Warning: Some stories may contain triggering material such as; sexual content and mature themes, minors- do not interact, my work is not age appropriate so I ask nicely, please look elsewhere for stories, some of my work is NSFW, please keep that in mind. I write primarily angst- so proceed with caution because your well-being is most important!
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The world didn’t stop when she died. The sun still rose. Planes still landed. Fans still screamed his name like nothing had changed. And Jisung hated that.
Because everything had changed.
Warnings: idol!au, ANGST, TRIGGER WARNING!- tragedy, grief, main character death, suicidal ideation, emotional trauma, unresolved feelings, blood, swearing, accidents, mourning, severe depression, anger, heartbreak, etc, lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: hi my loves, while care is taken to handle these topics with sensitivity, please prioritize your well-being while reading. If you are in a vulnerable place emotionally or mentally, proceed with caution or consider skipping this piece! You are not alone. ♡
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Denial
The world didn’t stop when she died.
The sun still rose.
Planes still landed.
Fans still screamed his name like nothing had changed.
And Jisung hated that.
Because everything had changed.
The glass doors of her apartment opened with a groan, a ghostly exhale of a life left behind. He hadn’t been here in four months. Maybe longer. Her slippers still sat by the mat. A pale pink umbrella hung limply from the hook beside the door, drops of dried mud on the fabric—proof that she'd been caught in the rain again, probably laughing as she ran.
Jisung stepped inside like he didn’t belong. The air was stale but familiar. It smelled faintly of rose shampoo, takeout curry, and the little eucalyptus diffuser she always swore helped her sleep.
It hadn’t helped him at all.
He walked past the couch, where a folded blanket still hugged the corner. Her sweater was draped across it like she'd just taken it off. Maybe she had. Maybe she’d walk out from the bedroom at any moment—rubbed eyes, sleep-tousled hair, asking why he was home early with a crooked smile.
Maybe if he called her name…
“Y/N?” he whispered.
Nothing.
Just the click of a leaky kitchen faucet and the eerie whir of the refrigerator.
She wasn’t here.
She’d never be here again.
The memory came back like a strike to the chest.
That day—
The call.
He’d been backstage in Nagoya, half-listening to staff chatter while brushing his teeth, his in-ear monitors still clipped to the collar of his hoodie. His manager had walked in too fast. No knock. No greeting. Just eyes wide and jaw clenched like something unspeakable had just happened.
“Jisung-ah… you need to sit.”
That sentence would echo in his skull for days.
He didn’t sit.
He laughed. Nervously.
“Bro, I’ve got twenty minutes before call time. If this is about my phone being off—”
“It’s Y/N.”
Everything stopped. The air thinned. His throat closed.
“What about her?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“There was an accident.”
He didn’t remember much after that.
The mirror cracking when he threw his water bottle.
The way his knees gave out.
The way Chan held him as he screamed—over and over—“No. No. No.”
Now, standing in her living room, Jisung traced the spine of her favorite book with shaking fingers. The Little Prince. She loved stories with sadness hidden in softness. She once said, “The saddest people read the brightest books.” Maybe she was trying to tell him something back then. Maybe he just never listened close enough.
He found her phone on the kitchen counter.
Plugged in. Fully charged.
There was a message still open on it.
“Hey. I know you’re busy. I just miss you today. I’ll be okay, I promise. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
Sent: 10:27 PM.
She died less than an hour later.
He never replied.
The city lights outside her window blinked like a broken lullaby—constant, unforgiving.
He sat down on her couch and picked up the blanket. It still smelled like her. Soft jasmine and warm skin. He clutched it to his face and tried to inhale her back to life.
That night, he didn’t go back to the dorms.
He slept on her couch.
Wrapped in the last thing that remembered her.
He dreamt she was still alive.
Denial is a powerful drug.
It lets you believe the door might open again.
That this was all just a mistake.
That maybe the world just got it wrong.
But morning came.
And she didn’t.
---
It rained that night.
Not the dramatic kind. Not thunder or lightning. Just a soft, steady drizzle that painted the city in reflections and longing. The kind of rain that made everything feel slower. Softer. Like the world was holding its breath.
Y/N stood at the window of her apartment, watching the lights blur through the water on the glass. The kettle whistled behind her, but she didn’t move.
Jisung stepped out of the bedroom, rubbing at his eyes, hair messy from the nap he’d taken between schedule calls. “You didn’t make the tea?”
She shrugged. “I forgot.”
He moved past her to the stove, turning the burner off. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
It was a lie.
But he was too tired to push.
The clock read 11:42 PM. His flight was in six hours. Another leg of the tour. Another continent. Another goodbye.
He poured the tea into the chipped mug she always used and handed it to her. Her fingers brushed his. Warm. Familiar. Fleeting.
“You leave in the morning,” she said, not looking at him.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“Another red-eye?”
He nodded. “Tokyo this time. Then LA. Then I think… Paris?”
“You think?” she asked, soft and tired.
He gave a helpless smile. “I stopped keeping track.”
That silence again. Heavy. Hollow.
She turned away from the window and sat on the edge of the couch, pulling her legs up to her chest, mug cradled between her palms.
“I had a dream last night,” she said suddenly. “You were on a beach somewhere. I couldn’t reach you. You kept walking. And I was screaming your name, but you didn’t hear me.”
Jisung blinked. “Damn.”
She looked at him then. And it wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t a plea. It was just… heartbreak wearing the mask of acceptance.
“I know this is your dream,” she said gently. “I know this is everything you’ve worked for.”
His chest tightened.
“But sometimes,” she continued, “I wish I didn’t feel like a pit stop.”
That hit him harder than she intended. Or maybe exactly how she meant it.
He sat down beside her, letting the silence stretch. The only sound was the whisper of rain against the windows and the creak of her heartbeat inside his ribs.
“I don’t mean to make you feel that way,” he said eventually.
“I know.”
“I think about you all the time.”
“I know.”
“I just…” He exhaled. “I don’t know how to be everything.”
Her eyes softened. “I never asked you to be everything, Jisung. I just wanted to be something.”
That silence again.
But this time, it broke him.
So he kissed her. Desperately. Like it could fix something. Like it could undo the miles between them, the missed calls, the I’ll call you laters, the next time, I promise.
And for a while, it worked.
Her lips were warm. Her hands were gentle. Her touch was the only thing that felt real in a life full of rehearsals and choreography and plastic smiles.
They made love like the world was ending.
Slow. Breathless. Lingering.
His hands memorized the lines of her body like he knew he wouldn’t get another chance.
Afterward, she curled into him, face tucked into the crook of his neck.
“Do you ever get scared?” she whispered.
“Of what?”
“That one day, I’ll stop waiting.”
He didn’t answer.
He just held her tighter.
He left before sunrise.
She walked him to the door in her hoodie and bare feet, hair still damp from her shower. He kissed her like he always did—too fast, too guilty.
“Text me when you land,” she said.
“I will.”
“Be safe.”
“I love you.”
She smiled, small and sleepy. “I love you too.”
And that was the last time he ever saw her.
---
Anger
The funeral was three days ago.
He still hadn’t taken off the black suit.
It hung off his frame like dead weight—creased, wrinkled, sweat-soaked at the collar. He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. His stylists had begged him to come back to the dorm. His manager had left twelve voicemails. His mom tried to call twenty times.
He turned his phone off.
The only place he could bear to be was here—her apartment.
The last place she existed. The only place that still felt like her.
Rain hit the windows like static. A thunderless storm, constant and disorienting. It blurred the outside world into a mess of colors and glass. But inside, the apartment was still frozen in time. Her time. Her world.
Jisung sat on the kitchen floor with a bottle of cheap soju and a broken picture frame beside him.
It was the one from Busan—summer two years ago. They were at the pier, hair windswept, sunburned, smiling like fools. She had her arm wrapped around his neck and her forehead pressed to his cheek. He remembered that day so vividly it physically hurt.
He threw the frame against the wall.
The sound shattered the silence like a scream in a church.
“Fuck you,” he muttered. “Fuck you for leaving me.”
And then louder.
“FUCK YOU.”
He wasn’t sure who he was talking to—her? The universe? Himself?
Maybe all of it.
He stood up too fast, dizziness hitting him like a punch, but he didn’t care. He staggered toward her bookshelf and yanked it down. Books spilled to the floor. Her favorite poems. Her journals. The little love letters he used to write on napkins, all tied in ribbon and hidden on the bottom shelf.
He ripped them open, one by one.
“‘I miss you more than I breathe,’” he read mockingly, voice shaking. “What a fucking liar I am.”
He slammed his fist against the wall.
Crack.
Plaster dented. Skin split. Blood bloomed like a rose in slow motion.
He stared at his hand. Watched the crimson trail down his wrist and drip onto the carpet she used to make him take his shoes off for.
She would’ve scolded him.
She would’ve kissed the bruises. Wiped the tears. Said, “You’re not as strong as you pretend to be.”
And she’d be right.
That night, he trashed everything.
The candles. The vases. The stupid glass cat figurine she got at that flea market he made fun of her for loving.
He screamed until his voice cracked. Until his lungs begged him to stop. Until he was sobbing on the floor surrounded by pieces of her.
And when there was nothing left to destroy—
He curled up in the wreckage, clutching one of her shirts to his face.
It still smelled like her.
“Why didn’t you wait?” he whispered, barely audible.
“Why didn’t you call me again? You always did…”
He couldn’t tell if he was mad at her for dying or at himself for not picking up.
Both, maybe.
He deserved that kind of anger. The kind that boils in your marrow. The kind that makes the walls breathe and the floor feel like it’s swallowing you whole.
Because she was dead.
And he was still here.
And what kind of fucking justice was that?
The next morning, Chan came.
He stood at the door for ten minutes before Jisung finally opened it.
One look, and Chan’s face fell.
“Hyung,” Jisung croaked, eyes red, lip split. “Don’t say anything. Please. Don’t be nice to me. I’ll fall apart.”
But Chan wasn’t nice.
He looked around the destroyed apartment—then at Jisung’s bleeding hand—and said coldly:
“You think she’d want you like this?”
Jisung flinched.
“She’d hate this,” Chan snapped. “She’d hate that you’re turning her into guilt.”
“You don’t know what she’d want—”
“I do. I met her. She lit up like a fucking firefly every time she talked about you.”
Jisung’s breath caught. “Then why did I kill her?”
“You didn’t.”
“I left her, hyung. I was never there.”
Chan’s expression cracked.
“That’s not the same thing.”
But Jisung didn’t believe him.
Because no matter how many times someone told him it wasn’t his fault, his heart screamed otherwise.
You forgot her birthday.
You missed her call.
You weren’t there.
No amount of apologies could change the fact that she died thinking he didn’t care.
And that was a wound no bandage could fix.
Anger doesn’t always look like shouting.
Sometimes it looks like guilt you can’t scrub off.
Sometimes it sounds like a voicemail you keep deleting but never block.
Sometimes it feels like a name you scream into your pillow at 4 a.m.
Y/N.
Y/N.
Y/N.
He missed her so much it made him want to break.
And so he did.
Every single day.
---
Bargaining
The first time Jisung visited the accident site, it was midnight.
No one else was there—just the dim flicker of a streetlamp, the cracked asphalt, and the faint smear of old paint where someone had tried to scrub away the blood.
Her blood.
He stood on the curb in the same hoodie she used to steal from him, the sleeves pulled down over trembling fingers. The wind cut sharp through the silence, stirring trash and dead leaves like ghosts crawling toward his ankles.
He didn’t know what he expected.
Some sign. A whisper. A vision. Something.
Instead, there was only the memory of her walking that same route every Friday.
Back from the studio. Always with earbuds in. Always texting him pictures of stray cats she passed.
He dropped to his knees on the sidewalk.
“Just take it back,” he whispered, staring at the spot where her body had landed. “I’ll give you anything. Just undo this. Please.”
His voice cracked like glass under weight.
“I’ll quit the tour. I’ll give up the fame. I’ll walk away from everything. Just give me a chance to do it over.”
He pressed his forehead to the cold ground like it was holy.
“I’ll pick up this time. I’ll answer. I’ll stay. I’ll love her better. I swear to God, I’ll love her better.”
But the street was quiet.
The wind didn’t answer.
So he sat there for hours. Just waiting. For a sign. A miracle. A punishment.
Because grief was a cruel god.
And Jisung was ready to offer anything for mercy.
The second time he begged for her back, he was drunk.
Alone in their favorite cafe at closing, lights off, head down on the sticky corner booth where she once laughed until she cried over the worst cup of hot chocolate he’d ever bought her.
The owner—who recognized him through the swelling around his eyes—let him stay. Didn’t ask questions. Just locked up and left him there.
Jisung clutched her scarf in one hand and a half-finished letter in the other.
He had been writing to her every day.
Little pages. Scraps. Napkins.
And tonight, he wrote:
"Y/N... if you're out there somewhere, I’m sorry I was so small. I thought chasing the world meant I was doing it for us. I didn’t realize I was leaving you behind until it was too late."
He blinked hard.
"If I could trade places with you, I would. In a heartbeat. I'd take the hit. I’d let the car hit me. Just… just don’t be gone."
But she was.
And no prayer, no song, no sacrifice could unring that bell.
''I miss you so much, I feel like I can't breathe..''
He started chasing ghosts.
Visiting every place they used to go.
Ordering the drinks she liked and pretending she was sitting across from him.
Walking past her old studio, just in case her shadow lingered.
He even went to a psychic once. Sat there like a fool while the woman held his hand and said, “She’s still with you.”
And he believed her.
Because belief was easier than letting go.
One night, he opened their old photo folder.
It was called “us <3.”
There were 219 photos.
He stared at the one of her sleeping in the backseat of his van. Hoodie pulled up, mouth parted slightly, sunlight streaking across her cheek like a kiss from heaven. He hadn’t even remembered taking it.
The file details said: March 17th, 4:09 PM.
Two years ago.
He stared at the time. Then rewound all the clocks in his apartment to 4:09.
He sat in the silence, watching the second hand twitch, like maybe—maybe—the universe would hear how loud his heart was breaking and rewind itself.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please, just once. Let me go back.”
But the clocks kept ticking.
And she stayed dead.
Bargaining isn’t logical. It’s not rational. It’s not even fair.
It’s a boy with too much guilt and not enough time, begging a sky that never learned how to answer.
It’s I would’ve. I should’ve. I could’ve.
It’s “Don’t take her. Take me instead.”
But there’s no trade. No undoing.
Just grief, replayed over and over—like a bad song on loop.
And the worst part?
He still believed there was some way to fix it.
---
It was summer. The kind that kissed your skin instead of burning it.
Seoul was alive that weekend—music in the streets, the air smelling like sugar and citrus and fried food from nearby stalls. The sky was cloudless. Blue enough to feel unreal. Like someone had painted it just for them.
And for once, Jisung wasn’t working.
No tour. No schedule. No hidden panic in the corner of his smile.
Just him. And her. And the day stretched out before them like a gift.
They were in Han River Park, barefoot in the grass, Y/N’s skirt fluttering like a ribbon as she laughed and tried to fly a cheap pink kite. The string kept tangling. She kept tripping. And he couldn’t stop grinning.
“You’re supposed to let the wind catch it, not murder it,” he teased, watching her run with zero coordination and all the chaos of someone who had never flown a kite in her life.
“I am letting the wind catch it,” she huffed, sticking out her tongue, hair flying across her face. “But clearly the wind is homophobic.”
He wheeze-laughed—doubled over, hands on knees.
She sprinted toward him suddenly and jumped onto his back, shrieking as he stumbled, caught her by the thighs, and carried her like a backpack while she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, breathless.
“You love it,” she whispered into his ear.
“I do.”
She went still.
“I know,” she murmured. “But it’s still nice to hear.”
They ended the day with ice cream and sunburns. She stole bites of his cone and wiped her sticky fingers on his shirt just to hear him protest. Her feet were up on the dashboard of his car while he drove with one hand, the other resting lazily on her thigh.
The windows were down. Her playlist was on.
She was singing—badly—to a sad indie love song that didn’t match the sunshine at all.
“You ever think about the future?” she asked quietly, chin tilted out the window, voice nearly lost in the breeze.
He glanced over at her. “All the time.”
“Does it scare you?”
He thought for a moment. Then: “Only if you’re not in it.”
Her face broke into the softest smile. The kind that doesn't light up—it glows.
She reached across the console and laced their fingers together.
“Good,” she said. “Because I already named our cat.”
He laughed. “We don’t have a cat.”
“We will. His name is Bagel. He’s orange. He hates you.”
“You’ve really thought this through.”
“Shut up and drive, Han.”
They got home just as the sun was setting, that magic hour glow soaking everything in amber. The apartment was warm, still smelling like the lavender candle she always lit by the door. She slipped off her shoes and disappeared into the kitchen, humming something under her breath.
When he followed her, she had her arms open.
“Dance with me.”
“There’s no music.”
She pulled out her phone. A soft melody started. One of his demo tracks. The one she always said sounded like the beginning of a love letter.
