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You learn quickly that silence is the easiest thing to misread.
Especially when you’re watching a blinking cursor at 2:43 AM in New York and wondering if someone on the other side of the world is thinking the same thing.
Most nights, you tell yourself not to check your phone.
Most nights, you fail.
And most nights, there’s something waiting anyway.
A message.
A voice memo.
A small reminder that Kim Hongjoong exists in a different time zone, but somehow not a different orbit.
Tonight, it’s a call.
No warning.
Just your screen lighting up with his name.
Hongjoong
You stare at it for half a second.
Then answer.
“Hi.”
There’s a pause before his voice comes through.
Soft.
Tired.
“Arden.”
You sit up a little straighter on your couch.
“You sound like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t.”
“Shocking.”
A faint laugh.
Behind him, you hear quiet studio noise. Something clicking. Someone speaking in Korean off-screen. The distant hum of work that never fully stops.
“You’re in rehearsal?” you ask.
“Yes,” he says. “We finished. I stayed behind.”
“Of course you did.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s objectively a bad thing.”
He hums like he’s considering this.
“I wanted to hear your voice.”
That lands differently than it should.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just direct.
You lean back into your couch, suddenly very aware of the quiet in your apartment.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re being weird tonight.”
“I am always normal.”
“That’s a lie.”
A small pause.
Then he laughs properly this time.
The kind that feels like it loosens something in your chest without permission.
“You saw the videos?” he asks after a beat.
Of course he knows.
You sigh.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” you say. “The internet is doing what it does. Overthinking our existence.”
“Our existence,” he repeats slowly.
You groan softly.
“Don’t repeat it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it means something.”
A pause.
Long enough that you almost think he’ll let it drop.
“Does it?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around your phone.
There it is.
The line you keep walking without meaning to.
You stare at the ceiling for a second.
Then answer honestly.
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
But not uncomfortable.
Just present.
You can hear him breathing on the other end. Can almost picture him sitting somewhere dimly lit, hair slightly messy, eyes too focused for this hour.
“I didn’t plan for any of this,” he says quietly.
“Neither did I.”
Another pause.
“But I don’t want it to stop.”
Your stomach flips slightly at that.
Not because it’s dramatic.
Because it’s simple.
And honesty, from him, always feels heavier than anything rehearsed.
You sit up again, elbows resting on your knees.
“Hongjoong,” you say carefully.
“Mm?”
“This is how people get into trouble.”
A faint laugh.
“We are already in trouble.”
You exhale through your nose.
He’s not wrong.
The internet already proved that much.
Still—
“This is fast,” you say.
“I know.”
“And complicated.”
“I know that too.”
A beat.
Then you ask the only thing that actually matters right now:
“Are you okay with that?”
Silence.
Longer this time.
Behind him, someone calls his name again.
He ignores it.
Then, finally:
“Yes.”
Simple.
Certain.
No hesitation.
Your breath catches slightly anyway.
Because you expected uncertainty.
Not that.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Then his voice softens.
“Are you?”
You let yourself think about it properly.
Not the headlines.
Not the videos.
Not the distance.
Just him.
His voice at 3 AM.
His focus when he talks about music.
The way he listens like he’s building something in his head out of your words.
“Yes,” you say finally. “I think I am.”
A quiet exhale on his end.
Like relief.
Like tension he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Good,” he says.
“Can I show you something?”
You blink.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“You’re in rehearsal.”
“I’m done.”
You hear movement on his end. Chairs shifting. A door closing. The background noise fading as he steps somewhere quieter.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “What is it?”
There’s a rustle.
Then music starts.
Faint at first.
Then clearer.
A rough demo.
You sit up immediately.
“Is this—”
“My group’s next track,” he interrupts quickly.
You freeze slightly.
“Oh.”
“I wanted your opinion,” he adds.
Your chest tightens at that.
Not because it’s secret.
But because it’s trust.
Real trust.
“I’m not qualified for that,” you say automatically.
“You are,” he replies instantly.
No hesitation.
You listen anyway.
The track builds.
Layered production.
Sharp edges softened by melody.
And underneath it all—his fingerprints. His structure. His instinct.
You don’t even realize you’re nodding slightly until it ends.
When it stops, you sit in silence for a moment.
Then:
“Okay,” you say quietly.
“Okay good or okay bad?” he asks immediately.
You smile.
“Okay dangerous.”
A pause.
Then he laughs under his breath.
“I’ll take it.”
“You always should.”
Silence again settles between you.
Comfortable.
Familiar now in a way that feels slightly alarming.
“I saw your studio photos earlier,” you say after a while.
“My studio photos?”
“Fans posted them.”
A small groan.
“Ah.”
“You looked stressed.”
“I was.”
“You always look stressed.”
“I am always stressed.”
“That tracks.”
He laughs again softly.
Then quieter:
“You should be asleep.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“I’m working.”
“So am I.”
Then, almost gently:
“You’re not writing right now.”
You go still.
“…How do you know?”
A faint hum.
“I can hear it in your voice.”
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it.
“That’s not a real skill.”
“It is.”
You shift on the couch, pulling a blanket over your legs.
“I was thinking,” you admit.
“About?”
You hesitate.
Then decide honesty is safer than avoidance.
“Everything.”
“Me too.”
That makes something quiet settle between you.
Not heavy.
Not light.
Just… real.
You don’t know how long you stay on the call after that.
Long enough that the conversation stops needing structure.
Short answers.
Soft laughter.
Occasional silence that doesn’t feel like absence.
Eventually, he speaks again.
“Arden.”
“Yeah?”
“Text me when you actually sleep.”
You smile faintly into the dim light of your apartment.
“I don’t sleep,” you say automatically.
“I know,” he replies.
Then, softer:
“But try.”
A pause.
You answer honestly.
“Okay.”
“Good.”
Neither of you hangs up immediately.
Because now that feels normal too.
And somewhere between New York night and Seoul morning, the distance stops feeling like space.
And starts feeling like something you’re both learning to cross anyway.
Being Stray Kids’s unofficial older sister was exhausting in the way babysitting eight overgrown, famous toddlers was exhausting.
Especially when one of those toddlers was your actual little brother.
“Binnie, that is not how you cut an onion.”
“I’m literally doing it right,” Changbin argued from the kitchen.
“You’re holding the knife upside down.”
Minho deadpanned
“…Oh.”
You sighed from your spot on the couch, not even looking up from your laptop. “Thank you for proving my point.”
Around you, chaos unfolded in its usual comfortable rhythm. BangChan and Jisung were arguing over music at approximately the same volume as a jet engine. Jeongin had somehow convinced Felix to help him hide every single spoon in the dorm. Hyunjin was dramatically mourning the death of a plant nobody remembered buying. Seungmin was sitting next to you trying not to get involved.
And you?
You were used to it.
For years, actually.
You’d known most of them since they were awkward trainees surviving on convenience store ramen and determination. Somewhere along the line, you’d become the person they called when they were sick, stressed, homesick, overwhelmed, or incapable of doing basic adult tasks.
Which was constantly.
“You’re making that face again,” Chan said, dropping onto the couch beside you.
“What face?”
“The ‘I regret caring about you people’ face.”
“I always regret caring about you people.”
He grinned. “But you still do.”
Unfortunately, yes.
You did.
That was probably why they got away with so much.
Because no matter how annoying they became, you were patient. Calm. Reasonable. The stable adult in the middle of the hurricane.
Even the members admitted it.
“She’s impossible to make angry,” Felix once said confidently during a livestream.
You’d snorted from behind the camera. “Please don’t test that theory.”
“Seriously,” Hyunjin added. “I’ve never seen noona actually mad.”
Changbin had nodded. “She gets annoyed. That’s different.”
Because someone had to be emotionally functional around here.
Which was why absolutely nobody noticed you reaching your limit.
Not at first.
It started with little things.
“Who used my charger?”
Silence.
You looked around the living room slowly.
Eight suspiciously innocent faces stared back.
“Guys.”
“I think it disappeared naturally,” Jisung said.
“You think my charger underwent evolution and walked away?”
“That’s scientifically possible.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Then your hoodie vanished.
Then your headphones.
