Deedee🎀

A few days later, same hoodie, same soft presence. He browsed longer that time. The third time, he cracked a small comment, something about how thrift store mirrors were always either too honest or not honest enough. The fourth time, he asked if a band on one of the many band tees in the store was actually any good. Each visit, he lingered a little longer, got a little braver, but never overwhelming. He talked to you like he knew you didn’t like being pushed to talk, like he understood you preferred conversations that drifted in gently instead of crashing in.

Over time he started waiting for you outside after your shift, sitting on the curb with his hood up until you stepped out, surprised to see him there.

He stood fast the first time, hands raised slightly. “Sorry, if this is like weird, I can stop.”

“It’s not weird,” you said quietly, hugging your cardigan tighter. “Just… never had anyone wait for me after work before.”

He nodded gently. “There’s a café near here. If you want something to eat.”

You did want something to eat. So you went.

That became its own little ritual. You’d sit in the corner seat together, sometimes talking about music or fashion or random things he’d seen online. Other days, neither of you talked much at all, and that was okay. He never made you feel like your quietness was something to apologize for. He actually seemed to like it, like it grounded him.

It took you longer than it should have to realize he was Martin from the up and coming kpop group, Cortis. He never brought it up, never mentioned who he was. He just existed gently beside you, a boy who liked thrift stores, good food, and the way you tucked your hands into your sleeves.

One evening he came in just before closing. The shop was mostly empty, the sun fading outside. He leaned against the counter while you tagged graphic tees.

“You work a LOT of shifts here, for just a part time job,” he said softly.

You shrugged a little. “I like it here. It… calms me.”

He nodded without teasing. “Yeah. I get that.”

You didn’t know that he went straight to the studio after that. Didn’t know that he sat at his desk, notebook open, staring at a blank page for ten minutes before finally scribbling down the first lyric that reminded him of you. He didn’t realize how obvious it was until Keonho leaned over his shoulder.

They were listening to a demo for another song, when Juhoon grabbed his notebook and read the lyrics out loud before Martin could snatch it back.

The room exploded.

“Bro.”

“MARTIN.”

“Since when do you write about someone’s style?”

“And their eyes?”

“And the way someone fidgets?!”

“This is literally a love poem.”

Martin turned red instantly. “Give it back.”

“You’re in love,” James declared proudly. “This is the softest thing you’ve ever written, what is going ON?”

“WHO IS SHE?” Seonghyeon demanded.

Martin groaned, covering his face. “Nobody.”

They didn’t believe him for a second. They teased him for the next hour, poking at him every time he tried to explain it was nothing. Eventually they all ended up helping him work on the melody of the song anyway, even while laughing at him.

And he let them.

Because they were right. You had made him write differently, softer, slower, more honest.

He tried not to think about showing it to you. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be brave enough.

But life rarely waited for courage.

A few nights later, after you’d flipped the shop’s sign to CLOSED, there was a light knock on the glass. You turned, expecting maybe a customer who didn’t read the hours. But it was him, hood up, mask down this time, eyes nervous.

You unlocked the door. “Everything okay?”

He nodded, stepping inside with a shaky breath. “I, um… have something I wanted you to listen to. If you… want to hear it, that is .”

You walked over to the little bench by the window where people usually sat to try on shoes. He sat beside you, close enough to feel the warmth of him but not close enough to crowd.

“It’s a demo,” he said quietly. “A song. The guys helped with it a little. And uh… it’s about you.”

Your heart dropped and fluttered all at once. “About… me?”

He nodded, staring at his phone like he was terrified of your reaction. “I didn’t know if I should show you. I’m not really… good at this stuff.”

You swallowed. “I want to hear it.”

So he pressed play.

The melody was simple and warm, soft guitar, a quiet beat behind it. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant. The lyrics were tiny pieces of you, your outfits, the way you leaned against the counter when you got tired, the way you kept your voice soft even when you were upset, the way the silence felt different with you.

He didn’t look at you the entire time the song played.

When it ended, you stared at the floor, your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

He finally whispered, voice trembling, “If it’s too much… or if you don’t feel the same… it’s okay. I just wanted you to know.”

You looked up at him, and there was something warm and certain sitting in your chest, something that didn’t feel as shy as you thought you were.

“I like it,” you murmured. “And I like you. A lot.”

He sucked in a breath. “You do?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He didn’t move closer. He waited, hesitant, careful, respectful, like he didn’t want to cross a line you didn’t draw.

So you leaned in first.

Your lips met his softly, almost tentative, like testing the feeling. He kissed you just as gently back, one hand lifting to your cheek but stopping halfway as if asking permission. When you leaned in more, his fingers brushed your skin, warm and trembling.

The kiss deepened only slightly, still slow, still soft, still completely you. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath unsteady.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

You curled your fingers into the sleeve of his hoodie, tugging him just a little closer. “I think I do.”

His smile was small, real, and warm enough to light the quiet shop around you.

And sitting there on the worn thrift-store bench with the neon sign humming outside, the world didn’t feel overwhelming or loud. It just felt safe. And simple. And new.

