping in your grip, eyes wide and heart hammering as if it might escape your chest. And just as quickly, he freezes, hands pressed to his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together, like he’s afraid the very act of existing in front of you might break him.

For a long moment, all you can do is stare. Then, slowly, you realize that every instinctual jolt of fear, every startled gasp, every fallen book, is not malice. It’s clumsy, hesitant, fragile longing. It’s someone who has waited—waited decades, perhaps—to be noticed, to be seen. And when he swallows, voice trembling like a brittle thread about to snap, the words that finally escape are soft, almost painfully small: “I… I didn’t mean to scare you. I—I just… I wanted… someone to see me.”

Your heart clenches, breath caught in your throat, and without thinking, without weighing fear or reason, you whisper, trembling, “I… I see you, Woonhak. I see all of you. Every lonely, messy, clumsy, scared part of you. I see you, really.” Your voice shakes, the words spilling out, faltering, raw with emotion. “You’re here, and I notice you. I notice everything about you. I notice the way you stumble, the way you hesitate, the way you’re so careful and so desperate to exist, even after everything. I see you.”

For a long, suspended heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His wide eyes search yours, as if trying to confirm that you mean it, that someone alive can really see him, really notice all the small, unnoticed fragments of a boy who lived and faded without leaving a mark. And then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders relax, the tension spilling out of him in one shaky exhale that makes your own chest ache. The faintest, fragile smile curls at the edge of his lips—a smile so brief, so fleeting, it could shatter in the next instant—but in it there’s relief, disbelief, and hope, all tangled together so tightly it feels like it will tear your heart in two.

The night stretches on like this, slow, endless, weighted with both fear and intimacy. You talk, awkwardly at first, voices echoing through the long empty halls, filling the spaces that had been silent for so long. He tells you of a life barely lived, of kindnesses unnoticed, of the small joys that never mattered to anyone else but him. You listen. You reach for him, almost instinctively, your fingertips brushing the air where he hovers, cold and intangible, yet impossibly present. You feel his longing seep into your bones, and your chest aches with the knowledge that this ghost, this boy, has been invisible for decades, and tonight—finally—he is seen.

And when your hand rests, trembling, against the edge of a locker, and his gaze flickers to yours with that same raw, desperate hope, you want nothing more than to close the distance between you. To reach across the boundary that separates life from death, to hold the boy who is gone and here all at once, whose loneliness has etched itself into your heart. Tonight, though, rules do not matter. Tonight, he exists. Not a rumor. Not a story. Not a shadow haunting empty hallways. Tonight, Woonhak exists, and he is seen.

The hallway is still, but it no longer feels empty. Every shadow seems to lean toward you, not to threaten but to frame him, to make him real in a way the daylight never could. You stand there, chest tight, flashlight trembling in your hand, and he hovers a few feet away, just far enough to make your heart ache with a longing you didn’t realize you could feel. The air between you hums with something unspoken, a fragile tension that stretches with every small movement he makes—the hesitant shift of his weight, the way his fingers twitch as if trying to reach out without touching, the faint, almost imperceptible quiver in his lips that makes your stomach twist. For the first time, you truly see the weight of his loneliness, of every day he spent invisible, of every heartbeat he endured without acknowledgment. And suddenly, all the old fear is gone, replaced with an ache so deep it feels like it might hollow you out entirely, leaving only the desire to bridge the gap between life and whatever this ghostly existence is.

He tries again, fumbling forward, hands brushing the air in awkward, unpracticed gestures. Books wobble on shelves, a chair tips slightly, the faintest whisper of movement that would terrify anyone else—but not you. Not now. You can see the apology in his eyes, the raw, trembling vulnerability of a boy who’s spent years trapped in silence, desperate to be noticed. “I… I didn’t mean—” he starts, and another stack of papers flutters to the floor as if nervous itself, scattering like leaves in a windless autumn. He freezes, cheeks flushing impossibly in the dim glow of your flashlight, and you hear it—the quietest, most fragile sound, like the breaking of glass inside his chest. “I… I’m sorry. I always… I always mess things up.”

You swallow hard, stepping closer despite the quivering of your own limbs. “Woonhak,” you whisper, voice soft but firm, carrying through the long hallway and curling around him, “it’s okay. I’m not afraid. I—” Your words falter as he flinches slightly at the sound of his own name, like it’s foreign and terrifying to be acknowledged. And then, slowly, cautiously, his hand hovers near yours, trembling. Just inches away, but every second feels stretched into an eternity. “I… want to reach you,” he admits, voice barely audible, “but I… I don’t know how.”

Your heart twists. You lift your own hand, the warmth radiating toward him, and the space between your fingers and his shimmers, electric and aching. The air around him seems to ripple, the faintest glow tracing his outline like a halo of loneliness finally recognized. And when his fingers brush yours—briefly, fleetingly—you swear the world tilts slightly, the darkness around you collapsing into a quiet intimacy that neither life nor death can fully define.

Time stretches. Minutes, hours—seconds that feel like lifetimes. He moves with you, clumsy but careful, as if afraid that the very act of being close might shatter the fragile connection you’ve begun to weave. The hallway, once a place of fear, becomes a sanctuary, every corner and shadow softened by the intimacy of shared existence. You talk, at first in whispers, words tumbling awkwardly over one another, half-laughter and half-sorrow filling the empty school. He tells you of forgotten birthdays, small acts of kindness that went unnoticed, moments where a smile or a word would have meant everything but never came. You listen, your chest tightening with every fragment of his pain, every lonely memory that had waited decades for a single witness.

