You don’t usually think too hard about your clients

That’s kind of the point.

They come, they go, you play your part, and whatever they needed from you stays behind when you leave. Clean. Simple. No overlap.

You’re good at that.

So when San messages you, it doesn’t feel like anything worth remembering.

At first.

His request is short. No weird specifics, no long list of expectations. Just time, place, and one line that makes you pause for a second longer than usual.

"I just want it to feel real."

You stare at it, thumb hovering.

You’ve done that before. The “girlfriend” thing. Soft voice, eye contact, lingering touches, pretending like you actually care what they’re saying.

It’s not hard.

It just gets… tiring.

Still, the money’s good. Better than most.

You accept.

By the time you get to his place, you’ve already slipped into it.

That version of you. The easy one. Professional, Guarded.

The one that smiles just right, laughs at the right moments, leans in instead of away. You don’t even think about it anymore, it just happens.

You knock.

The door opens almost immediately.

And he just… looks at you.

Not in a weird way. Not like he’s checking you out or sizing you up.

Just looking.

“You’re here,” he says, like he wasn’t sure you would be.

You blink, a little thrown. “Yeah.”

You step inside before it gets awkward.

His place is normal.

That’s the first thing you notice.

Not staged, not overly clean, not trying to set a mood. There’s a hoodie tossed over a chair, something playing quietly in the background, a glass sitting on the counter like he forgot about it.

It feels like someone actually lives here.

You don’t love that.

It makes things feel, closer than they should.

You go through the usual stuff anyway.

Boundaries. What’s okay, what’s not. You keep your tone light, practiced. This part is routine.

He listens. Actually listens.

Nods, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to push anything.

“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Got it.”

Simple.

Easy.

You nod once. “So… what are you looking for tonight?”

He hesitates, like he doesn’t know how to say it without sounding stupid.

“Just… hang out, I guess,” he says. “Talk. Don’t make it feel rushed.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“For now.”

You watch him for a second, trying to figure out if there’s something else he’s not saying.

There probably is.

There always is.

But you just nod. “Okay.”

You end up on the couch.

There’s space between you at first. Not a lot, but enough to keep things neutral.

You sit angled toward him, one leg tucked under, relaxed but aware. He mirrors you without really noticing.

Conversation starts easy.

He asks normal things. What you like to eat, what you do in your free time, whether you’re more of a morning person or not.

You give your usual answers at first. Safe ones. Slightly vague. Nothing that actually belongs to you.

But he doesn’t rush you.

Doesn’t try to fill every silence.

Just waits.

And somehow that makes you talk more. Your guard, comes down.

You laugh at something he says, actually laugh, and it surprises you a little.

You don’t fake it. You don’t have to.

He notices that too. You can tell.

Not because he points it out, just the way he looks at you after, like he’s filing it away.

Like it matters.

The first touch is accidental.

Or it feels like it is.

Your hands brush when you both reach for the same thing, nothing important and you pull back automatically.

He doesn’t.

Not right away.

“Sorry,” he says, but he’s still close.

Then, quieter, “Can I?”

You look at his hand, then at him.

You should think about it.

You don’t.

“Yeah,” you say.

He takes your hand slowly, like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

You don’t.

His grip is warm. Not tight, not loose. Just steady.

You don’t realize how much you needed something to feel steady until that moment.

Things shift after that.

Not all at once. Just a little.

You sit closer without really noticing. Your shoulder brushes his. Your knees touch.

Neither of you moves away.

“Tell me if I go too far,” he says quietly.

“I will,” you reply.

You’re not sure if that’s true.

The kiss kind of just happens.

There’s no big moment. No lead-up.

You’re talking one second, and then you’re not.

He leans in slowly, like he expects you to stop him.

You don’t.

Your lips meet, soft at first.

Testing.

Then you lean in a little more, and that’s it—that’s the point where something slips.

You feel it, even if you can’t name it.

You’ve kissed people like this before.

You know how to make it feel real.

But this

This feels like you’re not the only one trying.

San doesn’t rush. Doesn’t push.

He takes his time like there’s nowhere else he needs to be, like this isn’t something he paid for but something he’s afraid to mess up.

His hands move slowly, careful even when they don’t need to be. Like he’s paying attention.

Like he actually cares if you’re okay.

That’s new.

“Still good?” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

And you mean it.

That’s the problem.

It gets harder to keep track of what you’re doing after that.

Not because it’s intense.

Because it’s easy.

Too easy.

You respond without thinking, move without planning, let yourself fall into it in a way you usually don’t.

You’re supposed to stay a little removed.

You’re not.

After, you expect things to reset.

They always do.

There’s usually a shift—something small but noticeable—where it all turns back into what it actually is.

But it doesn’t happen.

You’re still lying there, close, his arm resting around you like it belongs there.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

You hesitate.

“Whether this was a bad idea.”

He huffs a quiet breath, not quite a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I was wondering that too.”

You turn your head to look at him.

“Then why’d you ask for it?”

He shrugs slightly. “Guess I didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

“Like what?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“Like it’s not supposed to end when you leave,” he says finally.

That sits in your chest in a way you don’t like.

You sit up after that.

Not abruptly. Just enough to put space back where it should be. But you know you need to go.

You gather your things, pulling yourself back together piece by piece.

He watches you, but he doesn’t rush you.

Doesn’t say anything that would make it easier or harder.

Just watches.

“Will you come back?” he asks eventually.

You pause.

That question has an easy answer.

It always does.

'If you book me again.'

That’s what you’re supposed to say.

Instead, you shake your head a little. “I don’t know.”

“Because of me?”

You let out a small breath. “No. Because of me.”

He nods like he understands.

You’re not sure he does.

You make it to the door before stopping again.

You don’t turn right away.

“Hey,” he says.

You glance back.

He’s standing a few steps away, hands loose at his sides, expression unreadable but softer than when you arrived.

“Was any of it real?” he asks.

You almost answer automatically.

No.

That’s the rule. That’s the truth you stick to.

But the word doesn’t come out.

Because you’re not sure anymore.

“Does it matter?” you ask instead.

He nods, once. “Yeah.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

So you leave.

The air outside feels different.

Colder, maybe. Or maybe it’s just you.

You walk a little too fast at first, like putting distance between you and the apartment will fix something.

It doesn’t.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You already know.

'No pressure. But if you want to come back… I’d like that.'

You stare at the message.

You could ignore it.

That would be easier.

Cleaner.

Safer.

But your thumb hovers over the screen longer than it should.

Because now it doesn’t feel like just a job anymore.

And that—

That’s exactly what you were trying to avoid.

You start typing.

Stop.

Delete it.

Start again.

And somewhere in the middle of it, you realize you don’t actually know what the right answer is.

Not the professional one.

The real one.

The cursor blinks.

You don’t send anything.

Not yet.

You just stand there, phone in your hand, chest still a little too tight, mind stuck somewhere between what this is supposed to be and what it started to feel like.

And for once,

you knew it long before he said anything.

the way he moved started to change — slower, softer, like he was already a ghost of himself.

like the air around him had learned to make room for his leaving.

yunho always had a kind of warmth that filled every space he was in. even silence sounded different when he was near — alive somehow.

but lately, the quiet between you has been hollow. it doesn’t hum anymore. it echoes.

he stands by the window a lot now, watching the world move like he’s waiting for it to stop. sometimes you catch his reflection and see his lips part like he wants to say something, but the words never come. they just hang there, unsaid and heavy.

you ask him if he’s okay. he says he’s tired.

you ask what kind of tired, and he just smiles, eyes tired too, and says, “the kind that sleep won’t fix.”

and you stop asking after that.

because you’re afraid of the answer.

⸻

you start memorizing him.

the slope of his nose, the sound he makes when he laughs into your skin, the way his hands always find yours without looking.

you start holding him a little tighter, laughing a little louder, pretending you don’t see the way his eyes drift toward the door sometimes.

it’s cruel, how leaving doesn’t happen all at once.

it happens in small pieces — a night he doesn’t stay over, a message left on read, a silence that stretches too long between words.

you tell yourself it’s fine. that he’s just busy, just thinking, just trying to breathe.

but deep down, something in you is already mourning him.