He stayed until the lights dimmed, talking softly with you in the dark store, like the whole city had gone quiet just for the two of you.

You hurried outside before the tears welled too much, slipping around the side of the house where no one would follow. The music thumped through the walls, but out here it was just you, the humid night air, and the lump rising in your throat. You sank down on the porch step, clutching your cup, tears spilling despite how hard you tried to blink them back.

The thought rooted in your mind, ugly and poisonous: What if they’re right? What if I’m just not enough? What if he wakes up one day and realizes it?

“Princess?”

Your head snapped up, panic wiping your tears clumsily with the sleeve of your sweater. JJ was standing a few feet away, brows drawn together, his usual cocky smirk nowhere in sight. He tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, softer now.

“N-Nothing,” you stammered, forcing a smile that didn’t even convince you.

JJ crouched down in front of you, resting his arms on his knees, searching your eyes like he could dig the truth out of you. His voice was low, firm, but gentle in that JJ way: “Don’t lie to me, baby. You’ve been crying.”

That was all it took for your wall to crumble. You dropped your gaze, whispering, “I heard some people talking. About… us. About me.” Your voice cracked. “They said you could do better. That you’re just messing around with me. And I just—” A sob slipped out before you could stop it. “What if they’re right, J? What if one day you wake up and realize I’m not enough?”

For a long second, silence. Your breath shook, your hands twisting in your lap. And then—JJ’s hands cupped your face, rough thumbs brushing away your tears. His voice was raw, steady, but trembling with the force of it.

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he rasped. “Don’t you ever think that. You hear me?”

You nodded weakly, but he shook his head, blue eyes blazing. “No. Look at me.” You met his gaze, and he leaned closer, forehead brushing yours. “You’re it for me, princess. The only one. You think I care what people say? I don’t want better. I don’t even believe in better. I just want you.”

Tears slipped down again, but this time softer, less heavy. JJ kissed them away, lips pressing your cheeks, your temple, your jaw.

“You’re my home,” he murmured. “You’re my safe place. You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m worth something. And I swear to God, if you could see yourself the way I see you… you’d never doubt it for a second.”

Your breath hitched, and you buried your face against his chest, clutching his shirt like you’d fall apart without it. JJ wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight, his chin resting in your hair.

“Let them talk,” he whispered fiercely. “As long as I’m breathing, you’re mine. And I wouldn’t trade you for the whole damn world.”

You sat there in the quiet, wrapped in his hoodie and his arms, the rest of the party fading away.

And for the first time that night, you believed him.

Not because you don’t love the things he gives you, you do. It’s just… you know what it costs him.

You know JJ doesn’t have much. You know he works harder than he lets on, sometimes taking odd jobs with sketchy guys down on the Cut just to scrape something together. And still, he walks into your room like he’s won the lottery if he found you a new satin hair bow in your favorite color or a mini bottle of vanilla perfume “’cause it smelled like you, baby.”

So when he shows up at your door one afternoon, golden hair messy from his bike ride and a paper bag in his hands, you already feel that pang in your stomach.

“JJ…” you say cautiously.

He grins like a little kid. “Don’t worry, princess. This one’s special.”

You let him in, sitting cross-legged on your bed while he settles beside you and pulls out a box. A box of flowers knows products.

You blink. “JJ. This… This is the expensive one.”

“I know,” he shrugs, handing it to you with both hands. “It’s the one you always talk about but never buy. Figured my girl deserves pretty things.”

“JJ, this is like… 800 dollars,” you whisper, horrified. “You don’t even have money for—”

“Don’t care,” he cuts you off gently. “Saw your face when you looked at it last time we were out. And you always do that thing where you act like you don’t want it, even though I know you do.”

You shake your head, holding the box like it’s something dangerous. “I can’t let you do this. You shouldn’t spend your money on me.”

JJ’s smile fades. “Why not?”

“Because you barely have enough for yourself, JJ,” you say, voice cracking. “And every time you do this, it just makes me feel worse.”

He looks at you. Really looks. And when he sees the tears starting to prick in your eyes, his heart breaks.

“Oh, baby…”

You sniff, curling your fingers tighter around the edges of the box. “I’m sorry. I just—You’re always giving and giving and I feel like I don’t give anything back.”

JJ’s already moving. He slides in closer, pulling you into his chest without hesitation, his arms wrapping around you like a blanket. His voice is quiet, but firm.

“You give me everything, sweetheart.”

You try to protest, but he cuts you off again, resting his chin on top of your head.

“You give me peace. You give me softness. You let me hold you and take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You cling to him tighter, face hidden in the crook of his neck.

“I just don’t want to be a burden.”

He pulls back, just enough to cup your cheeks in his hands. “Don’t say that,” he says. “Don’t ever say that. You’re not a burden, you’re a blessing.”

You sniff, eyes still wet. “But the makeup…”

“I wanted to get it for you,” he says. “Because you’re my girl. And I like doing stuff for you. I want you to have things. I want you to feel like a princess every damn day.”

