chae.

Two months had a funny way of disappearing when every day seemed to end covered in dirt.

The nursery became your entire world for a while. Every morning began with coffee and a checklist that somehow grew longer overnight, and every evening ended with another layer of dust on your clothes and another project crossed off the board. Some days felt enormous. Others felt like you spent twelve hours accomplishing nothing more than choosing paint colors or waiting for concrete to cure.

Still, when you looked back, it was impossible to ignore how much had changed.

The greenhouse was the first thing people noticed now. Sunlight poured through clean glass instead of cracked, cloudy panels, filling the space with warmth that had been missing for years.

New benches stretched beneath the windows, already crowded with herbs and seedlings waiting for spring customers. Outside, the pathways no longer disappeared beneath weeds. Fresh stone wound through flower beds bursting with color, and the trees Chan had surprised you with had already begun settling into the landscape as though they’d always belonged there.

They were still your favorite part. Every time you drove into the lot, your eyes found them first, and every time, you smiled.

Sometimes you even caught yourself stopping in the middle of the property for no reason other than to look.

It still didn’t quite feel real.

You remembered the first time you’d unlocked the front door, wondering if you’d made the biggest mistake of your life. Back then, all you could see were broken windows, peeling paint, and years of neglect.

Now, you saw possibility.

You saw customers wandering through the greenhouse with coffee in their hands. Children crouching beside flower beds to watch butterflies. Someone picking out the perfect houseplant for a first apartment. You saw birthdays, Mother’s Days, busy Saturdays in the spring, and quiet Tuesday mornings spent watering hanging baskets before the doors opened.

For the first time, the dream in your head had somewhere to live besides your imagination. It lived here.

And somehow, every corner of it carried traces of the people who had helped you build it.

The contractor who refused to charge you for an extra day’s work after hearing what you were trying to create. The greenhouse owner who had insisted you take twice as many starter plants as you’d ordered. The row of flowering shrubs gifted by a neighboring nursery owner after hearing about your opening. The landscaping crew that somehow worked faster whenever Jia wandered over asking questions.

Chan’s coworkers, who had shown up on more than one Saturday with coffee in one hand and work gloves in the other after claiming they were “just stopping by.”

Even now, you could still picture it.

The greenhouse benches Hyunjin and Changbin somehow assembled backwards before taking them apart and pretending it had all been part of the plan.

The irrigation lines Minho insisted on checking himself because, according to him, “I’d rather spend one afternoon fixing it than listen to Christopher complain about watering plants all summer.”

Somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like your project. Not because it wasn't yours anymore, but because so many people had quietly decided they wanted to see it succeed.

By the time the calendar finally landed on the date circled in thick green marker, there was almost nothing left to do.

Just open the doors.

𐙚

The next morning felt strangely….quiet.

Not because there wasn’t anything left to do. There usually was. But for the first time in months, the checklist taped to the refrigerator held more crossed-out boxes than empty ones.

You had barely finished your coffee when a knock echoed through Chan’s house. Before either of you could answer it, Jia was already halfway to the front door, “I got it!”

Chan chuckled from where he stood rinsing out his mug. “Bug--"

The front door flew open before Chan had a chance to remind Jia to check who was outside. "Uncle Bin!”

Changbin barely managed to brace himself before she launched into his arms. He caught her with an exaggerated grunt, taking two dramatic steps backward. "Good morning to you too."

"I missed you."

"I can tell." He adjusted her on his hip, pretending to wince. "Did somebody get heavier?"

"I got taller."

"Right." He nodded solemnly. "That's definitely what I meant."

Hyunjin walked in behind them carrying a small backpack covered in cartoon dinosaurs while Minho followed with a paper bag balanced under one arm and three takeout coffees in the other. "I brought breakfast," Minho announced, setting the bag on the kitchen counter.

Chan raised an eyebrow. "Bribery?"

"Absolutely."

"So what's the catch?"

"There isn't one."

Changbin snorted, "there's definitely one."

Hyunjin wandered into the kitchen like he'd been there a hundred times before, opening cabinets until he found a stack of plates without asking. "We're kidnapping your child."

Chan looked up from his coffee.

"You're....what?"

"For the day," Hyunjin clarified.

Jia gasped loud enough to gain everyone's attention. "A field trip?"

Changbin looked down at her. "Do you want it to be?"

She nodded so enthusiastically you thought she might fall over. "Yes!"

Minho slid one of the coffees toward you before answering the question Chan hadn't asked yet. "You've got enough on your plate today."

"The nursery," Hyunjin added.

"The soft opening," Changbin continued.

"And if the two of you spend the whole day worrying about whether Jia's bored, you'll never actually enjoy any of it," Minho finished.

You exchanged a glance with Chan. They weren't wrong. Chan leaned back against the counter, folding his arms. "So what's the plan?"

Changbin grinned. "That's classified."

"You don't have a plan."

Hyunjin looked over at Changbin with a raised eyebrow. "We should probably come up with one first."

"I was thinking arcade."

"I was thinking the zoo."

"I was thinking," Minho cut in, taking a sip of his coffee, "we let the only person whose opinion matters decide."

Three pairs of eyes turned toward Jia.

She blinked up at them for a second, giving the question the kind of serious consideration only a four-year-old could.

"Can we get nuggets?"

Minho nodded without hesitation. "That can be arranged."

"The first stop," Changbin agreed solemnly placing her back on her feet.

Jia threw both hands into the air. "Best day ever!" She squealed before darting back toward her room, “I have to get Dwaekki!”

A quiet laugh rippled through the kitchen as you looked at her confused, “Dwaekki?”

“The pig-rabbit,” Chan clarified.

You nodded like that answered everything, “Of course.”

It didn't take that long.

She came barreling back around the corner with Dwaekki tucked securely beneath one arm, a tiny backpack bouncing against her shoulders and a water bottle swinging wildly from one hand.

Somewhere between her bedroom and the kitchen she'd also managed to untie one of her sneakers. "I'm ready!"

Chan's eyes dropped immediately to her feet. "No, you're not."

She frowned. "I am."

He pointed, "your shoe."

Jia looked down, tilting her head as though seeing it for the first time. "It's fine."

"It is definitely not fine."

With a dramatic sigh that belonged on someone at least three decades older, she lifted her foot toward him. Without a word, Chan crouched in front of her.

The conversation around the kitchen drifted on while his fingers worked the laces back into place, tightening the knot with the practiced ease of someone who had done it hundreds of times before. Jia rested one hand against his shoulder to steady herself, already more interested in telling Changbin about the snacks she planned to pack than the fact that her father was fixing the problem she'd declared wasn't a problem.

When he finished, Chan gave the toe of her sneaker a light tap. "There."

She smiled brightly. "Thanks, Daddy."

"We'll have her back tonight," Changbin said as he stood, reaching for Jia's backpack.

Hyunjin slung her dinosaur bag over his own shoulder. "Our goal is to wear her out enough that she falls asleep before you even hear how much sugar we gave her."

"You are not giving her sugar," Chan replied.

Hyunjin looked offended. "I didn't say how much."

Jia had already reached the front door before stopping so suddenly that Changbin nearly walked into the back of her. She spun around and hurried back across the room, throwing her arms around your waist without a second thought. "Good luck today."

The words caught you off guard. You smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear before returning the hug. "Thank you, sweetheart."

She gave Chan an equally enthusiastic hug, accepted his kiss to the top of her head, then slipped her hand into Changbin's like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A moment later, the front door closed behind them, and their voices faded into the driveway. The laughter outside lingered for another few seconds before the sound of an engine faded down the street. Then the house settled into a silence neither of you had heard in what felt like weeks.

For the first time in what seemed like months, there wasn't a contractor waiting for a phone call, a grocery run to squeeze in before daycare pickup, or a four-year-old racing down the hallway with a brand-new emergency.

You smiled to yourself as you looked toward the kitchen. "I don't think we've been alone in this house for more than twenty minutes these last two months."

"I don't think we have either," Chan admitted, watching you over the rim of his coffee mug.

The quiet lasted another beat before habit took over. You carried your empty mug toward the sink, already mentally sorting through the rest of the morning.

There were still a few things you wanted to check at the nursery before the soft opening. A couple of displays needed straightening. You wanted to water the hanging baskets one last time. Maybe wipe down the front counter again, even though you'd already done it yesterday.

You had just reached the sink when gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist. "You don't have to do that."

You looked over your shoulder. "The dishes?"

"The dishes." His mouth curved into a smile. "The nursery too."

You laughed quietly. "Christopher..."

"The soft opening isn't until this afternoon."

"I know."

"The nursery survived two months of construction." He stepped closer, still holding your hand as his smile grew a little more playful. "It even survived Hyunjin trying to use power tools."

"Barely."

"Barely," he agreed. "I think it'll survive another hour."

You wanted to argue. You really did. Instead, you found yourself smiling. "I hate how reasonable that sounds."

"I know."

"You planned this."

"I absolutely planned this."

Before you could protest again, he gently tugged you away from the sink. You followed with a dramatic sigh that fooled absolutely no one, letting him guide you back toward the couch while he reached for the throw blanket draped over the armrest.

"There."

"You've been waiting to do this all morning, haven't you?"

"Since they walked through the front door."

You laughed, shaking your head as you settled against the cushions. He tucked the blanket over both of you before slipping an arm around your shoulders, and almost instinctively you curled into his side, resting your head against him.

The television flickered to life with the low hum of a cooking show neither of you had any intention of watching. It became little more than background noise, blending with the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the house settling around you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Chan's fingers found yours beneath the blanket, absentmindedly intertwining with them before his thumb began tracing slow, lazy circles across the back of your hand.

His coffee sat forgotten on the table, cooling by the minute, while the warmth of his body and the weight of his arm around you made it increasingly difficult to remember why you'd been so determined to leave in the first place.

Every now and then, one of you would break the silence only to let it settle again just as naturally. "I still can't believe Changbin and Hyunjin built those greenhouse benches backwards."

Chan let out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating gently beneath your cheek. "They were so confident."

"They argued with the instructions."

"They argued with me too."

You smiled into his shoulder, picturing the two of them stubbornly insisting they knew better until Minho had quietly turned the instruction manual around and pointed out they were working off the wrong side.

"They're never living that down."

"They know that."

The conversation faded as easily as it had begun, replaced by another stretch of comfortable silence. It wasn't the awkward kind that begged to be filled. It was the kind that came from spending enough time with someone that simply existing beside them felt like conversation all on its own.

After a while, Chan tipped his head back against the couch and let out a slow breath. "I think..." His voice was softer this time, thoughtful. "...this is the first morning in weeks I haven't had somewhere to be."

You tilted your head to look at him. "It feels weird."

"A little."

"But..." A smile tugged at your lips. "Good weird."

His eyes met yours, warm enough to make your chest tighten, "yeah."

Neither of you rushed to say anything else. Sunlight stretched a little farther across the living room floor while the hosts on the television excitedly debated a recipe neither of you had been listening to. Chan's gaze wandered around the room before settling back on you, his smile returning almost unconsciously.

"I could get used to this."

Your eyebrows lifted. "This?"

He nodded, his fingers giving yours a gentle squeeze. "Coffee getting cold. You stealing my sweatshirts."

You glanced down at the oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder and smiled. "I've noticed they don't make it back to your closet."

"I noticed too."

A quiet laugh passed between you. "The house being this peaceful every once in a while," he continued. "Knowing Jia's probably having the best day of her life with the guys."

You pictured Changbin letting her pick the music in the car, Hyunjin inevitably convincing someone to buy her an unnecessary stuffed animal, and Minho pretending he hadn't been the one to suggest ice cream before lunch. "They're absolutely spoiling her."

"They absolutely are."

"But..." you murmured, nestling a little closer against him, "...she deserves it."

"So do you."

The words were so matter-of-fact that they caught you off guard. You looked up just as he looked down. Somewhere along the conversation, the space between you had disappeared. His free hand came up to brush a loose strand of hair away from your face, his fingertips lingering against your cheek with familiar tenderness.

"What?" you asked quietly.

He smiled. "Nothing."

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're thinking too much."

A laugh escaped him. "I wasn't thinking."

"No?"

"I was just looking at you."

You rolled your eyes, though the smile pulling at your mouth ruined any attempt at sounding unconvinced, "that's worse."

"I disagree."

"You would."

"I would."

You leaned forward, intending to steal a quick kiss before settling back against him, but the moment your lips brushed his, his hand slid naturally to your waist, keeping you close as he kissed you again.

It was slow, lazy. The kind of kiss that came from finally realizing there was nowhere else you needed to be. When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, neither of you bothering to move very far.

"We've got the house to ourselves," he murmured, his voice low enough that you felt it more than heard it.

A laugh slipped from your lips. "Is that your way of asking?"

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe."

You pretended to consider it for a moment before your fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck. "I suppose I could clear my schedule."

"I was hoping you would."

His smile softened as he kissed you again, lingering just a little longer this time, and the morning continued exactly the way neither of you had realized you'd been needing for weeks.

The blanket became an obstacle within minutes. Your knee caught the armrest when he shifted to get closer, and his elbow pressed against something hard behind your back that you were fairly certain was the remote. A quiet, breathless laugh broke the space between kisses.

"I keep knocking into things," he murmured against your jaw, the low rumble of his voice doing something to your composure that the morning had been building toward for hours.

"It's a couch. It's not built for—"

"Bedroom." He was already pulling you up, one hand sliding from your waist to your wrist, guiding you to your feet while the blanket gathered in a heap on the cushions behind you.

You let him. You let him lead you down the hall in silence that felt less like walking and more like falling forward. The house was still quiet around you, sun-drenched and normal, and then the bedroom door clicked shut and none of it felt normal at all.

He didn't wait. The moment you were inside, Chan's mouth was on yours again, harder this time than the slow lazy kiss on the couch. His hands found the hem of his your hoodie, tugging it up and over your head in one fluid motion, and when his palms slid against your bare skin they were warm and slightly calloused, the heat they left behind made your breath catch. You matched him, your fingers working at the buttons of his shirt until they gave way and you could lift it off.

"We should—" your voice caught as he pressed you back onto the mattress, and his knee settled between your thighs.

"I know. I know we should." His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard. "The drawer, right there."

His hand reached past your hip for the nightstand, and you watched his fingers hover over the small drawer. The box was in there. You knew it was there. You'd put it there yourself after the last time you were irresponsible in bed. The next morning both of you had stood in the pharmacy aisle looking a little dazed and a little ashamed. The drawer was three feet away. Five seconds of walking, maybe.

Then Chan pulled back from the drawer and looked at you, and the look in his eyes was so full of wanting, so grounded in weeks of missed mornings and stolen hoodies and being far too careful with everything else in your lives, that the drawer might as well have been on the other side of the house.

"Five seconds," you breathed.

"Give me ten," he whispered. His mouth found yours again, and the ten seconds evaporated.

He came down over you fully this time, he straddled you with his weight pressing you deep into the mattress. His hands left your waist and slid up, palms flat against the bed on either side of your head, and for a moment he just looked down at you, breathing, the soft morning light catching the dampness at his hairline and the sheer, unguarded wanting in his expression.

One of his hands cradled your face; his thumb on your cheekbone, palm cupping your jaw. His eyes stayed on yours as you softly breathed against each other.

Neither of you moved. Five seconds passed. Then ten. The silence stretched past the point where comfort lived and into something ache-close to uncomfortable, the kind of quiet that makes you notice everything: the weight of his knee between your thighs, the damp warmth where his thumb pressed against your cheek, the way his pupils blew wide as he studied your face like he was still memorizing it.

You searched his eyes and found what you'd been careful not to look for. Not just wanting. Wanting in a way that settled deep and unmistakable, the raw, starving sort that comes from being denied something every single day for months.

He looked at you the way you'd looked at him every morning across the kitchen, every slow hand on the small of your back, every kiss at the front door that had lasted two seconds longer than either of you would admit to. He was finally, finally done admitting to it.

His thumb moved over your cheekbone. Once. A small, tender thing that had no business being in a bedroom that felt like it was about to catch fire. "You have no idea," he whispered. Almost to himself, almost apologetic. Like he'd just confessed something he wasn't entirely certain he could take back.

Neither of you moved for what felt like a full minute. Then the house was still around you, the morning was still gold against the curtains, and the drawer was still three feet away, empty and utterly, finally, irrelevant.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn't urgent. It was devastating. Whatever restraint he'd been carrying for three months cracked open and what came out of it wasn't speed, it was thoroughness, the kind that comes from someone who's been denied so long they intend to be late to every second.

His hand left your cheek and slid down to the strap of your bra, his thumb hooked under the lace, lifting it just an inch away from your skin so he could look at the swell of your breast under the thin cotton of his tank top. He didn't look away. He let the silence stretch again, and the morning light was doing something to the curve of you that made his breathing hitch in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with awe.

"I have watched you across the table so many times," he said, barely above a whisper, "three months of watching you do the smallest things while trying to remember to breathe, and I think—" He cut himself off, frustrated, and pressed his forehead to the hollow of your throat instead, taking in the scent of your skin like a man rediscovering air. "I think I've been starved. That's the only word for it."

Your palm found the thin fabric of his tank top where it hugged his chest, and even through the cotton you could feel the cannon-thud of his heart against your hand, racing in a way that told you the polite, careful Chan who'd been careful with every word was already gone.

He let the tank top come up and over his head in one pull and dropped it somewhere on the floor. When his bare chest finally met yours, warm and solid and finally there, you let out a sound you didn't recognize and his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush, dragging you up into his body like he was trying to close a gap that had been open for ninety days too many.

His lips closed over your nipple through the lace, the pressure slow and intentional. A soft gasp left you, heavy with need, and his mouth followed the curve of your breast downward. One hand stayed anchored on your stomach, fingers spread wide as if to keep you from slipping away.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed against the skin just above your navel. "It hurts how much I want to remember every inch of you, and it still isn't enough."

His fingers found the clasp at the front of your bra and released it, the lace parting to bare your skin. Only then did his hand drift lower, thumb tracing the inside of your thigh in a deliberate upward drag that lit every nerve along the way.

He hesitated there, palm hovering just above the gathering heat, his eyes lifting to meet yours with raw vulnerability. You answered by arching into his touch, hooking both legs around his waist to draw him down, making it clear you were the one guiding him closer.

When you pulled him down, he came the rest of the way and settled between your thighs with a heaviness that settled deep in your bones. He didn't move immediately. His weight was crushing and careful all at once, and for a long breath he just pressed his forehead to your stomach, and you could feel him finally, finally, letting go of whatever had been keeping his shoulders tight and his jaw locked since the drawer.

Then his hands began their slow, deliberate descent.

The same palms that had been on your face and your ribs and the small of your back slid lower, past the lace that now lay open and forgotten at your hips, and his fingers spread wide across your stomach before settling at the waistband of what was left. His touch wasn't tentative. It was thorough. Every place his fingertips moved it was as if he was running a checklist, confirming that you were real, that this was real.

When his fingers found your pussy, already warm and already slick and already aching, his breath hitched against your thigh and he let out something low in his chest, a sound you'd never heard from him before, part relief and part something rawer.

He eased two inside you, slow, testing the heat, and his thumb found exactly where you needed him, circling with firm pressure. When you arched off the mattress with his name on your lips he finally moved down.

His mouth followed without hesitation. There was no teasing, no patience, no waiting for you to catch up. He settled between your thighs and his hands slid up to hold your hips steady, anchoring you against him as his tongue dragged long and slow from your entrance upward, utterly certain, like a man finally tasting something he'd been dreaming of for a hundred nights.

He licked again, deeper this time, parting your folds and pressing the flat of his tongue against your clit before sucking gently, then harder, drawing the sensitive bud between his lips.

You threw your head back and the headboard caught you, the sound that came out of your throat wrecked and unguarded. His fingers worked inside you at the same deliberate pace his mouth moved against you, curling to stroke that spot that made your thighs tremble while his tongue flicked and lapped without pause.

He was deep and hungry and thorough, giving you every inch of what he'd been storing up, and you could feel with every slow drag of his tongue that he had no intention of being anywhere else for a long time. His grip on your hips tightened as you rocked against his face, his low groans vibrating through you each time you clenched around his fingers.

His fingers curled deeper inside your pussy with each thrust, stroking that sensitive spot relentlessly while his tongue circled your clit in firm, wet laps that left you gasping. He sucked harder, drawing the swollen bud between his lips and flicking it with quick, precise strokes of his tongue, the vibrations from his groans sending sparks through your core. Your thighs quivered around his head as you ground against his mouth, chasing the building pressure that coiled tighter with every deliberate movement.

You felt his free hand slide up your side, cupping your breast and pinching the nipple between his fingers, rolling it in time with the rhythm of his tongue and hand below. The dual sensations made your back arch sharply off the bed, a broken moan tearing from your throat as heat flooded your body. He didn't let up, pressing his face closer, his tongue flattening to lap broadly over your folds before plunging back to focus on your clit with hungry insistence.

Your walls clenched around his fingers, slick coating his knuckles as he pumped them faster now, matching the urgency in your hips. Every lick and suck pulled you closer to the edge, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, his grip unyielding as he held you open for his mouth. The raw hunger in his actions built steadily, driving you toward release with no sign of slowing.

Then he stopped.

Not a clean break. His fingers stayed inside you, curling gently against the walls he'd just been working, but he pulled his mouth back. The absence of him was immediate and devastating. His palms slid from your thighs to your hips and held them steady, anchoring you, and he let the silence land between you for a single, deliberate breath.

"You've been running yourself ragged for this place," he murmured against your skin, not looking down at you but instead meeting your eyes, and something in how he said it made your breath catch for a different reason than the pleasure did. "I see you. The late nights at the greenhouse, the stained clothes, the way you skip lunch when you're ordering planters. I know how hard you've been working."

His thumb traced a slow, grounded line along the top of your hip bone. He was worshipping you with the same careful attention he gave everything he loved, and that was what did it.

"Let me," he said, almost a request. "Just let me do this. You don't have to do anything right now."

And the terrifying thing, the thing that made your stomach drop in a way that had nothing to do with sex, hit you right there, under his hands, while his mouth found the soft skin of your inner thigh again. His weight was careful. His touch was steadying. He was taking care of you.

Not in a way that was transactional or conditional. In a way that assumed you had been carrying everything by yourself for so long that someone finally picking up a piece of the load felt like a threat to the entire structure of who you'd decided to be.

This, him like this, with his mouth warm against your thigh and his hands steadying your hips, was the thing that frightened you. Because you had plans for yourself that didn't leave room for anyone spoiling you like this. The nursery was your armor. The soft launch was your proof that you could build something entirely on your own, and right now you were on the verge of letting someone gentle ask you to set all of it down.

And the terrifying part, the part that made your legs tremble in a way that had nothing to do with pleasure, was that you wanted it more than you wanted the nursery. More than you wanted the launch. More than anything you'd been carefully building, alone and against your own instincts for months, you wanted to let him finish you off exactly like this. In this bed, in this morning light.

You did not know what that wanting would cost you.

As you surrendered to that terrifying want, he felt the shift in you. He didn't rush to capitalize on it; instead, he leaned into the vulnerability, his fingers inside you beginning to move again with a slow, agonizing precision. He didn't just pump; he curled his fingers, hooking them against your G-spot with a steady, rhythmic pressure that made your toes curl into the sheets.