⸻

the first time you heard the song, it was playing in his car.

the chorus spilled out softly — “cold bones, yeah, that’s my love. she hides away, like a ghost.”

he’d smiled at you then, that little half-smile that always made your heart ache, and said, “it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

you didn’t know it’d start haunting you later — every word, every pause.

now, you can’t listen to it without feeling like it’s a message you missed.

like he was trying to tell you something all along.

⸻

you find him on the porch one night.

the moon is low and pale, and he’s sitting on the steps with his face tilted toward the sky. he doesn’t turn when you open the door, but you see his shoulders tense, like he’s bracing for you.

“you’re quiet,” you say softly, settling beside him.

he hums, but it’s low, distracted.

you follow his gaze — the stars, the horizon, the dark stretch of road that leads nowhere and everywhere.

“you ever feel like you’re meant to be somewhere else?” he asks suddenly.

the question catches in your chest.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

he looks at you then, and it’s the kind of look that breaks you — full of love, but also full of goodbye.

“yunho,” you whisper, and his name trembles in the air.

he exhales, long and tired. his hand finds yours, fingers cold.

“you know i love you, right?”

you nod, but your throat burns.

you don’t say don’t go, because somehow you know it wouldn’t matter.

the wind moves around you both, slow and certain.

⸻

he leans his head against your shoulder, and you try to breathe him in — memorize the scent of rain and cedar and home.

you think about all the mornings that won’t come, all the coffee cups that’ll stay empty, all the quiets that’ll never be filled.

and still, you can’t ask him to stay.

because you love him too much to make him.

the stars blur. your chest feels tight. you can feel him slipping, second by second, heartbeat by heartbeat.

he stands eventually, slow, reluctant.

you can’t look up.

you’re afraid that if you do, you’ll see it — the end.

you feel his hand brush your hair back once, gentle.

he whispers your name. it sounds like a prayer, like an apology.

and then there’s the sound of footsteps on the gravel.

soft. fading.

you keep your eyes closed.

you tell yourself if you don’t look, maybe he’s still there.

maybe the air will stay warm for just a little longer.

maybe the world will hold its breath with you.

⸻

“where’s my love…”

the words hum in your head, faint and aching.

you open your eyes. the porch light flickers.

the night is still.

he’s not gone yet.

not yet.

but you can feel the space between you growing, stretching thin — until you’re afraid that one more second will snap it completely.

you whisper his name one last time.

you don’t know if he hears it.

you don’t know if he turns back.

the breakup wasn’t loud.

it wasn’t screaming, or doors slamming, or throwing things you couldn’t take back.

it was quiet. almost too quiet.

you’d sat on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, while san stood in the doorway with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. you weren’t even sure when “us” had started to feel like “you” and “me.” you just knew that lately, every conversation had felt like stepping carefully across thin ice.

but the moment the words i think we should break up left your lips, mochi had padded into the room, her little white paws against the hardwood, tail curling high like she didn’t know her whole world was about to change.

you both looked at her, and in perfect sync, said, “i’m not giving her up.”

so that’s how it started.

three days with you. three days with him. an unspoken rule to not linger too long at the hand-off.

except, the apartment felt different without her.

colder. emptier.

and not just because she wasn’t there, cause he wasn’t there.

⸻

the first hand-off, you opened the door to find him holding mochi in one arm, her carrier in the other. she looked entirely too smug for someone being passed back and forth like a prized artifact

“she… uh… chewed through one of her toys,” he said, shifting his weight. “the squeaky duck. sorry.”

you nodded, brushing your fingers over mochi’s fur as you took her. “it’s fine.”

and that should’ve been it 'thanks, goodbye', door shut by but you caught him glancing inside, like he was expecting to still see his jacket hanging on the hook, his shoes by the door.

you almost told him they weren’t there anymore.

three days later, it was your turn to drop her off.

san opened the door with messy hair and a soft, lopsided smile that nearly undid you.

“hey,” he said, voice low.

you told yourself not to stay.

but then mochi leapt out of your arms and made herself at home on his couch, and he laughed, the same laugh that used to echo in your kitchen on lazy sunday mornings.

“she missed you,” you said before you could stop yourself.

his smile faltered just a little. “i think she misses us.”

⸻

you noticed the change on the second week.

texts became more frequent, she’s not eating much today or do you have the nail clippers? but they lingered too long, each ending with something softer.

hope you’re eating well too.

be careful driving, it’s raining.

you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

until he sent you a photo one night, mochi sprawled across his chest, the two of them asleep. the caption; she keeps looking at the door.

your chest ached for reasons you didn’t want to name.

⸻

the third week, when he came to drop her off, the air felt different.

he stood in your doorway a moment too long, holding the leash but not letting go.

“she’s… been restless without you,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “without… both of us.”

you swallowed hard. “yeah. same here.”

there was a silence that used to be comfortable, and maybe it still was.

and then, without thinking, you stepped forward.

it was small at first, just a brush of your fingers against his as you took the leash.

but he didn’t pull away.

⸻

the fourth week, you forgot to take mochi home.

not really forgot, you’d just… stayed.

watched a movie together. let her curl between you on the couch like she used to. laughed at her dramatic attempts to steal popcorn.

by the time the credits rolled, your head was on his shoulder, and his arm was around you like it had never left.

“y/n,” he whispered, and your name in his voice felt like coming home.

“yeah?”

he hesitated, thumb tracing idle circles on your arm. “i don’t think i want to do the three-days thing anymore.”

your heart stopped. “oh?”

“yeah.” he turned, meeting your gaze with that earnest look you’d fallen for the first time. “because… i don’t just miss her. i miss you.”

you didn’t know who kissed who first, only that it felt inevitable, like gravity pulling you back where you belonged.

mochi snored softly between you that night.

and you realized san was right. she was happiest when you were both there.

the sun crept in slow, spilling warmth across the bedroom floor in long, golden ribbons. the light brushed against your cheek before anything else did, but it was seonghwa’s arm pulling you closer that made you stir.

he was already awake. barely — eyes half-lidded and lashes still tangled from sleep — but awake enough to curl around you like instinct. his voice was a soft, grainy whisper against your temple.

“five more minutes,” he murmured.

you didn’t open your eyes. “you said that twenty minutes ago.”

his chest moved under your cheek with a low laugh. “i know. i meant it then too.”

he felt warm everywhere — under your fingers, across your back, in the space where your knees bumped beneath the covers. it was the kind of warmth that made time feel slow, unhurried. like the world could wait.

your fingers traced the hem of his shirt, not thinking, just following the rhythm of his breathing. “we should get up.”

“no,” he said simply. “stay.”

you tilted your head slightly to meet his gaze. he was already looking at you, eyes soft and full of something heavier than sleep.

“what?” you asked, voice quieter now.

he smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting like it did when he didn’t quite know how to say what he was thinking. “nothing. just… don’t want to miss this.”

you blinked, heart stuttering

“miss what?”

“this. you. here. like this.”

you buried your face in his chest, cheeks hot, and he laughed again—gently, full of fondness—and pressed a kiss to your hair.

outside, the world kept going. but in here, time was still.

yeonjun has a fry in his mouth.

it’s hanging there like it belongs—like he’s starring in some low-budget indie film and this is his big character-defining moment. he’s got one elbow propped on the kitchen counter, eyes on you, expression smug. the kind of smug that says i’m bored and about to make it your problem.

you pause mid-step, holding your soda like it’s a shield. “…what are you doing.”

he doesn’t answer. just gestures vaguely with his chin like look. so you do.

and yep. there it is. a single, crispy, golden fry pinched between his lips, half in, half out, like a cigarette in a noir movie if noir movies were soundtracked by spotify’s “sad indie boys with guitars” playlist and smelled like takeout grease.

