:D

“If you say so.” You hated when he did this, when he made you feel special. It was horrible, the worst trick of all, mainly because he had no idea what he was doing to you. “I have to bring your mother these ingredients.” 

“Allow me to accompany you.” 

Your cheeks felt hot, and you shook your head, flustered yet again by his chivalrous behavior. “That’s not necessary.” 

“I insist.” He took the basket out of your arms, beckoning you to follow after him. “My mother would have my head if she saw a lady carrying such a load, let alone her favorite lady.” 

“Loki.” You scolded, reaching out to take the basket back. “I am not a lady.” 

“This again.” He sighed. “You are quite stubborn.” 

“You’re one to talk.” You laughed, cowering under the judgmental looks of the nobility you passed.

“Must you deny me this one kind act?” 

“It is not proper-” 

“You must be the only servant who complains when someone helps you.”

“I take pride in my work, Loki.” 

“An admirable quality.” The guards in front of his mother’s suite bowed their heads, opening the doors. “Still, you are stubborn.” 

“Loki-” You scowled, curtsying before the queen. “Your Majesty, the ingredients you requested.” 

“Thank you, my dear.”

Frigga was the very picture of elegance. Not only was she elegant, but she was also kind to everyone regardless of rank. You had no issue carrying out trivial tasks for the queen, because the queen never treated you as lesser than; she treated you as she would treat her own sons. “Did you have any trouble?” 

“Not at all, my lady.” 

“Mother.” Loki approached the golden-haired woman, kissing her cheek. “Tell your lady she must not bow when she greets you.” 

“Loki!” You gasped, turning to Frigga like you had been the one to say it. “My lady, I would never-” 

“Must you tease the girl so?” Frigga chastised her son. 

“I am so sorry, my lady.” 

“Do not apologize, my son is a prankster, as we all know.” She smiled warmly, tucking a strand of hair behind Loki’s ear. “Among many other admirable qualities.” 

Loki grew shy under his mother’s affection, brushing off her compliments. “We must be going.” 

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow. 

“You wished to visit the library, yes?” 

“I never-” You tilted your head. “Have you developed mind-reading powers as well?” 

He shrugged, kissing his mother’s cheek once more before extending his hand. “Shall we?” 

You smacked his hand away, walking out of the queen’s room with Loki trailing behind you. “If you can read minds now, please refrain from reading mine.” He laughed, and you smacked his arm. “I mean it, Loki.” 

“I cannot read minds. Remember that we have been friends for quite some time now. I know you perhaps better than I know myself.” 

“Well, no wonder. You are such a mystery.” You teased. “The rakish, brooding prince. I am surprised some lady has not taken you into her clutches.” 

“You think me rakish?” He raised an eyebrow, holding the library door open. 

“One observes things.” You shrugged, gliding over to the fiction section, grabbing the first book that caught your eye. “It is not a bad trait, I assure you.” 

“If you say so.” He looked rather disappointed, plopping into his favorite leather chair. 

“You are also kind, considerate, even. Loyal to a fault.” Your hand found his, squeezing it. “You are many things, but most of all, you are a wonderful friend.” 

“Friend.” He huffed, face scrunched like the word left a bad taste in his mouth. 

“Are we not friends?” You sat back, hand pulling away from his. Oh, how you wished you could stay like that forever, his forever-cold hand intertwined with yours. 

“Yes, we are.” He almost sounded disappointed. You decided not to dwell on it, immersing yourself in the novel. Loki simply stared, admiring your beauty, the way your eyes scanned the page, the way you smiled to yourself, the way your eyebrows furrowed. 

“You wear your heart on your sleeve.” He murmured.

Your eyes did not leave the page. “Oh?” 

“It is quite-” He stopped himself. “It is quite humorous.” 

“If it is so amusing, then by all means, keep staring.” You teased. You were used to this, the staring, the intense gaze Loki held. He loved to watch people, to observe those around him. At first, you had found it quite overwhelming, especially when you looked up to find him already staring at you. His eyes were beautiful, dangerous as they pulled you in. You shook your head, fighting against your imagination.

“My prince.” You looked up, fighting the urge to groan as the nuisance that was the Lady Ness approached. “I thought I would find you here.” 

Loki looked entirely unenthused, but still entertained the woman. “Hello, my lady.” 

The Lady Ness was the eldest daughter of one of Odin’s closest advisors. She was what Asgardians considered to be the perfect beauty, with blonde hair bordering on white, and beautiful pale blue eyes. She was tall, the very picture of royalty. 

Which is what she desperately wanted to be. She had followed the two princes around since you were children, treating them as if they were idols, gods even. 

They were, but still. It became tiresome. 

She had her sights set on Thor for eons, but after she learned of his undying love for the Lady Jane, she gave up, switching her sights to Loki. 

There was nothing the younger prince hated more than being the second choice. 

There was nothing you hated more than the Lady Ness suddenly finding interest in a man you’d loved since age five. You did not attempt to acknowledge the woman, simply looking back down at your book. It was hard to focus, though, with her constant chattering. 

“Will I see you at the Summer Solstice Ball, my prince?” 

Loki’s gaze fell back to you before responding. “You will indeed.” 

“How wonderful. I do love dancing.” You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Do you enjoy dancing, my prince?” 

“With the right lady.” He nodded. “I do.” 

“Shall I reserve a place for you on my card?” Your hold on the book tightened. “It would be an immense honor.” A scoff fell from your lips, and your eyes widened. You had meant for that to be in your head. 

Loki smiled. “I’m afraid I-” 

“Is something the matter?” The Lady Ness interrupted, staring at you. “Have I done something to amuse you?” 

You looked up, shaking your head. “No, my lady.” 

“Now you remember your manners.” The Lady Ness raised an eyebrow. You simply stared back, your face blank. “When I entered the room, you did not curtsy. Are you manners selective?” 

You shut your book, standing up. “You seem rather concerned with my manners. How observant you must be.” The lady proudly nodded. “Allow me to explain, I bow to royalty.” You gestured to Loki before gesturing to her. “Not some common lady with an aptitude for mistreating servants.”

“Why I-” She gasped, stumbling over her words. You made a point to be over the top in your curtsy to the prince, before promptly walking out of the room.

You angrily picked bunches of moss from the forest floor, ripping it from the ground as if it had wronged you.

The Lady Ness annoyed you to no end, with her flirting and her flowy gowns and her touching Loki's arm. It was as if she did it on purpose, as if she amplified her flirting when you were there, like she was trying to tell you he was hers, that you could never have him. 

You already knew that, no thanks to her. It was something that kept you up into the late hours of the night, the ‘what-ifs’ haunting you even in sleep. 

If you were of some higher standing, you would have smacked her long ago. Unfortunately, you could only verbally attack her. 

“Are you quite well?” Loki’s voice broke you from your thoughts. “You did not stop when I called after you yesterday.” 

“I cannot stand her.” You complained. “She-she is without a doubt-” 

He looked rather amused at your ranting, hands clasped behind his back, his ever-familiar smirk gracing his lips. “I am sorry.” 

“Why should you be sorry?” You laughed bitterly. “I’m sure she will mellow with age.” 

“Mellow with age?” He raised an eyebrow.

You nodded, going back to your gathering. “Odin must be rather pleased with this match.” 

“Match?” It seemed as if Loki was stuck on repeat, parroting you with confusion etched in his tone. 

“Between you and Lady Ness.” You grumbled, brushing the dirt off your skirt as you stood. “I’m certain he has arranged for her to be your lady wife.” 

“I’m sorry?”

You walked further into the wood, Loki following after you. “She will be a great wife, I’m sure. She seems intelligent enough and could bring you company. Your children-” Your voice broke, and you felt your cheeks grow hot. “They will be menaces, but what child isn’t? I’m sure they will grow out of it, as she will grow out of her rather annoying attributes.” You pulled out your knife, cutting off a section of tree bark, your mind clouded with rage. “She will bring you happiness. I’m excited for you, truly-” You hissed, the knife falling out of your hand as you stared at the stream of blood that ran down your palm. “Ow.” 

Loki raced over, taking your hand in his as he observed the wound. “You were being careless.” 

“I was not.” Your eyes welled, the pain finally taking hold. “It is just a cut.” 

“You are practically crying.” He frowned. “You must be careful.” 

“I-” He waved his hand over your injury, the pain subsiding, the cut healing itself. You watched in fascination, the wound glowing green for a mere moment before dissapearing entirely. “How did you-” 

“Growing up with Thor meant I had to be prepared for anything.” He smiled, his fingers gently tracing over the once bloody finger. “Does it hurt?” 

You shook your head, voice quiet. “It’s like it never even existed.” 

“Good.” He looked up, his breath shaky when he met your gaze. “You frightened me.” 

“You worry too much.” You hadn’t meant to, truly, but your eyes fell to his lips, heart racing. “I’m sorry.” 

His hand found its way to your waist, pulling you close. You gasped, glaring as a smirk grew on the prince’s lips. “Whatever for, my lady?” 

“I didn’t mean to-” You swallowed. “I did not mean to insult the Lady-” 

“Please, do not speak her name any longer.” He groaned. “She is as tiresome as she is wealthy.”

“She is to be your lady wife, is she not?” You murmured, his hand that had once cradled your injured hand now holding your cheek. “She is quite the match.” 

He laughed. “I’m sure she will make some unlucky man rather miserable.” 

“Loki-” 

“If I have any say-” He whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips momentarily. “I will marry for love, not because my father made some strategic alliance. She is not for me, I assure you.” 

“You-” Loki now had your back against the tree, practically pinning you in position. His forehead lay against yours, your breath entwined with his. “You have some other lucky lady in mind?” 

He nodded. “I do.” 

“Oh?” The reality of the situation hit you like Mjolnir hit its enemies. Hard and true, you accepted that you might just kiss the man you’d loved since before you could remember. “Do I know her?” 

He nodded once more, his lips so close they brushed against yours as he spoke. “I believe so-” 

“Brother!” Your eyes widened, and you pushed Loki away, cheeks hot as you forced yourself to look as inconspicuous as possible. Thor’s voice rang through the wood. “Brother, where are you?” 

“I-” Loki stuttered, hand reaching out to hold you once more. “Just wait one moment-” 

“Ah!” Thor’s golden hair came into view, the god haphazardly destroying the forest floor. “My lady, it is wonderful to see you!” 

You curtsied, your heart and mind still racing from the moment before. “My prince. I was just leaving.” You couldn’t meet Loki’s eyes, simply nodding. “Loki.” 

You raced toward the castle, forgetting your basket full of ingredients. 

Loki would bring them to his mother later. 

“Have I interrupted something?” Thor’s voice held a certain sort of mischeif that made Loki feel uneasy. “It seems as if I caught the pair of you in a rather intimate moment.” 

“I-” Loki could not find the words, something that pleased Thor greatly. 

“The great trickster is speechless?” He grinned, patting his little brother on the back. “Oh, Loki, why did you not say something?” 

“Like you said. You interrupted.” He was practically glowering, glaring at his brother like it was his life’s purpose. “I-I had almost-” 

“Do you want my advice, brother?” Loki continued to glare at him, fighting the urge to stab the golden-haired imbecile in the gut. “You must do something. Be brave, show her you care.” 

“I was doing that!” Loki yelled. “You have the worst timing in the world-” 

“Calm down, brother.” Thor laughed. “When I first met the Lady Jane-” Oh gods, Loki thought as he rolled his eyes. Once Thor began to talk about Jane, he tended to never stop. “She was rather intimidating, smart, and beautiful. But after I showed her my interest, my-” 

Loki walked away, fists clenched tightly as Thor continued, following after him. 

You hadn’t seen Loki in days. 

You had gone to Frigga’s chambers after the incident, to apologize for leaving the ingredients behind, when you saw Loki just outside her door, the basket in hand. 

After that, you’d gone out of your way to avoid him. 

It was childish, you knew that, but you couldn’t look at him without transforming into a blabbering mess. You purposely did your chores outside of the castle grounds so he could not follow you or surprise you. 

Your room was deep in the ground, chilly from its lack of sunlight and candles. You hadn’t minded before, but now that you were in your self-prescribed isolation, you couldn’t help but wish you had a prettier view. 

Just when you thought you’d forgotten, that you’d gotten over your momentary lapse in judgment, it all came rushing back. His hand cradling your cheeks, his lips brushing against yours, his fingertips digging into your hip. A chill ran down your spine, and you shook your head as if that would rid you of the scandalous thoughts. 

He was simply being kind, caring for you as you had cared for him.

A handmaiden walked into your room unannounced, gently placing a large box on your simple vanity. You jumped when you saw her. “I did not see you.” 

The handmaiden, one of Frigga’s, no doubt, smiled kindly. “I gathered. I was tasked with ensuring you received this package, and was told you must wear it to the Summer Solstice Ball.” 

“Wear it?” You tilted your head, rising from your bed to inspect the gift. “Is it a gown?” 

“It is indeed, my lady.” 

So this had been Loki’s doing.

“You must not call me that.” You smiled. “I am no lady.” 

The handmaiden shrugged, glancing over your shoulder curiously as you pulled apart the forest green ribbon that held together the wrappings. “It seems to me that you shall be soon.” 

“What-” You choked, shaking your head vehemently. “I- that is-” 

“I will take my leave.” She bowed quickly, shutting the door behind her.  You cursed the god of Mischief, vowing that when you were done ignoring him, you would scold him for his antics. The wrappings fell away, your eyes welling as you stared at the gown.

After all these years, all this time, he never forgot a single thing you told him, and this gown was proof. It was exactly what you’d described to him two thousand years ago. 

You’d been young then, much more naive than now. You and Loki were lounging in the gardens, watching the nobility walk by in their dreamy attire. You sighed, staring down at your robes in embarrassment. “Could you conjure me something?” 

“I can try.” Loki nodded, placing his book down beside him. “What is it you wish for?” 

“A nicer dress.” You were jealous of their beauty, your simple frock nothing compared to their silky pastel gowns. 

“I-” He frowned. “I am sorry. My powers are not-” 

You shook your head. “Forget I said anything.” 

He nodded, watching you with interest. “What would it look like, your dream gown?” 

It would look like this. The gown that he’d sent you, which now hung delicately in your closet, two thousand years later. 

You could hear the roar of the partygoers from the end of the hall, your nerves growing more and more the closer you got. You thanked the gods that this was not the kind of ball where attendees were announced, as you would surely faint from the judgmental eyes that fell on you. 

The ballroom glowed bright golden, the light the candles provided reflecting off the pure gold walls. Your jaw hung loose, taking in the decorations, the people, the fashion. Your eyes fell to the bottom of the stairs, cheeks growing hot when you met Loki’s gaze. 

He was standing by the Lady Ness, who looked livid that you had torn his attention from her. 

You couldn’t find it in you to care, not when he was looking at you like that. His smile was bright, and he looked devilishly handsome in his forest green attire, walking up the steps. 

You took a deep breath, meeting him in the middle. “My prince.” 

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He spoke plainly, as if it were fact. Technically, it was.

“I-”

“Do not try and deny it.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?” 

You gladly complied with his request, cheeks growing hot, from the attention or Loki’s gaze, you couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was both. “You remembered.” You looked over, finding satisfaction in the way your words had caused Loki to turn red. “I can’t believe you remembered.” 

He shrugged like what he’d done wasn’t the most romantic thing you’d ever experienced. “Only the best for-” 

“My prince.” You clenched your fist when Lady Ness’s grating voice met your ears, turning toward the enemy. “I lost you for a moment.” 

Loki laughed. “Yes, you did.” His hand tightened, pulling you closer to his side as if to signal he was occupied. You had felt it was rather obvious, but Lady Ness had a history of feigning ignorance to blatantly obvious rejections. 

“Shall we dance?” Lady Ness’s steely blue eyes darted toward you, as if she were trying to scare you off. You were not deterred by her weak attempt at intimidation, your hand still comfortably held in Loki’s. “You did promise me.” 

He tilted his head. “Did I?” 

You laughed, your hand falling to your side. “It is but one dance.” The Lady Ness let out a gasp that neither of you acknowledged. “I’m quite parched anyhow.” 

He nodded. “As you wish.” 

The Lady Ness looked entirely displeased at his actions, especially over the phrase ‘as you wish,’ which had been directed toward you, and not her request. You made your way to the drinks, taking a flute of champagne as you found your place in the corner of the room. Leaning against the column, you glared as Lady Ness cackled, downing the flute in one go. 

Loki had not planned for this to happen. 

He had planned for you to receive the dress, to escort you down the steps. He had also planned to confess his undying love for you, but Lady Ness once again interrupted.

She had the most inconvenient timing. 

He led her to the middle of the dance floor, putting as much distance as possible. The Lady Ness kept laughing, which he found odd, as he had not said a single thing since the dance had begun. He kept looking around the edge of the room, searching for your familiar frame. 

Ah. 

You looked radiant. Positively glowing. He’d always loved you in that color. If he was being honest with himself, he loved you in every color. He frowned, watching as you chewed your nails, something you had the habit of doing when you were anxious. 

“My prince?” The Lady Ness called out as he walked away from her in the middle of the dance floor, stalking toward you, the crowd parting as he walked. 

“Dance with me.” 

You jumped, clutching your heart. “Gods, Loki, you scared me.” You guiltily looked at your fingers before meeting his gaze. “I-” 

He waved his hand, all the rips you’d made in your delicate skin gone in an instant. “Dance with me.” 

“Loki.” You looked over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sobbing lady he’d left in the middle of the floor. “Have you gone mad?” 

“Possibly.” 

“You cannot just leave her in the middle of the floor.” You leaned closer, whispering so the many eavesdropping ears around you could not hear. “Even if she is quite annoying.” 

“I am the prince. I can do as I wish.” 

You rolled your eyes at his comment. “You-” It seemed he took your lack of rejection as a yes, holding your hand firmly in his as he pulled you to the middle of the dance floor, the light waltz playing in the background. “You are the most indignant, prideful, scheming man I have ever known.” 

He smiled, a squeak leaving your lips when he pulled you much closer than a waltz called for. “Tell me what else I am.” 

“You-” You gulped, growing nervous under his ever attentive eye. “You are-” 

“It seems you are at a loss for words.” He whispered in your ear, a chill running down your spine from the proximity of it all. “Is that a recent development, my lady?” 

“You are arrogant.” You hissed. 

He grinned. “I am.” 

“You are marvelous.” 

“I am.” His reaction was delayed, caught off guard by your sudden compliment. 

“It seems you are at a loss for words.” You parroted his words from just a moment ago. “Is that a recent development, my prince?” 

“You are a wonder.” He held your gaze so beautifully that any innocent bystander would assume you were both deeply in love. “You look divine, a goddess in your own right.” 

“Loki.” You felt as if you could melt, the music slowing to a stop before you could respond. The crowd around you clapped wildly, obviously invested in the show you two had put on. 

Loki bowed, his brother catching his gaze. Thor was practically jumping, mouthing the words he had said days before. 

Be brave.

It was so unfortunate when his brother was right. You stood upright, following Loki’s gaze to see Thor grinning like a buffoon. “What is he-” 

Loki’s hands grabbed your face, pulling your lips to his. Your eyes widened at the action, weak from his touch. Your hands found their way around his neck, pulling him closer. He grinned, a hand falling to your hips, squeezing.

You gasped, your knees weakening. “Loki-” 

“Is all that you can say my name?” He whispered, his forehead once again lying against yours.

“You are a-” He leaned down, kissing your lips once more.

“I love you…” His breath was heavy, pupils blown as he stared at you. “Most ardently.” 

A tear fell down your cheek, and you grinned. “Most ardently?” 

He nodded, voice wavering. “I assume you love me as well?” 

“I do.” You kissed the corner of his mouth softly, so softly he had barely felt it. “With my whole being."

taglist: @milesdrift @eddiemunsons-lover @maryjaneeeee

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. . .

By eleven-thirty, Y/N had wiped down every table in the diner twice.

The chairs were flipped upside down over the booths and tables, the coffee machines had been cleaned, and the neon OPEN sign in the front window had been switched off nearly an hour ago. Outside, the empty highway stretched through the desert in both directions, illuminated only by the occasional passing headlights and the pale glow of the moon.

It was the kind of road people used to get somewhere else.

Few ever stopped unless they needed gas, coffee, or a bathroom.

Y/N had been working at the diner long enough to recognize the different types of travelers who came through: exhausted truck drivers, families with screaming children, couples who had clearly been arguing for the past fifty miles and college students attempting road trips in cars that looked one pothole away from collapsing.

Tonight had been unusually quiet.

Her manager had left shortly after closing, trusting Y/N to finish counting the register and lock up. The cook had disappeared through the back door ten minutes after that, leaving behind a cloud of cigarette smoke and a reminder not to forget the lights over the grill.

Now the diner belonged entirely to her.

She had claimed the booth nearest the counter, one leg tucked beneath her as she stared at the open laptop in front of her. A half-finished cup of coffee sat beside it, cold enough that the thin layer of creamer on top had begun to separate.

Three paragraphs remained between her and freedom.

Technically, five pages remained between her and freedom, but she had decided not to think about that.

Y/N leaned closer to the screen, squinting at the sentence she had rewritten four separate times.

The significance of—

She deleted it.

The historical importance of—

Delete.

“This is stupid,” she muttered.

Her professor had given the class two weeks to complete the assignment. Naturally, Y/N had spent thirteen days thinking about starting it and was now attempting to finish the entire thing during closing shifts at the diner.

The cursor blinked mockingly at her.

Y/N reached for her coffee, took one sip, and immediately grimaced.

“Disgusting.”

She drank it again anyway.

A faint rumble rolled somewhere in the distance.

At first, she assumed it was thunder.

The monsoon clouds had been gathering along the horizon since sunset, though they had yet to offer anything beyond a few flashes of lightning and enough humidity to make her hair cling to the back of her neck.

Y/N returned her attention to the laptop.

The significance of Norse mythology—

A blinding streak of light flashed past the diner windows.

She barely had time to lift her head before something struck the earth outside with a tremendous crash.

The windows rattled in their frames.

Silverware clattered inside its plastic trays. Her coffee tipped over, spreading across the table and soaking the corner of her notebook.

Y/N jumped from the booth with a sharp cry.

“What the hell?”

The lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then steadied.

Y/N remained frozen beside the booth, staring through the darkened windows.

For several seconds, there was nothing.

No second impact. No explosion. No vehicle skidding across the pavement.

Only silence.

The coffee continued dripping from the edge of the table and onto the floor.

Y/N slowly closed her laptop before the spreading liquid could reach it. Her pulse beat hard against her throat as she stepped away from the booth.

Maybe a transformer had blown.

Except the diner still had power.

Maybe someone had crashed nearby.

That possibility forced her feet into motion.

She hurried behind the counter and crouched, reaching beneath the register until her fingers closed around the wooden baseball bat her manager kept there.

He had claimed it was for protection.

Y/N had always thought it was more likely to get them sued.

Tonight, however, the weight of it in her hands felt reassuring.

She moved toward the front door and stopped with her fingers wrapped around the lock.

Calling the police would be the sensible thing to do.

She pulled her phone from the pocket of her apron.

No Service.

“Of course.”

She raised it over her head as though six additional inches might convince the nearest tower to acknowledge her existence.

Nothing.

The diner sat in one of those inconvenient dead zones where calls only went through if someone stood near the old vending machines outside and held their phone at exactly the right angle.

Y/N considered remaining inside.

Whatever had happened could wait until she found service.

Then she imagined someone trapped inside a wrecked car while she stood ten yards away debating whether it was safe to investigate.

She swore softly and unlocked the door.

Hot desert air rushed inside.

Y/N tightened both hands around the bat as she stepped into the parking lot. Gravel crunched beneath her sneakers. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, attracting moths and small flying insects that threw shifting shadows across the asphalt.

“Hello?”

No answer.

She looked toward the highway.

The road was empty.

There were no headlights, no tire marks and no wreckage scattered across the pavement. Whatever had caused the impact had come from somewhere else.

Y/N’s eyes shifted toward the stretch of desert behind the diner.

A faint haze of dust hung over the ground.

Beyond the last row of parking spaces, something had carved a shallow trench through the sand and scattered rocks in every direction. Sparse bushes had been flattened along its path.

Y/N stared at it.

“Nope.”

She took one step backward.

Then she heard it.

A low, strained sound coming from somewhere beyond the edge of the parking lot.

It might have been a groan.

The bat lowered slightly in her hands.

“Hello?”

Still no response.

Y/N approached the disturbed ground with careful steps. The diner lights grew dimmer behind her as she followed the shallow trench into the darkness.

Her sneakers sank into the loose sand.

At the end of the trail, a dark shape lay crumpled between two desert shrubs.

Y/N stopped.

It was a person.

A man, she realized as she moved closer. He lay facedown in the sand with one arm bent unnaturally beneath him and long black hair obscuring most of his face.

His clothing caught the moonlight in brief flashes of green, black and gold.

Not clothing, exactly.

Armor.

Y/N’s grip tightened around the baseball bat.

For one absurd moment, she wondered whether the nearby Renaissance festival had started early.

Then she saw the blood.

It stained the side of his face and soaked through torn fabric beneath the metal plating around his shoulders. One of his hands was scraped raw, his fingers still curled as though they had been holding something moments before.

The bat slipped lower.

“Oh, shit.”

Y/N hurried the remaining distance and dropped to her knees beside him.

“Hey.”

She placed the bat within reach and cautiously touched two fingers to the side of his neck.

His skin was cold.

Not cool from the night air. Cold enough to make her instinctively pull her hand back.

Panic shot through her.

Then she felt it.

A pulse.

Slow, but present.

Y/N released a breath she had not realized she was holding.

“Okay. You’re alive.”

The stranger did not respond.

She leaned closer, watching for the movement of his back. His breathing was shallow and uneven, but he was breathing.

That was good.

Breathing meant not dead.

She could work with not dead.

Y/N pulled out her phone again and dialed 911 despite the empty bars in the corner of the screen.

The call immediately failed.

She stood and walked several paces away, raising the phone toward the sky.

“Come on. Come on.”

No service.

She tried closer to the diner.

Nothing.

Near the edge of the highway.

Still nothing.

Y/N looked back at the man lying motionless in the dirt.

The nearest hospital was at least forty minutes away. The nearest place she could reliably make a call was probably the gas station fifteen miles down the road.

She could drive there and call for help.

She could also return to find that he had stopped breathing while she was gone.

“Why did you have to land in the one place without a signal?” she demanded.

The unconscious man offered no explanation.

Y/N paced once across the gravel, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

She could not lift him.

Even from several feet away, she could tell he was tall. Lean, perhaps, but tall enough that attempting to carry him would end with both of them injured.

Dragging him across the sand would worsen whatever damage he had already suffered.

She stared at him, then at her car parked near the side of the diner.

An idea began to form.

It was not a good idea.

In fact, it was objectively one of the stupidest ideas she had ever entertained.

But it was technically an idea.

Y/N hurried toward her car and yanked open the back door. Fast-food wrappers, textbooks and an emergency sweatshirt occupied the seat. She pushed them aside before opening the trunk.

Her skateboard was buried beneath a reusable grocery bag and a case of bottled water.

She had not used it in months. The scratched deck was covered in faded stickers, and one of the wheels squeaked whenever it turned, but it remained mostly functional.

“Please don’t break,” she whispered, pulling it free.

Y/N carried the skateboard back across the parking lot and into the desert.

The stranger had not moved.

She placed the board beside him and crouched.

“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen.”

He remained unconscious.

“I’m going to get you into my car, drive until I have service and call an ambulance. You’re not going to wake up and murder me.”

Nothing.

Y/N nodded.

“Great. Glad we agree.”

She rolled him carefully onto his back.

His face turned toward her.

Y/N paused.

Despite the blood streaking his temple and the bruises beginning to darken beneath his pale skin, he was—

Well.

He was unfairly attractive.

His features were sharp and almost elegant, from the high curve of his cheekbones to the severe line of his nose. Dark lashes rested against his skin. His long hair spread across the sand around him.

Y/N stared for one second too long.

Then she caught herself.

“Not relevant.”

His armor was unlike anything she had ever seen up close. The gold pieces were scratched and bent, while the green fabric beneath them had been torn in several places. It did not look like plastic or cheap costume metal.

It looked real.

Heavy, too.

That explained part of the problem.

Y/N slid her hands beneath his shoulders and attempted to lift him.

His upper body rose perhaps two inches before her arms began to shake.

“Oh, come on.”

She lowered him again and repositioned the skateboard closer.

The first attempt ended with one of his arms sliding from the board and dropping limply into the sand.

The second ended when the board rolled away from her.

On the third attempt, Y/N wedged one foot behind a wheel, hooked both hands beneath his arms and pulled with everything she had.

His shoulders landed across the deck.

The rest of him did not.

Y/N dropped onto the sand beside him, breathing heavily.

“Fuck. You could’ve been shorter.”

The stranger remained serenely unhelpful.

She climbed back to her feet, grabbed him beneath the arms again and dragged him another few inches onto the board. His legs extended far beyond the end, boots scraping lines through the sand.

It was not dignified.

It was not medically advisable.

It was, however, progress.

Y/N stepped back and examined her work.

His torso rested across the skateboard while his arms hung over either side and his heels remained on the ground.

She pulled off her apron, threaded it beneath his arms and tied it loosely across his chest to keep him from rolling off.

“There.”

He looked like the world’s most elaborate piece of luggage.

Y/N grabbed the front of the skateboard and began pulling.

The wheels sank immediately into the sand.

She stopped.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Y/N moved behind the board and pushed instead. It rolled several inches before catching on a rock and nearly throwing the stranger sideways.

She lunged forward and caught his shoulder.

“Absolutely not. I did not do all this just for you to crack your head open again.”

She dragged the board around the rock and continued.

. . . 

Y/N unlocked the apartment with one hand while keeping one foot planted against the skateboard to stop it from rolling backward. Then she dragged him inside, kicked the door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Her living room was small.

A worn couch occupied one wall, facing a television balanced on a low wooden stand. Books and college papers covered the coffee table. A laundry basket sat abandoned near the hallway, half-filled with clean clothes she had not bothered folding.

It was not the setting in which one expected to receive a mysterious armored man.

It would have to do.

Getting him onto the couch took another ten minutes.

Once he was finally stretched across the cushions, Y/N stood over him with both hands braced against her lower back.

“There.”

He looked uncomfortable.

His legs extended beyond the armrest, and one of the metal pieces at his shoulder pressed awkwardly against his neck.

Y/N frowned.

The armor had to come off.

She hesitated.

Removing someone’s clothing without permission felt wrong. 

Leaving blood-soaked material pressed against open injuries also felt wrong.

She crouched beside him and examined the clasps.

“I’m only doing this because I don’t want you to die. Not to be a pervert.”

The armor did not appear designed for easy removal.

Each piece overlapped another, secured with unfamiliar fastenings and narrow strips of dark leather. Y/N began with the gold shoulder plates, testing every buckle until one finally released.

The metal was colder than it should have been.

She placed each piece carefully on the floor beside the coffee table. Beneath the outer armor, the fabric was torn and damp with blood. A long cut ran beneath his ribs, while smaller abrasions covered his shoulders and arms.

Y/N swallowed.

“Okay.”

She found scissors in the kitchen and cut through the fabric where it had stuck to the wounds. When she reached the fitted leather around his waist, she paused again.

There was no way to clean everything properly without removing the rest.

Y/N looked at his face.

His breathing remained steady.

“You’re unconscious,” she reasoned quietly. “This is medical.”

She pointed at him.

“And you do not get to be weird about this later.”

She worked as quickly and respectfully as she could, keeping her eyes on the injuries rather than the man beneath the clothing.

That became more difficult when she discovered he wore nothing beneath the final layer.

Y/N immediately grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and covered his lower half.

“Great.”

She stared at the ceiling for a moment.

“Of course.”

Once her face stopped burning, she returned to the task.

She cleaned the blood from his skin with warm water and the softest cloth she owned. His body was marked with bruises that had already darkened to deep shades of purple and blue, especially along his ribs and shoulders. None of his bones appeared obviously broken, though Y/N knew that meant very little.

His skin remained unnaturally cold.

She placed the back of her hand against his forehead.

No fever.

The opposite, if anything.

Y/N wrapped the worst cuts with gauze and secured the bandages with medical tape. She put antibiotic ointment on the shallower scrapes, covered the torn skin across his knuckles and cleaned the blood from his hairline.

At one point, his brow furrowed beneath her touch.

Y/N froze.

His eyes did not open.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

She finished the wound near his temple more gently.

Afterward, she washed his armor in the bathtub.

The water turned pink, then red, then gradually clear. Up close, the pieces looked even less like a costume. The metal was dense and beautifully worked, carved with patterns too intricate to have been manufactured cheaply. Even damaged, it seemed valuable enough to pay her rent for years.

Y/N left the armor to dry on towels across the bathroom floor.

The cloth and leather beneath it required more work.

Several seams had torn apart during his fall, and one sleeve had nearly separated from the shoulder. Y/N retrieved the small sewing kit she used to repair buttons and uniform hems, then sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch.

The material resisted an ordinary needle.

She broke one attempting to push it through the thicker section.

“You are extremely inconvenient,” she told him.

The stranger did not respond.

She eventually found a heavy needle in the back of the kit and used black thread to close the worst tears. Her stitches were not elegant, but they held. Where the fabric had been too badly damaged, she reinforced it from the inside with pieces cut from an old black shirt.

It took nearly two hours.

By the time she finished, her eyes ached and the sky beyond the windows had begun to lighten at the edges.

Y/N placed the repaired clothing with the rest of the armor in the bathroom. Then she returned to the couch.

The stranger had not moved.

The blanket still covered him from the waist down, though one side had slipped low enough to expose his hip.

Y/N quickly pulled it back into place.

“There. Modesty.”

She added a second blanket over his chest, partly because of how cold he felt and partly because she did not want to walk into the living room later and discover that the first one had fallen away entirely.

She left a glass of water on the coffee table and moved the baseball bat within easy reach of the armchair.

Only then did she allow herself to breathe.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Y/N checked the lock on the front door, then checked it again.

She did not think she could sleep.

Instead, she went into the kitchen and filled a kettle.

Tea seemed like something a normal person would make after finding an unconscious man in a crater.

Tea was calming.

Tea was harmless.

Tea did not ask why there was alien-looking armor drying in her bathroom.

Y/N leaned against the counter while the kettle heated, rubbing both hands over her face.

What was she going to do when he woke?

Ask his name.

Ask what happened.

Ask whether there was anyone she could call.

Then, depending on his answer, either drive him to the hospital or lock herself in the bathroom and climb out the window.

The kettle began to whistle.

She turned off the burner, poured the water over two tea bags and tried not to notice how badly her hands shook. One mug was for her. The other was for him, in case he woke and wanted something warm.

She had just added honey to the second cup when she heard movement in the living room.

A rustle of fabric.

Then silence.

Y/N went still.

The baseball bat was in the other room.

Excellent planning.

She reached for the largest kitchen knife instead.

A floorboard creaked.

Then another.

Slow footsteps approached the kitchen.

Y/N tightened her fingers around the handle.

A tall figure appeared in the doorway.

She looked up.

Her breath caught.

The stranger was awake.

He stood with one hand braced against the frame, dark hair falling loose around his shoulders. The bandage at his temple remained in place, though the one wrapped around his ribs had shifted slightly with his movement.

His eyes were sharp and startlingly green.

They swept across the kitchen in a single, assessing glance before settling on her.

He looked disoriented.

Not frightened.

Not confused in the helpless way she had expected.

He looked like an animal waking inside a trap and calculating how many people stood between him and the exit.

Y/N lowered the knife slightly.

“Hi.”

His gaze dropped to the blade.

Then returned to her face.

“Where am I?”

His voice was low and rough from disuse, but the words carried a precise, commanding weight that made her stand straighter without meaning to.

“My apartment.”

His expression hardened. “What realm?”

Y/N blinked. “New Mexico.”

His eyes narrowed.

“That was not my question.”

She stared at him. “Uh…Earth?”

A slight shift passed over his features.

“Midgard.”

He spoke the word as though confirming something unpleasant.

Y/N studied him more carefully.

He was pale and unsteady, but there was something unmistakably regal in the way he held himself. Even injured and wrapped in bandages, he looked as though he expected the room to accommodate his presence.

He took one step forward.

The movement drew her attention downward.

Y/N immediately turned toward the counter.

“Oh my God.”

The stranger stopped. “What?”

“You’re naked.”

Silence.

Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the tea.

Completely fixed.

She could still see him at the edge of her vision, which was far more than she wanted to see while attempting to have a conversation with him.

“You’re just—” She made a vague gesture with one hand. “You left the blanket.”

The stranger looked down at himself.

There was a pause.

Not embarrassment.

Merely acknowledgment. “As it would seem.”

Y/N glanced at him by accident.

Her gaze dropped.

She immediately snapped it back to his face and then away again.

“Could you please cover yourself?”

“Why?”

The question sounded genuine.

Y/N looked toward the ceiling.

“Because you’re standing naked in my kitchen.”

“I am aware.”

“You weren’t until I said something.”

His mouth tightened. “I was otherwise occupied.”

“With what?”

“Determining where I have been taken.”

“No one took you anywhere.”

His eyes sharpened. “You expect me to believe that I arrived here of my own will?”

“I found you outside my job.”

He watched her in silence.

“You were unconscious,” she continued. “In the desert. You were bleeding, and I couldn’t get service to call an ambulance, so I brought you here.”

She gestured toward the hallway without looking directly at him.

“Your clothes are in the bathroom.”

“My clothes?”

“The armor or whatever.”

His gaze moved over her face, searching for some indication of deception.

“You removed them.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed again. “They were covered in blood.”

“You disrobed me while I was insensible.”

“To clean your injuries.”

His expression became unreadable.

Y/N finally looked at his face.

Only his face.

“I covered you with a blanket.”

“Which appears to have been of greater concern to you than to me.”

“Yes, because I’m the one being traumatized right now.”

One of his eyebrows lifted.

The reaction was subtle, but unmistakably offended. “You speak boldly for one who claims not to be my captor.”

Y/N stared at him.

“You are naked, bleeding in my apartment and threatening me while butt-naked. I think we’re past formal introductions.”

The corner of his mouth shifted.

Not quite a smile.

More the distant memory of one.

It vanished before she could be certain.

“Where is the latrine?”

“Bathroom? Down the hall. First door on the left.”

He turned.

Y/N accidentally caught another glimpse of him from behind.

She spun back toward the counter so quickly that tea sloshed over the rim of her mug.

“And take the blanket with you!”

He paused in the doorway.

“What blanket?”

“The one on the floor in the living room.”

“I have no need of it.”

“I do.”

He looked over his shoulder at her.

For a moment, his eyes traveled across her face, taking in the flush in her cheeks and the determined way she refused to look below his shoulders.

Something knowing entered his expression.

“You are embarrassed.”

“I’m trying to be respectful.”

“An unusual concern, considering you have already seen me.”

Y/N’s mouth fell open. “For medical reasons.”

“So you claim.”

“I saved your life.”

“That remains to be determined.”

She turned fully toward him then, irritation momentarily overpowering embarrassment.

“You know what? Fine. Walk around naked. I don’t care.”

His eyes flicked downward briefly, following the line of her gaze before it shot back to his face.

“No,” he said softly. “I can see that.”

Y/N grabbed a dish towel and threw it at him.

His hand rose.

The towel stopped in midair.

Y/N froze.

It hovered between them for one impossible second before floating neatly into his waiting palm.

The kitchen fell silent.

Her grip tightened around the knife.

The stranger glanced at the towel as though nothing remarkable had occurred.

Then he looked at her.

Fear must have shown on her face, because his expression changed.

The amusement disappeared.

His shoulders drew back, despite the pain the movement caused him, and the regal coldness returned all at once.

“You would be wise to lower the blade.”

Y/N swallowed. “…You just stopped that in the air.”

“A minor feat.”

“That is not minor.”

“To you, perhaps.”

He stepped toward her.

Y/N raised the knife again.

He stopped.

For the first time since entering the kitchen, he appeared to truly see her, not merely as part of the strange room in which he had awakened, but as the woman who had found him, tended his wounds and was now plainly frightened of what stood before her.

His gaze moved to the bandage wrapped around his hand.

Then to the repaired cut along his side.

“You treated these.”

“Yes.”

“Without knowing what I am.”

“I still don’t know what you are.”

His expression hardened faintly at the wording.

Y/N noticed.

“Who,” she corrected. “I don’t know who you are.”

He studied her for a long moment.

Then, with visible reluctance, he wrapped the dish towel around his waist.

It covered almost nothing.

Y/N stared at it.

“That is a hand towel.”

“You demanded I cover myself.”

“Not with something the size of a napkin.”

His patience visibly thinned.

“I have survived the void between worlds. I will not be scolded over your household linens.”

“Then go get the blanket.”

His eyes flashed.

Y/N pointed down the hallway.

“Or your clothes.”

There was a tense pause.

Then he turned away with what remained of his dignity and walked toward the bathroom, one hand holding the towel closed at his hip.

Y/N waited until he disappeared from sight before setting the knife down.

Her knees felt weak.

She pressed both palms against the counter.

He had caught a towel without touching it.

He had called Earth Midgard.

He had asked which realm he was in.

Y/N looked toward the hallway.

The bathroom door opened.

Then silence.

A moment later, his voice carried through the apartment.

“What have you done to my garments?”

Y/N closed her eyes.

“I cleaned them.”

“You stitched them.”

“They were ripped.”

“With Midgardian thread.”

“It was that or dental floss.”

Another silence.

Then, colder, “Where are the remaining pieces?”

“On the floor beside the bathtub. I didn’t know how they attached.”

The bathroom door opened again.

He emerged wearing only the lower half of his clothing, the repaired leather sitting low on his hips while he carried the torn tunic in one hand.

Y/N made a concentrated effort to focus on the stitching.

His fingers traced one of the repaired seams.

The work looked crude beneath his touch, especially compared to the original construction.

“I know it isn’t perfect,” she said defensively. “The material broke two of my needles.”

His gaze lifted to hers.

“You repaired it yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Y/N frowned. “Because it was damaged.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

He continued watching her.

There was suspicion in his face, but something else beneath it. Something less certain.

Y/N gestured toward the second mug on the counter.

“I made tea.”

His eyes shifted toward it.

“You prepared it for me.”

“In case you woke up.”

“You did not know whether I would.”

“No.”

“And yet you prepared it.”

Y/N shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the weight of his attention. “You looked like you needed something warm.”

His expression became distant.

For a fleeting moment, the arrogance slipped.

He looked tired.

Not merely from his injuries, but from something deeper, something that had begun long before he struck the earth outside the diner.

Then the mask returned.

“What is your name?”

“Y/N.”

He repeated it quietly, testing the sound.

She waited.

“And you are?”

His chin lifted.

The change in him was immediate. Even half-dressed and bandaged in a stranger’s kitchen, he gathered himself as though standing before a royal court.

“I am Loki of Asgard.”

Y/N stared at him.

He continued, each title delivered with wounded, practiced pride.

“Son of Odin. Prince of the realm. God of Mischief.”

The kitchen fell silent.

Y/N looked at his repaired clothing.

Then at the unfamiliar armor visible through the open bathroom door.

Then at the man who had stopped a flying towel in midair.

“Oh.”

His eyes narrowed. “That is all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m processing.”

“You doubt me.”

“I watched you do magic, so I’m trying very hard not to.”

“Magic.” His tone suggested the word was inadequate.

Y/N picked up the second mug and held it out to him. “Tea?”

Loki looked at it as though unsure whether it was an offering or a test.

Then he approached.

He took the mug from her hand, his fingers brushing hers.

His skin remained cold.

Y/N tried not to react.

Loki noticed anyway.

His gaze dropped to their hands.

Then rose slowly to her face.

She withdrew first.

“You should sit down,” she said. “Before you fall down.”

“I do not fall.”

Y/N glanced toward the living room. “You literally fell out of the sky.”

His expression went still.

The remark landed harder than she intended.

His fingers tightened around the mug.

Y/N watched the humor vanish from his face and immediately regretted it.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You know nothing of what occurred.”

His voice had lost its rough amusement. What remained was cold and sharp enough to cut.

“No,” she said carefully. “I don’t.”

He looked away.

For several moments, he said nothing.

The silence felt heavier than anger.

Y/N studied him, noticing the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the kitchen walls.

Whatever had brought him to Earth had not been an accident.

Or, if it had, it was not the part that troubled him most.

She did not ask.

Instead, she nudged the honey closer across the counter.

“It might need more of that.”

Loki glanced down.

His grip on the mug gradually loosened.

“You are a peculiar creature.”

“I get that a lot.”

“You should be afraid of me.”

“I am a little.”

His gaze returned to hers.

The honesty appeared to surprise him.

Y/N folded her arms.

“But you’re hurt, and you haven’t done anything except insult my sewing and refuse to wear a blanket.”

A faint breath escaped him.

Almost a laugh.

“Your sewing is appalling.”

“And yet your clothes aren’t falling apart anymore.”

He examined the repaired seam once more.

“No,” he conceded quietly. “They are not.”

Y/N lifted her own mug.

“Drink your tea, Your Highness.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed at the title, uncertain whether she was mocking him.

She was.

But only a little.

He raised the mug to his lips.

The tea was still hot enough that he paused after the first sip, surprise briefly crossing his face.

Y/N hid a smile behind her own cup.

There, half-dressed in her kitchen with his armor drying beside her bathtub and black thread closing the tears in his princely garments, Loki of Asgard took another cautious drink.

For the first time since waking, he did not look toward the door.

. . .

By the time Loki finished eating, the clock above the stove read 4:57 a.m.

Y/N stared at it for several seconds, as though willing the numbers to rearrange themselves into something less offensive.

They did not.

The remains of his meal sat on the plate in front of him: a smear of egg yolk, one corner of toast and nothing else. For someone who had initially regarded the food as beneath him, Loki had eaten with impressive efficiency.

He had also asked seventeen questions.

Y/N had counted.

Most of them had concerned Midgard, her home, the diner, the glowing box mounted above the stove and why humans stored food in cold cupboards only to heat it again moments later.

Several had concerned her.

Those had been harder to answer.

She gathered the empty dishes from the small table and carried them to the sink.

Behind her, Loki remained seated with his repaired tunic draped around his shoulders but not properly fastened. He looked marginally better than he had an hour earlier. There was more color in his face, and the trembling in his hands had stopped.

He still looked exhausted.

Y/N suspected she looked worse.

She turned on the faucet and rinsed the plate.

“I’m going to bed.”

The chair shifted behind her.

“Now?”

Y/N looked over her shoulder.

“Yes, now.”

His brows drew together faintly.

“You intend to sleep.”

“That’s usually what going to bed means.”

“In my presence.”

She shut off the water. “You can stay on the couch.”

“That was not my concern.”

Y/N dried her hands on a dish towel. “What is your concern?”

Loki studied her as though the answer should have been obvious.

“You know nothing of me.”

“I know.”

“You have admitted that you believe me dangerous.”

“Potentially.”

“I possess abilities you do not understand.”

“Definitely.”

“And still you would render yourself unconscious within the same dwelling.”

Y/N leaned back against the counter.

“I have been awake for almost twenty-four hours.”

“That does not explain your lack of caution.”

“It explains most of it.”

Loki’s expression suggested that it did not.

Y/N rubbed both hands over her face, then pointed vaguely toward the hallway.

“My bedroom is through there. The bathroom is the first door on the left. You already found that. There are extra blankets in the basket by the couch, and the tap water is technically safe, even if it tastes weird.”

“You speak as though I am a guest.”

“You’re not exactly paying rent.”

His gaze sharpened. “Yet you leave me unattended.”

“I’m too tired to supervise a god.”

“You should not require supervision to ensure your own survival.”

Y/N considered that.

“Fair.”

She pushed away from the counter.

“If you do decide to kill me, could you try to do it before my next shift?”

Loki went completely still.

Y/N walked past him toward the living room.

“I have to be back at the diner tomorrow afternoon, and I’d rather not make them find coverage at the last minute.”

His chair scraped sharply against the floor as he stood. “You jest.”

“Mostly.”

“You believe I might murder you, yet your concern is your place of employment?”

“I hate inconveniencing my coworkers.”

“This is absurd.”

“I’ve been told.”

She reached the edge of the living room and bent to retrieve the blanket from the floor, tossing it over the back of the couch.

Loki followed more slowly, one hand briefly bracing against the table before he caught himself.

Y/N pretended not to see.

“I have more questions,” he said.

“I figured.”

“And matters I wish to discuss.”

She looked at him.

There was a strange insistence beneath the words. Not command, exactly. Something closer to reluctance, as though he had only just decided he wanted the conversation to continue and resented time for attempting to end it.

Y/N yawned.

“You seem like a talker.”

His expression tightened.

“I do not talk excessively.”

“You’ve interrogated me about my microwave, my job, college, why people put ice in drinks, and whether the mailman is an official agent of the government.”

“He wears a uniform and enters the grounds of every residence.”

“He delivers coupons.”

“A convenient explanation.”

Y/N smiled tiredly.

“My point stands.”

Loki folded his arms carefully, avoiding the bandage around his ribs.

“You dismiss me.”

“I’m postponing you.”

“You assume I will remain until you wake.”

She stopped.

The apartment fell quiet around them.

The first gray traces of morning had begun to appear through the blinds, striping the carpet and the side of Loki’s face with pale light.

Y/N looked at him for a moment.

There it was again.

That expectation hidden beneath the arrogance.

That everyone eventually left.

Or perhaps that he always did first.

She nodded toward the couch. “You said you can’t leave yet.”

“My circumstances may change.”

“Then they change.”

“And if I am gone?”

“I guess I’ll know you felt better.”

His eyes searched her face.

“You would not pursue me.”

“I don’t even know where Asgard is.”

“That would not prevent some.”

“I also have homework.”

Loki’s mouth flattened, but the answer seemed to settle something in him.

Y/N took another step toward the hallway.

He spoke before she could leave. “You have not answered.”

“Answered what?”

“Whether I may continue my questions.”

“When I’m awake.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You expect me to wait.”

“I believe in you.”

The words came out so casually that Y/N almost missed the way he reacted.

Loki stared at her.

The guarded amusement vanished from his face.

“What did you say?”

“I said I believe in you.”

“You cannot.”

“Why not?”

“You have known me for only hours.”

“True.”

“You know nothing of my character, my history or my intentions.”

“Also true.”

“Then upon what do you base such belief?”

Y/N blinked at him.

“I believe you can wait until I wake up before asking more questions.”

Silence.

Loki’s face changed with the realization.

Y/N pressed her lips together. “Oh.”

He looked deeply offended. “You were not speaking of me.”

“I was speaking of you. Just in a very specific, low-stakes way.”

“You made it sound—”

“More meaningful?”

“I did not say that.”

“You thought I was giving you an emotional affirmation.”

“I thought no such thing.”

His answer came too quickly.

Y/N smiled despite her exhaustion.

“Sure.”

Loki’s jaw tightened.

She pointed at the couch.

“You can do it. A few hours without interrogating me. I believe in you.”

“You are insufferable.”

“You can tell me all about it when I wake up.”

She turned toward the hallway.

“Y/N.”

She glanced back.

Loki stood in the middle of her living room, half-dressed in damaged royal clothing, black thread visible along the seams she had repaired. The dawn light made him look less like a man who had fallen from the sky and more like something the night had reluctantly surrendered.

He seemed poised to ask another question.

Instead, he said, “How long?”

“How long what?”

“Will you sleep?”

Y/N glanced at the clock again.

“Hopefully until noon.”

His expression suggested that six hours was an unreasonable disappearance.

“You’ll survive.”

“That remains to be seen.”

She smiled. “See? You already understand my sense of humor.”

“I do not.”

“You will.”

Y/N continued toward her room.

At the door, she stopped and looked back one final time.

“Oh, and don’t use the stove.”

Loki lifted his chin. “I am not a child.”

“You stared at the toaster like it was going to challenge you to combat.”

“It made a sound without warning.”

“Exactly. No stove. I can’t afford another home.”

She stepped into her room. “And Loki?”

“What?”

“Thanks for not killing me tonight.”

His expression became unreadable.

“You presume restraint on my part—“

“Good night.”

Y/N closed the door before he could answer.

She did not lock it.

Loki remained where she had left him, staring at the thin wooden barrier between them.

A lock would not have stopped him.

They both knew that.

But she had not even tried.

From the other side of the door came the quiet creak of the mattress, the rustle of blankets and, after only a few minutes, silence.

Loki listened.

No hurried breathing.

No attempt to escape through the window.

No weapon being moved beneath a pillow.

She had simply gone to sleep.

He looked toward the front door.

He could not leave.

Not yet.

That was the only reason he remained.

Loki repeated this to himself as he returned to the couch and lowered himself carefully onto it.

The blanket Y/N had offered lay folded over the back. He regarded it with disdain before pulling it across his legs.

On the coffee table sat the glass of water she had prepared earlier, along with two white tablets and a note written on the back of a diner receipt.

For pain. Human dose, so maybe only take one. Please don’t die. I have work.

Loki read it twice.

Then a third time.

A faint, unwilling smile touched his mouth.

“You believe in me,” he murmured.

From the bedroom, Y/N gave a muffled snore.

Loki’s smile disappeared.

He settled deeper into the couch, prepared to wait until she woke.

He lasted eleven minutes before thinking of another question.

Loki lasted thirty minutes.

For the first ten, he sat upright on the couch with the blanket draped across his legs and his attention fixed on the closed bedroom door.

For the next five, he examined the objects scattered across the coffee table.

A stack of textbooks.

Several pens.

A half-empty package of gum.

The note she had left beside the tablets.

He read it once more, though there was nothing within it he had not already understood.

Crude.

Irreverent.

Strangely considerate.

Loki placed the note precisely where he had found it.

Beneath the coffee table, partly hidden by one of her discarded shoes, he found a small red ball. It was rubber, worn smooth in places and small enough to fit comfortably in his palm.

He leaned back against the couch and tossed it toward the ceiling.

The ball rose, slowed, then dropped neatly into his waiting hand.

Again.

Up.

Down.

Catch.

The rhythm occupied him for perhaps another seven minutes.

Then it became insulting.

Loki sent the ball higher, allowing it to nearly touch the ceiling before catching it without looking.

He had endured diplomatic councils that moved faster than this.

He had waited through Thor’s endless speeches, Odin’s silences and entire feasts during which no one said anything of worth. Yet somehow, waiting for one sleeping Midgardian to awaken felt uniquely unreasonable.

She had said noon.

He looked toward the clock.

Barely half an hour had passed.

Absurd.

Loki tossed the ball again.

Perhaps she was not asleep.

The thought arrived quietly.

He caught the ball.

Perhaps the entire display had been a deception.

She had been too calm. Too willing to leave him unattended. Too quick to accept his presence within her home.

No one behaved so carelessly without reason.

She might have retreated to the bedroom to contact someone through another device. She might be recording him. She might be waiting for armed men to arrive.

Midgard possessed organizations devoted to unusual threats. Loki knew enough of the realm to understand that much.

The woman had claimed her device could not reach anyone from the diner.

That did not mean the same was true here.

He glanced toward the narrow hallway.

The apartment remained silent.

Too silent.

Loki threw the ball once more and caught it with sharper force.

She may have been plotting against him from the moment she found him.

The skateboard could have been part of the indignity.

He placed the ball on the table.

Pain pulled beneath his ribs as he stood, but he ignored it. His strength had begun to return, though far more slowly than he would have preferred. The fall through the void had drained him in a way battle never had.

He crossed the living room without sound.

The bedroom door waited at the end of the hallway, closed but not secured.

No lock.

That, too, could have been deliberate.

An invitation designed to convince him she felt safe.

Or a test.

Loki rested his hand against the handle.

He listened.

Nothing.

No whispering.

No movement across the floor.

Only the faint hum of the air conditioner and a quiet, uneven breath from the other side.

He turned the handle slowly.

The door opened without a creak.

The room beyond was dim, lit only by the pale morning light slipping through the blinds. Clothes had been draped over the back of a chair. More books were piled beside the bed, one lying open facedown across the carpet.

A small lamp remained on.

Y/N was asleep.

Truly asleep.

She lay on her side beneath a tangled comforter, one hand tucked beneath her pillow while the other rested loosely against the mattress. Her hair had spread across the pillow in complete disarray, and the exhaustion that had been visible in her face earlier had softened into something peaceful.

There was no phone in her hand.

No weapon nearby.

No concealed accomplice waiting in the shadows.

She had told him she was going to sleep.

Then she had done exactly that.

Loki remained in the doorway.

The simplicity of it unsettled him more than deception might have.

She had been truthful from the moment he woke.

Painfully so.

She did not soften her answers to preserve his pride. She did not flatter him when he offered his titles. She admitted when she feared him and mocked him in the same breath.

She had not pretended that bringing him home was wise.

She had not claimed some noble destiny compelled her.

She had simply found him injured and decided not to leave him there.

Because she did not want bad karma.

Because she did not wish to be an asshole.

Loki nearly scoffed at the memory.

Nearly.

He stepped farther into the room.

Y/N did not stir.

She had no idea he stood there.

No awareness of how vulnerable she had made herself. One movement of his hand and he could silence her before she ever opened her eyes.

The thought brought no satisfaction.

Instead, Loki found himself noticing the faint crease between her brows, as though even in sleep some small concern followed her. The edge of the blanket had slipped from one shoulder, revealing the worn shirt she had changed into before bed.

There was nothing regal about her.

Nothing practiced.

No carefully arranged hair, jeweled gown or painted smile meant to secure favor.

She was simply herself, even when no one was meant to see.

Beautiful.

The word entered his mind without permission.

Loki’s expression tightened.

He looked away from her face.

That was foolish.

She was mortal. Ordinary. Exhausted from a night spent serving strangers and completing scholarly work in a roadside diner.

And yet—

He looked back.

There was something beautiful in the softness of her sleeping face.

More than that, in the honesty of it.

She had no mask.

No performance.

She had seen him injured, confused and stripped of every visible mark of rank, and she had still spoken to him as though he were neither monster nor king.

Only a man who needed help.

Loki disliked how much that pleased him.

Y/N shifted slightly beneath the covers.

He went still.

Her lips parted around a quiet breath. One hand moved across the mattress, searching absently until her fingers caught the edge of the comforter and pulled it closer.

She did not wake.

Loki released a breath through his nose.

He should leave her to rest.

Not because she had asked.

Certainly not because she had said she believed in him.

He simply had no further reason to remain in the doorway.

That was all.

Loki reached for the handle and began to draw the door closed.

Before it shut, Y/N murmured something into the pillow.

He paused.

The words were indistinct.

Then, more clearly—

“No stove.”

Loki stared at her.

She remained asleep.

His eyes narrowed.

Even unconscious, she apparently considered him incapable of navigating her crude cooking apparatus.

A faint smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.

“Insufferable creature,” he whispered.

He closed the door until only a narrow gap remained, leaving enough space for the light from the hallway to reach the room.

Then he returned to the living room.

The red ball still rested on the table.

Loki lowered himself carefully onto the couch and picked it up again.

This time, when he tossed it toward the ceiling, he did so more slowly.

Up.

Down.

Catch.

The wait remained absurd.

You hesitated for a split second—damning yourself for how easily his name got to you—before shaking your head back toward your assignment. "Still not worth it. Even for him."

"Aish, come on!" She darted out of the bathroom and grabbed your hands, tugging until she successfully hauled you off your seat. Before you could protest, she was already rummaging through her closet, hangers clicking wildly against each other.

"You are coming with me," Liya insisted, tossing a cropped top over her shoulder, "and you are looking hot."

You threw your head back and let out a long, dramatic groan, but deep down, you knew you had already lost this battle.

"Fine, fine," you surrendered, throwing your hands up in defeat.

You stood there like a mannequin, letting her parade dress after dress over your head until she finally settled on a sleek, stark-white dress—one that felt like it barely covered the bare minimum.

"Liya, don't you think this is a bit too immodest?" you asked, nervously tugging at the hem in a desperate attempt to gain an extra inch of fabric. "I can literally just grab something from my own closet."

"Oh, come on, Byeol," Liya scoffed, rolling her eyes with a grin as she grabbed her purse. "We're going to a frat party. Dressing like this isn't just an option—it’s a need."

The second you crossed the threshold into the frat house, the deafening music and thumping bass seemed to fade into background noise. Heads turned instantly. Conversations died in mid-sentence. Practically every set of eyes in the room locked onto you as if a bombshell had just stepped into the Love Island villa.

You shifted uncomfortably under the sudden weight of all that attention, but Liya just leaned in close, her elbow nudging yours with smug satisfaction.

"See?" she whispered triumphantly over the music. "I told you. You look hot."

Meanwhile, from the far corner of the living room, Sunghoon watched the front door like a hawk. A girl hung off his arm, laughing at something he hadn't listened to, but all of his focus had just been ripped away by the girl who had just walked in—wearing a stunning white dress. His favorite color.

A strange, sudden heat prickled under his skin.

"Yo, Jake," Sunghoon murmured, nudging his friend without taking his eyes off you. "Who is that?"

Jake looked over, letting out a sharp whistle. "That? That’s Byeol. She’s in our history lecture—the quiet girl who aced the exam everyone else tanked."

"Byeol," Sunghoon murmured under his breath, testing the name out like it belonged to a completely different world.

Jay chimed in immediately, nudging him. "Leave her alone, man. She's super sweet—don't go playing your usual games with her."

"Actually..." Jake cut in, a sharp glint in his eye. "Why don't we make a little bet?"

Sunghoon finally glanced away from your glowing outline in the crowd, eyebrow raising slightly. "A bet?"

Jake nodded eagerly. "Yes, Mr. Heartthrob. A bet."

"Come at me," Sunghoon challenged, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

Jake’s grin widened, sharp and dangerous. "Since you claim you can get literally any girl you want... try her," he said, subtly gesturing through the crowd toward you. "Date her for three months. Make her fall completely down bad for you, and then break her heart into pieces. Should be easy for you, right?"

Sunghoon’s smirk widened, a dangerous glint flashing in his dark eyes as he held Jake's gaze. The idea was almost laughably simple to him.

"Deal," he said softly, clinking his glass against Jake's before turning his attention right back to you across the room.

The sticky heat of the room was already making you regret letting Liya drag you out, but standing near the counter brought a brief lull from the wall-to-wall crowd. You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, silently pleading with the universe that Jay might magically wander over.

Instead, a glass swept into your field of vision.

"You look like you're regretting every choice that brought you through that front door," a smooth, low voice purred beside you.

You turned your head, instantly freezing.

Standing right beside you, casually leaning an elbow against the sticky countertop, was Sunghoon. Up close, his sharp features and effortless confidence were almost disarming—and the dark, intensely focused look in his eyes felt like a heavy weight pressing into the room. In his hand, he held out a brightly colored drink filled with ice and fresh fruit garnish.

"Here," he offered, a small, charming smirk lingering on his lips. "It's clean—just mocktail punch. Thought you looked like you could use something cold."

You looked from the glass up to his face, a sudden flutter starting in your stomach that had nothing to do with Jay. "Thanks," you murmured, carefully taking the glass from his fingers, trying not to notice how his touch sent a faint jolt straight up your arm. "Sunghoon, right?"

"So you do know who I am," he drawled, his smirk widening into something impossibly dangerous. He took a slow sip from his own drink, his eyes scanning your face, taking in every trace of your hesitation. "I was starting to think you were the only person on this campus who didn't."

"Kinda hard not to when you're the leader of the frat," you said, letting out a dry, quiet laugh as you took a small sip of the mocktail. It was cold and surprisingly good.

Sunghoon tilted his head, his dark eyes sparkling with quiet amusement as he watched you over the rim of his glass. He didn't step back; if anything, he leaned a fraction of an inch closer, effectively cutting off the rest of the noisy, chaotic party around you.

"Is that all I am to you, then? A title?" he mused, his voice dripping with an effortless, practiced charm. His gaze dropped briefly to the neckline of your white dress before snapping back to your eyes, far too sharp and far too deliberate. "And here I thought my glowing academic reputation in history class would precede me."

You almost choked on your drink. "Academic reputation? You mean the midterm you slept through?"

A slow, boyish grin broke across his face—the kind of smile that had probably gotten him out of every bad decision he’d ever made.

"Ouch. So you have been paying attention to me, Byeol."

You smile, taking a small sip of your drink. "You sit literally two seats down from me and Liya, Sunghoon," you say, looking at him like he’s the most forgetful person on campus. "I usually wear glasses and keep my hair up, so I guess I look a bit different tonight."

Sunghoon’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second. His dark eyes trace the curve of your face, taking in your bare shoulders, your soft expression, and the way the short white dress fits you like a second skin.

A quiet, dangerous shift happens behind his eyes. He takes a slow step closer, his tall frame looming over you just enough to block out the flashing party lights and the wall-to-wall crowd.

"Glasses or not..." he murmurs, his low voice cutting right through the pounding bass of the music. He leans in slightly, his sharp jawline mere inches from your ear as his eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "Trust me, Byeol. You're definitely not easy to miss."

"Last time I checked you called me by the wrong name once to ask me to help you with the transition questions"

Sunghoon lets out a quiet, genuine laugh, shaking his head as a light flush touches his cheekbones—a rare crack in his usually flawless composure. He swirling the ice in his glass, looking down at you through his dark lashes.

"Okay, fair point. I deserved that," he admits, a wry smile softening the sharp edge of his face. He takes a half-step back, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. "In my defense, 'Bora' and 'Byeol' both mean something pretty, so at least I was in the right ballpark."

His grin turns smooth again as he leans against the counter, his gaze locking onto yours with undivided attention.

"Besides, I was desperate. History is clearly not my strong suit—unlike someone who managed to get the top mark on the last quiz." He tilts his head, his tone dropping into something dangerously intimate. "So, how about a second chance? Let me make it up to you. Fresh start, no wrong names, no asking for homework help. Just me, actually trying to get to know you."

"Bora means purple and Byeol means stars," you reply, raising an eyebrow at him over the rim of your glass with a dry, knowing look.

Sunghoon’s grin widens, a soft, breathy chuckle escaping his lips. He doesn't look flustered at all—if anything, your pushback seems to amuse him even more.

"Purple and stars," he repeats slowly, the words sounding quiet and deliberate over the heavy bass echoing from the speakers. "I don't know, Byeol... sounds pretty close to me."

He shifts his weight, leaning one forearm on the counter behind him so he's angled completely toward you. His dark eyes trace your face with a lazy, focused intensity that feels almost dizzying.

"Though I have to say..." he lowers his voice, tilting his head as a playful smirk catches the corner of his lips, "stars suit you a lot better. Especially tonight."

"Thanks, my mom chose it"

Sunghoon freezes for a split second before another low, genuine laugh spills from his lips. He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks down at you with a mixture of disbelief and growing fascination.

"Your mom?" he echoes, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "So I should be sending her a thank-you note for giving you such a fitting name?"

He leans a little closer, his tone turning teasingly conspiratorial.

"You're remarkably tough on me, Byeol. Most people in this room are usually begging for my attention, and here you are, shooting down my best lines with facts about your name and your mom."

He takes a slow sip of his drink, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, dangerous intensity that melts the casual banter away.

"I kind of like it."

"And if you want to get to know me... I'm not that interesting"

"Not that interesting?" Sunghoon echoes, resting his chin on his palm as he studies you, a slow, intoxicating smile creeping up his face. "Byeol, you’ve shot down three of my best lines, called out my terrible history grade, and given me an etymology lesson—all within five minutes. You’re easily the most interesting person in this room."

He pushes off the counter, taking one slow, deliberate step into your space. The faint scent of expensive cologne and crisp air follows him, completely drowning out the stale smell of beer surrounding the rest of the kitchen.

"Let me be the judge of that," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave, rich and velvety against the pounding music. He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heartbeat before rising back to meet your eyes. "Give me twenty minutes. If you still think you're uninteresting by the end of it—or if I prove to be too boring—I'll let you walk away and never bother you in history class again."

He extends a hand toward you, palm up, a silent, deadly inviting challenge.

"Deal?"

The moment your fingers slide into his palm, Sunghoon’s fingers instantly close around yours—warm, firm, and surprisingly gentle. A triumphant spark flashes in his dark eyes, the smirk on his lips turning into something deeply satisfaction-filled as he seals the trap.

"Smart choice," he murmurs, his voice a smooth purr.

Without letting go of your hand, he threads his fingers through yours and begins leading you through the dense, pulsing crowd. People naturally move out of his way—a mix of awe and habit—and you catch a glimpse of Jake across the room, watching the two of you with a raised cup and a knowing, competitive grin. Sunghoon doesn't even bother looking back at him; his focus is entirely locked on you as he steers you away from the chaotic main hall.

He pulls open a set of heavy glass doors leading out to the quiet, dimly lit back patio. The muffled thud of the bass fades into the cool night air, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the faint glow of string lights hanging above the lounge chairs.

Sunghoon finally stops near the railing, turning around to face you. He lets your hand slide slowly out of his grip, though his eyes never break contact with yours.

"Phase one," he says, leaning back against the wooden porch rail and crossing his arms, looking down at you with an intriguing, quiet intensity. "Getting you somewhere we can actually hear each other speak. So, 'uninteresting' Byeol... where do we start?"

The night had bled into the quiet, early hours of the morning without either of you really noticing. What was supposed to be a fleeting twenty-minute challenge had turned into hours of low-key conversation away from the chaotic noise of the house.

Sunghoon had leaned back against the patio lounge chair, surprisingly relaxed. Gone was the sharp, practiced charm he usually wore like armor inside the frat house; instead, he had listened—really listened—as you talked about your favorite artists, your stress over midterms, and the small, mundane details of your life. Every time you tried to brush off your thoughts as uninteresting, he’d ask another question, leaning in with a focused, quiet intensity that made it feel like you were the only two people on campus.

In return, he'd let a few cracks show in his own pristine image, joking about how much he actually hated taking history and complaining about Jake's terrible taste in music.

By the time the crowd inside finally began to thin out, the chill of the night air was setting in.

Sunghoon shifted, sliding his jacket off his shoulders and casually drape it over yours. The heavy fabric was still warm, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of his cologne.

"See?" he murmured, a soft, almost gentle smile curving his lips as he looked at you under the warm glow of the patio lights. "Told you twenty minutes wasn't going to be enough. And you're still trying to convince me you're not interesting."

He stood up, offering you his hand once more to help you off the lounge chair.

"Come on. It's late, and I'm walking you back to your dorm before Liya files a missing person report."

"Right yeah" You let him pull you up, the warmth of his jacket wrapped tightly around your shoulders as you both started the quiet walk back toward your dorm. The campus was eerily still, illuminated only by the soft glow of streetlights, a stark contrast to the thumping party you'd just left behind.

Sunghoon kept his hands casually shoved into his pockets, matching his long stride to your smaller steps. Every now and then, his shoulder would lightly brush against yours, keeping a steady, comforting presence at your side.

"You know," he started, breaking the peaceful silence with that smooth, low tone of his, "I usually don't spend entire parties hiding out on patios." He glanced sideways down at you, a soft, teasing smirk catching the corner of his lips. "You're bad news for my social reputation, Byeol."

"Oh, poor Sunghoon," you scoffed softly, shaking your head. "How will the frat leader ever recover?"

He chuckled, the sound low and warm in the crisp night air. "I'll manage. But only if you promise not to ignore me in history class on Monday."

As you reached the entrance of your dorm building, he stopped at the bottom of the steps, turning to face you fully. The ambient light caught the sharp lines of his jaw, but his eyes were surprisingly soft as he looked at you.

"Thanks for staying," he murmured, his gaze searching yours for a beat too long before he offered a slow, genuine smile. "I'll see you around... star girl."

When it came time for history class, Sunghoon noticed you first, giving you a wave as he gestured you and liya to sit in the empty seats by him and Jake.

Liya nudges your arm a little too hard with her elbow, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight of Sunghoon waving you over—with Jake sitting right beside him, grinning like he already knows something you don't.

"Okay, since when do you sit with the frat nobility?" Liya whispers under her breath, trailing half a step behind you as you both head down the sloped stairs of the lecture hall. "And why is he looking at you like that?"

Sunghoon doesn't miss a beat as you approach. He shifts his bag off the empty desk next to his, tapping the wooden surface with a smooth, welcoming smirk.

"Saved you a spot," he says, his voice carrying that same low, easy warmth from the patio, completely unbothered by the quiet chatter of the classroom around you. He leans back slightly, resting his chin in his hand as his eyes lock onto yours. "Morning, star girl. I see you actually showed up—I was starting to think you were going to dodge me."

Beside him, Jake leans over, throwing a casual arm over the back of his chair and shooting a quick glance between Sunghoon and you, a subtle, knowing spark in his eyes.

"Hey, Byeol," Jake chips in, his tone light and playful, though there's an underlying edge of amusement. "Sunghoon here's been checking the door every thirty seconds. Thought he was going to have to do his history reading by himself."

Sunghoon smoothly rolls his eyes, kicking the leg of Jake's chair just enough to shut him up, before turning his full attention back to you. "Ignore him. Sit down before the professor starts rambling."

Liya gives you a frantic, silent "what the hell" face before taking the seat next to Jake, who immediately turns on his charm to keep her occupied.

You slide into the wooden seat right beside Sunghoon. As you pull your notebook out of your bag, you catch the faint trace of his cologne again, instantly bringing back the blur of late-night patio conversations and the warmth of his jacket.

Sunghoon leans in close, resting his forearm on the joint desk between you. His voice drops into a quiet murmur meant only for your ears, slipping beneath the noise of the rest of the lecture hall settling down.

"You look nice today," he says smoothly, his dark eyes trailing over your face with a lazy, deliberate gaze before settling back on your eyes. He taps his pen rhythmically against his notebook. "Though you look a little tired. Don't tell me I kept you up too late."

Before you can answer, the professor clears his throat loudly at the podium, clicking to the first slide of the morning lecture.

Sunghoon doesn't move a bit away from you. Instead, he tears off a small corner of his notebook paper, scribbles something down in clean, sharp handwriting, and slides it onto your desk.

Free after class? Let me buy you a coffee to make up for stealing your sleep.

You smile at the note before giving a little nod to him.

A tiny, satisfied grin tugs at the corner of Sunghoon’s lips as he sees your nod. He snatches the scrap of paper back, crumpling it into his palm with a swift motion before leaning back in his chair, suddenly looking far more interested in the lecture than a guy who hates history has any right to be.

For the next fifty minutes, he plays the part of the attentive student—mostly. Every few minutes, his eyes drift away from the professor's dull slides back to your page. When the professor drones on about a dry economic treaty, Sunghoon leans his shoulder closer to yours, nudging your arm softly.

"Translate?" he whispers out of the corner of his mouth, tapping your neat notes with his pen. "In plain English, please."

When the bell finally rings, signaling the end of class, the lecture hall immediately erupts into the chaotic sound of shuffling papers, zipping backpacks, and chatter.

Sunghoon doesn't rush. He casually slings his bag over one shoulder, standing up and towering over your desk as he waits for you to pack up. Beside him, Jake slings an arm around a thoroughly flustered Liya's shoulders, throwing a wink over his shoulder toward Sunghoon.

"We're heading to the dining hall," Jake announces loudly, casting a quick, sharp look at Sunghoon that carries a subtle, unspoken good luck on the mission before turning back to Liya. "Come on, Liya, I'll buy you a bagel."

As the two of them wander off ahead into the crowded hallway, Sunghoon turns back to you, stepping closer so you don't get swept up in the rush of exiting students. He offers a hand to help you lift your heavy bag, his dark eyes sparkling with that same intoxicating, calculated charm.

"Lead the way, star girl," he says softly, a devious little smirk playing on his lips. "Which coffee shop has the best chance of getting me on your good side?"

"I like the one by the west side of campus, the food is really good" you say

"West side campus cafe it is," Sunghoon says, his lips curving into a slow, approving smile. He smoothly takes your bag off your shoulder before you can object, throwing it over his free arm like it weighs nothing at all. "And you're ordering whatever you want. Food, coffee, pastry—it's all on me."

As the two of you step out of the humid lecture hall into the crisp campus air, he falls into step beside you, keeping a close, protective distance as students hurry past. The sun catches the sharp angle of his jaw, making him look effortlessly put together while everyone else looks half-asleep from morning classes.

"So, west side," he starts, glancing down at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Does that mean you're going to judge my coffee order, or are you actually going to give me some recommendations? Because if their food is as good as you say, I might make you order for both of us."

"Have you never been to the west side of campus before?" You ask, doubting him

Sunghoon lets out a soft, low laugh, shaking his head as a light flush creeps up his neck—though his charming smirk doesn't fade for a second.

"Okay, caught red-handed," he admits, holding his hands up in mock surrender while still casually holding your bag in one arm. "Usually my day starts and ends on the south side between the frat house and the gym. The west side is practically uncharted territory for me."

He steps a little closer, leaning down slightly so his voice drops into a teasing, conspiratorial murmur just above the rustle of the surrounding trees.

"So, yeah... I'm completely at your mercy. You're going to have to make sure I don't embarrass myself—or order something terrible."

He offers you a playful, challenge-filled look, his dark eyes sparkling. "Lead the way"

...

You spent more and more time with sunghoon, catching feelings for him more and more as the days turned into weeks, until he of course asked you to be his girlfriend.

Those weeks felt like a whirlwind you never wanted to end.

What started as coffee runs on the west side of campus quickly turned into late-night study sessions in the quietest corners of the library, late evening walks, and Sunghoon showing up outside your lectures just to hand you your favorite drink. He was attentive, sweet, and somehow always knew how to make you laugh when midterms were crushing you. Step by step, every defense you had built up against the polished frat leader completely crumbled.

You had fallen for him—hard.

And then came the night he asked you.

He had brought you back to the quiet patio where it all started, away from the party noise inside. The warm string lights cast soft shadows across his face as he held both of your hands in his, looking down at you with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"I don't think I've thought about anyone else since that night in the kitchen," he had murmured, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand. "I don't want to just be the guy walking you to your dorm, Byeol. I want to be yours. Officially. Be my girlfriend?"

When you said yes, the look of pure, triumphant joy on his face felt so undeniably real that any lingering doubts vanished into thin air.

Now, three weeks into being his girlfriend, you're sitting on the comfortable sofa in his room at the frat house, wearing one of his oversized hoodies. The room is quiet, the low hum of the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. Sunghoon is downstairs grabbing drinks for the two of you, leaving his laptop open on the desk.

A quiet chime echoes through the room as a notification pops up on his screen. You don't mean to look, but the name on the preview instantly catches your eye: Jake.

The message preview sits right on the screen:

Bro, time's running out on the 3-month mark. When are you dropping the hammer on Byeol? The guys are asking about the pot.

You brush the thought aside, convincing yourself it must have just been some dumb joke or a miscommunication about when he was going to ask you out. Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the open textbook on your lap, highlighting a passage as if you hadn't seen a thing.

A few moments later, the door clicks open. Sunghoon steps into the room carrying two iced coffees, a bright, genuine-looking smile spreading across his face the second his eyes land on you.

"Sorry that took so long, Jay was rambling downstairs," he says smoothly, walking over to hand you your cup. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, the warmth of his touch completely at odds with the chilling words sitting on his laptop screen just feet away.

He casually strolls over to his desk, grabbing his laptop and snapping the lid shut without even glancing at the screen. He sets it on the bedside table before sliding onto the couch next to you, pulling you back against his chest so your head rests right against his shoulder.

"Where were we?" he whispers against your hair, wrapping his arms around your waist, completely comfortable and seemingly without a care in the world. "Did you actually get any studying done while I was gone, or were you just missing me?"

"I got some studying done, Jake texted you earlier"

Sunghoon’s body goes imperceptibly still for a split second, the easy rhythm of his breathing catching in his chest before he smoothly recovers. His grip around your waist doesn't loosen, but the casual aura in the room suddenly feels a fraction tighter.

"Did he?" Sunghoon asks, his tone light, almost dismissive, though his chin rests just a bit heavier against your head. He reaches over, his fingers loosely playing with the hem of his oversized hoodie on your arm. "Probably just nagging me about fraternity stuff or tonight's plan. I swear he thinks I'm his full-time secretary."

He chuckles softly, but he doesn't make a move toward the laptop on the bedside table. Instead, he shifts slightly, tilting his head down so he can catch your eye, a smooth, warm smile playing on his lips.

"Don't worry about Jake," he murmurs, his dark eyes searching your face with effortless, quiet intensity. "My attention is right here. Anything interesting in that textbook of yours, or do you need a distraction?"

"It's just readings of stuff I've already learned"

"Then reading it again is a total waste of time," Sunghoon says with a light, persuasive laugh.

He gently slides the textbook out of your hands and sets it down on the coffee table, replacing it by lacing his fingers through yours. He pulls you just a little closer into his side, resting his chin on your shoulder while his thumb gently traces circles on the back of your hand.

"Since you're already a step ahead of your classes," he whispers, his breath warm against your cheek, "that means I get your full, undivided attention for the rest of the afternoon."

He leans in, pressing a slow, tender kiss to the side of your neck, his smile warm against your skin. "No textbooks, no Jake... just us."

You smack his shoulder a little "you're such a freak"

Sunghoon lets out an easy, low laugh, catching your hand before you can pull it back and pulling it to his lips to press a playful kiss to your knuckles.

"Hey, I prefer the term 'enthusiastic boyfriend,'" he teases, his dark eyes sparkling with that familiar, charming warmth. He pulls you tight against his chest, wrapping both arms around you so you're completely trapped against him, buried in the warmth of his oversized hoodie.

"Besides," he murmurs softly, resting his forehead against yours with a soft smirk, "you love it."

He adjusts his grip, comfortably settling back into the couch cushions with you. Everything about the moment feels perfect—his familiar scent, the relaxed rhythm of his breathing, the soft afternoon light spilling into the room—completely burying the memory of that unread message on the desk just a few feet away.

"Unfortunately I do love it" you joke

Sunghoon’s smile widens, victorious and soft all at once. He lets out a quiet sigh of contentment, pressing his forehead against yours for a second longer before leaning back just enough to look at you properly.

"Good," he murmurs, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. "Because I don't plan on giving you a reason to feel any differently."

He shifts so you're tucked comfortably under his arm, your head resting right over his heart. The steady, calm rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek is intoxicating, washing away any lingering thoughts of schoolwork—or anything else.

He reaches for his phone on the table with his free hand, absently tapping the screen before turning his gaze back down to you. "So, since you're officially done being a star student for the day... dinner? I can order us whatever you want"

"I'm craving some noodles"

"Noodles it is," Sunghoon agrees instantly, a soft laugh vibrating through his chest right where your head is resting.

He taps away on his phone, scrolling through a few delivery apps with one hand while keeping his other arm wrapped snugly around your waist. "Spicy ramen, pad thai, or are we talking proper hand-pulled noodles? Name your craving, boss, and I'll make it happen."

"Spicy ramen"

He leans his head back against the couch cushions, looking down at you with a gentle, completely relaxed expression. The cozy quiet of his room wraps around you both, making it shockingly easy to forget the rest of the world—and the quiet chime of his laptop—even existed.

"Spicy ramen, coming right up," Sunghoon says, his thumb quickly tapping the screen to finalize the order.

He tosses the phone onto the coffee table and wraps both arms back around you, pulling you in just a little tighter. "Extra spicy, soft-boiled egg, and extra pork belly. Did I get that right, or do I need to edit the order before they start cooking?"

He rests his chin on the top of your head, letting out a soft, contented sigh. "We've got about twenty minutes until it gets here. That means you're stuck sitting here with me until the food arrives."

"You always let me choose"

Sunghoon tilts his head down, a warm, subtle smirk spreading across his lips as his eyes meet yours.

"Well, yeah," he says, his tone softening into something dangerously sweet. "Because seeing you happy is pretty much my favorite part of the day. Plus, if I pick, we'll end up eating basic frat-guy food every single night, and I'm pretty sure you'd break up with me."

He gently nudges your shoulder with his, his arm tightening around your waist just enough to pull you a little closer.

"Besides, you've got good taste—I mean, you picked me, didn't you?" He winks, a cocky, effortless charm washing over him before he softens again, pressing a quick, tender kiss to your temple. "I like taking care of you, Byeol. Get used to it."

──𝄞𝄢──

Sunghoon’s gaze darkens, a slow, intoxicating heat settling between the two of you as his weight presses you down into the mattress.

It’s almost dizzying how quickly everything changed. Just an hour ago, you were sitting side-by-side on the floor, laughing over steam rising from cheap plastic takeout bowls. Now, you’re trapped beneath him, his chest heavy against yours, the scent of his cologne filling your senses until you can barely think straight.

"Look at you," Sunghoon whispers, his voice dropping into a raspy, hushed purr right against your ear. His fingers thread slowly into your hair, tilting your head back to expose the sensitive curve of your neck. "You look so completely overwhelmed."

His lips brush against your skin, feather-light and agonizingly slow, sending a rush of heat straight to your core.

"I bet if someone asked you how we ended up like this right now, you couldn't even give them a straight answer," he murmurs, his hot breath fanning across your collarbone. He shifts his weight, sliding a knee between yours as his hands trace a fiery path down your sides, gripping your hips with a quiet, possessive intensity.

He pulls back just a fraction, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that feels almost predatory—yet so tender it makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

"You just let me pull you right into my lap, didn't you?" His thumb traces your lower lip, pressing down gently until it parts. "So innocent... completely at my mercy, and you don't even care."

The words hang heavy in the dim room, thick with a tension that makes the air feel almost too dense to breathe. Sunghoon doesn't give you time to answer—not that you could find your voice even if you tried.

Instead, his mouth finds yours again, deep and unhurried, tasting like heat and sweet lingering spice. The kiss is possessive, completely consuming, until your hands instinctively find their way to his shoulders, clinging to him as if he's the only solid thing anchoring you to reality.

He lets out a low, satisfied hum against your lips, the sound vibrating right through your chest. His grip on your hips tightens, pulling you flush against him until there isn't a single breath of space left between your bodies.

"Sunghoon..." you manage to whisper against his mouth when he finally draws back a fraction of an inch, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.

He chuckles softly, a low, dark sound that echoes right in your ear as his lips trace down your jaw, dropping heavy, lingering kisses along the sensitive skin under your ear.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, the searing warmth of his palms making your breath catch in your throat. His dark eyes flicker up to yours, heavy-lidded and burning with an intensity that leaves you completely breathless. "Tell me what you want, Byeol. Because right now, I'm not sure I can stop myself."

"I want you, Sunghoon"

Those four words seem to snap the last remaining thread of his control.

A sharp, ragged breath escapes his lips, and before you can process the sudden shift, Sunghoon's mouth crashes back over yours with a fierce, burning passion. The slow, lingering gentleness from before vanishes, replaced by a deep, breathless desperation that leaves your head spinning.

His fingers tangle tightly into your hair, holding you right where he wants you as his other hand slides up your waist, pulling you so close that every quick beat of his heart thuds against your own. The heat radiating off him is almost overwhelming, swallowing you whole in the dim, golden light of the room.

"You have no idea what you do to me," Sunghoon groans against your lips, his voice thick and impossibly rough.

He trails feverish kisses from your mouth down to your jaw, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to the sweet spot right beneath your ear that makes a involuntary gasp catch in your throat. He hovers over you, dark eyes practically glowing with possessive heat as his thumb traces the flush rising on your cheek.

"Say it again," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin, his body pressing heavier, closer, demanding every bit of your surrender. "Say it so I know I'm not dreaming."

"I want you," you whisper again, the words slipping out barely above a breath, but in the quiet room, they hit like a spark to gasoline.

Sunghoon’s dark eyes darken even further, a heavy, triumphant breath shuddering out of him. "That's my girl," he growls softly against your lips, the words a intoxicating mixture of praise and promise.

He doesn't wait another second. His mouth takes yours in a kiss so deep, so completely consuming, that the rest of the world—the frat house, the noise downstairs, the passage of time—completely vanishes. His hands are everywhere, scorching hot as they trace the curve of your waist, lifting the edge of your top, his touch sending shivers shooting straight down your spine.

Every gentle shift of his weight, every frantic, breathless press of his body against yours pulls you deeper into the haze. He’s completely intoxicated by you, whispering sweet, desperate sweet-nothings between feverish kisses against your lips, your cheek, the pulse fluttering wildly in your throat.

Underneath the heat and the blinding thrill of the moment, he holds you like you're something priceless, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his heart hammers violently against your chest—a steady, chaotic rhythm that feels entirely yours.

The night bleeds into a blurred haze of quiet sighs, tangled sheets, and the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing against his chest.

Hours later, the room is bathed in the cool, deep blue of late night. The chaos of earlier has settled into a lingering, heavy warmth. Sunghoon lies on his side, one strong arm wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away the second he loosens his grip. His chin rests lightly atop your head, his slow, rhythmic breaths fanning through your hair.

His fingers trail lazy, comforting circles over the bare skin of your lower back, absentminded and incredibly tender.

"You asleep?" he murmurs, his voice a low, raspy rumble that vibrates directly through you in the quiet room.

He shifts slightly, leaning over to brush a soft kiss against your forehead, his eyes dark and liquid in the dim light as he looks down at you. The sharp, guarded edge he usually carries around the rest of the frat house is completely gone, leaving behind something so raw and vulnerable it almost makes your chest ache.

"I don't think I've ever felt like this before, Byeol," he whispers into the silence, his thumb gently caressing your hip. "I mean it."

The words seem to float in the cool night air, sweet and intimate, but as Sunghoon watches your tired eyes flutter shut, a cold, heavy knot tightens in the pit of his stomach.

I mean it.

Did he? He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against your temple, but the soothing rhythm of your breathing does nothing to quiet the sudden, deafening noise in his head.

Three months. A pot of money sitting on Jake’s dresser. A stupid, reckless frat house wager that was supposed to be easy, meaningless, and entirely under his control.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his arm involuntarily pulling you a fraction closer against him. The searing memory of Jake’s text message flashes behind his eyelids, mockingly reminding him of the ticking clock, of the bet he was supposed to win. Except every time he kisses you, every time you whisper his name with that completely unguarded, terrifying trust, the lines blur a little more.

He isn't acting anymore. And that terrifies him more than losing the money ever could.

His thumb stutters in its lazy circles on your hip before settling still. Looking down at your peaceful face in the blue twilight, a sickening realization settles over him: the lie was supposed to break your heart, but he's the one who's completely unraveling.

The quiet afternoon in the house felt almost peaceful until you walked down the hall toward Sunghoon’s room. The door was cracked open just an inch, a sliver of golden light spilling onto the hardwood floor, along with the muffled sound of voices inside.

"—you're running out of time, man," Jake’s voice drifted out, casual and laced with an annoying, playful taunt. "The three months are almost up. Are you actually gonna pull this off, or am I keeping the money?"

You froze, your hand hovering inches from the door handle. Your chest tightened, a strange, sudden coldness spreading through your veins.

A heavy silence followed inside the room before Sunghoon’s low, familiar voice responded. He sounded tense, entirely unlike the gentle, vulnerable guy who had held you so tightly in the dark just nights ago.

"Shut up, Jake," Sunghoon muttered sharply, the sound of papers rustling or a chair scraping against the floor cutting through the air. "It's not about that anymore."

"Oh, come on," Jake chuckled, completely unbothered by Sunghoon's tone. "Don't tell me you're catching real feelings over a stupid frat wager. You’re the one who agreed to the bet in the first place, Sunghoon. Don't back out now when the pot's this big."

Every word felt like a physical strike to your chest. A bet. A wager. Three months.

The memory of Sunghoon’s whispered promises, the intense way his eyes held yours, the warmth of his hand on your waist—all of it shattered in a single, brutal second, leaving you standing frozen in the dimly lit hallway, barely able to breathe.

You could hear sunghoons voice as he continued "besides I basically already won the bet, she's head over heels for me"

The words cut through you like a blade, cold and merciless.

Inside the room, Jake lets out a dark, whistle of a laugh. "There's the Sunghoon I know. Guess I'm out five hundred bucks, then."

"Yeah," Sunghoon’s voice comes again, but this time it lacks any real bite—flat, almost hollow, as if he’s forcing the words past a tight throat. "Yeah. You are."

Outside the door, the world feels like it's spinning off its axis. Every touch, every whispered 'you have no idea what you do to me,' every soft, feverish kiss in the dark replays in your mind, suddenly warped and ugly. It wasn't love. It wasn't even genuine affection. It was a game. A calculated, three-month performance designed to make you fall, just so he could line his pockets and brag to his friends.

Your breath hitches, a small, sharp sound breaking the silence of the hallway.

Inside, the light chatter instantly dies.

"Did you hear that?" Jake murmurs, his tone instantly shifting to cautious.

The floorboards creak inside as someone steps toward the door. The handle jiggles, and before you can force your frozen feet to move, the door swings open.

Sunghoon stands in the doorway, his confident mask slipping the exact second his eyes land on you. His tall frame instantly goes rigid. The smug, indifferent air he had moments ago completely vanishes, replaced by a sudden, sickening pale drain on his face as he looks at your eyes, reading the exact moment your heart broke.

"Byeol..." he whispers, his voice cracking, all the smugness completely gone. "How long have you been standing there?"

You don't say a word. You can't. The air feels too thick to pull into your lungs, and your throat is locked tight under the agonizing weight of the truth.

Behind Sunghoon, Jake's eyes widen in sheer horror. Realizing the colossal storm he just helped blow open, Jake quietly edges past Sunghoon, muttering a hasty, "I'm... I'm just gonna go," before scrambling down the hallway, leaving the two of you in a suffocating silence.

Sunghoon doesn't even watch him leave. His dark eyes are glued to yours, wide with a panic you’ve never seen in him before. The effortless, cool facade he always wore—the one he just used to brag about you seconds ago—is completely gone, replaced by a desperate, pale shock.

He takes a quick, eager step toward you, reaching out a hand. "Byeol, please. It’s—it’s not what it sounded like, I swear to God—"

"Is it true?"

Your voice is barely a whisper, hollow and trembling, but it freezes him in his tracks. His hand hovers in the empty space between you, trembling slightly before he slowly lets it fall to his side.

"Byeol..." he chokes out, his throat working hard as he swallows. He looks like he’s physically sick, the blood completely drained from his face. "It started out as something stupid, okay? It was just... a dumb joke with the guys months ago. But it isn't like that anymore. You know it isn't. Everything lately, everything between us—that was real. I swear it was real."

"A dumb joke," you repeat, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping your lips as tears finally blur your vision. The memory of his hands on your waist, his whispered promises in the dark, his thumb brushing your cheek—it all feels like poison now. "I was just a five-hundred-dollar bet to you."

"No! No, you're not!" Sunghoon closes the distance between you in two fast strides, his hands coming up to gently, desperately frame your face, but you immediately flinch away from his touch. The rejection hits him like a physical blow, his expression crumbling. "Please, don't pull away from me. I know I fucked up, I know I'm a complete bastard, but I love you. I fell in love with you, Byeol."

"I know what you heard," he suffocates on the words, his chest heaving as his voice fractures into something raw and desperate. "I know what I did. I was a sick bastard who thought I could play with you... but it's killing me. It's fucking killing me, okay?"

He drops his head, his fingers tangling wildly into his own hair as he drops to his knees right in front of you, the rain soaking straight through his jacket.

"Hate me. Slap me. Ruin my life—I'll let you do whatever you want to me, I swear to God I will. Just don't look at me like I'm nothing. Please... just tell me what to do to make you stay."

"You lied to me, you took advantage of me, for what? What did you gain?" You say, not even being able to look at him with how much he'd hurt you.

His breath hitches, the harsh sound slicing through the heavy silence between you. Every word out of your mouth hits him like a physical blow, but it’s the fact that you can’t even bear to look at him that truly destroys him. The utter disgust in your voice is a million times worse than if you’d screamed.

He takes a frantic step forward, his hands twitching at his sides, desperate to reach out and pull you back, but too terrified that touching you will make you run.

"Nothing," he chokes out, his voice a broken, hollow rasp. "I gained nothing. I lost everything the second I let them convince me you were just another game."

A harsh, bitter sob rips from his throat, completely stripping away whatever pride he had left. He closes the distance until he’s right in front of you, dropping his head into his hands as his shoulders shake violently.

"Look at me. Please... just look at me so you can see how dead I am without you," he begs, his voice cracking into sheer agony. "I was a coward. I was terrified of how easily you made me fall, so I pretended it was a joke. But it wasn't. It never was. I'm sick with it, I'm dying inside, and I don't care about the bet, I don't care about my friends, I don't care about anything in this damn world except getting you back."

He drops to his knees right on the cold pavement, reaching out with trembling fingers to gently, hesitantly touch the hem of your coat—like a sinner pleading at an altar.

"Ruin me," he whispers, dark eyes shiny with unshed tears as he finally looks up at you, completely unraveled. "Take everything I have. Make me pay for every single tear you shed. Just... don't make me live a day where you look past me like I don't exist."

"Right now I don't even know who you are sunghoon" with that you walk away.

──𝄞𝄢──

Two weeks pass in a excruciating, heavy silence.

The break hangs over the frat house like a dark cloud. Sunghoon is a complete ghost of his former self—he doesn't go out, he barely speaks to Jake or any of the guys, and the confident, smirk-wearing guy everyone used to know has completely vanished. The $500 pot was publicly called off, though Sunghoon made sure everyone knew he was the one who blew it, taking the full brunt of the blame without offering a single excuse.

Every day, your phone sits quietly on your desk. Sunghoon hasn't pushed your boundaries—he’s kept his promise to give you space—but he sends a single, simple text every morning at 8:00 AM

I’m so sorry, Byeol. I'm right here whenever you're ready to talk.

For you, the time away is a tangled mess of anger, grief, and a lingering, frustrating ache. Every time you try to convince yourself to completely cut him off, your mind wanders back to the vulnerable look in his eyes in the dark, the way his heart hammered against yours, and the sheer desperation in his voice when he begged you not to walk away.

You know the bet was real at the beginning. But as you sit staring at your phone, the ultimate question keeps repeating in your mind Is the person he became with you worth forgiving the person he was when it started?

The front door of the frat house feels heavier than usual as you push it open. The usual chaotic bass and chatter downstairs seem oddly muted today.

When you walk up the familiar stairs and reach Sunghoon’s room, the door is slightly ajar. Stepping quietly inside, you find him sitting on the edge of his bed, his head resting in his hands. He looks exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a bit messy, wearing an oversized hoodie as if he hasn't stepped out of this room in days.

The quiet click of the door closing makes him snap his head up.

The moment his eyes land on you, Sunghoon freezes. A sudden, overwhelming rush of emotion washes across his face—shock, disbelief, and a raw, trembling hope that makes his breath hitch in his throat.

He stands up immediately, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, but he doesn't dare step closer. He just stands there, looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

"Byeol..." his voice is low, scratchy, and thick with emotion. He swallows hard, his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides. "You're... you're here."

You take a slow breath, meeting his gaze directly. "I made up my mind, Sunghoon."

His entire body goes rigid, his dark eyes searching yours desperately, bracing himself for whatever sentence you're about to pass.

"I'm still furious about how this started," you say softly, your voice steady despite the rapid beat of your heart. "And it's going to take time for me to fully trust you again. But... I know what was real between us. I'm giving us another chance."

For a second, the words don't seem to register. Then, the tension holding him together completely snaps.

A choked, breathless sound escapes him, and in three long strides, Sunghoon closes the distance between you. He stops just inches away, his hands trembling as he gently, reverently reaches out to cup your cheeks, his thumb brushing over your skin as if making sure you're actually real.

"Thank you," he whispers, his forehead coming down to rest softly against yours. Tears glisten in his dark eyes as a shaky, relieved laugh breaks through his lips. "I swear to you, Byeol... I will spend every single day making this up to you. I won't ever let you regret this."

Six months pass, and the house—once a reminder of broken trust—has become the background to a completely transformed Sunghoon.

He didn't just apologize; he changed. The bet and the cold, smooth persona he used to hide behind are completely gone. In their place is someone who loves you openly, fiercely, and without an ounce of hesitation.

It’s in the small, quiet moments that he proved it to you. Like how he dropped out of the stupid house antics without a second thought, or how he instinctively reaches for your hand whenever you walk into a room together, proudly showing anyone who looks that you're the only person who matters to him. It’s in the way he listens—really listens—to every tiny detail of your day, remembering things you mentioned weeks ago just to surprise you with them later.

Tonight, the autumn air is crisp as the two of you sit on the back porch of the house, wrapped under a heavy blanket away from the party inside. Sunghoon sits behind you, his long legs wrapped around yours, pulling you flush against his chest just like he used to, but without a single shadow of doubt hanging over you.

He presses his lips softly against the curve of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your skin before resting his chin on your shoulder.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs softly, his arms tightening affectionately around your waist.

"Just... how different things are now," you say, turning your head slightly to look at him.

Sunghoon’s dark eyes soften, filled with an unbearable amount of devotion. He leans in, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before stopping at your lips.

"I promised you I'd spend every day earning this," he whispers, his voice thick with sincerity as his fingers interlock with yours, holding on tight. "I'm never stopping, Byeol. You're my whole world."

"I love you so much" he kisses your forehead

"I love you too, Sunghoon, only you"

The End

you step off the plane a few days earlier, notebook already full of notes, press badge hanging around your neck like a second heartbeat. mid-twenties, passionate about the sport since you first watched it as a kid in your living room, knees tucked under a blanket while your family cheered at the screen.

you earned this assignment through sharp reporting and a knack for getting players to open up, chasing stories in smaller leagues and building connections one honest conversation at a time. this is your first world cup covering the men’s side, and the pressure feels exhilarating, a mix of nerves and pure thrill that keeps your pulse quick.

sunghoon park stands out even before the tournament begins.

you know him, everybody does.

starting centre-back, atlético de madrid's star, vice-third captain of south korea's team despite being one of the younger leaders in the squad. his reputation precedes him: ice-prince composure on the pitch, elite defending that reads plays before they happen, precise tackles that disarm attacks without unnecessary force, aerial dominance in duels, and the rare ability to stay calm when everyone else loses their head. fans call him "the wall", a nickname earned through countless highlights of last-ditch clearances and steady leadership. teammates respect him because he leads by example, voice steady in the dressing room, never raising it unless absolutely necessary, offering quiet words of encouragement that carry weight.

off the pitch he carries a quiet politeness, almost shy, with sharp features and dark hair that falls just so, making him look more model than footballer sometimes, his presence drawing second glances even in casual team arrivals. but on it, he transforms into something unforgettable, every movement calculated, his focus turning the chaos of the game into something almost predictable for those watching closely.

the group stage opener arrives fast. south korea versus a tough czech republic known for physicality and counter-attacks, their players built like athletes who thrive on intensity and sudden bursts forward.

the stadium is packed, flags waving in vibrant waves of red and green, chants echoing off the sleek architecture and blending into a roaring symphony. you sit in the press box, heart racing as the teams line up, the bright lights casting long shadows across the pitch.

sunghoon wears the armband tonight as one of the captains rotates, his posture straight, eyes focused under the intense glare. the whistle blows and the match unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance, every pass and movement carrying the weight of national pride.

south korea dominates possession early, controlling the tempo with crisp passes that slice through the midfield. sunghoon organizes the backline with quiet gestures, shouting instructions that cut through the noise, his voice clear and authoritative without ever sounding frantic. when the opponent launches a dangerous cross in the 22nd minute, he rises highest, heading it clear with perfect timing, his body suspended for a moment in perfect athletic poise. you scribble notes furiously: park’s reading of the game is elite. anticipates runs before they develop. tracks shadows and feints with uncanny precision.

the first goal comes from a set-piece he delivers, his long ball finding a teammate who finishes clinically. 1-0. the crowd erupts in a wave of cheers and horns, the energy surging through the stands and into the press area, making your skin tingle.

half-time brings tactical adjustments, the players jogging off with measured steps, sunghoon’s expression unchanging, focused, a thin sheen of sweat on his brows but nothing else. you watch from your seat, analyzing every detail, the way he wipes his face with the hem of his jersey before disappearing into the tunnel.

second half tests them. the opponent pushes hard, physical challenges flying in, boots clashing against shins in audible thuds that make you wince from afar. sunghoon absorbs a heavy tackle but gets up immediately, brushing dirt from his jersey like it’s nothing, his face only shows determination. another key interception in the 68th minute prevents a certain equalizer, his sliding perfectly timed, the ball rolling safely out of bounds as the crowd holds its collective breath.

his composure never cracks, even as the minutes tick down and fatigue sets in for everyone else. south korea holds firm and adds a second goal late, a moment of clinical finishing that seals the result.

final whistle: 2-0. clean sheet. perfect start.

the stadium pulses with celebration, and you lean back in your seat, notebook overflowing, already replaying every touch from the ice-prince at the heart of it all.

the mixed zone after the match is chaotic, journalists crowding the barriers with cameras flashing and recorders thrust forward like eager weapons. the air feels humid and charged, thick with the scent of sweat, grass, and lingering adrenaline from the pitch. the players file through in waves, some pausing for quick quotes with tired smiles, others walking past with headphones on, heads down, lost in their own debriefs. you wait patiently near the designated spot, assigned specifically to sunghoon today, your notebook clutched tight and questions already mentally rehearsed.

when he approaches, towel around his neck, hair damp with sweat and slightly tousled, jersey clinging slightly to his frame from the exertions of ninety minutes, your pulse quickens despite your professionalism. he looks every bit the ice prince under the harsh mixed zone lights, broad shoulders still squared from the game, but up close there’s a subtle tiredness mixed with quiet satisfaction in his eyes, a faint flush on his cheeks that speaks to the effort he poured out.

“sunghoon park,” you begin, microphone steady in your hand, voice warm but professional, cutting through the surrounding din. “congratulations on the win and the clean sheet. you were instrumental at the back tonight. how did the defense hold up against their physical attacks?”

he stops fully, turning toward you with deliberate care. his gaze meets yours directly, polite and attentive, dark eyes steady without any hint of evasion. a small, shy smile touches his lips, the kind that barely shows but feels genuine, softening the sharp lines of his features for just a moment. “thank you. the team prepared well. we communicated a lot on the pitch, stayed compact. it’s a good start, but we know every match gets harder.”

you nod, following up smoothly, the words flowing as the crowd noise fades into background static. “your aerial duel win in the first half was crucial. and that long ball leading to the first goal — was that something practiced in training, or instinctive?”

“a bit of both,” he answers, voice calm and low, carrying that measured tone that makes every syllable feel intentional. “the coaches drilled set-pieces endlessly, but reading the moment… that comes with experience and trust in your teammates.” he shifts slightly on his feet, still looking at you, water bottle in one hand, the towel draped casually.

then you ask the tougher one, the kind that makes some players defensive or curt. “some analysts said before the tournament that the backline might struggle with pace. how do you respond to that after tonight?”

sunghoon pauses briefly, considering, then lets out a genuine laugh — soft, surprised, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that lights up his whole expression. it’s rare post-match, especially after a high-stakes opener, cutting through the usual post-game formality like a breath of fresh air.

“you came prepared with the tough questions, didn't you?” he teases lightly, tone playful but not mocking, a hint of warmth threading through. “i think we showed tonight that we can handle it. pace is one thing, but positioning and timing matter more. we’ll keep proving it match by match.”

you smile back, the chemistry instant and easy, a natural rhythm settling between question and answer. the interview flows naturally after that, a few more questions about team spirit and his leadership role as vice-third captain. he answers thoughtfully, adding small details that most players gloss over — the specific calls he made during transitions, the way the defenders rotated coverage to blunt counters, little insights born from hours on the training ground.

when it ends, he gives a slight bow of his head, respectful and understated. “good questions. thank you. see you.” his eyes linger just a second longer than necessary, holding yours with that same quiet intensity from the pitch, before he moves on down the mixed zone.

you stand there for a moment amid the continuing chaos, replaying the laugh in your head, the way his voice dipped on certain words. "he's handsome, but you're professional. remember the boundaries", you remind yourself firmly, even as your notes feel heavier with more than just match analysis. but the spark is undeniable.

back at the team hotel later that night, the lobby hums with subdued celebration. the space feels alive yet restrained, players and staff moving between rooms in quiet clusters, some heading to recovery sessions with ice baths and physio tables waiting, others grabbing late snacks from the discreet buffet setup in the corner. the hotel is modern, luxurious but secure, with sleek marble floors, towering glass windows overlooking the atlanta night, and strict curfew rules for the squad enforced by attentive staff. you’re staying on one of the lower floors, same as some media and support staff, close enough to the team’s area for convenience but separated by careful zoning that keeps interactions professional and contained.

jet lag keeps you awake, a restless energy humming in your veins, so you head to the lobby lounge for a quiet coffee, laptop open as you type up your match report, fingers flying across the keys in the dim glow. the lights are dimmed low, casting warm pools across the plush seating, soft piano music playing faintly from hidden speakers, a gentle melody that blends with the occasional murmur of conversation.

you’re halfway through your notes, capturing the rhythm of the defense and the weight of sunghoon’s contributions, when movement catches your eye near the entrance.

sunghoon walks in wearing a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from a shower, the fabric of his clothes loose and comfortable after the intensity of the pitch. he looks younger like this, less captain, more guy in his early twenties carrying the weight of a nation on broad but unassuming shoulders. he spots you almost immediately, hesitation flickering across his face for a brief second before he approaches with measured steps.

“are you still working?” he asks quietly, voice gentle so as not to disturb the quiet space, his korean accent wrapping around the english words comfortably, smooth and familiar.

you look up, surprised but pleased, a small smile tugging at your lips. “yeah, i couldn't sleep. jet lag plus post-match adrenaline. you? should you even be down here this late?”

he gives that small shy smile again, the one that softens his sharp features, and sits in the armchair across from you after a subtle nod seeking permission.

“brief recovery session ran long. and yes, technically within limits if i don’t stay too long.” he glances at your screen with mild curiosity. “are you writing about the match?”

“i'm trying to capture it right. you made it easy with that performance,” you reply, closing the laptop slightly to give him full attention, the screen’s glow fading. conversation starts light, about the game, the flow of possession and the moments that stood out. he talks about specific moments — the tackle on the 68th, how the roar of the crowd affected concentration and forced quicker decisions, the way the backline shifted as a unit to snuff out threats.

you share observations from the press box, how the team’s shape looked solid from above, the defensive lines holding like a well-oiled machine even under pressure. the words come easily, trading perspectives that deepen the understanding of the ninety minutes.

“the jet lag is brutal,” he admits after a pause, leaning back into the cushions, his posture relaxing just a fraction. “it feels like my body is still somewhere over the pacific, caught between time zones. but nights like tonight make it worth it, the win settling something in the chest.”

you nod, sipping your coffee. “i get it. first world cup for me covering like this. the energy is addictive, but exhausting. what helps you unwind? besides perfect defending, obviously.”

he chuckles softly, the sound warm and low in the quiet lobby, a rare unguarded moment. “music sometimes. or thinking about simple things back home. korean food, especially. samgyeopsal after a win would be perfect right now. or even just ramyeon, spicy and comforting. the hotel options are good, but nothing beats street food at home late night after training.”

“ramyeon sounds heavenly,” you agree, smiling as the memory of your own recent meal surfaces. “i had some earlier from a local spot nearby. spicy, just right, with that perfect chew. if you get a chance off-schedule, there’s a place a short drive away that does authentic versions, the noodles are great. though i’m sure team nutrition has you on lock with carefully balanced meals.”

he listens intently, eyes brightening with quiet interest, nodding along as details unfold. the talk drifts naturally — small recommendations for hidden spots, funny stories about travel mishaps like delayed flights and lost luggage in past tournaments, how the world cup atmosphere feels different from league play, more electric and heavy with expectation. he asks about your reporting background, genuinely curious, leaning forward slightly. you tell him about covering smaller leagues first, the grind of rainy pitches and modest crowds that built your eye for the game. he shares a bit about balancing football with everything else, the pressure of being a leader despite his age, the quiet moments needed to stay grounded.

time slips by. maybe twenty minutes, maybe thirty, the lobby emptying further as staff dim the lights even lower and the piano music fades to a softer hum. neither wants to end it abruptly, the conversation weaving comfortably, but reality lingers in the back of both minds.

“i should head up,” he says eventually, standing slowly, stretching with subtle care for his body after the match. “i have a curfew and all of that. but… this was nice. unexpected, but nice.”

“yeah,” you reply, meeting his gaze steadily. “good talk, sunghoon. rest up. next match comes quick.”

he pauses before leaving, that shy smile returning, warmer now in the low light. “goodnight. and thanks again for the interview earlier. you made it… interesting, and easier.” his words carry a little extra weight, the small spark from the mixed zone flickering brighter here in the soft lights of the lounge.

you watch him walk toward the elevators, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands in a casual gesture, footsteps quiet on the marble. alone again, you reopen your laptop but type slower, mind replaying the conversation in fragments. professional. friendly. nothing more. yet the easy chemistry lingers like the aftertaste of good coffee, warm and subtly persistent.

-------

the days after the opening win settle into a rhythm that feels both exhausting and electric. south korea’s second group match arrives, and the team looks even sharper under the georgia sun. the next days settle into tournament rhythm, a steady pulse of preparation and anticipation that fills the air around the venues. training sessions you observe from afar, positioned along the sidelines with other accredited media, notebooks ready and cameras clicking discreetly. press conferences hum with questions in multiple languages, analysis fills late nights back at your temporary workspace. south korea prepares with focused intensity, the squad sharpening transitions and set-piece routines.

sunghoon leads defensive drills with quiet authority, voice steady as he directs younger defenders, demonstrating positioning with precise gestures and calm corrections. his movements remain fluid even in practice, reading imaginary attacks before they unfold, adjusting lines with a few words that carry across the pitch. you catch his eye once across the green during a water break, the brief connection unexpected amid the bustle of cones and passing sequences. he offers a small nod, almost imperceptible, but it warms something in your chest, a quiet acknowledgment that lingers longer than it should.

back in the hotel, paths cross again briefly — a hallway hello in the early evening, his damp hair suggesting another recovery session, your arms full of notes and a coffee cup. another shared elevator ride with staff present, where conversation stays light and public, comments on the weather, the quality of training pitches, nothing that draws attention. the spark simmers beneath the surface, subtle glances and polite smiles building something unspoken match by match.

the second group game arrives under the stadium lights once more. another win, 3-1 this time, the scoreline reflecting growing confidence in the squad. sunghoon marshals the defense like a conductor, his voice cutting calmly through the noise. two key tackles in the first half snuff out dangerous counters. a perfectly timed interception in the 55th minute sparks a fast break. sunghoon scores the opener from a corner, powerful header that sends the ball rocketing into the net, his timing impeccable as he rises above the defenders. composure intact even as teammates pile on him in celebration, the stadium erupting in a sea of red and cheers that shake the stands. you watch from the press box, fingers flying over your keyboard, noting how his positioning seems almost predictive.

post-match mixed zone, you’re the one they send for the team interviews again. when sunghoon reaches you, jersey still on, towel draped around his neck, he lingers. the interview starts professional — questions about the clean sheet streak, his leadership, the set-piece organization, how it felt contributing at both ends. “feels good for the team. defense first, always, but if i can help attack too… it adds something extra.” he answers with more ease now, small smiles appearing. the tease comes again when you ask about a near-miss. “you notice everything, don’t you?” that laugh returns, genuine and rare, soft and crinkling the corners of his eyes, shared just between you amid the surrounding chaos.

the moment stretches comfortably, his answers thoughtful as before, offering insights into the team’s adjustments at halftime and the way the crowd’s energy fueled the second half push. as you wrap up, he pauses instead of moving on immediately.

“you’re becoming the regular,” he says quietly, almost teasing. “it's good to see a familiar face.” his eyes hold yours a second longer before he nods politely and continues down the line. you keep the questions sharp yet fair, the rhythm between you flowing smoother with each exchange, that easy chemistry threading through the professional exchange like a hidden current. the warmth from the brief laugh carries you through the rest of your notes that night.

that night in the hotel lobby, the coffee area is quieter. you’re there with your notes when he appears again, hoodie up, looking refreshed but still buzzing from the win.

“mind if i join?” he asks. this time he seeks you out more deliberately, crossing the quiet lounge with purposeful steps and sitting longer in the armchair across from you. you gesture to the seat across.

conversation flows easier this time. he shares a funny story about a younger teammate’s celebration in the dressing room. you tell him about a chaotic press conference earlier. talk turns to korean food recommendations again — he describes his favorite spots back in seoul with quiet enthusiasm, making you imagine the crowded streets, and the perfect balance of flavors that remind him of home after tough matches.

“are you still craving that ramyeon?” he sends a subtle glance toward the hotel menu.

“always,” you laugh.

you swap travel stories, laughing softly over delayed flights and unfamiliar customs in distant stadiums. jet lag conversations deepen slightly into dreams and why this sport matters, the shared passion for the game threading through late-night reflections. the spark feels warmer, comfortable, hovering in the pauses between words.

by the third group match, a dominant 2-0 victory seals top spot in the group. clean sheets stacking up, a testament to the defensive solidity built over months. sunghoon’s leadership shines through every organized line and timely command on the pitch. he scores the first goal from a corner kick, rising powerfully to head it into the net. his celebration is restrained — a fist pump, quick hug with teammates — but you catch the rare wide smile. his defense remains elite, another strong performance with crucial blocks.

the post-match interview flows like you're old friends now, easy banter mixed with sharp analysis under the mixed zone lights. you’re now the unofficial go-to for the team.

“you’re making my job look too good,” you joke lightly, microphone steady but tone warmer than strict professionalism. sunghoon’s answers come thoughtfully, but he lingers noticeably after each question, adding small extras just for you.

“or you’re making me look good,” he replies softly, eyes warm with that subtle crinkle at the edges, the response quick and genuine. “that goal felt good for the fans,” he says, then softly after the mic dips, “thanks for the steady questions. keeps me grounded.”

the chemistry is obvious to anyone watching closely, but nothing improper. just easy rapport.

the hotel becomes your shared in-between space. quick hallway greetings turn into short conversations when paths cross. one evening after training, you’re heading back to your room when he appears around the corner.

”long day?” he asks. you nod. he walks with you partway, voice low. “we appreciate the fair coverage.”

that night’s lobby meeting stretches further into the quiet hours. recommendations turn personal — favorite movies for recovery days, the ones that distract the mind without demanding too much attention, music playlists that help settle the adrenaline.

your hands brush reaching for drinks from the low table between you, a small touch that sends a small jolt through the air. the eye contact lingers a beat longer each time, charged yet restrained. nothing crosses lines, but the connection feels real, slow-building, like extra time in a tight match where every second carries weight.

late nights in the lobby or coffee corner grow. you talk about pressure, how the tournament amplifies everything.

he admits quietly, “it helps having someone outside the team bubble to talk to. makes it feel less heavy.” you share your own experiences covering high-stakes matches. nothing crosses lines. just comfort. mutual understanding. a crush that simmers beneath polite words.

group stage wraps with top spot secured. advancement feels earned. sunghoon’s clean sheets and that set-piece goal make headlines. you write positively, balanced. you and sunghoon exist in this careful space — reporter and player, budding friends, something warmer underneath the surface of every exchanged word and glance. the ice prince thaws just a little for you in these stolen moments, and you find yourself looking forward to every post-match moment more than you should, the story and the person behind it intertwining in ways that feel both exciting and dangerously delicate.

-------

round of 16 hits on day 13. the atmosphere around the stadium crackles with higher stakes, the air thicker with tension and the roar of fans who have traveled far for this knockout stage. the opponent is tricky, technical, a side known for quick combinations and clever movement that demands constant vigilance. the match is tighter, every touch and challenge carrying the weight of potential elimination, the pitch bathed in bright lights that cast long shadows across the players.

sunghoon shines again, his presence at the back a steady anchor amid the intensity. a spectacular sliding tackle in the 40th minute prevents a goal, his body extending fully with perfect timing, the ball cleared safely as the crowd gasps and then erupts in relief. he organizes relentlessly, voice cutting through the noise with calm instructions, gesturing to teammates to maintain shape, reading the flow of the game with that trademark composure. south korea wins 1-0, a late goal sealing it in dramatic fashion. the clean sheet streak continues, another hard-fought shutout that speaks volumes about the defensive unit’s resilience and cohesion.

post-match, the mixed zone is busier than ever, journalists pressing closer to the barriers, cameras flashing in rapid bursts, the energy electric with the thrill of advancement. voices overlap in a dozen languages as players make their way through, some pausing for brief comments, others moving with exhausted determination. when it’s sunghoon’s turn with you, he lingers the longest yet, his jersey still marked with grass stains and sweat, hair damp and slightly tousled from the battle.

“it was a tough one today,” you say on mic, keeping your tone professional yet warm amid the surrounding chaos.

he answers thoughtfully, detailing the defensive adjustments and the importance of staying compact against their technical threats, his words measured and insightful as always. then, after the formal part winds down and the recorder clicks off, his voice softens, eyes meeting yours with quiet sincerity.

“i know i say this a lot, but… your questions help me reflect properly. see you around the hotel?” the invitation is casual, professional on the surface, but layered with that familiar spark.

that night, the elevator moment happens in the quiet hum of the team hotel. the lobby has mostly emptied, soft lighting casting gentle glows across the marble floors as staff move discreetly in the background. you both end up in the same car after curfew hours, the doors sliding shut to leave just the two of you inside for a brief ride. he presses his floor, you yours, the numbers lighting up softly on the panel. the space feels smaller, more intimate, with the faint scent of his post-shower freshness mingling with the neutral hotel air.

he glances at you with a small grin, the expression boyish and relaxed after the high of the win. “technically we're not breaking rules if it’s just elevator talk, right?” his tone is light, teasing in that understated way.

you laugh quietly, the sound echoing softly in the enclosed space. “team rules are strict. but i won’t tell if you don’t.”

he chuckles, the sound low and warm, filling the brief silence as the elevator ascends smoothly. “good. wouldn’t want to get the reporter in trouble.”

the ride is short but charged, the two of you whisper-joking about imaginary coach surveillance cameras hidden in the corners, trading playful exaggerations about what the staff might think of late-night elevator rides. his eyes crinkle with amusement, the tension of the match melting away in these stolen seconds of normalcy.

when the doors open on your floor, he says softly, “sleep well,” his gaze holding yours for a lingering moment before the doors begin to close behind you. you step out into the hallway, the warmth in your chest blooming brighter, carrying you toward your room as the elevator continues upward.

texts begin the next day. the mixed zone buzz still echoes in your mind as you wrap up another solid interview with sunghoon, the post-round-of-16 energy lingering in the air like static. you give him your number after the formal questions end and the recorders are away, framing it casually as “professional follow-up if needed for quotes or any clarification on comments.” your voice stays steady and professional, but your fingers brush lightly when you hand over the small slip of paper with the digits neatly written. he takes it with a small nod, that shy smile touching his lips again, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a beat longer than necessary.

“thank you. i’ll keep it professional,” he says softly, tucking the note carefully into his pocket.

his first message comes that evening, the notification lighting up your phone screen while you sit in your hotel room reviewing notes. it is a simple photo of his dinner plate with a perfectly arranged meal — grilled protein, colorful vegetables, and a small portion of rice — caption “hotel version of home food. still not as good as ramyeon.”

you smile immediately, the image capturing the quiet discipline of his routine even after a big win. you reply with a meme about strict diets and athlete life, something light and relatable that pokes gentle fun at the sacrifices. he sends back a laughing emoji — rare for him, you imagine, given his usual reserved nature — followed by a single “exactly” that makes your grin widen.

from there, the messages stay light, comforting, a gentle thread connecting the tournament days without crossing into anything overt. he sends silly pitch-side observations during training breaks: “jay almost tripped over a cone today. classic.” the photo attached shows a blurred moment of near chaos on the practice field, his dry humor shining through in the sparse words. you send encouraging articles about south korea’s impressive run or funny football memes that capture the absurdity of the world cup bubble, ones that make him reply with “this one’s accurate” or a simple thumbs up that somehow feels warmer than it should.

there's nothing flirty on the surface. just connection. mutual crush energy that both of you feel but respect the boundaries around, keeping exchanges safe and supportive amid the mounting pressure.

hotel moments multiply in the days that follow, the shared spaces becoming familiar territory for these careful interactions. late-night lobby talks stretch longer, the soft piano music and dimmed lights creating a private world away from the team’s stricter routines. one night on day 15 he brings a small herbal tea from the team area (within rules), the warm cup steaming gently as he sets it down on the low table between you. “thought you might like this. helps with the late nights,” he says quietly, his voice low enough to blend with the ambient hum of the lounge.

you talk about life outside football — his interests in ice skating from younger days, the way the rhythm on the ice once felt like an escape before football took over completely, describing the cold air and smooth glides with a rare nostalgic softness. you share your journey into sports journalism, the early struggles of proving yourself in press boxes filled with veterans, the thrill of finding stories that go beyond the scoreline. hands brush when passing the cup back and forth, the fleeting contact sending small sparks up your arm each time. eye contact lingers, dark eyes holding yours across the table with quiet intensity, the air feels charged but controlled, heavy with unspoken understanding as the hours slip by unnoticed. the conversations flow naturally, deepening the connection without rushing it, each word and glance adding another layer to the careful space you both navigate.

-------

quarterfinals arrive around day 18. the stakes feel heavier in the air, the stadium packed with fans whose chants create a wall of sound that vibrates through every seat and press box. the match is intense, a real battle against a formidable side that matches south korea’s determination with sharp attacks and physical duels. every minute stretches, the tension thick on the pitch under the bright lights.

sunghoon is everywhere — key tackles that stop dangerous breakthroughs in their tracks, precise interceptions that shift momentum, and steady leadership in extra time when fatigue threatens to creep in. his voice remains calm yet commanding, organizing the backline with gestures and short calls that cut through the roar. they win 2-1 in a dramatic finish, the late goal sending the entire bench and crowd into frenzy. the team erupts in joy on the pitch, players hugging, jumping, the relief and pride visible in every exhausted smile and raised fist. advancement to semifinals secured, a milestone that echoes through the night.

the hotel celebration that night is big but contained — music pulsing softly in the common areas, players laughing in groups, sharing stories of key moments from the match, staff joining in with congratulatory claps and snacks passed around. the atmosphere buzzes with pride and cautious optimism, lights a little brighter than usual, but everyone mindful of the next challenge looming. you observe from the edges as a reporter, keeping professional distance, notebook in hand and a quiet smile as you absorb the scene without inserting yourself into the core festivities.

later, when things quiet and the main areas begin to empty, sunghoon finds you outside near the hotel gardens, away from the main buzz. the paths are softly lit with low lanterns, the greenery lush and fragrant under the clear seattle sky. the stars are bright overhead, scattered across the dark canvas, the night air warm and still, carrying faint traces of desert breeze and blooming flowers.

“big win today,” you say as he approaches, his steps quiet on the stone path, still dressed in comfortable post-celebration clothes, hair slightly tousled from the long day.

he nods, sitting on the bench beside you with a comfortable distance that still feels close. “the team deserved it. everyone gave everything out there.”

after that, conversation flows deep and unhurried, it comes naturally. he talks about the pressure of the knockout stages, how every match feels like the last, the weight of national expectations sitting on his shoulders alongside the physical demands. his voice stays low and reflective, sharing small vulnerabilities about staying focused when the world watches.

you share how covering it has been a dream but emotionally draining too, the rollercoaster of emotions from the press box mirroring some of the intensity on the field, the responsibility of capturing moments fairly while feeling the pull of the story. an hour passes easily under the stars, time slipping by as words weave between match analysis, personal reflections, and quiet laughter at lighter memories from the tournament so far.

at one point your hands brush again while gesturing animatedly about a particular play, the contact warm and lingering. neither pulls away immediately, the touch extending a second or two longer than accidental. prolonged eye contact follows — his dark eyes soft, searching, reflecting the garden lights and something deeper. the almost-moment hangs in the warm air, charged with crush energy that peaks in the silence, hearts beating a little faster in the quiet night.

he clears his throat gently after a beat, the sound soft and respectful, pulling back just enough to keep the line intact. “i’m glad you’re here for all this. it makes the nights easier, you know?”

you smile, warmth spreading through your chest. “me too, sunghoon.”

he doesn’t push further. respect keeps the line intact, boundaries honored even as the connection deepens. but the friendship has grown, your bond is undeniable in these stolen moments of calm. as you both head inside separately, walking toward the entrance at a respectful distance, the tournament feels brighter, the stars a little clearer, the shared moments adding layers of comfort amid the beautiful game’s relentless pace.

-------

the semifinal week hits like a wave. south korea’s run has captured hearts back home and around the world. media pressure mounts daily — press conferences packed with reporters, questions sharper and more insistent, expectations heavier with every passing hour. training sessions stretch longer under the los angeles sun, tactics refined with extra repetitions, fitness pushed to the limit. sunghoon leads with that signature calm, directing drills and encouraging teammates, but you notice the subtle signs of strain in his shoulders when he thinks no one watches. as vice-third captain, he shoulders quiet responsibility, guiding younger players through tough sequences, voice steady even as fatigue sets in.

you feel the pressure too. your reports gain traction, interviews with the team sought after by bigger outlets. every day brings new deadlines, analysis pieces, and the growing awareness that this story — both the team’s and the one quietly unfolding between you and sunghoon — feels bigger than expected. you keep boundaries professional in public, but the hotel has become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where conversations breathe easier away from the cameras.

one particularly grueling training day ends late. the team disperses for recovery, bodies tired but spirits high. you’re walking the designated paths near the hotel, notebook in hand, reviewing notes under fading light when sunghoon appears. he wears team-issued sweats, hair slightly messy from the shower, a fresh scent of soap following him. a quick glance around confirms the area is quiet, within allowed boundaries for light activity.

“do you mind if i join for a short walk?” he asks, voice low and gentle. his eyes carry that familiar shy warmth, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

you nod, closing your notebook. “of course. rough day out there?”

he falls into step beside you, the path winding gently around landscaped gardens, away from main entrances but still visible enough to stay appropriate. “yeah, long one. legs feel heavy, but we needed it. that drill where the cones kept falling — your face was priceless when you were watching from the side.”

you tease softly, a light laugh escaping. “don’t remind me. you looked so focused, and then everything just tumbled. the younger guys won’t let it go, huh?”

he chuckles, the sound easing the day’s tension, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “no, they keep replaying it in the dressing room. i told them to focus on their own mistakes next time.”

gradually the conversation deepens as the sky turns deep blue, stars emerging one by one overhead. he talks about pressure first, voice thoughtful. “it builds differently in a tournament like this. every mistake feels like it could end everything. as captain… even vice… you feel it for the whole squad. not just for yourself.”

you listen closely, the gravel path crunching softly under your steps. “i can see it in how you carry yourself. what keeps you going when it gets this heavy?”

he thinks for a moment, steps slowing. “dreams from when i was younger. playing at this level, bringing pride home. and… smaller things now. quiet moments like this. reminders that there’s life beyond the pitch.” he glances at you, the air feels thicker. “honestly, you’ve become one of my favorite parts of this crazy tournament. talking to you after matches, the texts, these walks… it makes the pressure feel less lonely. like there’s something steady.”

your heart skips a beat at the admission. you look at him, the words hanging gentle between you under the starlight. “same for me, sunghoon. covering this has been incredible, the biggest assignment of my career, but getting to know you has made it special. in a way i didn’t expect. your perspective after games… it helps me see the match differently too. it makes me better, even.”

he nods, a soft smile appearing. “i’m glad. sometimes after a tough session i look forward to what you might ask next, or what meme you’ll send. it keeps things balanced.”

neither pushes further. hands brush once as you both gesture toward a nearby bench, the contact warm and lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary. prolonged eye contact follows under the stars — his dark eyes soft, searching, full of unspoken feelings. tension coils warmly, but respect holds strong. you sit briefly on the bench, the wood still holding daytime heat.

“tell me about seoul,” you say quietly. “what do you miss most when you’re away like this?”

he leans back slightly, voice warm with memory. “the streets at night, family meals where everyone talks over each other, my little sister teasing me. the quiet ice rink i visit off-season. it feels freeing, just gliding without thinking about the next match.”

you share your own stories in return. “my hometown had this small park where we’d kick a ball around as kids. football was always the escape, even before i started writing about it. now being here, covering your run… it brings that feeling back.”

the walk ends too soon, the hotel lights drawing closer, but the connection sinks deeper, roots forming in these simple, honest exchanges. you part ways near the entrance with quiet goodnights, the warmth of the conversation carrying into the night.

-------

semifinal day arrives heavy with anticipation. the opponent is formidable, a european side with attacking flair and experience in high-stakes matches. the stadium pulses with energy, south korean fans loud and proud, waving flags that create a sea of red across the stands. you sit in the press box, nerves alight as the match kicks off, heart pounding in time with the roar that greets the first whistle. sunghoon anchors the defense, composure like ice even as attacks rain down in waves. early chances for both sides keep everyone on edge. he makes a crucial block in the 18th minute, sliding perfectly to deny a shot, his body a wall that refuses to break.

the first half ends 0-0, tense and locked, both teams probing for weaknesses without success. you scribble notes furiously, the press box filled with the sound of typing and whispered analysis.

second half explodes with action. south korea scores first on a counter, sunghoon’s precise pass starting the move with perfect vision. celebrations are wild, players piling on each other as the stadium shakes. but the opponent equalizes quickly, the drama building with every minute. yellow cards fly, tempers flare, and extra time looms like a shadow. in the 82nd minute, sunghoon wins a vital aerial duel, clearing danger with powerful timing. the team pushes forward relentlessly. in the dying moments of regulation, a dramatic goal from a set-piece they practiced all week seals it.

2-1. south korea reaches the final.

the stadium erupts in pure ecstasy. players collapse in joy and exhaustion on the pitch, embracing, shouting, some dropping to their knees. sunghoon’s face shows rare pure emotion — relief, pride, tears barely held back as he hugs teammates tightly, the ice prince mask cracking in the best way. you watch from above, heart full, a lump in your throat at the magnitude of the moment.

mixed zone post-match is electric, buzzing with louder voices, brighter lights, and the raw energy of a team one step from history. when sunghoon reaches you, sweat-drenched and glowing with exhaustion and triumph, the interview carries extra weight. you ask about the resilience, his leadership, that final clearance, keeping your voice steady despite the rush of feelings.

he answers thoughtfully, voice steady for the cameras, detailing the defensive shape and the belief within the squad even when the score was level. as it wraps, he leans slightly closer to the mic, eyes on you with subtle softness that feels intimate amid the chaos. “thank you for being here,” he says quietly, almost under his breath but picked up on audio. “through all of it.”

the words are professional on the surface, but the delivery and his gaze carry more — warmth, gratitude, and that deeper connection built over weeks. fans and viewers notice immediately. social media lights up with theories about the “vibe” between south korea’s ice prince and the reporter.

he lingers afterward, as always, a stolen smile shared when cameras shift away for a moment. “we did it,” he murmurs, voice low and tired but happy, stepping just a fraction closer.

you nod, pride evident in your expression. “you did. incredible performance. that clearance in the 82nd… everyone in the press box held their breath.”

for a brief second the mixed zone noise fades into background static. he opens his arms slightly in a quiet offer, and you meet him in a quick, careful hug — nothing overt, just a brief, warm press of shoulders and arms, his jersey damp against you, the scent of grass and effort and victory surrounding the moment. it lasts only a heartbeat or two, respectful and hidden in the bustle, but the tension spikes sweetly, hearts beating harder in the small space between you. his hand rests lightly on your back for that instant, steady and reassuring, before you both pull away, cheeks flushed.

“get some rest,” you whisper, voice soft. “you earned it.”

he nods, eyes lingering on yours with that searching softness. “talk soon. hotel later if you’re around?” the words carry quiet hope. you smile, the almost-moment hanging in the air like the roar of the crowd still echoing outside. the connection feels stronger than ever, charged with everything unsaid, yet still carefully contained.

-------

the following days blur with celebration and preparation for the final. the hotel atmosphere buzzes with a mix of joy and focused energy, players moving between recovery sessions and light meetings, laughter echoing down hallways but tempered by the knowledge of the ultimate test ahead. sunghoon’s texts increase slightly in frequency, still light but warmer, carrying a quiet affection that makes your phone feel heavier in your hand each time it lights up.

a food pic arrives one evening with the caption “recovery meal. missing home flavors… and good conversations.” the image shows a neatly plated dish, simple yet carefully arranged, the kind of balanced food that fuels but never fully satisfies the craving for something familiar. you reply with an encouraging article about the final and a meme about dramatic semifinals that perfectly captures the chaos of extra time. he sends back “exactly this” followed by a laughing emoji, the rare sign of his amusement that always brings a smile to your face.

tension builds in beautiful, restrained ways throughout the week. stolen smiles across the lobby when eyes meet from a distance, quick and private amid the staff and players milling about. inside jokes during brief hallway passes — references to the falling cones or that memorable elevator ride — whispered in passing with soft chuckles that linger in the air after you part. these small exchanges become anchors in the busy days, tiny moments of normalcy that recharge both of you.

one evening he finds you in the coffee area again, the lounge quieter than usual after a long day. you’re typing up notes, shoulders tight from hours at the laptop, when he approaches with that familiar shy warmth. he sits across from you, voice low. “long day for you too?”

you nod, closing the screen slightly. “deadlines never stop. but watching you all out there makes it worth it. how are your legs holding up after that semifinal?”

he smiles, leaning back. “sore, but manageable. don’t burn out yourself. this final… we’ll need your steady questions after. you always make me think clearly when i answer them.”

the support flows naturally between you. you listen as he shares the weight of the upcoming match, offering quiet encouragement in return. “you’ve carried so much already. the way you lead the younger guys, the composure under pressure — it shows. rest those shoulders tonight, okay? ice them like the physios say.” he chuckles softly at your gentle teasing about resting his legs, the sound warm and easy, but underneath simmers deeper feelings — mutual crush evolving into something tender, real, built on weeks of understanding and respect.

another quiet moment near the gardens happens on a cooler evening, shorter this time due to stricter schedules and earlier curfews. the paths are dimly lit, the air carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. hands brush again while walking side by side, the contact sending a familiar spark up your arm. neither pulls away right away. eye contact holds, his dark eyes soft in the low light.

“whatever happens in the final… i’m grateful for these weeks,” he says softly, voice sincere and a little vulnerable. “the talks, the texts, even the quick hallway jokes. it’s helped more than you know. having someone outside the team bubble who sees me as more than just the defender.”

you feel the same, words careful but heartfelt. “i’m grateful too, sunghoon. covering this run has been a dream, but getting to know you — the real you behind the ice prince reputation — has made it unforgettable. you’ve helped me stay grounded too, reminded me why i love the game in the first place.”

no lines crossed. just deepening connection, slow and respectful, hearts leaning closer as the biggest match approaches. you part ways with a quiet goodnight, the warmth of his words carrying you back to your room.

the week ends with the team focused and bonded tighter than ever. you prepare your notes for the final, mind full of sunghoon — the defender, the leader, the person who’s quietly become so important through shared laughs, supportive words, and those stolen moments of understanding. the final awaits, but this connection feels like its own victory already, a beautiful thread woven through the chaos of the tournament.

-------

the final week feels like the world has narrowed to a single point. south korea against a powerhouse european side — technically brilliant, physically strong, full of world-class attackers who can change a game in one moment. the hotel is quieter now, heavier with focus. players move through the halls with serious faces. laughter still comes, but it is softer, shorter. training is sharp, tactical, almost silent except for sunghoon’s calm instructions. he stands tall on the pitch, directing the backline with steady words, but you see the weight he carries.

media pressure peaks. every interview, every press conference asks about destiny, about making history, about what it would mean for the whole country. cameras follow the team everywhere. questions get harder. you feel it too, your own reports read by more people each day. but in the middle of all this, you and sunghoon steal small moments. a hallway smile when no one else is looking. a text at night that says “rest well. big day soon.”

the deeper connection from the semifinals carries them both. tension waving underneath, but they keep it light and supportive. inside jokes about elevator rules and ramyeon cravings ease the nerves when things feel too heavy.

the day before the final dawns clear and warm. new york’s sun rises early, painting the hotel windows in soft gold. you wake up with butterflies already dancing in your stomach. today is the last full day before everything reaches its peak. you know sunghoon must feel it even more. as vice-third captain, the expectations sit right on his shoulders. you spend the morning in the press area, typing notes and preparing questions, but your mind keeps drifting to him.

around midday, after the morning training session ends, you see him in the hotel lobby. he looks tired but composed, hair still damp from the shower, wearing simple team sweats. his shoulders seem a little tighter than usual. when his eyes find yours across the space, he gives a small nod. you walk over casually, keeping your voice low.

“hey,” you say softly. “how are you feeling today?”

he glances around to make sure no one is paying too much attention, then sighs a little. “honestly? i'm nervous. more than i thought i would be. this is the final. everything we worked for. what if i make a mistake out there? what if the team needs me and i am not sharp enough?”

his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. you see the worry in his dark eyes, the way he rubs the back of his neck. the ice prince mask is slipping just for you. you step a little closer, not touching yet, but near enough that your presence feels warm.

“sunghoon,” you say gently, “you have been incredible this whole tournament. that sliding tackle in the round of 16, the header in the group stage, the way you read the game in the semifinal. everyone sees it. the team trusts you. i trust you. one match does not erase all the good you have already done.”

he listens, eyes softening as he looks at you. “thank you. it helps hearing that from someone outside the squad. the coaches say the right things, teammates too, but sometimes it still feels heavy. like the whole country is watching.”

you nod, understanding. “it is heavy. but you do not carry it alone. not really. and tomorrow you will go out there and do what you always do — stay calm, read the play, lead by example. that is who you are.”

a small smile touches his lips. “you always know what to say. makes me feel steadier.”

the conversation flows easier after that. you walk together toward a quieter corner of the hotel, a small seating area away from the main bustle. no one bothers you. the moment feels private even in a busy place. you sit side by side on a comfortable couch. your knees brush lightly. neither of you moves away. the contact is simple but comforting, a quiet reminder that you are here with him.

“remember that time in the elevator?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood with an inside joke. “when we joked about coach cameras everywhere?”

he chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. it relaxes his shoulders a bit. “how could i forget? you said you would not tell if i did not. best deal i made all tournament.”

you laugh together, the sound mixing nicely. for a few minutes the final feels farther away. you talk about ramyeon again, what you would both eat right after the match if you could. he describes his favorite spot back in seoul in more detail this time — the spicy broth, the way the noodles feel, the late night vibes with friends. you share stories from your own travels, funny moments from smaller matches you covered before this big one. the talk helps. his voice grows calmer. the nervous edge fades little by little.

later that afternoon, after some recovery work, he texts you. the message is simple. “coffee area in twenty minutes? if you are free.”

you reply quickly. “see you there.”

when you arrive, he is already waiting with two cups of herbal tea. he hands one to you, fingers brushing yours on purpose this time. the touch lingers. you both sit close, closer than before. your arm rests near his on the table. the lobby is quiet enough that it feels like your own small world.

“i keep thinking about the first match,” he says after a sip. “how everything started. you were there with your questions. now here we are. final tomorrow. it feels fast and slow at the same time.”

you nod, turning to face him more. “it does. i have watched you grow even in these weeks. not just as a player. as a person. you let me see the real you. that means a lot.”

he looks at you, eyes steady and warm. “you let me see the real you too. not just the reporter. the person who loves the game, who works hard, who cares. it has been nice. more than nice.”

the words hang between you, full of meaning. tension builds again, the good kind that makes your heart beat faster. you lean in slightly. he does the same. your shoulders touch now, a gentle press that feels safe and exciting. his hand rests near yours on the table. fingers brush, then stay close, almost holding but not quite. the almost is sweet. it stretches the moment, makes it deeper.

“are you scared?” you ask quietly, wanting to give him space to share more.

he thinks for a second. “yes. a little. not of playing. but of letting everyone down. the fans, my family, the team…” then he adds, whispering, almost as if he was scared of pronouncing those words. ”what if i am not enough tomorrow?”

you turn your hand and gently squeeze his fingers for a brief moment. the contact is warm and reassuring. “you are enough, sunghoon. you have already proven it. tomorrow you will play like you always do. strong, smart, calm. and no matter what, i will be proud. the reporter part and the friend part.”

he squeezes back, just as gentle. his thumb rubs a small circle on the back of your hand before you both let go, aware of the surroundings. but the touch stays with you. his eyes look softer now, less nervous.

“thank you,” he whispers. “really. these talks… they help me breathe better. you help me.”

the rest of the afternoon passes in similar small moments. you walk together again near the gardens when schedules allow. the sun is lower, casting long shadows. this time you walk closer, arms brushing with every step. he tells you more about his younger days, the ice skating dreams, the pressure he felt even as a kid. you share your own fears about big assignments, how you sometimes doubt if your writing captures the real feeling.

“you do,” he says firmly. “your questions always make me think deeper. you see things others miss.”

the compliment warms you. you stop near a quiet bench. he sits first. you sit right beside him, thighs touching. the closeness feels natural now. his arm rests behind you on the bench, not quite around you but close enough that you can lean back into the support. you do. your head rests lightly against his shoulder for a few seconds. he does not move away. instead, he leans in too. the contact is soft, comforting. you stay like that for a minute, breathing together under the fading sky.

“whatever happens tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear, “i am glad we had this. the connection. it is special.”

“me too,” you reply, heart full. “very special.”

you pull back after a while, but the warmth remains. he walks you partway to your floor later, the elevator ride shared again. this time it is just the two of you. no jokes about cameras. instead, quiet talk. his hand finds yours for a short squeeze as the doors open on your floor.

“rest well,” he says, eyes holding yours. “i will see you after the match.”

“you rest too,” you answer. “you will be great. i believe in you.”

that night the texts continue.

he sends a simple message. “can't sleep yet. thinking too much.”

you reply right away. “what is on your mind?”

“the final. the team. you.” the honesty makes your chest tight in a good way.

you send back encouragement. “you have prepared perfectly. tomorrow you step on the pitch and do what you love. i will be watching every move. cheering in the press box even if i stay professional on the outside.”

he sends a photo this time — just his hand holding the team badge on his sweatshirt, nothing fancy. “this means more with good support. thank you.”

the conversation goes on for a while, light and deep mixed together. he tells you a funny memory from training camp to ease his own nerves. you share a silly story from your first big assignment. laughter comes through the phone even if you can not hear it. slowly his messages slow down. “starting to feel tired. thanks for talking. goodnight.”

“goodnight, sunghoon. sleep well.”

the day before the final ends with you lying in bed, mind full of him. the way his shoulder felt under your head. the gentle squeeze of his hand. the nervous look that softened when you comforted him. the connection has grown so much closer, physically and emotionally. touches that linger. words that mean more. respect still holds everything together, but the tenderness is real. hearts leaning in as the biggest night of the tournament waits just ahead.

-------

the next morning comes early. you see him briefly at breakfast from across the room. he looks focused but calmer. when your eyes meet, he gives a small smile, the kind meant only for you. you smile back, sending silent support. the final is hours away, but the bond you built feels strong enough to carry through whatever comes. sunghoon is still nervous deep down, you know that. but he also knows he is not alone. your words, your presence, your gentle touches — they have become part of his strength. and for you, watching him chase history while sharing these quiet moments has become the most beautiful part of the whole world cup.

the hours before kickoff pass in a blur of preparation. you review your notes one last time in the press area. sunghoon sends one more text in the afternoon. “final walk through done. feeling ready. your words from yesterday helped a lot.”

you reply quickly. “you got this. go out there and be the wall they need. i am proud already.”

his answer is short but warm. “see you on the other side.”

as the team bus leaves for the stadium later, you watch from the hotel entrance. he catches your eye through the window for a brief second. the small nod he gives carries everything — gratitude, nerves, connection. you wave subtly, heart full. the day before the final has brought you closer than ever. touches, talks, comfort, shared silence. the final waits, but this quiet story between you already feels like a win worth cherishing.

-------

the stadium is a cauldron of noise and color long before kickoff, fans from both nations filling every seat, waving flags, singing chants that echo for miles. the air feels electric, thick with anticipation and the weight of history. you take your place in the press box high above the pitch, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. your notebook sits open, but your eyes keep drifting to the field where the teams warm up.

south korea in their iconic red shirt, sunghoon is wearing the captain’s armband tonight, standing tall among his teammates. his expression is focused, that ice-prince calm masking the storm you know is inside after all the quiet talks and shared moments. he moves with purpose during the warm-up, stretching, touching the grass, talking quietly with younger players. you watch every step, remembering the way his shoulder felt under your head, the gentle squeeze of his hand, the nerves he let you see the day before. national anthems play, voices rising strong and proud. sunghoon stands straight, hand over his heart, eyes distant but determined. the whistle blows and the final begins.

the match is a chess game from the start.

both teams circle each other carefully, probing for weaknesses without giving much away. south korea defends resolutely, staying compact and organized. sunghoon is everywhere at the back — reading runs before they develop, winning aerial duels with perfect timing, distributing the ball calmly from the back to start attacks. you lean forward in your seat, eyes locked on him, scribbling notes but mostly just watching the way he commands the defense. his voice carries across the pitch even from your high position, steady instructions cutting through the roar.

the european side presses high, trying to force mistakes, but the defense holds firm. chances come and go. a shot from the opponent is saved brilliantly by the keeper. a dangerous cross is cleared by sunghoon’s powerful header, his body leaping high, timing exact. the crowd roars with every tackle, every clearance. you cheer loudly from the press box every time he wins a duel, your voice joining the thousands of korean fans, heart swelling with pride and worry at the same time. “come on, sunghoon,” you whisper under your breath when a striker gets too close.

0-0 at half-time. the players jog off, faces tired but focused. sunghoon claps teammates on the back, saying quiet words of encouragement. you can see the tension in his shoulders from afar, the way he glances toward the press box once, searching briefly. you hope he feels your support even from this distance.

second half mirrors the first. intense, cagey, every ball contested like it is the last. sunghoon makes a heroic block in the 60th minute, throwing his body fully in front of a powerful strike. the impact looks painful. pain flashes across his face for a split second, but he rises quickly, brushing dirt from his jersey and waving teammates into position, voice strong again. you stand up in the press box, cheering wildly, hands clapping until they sting.

“that’s it! keep going!” the fans around you roar in agreement. he looks toward the stands, toward you, for just a moment, a tiny nod almost imperceptible, but it warms you through.

the game stays locked. legs start to tire as the minutes tick down. extra time begins, the stadium even louder now, the pressure mounting with every pass. sunghoon keeps organizing, never stopping, even as exhaustion shows in slower movements. he wins more duels, makes more key interceptions, leading by pure example.

you watch him the whole time, heart aching with every challenge he faces, proud of how he pushes through. the connection you built makes every moment feel personal. you want this for him so badly. you want him to be happy.

in the dying minutes of extra time, the 118th, disaster strikes. a quick counter from the opponent catches the defense stretched. a through ball splits the line perfectly. sunghoon lunges desperately, sliding with everything he has left, but the striker rounds the keeper and slots it home.

0-1. south korea is losing.

the stadium erupts in the opponent’s favor, their fans exploding in joy. heartbreak crashes down on the korean side like a wave. the clock ticks away the final moments. south korea pushes desperately for an equalizer, throwing numbers forward, but time runs out cruelly.

sunghoon stands motionless for a second on the pitch, hands on his hips, chest heaving. then he turns his head toward the press box again and again as the whistle approaches. he searches for your face in the crowd, eyes scanning desperately through the sea of people. devastation etches his features clearly now — the pain, the disappointment, the exhaustion. but he stays composed for the team, moving to clap teammates on the back, head high even as the reality sinks in. you cheer his name loudly through the pain in your own chest, voice raw, willing him strength across the distance. “sunghoon! i'm so proud of you!”

the final whistle confirms it.

defeat. 0-1.

the european side celebrates wildly, piling on each other, jumping and shouting. south korea’s players drop to the grass, exhausted and emotional, some covering their faces, others staring blankly at the sky. tears start to flow for many. the weight of coming so close only to fall short hits hard.

sunghoon gathers them slowly, moving from player to player with purpose even as his own eyes glisten.

he puts an arm around the younger ones, pulling them into huddles, voice steady despite the tears he is fighting back. you see him wipe his eyes quickly with the back of his hand, shoulders shaking once before he straightens again. he consoles them with quiet words, hugging tightly, letting some cry on his shoulder while offering comfort in return. they console him too — teammates patting his back, sharing the pain, reminding him how far they came together.

the group stands close in the middle of the pitch, a circle of red jerseys bonded through the heartbreak, sunghoon at the center, leading even in defeat, tears falling freely now as he lets the emotion show while still holding the team together. the moment is raw and beautiful, full of pride mixed with sorrow, the end of an unforgettable run.

medal ceremony follows under the bright stadium lights. the atmosphere is a strange mix of celebration for the winners and quiet pride mixed with sorrow for the runners-up. silver medals hang around necks, gleaming against the red jerseys. sunghoon steps up to receive his with quiet dignity, head held high even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears.

the crowd gives warm applause for the south korean team, chanting their names in appreciation for the run that captured so many hearts. he claps for his teammates, a small, bittersweet smile on his face, but you can see the weight in his posture from your place in the press area. the journey meant everything, and ending here still hurts.

media duties come next. the mixed zone feels somber this time, the usual buzz replaced by quieter voices and heavy emotions. players move through slowly, some with red eyes, others forcing smiles for the cameras.

when sunghoon reaches you, his eyes are teary, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and disappointment. his hair is damp, jersey still marked from the battle, the captain’s armband still on his arm. you keep the interview professional at first, but your voice is gentle, full of care.

“sunghoon, a heartbreaking end after an incredible run. what does this silver mean to you and the team?” you ask, microphone steady but tone soft.

he swallows hard, voice thick but clear as he answers. “it means a lot. we gave everything we had out there. i am proud of the journey, the fans who supported us, the fight we showed together. we will learn from this and come back stronger.” his eyes stay locked on yours the whole time. tears threaten to spill over. the professional facade cracks slightly, the ice prince letting the emotion show more than usual. the moment feels intimate even with cameras rolling.

as the camera holds and the interview continues for a few more questions, you cannot help it. under the barrier, your hand reaches out briefly for his arm, a quick but affectionate squeeze of comfort on his forearm, fingers lingering for a second longer than strictly necessary. the touch is warm and reassuring, right there in public where anyone could notice. he squeezes your hand back gently with his own, eyes saying everything words cannot — gratitude, shared pain, the depth of the connection built over these weeks. the affection is clear in the way his fingers press softly against yours before you both pull away, careful but meaningful. fans will dissect the moment later on social media, replaying the clip, but right now it is just for the two of you, a small anchor in the heartbreak.

you continue with one more gentle question about the team spirit. he answers thoughtfully, voice a little steadier thanks to the touch. “the guys fought so hard. i am proud to lead them. we came so far together.”

the interview ends. he lingers longest with you, teary-eyed and reluctant to move on. you reach out again quickly, this time touching his arm openly for a moment, a light, comforting rub along his sleeve, right there in the mixed zone. “you were amazing out there,” you whisper softly, eyes full of pride and care. “the whole tournament. i mean it.”

he nods, leaning slightly into the brief contact, his own hand covering yours for a heartbeat. “thank you,” he whispers back, voice cracking just a little. “for everything. the talks, the support, being here. it made a difference. really.” his eyes are still glistening, but the small smile he gives you is real and warm, full of affection that goes beyond the game. the public touch feels bold but right in this emotional moment, a quiet way of saying i am here with you.

he finally moves on after one last lingering look, shoulders a little lighter, the comfort from your touch and words carrying him forward. you stand there watching him go, heart full despite the loss, the connection between you stronger than ever even in defeat.

-------

hours later, when the stadium empties and the bittersweet hotel celebrations wind down, the corridors grow quiet. music fades, laughter turns softer, and players slowly retreat to their rooms to process the loss in private. you sit in a quiet corridor near the team floors, away from everyone, the area dimly lit with soft wall lights casting gentle shadows. the air feels still after the chaos of the day. you are replaying the match in your mind, the pride and the pain, when footsteps approach.

sunghoon finds you there. he has changed into a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair messy from the shower, eyes still red from the tears on the pitch and the emotion that followed. he looks tired but real, the captain’s mask completely gone now. you stand up slowly as he approaches, heart beating faster.

“hey,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.

he stops close, closer than usual, looking at you with raw emotion that makes your chest tighten. his dark eyes search yours, glistening again under the low lights.

“i kept looking for you out there. in the final moments — when the goal went in, when the whistle blew. seeing you in the press box helped more than you know. it kept me going. it also reminded me why we fought so hard.”

silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid over the weeks — the late night talks, the gentle touches, the shared laughs, the comfort you gave each other. the corridor feels like your own private world, far from cameras and teammates. he takes another small step closer, the air thick with tenderness and vulnerability.

“we lost the cup tonight,” he says, voice low and sincere, cracking just a little. “it hurts. a lot. but… i already won. having you here these weeks — getting to know you, talking after every match, those late nights in the lobby, the garden walks, your support when i was nervous. you made this whole journey feel like a win. even in defeat. i don’t know what happens when we go home, when the tournament ends and real life starts again, but i’d really like to keep seeing you. properly. no more careful lines. no more crazy boundaries. no more hiding how i feel.”

your heart swells so much it feels like it might burst. tears prick your own eyes as you look at him, this man who led with quiet strength through the entire world cup.

“sunghoon… i feel the same. you’ve been the best part of this tournament for me too. not just the football. the real you. the way you listened, the way you let me in, the way you made me laugh even on hard days. i don’t want this to end either.”

he steps even closer, almost closing the distance completely. the air thickens with all the built-up tension from weeks of slow glances and gentle touches. you smile through the emotion, trying to lighten it like you always do, voice soft and teasing.

“you know… i was half expecting you to kiss me right here, like iker casillas did with sara carbonero back in 2010 after the final.”

sunghoon blinks for a second, processing the words, then lets out a genuine laugh — surprised, warm, and full, breaking through the sadness in a beautiful way. his shoulders shake lightly as he chuckles, eyes sparkling despite the red rims and the loss.

“casillas did that because he won the world cup,” he points out, still chuckling softly, the sound echoing gently in the empty corridor. “he was champion. i'm not. i lost. so… bad timing on my part, huh?”

the silly joke lands perfectly. both of you start laughing quietly together, the sound mixing with the leftover emotion, tension easing into something sweeter and lighter. you reach out and touch his arm, squeezing it affectionately, feeling the warmth through the hoodie sleeve. he covers your hand with his own, holding it there, the contact grounding and tender. the laughter fades slowly into soft smiles, but the closeness remains.

he reaches up gently with both hands, cupping your face with careful, warm palms. his thumbs brush your cheeks softly, wiping away a stray tear you did not realize had fallen. “but if it’s okay… i’d still like to kiss you now. not because of a trophy. not because we won or lost. just because of you. because of us. these weeks meant everything to me.”

you nod, heart racing, whispering “yes” with a smile that trembles a little from the emotion.

the kiss is soft, tender, full of all the weeks of slow-burn tension and respect. his lips meet yours gently at first, sweet and unhurried, tasting of shared heartbreaks and quiet joys, of late night talks and comforting hugs. one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair. you lean into him, hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under the hoodie. the kiss deepens just a touch, still respectful but full of affection, pouring out everything you both held back for so long. when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, breathing softly in the quiet corridor, he smiles, eyes shining.

“we’ll win the next one,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin. “together. whatever comes after this.”

you nod, smiling back, fingers tracing his arm gently. “together sounds perfect.”

the tournament ends in silver, bittersweet but proud.

but for sunghoon and you, it marks the beginning of something golden. friendship blossomed into more, slow and steady, just like extra time in a tight match — worth every minute, every glance, every touch, every quiet conversation that led to this moment in the dim corridor.

the future waits, but right now, in each other’s arms, the loss feels a little smaller.

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You hear him before you see him—always the same: the hurried shuffle of too-big shoes, the frantic slam of a shoulder against the swinging glass door, and the apologetic murmur of “Morning” that barely beats out the time clock.

You don’t even look up from your monitor. “It’s 9:47.”

Sunghoon wheezes into his cubicle—which, of course, is right next to yours. His tie is crooked, his glasses fogged, and his hair’s got a single, infuriatingly perfect curl bouncing on his forehead like it was placed there by angels. 

“Yeah,” He huffs. “Sorry. There was traffic.”

There’s always traffic in Metropolis. But that excuse is wearing thin, especially when he is the only one in the building who acts like he has to physically leap over it. 

You finally glance up, deadpan. “You know who else got stuck in traffic today? Me. Chaewon. The kid from copy who literally rides a unicycle to work. We all still made it to work on time.”

He runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly, like that’s supposed to mean something. And somehow, it always does—with everyone else. Chaewon laughs it off. Riki yells, but only half-heartedly. Even Jake calls him “Jeolla” like it’s an inside joke and not an indictment of his hometown and somehow his incompetence. 

But you?

You are not charmed.

You’re Gotham born and bred. You’ve filed stories from under police tape, from fire escapes, from alleys where the blood was still wet. You didn’t claw your way out of that city just to share a byline with a man who treats deadlines like vague suggestions and shows up to work looking like he just wrestled a tornado.

Again!

“You’ve been late every day this week, Park,” You mutter, turning back to your monitor. “If you’re aiming for a record, congrats. You’re winning.”

He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve shut him up, finally. But then—“I’ve never really been good at winning things,” He says softly, almost like he’s talking to himself. 

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. There’s something about the way he says it, not pathetic. Just… strange. Like maybe he means something bigger. You almost ask. 

Almost.

Instead, you scoff and shake your head. “Try winning a Pulitzer. Might help your case.”

He grins again, that irritating, dimpled grin, and unpacks his bag like he didn’t walk in almost an hour later. You hate that he’s always late. You hate that nobody seems to care. You hate that he never has a good excuse, but still somehow gets away with it.

And most of all?

You hate that you’re starting to care enough to notice.

2 ── You hate his "aw shucks" act.

If Park Sunghoon’s lateness is a thorn in your side, then his personality is the knife twisting next to it. 

Not that it’s a bad personality, exactly. That’s the problem. On paper, he’s the perfect coworker—polite, humble, well-liked by every living soul in the building. He holds elevators. He offers to do coffee runs even when it’s pouring. He once helped Heeseung from Archives fix the jammed printer with nothing but a safety pin and a hopeful smile.

People adore him. They smile when he walks into the room. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Trust him. 

You do not.

Because you’ve been watching. You’ve been taking mental notes since week two. That “aw shucks, I’m just a small-town guy from Jeolla” routine is too well rehearsed. No one is that gentle and that oblivious. No one stammers through meetings and then turns in a perfect copy by the end of the day. No one is that clumsy—spilling coffee, tripping over wires—and yet somehow always lands on their feet.

You didn’t come from Gotham to fall for the world’s oldest trick.

So when he chuckles nervously after Chaewon slaps him on the back for landing a quote from the Steel Syndicate leader—a quote you had been chasing for a week—you grit your teeth and mutter:

“Oh, give me a break!”

Sunghoon turns to you, blinking. “Sorry?”

You don’t bother to fake it. “You play the ‘golly gee’ routine, but you’re sharper than you act. And frankly, it’s annoying.”

His brows knit behind his glasses. “I’m not acting.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Right. You just accidentally out-interviewed me and walked away with the best lead we’ve had all quarter.”

He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, all bashful. “I really wasn't trying to one-up you. I just—I guess he liked me?”

You scoff. “Of course he did,” You mumble. “Everyone does. Must be the charm of your down-home, butter-wouldn’t-melt-bullshit!”

“I’m from Jeolla, not Nebraska,” He says, like that explains everything.

You lean forward across your desk, voice low. “I’ve met people from Jeolla. They don’t act like they’ve never heard someone curse before.”

Sunghoon shrinks back slightly, like your words sting, but there’s a twitch of something else in his eyes—like he’s fighting a smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” He offers gently.

You narrow your eyes. “I save it for when I’m alone. Or keep it in my head. Like right now, for example. Internally? It’s a full symphony of four-letter words.”

He snorts, an actual snort, then claps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed by it. That’s when you realize something terrifying. He’s not pretending to be harmless.

He is harmless.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Because no one is harmless in this job. Not in journalism. Not in Metropolis. Especially not if they’re good at it. And Sunghoon? Despite the dopey smile, the apologies, the way he trips over every desk in the bullpen. Sunghoon is very good at it.

You hate that his small town bullshit works. You hate that it makes people underestimate him. You hate that it almost worked on you. But the worst part? You’re starting to realize it’s not an act. It’s who he is.

And that makes you want to scream.

3 ── You hate how he somehow always gets the exclusive.

There’s something sacred about how the word exclusive in a newsroom. It’s the holy grail—the thing that earns you front pages, corner offices, Pulitzers. You’ve chased exclusives down back alleys, stayed on hold for eons, bribed a coffee-stained secretary with two croissants and a MetroCard just to get one measly quote from a crooked city councilman

But somehow, Park Sunghoon just gets them.

Every. Fucking. Time.

He never brags. That would at least make him bearable. He just shows up—late, of course—shrugs off his coat, and drops a crisp interview transcript on Riki’s desk like he tripped over it on the sidewalk.

It’s infuriating.

You first noticed it during the Union Square train derailment. Superman was spotted hauling survivors out of the wreckage. No reporters got near him. Police kept everyone back. Even Chaewon couldn’t get close. And she's Chaewon!

But the next morning?

There it was: Superman Speaks on Metropolis Disaster by Park Sunghoon.

You stared at the byline like it had personally offended you. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard as you read the quote—exclusive, lengthy, insightful. Too insightful.

“He said that?” You asked Sunghoon across the bullpen.

Sunghoon blinked. “Uh, yeah. He flew by while I was walking back from a source.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what, he just… pulled you into the sky for a heart-to-heart?”

Sunghoon smiled, bashful. “We’ve talked a few times.”

You nearly choked on your burnt coffee.

A few times?

Since then, it’s been quote after quote. Superman says this. Superman warns that. Every piece is conveniently labeled “as told to Park Sunghoon.” You’ve pitched a dozen stories with solid leads, real impact, and Riki still passes them over in favor of Sunghoon’s Superman exclusives.

You’ve tried to ask how he does it. Casually. Aggressively. Once while both of you were on a stakeout at a warehouse near Suicide Slums, you even offered him your last protein bar if he’d just tell you how the hell he keeps finding Superman.

Sunghoon just smiled. That soft, maddeningly patient smile, and said, “I think he trusts me.”

Trusts him.

Like Superman sits around rating journalists on a Yelp scale.

You stare across the bullpen now, watching Sunghoon quietly type something into his terminal. He looks like a librarian. One of those sleepy, gentle ones who offer you a tissue when you cry reading To Kill a Mockingbird. 

And yet somehow, he gets the hero in blue to spill his guts.

You hate it.

You hate that it makes you question your own work. You hate that you keep looking for the cracks in his story, the thing that explains how he’s doing this. You’ve doubled-checked timestamps. Scrubbed security footage. Asked sources. Nothing adds up. 

No one sees Sunghoon talking to Superman.

And yet Sunghoon knows things. Small details. Direct quotes. Reassurances Superman has never given anyone else.

You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling. Either Park Sunghoon is the luckiest man in Metropolis… or he’s hiding something.

And you don’t believe in luck.

4 ── You hate that he doesn't talk shit.

Newsrooms run on gossip.

That’s just a fact.

You don’t survive in this field—not in this city—without learning to weaponise information. It’s part of the culture. You swap barbs while the coffee brews, trade snark over late-night edits, hurl critiques and conspiracies like dodgeballs. Everyone does it. It keeps you sane. Keeps you sharp.

Except Sunghoon.

Sunghoon doesn’t talk shit.

At first, you assumed it was a tactic. A kind of passive power play, let everyone else tear each other down while he keeps his hands clean and his halo polished. You even waited for him to crack. Made space for it.

Chaewon stormed past your desks muttering, “If I have to rewrite one more of Franklin’s clickbait trash, I swear to God—” and you turned to Sunghoon, ready.

Nothing.

He just said, “Franklin’s trying to juggle two kids and night school. He’s doing the best he can.”

You blinked. “That’s your take? Really?”

Sunghoon smiled, easy. “Well, it’s not like yelling about it helps.”

You stared at him for a full beat, then scoffed. “Wow. How do you make ‘reasonable’ sound so smug?”

He laughed. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… amused.

It keeps happening.

Gina in Copy fakes sick twice in one week to go see her boyfriend in Coast City. Nobody buys it. You expect Sunghoon to at least comment. Something gentle, like “Must be nice to have a love life” but he just covers her calls without being asked.

When Jungwon blows a quote in a city council interview, you hear three people mutter about it near the break room. Sunghoon hears too. You watch his eyes flick in that direction, but he doesn’t engage. He just brings Jungwon a coffee the next morning with no explanation.

You don’t get it.

You’ve worked with assholes and saints and everything in between. But there’s always a crack. A vent. A gripe. A single “Jesus Christ, can you believe this guy?” at happy hour.

Sunghoon? He smiles, he listens. He takes the fall for other people's mistakes, and never once asks for anything in return.

It’s not that he’s quiet. He barks. He just doesn’t bite. 

You should hate it. Actually, no, you do hate it.

Because it makes you feel mean. Makes you feel like every time you roll your eyes or mutter something under your breath, you’re the one slinging mud at a guy who just… doesn’t throw it back.

He’s not better than you. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s not better. He’s just boring. But that’s not true, is it?

Because when Carol’s mom lands in the hospital, he’s the one who quietly organizes a grocery drop-off.

When Riki has a meltdown over a typo in the Sunday headline, Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just calmly fixes it. Compliments the new intern’s formatting, and reminds Riki to breathe.

When you come in one morning with three hours of sleep and that coil, pre-caffeine snarl already at your lips, he places a black coffee on your desk without saying a word.

You hate how it makes your chest tighten.

You hate that he makes kindness look easy—not loud or performative or fake, just… part of him.

You hate that you’re starting to notice how often his eyes go soft when someone’s having a bad day.

You hate how your shoulders drop just a little when he walks in.

You hate how, for all the ways he frustrates you, he never gives you a real reason to hate him back.

You tap your pen against your notebook and glances at him—across the bullpen, bent over his desk, tie askew, glasses sliding down, that same stupid curl on his forehead. He’s reading something, mouth twitching like he might laugh, and you watch him longer than you mean to.

You shake yourself.

No.

This is just a strategy. Observation. Knowing your competition. It’s not softness. It’s not a crush. It’s not a slow-burn, late-blooming kind of fondness, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to fight it.

It’s not.

You just hate that he doesn’t talk shit. That’s all.

5 ── You hate how he remembers everything you say.

You’re not the type of person who expects people to remember things.

You’ve had too many conversations die halfway through a sentence. Too many men nod politely, only to ask you the same question a week later like they never heard your answer the first time. You’ve learned to file your words under ‘for now’—disposable, temporary, forgettable.

Park Sunghoon doesn’t see it that way.

You noticed it during your first lunch break, maybe two weeks in. You’d been ranting—venting, truly—about how every salad in Metropolis comes pre-drenching in some sort of smug artisanal vinaigrette. You weren’t even talking to him. Just muttering to yourself while stabbing a piece of limp kale in the breakroom.

The next day, he passed you a plain turkey sandwich from the deli on 6th and said, “They don’t just dressing unless you ask. Though you might like it.”

You blinked at him

“You remembered that?” You asked, caught off guard.

Sunghoon shrugged with a smile. “You seemed passionate.”

You were half convinced it was a fluke. But it wasn’t.

Because the pattern kept happening.

You mentioned once—once—that your favorite weather is when it rains but the sun’s still out. A week later, during one of those golden, misty drizzles, he caught up to you on the steps and said, “Looks like your kind of day, huh?”

You told him offhandedly that your least favorite movie trope is the girl tripping while running. Three nights later, you passed each other in the hallways after working late, and he asked if you’d seen the new action flick in theaters. “No tripping heroines, I promise.”

You said that once your dad used to call you ‘kid’ and that no one’s used the word since.

He’s never called you that. But you catch him hesitating once. Mid-sentence. Like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

Because you never asked him to remember. You never wanted him to.

You’ve known people who remember birthdays because Facebook reminds them. Or likes and dislikes so they can use them later. But Sunghoon? He never uses it. He just stores it. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like your words matter. Like they’re puzzle pieces he’s collecting, not to solve you, but to understand you.

And maybe that’s what bothers you most.

Because no one’s ever tried to understand you.

Not really.

Gotham trained you to guard your secrets with blood. To keep your walls high, your smile sarcastic, your stories brief and impersonal. But Sunghoon listens like he’s trying to paint a picture of you in his head, one brushstroke at a time.

And you despise it.

You hate that it makes you feel seen. 

You hate that it makes you feel real.

You hate that it makes you wonder how much you’ve remembered about him.

You glance at his desk. Same stupid Superman bobblehead he swore he didn’t buy himself. Same chipped I Heart Korea mug. Same pair of extra reading glasses tucked into the drawer, just in case.

You remember that he doesn’t like spicy food. That he uses semicolons like they’re going out of style. That he hums the theme from Star Wars when he’s writing something he’s proud of.

You remember way too much.

So maybe you don’t hate that he remembers everything you say. Maybe you hate that you’ve started doing it too.

6 ── You hate that he looks at you like he sees you.

There’s a kind of look people give you when they think they know who you are.

Back in Gotham, it was always the same—calculating, wary, sometimes impressed. You were the youngest on the crime desk, the loudest in the pitch room, the one with the sharpest elbows and the thinnest armor. People look at you like a problem to solve or a rival to beat.

But that’s not how Sunghoon looks at you. He looks at you like you’re someone. Not a headline. Not a byline. Not the girl from Gotham with a chip on her shoulder and a pen like a scalpel.

Just you.

And it drives you batshit crazy.

Because it’s not just in meetings, when you sneak up and catch his gaze across the table—it’s in the little moments. When you’re half-asleep at your desk and he walks by with a fresh coffee. When you’re biting your tongue in an argument and he gives you a look like he already knows what you want to say. When you laugh—really laugh—and you see him watching like it’s a rare event he doesn’t want to interrupt.

It’s too much. Too soft. Too honest. You don’t want to be known like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.

But he keeps doing it. Like it’s effortless. Like seeing you, the real you, the messy and angry and guarded parts is just what happens when he looks at someone.

And you hate that you notice it. And you hate that some small, quiet part of you never wants him to stop.

7 ── You hate how nervous he makes you feel.

You’re not nervous around people.

You’ve been yelled at by corrupt mayors. Cornered by gang members for writing the wrong names in the right story. You’ve told a Gotham crime boss to spell his name correctly if he wants to be quoted. You know how to stand your ground, spine straight, heart steady.

But Sunghoon makes you so nervous that you might shit your pants.

Not in the usual nervous way—not in the way bad people do. He doesn’t threaten or belittle or hover too close. No, Sunghoon stands a respectful distance away and still somehow manages to get under your skin. He fidgets when you talk. He laughs at your sarcasm. He listens like he’s memorizing you on purpose. 

And lately… you’ve been messing things up.

You dropped your pen the other day. Three times. In one meeting.

You forgot what you were saying mid-sentence when he looked at you—just looked at you—like the whole room had gone quiet except for you.

You called him Sunghoon and it came out soft, almost breathless, and it startled you. Like your mouth knew something your brain just hadn’t caught up with yet.

When you brushed against him near the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, your pulse stuttered. Not fear. Not irritation. Something else. Then it hit you.

You like him.

God, you like him.

You like his stupid glasses and his kind eyes and the way he always holds the door for people even when they don't say thank you. You like the way he scribbles notes in the margins of his reporter’s notebook and the way he lights up when someone says the words human interest. You like that he takes his job seriously without ever acting like he’s the smartest man in the room.

You like that he’s good. You trust him. And that might scare you more than anything else on this planet.

You hate that he makes you nervous, because it means your guard is down. And you never let your guard down. Especially not for someone like him. Especially not when he might possibly, slightly, maybe, feel the same way.

Because if he does.. if he does… you’re not sure what happens now.

8 ── You hate that he's Superman.

You almost died today.

Not in the dramatic, flashing-lights-before-your-eyes kind of way. More like sudden and sharp. One second, you were walking past LexCorp Tower with a coffee in hand. The next, the sky cracked open with a sound like the earth tearing apart, and something enormous. A ship? A drone? It spiraled out of control and straight into the street.

You didn’t scream. Not at first. Your body froze instead, the kind of instinct that Gotham should’ve removed. Get big, get loud. Scare the monster away from you.

But flight or fight invited a friend to the party. Fawn. And she told you not to move a muscle. To get small. Get still. And pray to Jesus of Nazareth that the monster passes.

It didn’t.

It was coming right for you.

And then, just like every headline you’d ever written about him, Superman was there.

He was a blur at first. Then red. Then blue. Then everything stopped. The drone crumpled against the pavement thirty feet away, a crater the size of a bus sinking into the asphalt. Wind whipped around you, debris in your hair, your coffee exploded on the ground. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly fine like the chaos had bent around him on purpose—

Him. 

Superman.

He turned to you, eyes impossibly soft for someone who could tear steel apart with his bare hands. “Are you hurt?”

You nodded dumbly. Maybe you shook your head. You don’t remember. Your voice wasn’t working.

He gave you a smile, the kind that should’ve made you feel safe. It did. But it also unsettled something deep in your chest. Almost like recognition.

He took off again in a gust of air and cape and godlike power, and you stood there shaking, your hands empty.

That night, you sat cross-legged on your couch with the local news running in the background, half-heartedly typing notes for tomorrow’s article. You watched grainy footage of Superman returning a flaming car to the street like it was a paper toy. You watched people cheering, waving, chanting his name.

You knew he was a hero. You knew he’d saved countless lives. But seeing him up close? Feeling the air shift around him, the sheer weight of him?

It rattled you.

And yet, what kept circling in your brain wasn’t just the blur of the cape or the force of the landing. It was his eyes.

The way he looked at you.

Like he knew you. Like he saw you.

And then your fingers stopped moving.

Because you’d seen that look before.

Early this week. At the Daily Planet. In the elevator, when you’d complained about the vending machine eating your dollar. 

Sunghoon had looked at you like that.

You stared at the paused frame on your screen. Superman mid-turn, mid-expression.

You grabbed your phone, opened the gallery. A photo Jungwon had taken at Chaewon’s birthday last month. Sunghoon, standing beside you with that same crooked smile. Same jawline. Same posture.

Your heart sank.

No.

You looked again. 

You zoomed in.

And all at once, every thing—every late arrival, every exclusive quote, every ‘You okay?’ after a tremor, every ‘How did he know?’—every moment fell into place like puzzle pieces you’d been too close to see. 

Park Sunghoon is Superman.

You sat there frozen, blinking at the screen as a sick kind of heat spread through your chest. You hate that he’s Superman.

Not because he’s dangerous. Not because he lied—though God, he did.

You hate it because you were just starting to fall for Sunghoon. Sweet, awkward, late-to-everything Sunghoon. Now you’re not sure where Sunghoon ends and Superman begins.

And worst of all? You’re not sure which one of them you’re in love with.

9 ── You hate how he touches you.

You told yourself it was for the story.

That inviting Sunghoon over to your apartment—late, after deadline, with a six-pack in the fridge and the lights dimmed just enough to feel casual—was a journalistic strategy. You even made a notepad with scribbled questions, highlighted sources in your phone, and pulled up three articles from the Planet’s archive as “references.”

But deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.

Sunghoon knocked once. Polite. Timid. He always knocked like he didn’t want to disturb you, even when he had to enter the bullpen three minutes before a press conference with ink on his tie. You opened the door and didn’t let yourself look too long at the way his glasses slid down his nose or how the sleeves of his white button-down were rolled to his forearms.

He stepped in, soft-voiced as ever. “You said you needed help with something?”

“An article,” You said, breezy. “About Superman.”

And God, you said his name like a test.

Sunghoon blinked. Just once. Just barely. But you caught it.

You offered him a beer. You talked. You took notes on nothing. And he sat there—not relaxed, exactly, but trying to act like he was. He always had this charming nervousness to him. But now that you knew—knew—it wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. It was a man constantly folding himself into something smaller to pass unnoticed.

You kept waiting for him to lie.

He didn’t.

So you forced his hand.

You said it like it didn’t cost you anything: “You’re Superman.”

Silence. Stillness. The longest pause you’d ever heard.

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t laugh it off.

He just looked at you.

And it was like the air in the room shifted. Something cracked open between you. Not hostile. Not afraid. Just honest.

“You’ve known?” He asked quietly.

“I figured it out after the LexCorp thing. The way you looked at me.”

He closed his eyes. Like he was trying to protect you from something—or maybe protect himself from what he already knew was coming next.

“I never meant to lie,” He said. “Not to you.”

“But you did,” You replied. “Every day.”

And you should’ve been furious. You should’ve thrown him out. Written the article. Exposed everything. But you didn’t.

Because all you could think about was the way he looked at you in the cratered street. The way he always hovered a second longer when your hands brushed. The way he saw you—really saw you—even before you ever knew who he was.

And the way he touched you now, when he reached across the table to cover your hand with his own—gentle, grounding, warm.

You hated it.

You hated the way the contact burned up your arm and across your chest like he’d set your blood alight. You hated how steady it felt, how calm, how wanted. You hated the way it made you lean in, just slightly, like gravity was tugging you toward him.

“You’re mad,” He said.

“I should be.”

He swallowed. “Are you?”

You looked at him—really looked—and saw all of it. The weight of two lives. The softness behind the cape. The man who brought you coffee when you were hungover. The man who pulled a collapsing building off a school bus.

Park Sunghoon. Superman. Both. All.

And you hated that he made you feel like this. Hated the way his fingers curled around yours like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Hated that your heart was pounding so loud you were afraid he could hear it.

You stood.

He stood too.

You should’ve said something. Pulled back. Cut it off.

But when he stepped forward, eyes locked on yours—when he hesitated, like he needed your permission—and when you didn’t stop him—

His mouth met yours, and the world dropped out.

You hated the way it made you forget every single reason you were supposed to hate him. Hated the way his hands were patient, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Hated the way you melted into him like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.

You hated the sound you made when he pressed you gently against the wall. Hated the tremble in your breath when his lips found the spot just beneath your jaw. Hated how badly you wanted him—and not just the cape. Not just the secret.

Him.

Sunghoon.

You pulled him closer.

And in that moment, you didn’t hate anything at all.

You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You meant to confront him. To unearth the truth. To hold him accountable. 

But now his hands are at your waist—warm, grounding, familiar—and he’s kissing you like he’s spent decades thinking about it. Like he’s imagined it in quiet mornings between bylines and burning buildings. Like it’s the one indulgence he never allowed himself to have.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me to stop,” He breathes against your skin. You don’t. Because you’ve wanted this. Hated how much you’ve wanted this.

Not just tonight. Not just since he walked through your apartment door with that bashful smile and that stupid, careful politeness like he didn’t have a goddamn clue you were about to wreck both of your lives.

No, you’ve wanted this since the second week at the Planet. And you’ve finally got it.

You fist his shirt and push him back against the wall, chest heaving, and when he looks at you with wide eyes and his lips parted, looking so vulnerable in a way that makes your throat ache, something inside of you snaps.

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

His breath stutters. “I didn’t want to—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is desperate. Messy. Teeth knocking, breath uneven. His hands roam over you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dreaming about this for years. One palm slides up your back, the other fists in your hair, and you moan against his lips before biting down, just enough to make him groan.

You push him toward the bedroom.

He lets you.

You straddle him the second he hits the bed, pressing your hips down until you feel him twitching beneath his slacks, already hard, already straining. You grind slowly, deliberately, and his head drops back with a strangled sound.

You kiss him again, slower this time. Meaner. Like a punishment. Like retribution for every late arrival, every Superman scoop, every time he looked at you like you hung the fucking moon.

When you break away, you lean down, your mouth brushing his ear. “I hate you.”

His breath catches. His grip on your hips tightens.

“I hate how soft you pretend to be. I had that stupid fucking ‘golly gee’ act like you’re not hiding the most dangerous secret in the world. I hate you.”

“God,” He breathes, almost broken. “Say it again.”

“I hate you, Sunghoon.”

And then his hands are everywhere.

He rolls you over, yanking your shirt off so fast the fabric nearly rips. His mouth crashed to your neck, trailing heat down your collarbone, between your breasts, across your ribs. When he pulls back to look at you, there’s something primal in his gaze. Starved. Worshipful.

“Tell me where you want me,” He rasps.

You lean up on your elbows. “You’re Superman. Figure it out.”

His growl vibrates through your chest before he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your pants down your thighs. He doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t play coy.

His mouth is on you in seconds.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

You cry out, hips jerking, but his hands grip your thighs and hold you down, unmovable. His tongue flicks in tight, devastating circles, and then he flattens it. Slow and deliberate, until your eyes roll back in your head.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—”

He moans against you, like the sound of his name falling from your lips is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I hate this. I hate how good you are at this.”

He groans again, deeper, louder. You feel him rutting slightly against the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you. The thought makes you whine. It’s almost unfair how good he is at this. Like he’s memorized you.

He finds your clit again, circles it with obscene precision, and you arch off the mattress with a sharp gasp.

“You’re close,” He whispers against you. “I can feel it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” You pant.

“I’ll die happy.”

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you, hot and heavy and blinding, You cry out, sharp and breathless, thighs trembling around his head. Sunghoon doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, soft and reverent. Like he wants to savor every second.

You look down at him, wrecked and panting. “I still hate you,” You manage.

He grins, a real one this time, crooked and infuriatingly gorgeous. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll hate this even more.”

And just like that, he’s crawling back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, the head of his clothes cock nudging against your soaked entrance.

And he’s still hard. Rock fucking hard.

You blink. “Jesus Christ.”

He pulls his pants and boxers down as his smile widens. “Not quite.”

You punch his arm. He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when he lines himself up and pushes in, slow and smooth, inch by inch. You both groan. You clench around him instinctively, and his jaw locks.

“You feel—fuck. Better than I dreamed.”

“You dreamed about this?”

He leans in, kisses you hard. “Every night.”

You’re still trembling from the first wave when Sunghoon pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide like he;s been holding back an entire storm.

You arch up into his hands, desperate and aching. His lips descend again. This time with hungry insistence, sucking bruises into your skin—neck, collarbone—a map of possession in deep, dark purples. You try to catch your breath but he pins your arms above your head with one hand, the other trailing fire down your ribs, across your stomach.

“Don’t move,” he commands, voice trembling like it’s torture holding himself back.

His mouth covers yours again, hot and insistent, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his fingers move faster inside you. He kisses and sucks at your neck, marking you like he’s carving your name into his skin. 

You shiver, heart pounding as he works your shirt off you, fingertips trailing across your ribs once more. He’s relentless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re gasping, trembling under the weight of his touch. You’re still sensitive from the last orgasm he coaxed out of you, be he’s not done. Not even close.

His hands tremble as he touches you. The way he looks at you now—wide eyes, desperate, like he’s about to break—makes something wild flare inside you.

He’s not the untouchable hero tonight. He’s yours. And you own every inch of him.

You kiss him hard, biting his lower lip as you maneuver the both of you until he’s on his back and you’re on top of him. His skin is impossibly warm under your touch, slick with heat and desire.

Sunghoon’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. He presses himself against you, hands tangled in your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go.

You take control, guiding him down until he’s lying back, breathless and vulnerable. You straddle him, sliding your heat against his ache. His hands cup your hips, trembling, and he whimpers softly as you begin to move.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with need. “So good… God, you’re so good…”

His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, exposing raw, desperate pleasure. He’s never been like this, the strong and invincible Superman, not when it comes to you.

He whines when you shift, when you grind, when you tease that sensitive spot that makes him arch into you, hips jerking uncontrollably. Then you sink down onto him.

“Please, don’t stop,” He begs, voice breathy and broken. 

Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart beneath your palms. He’s lost, undone, and it’s yours to keep. You ride him slowly, building, driving him higher, feeling every shiver and gasp as his pleasure months.

He whimpers your name over and over, voice cracked and raw. “More.” He begs, fingers clutching your hips tighter. You give it to him.

Faster now. Harder. The room fills with the sound of skin sliding, ragged breaths, and his desperate, needy whimpers. When he comes, it’s shuddering and loud—hips bucking wildly, mouth open in a ragged cry. 

You collapse against him, breathless, hearts pounding together in a thunderous rhythm. He pulls you close, lips brushing your hair, whispering your name like a prayer. And you hate that you don’t want this to end.

10 ── You hate that you love him.

You told yourself it wasn’t possible.

Not with Park Sunghoon—Mr. Always-Late, Mr. Aw‑Shucks, Mr. Exclusive‑Scoop Superman. The man who made you roll your eyes before you even opened his email. The man who kept secrets that could’ve rewritten your career. The man you once swore you'd never let in.

And now you’re waking up tangled in his arms, back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against your neck. He’s asleep—still shirtless, still soft beneath the weighted duvet like he’s the one who needs comfort, not the other way around. Your mind whips through all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this calm. This safe. This full.

You hate him.

You hate how he made you laugh at that stupid coffee joke you said while complaining about the crime desk. You hate how he trails kisses along your eyelids when you’re half-awake just to check if you're really real. You hate that he’s Superman—because knowing he could see the world in one blink, yet he chooses to stay here, beside you… it almost hurts.

You roll over carefully and catch his gaze.

He blinks. “Morning.” His voice is rough, like he’s just been dragged out of a dream you wish you were in too.

You raise an eyebrow. “Morning? You know you’re not even supposed to exist before 8, right?”

He grins softly, stretching, then wraps an arm around you again. “I got a day off,” He says. “Superman’s on vacation.”

Your lips twitch. “Vacation. That’s rich.”

He chuckles into your shoulder. “So you don’t mind.”

You scoot back enough to face him. “I mind that you’re gorgeous at 7 a.m. and I can't even hate you for it.”

He quirks his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s fine.” You tap the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Let the world survive without Superman for one day. Let me hate you slightly less.”

He laughs, and it’s the softest thing in the room. Your chest tightens. You’ve hated him for a lot of things—his lateness, his lies, his speed-of-light heroism—but none of it compares to the strange ache of joy when he smiles at you this way.

“We should get breakfast,” He says, voice low like he’s testing gravity. “I know this place downtown that has killer cinnamon rolls.”

You sit up. Hair messy, pajamas rumpled. You cross your arms. “I hate cinnamon rolls.”

He scowls in mock horror. “No real human hates cinnamon rolls.” Then softer: “Fine. We’ll go anywhere you like.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ve lived decades off burnt coffee and reuse foam. I don’t crave anything sweet.”

He’s thoughtful for just a beat. “Okay. Black coffee and stale bagels it is.”

A grin tugs at your lips. It’s so utterly him to tease. So… effortless. You're flooded with old habits—cynicism, sarcasm—and they feel braver than you thought.

But then his thumb brushes gently over your hand. And underneath the banter you suddenly realize how loud your heart is.

You clear your throat. “But seriously—I still hate you.” You lie.

He stills beside you. A small smile covers his face.Heartbeat thunders under his palm. “You know,” he says quietly, voice cracking just a little, “I hate how worried I get when you pull investigative duty alone.”

Your gut clenches. “You’ll fly here if anything happens.”

He nods. “In five seconds.”

You stare at him. Really stare. This is not Superman breathing next to you—this is Sunghoon. Vulnerable. Human. Loving.

In that moment, all the hate evaporates.

“We’re a mess,” You laugh softly, looking away.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Best mess I’ve ever been in.”

He kisses your temple lightly. Tender. Long. Enough that you’ve lost count of everything you should hate about him.

And you hate that this moment isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.

taglist: @wonubug @wonwounds @seobmoji @jiumeow @kyoteas @rkvist

the knock on your apartment door comes at exactly ten o’clock - just how it usually does.

you swing open the door with your 2 year old daughter, Aria, balanced on your hip, her tiny hands wrapped around a stuffed, green duck that’s missing one wing.

“daddy!” she squeals and kicks her legs, trying to slide down your hip.

Riki’s expression softens instantly.

there’s something unfair about it, actually. how easy he smiles at her - how familiar he looks standing in your doorway dressed in that black hoodie and grey sweatpants. like he belongs there.

but he doesn’t. not anymore.

he reaches for her automatically, lifting her up and squeezing her tightly. “hey, princess.”

you watch him pull Aria against his chest as her little arms wrap around his neck.

and then he looks at you.

then there it is - that awkward pause, the one that happens every weekend.

“hi.” he says quietly.

“hi.”

neither of you move - neither of you say anything else. because what is there to say, honestly?

“have a good weekend”

“see you on sunday”

“i miss you”

the last one never makes it past either or your lips.

“okay, princess. shoes on.” Riki says, after clearing his throat, as he places her gently on the ground in front of you. you kneel and help her put on her trainers, fastening the velcro with shakier hands than you’d ever admit. you hate how he still affects you.

“there we go,” you smile at her before standing.

the silence settles again - it always does.

you watch as your daughter turns to pick up her bag, the hoodie you’re wearing slipping off one shoulder. his hoodie. at least, it used to be.

Riki tries not to stare. he really does. when your miniature self holds up her backpack to him and he doesn’t take it, you look up at him. he’s staring at you.

at his hoodie you’re wearing. at the necklace he gave you a few months before you told him you were pregnant. at your nails which were now a different colour from when he saw you last weekend.

“daddy!” Aria exclaims, her bag becoming too heavy for her little arms.

he looks down instantly, shaking his head, and picks her up. “sorry, love.”

“she ate breakfast already,” you say quietly. “there’s some snacks in her bag.”

he nods simply. “okay.”

you nod.

neither of you say goodbye when he turns towards the open door. because somehow, after all this time of being apart, saying it out loud feels too permanent.

your daughter saves you both.

“bye, mommy!”

you laugh, stepping closer to kiss her forehead. “i’ll see you on sunday, okay? have fun.”

then she turns to him. “let’s go, daddy!”

he should leave. but instead, his eyes lift to yours once more.

you’re smiling. tired. soft. pretty.

the same smile he used to wake up beside. the same smile he hasn’t stopped missing.

his throat becomes tight as he peels his eyes off your face and turns to leave one last time. Aria waves at you as he carries her down the hallway towards the elevator.

you stand at the door until they’ve disappeared around the corner. and only then do you exhale the breath that felt like you’d been holding since he knocked on the door.

—

the walk to his sleek, black mercedes feels much longer than it actually is. he can’t help his mind racing with thoughts of you. the way you smiled at your daughter so lovingly. the way your face completely changed when you caught him looking at you for a moment too long.

he shakes his head and sets the tiny human into her car seat before bucking the seatbelt. he checks it twice before shutting the door and sliding into the driver’s seat.

he should drive away. he turns the key, the engine purring to life beneath him, but he doesn’t pull away from the curb. he almost gets back out of the car before Aria speaks softly from the backseat.

“daddy?”

he blinks, his fingers loosening from the steering wheel. his knuckles are white.

“are we going?” she asks and he turns to look at her over his shoulder.

“yeah,” he smiles lovingly before shifting the car into gear and pulling away from the curb.

the drive is quiet. Aria tells him about the picture you helped her draw yesterday and how she wants pancakes for lunch.

he answers when he’s supposed to, but all he can think about is you. standing in the doorway wearing his hoodie, the sleeves pulled tightly over your hands, looking at him like he’s still someone you want to know.

“daddy!” Aria exclaims.

“hm?” he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“you forgot,”

“forgot what, baby?”

she frowns like it’s obvious. “to say goodbye to mommy.”

his fingers tighten on the steering wheel again. he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

for a long moment, the only sounds in the car are the low hum of the engine and the blow of the air conditioning. then he swallows.

“i don’t think…” his voice comes out more unsure than expected. “i don’t think i’m very good at saying goodbye to mommy.”

Aria tilts her head to the side. “why?”

he laughs because how is he supposed to explain this to a two year old?

how is he supposed to tell her that every time he stands in the doorway, some part of him expects you to let him walk back inside. that every time you smile at him, he remembers what it felt like to come home to you.

he blinks hard and lets out a small breath through his nose. “i just miss her sometimes, princess.”

“i miss you too, daddy.” she says softly.

he swallows hard. he almost stops breathing. he glances in the rearview mirror and sees Aria looking out of the window, her little legs swinging slightly beneath her car seat like she hasn’t just shattered his heart.

he exhales shakily. “you do?”

she nods. “yeah. when i’m at mommy’s house.”

silence fills the car and his fingers grip the steering wheel tighter than ever. because he misses her when she’s gone. every week he counts down the days until he gets to see her again.

because somewhere between missing his daughter and missing you, he’s started to hate sundays.

—

at some point during the drive back to Riki’s house, he thinks Aria had fallen asleep in the backseat. she was silent, clutching her stuffed duck to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her there.

“you okay, baby?” Riki speaks softly from the driver’s seat. his daughter nods.

minutes later, he pulls up in the driveway and puts the car in park. he rounds the car and unbuckles Aria’s seatbelt before helping her out and grabbing her backpack.

once inside, he immediately begins taking off her trainers before heading to the kitchen to make the pancakes she asked for.

he watches her run into the living room and drop onto the rug before pulling a colouring book out of her backpack. then he blinks and she’s beside him.

“can i help?” she smiles, already struggling to drag over a stool from the counter.

he laughs and helps her up onto the stool.

he’s always careful with her. always making sure she washes her hands after using the bathroom. always making sure her laces are tied and that she’s wearing a jacket or a coat before going outside.

and he loves her just as much as he loves you.

that evening, Riki lets Aria help make the pancakes, laughing when she makes a mess all over the counter, before they settle onto the couch together to eat. he shakes his head when she asks silly questions. “daddy, do you like dinosaurs?” and he reads her three bedtime stories before she finally lays down and falls asleep.

once she’s finally asleep, he sits on the edge of her bed and watches her for a while. because in five days, he’ll miss this. again.

when you told him you were pregnant, he almost jumped for joy. he’s always thought about it - the three of you cuddling up on the couch together watching a movie and eating snacks, wearing matching pyjamas, and taking walks through the park with his hand on your lower back while your child jumps beside him.

except, this is everything he didn’t want.

—

“daddy, look! it’s a dinosaur!” Aria exclaims from the living room.

Riki walks towards her and stares down at the green blob on the paper. it’s definitely not a dinosaur but he nods anyway. “it sure is.”

“and this is you!” Aria beams, holding up the drawing proudly.

he squints at the tiny stick figure beside the green blob. “wow. don’t i look handsome.”

his daughter giggles. “no, daddy. you look silly!”

he presses his hand to his chest as if he’s physically hurt. “me? silly? i’m offended.”

her laughter fills the kitchen; its bright, loud, the kind of laugh that makes him laugh too.

actually, he hasn’t laughed that hard in months.

she’s sitting on the rug with a box of crayons scattered around her while the waffles she didn’t eat for breakfast go cold on the coffee table.

“daddy?”

“hm?”

“pink.”

he looks down as Aria holds out a pink crayon. “what about pink, baby?”

“you need pink.”

“for what?”

she points at the paper. “sit.”

Riki laughs. “you’re bossy.”

Aria grins. “sit.”

he sits.

she immediately begins scribbling and he doesn’t even ask what she’s drawing. he just watches her tiny hand move across the page.

at some point, she sticks her tongue out in concentration and his heart does that thing it always does. the thing where it feels too full.

he thinks maybe you’re his favourite part. not the cartoons, not the park, not even the pancakes. just this.

her talking nonsense, her colouring. being here.

being his.

“daddy?”

“yeah, princess?”

she looks up. “i like weekends.”

Riki smiles. “me too.”

she giggles and turns back to her masterpiece.

and suddenly, his chest aches. because weekends end; they always do. he glances at his phone.

sunday. already. too fast.

he swallows hard and looks down at his daughter, specifically where she has green crayon on her cheek. he doesn’t tell her, though.

instead, he just reaches over and gently tucks a wild strand of hair behind her ear. she doesn’t look up - she just keeps colouring.

as if he’ll still be here tomorrow. as if he doesn’t spend every week counting down the days until he gets to see her again.

he blinks once and then stands. “come on, baby.”

she finally looks up. “hm?”

“let’s get you ready.”

she pouts. “already?”

his heart drops to his ass. “yeah.”

she looks down at her picture and then back up at him.

“i stay longer?” she tilts her head.

silence. god, he wishes more than anything she could stay longer. he crouches beside her and cups her cheek with his palm.

“mommy’s waiting for you.”

she thinks about that. blinks. and then asks softly: “can you come too?”

Riki forgets how to breathe - because she’s two - she doesn’t understand why daddy has one house and mommy has another. why weekends happen, why sundays happen.

Aria just knows she likes being with both of you.

he swallows hard. “not today, princess.”

she nods slowly like she’s disappointed but she’s accepting it before reaching for her daddy. “carry.”

Riki immediately lifts her up and she buries her face into his shoulder while one tiny hand fists the fabric of his hoodie. he holds her a little tighter knowing that tomorrow, this house will be quiet again.

his chest tightens. Aria is getting bigger and both Riki and you know she is. her words are becoming clearer, her clothes keep getting too small, and she keeps asking questions he doesn’t quite know how to answer.

but right now, she’s still small enough to fit perfectly in his arms. so he holds her tightly like she’ll disappear if he lets go just a little.

“you ready to go see mommy?” he asks quietly while carding his fingers through her locs.

Aria nods against his shoulder. there’s none of the excitement she’d had when she arrived at his house on friday. she’s tired… and so is he.

Riki grabs her stuffed duck from the couch before stuffing it into her backpack.

he turns around to scan the living room for anything he might forget. but all he sees is one of her socks peeking out from under the couch, a tiny cup with cartoon animals on it, and her crayons still scattered on the rug.

little reminders that she’s been here - little reminders that in a few minutes, she won’t be.

his chest feels unbearably tight.

every weekend. every weekend he gets this; two days of cartoons and little giggles and tiny arms around his neck.

and then it’s over in the blink of an eye.

he shakes his head before flicking off the light and heading for the door.

the evening air is cool when he steps outside. his fighter is tucked securely against his chest as he makes his way to his car. she yawns, long and dramatic, before her body goes even heavier in his arms.

a small laugh escapes Riki’s throat. “you tired, baby girl?”

she nods once. small.

“you had a busy weekend, huh?”

another nod.

Riki smiles and presses a gentle kiss to the top of Aria’s head.

by the time he reaches his car, he thinks she’s already asleep in his arms. he unlocks the door with a beep of his keys and swings open the back door before lowering his tiny human into her car seat.

she makes a small noise of protest as he peels her away from his chest. her sleepy eyes blink open just enough to find him.

“there we go.” Riki mumbles as he buckles her seatbelt.

she doesn’t say anything, just watches him with heavy eyes. then, quietly: “daddy?”

he looks up. “yeah?”

“i had fun.”

he stills. it’s such a simple sentence, four little words, but somehow they hit in right in the chest. then he smiles back at her. softer this time.

“me too, baby.”

Aria smiles once more before her eyes slowly drift shut. Riki doesn’t move; he stays crouched beside the open car door for a moment, watching her breathing softly.

the he slowly stands and closes the door.

he walks round to the driver’s side and slid into the seat before resting his hands on the steering wheel. for a few seconds, he doesn’t start the car - he just sits there. listening to the quiet because he already misses her… and she’s still right behind him.

eventually, he starts the engine. the soft hum of the car fills the silence as he glances in the rear-view mirror.

Aria is still sleeping, her head tilted awkwardly to one side. her curls are messy from her exciting day with daddy, and there's still a faint mark on her cheek from the green crayon.

he almost smiles. almost.

his heart aches instead.

the drive to your apartment isn't long; Riki's done it enough times to know every turn, every shortcut, every set of traffic lights.

he also remembers driving this same route two years ago with you in the passenger seat. you were exhausted after a long night with the baby, your head resting against the window while he drove aimlessly to get Aria to sleep.

you'd looked so tired, so perfect, when you looked at him and smiled. "you're a good dad, you know."

the memory hits him unexpectedly and he swallows hard.

the light ahead turns red, forcing him to stop, before the car falls silent again. he glances in the mirror at Aria's sleeping form, a tiny frown has appeared on her face.

a few more minutes pass before familiar buildings begin appearing outside the window.

no matter how normal this arrangement has become, no matter how many months have passed, his throat always tightens as soon as he turns onto your street. because you're here and you'll open the door in a few minutes and he'll see you and pretend everything is normal... and then he'll have to leave again.

he pulls up outside your apartment and turns off the engine.

silence.

the curtains are drawn. the hallway light is on.

home. not his - not anymore.

he exhales slowly and unbuckles his seatbelt before rounding the car to the back door. she’s completely out and he smiles despite himself.

“hey, sleepyhead.” he murmurs.

nothing.

he carefully unbuckles her seatbelt and slides his arms beneath her warm, sleeping body. Aria stirs slightly before immediately tucking herself against his chest.

like she belongs there.

he kicks the door shut gently with his foot before walking towards your apartment. each step feels strangely heavy, and by the time he reaches the elevator, his breaths are coming a little too fast.

the elevator doors ding and slide open as he places a kiss to the top of Aria’s head.

by the time he reaches your door, his hands are shaky. he shifts her in his arms and raises an arm to knock.

then he waits.

—

the door doesn’t open straight away. Riki stands there silently - your daughter pressed against his chest, her little hand fisting his hoodie.

the dim light casts a soft glow over the two of them in the hallway, and for a moment, all he can hear is her slow breathing and the tv from one of the neighbouring apartments.

then he hears the footsteps and his heart does a stupid jolt when the lock clicks.

the door opens. and there you are.

your hair is messy, like you’d tied it up but given up halfway through. you’re wearing an oversized jumper and a pair of shorts - looking comfortable, tired, like you’d been curled up on the sofa waiting for them to get back.

looking like home.

neither of you say anything first. then your eyes drop to your daughter curled up in his arms. the corners of your mouth curl into a small smile at the sight - her sleeping silently on his chest.

then your eyes lift to his and something changes… it’s so brief he almost thinks he imagined it.

but your smile softens even more. because his hand is rubbing softly up and down her back, because he’s holding her carefully…

because he looks exactly like he did two years ago when you used to take turns getting up to warm a bottle for a crying baby.

“she fell asleep?” you ask quietly, your voice barely a whisper.

Riki blinks. “yeah,” his own voice softens more than he’d intended. “about ten minutes before we got here.”

you smile again, glancing down at your daughter. “looks like she had fun.”

neither of you notice how close you’ve gotten - or maybe you have but neither of you say anything.

for a few seconds, everything feels strangely normal.

“oh… come in.” you smile awkwardly as you step to the side to let Riki inside.

he steps inside and immediately heads to Aria’s bedroom.

you follow close behind him, watching the way he moves down the hallways of your apartment. like he’s done it a thousand times before. he has. like he still lives here. he doesn’t.

you stand in the doorway and watch as he leans over her bed and gently places her down under the duvet before slipping off her shoes.

you watch how he’s so careful with her, like one wrong move will break her. like she’s the most precious thing in the world. but to him, she is. and to you, she’s your everything.

he pulls her blanket up to her chin and strokes her cheek twice before quietly stepping back, careful not to wake her.

the apartment falls silent as you softly pull Aria’s bedroom door shut. when you turn around, Riki is standing there, hands tucked into his pockets. waiting.

neither of you speak at first. you both just stand there, looking at each other as if you both know this feels wrong. as if you both know this isn’t how it was supposed to be. as though you both know, deep down, it doesn’t have to stay this way.

“two days with her doesn’t feel enough anymore.” Riki speaks, finally turning your attention to something other than the weight on your chest.

“if you want more time with Aria, we can talk about it.”

he shakes his head before you can finish. “it’s not just that…”

your brows knit together. “then what is it?”

“i know i don’t deserve to ask this after everything that happened,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. “but if there was even the smallest chance that we could try again, i’d take it.”

you sigh and cross your arms over your chest. “Riki, you know we can’t-“

“but we can, y/n!” he steps closer, his eyes search yours frantically. desperate for a sign you haven’t given up. not yet.

“you know we can. if you’d just let me-“

“Riki-“

“no, listen, y/n.” he says firmly and you close your mouth instantly.

he runs a hand over his face before taking the remaining step to fully close the distance between you. his hands land on yours and he threads his fingers through yours. “every sunday, i bring her here, tuck her into bed, and then leave.”

a humourless laugh escapes his throat. “it never gets any easier.”

you blink up at him, speechless.

“you know we’re both standing here acting like this is normal. it isn’t! not one bit.” his hands squeeze yours like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll turn and walk away. “we could be better and i know you know that. please give me another chance. for Aria.”

that last part shattered you.

for Aria.

those two words echoed in your mind, pounding on every wall you’d spent months building around your heart.

the thing is, you do know this could be different. you just refuse to be hurt again. you refuse to feel stupid like last time. you can’t ever let yourself become that vulnerable. not again.

“please, baby, give me another chance. i want us to be the family Aria deserves. i don’t want her growing up wondering why we stopped trying.” he whispers.

tears sting your eyes as you let out a shaky breath. “do you think i haven’t imagined it? every single day?” you whisper.

“then why are we still standing here like idiots pretending we don’t still love each other?” his voice shakes and you almost break down right there.

“because you don’t know what you’re asking, Riki.”

“i do.” his brows pull together.

you shake your head. “no, you don’t. if we try again and it falls apart… Aria doesn’t just lose the idea of us, she loses us all over again.”

Riki’s shoulders fall and his expression softens. “i know,” he says quietly. “i know that’s what you’re afraid of.”

his thumbs are tracing small circles on the backs of your hands now. “but i’m not asking you to pretend nothing happened, y/n, i’m asking you to let me earn it.”

the silence settles once again as you stare at the floor, refusing to look at him. because you know if you do, you’ll crumble.

every part of you wanted to believe him. to pull him into a hug and believe this time it’ll be different.

and… that’s exactly what happens.

you look up at him, eyes searching his face for any sign that means he’s lying. any hint that means whatever he’s saying will end up as another broken promise.

you don’t find one.

instead, you see the same boy you fell in love with. the same boy that held your hand during labour. the same boy that kissed your forehead and cooked dinner when you were stressed about work.

only now, he’s standing in front of you practically begging you to take him back. asking you to let him own up to his own mistakes.

you let out a shaky breath.

“okay…”

Riki’s eyes light up. “okay?”

you nod as tears stream down your cheeks before you can stop them. “one more chance.”

for a long moment, he just stares as you. almost like he’s convinced he heard you wrong.

“really?”

a small smile finds it’s way onto your lips.

“we’re not doing this just because of Aria,” you nod. “we’re doing it because i still love you. even after everything. i never stopped, Riki.”

his eyes glisten and he releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“i love you too.”

taglist: @binsown @testingspider @yoruse @tsumiyaa

“Hi, I’m Sunghoon.” Sunghoon set the magazine down on your sofa table. “I’m your new roommate. I don’t know if Mister Kang told you that I am moving in today instead of on the first. I had a more or less spontaneous change of plans.” 

No. 

No, Mr Kang did not. 

You opened your mouth before closing it, willing your face into a small, tight smile. 

“Hi,” your voice was pitched a notch too high, and you cringed. “I am Y/N. Are you sure you are in the right apartment? I mean, considering you probably got the keys from Mr Kang, yes, but he didn’t tell me anything about a roommate? I know Apartment 4B is a free room?” 

Sunghoon scrunched his eyebrows. “This is Apartment 4D, right? I definitely signed a contract for the smaller room in Apartment 4D.”

“Oh,” you just said and blinked at him.

The smaller room in your apartment had been rented out for as long as you lived here. Not by you, but by some mystery girl that seemed to have no interest in living in this apartment. Mister Kang didn’t care if the other girl came or not, as long as the rent was paid on time, and told you you were free to use the room until she did indeed show up. 

So that is what you did. 

You transformed the small room into your studio. 

And you knew for a fact that the desk and the floor were a cluttered mess at the moment. 

Heat shot up your neck at the realisation.

“I–uhm–I didn't know you were moving in at all. I’ve been using the room as my studio. Just give me like an hour, and I’ll move all of my stuff into my room,” you sighed, already feeling a headache coming. Sunghoon raised an eyebrow at your words, then glanced toward the hallway leading to his supposed new room. "You’ve been using it as a studio?"

You nodded, running a hand through your hair. "Yeah. I mean, it’s been empty since I moved in. Not technically empty? Someone rented it out, but she never came, and Mr Kang said I could use the room if my supposed roommate didn’t want it. So I just… took over? I’ll be really fast, so you can start putting all your stuff in there."

Sunghoon’s lips quirked up in amusement, arms crossing over his broad chest. "So, I’m kicking you out of your studio?"

"Technically, yes. But it’s not your fault. Mr Kang just kind of forgot to tell me you were coming? At all? So I didn’t know I had to clean it out." 

He nodded, glancing back toward the hallway before looking at you again. "Well, if you need help moving your stuff, I don’t mind."

You shook your head, taking off your jacket, unceremoniously dropping it onto the sofa. "No, it’s fine. It’s mostly styrofoam, pens and sketches. It's fine."

Sunghoon shrugged. "Alright. Just let me know if you change your mind." 

He moved toward the sofa, lifting a box and putting it onto the floor before flopping down on the green fabric. “Are you a design student?”

“Oh. No. I study architecture.” You shook your head and made your way through the maze of boxes and furniture in your living room towards the hallway that separated your room and now apparently Sunghoon's room. 

“Oh, that's cool. I am in PE,” he grinned at you.

You just nodded again, not in the mood to talk with anyone right now, even less with the mysterious girl, well, boy, you now had to live together with. "Ah. That's nice. Just… make yourself at home while I clean, I guess?"

Sunghoon grinned. "Will do, roommate."

The word made you wince.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

You stood in the doorway of your studio, well, Sunghoon’s room, mentally preparing yourself for the hour of cleaning ahead. The small space was overflowing with architectural sketches, blueprint rolls, rulers, model pieces, and textbooks.

This was… embarrassing.

You usually were a really organised person, but with work and your deadline coming up, you just didn’t have the time and energy to clean up behind you. The last few weeks had been horrible; you were chasing one deadline after another, had worked endlessly on your projects and studied at the same time. Sleep was a luxury and cleaning was the last thing on your mind. The only thing you religiously did every day was cook. 

With a tired nod, you started moving, piling all of the cut-up styrofoam and paper into a trash bin, carrying unused styrofoam into your room and getting a broom from the kitchen. 

After around half an hour, Sunghoon slightly knocked on the doorframe to his room, startling you from where you were sorting through your sketches and designs. 

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” he asked, walking into the room, doing his best not to step on anything. 

You swallowed, ignoring the crawling feeling under your skin while he looked around with a curious look on his face.

“No, it's fine,” you mumbled, tiredly smiling at him. “I usually am a really clean person. It’s just…exam season.” 

Your head was aching, a slow pressure building behind your eyes, and you were hungry. You just wanted to eat something and roll up in your bed, but you weren’t about to make Sunghoon help you clean his room when it should have been clean from the get-go. 

He let out a soft chuckle. “Mhm. No worries. If it’s just your space that you use for creative chaos, I don’t have any problem with that.”

You pressed your lips onto each other and gave him a small nod before turning back to the stacks of paper on the bed. Most of them were half-finished sketches and drafts you never bothered to throw away, in case you needed them again. It would not be the first time. 

Sunghoon’s voice startled you. "What's this?” He gestured to a half-finished architectural model on his desk, a sleek modernist building carefully cut out of foam board and assembled with tiny, precise details. You spent countless hours on it, just for your professor to ask if you could start over since he didn’t think it was the best you could do.

You hesitated before replying. “It was supposed to be my final project. For my design class.”

Sunghoon bent down slightly, inspecting it. 

“This is insane,” he murmured, his fingers hovering near the structure but not touching it. “It looks like something you’d see in an actual firm.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that, so you just gave a small nod. You watched him inspect the model for a second longer before he reached for a stack of your books. 

“W-What are you doing?” Your hands stopped mid-motion, the papers in them unrolling slightly again. 

“Helping,” he said simply, not looking up. “You’re going to take forever if you do this alone. I’ll just put them into your room, okay?”

“O…kay,” you mumbled, focusing back on your sketches.

An hour and a half later, the room was clean. Well, mostly clean. Your things were now safely in your room, and Sunghoon’s moving boxes were neatly stacked in the corner, ready to be unpacked.

After you gave Sunghoon a tour of the kitchen and went over the house rules, you found yourself standing awkwardly in the living room when you were done. 

"Uhm… do you, uh, need anything else?"

Sunghoon looked up from where he was stacking his books on the shelf. "Nope. I think I got it."

"Okay, um, good. Well, uhm, goodnight then."

His lips curled slightly, amused at your awkwardness. "Goodnight, Y/N."

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

When you woke up and made your way to the kitchen at 6:30 am the next day, you felt like you had just risen from the dead. Your hair was a mess, your eyes were half-closed, and your body was running purely on muscle memory as you wandered towards the kitchen.

There was light spilling into the hallway from the kitchen, and for a second you wondered if you forgot to turn it off yesterday or if you were just hallucinating again. But when you rubbed your eyes and looked up, you realised something far worse than hallucination was happening.

There was a half-naked man in your kitchen.

Sunghoon stood by the counter, one hand resting on the counter, the other rubbing the back of his neck as he yawned. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his bare upper body was exposed to the warm air in the kitchen. 

He turned, his eyes heavy with sleep, and blinked at you, standing frozen in the doorway.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, he yawned again. "Morning."

"Uh", you cleared your throat, snapping your gaze away from his body. Ogling at your admittedly stupidly attractive new roommate was very inappropriate. "Morning."

Your voice sounded way too high-pitched.

Sunghoon didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he just poured himself a cup of coffee, completely unbothered.

You walked to the fridge, pretending not to care that he was standing next to it and grabbed one of your containers with porridge inside. 

By the time you turned back around, Sunghoon had disappeared into the hallway. A few seconds later, he re-emerged, now wearing a T-shirt.

"Do you have any plans today?" he asked, casually leaning against the counter as he took a sip of his coffee.

You glanced at him, still feeling a bit weird to have seen him half-naked after knowing him for not even twenty-four hours. "Uh… yeah. I have work today."

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. "You work during the break?"

"Yes?" You frowned. "I mean, my scholarship covers a lot, but I still have to pay for food, transportation, materials, and extra costs. It adds up."

Sunghoon hummed, nodding. "What do you do?"

"I work as an intern at an architecture studio," you grabbed a spoon and honey, setting them on the counter. "I mostly organise files, scan documents, and do small tasks for the senior architects. I also make coffee and refill the printer paper, which is apparently the most important job in the entire office."

Sunghoon let out a small chuckle at that. "Sounds fun."

You shrugged. "It pays. Do you have plans for today?"

He leaned back slightly, his gaze flicking toward your food as you peeled off the lid of your porridge and took a small spoonful. "The only thing I’ll be doing today is train. Probably up until I get thrown out again."

You blinked at him. "Training?"

"Yeah." He took another sip of coffee. "The season ended, but I’m still training. I’m working to qualify for the Olympics."

You froze mid-bite.

"The…Olympics?"

"Yeah."

Your spoon slowly lowered. "You’re an athlete?"

Sunghoon nodded and took another sip of his coffee. “Yeah. I’m a figure skater.” 

“Oh,” you just answered, not knowing what else to say.

Both of you went silent for a long moment until he cleared his throat again. “I’ll probably come home pretty late. Do you mind me showering here or should I shower at the rink? I don’t want to, like, wake you up or something.”

You hummed and shook your head. “No, that’s all right. I sleep well even if there is noise around me.”

“Okay,” he nodded again. 

“Are you really training for the Olympics?” You asked after a bit of silence. 

"Hopefully," Sunghoon shrugged. "If I qualify."

For a moment, you just stared at him and tried to imagine him in one of those pretty dresses the figure skaters wore. Then, you shook your head, trying to get rid of the thought. "That’s really impressive."

Sunghoon just shrugged, like it was no big deal.

You took another bite of your porridge, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. You never did anything that made you special. Or something impressive. 

Your roommate took another sip of his coffee, watching you. "You always eat that little? I feel like if that was the only thing I ate for breakfast, I’d starve all day."

You swallowed, a bit caught off guard. "I meal-prep my portions."

He hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Are you on a diet? Or just because it’s convenient?"

You hesitated for a second, the porridge suddenly heavy in your stomach, and just gave a tight smile. "It’s convenient."

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

The apartment was dark when Sunghoon came home. 

It wasn’t unusual for him to come home to an empty apartment. In the last week that he had been living here, he had barely seen you around. 

You were usually out of the house when he rolled himself out of bed, and aside from a few short greetings in the kitchen, when both of you were at home, you barely talked. 

He figured you were just shy or maybe just didn’t like talking to people in general. 

Not that he had a problem with that. 

He himself wasn’t much of a talker either, and he really enjoyed the fact that you weren’t as noisy or nosy as his previous roommate. 

Kicking off his shoes, he stretched his arms over his head, sighing as he made his way into the living room. 

He poured himself a glass of water, hoping it would help him cool down a bit. Even though it was almost ten p.m., it was still unbearably hot outside, and the apartment wasn’t nearly as cold as he wished it to be. You rarely turned on the AC when you weren’t home. Sunghoon didn’t mind that; he was at the rink most of the time anyway, but today he felt like he was melting. 

The remote for the AC was on top of the fridge, and it came to life with a small humming sound after he turned it on. His eyes flickered over the pictures and postcards that were held up by colourful magnets on the fridge doors. Most of them seemed to be from the same place, all of them portraying the beach.

Before he could stop himself, he had reached forward and carefully picked one of them up. He knew he shouldn’t be doing that, but he was curious. He really didn’t know much about you, even though you were living together. For all he knew, you could be a serial killer who would strangle him to death while he was asleep. 

The thought made him chuckle. 

You were more than a head smaller than him and didn’t look strong enough to do that; you were rather petite.

Sunghoon turned the postcard around. 

Hi Bug! Busan is as beautiful as ever. I wish you were here. I hope you're doing well in Seoul. Take care. See you soon.- Love and miss you, Donghyuck :) 

Oh. 

He didn’t realise you had a boyfriend. 

Not that it would make him think differently of you, but he thought you would have mentioned it to him at least once. 

Donghyuck definitely sounded like a boyfriend's name. 

Your hometown was close to Busan after all. Maybe he went to Busan to study, and you went to Seoul, and the two of you were sending postcards back and forth? 

Sunghoon had asked around if someone might know you, and surprisingly, Jay recognised you after he had shown him your profile picture. 

He knew your brother, or well, a very close friend of your brother, Jeno, who had dated one of Jay’s friends for a while. Jay had told Sunghoon that the three of you came from a small town near Busan, but couldn’t tell him more about you; he hadn’t met you in person and had only seen pictures. 

Sunghoon shook his head and took another sip of water. 

He should really get to know you a bit. He really didn’t want to stumble into you and your boyfriend without warning.  

When he was just about to go to the bathroom to get ready for bed, the front door opened. Sunghoon’s fight-or-flight response immediately set in, but when he saw your figure walking into the hallway, he relaxed again.

You seemed exhausted; your shoulders dropped, and your head hung low as you let your bag fall onto the floor, kicking off your shoes. You rubbed at your temple and took a deep, audible breath before lifting your gaze to meet his. The dim kitchen light cast soft shadows over your face, emphasising the dark circles beneath your eyes.

“Hi,” he said, sounding surprised. “Were you at work until now?” 

“Yeah, we were short-staffed in the cinema today,” you mumbled, walking past him to grab a glass from the cabinet.

“The cinema?” Sunghoon repeated. “I thought you worked at the architecture studio?”

"I do," you sighed, filling your glass with water just like he did a couple of minutes before. "This is my second job."

His eyebrows rose. "You have two jobs?"

You let out a small huff of laughter, but it was completely devoid of amusement. "Sadly, yeah."

Sunghoon blinked. “That sounds like a lot.”

You just nodded. “It is. But I get to stay in Seoul, and have at least a bit of money to spend on myself. So it’s worth it.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

The sunlight was drifting in through the sheer curtains in the living room, heating up the bare skin of your legs. You didn’t mind the sun or the heat; you preferred it over the artificial cold coming from the ACs that were everywhere. Now that you barely had time for anything but working and studying, even during the summer break, you were almost desperate to catch a bit of sunlight. 

You were curled onto the sofa, reading a book from your to-be-read pile that accumulated during the semester, when Sunghoon shuffled into the living room, still half asleep. His hair was standing up in every direction, and he had red streaks on his face that came from sleeping on wrinkly fabric. He let himself fall next to you on the sofa, leaned back and closed his eyes again, grumbling sleepily. “Good morning, Y/N.”

"Good morning, Sunghoon," you said softly, turning your attention back to your book. You had noticed over the course of the last week that Sunghoon wasn’t a morning person. He was always grumpy in the morning, but still polite and nice to you.

For a long moment he just sat there, his eyes closed. The slow and soft breathing that came from Sunghoon made you think he had fallen asleep again, so you almost flinched when he suddenly spoke up. "Got any plans today?"

"Not really," you murmured, tucking your feet under yourself to make some more space for him.

Sunghoon opened one eye. “You don’t have work today?”

 "The studio is closed on weekends, and since I usually work on weekdays in the cinema, I have weekends off. "

"Mm," he grunted. "At least two days of the week, you don’t have to run out the door at seven.”

You let out a small chuckle. "Yeah. It’s nice to sleep in."

The conversation faded into silence, and you shifted your focus back onto your book. 

Just as you were finishing your chapter, his voice suddenly broke the silence in the living room again.

“Do you not like the AC?” 

You looked up and blinked at him. "The AC?"

He hummed. “Yeah, you rarely turn it on.”

“Oh,” you shrugged. “I like to open the windows in the morning. I like it warm, so I only turn it on when it gets unbearably warm. We can switch it on if you’d like to?” 

Sunghoon shook his head. "No, it’s fine. I was just wondering. Would you like me to open mine as well?” 

You hesitated. On the first day, you had thought about asking him if he could open his window, so there would be better airflow, but decided against it.

“You don’t have to. I don’t want to overstep."

He exhaled a soft laugh. "Don’t worry. I'll just open it myself. Then you can’t overstep anything."

You smiled faintly. "Thank you."

For a while, there was nothing but the occasional rustling of your pages and the sound of cars in the distance. 

Then Sunghoon spoke again. 

He didn’t seem like a person who talked a lot. 

But apparently, he had the desire to talk to you sometimes. He would come to your room or the kitchen when you were there and strike up conversations. It was nice. Sunghoon was nice. 

You googled him and asked Jaemin about Sunghoon when you were working the Wednesday shift in the cinema together. Wednesday was always slow, not that you minded; it gave you plenty of time to talk to Jaemin.

According to him, Sunghoon was really nice. 

"Do you miss home?"

The question caught you off guard. You looked at him again, only to find that he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling.

You hesitated before answering. "Sometimes. Tongyeong has a certain charm to itself."

Sunghoon nodded slowly. „It must be weird to move from such a small town to Seoul. I grew up in Suwon, but I think I spend more time in Seoul than anywhere else. My childhood and teenage years took place in ice rinks in Seoul.“

You thought for a second. 

It was weird. 

The house you grew up in was always loud. Either your brothers or the guests downstairs in the restaurant were constantly talking or making noises, and suddenly you were in this apartment, all alone, and it was silent. 

You never realised how much you would miss your brothers until they weren’t just across the hall.

„Yeah. It’s weird,” you hummed. It’s so quiet and loud here at the same time. At home, you rarely hear this many cars passing by, but my family is quite loud, so living alone is very quiet,“ you put in a bookmark so you wouldn't lose your page. 

You assumed Sunghoon was in the mood to talk right now. 

„Really? Do you have siblings?“ He tilted his head slightly. His hair flopped down. 

You hummed and nodded. “Three brothers. All older. Seven years, four years and two years. What about you?“

„I have one sister. Five years younger than me. And a dog,“ he chuckled.

„Oh, that’s nice. I always wanted a pet. But my parents wouldn’t allow it. They were busy enough with 4 kids and a restaurant.“

"Your parents have a restaurant?" Sunghoon asked.

"Yeah," you nodded

"Do you help out?" He sat up, turning fully to you, his arm coming to rest on the backrest of the sofa.

"Not really," you admitted. "My parents always told me to focus on my studies and made my brothers help them. I would help if they let me. I usually cleaned out the flat, though. I like the area I live in to be really clean, and growing up, my brothers weren’t the cleanest.“

Sunghoon hummed. „Yeah, I’ve noticed. I think that’s pretty nice. That you are such a clean person, I mean. I love my old roommate, but he left his shit everywhere and should be sued for noise complaints. That guy never shuts up.“

„Oh, that sounds annoying,“ you chuckled. You could see how that would annoy Sunghoon. 

“It’s all right,” he hummed and lifted himself from the sofa. “Do you want some breakfast? I was thinking about going for a run and getting something from the Creek. My friend’s girlfriend works there, and I can get us free stuff?”

“I, uhm. I already ate. But thank you so much for offering,” you smiled at him.

“Sure, always.” 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

Sunghoon wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand as he stepped back into the apartment. By the time he finished his run and stepped into the small cafe across the campus, the sun had started blazing. 

He peeled his shoes and socks off and had to stop himself from just ripping his drenched shirt off his body. Sure, you had seen him half naked once, but that was an accident, and he wasn’t keen on repeating it, so he sighed and moved towards the bathroom after dropping off the bag of baked goods in the kitchen. 

Sunghoon had expected you to have gone back to your room, but when his gaze flickered toward the living room, he noticed the top of your head peeking over the sofa backrest. 

“Y/N?” He stepped closer to the sofa. 

You were asleep.

Your legs were slightly bent, and your arms were in awkward positions, one sprawled across your face, blocking your eyes from the light coming in through the living room windows, the other one resting loosely over your stomach. The book you had been reading was lying on the floor next to you, seemingly having slipped from your hand when you fell asleep. 

Sunghoon reached down to pick it up, placing it onto the sofa table, before quietly wandering towards the bathroom to wash off the sweat still running down his back. 

He made his way back to the kitchen twenty minutes later and cursed the architect who designed your flat for deciding on building an open-style kitchen. It was actually what sold him on the place, but now, with only a kitchen pass-through separating the two spaces, it also meant that if he used the coffee machine, it would definitely wake you up. He signed and grabbed the orange juice jug in the fridge instead. 

As he poured himself a glass, his eyes landed on the vase near the window.  The tulips inside were starting to wilt, slowly letting their heads hang down. A few petals had fallen onto the windowsill.

Without thinking, he got up, grabbed the vase and changed the water. Maybe that would keep them alive for a bit longer. 

Sunghoon took another sip, glancing at your figure again. He was thinking about waking you up, so you could go to your bed and get proper rest, but before he could move, you stirred. 

At first, it was just a sleepy shift, a small stretch of your legs. But then, your eyelids fluttered, and with a deep breath, you slowly pushed yourself up, blinking blearily at the room.

“Hi.”

Your gaze flickered to him, still half-asleep. 

“Hi,” you murmured back, your voice soft.

He hesitated for a second before nodding toward the counter. “I got you a salt bread.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, then you followed his gaze to the extra plate. You stared at it for a moment before looking back at him. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he said simply. “I got them for free, so I thought I’d just bring you one too.”

You hummed again before flopping back onto the sofa, stretching your arms above your head with a sleepy little sigh. Sunghoon watched you for a second, trying not to make it obvious that he was watching. You looked tired, even though you had just slept.

When you finally pushed yourself up from the couch, he glanced back down at his juice as if he had been doing that the whole time. He heard your soft footsteps on the floor and then watched you pad over to the kitchen again, yawning as you sank onto the stool across from him. Your hair was a little messy, one side pressed flatter than the other, and you still looked half asleep when you picked up the pastry and stared at it for a moment before tearing off a small piece.

“Thanks, Sunghoon,” you said quietly. “I really like these.”

He only hummed and leaned back slightly, watching as you took a bite.

“Me too. But I can’t really eat bread during the season,” he said. “So I have to stuff myself with anything gluten now, before I won’t be able to.”

You looked up at him, brows drawing together a little. “Why?”

He gave a small shrug. “I get stomach aches sometimes, and bloating is honestly the worst before practice. I really do not need to feel like I’ve swallowed a rock when I’m trying to jump on ice.”

You blinked once, then nodded slowly like you were processing that. “So it’s like a diet thing?”

He shook his head. “Not really. It’s just my stomach being dramatic.”

That seemed to ease something in your face, and you lowered your eyes back to the pastry in your hands. He watched you break off another piece, smaller this time. 

“I kind of get that,” you said after a moment.

He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “My stomach is pretty sensitive, I guess. I kind of have to eat small portions more often; otherwise it gets upset.”

That made him look at you properly. “Really?”

You nodded, almost like you were apologising for it. “And gluten makes it worse sometimes. Not always, but enough that I usually just try not to have too much of it at once.”

“Hm,” he hummed, because he didn’t really know what else to say. That sounded annoying, honestly. “That sounds miserable.”

“It’s not that bad,” you said quickly, then seemed to catch how fast you had said it and softened a little. “I mean. It’s annoying, but I’ve had it for a while.”

He nodded once. That made sense enough.

“Do you meal prep because of that?” he asked.

You looked down at the pastry again. “Mostly. It’s easier that way. If I have small portions ready, I don’t have to think about it.”

“Fair,” he said. “I meal prep during the season as well.”

That got your attention. You looked up again, a little surprised. “Really?”

He gave you a look. “Of course. I have to eat a lot, but cooking every day is a pain.”

Your mouth curved slightly at that. “You hate cooking?”

“I don’t hate it,” he said, though that was being generous. “I just don’t want to do it after training. I need a lot of protein and carbohydrates every day, so meal prep is the only way I stay sane.”

You nodded slowly, like you were filing that away. “That makes sense.”

“It’s annoying that I have to eat the same thing three days in a row,” he added. “But it works.”

A small laugh slipped out of you, soft and warm, and he glanced up before he could stop himself. “I actually like cooking,” you said.

He blinked once. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, more certain this time. “It’s kind of one of the few things I don’t mind doing. I like making food for people. I like not eating alone.”

Sunghoon grinned at you. “That’s convenient.”

You frowned a little. “How is that convenient?”

He shrugged. “Because if you ever feel like cooking for me, I would definitely not stop you.”

That pulled a laugh out of you, soft and a little disbelieving. “You would want me to cook for you?”

“I might even sit still and not get in your way while you’re in the kitchen,” he said seriously.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, but he could tell you were amused. “Wow. Generous.”

“I know,” he said, completely deadpan.

You took another bite of the pastry. 

“How often do you train?” you asked after a moment.

“Every day.”

Your brows lifted. “Every day?”

“Usually once,” he said. “Sometimes twice if Coach is being annoying.”

“That’s intense.”

“It’s normal for me,” he said, because it was. “But I burn a lot of calories, so I have to eat enough to stay at my weight.”

You tilted your head slightly, looking at him with that same thoughtful expression you always got when you were actually trying to understand something. “You really have to eat that much?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

That made you smile faintly. “You make it sound like a chore.”

“It kind of is,” he admitted. “I’d rather skate and then disappear into bed, but apparently my body disagrees.”

You laughed softly. “Oh no, poor you.” 

“Well,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “if you ever feel like cooking, you can definitely make me something. I can’t promise I’ll be useful, but I can at least wash the dishes.”

Your eyes flicked to him. “That might actually be a good deal. I hate doing the dishes.”

“It is a good deal,” he said. “I’m very fair.”

The apartment was quiet for a moment, the sound of birds outside filtering in through the open windows.

“Sure,” you hummed and took another bite. 

Sunghoon leaned onto his arms. “So what do you do on your day off?”

You shrugged. “Laundry. Grocery shopping. Paint sometimes, but most of the time I just sleep.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re really making the most of your free time.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “I don’t have much free time, so I have to use it well.”

Sunghoon thought about that for a second. It made sense. He understood what it was like to have every second of your day planned out, to always have something you were supposed to be doing.

His eyes wandered towards the framed canvas hanging against one of the kitchen walls. He had always thought it might have come with the apartment, just like the furniture in his room, but when he took a closer look, there was a stamp with your initials on it. 

“Did you paint that one?” He asked, nodding towards it. 

Your gaze flickered to the painting, and you pursed your lips, nodding slowly. “Oh, uh, yeah,” you mumbled. “Last summer break. It’s oil, so it took an eternity to dry. But, uh, the sun helped.”

He tilted his head back toward the painting. “Oh wow,” he said, genuinely impressed. “That’s so cool. Are the other ones yours, too?”

“Uh. Yeah,” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and nodded again. “I was feeling…really inspired last year. And my brother got me oil paints for my birthday so I just painted. But we can take them off the walls if you don’t like them? I don’t mind, and you live here too, so you should also feel comfortable and if–”

“Y/N,” Sunghoon chuckled, interrupting your rambling, and your gaze flickered up to his face before you pulled your lower lip between your teeth. “It’s fine. I like them. It makes the apartment feel a bit homier. You’re really talented.” 

“I–,” you nodded again, and Sunghoon had to suppress a laugh. You suddenly seemed so flustered. 

“I never really had the chance to paint with oils before since they’re super expensive. But, uh, money well spent, I guess?”

He looked back at the paintings again, his gaze lingering for a moment. It was really well done. “They are really well done. You should think about selling them, Y/N. Not many people are able to do this.” 

You quickly looked away, avoiding his gaze. And then, you laughed. A weird, nervous little laugh, your cheeks flushing a bit.

“Oh, no, I mean–it’s just practice, really,” you blurted out, waving a hand in the air. “It’s not like–it’s not, like, some crazy talent or anything. It’s just… You do it enough, and it sort of, um, happens?”

“Still,” he said, amused now, “it’s really cool.”

You made a weird, stiff nod, then immediately picked up your water and took the smallest possible sip.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

You stepped into your apartment, shivering slightly at the cool air pressing against your skin. 

Sunghoon must have turned on the AC again. 

It was almost unbearably hot outside, the pavement heating up during the day and not cooling down even in the dark of the night, but inside, it was much colder. 

You never really liked using the AC too much; the temperature drop always left you uncomfortable. 

Unfortunately, Sunghoon didn’t seem to mind the cold. 

You placed your shoes neatly next to his by the door and stepped further into the cool apartment. The sound of the television playing in the background hummed through the air. Sunghoon was sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, eyes focused on the screen.

You hesitated for a second, not really sure what to say, if you should say anything at all. You didn’t want to disturb Sunghoon and make him miss something in his show, but before you could decide, Sunghoon reached for the remote and lowered the volume.

His head turned toward you. “Hey.”

You blinked, a little caught off guard. “Hi.”

He sat up slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest. “How was work?”

You sighed and shrugged, making your way into the kitchen. “It was fine. Busier than usual.”

You and Sunghoon had somehow become something like friends during the last two weeks; it was nice having him around, filling the silence whenever it became unbearable, but also staying quiet when the world was a bit too loud.

He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you hummed and nodded before pulling the freezer open and shuffling through the bags of frozen food. “It’s usually not that packed during summer shifts, but today was weirdly busy.” 

You found the familiar container of kolddugi muchim that you couldn’t stop thinking about all day, pulling it out underneath a bag of frozen broccoli Sunghoon had bought the day before. “At least Jaemin was there. It was fun with him.”

Sunghoon hummed in acknowledgement, his gaze flicking back to the screen for a moment. “Who’s Jaemin?”

You hesitated slightly before standing up from the crouching position you were in. “My friend and coworker, I guess. He works the counter with me.”

Sunghoon nodded slowly. “You work with him a lot?”

The question made you frown a bit. “Yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” he said, shrugging. “Just wondering. I’m just trying to keep on track with all of the names and people you tell me about.”

You nodded slowly before turning back to the counter to start defrosting your food. Your favourite pot was still in the dishwasher; it hadn’t been run today. There weren’t any new dishes in the sink either.

You hesitated for a second. 

“Have you eaten today?” You asked, glancing over your shoulder.

Sunghoon looked at you, almost like he was caught off guard by the question. “Uh… no. I was too lazy to cook after I came from the gym, so I just had a protein shake.”

You frowned slightly. 

A protein shake was not a meal, especially not if he had been training today. 

You shifted your weight, debating for a second before clearing your throat. “Do you… Want some? I’m making kolddugi muchim and rice.”

His eyes lit up a little, his usual neutral expression shifting. “Oh, for sure. That sounds way better than another shake.”

With a nod, you turned back to the counter. “Okay.”  

Sunghoon stood up, stretching slightly. “Need help with anything?”

“Um,” you thought for a second, going through the list of things you might need. “Could you go to the GS25 down the street and get some mu kimchi? Only if it’s no trouble. I can go too.”

He waved you off, already grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter. “Nah, I got it. I’ll be back in a sec.”

The apartment fell silent again as the door shut behind him.

You stood still for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the refrigerator and the faint dialogue from the drama still playing on TV. Then, shaking off the quiet, you turned back to the stove.

The scent of simmering garlic and gochugaru filled the air, thick and warm. It clung to the fabric of your clothes and seeped into the walls of the small kitchen. 

You closed your eyes for a second.

It smelled like home.

Like summer afternoons in the restaurant, your mother’s voice drifting in from the kitchen. The sharp tang of kimchi mingling with the sweetness of caramelised fish sauce. The distant sound of seagulls outside, the heavy heat of the South pressing against the window screens.

You exhaled, opening your eyes again.

It had been a while since you were home. 

You wanted to go home during the summer break, leave Seoul and all its stress behind for a couple of weeks, but then you were offered your internship and couldn’t go it. 

Swallowing the sudden ache, you focused on stirring the sauce, watching the deep red paste thicken over the heat. 

Cooking had always been something comforting, something familiar. 

You never saw yourself working in the restaurant after you finished high school, but you missed living by the sea, close to your family. 

Donghyuck had moved to Seoul a year after you did, and you were glad. He came to visit you a lot, claiming that he needed a break from seeing his roommate’s face from time to time, only to end up bringing Jeno along. He had been Donghyuck's best friend for so long, Jeno was basically your older brother as well, so it was a given that you cooked for him as well. 

The sound of the door being unlocked ripped you from your thoughts, and your head snapped up to watch Sunghoon step back inside the apartment, a small plastic bag in his hand. “Got it.”

“That was fast.”

He shrugged, placing the bag on the counter. “I have long legs.”

You glanced inside, pulling out the package of mu kimchi. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said, leaning against the counter. “If you’re cooking for me, it’s the least I can do, Y/N.”

His eyes flicked to the stove. “It smells really good.”

“It’s my mom’s. She gives me containers of this stuff every time I visit home. Sometimes I have to eat kolddugi muchim for days after I’ve been home because it won’t fit into the freezer,” you chuckled.

“Oh, I wouldn’t complain about eating kolddugi muchim for days. If it tastes as good as it smells, I’ll gladly help you eat some of the kolddugi muchim you can’t fit into the freezer.” Sunghoon grinned and reached up to grab two sets of plates and bowls from the cabinet. 

You just nodded and smiled at him while dropping the still slightly frozen baby octopus into your mom’s premade sauce. The sizzling of the pan was the only sound for a few moments. 

“I’ll go and turn off the TV. I’ll be right back,” Sunghoon said and disappeared into the living room. A few seconds later, the music box he placed in the kitchen made a sound, and Sunghoon’s playlist hummed through the speakers, while you finished cooking.

Somehow, the two of you had picked designated seats at the kitchen table across from each other, so whenever the two of you had eaten together, there was no question who would be sitting where. 

You watched Sunghoon pile some of the baby octopus onto his plate. “It may be a bit spicy. I kinda put a lot of sauce in there. 

He just shrugged. “That’s okay, I don’t mind the spice.”

“Okay,” you nodded, scooping some rice onto your spoon, trying to not obviously stare at him while he tried the food. 

His brows lifted slightly, and he gave a small nod. “This is good.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. “Really?”

He hummed. “Yeah. This is nice.”

A strange sense of relief settled in your chest. You took a small bite yourself, humming in delight when it did taste good. Not as good as if your mom made it freshly, but it was still good. 

You would have to call your mom later to thank her for cooking for you. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

Sunghoon stood outside your door, listening to the faint sound of music coming from inside. He knocked once, then again when you didn’t answer right away.

When he had opened up the fridge this morning, both your shelve and his shelve were almost empty. He knew you would be going grocery shopping today as well, so he figured he could just ask if you wanted to go together.

A few moments later, the door opened just enough for him to see you standing there, paint smudged on one sleeve.

“Hey,” he said, glancing past you into your room. “You busy?”

You turned slightly, following his gaze back to the canvas on your desk. “Um. Just painting.”

He took that in for a second. It looked like another food painting, if the bowl that was already finished was any indicator. The room itself was a little messy in the way yours always was when you were working, brushes, paper and tubes of paint spread out over your desk.

“Right,” he said, then leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “I was gonna go grocery shopping for the week. Do you want to come with me?”

You looked at him like you were actually considering it, which made him wait instead of filling the silence.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing back into your room before your shoulders shifted and you gave a small nod. “Okay. Give me like twenty minutes to get ready?”

“Yeah, sure,” he hummed. “Take your time.”

You disappeared back into your room, and Sunghoon wandered over to the living room. He dropped onto the sofa and pulled out his phone, scrolling mindlessly through his TikTok while the apartment stayed quiet around him. Every now and then he glanced toward your room, half expecting to hear you rushing around, but there was only the soft thud of you closing your closet door and then nothing.

When you finally came out, he looked up almost automatically.

For a second he just stared.

Your hair was braided back neatly, the way it usually was, and you were wearing a white dress that fell loosely around you, soft and flowy. 

Sunghoon blinked once and sat up a little straighter. “You always braid your hair.”

You glanced at him, your lips pursed. “Yeah?”

He pushed himself off the sofa and tucked his phone into his pocket. “No, I mean. Always always. I don’t think I’ve seen it open more than like once.”

You shrugged lightly, already reaching for your keys. “I just prefer it that way.”

He hummed as he followed you to the door, though he couldn’t stop looking at the braid. It was neat, simple. “Doesn’t it get annoying to braid every day?”

You shook your head. “Not really.”

Sunghoon let out a small breath through his nose, stepping out into the hallway after you. “I think you should leave it open; it’s pretty.”

You just hummed, keeping your face turned away from him. He knew there were certain things you didn’t like talking about, shutting down conversations before they could even begin, and apparently your hair was one of them. Sunghoon shook his head as the two of you started down the stairs together. 

It was hot outside, the kind of heat that clung to your skin the second you stepped out of the building, and Sunghoon immediately regretted not waiting until later in the evening.

“It is so stupidly hot,” he muttered, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Why does Seoul have to feel like the inside of an oven in summer?”

You glanced at him, then back ahead. “It’s not that bad.”

He turned to look at you, offended. “What do you mean, not that bad?”

You gave the faintest shrug. “It’s warm.”

“Warm?” he repeated. “This is not warm. This is hostile.”

That got the smallest hint of a smile out of you, and he caught it just long enough to feel mildly satisfied with himself.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

The grocery store wasn’t far, but by the time you got there, Sunghoon’s t-shirt was drenched. You walked beside him without complaining once, hands relaxed at your sides, braid resting between your shoulder blades.

The doors to the store opened, and when the two of you stepped inside, Sunghoon sighed in relief, the cold from the AC washing over his body as he got a cart for the two of you. He steered the two of you deeper into the supermarket, one hand resting loosely on the handle while the other occasionally reached out to grab something from the shelves without really stopping.

You stayed beside him, quiet in the way you usually were when you were thinking, eyes moving over the rows of products without lingering anywhere for too long. 

“Wait,” you said, stopping the cart when you passed the oatmeal section. “I think mine are almost done.”

Sunghoon hummed and followed you inside the aisle.

“I was thinking of getting these for the week,” you said, squatting down and grabbing a flashy box. 

He hummed, reaching for it, reading the front of the package when you handed it to him.

It was a white oat, fruits and nuts mix.

“Which one do you usually buy?”

You shrugged. “Just the plain one.”

He made a face when he turned the box around in his hands. “You should get the protein one.”

You looked up at him. “Why?”

“Because it has more energy,” he said, pointing at the nutrition table on the back with a fingertip. “And better ingredients. See?”

He held the package out a little so you could look at it, before grabbing the one brand Wonyoung always raved about. “You said you’ve been feeling tired all the time; maybe you need some more protein. That helped a friend of mine, and she really likes that one.”

You reached forward, and your fingers closed around the cardboard before you turned it around once, then twice,  before nodding and tossing it into the cart.

The two of you continued down the aisle, casually stacking more things into the cart. He kept filling his own side with random food. Rice, vegetables, eggs, protein drinks, a few snacks. 

Your side looked different, a lot more specific. You spent a lot more time deciding between products, pondering the different choices, checking the list on your phone, checking the boxes whenever you added something to the cart.

He glanced at your list at some point and then at you. “Do you shop the same stuff every week?”

You looked up from your phone. “Most of the time, yeah.”

“That sounds boring.”

You gave a small shrug. “It’s not bad. There are a lot of things I can cook with that.”

“You mean loads of things you can drown in gochujang?”

You didn’t answer that, just moved to the next shelf and reached for another bar of dark chocolate. Sunghoon watched you for a second before stepping closer and taking one of the protein bars from the shelf.

“You should get these too,” he said, holding it out. “They’re good.”

You took it from him and turned it over in your hand, scanning the front before flipping it around to the back. You read the label for a second longer this time. 

He watched you drop it towards your side of the cart before you put the dark chocolate back into the shelf. 

The second you stepped into the frozen aisle, you started shivering, wrapping your arms around your body, while you followed him, so Sunghoon just grabbed a few packs of chicken breast off the shelf and dropped them into the cart one after another.

You glanced down at the pile of them, then back at him. “What are you gonna eat that with?”

He looked over his shoulder. “No idea.”

You blinked. “You just eat it plain?”

He gave you a look like that was a stupid question. “Most of the time, yeah.”

That made you hum softly to yourself, more thoughtful than amused, and you reached into the freezer case beside you before he could say anything else. A bag of frozen broccoli went into the cart, then another pack of vegetables, then some carrots.

Sunghoon looked down at what you were adding. “What are you doing?”

You shrugged. “I’m keeping my end of the deal, and I won’t let you eat plain chicken.” 

He laughed at that, short and warm, and shook his head a little. “You wanna cook for me?”

You glanced at him, already reaching for another bag. “Well, yes. You’re the one paying. I’ll be the one cooking for the both of us. It’s convenient if we don’t get the kitchen dirty multiple times a day.”

That made him laugh again, a little louder this time, and he nodded once. “Fair.”

After a beat, you reached into the freezer again and added another pack of mixed vegetables to his side of the cart. He looked down at it, then at you.

“You’re spoiling me,” he said.

You hummed. “You’re paying.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re enabling my laziness by cooking for me. How am I supposed to learn how to cook?”

“If you only want to cook, feel free. I won’t be stopping you.”

“I never said I don’t want to cook.”

“You did imply it.”

He gave you a long look, then broke into another grin and nodded once. “Okay, maybe I did.”

You were already looking away again, focused on the shelf in front of you, but the corner of his mouth stayed tilted up as he kept pushing the cart.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

You left the grocery store with more bags than Sunghoon had expected. He had ended up carrying most of them, insisting you took the smaller bags, ignoring how you complained about him thinking you were weak. Considering you asked him to open bottles sometimes, he was sure you would have handed him the heavy bags anyway. 

The heat outside hit Sunghoon like a wall. He hated it: the warmth, the sweat and the clammy feeling all over his body that came with it. Sunghoon exhaled through his nose, shifting the bags higher in his grip.

“God, it’s still disgusting out here,” he muttered.

You only hummed, apparently unaffected in a way that made him feel slightly betrayed by his own body. The two of you were chatting, talking about nothing and everything while walking back to your apartment complex, before you went quiet for a moment. 

“Can we stop by the flower shop?”

He turned his head. “The one you always talk about?”

You nodded. “If it’s okay.”

He shrugged, though the bags in his hands made the movement awkward. “Yeah, sure.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

The bell over the door chimed when the two of you stepped inside. 

It smelled like water, leaves, and something soft he couldn’t quite place. Flowers lined the narrow room in neat clusters, some already wrapped and waiting near the counter, others still standing in buckets along the floor and tables.

The woman behind the counter looked up immediately and smiled when she saw you. “Y/N,” she said warmly, “what a lovely surprise.”

You brightened a little, your face easing in a way Sunghoon had never seen before. It was pretty. 

“Hi.”

She came around the counter, hands wiping briefly against her apron before she reached for one of the buckets near the front. “You haven’t been here in a while. I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

“Work has been a bit much,” you admitted, shifting the bag in your arms.

The woman made a sympathetic noise and then glanced toward Sunghoon, her eyebrows raised, as she looked back towards you. "And who is this?”

You turned slightly. “Oh, this is Sunghoon. He’s my roommate.”

Sunghoon gave her a polite little bow, suddenly feeling nervous about making a bad impression. You and the lady seemed close. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”

Her expression softened instantly, as if the bow had been the correct answer to some invisible test. “Roommate,” she repeated, then looked at you again with a knowing sort of smile. “So you do have company at home now.”

You blinked at her, and Sunghoon noticed the red creeping up your neck. “Ajumma.”

She ignored that completely and waved a hand at the flowers. “Come, come. Let me show you what I have today.”

You followed her deeper into the shop, Sunghoon trailing after you a little awkwardly with the grocery bags still in hand. The woman moved around the buckets, looking for something specific, before lifting out flowers one by one and holding them toward you.

“These are lovely today,” she said, showing you a handful of blooms with pale petals that were slightly open already. “Not the freshest ones, but the shape is still very nice.”

Sunghoon frowned a little as he watched you take them in your hands and turn them gently from side to side. He wasn’t sure why, but he had expected you to reach for the brightest, newest ones. Instead, your attention seemed to settle on the flowers that looked a little less perfect, the ones with petals that had started to curl at the edges or lean slightly to one side.

"Why not buy fresh ones today, my child?" She asked, handing you another battered-looking one. "I got some beautiful tulips just this morning."

You looked up at that, then smiled a little sheepishly. “I think they’re also pretty.”

The woman shook her head fondly. “You and your strange taste."

You adjusted the flowers in your hands and gave a small shrug. “I like the ones that no one else would pick; you would throw them out anyway. And even if they just live for a day in my kitchen, at least they got some love, Ajumma. I'm sure someone will buy the tulips.”

The woman’s expression softened at that, and for a moment she just looked at you with more love and care in her eyes than a stranger should have for their customer. Then she let out a quiet hum and started wrapping the stems in paper.

You smiled, small and pleased, and Sunghoon had the strange feeling that he was seeing a piece of you that didn’t usually show itself anywhere else. Not at the apartment, not at the store, not when you were quietly making tea or sitting beside him on the sofa. 

The woman finished tying the bouquet and pressed it into your hands with the kind of care that felt almost maternal. “There. These suit you better than the tulips would anyway.”

You looked down at the flowers, then up at her with a soft smile. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she said immediately, as if the thanks were unnecessary. “And don’t wait so long before coming again. Your face looks tired.”

“Ajumma,” you said again, but this time it was gentler.

She only waved you off. “Go home, eat properly, and come back soon."

“I will,” you promised.

Then the two of you stepped back outside, the flowers held carefully against your chest while Sunghoon adjusted the grocery bags again. You glanced down at the bouquet, then up at him, and there was a small smile pulling at your mouth.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

Sunghoon had just finished mixing his protein shake when he heard keys jingle and the front door swing open.

He frowned, setting the shaker bottle down. You weren’t supposed to be home yet. It wasn’t even 4 p.m. Had your class ended early? 

Still, he greeted you out of habit. “Hey, Y/N–”

But the person standing in the doorway was definitely not you.

Sunghoon froze. The guy in the doorway froze, too.

For a long second, they just stared at each other, equally confused.

Sunghoon slowly lowered his shaker bottle. Who the hell–

“Uh…” the guy started, blinking a few times like he was trying to process the situation. Then, he pointed at Sunghoon. “You’re not Y/N.”

“No,” Sunghoon said flatly. “I’m not.”

The guy frowned, his head tilting slightly. “Then… who are you?”

Sunghoon crossed his arms. “I live here. Who are you?”

The guy’s face shifted as realisation dawned on him. His confusion melted into something amused.

“Oh,” he said, dragging out the word. Then, he grinned and stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I’m Donghyuck. Nice to meet you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Wait.

Donghyuck, as in your boyfriend Donghyuck?

Sunghoon’s gaze flicked toward the fridge before he could stop himself. The slightly curled postcard from Busan hung beside a few photos he had found himself staring at more than once in the past month. Donghyuck was in a lot of them. Always close to you, arms slung around your shoulders, laughing together.

Sunghoon quickly cleared his throat. “Nice to meet you, Donghyuck. I’m Sunghoon.”

Donghyuck hummed, already toeing off his sneakers. “Is Y/N still at class?” He dropped his bag by the door and strolled toward the kitchen.

Sunghoon, still trying to wrap his head around what was happening, hesitated before answering. “Uh… yeah? She usually gets home around 4:30. Sometimes a bit earlier.”

Donghyuck nodded, completely unfazed. “Alright, cool.”

Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, he reached into a cabinet, pulled out a glass, and filled it with water.

“How long have the two of you been together?”

Sunghoon nearly choked on air.

“What?” He spun around so fast that he nearly knocked over his protein shake.

Donghyuck just shrugged, sipping his water like this was a completely normal conversation. “Y/N didn’t tell me she was seeing someone. Or, well… seeing someone seriously enough to let him move in with her.”

Sunghoon’s brain stalled. What. The. Hell.

“I hope it’s been at least half a year and you didn’t just sweet-talk her into letting you move in after, like, two months.” Donghyuck narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Why–why would I be Y/N’s boyfriend?” Sunghoon blurted.

Isn’t Donghyuck the boyfriend?! What was happening?

The other gave him a look. “Dude,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You literally just said you live here.”

“Yeah, because I’m her roommate,” Sunghoon said, still trying to process this conversation. “I pay rent and shit to be here.”

Donghyuck blinked. “Wait. You’re her roommate?”

“Yes.” Sunghoon gestured vaguely at the apartment. “What else would I be?”

Donghyuck tilted his head, considering. Then he shrugged. “I dunno, her boyfriend?”

Sunghoon let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his temples. “Dude, I thought you were her boyfriend.”

Donghyuck burst out laughing.

“Me?” He pointed at himself, looking genuinely amused. “Oh, nah.” He shook his head, still grinning. “I’m her brother.”

Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Brother.

Oh. Okay.

Now that he really looked, Donghyuck did have similar features to you. 

Your brother just grinned, clearly entertained by the situation. “Damn, you really thought we were dating? Siblings dating seems pretty weird, doesn’t it, Sunghoon?”

Sunghoon groaned, leaning against the counter. “I didn’t–”

Donghyuck cackled.

Before Sunghoon could come up with something to say, the front door suddenly swung open again.

“Oh my god,” your voice rang through the apartment, full of surprise and excitement. “Hyuck?!”

Sunghoon turned his head just in time to see you practically launch yourself at your brother. Donghyuck barely had time to put down his glass before you crashed into him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming! I thought you were still at home!” You grinned up at him, eyes shining.

Donghyuck ruffled your hair like it. “I wanted to surprise you. Taeyong packed you a snack box from home. Mom and Johnny’s Mom added some stuff too. You know, since you can’t come home.”

Your face lit up. “No way.”

Donghyuck smirked. “Way.”

Sunghoon, still leaning against the counter, just watched as you glowed with excitement.

But before he could fully process how different you looked right now, so happy, so genuinely overjoyed, Donghyuck turned to you with an easy grin.

“So…” He dragged out the word, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?”

Your expression twisted in confusion. “What?”

Donghyuck jerked his thumb toward Sunghoon. “You didn’t tell me you were dating your roommate.”

You were silent for a beat. 

Then, your entire face went red.

Sunghoon could feel the heat radiating off you from where he stood.

“What?” you repeated, blinking rapidly.

Donghyuck just smirked, clearly enjoying this. “You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.” He gestured toward Sunghoon, who was just standing there like an idiot.

Your eyes darted towards him like you were expecting him to say something, but Sunghoon’s brain was still buffering.

Because all he could think about was how genuinely happy you had looked when you saw Donghyuck.

So expressive. So open.

The way your face had lit up, the way your voice had lifted into something bright and completely unfiltered. It was cute. And, selfishly, Sunghoon wondered why.

Why did you always hold back a little around him? The small, bashful smiles, the careful responses. Was he that intimidating? He was trying so hard to get to know you, to be a good roommate who would turn into a friend. 

“We’re not dating.” Sunghoon finally managed, his voice a little more rushed than intended. “I’m just her roommate.”

You exhaled, pressing your hands to your very red cheeks. “Yes. He’s my roommate.”

Donghyuck raised a brow, clearly not convinced.

“Right,” he said slowly, crossing his arms. “So you just let random guys move in with you now?”

“I didn’t–it’s not–,” You groaned. “It’s a long story.”

Sunghoon, for some reason, felt the need to defend himself. “It’s not weird, okay? We barely even knew each other when I moved in. You don’t have to worry about us dating or anything.”

Donghyuck snorted. “That makes it sound so much worse.”

Sunghoon opened his mouth, then closed it. 

You groaned again, looking like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “Mr Kang is renting the second room to Sunghoon.”

“No way. Your studio?” Donghyuck asked and looked at Sunghoon as if he had personally had the intention to steal your studio from you. 

“Yeah. It’s all right, though. I always knew he could rent it out to someone who will show up,” you leaned against the counter next to Donghyuck. 

Donghyuck was still looking at Sunghoon, but his facial expression had changed from accusation to something that looked like interest.

“Anyway,” he said, focusing back on you, “Do you wanna open the package? I am praying that Johnny put in some of those dope cookies from the bakery under his office. If he did, I am claiming one-half.”

At that, your face brightened again, and Sunghoon caught himself watching the shift in your expression again. 

The way your eyes widened, the slight bounce in your stance, the way you leaned in just a little closer to Donghyuck.

Your brother unzipped the bag and pulled out a medium-sized cardboard box, setting it on the counter with a slight thud.

Your hands were already on the tape, peeling it open. “You had four weeks to eat the cookies from ppangjib. You get one. Or maybe two."

Donghyuck grinned. “Deal.”

Sunghoon, though still a little confused by the whole situation, couldn’t help but glance into the box as you pulled back the flaps. Inside were neatly packed bags of homemade snacks, a few small wrapped gifts, and a handwritten letter sitting on top.

You immediately grabbed the letter, unfolding it with the kind of excitement that was usually reserved for kids on Christmas morning.

While you skimmed it, Donghyuck reached into the box and pulled out a small bag of yakgwa, grinning. “Oh, sick. Mom made you some yakgwa.”

“No way.” You grabbed the bag from him, grinning just as wide.

Sunghoon glanced at the clock hanging above the kitchen door. 

Shit.

He had to get to training.

With a sigh, he grabbed his shaker bottle and slung his bag over his shoulder. 

“I gotta head out.” 

You looked up from the letter. "Oh, right! You have training tonight.”

He nodded, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to eat something later, or will you eat somewhere else?” Your eyes were sparkling when you looked at him, and Sunghoon had to suddenly swallow dryly before being able to answer. 

“I’ll eat with the others, thank you, Y/N." He nodded at your brother. “Nice to meet you, Donghyuck. Have a nice evening, you two.”

Donghyuck, already chewing on a piece of yakgwa, gave him a lazy salute. “Have fun, man.”

Sunghoon huffed a small laugh before turning toward the door. 

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

The bus stop was already fuller than you had hoped for.

You slowed when you got close, eyes briefly flicking over the small crowd waiting in the rain. Uni had already been enough on its own, and the thought of standing around in the wet for the next ten minutes did not exactly improve your mood.

With a sigh, you lined up behind a girl who was fully immersed in her phone, not looking up even when the line moved forward slightly. 

“Y/N?”

You turned and found Sunghoon a few steps away, looking just as exhausted as you felt.

“Oh,” you said, a little flatly before you could stop yourself. “Hi.”

He gave you a small smile and stepped closer, shielding you from the rain by holding his umbrella over your head. For a second, neither of you said anything.

It was not exactly awkward in a bad way. 

Just quiet. 

Sunghoon glanced at you once before looking back at the road. “You got work later?”

You nodded, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “Yeah.”

He hummed. “Do you want me to cook then?”

That made you look at him. “You can if you want to?”

He shrugged. “Sure. I’ve wanted to try out a dish Wonyoung recommended. She’s been hyping it up for weeks now.”

“Wonyoung?” You asked, trying not to sound too curious. Sunghoon often talked about one of his girl space friends, but this was the first time he had mentioned a name. 

“She’s one of the skaters I train with, and she’s pretty strict about her diet and eating healthy. She’s also the one that recommended the oatmeal I made you buy,” Sunghoon hummed and gave you a small smile. “Yours is empty, right? I’m gonna go grocery shopping before cooking. I could buy you some before you run out?”

“Oh,” you blinked once, a little caught off guard by how normal that sounded now. Apparently that was just what you were doing these days. Just cooking and buying groceries together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah,” you said after a second, and then, a little quieter, “Thanks.”

He only nodded, like it was no big deal.

When the bus finally came, the two of you ended up standing through most of the ride, holding onto the railings and swaying slightly whenever the bus turned. 

By the time your stop came up, you were both more than ready to get off.

The walk back to the apartment was quiet at first, Sunghoon holding his umbrella above both your heads, trying his best to keep you dry. 

After a while, you glanced over at him. “How was your day?”

Sunghoon let out a small, humourless breath through his nose before answering. “Shit, honestly.”

You looked at him a little more closely. “Really?”

He nodded once, jaw tightening slightly. “This whole week’s been shit.”

You frowned. “Why?”

He looked ahead again and shrugged. “Coach is on my ass. Everything feels off. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get back on track for nationals at this point.”

His voice was flatter than usual, but there was frustration under it, thick enough that you could hear it anyway. He sounded genuinely upset, not just annoyed in the dramatic way he sometimes was when he complained about training.

You hesitated for a second, then said, “I’m sure you’ve been doing well.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him, though it did not sound amused. He shook his head slightly and looked over at you. “You haven’t seen me skate.”

You blinked, then shrugged one shoulder. “I know how much you train.”

He gave you a look at that, something tired and a little resigned in it. “Training a lot doesn’t mean I’m doing well.”

You frowned a little, looking down at the pavement as you walked. “Still. You’re probably doing better than you think.”

Sunghoon huffed again, but there was less edge to it now. “You know,” he said casually, “you should come to one of my competitions sometime.”

Your eyes flicked up to him. “Your competitions?”

“Yeah.” He nodded slightly. “There you could see me skate properly and then think about if I really am doing better than I think.”

You gave him a little smile. “I’ll think about it. I am sure you’re amazing on the ice, dear roommate.”

That made him smile, too.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

The cold had come quickly this year, creeping into your apartment and into your room. 

You had spent your day at uni freezing and had been looking forward to just curling up on the sofa or your bed until you fell asleep. Sunghoon had picked up training for his competition, so it was almost rare that you got to see him during the evenings, but today he had been at home when you opened the front door. 

He was studying at the kitchen table, his hair held up by one of his hair bands and a thick pair of glasses on his nose. 

“Hi,” you greeted him, peeling your boots off your feet with your fingers stiff from the cold. 

“Hello, Y/N,” he gave you a tired look, glancing up from his iPad.

“Don’t you have training today?” Your coat was wet from the rain, so you spread it over one of the kitchen chairs to dry before dropping your bag on top of it. 

Sunghoon sighed and shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “They are doing some checks with the building, and we aren’t allowed inside, so no.”

“Oh,” you hummed, moving into the kitchen to heat up some water. “You don’t sound happy about that?” 

He huffed and shrugged. “I wanted to train today. I still feel like shit about not being able to land my combo when I was able to before the summer break. I was off the ice for like two weeks, and it’s just gone.” 

“Because of the break?” 

"Yeah." Sunghoon nodded and watched as you got out your favourite mug. “That happens sometimes and is super annoying. If you lose a jump, you usually need double the time to relearn it again.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to get it again?” 

Sunghoon shrugged again and let his head fall against the wall with a soft thud. “Yeah, it will just take time.” 

You hummed and watched the kettle rattle as it brought the water for your tea to a boil. 

"Y/N", he lifted his head, “a few of my friends want to come over and check out the apartment. Is that fine with you? I know you’ve got work tomorrow, but I promise we’ll keep it down when you want to head to bed.”

You smiled, the question barely making you think. “Oh, that's not a problem, Sunghoon. You live here, too. It’s not like I’m going to stop you from having friends over.” 

He relaxed at your response, the tension in his posture easing as he gave a small, appreciative nod. “Thanks,” he said, looking genuinely relieved. “I’ll let them know we’ll keep it low-key.”

You nodded, offering a small smile. “No worries. You do you.” Then, as an afterthought, you added, “Just don’t be too loud around midnight. I haven’t really had parties here, so I don’t know if our neighbours are cool with noise or not?”

He chuckled again. “Yeah, I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at you. “You can come hang out later. If you want to. We’re gonna order pizza. I know you don’t do lactose or gluten, but if you want a piece just…you know join us?”

You nodded in acknowledgement, giving him a small wave. “Ah. Uhm. Thanks. But I think I’m good. I’ll go to sleep soon anyway.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

You did, in fact, not go to sleep soon. 

It was almost eleven, and you were still reading, curled up in your duvet, a low light illuminating the room slightly. Your stomach had started growling a while back, and the more you tried to ignore it, the more urgent your hunger got. 

With a long and annoyed sigh, you kicked the duvet off and begrudgingly put your book away before you stood up from your bed. 

You hesitated for a moment when you reached your door. 

Sunghoon and his friends were in the living room, playing something on the switch Sunghoon had brought with him when he moved in, so you would have to pass by them if you wanted to get to the kitchen.

You were wearing a pair of loose joggers and one of your brother's hoodies that he forgot at your apartment that you never bothered to return, so you were definitely not dressed for guests, let alone Sunghoon’s friends. But your stomach growled again, making you push the handle down and step into the hallway. 

The laughter grew louder the closer you got to the living room. As soon as you entered, four pairs of eyes turned to look at you.

“Oh, hey!” one of them greeted you, giving you a smile, while his car came to a stop. “You must be Y/N.”

“Oh, uh–hi,” you said, your voice coming out slightly too high.

Sunghoon grinned at you. “This is Jay, Heeseung, and Jake,” he said, nodding toward each of them. “Guys, this is Y/N.”

Heeseung leaned back against the couch, abandoning his character as well. “Dude, your apartment is so nice,” he said. “Did you decorate it by yourself?”

You blinked. “Uh–what?”

“The apartment,” he repeated, still smiling. “It looks really good.”

“Oh! Um–yeah, I did?” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, shifting awkwardly. “I mean, I just… put some things together. I like interior stuff, so…”

“Man, Sunghoon lucked out,” Jay said, shaking his head. “My first roommate had, like, one folding chair and a mattress on the floor.”

“Hey!?” Heeseung said and turned to Jay, “I was your first roommate?”

“Yeah. And we have been living in our dorm for 3 years now. The only reason why we have a decent apartment now is that your mom insisted on helping decorate it,” Jay deadpanned. “And the main piece of decoration in your room is your keyboard shrine.” 

Jake and Sunghoon snorted while Heeseung tried to defend himself: ”I asked her for help because you wouldn’t stop complaining, you stupid piece of shit.”

“See, I am really happy to have Y/N as my roommate. She has rugs and decorations. And a normal amount of keyboards.” Sunghoon grinned at you. “She is even painting the paintings to fit the vibe of our apartment.” 

Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide with betrayal. He just grinned.

“Did you paint all of them?” Jay asked, nodding toward the kitchen.

You hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. Mostly last summer.”

“Damn,” Jake said, shaking his head. “That’s sick. I can barely draw a stick figure.”

You let out a small, awkward laugh. “Thank you.”

Before you could recover, Sunghoon gestured toward the pizza box. “Are you hungry? We ordered way too much.”

“Oh–no, no, it’s fine,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I was just going to warm up something from the fridge.”

He just raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“I swear this is so much, and we are all supposed to watch over our diets. You’d be doing a good thing by eating a slice or two,” Jake said before stealing a gummy bear from Jay.

“Maybe just one slice?” You mumbled.

Jake’s smile widened. “Sure, take as many as you want.”

He slid a plate toward you, and you shuffled over, still feeling painfully awkward. You perched on the arm of the couch next to Sunghoon, back stiff.

Your roommate glanced up at you, giving you a smile. “Have you finished your book?”

You hummed and took the plate Jake offered you, shaking your head. “Thank you, Jake. Almost? I need like three or four chapters. I’ll definitely finish it today.” 

“So you’re going to read your vampire book?” Sunghoon teased. He had read the back of it and had been making fun of you ever since. 

“No,” you took a bite and swallowed before continuing, watching the TV as they started another round of Mario Kart. “I’ll be waiting until Halloween. I have the morning shift, so I’ll have the whole evening to finish it.” 

“Are you not gonna party on Halloween?” Heeseung asked, not taking his eyes from the TV. 

You frowned, shrugging. “Not really? I’ve not been invited to any parties? And aside from that, I’m not really someone who goes to parties.” 

“You’re just using that as an excuse to stay in bed to read your vampire steamy book, or what did you call it?” Sunghoon teased again, nudging your thigh with his shoulder. “I never thought you’d be one of those girls, Y/N.”

You felt heat rushing up your neck, your cheeks flushing, but before you could defend yourself, Jay already came to your aid. 

ne,” he glanced at Sunghoon and regretted it mere seconds after, driving off the road. “Fuck.”

“I’m not even doing anything,” your roommate grinned.

Your stomach dropped at the words.

It was stupid, really. 

He had only been teasing. 

You knew that, but somehow it felt weird.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the plate, and forced a small laugh through your nose before you looked back at the TV. 

It was suddenly too loud in the room, too warm, too bright. 

You could feel your pulse in your throat, fast and annoying, and every second that passed made you more aware of yourself.

Sunghoon shifted beside you.

He must have noticed the change in your mood, because when you glanced at him for half a second, he was already looking at you. 

Not teasing, just watching. 

His expression softened the moment he saw your face.

You looked away instantly.

No. No, it was fine. It was nothing.

He didn’t say anything right away, but the apology in his eyes was obvious enough that it made your chest tighten worse. He probably realised he had pushed too far.

It was all right. Nothing had happened; he didn’t mean it in a bad way. 

You took another bite of pizza just so you would have something to do with your mouth, but it didn’t help. Not even a little. Your stomach felt weirdly hollow and too full at the same time, and you kept your face angled toward the TV while your entire body screamed at you to get up and leave before you embarrassed yourself any further.

Heeseung glanced between you and Sunghoon, clearly catching something in the air. For a second, the room went a little quieter, the game noises continuing in the background.

Then Heeseung spoke.

“Actually,” he said, a little more carefully now, “do you maybe want to give partying one more try?”

You looked over at him, caught off guard.

His expression was gentle, not pushy. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “I mean, instead of spending Halloween alone reading by yourself.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again.

“There’s gonna be a big Halloween party hosted by the swimmers,” Jake said from the floor, spinning his controller between his fingers. “You could come. If you don’t want to go alone, you can bring a friend too. Just tell the guards we invited you; they’ll know.”

You blinked at that. “A friend?”

He nodded. “Sure. If that makes it less weird.”

“Or safer,” Jay added, not looking at you but clearly trying to help in the least aggressive way possible. “Whatever works.”

You glanced down at your plate, your fingers suddenly very aware around the rim. The room was still buzzing with the game, but your pulse had not slowed.

You forced your shoulders to stay loose.

“I don’t know,” you said, and tried very hard for the words to sound normal. “I’m just… not really into parties.”

Jake nodded immediately, as he understood. “That’s fair.”

“But,” Heeseung said, still soft, “you don’t have to be into parties to come to one once.”

You hesitated.

“I haven’t been to one in forever,” you admitted, which was worse than saying no because now it sounded like a confession.

Jake’s face brightened a little, not in a mocking way, more like he had heard a challenge he wanted to win. “Then it’s definitely time.”

“No pressure,” Heeseung added quickly when you didn’t answer right away. “Seriously. But if you want to try it, we’ll look out for you.”

Jake leaned back and grinned at you. “Think about it, yeah?”

You nodded once.

Heeseung smiled, gentler than before. “And seriously, you can bring a friend if you want. No pressure.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

Except that it was pressure, and you couldn't stop thinking about it. 

So the next day, Jaemin immediately noticed that something was off the second you clocked in. “Okay, spill.”

You frowned, wrapping your apron around your waist. “What?”

“You look weird. A bit constipated. What are you thinking so deeply about? 

You hesitated, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “It’s nothing.”

Jaemin narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”

You exhaled, already knowing you weren’t going to get away with it. “Sunghoon’s friends came over last night.”

His eyebrows shot up. “The hockey players?”

You blinked, surprised. “How did you know?”

At the same time, you weren’t really surprised. Jaemin had a way of knowing everything and everyone. He was the definition of a social butterfly.

“Just a gut feeling", he grinned. “Tell me more.”

You sighed, opening the door towards the main room of the cinema. “It wasn’t a big deal. They just came over to see the apartment and hang out with Sunghoon. I ran into them when I went to the kitchen.”

“And?” Jaemin prompted, eyes gleaming with interest. 

“And… they were nice,” you admitted. “They complimented the apartment and–” you hesitated, then added reluctantly, “my paintings.”

Jaemin gasped dramatically. “The beautiful paintings that are all over your apartment that everyone compliments? No way!”

You rolled your eyes. “Jaemin.”

“What? Am I lying?” he shrugged, grinning at you.

You groaned, covering your face. “Can you leave me alone?”

Jaemin cackled. “No.”

You shot him a glare. “I hate you.”

“You don’t. In fact, you love me enough to schedule your shift so they’d clash with mine and we have even more time to hang out," he said, waving a hand. “So what happened afterwards? Just meeting them wouldn’t make you this thoughtful.”

You hesitated for a moment before saying, “They… invited me to their Halloween party.”

Jaemin froze.

His expression went from shocked to utterly gobsmacked in less than a second. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Wait, like, the swimmers' Halloween party?”

“I think?”

He gawked at you. “You think? Y/N, do you even realise how exclusive those are?” He leaned in. “You have to know people to get in or be important enough to be invited.”

You shifted uncomfortably. “I guess… I know people now?”

Jaemin smacked your arm lightly. “Oh my god, this is huge.”

“It’s really not. They even offered that I could bring a friend.”

“Oh, my god.” He placed a hand over his heart. “You have to take me with you.”

You groaned. “Jaemin–”

“Please.” His eyes widened. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We’d be insane not to go.”

You chewed on your lip. “I don’t know… I feel like I’d just be awkward.”

Jaemin softened slightly. “You might. But you might also have fun.”

You sighed.

“If you feel uncomfortable, I’ll leave with you,” he promised. “I swear.”

You hesitated before finally mumbling, “I’ll think about it.”

Jaemin beamed. “That’s all I needed to hear. We’re going,” he said, gripping your wrist.

You groaned. “Jaemin.”

“Please.” His eyes widened dramatically. “Do you even understand what this means? This is like–like being invited to the Met Gala of frat parties.”

You gave him a look. “You are so dramatic.”

“Am I?” He scoffed. “Y/N, do you realise how hard it is to get into one of these? And you got invited. You!” He clutched his chest like he was about to faint.

You shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Jaemin’s jaw dropped. “Not that big of a deal? Y/N, if I had even breathed in the direction of these parties before, I would’ve been escorted out.”

You bit your lip, hesitating. If not even Jaemin had been invited to one of these parties, they probably were a big thing. Johnny was always talking about how he enjoyed going to parties. You loved hearing his and Taeyong's stories every time they came home. 

They did romanticise uni life a bit in your opinion. 

Or maybe you were just doing something wrong. 

Maybe you could try going to that party.  

Jaemin's face softened slightly. “Look,” he said, “I get it. Big parties aren’t your thing. And, yeah, it might be overwhelming at first. But, Y/N, you deserve to have fun.”

“I do have fun,” you muttered.

Jaemin gave you a knowing look. “Working, studying, and just being in your apartment alone all the time doesn’t count.”

You sighed.

“If you don’t like it, we’ll leave,” he promised. “I swear. I won’t ditch you. But at least try.”

You hesitated, staring at the counter, before finally mumbling, “…Fine. I’ll think about it.”

Jaemin grinned as he had already won. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔

Pushing open the door to your apartment felt like trying to push an elephant out of the way. Your arms were heavy, your brain was pulsing against your skull, and your eyes threatened to fall closed any second now. Somehow your shift at the cinema had been horrible today; it had been loud and hot and entirely overwhelming, so the only thing you wanted to do was to sleep.

But today was Halloween, and you had promised Jaemin and Sunghoon you would go to that stupid party. 

Part of you, a very loud and insistent part of you, wanted to just cancel, tell them that you were too exhausted to go, that you were having a migraine, but another part wanted to go, almost desperately. 

You knew they were right, Johnny, Taeyong, Jaemin, hell, even Sunghoon and his friends. You should try going out more, living life, meeting people, and experiencing things you would usually avoid; it was part of growing up, of living. 

But it was hard. You hated crowds, you hated parties, and you hated being perceived, and that Halloween party would definitely get you to be perceived, especially with your stupid costume.

Somehow Sunghoon and Jaemin, who had almost immediately started forming a coalition against you as soon as you introduced them, convinced you to dress up as one of the puppets from Squid Game. 

With a sigh, you peeled off your shoes and made a beeline straight to your room, shutting the door quietly behind you. As soon as your head hit the pillow, you let out a long sigh and closed your eyes, hoping you would feel better after a nap.

About two hours later, you reluctantly pulled yourself out of bed. Your head was still heavy, a constant throb beneath your temples. 

You could feel your nerves creeping up as you walked out of your room, rubbing your eyes.

“Hey, Sunghoon.” 

Your roommate was standing in the bathroom, the door open, as he styled his hair in the mirror.