And when he looks at you, really looks, with eyes that glimmer like something between hope and desperation, you see the boy beneath the ghost—the one who simply wants to be remembered, to be loved, to exist in the gaze of someone who cares. Your own chest aches so sharply it feels like it might break, because you know, painfully, that you are the first person in years, maybe decades, to give him that. To make him real. And yet, even as your hands hover impossibly close, as your eyes lock with his in a silent understanding, you feel the cruel truth press against the edges of your heart: he doesn’t belong here. Not fully. Not physically. Not forever.

And still, you stay.

Because for tonight, nothing else matters.

The night stretches on, endless and heavy, but in the dim glow of your flashlight, every shadow feels warmer, softer, more alive than it should. Woonhak hovers nearby, a silent presence that fills the hallway in ways that are impossible to ignore. He moves with the awkward grace of someone not used to being noticed, not used to existing in someone else’s world. Every step he takes seems measured, hesitant, as if he’s afraid that moving too fast might make you vanish or break the fragile thread connecting you to him. And yet, for all his clumsiness, there’s a kind of intimacy in the way he navigates the empty corridors—flicking a light switch, accidentally nudging a stack of books that wobbles dangerously before steadying itself, offering you an apologetic glance that makes your chest tighten. These small, absurdly human gestures are not meant to scare anymore; they are his language, clumsy and desperate, telling you without words that he wants to matter, that he wants to exist, that he wants you.

You find yourself leaning against a locker, watching him try to straighten a tipped-over chair, muttering under his breath in a voice that’s almost a whisper, so soft it barely registers as sound: “Why can’t I… just… get it right?” And suddenly it hits you, like a punch to the gut—the frustration, the isolation, the endless repetition of being unseen, forgotten, trying and failing over and over without anyone to acknowledge the effort. You step closer, gently, almost instinctively, until your fingers hover near his hand, and you speak without thinking, “It’s okay, Woonhak. You’re doing fine.” The effect is instantaneous. His head snaps toward you, wide-eyed, breath hitching as though your words have reached into the hollow parts of him and touched something that has been aching for decades. His lips part, trembling slightly, but before he can reply, his foot catches again on the edge of a tile. Books slide and clatter to the floor with a sharp, panicked clang, and he flinches, cheeks burning impossibly even in ghostly form, his hands shooting up in a clumsy, apologetic motion that makes your chest ache with both amusement and sorrow.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, voice cracking, “I… I always mess things up!” His eyes plead with you in a way that no living person has ever done, raw and vulnerable and unpracticed in receiving attention. You swallow, breath catching, and reach out—tentatively, shakily—to brush a hand against his wrist, grounding him, letting him know he’s allowed to exist here, in this moment, with you. The effect is almost immediate: his entire posture relaxes, however slightly, and he lets out a breath that had been trapped in his chest for years, invisible but tangible, curling around you like a fragile warmth.

The clumsy gestures continue, evolving almost unconsciously. A door swings closed a little too hard, and he freezes, eyes flicking to you, hoping you won’t be angry. A loose book falls from a shelf, and his hands shoot out instinctively, not to grab it but to steady it, a silent act of care that he can’t quite voice. You notice the small, almost intimate ways he interacts with the space around you—not to scare, not to frighten, not even to be noticed by anyone else, but as if he’s learning how to exist in someone else’s presence, how to take up space without being forgotten. And with every small gesture, your chest tightens further, because each clumsy act is a word, each accidental movement a declaration: I am here. I exist. I want to matter.

Hours pass, and the world outside the school ceases to exist. There is only this narrow hallway, only you and him, the quiet scrape of shoes against tile, the faint shuffle of papers falling, the soft muttered apologies and murmured words. He begins to speak more freely, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence, about the boy he was, the days he lived and the moments that slipped away unnoticed, the kindnesses no one saw, the small joys no one acknowledged. And you listen, each word tearing at your chest, each confession a thread weaving you closer to him, binding you in a way that is painfully beautiful and unbearably fleeting.

When your hand brushes his again—tentatively, fleetingly—his eyes find yours, shimmering with a mixture of disbelief and hope so raw it leaves you breathless. He leans slightly closer, the faintest tilt, as if daring to trust, daring to be held in your attention for even a moment. The air between you shimmers, and for a heartbeat, you imagine what it would be like if he could stay like this forever, if the ache of years of invisibility could finally dissolve in the warmth of being seen. But you know, deep in the pit of your stomach, that this moment, as fragile as it is, cannot last. He doesn’t belong here—not fully. Not physically. And yet, for tonight, nothing else matters. Tonight, he exists. Not a shadow. Not a rumor. Not a story whispered to scare children into obedience. Tonight, Woonhak exists, and he is seen, and that is enough.

The hallway feels impossibly alive now, every shadow curling and stretching like it knows your secret, like it has been waiting for this—the first fragile bond forming between a living soul and a boy who had long been invisible. Woonhak moves with a tentative confidence now, the clumsiness of his earlier fumbling softened by the intimacy of your presence. Yet every step, every gesture, is still tinged with uncertainty, as if he’s afraid that one wrong move could undo everything, that he could vanish again if he’s not careful. You watch him straighten a fallen chair, his hands lingering on the edges longer than necessary, and you realize with a ache that these little, absurdly human acts are his way of communicating without words, of showing that he wants to matter, wants to exist in your attention, even if only for a few hours.