"That's it," he whispered, his voice a low, grounding rumble that vibrated through your hips. "Just let go. Give it all to me."

He began to increase the pace, but it was a measured escalation. Every time you felt yourself tipping over the edge, every time your breath hitched into a sob of anticipation, he would subtly slow down, teasing the peak, stretching the tension until it felt like a physical wire pulled taut inside your belly. He was sculpting your pleasure, refusing to let you snap too quickly.

His other hand moved to your clit, his thumb circling the swollen nub with a firm, consistent friction that mirrored the depth of his fingers. He was working you from both sides, creating a symphony of sensation that left you gasping, your head tossing back against the pillows.

"You're so tight for me," he praised, his voice thick with a reverence that bordered on the religious. "So beautiful. I've thought about this every single day for ninety days. Every hour. I'm not going anywhere."

The praise acted like fuel, stripping away the last of your defenses. You arched your back, your hips bucking instinctively against his hand, begging for the release he was so carefully withholding. He let you climb, pushing you higher and higher, his fingers sliding deep and fast, slick with your own heat, while his thumb maintained that relentless, driving pressure.

He watched your face, tracking every flicker of your eyelids and every tremble of your lips. He wanted to see the exact moment your independence broke and your desire took over.

"Almost there," he murmured, his touch becoming more insistent, more demanding, but still meticulously controlled. "Right there. Just a little more."

He increased the speed one last time, his fingers hammering into you with a focused intensity, his thumb grinding against you in a way that finally pushed you past the point of no return. He didn't let you just fall; he held you there, riding the crest of the wave with you, ensuring that when the orgasm finally hit, it wasn't a quick flash, but a slow, crashing tide that rolled through your entire body.

Your walls clamped down on his fingers in a violent, rhythmic series of contractions. You cried out, the sound raw and unfiltered, as the release tore through you in heavy, pulsing waves. He didn't pull away. He stayed deep inside you, his fingers absorbing every spasm, his thumb continuing to stroke you gently even as you shook, anchoring you to the bed and to him until the very last tremor faded into the morning light.

He didn't let you drift too far into the afterglow. As your breathing began to level out, he shifted, his weight pressing you back into the mattress. He didn't pull his fingers out immediately; instead, he used them to stretch you, prepping you one last time, his eyes locked on yours with a hunger that had transitioned from reverence to a raw, pulsing need.

When he finally slid into you, he did it with the same agonizing deliberation he had used with his hands. He entered you in one slow, seamless glide, filling you completely. You gasped, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist to pull him deeper, but he paused the moment he hit the hilt. He stayed there, buried deep, letting you feel every inch of his thickness, letting the sensation settle into your bones.

"I've wanted this for so long," he groaned, his forehead resting against yours.

He began to move, but the pace remained steady, almost hypnotic. He wasn't just fucking you; he was savoring you. Each thrust was deep and purposeful, his hips grinding against yours with a slow, crushing pressure that made you whimper. He took his time, exploring every angle, shifting his weight to hit the spot that made your toes curl, his movements rhythmic and grounding. He was still worshipping you, treating your body like a sanctuary, his voice a constant stream of low, guttural praise in your ear.

"You feel incredible around me," he murmured, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "So warm. So tight. I could stay inside you all morning."

He kept his eyes on yours, watching the pleasure wash over you with something almost devotional. You let your eyes close, your hands sliding up his arms to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer even though there was no room left between you. His mouth found the junction of your neck and shoulder and stayed there, his breath scalding against your skin.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. When you opened your eyes, he was smiling at you, a slow, private thing, the kind of smile that belonged only to moments nobody else was supposed to see. "You're so beautiful when you come apart for me."

The praise should have been grounding. Instead, it made your stomach tighten with a different kind of want. You were tired of being careful. Tired of the careful dance, the careful boundaries, the careful drawer three feet away. You wanted him to ruin you.

Your legs tightened around his waist and you arched off the mattress, pushing him deeper. "Then don't take your time," you breathed. "Chan. Now."

He laughed, low and breathless against your neck. "Whatever you want, baby. Anything you want."

He shifted with that same smooth deliberation, pulling out of you just enough for you to feel the sudden cold of the air, then guiding you onto your hands and knees. He didn't look away once. He watched you move, watched the line of your spine arch as you settled onto your forearms, and his jaw went tight in a way you recognized immediately.

When he entered you from behind, he didn't come in slow this time. One deep, demanding thrust that buried him to the hilt, and your forehead hit the mattress as a sound tore out of you that you didn't recognize.

"Oh god, yes," he groaned, his hands clamping onto your hips and pulling you back against him hard. His pace was nothing like the measured, devotional tempo of missionary. This was frantic. This was raw. This was the hunger of ninety days compressed into a single morning.

"You're taking it so good," he gasped, his voice cracking on the words. "So wet, so perfect around me. Fuck, look at you back here." He let his free hand slide down to your hip and knead the soft flesh there, his thumb pressing hard enough to leave a mark. "I want to leave a mark on every inch of you. I want everyone to know you're mine."

The praise was still there, but the reverence had thinned into desperation. You could feel it in the way his thrusts deepened, seeking something he couldn't quite articulate. In how his voice broke every few seconds. In the way he kept muttering your name like a prayer he was starting to lose faith in.

"Chan," you breathed, your fingers digging into the mattress. The pace was climbing, relentless, each hit of his hips against yours sounding like a wet slap in the quiet room. "Chan, slow down."

He didn't. He couldn't. "I can't." His breath was ragged now, coming in short desperate bursts. "I can't—I've waited—I'm going to—"

"Before you—" You tried to wedge a hand between your hip and his, the word "condom" stuck halfway out of your mouth, but it died there. His hand caught yours and held it against his hip, pinning you in place.

"You're so fucking good for me," he groaned, and this time there was nothing carefully controlled about his voice. Nothing worshipped or reverent. Just a man losing the fight he'd been fighting since he met you. "Stay right there. Don't move. Just—"

His hips slammed harder and faster, the rhythm breaking entirely into something animal, stripped of deliberation or technique. His other hand found your hair and pulled your head back, forcing you to look at him over your shoulder, and his face was a mess of concentration and need. His pupils were blown wide, and something beneath the surface of his expression made your heart stop in a way that had nothing to do with pleasure.

He was going to finish. And you knew, from the weight of him and the desperate speed of his hips, that the moment he did, there would be nothing between him and everything he was about to give you.

"Chan." You tried again, voice cracking. "The drawer. The—"

"I know," he rasped, his teeth bared in a grimace that was half-pain and half-ecstasy. "I know, I know, I know. Just—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. His body bucked against yours in one final, violent thrust and you went with him, riding the wave of his release while your own walls clamped down around him in tight pulsing contractions that dragged both of you over the edge at the same time. You collapsed forward onto your forearms, face pressed into the pillow, as his weight settled over your back and you both shook with the aftermath of something that felt too big to contain.

For thirty seconds, neither of you spoke. Only breathing filled the room, ragged and uneven, the morning light shifting slowly across the sheets. You shifted against him, the wetness of his release sliding against your thighs, and for a long moment the only thing that registered was heat. Warmth where it shouldn't be. Warmth spreading outward across the sheets, and you stared at it like you'd never seen fluid before.

Because you had.

You looked at the nightstand. Then back at him, still pressed against your spine with the slow, heavy breathing of a man coming down from something huge. Neither of you had reached for a condom. In the last ten minutes, the desperate, all-consuming need to be inside each other had been so loud that everything else, everything smart and everything planned and everything careful, had simply stopped existing.

Panic didn't arrive all at once. It arrived in layers.

First was the simple biology of it. The math was quick and cruel. The soft launch was today. You could see your inventory list in your head already, the three-tier display rack still in its box, the two dozen monstera seedlings waiting for their final acclimation, the handwritten signs you'd spent all week cutting. Each one was a thing you'd built with your own hands, built to be yours alone. A pregnancy would rewrite every one of those lists. There was no math that accounted for it.

Then came Chan. His daughter, Jia, who was four years old and called him "Daddy" with the uncomplicated certainty of a child who had never once doubted her world. He had raised her. He had done it alone, navigating the wreckage of a breakup, the exhaustion of toddler-sized loneliness, the impossible work of keeping a four-year-old's world intact while your own was falling apart. He knew what a child cost. He knew better than anyone, which meant this moment carried a weight that was mine and hers.

You pushed off from him and reached for the nightstand drawer.

It slid open with a familiar rattle. Your hand went in first, blind, fingers sweeping across the back panel where the blister pack lived. Empty. You tried again, pressing deeper into the corner, praying that you'd simply misremembered, that one was tucked behind the tissues, or you'd replenished it sooner than you thought.

Your fingers found foil. You pulled it out and stared down at it. Two small indentations, both empty, the pill holes already popped and useless.

You had to beat the window. The only thing standing between this morning and a life you hadn't consented to, hadn't planned for, hadn't even let yourself consider, was a box of pills that didn't exist. "Chan," you said. Quiet. Sharp enough to pierce through whatever afterglow was still clinging to him.

He was already still. Already focused. Already awake in that specific way that belonged to the moment a man realizes exactly how far he's just fallen. "Yeah," he said. One syllable. Thick with it.

You set the empty blister pack on the mattress beside your hip. The foil crinkled in the quiet room, and the sound felt unnervingly loud.

"We have to go to the pharmacy," you said. Then, because the words were still coming too fast and your chest felt too tight, the next sentence broke free before you could catch it. "The soft launch is in a few hours. I still have to label the monstera tags and the irrigation fittings aren't even unboxed yet, and—"

You pressed your palm flat against your sternum, trying to talk yourself down, which was clearly not working. "And that's not even the biggest thing in that sentence, Chan. I can't—I started this nursery alone. The point of all of this was— "

Your voice cracked on the word "this," and you dropped your hand. The panic was doing the thing it always did when you tried to compartmentalize it; it turned your thoughts into a traffic jam of unrelated emergencies, each one a wall you couldn't drive through.

You expected him to scramble. You half-wanted him to, because then you wouldn't have to be the one still attached to the math of how messed up this was.

Instead, his hand settled on the back of your neck, slow and warm, his thumb finding the small pressure point behind your ear that he'd discovered sometime in the last three months. His palm settled there like it had always belonged. The gesture pulled your head back just far enough to make you stop breathing for a second and look at him.

"Hey." His voice was steady, low, the same register he used with Jia when she was having a meltdown in the grocery store aisle. "Look at me. Breathe first. Everything else second."

You breathed. Once. Twice. Your ribs ached.

"The pharmacy is twelve minutes away," he said. No panic in his voice, just logistics, the way his brain always went when something broke. "I'll go. Right now. You stay here, shower, put on your launch clothes. The monstera tags can wait an hour. The fittings can wait an hour."

"Chan, I can drive you—"

"No." He pressed his thumb again, grounding you. "You're not driving anywhere with your hands shaking like that. You're not flushing three months of hard work down the drain trying to do everything at once. You shower. I get the pills. We both get ready, and we show up this afternoon looking like the people who built something worth opening."

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead, the pressure brief but intentional, as if he were welding a point together for you to hold onto. "We have time," he said. "The window is seventy-two hours. We're inside it."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to say that "we" was the part that frightened you, that seventy-two hours felt like a countdown, that your soft launch was the most important thing you'd ever done and you were going to throw it away for a pharmacy run. But his hand stayed on your neck, steady, and for the first time since you'd pulled that empty blister pack out of the drawer, your breath actually went all the way in.

"Twelve minutes," you whispered.

"Twelve minutes," he confirmed. He was off the bed before you'd even agreed.

--

The sound of the shower running filled the small gap between them, a thin curtain of white noise that Chan used to his advantage. He was dressed and gone within four minutes; he'd found clothes in a pair on the floor, shoes by the door, keys on the counter. No hesitation, and no second-guessing the morning's other logistics.

The door clicked shut. Twelve minutes, he'd said. Plus whatever it took to find the right aisle and a pharmacist who'd give him what he needed without asking questions. Twelve minutes turned into twenty. Then twenty-five.

You stood in the shower until the water went from warm to cold and your skin pruned, then pulled on the olive linen top and dark jeans you'd chosen three days ago for this exact afternoon. The monstera tags sat on the kitchen island. The irrigation fittings stood in their unopened box beside the front door. The nursery was waiting for someone who had been steady and certain.

Twenty-two minutes after he left, the front door opened. Chan was already at the kitchen island before you fully got your shoes on, the pharmacist-approved box sitting beside his keys like it had never even been a problem.

He handed it to you without ceremony.

"There's a second one," he said. "In case—" He stopped. The sentence didn't finish.

"Thank you," you responded softly.

You took the box from his hand but didn't open it. You held it between your thumbs like it might give you an answer if you waited long enough, which it wouldn't. The foil glinted under the kitchen lights. Seventy-two hours. If you took this now, if you just did the thing that would lower the temperature by one degree, the odds shifted back in your favor. The nursery stayed on track. Jia stayed a single child. Everything stayed where you'd carefully placed it.

But something in your chest pulled against it. The desire to just...to just let the morning exist as it had been, before. Because taking this meant admitting that the morning you'd just shared had consequences, that Chan's weight on top of you had left something behind that neither of you could take back by simply closing the drawer. Taking the pill was a statement. This doesn't count. And even as you'd known that wasn't true since the moment the blister pack came up empty, you still couldn't bring yourself to make the gesture official.

Your thumb traced the edge of the box. Glass of water, unpoured. Inventory list on the counter. Launch at two.

"Take it," Chan said. Soft, but not unkind. He'd been watching your hands. "Right now, while the math is still simple."

The math wasn't simple. You and you both knew that. But he was right. The math got harder every minute you stood there not drinking water.

You tore the foil. One pill. You tipped it into your palm, a tiny white thing that felt absurdly small for the gravity of what it represented. You swallowed it with a sip of lukewarm water and set the box on the counter between you, exactly where it could be reached.

You set the box on the counter between you, exactly where it could be reached.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The house had gone strangely still. The shower had stopped running, and somewhere upstairs, the faint hum of the air conditioner was the only sound filling the space between you. You found yourself staring at the countertop because looking at Chan felt like it might pull everything back to the surface again.

He didn't push. Instead, he reached for your hand, his fingers slipping between yours, warm and familiar, and you let him hold it.

"I know that didn't fix everything," he said quietly.

You looked at him.

"But we're okay?"

You thought about it. The panic was still there, only quieter now. The pill had been taken. The immediate problem had been handled, but the thoughts underneath it hadn't disappeared just because you'd swallowed something.

"We're okay," you said eventually.

His thumb moved slowly over your knuckles. "Okay."

Your eyes drifted toward the clock. Three hours. "We really do have to go."

"I know."

You pulled your hand from his only long enough to reach for your bag. The movement felt strangely ordinary after everything that had happened, and maybe that was what you needed. Something simple. Something you knew how to do. Your eyes landed on the stack of monstera tags waiting on the kitchen island. "I still have to finish those."

"We'll do them there."

"The irrigation fittings."

"I'll handle those."

You looked back at him. "You don't have to."

"I know." There was no argument in his voice. Just the quiet certainty that he was coming with you.

You nodded, and for a moment neither of you moved. Then Chan stepped closer, his hand settling at your waist as he leaned down and pressed a slow kiss against your forehead. He lingered there for just a second before pulling away. "One thing at a time," he murmured.

You swallowed and nodded. "One thing at a time."

His eyes flicked toward the hallway before he looked back at you. "I need to shower."

You nodded, finally letting out a small breath that almost resembled a laugh. "Probably."

He disappeared down the hall, and you gathered the things you'd need for the nursery while the water started running upstairs. By the time he came back, his hair was still damp and he'd changed into the clothes he'd set aside for the soft opening. You were waiting by the door with your bag over your shoulder, checking the time on your phone.

"Ready?"

You looked at him. "Ready enough."

He nodded, and the two of you headed out.

The drive to the nursery passed without much conversation. The morning had left both of you quieter than usual, and neither seemed interested in forcing yourselves out of it. Your hand rested in the space between the seats, and at one point Chan reached over and covered it with his own. You let him.

By the time the nursery came into view, the sun was already high enough to throw long bands of light through the greenhouse glass.

You sat there for another moment, taking in the nursery through the windshield. The sign was finally in place above the entrance, the windows were clean, the freshly laid stone curved through the flower beds, and the trees Chan had surprised you with stood along the property where there had once been nothing but overgrown grass. In three hours, people would walk through those doors. You'd spent months imagining what that moment would feel like, and now that it was actually here, you weren't sure you'd ever be ready for it.

Chan glanced over at you. "Ready?"

You let out a slow breath. "Not even a little."

"Me neither."

That made you look at him. "You're nervous?"

"Of course." His eyes returned to the nursery, his expression softening as he took in everything you'd built. "I know how much this means to you."

Something in your chest tightened at that. You reached across the console and squeezed his hand, holding it for another second before finally opening your door.

The rest of the morning disappeared into preparation. There were still things to finish, but the work felt different now. It wasn't the frantic kind of work you'd grown used to over the last two months, where every completed task seemed to uncover three more. This was the final stretch, the small details that made the difference between a construction site and an actual business.

You moved through the greenhouse with your checklist in hand, checking displays, pricing plants, arranging the last of the hanging baskets, and making sure everything looked the way you'd pictured it. Chan moved around you, handling the remaining repairs and setup without needing to be asked, occasionally calling you over when he wanted your opinion on something.

Every so often, you caught sight of him across the property. He'd become so woven into the rhythm of the nursery that it was almost strange to remember there had been a time when he hadn't been here. He carried boxes, adjusted displays, checked the things you'd forgotten to check, and somehow always seemed to know when you needed another pair of hands before you had to ask for them.

By noon, the nursery had finally settled into itself. The tables were full, the pathways were clear, the signs were up, and sunlight poured through the greenhouse glass, catching on rows of green leaves and bright flowers. You stood just inside the entrance, looking over everything, and for the first time since you'd bought the property, there was nothing left on your list that couldn't wait.

You were still staring when Chan came up beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. He looked out over the nursery for a moment before turning toward you. "You did it."

You shook your head, looking around at the place that had once been little more than an abandoned shell. "We did."

His hand found yours, fingers threading through yours as the two of you stood there together, watching the sunlight move across the floor. For once, there was nothing left to fix.

All you had to do was open the doors.

𐙚

Four days after the soft opening, the nursery had been busy enough since then that you hadn't had much time to think.

At least, that was what you kept telling yourself.

There was always something to do. A shipment to check in, a display that needed rearranging, a customer who had been standing in the same aisle for ten minutes trying to decide between two nearly identical pothos. You'd discovered that opening the nursery hadn't made the work disappear. It had simply changed the kind of work waiting for you.

And normally, you loved it.

That morning, though, you found yourself standing behind the register with a receipt in your hand, staring at the date printed across the top without actually reading it.

Four days.

You blinked and folded the receipt in half before sliding it into the drawer.

"Everything okay?"

You looked up to find one of the customers watching you. "Yeah." You smiled quickly. "Sorry. Long morning."

She smiled back and returned her attention to the plant she'd been carrying, and you turned toward the register again.

Four days since Chan finished inside you.

Four days since you stood in his kitchen with a tiny white pill in your palm and tried to convince yourself that taking it meant you could stop thinking about what happened.

It hadn't worked, you hadn't told Chan that though.

Not because you didn't trust him. If anything, that was the problem. You knew exactly how he'd react. He'd sit with you, he'd listen, he'd tell you that whatever happened, you weren't dealing with it alone.

You'd believed him, but that wouldn't make the waiting any easier. Your hand drifted absently toward your stomach before you caught yourself and dropped it. "Get it together," you murmured under your breath.

"Excuse me?"

You looked up. An older woman stood on the other side of the counter, holding a small ceramic pot with a trailing plant spilling over the edge.

"Sorry," you said, straightening. "What can I help you with?"

She smiled and lifted the plant slightly. "I was wondering if this would survive in a bathroom."

You glanced at the leaves, immediately slipping back into familiar territory. "Does the bathroom have a window?"

"Small one."

"Then probably, but I'd keep it somewhere it can still get indirect light. If it's completely dark most of the day, it'll start complaining."

The woman laughed. "Plants complain?"

"Constantly."

That earned another laugh, and soon you were walking her toward the appropriate section, explaining the difference between a few varieties while she asked questions. By the time she made her choice, the receipt from earlier had completely left your mind.

Until you walked back to the register. Your gaze landed on the calendar hanging beside the office door.

You stopped.

Your period was supposed to start soon. You knew that. You also knew the emergency contraceptive could affect the timing, which should have made the whole thing easier to dismiss. Instead, it gave your brain another variable to obsess over.

You looked away, "absolutely not." You picked up your clipboard and turned toward the greenhouse.

The rest of the morning passed in pieces. You helped a couple choose plants for their new apartment, unpacked a shipment of ceramic pots, answered three separate questions about soil, and spent nearly twenty minutes trying to convince a little girl that she couldn't take home every flower she'd seen.

By lunch, your back ached pleasantly from being on your feet.

You stood in the greenhouse with a watering hose in one hand, watching the water darken the soil around a row of flowering plants. Sunlight filtered through the glass overhead, warm against your skin, and for a moment everything felt exactly as it should.

This was what you'd wanted.

The nursery was open. People were coming through the doors, you had done it. So why did your stomach still feel like it was waiting for something?

You turned off the water.

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket. You pulled it out expecting another contractor or supplier, but Chan's name appeared across the screen instead.

Channie ♡: How's my favorite nursery owner?

A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it.

You: Busy Channie ♡ : That's not an answer You: ......busy and tired Channie ♡ : Did you eat?

You rolled your eyes.

You: Yessss dad Channie ♡ : Wrong title baby

You smiled despite yourself.

You: Boyfriend Channie ♡ : Better

The warmth that spread through your chest had nothing to do with the greenhouse.

You could picture his expression perfectly. The conversation was ordinary. So ordinary that it should have been easy to let it pull you back into the rest of your day.

Instead, your eyes drifted toward the calendar again, your smile faded.

You locked your phone and slipped it back into your pocket. The nursery was busy. Your relationship was good. The soft opening had gone better than you could have imagined.

Everything was moving forward. You just couldn't shake the feeling that you were standing still, waiting for an answer.

By the time you closed that afternoon, you'd managed to keep yourself occupied enough not to think about it for another few hours.

Then you drove home.

And the second the engine went quiet in your driveway, the thought was waiting for you again.

𐙚

The test was still in your hand when you realized you'd been standing in the bathroom for nearly five minutes.

You hadn't even meant to buy it that morning. You'd told yourself you were only stopping at the pharmacy for a few things you needed for the nursery, but you'd passed the aisle, seen the boxes, and felt that familiar knot tighten in your stomach. Your period was late. Not by much, but enough that you'd stopped trusting every explanation you'd given yourself over the last few days.

So you'd bought one. Then you'd gone home, waited, and taken it.

Now the little plastic stick sat between your fingers, the result staring back at you with a certainty that made your stomach drop.

Positive.

You looked at it again, as though staring long enough might make the second line disappear. It didn't. Your other hand came up to cover your mouth, and you leaned back against the bathroom counter, suddenly aware of how loudly your heart was beating.