Then someone drank the iced coffee you’d specifically labeled with your name and three warning stickers.
You found the empty cup in Minho’s hand.
“I was thirsty,” he said simply.
“You could’ve ordered your own.”
“I could’ve,” he agreed.
You narrowed your eyes.
He smiled.
You should’ve recognized the danger then.
But the problem with living among chaos for too long was that your standards adjusted accordingly.
So when they started a prank war, you assumed it would burn itself out naturally.
That was your first mistake.
“It was funny,” Felix insisted after Chan opened his bedroom door and got hit in the face with confetti.
“It got in my eye!”
“You’ll survive.”
Then Hyunjin wrapped Changbin’s entire gaming setup in pink ribbon.
Then Jisung replaced all the family photos with pictures of bread.
Then Minho filled Chan’s room with rubber ducks.
It escalated rapidly.
Because of course it did.
You tried staying out of it.
“I’m neutral,” you declared firmly.
“Coward,” Changbin accused.
“Emotionally intelligent,” you corrected.
“You’re no fun.”
“I pay taxes and schedule my own doctor appointments. Fun left my body years ago.”
Unfortunately, neutrality meant you became a target.
The first prank was harmless.
You opened your bedroom door one morning to find hundreds of sticky notes covering every visible surface.
Cute.
Annoying.
But cute.
The second prank involved Jisung setting your ringtone to a recording of Changbin screaming.
You nearly threw your phone into traffic.
The third prank—
“Why,” you asked slowly, staring at the kitchen, “is everything blue?”
Felix looked delighted with himself.
“Food coloring.”
“The milk is blue.”
“Yep.”
“The rice is blue.”
“Yep.”
“The water in the Brita filter is blue.”
“That one took effort.”
You closed your eyes.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
“Okay,” you said calmly. “That’s enough now.”
“Aww, noona’s annoyed,” Hyunjin cooed.
“I’m not annoyed. I’m concerned.”
“About what?”
“About your survival instincts.”
Changbin cackled loudly from the couch.
Traitor.
Still, they backed off for a little while after that.
For approximately thirty-six hours.
Then schedules got stressful.
Everyone got sleep deprived.
The dorm became progressively messier.
And somehow, despite being neither their manager nor their maid, you ended up cleaning after eight exhausted men who had apparently forgotten trash cans existed.
Again.
You didn’t complain.
Much.
But little frustrations started piling up.
Like stepping on wet towels.
Or finding dishes in places dishes should never be.
Or discovering someone had eaten the leftovers you’d been thinking about all day.
You came home one evening after a brutal workday to find the living room looking like a tornado had personally visited.
Clothes everywhere.
Takeout containers stacked on the table.
Three open bags of chips spilled across the couch.
And in the middle of it all—
Jisung and Hyunjin sword fighting with cardboard tubes.
You stood in the doorway silently.
Nobody noticed.
“I’m winning,” Hyunjin declared.
“You’re literally losing.”
“Artistically, I’m winning.”
You slowly set your bag down.
Still nobody noticed.
Then Changbin walked in from the kitchen holding your mug.
Your mug.
The one you explicitly told them not to touch because it had been a gift from your mother.
“Oh, hey,” he said casually.
And then—
He dropped it.
The ceramic shattered against the floor.
Silence.
Every head turned.
Changbin froze.
You stared at the broken pieces.
Honestly, if that had been the only thing? You probably would’ve brushed it off.
But exhaustion, stress, and weeks of accumulated irritation finally snapped like a stretched rubber band.
“What,” you said quietly, “is wrong with all of you?”
The room went still.
Not playful still.
Terrified still.
Your voice wasn’t loud yet.
That somehow made it worse.
“I clean this place constantly. I replace things you lose. I cook for you. I help you. I listen to every problem you have at three in the morning—”
“Noona—”
“No,” you cut in sharply.
Changbin immediately shut up.
That alone startled everyone.
“I ask for ONE thing. Basic respect. That’s it.”
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
You pointed at the disaster surrounding you.
“This is ridiculous. You’re adults. Famous adults, actually. And somehow not one of you knows how to throw away garbage or wash a dish or leave my things alone for five minutes.”
Jisung looked seconds away from evaporating.
“I’m tired,” you continued, voice finally rising. “I am SO tired of cleaning up after everyone while you destroy the apartment like unsupervised twelve-year-olds!”
Jeongin physically shrank into the couch.
Seungmin stared at you like he’d just witnessed a natural disaster.
“And this stupid prank war?” you snapped. “It stopped being funny days ago!”
Nobody spoke.
Even Minho looked alarmed.
You laughed once, sharp and exhausted.
“I mean, seriously, what did you think was going to happen? That I’d just keep smiling while you trashed everything?”
Chan opened his mouth carefully. “We didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t mean to,” you interrupted. “That’s the problem. None of you think.”
The second the words left your mouth, guilt hit immediately.
Because their expressions—
Oh no.
Eight devastated faces stared back at you.
Changbin looked especially crushed.
You pressed a hand against your forehead.
The anger drained out of you almost instantly, leaving exhaustion behind.
“…I need a minute.”
Then you walked straight to your room and shut the door.
Outside, silence lingered for a full ten seconds.
“Oh my god,” Felix whispered.
“We’re dead,” Jisung said faintly.
“I’ve never heard her yell before,” Hyunjin muttered.
Chan dragged both hands down his face. “Okay. Nobody panic.”
“Nobody panic?” Changbin repeated incredulously. “She used my government name.”
“That’s true,” Minho admitted. “That’s serious.”
“I think my soul left my body.”
Changbin sat down heavily on the couch, staring at the broken mug pieces still scattered across the floor.
“…I broke Mom’s present.”
“You did,” Minho confirmed.
“Not helping.”
For the first time since the prank war started, the dorm fell completely quiet.
Because the thing about you was—
You were safe.
Comforting.
Steady.
The person they leaned on.
Seeing you genuinely angry felt deeply wrong.
Like accidentally making the sun disappear.
Chan exhaled slowly. “Okay. Damage control.”
“Should we apologize?” Jeongin asked weakly.
“Yes, obviously.”
“What if she never forgives us?”
“She’ll forgive us,” Chan said.
A pause.
“…Eventually.”
“That did not make me feel better.”
Meanwhile, in your room, you sat on the edge of your bed staring at the wall.
You hated yelling.
Especially at them.
They were idiots, yes, but they were your idiots.
A quiet knock came after about twenty minutes.
You already knew who it was.
“Come in.”
Changbin entered carefully, like approaching a wild animal.
Seeing your little brother look genuinely nervous made your guilt worse instantly.
He stood awkwardly near the door.
“…You really scared us.”
You groaned softly, covering your face. “I know.”
“No, like. Hyunjin almost started praying.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s Hyunjin.”
Fair.
Changbin shuffled closer slowly before sitting beside you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he mumbled, “Sorry about the mug.”
Your shoulders sagged.
“I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”
“You should’ve yelled sooner.”
You blinked at him.
Changbin scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Seriously. We’ve been annoying.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.”
“We kinda forgot you’re a person too.”
You stared at him.
“That sounded bad,” he said quickly. “I mean—not like that—”
“I know what you meant.”
And honestly?
He wasn’t wrong.
You’d slipped too comfortably into taking care of everyone. And they’d gotten too comfortable being taken care of.
It happened.
Still, the guilt lingered.
“I didn’t mean what I said.”
“Yes, you did.”
You frowned.
Changbin looked at you seriously. “Noona. We ARE acting like children.”
“…Maybe slightly.”
“You literally found ramen in the bathroom yesterday.”
You pointed at him accusingly. “That was yours.”
“Not important right now.”
Despite yourself, you snorted.
Relief flooded his face instantly.
“Oh thank god.”
The door burst open immediately afterward.
“She laughed!” Felix announced.
And suddenly all eight members piled into your room at once.
“Move,” Minho complained.
“You move.”
“I was here first!”
“You literally weren’t.”
The noise hit full force again, but this time it felt softer somehow.
More careful.
Hyunjin sat on the floor dramatically. “I thought our family was broken forever.”
“You saw me upset for thirty minutes.”
“It was the worst thirty minutes of my life.”