“really,” you say. flatly. “you’re really doing this.”

“dare you to take it,” he says, around the fry.

you blink. “take it?”

he nods. still holding your gaze like this is serious business. like this fry is some kind of sacred object and you’ve been tasked with a holy quest.

“you want me,” you say slowly, “to steal a fry out of your mouth.”

“yep.”

“with my mouth.”

“bingo.”

you stare at him. he stares right back, unblinking. the fry twitches slightly as he fights a grin.

your heart does a weird thing in your chest, like a bird fluttering its wings too hard, too fast. not the first time that’s happened around yeonjun, unfortunately. probably not the last.

“you’re ridiculous,” you mutter.

“you’re scared,” he sing-songs, all smugness and sparkle.

“of you? never.”

he leans in slightly, like he’s testing you. daring you. it’s always like this with him—these stupid little games that feel like more than they should. a joke stretched too thin. something bright and dangerous curled just beneath the surface.

you take a step forward. just to shut him up. just to prove a point.

his eyes flicker to your mouth.

yours flicker to the fry.

you hesitate. he notices.

of course he notices.

“what’s wrong?” he teases, voice a little lower now. “too intimate?”

“it’s a fry, yeonjun. don’t make it weird.”

he hums. “you’re the one making it weird. i’m just standing here. being a generous fry-holder.”

you roll your eyes. “that’s not a thing.”

“could be.”

you take another step. now you’re close enough to smell his cologne—warm and clean and unmistakably him. your gaze drops to his mouth again, and this time it lingers.

this is stupid. this is so, so stupid.

and yet—

you lean in.

just barely. just enough for him to feel it, to know you’re playing along. your lips part, slow and cautious, and you’re almost there when—

he moves.

just slightly. just enough to pull the fry a little further into his mouth, so you end up brushing the tip of your nose against his cheek and catching nothing but air.

“cheater,” you mutter, pulling back.

he’s already laughing. that soft, wicked little laugh that always gets you in trouble.

“you flinched,” he says.

“you moved.”

“maybe.”

“definitely.”

“so try again,” he says, like it’s simple.

like anything about this is simple.

but you’re not backing down now. not when he’s looking at you like that—half-daring, half-soft. like he’s waiting for something, even if he doesn’t quite know what.

so you try again.

this time, you move slower. deliberate. you can feel your heartbeat in your ears, feel the heat rising in your face, but you don’t stop. you’re so close now—you can feel the warmth of his breath, see the twitch of his lashes when you lean in again—

and then, with one smug, infuriating little smirk—

he eats the fry.

just like that.

lips close around it. one bite. gone.

you blink. he chews.

you blink again. “did you just—”

“yep,” he says, and swallows. “mine now.”

“you absolute menace.”

he’s grinning. so pleased with himself. like a cat who knocked something off the table just to watch it fall. “you looked like you were gonna kiss me,” he says, teasing.

you freeze. “i wasn’t.”

“you were.”

“was not.”

he tilts his head. “so kiss me, then.”

you laugh. awkward. nervous. half-deflecting. “that’s not how dares work.”

“wasn’t a dare.”

you look at him.

he’s not grinning anymore. still smiling, yeah, but it’s softer now. less teasing. more… real.

the air shifts.

you feel it in the silence that follows—in the way the fridge hums a little too loudly, the way neither of you moves.

“so,” he says, quieter, “are you gonna?”

you don’t answer.

you just kiss him.

soft, at first. like a question. like a moment held between two heartbeats, suspended in the golden hush of the kitchen light. he still tastes faintly like salt and ketchup and soda, and you think, absurdly, i should’ve taken the fry.

he kisses you back like he’s been waiting.

like he knew this was coming.

like maybe he dared you because he wanted to lose.

when you finally pull away, your face is warm and your thoughts are a mess and your lips feel a little swollen in the best way. he’s looking at you like you’re the punchline to his favorite joke.

you push his shoulder. gently. “you’re such a brat.”

“you love it,” he says, like it’s a fact.

you don’t deny it.

instead, you grab another fry from the bowl on the counter and pop it into your mouth. chew. swallow. then glance at him.

“your turn,” you say, casually.

he blinks. “what?”

you smile. “i dare you to take it.”

and maybe it’s dumb, and maybe it’s childish, and maybe it started as a joke—

but when he leans in and kisses you again, a little deeper this time, a little less teasing—

you think maybe, just maybe,

you’ve always been good at pretending.

it’s a survival tactic, in a way — the way you smile at people who talk over you, or laugh like nothing’s wrong when you feel like you’re breaking. you’ve learned to carry your emotions carefully, quietly. you fold them up like paper and tuck them into the corners of your chest, where no one can see them unless they’re looking too closely.

yeonjun looks too closely.

he always has.

“you okay?” he asks one night, his voice low, like he’s afraid of breaking the silence between you.

you’re sitting on the rooftop of his apartment building, your legs swinging over the edge, city lights flickering beneath you like dying stars. it’s cold enough that you’re both in hoodies, and he’s sitting just a little too close — not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel it.

“yeah,” you lie, because that’s what you do.

he looks at you. you don’t look back.

“soobin texted me,” he says instead. “said you’ve been skipping lunch again.”

you shrug. “wasn’t hungry.”

“you always say that.”

you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “maybe i’m just always not hungry.”

he laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. “you don’t have to do this with me, y/n.”

“do what?”

“pretend.”

and there it is — the word you try so hard to avoid. pretend.

you pretend you’re fine. you pretend you don’t notice the way yeonjun looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. you pretend it doesn’t hurt every time he hooks his arm around another girl’s waist like it doesn’t mean anything.

you pretend that you don’t love him.

and he pretends not to know.

–

you met yeonjun when you were twelve and furious at the world. he was too loud, too pretty, and too good at making you laugh when you were trying really hard not to. you don’t remember when exactly he became your best friend. it was probably somewhere between your first shared detention and the night he held your hand during your first panic attack in the school gym.

you’ve been close ever since — too close, soobin says sometimes, with a look that’s more knowing than it should be.

“you guys are so codependent,” he mutters one day when you’re waiting for yeonjun after class.

“shut up,” you say, but you’re already checking your phone for a message that isn’t there.

soobin sighs. “you’re not waiting for your boyfriend, y/n.”

“i know.”

“then why do you always act like you are?”

you don’t answer. you don’t know how.

–

you don’t realize how bad it’s gotten until one night, yeonjun brings a girl over.

you don’t even remember her name — just that she laughed too loudly, touched him too easily, and looked at you like she knew exactly who you were and what you weren’t.

you sit through it. you smile. you tease him about it the next morning when he walks into your room wearing her lipstick like a bruise.

“you’re disgusting,” you tell him.

he grins. “you love me.”

you do. god, you do.

but you don’t say it.

you just laugh, and roll your eyes, and pretend.

-

soobin’s the one who confronts you.

it’s late — too late — and you’re at his place because your own apartment feels too quiet lately. you’re curled up on the couch with one of his oversized hoodies and a blanket that smells like laundry detergent and peppermint gum.

“you need to stop,” he says softly, and he doesn’t have to say who he’s talking about.

you close your eyes. “i can’t.”

“why not?”

“because i’ll lose him.”

soobin looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. “you already are.”

and it hits you in the chest like a car crash.

because he’s right. every day, you lose a little more of him. every smile he gives someone else, every night he doesn’t text you first, every laugh you have to fake — it adds up. it breaks you.

but you keep pretending.

–

then it happens.

you and yeonjun get into a fight — a real one, the kind where things are said and thrown and broken.

“i’m not your emotional punching bag,” he snaps, pacing your bedroom like a caged animal.

“i never asked you to be,” you hiss back, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“you don’t have to ask, y/n! that’s the problem! you expect me to be there all the time, no matter what — like i’m just supposed to drop everything whenever you feel like falling apart.”

you flinch. “i never said that.”

