chae.

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Part One

summary: A quiet cul-de-sac, a man who keeps to his garage, and a life that looks sealed off from the outside. Until a little girl opens the door you didn’t know was there. What starts as curiosity turns into small everyday crossings of distance, where tired hands, shared meals, and soft routines begin to blur the line between neighbor and something more. preview: Three days later, Chan learned two very important things. One: His daughter had somehow become emotionally attached to you at alarming speed. And two: You were apparently immune to embarrassment. “Dad,” the toddler whispered loudly from the shopping cart seat, “there she is.” He looked up immediately and spotted you near the produce section, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized shirt while carefully inspecting mangos like your life depended on it. He barely had time to fully think and react before his daughter started waving both arms aggressively from the cart. “HI!”

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Part Two

The fluorescent lights of the deserted hallway hummed, casting a sickly yellow glow that did nothing to soothe the frantic beat of your heart. You clutched your textbooks tighter, knuckles white against the worn covers, as Mark’s shadow loomed closer. His usual cologne, a cloying mix of something vaguely sporty and entirely too much ambition, now felt like a suffocating cloud.

“Come on, [Y/N],” his voice, smooth as polished concrete, grated on your nerves. “Just one date. What’s the big deal? Everyone knows we’d be perfect together.”

Everyone meant Mark and his circle of jock-brained sycophants who believed your role as head of the student council meant you were fair game for the school’s most entitled. You’d spent the last month deflecting his increasingly persistent advances with practiced smiles and vague excuses. But today, after an exhaustive three-hour council meeting that had drained you of all your polite reserves, his unwavering confidence was a suffocating weight.

“Mark, I’ve told you,” you tried, your voice a little breathier than you would have liked. You glanced around frantically. The hallway was completely empty, the last stragglers having vanished moments ago. Even the ever-present janitor seemed to have taken an early leave. “I’m really busy. And besides, I… I’m already seeing someone.”

A perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, really? That’s news to me. And to everyone else, for that matter. Who’s the lucky guy, then? Because last I checked, you were practically married to the student council, not anyone with a pulse.” He stepped closer, his imposing frame blocking your escape route to the main exit. The faint scent of stale locker room and fake confidence was overwhelming.

Panic, cold and sharp, coiled in your gut. You needed an out, and you needed one now. Your eyes darted wildly, desperate for a distraction, a human shield, anything. They landed, almost comically, on a figure hunched over a locker at the far end of the hallway.

He was a silhouette against the muted light from the window, his form swallowed by a voluminous, dark grey hoodie that looked several sizes too big. Baggy jeans pooled around his worn sneakers. A pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses sat low on his nose, catching the light as he meticulously rearranged what looked like a stack of obscure-looking textbooks and a tangle of wires. Even from a distance, you could tell he was flinching slightly, as if the last sliver of afternoon sun dared to trespass into his personal space. His head was bowed, hidden by the hood, and a pair of headphones were clamped firmly over his ears, effectively isolating him in his own world.

Han Jisung. The resident genius-slash-recluse of the school. He was known for his almost supernatural ability to avoid eye contact, his mumbled responses, and his uncanny knack for solving the most complex calculus problems while simultaneously sketching what looked like intricate circuit boards in the margins of his notes. He was the antithesis of everything Mark represented. He was… perfect.

A reckless, desperate impulse seized you. Without a second thought, you pointed.

“Him,” you declared, your voice ringing with a conviction you absolutely did not feel. “That’s my boyfriend.”

Mark’s smirk faltered, replaced by a look of bewildered incredulity. He followed your gaze, his eyes narrowing as they landed on the oblivious Jisung. He looked back at you, then back at Jisung, then back at you again, as if trying to reconcile two vastly different species.

“Him?” Mark scoffed, the word dripping with disbelief. His voice was loud enough to echo in the empty corridor. “Han Jisung? The… the library hermit? You’re telling me he’s your boyfriend? The guy who looks like he’s allergic to sunlight and hasn't had a conversation longer than three sentences in his life?” He actually let out a short, disbelieving laugh, as if the idea was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard.

His reaction, the open ridicule, fueled a sudden surge of stubborn defiance in you. You squared your shoulders, a cold resolve replacing the earlier panic. If he wanted to mock, you’d give him something to mock about.

“Yep,” you said, injecting a breezy confidence into your tone, though your stomach was doing somersaults. “My boyfriend. He’s… private. And very studious. We like to keep things low-key.” You even managed to give a small, saccharine smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see my boyfriend. We have… private, studious things to do.”

You brushed past Mark, his jaw still slack with disbelief, and walked with as much nonchalance as you could muster towards the far end of the hallway. Every step felt like walking a tightrope over a canyon. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the corridor. Jisung was still oblivious, humming tunelessly to whatever was blasting through his headphones as he meticulously organized his locker.

You reached him, slowing your pace. He was so engrossed that he didn't even notice you until you cleared your throat, a little louder than intended. He startled, his head snapping up so fast that his glasses almost slid off his nose. His eyes, wide and a startling shade of brown behind the lenses, were framed by wisps of dark hair peeking out from under his hood. He looked like a startled woodland creature caught in the headlights.

His gaze flickered to your face, then down to your textbooks, then back up to your eyes, his brow furrowed in utter confusion. He pulled one earbud out, a strand of wire dangling awkwardly.

“Uh… hi?” he mumbled, his voice soft, almost a whisper, as if he rarely used it.

You forced a smile, trying to appear calm despite the residual tremor in your hands. “Hey, Han. Can I… can I talk to you for a second?”

He blinked, clearly thrown off by the direct address. “Me?” he squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. He glanced around as if expecting someone else to appear from behind you.

“Yes, you,” you confirmed, stepping a little closer. You lowered your voice, conscious of Mark’s lingering, disbelieving stare from down the hall. He was still watching, you could feel it. “Look, I know this is going to sound completely insane, but I just… I need your help. It’s important.”

Jisung’s eyes widened even further, darting nervously between you and the empty space around him. He took another earbud out, completely. “Help? With what? Did you… did you lose your keycard? I have a master for the lab, but…”

You quickly shook your head. “No, no, nothing like that. It’s… it’s a personal emergency.” You hesitated, then decided honesty was the best, albeit most embarrassing, policy. “That guy, Mark, he’s been harassing me..not exactly- but like cornering me. Really persistent. And I just… I panicked. And I told him I had a boyfriend.”

Jisung’s face remained a blank canvas of confusion. “Okay…?”

“And then he asked who,” you continued, wringing your hands. “And you were the only person in the hallway. So… I pointed at you.”

He stared at you. A long, silent moment stretched between you, broken only by the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system. His eyes, usually so focused, seemed to be buffering, trying to process this unprecedented data. A faint, mortified flush began to creep up his neck, dusting his pale cheeks.

“Me?” he finally managed, his voice barely audible, a mixture of disbelief and genuine fluster. “You… you told him I was your boyfriend?”

You winced. “I know! I’m so, so sorry, Han. It was completely impulsive. I just needed him to back off. He… he only cares about appearances, you know? And he would never believe I’m dating someone who’s, well, not like him.” You gestured vaguely in his direction, then immediately regretted it. That sounded worse. “Not that you’re not amazing! You are! Just… different. Which is great! He just wouldn’t get it- He is- dumb!”

He was still staring, his face growing progressively redder. His hands, which had been fumbling with a calculus textbook, stilled. He looked so utterly out of his element, so clearly unused to this kind of direct, chaotic attention, that a pang of guilt shot through you.

“I understand that you were scared,” he said, surprising you with his quiet empathy. His voice was still soft, but there was a genuine understanding in his eyes now, replacing the initial bewilderment. “He… he can be very… persistent.” He paused, then sighed. “So, now he thinks… we’re dating?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, feeling a fresh wave of mortification. “And he’s the type to double-check. He’ll make it his mission to find out if I was lying. He’ll make my life a living hell if he thinks I strung him along.”

Another beat of silence. Jisung seemed to be doing complex mental calculations, weighing the pros and cons of this entirely unexpected predicament. He ran a hand through his slightly messy hair, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

“So,” you ventured, taking a deep breath and plunging into the proposal you’d mentally formulated on your panicked walk over. “Here’s the deal. I need you to… fake date me. Just until he backs off. A few weeks, maybe a month or two. You wouldn’t have to do much. Just… be seen with me sometimes. Acknowledge me in the halls. Maybe walk me to class once in a while i will do so too! I’ll make it as easy as possible for you. And… I’ll pay you, if you want. Or I can help you with anything, any projects, extra credit, anything you need.”

Jisung’s eyes were wide, fixed on you. He looked like he was witnessing a complex scientific phenomenon he couldn't quite explain. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His cheeks were still flushed, but a strange glint, almost of… intrigue, flickered in his gaze.

He took a moment, then, to your utter surprise, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was quick, fleeting, but undeniably there.

“I’ve read about this trope,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice barely audible. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly behind his glasses.

Your breath hitched. Trope? Of course, he would know the literary term for it. You almost laughed in relief. This might actually work.

“So… you’ll do it?” you asked, a hopeful tremor in your voice.

He exhaled slowly, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. He looked at you, really looked at you, with an intensity that made you momentarily forget the chaos that had led you here. There was a quiet kindness in his gaze that you hadn't expected.

“Okay,” he said, the single word a quiet agreement. “I… I can help.”

Relief washed over you so intensely that your knees felt a little weak. “Oh, Han! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea what a lifesaver you are!”

You were so overwhelmed that you almost hugged him, but caught yourself just in time. He flinched slightly at your enthusiasm, confirming that physical contact was probably still off-limits.

“Okay,” you said, trying to dial back your excitement. “So, starting now. We’re… we’re dating.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “So, maybe… let’s walk out together? Mark’s still out there.”

He nodded, a hesitant bob of his head. He pulled his backpack onto his shoulder, adjusting the heavy strap. The hood was still up, almost completely obscuring his face.

As you walked down the hallway side-by-side, a bizarre sense of unreality settled over you. You, [Y/N], the perpetually composed student council head, were now fake-dating Han Jisung, the human embodiment of the library. It was absurd. It was terrifying. And somehow, exhilarating.

You passed Mark, who was still standing there, looking like someone had just told him the sky was purple. He stared, wide-eyed, as you and Jisung walked past. You even managed a small, victorious smirk in his direction. Jisung, for his part, kept his head down, but you felt a slight tremor in his arm as he walked beside you. He was radiating an almost palpable aura of anxiety.

As you stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, Jisung blinked, wincing slightly. He seemed to shrink further into his oversized hoodie.

“I live… this way,” you said, pointing down the street.

“Oh. Right.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked like he might genuinely faint. His hands were clenched at his sides.

You resisted the urge to laugh, knowing it would probably send him spiraling. This was going to be a fascinating few weeks. You wondered what kind of internal monologue was running through his head right now.

Later that night, curled up in his bed, surrounded by an impressive array of coding books and music equipment, Han Jisung pulled out a worn, leather-bound journal. The pages were filled with neat, precise handwriting, diagrams, and what looked like musical notations. He uncapped his pen, hesitated for a long moment, then wrote:

Dear brain, what are we doing?

He paused, chewing on the end of his pen. He scratched out a line, then started a new one.

Log Entry: Day 1. Operation: Fake Dating. Initiated: [Y/N], Head of Student Council. Subject: Me. Purpose: Deter persistent… jock. Status: Extremely Confused. Data points: Elevated heart rate, inexplicable sweating, internal system overload. Hypotheses: This is either the most illogical decision of my life, or… a new variable in an otherwise predictable equation. Further research required. Must procure more rom-coms. For science. Obviously.

He closed the journal, running a hand over its cover. The memory of her intense gaze, her nervous yet determined smile, and the fleeting relief in her eyes when he agreed, played back in his mind. He still couldn't quite believe it. Her. And him. Boyfriend. The word felt alien on his tongue, a foreign program his system was struggling to run. He sighed, a soft, bewildered sound, and pulled his blanket tighter around himself. This was going to be… interesting.

-

A few weeks bled into a month, and the initial, stomach-lurching awkwardness of your fake relationship with Han Jisung had, surprisingly, begun to settle into a strange, almost comfortable rhythm. Mark, thankfully, seemed to have taken your declaration seriously. His smirks had vanished, replaced by a sullen, confused frown whenever he saw you and Jisung in the same vicinity. Victory.

The “public moments” you’d proposed were surprisingly easy to orchestrate. Jisung, true to his word, would nod stiffly when you passed him in the hall, sometimes even offering a fleeting, almost imperceptible half-smile that was more a nervous twitch than genuine amusement. He’d walk you to class, head down, eyes usually scanning the floor as if searching for a lost theorem, but always staying a respectful half-step behind you. He’d even mastered a quick, almost imperceptible glance around the corner before you turned it, a silent check for the creep. It was endearing, in its own peculiar way.

Today was a test of the new normalcy. You were meeting your friends for lunch in the bustling cafeteria, a place where privacy went to die. Jisung was already there, meticulously dissecting a sandwich and ignoring the world through his omnipresent headphones. You spotted him, a small island of quiet in a sea of raucous chatter, and a mischievous idea sparked.

"Hey, guys!" you chirped, approaching your table where Sarah, Liam, and Chloe were already digging into their trays. "Sorry I'm late, had to grab something." You didn't wait for their replies. Instead, you veered slightly, heading straight for Jisung's table.

He looked up, startled, as your shadow fell over him. He pulled out an earbud, his eyes wide. Before he could utter his usual mumbled greeting, you leaned down, a bright, easy smile plastered on your face, and linked your arm through his.

"Hey, babe," you said, loud enough for your friends to hear, but soft enough to sound somewhat natural. You squeezed his arm gently. "Mind if I steal a fry?"

Jisung froze. Absolutely, completely froze. His entire body stiffened, and you could feel the tremor in his arm even through the fabric of his hoodie. His eyes, already wide, somehow managed to widen further, darting from your arm to your face, then wildly around the cafeteria as if searching for an escape route. A deep, mortified blush bloomed on his neck, creeping upwards to engulf his ears. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, about to spontaneously combust.

"G-girlfriend?" he choked out, the word escaping him in a strangled gasp. It sounded less like a term of endearment and more like a medical emergency.

You tried to suppress your giggle, biting the inside of your cheek. "Yeah, girlfriend," you repeated, your smile unwavering. "These fries look amazing."

He let out a small, strangled sound that might have been a whimper. He didn’t reply, didn’t move. He just sat there, a statue of flustered confusion, his eyes fixed on your arm linked with his, as if it were a venomous snake about to strike. He finally managed to push his tray of fries vaguely in your direction, then just… shut down. He sat rigidly, observing you, his gaze following your every movement as you casually plucked a fry from his tray.

Your friends, who had been watching the entire exchange with open mouths, finally reacted.

"Wait, that's him?" Sarah whispered, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning fascination. She knew Jisung existed, of course, everyone did, but seeing him up close, interacting with you… it was jarring.

Liam, always the cynic, raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, [Y/N]? The guy who communicates exclusively through hums and the occasional muttered equation?"

"He's actually… kinda adorable," Chloe mused, a soft smile playing on her lips. She was known for seeing the good in everyone, and even she seemed genuinely surprised. "And he's so respectful. Look at him, he just gave her his fries."

You shot them a look that clearly said, Play along, then turned back to Jisung, who was still rigid. You nudged him gently with your elbow. "You okay there, Han?"

He finally blinked, like a computer restarting. "Fine," he mumbled, though his face was still burning. He carefully, almost tentatively, picked up his sandwich again, but his movements were stiff, like a robot whose joints needed oiling.

Over the next week or so, something remarkable happened. Jisung, the boy who flinched at your slightest movement, started to get used to your touch. Not just used to it, but almost… receptive. When you linked arms in the hall, he still tensed for a split second, but then his muscles would relax. If you accidentally brushed his hand reaching for a textbook, he wouldn’t jerk away. Once, during a particularly boring lecture, you leaned your head on his shoulder, pretending to rest, and after an initial rigid shock, he actually… sagged slightly, as if finding a strange comfort in your proximity.

Alone in his room, he’d freak out. He’d replay the day’s interactions in his mind, dissecting every touch, every accidental brush. His journal entries became a chaotic mix of calculus theorems and frantic questions about synaptic responses to unexpected tactile stimuli. Why did her arm feel… right? Why did my shoulder not immediately recoil? Is this a malfunction?

"Okay, boyfriend," you declared one afternoon, holding up your phone. "We need more proof. For believability. We're taking selfies."

Jisung looked at the phone as if it were a deadly weapon. "Selfies?" he croaked, his voice cracking. "But… my face…"

"Your face is just fine," you laughed, pulling him closer. He stiffened, but didn't pull away. You pressed your cheek against his, tilting the phone. "Just smile! Or don't. Just… exist, awkwardly. Would suggest smile a little"

He died inside. You could practically feel his soul departing his body. His smile was less a smile and more a grimace of pure existential dread, but the photos, to your surprise, were perfect. They captured his endearing awkwardness and your playful charm. You posted one on your private story, adding a heart emoji. You could almost hear Mark's blood pressure rising from across campus.

One afternoon, heading home, you spotted a photo booth in a small arcade. "Come on," you tugged on his sleeve, "Boyfriend duty! We need more proof."

He looked utterly terrified, but followed you inside. The small, cramped space felt even smaller with his nervous energy. You put in the coins, and the flash went off, startling him. He jumped, his face a mask of surprise in the first shot. The next few were a blur of you laughing, him looking utterly bewildered, and then, in the final shot, you leaned in, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek. He froze, eyes wide, a blush erupting on his face.

When the strip of photos slid out, you both looked at them. You burst out laughing at his expressions. He, surprisingly, didn't look completely horrified. He even managed a tiny, shy smile at the one where you kissed his cheek. You took the strip, carefully tearing it in half. One half, you tucked into the clear case of your phone, hidden behind your favorite polaroid. The other half, you offered to him.

He took it with trembling fingers, his gaze fixed on the image. Later that night, alone, he would carefully fold it and tuck it into his wallet, a secret treasure.

You discovered a new hobby: leaving him notes. Little Post-it notes, sometimes with a doodle, sometimes just a silly message, sometimes a reminder for a "date" (read: walking you to the library). You'd slip them into the pocket of his hoodie when he wasn't looking, or stick them to his locker.

He kept every single one. Even the dumbest ones, like the one that just said "Hi, Boyfriend!" with a smiley face, or the one with a crude drawing of a stick figure holding a pizza slice. He had a small, otherwise empty box in his desk drawer, and each note was carefully smoothed out and placed inside. They were tangible proof of… something. Something new, something confusing, something that made his chest feel strangely warm.

His protectiveness, while still subtle, was growing. During one of your student council meetings, as you presented your budget proposal, you felt a prickling sensation on your neck. You glanced up, and there he was, standing just outside the meeting room, leaning against the wall. His gaze wasn't on you, but sweeping the hallway, then settling on the figure of Mark, who was loitering near the water fountain, pretending to be absorbed in his phone, but clearly watching you.

Jisung's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He pushed off the wall and, with a casualness that was entirely un-Jisung-like, walked closer to the meeting room door, positioning himself squarely in Mark's line of sight to you. He pulled out his own phone, feigning interest, but his posture was subtly different now – less reclusive, more… present. He was a silent sentinel. You almost smiled.

Every morning, he’d be there. Waiting by your locker, or just outside your first class. He always looked sleepy, a slight slouch to his shoulders, but his eyes, behind his glasses, were always scanning the hallway, a quiet vigilance about him. And he would listen. He wouldn't interrupt, wouldn't offer advice unless explicitly asked. He just listened, head tilted slightly, as you yapped about the latest student council drama, or a funny thing your friend did, or a particularly frustrating chemistry problem. He absorbed it all, a silent, comforting presence.

You found yourself teasing him more and more. Gently, of course. Just enough to see that fascinating blush creep up his neck, to watch him fumble for words.

"You know," you'd muse, as he meticulously organized his pens by color, "for a genius, you really get flustered easily, Jisung."

He'd drop a pen, pick it up, his ears turning bright red. "It's… it's a physiological response to unexpected… stimuli," he'd mumble, avoiding your gaze.

"Uh huh," you'd hum, batting your eyelashes playfully. "Or maybe you just think I'm really charming."

He’d be 0.2 seconds from imploding. His entire system seemed to overload. He’d clear his throat, adjust his glasses, and find sudden, urgent interest in the scuff mark on his shoe. It was addictive, seeing him unravel in such a delightful way.

At night, in the quiet solitude of his room, the journal entries grew longer, more introspective.

Log Entry: Day 57. Subject: [Y/N]. Observation: Increased tactile interaction. Response: Initial system shock, followed by inexplicable sense of… comfort? Hypothesis: Proximity effect. Further testing required. Current research focus: Human romantic comedies. Objective: Understand typical ‘boyfriend’ behaviors. Data collection: Kissing scenes. Note: Significant variation in technique. More data needed. For academic purposes only, of course. Just in case.

He’d rewatch a particularly passionate movie kiss, pausing it, rewinding, watching it again. He’d make mental notes: Angle of head tilt, duration, lip pressure… He’d flush furiously in the dark, wondering what on earth he was doing, what kind of ridiculous rabbit hole this "fake dating" was leading him down. But then he’d remember your laugh, the way your hand felt linked with his, the way you trusted him to just be there, and a strange warmth would spread through his chest.

The "Boyfriend.exe" program was definitely running. And to his utter bewilderment, it was running surprisingly well.

Five months. Five months had somehow evaporated since you’d pointed a desperate finger at the unassuming figure of Han Jisung and declared him your boyfriend. What started as a chaotic lie had morphed into an oddly comfortable, undeniably complex routine. The initial panic of the fake dating had long subsided, replaced by a nuanced understanding, a silent communication that had slowly, subtly, woven itself into the fabric of your daily lives.

You’d grown fond of him. More than fond, actually. You found yourself looking forward to his quiet presence, his sleepy morning greetings, the way he’d listen intently to your endless stories without interruption. He was a steady, grounding force in your otherwise bustling world, and you realized, with a quiet jolt, that you genuinely enjoyed his company.

And Jisung? The metamorphosis was remarkable. He was still Jisung, the boy who wore his hoodie like armor and spoke in soft mumbles, but cracks had appeared in that carefully constructed shell. He was opening up. Tentatively at first, like a shy bloom unfurling in the sun, then with increasing confidence.

It started with music. You’d been walking home one evening, the sky painted in hues of lavender and bruised orange, when he’d suddenly cleared his throat.

“You know,” he’d begun, his voice still quiet but laced with an unfamiliar excitement, “I’ve been working on a new track. It’s… it’s a bit experimental. Combines trap beats with a classical piano melody. I’m trying to capture the feeling of… organized chaos.” He looked at you then, a rare, direct gaze, his eyes shining with an almost childlike enthusiasm. “Do you… do you want to hear it sometime?”

Your heart had done a funny little flip. “I’d love to, Jisung,” you’d said, genuinely. “Tell me about it. What inspired it?”

And he did. He talked about his dreams of producing, about the intricate layers of sound, about how he heard melodies in mundane things, like the rhythm of raindrops or the hum of the school’s heating system. He spoke about his favorite artists, dissecting their compositions with a passion that was almost startling. His words tumbled out, faster than you’d ever heard him speak, and his hands, usually so still, moved animatedly as he described complex musical structures.

You just listened. Really listened. Not because you had to, but because you wanted to. You watched his face light up, the way his eyes danced behind his glasses, and a warmth spread through you. He was more than just the quiet nerd. He was a brilliant, passionate soul hidden behind a thick, soft hoodie. And you found him incredibly, irresistibly cute when he was so excitedly absorbed in his world.

One particularly sweltering afternoon, you were sitting in the near-empty library. He was sketching furiously in a notebook, a diagram of a complex sound system by the looks of it, while explaining something about song octaves – a topic completely lost on you, but his enthusiasm was infectious. As he leaned closer to point out a detail, his glasses, perpetually sliding down his nose, slipped precariously. Without thinking, your hand reached out, your fingers gently pushing them back into place on the bridge of his nose.

His hand, which had been mid-air, froze. He stopped talking mid-sentence, the word ‘frequency’ hanging unfinished in the air. His eyes, magnified by the lenses, were suddenly wide and fixed on your face. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. It was as if a crucial circuit in his brain had suddenly overloaded. He short-circuited.

A faint, but undeniable, blush crept from his neck, up his cheeks, and flooded his ears. It was a deep, fiery red. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. He just… stared. His breathing seemed to hitch.

You pulled your hand back, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. His reaction was always so extreme, so beautifully, awkwardly honest.

“Cute,” you murmured, a genuine warmth in your voice. “You’re cute when you get all excited about music.”

His blush intensified, reaching the tips of his ears. He looked away, his gaze darting to the ceiling, then the floor, anywhere but at you. He cleared his throat, a rough, dry sound.

“It’s… it’s not… frequency is important for… harmonics,” he stammered, trying to pick up where he’d left off, but his voice was strained, and he clearly couldn't remember what he was saying. He eventually gave up, closing his notebook with a soft thud. The tension in the air was palpable, a delicious, unspoken energy simmering between you.

That night, after your part-time job at the local café, you found him waiting for you outside, leaning against a lamp post, his hoodie pulled low. The streetlights cast long shadows, and a cool breeze had picked up.

