girls want enhypen

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PARING: dance rivals riki x reader

GENRE: dance rivals to lovers, mutual pining, teasing, fluff, angst.

SYNOPSIS: At the Korean National Academy of Arts, Nishimura Riki is the most admired dancer, the ‘golden boy’ of the department —infuriatingly talented and always two steps ahead. When you’re unexpectedly paired with him for the lead role in Lacrimosa, your world tilts, as you struggle to maintain the blurring lines between rivalry and another emotion you’re just not ready to admit.

WC: 1.1k words

next chapter | sandhi's masterlist

 ACT ONE: CHAPTER 01

You know how every department has that one person?

The one who makes everything look effortless. The one who somehow manages to charm professors, classmates — even the janitor who mops the practice floors at 11 PM. 

The one who spins through life like gravity just isn’t a thing.

Yeah. At the Korean National Academy of Arts, Nishimura Riki is the most admired dancer in the department.

It’s in the way he stands, long before he even starts dancing—weight settled carelessly into one hip, shoulders relaxed, like he’s never had to think too hard about where his body belongs in the space.

It’s in the way he dresses too. 

A perpetually slouchy grey hoodie, sleeves pushed back just enough to reveal long, controlled lines in his arms. It’s worn so often that it may as well be a part of him. There's also that infuriating half-smile— faint and unreadable, like he’s in on something no one else quite understands.

And when he dances, it makes trying feel embarrassing. He moves with such effortless control that it makes your best pirouette feel like a warm-up. His turnout is clean. Maybe too clean. There’s a steady balance that he exhibits, without visible strain and somehow every jeté resolves as though it was always meant to land exactly that way.

But the worst part? Riki doesn’t even seem aware of it. 

He never stretches long, never complains, never pushes himself— at least not in the way you do.  It’s like his body already understands what’s being asked of it, without needing the extra time to catch up. 

Watching him has a way of making your own technique feel overworked, like you’ve been fighting for something that comes naturally to him.

But when the choreography begins, he doesn’t just execute it—he reshapes it. There’s a subtle shift in the way he moves, a way of extending through certain transitions or softening others, until the sequence stops looking like something taught and starts looking like something his.

 It’s not flashy, nor exaggerated, just undeniably his.

And he watches. 

Not in a way that draws attention, but it’s enough that you can feel it sometimes. A quiet awareness, like he’s cataloguing things without ever saying a word. Corrections, habits, mistakes. It’s subtle, but it lingers, and for reasons you can’t quite explain.  

That's what gets under your skin the most. Because it makes you aware of yourself in a way you never were before.

And you hate him. Mostly. 

Okay, maybe not him, exactly.

Maybe it’s more the way you feel whenever he walks into the room it’s suddenly like you're auditioning for your own life.

It’s something in the way your chest tightens, like you're under a bright spotlight you didn’t ask for. 

Now, you’re not just dancing, instead you’re constantly being evaluated. As if your place at the academy is something you have to prove over and over again, with this feeling gradually intensifying with each and every performance.

The auditions for the winter showcase were always intense, but this year it feels especially unforgiving. Lacrimosa, a modern ballet choreographed by some alumni prodigy,  already has  built a reputation before auditions have even properly begun. It's brutal choreography — dark, sweeping and emotionally demanding in a way that doesn’t leave room for half measures. 

The professors talk about it like it’s something sacred, something that requires complete vulnerability to perform correctly. 

It’s supposedly meant to strip a dancer bare. Which means everyone wants the lead. 

Including you.

You’ve been running that solo every night, long after the practice rooms have been emptied out and the building has gone silent. It’s only until your muscles protest for rest and the pads of your feet go numb, that you decide you’re ready.

You’ve worked for this.

So when Riki strolls in ten minutes late on the day of auditions, it feels almost like a slap in the face. 

He looks like he’s just woken up, hair slightly tousled, headphones resting loosely around his neck. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t apologize, just moves through the door as if time and space bend to him. And there’s no sign that he’s aware of the tension already settled over the room. 

While everyone else had arrived early to stretch, run through combinations, preparing themselves mentally for what’s to come, he’s simply unfazed. 

Like this is nothing. Like this doesn't matter. Just another Tuesday.

There’s a subtle shift in the room. An unspoken awareness that wasn’t there a moment ago. 

And you swear he doesn’t even notice the way everyone's eyes dart toward him.  

He's too busy slipping into his ballet shoes. 

The pianist is midway through a progression at the barre, but Riki doesn’t interrupt or draw attention to himself.

Instead, he takes his place at the front, quiet and unbothered, as though he’s always been there all along—and the rest of you are the ones catching up. 

People notice though. They always do. 

And you try not to look at him, but you fail, of course. From the corner of your eye, you catch the way he barely warms up, stretching with a casual slouch. A slow roll of his shoulders, a brief extension through his legs, as though his body knows exactly what it needs without any effort. 

At one point, he yawns—actually yawns—during barre, of all things. 

Your grip on the wood tightens slightly, irritation sparking through your jaw— sharp and immediate. It’s almost ridiculous—how someone can look so uninterested and still—

The music suddenly shifts. 

And just like that, everything about him changes.

The laziness disappears, replaced by something clean and focused, every movement aligning perfectly with the rhythm. There’s no hesitation, no adjustment period. His lines are now stupidly precise for someone who looked half-asleep five seconds ago.

You force your gaze back to your own reflection, jaw tightening as you reset your posture into second position, grounding yourself in something you can control. Your technique, your precision, your work ethic—those are yours. Those are things he doesn’t get to take from you just by existing.

“Focus.”

The instructor’s voice cuts through the room, sharp enough to snap your attention fully back into place. Heat rises briefly at the back of your neck— you hadn’t realised how obvious your distraction had been.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and move through the next combination with renewed intention. Every placement is deliberate now, every transition cleaner, sharper. If there’s one thing you refuse to let slip, it’s this.

The music changes again, signalling the end of barre, and for a moment it feels like it happens too quickly, like you haven’t had enough time to prove what you needed to.

Or maybe there’s just never enough time for that.

“Outside,” your instructor says, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. “We’ll begin individual auditions.”

A quiet ripple moves through the room as everyone steps away from the barre, the earlier tension settling into something heavier now, more focused.

This is it.