“you don’t have to.”

the silence after that is unbearable.

he stands there, breathing hard, eyes glassy. you stare at the wall behind him, willing yourself not to cry.

finally, he says, “you act like i’m yours, but you never — you never let yourself admit it.”

and it breaks something in you.

“because you’re not,” you whisper. “you never were.”

his mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

you wait. you hope. you beg yourself not to say more.

but you do.

“you’re not mine, yeonjun. you never have been. and i can’t keep pretending that hurts less than it does.”

he looks at you like you’ve stabbed him.

maybe you have.

then he leaves.

–

you don’t hear from him for days.

soobin texts. he checks in. he brings you soup and sits with you in silence. he doesn’t say “i told you so,” even though you both know he could.

but it’s not the same. it’s never the same.

you try to sleep. you try to eat. you try to pretend.

but this time, it doesn’t work.

you miss him like a phantom limb — something that’s gone but still aches like it’s there.

you wonder if he’s okay.

you wonder if he’s thinking of you.

you wonder if it’s too late.

–

then, one night, there’s a knock at your door.

you don’t expect it. you’re in pajamas, your hair’s a mess, and your eyes are puffy from crying again.

but you open it anyway.

and there he is.

yeonjun.

wet hair. hoodie. hands shaking.

“hi,” he says.

you don’t speak. you just stare at him.

he shifts on his feet. “can i come in?”

you step aside.

he walks in like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

you don’t.

you shut the door behind him and wrap your arms around yourself.

he turns.

“i’m sorry,” he says. “for what i said. for everything. i was angry, but that doesn’t mean i was right.”

you swallow. “you were, though.”

he shakes his head. “i don’t care. i don’t care if you were wrong or right or just scared — i just… i miss you.”

your throat burns.

“i miss you,” he says again, quieter. “i miss you so much it makes me feel sick.”

you don’t mean to cry. it just happens.

and before you can stop yourself, you’re crossing the room and throwing your arms around him, and he’s holding you like he’s been waiting his whole life to.

you bury your face in his chest and sob.

he doesn’t say anything.

he just holds you.

tight.

like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

_

you don’t know the moment it started. maybe it was that night you and yeonjun snuck out at seventeen to lie on the hood of his mom’s car, watching planes fly over your heads while he traced constellations on your arm with one finger. maybe it was the first time you saw him cry, shoulders shaking in your lap like he finally couldn’t hold the weight anymore. maybe it was just always there. a soft, slow kind of ache that never went away.

but you’ve never said anything. neither has he.

and that silence is louder than any confession ever could be.

—

“you’re not listening to me.”

you flinch. yeonjun’s voice cuts through the quiet of your apartment like glass — low, strained, angry in that exhausted way that makes your chest tighten.

“i am,” you say, quieter.

he’s pacing. his hands are buried in his hair, eyes red-rimmed from stress or maybe sleep deprivation. “you’re not. you never do when it comes to stuff like this.”

stuff like this. you swallow. “i said i was sorry.”

“but you’re not,” he says, laughing bitterly. “you’re just trying to shut me up.”

it had started as something small — a missed text, a plan that didn’t happen, something he took as you brushing him off again. and maybe you did. maybe it’s easier to pretend you’re not always waiting for him to show up, only to leave before he can see how much you need him.

“you don’t get to say that,” you murmur. “you don’t get to act like you’re the only one hurting.”

he stops walking.

you don’t look at him. you can’t. “you say i shut you out, but what about you, yeonjun? you think i don’t see the way you shut down every time things get too real? how you change the subject or pretend it’s fine? you’re just as bad as me.”

the silence that follows is heavy. weighted. your breath catches in your throat because you can feel it — the unraveling.

“if we’re so bad,” he says finally, voice quiet and cold, “then maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.”

it’s not until he says it that you realize what you’ve always feared: that one of you would finally mean it.

you open your mouth, but the words don’t come. yeonjun nods once, like he expected that, and walks out the door.

—

you don’t cry right away.

you lie on your bed in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and wait for something to break. but it’s like your body doesn’t know how. like everything inside you has gone quiet, shut down in that scary, heavy way that doesn’t feel like sadness. it feels like grief.

you don’t sleep. just count the seconds between each breath, hoping they’ll stop hurting eventually.

they don’t.

—

soobin finds out three days later.

he doesn’t say anything at first. just shows up at your door with a bag of takeout and a six-pack of those stupid fruit sodas he knows you like. you haven’t showered. your hair’s a mess. you don’t even care anymore.

“you look like shit,” he says gently, and you laugh, wet and raw.

“thanks.”

he sits beside you on the couch, not pushing. not asking. just… there. solid. warm. like he’s always been.

“you want to talk about it?”

you don’t. but the words come out anyway. “we fought.”

he nods.

“it was bad.”

another nod.

“i think he meant it this time. when he left."

soobin leans back, arms draped along the couch. he doesn’t touch you, doesn’t force anything, just lets you keep going.

“i said awful things,” you whisper. “but he did too. and i don’t even think i’m mad at him. i just—i just miss him.”

the tears come then. not like a storm. like a surrender. quiet and slow.

soobin reaches over, curling his fingers around yours.

“i miss him all the time,” you say. “even when he’s next to me. i think that’s the worst part.”

“he misses you too,” soobin says softly. “he always does.”

—

you don’t talk for a week.

he doesn’t text. you don’t call. it feels like an open wound — fresh and bleeding and too painful to touch. you keep thinking of all the almosts. all the times you could’ve told him, all the times he almost did.

almost. almost. almost.

you’re so tired of almost.

—

it happens by accident.

you’re at a party you didn’t want to go to, wearing makeup you don’t feel like fixing, standing in a kitchen full of people who laugh too loud and love too carelessly.

and yeonjun is there.

your eyes meet across the room and something inside you splinters. he looks tired. he always looks tired lately. like he’s been carrying something too big, too long.

you make it to the balcony first. he follows a few seconds later.

“hi,” you say, barely above a whisper.

he swallows. “hi.”

you stare at each other for a moment. the silence between you isn’t empty — it’s thick with things unsaid.

“i didn’t mean it,” he says suddenly. “what i said. that night.”

your throat tightens. “then why did you leave?”

“because i didn’t know how to stay,” he says. “not when it felt like i was the only one trying.”

you look away.

“but i was wrong,” he adds. “i know that now.”

his voice is trembling. “you were trying too. you always were. just… not the way i wanted you to.”

you nod slowly. your eyes sting. “i didn’t know how. not when i was so scared of losing you.”

“you still could,” he whispers. “i’m not perfect. i fuck up. a lot.”

you laugh quietly. “me too.”

he takes a shaky breath. “i thought… if i kept pretending i didn’t love you, then it wouldn’t hurt so much when you didn’t love me back.”

your heart stops.

you blink.

“you—”

“i do,” he says, soft and broken. “i’ve loved you for years.”

you look at him, and he’s not hiding anymore. no sarcasm. no jokes. just yeonjun — raw and real and terrified.

“say something,” he pleads.

you step forward. you reach for him

and you kiss him.

it’s slow. trembling. a little desperate.

but it’s real.

when you pull away, he’s crying.

so are you.

“i love you too,” you whisper. “so much.”

he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“don’t ever leave again,” you say, voice muffled by his shirt.

“i won’t,” he breathes. “not ever.”

and for the first time in weeks, you believe him.

—

later that night, lying tangled together on your bed, he presses soft kisses to your cheeks, your nose, your collarbone.

“i still don’t know how to do this right,” he murmurs.

you curl your fingers into his hair. “we’ll figure it out. together.”

he nods.

and when you finally fall asleep in his arms, it’s the first time in forever that your chest doesn’t ache.

not with longing.

choi yeonjun was many things. chief of police. local heartthrob. law school dropout turned academy prodigy. suspiciously good at diffusing bombs and tying a tie one-handed.

he was also, inconveniently, your husband.

you, on the other hand, were not a law-abiding citizen. you were the city’s most wanted mob boss, the deluna name whispered like a curse through dark alleys and interrogation rooms. everyone wanted your head on a silver platter. and yeonjun?

well. yeonjun kissed that head goodnight every evening before pretending to file new warrants for your arrest.

the whole thing was insane, but it worked. kind of.

until tonight.