“Hey,” you said, a little surprised, but pleased. “Didn’t expect you to still be here.”

“Just… thought I’d walk you home,” he mumbled, pushing off the lamp post.

As you walked, the air grew chillier. Your hands, still slightly damp from washing dishes at the café, were cold. You shivered. Jisung, ever observant, noticed. He stopped, and without a word, slowly, awkwardly, offered you his hand.

It wasn't a confident, bold grab. It was a hesitant, open palm, almost a question. Your heart thumped. You slid your cold fingers into the warmth of his sleeves, finding his hand beneath the layers of fabric. His fingers were long and surprisingly warm. He didn’t intertwine them with yours, but simply held them, your hand enveloped by his and the soft fabric of his hoodie. It was an awkward, almost clumsy hand-hold, but it felt incredibly intimate. A surge of warmth spread through you, far beyond the physical. This was new. This was different. This was something.

He started composing something with you in mind. You didn't know it, not explicitly. But sometimes, when he was humming to himself, or scribbling in his music notebook, you’d catch snatches of melody that felt… like you. Bright, sometimes a little chaotic, but with an underlying sweetness. He’d quickly stop if he noticed you listening, muttering about “just experimenting.” But you suspected. You felt it in the way his eyes would linger on you after a particularly poignant chord, or the way he’d absentmindedly tap a rhythm that mirrored the beat of your own heart. He wouldn’t admit it, not yet, but you knew.

One afternoon, you were at his house, his room, ostensibly working on a group project, though you were mostly procrastinating while he was immersed in something on his laptop. He suddenly flinched, slamming his laptop shut with an almost comical speed.

“Everything okay?” you asked, startled.

“Yeah! Fine! Just… uh… a bug. In the code,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze, his face a little pale.

You raised an eyebrow, suspicious. He’d never been this flustered about a coding bug. He was usually methodical, calm. Later, after you’d left, he reopened his laptop, his heart pounding. There, in his image folder, was a candid photo of you. You were laughing, caught off guard, your hair a little messy, sunlight streaming through the window. He’d taken it weeks ago, completely on instinct, because you’d looked so beautiful in that moment. He hadn't realized he'd saved it.

A wave of self-loathing washed over him. Creep. What if she found out? What if she saw it? She’d be disgusted. She’d think he was some weird, obsessive stalker. His carefully constructed fake-dating facade would crumble. Without a second thought, he deleted the photo, emptying the recycle bin. It was better to erase all evidence, to protect this fragile, confusing thing they had.

The tension, however, wasn't just sweet and domestic. It had an edge, a sharp, possessive quality that began to emerge from Jisung.

It happened during basketball tryouts. Mark, of course, was there, dominating the court. Your guy friends, convinced Han needed more "extracurriculars" to appear "normal" (and because they secretly found his awkwardness hilarious), had somehow dragged him along. You were there too, cheering them on from the bleachers. Jisung, surprisingly, wasn't terrible. He was methodical, if not flashy, and his long limbs proved surprisingly useful for blocking.

During a water break, you overheard Mark, loud and obnoxious, talking to his cronies.

“Yeah, [Y/N]’s been weird lately,” he scoffed, loud enough for half the gym to hear. “Still parading around with that, what’s his face, the library kid. Seriously, what does she even see in him? Probably just using him to make me jealous. She’ll come crawling back once she realizes what she’s missing. I mean, look at her, she’s practically begging for it, wearing those-“

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because at that exact moment, a basketball, thrown with surprising force and precision from across the court, sailed through the air and hit Mark squarely in the face. It wasn't a soft tap. It was a solid thwack. Mark staggered back, clutching his nose, a stream of expletives erupting from him.

Everyone turned. Jisung was standing in the middle of the court, a basketball still cradled in his hands, his face oddly blank, almost serene.

“Oops,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying surprisingly well in the sudden silence. “My bad. Must’ve slipped.” He offered a small, unconvincing shrug.

The coach, a gruff man who secretly admired Jisung’s unexpected court sense, just sighed. “Jisung, focus!” But there was no real reprimand in his voice. And to everyone’s surprise, Jisung, the library hermit, actually got into the basketball team.

Later, as you walked home, you looked at him, a flicker of something new in your eyes. "You 'accidentally' hit him with that basketball, didn't you?" you asked, a knowing smile playing on your lips.

He looked at you, his usual flustered expression back, but something else lingered behind it – a spark of something fierce. He reached out, his hand gently patting your head, a soft, almost paternal gesture.

“He was being annoying, baby,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual, but with an underlying steel. “Don’t worry about it.”

Baby. The word, spoken so casually, yet with such unexpected possessiveness, sent a shiver down your spine. This quiet, awkward boy was changing. And the tension, once a playful hum, was tightening, growing thicker, hinting at depths you hadn't anticipated. The glasses might still be glitching, but something was very, very clear. This wasn’t just fake anymore. Not for him, and maybe, just maybe, not for you either.

The air in the stadium was thick with anticipation, a palpable buzz that vibrated through the bleachers. Today was the first inter-college basketball match, eleven months into your "relationship" with Han Jisung. Eleven months that had taken you on a journey from panicked desperation to… well, whatever this quiet, intense, undeniably real connection was.

You scanned the court, searching for him. The team was warming up, a flurry of bouncing balls and athletic bodies. Jisung, despite his initial reluctance, had proven to be a surprisingly valuable player. Not flashy, not a showboat, but strategic, precise, and with an uncanny ability to anticipate plays. He was the quiet anchor of the team, the one who didn't seek the spotlight but consistently delivered.

The whistle shrieked, signaling the start of the match. The crowd roared, a wave of sound crashing over the court. The game began, a fast-paced blur of motion. Jisung was in the thick of it, his long limbs surprisingly agile as he weaved through opponents. He made a crucial block, then sprinted down the court, his usually bowed head held high.

The stadium lights beat down, hot and unforgiving. The air was heavy, humid, sticking to skin. As the first half drew to a close, a timeout was called. The players clustered around their coach, sweat slicking their brows. You watched as Jisung, breathing heavily, reached down and, with a casualness that made your breath hitch, lifted the hem of his jersey to wipe the sweat from his face.

And then you saw them.

Not just you. Everyone did.

Beneath the loose fabric of his jersey, revealed for a fleeting moment, were toned abs. A sculpted, defined core that spoke of hidden strength and consistent effort. He was lean, yes, but undeniably muscular not too much but in a manner to make people swoon. The "baggy hoodie" image you, and everyone else, had of him shattered in that single, sweat-drenched instant.

A collective murmur rippled through the stands. Whispers, surprised gasps. He wasn’t just “nerdy Jisung” anymore. He wasn't just “the quiet one who got dragged into basketball.” He was suddenly… Han Jisung. An athlete. And a seriously, unexpectedly attractive one.

Your eyes widened. You knew he worked out. He’d mentioned late-night gym sessions, a way to de-stress from his studies and composing. But you’d always pictured it as a casual thing, a functional necessity, not something that produced… that. You felt your cheeks warm, a heat that had nothing to do with the stadium lights. You tried desperately not to stare, to maintain your composure, to pretend you hadn’t just witnessed a paradigm shift in the universe.

You failed. Hard. Your gaze kept drifting back to him, even after his jersey settled back down. You weren't the only one. People were openly staring, pointing, a new kind of interest dawning in their eyes.

Jisung, oblivious, seemed deeply confused by the sudden change in the crowd's energy. He furrowed his brow, glancing around, as if trying to locate the source of the collective gaze. He tugged at his jersey, as if sensing the newfound scrutiny, but he didn't connect it to his brief, accidental reveal.

The second half began, and a new energy coursed through Jisung. Whether it was the heat, the adrenaline, or the subconscious awareness of being watched, something ignited. He played with fierce precision, making incredible passes, and then, in the last two minutes, he did something truly remarkable. He stole the ball, dribbled with unexpected speed, and sank a perfect three-pointer. Then another. And another. Each shot was met with an explosion of cheers, the crowd now fully invested in the quiet dark horse.

He was the reason they won. The final buzzer blared, and the scoreboard confirmed it. The team rushed him, patting his back, shouting his name. Jisung, looking overwhelmed but undeniably pleased, gave a shy, triumphant smile.

After the post-game chaos, you met him outside the locker rooms. He was still in his sweaty jersey and shorts, his glasses slightly askew, a water bottle clutched in his hand. He looked exhausted, but exhilarated.

“You were amazing, Jisung!” you exclaimed, genuinely proud.

He blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… got lucky, I guess.”

“Lucky? You practically carried the team!” You nudged his arm playfully. “Everyone was staring at you.”

He frowned, a hint of confusion still in his eyes. “Yeah, I noticed. It was… weird.” He hadn’t put two and two together yet. Bless his oblivious heart.

“Come on,” you said, deciding to let him bask in his innocence for a bit longer. “Let’s go back to your place. We still have that history project to work on.”

He nodded, and you started the walk to his dorm. The evening air was cooler now, but the lingering heat from the stadium seemed to cling to him. As you reached his building, he fished out his keys, his movements a little clumsy with fatigue. He opened the door, stepping aside to let you in first.

His room was exactly as you remembered it – a controlled chaos of books, music equipment, and half-eaten snack wrappers. But today, the most striking thing was the air-conditioning, blasting cool air. You shivered slightly, feeling the sweat dry on your skin.

“You look cold,” he observed, his voice still a little breathless from the game. He gestured vaguely to his bed. “There’s… there’s a hoodie on my bed if you want.”

It was his signature dark grey hoodie, the one that usually swallowed him whole. You picked it up. It still smelled faintly of him – something clean, and a little like old books and fresh laundry. You pulled it over your head, the soft fabric a comforting weight. It was still huge on you, the sleeves dangling past your fingertips.

You glanced at him, a playful smirk touching your lips. He was still standing by the door, watching you, his eyes wide. He had stopped functioning. Completely. His mouth was slightly agape, and a deep, mortified flush was spreading across his face again, even darker than before. His gaze was fixed on you, specifically on his hoodie, now adorning your smaller frame.

You loved that you could do this to him. His reactions were always so pure, so uninhibited.

“Is the brain the only thing toned about you, Han Jisung?” you flirted lightly, watching his reaction. You leaned against his desk, crossing your arms, the oversized hoodie making you feel both small and powerful.

He stammered. “W-what? No! I mean… my… my muscles… for… for… strength!” His words tumbled out in a nonsensical jumble. He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Without another word, he spun on his heel and practically sprinted towards the kitchen.

“I’ll go get you something to eat!” he yelled back, his voice strained. “Water! Snacks! Food!”

You laughed, a soft, warm sound that filled his room. He was still so gloriously awkward, even with his newly discovered abs.

A few minutes later, as you scrolled through your phone, a notification popped up. A text message. From Mark.

'Still with that loser? Heard he actually scored a few points today. Cute. You know who the real MVP is, [Y/N]. I’m still waiting.'

Your jaw tightened. He just didn't quit. You were about to delete it, to block him for good, when Jisung walked back into the room, two bottles of water and a bag of chips in his arms. His eyes, still slightly red from his internal system overload, landed on your phone screen. He saw Mark’s name.

The playful awkwardness vanished. His face, usually so soft, hardened instantly. His eyes, behind his glasses, glinted with a dangerous intensity. He dropped the chips and water onto his desk with a thud.

“What did he say?” he asked, his voice low, deceptively calm, but laced with an undeniable edge.

You looked up, surprised by the sudden shift in his demeanor. “It’s nothing, Han. Just Mark being Mark. I was about to delete it.”

He walked over to you, his eyes still fixed on the screen, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Give it to me.”

“No, really, it’s fine,” you tried, but he gently, firmly, took the phone from your hand. His gaze scanned the message, and then a primal, possessive anger flashed in his eyes. He clenched his fist around your phone.

“I’m going to confront him,” he said, his voice quiet, but utterly lethal. “He needs to learn. He needs to understand that you are not available. And he needs to stop.”

He looked like he was genuinely about to walk out the door and hunt Mark down punch some god damn sense into him. The raw intensity in his eyes startled you. This was a side of Jisung you’d only glimpsed – the silent guardian, the one who “accidentally” hit people with basketballs. This was different. This was pure, undiluted fury on your behalf.

You reached out, your fingers gently touching his arm, feeling the tense muscle beneath the hoodie’s sleeve. He flinched, but didn't pull away.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice soft, but firm. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, just below his glasses. His entire body tensed again, but this time, it was a different kind of tension. “He’s not worth it. You are.”

His breath hitched. The anger slowly, visibly, bled out of him, replaced by a deep, almost overwhelming softness. He lowered your phone, his grip loosening. His eyes, unfocused, stared straight ahead, as if processing the simple, profound statement. He lifted a hand, his fingers tentatively touching the spot where your lips had been.

The anger was gone. Replaced by something else. Something much, much deeper. The system had overheated, but the emotional core was still running. And it was starting to feel a lot less like a glitch, and a lot more like a fundamental change.

-

One year. A full 365 days had spiraled past since that chaotic afternoon in the hallway. A year of shared glances, whispered jokes, accidental touches that felt anything but accidental, and the slow, insidious growth of something far more complex than a "fake" relationship. Today marked their one-year anniversary, and you’d decided to celebrate it quietly, just the two of you, with the slightly-burnt cookies you’d baked.

You met in his room, the familiar space now feeling like a second home. The scent of vanilla, faintly clinging to your clothes from your baking, mingled with his subtle, comforting scent of old books and something uniquely Han. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, meticulously tuning his guitar, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Happy Anniversary, Jisung," you said softly, holding out a small, velvet pouch.

He looked up, startled, a shy smile gracing his lips. "Oh. Right. Happy… anniversary, [Y/N]." He took the pouch, his fingers brushing yours, sending a familiar spark through your skin. Inside was a delicate silver pendant, engraved with a small, abstract musical note.

"It's for your music," you explained, a little nervously. "So you always have a piece of it with you."

His eyes widened slightly as he took it out, tracing the tiny lines. "It's… it's really beautiful, [Y/N]. Thank you." He looked genuinely touched. He then reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, intricately carved guitar pick, attached to a delicate silver chain. It was polished, gleaming, clearly well-loved.

"And this," he said, his voice a little softer than usual, "is for you. It’s my favorite plectrum. It’s seen a lot of… inspiration. I thought… you should have it."

Your heart swelled. It was such a him gift – personal, meaningful, something he clearly cherished. You took it, a warmth spreading through your chest. "It's perfect, Han."

You slid the silver pendant around his neck, his skin warm beneath your fingertips. He did the same for you, his long fingers surprisingly gentle as he fastened the chain, the small, cool pick resting against your collarbone. The air felt thick, charged with unspoken emotions.

He looked up then, his gaze meeting yours. Your eyes drifted down, almost involuntarily, to his lips. They were soft, slightly parted, and you found yourself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to truly, really kiss him.

As if he’d read your mind, his gaze dropped to your lips too. The space between you, normally filled with comfortable silence, crackled with an undeniable tension. Your breath hitched. His eyes, usually hidden behind the shield of his glasses, were intense, almost hungry. He leaned in, just slightly, a silent question in his gaze. You felt yourself leaning in too, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The moment stretched, taut and fragile, ready to snap. But then, a sudden, loud laugh from the hallway broke the spell. A group of students passed by, their voices echoing. Jisung flinched, pulling back abruptly, his face flushing crimson. The moment was gone, shattered like fragile glass.

Later that week, as you walked home from school, the sky opened up. Rain, cold and sudden, lashed down. You instinctively pulled your bag over your head, but it was useless. You were already soaked.

"Wait," Jisung called, pulling his umbrella from his backpack. He opened it quickly, holding it over you. He maneuvered it so that the bulk of it shielded you, leaving his own shoulder exposed to the downpour. He hated the rain. You knew that. He always grimaced, always complained about the damp clinging to his clothes. Yet, here he was, deliberately getting wet to keep you dry.

As you reached your doorstep, dripping and shivering, he looked at you, a soft, concerned look on his face. "You're soaked. You'll catch a cold." He reached out, slowly taking out his hoodie from his bag – the very one you’d worn that day, the one that smelled faintly of your vanilla perfume. He pulled it out and offered it to you.

"Here. It's dry. Put this on."

Your heart gave a funny lurch. He was giving you his hoodie. Not just a hoodie, but his hoodie. The very symbol of his comfort, his privacy, his world. You took it, clutching the warm, dry fabric to your chest.

You looked up at him, standing there in the rain, his hair now plastered to his forehead, droplets clinging to his glasses. He looked so vulnerable, so open. The tension from the other night, the almost-kiss, returned with a vengeance.

He was still holding the umbrella, but he slowly, tentatively, lowered it. The soft drizzle started to land on both your faces. His eyes, usually so guarded, were fixed on yours, vulnerable and full of an unspoken longing. He leaned in again, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

Your lips were so close. You could feel his warm breath ghosting across them. Your eyes fluttered closed. This was it. This was the moment.

And then, just as your lips were about to brush, you both pulled back. Simultaneously. A silent, shared retreat, born not of rejection, but of a sudden, terrifying realization of the precipice you were standing on.

Jisung's eyes were wide, a flicker of panic in their depths. He looked away first, turning his head sharply, his hand instinctively reaching up to push his wet hair back.

Over the next few days, he started pulling away. Subtly at first. He wouldn't meet your gaze as readily. His morning greetings were a little more subdued. He stopped walking you all the way to your door, dropping you off a block away with a mumbled excuse. He was becoming more guarded, slipping back into his familiar shell, and it frustrated you to no end. Why? Why now? Especially after giving you his hoodie, after that almost-kiss that had felt so incredibly real?

You tried to break through his new distance, to tease him like you used to, but he would just nod, or offer a tight, almost forced smile. He wasn't short-circuiting anymore; he was shutting down.

Then came the incident that sent him spiraling. You were studying in the library, working with Liam, a close friend from your chemistry class. He was showing you something on his tablet, and you both leaned in, laughing at a particularly ridiculous diagram. It was completely innocent, just two friends sharing a moment.

Jisung, who had been at a table across the room, looked up. He saw you, leaning close to Liam, your head thrown back in laughter. He saw Liam’s hand gesturing, brushing your arm. And something inside him snapped. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even move. He just stared, his face paling, his eyes turning cold and blank. He quickly packed up his things, stuffing them into his bag with a jerky, uncharacteristic urgency, and walked out without a word, leaving his usual quiet farewell unsaid.

You found him later, sitting alone on a secluded bench behind the dorms, staring at nothing.

"Jisung," you began, your voice firm, but gentle. "What is going on? Why are you being so weird?"

He flinched at your presence, as if he hadn’t heard you approach. He refused to look at you. "Nothing. I'm fine." His voice was flat, devoid of its usual soft inflections.

"No, you're not," you insisted, sitting beside him. "You’ve been pulling away for days. And then you just walked out of the library. What happened?"

He finally looked at you, his eyes clouded with a pain you hadn't seen before. "It's… it's just… complicated." He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough. "This… this isn't real, [Y/N]."

Your heart clenched. "What are you talking about? Of course it's real! We’ve been 'dating' for a year, Jisung! We—"

"No!" he cut you off, his voice rising, a raw edge to it. He finally met your gaze, and the agony in his eyes was unmistakable. "It’s not real for you! This was fake. It started fake. You’re not mine." The words were ripped from him, laced with a bitterness that cut deep. He pulled away from you, physically, emotionally.

You stared at him, stunned. The air grew cold, even colder than the recent rain. "Then tell me," you challenged, your own voice trembling with a mix of hurt and frustration. "Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me this past year meant nothing. Tell me you don't feel anything for me."

He opened his mouth. His eyes searched yours, desperate, conflicted. His jaw worked, and he looked like he was in physical pain. He couldn’t do it. The words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t say it.

He finally looked away, shaking his head slowly. "I… I can't."

The silence that followed was deafening, crushing. The unsaid hung heavy between you.

The very next day, news spread like wildfire. The fake-dating "break" was announced. How, you weren’t sure. Perhaps Jisung had simply stopped waiting for you in the mornings, or you’d walked out of class alone. People just assumed. And everyone, especially Mark, assumed you’d broken up. Whispers followed you in the halls, pitying glances, speculative stares.

Jisung regretted it immediately. The moment the words left his lips, the moment he saw the hurt in your eyes, a crushing wave of despair hit him. He saw you walking alone, the space beside you starkly empty. He saw the looks people gave you. He saw Mark's renewed, predatory interest. He hated it. He hated himself.

But then, the self-doubt, a lifelong companion, crept in. You’re not enough. You’re just the weird kid. She deserves someone better. Someone who isn’t afraid to kiss her in the rain. Someone who isn’t constantly short-circuiting around her. Someone who isn't a coward. He felt like he’d somehow sabotaged the best thing that had ever happened to him, because he was simply… not enough.

The malfunction was complete. The system was off. And the "Do Not Disturb" sign was firmly in place.

-

The "break" lasted exactly three days. Three days that felt like an eternity, each hour stretching into a raw, aching expanse of regret. You moved through them like a ghost, the vibrant world around you muted, the usual clamor of the student body replaced by a hollow echo in your ears. Every time you saw Jisung’s usual spot by your locker empty, or the table in the library where he’d quietly hunch over his notes deserted, a fresh wave of despair washed over you. You missed him with a ferocity that startled you, the absence of his quiet presence a gaping wound.

He missed you too. You knew it. You felt it in the charged silences that hung between you when your paths accidentally crossed, in the quick, painful glances he’d steal before looking away, a haunted look in his usually gentle eyes. He looked pale, even more withdrawn than when you’d first met him. His hoodie seemed to swallow him whole, a desperate attempt to disappear.

The last straw came when you saw Mark, a sickeningly triumphant smirk plastered on his face, sauntering towards you in the cafeteria. He looked like a cat that had gotten the cream, ready to pounce now that his rival was seemingly out of the picture. The thought of going back to endless, polite deflections, of tolerating his smug advances, was utterly unbearable. You couldn't do it. You wouldn't.

You had to fix this.

Without a second thought, you walked straight out of the cafeteria, ignoring Mark’s surprised call. You didn’t even grab your bag from your locker. You knew where he lived, of course. His house was only a ten-minute walk from campus. The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, dramatic shadows. Your heart hammered with a desperate urgency. You needed answers. You needed him.

When you reached his apartment building, you didn't hesitate. You marched straight to his house, raising your hand to knock, but before your knuckles could connect, it swung open. Jisung’s mom, a kind-faced woman with warm eyes who looked remarkably like a slightly more extroverted version of her son, smiled warmly at you. She knew about the "dating thing," of course, as you had both clumsily, vaguely explained it months ago.

“Oh, [Y/N], dear!” she chirped, her smile unwavering. “Jisung’s in his room. He’s been a bit… quiet today. Go on in.” She gestured vaguely down the hall.

Your stomach clenched. His mom was home. This added an entirely new layer of terrifying awkwardness to the situation, but there was no turning back now. You mumbled a quick thank you and made your way down the short hallway to his bedroom door.

You knocked twice, a firm, decisive rap. The sound seemed deafening in the quiet apartment. After a moment, the door slowly creaked open.

And then you saw him.

He was standing there, framed in the doorway, a vision that simultaneously stole your breath and made your heart ache. He was wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants, hanging low on his hips, revealing the faint V-line above the waistband. He was shirtless. The lean, toned abs you’d glimpsed at the basketball game were fully exposed, glistening faintly from a recent shower. His hair was messy, still damp, curling artfully around his ears. And around his neck, resting against his skin, was the silver pendant you had given him, the little musical note catching the light.

He looked utterly shocked to see you. His eyes, usually hidden behind his glasses (which were now conspicuously absent), were wide and vulnerable, a raw confusion etched on his face. His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

The sight of him, so exposed, so unexpectedly beautiful, jolted something loose inside you. The anger, the frustration, the hurt – it all coalesced into one burning question.

“Why didn’t you fight for me, Jisung?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, but laced with all the pain of the past three days. Your eyes searched his, desperate for an answer. “Why did you just… let me go?”

He flinched, as if the words were physical blows. His gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping. “I… I didn’t think I deserved you,” he admitted, his voice hoarse, barely audible. The confession was ripped from him, an agonizing truth. “I’m… I’m just me. And you’re… you. You deserve someone who isn’t… constantly short-circuiting. Someone who’s… better.” He sounded utterly defeated.

The raw, heartbreaking honesty of his confession hit you like a punch to the gut. He thought he wasn’t good enough. All this time, all this beautiful, confusing tension, all his shy attempts at closeness, and he’d been battling this profound self-doubt.

It was too much. The unspoken yearning, the quiet suffering, his vulnerable confession – it all converged into an undeniable, overwhelming urge. You couldn't hold back anymore. You wouldn't.

Before you could think, before he could react, you surged forward. Your hands, with a sudden, fierce determination, reached up and cupped his face, pulling him down. You found his lips, soft and hesitant, and you kissed him.

It was desperate. It was messy. It was everything the almost-kisses hadn't been. Your lips molded against his, an explosion of pent-up emotion. He was stiff for a split second, utterly shocked, then his mouth softened, responding tentatively. His hands, which had been hanging uselessly at his sides, slowly, hesitantly, came up to rest on your waist, pulling you a fraction closer.

You broke apart, breathless, your foreheads touching. Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his. His eyes were wide, blown out, reflecting a mixture of shock, confusion, and a dawning, incandescent hope. His lips were still parted, slightly bruised from the force of your kiss.