“Now there is.”
So he wrapped his arms around her waist. She twined hers around his neck. And they swayed in the middle of their too-small kitchen, feet stepping on each other, laughter bubbling between them.
He kissed her temple. Her cheek. Her jaw. Her smile.
“Promise me something,” she whispered, forehead resting against his.
“Anything.”
“When the world tries to pull us apart…” Her voice trembled just a little. “Promise you’ll hold on.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“I’ll never let go.”
And he meant it.
God, he meant it.
But time is cruel. And promises mean nothing to fate.
Because two months later, he lost her.
And she never got to name their cat.
---
Depression
The days blurred.
Not in the poetic, cinematic kind of way. Not like ink in water or sunsets behind glass.
No—this blur was sick.
It was rust-colored light through closed blinds.
It was the smell of sweat and unwashed clothes and something faintly sour he couldn’t place.
It was the kind of blur that made you wonder if you’d died too, and just forgot to stop breathing.
Jisung didn’t remember how long it had been since the funeral.
Three Days? Three weeks? Four? Longer? Weeks had passed. He wasn’t sure how many. Time lost shape when your only goal was to survive the day.
The tour was on hold indefinitely. The company had offered a quiet, PR-friendly statement. Fans were supportive, loving even. The other members gave him space.
But space wasn’t what he needed.
He needed her.
Time didn’t feel real in the apartment anymore.
It just stretched—slow and quiet and heavy. He woke in the same position every morning. On her side of the bed.
Face pressed to her pillow, limbs twisted in the sheets she used to tuck around her waist.
The fabric was losing her scent now. Fading.
He started sleeping with the closet open just to smell her shampoo from the hangers.
He couldn’t bring himself to wash anything. The toothbrush still sat in its cup. Her tea mug—chipped on the rim—still had a dried ring of green tea at the bottom. Her jacket hung by the door. Her necklace sat on the bathroom counter, coiled like a promise never kept.
It was like her absence screamed louder than her presence ever had.
He tried. For a few days, he tried.
Felix came by with food.
Minho texted every morning.
Chan called at night, and if Jisung didn’t answer, he called again.
But no one could get past the silence.
His manager left a bag of fresh clothes outside the door, along with a note in careful handwriting:
“it’s okay if you need more time. Just let us know you’re still here.”
He read it.
And then he sat on the floor.
For hours.
Not crying.
Not thinking.
Just breathing. Barely. The weight of everything had settled now.
It wasn’t a tidal wave anymore—it was cement.
In his lungs.
Behind his eyes.
Inside his bones.
And it made everything hard.
Getting up. Getting dressed. Standing in the shower long enough for the water to run hot.
It made smiling impossible.
He hadn’t smiled since the day they lowered her casket into the ground—white roses resting on top like snow that never melted.
He stopped writing.
The journal she bought him for Christmas—the one he always kept beside the bed—was untouched since her death.
The pen sat on the nightstand like a weapon.
Every time he looked at it, he saw her handwriting in the cover.
“For all the words you haven’t said yet.”
He almost tore the page out.
Almost.
But he didn’t have the strength to destroy her. Even now.
One night, he tried to listen to her voicemail.
Just once. Just to hear her voice.
He made it halfway through the greeting before he started shaking.
He dropped the phone. Got on his knees. Pressed his forehead to the floor like he was trying to disappear.
“Hi, you’ve reached Y/N. I’m probably eating ramen or dancing in the kitchen right now…”
That was the line that broke him.
Because she had been dancing. Just weeks before. In her dumb lemon socks. Holding a wooden spoon like a microphone.
Now she was cold in the ground.
There were dreams, sometimes. Soft ones.
She’d appear in a crowd. Walking ahead of him, looking back, smiling. Or lying beside him in bed, humming a song she hadn’t written yet. Sometimes they’d be at the pier again, her hand in his.
And in those moments, he let himself believe.
Just for a little while.
Just long enough to touch her.
But every dream ended the same.
She’d slip away.
And he’d wake up clawing at the empty space beside him.
He began to wonder if she was angry. If wherever she was—whatever came next—she knew how little he’d been there in the end.
Did she know he missed her last text? Did she know he didn’t answer her call? Did she know how hard he was trying now, too late?
He’d whisper to the ceiling some nights, voice hoarse and full of salt:
“Do you hate me?”
“Did you die thinking I didn’t love you?”
“Please… I need you to know. I loved you. I still do. I always—”
He never finished the sentence. His throat always gave out.
The bridge came after that.
The one they’d carved their initials into with his keys.
He found the spot.
Ran his fingers over the faded engraving like it was a wound.
Jisung + Y/N
Still there. Still whole.
He stood at the edge and looked down at the river.
Not because he wanted to jump. Not really. But because the idea of letting go sounded… quiet.
And all he wanted was peace.
But the world wasn’t done with him.
Because just as he closed his eyes—just as the wind pressed against his chest like a whisper—
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Then it buzzed again. And again.
He finally looked.
A message from Minho.
"She wouldn’t want you like this, idiot."
Attached was a photo.
One he didn’t remember ever taking.
It was Y/N.
Lying on his lap. Smiling. Bare-faced and glowing. Looking up at him like he was the only thing that mattered.
He stared at the screen until his vision blurred.
And then—finally—he stepped back.
Depression isn’t poetic.
It’s not a pretty girl in a sad movie.
It’s not a single tear or a piano track in the background.
It’s unwashed hair.
Unopened windows.
Mugs growing mold on the counter.
It’s waking up and wishing you hadn’t.
It’s forgetting how to answer when someone says, “Are you okay?”
It’s seeing her face everywhere and not being able to remember the sound of her laugh.
It’s being alive.
And hating yourself for it.
---
It started with snow.
Not cold. Not biting.
Just soft—falling slow in a dreamworld painted in grayscale.
The trees were skeletal, black against silver sky. The ground beneath his feet glowed faintly with frost, glittering like crushed glass in moonlight.
It wasn’t a place he recognized, but somehow… he knew it.
Like a memory he’d never lived.
Jisung stood in the center of a clearing. Barefoot.
The air didn’t burn, though it should have.
His breath didn’t fog.
His chest didn’t ache.
For the first time in weeks—maybe months—his body felt light.
And then he felt her.
He turned slowly.
She was standing beneath a tree.
Barefoot, too.
Wearing the same cream dress she once wore to his birthday dinner two years ago—the one he said made her look like a dream.
And that’s exactly what she was now.
A dream.
Her hair fell loose around her shoulders. Her hands were folded in front of her. Her eyes—
God, her eyes.
Soft. Warm. Eternal.
Like she’d never left.
“Y/N,” he whispered, already crying.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him with a look that shattered him from the inside out.
He stumbled toward her, snow crunching beneath his feet.
“Y/N, please—please—say something,” he begged, voice cracking.
Still nothing.
Just silence. Gentle. Reverent.
As if the world itself didn’t want to interrupt this moment.
When he reached her, he dropped to his knees. He didn’t even realize he had. It just happened.
His forehead pressed against her stomach, hands gripping the fabric of her dress like he was afraid she’d dissolve.
“I can’t do this without you,” he whispered, broken.
“You’re in everything. I wake up and you’re not there. I walk outside and I see your face in every crowd. Every laugh I hear sounds like you. I—I don’t even remember how to be without you.”
She said nothing.
Just brushed his hair back from his forehead.
Her fingers were warm.
Real.
“I’m so sorry,” he choked. “For missing your call. For not answering. For every second I wasted thinking there’d be time.”
He looked up at her, tears tracking hot down his face.
“I’d give it all back. Every tour. Every stage. Every spotlight. If it meant I got to keep you.”
Still, she didn’t speak.
But she smiled.
A smile so soft it felt like forgiveness.
Then—slowly—she leaned down.
Her lips brushed against his forehead.
And in that moment, he felt something break.
Not the kind of break that ruins.
The kind that releases.
Like his soul exhaled for the first time since she left.
When he looked back up, she was already fading.
Snow caught in her hair.
Light bleeding through her skin like the sunrise.
“No—no, wait, please don’t go,” he whispered, reaching for her.
Her hand came up and pressed gently over his heart. And though she never spoke, her eyes said everything.
“I never left.”
He woke with tears on his cheeks and the sheets tangled around his legs. The room was still dark.
But for the first time, it didn’t feel suffocating.
There was breath in his lungs.
There was warmth in his chest.
There was something left to live for.
He sat up slowly, resting his hand against his heart.
It was still racing.
But it didn’t hurt the same way.
Because he’d seen her. Felt her. Heard the silence she chose not to fill—and it meant something.
She was still with him.
Not in body.
But in every beat.
---
Acceptance
The morning light came slow.
Golden. Gentle. Unapologetic.
It poured through the windows Jisung had finally opened again—sheets fluttering in the breeze, dust dancing through the sunbeams like a quiet orchestra of memory and rebirth.
The apartment was still the same.
Same cracked mug on the counter.
Same sweater draped over the back of the couch.
Same crooked photo of them on the bookshelf, now in a new frame.
But the silence was different.
It wasn’t heavy anymore.
It was… warm.
Jisung stood barefoot in the middle of the living room, hair still wet from a real shower—his first in longer than he cared to count. A cup of fresh coffee sat cooling on the windowsill. He hadn’t touched his phone yet.
He just stood there. Breathing.
Not for survival this time. But because it finally felt okay to be alive.
He hadn’t cried in two days.
Not because it didn’t hurt anymore.
But because the hurt didn’t own him now.
It sat beside him like an old friend—quiet, familiar, still sharp at the edges, but no longer strangling. The pain would never leave. But neither would she.
He walked into the bedroom and reached for the closet.
It was time.
Piece by piece, he pulled her things from the hangers. Folded each shirt. Smoothed each wrinkle. Ran his hands over the soft cotton of the hoodie she always wore on lazy Sundays.
He didn’t put them away. He didn’t give them up.
He just… made space.
Space for the life still ahead of him. Space for healing. Space for the version of himself she always believed in—the version she kissed on the forehead in a dream and told to keep going.
He found her journal later that day.
Tucked behind a stack of old sketchbooks in her desk drawer. The same notebook she always scribbled in, claiming “it’s just for thoughts, not poems, don’t get excited.”
Of course he opened it.
The pages were chaotic. Beautiful.
Lyrics. Grocery lists. Doodles. A recipe she never mastered.
And on one page, written softly in the center like it had been waiting for him—
“I hope he knows I never stopped loving him. Even when it got hard.”
He didn’t cry. He smiled.
That night, he sat on the balcony for the first time in months.
Wrapped in her old blanket. A mug of tea in his hands. Watching the stars blink awake like they’d missed him.
And for once, he didn’t ask the sky for her back.
Didn’t beg. Didn’t break.
He just whispered—
“You were real.”
“You mattered.”
“You still do.”
And somewhere, somehow, he swore he felt the wind move softer.
Like her hand on his shoulder.
Like her breath against his cheek.
Like her saying, “I know.”
He wrote a song the next day.
Not a sad one. Not about death. But about remembering. About what it means to love someone so much they become a part of your DNA. About how grief isn’t the end of the story—it’s the echo of a love loud enough to still be heard after it’s gone.
He didn’t release it. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But he sang it into the void of his empty apartment, and for the first time, the silence sang back.
Acceptance didn’t mean forgetting.
It didn’t mean “healed.”
It didn’t mean “better.”
It just meant he could carry her without breaking now.
It meant he could live a full life—and still miss her.
It meant that some love stories don’t end.
They echo.
They ripple.
They stay.
In another life, maybe they got forever.
But in this one— He would carry her memory like a flame.
The world didn’t stop when she died. The sun still rose. Planes still landed. Fans still screamed his name like nothing had changed. And Jisung hated that.
Because everything had changed.
Warnings: idol!au, ANGST, TRIGGER WARNING!- tragedy, grief, main character death, suicidal ideation, emotional trauma, unresolved feelings, blood, swearing, accidents, mourning, severe depression, anger, heartbreak, etc, lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: hi my loves, while care is taken to handle these topics with sensitivity, please prioritize your well-being while reading. If you are in a vulnerable place emotionally or mentally, proceed with caution or consider skipping this piece! You are not alone. ♡
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Denial
The world didn’t stop when she died.
The sun still rose.
Planes still landed.
Fans still screamed his name like nothing had changed.
And Jisung hated that.
Because everything had changed.
The glass doors of her apartment opened with a groan, a ghostly exhale of a life left behind. He hadn’t been here in four months. Maybe longer. Her slippers still sat by the mat. A pale pink umbrella hung limply from the hook beside the door, drops of dried mud on the fabric—proof that she'd been caught in the rain again, probably laughing as she ran.
Jisung stepped inside like he didn’t belong. The air was stale but familiar. It smelled faintly of rose shampoo, takeout curry, and the little eucalyptus diffuser she always swore helped her sleep.
It hadn’t helped him at all.
He walked past the couch, where a folded blanket still hugged the corner. Her sweater was draped across it like she'd just taken it off. Maybe she had. Maybe she’d walk out from the bedroom at any moment—rubbed eyes, sleep-tousled hair, asking why he was home early with a crooked smile.
Maybe if he called her name…
“Y/N?” he whispered.
Nothing.
Just the click of a leaky kitchen faucet and the eerie whir of the refrigerator.
She wasn’t here.
She’d never be here again.
The memory came back like a strike to the chest.
That day—
The call.
He’d been backstage in Nagoya, half-listening to staff chatter while brushing his teeth, his in-ear monitors still clipped to the collar of his hoodie. His manager had walked in too fast. No knock. No greeting. Just eyes wide and jaw clenched like something unspeakable had just happened.
“Jisung-ah… you need to sit.”
That sentence would echo in his skull for days.
He didn’t sit.
He laughed. Nervously.
“Bro, I’ve got twenty minutes before call time. If this is about my phone being off—”
“It’s Y/N.”
Everything stopped. The air thinned. His throat closed.
“What about her?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“There was an accident.”
He didn’t remember much after that.
The mirror cracking when he threw his water bottle.
The way his knees gave out.
The way Chan held him as he screamed—over and over—“No. No. No.”
Now, standing in her living room, Jisung traced the spine of her favorite book with shaking fingers. The Little Prince. She loved stories with sadness hidden in softness. She once said, “The saddest people read the brightest books.” Maybe she was trying to tell him something back then. Maybe he just never listened close enough.
He found her phone on the kitchen counter.
Plugged in. Fully charged.
There was a message still open on it.
“Hey. I know you’re busy. I just miss you today. I’ll be okay, I promise. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
Sent: 10:27 PM.
She died less than an hour later.
He never replied.
The city lights outside her window blinked like a broken lullaby—constant, unforgiving.
He sat down on her couch and picked up the blanket. It still smelled like her. Soft jasmine and warm skin. He clutched it to his face and tried to inhale her back to life.
That night, he didn’t go back to the dorms.
He slept on her couch.
Wrapped in the last thing that remembered her.
He dreamt she was still alive.
Denial is a powerful drug.
It lets you believe the door might open again.
That this was all just a mistake.
That maybe the world just got it wrong.
But morning came.
And she didn’t.
---
It rained that night.
Not the dramatic kind. Not thunder or lightning. Just a soft, steady drizzle that painted the city in reflections and longing. The kind of rain that made everything feel slower. Softer. Like the world was holding its breath.
Y/N stood at the window of her apartment, watching the lights blur through the water on the glass. The kettle whistled behind her, but she didn’t move.
Jisung stepped out of the bedroom, rubbing at his eyes, hair messy from the nap he’d taken between schedule calls. “You didn’t make the tea?”
She shrugged. “I forgot.”
He moved past her to the stove, turning the burner off. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
It was a lie.
But he was too tired to push.
The clock read 11:42 PM. His flight was in six hours. Another leg of the tour. Another continent. Another goodbye.
He poured the tea into the chipped mug she always used and handed it to her. Her fingers brushed his. Warm. Familiar. Fleeting.
“You leave in the morning,” she said, not looking at him.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“Another red-eye?”
He nodded. “Tokyo this time. Then LA. Then I think… Paris?”
“You think?” she asked, soft and tired.
He gave a helpless smile. “I stopped keeping track.”
That silence again. Heavy. Hollow.
She turned away from the window and sat on the edge of the couch, pulling her legs up to her chest, mug cradled between her palms.
“I had a dream last night,” she said suddenly. “You were on a beach somewhere. I couldn’t reach you. You kept walking. And I was screaming your name, but you didn’t hear me.”
Jisung blinked. “Damn.”
She looked at him then. And it wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t a plea. It was just… heartbreak wearing the mask of acceptance.
“I know this is your dream,” she said gently. “I know this is everything you’ve worked for.”
His chest tightened.
“But sometimes,” she continued, “I wish I didn’t feel like a pit stop.”
That hit him harder than she intended. Or maybe exactly how she meant it.
He sat down beside her, letting the silence stretch. The only sound was the whisper of rain against the windows and the creak of her heartbeat inside his ribs.
“I don’t mean to make you feel that way,” he said eventually.