“you fucking shot me,” he said the moment you walked into the bathroom, his uniform jacket bloodied and half off, shoulder slick with red.

you blinked. “i grazed you.”

“you shot me,” he repeated, wincing as he yanked the fabric away. “i was hiding behind a car, minding my own business, and you—bam—shoulder full of lead.”

you stepped around him to grab the tweezers from the cabinet. “i was aiming for your leg.”

“oh, good,” he deadpanned. “then i guess i should be grateful.”

you crouched beside him, tilting your head as you inspected the wound. “you’ll live. besides, you shouldn’t have been at the warehouse tonight.”

“you were doing an illegal weapons deal,” he hissed. “i had to show up.”

“and you just happened to miss arresting me again?”

“i tripped.”

“on what?”

“my morals.”

you snorted, fishing the bullet fragment out with practiced ease while he hissed again. “baby,” you cooed, voice mock-sweet, “don’t be dramatic.”

“you grazed an artery!”

“i kissed it better.”

“you did not—”

you leaned in and kissed the side of his neck. “there. happy?”

he gave you the most betrayed look you’d seen since the last time you finished the ice cream without telling him.

“you owe me,” he said flatly

“i saved your ass last month.”

“you blew up a rival gang’s car and blamed it on me.”

“and? it worked.”

he rolled his eyes and winced again. “this is so toxic.”

you pressed a clean gauze pad to the wound, letting your hand linger. “so divorce me.”

he looked at you for a long second.

“can’t,” he muttered, voice quieter now. “you’d probably kill the judge.”

“only if they rule against me.”

a silence passed between you as you taped the gauze down and helped him out of the rest of his ruined jacket. his skin was warm under your fingertips, taut with tension, and you didn’t miss the way his breath hitched as your hands lingered.

“so,” you said eventually, grabbing a clean shirt from the hamper and tossing it at him. “how was your day at work?”

he stared at you like he couldn’t believe the words just came out of your mouth.

“how was my day?” he echoed.

you blinked innocently. “yeah.”

“you fucking shot me. that was my day at work.”

you tried not to laugh, really, you did. but the sound slipped out anyway—short, breathy, helpless.

“you're never gonna hear the end of this,” he muttered, pulling the shirt over his head one-handed while still glaring at you.

“probably not,” you said cheerfully. “but to be fair, i wasn’t trying to shoot you. i was aiming for that absolute dickhead from vice.”

“you mean the one you also set on fire last month?”

“no, that was narcotics.”

“i hate this marriage,” he sighed.

you patted his cheek. “you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

“you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

“you shot me.”

“you’re not over it yet?”

he gave you a flat stare. “you literally told the entire SWAT team i had hemorrhoids just to avoid getting arrested.”

“was that last week?” you mused. “time flies.”

he swore under his breath, finally standing and flexing his arm with a grimace.

“baby,” you said, following him into the kitchen. “do you want tea? i’ll make you that peppermint one you like.”

“do you hear yourself?”

“i patched you up. kissed your neck. offered you tea. i think i’m being very romantic considering you showed up uninvited and ruined my arms deal.”

“oh my god.”

you poured water into the kettle and turned to face him, arms crossed, expression softening just a little.

“i didn’t mean to hit you,” you said, quieter this time. “i promise. you just popped out of nowhere like some kind of undercover jack-in-the-box.”

his lips twitched.

“you gonna cry about it?” you added.

“you’re the worst woman alive.”

“yet here you are. bleeding in my kitchen. again.”

he leaned back against the counter, eyes scanning your face.

“one of these days,” he said slowly, “someone’s gonna catch on.”

you shrugged. “then we run.”

“you gonna retire from crime?”

“you gonna retire from the force?”

“…touché.”

the kettle whistled. you poured the water and handed him the mug, fingers brushing his as he took it.

despite the bullet wound and the mutual felony count, the moment was quiet. almost soft.

“next time,” he said after a beat, “try aiming two inches lower.”

he doesn’t kiss you at first.

not when you cry about the rain because it reminds you of that night yeonjun left.

not when you come over with red eyes and a voice so small it makes soobin’s chest hurt.

not when you fall asleep on his couch, curled up with the weight of things you won’t talk about yet.

he just lets you be.

and somehow, that’s what breaks you open the most.

no questions. no pressure. no expectations. just a warm mug of tea you didn’t ask for, a blanket tucked around your legs, and his voice—quiet, steady, soft.

“you don’t have to tell me everything. i’m just here.”

and he is.

always.

⸻

you don’t know when it changes.

you’re still carrying pieces of the past.

still flinching at certain words.

still double-checking texts before sending them, just in case they’re too much.

but soobin doesn’t flinch.

he doesn’t pull away when your moods dip low.

he doesn’t leave when your laughter cuts off halfway through and your eyes glaze over with something you pretend isn’t grief.

he just stays.

some days he walks beside you in silence, your hands brushing but never holding.

other days he lets you vent about meaningless things until your voice wears thin and your lungs feel lighter.

and one night—late, after too much wine and not enough food—you let it slip.

“i thought love had to hurt to mean something.”

he doesn’t say anything.

he just looks at you with that same steady expression that’s always felt safer than your own heartbeat. and then, after a pause—

“it doesn’t,” he whispers.

⸻

you kiss him five weeks later.

not because you’re over yeonjun.

not because the ache is gone.

but because soobin laughs at something dumb you said and it fills a space in your chest you didn’t know was empty.

he looks so surprised when your lips press against his.

his hand hovers near your waist like he’s scared he might do it wrong—like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch something this soft.

when you pull back, he stares.

and you panic.

“i’m sorry,” you blurt. “i shouldn’t’ve—”

“hey.” he cuts you off gently. “it’s okay.”

“i just—i don’t know if i’m ready.”

“then we don’t rush it.”

and he means it.

so you sit there, on his floor, next to a half-eaten pizza and a movie neither of you finished.

you sit in silence.

and it’s not awkward. it’s not tense.

it’s peace.

real peace.

the kind you didn’t know you were allowed to have.

⸻

yeonjun texts you the next day.

you don’t respond.

you want to. god, you do.

because there’s still a part of you that aches when you hear his name.

a part that wonders what if, that flinches at the thought of closure never quite being enough.

but you look at soobin, who’s trying to cook dinner for you even though he’s just burned the rice again, and suddenly it’s not a question anymore.

you don’t want to go back.

you don’t want half-love and broken promises.

you don’t want to be the girl who waited at the door, hoping someone would finally come home to her heart.

you want this.

you want the quiet. the softness. the honesty.

you want the boy who stayed when you were too tired to smile.

you want the boy who never made you earn your own worth.

⸻

months pass.

you don’t remember the last time you cried over yeonjun.

maybe that’s a lie—but the truth is, it doesn’t hold the same weight anymore.

you still remember the hurt, but it’s dulled. distant.

like an old scar you can trace but don’t feel.

soobin is different.

he kisses you like you’re made of sunlight.

he laughs when you talk too fast and holds your hand when you go quiet.

he doesn’t ask for explanations. he just listens, always, until you’re done unraveling.

and then he ties the pieces back together with his words.

“you’re not hard to love,” he tells you one night, forehead pressed to yours.

you don’t answer. not right away.

because maybe, for the first time, you believe it.

⸻

you run into yeonjun at a café six months later.

it’s awkward. painful in that slow, quiet way.

his eyes are a little dimmer. he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping.

you wonder if he knows you’re in love with someone else now.

you wonder if it still matters.

he opens his mouth like he wants to say something.

but you just smile. polite. distant.