“My mom is still home,” he whispered, the words tumbling out on a shaky breath, a last vestige of his awkward, logical brain.

You pulled back just slightly, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips. You looked at him, truly seeing him, shirtless and beautiful and utterly in love.

Then, he moved. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you against him with a sudden, possessive strength that made your breath catch. He leaned down, his lips finding yours again, this time with a confident, undeniable hunger.

The kiss was longer. Deeper. It was a declaration, a surrender, a desperate claiming. His hands moved from your waist, one tangling in your hair, the other pressing into the small of your back, arching you against his bare chest. You felt the hard planes of his abs, the rapid thrum of his heart against yours. Your hands, still on his face, tangled in his damp hair, holding him close.

“I don’t think she would really care,” he mumbled against your lips, a low, husky sound that sent shivers down your spine. His voice was thick with emotion, utterly unlike the quiet whispers you were used to.

He pulled his head back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and intense. Then, with a decisive move, he reached behind you, pushing the door shut with a soft click, plunging the room into a more intimate, hushed light. He didn’t break the kiss, simply deepened it, stepping further into his room, pushing you gently backward towards the bed.

You stumbled back, still locked in his embrace, your legs hitting the edge of the mattress. You both tumbled onto the bed, a soft thud. He landed half on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure, his lips still devastatingly on yours.

He finally pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, both of you panting slightly. His eyes, still wide and vulnerable, searched yours. The fear was still there, a tiny flicker, but it was overshadowed by something powerful, something new.

“I think,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a confession that had been building for months, for a year, for a lifetime, “I think I’m in love with you.”

The words, spoken so simply, so honestly, were the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. Tears welled in your eyes. You reached up, cupping his face again, your thumb stroking his jaw.

“I think I’m in love with you too, hannie,” you whispered back, the admission feeling liberating, profoundly right.

You fell asleep tangled up on his bed, the soft glow of his bedside lamp casting a warm light over the room. He was shirtless, his arm wrapped tightly around you, holding you close. You were still fully clothed, but your hearts were racing in tandem, a frantic, joyous beat that echoed the tumultuous journey you’d taken. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by a profound sense of peace.

The next morning, the sun streamed through his window, painting the room in hues of gold. You woke to the feeling of his steady breathing, his arm still around you. He was fast asleep, his face peaceful, a faint smile playing on his lips. You carefully disentangled yourself, sitting up. You looked at him, truly looked at the man beside you, and your heart swelled.

He woke moments later, blinking groggily, then his eyes snapped open, a dawning realization on his face. He looked at you, then at himself (still shirtless <3), then at the messy bed, and a blush began to creep up his neck. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t panic. It was a shy, happy flush.

He reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. He squeezed gently. “Good morning, [Y/N].”

You smiled, a genuine, radiant smile. “Good morning, Jisung.”

He walked you to class that morning. Not a block away. Not with his head down. Hand-in-hand. His fingers were firmly, possessively linked with yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. His shoulders were straighter, his head held a little higher. He wasn't hiding. Not anymore. He met the stares of curious students, not with defiance, but with a quiet, undeniable confidence. This was his. You were his.

As you neared the main entrance, a familiar, unwelcome voice cut through the morning chatter.

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Back with the librarian, are we, [Y/N]? Thought you’d finally come to your senses. Don’t worry, the offer’s still on the table. You know you want someone real, someone who can actually handle you—”

Mark. He was leaning against the lockers, his usual smug grin back in full force, his eyes raking over you, then flicking dismissively to Jisung.

You felt Jisung stiffen beside you. His grip on your hand tightened, almost painfully. You braced yourself, ready to step in, to deflect, to protect him from Mark’s usual condescension.

But Jisung didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat. He stopped. He turned to face Mark, his entire posture radiating a cold, coiled fury you’d never seen before. His eyes, unshielded by glasses, were blazing.

“Listen here, dickhead,” he said, his voice low, gravelly, and utterly devoid of its usual softness. Every word was precise, cutting, delivered with an icy calm that was far more terrifying than any shout. “I let you talk before because I felt sorry for you. Because you’re pathetic. But you’re not going to talk about her like that. Not ever again.”

Mark’s smirk wavered, replaced by genuine shock. This wasn’t the Jisung he knew. This was something else entirely.

Jisung took a step forward, pulling you slightly behind him, shielding you. His voice dropped even lower, becoming a lethal whisper. “Touch her again, speak to her again, even look at her again with that disgusting glint in your eye, and you will regret ever being born and breathing the same fucking air as her. Learn to respect first, dickhead.”

The final word was delivered with such venom, such quiet menace, that Mark actually took a step back, his face paling. He stammered, opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Jisung didn’t wait for a reply. He simply turned, his hand still firmly clasped in yours, and continued walking towards your class, leaving a stunned, speechless Mark in his wake.

The system had not only rebooted, it had upgraded. And the "Do Not Disturb" sign was now backed by a very, very powerful firewall.

-

The atmosphere around Han Jisung had undergone a complete thermodynamic shift. Where once there was awkward tension and self-conscious fluster, there was now an almost unbearable softness. It was like watching a perpetually guarded hedgehog suddenly bloom into a purring housecat. And you, it seemed, were his favorite scratching post.

He was, quite simply, whipped.

The transformation began subtly, a quiet hum beneath the surface, but now it was loud and clear, echoing in every gesture, every stolen glance. He’d arrive at your dorm every morning, not just to walk you to class, but with a freshly brewed coffee clutched in his hand – exactly how you liked it, black with just a dash of oat milk. He’d learned your order within days of you mentioning it once.

He still wore his hoodies, of course, but now they seemed less like a shield and more like a comfortable second skin, an extension of his soft, quiet confidence. He still mumbled, sometimes, especially when caught off guard, but his words now carried a warmth, a possessiveness that made your stomach flutter.

You found him taking pictures of you. Not secretly, like before, but openly, unabashedly. During study sessions, on walks, even just as you were laughing at something silly. He’d frame you in his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration, then show you the result, a shy, proud smile on his lips. They were always good, capturing candid moments you didn't even know he noticed.

And he listened. Oh, how he listened. If before he was a silent sponge, now he was an active, engaged audience of one. He’d remember details of your day, your frustrations, your small victories, and bring them up later, offering quiet comfort or genuine celebration. Your voice had become his favorite melody, and he absorbed every single note.

Despite the newfound confidence and possessiveness, the core Jisung remained. He was still nerdy, still prone to the endearing stutter when truly flustered, and still occasionally blinked like an owl in direct sunlight. But now, those traits were layered with a thrilling new boldness. He kissed you whenever he wanted. A quick press to your temple as you worked, a soft brush against your lips when he caught your eye across a room, a lingering, breathless touch when you were alone. Each kiss was a silent confirmation, a tangible declaration that you were irrevocably his.

One sunny afternoon, you were lounging on his bed, flipping through one of his comic books. He was at his desk, tinkering with a new beat. A playful impulse struck you. You reached over, snatching his glasses right off his face.

“Hey!” he yelped, a startled sound, his eyes blinking rapidly, temporarily unfocused. He looked hilariously vulnerable without them.

You held them out of his reach, a mischievous grin on your face. “What’s the magic word, Jisung?”

He squinted at you, a soft smile replacing his surprise. He knew this game. He knew you. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made your chest warm. “Please, my love?” he said, his voice husky, an entirely new nickname that sent shivers down your spine.

You melted. You placed the glasses back on his nose, his touch lingering on your fingers. He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. He let you steal them. He let you get away with anything.

One evening, he was showing you the progress on his latest composition – a melody that swelled and pulsed with an undeniable emotional depth. You recognized the faint echoes of your own laughter, the rhythm of your hurried footsteps, the quiet comfort of his presence woven into the notes. It was about you. You knew it.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his guitar resting against his hip. “This part here,” he murmured, his fingers hovering over the fretboard, “is supposed to feel like… like the moment you realize something beautiful is happening.” He gestured for you to come closer.

You didn't hesitate. You shifted, swinging your legs over and settling onto his lap, facing him. He tensed for a split second, then his arms naturally came around your waist, holding you close. His chin rested on your shoulder as he guided your fingers over the strings. His breath ghosted against your ear, and the warmth of his body seeped into yours.

“See?” he whispered, his voice soft against your skin, “Your thumb here, on the C chord. And then these two fingers for the G…” His large hands enveloped yours, teaching you the chords, his body pressed against yours, the guitar a physical conduit for the intimate lesson. The melody, now imbued with his closeness, felt impossibly tender.

Later, much later, curled up in his bed, half-asleep after hours of talking and listening to his music, you murmured, the words slipping out unbidden, soft and hazy with sleep.

“I love you, Hannie.”

His breathing hitched. He stiffened, infinitesimally. He thought he misheard. It was too quiet, too soft, too… monumental. His mind, usually a hyper-efficient processing unit, sputtered. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at your face, illuminated by the faint glow of the moon through the window.

“What… what did you say?” he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming emotion.

You blinked, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep. You looked up at him, meeting his wide, questioning eyes. A soft, lazy smile touched your lips.

“I said,” you repeated, clearer this time, your voice imbued with all the quiet certainty of your heart, “I love you, Jisung.”

He melted. Physically. His entire body seemed to relax, to soften into the mattress. He buried his face in your hair, a low, contented groan escaping his lips. His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between you. He pressed kisses to your scalp, your temple, your forehead. He didn’t say anything back immediately, but you felt the shudder that ran through him, the profound relief, the utter bliss. His silence was louder than any words.

He started wearing the hoodies you selected for him during your infrequent, chaotic shopping trips. You’d pick out soft fabrics, unique colors, or subtle patterns that you knew he’d never choose for himself. He’d try them on, looking bewildered, but then he’d wear them. And sometimes, you’d catch him, subtly, almost instinctively, spraying your vanilla perfume on the collar. He felt like it would be cute, he confessed once, a shy whisper. Like he was hugging you all day.

Those became your "hoodie dates." Simple, quiet evenings, often just in his dorm, him in a hoodie you’d picked out, you in one of his. The air would be filled with the scent of vanilla and Jisung, a comforting, intoxicating blend.

He kissed your shoulder, a soft, deliberate press of his lips against your skin. Then his lips moved, tracing a path along your collarbone, up your jaw, until they reached the sensitive skin just behind your ear, down the column of your neck. Each touch was light, feather-soft, yet utterly devastating. Your breath hitched, a delicious shiver running through you. His hand, warm and firm, rested on your hip, pulling you closer still.

The unspoken hung heavy in the air, a silent question. You both knew where this was leading. The soft breaths grew shorter, more ragged. The air crackled with a dizzying heat. His lips moved to your throat, eliciting a soft gasp. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, closer.

You almost took things further. The desire was a burning, undeniable ache. But then, in the exquisite tension of the moment, you pulled back, breathless, a wide, joyous smile breaking across your face. He looked up, his eyes dark with longing, a question in their depths.

“I could live like this forever,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin.

You held him close, your own smile unwavering. This fragile, beautiful thing you had built, brick by awkward, heartfelt brick, was now your sanctuary. His soft possessiveness, your gentle teasing, the constant hum of unspoken affection – it was everything you never knew you needed. And in his arms, you knew, with profound certainty, that you were exactly where you were meant to be. The “whipped” program was fully installed, and running perfectly.

-

The campus auditorium buzzed with an electric current, a palpable hum of anticipation that felt almost dizzying. Tonight was the annual student talent showcase, an event usually dominated by seasoned performers and boisterous bands. But tonight, something felt different. Tonight was Han Jisung’s night.

You sat in the third row, a knot of nerves and exhilarating pride twisting in your stomach. You had known he was composing something with you in mind. You had felt it in the subtle melodies he hummed, heard it in the passionate way he spoke about weaving emotions into sound. But he hadn't revealed the full scope of it, only that he was playing an "original composition."

The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd. A spotlight flared, illuminating the center of the stage. Jisung walked out, carrying his guitar, a familiar dark blue hoodie clinging comfortably to his frame. His glasses, nestled on his nose, reflected the stage lights, giving him an almost ethereal glow. He looked nervous, his shoulders slightly hunched, but there was a quiet determination in his posture that radiated outward. He sat on the stool placed center stage, his fingers already finding comfort on the fretboard.

He glanced up, his eyes sweeping across the audience, and then, he found you. His gaze softened, a small, private smile touching his lips. It was a smile that spoke volumes, a silent promise. And then, he began to play.

The first notes were soft, hesitant, like a tentative beginning. A simple, ethereal guitar melody, almost fragile. But then, a subtle beat dropped, a low, pulsing rhythm that grounded the sound, giving it depth. His fingers danced over the fretboard, coaxing out intricate chords, weaving complex arpeggios that built and swelled. His voice, usually so quiet, rose, a clear, melodic rap that wove through the music, telling a story.

It was your story.

He sang about a chance encounter in a deserted hallway, a panicked lie, the disbelief of others. He rapped about hesitant glances, fumbled conversations, and the unexpected comfort of a shared silence. He sang about notes in a hoodie pocket, about shy smiles and the warmth of a hand in his sleeve during a cold night walk. The lyrics detailed every awkward, sweet, tension-filled moment you had shared, painting a vivid picture of your journey.

He spoke of secrets kept, of watching rom-coms for "research," of accidentally hitting someone with a basketball. He even recounted the moment you pushed his glasses back on his nose, the "short circuit" in his brain. His voice swelled with emotion as he described the subtle shift, the growing fondness, the undeniable pull.

Then the music shifted, growing more intense, more vulnerable. He rapped about the fear of falling too hard, about pushing away, about the agony of seeing you laugh with another, the crushing weight of self-doubt. The melody became almost painful, raw with regret. He confessed his fear of not being enough, his belief that you deserved "someone better."

And then, the music shifted again, brightening, soaring. His voice filled with an overwhelming tenderness as he described your unannounced visit, the desperate question, the electric touch. He sang about the kiss, about finding home in your arms, about realizing that love wasn’t about being "perfect," but about being perfectly you.

His gaze found yours again, unwavering now. He saw the tears streaming down your face, hot and unbidden. He saw the pure, unadulterated emotion reflected in your eyes. And he played harder. The guitar chords resonated with a newfound power, his voice imbued with every ounce of his confessed love. It wasn't just a performance; it was his soul laid bare, a public declaration of how utterly, completely whipped he was for you.

He brought the song to a crescendo, a final, powerful chord that hung in the air, vibrating with undeniable emotion. The last notes faded, leaving a stunned silence in the auditorium.

Then, he lowered his guitar, looked directly at you, his eyes shining, and spoke into the microphone, his voice clear and ringing with a newfound confidence that sent shivers down your spine.

“This,” he announced, his voice echoing through the silent hall, “is for the girl who rewired my heart.”

And that was your cue. You didn’t think. You didn't hesitate. You pushed past the stunned audience members, scrambling over knees and chairs, your heart thundering against your ribs. You ran, a blur of motion, towards the stage.

He saw you coming. A wide, incandescent smile spread across his face, lighting up the entire auditorium. As you reached the stage, he slid off the stool, meeting you halfway. You launched yourself into his arms, your arms wrapping around his neck, and you kissed him.

It was a public kiss, in front of the entire campus, and it was glorious. It was everything the almost-kisses hadn’t been, everything the tentative first kiss on his bed had promised. It was deep, possessive, overflowing with years of unspoken longing and months of tender affection. The crowd erupted, a deafening roar of cheers, whistles, and applause. It was loud, chaotic, and utterly perfect.

The creep? You heard he was quietly expelled the following week. It seemed his behavior hadn't gone unnoticed by the administration, especially after his increasingly aggressive online messages. Karma, indeed.

A week later, the dust had settled, the campus still buzzing with the afterglow of Jisung’s performance and your very public declaration. You had a final date planned, a quiet, familiar comfort: your favorite café, the one with the best vanilla lattes and the mismatched armchairs.

You spotted him immediately. He was sitting by the window, bathed in the soft afternoon light. He wasn’t in a hoodie. Instead, he wore a crisp white button-down, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows, revealing the toned forearms you now loved. He had on sky-blue pants and a pair of worn Converse, a subtle nod to his casual style, but undeniably more put-together. The silver pendant you’d given him glinted at his throat, and his glasses sat comfortably on his nose. He held a small, artfully arranged bouquet of wildflowers, a whimsical contrast to his new, confident demeanor.

He saw you, and that familiar, shy-but-smitten smile blossomed on his face. He stood up as you approached, and for the first time, he openly, unabashedly flirted.

“Took you long enough, love,” he murmured, his eyes twinkling as he held out the flowers. “Thought I’d have to send out a search party.”

You laughed, taking the bouquet, leaning in to inhale the delicate scent. “Someone’s feeling bold today, Han Jisung.”

“Only for you,” he whispered, his eyes lingering on your lips. He paused, a flicker of his old hesitation, but it was quickly replaced by a confident smirk. “You spent time on your makeup, didn’t you? I don’t want to ruin the lipstick.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in your gaze. “Oh, really?” You leaned in, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to his lips, smudging your lipstick just a little. “Too late.”

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that vibrated through your chest. “Good,” he said, his eyes darkening with desire. He leaned in, deepening the kiss, no longer caring about the lipstick.

After you ordered, he reached under the table, pulling out a small, elegantly wrapped box.

“Happy… non-anniversary,” he said, pushing it across the table to you.

You opened it carefully. Inside, nestled in satin, was a sleek, silver flash drive. You looked at him, puzzled.

“It’s our story,” he explained, his gaze soft, full of emotion. “In music. Everything. From ‘Error: You’re My Boyfriend Now’ to… well, this.” He gestured between the two of you, a profound happiness radiating from him. “Every moment. Every feeling. Every glitch. All captured.”

You felt tears prick your eyes again. It was the most Han Jisung gift he could have ever given you. A symphony of your shared journey, from chaos to profound love.

You reached across the table, taking his hand, intertwining your fingers. His thumb stroked the back of your hand, a familiar, comforting gesture.

He leaned in, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The nerdy boy was still there, but now, he was entirely, unapologetically himself. And entirely, irrevocably yours.

He squeezed your hand gently, his gaze unwavering, and then, he spoke the last line, a simple truth that echoed the entirety of your story, a perfect loop of beginning and end, and a promise of forever.

“I may be nerdy, but I’m yours. Always."

The fluorescent lights of the deserted hallway hummed, casting a sickly yellow glow that did nothing to soothe the frantic beat of your heart. You clutched your textbooks tighter, knuckles white against the worn covers, as Mark’s shadow loomed closer. His usual cologne, a cloying mix of something vaguely sporty and entirely too much ambition, now felt like a suffocating cloud.

“Come on, [Y/N],” his voice, smooth as polished concrete, grated on your nerves. “Just one date. What’s the big deal? Everyone knows we’d be perfect together.”

Everyone meant Mark and his circle of jock-brained sycophants who believed your role as head of the student council meant you were fair game for the school’s most entitled. You’d spent the last month deflecting his increasingly persistent advances with practiced smiles and vague excuses. But today, after an exhaustive three-hour council meeting that had drained you of all your polite reserves, his unwavering confidence was a suffocating weight.

“Mark, I’ve told you,” you tried, your voice a little breathier than you would have liked. You glanced around frantically. The hallway was completely empty, the last stragglers having vanished moments ago. Even the ever-present janitor seemed to have taken an early leave. “I’m really busy. And besides, I… I’m already seeing someone.”

A perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, really? That’s news to me. And to everyone else, for that matter. Who’s the lucky guy, then? Because last I checked, you were practically married to the student council, not anyone with a pulse.” He stepped closer, his imposing frame blocking your escape route to the main exit. The faint scent of stale locker room and fake confidence was overwhelming.

Panic, cold and sharp, coiled in your gut. You needed an out, and you needed one now. Your eyes darted wildly, desperate for a distraction, a human shield, anything. They landed, almost comically, on a figure hunched over a locker at the far end of the hallway.

He was a silhouette against the muted light from the window, his form swallowed by a voluminous, dark grey hoodie that looked several sizes too big. Baggy jeans pooled around his worn sneakers. A pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses sat low on his nose, catching the light as he meticulously rearranged what looked like a stack of obscure-looking textbooks and a tangle of wires. Even from a distance, you could tell he was flinching slightly, as if the last sliver of afternoon sun dared to trespass into his personal space. His head was bowed, hidden by the hood, and a pair of headphones were clamped firmly over his ears, effectively isolating him in his own world.

Han Jisung. The resident genius-slash-recluse of the school. He was known for his almost supernatural ability to avoid eye contact, his mumbled responses, and his uncanny knack for solving the most complex calculus problems while simultaneously sketching what looked like intricate circuit boards in the margins of his notes. He was the antithesis of everything Mark represented. He was… perfect.

A reckless, desperate impulse seized you. Without a second thought, you pointed.

“Him,” you declared, your voice ringing with a conviction you absolutely did not feel. “That’s my boyfriend.”

Mark’s smirk faltered, replaced by a look of bewildered incredulity. He followed your gaze, his eyes narrowing as they landed on the oblivious Jisung. He looked back at you, then back at Jisung, then back at you again, as if trying to reconcile two vastly different species.

“Him?” Mark scoffed, the word dripping with disbelief. His voice was loud enough to echo in the empty corridor. “Han Jisung? The… the library hermit? You’re telling me he’s your boyfriend? The guy who looks like he’s allergic to sunlight and hasn't had a conversation longer than three sentences in his life?” He actually let out a short, disbelieving laugh, as if the idea was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard.

His reaction, the open ridicule, fueled a sudden surge of stubborn defiance in you. You squared your shoulders, a cold resolve replacing the earlier panic. If he wanted to mock, you’d give him something to mock about.

“Yep,” you said, injecting a breezy confidence into your tone, though your stomach was doing somersaults. “My boyfriend. He’s… private. And very studious. We like to keep things low-key.” You even managed to give a small, saccharine smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see my boyfriend. We have… private, studious things to do.”

You brushed past Mark, his jaw still slack with disbelief, and walked with as much nonchalance as you could muster towards the far end of the hallway. Every step felt like walking a tightrope over a canyon. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the corridor. Jisung was still oblivious, humming tunelessly to whatever was blasting through his headphones as he meticulously organized his locker.

You reached him, slowing your pace. He was so engrossed that he didn't even notice you until you cleared your throat, a little louder than intended. He startled, his head snapping up so fast that his glasses almost slid off his nose. His eyes, wide and a startling shade of brown behind the lenses, were framed by wisps of dark hair peeking out from under his hood. He looked like a startled woodland creature caught in the headlights.

His gaze flickered to your face, then down to your textbooks, then back up to your eyes, his brow furrowed in utter confusion. He pulled one earbud out, a strand of wire dangling awkwardly.

“Uh… hi?” he mumbled, his voice soft, almost a whisper, as if he rarely used it.

You forced a smile, trying to appear calm despite the residual tremor in your hands. “Hey, Han. Can I… can I talk to you for a second?”

He blinked, clearly thrown off by the direct address. “Me?” he squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. He glanced around as if expecting someone else to appear from behind you.

“Yes, you,” you confirmed, stepping a little closer. You lowered your voice, conscious of Mark’s lingering, disbelieving stare from down the hall. He was still watching, you could feel it. “Look, I know this is going to sound completely insane, but I just… I need your help. It’s important.”

Jisung’s eyes widened even further, darting nervously between you and the empty space around him. He took another earbud out, completely. “Help? With what? Did you… did you lose your keycard? I have a master for the lab, but…”

You quickly shook your head. “No, no, nothing like that. It’s… it’s a personal emergency.” You hesitated, then decided honesty was the best, albeit most embarrassing, policy. “That guy, Mark, he’s been harassing me..not exactly- but like cornering me. Really persistent. And I just… I panicked. And I told him I had a boyfriend.”

Jisung’s face remained a blank canvas of confusion. “Okay…?”

“And then he asked who,” you continued, wringing your hands. “And you were the only person in the hallway. So… I pointed at you.”

He stared at you. A long, silent moment stretched between you, broken only by the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system. His eyes, usually so focused, seemed to be buffering, trying to process this unprecedented data. A faint, mortified flush began to creep up his neck, dusting his pale cheeks.

“Me?” he finally managed, his voice barely audible, a mixture of disbelief and genuine fluster. “You… you told him I was your boyfriend?”

You winced. “I know! I’m so, so sorry, Han. It was completely impulsive. I just needed him to back off. He… he only cares about appearances, you know? And he would never believe I’m dating someone who’s, well, not like him.” You gestured vaguely in his direction, then immediately regretted it. That sounded worse. “Not that you’re not amazing! You are! Just… different. Which is great! He just wouldn’t get it- He is- dumb!”

He was still staring, his face growing progressively redder. His hands, which had been fumbling with a calculus textbook, stilled. He looked so utterly out of his element, so clearly unused to this kind of direct, chaotic attention, that a pang of guilt shot through you.

“I understand that you were scared,” he said, surprising you with his quiet empathy. His voice was still soft, but there was a genuine understanding in his eyes now, replacing the initial bewilderment. “He… he can be very… persistent.” He paused, then sighed. “So, now he thinks… we’re dating?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, feeling a fresh wave of mortification. “And he’s the type to double-check. He’ll make it his mission to find out if I was lying. He’ll make my life a living hell if he thinks I strung him along.”