You look down at the box of flower knows makeup resting on the blanket.

“It’s really pretty,” you murmur.

JJ kisses your forehead. “So are you.”

You finally laugh, just a little.

“Tell you what,” he grins. “You wear that new blush next time we go out, and I’ll feel like a million bucks. Deal?”

You nod slowly.

Then you whisper, “Can I still cry a little though?”

JJ chuckles and kisses your nose. “You can cry all you want, baby. I’ll be right here kissing away your tears..”

—

Sal sat cross-legged on his bed, fiddling with the ring you got him for his birthday on his finger and checking his phone again. No new messages. No updates. You never went this long without at least a heart emoji or some sleepy text telling him you'd dozed off.

His gut twisted. You always answered. Even if it was a one-word reply, you never left him in silence.

Without thinking twice, Sal grabbed his keys and hoodie, threw on his boots, and jogged down the familiar halls of Addison Apartments to your floor. He knocked gently on your door at first, then a little harder. “Y/N?” he called, voice already tinged with worry. “It’s me.”

No answer.

His heart dropped as he tried the knob. It was unlocked.

The apartment was quiet, dark, the curtains drawn. Your phone glowed dimly on your nightstand, untouched. And there you were, bundled up in a mountain of blankets, face flushed red and glistening with sweat, your breath shallow.

“Shit,” Sal whispered under his breath, rushing to kneel beside you. He brushed a trembling hand across your forehead and instantly recoiled at how hot you were.

Your eyes fluttered open slightly. “Sal…?”

“Hey, hey,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice calm. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a fever?”

You gave him the tiniest shrug. “Didn’t wanna worry you…”

Sal let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Sweetheart, I’m your boyfriend, it's my job to worry about you. I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t move.”

—

When he returned, his arms were full,cough medicine, two cans of soup, lemon tea, a pack of electrolyte drinks, and nestled between it all… a soft, caramel-colored teddy bear with a baby pink bow around its neck.

Sal slipped his shoes off at the door, set everything on the table, and came back to your side. “Alright,” he said gently, helping you sit up just enough to sip some water and take the medicine. “Now, I know this might be little cheesy, but—”

He held out the teddy bear, his voice going soft. “I saw this little guy and thought… if I can’t be here every second, maybe he can be.”

Your heart melted instantly.

“Sal…” you whispered, hugging the plush to your chest with trembling arms. It smelled faintly of the drugstore and the citrusy cologne he always wore.

“I named him Bearington,” he said, sitting beside you and smoothing your hair back. “Don’t fight me on it.”

You laughed, weak and hoarse, and leaned your head into his shoulder. He gently slid into bed behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you curled into him, Bearington squished between your chest and the blankets.

“You’re gonna get sick,” you murmured sleepily, already drifting.

“Probably,” Sal whispered, resting his chin on your shoulder. “But at least I’ll be sick with the prettiest girl in the building.”

You smiled despite the fever. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re adorable,” he replied, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You nodded, nuzzling your face against his arm. 

He held you close as the night slipped by, occasionally adjusting your blankets, brushing your hair back, whispering little things to keep you grounded. You were burning up, but his touch was cool, steady, a comfort in the storm.

As your breathing evened out and your fever started to break, Sal let his eyes close too, arms still wrapped around you.

And Bearington stood guard over you both, tucked safely between the people who needed each other most. 

He reaches forward and flicks one of the sleeves playfully. “Says the guy who hasn’t seen his favorite hoodie in a week.”

You shrug. “It looks better on me.”

His lips twitch into a smile as he studies you, the way the hoodie dwarfs your frame, the way your knees are pulled to your chest, the slight shine of your lip gloss in the light.

“You’ve got something here,” Sal says gently, reaching out and brushing his thumb beneath your bottom lip.

Your breath catches, just for a moment, at the softness of the touch.

“It’s my lip gloss,” you whisper.

“I like it,” he murmurs. “Looks good on you.”

You scoot closer on the bed until your knees bump his.

“I like this on me too,” you say, tugging the fabric again. “Makes me feel like you’re hugging me, even when you’re not.”

He blinks, a little stunned by the way you say it, then shifts forward and wraps his arms around you. No hesitation.

“You don’t have to borrow my clothes for that,” Sal whispers into your hair. “I’ll always be here.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, letting yourself melt into him. His arms are warm around the hoodie, holding you close, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your back.

Then, quietly, you lift your head, and before either of you can overthink it, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

Sal goes still.

You pull back just enough to see the way color floods his face, pink blooming across his cheeks, especially the one you kissed.

He swallows, then meets your gaze, a lopsided, lovesick smile tugging at his lips.

“I think I just fell in love with you all over again,” he says softly.

You blush, leaning into his chest again.

-------------

The air outside is cool and quiet, the kind that smells like pavement and damp leaves. You slip into the passenger seat of Sal’s car, and there it is, his navy blue hoodie, folded on the seat like a love letter written in fabric.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mumble, tugging it over your head. It’s warm and oversized and smells like his cologne and fabric softener. It swallows you whole.