He glances up at you suddenly, eyes flickering with that mixture of hope and fear, and you catch the faintest tremble in his shoulders. “I… I don’t want to scare you anymore,” he whispers, voice low, almost a breath against the hum of the fluorescent lights. You step closer, carefully, until your fingers hover near his again, feeling the impossible warmth of being connected across the thin, ghostly barrier. “You don’t,” you say, soft, letting the words stretch into the silence between you. “You… you’re safe here. With me.”

For a moment, his lips part, eyes glimmering with disbelief and longing, and he tilts his head slightly, as if he can’t quite believe that someone would offer him this kind of attention, this kind of acknowledgment. Then he stumbles, just slightly, tripping over the edge of a rug, and a stack of papers flutters to the floor like startled birds. His hands shoot out instinctively, trying to catch them, and the sight of his flustered, embarrassed attempt makes your chest ache in a way that’s entirely unfair. You can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes your throat, and he freezes, cheeks flushed even in ghostly form, as though he’s afraid he’s done something wrong.

“You’re… you’re ridiculous,” you murmur, not harshly, but in awe, and he blinks at you, caught off guard, like your words have reached into the hollow spaces of his chest and filled them, even just a little. “And… perfect,” you add quietly, almost to yourself, because you can’t help it, because every part of you aches to tell him the truth that his clumsy, desperate attempts to be noticed have finally worked. That he matters. That he is seen.

He doesn’t move at first, just stares, the faintest shiver running through him as if he’s absorbing the weight of your words. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he leans toward you, the smallest fraction of space closing between your bodies. The air seems to hum with tension, with possibility, with longing so raw it twists your stomach into knots. His hand hovers near yours, trembling, almost reaching, retreating, and you find yourself lifting your own in response, fingertips brushing the edge of him without breaking the fragile boundary between life and death.

“I… I don’t want this to end,” he whispers, voice so small it nearly disappears into the hum of the hallway. There’s a vulnerability in him now that is unbearable, heartbreaking—the weight of years of invisibility pressing against your chest with every word, every glance. “I… I want to stay with you. I… I want someone to remember me. To care.”

You swallow hard, chest tight, heart hammering, because you want to tell him the truth, want to tell him that you do, that you’ve been remembering him, seeing him, feeling every bit of his fragile existence—but you also know, deep in your bones, that nothing about this can last forever. The truth of the world presses in: he is not yours to keep. Not fully. Not in the way your heart wants him to be.

And yet, despite the ache, despite the cruel weight of what you know, you don’t pull back. You let your hands brush his again, let your eyes hold his, letting him know, in the only way you can, that he is acknowledged, that he is seen, that he is enough, if only for tonight. And in that fragile, fleeting intimacy, Woonhak leans ever so slightly closer, his shoulder brushing yours, a tentative, almost imperceptible closeness that makes your chest ache with longing, with love, with the knowledge that this moment is beautiful and inevitable and unbearably temporary.

The corridors of the school have become a strange sanctuary, a place suspended in time where the world outside no longer matters, and yet every step you take feels painfully finite, like the edges of this night are already fraying, already threatening to pull him away. Woonhak hovers beside you, closer now, his presence no longer distant but impossible to ignore, like a fragile flame that refuses to be snuffed out despite decades of being unseen. He moves with a careful grace, still clumsy in the small ways—a foot catching on a rug, a chair nudged too hard—but now his mistakes carry an almost intimate weight, each one a reminder that he exists, that he is here, that he wants, more than anything, to matter to you. And every time he flinches, every time his eyes dart nervously at you, your chest constricts with a mixture of desire and despair, because you’ve never seen someone so desperately craving to be remembered, and yet so terrified that the simple act of being alive in front of someone might be too much.

“You don’t have to be careful all the time,” you murmur, voice low, almost trembling. Your hand hovers near his again, and he flinches just slightly, the tiniest hesitation that makes your chest ache. “It’s okay… I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe here.” The words feel insufficient, hollow in the vastness of the empty hallway, but still, they reach him. You see it—the way his shoulders sag fractionally, how his hands twitch almost imperceptibly, like he’s trying to anchor himself to something real, something solid, something you represent. He swallows hard, and for a long moment, he says nothing, only breathes, only exists, and it is unbearably intimate, unbearably painful in its fragility.

Then, almost without realizing it, he reaches a trembling hand toward yours, fingertips hovering just shy of contact. Your breath catches, and your own hand rises instinctively to meet his. When your fingers brush—the slightest touch—it sends a shiver up your spine, a shockwave of connection that neither life nor death should be capable of delivering. He freezes, eyes wide and glimmering with disbelief, hope, and something raw, something fragile that makes your chest ache so fiercely it hurts to breathe. “I… I’ve waited so long,” he whispers, voice breaking, “so long for someone to see me… to care… to—”

You step closer, letting your hands fully meet, feeling the faint pull of his presence against you, the ghostly warmth of being acknowledged, of being wanted. “I do,” you breathe, and it’s more than just words. It’s promise, it’s truth, it’s an acknowledgment of every lonely second he endured, of every attempt to be remembered. His lips part slightly, a fragile smile brushing his face, fleeting and beautiful, but there’s a tremor there, a fear that claws at the edges of his expression, because he knows, in ways your heart dreads, that none of this can last.