“i hope you’re doing okay,” you say, and you mean it.

and then you leave.

before he can answer.

before the memories come rushing back.

and this time, the ache doesn’t follow you home.

⸻

later that night, you curl up against soobin on the couch.

his arm wraps around you like instinct. his chin rests on your head.

“you alright?” he murmurs.

“yeah.”

he doesn’t press for more. just hums softly and kisses your temple.

and you realize—this is what love is supposed to be.

not perfect. not easy.

but gentle.

consistent.

a place to rest, not a war to win.

you close your eyes.

breathe.

and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel haunted.

he shows up when the sky is gray.

not raining. not storming.

just that colorless, breathless kind of quiet where the world feels like it’s holding something in.

you almost don’t open the door.

you hear the knock and for a second you think it’s a delivery, maybe the neighbor. you think if you just stay still long enough, they’ll go away.

but then he says your name. soft, barely louder than the wind. and it freezes you in place.

you open it anyway.

because some ghosts don’t haunt you from the outside. they haunt you from inside your ribs.

he’s standing there in a hoodie you bought him two birthdays ago. it’s worn down, sleeves stretched.

he looks tired. older, somehow, like guilt added years you’ll never get back.

“hey,” he says. like it’s simple. like it hasn’t been months.

you stare at him. the hallway light flickers behind him.

you don’t move. you don’t say his name. because if you do, it’ll make this real, and you’ve gotten so good at pretending he’s not a memory with teeth.

“can i come in?” he asks, eyes already begging like he knows the answer.

you step aside.

not because you forgive him.

not because you want to.

but because some part of you—the part that still dreams of him on the nights you forget to build walls—wants to hear what he could possibly say.

the apartment hasn’t changed much.

maybe that’s the problem.

it still smells like vanilla and lavender laundry detergent. still has the half-dead plant he bought you during a random grocery run. still has the chipped mug he left behind on accident.

“i’ve been… thinking about you,” he starts, voice low. “a lot.”

you cross your arms. “congrats.”

he winces like you hit him.

you kind of wish you had.

“i know you don’t owe me anything,” he says, looking at the floor. “but i owe you more than i ever gave.”

you scoff. “you think that’s new information?”

“no,” he admits. “i just… i was a coward. i thought pushing you away would make it easier when things got hard. i didn’t want to drag you through all the shit i couldn’t even name.”

you don’t answer.

because you remember.

you remember him coming home with hollow eyes and fake smiles.

you remember the way he said “i’m fine” like it was a script.

you remember loving him so loudly, and him loving you like he was trying not to make a sound.

“i shut down,” he continues. “i thought love would be enough without effort. and it wasn’t. that’s on me.”

you sit down on the edge of the couch. the same couch where you cried alone, waiting for him to show up emotionally before he physically stopped.

“why are you here now?” you ask.

he looks up at you like it physically hurts.

and maybe it does.

“because i miss you,” he says. “because i see you in everything. because no matter how much time passes, nothing feels like home if you’re not there.”

you swallow hard. “you think saying that fixes things?”

“no,” he says quickly. “i don’t. i don’t want to fix it just with words. i want to earn you back. piece by piece. if it takes months—years—I’ll wait. i’ll do whatever it takes.”

he says it with everything he has.

and it’s almost enough.

almost.

because you remember what it felt like to be invisible in the room with him.

you remember begging for scraps of affection and being told you were “too much.”

you remember whispering “i love you” into silence and never hearing it back in the way that mattered.

you look at him, and for a second you see the boy you loved.

the one who made you laugh with terrible impressions, who kissed you like you were made of stars, who held you during thunderstorms and promised not to leave.

but promises are cheap.

“you want my trust back?” you say, voice sharper now. “then you need to understand something.”

he nods, desperate. “anything.”

“you broke something in me,” you say, biting each word. “you taught me to flinch at softness. you made love feel like a one-sided fight. and now you want to come back and earn it?”

“yes,” he breathes. “because i know what i lost.”

you stand, moving closer to him, but not enough. never again that close.

“then start by leaving,” you whisper. “start by respecting that i am not a girl you can press pause on and come back to when you’re ready.”

he’s crying now.

you don’t look away.

“i still love you,” he says, voice cracking.

“i know,” you say.

and it doesn’t make a difference

he walks out without another word.

and this time, you don’t close the door right away. you watch him go.

because this is what grief looks like when it stops begging.

this is what strength looks like when it stops forgiving.

and you—

you finally feel real again.

the evening is quiet in that slow, golden kind of way—lamplight flickering low in the corner, the hum of the city outside muffled by the window, and the couch cushions sinking under the weight of too many limbs and not enough space.

y/n is curled up in kai’s lap like they were always meant to be there, tucked against him with their cheek resting right above his knee, breath slow and steady, completely gone to the world. their lashes flutter every so often, and their fingers twitch like they’re dreaming about something gentle.

kai doesn’t move much, just shifts a little so they’re more comfortable, one hand coming up to thread through their hair with the softest touch imaginable. he runs his fingers through the strands like he’s petting a kitten—slow, affectionate, rhythmic—and his gaze stays fixed on them, fond in that way that makes his heart ache a little. like he can’t believe how soft the moment is, or how lucky he is that they trust him enough to fall asleep right there, safe and small in his lap.

taehyun sits on the other end of the couch, legs stretched out, flipping through something on his phone, but glances up when he notices how still kai’s gone.

“they out?” he asks, keeping his voice quiet.

kai nods, lips pulling into the tiniest smile. “mm. totally knocked out.”

taehyun watches for a second, and his brow softens. “you’ve been petting them like a cat for twenty minutes.”

“i know,” kai says, and doesn’t stop. his hand moves through their hair again, slow and sweet. “it helps them sleep.”

taehyun raises an eyebrow. “does it help you too?”

kai huffs a tiny laugh, brushing his thumb gently over y/n’s temple, then back down to the nape of their neck, over and over again like a loop he never wants to stop. “yeah. i think it does.”

the room falls quiet again for a moment, the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty. there’s a warmth to it, the kind that settles in your chest and spreads quietly outward. y/n breathes out a soft sigh in their sleep and curls a little closer, their hand loosely fisted in the fabric of kai’s hoodie. he freezes for a second—like the tiniest shift might wake them—and then melts even further into the cushions, careful not to disturb them.

“you’re so soft with them,” taehyun says eventually, not teasing, just observing.

kai glances at him. “yeah. well. they’re easy to be soft with.”

taehyun hums, a little smile tugging at his mouth. “they’re lucky.”

kai’s hand stills for a second in y/n’s hair, his gaze flicking down to their sleeping face, peaceful and safe in his lap. then he strokes again, brushing a strand behind their ear.

“i think i’m the lucky one,” he says quietly.

and there’s something about the way he says it that makes taehyun smile without meaning to—like he’s witnessing something too tender to name. he doesn’t reply, just goes back to scrolling on his phone, letting the moment breathe.

kai stays like that the whole time. fingers in y/n’s hair, soft and slow, the kind of touch that says you’re okay. i’ve got you. you’re loved. even when no one’s saying anything at all.

the storm sneaks in without warning, like a secret no one told you about. one moment, the sky is a soft, tired gray, stretched thin like a lazy afternoon nap, and then suddenly it tears wide open, angry and loud, like it’s shouting at the whole world. lightning flashes sharp and blinding right against your windowpane, quick and fierce, and the thunder that crashes after makes your chest flip and your heart skip its beat, pounding too fast to catch up.

you curl up small on your bed, like maybe if you fold yourself tight enough the storm won’t find you. you pull the blanket over your head, hoping to hide, but it doesn’t help. the world outside feels like it’s breaking apart, cracking loud and jagged, and your hands tremble without your permission. your breath stutters in little hiccups, shaky and uneven. you’ve always hated storms—ever since you were a kid—because they don’t just feel like weather. they feel like the world’s quietly falling apart, slow and unstoppable.

then the door creaks open just a little, a soft sound in the chaos.