“I know.”
“I think about you all the time.”
“I know.”
“I just…” He exhaled. “I don’t know how to be everything.”
Her eyes softened. “I never asked you to be everything, Jisung. I just wanted to be something.”
That silence again.
But this time, it broke him.
So he kissed her. Desperately. Like it could fix something. Like it could undo the miles between them, the missed calls, the I’ll call you laters, the next time, I promise.
And for a while, it worked.
Her lips were warm. Her hands were gentle. Her touch was the only thing that felt real in a life full of rehearsals and choreography and plastic smiles.
They made love like the world was ending.
Slow. Breathless. Lingering.
His hands memorized the lines of her body like he knew he wouldn’t get another chance.
Afterward, she curled into him, face tucked into the crook of his neck.
“Do you ever get scared?” she whispered.
“Of what?”
“That one day, I’ll stop waiting.”
He didn’t answer.
He just held her tighter.
He left before sunrise.
She walked him to the door in her hoodie and bare feet, hair still damp from her shower. He kissed her like he always did—too fast, too guilty.
“Text me when you land,” she said.
“I will.”
“Be safe.”
“I love you.”
She smiled, small and sleepy. “I love you too.”
And that was the last time he ever saw her.
---
Anger
The funeral was three days ago.
He still hadn’t taken off the black suit.
It hung off his frame like dead weight—creased, wrinkled, sweat-soaked at the collar. He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. His stylists had begged him to come back to the dorm. His manager had left twelve voicemails. His mom tried to call twenty times.
He turned his phone off.
The only place he could bear to be was here—her apartment.
The last place she existed. The only place that still felt like her.
Rain hit the windows like static. A thunderless storm, constant and disorienting. It blurred the outside world into a mess of colors and glass. But inside, the apartment was still frozen in time. Her time. Her world.
Jisung sat on the kitchen floor with a bottle of cheap soju and a broken picture frame beside him.
It was the one from Busan—summer two years ago. They were at the pier, hair windswept, sunburned, smiling like fools. She had her arm wrapped around his neck and her forehead pressed to his cheek. He remembered that day so vividly it physically hurt.
He threw the frame against the wall.
The sound shattered the silence like a scream in a church.
“Fuck you,” he muttered. “Fuck you for leaving me.”
And then louder.
“FUCK YOU.”
He wasn’t sure who he was talking to—her? The universe? Himself?
Maybe all of it.
He stood up too fast, dizziness hitting him like a punch, but he didn’t care. He staggered toward her bookshelf and yanked it down. Books spilled to the floor. Her favorite poems. Her journals. The little love letters he used to write on napkins, all tied in ribbon and hidden on the bottom shelf.
He ripped them open, one by one.
“‘I miss you more than I breathe,’” he read mockingly, voice shaking. “What a fucking liar I am.”
He slammed his fist against the wall.
Crack.
Plaster dented. Skin split. Blood bloomed like a rose in slow motion.
He stared at his hand. Watched the crimson trail down his wrist and drip onto the carpet she used to make him take his shoes off for.
She would’ve scolded him.
She would’ve kissed the bruises. Wiped the tears. Said, “You’re not as strong as you pretend to be.”
And she’d be right.
That night, he trashed everything.
The candles. The vases. The stupid glass cat figurine she got at that flea market he made fun of her for loving.
He screamed until his voice cracked. Until his lungs begged him to stop. Until he was sobbing on the floor surrounded by pieces of her.
And when there was nothing left to destroy—
He curled up in the wreckage, clutching one of her shirts to his face.
It still smelled like her.
“Why didn’t you wait?” he whispered, barely audible.
“Why didn’t you call me again? You always did…”
He couldn’t tell if he was mad at her for dying or at himself for not picking up.
Both, maybe.
He deserved that kind of anger. The kind that boils in your marrow. The kind that makes the walls breathe and the floor feel like it’s swallowing you whole.
Because she was dead.
And he was still here.
And what kind of fucking justice was that?
The next morning, Chan came.
He stood at the door for ten minutes before Jisung finally opened it.
One look, and Chan’s face fell.
“Hyung,” Jisung croaked, eyes red, lip split. “Don’t say anything. Please. Don’t be nice to me. I’ll fall apart.”
But Chan wasn’t nice.
He looked around the destroyed apartment—then at Jisung’s bleeding hand—and said coldly:
“You think she’d want you like this?”
Jisung flinched.
“She’d hate this,” Chan snapped. “She’d hate that you’re turning her into guilt.”
“You don’t know what she’d want—”
“I do. I met her. She lit up like a fucking firefly every time she talked about you.”
Jisung’s breath caught. “Then why did I kill her?”
“You didn’t.”
“I left her, hyung. I was never there.”
Chan’s expression cracked.
“That’s not the same thing.”
But Jisung didn’t believe him.
Because no matter how many times someone told him it wasn’t his fault, his heart screamed otherwise.
You forgot her birthday.
You missed her call.
You weren’t there.
No amount of apologies could change the fact that she died thinking he didn’t care.
And that was a wound no bandage could fix.
Anger doesn’t always look like shouting.
Sometimes it looks like guilt you can’t scrub off.
Sometimes it sounds like a voicemail you keep deleting but never block.
Sometimes it feels like a name you scream into your pillow at 4 a.m.
Y/N.
Y/N.
Y/N.
He missed her so much it made him want to break.
And so he did.
Every single day.
---
Bargaining
The first time Jisung visited the accident site, it was midnight.
No one else was there—just the dim flicker of a streetlamp, the cracked asphalt, and the faint smear of old paint where someone had tried to scrub away the blood.
Her blood.
He stood on the curb in the same hoodie she used to steal from him, the sleeves pulled down over trembling fingers. The wind cut sharp through the silence, stirring trash and dead leaves like ghosts crawling toward his ankles.
He didn’t know what he expected.
Some sign. A whisper. A vision. Something.
Instead, there was only the memory of her walking that same route every Friday.
Back from the studio. Always with earbuds in. Always texting him pictures of stray cats she passed.
He dropped to his knees on the sidewalk.
“Just take it back,” he whispered, staring at the spot where her body had landed. “I’ll give you anything. Just undo this. Please.”
His voice cracked like glass under weight.
“I’ll quit the tour. I’ll give up the fame. I’ll walk away from everything. Just give me a chance to do it over.”
He pressed his forehead to the cold ground like it was holy.
“I’ll pick up this time. I’ll answer. I’ll stay. I’ll love her better. I swear to God, I’ll love her better.”
But the street was quiet.
The wind didn’t answer.
So he sat there for hours. Just waiting. For a sign. A miracle. A punishment.
Because grief was a cruel god.
And Jisung was ready to offer anything for mercy.
The second time he begged for her back, he was drunk.
Alone in their favorite cafe at closing, lights off, head down on the sticky corner booth where she once laughed until she cried over the worst cup of hot chocolate he’d ever bought her.
The owner—who recognized him through the swelling around his eyes—let him stay. Didn’t ask questions. Just locked up and left him there.
Jisung clutched her scarf in one hand and a half-finished letter in the other.
He had been writing to her every day.
Little pages. Scraps. Napkins.
And tonight, he wrote:
"Y/N... if you're out there somewhere, I’m sorry I was so small. I thought chasing the world meant I was doing it for us. I didn’t realize I was leaving you behind until it was too late."
He blinked hard.
"If I could trade places with you, I would. In a heartbeat. I'd take the hit. I’d let the car hit me. Just… just don’t be gone."
But she was.
And no prayer, no song, no sacrifice could unring that bell.
''I miss you so much, I feel like I can't breathe..''
He started chasing ghosts.
Visiting every place they used to go.
Ordering the drinks she liked and pretending she was sitting across from him.
Walking past her old studio, just in case her shadow lingered.
He even went to a psychic once. Sat there like a fool while the woman held his hand and said, “She’s still with you.”
And he believed her.
Because belief was easier than letting go.
One night, he opened their old photo folder.
It was called “us <3.”
There were 219 photos.
He stared at the one of her sleeping in the backseat of his van. Hoodie pulled up, mouth parted slightly, sunlight streaking across her cheek like a kiss from heaven. He hadn’t even remembered taking it.
The file details said: March 17th, 4:09 PM.
Two years ago.
He stared at the time. Then rewound all the clocks in his apartment to 4:09.
He sat in the silence, watching the second hand twitch, like maybe—maybe—the universe would hear how loud his heart was breaking and rewind itself.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please, just once. Let me go back.”
But the clocks kept ticking.
And she stayed dead.
Bargaining isn’t logical. It’s not rational. It’s not even fair.
It’s a boy with too much guilt and not enough time, begging a sky that never learned how to answer.
It’s I would’ve. I should’ve. I could’ve.
It’s “Don’t take her. Take me instead.”
But there’s no trade. No undoing.
Just grief, replayed over and over—like a bad song on loop.
And the worst part?
He still believed there was some way to fix it.
---
It was summer. The kind that kissed your skin instead of burning it.
Seoul was alive that weekend—music in the streets, the air smelling like sugar and citrus and fried food from nearby stalls. The sky was cloudless. Blue enough to feel unreal. Like someone had painted it just for them.
And for once, Jisung wasn’t working.
No tour. No schedule. No hidden panic in the corner of his smile.
Just him. And her. And the day stretched out before them like a gift.
They were in Han River Park, barefoot in the grass, Y/N’s skirt fluttering like a ribbon as she laughed and tried to fly a cheap pink kite. The string kept tangling. She kept tripping. And he couldn’t stop grinning.
“You’re supposed to let the wind catch it, not murder it,” he teased, watching her run with zero coordination and all the chaos of someone who had never flown a kite in her life.
“I am letting the wind catch it,” she huffed, sticking out her tongue, hair flying across her face. “But clearly the wind is homophobic.”
He wheeze-laughed—doubled over, hands on knees.
She sprinted toward him suddenly and jumped onto his back, shrieking as he stumbled, caught her by the thighs, and carried her like a backpack while she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, breathless.
“You love it,” she whispered into his ear.
“I do.”
She went still.
“I know,” she murmured. “But it’s still nice to hear.”
They ended the day with ice cream and sunburns. She stole bites of his cone and wiped her sticky fingers on his shirt just to hear him protest. Her feet were up on the dashboard of his car while he drove with one hand, the other resting lazily on her thigh.
The windows were down. Her playlist was on.
She was singing—badly—to a sad indie love song that didn’t match the sunshine at all.
“You ever think about the future?” she asked quietly, chin tilted out the window, voice nearly lost in the breeze.
He glanced over at her. “All the time.”
“Does it scare you?”
He thought for a moment. Then: “Only if you’re not in it.”
Her face broke into the softest smile. The kind that doesn't light up—it glows.
She reached across the console and laced their fingers together.
“Good,” she said. “Because I already named our cat.”
He laughed. “We don’t have a cat.”
“We will. His name is Bagel. He’s orange. He hates you.”
“You’ve really thought this through.”
“Shut up and drive, Han.”
They got home just as the sun was setting, that magic hour glow soaking everything in amber. The apartment was warm, still smelling like the lavender candle she always lit by the door. She slipped off her shoes and disappeared into the kitchen, humming something under her breath.
When he followed her, she had her arms open.
“Dance with me.”
“There’s no music.”
She pulled out her phone. A soft melody started. One of his demo tracks. The one she always said sounded like the beginning of a love letter.
“Now there is.”
So he wrapped his arms around her waist. She twined hers around his neck. And they swayed in the middle of their too-small kitchen, feet stepping on each other, laughter bubbling between them.
He kissed her temple. Her cheek. Her jaw. Her smile.
“Promise me something,” she whispered, forehead resting against his.
“Anything.”
“When the world tries to pull us apart…” Her voice trembled just a little. “Promise you’ll hold on.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“I’ll never let go.”
And he meant it.
God, he meant it.
But time is cruel. And promises mean nothing to fate.
Because two months later, he lost her.
And she never got to name their cat.
---
Depression
The days blurred.
Not in the poetic, cinematic kind of way. Not like ink in water or sunsets behind glass.
No—this blur was sick.
It was rust-colored light through closed blinds.
It was the smell of sweat and unwashed clothes and something faintly sour he couldn’t place.
It was the kind of blur that made you wonder if you’d died too, and just forgot to stop breathing.
Jisung didn’t remember how long it had been since the funeral.
Three Days? Three weeks? Four? Longer? Weeks had passed. He wasn’t sure how many. Time lost shape when your only goal was to survive the day.
The tour was on hold indefinitely. The company had offered a quiet, PR-friendly statement. Fans were supportive, loving even. The other members gave him space.
But space wasn’t what he needed.
He needed her.
Time didn’t feel real in the apartment anymore.
It just stretched—slow and quiet and heavy. He woke in the same position every morning. On her side of the bed.
Face pressed to her pillow, limbs twisted in the sheets she used to tuck around her waist.
The fabric was losing her scent now. Fading.
He started sleeping with the closet open just to smell her shampoo from the hangers.
He couldn’t bring himself to wash anything. The toothbrush still sat in its cup. Her tea mug—chipped on the rim—still had a dried ring of green tea at the bottom. Her jacket hung by the door. Her necklace sat on the bathroom counter, coiled like a promise never kept.
It was like her absence screamed louder than her presence ever had.
He tried. For a few days, he tried.
Felix came by with food.
Minho texted every morning.
Chan called at night, and if Jisung didn’t answer, he called again.
But no one could get past the silence.
His manager left a bag of fresh clothes outside the door, along with a note in careful handwriting:
“it’s okay if you need more time. Just let us know you’re still here.”
He read it.
And then he sat on the floor.
For hours.
Not crying.
Not thinking.
Just breathing. Barely. The weight of everything had settled now.
It wasn’t a tidal wave anymore—it was cement.
In his lungs.
Behind his eyes.
Inside his bones.
And it made everything hard.
Getting up. Getting dressed. Standing in the shower long enough for the water to run hot.
It made smiling impossible.
He hadn’t smiled since the day they lowered her casket into the ground—white roses resting on top like snow that never melted.
He stopped writing.
The journal she bought him for Christmas—the one he always kept beside the bed—was untouched since her death.
The pen sat on the nightstand like a weapon.
Every time he looked at it, he saw her handwriting in the cover.
“For all the words you haven’t said yet.”
He almost tore the page out.
Almost.
But he didn’t have the strength to destroy her. Even now.
One night, he tried to listen to her voicemail.
Just once. Just to hear her voice.
He made it halfway through the greeting before he started shaking.
He dropped the phone. Got on his knees. Pressed his forehead to the floor like he was trying to disappear.
“Hi, you’ve reached Y/N. I’m probably eating ramen or dancing in the kitchen right now…”
That was the line that broke him.
Because she had been dancing. Just weeks before. In her dumb lemon socks. Holding a wooden spoon like a microphone.
Now she was cold in the ground.
There were dreams, sometimes. Soft ones.
She’d appear in a crowd. Walking ahead of him, looking back, smiling. Or lying beside him in bed, humming a song she hadn’t written yet. Sometimes they’d be at the pier again, her hand in his.
And in those moments, he let himself believe.
Just for a little while.
Just long enough to touch her.
But every dream ended the same.
She’d slip away.
And he’d wake up clawing at the empty space beside him.
He began to wonder if she was angry. If wherever she was—whatever came next—she knew how little he’d been there in the end.
Did she know he missed her last text? Did she know he didn’t answer her call? Did she know how hard he was trying now, too late?
He’d whisper to the ceiling some nights, voice hoarse and full of salt:
“Do you hate me?”
“Did you die thinking I didn’t love you?”
“Please… I need you to know. I loved you. I still do. I always—”
He never finished the sentence. His throat always gave out.
The bridge came after that.
The one they’d carved their initials into with his keys.
He found the spot.
Ran his fingers over the faded engraving like it was a wound.
Jisung + Y/N
Still there. Still whole.
He stood at the edge and looked down at the river.
Not because he wanted to jump. Not really. But because the idea of letting go sounded… quiet.
And all he wanted was peace.
But the world wasn’t done with him.
Because just as he closed his eyes—just as the wind pressed against his chest like a whisper—
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Then it buzzed again. And again.
He finally looked.
A message from Minho.
"She wouldn’t want you like this, idiot."
Attached was a photo.
One he didn’t remember ever taking.
It was Y/N.
Lying on his lap. Smiling. Bare-faced and glowing. Looking up at him like he was the only thing that mattered.
He stared at the screen until his vision blurred.
And then—finally—he stepped back.
Depression isn’t poetic.
It’s not a pretty girl in a sad movie.
It’s not a single tear or a piano track in the background.
It’s unwashed hair.
Unopened windows.
Mugs growing mold on the counter.
It’s waking up and wishing you hadn’t.
It’s forgetting how to answer when someone says, “Are you okay?”
It’s seeing her face everywhere and not being able to remember the sound of her laugh.
It’s being alive.
And hating yourself for it.
---
It started with snow.
Not cold. Not biting.
Just soft—falling slow in a dreamworld painted in grayscale.
