✨Cortischronicles✨

It’s a Thursday evening. He’s sweating through his shirt in the practice room, hair stuck to his forehead. You show up with banana milk, because he mentioned craving it days ago.

You place it beside him, smiling.

He glances. “Thanks.”

That’s it.

No teasing. No grin. Nothing.

It feels like someone took the air out of your lungs.

You tell yourself he’s tired. You tell yourself it’s just a day.

You tell yourself too many things.

But days become a pattern.

He replies slower. He texts shorter. He doesn’t wait for you after practice anymore. He doesn’t ask you about your day. He doesn’t look at you long enough to notice anything.

You’re no longer his first thought. You’re barely his fourth.

And you can feel it. You feel everything.

He stops choosing you. Softly at first. Then blatantly.

One night, it’s just the two of you on the dorm couch. The boys are out. A few months ago, this would’ve meant him tugging you into his lap or teasing you until you lost it, leaning into him, his arm around your waist, the kind of silence that feels like home.

Today? Different couch corners. Different energy. Different boy.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

You bite your lip. “You sure? You’ve been kinda off.”

This time he finally looks at you—expression unreadable, eyes distant.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he murmurs. “I’m just trying to manage everything.”

You nod even though it stings.

‘Everything’ doesn’t include you anymore.

He starts becoming careful around you. Too careful. Polite in a way that feels like a slap.

The kind of polite that feels like a goodbye disguised as manners. He stops brushing your knee with his. Stops tucking your hair behind your ear. Stops being Martin—the one who loved loudly and stupidly and with all his focus. This one is neutral. This one is quiet. This one holds doors for you but doesn’t hold you.

The gentleness hurts more than distance.

One afternoon, you catch him packing his bag.

“Can we talk?” you ask.

He hesitates. “I have practice.”

“It’ll take a minute.”

He doesn’t pull away when you touch his sleeve, but he doesn’t hold you back either.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper.

His jaw tightens. “Nothing.”

“Did I do something?”

“No.” Too quick.

Then softer: “I’m trying to manage everything.”

The way he says it feels like he’s explaining why you’ve become extra weight.

You step back. “Okay.”

He almost reaches for you. Almost.

But almost doesn’t fix anything.

The resentment creeps in quietly—on both sides.

When you ask if he’s eaten, he sighs. When you hug him, he stiffens. When you try to make him laugh, he forces a smile.

Every little thing feels like proof that he’s slipping away.

One day, you show up after practice because you miss him. Because you’re desperate. Because you still think maybe he’ll choose you if you try hard enough.

He walks out of the building, sees you, stops.

Not happy. Not relieved. Just surprised.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” he says.

“Thought I’d surprise you.”

He exhales slowly. “I’m not… really in the mood for surprises.”

The words hit you straight in the chest.

“We can just walk together,” you say weakly. “I don’t need anything.”

Another sigh.

“Y/N,” he mutters, rubbing his temples, “I said I can’t do this right now.”

You blink. “Do me, you mean?”

He flinches.

And then he says nothing.

Which tells you everything.

You go home that night and cry into your pillow, biting the fabric so no one hears. You feel stupid. You feel small. You feel like something important is slipping through your fingers.

And he’s letting it.

Two weeks pass.

He becomes perfectly polite again. Too polite. Too calm. Too distant.

He texts “goodnight” again, but it’s one word. He asks “did you eat?” but it sounds like courtesy. He smiles at you, but it’s empty.

He treats you like someone he used to care about.

And you don’t know what’s worse— his silence before, or his softness now.

One day in the dance room, the boys are loud and joking. Martin laughs with them, shoulders relaxing, eyes bright.

You’re sitting a few feet away. Invisible. Forgettable.

He doesn’t look at you once.

And that’s when it hits you.

He hasn’t stopped caring all at once— he’s been fading out slowly. Quietly.

Like a song you didn’t realize was ending until the room went silent.

You leave the room without telling anyone.

Minutes later, your phone buzzes.

Martin: "Did you leave?"

You stare at it, heart sinking.

You: "Yeah."

A pause. Too long. Too obvious.

Martin: "Oh. Okay."

And that’s when the truth settles:

He didn’t break your heart violently. He did it softly. Carefully. Almost kindly.

The worst way possible.

You crawl into bed that night, phone against your chest.

He loved you once. You know he did.

But now he loves you with past tense softness— the kind that ruins you slowly.

And you whisper his name into the dark.

It doesn’t echo back.

Taglist: (open!)