And whether you like it or not, he’s part of it too.

next chapter

⊹ sandhi's note ⊹ hi!! i’m so sorry for disappearing on you guys. there’s been sm happening lately. i’ve decided to rewrite this chapter again bc it was giving me the ick 😭 i’ll be planning out chapter two soon.

shoot me a message or comment on my pinned post, if you want to be on the taglist for this fic or on my permanent one for future work!!

and just a reminder this piece of writing is from my own imagination and does not represent the names mentioned.

i’m not entirely sure if anyone will see this since i’m a relatively small blog and i post very irregularly but if you do, that means sm to me <3

i just wanted to come on here and say that my sudden hiatus was way longer than i’d hoped for. i feel terrible for suddenly disappearing on you guys.

there’s just been sm going on with balancing uni and work, which has proven to be more difficult that i thought. and there are also some amazing, talented writers here who inspired me to write in the first place.naturally i went down the rabbit hole of self comparison. but i’ve been experimenting with my own writing style although it’s been quite slow. demotivation + writers block is so much worse’s than i thought.

I don’t want to write fics that are half assed, with no plan or intention. so it definitely will take me longer to write since i’m such a big perfectionist but it’s only bc i want to deliver work that i’m truly proud of.

thank you sm to everyone whose been supporting me and reading my fics. it’s been so heartwarming to see that y’all enjoy them!! so far i’ve been working on riki’s fic and i’m pretty happy with how it’s coming along (still on chapter one ik ik 😭)

and with everything going on with heeseung, it has been so unreal for the past few weeks. i really don’t know what to believe, with the information circulating online and the way hybe & belift are poorly handling the situation but one thing’s for sure: enha is always going to be 7. there’s no way we’re going to forget heeseung, the pillar of the group, our ace.

anyways that’s all from me! sending y’all hugs and love.

PAIRING: park sunghoon x reader

GENRE: older brother’s friend, established relationship, fluff, skinship, teasing, reader is learning how to drive

The house is dim, warm, and smells faintly of cocoa. Probably leftover from Jake’s earlier mug that he definitely spilled at least once.

You’re halfway through kicking your snow boots off when an exaggerated ahem floats from the kitchen.

Jake’s perched on a stool, elbows on the counter, now spoon deep in a tub of ice cream that says “DO NOT EAT!” on a sticky note in black marker. 

He looks at you like you’re an interesting science experiment and somehow the spoon makes him ten times more dramatic 

“So” he says, trying to sound casual. “How was your romantic drive home with the ice prince?” 

Your mind drifts back replaying the car ride in fragments. The car slows at the yellow traffic light as his hand deliberately brushes against yours on the gearshift. He’s shifting in his seat, slowly closing the gap between you two.

That familiar twinkle appears in his eyes again. “You always drive this slowly?” he teases.

You bite your lip, trying not to grin. “Maybe I like making you wait.”

The light lingers yellow, stretching out time in the best possible way. His eyebrow quirks up, a tiny gesture that shows he’s listening “You really mean that?” he asks. 

Your cheeks burn bright red, nodding quickly to hide your flustered grin from him, fingers fumbling nervously against the steering wheel. From the corner of your eye you had noticed the red traffic light. It casts a soft, warm glow across his face, painting his cheekbones in rosy light.

Sunghoon leans closer, his fingers intertwining within yours in a shy deliberation, his eyes never leave yours. His thumb traces small, teasing circles over your knuckles. You remembered the small, electric shock of it as if a little current passed between your skin. 

And then, before the world can catch up, your lips brush his: soft, electric yet so certain. His hand cups your face as if he were memorising the shape of you. The kiss lingered slow and unhurried, matching the stillness around you. 

A horn blared in the distance, and a startled laugh escapes you, making him softly smile against your lips. Even though the light has turned green, it feels like the world stopped spinning for the two of you.

You blink back to the kitchen, heart still somewhere on that red light. “It was…nice,” you manage. 

Jake narrows his eyes. “Nice?”

“Yeah,” you say, setting your coat down. “Quiet. We talked. There was a—” you stop, realizing that you’re smiling, and now it’s too late.

“There was a what?” 

You hesitate, then sigh. “A kiss. There was a kiss.”

The spoon clatters to the counter. “WHAT.”

You cringe. “Jake—”

“Oh my GOD.” He’s on his feet now, pacing like a lawyer preparing an opening statement. “You kissed him? In HIS car? With my DNA still in your general family line?”

“Jake, please.” 

He ignores you, waving his spoon like a gavel. “Unbelievable. Betrayal. Treason.”

“Are you done?” you mutter, crossing your arms.

“Not even close.” Jake grabs his phone, typing furiously “He’s getting the warning text.” 

[10:07 PM] You kiss my sibling, you kiss death. I want that known. 

“Aaand just so we’re clear,” he drawls, looking up from his phone. “If he breaks your heart, I’ll break his kneecaps. Skates or no skates.”

You sigh “I don’t need kneecap protection, thanks!” you call over your shoulder as you head upstairs. The door slams behind you with satisfying finality. Jake’s increasingly ridiculous threats muffling as he launches into the next act of his kneecap manifesto downstairs.

For a beat the house is only the steady hum of the heating and Jake’s distant, indignant voice.

But then there’s a soft, deliberate tap at your bedroom window.

You freeze, heart doing a small, traitorous flip. You pull back the curtain and there he is.

“I believe this belongs to you,” he says, holding up the red scarf with that half-grin that always makes your stomach flutter. “Wanted to bring it to you before I head home.”

You grin despite yourself, leaning to the ajar window. “You climbed up my window? You're ridiculous.”

“Only for you,” he replies, eyes warm. He slides the scarf through the gap; your fingers brush and a tiny electric current zips through you.

Without another word, his gaze is fixated to the window where the cool night air has left behind a foggy mist. He pauses, letting it linger for a moment, before meeting your eyes again.

The world feels just a little bit quieter, the space between you two narrowing. Sunghoon’s gaze is soft and so fond that it makes your heart ache.

“Goodnight,” he says, the words gentle, but his eyes still full of that teasing warmth.

You watch him as he takes a small step back. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” you reply, voice just above a whisper. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

With one last glance at you he steps back, blending into the night, leaving only the faint outline of the heart behind. Along with the warmth of his presence that lingers long after he’s gone.