The trees were skeletal, black against silver sky. The ground beneath his feet glowed faintly with frost, glittering like crushed glass in moonlight.
It wasn’t a place he recognized, but somehow… he knew it.
Like a memory he’d never lived.
Jisung stood in the center of a clearing. Barefoot.
The air didn’t burn, though it should have.
His breath didn’t fog.
His chest didn’t ache.
For the first time in weeks—maybe months—his body felt light.
And then he felt her.
He turned slowly.
She was standing beneath a tree.
Barefoot, too.
Wearing the same cream dress she once wore to his birthday dinner two years ago—the one he said made her look like a dream.
And that’s exactly what she was now.
A dream.
Her hair fell loose around her shoulders. Her hands were folded in front of her. Her eyes—
God, her eyes.
Soft. Warm. Eternal.
Like she’d never left.
“Y/N,” he whispered, already crying.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him with a look that shattered him from the inside out.
He stumbled toward her, snow crunching beneath his feet.
“Y/N, please—please—say something,” he begged, voice cracking.
Still nothing.
Just silence. Gentle. Reverent.
As if the world itself didn’t want to interrupt this moment.
When he reached her, he dropped to his knees. He didn’t even realize he had. It just happened.
His forehead pressed against her stomach, hands gripping the fabric of her dress like he was afraid she’d dissolve.
“I can’t do this without you,” he whispered, broken.
“You’re in everything. I wake up and you’re not there. I walk outside and I see your face in every crowd. Every laugh I hear sounds like you. I—I don’t even remember how to be without you.”
She said nothing.
Just brushed his hair back from his forehead.
Her fingers were warm.
Real.
“I’m so sorry,” he choked. “For missing your call. For not answering. For every second I wasted thinking there’d be time.”
He looked up at her, tears tracking hot down his face.
“I’d give it all back. Every tour. Every stage. Every spotlight. If it meant I got to keep you.”
Still, she didn’t speak.
But she smiled.
A smile so soft it felt like forgiveness.
Then—slowly—she leaned down.
Her lips brushed against his forehead.
And in that moment, he felt something break.
Not the kind of break that ruins.
The kind that releases.
Like his soul exhaled for the first time since she left.
When he looked back up, she was already fading.
Snow caught in her hair.
Light bleeding through her skin like the sunrise.
“No—no, wait, please don’t go,” he whispered, reaching for her.
Her hand came up and pressed gently over his heart. And though she never spoke, her eyes said everything.
“I never left.”
He woke with tears on his cheeks and the sheets tangled around his legs. The room was still dark.
But for the first time, it didn’t feel suffocating.
There was breath in his lungs.
There was warmth in his chest.
There was something left to live for.
He sat up slowly, resting his hand against his heart.
It was still racing.
But it didn’t hurt the same way.
Because he’d seen her. Felt her. Heard the silence she chose not to fill—and it meant something.
She was still with him.
Not in body.
But in every beat.
---
Acceptance
The morning light came slow.
Golden. Gentle. Unapologetic.
It poured through the windows Jisung had finally opened again—sheets fluttering in the breeze, dust dancing through the sunbeams like a quiet orchestra of memory and rebirth.
The apartment was still the same.
Same cracked mug on the counter.
Same sweater draped over the back of the couch.
Same crooked photo of them on the bookshelf, now in a new frame.
But the silence was different.
It wasn’t heavy anymore.
It was… warm.
Jisung stood barefoot in the middle of the living room, hair still wet from a real shower—his first in longer than he cared to count. A cup of fresh coffee sat cooling on the windowsill. He hadn’t touched his phone yet.
He just stood there. Breathing.
Not for survival this time. But because it finally felt okay to be alive.
He hadn’t cried in two days.
Not because it didn’t hurt anymore.
But because the hurt didn’t own him now.
It sat beside him like an old friend—quiet, familiar, still sharp at the edges, but no longer strangling. The pain would never leave. But neither would she.
He walked into the bedroom and reached for the closet.
It was time.
Piece by piece, he pulled her things from the hangers. Folded each shirt. Smoothed each wrinkle. Ran his hands over the soft cotton of the hoodie she always wore on lazy Sundays.
He didn’t put them away. He didn’t give them up.
He just… made space.
Space for the life still ahead of him. Space for healing. Space for the version of himself she always believed in—the version she kissed on the forehead in a dream and told to keep going.
He found her journal later that day.
Tucked behind a stack of old sketchbooks in her desk drawer. The same notebook she always scribbled in, claiming “it’s just for thoughts, not poems, don’t get excited.”
Of course he opened it.
The pages were chaotic. Beautiful.
Lyrics. Grocery lists. Doodles. A recipe she never mastered.
And on one page, written softly in the center like it had been waiting for him—
“I hope he knows I never stopped loving him. Even when it got hard.”
He didn’t cry. He smiled.
That night, he sat on the balcony for the first time in months.
Wrapped in her old blanket. A mug of tea in his hands. Watching the stars blink awake like they’d missed him.
And for once, he didn’t ask the sky for her back.
Didn’t beg. Didn’t break.
He just whispered—
“You were real.”
“You mattered.”
“You still do.”
And somewhere, somehow, he swore he felt the wind move softer.
Like her hand on his shoulder.
Like her breath against his cheek.
Like her saying, “I know.”
He wrote a song the next day.
Not a sad one. Not about death. But about remembering. About what it means to love someone so much they become a part of your DNA. About how grief isn’t the end of the story—it’s the echo of a love loud enough to still be heard after it’s gone.
He didn’t release it. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But he sang it into the void of his empty apartment, and for the first time, the silence sang back.
Acceptance didn’t mean forgetting.
It didn’t mean “healed.”
It didn’t mean “better.”
It just meant he could carry her without breaking now.
It meant he could live a full life—and still miss her.
It meant that some love stories don’t end.
They echo.
They ripple.
They stay.
In another life, maybe they got forever.
But in this one— He would carry her memory like a flame.
this has had to be the most heartbreaking fic i’ve ever ready and i loved every piece of it. like the way you captured just exactly what it feels like to go through every stage of grieving a loved one. this truly touched my heart & i feel so seen💔
ahh thank you so much for this, truly. i’m so glad it resonated with you—it means the world to me that you felt seen. grief is such a complex, heavy thing, and writing this was really personal for me… so hearing this made me a little teary (in the best way). thank you for reading, seriously. sending you much love ❤️😭
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The world didn’t stop when she died. The sun still rose. Planes still landed. Fans still screamed his name like nothing had changed. And Jisung hated that.
Because everything had changed.
Warnings: idol!au, ANGST, TRIGGER WARNING!- tragedy, grief, main character death, suicidal ideation, emotional trauma, unresolved feelings, blood, swearing, accidents, mourning, severe depression, anger, heartbreak, etc, lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: hi my loves, while care is taken to handle these topics with sensitivity, please prioritize your well-being while reading. If you are in a vulnerable place emotionally or mentally, proceed with caution or consider skipping this piece! You are not alone. ♡
Navigation | Oneshots | Masterlists
Denial
The world didn’t stop when she died.
The sun still rose.
Planes still landed.
Fans still screamed his name like nothing had changed.
And Jisung hated that.
Because everything had changed.
The glass doors of her apartment opened with a groan, a ghostly exhale of a life left behind. He hadn’t been here in four months. Maybe longer. Her slippers still sat by the mat. A pale pink umbrella hung limply from the hook beside the door, drops of dried mud on the fabric—proof that she'd been caught in the rain again, probably laughing as she ran.
Jisung stepped inside like he didn’t belong. The air was stale but familiar. It smelled faintly of rose shampoo, takeout curry, and the little eucalyptus diffuser she always swore helped her sleep.
It hadn’t helped him at all.
He walked past the couch, where a folded blanket still hugged the corner. Her sweater was draped across it like she'd just taken it off. Maybe she had. Maybe she’d walk out from the bedroom at any moment—rubbed eyes, sleep-tousled hair, asking why he was home early with a crooked smile.
Maybe if he called her name…
“Y/N?” he whispered.
Nothing.
Just the click of a leaky kitchen faucet and the eerie whir of the refrigerator.
She wasn’t here.
She’d never be here again.
The memory came back like a strike to the chest.
That day—
The call.
He’d been backstage in Nagoya, half-listening to staff chatter while brushing his teeth, his in-ear monitors still clipped to the collar of his hoodie. His manager had walked in too fast. No knock. No greeting. Just eyes wide and jaw clenched like something unspeakable had just happened.
“Jisung-ah… you need to sit.”
That sentence would echo in his skull for days.
He didn’t sit.
He laughed. Nervously.
“Bro, I’ve got twenty minutes before call time. If this is about my phone being off—”
“It’s Y/N.”
Everything stopped. The air thinned. His throat closed.
“What about her?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“There was an accident.”
He didn’t remember much after that.
The mirror cracking when he threw his water bottle.
The way his knees gave out.
The way Chan held him as he screamed—over and over—“No. No. No.”
Now, standing in her living room, Jisung traced the spine of her favorite book with shaking fingers. The Little Prince. She loved stories with sadness hidden in softness. She once said, “The saddest people read the brightest books.” Maybe she was trying to tell him something back then. Maybe he just never listened close enough.
He found her phone on the kitchen counter.
Plugged in. Fully charged.
There was a message still open on it.
“Hey. I know you’re busy. I just miss you today. I’ll be okay, I promise. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
Sent: 10:27 PM.
She died less than an hour later.
He never replied.
The city lights outside her window blinked like a broken lullaby—constant, unforgiving.
He sat down on her couch and picked up the blanket. It still smelled like her. Soft jasmine and warm skin. He clutched it to his face and tried to inhale her back to life.
That night, he didn’t go back to the dorms.
He slept on her couch.
Wrapped in the last thing that remembered her.
He dreamt she was still alive.
Denial is a powerful drug.
It lets you believe the door might open again.
That this was all just a mistake.
That maybe the world just got it wrong.
But morning came.
And she didn’t.
---
It rained that night.
Not the dramatic kind. Not thunder or lightning. Just a soft, steady drizzle that painted the city in reflections and longing. The kind of rain that made everything feel slower. Softer. Like the world was holding its breath.
Y/N stood at the window of her apartment, watching the lights blur through the water on the glass. The kettle whistled behind her, but she didn’t move.
Jisung stepped out of the bedroom, rubbing at his eyes, hair messy from the nap he’d taken between schedule calls. “You didn’t make the tea?”
She shrugged. “I forgot.”
He moved past her to the stove, turning the burner off. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
It was a lie.
But he was too tired to push.
The clock read 11:42 PM. His flight was in six hours. Another leg of the tour. Another continent. Another goodbye.
He poured the tea into the chipped mug she always used and handed it to her. Her fingers brushed his. Warm. Familiar. Fleeting.
“You leave in the morning,” she said, not looking at him.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“Another red-eye?”
He nodded. “Tokyo this time. Then LA. Then I think… Paris?”
“You think?” she asked, soft and tired.
He gave a helpless smile. “I stopped keeping track.”
That silence again. Heavy. Hollow.
She turned away from the window and sat on the edge of the couch, pulling her legs up to her chest, mug cradled between her palms.
“I had a dream last night,” she said suddenly. “You were on a beach somewhere. I couldn’t reach you. You kept walking. And I was screaming your name, but you didn’t hear me.”
Jisung blinked. “Damn.”
She looked at him then. And it wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t a plea. It was just… heartbreak wearing the mask of acceptance.
“I know this is your dream,” she said gently. “I know this is everything you’ve worked for.”
His chest tightened.
“But sometimes,” she continued, “I wish I didn’t feel like a pit stop.”
That hit him harder than she intended. Or maybe exactly how she meant it.
He sat down beside her, letting the silence stretch. The only sound was the whisper of rain against the windows and the creak of her heartbeat inside his ribs.
“I don’t mean to make you feel that way,” he said eventually.
“I know.”
“I think about you all the time.”
“I know.”
“I just…” He exhaled. “I don’t know how to be everything.”
Her eyes softened. “I never asked you to be everything, Jisung. I just wanted to be something.”
That silence again.
But this time, it broke him.
So he kissed her. Desperately. Like it could fix something. Like it could undo the miles between them, the missed calls, the I’ll call you laters, the next time, I promise.
And for a while, it worked.
Her lips were warm. Her hands were gentle. Her touch was the only thing that felt real in a life full of rehearsals and choreography and plastic smiles.
They made love like the world was ending.
Slow. Breathless. Lingering.
His hands memorized the lines of her body like he knew he wouldn’t get another chance.
Afterward, she curled into him, face tucked into the crook of his neck.
“Do you ever get scared?” she whispered.
“Of what?”
“That one day, I’ll stop waiting.”
He didn’t answer.
He just held her tighter.
He left before sunrise.
She walked him to the door in her hoodie and bare feet, hair still damp from her shower. He kissed her like he always did—too fast, too guilty.
“Text me when you land,” she said.
“I will.”
“Be safe.”
“I love you.”
She smiled, small and sleepy. “I love you too.”
And that was the last time he ever saw her.
---
Anger
The funeral was three days ago.
He still hadn’t taken off the black suit.
It hung off his frame like dead weight—creased, wrinkled, sweat-soaked at the collar. He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. His stylists had begged him to come back to the dorm. His manager had left twelve voicemails. His mom tried to call twenty times.
He turned his phone off.
The only place he could bear to be was here—her apartment.
The last place she existed. The only place that still felt like her.
Rain hit the windows like static. A thunderless storm, constant and disorienting. It blurred the outside world into a mess of colors and glass. But inside, the apartment was still frozen in time. Her time. Her world.
Jisung sat on the kitchen floor with a bottle of cheap soju and a broken picture frame beside him.
It was the one from Busan—summer two years ago. They were at the pier, hair windswept, sunburned, smiling like fools. She had her arm wrapped around his neck and her forehead pressed to his cheek. He remembered that day so vividly it physically hurt.
He threw the frame against the wall.
The sound shattered the silence like a scream in a church.
“Fuck you,” he muttered. “Fuck you for leaving me.”
And then louder.
“FUCK YOU.”
He wasn’t sure who he was talking to—her? The universe? Himself?
Maybe all of it.
He stood up too fast, dizziness hitting him like a punch, but he didn’t care. He staggered toward her bookshelf and yanked it down. Books spilled to the floor. Her favorite poems. Her journals. The little love letters he used to write on napkins, all tied in ribbon and hidden on the bottom shelf.
He ripped them open, one by one.
“‘I miss you more than I breathe,’” he read mockingly, voice shaking. “What a fucking liar I am.”
He slammed his fist against the wall.
Crack.
Plaster dented. Skin split. Blood bloomed like a rose in slow motion.
He stared at his hand. Watched the crimson trail down his wrist and drip onto the carpet she used to make him take his shoes off for.
She would’ve scolded him.
She would’ve kissed the bruises. Wiped the tears. Said, “You’re not as strong as you pretend to be.”
And she’d be right.
That night, he trashed everything.
The candles. The vases. The stupid glass cat figurine she got at that flea market he made fun of her for loving.
He screamed until his voice cracked. Until his lungs begged him to stop. Until he was sobbing on the floor surrounded by pieces of her.
And when there was nothing left to destroy—
He curled up in the wreckage, clutching one of her shirts to his face.
It still smelled like her.
“Why didn’t you wait?” he whispered, barely audible.
“Why didn’t you call me again? You always did…”
He couldn’t tell if he was mad at her for dying or at himself for not picking up.
Both, maybe.
He deserved that kind of anger. The kind that boils in your marrow. The kind that makes the walls breathe and the floor feel like it’s swallowing you whole.
Because she was dead.
And he was still here.
And what kind of fucking justice was that?
The next morning, Chan came.
He stood at the door for ten minutes before Jisung finally opened it.
One look, and Chan’s face fell.
“Hyung,” Jisung croaked, eyes red, lip split. “Don’t say anything. Please. Don’t be nice to me. I’ll fall apart.”
But Chan wasn’t nice.
He looked around the destroyed apartment—then at Jisung’s bleeding hand—and said coldly:
“You think she’d want you like this?”
Jisung flinched.
“She’d hate this,” Chan snapped. “She’d hate that you’re turning her into guilt.”
“You don’t know what she’d want—”
“I do. I met her. She lit up like a fucking firefly every time she talked about you.”
Jisung’s breath caught. “Then why did I kill her?”
“You didn’t.”
“I left her, hyung. I was never there.”
Chan’s expression cracked.
“That’s not the same thing.”
But Jisung didn’t believe him.
Because no matter how many times someone told him it wasn’t his fault, his heart screamed otherwise.
You forgot her birthday.
You missed her call.
You weren’t there.
No amount of apologies could change the fact that she died thinking he didn’t care.
And that was a wound no bandage could fix.
Anger doesn’t always look like shouting.
Sometimes it looks like guilt you can’t scrub off.
Sometimes it sounds like a voicemail you keep deleting but never block.
Sometimes it feels like a name you scream into your pillow at 4 a.m.
Y/N.
Y/N.
Y/N.
He missed her so much it made him want to break.
And so he did.
Every single day.
---
Bargaining
The first time Jisung visited the accident site, it was midnight.
No one else was there—just the dim flicker of a streetlamp, the cracked asphalt, and the faint smear of old paint where someone had tried to scrub away the blood.
Her blood.
He stood on the curb in the same hoodie she used to steal from him, the sleeves pulled down over trembling fingers. The wind cut sharp through the silence, stirring trash and dead leaves like ghosts crawling toward his ankles.
He didn’t know what he expected.
Some sign. A whisper. A vision. Something.
Instead, there was only the memory of her walking that same route every Friday.
Back from the studio. Always with earbuds in. Always texting him pictures of stray cats she passed.
He dropped to his knees on the sidewalk.
“Just take it back,” he whispered, staring at the spot where her body had landed. “I’ll give you anything. Just undo this. Please.”
His voice cracked like glass under weight.
“I’ll quit the tour. I’ll give up the fame. I’ll walk away from everything. Just give me a chance to do it over.”
He pressed his forehead to the cold ground like it was holy.
“I’ll pick up this time. I’ll answer. I’ll stay. I’ll love her better. I swear to God, I’ll love her better.”
But the street was quiet.
The wind didn’t answer.
So he sat there for hours. Just waiting. For a sign. A miracle. A punishment.
Because grief was a cruel god.
And Jisung was ready to offer anything for mercy.
The second time he begged for her back, he was drunk.
Alone in their favorite cafe at closing, lights off, head down on the sticky corner booth where she once laughed until she cried over the worst cup of hot chocolate he’d ever bought her.
The owner—who recognized him through the swelling around his eyes—let him stay. Didn’t ask questions. Just locked up and left him there.
Jisung clutched her scarf in one hand and a half-finished letter in the other.
He had been writing to her every day.
Little pages. Scraps. Napkins.
And tonight, he wrote:
"Y/N... if you're out there somewhere, I’m sorry I was so small. I thought chasing the world meant I was doing it for us. I didn’t realize I was leaving you behind until it was too late."
He blinked hard.
"If I could trade places with you, I would. In a heartbeat. I'd take the hit. I’d let the car hit me. Just… just don’t be gone."
But she was.
And no prayer, no song, no sacrifice could unring that bell.
''I miss you so much, I feel like I can't breathe..''
He started chasing ghosts.
Visiting every place they used to go.
Ordering the drinks she liked and pretending she was sitting across from him.
Walking past her old studio, just in case her shadow lingered.
He even went to a psychic once. Sat there like a fool while the woman held his hand and said, “She’s still with you.”
And he believed her.
Because belief was easier than letting go.
One night, he opened their old photo folder.
It was called “us <3.”
There were 219 photos.
He stared at the one of her sleeping in the backseat of his van. Hoodie pulled up, mouth parted slightly, sunlight streaking across her cheek like a kiss from heaven. He hadn’t even remembered taking it.
The file details said: March 17th, 4:09 PM.
Two years ago.
He stared at the time. Then rewound all the clocks in his apartment to 4:09.
He sat in the silence, watching the second hand twitch, like maybe—maybe—the universe would hear how loud his heart was breaking and rewind itself.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please, just once. Let me go back.”
But the clocks kept ticking.
And she stayed dead.
Bargaining isn’t logical. It’s not rational. It’s not even fair.
It’s a boy with too much guilt and not enough time, begging a sky that never learned how to answer.
It’s I would’ve. I should’ve. I could’ve.
It’s “Don’t take her. Take me instead.”
But there’s no trade. No undoing.
Just grief, replayed over and over—like a bad song on loop.
And the worst part?
He still believed there was some way to fix it.
---
It was summer. The kind that kissed your skin instead of burning it.
Seoul was alive that weekend—music in the streets, the air smelling like sugar and citrus and fried food from nearby stalls. The sky was cloudless. Blue enough to feel unreal. Like someone had painted it just for them.
And for once, Jisung wasn’t working.
No tour. No schedule. No hidden panic in the corner of his smile.
Just him. And her. And the day stretched out before them like a gift.
They were in Han River Park, barefoot in the grass, Y/N’s skirt fluttering like a ribbon as she laughed and tried to fly a cheap pink kite. The string kept tangling. She kept tripping. And he couldn’t stop grinning.
“You’re supposed to let the wind catch it, not murder it,” he teased, watching her run with zero coordination and all the chaos of someone who had never flown a kite in her life.
“I am letting the wind catch it,” she huffed, sticking out her tongue, hair flying across her face. “But clearly the wind is homophobic.”
He wheeze-laughed—doubled over, hands on knees.
She sprinted toward him suddenly and jumped onto his back, shrieking as he stumbled, caught her by the thighs, and carried her like a backpack while she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, breathless.
“You love it,” she whispered into his ear.
“I do.”
She went still.
“I know,” she murmured. “But it’s still nice to hear.”
They ended the day with ice cream and sunburns. She stole bites of his cone and wiped her sticky fingers on his shirt just to hear him protest. Her feet were up on the dashboard of his car while he drove with one hand, the other resting lazily on her thigh.
The windows were down. Her playlist was on.
She was singing—badly—to a sad indie love song that didn’t match the sunshine at all.
“You ever think about the future?” she asked quietly, chin tilted out the window, voice nearly lost in the breeze.
He glanced over at her. “All the time.”
“Does it scare you?”
He thought for a moment. Then: “Only if you’re not in it.”
Her face broke into the softest smile. The kind that doesn't light up—it glows.
She reached across the console and laced their fingers together.
“Good,” she said. “Because I already named our cat.”
He laughed. “We don’t have a cat.”
“We will. His name is Bagel. He’s orange. He hates you.”
“You’ve really thought this through.”
“Shut up and drive, Han.”
They got home just as the sun was setting, that magic hour glow soaking everything in amber. The apartment was warm, still smelling like the lavender candle she always lit by the door. She slipped off her shoes and disappeared into the kitchen, humming something under her breath.
When he followed her, she had her arms open.
“Dance with me.”
“There’s no music.”
She pulled out her phone. A soft melody started. One of his demo tracks. The one she always said sounded like the beginning of a love letter.
“Now there is.”
So he wrapped his arms around her waist. She twined hers around his neck. And they swayed in the middle of their too-small kitchen, feet stepping on each other, laughter bubbling between them.
He kissed her temple. Her cheek. Her jaw. Her smile.
“Promise me something,” she whispered, forehead resting against his.
“Anything.”
“When the world tries to pull us apart…” Her voice trembled just a little. “Promise you’ll hold on.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“I’ll never let go.”
And he meant it.
God, he meant it.
But time is cruel. And promises mean nothing to fate.
Because two months later, he lost her.
And she never got to name their cat.
---
Depression
The days blurred.
Not in the poetic, cinematic kind of way. Not like ink in water or sunsets behind glass.
No—this blur was sick.
It was rust-colored light through closed blinds.
It was the smell of sweat and unwashed clothes and something faintly sour he couldn’t place.
It was the kind of blur that made you wonder if you’d died too, and just forgot to stop breathing.
Jisung didn’t remember how long it had been since the funeral.
Three Days? Three weeks? Four? Longer? Weeks had passed. He wasn’t sure how many. Time lost shape when your only goal was to survive the day.
The tour was on hold indefinitely. The company had offered a quiet, PR-friendly statement. Fans were supportive, loving even. The other members gave him space.
But space wasn’t what he needed.
He needed her.
Time didn’t feel real in the apartment anymore.
It just stretched—slow and quiet and heavy. He woke in the same position every morning. On her side of the bed.
Face pressed to her pillow, limbs twisted in the sheets she used to tuck around her waist.
The fabric was losing her scent now. Fading.
He started sleeping with the closet open just to smell her shampoo from the hangers.
He couldn’t bring himself to wash anything. The toothbrush still sat in its cup. Her tea mug—chipped on the rim—still had a dried ring of green tea at the bottom. Her jacket hung by the door. Her necklace sat on the bathroom counter, coiled like a promise never kept.
It was like her absence screamed louder than her presence ever had.
He tried. For a few days, he tried.
Felix came by with food.
Minho texted every morning.
Chan called at night, and if Jisung didn’t answer, he called again.
But no one could get past the silence.
His manager left a bag of fresh clothes outside the door, along with a note in careful handwriting:
“it’s okay if you need more time. Just let us know you’re still here.”
He read it.
And then he sat on the floor.
For hours.
Not crying.
Not thinking.
Just breathing. Barely. The weight of everything had settled now.
It wasn’t a tidal wave anymore—it was cement.
In his lungs.
Behind his eyes.
Inside his bones.
And it made everything hard.
Getting up. Getting dressed. Standing in the shower long enough for the water to run hot.
It made smiling impossible.
He hadn’t smiled since the day they lowered her casket into the ground—white roses resting on top like snow that never melted.
He stopped writing.
The journal she bought him for Christmas—the one he always kept beside the bed—was untouched since her death.
The pen sat on the nightstand like a weapon.
Every time he looked at it, he saw her handwriting in the cover.
“For all the words you haven’t said yet.”
He almost tore the page out.
Almost.
But he didn’t have the strength to destroy her. Even now.
One night, he tried to listen to her voicemail.
Just once. Just to hear her voice.
He made it halfway through the greeting before he started shaking.
He dropped the phone. Got on his knees. Pressed his forehead to the floor like he was trying to disappear.
“Hi, you’ve reached Y/N. I’m probably eating ramen or dancing in the kitchen right now…”
That was the line that broke him.
Because she had been dancing. Just weeks before. In her dumb lemon socks. Holding a wooden spoon like a microphone.
Now she was cold in the ground.
There were dreams, sometimes. Soft ones.
She’d appear in a crowd. Walking ahead of him, looking back, smiling. Or lying beside him in bed, humming a song she hadn’t written yet. Sometimes they’d be at the pier again, her hand in his.
And in those moments, he let himself believe.
Just for a little while.
Just long enough to touch her.
But every dream ended the same.
She’d slip away.
And he’d wake up clawing at the empty space beside him.
He began to wonder if she was angry. If wherever she was—whatever came next—she knew how little he’d been there in the end.
Did she know he missed her last text? Did she know he didn’t answer her call? Did she know how hard he was trying now, too late?
He’d whisper to the ceiling some nights, voice hoarse and full of salt:
“Do you hate me?”
“Did you die thinking I didn’t love you?”
“Please… I need you to know. I loved you. I still do. I always—”
He never finished the sentence. His throat always gave out.
The bridge came after that.
The one they’d carved their initials into with his keys.
He found the spot.
Ran his fingers over the faded engraving like it was a wound.
Jisung + Y/N
Still there. Still whole.
He stood at the edge and looked down at the river.
Not because he wanted to jump. Not really. But because the idea of letting go sounded… quiet.
And all he wanted was peace.
But the world wasn’t done with him.
Because just as he closed his eyes—just as the wind pressed against his chest like a whisper—
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Then it buzzed again. And again.
He finally looked.
A message from Minho.
"She wouldn’t want you like this, idiot."
Attached was a photo.
One he didn’t remember ever taking.
It was Y/N.
Lying on his lap. Smiling. Bare-faced and glowing. Looking up at him like he was the only thing that mattered.
He stared at the screen until his vision blurred.
And then—finally—he stepped back.
Depression isn’t poetic.
It’s not a pretty girl in a sad movie.
It’s not a single tear or a piano track in the background.
It’s unwashed hair.
Unopened windows.
Mugs growing mold on the counter.
It’s waking up and wishing you hadn’t.
It’s forgetting how to answer when someone says, “Are you okay?”
It’s seeing her face everywhere and not being able to remember the sound of her laugh.
It’s being alive.
And hating yourself for it.
---
It started with snow.
Not cold. Not biting.
Just soft—falling slow in a dreamworld painted in grayscale.
The trees were skeletal, black against silver sky. The ground beneath his feet glowed faintly with frost, glittering like crushed glass in moonlight.
It wasn’t a place he recognized, but somehow… he knew it.
Like a memory he’d never lived.
Jisung stood in the center of a clearing. Barefoot.
The air didn’t burn, though it should have.
His breath didn’t fog.
His chest didn’t ache.
For the first time in weeks—maybe months—his body felt light.
And then he felt her.
He turned slowly.
She was standing beneath a tree.
Barefoot, too.
Wearing the same cream dress she once wore to his birthday dinner two years ago—the one he said made her look like a dream.
And that’s exactly what she was now.
A dream.
Her hair fell loose around her shoulders. Her hands were folded in front of her. Her eyes—
God, her eyes.
Soft. Warm. Eternal.
Like she’d never left.
“Y/N,” he whispered, already crying.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him with a look that shattered him from the inside out.
He stumbled toward her, snow crunching beneath his feet.
“Y/N, please—please—say something,” he begged, voice cracking.
Still nothing.
Just silence. Gentle. Reverent.
As if the world itself didn’t want to interrupt this moment.
When he reached her, he dropped to his knees. He didn’t even realize he had. It just happened.
His forehead pressed against her stomach, hands gripping the fabric of her dress like he was afraid she’d dissolve.
“I can’t do this without you,” he whispered, broken.
“You’re in everything. I wake up and you’re not there. I walk outside and I see your face in every crowd. Every laugh I hear sounds like you. I—I don’t even remember how to be without you.”
She said nothing.
Just brushed his hair back from his forehead.
Her fingers were warm.
Real.
“I’m so sorry,” he choked. “For missing your call. For not answering. For every second I wasted thinking there’d be time.”
He looked up at her, tears tracking hot down his face.
“I’d give it all back. Every tour. Every stage. Every spotlight. If it meant I got to keep you.”
Still, she didn’t speak.
But she smiled.
A smile so soft it felt like forgiveness.
Then—slowly—she leaned down.
Her lips brushed against his forehead.
And in that moment, he felt something break.
Not the kind of break that ruins.
The kind that releases.
Like his soul exhaled for the first time since she left.
When he looked back up, she was already fading.
Snow caught in her hair.
Light bleeding through her skin like the sunrise.
“No—no, wait, please don’t go,” he whispered, reaching for her.
Her hand came up and pressed gently over his heart. And though she never spoke, her eyes said everything.
“I never left.”
He woke with tears on his cheeks and the sheets tangled around his legs. The room was still dark.
But for the first time, it didn’t feel suffocating.
There was breath in his lungs.
There was warmth in his chest.
There was something left to live for.
He sat up slowly, resting his hand against his heart.
It was still racing.
But it didn’t hurt the same way.
Because he’d seen her. Felt her. Heard the silence she chose not to fill—and it meant something.
She was still with him.
Not in body.
But in every beat.
---
Acceptance
The morning light came slow.
Golden. Gentle. Unapologetic.
It poured through the windows Jisung had finally opened again—sheets fluttering in the breeze, dust dancing through the sunbeams like a quiet orchestra of memory and rebirth.
The apartment was still the same.
Same cracked mug on the counter.
Same sweater draped over the back of the couch.
Same crooked photo of them on the bookshelf, now in a new frame.
But the silence was different.
It wasn’t heavy anymore.
It was… warm.
Jisung stood barefoot in the middle of the living room, hair still wet from a real shower—his first in longer than he cared to count. A cup of fresh coffee sat cooling on the windowsill. He hadn’t touched his phone yet.
He just stood there. Breathing.
Not for survival this time. But because it finally felt okay to be alive.
He hadn’t cried in two days.
Not because it didn’t hurt anymore.
But because the hurt didn’t own him now.
It sat beside him like an old friend—quiet, familiar, still sharp at the edges, but no longer strangling. The pain would never leave. But neither would she.
He walked into the bedroom and reached for the closet.
It was time.
Piece by piece, he pulled her things from the hangers. Folded each shirt. Smoothed each wrinkle. Ran his hands over the soft cotton of the hoodie she always wore on lazy Sundays.
He didn’t put them away. He didn’t give them up.
He just… made space.
Space for the life still ahead of him. Space for healing. Space for the version of himself she always believed in—the version she kissed on the forehead in a dream and told to keep going.
He found her journal later that day.
Tucked behind a stack of old sketchbooks in her desk drawer. The same notebook she always scribbled in, claiming “it’s just for thoughts, not poems, don’t get excited.”
Of course he opened it.
The pages were chaotic. Beautiful.
Lyrics. Grocery lists. Doodles. A recipe she never mastered.
And on one page, written softly in the center like it had been waiting for him—
“I hope he knows I never stopped loving him. Even when it got hard.”
He didn’t cry. He smiled.
That night, he sat on the balcony for the first time in months.
Wrapped in her old blanket. A mug of tea in his hands. Watching the stars blink awake like they’d missed him.
And for once, he didn’t ask the sky for her back.
Didn’t beg. Didn’t break.
He just whispered—
“You were real.”
“You mattered.”
“You still do.”
And somewhere, somehow, he swore he felt the wind move softer.
Like her hand on his shoulder.
Like her breath against his cheek.
Like her saying, “I know.”
He wrote a song the next day.