Number two: Han Taesan is in love with you. Stupidly and undeniably so. If you thought long and hard about it, he had never been more obvious about anything in his life before. He had never really tried to hide it from you either, which only made you feel even more terrible about it all than you already did. He had never wanted anything as badly, as desperately as he wanted you and the fact that there was nothing you could do to stop him was killing you.​​

Number three: there was nothing more terrifying than acknowledging the feelings you had grown for Taesan.

The idea of ever feeling anything romantic for him had never really crossed your mind until the last couple of months, until he drove you home from the bar you swore never to return to, until he confronted you about your lingering feelings for Jaehyun and told you he loved you. You figured it was simply because you knew he loved you and you felt this need to reciprocate it, afraid that he’d resent you for it. Or maybe it was just the aching loneliness in your heart that had grown desperate, reaching out to anything and everything it could grab a hold of. You would never develop feelings for Han Taesan out of your own free will, no. It just wasn’t possible in your mind. It couldn't be.

I couldn’t if I tried.

He could, really — hate you, that is. You knew he could. You knew that the moment you fell victim to your feelings, the moment you finally accepted the fact that what you felt for Taesan was much more than friendly, he’d discover something about you and despise you for it. He’d realize how boring and terrible you really were and decide that you weren’t worth all the time and energy he’d spent on you. And he’d leave you the way Jaehyun did except this time, a part of you told you it’d be far worse than anything you’d ever felt.

So no, for your own sake, you were not in love with Han Taesan, though it did bother you how beautiful he seemed to appear when he was sleeping.

Perhaps it was just your eyes playing tricks on you, your exhaustion finally catching up to you and causing you to hallucinate things. Or perhaps he simply was just that beautiful, sleeping on your couch with his arms crossed over his chest, his quiet breathing drowning out the sound of the movie playing in your living room. You sat on the floor next to his legs, your knees pulled close to your chest as you stared up at him, a million thoughts running through your mind, every single one about him.

He was supposed to go home a couple of hours ago, after dropping off the laptop charger you’d left at his place a couple of days ago. He had told you he wouldn’t linger, that he had a couple of errands to run for his roommate, but you were so insistent he stay and help you finish your Hunger Games rewatch marathon for the millionth time. And knowing Taesan, you knew you wouldn’t have to do much begging to get him to stay. The only question was: why did you want him to stay?

“Are you replacing him with me?” Taesan had asked you earlier that night, his eyes glued to the TV screen. The room became quiet despite the sound of the movie playing and you swore you felt your heart stop beating for a second.

“No,” you said, your voice quiet and small. Han Taesan could never quite replace the person that Myung Jaehyun was to you, but that was probably because he had already created his own separate place in your heart. “No one’s replacing anyone.”

You heard him exhale and felt him shift in place, his shoulders relaxing. “Good,” he said. “I don’t want to be that person, Y/N.”

You closed your eyes, letting your head lean against Taesan’s legs, wondering why it was so hard for you to accept something that was so true. You’d never been happier than you were when you were with him, never been more at peace than you were now. And it’s not like your past feelings for Jaehyun were really much of an excuse because if you really thought about it, those feelings had faded a long time ago. Of course, they would always be there (because a part of you would always love Myung Jaehyun), but what you felt for Taesan was just so strong, like gravity pulling you back to earth, like the moon pulling on the ocean tides. You felt it so deeply in your bones, yet you felt the need to ignore it, avoid it like your life depended on it. What exactly was it about Taesan that you were so afraid of?

You feel him shift on the couch, grunting quietly as you move your head and look back at him. Taesan rubs his eyes before opening them, running both his hands through his hair, exhaling as his eyes focus, wandering before they land on you. “What are you doing down there?” he asked you, a smile stretching across his face as he chuckled and sat up.

“Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t know?” you responded, watching him stretch his arms upward.

“Mm,” he hummed, inhaling deeply. “Sure. I’ll believe anything you tell me.”

You’d be a liar if you’d said you never imagined him like this, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes droopy as he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. But it’s not like you had to do much dreaming — he always looked at you like that. Way to make this any easier.

“I could be lying to you, you know,” you mumbled, still looking at him. He was looking at your ceiling now, his head thrown back as he sunk into your couch, part of him wishing that this was his everyday life, that one day it’d be his couch as well.

“Yeah,” he replied. “You could be but knowing you, you probably aren’t.”

Because you’re not a liar. It’s not who you are. You could keep your feelings to yourself, hidden in the crevices of your heart for as long as you wanted, but you could never lie about them. Taesan knew this and because he knew this, you knew he’d never give up on you.