"No."

The word barely made it past your lips. Because that was the problem—you couldn't even tell yourself you didn't want a baby. You couldn't get that far.

Your eyes dropped back to the test. There had been a time when the thought of having a child with Chan would have felt impossibly distant, something that belonged to a future neither of you had bothered putting a date on. You'd talked about it. He'd told you he could picture a life with you in it. You'd even laughed together about what your children might be like.

But talking about someday was different from standing barefoot on a bathroom floor with proof that someday might already be here.

Your eyes burned. You thought about the nursery. The opening had been everything you'd wanted. The flowers, the customers, the sunlight pouring through the greenhouse, the little moments that had made all those months of work worth it. You'd finally built something that belonged entirely to you. And now there was this—something that could change everything before you'd even had the chance to enjoy what you'd built.

Your gaze drifted toward the bathroom door. Chan.

You could picture his face if you told him. Not anger. Never that. Surprise, certainly. Maybe fear. Then that steady, practical part of him would take over, the same way it had when you'd called him from the nursery, overwhelmed by contractors and permits and everything you couldn't figure out alone.

He would be there. You knew he would.

And somehow, that made your eyes fill even more. Because you weren't afraid of him. You were afraid of what this meant.

Your thumb rubbed absently over the edge of the test before you looked toward the trash can. You'd already thrown the box away. The receipt was somewhere at the bottom of your bag. There was no reason to keep the test. And yet you couldn't make yourself let go of it.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You flinched. For one horrible second, you thought it might be Chan.

It wasn't. Just a notification from the nursery.

You stared at the screen before setting it facedown. The world outside the bathroom continued as if nothing had happened. Cars passed somewhere beyond the house. Someone's dog barked down the street. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen.

Everything was exactly where it had been an hour ago. Except you weren't.

You looked down at the test one more time. Positive. Your chest tightened as the word settled into something heavier than ink. You finally lowered yourself onto the closed toilet lid, still holding it in your hand, and for the first time you let yourself think the sentence you'd been too afraid to finish.

"I'm pregnant."

--

By the time the nursery opened its doors that morning, you'd convinced yourself the test was behind you for now.

There were too many people to think about anything else.

Chan was carrying a tray of plants through the greenhouse when you caught him from behind, pointing toward the empty section of shelving you'd been trying to fill for the last twenty minutes. "Those go over there."

He looked toward where you were pointing. "These?"

"No, the other ones."

He glanced down at the plants in his arms, then back at you. "Very specific."

"You know what I mean."

"I do." He carried them over anyway.

The nursery had taken on a life of its own. Customers wandered between the displays, sunlight poured through the greenhouse, and every few minutes someone stopped you to ask a question.

You were supposed to be tagging pots, but Chan kept finding reasons to pass by, and every time he did, some part of you noticed. His hand brushed yours when he reached for a pot, his shoulder bumped against yours in the narrow aisle, and more than once you caught his eyes lingering on you when he thought you weren't looking.

Eventually, you looked up and caught him staring from across the greenhouse. "What?"

He smiled, completely unbothered. "Nothing."

"You've been staring at me for five minutes."

"Maybe I like looking at my girlfriend."

You tried to hide your smile by looking back down at the tag in your hand. "Go move your plants."

"Bossy."

"Chan."

He laughed, but he disappeared around the corner with the tray in his arms.

Ten minutes later, you found out exactly where he'd gone.

The storage room was quiet with the nursery doors closed for the afternoon lull, and you'd barely turned around before his hands settled at your waist. You glanced toward the door, lowering your voice instinctively. "You know, if someone sees us—"

"They won't."

"You don't know that."

"I checked."

The ridiculous confidence in his answer made you laugh, and he used the moment to pull you closer. His mouth found yours before you could say anything else, the kiss starting soft and lazy before deepening into something warmer. Your hands caught against the front of his shirt while his arm settled around your back, and for a few seconds the nursery outside might as well have disappeared.

When he finally pulled back, he kept you close, his forehead resting against yours. "You've been distracted today."

You swallowed, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Have I?"

"A little."

His thumb moved slowly against your waist, the touch familiar enough to make your chest tighten. "You okay?"

The question caught somewhere deeper than you wanted it to.

You could have told him then. You could have admitted you'd been counting days, that your period still hadn't come, that you'd bought a test that morning and had been carrying the knowledge around with you ever since.

Instead, you smiled and leaned in to kiss him again, "I'm fine."

Chan paused when you pulled away, studying your face for another second. He didn't look entirely convinced, but he didn't push. He only brushed his thumb once more against your side before letting you go.

You straightened your shirt and reached for the nearest stack of tags, pretending the interruption hadn't affected you.

But it had, and somehow, knowing that you'd just kissed him while carrying a secret you hadn't even figured out how to name made the guilt settle a little heavier in your chest.

You tagged another row of pots. Then you helped a woman pick out fiddle-leaf figs and smiled through three questions about drainage. The nursery was full, loud, and perfect, and every laugh that went off near Chan's voice made the secret press a little tighter against your ribs.

You excuse yourself to the back corridor, past the supply shelf and the irrigation controls, to a bathroom you've never used. The door has a sign on it you can't read from this distance. You shut it behind you and the noise of the nursery drops to a hum through the wall.

You pulled the test from the pocket where you'd stashed it before leaving this morning.

Positive.

Your hand tightened around it. You thought about the nursery. The opening. The customers. The plants lining the greenhouse. The life you'd spent months building with your own hands.

Then you thought about Chan.

You thought about the way he'd looked at you that morning when you were panicking. About how quickly he'd gotten dressed and left for the pharmacy, about the way he'd held your hand while you took the pill, and about how he'd never once made you feel like you were facing any of it alone. Your eyes burned as you looked down at the test one last time.

You walked to the trash can and lifted the lid, holding the test over it for a moment before finally letting it fall. It landed softly against the liner, almost anticlimactically, and you lowered the lid after it. Your hand stayed there.

You could tape the bag shut, take it outside, and let the whole thing disappear into the ordinary machinery of garbage collection and morning routines. You could make it something that had happened and was already over.

Or you could leave it.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the lid.

From somewhere beyond the bathroom came the sound of Jia laughing, followed a second later by Chan's voice, warm and familiar, before her laughter broke through again. You closed your eyes.

There was something almost cruel about hearing them now, because that sound was the life you'd already grown attached to. The life you'd never planned for, never expected, and somehow still found yourself imagining when you weren't careful.

You opened your eyes and looked down at the trash can. Your hand was still resting on the lid, unable to decide whether you wanted to close it completely and throw the test away, or leave it open for whoever came next.

masterlist | last

a/n: its 1am....I was out being grown apologies LMAO as always dont rush the cook

That first “I love you” had knocked the air right out of your lungs.

It wasn’t because you hadn’t wanted to hear it—God, you had—but because it was Yang Jeongin saying it. Jeongin, with his stupidly pretty smile and effortless charm, who could walk through the halls and have heads turning without even trying. Jeongin, who somehow looked just as good in a wrinkled hoodie at eight in the morning as he did dressed up for a date. Jeongin, who had chosen you.

You still remembered the exact moment he’d said it.

You’d been sat on the swings in the park near your flat, the chains creaking softly as the two of you swayed back and forth under the orange glow of the streetlights. It had been late, later than either of you should’ve been out on a school night, and your fingers were tucked inside the sleeve of his hoodie because you’d forgotten your coat again. Jeongin had laughed at you for that, of course, before shrugging off the hoodie and forcing it over your head despite your weak protests that he’d be cold.

He’d just looked at you then—really looked at you, with that quiet softness he only ever seemed to have around you—and smiled.

“I love you, you know.”

You’d genuinely thought you’d misheard him.

Your swing had slowed to a stop as your eyes widened. “What?”

Jeongin’s ears had gone pink, but he’d still held your gaze, still smiled that tiny, nervous smile that made your chest ache. “I said I love you.”

And because apparently your brain had decided to abandon you in your moment of need, all you’d managed was a stunned, breathless, “Why?”

The second the word left your mouth, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

But Jeongin hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t looked offended. If anything, his expression had softened even more, eyes going warm as he stepped off his swing and crouched in front of yours, slotting himself between your knees so he could take your hands in his.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he’d asked gently, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’re kind. You’re funny when you forget to be shy. You remember tiny things I tell you that even I forget. You always make sure I’ve eaten when I’m busy, and you pretend not to care but you worry about everyone all the time.” He’d squeezed your hands when your eyes started stinging. “And you look at me like I’m someone worth loving. So yeah. I love you.”

You’d cried. Not cute, movie-style crying either. Actual tears, face burning, trying to hide in the sleeves of his hoodie while Jeongin laughed softly and wiped under your eyes with his thumbs. He’d kissed your cheeks and the tip of your nose and told you that you were ridiculous in the fondest voice imaginable, and then he’d pulled you into his lap on the swing like it was the most natural thing in the world.

That had been a month ago now, and somehow, even after six months together, it still didn’t feel real.

You still caught yourself staring at him across the cafeteria while he sat with his friends, sunlight catching in his hair as he laughed at something one of them said, and thought, he’s my boyfriend. You still felt a jolt of disbelief every time he reached for your hand under the desk in class or kissed your temple in the corridor without caring who saw. You still expected someone to tap you on the shoulder and tell you there’d been some kind of mistake.

Because you were still just… you.

Still awkward. Still quiet. Still the girl who overthought every text before sending it and hated raising her hand in class and had to rehearse what to say before ordering coffee. You weren’t one of the pretty, effortless girls who usually orbited boys like Jeongin. You didn’t know how to flirt properly, and half the time you were convinced you only got by on sheer luck and Jeongin’s apparently terrible taste in women. Yet every day, he chose you anyway.

Sometimes it showed up in big ways—like him turning up at your flat with your favourite snacks after you’d had a bad exam, or dragging you out to watch the sunset because he said you’d been cooped up too long. But mostly, it was in the small things. The way he always walked on the outside of the pavement without even thinking about it. The way he’d wordlessly tug your hand into the pocket of his coat when it was cold. The way he never let go first when you hugged him. The way he’d learned exactly how to calm you down when your anxiety got too loud—guiding you somewhere quiet, rubbing circles into your wrist, talking softly until your breathing evened out again.

And maybe that was why it still felt so unreal. Because Jeongin didn’t treat you like some charity case or a secret or a phase. He treated you like someone precious. Like someone worth being gentle with.

You were thinking about all of this as you stood at your locker after lunch, trying and failing to remember which textbook you actually needed for your next class.

Your fingers hovered uselessly over a pile of notebooks as voices and footsteps echoed through the corridor around you. You could feel yourself getting flustered already, brain fogging over from the noise, and you were just about to give up and take all of them when a familiar hand slid around your waist.

You startled so badly you nearly smacked your head on the locker door.

A laugh sounded by your ear. “Easy.”

You twisted around to find Jeongin grinning at you, his tie already loose despite the fact there were still two lessons left in the day. His hair was a mess from where he’d clearly been running his hands through it, and there was a tiny smear of pen ink on the side of his hand.

You stared at him for a second too long and you saw the moment his grin softened into something fond. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Heat crept into your cheeks. “I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous.” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before glancing into your locker. “Why do you have every book you own in here?”

“I can’t remember what I need.”

Jeongin hummed, utterly unbothered, and reached past you to scan your timetable pinned to the inside of the door. “English, right?”

“I think so.”

He pulled out the correct textbook immediately and handed it to you with a look that was half amused, half affectionate. “Good thing you’re cute.”

Your face burned hotter. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He said it with complete confidence, like it was the most obvious fact in the world.

And the worst part was, he was right.

You took the book from him, muttering a weak thanks, and Jeongin just smiled wider before resting his chin on the top of your head. People brushed past in the corridor, some of them glancing your way, and the old self-consciousness tried to creep in at the edges of your mind.

Jeongin must have noticed the way you stiffened, because his hand at your waist squeezed gently.

“You okay?”

You nodded automatically, but he tipped his head, clearly unconvinced.

“You sure?”

There it was again—that quiet softness, that careful attention he always paid to the things you tried to hide.

You looked down at the textbook in your hands. “I just… still don’t get it sometimes.”

“Get what?”

You hesitated, then forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Why you like me.”

Jeongin’s expression changed instantly. Not annoyed, not exasperated—just tender in a way that made your throat tighten.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “You still doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like it’s weird that I’m obsessed with you.”

Despite yourself, you huffed a tiny laugh. “Obsessed is a strong word.”

“It’s an accurate word.” He said it so seriously that you snorted, and his mouth twitched. “I like you because you’re you. I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true.”

You looked away, embarrassed by how much those simple words affected you.

Jeongin nudged your chin back toward him with two fingers. “Hey.”

“What?”

“I mean it.” His voice dropped, soft enough that the corridor noise seemed to blur around the edges. “I know you don’t see yourself the way I do. But that doesn’t make me wrong.”

Your eyes stung unexpectedly, and Jeongin noticed immediately, just like he always does. His face went alarmed for half a second.

“Oh no, don’t cry at school, I’ll fight someone.”

A watery laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Who are you going to fight? Me?”

“If necessary.”

“That’s not very boyfriend of you.”

“Actually, it’s extremely boyfriend of me. I’m defending my girlfriend from her own terrible opinions.”

You laughed properly then, shaking your head, and Jeongin visibly relaxed at the sound. He smiled too, small and warm, before leaning down to press his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he murmured, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “Even when you’re being annoying about it.”

Your breath caught. It still did that every time. Even after a month of hearing it, even after saying it back enough times that the words should’ve settled comfortably by now, they still landed in your chest like something fragile and precious.

You curled your fingers into the front of his blazer. “I love you too.”

Jeongin’s smile turned so bright it made your heart ache. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed you then—quick and sweet because you were in the middle of school and because if he kissed you any longer you were pretty sure you’d actually combust on the spot. When he pulled back, he stayed close enough that his nose brushed yours.

“Good,” he said softly. “Because you’re stuck with me.”

And maybe, six months in, you still didn’t fully understand how someone like Jeongin had fallen in love with someone like you. Maybe part of you still waited for the dream to break. But as he took your hand and laced your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world, leading you down the corridor toward class with that easy warmth only he seemed to have, you thought that maybe understanding it didn’t matter as much as you’d always assumed.

Jeongin loved you. For some miraculous, incomprehensible reason, he did. And maybe—just maybe—you were starting to believe that was enough.

You’d never been to one of Jeongin’s parties before. In six months of dating him, you had always found an excuse. Too much homework. A headache. Your social battery already dead from school. A family thing. Anything to avoid stepping into a house full of loud music, drunk strangers, and the kind of attention that made your skin feel too tight.

Jeongin had never pushed. He’d pout sometimes, tugging at your hand and telling you he wanted to show you off properly, but the second you looked even a little overwhelmed, he’d kiss your forehead and let it go.

So no—parties were not your thing.

But tonight felt different.

Maybe it was because your parents were out of town and you were lonely. Maybe it was because you were tired of feeling like the timid little shadow trailing behind your own life. Maybe it was because Jeongin had been so busy the last couple of weeks—football training, study sessions, his friends constantly dragging him around—that you’d barely had any proper time alone with him. Maybe it was because some ugly, insecure part of you hated that there was this whole side of his life you’d never seen, a side full of people who knew him in loud rooms and flashing lights while you only ever seemed to get the quiet leftovers.

Or maybe you’d just wanted to prove to yourself that you could do one scary thing for once.

Whatever the reason, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror at eight-thirty on a Friday night, staring at a version of yourself you barely recognised.

You’d changed outfits four times. The discarded clothes were in a heap on your bed, and your room looked like a small disaster zone, but eventually you’d settled on a black top with a neckline lower than anything you usually wore and a skirt that made your legs look longer than they actually were. You’d even put makeup on—nothing dramatic, just enough concealer and mascara and lip gloss that your reflection looked softer, prettier, a little less like the nervous girl who always hid in oversized hoodies. You’d spent ten minutes just looking at yourself afterwards, trying to decide if it was ridiculous. In the end, you’d grabbed your coat before you could change your mind.

The whole drive there, your stomach twisted itself into tighter and tighter knots. You almost asked the taxi to turn around twice. By the time you were standing outside the house, music thudding so loudly you could feel the bass through the pavement, your palms were damp and your heart was beating way too fast. Coloured lights flashed behind the downstairs windows. People spilled in and out of the front door, laughing too loudly, drinks in hand, cigarette smoke curling into the cold night air.

You stood on the pavement for a full minute, frozen before you thought of Jeongin’s face when he saw you. You imagined him grinning, surprised and pleased, maybe pulling you into his arms and telling you how pretty you looked. Maybe kissing your cheek in front of everyone. Maybe introducing you properly, proud and warm and gentle in the way he always was with you.

That image alone was enough to get your feet moving.

You stepped inside; the house was chaos.

Bodies packed shoulder to shoulder in the living room, music blaring from speakers so loud it rattled in your chest, the air warm with alcohol and perfume and something sweetly sickly you couldn’t identify. Someone bumped your shoulder before you’d even fully closed the door behind you. You muttered an apology they definitely didn’t hear and pressed yourself closer to the wall, eyes darting over unfamiliar faces.

Your breathing had already started to go funny. It was too loud, too crowded. Too hot.

You reached for your phone instinctively, thumb hovering over Jeongin’s contact. Maybe you should text him. Tell him you were here and ask him to come find you before you lost your nerve entirely. You spotted a group of boys in the kitchen archway—faces you recognised from school, from the football pitch, from the cafeteria table Jeongin sat at when he wasn’t with you and realised you didn’t need to text him after all.

His friends were just there, and with them, leaning against the kitchen counter with a red plastic cup in one hand, was Jeongin.

Your heart gave a stupid, traitorous leap.

He looked unfairly good, of course he did. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, ginger hair falling messily over his forehead, the top few buttons of his shirt undone like he’d tugged at them in the heat of the house. He was listening to one of the boys talk, mouth curved in a distracted half-smile.

And hanging off his arm was a girl.

She was unfairly pretty. Tiny waist, glossy hair, perfect makeup. She was tucked against his side like she belonged there, fingers looped around his bicep as she laughed at something one of the boys said. Jeongin wasn’t touching her back, but he also wasn’t pulling away.

You stopped dead.

For one disorienting second, your brain tried to explain it away. Maybe she was drunk and clingy. Maybe she was someone’s little sister. Maybe you’d just walked in at a weird moment and Jeongin would shrug her off the second he noticed you. So you stayed where you were, hidden half behind the hallway wall, waiting for him to look up.

He didn’t.

One of his friends—Hyunwoo, you thought vaguely—snorted into his drink and said, far too loudly over the music, “I’m still saying you should’ve ended it after the first month. Six months is insane commitment for a stupid bet.”

Your body went cold. The world around you didn’t stop, exactly. The music still pounded. People still shouted and laughed and moved around you. But it all seemed to lurch sideways, sound muffling at the edges as if you’d suddenly been dropped underwater.

A bet.

Someone else laughed. “Nah, you don’t get it. He got attached to the role. Method acting and all that.”

There was more laughter as your eyes locked on Jeongin. He wasn’t laughing. If anything, he looked annoyed—brows drawn together, jaw tightening slightly as he took a sip from his cup. But he didn’t interrupt either. Didn’t tell them to shut up. Didn’t say they were wrong.

The girl on his arm giggled and nudged him with her shoulder. “Wait, seriously? You actually did that? That’s evil.”

Heat rushed to your face so fast it made you dizzy.

Hyunwoo grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “It was his idea? No—whose was it first?”

“Wasn’t mine,” another boy said. “I just said there was no way he could pull the shy girl.”

Shy girl.

Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might actually throw up but they were still talking, still laughing at your expense.

Someone—maybe Minjae, maybe one of the others, you couldn’t even tell anymore because your ears were ringing—said it plainly, casually, like it was the funniest thing in the world. “Bet was just to see if he could get her into bed, wasn’t it?”

The whole room tilted. You looked at Jeongin again.

Please, you thought wildly. Please say something. Please laugh and say it’s bullshit. Please look disgusted. Please do anything.

Jeongin scrubbed a hand over his face, clearly uncomfortable now. “Can you not—”

But it was too late because you didn’t hear the rest. You didn’t hear whether he was going to deny it or shut them down or tell them to stop talking about you like that. All you heard was the confirmation already carved into your chest, cruel and immediate.

A bet.

A six-month joke.

A challenge.

How stupid had you been? How painfully, humiliatingly stupid?

Of course a guy like Yang Jeongin had never actually fallen for a girl like you. Of course there had to be a catch.

You thought of every time he’d looked at you softly, every whispered I love you, every kiss pressed to your forehead, every careful touch when your anxiety got bad, every tiny moment you’d tucked away like proof that someone like him could really want someone like you.

And suddenly, all of it felt rotten. Fake and manufactured. Something performed so well you’d been idiot enough to mistake it for love.

Your eyes burned.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

You took a shaky step backwards, then another, pulse roaring in your ears. Your hands were trembling so badly you almost dropped your phone trying to pull it from your pocket. You couldn’t breathe properly. The walls felt too close, the room too hot, your clothes suddenly wrong on your body, the makeup on your skin suffocating.

You shouldn’t have come. God, you shouldn’t have come.

You turned blindly, shoulder-checking someone hard enough that they swore at you, but you barely registered it. You just kept moving, head down, vision blurring, one hand clamped over your mouth to stop the horrible little sob trying to crawl out of you.

You were halfway down the hallway when you heard it - your name, Jeongin’s voice, sharp with confusion at first, then louder.

“Y/N?”

You flinched like you’d been hit.

Maybe he’d seen you. Maybe one of his friends had noticed. Maybe he was coming after you because he didn’t want you causing a scene. Maybe he was worried you’d tell someone and ruin the joke and ruin whatever image he had to protect.

You didn’t wait to find out.

You shoved through the front door so hard it slammed against the wall, the cold night air hitting your face like a slap. The sound of the party dulled behind you, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Your chest was too tight, your breaths coming in short, painful gasps that never seemed to reach your lungs.

“Y/N—wait!”

His footsteps pounded behind you on the front path as you stumbled down the drive, nearly twisting your ankle in shoes you were suddenly regretting, tears spilling properly now. Your phone screen swam in front of your eyes as you tried to unlock it, fingers slipping, thumb missing the numbers twice before you gave up entirely.

“Y/N, stop—”

A hand caught your wrist. You spun on instinct, ripping yourself free so violently it shocked even you.

“Don’t touch me.”

The words came out cracked and wet and barely recognisable as your own.

Jeongin froze.

He’d followed you out without a jacket, chest rising and falling hard, hair a mess from where he’d clearly run his hands through it. Up close, he looked panicked—actually panicked, eyes darting over your face as if trying to understand what the hell was happening.

And then his expression changed.

He looked at your makeup, your clothes, the tears running down your cheeks, and something awful like realisation hit him.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “You heard that.”

You laughed, and the sound was horrible - wet and choked off at the origin.

“I heard enough.”

“Y/N, no, listen to me—”

“No.” You backed away from him, hugging your arms around yourself so tightly it hurt. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you care.”

His face went white. “I do care.”

The sheer nerve of it made your vision blur again. “You were laughing about me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were standing there while your friends talked about me like I was some kind of challenge.” Your voice shook harder with every word, humiliation and hurt and fury all clawing up your throat at once. “A bet, Jeongin? Seriously?”

He took a step toward you, then stopped when you recoiled. His face crumpled in a way you couldn’t bear to look at.

“It started as a bet,” he said, and every single part of you shattered at once. “But it’s not like that now—”

You made a small, broken sound.

Not like that now.

As if that somehow made it better. As if you were supposed to be grateful that somewhere along the way, after lying to your face for six whole months, he’d apparently decided you were worth keeping around.

Jeongin realised what he’d said the second it landed. “No, no, that’s not what I meant—”

“Six months,” you whispered.

Your voice was so quiet he had to lean in slightly to hear you.

“Six months,” you repeated, staring at him through tears. “You told me you loved me.”

“I do.”

“Stop.” Your whole face twisted. “Please stop saying that.”

He looked like you’d slapped him.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your mouth, trying to hold yourself together and failing miserably. “Was everyone laughing at me this whole time? Is that what this is? Some joke I’m the only one not in on?”

“No.” His answer came immediately, fiercely. “No, never. I swear to you, no one’s been laughing at you.”

“I just saw them laughing, Jeongin.” Your voice cracked again. “They all knew, and I didn’t. You let me stand there and believe you actually wanted me, and all your friends knew the truth.”

Jeongin’s eyes were shining now too, whether with panic or guilt or something else entirely, you didn’t know. “I was going to tell you.”

“When?” you shot back. “After you’d slept with me? After you got bored? After graduation?”

He flinched and that, more than anything, made your stomach turn because flinching meant guilt. Flinching meant there was truth buried somewhere in all the things you were saying, and you couldn’t bear to dig through it, couldn’t bear to hear exactly how stupid you’d been.

A car pulled up at the curb behind you—a taxi someone else must have ordered—and you latched onto it like a lifeline. You stepped around Jeongin before he could react.

“Y/N, wait, please—”

You yanked the back door open, eyes avoiding his. “Just leave me alone.”

He caught the top of the door before you could slam it, not hard enough to stop you if you really wanted to close it, but enough to make you look at him one last time.

He looked wrecked. Not annoyed or caught out or defensive like you’d expected.

Wrecked.

His voice broke when he said your name. “Please let me explain.”

For one horrible second, your chest ached with the urge to let him. To hear him out. To let him tell you there was some context you were missing, some version of this that didn’t make you feel like your skin had been peeled off in public.

But then you remembered the kitchen. The laughter. The girl on his arm. The words shy girl said like a punchline. The way he’d admitted it—it started as a bet—without you even having to drag it out of him.

And whatever tiny piece of your heart was still trying to defend him finally gave up.

You shoved his hand off the door. “Go back to your party.”

Then you climbed into the taxi and slammed it shut.

Jeongin was still standing on the pavement when the car pulled away. You didn’t look back for long—just long enough to see him take a step after the car, one hand half-lifted like he didn’t know what to do with himself, his face pale under the streetlights. Then you turned away, curled in on yourself in the backseat, and cried so hard you could barely breathe.

The makeup you’d spent forty minutes doing was probably ruined, black mascara and wet foundation and smeared lip gloss all over your face. Your nice top felt too tight, your skirt too short, your skin wrong, your whole body burning with shame. You scrubbed at your cheeks with the sleeve of your coat and stared out of the window as the streetlights blurred past.

You’d really believed him, and that was the part that hurt most.

Not the humiliation of the bet, not even the image of that girl wrapped around his arm, but the fact that he’d made you feel safe enough to believe him. Safe enough to let him close. Safe enough to hand over all the soft, terrified parts of yourself you usually kept hidden because you were so scared of exactly this.

And he’d taken them anyway.

By the time you got home, your phone was vibrating nonstop in your lap.

Jeongin was blowing up your phone with texts and calls.

You didn’t read a single message.

You let yourself into your house with shaking hands, kicked off your shoes somewhere quietly near the door, and made it all the way to the bathroom before the first sob tore out of you loud enough to echo off the tiles.

The girl staring back at you in the mirror looked like a stranger. Mascara streaked under red-rimmed eyes. Foundation patchy where tears had carved through it. Hair falling out of place. Lip gloss gone. Pretty in the saddest, most pathetic way possible—as if dressing up had just made the whole thing crueller somehow. Like you’d wrapped your hope up in eyeliner and a skirt and walked it straight into a room full of people waiting to laugh.

Your phone was still buzzing crazily, this time on the sink where you’d left it when you’d reached the bathroom. With shaking fingers, you grabbed it.

Jeongin💕: please answer me

Jeongin💕: i’m coming to your house

Jeongin💕: please don’t lock me out. please just let me explain

Another message came through before you could even process that one.

Jeongin💕: i know i don’t deserve it but please

Your throat tightened. You turned the phone face down on the sink and gripped the edges hard enough for your knuckles to ache. You couldn’t do this tonight. You couldn’t hear his voice and listen to him say all the right things in that soft, careful tone and risk being weak enough to believe him again.

So when the buzzing started once more, you switched your phone off entirely. Then you slid down the bathroom wall, pressed your forehead to your knees, and sat there in your ruined makeup and party clothes while the silence closed in around you.

Six months.

Six months of first kisses and late-night phone calls and borrowed hoodies and whispered I love yous. Six months of thinking maybe, just maybe, someone like Jeongin could look at someone like you and mean it.

And now all you could think was that maybe the cruelest part wasn’t the bet.

Maybe the cruelest part was that for a little while, he’d made you believe you were enough.

You didn’t sleep, but it wasn’t from lack of trying.

You changed out of your party clothes with trembling hands, scrubbed your makeup off so hard your skin felt raw, crawled into bed and curled beneath your duvet with every light in your room switched off—but sleep never came. Every time you closed your eyes, you were back in that kitchen doorway.

The shy girl.

Just to see if he could get her into bed.

It started as a bet.

The words played over and over until they felt carved into the inside of your skull.

At some point, there had been knocking at your front door - soft at first, then louder, then desperate enough that you had to bite down on the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying again.

“Y/N,” His voice drifted in through your open bedroom window from down below, voice hoarse and strained. “Please. I know you’re in there.”

You’d sat frozen on your bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the wall while he knocked.

“Please just let me explain.”

You were silent, part of you wishing he’d disappear whilst another part of you longed to open the door and throw yourself into his arms, longed to forget this whole night.

There was another knock.

“Y/N, please.”

You hadn’t moved. Hadn’t answered his calls, hadn’t replied to his messages, hadn’t gone to the door even when you heard him slide down against it on the other side and stay there long enough that the flat fell quiet around him.

Eventually, sometime after two in the morning, the knocking stopped.

You didn’t know when he finally left.

By the time your alarm went off, your eyes felt full of sand.

For one blissful, stupid second, you forgot. But then you saw your phone on the bedside table—still switched off, still face down—and it all came crashing back so hard it made you feel sick.

Your stomach turned and you lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and wondering if you could just stay in bed forever but knowing couldn’t.

School didn’t stop just because your boyfriend was never really yours to begin with.

So you dragged yourself up, showered in water that was too hot, and got dressed with the kind of numb, mechanical movements usually reserved for brushing your teeth. You picked the baggiest hoodie you owned, even though the weather was warming up, and a pair of jeans that hid as much of you as possible. You didn’t bother with makeup this time. There was no point trying to look pretty when you felt like a hollowed-out version of yourself.

You turned your phone back on only because you needed to check the time, and it lit up like a warning sign, messages flooding in so fast the screen almost froze.

Jeongin💕: please answer me

Jeongin💕: i’m outside your house

Jeongin 💕: please just tell me you’re okay

Jeongin 💕: i know you hate me right now but please let me explain

Jeongin 💕: i’m not leaving until i know you’re safe

Then, nearly an hour later:

Jeongin💕: your neighbour told me to go home

Despite everything, a horrible little laugh almost escaped you. You’d need to remember to apologise to your neighbour (but also to thank them).

The messages kept going.

Jeongin💕: i’m sorry

Jeongin💕: i’m so fucking sorry

Jeongin💕: please don’t ignore me at school. please.

That one made your chest tighten, the thought of seeing him in school nearly unbearable.

You locked your phone and shoved it into your bag without replying.

The walk into school felt like walking to your own execution.

Every step closer to the building made your pulse jump harder. Your eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, your stomach too unsettled for breakfast, and you could feel the fragile kind of composure you’d pieced together that morning threatening to crack with every passing second.

Maybe he wouldn’t be there yet, you told yourself. Maybe he’d be late. Maybe he’d be sick with guilt and stay home.

You knew better than to hope for that kind of mercy.

The second you stepped through the front gates, you saw him. Jeongin was standing halfway up the path to the main building like he’d been waiting there for hours, eyes scanning every face that came through the gates. The moment they landed on you, his entire body jolted.

He looked awful. Not in the dramatic, still-pretty way boys in films did after heartbreak. He looked genuinely wrecked. His hair was messy like he’d been dragging his hands through it all morning, his school tie hung loose and crooked, and there were dark shadows under his eyes that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. He was pale, too, the kind of pale that made his freckles stand out sharply across his nose.

For a second, you stopped breathing before you dropped your gaze and kept walking.

“Y/N—”

His voice cracked around your name, the sound making you flinch. But you didn’t slow down.

Jeongin hurried after you, shoes slapping against the pavement. “Y/N, please, just let me talk to you.”

You tightened your grip on your bag strap and kept moving.

“Please.”

People were starting to look, but what else could you expect? Yang Jeongin chasing after the quiet girl in the oversized hoodie was always going to draw attention, and humiliation crawled hotly under your skin as whispers started to ripple around you. You could feel eyes on the back of your neck, hear the shift in tone from normal morning chatter to something curious, something hungry.

“Y/N.” He caught up enough to step in front of you.

You stopped so abruptly your shoulder nearly collided with his chest.

Up close, he looked even worse. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was something frantic in the way he was breathing, like he’d been holding himself together by threads ever since last night.

“Move,” you said quietly.

Jeongin’s face crumpled a little at the sound of your voice—flat, exhausted, nothing like the way you usually spoke to him.

“Please just give me five minutes.”

“No.”

“Y/N—”

“Move.”

He didn’t, but not because he was trying to intimidate you. If anything, he looked terrified of you. He stayed where he was, hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you and knew he couldn’t.

“I know how bad this looks—”

You laughed once, sharp and humourless. “Looks?”

His mouth snapped shut and you stepped around him. This time he didn’t try to block you, but he followed, close enough that you could hear every uneven breath.

“I came to your house,” he said quickly, as if you might not know. “I stayed for hours. I texted, I called, I—”

“I know.”

The words came out cold enough to make him go quiet. You kept your eyes fixed straight ahead as you climbed the stairs to the main building.

“I know you came,” you said. “I ignored you on purpose.”

The silence that followed was so abrupt it almost rang. When you finally glanced at him, Jeongin looked like you’d physically winded him.

“Oh.”

It was such a small sound, barely a word at all, but something inside your chest twisted painfully. You forced yourself to crush it before it could become pity.

“Yeah,” you said. “So take the hint.”

You turned and walked into the corridor. Jeongin stood there for half a second, stunned, before hurrying after you again.

The corridor was filling up fast now—lockers slamming, voices echoing, people drifting into classrooms—but the second Jeongin called your name again, it felt like the whole space tilted toward you.

“Please don’t do this.”

You spun around so quickly he nearly walked into you.

“Don’t do what?” you asked, keeping your voice low only because you were one second away from shattering and couldn’t bear the idea of everyone hearing it. “Ignore the fact that my boyfriend started dating me because of a bet?”

His face went white. A couple of nearby students glanced over.

Jeongin’s eyes darted around the corridor, panic flaring. “Can we not do this here?”

“Why?” You swallowed hard. “Worried people will hear?”

“No, I’m worried you’re upset and everyone’s staring.”

You almost laughed again. The nerve of him.

“They stared last night too, didn’t they?” you said. “Didn’t stop your friends.”

Jeongin’s whole expression twisted. “They’re not my friends right now.”

“Well, that’s convenient.”

“Y/N—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“You need to hear it,” he said, voice breaking with desperation. “Please. I know I fucked up, I know I should’ve told you, I know I should’ve shut it down the second they started talking, but please don’t look at me like this.”

Your throat tightened. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a stranger.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Maybe because that was exactly what this felt like. Like every version of Jeongin you thought you knew had peeled away overnight, leaving behind someone unrecognisable.

You looked at him properly then, taking in the red-rimmed eyes, the way his hands were trembling, the raw panic on his face. Six months ago, that expression would’ve destroyed you. Even a week ago, you would’ve reached for him without thinking. Now all it did was make you tired.

“You should’ve thought about that before you lied to me for half a year.”

Jeongin recoiled slightly.

“I didn’t lie about everything,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.

You stared at him.

He swallowed hard. “What I feel for you—that’s real.”

Something ugly and wounded twisted in your chest.

“You don’t get to say that to me anymore.”

His eyes filled so fast it startled you.

He blinked hard, jaw clenching, and for a second he looked like he was physically trying to stop himself from falling apart in the middle of the corridor. “Then tell me what I do get to say, because I can’t just let you walk around thinking I never cared about you. I can’t let that be the last thing you believe about us.”

Us.

The word made your stomach lurch.

“There is no us.”

You saw the moment he broke. The composure Jeongin had been clinging to cracked clean down the middle. You saw it happen in real time—the way his shoulders dropped, the way the colour drained even further from his face, the way his mouth parted around a breath that sounded too shaky to be steady.

“Don’t say that.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, and you hated that it still hurt to hear him sound like that. You hated that some stupid part of you still wanted to comfort him even now, even after all of this, even when you were the one who’d spent the night crying on your bathroom floor because of him. So you did the only thing you could think of.

You hardened yourself against the desire to comfort him.

“I mean it.”

Jeongin shook his head immediately, frantic. “No, you don’t. You’re angry, and you should be, but please don’t say things you don’t mean.”

The disbelief of it almost knocked the breath out of you.

“Don’t tell me what I mean.”

“I’m not—I just—” He dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “Please, Y/N, please. Scream at me, hit me, tell me you hate me, I don’t care. Just don’t shut me out.”

Your eyes stung, and he noticed the tears well up in your eyes instantly, stepping forward on instinct.

You stepped back just as fast, Jeongin freezing. The look on his face then was awful. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just raw, open hurt, like that one tiny movement had sliced him open from throat to stomach.

You couldn’t do this. Not here. Not with people watching and whispering and pretending not to stare. Not with Jeongin looking at you like you were the one holding the knife.

Your next class bell rang, shrill and sharp through the corridor, the sound breaking the moment in half.

You clutched your bag tighter and forced your voice to stay steady. “If you care about me at all, you’ll leave me alone.”

Jeongin stared at you before he gave the smallest, weakest shake of his head.

“I can’t.”

The honesty of it almost made you falter.

Almost.

“Well,” you said, stepping around him again, “you’re going to have to learn.”

This time, when you walked away, he didn’t follow. You could feel his eyes on your back the whole way down the corridor, heavy and devastated and impossible to ignore, but he stayed where he was.

You made it into your classroom with thirty seconds to spare and sat down in your usual seat by the window, hands trembling so badly you nearly dropped your pen.

Your friend Mia—your only friend, who sat beside you in English and usually spent the first five minutes of class gossiping under her breath—took one look at your face and frowned.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “What happened to you?”

You shook your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the contents of your bag whilst you tried to pull yourself together.

Mia’s expression softened immediately. “Hey, no, seriously. Are you okay?”

No.

Not even remotely.

But the word lodged in your throat and refused to come out, because if you started talking about it, you knew you’d start crying, and if you started crying in the middle of English class you were pretty sure you’d actually die on the spot.

So you just muttered, “I’m fine.”

Mia looked like she didn’t believe you for a second, but before she could press further, your teacher walked in and the room fell quiet. You stared at the board and heard absolutely none of the lesson. Every few minutes, your phone buzzed in your blazer pocket but you ignored it.

At break, you stayed in your seat until the room emptied, pretending to search for something in your bag just so you wouldn’t have to risk walking into the corridor while Jeongin was out there.

At lunch, you ate half a cereal bar in a bathroom cubicle because the thought of the cafeteria made your chest seize up.

By last period, exhaustion had sunk into your bones so heavily that even lifting your head felt like effort.

And still, Jeongin kept trying.

You saw him between classes, hovering at the end of corridors like he was scared to get too close and even more scared to let you out of his sight. He texted. He called once during lunch, then again ten minutes later, then stopped—presumably realising you weren’t ever going to pick up. He looked at you across classrooms, across the courtyard, across the canteen when you finally forced yourself to walk through it for a bottle of water, and every time your eyes accidentally met, the expression on his face made something twist sickly inside you.

Panic. Guilt.

And something that looked too much like heartbreak.

By the final bell, you felt wrung dry.

You just wanted to go home, lock your bedroom door, and sleep for twelve hours. You should’ve known Jeongin wouldn’t make it that easy.

The second you stepped out of your last lesson, he was there, waiting right outside the classroom door like he’d been counting down the minutes. His eyes found yours instantly.

“Please,” he said before you could even turn away. “Just let me walk you home.”

You stared at him. He looked like he hadn’t eaten all day. Like he’d spent every second since this morning spiralling deeper and deeper into whatever guilt-ridden hell he’d built for himself. His tie was gone entirely now, shirt untucked at one side, and there was a crease pressed into his cheek like he’d been sitting with his face in his hands.

For a moment, neither of you moved before you snapped yourself out of it, tightening your hold on your bag and saying the one thing that made his face fall completely.

“No.”

You walked away before he could say anything else.

You made it halfway down the front steps before you heard him behind you.

“Y/N—wait.”

Of course he’d followed.

Your grip tightened around your bag strap so hard your knuckles ached, but you didn’t turn around. The school day had wrung every last scrap of energy out of you. Your head was pounding, your chest still tight from the strain of holding yourself together for eight straight hours, and the only thing keeping you upright was the thought of getting home, shutting your bedroom door, and not seeing another human being until Monday.

“Y/N, please.”

His footsteps quickened until they were right behind you, but you kept walking, speed picking up marginally.

Students spilled around you in clusters, loud and careless and free in the way everyone seemed to be at the end of the day. They streamed out through the gates in laughing groups, bags slung over shoulders, phones in hand, already planning where they were going next. The pavement outside the school was crowded, and every brush of a stranger’s shoulder against yours made your skin jump.

“Can you just stop for one second?” Jeongin asked, breathless.

Your answer came instantly, flat and sharp. “No.”

He was quiet for a beat, then tried again. “You haven’t eaten.”

You almost stumbled - not because the words were particularly shocking, but because it was such a Jeongin thing to notice. Such a Jeongin thing to say. Soft and observant and infuriatingly familiar.

You hated that your chest still reacted to it.

“I’m fine.”

“You had half a cereal bar in the bathroom at lunch.”

That made you stop.

You turned so fast he nearly walked into you. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t step back.

“You were watching me in the bathroom now too?” you asked, voice low and dangerous.

Jeongin’s face dropped. “What? No—God, no. Mia told Hyunjin you disappeared all lunch and then I saw you come back with that stupid cereal bar wrapper and—” He dragged a hand over his face, frustrated with himself. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point, Jeongin?”

He looked at you like the answer should’ve been obvious. “You.”

The word hit like a slap. It didn’t hurt because it was cruel, but because it sounded so earnest that it made your throat tighten with anger.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Right.”

“I mean it.”

“Stop saying things like that.”

His expression crumpled. “Why?”

Because you didn’t get to sound like you cared when you were the reason she’d cried until three in the morning. Because every soft word out of his mouth felt like someone twisting a knife in a wound and apologising while they did it. Because if he kept sounding like Jeongin—your Jeongin, the one who tucked your hands into his coat pockets and kissed your temple and remembered what snacks you liked after bad exams—you might start forgetting that he wasn’t yours at all.

“Because I don’t believe you anymore,” you snapped.

That shut him up.

For half a second, all the noise around you blurred. Cars passed on the road. Someone shouted from across the street. A group of younger students ran past, nearly clipping your shoulder, but you barely registered any of it. All you could see was Jeongin standing there in front of you with that wrecked look on his face, tie gone, shirt untucked, eyes ringed red like he hadn’t slept either.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t.”

“Then why are you still doing this?”

“Because I can’t just leave you like this.”

Something ugly and exhausted surged up inside you.

“Like what?” you demanded. “Like I’m upset? Like I’m angry? Like I finally found out my boyfriend was using me and now I’m inconveniently having a hard time with it?”

Jeongin winced so hard it almost looked painful. “I wasn’t using you.”

“Oh my god.” You laughed again, louder this time, the sound wobbling on the edge of something hysterical. “Do you hear yourself?”

“I know how it sounds—”

“No, you don’t.” You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, voice dropping into something sharp enough to cut. “You don’t get it, Jeongin. You don’t get to stand here looking heartbroken and tell me I’ve got the wrong idea when I literally heard your friends talking about your bet to sleep with me.”

His face drained of colour.

“Please lower your voice,” he said, glancing around.

The last thread of your restraint snapped.

“Why?” you said, louder. “Scared people might hear?”

A few heads turned but for once in your life you didn’t care.

Jeongin went pale. “Y/N—”

“No, actually, let’s do this properly, since you seem so desperate to talk.” Your heart was already starting to race, too fast and too hard, but you couldn’t stop. The words had built up all day, hot and poisonous and impossible to swallow down any longer. “What exactly were you waiting for, huh? Were you just seeing how long you could keep me around before you got bored? Did your friends get a good laugh every time I held your hand in public? Every time I kissed you? Every time I told you I loved you?”

“Stop,” Jeongin whispered.

“Or were they waiting for updates?” you shot back, tears stinging now because of course they were. “Did you tell them when I stayed over? Did they know every time I let myself trust you a little more? Was that funny too?”

“Y/N, stop, please.”

“Was I just some pathetic little project to you?” Your voice cracked, and now people were definitely staring, slowing on the pavement, whispering to each other. “The shy girl you thought you’d fix up enough to fuck?”

“Don’t.” Jeongin’s voice broke on the word. He looked horrified now, properly horrified, like each sentence out of your mouth was hitting him in the chest. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? Isn’t that what this was?”

“No!” It came out so sharply that a couple walking past actually turned. Jeongin immediately lowered his voice again, breathing hard. “No, it wasn’t. Not anymore. Not for a long time.”

You stared at him, chest heaving. There it was again.

Not anymore.

As if that somehow made the beginning disappear. As if there was any version of this where you weren’t still the idiot who’d spent six months falling in love with someone who had first looked at her and seen a challenge.

Your vision blurred. You looked away from him, blinking hard, but the pressure in your chest was getting worse now—too tight, too hot, your lungs refusing to fill properly. The pavement suddenly felt unsteady beneath your feet. The noise of the street swelled until it all blurred together: engines, voices, footsteps, laughter, a car horn somewhere in the distance. Too much. Too loud.

“Y/N?”

Jeongin’s voice changed instantly. The anger drained right out of it, leaving only alarm.