Not a sad one. Not about death. But about remembering. About what it means to love someone so much they become a part of your DNA. About how grief isn’t the end of the story—it’s the echo of a love loud enough to still be heard after it’s gone.
He didn’t release it. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But he sang it into the void of his empty apartment, and for the first time, the silence sang back.
Acceptance didn’t mean forgetting.
It didn’t mean “healed.”
It didn’t mean “better.”
It just meant he could carry her without breaking now.
It meant he could live a full life—and still miss her.
It meant that some love stories don’t end.
They echo.
They ripple.
They stay.
In another life, maybe they got forever.
But in this one— He would carry her memory like a flame.
“You think I wanted this?” he whispered, voice cracked and wild. “To crave you like air? To wake up with your name already on my tongue? You think I meant to love you like this? I didn’t choose this, Y/N. I just looked at you and—” “You got stuck in my fucking bloodstream.”
Warnings: (WC: 8k +/-), MDNI!!!, college au!, classmates2lovers, angst, fluff, obsession, mutual pining, toxic ex shows up, mentions of emotional abuse, insecurities, the couple is fighting, first date, they're literally so in love its gross, lana being the bestest bestie, kissing, explicit sexual content: multiple s*x scenes, unprotected and protected s*x, or*l (f! recieving), f*ce sitting, felix being a munch, marking, car s*x, they're literally so horny and all over eachother, lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: my lovesss. thank you for all the sweet comments and messages, they mean the world to me. we're almost to the climax and the ending, and boyyy idk if you or I are ready for it .
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Finale
It’s late.
Y/N’s out—study group or Lana or both—and her dorm is dark, untouched. Except it’s not.
Felix has a copy of her key.
She gave it to him once, laughing, tossing it into his hoodie pocket with a careless “Just in case.”
He kept it. Of course he did.
And he used it tonight.
Not to snoop. Not to steal.
Just to be close.
He climbs into her bed fully clothed, slides under the blankets like it’s his, and exhales.
It still smells like her.
Her shampoo. Her vanilla body lotion. The faintest trace of perfume on the pillow. He closes his eyes and imagines her in the doorway.
Staring. Smiling. Crawling in beside him.
His hand curls into her pillow and inhales the scent, drifting off to the never-ending thoughts of you.
She comes home an hour later.
She pushes open the door, drops her bag andfreezes.
Felix?
He lies there, sleeping like an angel. His tuzzled hair and parted lips letting out soft snores.
Y/N stands there, heart in her throat.
She could be angry.
Could yell and demand an explanation to why he just came into her dorm unannounced.
But instead…
She just walks closer.
Watches him.
Sleeps curls around his lashes. His chest rises and falls steady. His mouth is parted slightly.
He looks peaceful.
Like this is the only place he feels safe.
And what shocks her the most?
She doesn’t tell him to leave.
She should wake him up. Tell him to leave. Ask him what the hell he’s doing in her bed. Say something.
But instead—she moves closer.
Her body acts before her brain can catch up.
Because he’s here. Warm. Solid. Safe in a way that terrifies her.
She slides beneath the blanket beside him, careful, slow, but not enough to be subtle.
His arm twitches in sleep.
Then settles across her waist like it belongs there.
And her heart cracks.
Because this shouldn’t feel right.
But it does.
She lies there for a few minutes, watching him breathe, trying to memorize the curve of his jaw in the dim lighting from the window, the way his lashes brush his cheeks.
Then—his voice, groggy and low,
“Am I pretty, baby?”
She jolts slightly. “You were awake?”
Felix turns his head, lips curled at the edge. His voice is thick with sleep and something deeper.
“You think I could sleep knowing I’m this close to you?”
Her throat goes dry.
“You should’ve told me you were here.”
“You would’ve said no.”
She pauses. “Maybe.”
He leans in.
“You didn’t say it now.”
Then?
His lips brush her shoulder.
Just once. Barely there. A spark.
“You gonna tell me to leave?”
Her silence answers for her.
And that’s all it takes.
His hands move gently, one slipping under her shirt, fingers tracing the dip of her spine. The other cups her cheek, guiding her lips to his.
The kiss is slow at first. Careful. Testing.
Then—not.
She climbs over him, straddles his hips, and the moment he groans into her mouth, something snaps between them.
She’s pulling at his shirt. He’s gripping her thighs like he’s afraid she’ll disappear. Kissing like they’ve got something to prove.
Her hips grind against him, and he breathes her name like it’s the only word he remembers.
“God, baby—just like that.”
“You’re such a mess,” she whispers against his throat.
“Only for you.”
Their clothes stay on. Barely. Hands slip under fabric, seeking heat, memorizing skin.
He lifts her hoodie, kisses her stomach like she’s sacred.
She tugs his hair when his teeth graze the top of her chest.
It’s desperate. Passionate. A little broken.
And neither of them wants it to end.
When she collapses beside him, flushed and panting, he pulls her in close.
Whispers against her shoulder;
“I’d kill for this. You know that?”
Her breath catches.
She doesn’t answer.
--
The light creeps in slow.
Warm.
Safe.
Y/N blinks awake, tucked under Felix’s arm, chest pressed to his, her leg tangled over his.
He’s already awake.
Not staring at the ceiling.
Not scrolling through his phone.
Not sketching.
Just watching her.
“Morning,” he says, voice still low, lips against her hair.
She hums out a greeting and slides out of bed, tugging down her hoodie and brushing her fingers through her hair.
Felix props himself up on one elbow, shirtless, hair messy, eyes still dark.
“You leaving?”
She pauses and looks back.
“Just for coffee.”
He smiles. Soft. Whipped.
“Bring me one?”
She nods once, and just before she slips out the door—he calls after her.
“You look good in my shirt, baby.”
She walks faster to hide her blush.
She doesn’t make it two steps into the dorm kitchen before Lana appears like a sleep-deprived, glitter-dusted devil.
Messy bun. Hoodie. Bunny slippers. And a whole lot of judgment.
“Okay. So. What the hell happened last night.”
Y/N blinks. “What do you mean?”
Lana crosses her arms. Points.
“Bite mark there. Fucking huge by the way, and in the shape of a Felix Lee fever dream.”
Y/N pulls her hood tighter. “It’s nothing—”
“BITCH.”
Y/N winces.
Lana grabs the coffee out of her hand, takes a sip, and stares.
“You slept with him.”
“No.”
“You almost slept with him.”
Y/N’s silence is loud.
Lana leans in, suddenly serious. Softer.
“Are you okay?”
And that question hits harder than anything else.
Because Y/N doesn’t know.
She wants him. Craves him. Thinks about his mouth and his hands and the way he says baby like it’s a promise—
But she also remembers how he looked asleep in her bed. Peaceful. Like he belonged there. Like he expected to belong.
And that scares her.
Because this is becoming something else. Something more and shes not sure if she is ready yet.
---
Back in her room, she’s alone now. Felix went home to change and meet up with Changmin to study. It gives her just enough time to get lost in her thoughts.
She touches the mark on her neck lightly, runs her thumb over the raised skin.
It stings, but in a way that makes her stomach flutter.
She catches her reflection in the mirror.
Her lips. Her hair. The shirt still smelling like him.
She looks… completely undone.
And she’s not sure if that’s bad or good.
She picks up her phone. Thumb hovering.
She wants to text him.
Wants to say come back.
Wants his mouth on her again. Wants the fire. The possession. The need.
But instead, she types,
What are we doing?
Deletes it.
This isn’t normal.
Deletes that too.
And just writes,
I’m scared of how much I want you.
Her thumb hovers again. She meant to delete it, but before she could stop it, her finger slipped.
Send.
''Well shit'', she curses and throws her arms over her face.
---
He’s sitting on the floor of his room, his study session long over at this point, back against the bed frame, shirtless, sketchbook open on his knees—half-finished drawings of her lips, her collarbone, the way she tugs her sleeves over her hands.
He’s never drawn someone this much.
He’s never drawn someone this obsessively.
The second his phone buzzes, he already knows it’s her.
He opens it.
Baby <3
I’m scared of how much I want you.
His breath leaves him in one hard exhale.
He stares at the message like it’s art.
She wants him.
She finally admitted it.
And she’s scared—just like he is.
But the difference is?
He’s not scared anymore.
He types back.
Then don’t fight it... Let me have you.
He doesn’t send another word.
He grabs his jacket.
He needs to see her. Now.
---
Y/N’s curled on her bed, phone in hand, heart beating loudly like a drum.
She reads his reply again and again.
Let me have you.
Then—
A knock.
Not on the door.
On her window. The one that is facing the outside alleyway.
She pushes the curtain aside—he’s standing there.
In the cold. In the dark.
Lit by the glow of the alley lights.
“Felix? What are you doing here?''
Couldn't he have just used the door?
She lets him in without thinking.
He steps into her room and immediately—the air shifts.
His eyes are on her mouth. Her neck. Her hands. Every part of her.
She tries to speak. “I—”
He kisses her.
Fast. Hard. Desperate.
Like her text shattered something inside him and he’s grabbing the pieces.
Clothes don’t come off this time.
Not fully.
But hands roam. Lips bruise.
His thigh pushes between hers, her back hits against her bedroom door, and she gasps into his mouth.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
“Say you want me.”
“I want you.”
“Louder.”
“I want you, Felix.”
He kisses her jaw. Her throat. His fingers tangle in her hair.
“Then you’re mine. All of you. You hear me?”
She nods.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He moans softly, presses his forehead to hers.
“I swear to God, baby… I’ll never let you go.”
And she believes it.
Because right now, she wants that too.
--
The next day, Felix is leaving her room—shirt rumpled, hair still wet from her shower.
Lana’s waiting.
Arms crossed. Face hard.
“We need to talk.”
Felix tilts his head. “Good morning to you too.”
She steps closer. No smile.
“I know what this is.”
Felix raises a brow. “What is it?”
“You better not be playing with her, pretty boy. You don’t even know who she really is.”
He meets her eyes. Unblinking.
“I know how she smells when she's just out of the shower. How she bites her cheek when she’s holding back tears. I know her playlist. Her midnight cravings. I know what her laugh sounds like when it’s real.”
Lana swallows.
“I know her better than she believes,” he says.
“And if you think I’m going anywhere— Then you don’t know me.”
She stares at him.
“You better mean that.”
He doesn’t smile.
“I breathe her.”
He walks away.
And Lana?
She starts to worry this isn’t just a situationship.
This is going to break something.
---
It’s a Sunday.
Late morning. No classes. No deadlines.
Just sunlight through her curtains and the faint rustle of blankets.
Y/N stirs first.
She doesn’t open her eyes right away. Just lets herself feel it.
The warmth. The weight of his arm around her waist. The soft, steady rhythm of his breathing against her back.
And then his fingers start tracing. Lazy circles on her hip, up the hem of her hoodie, down her thigh. Barely there. Barely touching.
“You’re awake,” she whispers.
“Didn’t want to wake you,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “You looked like a dream.”
Her heart stutters.
“You say things like that all the time,” she says, turning to face him, nose almost brushing his.
“That’s because I mean them.”
He looks different like this.
Less composed. Less perfect.
His hair is a mess. His cheeks still warm from sleep. His shirt is riding up just enough to expose a sliver of stomach.
And his eyes? They’re not full of fire.
They’re full of something soft. Something fragile.
They stay there like that for a while. Just looking. Not kissing. Not needing to.
Y/N lifts a hand and brushes his bangs from his face.
His lashes flutter.
“You always look at me like I’m about to disappear,” she says quietly.
“Because I don’t want to miss a second of you.”
That makes her freeze.
Not because it’s intense.
But because it’s honest.
He sits up eventually, tugging the blanket with him, exposing both of their legs. His bare thigh presses against hers as he leans back against the headboard, looking around her room like he’s memorizing the art on her walls.
“What’s your favorite memory?” he asks suddenly.
She blinks. “Of you?”
“No. In life.”
She hums and thinks. “The summer I spent in Italy with my aunt. The sky was always warm. The gelato was amazing and cheap. And I wasn’t scared of anything.”
Felix smiles.
“You’re scared now?”
“Sometimes.”
“Of me?”
She looks at him.
“Of how much I want you.”
He reaches for her hand and laces their fingers.
“I used to think love was supposed to be quiet,” he says. “Something soft and simple.”
“But then I met you.”
Her breath catches.
“And now I think love might look like you screaming at me in the pool, then crawling into my lap two hours later just to fall asleep.”
She laughs, hand squeezing his.
“I’m not in love with you,” she says, teasing.
“I didn’t say you were,” he smiles. “But… if you ever are… I’ll already be there waiting.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You love it.”
She does.
And it terrifies her.
They spend the rest of the day together.
Not touching every second. Not kissing endlessly.
Just being.
Felix cooks her eggs and burns them. She pretends to hate them. He steals her socks and wears them mismatched. They fall asleep tangled together on the floor through a movie.
And when she looks at him—really looks—
She realizes he’s not just the boy who kissed her first.
He’s the one who makes her laugh.
Who memorizes her favorite fruit.
Who would set the world on fire if she asked.
And she’s not in love.
Not yet.
But something inside her is reaching for him with outstretched arms.
---
They don’t call it a date.
Not really.
Felix just shows up at her door at 6:14 PM in a gray sweatshirt and jeans, holding a bag of takeout and a shy little grin that melts something in her ribcage.
“You said you liked Thai.”
“I did.”
“Thought I’d make it up to you for almost suffocating you with my love.”
She laughs, grabs her coat, and they walk through campus like they aren’t slowly falling into something neither of them knows how to define.
They sit on a picnic blanket under the fairy lights strung across the rooftop Felix once shown her. The weather is chilly, but the moment is warm. Familiar.
Y/N picks at her noodles while Felix starts talking about the mural he saw going up downtown.
“She’s using real crushed glass in the paint,” he says, eyes wide. “Can you imagine the light it’ll catch when the sun hits it?”
“You’re such an art nerd,” she says softly.
“And you still hang out with me. Whose fault is that?”
He leans back, arms stretched behind him, eyes to the stars.
“Can I ask you something kind of serious?”
She sets her fork down. “Always.”
“Do I scare you?”
She hesitates.
“Sometimes,” she says honestly. “But not in the way you think.”
“Then how?”
“It’s not what you do that scares me. It’s how I react to it. You make me feel things I’ve never really let myself feel before.”
Felix is quiet for a long moment.
Then he whispers,
“You’re not the only one.”
They end up back at his place later.
No rush. No pressure. Just… together.
Y/N’s sitting on his bed, legs crossed, sipping hot tea from a chipped mug that probably came from a thrift store. She watches him pace slightly, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
He stops. Looks at her.
And then with a heavy breath—
“My dad left when I was thirteen.”
The air shifts.
Y/N’s eyes widen but she doesn’t speak. Just listens.
“He wasn’t a bad guy. Just… distant. I think he loved me. But he didn’t stay. And part of me always wondered if that was my fault.”
She sets the mug down.
Felix keeps going.
“That’s probably why I get so… intense. When I care about someone. I hold on way too tight. I know that. I just…”
“I never want to be someone who’s easy to leave.”
He sits beside her, eyes on the floor.
“I’m scared that one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m too much. And you’ll just… go.”
Y/N places her hand over his.
“Felix.”
He looks up.
“You’re not too much,” she says. “You just feel more than most people allow themselves to. That’s not a weakness.”
His throat moves as he swallows.
And then?
She kisses his temple.
And he closes his eyes, lets himself lean into it.
He then realizes this isn’t lust. This isn’t adrenaline.
This is care.
This is what love might look like before either of them is ready to say the word.
---
It happens fast.
Just one buzz.
She’s getting ready for class—hair half-done, music playing softly through her speaker, Felix’s hoodie still loose on her frame—when her phone lights up.
And just like that—
Her breath leaves her body.
[ No Contact – 263 days ]
“Didn’t think you’d still have my number.”
She doesn’t read it again.
Doesn’t have to.
The name alone turns her stomach.
Her hands shake. Her heart pounds.
And the quiet inside her head?
It’s louder than anything she’s ever heard.
She silences the phone. Tucks it face-down under her pillow like it’s dangerous.
But it doesn’t help.
Because the words are still carved into the back of her eyes.
His voice—that voice—is already creeping back in.
You’re too much.
You’re lucky I put up with you.
No one else would.
And she thought she was past this.
She thought she was healing.
But suddenly?
She’s thirteen steps back.
Felix notices it immediately.
Later, they’re on the campus lawn—his sketchbook in his lap, her untouched coffee in hers—and she’s too quiet. Too still.
And she keeps checking her phone.
Not to text.
Not to scroll.
Just to look. Like she’s bracing for something worse.
Felix doesn’t say anything right away.
But his pencil stalls.
He watches her over the edge of the page—how she fiddles with her sleeve, bites the inside of her cheek. How her eyes flick to her phone like it holds her hostage.
“You okay?”
She looks up fast. Too fast.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
He doesn’t believe her.
But he nods.
She won’t tell him.
Not yet.