“If I told you I didn’t love him anymore, would you believe me?” you asked, a part of you hoping and praying that he hadn’t heard you. But he had heard you, almost as if you’d yelled it for the whole world to hear. Taesan bit the inside of his cheek and turned his head to the side just enough to meet your eyes — your eyes that hadn’t moved from him since the moment he woke up.

“I would,” he said, nodding slightly. “Because if you finally have the courage to say it out loud, then it’s true.” Taesan paused, his eyes widening in slight curiosity and his brows furrowing questioningly, “Do you still love him?”

You do. Because Myung Jaehyun is the boy you grew up with, the boy you grew up loving. Because for a time, Myung Jaehyun was all you knew. Because if you were ever given the chance to go back, you would. Even if it meant reliving those painful memories of him. Even if it meant nothing would change in the end. Even if it led you to this very moment once again. But that’s when it hits you, the realization of it all.

All roads you take will inevitably lead you back to Han Taesan.

Perhaps it was because you knew he loved you, because he had always loved you no matter the situation you were trapped in. Perhaps it was because you knew he’d wait forever if he had to, because he always prayed for whatever was best for you. Taesan had always put you before anyone else in his life, including Jaehyun. You remember when he chased after you the day of Jaehyun’s wedding, the day you ran away and hoped the earth would hear your pleas and make you disappear. You remember how he’d silently listen to your complaints about the boy you called your “best friend”, keeping his own feelings for you hidden while you expressed the ones you felt for someone else. And though you hated to admit it, he was right — Han Taesan had always been more of a friend than Myung Jaehyun ever was. And you love him. You realize that now as he’s asking you if you still love someone else, waiting for you to break his heart one more time just so he can put it back together again like he always does.

But you won’t break his heart this time — not when he’s been waiting so long for you to say it, to mean it. Not when he loves you more than anything in the world.

Not when you’re all he’s ever known.

“I don’t,” you said, watching the way his expression softens, the muscles in his face relaxing. His eyes look away from yours as he sits up and stares at the first thing his eyes land on. A part of you believes he thinks you’re lying, that he doesn’t believe anything you say because he can’t.

But Taesan does believe you. He believes you when you say you don’t love Jaehyun anymore because you wouldn’t say it unless it were true, because the younger you would’ve choked trying to force those words out of your throat. He believes you because he saw it in the way you looked at him just now — you had always been easy to read, in his eyes at least.

“Do you believe me?” you asked him. The silence was deafening, his refusal to speak killing you. “Or were you just bluffing?”

“I believe you, Y/N,” Taesan responds almost immediately, though he’s still not looking at you. But you feel him moving, practically sliding off your couch to meet you on the floor of your living room. And when he is finally sitting at the foot of the couch the way you are, he turns his head to look at you, his eyes warmer than ever. “I’ll believe anything.”

Not out of desperation, not out of pity, but because it was the truth.

So when you finally found it in yourself to kiss Han Taesan, you couldn’t help but ask yourself why you were so afraid of this. When he kisses you back, his hands coming up to your face and cupping your cheeks, you ask yourself why you hadn’t kissed him sooner. You feel your lungs collapsing as he sucks the air out of you, and yet you’ve never felt more alive than you did in this moment. Your hands find themselves in his hair, and it feels like you’ve seeped beneath his skin, your touch grazing his veins, your DNA mixing with his own. And when you pull away first and he chases your bruised lips with his own, his eyes fluttering open almost drunkenly, you think you want him forever.

You think you might love him forever if he’d let you.

“Will you stay?” you asked quietly, almost begging him. “Please?”

Taesan stared at you, his face only inches away from yours. He never thought he’d hear you ask him to stay before. He’d dreamt of it — of you, of being with you, of staying with you. He’d waited for this moment for so long, rehearsed his response in his head more times than he could count, and now that it had finally arrived, all he could do was smile at you and hope you didn’t hear how loud his heart was pounding just for you.

It was always you.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

NOTE: just wanted to give another big thank you to everyone who waited patiently for the final part of this fic! the original story has always been very dear to me and when i first wrote it 4 years ago, i never imagined i would be writing a part 2 or 3 to it, so this is pretty huge for me. and i’m so grateful to everyone who’s read it, whether you left feedback and reblogged or were a silent reader. thank you so much for all the love this fic received. i hope you all get your own happy ending 🫶🏼 xoxo.

2025 © bigsuki, all rights reserved.

But today?

Today he stares at the screen a moment too long, thumb hovering, heart tight.

He’s tired.

Overwhelmed.

Running on 3 hours of sleep and a mountain of pressure he can’t talk about.

He doesn’t want to hurt you.

