𝕮𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊

"I do not have a poker face problem, I have a you problem." You fan your cards with a small frown, holding them a little closer to your chest. Squinting at him dramatically, "this is your, what, about to be your sixth win in a row?"

"Maybe I'm just good at Go Fish?"

"Literally nobody is good at Go Fish," you counter with a playful eye roll. "Babe, it' s a children's game. It's all just luck."

"Or maybe you just suck." Jake shrugs, infuriatingly calm, and gestures for you to take your turn.

"Got any threes?"

"Go fish."

You curse under your breath as you draw a card, and it's not a three. Because, of course it's not.

And suddenly, it's his turn again. Jake looks down at his hand and that's when you catch it—the tiny twitch at the corner of his eyebrow, there and gone so fast you would have missed it if you weren't already staring.

"Baby."

"Hm?"

"...Are you cheating?"

He looks up at you instantly, "What?"

"Your eyebrow just did a thing."

"My eyebrow did not do a thing."

"Your eyebrow definitely did a thing," you insist as you stare at him with a raised brow. "It twitched, I just saw it! You do this every time before you guess right, it's like a—" you trail off, trailing to find the right words for it.

"Okay, first of all," Jake says, setting his cards face-down on the bed, "how can you even tell—"

"It's your spidey sense, oh my god!" You cut him off, sitting back on your heels as the realization hits. "You're using your spidey sense to win at Go Fish against your own girlfriend!"

"I'm not—" He drags a hand down his face, and you watch the guilt bloom rihgt there in real time, soft and helpless, like he can't even be mad at himself properly. "It's not like I'm trying to. It just... happens? I get a tingly feeling whenever someoen's bluffing, it's not exactly a setting I can turn off—"

"So you admit it."

"Baby, I'm not admitting anything, there's literally nothingto admit—"

"You've been running an unfair advantage on me for six rounds! With your superpowers! Against a helpless civilian!" You say dramatically, clutching uour chest, "Against the love of your life, no less!"

"Okay, when you say it like that it soumds so much worse than it is—"

"THat's because it is that bad, Jake, if you hate me you could've just said tha—"

He's fighting a smile now, dimples threatening at the corners of his mouth. "You want me to just—let you win the next round?"

"Excuse me?" You gasp, and any residual amusement drops clean off your face. "You'll let me win?"

"I mean—yeah? As an apology?"

"I don't want you to let me win, I want to win fairly, there's a difference! Letting me win is honestly more insulting than the cheating was—"

Jake just laughs at you—that full, delighted laugh that always makes it a little harder to stay mad at him. You watch the way his eyes crinkle slightly and it makes your chest go warm despite your best efforts to stay upset.

Before you can protest he's tugging you across the scattered cards and into his lap, arms looping around your waist like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like you belong there. Which, annoyingly, you do.

"Jake—" You say trying to sound stern. You do not sound stern.

"I'm sorry," he says, clearly not sorry at all, nose brushing your cheek. "I'll even play blindfolded next time. Whatever makes it fair."

"That's not—you can't just cuddle your way out of this—"

"Can't I, though?" He presses a kiss just below your ear, slow, unhurried, like he has all afternoon to do jus tthat. "Because I think it's kind of working."

"It is not working."

"Are you sure?" Jake asks, pressing a few more kisses around your face, "my spidey sense says it is."

"Bruh, fuck your spidey sense—"

"You love it," he murmurs, smug and warm against your skin, and when you swat his arm he only pulls you in closer, laughing into your hair like winning has never once felt this good.

⠀⠀ ͏⠀⠀ ͏ ⠀ ͏⠀⠀ ͏⠀⠀ ͏⠀ ͏/╲/\╭ºoꍘoº╮/\╱\

bonus scene:

Maybe it's the warmth of him or the fact that his thumb has started tracing slow, absent circles against your hip—but you feel yourself melting anyways, the fight draining out of you as you relax in his arms. Your head tipping back against his shoulder.

You're seconds away from fully forgiving him, honestly, you can feel it happening, feel yourself going soft and pliant and—

You suddenly bolt upright.

"Wait a minute," you twist around to look at him, eyes wide with the horror of realization. "Wait. So that one time we were playing mahjong?"

Your boyfrind's smile goes sheepish so fast it's basically a confession on its own. "...What about it?"

“Oh my god, Sim Jaeyun,“ your jaw drops in disbelief, “You swept me, Jake. I thought I was suddenly just bad at mahjong!"

Jake cringes slightly at the use of his government name. "You're not bad at mahjong—"

"You let me think I was bad at mahjong for months—"

"In my defense," he says, hands raised in negotiaton, though the smile on his face only seems to grow, "I didn't let you think anything, I just… Didn't correct you..?"

"That's the same thing! That's exactly the same thing as lying!" You say pointing at him, “You lied to me!“

"It's really not the same though—"

"How many other games, Jake? How many! Poker? Uno? Was the Mario Kart rigged too—"

He cuts you off, suddenly sitting straight as well. "Okay, the Mario Kart was all skill, I want that on the record—"

"I don't believe you! I don't believe anything that comes out of your mouth right now!" But despite your tone, you can’t help the smile forming on your lips.

"Okay, so no more card games," you say with a pout, calming yourself down and turning your head away from him once again.

"Deal," he says, reaching his arms out once again in an attempt to pull you back into his chest. Then, after a beat, far too pleased with himself: "Pun intended."

"I'm going home."

"No you're not. You love me."

"Do I?"

"Yeah, you do," he says, tightening his arms around you, pressing a kiss into your hair. "My spidey sense said so."

You groan and bury your face against his chest, but you don't move away.

⠀⠀ ͏⠀⠀ ͏ ⠀ ͏⠀⠀ ͏⠀⠀ ͏⠀ ͏/╲/\╭ºoꍘoº╮/\╱\

please do not repost, reupload, or translate my work anywhere else on the internet. i also do not approve uploading my work on any ai site. salamuch <33

you've gotten very good at saying you're fine.

it's become automatic, a reflex, the same way you blink when something flies toward your face or say "bless you" when someone sneezes.

it doesn't require thought. it doesn't require feeling. it's just a noise you make so people will stop looking at you with those worried eyes, so they'll stop asking questions you don't know how to answer.

"i'm fine."

"i'm okay."

"just tired."

the lies roll off your tongue smooth as water, and you tell yourself you're protecting the people around you, sparing them from the weight of your sadness. but really, you're just scared. scared that if you start talking about the ache in your chest, you'll never stop.

scared that once you open the door you've been holding shut with both hands, everything will come flooding out and drown you.

jay knows.

you're not sure when he figured it out, but somewhere between the third time you cancelled dinner plans because you "weren't hungry" and the fifth time he found you staring blankly at the wall at two in the morning, he stopped believing you.

or maybe he never believed you to begin with. maybe he saw the truth in you the same way he sees everything, with that quiet, patient observation that makes you feel simultaneously exposed and cared for.

he doesn't push. that's the thing that undoes you, in the end.

he doesn't push, doesn't demand explanations, doesn't hover or suffocate or try to fix you with platitudes about time healing all wounds or everything happening for a reason. he just... stays. he stays in your orbit, close enough to touch but not so close that you feel trapped, and he waits.

he brings you tea in the morning, the way you like it, with honey instead of sugar.

he texts you throughout the day, not asking if you're okay, just sending little things. a photo of a dog he saw on his walk. a song he thinks you might like. a reminder that he's thinking of you without requiring a response.

he cooks dinner and doesn't comment when you only pick at it, just saves the leftovers in containers with your name on them.

he holds your hand when you watch tv, his thumb tracing slow patterns against your palm, and he doesn't say anything when your eyes stay dry even during the sad parts of movies that used to make you cry.

he knows, and he stays, and he loves you in all the ways that don't require you to be whole.

you've been sleeping at his place more often than not lately.

your apartment feels too big, too empty, too full of memories that hurt to touch. his place is small, just a one bedroom with creaky floorboards and a window that doesn't quite close all the way, but it smells like him and it feels safe and when you're there, the weight on your chest feels just slightly lighter.

he set up a drawer for you, cleared out space in his closet, bought the shampoo you like without you having to ask.

he never said "move in with me" but he made room for you, physical space that matched the space he'd already made in his life, and you gravitated toward it like a plant leaning toward sunlight.

but grief doesn't care about safe spaces. grief doesn't respect boundaries or good days or the careful routines you've built to keep yourself functioning.

grief waits, patient as a predator, for the moment when your guard is down, when you're too tired to hold the door shut anymore, and then it pounces.

it happens on a tuesday night, three months after a loss that you still can't talk about without feeling like your throat is closing up.

you'd had a good day, relatively speaking. you'd gone to class, finished an assignment, even laughed at something jay said about his coworker.

you'd felt almost normal, and you'd let yourself believe that maybe you were getting better, maybe you were finally moving on.

you fell asleep in his bed, his arms around you, his breath warm against the back of your neck, and you felt peaceful.

then the dream comes.

it's not even a dramatic dream, not really.

no monsters, no chase scenes, no horror movie jump scares. it's just... absence. emptiness.

you're walking through your childhood home, the one you grew up in, the one that doesn't exist anymore, and every room is empty. you call out, but your voice doesn't make a sound. you search, but there's nothing to find. just dust and silence and the crushing certainty that you'll never find what you're looking for, that it's gone, that it's never coming back.

you wake up with a gasp, your heart hammering against your ribs, your face wet with tears you don't remember crying.

the room is dark, just the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains, and for a moment you don't know where you are.

panic claws at your throat, sharp and suffocating, and you sit up, pressing your hand to your chest like you can physically hold yourself together.

"jay," you choke out, but it's barely a whisper, barely a sound at all.

it doesn't matter. he's already awake.

he's a light sleeper, always has been, and the moment you stirred, the moment your breathing changed from the slow rhythm of sleep to the ragged gasps of panic, he was alert.

he sits up beside you, his hand finding your back in the dark, warm and steady and there.

"y/n," he says, his voice rough with sleep but gentle, so gentle. "hey, hey, you're okay. you're safe. i'm right here."

you try to say something, try to reassure him that you're fine, that it was just a dream, but the words won't come.

instead, a sob breaks free from your chest, violent and ugly, and suddenly you're crying, really crying, the kind of crying you haven't let yourself do in months.

it comes out of you like a storm, uncontrollable and overwhelming, your whole body shaking with the force of it.

jay doesn't ask what's wrong. he doesn't tell you to calm down or stop crying. he just moves, shifting so he's sitting against the headboard, and he pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest with an ease that suggests he's been waiting for this, waiting for you to finally let go.

"it's okay," he murmurs, his hand stroking down your back, slow and soothing. "i've got you. let it out, sweetheart. i'm right here."

you bury your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, soap and sleep and something uniquely jay, and you cry until your throat is raw and your eyes are burning and you feel like you might actually be drowning in your own grief.

he holds you through all of it, his arms tight around you, his chin resting on top of your head, his heartbeat steady against your cheek.

"i'm not okay," you finally manage to gasp out, the words broken and barely intelligible.

"jay, i'm not okay. i haven't been okay. i keep saying i am but i'm not, i'm not, and i'm so tired, i'm so tired of pretending-"

"i know," he says, and his voice is thick with his own emotion, rough and tender. "i know, baby. i know."

"i don't know how to be okay," you sob, clutching at his shirt like it's the only thing keeping you anchored. "i don't know how to stop hurting. i try, i try so hard, but it's always there, and i can't-"

"shh," he soothes, pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, anywhere he can reach. "you don't have to be okay. you don't have to pretend with me. i don't need you to be fine, y/n. i just need you to be here. i just need you to let me hold you."

"it's too much," you whisper, your voice cracking.

"i'm too much. i'm broken, and i'm sad all the time, and i don't want to burden you with-"

"stop," he says, firm but gentle, and he pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, to make you look at him even though you can barely see him through your tears. "listen to me. you are not a burden. your pain is not a burden. loving you means loving all of you, even the parts that hurt, even the parts that are broken. especially those parts. do you understand me?"

you shake your head, fresh tears spilling over, and he wipes them away with his thumbs, his touch so tender it makes you cry harder.

"you're the strongest person i know," he continues, his voice soft but insistent.

"you carry so much, and you never complain, and you keep going even when it feels impossible. but you don't have to carry it alone. let me help you. let me be here. that's all i want, y/n. just to be here with you, through all of it, for as long as you need."

"i'm scared," you admit, your voice small and vulnerable. "i'm scared i'll never feel okay again. i'm scared i'm always going to be this sad."

he pulls you back against his chest, holding you so close you can feel his heartbeat, and he rocks you gently, back and forth, like you're something precious he's trying to keep safe.

"it's okay to be scared," he whispers. "it's okay to be sad. you lost something important, and that doesn't just go away. it takes time, and it takes healing, and it takes being gentle with yourself. and i'm going to be here for all of it. i'm not going anywhere. even when it's hard. especially when it's hard."

you cling to him, your fingers twisted in his shirt, and you let yourself believe him. let yourself believe that maybe you don't have to be okay right now, maybe you don't have to have it all figured out.

maybe it's enough to just be here, in his arms, letting him hold the pieces of you together until you're strong enough to hold them yourself.

"can you sleep?" he asks after a while, when your crying has slowed to hiccuping breaths and occasional tremors. "or do you want to stay awake for a bit?"

"i don't want to sleep," you admit, your voice muffled against his chest. "i'm scared the dream will come back."

"okay," he says, and he doesn't try to convince you that dreams can't hurt you, doesn't tell you to just close your eyes.

instead, he adjusts his position, settling back against the pillows with you curled against his side, and he starts talking.

"do you want to hear about my day?" he asks, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. "it was pretty boring, but i can tell you about it if you want. distract you a little."

you nod, sniffling, and he presses a kiss to your forehead before he starts.

"so i woke up late, which you know because you were already gone for class, and i had to rush to get ready. couldn't find my keys, spent ten minutes looking for them before i realized they were in my pocket the whole time. classic me, right?"

you make a small sound, not quite a laugh but close, and he smiles against your hair, encouraged.

"got to work, and my boss was in one of those moods where nothing anyone did was right. he yelled at jake for like, twenty minutes about the coffee machine, which jake doesn't even use, so that was fun. then at lunch, i went to that new sandwich place on fifth, the one with the green canopy? got a turkey club that was way too big, i only ate half, saved the rest for later. thought about texting you a picture but i figured you'd be in class."

he keeps talking, his voice low and soothing, filling the dark room with mundane details and small stories.

he tells you about the dog he saw on his lunch break, a golden retriever that looked like it was smiling. he tells you about the weird conversation he had with his coworker about conspiracy theories involving pigeons.

he tells you about the song that was stuck in his head all day, and he hums a few bars of it, off-key and silly, and you feel yourself relaxing, bit by bit, your breathing slowing to match the rhythm of his voice.

"and then i came home," he continues, his hand moving from your arm to your hair, stroking through the tangled strands with infinite patience. "and you were here, and you smiled at me, and that was the best part of my day. that's always the best part of my day. coming home to you."

your heart aches, but it's a different kind of ache now.

not the sharp, hollow pain of grief, but the warm, full feeling of being loved, truly loved, for exactly who you are in this moment, broken pieces and all.

"i love you," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them, but you don't want to stop them, you want him to know. "i love you so much, jay. thank you for staying. thank you for not giving up on me."

he goes still for a moment, his hand pausing in your hair, and when he speaks again his voice is thick with emotion.

"i love you too," he says, and he tilts your chin up so he can kiss you, soft and sweet and full of promise. "i love you, and i'm not going anywhere. you're stuck with me, okay? through the good days and the bad days and all the days in between."

"okay," you whisper against his lips.

"now," he says, settling back again, pulling you close against his side, "close your eyes for me. just try. i'll be right here, and if the dream comes back, i'll wake you up. i promise. i'll keep you safe."

you hesitate, still afraid of the darkness waiting behind your eyelids, but you trust him.

you trust him more than you've trusted anyone in a long time. so you close your eyes, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat.

"that's it," he murmurs, his hand resuming its slow stroking of your hair. "you're doing so good. i'm so proud of you, you know that? for letting yourself feel things, for letting me in. that takes so much courage."

"don't leave," you mumble, already half-asleep, your exhaustion finally catching up with you now that the storm of tears has passed.

"never," he promises, his voice barely above a whisper. "i'm right here. i'm always right here. sleep now, my love. i've got you."

he keeps talking, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear.

he tells you about the plans he has for the weekend, about the book he's reading, about the way the light looked coming through the window this morning.

he tells you that you're beautiful, that you're strong, that you're loved, that you're safe. he tells you that tomorrow will be a new day, and you'll face it together, and whatever comes, you'll handle it side by side.

you drift off to the sound of his voice, to the feeling of his arms around you, to the certainty that he means every word.

when you dream again, it's not of empty rooms and silence. it's of him, of his smile, of the way he looks at you like you're the most precious thing in his world.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ 

when morning comes, grey light filters through the curtains, you wake up still in his arms, and he's awake, watching you with soft, tired eyes, and he smiles when he sees you looking at him.

"hey," he whispers, his voice rough with sleep.

"hey," you reply, and your voice is hoarse from crying, but it doesn't hurt. it feels like release, like relief, like the first breath after being underwater too long.

"how are you feeling?" he asks, his hand coming up to brush hair away from your face, his touch gentle, checking, caring.

you consider the question, really consider it, and you don't say you're fine. you don't say you're okay. you tell him the truth.

"like i have a long way to go," you say quietly. "but like i don't have to go there alone."

his smile is the sun coming up, warm and bright and just for you. "never alone," he promises. "never, ever alone. i'm right here, every step of the way. however long it takes."

you burrow closer to him, hiding your face in his neck, breathing him in, and you let yourself believe it. let yourself believe in him, in this, in the possibility that healing is possible, that love is real, that you are worth staying for.

"thank you," you whisper.

"for what?"

"for seeing me. even when i didn't want to be seen."

he holds you tighter, his arms a fortress, a promise, a home.

"always," he murmurs against your hair. "i'll always see you. all of you. and i'll love you anyway. through all of it. forever."

and as you lie there in the early morning light, held together by arms that won't let go, you think that maybe, just maybe, forever doesn't sound so impossible anymore.

⋆˚✿˖°

Your heart was racing in your chest, and you tried your best to get your breathing under control while you lowered yourself to a chair next to Heeseung. The metal was warm, the sun had been shining the whole day, bathing the campus in bright light, the trees and their golden leaves making your surroundings seem like a painting. 

Heeseung reached for one of your crutches and lowered to the floor before looking up at you again.

You grinned sheepishly at him, reaching into your bag to get out the to-go cup you prepared just before you went to the campus. „I brought you some coffee.”

He accepted the cup, looking between you and his hands. “You brought me coffee? I didn’t ask–” “I know,” you cut him off quickly, shaking your head slightly. “Just…take it.” He blinked at you, processing for a moment. “Thanks,” Heeseung finally said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small smile. “But…why?” You let out a breathy laugh, feeling heat rush to your face. “As a thank you,” you said, shifting in your seat, “for you know…driving me home and listening to my sap story.” Heeseung raised an eyebrow, taking the cup from the table, but his expression softened. “I don’t need a thank you, Y/N.”

You nodded and gave him a weak smile. “I know,” you mumbled, “but it felt like I should do something. To…you know…thank you.”

He was silent for a second, just looking at you, mustering you. You felt nervous under his stare and tucked a stand of your hair behind your ear, trying to avoid eye contact. You weren’t sure if this was too much, if bringing him coffee was weird.  

But before you could think of a way to get out of the situation, Heeseung gave you a soft smile and took a sip. He nodded and hummed, his tongue darting out to swipe over his upper lip. “Thank you for the coffee, but don’t feel guilty for talking to me. I’m gladly listening to you, if it's about how you’re doing or even if it's about our plans in a zombie apocalypse. You don’t owe me anything for it.” 

You nodded and averted your eyes, pressing your lips onto each other, pulling in your lower lip. The lipstick you put on earlier felt silly now; it tasted weird, fruity and nutty at the same time. 

His gaze felt heavy on you, while you struggled to find something to say. After a few seconds of silence that felt like an eternity, he slowly reached out and gently took your hand, which was resting on the table. “I am serious, Y/N. I like spending time with you, being around you is nice, and everyone has bad days. You’ve been listening to me complain about my classes for almost three weeks now, so it’s only fair if I listen to you talk about the most traumatic day of your life, okay?”

You sniffled, cursing yourself for feeling like crying again before nodding slowly, looking up again. His dark eyes were searing your face, and he carefully turned your hand around, intertwining his fingers with yours. 

“Okay.” 

He squeezed your fingers and gave you a small smile before letting go. “Good. Are you hungry?”

You blinked at him in confusion. “Hungry?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, tilting his head to the side. “I’ve been out here for like three hours, and I’m starting to get hungry.” 

“You want to go eat now?”

“If you’d like to?” Heeseung grinned sheepishly. “I’m craving ramyeon.”

“I have…classes in like ten minutes? After that?” You bit your lip, debating for a moment before offering, “Gyu claims you make the best ramyeon he's ever eaten? Maybe we could cook them together?” His eyes lit up at your suggestion, and you felt a flutter of excitement in your chest. “I’d love that! When do your classes end? I’ll have everything ready.” You hesitated for a second. Your eyes are darting between his suggestions. “At your place?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I can get you from the campus if you’d like?”

“I…I’ll have to study a bit today. Maybe we could do that afterwards?” Your voice was small when you asked that.  “Absolutely,” he agreed, nodding seriously, though a smile tugged at his lips.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

What was he thinking? Heeseung couldn’t believe himself. He had invited you over. He had invited you over. 

After his last class of the day, he raced into his dorm, the realisation hitting him two hours too late. 

Heeseung nearly slammed the entrance door to his apartment against the wall as soon as the unlocking sound came from the lock. Jake and Jay were sitting around the kitchen table studying. Both their heads shot up at the sound of Heeseung entering. 

“Guys, I might have messed up!” Jake blinked a few times, confusion etched across his face. “What happened?” “I invited Y/N over to eat Ramyeon,” he said, trying to slide out of his coat, but one of his arms got stuck in the sleeve. “But our dorm is a disaster. I don’t have any Ramyeon left. My room is a mess!” 

Jay stifled a laugh, clearly enjoying the drama. “So you want us to speed clean so you can impress Y/N?” “Yes!” Heeseung exclaimed, already kneeling down to pick up the shoes littering the entrance. “Please, help a guy out. I can’t let her see this place!” “Hyung, what the fuck,” Jake laughed out loud before shaking his head. 

“Please! I promise I’ll clean the bathroom for the next month,” Heeseung wasn’t above begging. He couldn’t let you come in here only for it to look like a mess. 

“You don’t have to beg, Hyung,” Jake said with a chuckle, standing up and grabbing the takeout boxes scattered around him. “Our dorm needs a cleaning session anyway. And honestly, I’m so done with thermodynamics right now. If I see another heat transfer mode, I might bang my head into a wall hard enough to skip out the next semester. I am suffering.” Jay joined in. “I’ll take the living room and vacuum. Hyung, just focus on your room and run down to the GS25 to get some ramyeon.” “Yes, thank you,” Heeseung said, practically sprinting to his room.

Once inside, he was greeted by the mess that was his room: clothes sprawled across the floor, bed, and desk, a collection of empty water bottles. On top of that, his hockey gear was spread haphazardly around the room, gloves, sticks, bags. He immediately began tackling the mess, grabbing clothes, checking which ones were clean, which needed to be folded and put away. He picked up a discarded hockey glove and tossed it into a corner before realising he’d have to deal with the smell somehow. By the time he emerged from his room, he felt a sense of accomplishment. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but it was a hell of a lot better than what it had been. He glanced over at Jay, who was in the living room, vacuuming with an exaggerated flourish, as he pulled on his shoes. “If she comes while I am gone…”, he tripped over his foot. “Just be normal?”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

The taxi stopped in front of a tall, sleek structure. A few seconds later, you stood in front of it, your gaze drifting upwards. 

14th floor, Heeseung said. 

The apartment complex was just a few minutes away from the one your parents were living in, but it felt like entering a different universe. You knew Heeseung came from a rich family, his father being an NHL hockey player himself before he retired and moved back to Korea, but you didn’t realise he was this rich. 

You laughed in disbelief before making your way to the entrance. With each step, your heart seemed to beat a bit faster. 

You haven’t really had the chance to be over at a boy's house since…ever. The only male friends you had were Soobin's friends as well. Technically, Heeseung was as well, but this didn’t count. 

He was your…friend. 

The elevator ride up didn’t help with easing your nerves; you shifted your weight onto your good leg, adjusting your crutches slightly. 

Over the past few weeks, you had grown used to Heeseung hanging out in your office, almost like it was his second home. Some days, he was already there when you finished your last class, quietly studying or taking notes. His presence had become a strange comfort, one that didn’t bother you. If anything, it helped you stay focused. But this, being invited into his space, felt like a new step, one that made your heart race a little. When you reached his door, you hesitated for a second, taking a deep breath. You could hear muffled voices and the sound of something being moved around inside. 

The door swung open almost immediately after you pressed the doorbell. Heeseung stood in front of you, his hair was a lot messier than when you saw him a few hours ago. 

“Hi,” he said, sounding breathless. 

“Hi,” you gave him a small smile and peeked behind him. Jake stood behind him, waving at you with one hand while holding a full trash bag in the other. 

“Hello, Y/N. Nice to see you!” He dumped the bag next to the entrance to the hallway, where another one was already lying.

“I…we are cleaning today,” Heeseung said, his ears turning red. You chuckled watching him helplessly look between Jake and the trash bags. 

“That’s okay,” you grinned at him and leaned your crutches against the wall to take off your jacket. 

“Oh, wait! Let me–”, he reached forward, taking your crutches and helping you with sliding off your backpack. 

“Thank you.” “Sure!” Heeseung beamed at you while you crouched down to take off your sneaker. By now, you were able to stand on your foot with the cast on for a few minutes a day, and you usually used those minutes to get dressed or undressed. So you did just that, leaning onto your injured foot to slip out of your shoe. 

“Oh fuck sorry,” he reached forward to steady you, his hand wrapping around your elbow. You straightened up again, giving him a small smile. ”Thank you, Hee.”  

His eyes met yours before he averted them, almost shyly. A few seconds later, he seemed to notice that he was still holding your arm, and he let go fast enough for you to almost lose your balance, before catching you again. 

“I ’m-I-sorry,” he laughed breathlessly before handing you his crutches. “Are you hungry?” 

You blinked at him and then caught Jake's gaze. He was stifling a laugh, his shoulders shaking a bit. 

“Yeah,” you nodded once, pressing your lips onto each other to stop each other from smiling. “I have to take my meds soon, so I gotta eat.”

Heeseung nodded. “Okay,” he nodded again, before turning towards the kitchen. “I’ll get going then.”

He walked a few steps only to stop mid-movement. “Wait, I’ll get your bag.” Jake started laughing out loud now, before crossing the hallway to take your bag. “Hyung, go and coo. I’ll bring Y/N to your room. Just cook, if she has to take her meds.”

“I–”, Heeseung looked between you and Jake, blinking, so you nodded at Jake, wanting to save Heeseung from more humiliation in front of his roommate. “Sure!”

Jake shook his head with an amused grin, slinging your backpack over his shoulder before gesturing down the short hallway. "Let’s go then."

You snorted, grabbing your crutches from where Heeseung had leaned them against the wall and following him deeper into the apartment. It was big and spacious but furnished rather cosily, with dark wooden elements here and there and a few framed NHL posters and jerseys on the walls. You recognised the name on one of them. ‘Lee Manseok’, Heeseung's father.

"So," Jake said over his shoulder as he pushed open a door to a tidy room that had barely any decoration in it, a faint cedar scent hitting you. "How's your day been? You have classes on Wednesdays, right?"

"Yeah," you said, easing yourself onto the edge of the bed with a small sigh, putting your crutches on the floor next to it. "It’s been excruciatingly boring today, but that's alright. We don’t have an exam, just one paper and one group project, so I spend my time online shopping."

He giggled again. He dropped your bag on Heeseung's gaming chair, eyes flicking to your cast. "And the foot? How's that doing? You’ve been walking a lot better. I haven't seen your wheelchair for a while now."

You shrugged, rubbing your thigh absently where the pain had been spiking more lately. It was true, you were using the wheelchair less, putting more weight on your foot, you should have been able to walk without a cast for almost a week now, but your physiotherapist recommended you not do so yet. You weren’t ready. It left you incredibly frustrated, but you weren't about to unload that on Jake; it was bad enough that you did just that with Heeseung yesterday. "Alright. Getting there. I can stand on it for a few minutes now. It’s still gonna take like three or four weeks until I’m getting rid of the cast."

"Cool, cool," Jake nodded toward the closet. "Do you want a pair of joggers or something? I’m sure your jeans must be uncomfortable as hell. With your hip and all? Heeseung has an impressive amount of joggers. I swear.”  

You laughed, the sound lighter than you felt. "Sure, why not–"

Jake was already rummaging in the closet before you finished your sentence, pulling out some joggers with a triumphant grin. "Boom. These'll do. Comfy as hell. I steal those from the wash so often, I love these."

You shook your head, still chuckling. "Thank you."

Just then, the door swung open wider, Heeseung stepping in with two steaming bowls of ramen balanced carefully in his hands. His eyes widened at the sight of Jake elbow-deep in his closet. "Dude, what are you doing in my stuff?"

Jake straightened up, holding the pants like a trophy. "I’m graciously giving our dearest social media manager a pair of comfortable pants from your gigantic collection!"

Heeseung's ears went red again, but he set the bowls down on the desk with a huff, shooting Jake a look. "Out. I've got it from here."

Jake smirked and tossed the pants onto the bed beside you. "Alright. Have fun with your ramyeon, you two." He winked at you on his way out and pulled the door mostly shut behind him.

Heeseung exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his messy hair. He grabbed the bowls and handed one to you. The chopsticks were already tucked inside. He kicked off his slippers and settled cross-legged on the bed beside you. Your knees bumped lightly when you both balanced the steaming ramen. The rich, spicy smell filled the room.

"Thank you," you murmured, waiting for him to start eating first.

He hummed and blew on a bite before glancing at you sideways. His tone was casual but careful. "So, did you sleep okay after last night? You were pretty out of it when I dropped you off at the rink."

You shrugged and twirled your noodles slowly. You had tossed half the night after you had woken up at around ten. You decided to be honest with him.

"Not that well, actually. The weather flipped to this sunshine today. It makes my leg throb worse most of the time. It's the pressure drop or whatever. I kept waking up every hour."

His brows knit tight at that, and his chopsticks paused mid-air. Genuine concern etched his face. "Shit, yeah. I forgot about that. Coach mentioned it once. He said barometric changes mess with injuries. Do you need ice or anything? Physio gel? I can grab it from the freezer. Or heat? Whatever helps."

"No, I'm good for now," you said. You managed a small smile around a mouthful of the ramen. "Just gotta pace it. I’ll take painkillers after we’ve eaten. How about you? Did you finish whatever you were brooding over today? You seemed annoyed before I came."

He groaned dramatically and set his bowl on his knee for a second.  "Don't even get me started. I've got this song arrangement due Friday for my music production class. The girl I'm paired with is not doing anything. She was supposed to handle the melody and vocals. But there had been radio silence for three days now. I haven't touched her. I'm basically rewriting the whole damn thing from scratch later tonight." Annoyance bled through as he stabbed at a piece of egg. “I’ll have to sing the whole thing, even though she is the one in the Singing and Vocal undergrad.” 

You laughed and leaned back against his pillows to take some pressure off your leg. “I didn’t know you were singing.”

“I–I am occasionally?” Heeseung said, giving you a sly smile. “I am not the best, but whatever. I do what is needed for a good grade.” 

“I still haven’t found your Soundcloud”, you grinned at him, before taking another bite of the ramyeon. “These are really good, by the way.” 

Heeseung spluttered and coughed. “You tried finding that?”

You shook your head, reaching forward to gently pat his back when he continued to cough. “I haven’t, no. I respect your privacy, but it makes sense that you’re singing when, you know, you’re releasing music and stuff.”

He nodded, and the coughing stopped. “I’ll show you some. Later. Maybe.”

“I’d love to, Hee,” you gave him a warm smile before digging in again. “I understand why Gyu loves your ramyeon.”

Heeseung shook his head and laughed at that. “He’s an idiot.” You agreed to that. “He is, but I love him, so it’s alright.” 

Heeseung was chewing a bite of the noodles, looking at you intently all of a sudden. “Like love love? I didn’t know you and Guy were together.”

You stared at him, chopsticks suspended halfway to your mouth. “Together? Beomgyu and I?”

Heeseung nodded slowly, suddenly looking a lot less sure of himself. “Yeah, the two of you seem pretty close. I just kind of didn’t want to… You know, ask and make it weird.”

You blinked once. Twice. Then a laugh burst out of you, loud and incredulous. “Oh my god, no. No. Beomgyu is–” You shook your head, still laughing. “He is like my annoying older brother. I have never had anything with him. Ever.”

Heeseung’s chewing slowed to a stop. He watched you carefully, like he was trying to figure out if you were joking. “Really?”

“Really,” you said firmly. You set your bowl down on your lap so you could gesture properly. “He has been friends with Soobin for like ten years now, and they had to always take me everywhere and shit. He and my family go on family holiday trips once a year. That man is family. That’s it,” you wrinkled your nose in disgust. “That would be like… dating Soobin. I’d rather die.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh at that, but his eyes stayed on you, lingering a little longer than usual. The room felt smaller for a second, the space between you shrinking even though neither of you moved.

“Okay,” he said at last, voice softer. “Good to know.”

You tilted your head at him. “Why? Were you worried I was secretly in love with Beomgyu or something?”

He looked away then, down at his bowl, jaw working like he was choosing his words. “I just didn’t want to assume anything,” he muttered. “Or…cross a boundary or whatever.”

It took you a heartbeat to catch up. When you did, your stomach flipped. You shifted against the pillows, your leg twinging as you did, but you barely registered it. “Well,” you said quietly, “there’s no boundary to cross. Not like that,” you paused for a moment, your heart slowing down as you formulated the next few words. “If I’m into someone, it’s… definitely not him.”

Heeseung went very still at that. His gaze slowly drifted to yours, and for a long moment you just looked at each other, the glow of the lamp throwing soft shadows across his face. You could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, the way his fingers tightened slightly around his chopsticks.

“Okay,” he said again, but this time there was something different in his voice. “I’m… kind of glad, then.”

Your heart kicked up at that, beating loudly in your ears. “Yeah?” you asked, your voice coming out softer than you intended.

He let out a small, breathy laugh and scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Would’ve sucked if I…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away for a second before forcing themselves back to your face. “If I was reading this wrong.”

You swallowed, the warmth in your chest spreading out to your fingertips. “You’re not,” you said quietly.

His eyes widened just a fraction.

You rushed on before your courage could evaporate. “I mean… I like being here. With you. Like this,” you gestured vaguely between you, cheeks heating, your voice growing quieter with each word. “It’s not just the…ramyeon.”

Heeseung’s mouth curved into the smallest, almost disbelieving smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too. It’s… definitely not just the ramyeon.”

You both went a little quiet after that, suddenly aware of how close you were sitting, how your knees still touched, how his comforter bunched under your legs where they almost overlapped. 

He cleared his throat softly. “So,” he said, a little tentative, “Would you like to watch Nteflix?”

You matched his tone with a small smile of your own. “Yeah.”

He reached for the remote, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than necessary. Neither of you pulled away. Then he hit play, and the room filled with eerie music, both of you settling back against the pillows.

You shifted around slightly, trying to find a position that made the cast not press into your skin as uncomfortably, while trying not to spill any of your noodles or jostling Heeseung too much. 

His eyes flicked to your leg and lowered his bowl to his lap. "Do you need something to drink with your painkillers? Have you eaten enough for them?"

You sighed and rubbed your thigh lightly over the cast. The pressure was a small relief. "Yeah, I think I should take some now. I don’t think it will get better today. Usually, the only thing that really helps is phyiso."

"Massage gun? Would a massage gun help?" Heeseung perked up, handing you his bowl, getting up before you could even utter a word.  "I've got one in a drawer somewhere. Wait, give me a second"

You blinked at him. "A massage gun?"

He scooted off the bed with a grin. “Yeah,” he rummaged in his nightstand until he pulled out a sleek black device. He held it up triumphantly. "It’s a gift from my dad. I don’t really know why he thought I needed one, but whatever.” 

He shrugged and then focused on the buttons on the bottom of the gun. “It sounds a bit like a gigantic vibrator.” 

It came to life, vibrating for a few seconds before dying down again, with a rather pitiful sound.

You both stared at it for a beat before you burst out laughing at the exact same time. 

“I sure hope you didn’t use it as a vibrator? That would have been a quick session?”, you said, causing Heeseung to snort. His shoulders shook as he dropped the gun back in the drawer. "I haven’t, no. The others just joke about it. Our walls are thin.”

You flopped your head back against the bedframe with a sigh. “You all have the humour of a bunch of thirteen-year-olds.”

Heeseung shook his head at that and eased back onto the bed, taking his bowl from you. “Said the one who just made a joke a thirteen-year-old would make.” 

You hit his shoulder, which caused him to yelp and snort, before your laughter faded. The slow pulsing in your leg and the uncomfortable pressure around your ankle seemed to dislike your constant shifting. 

"I'm a bit annoyed," you admitted after a moment of silence. You pushed the rest of your noodles around in your bowl, trying to separate them from the egg that Heeseung had added. "My leg's just not cooperating today. I'm behind on the walking schedule, too. It's fine, but like…I don’t even know. I never thought that the surgery would help. I just,” you gestured vaguely with your hands, “wish the pain would stop? I’ve come to terms with the fact that my life will be different compared to everyone else's. Being disabled, especially in Korea, comes with a lot of accommodations I have to think about. That’s shit sometimes. The hills and the stairs.” 

Heeseung's face softened completely. He gently nudged your good shoulder. "It's not fine. I’m sorry that the crash happened and that you don’t think the surgery helped. I’m not pitying you, but I want you to know that it’s all right to feel shit about the whole situation, Y/N. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

You stared at him for a second, taking in his presence, the soft smile on his lips, his eyes looking so sincere, it made your heart stop beating for a second, warmth spreading in your ribcage. 

“I know. It’s just hard sometimes,” you whispered. 

“That’s alright,” he hummed, and nodded before giving you a small smile. “As long as you don’t let that take over. It might be hard, but there is so much you enjoy doing, isn’t there? Even if it is making us dance to those random TikTok dances.”

You giggled at that, rolling your eyes, while smiling at him. “I really like doing that, don’t I?”

“Well, it’s fun for us as well,” Heeseung took a bite of his noodles, slurping them down with a loud sound. You hummed and copied him, eating the remaining noodles you had left.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

Heeseung shifted slightly on the bed, stretching his legs as the second episode ended. He turned his head, ready to ask if you wanted to start another one, the question already on his tongue, until he actually looked at you.

You were fast asleep.

For a moment, he just stared at your figure. You were curled up against his pillow, wrapped in his blanket. One of your arms was tucked under your head, propping it up slightly. His heart skipped, then stumbled into a faster rhythm.

Your chest moved in slow, steady breaths, while your eyes fluttered from time to time. You looked so relaxed, your shoulders loose, your jaw relaxed, your breathing slow and steady. 

He didn’t dare move.

He became painfully aware of everything: how loud his breathing sounded, how the AC hummed quietly in the background, how the mattress dipped where you lay. He swallowed, tugging lightly at the collar of his shirt, heat crawling up his neck.

What was he supposed to do? Wake you up? Ask if you want to go home? 

In a rush of mild panic, he fumbled for his phone and opened a chat with Soobin.

Heeseung Hey man, Y/N fell asleep at my place. Is it cool if she stays over? I don’t want to wake her up.

He glanced from the screen back to you while he waited for an answer. His eyes were tracing the way your fingers were loosely curled near your cheek, the way a strand of hair had fallen across your face. You shifted just a little, nuzzling deeper into the pillow, and his chest clenched.

When he found you in the office yesterday, with your shoulders hunched and your leg up on that horrible armrest, his heart had sunk. You had been crying, your eyes were puffy, and you were sniffling, even in your sleep. He had wanted to reach out and smooth your hair back, to wipe away the dried tears, to do something to make it better. 

He hadn’t. 

He hadn’t been sure he was allowed to, hadn’t been sure you’d even want him close.

Now, his hand hovered awkwardly halfway between his lap and your face, fingers twitching. He wanted to tuck that strand of hair behind your ear, just once. To see your face clearly. To fix the tiny, meaningless thing he actually could fix.

But touching you while you slept felt… weird, right? Too much. Too intimate. He froze there, hand suspended in mid air, feeling ridiculous.

You sniffed softly in your sleep, and he panicked, yanking his hand back as he’d almost burned himself.

His phone buzzed.

Soobin Hyung (New) She’s an adult, dude. I’ll let my parents know she’s sleeping over, though.

Heeseung let out a breath he’d been holding, shoulders dropping with relief. 

Okay. 

This is fine. 

You’re fine.

He is fine. 

Heeseung sent a quick thank you, then set the phone aside and, moving as slowly as humanly possible, shifted a bit closer in the process, not enough to crowd you, just enough to tuck the blanket a bit higher over your shoulder. The fabric brushed your chin, and you let out a tiny, content hum, making his heart thud painfully hard once.

“Sorry,” he whispered, even though you didn’t wake.

He eased himself back toward the edge of the bed, trying to give you space without falling off. Every movement felt too loud in his own head: the rustle of the blanket, the creak of the mattress, the hush of his breath. 

The TV’s soft glow painted a faint light across your face. From here, he could see the way your lashes rested on your cheeks, the way your mouth relaxed when you exhaled. 

His hand hovered near your face again, closer this time, fingers stopping a few centimetres from your hair. He could almost feel the warmth of your skin, even without touching. He wanted to smooth his thumb along your brow, to check if you were really as relaxed as you looked, to erase the memory of you asleep with tear-streaked cheeks and a clenched jaw.

But you weren’t crying now. You weren’t in pain, or trapped in that crammed office room, or fighting to breathe through sobs. You were just… resting. In his bed. In his space.

And he was not going to risk ruining that.

He let his hand fall back to his side with a quiet sigh, fingers curling into the blanket instead. “I’m going crazy,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything.

He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes drifting from the ceiling to you and back again. Sleep felt impossible. 

He turned his head for one last look before forcing himself to try and rest. There you were: tucked under his blanket, your crutches leaning against the wall, your shoulders loose, your face free of tension.

He still didn’t really know what to do with all of the feelings crowding his chest, but one thing he knew for sure was that if this was what you looked like when you felt safe, he would do whatever he could to keep it that way. Even if it meant sitting perfectly still all night, overthinking every breath, just so you wouldn’t wake up.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

You woke up slowly, like someone was gently turning the world back on one switch at a time. You kept your eyes closed, refusing to open them, trying to convince your body to fall back asleep, to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of the low humming pain. After a few seconds, you forced your eyelids open, your lashes sticking a little to each other.

This… was not your room.

The ceiling was wrong. The comforter was too light and felt different. Your brain tried to piece that together, but you were so tired you couldn’t be bothered to panic properly. You just made a small noise in your throat and instinctively curled onto your side, trying to find a more comfortable position.

You rolled toward the warmth beside you and nearly bumped straight into him.

Heeseung was lying on his side, facing you, one arm tucked under his head. He was on top of his blanket, his styled hair was a bit mussed, smushed from the pillow. A low snoring sound came from his partly opened lips, while his chest was moving in slow, steady breaths.

For a second, your brain completely stalled.

You were in his bed.

You were in his bed. Under his blanket. Hogging his blanket.

Oh.

Heat shot up your neck at light speed as the realisation properly hit. You tugged instinctively at the covers, eyes widening as they slid with you. 

Your movement was enough to disturb him. 

His brows twitched first, then his lashes fluttered before his eyes blinked open, unfocused for half a second. He looked dazed, caught between sleep and waking.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

You lay there, barely a hand’s width of space between you, faces close enough that you could see the tiny moles along his cheekbone, could feel the warmth of his breath ghost against your cheek. The room was quiet, washed in soft, blue‑grey light, and the eye contact was suddenly so intense it made your stomach flip.

“I–” you whispered, your voice rough with sleep. You swallowed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He blinked slowly, then the corners of his mouth tipped up in a tiny, sleepy smile. “It’s fine,” he murmured, voice low and husky from sleep. “You didn’t. Not really.”

His eyes scanned your face, a quick flicker of worry passing through them. “You okay?”

You hummed, a small noise, and gave the faintest of nods. “Just… tired.”

He huffed out a quiet breath, something like a laugh. “Yeah. I figured.” There was a pause, his gaze dipping down for a second, as if he had only just realised you were wrapped tightly in his blanket. “Do you… Want something to sleep in? Like actual sleepwear?”

You scrunched your nose, already preemptively protesting. “I don’t wanna get up,” you mumbled, eyes slipping half‑closed again. “I’m tired.”

He let out a soft, amused exhale. “I understand now why Beomgyu was so insistent you get a sofa,” he said, tone teasing, barely above a whisper. “With how much you sleep, he might’ve been onto something.”

Your eyes opened a little wider at that, just enough to send him a weak, offended look. “Rude,” you muttered, fake scandal bleeding through the sleep in your voice. “I just need a lot of sleep, okay? It’s called recovery.”

He smiled, softer this time. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’m just teasing.”

For a beat, he just looked at you. His face was so soft, his expression so gentle, it made your heart beat faster. Then his hand lifted, hesitating in the air between you for the tiniest second before he reached forward. His fingers brushed against your temple as he pushed a strand of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear with almost absurd care. The touch made your skin tingle, warmth blooming where his fingers had been. Your breath caught without your permission.

“I’ll get you something else to wear,” he whispered, his hand lingering for half a heartbeat near your cheek before he pulled it back. “So you’re comfortable.”

You just nodded, suddenly unable to string words together. “Okay,” you breathed.

He offered you one more sleepy, reassuring smile, then carefully pushed himself up, moving slowly. You watched him pad across the dim room to his closet, the blanket still wrapped snugly around you, heart doing that annoying, fluttery thing in your chest.

He came back to the bed with an armful of clothes, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the quiet.

“Here,” he said, voice low as he held them out to you. On top was a shirt made of heavy, soft cotton. Underneath, he handed you a pair of shorts.

Your stomach dropped a little.

“I figured these would be more comfortable than your pants,” he added, smiling lazily at you. “They should fit. Or, you know, be huge.”

Your fingers tightened on the fabric. You knew they wouldn’t cover them, the scars littering your legs, the discolouration, the deformations on the muscles. 

The thought of him seeing everything made your chest squeeze, nausea curling low in your stomach. You hated it, seeing and feeling the odd texture. You knew most people tried not to look when you wore something that showed off your leg, but they still did. They always did.  

You opened your mouth, trying to find the words to not sound unthankful, to ask for different pants. 

It looks ugly. 

My leg looks wrong. 

I don’t want you to see.

But nothing came out. Your throat just closed around the sentence 

“Yeah,” you said instead, swallowing hard. “This is… good. Thanks.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied. “I’ll turn around,” he said, already moving. He stepped around the bed and sat down on the floor on the other side, his back against the frame, facing the wall. “Take your time. I won’t look.”

He folded his arms loosely over his knees, head tilted away, giving you space in the most literal way he could.

You stayed frozen exactly where you were.

The shirt lay in your lap, the shorts beside it, and your hands didn’t move. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thicker. The thought of standing up, of peeling off what you were wearing and exposing your leg, your scars, in his room, even if he was turned away, made your stomach twist. Your skin prickled, a familiar wave of embarrassment and something like panic creeping in.

You hated this. 

Hated how much space it took up in your head. 

Hated that you could break bones and survive surgery and drag yourself through physio, but the idea of someone you… liked seeing the marks it all left behind, made your body want to shut down.

Seconds passed, a minute, maybe more, maybe less, without you moving.

Heeseung shifted a little. “Y/N?” he asked quietly, not turning around. “You okay?”

Your fingers tightened around the hem of the shirt.

“Can you…” You paused, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “Can you give me long pants instead?” The words came out small, almost guilty. “I don’t… I don’t want you to have to look at the scars.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he shook his head once, more to himself than at you. “Y/N,” he said softly, still facing the wall, voice steady. “I wouldn’t care.”

You let out ahumourlesss huff. “You say that now.”

“I mean it,” he insisted, and there was something so firm, so sure in his tone that it made you pause. “It’s part of you, isn’t it? Part of what you went through.” He drew a slow breath. “I’m… glad it’s scars. That’s just that. That’s not your whole leg missing. Or you… not being here at all.”

Your throat tightened at that, the nausea mixing with something else, something heavy and warm and terrifying.

He kept going, gently, like he knew if he stopped, you might retreat completely. “I’m not going to think you’re ugly because you have scars,” he said. “If you want to, I can give some to you, but you don’t have to wear long pants. I don’t care about your scars, I promise.” 

You stared at his back, at the way his shoulders were set, at how he still hadn’t turned around, like he was physically holding the boundary for you.

You swallowed hard, the words you wanted to say piling up. 

I hate them. 

I hate that you might see. 

I hate that I care so much what you think. 

Instead, you just muttered, barely audible, “I…okay.”

Your hands finally moved.

You changed quickly, fingers clumsy with exhaustion and nerves, skin prickling every time the fabric brushed over the rougher parts of your leg. You moved as quietly as you could, as if noise might draw his eyes even though he had promised he wouldn’t look. The shirt fell over you, heavy and soft and smelling like him, the hem almost comically long on you. The shorts sat higher on your waist than you were used to, but they were loose and easy to move in.

When you were done, you sat down on the bed again, wrapping the blanket over your legs, clearing your throat. “Okay,” you said again, a little louder. “You can… turn around.”

He pushed himself up and turned, careful, like he was afraid of startling you. His eyes flicked over you quickly, then softened when he saw you properly wrapped in his clothes.

“Looks comfortable,” he said simply. 

You nodded, suddenly too tired to do much else. He settled back on top of the blanket next to you, taking less than half of the bed. 

“Lie down,” he said gently. “You need sleep.”

You did as he said, turning onto your side, facing the wall this time. 

The room fell quiet again.

You stared at the fabric bunched in your hand and tried to ignore the way your chest still felt tight. 

Behind you, you heard him shift slightly. The mattress dipped a bit as he moved into your direction and then back onto his back. You waited for him to say something, anything, but he just let out a slow breath and stayed where he was, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth along your back, while he wasn’t touching you.

You lay there for a while, staring at the shadowy outline of his wall, listening to the soft shift of sheets as he settled behind you. 

You swallowed, then slowly rolled back over.

Heeseung was on his side again, propped slightly against his pillow. When he noticed you turn, his eyelids fluttered open, and his eyes met yours, surprise flickering briefly across his face before it melted into something softer.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low.

“Hey,” you echoed, your own voice small. You fiddled with the edge of the blanket for a second, then cleared your throat. “Um… good night. And… thank you. For… all of this. Letting me sleep here. The clothes. Just… everything.”

He shifted a little closer on top of the blanket, careful not to crowd you, so you were facing each other with only a small space between. His lips curved into a tired, warm smile.

“You don’t have to thank me. Really,” he replied quietly.

You held his gaze, the dim room making his eyes look softer, darker. The closeness felt strangely intimate and oddly gentle at the same time, like neither of you wanted to break the moment.

“I’ve got training in the morning,” he added after a beat, tone apologetic, “but I’ll get you home after, if you want. Or before, if you’d rather not wait. Whatever works for you.”

You shook your head, the blanket rustling slightly. “No, it’s okay,” you said. “You don’t have to. I can just grab a taxi in the morning. Or whenever I wake up. You don’t need to worry about it.”

His brows knit for half a second, like he wanted to argue, but he let it go. “Okay,” he said softly. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” you murmured.

Silence settled again, but it felt different now, less heavy. He studied your face for a moment, something gentle and almost painfully fond in his expression.

Then his hand lifted, slow and unhurried, giving you enough time to pull back if you wanted to. When you didn’t, his fingers brushed against your cheek, the back of his knuckles barely grazing your skin as he gently petted the side of your face, thumb smoothing over a spot just below your eye.

“Let’s sleep now,” he whispered. 

The touch made your eyelids grow heavier than they already were. Your cheek leaned into his hand without you meaning to.

“Okay,” you breathed, the word barely more than air.

He let his hand linger for a second longer, then slowly pulled it back, tucking it close to his chest.

“Good night, Y/N,” he said, just above a whisper.

“Good night, Heeseung,” you mumbled back, your voice already thick with sleep as you let your eyes finally close, his face the last thing you saw in the soft, dim light.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

“A little bird told me you didn’t return home last night,” Beomgyu teased as he entered your office without knocking first. You looked up from your laptop and sighed, already bracing yourself for his relentless teasing. “I didn’t,” you admitted, rolling your eyes. “Did that little bird also tell you I fell asleep after watching, like, one and a half episodes of Gyeoseong creature? And that absolutely nothing else happened?” 

You knew exactly who the “little bird” was: your brother, who had left several messages on your phone after he had claimed you fell asleep at his dorm and not as Heeseungs, saving you from your father's wrath. “He did mention that, actually,” Beomgyu smirked, shaking his damp hair free from his hat. “But I have to say, I’m a little disappointed.” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “You had the perfect opportunity to get something going with,” he paused for effect, “a hot guy that Yeonjun hyung, and I fully approve of, and you did nothing? And don’t give me the ‘I’m not interested in Heeseung’ excuse. I know all about your little evening sessions in your office.”

You ignored the last part of what he had said. “You and Yeonjun? What about Soobin? Wouldn’t he approve of Heeseung?” Bromguys's grin grew in size as he leaned onto your desk, his face in his hands. “Why? Should he?”

Your face heated up when you realised you essentially just confessed to Beomguy that, yes, yes, your brother should approve of Heeseung. “I-no? Yes? Maybe?”

“Oh my god, Y/N,” Bromguy laughed once in disbelief, but his face grew soft as he leaned back, leaning onto your desk with his hip. “You like Heeseung?”

Your eyes darted away from your friend, back to your screen, where a clip of Heeseung and Sunghoon racing through the arena was currently looping. It did not help. At all.

Your face burned now, heat crawling all the way up to the tips of your ears. “I…” You clicked your mouse for no reason, just to have something to do with your hand. “Can we not talk about this?”

Beomgyu huffed out a soft laugh. “So that’s a yes.”

You slumped back in your chair, staring stubbornly at the monitor. “I didn’t say yes.”

“You also didn’t say no,” he pointed out gently.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. 

You did like him, you really did. 

You liked how he made your heart race, you liked talking to him, you liked being around him. But…saying those words out loud felt heavy and awkward…it would make everything real.

You had never really liked someone. 

You didn’t really have the opportunity to do so, at least that is what you told yourself. Ryjin always claimed you just refused to let anyone into your heart that didn’t know you before the accident, before life had turned upside down. 

You knew she was right. 

But it was hard, letting someone in. 

Letting them see the burden you had to carry, the burden they would have to carry, the uncertainty of what would happen next. Of when the next surgery would put your life on hold again, of when it might be too much. 

Your cursor hovered over the pause button, but you did not press it. You kept watching Heeseung race across your screen, frame by frame, over and over.

“Yeah,” you said finally, voice small. “I think…I…I like him.”

The admission hung between you. You did not look up. 

Your heart was beating too fast, like it was trying to escape through your ribs.

Beomgyu was quiet for a moment, but when he spoke again, his voice had lost its teasing edge. “Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

You forced your eyes away from the monitor. He was watching you with that annoyingly perceptive gaze he got sometimes, the one that made you feel sixteen again and caught sneaking out.

“There she is,” he said, lips quirking into a small, fond smile. “You like Heeseung.”

You exhaled, a shaky little puff of air that was almost a laugh. “You don’t have to say it twice.”

“I kind of do,” he said. “It’s cute.”

You groaned and slapped a hand over your face. “I hate you.”

He laughed once, but it was soft, not mean. “No, you don’t.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “I’m serious. This is embarrassing.”

“Why?” he asked. He shifted his weight, hip still propped on your desk, arms loosely crossed. “You like a guy who is nice to you, makes you laugh, and clearly cares about you. That’s not embarrassing, that’s… normal. Healthy, even.”

You rolled your chair back an inch, the wheels squeaking. “It’s not just that,” you muttered. “He’s my dad’s player. He’s in and out of the rink all the time. If it goes weird, I still have to see him. And Soobin is going to freak out. And my leg is a mess. And I–”

“Hey.” Beomgyu reached out and wrapped his hand around your wrist lightly, pulling on it enough to make you drop your hand from your face. “Breathe.”

You did, grudgingly.

He held your gaze. “You don’t have anything to worry about with him. Heeseung is a great guy. Like, objectively. Yeonjun and I don’t hand out the ‘we approve’ stamp for fun, you know?”

You snorted despite yourself. “You literally do.”

“Okay, for other people it doesn’t count,” he conceded. “But for you, we would never, you know that, Y/N. Heeseung is my friend, yes, but I also know that he makes you happy, and you make him happy. You’re one of the most important people in my life, you know that. I only want the best for you, and if that is Heeseung, I’ll gladly support and defend the two of you. He’s respectful. He’s not going to mess you around. Soobin knows that too. He’s just…” He hesitated, searching for the word. “…Soobin.”

You let out a slow breath, shoulders slumping. “Protective,” you finished for him.

“Yeah,” Beomgyu agreed. “He watched you almost die in a hospital bed. He watched you learn how to walk again. It fried his brain a little. He’s always going to be twitchy about anyone getting close, because he doesn’t want to see you in pain.”

“I know,” you said quietly. You fiddled with the edge of a sticky note on your desk, peeling it up and pressing it back down. “Doesn’t make it less annoying.”

“True,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “But he’s not stupid. He likes Heeseung as a player and as a person. He’s grumpy because you’re his little sister, not because Heeseung is bad news.”

You huffed, looking back at the frozen frame on your screen, Heeseung mid-laugh, eyes almost closed, shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely were on the ice. Your chest squeezed.

“So,” Beomgyu continued, voice lightening a bit, “you like him, he clearly likes you, and both Yeonjun and I approve. Soobin will come around, I’m sure.” He straightened and spread his hands. “Honestly? You’re pretty much out of excuses.”

You glared half-heartedly. “You’re very irritating when you’re right.”

He grinned. “It’s a gift.”

You hesitated, then let the corner of your mouth lift. “You really think I don’t have to worry?”

“I really think,” he said, his tone warm and sure, “that if there is one person you’re allowed to fall for, it’s Lee Heeseung. Please don’t literally fall. I don’t think anyone around you would survive seeing you fall to the floor without having a heart attack. Me included.”

You groaned again, but this time there was a laugh tucked into it. “Shut up.”

He pushed off the desk and headed for the door, tossing a look back over his shoulder. “I’m just saying: if you’re going to like someone, he’s a pretty good choice. And if Soobin freaks out, I’ll tell him it was my idea.”

You blinked. “It wasn’t your idea.”

“I know,” Beomgyu said, winking. “Makes the sacrifice more heroic.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt a little lighter. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And you like Heeseung.”

“Get out of my office,” you said, cheeks burning.

He laughed all the way down the hall.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ 

The living room in Yeonjun’s, Beomguy’s and Soobin’s dorm was loud and stuffy with ten people crammed in the tight space. Game night at their flat was usually chaotic and filled with loads of unhealthy food and alcohol, which is why it didn’t happen too often during the season, but they had this weekend off and decided it was time to just come down for a second. Someone was screaming about being blue-shelled in Mario Kart, and laughter echoed through the room. Heeseung barely registered any of it.

He was sunk into one end of the couch, shoulder pressed against the backrest, and you were stretched out along the cushions, your back resting against the opposite arm, both of your legs draped over his lap. Your right ankle was propped carefully, and he had his hands wrapped around your calf, thumbs moving in slow, deliberate circles into the tight muscle. He could feel the tension under his fingers, the way your leg slowly, gradually relaxed. 

He had come a bit later than the others, having had a meeting with the coach about the new recruits for the team. They haven’t integrated themselves as well as anyone would have wished, and the coach was looking for ways to change that, asking his captain for his intel. Heeseung doubted that his opinion on the whole situation mattered much, seeing how your father was set on benching most of the new players. You told him to just tell your dad what he thought, that maybe he would listen, even if you yourself doubted that. 

When he finally entered the living room, you were already stretched over the sofa, Beomguy in the position Heeseung was in now, while he played an intense match of Mario Kart against the others. Beomguy had lost and excused himself to go to the toilet, when Heeseung had just finished greeting the rest and getting himself some pizza, so he took the opportunity and sat down in Beomguy's place. 

You tentatively asked if you could use him for stretching out your legs, and he had carefully guided them into his lap. “You are never allowed to stop doing this,” you muttered, as he started to work on the muscles, or well, whatever muscle was left in the calf. It was surprisingly soft when he first touched it. 

Your head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. “I will sue you.”

Heeseung huffed a quiet laugh, looking down at your leg so he would not stare at your face too much. “I am pretty sure that is not how suing works.”

“It is now,” you said, not even trying to inject real threat into it. 

“Sure,” he said softly. “I’m shaking with fear, Y/N.”

You snorted at that, but the sound dissolved into a breathy, involuntary noise when his thumbs pressed into a knot just above your ankle. It was not a polite little sigh. It was a low, almost obscene groan that punched straight through his chest and settled somewhere hot and uncomfortable in his stomach.

Oh. Oh no.

He felt his ears burn instantly, heat creeping up his neck. Heeseung kept his gaze firmly on your ankle, fingers continuing the same slow, steady motion as if nothing had happened.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, voice coming out rough. “Marry me.”

He laughed, but it came out a touch higher than usual. “I have to decline, Y/N. I want a more romantic proposal. ”

“Rude,” you sighed. “That was very romantic.”

He swallowed a smile and focused on his hands. “Is it bad today? You seem tired?”

You hummed, your head resting on the backrest of the sofa. “A bit? My hip and my back have been acting up, so I took the legally allowed dosage of painkillers. So I’m a bit,” you gestured vaguely in the air with one hand. “Tired? But it’s fine.”  

It didn’t feel fine to him, so he just nodded and hummed, caressing your knee for a second. Even through your jeans, he could feel the unnatural shape of the bone and the tissue underneath. 

“How was your meeting with my dad?” you asked a few seconds later, watching his hands work. “I'm sorry if he was pissed. We fought a bit because I wanted to come even though I am in pain.” 

Heeseung's gaze wandered up, his hands halting for a second before he continued. He didn’t agree often with his coach, but not letting you come seemed like a good idea, considering how exhausted you looked. “It was fine. He is pretty set on benching the others for the next few games until they finally get it in their heads that we won’t play as violently as they do.”

You hummed and closed your yes, nodding in agreement. "He's right tho. Woojin and Seojong should stop trying to start fights on the ice. It won’t get you anywhere.”

“I know,” Heeseung muttered. 

A shadow fell over the two of you, and a hand appeared in his peripheral vision, holding a bottle and a glass with a milky fluid inside. “Another drink for you, Y/N!”  Beomgyu announced, already flushed and grinning. “Heeseungie, do you want a drink?”

Heeseung’s hands stilled for a second. You turned your head toward Beomgyu, eyes lighting up just a little. “For me? Hell yeah.”

“No, Y/N,” Heeseung said at the same time.

Both you and Beomgyu looked at him. “What?” you asked.

Beomgyu blinked. “She said yes, captain.”

“She is on meds,” Heeseung replied, keeping his voice calm but absolute. “She is not drinking on top of that.”

Your bottom lip pushed out immediately. “Just one?”

“No.” He met your gaze, forcing himself not to soften. 

Beomgyu raised his free hand in surrender. “Okay, no Milkis shots for Y/N.” He backed away toward the kitchen again, calling over his shoulder, “More for me then!”

You let your head fall back against the cushion with a dramatic groan. “You are no fun.”

“I am very fun,” Heeseung said, starting to move his thumbs again, slower now. “I am also not interested in seeing you passed out on your brother's floor because you mixed meds and alcohol.”

You huffed, pouting at him. “It wouldn’t have been that bad,” you muttered while you reached for a class filled with what he assumed was Coke. “I’ve done that a million times.”

“Well, not on my watch, Y/N,” he said. Then he added, quieter, “Alcohol will make your foot feel worse, and if you’re already feeling like shit, you don’t have to add fuel to the fire. I would love to not have to worry about that, Y/N.”

He felt, rather than saw, the way that landed. Your shoulders relaxed a little, your mouth softened around the straw of the Coke you had. You did not comment on it, but you did not pull your legs away either. 

“I promise I’m usually careful,” you mumbled after a moment, “You won’t have to worry about me.”

He smiled, eyes flicking to your face. “I know.”

“Good,” you said. 

The two of you went silent for a long moment, just watching the TV screen where the four characters were driving through Bowser's castle. You made another sound when he found another knot, half sigh and half something that sat too close to that earlier groan for his sanity, and your eyes slipped closed. He kept massaging the spot, his finger gently pressing into your calf, while you took deep, relaxed breaths. 

He loved this more than he should.

He loved that you trusted him enough to pass out like this in a room full of people, your leg over his lap, your face turned toward him. 

He loved that he could say no when you wanted something that would hurt you, and you would pout, complain, and then listen. 

He knew exactly what it was at this point. 

He didn’t just like you. 

He had a crush, full-on, warm and terrifying and relentless. 

And he was pretty sure you were reciprocating those feelings to a certain degree. And he loved knowing that even more than anything else. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ 

At some point, the volume in the living room dipped. Mario Kart had finally been abandoned, and someone had put on a movie. Yeonjun had dimmed the lights, only the TV and a floor lamp casting soft pools of glow across the room.

Soobin wandered back in from the kitchen, a fresh drink in his hand. His gaze swept the room, landed on you and Heeseung on the couch, and softened.

“Move,” he said quietly, nudging Heeseung’s knee with his own.

Heeseung shifted without complaint, scooting a bit closer to the middle so Soobin could squeeze onto the other side of you. Your legs were still draped over Heeseung’s lap, his hands resting lightly around your calf now instead of working into the muscle. Soobin settled down with a small sigh, one arm draping over the back of the couch behind his shoulders.

You were clearly fighting sleep, your blinking slower, your breaths deeper. Every so often, your foot twitched against Heeseung’s thigh, and he adjusted his hold automatically, checking without thinking that your ankle was still in a position that would not hurt later.

Then your head started to dip forward.

He watched it happen in slow motion, your chin tipping toward your chest, shoulders hunching as gravity won. You jerked awake at the last second, catching yourself with an embarrassed little inhale, eyes blinking wide for a moment.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, straightening, rubbing at your face. “I am awake.”

“It is fine,” Heeseung said, voice low so he would not disturb the others. He shifted a bit closer, angling his shoulder toward you deliberately. “Just use my shoulder.”

You looked at him like he had suggested you climb onto his lap instead. “No. That is weird.”

“It is not weird,” he insisted. “You are tired. Your neck is going to die if you keep doing that.”

“I’m fine," you muttered, and stayed upright, staring stubbornly at the screen.

He let it go for about five minutes. In that time, your head bobbed forward twice more, each time snapping back up with a soft curse. Soobin glanced down at you once, worry flickering over his face, but you just waved him off, insisting you were fine.

Heeseung gave it one more minute, then spoke again, quieter. “Seriously. Just use my shoulder. It is okay.”

You blew out a breath, somewhere between annoyed and resigned. “You are very persistent, you know that?”

“Yes,” he said, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I get told that a lot.”

You rolled your eyes, but this time, when your head dipped again, you let it keep going. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you leaned sideways until your temple found his shoulder. You adjusted for a second, a small frown appearing as you shifted to find a better angle, then your muscles unwound bit by bit. He felt the exact moment you gave in, your weight settling more fully, your body sinking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“There,” he murmured. “Not weird.”

You hummed something faint that he could not catch. It might have been an insult, might have been an agreement, but your eyes slid closed fully this time and did not open again. Your breathing evened out, warm against his neck. One of your hands, which had been resting on your stomach, slipped sideways, fingers brushing his forearm before going limp.

He kept his shoulder steady, barely daring to move. He adjusted his arm just enough to keep your leg from sliding, his fingers resting light against your shin. On his other side, Soobin watched the screen, but from the corner of his eye, Heeseung noticed the way Soobin’s gaze flicked down to you every so often. 

There was something soft there, something protective, but there was no tension directed at him. If anything, Soobin looked… relieved. 

Heeseung's heart made a weird movement at that. His gaze wandered to your face again before he turned his eyes back to the TV, even though he was not really absorbing anything on it. 

All his senses were full of you, the weight of your head, the warmth pressed along his side, the occasional small twitch of your foot. 

An hour later, the movie credits rolled slowly across the screen, casting pale blue light over the living room. The volume had been turned low at some point, just enough to hear the soft synth music over the occasional snore from Yeonjun. Some of the others got up to get something to drink or to go to the toilet, but Heeseung didn’t move. 

His shoulder was stiff, his right leg numb under the weight of yours, but he stayed still as stone. Your head was still tucked against him, temple pressed warm to his collarbone, your breaths slow and even. One of your hands had curled into the fabric of his t-shirt sometime while you slept, fingers loose but holding on, like you had reached for him without thinking.

He glanced down at you, careful not to shift too much. Your face was relaxed in sleep, mouth parted just slightly, the tension gone from around your eyes. It made something ache in his chest, sharp and sweet.

He noticed that Soobin had been watching him for a moment, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. "You alright?"

Heeseung blinked, tearing his gaze away from your sleeping figure. "Yeah. Why?"

Soobin shrugged one shoulder, but there was a knowing tilt to his mouth. "Just checking. She’s been sleeping on you for a while now."

Heat crept up Heeseung's neck before he could stop it. "Yeah, she was tired. I figured my shoulder was more comfortable than her sleeping without any support.”

Soobin hummed, not quite buying the casual tone. "She sleeps like a baby, apparently. Especially when you're around."

Heeseung's ears burned hotter. "She was tired," he said, aiming for defensive but landing somewhere closer to flustered. "Painkillers and everything. You know."

"Mhm," Soobin said, clearly amused now. "And she apparently likes to do that, resting on your shoulder. Very cosy."

"Shut up," Heeseung muttered, but there was no heat in it. He could feel his face going red, scrambling for an out. "She was just comfortable. It is not–"

Beomgyu looked up from his phone, cutting in before Soobin could twist the knife further. "Leave Heeseung alone. You are not Y/N's dad."

Soobin snorted, uncrossing his arms. "I might not be, but I’m still her older brother. And I just wanna make sure they are being safe and happy before I go on and ruin Heeseung's life."

Heeseung choked on air. "We are not–"

"Relax," Soobin said, waving a hand. "I am messing with you. Mostly."

Beomgyu cackled quietly, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. "My god, Hee, you should have seen your face."

Heeseung groaned, rubbing his free hand over his face, but the rest just chuckled quietly.

“So are we gonna watch part two?, Yunjin asked after she came back with another round of drinks for the rest and water for Heeseung. 

“Sure,” Soobin shrugged and searched for the second instalment of whatever movie they were watching, while Heeseung leaned back into the sofa, adjusting your body a bit and carefully brushing some loose strands of hair out of your face, not caring that the whole room was watching. 

When the second movie ended, almost everyone was asleep or close to falling asleep. Heeseung was sure he himself had slept for a bit, his head now resting on yours. He couldn’t remember a big chunk of the movie and couldn’t understand the plot twist, not that he cared much. 

Soobin reached for the remote, turning the TV off before he slowly got up, squatting down next to Chaewon, who was curled against the wing chair Yunjin was sleeping in, slowly waking her up. 

Heeseung watched them for a second, the way she blinked her eyes open, how Soobin lovingly stroked her hair, her face, until she seemed more awake. She stretched, and they whispered something before he leaned down to press a kiss against her forehead. He straightened up and collected a few of the cups standing around, carrying them to the kitchen. 

Heeseung followed his figure for a few seconds, thinking about what to do next. He decided that he should wake you up, so you could go to bed properly. He dipped his head a little, voice barely above a whisper near your ear. "Y/N. The movie's over. Let’s get you home."

You stirred immediately, but not in the way he expected. Your eyebrows pulled together in a grumpy little frown, and instead of lifting your head, you curled closer. Your hand tightened in his shirt, fingers fisting the cotton, and you made a small, displeased noise deep in your throat. "No," you mumbled, face pressing harder into his shoulder. "Five more minutes."

Heeseung bit back a smile, heat creeping up his neck at the way you burrowed into him. "Come on. Don’t you want to get changed and sleep in your bed?"

"Mm," was all you managed, stubbornly clinging.

Soobin watched the exchange, amusement flickering in his eyes before it shifted to something more serious. He chuckled softly, taking the empty Coke cans on the table. "Just let her sleep. I will carry her to my bed."

Heeseung's stomach did an unhelpful flip. He looked down at you again, your fingers still curled in his shirt, your weight fully relaxed against his side. 

“Are you sure? Don’t you and Chaewon noona sleep there?” He asked with uncertainty. “I can bring Y/N home, it’s no problem.” 

Soobin's eyebrows lifted slightly, wariness sharpening his gaze. He studied Heeseung for a long moment, glance flicking between his face and the way your hand gripped his shirt. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Heeseung nodded once, firm. "I have her. Do not worry."

Soobin held his eyes a beat longer, something unreadable passing there. Heeseung knew this facial expression. Soobin was calculating, thinking, but then he exhaled slowly and nodded. "Can you take her to your flat? I am sure neither you nor she wants my dad to know about the two of you."

"I will," Heeseung promised.

Your brother hummed. “Okay. Let me get Beomgyu. He’ll help with her stuff. I’ll get Chae to bed in the meantime.” 

Heeseung nodded wordlessly, and Soobin seemed satisfied enough, turning back to Chaewon, who seemed a bit wobbly on her feet when she stood up. 

A minute later, Beomgyu stumbled in from the kitchen, cheeks flushed and eyes a bit glassy, carrying your crutches in one hand and your bag and shoes dangling from the other. 

“Got it,” he slurred cheerfully, swaying just a bit. “Ready, loverboy?”

Heeseung huffed a quiet laugh despite himself, carefully shifting to gather you up, one arm behind your back, the other under your knees. You were lighter than he expected, even with the dead weight of sleep, your head lolling to rest against his shoulder. 

He stood slowly, adjusting his hold, silently thanking his coach, Jay, and Sunghoon for every gruelling gym session that made him go through.

Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt the whole time.

Beomguy walked ahead, balancing your crutches and bag, kicking open the door with his foot. On the way down the hallway, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re taking such good care of her, hyung,” he said over his shoulder, voice a little thick from the alcohol but warm, sincere. His eyes met Heeseung’s for a moment, soft and trusting. “She needs someone like you. Don’t mind Soobin too much. He’ll come around. You’re a great guy for her.”

Heeseung blinked for a second, stunned from the statement, before he swallowed. “Thanks, Gyu. It means a lot to me to hear that from you.” Heeseung adjusted his hold on you. “I don’t mind,” he answered honestly. “I mean Soobin, and the coach. I like being there for her, even if I have to defend myself from them.”

Beomgyu’s mouth twitched into a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. I figured.” He pushed the building’s front door open, letting the cool night air wash over all three of you. Rain tapped softly against the pavement outside. “You two will be fine. Just… keep her out of her dad’s line of sight until you’re ready for that talk, okay?”

“Okay,” Heeseung said. 

They crossed quickly to his car. Beomguy opened the back door and set your crutches and bag on the seat, tucking your shoes beside them. Meanwhile, Heeseung opened the front passenger door with his elbow, then shifted you carefully to settle you into the seat. Your head lolled toward him, eyes blinking open for a second.

“Hm?” you murmured, voice heavy with sleep. “Where’re we going?”

“To my place,” Heeseung said softly, buckling your seatbelt and adjusting the strap so it did not dig into your neck. “You can sleep. I’ll get you home tomorrow.”

You hummed, eyelids already drooping shut again. “’ Kay,” you breathed. “’S fine.”

Heeseung chuckled and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over you like a blanket, tucking it gently around your shoulders. You made a small, content sound and snuggled deeper into the seat.

He closed the door quietly and walked around to the driver’s side. Beomguy watched him with a mixture of fondness and something like amusement. “Drive safe. Text me when you’re there.”

“I will,” Heeseung repeated, meaning it.

The drive was mostly silent. The radio was off, leaving only the hum of the engine and the occasional swish of tyres on the damp road. You slept through almost all of it, your face turned toward him, breaths slow and even. 

Halfway to his building, you stirred, blinking groggily. “Hee?” you asked, voice rough. “Where are we?”

“Almost at my flat,” he said gently. “You okay with that?”

You stared at him for a moment, eyes heavy, brain clearly fighting through sleep fog. Then you nodded once. “Yeah,” you whispered. “’ M tired.”

He smiled to himself. “Thought so. Go back to sleep.”

By the time he parked and turned off the engine, you were out again. He sat there for a second, just watching you, the way his jacket had slipped half off your shoulder. Then he shook himself and climbed out, circling around to your side. He opened the door carefully and slipped one arm under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you out of the seat and cradling you against his chest again.

You mumbled something unintelligible, your head dropping to his shoulder. He nudged the door shut with his hip and made his way into the building. The elevator came quickly, and he stood in there, your weight solid and warm in his arms, your breath brushing his collarbone in little puffs. He shifted you a little higher as he reached his door, fishing his keys from his pocket with his free hand. It took him two tries, but he managed to unlock it without dropping you.

Inside, the apartment was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city through the windows. He nudged the door shut with his heel and walked straight to his room, moving by muscle memory. At the edge of his bed, he paused for a second, lowering you slowly, like you were made of glass.

He eased you down onto the mattress, one hand behind your head until it met the pillow. Then he slid his arms out from under you, careful not to jostle your leg. You sank into his duvet, his jacket still wrapped around you, a soft exhale leaving your lips.

But before he could fully pull away, your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.

"No," you mumbled, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep. "It's cold. Stay."

Heeseung froze, heart thudding hard against his ribs. "I’m gonna get the two of us pyjamas, Y/N."

You tugged weakly at his wrist, not opening your eyes, curling toward his warmth. "Just a minute. Please."

He exhaled slowly, glancing at his closet, then back at you. You looked so small there, half-buried in the duvet, fingers loose around his wrist. He gave in to your plea.

"Okay," he whispered. "Just a minute."

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed. You curled into him almost immediately, your head resting against his thigh, a content little hum escaping as you settled. His hand moved on instinct, fingers threading gently through your hair, petting slow, slow, careful strokes from crown to nape, the strands soft and cool under his touch. 

"Mhmm," you sighed, your body going fully limp.

Heeseung sat there, barely breathing, one hand in your hair, the other resting light on the duvet near your arm. The room was dark except for the sliver of light spilling from the city lights outside. Your breathing evened out deeper, face smoothing completely now, and he could not make himself move.

His thumb brushed your temple lightly, tracing the edge of your hairline. 

One more minute, he told himself. 

Then he would get up, get changed, get ready for bed, maybe even coax you into changing into pyjamas.

But he stayed put. 

Petting your hair, feeling the soft strands slip through his fingers, listening to the quiet rhythm of your breaths. 

After a few minutes, he did get himself to stand up. He slid his hand free from your hair with infinite care, lifting your head just enough to settle it back onto the pillow. You stirred faintly but did not wake, curling into the warmth of the duvet instead. He stood up, his legs a little numb from sitting so still, and moved quietly to his closet. He pulled out a loose t-shirt and drawstring pants that would not press on your leg, then laid them neatly on the bed beside you.

"Hey, Y/N. I’m going to the bathroom," he murmured, unsure if you were still awake enough to hear him. "You can change into them if you want to."

You hummed faintly, a small, incoherent sound, but did not stir further.

Heeseung chuckled lowly and grabbed his own sleeping clothes before he headed to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth quickly, splashed water on his face, changed into a t-shirt and sweats. He caught a glimpse of his reflection, of his messy hair, the stubble along his chin, the faint blush on his cheeks. He shook his head and slipped back into the bedroom. 

He was surprised to see that you had also changed into the pyjama he had laid out for you. Your hoodie and pants are lying in a small pile on the floor, next to your cast. Heeseung cursed under his breath when he realised that your bag and more importantly, your crutches were still in his car. He turned around and begrudgedly made his way down to his car again.  

When he carefully closed the door to his room, your stuff in his hands, he had to suppress a laugh. You had shifted positions again, lying spread out almost horizontal in his bed, one of your arms hanging off his bed. 

Heeseung set your bag and crutches against the wall, then eyed the tiny strip of bed still technically "his." There was no way he was fitting without moving you a bit. 

He eased onto the mattress carefully, trying to shift your limbs just enough to carve out space, one hand nudging your dangling arm back onto the bed, the other sliding your sprawled leg over a few inches.

You stirred immediately, whining low and petulant without even opening your eyes. "Mmm... nooo, stop moving me," you mumbled, flopping dramatically back into your original position, reclaiming every inch. "My spot."

Heeseung laughed softly, the sound escaping despite his efforts to stay quiet. "Y/N, this is my bed. You've taken the whole thing. There's no space left for me."

Your eyes cracked open just a sliver, bleary and unimpressed, before you huffed and pushed yourself up with a groan. "Fine," you slurred, scooting toward the headboard just enough to let him slide in fully. The second he was settled, his back against the pillows, legs stretched out, you let yourself drop right onto him like dead weight, burying your face in his chest with a contented sigh. Your arms looped loosely around his waist, cheek squishing against his t-shirt, legs tangling carefully around his to avoid your bad one.

He froze for half a second, heart stuttering at the sudden closeness, then relaxed with a quiet chuckle, his arm coming up to wrap around your shoulders. "There. Happy now?"

"Mmhm," you hummed into his chest, already drifting again, your breath warm and even against him. "Perfect."

He smiled into the dark, fingers threading lightly through your hair once more. "Night, Y/N."

You did not answer, already gone, and he let his eyes close, the weight of you grounding him perfectly into sleep.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ 

You woke slowly, the world filtering in piece by fuzzy piece, first the soft glow of morning light sneaking through the blinds, then the steady rise and fall of Heeseung's chest underneath you. Your cheek was squished against the soft cotton of his shirt, one of your arms slung across his waist, while your legs tangled up, with your injured one resting upon his. One of his arms was resting behind our neck, the other one behind his head, his breathing deep and even, face slack in sleep.

You blinked up at him carefully, not daring to twitch a muscle. His hair stuck up in every direction, lips parted just a little, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw catching the light. He looked younger like this, softer, completely unguarded. Your heart did a slow, warm flip. 

For a second, you were embarrassed for having apparently decided to cling to him like a monkey for the night, but if you were honest, you couldn’t care less. You’ve been in pain ever since you woke up the day before. Not even the pain killers helped, the only thing they did was make you incredibly tired and leave you nauseous the whole day. 

Your leg was still throbbing, but you didn't know exactly why. The position you’ve fallen asleep in wasn’t exactly the best for your body; your hip felt stiff, and the pressure against the scar wasn’t helping, nor was the fact that your ankle was still wrapped in a sock and not elevated. You could feel the swelling, your foot pressing against the compression in pulses that mirrored your heartbeat.

You slightly moved your leg, experimentally flexing the muscles, only to suppress a wince. You took a deep, resigned breath and just closed your eyes, trying to fall asleep again, ignoring that you should get up and take your meds, maybe even go to the toilet, only to rip your eyes open. 

You couldn't remember going to the bathroom, nor could you remember brushing your teeth, nor removing your makeup. 

That thought got a real groan out of you before you pressed your lips onto each other, praying that Heeseung didn’t wake up from the sound. 

You glanced at his face, but he didn’t even flinch in his sleep. You chuckled lowly, remembering how the others had mentioned that an atombomb could go off next to Heeseung without waking him. You slowly moved your leg a bit, trying your best to ignore the pain and adjust your upper body a bit, feeling his heartbeat thump steadily and strongly under your palm.

A few minutes after you had closed your eyes again, doing your best to fall asleep again, a knock came from Heeseung's door. It creaked open cautiously, Jay’s head poking in. He froze mid-step, eyes widening at the sight of you curled into Heeseung’s side, his arm draped protectively over you, both of you tangled deep in the duvet.

Jay cleared his throat quietly, suppressing a grin. “Uh… hey…Y/N. Good morning.”

“Hi Jay,” you answered, smiling at him, not lifting your head from Heeseung's chest.

“I’m going to go grocery shopping because I was planning on cooking galbi jjim later and wanted to know if Hyung wanted something from E-Mart…or if the two of you are here for dinner?”

You blinked at him for a second, warmth spreading in your chest at the more or less casual invitation. “I would love to stay for dinner, but I should probably get home. I don’t have my meds here, and I need a change of clothes? But I’ll ask Hee if he needs something from E Mart and make it text you?”

“Sure, thank you,” Jay gave you a small, but warm smile. “Have a nice day then, Y/N.” 

You nodded at him. “You too, Jay.”

He quietly closed the door again, only for Heeseung to stir awake a few seconds after. He blinked groggily, his arm tightened instinctively around your shoulders for a split second, cheeks flushing as he sat up a little straighter. “Y/N?,” he rasped, voice rough and gravelly with sleep.

You hummed, leaning onto your elbow to look at his face. “Good morning.”

He groaned low, moving his free arm up to his face, trying to block the weak light coming from his curtains by draping it over his eyes. “Too early,” he mumbled. His voice was muffled and whiny, cursing you to chuckle. 

“You just missed Jay,” you whispered, watching him run his hand over his face, before he slowly put his gaze on you. “He’s going to e-mart and asked if you need anything?”

He grunted low in acknowledgement, the vibration rumbling through his chest into you, his fingers coming up to brush your hair back gently. “I’ll text him later. He spends hours grocery shopping.”

You nodded and hummed contentedly, nestling deeper into him despite the persistent throb in your leg and the slow but growing need to use the toilet. His warmth seeped into you, while his heart was still beating slow and steady beneath your palm.

You were silent for a while, and if it wasn't for his fingers still brushing your hair back with the gentlest touch, you would have thought he fell asleep again. His hand had drifted lower after a while, tracing light, lazy lines along your arm, fingertips grazing from your shoulder to your elbow and back again, so feather-soft it sent goosebumps prickling up your skin in warm little waves. 

You shivered faintly at the sensation.

"You were really out of it yesterday," he murmured after a moment, his voice low as he broke the silence in the room. "Like, completely gone. You barely stirred the whole time I carried you."

You cracked one eye open. "I sleep like a baby after taking pain killers,” you said softly. "Those things always knock me flat. I am a truly deep sleeper on them. Like, you could not wake me up if you tried."

He nodded slowly, his thumb continuing those slow circles on your arm, raising fresh goosebumps every pass. "I noticed." He paused, his touch lingering a little longer at your elbow. "I like that you feel safe enough to crash like that around me. Even though you’ve missed both movies."

Your heart squeezed, warmth blooming deeper in your chest. You tilted your head up just enough to meet his eyes, soft and sleepy in the morning light. "Were they good?"

Heeseung let out a sheepish laugh, his cheeks tinting pink as he scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. "I didn’t really pay attention, if I’m honest. I’ve been pretty tired the last few days as well, and zoned out during most of it. I fell asleep for at least half of it myself, I think."

You grinned up at him, your eyes crinkling despite the quiet discomfort in your body, which was now rapidly growing, the more awake you were. "We both suck at movie nights."

"I don’t care if it’s only that we’re bad in," he said, smirking back, his arm tightening around you just a fraction. His fingers resumed their path along your arm, slow and tender.

You let out a soft sigh, your hand curling a little tighter into his shirt. "I really like this," you admitted quietly, voice barely above a whisper, your cheek pressing warmer against his chest. "Waking up here. With you. Like this."

He went still for a heartbeat, his hand pausing mid-stroke. Then he smiled down at you, eyes crinkling soft and full of something warm and unspoken. "I like it too," he murmured, his voice low and sincere, thumb brushing your arm again like a promise. "A lot."

You both fell quiet after that, just breathing together, his hand petting lazy patterns on your skin, your body soaking in his warmth despite the ache, before you decided to break the spell and use the toilet. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ It had been raining all week. 

Thick clouds were above the skyscrapers of the city, relentlessly blocking out any late autumn sunrays that could have lightened your mood just a little bit. 

Since you’ve gotten home from Heeseung's flat on the weekend, you’ve been caught up trying to get on track with your classes. Midterms were coming up soon, and you really had to start taking them seriously.

You had been sitting in a random classroom in the business department, clicking through your flashcards, trying to memorise everything you had noted down for over an hour now. Beomguy had promised to pick you up after his classes ended for the day, the two of you wanting to go out and get something to eat together.

The rain pelted against the windows, thick drops coating the whole thing into streaks of water. 

You hated the sound of it.

But you couldn’t study while listening to music, so you did your best to ignore it.

And it did work, you did get through at least half of your flashcards when the first rumble of thunder rolled low in the distance.

You flinched before you could stop yourself, your shoulders jumping, the cursor stuttering where your hand jerked. 

You froze, eyes on the screen, then forced your jaw to relax.

It was just thunder. It was fine. You were inside. 

You were safe.

You took a slow breath and tried to focus back on your laptop, only to flinch when it thundered a second time, much closer this time. You raised your head and caught the exact moment a lightning strike hit. It felt like the following thunder rattled the whole building, a bright white flash bleeding at the edges of your vision.

Your hand tightened around your mouse, your nails scraping along the plastic, while the next flashcard appeared. 

The screen started swimming in front of your eyes, your pulse suddenly thudding in your throat. You tried to close your eyes and control your breathing.

This was only thunder. 

Nothing happened. 

You were safe.

You fumbled for your phone while trying to keep your breathing as steady as possible. Heeseung's contact was on top of your recent caller list and, without thinking, you pressed the button. 

He picked up a few seconds later. “Hi Y/N. What’s up?” His voice was hushed, but he sounded upbeat. 

You swallowed and tried to collect your thoughts as best you could. “Are you... Are you on the campus?”

“Yes, I am in the library. Why? What’s up, Y/N?” he sounded alarmed, his voice a bit louder now. 

“I-”, another rumble of thunder interrupted you, and you had to grip your phone tighter, so it wouldn’t escape your sweaty palm. “Can you get me? I’m in the business building. It’s- I-,” you took a rapid breath. “Please.” 

“Fuck,” Heeseung cursed under his breath, and you heard rustling on his side of the phone. “I’ll be there in a second, Y/N. Where in the building are you?” 

You tried to remember to think of where you were, but it felt like your thoughts were racing too fast for you to grasp any. “I-I upstairs? Third floor?” 

“Okay,” Heeseung said, his voice still hushed. “Can you try to go to the door and open it for me? So I can find you better?” 

You nodded and made a sound that he hopefully interpreted as an agreement. He said something else, but the words didn’t reach your brain.

The room felt smaller all at once, the air tighter when you willed your legs to stand up. You were still pressing your phone against your ear, and you were pretty sure that Heeseung was talking to you, but your sole focus was on trying to get to the door, to get away from this, from here, to safety. Your feet felt like they belonged to someone else, your crutches forgotten next to the chair you had been sitting on. You couldn’t feel the pain of putting your full weight onto your foot, underneath the panic racing through your veins. 

You had made it to the door, it was barely ten steps from your seat, before another crack of thunder hit, so loud it vibrated through the walls and turned your legs to lead. Your whole body jerked, your phone slipping from your hand, clattering onto the floor.

The room spun more slowly, and your vision tunnelled, while nausea built up in your stomach. 

You couldn’t see the grey vinyl floor or the door frame that you were clinging to; instead, you saw rain-slick road, wipers slapping frantically, headlamps blinding white in the downpour. 

It wasn’t real.

This was not real. 

But your breaths came faster, ragged gasps that barely filled your lungs, heart slamming so loud it echoed in your ears. Sweat prickled cold down your spine. 

You wanted it to stop. 

Someone had to make it stop. 

Your thigh burned, a deep, vicious phantom pain flaring up, knives twisting in scar tissue, bone-deep fire racing up your leg like it was happening all over again. 

No. 

Stop. 

You pressed your palm hard against your stomach, but it only made the nausea roll thicker, bile surging hot in your throat. It was as if you could feel it, blood pooling warm on your thigh, your leg going numb, then exploding in white-hot agony, every nerve on fire. You squeezed your eyes shut, sliding down the doorframe, your forehead grinding into your knees. You were starting to hyperventilate, short, desperate pulls of air that left you dizzy. Black spots were dancing behind your lids. 

You couldn't breathe. 

Couldn’t–please stop–

A scream out of pure terror ripped free from your mouth when two hands suddenly touched your shoulders.  

Your head shot up, and when you realised that it was Heeseung, who was gently holding you, you lurched forward, flinging yourself into him, your nails clawing into his wet hoodie, your face smashing into his neck.

"Hey, hey," he soothed, hands rising then wrapping firm around your body, pressing your shaking form against him. "It’s okay. You’re fine. You’re safe."

"I–it hurts–", you didn't even know what you had tried to tell him, through your frantic gasps, but he seemingly understood. “Heeseung–”

"It’s okay," he murmured, his voice low and soft. "You’re okay, I've got you." 

He manoeuvred you a few inches inside the room, pulling the door closed behind him, before he sat down on the floor, sliding you into his lap, your legs draped over his. He rocked you gently, one arm locked around your back, the other cradling your head to his shoulder. "Breathe. You're safe. Everything's fine. It’s just you and me. We're inside. We’re safe."

His rocking was slow, rhythmic, as he whispered against your hair. "In slow, out now, that's it,” his hand rubbing firm circles on your back while you did your best to regain control over your breathing again. 

When your sobs quieted to sniffles, he pulled back just enough to cup your face, thumbs swiping tears. "Wanna talk about it?" he asked softly.

You shook your head and squeezed your eyes closed. 

"Okay," he said instantly, no pressure. "That's fine. We don't have to."

The sound of thunder cracked through the room again, this time quieter, the storm having slowly moved on, but your heart still lurched,d and it sent a fresh wave of panic through you. 

"Hee," you whispered, voice breaking. "Get me out. Please. I need to go home. I can't stay here."

"Yeah," he said, no hesitation, arms tightening. "Yeah, I’ll bring you home."

"I... I need my crutches," you rasped, voice raw, glancing toward the desk where you had left them. Your legs felt like jelly, and pain flared up from your ankle, but staying here wasn't an option.

Heeseung nodded once. "Okay." 

He eased you off his lap gently, steadying you on your good foot while he grabbed the crutches, handing them to you, before walking back to your desk, packing up your laptop and the rest of your things. “I forgot my umbrella in the library. Do you have one here?”

You sniffled and belatedly realised that he was soaked from head to toe. His dark hair was sticking to his forehead, and his hoodie as well as his jeans were dark from the moisture of the rain outside. 

You swallowed and sniffed before nodding. “I think there is one in my bag.” 

He hummed and rummaged in your bag until he found the foldable umbrella at the bottom of it. "Let’s get going,” he said, crossing the room with long strides, after he slung your bag around his shoulders, his hand coming around your elbow. 

You gripped the handles of your crutches tightly, your knuckles turning white, as you slowly made your way to the elevator and towards the main entrance. Heeseung stayed glued to your side, his free hand hovering at your elbow. "Easy," he murmured when you stumbled once. 

Outside, wind whipped rain sideways, but he held the umbrella firm, guiding you to the passenger door. He tossed your bag in the back, helped you fold the crutches down, then buckled you in gently and efficiently, like he'd done it a hundred times. You shivered slightly. The rain had soaked your pants and even your coat, despite his best efforts to keep the two of you dry. 

As soon as heeseung started the car and the windscreen wipers came to life, you had to do your best to suppress a wave of panic. 

The car moved smoothly through the parking lot, and you realised that Heeseung had put on his favourite playlist, turning the volume down, but your hand darted forwards, stopping him. 

“Louder,” you said, closing your eyes, a laboured breath escaping your mouth. “I hate the sound. Please make the music louder.”

You felt his eyes on you, but his fingers moved worldlessly, and the music coming from the speakers increased in volume. 

Your hand was still gripping his wrist, and you dropped it, as if the touch was burning. “Both hands. Use both hands.”

His hand flew to the wheel. 

You stared straight ahead, your eyes fixed on the streaks of water sliding up the windshield as the wipers dragged them away, only for more to take their place. 

The music was loud now, but even your favourite songs in his playlist could not fully drown out the soft hiss of rain on metal. 

You focused on the sound of the engine instead, on the steady hum beneath your feet, on the way the car responded smoothly when Heeseung braked at a light or eased around a corner. One of your hands was fisting the damp fabric of your pants, while the other one was braced against your knee, as you counted each breath in and out. 

The phantom ache in your leg had settled into a heavy throb, but your stomach still twisted with leftover nausea. 

Beside you, Heeseung drove with both hands on the wheel as you had asked, knuckles pale against the dark leather. His jaw was tense, eyes flicking between the road and you more often than any driving instructor would recommend. 

He didn’t speak to you.

You would probably not have been able to answer him anyway.

Every few minutes, you felt his gaze on you again, checking your breathing, the way your shoulders rose and fell.

“Almost there,” he said quietly after a while, more to fill the silence than anything. “Just a few more turns.”

You swallowed and nodded, keeping your eyes shut for the next stretch of road, letting the music wash over you, clinging to the fact that it was his playlist, his car. 

This was not that night. 

You repeated it in your head like a mantra.

When he pulled off the main road toward your apartment complex, you forced your eyes open again. The familiar outline of the buildings rose out of the rain. He flicked on his blinker, slowing down in front of the entrance like he always did when he dropped you off.

“I’ll just–” he started, preparing to stop at the curb.

“Can you drive into the parking garage?” you cut in quickly, your fingers tightening on your knee. Your voice sounded small and hoarse. “Take my mom’s spot. Please.”

He glanced over at you properly then, reading the plea in your expression, the way your shoulders still trembled faintly. “Do you want me to come upstairs with you?”

You nodded slightly. “Yes. Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay,” he said immediately. “Yeah. We’ll park.”

He steered past the entrance and pulled into the underground garage, the sudden absence of rain on the roof making the car feel strangely quieter. 

Concrete swallowed the outside noise. 

The lights were dim, casting long reflections on the wet floor. He eased into your mother’s usual spot, shifted the car into park, and turned off the engine. The wipers stopped mid-swipe, leaving a half-moon of clear glass in front of you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

With the storm muffled by concrete, it was easier to breathe. 

You could still hear the rain distantly at the garage entrance, but it no longer felt like it was pressing in on you from all sides. 

Your shoulders dropped a fraction, and your grip on your pants loosened.

Heeseung stayed very still, hands resting on his thighs now, giving you the space to decide. “We can sit here as long as you want,” he said quietly. “No rush.”

You stared at the dashboard, at the faint reflection of your own tired face on the dark screen. The frantic pounding of your heart had dulled to a heavy, exhausted beat. 

Your breathing was still a little uneven, but at least it did not scrape anymore. 

After a minute, you nodded, wiping the back of your hand under your nose.

“Okay,” you murmured. “I think… I’m okay to go up now.”

He nodded once. You watched him unbuckle first, then he reached for your own seat belt with clumsy fingers. The click echoed in the small space. He slipped out and circled the car, opening your door before you could reach for it. 

Cool, dry air from the garage brushed your face. 

He grabbed your crutches from the back and set them within easy reach, then offered you his hand without a word.

You took it.

Your legs still felt unsteady when you swung them out of the car, the brace heavy, muscles sore from the panic. Heeseung slung your bag over his shoulder and locked the car, falling into step with you as you headed toward the elevator.

In the enclosed quiet of the lift, you could hear nothing but the soft hum of the motor and your own breathing. He stood close enough that his arm brushed yours slightly, but he did not crowd you. 

You focused on the numbers ticking upward, on the reflection of the two of you in the mirror, your tired eyes, his worried ones.

When the elevator dinged and the doors opened onto your floor, he looked to you again as if asking for permission before stepping out. You gave him a small nod and moved forward, the rubber tips of your crutches tapping a slow, steady rhythm down the hall. 

At your door, you fumbled with the keypad. Your hands were still a little shaky, but you managed to get it open on the second try.

“Come in,” you said quietly, stepping aside to let him pass. “Just for a bit. I don’t… I don’t want to be alone.”

Heeseung hesitated for a second before he took off his wet sneakers on the threshold. You leaned against the wall, ignoring that your damp clothing would touch the wallpaper, as you fumbled with your shoe and then with your cast, freeing both your feet.  

He watched you silently, waiting for you to finish up, before reaching for the bot, the cast and your one sneaker, to neatly put them next to his shoes. 

You waited for him to straighten up before you limped through the apartment, towards Soobin's old room. The door opened up quietly, and you beelined for his old closet. You flicked on the overhead light, harsh yellow spilling out, and yanked open the cabinet door, before grabbing the first oversized hoodie and sweats you could find. "Here," you muttered, thrusting them at him. "Yours are soaked."

"Thanks," he said softly, taking them.

You hummed and gave him a small smile that didn't reach your eyes, before gesturing for him to leave the room again. “The one to the right is my room.”

He turned around and opened the door to your room softly, revealing the mess that was your room. A few pieces of clothing were strewn across the floor, accompanied by your physio bag and a basket full of freshly washed clothing. 

Heeseung took a few steps inside, putting your bag onto the floor next to your desk before looking up at you again. You hummed a quiet thanks before dropping your crutches onto the floor. 

Exhaustion hit you like a wave, and everything felt wrong: your wet clothes clinging cold to your skin, your smudged makeup, the compression tights that did not stop your leg from throbbing relentlessly. 

You just wanted it off. 

Wanted to rest. 

To sleep. 

Your fingers went to the hem of your shirt, peeling it off in one damp, heavy motion, letting it slap to the floor. Your wet jeans followed next, before you let yourself drop onto your bed to peel the tan compression sock off your leg. The scars on your thigh glared under the light, jagged lines from surgeries, from the accident, colouring and deforming the pale skin in different shapes and colours. You heard Heeseung shift, and when you looked up, his back was turned towards you, and you realised belatedly that you just got undressed in front of him. 

You pressed your lips onto each other and closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, a sinking feeling spreading in your chest, before you turned around on your bed to grab your pyjamas. 

You saw Heeseung tentatively move, where he was standing before he raised his hands and pulled his hoodie over his head, leaving him in a plain t-shirt that clung to his shoulders, jeans still dark and heavy. He hesitated, glancing back, eyes widening when he saw you watching him. Heat blossomed in your face, and you quickly turned towards the wall, "Uh, sorry," you mumbled,” I didn't want to stare.”

Heeseung laughed softly, low and warm. "It's fine." 

Fabric rustled behind you, as you kept staring at the texture of your wall, you heard him unzip his jeans, before he spoke up again. “Where’s the bathroom? We should put our stuff up, so it can dry properly.”

You turned around and hummed in agreement. He was carrying both his and your wet clothes, standing patiently next to the door. 

“I’ll come with you,” you mumbled, already reaching for your crutches. “I want to undo my makeup.” 

Heeseung nodded, adjusting the bundle of damp fabric in his arms, your shirt tangled with his hoodie, jeans slung over one shoulder. You crutched down the short hall after him, the rubber tips thumping softly on the wood floor. 

He moved efficiently, draping everything over the shower curtain rod and the edge of the tub, hoodies unfolded to let air hit the wet spots, jeans hung straight so water wouldn't pool.

You propped your crutches against the wall and leaned in, twisting the faucet with shaky fingers. Your hands were almost working on autopilot, grabbing your cleanser first, the oil dissolving your makeup into milky brown and black rivulets, dripping from your chin into the basin. You watched it for a second, the grime of the day washing literally away, before scrubbing harder, splashing until your face felt raw and clean.

Heeseung waited patiently by the door, arms crossed loosely, eyes on the floor but flicking to you every few breaths, checking without staring. 

"Done," you rasped finally, shutting off the water, grabbing a towel to pat dry.

He followed you back to your room without a word, the air between you comfortable. Heeseung eased onto the bed first, stretching out on his back against the pillows. His arms opened slowly, inviting you in.

You didn't hesitate and crawled in, curling tight into him. Your head found his chest, nose tucked into the crook of his neck, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. His arms wrapped around you, firm but gentle, one hand splaying across your back.

"Are you feeling a bit better?" he murmured, fingers tracing slowly along your spine.

You nodded against him, eyes heavy. "Yeah."

Silence settled for a few breaths, just the soft thud of his heart under your ear, the faint whoosh of cars far below your window. Then the words that had been chewing at you forced their way up.

"I’m… I’m sorry," you whispered, your voice cracking on the last word. "For all of this. For calling you. For–"

Heeseung’s hand stilled on your back. "Hey," he cut in gently but firmly. His fingers slid up to your jaw, guiding your face away from his chest. "Look at me."

You resisted for a second, shame clawing at your ribs, but he waited you out, thumb brushing soothing circles over your cheek. Finally, you let your gaze drag up to his. His eyes were soft, but there was something steady, almost fierce, behind them.

"You did the right thing by calling me," he said, every word deliberate. "Okay? You did the right thing."

Your throat tightened. "But I–"

"No." His brows knit, grip gentle but unyielding as he kept your eyes on his. "Listen to me. I would rather you call me a thousand times like that than sit alone and be terrified. I want you to call me when you’re scared."

Heat burned behind your eyes. "I don’t want to scare you," you whispered. "I know that being there for someone during a panic attack is terrifying."

He let out a breathy, humourless laugh. "Yeah, I was scared shitless," he admitted, lips quirking in a small, self-conscious smile. "Especially when you dropped your phone. One second you’re talking, the next I hear a crash and nothing. I’ve never run so fast in my life." His thumb swiped at the corner of your eye where moisture had gathered. "But I’m glad you did call. I’m glad I could get to you. I’m glad you’re okay."

That did it. The first tear slipped free before you could blink it back, hot against his thumb.

"I’m so tired of this," you choked out, the words tumbling over each other. "I hate that I’m like this. Not just my leg, but… all of it. My head. I’m so–" Your voice fractured. "I’m so sick of being sick."

You dropped your face back into his chest before he could see more, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. A few more tears broke loose, dampening the cotton. Frustration burned sharp and bitter, shame twisting in your stomach. 

You knew you were a burden to your mom, to Soobin, to your friends, and now…now you were it to Heeseung as well. Calling him during an episode. His arms closed around you again, holding you tighter, one hand rubbing slowly up and down your spine, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. 

He didn’t hush you, didn’t tell you to stop. 

He just let you cry, his fingertips occasionally tracing along your cheekbone, catching stray tears and brushing them away as they fell.

"I know," he murmured after a while, voice low and rough near your ear. "I know it sucks. I know it’s not fair. But you’re not alone in it, okay? You’re not too much. Not for me."

More tears slipped out at that, a soft, broken sound leaving your throat. 

You felt awful, heavy and raw.

He pressed his cheek against the top of your head, breath warm in your hair. "Y/N," he said softly. You don’t have to be okay right now." His hand smoothed over your back again, slow and rhythmic. "Just try to sleep a bit, yeah? After some sleep, everything will feel a little less shit. I promise."