“y/n?”

the voice is low and gentle, the kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket all by itself. it’s yeonjun. there’s a softness to his words, an unspoken worry woven through every letter. you want to say something back, but all that comes out is a shaky, choked hiccup, like your throat’s tangled in fear.

he’s at your side before you even realize it, calm and steady.

“oh, sweetheart…” his hand lands on your back, warm and sure, tracing slow, soothing circles like he’s done a million times before—when you’ve cried, or felt lost, or just needed to breathe again. “you’re okay. i’m right here. i’ve got you.”

you don’t move at first, just bury your face deeper into the pillow as another thunderclap shakes the walls and the windows rattle. but then, quietly, yeonjun slips under the covers next to you. he pulls you close without a word, folding you into his arms like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

your cheek presses against his chest, where you can feel his steady heartbeat, slow and steady, like a lullaby only for you. one hand curls into your hair, gentle and warm, the other wraps around your waist, holding you like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“it’s just the storm, baby. it can’t touch you in here,” he whispers, voice low and soft. “you’re safe. i promise.”

you clutch the fabric of his hoodie tightly, breathing him in—the scent of clean laundry mixed with just the faintest trace of his cologne—and somehow, that smell makes everything feel less scary. the darkness in the room seems to shrink, replaced by the quiet warmth of his arms.

the thunder keeps crashing outside, relentless and wild, and the storm doesn’t stop just because he’s here. but inside, with yeonjun holding you close, something inside you settles. something tired and scared finally lets go.

because he never pulls away. he doesn’t say it’s silly or try to fix the sky. he just stays.

and that is everything.

you don’t really mean to fall in love with choi yeonjun.

it just kind of… happens.

it starts in your elective media studies class, where he shows up with fluffy hair, chapstick shimmer on the edge of his cup, and opinions on blogging that make the whole room sit up straighter. you don’t talk to him for the first two weeks. you just write about him.

because, well—your professor made you start a blog. and not just a pretend blog—a real one, with actual weekly entries about digital culture, personal reflections, media consumption, blah blah. most of your classmates do the bare minimum.

but you? you write essays about yeonjun.

not directly, obviously. that would be unhinged. you just refer to him vaguely as “the boy with the soft laugh who sits by the window.” and “gloss boy,” once, which is embarrassing in retrospect.

you write about how he talks with his hands, like he’s painting ideas in midair. how he doodles on the sides of his notes. how he reads blog posts out loud with this half-laugh in his voice, like everything is secretly funny to him.

so when he turns to you one day and goes, “hey, wanna get coffee and study sometime?” you nearly choke on your own breath.

but somehow you say yes. and even more miraculously, it turns into a habit.

starbucks becomes your thing.

you get the same drinks each time—he orders some ridiculous iced monstrosity with extra whipped cream and strawberry drizzle, and you get a boring latte and steal sips from his cup when he offers. he always offers. you always pretend not to want it and then take it anyway.

you work together, side by side, laptops open, headphones half-on. he makes you laugh more than you probably should during a study session. you keep writing blog entries about him, even though your class only requires one a week and you’re way past the limit.

and okay. maybe you’re delusional. but sometimes it feels like he’s writing about you too. not in blog posts—you’ve never seen his, he’s secretive about it—but in the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention. in the way he saves the seat next to him with his jacket. in the way he texts you at midnight like, “send me a pic of your notes i zoned out thinking about waffles.”

you’re so down bad it’s painful.

today’s no different.

he’s waiting for you at the usual table when you arrive, spinning his iced drink between his hands, eyes lighting up when he sees you.

“you’re late,” he says with a grin.

“you’re early,” you shoot back, sliding into the chair across from him.

your laptop’s heavy in your bag, your brain foggy from too many late nights, but something about being here—being next to him—makes everything feel easier. he always does.

you sip your drink, scroll through your notes, make it exactly fifteen minutes before he distracts you again.

“hey,” he says suddenly, glancing at his phone. “soobin just texted. he’s having people over. wanna come?”

you blink. “oh, i thought you were just heading over to his place.”

“yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “but aren’t you coming?”

you pause, caught off guard. you were fully prepared to say goodbye, to sit here alone with your homework and your unspoken feelings.

“well…” you start.

but before you can finish, he’s looking at you with that stupid, goofy smile. the one he only ever really gives to you. and he says, with zero hesitation and all the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely knows what he’s doing.

“i’d be lost without my blogger.”

you freeze.

your heart skips three beats. maybe four. your brain explodes.

“you—” you choke out. “what?”

he just sips his drink, unbothered. smug. “what?” he echoes, voice light.

“you know about my blog?” you hiss, leaning across the table like it’s a secret government mission. “how do you—”

“you write like you think no one’s ever gonna read it,” he says, all soft and honest, like he hasn’t just upended your entire existence. “but i read it. every post.”

you are going to die right here in this starbucks.

“you’re the reason i passed that midterm,” he adds. “your notes? immaculate. your media takes? unhinged but smart. your entries about ‘the boy with the soft laugh’?” he wiggles his eyebrows. “flattering.”

you cover your face with both hands. “oh my god.”

he laughs—actual, full-body laughs—and reaches out like he’s going to tug your hands away, then thinks better of it and just lightly taps your wrist.

“you’re a good writer,” he says. “and a terrible liar.”

you peek through your fingers. “how long have you known?”

“first week,” he says. “you posted about my ‘strawberry crime against coffee.’ i put two and two together.”

“why didn’t you say anything?”

“i dunno,” he shrugs. “i liked being your secret muse.”

you groan. “yeonjun.”

he tilts his head. “what?”

you lower your hands, exhale, and look at him—really look at him

he’s so annoyingly pretty. he’s so bright, and funny, and stupidly clever, and he’s looking at you like you’re something worth reading twice.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter.

“oh?” he says, smirking. “so you do think i’m cute.”

you shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “are we going to soobin’s or not?”

“only if you sit next to me the whole time,” he says. “i need my blogger.”

“you’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“not a chance.”

you pack up your stuff together, sipping from the same drink, your shoulders brushing as you walk out into the golden haze of late afternoon.

it’s a little ridiculous. a little romantic. painfully soft.

you don’t know what’s going to happen next. you don’t know if this means anything real, or if he’s just teasing, or if you’re dreaming this whole thing up and you’ll wake up in your dorm bed with a dead phone and a missed alarm.

but then he slips his hand into yours without saying a word.

and you think maybe—just maybe—you’re not the only one who’s been writing love letters between the lines.

later that night, when he falls asleep halfway through a movie at soobin’s, curled into your side with his head on your shoulder, you take a picture of him and post it to your blog with no caption.

the next morning, he reblogs it from his burner account.

the tags say:

#i’d be lost without her

#yes this is about me

#no i’m not embarrassed

and you just sit there smiling at your phone like an idiot, typing one final entry for the class.

“there’s a boy i wrote about once. i thought he’d never know. i thought if he did, it would ruin everything. but it didn’t. it made everything better. it made everything real.”

you hit post.

and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re writing for a grade.

you feel like you’re writing for the boy who sees you.

the one who reads between the lines.

and honestly?

soobin had always known you were magnetic.

you didn’t even try. you’d just walk into a room and people would find you—start laughing louder, leaning in closer, saying your name like it tasted sweeter on their tongue than anyone else’s.

and he could handle that. he really could.

until it became too much.

until it was a friday night, and you were halfway across the room, surrounded by friends he didn’t recognize well enough to trust, laughing at jokes that didn’t belong to him, glowing like something no one should ever want to share.

and he was sitting alone with a drink he didn’t like and a tightness in his chest he couldn’t name.

you looked over at him once.

just once.

you smiled. soft. distracted. like someone checking in on a pet left in the corner. and then you turned back to them, and he knew—he knew—that if he vanished right then and there, no one would notice until the Uber ride home.

his throat was dry. the music was too loud. the couch felt too cold, even with your jacket still folded beside him.

when you finally came back—an hour later, maybe two—he had stopped checking the time.