He doesn’t want to push you away.

He just… doesn’t have space in his chest right now.

Even for things he loves.

He’s exhausted from disappointing you.

Him being an idol adding to the fact that he can never be good enough for you.

Realising that he can never give the love you deserved to be showered with.

He feels it in every breath, every message he answers too late, every moment he sees your face fall when he gives you half of what he used to.

He replies an hour later with:

“gm.”

He hates himself immediately.

He knows you’ll feel that difference.

He prays you won’t.

But of course you do.

You always do.

You read him too well—that’s the problem.

Martin knows he’s pulling away. He hates himself for it. But he doesn’t know how to stop.

The Thursday you bring him banana milk—he knows he should smile. Should tease you. Should pull you into a hug because you remembered something he said in passing.

He pretends he’s fine.

Pretends he’s grateful.

Pretends his heart isn’t cracking from guilt because he can’t give you the reaction you deserve.

He’s tired. Not of you. Of the version of himself you think he is. The boy who’s always soft with you. The boy who always has emotional energy. The boy who never fails you.

He doesn’t feel like that boy anymore.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

And the second it leaves his mouth, he wants to punch a wall. Because he hears it. The flatness. The distance. And when he sees the way your smile wobbles— he wants to rewind the moment and do it right.

But he doesn’t. He just sits there, drowning in a mistake he made in one word.

Instead, he looks at the drink and feels guilt stab him so hard he almost winces.

Later that night, he sits on his dorm bed with the unopened banana milk beside him.

He wants to drink it.

Wants to text you.

Wants to fix things before they break.

Instead, he just stares at the ceiling, thinking:

Why am I like this? Why can’t I just be better? For her?

He doesn’t have an answer.

And that scares him more than anything.

The days after that, he tries.

God, he tries.

He sets reminders to text you back. He rehearses things he wants to tell you. He tells himself this is just burnout.

But then he opens your messages and stares at them too long. Not because he doesn’t want to reply— but because he doesn’t want to reply wrongly.

He overthinks every word. Deletes sentences. Rewrites them. Ends up sending short, dry responses because if he keeps talking, he’ll say something that cracks the thin ice he’s standing on.

And he hates himself for it.

The night on the couch is when it hits him hardest.

You sound fragile when you ask, “Are you okay?”

He wants to say: No. I’m drowning. I don’t know how to hold you without dropping everything else. I don’t want to lose you but I also don’t know how to keep you.

But all he says is, “I’m fine.”

Because every version of the truth makes him look selfish. Every version of the truth sounds like he’s blaming you. Every version of the truth feels like he’s admitting he’s losing control.

When you say he’s off, he looks at you and feels something crumble.

Because you’re right. You always are.

He hates that he’s hurting you. He hates that you think he doesn’t love you. He hates that he’s becoming the villain in the story he never wanted to ruin.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he murmurs.

He means: I don’t know how to stop disappointing you. I don’t know how to stop failing at loving you right.

But he doesn’t say the truth. He never does.

When you show up at the studio, his heart drops—not because he doesn’t want to see you, but because the first thing he feels isn’t excitement. It’s fear.

Fear that he’s about to ruin another moment. Fear that he’s about to watch your face fall again. Fear that he’s about to get caught being the distant mess he’s become.

You say you wanted to surprise him. He wishes he had the energy to act surprised.

“I’m not really in the mood for surprises,” he mutters.

He hates that sentence. Every syllable.

You step closer. Hopeful. Soft. Trying. And he sees all of it.

And he feels like trash. “That I can’t do this right now.”

He meant: I can’t be who you need right now. I can’t figure myself out enough to love you the way you deserve.

When you say, “Do me, you mean?”

the flinch is instant. Because yes. Yes, that’s what he meant.

But he can’t say it. So he says nothing.

And watches the hurt bloom across your face like a bruise.

When you leave the dance room early that day, he notices instantly.

He searches the room twice before pretending he isn’t panicking. He texts you the most bare, stupid, useless message: “Did you leave?”

He throws his phone across the couch the second he sends it. Because that’s not what he meant.

He meant: Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Did I make you uncomfortable? Are you mad at me? Please don’t be mad at me. Please don’t give up on me.

Your answer— Yeah.

Simple. Sharp. Final.

He stares at it for so long the boys ask if he’s okay. He lies.

He types out paragraphs. Deletes them. Types more. Deletes those too.

And ends up sending: “Oh. Okay.”

He wants to rip his hair out.

He wants to show up at your door. He wants to say everything he swallowed for weeks. He wants to fix the space he opened between you.