Chan crouched in front of you with the exhausted expression of a man who managed seven disasters professionally.
“We’re sorry.”
The others nodded immediately.
“Really sorry,” Felix added.
Jisung raised a hand. “I would also like forgiveness for the bread photos.”
“No,” you said automatically.
“That’s fair.”
Minho leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We got a little carried away.”
“A little?”
“A lot,” Chan corrected.
You looked around at all of them.
At their guilty faces.
At the genuine worry still lingering in the room.
And your irritation softened completely.
“…I shouldn’t have exploded.”
“No,” Changbin said immediately. “That part was deserved.”
“Very deserved,” Seungmin agreed.
“I heard disappointment in her voice,” Felix whispered. “I almost cried.”
“You DID cry,” Jisung corrected.
“That was private!”
You laughed despite yourself.
The tension finally cracked.
Chan sighed dramatically in relief. “Okay. Good. Nobody’s disowned.”
“Yet,” you warned.
Hyunjin gasped. “There’s still danger.”
“There’s always danger.”
Then Changbin nudged your shoulder lightly.
“We’ll clean the dorm.”
“You said that last week.”
“We mean it this time.”
“You also said that last week.”
“Okay but emotionally this time feels different.”
The others nodded solemnly.
You eyed them suspiciously.
“…How different?”
Twenty minutes later, you stood in the kitchen watching eight members aggressively deep-clean the dorm like their lives depended on it.
Which, socially speaking, they apparently believed they did.
“Felix, vacuum properly!”
“I AM!”
“Why are you vacuuming the wall?”
“It looked dusty!”
Hyunjin held up a mystery container carefully. “Should this be alive?”
“No,” Chan answered immediately. “Throw it out.”
Minho passed you quietly carrying trash bags.
“…Feel better?”
You glanced around at the chaos of cleaning.
At Changbin arguing with Jisung over detergent.
At Felix humming while organizing snacks.
At Chan looking relieved you were speaking normally again.
And yeah.
You did.
“A little.”
Minho nodded once. “Good.”
Then he added casually, “You yelling was terrifying, by the way.”
“You too?”
“I considered writing a will.”
You rolled your eyes.
Drama queens. Every single one of them.
But later that night, after the dorm was finally clean and everyone had settled down, Chan found you alone in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea.
“You know,” he said quietly, “you don’t always have to be patient with us.”
You looked up.
He leaned against the counter, expression unusually sincere.
“We love you either way.”
The words hit harder than expected.
Because maybe that was part of the problem.
You were so used to being dependable that you forgot you were allowed to get frustrated too.
Allowed to have limits.
Allowed to be human.
Even around people you loved.
Especially around people you loved.
You smiled faintly. “Don’t get used to me yelling.”
It happens in the middle of an ordinary rehearsal day—fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above, the dance studio warm from movement, music still echoing even after the speakers cut off.
You’re sitting on the floor against the mirrored wall, one knee bent, the other stretched out, scrolling through your phone while the members hydrate and complain in equal measure.
“Hyung, I swear my soul just left my body,” Wooyoung groans, flopping down nearby.
“Your soul left your body during warm-up,” Mingi replies, tossing him a water bottle.
It’s chaos, but normal chaos.
Then San leans over your shoulder.
“Wait,” he says suddenly.
You glance up. “What?”
He squints at your screen. “Do you… have any photos of yourself on there?”
That gets everyone’s attention faster than a dropped beat.
“What?” Yunho straightens.
San points, like he’s discovered a glitch in the universe. “Her gallery. I just noticed—she’s showing me something from last week, and I scrolled. There’s no selfies. Like… none.”
You blink. “Why would I have selfies?”
The room goes quiet.
Even Jongho, sitting nearby wiping sweat from his neck, pauses.
“…You don’t take photos of yourself?” Yeosang asks carefully, like he’s approaching a wild animal.
You shrug. “Not really.”
Wooyoung gasps like you’ve confessed to a crime. “Not even one??”
“I mean,” you say, scrolling back to your home screen, “if I need a photo of myself I usually just… avoid needing it.”
That earns you eight different reactions at once.
Horror.
Disbelief.
Deep personal offense.
And Jongho, very quietly, narrowing his eyes like he’s already decided this is a problem that requires immediate correction.
“You don’t even take pictures when we’re out?” Seonghwa asks.
“I take pictures of you,” you correct.
“That is not the same thing,” Mingi says, offended on a philosophical level.
Hongjoong, who has been quiet, leans forward slightly. “How many pictures are on your phone total?”
You stare at him. “Intervening in what. My lack of narcissism?”
“Yes,” he says seriously.
Jongho stands up.
That alone is usually enough to end arguments.
But instead of stopping them, he looks at you with an expression that is… strangely determined.
“You’re my sister,” he says simply. “This is concerning.”
You narrow your eyes. “Traitor.”
“I’m your concerned traitor.”
That ends the discussion for the moment—but not the topic.
And you don’t notice the way Hongjoong exchanges a look with Seonghwa.
Or how San quietly steals your phone later when you’re distracted.
Or how, by the end of the day, something has already started.
It begins small.
Almost unnoticeable.
A single candid photo sent to your phone at 11:48 PM.
It’s Wooyoung, mid-laugh, face scrunched up, holding a ridiculous amount of snacks in both hands like he’s just won war spoils.
Caption: “Evidence that I am fun. You’re welcome.”
You stare at it for a long moment before you realize what’s happening.
Then another notification pops up.
Mingi: a blurry photo of you walking ahead of him in the hallway, hair slightly messy, hoodie too big, completely unaware.
No caption.
Just a heart emoji.
Then Yunho.
A video: you scolding San for something unclear, hands on hips, while San nods like he’s being blessed by divine judgment.
The camera shakes because Yunho is laughing behind it.
You sit up in bed slowly.
“What… is this,” you whisper.
Your phone buzzes again.
Seonghwa: a perfectly framed photo of you asleep in the van earlier that day, head tilted against the window, sunlight on your face.
It’s soft.
Too soft.
You stare at it longer than you mean to.
Then Jongho messages you:
Stop overthinking it. Go to sleep.
You frown.
Then, after a pause:
Also don’t delete them.
You blink.
“…What?”
The next day, it escalates.
You realize it at breakfast.
You’re pouring cereal when Wooyoung casually slides into the seat across from you and holds up his phone.
“Say cheese.”
Click.
“What are you doing,” you say slowly.
“Documenting history,” he replies.
“You’re being weird.”
“Correct.”
You reach for his phone.
He pulls it back immediately. “Ah-ah-ah. No confiscation. This is public service.”
San leans over your shoulder and snaps another photo of you mid-reach.
“Stop it,” you say.
“No,” San replies cheerfully.
Across the table, Hongjoong is quietly watching, expression unreadable.
Seonghwa is smiling.
Yeosang is trying—and failing—not to laugh.
And Jongho?
Jongho is eating breakfast like he is absolutely not involved in anything happening.
Which is how you know he is definitely involved.
By the third day, you start noticing patterns.
Mingi is the worst offender for stealth photos—always angled, always candid, always slightly chaotic.
Wooyoung prefers dramatic reenactments: “act natural” followed by immediate betrayal.
San films everything like he’s making a documentary titled “The Emotional Life of Jongho’s Sister (2026 Edition)”.
Yunho catches you in soft moments you didn’t know existed—stretching in sunlight, laughing at something off-camera, resting your head on your hand while reading.
Seonghwa is precise. Almost artistic. His photos look like they belong in magazines.
Yeosang doesn’t take many—but the ones he does feel intentional in a way that makes you weirdly quiet when you see them.
Hongjoong rarely takes photos directly.
But somehow, there are always new ones appearing.
And Jongho?
Jongho is organizing them.
You figure this out when you catch him on your laptop late at night, exporting files into folders.
“You’re seriously cataloguing them?” you ask from behind him.
He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes.”
“…Why.”
“So you don’t lose them.”
“I don’t lose things.”
He pauses. Looks at you over his shoulder.
“You literally don’t have photos of yourself.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s not.”
You lean against the doorframe, watching him. “This is weirdly organized for a prank.”
“It’s not a prank,” he says.