He shifts, just slightly, brushing against your shoulder in a hesitant, almost shy motion, and the ache in your chest deepens. “I… I don’t want to leave you,” he admits, voice almost breaking, eyes searching yours for some impossible promise that you cannot give. His words hang in the air, heavy and fragile, and you want to tell him that it’s okay, that you’ll remember him, that you’ll carry him with you, but you also know the cruel truth: once he’s finally seen, once he’s finally remembered, the rules of the world will pull him away. Heaven—or whatever lies beyond—will demand what’s owed, and you cannot stop it.

Still, for tonight, he exists. Still, for tonight, he is here, and you hold his hands, feel the impossible closeness, the tangible ache of being wanted, and the intimacy that has grown between you in these hours is almost too much to bear. And when he leans slightly closer again, timid, longing, like he is daring to trust that this connection will not vanish, your heart twists painfully, because you know that this fleeting, stolen closeness—the brush of his shoulder, the warmth of his presence, the way his eyes search yours—is everything you both crave and everything that is already slipping through your fingers.

The night stretches on, endless yet unbearably finite, each heartbeat, each whispered word, each stolen glance carrying the weight of years of loneliness, and every clumsy gesture, every trembling apology, every flicker of hope in Woonhak’s eyes drives home the painful truth: he is here, he is real, he is seen… and the moment he is remembered fully, he will have to leave.

The night has grown impossibly quiet, heavy with the sound of your own breathing, the faint hum of fluorescent lights, and the subtle, unsteady rhythm of Woonhak’s presence near you. Every movement he makes feels monumental, every glance, every flinch, every hesitant brush of his fingers against yours is weighted with the fragile truth of years spent invisible, of decades waiting for even one person to acknowledge that he existed. He hovers close, closer than before, and the warmth of him—even the ghostly semblance of warmth—presses against your chest in a way that makes your heart feel too full, like it might break under the impossible ache of holding him.

“I…” His voice trembles, soft, almost disappearing in the silence, “I’m… scared.” The words are barely audible, but they hit you like a physical blow, because you recognize the fear behind them—the fear of being forgotten, the fear of vanishing again, the fear of finally being seen only to be ripped away. You reach out instinctively, letting your hand brush against his, letting him anchor himself to you in the only way he knows is possible. He flinches slightly, eyes wide, but doesn’t pull back. He can’t. And in that moment, your own heart aches, because you understand: he’s both terrified and desperate, clinging to something he has finally found and knows he cannot keep.

The shadows of the hallway seem to press in around you, curling closer, holding you in a space where time no longer matters, but still, the knowledge of what must come presses like a weight in your chest. “It’s okay,” you whisper, your voice breaking despite yourself, “I’m here. I see you. I… I care about you.” The effect is immediate. His lips part slightly, trembling, and the faintest glimmer of tears catches in his eyes, even in his ghostly form. “You… really?” His voice is barely more than a whisper, each syllable heavy with disbelief and longing.

“Yes,” you murmur, letting your hand cover his, feeling the impossible brush of him, the closeness that makes your chest twist with both longing and fear. “I really do.”

He swallows hard, and for a long, suspended moment, nothing moves. The world outside this hallway, outside this night, ceases to exist. There is only you, only him, only the fragile, aching intimacy of being seen. Then, almost imperceptibly, he leans closer, the smallest shift in distance, shoulder brushing yours, hand tightening slightly around yours as if holding on for dear life. “I don’t… I don’t want to leave you,” he admits, voice breaking, eyes glimmering with desperation. His words hang in the air, raw and fragile, heavy with a truth that cuts straight through you: he wants this, he wants you, he wants to stay, and he knows he cannot.

The knowledge of it twists your chest into impossible knots. You want to tell him it’s okay, that you will remember him, that he will always be seen in your heart—but the world beyond your small sanctuary will not allow it. Heaven—or whatever force has kept him tethered—will claim him, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. And yet, despite the ache, despite the inevitability, you do not pull back. Your hands hold his, your eyes lock with his, and in the small, fragile intimacy of that touch, you let him exist fully in your presence, even if only for a fleeting, unbearable night.

He leans a little closer again, brushing his forehead against yours, and the ache in your chest intensifies, sharp and unrelenting. His voice, barely audible, trembles through the small space between you: “I… I wish I could stay. I wish I didn’t have to go… but I can’t… not forever. I… I just… want to be remembered. I want to be loved.”

Your own tears threaten to spill as the cruel, beautiful truth presses down: he has been given what he’s waited for, what he’s longed for across decades of loneliness. He is finally seen. He is finally loved. And that is precisely why he must leave.

And in the silence that stretches between breaths, between heartbeats, between the fragile intimacy of two souls caught between life and death, you hold him tighter, both of you aching, both of you knowing that this moment—this impossible, aching, beautiful, fleeting moment—is all you will ever have.

Every shadow presses in on you, hollow and watching, as if the walls themselves mourn what is about to happen. Woonhak hovers beside you, trembling slightly, eyes wide with a mixture of longing, fear, and fragile hope. He is finally here, fully seen, fully acknowledged, and yet the truth presses down like a weight you cannot lift: this moment cannot last. He knows it. You know it. And the knowledge makes every heartbeat a hammer against your ribs, every breath sharp and too heavy to bear.