But he does none of it. Because he’s scared. Because he’s overwhelmed. Because he thinks maybe—just maybe—you’d be better off without the version of him who keeps messing things up.

That night, he can’t sleep. He keeps checking his phone. Keeps typing your name. Keeps deleting it.

He whispers your name into his pillow, voice shaky, eyes burning.

It doesn’t echo for him either.

It’s a Thursday evening. He’s sweating through his shirt in the practice room, hair stuck to his forehead. You show up with banana milk, because he mentioned craving it days ago.

You place it beside him, smiling.

He glances. “Thanks.”

That’s it.

No teasing. No grin. Nothing.

It feels like someone took the air out of your lungs.

You tell yourself he’s tired. You tell yourself it’s just a day.

You tell yourself too many things.

But days become a pattern.

He replies slower. He texts shorter. He doesn’t wait for you after practice anymore. He doesn’t ask you about your day. He doesn’t look at you long enough to notice anything.

You’re no longer his first thought. You’re barely his fourth.

And you can feel it. You feel everything.

He stops choosing you. Softly at first. Then blatantly.

One night, it’s just the two of you on the dorm couch. The boys are out. A few months ago, this would’ve meant him tugging you into his lap or teasing you until you lost it, leaning into him, his arm around your waist, the kind of silence that feels like home.

Today? Different couch corners. Different energy. Different boy.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

You bite your lip. “You sure? You’ve been kinda off.”

This time he finally looks at you—expression unreadable, eyes distant.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he murmurs. “I’m just trying to manage everything.”

You nod even though it stings.

‘Everything’ doesn’t include you anymore.

He starts becoming careful around you. Too careful. Polite in a way that feels like a slap.

The kind of polite that feels like a goodbye disguised as manners. He stops brushing your knee with his. Stops tucking your hair behind your ear. Stops being Martin—the one who loved loudly and stupidly and with all his focus. This one is neutral. This one is quiet. This one holds doors for you but doesn’t hold you.

The gentleness hurts more than distance.

One afternoon, you catch him packing his bag.

“Can we talk?” you ask.

He hesitates. “I have practice.”

“It’ll take a minute.”

He doesn’t pull away when you touch his sleeve, but he doesn’t hold you back either.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper.

His jaw tightens. “Nothing.”

“Did I do something?”

“No.” Too quick.

Then softer: “I’m trying to manage everything.”

The way he says it feels like he’s explaining why you’ve become extra weight.

You step back. “Okay.”

He almost reaches for you. Almost.

But almost doesn’t fix anything.

The resentment creeps in quietly—on both sides.

When you ask if he’s eaten, he sighs. When you hug him, he stiffens. When you try to make him laugh, he forces a smile.

Every little thing feels like proof that he’s slipping away.

One day, you show up after practice because you miss him. Because you’re desperate. Because you still think maybe he’ll choose you if you try hard enough.

He walks out of the building, sees you, stops.

Not happy. Not relieved. Just surprised.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” he says.

“Thought I’d surprise you.”

He exhales slowly. “I’m not… really in the mood for surprises.”

The words hit you straight in the chest.

“We can just walk together,” you say weakly. “I don’t need anything.”

Another sigh.

“Y/N,” he mutters, rubbing his temples, “I said I can’t do this right now.”

You blink. “Do me, you mean?”

He flinches.

And then he says nothing.

Which tells you everything.

You go home that night and cry into your pillow, biting the fabric so no one hears. You feel stupid. You feel small. You feel like something important is slipping through your fingers.

And he’s letting it.

Two weeks pass.

He becomes perfectly polite again. Too polite. Too calm. Too distant.

He texts “goodnight” again, but it’s one word. He asks “did you eat?” but it sounds like courtesy. He smiles at you, but it’s empty.

He treats you like someone he used to care about.

And you don’t know what’s worse— his silence before, or his softness now.

One day in the dance room, the boys are loud and joking. Martin laughs with them, shoulders relaxing, eyes bright.

You’re sitting a few feet away. Invisible. Forgettable.

He doesn’t look at you once.

And that’s when it hits you.

He hasn’t stopped caring all at once— he’s been fading out slowly. Quietly.

Like a song you didn’t realize was ending until the room went silent.

You leave the room without telling anyone.

Minutes later, your phone buzzes.

Martin: "Did you leave?"

You stare at it, heart sinking.

You: "Yeah."

A pause. Too long. Too obvious.

Martin: "Oh. Okay."

And that’s when the truth settles:

He didn’t break your heart violently. He did it softly. Carefully. Almost kindly.