That makes you pause.
“…Then what is it?”
Jongho looks back at the screen, expression unreadable for a moment.
Then he says, very simply:
“You deserve to exist in your own life.”
That lands heavier than you expect.
You don’t respond right away.
So he adds, quieter:
“And we’re fixing it.”
The next stage is louder.
You wake up one morning to find your lock screen changed.
It’s a photo of you mid-laugh, head thrown back, Wooyoung’s arm barely visible as he clearly took it from too close.
You stare at it for a full ten seconds.
Then sit up abruptly.
“WHO—”
Your phone buzzes.
Wooyoung: good morning :)
San: you’re welcome
Mingi: it’s cute right
Yunho: don’t change it
Seonghwa: it suits you
Yeosang: leave it for a week at least
Hongjoong: we will notice if you change it
Jongho: don’t argue. eat breakfast.
You sit there in silence.
Then whisper, “I am being emotionally bullied.”
It becomes routine after that.
A new photo every day.
Sometimes ten.
Sometimes one really well-timed video that ruins your ability to function for several hours.
You try to protest.
You really do.
You delete a few.
They reappear.
You change your lock screen.
It changes back.
You try locking your phone more aggressively.
Wooyoung learns your passcode in under two days “for emergency purposes.”
You start to suspect Hongjoong is involved in surveillance-level coordination.
“Are you all insane,” you say one evening, watching San air-drop another batch of photos to your phone.
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The first thing you learned about working with ENHYPEN was that exhaustion came with the job description.
The second thing you learned was that Nishimura Riki—Ni-ki to the world, but mostly “Riki” to the staff—was impossible to ignore.
Not because he tried to stand out.
Quite the opposite.
He moved through airports with his hood up and his headphones on, quietly bowing to staff members while the older members filled the space around him with noise. He rarely complained during fittings, never argued about schedules, and somehow still apologized when you had to stay late adjusting stage outfits.
“Sorry,” he’d mumble every single time you crouched near his shoes to fix a pant hem.
“You say sorry like I’m being held hostage here,” you told him once.
His ears had turned pink.
“I just… don’t want you tired because of me.”
That had been six months ago.
Now you were in Tokyo, surviving on convenience store coffee and three hours of sleep while preparing the group for a packed week of Japanese promotions.
Your hotel room overlooked glittering city streets, though you’d barely had time to appreciate them. Every day blurred together in a haze of garment bags, touch-up kits, frantic schedule changes, and chasing members down hallways with lint rollers.
Tonight had been especially chaotic.
One of the stage jackets ripped minutes before recording.
Jake spilled makeup powder over two backup outfits.
Sunghoon accidentally walked off wearing the wrong jewelry set.
And through all of it, Riki kept hovering nearby.
“Do you need water?”
“You haven’t eaten yet.”
“I can hold that for you.”
At first, you thought he was simply being polite.
Then you noticed he only did it with you.
By the time filming finally wrapped, your shoulders ached so badly you wanted to cry.
The members piled into vans, loud and relieved, while staff scrambled to reorganize tomorrow’s schedules.
You stayed behind in the dressing room, hanging costumes carefully so they wouldn’t wrinkle overnight.
The room had mostly emptied when the door slid open again.
You didn’t look up immediately. “Did someone forget something?”
Silence.
Then—
“You’re still working.”
You glanced over your shoulder.
Riki stood in the doorway wearing a black hoodie and loose gray sweatpants, blond hair slightly damp from removing stage styling. Without makeup and performance clothes, he looked softer somehow. Younger.
Still unfairly beautiful.
“I’m almost done,” you said.
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him quietly. “You said that forty minutes ago.”
“You timed me?”
“I noticed.”
Your chest did a strange little flip.
You quickly turned back toward the clothing rack. “The sooner I finish, the sooner I sleep.”
“That’s exactly why I came back.”
“Hm?”
You felt him move closer.
Not too close.
Never enough to make you uncomfortable.
“I was wondering,” he said carefully, “if you’re free tomorrow night.”
You blinked.
“Tomorrow?”
“After schedules.”
You finally looked at him fully. “Why?”
For one terrifying second, he seemed nervous.
Actually nervous.
The same boy who performed in front of stadiums was suddenly rubbing the back of his neck like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Somewhere?”
“In Tokyo.” His mouth twitched shyly. “I want to show you my favorite places.”
The room suddenly felt much warmer.
“Riki…”
“If you’re busy, it’s okay,” he rushed out. “I know you probably want rest and I know staff rules are complicated and I don’t want to pressure you—”
“I didn’t say no.”
He stopped speaking.
The silence stretched.
Then his eyes widened slightly.
“So… is that a yes?”
You tried not to smile too hard. “I guess it is.”
The grin that spread across his face made your heart genuinely stutter.
—
The next evening felt strangely unreal.
You spent nearly an hour staring at your suitcase trying to decide what qualified as not-a-date-but-possibly-a-date clothing.
In the end, you settled on something simple: a cream sweater, dark skirt, tights, and your warmest coat against the Tokyo winter air.
You told yourself your nerves were ridiculous.
He was just showing you around.
That was all.
Then your phone buzzed.
Riki: I’m downstairs :)
Your heart immediately forgot how to function.
When you stepped outside the hotel, he was waiting near the entrance with his hands shoved into his coat pockets. No stylists. No managers. No cameras.
Just him.
And when he saw you—
He froze.
Actually froze.
You laughed nervously. “Why are you staring at me?”
“You look…” He swallowed. “Really pretty.”
Heat rushed straight into your face.
“Thank you.”
He looked equally embarrassed after saying it, gaze darting toward the streetlights. “Ready?”
“Lead the way.”
Tokyo at night was breathtaking.
The city glowed endlessly around you—towering screens, neon reflections against wet pavement, crowded sidewalks buzzing with life despite the cold.
And somehow, beside you, Riki looked completely at home in it all.
“This was the first place I came alone after moving back and forth for training,” he told you as he guided you through narrow side streets in Shibuya. “I got lost for like two hours.”
You laughed. “You? Lost?”
“I was fourteen.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Hey.”
You grinned when he nudged your shoulder lightly.
The night unfolded gently after that.
He took you to a tiny ramen shop tucked beneath glowing signs where the owner greeted him like family.
Then to an arcade where he became outrageously competitive over claw machines.
“You’re cheating.”
“I’m talented.”
“You literally leaned into the machine.”
“That’s strategy.”
“You’re a liar.”
His laugh came bright and unguarded, and you realized with startling clarity that you’d never seen him this relaxed before.
Not on stage.
Not backstage.
Not during practice.
Just… happy.
At one point, after finally winning a plushie on his fifth attempt, he handed it to you casually.
“For you.”
“You fought that machine for twenty minutes.”
“Exactly. Treasure it.”
You hugged the plushie to your chest anyway.
As the hours passed, Tokyo shifted around you.
The crowds thinned.
The air grew colder.
And somehow, the distance between you disappeared little by little.
You stopped noticing when your shoulders brushed.
Stopped noticing how often he looked at you.
Stopped pretending your feelings weren’t becoming dangerous.
By the time he led you toward the quieter streets near the river, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
“You’re different tonight,” you told him softly.
Riki glanced over. “Different how?”
“Less guarded.”
He walked silently for a moment.
Then—
“I think I’m happiest in Japan.”
The honesty in his voice caught you off guard.
“I miss it when we’re away too long,” he admitted. “The food. The streets. Hearing Japanese everywhere.” His breath fogged in the cold air. “I wanted to show you this version of me.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“You don’t have to show me a different version,” you said quietly. “I like the one I already know.”
He stopped walking.
You nearly bumped into him.
When you looked up, his expression had changed completely.
Softer.
Warmer.
Terrifyingly sincere.
The city lights reflected in his eyes as he stared at you like he was trying to gather courage for something.
“Can I tell you something honestly?”
Your pulse skipped.
“Okay…”
“I’ve liked you for a long time.”
The world seemed to still.
Cars passed somewhere nearby.
Water rippled quietly beside the walkway.
But all you could focus on was him.
Riki exhaled shakily, laughing once under his breath like he couldn’t believe he was doing this.