You sniffed, swallowing hard, fingers still twisted in his shirt.

"Will you stay?" you whispered, the words barely there.

His chest rose and fell beneath your ear, steady and sure. "I’m right here," he said, no hesitation. "I’m not going anywhere. Close your eyes."

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ 

Sleep wouldn’t come, no matter how hard you tried, how exhausted you were, you couldn’t fall asleep. You were still lying in your bed, tangled up with Heeseung, his arm resting warm and heavy across your stomach. He had fallen asleep a while ago; his breathing rose and fell in deep, even rhythms against the back of your neck. 

The storm had faded to a distant drizzle outside your window. 

You felt tired down to your bones. Your leg was throbbing with pain now; it wasn’t bad, but uncomfortable enough for you to struggle falling asleep. 

The silence in the room left your mind enough space to try to piece together what had happened today. 

You haven’t had an episode as bad as today in a while. 

It was so frustrating, not knowing when your brain might shut down, being triggered. You should have known better today. You knew there would be a thunderstorm, you just…ignored it. You ignored the fact that you knew it was a risk, going anywhere when it might thunder. 

You sighed and tried to shake, but he thought away, letting your fingers lightly trace over his hand. You caressed the knuckles where they draped across your stomach. 

His skin was warm under your touch. 

His fingers twitched faintly in sleep. 

You hated how it stole your control, the ghost of the accident haunting you years after it happened. How it turned loud noises into crash, crunch, and blood. How it left you shaking and sick to your stomach. 

You were so tired of fighting it. 

Tired of the pain that came with it. 

The nausea that still sat heavy in your gut.

But Heeseung was here. 

He was right, you did the right thing. You were glad you called him. You were grateful he had come running. Grateful he held you through the worst without a single complaint. 

Your thumb brushed slow circles over his wrist. Thank god for you, you thought. 

The ache in your chest softened just a little.

Your ears perked up at the familiar sound of the keypad unlocking the front door. You heard the sharp sounds of your mom's heels clicking against the flooring before she changed them to the ridiculous Apeach slippers you got her a few years back. 

You glanced up at Heeseung's face. It was relaxed, his eyelids closed and his mouth slightly open, small snoring sounds occasionally escaping them. You knew your mom would check your room. It was the first thing she did whenever she came home. 

You should probably warn Heeseung, wake him up, untangle yourself from his hug, but you couldn’t care less. The two of you were consenting adults…cudding in your bed, there was nothing wrong with that. 

A few seconds later, you heard a small knock coming from your food before your mom carefully peeked in, only to freeze. Her eyes widened at the sight of you being wrapped up in a random stranger's arms, his face half-buried in our hair, while your legs were tangled under the covers. 

A gasp escaped her. "Y/N?!"

You hummed and freed your hand enough to wave to you, Mom. “Hi, Mom.” 

Even to yourself, your voice sounded tired and exhausted, and you saw her face soften for a second before Heeseung stirred slightly, blinking groggily. 

His gaze shifted from you to your mom in the doorway, and his eyes opened comically wide, his cheeks and ears turning red. 

"I–uh–shit–sorry, I–" he made an attempt to sit up, only to be stopped by your hand gently pressing him back into the mattress. 

Your mom stood there, one hand covering her mouth while she processed the fact that there was an unfamiliar man lying in your bed.

 Your own cheeks burned, but your voice stayed steady as you introduced them. "Mom, this is Heeseung. Heeseung, this is my mom."

Heeseung went rigid underneath you, and his face turned even redder. "M-Mrs. Choi," he stammered. His voice cracked high. "I am Heeseung. Lee Heeseung. From the team. Hi. Sorry. I mean, good evening. Nice to meet you."

Your mom blinked. Shock rippled across her features. 

Her mouth opened. 

Then it snapped shut. 

For a heartbeat, the room hung silent. 

But she pulled herself together faster than either of you, smoothing her expression into something composed. She looked almost amused.

"Heeseung," she repeated, nodding once. "Nice to meet you too. Do not panic. You two look cosy. I will cook dinner. Will you be eating with us?"

You answered before he could open his mouth. “Yeah, he will.” 

“Okay, I’ll make sure to cook enough then. I hope you are hungry, Heeseung,” she gave him a teasing smile, and Heeseung just wordlessly nodded, his eyes flickering between you and your mom. 

She nodded and backed out of your room, pulling the door shut with a decisive click.

The second she was gone, Heeseung let his head fall back onto the pillows. He slapped his hands over his face. 

"Your mom," he moaned. His voice was muffled. "She saw me in your bed. I am done. My career is over."

You laughed fully now, the sound was warm and light, before you reached up and pried his hands down slowly. He peeked through his fingers at first. Then he let you peel his hands away completely. 

"It’s not," you murmured. You reached up to fix his sleep-mussed hair. Your thumb brushed his cheek in a gentle caress. "My dad fucking adores you. My mom has never heard him or any of us mutter a bad thing about you."

"Fuck me," he muttered. But his eyes crinkled softly when they met yours.

“I don’t think we’re there yet,” you teased, before leaning in to press a quick kiss to his temple. Surprising him and yourself with the action, but he just sighed and pulled you back down against him. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ 

Heeseung's stomach was a knot of pure mortification as the smell of sizzling meat and rice drifted through the gaps in the door. 

Your mom had just seen him, wrapped up in her daughter's bed, sleeping on her daughter, and she invited him for dinner?

You were resting on his chest again, swiping through TikTok on his phone, while he tried to stop himself from panicking. He couldn’t understand how you were so chill about this situation. 

Your mother, the wife of his coach, saw the two of you!

He would get killed. 

Your father would kill him. 

You were still lounging on his chest, thumb flicking lazily through TikTok on his phone, your breath warm and even against his collarbone. 

How were you this calm? 

He cleared his throat carefully, and your eyes flicked up, soft and searching, locking on his. “Do you… Do you know if your dad will be there for dinner?” he asked, voice cautious.

You hummed, thumb pausing. “Maybe. But usually not. Thursdays, he’s out with friends.”

He hummed back, strained, fingers twitching restlessly against your shoulder. “You don’t think it’s… weird?”

Your head tilted against him. “Maybe? Do you?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, cheeks heating fresh. “Your mom saw us. Like this. And now I’m… what? Staying for dinner?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t think she minds? Do you want to go home?”

“No,” he rushed out, arm curling tighter around you on pure instinct. “I want to stay. I want to make sure you’re okay.” 

His eyes dropped to your mouth without meaning to, then snapped back up to your eyes, his pulse kicking harder. He was sure you could hear his heart beating rapidly in his chest now.

You shifted, propping yourself up on one elbow, your expression turning tentative, almost shy. Your hand lifted, careful, hesitant, fingers ghosting the air before brushing his jaw in an almost feathery-light touch. They trembled faintly as they traced the line of it, cupping his face fully, thumbs sweeping slowly under his eyes. 

“I’m okay,” you whispered, voice thick and low. “I promise I am. Thank you, Heeseung. For… everything.”

His free hand slid up instinctively, covering yours, pressing it firmer against his cheek, his thumb stroking your knuckles softly. 

“Anytime,” he rasped, voice gravel. “I mean it. Always.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth again, in an almost helpless motion. You were close enough for your foreheads to almost touch. He could feel the heat of your breath against his lips, your gaze focused on his lips, as he carefully leaned in, only to stop millimetres before touching your lips. “Dinner’s ready!” your mom called from down the hall, her voice warm and welcoming, breaking the moment.

You both froze, chests heaving, eyes locked wide. Neither of you moved for a moment before his forehead dropped the last centimetres to yours instead, your noses nudging, and your breath mingling together.

“Dinner’s getting cold!” she called louder, laughter threading through now, footsteps padding closer down the hall.

Both of you huffed out laughs before slowly leaning back after lingering a beat longer. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ 

You slid into chairs at the small kitchen table, the scent of galbi and steamed rice thick in the air, steam curling up from the dishes your mom had set out with practised ease. Heeseung hovered awkwardly for a second, eyes darting between the spread and your mom bustling at the counter.

"Can I help with anything?" he asked. "Plates? Anything at all?"

Your mom waved him off with a warm laugh. "Sit, sit! You're a guest. Relax."

He sank down beside you, his knee brushing yours under the table. The wooden chair creaked under him, amplifying the sudden quiet. He was hyperaware of every sound, every movement you or your mom made, but he forced a small smile on his face, trying to look at least a bit relaxed.

Your mom didn't let the silence stretch. She slid into her seat across from you both, her focus landing straight on you. "You doing okay, sweetheart? You look tired."

You hummed, swirling your spoon through rice, your hand flicking side-to-side in a so-so wave. "I’m fine now. I had a pretty bad episode earlier today. I completely freaked out during the thunderstorm, but Heeseung got me home safely; luckily, he was on the campus.”

Your mom's gaze shifted to him then, warm gratitude lighting her face. "Thank you for that, Heeseung. I’m glad you were here for Y/N."

Heeseung's neck went hot, his fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "N-no problem. Really. Happy to–glad I could help." Smooth.

Really smooth. 

He winced internally, his ears burning as he stabbed at a piece of meat.

She nodded, satisfied, then turned back to you. "Honey, do you want me to call Dr. Kim and schedule an appointment? Just to talk it through?"

You shook your head firm. "No, thanks. I'll handle it myself if I need to. I promise. I know how."

She sighed but nodded, letting it drop. 

"I think I’ll need to vist her soon. Work is going to drive me crazy one day. One of our indie acts just landed a collaboration with that big group everyone's buzzing about. You know the one you’ve told me about," she gestured into your direction. “But we aren’t able to come up with a contract that all parties will agree with. It’s horrible, Dazed is so hard to work with. I can feel my hair turning gray, every time I walk into that office.”

Heeseung's head snapped up, eyes wide. "Wait, you work at a Dazed Labels?"

She grinned, popping kimchi in her mouth. "No, I am at A&R at Big Ocean Records. Been there eight years now."

"No way." He leaned forward. "I've been trying to get an internship there for three years in a row now. "

Your mom lit up, and launched onto a berate of questions about him and his music. Questions he gladly answered, if it mean that he now knew someone working at his dream label, even if you now knew his soundcloud id. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ 

You and Heeseung were standing in the hallway after you had wrapped up eating dinner. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” you asked, watching him put on his still wet shoes. 

He hummed in agreement, before he straightened up again. “It wasn’t. Your mom is nice.”

“She is. And she loved you, Hee, I could tell.” Your grin softened, but you glanced at the clock on your phone, and our expression turned serious. "Speaking of... You should head home soon. Dad might be back any minute."

Heeseung's face fell immediately. “Oh, Lord help me.”

You giggled at that and shook your head. “I think no one can help you, not even the lord, if my dad catches you here.” 

He shook his head and stood there for a second, just watching you smile up at him, before you took a step forward, almost stumbling into him, as you pulled him into a hug, your arms looping tight around his neck despite the awkward brace. He melted into it instantly, hands settling carefully on your waist, pulling you flush against him.

"Thank you," you whispered into his collar. "For today. For everything."

He held on a beat longer than needed, breath warm against your hair. Then he tilted your chin up gently with one finger. 

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, your skin soft and warm under his lips. 

"Always," he murmured, lips brushing your skin. "Text me when you’re going to the rink tomorrow. I’ll come to the office."

Thank you so much for reading! Lots of Love, Patty

ᵎ!ᵎ PT3 ──── COMING SOON

⤷ ゛OTHER INSTALLMENTS OF THE SERIES ˎˊ˗

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you nod, already moving, already slipping into the rhythm of care. you ask questions while unlatching the carrier, your hands steady as you coax the cat out and onto the table. he’s watching anxiously the whole time. you can tell he loves her the way dads love their kids. fiercely, quietly, with the unshakable belief that it’s his job to notice when something is wrong.

you run gentle fingers along the cat’s spine, feeling for tension, for anything out of place. your hands are warm, practiced, sure. you listen to her heart, then her lungs, your stethoscope cool against fur. minho watches every movement, eyes tracking your hands like they might suddenly do something miraculous or devastating. you explain everything as you go, because you know that silence leaves room for panic.

“her vitals look good,” you tell him, smiling when the cat leans into your palm, purring despite herself. “she’s alert, responsive. that’s a good sign.”

his shoulders drop just a fraction. “so… it’s not serious?”

“we’re not there yet,” you say gently. you press her abdomen, careful, slow, watching her face for discomfort. she barely flinches. “she’s not showing signs of pain. just a little sensitive, maybe. stomachs can get upset for lots of reasons.”

he nods, but he still looks unconvinced, like worry has dug in and refuses to leave without proof. “i switched her food,” he admits. “the brand i usually get was out, so i thought… same protein, same texture. should’ve been fine.”

you glance up at him then, meeting his eyes for the first time since he came in. there’s something earnest there, something vulnerable. “cats don’t always agree,” you say softly. “even when everything looks the same to us.”

you finish the exam, jot notes, offer reassurance. you suggest probiotics, a bland diet for a day or two, maybe fluids if she seems lethargic later. nothing invasive. nothing frightening. when you finally step back, the room feels lighter, like everyone can breathe again.

“so she’s okay?” he asks, quieter now.

you smile. “she’s okay. just dramatic. takes after her owner, maybe.”

that earns you a startled laugh, brief but real. “hey,” he says, mock-offended, but there’s relief in it now. gratitude. “i was worried.”

“that means you’re doing it right,” you reply. you pass him the carrier, but your fingers brush his, just barely. the contact lingers longer than necessary, and you both notice.

as he gathers his things, he hesitates. “thank you,” he says, sincere, eyes warm. “for explaining everything. for… not making me feel stupid.”

you shake your head. “you weren’t stupid. you were attentive. she’s lucky to have you.”

the way he looks at you then, soft, almost shy, feels like this won’t be the last time he brings worry into your exam room, or leaves it there with you.

you tell yourself you only recognize the sound of his footsteps because the clinic is quiet that afternoon. it’s a lull between appointments, the kind of stretch where the fluorescent lights hum a little louder and the smell of disinfectant settles into something almost comforting. you’re halfway through updating a chart when you hear the familiar pause outside the door, the soft shift of weight, the careful way someone opens it like they’re not entirely sure they’re welcome yet.

you look up anyway, already knowing.

minho steps in with the same carrier, held the same way, both hands wrapped around the handle like it’s precious cargo and not a mildly annoyed cat who would rather be anywhere else. he looks less frantic this time, but no less attentive. the worry hasn’t disappeared; it’s just learned how to sit quietly, how to wait its turn. when his eyes meet yours, there’s something like relief there.

“hi,” he says, softer than last time, like he doesn’t want to disturb you.

you smile before you realize. “hi,” you echo, “what’s going on?”

he exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “she’s… picky again. i just wanted to make sure.” there’s a hint of embarrassment in it now, like he’s aware this might be unnecessary but still can’t quite bring himself to ignore it.

you stand, washing your hands as you move closer, the ritual grounding you. “that’s okay,” you tell him. “that’s what we’re here for.”

as you unlatch the carrier and lift the cat out, she greets you like an old acquaintance, stretching into your hands, purring immediately. the familiarity surprises you — not just hers, but yours too. you hadn’t realized how easily your body remembers certain weights, certain rhythms. you set her gently on the table, letting her sniff you before you begin.

“same symptoms?” you ask, already running your hands along her sides.

“mostly,” he says. “eating less. acting offended. you know.” he watches closely, but there’s a different energy now. less panic, more trust. his shoulders aren’t up around his ears anymore. his hands rest on the edge of the table instead of hovering helplessly in midair.

you nod, listening to her heart, then her lungs, explaining as you go. you always do that, but with him it feels less like a professional courtesy and more like conversation. “she sounds great,” you say. “no fever. no tenderness.” you feel her stomach slowly, carefully, watching her face. she blinks at you, unbothered.

minho huffs a quiet laugh. “she’s dramatic.”

“they all are,” you reply, smiling at his hypocrisy, “some just have better acting skills.”

as you work, he asks questions — not rapid-fire like last time, but thoughtful. how sensitive are cats to diet changes, really? how do you tell the difference between discomfort and preference? you answer honestly, sometimes pausing to think, sometimes shrugging when the truth is simply that animals don’t always give us neat explanations.

“you’re really good at this,” he says at one point, almost absentmindedly. like the thought just slipped out.

you glance up, caught off guard. “at… explaining things?”

“at caring,” he says, meeting your eyes without flinching. “you’re not so… clinical, you know?”

something in your chest tightens, warm and sudden. “thank you,” you say quietly, “that means a lot.”

you finish the exam and step back, hands resting on the table for a moment. “she’s healthy,” you tell him again, gently. “i really think this is a preference issue. maybe try mixing the old food with the new one. or switching brands entirely.”

he nods, thoughtful. “i’ll do that.”

there’s a pause after that, the kind that doesn’t rush to fill itself. the cat hops back into her carrier on her own, clearly done with the whole ordeal. minho closes the door, slower than necessary, like he’s not quite ready to leave yet.

“i hope it’s okay that i came back,” he says. “i didn’t want to seem, like, i don’t know... overbearing.”

you shake your head immediately. “i’m glad you did, really.” you hesitate, then add, “i wish more people paid attention to their pets the way you do.”

his mouth curves into a small smile at that, something shy and pleased. “i just want her to be okay.”

“she is,” you reassure him, “she’s lucky to have you.”

he looks at you for a beat longer than needed, like he’s weighing something. then, “you must see this all the time,” he says, “people panicking over nothing.”

“yes,” you admit. “but i don’t think this is nothing. worry comes from love. i don’t mind it.”

that seems to settle something in him. his shoulders ease, his grip on the carrier loosens. when he steps closer to the counter to pay, the space between you narrows, close enough that you’re aware of his presence in a way that has nothing to do with professionalism. when you hand him the receipt, your fingers brush again, warmer this time, unmistakable.

neither of you pulls away right away.

“if it’s okay,” he says carefully, “would it be… too much to ask if i could call? if she gets weird again?”

you smile, soft. “that’s fine,” you say, “i’m here.”

he nods, then hesitates. “wait, i mean— not the clinic. i know how busy it gets. i just…” he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.

you study him for a second, the way he looks uncertain again, not about his cat but about you. something in you decides before your brain catches up. “you can have my number,” you say. “for follow-ups, questions, peace of mind.”

his eyes widen just slightly. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

you grab a scrap of paper, scribbling your number quickly before you can overthink it. when you hand it to him, he takes it carefully, like it might disappear if he grips it too hard. then, after a second, he pulls out his phone. “can i…?”

“of course.”

you recite it again while he types, your voice steady even though your heart isn’t. his phone buzzes a moment later — a new contact, unnamed, but suddenly present. he looks at the screen, then back at you.

“so,” he says, a little braver now. “if you ever want to… i don’t know. see her in her natural habitat.” he clears his throat. “i mean, she’s got opinions. i think she’d like you.”

you laugh softly, “a house call?”

“purely professional,” he says, eyes flicking to yours. “unless you don’t want it to be.”

you tilt your head, considering. “i could stop by,” you say, “just to check on her. make sure everything’s settled.”

his smile this time is slow, warm. “she’d love that.”

“and you?” you ask, gently.

he meets your gaze, steady now. “yeah,” he says. “i think i would too.”

you walk him to the door, the clinic suddenly too bright. as he steps out, he turns back once more. “thank you,” he says, “for everything.”

you smile. “anytime.” as the door closes behind him, your phone is still warm in your pocket. you wait to watch him leave then save his contact in your phone, knowing you’ll be hearing from minho a lot.

3:18 PM and his phone screen has gone dark beside him. his breathing is different now — deeper and even, completely relaxed. riki? you whisper softly. nothing. he's fallen asleep under you, trusting you enough to drift off while you're still drawing on him. something warm blooms in your chest at the realization.

3:34 PM and you're being extra careful now, feather light touches so you don't wake him from his slumber. the design finally coming together, consisting of branches and wings spreading across his shoulder blades — delicate but bold. it feels like him somehow, like growth and freedom and strength all in one.

3:52 PM and you're finally done. your hand is cramping slightly but the drawing looks perfect, better than you imagined. you place the cap on the marker again and just sit there for a moment, admiring your work on his skin, and the way it moves with his breathing. you lean down to press the softest kiss to his cheek, right at the corner of his mouth. his lips are slightly parted in sleep and he looks so peaceful.

4:03 PM and you're climbing off him carefully, slowly, trying not to wake him. the bed dips as you settle beside him and his arm moves automatically in his sleep, reaching for you as if his body knows you're there. you guide it over your waist and tuck yourself against his warm chest, listening to his heartbeat.

4:47 PM and you wake up from your own nap. he's still asleep, breathing steady, arm still around you. you trace lazy patterns on his chest until his eyes flutter open.

6:12 PM and you're both finally awake, stretching the sleep away with a groan. you drew on me, he states, voice rough from sleep. you did fall asleep, you point out. he grins. what'd you draw? curiosity washing over his feautures you'll see eventually, you tease. he tries to look over his shoulder but can't see it properly. guess i'll have to wait then.

8:34 PM and you're both in the kitchen making dinner. he keeps trying to catch a glimpse of the drawing in the reflection of the refrigerator. you're obsessed, you laugh. can you blame me? he counters, pulling you against him. you drew on me. that's like, permanent. he breathes out, it's marker, you say. it'll wash off. he makes a unsatisfactory sound at the thought of it disappearing from his body and kisses your temple.

OCTOBER 15

8:47 AM and you wake up alone. the space beside you is empty but still warm, sheets rumpled around you as they carry the scent of your lover and late night activities. there's a note on the nightstand next to a plate of fresh chocolate chip cookies, still warm. had to run out for something. be back soon. eat these before they get cold. — 𝓡 ♡

9:03 AM and you're eating the cookies slowly, still half-asleep in his oversized shirt. they're perfect, slightly gooey in the center just how you like them. you finish the last one, licking chocolate off your fingers, just as you hear the front door open.

9:17 AM and riki appears in the doorway, hair messy from the outside air, carrying a convenience store bag. you ate all of them? he asks, grinning. you told me to, you remind him. he crosses to the bed and flops down beside you. good girl, he murmurs, kissing your shoulder before biting down on the sensitive skin there.

the days blur together after that, and you assume the marker drawing does the same so you forget about it completely.

OCTOBER 21

11:23 AM and riki's been gone for a few hours. claiming he had errands to run. you're cleaning up the apartment while his hoodie drowning your frame.

2:47 PM and he comes home, moving a little carefully. you okay? you ask. yeah, he says quickly. just sore from the gym. you accept it without question, going back to your book.

5:38 PM and you're both on the couch. he's lying on his stomach with his head in your lap, your fingers running through his hair while you read. he's practically purring under your touch, content and warm.

OCTOBER 28

4:36 PM and you're in the kitchen grabbing snacks. riki reaches up for a mug on the top shelf, the same one you can never seem to reach without a chair to help . his shirt rides up and you see it — dark lines on his skin, permanent dark lines. your drawing. the exact drawing you made on that sleepy october afternoon two weeks ago, now forever inked into his skin.

4:37 PM and you freeze completely, bag of chips long forgotten in your hands. your mouth falls open. riki notices you staring and looks back over his shoulder, a slow smile spreading across his face that makes your stomach flip. finally found it, huh? he says casually, like he didn't just turn your temporary doodle into permanent art on his body.

4:38 PM and you can't seem to move. riki, you finally manage. when did you— you start. a week ago, he softly interrupts you, setting the mug down and turning around fully. he lifts his shirt higher so you can see it fully. surprise?

4:39 PM and you're crossing over to him without thinking. your fingers reach out with trembling hands, tracing the healed lines. every curve and detail is perfectly preserved, professionally done. you actually got it tattooed, you breathe. you said it was 'just marker', he says simply, catching your hands in his own. so i made it permanent.

4:40 PM and your vision blurs with tears. riki, that's not what i— you hiccup. i know, he interrupts again, gentler this time, cupping your face with both hands. his thumbs brush away the wetness on your cheeks. but i wanted to. you made this. for me, on me. you drew it while i was sleeping like i was your canvas. why wouldn't i want to keep it forever?

4:41 PM and you're trying not to full-on sob. you didn't have to do that, you whisper. i wanted to, he says firmly. i thought about it since i first saw it that day. went the next morning to get it started, had two more sessions to finish it. wanted it to be perfect.

4:43 PM and you're laughing through tears now, overwhelmed by him, by this gesture, by everything. he's grinning, forehead pressed to yours so close you can count his eyelashes. thank you, you tell him. i love you, he repeats his thoughts.

4:45 PM and you're tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around you. your fingers trace the tattoo from where your hands lay against his back. best decision i ever made, he confesses into your hair. the tattoo? you ask. you, he corrects. the tattoo's just a bonus. proof that i'm yours.

7:23 PM and you're still processing it. he's cooking dinner shirtless now, showing off the tattoo freely. you keep staring at it from where you're perched up on the counter. like what you see? he teases. maybe a little, you say, but you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

9:47 PM and you're in bed. he's on his stomach and you're tracing the tattoo again in the dim light, following every line you drew that afternoon. he shivers under your touch. never getting tired of this, are you? he asks quietly. never, you admit, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades, right in the center of the design. good, he says softly. because i'm never getting tired of carrying you on my skin.

NOVEMBER O3

7:15 AM and you wake up to him getting dressed for the day. the tattoo is visible in the morning light and you can't help but stare, still not used to seeing it there. he catches you looking in the mirror and smiles, winking at you.

NOVEMBER 10

11:52 PM and you're tracing the inked lines with your fingers in the dark again. your art is on his skin forever. i still can't believe it's real, you whisper. believe it, he murmurs back, half-asleep. you're stuck with me now.

NOVEMBER 17

3:28 PM and you're both out and about when his shirt rides up from the breeze. you see the tattoo peeking out and your chest feels so full with how much you love him. he notices you staring and grins, tugging his shirt down. later, he mouths and you flush at the thought.

DECEMBER O1

9:02 PM and you're curled against his back, fingertips following the inked lines you drew that sleepy october afternoon. he's almost asleep but he catches your hand and brings it to his lips, pressing kisses to your knuckles. still obsessed with it, he says. with you, you correct. same thing, he argues.

and every single time you see it — mornings when he's getting dressed, afternoons when he reaches for something high, nights when you trace it in the dark, you remember. the trust of him falling asleep beneath you and the permanence of him choosing to carry your art on his skin forever.

because you're his and he's yours, and now it's written on his skin for everyone to see.

𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗎~~~~☆، ﹫cigsaftersuh

It had been raining for days, thundering even, thick, dark clouds hanging above the skyscrapers of the city, blocking out any sunlight. 

You had been sitting in the front seat of your dad’s car, your legs tucked comfortably into the seat as he drove through the rain on what was supposed to be a regular, boring Saturday morning. You remembered the music, a song you had heard a million times already. You desperately wished to change the radio station, but didn’t dare to ask. You had fought with your dad in the morning, you couldn’t recall what it was about, you knew it was probably something stupid, something meaningless, but it was enough to dampen his mood, making the whole ride to the ice rink uncomfortably tense. 

You remembered the car coming to a stop at an intersection just a few streets away from the ice arena. 

You hated going past that intersection now.

There wasn’t even a single trace left of what happened that day. The traffic light had been changed, the tyre marks washed away after years of cars driving over the asphalt, and yet it left so many scars on you.

You remembered the horn that cut through the silence in the car. A loud, long, shrill sound.

Seconds later, time seemed to slow down. 

The impact was deafening.

You heard everything at once. Felt everything at once.

The high, tearing shriek of brakes. The heavy, hollow boom as metal slammed into metal.

The feeling of your head connecting with the window in a sharp, sickening thud, and the white, hot pain that would follow. It exploded through your body, radiating from your foot up into your chest, stealing the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping, choking on your own breath. 

For a moment afterwards, everything was silent. You knew it was never silent, but it was like you had dislodged all your senses for a few seconds before the world came rushing back in a torrent of pain and noise.

You remembered the rumble of thunder, the rain drumming harder on the crumpled roof, a sharp staccato against the twisted metal. For a few seconds, you were able to hear your dad over all of the noise, his voice full of panic.

“YN!” His voice sounded far away, buried under the ringing in your ears. “Stay with me, okay? Stay with me!”

You blinked. Your vision was blurry, your eyes stinging. You tried to move to rub your eyes, find a way to make it stop hurting. 

Another rumble came from overhead, thunder chasing the storm across the sky. It blended in with the sirens, with the echo of the truck’s impact replaying in your skull. 

Everything after that was gone. You couldn’t remember the ambulance coming in, the process of freeing you out of the wreck, the drive to the hospital, the surgeries, or the days in the ICU. 

The only thing you could remember from the weeks afterwards was the dull, never-ending pain. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

“-/N? Are you with me?”

A hand landed gently on your shoulder, startling you into ripping your open eyes, almost jolting upright. Your heart was hammering against your ribs until you recognised the white ceiling of the room in the rehabilitation centre. 

"Whoa, easy," Jihoon, the physiotherapist in charge of the EMS machines, chuckled.

The pads placed along your clave went silent, the current fading to nothing, leaving a faint prickling feeling. He peered at you over his glasses, that soft smile in place, that he always used when he knew you were exhausted.

You blinked hard, swallowing dryly while heat crept up your neck. "Sorry. I zoned out."

"Again?" He raised an eyebrow, peeling the electrodes off one by one, before attaching them to your thigh. His touch is brisk but kind, years of working making it almost automatic. "You’ve been stuck in your head a lot lately. Everything alright?"

You forced a laugh, nodding. "I am just dreaming of the day when I don’t have to come close to this building ever again." Your ankle throbbed without the distraction, a deep, insistent pull. Jihoon hummed. "I really love our sessions together, but for your sake, I am hoping the same."

"Thanks," you muttered, clenching your teeth when he started up the machine again. 

“Do you want me to let you sleep while you’re hooked up to the machine?” Jihoon asked, cleaning his hands from the gel he had used to attach the pads. 

You made a sound in agreement, not trusting your voice, while the little electrode pads hummed steadily against your skin. 

Tighten. 

Release. 

Tighten. 

Release. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

It was almost routine by now, the gruelling physio sessions and lymphatic drainages that were leaving dark bruises blooming across your skin, the agonising moment of having to get up and get home despite the exhaustion. 

Soobin's car idled close to the entrance, its hazard lights blinking.

Your brother leaned over to pop the passenger door as you approached, crutches clacking unevenly on the pavement. "Hey," he said, voice light, his eyes scanning your face. 

“Hi,” you eased into the seat with a wince, folding the crutches across your lap. 

You hated this, having to be chauffeured around like a helpless child. Having to wait for someone to get you home.

Soobin grabbed your bag and placed it on the back seat before turning back to you with a soft smile. "How was your day?"

"Hard. Tiring." The words came out flatter than you meant, edged with frustration you couldn't quite bury. 

Soobin caught the bite in your tone, glancing over as he merged into traffic. He was quiet for a second before he started talking again. "My media ethics class was a circus today. The professor had us debate whether deepfakes should be straight-up illegal or just watermarked to hell. This one guy, a total idiot, argued that those who have deepfakes created by whatever AI just had to tell people it wasn’t them. Sometimes I really wonder how those people got into Decelis. I thought it was supposed to be a top university.”

You nodded, half-listening to his rambling; his voice was a steady hum over the engine. When he killed the engine a few minutes later, you had to force your eyes open again, squinting against the bright light in the underground garage. 

Your brother glanced over, smirking as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “I see, you’re truly interested in my life, Y/N.”

You hummed, letting your eyelids close again. “I’ve paid attention. You told me something about deepfakes and laws and…yeah.” 

Soobin chuckled and got out of his seat, rounding the car. By the time you fumbled with the door, Soobin had already grabbed your crutches with one hand and slung his and your bag over his shoulder. "C'mon, Sleeping Beauty. Up you go."

You groaned, but obediently swung your legs out of the car, reaching for the crutches and heaving yourself upright with a huff. Your brother was waiting patiently, holding the car door open wide until you had made your way out of it. He led the way, propping doors open through the dim garage halls, up the elevator, and right to the apartment.

Soobin entered the hallway with a loud, “We are home!” 

Inside, it was cooler than the warm, humid August air. “Hello, you two," your mom's voice came from the kitchen, followed by her head appearing in the doorframe. ”Get changed and come eat.” 

“Hi mom,” you answered, giving her a tired smile. 

Soobin dropped your bag in your room, and you thanked him before letting yourself drop onto the bed with a huff. 

For a long moment, you stayed there, the only movement coming from your ribcage, slowly lifting and lowering with each breath you took. You crossed your arms over your head, your skin sticky from a faint sheen of sweat. “Y/N, aren’t you hungry?” Your father was standing in your doorframe, mustering your figure.

You slowly dropped one arm after the other, still staring ahead at the ceiling. The small glow-in-the-dark stars that Ryujin and Beomguy glued onto your ceiling during your first stay in the hospital were slowly peeling off, leaving holes in the constellations. “I’m tired, Dad.”

“You still need to eat Y/N. And I will not bring dinner to your bed, so come on,” his eyes were ranking over your figure, as you heaved yourself upright. “I can get your mom if you need help changing, and then you can join us.”

You hummed. “It’s fine. I’ll change later.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

“Heeseung!” the voice of his coach ripped Heeseung from his thoughts. “Do you have a minute?”

Heeseung came to a stop and turned around to face Coach Choi, standing near the bench, his clipboard tucked under his arm. 

His eyes darted from the older man to the entrance to the changing rooms. It has been nearly a week since the season started, and he couldn’t remember anyone doing anything that could have gotten him or anyone else in trouble. “Sure, Coach.”

A few strikes over the ice were enough to reach the boards before he stepped onto the rubber flooring. The Coach gestured for him to sit down. 

“Heeseung, my boy, I’ve been thinking about the team’s image,” the Coach began, his tone casual but deliberate.  

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “Image?”  

The Coach nodded, tucking the clipboard under his arm. “Yeah. You boys are doing great on the ice, and it’s a pity we don’t showcase that more on social media. I’ve had a meeting with the athletic department, and it has agreed that we need someone to handle not only your social media but also the figure skaters' social media. They want to have more exposure for the teams and for your students.”

He looked at Heeseung expectantly, and he nodded slowly, waiting for the older man to continue.

“Scouts, sponsors, even alumni donors, they pay attention to more than just your games. They want to see personalities, professionalism, something marketable for their teams.”  

Heeseung crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the boards. “I am aware, sir. But what does that have to do with me?”  The Coach hummed. “We’ve come to an agreement that we will build a social media team this semester. Students and professionals alike. We would like to give students a chance to get internships done and have someone who has an eye on the situation.”

Heeseung tilted his head, curious. “A PR manager?” He wasn’t aware that the team had the funds to hire a person to post a few pics of them on Instagram to appease the sponsors. He knew the swimming team had a PR-manager, a sweet girl being tasked with filming them while they swam and making them partake in ridiculous TikTok trends.

“Yes. I was thinking about asking my daughter for now, until we’ve officially built a team and publicised the applications,” the coach said, nodding, “I want to start posting as soon as possible, so that we already have a few followers when the games start.”

“Y/N?” Heeseung blinked, caught off guard.  

The Coach nodded, his expression softening slightly. “She knows hockey inside and out. And she’s good with this kind of stuff, social media, PR, that kind of thing. It’ll be good for her, and it’ll help the team.”  

Heeseung hesitated for a second. 

The coach’s expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face, as he spoke up before Heeseung could answer. “She’s been looking for something to focus on, and this is a good opportunity for her. Plus, it’s not like she’s starting from scratch; she grew up around this sport.”  

Heeseung nodded slowly, uncertain what influence your prior knowledge of hockey had on you filming some cringe TikTok videos. “Okay. What do you need from me?”  

“I need you to help make this transition smooth,” Coach said, his tone firm. “She’s going to be around a lot, and I don’t want her feeling like she’s an outsider. Make sure the guys treat her with respect, and if she needs anything, you help her out.”  

Heeseung frowned slightly. “You’re not asking me to babysit her, right?”  

The coach let out a low chuckle. “No, she doesn’t need babysitting. But you’re the captain. It’s part of your job to make sure the team stays cohesive. She’s going to be part of the team.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

Heeseung was standing under the hot stream of the showers in the arena, washing away the layers of sweat that had collected on his skin during the last three hours of drills on the ice. The muscles in his back started to relax slowly under the heat. 

“Hee, do you wanna come over later? Yeonjun, Beomguy and I were thinking about inviting Tae and Kai as well. They are in Seoul today and tomorrow, and we want to get something to eat.” Soobin was rubbing his hair with a hot pink towel, standing in front of Heeseung's cabin, ripping him out of his thoughts. 

He nodded and hummed a ‘sure’ before stepping out of the cabin, reaching for his towel. 

“You tired?” Soobin asked, lifting one of his brows. 

Heeseung hummed again. “I haven’t slept much last night.”

“Oh, believe me. I’ve heard,” Soobin chuckled. “Gyu was screaming around until like 3 am. What did you play?”

“We played Catan online,” Heeseung shrugged. “Let’s say, we all united against him and used the robber well.” 

“Catan?” the older mustered him with an amused smile.

“I have no clue. Jeongin wanted to play,” Heeseung wrapped his towel around his lower half and stepped out of the showers, towards the locker room. 

He glanced at Soobin, who was still scrubbing at his hair with that ridiculous pink towel. Soobin insisted it was a lucky charm. 

"Hey," he said after a few beats, pulling a shirt over his head. "Your dad mentioned something about an internship? A PR intern for the team or whatever. He said his daughter might take it to catch up. He claimed Y/N needed something to ‘focus on’. Not gonna lie, he seemed pretty set on me babysitting her. Any idea what's up with that?"

Soobin's hands froze, and his towel dropped a fraction, a frown making its way on his face. „Y/N? Are you sure he said Y/N and not another name?“

Heeseung stopped adjusting his shirt and turned his gaze towards the older, nodding slowly. „He said ‚my daughter‘, and you only have one sister that I know of?“

Soobin closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath before continuing to towel his hair dry, now with a bit more force than necessary. „Whatever he is talking about, no. She would never do that. She isn’t supposed to do that.“

Heeseung blinked, his hands stilling as he reached for his pants. "Oh. Why that? He claimed that, you know, since she grew up around the sport, she'd be doing just fine?"

Soobin's expression darkened further, a flash of real upset crossing his face, shaking his head like he couldn't believe it. "She will absolutely say no. No chance."

Heeseung turned fully now, brows raised as he zipped up. “Why? She's not into it?"

Soobin exhaled sharply through his nose, as a mix of confusion, disappointment, and annoyance flickered across his face. He rubbed the back of his neck, pacing a single step before stopping,. "Into it? Man, she'll hate every second. Turn it down flat, no question. My dad has this obsession with dragging her back into the hockey world. He thinks being around the rink, the team, all that will 'motivate' her, get her excited about life again after everything. But it does the exact opposite. She shuts down hard. He just... doesn't get it."

Heeseung raised a brow, leaning against his locker as he grabbed socks from his bag. He knew of the accident, of the surgeries. Soobin never really talked much about it, about you, and Heeseung wasn’t one to ask. Soobin was touchy about the topic. "Opposite how? I mean, PR's not even on-ice stuff. She wouldn’t have to skate?"

Soobin hesitated longer this time before answering. "She just had her fifth surgery, Heeseung.” he was quiet for a second, pulling a white shirt out of his locker before he continued. “She loved hockey before the accident. She had a sharper wrist shot than most of the guys here. She’s on crutches or a wheelchair most days now. She barely watches my games anymore and avoids the rink unless she has to. I don’t think she would ever say yes to anything that has to do with hockey ever again."

Heeseung felt a twist in his gut. "The coach made it sound so straightforward."

"Yeah, he always does," Soobin muttered, disappointment heavy in the words as he slung his bag over his shoulder. "I know he thinks he's helping, but he’s just…clueless.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

You first heard them in pieces, muffled voices coming from the kitchen.

“…don’t you think you should have told me first before you ask Heeseung?” Soobin’s voice was low and tight.

It was uncommon for your brother and father to fight, even more so for Soobin to sound this pissed. You sat up quietly on the sofa, the blanket your mother had thrown over you, slipping down your shoulders. 

“I was going to,” your father answered in a clipped tone. “But the athletic department needed an answer. This internship is perfect for her. It gives her credits, a routine, something to focus on. She is not taking classes this semester.”

There was a pause before Soobin answered with a hiss. “Perfect for her?” he repeated, incredulous. “You mean the Y/N who hasn’t watched a full game since the accident? The one who hates everything that reminds her of the time before the crash with a passion? That Y/N?”

Your heart climbed up your throat, and as quietly as possible reached for your wheelchair, pulling it towards the sofa, so you could slide into the seat. The corridor light spilt in as you nudged the door open a little further, not wanting to interrupt them, but also wanting to know what they were discussing. They were standing in the narrow hallway just by the kitchen door.

“You’re exaggerating,” your father said, though his eyes flickered towards your mother, who was wordlessly watching the two. “She used to love the rink. Being around the team will do her good. Motivate her. She’s been doing nothing for months now, just physio and classes when she still had some. She needs a hobby, something that she actually enjoys.”

Soobin let out a short, humourless laugh. “A hobby? Dad, you’re talking about throwing her into a job in the loudest building on campus. You want her sitting behind the bench while thirty guys slam into the boards and pucks hit the glass. You think that’s going to magically fix things?”

“She doesn’t have to be behind the bench,” your father retorted. “She’d be in the office most of the time. Running social media, filming short videos, and organising content. She always liked making videos with her friends when she was younger.”

Your fingers curled around the cold metal of the wheels. What were the two talking about? An Internship?

“Meaningful for who?” Soobin fired back. “For her, or for you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to drag her back into your world whether she wants it or not.”

Your father straightens, shoulders squaring. 

“That’s not fair,” he said sharply. “I’m trying to help her. She’s twenty and stuck in her own head. I know how bad the recovery is going, I know that this surgery was the last try, Soobin, believe me, I know. But I can’t watch her sitting at home and rot, she has so much life to live. And maybe getting back into something she loved will help with that.“

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, forcing your heart to calm down. You hated it, you hated it so much, how they tried to decide over your life as if you weren’t there. ‚This isn’t good for you, Y/N‘. ‚Do this, and you’ll feel better, Y/N‘ 

“Maybe she wouldn’t feel stuck if people stopped treating her like a broken project,” Soobin snapped.“She’s allowed to want things that aren’t hockey. Not everything has to lead back to the rink.”

“And what does she want, then?” your father shot back. “She wants to drop her minor, barely talks about her major, and every time I ask about physio, she shuts down. At least this internship gives her structure. Colleagues. A reason to get out of bed that isn’t just rehab.”

“I can ask her,” Soobin said, stabbing a finger toward your room. “You could have asked her too, you know, instead of deciding for her and talking to Heeseung first.”

“He’s the captain,” your father snapped. “I needed to make sure he understood the situation. The team has to respect her.”

“And maybe your daughter should’ve been the first to know?” Soobin’s voice cracked on the last word. “She’s going to hate this. You know she will.”

“I know she needs something,” your father said stubbornly. “She always lit up around the rink. She used to film everything on that old camera, remember? Tournament vlogs, locker room interviews with you and the boys. Why is it wrong to try to give her that back?”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Your own voice surprised you. Both of them turned at once.

You rolled into the hallway, having to crane your neck to look at them. “Can you two please stop yelling like I’m not here?”

Soobin’s expression softened immediately, guilt flashing across his face. “Y/N, we’re not–”

“You’re exactly what I think you are,” you cut in, looking from him to your father. “Arguing about my life as if I had nothing to decide here.”

Your father exhaled, some of the anger draining into a frown. “We didn’t want to upset you. I was going to talk to you after dinner. It’s just an internship, Y/N. Helping the hockey team with PR, filming a few videos, and taking pictures. It could be good for you.”

You stared up at him. “No.”

The word left your mouth before you even thought it through. 

His brows knit. “You haven’t even heard the details.”

“I don’t need the details,” you replied, heat rising behind your eyes. “If I could, I would never do anything with hockey again. Not as a player, not as a manager, not as a mascot, nothing. I don’t want to work for your team. I don’t want to sit in that rink, listening to sticks smack the ice and pucks hit the glass and pretend I wouldn’t die to be down there, to play.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Y/N–”

“And I’m so tired of you acting like forcing me back into that world is some kind of cure,” you pressed on, voice tightening. “I am healing. Slowly. Miserably. With more pain than you want to admit. You deciding I need a ‘hobby’ is not going to fix my leg.”

“You do need something,” he insisted. “You can’t just exist between physio appointments and your bed. This isn’t about hockey, it’s about your life. You need a reason to get up, a project. You always loved filming and editing; this combines what you’re good at with something that gives you real working experience. Why is that so terrible?”

“Because you’re not listening,” Soobin said sharply. “You’re not listening to what she wants, Dad. You’re listening to what you want. What you miss.”

„Stop it!“ you raised your voice, now almost louder than the two of them. „I get it! You’re worried about me, but I am the one deciding what I want and what’s good for me, okay! I already feel like shit with everything going on, you don’t have to make it worse!“ 

Your father’s shoulders sagged, and he was the first to break the silence that followed your outburst. When he spoke again, his tone was quieter. “You’re right. Both of you.”

He dragged a hand over his face, the years suddenly visible in the lines around his eyes. “I shouldn’t have talked to Heeseung before I talked to you. That was wrong. I still think this could help you, but… It’s your life. We can discuss it properly. Without yelling at each other like idiots.”

Soobin nodded, moving to stand beside you now. “Then maybe actually listen when she says no,” he said, but there is no heat in it anymore.

You exhaled slowly, tension leaking out of your shoulders. “We can talk,” you agreed, your voice tired. “Later. When we have all calmed down and had something to eat. You two tend to get hangry”

A corner of your father’s mouth twitched, reluctant. “Fair enough.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

You shuffled into the bathroom after dinner, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling that hadn’t disappeared since you interrupted your father and brother. There was a chair already set up in the shower, positioned under the handheld nozzle you’ve installed there after the last surgery. Your mom followed you, grabbing fresh towels from the linen closet. 

“Need help?” she asked softly, though she already knew the answer.

You nodded silently and let her help ease you onto the chair, after wrapping up your leg in a plastic bag. You sat hunched forward, one leg extended awkwardly, while she knelt on the bathmat with a loofah and body wash. Her hands were gentle, methodical, washing your back first, then your good leg, avoiding the cast with practised care.

You hated how all of this was routine already, how your mother had to sacrifice so much of her time for you, to care for you, when you should be able to do all of this by yourself.

The steam rose slowly, fogging the mirror, distorting your reflection until the only thing you saw was blurry silhouettes. 

“Honey,” your mother said after a while, watching you rinse soap off your shoulders. “Do you really think the internship is such a bad idea? Your father only means well. He worries about you. Maybe… maybe you would have some fun with it? Filming the boys and girls, making videos. You used to love that.”

You kept your eyes on the drain, watching suds spiral away. “I have friends, Mom. I do things.”

She pauses for a second. “I know you do. But you’ve refused visitors for weeks. You don’t leave the house except for rehab. You’re just… sleeping. All the time.”

“I’m tired,” you said, sharper than you meant. “That’s all.”

“I know you’re tired,” she murmured, taking the loofah from your hand and gently cleaning your injured side. “But I’m worried too, Y/N. You used to be so bubbly, so outgoing, you had so much fun. Now… It’s like you’re fading. And we all see it.”

Frustration bubbled up hot behind your eyes. “Because even three months ago, I still could have fun mom,” you burst out, water splattering as your hand clenches. “I knew this surgery wasn’t a good idea. It's stealing another nine months of my life again, Mom. And look at me now. I’m exhausted, my hip aches so bad from the bone graft that I can’t sit up alone some days. It’s not healing. You and Dad keep acting as if I just try harder, that with a hobby, an internship, whatever, it’ll magically get better. But it won’t. I’m stuck like this, and pretending otherwise just makes me angrier.”

Your mother’s hands stilled completely. She sat back on her heels, water dripping from the sponge onto the mat. Her eyes met yours, sad and searching. “We don’t know how to help,” she admitted quietly. “Your father pushes you because he’s scared. I… I miss my girl. The one who was always in a good mood, who always had a smile on her face. But I also know that we will never understand what you are feeling, Y/N.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “I miss her too.”

She reached out, cupping your cheek despite the spray of the water. “Then let us try. Not to fix you. Just… to be with you.”

You didn’t answer. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

The air wasn’t particularly cold where you were sitting in the bleachers. It had been three days since you had spoken properly to either your father or Soobin. You were hurt. It hurt, hearing them say that, them all somewhat agreeing that you were letting your life just go by without…living it. 

The worst part about everything was that they were right. You were just sitting around doing nothing, but what were you supposed to do? All you could do at the moment was go to rehab, spend your day with grandmas who have gotten new hips or knees, and have to hear how you were too young for your injuries. You did your best with the exercises, taking it easy, but you had the feeling that it wouldn’t be enough. 

You were watching a Sunghoon float across the ice. He was tall and slim, jumping around the ice as if it were nothing. Your dad had wanted you to start figure skating as well. He had enrolled you in a class, but you hated it. You weren’t elegant or willing to go through the grueling training to get flexible enough to actually do some of the elements; you wanted to play hockey, like your brother…like your father. 

The figure skater jumped, and his toe pick got stuck in the ice, causing him to stumble and fall onto his side. He stayed on the floor for a few seconds. His face was turned away from you, but you could imagine the frustration on his face. Sunghoon had fallen five or six times while doing this specific element already. 

Getting stuck over and over, having to repeat one step over and over. 

You knew that feeling, being stuck. 

But he got up every time, started his music anew and ran the program again and again and again. 

The door to the rink opened with a soft metallic groan. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw another tall person stepping inside. He was dressed in all black, baggy clothes, shaking out his hair. He stepped to the boards, watching Sunghoon gather his speed again and stumble into a jump he had landed with ease before. You recognised Heeseung even from afar. You had spent the last few days stalking the team, or well, teams on their social media accounts. 

Sunghoon made an annoyed sound and skated to the boards where his phone rested, and Heeseung stood. They talked for a bit, Heeseung looking amused, if not a bit worried. You couldn’t hear what they were talking about; the low hum of the rink was louder than their conversation. After a while, Sunghoon went back to his starting position, and for a moment, the hockey player just stood there, watching before his gaze drifted up, scanning the stands.

You straightened a little when it landed on you. You had met Heeseung a few times, at parties or when he came over while Soobin was still living at home. He was nice, polite. 

You lifted one hand in a small wave, trying to tug your mouth into something that could pass as a smile. He blinked, surprised for a fraction, then his features softened, and he waved back, lips curving. A moment later, he disappeared from view, heading out of the rink’s sightline.

You assumed he had gone to the locker room, but a couple of minutes later, you heard the faint echo of footsteps on the metal staircase. You turned your head and saw him coming up towards your row, duffel thumping lightly against his hip.

He didn’t say anything at first, just reached the top and crossed over to your row. He lowered himself onto the seat next to the one where your crutches lay, balanced awkwardly against the bench.

You blinked before turning your head to the ice again, watching Sunghoon skate. He hadn’t restarted his music, so the silence in the rink was only broken by the sharp sounds of blades scratching over the rough ice. 

You glanced to the side, where Heeseung was now leaning back into the seat. He had to fold his legs slightly, too tall for the tight space in between the rows. His gaze was focussed onto the ice, watching the figure skater. 

It felt awkward, the silence between the two of you. You averted your eyes and mustered the grey plastic of your cast, hoping for him to go back down again. This was supposed to be your escape. You wanted to be alone for a second. To not see anyone, to not talk to anyone. You didn’t know why you decided the rink was the best place to go. You hated coming here. 

You hated the rink. It reminded you of everything you had lost, of the future that would never be a possibility. But somehow, when you had finished your rehab earlier than planned today, and got into a taxi, you ended up coming here. 

“I’m Heeseung,” he said after a while, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, and his eyes were fixed ahead. “By the way.”

You huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “I know who you are.”

He nodded once, accepting that, and silence settled again, thicker this time.

Sunghoon stumbled on the ice and fell hard onto his hip. You frowned at the sight. 

Heeseung spoke up again. “How long have you been here?” he asked quietly.

“A while,” you answered, shrugging one shoulder. “He’s been struggling with that sequence for… I don’t even know how long. It keeps tripping him up.”

Heeseung nodded, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “He won’t care,” he said, like he’d seen this happen a hundred times already. “Sunghoon will stand up and do it again as many times as he needs to. He’s preparing for the Olympic qualifiers.” 

You hummed this time, watching as Sunghoon pushed off the ice again, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed in concentration. 

Of course, that was the right thing to do. 

When you were that talented, giving up was not an option. It never had been.

“Are you training for the Olympic team as well?” you asked after a beat, turning your head slightly towards Heeseung.

He let out a short laugh, glancing over at you. “No,” he said, amusement tugging at his mouth. “It’s hard enough being captain under your dad. I’ve already been drafted by a team. I want to play with them first, see where that goes. Maybe then I’ll think about the Olympics. If they even want me.”

You nodded, accepting that answer. You sat like that for a while, both of you watching the streaks of motion on the ice. Eventually, a dull ache started spreading up your calf, into your thigh. You shifted, carefully adjusting the position of your leg, trying to find a spot where the pull lessened.

“You alright?” Heeseung asked, his head turning a fraction towards you.

“Yeah,” you said, biting back a wince. “Just… aching muscles. My physiotherapist had me try a new exercise today.”

“Oh.” He nodded slowly. “That sounds good, though. That’s how healing works, right? At least that's what building up muscles is like. It hurts a bit?”