The worst way possible.

You crawl into bed that night, phone against your chest.

He loved you once. You know he did.

But now he loves you with past tense softness— the kind that ruins you slowly.

And you whisper his name into the dark.

He nodded quickly.

“I don’t know how to drive!” I said, throwing my hands up.

That apparently broke him. He groaned, dragged his hand down his face, and muttered something that sounded a lot like Korean curse words.

“Okay, rude!” I snapped. “You come here, shout at me in another language, and now you’re mad?!”

By then, the others were already piling into the car like they owned it. The one with orange hair — calm but clearly panicking inside — got into the driver’s seat (James, apparently). Two others, Juhoon and Keonho, claimed the back. The passenger seat was taken by this soft-looking guy with black hair — Seonghyeon — who looked like he’d apologize for existing if you bumped into him.

Which left… no seat for me.

And yet, the tall blonde had the audacity to sit in the only seat left — the one spot that was supposed to be for me.

“Hey!” I said, glaring. “That’s my seat!”

He looked at me like I’d just asked to borrow his soul. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Not anymore!”

“What—?! Excuse me?!”

We were full-on arguing now, voices rising. I was seconds away from yanking him out by the collar when one of the boys in the back — bright smile — pointed at me and started shouting something rapid-fire in Korean.

I threw my hands up. “Oh my god, DUDE! This is my car! You can’t just colonize it and yell at me!”

I turned to yell back again, but before I could even process what was happening, the seonghyeon guy suddenly grabbed my wrist and pulled both of us inside.

I stumbled forward, half-tripping over his legs, ready to go off on him — when I froze.

Because something cold brushed against the back of my neck.

A sharp tug—so hard it yanked my head back.

Pain exploded through my scalp, and I gasped, twisting around—

And saw it.

A humanoid creature, missing one arm, its eyes milky white, its skin peeling like burnt wax. Blood smeared down its jaw. It was gripping my hair in its one remaining hand, dragging itself closer.

My breath caught in my throat. “What the hell—?!”

James slammed the engine on, the tires screeching. The car lurched forward, but the creature didn’t let go. It clung to my hair like it wanted to rip my skull clean off.

The pain was blinding now. I screamed, tears burning my eyes. I didn’t care that the boys saw me crying — it hurt, so bad.

“Hyung!” Seonghyeon shouted, panicked, fumbling for something.

Someone from the backseat — maybe Keonho — tossed forward a pair of scissors.

Before I could even ask what was happening, the guy i was sitting on seonghyeon, I’d later learn — caught them, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and—

snip.

The pressure vanished. The creature tumbled away from the moving car, disappearing into the distance.

I sat there shaking, staring at the uneven ends of my hair in Seonghyeon’s hand.

Silence filled the car. Only our breathing and the roar of the engine.

Seonghyeon’s knuckles were white around the scissors. martin from the back, voice was low, almost trembling:

It was supposed to be a chill day.

Day off. No schedules. No managers. No cameras.

Just the Cortis dorm with everyone half-asleep and in comfy clothes.

Keonho and Seonghyeon were on the floor, aggressively playing Mario Kart like their lives depended on it. Martin and Juhoon were on the couch beside you, lazily watching some crime documentary and arguing about who the killer obviously was. You were curled up between them, blanket over your legs, just… vibing.

And then there was James.

Not vibing. Not chilling.

He was near the dining table, earbuds in, replaying the same 10 seconds of their new song over and over while trying to choreograph something—his hair messy, brows furrowed, jaw tense like he’d chew through concrete if he had to.

You watched him for a bit, soft smile forming because he looked so focused… but also exhausted. Like… really exhausted.

So you got up, padded over to him, and gently tugged one of his earbuds.

“Babe, it’s your off day,” you said quietly. “Please take a break? You’ve been at it for hours.”

He didn’t even look at you at first.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

But you weren’t stupid. His shoulders were tight, his breathing uneven. You reached for his wrist lightly, thumb brushing. “You’re gonna burn yourself out, James. Just sit with us for a bit. Five minutes.”

He snapped.

Like—out of nowhere.

“You’re so clingy sometimes, seriously,” he hissed, shaking your hand off. His voice was loud. Too loud.

The room went silent.

Even Mario Kart paused—which NEVER happens.

James kept going, voice sharp, breath wavering from stress.

“Just—stop hovering over me. I’m working. I don’t need you telling me how to handle my job.”

You froze.

It wasn’t even the words. It was the tone he used. Like you were annoying. Like you were in the way. Like you embarrassed him in front of his own members.

Your chest tightened so hard it hurt.