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹ heyy besties, hope you enjoy this bonus chapter. my caffeine-addled fingers couldn’t help it 🙂‍↕️ andd more fics are coming soon (hopefully before i collapse from uni and work) but thanks for sticking around 💕

lmk if you wanna join my tag list too, by commenting under my pinned post on my page!

just a reminder that this piece of writing is from my imagination and does not represent the names mentioned.

PAIRING: park jongseong x reader

GENRE: contemporary romance, dual timelines, drama, mystery, forbidden love, slow burn, tension.

SYNOPSIS: Your late grandmother left you her hanok in Seoul's Jongno District, a quiet place made for healing— yet the silence holds secrets.

Tucked away in the attic, you discover a dusty box full of letters — fragments of a forbidden love and the initials of a man you'll never meet.

His great-grandson, Park Jay is a man wrapped in power, restraint and family traditions. When your paths collide, the past begins to unravel — and so does your heart.

Some love stories refuse to stay buried whilst others demand to be finished.

Chapter One — The Sound of Dust Falling

You don’t hear it at first. The soft patter against wood, faint as rain on a distant roof.

Then you realise it’s the sound of dust, disturbed by your hand, sifting down through the narrow beam of light that slices the attic in two.

The ladder creaks beneath you as you climb the last rung. The air here is cooler, sharper — cedar, mothballs, and something floral lingering like a whisper you can’t quite place. 

You almost expect your grandmother’s voice to greet you, warm and brisk, telling you to mind your head on the low beams. But the only sound is your own breathing.

It’s strange, standing here, in the room you were never allowed to enter as a child. She’d kept it locked, the key hanging on a simple leather cord around her neck. “Some doors are better left closed,” she’d once told you, and you had taken her word for it.

Now she’s gone, and the key sits in your pocket.

The rest of the hanok has been stripped bare — furniture draped in white sheets like forgotten ghosts, cabinets emptied, photographs taken down as if the walls themselves needed to be forgotten. But the attic has been left untouched, as though time stalled somewhere between the warped floorboards and the low slant of the tiled roof.

You kneel and push aside a woven bamboo basket. That’s when you see it: a narrow wooden box,  tucked deep into the shadows. The lid bears your grandmother’s handwriting, it’s delicate, almost apologetic and there’s a string of dates etched in fading ink.

October 1965. March 1968. December 1971. 

You freeze. You’ve never seen her handwriting look like this — smaller, more hesitant, like a private confession never to be shared.  

That’s when the questions knot tight in your chest: Who was she keeping this for? Why hide it in the one room you were never allowed to enter? And why keep it at all, sealed away as if it were something dangerous?

Pressing your palms against the lid, tracing the shallow grooves of her penmanship. The box is cool beneath your hand, as if it’s been holding its breath for decades. You can’t open it. You shouldn’t.

But you already know you will.

Inside, the letters are sorted neatly by those very dates, each bundle bound with thin, fraying ribbon as if time itself had been tied into place. You undo the ribbon on the latest bundle carefully, afraid the paper might crumble at your touch.

The first letter you pull free is on cream stationery, the ink faded but the strokes still deliberate. Just one glance at the writing inside and it’s just enough to taunt you. 

Your eyes skim the page, words blurring until the final line knocks the breath from your lungs.

If they never let me see you again, promise me you’ll read this—somewhere, somewhen.

The letter isn’t signed with a name, only the cryptic initials P.J. scrawled at the bottom. They mean nothing to you. Not yet.

You tuck the letter carefully back into the wooden box, but your fingers tremble. The weight of the words presses down on you and is much heavier than you expected.

For now, the  other letters remain bound, their secrets are locked away, like promises you’re not sure you’re ready to keep.

You’ve stopped trying to sleep for weeks. 

The box lives on your desk now, its narrow frame no bigger than a shoebox. But somehow it feels heavier than the hanok’s tiled roof pressing down on you. Three dates, written in your grandmother’s handwriting are carved into its lid: October 1965. March 1968. December 1971. 

You swore you wouldn’t open it, that you would honour her silence. 

But silence doesn’t feel like respect anymore — it feels like rot. It gnaws at you in the hours after midnight, when the house is so quiet you can hear the creak of the old wooden beams settling above you.

But silence has a way of screaming in quiet houses like this. The attic’s shadows feel alive, whispering in corners you don’t want to look into.

Curling up onto her bed, knee pressed to your chest, your fingers are running over the faded handwriting, imagining the trembling hands that wrote them decades ago — hands that’ve held hope and heartbreak in equal measure.

But then again, what kind of love could survive the weight of secrecy and the pressure of a world too harsh to understand it?

The secrets still remain bound, sleeping beneath the fraying ribbon, but those words from the first letter are burned into you now. Bleeding into your dreams and the quiet spaces of your day. You catch yourself mouthing them in line at the corner store, reciting them in the shower.

Who are they for? Who wrote them? You ask yourself that question a hundred times a day. 

It’s a question that pulls you deeper down a rabbit hole you weren’t ready to enter. Your grandmother never spoke of these letters. She left the hanok to you, but warned you to leave the attic alone. “Some memories are better left undisturbed,” she said, voice tight. 

You try to picture her then — not the grandmother who made perilla leaf wraps and clucked her tongue at television dramas, but the young woman she must have been in 1965. Twenty-two, maybe, with dark hair pinned back neatly and living in a Korea that was still licking the wounds of war.

Her hands come to you in fragments — slim and steady, turning the box over before tucking it into the attic where it would sleep for decades. 

And maybe those hands once held the man behind the initials. Was he handsome? Broken? Waiting? Longing? Afraid?

The more you think about him, the more your own heart feels tangled in his absence as if his story is unfinished, and you are the only one who can finish it.

The questions sinking into you leave no room for rest. You pull on your coat, now slipping into the night. The midnight air bites at your flushed skin like a whispered warning as the lantern light flickers down the narrow streets, casting long shadows between the hanok walls. 

But your mind won’t stop racing, fingers fidgeting with the cuffs of your cream coat. The names you don’t know, the voices you can’t hear are all tangled in the fragile threads of those letters.

Somewhere, in this city’s quiet corners, the past waits, patient and unyielding. 

And then, just for a moment, you see him, a tall figure standing beneath a streetlamp, framed by the soft glow. He doesn’t notice you, doesn’t move toward you, yet there’s something in the way he holds himself. It’s precise and contained, that makes your heart stutter.

You blink, and when you look again, he's vanished into the darkened alley, leaving only the lingering sense that your life just shifted in ways you can’t yet understand.