“At first I thought it would go away,” he admitted. “Because you work with us and because everyone likes you and because maybe I was just being stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“But then every time you fixed my outfits or stayed late to help us or remembered tiny things about me…” His voice softened. “I kept falling harder.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
He stepped closer carefully, giving you every chance to pull away.
“I know this is complicated,” he murmured. “And I know I’m busy all the time. But when I think about who I want beside me…” His gaze met yours fully. “It’s you.”
Your heart felt impossibly full.
“Riki…”
“If you don’t feel the same, that’s okay,” he said quickly, though his voice betrayed how much it mattered. “I just didn’t want to regret never telling you.”
You stared at him for one long, breathless moment.
Then finally whispered—
“I like you too.”
He blinked.
“You do?”
You laughed softly despite your nerves. “Obviously.”
The relief that crossed his face was almost overwhelming.
“You have no idea how nervous I was.”
“You’re good at hiding it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You really aren’t.”
That made him laugh again.
God, you loved that sound.
The wind shifted gently around you, carrying distant city noise through the night.
Riki looked at you carefully then.
Almost shyly.
“Can I ask something else?”
Your heartbeat quickened.
“Yes.”
His voice dropped softer.
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
The question settled between you so tenderly it nearly hurt.
And suddenly every late-night fitting, every shared glance backstage, every quiet moment over the past months made sense all at once.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
“Yes.”
His breath caught.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, Riki.”
For a second he simply looked stunned.
Then genuinely happy.
Not idol happy.
Not camera happy.
Real happy.
The kind that reached all the way into his eyes.
He stepped closer until barely inches separated you.
“Can I kiss you?”
Your heart nearly exploded.
You nodded once.
That was all the permission he needed.
His hand lifted carefully to your cheek, warm despite the winter cold, and then his lips met yours in the gentlest kiss imaginable.
Soft.
Tentative.
Sweet enough to make your chest ache.
The city lights blurred behind your closed eyes as he kissed you like something precious—like he’d wanted to do it for far longer than tonight.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless.
And smiling.
“You know,” you whispered, “you’re very different offstage.”
He tilted his head innocently. “Better or worse?”
You pretended to think about it.
“Still deciding.”
He laughed quietly and rested his forehead against yours.
“Good,” he murmured. “That means I get another date to convince you.”
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.
Around you, Tokyo continued glowing endlessly into the night.
But somehow, standing beside him beneath the neon skyline, the entire world felt softer now.
Hi I was wondering if you were open to doing a reaction or scenario where Ateez has a crush on reader and one day they learn somehow that reader has a crush on somebody else (preferably not another member if that’s cool). No confessions, just like they happened to somehow learn that reader has had her eyes on someone else too
Hope this is what you had in mind love❤️
He Has a Crush on You and Finds Out You Like Someone Else
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No naming things too early, because naming things made them real in ways you didn’t always know how to control.
But the song still found its shape anyway.
In the quiet hours between New York nights and Seoul mornings, between studio sessions and airport lounges, between conversations that never quite felt like they were ending.
It became something you stopped fighting.
Something that sounded suspiciously like him.
Not directly.
Never directly.
But in rhythm.
In structure.
In the way the chorus kept rising like it was answering a question nobody had asked out loud yet.
—
You were alone in your apartment when it finally happened.
Rain pressed against the windows again—New York doing what it always did when your thoughts got too loud.
Your notebook was open on the floor.
Your guitar leaned against the couch.
Your voice recorder sat on the table like it had been waiting all week for permission.
You didn’t think.
You just started recording.
No polish.
No second take.
Just honesty.
When you finished, the silence afterward felt heavier than usual.
Like something had shifted in the room.
You stared at the waveform on your phone.
Then at the message thread.
And before doubt could catch up to you—
You sent it.
To him.
It took seven minutes for him to listen.
You counted.
You regretted counting immediately.
Then it took three more minutes for him to respond.
Which was worse.
Because silence meant everything and nothing at the same time.
Finally—
Your phone rang.
You answered without hesitation.
“Hi,” you said quickly, too quickly.
Hongjoong didn’t speak right away.
You heard him breathe first.
Then again.
Like he was grounding himself.
“Arden.”
His voice was quieter than usual.
Not tired.
Just… careful.
“Yeah?” you asked.
“You wrote that for me.”
It wasn’t a question.
Your stomach dropped slightly.
You stared at the rain streaking down your window.
“I didn’t—” you started automatically.
Stopped.
Because lying would have been pointless.
You exhaled softly.
“…I don’t know what I wrote it for.”
Another silence.
But this one felt different.
Thicker.
Not uncomfortable.
Just loaded.
“You didn’t say my name,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
A faint sound on the other end—something like a soft laugh, but not quite.
“You don’t,” he agreed.
That should have made things easier.
It didn’t.
You sat down slowly on the floor, phone pressed to your ear.
“What did you hear?” you asked.
A beat.
“I heard distance.”
Your chest tightened.
“And?”
A longer pause this time.
Then he answered honestly.
“I heard someone trying not to need someone else.”
That hit harder than you expected.
You swallowed lightly.
“That’s not what it’s about.”
“Isn’t it?”
You didn’t respond immediately.
Because the frustrating part was—
He wasn’t wrong.
Not entirely.
The song wasn’t about him.
Not literally.
It was about everything that made connections feel impossible and inevitable at the same time.
Schedules.
Cities.
Time zones.
Timing.
All the things you couldn’t control.
And somehow—
him.
“You’re overanalyzing it,” you said softly.
“I’m a producer,” he replied immediately. “It’s my job.”
You huffed a quiet laugh despite yourself.
Then silence settled again.
Comfortable this time.
Different from before.
Like you both had stepped over something without fully acknowledging it.
“I liked it,” he said finally.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” he answered simply. “It feels honest.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around your phone.
“That’s good feedback,” you murmured.
Another pause.
Then quieter:
“I didn’t know I was going to hear myself in it.”
Your breath caught slightly.
“You’re not in it,” you said quickly.
A soft exhale on his end.
“I know.”
But neither of you believed that was the full truth.
—
After the call ended, you didn’t move for a long time.
The rain kept falling.
Your phone stayed warm in your hand.
And the song—your song—looped quietly from your laptop speaker like it didn’t understand the weight it had just gained.
You should have felt embarrassed.
Or exposed.
Or nervous.
Instead, you felt something much more complicated.
Like you’d just handed someone a piece of yourself and they’d recognized it without trying to claim it.
Which somehow made it worse.
And better.
At the same time.
—
The next morning, your phone buzzed before you’d even gotten out of bed.
Hongjoong
Don’t delete it.
You stared at the message for a second.
Then replied immediately.
Arden
I wasn’t going to.
Three dots appeared.
Hongjoong
Good.
We should build it.
You blinked.
Slowly sat up.
Arden
Build what?
Instant reply.
Hongjoong
The song.
You hesitated.
Your heart doing something mildly inconvenient.
Arden
That’s not how this works.
Hongjoong
It can be.
You stared at the screen.
Outside, New York traffic started waking up.
Inside your apartment, everything felt suddenly very still.
Then your phone buzzed again.
Hongjoong
If you’ll let me.
That was the part that got you.
Not the collaboration.
Not the music.
The asking.
You stared at it for a long moment.
Then typed:
Arden
Okay.
And somewhere across the world, in a studio full of unfinished tracks and too much coffee, he replied instantly:
Hongjoong
Good.
Like he already knew this wasn’t just a song anymore.
The first thing you noticed when the new episode of BTS Run BTS dropped wasn’t the thumbnail.
It wasn’t the caption either.
It was the group chat notification exploding your phone at nine in the morning.
Taehyung:
Watch the episode NOW
Jimin:
😭😭😭😭
Namjoon:
Some things never change
Hoseok:
Our baby bunny got exposed again
You were still half asleep, tangled in the blankets of the apartment you shared with Jungkook, blinking against the brightness of your screen.
Jungkook himself was gone.
Run BTS filming trip.
Three days.
An Airbnb somewhere in the countryside with all seven members crammed together like they were rookies again instead of global superstars with sold-out stadium tours and luxury apartments.
You already knew chaos had happened.