“sorry,” you said, sliding next to him like nothing was wrong. “you looked comfy.”

he hummed.

you leaned your head against his shoulder. “did you eat anything? i think yeji ordered food for everyone.”

“no,” he said flatly.

you pulled back slightly. “are you okay?”

he looked at you. really looked at you. your lip gloss was smudged. someone else’s jacket was around your shoulders. your phone lit up with a new message from a contact labeled with three heart emojis and a nickname he didn’t recognize.

“yeah,” he said. “fine.”

you didn’t believe him. you never did. but you let it go.

you always did.

—

it happened again the next weekend.

a different party. different people. same feeling.

this time, you were sitting too close to someone on the back porch. they handed you a drink and you sipped it without hesitation. they whispered something, and you laughed, head thrown back, eyes gleaming.

soobin saw red.

he stood up. walked away. didn’t even look back.

you didn’t come after him.

he waited, this time, until you got home.

you unlocked the door to his apartment like always, kicked your shoes off like always, called his name in that familiar way that used to make his heart bloom.

he was already sitting on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen.

you paused. “hey.”

he didn’t answer

you walked over. sat beside him. “are you mad?”

he shook his head once.

you touched his arm. “soobin. talk to me.”

he turned. finally. and there was something in his eyes that scared you a little.

“do you even realize,” he said, voice too quiet, “how easy it is for everyone to love you?”

you blinked.

“do you realize what it feels like to sit in the background every night and watch you light up for people who don’t even know how lucky they are just to stand next to you?”

“soobin—”

“i know i said i was okay with this. with the way we are. but i lied.”

your breath caught. “what are you saying?”

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together too tightly.

“i’m saying i feel like i’m always watching you slip away from me,” he said, and his voice broke on the last word. “and i don’t know if i’m allowed to ask you to stop.”

your chest ached.

you moved closer, but he flinched back slightly. not enough to hurt—but enough to feel.

“i didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” you whispered.

“i know.”

“you should’ve told me.”

“and say what? that i can’t stand the way you laugh with them? that i hate when they text you first? that it kills me every time someone touches you like they have the right to?”

you swallowed hard. “you do have the right to.”

his laugh was soft. bitter. “do i? because lately, i’m not so sure.”

you reached out. took his hand.

he didn’t pull away this time.

“i love you,” you said. “you. only you.”

he looked at you, eyes rimmed red. “then why do you always look happier with them?”

you froze.

because he meant it. because he wasn’t accusing you—he was confessing. raw and honest. terrified.

“i didn’t know you felt that way,” you said.

“i didn’t want you to.”

the silence between you was thick. it pressed in from all sides, like if either of you moved, the whole thing would crack.

finally, you spoke. “soobin. i don’t need anyone else. i only ever wanted you.”

his voice was small. “then why does it feel like i’m losing you?”

you climbed into his lap. not to kiss him. not to make it better. just to be there. to hold him.

his arms wrapped around you slowly, like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed.

“you’re not losing me,” you said into his shoulder. “but i didn’t know you needed me to prove it.”

“i don’t want to be jealous,” he whispered. “i hate how it makes me feel. i hate thinking i’m not enough.”

you pulled back just enough to hold his face in your hands.

“you are enough,” you said. “you are everything.”

he looked at you for a long moment.

then, quietly: “please don’t make me watch you walk away. not again.”

you kissed his forehead. kissed his jaw. kissed the corners of his mouth. slow. reverent. like it was the only answer you could give.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you said.

and this time, you stayed.

—

but later that night, after he’d fallen asleep with his head on your chest and his arms clinging just a little too tightly, you stared at the ceiling and realized something else.

love wasn’t always gentle.

sometimes it ached. sometimes it cracked.

but you were willing to fight for it.

it’s raining harder than it was five minutes ago, and your jacket does nothing to help.

the city always looks a little lonelier when it rains. the streets feel quieter, like everyone’s hidden away inside cafes or under the safety of covered bus stops, and you’re the only one left braving the storm. you’d stepped out of the café too late, umbrella forgotten at home, and now you’re pressed against a damp wall beneath a half-broken awning, clutching your phone with fingers starting to shake from the cold.

you didn’t call him. not really. you just texted “it’s raining lol i’m gonna die here”, half-joking, fully resigned.

and yet, twenty minutes later, there he is—yunho, walking through the curtain of rain with a black umbrella tilted against the wind and a quiet determination written across his face.

he doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you like he’s checking for damage, then reaches out and covers you with the umbrella before you can say a word. his sweatshirt sleeves are wet at the wrists. the edge of his hair is damp from where the umbrella didn’t quite reach. he must’ve walked the whole way like that.

you want to say something sarcastic—heroic much?—but it dies on your tongue. instead, all you can manage is, “you didn’t have to come.”

“yeah,” he says, without looking at you. “but i wanted to.”

his voice is steady, like it’s a fact, not a kindness.

you fall into step beside him without asking where you’re going, both of you wordless for a moment. the umbrella’s just wide enough for the two of you, but only if you walk close—closer than usual. your arms brush every other step. at one point, your fingers graze by accident, and you don’t move away. neither does he.

your building’s a few blocks away, but the walk feels shorter with him next to you. or maybe time just slows down around yunho—softens in a way you’ve never figured out how to explain. he always brings quiet with him. not the kind that stifles, but the kind that wraps around you gently, letting you breathe.

you glance up at him as the rain patters around you. “you always do that.”

he blinks, turns his head. “do what?”

“show up.”

he’s quiet for a second, thoughtful. then he gives a small smile, the kind that makes something twist in your chest.

“you always need saving,” he says.

your eyebrows lift. “wow.”

“not in a bad way,” he adds quickly, laughing under his breath. “just… i don’t know. you always pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”

you look away, focusing on the way your shoes splash slightly in the puddles, the soft rhythm of it.

“i don’t like asking for help,” you admit, voice low.

“i know,” he says. “that’s why i don’t wait for you to ask.”

you’re silent again, but this time, it’s full of warmth. you think about how many times he’s done this—showed up with food when you skipped dinner, walked you home after night classes, stood outside your door at midnight with cookies and that boyish grin like i didn’t know what else to do, so i brought sugar.

by the time you reach your apartment building, your clothes are still damp, but you don’t feel cold anymore.

you stop at the front steps. yunho lowers the umbrella slightly but doesn’t move away, doesn’t let the space between you widen.

the rain softens around you, the city muffled and distant.

you look up at him. “do you wanna come in?”

he doesn’t hesitate. “if you’re okay with it.”

you nod, unlocking the door.

once inside, the warm air hits you, and you both take a breath. yunho toes off his soaked sneakers by the door while you peel off your jacket and toss it over a chair. you expect him to follow you into the living room, but instead, he moves toward the kitchen with the familiarity of someone who’s done this before—who belongs.

he pulls out two mugs and starts boiling water. you lean against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching him.

he doesn’t ask where things are. he already knows.

“you want the chamomile or the mint?” he asks, without turning.

“mint,” you say, voice soft. “always.”

he smiles to himself, and there’s something about that smile that makes your throat go tight. not in a painful way. just in that i-could-fall-in-love-with-you-and-i-think-i-already-did kind of way.

he hands you the tea when it’s ready, steam curling into the air between you. you take it from him, fingers brushing again.

you don’t pull away.

he notices, but he doesn’t comment.

instead, he reaches forward and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your temple for a beat longer than necessary.

you freeze—not because you’re scared, but because this feels different.

quieter. closer.

“you’re warm now?” he asks.

you nod. “yeah.”

he looks like he wants to say something else. something bigger. but instead, he just offers a small, almost shy smile and steps back.

“good,” he murmurs.

and that’s it.

no declarations. no confessions. just the soft glow of the kitchen light reflecting off your mug and the sound of rain still falling against your windows.

but something’s shifted.

and you both feel it.