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹ heheheh 🤭 it’s finally here!! there’s so many plots i wanna experiment with so stay tuned peeps 🫶

i’ll be putting up a perm taglist post, so please like it and send me messages. i’ll be able to write requests soon (after i’ve completed some of my wip’s) send help pls, i’m still new to tumblr so idk how it really works 😭 🙏 chapter two will come out soon (hopefully)

just a reminder that this piece of writing is from my imagination and does not represent the names mentioned.

PAIRING: lee heeseung x reader

GENRE: ex lovers, angst, nostalgia, young love, losing an important person, potential second chance?

SYNOPSIS: In the heart of New York City, where everything moves too fast and memories blur beneath neon lights, you swore you weren’t looking for him—not today.

But there he was, across the street, like no time had passed at all. One look. A faint smile, from a boy who had once promised forever and disappeared without looking back.

Your brief moment reignites old wounds, resurfacing a love that once felt like everything and ended like nothing.

The subway rumbled beneath the city, a dull roar that blended with the hum of conversations, footsteps and screeching brakes.

Heeseung’s hands clenched the cold metal pole tighter than necessary, knuckles white beneath his jacket sleeves.

The scent of bitter, warm coffee drifted from a nearby passenger and it pulled him back to the way your fingers had trembled around a paper cup. The way your eyes had widened, soft and startled. Like you'd forgotten him until that moment, and then suddenly remembered everything all at once.

He stared out the window at the dark tunnel, catching his reflection in the glass. A face he barely recognized. Eyes heavy with exhaustion, mouth set in a line of regret, and a thousand silent apologies written across his features that had once held so much hope.

Somewhere between the stops, he lost you. And maybe himself too. 

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. Of all the people New York could have thrown into his path today, it had to be you. Standing across the street like a memory he wasn’t ready for. Your name hadn’t crossed his lips in months, but it lived somewhere in him, buried just beneath routine and restraint. 

He didn’t know why he smiled at you today. Maybe it was all he could manage. Maybe it was a kind of apology, one too late to matter.

There were a thousand things he could’ve said.

How have you been?

I’m sorry.

You look happy.

I still think of you when it rains.

But instead, he’d walked away. Again.

The train jerked as it slowed, and for a moment, Heeseung closed his eyes and there you were again, under the flickering streetlamp; soaked, vulnerable, waiting for him to fight.

“Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll walk away. Right now. I won’t ask again.” your voice was hoarse with hurt.

He looked at you then. Really looked.

Rain slipped down his cheeks, jaw clenched like it physically hurt to speak. His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to reach for you but didn’t trust himself not to fall apart.

“I love you,” he said. Barely. Like the words weighed too much to carry “But I don’t know how to be what you need.”

You blinked, once. Twice. A tear slipped loose, hot against your cold skin.

You took a step back. “That’s the worst part,” you whispered quietly. “You could’ve been. You were. You just didn’t want it enough.”

He didn’t argue.

He just stood there before his gaze dropped. His shoulders sagged, just barely like a quiet surrender. Taking one last, trembling breath his footsteps retreated into the rain.

He wanted to reach out, to turn back time, but the weight in his chest pressed down, like gravity pulling him under.  

And he thought of the words he never said, the promises he couldn’t keep, and the simple truth he couldn’t face; love wasn’t always enough. Not when fear and doubt built walls taller than the bridges they tried to cross.

A low chime signaled the train’s arrival. Heeseung blinked, the ghost of your voice still echoing in his ears. The past always crept up like that. Uninvited, unwelcome, but never entirely gone.

When the doors slid open, he stepped out into the rush of the station, engulfed by a sea of strangers. 

And somewhere in the noise, he felt the emptiness settle deeper that no apology could ever fill.

The rain had started again. 

Gentle, tapping against the window like a memory knocking to be let in. Heeseung sat on the floor now, back against the couch, knees bent, phone loose in his hand. He watched the time,  glowing on his phone screen: 11:48 p.m. 

Maybe you were home now, curling up with a book or washing the city off your skin. Maybe you were already forgetting the moment. Or maybe, just maybe, you were sitting in your own silence, wondering if he’d felt it too.

His eyes, those deep, familiar brown eyes, were glassy in the dim light. The kind that had always given him away before his mouth ever could. You used to say they were your favorite thing about him. That you could read every version of him through the way they softened when he looked at you.

He wondered if they’d betrayed him today. If, in that single glance across the crosswalk, they told you everything he couldn’t.

Reaching  for his phone, thumb hovering over your old contact. The number was probably still there, untouched like the last photo he had of you. Still bookmarked by a tiny heart he never took away.

He hadn’t opened the thread in over six months. It was mostly blank, except for that last message from you — just four words:

“Please don’t do this.”

He hadn’t replied. He didn’t know how.

Now, the cursor blinked beneath a new draft. No greeting. No plan. Just words that came out like breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Heeseung [12:03]: I saw you today.

His thumb hovered.

He stared at it for what felt like an hour. The words looked small on the screen. Insufficient. But maybe that’s all anything was now, half-finished things, echoes of a conversation that ended too soon.

He added a line.

Heeseung [12:03]: You looked…

He paused, deleted it and tried again.

Heeseung [12:03]: I don’t know if I should be writing this.

Deleted that too.

He let his head fall back against the couch, eyes closed, still imagining your face, before typing again. 

Heeseung [12:06]: You looked okay. I’m glad.

And below that, almost as an afterthought:

I still think about you. Sometimes more than I mean to.

He paused.

This wasn’t for closure anymore. This wasn’t even for you.

This was for the version of himself he left behind on 27th Street. The one who let fear win. Who couldn’t say I love you without choking on the weight of it.

He sat with it. That truth. That version of him that only existed at 12:07 a.m, when the city was quieter and his heart didn’t feel like it needed to pretend.

His thumb hovered again over the send button. He knew it was over. 

Heeseung exhaled and clicked the screen off instead.

The message stayed there — unsent, suspended between what could have been and what had already passed. Just like him.

And then, as if the act of not sending it had taken all the energy he had left, he set the phone down on the coffee table, rubbing a hand over his face. It felt like bleeding without bruises.

It wasn’t because he didn’t want you to know. But because maybe some things are meant to be felt, not said. Held, not handed back.

So he stayed there, quiet, still carrying you the only way he knew how.