You let out an annoyed little huff, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Unfortunately,” you admitted. “It is.”

He smiled to himself, eyes drifting back to the ice, and you followed his gaze, both of you letting the quiet settle over you again, the sound of blades and distant music filling the spaces. 

“I can’t do the internship,” you said finally, the words tumbling out of nowhere, surprising even yourself.

He hummed low in his chest. “Yeah,” he replied. “Soobin told me already.” His gaze didn’t leave the ice. “It’s alright. I get it.”

Down below, Sunghoon went into the troublesome pass again. You watched his blade catch, just slightly off, and he went down hard on his hip this time. The music kept playing, while he got up slowly, his chest heaving.

"Do you need a ride home?" Heeseung asked after a while, breaking the silence , his voice casual, eyes still fixed on the ice.

You turned your head slightly, surprised by the offer. "Oh," you said, shaking your head. "No, thank you. I will take a taxi."

He let out a soft huff of laughter, the corner of his mouth lifting. "If Soobin knew you were here, and knew that I was, that we met, he would probably kill me if I let you take a taxi home." He nodded towards the ice where Sunghoon was gliding into position again. "So let me drive you. It would save us both some trouble. The men in your family are quite protective of you, in case you haven’t noticed."

You shook your head again, though a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "You just arrived. Do you not want to train or something?"

He hummed thoughtfully, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. Then he shook his head. "No. I will not get Sunghoon off the ice anytime soon."

"I am only here because I was feeling bored," he continued, as if it explained everything. "I wanted to procrastinate on one of my essays, and what better way than going to the ice instead of being stuck behind my desk?” 

You hummed. Sunghoon took off again, his blade catching just enough to make him stumble, and glanced back at Heeseung. He leaned back against the bench, taking your hum as an agreement, stretching his arms along the top row behind him.

"How is your rehab going?" he asked, his tone shifting to something gentler.

You exhaled slowly, nodding slightly. "I’m not sure. Worse than my doctor had anticipated? I don’t really know what to do with myself at the moment, if I am honest.” With a shrug, you turned to him. “This surgery was meant to restore the little mobility I had left and ease the scar tissue pain in my leg. But I am just more exhausted than before. The hip where they took the bone for the graft aches so badly on bad days that I cannot even sit up alone."

He winced visibly. "That sounds horrible."

"Yes," you agreed. "It is."

The silence returned, softer this time, with Sunghoon's music looping faintly in the background. After a moment, Heeseung spoke again. "Do not worry about the internship, by the way. I am sure they will find someone else."

"Yes," you said, nodding. "It does sound like fun, in a way. I am sure someone will love it."

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "Would you not love it?"

You would. The thought stung because part of you really would love it if you gave it a chance. 

"I would," you admitted after a moment, your voice heavy. "But I would hate coming here every day. Seeing what I could have had."

He nodded slowly, understanding flickering in his expression. "Were you ever on the ice during the phases when you could walk?"

"No," you replied, averting your gaze from him to the ceiling, before closing your eyes. "I was too scared I would hurt myself even more."

He hummed. “Do you think you could try skating again? After you’re done with rehab, even if it isn’t completely healed. You would not have to be some crazy hockey player. Just skating. It could be nice, no?"

Sunghoon landed cleanly below. You watched the motion of his blades, the way he moved as the ice belonged to him, and felt that familiar ache. You would love to, you were almost desperate to. "Maybe," you said quietly. 

“You would have some pretty good coaches on your side, if you ever want to try,” Heeseung joked, and you huffed out a laugh. 

“I would, wouldn’t I?”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ You were stuck in traffic almost as soon as you exited the rink's parking lot. Heeseung cursed under his breath, not letting go of the brakes fully, barely letting the car roll forward even after the light turned green for the second time. 

He was still in disbelief at what was happening right now. He had come to the rink to clear his head, maybe get some solo drills in. But he knew that there was no chance he would be able to get Sunghoon off the ice today, as soon as he stepped inside. His friend had been sick for days, and this was the first time since then that he had time to go over his routine, so he didn’t want to impose. He scanned the empty stands out of habit, than anything else. He was surprised to see someone actually sitting in there. You sat high up in the bleachers, crutches propped beside you, your expression distant as you watched Sunghoon glide across the ice. There was no particular cold in the air, but you looked small somehow, hunched into yourself, like the weight of something invisible was pressing down on you. Heeseung paused by the door, surprised at himself for even recognising you. He barely knew you beyond team events and Soobin's warnings to "be nice but don't get too close." For a second, he wondered if he was crazy. What was he supposed to do, walk up to his Coach's daughter and strike up a conversation? But you looked… miserable. Sad, even. And you seemed nice enough from the handful of times you'd exchanged words. He wasn’t a person who went up to others to just start up conversations; he was rather awkward most of the time with new people, but before he could talk himself out of it, his feet were already carrying him up the stairs. And now he was driving you home. 

Heeseung took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down enough to not start cursing out the poor drivers in front of him and noticed how you shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat next to him. He imagined the cast to be uncomfortable, especially now in the hot, humid summer. 

"Is it very bad?" his voice was gentle, when he broke the silence in the car for the first time, since you got in. 

"Just sore," you answered with a shrug, repeating your answer from before. He would have been fine with that as an answer, but you continued talking. "I swear my physio is trying to kill me. I know to rebuild muscle, I have to actually work on it, but he thinks of the worst exercises."

He huffed out a soft laugh at that. "Sounds like your dad. He claims that if we are not sore by the end of a gym session, we are pussies who haven't done enough." That made you smile, small but genuine. "Sounds like him, yeah."

A car honked behind you, and Heeseung sighed, resting his forehead briefly against the steering wheel, closing his eyes in resignation, before turning his head towards you. "I think we're going to be stuck here for a while."

You snorted and raised a brow. "You think?"

He ignored the remark and sat up properly again, trying to strike up an actual conversation this time. "Which year are you in?"

"Third," you answered. "You?"

"Same," he replied. "Well. Technically. I took an extra semester."

"Hockey?"

"Hockey," he confirmed.

The music from the speakers shifted quietly between R&B and pop. He kept his eyes on the traffic ahead. "So, what are you studying? Your major."

"Business administration," you replied, staring out at a couple walking their dog on the sidewalk next to Heeseung's car. "With a minor in media production."

"That fits," he nodded. "With the internship, I mean. PR stuff. Content creation."

You hummed in acknowledgement but did not say anything further, and Heeseung bit his lower lip, thinking he had fucked up by mentioning the internship again. He glanced at you, but you were still staring out of the passenger window. Great, seems like he did fuck it up. 

"What about you?" you asked after a long moment of silence, turning your head towards him. "Music production," he answered, almost relieved. "Sound engineering, mixing, that kind of thing." Your eyebrows lifted slightly, interest sparking. "Music production? Have you done anything like… professionally? Or just as a hobby?" He smiled faintly, tapping the steering wheel with the beat. "Right now, it is mostly me in my flat at three in the morning, trying to layer vocals over beats that sounded better in my head. My roommates have to suffer a bit with it.” 

"That sounds cool," you cocked your head a bit to the right. "Do you make whole songs? Or just remixes and stuff?"

"Both," he gave you a small smile, counting it as a win, that you seemed at least a bit interested. "I started with remixing songs I liked, speeding them up, adding drops, that kind of thing. Now I am trying to write originals. Lyrics are harder than the production, though."

You nodded thoughtfully. "What kind of music? Like… pop? Electronic?" "Bit of everything," he admitted. "Pop, hip-hop, some lo-fi. Depends on my mood. Lately, I have been messing around with ambient stuff."

"Have you put anything online?" you asked, leaning a little closer to the centre console now. "Like on SoundCloud or something?"

He felt his ears heat slightly; he usually didn’t talk much to strangers about his music. Most of the stuff he did write or produce was close to his heart, had a lot of meaning to him, or was the person to whom he gifted the songs. "A few tracks, yeah. "

You were smiling properly now, eyes bright. "What is your artist name?" He laughed softly, shaking his head. "You’re gonna have to try to figure that out by yourself, Y/N."

“Aw, Heeseung,” you pouted, a mischievous gleam in your eyes. “I thought we were friendly now. Why would you make me work for it?”

He raised an eyebrow. "Friendly?" "Are we not?" you said simply. "You came up to me while I was moping around, and you are driving me home now. In a weird way, you were able to even lift my mood a bit!"

Heeseung giggled at that, a real, full giggle breaking out of him, and he felt his ears reddening before he caught himself. “I am glad I could lift your mood, Y/N. But you’re not gonna get my user. You have to work for that.”

You huffed out a breath and pretended to be upset, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Unfair!” 

"What do you do in your free time, aside from now probably trying to figure out my Soundcloud handle?" Heeseung asked, his curiosity genuine as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. The traffic had finally started to ease up a little, but you were still crawling along at a snail's pace. You let out a small sigh, your gaze drifting back to the window. "Lately? I sleep a lot. I do not really do much aside from physio and sleeping at the moment. Maybe watch some Netflix if I have the energy." He nodded slowly, processing that. "And before? If you are in media production, you probably did a lot of video stuff, right?" Your smile returned, but it did not reach your eyes. "Yes, I did. A lot of video editing. It was actually a lot of fun. I used to vlog, make edits for friends, little projects for classes. I even had a small following on TikTok for a while." “Oh, what did you upload?” he tried to keep his tone light.

“Different things? Mainly edits of a few idols?”, you answered, sounding a bit embarrassed at that.

Heeseung nodded, smiling, amused at your reaction. “Like those thirst traps of them being half naked?”

“No!” you gasped and shook your head. “Definitely not that. Usually, it was just a few videos cut to a song I thought was cute with a few filters and stuff like that.”

Heeseung laughed at that, and you nodded, averting your face, but grinning.  

“Do you do anything aside from playing Hockey and cooking up some crazy beats that I am not allowed to hear?” You asked a few seconds later. 

He hummed and nodded, switching lanes before he answered. “Not much? I like to play video games. Do you know Beomgyu? We tend to play League a lot.”

That made you snort and shake your head. “Oh, believe me, I do know Gyu rather well. He claims gaming is helping his strategic thinking on the ice. I call it bullshit.” 

Heeseung chuckled, nodding along. "Fair enough. But you have to admit, his game sense is pretty good sometimes. Gyu reads plays two steps ahead, sets up those perfect give-and-gos like he sees the whole rink in his head."

You raised a brow, turning fully towards him now. "Dude, what the fuck? If he wasn't as good with his wrist shots, he wouldn't be any good on the ice at all."

Heeseung blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "His wrist shot?"

You shrugged, but your eyes lit up just a fraction. "Gyu's release is filthy. He hits the top shelf before goalies even track it. Without that, his 'strategy' wouldn't save him from anything."

He stared for a second, lowkey impressed. He had forgotten, not just that you were Coach's daughter, but that you had played yourself. "Damn," he said, grinning despite himself. "Spot on. How do you know all that?"

You huffed a small laugh, glancing out the window. "I catch highlights sometimes after you play. And yeah, Gyu's shot carries him." "He did a reel with his best shots of last season," he said carefully. "It got a few million views on his TikTok."

“I know,” you went quiet for a moment, your fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. “I cut the videos. I helped out with most of his videos when he was still actively posting.”

Heeseung hummed at that, not knowing what to say now. The playlist shifted to another soft pop track, filling the space. 

"I don't know," you finally admitted. "Part of me thinks it could be good. To do the internship, I mean. I think my dad is right, and I would love it. But coming to the rink every day… being surrounded by hockey again. It is hard."

"Why not try it?" he pressed gently. "Just for a bit. If you like it, great. If not, you quit. I will even play babysitter.” He huffed out his chest a bit and winked at you. “I’ll be rude to anyone who does not participate. Make sure everyone behaves."

You let out a small laugh, genuine this time. "Ohh the scary captain saving the poor social media girly in need? I don’t think you’re scary enough to get the others to film stupid TikTok trends."

He grinned, playing along. "Oh, I am terrifying. Ask the freshmen. They cry into their pillows every night."

You snorted, shaking your head. "Such a bad captain. The team must hate you."

"They worship me," he shot back, mock-serious. "Fear and respect. Perfect balance."

The laughter faded into a comfortable quiet, but he could see you thinking, turning the idea over in your head. "Just say the word. I will make sure everyone is on their best behaviour."

You smiled tiredly, but nodded. "Deal."

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ Crazy. You had to be batshit crazy for what you were about to do. You had just finished brushing your teeth when your father shuffled into the bathroom, yawning wide as he reached for the cup where he kept his toothbrush. The morning light slanted through the frosted window, catching the tired lines around his eyes. Before he could even start his routine, you turned from the sink. "I'll do it," you burst out, watching his reflection in the mirror halt mid-motion. His hand froze over the cup, toothpaste tube half-squeezed in the other. He blinked, setting the tube down slowly. "Do what?" "The internship," you said, taking a deep breath that did nothing to steady the sudden hammering in your chest. "I'll try it. I'm not promising anything. If I hate it, I will quit. But I'll give it a shot." Your father straightened up, toothbrush forgotten entirely now. Shock flickered across his face, eyebrows shooting up, mouth parting slightly as if he thought he had misheard you. He turned fully to face you, leaning one hip against the counter. "Wait. You-you're serious? After everything you said the other night?"

You nodded, gripping the edge of the sink behind you. "Yes. I'm serious."

He stared at you for a long moment, processing, then a slow smile started to spread across his face, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look ten years younger. "Y/N, that's… that's great. Really great." He stepped closer, clapping a hand on your shoulder gently. "What changed your mind?"

You shrugged one shoulder, avoiding his gaze by focusing on the toothpaste flecks in the sink. "I do need something to do, no matter how hard it might be. You and Mom are right, sitting around all day… It's not helping. I think I need to really live my life again.”

The words tasted bitter, like admitting defeat, but they were true. 

He nodded eagerly, hand lingering on your shoulder a second too long. "Exactly. This is perfect for you. With your eye for video, knowing the game inside out, you could do hockey media afterwards. Analyst, journalist, or something in the industry. Build a real future around it. This is such a good opportunity for you! I am glad you’re finally seeing that aswell."

You froze, closing your eyes, while your heart slowed down for a second, before beating faster than before. Disappointment washed over you.  "Dad," you said, your voice tired. "I told you that I’m having a hard time doing literally anything and want to try to get my life started again, and you want me to already turn that stupid PR thing into a career? The last thing I am thinking about is building a future around something I would be close to but could never have."

He frowned, hand dropping. "What do you mean, can't? You’ve always loved–"

"No." You turned fully now, gripping the counter edge so your knuckles whitened. "Dad, how can you still not understand what I am saying? You’re right, I loved hockey. But I have to leave that in the past; I had to reinvent myself dad. I will never be the girl who lived and breathed hockey. I can’t even sit up without help for fucks sake!”

His expression softened into pity. You pressed your lips onto each other, turning away, trying to blink away your tears. "Y/N…I didn’t mean it like that. I always imagined that when you’re healthy again, you’d go back onto the ice, help me with the summer camps, and have fun joking around. You were such a talented player."

Tears pricked in your eyes. "So you still see me as a prodigy lost, got it."

Silence hung heavy between you. He stepped back, deflated. "I… thought the rink would help."

"You thought wrong,” you snapped. "This isn't about your dreams for me. I regret letting Heeseung talk me into this now. I’m such an idiot. How could I think you’d ever understand me?"

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his neck. "Y/N I was driving the car. I saw you almost die. You think seeing you not getting better is something I enjoy? I am trying to understand. But I actively lived my life after the crash, and I know you can too.”

You laughed; it was a hollow, pained sound. "Your surgeries were nothing compared to mine, Dad. You walked weeks later. I got crushed. Pinned. It’s been six years, those six years that are the most important ones. Hell, I was in the hospital on my eighteenth birthday, I can barely remember my sixteenth, I was too high on pain and anxiety meds! You don't get it." 

The bathroom felt too small suddenly, air thick between you. 

"Alright," he said finally, his voice quieter. "You're right. I got ahead of myself. I’m just… trying to help."

You swallowed hard, the fight draining as quickly as it came. "I know," you muttered. "But let me try this my way. Okay?"

He nodded, reluctant but genuine. "Okay. Your way."

You grabbed your crutches, brushing past him towards the door. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

Heeseung was lazily shooting a puck into the goal. He had actually finished his essay this morning and had handed it in as soon as Jake had read over it, wanting to get rid of the stupid document and never look at it ever again. He loved his major, and he did enjoy the lectures he had with that particular professor, but this essay stole away every ounce of motivation Heeseung had going into the summer break. If one could call it summer break. He had spent it training either by himself, with his younger brother or helping his older brother move and renovate. If Heeseung was honest, he didn’t catch much of a break. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, and the heavy door to the rink opened. He didn’t see anyone in the doorframe. The door closed again.

Heeseung skated towards the boards opposite the door, when it opened again with more force than necessary, revealing you. You were sitting in a wheelchair and struggled to get over the threshold, getting caught on the door while it closed on you. 

“Y/N?”, he heard himself ask over the music coming from his headphones. 

You looked up and immediately back down, muttering something under your breath while pushing open the door again. 

“Hi, Heeseung,” you greeted him, giving him a tired smile, when you finally made it into the rink. “That door is heavy, Jesus Christ.” 

“I–,” he was at a loss for words for a second. The view of you in a wheelchair took him by surprise; you looked like you knew what you were doing, casually rolling closer to the boards. You were wearing oversized clothes, a shirt with the logo of a band you couldn’t recall and a pair of what looked like Soobin's basketball shorts, judging by the size. It made you seem small, almost fragile, in combination with the wheelchair. 

“Have I shocked you into silence with my fabulous wheelchair skills, oh scary captain?” you joked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He felt heat creep up his neck, and he coughed once in embarrassment before catching himself. “No. Sorry. I just…I just didn’t know you needed a wheelchair? I would have opened the door for you?” 

“Nah,” you waved dismissively. “It’s fine. As you see, no door is heavy enough to stop me and the immense levels of willpower I have when we’re talking about opening doors on my own.”

He chuckled and skated along the boards. The two of you were silent for a long moment; it wasn’t uncomfortable, rather the opposite of it. 

You were rolling into the direction of the opening to the rink, him doing the same, glicidng over the ice before jumping over the railing as soon as the thick plexiglass stopped. 

You came to a stop a few meters from him, watching him.

“I said yes,” you said, suddenly.

Heeseung looked up from where he was just putting on his bladeguards, leaning against the bench with his thigh. 

“To what?”, he blinked at you in confusion, his hand stilling. 

“The internship,” you hummed, not looking at him. “I kinda…fought with my dad a bit about it…But I agreed.” “You… said yes,” Heeseung repeated, just to make sure his ears weren’t lying. “That’s… good. I mean–” He cleared his throat, eyes dropping to his hands as heat crept up his neck. “–I’m happy for you. I guess?” You snorted softly, the sound cutting through the rink’s chill. “You guess?” He shrugged, feeling a little helpless under your gaze. “I don’t know. It sounded like a sore spot last time. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and scare you off because I am an idiot, in case you really wanted to do it?” Your expression softened, just a fraction, as you let out a breath through your nose. “It is a sore spot. But you were right.” Heeseung hummed, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering surprise “Well…I’m  glad, then.” You rolled your eyes, but a hint of a smile ghosted your lips. “You’ll have to protect me, though. Make them take part. I’m not begging twenty overgrown kids to lip-sync for TikTok.” He laughed, the echo bouncing sharply off the empty boards. “Sure. I can do that. I’ll be the bad cop. Very scary captain, remember?” Or else. They probably won’t listen to him, but to the coach, who was your father, they definitely would.

“Oh, absolutely terrifying,” you deadpanned. “They’re all shaking in their skates.”

He grinned and shook his head, then his gaze dropped for a second to the chair again before flicking away. His fingers fiddled with the edge of his glove. He wanted to ask why you were suddenly not able to walk at all anymore. He knew you weren’t healing as fast or as well as you had wished, but having to use a wheelchair? “Can I… uh,” he started, then stopped, grimacing slightly. “This is going to sound stupid.”

You tilted your head, scrunching your nose and smiling, making him feel even worse. “It’s okay. Just ask.”

He scratched his neck, feeling his cheeks heat up again. “I just… didn’t know you were… using the chair now. You had crutches the last time. Is it… worse?”

You glanced down at your hands on the wheels, then back up at him. “Not really worse,” you said. “Just different bad. When the weather changes and the rain comes in, my leg and hip hurt more. The bones and scar tissue get… angry, I guess. Today, the wheelchair is just easier than forcing myself to hobble around.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. “Makes sense,” he said quietly. “Less strain.”

You nodded and pushed yourself a little closer to the gap in the boards, resting your forearms on the ledge. “I was just hoping to sit here for a bit,” you continued. “Be nostalgic. Watch Sunghoon or whoever might be training. Then, you know… eventually get my shit together.”

He followed your gaze to the empty rink, only a few stray pucks scattered over the surface. “If you want to watch properly,” he said after a moment, “there are disabled seats in the upper ranks. It’s not as high up as your seats last week…but you’d have a better view? I can take you up there later, if you’d like.”

You made a face, half amused, half resigned and he feared again that he might have said the wrong thing. “It’s fine,” you shrugged, sitting up again. “I’ll just give my commentary to your playing instead.”

He huffed out a laugh, honestly surprised at that answer. “Oh? You’re going to roast my shot selection?”

“Obviously,” you said. “Someone has to keep you humble, captain.”

His eyes lingered on your profile, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. 

Then you looked up at him expectantly, as if you were waiting for him to say something else. He shifted his weight, and cleared his throat. “Do you… want to see your office?” he asked. “Your dad told me that the room would be for the social media team. We started dumping some stuff there. I can show you.”

You hesitated, glancing once back at the ice, then at the hallway behind him. “Stuff?”

“A desk and a chair? The room has been used for storage for at least half a decade now, so it’s a bit stuffed.” He admitted. 

That made you smile. It was small but seemed genuine. “Yeah,” you said. “Okay. Show me.”

He nodded and moved to the side, grabbing your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if he should push you or leave you on your own, but decided to just let you do your thing. “I handed my essay in, by the way,” he explained, walking backwards a few steps as you rolled toward the staff door, leading towards the offices and media rooms of the rink. “I did finish most of it after I drove you home, actually.”

You snorted. “Well,  then I don’t have to feel bad about stealing your time in the rink.”

“You sure don’t, Y/N,” he held the door open this time, letting you wheel past into the corridor. The air was warmer here, laced with the familiar mix of sweat, detergent and faint rubber, even though the players rarely came here. Heeseung assumed the smell he had come to love and grow familiar with carried through the whole building. 

As you started down the hall together, your chair clicking softly over the uneven floor and his bladeguards thumping with every step, it was silent for a few seconds before you started talking again. 

“I didn’t know I’d get an office,” you hum, while Heeseung opened the door. It was rarely locked, it was in a locked part of the building and mainly used for clutter that is yet to be thrown away.

“I think they want to have a whole social media team? So think you’re not only getting an office but colleagues as well,” he opened the door and revealed the small room. It was lit by a small window, one side of it stuffed full with clutter, stacks of paper, scattered office supplies covered multiple surfaces, including an old wooden filing cabinet. A half-empty bookshelf leaned under the weight of folders, some piled haphazardly on top of one another. Boxes of miscellaneous items were stacked in a corner, threatening to topple. In one corner stood a seemingly clean desk that Heeseung and Yeonjun had cleared up a few days earlier. They had dumped everything that was on there onto the other side.

“I’m sorry, it’s still a mess. I honestly didn’t think you’d say yes, and then you know, your dad would have had to officially search for someone, and that would have given us a bit of time?” Heeseung leaned down and picked up two boxes to make space for your wheelchair. 

“Is my dad making you clean the room?” Your voice sounded annoyed, and he turned around. Your gaze was fixed on him, and he blinked again. “...No? Yes? What answer would you prefer?” 

You laughed teasingly and hit him with your healthy leg. “It’s not your fault if he made you. My dad is an asshole.” 

“He…can be?,” Heeseung said, nodding slowly. 

He knew Soobin wasn’t the closest with his dad, and apparently you weren’t either. 

“Hee, you don’t have to keep being so careful,” you giggle, and that confused me even more than using a nickname. “My dad is an ass, for the record. I still love him, but he can be annoying as fuck.”  

Heeseung laughed once and leaned against the desk in the room. “He…yeah…he is an asshole, especially if you don’t do what he wants to do.”

“And you know what I really like doing?” You stopped for a second, but answered your own question before he could even open his mouth. “To not do what he wants me to do. I think if he knew I was here instead of at home, he would scold the shit out of me.” 

Heeseung raised his eyebrows. “Really? Why?”

“Well, for starters, he gets really paranoid when I sit in the chair. I have no idea why, because usually people have even more pity with me and try to help me, but he hates it. And that I am here technically alone, cause I couldn’t know you’d be here, would get me scolded,” you shrugged and let your gaze wander across the room.

He mustered your face, let his eyes wander across your face, your hair, and the blue shirt. You were smiling; it was a small smile, but at least you were smiling. When he met you last week, you seemed so down, so frustrated; seeing you be so upbeat today made him smile as well. 

Your face snapped back at him. “What’s got you smiling like that, Captain? My dad possibly scolding me when I get home?”

“Ah-I-no-”, he stumbled, being caught staring at you the second time today. “I was just thinking about how you look a lot better than last week, even though you’re going to get scolded.”

“Oh, you just had the pleasure of meeting me in a bad mood. I promise I can be fun?”, you joked, shooting finger guns at him, causing him to laugh lowly again. “No, seriously. I just haven’t had the best time doing anything after the surgery; it’s been hard.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling a bit better than,” Heeseung grinned. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

You were sitting on the floor of Soobin's living room, your head resting against the side of Beomgyu's thigh. He was deeply immersed in a rather intense game of FIFA, his focus unbreakable as his thumbs flew over the controller. Yeonjun, Beomgyu, and your brother had decided to invite a few people over for a pre-semester get-together at their flat. When they said ‘a few people’ it really just meant the three of them, their girlfriends, and you. While Chaewon and Yunjin were in the kitchen reheating the pizza you had all ordered for dinner a few hours earlier, you had decided not to move an inch. Your eyelids felt heavier than they should have, especially after the unhealthy amount of Diet Coke you had consumed all evening long. So, you simply curled up closer against your friend's leg, letting his warmth seep into you.

Beomgyu huffed in annoyance when his team lost to whoever he was playing against online. A few seconds later, his hand landed gently in your hair, softly caressing your scalp. The motion only lulled you further toward sleep, your body growing heavier by the second.

"Hey, Y/N," Soobin's voice startled you, forcing your eyes open again. "Do you want to go to sleep?"

You took a deep breath and rubbed your eyes, ignoring the smudges of mascara from the excessive amount you had applied that morning. "No, I'm fine. Gyu is warm."

Beomgyu laughed loudly at that. "Damn right. You heard that, everyone? Y/N agrees that I'm hot!"

You reached up and slapped his calf playfully, while the boys made various sounds of disagreement and mock disgust. Beomgyu whined in protest, but he did lift your head slightly so he could look down at you properly. "It's fine if you want to sleep a bit. You can use literally any bed in the apartment. I'll even personally carry you to bed if you want."

You just shook your head and gave him a tired smile. Then you sat up a bit straighter, wincing as a sharp pain shot through your hip from the sudden movement.

"You're basically asleep, Y/N," Yeonjun said from the couch, pausing his own game to look at you with clear concern in his eyes. "Seriously, go crash in a bed."

Soobin nodded in agreement, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "Use my bed"

"I'm not gonna sleep," you protested, though your voice came out weaker than you intended. "I’m fine. I’m just resting my eyes a bit."

Beomgyu paused his game with an exaggerated sigh, then shoved Yeonjun's leg off the coffee table and hip-checked Soobin just enough to claim more space on the sofa. "Scoot over, you losers. Make some room for her." The other two grumbled playfully but shifted aside, clearing a spot as he patted his lap insistently. "Come on, Y/N. Get up here and rest your eyes properly."

You laughed softly and let him tug you up without much resistance. You settled with your head properly in his lap as he sprawled back against the cushions. His hand found your hair again, fingers carding through the strands in gentle, rhythmic strokes. Your eyes fluttered shut almost immediately, the steady warmth and motion pulling you right back under. 

You were just on the edge of sleep when your brain snagged on something important. Your eyes cracked open again. "Oh, wait," you mumbled, your words slurring slightly with exhaustion. "I took Dad's internship offer."

Soobin froze mid-sip of his soda, his eyes widening over the rim of the can. "You did what?"

"I said yes," you clarified, shifting a little to peer up at their stunned faces. “On my terms and conditions tho. You’ll have to be nice to me and let me film you for some stupid Tiktoks or I’ll get dad involved.”

Your brother stared at you, his sodacan now slowly sinking into his lap. “Y/N did he make you say yes?” 

You let yourself sink back into Beomguys' lap, appreciating once more how muscular hockey player thighs were. You had spent many hours napping in various laps over the last few years. 

 "No, he didn't make me do it. I just…thought about it. I did like making those TikToks for Gyu last year, and I like the team. You’re fun. Plus, I'm only taking two classes this semester. Rehab ends soon, and I'll be bored out of my mind otherwise."

Somehow, you didn’t feel like telling your brother about how you met his captain, how talking with him for a mere two hours was enough to convince him. You still didn’t understand how or why, he didn’t even have to do any convincing, but somehow…somehow it was enough.

Soobin set his can down on the table with a sharp clink, his brow furrowing deeply. "Y/N, I don't know if that's such a good idea. You–"

"Yo, that's actually dope," Yeonjun cut in immediately, grinning wide as he leaned forward. "I’ll sort things out with the others if they refuse to film with you, don’t worry, Y/Nie."

Beomgyu nodded enthusiastically, his thumb still tracing lazy circles on your scalp. "Hell yeah, exactly. I told you it would be fun."

Soobin opened his mouth to argue further, clearly not convinced, but the kitchen door swung open right then. Chaewon and Yunjin came back balancing stacks of pizza boxes and plates, steam rising from the reheated slices. "Okay, what's going on? Why does Soobin look like he just bit into a sour apple?" Yunjin asked with a laugh, dumping her pile onto the coffee table.

"YN's doing the media internship for the hockey team," Yeonjun filled them in quickly, already reaching for a slice loaded with pepperoni. “And Soob isn’t the biggest fan.” 

Chaewon's face lit up with genuine excitement. She dropped straight into Soobin's lap like it was the most natural spot in the world, making herself comfortable. "No way, that's so cool! I’m sure the boys will love having to dance to weird TikTok sounds, just get them drunk, and your job’s gonna be easy." She winked at you over his shoulder. 

Soobin sighed deeply, his arms looping loosely around Chaewon's waist as she stole a bite from the slice he had just grabbed. 

"I guess it's cool, yeah," He trailed off with a half-grumble, relenting under her steady gaze.

Yunjin clapped her hands together sharply. "Anyway! Who's up for Mario Kart next? The loser has to grab the next round of drinks from the kitchen."

You nodded faintly in agreement, already sinking back into Beomgyu's lap as the chatter erupted around you once more. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

The locker room was warm and smelled faintly like perfume and deodorant. The figure skaters had just ended their training session when Heeseung came into the rink. He had watched for a few minutes before heading deeper into the building, his bag heavy across his back.

Some of the other players, mainly his roommates who had driven with him, were already changing when the sound of laughter came in through the doors. Beomgyu’s head appeared in the doorframe.

“Is everyone dressed?”

Heeseung glanced at his teammates, all in various states of undress, and shrugged. “Yeah? Mostly?”

“Perfect!” Beomgyu stepped fully into the room, followed by – you?

Heeseung’s brows shot up, and he had to stop himself from gawking.

You looked a little embarrassed, hovering awkwardly just behind Beomgyu’s shoulder. It was the first time he saw you in something that wasn’t athleisure or oversized clothes. Your hair was done, framing your face, and there was a bit of makeup on your skin that softened and sharpened you at the same time. It was a bit weird, seeing Soobin’s face on a female with makeup on, but it was pretty. You were pretty.

“This is Y/N, she is going to be our social media manager for this semester,” Beomgyu announced, gesturing into the room like he was presenting a prize. “This is our locker room. You’re not welcome in here unless you want to see dicks, Y/N. So don’t come in. This is Heeseung, our captain.”

You gave him a small, amused smile and waved, lifting your crutch slightly in greeting.

He smiled back at you. “Hi, Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you as well.”

He had to laugh a bit at how stiff and formal that sounded, while Beomgyu continued introducing the rest of the team that was standing around. Jake was holding his jersey against his naked chest, his face blooming red as he stuttered out his name. You glanced Heeseung’s way every so often, and he just shook his head in amusement.

“The coach will introduce her to the rest of the team later and, like, explain why we have a social media manager now,” Beomgyu continued, ignoring that the rest of his teammates were a bit taken by surprise at Soobin’s sister, their coach’s daughter, standing in the locker room. “Tell the others to stick by later. The coach asked me to tell you all.”

“Sure. I’ll text the rest,” Heeseung said, dusting imaginary dirt off his jersey pants. “Are you gonna show her the office? Have you finished cleaning it out?”

“Yeah, and not yet,” Beomgyu shook his head and jerked his chin toward the door. “You wanna come along, Hee? Show her around as the captain? I’m doing your job now.”

You laughed at that and boxed Beomgyu in the ribs with your elbow. “Let him be. You just pulled me into the men’s locker room, and now you want to make him show me around because you wanna change?”

Beomgyu shrugged. “You know your dad could have also just made your brother or Yeonjun hyung show you around? I didn’t choose this job. Let me graciously hand it over and get ready, woman.”

That made you giggle and roll your eyes, before shaking your head and looking at him fondly. The two of you seemed pretty close.

Heeseung’s legs and mouth worked faster than his brain. “I’ll show her around. I’m almost done anyway, Gyu.”

“Cool! Perfect!” Beomgyu seemed surprised but genuinely happy about that. “Have fun then!”

You rolled your eyes again when he patted your shoulder, but when you turned to Heeseung, there was a small, careful smile on your lips. “Lead the way then?”

“Sure.”

He crossed the room in three strides and opened the door for you, letting you step out first. Today, you were much faster and almost agile on your crutches compared to when you first met. The movement looked practised, a bit stiff around the hips, but confident.

“Thank you, oh dear scary captain,” you said once you had crossed the threshold.

He huffed out a quiet laugh and let the door fall shut behind him. “You really gonna keep that going?”

“Yes,” you replied without missing a beat. “You have a reputation to uphold, Lee Heeseung. I can’t ruin that by calling you nice.”

“Ouch,” he placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “So I open doors and volunteer tour guide services and still get slandered. Tough crowd.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth twitching. “You’re recovering from it just fine.”

You walked side by side down the corridor, your crutches clicking on the slightly uneven floor.

He stopped in front of the small office door, pushing the handle down and nudging it open with his shoulder.

“Here we are, Miss Social Media Manager. Welcome back.”

You stepped inside, eyes sweeping across the room, letting out a little huff. “Wow. Still depressing.”

He leaned against the doorframe, watching your expression. “Hey, the desk barely wobbles now. That’s an upgrade.”

“I really need to bring some decoration or something,” you muttered, moving closer to the window and looking back at the desk. “Plants. Posters.”

Heeseung chuckled. “Just let me know what you need, and I’ll arrange everything as the big scary captain. One word from me and we’ll have fairy lights and a coffee machine in here.”

You turned halfway to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Sure, Hee.”

The nickname slipped out so casually that it took him a second to register it. Something warm tugged at his chest before he could stop it. He really liked the way it sounded, simple and familiar, like you had known him a lot longer than you actually had.

“Do you think we could rearrange a bit?” you asked, turning around, a pout on your lips.

He pushed off the doorframe and walked over to the desk. “Sure. What do you want me to do?”

“Could you push the desk under the window?” you said. “I’d prefer some natural lighting while staring into a screen all day. Gotta work on my tan. I am sick of looking sick”

He snorted and grabbed one side of the desk, dragging it across the floor with a dull scrape. “I assure you, you’re looking a lot less sick today. It’s nice to know you are owning jeans.”

You laughed at that, the sound soft but real. “I sure do. I think I have at least two, you know, for some diversity”

Heeseung bit back a smile. 

As he adjusted the desk under the window, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. The fondness in the way you had looked at Beomgyu earlier stuck with him. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was something going on there. The two of you were the same year, had clearly known each other for a long time, and with how close Soobin and Beomgyu had been since school, it would make sense.

He didn’t say anything, though. It wasn’t his business, and assumptions never helped anyone.

“There,” he said instead, giving the desk a small shove to straighten it. You moved forward and leaned your weight onto the edge, then gave it a small shake. It didn’t wobble. “Not bad, captain.”

“I do what I can,” he replied lightly, brushing his hands off as if he had just completed major construction work. “I’m sure we can get this room to look a bit more inviting in no time.”

“I sure hope so,” you said, looking around the room again. This time, your gaze lingered a bit longer, less unsure, more thoughtful. “It’s weird, but… I kinda feel stupid for doing this. My dad just nepoed me into this job. I am sure there are so many others who would have loved it and actually want a job in this industry later.”

He nodded once, understanding more than he knew how to say. “He did, yeah. But the edits you made for Gyu were really cool, and I feel like you’re just as qualified as anyone else that might have applied. If you don’t like it, you can always stop. You said you’d only do it on your terms.”

You glanced at him, and for a brief moment, there was something open and vulnerable in your eyes. “Yeah, my terms.”

He cleared his throat, stepping back toward the door. “I should get back to get changed, before your actually scary father scolds me later.”

“God forbid,” you said, lips twitching again. “Go protect yourself from getting scolded by my very scary father.”

He grinned, hand on the handle. “If you need anything, just come find me. Or, you know, call your big scary captain to move furniture.”

“Got it, Hee.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

A few hours later, you found yourself sitting in front of a flipchart, surrounded by notes and scribbles of ideas for content. Your research had turned up dozens of trends and challenges that could work for the hockey team’s social accounts, but your enthusiasm was running low. The chair you were sitting on felt like it was designed for maximum discomfort, and you were seriously considering bringing your wheelchair the next time. You sighed, shifting your weight in a futile attempt to find a more comfortable position. Just then, the door creaked open slightly, and Heeseung’s head popped in. “You surviving in here?” Without looking up, you muttered, “Barely. What do you need, Heeseung? Is my scary father done torturing you?” He chuckled and stepped fully into the room, leaning casually against the wall. “We’re done for the day, actually,” he said, flashing you a grin. “He asked me to get you, so he could introduce you to the rest?” You took a deep breath, resting your face in your palms, “Can I say no? I feel like doing that once a day should be enough.” “I fear you can’t,” he replied, chuckling, pushing himself off the wall and taking a step closer to the desk. “I will try to make sure you’re not seeing any half-naked men or dicks, and compared to Beomgyu, I will wait for a proper answer and not burst into the locker. I don’t want to scare you away when you just started. And potentially get killed by either Soobin or your dad.” You snorted despite yourself, leaning back and stretching your arms. “I don’t think any male creature will ever be safe from that, if I am completely honest, not even his star student. So you better take good care of me, but don't get too close!” He laughed and crossed the room to hand you your crutches. As he moved closer, you noticed a faint, fresh scent, like soap and something woody, maybe a hint of citrus. 

“Did you get any work done in here?” he waited patiently for you to pack your bag while holding out your crutches. You shrugged. “Tell me why some of you post random pictures of food with 20 filters slapped onto them.” “Ah, come on,” he said, leaning forward with a grin. “It’s not that bad. My Instagram is pretty and aesthetic!” “Something like that,” you muttered, unable to suppress a small smile, as you stood up slowly. “I found some trends and figured we could hop on a few of them. I’ve got ideas for locker room Q&As, pre-game routines, that kind of thing.” “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out then,” Heeseung said, nodding as he moved to grab your bag. “So, when do we start?” “We?” you scoffed, raising an eyebrow. He laughed, shaking his head. “Your dad made me responsible for everything you do and makes me babysit you, so yes, we.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes again, though it was becoming less from irritation and more out of habit. “Jesus Christ.” “At least I have all of my teeth. And we have some pretty faces on the team, that should help,” he teased.

꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

The air in the locker room was a thick haze of sweat, body spray, body wash and perfume. You scrunched your nose in disgust for a second before doing your best to even out your facial expression, when Heeseung pushed the door open. You hovered just behind him, your crutches digging into your arms, trying not to breathe too deeply as the full team turned to stare. Two dozen pairs of eyes locked on you and Heeseung from the benches and stalls. Your father was standing next to the door with a clipboard in his hands, while he nodded appreciatively at Heeseung and gave you something like a welcoming smile before he turned to the team. 

"Alright, listen up," he clapped his hands once, and the chatter in the room died. "This is Y/N. My daughter.” You pressed your lips onto each other in embarrassment while he continued talking.  “She's taking over social media for the semester, content, TikToks, Instagram, whatever gets eyes on us. You all participate when she asks. There will be no whining, no skipping. She is here to get you known by sponsors and teams, so cooperate, understood?"

Murmurs rippled through the team, a few nodded, and there were even a few agreeing grunts. You shifted your weight and searched for Soobin’s face, hoping for him to save you, but his face made it clear that he still did not like the idea of you being here. You blinked before forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Yeah. Hi, everyone. Um, nice to meet you all?"

They greeted you back by waving and nodding, while you turned back to your dad, waiting for him to say something else, but he just stood there in silence. 

You nodded, and your gaze flicked automatically to Heeseung, though. He was leaning against his stall near where you were still standing, arms crossed over his jersey, now giving you a small smile. 

A few seconds later, your father seemed to realise that you had nothing else to say and cleared his throat. "Alright, show's over. Until tomorrow, everyone."

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

Ryujin’s sofa was uncomfortable. It usually wasn’t. You’ve spent many hours here, watching movies or talking until deep into the night, but today the old, worn fabric rubbed at your skin wrong, the pillows were too hard and too soft all at once. You tried to adjust your position, but the only thing that happened was the pack of frozen peas that were resting on your ankle slowly sliding down your leg, causing you to shiver. 

The apartment was filled with the smell of bacon sizzling on the stovetop, where your friend was cooking dinner for the two of you. The food in the cafeteria didn’t seem too appetising, so the two of you decided to cook at her place. 

With a grunt, you sat up, reaching for the improvised ice pack. “I don’t understand how anyone can enjoy being massaged. All I get from a ‘massage’”, you made quotation marks in the air, “are bruises. My legs and my left ass cheek are going to be black and blue tomorrow."

"Nobody is seeing your legs or your ass, girl. Aside from your physiotherapist, who might add some new bruises," Ryujin shot back, stirring the pan with a wooden spoon. The warm, buttery smell mingled with the salty scent of bacon, making your stomach growl in anticipation.

“Unless you want to show someone else your ass?” she wiggled her eyebrows playfully.

"Not really. Who would want to see my blue and black scarred arse unprompted? Do you want to see? I'll undress just for you," you grinned at her, letting the frozen peas drop unceremoniously to the floor before reaching for your crutches. 

Ryujin rolled her eyes, laughing as she scooped the cooked pasta into the pan. "I love you, and I have seen plenty of your naked ass already, but I don't need you to erotically strip for me, Y/N. You're not really my type, I'm sorry."

You sat down on one of the chairs around her kitchen table, the plastic groaning, when you adjusted yourself. "You wound me, Ryujin!" You clutched your chest in mock offence. 

"Ha ha! I'm sure we can find someone who would like to see your ass. There are plenty of guys on campus that are horny 24/7," she shot back, glancing over her shoulder as she added a sprinkle of cheese to the mix.

“Yeah, number one problem: my brother is also at that campus and knows everyone and would scold me for doing that. He and his big brother complex,” you sighed and rolled your eyes, before resting your chin in your hands. “I feel like it’s gotten worse since I’ve started working with the team.”

“Really?” She stepped over and handed you one of the forks she and Lia were borrowing from the cafeteria. “Why do you feel like that?” “I–”, you groaned and shrugged. “I can’t even pinpoint single events, but he hates it. I think he really hates that I am there. Not in a he-wants-hockey-to-be-his kind of way, more like he is afraid it would…I don’t know, trigger me?”

Ryujin plated the carbonara, sliding one over to you before settling on the chair opposite yours with her own bowl. Steam curled up between you as she twirled pasta onto her fork. “Does it?”

You poked at the noodles, thinking of what to say. You weren’t good with feelings or talking about your feelings. .  

After a long moment of silence, you hummed and nodded slowly before answering. “Both?” You leaned down and took a bite of your noodles while Ryujin waited for you to continue, chewing slowly.

“I think he is afraid that I’ll go back and hide in my shell when I realise that all of the dreams I once had are dangling in front of my feet, but are so unattainable?” You swallowed, the sauce leaving a creamy film in your mouth. "Don't get me wrong, that can happen. I’ve done my best to try to not interact with the women's team, but Soobin should just let me do my thing, let me live my life. Maybe my dad is right, and I just need to finally come to terms with what my life is now and have to, you know, still have fun? They both do their best in trying to tell me what I am supposed to do, which is annoying, but at least they care, I guess.” 

You took another bite, the noodles flicking a bit of sauce on your face.

Ryujin hummed. "Have you told him that?"

You nodded once, slow, the tangle easing a hair. “I did. I’m just not sure if he understood.” 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

The air in your office was stuffy and warm, the open window doing little to let in some fresh air. The sun was still relentlessly blazing down, even two weeks into September, and you were suffering from the heat. 

To help with the airflow, you had opened the door to your office, had pulled a chair into the doorway with more effort than necessary, your wheelchair getting in the way. Your mom had taken you shopping for the office a few days ago, after she had visited your office for the first time, so now there were a few plants and a floor lamp standing around. It wasn’t much, but it was something at least. 

You were sitting with your healthy leg pulled to your chest, and the injured one stretched onto the desk, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok, for the better part of an hour now. You actually had a few videos to cut, but the heat made you feel lazy and lethargic. 

You could hear the shrill sound of your dad blowing his whistle, and your eyes searched the small clock that was hanging on the office door. 

4.15. 

You hummed to yourself and turned your attention back to the reel looping for the third time now. A few minutes later, you could hear the door to the hallway open, the sound of laughter echoing along the walls. Yeonjun's head appeared in your doorframe, grinning at you. His hair was flat and damp from sweat, and his face was still red from the on-ice session. “Hello, my dearest Y/N!” Behind him, Soobin and Beomgyu strolled in, just as sweaty, looking completely worn out. Beomgyu flopped dramatically into your office chair. “Yeah, sure, come in and just take over my whole workspace while you’re all stinky and sweaty”, you teased, though you didn’t mind the company. Beomgyu groaned, stretching his legs out. “This break isn’t long enough. Your father is killing us. I swear I’m going to die.” Soobin rolled his eyes, perched on the edge of your desk, while Yeonjun leaned against the wall. “You’ll survive. We’ve had worse drills.” Yeonjun smirked. “Speak for yourself. I’m not built for this much cardio.” You laughed. “Maybe you’re just really out of shape because you spend the biggest part of your summer break eating anything you find?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I was just bulking up, Y/N. Just you wait and see!” 

“Man, that’s such a lame excuse,” Beomguy groaned and laughed at Yeonjun. “Just admit, you let yourself be fed fat by your charming girlfriend who is madly talented in the kitchen.” “Can’t confirm or deny!” Yeonjun shrugged, and Beomguy rolled his eyes at that, smiling. 

You turned to your brother. “Can I help you with something?”

He nodded and scratched the back of his head. “I was wondering if it was okay for you to go home with Heeseung? I have a study group later, and Dad has a meeting after training. He offered to take you home?” You blinked at him, your brain needing a second to catch up.

“Heeseung?” you repeated slowly. “Driving me home?”

Soobin nodded, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s going that way anyway and said it’s no problem.”

That was… new. Your brother was many things, but usually, if it involved you and getting you from A to B, he shoved the responsibility onto Beomgyu or Yeonjun without thinking. They were the default options, the built-in safety net. The idea of Heeseung offering, and Soobin being cool about it, caught you off guard.

“Wow,” you said, half-teasing, half-genuinely stunned. “You’re cool with that?”

Soobin studied you for a moment, eyes scanning your face. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Heeseung’s not an idiot. He’ll get you home in one piece. And I really can’t miss that study session.”

There was something in his tone that made your chest squeeze; it was as if he was reluctant, but trusting. You swallowed and nodded once. “Alright. Sure. I’ll go with him.”

“Cool,” Soobin said, as that settled it. “We gotta get back. Dad wants us in the gym in–” he glanced at the clock on your door, “–five minutes.”

“Yay,” Yeonjun groaned, peeling himself off the wall.

Beomgyu pushed up from your chair with a dramatic sigh. “If I die, Y/N, post a really hot memorial slideshow for me, okay?”

“I’ll only use pictures where you blink,” you replied sweetly.

“Monster,” he muttered, but there was a grin tugging at his mouth.

Soobin leaned in as the other two started bickering their way toward the door. He bent down and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, the gesture so familiar and careless it almost made your throat close up.

“Text me when you’re home, okay?” he said quietly.

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was undeniable. “Yes, Mom.”

He snorted and straightened. “Brat.”

You watched him walk out with the others, sweaty and tired and already complaining about gym sets, and for a second, the irritation and tension of the last days dulled. You still loved him. Of course you did. Even when he was hovering and moody and weird about the internship. He was still your brother.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

Heeseung was tying the shoelaces of his sneakers; the rink was silent, almost eerily so. He sighed, reached for his bag and ruffled his hair. It was still damp from his shower and fell into his eyes, sticking to his forehead.  He pushed them back with the heel of his hand and stepped out into the hallway.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as he walked past the locker room, past the gym, the familiar path toward your office tugging at his feet more than any conscious decision. 

Your door was propped open, and the air coming from inside was warm and heavy. He paused in the doorway and leaned his shoulder against the frame.

You were in your wheelchair, curled into a strange, half-comfortable position. Your injured leg was stretched out onto the desk, while your healthy leg was bent, heel hooked against the wheel. Your laptop sat in your lap, fingers flying over the keyboard as you typed something with determined focus, bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

Heeseung took in the scene for a second, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “You know that looks mildly unsafe, right?”

You startled, fingers pausing mid-word as your head snapped up. For a heartbeat, you just stared at him, then you let out a breathy huff. “Jesus, Hee. Do you make it a habit to sneak up on people?”

He pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, smile widening. “The door was open. I think that’s technically an invitation.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, shifting your leg a bit on the desk with a wince, “maybe the invitation didn’t extend to commentary on my sitting positions.”

He glanced pointedly at the way you were half-twisted in the chair. “Are you at least comfortable like that?”

You rolled your eyes and let your head fall back against the chair for a moment. “As comfortable as a person can be when only one side works properly, I guess. Don’t discriminate against my wheelchair pose, Lee Heeseung.”

That made him laugh, the sound soft and genuine. “Right. I’ll work on that. I’m sure the media team would gladly give us another of those PR sessions. Are you ready to go?”

You snorted, then closed your laptop halfway, the screen dimming. “Yeah, I am sorry that Soobin makes you drive me home.”

He shook his head and gave you a small smile. “It’s fine. I offered to drive you.”

You hummed at that, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you. Can you give me my bag?”

“Sure!” Heeseung pushed himself away from the doorway, crossing the small room, until he was next to your desk, leaning down to grab your bag. It was surprisingly heavy when he lifted it up and handed it to you.

His eyes drifted across your working space. It looked a lot better than a few weeks ago; plants and decorations gave the still cluttered room at least a bit of character.  He picked up one of the tiny figurines you had placed on your desk and turned it over in his hand with a grin. “What’s with these little guys? A personal touch?” You gave him a mock glare, clearly more amused than offended. “They’re called Sonny angels, and yes, this office was depressing. I needed to liven it up.” Heeseung laughed softly, putting the figurine back down carefully. “Why would you bring naked angles?” You rolled your eyes again. “Don’t make fun of my babies. They are cute, and that one was a gift, so leave it be.” Heeseung laughed, setting the figure down gently. “Okay, okay”, he sat down on the edge of your desk, “Have you had a productive day? You’ve been here for like six hours now” You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “I was trying to finish up all of the videos I want to post next week, but it’s taking longer than I thought.” Heeseung glanced over at the cluttered desk, noting the piles of papers and sticky notes you were using. “And you couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” “Nope. I like torturing myself,” you said dryly, then raised an eyebrow as he continued to toy with one of the angels. “Are you done judging my office decor now?” Heeseung twirled the figurine in his fingers, then squinted at it. “I mean, I’ve got questions. First off, what’s up with this one?” He held up a small yellow angel wearing a dinosaur costume. “Did you really choose this? Not gonna lie its kinda ugly. And why is the other one naked?” You groaned, rolling your eyes. “No! I wanted the pink dinosaur one, but kept getting the yellow one instead. Three times! So, this is what I’m stuck with. And honestly, I am not sure, but they are cute.” Heeseung laughed, genuinely amused by the annoyance in your voice. “Are they figurines from lucky boxes?” 

“Yeah, but I don’t seem to have luck with them,” you replied with a deadpan expression. “I have one in my room, one in my car, and now this sad thing is stuck here, reminding me of my failure every day.” Heeseung chuckled. “Well, pink dinosaur or not, it does help make this place less depressing.” You just laughed at that. He watched you for a moment, noticing how your shoulders were slightly hunched. His gaze dropped to the wheelchair you were sitting in. “You know,” he said, looking around the room. “This office still feels so crammed and uninviting. You need a couch or something.” You raised an eyebrow. “A couch?” He grinned, nodding. “Actually, Yeonjun and I were thinking about it even before you had the office. We need to get Coach to clear out the junk on the other side of the room so we can move in a couch. You’d have a nice place to chill while pretending to work.” You laughed, shaking your head. “And by ‘chill,’ you mean take naps, right?” “Exactly.” 