Another beat of silence. Jisung seemed to be doing complex mental calculations, weighing the pros and cons of this entirely unexpected predicament. He ran a hand through his slightly messy hair, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

“So,” you ventured, taking a deep breath and plunging into the proposal you’d mentally formulated on your panicked walk over. “Here’s the deal. I need you to… fake date me. Just until he backs off. A few weeks, maybe a month or two. You wouldn’t have to do much. Just… be seen with me sometimes. Acknowledge me in the halls. Maybe walk me to class once in a while i will do so too! I’ll make it as easy as possible for you. And… I’ll pay you, if you want. Or I can help you with anything, any projects, extra credit, anything you need.”

Jisung’s eyes were wide, fixed on you. He looked like he was witnessing a complex scientific phenomenon he couldn't quite explain. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His cheeks were still flushed, but a strange glint, almost of… intrigue, flickered in his gaze.

He took a moment, then, to your utter surprise, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was quick, fleeting, but undeniably there.

“I’ve read about this trope,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice barely audible. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly behind his glasses.

Your breath hitched. Trope? Of course, he would know the literary term for it. You almost laughed in relief. This might actually work.

“So… you’ll do it?” you asked, a hopeful tremor in your voice.

He exhaled slowly, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. He looked at you, really looked at you, with an intensity that made you momentarily forget the chaos that had led you here. There was a quiet kindness in his gaze that you hadn't expected.

“Okay,” he said, the single word a quiet agreement. “I… I can help.”

Relief washed over you so intensely that your knees felt a little weak. “Oh, Han! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea what a lifesaver you are!”

You were so overwhelmed that you almost hugged him, but caught yourself just in time. He flinched slightly at your enthusiasm, confirming that physical contact was probably still off-limits.

“Okay,” you said, trying to dial back your excitement. “So, starting now. We’re… we’re dating.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “So, maybe… let’s walk out together? Mark’s still out there.”

He nodded, a hesitant bob of his head. He pulled his backpack onto his shoulder, adjusting the heavy strap. The hood was still up, almost completely obscuring his face.

As you walked down the hallway side-by-side, a bizarre sense of unreality settled over you. You, [Y/N], the perpetually composed student council head, were now fake-dating Han Jisung, the human embodiment of the library. It was absurd. It was terrifying. And somehow, exhilarating.

You passed Mark, who was still standing there, looking like someone had just told him the sky was purple. He stared, wide-eyed, as you and Jisung walked past. You even managed a small, victorious smirk in his direction. Jisung, for his part, kept his head down, but you felt a slight tremor in his arm as he walked beside you. He was radiating an almost palpable aura of anxiety.

As you stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, Jisung blinked, wincing slightly. He seemed to shrink further into his oversized hoodie.

“I live… this way,” you said, pointing down the street.

“Oh. Right.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked like he might genuinely faint. His hands were clenched at his sides.

You resisted the urge to laugh, knowing it would probably send him spiraling. This was going to be a fascinating few weeks. You wondered what kind of internal monologue was running through his head right now.

Later that night, curled up in his bed, surrounded by an impressive array of coding books and music equipment, Han Jisung pulled out a worn, leather-bound journal. The pages were filled with neat, precise handwriting, diagrams, and what looked like musical notations. He uncapped his pen, hesitated for a long moment, then wrote:

Dear brain, what are we doing?

He paused, chewing on the end of his pen. He scratched out a line, then started a new one.

Log Entry: Day 1. Operation: Fake Dating. Initiated: [Y/N], Head of Student Council. Subject: Me. Purpose: Deter persistent… jock. Status: Extremely Confused. Data points: Elevated heart rate, inexplicable sweating, internal system overload. Hypotheses: This is either the most illogical decision of my life, or… a new variable in an otherwise predictable equation. Further research required. Must procure more rom-coms. For science. Obviously.

He closed the journal, running a hand over its cover. The memory of her intense gaze, her nervous yet determined smile, and the fleeting relief in her eyes when he agreed, played back in his mind. He still couldn't quite believe it. Her. And him. Boyfriend. The word felt alien on his tongue, a foreign program his system was struggling to run. He sighed, a soft, bewildered sound, and pulled his blanket tighter around himself. This was going to be… interesting.

-

A few weeks bled into a month, and the initial, stomach-lurching awkwardness of your fake relationship with Han Jisung had, surprisingly, begun to settle into a strange, almost comfortable rhythm. Mark, thankfully, seemed to have taken your declaration seriously. His smirks had vanished, replaced by a sullen, confused frown whenever he saw you and Jisung in the same vicinity. Victory.

The “public moments” you’d proposed were surprisingly easy to orchestrate. Jisung, true to his word, would nod stiffly when you passed him in the hall, sometimes even offering a fleeting, almost imperceptible half-smile that was more a nervous twitch than genuine amusement. He’d walk you to class, head down, eyes usually scanning the floor as if searching for a lost theorem, but always staying a respectful half-step behind you. He’d even mastered a quick, almost imperceptible glance around the corner before you turned it, a silent check for the creep. It was endearing, in its own peculiar way.

Today was a test of the new normalcy. You were meeting your friends for lunch in the bustling cafeteria, a place where privacy went to die. Jisung was already there, meticulously dissecting a sandwich and ignoring the world through his omnipresent headphones. You spotted him, a small island of quiet in a sea of raucous chatter, and a mischievous idea sparked.

"Hey, guys!" you chirped, approaching your table where Sarah, Liam, and Chloe were already digging into their trays. "Sorry I'm late, had to grab something." You didn't wait for their replies. Instead, you veered slightly, heading straight for Jisung's table.

He looked up, startled, as your shadow fell over him. He pulled out an earbud, his eyes wide. Before he could utter his usual mumbled greeting, you leaned down, a bright, easy smile plastered on your face, and linked your arm through his.

"Hey, babe," you said, loud enough for your friends to hear, but soft enough to sound somewhat natural. You squeezed his arm gently. "Mind if I steal a fry?"

Jisung froze. Absolutely, completely froze. His entire body stiffened, and you could feel the tremor in his arm even through the fabric of his hoodie. His eyes, already wide, somehow managed to widen further, darting from your arm to your face, then wildly around the cafeteria as if searching for an escape route. A deep, mortified blush bloomed on his neck, creeping upwards to engulf his ears. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, about to spontaneously combust.

"G-girlfriend?" he choked out, the word escaping him in a strangled gasp. It sounded less like a term of endearment and more like a medical emergency.

You tried to suppress your giggle, biting the inside of your cheek. "Yeah, girlfriend," you repeated, your smile unwavering. "These fries look amazing."

He let out a small, strangled sound that might have been a whimper. He didn’t reply, didn’t move. He just sat there, a statue of flustered confusion, his eyes fixed on your arm linked with his, as if it were a venomous snake about to strike. He finally managed to push his tray of fries vaguely in your direction, then just… shut down. He sat rigidly, observing you, his gaze following your every movement as you casually plucked a fry from his tray.

Your friends, who had been watching the entire exchange with open mouths, finally reacted.

"Wait, that's him?" Sarah whispered, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning fascination. She knew Jisung existed, of course, everyone did, but seeing him up close, interacting with you… it was jarring.

Liam, always the cynic, raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, [Y/N]? The guy who communicates exclusively through hums and the occasional muttered equation?"

"He's actually… kinda adorable," Chloe mused, a soft smile playing on her lips. She was known for seeing the good in everyone, and even she seemed genuinely surprised. "And he's so respectful. Look at him, he just gave her his fries."

You shot them a look that clearly said, Play along, then turned back to Jisung, who was still rigid. You nudged him gently with your elbow. "You okay there, Han?"

He finally blinked, like a computer restarting. "Fine," he mumbled, though his face was still burning. He carefully, almost tentatively, picked up his sandwich again, but his movements were stiff, like a robot whose joints needed oiling.

Over the next week or so, something remarkable happened. Jisung, the boy who flinched at your slightest movement, started to get used to your touch. Not just used to it, but almost… receptive. When you linked arms in the hall, he still tensed for a split second, but then his muscles would relax. If you accidentally brushed his hand reaching for a textbook, he wouldn’t jerk away. Once, during a particularly boring lecture, you leaned your head on his shoulder, pretending to rest, and after an initial rigid shock, he actually… sagged slightly, as if finding a strange comfort in your proximity.

Alone in his room, he’d freak out. He’d replay the day’s interactions in his mind, dissecting every touch, every accidental brush. His journal entries became a chaotic mix of calculus theorems and frantic questions about synaptic responses to unexpected tactile stimuli. Why did her arm feel… right? Why did my shoulder not immediately recoil? Is this a malfunction?

"Okay, boyfriend," you declared one afternoon, holding up your phone. "We need more proof. For believability. We're taking selfies."

Jisung looked at the phone as if it were a deadly weapon. "Selfies?" he croaked, his voice cracking. "But… my face…"

"Your face is just fine," you laughed, pulling him closer. He stiffened, but didn't pull away. You pressed your cheek against his, tilting the phone. "Just smile! Or don't. Just… exist, awkwardly. Would suggest smile a little"

He died inside. You could practically feel his soul departing his body. His smile was less a smile and more a grimace of pure existential dread, but the photos, to your surprise, were perfect. They captured his endearing awkwardness and your playful charm. You posted one on your private story, adding a heart emoji. You could almost hear Mark's blood pressure rising from across campus.

One afternoon, heading home, you spotted a photo booth in a small arcade. "Come on," you tugged on his sleeve, "Boyfriend duty! We need more proof."

He looked utterly terrified, but followed you inside. The small, cramped space felt even smaller with his nervous energy. You put in the coins, and the flash went off, startling him. He jumped, his face a mask of surprise in the first shot. The next few were a blur of you laughing, him looking utterly bewildered, and then, in the final shot, you leaned in, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek. He froze, eyes wide, a blush erupting on his face.

When the strip of photos slid out, you both looked at them. You burst out laughing at his expressions. He, surprisingly, didn't look completely horrified. He even managed a tiny, shy smile at the one where you kissed his cheek. You took the strip, carefully tearing it in half. One half, you tucked into the clear case of your phone, hidden behind your favorite polaroid. The other half, you offered to him.

He took it with trembling fingers, his gaze fixed on the image. Later that night, alone, he would carefully fold it and tuck it into his wallet, a secret treasure.

You discovered a new hobby: leaving him notes. Little Post-it notes, sometimes with a doodle, sometimes just a silly message, sometimes a reminder for a "date" (read: walking you to the library). You'd slip them into the pocket of his hoodie when he wasn't looking, or stick them to his locker.

He kept every single one. Even the dumbest ones, like the one that just said "Hi, Boyfriend!" with a smiley face, or the one with a crude drawing of a stick figure holding a pizza slice. He had a small, otherwise empty box in his desk drawer, and each note was carefully smoothed out and placed inside. They were tangible proof of… something. Something new, something confusing, something that made his chest feel strangely warm.

His protectiveness, while still subtle, was growing. During one of your student council meetings, as you presented your budget proposal, you felt a prickling sensation on your neck. You glanced up, and there he was, standing just outside the meeting room, leaning against the wall. His gaze wasn't on you, but sweeping the hallway, then settling on the figure of Mark, who was loitering near the water fountain, pretending to be absorbed in his phone, but clearly watching you.

Jisung's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He pushed off the wall and, with a casualness that was entirely un-Jisung-like, walked closer to the meeting room door, positioning himself squarely in Mark's line of sight to you. He pulled out his own phone, feigning interest, but his posture was subtly different now – less reclusive, more… present. He was a silent sentinel. You almost smiled.

Every morning, he’d be there. Waiting by your locker, or just outside your first class. He always looked sleepy, a slight slouch to his shoulders, but his eyes, behind his glasses, were always scanning the hallway, a quiet vigilance about him. And he would listen. He wouldn't interrupt, wouldn't offer advice unless explicitly asked. He just listened, head tilted slightly, as you yapped about the latest student council drama, or a funny thing your friend did, or a particularly frustrating chemistry problem. He absorbed it all, a silent, comforting presence.

You found yourself teasing him more and more. Gently, of course. Just enough to see that fascinating blush creep up his neck, to watch him fumble for words.

"You know," you'd muse, as he meticulously organized his pens by color, "for a genius, you really get flustered easily, Jisung."

He'd drop a pen, pick it up, his ears turning bright red. "It's… it's a physiological response to unexpected… stimuli," he'd mumble, avoiding your gaze.

"Uh huh," you'd hum, batting your eyelashes playfully. "Or maybe you just think I'm really charming."

He’d be 0.2 seconds from imploding. His entire system seemed to overload. He’d clear his throat, adjust his glasses, and find sudden, urgent interest in the scuff mark on his shoe. It was addictive, seeing him unravel in such a delightful way.

At night, in the quiet solitude of his room, the journal entries grew longer, more introspective.

Log Entry: Day 57. Subject: [Y/N]. Observation: Increased tactile interaction. Response: Initial system shock, followed by inexplicable sense of… comfort? Hypothesis: Proximity effect. Further testing required. Current research focus: Human romantic comedies. Objective: Understand typical ‘boyfriend’ behaviors. Data collection: Kissing scenes. Note: Significant variation in technique. More data needed. For academic purposes only, of course. Just in case.

He’d rewatch a particularly passionate movie kiss, pausing it, rewinding, watching it again. He’d make mental notes: Angle of head tilt, duration, lip pressure… He’d flush furiously in the dark, wondering what on earth he was doing, what kind of ridiculous rabbit hole this "fake dating" was leading him down. But then he’d remember your laugh, the way your hand felt linked with his, the way you trusted him to just be there, and a strange warmth would spread through his chest.

The "Boyfriend.exe" program was definitely running. And to his utter bewilderment, it was running surprisingly well.

Five months. Five months had somehow evaporated since you’d pointed a desperate finger at the unassuming figure of Han Jisung and declared him your boyfriend. What started as a chaotic lie had morphed into an oddly comfortable, undeniably complex routine. The initial panic of the fake dating had long subsided, replaced by a nuanced understanding, a silent communication that had slowly, subtly, woven itself into the fabric of your daily lives.

You’d grown fond of him. More than fond, actually. You found yourself looking forward to his quiet presence, his sleepy morning greetings, the way he’d listen intently to your endless stories without interruption. He was a steady, grounding force in your otherwise bustling world, and you realized, with a quiet jolt, that you genuinely enjoyed his company.

And Jisung? The metamorphosis was remarkable. He was still Jisung, the boy who wore his hoodie like armor and spoke in soft mumbles, but cracks had appeared in that carefully constructed shell. He was opening up. Tentatively at first, like a shy bloom unfurling in the sun, then with increasing confidence.

It started with music. You’d been walking home one evening, the sky painted in hues of lavender and bruised orange, when he’d suddenly cleared his throat.

“You know,” he’d begun, his voice still quiet but laced with an unfamiliar excitement, “I’ve been working on a new track. It’s… it’s a bit experimental. Combines trap beats with a classical piano melody. I’m trying to capture the feeling of… organized chaos.” He looked at you then, a rare, direct gaze, his eyes shining with an almost childlike enthusiasm. “Do you… do you want to hear it sometime?”

Your heart had done a funny little flip. “I’d love to, Jisung,” you’d said, genuinely. “Tell me about it. What inspired it?”

And he did. He talked about his dreams of producing, about the intricate layers of sound, about how he heard melodies in mundane things, like the rhythm of raindrops or the hum of the school’s heating system. He spoke about his favorite artists, dissecting their compositions with a passion that was almost startling. His words tumbled out, faster than you’d ever heard him speak, and his hands, usually so still, moved animatedly as he described complex musical structures.

You just listened. Really listened. Not because you had to, but because you wanted to. You watched his face light up, the way his eyes danced behind his glasses, and a warmth spread through you. He was more than just the quiet nerd. He was a brilliant, passionate soul hidden behind a thick, soft hoodie. And you found him incredibly, irresistibly cute when he was so excitedly absorbed in his world.

One particularly sweltering afternoon, you were sitting in the near-empty library. He was sketching furiously in a notebook, a diagram of a complex sound system by the looks of it, while explaining something about song octaves – a topic completely lost on you, but his enthusiasm was infectious. As he leaned closer to point out a detail, his glasses, perpetually sliding down his nose, slipped precariously. Without thinking, your hand reached out, your fingers gently pushing them back into place on the bridge of his nose.

His hand, which had been mid-air, froze. He stopped talking mid-sentence, the word ‘frequency’ hanging unfinished in the air. His eyes, magnified by the lenses, were suddenly wide and fixed on your face. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. It was as if a crucial circuit in his brain had suddenly overloaded. He short-circuited.

A faint, but undeniable, blush crept from his neck, up his cheeks, and flooded his ears. It was a deep, fiery red. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. He just… stared. His breathing seemed to hitch.

You pulled your hand back, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. His reaction was always so extreme, so beautifully, awkwardly honest.

“Cute,” you murmured, a genuine warmth in your voice. “You’re cute when you get all excited about music.”

His blush intensified, reaching the tips of his ears. He looked away, his gaze darting to the ceiling, then the floor, anywhere but at you. He cleared his throat, a rough, dry sound.

“It’s… it’s not… frequency is important for… harmonics,” he stammered, trying to pick up where he’d left off, but his voice was strained, and he clearly couldn't remember what he was saying. He eventually gave up, closing his notebook with a soft thud. The tension in the air was palpable, a delicious, unspoken energy simmering between you.

That night, after your part-time job at the local café, you found him waiting for you outside, leaning against a lamp post, his hoodie pulled low. The streetlights cast long shadows, and a cool breeze had picked up.

“Hey,” you said, a little surprised, but pleased. “Didn’t expect you to still be here.”

“Just… thought I’d walk you home,” he mumbled, pushing off the lamp post.

As you walked, the air grew chillier. Your hands, still slightly damp from washing dishes at the café, were cold. You shivered. Jisung, ever observant, noticed. He stopped, and without a word, slowly, awkwardly, offered you his hand.

It wasn't a confident, bold grab. It was a hesitant, open palm, almost a question. Your heart thumped. You slid your cold fingers into the warmth of his sleeves, finding his hand beneath the layers of fabric. His fingers were long and surprisingly warm. He didn’t intertwine them with yours, but simply held them, your hand enveloped by his and the soft fabric of his hoodie. It was an awkward, almost clumsy hand-hold, but it felt incredibly intimate. A surge of warmth spread through you, far beyond the physical. This was new. This was different. This was something.

He started composing something with you in mind. You didn't know it, not explicitly. But sometimes, when he was humming to himself, or scribbling in his music notebook, you’d catch snatches of melody that felt… like you. Bright, sometimes a little chaotic, but with an underlying sweetness. He’d quickly stop if he noticed you listening, muttering about “just experimenting.” But you suspected. You felt it in the way his eyes would linger on you after a particularly poignant chord, or the way he’d absentmindedly tap a rhythm that mirrored the beat of your own heart. He wouldn’t admit it, not yet, but you knew.

One afternoon, you were at his house, his room, ostensibly working on a group project, though you were mostly procrastinating while he was immersed in something on his laptop. He suddenly flinched, slamming his laptop shut with an almost comical speed.

“Everything okay?” you asked, startled.

“Yeah! Fine! Just… uh… a bug. In the code,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze, his face a little pale.

You raised an eyebrow, suspicious. He’d never been this flustered about a coding bug. He was usually methodical, calm. Later, after you’d left, he reopened his laptop, his heart pounding. There, in his image folder, was a candid photo of you. You were laughing, caught off guard, your hair a little messy, sunlight streaming through the window. He’d taken it weeks ago, completely on instinct, because you’d looked so beautiful in that moment. He hadn't realized he'd saved it.

A wave of self-loathing washed over him. Creep. What if she found out? What if she saw it? She’d be disgusted. She’d think he was some weird, obsessive stalker. His carefully constructed fake-dating facade would crumble. Without a second thought, he deleted the photo, emptying the recycle bin. It was better to erase all evidence, to protect this fragile, confusing thing they had.

The tension, however, wasn't just sweet and domestic. It had an edge, a sharp, possessive quality that began to emerge from Jisung.

It happened during basketball tryouts. Mark, of course, was there, dominating the court. Your guy friends, convinced Han needed more "extracurriculars" to appear "normal" (and because they secretly found his awkwardness hilarious), had somehow dragged him along. You were there too, cheering them on from the bleachers. Jisung, surprisingly, wasn't terrible. He was methodical, if not flashy, and his long limbs proved surprisingly useful for blocking.

During a water break, you overheard Mark, loud and obnoxious, talking to his cronies.

“Yeah, [Y/N]’s been weird lately,” he scoffed, loud enough for half the gym to hear. “Still parading around with that, what’s his face, the library kid. Seriously, what does she even see in him? Probably just using him to make me jealous. She’ll come crawling back once she realizes what she’s missing. I mean, look at her, she’s practically begging for it, wearing those-“

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because at that exact moment, a basketball, thrown with surprising force and precision from across the court, sailed through the air and hit Mark squarely in the face. It wasn't a soft tap. It was a solid thwack. Mark staggered back, clutching his nose, a stream of expletives erupting from him.

Everyone turned. Jisung was standing in the middle of the court, a basketball still cradled in his hands, his face oddly blank, almost serene.

“Oops,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying surprisingly well in the sudden silence. “My bad. Must’ve slipped.” He offered a small, unconvincing shrug.

The coach, a gruff man who secretly admired Jisung’s unexpected court sense, just sighed. “Jisung, focus!” But there was no real reprimand in his voice. And to everyone’s surprise, Jisung, the library hermit, actually got into the basketball team.

Later, as you walked home, you looked at him, a flicker of something new in your eyes. "You 'accidentally' hit him with that basketball, didn't you?" you asked, a knowing smile playing on your lips.

He looked at you, his usual flustered expression back, but something else lingered behind it – a spark of something fierce. He reached out, his hand gently patting your head, a soft, almost paternal gesture.

“He was being annoying, baby,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual, but with an underlying steel. “Don’t worry about it.”

Baby. The word, spoken so casually, yet with such unexpected possessiveness, sent a shiver down your spine. This quiet, awkward boy was changing. And the tension, once a playful hum, was tightening, growing thicker, hinting at depths you hadn't anticipated. The glasses might still be glitching, but something was very, very clear. This wasn’t just fake anymore. Not for him, and maybe, just maybe, not for you either.

The air in the stadium was thick with anticipation, a palpable buzz that vibrated through the bleachers. Today was the first inter-college basketball match, eleven months into your "relationship" with Han Jisung. Eleven months that had taken you on a journey from panicked desperation to… well, whatever this quiet, intense, undeniably real connection was.

You scanned the court, searching for him. The team was warming up, a flurry of bouncing balls and athletic bodies. Jisung, despite his initial reluctance, had proven to be a surprisingly valuable player. Not flashy, not a showboat, but strategic, precise, and with an uncanny ability to anticipate plays. He was the quiet anchor of the team, the one who didn't seek the spotlight but consistently delivered.

The whistle shrieked, signaling the start of the match. The crowd roared, a wave of sound crashing over the court. The game began, a fast-paced blur of motion. Jisung was in the thick of it, his long limbs surprisingly agile as he weaved through opponents. He made a crucial block, then sprinted down the court, his usually bowed head held high.

The stadium lights beat down, hot and unforgiving. The air was heavy, humid, sticking to skin. As the first half drew to a close, a timeout was called. The players clustered around their coach, sweat slicking their brows. You watched as Jisung, breathing heavily, reached down and, with a casualness that made your breath hitch, lifted the hem of his jersey to wipe the sweat from his face.

And then you saw them.

Not just you. Everyone did.

Beneath the loose fabric of his jersey, revealed for a fleeting moment, were toned abs. A sculpted, defined core that spoke of hidden strength and consistent effort. He was lean, yes, but undeniably muscular not too much but in a manner to make people swoon. The "baggy hoodie" image you, and everyone else, had of him shattered in that single, sweat-drenched instant.

A collective murmur rippled through the stands. Whispers, surprised gasps. He wasn’t just “nerdy Jisung” anymore. He wasn't just “the quiet one who got dragged into basketball.” He was suddenly… Han Jisung. An athlete. And a seriously, unexpectedly attractive one.

Your eyes widened. You knew he worked out. He’d mentioned late-night gym sessions, a way to de-stress from his studies and composing. But you’d always pictured it as a casual thing, a functional necessity, not something that produced… that. You felt your cheeks warm, a heat that had nothing to do with the stadium lights. You tried desperately not to stare, to maintain your composure, to pretend you hadn’t just witnessed a paradigm shift in the universe.

You failed. Hard. Your gaze kept drifting back to him, even after his jersey settled back down. You weren't the only one. People were openly staring, pointing, a new kind of interest dawning in their eyes.

Jisung, oblivious, seemed deeply confused by the sudden change in the crowd's energy. He furrowed his brow, glancing around, as if trying to locate the source of the collective gaze. He tugged at his jersey, as if sensing the newfound scrutiny, but he didn't connect it to his brief, accidental reveal.

The second half began, and a new energy coursed through Jisung. Whether it was the heat, the adrenaline, or the subconscious awareness of being watched, something ignited. He played with fierce precision, making incredible passes, and then, in the last two minutes, he did something truly remarkable. He stole the ball, dribbled with unexpected speed, and sank a perfect three-pointer. Then another. And another. Each shot was met with an explosion of cheers, the crowd now fully invested in the quiet dark horse.