From a distance.

enha4everr’s note ⊹ I have no self control 🤭 just had to write something quick. I recommend listening to ‘the golden years’ by Joshua Basset because it inspired my creative princess!!

Send me some messages in my inbox or down in the comments if you would like to become apart of my permanent taglist!!

Just a reminder that this piece of writing is from my imagination and does not represent the names mentioned.

PAIRING: lee heeseung x reader

GENRE: ex lovers, angst, nostalgia, young love, losing an important person, potential second chance?

SYNOPSIS: In the heart of New York City, where everything moves too fast and memories blur beneath neon lights, you swore you weren’t looking for him—not today.

But there he was, across the street, like no time had passed at all. One look. A faint smile, from a boy who had once promised forever and disappeared without looking back.

Your brief moment reignites old wounds, resurfacing a love that once felt like everything and ended like nothing.

The city didn’t care that your heart had once shattered on 27th Street.

It didn’t remember the night you stood there, soaked in rain, begging him to fight for you while taxis honked and neon signs flickered like dying stars. New York moved on. That’s what it did best. 

And so had you or that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But grief doesn’t vanish; instead, it settles. Some days it grows quietly. On others, like today, it blooms right in front of you.

You were on your way home, still wrapped in the dull haze of income spreadsheets and caffeine, letting the crowd of tourists pull you towards the edge of the sidewalk like a current. You weren’t thinking about him.

Not really. Not today.

A red light blinked above, loud and urgent, like an emergency siren. You finally looked up from your phone. Tired. Ready to cross.

And there he was. Heeseung.

Across the street, half-hidden behind a woman in a trench coat and a man pushing a stroller. He wasn’t looking at you, not at first — still scrolling through his phone. His brow furrowing the same way it always did when he was deep in thought. Same black coat. Same tired eyes.

Then, your breath faltered, before your heart even realised — because he’d seen you just for a moment.

And suddenly it hit you—soft, sharp like a melody to your favourite song, that you thought you'd buried. It was now blooming right in the centre of your chest like it never left.

The noise around you begins to fade. You can’t hear the music in your ears anymore. The coffee cup slips slightly in your hand. You’re still holding on, but just barely. The lid tilts, warmth seeps through your fingers.

He smiled. Barely. Just enough to say I’m thinking of you too. A guilty, soft thing. But he knew he owed you more than just a glance.

Around you, the world keeps moving, but something in you stays still. For one long heartbeat, you were back there — still nineteen, beneath the cherry trees and summer skies, making promises you were too young to keep.

“You’ll always look for me, right?”

He’d kiss your forehead “Even when I’m not ready to see you.”

Then came the memory you tried hardest to forget — the way he walked away that night, like leaving was easier than staying to fix what had broken.

The light turned green. The crowd surged forward, a wave of strangers cutting across the intersection, swallowing the gap between you both.

And just like before, he turned and walked; past the noise, past the memory, past you.

No words. Just the sound of his footsteps fading behind you, leaving only the trace of a love that burned too fast.

You didn’t call his name. Instead you just let him go.

Again.

But this time, something inside you didn’t linger. Not because you didn’t love him anymore. But because this time, you didn't need him to stay.

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹ surprise surprise! this heeseung fic wasn’t planned at, totally spontaneous :) i wanted to try writing angst but it’s definitely a journey!! rn getting my other wip’s will be tough, my professors have decided to throw twice as more assignments now :(

send me some messages in my inbox or down in the comments if you would like to become apart of my permanent taglist!!

just a reminder that this piece of writing is from my imagination and does not represent the names mentioned.

PAIRING: sim jaeyun x reader

GENRE: study partners, fluff, teasing, friends to lovers dynamic?!

SYNOPSIS: Jake should’ve started studying a week ago. Now, it’s past midnight, the coffee’s gone cold and his brain’s officially on strike.

Without thinking, he scribbles on a pale yellow sticky note, ‘Here’s a study hack: Teach the content to an imaginary friend. Bonus points if they have a funny voice’

You’re smiling — and now he’s starting to think studying with you might be the best distraction finals week has to offer. Sour candy and coffee, sticky notes and bad jokes. Who knew surviving finals week would be this sweet?

Jake Sim is a lot of things.

Decently athletic, reasonably intelligent, extremely dramatic. But prepared for finals week? Absolutely not.

He stares at his physics textbook like it personally wronged him. Wavefunctions? Quantum tunneling? Angular momentum? At this point, Jake’s convinced the uncertainty principle doesn’t just apply to subatomic particles, it’s personally targeting his future.

A pale sticky note is stuck to his forehead, labelled in red bold letters ‘FUTURE VALEDICTORIAN’ is written with an impressive amount of optimism. It’s well past midnight, and any remaining hope in the room is being slowly drained by the inverse square law of finals week stress.

Across from him, you’re still scribbling in that calm competent way you always do, like you understand this madness. Your hoodie sleeves are pushed to your elbows, eyes scanning thoughtfully. Meanwhile, Jake looks like he’s about to commit a crime against his physics textbook. 

“Why does this look like hieroglyphics?” he mutters, flipping the page back and forth like the answers will suddenly reveal themselves if he squints hard enough.

You don’t even look up.“Maybe because you haven’t opened that book since the first week of class?”

“I skimmed chapter one,” he defends weakly. “It had diagrams.”

You hum, unimpressed while continuing to flip through your color-coded notes for the past hour with terrifying focus, while Jake has consumed three sour candy packets and half his dignity.

He slumps forward dramatically, cheek pressed to the textbook. “I think my brain hit terminal velocity.”

You snort. “That’s not how terminal velocity works.”

“And yet you knew what I meant. Which is exactly why you should take the final for me.”

You finally glance over, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “So your point is?”

“That I’m hopeless. Just accept it now. Time of death: Chapter eight. Projectile motion.”

You toss a gummy worm at his head “Study, Jake.”

With a groan, he sits up, eyes lazily glazing over the same sentence, again and again: “Terminal velocity is reached when the sum of the drag force and the buoyancy is equal to the downward force of gravity acting on the object.” The letters soon begin to twist, swirl, and dissolve into a meaningless haze. He blinks, tries again, but it’s like the sentence is fighting him—taunting him with its clarity just out of reach.

Jake’s hand twitches, fingers grazing the page like he’s searching for a secret message hidden in the words. “Maybe the book’s cursed,” he mutters, voice barely audible over the pounding in his temples. 