You glanced at your leg, then back at him. “Can you grab my bag? And maybe, if you’re feeling extra heroic, help me get this thing off the desk without me dislocating something? My foot is…asleep.”

Heeseung moved without complaint. He set your bag on the back of your chair, then stepped to the side of the desk, hands hovering near your ankle. “Tell me what you need.”

“Just… support under the heel? It feels weird when it’s lower than my hip for too long.” Your voice softened a bit, more matter-of-fact than apologetic.

He slid one hand carefully under your heel and the other under your calf, lifting slowly until the tension in your face eased. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, shoulders dropping. “Like that. Thanks.”

He guided your leg down until it rested back on the footrest, making sure you were steady before letting go. “There. No dislocations on my watch.”

You gave him a small, crooked smirk. “Guess I’ll keep you on the payroll, then.”

He stepped behind your chair and wrapped his fingers lightly around the handles. “Ready to go home?”

You glanced once around the office, then you nodded. “Yeah. Let’s get out of the sauna before I melt onto the floor.”

He chuckled and eased the chair out of the doorway, careful of the threshold. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊ 

Heeseung's bedroom was dark except for the blue glow of his phone screen, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner. He had dropped you off almost an hour ago. The drive had been quiet, comfortable in the way that didn't need filling, your wheelchair folded neatly in his trunk. He had pushed you inside without asking, just because the path from the car to the entrance of the apartment complex you were living in had those stupid uneven steps. His thumb hovered over the screen, mind circling back to the way you had stretched your leg across the desk in your office. The faint wince when you shifted. The fact that you were using your wheelchair most days. 

It must be horrible. 

He didn’t dare to ask either you or Soobin about what happened. 

He knew that you were involved in a car accident and needed multiple surgeries afterwards, but your dad sat in the same car, right? Why was his coach so… healthy compared to you?

He sat up a bit, bunching his pillows under his elbows in the process and typed your full name into Naver. The first entry on the results page was to a junior hockey league profile. He clicked onto the link, and a profile pic loaded first: you at maybe 16 or 17, wearing the same colours as he was at that time. You played for the Hyundai Juniors. He scrolled past your picture, and his breath caught. Your stats from before the accident were still listed on the page, your last five games ever played. Apparently, you were a top scorer in your division and had an impressive number of assists. A few clips were added to the gallery at the bottom of the page, and he couldn’t stop himself from clicking on them. You moved like lightning in them, sharp edges, explosive starts, a cocky grin flashing after breakaways. Damn. Impressed didn't cover it. 

You were good.

Really good.

He returned to the Google results page and clicked on the next link, ‘Junior League Star Y/N Lights Up Regionals–Scouts Take Notice’. 

He read the article and the next one and the next one. You truly were a star player in the female league. You could've had a career, scholarships, maybe Europe, hell, even NCAA if you had pushed academics. Instead…

He swallowed before continuing this thought. Instead, you were now sitting in a wheelchair, unable to walk without crutches. Heeseung's jaw tightened, thumb pausing on a crash article thumbnail, the rain-slick road, mangled car, your name in the survivor column.

He tossed the phone screen-down onto the nightstand, harder than intended. 

It was awful, all of this was awful. He understood why you didn’t want to do the internship, why you were so hesitant. And he had more or less talked you into it. To being stuck editing other people's glory while yours rusted away. Heeseung felt nauseous.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

Your class had dragged on endlessly today. The two hours of marketing lecture blurred into white noise, your hip throbbing sharper with every shitty shift in the lecture hall seat. 

You had planned to meet up with some of the ice hockey players and figure skaters to film challenges with them later, and the thought of working on your essay for said lecture in the library, sitting in one of the uncomfortable seats, was worse than anything else you could imagine right now.  By the time you crutched across campus to the rink, the universe felt like it had a personal grudge. 

You pushed through the players' entrance and beelined for the sofa tucked in the corner of your newly cleaned-out office. The players had spent one gym session cleaning out the room from all the clutter, in exchange for not having to work out on that day. Now you were the proud owner of a new sofa, a clean shelf, where your decoration and a few hockey books were now lying, and a floor lamp. Your bag hit the floor with a thud, crutches clattering beside it as you collapsed onto the cushions with a loud groan. Pain pulsed like fire up your leg, every nerve screaming, even when you hoisted it up on the armrest.

"Fuck this," you hissed to the empty room and sat up again. You fished for your bag and searched for your painkiller; you had taken one barely an hour ago, but you didn’t care. The blister pack rattled slightly when you finally found it and popped one of the pills out. You swallowed it without water and leaned back down into the sofa.

You still had around an hour or so until the others would come in, so maybe you could try napping a bit and letting the painkillers do their thing. Your body sank into cushions, and you tried falling asleep. But even trying to blacken out the light in the room by crossing your arms over your eyes doesn’t seem to help you fall asleep. 

Frustration burned hot up your throat, and you snatched your phone instead, opening TikTok; maybe mindlessly scrolling would help a bit. A few minutes in, you realised that you were logged into the rink's account, figure skaters and ice hockey players popping up nonstop. You took a deep breath, but continued scrolling. Your thumb hovered over the screen, the TikTok looping again and again, but you couldn’t get yourself to swipe it away. Jeon Somi was holding up the Lee cup, surrounded by her teammates, her face 

split wide in a grin mid-celebration. She was wearing a pro club jersey gleaming under the arena lights, the women's league logo stamped bold at the front. It was an edit; someone had edited her shooting goals, giving assists, and celebrating.

Your heart dropped.

You used to play together, to match, to dream of the same dream. 

Tears stung your eyes, and the screen blurred, before you tossed your phone to the floor, not caring if the screen cracked or not. 

You pressed heels of your hands into your eyes, grinding hard till white sparks bloomed behind your lids. You knew there was no use in being sad about it, of being jealous. But you were so, so jealous. She was living her dream, the life you had dreamed of, the life you could have had, but was so unattainable now. Life was unfair, it had always been, will always be to everyone. You knew it was, and you knew you had to get used to how it was now. You were used to it, but you hated it. So so much.

A sob broke through your lips, and you pressed your hands across your mouth, trying to stop yourself from making any sounds.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

A familiar male voice, low, careful, said your name like he didn't want to startle you. "Y/N?"

You cracked one eye open. It felt heavy and swollen. You sighed and closed them again. 

There was a chuckle before your name was said again. You grumbled something garbled and tried to roll away, shoving your face deeper into the cushions. The fabric was rough under your face, and you cursed your father for picking out a cord sofa. The movement sent a sharp pain down your hip, your leg had tangled upwards, the cast hooked heavily over the armrest like a dead weight. You cursed and opened your eyes again, only to notice that you didn’t imagine Heeseung's voice. He was kneeling right in front of the sofa on the scuffed lounge floor, elbows braced on his knees. He gave you a small smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Heat flooded your face, and you yanked your arms up quickly, crossing them over your face like a shield, your elbows digging into the sofa. "Go 'way," you muttered, muffled thick against your sleeves. God, why him? Why now?

You must look like a mess. Your eyes were swollen, your hair probably a mess.

"Do you want to go home?" he asked. His voice was steady and even, like asking about the weather. Even if he noticed the state you were in, there was no pity in his voice.

The "M'fine," you answered with, came out moody even to your own ears, the lie sour on your tongue. Your head felt foggy from the painkillers that weren't kicking in yet, and every sound in the small room, the humming from the AC, the sounds from the rink, the ticking coming from the old clock, everything was too loud. 

"Mhm. Sure, you are." Amusement threaded through his words, light and teasing. 

You risked peeking one eye out from under your arm, squinting at him. Damp strands fell over his forehead, and your phone dangled loose in one hand. "Don't you have training or something?"

He shook his head. "Not for another two hours. You'd be stuck here at least five, waiting for your dad or Soobin to drive you home."

A groan ripped out of you, pure, raw annoyance bubbling inside of you. 

"I can drive you home if you want," he offered, straight and simple, like it was nothing. He straightened up a little but didn't rise fully, keeping himself at eye level. "It’s no big deal."

Pride warred hard in your chest, you wanted to say no, you didn't need pity, not your brothers, not your friends and especially not Heeseungs. You hated that he saw you this way, how broken you were. You sat up and had to close your eyes when you were seated upright, to make your head stop spinning. Maybe you should go home. No, you should definitely go home.  

"Yeah. Okay," you swallowed, your voice small. There was a beat of silence. "I’m just…not having a good day. My painkillers aren’t working. I might be a bit slow."

"That’s no problem," he said immediately, without hesitation. He pushed to his feet smoothly then, but instead of heading for the door, he just... dropped cross-legged onto the floor right there. “You should wake up properly before we go outside. I’ll text the others that we aren’t going to film today.”

You bit your lips and closed your eyes, suppressing a groan. You had forgotten about that. 

Heeseung leant back against the sofa arm, close enough you could smell the citrusy perfume he liked to use. 

“I’m gonna tell them I am feeling unwell,” Heeseung added, while he already started typing something into his phone.

You nodded and leaned back into the cushions, resting your cheek against your knee, staring at Heeseung's hair. It was still styled, the stands lying in a way that made it seem as if he hadn’t put much thought into it, but the way it barely moved with the movements of his hair made it clear that he had spent some time on it today. You rarely got to see him like that, in his street clothes, with his hair looking like this, you got the sweaty, tired Heeseung. Not that you were complaining, you still didn’t understand why you got any Heeseung at all, why he would care, come to your office, check on you as often as he did. Why did he offer to drive you home, even though he would have to come back to the rink?

He had been quiet for a while, back resting against the arm of the sofa, thumb scrolling half-heartedly over his phone. 

When you shifted and swallowed down another groan, he spoke again. “I’m not leaving you here if you’re not feeling well, Y/N. Don’t even think about asking me to go somewhere else.”

You stared up at the ceiling for a beat, jaw tightening. Of course, he would say that. Of course, he had been… kind. It scratched at something raw in your chest, that familiar mix of gratitude and rage, like your body couldn’t decide which way to flinch.

“I don’t want your pity,” you snapped before you could stop yourself, the words out sharp and ugly. They hung between you, heavy. You winced at your own tone, but it was too late.

Heeseung’s brows pulled together. He didn’t look offended, just surprised at your sudden outburst. “It’s not pity,” he said quietly. “If I pitied you, I’d have walked away a long time ago. I like being around you.”

You swallowed, throat tight. Heat crawled up your neck. You turned your head toward him, meeting his eyes. They were soft, steady, no pity in sight. They just had that same quiet determination you’d seen at practice, the one he got before stepping into a faceoff.

“I just…” Your voice thinned. “People feel bad, and then they hover, and I don’t… need that.”

He held your gaze, shoulders loosening a little. “Okay,” he said. “Then don’t call it pity.”

“What am I supposed to call it, then?” you muttered, more tired than angry now.

He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m your friend,” he said simply. “And your friend’s not going to leave you here when you’re in pain and can’t even roll over without cursing out the universe.”

Your chest squeezed at that, tears stinging your eyes again, and you averted your gaze, hoping for your eyes to stop watering. “You’re really bad at minding your own business, you know that?” you whispered.

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Comes with the captain thing, I guess.”

You let your eyes fall closed again, but nodded. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

Heeseung's fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the steering wheel, the windshield wipers sweeping steady, rhythmic arcs across the glass. Rain hammered relentlessly against the car roof, turning the world outside into a smeared watercolour of streetlights and glistening asphalt. You were slumped deep in the passenger seat, your crutches jammed awkwardly between your knees. Neither of you had said much since you had sat down, music filling the space. He had no intention of starting up another conversation, waiting for you to talk, if you wanted to. 

You crossed your arms over your chest, your gaze fixed on the downpour sheeting down the window. The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable; he had grown familiar with it over these past weeks, but he could feel the tension radiating off you, shoulders stiff, fingers picking absently at the seam of your jeans.

He wanted to ask. To ask how you were doing. Why you had been crying. What had happened today. His heart broke a bit when he saw you asleep on the sofa. Your eyes were puffy as if you had cried. Your face pulled into a frown even in your sleep. 

His chest tightened at the thought. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to say, so he stayed silent. 

You broke the quiet first, voice cutting soft through the rain. "Do you know if it's supposed to thunder tonight?"

Heeseung glanced over quickly, then returned his eyes to the road, his hands flexing on the wheel. "No idea. Probably?"

You fell silent again for a long moment, watching the rain streak the glass. "I hate thunder," you muttered finally, the words almost lost under the drumming downpour.

He nodded, keeping his tone even. "I get that. Rain's not my favourite either."

You huffed a small sound, not quite a laugh. "Rain is okay, actually. Thunder just... reminds me of the accident."

Oh. 

Heeseung's grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles paling slightly. He didn’t know what to say before, but now even less. He wasn’t good with words, has never been. He wetted his lips before nodding once. “Did it rain that day?”

He glanced at you, trying his best not to do it too obviously, but even if he had, you were staring out the passenger window. 

You took a slow, shaky breath.

"It had been raining for days,” you paused and dropped your hands to your lap. “Dad was driving me to my last game of the junior league season." A dark chuckle escaped you, "I was the second hockey prodigy in the family, you know? His whole pride and joy. I was the star player, top scorer, scouts circling like vultures. We were just a few streets from the rink when it happened. The other driver hydroplaned. He t-boned into our passenger side. The metal of the car crumpled together as if it were paper, and glass exploded everywhere. Thunder cracked at the exact same second as the crash. Everything blended together for me, screeching tyres, folding steel, that boom shaking my whole world."

You stopped there, staring at your hands. Heeseung kept quiet, he was a bit surprised at the outburst, of you telling him all this, but maybe you just needed to talk about it, and he would gladly be there for you.

"I don't remember much after that," you continued, voice dropping monotone. "I woke up five days later in a coma. My right side was completely shattered. My hip took the worst of it; the dashboard basically shoved straight through it. My ankle was mangled too. My femur snapped clean, nerves shredded everywhere. The Docs said I was lucky to keep my leg. It’s a miracle that I can use it at all, that I am alive."

Heeseung swallowed hard, the horror sinking slowly and cold into his gut. He kept his eyes on the road. His stomach twisted awfully, pity rising despite himself. He knew you hated it, so he did his best not to show it. 

Your voice stayed flat through the medical rundown, but he caught the faint shake when you wiped your eyes quickly with your hoodie sleeve. "That's why loud sounds hit me so hard. Sticks cracking. Pucks slamming boards. Whistles piercing. You know loud sounds. It got better with years of therapy, but bad days still send me spiraling and I just hate thunder,” you sniffled. Heeseung risked a glance at you; your face was still turned toward the window, and tears glistened on your lashes. He wanted to reach out for your hand, for your face. He hated seeing you cry. 

You laughed dryly and wiped over your face once again. 

"Your dad," Heeseung surprised himself by speaking up. "Wasn’t he in the car as well? Why is he, you know…"

You shrugged before finally turning to look at him straight. "His injuries were a joke next to mine. He healed within weeks, and then he was back on the bench. He walked everything off like it was nothing."

Heeseung didn't know what to say. "I'm glad you survived," he managed a few seconds later, his voice rough and low. 

You took a long breath. "I wished for a long time that I didn't." Then you groaned, pressing palms to your face. "Oh man, sorry for trauma dumping. What the fuck. This never happens to me."

He shook his head fast, pulling to a red light, turning fully. "It’s fine, Y/N. Trauma dump whenever you need to. I’m not really good with feelings and stuff, but I’ll do my best."

Rain blurred everything outside. You held his gaze a beat, your eyes teary, and he had to stop himself from reaching over, stopping them from dropping. The streetlight changed to green, and he had to break eye contact before he could act on any of his intrusive thoughts. 

You exhaled slowly, wiping your sleeve across your eyes one last time, the rain still drumming steadily on the roof. "Anyway," you said, noticeably forcing your voice lighter, turning your head to look at him properly. "Why were you at the rink so early today? You were half an hour ahead, even if we were filming."

Heeseung blinked, caught off-guard for a split second. Truth to be told, he had shown up early on purpose. He had wanted to see you. He had wanted an excuse to see you alone, to talk with you, hang out with you just for a bit. He liked being around you. The drives home had become a highlight these past few weeks. Talking about nothing, not talking at all, sitting there in comfortable silence, he enjoyed your presence. 

He scrambled quickly. "I wanted to nap on the sofa. Watch a bit of this new series I've been into."

You tilted your head, curiosity flickering through the remnants of tears. "Oh? What are you watching?"

He racked his brain, landing on the first thing that popped up. "Gyeongseong Creature. A new season dropped a few weeks ago. Jeongin has been hyping it nonstop." 

Your eyes lit up a fraction, a weak smile tugging at your mouth despite the redness around them, and Heseung mentally thanked his friend for being so annoying about the show. "Oh, I love that show! How far in are you?"

Heeseung shrugged. "The second or third episode?"

"Really?" You raised an eyebrow, shifting a little in your seat. "You like it so far?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding as the light ahead turned green. "It's good. Weird as hell, but pulls you in."

"That's great," you replied, the smile holding a bit longer now. Then quieter, almost sheepish, you added. "I can barely watch a full episode, though. I get too scared and have to pause."

He grinned, seizing the opening to tease you a bit. "You get scared? Do you have to hide behind that pillow you told me about?"

You rolled your eyes, but a laugh bubbled out of your mouth. "Shut up. They're terrifying. Those demons ripping people apart? No thanks. Not even my squishmello could save me."

He chuckled, warmth spreading in his chest at the sound. He loved this part. Making you smile. Stealing the heaviness away, even just for a drive. "I'll protect you from the TV demons," he promised, mock-serious. 

"Very heroic," you shot back, but your voice softened. "If that ever actually happened, though, I'd really need someone to protect me. I wouldn't be able to run."

Heeseung glanced over, still grinning. "Oh. Well, I need to do some more leg days then. So I can carry you around all the time."

You protested immediately, eyebrows shooting up. "Hey! I'm not that heavy!"

"Yes, but the water and supplies we need?" He raised one eyebrow. 

You paused, then huffed a laugh. "Okay, yeah. True."

The rain eased a little outside, wipers slowing their rhythm. You settled deeper into the seat, the atmosphere warm now. "What would you do in a real zombie apocalypse anyway?"

Heeseung thought for a second, merging onto a quieter street. "I'd grab my youngest brother, Jungwon, and my closest friends, mainly Jake, Jay and Sunghoon. Maybe their girlfriends as well, l if they had any. We would get out of the city fast, head somewhere rural with supplies."

You nodded, a small smile playing. "Mhm. Yeah, that's probably clever. Do you have any actual survival skills?"

"My video games taught me plenty," he said, nodding earnestly. “I just need to acquire unbreakable joints so I can jump around like a maniac and a gun. Or multiple. And a crash course on how to use a gun. 

You sniffed, but the laugh came again, brighter this time. He loved hearing it, loved pulling that lightness back into your voice. 

Heeseung glanced over at you, the rain still pattering steadily against the windows, the wipers sweeping their familiar rhythm. The conversation felt easy now, lighter than it had any right to be after what you'd just shared, and he wanted to keep it there. "What about you?" he asked. "What's your zombie apocalypse plan?"

You let out a small, dry laugh, shifting in your seat to face him a little more. "I have no survival skills. I'd probably just end things before I could turn into one of them."

He raised an eyebrow, keeping his tone light but curious. "You think that's a good idea?"

"Yeah," you said, shrugging one shoulder. "Better than turning and eating Soobin or something."

Heeseung laughed, the sound filling the car with warmth. "Man, Soobin wouldn't let anything touch you."

You groaned in fake annoyance, rolling your eyes dramatically, but a smile tugged at your lips. "True. It's kinda his duty as the big brother."

He grinned, turning onto your street now, the headlights cutting through the wet dark. "Protecting siblings from zombies?"

"Yeah," you replied, your voice softening with affection. "You'd do that for Jungwon, too, right?"

Heeseung nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. I'd burn the earth down for him if I had to."

You huffed another laugh, genuine this time. "Yeah, so don’t you dare judge him. He might be overprotective, but it’s in his DNA. Just look at our dad."

Heeseung shook his head, still chuckling as he slowed to pull into your parents' driveway. "My god, your dad is a scary man. I don’t want to cross him in a zombie apocalypse.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊

The front door clicked shut behind you with a familiar solid thunk. You took off your shoe by the entryway, stopping there for a second. 

You were tired, so tired. 

It wasn’t even five pm yet, and yet you felt like it was at least eleven. 

You sighed and made your way down the hallway, past the door to your room. Each step sent a fresh jolt of pain up your leg. Your mom stood at the sink, rinsing dishes with slow, methodical swipes of the sponge, the radio humming low in the background with some old pop tune half-buried under the running water when you reached the kitchen. She turned at the heavy thud of your bag hitting the floor, her smile starting automatically and warm, only to freeze solid on her face when she caught sight of you. You couldn’t stop yourself, couldn’t stop the tears from coming.

"Y/N? Honey, what's wrong?" Her voice came out soft but sharp with worry, the plate in her hands dripping forgotten into the sink.

The question cracked something deep inside you wide open. You crossed the kitchen tiles in three shaky, uneven strides, your crutches clattering abandoned to the floor as you crashed straight into her. You buried your face into the soft fabric of the sweater she was wearing as the first sob tore out of you. It was a raw and ugly sound, your whole body heaving against hers with the force of it. Her soapy hands hesitated for just a beat in surprise, wet palms hovering, then wrapped tight around your back, pulling you in closer as she steadied the two of you against the counter.  Your tears soaked through the fabric in seconds, your chest hollowing out with ragged gasp for air. "It's not fair," you choked out, your voice breaking wet and jagged against her collarbone. "Why can't I just be healthy like everyone else? I want to play hockey. I want to skate for real, feel the ice under my blades again,” another sob interrupted you, “I want to go to school without counting every single step, without the pain chasing me down. I want to travel, see games, visit friends, live, instead I'm stuck in this endless fucking loop. Nothing works. It's just surgeries. Over and over, and I'm so done."

The words spilt out frantic and unfiltered, grief twisting sharply into rage and then dissolving back into despair. Your mom started slowly rocking you back and forth, one hand stroking steady passes down your hair like she had when you were little and woke from nightmares. You wished you could wake up from this one as well. But there was nothing to wake up from; you were awake. 

Suddenly, the closeness, the touches, felt too much. You pulled back abruptly from her arms, pressing the heels of your hands hard into your eyes instead as you sank down against the cabinets. Fresh tears leaked through your fingers anyway. 

Your mom didn't let go or back away. She knelt right down there on the cold kitchen tile with you, her knees popping softly in the quiet, arms looping loose but firm around your shoulders from the side. "Shh, baby. I've got you," she murmured just once, her voice thick and cracked at the edges with her own helpless ache, but after that she stayed mostly silent. She always said you had to let the storm rage itself out without interruption when you were a child. She was always there, a coming presence, but she knew that sometimes crying was the only option, before going on. 

Eventually, it did. The storm in your head ebbed, your sobs fading into hiccuping breaths that left you hollowed and spent. You sagged heavily against her side, your face damp and swollen. 

Your mom's thumbs came up to brush the last few tears from your cheeks as best she could, her own eyes shining wet. You knew she was suffering, maybe not as much as you, but she always worried. You hated worrying her with this. She should be worried about you partying, about you doing dumb things, and instead, she had to worry that you couldn't stop. Triggered by one single stupid TikTok. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you washed up and into bed."

She helped you to your feet slowly and carefully, handing back one crutch and then the other with a steadying arm under your elbow as you limped together down the short hall to the bathroom. The sink faucet ran warm over your hands; she squeezed a swirl of toothpaste onto your brush without a word, waiting patiently while you scrubbed your face and teeth in mechanical motions, staring at your puffy, wrecked reflection in the fogging mirror. "What happened today, sweetheart?" she asked quietly from the doorframe, leaning there with her arms crossed loosely.

You spat into the sink, rinsed your mouth with a slosh of water, and gripped the porcelain edge until your knuckles went white. "Everything," you rasped out, finally meeting her eyes in the mirror's reflection. "I saw a video of Somi winning the Lee cup. She is playing for Samsung. She deserves to…but,” you sniffle before continuing. “I should be there too, Mom. But instead, my hip has been hurting so much that no painkiller is strong enough to make it stop. Heeseung had to drive me home because I just napped it off in the office like a total wreck."

Your mom nodded slowly, her expression soft but steady. She grabbed a clean towel from the rack, stepping close to pat your face dry with gentle dabs. "I know, baby. God, I know." Her arm slipped around your waist then, pulling you into a hug, as if she had to soothe herself. “I wish you were there, too. So much, Y/N.”

You sniffled and rested your head on her shoulder again, before pulling back. “I think I’m gonna sleep now.”

She nodded and followed you into your bedroom.

It was dark outside when you woke up a few hours later, your face still tender and swollen from crying. 

You fumbled for your phone with one hand, wanting to know what time it was when it vibrated. The buzzer sounded against the wood of your nightstand.  You fumbled for it with one hand, the screen's glare harsh against your tired eyes, when you found it. 

Lee Heeseung (Male Hockey Team): Hey Training just wrapped! Are you feeling any better now that you're home?

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard for a long moment. 

Part of you wanted to lie, tell him that you were feeling better, but the words wouldn't form. You didn’t want to lie to him. 

Y/N No But it's alright I will be Thank you for driving me home. It helped a bit. I hope the others didn’t give you any grief for not filming today.

You hit send before you could overthink it, then let the phone rest loose in your palm. Dots danced on the screen almost immediately, pulling your gaze back.

Lee Heeseung (Male Hockey Team): Don't worry about it, no one is mad Get some rest

You stared up at the ceiling tiles, their bland white blanks blurring slightly in the low light. ‘I like being around you.’ Heeseung's face flashed in front of your inner eye again, the way his hair was styled today, his easy smile when you'd first woken up grumpy. The way he was there, getting you to open up, by just being himself. You didn’t understand why, but you knew one thing, and that was for sure: You liked being around him as well.

Thank you so much for reading! Lots of Love, Patty

CONTINUE READING PART TWO ⤷ ゛OTHER INSTALLMENTS OF THE SERIES ˎˊ˗

PERMANENT TAGLIST ⋮ @enhastolemyheart @dreamiestay @elairah @vviolynn @engenemilia  @xylatox @firstclassjaylee @mangoescrazy @ddolleri @goldenmellow @en-boyz @bananasrme @classicroyalty @stars4kooo @evilangel404 @angelhyuka @heeseungiess @minjsui @andieekosmos @enhaverse713586 @dearestdreamies @rizz00 @aquitkuro @vixialuvs @typewonnie @enhapagluuuuu @kristynaaah @libby0705

you know this version of yourself very well. it’s the one that immediately starts accounting for error before drawing conclusions, and the one that treats uncertainty as concrete evidence you’ve got everything wrong. by the time you reach your car, you couldn’t even pull your stupid phone out of your stupidly tight jeans, because the pocket seemed vacuum sealed to your thighs once you sat down.

the drive home is full of revision. memories, mostly, on the phone: did you dream all of lee heeseung up? who the hell started those conversations? who called you last night?

was this all one-sided?

every turn at every corner feels excruciating. the green lights are too slow and every second that passes makes you want to reach for your phone, call him immediately, and ask just what the fuck that was. your palms stick against the steering wheel and the thought of hearing his response makes your stomach twist unpleasantly.

it just can’t be possible. there is just no way that you’re this unlucky.

the rest of the journey is blank. you didn’t even turn on the radio, nor did you bother to plug in the carplay. it’s almost pathetic how fast you slide out of the leather seat, how hard you slam the door to the driver’s, and how desperately you punch in the code to your apartment. you mess it up once, which earns a small cuss under your breath, but none of it overshadows the confusion.

you can’t possibly text him like this. ringing him would only lead to something even worse. you might say something you don’t mean, or fuck things up in that signature way of yours.

so, you settle for the same routine as always: shower, lunch, nap, and try not to lose your mind throughout the day. at some point, you think it cannot possibly be this serious—you’ve never met the man like this, never spoken to him in person, and not once have you heard his voice utter your name in real life. it is absolutely ridiculous that your knees almost buckle in the shower, at the mere thought that this truly might have meant nothing. just nothing.

there is an attempt to move through the day without acknowledging the hundred pound weight on your shoulders. perhaps it’s because you’ve spent weeks with your brain at full power that it’s starting to swirl with all kinds of things now.

you’re dragging your feet against the floorboards as you make your way to the kitchen. caffeine might help, maybe. there’s no logic or sound reasoning behind the decision, but you reach for your favourite mug and position it under the coffee machine anyway. your bottom lip is swollen from biting down on it, a habit you never really got around to unlearning from middle school, and for a fleeting, pathetic moment, you think that this is your fate.

your knuckles almost go white, grip tightening on the edge of the marble island, like it’ll help regulate your feelings any better. an annoying chime plays from the coffee machine a few seconds later—hot ribbons of steam curling into the air—but you don’t even feel like drinking it at all, really.

half-heartedly, you take the mug and head straight for your bedroom. your hair is still damp against your neck, the apartment smells like your shampoo, and for a moment, you catch a whiff of cigarette smoke from the neighbour above your unit. your things are still in a mess from last night—from when you were still on the phone with him, falling asleep with a sour mood and paper notes crumpled at the foot of your bed, books still flipped open to important pages that you conveniently wiped from your memory an hour ago.

and, your phone. face down, on your night stand, plugged into the wall and far too quiet for your comfort, as if lee heeseung could sense what was wrong with you from miles away.

“hello?”

you end up calling.

you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, shoulders slouched and back hunched over like it’ll do anything to ease the emptiness in your stomach. a screen is pressed up to your cheek, and you swear your nails might snap off if you hold your phone any tighter than you are now; the phone’s been ringing for a while, and now that he’s finally picked up, every thought decides to somersault out of the fucking window—straight down and plummeting into the concrete pavement outside.

“hey, y/n.” he says. “i’m… fuck—sorry. i’m with some friends right now. are you okay?”

he’s out of breath.

yelling in the background. plastic on plastic, some whistling, someone else calling yeonjun’s name.

you swallow thickly, but it gets caught in your throat halfway. your voice comes out more defeated than you intended. “why did you look at me like that?”

silence. you can hear his heavy breathing through the speaker, and all it does is make you pick at the skin around your nails. ears picking up everything, there’s voices layered over each other, the sound of something sharp cutting against snow, or ice. it stops momentarily when he finally understands the question, soft, but loud enough for your heart to pound.

“what?”

“like you didn’t know me,” you almost fucking whimper, and all you can think is: god, how much more humiliating can this get? “why?”

your free hand comes up to rub at the bridge of your nose, until little bursts of pressure bloom behind your eyes. all of this is giving you a headache, and there’s a split second where you think you should just hang up and save yourself the trouble. this is just how it is. your luck. your fingers knead, and knead, and knead—but it’s no use. all you can hear is him.

“y/n,” he mumbles. “can we meet? tonight?”

“you can’t just do that,” you breathe shakily. “tell me why. please.”

time has been moving wrong all day. everything feels delayed and stretched and slow in this awful, unbearable way. five seconds between responses starts feeling like whole afternoons, and minutes feel like centuries. you spent weeks getting used to talking to him whenever something happened—sending him stupid pictures and complaining about classes and saying things before thinking because there was always tomorrow, and that’s exactly what you did last night.

but now that tomorrow is here… shit, it doesn’t even matter anymore.

“y/n,” his voice breaks just a little—not very sure if it’s the horrible connection on campus, if he’s even still there. you imagine, just for the sake of your sanity, that he’s running his hands through his hair, breathing wrong, panicking. anything like those movies where the guy realises he’s going to lose it all. “i know it doesn’t make any sense—”

“what do you think, huh? do you think any of it does?”

“i know—shit, i know.”

your fingers keep kneading at your skin because the headache’s spreading now, radiating into your temples in slow pulses. you keep pressing harder like pain somewhere else will make this one smaller. it doesn’t work.

“i think we should meet in person,” he answers, calm again, like it’s how he’s always been. somehow, it pisses you off even more, when you know he can hear the shake in your voice. “i gotta go. i’m sorry.”

he’s never apologised to you before. not even for missing your calls.

“what the fuck are you sorry for, heeseung?”

you hear him breathe in, then out. he sounds exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.

“i’m just…” his voice catches faintly, before smoothing back out. “i’m sorry.”

the line goes dead.

you stay, just for a while, phone still pressed against your ear like the warmth of your skin might coax him back and force an explanation out of him. your shoulders fold further into themselves until your spine starts to ache, but moving would mean admitting the call is over, and you’re not quite ready to do that yet.

your eyes remain fixed on nothing in particular—the opposite wall, maybe, where the late afternoon light stretches unevenly across the paint and catches the tiny imperfections in the plaster that you’ve somehow never noticed despite living here for months.

your stomach really hurts. sour and hollow, underneath your ribcage, compelling you to lower your phone and lock your screen before you can over-analyse the messages from last night.

you draw a deep breath through your nose, falling back against the mattress until your shoulder blades scratch against your duvet.

you are not crying over a man you’ve technically never even met.

this is absolutely fucking ridiculous, you mutter under your breath, but you still wipe under your eyes and try to blink all the salt out of your eyes anyway. your phone dies eventually because you forget to plug it back in, and now, all that’s left is you, the tear-stained sheets and meaningless pieces of paper.

─────────────────────────

two weeks ago, park sunghoon was on the brink of losing his shit.

it was purely emotional. probably more emotion than anyone on the team has ever seen him display, and lord, was it utterly humiliating. he wonders if anyone on the team still thinks about it, given how the locker room goes dead silent every time he steps in—and it’s literally like he just got named captain all over again.

practice ended badly. not disastrously, because no one broke anything, and maki didn’t start a petty argument between the goalkeeper and him. yeonjun barely screamed at the little freshmen, and only one of them cried post-cool down—so by all technical definitions, it had been productive enough.

and still, he was irritated.

it had been building for days now, in that same slow, ugly way tension knots all your muscles before becoming pain. finals always fucked everyone over, but not enough to stop them from showing up—mentally, though, they’re elsewhere. sunghoon had been there, before he had decided he was tired of making shitty excuses for his terrible performance.

shortcuts irritate him. he’s watching people cut corners before his very eyes because they assume he’s as tired as them—well, he is, but that’s besides the point.

he hated it.

metal lockers slammed shut one after another while conversations overlapped in every direction. someone was laughing too loudly, and sunghoon was almost certain the obnoxiously loud carly rae jepsen echoing through the room belonged to maki’s fucked up speakers again. the locker room was humid in that unpleasant post-practice way—the air thick with damp towels, deodorant and sweat drying into fabric, hot enough that stepping in after the rink always felt vaguely suffocating.

sunghoon walks further into the space and, while it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world, conversations shift around him in tiny ways he’s learnt to recognize over the years. a few voices lower, someone moves their legs in so he can pass. one of the freshmen instinctively straightens up halfway through pulling his shirt over his head.

his duffel hangs off one shoulder. sweat drips slowly from his temples, sliding down the side of his neck before disappearing into the dark collar of his shirt. his whole body feels heavy today, and not even in the satisfying way—just fucking heavy. his shoulders ache in that deep, irritating way that suggests recovery isn’t catching up anymore, and lately sleep hasn’t been doing much except making him conscious again.

it’s fine. everything had been feeling vaguely wrong for a while now, anyway.

yeonjun’s already on his way out when he brushes past him, shoulder bumping his with enough force to be annoying but not enough to start anything. “have a wonderfully peaceful night,” he mutters with that unbearably cocky, punchable grin.

any other day, sunghoon might’ve shoved him into a locker.

instead, he dropped his bag beside the end of the bench, and listened to the wood creak underneath his weight. the freshmen lingering nearby begin moving almost immediately. one shifts two lockers down, and another grabs his things and suddenly remembers he has somewhere else to be. by the time sunghoon looks up from his phone properly, half of them have disappeared entirely.

he watches one hesitate after accidentally making eye contact. the kid immediately looks away, picks up his shit, and leaves.

sunghoon looks back down. god, his shoulders hurt.

the muscles between his shoulder blades have been tightening more lately. sleep’s been shit. practice feels slower. finals are making everyone stupid. nobody can pass properly anymore, or communicate once they’re on the ice. everything seems held together by routine and whatever miscroscopic amount of discipline he can force onto everyone else.

whatever. it’s manageable, he thinks. everything always is, if you’re strong and willing and miserable enough. eat properly, sleep properly, train properly, study properly. repeat until wanting anything else becomes inefficient or a distraction, until it’s ordinary and until enough days pass that discomfort isn’t discomfort anymore, and simply morphs into the default.

maybe that’s why the past few weeks have felt stranger than anything else—nothing has gotten easier. his schedule has been become even more hellish than before, his muscles still ache and everyone expects more from him; but there’s been this stupid, absurd sense of anticipation stitched quietly into the gaps of his day.

he’s excited for something. for someone.

he checks his phone when he has nothing to do. sleeps later, thinks about conversations while stretching or when someone says something that you mentioned in passing. none of it means anything, at least individually, but it feels so a embarrassingly noticeable once he becomes aware of it together.

“…i’m serious, though.”

his thumb stills over his lockscreen. sunghoon doesn’t look up immediately, because the sentence barely reaches his ears at first. locker room noise tends to sound a lot like static after practice, but then your name slips, and suddenly every other sound becomes painfully irrelevant.

there’s a burst of laughter from somewhere to his left.

“y/n? yeah, i know. she’s prettier than i thought.”

sunghoon’s hand had been unlocking his phone without thought, thumb dragging upward automatically before freezing halfway. his forearm rests against his thigh, veins standing out faintly beneath skin flushed warm from practice, and he only notices after a second that his wrist has gone rigid enough to make the tendons ache.

the fabric of his jersey sticks unpleasantly against the centre of his back, where it hasn’t dried yet.

“fuck, i still remember that dress.”

“she’s fine as fuck, seriously,” someone snorts. “wonder if she’d let me tap. you think?”

“don’t be a fucking asshole,” sunghoon hears, the laughter echoing and bouncing off the walls suggesting that nobody is really bothered by this except him. “you’re not in her league, man.”

more laughter. sunghoon doesn’t think he’s ever been this pissed off before, truly, because now his fist is balled so tight that his knuckles are starting to pale. his ears are beginning to ring, and all his body decides to do is amplify the voices of his teammates who decided you’d be the centre of their attention tonight.

someone tosses their towel onto the bench he’s on. maki’s finally out, he notices, quieter now that he’s packing his things up.

“who knows if she’s desperate… might have a chance.”

“shut the fuck up!”

sunghoon rolls one shoulder once and immediately regrets it. something pulls underneath his shoulder blade where he took a hit earlier. his body feels strangely swollen after practice—muscles tight and full and unpleasantly warm under skin that suddenly feels too small to sit comfortably in. his thighs ache where they press against the edge of the bench, palms still feeling vaguely raw from his gloves.

the conversation goes on, and he tries not to listen. realistically, these men would never get anywhere near you. he wouldn’t let them, but that’s besides the point. willingly giving this his attention would only lead to something he can’t take back, and he knows it.

“you got her number?”

“think i do. we were in the same freshie group.”

wonderful.

his tongue is pressing against the inside of his cheek, and his jaw is ticking. he swears if he bites down any harder that a tooth might shatter, but sunghoon does his best to keep his eyes trained on the screen in his hands.

someone says something else, but he doesn’t even remember what. he only remembers the feeling of his jaw hurting, the edge of his phone case digging into his palm, and the slow, annoying feeling of anger coursing through his veins.

it’s hot in here. sunghoon feels it all—anger, resentment, the guilt and embarrassment, too, because he really wants it to stop. he really, really needs it to. there’s something deeply unpleasant in having to listen to a group of people talk about you like this is all you are, that your face and body, no matter how gorgeous it may be, is your most interesting feature.

do these people know you the way he does?

they don’t. they never could.

park sunghoon’s throat suddenly feels dry in a way water won’t, can’t fix. his shoulders stay tense while his gaze drags over your messages and something inside him twists. it’s obvious that this was never supposed to become anything, and that a relationship built on a lie would crumble before he could begin enjoying it.

it’s just… one late-night call becomes another, then another, and another. somewhere between protein shakes and assignments and practice schedules, he moves everything aside for you, and realises he wants you more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life.

“could you guys just shut the fuck up?”

the words leave his mouth before he gets the chance to think about them. the social repercussions don’t even matter anymore, nor were they even factored in to begin with. his voice doesn’t come out loud, which somehow makes it worse—it stays low and level and entirely lacking in visible irritation, like he’s asking somebody to pass him a bottle instead of telling half the room to stop talking.

the effect is immediate, anyway.

conversations taper off unevenly until the entire room is quiet. somebody lets out a laugh that cuts itself short halfway through, and somewhere behind him, a locker closes gently.

sunghoon only realises he’s spoken after the silence reaches him, and suddenly, his own breathing sounds louder than before. his shoulders ease by a fraction and his fingers loosen around his phone, just enough for him to feel the imprint left across the centre of his palm from holding it too tightly.

nobody says a thing. sunghoon doesn’t even know who was speaking anymore. that detail doesn’t seem important now—not compared to the things that were said, and definitely not compared to what had slipped out of his own mouth immediately after.

park sunghoon sits in the locker room with sweat cooling against his skin, realising something he spent the next two weeks trying very hard to negotiate with.

he wants you.

slowly, surely, quietly, he wants you.

at some point, it felt easier not to think about; topped with all the things he already has to deal with, accepting this fact is not particularly beneficial for him.

fourteen days after that—today—he’s done with practice again, same old, same old; walking into locker rooms that are hyperaware of his existence, everyone treading on egg shells until he gets out of the place and into his car.

he knows people noticed. yeonjun had asked if he was alright on the walk over to the parking lot and tried unusually hard not to sound like he was asking. no grin nor stupid comment attached, it’s plain, awkward concern delivered badly enough that sunghoon knew it was real.

“you good?”

what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?

that he’d heard your voice three hours ago, spent the entire session replaying the shake in your voice, and wanted to rip his heart out of his chest?

that the only time he was so sure of someone, he’s already fucked it up?

it’s his fault that he couldn’t answer and instead settled on walking away. park sunghoon heard you on the phone three hours ago and knew he’d be thinking about it the entire session—but now that he’s actually getting into his car, on the way to see you, his heart is beginning to pound harder.

his shoes scrape quietly against the asphalt of the parking lot as he walks. his duffel drags his shoulder lower on one side, dark blue hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows—sunghoon’s hand reaches into his pocket automatically and wraps around his keys before he even gets to the car.

You: where are you? 20:08

Y/n: [Shared a location] 20:08

─────────────────────────

the text came at 7 in the evening. you spent the previous 3 hours wondering where it went wrong, recalling every word exchanged, every misunderstood conversation that you dismissed in the moment. it’s incredibly easy to move past things in the heat of the things, you realise—it just seems silly now, almost childish, that you let those things slip past you.

you left the house in a random zip-up, shorts riding up your thighs with every forward step you took. there’s an annoying little hill you need to climb to get to this park, obscured by dark green trees and stray cats that rub against your legs if you stand still for too long, and you’ll usually start panting by the 2 minute mark.

once you finally reach the top, it’s unmistakable. an old playground swing, a plastic slide, and a bench that sat directly behind the big, interactive structure modelled after a sunflower. your feet feel heavy as you move, slippers scratching against the concrete, and you accidentally kick a few pebbles as you walk.

this feels like a waste of your time. heeseung messaged around thirty minutes ago, and he’s still nowhere in sight—eventually, you’re hunched over the park bench table, hands in your hair, trying to get this nausea to alleviate itself.

so what if lee heeseung decided he wanted nothing to do with you? the magnitude at which this is affecting you is starting to seem ridiculous. you keep telling yourself that a boy shouldn’t matter this much, that talking means nothing, and that modern love is nothing but a cruel endeavour that you’re constantly gambling on. so what if you lose, you think, but the feeling of your heart spilling out of your ribs is pressing so deep into your heart that it’s killing you.

your fingers are pressing into the bridge of your nose again. the streetlamps feel warm over your head, slipping through your fingers when you run them over your face. you think you must look horrible right now, but so does everyone else—never mind that the occasional parkgoer jogs past and stares you down: that is what you choose to tell yourself.

some kid walks by with her mom, pointing at the slide, and it almost makes you laugh when she hesitates before saying ‘no’.

just as the thoughts begin to tone down, swirling less and less, you catch a familiar figure in your peripheral: tall, broad, sleeves bunched at the elbows and dark brown hair falling over his eyebrows, looking as tired and miserable as the day you saw him a week ago.

this can’t be real.

the yellow light washes over his face and bathes him in a warm, almost greenish light. the moment he steps into focus, you’re already on your way up—standing next to the bench, hands shaking like you can’t quite believe this is actually happening.

“y/n—”

three steps later, you’re already on your way out.

what follows is immediate: park sunghoon, tired, red eyes, lounging a big ass bag on his shoulder, jogging towards you with a stride so big that it almost scares you. you can’t bear to look at him like this, like he’s actually hurt over what he’s done, even if you don’t specifically know what it is yet.

everything’s blurry as you move. you can’t feel your stomach, and it took you more than a reasonable amount of effort just to turn away and start walking. you can hear him, faintly—sunghoon calling out your name, as familiar as every night before this one, as sweet and genuine as it had always been—but has it really, though?

“is this some fucking joke to you?”

your voice cracks on the very last word, embarrassingly enough. as if the tears running down your cheeks wasn’t enough shame to carry around, sunghoon has to hear you like this. vulnerable and hurt and wanting answers.

“y/n, please. just stop walking away from me,” he pleads, out of breath from how far he’s been trailing you. the downhill slope isn’t that far away from here, and you can see a few couples taking a night stroll—as if the universe insists on rubbing it in your tear-stained face. “let me explain.”

“what is there to explain?”

you weren’t stupid. it feels like a cruel insult that sunghoon thinks you even need an explanation; he was heeseung. you’d been calling, texting, falling for someone completely different, and the worst part is that it doesn’t even fucking matter in the way he thinks it does.

“i wanted to tell you,” sunghoon blurts out, and the moment it leaves his lips, your feet suddenly stop working. it’s like your heels are anchored to the ground by something invisible, urging you to turn around—everything in his voice screams for you to do just that, to face him, to see how hurt he is by the lie he chose to tell. “y/n, please.”

you can’t. you just can’t.

it’s incredibly corny. this whole scene just seems like a big fuck-you from the universe, dragged straight out of a drama, because god knows you were never deserving of something so beautiful and easy. love had to strangle it’s way out of your hands, somehow. it’s to a point where there’s people staring, whispering as they pass you two.

“you know what? i wouldn’t even have fucking cared, anyway.” you sighed, blinking to get your vision to clear up. “you didn’t even have to lie to me.”

sunghoon is stunned at that. his whole body feels cold, locked in place, and his heart’s pounding so hard that he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. by the time you eventually do turn around, his throat is already constricting, dry and tight, looking down at you—hand running through your hair, glassy eyes staring into his. the guilt weighs heavier now, sinking it’s claws into his neck, so deep that he can feel it nick his heart.

“what?”

he needs to rip it out.

sunghoon genuinely feels like his guts are going to spill out. your eyelashes are wet with tears and he can tell you’re trying your best not to burst into tears, and he hates himself for being the reason for it; he has to dig his fingers into his palms just so he can stop himself from reaching out for you.

selfishly, for a second, he lets himself memorise your face. he thinks it’ll be the last time he sees it. there’s something about you—even when your cheeks are red and your eyes are swollen with hurt, that he wants to see it all.

sunghoon wishes he could undo everything. perhaps, if he had just went up to you that friday night, underneath the stairs with his best smile and most polite greeting, he’d been able to hate himself a little less, and possibly not hurt you at all.

this is what he gets, isn’t it?

it’s a shame.

“i really liked you.” you sniffle. your eyes are deliberately avoiding his. sunghoon’s never leave your face. “heeseung or not, doesn’t even matter now, does it?”

for a second, sunghoon genuinely thinks he misheard you.

the streetlights blur, morphing into bright lines in your vision, and somebody laughs somewhere downhill. a bicycle rolls past, a dog barks behind you, and it is just unbearable how you have to focus on all these sounds just so you can distract yourself from the uneven breaths of your own body.

“i liked you too, y/n.”

sunghoon genuinely forgets how to breathe. his chest expands automatically, but the air never seems to reach his lungs, caught somewhere between his ribs and throat where everything suddenly feels too tight.

all this time, he thought he knew exactly how tonight would go. you’d tell him to fuck off, to stop following you, and he thought he would. it started off like that: the walking part, the not-being-able-to-look-at-him-without-crying. he prepared for it, every night, leading up to this one: imagined you laughing in his face, telling him to leave, to never call again, but this barely fits the mould.

every time he convinced himself that honesty could wait one more day because he needed more time, needed the timing to be better, needed to figure himself out first—all of it feels rotten, so useless and meaningless now.

you stand there with tears drying on your cheeks, eyes swollen and exhausted, and all he can think about is how much easier this could have been for you if he’d just been honest from the beginning. he should’ve never answered, nor should he have went with it when you started getting a little bolder. he should’ve never gone this far to feed his own selfishness.

park sunghoon doesn’t deserve to stand here and watch you cry over him.

“you could’ve told me.”

his fingers curl against his palms until his nails bite crescents into skin. he barely feels the sting. somehow, hearing you say it doesn’t feel relieving at all—not in the way he imagined it would, during all those nights where he let himself think about impossible things before forcing himself to sleep. he thought this moment, if it ever existed, would feel warm. he thought—maybe—there’d be this stupid sense of vindication buried underneath the guilt, a ugly selfish satisfaction that would prove he wasn’t completely insane for wanting you.

all he finds is more guilt, painted by a crystal clear picture of what could’ve been.

the image arrives all at once and it’s unbearable in how ordinary it is. walking up to you that first night instead of watching from a distance. introducing himself properly, and a few weeks later, he’s sitting across from you at some stupid coffee place after class. he’d be seeing his contact under his actual name and listening to you complain through his speakers without feeling his stomach drop every time you said “heeseung.” such painfully normal things that people do every day without thinking, and somehow they feel impossibly far away now, like he’d reached out and ruined them before they even had the chance to become memories.

his hand comes up to his face and presses hard against his mouth. you’re sniffling so much that your nose is beginning to redden. he notices the cuts on your lips, probably from biting down on them, and all he can see is you in the library, far away and out of reach.

“i should have told you,” he acknowledges. it doesn’t do anything to alleviate the pounding headache you have. “i thought that if you didn’t know—fuck, i don’t know. i thought you would’ve liked me better like that… if you didn’t know.”

“how the fuck does that make any fucking sense?”

for the first time today, you’re looking at him. his eyes are red around the edges, the skin underneath them looking darker than normal and his lashes look damp under the streetlights. there’s something almost unbearable about it, the way he looks more exhausted than guilty, like he’s been carrying this around for weeks and would be the one bearing most of the pain.

still, despite it all, you want to wipe the tears away.

“i wasn’t lying,” his lip trembles slightly, “when i said that everyone’s scared of me. that night—fuck, i saw you, y/n. i knew you wouldn’t look at me—”

“what the fuck? really, what the fuck?” you cut him off, voice tapering off into that high, disbelieving tone. “how—just how? how did you think this would turn out, sunghoon? did you think we’d live happily ever after when i—when we spent months talking like that?”

you’re breathing wrong. everything feels so wrong. all of this feels so impossibly fucking wrong. you need to go home.

he flinches at your response. your eyes burn with all the movement in your peripheral, and your chest tightens with every passing second. you laugh, and it sounds horrible—small, breathless, like the sight in front of you is simply too baffling to process properly.

sunghoon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. you stare at him, expecting something, anything, but the words refuse to make it past his throat.

“what the fuck is wrong with you, sunghoon?”

there is something painfully tragic about walking away from a good thing. honestly, if you tried hard enough, you could probably forgive him. you could pretend he never lied to you, and that everything he said after that first lie wasn’t a lie, either. you could pretend he was honest and truthful and all those good things, but the thing about pushing it down is that it always bubble back up eventually.

both things can be true: that it’ll always come back, and you’ll always believe that sunghoon could’ve been it.

“y/n—”

“don’t. just don’t fucking—don’t. don’t call me, don’t do anything. i can’t, i just can’t right now.”

you never really knew heeseung at all, now that you think about it. you remember being a freshman and watching him shoot hoops by the cafeteria one sunny tuesday morning—jiwon mentioned how cute he looked, and perhaps as some act of politeness between two newly introduced friends, said that the two of you would look good together. even now, you think that if heeseung had ended up being exactly like sunghoon, you still would’ve fallen.

but that would mean you never fell for heeseung at all, doesn’t it?

with sunghoon here, standing in front of you, all you see is the hardworking, ambitious, weirdly terrified boy you got to know. you see him in front of his computer thinking too hard, and you see him looking surprised that you smiled at him. it feels strangely dissonant that this will be the last time you get to stand this close to him, or that it’ll be the final time you hear his voice.