He was the reason they won. The final buzzer blared, and the scoreboard confirmed it. The team rushed him, patting his back, shouting his name. Jisung, looking overwhelmed but undeniably pleased, gave a shy, triumphant smile.

After the post-game chaos, you met him outside the locker rooms. He was still in his sweaty jersey and shorts, his glasses slightly askew, a water bottle clutched in his hand. He looked exhausted, but exhilarated.

“You were amazing, Jisung!” you exclaimed, genuinely proud.

He blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… got lucky, I guess.”

“Lucky? You practically carried the team!” You nudged his arm playfully. “Everyone was staring at you.”

He frowned, a hint of confusion still in his eyes. “Yeah, I noticed. It was… weird.” He hadn’t put two and two together yet. Bless his oblivious heart.

“Come on,” you said, deciding to let him bask in his innocence for a bit longer. “Let’s go back to your place. We still have that history project to work on.”

He nodded, and you started the walk to his dorm. The evening air was cooler now, but the lingering heat from the stadium seemed to cling to him. As you reached his building, he fished out his keys, his movements a little clumsy with fatigue. He opened the door, stepping aside to let you in first.

His room was exactly as you remembered it – a controlled chaos of books, music equipment, and half-eaten snack wrappers. But today, the most striking thing was the air-conditioning, blasting cool air. You shivered slightly, feeling the sweat dry on your skin.

“You look cold,” he observed, his voice still a little breathless from the game. He gestured vaguely to his bed. “There’s… there’s a hoodie on my bed if you want.”

It was his signature dark grey hoodie, the one that usually swallowed him whole. You picked it up. It still smelled faintly of him – something clean, and a little like old books and fresh laundry. You pulled it over your head, the soft fabric a comforting weight. It was still huge on you, the sleeves dangling past your fingertips.

You glanced at him, a playful smirk touching your lips. He was still standing by the door, watching you, his eyes wide. He had stopped functioning. Completely. His mouth was slightly agape, and a deep, mortified flush was spreading across his face again, even darker than before. His gaze was fixed on you, specifically on his hoodie, now adorning your smaller frame.

You loved that you could do this to him. His reactions were always so pure, so uninhibited.

“Is the brain the only thing toned about you, Han Jisung?” you flirted lightly, watching his reaction. You leaned against his desk, crossing your arms, the oversized hoodie making you feel both small and powerful.

He stammered. “W-what? No! I mean… my… my muscles… for… for… strength!” His words tumbled out in a nonsensical jumble. He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Without another word, he spun on his heel and practically sprinted towards the kitchen.

“I’ll go get you something to eat!” he yelled back, his voice strained. “Water! Snacks! Food!”

You laughed, a soft, warm sound that filled his room. He was still so gloriously awkward, even with his newly discovered abs.

A few minutes later, as you scrolled through your phone, a notification popped up. A text message. From Mark.

'Still with that loser? Heard he actually scored a few points today. Cute. You know who the real MVP is, [Y/N]. I’m still waiting.'

Your jaw tightened. He just didn't quit. You were about to delete it, to block him for good, when Jisung walked back into the room, two bottles of water and a bag of chips in his arms. His eyes, still slightly red from his internal system overload, landed on your phone screen. He saw Mark’s name.

The playful awkwardness vanished. His face, usually so soft, hardened instantly. His eyes, behind his glasses, glinted with a dangerous intensity. He dropped the chips and water onto his desk with a thud.

“What did he say?” he asked, his voice low, deceptively calm, but laced with an undeniable edge.

You looked up, surprised by the sudden shift in his demeanor. “It’s nothing, Han. Just Mark being Mark. I was about to delete it.”

He walked over to you, his eyes still fixed on the screen, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Give it to me.”

“No, really, it’s fine,” you tried, but he gently, firmly, took the phone from your hand. His gaze scanned the message, and then a primal, possessive anger flashed in his eyes. He clenched his fist around your phone.

“I’m going to confront him,” he said, his voice quiet, but utterly lethal. “He needs to learn. He needs to understand that you are not available. And he needs to stop.”

He looked like he was genuinely about to walk out the door and hunt Mark down punch some god damn sense into him. The raw intensity in his eyes startled you. This was a side of Jisung you’d only glimpsed – the silent guardian, the one who “accidentally” hit people with basketballs. This was different. This was pure, undiluted fury on your behalf.

You reached out, your fingers gently touching his arm, feeling the tense muscle beneath the hoodie’s sleeve. He flinched, but didn't pull away.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice soft, but firm. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, just below his glasses. His entire body tensed again, but this time, it was a different kind of tension. “He’s not worth it. You are.”

His breath hitched. The anger slowly, visibly, bled out of him, replaced by a deep, almost overwhelming softness. He lowered your phone, his grip loosening. His eyes, unfocused, stared straight ahead, as if processing the simple, profound statement. He lifted a hand, his fingers tentatively touching the spot where your lips had been.

The anger was gone. Replaced by something else. Something much, much deeper. The system had overheated, but the emotional core was still running. And it was starting to feel a lot less like a glitch, and a lot more like a fundamental change.

-

One year. A full 365 days had spiraled past since that chaotic afternoon in the hallway. A year of shared glances, whispered jokes, accidental touches that felt anything but accidental, and the slow, insidious growth of something far more complex than a "fake" relationship. Today marked their one-year anniversary, and you’d decided to celebrate it quietly, just the two of you, with the slightly-burnt cookies you’d baked.

You met in his room, the familiar space now feeling like a second home. The scent of vanilla, faintly clinging to your clothes from your baking, mingled with his subtle, comforting scent of old books and something uniquely Han. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, meticulously tuning his guitar, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Happy Anniversary, Jisung," you said softly, holding out a small, velvet pouch.

He looked up, startled, a shy smile gracing his lips. "Oh. Right. Happy… anniversary, [Y/N]." He took the pouch, his fingers brushing yours, sending a familiar spark through your skin. Inside was a delicate silver pendant, engraved with a small, abstract musical note.

"It's for your music," you explained, a little nervously. "So you always have a piece of it with you."

His eyes widened slightly as he took it out, tracing the tiny lines. "It's… it's really beautiful, [Y/N]. Thank you." He looked genuinely touched. He then reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, intricately carved guitar pick, attached to a delicate silver chain. It was polished, gleaming, clearly well-loved.

"And this," he said, his voice a little softer than usual, "is for you. It’s my favorite plectrum. It’s seen a lot of… inspiration. I thought… you should have it."

Your heart swelled. It was such a him gift – personal, meaningful, something he clearly cherished. You took it, a warmth spreading through your chest. "It's perfect, Han."

You slid the silver pendant around his neck, his skin warm beneath your fingertips. He did the same for you, his long fingers surprisingly gentle as he fastened the chain, the small, cool pick resting against your collarbone. The air felt thick, charged with unspoken emotions.

He looked up then, his gaze meeting yours. Your eyes drifted down, almost involuntarily, to his lips. They were soft, slightly parted, and you found yourself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to truly, really kiss him.

As if he’d read your mind, his gaze dropped to your lips too. The space between you, normally filled with comfortable silence, crackled with an undeniable tension. Your breath hitched. His eyes, usually hidden behind the shield of his glasses, were intense, almost hungry. He leaned in, just slightly, a silent question in his gaze. You felt yourself leaning in too, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The moment stretched, taut and fragile, ready to snap. But then, a sudden, loud laugh from the hallway broke the spell. A group of students passed by, their voices echoing. Jisung flinched, pulling back abruptly, his face flushing crimson. The moment was gone, shattered like fragile glass.

Later that week, as you walked home from school, the sky opened up. Rain, cold and sudden, lashed down. You instinctively pulled your bag over your head, but it was useless. You were already soaked.

"Wait," Jisung called, pulling his umbrella from his backpack. He opened it quickly, holding it over you. He maneuvered it so that the bulk of it shielded you, leaving his own shoulder exposed to the downpour. He hated the rain. You knew that. He always grimaced, always complained about the damp clinging to his clothes. Yet, here he was, deliberately getting wet to keep you dry.

As you reached your doorstep, dripping and shivering, he looked at you, a soft, concerned look on his face. "You're soaked. You'll catch a cold." He reached out, slowly taking out his hoodie from his bag – the very one you’d worn that day, the one that smelled faintly of your vanilla perfume. He pulled it out and offered it to you.

"Here. It's dry. Put this on."

Your heart gave a funny lurch. He was giving you his hoodie. Not just a hoodie, but his hoodie. The very symbol of his comfort, his privacy, his world. You took it, clutching the warm, dry fabric to your chest.

You looked up at him, standing there in the rain, his hair now plastered to his forehead, droplets clinging to his glasses. He looked so vulnerable, so open. The tension from the other night, the almost-kiss, returned with a vengeance.

He was still holding the umbrella, but he slowly, tentatively, lowered it. The soft drizzle started to land on both your faces. His eyes, usually so guarded, were fixed on yours, vulnerable and full of an unspoken longing. He leaned in again, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

Your lips were so close. You could feel his warm breath ghosting across them. Your eyes fluttered closed. This was it. This was the moment.

And then, just as your lips were about to brush, you both pulled back. Simultaneously. A silent, shared retreat, born not of rejection, but of a sudden, terrifying realization of the precipice you were standing on.

Jisung's eyes were wide, a flicker of panic in their depths. He looked away first, turning his head sharply, his hand instinctively reaching up to push his wet hair back.

Over the next few days, he started pulling away. Subtly at first. He wouldn't meet your gaze as readily. His morning greetings were a little more subdued. He stopped walking you all the way to your door, dropping you off a block away with a mumbled excuse. He was becoming more guarded, slipping back into his familiar shell, and it frustrated you to no end. Why? Why now? Especially after giving you his hoodie, after that almost-kiss that had felt so incredibly real?

You tried to break through his new distance, to tease him like you used to, but he would just nod, or offer a tight, almost forced smile. He wasn't short-circuiting anymore; he was shutting down.

Then came the incident that sent him spiraling. You were studying in the library, working with Liam, a close friend from your chemistry class. He was showing you something on his tablet, and you both leaned in, laughing at a particularly ridiculous diagram. It was completely innocent, just two friends sharing a moment.

Jisung, who had been at a table across the room, looked up. He saw you, leaning close to Liam, your head thrown back in laughter. He saw Liam’s hand gesturing, brushing your arm. And something inside him snapped. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even move. He just stared, his face paling, his eyes turning cold and blank. He quickly packed up his things, stuffing them into his bag with a jerky, uncharacteristic urgency, and walked out without a word, leaving his usual quiet farewell unsaid.

You found him later, sitting alone on a secluded bench behind the dorms, staring at nothing.

"Jisung," you began, your voice firm, but gentle. "What is going on? Why are you being so weird?"

He flinched at your presence, as if he hadn’t heard you approach. He refused to look at you. "Nothing. I'm fine." His voice was flat, devoid of its usual soft inflections.

"No, you're not," you insisted, sitting beside him. "You’ve been pulling away for days. And then you just walked out of the library. What happened?"

He finally looked at you, his eyes clouded with a pain you hadn't seen before. "It's… it's just… complicated." He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough. "This… this isn't real, [Y/N]."

Your heart clenched. "What are you talking about? Of course it's real! We’ve been 'dating' for a year, Jisung! We—"

"No!" he cut you off, his voice rising, a raw edge to it. He finally met your gaze, and the agony in his eyes was unmistakable. "It’s not real for you! This was fake. It started fake. You’re not mine." The words were ripped from him, laced with a bitterness that cut deep. He pulled away from you, physically, emotionally.

You stared at him, stunned. The air grew cold, even colder than the recent rain. "Then tell me," you challenged, your own voice trembling with a mix of hurt and frustration. "Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me this past year meant nothing. Tell me you don't feel anything for me."

He opened his mouth. His eyes searched yours, desperate, conflicted. His jaw worked, and he looked like he was in physical pain. He couldn’t do it. The words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t say it.

He finally looked away, shaking his head slowly. "I… I can't."

The silence that followed was deafening, crushing. The unsaid hung heavy between you.

The very next day, news spread like wildfire. The fake-dating "break" was announced. How, you weren’t sure. Perhaps Jisung had simply stopped waiting for you in the mornings, or you’d walked out of class alone. People just assumed. And everyone, especially Mark, assumed you’d broken up. Whispers followed you in the halls, pitying glances, speculative stares.

Jisung regretted it immediately. The moment the words left his lips, the moment he saw the hurt in your eyes, a crushing wave of despair hit him. He saw you walking alone, the space beside you starkly empty. He saw the looks people gave you. He saw Mark's renewed, predatory interest. He hated it. He hated himself.

But then, the self-doubt, a lifelong companion, crept in. You’re not enough. You’re just the weird kid. She deserves someone better. Someone who isn’t afraid to kiss her in the rain. Someone who isn’t constantly short-circuiting around her. Someone who isn't a coward. He felt like he’d somehow sabotaged the best thing that had ever happened to him, because he was simply… not enough.

The malfunction was complete. The system was off. And the "Do Not Disturb" sign was firmly in place.

-

The "break" lasted exactly three days. Three days that felt like an eternity, each hour stretching into a raw, aching expanse of regret. You moved through them like a ghost, the vibrant world around you muted, the usual clamor of the student body replaced by a hollow echo in your ears. Every time you saw Jisung’s usual spot by your locker empty, or the table in the library where he’d quietly hunch over his notes deserted, a fresh wave of despair washed over you. You missed him with a ferocity that startled you, the absence of his quiet presence a gaping wound.

He missed you too. You knew it. You felt it in the charged silences that hung between you when your paths accidentally crossed, in the quick, painful glances he’d steal before looking away, a haunted look in his usually gentle eyes. He looked pale, even more withdrawn than when you’d first met him. His hoodie seemed to swallow him whole, a desperate attempt to disappear.

The last straw came when you saw Mark, a sickeningly triumphant smirk plastered on his face, sauntering towards you in the cafeteria. He looked like a cat that had gotten the cream, ready to pounce now that his rival was seemingly out of the picture. The thought of going back to endless, polite deflections, of tolerating his smug advances, was utterly unbearable. You couldn't do it. You wouldn't.

You had to fix this.

Without a second thought, you walked straight out of the cafeteria, ignoring Mark’s surprised call. You didn’t even grab your bag from your locker. You knew where he lived, of course. His house was only a ten-minute walk from campus. The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, dramatic shadows. Your heart hammered with a desperate urgency. You needed answers. You needed him.

When you reached his apartment building, you didn't hesitate. You marched straight to his house, raising your hand to knock, but before your knuckles could connect, it swung open. Jisung’s mom, a kind-faced woman with warm eyes who looked remarkably like a slightly more extroverted version of her son, smiled warmly at you. She knew about the "dating thing," of course, as you had both clumsily, vaguely explained it months ago.

“Oh, [Y/N], dear!” she chirped, her smile unwavering. “Jisung’s in his room. He’s been a bit… quiet today. Go on in.” She gestured vaguely down the hall.

Your stomach clenched. His mom was home. This added an entirely new layer of terrifying awkwardness to the situation, but there was no turning back now. You mumbled a quick thank you and made your way down the short hallway to his bedroom door.

You knocked twice, a firm, decisive rap. The sound seemed deafening in the quiet apartment. After a moment, the door slowly creaked open.

And then you saw him.

He was standing there, framed in the doorway, a vision that simultaneously stole your breath and made your heart ache. He was wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants, hanging low on his hips, revealing the faint V-line above the waistband. He was shirtless. The lean, toned abs you’d glimpsed at the basketball game were fully exposed, glistening faintly from a recent shower. His hair was messy, still damp, curling artfully around his ears. And around his neck, resting against his skin, was the silver pendant you had given him, the little musical note catching the light.

He looked utterly shocked to see you. His eyes, usually hidden behind his glasses (which were now conspicuously absent), were wide and vulnerable, a raw confusion etched on his face. His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

The sight of him, so exposed, so unexpectedly beautiful, jolted something loose inside you. The anger, the frustration, the hurt – it all coalesced into one burning question.

“Why didn’t you fight for me, Jisung?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, but laced with all the pain of the past three days. Your eyes searched his, desperate for an answer. “Why did you just… let me go?”

He flinched, as if the words were physical blows. His gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping. “I… I didn’t think I deserved you,” he admitted, his voice hoarse, barely audible. The confession was ripped from him, an agonizing truth. “I’m… I’m just me. And you’re… you. You deserve someone who isn’t… constantly short-circuiting. Someone who’s… better.” He sounded utterly defeated.

The raw, heartbreaking honesty of his confession hit you like a punch to the gut. He thought he wasn’t good enough. All this time, all this beautiful, confusing tension, all his shy attempts at closeness, and he’d been battling this profound self-doubt.

It was too much. The unspoken yearning, the quiet suffering, his vulnerable confession – it all converged into an undeniable, overwhelming urge. You couldn't hold back anymore. You wouldn't.

Before you could think, before he could react, you surged forward. Your hands, with a sudden, fierce determination, reached up and cupped his face, pulling him down. You found his lips, soft and hesitant, and you kissed him.

It was desperate. It was messy. It was everything the almost-kisses hadn't been. Your lips molded against his, an explosion of pent-up emotion. He was stiff for a split second, utterly shocked, then his mouth softened, responding tentatively. His hands, which had been hanging uselessly at his sides, slowly, hesitantly, came up to rest on your waist, pulling you a fraction closer.

You broke apart, breathless, your foreheads touching. Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his. His eyes were wide, blown out, reflecting a mixture of shock, confusion, and a dawning, incandescent hope. His lips were still parted, slightly bruised from the force of your kiss.

“My mom is still home,” he whispered, the words tumbling out on a shaky breath, a last vestige of his awkward, logical brain.

You pulled back just slightly, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips. You looked at him, truly seeing him, shirtless and beautiful and utterly in love.

Then, he moved. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you against him with a sudden, possessive strength that made your breath catch. He leaned down, his lips finding yours again, this time with a confident, undeniable hunger.

The kiss was longer. Deeper. It was a declaration, a surrender, a desperate claiming. His hands moved from your waist, one tangling in your hair, the other pressing into the small of your back, arching you against his bare chest. You felt the hard planes of his abs, the rapid thrum of his heart against yours. Your hands, still on his face, tangled in his damp hair, holding him close.

“I don’t think she would really care,” he mumbled against your lips, a low, husky sound that sent shivers down your spine. His voice was thick with emotion, utterly unlike the quiet whispers you were used to.

He pulled his head back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and intense. Then, with a decisive move, he reached behind you, pushing the door shut with a soft click, plunging the room into a more intimate, hushed light. He didn’t break the kiss, simply deepened it, stepping further into his room, pushing you gently backward towards the bed.

You stumbled back, still locked in his embrace, your legs hitting the edge of the mattress. You both tumbled onto the bed, a soft thud. He landed half on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure, his lips still devastatingly on yours.

He finally pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, both of you panting slightly. His eyes, still wide and vulnerable, searched yours. The fear was still there, a tiny flicker, but it was overshadowed by something powerful, something new.

“I think,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a confession that had been building for months, for a year, for a lifetime, “I think I’m in love with you.”

The words, spoken so simply, so honestly, were the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. Tears welled in your eyes. You reached up, cupping his face again, your thumb stroking his jaw.

“I think I’m in love with you too, hannie,” you whispered back, the admission feeling liberating, profoundly right.

You fell asleep tangled up on his bed, the soft glow of his bedside lamp casting a warm light over the room. He was shirtless, his arm wrapped tightly around you, holding you close. You were still fully clothed, but your hearts were racing in tandem, a frantic, joyous beat that echoed the tumultuous journey you’d taken. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by a profound sense of peace.

The next morning, the sun streamed through his window, painting the room in hues of gold. You woke to the feeling of his steady breathing, his arm still around you. He was fast asleep, his face peaceful, a faint smile playing on his lips. You carefully disentangled yourself, sitting up. You looked at him, truly looked at the man beside you, and your heart swelled.

He woke moments later, blinking groggily, then his eyes snapped open, a dawning realization on his face. He looked at you, then at himself (still shirtless <3), then at the messy bed, and a blush began to creep up his neck. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t panic. It was a shy, happy flush.

He reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. He squeezed gently. “Good morning, [Y/N].”

You smiled, a genuine, radiant smile. “Good morning, Jisung.”

He walked you to class that morning. Not a block away. Not with his head down. Hand-in-hand. His fingers were firmly, possessively linked with yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. His shoulders were straighter, his head held a little higher. He wasn't hiding. Not anymore. He met the stares of curious students, not with defiance, but with a quiet, undeniable confidence. This was his. You were his.

As you neared the main entrance, a familiar, unwelcome voice cut through the morning chatter.

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Back with the librarian, are we, [Y/N]? Thought you’d finally come to your senses. Don’t worry, the offer’s still on the table. You know you want someone real, someone who can actually handle you—”

Mark. He was leaning against the lockers, his usual smug grin back in full force, his eyes raking over you, then flicking dismissively to Jisung.

You felt Jisung stiffen beside you. His grip on your hand tightened, almost painfully. You braced yourself, ready to step in, to deflect, to protect him from Mark’s usual condescension.

But Jisung didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat. He stopped. He turned to face Mark, his entire posture radiating a cold, coiled fury you’d never seen before. His eyes, unshielded by glasses, were blazing.

“Listen here, dickhead,” he said, his voice low, gravelly, and utterly devoid of its usual softness. Every word was precise, cutting, delivered with an icy calm that was far more terrifying than any shout. “I let you talk before because I felt sorry for you. Because you’re pathetic. But you’re not going to talk about her like that. Not ever again.”

Mark’s smirk wavered, replaced by genuine shock. This wasn’t the Jisung he knew. This was something else entirely.

Jisung took a step forward, pulling you slightly behind him, shielding you. His voice dropped even lower, becoming a lethal whisper. “Touch her again, speak to her again, even look at her again with that disgusting glint in your eye, and you will regret ever being born and breathing the same fucking air as her. Learn to respect first, dickhead.”

The final word was delivered with such venom, such quiet menace, that Mark actually took a step back, his face paling. He stammered, opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Jisung didn’t wait for a reply. He simply turned, his hand still firmly clasped in yours, and continued walking towards your class, leaving a stunned, speechless Mark in his wake.

The system had not only rebooted, it had upgraded. And the "Do Not Disturb" sign was now backed by a very, very powerful firewall.

-

The atmosphere around Han Jisung had undergone a complete thermodynamic shift. Where once there was awkward tension and self-conscious fluster, there was now an almost unbearable softness. It was like watching a perpetually guarded hedgehog suddenly bloom into a purring housecat. And you, it seemed, were his favorite scratching post.

He was, quite simply, whipped.

The transformation began subtly, a quiet hum beneath the surface, but now it was loud and clear, echoing in every gesture, every stolen glance. He’d arrive at your dorm every morning, not just to walk you to class, but with a freshly brewed coffee clutched in his hand – exactly how you liked it, black with just a dash of oat milk. He’d learned your order within days of you mentioning it once.

He still wore his hoodies, of course, but now they seemed less like a shield and more like a comfortable second skin, an extension of his soft, quiet confidence. He still mumbled, sometimes, especially when caught off guard, but his words now carried a warmth, a possessiveness that made your stomach flutter.

You found him taking pictures of you. Not secretly, like before, but openly, unabashedly. During study sessions, on walks, even just as you were laughing at something silly. He’d frame you in his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration, then show you the result, a shy, proud smile on his lips. They were always good, capturing candid moments you didn't even know he noticed.

And he listened. Oh, how he listened. If before he was a silent sponge, now he was an active, engaged audience of one. He’d remember details of your day, your frustrations, your small victories, and bring them up later, offering quiet comfort or genuine celebration. Your voice had become his favorite melody, and he absorbed every single note.

Despite the newfound confidence and possessiveness, the core Jisung remained. He was still nerdy, still prone to the endearing stutter when truly flustered, and still occasionally blinked like an owl in direct sunlight. But now, those traits were layered with a thrilling new boldness. He kissed you whenever he wanted. A quick press to your temple as you worked, a soft brush against your lips when he caught your eye across a room, a lingering, breathless touch when you were alone. Each kiss was a silent confirmation, a tangible declaration that you were irrevocably his.

One sunny afternoon, you were lounging on his bed, flipping through one of his comic books. He was at his desk, tinkering with a new beat. A playful impulse struck you. You reached over, snatching his glasses right off his face.

“Hey!” he yelped, a startled sound, his eyes blinking rapidly, temporarily unfocused. He looked hilariously vulnerable without them.

You held them out of his reach, a mischievous grin on your face. “What’s the magic word, Jisung?”

He squinted at you, a soft smile replacing his surprise. He knew this game. He knew you. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made your chest warm. “Please, my love?” he said, his voice husky, an entirely new nickname that sent shivers down your spine.

You melted. You placed the glasses back on his nose, his touch lingering on your fingers. He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. He let you steal them. He let you get away with anything.

One evening, he was showing you the progress on his latest composition – a melody that swelled and pulsed with an undeniable emotional depth. You recognized the faint echoes of your own laughter, the rhythm of your hurried footsteps, the quiet comfort of his presence woven into the notes. It was about you. You knew it.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his guitar resting against his hip. “This part here,” he murmured, his fingers hovering over the fretboard, “is supposed to feel like… like the moment you realize something beautiful is happening.” He gestured for you to come closer.