“O-okay,” you whispered, nodding quickly because your throat felt weirdly tight. “Got it.”

And you turned.

You didn’t slam anything. You didn’t yell. You just walked to the front door, grabbed your hoodie, and left the dorm before your eyes could spill anything stupid.

The second the door clicked shut?

James exhaled like he’d been stabbed.

Keonho slowly put his controller down. Seonghyeon stared at him like he’d kicked a puppy. Juhoon looked disappointed in that older-brother way. Martin rubbed his face and sighed the deepest sigh of 2025.

“Dude…” Martin said first. “She wasn’t trying to annoy you. She was literally just caring.”

Keonho nodded. “She’s the only one who actually makes you stop working. And you yell at her? In front of us?”

Juhoon crossed his arms. “You messed up. Big time.”

Seonghyeon, the quiet one, murmured, “Hyung… she looked really hurt.”

James didn’t answer.

Because he knew.

He felt it the moment the words left his mouth. Felt it harder when he saw your face fall. Felt it worst when the door closed and the silence punched him in the chest.

He ran his hands through his hair, pacing like he was trying not to scream.

“I didn’t mean it,” he muttered, voice shaking. “I didn’t—she was just— I’m stressed.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Martin cut in, stern. “Stress isn’t an excuse. Not with her.”

And James hated that Martin was right.

He grabbed his hoodie, his wallet, didn’t even put on proper shoes—just bolted out the door like a panicked idiot.

Martin called after him, “Go apologize properly! And don’t make it worse!”

But James was already gone.

you didn’t mean to run. but what were you supposed to do? stand there and pretend the words he threw at you didn’t slice straight through your chest?

he said too much. or maybe he said the one thing you never thought he’d say.

and the moment it hit you, your feet moved before your brain could catch up. away from him. away from that look on his face. away from the version of him that hurt too much to look at.

james chased after you anyway — breathless, eyes wide, guilt written all over him like a bruise he couldn’t hide.

“don’t— don’t go,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. nothing sharp. nothing angry. just… regret. “i didn’t mean it. i swear. please don’t leave like that.”

he wasn’t blaming you. he wasn’t yelling. he wasn’t acting like you were running from “everything.”

he knew exactly why you left. and that’s why it scared him.

“I’m not staying somewhere I’m not wanted,” you shot back.

His jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped. His brows pulled low, eyes burning, and then—

“If you walk away,” he growled, voice cracking just a bit, “don’t come back.”

It felt like someone slammed a door inside your chest.

You swallowed, kept your chin up even though your eyes stung. You turned. And you walked.

Not fast. Not slow. Just… gone.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t want to see the look on his face if he actually meant it.

3:07 AM

You tried to sleep.

Tried.

But your brain was replaying every second of earlier like a broken projector: the way his voice cut sharp, the way the room froze, the way you felt small.

Pathetic.

So you ended up on your couch with a blanket, scrolling through reels in the dark and pretending your chest didn’t hurt.

Outside, it was dead quiet. Inside your apartment, the AC hummed like it was trying to comfort you.

Then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

You nearly YEETED your phone across the room.

Someone was knocking. No— pounding.

At 3AM.

You froze.

Then came a low voice through the door—shaky, muffled, familiar.

“Y/N… please open the door.”

Your stomach dropped.

James.

You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself, heart thudding so loud you swore your neighbors could hear.

Another knock—softer this time, like he was scared he’d break your door.

“Y/N… baby, I—just open the door. Please.”

You swallowed hard, walked over, unlocked the door…

…and he practically exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for an hour.

He looked wrecked.

Not just tired—wrecked.

Hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, chest heaving, eyes red like he’d been running.

Or crying.

Or both.

“Why are you here?” you whispered.

He stepped inside without waiting, closing the door behind him with his palm flat on it. His height swallowed the entryway immediately, and he just stood there staring at you like you were the only light source in the world.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked.

Not dramatic cracked. Like genuinely, painfully cracked.

You blinked. “…James.”

“No—listen,” he said quickly, trying to keep his voice steady but failing miserably. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I shouldn’t have said that. You weren’t being clingy, you were being the only person trying to take care of me.”

His jaw clenched and unclenched.

“I was stressed. I took it out on you. And the second you walked out I—god, I regretted it instantly.”

He took one step closer.

Then another.

You instinctively stepped back until the backs of your knees hit the couch. He stopped right in front of you, towering over you, his breath uneven.

“I looked for you,” he confessed softly. “I went to every place you might go. Then Martin called and asked if you were safe. That’s when I realized how badly I scared you off.”