“you’re such a coward.”

you don’t know what he says after that, because you turn and walk away so quick that anything he mumbles next falls a step too short behind you. the words feel so bitter on your tongue, and you still taste it even as you walk past that one broken street lamp around fifteen feet away, lingering by the time you step into your apartment.

when you walk into your bedroom, you stay by the door a little longer, shoulder pressed against the wooden frame.

ironically enough, you left your phone behind. face down, still plugged to the wall.

then, almost as a final act in this depressing film, you slump over and slide to the floor, crying over something that shouldn’t matter as much as it does.

it takes you a while to crawl into bed.

you blame the exams. that’s definitely why you’re too exhausted to speak to jiwon, despite the multiple texts from three hours ago detailing your predicament. now that she’s practically begging for you to pick up, three hours later, you just can’t.

instead, you scroll. scroll and scroll and scroll, through chats and messages that have nothing to do with heeseung, now that you know the truth—and as you do, a message pops up at the bottom.

lee heeseung: Get home safely, Y/n. 21:09

lee heeseung: I’m sorry for everything 21:10

─────────────────────────

the sun rises another day. it spills into sunghoon’s room in familiar strips of gold, slipping through the blinds and cutting across the walls in uneven slants that make the dust visible. tiny particles drift through the light lazily, suspended in the air and blinding enough that he has to lift a hand over his eyes instinctively, staring through the gaps between his fingers and pretending, stupidly, that if he stays still long enough, he’ll somehow fall back asleep.

he doesn’t.

his shirt is still where he threw it last night, half across the room and gathering dust in the middle of the floor. his once-superbly-clean desk is a mess, in the same way his room is lately—never dirty enough to clean, yet tidy enough not to notice.

his notes are spread all over. he’s pretty sure he should’ve stapled and organized them a long, long time ago, but he honestly could not care anymore. there’s that charger hanging halfway off the edge of his bedside table, a half-empty glass collecting warmth from the morning air, and his hockey bag remains unopened by the door from last night’s practice. he finds it amazing that he still manages to attend—just spectacular that nobody can tell how terrible he’s feeling, and even more so, miraculous that he’s able to do his job the same.

and, his curtains. left open for september’s autumn, long after that quiet summer when he still had you to call.

park sunghoon spends a little longer staring at the window once his eyes stop hurting from the brightness. the sunlight shifts slowly over his sheets as the minutes go by, reaching his hands where they rest against his stomach, and warm enough that it still reminds him of you.

the first thought he has is that he’s being selfish.

it’s embarrassing, honestly, how little he’s done in a month and how exhausting it all still feels. all he does is wake up, lie here, go to practice, come back, and sleep. heeseung’s always got someone new over, jake and jay are physically incapable of doing anything quietly, and sunoo, jungwon, and riki are too afraid to ask why he never speaks at dinner anymore—not that he did much of that to begin with, anyway. he chooses not to believe them when they say he seemed happier when the sun stayed out longer.

a month is barely enough time to break a habit, but it’s long enough that nobody asks anymore. there were those few weeks back in july where he’d let a laugh slip in front of his brothers and didn’t feel immediately disgusted by the sound of it afterwards. he supposes you brought out that side of him—the one that doesn’t need to act all perfect and gorgeous and saintful. at some point, he even let himself eat a tub of ice cream because riki asked nicely enough for him to stay and watch a movie. it didn’t feel difficult then, of course.

yeonjun stopped trying to irritate him after a while, probably realising it wasn’t possible. now, he just avoids it out of pity instead, and sunghoon knows it. nobody says it out loud, but they all look at him differently these days; like he’s become quieter in a way they can’t quite fix, and they don’t know whether to drag him out of it or leave him there in this pit he’s chosen to bury himself in.

he shuts his eyes, and it doesn’t help. all sunghoon sees is that fucking library, and you, standing between metal shelving under the evening sun—squinting and pouting, warm cheeks and messy hair from running your fingers through it all day, and back then, sunghoon wanted nothing but to do the same. that stupid expression you made, pretending like your eyes weren’t watering from all the dusty books and the harsh light hitting your irises, too.

he sees himself telling you to sit on his side, your smile, and how he almost froze up then and there.

all the brains in the world and none of it did anything for him then, and even less now. he spent years believing everything had a formula—that if he worked hard enough, controlled enough, became enough, things would eventually make sense and fall into place. but there was nothing logical about wanting to sit in uncomfortable, sticky heat because it touched your skin first, or remembering the exact way your eyebrows moved when you were confused, or missing somebody so intensely that even morning light starts feeling like fate; there was nothing sensible in falling for someone that makes him act so unpredictably.

“listen, dude. you gotta get the fuck up.”

sunghoon doesn’t realise how badly his neck aches until he turns away from the window. the movement pulls uncomfortably down his shoulders, stiff from sleeping wrong and doing absolutely nothing for days that didn’t involve practice. to his right stands lee heeseung, leaning against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised, looking mildly offended by the fact that somebody could sleep until ten in the morning.

“this is pathetic, do you realise that?” he sighs, pushing himself off the frame and strolling into sunghoon’s room with that same easy, unaffected energy he’s always had. carefree in a way that feels irritating today, and familiar in a way that reminds him too much of you. for a brief second, sunghoon sees it—the appeal. why you looked at him first, and why it was easy to do so. “man. you don’t even run in the morning anymore.”

“get out,” sunghoon mumbles, rolling over onto his side. his skin is cold where it leaves the sunlight and the sheets feel warmer than they should, sending a brief chill down his spine. “i am not in the mood to deal with you.”

“deal with me?” heeseung lets out this dramatic breath of disbelief and sunghoon hears the familiar squeak of his desk chair protesting under sudden weight. wheels scrape softly against the floor before rolling closer and closer until heeseung’s annoyingly charismatic face enters his peripheral. “everyone’s been dealing with your moping, hoon. it gets obvious when it’s six instead of seven after, like, two days—”

“okay.”

“okay?” heeseung repeats immediately, eyebrows lifting. his elbow lands on the arm rest and his chin settles into his hand. “okay.”

sunghoon shuts his eyes. the silence feels like summer all over again.

“do you wanna tell me why the fuck you’re being all weird?”

heeseung’s voice softens slightly. not enough to make a big thing out of it, because god knows how bad sunghoon would freak out and punch him in the mouth for that—but it’s enough to show the concern building up over the past few weeks.

sunghoon opens his eyes again, and somehow, seeing and hearing it for himself only annoys him more. sure, he knows it’s ridiculous and childish and just unfair, but he can’t help himself.

heeseung shouldn’t be worried. nothing happened to him. he didn’t stand in the park and watch you walk away, and he didn’t spend a month replaying every conversation, trying to figure out which version of him you liked more—and he did not ruin anything.

he swallows and stares at the windows again, drifting away from heeseung’s face.

the sunlight’s moved further away.

“i’m fine,” sunghoon says—his voice comes out flatter than intended. regardless, he does nothing to make himself sound any more convincing, and even if he did, he knows heeseung would see right through it.

the chair squeaks again as his friend leans further back, an unconvincing scoff being the only thing that leaves his lips. a soft thud as the backrest hits the wall, sunghoon would’ve glared at him any other day—but now, he can’t seem to find the energy.

“y’know, for someone who spent years acting all emotionless,” heeseung mumbles under his breath, “you’re shit at pretending like you don’t have them.”

it’s a decibel too loud to be accidental. sunghoon can’t even get angry now, because he knows better. after all this time, he really does—he knows better than to get angry at anyone else but himself.

he doesn’t answer. heeseung watches him for a little longer, head tilting slightly as his eyes drift over sunghoon’s face, lingering around the redness in his eyes and the exhaustion dragging down his expression. there’s a brief moment where he looks like he wants to say something and thinks better of it.

“…you know, i still think what you did was insane. i still don’t get why you didn’t just tell her.”

sunghoon closes his eyes. he’s not trying to avoid it, believe him—he’s spent majority of his days holding the guilt against himself, on his shoulders, feeling it weigh down on his chest for days a time. he doesn’t necessarily disagree.

“you talked to someone for months, pretending to be somebody else, and expected that to work?”

sunghoon’s jaw almost shatters from how hard he’s clenching it. he imagined you saying those same words to him, at some point. your gentle smile behind his eyelids seem to be one of many things preventing him from beating the shit out of the guy.

lee heeseung notices it, and can’t help but sigh. “you looked happier, hoon. really.”

sunghoon wishes he just went back to sleep. he doesn’t know what good this is doing him, really—he’s aware of it. it’s lying everywhere, the proof scattered around like meaningless scraps: his reduced sleep, terrible appetite and unwillingness to see any girl that isn’t you.

he knows better than anyone how happy he was.

“didn’t know what it was at first,” he says. “thought you made it to the olympic lineup or something. shit’s no joke.”

he’s not even looking at sunghoon anymore. “i know it when i see it. checking your phone every five minutes, laughing more. then you came home looking like someone fucking died.”

heeseung scratches at the back of his neck, but sunghoon looks away before he can utter the last word.

“do i know her?”

“no.”

sunghoon’s answer is immediate. too quick not to raise his other eyebrow, apparently. heeseung notices, and sunghoon notices that heeseung notices—but both never look each other in the eye.

“…okay.” heeseung mutters. his eyes drift around the room instead, trying to keep themselves occupied, if only for the sake of not looking too long at his miserable, bed-ridden friend’s face. his fingers tap idly against the armrest once, twice, before stopping altogether.

“you’re making this way worse for me, heeseung,” sunghoon deadpans, hand coming up to rub at his eyes. the scene feels oddly intimate for someone who still doesn’t know half of what sunghoon’s done. “it’s getting on my nerves.”

“good.”

sunghoon shoots him a look. heeseung just smiles, soft and underpainted with concern that hurts him to even acknowledge. for all the effort sunghoon’s spent making himself difficult to read—for all the years of swallowing things whole and convincing himself that if nobody saw him, then nothing could really touch him—he’s still shocked that people notice when things go bad.

after a few, quiet minutes of sunghoon wishing for heeseung to vanish into thin air and heeseung’s incessant staring, he speaks again.

“…you going to sunoo’s thing this weekend?”

he completely forgot about that. sunghoon blinks slowly, the memories coming back to him now—he remembers, vividly, your voice on the phone, rambling about the stupid thing for five minutes.

you sounded ridiculously excited. obvious now why that was, it still feels just as bitter as it did back then. “what?”

he knows what. he doesn’t know why he’s acting like he doesn’t have a clue what heeseung’s saying.

“sunoo was freaking out yesterday,” he laughs to himself, head tipping back slightly as the chair rocks under him. one foot drags absentmindedly against the floor while his fingers hook around the edge of the armrest. “said he only needs two more people before he reaches the donation limit. i wonder how long the queue’s gonna be.”

sunghoon can vaguely predict where this conversation is going. his eyes narrow a little, and thinks he’ll genuinely kill lee heeseung if he even suggests going to that ridiculous event. if anybody came up and asked him for donations, he’d give it. fine. whatever. just not while publicly exchanging his dignity for it—

“you should go.”

of course.

sunghoon stares at him, blank-eyed with lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappear.

heeseung looks back for exactly half a second before exhaling through his nose, rolling himself backwards in the chair, spinning once and pushing himself off the wall with one foot.

“okay—listen. you need it, man. you’re acting like the love of your life just died, and shit, sitting around and waiting to stop missing her isn’t gonna fix anything.”

sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh through his nose. humourless, if anything. his hand drags slowly down his face, pressing hard enough over his eyes that little bursts of colour bloom behind his eyelids, like he could wipe the exhaustion—or the irritation—straight off his skin. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ah-ah,” heeseung immediately lifts a hand and wiggles his weirdly long index finger right in sunghoon’s face. nothing productive is going to come out of this conversation, sunghoon realises, so he just decides on shutting up for the rest of the conversation. “i know you keep acting like she already decided on hating you. it’s fine, y’know, if she does.”

heeseung sighs before slapping his palms against his thighs. he gets up in one, swift motion. “don’t you think she has every right to, sunghoon?”

his throat tightens.

“i—”

“shut up,” heeseung cuts him off instantly. “you’re such a control freak, it weirds me out. how did sooha even deal with all that?”

sunghoon is already pushing himself up from the bed. he will hang lee heeseung out to dry—upside down, in nothing but his boxers on this cold, dry autumn day.

though, by the time sunghoon actually manages to sit upright, heeseung’s already halfway out the door. with his hand still clasped around the metal doorknob:

“if she hates you, you should probably let her say that herself.”

the door shuts before sunghoon gets the final word.

he sits there, just for a moment. blanket pooled at the waist, room quiet except for a heater that doesn’t work very well. outside, there’s leaves scraping against the roof and sunghoon just stares at the closed door like it might open up again, with a completely different approach or words that won’t scare him the way heeseung’s did.

it does not.

─────────────────────────

you spent most of your summer waiting.

there’s something cruel about time. unstoppable, immovable, and somehow always aware of when you want it to move faster. it stretches itself thin when you need relief and collapses in on itself when you want more.

summer had always felt like that—golden and lazy and unbearably alive through the heat—but this year, it moved strangely, like someone had pulled all the warmth out and left only an afterglow.

your routine had gone to shit.

you slept at four in the morning, most days, and woke up at around eleven. lunch only happened when there was enough to get by in the fridge, and if your air-fryer was clean enough from the night before—jiwon often had to drag you by the ear to make that happen. half your laundry stays unfolded, because god knows where you disappear to in the middle of folding it, and the books from a month ago still stay.

there are hours spent doing nothing, and yet, the exhaustion lingers. stays in your bones, fusing with you, and refusing to leave.

the worst part isn’t even that you miss park sunghoon, either. it’s how often you reached for him, that being without him feels as significant as loss.

how ironic, considering you never had him to begin with.

you’re curled up on your couch, cheek squished up against the fabric and your knees tucked to your chest. oh jiwon is somewhere in this apartment with you—you’re not exactly sure where, but the soft banging of pots is enough to make a guesstimate.

“what’re you doing?” you yell, half-heartedly because you’re still aware enough to acknowlege your neighbours. “jiwon?”

she doesn’t respond. probably something about dinner, you think. the show on tv is loud enough for her voice to fade into the background, anyhow.

summer break ended some time ago—and with it went the warmth and heat and fuzziness that came with the man on the other end of the line. autumn arrives eventually, cruel in the way all inevitable things are, forcing you and everyone else to spend a little longer indoors because of the increasing cold. september is especially vicious; the air is sharper now, thinner, and you stop walking through that park altogether because every bench and every couple under those stupid yellow streetlamps reminds you too much of him.

for a guy that claimed to be so mundane, he sure takes up an absurd amount of your headspace—even now, even after more than a month of waiting and leaving and forcing yourself not to say things you wouldn’t be able to take back, he still lingers.

your hand still hovers over your phone after seeing something stupid online. you still walk past cute cafés and think he’d probably hate this place. you still watch movies and mentally bookmark scenes because you think he’d have too much fun analysing them with you and somehow, make the whole experience annoyingly enjoyable at the same time.

you still doubt yourself, and you still hear his voice afterwards—steady, certain, monotonous and so lovingly boring—pulling you back up before you spiral too far.

the silence fills your room like a slow-moving plague, settling into corners and underneath your blankets and against your walls until eventually, you start relying on old conversations to fall asleep.

you remember his laugh before his face, and you loved him before you saw his eyes. there’s something pathetic in that, you think, almost gullible—that after everything, after all the anger and humiliation and crying and weeks spent convincing yourself that this should not matter as much as it does—you still soften at the thought of him.

you hate that. you hate that he lied to you, and somehow, still ended up becoming so woven into parts of your life—enough for it to feel impossible to pull apart.

you hate it all, but never him.

“heeello?”

you blink before seeing jiwon’s legs standing right in your line of vision. blocking the subtitles, more like it.

she stares down at you from above with one eyebrow raised, afternoon light shining behind her head, casting her face into shadow in a way that feels unnecessarily threatening for someone holding an empty pot.

“what are you doing? get out of the way.” you squint, shifting ever so slightly—and completely uselessly—to get a full view of the text on screen. your head tilts one way, then the other, as though changing the angle will somehow let you see through her body.

she narrows her eyes and tilts her head, hair falling over her shoulder fluidly. she does that motion where she’s about to hit you with the pan, but you flinch hard enough for her to laugh and lower it down. “welcome back! have fun spacing out? i’ve been asking what you want for dinner, for like, five minutes.”

jiwon follows your line of sight and twists around, just enough to get a proper look at the tv, rolling her eyes before her mouth pulls strangely to one side.

“…you know you watched this last night, right?”

of course she knows that. cons of sharing a netflix account with your best friend, and co-habiting with her for the past month.

your eyes drift back to the screen and the episode progress bar, sitting near the end and there’s already that stupid little preview box hovering in the corner asking whether you want to continue to the next episode. you don’t remember a single thing that happened, and can’t find the energy to recall.

you let out a long sigh and prop yourself up properly against the sofa, blanket bunching around your waist. jiwon’s folding her arms now, a slight frown on her face, and you dislike it immensely.

“…what?”

she stares at you for another second before walking over and dropping onto the other side of the couch, pulling one leg up beneath herself.

“…okay,” she says slowly, looking at you in that way people do when they already know the answer. “are we gonna keep pretending you’re okay or am i finally allowed to ask? will you blow up on me again, or—”

“jiwon—”

“it’s fine, y’know,” she babbles on, immediately waving the hand holding the ladle, before circling around the coffee table. she drops down right next to you with enough force to make the cushions dip. pulling one leg underneath herself, she points dramatically to the apartment around her. “i can just stay here forever, cook forever, and clean forever. it’s alright!”

you stare at her, then glance at the pot, and finally, at the folded laundry sitting on the armchair.

you pinch at the bridge of your nose.

“…i didn’t ask you to do all that,” you mutter under your breath, eyes dropping back to the paused show. your fingers knead at the skin there once, twice, before your hand drops into your lap. you let out another sigh and lean your head back against the sofa. “i’m fine by myself—”

jiwon turns immediately. her eyebrows pull together, and her jaw almost goes rigid. “i do it because i care about you. don’t make me regret it.”

she’s already looking away afterwards, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie, and reaching over to adjust the blanket pooled around your legs.

your head hurts. the room is too quiet, again, without that show playing, or the music blasting on the home speakers.

how is it that the missing piece in your life is shaped exactly like park sunghoon?

summer. so useless, and yet, you were so alive.

“listen.” jiwon’s voice cuts through your thoughts. you turn, and she’s twisted sideways now, one leg tucked under herself and chin resting against her palm while her other hand reaches over to steal the remote. she clicks it twice before deciding against turning anything on again.

“about that thing this weekend—”

your jaw hangs. “are you kidding?”

jiwon’s eyes widen immediately. she sighs, both hands dragging down the sides of her face before slapping against the backrest of the couch.

“okay, i know we agreed to go together to the charity event, and all the different booths and shit like that, but my dad’s finally in town again, and i just—”

you wave your hand quickly, once before she can finish, eyes not leaving the screen as your fingers start picking at the seam of the blanket. “oh, yeah, no. i’ll just skip. it’s all good.”

jiwon turns properly this time. her forehead creases. “…what? what about the money?”

you shrug one shoulder and scratch absentmindedly at a loose thread near your knee. “it comes back. it’s all good. if it’s that big of a deal to you, ask your dad to apple pay me.”

jiwon stares at you for a second too long before setting the remote down, scooting across the couch in one smooth movement until her knee bumps against yours. she squints slightly, head tilting as she searches your face. “okay,” she says slowly, one hand reaching over to pinch the fabric over your thigh. “not funny.”

you squeal, and she just grumbles.

then, she nudges your knee with hers again. “but seriously,” she says, shoulders relaxing as she turns more towards you and props her elbow against the backrest, “you need to get the fuck outside.”

you let out a quiet laugh. “you’ve been stuck with me this entire time. we need to go outside.”

jiwon shakes her head immediately and sits up straighter, her fingers slipping off the blanket and flat against your forearm instead. “no,” she says. “that’s not what i mean.”

you look away, and she notices. of course, she notices.

her thumb taps once against your skin before she lets her hand drop.

“…i know you’re avoiding seeing him,” she mutters, eyes drifting briefly around the apartment—the dishes, the curtains that haven’t been opened properly all week, the same hoodie you’ve worn thrice in a row—before settling back on you. she presses her lips together and reaches over to smooth the blanket over your knee again. “but you’re throwing everything away for that.”

you don’t say a thing. you feel like a coward. you feel like a liar. you feel like a lot of things, but jiwon’s looking at you like you’re not.

“…you’ve been talking about that stupid fundraiser since february,” she continues. “you made me pay thirty dollars to get matched with strangers…. among other things. you’ll pay me for that, right?”

she realises, a second too late, that you’re not laughing.

you look away, eyes locked on something outside the window. you can’t really tell with how your vision begins to blur. she waits for a response, but when it becomes clear she isn’t getting one:

“you wanted to go.”

your hand comes up and presses against your mouth.

you remember sitting in the library during finals with your laptop open, and your notes everywhere and thinking about it between lectures. your brain would drift whenever revision got unbearable, and suddenly, you’d be imagining what you’d wear and whether heeseung would actually come, and if he’d be as nice as everybody said he was.

it felt harmless then. stupid and harmless. a little reward waiting at the end.

you remember texting jiwon about it. making jokes, pretending not to care.

but now, you remember another thing.

you remember sitting in the exact same library with someone only two feet away. you remember somebody asking if you’d eaten, and somebody telling you to stop being perfect. somebody remembering your schedule better than you did. somebody finding you in that secluded corner, where the world didn’t exist beyond it, if only for a few hours.

you remember leaving that library and not thinking about lee heeseung at all.

your thumb presses harder against your lip. you’ve been biting at a piece of dead skin on your cuticle unconsciously. “that’s embarrassing.”

jiwon frowns.

“…i don’t think i actually wanted him.”

she doesn’t interrupt.

you keep staring at the television instead, eyes tracing shapes that stopped moving minutes ago. your fingers keep smoothing over the blanket stretched across your lap, flattening the same crease over and over until the friction starts irritating your palms. eventually, your thumb catches on loose thread and you pick at it absentmindedly, winding it once around your finger before letting it snap back. “…i think i just liked wanting something. he was hot, yeah, and people liked him.”

“thought maybe…” you bite down on your bottom lip. “i don’t know. maybe if somebody like that liked me back, then that would mean something.”

everyone’s always told you that you had terrible luck.

you remember teachers saying things like that’s unfortunate and friends joking that your life always sounded a little too dramatic to be accidental. wrong place, wrong time—missing buses. getting sick before things you cared about, liking people that didn’t like you back. liking people too late. liking people wrong. liking people at all.

“proving that i’m not all that unlikeable...” you mumble. “but i’m just as unlucky as everyone says.”

it was never that serious to complain about. it mostly served it’s purpose as comedic relief in other people’s lives, but as one knows, after the age of sixteen—everything just seems self-deprecating instead of humorous.

“you like him.”

jiwon’s voice is slightly too quiet for it to be a declaration. she says it softly enough that you could pretend you didn’t hear, or so that you could roll your eyes and say obviously not and she’d just let you.

you try to think about all the reasons why you don’t, and why you can’t. you think about lying, about the trust, about the humiliation and about standing in the middle of the park, crying like that in front of someone who played you like a puppet.

and still, you do not say a thing.

“i think…” she starts quietly, eyes dropping to where your hands meet before lifting back to your face. “it doesn’t actually change anything. the one you like is still sunghoon, y/n. no amount of this—whatever this is that you’re doing—is going to change that.”

“you fell for who he was. the name was irrelevant, wasn’t it?”

jiwon watches you for a while after that, shoulders sinking further into the couch. she studies your face, one hand disappearing into the sleeve of her hoodie while the other stays resting over the blanket draped across your legs, fingers absentmindedly playing with yours.

she glances at the television once—the paused menu, your reflection sitting small and folded into yourself against all that dead blue light—and exhales quietly through her nose before shifting closer to you.

“can i say something else that might piss you off?”

you keep your eyes forward, rubbing your thumb over the edge of the blanket. “what?”

jiwon squints at you for a second before nodding once, slowly, like she’s 99% sure you will get pissed off anyway at the statement she’s going to make.

“okay. i think you’re being unfair—not to him, though. just yourself,” she says. “i’ve been watching you do this thing for a month now. you keep saying he’s bad for you.”

you look down. she notices, of course.

“maybe he is. probably. whatever,” jiwon mutters under her breath, trying to remember what point she was trying to make. “but i don’t think that’s why you’re cancelling on m—”

“you cancelled, by the way.”

“still. you’re just scared that all those feelings will come back, or that they’ll be completely gone, and it’s scary.” she’s looking forward now, too. she finds it harder to be serious when she’s looking at you in the eye. “it was real, right? everything?”

right.

you hum in acknowledgement, low and partially absent, eyes still fixed somewhere near the bottom corner of the television where the subtitles would usually sit. jiwon watches your face for another second too long, before taking it as permission to continue. honestly, she’s a little surprised you haven’t mauled her yet. a month ago, she would’ve gotten a cushion launched at her head by now.

“the more like you pretend he isn’t real, the more it’ll hurt,” she sighs. “you can forgive him, or don’t, i’m not gonna tell you what to do like we’re fifteen again. oh, that was a really bad time for both of us—ow!”

your fingers dart out before you can stop yourself, pinching the soft skin above her knee hard enough for her whole body to jolt sideways with a startled squeal. she swats uselessly at your hand, rubbing furiously at the spot through her sweatpants before shooting you the most deeply offended look she can manage.

“could you just listen to me for once?” she groans, collapsing dramatically into the couch cushions. “i’m trying really hard to be wise here.”

you roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you anyway.

“there it is,” jiwon points immediately, grinning so wide it almost irritates you. “see? you’re capable of experiencing joy!”

“i’m about to experience violence.”

“that’s my girl!”

she laughs to herself before the smile gradually slips away again, replaced by something more serious. her fingers fold together in her lap, thumbs rubbing absentmindedly against each other as she stares down at them for a moment, gathering whatever was left of her courage. when she looks back up, there’s none of that usual teasing left on her face.

“look,” she sighs. “i’m not trying to convince you that what he did wasn’t awful, because it was. i wanted to punch him just from hearing about it, and i still kinda do.”

she wrinkles her nose. “but i also watched you spend almost your entire summer waiting for him to call. you kept pretending you were watching movies when you were really staring at your phone, and you even stopped walking through that park because every bench reminded you of him.”

your throat tightens.

“you don't have to forgive him,” she continues, shaking her head slowly, reaching over to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “honestly, maybe you never will. maybe you shouldn't. but i don't think hiding from the world is the same thing as moving on, y/n.”

you keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the little crack running along the corner where the paint has started to peel. “what if i see him,” you mumble, barely louder than the hum of the fridge from the kitchen, “and i still want him?”

jiwon's expression doesn't change. she takes a moment before her mouth parts slightly, just enough to answer. “then you'll know.”

"and if i don't?"

she shrugs gently, her hand lingering over yours for another second, thumb brushing your knuckle once before it falls back into her lap. she looks almost sad when she says it. "then you'll know that, too."

the apartment falls quiet again. somewhere outside, a car door slams, and a few birds chirp before scattering into the clouds. someone's drilling something in the apartment above you. someone's yelling something in the street. the world keeps going, indifferent and loud, the way it always does when you seem to be

“okay.”

jiwon watches you for a second longer, like she's checking the word for cracks. she must not have found any, or perhaps a few too many to name, because she just lets it go.

─────────────────────────

by the time you reach campus, the fundraiser is already in full swing.

the entire quad has transformed overnight into something almost unrecognisable. white canopy tents stretch across the lawn in neat, uneven rows, their fabric flapping in the wind whenever the cold september breeze decides to pass through.

handmade banners hang crookedly above each stall, painted with far too much enthusiasm and not nearly enough artistic ability—bright acrylic letters bleeding into one another, beneath glitter and shiny lettering that catches the afternoon sun every time somebody walks past.

“come visit booth 6!” “free drinks at booth 52!” “stand a chance to win—”

somewhere off to your left, somebody is aggressively advertising homemade brownies through a megaphone that crackles every other sentence, while another group has somehow convinced the jazz society to play live beside the engineering department’s robotics display. the music overlaps with laughter, conversations, applause and the occasional groan from somebody losing money at one of the carnival games, until it all melts together into any introvert’s worst nightmare.

jiwon, as foretold, is busy smiling, shaking hands and pretending to enjoy the company of the stepfather she’s complained about for the better part of four years, leaving you to fend for yourself amongst a sea of strangers. you’re beginning to wonder if any of this was even worth not paying her the thirty dollars for bailing. you could’ve been at home instead, cocooned underneath your duvet with instant noodles balanced precariously on your stomach while you binged that stupid show she keeps interrupting halfway through every episode—but apparently you did not need to be “sixty dollars broker,” and allegedly, according to her, “exposure builds character.”

students drift through the walkways in slow, uneven currents, weaving around one another with paper cups warming their hands and tote bags slipping from tired shoulders. autumn has only just begun settling over campus, leaving enough warmth in the afternoon sun to coax everyone outside while the breeze nips at exposed skin, carrying with it the smell of caramel popcorn, burnt coffee, fried food and fresh paint that still hasn't completely dried on half the handmade signs.

every few steps, someone brushes your shoulder without meaning to, and another laughs so loudly it echoes between the buildings. the quad feels impossibly alive, like the entire student body had been holding its breath for weeks and finally remembered how to exhale.

you've just realised how long it'd been since you'd seen campus like this.

exam season had stripped everything bare. the library became the centre of everybody's universe, swallowing entire afternoons until the only sounds left were pages turning, keyboards clacking and chairs scraping softly against carpet. everyone looked permanently exhausted beneath fluorescent lighting, surviving almost exclusively on caffeine and blind optimism, and now they're outside again.

clubs are recruiting first-years with embarrassingly enthusiastic chants, and the fourth-year students are pretending they aren't equally interested in the free tote bags.

autumn seems to bring something different into the air. meanwhile, summer, as you've known it, was spent mostly indoors or at the corner store fifteen minutes from campus, where you'd stand in front of the instant noodle shelf for far longer than necessary before carrying the same cup outside to eat on the outdoor seating. there were a handful of evenings where you'd glance up every time a dark-haired guy walked past, stomach flipping before common sense caught up with you. there were even more where you caught yourself wondering whether park sunghoon had ever been here before, whether he'd ever stood in front of the same vending machine deciding between two drinks, whether he'd look out for you the same way you did.

every single time, you wanted to walk straight into incoming traffic for even entertaining the thought. it's ridiculous. he literally lives on campus.

you spend quite a bit of time walking around the place. the sun isn’t too brutal at this time of day, and for once, you don’t dread seeing a bunch of people you know—there’s moments where you make eye contact with an old friend, a new acquaintance or someone who’s friends with someone you know, and they wave like they’ve known you for years. your feet begin to hurt by the end of the hour, and when you look down, you realise you’re holding an overpriced sea salt latte, a bag of homemade cookies, and a doodle of you a second-year student made for $5.

there’s a few flyers in your bag, too. you don’t even remember being interested in crocheting, but alright. somewhere along the way, you’ve lost the map that some student union members handed you when you first walked in, and for fifteen blissful minutes, you convinced yourself that you’ve never been to this part of the quad before.

it works. for a while.

you’re patting your jeans down. perhaps you folded it or crumpled it together with receipts or other useless junk from the day, but it’s literally vanished. nevertheless, your feet are carrying you to unknown places, through thickening crowds and high-pitched laughter that feels impossible to distinguish which direction it originates from.

somebody almost knocks your latte out of your hand. you almost cuss him out, before he whispers a ‘sorry!’ and joins a snaking queue, spilling onto the footpath.

“my god.”

you’re back at sunoo’s booth. pastel pink, covered in ikea string lights that are certainly not suited for outdoor use, the banner above spelling exactly what you signed up for: soul searching.

it sways gently overhead, now slightly lopsided after surviving what looked like several hours of relentless traffic. whoever had decorated the booth this morning had given up on maintaining any sort of order—heart-shaped balloons floated at uneven heights, paper cupid arrows had started peeling away from the tent poles, and one of the volunteers was hurriedly taping another handwritten sign across the front of the table.

queue full! please scan the qr code to join the line! we'll text you when it's your turn ♡

"honestly," somebody behind you mutters as they walk by. "this is way better. nobody’s standing for two hours.”

“right? i’m hoping they move me to the front,” their friend responds. “i bought the early ones too… i feel so fucking desperate. at least we’re in the line at all.”

you glance towards the front, almost absentmindedly. they weren’t wrong—the line that had wrapped halfway around the quad earlier had disappeared entirely, replaced instead by clusters of students with phones in hand. they’re hopping around and comparing wait times while volunteers hurried between the very few tables available, trying to answer stupid questions before the next wave arrived.

you did pay for this. your latte’s gone warm, anyway, and the condensation is starting to drip down onto your sleeves. might as well find out whether your ticket's even still valid.

the qr code sits laminated against the edge of the registration table, surrounded by little hand-drawn hearts and stars that look suspiciously like sunoo's work. you fish your phone out of your tote, thumb hovering over the camera app for just a second before lifting it. you step closer to get a clearer view, tongue poking at your cheek—

"hold on.”

you glance up, blinking slowly until sunoo comes into focus. he’s dressed in all sorts of shades of pink, from hot to muted to pastel, and his cheeks have hearts face-painted onto them.

“y/n! you actually came!”

he breaks into a wide grin, so wide that it almost scares you. for a brief moment, you wonder if this is even the kim sunoo you know, considering he was never too worried for your attendance when the fundraiser was first brought up.

before you can even say hello, he's already leaning across the table, volunteer lanyard swinging forward as he peeks at the ticket confirmation on your screen. you hadn’t realised it’s already loaded, displaying the ‘early-bird’ status right at the top. in bold, like it wasn’t humiliating enough just being here.

“i paid, so…”

he circles around the table.

“exactly!” his finger points at your phone. “early bird. you’re lucky!”

you nod slowly, like you understand where this conversation’s about to go. truth be told, you don’t, so in order to hide the confusion, your eyes dart around to avoid his.

"…early-bird participants get priority once they join the queue.”

strange. the other laminated sign your eyes land on, which is pasted right behind sunoo’s head, conveniently says otherwise.

early-bird = guaranteed queue number! ♡ NO PRIORITY sorry!!! :( ♡

“i’m pretty sure that’s not how it works—”

“it literally is.” sunoo declares, with such effortless confidence that you might’ve believed him if not for the piece of paper taped up behind him. he still wears that smile, his cheeks rounding in a way that makes it dangerously easy to nod along, right until one of the volunteers at the registration table slowly lifts his head and looks over.

he deadpans. “sunoo.”

“what?”

“…since when?”

kim sunoo doesn’t even bother turning around to answer his fellow volunteer. you suppose being the organiser has its perks, because he simply says, “since today! operational changes are needed, aren’t they?”

all the guy can do is sigh and rub at his temples.

“great!” sunoo beams, already uncapping a marker with his teeth before flicking the cap into his palm. he hunches over the clipboard, the tip squeaking furiously across the paper in quick, decisive strokes, barely pausing to breathe before thrusting it back against his chest. “congratulations, y/n!”

you narrow your eyes. “on what?”

“you’re next!” he tears a small ticket from the pad with a sharp riiiip, stamps it against the clipboard with far more force than necessary, then slides it into your hand like he’s finalising an important legal transaction.

“sunoo, there’s literally people waiting behind me.”

sunoo merely raises an eyebrow. he tilts his head, peering past your shoulder with enough curiosity that, against your better judgment, you glance back too.

you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

a queue of complete strangers is, in fact, staring directly at the two of you. some look mildly confused, others openly entertained, but most are just pissed off. one guy even checks his phone, like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s somehow joined the wrong line, and how he, too, could join ‘priority-access’.

“huh."

when you turn back around, sunoo’s already smiling again, not a shred of shame anywhere on his face. “you’re making this up, aren’t y—”

“prove it.”

“okay, then.”

─────────────────────────

a volunteer pulls the canvas flap aside for you with an overly enthusiastic smile, hair sticking to his forehead from the (presumably) constant back and forth sunoo’s making him do. for such a small booth team, the place is surprisingly put-together, and the online queue isn’t glitching out the way other booth’s are. you had to admit that you were somewhat glad you came.

“good luck,” he whispers, to which you reply with a confused expression before walking in.

the noise disappears almost immediately.

the bustle outside dulls into a soft, muffled hum behind layers of canvas, leaving the tiny booth wrapped in an unexpected sort of quiet. sunlight filters through the cream-coloured fabric overhead, warming the little space in soft patches until everything inside glows honey-gold.

it smells faintly of vanilla and paper, with the lingering sweetness of somebody’s perfume clinging stubbornly to the air from the last pairing. you wonder where they went to after their five minutes of alone time—did they go to grab coffee? did he say something to piss her off, and she stormed out early? is that why sunoo’s giving you priority?

you stop just after the entrance.

“oh.”

it’s… actually kind of nice.

someone had gone through an embarrassing amount of effort decorating the place. ivy vines wind around the tent poles alongside more tiny string lights, and battery-powered candles flicker lazily in the centre of a small round table dressed with a cream linen cloth.

a little glass jar is overflowing with folded paper stars. it sits between two untouched bottles of water, and it almost makes you wonder how much money they poured into this thing, before you remember that they probably went over the donation limit a long, long time ago.

somebody had even scattered fake rose petals across the tabletop, though several had already drifted onto the flimsy plywood beneath the chairs.

there’s only two seats. complimentary seat cushion, too, also pink and plaid. you sigh, seeing how it was already squished flat from all the people sitting on it before you, but you make your way regardless. the amount of walking you’ve put yourself through has done no justice to your feet, anyway.

the first thing you notice is that whoever’s sitting across from you is going to bump your knees, unless he happens to be significantly shorter.

you don’t really mind it. the tent is only so big, and god knows how they even managed to squeeze a table through that narrow entrance. still, it’s enough to make you silently hope he isn’t particularly tall, either.

you let out a quiet breath through your nose.

beside the battery-operated candle sits a neat stack of laminated cards bound together by a stainless steel ring, each one printed with colourful lettering and tiny doodles tucked into the corners.

♡ conversation starters ♡

you already know this is going to be terrible. who the hell pitched this?

#5 what’s your most irrational fear?

too intimate.

your fingers flip through the stack, anyway. there’s an identical set resting on the opposite side of the table, presumably waiting for whoever draws the short straw across from you.

#8 if you could relive one day of your life, which would you choose?

too deep. nobody thought these through. you keep flipping, snorting under your breath every few cards.

#10 what’s your biggest regret?

#11 when did you last cry?

#12 do you fall for looks, or personality?

your smile fades before you realise it had even appeared at all. another prank by the universe, you suppose.

the cards settle back onto the table with a soft tap. your hands find their way to the armrests, tapping against the wood, anything to stop thinking about the guy you’re not supposed to be thinking about.

outside, somebody cheers loud enough for it to seep through the canvas walls, followed by another chorus of laughter that slowly dissolves back into the fundraiser’s usual chatter. you glance instinctively toward the entrance, expecting the fabric to move.

nothing. the chair opposite you remains empty, and no one’s walking through that tarp.

you check your phone. it’s been three minutes.

you’re drumming your fingers lightly against the edge of the table now, watching the fake candle flicker. the tiny plastic flame sways with every movement of the air-conditioning fan someone had hidden near the ceiling of the tent, convincing enough that you almost forget it isn’t real.

the things you do in pursuit of love, you think.

it’s almost funny, now that you’re sitting here.

you remember signing up for this thing with only one person in mind—someone you barely knew, someone you had no right to like because of all the missing pieces your imagination had so generously filled in. back then, this booth felt like a shortcut. maybe you’d sit across from lee heeseung, maybe he’d smile at you, maybe the universe would finally decide to do you one favour in this unlucky life of yours.

there was a point where you thought you knew your type. the kind of guy that seemed so easy to trip and fall on your face for. maybe it was that new year’s party, when you caught him standing at the front of the house with a cigarette between his fingers, the street light catching against his jaw while everyone else laughed somewhere behind you. maybe it was those tuesday mornings outside the cafeteria. maybe it was the words of everyone around you, but either way, you never really heard his voice, or stood close enough to know how he laughed, what he sounded like when he was tired, or whether he was a better listener than talker.

distance has a funny way of disguising itself as depth. you mistake wondering for understanding, admiration for affection, until one day you’ve built an entire person out of scattered glances and second-hand stories. maybe that was all the crush had ever been—a collection of assumptions, stitched together by not knowing enough.

perhaps, it was never about lee heeseung at all.

park sunghoon is a fucking headache. he lingers in every inconvenient corner of your life, occupying your thoughts long after he shattered your heart and broke your trust that summer night. it’s almost cruel how thoroughly he’s rooted himself into your memory—his voice still finds you before your own thoughts do, his quiet laugh still sneaks into your head whenever something stupid happens. you remember the thoughtful pauses before he’d answer your questions, the accidental sincerity he always seemed embarrassed by, and the unwavering certainty with which he’d tell you that you were capable of things you never believed you could do yourself.

despite the lies, the betrayal, despite everything. despite the way he looked at you that night, like he couldn’t bear to lose you, and still let you walk away—you realise that there isn’t a single part of you that wishes it had been lee heeseung from the beginning.

the canvas shifts.

at first, it’s nothing more than a shadow moving across the pale canvas, followed by the dull scrape of shoes against packed grass outside. somebody murmurs something—a volunteer, probably—and another voice answers too quietly for you to make out.

your heart’s beating out of your chest. the last time you felt like this, it was january first, and also three in the morning.

the flap rustles once before stilling again, as though whoever’s on the other side already regrets doing this. you let out a quiet laugh through your nose, watching the silhouette hesitate in the narrow entrance where the fading warmth of september collides with the dry chill of the portable air-conditioner humming somewhere overhead.

the afternoon sun outlines him first. he’s tall, broad, holding a bouquet of flowers in his right hand. he turns halfway around to mumble something behind him, and through the gap in the canvas, you catch a glimpse of someone suspiciously resembling sunoo. whatever he says earns him a sharp slap between the shoulder blades and an exaggerated shove forward, the bouquet wobbling dangerously in his grip before he manages to catch it against his chest.

your fingers are still tracing the laminated edge of one of the conversation cards when the canvas finally parts. he stumbles through the entrance, muttering what sounds like an embarrassed complaint under his breath, one hand instinctively reaching back to steady the flap before it swings shut behind him.

you only realise who he is when he looks up.

the sleeves are shoved up to his elbows like they always are, but he looks better than the last time you saw him—cleaner, less wrecked, like he’s actually been sleeping well now that you’re not around. his hair has grown out just enough to fall over his eyebrows, and despite everything, despite the month that’s wedged itself between the two of you, you remember every single feature on his face, and just how much you missed it.

that’s when you realise that a month and a half is nearly not enough time to forget.

for one impossible second, relief blooms before your brain catches up to your body.

the world seems like it’s flipping upside down, now. park sunghoon freezes, like he wasn’t expecting either; your pulse is slamming against your ribs so violently that you swear he must be able to hear it. you can hear your blood rushing in your ears by the time you stand up—chair screeching violently against the plywood as you shove yourself backwards, the legs offering some resistance before jerking free with your force.

your knees collide with the underside of the table hard enough to send the fake candle wobbling between the two of you. it’s tiny, plastic flame is flickering, almost mocking.

every instinct you have screams the same thing: leave.

sunghoon notices (of course he does), and something inside his expression crumbles just enough for you to feel like you’ve been stabbed in the heart.

his shoulder sinks by barely an inch, the hand which holds the bouquet to his stomach now dropping to his side. he doesn’t move any closer, too afraid to even breathe audibly, just standing by the entrance with the afternoon light outlining his familiar silhouette.

his eyes are soft, a gentle smile painted across his face, as though he’s trying to show you how much it hurts not seeing you for so long.

you’re just like how he remembers. golden light on your face, diffused now from the tent’s shade, bright eyes looking up at him the same way it did in the summer. perhaps it’s because of his dreams that this doesn’t feel as shocking as he’d thought it’d be—that one evening in the library between bookshelves replays like a highlight reel behind his eyelids, and in a way, he thinks it’s helped with his what little sleep he's managed to get recently.

and, in the same vein, he looks everything like the boy you've spent the last month trying to forget.

“…you.”

your voice is barely a whisper. sunghoon swallows, and his lips part once before closing again. you want to scream at him, maybe even punch him in the face. with that sad look on his face, you think he might even let you.

“y/n.”

you don’t hesitate. the moment sunghoon sees you grabbing your things, ready to turn around and leave—he speaks again, rushed with a tinge of desperation.

“please. five minutes, it’s all i need.”

what could he possibly say that would undo all of this?

park sunghoon bites down on his bottom lip, trying to stop it from trembling. you’re staring at him with glassy eyes, hands shaking from either anger or just pure despair, waiting for an answer that might not even fix anything at all.

your shoulders stay angled towards the exit, eyes not meeting his. you’re afraid that if you look at him properly, you'll remember everything all over again.

“i'm sorry, y/n.”

you should’ve left as soon as you saw that frame in the sun—as soon as your heart sank and your mind briefly flashed to sunghoon.

silence stretches between the two of you. you’re somewhat thankful for the loud noise outside that helps dampen it. the laughter sounds impossibly far away from where you stand.

“not because i got caught lying to you.” his fingers tighten around the bouquet, knuckles paling beneath flushed skin. “i think about it every day. it never leaves.”

your molars grind together until your temples start to pulse. the muscles in your jaw ache from holding back everything that wants to come spilling out, and you realise, belatedly, that you're digging your fingernails so deeply into the canvas strap of your tote that the fabric has started to wrinkle beneath your grip. you’re blinking the salt away, too, trying not to let it drip down your cheeks. “why did you do that to me, sunghoon?”

your voice comes out quieter than you intended. it’s nothing short of humiliating. sunghoon stares at you for a little while longer, and it really does feel like his heart’s being ripped out of his ribcage all over again. there’s nothing nice about seeing someone you love in tears, much less because of you.

“i didn't think it’d go far.” his voice is barely above a whisper now. “that’s not an excuse. i know it isn’t. i realised that really early on.”

his thumb catches on the edge of the brown paper wrapped around the flowers, smoothing the same crease over and over until it begins to tear.

“i just...” he laughs quietly through his nose, and it breaks somewhere in the middle. “i was terrified, y/n.”

your breath catches. you just can’t understand. every word from him feels like relief and a new betrayal all over again, and for a moment, you wonder how you’re still standing here. there’s half of you that feels glad that he cares enough to show up again—and another that never wants to see his pretty face again.

“the only lie i ever told you,” he continues, finally forcing himself to meet your eyes, “was that i was lee heeseung. everything else was real. all the calls, conversations, every second i spent listening to your voice.”

sunghoon says it like a confession. like an intimate secret he’s yet to admit to anyone else but you, because truly, he hasn’t. it’s stupid how long he’s allowed this to suffocate him.

“i was scared of how much i wanted you, and i let it go on, because it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. i didn’t want to lose you, and i acted selfishly because of that.”

“you could’ve told me from the beginning.” your hand comes up instinctively, thumb dragging beneath your waterline before another tear has the chance to fall. you sniffle once, sharp and involuntary, and sunghoon feels it somewhere behind his ribs. “you could have. do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

the words roll off your tongue before you can think twice. “i made myself look like a fucking idiot in front of you.”

sunghoon's breathing falters. his grip tightens around the bouquet until the brown paper crumples loudly in the silence, stems bending awkwardly beneath his fingers. he can't bring himself to look away from your face—not when your eyelashes are clumped together with tears, not when the skin beneath them has gone raw from how hard you're rubbing at it.

“i know.”

his voice barely survives the distance between you.

“every time i think about you,” he swallows hard, the muscles in his throat straining around the words. “i think about everything you trusted me with, and all i can remember is that i stood there and let you keep believing me.” his eyes fall to the floor for the briefest moment before finding yours again, impossibly guilty. “you deserved better than that.”

“i put you through so much,” park sunghoon adds, his voice so quiet you're forced to listen for it. “i was selfish. i convinced myself that if i told you the truth, i’d lose you, even if i deserved to.”

his thumb smooths absently over another crease in the bouquet's wrapping paper. “every day i waited after that, for the right time, for when it was easiest for me—it just got harder, and then it got impossible.”

he exhales shakily. “there was never going to be a good time. i knew that.”

you stare at him, at the bouquet he'd probably spent too long choosing. you imagine how out of place he must've looked picking those out, asking the store owner which ones would be good, knowing nothing about flowers, buying whatever was recommended to him without a second thought.

and then you're looking at the circles beneath his eyes—better now than they were before, but still there, still belonging to a boy who somehow looks exactly like the person you spent all summer missing, and the person who broke your heart in the very same breath.

“you could’ve told me,” you whisper again, the words catching somewhere behind your teeth. your fingers curl helplessly around the strap of your tote until the rough canvas digs into your palm. “you could’ve walked up to me that first night. i would’ve—”

another tear slips free before you can force the last word out. your breath catches violently in your chest, chin dropping toward your collarbone as a broken sob tears through you before you have the chance to swallow it back.

sunghoon moves before he thinks. the bouquet lands forgotten against the table with a muffled rustle, baby's breath spilling over the edge of the table as he closes the distance between you in two hurried strides. his hand comes up instinctively—halfway to your face, halfway to your shoulder, he doesn't even know anymore—before stopping inches from your face.

"...y/n."

sunghoon freezes. fingers trembling, not knowing if he's allowed to be this close to you again, not knowing if he gets to touch you just because you're crying. nevertheless, his hand curls slowly into a fist before falling uselessly back to his side.

your shoulders shake harder.

you clap a hand over your mouth as if that'll somehow muffle the sound, but it only turns each breath into something more desperate and more painful. tears slip between your fingers anyway, dripping onto the backs of your knuckles before disappearing into the sleeves of your top.

sunghoon feels sick. everything is telling him to touch you, to hold you, to do everything he can to rid you of the tears staining your face. wiping your tears away with his thumb and all, like how he’s imagined doing a hundred selfish times over the phone—to tell you it’s okay.

something’s siphoning all the air out of his lungs. "...i'm sorry," sunghoon whispers again, voice splintering under the weight of the words. "i’m sorry, y/n. please, don’t cry, please.”

there’s a tiny part of you that wants to lean into him. instead, you let out something between a laugh and another sob. you drag the heel of your palm beneath your eyes, every tear replaced by another before you can finish catching your breath. vision blurry as you stare down at sunghoon’s shoes, he shuts his eyes.

“i didn’t care,” you sigh. “i wouldn’t have cared.”

your ears don't catch the quiet sniffle that escapes sunghoon. his own vision has long since blurred, tears gathering stubbornly along his waterline until the fairy lights overhead fracture into soft, indistinct halos. he doesn't bother wiping them away, not when you're crying like this—not when every broken breath that leaves you sounds like something he's carved into your chest with his own hands.

“i fell for you, hoon.” you look up at him then, your eyes swollen and shining beneath the warm fairy lights strung across the ceiling of the booth. tears cling to your lashes, catching the light every time you blink. “you could’ve told me.” your voice cracks again, almost pleading. “you could have.”

the words seem to find every hollow place inside him.

his shoulders, already drawn painfully tight beneath the navy hoodie, sink another inch, the tension draining from them so suddenly he almost folds into himself. his hand, still hovering uncertainly between the two of you, curls instinctively before slowly uncurling again. this time, he doesn't stop.

fuck it.

park sunghoon’s touch brushes your cheek so lightly you barely feel them at first. gentle, like he doesn’t know quite how to handle you—warm and careful and everything you’ve ever needed.

his palm settles against the side of your face, thumb sweeping gently beneath your eye to catch the tear before it slips past your jaw. your skin burns beneath the touch, not because it hurts, but because you've missed it without ever knowing what it felt like—it's unbearably familiar for something entirely new.

you don’t mean to lean into him, but your body does it anyway.

for the smallest moment, your cheek rests against his palm, and the breath sunghoon lets out is so quiet that it almost disappears beneath the hum of the air-conditioner overhead. a sigh escapes him, almost as if he can’t believe how much he’s hurt you—and before you break into a sob again, you speak.

“maybe...” you whisper, voice shrinking beneath the weight of the thought—of park sunghoon and you, of that stupid new year's party, of library afternoons and late-night phone calls and every version of the future that never got the chance to exist. “maybe we’d be fine. maybe we’d be happy, if that’s what you even wanted—”

“it is.”

there isn’t a trace of hesitation.

sunghoon's thumb stills against your cheek as fresh tears spill over his own, his forehead dipping just enough that he's looking at you from beneath damp strands of dark hair.

“it’s all i’ve ever wanted,” he mutters. “you are all i’ve ever wanted.”

park sunghoon has never been a decisive person.

it sounds contradictory when you consider everything he's responsible for, but those decisions were never really decisions at all. hockey is straightforward once you've watched enough game tape, drilled the same movement until your muscles remember it better than your brain does, or spent enough hours on the ice for instinct to replace hesitation. there is always a coach standing behind the glass with a whistle around his neck, always someone older, better, more experienced to tell you where your feet should be and how to fix what you've done wrong. school isn't much different. people call him gifted, but sunghoon knows discipline has always done more for him than talent ever could. if you study enough, if you sacrifice enough sleep, if you repeat something often enough, eventually the answer reveals itself.

life has always rewarded certainty. show up, work harder, do better—and there is comfort in that. an almost mechanical predictability to it all, completely untouched by human emotion.

but you have never worked like that. this, whatever this is—it has never operated on that principle.

sunghoon has known he loves you for longer than he's been willing to admit it aloud. what he hasn't known—not for a single day since you walked away from him beneath that streetlamp—is whether seeing you again would heal the wound or rip it open all over. every version of the future he imagined ended differently: maybe you'd scream at him, maybe you'd ignore him. maybe you'd look at him with the same quiet disappointment that had followed him into every waking hour for the past month. there was no correct answer to memorize, no strategy to rehearse, and no amount of discipline capable of guaranteeing that he wouldn't lose you all over again.

he even tried searching for it.

three in the morning, phone balanced against his chest, he'd typed every variation of lied about my identity and fell in love that he could think of into reddit, reading through strangers' catastrophes until the sun came up. none of them sounded quite like his, and none of them ended with an answer worth believing. he’s pretty sure 75% are engagement bait.

there wasn't a guidebook for getting back the only girl he'd ever loved. there was, however, an annoyingly persistent lee heeseung.

his friend spent the better part of yesterday refusing to let him back out, talking over every pathetic excuse sunghoon came up with until there were none left to hide behind. sunoo only agreed to squeeze him into today's schedule after extracting the promise of unlimited access to his card for food deliveries over the next month, grinning so hard throughout the negotiation that sunghoon briefly considered leaving on principle alone. jake had sat through the entire story for the first time without interrupting once, only burying his face in his hands whenever the second-hand embarrassment became physically unbearable. jay, jungwon and riki had been considerably less diplomatic.

yes, he'd fucked up. spectacularly.

yes, there was every possibility you'd never want to look at him again.

no, none of them blamed you for it.

they still told him to come anyway. because if you were going to reject him, then he deserved to hear it from you—not from the version of you he'd spent the last month inventing inside his own head. park sunghoon is not every sure if he’ll ever move on from it, from you, though he sincerely hopes he doesn’t have to.