You didn't hesitate. You shifted, swinging your legs over and settling onto his lap, facing him. He tensed for a split second, then his arms naturally came around your waist, holding you close. His chin rested on your shoulder as he guided your fingers over the strings. His breath ghosted against your ear, and the warmth of his body seeped into yours.

“See?” he whispered, his voice soft against your skin, “Your thumb here, on the C chord. And then these two fingers for the G…” His large hands enveloped yours, teaching you the chords, his body pressed against yours, the guitar a physical conduit for the intimate lesson. The melody, now imbued with his closeness, felt impossibly tender.

Later, much later, curled up in his bed, half-asleep after hours of talking and listening to his music, you murmured, the words slipping out unbidden, soft and hazy with sleep.

“I love you, Hannie.”

His breathing hitched. He stiffened, infinitesimally. He thought he misheard. It was too quiet, too soft, too… monumental. His mind, usually a hyper-efficient processing unit, sputtered. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at your face, illuminated by the faint glow of the moon through the window.

“What… what did you say?” he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming emotion.

You blinked, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep. You looked up at him, meeting his wide, questioning eyes. A soft, lazy smile touched your lips.

“I said,” you repeated, clearer this time, your voice imbued with all the quiet certainty of your heart, “I love you, Jisung.”

He melted. Physically. His entire body seemed to relax, to soften into the mattress. He buried his face in your hair, a low, contented groan escaping his lips. His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between you. He pressed kisses to your scalp, your temple, your forehead. He didn’t say anything back immediately, but you felt the shudder that ran through him, the profound relief, the utter bliss. His silence was louder than any words.

He started wearing the hoodies you selected for him during your infrequent, chaotic shopping trips. You’d pick out soft fabrics, unique colors, or subtle patterns that you knew he’d never choose for himself. He’d try them on, looking bewildered, but then he’d wear them. And sometimes, you’d catch him, subtly, almost instinctively, spraying your vanilla perfume on the collar. He felt like it would be cute, he confessed once, a shy whisper. Like he was hugging you all day.

Those became your "hoodie dates." Simple, quiet evenings, often just in his dorm, him in a hoodie you’d picked out, you in one of his. The air would be filled with the scent of vanilla and Jisung, a comforting, intoxicating blend.

He kissed your shoulder, a soft, deliberate press of his lips against your skin. Then his lips moved, tracing a path along your collarbone, up your jaw, until they reached the sensitive skin just behind your ear, down the column of your neck. Each touch was light, feather-soft, yet utterly devastating. Your breath hitched, a delicious shiver running through you. His hand, warm and firm, rested on your hip, pulling you closer still.

The unspoken hung heavy in the air, a silent question. You both knew where this was leading. The soft breaths grew shorter, more ragged. The air crackled with a dizzying heat. His lips moved to your throat, eliciting a soft gasp. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, closer.

You almost took things further. The desire was a burning, undeniable ache. But then, in the exquisite tension of the moment, you pulled back, breathless, a wide, joyous smile breaking across your face. He looked up, his eyes dark with longing, a question in their depths.

“I could live like this forever,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin.

You held him close, your own smile unwavering. This fragile, beautiful thing you had built, brick by awkward, heartfelt brick, was now your sanctuary. His soft possessiveness, your gentle teasing, the constant hum of unspoken affection – it was everything you never knew you needed. And in his arms, you knew, with profound certainty, that you were exactly where you were meant to be. The “whipped” program was fully installed, and running perfectly.

-

The campus auditorium buzzed with an electric current, a palpable hum of anticipation that felt almost dizzying. Tonight was the annual student talent showcase, an event usually dominated by seasoned performers and boisterous bands. But tonight, something felt different. Tonight was Han Jisung’s night.

You sat in the third row, a knot of nerves and exhilarating pride twisting in your stomach. You had known he was composing something with you in mind. You had felt it in the subtle melodies he hummed, heard it in the passionate way he spoke about weaving emotions into sound. But he hadn't revealed the full scope of it, only that he was playing an "original composition."

The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd. A spotlight flared, illuminating the center of the stage. Jisung walked out, carrying his guitar, a familiar dark blue hoodie clinging comfortably to his frame. His glasses, nestled on his nose, reflected the stage lights, giving him an almost ethereal glow. He looked nervous, his shoulders slightly hunched, but there was a quiet determination in his posture that radiated outward. He sat on the stool placed center stage, his fingers already finding comfort on the fretboard.

He glanced up, his eyes sweeping across the audience, and then, he found you. His gaze softened, a small, private smile touching his lips. It was a smile that spoke volumes, a silent promise. And then, he began to play.

The first notes were soft, hesitant, like a tentative beginning. A simple, ethereal guitar melody, almost fragile. But then, a subtle beat dropped, a low, pulsing rhythm that grounded the sound, giving it depth. His fingers danced over the fretboard, coaxing out intricate chords, weaving complex arpeggios that built and swelled. His voice, usually so quiet, rose, a clear, melodic rap that wove through the music, telling a story.

It was your story.

He sang about a chance encounter in a deserted hallway, a panicked lie, the disbelief of others. He rapped about hesitant glances, fumbled conversations, and the unexpected comfort of a shared silence. He sang about notes in a hoodie pocket, about shy smiles and the warmth of a hand in his sleeve during a cold night walk. The lyrics detailed every awkward, sweet, tension-filled moment you had shared, painting a vivid picture of your journey.

He spoke of secrets kept, of watching rom-coms for "research," of accidentally hitting someone with a basketball. He even recounted the moment you pushed his glasses back on his nose, the "short circuit" in his brain. His voice swelled with emotion as he described the subtle shift, the growing fondness, the undeniable pull.

Then the music shifted, growing more intense, more vulnerable. He rapped about the fear of falling too hard, about pushing away, about the agony of seeing you laugh with another, the crushing weight of self-doubt. The melody became almost painful, raw with regret. He confessed his fear of not being enough, his belief that you deserved "someone better."

And then, the music shifted again, brightening, soaring. His voice filled with an overwhelming tenderness as he described your unannounced visit, the desperate question, the electric touch. He sang about the kiss, about finding home in your arms, about realizing that love wasn’t about being "perfect," but about being perfectly you.

His gaze found yours again, unwavering now. He saw the tears streaming down your face, hot and unbidden. He saw the pure, unadulterated emotion reflected in your eyes. And he played harder. The guitar chords resonated with a newfound power, his voice imbued with every ounce of his confessed love. It wasn't just a performance; it was his soul laid bare, a public declaration of how utterly, completely whipped he was for you.

He brought the song to a crescendo, a final, powerful chord that hung in the air, vibrating with undeniable emotion. The last notes faded, leaving a stunned silence in the auditorium.

Then, he lowered his guitar, looked directly at you, his eyes shining, and spoke into the microphone, his voice clear and ringing with a newfound confidence that sent shivers down your spine.

“This,” he announced, his voice echoing through the silent hall, “is for the girl who rewired my heart.”

And that was your cue. You didn’t think. You didn't hesitate. You pushed past the stunned audience members, scrambling over knees and chairs, your heart thundering against your ribs. You ran, a blur of motion, towards the stage.

He saw you coming. A wide, incandescent smile spread across his face, lighting up the entire auditorium. As you reached the stage, he slid off the stool, meeting you halfway. You launched yourself into his arms, your arms wrapping around his neck, and you kissed him.

It was a public kiss, in front of the entire campus, and it was glorious. It was everything the almost-kisses hadn’t been, everything the tentative first kiss on his bed had promised. It was deep, possessive, overflowing with years of unspoken longing and months of tender affection. The crowd erupted, a deafening roar of cheers, whistles, and applause. It was loud, chaotic, and utterly perfect.

The creep? You heard he was quietly expelled the following week. It seemed his behavior hadn't gone unnoticed by the administration, especially after his increasingly aggressive online messages. Karma, indeed.

A week later, the dust had settled, the campus still buzzing with the afterglow of Jisung’s performance and your very public declaration. You had a final date planned, a quiet, familiar comfort: your favorite café, the one with the best vanilla lattes and the mismatched armchairs.

You spotted him immediately. He was sitting by the window, bathed in the soft afternoon light. He wasn’t in a hoodie. Instead, he wore a crisp white button-down, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows, revealing the toned forearms you now loved. He had on sky-blue pants and a pair of worn Converse, a subtle nod to his casual style, but undeniably more put-together. The silver pendant you’d given him glinted at his throat, and his glasses sat comfortably on his nose. He held a small, artfully arranged bouquet of wildflowers, a whimsical contrast to his new, confident demeanor.

He saw you, and that familiar, shy-but-smitten smile blossomed on his face. He stood up as you approached, and for the first time, he openly, unabashedly flirted.

“Took you long enough, love,” he murmured, his eyes twinkling as he held out the flowers. “Thought I’d have to send out a search party.”

You laughed, taking the bouquet, leaning in to inhale the delicate scent. “Someone’s feeling bold today, Han Jisung.”

“Only for you,” he whispered, his eyes lingering on your lips. He paused, a flicker of his old hesitation, but it was quickly replaced by a confident smirk. “You spent time on your makeup, didn’t you? I don’t want to ruin the lipstick.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in your gaze. “Oh, really?” You leaned in, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to his lips, smudging your lipstick just a little. “Too late.”

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that vibrated through your chest. “Good,” he said, his eyes darkening with desire. He leaned in, deepening the kiss, no longer caring about the lipstick.

After you ordered, he reached under the table, pulling out a small, elegantly wrapped box.

“Happy… non-anniversary,” he said, pushing it across the table to you.

You opened it carefully. Inside, nestled in satin, was a sleek, silver flash drive. You looked at him, puzzled.

“It’s our story,” he explained, his gaze soft, full of emotion. “In music. Everything. From ‘Error: You’re My Boyfriend Now’ to… well, this.” He gestured between the two of you, a profound happiness radiating from him. “Every moment. Every feeling. Every glitch. All captured.”

You felt tears prick your eyes again. It was the most Han Jisung gift he could have ever given you. A symphony of your shared journey, from chaos to profound love.

You reached across the table, taking his hand, intertwining your fingers. His thumb stroked the back of your hand, a familiar, comforting gesture.

He leaned in, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The nerdy boy was still there, but now, he was entirely, unapologetically himself. And entirely, irrevocably yours.

He squeezed your hand gently, his gaze unwavering, and then, he spoke the last line, a simple truth that echoed the entirety of your story, a perfect loop of beginning and end, and a promise of forever.

“I may be nerdy, but I’m yours. Always."

Jeongin hates the words marked onto his skin right above his collarbone. Happy birthday Jeongin. He thought it was stupid and unoriginal. How was he supposed to know who his soulmate was if that was all he heard on his birthday? 

Growing up he always wondered how someone he’s never met would know his name and that it was his birthday. It wasn’t until he debuted as an idol that he realized, his soulmate knew who he was before they even met. 

Having schedules on his birthday made Jeognin feel sick. It increased the chances of him being able to meet his soulmate but how would he know who they were if every fan he met was telling him exactly what was etched into his skin. 

His parents always told him that he would just know in the moment of meeting his soulmate. But their words never helped ease his nerves. How do you just know? 

He dreaded his birthday every year because of this. 

— ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

You were out grocery shopping when you suddenly froze in place in the fruit aisle. Yang Jeongin was standing in front of you looking at the packages of strawberries. 

You knew of Stray Kids due to your friend who was a big fan of them and always talked about them to you. Eventually you learned their names and were able to recognize the members easily. You wouldn’t call yourself a big fan but you did appreciate all their hard work to get to where they are now. 

She had mentioned to you earlier that it was his birthday today but you didn’t want to bother him during his time off. But something felt like it was pulling you towards him, to say something to him. 

He must have felt your presence as you stood there debating on if you should say something or not because eventually he turns to look at you, a polite smile on his face. 

When your gazes met it had felt like all the air in your lungs were suddenly sucked out. The grocery store around you seemed to disappear and the only thing you could focus on was him. 

It must have been because you were so close to an idol. You were just nervous, nothing more than that. 

“Happy birthday Jeongin,” you blurt out before you can think of anything else to say. Immediately mentally cursing yourself out. 

He stares at you, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. After a few seconds he seems to break out of his trance, blinking rapidly and shaking his head slightly before clearing his throat. 

“Ah, thank you. Are you a fan?”

The sound of his words cause your own eyes to widen and your hand instinctively moves to touch right above your collarbone. The familiar words you saw every day in the mirror hidden underneath your shirt. 

“Oh umm my friend is a fan. She talks about you guys a lot,” you stumble out.

Jeongin nods silently before his eyes move to where your hand is touching above your collarbone, the same place his soulmate mark is on his body. His breath hitches in his throat and he’s not sure if the warm feeling that spreads across his collarbone is the “you just know” moment his parents always told him about. 

Hesitantly he takes a step towards you, completely forgetting about the strawberries he was just looking at. And suddenly he’s standing right in front of you, he’s so close you can feel his breath on your face. 

“Sorry if this is sudden, but can I see your soulmate mark?” he asks quietly, eyes still locked on your hand.

His close presence causes your heart to beat rapidly and your brain is screaming at you that your soulmate is finally standing in front of you. You can only bring yourself to nod slowly before you’re moving your hand to tug slightly on the collar of your shirt, exposing your skin. 

Your mark stares back at Jeongin. The words he just uttered seconds ago shine on your skin in his handwriting. And before he thinks, he’s reaching up to touch the words.

His fingers are cold but delicate as he traces the letters which causes you to jump slightly. The sudden contact causes your skin to buzz, it felt like you were on a high that you never wanted to come down from. 

His eyes flicker up from your collarbone to your eyes and then he’s reaching up to pull on the collar of his own shirt to show you the words you had just spoken to him marked onto his skin in your hand writing. 

You stare at his mark for a while before moving your gaze back to his face. He’s still looking at you, watching as you admire the mark on his skin. And when your eyes meet his again, he smiles. 

Not the polite smile he flashed you earlier, but a genuine one. The smile reaches his eyes and causes them to crinkle but you can still see the fondness in them. You can’t help but smile back. 

“Hi soulmate,” he whispers. 

“Hi,” you whisper back. “Soulmate, that has a nice ring to it.” 

You're not sure if his smile can get any bigger but at the sound of your words you swear it does. And then he’s letting out a laugh and it sounds like music to your ears. 

“I’m Yang Jeongin.” He introduces himself and holds out his hand.

“Y/l/n Y/n,” you reach out to shake his hand, feeling a slight spark as you make contact. 

The two of you stand there smiling at each other, completely forgetting you're in the middle of a grocery store’s fruit aisle. 

Suddenly you're thinking of your first words to him and you let out a small gasp. 

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry, my first words to you were terrible. I would hate my birthday if I were you.”

“Oh I do,” he laughs out. “My first words aren’t that great either, to be honest. I sound narcissistic.”

You can’t help but laugh at his words, you had never thought of your mark as narcissistic. You had put the pieces together that maybe your soulmate had a decent following, but you never expected him to be a world famous idol. 

“Not narcissistic. If I was an idol I would ask the same thing if a stranger came up to me and knew my name and that it was my birthday,” you giggle out.

In that moment, Jeonngin swears he would do anything to hear you laugh for the rest of his life. 

“That’s good to know,” he lets out a breath of relief. “I can’t leave a bad first impression on my soulmate.”

“You’re definitely making a good first impression so far.”

The two of you eventually leave the fruit aisle hand in hand, not forgetting his strawberries, and Jeongin thinks that maybe he doesn’t hate his birthday anymore.

a/n: i have finally written my hanahaki au!!! this took me ages, but i really really wanted to write a fic based on how this post describes hanahaki because i love this interpretation (hanahaki is from supressing feelings instead of unrequited love) a lot more than how it's usually written (not that that version is bad!). i actually wish i could have drawn this out more, but didn't have it in me haha

the phrase "it's all coming up roses" means that everything is going well with someone and i thought it was so perfectly ironic for a hanahaki fic where a character actually has roses coming up in the literal sense.

Minho has always been protective. You had felt cool and invincible as a child, having an older brother that was willing to have your back and scare away anybody that teased you. 

You’re grateful that he cares enough to be so involved in your life, but now that you’re in university, you can’t help but feel a little stifled. Minho takes his role as an older brother very seriously, especially since the two of you have moved out of your family home and are sharing an apartment closer to campus. It's a mixture of doting and enough teasing to drive you crazy.

Growing up, your family home had been the regular haunt of Minho and his friends. It was more common than not to get home from cram school and find the boys either lingering in the nearest convenience store or hanging out in your apartment. You wouldn't say that you were friends with the boys, but you were at least familiar enough that you would say hi to them if you saw them in the hallways and they would offer to walk home with you if you were ever leaving school at the same time.

Starting university had been hard for you, most of your friends had ended up moving to other cities or even going abroad. You, however, had decided to stick closer to home. Your program had a good reputation and your parents had promised that they would help you and Minho get an apartment close to campus as long as you lived together. Minho had readily agreed, he had commuted for his first year and had always complained about how long it took.

It was a difficult adjustment, moving out of your family home, balancing your course load, and making friends. Unlike Minho, who had used dance to find his close group of friends, you didn't have any hobbies that you were particularly passionate about and you weren't naturally outgoing or charismatic.

Especially in the first few weeks of classes, it feels like such a relief whenever you see one of Minho's friends that you latch onto them. It’s kind of awkward at first, especially because you don’t know his friends well enough to speak with them casually, but they get used to your presence. You would even consider some of them to be your friend, especially Seungmin, who shares a class with you, and Chan who usually has his lunch break at the same time as you.

You make your own friends eventually, slowly getting to know some of the people that share your program, but you’re definitely a lot closer to the boys than you were prior to university. While you spent most of your childhood calling Minho and his friends lame, you can now admit that you enjoy spending time with them, although you’d never say it to Minho’s face.

Still, Minho doesn’t always approve of who or where you hang out. Sometimes he’s even nosier than your parents were, always asking you about your schedule and calling when you’re out late. He warns you about spending time one-on-one with men and makes sure that you always have your location shared with him. You tolerate it for the most part, knowing that it’s his way of showing that he cares about you, but sometimes you just find him overbearing.

—

“I’m going out next Saturday,” Minho tells you one evening as you step out of your room to get a glass of water. “You’ll have to figure out something for dinner on your own.”

“Oh,” you say, suddenly a little nervous. “I uh- I also have plans that night.”

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “What are you going to be doing?”

“There’s a party that I was invited to,” you say, biting your lip when you see Minho freeze. You turn your gaze to the ground, but you can still feel Minho's stare intensify. 

“What party,” he demands, not even bothering to frame it as a question.

“Does it matter?” you whine, annoyed by how protective Minho is. It’s even worse that you have an audience, Chan is over and you can see out of the corner of your eye that he’s watching your conversation curiously.

“Yes.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

“I think it's at Taehoon's,” your voice is barely a whisper. Minho hears you anyway.

“Taehoon?” He repeats in disbelief. You glance up briefly. Minho's ears are flushed bright red and the tendons in his neck are standing out. He's furious. “Taehoon, who is four years older than you? Taehoon, who holds off-campus parties?”

You grimace and don't respond. There’s no way that he’s going to let you go, you resign yourself to a weekend stuck in your room watching dramas while your friends enjoy themselves. 

It’s bad enough that you had to mention Taehoon, who doesn’t have the best reputation, but you’ve forgotten that Minho would easily be able to recognize the type of party that he throws. You haven’t been to many university parties, but even you know that without the dorm restrictions, off-campus parties are often the wildest and were harder to get invited to. It’s not that you particularly care to attend this party in specific, you just don’t want to miss out since all of your friends will be there.

“Minho,” Chan steps in, clasping a heavy hand on your brother's shoulder.

“Who invited you,” Minho seethes, shaking Chan off.

“Just one of my friends,” you deflect.

“Minho,” Chan says again, this time jostling Minho enough that he turns his attention away from you finally. Your body sags in relief. “Chill, we're going to Taehoon's next weekend. It's just a party.”

“Yes, we are going. Not my baby sister! Y/n-ah, the answer is no.”

“Oppa!” you complain. “I'm not a baby anymore!”

“You don't know anything,” Minho hisses at you. 

“We were going to way crazier parties when we were Y/n's age,” Chan interrupts one more time. “Come on, at least we'd be able to keep an eye on her.”

Minho is about to reply when he stops and tilts his head in thought.

“Okay,” he says slowly, turning back to you with a gleam in his eye. “You can go, Y/n.”

“Really?” you brighten instantly even though you’re a little bit suspicious of his sudden change in heart.

Your breath catches in your throat as you excitedly make eye contact with Chan. He winks at you teasingly before turning his full attention back to Minho, who thankfully hadn’t noticed.

“You're coming with us,” Minho says, nodding decisively.

“Are you kidding me,” you reply flatly, all enthusiasm vanishing instantly.

“Yes. I'll make sure that everybody knows not to mess with you and you still can have fun with your silly little friends. Unless you don't want to go anymore?” Minho raises an eyebrow at you.

“Fine, I'll go with you,” you grumble.

“It'll be fun, Y/n! I promise that I won’t let Minho embarrass you,” Chan says, slinging an arm around your shoulder. You try not to shiver as he leans in to whisper to you, close enough that you can almost feel his lips touching your ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to find something or someone to distract him enough that he’ll forget you’re even there.”

“Okay,” you breathe shakily.

“Hey!” Minho pulls Chan off of you and into a headlock. “Whatever you’re scheming, cut it out. Y/nnie, don’t listen to a single thing this idiot tells you.”

“I try not to listen to idiots,” you say. “That’s why I never follow any of the advice that you give me!”

“Y/n-ah-” Minho starts.

You stick out your tongue at him childishly then dart to your room, slamming the door and locking it behind you so that Minho can’t follow you. The sound of Chan’s resulting laugh echoes through your head for the rest of the day.

—

By the time the weekend rolls around, you're a little worried that you’ve caught a cold. Your throat is achy and talking too much makes you cough, but you're not feeling any other symptoms so you don't think you're actually sick. Minho wasn't exactly pleased when you told him you were still planning on going, but he kept his word and didn't try to convince you otherwise.

Your friends are all getting ready together at one of their dorms, but your brother was adamant that he wanted you to go to the party with him and his friends. You're more comfortable getting changed and doing your makeup at home anyway, so it's not a big deal, but it's still not the same. 

Conversation pauses when you finally exit your room. Only Chan, Hyunjin, and Minho are still in the living area since most of Minho's friends are crowded around your apartment's entryway, shuffling to get their jackets and put on their shoes. Their eyes widen and you see Hyunjin choke on the drink he had just taken a sip of. You tug at the hem of your skirt slightly, suddenly feeling self conscious. 

You've worn this outfit before with friends and while it's definitely not the most conservative option in your closet, it's nowhere near as revealing as what you expect other girls will be wearing. It's just that you're not used to being around Minho's friends when you've put so much effort into your appearance and are showing off a bit of skin. They’ve seen you at your worst and are most familiar with the comfortable sweats and hoodies that you usually wear around your home.

Minho recovers the fastest. In a flash, he's made his way to you and has a death grip on your arm, trying to drag you back into your room. You resist, digging your heels in to try and make it harder for him, but it barely even slows him down.

“Oppa!”

“You are not leaving looking like this,” Minho huffs through gritted teeth.

“Minho-ya, come on. We're going to be late if you make her change,” Chan calls out. It draws the attention of the rest of the boys, who turn to look at the commotion. You hear Jisung wolf-whistle teasingly which only makes things worse. Minho's hand tightens even more around you, hard enough that you're sure it's going to bruise, and he whips around to glare at Jisung.

“Hyung, it's fine. Y/n-ah looks good,” Seungmin chimes in, before winking at you. You groan internally, knowing from the look in his eye that you're not going to like what he says next. “Is there a boy that you're trying to impress tonight?”

“No!” you deny immediately, still trying to pull your arm from your brother's grip to no avail. Your chest tightens at the idea of being forced to stay at home. Minho immediately latches onto the idea that Seungmin has thrown out, his expression darkening even further.

“Is it true?” he questions you.

“Oppa, I promise, I'm just matching with my friends. Which you would know if we actually go to the party!”

“If there is, you better tell me,” he warns.

“Yes, yes,” you groan. “If there was, which there isn't! You're just wasting time now.”

“At least put on a jacket, you’re going to be cold.”

“Fine.” You wrench your arm out of Minho's grasp and stalk to your room. You grab the first jacket you see, intent on ditching it the second that you get to the party, then head straight to the door, breezing past Minho on your way. “Happy now?”

“Thrilled,” he says in a flat voice that says he is anything but.

—

Your apartment is not too far away from the party, so it’s not long before everyone is unloading from their cars and approaching the party. You can hear the bass pounding even from outside the building and you’re sure that there will be a number of neighbours that file noise complaints by the end of the night.

When you make it in, your friends greet you enthusiastically, but are all a little bit weird, fixing their hair more than usual and giggling nervously. You’re not close with all of the girls that are in the group, some of them you can’t even recall if you’ve met before, but you can still tell that everyone is acting strangely. 

It's not until you turn around that you realise that Minho has practically stationed himself behind you and is glowering at anybody who looks your way too long. After years of being on the receiving end of his glares, you’ve grown immune, but everybody else is clearly at least a little intimidated.

“Oppa,” you hiss. He barely spares you a glance. “You're not seriously going to babysit me all night, are you?”