You took a step back. “I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

You knew that in the same detached way you knew your own name. Your hands had started shaking. Not subtly—violently enough that you had to curl them into fists to hide it. Your breaths were coming too fast, too shallow, and there was a horrible buzzing in your ears like static.

Jeongin noticed all of it, just as he had these past six months.

“Hey,” he said, softer now, taking one cautious step toward you. “Hey, look at me.”

“No.”

“Y/N, you need to breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

The lie barely made it out. Your voice sounded strange to your own ears—too high, too thin.

Jeongin’s eyes flicked over your face, panic rising. “No, you’re not. Come here, let’s just get you out of the crowd—”

He reached for your wrist, but you shoved him away before he could touch you.

“Don’t touch me!”

It wasn’t enough to actually hurt him, but it made him stumble back a step, shock flashing across his face.

A few people outright stopped walking now. You hated them for looking. Hated Jeongin for being here. Hated yourself for falling apart in public like this, for not even being able to keep your own body under control for five fucking minutes.

Your lungs seized.

A sharp, humiliating sound tore out of your throat as you tried to inhale and couldn’t get enough air. Suddenly everything was spinning—too bright, too loud, your heartbeat hammering in your ears so violently it drowned out everything else.

“Okay.” Jeongin lifted both hands slowly, palms open like he was approaching a frightened animal. His own face had gone white. “Okay, I won’t touch you. I promise. I’m not touching you.”

You backed away again, arms wrapping around yourself so tightly it hurt.

“Go away.”

He looked devastated. “I can’t.”

“I said go away!”

Your voice came out broken, cracking in the middle, and then your body betrayed you completely.

Your knees gave. It wasn’t enough to send you sprawling onto the pavement, but enough that you staggered hard and had to grab blindly for the nearest wall. Your bag slid off your shoulder and hit the ground with a dull thud, papers crumpling inside.

Jeongin moved on instinct. He caught your elbow before you could hit the pavement properly but you jerked out of his grip so violently you nearly lost your balance again.

“Don’t!”

He let go at once, hands lifting back into the air.

“Sorry, sorry—shit, I’m sorry.” His voice was shaking now too. “I’m not going to touch you, okay? I’m not. Just—please stay still for a second.”

You pressed your back against the brick wall outside the school gates and squeezed your eyes shut, but that only made it worse. The darkness behind your eyelids tilted sickeningly. Your chest was on fire. Every breath snagged halfway in and came back out in a sharp, ugly gasp. You could hear yourself making these awful little choking noises and it only made the panic worse.

“Look at me.” Jeongin was in front of you again, crouching slightly so he was in your line of sight without crowding you. “Y/N, look at me.”

You shook your head, tears spilling hot and useless down your cheeks.

“I hate you,” you gasped.

The words clearly hit him, but he swallowed them down.

“I know,” he said, voice cracking. “You can hate me. Just—please look at me for one second.”

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to give him anything. Not your eyes, not your trust, not the chance to slide back into the role he’d gotten so good at playing—the gentle boyfriend who knew exactly how to calm you down when your anxiety got too loud. But your vision was tunnelling. The pavement had narrowed into a smear of grey beneath your feet. You were dimly aware of people slowing as they passed, of someone whispering is she okay? and another voice saying should we get a teacher?

Jeongin heard it too.

He looked over his shoulder and snapped, “Can you all stop staring?”

The sharpness in his voice cut through the murmurs immediately, people scattering but still throwing worried looks over their shoulder.

When he turned back to you, his face was stricken. “Can you sit down for me? Not with me—just sit. Please.”

You slid down the wall before you could answer, legs folding under you because they’d stopped feeling reliable. The second you hit the ground, Jeongin dropped down too, kneeling a careful distance away.

“Okay,” he said, breathing hard like he was trying not to panic with you. “Okay. That’s good. That’s okay.”

You were crying properly now, shoulders shaking, fingers digging into your sleeves. Your breaths were still coming in short, painful bursts, your chest locking up tighter every time you tried to drag in air.

“Stop—” you choked out, though you weren’t even sure what you were asking him to stop. Talking? Looking at you? Caring? Existing?

Jeongin scrubbed a hand over his face, helpless. “I know. I know, I’m sorry. Just listen to me, okay? You don’t have to say anything back. Just listen.”

He glanced down at his own hands like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

“In for four,” he said softly, voice trembling. “Hold for four. Out for four. You know this. Come on.”

You let out a broken laugh-sob. Of course he’d remember. Of course he’d use the exact same voice he always did when you got overwhelmed—the one that was low and steady and careful, like if he was gentle enough he could smooth all the sharp edges off the world.

It made you want to scream.

“I don’t want your help,” you whispered.

The pain on his face was immediate.

“I know.” His eyes were bright now, his own breathing uneven. “I know you don’t. I’m sorry. I’m still going to help if I can.”

Something inside you twisted so violently it hurt. You shoved yourself to your feet too fast, wobbling instantly. Jeongin lurched forward, hand half-outstretched, but stopped before he touched you.

“Don’t,” you snapped, pressing yourself harder against the wall as if distance could somehow save you. “Don’t act like you still get to do this.”

His hand dropped. For a second he just looked at you, kneeling on the pavement in front of you with his tie stuffed in one pocket and his shirt wrinkled and his eyes red, like some pathetic aftermath of the boy you’d fallen in love with. Then he nodded once, small and broken.

“Okay.”

Your breathing was still awful. Better than thirty seconds ago, maybe, but only in the sense that you no longer felt seconds away from passing out. Your hands were numb, your face soaked with tears, and there was a crowd-shaped awareness hovering at the edge of everything that made humiliation burn hotly through your chest.

You couldn’t stay here.

You bent to grab your bag with shaking hands.

Jeongin stood immediately. “Let me carry that.”

You shot him a look so full of exhausted fury that he actually stopped mid-step.

“No.”

“Right.” His throat bobbed. “Right. Sorry.”

You slung the bag over your shoulder, nearly fumbling it, then turned toward home with your head down and your entire body trembling.

Jeongin fell into step behind you. Not beside you or close enough to touch. Just… there.

You made it ten steps before whirling around again. “Why are you still following me?”

He stopped dead.

“Because I’m not leaving you alone after that.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I know.” His voice was wrecked. “I know I don’t get to decide anything right now. But you can barely stand up and I can’t just watch you walk off on your own like this.”

“You don’t get to care now.”

His face twisted. “I never stopped caring.”

You let out a shaky breath that felt halfway to a sob. “You don’t understand, do you?”

“What?”

“You caring is the problem.” Your voice cracked, and you hated how weak it sounded. “If you were just an asshole, if you’d only been pretending this whole time, maybe this would hurt less. But you keep looking at me like you mean it, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

Jeongin went completely still. The crowd noise around you seemed to fade for a second, replaced by the awful ragged sound of your breathing and the silence between you.

You saw his eyes fill. It wasn’t dramatic or in a way meant to manipulate. It was just sudden, helpless, like the words had slipped past whatever thin control he’d been clinging to all day and hit somewhere deep.

“Y/N…”

“Don’t.” You stepped back again, swallowing hard. “Just don’t.”

He wiped quickly at one eye with the heel of his hand, jaw clenching. “I’m still walking behind you.”

You stared at him.

“I won’t touch you,” he said hoarsely. “I won’t talk if you don’t want me to. But I’m not letting you go home alone when you can barely breathe.”

You wanted to argue. Wanted to scream at him until your throat gave out, wanted to tell him to fuck off and mean it, wanted to stop caring that the person hurting right in front of you was also the person who had hurt you in the first place.

But you were so tired. So painfully, bone-deep tired.

So instead, you just turned around and kept walking, and Jeongin followed, always a few steps behind. Close enough that you could hear his footsteps, far enough that he never brushed against you once.

The whole walk home, you fought every desire to look back.

By the time you reached your house, your legs felt like they were made of wet paper.

The panic attack had left you hollowed out, shaky in that awful aftershock kind of way where every sound still felt too sharp and every breath still had to be thought through. Your face was sticky with dried tears, your chest ached from how hard it had seized up, and your bag strap kept slipping down your shoulder because your hands wouldn’t stop trembling long enough to fix it properly.

Through it all, Jeongin was still behind you. Far enough back that he wasn’t crowding you, yet close enough that you could hear his footsteps every time the street went quiet.

You hated how aware of him you were. Hated that even without looking, you knew exactly where he was. Knew the rhythm of his walk. Knew when he slowed because you did, when he stopped because you had to press a hand to the wall for a second and get your breathing back under control.

You just wanted to get inside. To lock your front door, go upstairs and collapse in the privacy of your own bed.

But as you turned onto your street, you saw someone sitting on your neighbour’s low brick wall, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, a half-finished can of energy drink balanced in one hand.

Chan looked up at the sound of your footsteps, and immediately stood.

You’d known Chris Chan—just Chan, because he’d laughed the first time you called him Christopher—for nearly a year now. He lived in the house next door, studied at the local university, and possessed the kind of stupidly unfair face that made people turn twice on the street. Tall, broad-shouldered, soft dark curls that always looked slightly messy no matter what he did with them, and warm dark eyes that somehow managed to look kind even when he was exhausted.

The first time you’d met him, you’d nearly dropped your shopping on the street because he’d said hello and startled you so badly. He’d ended up carrying your bags for you while making gentle conversation so easy you hadn’t realised until halfway through that you were actually answering. Since then, he’d become one of those strange, quiet fixtures in your life—someone you’d run into on your way to school, someone who’d fix the boiler when your landlord took too long to help your parents, someone who’d sit with you on the front steps when you’d had a bad day and talk absolute nonsense until your shoulders unclenched.

Chan knew about your anxiety in the vague way neighbours who paid attention sometimes did. He knew what you looked like when you were trying not to panic. And the second his eyes landed properly on your face, every trace of casual ease vanished.

“Hey,” he said, voice instantly gentler. “What happened?”

That was all it took. It wasn’t the words themselves, but the softness of them. The concern. The way he said it like he was already bracing for the answer. Your throat closed as Chan’s gaze flicked from your tear-stained face to the way you were clutching your bag strap, to the boy a few steps behind you.

His expression changed, just enough that something in him seemed to sharpen.

“Right,” he said quietly.

Jeongin stopped at the bottom of the path, chest rising and falling too fast, school bag hanging limply from one shoulder. He looked exhausted, wrung out, eyes still rimmed red from whatever emotional hell the day had put him through.

Chan took one look at him and understood far more than you wanted him to.

“You live here?” Jeongin asked, glancing between the two of you.

Chan ignored the question entirely. Instead, he stepped down from the wall and came to stand beside you—not touching, just close enough that his presence felt solid. Safe.

“You okay to get inside?” he asked you, low enough that the question didn’t feel public.

You nodded, even though you weren’t entirely sure it was true. Chan looked unconvinced, but he accepted it for now. Then he turned his head and fixed Jeongin with a look that was calm enough to be more intimidating than if he’d shouted.

“I’ll take it from here.”

Jeongin stiffened. “She doesn’t want to be alone.”

“I didn’t say I was leaving her alone.”

“I’m serious,” Jeongin said, taking a step forward. “She had a panic attack on the way here. She nearly collapsed and—”

“I know,” Chan cut in, still infuriatingly calm. “And right now, she’s standing next to me looking like she’s one sentence away from having another one, so I’m going to need you to stop talking.”

The silence that followed was instant. You blinked, and Jeongin looked like he was trying his best to keep his cool.

Chan wasn’t cruel about it. His tone never rose. But there was something in the way he stood—steady, certain, already halfway into protective mode—that made it obvious he wasn’t about to budge.

Jeongin’s jaw tightened. “I’m not leaving her when she’s like this.”

“You are,” Chan said. “Because she doesn’t want you here.”

You saw the words hit Jeongin right in the chest. His eyes flicked to you immediately, desperate, raw, as if hoping you’d contradict Chan, or at least soften it somehow.

You couldn’t. You were too tired to even feel guilty about that. Instead, you just looked away, missing the way Jeongin’s face fell.

For a second, nobody said anything. The street hummed quietly around you—distant traffic, a dog barking somewhere, a door slamming down the road. Chan stayed still beside you, arms folded loosely across his chest. Jeongin stood at the edge of the path looking like he was physically fighting the urge to ignore him and come after you anyway.

“Y/N,” he said finally, voice rough. “Please.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, but Chan answered for you.

“She’s done for tonight.”

Jeongin dragged a hand through his hair, visibly unraveling. “I just need to know she’s okay.”

“I’ll make sure she gets inside,” Chan said. “You have my word.”

Jeongin laughed once, bitter and exhausted. “No offence, mate, but your word doesn’t really mean much to me right now.”

Chan’s expression didn’t change. “That sounds like a you problem.”

If the situation had been even slightly less awful, you might have laughed, but Jeongin didn’t. He just looked back at you, face open in that horrible way that made your chest ache despite yourself.

“Please don’t do this,” he said.

Your eyes burned at his words, the pleading tone.

“I’m not doing anything,” you whispered. “I just want you to leave.”

The words came out thin and scraped raw, but they were enough.

Jeongin went still, the fight seeming to leave him all at once, shoulders dropping like someone had cut the strings holding him upright. He looked at you for another long second—at your red eyes, your trembling hands, the way you still couldn’t quite stand straight after crying and panicking your way home—and something in his expression cracked.

“Okay,” he said hoarsely.

It didn’t sound okay at all.

He swallowed, hard, then looked at Chan. “If she gets worse, call someone. Or me. I don’t care if she hates me right now, just don’t leave her alone if it gets bad.”

Chan gave a short nod. “I know what I’m doing.”

Jeongin hesitated, and you could see how much it cost him to turn around. How every instinct in him was screaming not to leave you like this, not with your face blotchy from crying and your breathing still uneven and another man standing where he thought he should be. But after one last look at you—one you couldn’t bring yourself to return—he stepped backwards down the path.

Then he left.

You watched him go despite yourself. Watched the slow, reluctant set of his shoulders. The way he kept glancing back until the corner of the street swallowed him whole.

The second he was out of sight, all the tension holding your body upright seemed to dissolve at once, your knees buckling under you.

“Whoa—hey.”

Chan caught your bag before it slipped off your shoulder again and guided you—not touching, just steering with his voice and presence—towards the low wall outside the building.

“Sit down for me.”

You sat instantly - mostly because your legs no longer felt like they belonged to you. Chan crouched in front of you, elbows resting loosely on his knees, eyes searching your face with careful concern.

“Do you need water?”

You shook your head.

“Tea?”

Another head shake.

“Want me to call someone?”

You thought of Mia. Of your mum. Of literally anyone asking what had happened and forcing you to say it out loud.

“No.”

“Okay.” Chan nodded easily, accepting that too. “Then we’re doing this the boring way.”

You blinked at him.

He tilted the energy drink can in his hand. “You sit there and look tragic, and I sit here and ask annoying questions until you either answer me or tell me to piss off.”

A weak, surprised laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and Chan’s mouth twitched.

“There she is.”

And that—stupidly, embarrassingly—was the thing that finally broke you.

Your face crumpled, the first sob coming out so abruptly that it startled even you, and then Chan was swearing softly under his breath and setting the drink aside, shifting from his crouch to sit on the wall beside you.

He didn’t sit too close, didn’t crowd you. Just close enough that you could feel the warmth of another person there if you wanted to.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

You covered your face with both hands as it all came spilling out in pieces after that. Not neatly. Not in a straight line. Half of it was choked out between breaths and the other half muffled behind your palms, but Chan listened anyway.

About the party.

About seeing Jeongin with a girl hanging off his arm.

About overhearing his friends laughing about the bet to sleep with the shy girl.

About Jeongin admitting it had started as a bet and how the words had split something open inside you.

About him turning up at your flat and you ignoring him. About him waiting for you at school, following you all day, chasing you after class, trying to help when you had a panic attack and you shoving him away because you couldn’t stand the idea of him touching you.

Chan didn’t interrupt much. He only asked questions when he needed to—small, practical ones that kept you going when your thoughts started spiralling.

“What exactly did you hear him say?”

“Did he deny it?”

“Did he ever actually sleep with anyone else while you were together?”

That last one made you look at him, horrified.

“No.”

“Okay. Good.”

“That’s not good, Chan.”

“No,” he said mildly, “but it’s less bad than it could’ve been.”

You stared at him through wet lashes, and he held up both hands. “I’m not saying he’s innocent. I’m saying there’s a difference between a teenage boy making the worst decision of his life and a teenage boy deliberately setting out to humiliate you for six months straight.”

You laughed bitterly. “Feels pretty humiliating either way.”

“Yeah.” Chan’s voice softened. “I know.”

Silence settled between you for a moment as you sniffed and wiped under your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie. “You think I’m stupid.”

“What?” Chan frowned. “No.”

“I should’ve known.” The words came out before you could stop them. “I mean… Jeongin. Look at him. Look at me. It was obviously too good to be true.”

Chan went very still before he turned to face you fully, one arm draped along the back of the step behind you.

“Don’t do that.”

You looked away.

“I mean it.” His voice sharpened—not harsh, but firm enough to make you listen. “Do not take his stupidity and turn it into evidence that there’s something wrong with you.”

Your throat tightened.

“You didn’t do anything wrong here,” Chan said. “You believed someone you cared about when he told you he cared about you. That’s not stupidity. That’s trust.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood, and Chan sighed softly as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Look, I’m not about to defend the bet. It’s disgusting. If he was twenty-five, I’d tell you to set his car on fire.”

Despite everything, you let out a watery snort.

“But,” Chan continued, “I also don’t think this is as simple as you’re making it.”

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I watched that boy’s face while he stood out here.” Chan tipped his head in the direction Jeongin had disappeared. “And unless he deserves an Oscar, he’s not acting.”

Your stomach twisted as you stared down at your hands, thinking about Chan’s words and Jeongin’s pale face.

Chan noticed and sighed. “I know. That’s probably the last thing you want to hear.”

“I don’t care if he feels guilty.”

“I know you don’t.” He paused. “But guilt isn’t the only thing I saw.”

You hated how your chest reacted to that. Hated the tiny, traitorous flicker of hope trying to force its way into a situation where it had no business existing.

Chan seemed to read the conflict on your face, because his tone gentled again.

“I’m not saying forgive him,” he said. “And I’m definitely not saying what he did is okay. It isn’t. It’s cruel and immature and I’d like five minutes alone with him in a locked room, just on principle.”

That got the tiniest smile out of you.

“But,” he said again, “I do think you should hear him out.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

Chan held your gaze steadily. “Hear him out.”

“Why?”

“Because right now, your brain is doing what anxious brains do best.” He tapped two fingers lightly against his temple. “It’s taking the worst possible version of every missing piece and filling it in as fact.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going.

“You heard enough to know he fucked up. That part’s real. But you didn’t hear all of it. You don’t know what he was about to say when you walked away. You don’t know how long it stopped being a game to him. You don’t know why he never told you. And unless you hear it from him, you’re going to sit in your room for the next week inventing a hundred different explanations, and every single one of them will hurt.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “He lied to me, though.”

“Yeah.” Chan nodded. “He did.”

“So why should I listen?”

“Because listening isn’t the same as forgiving.” His voice was calm, patient, matter-of-fact in the way it always was when he was trying to guide you out of your own head. “Hearing him out doesn’t mean taking him back. It doesn’t mean letting him off the hook. It just means you get the full truth before you decide what to do with it.”

Your eyes burned again.

Chan leaned back slightly, giving you room to breathe. “And if after that you still want nothing to do with him, fine. Block his number, tell him to go to hell, date someone with better decision-making skills.”

“Like who?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. A nice cousin of an engineering student with excellent hair and a heroic willingness to carry your shopping?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“There you are,” Chan murmured again, smiling a little.

The laugh died quickly, but the knot in your chest loosened just enough to let you breathe around it. You stared out at the street for a long moment, arms wrapped around yourself.

“I don’t know if I can do it.”

Chan was quiet for a second before answering. “You don’t have to do it tonight.”

You looked at him and he shrugged one shoulder. “Make him wait until tomorrow. Or the day after. Let him sweat a little, build character.” Then his expression softened. “But don’t make a forever decision based on the worst ten minutes of your life.”

His words settled somewhere deep. They didn’t fix anything—not even close—but they cracked open just enough space in the panic and humiliation for something else to exist alongside it.

Uncertainty. Questions. The horrible possibility that Chan might be right.

You scrubbed at your face again, exhausted. “I hate that this is your advice.”

“I know.” He bumped his shoulder lightly against yours. “I was annoyed too. I really wanted to tell you to egg his house.”

You snorted as he teased you again. “Still can, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Shame. I’d be very good at it.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and Chan’s expression softened with relief—like seeing even that tiny reaction told him you were starting to come back to yourself.

After a moment, he stood and held out a hand. “Come on.”

You looked at it, and he wiggled his fingers. “I’m not letting you sit outside crying yourself into hypothermia. I’m making tea, and you’re telling me whether Jeongin’s always been this much of an idiot or if it’s a recent development.”

You hesitated only a second before taking his hand. Chan hauled you gently to your feet, steadied you when you swayed, then picked up your bag from where it had slumped against the wall.

As he led you towards his house, he glanced sideways at you.

“For the record,” he said, fishing his keys from his pocket, “if you do decide to hear him out, I’m sitting just next door with a cricket bat.”

You huffed a laugh. “You don’t even own a cricket bat.”

“No, but I can acquire one. I’m resourceful.”

And for the first time since the party, the ache in your chest eased just enough for you to believe that maybe—maybe—you wouldn’t drown in it after all.

The weekend passed in fragments.

You spent most of Saturday in Chan’s house because he’d apparently decided you were a flight risk and kept finding increasingly ridiculous reasons to stop you retreating into your bedroom for forty-eight hours straight. He made tea, ordered takeaway, put on terrible reality television and offered running commentary so sarcastic it dragged a laugh out of you more than once, even when you were trying very hard not to give him the satisfaction.

But no matter what was on the screen or what Chan was talking about, your mind kept circling back to Jeongin and the party.

To the look on his face when you’d told him there was no us.

To the way he’d followed you home at a distance because he knew you didn’t want him near you but couldn’t bring himself to leave anyway.

To the way he’d looked when you shoved him off during your panic attack—hurt, yes, but never angry. Just terrified for you.

And the more you thought about it, the less it fit. That was the problem.

If Jeongin had just been cruel, this would’ve been simpler. If he’d laughed with his friends, if he’d rolled his eyes when you cried, if he’d acted annoyed by your anxiety or embarrassed by how quiet you were or impatient with how long it took you to come out of your shell, maybe you could’ve built a clean, sharp version of him in your head and hated him properly.

But he hadn’t.

He’d held you through panic attacks. He’d kissed the tears off your face after bad exams and stayed on the phone with you until two in the morning when your thoughts got too loud and your chest wouldn’t settle. He’d remembered tiny things no one else noticed—how you hated fizzy drinks unless they’d gone flat, how crowds made you itch under your skin, how you needed five extra minutes after waking up before you could handle conversation. He’d learned exactly where to rub circles into your wrist to calm you down and exactly how to speak to you when your breathing started going funny.

He’d never made you feel like too much. Not once.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t force those things into the shape of a bet.

Saturday night, lying awake in your own bed with the streetlight cutting a pale stripe across your ceiling, you found yourself thinking about the first time he’d told you he loved you.