“I don’t… I don’t want to leave,” he whispers, voice breaking, each word a fragile thread holding him to the world. His hands clutch yours, desperate, the grip weak but urgent, as though holding on might somehow anchor him here. “I’ve waited… so long… for someone to see me… to care… and now…” His voice falters, trembles, and you feel it—the unbearable ache of decades of loneliness distilled into this one moment.

You pull him closer, letting your forehead rest against his, letting your hands cradle him as if you could somehow keep him tethered, keep him from being pulled away. “I see you,” you whisper, your own voice trembling, breaking. “I loveyou, Woonhak. I see you. I care. You matter. You’ll never be forgotten.”

For a heartbeat, his ghostly form seems to waver, as if the sheer force of your words has grounded him, given him a chance to exist fully in this world. His lips part in a fragile, incredulous smile, tears glimmering in eyes that have been unseen for too long. “You… you really mean it?” His voice cracks, and your heart shatters.

“Yes,” you choke out, pressing your hands against his cheeks, feeling the impossible warmth of him, the ghostly shiver of his presence. “I mean it. You are not invisible anymore. You are… everything.”

He leans into your touch, trembling, shaking, and you feel the fragile weight of him, the longing, the desperation, the sheer human ache of someone who has waited decades just to be noticed. And then, impossibly, the air around him begins to shimmer, a faint, cold light creeping along the edges of his form. You feel the pull—the cruel, inevitable tug of the world beyond. Heaven is calling, or fate, or whatever force has kept him tethered. It is pulling him away.

“No… please… don’t go…” he whispers, voice cracking, eyes wide with terror and longing. His hands clutch yours harder, frantic now, the desperation almost unbearable. “I don’t want to leave you… not yet… I—”

But the pull is relentless. Slowly, inexorably, he begins to fade, the edges of his form dissolving into the shadows, into the faint glow of a world you cannot reach. Your hands strain to hold him, but your fingers pass through the impossibility of him, through the cold, ephemeral nothing that is all he can be now. Tears stream down your face, chest tight, throat burning with grief. “Woonhak! Stay! Please!” Your voice echoes down the empty hallway, swallowed by shadows that offer no comfort.

He hovers for a final moment, just close enough that your foreheads almost touch, eyes searching yours for reassurance, for something impossible to give. “I… I’ll remember you… always,” he whispers, voice fading like the last note of a song you cannot finish. “And… thank you… for seeing me… for loving me… even if… just for tonight…”

And then he is gone.

The hallway is silent once more, but it feels heavier now, empty in a way that presses into your chest, hollowing you out. The shadows have returned to their indifferent shapes, the floorboards creak under your trembling feet, and the air feels impossibly still. You fall to your knees, hands pressed to your face, sobs wracking your body as the weight of what has happened presses down on you. He is gone. He has been seen. He has been loved. And yet, the ache of his absence tears through you like a physical wound.

And even as your tears soak into the cold tile, even as the emptiness threatens to consume you, you hold onto one truth, one fragile, agonizingly beautiful truth: for a few stolen hours, Woonhak existed. Not a shadow, not a rumor, not a ghostly story whispered to scare children. He was real, he was seen, and he was loved. And that, painfully as it is, is enough.

The school is quiet now, empty in the way it always was before—but it feels different. You walk the same hallways, flashlight in hand, but the shadows no longer feel threatening. Instead, they feel like memories, like gentle echoes of something impossibly fragile and heartbreakingly beautiful. Every corner, every locker, every tile carries a faint weight of him, a whisper of his presence that lingers long after he has gone. You close your eyes sometimes, and you can almost feel the tremor of his fingers brushing yours, the warmth of his gaze resting on you, the fragile, desperate hope in his voice.

You know the truth, painfully well: he is gone. He was finally seen, finally loved, and that was enough. But the ache of his absence presses against your chest in ways that words cannot describe, in ways that make your heart heavy, your breaths sharp. Sometimes, in the stillness, you catch yourself whispering his name, almost afraid it might fade from memory if you do. “Woonhak,” you murmur, voice trembling, “I see you. I always will.”

And though the school is empty, though he will never appear again, you carry him with you. Every clumsy ghostly gesture, every quiet whisper, every fleeting moment of intimacy—the memories are yours to keep, burned into your heart so deeply they will never fade. He was here. He mattered. He was loved. And that is the cruel, beautiful, painful truth that you hold onto, even when the loneliness presses in, even when the world feels impossibly empty without him.

Sometimes, late at night, when the air is still and the shadows stretch long and familiar, you swear you feel him there. Just beyond the edge of your vision, faintly flickering, as if he is smiling at you, remembering you as you remember him. And you close your eyes, chest aching, and whisper back: “I remember you, Woonhak. Always. I love you. I will always see you.”

And in that remembrance, he lives on.

creds: moon and ribbon by @strangergraphics, pearl by @cursed-carmine, scalloped by @chrisssiren ♡

tags: @ilysungho @taestulipss @pupillary @renjunsinjeolmi @k-records @daydreamnet @blossomnet @fruiteronet [wanna be tagged in my next fic? comment on the reader registry to be added!!]

Juhoon understood what he was getting into the moment he auditioned to become an idol. He anticipated the long hours of training, the need for immense creativity, the overwhelming support from fans, and the requirement to be social. He excels in these areas, knows what he's doing, and is prepared for the next step. What he wasn’t warned about is the possibility of falling for someone who is out of reach. You, unbelievably pretty, bubbly, and seemingly sweet. Traits that Juhoon has observed from afar, even though he desperately wants to learn them directly. Unfortunately, he never gets a chance to introduce himself or talk to you personally. You are both always ushered around, have conflicting schedules, and train on opposite sides of the building.