“I'm letting you do what you want so you should let me do whatever I want,” he replies primly. 

You know there's no convincing him on your own. From across the room, you manage to catch Chan's eye and nod your head in Minho's direction. Luckily, he knows exactly what you're trying to say and makes his way over quickly to stand beside Minho.

“Minho-ya, you don't have a drink yet?” he asks, before pointedly taking a sip of his own cup.

“I asked Yongbokkie and Seungmin to make me one,” he replies, unphased.

“And you trust them that much?”

At the same time, the two of them glance over to the kitchen. You follow their gaze to find Felix, Seungmin, as well as Jisung mixing together a concoction that looks not only toxic, but also disgusting. You want to gag when you see them add in soju, hot sauce, milk, and maraschino cherries in quick succession. That’s not even considering whatever they’ve already put into the cup before you looked over. There's no way they actually think the combination could taste good and Minho must agree because he stands up and starts stalking towards them, swearing to himself the whole time.

After Minho leaves, Chan wanders a bit closer to you and brushes a hand against your shoulder lightly. You have to fight the urge to lean into his touch.

“I told you, I got you tonight. Don't worry about your brother breathing down your neck,” he says lowly. Just like when he first promised to distract your brother, Chan winks at you, then follows after Minho.

You force yourself not to stare after him, cheeks flushing as the rest of the girls squeal. Some of your friends have met Minho in passing a couple times, but not any of his friends. Your brother's dance crew has become wildly popular this year, but luckily it's not widely known that you are close with them. You prefer to keep it that way, but it seems like revealing your relation to them is unavoidable tonight. It's just your luck that some of these girls are among the ‘fans’ that your brother has somehow amassed.

“Y/nnie,” a girl beside you pouts. “How come you've never mentioned you know Lee Minho and Bang Chan before? I can't believe you've never introduced him to us!”

“I-” you splutter, still flustered by how close Chan was to you.

“I saw you show up with all eight of them,” another girl interupts. Someone else gasps as if you've committed a serious crime. “You actually know them?”

“Well, yeah-”

“I heard that you called Minho oppa, are you two dating?” the first girl asks.

“What? No!” you quickly deny, disgusted by the very thought of that.

“Oh come on, you don't think that they're ridiculously attractive?” someone else chimes in. The whole group murmurs in agreement. They have more and more questions for you and start to talk over each other.

“Minho's my brother! As in, we share the same parents, that’s why I call him oppa.” you exclaim, before things can spiral further. “And ew, he is definitely not attractive!”

The group is stunned into silence for a moment before exploding in noise. There are girls offended on Minho’s behalf, some asking what him and his friends are like, and others who beg you to introduce them.

Your best friend chooses that moment to speak up, reminding you why she is one of your favourite people in the world.

“Let’s play a drinking game!” she exclaims loudly. She holds up a couple bottles of soju that you’re not sure where she’s been hiding and starts filling up everyone’s cup. Luckily the girls are easily distracted by alcohol, enough that the topic is changed without too much of a fuss. You breathe out a sigh of relief.

—

After a few drinks, you eventually excuse yourself to the bathroom. You’re definitely on your way to being tipsy, but not enough that you feel unsteady on your feet. The loud music makes it a bit difficult to focus and people have filled every corner of the house, but you’re somehow able to find an unoccupied bathroom.

You take an extra moment to splash yourself with water before you leave, you’re feeling a bit sticky from sweating and when one of your friends spilled a bit of their drink on you. When you finish, you swing open the door and immediately apologise when you narrowly miss hitting a guy who has been waiting in the hall. He waves it off, but doesn’t make a move to enter the bathroom, instead stepping a bit closer to you. 

“What’s a pretty little girl like you doing here all on her own?” he slurs, crowding further into your personal space. It’s dark, but you can still tell that his eyes are red and unfocused and hair is matted to his forehead. He's drunk. 

You swallow hard, trying not to panic. You have to treat this situation delicately and somehow make your disinterest clear without provoking or offending him.

“I’m not alone.” You can’t help but laugh nervously, taking a step back. Your stomach churns when your shoulder knocks into the wall behind you and you realise you have nowhere else to go. “My friends are actually probably wondering what’s taking me so long, I’ll just-”

“S’okay, I’m sure they wouldn’t notice if you were gone a little longer.” He leans in until he’s close enough that you can smell the sourness of his sweat and the alcohol on his breath. “I just wanna get t’know you a bit better.”

He smiles down at you in a way that he must think is attractive. It makes you want to vomit.

“No thanks, I’m just going to head-” Your voice is shrill with panic, you can barely recognize it.

You try to shuffle to the side, but the guy slaps his hand against the wall, trapping you even more. Your heartbeat pounds in your chest. He reaches out and traces one of your cheeks with a clumsy hand, ignoring the way that you cringe away.

“Aww c’mon darling, don’t be like that. I can promise you a good time.”

You know a bit of self defense, but this is far from a fair fight. This guy is significantly taller than you and probably double your weight. Even drunk, he can likely overpower you without even trying.

Before you can make a move, an arm slings around the drunk guy’s shoulder, jostling him to the side. Your heart sinks. There was a small chance that you’d have been able to escape, but not if you’re outnumbered.

“Hey mate,” the new person says. Your head shoots up at the familiar voice. Chan. “You seem pretty sloshed.”

Chan nudges the guy again, this time creating a little space that makes you feel less trapped. His body language is loose and relaxed, but the expression on his face is another story. His gaze is intense as he scans you, softening by a fraction when you nod that you’re fine.

“M’not,” the guy argues. He squints up at Chan. “Do I even know you? Get lost, I’m busy right now.”

“Why don’t you go outside and get some air? It’s gotten pretty stuffy in here.” It’s not a suggestion. Chan’s words are friendly, but the tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine.

The guy opens his mouth, likely to protest, but promptly shuts it when he sees the look on Chan’s face. The two of you watch as he stumbles away without a fight, bumping into a few other people in his haste to leave. Now that you’re alone, Chan backs up, giving you more space to breathe.

“Sorry about that,” Chan says, hand scratching at the back of his neck nervously. “Didn't want to be too aggressive. It just- you looked like you needed some help.”

“Some people just don’t know how to take no for an answer,” you say quietly. It’s just another thing to be grateful for when Chan doesn’t comment on the shakiness of your voice. Instead, his expression darkens further before he composes himself.

“Are you okay?” he asks tentatively. 

“Yeah, you came at just the right time.” You look away, a bit embarrassed that he had to step in and rescue you, but he puts a finger under your chin and uses it to turn your face back to him. It feels so different from when the drunk guy touched you that you don’t want him to stop. His eyes search yours for a moment and whatever he finds must satisfy him.

“You should probably rejoin your friends.” Chan starts to step away, but you reach out and snag his sleeve before he can go. 

“Chan-oppa.”

He pauses, turning back to look at you again.

“Yeah?” There’s a hopeful lilt to his voice, although you’re not sure what he’s hoping you say.

“Please don’t tell my brother about this,” you plead. Chan’s expression drops a little, clearly that’s not what he wanted to hear, but he’s still quick to reassure you.

“No, yeah, of course. I won’t say anything.”

“I don’t want him to worry about me.”

“Of course,” Chan repeats.

“And… thank you.” You rise up on your toes and kiss his cheek quickly, then slip away towards where your friends are before you can see what his reaction is. 

—

It takes a few days for you to recover from the party. You hadn’t drunk enough to be hungover, but just remembering your interaction with Chan makes you want to bury yourself in your bed and never leave. Luckily Minho hasn't questioned your change in behaviour much, but you can tell that he's getting sick of your wallowing, even if he doesn't know the reason behind it. 

“Yah, Y/n-ah!” Minho bangs on your door. “We’re heading out for gukbap in 5 minutes, are you coming?”

He doesn’t specify who the ‘we’ is, you know who to expect. Of course, Chan is included. It’s easy to make a decision.

“Go without me!” you yell back.

“Eh? Open up.”

“Just come in, it’s unlocked.”

You hear the door open and Minho approaches. He prods at your prone form with one of his feet.

“What’s up with you? You never say no to gukbap.”

“Nothing!” you groan.

“You’ve been acting strange since that stupid party, what are you hiding?” He pokes at you again, this time a bit harder.

“Oppa,” you complain, lifting yourself out of your blankets to swat at his foot. “I promise that I have nothing to hide, I just don’t feel like hanging out with your friends today.”

“They haven’t done anything, have they?” Minho asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Channie-hyung asked me if you were doing okay.”

“No! I-” you choke on your spit in your haste to answer, leading to a coughing fit that leaves you with tears gathering in your eyes. You clear your throat roughly then continue. “No, Chan-oppa and the rest of your friends have all been nice to me.”

“Oppa?” 

Whoops, you hadn’t meant for that to slip out.

“What?” you whine. “You’re the one who forces me to hang out with them all the time! You told me to stop being so formal around them. They kept telling me too, it got really annoying.”

“Hmm,” Minho huffs, not quite convinced.

“Really,” you insist. “I just don’t want to go out today, I promise.”

“Okay,” Minho says reluctantly before he gets uncharacteristically serious. “But you know, you're my little sister, you can always come to me if something or someone is bothering you right?”

“I- yeah of course, oppa.” You feel kind of touched, not used to Minho openly showing that he cares about you, even though you know he does. It's enough that your throat feels tight with emotion, but you force yourself to speak through it. “Thank you. I always know that I can count on you.”

“I'm the only one allowed to mess with you,” he says sweetly, ruffling your hair so that it sticks up the way he knows you hate. “If anyone else does, I'll make sure that they regret the day that they were born.”

You try to ignore the guilt that curls in your stomach as you watch Minho leave. You hate hiding things from him, but you're still confused by your own emotions and you're worried by how he'll react.  Minho has always been your biggest supporter in everything except for your love life, which he is strictly against no matter how much you try to reason with him. 

You can’t imagine how much worse it would be if he found out that the person you’re interested in is one of his friends. You’ve heard him warn the whole group that you were off limits. He’d use a joking tone, but everyone knew that he was actually serious about it.

In the end, it doesn’t even matter because you’re almost certain that nothing will ever come of your feelings, Chan is way out of your league so there’s no point in even imagining a relationship together.

—

Unsurprisingly, your attempts to avoid Chan fail pretty much instantly. You're not sure how the stars aligned exactly opposite to what you were hoping, but the studio that Minho's (and therefore Chan's) dance crew uses had a schedule conflict that ended up shifting their practice times.

To your dismay, it works out so that multiple times a week, you're leaving campus at the exact same time as your brother. That in itself is not much of an issue, it's the fact that Chan lives close enough to you that the three of you commute back together. To make matters worse, Minho always invites Chan over to have dinner and Chan always accepts.

You can't fault Minho though, you know that he invites him over partly because he wants to hang out with Chan and partly because he knows that Chan might end up working throughout the night in an empty apartment and completely forget to eat. It does also bring you comfort, knowing that Chan is being cared for, that he's eating well and taking time in his day to not worry about school or dance. It's also nice for you, you've grown so used to preparing and eating dinner on your own that it's started to feel more like a chore than something to look forward to.

It's just hard. You haven't had a private conversation with Chan since the party, but you know that he wants to talk to you. 

You were so sure that he would never reciprocate your feelings, but now, you're starting to doubt yourself.

While you're on the bus home, listening to your music, you sometimes glance over to find Chan staring at you, though he's quick to look away. When the three of you are cooking in the kitchen, he's more affectionate, resting a light hand on your waist or back when he passes behind you or nudging your shoulder playfully after he makes a joke. During dinner, he makes sure that you're also engaged in conversation, asking about your classes or the few clubs that you're involved in. He sometimes brings you and Minho little treats from the convenience store and they're always in your favourite flavours.

The thing is, Chan is friendly and generous to everyone that he meets. It's hard to tell if you're reading too much into your interactions with him or if he's actually paying you more interest than usual. You've never heard of Chan dating, actually you can't recall if any of the boys in Minho's dance crew have ever had partners, but it's not for a lack of interested parties.

At times, it feels so impossible that you're embarrassed to even admit to yourself how much you like Chan. You're not blind, you know that there's a fair share of girls who are just as delusional as you are, giggling when he looks over and insisting to their friends that he's interested in them because he helped open the door for them or waved as he walked past.

In fact, some of the very moments that you keep closest to your heart sound so similar to experiences that you've heard other girls gushing about that you hate yourself for having hope that Chan would be interested in you of all people.

It's easier to pretend that there's nothing going on between the two of you. You know that if you were to confess your feelings to Chan, something you would never do, that he would be nice about it. You can almost imagine it, how flustered he would be, making up some kind of excuse about not being interested in dating because he was too devoted to school and dance. He would promise not to tell your brother about it and assure you that it wouldn't change the way that he treats you.

You've run through this hypothetical situation so many times that not only have you experienced enough mortification for a lifetime, but you've convinced yourself even further to lock your feelings up inside of you. There's no point in confessing when you're so sure that nothing will ever come from it.

—

One day, Chan is over as usual and the three of you are cooking in your tiny kitchen, elbows bumping and arms reaching over as everyone tries to make do with the small space available. 

The food is almost ready when Minho's phone rings, the special song that he has saved for Jisung. He picks it up instantly, shoving the pair of chopsticks that he's using into your hands in his haste. You can't hear what Jisung says, but Minho rolls his eyes and leaves to his bedroom, lecturing Jisung about something the whole way there.

“Hey,” Chan says softly. You try to keep yourself busy, picking up dishes and putting them into the sink for washing, but he tugs at your wrist lightly so that you face him. “Is everything good with you?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding quickly. 

“You just seem, I don't know, distracted or something these days.”

“No, it's-” You take a deep breath to collect yourself. “Thank you for asking, really. But I'm fine.”

“Okay,” Chan says, still looking concerned. “Listen, I know we haven't-”

You've never been so glad to hear Minho re-enter the room. 

“Eh? You guys haven't even finished with the food?” he complains in a whiny voice that he only really uses around Chan. “What have you guys been doing this whole time? Come on, Y/n-ah, go set the table. Hyung, I know you can't cook to save your life, but at least scoop out the rice into our bowls. I'm hungry!”

Chan drops the subject for the rest of the night, but you know that you’ve only delayed the conversation. 

—

The next day, you wake up to a dry and achy throat. This isn’t that unusual, you suffer from seasonal allergies that sometimes block your nose and force you to breathe through your mouth as you sleep. This time, it feels different. Your throat has been bothering you more than usual the past couple of weeks and while drinking a glass of water does help you wake up, it doesn’t dull the pain that persists. 

You shuffle out of bed to wash up, then head straight to the kitchen, brewing yourself a steaming mug of yuja tea. The taste is comforting, but doesn't help as much as you hoped it would. 

You get ready for school quickly, hoping to leave before Minho wakes up. You know that your classes start before him today, but he's always been an early riser, preferring to work out or spend time in the dance studio before it gets too busy.

“Y/n-ah,” Minho calls out, right as you're starting to put on your shoes. “You were going to leave without saying bye?”

“I didn’t know if you were awake,” you say, wincing when your voice still sounds rough.

“You didn’t even check.” Minho steps out of his room and unlocks the front door for you as you pull on your backpack.

“I was in a rush-” you start to say, but the rest of your sentence doesn’t manage to make its way out. Clearing your throat only irritates it further, triggering a cough that you can’t contain.

“Y/n,” Minho says, genuine concern shining in his eyes. “Are you feeling okay?”

He raises a hand to your forehead, but you slap it away weakly before he can check your temperature.

“I'm fine, I just have this stupid sore throat that won’t go away,” you reassure him. “I don’t think I’m sick though. The air has been so dry lately, I think I need a humidifier in my room while I sleep.”

“Aww.” Minho pinches your cheek and goes straight back to teasing you. “My delicate baby sister.”

“Ugh, forget I said anything.” You push your brother away. “Now let me go, I'm going to be late for class.”

Minho doesn't say anything in response, but the next night when you go to sleep, a new humidifier has been installed on your bedside table. 

—

In the next few weeks you find that the discomfort in your throat that has been plaguing you has evolved into something else. There’s a persistent feeling of something caught in your throat and you find yourself with a lingering dry cough that no amount of tea or medication can relieve.

One night, you wake up feeling like you can't breathe. In a panic, you untangle yourself from your sheets and get yourself into a sitting position. The change in position allows a deep cough to rattle through you, enough that you’re finally able to suck in a breath. 

Instead of phlegm or maybe a piece of food that could have been stuck in your throat, you feel something velvety in your mouth. You blindly reach for your bedside table to turn on your lamp and wonder if you’re still asleep when you find a single, dark red rose petal in the palm of your hand.

You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch yourself, hard, but when your eyes open, nothing has changed.

Suddenly, you’re wide awake and a cold sweat starts to form, making your pyjamas stick to your back.

You’ve heard of hanahaki disease, of course you have, but you’ve never known someone who has suffered from it. 

It makes sense, you’ve had a sore, scratchy throat and dry cough for weeks now with no other cold symptoms.

You can’t believe it though. 

Hanahaki disease was almost like an urban legend at this point, having been exaggerated and twisted so much in media that you’ve almost forgotten the reality of it. While most of the shows and books that cover this have a somewhat romantic take on it, declaring that it's caused by unrequited love, you know the real cause is your refusal to admit your feelings.

You knew that lying, to Chan, to your brother, to yourself, would have consequences. You had heard stories about how people who kept their feelings a secret were slowly choked by them, petals and leaves representing every time you had held yourself back. 

You just never thought it would happen to you.

Sure, you were interested in Chan. You found him kind, hard-working, funny, and attractive, but it's not like you were in love with him.

You crumple the petal in your hand and throw it into your garbage can. If this is your first time finding petals, you still have months until things progress to be more serious. A part of you hopes that this was some sort of one-off, that this would be the first and last time your body creates any flowers.

You turn off the light and pull the covers tightly over your body, praying that you'll wake up in the morning and find that this was all some crazy stress-related dream.

You don’t fall asleep for the rest of the night.

—

You had thought that you were pretty good at covering up your tracks, but it doesn’t take long before Minho starts piecing things together. It doesn't help over the past few days, your symptoms have steadily worsened. You’ve found yourself coughing up petals every day, enough that you're starting to grow concerned about how quickly things are progressing.

It starts when he calls you into your shared bathroom one evening. You don’t think much of it, until you find him staring at something on the ground.

“What’s this?” he asks. 

“It’s a rose petal,” you say easily, stooping down to pinch it between two fingers and dangle it in front of his face. “You’ve never seen one before?”

Minho rolls his eyes at that, swatting at you half-heartedly. You manage to dodge out of the way, but lose your grip on the petal. It flutters to the floor, but Minho swipes it out of the air.

“What’s it from? Is a boy giving you flowers?” he asks warningly, crushing the petal in his grip.

“Oppa, stop jumping to conclusions!” you groan. “It’s from a bath bomb that I tried out, I guess I missed this one when I was cleaning up.”

“Since when do you take baths?” 

“Since I got a bunch of bath bombs on sale. I thought it would be relaxing.” This time you’re the one rolling your eyes. “But if I knew that it would lead to you interrogating me, I wouldn’t have bothered buying them in the first place.”

“Fine, sorry, just- just clean up next time you’re going to make a mess in the bathroom,” Minho says, before throwing the petal at you and leaving you alone.

You watch as the petal falls onto the tiles, crumpled into a little ball from being in Minho’s fist. When you reach out to pick it up, your fingers are trembling. You’ve never been a good liar, but it seems that at least this time, your acting skills have been good enough to fool Minho.

You hear the front door close and you finally give in to the cough that you've been trying to suppress the whole conversation. 

Tears spring to your eyes, but you can't stop the coughs that wrack your body. This time, even after you spit out a couple of petals, it still feels like there’s something stuck in your throat. After what feels like forever, that something dislodges and you find yourself holding a tiny rosebud complete with a short stem.

You stare at it in horror, you haven’t had more than petals until now. There’s a deep sense of dread that fills you. You thought that you’d have more time, it hasn’t even been a month since you had started coughing up anything.

You throw the flower into the toilet, flushing quickly so that the red petals swirl out of sight. Even after you rinse your mouth, there’s a tinge of iron that lingers.

—

You don't often visit the boys when they're at dance practice, in fact you actively avoid going to the studio. It's one thing to know that their dance crew is quite popular and another to experience it yourself.

But today you don't have much of a choice, in your rush to leave for an early lab, you completely forgot to pack an assignment that was due the same morning and had begged Minho to bring it to campus for you. You were lucky that he hadn't left the apartment yet, but he only brought it on the condition that you brought him coffee and picked your assignment up from him directly. 

It's just before 10am when you head over, which means that there's a lot of students waiting for their dance class to start, but it still surprises you to find a fairly significant crowd outside of the studio that Minho had texted you to go to. You can hear music faintly from the closed door and, as you push your way closer, find that there's a large horizontal window that has caught everyone's attention.

You get more than a fair share of dirty looks as you squeeze through the crowd and one girl even stops you as you move to open the door. 

“Sorry, excuse me,” you say politely.

“You're not allowed in,” she says in a haughty voice. Her acrylic nails bite into your arm, surprisingly strong for how thin she is. “Their practice isn't over.”

“You're not allowed in, I don’t need an invitation,” you say under your breath, rolling your eyes. You must not have said it quietly enough because she gasps dramatically.

“Please, you think you're special?” She looks you up and down dismissively. “You wish any of the boys would talk to someone like you.”

“You must be referring to yourself, they would never want to have to associate with someone as desperate and pathetic as you,” you snap, shouldering your way past her. She squeals, but finally lets go of you, maybe hoping that you'll get in trouble for interrupting.

You open the door just enough to slide through and carefully close it behind you so that you don’t disturb them. It’s mesmerizing, watching them all dance. They’ve been together for so long that it looks so natural for them to move in sync, although you know it’s more to do with long hours of practice and Minho’s eagle eyes pointing out any mistakes. 

None of the boys notice you at first, caught up in the chorus of the song that they're practicing, but Jeongin catches sight of you after a moment.

“Noona!” he says excitedly, abandoning the dance to run over to you. “Is that coffee for me?”

“Innie if you drink that coffee you will not survive long enough for the caffeine to make it into your bloodstream,” your brother warns from across the room. 

Jeongin falters at that, but when you shake the cup enticingly in front of him, he throws caution to the wind and takes a sip.

“Yah! What did I say, Yang Jeongin?” Is the only warning Jeongin gets before he’s chased around the room by an angry Minho. The familiar chaos is almost enough to lift your mood and make you forget about the terrible interaction you had outside.

“You look annoyed, did something happen?” Chan asks, approaching you from where he had gone to turn off the music on his laptop. You curse how observant he is, you thought you had done a pretty good job of hiding how you felt.

“Nothing, just had a weird encounter with a defensive fan out there. It's like you guys are idols or something” you joke, nodding your head towards the window where people are watching curiously. You can still feel the sting from the girl’s nails digging into your wrist and when you lift it up to examine it more closely, see a little bit of blood beading at the deepest crescents.

“They’re not fans,” Chan says in disgust, before he does a double take. “I- you’re bleeding?”

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, wiping at the wounds but only succeeding at smudging the blood so that it looks even worse. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“Come here, we have a first aid kit somewhere. We don’t want it to get infected.” 

Chan takes your hand delicately, making sure to avoid the inflamed areas, and leads you over to the bench closest to where all their bags are piled up. You sneak a glance over to the girl that stopped you and can’t help but feel smug when you find her, pale and slack-jawed. Chan sits you down, only leaving your side to pull the blinds down on the window and dig around until he finds the first aid kit.

“Sorry, it might sting a bit,” Chan apologises as he pulls out the disinfectant wipes.

You peek at Chan and your breath catches in your throat at how concentrated he looks, brows slightly furrowed as he tries to gently dab at the scratches. Most of his hair is hidden under a baseball cap, but you can see a little duck tail forming at the base of his neck which draws attention to the trails of sweat that disappear under the collar of his shirt. You must make some kind of noise, because Chan looks up, eyes wide with concern.

“Sorry, does it hurt a lot?”

“No, you're good,” you say, cheeks flushing.

“I’m almost done,” he says, searching around for a bandage. He’s just finished applying it, tongue sticking out in concentration, when you hear someone else approach.

“What's going on here?” Minho asks.

“Nothing!” you say at the same time that Chan says, “I was just helping Y/n put on a bandage.”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Minho's eyes widen and he reaches out to take a look at your wrist, even though he won't be able to see anything under the bandage. You pull your sleeve down and stand up in a rush.

“It’s nothing, really oppa! I'm sorry, I have to go, my class is starting soon!” you call out, lying through your teeth as you run out of the room, clutching your assignment. “Thank you, Channie-oppa!”

You rush into the nearest bathroom, not even caring that there are people in the other stalls, and throw up an explosion of petals. By the time that you finally make it to class, just in time, your throat stings more than the wound on your wrist.

—

You start trying to avoid Minho and well, you never really stopped in your attempts to avoid Chan.

You leave early in the morning, only come back well after the sun has set, and do everything in your power to contain your cough when you're at home.

You know you're not solving the problem, only prolonging it, but every conversation, every lie, seems to accelerate the growth of the roses that have taken up residence in your lungs. You know that it's not helping, that keeping this secret is just strengthening the flowers that are slowly choking you. It's just that no matter how many conversations you've rehearsed in your head or texts that you've drafted, something seems to stop you.