It wasn’t at the swings in the park under the soft orange streetlights with the hoodie sleeves and the warmth of his hands in yours. It was earlier than that. The first real time.

You’d had a panic attack at his house five months into dating.

It had been stupid, really. One of those ridiculous little things that wouldn’t have affected anyone else—too many people in the kitchen, his friends turning up unexpectedly while you were already exhausted, someone dropping a glass in the next room and the sound slicing straight through you. You’d tried to hold it together because you were in his house, because you didn’t want to be dramatic, because you were still so scared back then of letting him see the uglier parts of you.

You’d made it as far as his bedroom before your lungs gave out, and Jeongin had found you on the floor between his bed and the wall, shaking so hard your teeth hurt, hands clamped over your mouth as if you could physically hold the panic inside yourself if you tried hard enough.

He hadn’t looked annoyed or embarrassed, but he hadn’t looked surprised either. He’d just dropped to his knees in front of you and said your name in that low, steady voice of his. Again and again and again until you looked at him.

After that, he’d sat on the floor with you for nearly an hour.

He’d talked you through every breath. Let you squeeze his hand hard enough to leave marks. Moved slowly enough that nothing felt like pressure, and when the panic had finally ebbed enough for you to stop crying, he’d helped you onto his bed and tucked you under the duvet like you were something fragile. You’d fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion with your face pressed into his shoulder.

When you woke up, it was dark outside. Your head ached, your eyes felt swollen, and for one awful second you had no idea where you were.

Then you realised Jeongin was still there.

He was propped up against the headboard with one arm around you, his phone abandoned on the duvet beside him, his free hand absently combing through your hair in slow, repetitive strokes. He’d clearly been there the whole time.

The second he noticed you were awake, his hand paused.

“Hey,” he’d said quietly. “How’re you feeling?”

Mortification had hit you all at once. You’d pushed yourself upright too fast, face burning, and immediately started apologising. For ruining the evening. For falling asleep on him. For being weird and dramatic and too much and—

Jeongin had cut you off by taking your face in both hands - actually taking your face in both hands and looking at you like you’d said something genuinely absurd.

“None of that,” he’d said.

You’d stared at him, teary and exhausted and still too wrung out to hide how badly you wanted to believe him.

“Y/N,” he’d said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to apologise for panicking.”

“I ruined your night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

“Your friends were here—”

“I don’t care.” His thumbs had brushed under your eyes, wiping away tears you hadn’t even realised had started again. “I care about you.”

Your throat had tightened, but Jeongin’s gaze had gone impossibly gentle. “Do you know how strong you are?”

You’d laughed weakly because the idea was ridiculous. You’d literally just spent an hour on his floor sobbing because you were overstimulated and overwhelmed. But he’d just shaken his head, leaning in until his forehead rested against yours.

“I mean it. You fight your own brain every day and you still keep going. That’s strength.” His voice had dropped quieter, rougher somehow. “And I love you for it. I love all of you. Even the parts you’re still trying to hide from me.”

You hadn’t known what to say, but you’d cried again—less dramatically this time, just silent tears sliding down your face because no one had ever looked at the worst, messiest part of you and called it something worth loving.

Jeongin had kissed your cheeks until you laughed through it before he’d pulled you back against his chest and held you there until you fell asleep again.

That memory stayed with you all Sunday, and you’d tried to pick it apart.

You’d tried to tell yourself he could’ve been acting. That maybe Jeongin was just good at saying the right thing, good at wearing sincerity like a second skin. But every time you pictured his face that night—half-asleep, worried, so careful with you it hurt—you hit the same wall.

No one could fake that for months, not like that and not that consistently. Not when they thought no one was watching.

By Sunday evening, you were still angry, still hurt and humiliated in a way that made your stomach twist if you thought too hard about the party.But underneath all of it now was something else: a quiet, stubborn need to know the truth.

Not the version of the truth that you’d overheard in a kitchen full of drunk boys trying to impress each other; the real truth.

What the bet had been. How it had started. Why he’d done it. Why he’d stayed. Why he’d never told you. Why he’d looked at you on Friday night like the idea of losing you was killing him.

Chan didn’t say I told you so when you admitted that on Sunday night. He just handed you a mug of tea and said, “Good. Hate him with all the facts, at least.”

So Monday morning, you went to school with your stomach in knots and one thought looping over and over in your head:

I’m going to hear him out.

It didn’t make it easier. If anything, it made the walk through the gates worse.

Your hands were sweating around the straps of your bag, your pulse too loud in your ears, every step towards the main building heavy with the knowledge that at some point in the next few minutes, you were going to have to walk up to Jeongin and ask for the conversation you’d spent all weekend dreading.

You spotted him before he saw you. He was standing near the benches outside the science block with three of his friends, school bag hanging from one shoulder, tie half-done like he’d fixed it in a rush. Even from a distance, he looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes again, and he kept rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like he hadn’t quite figured out what to do with his body when he was anxious.

Your chest tightened, and the tightened further when you saw the girl. It was the same one from the party. She was leaning against the bench beside him, glossy hair perfect, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup like she was starring in some kind of campus advert. She wasn’t clinging to his arm this time, but she was standing close enough that your stomach still dropped anyway.

You almost turned around. You got as far as shifting your weight backwards, fingers tightening around your bag strap, panic prickling under your skin, but then you remembered Chan’s face when he’d said don’t make a forever decision based on the worst ten minutes of your life.

You took a deep, steadying breath, and then took another.

You started walking towards them, and the closer you got, the shakier your hands became. Your pulse was so loud you were half convinced everyone around you could hear it. One of Jeongin’s friends noticed you first—Minjae, maybe—and went visibly stiff, his expression flickering from surprise to something a lot like guilt.

Then the others followed his gaze and Jeongin turned to see what had caught their attention.

The effect was instant.

His whole body jolted like someone had grabbed him by the spine. The half-empty bottle of water in his hand slipped a little in his grip, and for one disorienting second he just stared at you. You couldn’t read the look on his face. There was shock there, definitely. Hope so sudden it was almost painful to witness. Fear too, sharp and immediate, like he was scared that if he moved too fast you’d vanish.

No one spoke, and the silence stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable, but then the girl looked you up and down with a lazy sort of disdain and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Oh. The charity case is back.”

Everything went still, and you stopped walking, face flushing in embarrassment.

One of the boys muttered, “Jisoo—”

But Jeongin was faster.

“Shut the fuck up.”

The words cracked through the courtyard so sharply that even you flinched.

Jisoo blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction. “Excuse me?”

Jeongin took a step away from the bench and looked at her with a kind of cold fury you’d never seen on his face before.

“I said shut up.” His voice was low now, but somehow that made it worse. “You don’t get to talk about her like that. Ever.”

Jisoo stared at him. “I was joking.”

“No, you were being a bitch.” He didn’t even hesitate. “And if you ever speak about her like that again, I don’t care whose friend you are, I’m done being polite.”

The entire group had gone silent, and you could see the guilt on his friends’ faces now, plain as day. Minjae looked like he wanted the ground to open up beneath him. Another one—Hyunwoo, maybe—wouldn’t meet your eyes at all.

Jisoo gave a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously? You’re taking her side after the stunt she pulled at the party?”

Jeongin’s expression turned glacial.

“She didn’t pull a stunt,” he said. “She found out something she should’ve heard from me months ago because you all can’t keep your mouths shut for five fucking minutes.”

No one had a response to that, but you barely had one, either. Jeongin’s eyes were on you now, all the anger from a second ago draining away into something much softer. More uncertain. He looked almost scared to speak.

“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.

Your throat felt like it was trying to close in on itself, but was what you’d come here for.

You nodded, and the relief that hit his face was so intense it was almost hard to look at.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, like he didn’t trust the moment not to disappear if he moved too slowly. “Yeah, okay. Of course.”

He turned to his friends, jaw tight again. “I’ll be back.”

None of them tried to stop him.

Jisoo just rolled her eyes and looked away. Minjae muttered a weak, “Jeongin—” but whatever he’d been about to say died when Jeongin shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.

Then Jeongin was stepping toward you, slower this time, as if he was trying very hard not to crowd you. He stopped a few feet away.

“Is the music room okay?” he asked quietly. “No one uses it before second period.”

You swallowed and nodded again, words still trapped in your throat.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t try to touch you. He just fell into step beside you—careful to leave space between your shoulders—and led you across the courtyard.

The walk to the music block was silent. It wasn’t tense exactly, just fragile. You could feel the weight of a hundred questions pressing against the inside of your ribs now that this was actually happening. You’d imagined this conversation all weekend—angry versions, devastated versions, versions where you screamed and versions where he cried and versions where you walked away after two minutes because hearing him explain made it worse somehow.

Now that the moment was here, all you felt was raw.

Jeongin unlocked the practice room with the spare key he borrowed sometimes for guitar club and pushed the door open for you. You stepped inside first, Jeongin stepping in behind you.

The room smelled faintly of dust and old wood polish. There was a piano shoved into one corner, a stack of music stands against the wall, and a row of chairs under the window. It was quiet in a way that made the rest of the school feel very far away.

Jeongin closed the door behind him, leaving the two of you alone. He didn’t come any closer, though. Just stood with his back to the door for a second, staring at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were really here. Then he exhaled shakily and said, very softly—

“Ask me anything.”

The words hung in the room between you.

Ask me anything.

For a second, all you could do was stare at him. He looked awful up close. Not just tired—exhausted. There were shadows under his eyes, his tie was crooked, and his hair looked like he’d been dragging his hands through it all morning. He was standing too stiffly too, like every muscle in his body was braced for impact, shoulders tense under his blazer, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides.

You hated that you noticed. Hated that some part of you still catalogued every sign of his distress automatically, the same way you always had

Your hands were shaking again, though not as badly as they had on Friday. More a fine, restless tremor in your fingers than anything else. You tucked them into the sleeves of your hoodie and looked away from him, trying to gather your thoughts into something coherent.

There were too many questions, too many places to start, so you went for the one that had been lodged under your ribs since the party.

“Tell me about the bet.”

Jeongin flinched. Just a sharp little jerk of his shoulders, like the words had hit somewhere tender. He dropped his gaze to the floor and nodded once.

The room felt very quiet. Jeongin dragged a hand over the back of his neck, then exhaled through his nose like he was forcing himself to walk into something painful.

“It was at the start of the year,” he said. “Before we started talking properly. Before… all of this.”

You said nothing, so he swallowed, continuing.

“We were in the locker room after practice. Hyunwoo and Minjae were being idiots, talking about girls they thought were fit, and someone brought up you.”

Your face burned instantly, and Jeongin noticed and shut his eyes for half a second, hating himself.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You crossed your arms tighter over your chest. “Keep going.”

“They were joking about how you never talked to anyone. About how you looked terrified every time someone even said your name.” His mouth tightened. “One of them said there was no way anyone could get you to go out with them because you’d run a mile first.”

Your stomach twisted, ashamed of your own anxiety and how easy it made you into a punchline.

“I should’ve told them to shut up.” His voice was flat with self-disgust. “That should’ve been the end of it. But they kept going, and then Minjae made it into this whole thing about who could get your number, who could make you blush, all this stupid, pathetic teenage bullshit.”

He laughed once under his breath, and there was nothing funny in it.

“Then Hyunwoo said there was no chance I’d be able to pull you because you were ‘too shy to fall for someone like me.’” His jaw clenched. “And instead of acting like a normal human being, I got cocky.”

You stared at him. Jeongin met your eyes for exactly one second before looking away again.

“I said I could get you to date me if I wanted to.”

The words landed like a punch no matter how much you’d already known. Your throat tightened, and he saw it happen. He looked sick at his own words.

“It wasn’t supposed to become…” He gestured helplessly between you. “This. It was supposed to be stupid and short and over in a week, maybe two. I thought I’d flirt with you a bit, prove a point, and then find some excuse for why it didn’t work.”

Your laugh came out brittle. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No.” His answer was immediate. “No, nothing about this is supposed to make you feel better. I’m just telling you the truth.”

You looked away before he could see how much that hurt.

“Did they actually bet money?” you asked.

Jeongin’s mouth twisted. “Yeah.”

“How much?” He hesitated, but you needed to know. “How much, Jeongin?”

“Fifty quid.”

The room went still. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh and turned away from him completely, pressing a hand to your mouth.

Fifty pounds. Six months of your life reduced to the price of a takeaway and a decent bottle of vodka.

Jeongin’s voice cracked behind you. “I know.”

“Did you win?”

You turned back around when he didn’t answer, and you saw that his face had gone white.

“Did. You. Win?”

“No.”

You stared, momentarily confused. “No?”

He shook his head quickly. “I never took anything from them. It didn’t get that far.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Your voice sharpened. “Did you win?”

Jeongin looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him.

“They considered it a win when you agreed to go out with me,” he said quietly. “So technically, yeah.”

Your stomach lurched. “Did they ever give you the money?”

“No.”

“How do I know that?”

“You don’t.” He didn’t even try to defend himself. “You don’t know any of this for sure. You only have my word, and I know that’s worth basically nothing right now. But I swear to you, I never took it.”

You swallowed hard. “When did it stop being a bet?”

That one made him look up properly. The answer was there on his face before he even said it—something raw and immediate and almost pained in its honesty.

“Embarrassingly fast.”

Your eyebrows pulled together despite yourself.

Jeongin let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know exactly. There wasn’t one dramatic moment where everything changed. It was just…” He scrubbed both hands over his face. “You weren’t what I expected.”

“Meaning?”

He gave a humourless huff. “Meaning I was an idiot.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know.” He looked at you, really looked at you, and something in his expression softened despite how wrecked he still seemed. “You were so nervous around me at first, but you still tried. You still showed up. You still answered me, even when I could tell every conversation was costing you something.”

Your throat tightened, and Jeongin took a step forward before catching himself and stopping.

“The first time I realised something was wrong with me was that day it rained after school and you gave me your umbrella.”

You blinked. “What?”

His mouth twitched faintly, sadly. “You remember? We’d only been talking for like two weeks. I’d forgotten my coat and it started pissing it down, and you stood there in the doorway of the science block looking like you were going to faint from talking to me, and you still shoved your umbrella into my hands because I had football training and ‘you didn’t want me getting ill.’”

You remembered. God, you remembered. You’d spent twenty minutes after that replaying the interaction in your head and dying of embarrassment because you’d practically thrown the umbrella at him and bolted.

Jeongin’s voice softened. “You ran to the bus stop in the rain after that. Got soaked because you were too awkward to stand under the same umbrella as me.”

Heat crawled into your face at his words.

“I asked Minjae that night what the fuck I was doing,” he admitted. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart stumbled, traitorous and stupid, but you hardened your expression immediately. You still needed an answer.

“That still doesn’t tell me when it stopped.”

Jeongin nodded, accepting the correction.

“It stopped before I even asked you out properly,” he said. “I know that sounds convenient. I know it does. But it’s true.”

You stared at him, and he held your gaze this time, forcing himself not to look away.

“I asked you out because I wanted to,” he said. “Not because of them. By that point I was already trying to figure out how to get out of the bet without telling anyone I’d bottled it.”

You laughed bitterly. “And you couldn’t think of any way to do that except keep lying to me?”

His face crumpled. “I know.”

“No, answer me.”

Jeongin’s shoulders slumped. “I was scared.”

You almost snapped at him for the audacity, but something in his expression stopped you.

“Scared of what?” you asked.

“Everything.” He dragged a hand through his hair again, frustrated with himself. “Scared that if I told you, you’d hate me before I even got the chance to explain myself. Scared that if I ended things suddenly, you’d think it was because you’d done something wrong. Scared my friends would tell you first. Scared they’d say it in the worst possible way. Scared that if I came clean after we’d already been together for a while, it would hurt even more.”

A hollow laugh escaped you. “Well, good news. It did.”

“I know.” His eyes filled immediately. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

You looked away before the tears in his eyes could do anything dangerous to your resolve.

“What exactly was the bet?” you asked, forcing your voice steady. “Because at the party they made it sound like it was about sleeping with me.”

Jeongin’s expression changed instantly, a flash of genuine anger cut through the guilt.

“It wasn’t.” The words came out hard and immediate. “I swear to you, it wasn’t.”

You folded your arms tighter. “Then why did they say that?”

“Because they’re disgusting.” His jaw clenched. “The actual bet was just that I could get you to go out with me. That was it. It was still awful and manipulative and cruel, but it wasn’t about sex.”

You searched his face. He took a breath, then kept going before you could decide whether to believe him.

“They started making gross jokes later. After we were already together. Because they’re boys and they think they’re funny and I should’ve shut it down the first time it happened.” Shame flooded his features. “That’s on me. Every single part of that is on me. I let them keep treating the whole thing like a joke because I was too much of a coward to tell the truth.”

You thought of Friday night. Of the kitchen. Of the shy girl and get her into bed and the way the floor had seemed to vanish under your feet.

Your chest ached. “So they all knew.”

Jeongin closed his eyes for a second. “Yeah.”

“How many people?”

“Just the boys from the team who were there when it started. And Jisoo because she was dating Minjae for like two weeks and he tells everyone everything.”

You stared at him. “Minjae dated her?”

“Unfortunately.”

The word almost made you laugh. Instead, you asked the next question that had been burning through you since Friday.

“Why was she hanging off you at the party?”

Jeongin looked startled. “Jisoo?”

“Yes, Jisoo.”

He blinked, then swore softly under his breath like he’d only just realised how it must’ve looked.

“She was drunk,” he said quickly. “And annoying. That’s it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is, I swear.” He shook his head. “She cornered me in the kitchen asking where you were because she wanted to know why I’d ‘ditched’ the party for a girlfriend who never even came to them. I told her to mind her own business, she called me boring, and then she started hanging off my arm because she thought it was funny.”

“You could’ve moved.”

“I know.” He looked furious with himself all over again. “I should’ve. I should’ve shoved her off immediately. I didn’t because I was half listening to Hyunwoo talking and trying not to start an argument in the middle of the kitchen.”

His mouth tightened.

“Then you walked in, and I didn’t even see you until you were already leaving.”

Your eyes burned. “You called after me.”

“Yeah.” His face twisted. “Because I heard Hyunwoo say ‘shy girl’ and realised what they were doing.”

You swallowed hard. “What were you going to say?”

The question came out smaller than you intended, and Jeongin’s whole expression softened into something almost unbearably sad.

“The truth.”

You looked at him, unconvinced, but he continued. “I was going to tell them to shut the fuck up,” he said. “I was going to tell them it hadn’t been a bet in months and that they didn’t get to talk about you like that.” He let out a shaky breath. “And then I was going to come after you and tell you everything, because the second I saw your face I knew there was no fixing it any other way.”

“But you still wouldn’t have told me if I hadn’t heard.”

Jeongin went quiet at that. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“No.”

The honesty of it was brutal.

“I wouldn’t have told you that night if you hadn’t heard them first.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “And I hate that about myself.”

“Why?” you asked, and the word came out cracked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looked up slowly. This, maybe more than the bet itself, was the thing that had been eating at you all weekend. Not just that he’d lied in the beginning, but that somewhere in the middle—somewhere between your first date and your first I love you and every late-night call and panic attack and quiet moment in between—he had looked at you, supposedly loved you, and still kept this one horrible truth tucked away where you couldn’t reach it.

Jeongin’s face crumpled under the weight of the question. “Because every day I waited made it harder.”

He laughed once, shakily, but it broke in the middle.

“At first I told myself I’d tell you after the first date. Then after we’d been together a week, because by then I’d know whether there was even anything real there.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Then you kissed me, and I thought I’d tell you after that because there was no way I could keep something like that from you if we were actually doing this.”

His voice was getting rougher now, more uneven.

“But then every time I looked at you, I’d think, not today. Not when you’re smiling at me like that. Not when you’ve just had a bad day. Not when you’re finally starting to trust me. Not when I’ve just spent an hour convincing you I actually like you and you don’t need to panic every time I hold your hand in public.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the memories.

“So I kept putting it off,” he said. “And the longer I put it off, the worse it became, because suddenly it wasn’t just ‘I made a disgusting bet before I knew you.’ It was ‘I made a disgusting bet, then I fell in love with you, and now I’ve let you build an entire relationship on top of a lie.’”

Tears were slipping down his face now, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I knew if I told you, I’d lose you.” His voice cracked completely. “And I was selfish enough to want a little more time first.”

That one hurt because it was probably the most honest thing he’d said all morning. You pressed your lips together hard to stop them from trembling, before you asked your next pressing question.

“When did you realise you loved me?”

Jeongin looked at you like the answer had lived in his bones for months. “Your panic attack.”

Your breath caught. He took a shaky step closer, then stopped again, leaving the same careful distance between you.

“The one at my house,” he said softly. “When you were on the floor in my room and you were trying so hard not to let me see you like that, and all I could think was that I’d kill anyone who’d ever made you feel like you had to hide from them.”

Your eyes stung, and Jeongin’s own were red-rimmed and glassy.

“You fell asleep on me after,” he went on. “And I sat there with your head on my chest for like two hours because I didn’t want to wake you up. And I remember thinking that if I moved and you left, I was going to miss you even while you were still in the house.”

You had to look away, and Jeongin swallowed hard.

“That was the first time I said it out loud,” he admitted. “Not at the swings. At my house, after you woke up.”

Your head snapped up. “You remember that?”

He gave a watery, disbelieving laugh. “Of course I remember that. You looked at me like I’d told you the sky was green.”

You hadn’t thought he knew you remembered. You’d always treated the moment like some strange, private thing because you hadn’t been sure whether it counted—whether he’d only said it because you were half asleep and crying and he’d wanted to calm you down.

As if he could read every thought on your face, Jeongin shook his head.

“I didn’t say it to make you feel better,” he said quietly. “I said it because it was true, and because I was stupid enough to think maybe if I said it while you were half out of it, I could get away with not explaining why I looked like I wanted to climb inside your ribcage and live there.”

The corner of your mouth twitched before you could stop it, and Jeongin noticed. His own face crumpled a little harder.

“Please don’t do that unless you mean it,” he whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

The tiny almost-smile vanished immediately, silence filling the room. It wasn’t sharp, but it was heavier somehow. More fragile.

You stared down at your sleeves. “There’s one thing I still don’t get.”

“Anything.”

You took a breath. “If you loved me that much… why didn’t you walk away?” Your voice wobbled despite your best efforts. “Why keep going if every day you stayed with me meant lying to me more?”

Jeongin went still, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, very quietly, “Because I was weak.”

You looked up. He held your gaze, eyes bright with tears he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.

“Because every time I thought about ending it or telling you the truth, I’d picture your face when I picked you up from school, or the way you’d fall asleep on my shoulder when you were tired, or how happy you got when I brought you those weird strawberry sweets you like, and I’d think, just one more day.”

His mouth shook around the words. “Then one more day turned into six months.”

You could hear his breathing now—unsteady, almost as uneven as yours had been outside school on Friday.

“I know that makes me selfish,” he said. “I know it makes me a coward. You can call me whatever you want and I’ll agree with you. But none of it was fake. Not one second of it.”

He scrubbed angrily at his face.