Sal smiles as he leans over and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “You’re cute when you’re sleepy.”

“And you’re lucky I love you,” you mumble, curling your legs onto the seat. “Because I was very comfortable in bed.”

“But not as comfortable as when you’re with me,” he says with a wink, pulling away from the curb.

You scoff, but your cheeks are warm, and his fingers reach across the console to find yours. You lace them together wordlessly.

The streets are quiet, painted gold by the occasional flicker of a streetlight. You drive in comfortable silence, your thumb stroking the back of his hand, the low hum of his car stereo playing something gentle in the background.

By the time you reach the drive-thru, your head is leaning against his shoulder.

“What do you want, babe?” Sal asks softly, nudging your forehead with his chin.

“Fries,” you murmur. “And a vanilla milkshake.”

He orders for you both, throwing in an extra apple pie because he knows you always say you don’t want one but end up stealing his.

The moment you pull into the empty lot and park, you’re already reaching for the bag. Sal hands it to you with a smirk while removing his prosthetic.

“Did you just use me for fries?” he teases.

You take a bite of one. “You have something better to offer?”

Sal sets his milkshake in the cupholder and leans in, brushing a soft kiss over your lips. “I mean, the fries are pretty good… but I’m told I give top-tier forehead kisses.”

“Oh yeah?” you whisper, heart stuttering a little.

Without a word, Sal tucks a loose piece of hair behind your ear and presses a slow, gentle kiss to your forehead. His thumb lingers on your cheek as he pulls back just enough to see your face.

You melt.

Maybe it’s the hour, or maybe it’s just him, but everything feels slow and tender and right.

“You know,” you murmur, “you could’ve just climbed into bed with me.”

“Yeah, but then I couldn’t see your face lit up by drive-thru lights while you stuff fries in your mouth.”

You laugh softly, leaning your head on his shoulder. He rests his cheek against your hair and lets out a quiet sigh, like all the tension in his chest finally let go.

“I love you,” Sal whispers.

You close your eyes, warmth blooming in your chest. “I love you more.”

“Impossible,” he says, voice barely audible.

And there, in a quiet parking lot at 2:19 a.m., tangled in a hoodie that doesn’t belong to you and fingers that do, you both stay, soft, sleepy, and in love.

“Yeah. What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, fingers hovering.

“Just… a nightmare. I’m okay, just kinda shaken up.  

A moment passes.

Then:

“Stay there. I’ll be right down.”

You blink at the screen, the typing bubble disappearing.

Before you even have time to fully process it, you hear quiet footsteps in the hallway and a soft knock at your door.

You open it to find Sal, hair messy, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, a familiar stuffed animal tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you a once-over, taking in your red-rimmed eyes and the way you’re still hugging yourself.

Without a word, he gently opens his arms.

You step into them.

Sal wraps himself around you like he’s done a hundred times before. One arm stays around your back while the other rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades. Your  bunny plushie, Toast, gets squished between you both.

“Wanna talk about it?” he mumbles into your hair.

You shake your head. “Just want to not think about it.”

“That works too,” he says softly.

You both shuffle back into your room. Sal quietly shuts the door behind you and switches on your nightlight, filling the space with a soft amber glow.

You climb into bed and lift the blanket invitingly. He doesn’t even hesitate, just hands Toast to you and slips beneath the covers, leaving a comfortable bit of space between you.

It lasts maybe ten seconds.

Then you scoot closer. Just a little.

Sal’s arm moves like instinct, curling gently around your waist and tugging you toward him. You end up tucked beneath his chin, your forehead pressed against the soft cotton of his hoodie.

He’s warm and steady. His thumb brushes the fabric of your shirt absentmindedly, grounding you.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m right here.”

You bury your face against his chest, letting your hand settle on his side.

“You’re really good at this,” you mumble.

“At cuddling?”

“At… making me feel better.”

You feel his laugh more than you hear it, a quiet puff of air against your hair.

“Well, that’s only fair,” Sal murmurs. “You kinda make me feel like things don’t suck so much either.”

Your cheeks heat, but he’s already nuzzling into your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “You can fall asleep. I’ll watch over you, okay?”

And you do. Slowly, wrapped in his arms, with Toast squished between your chests and his breath warming the top of your head, you drift off, feeling safe and soft and protected.

Just before sleep fully takes you, you think you hear him whisper:

“Sweet dreams, angel.”

You learn his routine before you even realize that you’re paying attention.

He never turns on his lights at night. Instead, a flicker of blue from a laptop screen glows through his curtains until nearly dawn. You hear him pacing at strange hours. Sometimes there’s music: sad, mournful songs like he’s going through something rough. And other nights, when you press your ear to your pillow and the apartment feels too still, you hear him talking quietly to himself. Words you can’t make out. Maybe names.

Sometimes you want to knock on his door. Just to ask if he’s okay. But you’re not exactly the type who’s good at that sort of thing. You’ve always been a little shy, a little soft around the edges, all quiet glances and polite smiles. So instead, you watch him from your window, peeking behind your sheer white curtains like you’re in some black-and-white film and he’s the mystery next door.

Then, one night, it rains.

Hard.

You’re curled up in a blanket on your sofa, the kind with little eyelet trim that your grandmother gave you, and you’re sipping peppermint tea out of a pink porcelain mug. Your fairy lights are on, and there’s a sleepy kind of peace in the room, until you hear the balcony door next door slide open.

You peek through the curtain and see him standing in the downpour.

Peter.

That’s his name. You heard the mailman say it once.

He’s soaked, hoodie clinging to his shoulders, curls dark and matted against his forehead. He doesn’t even flinch when the thunder cracks. He just leans on the railing like he’s waiting for the sky to wash something off him. And then, your breath catches, he crumples forward, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles go pale. His chest jerks once. Then again. He’s crying.

You don’t even realize your fingers are tightening around your mug until the ceramic creaks.

Part of you wants to run out there, drag him in by the hand, offer him warmth and sugar cookies and whatever kindness might still exist in this too-cruel world. But instead, you just stand there in the shadows, watching. Because you’re not sure he wants to be seen. Because you know grief like that can swallow a person whole, and the last thing it wants is witnesses.

When he finally turns and disappears inside, he leaves the balcony door open.

You don’t sleep that night, not really. You lie on your side, facing the wall, trying to imagine what kind of pain lives in a boy’s chest when he cries like that in the rain.

The next day, you bake.

Nothing fancy, just warm chocolate chip cookies, soft in the middle, the way your mom always made them. You pack a few onto a pink plate and wrap it in cling film. You stare at the door for a long time. Then, barefoot and trembling just a little, you walk across the hall and knock.

He opens the door slower than you expect, like maybe he was asleep or deep in thought. He looks surprised to see you. He blinks, eyes red-rimmed but wide and kind. “Hi,” he says, voice rough.

You hold out the plate and try not to look too nervous. “I made too many. Thought you might want some.”

There’s a long pause. You worry for a second that he’s going to say no, that this was a mistake, that you were being too much. But instead, he steps back. Just a little. Just enough.

“Do you wanna come in?”

His apartment is small and quiet. A little messy, but lived-in. There are books everywhere, on the coffee table, the armchair, even the floor. And photos. Framed and unframed, tucked into the edges of mirrors. You spot a picture of him with a girl. Blonde. Smiling, holding his hand.

You don’t ask. You don’t need to.

You sit on the floor with him, the plate between you. He eats slowly, like he hasn’t tasted anything sweet in a long time. You don’t talk much. Just watch a black-and-white movie on mute while the rain taps lightly on the window.

It becomes a thing.

Not all at once, but slowly, gently, like a new bloom in spring. He knocks on your door one night when he can’t sleep. You offer him a blanket and a quiet smile. Another time, you find a note slipped under your door, just one sentence written in neat, slanted handwriting: ‘Thanks for not asking questions.’

You keep making cookies. He starts bringing coffee. You learn that he likes his black, no sugar. You tell him you hate the sound of thunder, and he starts carrying earplugs for you, just in case.

Eventually, he tells you about her.

Not all at once. In pieces.

Her name was Gwen.

He doesn’t say how she died. You don’t press. But the way he says her name, like a prayer, like a wound, it’s enough to understand she meant everything.

You touch his hand when he says it. Just a brush. Soft. Barely there. He doesn’t pull away.

“Do you think it’s possible,” he says one night, cuddled up against you, voice barely above a whisper, “to carry someone with you, but still make room for something new?”

You look up at him, heart trembling. “I think… people like that never really leave you. But you’re allowed to feel again. You’re allowed to smile again.”

His eyes shine. He nods, slowly, and then leans forward, resting his forehead gently against yours. Your breath catches, but you don’t move. You let him be close.

He kisses you once.

Softly. Tenderly. Like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You don’t.

You stay.

And somehow, without quite meaning to, you become the first piece of light he’s let in since everything went dark.

-----------

You didn’t remember how long you stood there in the rain before you got the courage to walk forward. Each boom of thunder echoed in your chest, a low, rattling reminder that no matter how old you got, some fears never left.

The overpass hadn’t changed. Still damp and crumbling at the corners, a patch of old graffiti still clinging to the underside. And there, beneath it, like he’d stepped right out of your memory, stood Kokoro.

Hood pulled over his head. Head down.

Until he looked up and saw you.

He gave a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re here.”

You nodded, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

“You said you’d be here.”

Another crash of thunder rolled overhead. You flinched.

And just like that—

You were six years old again.

-----------

It was pouring that day too. You remember it vividly, your tiny rain boots splashing through puddles, your bottom lip trembling as you raced through the neighborhood with tears in your eyes.

Your parents had forgotten to pick you up after school.

The storm came faster than expected.

You were small. Alone. Afraid.

You ducked under the old overpass, water dripping from your bangs as thunder cracked above.

And then—

He appeared.