His focus drifts from the dense textbook, drawn to the ‘sticky note mountain’ you’ve built. Layers of pale yellow post-it’s arranged like a carefully charted map of your thoughts. On a whim or maybe a plea for sanity he grabs one carefully and scribbles:

Here’s a study hack: Teach the content to an imaginary friend. Bonus points if they have a funny voice.

He sticks it to your notebook with a grin then leans back in his seat, waiting.

You read it aloud, the smallest twitch of a smile tugging at your lips “What kind of funny voice?” you ask, curiosity sparking

Jake's grin widens. “Cartoon squirrel. High-pitched. Maybe a lisp.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What do I get if I do it?”

He leans in, eyes gleaming. “My eternal respect.”

“So absolutely nothing.”

“EXCUSE me, eternal respect is very prestigious!” He says while waving his hands dramatically.

But you’re already scribbling on your own sticky note, slapping it down in front of him.

Only if you explain Newton’s third law in an Australian accent first.

Jake immediately straightens up, clearing his throat, before effortlessly sliding into a thick Aussie drawl (that’s he practiced way too many times) 

“Oi, listen up. Newton’s third law, yeah? He points at you with a highlighter like it’s a microphone.

“Every action’s got an equal and opposite reaction.“So, like, if I throw my hopes at this exam—”

“They bounce back and crush you?” you interrupt.

“Oi—unprovoked attack. I’m wounded.” He immediately drops the act while clutching his heart.

You grin, rolling up the sleeves of your three-sizes-too-big sweatshirt before adopting a high-pitched, cartoonish tone, holding your notes dramatically like ancient scrolls.

“In = centripetal, pulling in! Out = centrifugal, feels like pushing out—but it’s fake, tehee!

Jake actually chokes on his laugh. “You sound like if a chipmunk took AP Physics.” he says in between giggles. 

Recovering from your chipmunk impression, he's reaching for another gummy worm. When you hit him with another sticky note:

If centripetal force keeps objects in circular motion, what’s keeping you from spinning out every time I mention your sister and Sunghoon?

He stares at it. Then at you, his jaw dropping slightly. 

"Low blow," he mutters, eyes narrowing but there’s no heat in it, just the kind of scandalized betrayal only Jake can deliver at 1:42 AM with sugar in his veins and sleep nowhere in sight.

“I’m just asking a physics question,” you say innocently, already jotting down another post-it.

Newton’s fourth law: Jake deflects feelings with dumb jokes and gummy worms.

Jake squints before peeling  it off dramatically like it personally insulted him. “Fake law. Slanted source. Zero peer review.”

Before you can reply, he makes a strangled sound and slaps a sticky note over the last one like he’s trying to erase history.

This study session is now under strict sibling-privacy law. Violators will be pelted with sour candy.

You burst out laughing. “You’re really gonna throw candy at me?”

Jake grabs another sour gummy from the neon packet and holds it up like a warning. “Don’t test me.”

“But science demands answers,” you tease. 

Jake looks genuinely torn, half scandalized, half flustered, and one tiny fraction looking like he might burst into flames just at the mention of Sunghoon and his sister in the same sentence.

“She’s younger than him,” Jake mutters finally. “She’s smarter than him. She’s…off-limits. It's cosmic law.”

You smile, tilting your head. “I don’t think the universe got the memo.”

“She wore a hoodie he complimented once,” Jake says, voice rising with pure, uncut sibling panic. “Now she’s acting like he invented fabric.”

“She does wear it a lot now,” you point out. “Kinda suspicious.”

He lets out a horrified squeak, eyes widening. “They’re definitely not just friends. What if they’re actually dating?”

You peel off one last sticky note and slap it right on his chest, snapping him out of his panic.

Newton’s Fifth Law: Brothers go feral when best friends flirt with their sisters.

Jake tears the harmless looking note into two and throws it behind him like it’s cursed.

It flutters to the ground, but your laughter doesn’t.

You stretch with your arms overhead, a gentle smile tugging at your lips.“Who knew finals week would finally be fun with you?”

“Are you saying I wasn’t fun before?” he mock gasps but you just toss another sticky note at him.

You’re tolerable. Especially when you bring candy.

He grins, sticking the note over his heart. “I’m framing this.”

“You say that about every sticky note.”

“Yeah, but this one’s got you written all over it.” Your face suddenly goes warm, and Jake definitely sees it because now he’s got that look. The smug, cheeky Jake Sim grin you’ve come to know way too well.

But then something in his expression shifts. The grin lingers, but softer now, like it’s only half there. Jake lowers his hand, eyes still on yours. “You know what scares me?” he says suddenly, voice low.

You blink, completely caught off guard by the change in tone. “What?”

He shifts in his seat, hesitating. “That I’m gonna bomb this final, and everyone will finally figure out I’m not as smart as they think I am.”

No sarcasm. No smirk. Just Jake — unguarded in a way you rarely see.

 Your breath hitches, but only for a second. Resting your arms on the table, your voice is gentler now. “You’re smarter than you know. You just… talk loud enough to drown out the part of you that doubts it.”

Jake looks at you, really looks at you, like you’ve just said something he didn’t realize he needed to hear. The space between you shifts quietly, humming with something unspoken.

“And what if the doubts are right?” he asks.

You smile, soft but unwavering. “Then we’ll fail gloriously together. But you won’t.”

His eyes flicker to your lips, just for a second. Then back up. “You’re really bad at letting me spiral.”

You shrug, voice barely above a whisper now. “Someone’s gotta keep you grounded.”

There’s a pause, it's long enough for the world to shrink to the table between you and the lingering heat of his gaze.

Jake leans forward, elbows on the table, close enough that your knees almost touch.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs.

“Doing what?”

“Making me feel like I’m not completely falling apart.”

You tilt your head, heart in your throat. “Maybe you’re not.”

For a second, neither of you speaks. The air between you pulls tight, something warm and steady growing in the silence.

And then because it’s Jake, he whispers, “Still not doing vectors.”

You burst out laughing, shoving his shoulder. “You're such an idiot.”

But your smile doesn’t fade, and neither does the look in his eyes.

You’re not sure when he stopped being the guy who always claimed the same library table. But lately, a small part of you wonders, if it's centripetal force that keeps things from flying apart...

Then maybe Jake Sim is your favorite kind of gravity.