“I loved you every day,” he said, voice rough. “Even when you were mad at me for stealing your chips. Even when you got so anxious before presentations you made yourself ill. Even when you’d wake me up at stupid o’clock because your brain wouldn’t shut up and you needed someone to talk to. I loved you when you were laughing, and I loved you when you were crying, and I loved you so much it made me feel sick every time I remembered how this started.”

Your throat closed. You hadn’t meant to cry, but tears were spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them, hot and humiliating and impossible to wipe away fast enough.

Jeongin took one instinctive step forward, but you still stepped back. He stopped dead, and the hurt that flashed across his face was immediate, but he nodded quickly, hands lifting slightly in surrender.

“Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “Sorry.”

You covered your mouth with one hand and tried to breathe through the ache in your chest. This was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? The truth. The whole ugly, painful, honest truth laid out in front of you so you could stop guessing.

So why did it feel like someone had taken your heart apart with their bare hands and arranged the pieces on the floor between you?

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you whispered.

Jeongin looked destroyed. “I know.”

“I hate that I still—” Your voice broke off.

Still what?

Still loved him?

Still wanted to believe him?

Still wanted him to be telling the truth badly enough that it scared you?

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Jeongin’s face folded in on itself anyway, as if he knew exactly what you’d almost said and hated himself for making it so hard.

“You don’t have to decide anything now,” he said quickly. “I’m not asking you to. I know I don’t deserve that.”

You laughed weakly through your tears. “Then what are you asking?”

He stared at you, and for the first time since you’d walked into the room, there was no hesitation in his answer at all.

“A chance to prove I’m not lying now.”

The words settled in the silence. Your breathing hitched, and Jeongin took a shaky breath of his own.

“I know I don’t deserve another chance,” he said. “I know that. But if there’s even a tiny part of you that believes what we had was real, then let me prove it. Let me spend however long it takes showing you that I mean every word I’m saying now.”

His eyes dropped to your hands, still hidden in your sleeves.

“I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. I won’t ask you to forgive me before you’re ready. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, answer every horrible question, take whatever you need to throw at me.” His voice cracked again. “Just don’t let this be the end without at least giving me the chance to be honest with you properly.”

You stared at him through blurred vision. This beautiful, stupid boy who had broken your heart with both hands and was now standing in front of you looking like he’d hand you the pieces if you asked.

You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there even was a right thing to say. So in the end, all you managed was the truth.

“I’m still angry.”

Jeongin nodded immediately. “You should be.”

“I still don’t know if I can trust you.”

Another nod, but slower this time. “I know.”

“And I’m not promising anything.”

“Okay.”

You wiped at your face with your sleeve and took a shaky breath.

“But…” Your voice wobbled. “I don’t think I’m ready to let go of six months without trying to understand what was real and what wasn’t.”

Jeongin went completely still. You could actually see the hope hit him—small and frightened and almost too fragile to touch.

“So,” you said, swallowing hard, “you can answer more of my questions when I have them. You can be honest. And after that…” You looked away. “I’ll decide.”

For one awful second, you thought he might cry properly. Instead he just nodded, once, twice, jaw tight like he was physically holding himself together.

“Okay,” he said, voice wrecked. “Okay. Anything.”

The bell rang somewhere outside the music room, but neither of you moved. The sound echoed faintly through the corridor, followed by distant footsteps and muffled classroom chatter, but in the little practice room, everything stayed suspended.

You and Jeongin.

The truth between you.

And whatever came next.

[Part Two]

a/n: don’t hate me I gave you warnings okay I love you all mwah xo

a/n2: if you want a part two full of grovelling then I can absolutely do that, just lmk in the comments!

𐙚

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!”

𐙚

Part Two

summary: You didn’t mean to become part of their routine.But somewhere between late dinners, early mornings, and a child who loves loudly without hesitation, the line between helping and staying starts to disappear quietly, without permission. preview: For once, Chan didn’t immediately have a response, he just looked at you, like he was trying to decide what to do with that. His gaze dropped briefly, towards your mouth, then back up. A tiny movement of course, something that was easy to miss. But for you, impossible to ignore. Your breath caught, and so did his. And suddenly the space in between you felt very little, very quiet.

𐙚

Part Three

summary: By Friday, what was meant to be a simple one-on-one outing starts to feel like something neither of you can easily label. The evening unfolds through small, shifting moments that blur the line between casual conversation and growing connection, leaving both of you more aware of each other than you intended. preview: And when the crowd shifted again, neither of you drifted apart until the music began to wind down and the crowds started to thin. You followed the rest of the stragglers toward the exit, watching them as you went. A couple holding hands. A man trying to negotiate with a vendor before closing. A group of friends going into the photobooth. Right. Photos. You stopped walking and Chan quickly followed suit.  “What?” You smiled mischievously, “We forgot to take pictures.” He stiffened up, “No.”

𐙚

Part Four

summary: Chan’s life as a single dad and his growing connection with you begin to naturally intertwine as you become a steady presence in both his and Jia’s world. What starts as simple comfort and routine slowly builds into something more charged and emotionally loaded, though neither of you rush to define it. preview: “Hey, free to chat?” he asked, like he hadn’t been standing outside long enough to lose an entire argument with himself. “I am” your voice came through easy. “You okay?” That alone made him exhale a little,“…Yeah,” he lied automatically. Then, he added on weaker, “Not really.” That got a small laugh from you, “I figured,” you said. He shifted his weight, still standing outside the shop without fully committing to going in or walking away. “Is this one of those situations where I’m overthinking something that doesn’t need thinking?” he asked. There was a pause on your end. “Probably.” That was so blunt he almost laughed. “…That’s not comforting.” “It’s not meant to be,” you said lightly. “It’s meant to stop you.”

LISTS ARE CLOSED

Chan watched Jia run into the house as soon as he unlocked the door. She kicked off her shoes somewhere near the entryway and disappeared down the hall.

"Daddy, I can wash up by myself!" she called over the sound of running water. "You need to wash up too!"

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "Don't rush, bug. And make sure you clean up if you make a mess."

The response came immediately, "I know!"

Shaking his head, Chan made his way into the kitchen and turned on the sink.

Across the street, you were probably already setting the table. Maybe plating dinner. Maybe trying to decide how much food was enough for a preschooler who alternated between eating three bites and eating like she hadn't seen food in days.

The thought settled into him far too easily, that was the part that caught him off guard. A few months ago, the idea of ending a Monday evening at your house would've felt unexpected. Now Jia accepted invitations before he did.

And if he was being honest with himself, part of him had already said yes the moment you'd offered.

He dried his hands and stared down at the sink, watching the water disappear down the drain. The sound of hurried footsteps running down the hall, broke him out of it.

Jia skidded into the kitchen with damp hands while grinning. "Lets go! Lets go! Lets go!"

Chan glanced down at her, "we don't need to rush bug," he chuckled out.

"But what if she starts without us?"

Chan paused although it was such an innocent question. Jia wasn't really worried about dinner, she was more worried about missing time with you.

His smile faded slightly. He spent the entire weekend trying not to think about that. About how easily you'd become someone Jia looked forward to seeing, and about how disappointed she'd be if that were to ever change. "I-I don't think she'd leave us out like that bug."

Jia nodded like she seemed satisfied with the answer, "Okay," then she grabs his hand leading him to the door. "But, let's hurry anyway."

𐙚

By the time they reached your house, Jia was already halfway up the walkway.

"Bug."

"What?"

"Slow down."

"I am going slow."

She wasn't.

Chan sighed as she bounded up the last step, already reaching for the door.

Before he could remind her to knock, you opened it. "We're back!" Jia announced, slipping past you and into the house before either of you could say anything else.

"Welcome back," you said, laughing as you watched her. She made it only a few feet into the house before stopping abruptly and turning around, "Thank you for waiting for us."

You blinked. Beside you Chan rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

"You're welcome?"

Jia nodded, completely satisfied with that answer, and disappeared deeper into the house.

You watched her go before looking over at Chan. "What was that about?" you asked laughing. He let out a long sigh, "You don't want to know."

"That's usually a terrible sign."

"It usually is."

You laughed and shook your head before leading him further inside.

The smell of dinner grew stronger the closer you got to the dining room. Chan followed a step behind while Jia disappeared ahead of both of you. By the time they reached the table, she was already climbing into her chair.

"I win."

"It wasn't a race," Chan said immediately.

"It was for me."

You snorted, pulling out your own chair, "at least she's honest."

"Unfortunately."

Jia beamed.

The table was already set, dinner laid out between the three places. For a moment, the room settled into a comfortable quiet as everyone got situated.

Chan found himself looking around the table for a second longer than necessary before reaching for his glass. He wasn't sure when exactly the evening had stopped feeling like an invitation.

Maybe somewhere between crossing the street and sitting down. Maybe sometime before that. All he knew was that, lately, he kept finding himself in moments like this and forgetting they were supposed to feel unusual.

Everything settled into an easy rhythm after that.

Jia did most of the talking, as usual, narrating parts of her day that didn’t always follow logic but always demanded full attention. Chan listened like he was used to translating her world in real time, occasionally stepping in when she drifted too far from reality.

You didn’t interrupt. Just filled in the gaps when they appeared.

But you were also aware of him in ways that didn’t have much to do with listening.

The way his knee bumped yours under the table when he shifted, and stayed there. The way he reached for your water glass instead of his own and didn’t seem to notice until his fingers were already closing around it. The way he watched you explain something to Jia with a focus that felt borrowed from somewhere else entirely, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth forming words he’d heard a hundred times before.

Somewhere between bites of food and half-finished stories, the edges of the evening started to soften.

A shared laugh over something Jia insisted was “very serious.”

Chan quietly pushing the last bit of food on his plate toward you without comment. In which you pretending not to notice.

Jia deciding, mid-sentence, that she was suddenly too tired to finish speaking and continuing anyway.

Eventually, she leaned heavily against Chan’s side without warning, her voice slowing into something softer.

“I’m not tired,” she insisted, already blinking slower than before.

“Sure,” Chan said automatically.

But his hand moved anyway, resting lightly at her back. And his eyes lifted to yours across the table, just for a second, something in them that looked almost like apology. Or confession. Or both.

You watched it happen without thinking about it too much.

When the table was finally cleared, Jia was barely making it through her words. Her energy had drained all at once, like someone had quietly turned her volume down.

“I can walk,” she said, standing up too fast to be convincing.

“No you can’t,” Chan replied immediately.

“I can.”

“You just nodded off while sitting, bug.”

You stood beside them, smiling softly. “Do you want to go lay down in my bed?”

Jia considered this like it was a negotiation. Then nodded once, decisive. “Yes.”

Jia didn’t argue much once she was in your room. She only clung briefly to Chan’s sleeve before letting herself be guided down into the bed. He stayed until her breathing slowed.

You stayed too, leaning in the doorway while the room fell quiet.

Neither of you said much when you stepped back out. Just the subtle shift of leaving one version of the night behind and returning to another.

It felt quieter after that.

Chan helped without being asked. Stacked dishes. Wiped counters. Moved around the kitchen like he knew where things belonged even if he didn’t fully live there.

At some point, you noticed him carrying the trash bag toward the back door. “I’ve got it,” he said before you could reach for it.

“You don’t have to do everything,” you replied, following him anyway.

“I know.” He stepped outside before you did, the screen door clicking softly behind you.

The porch light was already on.

You stayed where you were for a second, just watching him move into the dimmer air beyond the threshold. He tied the bag, set it in the bin, but didn’t rush back inside.

When he looked back up at you, he saw you leaning lightly against the door frame. “You’re just going to stand there and watch?” he asked.

“Mhm,” you said. “Nothing I haven’t already done.” That earned a small exhale from him that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“You’re good with her,” he said after a moment. It didn't feel casual in the way he said it.

You blinked slightly, like you weren’t expecting it to land that directly. “Is that so?”

The space between you shifted.

He stepped back toward the porch slowly, like he wasn’t fully deciding to close the distance until he was already doing it. “You make it feel…” he started, then paused, choosing the rest carefully.

“Very normal....when you’re around.”

Your breath caught a little on the edges of that. “Chan,” you said quietly, like a warning and not a rejection.

But he didn’t move away from it. He just looked at you like he wasn’t entirely sure he should be allowed to, but he did it anyway.

You let him.

The space between you stopped behaving like something either of you was actively managing. It just…stayed.

Chan’s gaze flicked to your mouth, then back up. Not fast enough to pretend he hadn’t done it.

His voice came rougher. “I should probably—”

Your hand lifted, not reaching, just hesitating in the air between you like you were checking if the moment would hold its shape.

That was enough for him.

Chan moved before the thought could complicate itself any further. Not slowly this time. His hand came up and cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone with something that felt almost desperate, and he kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for hours and you were the only air in the room.

The first touch wasn’t careful.

It was need, pure and sudden, his mouth hot against yours, his other hand finding your waist and leaning into you hard enough that your back met the doorframe with a soft thud. You made a noise against his lips, surprised or relieved or both, and your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself to something that suddenly felt less like an idea and more like reality.

For a moment it stayed like that. Urgent and close. The porch light casting both of you in something too warm for the night air.

Then he pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, his thumb still tracing your jaw like he couldn’t stop touching you. “Sorry,” he said, voice low, not sounding sorry at all.

You laughed, breathless. “Are you sure?”

“Not really.”

You didn’t say anything for a second, just let your hand rest over his, feeling the small tremor in his fingertips. Then you nudged your nose against his. “If you’re going to apologize every time, we’ll be here all night.”

He grinned, and it was the first time you’d seen him look completely unguarded. “Maybe that’s not so bad,” he said.

For a second after, neither of you really move. Chan is the first to shift, but it’s small. Subtle, like the moment is only now catching up to him.

His hands were resting at your waist, by now but the grip was different from before. His eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to place what this is now that it’s real in a way it wasn’t a few minutes ago.

“…I didn’t mean for that to happen like that,” he says quietly. It’s not regret exactly. It’s the start of thought, way too many of them at once.

You exhale softly, like you were expecting that exact direction. “Chan,” you say, gently enough that it interrupts without pushing.

He stops as you step in a little closer, your chest almost against him, “Don’t overthink it,” you say simply.

“I’m not—” he starts, then stops again, jaw tightening slightly like he’s trying to find the right version of the sentence that won’t turn into something bigger.

“It’s fine,” you add, softer now. “We don’t have to turn this into anything tonight.”

His shoulders loosen slightly, but not all the way, “You sure?” he asks.

You nod once. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you reach up and lightly adjust the front of his shirt where you were holding it earlier, and places a gentle peck on his lips.

“Go home,” you say, not dismissing him, but putting a hold on it. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Chan studies you for a second longer than necessary, like he’s trying to memorize the way you’re handling this without making it heavier than it is.

Then he exhales slowly like he’s letting go of the instinct to complicate it.

“…Okay,” he says finally.

But he doesn’t move immediately. The moment lingered between you for another second before reality quietly inserted itself back into the conversation.

Jia, who was asleep in your bed right now.

"You let out a small laugh first, "I guess you should get her home."

He closed his eyes briefly, "Right."

"Before she wakes up catches us like this."

He groans backing away from you reluctantly, "I'm not ready for that conversation yet."

You smiled softly as you pulled away from the doorframe, "Come on."

The walk back through the house felt completely different after that.

Which was ridiculous, because nothing had actually changed.

The hallway looked exactly the same as it had ten minutes ago. The framed photos were still hanging where they'd always been. The floorboards still creaked in the same places.

Yet Chan found himself noticing every time your shoulder brushed his as you walked ahead of him, every time you glanced back to make sure he was following.

By the time you reached your bedroom, his thoughts had already started getting away from him again.

Jia was sprawled diagonally across your bed, one arm wrapped around a pillow she'd clearly stolen for herself.

"Cute," you whispered.

Chan smiled softly as he picked her up leaning her head against his shoulder. "Yeah," he said as she sighed against his neck.

The goodbye at the door was shorter than either of you wanted it to be.

Maybe because neither of you trusted yourselves with another one, or because there wasn't anything left to say.

Not tonight at least.

𐙚

The problem with kissing someone was that it became impossible to remember what things felt like before.

Chan discovered that approximately six minutes after waking up.

By eight-thirty he was overthinking.

By lunch he was actively losing the argument against himself about texting you first.

By four-thirty he was standing outside the shop staring at his phone.

By four-thirty-two he gave up.

But even that didn’t feel like relief. Just a pause before his brain found another way to keep going in circles. So he did the only thing that didn’t require thinking through three possible outcomes.

He called you.

You picked up almost immediately.

“Hey, free to chat?” he asked, like he hadn’t been standing outside long enough to lose an entire argument with himself.

“I am” your voice came through easy. “You okay?”

That alone made him exhale a little,“…Yeah,” he lied automatically.

Then, he added on weaker, “Not really.”

That got a small laugh from you, “I figured,” you said.

He shifted his weight, still standing outside the shop without fully committing to going in or walking away.

“Is this one of those situations where I’m overthinking something that doesn’t need thinking?” he asked.

There was a pause on your end.

“Probably.”

That was so blunt he almost laughed. “…That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not meant to be,” you said lightly. “It’s meant to stop you.”

That made him go quiet for a second. Not the kind of silence that meant the call dropped, but the kind that meant his thoughts were finally lining up in a way he didn’t like.

“…So what am I supposed to do with this?” he asked eventually.

You didn’t answer right away.

Because you could hear it, what he was actually asking wasn’t logistical. It was definition-shaped.

What are we?

What is this allowed to become?

What happens next?

And you could tell he was already building answers he didn’t trust, so you didn’t meet him there. You kept it simple.

“We don’t have to do anything with it right now.”

That made him exhale through his nose, “feels like avoiding it.”

“No,” you said. “It feels like not forcing it into something it’s not ready to be.”

He pauses again, “and what is it?”

That’s the moment where everything naturally narrows, because now he’s said it out loud without naming it.

“We can just be two people who like each other,” you said again, softer this time. “That’s enough.”

He repeated it under his breath, like he’s testing whether it holds under pressure.

“Two people who like each other….and that’s it?” he asked.

You let a small pause sit between you before answering, “Yeah,” you said. “We don’t have to define everything the second it starts existing.”

“…Okay,” he says, "I can do that."

𐙚

Chan had mentioned dropping by later in the evening, and you had agreed. He just didn’t plan on it being as late as it was.

By now, the house was silent, the kind of quiet that settles in after everything for the day has already happened. Inside, Jia slept peacefully, her room undisturbed, unaware of anything unfolding just beyond it. The rest of the house had softened with her sleep, each room feeling stiller than before.

You found yourself at the window more than once, looking out across the street without fully thinking about it. Chan’s house was dim now, the porch light off, only faint light coming from inside.

You caught movement from the garage.

Chan stepped out and, as your eyes met, you knew it was an invite for you. Nothing needed to be said or overthought. You already understood what he meant.

You stepped outside without hesitation.

The night air was cool and still, the street quiet around you. No one else was out, no sound beyond the faint rustle of leaves.

Chan was already there, and you closed the distance between you easily, like it was something neither of you needed to question.

"Let's go to the back," he says smiling at you before he grabs your hand like it's second nature.

You follow him, footsteps light but steady. The cool night air brushes against your skin, sharpening your senses. The deck in the back is quiet, bathed in soft moonlight, shadows cast by the nearby trees swaying gently in the breeze.

He gestures for you to sit on the railing, and you do, with his assistance. Chan follows, leaning casually against the railing, directly next to you, both of you taking in the peaceful night.

The silence is comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. You glance at him, feeling the warmth of his presence, the quiet thrill of just being here together. He breaks the silence, voice gentle, “feels good out here, huh?”

You nod, smiling softly, “Yeah. Peaceful. Just us.” Your eyes trace the stars, then drift back to Chan’s face. The moonlight catches the slight crinkle of his eyes as he looks at you, a softness that’s almost shy.

He reaches out, hesitating for a moment, then gently takes your hand in his and interlocks your fingers. You squeeze gently, feeling the unspoken connection deepen.

There’s a moment of silence, then Chan leans in slightly, his voice a whisper, “I’ve thought about this, about us, more than I’d like to admit.”

You give a quiet, breathless laugh, "Yeah? Me too.” He smiles, a little nervous, a little hopeful. “It’s just… nice to be like this.”

You nod again, feeling the truth in his words. The night feels different now, more open, more honest. The cool air, the quiet backyard, the stars, all of it wraps around you like a shared secret.

He pauses, then softly brushes his thumb across your knuckles, “Can I kiss you?”

You smile, heart fluttering.“Yeah.”

His lips meet yours in a gentle, unhurried kiss, no rushing, no hiding. Just two people who want to be close, savoring the quiet night and the warmth of each other.

The kiss deepens slowly, a tender exploration of connection and trust. He leaned in closer, shifting from being beside you, to standing in between your legs. One of his hands moved to rest on your waist, steady and reassuring as you rested your arms on his shoulders.

After a moment, he pulls back just enough, resting his forehead against yours, “tonight, I just want to be here with you. Not thinking about anything other than us, no rush.”

You breathe in deeply, feeling the calm and the thrill of this simple, honest moment, “Me too. Just us.”

He offers a soft, shy smile, then leans in for another gentle kiss, one that feels like the beginning of something real and unforced.

As the night deepens, you stay close together in the quiet night air, watching the stars, feeling the comfort of each other’s presence; free, open, and entirely real.

𐙚

That following Sunday, Jia was sprawled across their living room floor, completely absorbed in a cartoon that had apparently become the most important thing happening in the world.

You sat on one end of the couch, half paying attention to the television and half scrolling through your phone, listening to Jia's running commentary drift through the room.

The back door opened.

You didn't think much of it at first. Chan had been in and out all afternoon, splitting his attention between whatever he was working on in the garage and checking on Jia whenever he had an excuse.

A few seconds later, footsteps crossed the kitchen.

When you glanced up, Chan was standing in the doorway.

His eyes found yours immediately. "Can I borrow her for a second?" The question was directed toward Jia, but he never looked away from you.

Jia finally tore her attention away from the television long enough to squint at him. "No."

Chan blinked.

"No?"

"No," she repeated firmly before pointing at the screen. "We're watching this."

You pressed your lips together to stop yourself from laughing.

His gaze flicked toward you before returning to his daughter.

For a moment, it looked like he was considering arguing.

Then Jia sighed dramatically, already turning back toward the television. "Fine," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "But bring her back."

A smile tugged at the corner of Chan's mouth.

"Thanks, bug."

The second she lost interest, she was fully immersing in her cartoon, Chan looked back at you.

You already knew that look. The one that usually appeared right before he decided something and expected you to follow along.

Sure enough, the moment you stood up, his hand closed around yours.

"That was subtle," you murmured as he led you toward the kitchen.

"I asked permission."

"Barely."

"It still counts."

The kitchen was quieter, the sounds of Jia's cartoon muted by the doorway behind you. Chan didn't stop until you were fully out of sight of the living room, and even then, it only took another second before his hands settled at your waist.

You laughed softly. "Chan."

"What?"

"You saw me this morning."

"I know."

"You saw me an hour ago."

"I know."

His answer came without hesitation, like neither fact had any bearing on the situation.

Before you could point that out, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you. Like he'd been thinking about it long enough that the moment he had access to you again, this was where he ended up.

Your amusement faded into something softer as you slipped your arms around him in return.