Kokoro, in his little blue windbreaker, breathless from running. He’d seen you sprint off the playground, and even back then, he’d known exactly where you would go.

“Hey,” he said, cheeks flushed, soaked to the bone.

You couldn’t speak. You just trembled, clutching your soaked backpack.

Then softly, quietly, you reached for him.

And Kokoro didn’t hesitate. He took your hand and pulled you into a hug, whispering, “I got you.”

-----------

You blinked back to the present, rain now soaking through your sleeves. A sharp crack of thunder sent your heart into your throat again.

You instinctively stepped back toward the wall of the overpass, hiding your face, teeth clenched. It felt ridiculous, being this shaken by a storm, but before you could fall into that shame, you felt him step closer.

“Kokoro…” you whispered.

But this time, he was the one reaching out.

He gently brushed your damp hair away from your cheek and offered his hand—not forcefully, not urgently—just open, patient, waiting.

Your lip trembled. You stared at it for a second, then reached forward with shaky fingers and let him pull you in.

He wrapped his arms around you and tugged you close, your cheek resting against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through his soaked hoodie. Fast, but steady.

“You still hate thunder, I see,” he murmured, voice soft against your ear.

You let out a weak laugh. “Some things never change.”

He held you tighter. You looked up slowly. His eyes were on you—gentle, warm, and full of something that had been buried for years.

 “…I’m Sorry Y/N…I never meant to leave like that,” he said. “I didn’t know how to say goodbye. And I didn’t want to say no… because I was definitely in love with you, but I didn’t know how to say yes yet, either.”

Thunder cracked again. But this time, it didn’t shake you.

Not with Kokoro holding you like this.

“I waited for you,” you whispered. “Even when I tried not to.”

He leaned down, nose brushing yours. “I’m here now.”

His lips touched yours before you could respond—warm and slow and steady. He kissed you like he wasn’t going anywhere. Like the rain could fall forever, and you’d still be safe in his arms.

When he finally pulled away, you were both smiling through the dampness.

He rested his forehead against yours. “I owe you a lot of answers,” he said.

You nodded. “One step at a time?”

Kokoro grinned. “As long as I get to walk with you.”

He pulled you back into his chest, his arms a shelter stronger than any overpass. The storm rolled on, but neither of you moved. For the first time in years, you weren’t waiting anymore.

You were exactly where you needed to be.

You froze. “Weesa,” you breathed, voice breaking. “The power went out.”

There was silence on the other end, just for a second. Then his tone shifted completely.

“Okay, baby. Stay put. I’m coming to you.”

“Wait—Weesa, it’s pouring—”

“I’m already grabbing my jacket,” he said firmly. “You think I’m gonna let my girl sit in the dark scared and alone? Nah. No thanks.”

Before you could argue again, the call ended. You sat there clutching your teddy bear, heart racing from a new kind of nervousness.

Ten agonizing minutes later, there was a knock at your door. You stumbled toward it, flinching at another crack of thunder as you unlocked it with shaky hands.

There he stood, Weesa, drenched and breathless, tall and quiet. His hair clung to his forehead, rain dripping down the curve of his jaw. In one hand was his phone. In the other, a bag with snacks and a flashlight.

You didn’t say a word, you just threw yourself into his chest.

“Hey, angel,” he murmured, holding you close with strong arms. “I got you. It’s okay now.”

He stepped inside and gently shut the door behind him, setting the bag down as he guided you toward the couch. Weesa pulled you into his lap with surprising ease, settling you comfortably against his chest. You were small in his arms, your head tucked under his chin, the teddy bear still nestled between you.

His arms wrapped securely around your waist as he leaned back. “You’re shaking,” he said, kissing your hair. “Let’s fix that.”

He tucked the blanket around both of you, his large hands smoothing it over your legs. The warmth of his body quickly melted into yours, his steady heartbeat like a lullaby. His long legs stretched beneath you, cradling you like you weighed nothing at all.

“Better?” he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You nodded against his chest. “Mmhm… thank you for coming.”

“I’ll always come for you,” he said, his voice low, almost protective. “Doesn’t matter what time it is or how bad the storm is.”

Your fingers played gently with the edge of his sleeve as another rumble shook the sky. He felt you flinch and held you tighter, rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“You’re safe, baby. Just close your eyes, I got you.”

You sighed, eyes fluttering shut as you sank further into his warmth. He started humming softly, one of those slower songs from his group's setlist, and the vibration of his chest under your cheek lulled you into calmness. You barely noticed the thunder anymore.

Each time it got louder, he kissed your temple or ran his fingers through your hair. “Still with me?” he’d whisper, and you’d nod, letting yourself melt into him a little more.

Eventually, the storm began to fade. The rain softened, the thunder grew more distant. Weesa stayed exactly where he was, arms wrapped around you like a weighted blanket, cheek resting gently against the top of your head.

“I love you,” you mumbled drowsily, so softly you almost didn’t expect him to hear.

He did.