You're just so so scared that waking up with a mouthful of petals and thorns, bloody coughing fits that you can't prevent, and the raspy tone of your voice that has developed is preferrable. 

As much as you hate him sometimes, you've looked up to your brother for your whole life. You don't know what you would do without him and the thought of losing him terrifies you beyond belief.

You don't always get what you want, though. It's not long until Minho confronts you again.

It's not really a surprise, when you look in the mirror these days, you're shocked by your appearance. Your face is pale and drawn, you have deep bags from not being able to sleep at night, and you've lost weight since most solid food irritates your throat enough to trigger a coughing fit. Add that to the fact that you know your apartment's walls are paper thin which means it's impossible that your brother can't hear you coughing at all hours of the day.

“Y/n-ah. I know that you're not doing well right now. Don't even try to deny it,” Minho says. He closes his eyes for a moment before seemingly deciding something. “I- you don't have to tell me what it is. I would prefer it if you did, but just- what can I do to help?”

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself to reassure him that you're fine, but regret it when you start choking instead. You lurch upright and head directly to the bathroom, Minho trailing behind you worriedly. 

“I-” Trying to talk just makes it worse. You're used to it now, the way that the thorns seem to claw at your throat on their way up, how even the brush of soft petals against the raw flesh hurts, the metallic taste that you can't seem to get rid of no matter how many times you wash your mouth. Still, it doesn't make it easier.

Minho watches in silence as you heave over the toilet. He puts a hand on your back, rubbing slow circles to try and soothe some of your pain. Your eyes water, partially from coughing and partly because you're mortified that your brother is finally witnessing this.

You throw up finally, mostly petals and blood, which is a relief. The stems have been the most painful by far, each thorn digging into the already abused flesh of your throat.

When you finally finish rinsing your mouth, he's holding out a tissue which you accept gratefully. Minho doesn't comment until you've finally caught your breath.

“Y/n-ah-”

“Yeah,” you say miserably, tearing at the leftover tissue in your hand. Your voice both sounds and feels like you've been swallowing gravel. “Hanahaki, who would have guessed that I'd be a romantic at heart?”

You laugh weakly. Minho doesn't.

“I knew it. All those times you locked yourself in the bathroom with the water running… That stupid bath bomb story you told me… I hear you up at all hours, coughing your lungs out… You’ve been hiding it this whole time, haven’t you?” he accuses you.

“I can explain-”

“Go on then,” Minho says impatiently.

“I- It's-” You bury your face in your hands, unable to get the words out. “It's stupid.”

“Y/n-ah, it's obviously not stupid. Whatever it is, it's bothering you enough that it's hurting you physically.”

“I like someone,” you say in a small voice. “Okay? That's it.”

“Why won't you tell them?” Minho demands. “Why won't you tell me who it is?”

“No, I can't. There’s no point, it wouldn't work out,” you insist, shaking your head.

“What are you talking about? No point? Y/n, can't you see it's killing you.” You've never heard Minho sound so desperate. He's angry, he's frustrated, but most of all, he's scared, you realise.

“Oppa-” you say cautiously, but you're interrupted by yet another coughing fit. You can't hide it from your brother when the tissue that you've used to cover your mouth is tinged red by the time you're done. You can feel there's still something lodged in your throat, it takes everything in you to ignore the urge to continue coughing to try and get it out.

“I can't lose you, Y/n,” he whispers. Your eyes widen when you realise his are filled with tears. You don't think you've ever seen Minho cry. “I can't let you do this to yourself, please.”

“I need more time-”

“You don’t have time!” Minho interrupts frantically. “Have you even seen a doctor about this?”

You look away guiltily at the question.

“No, but-”

“Are you kidding me?” Minho says exasperatedly. “We’re booking you an appointment right now.”

“Is it going to make a difference? I know what’s wrong-” As if to prove your point, you can’t stop yourself from coughing again. “It's not that bad yet, oppa,” you lie, the croakiness of your voice giving you away.

“Y/n-”

“I promise! I promise that I am trying my best. I- if it doesn't get better, I'll see a doctor in two weeks.” 

“Not good enough, Y/n-ah. If you can't tell me, at least talk to whoever you like,” he pleads. 

“Fine,” you say. “I- I'll talk to him in the next few days. And if the flowers don't go away, then I will see a doctor.”

Minho lets out a heavy sigh of relief, pulling you into his arms for a tight hug. You try your best to sink into his embrace, but just can't ignore the guilt that seems to consume you.

—

Chan catches you outside your last lecture that night. You're not sure how exactly he found out your schedule, but you exit the lecture hall to find him leaning against the wall directly across from the doors.

It could just be that he knows someone else taking this course or that he has a class in the same room, but somehow you know that he's waiting for you. Not ready for this conversation, you try to keep your head down to pass by unnoticed, but you know that he's spotted you when he calls out your name.

“Hey.” Chan reaches out, tugging on your sleeve without actually touching you. You turn around, stomach sinking slightly. Yes, you had promised your brother that you'd confess to Chan, but you didn't think it would happen so soon. “You're heading home right?”

“Yeah,” you say warily. “What's up?”

“I'm going back too, can we walk together?”

“Sure,” you agree slowly, not able to think of a way to get out of this situation. 

The two of you walk in silence towards your bus stop. Chan's being uncharacteristically awkward and you're not sure what to expect.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says suddenly.

“Okay?”

Chan stays quiet for so long that you’re about to ask if he’s okay.

“I like you,” he blurts out, right as you open your mouth to speak.

“What?” Of everything he could have said, this is what you're expecting the least. There’s no way that you heard him correctly, you must need to get your ears checked.

“I like you,” Chan repeats. You blink up at him, stunned. “But if you don't feel the same way, it's- don't worry about it. I promise that I'll respect it. I'll back off and everything will stay the same. I just wanted to get it off my chest. And maybe, I don't know if I was just making things up, but I thought that you liked me too?”

“You can't,” is all that escapes your mouth.

“I… can't like you?” Chan asks, baffled.

“No, it's- you can't- we can't,” you stammer. “My brother-"

“What, you think I'm afraid of Minho-ya?” Chan asks cockily, raising an eyebrow in a way that you can't help but find attractive.

“I just- he always said-”

“Y/n-ah,” Chan says gently. “I like you and I don't care what your dumb brother thinks. He can complain all he wants, but as long as you're happy, I'm happy. And-”

“You actually like me?” you interrupt.

“Yes, is it really so hard to believe?”

“I just always thought, you only saw me as Minho-oppa's baby sister,” you say glumly, kicking at the ground.

“I did when you were younger for sure,” Chan laughs. “But since university, I feel like I've actually gotten to know the real you, to see how funny, talented, kind, and thoughtful you are. I like you for you, not because I'm friends with your brother.” 

“But there's so many other girls you could choose from that are much prettier or smarter than me,” you argue, still not wanting to get your hopes up.

“Y/n-ah, are you actually trying to convince me not to like you?” Chan pouts. “If you don't feel the same way, just say so, it's okay.”

“No! I-” you trail off, suddenly feeling incredibly shy.

“You what?” Chan prompts you gently.

“I like you too.” Your voice is barely a whisper, but you know that he's heard you from the smile that grows on his face.

“What was that?” Chan asks cheekily.

“I said I like you too!” you say louder this time, before hiding your face in your hands so that you don't have to look at Chan. 

Even though you're beyond embarrassed, you feel better than you have in a long time, giddy with the idea that Chan actually reciprocates your feelings.

But when you breathe in, instead of relief, there's still that familiar tightness in your chest. 

You have to talk to Minho, you realise. As much as you've been keeping it a secret from Chan, you know that a majority of your inner turmoil stems from hiding our feelings from the closest person in your life. You had hoped that talking to Chan would instantly cure your hanahaki, but clearly you were wrong.

—

For the first time in weeks, you purposely seek out Minho. Luckily, you don't have to look far, when you get home, Minho is stretched out on the couch watching anime.

“I told him,” you say. Minho immediately sits upright, turning his attention to you. “The guy I like. But it didn’t help, the flowers are still-”

“And he feels the same way?” Minho interrupts you.

“I- yes, he’s the one that confessed first.”

“Wow,” Minho whistles. “Who’s crazy enough to have feelings for you?”

You had already made up your mind that you had to tell your brother, but his reaction makes you even more confident in your decision. Maybe it's the way that Minho is treating this so lightly, but you’re no longer nervous to say it out loud.

“It's Chan-oppa,” you say, bracing yourself. 

“Chan?” Minho repeats, shell shocked.

“Channie-hyung? Like-” he takes out his phone and pulls up the photo he has of Chan in his contacts.

Chan has the craziest bedhead and his face is puffy from sleep in the photo. He's squinting up at the camera, a hand coming up to try and block his face. He looks adorable.

Minho watches your face carefully as you visibly melt a bit looking at the picture.

“You really do like him, huh,” he says in a quiet voice, no longer joking around. “This whole time?”

“Yeah.” You look down. “I'm sorry.”

“That's it? That's the person you've been so scared of telling me that you liked?"

“I- yes? You don't think it's weird?” you ask tentatively, looking back up at your brother. “The two of us being together? He's one of your best friends.”

“Oh no, it’s definitely weird.” Minho laughs. “I do not understand it at all. But Y/n, Channie-hyung is one of the few people in my life that I trust. Do I want him to be dating my baby sister? Of course not! I don't want you to be dating anyone. Do I think he’s out of his mind for being interested in you? Definitely.”

“Hey!” you interject. Minho carries on like he can’t hear you.

“Do I think he fully understands that if he hurts you in any way, directly or indirectly, on purpose or on accident, that I will hunt him down and make him regret the fact that he ever existed in the first place? Yes, I think he knows.”

“Oppa,” you say in horror. “You will not give your best friend the shovel talk.”

“I don’t have to.” Minho smiles brightly, a picture of innocence if you didn’t know him. “My reputation precedes me. Channie-hyung's one of my closest friends, he would never expect anything less from me.”

“Oppa-”

“Y/n-ah,” Minho softens his voice. “I also know that of all the people that I've ever met, Channie-hyung is one that is least likely to ever hurt you. I trust him, but I also want you to know that I trust your judgement.”

You look away, sniffing. You never could have imagined that Minho would accept your relationship so easily that it's making you feel emotional.

“Aigoo, Y/nnie,” Minho coos. He pulls you into a tight hug, ignoring the way that tears finally escape from you and stain his shirt. “You were really worried about this, weren't you?”

You nod into his shoulder, unable to provide a verbal response.

“I'm sorry that I made you feel like you couldn't tell me about this. It's definitely going to take a bit of time to get used to it, but I'm happy for you, really. I know I can seem overbearing sometimes, but I just worry.”

“I didn't want you to be upset at Channie-oppa or me,” you murmur. “I didn't want to do anything to hurt your friendship. I didn't want to hurt our relationship.”

“Y/n-ah,” Minho says gently, but firmly. “I want you to know that there is nothing that could hurt our relationship. You're my baby sister, I'm always going to love you.”

After months of keeping all your feelings bottled up, of denying your feelings for Chan, of dreading Minho’s reaction, you’ve felt a constant dread, guilt filling your insides. Now, you’re just filled with an overwhelming sense of relief. It’s as if an enormous weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

It feels like you can breathe again.

The speakers were screaming alongside the tight crowd in the dark arena. The bass vibrated through your body, the lights were blinding you, and if you were being honest, the guitar shreds were probably the reason why your ears were close to bleeding. It’s frankly a miracle that they have survived so many shows. The drums were heavy, and your boyfriend Han had the microphone right up against his lips as if he was making out with it. His stage partner Felix was harshly dragging his hands across the guitar’s body, getting every last sound he could from the strings, even at the cost of tearing the skin on his fingers.

And you were at the front row of the crowd, pushed a little up against the cold metal railing because of the crazy fans. You couldn’t breathe, but after so many concerts, you knew you’d make it on the other side. The Sunshine Twins always managed to bring so much energy to the crowd. The constant screaming, singing along, and even throwing bras at the stage like it was nothing.

Your boyfriend’s voice echoed through the venue, shaking the microphone. His voice sounded a lot groggier than usual, but to the fans in the crowd, it sounded unbelievably hot. His body was swaying from side to side a little loosely. He definitely wasn’t sober. Your heart raced with anxiety, and you felt that if you looked at anything else other than him, something could go wrong. Sweat dripped down Han’s forehead, and he was laughing at every moment he got the lyrics wrong. The loud music flowed through him, and all the colors were blending together. The faces in the crowd became indecipherable, and with every step Han took on the wooden stage, the more the bubbles in his stomach grew. His head was throbbing, his eyelids were gaining weight, and his legs were close to giving out.

“How is everyone doing tonight?!” Han slurred.

The crowd screamed with enthusiasm once more, and Felix was shredding his guitar once more to get everyone going. Meanwhile, Han’s breathing was thinning out. He knew that he took one pill too many and that he should’ve stopped at one bottle when you asked him to. The world spun, and horrified screams and the loud buzz of the microphone rang in your ear. Your heart jumped out of your chest, and without thinking, you managed to get over the metal railing, as several men dressed in black shirts, pants, and caps rushed over to Han, who was lying face flat on the stage. Felix quickly put down his guitar to check up on his friend, but everyone was quickly escorted off the stage. All the fans in the crowd screamed with worry and yelled out questions as to why their main event passed out.

“Hannie! Please talk to me!!” you rushed as the staff carried Han backstage. Some were already bringing out their medical kits. Han was laid down on the red couch, and you rushed to his side. “Han! Are you okay?!”

You shook his side, and he didn’t budge. His eyes were shut closed, and his mouth was agape, drool spilling out. Felix quickly sat next to you, his face full of worry.

“Is he okay?” Felix asked.

“He’s not waking up!” Your chest was heaving, and your blood ran cold. This can’t be it, can it? After all the nights and days with him being so doting, loving, and energetic, it all couldn’t just go away like that. Your mind was running marathons, your stomach swirled, and your heart was hurting. “Hannie….no, you can’t…”

“Come on, mate, wake up.”

If it weren’t for those stupid pills.

The doctor quickly rushed in, pushing you and Felix aside. He put on his stethoscope on Han’s chest, listening closely. Two seconds later, the doctor exhaled a breath of relief.

“His heart is still beating,” the doctor said.

“Thank fucking God,” Felix breathed.

“He shouldn’t have taken those pills….” you muttered.

“Where the fuck is Han?!” your head snapped to the left to see JYP, Han and Felix’s manager, enter the room. His face was red and sweaty, and the strands of his hair were frizzed up. “Is he even still breathing?”

“Yes, Sir, he is breathing,” the doctor answered.

“Well, get him back on his feet for God’s sake! We still have an hour left of the show!”

Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up, face to face with JYP, your hands balled into fists.

“He’s fucking passed out!” you said, completely in disbelief that his manager would even make such a suggestion. “He can’t get back on stage!”

“Please, woman. I’ve had artists go through worse on stage and manage to finish the show. I won’t allow any of my acts to leave the fans hanging and me to deal with the constant reporting from paparazzi. Wake him up right now!”

“But, Sir—” Felix tried to chime in.

“Now!”

Felix sighed before grabbing a bottle of cold water and spilling it all over Han’s face. Han instantly woke up, but his eyes slowly opened, and the ceiling lights were dancing in circles. Your heart leaped again, and you cradled his face in your hands.

“Han!” you said, tears streaming down your face.

“He’s awake!” Felix jumped a little.

“Fuck…what happened?” he mumbled.

“You passed out, but now, you get back on the stage,” JYP ordered. “I didn’t put you on those meds for this shit to happen.”

“You…” you gritted through your teeth. You were ready to sock him straight in the jaw, but Han put his hand on your shoulder.

“No worries, Honeypie,” Han slurred, “I got it…”

Han got up, but he immediately fell back on the couch as if his legs were jelly. His head spun more, and he suddenly emptied his stomach on the floor. Hot yellow-orange acid spread everywhere, and everyone else quickly stepped away from the new mess.

“He can’t get back on this stage,” you said as you brought the trash can closer to Han.

“I can, Baby, don’t worry,” Han assured, his body still unable to coordinate properly. “I don’t wanna let down my fans. Come on, Felix, let’s go.”

“You can’t get back on the stage. I won't let you.”

“Jesus, Honey, I don’t have time for this.”

“Are you serious, Han? You passed out!”

Before you could say anything else, Han was dragged away by all the staff because JYP was running out of patience. The doctor even followed to make sure that he was medicating Han for his upset stomach. You just stood there and watched your boyfriend, barely able to stand, take the stage for however the last hour they had left.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Felix sighed as he gently patted your shoulder. “I’ll take care of him, okay?”

You didn’t say anything back, and you’d just watched everyone walk away from you, leaving you backstage. Your heart pounded, your skin was slick with sweat, and your blood boiled. It’s been going on for too long, and you were sick. Your mind was flooded with all the number of times Han drowned himself in the alcohol, stuffed his face with the pills the doctor gave him, and even cried and screamed because he was too fucking scared to lose it all. Even after the many times you assured him that he’s doing amazing and that he didn’t need the meds or alcohol to make him great, he still dug himself six feet under. You didn’t even see the encore of the show, you just wanted to go back to the hotel.

The hotel was just as gloomy and messy as your face and mind, and the retro neon lights weren’t helping with anything. The room was messy: empty glass bottles scattered everywhere, an unmade bed, and boxes of takeout were still all over the table. The light in the kitchen was flickering, and your eyes were immediately focused on the opened pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the table. You were an occasional smoker. You tried to quit many times, but Han always pulled you back in for a good ole smoking session. You tried getting him to quit, but it was hard when everyone around him smoked as well. You sighed, grabbed a cigarette, and easily lit it with the lighter, as you stepped onto the balcony.

You inhaled and exhaled all the ashy smoke, letting it burn your lungs and dry all the moisture from your mouth. You overlooked the view of convenience stores, gas stations, 24 hour diners, and piles of garbage around the dumpster that has yet to be emptied. The smell was horrendous, but the moon was shining bright as ever. A bittersweet smile came across your lips, remembering one of your first dates with Han.

He took you out for a late night drive to the drive-in theaters for some classic film any cinephile would cream their pants over. The movie was engaging in some ways. The actors were hot, the music was fire, and the action was epic. Han was sitting in the driver’s seat, and you were in the passenger's seat. A whole bag of popcorn was between you both, along with bottles of beer he stole from his father. You both were a little young to drink, but you didn’t care. You both were gonna turn 21 in three years anyway.

“You know, Y/N?” he asked, his face already a little flushed.

“Hmm?”

“I can see you become an actress.”

Your eyebrow raised, and you mentally scoffed at the idea.

“What makes you say that?” you asked.

“Well…” Han smirked, his cheekiness very clear. “You’re hot like her.”

Han pointed at the screen, where it was showing a scene of the movie’s lead actress looking hot in a red bikini.

“Oh please, Han,” you rolled your eyes. “That’s all you could say?”

Your ears were a little warm, and your heart picked up a couple of beats.

“Obviously, that’s not all,” he assured. “You have the voice of an actress, and you carry the same wit as the girl on screen.”

“Yeah, sure.”

If you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t think that anyone could ever picture you as an actress. Sure, you thought you were decent looking, but no one was ever bold enough to compare you to the pretty girls on the silver screen.

“I’m serious, Y/N…” Han said. He grabbed your hand and pulled you close. “You’re so beautiful, like the shining moon in the sky.”

He pointed to the bright white moon, which could be seen through the windshield. Your face reddened more, and you avoided his gaze in embarrassment. It was only the first date, and you’re already swooning. Han chuckled at your cute, embarrassed face, and all he did was plant a sweet kiss on your heated cheek. Your brain jumbled, and your body felt like it was going to explode any second.

“You’re so cute, Baby…” he softly said, his voice a little deep and sultry. “I could write a song about this…”

You exhaled one more puff of smoke into the cold air, and after that, you quickly put out the cigarette with your shoe. It didn’t take you long to change out of your tight, ripped jeans and top into your simple, plain nightgown before crawling back to the very cold, empty bed. Your hand was reaching to the other side, little tears were streaming down your face, and you were hoping that maybe your beloved could come back home soon.

The next morning, you woke up to see Han passed out on the couch. He was still wearing the clothes he performed in: a long-sleeve black and white striped shirt under a cropped and ripped black T-shirt, ripped black skinny jeans, and large black leather boots. His dry mouth was agape, vomit stains were all over his clothes, and his hair was a mess. You couldn’t even tell if your heart sank. You were just tired of it.

“Han?” you gently asked as you nudged him a little. He didn’t move the first one. “Hannie? Wake up please…”

You shook his body more until his red-rimmed eyes finally opened and met your tired ones.

“Oh hey, Honey…” he croaked, his throat probably dry from all the screaming, stomach acid, booze, and whatever fuck substance he shoved down his throat. “You look mighty fine.”

“Are you okay?” you asked. “You look pretty beat up.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

He managed to sit up, his head spinning and throbbing like crazy. His eyes met yours, and his smile faded after seeing your solemn face.

“You weren’t there to see me finish the show…” Han said, “It was our last show of the tour, and you weren’t there to join me on the stage like you did before….”

You bit your tongue, not knowing how to answer. So many things were happening at once that you just didn’t know what to think. All you could just think about was watching Han take more than five shots for confidence and three pills for less anxiety before the show, while you were trying to get him to stop after the previous nights of him doing the same thing. He said he’d be fine, but you noticed him not eating well, you noticed him not sleeping enough, and you noticed him becoming more moody and stressed by the day. You couldn’t get the image of him slurring in the microphone, his body swaying side to side, and his body giving up before collapsing on the stage, even though you should’ve seen it coming.

“Well, how did you expect me to just join you on stage like you didn’t pass out?” you asked, your voice a little softer than you wanted. “You scared the shit out of me, Han. I couldn’t just pretend that nothing happened.”

“But, Baby, I always pass out, and I manage to get up every time,” Han said. “You still should’ve joined me and not walk back to the hotel all alone.”

“No, Han. You never ‘always pass out.’ This isn’t what you signed up for when you started this rockstar thing.”

“Oh please, Y/N, I’m a big boy now. I can handle this shit. I don’t know why you’re so turned off by me drinking and taking the drugs that the doctor gave me.”

Han rolled his eyes and got up from the couch to walk to the small kitchen area to grab a water bottle.

“That doctor is fucking sketchy, and you know it!” you retorted. “No real doctor is going to make you take three pills a day to calm your anxiety down. Not to mention the meds your manager has been giving you—”

“How can you just say that, Y/N?” Han looked at you with disbelief, as if you said the most offensive thing to him. “Okay, Doctor, my anxiety has always been shit, so maybe I should take all those fucking meds to fix it.”

“And risk your life?!” your voice raised a little. Your blood began to boil, and your heartstrings were being pulled harder than ever before.

“You of all people should know just how stressed I’ve been lately! The concerts, the fans, the amount of traveling we have to do—The least you can do is support me and my music.”

“I said I’d support you, but I didn’t say I’d be okay with you taking drugs 24/7!”

“They help me calm my ass down, Y/N!”

“No, they’re not. They’re killing you slowly. I’m not going to lose you to this shit.”

“You’re not losing me, Baby. I’m right here, aren’t I?”

Han was standing before you, his hands cradling your face. His eyes were still red as ever, his clothes smelled like sweat and old vomit, and nothing could get rid of the stench of booze. Tears were threatening to come out of your eyes. It was unbelievable. You didn’t even know what to think other than the great pang in your heart and soul. It felt like your heart was ripped out of your chest, and he’s just standing there, acting like everything is alright. His touch didn’t even feel the same anymore. None of this felt real. It couldn’t be. What happened to the Han Jisung who wasn’t ruined by this fucked up world? Before the drugs and alcohol? You always wanted to support him and his dream, but not like this. Never like this.

“Yeah…but you could be dead tomorrow, and it will be my fault.”

Your voice cracked a little, and you didn’t want to look at him in the eye. You tried. You tried so hard, but nothing could convince him. Nothing could make him stop. Han’s breathing slowed down, and his frustration faded. A small frown formed on his face, and his eyes softened.

“Baby, please…” Han said.

“No, Han. Stop,” The tears started to pour down your cheeks as you pulled away from him. “No matter what I say, you won’t listen to me….I don’t think I can deal with this anymore.”

“Y/N…”

“I’m sorry. I need to leave…”

You turned away from him, but your head snapped back to face him the moment his hand grabbed your wrist.

“Stay for a while at least,” he said. His red-rimmed eyes were welling up too. “You’re only wearing a nightgown, and it’s cold out.”

“Han, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“Please, Y/N…”

You shook your head, the tears flowing down your cheeks more. You quickly broke out of his grip and rushed to grab your large jacket. You then packed your singular carry-on luggage: all your clothes, makeup, small toiletries, and you couldn’t bring yourself to put down the cigarette box. Han watched you not say another word as you packed everything. His heart was slowly breaking apart, but it’s not like he couldn’t blame you. You were right. His body craved nothing but toxins, and your love wasn’t strong enough to fix it. And just before he could say goodbye, you were already out of his sight. His skin was stained with tears, and he felt sick with regret. Han wanted to grab your wrist and pull you close again. Maybe he could have convinced you to stay if he tried harder, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t like you hated him. He knew you couldn’t. But he also knew that he was incapable of loving you the same as before.

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