For a few seconds neither of you said anything.

The kitchen sat quiet around you, the only noise coming from the television in the next room and the occasional sound of Jia talking back to it.

Chan rested his chin against your shoulder and let out a long breath.

“You okay?” you ask softly, caressing his upper back, feeling the tension melt away as he leaned into you.

He nods, and when he finally lifts his head, his eyes drop briefly to your mouth, lingering there for just a heartbeat before he slowly looks back into your eyes.

The smile you were trying to suppress didn't help. Neither did the fact that he was smiling too.

His smile widens slightly, mirroring your own unspoken feeling, and for a moment, everything else fades away; the room, the TV, Jia’s cartoon echoing faintly in the background.

In that suspended moment, the only thing that matters is the softness of his gaze and the quiet understanding passing between you. Then, almost imperceptibly, he leans in, closing the distance slowly, gently brushing his lips against yours.

It’s a tentative, almost hesitant kiss, light and tender, filled with the weight of everything left unsaid. His hand moves from your waist to rest softly on your hip, anchoring him there, steady and sure.

Your lips part just slightly, responding to the intimacy, your heart pounding a little faster. One of his hands brushes your back, pulling you just a fraction closer, as if he’s trying to hold onto this perfect, fleeting moment.

Time seems to stretch in the quiet space between you, the only sound your shared breathing, soft and warm. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes still closed for a moment.

You both breathe in sync, a silent agreement passing in that breathless pause. The smile you were trying to hide finally breaks free; soft, genuine, and full of hope. Neither of you says a word; the moment speaks for itself.

Until, Jia's voice carried from the living room.

"Daddy!"

You both froze.

Chan closed his eyes. "What?" he called.

A pause.

"Are you done?"

You immediately buried your face against his shoulder to keep from laughing. Chan chuckled quietly, rubbing a hand over his face as he looked down at you.

“Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured, his voice low, still holding you close.

You nodded, your heart still pounding from the moment, but feeling the warmth of his presence settle comfortably over you. “Yeah,” you whispered, voice husky with lingering emotion.

He finally stepped back, gently taking your hand and leading you out of the kitchen, back toward the living room where Jia was waiting, blissfully unaware of how much just happened in those few seconds.

As you crossed the threshold, Jia’s bright voice called again, and you exchanged a subtle, knowing glance, the kind that said, we’re in this together, in quiet, shared understanding.

The moment might have been interrupted, but its significance lingered, woven into the fabric of this ordinary Sunday, an unspoken promise waiting to unfold.

𐙚

Your stolen time together didn’t feel like a series of moments anymore, just something that continued to happen.

The house was quiet, just the faint hum of the air conditioner and the distant murmur of cartoons down the hall while Jia was sleeping. You and Chan sat on the couch without really settling into it, the silence between you stretching long enough to feel like it had its own shape.

Eventually, Chan broke it.

“I’ve been thinking about her,” he said quietly.

You turned toward him immediately, but he didn’t look at you. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere low, unfocused, like he was trying to hold the thought steady before it slipped away.

“Jia’s mom,” he added.

That made the room feel tighter.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I keep thinking about it lately. About why she did it. What it looked like from her side. What she was willing to walk away from.”

His jaw flexed once before he continued, quieter now. “And I keep thinking about what she missed. About what that did to Jia without her even realizing it.” He paused, then added, almost reluctantly, “And us. What it’s shaped.”

Silence settled again, heavier this time.

He finally leaned back slightly, but it didn’t ease anything in him, “I wonder if she ever thinks about her,” he said after a moment. “About Jia. Or if it ever crosses her mind at all.”

You didn’t rush to fill the space. You just watched him, the way his hands stayed loosely clasped together like he was holding himself in place.

When you did speak, it was quiet, “that’s a hard thing to carry around on your own.”

His eyes flicked toward you at that, but he didn’t fully meet your gaze.

“I don’t even know what to do with it,” he admitted. “I keep telling myself I’ve moved past it, but I haven’t. It’s always there, and lately it feels…louder.” He pauses again before continuing, “I think I’ve just been trying to function around it instead of actually dealing with it.”

His fingers flexed slightly, like he was trying to ground himself in something physical. “And I don’t want that to spill into everything else,” he added. Softer now. More honest than planned. “I don’t want to get it wrong with her. With Jia. With you.”

That last part landed differently, even in the quiet. You shifted a little closer without thinking, letting your hand find his.

“You’re not pretending it’s easy,” you said gently. “That already matters more than you think. And you’re not doing it alone, even when it feels like it.”

His grip tightened slightly around your hand. He didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you like he was letting the words sit somewhere deeper than conversation usually reached.

Then he leaned in, resting his forehead lightly against yours.

Eventually, Chan exhaled, slow and uneven, and pulled back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand was still around yours, but the grip had softened, like he was slowly remembering where it was supposed to stop.

“I should let you get some sleep,” he said quietly. It wasn’t firm. It sounded more like something he was trying to convince himself was reasonable.

You nodded anyway, because staying would’ve meant holding onto something that was already starting to shift. His hand stayed around yours as he walked you to the front door, like neither of you had fully agreed to the idea of letting go yet.

The house felt quieter as you moved through it. Not in volume, but in attention. Every small sound seemed closer than it should’ve been—the soft creak of the floor, the muted hum of the night settling outside the walls.

Chan opened the door but didn’t step through immediately. Just held it, like he was giving himself a second to figure out where the moment ended.

You stepped out onto the porch first. He followed you out, stopping just inside the threshold, one hand still resting on the doorframe. Close enough that the space between you didn’t feel like distance yet, just hesitation.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Not because there was nothing left to say, because anything said now would make it more serious in a way neither of you were fully prepared to carry out into the night.

His eyes stayed on you a beat too long. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said finally.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Then quieter, like it slipped out before he could decide whether to keep it in, “Text me before you go to bed.”

“Okay,” you said softly.

The silence didn’t break. Chan’s hand tightened slightly against the doorframe. And then he moved towards you again. Like the decision had already been made somewhere between the last sentence and this one, and his body was just catching up.

His hand came up first, careful, not rushed, fingers finding your jaw like he needed something solid to anchor to before he lost the nerve.

And then he kissed you.

Soft at first, controlled in the way hesitation tries to stay in charge even when it’s already losing. But it didn’t stay there for long.

The space between you collapsed in on itself, not suddenly, but inevitably, like the moment had been leaning this way the entire time and just finally stopped resisting.

Your hand found itself on the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as his other hand settled at your waist, steadying you against him like he wasn’t entirely sure where he ended anymore.

The porch light behind him cast everything in a warm spill of gold, catching the smallest movements, his breath shifting, the angle of his hand at your jaw, the way neither of you stepped back even when there was room to.

Then, there was a sound from inside.

Neither of you broke the kiss at the sound, too lost in each other to care at the moment. Chan’s hand stayed at your jaw. Yours stayed on his neck.

Inside, the hallway light faintly spills forward. A small figure appears at the edge of it.

Jia.

Half-asleep, hair slightly tousled, one hand holding Leebit, the other resting loosely against the wall like she’s only partially committed to being awake. She doesn’t step forward right away. Just stands where the hallway opens toward the door.

Watching.

Not interrupting. Not reacting. Not even fully processing. Jia blinks once, slowly. Like the information never quite fully lands, only passes through her.

Then she shifts her weight back. Not a retreat in alarm, just the quiet decision of someone whose body remembers sleep is still the priority. Whatever she needed her dad for was not important to her after all.

She disappears the same way she arrived: without sound, without commentary, the hallway swallowing her back into dimness. The house settles again almost immediately.

Chan’s forehead dips closer for a moment, like he’s grounding himself in the last fragment of contact before he lets it go. His hand at your jaw lingers, warm and hesitant, then slowly, almost reluctant, it drops away.

The porch light behind him spills a soft glow over both of you, casting gentle shadows on his face, like this moment was both fragile and inevitable, stitched together by the quiet understanding that neither of you fully knew you needed.

He exhales slowly, the words nearly lost in the quiet. “…Right.”

You nod, your own breath shallow, voice barely above a whisper. “Right.”

Chan hesitates, eyes flickering toward the street. Without a word, he takes a step closer, standing just at the edge of the porch, watching you carefully. “Just…make sure you get inside okay,” he says softly, voice steady but gentle. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

You meet his gaze for a moment, then nod. “I will.”

He stays there for a beat longer, watching as you step off the porch, heading toward your house. He doesn’t follow, doesn’t need to. Watching you walk away, he’s already relieved, knowing you’re safe, a silent promise that he’ll be nearby, just in case.

The door closes behind you, and you lean against it for a moment, feeling the weight of everything that just happened settle deep in your chest. The house feels quiet now, but inside, you can’t shake the sense that something inside you has shifted, more certain, more real than before tonight.

You wonder what he’s thinking now, standing in the dark. Does he feel the same tightness in his chest? The flicker of hope mixed with worry? You can’t tell from where you are, but you know he’s internalizing it just as much as you are.

Tonight wasn’t just about words or touches. It was about what you both kept hidden, what you both needed to say without really saying it. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but for now, you carry this moment with you; soft, fragile, real.

--

The door clicks shut behind you, and he lingers on the porch, feeling the weight of everything that just happened settle into him. Inside, Jia is asleep, unaware of the storm of feelings swirling just beneath the surface. Worry about her well-being is constant, but beneath that lies a deeper concern, what her mother’s choices have already done to her, and what the future might hold.

His gaze drifts to the dark street, but his thoughts remain fixed on what he just saw, on your face, on the way you left, on the vulnerability that was there. The question presses unbidden, what if this moves beyond just a moment? What if it’s more than just a fleeting connection?

Used to carrying the weight of Jia’s world alone, tonight’s closeness, the way emotions surfaced, made him realize how much has been held back. The possibility of caring more, of risking more, feels like a turning point. It’s not just about him anymore; there’s a new layer of responsibility, a new fear, what this could mean for Jia, for her trust, for her stability.

A faint tremor in the chest, warmth mixed with rising anxiety, spreads quietly. The thought lingers: What if she doesn’t want this? The fear is sharp and persistent. What if it’s too soon? The idea of risking her trust, risking the fragile steadiness they’ve built, what that might mean, hangs in the air.

Breathing slowly, he reminds himself that control is an illusion, especially when it comes to love and trust. But the weight of what could change is undeniable. Starting something new, something that might reshape everything, comes with risks. For her, for him, for what they might be building.

The night feels heavier, more uncertain. Yet, beneath it all, there’s a quiet understanding: this moment marks the beginning of something that can’t be ignored anymore. A change that might just redefine everything, if only they’re brave enough to face it.

𐙚

By Friday, the late afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the driveway as Chan pulled up to his mother’s home. Jia, strapped into her car seat, was already buzzing with anticipation, her bright pink backpack packed with more toys than clothes.

“Nana's going to make cookies!” she announced, her voice a happy chirp. “And we’re going to read all the stories!”

Chan’s smile was genuine, a little tight around the edges. “I know. And I’m going to miss you like crazy.” He unbuckled her, lifting her into his arms for a hug that felt a little longer than usual.

His mother opened the door before he even let himself in. “Darling! And look at you, my little ray of sunshine!” she cooed, her eyes crinkling as Jia wriggled out of his arms and into her embrace.

“Nana!” Jia squealed, burying her face in her grandmother’s shoulder.

“She’s all yours,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “Have fun, bug. I’ll see you Sunday afternoon.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” his mother said, already ushering Jia inside. “We’ll have a grand time. You go on and enjoy your own weekend.” She gave him a knowing smile, the kind that hinted at a deeper understanding than he was ready to acknowledge.

He lingered for a moment, watching them disappear into the warm glow of the house. Then, with a final, lingering look, he turned back to his car. The quiet that descended felt both liberating and strangely hollow. The promise of a weekend with you was a bright, beckoning light, but the departure of his daughter always left a small, persistent ache.

The drive back felt longer than usual, the silence in the car amplified by the absence of Jia’s chatter. He found himself replaying the last few moments of your encounter, the not-so-hesitant kisses, the gentle way you had handled his confession. He was already looking forward to the evening, to the quiet comfort of your shared space, the slow unfolding of conversations that didn’t require the constant vigilance of being a sole parent.

He arrived at your house not long after, the familiar scent of your home a welcome embrace. The plan was simple: a movie, takeout, and the luxury of uninterrupted conversation. As you settled onto the couch, your hand finding his, a sense of ease began to seep into him, a quiet contentment that had been a rare commodity lately.

You were halfway through the movie, lost in the flickering images and the shared warmth of your proximity, when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, a slight frown creasing his brow. It was his mother. He’d told her he’d be unreachable for most of the weekend, wanting to fully immerse himself in this time. He answered, a little annoyed.

“Hey, Mom. Everything okay?”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, a charged pause that spoke volumes. Then, Jessica's voice, usually so warm and melodic, was laced with an uncharacteristic sharpness. “Chan. We need to talk.”

His stomach tightened and you paused the movie looking at him, worried. “What is it? Is Jia okay?”

“Jia is perfectly fine,” she said, her voice tight. “She’s currently attempting to teach me how to play ‘Monster Truck Mayhem,’ and I’m fairly certain I’m losing.” Another pause. “But she did tell me something. Something she saw. Something you apparently forgot to mention.”

Chan’s mind raced. What could she possibly mean? Jia was a whirlwind of imagination, prone to embellishing stories, but this tone… this was different. He felt a prickle of unease. “What… what did she tell you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze flicking to you, who had paused the movie and were watching him with a concerned expression.

Jessica's sigh was heavy, tinged with a mixture of exasperation and something that sounded almost like… disappointment. “She told me that you.....", she pauses trying to find the proper words. "You shared a kiss. On the porch. Last Friday night.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and undeniable. Chan’s breath hitched. He hadn’t meant for anyone to find out. Not like this, not so soon. But it had, and now, Jia, his observant, innocent daughter, had been a witness.

He felt your gaze on him, steady and questioning. He couldn’t lie. “Mom, I…” he started, scrambling for an explanation, for a way to soften the blow, to explain the inexplicable.

“Don’t ‘Mom, I’ me, Chan,” Jessica cuts him off, her voice firm. “You know how I feel about transparency. Especially when it involves someone who is becoming a part of Jia’s life. You’ve been so careful, so guarded. And then this?"

The implication hung in the air. He hadn’t told you about his mother’s reaction to Jia’s parentage, about the quiet unease that had always simmered beneath the surface of their family history. He hadn’t wanted to burden you with his own anxieties, his own past. He’d been so focused on protecting Jia, and in doing so, he’d inadvertently built a wall around himself.

“It… it just happened,” he stammered, feeling childish and exposed, acutely aware of your silent presence beside him. “It wasn’t planned. As for Jia, we've been so careful. She was asleep....or I thought she was that night.”

Jessica repeated, a hint of disbelief in her voice. “Chan, you’re not a teenager. This is serious. You have a child who is forming her understanding of relationships based on what she sees. And you have someone new in your life, someone who deserves to be treated with respect and honesty.”

He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He knew she was right. Every word his mother spoke was a mirror reflecting his own shortcomings, his own fears that had manifested as a lack of communication.

He looked at you, your expression unreadable for a moment, then saw a flicker of understanding, a quiet empathy that eased some of the tension in his chest. You placed your hand on his arm and smiled softly at him, calming his heart down.

“Mom,” he said, his voice steadier now, more resolute. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have told you. And I should have been more open with… with you. It’s just… it’s new. For all of us. And I’ve been trying to navigate it carefully.”

Jessica was silent for a moment, and Chan held his breath, waiting for the judgment. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, though still carrying a weight of concern. “Carefully is one thing, Chan. Secretive is another. I just want you to be happy, and I want Jia to be secure. And for that to happen, there needs to be honesty. All around.”

“I understand,” he said, the words feeling like a genuine promise this time. “I’ll talk to everyone. Properly. And I’ll… I’ll be more upfront with you too.”

“Good,” she said, a hint of relief in her tone. “Now, go back to your movie. And try not to let this derail your weekend.” She paused. “But do call me when you’ve had a conversation about all of this. I want to know you’re both okay.”

He agreed, the call ending with a promise of a follow-up. He hung up, the silence in the room now a stark contrast to the charged conversation. He turned to you, your expression open and waiting.

“So,” you said, your voice gentle, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. “The porch kiss. Apparently, it was quite the topic of conversation.”

Chan let out a shaky breath, a laugh bubbling up from his chest, a mixture of relief and embarrassment. “Yeah. Apparently.” He reached out, taking your hand, his thumb tracing the back of it. “I’m sorry you had to hear about it like that.”

You squeezed his hand. “It’s okay,” you said, your gaze steady. “Your mom’s right. It’s new. And we don’t have to have all the answers right now. But…I think we do need to talk. Properly.”

He nodded, the weight of the unspoken questions settling between you, but now, it felt less like a burden and more like an invitation. The movie was forgotten for the moment. The unfolding map of your connection had just taken another unexpected, but perhaps necessary, turn.

He nodded, the weight of the unspoken questions settling between you, but now, it felt less like a burden and more like an invitation. The movie was forgotten for the moment. The unfolding map of your connection had just taken another unexpected, but perhaps necessary, turn.

You tilted your head, your gaze steady. “So, what now?”

Chan’s thumb continued its slow sweep across the back of your hand. The initial relief from his mother’s call was already giving way to a different kind of tension, the one that settled when deeper conversations loomed. “Now,” he began, his voice softer, more hesitant, “now we talk. Properly. My mom’s right. We need to. About… everything.”

He looked away for a moment, his gaze drifting towards the darkened window, as if the answers were etched in the night sky. “It’s not just about the kiss, you know. It’s…it’s about everything that comes with it. With me. With Jia.” He finally met your eyes again, and the vulnerability there was a palpable thing. “Her mother… her absence has been a shadow over our family. For a long time.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts, the words seeming to weigh him down. “It changed things. For my parents, for me. It made me… overprotective. Fiercely so. I learned to do everything myself, to shield Jia from any hint of instability. Because her mother’s leaving… it was sudden. And it left a void. A big one.” He ran a hand over his jaw, the gesture a familiar sign of his internal struggle. “And I worry, constantly, about what that absence has done to Jia. About what it’s shaped in her. And now…” He hesitated, his thumb stopping its motion. “Now I worry about what it’s shaping in us. In this.”

He took a deep breath. “I need to know what you want from this. From… us. Because for me, it’s always going to be about Jia. Her well-being. Her stability. And I can’t…I can’t risk her getting hurt again. If this doesn’t work out, and she’s already attached…that’s a whole new level of pain I don’t want to inflict.”

The question hung in the air, direct and unflinching. You felt a gentle pressure as you met his gaze, your own thoughts swirling. The idea of becoming a stepmother, of stepping into that complex, delicate role, was something you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to contemplate before. It was a possibility that had emerged slowly, almost imperceptibly, with each shared smile, each quiet evening, each moment of connection.

“I don’t have all the answers right now, Chan,” you admitted, your voice soft but honest. “It’s…a lot. The idea of being a stepmother. It’s not something I ever actively sought, but…with you, with Jia…it feels different. It feels… possible.” You paused, searching for the right words. “I like you. I like spending time with you. And I care about Jia. I see how much she means to you, and I see how she lights up when she’s with me. That’s… that’s significant.”

You squeezed his hand. “But you’re right. It’s not something to rush into. It needs to be handled with care. For Jia’s sake, most of all. I wouldn’t want to step into a role that wasn’t truly meant to be, and then have it fall apart, causing her more pain.” You met his gaze, your own a mixture of hope and a quiet understanding of the risks. “I want to explore this, Chan. I want to see where it goes. But only if we’re both being completely honest about the potential… and the pitfalls.”

He let out a slow exhale, a subtle easing of the tension in his shoulders. “That’s… that’s what I needed to hear.” He looked down at your clasped hands, his thumb still gently stroking yours. “It’s just… the thought of her getting attached, and then… and then it not working out… that’s the part that keeps me up at night. The fear of failing her, again, in a different way.”

“I know,” you whispered, your heart aching for the burden he carried. “And I get that. I really do. It’s a huge responsibility. And I wouldn’t want to be the reason for that pain either.” You brought his hand to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “But we can’t let fear dictate everything, can we? We can take it slow. We can be mindful. We can talk about it. Every step of the way.”

He looked back up at you, a flicker of something akin to relief in his eyes. “Slow. Mindful. Talking. I can do that.” He squeezed your hand, a little tighter this time, a silent promise. “And… if it does work out… if this is something real… then… I want you to be a part of her life. In a way that’s healthy and supportive. Not a replacement, but… a positive addition.”

The words hung in the air, a fragile foundation being laid. The conversation was far from over, the complexities of Jia’s absent mother, his fears, your potential role, all vast and uncharted territories. But for the first time, the map of their connection felt less like a minefield and more like a landscape they were willing to explore, together, with open eyes and cautious hearts.

The silence that settled between you was no longer charged with anxiety, but with a quiet understanding, a shared commitment to navigate the unknown, one careful step at a time.

Chan’s gaze drifted, his thumb still tracing patterns on your hand, but his attention seemed to be pulled inward. He was quiet for a long moment, the rhythmic hum of the air conditioner and the distant city sounds filling the void. Then, he cleared his throat, the sound a little rough.

“Have you ever…wanted to be a mom?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. He didn’t look at you as he spoke, his eyes fixed on your joined hands. “Like, have your own. Give birth.”

The question, so direct and intimate, landed with a surprising weight. You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic, the raw vulnerability it implied. The playful smile that had been on your lips faltered, replaced by something more serious, more revealing. You met his gaze, and the knowing glint was still there, but it was now tinged with a different kind of honesty. You saw the shift in his eyes, the way his pupils dilated almost imperceptibly, the subtle tightening of his jaw that wasn't born of distress, but of a sudden, heightened awareness.

Instead of a witty retort, you met his question head-on, your voice dropping to a low, intimate tone. “Yes, Chan,” you said, your gaze unwavering. “I have.”

The directness of your answer seemed to stun him. He pulled his hand back, not in rejection, but as if he needed space to process the unexpected sincerity. His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours. The playful tension that had been building was still there, but now it was layered with a new, potent undercurrent of raw desire.

“You have?” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, the words thick with unspoken implications. He scooted closer, the physical space between you shrinking until you could feel the heat radiating from him.

“Yes,” you confirmed, your voice steady, your gaze holding his. The playful shield had fallen away, revealing a vulnerability that mirrored his own. “And seeing you with Jia…seeing the way you are…it makes that want feel…more real. More possible.”

His eyes swept over your face, lingering on your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken attraction that now thrummed between you. The question about motherhood, which had seemed so about the future, had suddenly become about the present, about the undeniable pull that existed between the two of you.

“So,” he said, his voice a low rumble, the words laced with a potent mix of curiosity and something that felt dangerously close to anticipation. He reached out, not to touch your hand this time, but to gently cup your cheek. His fingertips caressed your cheekbones for a moment, sending a jolt through you. “What are we going to do about that?”

The question wasn’t about Jia’s future anymore. It was about yours, about theirs. And the unspoken answer hung in the charged air between you, thick with the promise of something more, something physical, something that had just been irrevocably sparked.

masterlist | next

𐙚

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!”

𐙚

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."