Because she’s not ready to say that one text from him undid weeks of safety. That it shattered the fragile thing she was starting to build with Felix.
She’s afraid he’ll get angry. Afraid he’ll pity her.
So she keeps it locked up.
And Felix?
He knows there’s a storm happening inside her.
But he doesn’t press.
He just reaches across the blanket, brushes his pinky against hers.
And when she lets him hold it—He grips tighter than it should be.
That night, when they’re lying in bed, her phone stays off.
But her eyes don’t close.
And Felix holds her tighter than usual.
Like he knows—without knowing anything at all.
---
The library is packed.
Midterm week is always loud, anxious, overcaffeinated—but Y/N feels like she’s underwater.
Everyone else is studying.
She’s surviving.
She and Felix are tucked into their usual booth. Their presentation is due in less than 24 hours. The slides are done. The paper is outlined. But her notes keep blurring, her hands won’t stop fidgeting, and her phone?
Still off.
Still not safe.
Felix says nothing at first. He just lets her sit beside him in silence, occasionally passing her his highlighter or refilling her water bottle like he’s trying to give her anchors.
But when she drops her pen for the third time and stares at the table with glassy eyes—he finally moves.
He pulls his hoodie over his head and drapes it around her shoulders.
Then, softly,
“You don’t have to talk. But you don’t have to carry it alone either.”
She nods once.
Doesn’t look at him.
But she tugs the hoodie tighter, like maybe it’s holding her together.
Later that day, Y/N returns to the dorm to change.
Lana’s waiting. Arms crossed. No sparkle today—just serious eyes and soft energy.
“You okay?”
Y/N stiffens. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve been ‘fine’ for three days and you haven’t touched your playlist or ranted about Felix once. That’s not fine. That’s apocalypse-coded.”
Y/N tries to walk past.
Lana blocks her.
“Talk to me.”
Silence.
Y/N’s lips tremble.
“He texted me again,” she whispers.
Lana freezes.
“That piece of shit?”
Y/N nods. Her voice cracks. “I didn’t open it. I just… seeing his name—I felt like I was back in that room again.”
Lana pulls her into a hug. Tight. Fierce.
“You are not that girl anymore. And he does not get to pull you back.”
Y/N buries her face in Lana’s hoodie and lets the tears fall and Lana holds her like someone who knows what it's like to rebuild from ash.
--
It comes in the middle of the night.
She’s reviewing citations for the project, trying to stay focused, trying to breathe—
And her phone lights up.
[ No Contact – 265 days ]
I miss you when you’re quiet.
Her lungs stop working.
Because that’s what he used to say when she’d cry. When she’d shut down. When she’d stop begging him to be kind.
I miss you when you’re quiet.
Translation: You're only lovable when you're silent.
Y/N closes her laptop. Stands. Walks straight to Felix’s dorm. She doesn’t knock and he opens the door like he sensed she was coming.
And when she looks up at him with tears clinging to her lashes, lips parted like she wants to scream but can’t—
He pulls her in.
No questions. No pressure.
Just arms wrapped tight around her, holding her like he knows exactly how it feels to break in the dark.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers.
“You don’t have to say it. I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t mean to say anything.
Not really.
But after she breaks down in his arms—after the tears stop, after the shaking fades—they’re just lying there, curled into each other on his bed.
She’s quiet. He’s quieter.
And then..
“He hated the sound of my voice when I cried.”
Felix doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens.
“Said I was too much. Too emotional. Too sensitive. He said it like it was a flaw I was supposed to apologize for.”
Felix’s arms tighten around her, but still—he stays quiet.
“I started apologizing for everything. For feeling. For being tired. For needing anything at all.”
She exhales.
“He made me think love was about shrinking. About disappearing into someone else.”
Finally—Felix speaks. Softly. Carefully.
“Then he never loved you. Because love should make you more. Not less.”
She presses her forehead to his collarbone.
And for the first time in a long time—
She lets someone hold her without flinching.
The next day, they submit their midterm.
No fanfare. No nerves.
Just quiet pride, the kind that says we did something together.
Afterwards, Felix tugs her hand and leads her up the back stairwell of the art building. The one that leads to the rooftop with the fairy lights and forgotten paint cans.
They sit side by side, legs dangling over the ledge, watching the sky shift from gray to gold.
“You okay?” he asks.
She nods. “Better.”
He leans back on his hands. “You ever think about starting over?”
She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… just waking up one day and deciding everything before today doesn’t define you anymore.”
She hums.
“I think I’m trying.”
He looks at her then. Really looks.
“You’re doing better than trying.”
She smiles—soft, tired, real.
And for once, the silence between them feels like peace. Not tension.
--
Later that night, Lana catches Felix in the hallway.
She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t smirk.
Just stops him with a hand on his arm and a look he can’t dodge.
“She’s not okay, is she?”
Felix swallows.
“No. And I don’t think she wants me to know how bad it is.”
Lana nods. Waits.
Then he whispers,
“I don’t think I’d survive it if she left.”
She stares at him for a long beat.
Then?
“Then don’t give her a reason to.”
--
It’s a normal morning.
Y/N’s in the shower, humming off-key through the steam while Felix lounges on her bed, flipping through her annotated poetry book like it’s sacred scripture.
The phone buzzes beside him.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Normally, he’d never.
But something inside him tugs—look.
And when he sees the name on the lock screen?
It’s like his pulse forgets how to beat.
[ No Contact – 267 days ]
3 Messages
I’ve been thinking.
You always hated being alone.
You know I didn’t mean to hurt you, right?
Felix stares at the screen.
He doesn’t breathe.
His jaw tightens so hard it aches. His grip on the phone stiffens. For a second—he actually thinks about smashing it.
She walks out just then.
Hair damp. Wrapped in a towel. Radiant.
She stops when she sees his face.
“What’s wrong?”
He holds out the phone.
“Why is he texting you?”
Y/N freezes.
Like someone cracked open her chest and poured cold water inside.
“You read it?”
“I didn’t open it.”
She exhales. “I didn’t mean to hide it—”
“But you didn’t tell me.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just… I didn’t want it to feel real again.”
He looks at her. And for the first time in weeks, he feels far away.
“I would never let someone hurt you,” he says, voice low.
“I know.”
“Then why does it feel like you don’t trust me?”
“It’s not about trust,” she whispers. “It’s about history.”
“And what am I?” Felix asks, voice cracking. “Just a distraction from it?”
Y/N’s eyes widen. “No—Felix—”
But he’s already standing.
“Because you’re not a distraction to me. You’re the fucking reason I breathe different now.”
He doesn’t yell.
He just leaves.
Quiet. Cold.
And Y/N?
She’s never felt more alone.
---
Felix doesn’t go home.
He walks for hours.
No music. No calls. Just the sound of his boots on pavement and the roar of his heartbeat in his ears.
He doesn’t know what he’s more angry at—
The fact that her ex still thinks he has space in her life… Or the fear that maybe… he does.
He ends up on the rooftop. Their rooftop.
The one she had filled with warmth.
And he feels nothing but cold.
He opens his sketchbook.
Flips to a blank page.
Stares.
He can’t draw her.
Not right now.
Because tonight, she feels like a ghost of someone he’s trying not to lose.
---
The texts start around 9:03 PM.
Baby <3: Felix. Please talk to me.
I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I just needed time to tell you everything.
You’re not a distraction. You’ve never been a distraction.
Read.
Read.
Read.
No reply.
She calls.
Once.
Twice.
Goes straight to voicemail the third time.
By midnight, she’s sitting on her floor. Felix’s hoodie in her lap. Staring at the phone like it owes her a heartbeat.
---
It’s the next afternoon when Lana corners Felix outside the studio building.
He’s hunched on a bench, hood up, pencil chewing on autopilot.
She rips the pencil from his hand and glares.
“You’re going to listen, or I’m going to scream.”
Felix doesn’t look up.
“I don’t think she trusts me.”
“She does, you idiot. She just doesn’t know how to trust anyone without wondering if it’s going to cost her.”
He finally looks at her.
“She let that asshole tear down everything inside her and now she’s trying to rebuild it—and you think that’s going to be linear?”
Silence.
“You think she doesn’t want you?” Lana’s voice cracks. “I’ve seen how she looks at you.”
Felix swallows hard. “It felt like she picked him.”
“No. She froze. Because trauma doesn’t just… stop echoing.”
“You don’t throw away what you have with her because she flinched.”
Lana steps back, eyes gleaming.
“If you wanted her to stay, you should’ve fought.”
Felix grips the bench.
And for the first time?
He realizes he let her walk away… just to protect his own fear.
---
Y/N didn’t mean to be in the music building that long.
She told herself she’d just drop off a library book.
Maybe grab a coffee.
Maybe pretend to be okay.
But now she’s in the back hallway—quiet, dim, lined with bulletin boards and old concert posters—and she can’t breathe.
Her phone is buzzing again.
Not Felix.
Him.
[ No Contact – 268 days ]
I know you’re seeing someone. Just wanted to say I’m happy for you.
He won’t love you like I did.
The words hit harder than they should.
Not because they’re true—because they’re familiar.
And familiarity is a cruel, sharp thing.
She presses herself into the corner of the wall and sinks to the floor, phone in her lap, hands in her hair, chest hollow.
The tears come fast.
Ugly. Silent. Wrecking.
She presses her fist to her mouth to muffle the sob, but it slips out anyway.
And someone hears it.
“Y/N?”
She freezes.
Looks up.
Seungmin.
He's standing a few feet away, hoodie on, headphones around his neck, a sketchpad under one arm.
She looks at him.
And she can’t hide it.
The tears. The red eyes. The trembling.
“Shit,” he mutters, crossing the space and crouching beside her. “Hey. You’re okay. Just breathe.”
She covers her face.
“I’m so stupid,” she chokes out.
“No, you’re just tired of carrying something alone.”
She looks at him, blinking through the flood.
He doesn’t pry. Doesn’t push.
Just sits beside her in silence. Offers her his sleeve to wipe her face.
“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” she lies.
He gives her a look. Quiet. Kind. Sharp.
“Yeah, you do. And it’s okay that you’re not ready to say it.”
She rests her head on his shoulder like it’s the only stable thing in the world.
---
She doesn’t text Felix.
Not that night.
Not the next.
He doesn’t text either.
The air between them becomes static.
Thick. Pressed full of everything unsaid.
They pass each other once outside class.
Y/N’s walking with Lana.
Felix is alone, hoodie up, backpack slung low.
Their eyes meet.
Just for a second.
Long enough to ache.
Short enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
And they keep walking.
Two people still in love, too scared to admit they’re already halfway back to each other.
But fate? Doesn’t wait.
And neither does jealousy.
---
Campus is buzzing—midterms are over, spring’s in the air, and the quad is loud with music, open blankets, flirting.
Y/N’s with Lana on the steps, iced coffee in hand, oversized shades hiding tired eyes.
She’s trying to pretend she’s okay.
Trying to laugh.
Trying not to look for him.
Then—
“Hey, I know you.”
A voice.
Too close. Too confident.
A guy from class—barely familiar. Too tall. Too smug. Definitely not reading her body language right.
“You always look so serious during lectures. Thought I’d come remind you to smile.”
She forces a chuckle. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Just saying. You’ve got that face. That ‘I need to be kissed until I forget my name’ vibe.”
Lana straightens. “She said she’s good.”
“Just making conversation.”
And that’s when it happens.
Felix.
Across the quad.
Black shirt, chain hanging low, jaw clenched, and eyes on fire.
He sees Y/N flinch. Sees the guy smirk.
Sees Lana move between them.
And that’s it.
He snaps.
He cuts across the grass like a storm—quiet, fast, lethal.
“Step back.”
The guy turns. “Who the hell are—”
“The person you should walk away from before I rearrange your jaw.”
The guy laughs. Doesn’t take the warning.
So Felix gets closer.
Not yelling. Just radiating fury.
“You think you can talk to her like that?”
“Touch her?”
“Make her uncomfortable and laugh it off?”
The guy stammers.
Felix doesn’t hit him.
He doesn’t have to.
Because the moment he steps between them, hand low on Y/N’s back, chest in front of hers, everything about him says,
She’s mine.
The guy leaves.
Lana disappears.
Felix and Y/N?
Left standing in the silence of what they still are.
Her voice cracks.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes I did.”
She shakes her head. “You’re not my—”
“Don’t say I’m not yours.”
His voice isn’t angry now.
It’s raw.
“Don’t say it when you know I’d burn for you.”
Her eyes sting.
“Felix…”
He steps closer.
“He’s still texting you.”
“I blocked him.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“You left.”
“Because I was scared of being an option. And because I knew—if I stayed—I was going to break if you didn’t choose me.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m here. I’ve always been here.”
Then—before either of them can say another word—
A voice.
“Y/N?”
They both freeze.
Jae. Her ex. How is he here?
Standing just a few feet away. Hands in his pockets. Face all pretend guilt and practiced sympathy.
Y/N’s whole body stiffens.
Felix’s posture shifts immediately—shoulders tensed, hand still on her lower back, eyes narrow.
“I just wanted to talk,” he says, stepping forward.
“Don’t,” Y/N whispers.
“Just five minutes. I think we owe each other that.”
Felix steps in front of her.
“You don’t owe her shit.”
“You must be the new one,” he says, condescending. “She ever tell you what she’s like when she cries? It’s a lot.”
“You ever want to keep your teeth?” Felix replies coldly.
Y/N flinches. “Felix, don’t—”
But he’s already turned to her.
And his voice is soft now.
“You want me to back off? Say it. And I will. But if you don’t— I swear, I won’t let him hurt you again.”
She meets his eyes.
And for the first time in forever—she doesn’t feel small in front of the past.
She feels chosen.
She feels safe.
She feels loved.
“I’ve got it,” she whispers, steady now. She places a gentle hand on Felix’s chest, a silent thank you for standing in front of her—and then steps past him.
She faces Jae.
And her voice doesn’t shake.
“I don’t want five minutes. I don’t want anything from you.”
“Y/N—”
“No,” she cuts in. “You don’t get to show up and pretend to be sorry just because you’re not the one being tolerated anymore.”
“I just thought—”
“You thought I’d still be the same girl you made feel like a burden. The one who flinched when her phone lit up. The one who spent nights convincing herself you didn’t mean it.”
She breathes in deep. Then, firmer,
“I’m not that girl anymore.”
Behind her, Felix’s jaw clenches—but he doesn’t interrupt.
“So leave me alone,” she finishes, voice low, but lethal. “For good this time.”
And this time? He does.
For now.
---
Later that night, Seungmin finds Felix pacing the dorm again.
Same hoodie. Same sketchbook. Same silence.
“You’re spiraling again,” Seungmin says.
Felix doesn’t stop pacing.
“She’s in my bloodstream.”
“Then act like it.”
Felix glares. “What does that even mean?”
Seungmin sighs.
“It means you love her. It means you don’t get to hover around her like a ghost and expect her to chase you. You want her? Fight for her. Before someone else figures out she’s worth bleeding for.”
Felix swallows.
And for the first time?
He stops pacing.
Because Seungmin is right.
He’s been drawing her for weeks.
But now?
He needs to run to her. Make her his. And only his.
---
It happens in the hallway.
Not at a party. Not on a rooftop.
Just a quiet hallway, long past midnight, lit by buzzing fluorescent lights and the sound of two hearts trying to beat in time.
Felix doesn’t knock this time.
He knows she’s awake.
Y/N opens the door before he even touches it—barefoot, hair a little messy, wearing the sweatshirt he thought he lost three weeks ago.
For a second, they just stare.
Not angry.
Not apologizing.
Just breathing.
She steps aside. He walks in.
The silence is thick—but not uncomfortable.
She leans against the dresser. He leans against the wall.
And then she says it.
Soft. Cracked open. Like it costs her.
“I think I started falling for you before I even liked you.”
Felix looks up, eyes wide.
She swallows.
“You were so loud in my life. All sunshine and teeth and some weird obsession. And I hated it because I wanted it.”
She laughs, just a little.
“I wanted someone to want me that badly. I just… didn’t think I deserved it.”
Felix doesn’t move.
He doesn’t speak.
He’s too busy memorizing the way her voice trembles. Y/N keeps going.
“I was scared. Of you. Of me. Of what I’d become if I let myself feel everything...But I already do.”
Her voice drops.
“I feel it. All of it. And it’s terrifying. And it’s beautiful. And I can’t breathe when I look at you sometimes.”
She lifts her eyes to his.
“So if you’re gonna kiss me again…Don’t do it like it’s a maybe.”
Felix pushes off the wall and crosses the room.
He stops inches from her. Lifts a hand to her face. His fingers brush her cheek—gentle, reverent, like he’s afraid to break her open too fast.
“You want to know the moment I knew?” he whispers.
She nods.
“The rooftop. That first night. You smiled at the stars like you weren’t afraid of anything. And I thought, ‘I could live on that smile and die a happy man.’”
She blinks. Breathless.
“You think I’m the one who chased you. But you’ve been haunting me since day one.”