The members together for more than twelve hours always turned them back into teenagers.
Especially Jungkook.
Especially when his hyungs got nostalgic.
You clicked the episode with a smile already pulling at your lips.
Because honestly?
You already knew exactly what Taehyung had done before you even saw it.
You’d known Jungkook since he was fifteen.
Back when his voice cracked mid-practice.
Back when he bowed too much.
Back when he hid behind oversized hoodies and followed the older members around with huge eyes and nervous hands.
You’d been a trainee too.
Not under the same company, but close enough that paths crossed constantly in tiny practice rooms and convenience stores at midnight.
Back then, Jungkook had been shy in a way people barely believed now.
Not quiet exactly.
Just soft.
The kind of soft that made him offer the last banana milk to someone else even when it was clearly his favorite.
The kind of soft that fell asleep sitting upright against practice room mirrors because he refused to complain about exhaustion.
The kind of soft that melted instantly under affection.
Especially from his members.
You remembered one winter night vividly.
Jungkook had been sixteen then, exhausted after monthly evaluations, curled up on the studio couch while Taehyung absentmindedly played with his hair.
Not teasing.
Not joking.
Just gently combing his fingers through Jungkook’s dark strands while the younger practically purred in his sleep.
“Hyung…” Jungkook had mumbled sleepily.
Taehyung only grinned. “Sleep, baby.”
And Jungkook had.
Immediately.
You remembered standing in the doorway thinking:
He really loves being taken care of.
Years later, absolutely nothing had changed.
Sure, the world saw tattoos now.
Piercings.
Sharp jawline.
Muscles built from brutal workouts.
The dangerous stage presence.
The black outfits.
The way fans screamed when he smirked into cameras.
But at home?
At home Jungkook still climbed into your lap after hard days.
Still rested his head on your shoulder while gaming.
Still whined dramatically if you stopped scratching his scalp too soon.
Still turned into the clingiest human alive whenever he was tired.
And around his members?
God.
It got worse.
They babied him relentlessly.
And he adored every second of it.
Halfway through the episode, you paused because you were laughing too hard.
The members had arrived at the Airbnb late at night after filming.
The camera followed them dragging luggage inside while everyone complained dramatically.
“Why are there only three rooms?!”
“Yah, I’m not sleeping beside Namjoon-hyung, he snores!”
“I heard that!”
Then the camera cut.
Morning.
Chaos immediately erupted.
The editors added bright captions and loud music as the Taehyung attempted to wake each member up for breakfast.
And then the camera finally found Jungkook.
Still asleep.
Of course.
Spread across the mattress face-first, blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon.
His hair was sticking up everywhere.
One arm tucked under the pillow.
Completely dead to the world.
The caption read:
[The youngest member is impossible to wake.]
You snorted.
Accurate.
Then Taehyung walked into frame.
And your heart instantly softened.
Because there it was.
The exact same look he’d had at seventeen years old looking down at fifteen-year-old Jungkook.
The café windows fogged from the cold outside, warm light spilling over wooden tables and half-finished drinks. You sat curled into the corner booth, stirring melted ice in your coffee for the past ten minutes while your best friend watched you with increasing concern.
“You’re gonna drill a hole through the cup at this rate,” Yunhyeong said gently.
You sighed dramatically without looking up. “Maybe that would make this week more interesting.”
“It’s been three weeks.”
“Exactly. Three weeks too long.”
Yunhyeong leaned back in his seat, arms folded over his hoodie. “You know he wasn’t worth crying over.”
“I know that logically,” you muttered. “Unfortunately my emotions didn’t get the memo.”
Your breakup hadn’t been explosive. No screaming. No dramatic cheating scandal. Just the slow, miserable realization that your boyfriend had stopped loving you long before he admitted it.
And somehow that hurt worse.
Because you kept replaying everything in your head, trying to pinpoint exactly when you stopped being enough.
Yunhyeong had been there through all of it.
Late-night convenience store runs.
Phone calls where you cried so hard you couldn’t breathe.
The awkward silence after you admitted maybe you’d ignored all the signs because being loved halfway still felt better than being alone.
He never judged you for that confession.
Instead, he showed up with food and sat beside you quietly until the hurt passed enough for you to sleep.
Now he nudged your shoe under the table. “Okay. I have an idea.”
“That expression means danger.”
“It means genius.”
“Historically those are the same thing when it comes to you.”
He ignored that. “You need a reset day.”
“A what?”
“A perfect day.”
You snorted. “And where exactly am I supposed to buy one of those?”
“I’ll do it.”
You blinked.
“…Do what?”
“I’ll be your boyfriend for the day.”
Silence.
Then you laughed.
Hard.
Yunhyeong stared at you in offense while you nearly choked on air.
“You?” you wheezed. “Fake dating?”
“Yes.”
“You’d last ten minutes before getting embarrassed.”
“I can be romantic.”
“You once gave me a napkin for Valentine’s Day.”
“It had a cute drawing on it.”
“It was a stick figure.”
“It looked like you!”
You laughed again despite yourself, and satisfaction flickered across his face immediately. Like making you smile had become instinctive.
Maybe it had.
“I’m serious,” he said softly once your laughter faded. “One day. No breakup thoughts. No sadness. I’ll treat you exactly how a boyfriend should.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You say that like you’ve been studying.”
“Maybe I have.”
“Terrifying.”
“Come on.” He leaned forward. “Tomorrow. Just trust me.”
You should’ve said no.
The idea was ridiculous.
Dangerous, even.
Because Song Yunhyeong had always been unfairly easy to love.
Warm eyes.
Easy smiles.
The kind of kindness that slipped into people quietly until suddenly they couldn’t imagine life without him.
But he was your friend.
One of your safest people.
And maybe that was exactly why you finally sighed and said, “Fine. One day.”
His grin appeared instantly.
Bright.
Victorious.
“Good,” he said. “Wear something cute.”
—
At exactly ten the next morning, your doorbell rang.
You opened it expecting casual Yunhyeong.
Instead you nearly forgot how to breathe.
Black coat.
Cream sweater.
Hair styled neatly away from his forehead.
And in one hand—
Flowers.
“You brought flowers?” you asked weakly.
His expression softened immediately at your surprise. “Boyfriends bring flowers.”
Your stomach betrayed you with an embarrassing little flip.
“Oh.”
“They’re your favorites,” he added casually.
Of course they were.
Because Yunhyeong remembered everything.
You stepped aside to let him in while trying very hard not to overthink the way he smiled at you.
“Wait here,” he said.
“What are you doing?”
“Part one of the boyfriend experience.”
You watched suspiciously as he disappeared into your kitchen.
Clattering followed.
Then a victorious, “Aha!”
When he returned, he carried your favorite iced drink in one hand.
“You made me coffee?”
“I watched the café guy enough times to figure it out.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m mostly lying.”
You took the drink carefully. “If this tastes awful, I’m ending the relationship.”
“Wow. So toxic already.”
But he looked ridiculously pleased when you took a sip and your eyes widened.
“…Wait. This is actually good.”
“I know you better than you think.”
The words landed strangely.
Too soft.
Too honest.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Then Yunhyeong suddenly clapped his hands once. “Okay! Date itinerary.”
Still smiling, he reached for your coat from the couch and held it open for you.
And for some reason that tiny gesture affected you more than the flowers.
Maybe because it felt natural.
Not performative.
Not awkward.
Just… him.
—
Brunch turned into an hour of Yunhyeong stealing food from your plate while insisting it “tasted better” from yours.
The arcade became him aggressively defending your honor against a middle-schooler at basketball games.
“You cannot lose to a child,” you told him through laughter.
“I absolutely can’t.”
“You’re taking this too seriously.”
“He called me old.”
“You are old.”
“Get out.”
You nearly cried laughing when he finally won and held the tickets over his head triumphantly.
Then immediately traded all of them for a tiny plush keychain because you’d glanced at it for half a second.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly.
“Boyfriends notice things.”
There it was again.
That warmth in your chest.
Dangerous and spreading.
By evening the city lights reflected off the river in streaks of gold and silver. The air had turned colder, and without hesitation Yunhyeong reached for your hand.
You froze slightly.
Not because it felt wrong.