His chest stilled beneath you for a second before he whispered, “I love you too, baby.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy and tired, but full of something warmer. He smiled, that rare, sleepy kind of smile that only came out when he felt safe. Then he kissed your forehead, slow, lingering, tender.

“Let’s stay like this,” he whispered. “Just a little longer.”

Wrapped up in his arms, with your teddy bear squished between your chests and his thumb brushing lazy circles on your hip, the storm finally passed, for good.

“Hey, you still with me?” he asks, the concern in his voice gently pulling you back.

“Mmhmm,” you mumble, eyes already slipping shut again.

You hear him chuckle softly. “You’re about to doze off, aren’t you?”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Might be.”

“Go ahead,” Sal says, his voice lower now, more tender. “I’ll stay on the line, just like always.”

Your grip on the phone loosens, breath evening out as sleep starts to pull you under. The gentle hum of his voice fades into white noise, and you drift off with a feeling of safety you don’t fully understand.

On the other end of the line, Sal sits in silence, heartbeat thudding in his ears. You’re asleep, he knows by the slow, steady rhythm of your breaths, but he doesn’t hang up.

Something keeps him there.

He stares at his phone, thumb grazing the edge of the screen, trying to find the nerve to finally say the words that have been building for years.

“I love your laugh,” he whispers into the quiet. “It’s like a song that makes everything feel lighter.”

Sal takes a breath. “And your eyes... they’re like stars. I don’t know, they just make me feel like I can find my way again when everything else gets too dark.”

His throat tightens and his heartbeat picks up, but he keeps going. “You’re so kind. You care about people in a way I’ve never seen before. You listen—really listen. And you make me feel like I’m not just some freak with a prosthetic.”

The words are quiet, but they’re raw. Real.

“You’re beautiful, inside and out. And that girly charm of yours?” He lets out a soft laugh. “It’s addictive. Like, sweet and over-the-top in the best way. Anytime you wear your cute pink bows and your adorable outfits, I swear my brain short-circuits.”

Sal glances down at his lap, voice growing more hesitant. “I’ve been carrying this for a while. I didn’t want to mess things up between us, but... Y/N, I think I’m in love with you.”

He waits, half-hoping your voice will answer back. But there’s only soft breathing.

Sal swallows hard. Still, he can’t stop now.

“When you smile, it’s like the world stops. You smell like vanilla, coconut oil, and comfort. And the way you look at me sometimes when I win you those stupid little plushies from the claw machine at the arcade, like I’ve held the moon and stars over your head, makes my heart skip a beat. ”

He pauses, voice thick with emotion.

“I know I’ve never been great at this kind of thing. But I had to tell you. You’re not just my best friend. You’re the reason everything feels bearable. You bring color into my life when everything else feels like static.”

Time slips by. He talks quietly, softly. About your shared memories, the little things he’s noticed, the way your presence feels like home.

Then, just as he’s about to finally hang up, he hears it.

“Sal?”

Your voice, barely audible—groggy, dazed, but there.

His heart drops. “Y/N? You’re awake?”

“...I heard you.” You pause, and there’s a smile in your voice. “Every single word.”

He freezes. “You… you did?”

“I didn’t mean to wake up,” you say gently. “But I guess I woke up at the right time.”

Sal begins to apologize profusely, but you cut him off. “Don’t apologize. I’m glad you said it. Because I feel the same way.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

“You do?” he asks, almost afraid to believe it.

“Mmhmm.” You sound more awake now, warm and steady. “I’ve loved you for a long time, Sal. I just didn’t know if you felt the same way.”

Sal lets out a shaky breath. The relief, the joy—it’s overwhelming. “I thought I was going to scare you off.”

“You could never,” you say. “You make me feel safe. Like I can breathe again.”

He laughs softly, voice trembling. “So...does that mean that you’ll be my girlfriend?”

“Hmm, I don’t know? Maybe take me on a date first, loverboy,” you tease, and he grins, even if you can’t see it.

You both fall quiet again, but it’s a good kind of silence—comfortable, full of understanding. For the first time, nothing’s left unsaid.

Sal finally murmurs, “Well, then, would you like to go to that one cat cafe Ash was showing us at lunch tomorrow?”

You let out a sleepy giggle. “I’d love to.”

A loud slap on the back snapped him out of his trance. "Earth to Sal!" Larry exclaimed, crumbs flying from his mouth. "You've been zoned out for the past five minutes. What’s up?"

Sal blinked, cheeks flushing as he turned his gaze back to his tray. "Nothing," he mumbled, taking a bite of his sandwich.

Todd leaned in, eyebrow raised. "Is it because of the new girl?" he asked, tilting his head toward you.

Sal’s eyes flicked to you again, and he gave the smallest nod, hoping they’d drop it.

The rest of lunch passed in a blur, half-hearted jokes, forced laughter, and Sal sneaking glances at you whenever he could. There was something about the way you carried yourself, like you didn’t quite belong to the noise around you. You softened everything. The cafeteria didn’t feel so harsh when you were in it.