“i can’t—i can’t hate you, hoon. i tried so hard, and it never worked, so what do i do now?”

the words seems to knock the air from his lungs.

sunghoon's thumb stills against your cheek. even now, even after hearing the words, he can't let himself believe them immediately. his thick eyebrows draw together in quiet disbelief, lashes still damp, mouth parted around a breath that never quite leaves him.

“i think about you so much it hurts.” a laugh escapes you, exhausted more than amused, and you shake your head as tears gather at your chin. when you look up at him, the expression in your eyes drives something sharp straight through his chest. “i just don't know what to do.”

your fingers find his wrist without thinking, curling around it lightly. beneath your touch, his pulse stutters wildly, and sunghoon has the absurd, terrifying thought that if you hold him there any longer, you'll feel exactly how badly he's falling apart.

“i still want you,” you whisper. “so tell me, what do i do?”

sunghoon’s face crumples with relief, so sudden that it almost looks like pain. his shoulders shake before he even realises he's crying again. he presses his lips together, turning away for a second as a breathless, disbelieving laugh slips through his nose, and when he looks back at you, his eyes are wet and helpless and impossibly soft.

every sleepless night and every terrible decision has led park sunghoon here, standing in front of you and bracing for an ending that was never truly his to decide. you are the only thing he has ever looked at and thought, i might not get this back if i lose it, and that realization terrifies him more than failure ever could.

everything else feels survivable. the carefully constructed life he's spent years maintaining—he could lose all of it and eventually claw his way toward something new. he knows himself well enough to believe that, and well enough to know that you are different.

the mere thought of you turning around and walking away again is enough to hollow him out from the inside. it followed him into quiet rooms and sleepless mornings, into practices and lectures and every place he tries to forget you. for the first time in his life, there is something he cannot outwork, outthink, or outrun.

and still, even now, that something is standing here with tears on her face and her hand wrapped around his wrist, asking him what to do.

sunghoon’s wiping uselessly at his eyes. “i don't know,” he admits. “i don’t know what you’re supposed to do.”

your chest immediately drops. there’s that churning feeling again. you pick up on every movement of his, from the way his eyes never leave yours to how he can’t seem to speak up.

“i spent months trying to decide that for you, and look how that turned out,” another shaky breath leaves him, and his shoulders shudder with it. “if you want to yell at me, do it. if you want time, take it. if you wake up tomorrow and realize listening to me was a mistake, i’ll understand.”

sunghoon looks into your eyes. somewhere between the apologies and confessions, the distance between you has disappeared without either of you noticing. your knees almost brush, breaths mingling in the tiny booth, warm enough to fog the already close air between you. the fake candle flickers quietly in your peripheral, behind the abandoned bouquet and scattered conversation cards.

he blinks, just once, watching your eyes soften as they stare back at his. they never leave him, and they’re not searching for answers anymore.

“but if you're asking me what i want,” sunghoon mutters, taking a deep breath in. “i want you. i want you to let me stay, and i want it to be your decision.”

“you hurt me.” you swallow. “forgiving you doesn't magically make all of that disappear—but i’m tired. i’m really tired of being scared.”

“so this is my decision,” you step closer until the space between you disappears entirely. “stay.”

oh, park sunghoon is certain, now.

certainly, for the first time, he cares about someone other than himself, more than his stupid hockey games and ridiculous quizzes that he’d ace regardless if he studied or not—

certainly, the girl he loves is here, in front of him. her heart is in his hands and he’s trying not to crush it, because hurting her means hurting himself. she’s uncomplicated, and she’s beautiful, even in this kind of light, even with tears running down her face—looking at him like he’s all she’s ever asked for, despite everything he’s done.

certainly, he loves you.

all of you.

your arms find sunghoon’s waist with a familiarity that steals what little breath he has left. the movement is so instinctive neither of you seem to think too much about it. sunghoon's hand remains against your cheek for one lingering heartbeat, before his other joins it, cradling your face with impossible care, thumbs brushing absently beneath skin still warm from tears.

the space between you disappears altogether.

your arms slide further around his back, bunching the fabric of his hoodie between your fingers, the last of the tension leaves his body in one long, shaking breath. sunghoon’s own limbs slip around your shoulders, drawing you against his chest so gently it almost hurts, his chin resting lightly atop your head as though he’s afraid that if he lets go now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“i love you, y/n.”

the confession comes easier than he expected—true, almost painfully so, for far too long.

you tighten your hold around him, your cheek pressed against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“i love you, too, hoon.”

for a second, park sunghoon forgets how to breathe.

all those nights spent lying awake, replaying every conversation until sunrise—every version of this moment he'd imagined, every argument he'd had with himself, every impossible outcome he'd tried to prepare for—they dissolve so quietly that he almost doesn't notice them leaving.

the questions that had followed him for weeks no longer demand answers. the guilt is still there, the hurt is still there, and he knows neither of them will disappear overnight, of course—but for the first time in months, park sunghoon knows one thing for sure:

he does not care, and he will keep loving you despite it all.

─────────────────────────

the fundraiser slowly forgets about the two of you.

by the time you step out of the little booth, there’s an insanely long queue that won’t stop staring at you and sunghoon—a bouquet sits in the crease of your elbow, and the man by your side is smiling so wide that it’s borderline embarrassing. he might as well put a sign on your head.

the sun’s begun sinking lower behind the engineering building, bathing the pathways in that familiar honey-gold light that always seems to arrive when you and sunghoon are together. conversations swell around you as students drift from stall to stall with paper bags hanging from their wrists and half-melted ice cream in their hands. somewhere behind you, sunoo lets out an aggressively theatrical cheer before somebody—jungwon, if you remembered correctly—smacks him hard enough to shut him up.

neither of you acknowledge it.

park sunghoon’s hand finds yours instinctually. he’s not even looking at you to see if you’re fine with it, but it doesn’t matter anyway. your fingers intertwine with his, warm and steady and weirdly tight—you glance down and feel the heat rushing up your cheeks.

“…you know,” you mumble, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walk down the wide path. “i think this is technically our first date.”

sunghoon blinks. date? you? you and him? on a date?

the crowd has thinned out considerably, but when you glance back towards the familiar pink tent, the queue is somehow still moving. students continue drifting in and out of the little canvas booths, phones in hand as volunteers wave them forward one pair at a time. sunoo catches your eye from behind the registration table, arms folded dramatically across his chest as if he's personally responsible for the greatest love story in university history. you can't help but to smile, and sunoo notices immediately. with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he flicks his wrist in a half-hearted shooing motion before waving the two of you away.

you laugh under your breath.

ahead of you, the fundraiser is slowly settling into the evening. a handful of student union members balance precariously on folding ladders, looping warm string lights from one streetlamp to the next until little pockets of golden light begin blooming across the walkways. conversations soften as the afternoon crowd disperses, replaced by the quieter rhythm of people lingering instead of rushing somewhere else. somebody nearby is packing away handmade jewellery while another stall is still desperately trying to sell the last of their brownies to anyone willing to make eye contact.

your hand is still in sunghoon's. neither of you talk.

“oh.”

you glance sideways. he’s staring ahead, eyebrows pinched together in the sort of concentration that seems excessive for something this simple.

you snort. “that’s all you have to say?”

“i'm thinking,” sunghoon murmurs, finally allowing himself a quiet chuckle. his thumb absently brushes against the back of your hand before he looks over at you. “does this mean i have to pretend i don't already know everything about you?”

“i wouldn't say everything...” you mumble, nudging his shoulder with yours before looking away a little too quickly. you don't have to see his face to know he's smiling. you can feel it somehow, in the way his gaze lingers a second too long, in the quiet that stretches between you while he leans ever so slightly closer, just enough that the warmth radiating from his hoodie brushes your arm.

“you blush really easily.”

“i do not!” your eyes widen, yet, still refusing to meet his.

“you're so pretty, y/n,” sunghoon says before he has the chance to psyche himself out of it. the compliment leaves him with such effortless certainty that it almost catches him off guard. “so cute when you're shy. blushing like that in front of me...” he continues, the corners of his mouth lifting into the smallest grin. “i don't think i've ever seen anything prettier.”

you squeeze his hand so hard he almost laughs again.

“god,” you mutter, finally daring a glance at him before immediately looking away again, cheeks burning beneath the string lights overhead. “you're still so annoying!”

the fundraiser eventually disappears behind you. after sunghoon’s insistence on sharing an overly-sweet milkshake, his hands are full with paper bags, filled to the brim with overpriced homemade desserts and a few too many keychains. neither of you remember who suggested leaving first—at some point, the booths become smaller in the distance, and the chatter fades into little more than background noise.

there isn’t really a destination. there doesn’t have to be, you both know that—but it helps with the conversation. it flows easier than any of you expect, familiar, curious and gentle in the same way it’s always been.

you stop by a convenience store because sunghoon insists you’re hungry. allegedly, your stomach rumbled on the walk here, so he rushes into the store so fast that there isn’t enough time to protest. the high-school part-timer stares at him weirdly as he wordlessly pays for both ramyeon cups, spending the next five minutes pretending not to hear you complaining about it.

you eat, anyway. sunghoon can’t help but take a picture, too. you almost hit him on the head for that.

an hour later, the walk to your apartment is slower than it needs to be. autumn has finally settled over the city, the breeze cool enough to make you tug your sleeves over your hands every few minutes. leaves skitter across the pavement whenever the wind picks up, collecting around your shoes before scattering around them again, and somewhere overhead the sky melts from gold into a dark, deep blue.

you pass through that same park—cyclists pass every now and then, bells chiming politely before disappearing further down the winding path, elderly couples taking a night stroll with plastic bags hooked around their fingers. the atmosphere is completely different now, though nothing tangible has really changed.

the two of you keep walking. sunghoon feels like he's going to explode from the amount of dessert you'd somehow convinced him to share with you, but the weight tugging at his shoulders feels lighter now. maybe it's because your hand is folded so naturally into his that neither of you have thought about letting go—or the fact that you managed to get rid of all those bags, thanks to him.

“it's nice to talk to you,” you murmur after a while, your gaze lingering on the river instead of him. the city stretches across the water in ribbons of gold and white, every reflection trembling with the movement of the current. “without the phone. easier to hear you.”

another breeze rolls against the river, cool enough to send little ripples across the water and lift loose strands of your hair across your face.

“uuuuhuh, i’m sure.” sunghoon smiles at you, easy-going and so reassuring it makes your pulse race. “keep pretending like we didn’t meet how we did.”

“the hell?”

you glance at him. all he does is squeeze your hand once—then, the corners of his mouth lift into that small, effortless smile.

your heart gives an embarrassingly obvious thump. you let out a laugh before you can stop yourself, ducking your head almost immediately as warmth rushes into your cheeks. “don’t look at me like that—”

“like what?”

sunghoon stops walking. your footsteps falter a beat too late.

your hands are still joined, the sudden halt tugging you backwards before you can catch yourself. you stumble lightly into his chest, the front of his hoodie brushing against your sleeves as his fingers tighten instinctively around yours to steady you. your free hand lands against the warmth of his ribs, and for one, disorienting moment, all you can hear is the wind behind you and the quiet hitch in his breathing.

sunghoon looks down. you're close enough now that the warm lights stretching across this dim path catch in his eyes, turning the dark brown almost amber beneath the glow. a strand of your hair has fallen across your cheek again, flowing in the breeze—and sunghoon, stupidly, reaches up without thinking.

his knuckles brush your skin first—then his fingertips. they slip carefully beneath the loose strand, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. it lingers for a moment longer than necessary, five seconds too much just to move a strand of hair away, and his thumb rests lightly against your temple as though he’s trying to memorise the shape of your face underneath his touch.

oh. you can’t tear your eyes off of him.

park sunghoon looks like someone you could know forever. a gaze so gentle that you’d think he’s known whoever he’s looking at for a thousand years—a touch so tender that it’s unbelievable that he’s never loved anyone else.

the smile tugging at the corners of his lips dissolves into something almost disbelieving. sunghoon’s forehead dips, just enough so that your face comes into full focus, and the space between you disappears disappears so gradually that neither of you seem to notice how your noses almost brush.

his breath ghosts over your lips. warm, nothing like the cold air that’s enveloping you both. sunghoon hesitates for a moment—even now, he wonders just what he’s done to deserve this. he wants you to choose, and you do.

closing the distance, your lips find his with all the gentleness of someone coming home after being gone for too long.

for one impossible, weightless moment, the whole world seems to narrow until it is nothing more than the warmth of your mouth against his. the quiet rush of wind rolling off your skin, your hand tightening ever so slightly around the fabric gathered at his chest—every sleepless night, every apology, every version of this moment he'd rehearsed alone in his room dissolves the instant you kiss him back.

park sunghoon's convinced nothing has ever felt this right.

you're soft against him, kissing him with the same quiet hesitation you've carried all evening, as though you're still afraid that pressing yourself any closer might shatter whatever fragile thing the two of you have only just managed to rebuild. meanwhile, sunghoon melts into it like he's been starving—he holds himself back for only a heartbeat before months of missed chances quietly unravel between you, his hand sliding around your waist with a tenderness so instinctive it almost startles him. he gathers you closer, careful enough to let you pull away whenever you want. you do not.

instead, your fingers slip from the front of his hoodie to the back of his neck, threading into the soft hair resting there. the movement draws the smallest, almost inaudible breath from him, and before he realises he's doing it, he's smiling into the kiss.

it’s contagious. you’re smiling now, too.

your lips part around a tiny, breathless laugh, and the sound is enough to make a smile form on his face. sunghoon leans in again without thinking, chasing another kiss, only for the movement to catch you off guard. you stumble back half a step, dragging him with you by the collar of his hoodie until the both of you have to force yourselves to stand properly.

your foreheads bump together as his arm tightens instinctively around your waist, trying to stop you from losing your balance.

“do you kiss all your girlfriends like this, sunghoon?”

“don’t piss me off,” his arm loosens from your waist for half a second, just enough for you to stumble before he catches you immediately, pulling you back against his chest with an annoyed sigh. “i don’t kiss anyone else.”

“i could’ve died right here. do you even care about me? should i just die right now?”

“i’m not even going to answer that, y/n.”

─────────────────────────

“who gave you my number?”

by the time the two of you find yourselves right outside your apartment building, the streets have grown quieter. most of the shops have already pulled their shutters halfway down, leaving only convenience stores and late-night cafés spilling warm light onto the pavement. the walk here had taken nearly an hour—your car is still parked at campus, but sunghoon promised to pay the overnight fee anyway. neither of you remember deciding to take the longer route back to your place, but every turn just seemed like another excuse to keep talking.

you stop right in front of your building. the path is uneven here, the road tilted upward; the automatic doors slide shut behind somebody leaving, and the chime hums softly before settling into silence again.

“sooha,” you smile. the blush that infects sunghoon’s face spreads like a wildfire—you’re the one teasing now, after an entire day of his antics. “you had a thing with her, i’m guessing?”

“well, i wouldn’t call it a thing,” sunghoon sighs, thumb rubbing against the back of yours. he swallows before looking at you again. “i’ll be honest with you—we were hooking up.”

he watches your expression carefully for a shift. anything that'll tell him you were upset, or livid—anything at all. he swore he wouldn't blame himself if you were. how would he have known that the love of his life would waltz right in thirty minutes after sooha's exit?

sunghoon adds on a little too quickly. “it was before you.”

“how long?” you ask, tilting your head. curiosity, it seems, but these are dangerous waters that sunghoon’s treading. based on past experiences, his partners (can he even call them that?) never took to well to a previous acquiantance.

sunghoon almost considers lying, just to make himself sound better, before deciding against it. he's never been too good at that anyway. “on and off. a few months, maybe. nothing that meant anything.”

he exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a wince. “i know. i wasn't—i didn't handle it well. i never called it anything, and i never made her think it was anything, but i also never stopped it when i probably should have.” he pauses, “that’s my fault.”

it's such a sunghoon answer. blunt and completely unflattering to himself, a lack of an attempt to soften it into something easier to hear. you almost want to laugh at how little effort he puts into making himself look good, like it hasn't occurred to him that he could, and you’d never be able to prove otherwise.

you nod, trying to hold your laugh in at the sight of his face. he looks like he's just seen a ghost, no matter how much he tries to hide it—lips pursed together instinctively, eyes wide and scanning yours for any hint of anger. “okay. good to know.”

you give his hand a small squeeze before beginning to loosen your fingers from his, only enough to shift your grip more comfortably. “i appreciate the honesty.”

sunghoon keeps staring. “that's it?”

“were you expecting more questions, hoon?” you can't help but smile now, your free hand covering your mouth in an attempt to hide how adorable you find him. “i didn't know you back then. you were still staring at me weird from the stairs.”

“i was not staring,” sunghoon shakes his head, a stray strand of hair falling loose over his brow with the motion. “you were staring. i’m surprised heeseung didn't notice.”

your jaw drops, mouth falling open in mock offense. "excuse me?"

“whatever. it’s over now, right?” sunghoon sighs, dragging a hand down his face in dramatic disapproval, fingers pausing briefly over his eyes like he's shielding himself from the sight of your face. "not really trying to share you with him."

“you're so annoying!” you shove at his shoulder, and he barely rocks with it, solid where he's standing, biting back a grin like he's trying—badly—to look unaffected.

sunghoon's mouth curls into a smile that reaches his eyes—dark in this dim light. he's still taller than you despite standing a few steps higher, your face now level with his, close enough that you can count the individual strands of hair falling loose over his forehead.

his hair is still a mess from the wind, and from your fingers ruffling through the strands earlier—sticking up at odd angles he clearly hasn't bothered to fix, like it hadn't even occurred to him. his cheeks are still faintly red, yet to fully fade since you first touched his skin, and his ears are airbrushed with a soft pink he probably has no idea is visible.

you hope no one else has ever gotten to see it on him before.

it's quiet. no dogs this time, for some reason. it’s just the low hum of the streetlight above you, buzzing faintly, flickering once before steadying again. an occasional cricket announces its presence somewhere in the bushes lining the building, and beneath that, nothing. though, there’s just your own heartbeat, loud and unreasonable in your ears, and the sound of sunghoon breathing, slow and careful like he's trying not to disturb whatever this is.

sunghoon’s hand is still loosely wrapped around yours, thumb tracing an invisible circle over your knuckles—it’s not quite a habit yet, but close to being one, you can tell. you can feel the calluses along his palm, rough from what you assume is hockey, a strange and grounding kind of proof that this is real, that he's real, standing this close to you at almost midnight with his heart clearly in his throat.

and then, there’s you. even in this horrible, fluorescent lighting—the kind that makes everyone look a little sick—you look undeniably beautiful to him. almost glowing, or maybe he's just sleep-deprived enough that his eyes are playing tricks on him. either way, he thinks, quietly and with helplessness, that he has never wanted to kiss someone this badly in his entire life.

his gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth. then back up, like he's asking permission before he's even said anything at all.

“can i kiss you, y/n?”

the question is so earnest it hurts. his voice is breathy, needy, everything that you could possibly ever need in a man right in front of you. you feel like if you fall for it—answer him right now, that your life ends here, because this is a trap, or a dream, or all of it at once.

you’re already leaning into him, tilting your head until your noses are brushing each other’s. sunghoon’s breathing so heavily that you feel it against your bottom lip, teasing, just asking for that final push.

one of his large hands settle at your waist. waiting. always waiting.

the kiss is slower than the last one. a little more desperate, maybe—you feel sunghoon’s large arms wrap around you again, tighter now, tongue swiping against your bottom lip, moving you as he pleases just so he can get the most of you.

you taste like him.

the thought’s driving him crazy. you've already confessed everything worth confessing tonight; now, there is only the quiet luxury of learning each other properly, without distance, without static, without the countdown of a call timer reminding either of you that morning would eventually come.

it’s messy in the way that two people are when they’re starving for each other. borderline greedy, too much tongue and then not enough at all, your hands running along the upper part of his back as you keep him anchored to you. sunghoon’s lips feel so perfect when they’re against yours, he genuinely believes that this is what he’s been chasing for all twenty-four years of his life.

every time one of you pulls back to breathe, the other closes the distance again without thinking, as though separating has become something your bodies no longer understand. your fingers wander instinctively over the broad line of his shoulders before settling against the back of his neck, keeping him close without ever needing to ask.

sunghoon’s hands remain anchored at your waist, warm through the fabric of your clothes, thumbs tracing absent little movements that make your pulse flutter for reasons you can't quite explain.

“not here, hoon—” you mumble against his lips before he pulls you right back in. so annoying. sunghoon’s lips crash into yours again, still just as curious, palm flat against the small of your back.

“hm?” the sound vibrates softly between you before he finally relents, resting his forehead against yours instead. one of his hands slides carefully along the curve of your side until it settles once more at the small of your back, holding you as though he'd forgotten any other way to stand. “...tell me where, then.”

you shake your head once, trying very unsuccessfully to compose yourself before meeting his eyes again.

you’re huffing, trying to catch your breath when your hands fall to his chest. the guy is looking at you with the most feverish smile, eyes narrowing because he knows he’s got you flustered.

“upstairs,” you murmur, barely louder than the evening breeze slipping between the apartment buildings. your fingers fist at his hoodie. “come upstairs.”

─────────────────────────

park sunghoon likes to think that he’s good at sex.

there’s nothing complicated about it, really. he knows he’s good at most things.

his body—he knows it’s the kind most people would kill for, the kind other men spend half their lives trying to build. of that, he’s well aware. hockey, school, laundry, cooking, smiling and talking as if nothing’s ever the matter. he’s reduced it to a science: technique, precision, mastery, painstakingly perfected.

the data is there. they scream, they cry out of sheer pleasure, they moan like no one else exists but him, but park sunghoon. he predicts it in the same way he knows he’ll get that perfect score, and make that one ‘lucky’ shot—it’s calculation in it’s most unsurprising form.

human bodies are scientific. their anatomy is roughly similar, so he knows if he moves just like this, whispers just like that, she’ll fold. she’ll crumble underneath him like it’s her first time ever sleeping with a man, clinging onto sunghoon like what he’s doing is some lost art among the modern male.

there’s significant amounts of advice online to tell him how to please a woman. it’s not rocket science applying these concepts in practice, as he’s done—and sure, it’s done himself favours. there were nights where sunghoon couldn’t believe that he’d ever quit hook ups, but soon realised that that’s just how his brain works: that that’s just what the dopamine rush whispers into your ears as you cum for the third consecutive time.

there is a nice predictability in sex. it’s instinct, and where there is instinct, there is nature and nature is almost always studied—even if it’s an utter waste of time, stress relief aside.

though, when he finds himself stumbling into your apartment, kicking off his shoes and slide his hoodie off his back while simultaneously trying to keep his lips on yours, he finds himself wanting time to slow itself down.

just something about you, he thinks. that look on your cute face, staring at him like you didn’t know what to do with the heat pooling between your legs; you stumble against him a few times while you both try to find your way to your bedroom, shoulders nudging against light switches and shoving a few chairs out of place. your laundry is still on the couch from this morning, you note—but when sunghoon puts his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look at him—the reminder fades completely.

“what am i going to do with you?” sunghoon grins, letting his ass fall to the edge of the bed. sitting up, his hoodie’s discarded somewhere by the entryway, and the only article of clothing left being his jeans. his hands roam your body—up and down, before looping around your waist and pulling you between his spread legs. “so pretty.”

you whimper when his hands begin sliding underneath your top. “can i, baby?”

it’s almost pathetic how fast you nod. your hands rest on his shoulders, eyes locked on the way he leans closer to your belly. sunghoon’s slender fingers move up your warm skin, now burning hot under his touch, and eventually, he lifts your shirt completely.

“you sure about this, y/n?” sunghoon looks up, pupils blown with his cheek resting against your bare stomach. “we can stop. whatever you wanna do—”

“n-no,” you sigh, watching sunghoon’s eyes blink up at you, so dazed. “i want you, hoon.”

he hums at your response, turning his head so his lips touch the skin of your belly. they’re still wet from your earlier kisses, pressing nice and slow until he reaches from your belly button to your ribcage. truthfully, sunghoon’s mind has already gone to mush at the mere scent of you: the sweat from the day and your perfume blending into one, the heat from your body, that he just can’t help but to start leaving hickeys along the exposed area.

“i’ll make you feel so good, y/n,” he mumbles against your skin. “but you gotta be good for me. you can do that, can’t you?”

oh. he’s that kind of guy.

something’s flipping in your stomach—simmering low, intense, nothing like you’ve ever felt before. you stare down at him, face visibly flushed from the way he’s touching you; your knees almost buckle upon hearing his voice, and sunghoon can’t help but let a chuckle out at that in between kisses.

“can’t hear you. speak up for me.”

you swallow, feeling sunghoon’s hands exploring further—until his thumbs are right on your nipples, bypassing your annoying bra, rubbing gentle circles, smiling up at you like he’s done nothing too crazy.

“y-yeah, i can,” your voice comes out a tad too soft for his liking, evidently, because his little grin fades into something more displeased.

sunghoon stands up instead, large hands hooking around the hem of your shirt and helping to pull it off of you. your arms point to the ceiling, naturally, letting the fabric part from you with a gasp—the cold air hits your skin, and the wet imprints of kisses on your stomach feel even icier now.

he moves back to your stomach, taking in your scent; it’s even more potent now when you’re bare like this. curiosity gets the better of him once his nose bumps against your bra, his hair nuzzling against your chest as one of his hands move to unclasp it. effortless.

“sunghoon, stop teasing,” you whine, watching him lean back. sunghoon pulls your bra off of you on one swift motion. it’s an understatement to say that you were pretty—just gorgeous when you’re naked in front of him like this.

he ignores you. asshole.

sunghoon’s fingers hook around your skirt next—not quite pulling it down just yet. then, almost as if you’ve done something wrong, he stands up.

you forget how huge he is for a second. when the dim warmth of your lamp hits him, you lose your breath completely. every muscle is highlighted in orange, the definition outlined by shadows that leave you wanting, and it’s like air is caught in your throat from how unfairly good he looks.

“i’ll ask again,” sunghoon mutters, hands back down to your waist, and then your hips, and then he’s flipping you over onto the mattress. “you’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

whatever. fuck it.

all sense of reasoning leaves your body at once. sunghoon cages you between his arms, staring into your eyes, and the look in them sends pure electricity through your veins. he looks hungry, thirsty, like he needed you right now or he’d die.

and still, he waits for an answer.

“i’ll be s-so good, hoonie, i promise.”

the nickname doesn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth anymore. it’s been a while since he’s heard it—but when it comes from you, god, it sounds like it’s dripping in honey and coaxing him into whatever trap you laid out for him.

“gonna fucking kill me,” he rasps, pulling away before pressing a kiss to your cheek, down to your jaw, then to the patch of skin underneath your earlobe. the feeling of his warm tongue sliding against your skin makes you shudder—combined with his fingers pressing into your back, feeling every inch of skin, savouring the feeling of you;

when sunghoon first walked in, he noticed how unbearably you your room was. decorated in posters of your favourite bands, little trinkets here and there that he has no clue how you keep organized. his eyes glazed over your desk, your laptop, your lamp, and everything that you chose to keep that would now remind him of you—right now, your legs are wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his ass while he grinds nice and slow against the warmth of your pussy—feeling right through your panties, skirt tossed somewhere in the corner of the room.

what was most interesting about your room was that mirror in the corner—perhaps he was a pervert for wondering, only for a moment, if you had ever touched yourself in front of that very reflection. he could imagine your legs spread in desperation, knuckles deep in yourself as you chased whatever high you terribly wanted.

did you think of anyone? did you get off to the sound of his voice? though, most importantly, would you let him ruin you in front of that little mirror of yours?

“can i take this off?” he whispers into your ear, hands roaming down from your neck and to the lace around your panties—you nod again, and the chuckle that escapes his lips only sends shivers down your spine.

your legs fall to the side of his thighs, leaving you bare and spread in front of his eyes. “what about you?”

sunghoon literally laughs in your face. “be patient, baby. haven’t even gotten you nice ‘n loose yet.”

your breath hitches at his vulgarity. the image pops up behind your eyelids: sunghoon’s long, pretty fingers buried somewhere deep in you, curled at the perfect angle and prodding at that one spot that makes you sees stars—how long would it take for him to get there? would he even know how to?

famous last words, as they say. it takes four minutes for sunghoon to have your thighs pinned to the mattress, three to have the tip of his index and middle fingers inside of you and two to get you whimpering like a hot, pathetic mess.

maybe just one to get you soaking his wrists.

“what’s wrong, baby?” sunghoon pouts. his eyes are glimmering in the dark, the tiny light left outside reflecting off his irises. in this atmosphere it just seems like a mockery. “too much for my pretty girl? she can’t seem to get enough, though.”

and then his eyes flick down to where you suck him in—glistening, disgustingly sloppy and wet where you take every inch like it was always meant to be yours. it’s times like these where you truly believe fate is real; because there’s just no way you were this close to going your entire life without this—without sunghoon’s fingers buried knuckle deep into you.

“h-hoon, ugh—fuck!” you squeal when he curls his fingers just right, and he just watches, an eyebrow raised like you were some intriguing specimen. just a body underneath his touch, poking and prodding and spreading you as wide as he can, as best as he can. everything he does seems to illicit some reaction from you, too amusing for him to stop. “please, gonna cum, i’m gonna cum, ngh—”

“so quick?” sunghoon sighs, kissing his teeth. “god, you’re so cute. must be too much, then?”

and then, he slows down. ripping your delicious orgasm right from your useless fingers.

“n-noooo,” you drawl, nails clawing into sunghoon’s veiny forearms as he nods slowly, expecting a coherent answer. what a mistake, as if you could even think straight right now. “it’s not—it’s not, fuck, i can take it.”

sunghoon chuckles, head tilting up just enough to get your pretty face in full view. “reaaally? need my permission to cum, too?”

your stomach flips at the way he says it—low and sultry and teasing, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. rearranging your guts with his hands alone, whispering these ridiculous things to you, expecting zero reactions. is he stupid? has he lost it?

“you trying to snap my fingers off? relax, baby. can’t have that.”

the humiliation washes over you rather quickly, but disappears just as fast when you feel every muscle in your body beginning to lock up. the words can’t even find themselves, too lost in your mushy brain—everything narrows down to the man with his hands between your legs, pumping his stupidly long fingers in n’ out, watching you lose every piece of sanity you have left.

“who’d have known. such a sensitive girl,” and his thumb brushes against your swollen clit with just enough pressure to have you twitching, but never to cross that final, potentially fatal line. “do you always cum this fast?”

sunghoon sighs dramatically. if you couldn’t see his face, you’d have assumed that he was irritated with you—but your eyes haven’t left his, nor the red in his cheeks and his slightly parted lips, groaning whenever you buck your hips against his palm, feeling the friction of your clit against his skin. they occasionally glance down at the tent in his pants, fighting against tight cloth to be freed, twitching and already forming a dark, wet patch where his tip would be.

“oh my god,” you moan, gripping tight around his wrists. there’s a part of you that just wants to sit up and grind against his hand yourself, but that’d be much too embarrassing to live with. “can’t—can’t, i j-jus… can’t, please, hoonie—”

the words ring a bell that he can’t quite recall, is what he would say if his memory was absolutely terrible. the man remembers exactly when and where you said those terrible, terrible things, under a streetlamp and in a park he had never seen before; so sure that he’d never see you again, and now, here you are, losing your mind and at his mercy.

“oh.” sunghoon grins. cocky little bastard. “you close? gonna make a mess on hoonie? c’mon, soak me. won’t stop ‘till you do.”

there’s something utterly perverted about him tonight. hoonie was never an exclusive nickname, of course—generic by all means. sooha had taken great pleasure moaning and whimpering that exact term a hundred-something nights ago, and sunghoon swears that he must’ve been in a completely different body then. wonders how he ever let the name reach his ears without gritting his teeth, but now that you’re here… it’s like a completely different world has opened before his eyes, and his cock has never, ever been harder.

how could he have fucked anyone else when you existed? how could you have slept with other people when he was right there? the selfish thought invades his sick brain as fast as he feels his cock swell up.

never-mind that. this is way more important—there comes a point during sex where all the pleasure folds in on itself and magnifies by tenfold, becoming it’s own force, taking over your nervous system—nothing matters. sunghoon doesn’t matter. your pride definitely does not matter.

so it’s not really your fault, is it? couldn’t possibly be, even if you’re sitting yourself up (with an unreasonable amount of effort) and grinding your hips against his large, calloused hands, and whining like a bitch in heat against his mouth. even less so now that sunghoon’s letting you—his breath is taken from him when your tongue slides against his, wet and soft and everything he needs to get that pretty cunt fluttering around his digits.

“my filthy girl,” he moans between kisses, his warm breath ghosting against your glossy lips. your arms are running up and down his shoulders and finding a place to stay anchored, and when they finally do, sunghoon doesn’t wince one bit when your nails dig in, out, and in again. “just look at you, fucking yourself stupid on my fingers.”

you don’t hear him. genuinely. it’s all buzzing and static and you feel yourself starting to shake from the hip up. you shudder when he flexes his fingers, and it’s like everything you’ve ever done has led to tonight, every choice, every mistake.

“h-hoonie, ‘m sorry—fuck, need more of you,” you press a searing kiss to his bottom lip, almost missing completely and letting your mouth fall open against his anyway. your breath feel like fire against his skin, and sunghoon can only groan when he feels your walls spasming around his slender fingers. “please, i’ll be so good.”

sunghoon does that same, amused grin on his face, just watching you pant underneath him. the expression only reminds you of that night: you in the kitchen, and him, watching you from the front door on new years eve.

the corner of his lips turn upwards and it’s nothing short of pure perversion—tongue poking at the inside of his cheek, face red with heat crawling up his neck, and an eyebrow cocked up. “are you actually begging me right now? while you’re riding my hand like this?”

you nod your head, frantic. of course you’re fucking begging. it’s been an entire lifetime of teasing and sunghoon’s still dangling the idea of fucking you in your face, just revelling in your visceral and absolutely humiliating reactions.

your mind’s going blank. every thought diverges into park sunghoon and every desire has his stupidly handsome face plastered onto it. your stomach’s so tense that it’s starting to hurt, and you feel lightheaded from how often your breath gets taken right from you—so close, and yet, still so far.

“yes, pleasepleaseplease, i—”

“god, you’re greedy,” sunghoon mumbles under his breath, using his free hand to push you backwards. your spine hits the mattress with a recoil, and the springs creak just enough to muffle the pathetic whine that slips off your lips. “just an ungrateful girl. fine, then.”

and then, there’s nothing. just that mind-numbing feeling of having your body be sent to heaven, only to be denied at the pearly gates.

your heart’s pounding at the sight of him: warm, glistening skin under the dimness of your lamp, chest heaving as he pulls his fingers out from your slick entrance—it feels increasingly, unbearably empty as he retracts his ridiculously long digits. sunghoon does nothing but enjoy the view, eyes glazing over the way your body twists and turns at his cruel punishment.

“come on. again.”

who does he think he is, really? you kiss and make up, and in the same day, he makes you beg for a little gratification? does he have any idea what he put you through? to be truthful, you could go on and on about how he doesn’t deserve any sort of control over you—

“please, hoonie. i’ll take everything—fuck, just fuck me already.”

fuck it. you don’t care. it doesn’t matter that park sunghoon is toying with you. you need him, you need all of him, you need every inch of skin that he’s willing to give and every word he’ll spit at you.

park sunghoon isn’t exactly inexperienced with sex. he knows that intimacy is one of man’s greatest discoveries, and it’s only natural that he participates in it. as one does. what’s not normal is that he’s never felt this before: this insatiable, lustful heat simmering in his core, making his cock twitch before it’s even been touched.

god, you look so perfect—spread bare beneath him with inner thighs soaked in your own juices, whining and pleading and begging for a taste of him, as if he wasn’t holding himself back already. you’re truly the greediest, just taking and taking even if he tries to take his time.

there’s blood lingering in his mouth and the metal feels sharp on his tongue, and still, he continues biting on his lip. sunghoon’s eyes never leave yours, hands coming down to unbuckle his belt with a single hand—the other pins your knees open, and while you squirm under the pressure, you never quite gain the courage to defy.

when sunghoon finally leans forward, the scent of him is enough to overwhelm your nervous system; he grunts when your arms wrap around his neck, and your nose nuzzles against his neck like it has nowhere else to go. a deep breath in and it’s like you’ve never felt more alive than now.

“this enough for you?”

he picks up on everything. from the way your eyes never stay on his for too long, to the way you twitch when he presses his briefs right against your cunt—your breathy moans in his ear as he leans in close, and how quickly you stain the spandex with your slick, mixing with his sticky pre.

“this should be fine, right? my girl can cum juuust like this.” sunghoon’s voice is the only thing cutting through the fog in your head. it’s spinning so much that gripping onto him is serving as the only anchor to your consciousness. your nails drag along this trapezius, sinking into the superficial skin, waiting for a reaction that never comes—instead, all he can offer is a mocking smile, fangs bare and taunting.

his hips are teasing. he moves them slow, taking his time with every drag of up and down, the fabric sliding between your pretty folds and swollen clit; there’s a brief second where he feels the tip of his cock slide into you through the barrier of clothing, only to slip free when he slides up again.

“so perfect,” sunghoon whispers into the conch of your ear—you don’t realise what he’s said until you feel his sharp teeth gliding against your helix, before he finally nips at it. “you’re so perfect, baby. made for me, aren’t you? can’t believe i almost let you go.”

sunghoon thinks about how ridiculous he must look right now—humping your poor cunt like he’s in heat, holding himself back for reasons beyond him, whispering these obscenely intimate things in your ears like he doesn’t want to fuck you right this second. the strain on his cock is getting too much; blood’s rushing down, he’s aching, and he doesn’t know how much longer he has left before he flips you over and has your ass slapping against his skin.

“hoon, fuck, i’m gonna cum,” you say, bucking your hips up just once. wrong move. “please, don’t fucking stop—it feels so good.” sunghoon’s head turns in your direction, nose brushing against your cheek before his mouth meets yours again. he doesn’t care that they don’t latch properly, nor that he’s practically drinking in your saliva, or that he’s gonna cum just from feeling the friction between your bodies. all sunghoon truly cares about is that you’re holding him like he’s all you truly need in this world.

“yeah? just from this?” sunghoon’s hand comes up to grip at your jaw, thumb and index pressing deep into the flesh of your cheeks. his body feels heavy on top of you, quick little movements doing the most to get you both over the edge—and though he still seems a little more composed than you, it all goes to shit when your fingers graze the sides of his ribs. “fuck—do it. cum for me, please, y/n—”

his hands run up your arms until his fingers are tracing your palms, slithering between your own, before finally interlacing. sunghoon’s pressing sweet kisses to your jawline as you moan into thin autumn air, feeling the vibrations of his groans against your throat; he moves at a frenzied pace, chasing friction that won’t ever compare to being buried tip to cervix, but it’s all he can get right now.

“i’m fucking cumming, hoon, oh my god—”

twenty seconds. twenty seconds is all he needs to have you gushing all over the spandex of his briefs, and twenty-five is all you need to chase his lips because you know you’ll scream if you don’t. perhaps around thirty for him to stop feeling like the room is spinning, and him along with it—your tongues meet and circle on another’s again, moans clashing between desperate attempts to slow down, and it’s only sixty for him to finally hook his thumbs around his boxers and shove them down his thighs.

thwap.

sunghoon’s heavy in a way you can’t say out loud. words get caught in your throat, with nothing but a pathetic hitch in your breath being audible. he’s so unbelievably pretty, flushed a deep red from the relentless teasing he’s put you through, serving as confirmation that he’s wanted this as much as you have.

he stares for a minute, catching his breath, before his hand reaches for you—spreading your folds wide between his fingers, watching it glisten under the orange light, almost sparkling if he could look close enough. the sheets below are soaked with you—a large, wet patch that’s darker compared to the rest of the pink duvet.

“thought about this pretty pussy for weeks,” sunghoon lets his saliva collect in the well of his tongue, before spitting a thick glob riiight onto your entrance. “and now you’re aaaall mine. aren’t you, baby?”

sunghoon looks up just as the name rolls off his tongue. you look absolutely wrecked, hair tangled in places where you didn’t even know it could get tangled—tear stains running down your face and highlighting the flush on your cheeks so well. your eyes are wide, caught between staring at his leaking cock and his expectant eyes, shifting between the two every now and then;

a reverent sigh leaves you when sunghoon begins pumping himself, nice and slow using his hand, spreading the pre all over his hardened length. sounds of wet slick echo through the room as he strokes, just enough to get himself wet, before his knees shift forward and he’s finally, finally letting himself touch you without a stupid barrier.

“gonna stuff this pussy full,” sunghoon hisses through his teeth. “pump you full of my cum, fuck, i can’t hold back anymore—” his right hand wraps around the base of his cock, the back of your knees brushing against his thighs as he pulls you flush against him. you’re still heaving by the time he taps his mushroom tip against your folds, running it along the wetness of it, once or twice before aligning himself with you.

“you’re so… annoying,” you huff, eyebrows pinched together, watching his jaw go slack at how warm you feel even from the outside. sunghoon’s stomach is in knots, anticipating the moment he finally sheathes himself all the way, how you’d probably claw at his skin from the sheer stretch—

and that’s exactly what you do.

“f-fuuuuck, hoon! it’s too—you’re too—”

park sunghoon is thick. so undeniably heavy and dizzying, pushing past your walls, and as much as you clench and squirm around him, they offer no real resistance. your pussy takes him in like it needs him—squelching when he bottoms out at last, big arms caging your relatively smaller head between them—all the air in your lungs feels like it’s being siphoned out.

who the fuck is this big? when was the last time you’ve had something this huge inside of you?

“o-oh my fucking god,” his eyes screw shut for one, weightless second, before they shoot back open. he stares down at where you two finally meet, your velvet walls fluttering around him so warmly, a desperate whimper clawing it’s way out of his throat that’s interrupted by a messy kiss.

“so perfect, baby, you’re so perfect,” he mumbles against your swollen lips, hips at a standstill because he plain refuses to move—convinced that he’ll cum as soon if he so much as shifts his weight. “wish you could see your face. so pretty when you’re taking me.”

“you’re… fucking… crazy,” you whisper against his mouth before your hands tangle in his hair; they bunch around the dark locks, pushing his lips against yours again, and he laughs between the sloppy attempts to lock your lips together—noses bump and his forehead thuds against yours. “just fuck me, please, hoon.”

“look at what you do to me,” he sighs, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. borderline addictive the way you wriggle underneath his touch, like you know his size would knock you out cold, but you still beg through small movements. “all your fault, isn’t it? and you keep asking for more. just a needy little slut for me, huh?”

and then his hips retract—pulling out halfway, your cunt still weeping from the reduced contact. he looks back down, hair falling over his forehead, marvelling at the way his cock glistens with you. so utterly filthy.

you whimper when you feel the emptiness. his veins slide against your gummy walls as he pulls out agonizingly slow. “don’t wanna hear you complaining tomorrow morning, then.”

sunghoon’s pace is slow at first. gentle, sweet thrusts that still manage to make you see stars—he’s too afraid to hurt you, too busy savouring in the sweet moans that sprinkle in his name every once in a while. he feels hot, every bone in his body begging for him to hurry and stuff you full of his cock—but how could he? you’re taking him so well just like this, and all he wants is to drag every second out longer, until he dies blissfully happy in this pussy of yours.

“fuck, mmngh—” and the man slams his lips against yours as his fingers find yours again. you wonder just how many times you’ve managed to kiss tonight, but the thought immediately wipes itself clean when he angles his hips so deliciously right that you feel him all the way in your throat.

“shit, i can’t—you’re too fucking big,” the sound of your breath shakes, too much for his brain to compute, and something primal claws at his sick brain until all he’s thinking about is folding your knees up and bullying your cunt ‘till it’s red. you moan into nothing, hands running over every hard-earned muscle in his back, eyes screwing shut because looking at him feels like a perverted form of self-torture. “fuck, you feel so good, hoonie.”

“yeah?” and sunghoon literally feels every thread of sanity snap when you say his name again. “fuck, look at me then—wanna see your pretty face.” your thighs shake with every slap of wet skin, his heavy body shifting the bed closer to the wall as he pounds and pounds and pounds. his hands move the damp strands of hair out of your eyes, ensuring the perfect, unobstructed view.

you mewl, all sweet and so coaxing when he presses an innocent kiss to your cheek. it’s wet and salty on his tongue, but sunghoon’s smiling so wide that you think he must’ve truly fucking lost it completely.

“want you harder, hoon—not enough, please,” you whisper against his mole. there’s just something in the way you’re batting your eyelashes at him that he thinks is sending his nervous system into overdrive, but it’s irrelevant now. your pleas sound like honey to his ears, but the one singular thought that keeps circling his mind is if you’ll be able to take him like that.

his hands slide back down, stopping right where your tits are—his thumb grazes the hardened bud before he begins to palm at the mound of flesh. “f-fuck—”

“god, can’t hold myself back anymore,” sunghoon’s nose nuzzles against your neck and he takes his time breathing in your scent. the smell of your shampoo lingers, now masked mostly by sweat and fading perfume, and it faintly reminds him of a familiar library where all he could focus on was you, you, you.

you, beautiful you. you who’s underneath him now, pleading with him to give you what you want—still so naive, still so unaware, asking for things you have no idea what to do with—you, who bats her eyelashes with a curiosity he doesn’t know how to address, not without showing you.

he licks a long stripe along your jaw, rutting into you a little faster now. sunghoon’s hands find their way to the sides of your head; rationality has long left him, and his brain’s all foggy with visions of you. he wonders if he could take you just as well on the counter, on the desk, or by the window, and he just gets needier.

he’s getting sloppy and his brain’s all fuzzy. he’s not even sure what the rush is; when there’s someone else in his bed, he almost always finds it easier to take his time. teasing, foreplay, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it—he realised that the reactions he got were much more visceral.

but now—god, he needs you to cum around his cock as soon as possible.

“f-fuck, ngh—pussy was made just for me,” he mutters under his breath, pushing himself up—he towers over you like this, lowlights bathing his skin in warmth all over again as his arms wander down to your waist, then your hips, and then to the back of your knees. “w-what’s wrong, hm? gotta speak up, baby. let me hear you. all that talking was just for show, huh?”

“f-fuuuuh—hoon, please, t-too much—”

“ah-ah, take it like the good girl you are,” his eyebrows knit together in focus, and a bead of sweat rolls down his face, down his chin and drips right onto the valley of your breasts. “y-yeaaah, see? just like that.”

you’re choking on a sob by the time he folds your knees up—brutal, to say the least. your tits get squished by your thighs as he pins your legs up, sunghoon’s rough fingers wound tight around the soft flesh, bullying his way into your poor cunt.

the sounds echoing through the room might as well be featured in a porno. your moans mix until it’s an amalgamation of yeses, gentle sobs, and sunghoon’s relentless teasing. every thrust knocks the wind out of you, your hands clawing at his wrists and leaving red streaks—but the pain barely even reaches him—the only thing on sunghoon’s mind is how gorgeous you look underneath him, taking every inch like it’s what you were born to do, moaning the name he spent so long hating;

“f-fuck, i love you, love fucking this pussy so much—” he hisses through his teeth, eyes zeroed on the way your eyes roll every time he buries himself to the hilt. your head tilts back, throat bobbing as you swallow back embarrassing moan after embarrassing moan—sunghoon’s making it difficult with the way he presses against your belly with one hand, the other holding your left thigh up. “shit, baby, you can be louder than that, can’t you?”

oh, fuck park sunghoon. fuck this stupidly huge cock drilling it’s way through you, and fuck this ridiculously gorgeous man who has you biting back screams, fuck everything, fuck how good you feel—your vision is clouding, stars exploding behind your eyelids every time you shut them, and all you can do is just sit and take it. “s-sunghoon, a-ah—slow down, i’m gonna fucking cum again—”

he kisses his teeth, now resorting to grinding his hips against yours. the angle is new, almost beautiful in it’s discovery. his hands are too curious, before settling on the fat of your ass, palming and fondling and treating it like his personal stress-toy until—

smack.

the moan you let out on contact is nothing short of humiliating. his palm smooths over the handprint, now blooming red right before his eyes, and your brain actually short-circuits for a second.

“fuck,” sunghoon laughs, mocking, rude and mean all in one. “you into that shit?”

the sting sends electricity through your body. sunghoon pulls his hips back just enough, before sliding back between your pretty folds so slow that it actually makes you gasp. every single time he pushes himself back in, it’s like you have to get used to it all over again—the stretch never becomes familiar, always melting your brain and forcing every coherent thought you have to mere nonsense.

“god, you’re such a fucking slut,” sunghoon’s head tilts back momentarily, his hair falling with the gravity and sending little drops of sweat down his neck and onto his back. his heart’s beating all wild now, cock aching for more friction, more force, more of you; so greedy and full of desire, bringing his hand up to land another harsh blow to your ass.

“a-ah—hoon!” you hiss, but you never really try to stop it. you squirm, hips jerking with every slap he decides to give you, but sunghoon knows your cunt tells a different tale: your pussy clenches around him so tight that it’s suffocating him, just begging for his load, and it’s driving him insane. “t-too rough, i can’t—slow down, fuck, you’re gonna break the bed in half—”

it’s true. the frame’s creaking upon each thrust, headboard slamming against the walls, but why would sunghoon care? fuck, he’ll buy you a whole new bedroom if he has to, so long as you just let him have you like this for a little longer.

“don’t give a shit, haa—i’ll buy you a new one, mm? fuck you again ‘till we break that one too. bet you’d want that, wouldn’t you?” he grins, and the corner of his lips turn up sharply when he sees how utterly fucked out you look. there’s this familiar expression he’s seen on other girls—when sunghoon proves to be too much for them to handle, and they end up tapping out—but it’s none of that on you. no matter how much you cry that you can’t take it, you cling onto him like the only thing you know, want, and need is him.

“answer me.”

and the coil in your stomach begins to tighten almost instantly—you don’t even realise that his hands have made it’s way up to your jaw, thumb and index pressing into the bone. a small squeal escapes your throat, and there it is again; that innocent look written all over your face, making sunghoon’s stomach do somersaults. his grip gets firmer with each passing second, before you finally manage to speak:

“y-yes, fuck, need it—i want it, pleasepleasepolease, sunghoon!”

it’s times like these were sunghoon really is convinced he’ll never quit sex. not when there’s a woman like you, with a pussy like this, with a voice so sweet that it makes his chest ache and his cock drip pre. it’s quite a confusing matter, actually, considering he’s never been one to talk too much during the act—that shit just leads nowhere, and feelings get confused by the time he comes down from his high, but god, he doesn’t think his mouth can stop at this rate, not when it’s you he’s buried in.

“yeaaah? gonna cream all over me, baby? make a mess all over this cock, come on.” sunghoon nods feverishly, both hands pinned to the undersides of your knees now, pushing you deeper and deeper into the mattress. your mind tries to catch up, but the pace at which he moves is too relentless for any real thought to form.

his hair falls over his face when he leans forward, just enough to press his full weight down on you. sunghoon’s washboard abs tense every time your nails claw at his chest and just thinking felt weirdly impossible now. your mind’s reduced to slush, ears ringing with wet smacks and constant grunts from the man above you. there’s an occasional moan that slips from him, to which he realises, far too quickly, turns you on more than you’d (probably) ever be willing to admit. mental note for the next time he decides to rearrange your guts, he supposes.

sunghoon glances down again. just for a moment. in the past twenty seconds that’ve passed, you both don’t realise how close you’ve got, damp foreheads pressed against each other in something sweet in the midst of all the roughness. his grunts have transformed into something else completely—now laced with need and breathy pleas, begging.

“there we go, yeah—cum on my cock, please, baby. i’m so fucking close—”

“i love you.”

the words almost kill him.

something seems to have snapped almost instantaneously. park sunghoon’s lips crash into yours with newfound fervor, and every muscle in his body seems to be operating on the sole purpose of getting you to come undone. he’s so fucking tired, truly—but the pain fades and all the soreness in his muscles from yesterday’s practice is irrelevant now.

“yeah? you love me?” his pussydrunk face is the only thing in view, a small gasp slipping when he feels you clench down on him. his hips begin to stutter, jerk, pace faltering. his eyes stare into yours through the gaps in his damp hair, waiting for an answer. “fuck, say it again—please.”