He lifted a hand—slowly, giving you space to pull away— but you didn’t.

He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, eyes locked onto yours. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t.”

You stared up at him, heart doing Olympic gymnastics.

“…You said ‘if I walk away, don’t come back.’”

He winced like the words physically stabbed him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he breathed. “I was talking like an idiot. If you walk away— I will come back. Every single time. Even if it’s 3AM. Even if it’s raining. Even if I look like I crawled out of a drain.”

You let out a small laugh, and he immediately softened, shoulders dropping like he finally felt air again.

“Babe,” he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours, height bending so much you had to tilt your chin up. “Please tell me I didn’t lose you.”

You let the silence stretch for a moment.

Then—

“You embarrassed me,” you whispered.

His breath caught.

“I know. I’m… I’m sorry. I should’ve never talked to you like that. Especially not in front of the guys.”

“And you hurt my feelings.”

He nodded instantly. “I know. I’ll fix it. I just… I need you. Please don’t shut me out.”

Your fingers curled into his hoodie without thinking.

“That depends,” you murmured.

His eyes searched yours desperately. “On what?”

You pulled him down by the hoodie string— until his lips brushed your cheek.

“On how good you are at making it up to me,” you whispered against his jaw.

His inhale was sharp.

“…Baby don’t tease me right now, I’m hanging by a thread,” he muttered, voice deep and wrecked.

You finally smiled—just a little.

And that was all he needed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry I said… that.” His eyes softened. “Just… don’t walk away from me. I can’t—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Please.”

And that was the thing that broke you.

Not his anger. Not the fight.

The please.

You reached up, grabbed his hoodie with both hands, and pulled him down just enough.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

His shoulders finally dropped. Like he’d been holding the world up and you just let him put it down.

He wrapped his arms around you—tight, full-body, lifting-you-off-the-floor-for-a-second kind of tight—and breathed into your hair like he’d been drowning.

He nodded quickly.

“I don’t know how to drive!” I said, throwing my hands up.

That apparently broke him. He groaned, dragged his hand down his face, and muttered something that sounded a lot like Korean curse words.

“Okay, rude!” I snapped. “You come here, shout at me in another language, and now you’re mad?!”

By then, the others were already piling into the car like they owned it. The one with orange hair — calm but clearly panicking inside — got into the driver’s seat (James, apparently). Two others, Juhoon and Keonho, claimed the back. The passenger seat was taken by this soft-looking guy with black hair — Seonghyeon — who looked like he’d apologize for existing if you bumped into him.

Which left… no seat for me.

And yet, the tall blonde had the audacity to sit in the only seat left — the one spot that was supposed to be for me.

“Hey!” I said, glaring. “That’s my seat!”

He looked at me like I’d just asked to borrow his soul. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Not anymore!”

“What—?! Excuse me?!”

We were full-on arguing now, voices rising. I was seconds away from yanking him out by the collar when one of the boys in the back — bright smile — pointed at me and started shouting something rapid-fire in Korean.

I threw my hands up. “Oh my god, DUDE! This is my car! You can’t just colonize it and yell at me!”

I turned to yell back again, but before I could even process what was happening, the seonghyeon guy suddenly grabbed my wrist and pulled both of us inside.

I stumbled forward, half-tripping over his legs, ready to go off on him — when I froze.

Because something cold brushed against the back of my neck.

A sharp tug—so hard it yanked my head back.

Pain exploded through my scalp, and I gasped, twisting around—

And saw it.

A humanoid creature, missing one arm, its eyes milky white, its skin peeling like burnt wax. Blood smeared down its jaw. It was gripping my hair in its one remaining hand, dragging itself closer.

My breath caught in my throat. “What the hell—?!”

James slammed the engine on, the tires screeching. The car lurched forward, but the creature didn’t let go. It clung to my hair like it wanted to rip my skull clean off.

The pain was blinding now. I screamed, tears burning my eyes. I didn’t care that the boys saw me crying — it hurt, so bad.

“Hyung!” Seonghyeon shouted, panicked, fumbling for something.

Someone from the backseat — maybe Keonho — tossed forward a pair of scissors.

Before I could even ask what was happening, the guy i was sitting on seonghyeon, I’d later learn — caught them, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and—

snip.

The pressure vanished. The creature tumbled away from the moving car, disappearing into the distance.

I sat there shaking, staring at the uneven ends of my hair in Seonghyeon’s hand.

Silence filled the car. Only our breathing and the roar of the engine.

Seonghyeon’s knuckles were white around the scissors. martin from the back, voice was low, almost trembling: