꒰ঌ ໒꒱

Near the staircase, Hyein was there sitting on one of the steps. Her head hung down low, muffling the quiet sniffles escaping from her lips.

She was crying.

You had only been passing by on your way to your classroom on the second floor. You hadn't meant to intrude.

But seeing Hyein—the school's model student—in such a vulnerable state. You couldn't just walk away and forget you ever saw her sitting there.

Luckily, you were carrying a bottle of apple juice. You had planned on drinking it yourself, but giving it to someone who clearly needed it more didn't seem like a loss.

Slowly approaching her, you say "Um... here.”

You held the bottle out toward her with both hands. "You look like you could use this.”

Startled, Hyein slowly looked up.

Her eyes were red and glossy, traces of tears still clinging to her cheeks. For a second, surprise flashed across her face—as if she hadn't expected anyone to come this way. Realizing she had been seen, she quickly wiped at her eyes, desperately trying to erase any evidence that she'd been crying. “Oh um, I don't need it...”

"Please," you said, gently pushing the bottle a little closer. "I insist.”

Silence settled between the two of you.

After a moment, Hyein carefully accepted the bottle.

"...What's your name?”

“Uhm, it's Yn, Yn Ln…”

"Thank you, Yn." Despite the redness around her eyes, she still managed to give a small, genuine smile. "You didn't have to do this.”

"N-No!" You waved your hands in embarrassment. "I mean... I wanted to.”

She stood up, brushing off her skirt before wiping away the last of her tears. "Sorry for making you see me like that, Yn.”

Walking past you, she heads to the direction you'd just come from. And after taking a few steps, she suddenly stopped.

Turning back with a small smile, she gave you a little wave. "See you."

"Y-Yeah..." You returned the wave, feeling your face warm. "See you too.”

–––

That small encounter should've ended there.

At least, that's what you thought.

But ever since that day, whenever you happen to see each other, she would greet you. It began with simple waves in the hallway, then brief chats before class, and eventually having lunch together whenever your schedule happened to line up with hers.

Years passed and before either of you could realize it, you had become each other's closest friend. Then Ian and Woojin appeared, which then formed the friend group you adore so much.

Now, you're walking beside her, heading to where you would wait for the bus. The letter, still engraved in your mind. You don't know what to think. You always don't.

"Hey Hyein.. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, what is it?”

You turned towards her, and hesitated for a moment. “So, hypothetically.. if Seonghyeon confessed to you, how would you feel?”

“Huh, me? But didn't he give you a lett–”

“I-it’s just a hypothetical..!” interrupting her, your cheeks flushing.

“Uh huh..” Hyein narrowed her eyes suspiciously before letting out a small laugh, “Well.. hypothetically, I would reject him.”

“Really?” You blinked, surprised by her answer. “Why?”

“I mean, sure, he's good-looking,” Hyein admitted with a shrug. “But, the way he treats girls who confess to him is kind of off-putting.. He always seems so cold about it.”

“Ah.. I see.”

Both of you continued to walk in silence. The silence between the two of you wasn't awkward—it was normal for you. Yet even after returning home and closing the door to your room, your mind refused to settle down.

Hyein is your best friend, you couldn't just hate her because the letter that was placed under the desk, his desk, was meant for her.

No, you weren't that kind of person.

But it hurts. It hurts knowing you let yourself believe that there is actually something going on. Now, all you can think about is how embarrassing it was to be in that situation.

Should you continue responding to his letters? or should you just stop?

I don't know. It's always I don't know.

–––

Today's the day. You walk through the hallways towards the lockers. Nervous, that's what you felt.

You finally reached the row of lockers, took a quiet breath, and tried to steady your trembling hands. His locker was only a few steps away.

And just as you were about to walk over–

You suddenly froze.

There he was.

Seonghyeon stood a short distance away, pacing in front of the lockers. His brows were furrowed as he glanced around the area, as if he was searching for something or maybe someone?

Your heart nearly stopped.

Out of all the times he could be here, why did he have to be here now?

Then, he turned around. His eyes immediately landed on you standing there, hands gripping your bag, they're still trembling from being nervous. Your breath caught on your throat. He saw you.

Processing what's happening, the panic immediately overwhelmed you, you quickly try to walk back, desperate to get away. Why is he here? Why now?

When suddenly– A warm hand grabbed a hold of your wrist, making your body come to an abrupt stop.

It was Seonghyeon's hand. "Wait..!"

You turn around, and was met with his face. You responded meekly "...Yes?"

"You- You're Hyein's friend, right?"

"..I am." You gave a small nod.

"Well uhm..." He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as if he wasn't sure how to ask. "Have you... heard anything from her lately?"

The uncertainty in his voice caught you off guard. You had never imagined Seonghyeon, the boy you've been crushing on since first year, who always seemed so composed, looking this uneasy.

Oh. So he likes her that much, huh.

After a moment of silence, you offered him a small but reassuring smile. Despite the gnawing feeling in your gut, you didn't want him to be upset, that's what you always are.

"...I'm pretty sure she'll write back."

His eyes lifted to meet yours. For a split second, the worry on his face seemed to ease. The curves of his lips seemed to lift up as he heard those words come out of your mouth.

It was small but it still reached his eyes, softening the anxious look he had held just a moment ago. It was the kind of smile that appeared only when someone was genuinely comforted.

Your breath hitched. He looks so good, just smiling like that.

"...You think so?" he asked, a flicker of hope crossing his face.

"..Yeah." Lies, that's what you told him. You already know that Hyein basically has no interest to be with him.

But seeing him smile like that, you can't help but feel guilty. Perhaps you'll find a way, a way to keep that smile on his face. Even if the person who could keep it out was never going to be you.

You had promised yourself you wouldn't write another letter. Not after that day. Not after learning that every word he had been written on paper was not for you, it was for your best friend.

the way he said it made you smile despite yourself. he kept glancing at the screen as if he still couldn’t believe you were there, even though you had video called almost every night since the distance started.

“you look tired,” he said after a moment, his expression softening. “did you sleep enough?”

you shrugged. “maybe.”

“maybe?” he raised an eyebrow. “that’s not an answer.”

you laughed. “are you my boyfriend or my mom?”

“your boyfriend,” he replied. “a boyfriend who cares about you and is unfortunately stuck on the other side of the world.”

you could hear the small hint of frustration in his voice, the kind he tried to hide. long distance wasn’t easy. there were days when he wished he could just show up at your door, steal you away for a few hours, and not have to rely on a screen. tonight was one of those days.

“i miss you,” he admitted, resting his chin against his hand. “i miss doing normal things with you.”

“normal things?”

“yeah,” he said. “getting food together. Walking around the city. annoying you in person instead of through a phone.”

you smiled. “oh, you annoy me plenty through the phone.”

that earns you a huff. “good. at least i’m consistent”

you both laughed, and for a while, the conversation moved naturally from random stories about your days to little details you would usually forget to mention. he told you about something funny that happened earlier, music that he was working on then immediately changed the subject because he wanted to hear about yours instead.

at some point, you had noticed he had been staring at the screen for a little too long.

“what?” you asked.

“nothing.”

“martin.”

he smiled, looking away for a second before looking back. “i’m just looking at you.”

“hmm, that’s weird.”

“no it isn’t,” he grinned. “am i not allowed to look at my girlfriend?”

“you’re acting like you haven’t seen me before.”

“i haven’t seen you in person in forever,” he corrected. “the screen doesn’t count.”

there was something about the way he said it that made your teasing disappear. he wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty; he was just being honest. he missed being close to you. he missed the little moments that couldn’t happen through a call.

as the call got later, neither of you seemed ready to end it. you both knew you had to sleep eventually, but hanging up meant going back to missing each other.

“stay five more minutes,” he said.

“martin, you said that twenty minutes ago. i… am tired.”

the two of you stayed there a little longer, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. even with miles between you, it still felt familiar.

you kept yawning, and of course, martin noticed that you were, actually, tired, and not trying to get off call.

“goodnight,” you finally said.

martin smiled. “goodnight. call me tomorrow?”

“obviously.”

“okay. i just needed to hear you say it.”

you laughed, and before ending the call, he leaned closer to the camera.

“i love you.”

taglist: @ges1ca, @angelgivethemhell

^lmk if you would like to join :0

i have had no motivation oh em gee, martin oneshot coming next week?????? (who cheered)

It had all started a few months into your first year of high school. You had been walking home, earbuds in, the entire world muted. Your mind was already halfway through the chapters you needed to read for tomorrow, your fingers tracing the spine of your worn-out library book.

A blur of motion, a flash of dark blue fabric, and a solid thud sent you stumbling sideways. Your earbuds ripped out of your ears, your book flew from your hands, and you were suddenly very, very aware of a warm grip on your elbow keeping you from face-planting into the concrete.

"OH SHIT—I'M SO SORRY—ARE YOU OKAY—"

The voice was a cannon blast to your carefully constructed silence. You blinked, disoriented, and glanced sideways.

Keonho stood beside you, eyes wide with genuine panic as they scanned your face, his school blazer half-falling off one shoulder. His hair was a disaster, like he'd run through a wind tunnel, and his backpack was hanging open, pens and crumpled papers threatening to escape. He was still gripping your elbow like you might evaporate if he let go.

You quickly regained your footing, standing upright. His hand lingered on your elbow for a second longer before he dropped it, flustered.

"I'm so sorry, Seonghyeon was being an idiot and—" his lips moved at a thousand miles a minute as he crouched down, his hands scrambling across the floor to pick up the small pile of scattered books. You bent down beside him, attempting to help though it became impossible when his fingers latched onto each spine just as you reached out, leaving you squatting there awkwardly whilst words continued to pour out of his mouth. "—I really should have been looking where I was going—wait, are you hurt anywhere? Please tell me you aren't injured—hang on… aren't you in my chemistry class?"

To be completely honest, you were unable to process any of the rapidfire comments thrown at you, far too enclosed in your own mind's attempt to make sense of the situation you now found yourself in.

You stood up slowly, deeming it far too awkward for you to remain at eye level with the boy. He was soon to follow, his hands fiddling with the books as he tried to organise them, clearly stalling.

"Uh—here—" He thrust them toward you, his fingers fumbling. "Your books. I think they're all here. I didn't—I hope I didn't bend any pages—"

You took them carefully, clutching them to your chest. "It's fine," you murmured. "They're fine."

"Oh. Good. That's—good." He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes darting everywhere except your face. "I really am sorry. I wasn't looking. Seonghyeon bet me I couldn't make it to the fountain before he counted to ten, and I'm an idiot who takes dumb bets—"

"Keonho."

He stopped and blinked. "Yeah?"

You didn't say anything else. Just gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment that held a hint of forgiveness, and turned to leave.

You made it three steps before his voice caught up to you.

"Wait—I never got your name."

You paused and glanced back over your shoulder. He was standing there, his fingers fiddling with the ends of his untucked shirt, looking almost nervous.

"Y/N." You told him quietly, then you turned back around and kept walking, tucking your earbuds back in, drowning out the world.

You thought that would be the end of it. An awkward collision that would be instantly forgotten by the likes of someone like Keonho, but the next day in chem class, you felt eyes on you.

You turned to see Keonho sat across the room, chin propped on his palm, head tilted. When your eyes met his, he didn't look away. Instead, his lips curved into a smile: small and almost private, nothing like the loud, performative grins you'd seen him flash at everyone else.

He raised a hand in a tiny wave.

You stared at him for a beat, then turned back to your notes, your face unexpectedly warm.

After that, Keonho couldn't help but notice you at school now, and much worse, he wouldn't stop trying to talk to you.

The next morning, you spotted him in the hallway before he spotted you. He was surrounded by a cluster of friends, laughing at something one of them had said. His head was thrown back, the sound of it carrying easily over the morning chaos, bright and unguarded. 

You ducked your head and kept walking, fingers tightening around the spine of your book.

Despite your best efforts he noticed you and ran to catch up to you by the lockers, slightly out of breath. "Hey," he said, falling into step beside you. "You walk fast."

You didn't stop. "I have class."

"I know, me too." He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, his steps slightly uneven as he matched your pace. "I just wanted to say sorry again for yesterday. I felt bad all night."

"You said sorry already."

"Yeah, but I meant it." He shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second. "I don't usually—I mean, I'm not usually that clumsy. Well, okay, I am—but I don't usually knock people over. That was a first."

You glanced at him. He was looking at you now, his eyes earnest in a way that caught you off guard.

"You already said sorry," you repeated, softer this time.

"I know but I still feel bad." He kicked at an invisible pebble on the floor, his sneaker scuffing against the tile. "So I was thinking… I owe you a hot chocolate… To make up for it."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I know but I want to."

You didn't respond to that and he didn't push, he just walked beside you in surprising silence, his usual energy dialed down a few notches. It was almost comfortable, as though he already knew you weren't going to fill the space, and he was okay with that.

When you reached your classroom, he stopped at the door. His hand came up, hovering for a second like he wanted to touch your arm, then dropped back to his side. "See you around, Y/N," he said softly.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the flow of students.

The next day, he waved at you from across the cafeteria. You pretended not to see, and in response he only waved harder, nearly smacking the person next to him, and you could feel his eyes on you even through the chaos of the lunch rush.

You gave a tiny nod and turned back to your tray.

Mina followed your gaze, her line of sight slightly blocked by the passing students. "Who's that?"

"No one."

"He's staring at us."

You didn't look up. "He's not."

"He definitely is." Mina leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Wait… Is that Keonho? The Keonho? The one who's literally everywhere and in, like, every club ever and knows everyone?"

You shrugged, pushing rice around your bowl.

Mina's eyes widened. "How do you know him?"

"I don't. He ran into me."

"He ran into you." Mina's voice went flat with disbelief. "And now he won't stop staring at you?"

"It's not—" You glanced up despite yourself. He was still looking, a small smile on his face. When your eyes met his, he tilted his head, like he was checking if you were okay. You looked away quickly. "It's nothing."

"It's definitely something." She let you brood with that comment, choosing not to push you any further.

He found you in the library after school a few days later. Not intentionally—at least, you assumed not. He walked in with a friend and spotted you in your usual corner before you could disappear behind your book.

"Oh hey!" He dropped onto the chair across from you without asking, his bag thudding onto the floor. His friend lingered awkwardly for a moment, clearly not expecting to be ditched, before wandering off toward the fiction section. "Didn't peg you for a library person. Actually, wait, that's exactly what I'd peg you for. That came out wrong."

You closed your book slowly, marking your page. "What are you doing?"

"Studying. Obviously." He pulled out a crumpled worksheet from his bag, its edges soft and worn from being shoved around. "I need help with chem. You're good at chem, right? You look like you're good at chem."

"I'm average."

"Average is better than my 'please don't fail me' energy." He slid the paper across the table, his fingers tapping against it. "One question, that's all I'm asking, then I'll leave you alone."

You stared at the worksheet. The handwriting was messy, loops and squiggles in places where he'd clearly rushed. The first problem was partially solved, the steps correct until they suddenly weren't.

You pulled the paper toward you.

His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, the tension leaving his frame. "Thanks."

It quickly became a routine. He'd show up at the library, always with "one question" that somehow stretched into an hour of him talking about everything except chemistry.

His dog named Cookie who he claimed was smarter than him and had once eaten an entire pizza off the counter. His failed attempt at baking a cake for his sister's birthday that caused the smoke alarm to go off and the fire department to almost show up, and somehow the cake was still raw in the middle. Seonghyeon, who apparently had the worst impulse control of anyone he'd ever met and had once thrown his phone into a tree just to prove he could.

You'd half-listen, half-study, and he never seemed to mind that you barely said two words. Sometimes you'd glance up and catch him watching you, eyes boring into you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he found interesting. His gaze would flick away immediately, but not before you saw the faint flush creep up his neck.

One day, he didn't show up.

You told yourself it was fine, he didn't owe you anything. You weren't friends, and this totally wasn't a thing.

Though you spent the entire hour staring at the same paragraph in your textbook, reading it seven times and even then still had no idea what it said.

By the time you packed up your bag, you were annoyed at yourself for caring as much about that strange boy as you now apparently did.

The next morning, he appeared at your locker before you even had your combination turned.

"Sorry about yesterday," he said, slightly breathless, he'd apparently run the entire way. "Seonghyeon dragged me to some event. His younger sister's band was playing and he made me go. I didn't want to, I wanted to come with you. I swear I didn't ditch you on purpose."

You pulled out your textbooks, keeping your face neutral. "You don't have to come every day."

"I know." He leaned against the lockers, arms crossing loosely. "But I like coming, you're good company."

"I don't talk."

"That's what I like about you." He said it simply, without his usual theatrics. "You don't fill the silence with nonsense. You just sit there and listen. It's nice. Peaceful."

You didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever called your silence peaceful before. Most people found it uncomfortable, a void they needed to fill or else it felt like the ground would swallow them whole from awkwardness.

He held out a granola bar, slightly crushed at the edges. "Here, to make up for yesterday."

You took it slowly, your fingers brushing his though he didn't flinch or pull away. "You don't have to keep making up for things," you said.

"I know." He shrugged, already falling into step beside you as you started walking. "But I want to."

It went on like that for weeks, and somewhere along the way, you started noticing things.

His laugh changed when something genuinely caught him off guard—loud and surprised, all of his usual composure crumbling. His hands moved when he talked, always in motion, sketching shapes in the air. His voice dropped just slightly when he said your name, like it was something delicate he was handling carefully.

But most of all, he never pushed, never asked why you were so quiet, never made you feel like you needed to perform for him.

He just stayed, and you didn't quite know what to do with that.

It was Mina who finally asked, after watching him wave at you across the courtyard for the third time that week.

"So what's the deal with you two?"

"There's no deal."

"He follows you around like a puppy."

"He's just apologetic for running into me." You kept your eyes on your book, even though you'd stopped reading. "He only appears, like, once a day."

"Okay, first of all, it's been weeks since then, he should be over it by now. And second of all, that's literally following." Mina poked your arm. "And you just let him."

You didn't have a response to that because she was right, you did let him. You could've walked away, told him to leave you alone, stayed quiet and distant in the way you did with everyone else.

But when he sat across from you in the library, chattering away about nothing, you found yourself glancing up more often, even listening closer. You didn't mind his noise the way you minded everyone else's.

At some point across the many days Keonho spent in your orbit, your feelings about him began to shift.

It wasn't a single moment. There was no dramatic realisation, no sudden bolt of lightning. It crept in slowly, quietly, the way morning light fills a room before you notice it's no longer dark.

You caught yourself looking for him in the hallways. Your eyes would just wander, scanning the crowd, and when they landed on his familiar mop of messy hair, something in your chest would settle as though you'd been holding your breath without realising it.

You started noticing the small things he was doing for you. The way he always made sure to leave you the last bite of whatever snack he brought, and he'd angle his body toward you when he talked, like you were the only person in the room. He'd also pause mid-sentence when you finally spoke, giving you his full attention like what you had to say mattered more than whatever he'd been saying.

The library became a sacred place for the two of you.

He'd show up after school, drop his bag on the floor, and slide into the seat across from you like he belonged there. Which, you realised, he kind of did now.

Sometimes he studied, though more often he talked. 

You never offered much in return, but he never asked for more than you were ready to give.

"I don't even know your favourite color," he said one day, looking up from his worksheet.

You blinked. "Why does that matter?"

"It doesn't, I just want to know." He shrugged. "I want to know everything about you."

You told him it was purple. Deep purple, like the sky right before it goes dark. He smiled because you'd finally, finally,  given him something personal. "The color of the sky," he repeated. "That's really pretty."

You felt heat creep up your neck and looked back at your book.

It was on one of these evenings that you realised it had already happened.

He was rambling about something you could no longer remember, and you were pretending to read, but really you were just watching him be his naturally extroverted self.

And you thought, oh.

You liked him. Not just tolerated him, not just got used to him. You genuinely, completely, helplessly liked him.

You didn't know what to do with that. You'd never felt this pull toward someone before, this warmth that spread through your chest when he smiled at you. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

You didn't tell him in that moment because you weren't sure you could.

But he noticed something had changed. Of course he did, he was far too observant of your tells for you to be able to hide something as big as, what you believed to be, unrequited love from him

"You're staring," he said one afternoon, looking up from his phone. "Not that I mind, but you're staring."

You looked away quickly. "I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying." He leaned forward, a teasing grin on his face. "You're thinking about something. What is it? Are you finally going to admit I'm charming?"

"You're insufferable."

"Keep telling yourself that."

You laughed and his grin softened into something deeper, warmer.

"I like that sound," he said quietly.

"What sound?"

"You laughing." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I like making you laugh."

Your heart did something complicated in your chest as you quickly moved your gaze downward, hoping he didn’t notice the blush rapidly creeping onto your cheeks.

The weeks blurred together. His presence became a constant in your life, something you'd started to rely on without admitting it to yourself.

He'd find you in the mornings, falling into step beside you with a half-eaten breakfast bar or a coffee he'd grabbed for you. He'd walk you to class, talking the entire way, and you'd listen and nod and pretend you weren't memorising the way his hair fell across his forehead. He'd wave at you across crowded rooms, his grin wide and unashamed, and you'd feel a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the temperature.

You noticed how he was different with you than with everyone else.

Around his friends, he was loud and performative, always the center of attention, always making people laugh. But around you, he dialed it back. He still talked—he'd never stop talking, you were absolutely sure of that—but it was quieter. More genuine, as though he felt like he didn't need to impress you or perform.

"You're the only one who sees me," he said one evening, his voice soft. "The real me, not the show."

You looked up from your book. He was staring at the table, his fingers tracing the wood grain.

"What do you mean?" You asked, brows furrowing.

"I mean—" He paused, searching for the words. "Everyone expects me to be a certain way. Loud, funny, always on, and I can do that. It's easy. But sometimes it's exhausting pretending to be that version of myself all the time."

He looked up at you. "With you, I don't have to pretend. You don't expect anything from me, you just let me be."

Something in your chest tightened. "I like the real you," you said quietly.

His eyes met yours properly, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn't awkward. It felt like something was being shared.

"Yeah?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah."

He smiled softly as you both continued what you had been doing before, choosing to ignore the way something in your gut had flipped.

It was late November when the first real change happened.

He'd walked you to the bus stop like usual, but the bus was late. The sky was dark, the air cold, and you were shivering in your thin jacket.

"Here." He shrugged off his hoodie and handed it to you without a second thought.

"You'll be cold."

"I'll survive." He shoved his hands in his pockets, not taking it back. "You need it more than me."

You hesitated, then pulled it on. It was too big, drowning you in fabric, but it was warm and smelled like him: something clean and faintly sweet.

He stared at you for a second longer than necessary, then cleared his throat. "It looks better on you anyway."

You rolled your eyes at his attempt to flirt, but you were smiling.

Then one afternoon following the weather turned. A grey sky that had been threatening rain all day finally opened up, dumping sheets of water across the pavement. You'd left your umbrella at home.

You stood under the overhang of the school entrance, watching the rain come down, mentally calculating your chances of making it to the bus stop without getting soaked. Your jacket was thin. Your books would be ruined. You'd survive, but it wouldn't be pleasant.

"Forgot your umbrella?"

You turned. Keonho was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets, a knowing smile on his face.

You sighed. "Don't say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're about to say."

"I was just going to say," he said, stepping beside you, "that I have an extra. Because I'm always prepared. Very responsible, ask anyone."

He pulled out a large umbrella, bright red, and held it out to you.

You stared at it. "You brought an extra just in case?"

"I brought an extra because I know you never carry one."

You blinked. "You’re watching me?"

"Always." He said it so casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Then he seemed to realise what he'd said, his ears turning pink. "I mean—I noticed. In passing. I pay attention to things."

You didn't say anything. Just took the umbrella, your fingers brushing his.

"It's too big for one person," you said quietly. "You should share."

He blinked at you, like he hadn't expected that. Then his smile widened, slow and surprised. "Okay," he said, stepping under the umbrella with you. "Okay. Yeah, that works."

You walked to the bus stop together, close enough that your shoulders brushed. The rain pounded against the fabric above you, loud and steady, but underneath it, everything felt strangely quiet.

He didn't say much and neither did you.

The bus arrived just as you arrived, and you moved towards it. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch your wrist.

"Hey." You turned. His face was close, closer than it had ever been. "Can I ask you something?"

You nodded, your heart suddenly loud in your ears.

"Are you ever going to tell me how you feel?" His voice was soft, uncertain. "Because I've been trying to figure it out for weeks, and I think I know, but I don't want to assume, and—"

"Yes."

He stopped, eyebrows raising in surprise. "Yes?"

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it, your palms were sweaty, and you'd never felt more exposed in your entire life. Every instinct screamed at you to look away, to retreat back into the safety of your silence, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"I like you," you said, the words barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just happened. And I don't know what to do with it, and I don't know if you'd want someone like me when you could have anyone, but—"

You didn't get to finish.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his palm warm against your skin, and then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was soft at first, his lips brushed against yours gently, giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn't want to, you couldn't imagine wanting anything else in that moment.

Your eyes fluttered closed and everything else faded, there was only him, the warmth of his hand on your cheek, the softness of his lips, the faint scent of him that you'd grown so familiar with over the past weeks.

His thumb traced a gentle path along your jaw, and you felt yourself lean into him, your body moving on its own accord. Your free hand came up to grip the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, needing something to anchor yourself.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed and his breath warm and uneven against your skin. When he opened them, they were bright, almost dazed, like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "I've wanted to do that for weeks. I just needed to know you felt something too. I didn't want to—"

You pulled him back.

This time you kissed him like you meant it, like you'd been holding it in for weeks and finally had permission to let it out.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, threading through your hair. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you let him. You let yourself be pulled into his warmth, into the circle of his arms, into this moment that felt both terrifying and right.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours again, his eyes still closed, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. That was—"

"Yeah," you agreed, your voice coming out shaky.

He laughed, bright and surprised, and pulled you into a proper hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You buried your face in his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat against your ear.

His hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle and soothing.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he murmured into your hair. "You have no idea. Every time you looked at me, every time you laughed, every time you said my name—I just wanted to—"

He broke off, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"You're really something, you know that?" He said. "You're quiet and you keep to yourself and you never told me how you felt, and somehow you're still the most interesting person I've ever met."

You pulled back to look at him, your face warm. "I'm not interesting."

"You're the most interesting person I know," he insisted. "You have a whole universe inside your head, and you let me see little pieces of it. And I just—" He shook his head, smiling. "I love that. I love you."

Your heart stopped.

He seemed to realise what he'd said, his eyes widening slightly, but he didn't take it back. He just looked at you, vulnerable and hopeful.

"I mean it," he said, his voice softer now. "I know it's fast. I know we haven't even been—but I've felt it for a while. I didn't want to say it too soon, but—"

"Keonho."

He stopped.

You reached up to touch his face, your fingers tracing his jaw the way you'd wanted to for weeks. "I love you too," you said.

His face broke into the most genuine smile you'd ever seen on him: wide and unguarded and full of so much emotion it made your chest ache.

"Yeah?" He whispered.

"Yeah."

He kissed you again, slower this time, pouring everything he couldn't say into it. His lips were warm and soft, his hand gentle on your waist, and you felt like you were floating.

When he pulled back, he was grinning. "So," he said, his voice breathless. "Does this mean I can walk you to the bus stop holding your hand now?"

The days that followed were different. Not in any huge, obvious way—he was still loud, still talkative, still showed up at your locker every morning. But something had shifted between you to the point where there was a new awareness, a new intimacy.

He started holding your hand everywhere: in the hallways, at the library, at the bus stop. He'd lace his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you'd let him, surprised by how right it felt.

His friends noticed. Seonghyeon had raised an eyebrow the first time he saw you two together. "So this is the quiet girl?" He’d asked, looking you over. "The one you've been obsessed with?"

"I'm not obsessed," Keonho said, his ears turning red. "I just—"

"You literally followed her around for months."

"I didn't follow—"

"You made a spreadsheet of her favourite books."

Keonho groaned. "Seonghyeon, shut up."

You blinked. "You made a spreadsheet?"

"To figure out what you'd like," he mumbled, not meeting your eyes but keeping his hand locked onto yours throughout. "For future gift purposes. It was strategic."

You laughed, bright and surprised, and he looked at you like you'd just handed him the world.

"You're so weird," you said.

"Yeah, but you like me anyway."

You did. You really, really did.

The two years passed in a blur of shared moments.

Winter mornings where he'd show up with two cups of hot chocolate, one for each of you, his nose red from the cold. Spring afternoons where you'd study in the library, his head resting on your shoulder while he pretended to read. Summer evenings where you'd walk home together, the sun setting behind you, his arm slung loosely around your shoulders. Fall days where he'd kick through piles of leaves just to watch you smile.

He was still loud, still talkative, still the boy who knew everyone and was friends with everyone.

But he was yours, and somehow, impossibly, you were his.

Something in Keonho seemed to switch off whenever he was around you.

It was the first thing you'd noticed about him, back when he'd started showing up at the library—how the loud, performative energy that he carried everywhere else would dim the moment he settled into the chair across from you. His shoulders would drop, his voice would soften, and his hands would still. 

You'd never said anything about it. You weren't sure he even noticed himself, but it was there, always, a quiet shift that happened the moment he was in your orbit.

Now, two years later, you were sitting on his parents' couch in his living room, your legs tucked beneath you, a book resting open atop the little space remaining on your lap. Keonho was sprawled across the length of the couch, his head resting in your lap, his eyes closed. His hair was a mess—it always was—and his shirt was rumpled from a long day of doing absolutely nothing.

His parents had gone out for dinner, leaving the two of you alone in the house. It wasn't unusual, you'd spent countless evenings here, the two of you sprawled across this same couch, doing nothing and everything.

His hand was resting on your knee, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on the fabric of your jeans. His breathing was slow and even, the tension that always seemed to live in his shoulders completely gone.

"Are you asleep?" You asked quietly.

"Mmm." He didn't open his eyes. "Maybe."

"You can't sleep. You're supposed to be spending time with me."

"I am spending time with you." His lips curved into a lazy smile. "I'm lying on you. That's quality time."

"That's not how quality time works."

"Sure it is." He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, his hair tickling your bare arm. "I'm touching you, I'm breathing your air, I'm in your presence. This is the most quality time I've had all week."

You shook your head, but you were smiling. "You're such a know it all."

"Yeah, but you love me."

"I do," you said, and the words came easier now than they used to. "Somehow."

He opened one eye, turning to peek up at you. "Somehow?"

"You're very high maintenance."

"I'm not high maintenance." He closed his eye again, nuzzling the side of his face against your thigh. "I'm just... particular."

"You're particular."

"Very particular. About you. I'm particular about you."

Your heart did that thing it always did when he said things like that—that soft flutter that had become so familiar over the past two years.

"You're also very cheesy," you said.

"Cheesy and yours." He grinned, still not opening his eyes. "That's the deal."

You went back to your book, one hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His hand on your knee had stilled, his fingers loosely curled around your leg.

The house was quiet, the only sounds were the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft rustle of pages as you turned them. The winter sun was setting outside, casting long shadows across the room, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.

It was peaceful, perfect, and so utterly Keonho and you that you couldn't imagine it any other way.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft, barely above a murmur.

"Hmm?"

"Remember how we met?"

You looked down at him. His eyes were still closed, but his smile had softened into something thoughtful.

"You mean when you tackled me when I was walking home?" You said, raising your eyebrows slightly. "And nearly killed me?"

"I didn't nearly kill you." He opened his eyes, turning and looking up at you with mock offense. "I gently collided with you. Don’t be so dramatic."

"You knocked me over and my books went flying."

"Okay, but I picked them up for you." He grinned. "That was very chivalrous of me."

"You just shoved them in my hands while apologising at a thousand miles an hour."

"I was panicking." He reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "I'd just run into the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. What was I supposed to do? Stay calm?"

You felt your face warm. "You didn't think I was pretty then."

"I did." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I thought you were pretty the moment I looked up and saw you standing there. I just didn't say it because I was too busy apologising and making a fool of myself."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Really." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "I went home that night and told Seonghyeon I'd met the most beautiful girl in school and I'd nearly murdered her."

You laughed, bright and surprised. "You did not."

"I did." He was grinning now. "He told me I was being dramatic, and I told him he didn't understand. I was very dramatic about it. That's just who I am."

"I know. I've noticed."

"Yeah, but you don't mind." His voice was warm. "That's why you're my favourite person."

Your heart swelled at his words, the feeling of heat creeping up your neck. "You're my favourite person too."

You felt him smile against your leg. "I love you," he said, his voice soft and sure. "I don't say it enough. But I love you."

"You say it plenty."

"I know. But I still don't say it enough." He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek. "I love you, Y/N. I love the way you read books and ignore me. I love the way you laugh when I say something stupid. I love the way you let me be quiet around you, even though I'm not good at being quiet."

"You're good at being quiet around me."

"Because you make it easy." His thumb traced your jaw. "You make everything easy. You make me feel like I don't have to perform all the time. Like I can just... be."

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "You can just be," you whispered against his skin. "That's the whole point."

He closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

You went back to your book, and he went back to tracing patterns on your knee. The sun dipped lower, the room growing dimmer, but neither of you moved to turn on a light, existing in your own, quiet, ecosystem.

Of course, though, Keonho was still Keonho. And that meant he'd still have moments where his usual energy would come roaring back, filling whatever room he was in with noise and chaos. But even those moments—especially those moments—somehow made you love him more.

One Saturday afternoon you were curled up on his couch again, a book in your hands that he had recently gifted you. Keonho was in the kitchen, supposedly making cookies, though you'd been hearing a lot of noises: cabinet doors opening and closing, the clatter of dishes, something that sounded suspiciously like a pan being dropped on the floor.

"Are you okay in there?" You called out, glancing down the hall.

"FINE!" His voice was too loud, too cheerful. "EVERYTHING IS FINE. I AM VERY CAPABLE."

You were about to go back to your book when you heard a crash followed by a rapid string of curses that would've made your grandmother faint.

You sighed, marking your page, and made your way to the kitchen.

Keonho was standing in the middle of what looked like a war zone. Flour dusted the countertops, the floor, his shirt, and somehow even his hair. A bowl was overturned in the sink, and there was something suspiciously charred smoking in a pan on the stove.

He turned to you with a sheepish grin, his face dusted with white powder.

"Hi," he said. "I was making you cookies. It's not going well."

You looked at the chaos around him. "I can see that."

"It's okay. I have a plan." He held up a bag of pre-made cookie dough. "I was going to do it from scratch, but then things happened, so I'm pivoting."

"Things happened."

"Things happened." He gestured vaguely at the mess. "I don't know what things, they just happened."

You bit back a smile. "You set the kitchen on fire."

"It was a small fire! A contained fire! I put it out immediately!" He paused. "Okay, the fire alarm went off, but I handled it."

"How?"

"I waved a towel at it."

You couldn't help it and laughed, bright and surprised, his face lighting up like you'd just given him a gift.

"You're laughing!" He said. "At my pain. You're laughing at my suffering."

"I'm laughing at your baking," you corrected. "Never your pain."

"The baking is the cause of my pain." He grabbed the bag of cookie dough and held it up triumphantly. "But this is my redemption arc. Watch and be amazed."

He tore open the bag with more force than necessary, and a puff of flour exploded in his face, leaving him standing there frozen and blinking.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh.

"Don't," he warned. "Don't you dare."

You immediately burst out laughing, bending over slightly to catch yourself.

He groaned, but he was smiling. "This is bullying. This is emotional abuse."

"You're the one who decided to bake."

"I was trying to do something nice!"

"I appreciate the effort." You walked over, brushing a smudge of flour off his cheek with your thumb as your palm cupped his jaw. "But next time, maybe just buy cookies."

"Where's the fun in that?" He leaned into your touch, his eyes soft and shining as they looked into your own. "I wanted to do something special for you."

"Keonho, you're special enough."

He dropped the bag of cookie dough and pulled you into his arms, flour and all. His chin rested on top of your head. "You're too good to me," he murmured.

"You're the one who almost burned down your kitchen."

"I would burn down a thousand kitchens for you." He paused and you could practically hear the wheels turning in his brain. "Wait, that's a terrible thing to say. I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

"You do?"

"Mmhm." You pulled back to look at him, his face still covered in flour. "You're ridiculous, but you're my ridiculous."

He grinned, wide and unguarded. "I love you."

"I know." You reached up, wiping a smear of flour from his nose. "I love you too. Even if you can't bake."

"That's offensive. I can bake. I'm an excellent baker in fact. This was just a test run."

"Of what?"

"Of my ability to make cookies." He paused. "I failed, but I'll get there, just give me time. Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Rome didn't have you."

"Exactly. So imagine what I can do."

The sun had fully set by the time you moved to your natural positions on the sofa, the room dark except for the soft glow of the streetlight outside. 

"Hey," you said softly.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you tackled me on my walk home."

He laughed, quiet and warm. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "I wouldn't change a thing."

He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek, and pulled you down for a proper kiss. You both melted into it, the pure feeling of love swelling so deeply in your chest you couldn’t focus on anything but him. It was soft and slow and full of everything he couldn't say.

When you pulled back, he was smiling.

"Me neither," he said. "Not a single thing."

On paper, you and Keonho made absolutely no sense.

You were polar opposites. A quiet girl who disappeared into the background and a boy who lit up every room he walked into. 

But none of that mattered because somewhere along the way, you'd realised that opposites didn't have to clash. Sometimes, they just fit perfectly and effortlessly.

He was the sun, bright and uncontainable, and you were the moon, steady and still, and you'd learned that the sky was big enough for both. That the most beautiful moments happened when the sun and moon shared the horizon—when the world was painted in shades of gold and silver, light and shadow dancing together in perfect harmony. The sunset wasn't beautiful despite the coexistence of day and night, it was beautiful because of it.

The sun didn't dim for the moon and the moon didn't fade for the sun, they simply existed together, each making the other more breathtaking.