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹presenting my highly requested jake fic. i’m so sorry it took longer than expected (just been in a terrible slump) but the banter between both characters just kept me going, and i couldn’t keep you lovelies waiting. let me know what you think!!

just a reminder that this piece of writing is from my imagination and does not represent the names mentioned.

PAIRING: park sunghoon x reader

GENRE: older brother’s friend, established relationship, fluff, skinship, teasing.

SYNOPSIS: When Jake drags you and Sunghoon to the ice rink, he’s determined to keep an eye on you two. But true to form — a literal walking disaster, he somehow ends up face-first on the frozen surface. As Jake attempts to recover, it’s the quiet moments between you and Sunghoon that make the sparks impossible to ignore.

Jake had one job. Just one.

He made it his mission to keep an eye on you and Sunghoon. But leave it to him to turn the simplest task into a full-on disaster.

The sharp crack of a push-along penguin collides with the ice. The sound snaps your attention away from the pink laces of your skates.

And there he is, the nation’s natural walking disaster, arms flailing wildly, knees buckling, and his whole body tilted at an angle that absolutely screams this is going to end badly. A yell of horror bursts from his mouth, dramatic and doomed as he full-body slams into the rink barriers.

He hits the ice with all the grace of a collapsing lawn chair, now sprawled along the edge of the rink, muttering something about a “total backstab from the ice gods.”

You blink. Then sigh.

What was he even thinking? Seriously? Who steps onto the ice like that? With zero coordination. No warm-up. No plan. Just blind faith and vibes.

What an idiot.

Jake’s left skate twitches. It's just as traumatised as he is. His face twists into a painfully awkward grimace, as if he's stepped on a Lego. He weakly throws a thumbs-up, like a man trying to convince the world (and himself) that nothing about this moment is humiliating.

Hand clasped over your mouth, you’re stifling in a chuckle which earns you a look that’s part betrayal, part plea for help. As if it’s your fault gravity has it out for him today.

“Should’ve stayed off the ice, genius,” you tease, glancing back at Sunghoon who’s effortlessly executing a perfect spin.

Jake frowns, wobbling as he tries to stand with all the determination of someone who’s clearly lost the battle already.

“Did I ask for your commentary?”

“I’m just doing my job” you say, hands raised in mock defence, watching him trip over his own feet... again.

Jake winces, rubbing his elbow as he tries to sit up, but before he can say anything, Sunghoon’s gliding over effortlessly, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He comes to a smooth stop beside Jake’s sprawled form.

He leans down, offering a hand with a growing grin. “You alright? Or should we call for penguin-shaped medical assistance?”

Jake glares up at him like a wounded animal, dignity scraped raw along with his knees, before taking the offered hand wearily.

“I knew coming here with the two of you was a mistake. One’s an Olympic hopeful, the other’s a traitor.”

But that's just typical Jake, dragging you both here just to have front-row seats to his chaos.

“I’m not a traitor” you remark “Just an honest observer of natural disasters.”

“Disaster? Please. I was being avant-garde.”

“You were being uncoordinated,” Sunghoon laughs whilst brushing ice off Jake’s jacket. A sound so smooth, it almost makes you forget your brother nearly cracked his skull open.

Jake's scowling, clearly defeated but not willing to admit it. You can’t help but grin at the easy dynamic between them. The teasing, the banter, the subtle care beneath it all.

His hands move carefully over the fabric, but his eyes keep drifting to you. In a bright yet steady way like he's memorising every little detail about you.

You feel his gaze on you, warmth creeping up your neck, eyes now shifting to your skates.

Oh no. Your heart skips a beat or maybe two. It's like you've forgotten how to breathe. When you finally manage to look up, he's still watching you with a quiet amusement dancing in his eyes

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Jake is still half-covered in frost, groans. "Oh my god. Can we not flirt over my frozen corpse?”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who thinks sticky notes are a foolproof flirting method.” you blurt, pressing your scarf to your cheeks, hoping he won’t notice how red you’ve gone.

Jake’s eyes widen at your words, and for a split second, he forgets all about his bruised pride and the ice that’s still slowly melting into his clothes. He looks absolutely scandalized as if you’ve just announced his darkest secret to the entire rink.

“Sticky notes,” he scoffs, though there's a slight edge of embarrassment creeping into his voice.

“You’re exaggerating. It was a unique method. And highly effective— but you're no longer listening to his “unique” techniques.

Instead your eyes are flickering to Sunghoon who’s pretending to be totally absorbed in adjusting his gloves. His lips twitch in amusement. Then his eyes find yours, confident and mischievous before he looks away. It's like he's fully aware of the effect he has on you.

Jake’s eyebrow arches sharply as he catches the subtle exchange, his tangent momentarily forgotten. “What’s with the secret staring contest?” he asks, voice sounding half-amused, half-baffled.

You shrug, face still warm “Nothing.”

Jake’s grin widens like he’s just uncovered a treasure trove of scandals. “Uh-huh. Sure. Nothing.”

You can’t help but let out a soft groan, pressing your fingers to your forehead. In a half-hearted attempt to shield your growing embarrassment but Jake’s eyes are practically twinkling now. There's absolutely no way to talk your way out of this one. Sunghoon’s laughter is low, warm, and dangerously close to being too perfect for the moment. You almost can’t decide if it's charming or frustrating at this point.

“Seriously, you two are like this close to turning into a rom-com plot,” Jake teases, wiggling his fingers between you and Sunghoon. 

His grin widens as he watches you squirm, clearly enjoying every second of this. He knows exactly what he's doing, and he’s definitely aware of the subtle tension between you and Sunghoon. After all, he’s your older brother—he would catch on.

You roll your eyes, mentally bracing for the inevitable "Jake, I swear—" but he cuts you off.

“Alright, alright, I’ll give it a break. I won’t push it... for now.” He takes a step back but not without giving you one last look that says he knows.

“Remember, I’m watching you,” Jake says, eyeing you both suspiciously “No funny business. Keep it PG.”

And just when you think he's leaving towards the bleachers he turns to Sunghoon "I saw that smile. You’re a guilty man.”

And now Jake’s somewhere behind you, perched on a bench. Possibly muttering about unspeakable betrayals” and “obvious romantic tension,” or maybe even inventing some new swear words for ice.