Though your paths seem to cross momentarily throughout the day, both traveling to your respective rooms. With your fast pace and his slow reaction time, he can never seem to get a word in. He’s come to terms with the fact that you’ll have to stay a simple hallway crush, someone he’ll admire from afar. He can’t help but wonder what it would be like to know you as a person, even if your relationship stays friendly. What are you interested in? What’s your family like? More importantly, what even is your name? 

Juhoon can never seem to catch it, no matter how hard he tries to eavesdrop on your conversations. With all the cons and few pros, he feels defeated. Even though he tries to believe he’s accepted that you’ll forever be a stranger, he can’t. Your face never leaves his head, your laugh, your voice echoes in his thoughts when a room is quiet. You haunt him, and he can’t seem to escape, despite the number of times he’s tried.

The solution is simple: Introduce himself and finally get to know you, a task that he’s actively making harder for himself. Juhoon doesn’t know how to casually walk up to a girl and introduce himself; he doesn’t know how to have a charismatic personality like other boys do, he knows he has to learn somehow; he needs to put himself out there. Not only for himself, but for you, the girl he’s been yearning to know for weeks now. This has got to be the most stressful event of his life, other than auditioning to be a trainee, of course.

It’s early in the morning, and Juhoon feels like a zombie. He slumps while the dance instructor rambles on about technique and ability; all of her words float through his head, going in one ear and out the other. You’re on his mind again, your smile outshining the choreo he needs to get down. Music plays through the room, snapping him back to reality. He quickly gets to work; it's a miracle he managed to hit all the right moves. The only problem, he’s being sloppy; he can’t wait to get out of this cramped practice room and see your face, hear your voice, and maybe even step out of his comfort zone and finally speak to you.

He freezes once the music pauses, the dance instructor having an annoyed look painted on her face. Juhoon already knows what's about to happen, especially since she’s glaring daggers at him specifically. He slumps down and bows his head to apologize, internally cursing at himself as he prepares for the lecture of his life, or even worse, being told that being an idol isn’t the job for him. 

“Juhoon, what’s been up with you lately?”

She asks instead, a concerned tone coating her voice. Juhoon lets out a sigh of relief and straightens himself. He contemplates what to say; he can’t just outright tell her his situation, he’d dig a deeper grave for himself. He bites his lip and looks off to the side, toeing the ground shyly.

“I’ve just had a lot on my mind, I think I’m just adjusting still. I’m sorry for interrupting.”

He bows once more, praying that she’d let it go and not question him. That reality fades away once Martin barks out a laugh and throws his arm around his shoulders. Juhoon stares at him, practically begging him to shut up with his eyes. Of course, he’s ignored, because why wouldn’t a day go his way for once?

“Sun-bae, tell him to man up and talk to the girl he thinks is pretty.”

Juhoon’s face turns bright red, and all of his dignity leaves his body as soon as Martin calls him out. He groans and pushes the taller boy away from him. He accepts a future of wearing a paper bag over his head so nobody recognizes his face, maybe even going rogue and never coming back to the HYPE building. The dance instructor laughs as his shoulders droop, and his eyes glue to the ground, refusing to look at anyone out of pure embarrassment.

“Go for it, you won’t be young for long.”

His head perks up at her words; even if they were simple, they hit him harder than ever. He thinks of you, mostly your reaction to a random boy coming up to you out of nowhere, he remembers how kind you seem from afar, picking up after your friends, holding their hands when they seem down, always joking around and smiling. You wouldn’t brush him off, call him weird, at least he hopes. 

A small smile blooms on his face as the instructor shoos the group back to their original positions and restarts the music. Juhoon practices with newfound energy and motivation, the thought of finally being able to learn your name clouding his consciousness. 

As soon as practice ends, Juhoon gathers his stuff and rushes out of the room, leaving a protesting Martin and Keonho behind. He has to act fast if he wants to catch you in the hallway, a routine that he’s become used to after 4 weeks of this crushing. Martin and Keonho will just have to catch up. When he reaches the usual hallway, he’s doubling over and panting, struggling to catch his breath. He jolts when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, expecting it to be Keonho, but instead it’s you, with that same kind expression he admires from afar.

“Are you ok?”

You ask, shoving your water bottle in his hands. Juhoon is rendered silent, surprised at your sudden appearance. He wasn’t sure what to say, what to do, or if he should even look at you. His silence only concerns you more. You clasp your hands over his and lift the water to his mouth, encouraging him to sip it. Pink dusts his cheeks, his eyes darting around as he drinks from your water bottle.

“If you feel like you’re gonna pass out, you should sit down. I'll stay with you.”

You whisper, taking your water bottle back. Previously, he wasn’t about to pass out, but now that you’re here, holding his hand and letting him sip from your waterbottle, he might as well. 

He lets you lead him to a bench nearby, sitting next to you instantly. Blush is apparent on his cheeks; he’s shy of the amount of affection you’re giving him without even knowing him. He clears his throat and gains the courage to finally speak, even if his mouth is dry.

“I- Sorry, thank you for helping me. You’re very kind.”