“i love you, sunghoon,” you whisper, almost sultry, your voice barely reaching his ears but ghosting against his lips anyway. “i-i love you—”

a starving man he proves to be. his lips lock with yours again, and this time, they never really leave. his tongue swirls around yours, drinking up every sound that you have to offer, still rutting into your cunt like he needs to fuck a whole new generation into you. your core tenses up so much that you think you’re gonna pass out from the impending orgasm—all sunghoon does is moan into your mouth, fingers intertwining with yours as he abuses your pussy with ruthless strokes.

“i love you, y/n,” the words are so sweet it makes your head spin. it doesn’t correlate at all with the obscene view beneath you, his soaked pelvis and your thighs pressed up against your stomach—your hole squelches with every roll, now much messier and haphazard, and the high is so close that you can almost taste it on the tip of your tongue. “that’s it, baby. let it out for me, just like that.”

so cruel.

“c-cumming, fuck, i’m gonna cum, hoon—”

a revelation comes to sunghoon as soon as your walls begin spasming around his length—sunghoon has never had sex this good. you get impossibly tighter, and your moans are broken up by your lungs trying to take in more air. you sob when it hits, almost blinding in it’s entirety as sunghoon continues fucking you through it, feeling how you soak him from the inside and how it gets disgustingly easy to pound into you when you’re this wet.

“fuuuck, o-oh my god,” a guttural sound claws it’s way out of his throat. his forehead dips again, lips still glossy and tasting just like you, entranced by the way your pretty lips part in a silent scream that ends as a loud gasp. “you’re so fucking tight when you cum, shit—”

sunghoon is gone. just chasing his own release, sloppy thrusts making your juices splurt everywhere; your moans amplify and you’re barely holding your sanity together by the time you come back from whatever plane of reality you decided to visit. his thumb digs into the dip behind your knees, still trying to push his cock deeper into you, tip grazing your cervix every now and then—god, it’s pure filth. you’re half convinced that you might have to take the stairs tomorrow if you want to avoid your upstairs neighbour.

humans are truly just animals. sunghoon proves just as much with how frantic he is to spill himself inside of you. truthfully, the thought is stirring him on more than he’d like to admit—which is kind of scary, if he thinks too long about it. it’s a shame that he’s incapable of that right now, because all he manages to babble is:

“please, y/n, can i? let me cum inside of you, please, please—shit, need to fill you up, wanna see it dripping out of you all fucking night, please.”

and you, as drunk on him as he is on you, nods like it’s all you’ve ever needed in life.

sunghoon’s hips snap against your ass, eyebrows knit in frustration and lips parted to let an animalistic groan out. you take it, all of it, from the way he kisses you like he wants to eat you up, to the way he thumbs at your clit because he just needs you to unravel with him again. selfish as he is, he can’t have this alone—not when you look so beautiful breaking.

it takes ten seconds for you to cum for the second time, and him, eleven. it’s all heat and lust and pure hunger condensing into one, singular moment, where he buries himself to the hilt and spills months worth of holding back.

your walls pulse around him. your clit throbs unapologetically under his restless thumb, still circling nice ‘n slow as if you weren’t already gasping for air as it is. his dick almost feels like it’s getting bigger, twitching as it shoots load after load, hot and thick as it paints every crevice.

god, what the fuck. sunghoon’s panting when he finally collapses on top of you, the soreness from yesterday creeping up on him—though he has reason to believe it may be more of your doing. his face buries itself into your neck, not before his hands finally let your thighs loose, dropping right next to his, and for a minute, the two of you simply lay there.

sunghoon breathes you in again, slow enough that the scent of you settles somewhere deep in his chest. your arms slip around his neck without hesitation, fingers disappearing into the soft hair at the nape of it while your lips find his forehead in small, absent kisses that feel less like affection and more like habit. he lets out a quiet sigh against your shoulder, eyes falling shut as warmth spreads through him in steady waves.

“you smell good today.”

he lets himself believe, just for now, that it can stay this way, though it is probably foolish. if he were being honest, every sensible part of him should still be waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to wake up and realise you've chosen the wrong person, for the guilt he's carried around for months to finally become heavier than whatever it is you've found in him. even after all of it, all you’ve dragged each other through—you’re still here, trusting him with your body.

confusing, he thinks. you’re so confusing.

“hoon,” you mumble against his skin. he hums in response. “you’re being weird—oh my god. stop sniffing me, i’m getting ticklish.”

he hums against your skin before taking another deep breath in. “don’t care.”

before you, none of this would have unsettled him. there had been other people, other nights, other attempts at filling the empty spaces—and it had been good. he had learned very early that casual was easy to survive because it demanded so little of him—he could leave before morning and return to his life unchanged, carrying nothing home except the faint smell of someone else’s perfume and the relief of having avoided being known. it never bothered him. if anything, he preferred it that way.

“can we wait a little longer?”

“didn’t know you were into cockwarming. you’re sick in the head.” you sigh dramatically, earning a groan from sunghoon—he shifts his weight slightly, hissing when he feels you squeeze around him again.

“just give me a minute,” he answers. “need to remember my first with you. should we take a selfie?”

you fist at his hair and sunghoon winces. “fuck, i was just kidding.”

four in the morning.

the clock on your nightstand blinks the numbers back at you in soft, white light, stubborn and familiar. nine months ago, that hour belonged to a stranger's voice crackling through your speaker and a crush that felt enormous simply because it was all imagination.

you remember lying awake with your phone pressed against your cheek, convinced the boy on the other end of the line was someone else entirely, and now the room is quiet enough to hear the city breathing beyond the windows.

sunghoon shifts against you, cheek warm where it's pressed to your chest, his hair a soft mess beneath your fingers. when he tilts his head up, tiredness still clings to him around the edges of his eyes, but they find yours immediately, like they've learned the route by heart. there is something almost unfair about it—that the boy who once hid behind another person's name now looks at you with such terrifying honesty.

“can you get off of me now?”

sunghoon lifts his head just enough to look at you, cheek still resting against your chest, dark hair falling messily across his forehead. he considers the question with suspicious seriousness before leaning over to press another lazy kiss against your collarbone. “no.”

luck and fate. such intangible concepts, but the feeling creeps up on you regardless. the universe seems unusually generous now, which scares you—after everything that’s happened, after all the ways the two of you managed to hurt each other before finding your way back, it feels dangerous to believe that happiness could be this simple.

and still—something tells you that this feeling might be yours to keep, anyway, so long as you keep choosing for it to.

sunghoon shifts closer, his voice rough with impending sleep as he presses his face into the warmth beneath your jaw. “i love you, y/n.”

when your eyes flutter open the next morning, the blinds are only half-shut, thin ribbons of sunlight slipping through the gaps and painting pale gold across the floor. there's a t-shirt bunched around your waist that definitely wasn't there when you went to sleep, and your hair is sticking to your cheek in a way that immediately informs you that you’ve slept in way too long.

you stretch with a quiet groan, arms reaching above your head until your shoulders pop pleasantly, then roll onto your left side in search of the cooler side of the bed—but instead, you’re greeted by more warmth.

for a brief, sleepy second, you wonder if autumn has somehow changed its mind overnight. is it summer again?

but then, you see him.

park sunghoon is sprawled face-down across your mattress like somebody dropped him there and forgot to pick him back up. one arm is flung over the edge of the bed, the other trapped beneath your pillow, and his dark hair sticks out in every possible direction. sometime during the night, he'd apparently migrated until three-quarters of his body occupied your side of the bed while you clung to the remaining sliver.

his bare back is outlined by faint shadows of the morning, still unfairly sculpted while knocked out cold. it annoys you, just a little, but enough that you briefly consider stealing the blanket back out of spite.

instead, you stay where you are and watch him.

you watch the slow rise and fall of his ribs beneath your fingertips, the tiny hitch in his breathing every few breaths, and the way one hand twitches occasionally against the mattress as though he's still reaching for you in his sleep.

you lean forward until your lips brush the warmth of his shoulder—but the words you whisper there are too soft for him to hear.

“i love you too, park sunghoon.”

he sleeps through your confession, completely unaware of the smile that finds your face as you settle next to him again. your heart slows just a fraction, calming when your breathing unconsciously matches the rhythm of the man beside you.

time seems to slow itself down. the morning birds are quieter than usual, the grandmother across the street has spared the neighborhood her daily yelling, and when you look over at your calendar, there is nothing waiting for you there.

for a love this gentle, the universe has chosen to be unusually generous.

lucky you!

─────────────────────────

hoonie <3: [Attachment] 20:28

hoonie <3: I’ll be over after practice 20:28

hoonie <3: Yeonjun and Maki keep asking about you it’s starting to piss me off 20:29

hoonie <3: Also did you change my contact? 20:34

y/n: yes heeseung 20:40

y/n: oops i meant Park Sunghoon. my favourite boyfriend out of 10 20:40

hoonie <3: I’m going to walk into traffic 21:12

y/n: ????? ur so dramatic Hello 21:15

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

everyone always told you that you had terrible luck. this applied to most things: friendships, competitions, meeting a friend’s parents, even.

but love? oh, love was where it stung. this was somehow more painful than everything else, because while you could flaunt at least one instance where a friendship didn’t explode in your face, or a parent actually liked you, or you won a gold star—you could never say you hit it off with a guy, ever.

perhaps the men of this generation were simply too terrible for this to ever be a matter of luck. it felt more like a rigged casino: every bet placed in good faith, every hand played carefully, and still you walked away lighter, bled dry all the same.

you weren’t desperate. no. far from it. you did everything right. you waited, chose the boys who made you feel safe instead of reckless, who offered steadiness instead of the dizzy thrill everyone else swore by. you could say, with a quiet sense of pride, that you followed the rules and played it by the book. hell, even after all that, every guy’s true colours somehow emerged victorious by the end of it: they just want sex, sex, or sex.

the truth was that deep down, you didn’t want anything to do with it. even if it was indeed the sexiest, biggest, smartest guy on campus… there was only one guy you set your sights on. just one, with the light brown hair and charming smile, shooting hoops at the basketball court by the cafeteria—lee heeseung.

though, the problem was simple: you’d never actually talked to the guy. this could’ve been easily solved if you shared even one class, but of course, he’d signed up late—every elective already full, while you, being the good student you are, had locked your choices in the moment the portal opened.

the second solution, proposed by oh jiwon herself, was rejected the instant it left her mouth. you were sprawled in her dorm room on a normal saturday night—you, legs spread indecently across the tiny couch she’d smuggled past security in first year, and her, upside down on the bed, hair brushing the floor.

“why don’t you just bump into him and knock all his books down?” she muttered, teeth chomping down on a stack of (probably) expired bbq-xtra-hot chips.

oh, heeeell no. what the fuck was this? a poorly produced drama plotline?

“was he born yesterday?”

the third option, though, felt a little more… dignified. it came to you on a random thursday evening, when the rain felt a little too heavy and you were wishing that lee heeseung would swoop in and hold a $5 umbrella over your heads.

replaying the events of the day in your head as your boots sloshed in muddy puddles, kim sunoo’s annoyingly pretty face comes into view.

“the fundraiser’s gonna be so busy this year, gosh…”

yes. indeed, it will.

the annual fundraiser organised by the student relations club. you remembered being ridiculously excited for it last year—around the same time you’d first started noticing heeseung. after some careful “asking around”, you’d learned he was attending, too. and, as if the universe was personally apologising to you for your tragic love life: he was trying his luck at the blind date booth.

what a sweet guy. donating his hard-earned money to charity and putting himself out there? he had your heart in his hands, and you came to understand that his was the target of many others.

so, it was obvious what had to be done. you signed up the moment sunoo—thank the angels for him—let the information slip. it’s nothing short of fate that you shared an elective with him; it took a bit of coaxing and more than a few judgmental looks, but by that sunny wednesday afternoon, good had prevailed in the world.

it’s safe to say you did not get lee heeseung as your date. instead, you endured a miserable twenty-minute speed dinner listening to a stranger ramble about his league rank. ou’d never been more thoroughly turned off in your life.

but this year?

this year, it will be different.

─────────────────────────

the house smells like weed and alcohol, and also everything that you should not be doing on a thursday night. you got the call from jiwon in the middle of your assignment, head half buried in your hands as the glow from the laptop screen burned your retinas—it’s twelve midnight now, and you have class in eight hours, but the impending sleep deprivation still beats handing in sloppy work.

the house belongs to the frat heeseung’s in. sigma alpha eta, if you remembered correctly. it’s three stories tall, tacky, and reeks of soju and everything wrong with the male species. you’re not even sure if the place ever gets cleaned, but considering it’s full of rich mama’s boys, they’ve probably hired someone to deal with the mess for them.

“what the fuck is going on?”

oh jiwon’s staring at you like you’re the one who dragged her here. you scan the room for no one in particular (lie), and when you turn back—

she’s gone.

“who’s ready to party?!”

the dj is embarrassingly bad. like, physically painful to listen to. the bass is cranked up so high it rattles the floorboards, vibrating straight through your bones. you cringe, already picturing the culprit: some frat guy who bought a $100 mixing set off amazon last week and now calls himself “up and coming”.

everyone you know seems to be here. you’d brushed shoulders with ahn yunjin and danielle on the way in, only to watch them dart toward the porch with a joint already lit.

you snake your way through narrow hallways packed wall-to-wall—overlapping conversations, smoke blown straight into your face, bodies pressing in from every side as you aim for the kitchen. instead, you stumble into the living room. leather couches are occupied by unconscious adults—drunk, high, or some lethal combination of both—bathed in warm overhead light that all but promises brutal hangovers tomorrow.

it seems like the party started long before you got here. where the hell did your jiwon go, anyway?

your feet start to move again, carrying you mindlessly through the first floor—you cross the hallway, take a turn into another doorway, and finally stumble upon the kitchen; it’s less crowded, with fewer drunk people and comparably quiet in contrast to whatever’s waiting for you outside the threshold of that door. your eyes are hesitant, oddly enough, though you know why.

parties like this usually mean hookups. and when hookups are involved, lee heeseung is the first name that comes to mind. the guy’s practically a walking target—especially in his own frat house, swarming with every girl who’s been blessed enough to know the name.

this whole situation feels like a ticking time bomb. your chest tightens. how long before someone else gets to him? how long before you turn a corner and see his face buried in someone else’s neck? 10 minutes? 10 seconds?

“hellooooo!”

and as fast as the thoughts come, they go; head snapping toward the sound, locking onto oh fucking jiwon—standing there, smiling innocently, as if she hadn’t abandoned you to die in the crowd.

“where the fuck have you been?” you sigh, hands running through your hair, like you’d just spent a whole day looking for her. to be fair, time moves weirdly in places like this.

“refilling!” she hiccups. “see?” she tips her red cup to show a dubious mix of jack and coke.

she’s tipsy—no surprise there. jiwon’s always been a lightweight. still, she manages to wobble over and hop onto the marble island, scooting back until her legs dangle comfortably. she looks down at you with glassy, sparkly eyes.

“sooo… heeseung’s place, huh? didn’t know their frat was so fancy. they literally have wine older than my grandparents in here.”

you roll your eyes and drag a stool out from under the island. it screeches against the tile, making you wince, before you climb up onto it.

“you’ve been snooping in their alcohol?” you giggle, shaking your head in mock disapproval. you’ll have to look through it later, too. “you’re a shit guest.”

“guest is always right!” jiwon babbles, before abruptly sneezing. the action makes you flinch. “oh… sorry. anyways,”

you cross your arms, waiting. she’s halfway to blackout, but you humor her anyway.

“fundraiser!” she slurs. “heeseung’s in the pantry. think he’s lookin’ for chips. i dunno. he was with sunghoon, and then i ran into him while lookin’ for more soju—”

and it’s like the universe wants to show you how much it wants you to stay in this lifetime, as a form of divine mercy, or something similar to an apology, because lee heeseung slides the pantry door open and waltzes right out with chips tucked under his armpit, as he munches on something else. your eyes follow him, and so does everyone else’s, and naturally they trail towards the slightly shorter man behind him.

park sunghoon. the guy with the ridiculously sharp, thick eyebrows, a staring problem, and close to half of the campus’s female population wanting to lick his boots. there’s often two responses to the question ‘who’s the cutest guy on campus’, and many of your peers often utter one or the other: heeseung, or his colder counterpart, sunghoon.

you took an economics class with him last year, and thank god you didn’t hit the lottery and end up in the same group, because you’d heard… things. too many things. stories about him tearing into a girl’s work so viciously, she had to beg the professor to let her switch groups with sunoo (it’s strange, how he seemed to be in almost every class you took, now that you think about it).

you’d never talked to him, or anyone from that little group, really, aside from kim sunoo. you knew sim jaeyun was popular over in the engineering block; all brains and good looks, apparently. nishimura riki was another name you heard in passing—always surrounded by a crowd whenever he danced with his crew in some random corner with a giant mirror. as for jongseong and jungwon… you didn’t even want to think about the things people said. absolutely vile in nature.

it seems like the whole lot of them were heartthrobs, in every sense of the word.

it’s just… park sunghoon?

that guy didn’t deserve half the glowing reviews he got.

you were half convinced that if people had star ratings floating above their heads—complete with scrollable comments—he’d be inflating his own with burner emails.

park sunghoon. 5 stars. wow, this guy is sooooo hot and rich! — nothoon12345. he just looked like the kind of guy who did that kind of thing.

okay, maybe you were being a little harsh, considering you’d never actually spoken to him. still, it felt telling when even other men talked shit about him: apparently being both the most disliked and the most respected player on the ice hockey team was impressive enough to land him the captain title.

he walks a few steps behind heeseung, his own bag of chips in hand. you don’t realise you’re staring until his gaze snaps towards you as he passes—a look equal parts smug, disgusted, and painfully punchable.

“what the hell is that guy’s issue?”

“stop looking at him,” jiwon waves you off, swinging her feet. her heel accidentally thuds against the wood. “heeseung's right there.”

your eyes flick back to heeseung, now hovering near the front door, greeting the flood of people streaming in—tonight’s barely started, but somehow, you feel ten times heavier than when you walked in.

lee heeseung, leaning casually against the wall, all perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfectly charming face… and park sunghoon, just a step behind him, stiff, scanning the crowd until his gaze finally locks on you.

before you can tear your eyes away, he cocks his head and gives you a smile—all mockery, all challenge, like he just told a joke you’d never understand. you shift your weight on the stool, cross one leg over the other, but your eyes stay zeroed on him.

“i don’t like that sunghoon guy,” you mutter, dragging a hand through your hair and pretending to look elsewhere.

oh jiwon rolls her eyes, snorts, and leans her weight back on the counter. “you’d be surprised how many people wanna get in his pants—”

“don’t. talk. to. me. about. park. sunghoon’s. pants.” you snap, stabbing a finger toward her chest for emphasis—she giggles at the action, and you do, too. though your eyes flick back, just once, toward where he was.

but when you do, he’s gone. no sunghoon, no heeseung. just the occasional partygoer opening and closing doors, the sound barely registering to your ears through the shitty music.

“how have you not drank anything yet?”

“i literally just got here!”

────────────────────────

it’s one in the morning, and the party seems to be at it’s peak—there’s no one else coming through the front door, and it’s more packed than you could imagine; you’re leaning against the staircase with a cup swirling in your hands, only having taken two sips out of it. jiwon’s still next to you, chatting to a guy you’ve never seen before.

you look at him, then at her. unimpressive, if anything. you’re turning to look at your cup again and the feeling hits, sudden and sharp as it claws at your chest: you feel extremely out of place, even in a house full of people and possibility. people shove their way past you and you hold your cup tight to your chest as it happens. you barely hear anything with the laughter, chatter, and music all at once.

your eyes drift toward the window—yunjin’s with someone else; danielle must’ve left earlier. you scan the room again, half-heartedly looking for a familiar face to talk to—sunoo, maybe, even if the guy doesn’t really think you’re normal. or for park sunghoon, perhaps for some explanation as to why he’d looked at you like that earlier.

“looking for hee?”

that voice. too close. it sends shivers down your spine, every hair standing before your neck snaps to your left—jiwon’s gone, and so is that guy, instead replaced by a girl you know all too well.

she’s smiling at you with her lips curled in a way that makes your stomach drop—unsettling by its very nature. the lights strobe across her face, red and white, purple and blue, painting her in something eerie as her expression lingers, sharp and all-knowing.

“what the fuck do you want?”

she laughs softly, hands coming up to her face to cover her mouth like she’s some gentle, kind creature that’s come to save the day. kim sooha’s always been like that. ever since high school, ever since you’ve been bestowed the honour of knowing how ruthless she gets when she wants to be.

her hair falls over her face before she moves to tuck it behind her ear.

god, you want to slap her. some things never change, no matter how many years pass.

“you need to learn how to relax. you’ve been staring all night,” she sighs, leaning her back against the wall as she talks—like you two are friends, always have been—and that this is the most normal conversation ever. “you’re definitely looking for heeseung, aren’t you? i got a shortcut, if you’re interested.”

you don’t answer. you’ve learnt it’s best to shut your mouth instead of lie, because with girls like sooha, the snake always bites first.

your mind flashes, briefly, to the image of him again: light brown hair falling over his face, his genuine smile as people poured in from the front door, eyes squinting as he spots a good friend from a few feet away. your eyes had never truly left him, until you caught park sunghoon staring daggers at you right behind.

and, strangely, it’s never found him again since.

“listen, i have his number—it’ll save you a looot of trouble.”

you don’t realise you’ve turned away from her until you glance back. her smile widens as you meet her eyes—glinting with something dangerous, like this isn’t truly all there is to her offer.

kim sooha is not about goodwill and donating to charities. the charity would have to return her 110% before she could ever consider doing so; in this case, the charity seems to be you.

“what do you want?”

and it feels like you’ve just sold your soul to the damn devil with how bright her face gets. like a child on christmas morning, unwrapping a brand new toy. well—you suppose you’re a toy, too, in this.

she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans, the jingle of her phone charm barely cutting through the kendrick lamar song that’s causing the floor to vibrate. you wonder how long until someone calls the cops on this place—it’s too loud, too much, and you don’t even want to think about what the second and third floor looks like right now.

“one click, and i’ll send it to you.”

you scoff, breaking the eye contact to take a sip of the peach soju in your hands. you almost roll your eyes before remembering that this was sooha you were getting in bed with—one wrong move, and she’s retracting, and you’ll be left to awkward waves and stuttered hello’s at the fundraiser three months from now.

“my jacket’s upstairs, and i need you to get it.”

if you weren’t confused before, you definitely are now.

“your fucking jacket?” you repeat, and it almost comes out as a laugh. she doesn’t think it’s funny, though, because she’s quick to fire back a response:

“i don’t want to bump into whoever you’re gonna bump into. not in the mood. consider it a gift from me,” she pokes a finger at your collarbone, “to you.”

you flinch, her sharp nail making you stumble back, just a little. her eyebrows raise as you tilt your head towards the stairs, watching you glance up and towards the flight of stairs above your heads—there’s people moving up and down, and it just doesn’t click—why not someone else?

“so… are you doing it? don’t have time to sleep on—“

you chew on the lining of your cheek. something isn’t right. she’s looking at you like she doesn’t care if her jacket actually makes it back to her—all that matters is that you fall into whatever she’s setting up.

“fine. keep your fucking word when i get back down here.”

the smile that spreads across her face makes your heart drop straight to your ass. you don’t like this—not the feeling of being a step behind, not the way it feels like she’s holding something over you.

but… like she said. it’s not as if you have a whole day to sit on your ass and think it through.

“you should know by now. i always do,” she sings, voice lilting and smug, watching as you turn away and head for the stairs. “thank you, dear [name].”

you pause at the bottom, fingers curling tighter around your cup as you glance upward. bodies move through the hallways above—laughing, stumbling, disappearing into rooms that smell like sweat, alcohol and poor decisions. the music thumps faintly through the walls, distorted here, like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to you.

your head feels light, almost dizzy, but you go anyway. one step. then another. your shoes stick slightly to the floor as you climb, each step feeling heavier than the last.

“this yours?”

your head cocks up, eyes locking onto a familiar face—park sunghoon, standing at the top of the staircase, with a leather jacket haphazardly folded into his hands. it looks expensive when it’s under this kind of light, and knowing sooha, it probably is.

“yup,” you say, the word coming out more clipped than you intend. reluctant, wary—but who the hell could blame you? the guy who’s been staring all psycho and weird, treating you like an out-of-earth entity is holding onto the one thing you need to finish this amazing deal. “thank you!”

he’s tall. towering. with you two steps below him, he’s giving himself a stiff neck just looking at you. his face gives nothing away—not surprise, barely any curiosity, perhaps slight irritation. more than anything, there’s that unreadable calm, like he’s not only three steps ahead of whatever this is, but also skies above it.

your arms reach out to grab it from him, but sunghoon’s quick to retract his hand. he dangles it in front of you, an eyebrow raised, still staring as if you were some kind of odd specimen—you blink a few times, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“i’d watch out if i were you.”

his voice is low, nearly lost beneath the bass thudding through the floor below. it’s flat enough that it barely registers as a voice at all.

but just why the hell is he telling you this? park sunghoon’s talking like he knows kim sooha personally.

really, if you had to pick between the two of you… you’d have to consider yourself the expert.

“o… kay?” you mouth, the word barely audible over the bass thrumming through the walls.

for a moment longer, he just looks at you, then lowers the jacket into your hands. you don’t manage to thank him, because you’re turning around before you can even utter another word.

nothing else matters right now. you’re praying that by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, sooha will be there—phone in hand, ready to send those digits your way, just like she promised.

though, even if she isn’t, you’re not entirely sure what you’d do about it. there’s no backup plan. you’re definitely not asking sunoo—because you’re not an idiot with a weird obsession with lee heeseung (lie), and you’re not that desperate to talk to him (lie), enough to corner one of his closest friends and expose yourself completely (truth).

well… you guess you’ve already done so by poking around about the fundraiser, but his number is crossing the line. apparently.

you square your shoulders and keep walking, clinging to the thought that this will all be worth it once lee heeseung’s finally a button away, instead of thirty meters and 6 men apart.

“you’re quick with it,” sooha yells over the song playing, now a remix of some chainsmokers single. roses, a classic, which also means people are starting to get oddly energetic despite it reaching two in the morning.

you watch her eyes flick down to her phone, the screen lighting up her face as she brings it to her chest—typing, swiping, pausing just long enough to be irritating—until your own phone vibrates against the back pocket of your shorts.

“thanks a bunch, y/n.” she says lightly. “always so obedient.”

your jaw tightens. you don’t bother responding—just thrust the jacket into her abdomen, harder than necessary. kim sooha doesn’t take it personally, she never does. the flare of your nostrils, the way your fingers curl like you’re holding yourself back—that’s more than enough to make her night.

a sweet, disingenuous smile blooms across your face, as if to say: ‘no problem, bitch.’

she slips past you, shoulders barely brushing, already headed for the front door. just before she disappears, you catch it—the smudged eyeshadow, the eyeliner dragged unevenly beneath her eyes, foundation streaked down her cheeks like she hasn’t bothered to check herself in a mirror.

for a fraction of a second, you find yourself worrying—for her, and for yourself. you’ve never once seen sooha with makeup this (for lack of a better word) bad; she’s always immaculate, flawless, even if that bruises your ego to admit out loud.

which means there are only two possibilities: she’s just fucked someone and realised, far too late, what a mistake it was—or her heart has just been torn into a million tiny, irreparable pieces.

you don’t take much time to dwell on it, before you tear your eyes away from sooha’s figure slowly fading into the distance. her boots clack against the concrete pavement before it comes to a stop, and for a moment, she just stands—until a car pulls up and she ducks her head to fit into it.

what the hell was that?

the front door slams shut from someone else pulling it closed, the sound cutting clean through the music, and your head turns instinctively toward the staircase.

park sunghoon.

the second floor is quieter, stripped of the flashing colours and strobe lights below. in that softer, warmer glow, park sunghoon comes sharply into focus.

he’s leaning over the railing, forearms bearing his weight. an empty soju bottle hangs loosely from his hand, head bowed, expression obscured by shadow—almost like he’s staring straight down at you.

he’s annoyingly gorgeous. his side profile is so lethal that you think if not for his shitty attitude and tendency to stare at everyone sideways, he’d be a model.

you catch yourself wishing he’d just fuck off and do that instead.

your breath catches in your throat. you’re not really sure why—but your body makes the decisions for you tonight, thoughts of sunghoon quickly dissolving as fast as they invaded, feet carrying you toward the front door.

sleek wood and cold metal doorknobs in all their unassuming glory. it’s an exit. a way out of the noise, the lights, and the man upstairs who feels far too aware of your existence.

you move. fluid, deliberate, like this was always the plan.

sunghoon’s gaze tracks you as you slip through the crowd, hair brushing shoulders, bodies pressing in too close. the lights repaint you with every step—pink, purple, red—until you glance back once, just for a second, and the colours smear into something unreadable.

when you finally cross the threshold of the front door, your body is hit with cold wind; unsurprisingly, there’s scattered groups of people across the front yard, smoking and drinking in their quiet bubbles. you inhale the relatively cleaner air, deep, slow, until it settles in your lungs and you’re spared from the remnants of vape flavours and fruity alcohol.

the music dulls behind you, but the vibrations still reach your feet nonetheless.

you sigh, a hand dragging through your hair, before you make your way towards a stone pillar, only to lean your weight against it. you didn’t realise how quiet it could be, after almost two hours in that god forsaken party—the quiet chatter doesn’t make your head spin out here and the occasional laugh isn’t as annoying as the screams inside.

that’s when you see him.

lee heeseung—smoking—with that guy from engineering. jake sim.

the cigarette is pinched between his fingers, and he takes slow drags like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this messy, overgrown scene. jake’s rambling beside him, hands flying as he retells some story you can’t hear, and heeseung just nods along, offering the occasional laugh that reassures his friend that he finds it equally as funny.

everything feels slowed down. time is suspended. his hair slips into his eyes, and every now and then he shakes his head, a small, unconscious motion to clear his vision.

this is kind of creepy. you’re watching lee heeseung smoke at two in the morning from his front porch. you, a year ago, wouldn’t have believed this even if someone swore on it.

okay. that’s enough. you’re leaving—immediately.

but not before you bring your phone to your face—the blue light stings, almost burns your retinas. you blink hard once, twice, until the haze clears. your thumb swipes into your messages.

kim sooha has kept her word.

sooha (do not reply): +82-xx-xxxx-xxxx 01:53

sooha (do not reply): enjoy yourself! <3 01:53

bitch.

you add the contact while lee heeseung is still laughing in your peripheral vision, smoke curling into the dark, completely unaware that—through totally legitimate and ethical means—he’s now a button away.

─────────────────────────

park sunghoon was not interested in love.

this was, somehow, a known fact across campus.

anyone could guess by that stoic look on his face and that gigantic duffle bag he drags around everywhere, that the man couldn’t be paid a million dollars to be locked down—that’s what so little time and too many (non-romantic) commitments does to you.

mondays were the gym. tuesdays, practice. wednesdays, rest. thursdays, practice again. fridays, the gym, and a night run. saturdays and sundays, practice too. he was surprised he even had time to fit kim sooha into his schedule, though, it was not as often as she preferred.

okay, he admits it was just sex—but an hour or two once or twice a week was already cutting it close.

sunghoon was an ex-figure skater turned ice hockey player, so it was clear what the future held for him: he’s talented, rich, disciplined, a genius—the world was his oyster. everyone around him was in his court.

who would he be if he let someone make the rules for him?

you see: park sunghoon couldn’t be bothered with the girls throwing themselves at him, or the ones who acted shy. in his eyes, it all ended the same.

they wanted more. he couldn’t give more. he didn’t want to give more.

kim sooha was no different. of course she wasn’t—park sunghoon couldn’t deny it, because she fit the stereotype of every girl who’d ever wanted him: bashful, a little self-deprecating, and far too clingy.

at least he had been decent enough to tell her that sex was all it would ever be, and all he could afford to give. but what do you know (park sunghoon always knows), someone ends up wanting more.

the night of the party, around ten, sunghoon found himself holed up in his bedroom trying to finish up a paper before the house had started swarming with people. one moment he’s typing, fingers mashing away at his keyboard as the words flow flawlessly, perfectly, and his mind occasionally drifts to the grade he’d get for this assignment. nothing less than 100, of course. he wouldn’t expect anything less from himself.

“hoon!”

and his genius flow is disrupted by none other than jake, peeking his head from behind the doorway, with an idiotic smile painted across his glowing face.

“what do you want?” sunghoon mutters, head turning back to the screen of his laptop. jake sim’s prsesence usually meant the message wasn’t all that important—if it was, it’d be jungwon up here instead. “i’m busy.”

“sooha’s here,” he says. “she wants to see you.”

sunghoon kisses his teeth in annoyance, solely out of instinct, an action which jake pretends not to notice. it only irritates sunghoon even more, really—he’d rather jake just be honest with him, instead of pretending to be polite just for the sake of being polite. he knows better than anyone that all of his brothers hate when kim sooha is around, and that hiding it won’t convince park sunghoon otherwise.

for varying reasons.

he recalls that one dinner two weeks ago, when jay told sunghoon to ‘do a better job at shutting sooha up’. he could barely eat the rest of his food.

“please don’t send her up here. i’ll be downstairs soon,” and jake is almost ready to turn his pretty face right around and back downstairs to help set up the speakers, before sunghoon asks: “why is she even here?”

“hey, you’re the one fucking her, man.” jake shrugs, before he turns around for the final time. sunghoon’s face morphs into one of disgust, weirdly fast, even though the statement isn’t exactly false—still, it doesn’t stop him from wanting to crawl into a hole and die.

there’s something wrong with him. he can’t deny the sex was good, and yes, kim sooha was gorgeous… but commitment? staying? forever? that was different.

he remembers when yang jungwon had a girlfriend. those were not good times. definitely. the guy refused to leave his bedroom for two days after they broke it off—and sunghoon, as much as he cared for poor jungwon, couldn’t stop thinking about how two days meant two lifetimes of missed productivity.

just how much of an asshole could he be?

so, that’s precisely why he settles for sex. a dopamine hit to get himself off edge, so he’s ready to stretch himself thin all over again.

lee heeseung says it’s not healthy, but what the hell would he know? he’s too busy drowning in love letters, home-baked cookies, and instagram requests to understand why this is the best option out of any presented to him. the golden boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about—the only reason he even bothers giving advice is because of the one, maybe two girlfriends he had in first year, which he seems to think qualifies him as an expert in sweet, innocent, and healthy love.

park sunghoon doesn’t even have instagram. it’s a waste of time.

why the fuck doesn’t he get cookies, anyway? why don’t girls approach him just to talk, instead of trying to grind on his crotch at parties? why doesn’t he have someone sweet and steady, sitting in the stands and watching his games—wiping his tears when he plays like shit, or being the first one he looks for when he scores an amazing shot?

never mind the way he takes their hand and leads them upstairs. never mind how easily he leans into a stranger’s touch and lets himself pretend it means something. never mind that he’s learned to let names slip past him, unheard, while his gaze drifts instead to the shape of their lips.

never mind all of it.

he tells himself it’s circumstantial—something inevitable, something learnt. that he would be different, could be different, if the world around him didn’t demand this version of him in return.

lee heeseung gets to commit. he gets to feel it all—the highs, the warmth, the quiet safety of having someone stay, and he makes it out unscathed, unhurt. he gets to ground himself in knowing that she won’t walk out of that door when shit hits the fan, too—fuck, he doesn’t know anything at all.

footsteps thud from the hallway, but he knows it’s just jay and riki shifting furniture around—boards scraping, chairs sliding—enough to rattle the plaster on the walls. jake’s voice cuts through the mess, yelling at heeseung to find the extra loud speakers jungwon had “borrowed” for his own use. somewhere upstairs, sunoo’s probably napping, blissfully unaware of the chaos below.

sunghoon doesn’t mind. five people are more than enough to handle party prep, and he refuses to be dragged into it. the music, the clatter, the erratic shouts—it all feels like someone else’s life, a background noise he doesn’t need to claim.

instead, up here, he can focus on what matters: finishing his paper, keeping his head down, staying untangled in this mess that’s about to spill over the entire house in about an hour.

he leans back against the leather of his chair, shoulders finally relaxing, and lets his gaze wander over the room. the house smells like air freshener, a somewhat helpful idea proposed by riki, but the sharp tang in his nose makes him grit his teeth.

for the first time that evening, he almost smiles at the absurdity of it all, the chaos of his brothers trying to pull off another last-minute party. he knows it’ll all work out fine, and that this will be the talk of campus until it fizzles out in two weeks, but it’s still ridiculous how these people never learn to plan ahead.

he remembers the last party sigma alpha eta threw—someone broke a table, then went swimming naked in the pool. safe to say, jake and him had to track the culprit down the next morning and demand the funds to get it cleaned.

“hoonie?”

a soft click from the front door snaps him out of his thoughts.

he knows exactly who it is.

kim sooha. standing by the dark frame of his door, dressed in something that would’ve had him weak in the knees if he was some random horny loser—skirt smooth, tight against her skin, a leather jacket framing her small body. it’s too bad that he doesn’t give two shits, though.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” she announces, voice sharp yet playful, as if she owns the room that sunghoon’s made his. it irks him.

she leans against the doorframe, one hip jutting out, arms crossed with a face so smug that it makes him want to flip her off. “so, i came early. just to… check in.”

he looks back at the screen of his laptop, bright blue light shining in his face, and barely moves another muscle. “you know where the rules stand. i’m busy.”

“hoonie—“

“told you to stop calling me that.” sunghoon cuts her off, “i don’t need you checking on me, thanks. party’s not starting for another hour. maybe you can help them prep?”

the words land like a slap. sooha’s jaw tightens, but she forces a smile, refusing to let him see the way it stings.

she steps closer anyway, as if proximity can wear him down, break the walls that are already hardening—or climb over whatever’s already there.

“come on. it doesn’t have to be like this.” she tilts her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, “i’ve been asking you for weeks, hoon. i’ve always wanted—”

“no.” sunghoon exhales, forcefully slow, as if that’ll help him calm down. “i’ve been saying the same shit for weeks. you’re pushing me.”

she takes two steps closer, heels tapping against the shiny wood floor. the space between them closes as she leans over his desk, shadow casting over the dark oak. he feels like slamming his head into it—the bruise would be less painful than this, the sharp smell of her fruity perfume that sunghoon never bothered to register, but hates anyway now that it finally has.

he never thought he’d have to tell her that he hates the notes of citrus. it didn’t matter if she never stayed long enough to get the words out.

“hoonie,” sooha mumbles, hands bracing the surface of his table. “i thought we were getting somewhere.”

“even after i told you we weren’t?” sunghoon shifts his chair backwards, widening the gap just so he could feel like he wasn’t going to choke at the smell of her perfume. “know what? i’m done. can’t fucking draw any lines with you—“

“that’s it? we’re just—“

sunghoon’s jaw tightens, and he leans back slightly in his chair. “i said it was just sex. nothing more. if you’re begging for a hug and some kisses, go somewhere else.”

the silence hangs in the air, thick, impenetrable. for a minute, sunghoon wonders if he’s gone too far—sooha’s face falters, her sultry smile now replaced by lips that tremble before her teeth bite down on them. she nods once, slow, looking at park sunghoon like he’s driven a ten-foot pole straight through her chest, twisted it, and ripped it back out.

his eyes flick from his laptop screen to her irises. if one thing’s admirable about park sunghoon, is that if he was going to tear you to pieces, he’ll have the decency to look you in the eye.

at least, for that final word. it’s about as much emotion as he can manage.

“get out.”

so she does—nods slow, before turning on her heel, the sharp click of her shoes echoing once, twice, until it fades down the hallway.

the door shuts behind her with a quiet finality. sunghoon doesn’t watch it close.

the smell of sooha’s perfume lingers in the air, unwanted, and he feels petty for even trying to block it out. after all, they’ve shared a bed before, even if they skipped every prerequisite to get there—but it rarely ever felt worth it to him, if at all.

he’s had his fair share of women. he’s always prided himself on being honest about what he wants—in his mind, there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as everyone’s on the same page.

no promises, no expectations, yet it always ends the same way. someone always reaches for more pieces of him than he’s willing—or able—to give. pieces that have were never there to begin with.

jake tells him he’s lucky. says it with a laugh, like sunghoon should be grateful for the attention, the bodies, the ease of it all. heeseung tries to offer half-assed couch therapy, something about “opening up” and “not shutting people out,” advice sunghoon knows was pulled straight out of his ass—or worse, his tiktok feed.

god, if he wanted someone to tell him what was wrong with him, he’d just pay someone with a degree five hundred a session to do just that.

park sunghoon is not interested in love. park sunghoon is not interested in love. park sunghoon is not. interested. in. love.

it’s inefficient—unstructured, demanding, and prone to spilling into places it doesn’t belong. it asks for time he doesn’t have, space he’s already accounted for, pieces of him that are scheduled, measured, calculated and spent elsewhere, where it should be.

he repeats it like a mantra: no one is looking at him and realizing he’s absent more than he’s present—because sooner or later, they always want more, and he’s learnt that it’s better to draw the line early than to watch disappointment set in later.

this is mercy.

but to whom, he can’t answer.

─────────────────────────

you’re not very sure where you’re going with this.

there’s a list of problems so long it could double as a grocery store receipt:

one) how do you even explain that you got lee heeseung’s number, and

two) what excuse do you have to actually talk to him?

still, you’re laid in bed, the glow from your screen washing your face in harsh white light, painting the ceiling in sharp rectangles. your eyes squint, blinking against the burn, as if staring long enough might make this whole thing less terrifying.

it’s nearing four in the morning, and you’re fairly certain the party has been over for hours—probably everyone has stumbled home or collapsed on some couch somewhere, except for you, hovering in your room like a guilty ghost.

okay, no. these are excuses, and this is you overthinking, twisting your brain into knots. once you finally text that damn number kim sooha “gifted” you—reluctantly, no less—you’ll either regret it or… regret it. either way, there’s no turning back.

you: hiiiii

creep.

you: hi

ominous…

you: is this heeseung?

too direct.

this isn’t working. your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling slightly, and the numbers stare back at you like a puzzle you’re too tired to solve. maybe, if you stare long enough, they’ll rearrange themselves into an opening line that isn’t mortifying.

though, instead of the numbers moving, your thumb does.

“shit. shit, shit, shit—“

oh, yes, your butter fingers saved you the trouble of texting him: why don’t you just fucking call him, instead? like that’s so much better, real smooth of you.

riiing. riiing. riiing.

you barely have time to process before the line goes quiet.

the silence swallows you whole—your ears ring with it. it’s the kind of quiet that makes you question if you’ve suddenly lost all ability to hear.

oh my god. this is hell. you’re either died, or the world has ended, or some black hole just opened up in your room, because it’s too silent for it to be even remotely normal.

“hello?”

the voice on the other end of the line sounds sharp, clipped, like you’ve interrupted something important—or worse, like you’ve woken him up.

you can’t even fault him for it. it’s four in the morning, after the biggest party this term, and you’re an unknown number calling like you’ve lost your damn mind. still, it makes your heart twist a little.

“who is this?”

it’s not rude… not exactly. still, something in your chest sinks because you know what that tone usually means.

you have, roughly, three seconds to justify your existence before lee heeseung hangs up and you become another embarrassing almost in your own head.

maybe one.

“hi,” you mumble, and somehow almost stutter—if that’s even possible over the phone, with a single word—it comes out thin, fragile, and utterly useless.

the line goes quiet again, and you genuinely consider slamming your head into the wall just to feel something else other than the tiny voices evil-laughing in your head. “heeseung, right?”

more damn silence.

not the dead-line kind. it’s worse. it’s the thinking kind.

you picture him on the other end, phone held away from his ear, brow furrowed as he debates whether this is worth his time. unknown caller. 4 in the morning. zero context. and it’s some girl who can’t even say ‘hi’ right.

if you were him, you’d hang up. you’d block the number, move on, this becoming nothing but a blip in your already eventful life.

your grip tightens around your phone. “i—sorry,” you rush out, words tumbling over each other now that the dam’s broken. “this is probably really weird, i know. i wouldn’t usually call, i swear. i just—i got your number earlier and—”

“earlier?” he cuts in.

there’s something in his voice now—not annoyance. interest, maybe. a sprinkle of curiosity edged with suspicion that you weren’t exactly authorized to clear.

your pulse stutters. you should’ve consulted with jiwon before doing something as stupid as this—or sunoo. hell, even the neighbour next door. anyone would’ve been better than diving into this unprepared.

“yeah. tonight, at the party.” you say quickly, like saying it fast will make it make more sense. lee heeseung, pleaaaase be hungover. just this once. “you hosted, right? sigma alpha eta?”

“riiight,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “and who gave you my number?”

your stomach drops.

shit.

“uh,” you hesitate, immediately regretting it.

lying feels wrong. lying is wrong, actually, according to everyone ever—but the truth feels… way messier.

you weren’t going to hang kim sooha to dry—who knows what she’ll do to you? you can’t risk heeseung finding out the lengths you went to for some digits. besides, you practically played fetch with her.

“a friend,” you say finally, wearing a prideful grin on your face, as if anyone couldn’t have come up with that ridiculous excuse. “yep.”

“a friend,” he repeats, flatly, like he doesn’t believe a single thing coming out of your mouth. “what friend?”

you squeeze your eyes shut. god, this is going terribly. divert!

“look, if this is a bad time, i can hang up. i really didn’t mean to bother you, i just—”

“you already are,” he says, but there’s something off about it. his tired voice crackles, but it barely sounds angry. almost amused in nature.

you blink. “oh.”

there’s a heavy breath on the other end. you can hear it clearly, like he’s shifted positions, maybe sitting up now, or turning over in bed. definitely more awake than he was a minute ago.

gosh. you’re imagining bed-hair heeseung now. this isn’t good.

“you usually call people you don’t know at four in the morning?” he asks.

“no,” you respond immediately. “never. absolutely not. this is a first and hopefully, a last.”

that gets him—you can tell, even without seeing him. there’s a soft huff through the speaker, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make your chest flutter traitorously.

“so, i’m the trial run?”

you hesitate, then answer honestly, because at this point, what do you have left to lose? your dignity that’s already been thrown out the window and run over by a car?

“i wanted to talk to you.”

another pause. this one lingers, stretching just long enough to make your fingers tingle around your phone. strangely, it comforts you, the idea that he might hang up—that this could end cleanly right here, because you’ve (smartly, or accidentally) yet to tell him your name.

he’ll never have to know if he just—

“yeah?” he says, quieter now.

“yeah,” you echo, barely above a whisper.

something shifts. you can feel it, even through the line—the way he’s genuinely listening now, leaning into every word instead of brushing you off. your heart flutters, warmth blooming from somewhere in your chest (you can’t pinpoint it), and lee heeseung seems to be at the center of it all.

“well,” he says finally, voice way smoother now, like he’s got all the time in the world to offer you. “you’ve got my attention.”

“i do?” you ask, genuinely amazed by yourself. “you’re not hanging up?”

“do you want me to?”

“no,” the word slips out before you can stop it—soft, a little too quick, and much too honest to take back.

for a beat, there’s nothing, then a breath on the other end of the line—slow, deep—followed by a low sound that might be a laugh, or might just be him exhaling tension.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i thought so.”

you roll onto your side, sheets whispering against your skin. the ceiling blurs above you, white and featureless, while the rest of the world stays asleep—unaware that something small yet irreversible is happening at four in the morning, right in this room, in your hands.

“so,” he says, “why’d you really call?”

your fingers tighten around your phone. your phone peels away from your cheek, and for a brief moment, you just stare at the glow of the screen, at his contact—*heeseung lee—*like it might blow up if you lie.

“well,” you mumble, chewing on the lining of your cheek. “i just wanted to introduce myself.”

“ah,” he says. there’s movement again, like he’s forcing himself to stay awake and hear you out. “did your… friend warn you i’m not friendly at this hour?”

you can almost picture him now. propped up against his headboard, hair a mess from sleep. his arm slipping under the hem of his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at an itch on his lower abdomen. knuckles rubbing hard at his eyes, chasing away the last stretch of drowsiness you interrupted—before you called, that is.

“i don’t think she mentioned that,” you say, a nervous smile tugging at your lips despite the fact that he can’t see it. your knees draw tighter to your chest, arms locking around them like you’re bracing for impact. it feels like there are insects beneath your skin—restless, frantic, crawling along the lining of your stomach. “she just said you wouldn’t hang up.”

“you trusted that?” his laugh filters through the speaker, low and unexpectedly warm, the sharpness from earlier dulled into something almost fond. “what if she gave you a fake?”

“then i guess i just woke up some random guy at four in the morning,” you say after a second, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. “which would be… humiliating.”

“hm.” there’s movement on his end again—fabric shifting, a quiet thud like he’s moving around the room. god, you wish you knew what his room looked like. “so, you’d just apologize and hang up?”

“…literally what else would i do?”

there’s a pause before he speaks. you can almost hear him think out loud. “don’t know. try harder?”

the words are simple, but they settle heavy in your chest. what the hell does he mean by try harder?

“try harder?” you repeat, incredulous, a little astonished that the man you’ve dreamt up is a little different from what you’re hearing.

“yeah.” his voice lowers a fraction, losing the teasing edge and gaining something steadier. “if you wanted to talk to someone that bad, i’d hope you wouldn’t give up after one wrong number.”

your fingers curl tighter around your phone. “you don’t even know why i called.”

“don’t i, though?”

okay—what the fuck? you’ve moved somewhere closer to your window by now, staring at bright windows, counting the very few amount of people walking around at this hour downstairs. anything that’ll fill the silence between his words and your reply, which your brain has yet to compute.

do not call boys you like at four in the morning. note taken.

“anyway,” his voice sends a soothing relief through your body. “what’s your name?”

the question feels strangely intimate.

“why?” you deflect, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you are. there’s no going back from this—once he knows you’re you, it’s sealed.

you might have to discuss… alternative routes tomorrow. there is no way in god’s green earth that you’ll be able to face lee heeseung in those hallways once this is done.

“because,” he say purposefully slow, like he’s explaining things to a toddler. “if you went through the trouble of getting my number, i should at least know who i’m losing sleep over.”

“y/n.”

okay—flights to antarctica. a new name. a new identity is what you need right now, in order to combat the nerves in your body going into overdrive.

he goes quiet for slightly less than ten seconds—though you’re not exactly sure why you’re counting—and the quiet literally burns. it’s embarrassing to hear his breathing on the other end of the line, because what does it mean? is he disgusted? is he shocked? is he going to block you, or fall in love with you right now?

“it’s a pretty name,” he says. “haven’t heard it before.”

you’re fighting every urge in you to scream.

this feels oddly reminiscent of that middle school crush you had back when you were 13. it’s all butterflies and shaky hands, and even sweatier palms.

lee heeseung’s voice is silky smooth at this hour. exhaustion creeps up on him like it’s claiming his sleep debt, and you hear it in the tiny yawn that sounds through your speakers. you hoped that not holding your screen to your cheek would aid in the worry that he could hear your nervous breathing.

“well, we’ve never talked directly before, so…”

he hums in response. “well, it’s almost five.”

“trying to get rid of me?” you joke, and boy, does the post-flirt-humiliation hit—your eyes screw shut as you silently mutter a ’what the fuck?’.

he scoffs, “am i?” with the faintest trace of a smile in his voice. you can hear it well enough without the need to look at him—though that would be preferable—which only sends you further into a delusional spiral.

lee heeseung finds you funny.

you bite back a grin, pressing your lips into a thin line. your cheeks ache. you’re probably flushed tomato red from this conversation alone.

you stand up just to keep yourself busy. sittig still feels dangerous, like if you let your body settle, your mind will only follow.

the fear of focusing too much on him—on the way his voice dips at the end of certain words, on how easily he fills the quiet with that strangely confident tone—could be catastrophic.

your fingers trail along the edge of your desk, feeling the shallow nicks in the wood, the uneven varnish near the corner. you latch onto the smallest details: the coolness of the surface, the faint tremor in your hand.

anything to keep yourself grounded to the earth, in the very possible case that lee heeseung sends you into orbit.

on the other end, there’s the muted shift of fabric, like he’s rolling onto his side. you picture him staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head, the phone resting against his cheek.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to be so responsible.”

“one of us has to be,” he says easily. “you don’t sound like someone who keeps track of time, no?”

us.

the word slides into your chest and sits there, heavy and bright all at once.

us, us, us.

you hook a finger through the metal ring of the keychain hanging from your backpack and start spinning it slowly, watching the small charm catch the faint light from your desk lamp. “i absolutely do,” you protest, but the retort comes out thinner than intended.

“do you?” he presses, gentle but unrelenting. “you called me at four in the morning.”

“it wasn’t exactly planned,” you mutter.

“impulsive, then.”

there’s no judgment in his tone. he talks to you like you’re something intriguing under the lens of a microscope.

you cross your room in slow, restless steps, phone held up to chest-level as if the added distance will somehow steady you. the floor is cool beneath your feet. outside your window, the sky is beginning to pale, the darkness thinning into something bluish and uncertain.

“you picked up, though. you didn’t have to.”

the counter-argument is weak. there’s a brief pause before he admits, “yeah, so?”

“so, what does that say about you?”

your fingers still against the keychain. your feet stand still across from it, refusing to move until he says something to keep this seemingly empty conversation moving. there’s a short, succinct moment of quiet that makes you swallow.

and then—a breath. a faint exhale that sounds nothing like a laugh, but more acknowledgement than anything else.

“i make bad decisions before sunrise. i need my sleep,” he answers. “i got an early morning.”