When the bell rang, Sal watched you pack up your things and leave, the faint hum of your music trailing behind you like an echo. He felt... empty.

Fate had a funny way of twisting things. As the day went on, he found himself in the same class as you. It threw him off so badly that he dropped his books when he saw your name on the seating chart next to his. He tried to slide into the desk beside you with a casual nod, but his heart was pounding.

You looked up from your book, surprised but not unkind. You gave him a small smile and returned to your reading.

The lesson itself barely registered. All he could focus on was the tap of your pencil, the subtle scent of strawberries that lingered around you. It was like trying to pay attention during a rock concert.

Then it happened.

You gathered your things to leave, and a pink cassette tape slipped from your bag. You didn’t notice, but Sal did. He bent down to pick it up, pausing when he read the handwritten title of a heavy metal song across the label, bold and jagged against the soft washi tape that ran across it.

His brow lifted. That didn’t match your vibe at all.

After class, he waited. When the bell rang, he slipped out into the hallway, searching. You were easy to spot—your headphones a colorful beacon in a sea of muted grays. He approached, cassette in hand.

"Hey!" he called, a bit louder than intended.

You turned, startled.

"You dropped this," he said, holding out the tape.

Your cheeks turned pink as you took it. "Oh, thank you. I didn’t even notice."

He smiled awkwardly. "Didn’t peg you for a metalhead."

You tilted your head, amused. "What did you expect?"

Sal scratched the back of his neck. "I dunno… something lighter? Pop or Lo-fi, maybe? You just give off that kind of vibe."

You chuckled, the sound like a windchime in spring. "Guess I like to keep people guessing."

There was a pause, a flicker of curiosity between you.

"So, what do you listen to?" you asked.

He perked up. "Same stuff, actually. Metal, punk… anything loud enough to make me wanna headbang."

Your eyes lit up. "No way. Do you like Sanity Falls?"

His face brightened with surprise. "They're my favorite band."

You nodded enthusiastically. "They’re lyrics give off Slipknot most of the time, but I still think their songs are great.”

A quiet moment passed, then your gaze flicked to the prosthetic on his face. "Your mask is really cool," you said gently, motioning to it.

Sal’s chest tightened, but he kept his voice steady. "It’s a prosthetic. I lost part of my face in an accident."

You looked away, instantly regretful. "Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—"

"It’s okay," he said, and he meant it. "Most people think it’s a mask when they first see it anyway.”

You met his eyes again, your expression open and sincere. "Well... I’m glad we like the same music," you said with a soft smile. "I’m Y/N, by the way."

"Sal."

"Would you—if you’re not busy—want to walk home with me?"

He blinked. That was the last thing he expected. "Yeah," he said, too fast. "I’d like that."

The walk home was filled with stories of old concerts, favorite lyrics, and albums that had carried you through bad days. You were easy to talk to. So easy it scared him a little.

When you reached your house, you paused at the gate. "Wait here," you said, before darting inside.

He shifted on the porch, wondering if he said something wrong, until you returned with a cassette.

"It’s a mix," you explained, shy now. "Some of my favorite tracks. Thought you might like them."

He took it like it was made of glass. "Thanks. I’ll listen to it tonight."

"I’d love to hear what you think," you said, cheeks flushed. "It’s kind of a piece of me."

"Yeah," he murmured, stunned. "I’ll let you know tomorrow?"

You smiled. "Definitely."

That night, he listened to every track. Twice.

Over the next few days, you and Sal became inseparable. You sat together in class. Shared your wired headphones at lunch. Walked home every day, your shadows stretching out ahead of you.

His friends started to notice.

"Dude," Larry said one day. "What’s going on with you and, uh, Cassette Girl?"

Sal flushed. "We’re just friends."

"Sure," Todd said, smirking. "Friends who share earbuds and blush at each other."

He rolled his eyes. "We like the same music, that’s all."

The whispers at school didn’t bother him as much as he expected. Sure, people stared. But for the first time, he didn’t care.

Then came Friday night.

You came over for a movie night—just the two of you. His room was spotless, and a mixtape he’d made just for you sat on his dresser. Songs that said everything he couldn’t.

When the first track played, "Demolition Lovers", you looked at him, curious.

"What’s this?"

"Just... some songs I thought you’d like."

You listened quietly as the tape played, occasionally pointing out lyrics you loved, your shoulder brushing his as you leaned in closer.

Then "If I’m James Dean, You’re Audrey Hepburn" came on.

You looked at him, eyes soft.

"Y/N," he began, his voice shaky, "these songs... they’re about you. About us. "

Your eyes widened.

"They’re how I feel when I’m with you. Like... everything’s quieter. Easier."

For a second, you didn’t speak.

Then you reached for his hand.

"I feel it too," you whispered. "You make the world feel softer."

He blinked, heart pounding. "You really feel the same?"

"I do."

The air between you crackled. Slowly, he leaned in, and you met him halfway.

Giving him a soft kiss on the lips of his prosthetic.

When the final track faded out, neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

You were both already thinking about what mix you could make together next.