Juhoon murmurs, earning a smile from you, and he practically melts into the wall behind him. You rest your hand on his shoulder and try to get a good look at his face. He isn’t pale, which is a good sign, actually, but rather red. 

“No problem. Just coming back from practice? Now that I think about it, I see you here a lot.”

His head perks up; the fact that you’ve noticed him previously makes his heart beat faster than usual. Juhoon wonders if you’ve been wanting to talk to him as well, your busy schedules whisking you away from each other.

“Yeah, actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while.”

His words cause you to flush slightly and look away with a nervous giggle, which Juhoon absolutely eats up. This moment feels surreal, talking to you, your hand on his shoulder while you blush and giggle at his words. He wouldn’t doubt the possibility of this being a dream, one he won’t want to wake up from for a while. 

“Actually? I didn’t want to admit it earlier, but me too. I think you’re cute.”

Juhoon’s eyes widen, listening to his prayers being answered, the girl whom he’s been admiring from afar for so long feels the same way? Now he’s fully convinced he’s dreaming. Subtly, he pinches his arm, testing reality. Nothing changes, he’s still in the barren hallway with shitty vending machines and blinding lighting, staring at your pretty face. He laughs and looks at his feet, hoping you don’t see how red he’s truly become.

“I-”

Before he can start his sentence, the echo of footsteps and familiar voices echoes through the hall. He curses under his breath and closes his eyes, knowing exactly who the source of the ruckus is. Martin and Keonho come running down the hall, shouting Juhoon’s name with the biggest smiles on their faces. 

“Juhoon! We just scored with snacks, come eat with- NO WAY.”

Keonho comes to a stop, his mouth agape at the sight in front of him. Martin mimics his movements, equally as surprised as the boy next to him. Juhoon groans and shoves his head into his hands, the sudden interruption ruining his previous mood. Both of them come running over, Martin shaking Juhoon’s shoulders while Keonho jumps up and down like an excited child.

“So, your name is Juhoon?”

You laugh, asking him despite the chaos. He manages to push Martin off of him and nod, the warmth he previously felt returning as his attention diverts back to you.

“Yeah, what’s yours?”

He tilts his head, somehow not concerned with the sudden silence from his two friends.

“Y/n, it’s nice to meet you, cutie.”

You reply smoothly, before standing up and brushing off your outfit. Juhoon doesn’t get a chance to say goodbye as you rush off after spotting your friends, leaving him sitting there, flustered beyond belief.

“YO.. RIZZ!”

Martin yells and smacks Juhoon’s back, erupting in laughter. Juhoon groans and shoves him away again, embarrassment taking over rather quickly. Before moving to leave, he notices you left your water bottle. He picks it up, smiling. Now he has another excuse to speak to you.

He returns to his dorm that night, your conversation plaguing his mind. He crashes on his bed and groans, burying his face into a pillow. He can’t even begin to process what was said earlier; he never would’ve guessed you felt the same about him, nor did he believe his daydreams would ever become real. 

What truly kills him is how bold you were, that stupid nickname sliding so easily off your tongue. He wonders where you got the courage, especially after just meeting him a few minutes previously. Juhoon knows how much he’ll be overthinking that moment, and he accepts the future of many sleepless nights. He doesn’t care though; the fact that he was able to speak to you today is more than enough for him to power through the journey ahead.

The next day after practice, he rushes to your regular spot like always, not skipping a step in his routine. Juhoon has your water bottle in hand, ready to give it to you. He even practiced what he would say to you in the mirror. Very thoughtful, in his opinion. When he enters the hallway, he’s surprised to see you without your usual group surrounding you. He notices you’re searching for your water bottle right away and smiles sheepishly. He approaches you from behind and pokes you with the bottle, laughing as you gasp and whip around to face him. Your nerves calm as you recognize his face, and your water bottle in his hands.

“Oh, thank god, you found it.”

You let out a sigh of relief and take your water bottle from his hands, hugging it to your chest like you just found your lost dog. Juhoon can only smile like an idiot while he watches you sway around with it tight in your arms. He thinks you’re absolutely adorable.

“You left it yesterday. I didn’t want anyone to take it.”

He murmurs, trying to seem more nonchalant than he actually feels. You giggle watching him look away from you with a blush coating his cheeks. You can see right through his “chill” act, especially with how bashful he’s been acting around you. Without another thought, you throw your arms around the boy in front of you, not caring about the possibility of someone spotting you both and misinterpreting the action. Juhoon’s brain short-circuits; he wasn’t expecting that. He opens his arms and hesitantly wraps them around you, bringing you closer to his chest. He silently kisses his chill persona goodbye as you give him one last squeeze, pulling away from him.

“You’re the absolute best, thanks for keeping this safe.”

Like last time, you go to flee once again. Though you stop in your tracks and turn back to the flustered boy behind you. Juhoon raises his eyebrow, curious about what came to your mind.

“Give me your hand.”

He absentmindedly obeys your request instantly, placing his hand in yours with a look in his eyes that has your heart racing. You rummage around in your tote bag and pull out a pen, and you start writing your number on the back of his hand, making sure it’s neat so he can easily read it. You finish it off with a heart and your initials under it, with a “text me”, only to see him blush. You move away from him, smirking as the redness you desired to see spreads across his face. You turn around and wave goodbye, leaving him to drown in his thoughts.

Juhoon waits till he hears the door close behind him, and traces the numbers staining his skin. His heart threatens to burst as he examines the doodles you left as well. He runs his fingers through his hair, contemplating his life and the fact that he fell for a girl who is such a tease.