Because it didn’t.
His fingers slipped between yours naturally, fitting like they’d done this a hundred times before.
“Cold?” he asked.
“A little.”
He hummed and rubbed his thumb over your knuckles absentmindedly.
You tried not to notice how gentle he was.
Tried not to notice how carefully he watched your reactions all day.
Tried not to notice that every fake romantic gesture somehow carried real feeling behind it.
People passed by without a second glance, assuming you were just another couple wandering the city together.
And honestly?
You understood why.
Because Yunhyeong looked at you like you mattered.
Like holding your hand was something precious.
At some point you stopped in front of the river railing, watching the water move beneath the lights.
“This was a bad idea,” you admitted suddenly.
Beside you, Yunhyeong stilled.
“Oh.”
You looked down quickly. “Not because today was bad. That’s the problem.”
He stayed quiet.
And somehow that made it easier to continue.
“You’re being…” You laughed weakly. “Too perfect.”
His grip loosened slightly like he was preparing to let go.
Instead you held on tighter without thinking.
His eyes flickered down to your joined hands.
“You know what the worst part is?” you whispered. “I forgot what this felt like.”
“What?”
“To be cared for properly.”
The words came out more broken than you intended.
Yunhyeong’s expression changed instantly.
All teasing gone.
“You deserved better than what he gave you.”
You swallowed hard. “Maybe.”
“No.” His voice was firm now. “Not maybe.”
Something sharp and emotional tightened in your chest.
Because he sounded angry.
Not fake angry.
Real angry.
Like the thought of someone hurting you genuinely upset him.
“You keep blaming yourself,” he continued quietly. “But loving someone shouldn’t feel like begging them to stay.”
You looked at him slowly.
The wind moved through his hair softly, city lights catching in his eyes.
And suddenly the space between friendship and something else didn’t seem so clear anymore.
“You’ve thought about this a lot,” you said.
Yunhyeong gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
He looked away toward the river.
For a moment you thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then—
“Because watching you cry over someone who couldn’t see your worth made me feel insane.”
Your breath caught.
The world seemed to go very still around you.
“Yunhyeong…”
“I know,” he interrupted softly. “I know this was supposed to be pretend.”
His thumb brushed yours again unconsciously.
“But I think somewhere along the way it stopped feeling pretend for me.”
Your heart hammered painfully against your ribs.
Because suddenly every moment from today replayed differently.
The flowers.
The careful planning.
The way he watched you laugh like it meant everything.
Not acting.
Not pretending.
Just him.
“You never said anything,” you whispered.
“You had a boyfriend.”
“And after?”
His laugh came out quiet and self-deprecating. “After you got your heart broken didn’t exactly feel like the best timing to confess.”
“That’s why you did this?”
“At first?” He exhaled slowly. “I just wanted to remind you what being cared for should feel like.”
“And now?”
His gaze met yours fully.
Now there was no hiding it.
No joking.
No playful teasing to soften the truth.
“Now I’m struggling to remember this was only supposed to last one day.”
Your chest physically hurt.
Because the terrifying thing was—
You didn’t want it to end either.
Not the warmth of his hand.
Not the softness in his eyes.
Not the way he made you feel wanted without asking for anything in return.
You stepped closer before fear could stop you.
Yunhyeong looked startled.
“You know,” you murmured, “for a fake boyfriend…”
A small smile tugged at his mouth.
“Yeah?”
“You’re really unfairly good at this.”
His laugh was breathless this time.
“Well,” he said quietly, “I’ve wanted to do it for real for a while.”
The confession settled between you gently.
No pressure.
No expectation.
Just honesty.
And somehow that made it even harder to resist.
Your eyes dropped briefly to his lips before you could stop yourself.
Yunhyeong noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
He always noticed everything about you.
“If I kiss you,” he said softly, “this stops being pretend completely.”
Your heart skipped.
“Maybe I don’t want pretend anymore.”
That was all it took.
His free hand came up carefully, fingertips brushing your cheek like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Then he kissed you.
Warm.
Slow.
Careful in a way that made your chest ache.
Not rushed passion.
Not dramatic fireworks.
Just Yunhyeong.
Steady and sweet and impossibly sincere.
The kind of kiss that felt like being chosen.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
You could still feel him smiling.
“So,” he murmured.
“So?”
“Does this mean I get promoted from temporary boyfriend?”
You laughed softly, eyes stinging unexpectedly.
“You’re such an idiot.”
“But am I your idiot?”
You pretended to think about it.
“Hm. Maybe.”
“Cruel.”
“Boyfriends shouldn’t complain this much.”
His eyes widened theatrically. “Oh, we’re using the boyfriend title already?”
You shoved his shoulder lightly, embarrassed.
But Yunhyeong only laughed before stealing another quick kiss anyway.
Then another.
Like he’d been waiting a long time to do this.
Maybe he had.
Eventually he intertwined your fingers again and started walking, gently tugging you beside him down the riverside path.
“Where are we going now?” you asked.
He smiled without looking away from the city lights ahead.
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It was just one of dozens stacked in the corner of your apartment storage room, filled with old notebooks, school uniforms, photographs, and random pieces of your life that had somehow survived every move, every career change, every year that passed.
A request by @lovesicknessworld hope you like it babe.
The box wasn't supposed to be important.
You were cleaning because you were bored.
That was the official reason.
The unofficial reason was that your schedule had finally granted you a free weekend, and you had no idea what normal people did with that much empty time.
So you cleaned.
Which was how you found it.
A folded piece of yellowing notebook paper tucked between an old yearbook and a photo album.
You recognized the messy handwriting immediately.
Your own.
And another that was even messier.
"Found you," you muttered.
You unfolded it carefully.
The moment you read the title, you burst out laughing.
THE ULTIMATE LIFE BUCKET LIST
Written by: Y/N and Kwon Soonyoung
Age: 16
DO NOT LOSE THIS OR YOU WILL REGRET IT FOREVER.
Underneath were a series of goals written in colorful pens.
Some crossed out.
Some decorated with stars.
Some accompanied by increasingly ridiculous comments.
● Travel abroad.✅️
● Perform in front of thousands.✅️
● Watch a sunrise from a rooftop.✅️
● Fall in love.
You stared.
Then laughed harder.
"Oh my god."
You immediately grabbed your phone.
A familiar contact sat at the top of your favorites.
SOONYOUNG 🐯
You pressed call.
He answered after three rings.
"Miss me?"
"No."
"Liar."
"I found something."
"Oh?"
"The bucket list."
Silence.
Then a loud shriek.
"THE BUCKET LIST?!"
You winced.
"Why are you yelling?"
"Why do you still have that?!"
"I could ask you the same thing."
"I lost mine years ago!"
You heard rustling.
Then movement.
Then what sounded suspiciously like him putting on shoes.
"Where are you going?"
"Your apartment."
"What?"
"I need to see it."
"You're being dramatic."
"Correct."
The call disconnected.
You sighed.
Twenty minutes later your doorbell rang.
At twenty-six, Soonyoung was technically one of the most successful performers in the country.
Award-winning idol.
International tours.
Millions of fans.
An adult.
Supposedly.
Yet somehow he still entered your apartment exactly like the sixteen-year-old boy you'd met in high school.
He immediately snatched the paper from your hands.
"Oh my god."
You sat beside him on the couch.
He read every line.
Every note.
Every doodle.
Every stupid joke.
And the entire time he kept laughing.
The kind of laugh that made his eyes disappear.
The kind you'd spent ten years listening to.
"Look at this one," he wheezed.
"'Become rich enough to buy twenty tigers.'"
"That was your dream."
"It still is."
"You don't need twenty."
"Wrong."
You rolled your eyes.
He continued reading.
Travel abroad.
Crossed out.
Multiple times.
You'd both traveled more countries than sixteen-year-old versions of yourselves could have imagined.
Perform in front of thousands.
Crossed out so aggressively the paper nearly tore.
Watch a sunrise from a rooftop.
Also crossed out.
Accompanied by:
ACHIEVED AGE 19
IT WAS FREEZING.
You smiled.
You remembered that one.
Sneaking onto the roof of your university dorm.
Sharing convenience store coffee.