The rink feels quieter now as the chaos from earlier dims to a gentle hum of laughter and the soft scrape of blades against ice. You feel it before you hear it. The shift in the air, a presence that’s almost tangible.

When you glance over your shoulder, Sunghoon’s there, trailing ahead with the same smooth ease as always. His movements are fluid like water.

"Still alive?" he calls back

You bite back a smile. “Barely” you mutter, biting your lip. “If I fall, you’re carrying me out.”

He waits a few feet ahead as you make your way over to him. He reaches for your hands, warm and steady. The contact is electric, yet somehow grounding.

Your heart's stuttering again but he doesn't rush, doesn't grip too hard. It's just gentle and there’s an undeniable certainty in it.

“You’re bending your knees too much” he murmurs, voice low.

“I’m trying not to faceplant.”

“You won’t.” His fingers tighten lightly around yours, guiding with quiet assurance “You’ve got me.”

“Real smooth,” you whisper. He flashes you a grin, full of boyish charm and it makes your chest flutter.

He continues guiding you across the ice then stops gracefully near the edge of the rink. Leaving you both suspended in that small perfect moment of trust.

You're really looking at him now. Has he always been this beautiful? The curve of his jaw, moles scattered on his face like stars and that illegal dimple taunts you every time he smiles.

He glances back at you and for a moment, his confident grin falters. He's realised just how close you've been standing. With shyness washing over him, he tilts his head down.

“So.. was this a lesson?” you ask, your head leaning against your shoulder, an attempt to meet his shy eyes. Now you’re tugging at his hand that's lightly clasped in yours.

He exhales a small chuckle, before admitting honestly “Mm. A very hands-on one.”

“You just wanted an excuse to touch me,” you tease, trying to sound casual, but failing.

He shrugs, that familiar smile greeting you. “Guilty.”

“Jake’s gonna murder you.”

“Jake can barely walk.” he mumbles, fingers tracing light, teasing patterns over the back of your hand.

You glance at Jake who's still glued to the bench, shooting daggers at the both of you.

Sunghoon leans in close, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. "Just wait till we leave," he begins. "I’ve got more lessons for you."

Jake mouths from behind the glass "Can you two not?" as he dramatically mimes a gag."

Sunghoon flashes you a sly smile "Let’s go before he faints from secondhand embarrassment."

And with that, he's leading you effortlessly. The rink, the chaos, and everything else fades leaving only that warm feeling of his hand in yours.

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹ ahhh i’ve finally finished my exams :) i’m really excited to share this fic with y’all. happy reading <3 hehe sulky jake and charming hoon. i know this piece isn't perfect but it's all about growth! i hope to bring more fics for y’all ;)

make sure to check out the the bonus chapter here and the prequel - sugar talk (jake's fic!!)

just a reminder that this piece of writing is from my imagination and does not represent the names mentioned.

PAIRING: park jongseong x reader

GENRE: contemporary romance, dual timelines, drama, mystery, forbidden love, slow burn, tension.

SYNOPSIS: Your late grandmother left you her hanok in Seoul's Jongno District, a quiet place made for healing— yet the silence holds secrets.

Tucked away in the attic, you discover a dusty box full of letters — fragments of a forbidden love and the initials of a man you'll never meet.

His great-grandson, Park Jay is a man wrapped in power, restraint and family traditions. When your paths collide, the past begins to unravel — and so does your heart.

Some love stories refuse to stay buried whilst others demand to be finished.

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹ this idea came about other day, when i found some old letters i wrote to myself and i found the whole experience really reflective. i just wanted to add some mystery into this one hehe. jay’s smile is so endearing omg.

PAIRING: kim sunoo x reader

GENRE: contemporary romance, idol au, slice of life, drama, fluff, skinship, teasing, forbidden love, first meetings, strangers to lovers.

SYNOPSIS: You met Kim Sunoo once at Terminal Two. Not in the way love stories usually begin, but in the way real ones do — rushed, accidental, yet unforgettable.  He was just another boy lost in the blur of arrival boards and security lines.

Until he wasn’t.

It was the panic in his eyes, the mask half-hiding a face the world recognised — pulling him into a quiet corner, away from the crowd, the chaos, and the cameras. That day, he wasn’t an idol — he was just someone trying to disappear into the crowd. You helped him without a word — no names exchanged, just a quiet kindness.

Years passed. Life moved on. But Seoul brought him back to you — not under departures this time, but beneath the hum of a convenience store light, looking at you like he remembered. 

And though neither of you boarded that flight together, something stayed suspended in that sacred stillness of the terminal.

Fate has drawn you back to the same place. Maybe this time, he won’t disappear.

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹ so i read somewhere that sunoo is the most mature member, so i wanted to bring a piece that can reflect a different side of our ddeonu <3 sorry y’all the synopsis is so long :( also - desire:unleash is so good!! my favourites are helium and too close :)

PAIRING: lee heeseung x reader

GENRE: coworkers, workplace romance, slow burn, coming of age, fluff.

SYNOPSIS: You weren’t looking for romance — especially not at work. That was, until Lee Heeseung transferred departments three weeks ago. As you stumble across an old, forgotten checklist — the ‘dream boyfriend’ list from high school, written in sparkly pink ink and teenage delusion — you realise he checks more boxes than you’d like to admit.

Late-night memes, the shared sandwiches, or even the way your name lingers on his lips. You’re not falling for him. Definitely not. Right?

But maybe love isn’t about ticking off traits on a list.

Maybe it’s not about who you wanted, but who shows up when you least expect it.

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹ heeseung’s fic is finally here. this one will be super cute!! congrats to our seven for winning their second daesang <3 who’s super excited for their comeback? cause I know I am ;)

PAIRING: sim jaeyun x reader

GENRE: study partners, friends, fluff, teasing.

SYNOPSIS: Jake should’ve started studying a week ago. Now, it’s past midnight, the coffee’s gone cold and his brain’s officially on strike.

Without thinking, he scribbles on a pale yellow sticky note, ‘Here’s a study hack: Teach the content to an imaginary friend. Bonus points if they have a funny voice’

You’re smiling — and now he’s starting to think studying with you might be the best distraction finals week has to offer. Sour candy and coffee, sticky notes and bad jokes — who knew surviving finals week would be this sweet?

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹ finals are so soon (really not excited for it tbh) this is dedicated for those whose finals are coming up, here’s your slice of fun! ugh jake is such a cutie ngl <3