Juhoon specifically pushes off texting you until he’s alone, without his four other friends crowding his space, nosey about your relationship. He collapses on his bed and opens his phone, splaying out his hand in front of him so he can read your number. His heart rate slowly speeds up as he types every number in, wondering what he’ll say without being awkward. He’s thankful that it’s over text and not in person; he has all the time in the world to think about what to send. Juhoon saves your number as “y/n <3”, not caring about the thought of his friends seeing it.

The hard part is finding the words to text to you. He knows he should keep it simple, but something inside of him wants to send paragraphs detailing his feelings for you, but he knows better than to do that; he respects himself too much. He rolls around his bed, searching his brain for something, anything. After half an hour of straight contemplating, he says fuck it.

He starts typing, his fingers working fast as his eyes struggle to catch up with his speed. He stares at his screen before sending the message, instantly putting his phone down and rolling over to sleep off the anxiety.

J - Hey, pretty, it's Juhoon.

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve both been seriously getting to know each other, constant calls, back and forth texts, you're both having the time of your life. Though with that, you’ve both set boundaries, not only for the relationship, but the information you give to your friends. 

Even though it’s not necessarily romantic yet, people can still interpret things differently and get you both in trouble (even though it’s obvious you both want it to be more already). You’ve agreed to keep it on the down low, your idol careers on the line, which is something you both can’t sacrifice.

The routine didn’t stop after you both finally started speaking to each other— everyday, Juhoon rushes to the spot you two always meet, leaving his friends behind without another thought (they’re too happy for him to care anymore). Excitement fills his body as he makes it to the door leading to the hallway, a smile painted across his face. He walks through the entryway, except this time something was off, you’re there of course, but so is another boy he doesn’t recognize beside you. He’s whining, pouting, and you’re undeniably finding it adorable. Juhoon returns to his previous role, watching from afar, even if it is a little creepy. Jealousy takes over instantly, and suddenly his whole mood does a 180.

“I’m so bored of doing the same thing every day, when will we get freedom?”

The ginger whines, his eyebrows turning up as he complains. Juhoon takes this moment to examine his face. The fact that the other boy is really cute hits him like a truck, and suddenly he’s also pouting. You laugh at your friend, patting his shoulder as he continues to whine like a child; you find it extremely entertaining.

“You’re gonna hate being an idol if you’re already complaining, Kyungmin-ah.”

Juhoon cringes and sinks further into the corner he was already sulking in. Do you treat all your guy friends like you do him? He thought he was special, different than the people you’re usually around. You even told him that yourself. Yet, here you are touching his shoulder, cooing at him as he babbles about how bored he is. He’s jealous, jealous of how you touch him so casually, using friendly terms with him, and the fact that you’re both talking in the spot you two always frequent at. He shoves his face into his hands, blocking out your conversation for his own sanity.

He contemplates leaving until an alarm rings through his ears, Kyungmin gasps and looks at his watch, which is the source of the annoying beeping.

“Ahhh, more practice. See you later?”

You nod and push him away from you, encouraging him to rush to practice. As the other boy leaves, you notice Juhoon sulking in the corner. You raise an eyebrow before heading over to him, a hand on your hip as you stare him down suspiciously. He crosses his arms and pouts, refusing to meet your eye.

“What’s your problem?”

You ask, boxing him in the corner so he can’t escape you. He noticeably squishes himself further against the wall, suddenly shy, but still frustrated at you.

“Do you treat every guy the same? Who even was that?”

Juhoon suddenly gains confidence and straightens himself. He squints his eyes at you, jealousy painting his face. Instead of getting annoyed at his questioning, you laugh, finding this absolutely adorable. You step towards him, reach out, and touch his arms. Your fingers caress the skin, which makes him absolutely fold instantly. He hopes you don’t realize, but of course you do. You move closer, your hands trailing up his arms and resting on his neck, his breath hitching as your thumb brushes against his jaw.

“Are you jealous, cutie?”

You question, your tone effectively making his knees wobble. He gulps as your hands continue to travel, your fingers tangling in his brunette hair, brushing out the knots. Juhoon is rendered speechless; he can’t even argue with you while you’re actively making him putty in your arms. It’s your intention anyway.

“Do I touch every guy like this? Call them cute? Why don’t you tell me, Ju?”

Before he can even think about answering, you lean closer to him, your lips brushing against him. The way he brings you closer is the confirmation you need, and you close the gap between you. Juhoon’s hands travel to your sides, moving his lips against yours like he’s been wanting to do forever. He gets lost in the feeling of your lips, your fruity chapstick kissing his taste buds. When the kiss breaks off, you leave him stunned, his lips plump from the passion that went into it. He almost wants to lean back in and repeat the moment.

“Do you have your answer now?”

You tilt your head as you back away from him, that same smirk you always have on spreading across your face. He can only nod, still dazed, which you bask in. Before leaving him once more, you press a kiss on his cheek and frolic off, leaving Juhoon to his thoughts like you always do.

God, he’s in love.

a/n : FINALLY. FINISHED A FIC AGAIN.. anyways this is sickeningly sweet and I love them okai

a/n : thank u to the lovely @meirries for beta reading as well (ily!)

perm taglist — @beomtomie @sincerelysungho @ajjaehyun @leeknowramona @wensurr

cortis taglist — @trulytaesan @ivxae