Watching the sky slowly turn gold.
Soonyoung insisting it was life-changing.
Then immediately complaining about being cold.
Some things never changed.
Then his laughter stopped.
You noticed instantly.
His eyes settled on the final item.
The only one untouched.
● Fall in love.
No check mark.
No notes.
Nothing.
The room became strangely quiet.
You nudged him.
"What?"
"Hm?"
"Why'd you get so serious?"
He looked down.
Then smiled.
But it felt different.
Smaller.
"Nothing."
Liar.
You knew him too well.
But before you could push further, he stood up.
"Want dinner?"
"Changing the subject?"
"Absolutely."
You let it go.
At first.
But afterward, something felt different.
Tiny things.
Things you couldn't quite explain.
Soonyoung became quieter whenever the bucket list came up.
Whenever someone joked about relationships.
Whenever you talked about dating.
Not upset.
Just thoughtful.
Distracted.
Like his mind was somewhere else.
You noticed because you knew him.
You always knew him.
For ten years, he had been your person.
Not your boyfriend.
Not your soulmate.
Just...
Your person.
The first call when something good happened.
The first call when something bad happened.
The first person whose opinion mattered.
The first person you wanted beside you.
It had always been Soonyoung.
You just never questioned it.
A week later you were having lunch together.
Halfway through the meal he suddenly asked,
"Have you ever been in love?"
You blinked.
"What kind of question is that?"
"A normal one."
"No, it isn't."
"Answer."
You considered it.
Then shrugged.
"No."
His eyes widened.
"Really?"
"Really."
"You've dated."
"So have you."
"Yeah."
You pointed your chopsticks at him.
"And were you in love?"
His expression immediately mirrored yours.
"...No."
Exactly.
You both dated.
Several times.
Different people.
Different years.
Different circumstances.
But somehow it never lasted.
And none of them felt like love.
Comfort maybe.
Attraction.
Affection.
Never love.
You looked down at your food.
"Maybe we're bad at it."
He laughed.
But it sounded forced.
"Maybe."
That night Soonyoung couldn't sleep.
Again.
Recently that had become a problem.
Because every time he closed his eyes, he kept thinking about the stupid bucket list.
Specifically one item.
Fall in love.
At sixteen it seemed easy.
Inevitable.
Something that would simply happen.
Then ten years passed.
And somehow he still hadn't found it.
At least he thought he hadn't.
Until now.
Because lately he couldn't stop asking himself a terrifying question.
What if I did?
What if I already fell in love years ago?
And just never realized it?
His thoughts drifted immediately toward you.
As they always did.
You.
Who knew every version of him.
You.
Who had seen him fail.
Cry.
Celebrate.
Doubt himself.
Grow.
You.
Who still answered every late-night call.
You.
Who knew him better than anyone.
The realization hit him with startling clarity.
When something happened, he wanted to tell you first.
When he was happy, he looked for you.
When he was struggling, he looked for you.
When he imagined the future—
You were always there.
Always.
His chest tightened.
"Oh."
The word escaped quietly.
Because suddenly the answer felt obvious.
Terrifyingly obvious.
The next month was torture.
For him.
Not for you.
You remained blissfully unaware.
Meanwhile Soonyoung was losing his mind.
Because once he realized his feelings, he couldn't un-realize them.
Everything became worse.
Your smile.
Your laugh.
The way you automatically stole food from his plate.
The way you reached for his hand in crowded places without thinking.
The way you leaned against him during movie nights.
Things that once felt normal now made his heart race.
Which was extremely inconvenient.
Especially because you trusted him completely.
And he had no intention of ruining that.
So he kept quiet.
Until he couldn't.
It happened on a rainy afternoon.
You were both helping your parents clean out old belongings.
Which somehow led to finding more high school photos.
And more memories.
You sat cross-legged on the floor.
Looking through everything.
Laughing.
Cringing.
Reminiscing.
At one point you held up the paper.
"Still one left."
Soonyoung froze.
You didn't notice.
"Kind of funny."
"What is?"
"We accomplished all of this."
You smiled softly.
"Together."
His heart squeezed.
Because that was the problem.
Everything important in his life somehow involved you.
Every major memory.
Every achievement.
Every milestone.
You had been there.
Then you looked at the final unchecked box.
Fall in love.
Your smile faded slightly.
"Maybe some people just don't."
His head snapped up.
"What?"
"Fall in love."
Your voice was casual.
But there was something sad underneath it.
"I mean..."
You shrugged.
"Maybe not everyone gets that."
Something inside him immediately rejected the idea.
"No."
You blinked.
"No?"
"No."
The response came too quickly.
Too firmly.
You stared.
He stared back.
Neither of you moved.
The room suddenly felt very small.
Very quiet.
"You really believe that?"
You asked softly.
"Yes."
His voice was barely above a whisper now.
Because he couldn't lie anymore.
Not to you.
Not about this.
Not after ten years.
"I think people fall in love."
Your heartbeat quickened.
Something had changed.
You could feel it.
The air between you felt different.
His gaze never left yours.
"And sometimes..."
He swallowed.
"Sometimes they're just too stupid to realize it."
Your stomach flipped.
"...Soonyoung."
He laughed nervously.
A sound filled with fear.
"Yeah."
The way he looked at you made your breath catch.
Because suddenly everything was making sense.
The strange quietness.
The awkwardness.
The questions.
The looks.
The tension.
All of it.
And maybe—
Maybe there had been something different in your chest lately too.
Something you'd ignored.
Because it was easier.
Because he was your best friend.
Because risking him felt impossible.
Until now.
"Can I ask you something?"
He nodded.
You stared at the bucket list.
Then at him.
Then back again.
"When you think about your future..."
His eyes softened immediately.
Because he already knew where this was going.
You continued anyway.
"Who's there?"
The answer came without hesitation.
"You."
Your breath stopped.
No jokes.
No teasing.
No hesitation.
Just truth.
Pure and simple.
You.
The silence stretched.
You laughed.
A shaky laugh.
One that suspiciously sounded close to crying.
"That's really unfair."
His eyebrows lifted.
"What is?"
"I was going to say you."
For a moment neither of you moved.
Neither of you breathed.
Then Soonyoung covered his face.
"Oh my god."
You laughed harder.
"So romantic."
"Please stop."
"You confessed first."
"I didn't confess."
"You absolutely did."
He groaned.
You smiled.
Then slowly reached for his hand.
His fingers immediately intertwined with yours.
Natural.
Instinctive.
Like they'd done it a thousand times before.
Maybe because they had.
Just never like this.
Never acknowledging what it meant.
His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
Gentle.
Careful.
Like you were something precious.
"Can I tell you something?"
He asked.
"Sure."
"I think I've loved you for a while."
Your heart melted.
"How long?"
"So long that it's embarrassing."
You laughed.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Because I think I might be the same."
His smile appeared slowly.
Then fully.
Then brightly.
The smile you'd spent a decade loving.
Only now you finally understood why.
Later that evening, after hours of talking, laughing, and processing the fact that your best friendship had somehow become something more, you found yourselves sitting side by side on your apartment rooftop.
A familiar place.
The same place you'd watched a sunrise together years ago.
The city lights sparkled below.
The sky dark above.
You pulled the old bucket list from your pocket.
"So."
"So."
You handed him a pen.
His eyes widened.
"No way."
"Oh yes."
Grinning, he carefully leaned over the paper.
And next to the final item, he drew a giant check mark.
● Fall in love. ✅️
Then underneath it he added:
ACHIEVED AGE 26
TOOK US LONG ENOUGH.
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
"So dramatic."
"Accurate."
He folded the paper carefully.
Far more carefully than before.
Then tucked it safely into his jacket.
"Keeping it?"
"Obviously."
"For another ten years?"
"For forever."
Your chest warmed.
He looked at you.
Really looked at you.
And for the first time, there was no uncertainty.
No confusion.
No wondering.
Just certainty.
The kind that came from knowing someone for ten years.
The kind that came from growing up together.
The kind that came from realizing home had been standing beside you all along.
His fingers found yours again.
You squeezed gently.
And together, under the same sky that had witnessed so much of your lives already, you crossed off the final item on the list.
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