He steps closer. Their bodies almost touch.
“I’ve drawn you so many times, I started forgetting what my own face looked like and you want me to kiss you like it’s not a maybe?”
He leans in, breath on her lips.
“Baby, you’ve always been the only yes.”
And when he finally kisses her— the kiss is devastating.
Not soft. Not careful. It’s the kind of kiss that tears through silence, rips open skin, says I want you like oxygen.
She gasps when his hand finds her waist and he groans when her fingers tangle in his hair.
It’s lips on lips, teeth on breath, heart on heart.
Her back hits the dresser, and he presses into her, mouth trailing down to her jaw, her throat, her shoulder.
She tugs at his shirt. He lifts her up without thinking. Her legs wrap around his waist like they were made for it.
He kisses her like he’s starved.
She kisses him like she finally stopped being afraid of feeling everything.
But this time? They don’t stop.
Felix carries her to the bed with a desperation that feels so holy.
They fall into the sheets in a tangle of limbs and breath, laughter caught between gasps and moans as hands roam like they’ve been waiting to map every inch of skin.
Her shirt comes off. Then his. He sucks in a breath when he sees her—flushed, glowing, trembling beneath him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, reverent. “ I knew it the second I saw you.”
Y/N pulls him down, whispers against his mouth,
“Then show me.”
Clothes scatter. He kisses down her stomach, slow, worshipful, until she’s arching up to meet him.
His touch is careful at first, asking. Waiting. Letting her guide him.
But the moment she moans his name?
He shatters.
He grips her thighs, spreads her open, and presses his mouth to the softest part of her like it’s his favorite prayer.
Y/N cries out—hand fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his hair as her hips move with his tongue, his pace, his need.
She unravels for him. Completely. Body shaking, mouth parted, legs wrapped around his shoulders.
And he kisses his way back up her body like she’s everything.
“I need you,” she whispers.
“You have me,” he says. “Every fucking part.”
When he finally sinks into her, it’s not fast. It’s not rushed.
It’s deliberate.
Their bodies meet in rhythm—soft at first, then aching.
Her gasps turn to cries. His name spills from her lips like it’s the only thing that fits in her mouth anymore.
He buries his face in her neck, groaning when her nails dig into his back.
“Don’t stop,” she breathes.
“Never.”
They move like they’re learning each other.
Touching with purpose. Loving with abandon.
Letting every look and sound and thrust say what their mouths can’t.
I’m here.
I’m yours.
I’m not afraid anymore.
When they come undone—together—it’s loud, shaking, sacred.
They collapse into each other, sweaty, breathless, whole.
And for the first time… it doesn’t feel like they’ve crossed a line.
It feels like they’ve come home.
Later, when he’s holding her close and her breath has slowed against his chest, she whispers,
“I think I love you.”
And Felix?
He doesn’t say it back immediately.
He kisses her hair.
Holds her tighter.
And whispers,
“Then I’ll wait right here until you know.”
---
The first thing Y/N feels is his breath on her shoulder.
Warm. Lazy.
Safe.
The second thing she feels?
His fingertips drifting slowly—intimately—over the curve of her hip, tracing invisible patterns into her skin like he’s still memorizing her from last night.
She hums, barely awake.
“You’re staring,” she mumbles into the pillow.
“Can you blame me?”
His voice is thick with sleep.
And something else.
Admiration.
She rolls onto her back to find him already propped on his elbow, curls a mess, his lips kiss-swollen and eyes still glazed from their long night.
“You’re not real,” he says softly. “There’s no way.”
She smiles, flushed. “Shut up.”
He grins and dips to kiss her neck. Then her shoulder. Then lower. Slow. Gentle.
“Let me wake you up the right way,” he murmurs.
And she knows what that means.
She watches him slide down the bed, his hands parting her thighs with a reverence that borders on prayer.
“Just relax,” he says, voice feather-light. “I’ll take care of everything.”
And then?
His mouth meets her—slow, soft, eager.
Her back arches on instinct. One hand fists the sheet. The other tangles in his curls as he buries himself between her thighs, tasting her like she’s the answer to every question he’s ever asked.
He moans into her like it’s bliss.
And then he says it—raspy, low, deep , and ruined,
“Sit up, baby.”
“What—”
“On my face. Please.”
Her breath stutters.
But when he tugs her forward gently, guiding her to straddle his face, she follows.
And it wrecks her.
His hands grip her thighs as his mouth meets her again—hot, open, hungry.
He groans when she grabs the headboard for balance, and finds the perfect rhythm to grind against his face.
“Felix—fuck—”
He doesn’t stop.
He just pulls her down tighter.
Licks deeper. Sucks harder.
Until she’s shaking—hips jerking, thighs clenching, voice cracking as she falls apart all over his mouth.
“Felix—oh my God—”
And he takes it. Loves it.
Smiling, satisfied, wrecked in the best way as he guides her back down beside him.
They’re both breathless.
He kisses her swollen lips, her damp forehead, her collarbone.
“If that’s what mornings with you feel like…I never want to sleep again.”
---
Three hours later, she stumbles into the living room, hair up, hoodie on, Felix’s mark faint on her neck.
And Lana?
Already sitting on the couch like she’s been waiting.
The moment she looks up—
Her eyes narrow. Her brow lifts.
“You had sex.”
Y/N chokes. “LANA—”
“DON’T lie to me. I can see it. The glow. The limp. The fact you’re wearing the same hoodie you swore smelled like him.”
Y/N buries her face in her hands. “Oh my god.”
“I want details. Did he cry? Did you cry? Was it hot? Was it slow? Did he—wait, is he a face-sitter? HE TOTALLY IS, ISN’T HE?!”
Y/N throws a pillow at her face.
“I hate you.”
“You love me,” Lana grins.
Y/N bites her lip.
Smiles.
“Yeah. But not as much as I love him.”
Lana goes silent.
Then whispers,
“Oh, shit. You’re in love love.”
And Y/N?
She doesn't even deny it.
---
It starts with a real date.
No games.
No pretense.
Just Felix at her door, shirt freshly pressed, curls messy and perfect, holding a single pink daisy he probably panicked over before choosing. “I didn’t want it to be roses,” he says. “That felt too easy. This felt like… you.”
Y/N takes it with a soft smile, the kind that pulls at something deep in his chest.
They walk through the city just past dusk—hands laced, knuckles brushing, laughter spilling like it’s been waiting all day to be free.
Dinner is tacos and mango soda at a tiny corner booth in a neon-lit place that plays early 2000s R&B on shuffle.
They don’t talk about school. Or the past. Or what could go wrong.
They just are. And it’s perfect.
Afterward, they walk along the waterfront. The city sparkles behind them. The sky is dark velvet above them. And Felix stops walking.
“I have something to say,” he murmurs.
Y/N turns.
His eyes are wide, nervous, bare.
“I love you.”
No fanfare. No dramatic pause.
Just truth.
Soft and real.
“I think I’ve been in love with you since you called me out in class for doodling. And I didn’t say it before because I thought maybe you’d run.”
She stares at him.
Then steps forward.
“I was running,” she whispers.
“But not anymore.”
She reaches for him—hands on his face, thumbs against his jaw, breath trembling.
“I love you too.”
“God,” he exhales, pulling her into him. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” she says against his lips.
“One more time.”
“Felix, I’m in love with you.”
And the way he kisses her?
It’s not fireworks. It’s not chaos. It’s home.
They make it to his car, barely.
The moment the doors close, Felix pulls her across the console into his lap, mouth hot on hers, hands already sliding under the hem of her dress.
“You drive me insane,” he breathes.
“Then take it out on me,” she whispers.
He growls—actually growls.
The windows fog in seconds.
Her dress hikes up to her hips.
His fingers tease over her thighs.
She tugs his belt loose with shaky hands.
“Condom?” she gasps.
He fumbles in the glovebox—grinning when he finds one.
“You’re always prepared?” she teases.
“Only for you.”
He leans her back across the seat, climbs over her. The leather creaks and the air is hot and heavy.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says as he slides inside her.
Her moan catches in her throat.
“You feel so good,” he groans.
“Harder,” she begs.
He does. Thrusting deeper, hitting just right.
Their bodies move like they were made to do this—sweat slick, moans echoing in the small space, hands gripping, lips devouring.
“I love you,” she cries as she comes.
“I love you,” he groans against her neck as he follows.
They collapse in the backseat, panting, glowing, undone.
“You think I wanted this?” he whispered, voice cracked and wild. “To crave you like air? To wake up with your name already on my tongue? You think I meant to love you like this? I didn’t choose this, Y/N. I just looked at you and—”
“You got stuck in my fucking bloodstream.”
Warnings: (WC: 10k +/-), MDNI!!!, classmates2lovers, soft yandere! au, obsessed!felix, felix is so gone for y/n its not funny, artist! felix, college au, y/n is emotionally constipated, stalkerish actions? , mutual pining, the he fell first and fell harder trope, talks of rumors, comedic relief roommste- lana, swearing, jealously, lots of kissing- and i mean lotssss of it, possessive lix, suggestive actions, eventual sexual content, will add more as we get to the other parts, lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: hey lovelies, instead of a oneshot- im going to make this a 3 part series, because Tumblr said it was too long. So far I was the first 2 parts finished ( the second part needs editing so it'll be scheduled for next week) , and i'm already 3/4 way done with the finale, so keep a look out for this!
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Finale
There are two empty seats in Lecture Hall 3A.
Felix Lee already has one of them.
He’s lounging halfway into it, legs stretched long under the desk, head tilted back as he grins up at something Changbin’s saying. The sleeves of his hoodie are bunched at the elbows, revealing faded ink on his forearm—something abstract, sharp-edged, soft like a memory.
People watch him like he’s the main character in a movie they all paid to see.
And he gives them a show—eyes crinkling, laugh low and warm, every movement loose and easy like he’s never once felt out of place.
He belongs here.
Until she walks in.
Y/N slips through the door quietly—barely a sound, barely a presence. But somehow it still echoes.
Felix doesn’t notice her at first.
It’s not until she pauses—just for a second, scanning for a seat—and pushes her hair back in a motion so fluid it could’ve been choreographed…
That his head snaps up.
Time doesn’t stop. It slows.
Like the universe is turning down the volume just for him to hear his heartbeat.
“Who the hell…”
She’s not glowing. She’s not dramatic. She’s not even dressed to stand out—oversized jacket, headphones still tangled in her pocket, a messenger bag bumping her hip.
But something in her quiet sets him on fire.
She doesn’t look like she’s trying to be seen.
Which is exactly why he can’t look away.
There’s only one seat left beside him.
And when she takes it—without looking at him, without knowing—he forgets how to breathe.
She doesn’t know who he is.
She doesn’t look at him like he’s someone.
And that’s the most exciting thing he’s ever felt.
The professor starts speaking. Slides click into place. Pens begin to scratch.
Felix doesn’t move.
He just looks—sideways glances at first, then longer ones. Her lashes are thick. Her notes are tiny and organized. She frowns when she concentrates, bottom lip tucked under her teeth like a habit she never broke.
She smells like jasmine and ink and something warmer. Something real.
And when she finally glances his way—maybe by accident, maybe not—he smiles.
Slow. Soft.
The kind of smile that makes girls fall in love.
She blinks.
And turns away.
He’s never been ignored like that in his life.
By the time class ends, he knows three things:
Her name is Y/N.
She smells better than anything he’s ever inhaled.
He’s going to ruin himself trying to make her his.
---
Y/N pushes open the dorm room door with her shoulder, keys jingling in one hand, phone buzzing in the other. She’s halfway through a sigh when—
“Tell me everything.”
Lana is already sprawled across her bed, legs kicked up against the wall, holding a bag of Hot Cheetos and an iced matcha like a goddess of academic survival. There’s a face mask on her nose and glitter stars in her hair. She looks like chaos in a crop top.
Y/N drops her bag. “About?”
Lana sits up fast. “Don’t play dumb with me. You had Art History today. With the hot professor. And him.”
“Who’s ‘him’?”
“Felix Lee. Campus sweetheart. Looks like an angel, probably sins like a demon. Blonde, dimples, voice like melted caramel?”
Y/N blinks. “Oh. Yeah. He was in my class.”
Lana stares at her like she just said the sky was optional.
“And?? What happened? Did he speak to you? Did he offer you his soul? Did he kiss the air and make flowers grow?”
Y/N snorts. “He smiled at me.”
Lana gasps, clutching the bag of Cheetos to her chest like pearls.
“Bitch,” she whispers dramatically. “He smiled at you?”
Y/N kicks off her shoes and shrugs, trying way too hard to act like her pulse didn’t jump when it happened.
“It was just a smile.”
“Oh my God, you’re delusional,” Lana says, already grabbing her phone. “That boy does not just smile. He looked at you like you were a croissant in a Paris bakery window, i saw it! i was there!”
Y/N rolls her eyes. “I barely looked at him.”
Lana pauses, then narrows her eyes.
“But you knew he looked at you.”
Silence.
Caught.
Y/N shoves a pillow at her, and Lana squeals, dodging.
“I knew it! You’re blushing! That Felix Lee smile got you in 4K, baby!”
“I’m not blushing.”
“You’re so blushing. I’m hosting your future wedding party.”
Y/N flops back on the bed and stares at the ceiling.
She had noticed. Of course she had. He was practically glowing. His presence felt like sunlight through glass—warm, bright, but too much if you stayed too long.
And when he looked at her… it was like being seen. Fully. Silently. Like a hunger she couldn’t name yet.
And it scared the hell out of her.
Across campus, a sketchbook lies open in Felix’s lap.
He’s redrawing the curve of a girl’s jaw.
He doesn’t know her middle name.
But he already knows how she looks when she concentrates.
How she turns pages with her left hand.
How she won’t meet his eyes.
He’ll learn the rest.
He has time.
He does always gets what he wants.
---
Felix didn’t notice her at first.
That’s what he tells himself.
Because he should’ve been listening to Dr. Min. Or teasing Changbin about his caffeine addiction. Or even half-paying attention to the slides clicking by at the front of the room.
But all of it blurred the moment she walked in. Late, as always.
Not like a scene in a movie.
Not with wind blowing through her hair or some dramatic soundtrack.
Just... softly.
Quiet, like a secret no one told him he’d been waiting to hear.
She sat beside him. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t smile.
Didn’t try.
That’s what did it.
Now, Felix’s pen taps against his notebook without rhythm. He’s back in his dorm, propped against his headboard, textbook open in his lap and headphones buzzing low in his ears.
He’s replaying it. Over and over.
The way she tucked her sleeve over her hand when she reached for her pen. The little frown line between her brows when she was concentrating. The scribble of her notes, all slanted and small.
She didn’t notice him.
And maybe that’s the part that’s driving him insane.
Everyone notices him.
He’s used to it—teachers, classmates, strangers. Even the janitor calls him “Sunshine.”
But she?
She acted like he was just… someone.
Not someone special.
And he’s not sure which of those things he wants to be yet.
“Dude,” Changbin’s voice comes through the shared bathroom door. “You coming to dance rehearsal or not?”
Felix glances at the clock. He’s already fifteen minutes late.
“Be there in five!” he calls back, slipping his pencil between the pages of his book like a bookmark—even though he hasn’t read a word of it.
Later, after dance practice, after he showers and changes and throws on a hoodie too big to be his, he finds himself halfway across campus.
He swears he didn’t plan it.
He just… remembered she had her next class around this time.
And the courtyard near the library has a good view of the walkway.
That’s all.
Totally normal.
He sits on the low brick wall, pops in a single earbud, and scrolls through his phone.
Just in case she walks by.
Just… to see.
And when she does—shoulders hunched against the breeze, headphones in, fingers wrapped tight around a coffee cup—he doesn’t say anything.
He just watches.
She’s so quiet in the way she moves, like she doesn’t want to disturb the world.
He wonders what would happen if someone made her want to.
Made her laugh too loud.
Or kiss too long.
Or feel too much.
He wonders what it would take.
--
There’s glitter all over the floor.
And on the mirror.
And in Lana’s hair. Again.
“I swear to God,” Y/N says, dabbing concealer under her eyes, “you shed like a fairy stripper.”
Lana beams. “That’s the goal, babe.”
She’s in a black corset top and low-rise jeans that should be illegal. Her makeup is dramatic, dewy, and completely perfect. She’s halfway through applying star-shaped rhinestones to her cheekbone when she leans over Y/N’s shoulder.
“You’re wearing that?”
Y/N blinks at her reflection. “What’s wrong with this?”
“It’s giving ‘I might be a witch,’ not ‘I’m here to break hearts and summon chaos.’ We’re fixing that.”
Twenty minutes later, Y/N is standing in front of the same mirror—but this time she barely recognizes the girl staring back.
Fitted crop top. Small black skirt. Layered silver chains. Soft smokey eyes. Glossed lips. Her hair is wild in a good way. Intentional. Like she knows she’s a problem and doesn't care.
Lana whistles.
“Now that’s the girl who’s gonna ruin someone tonight.”
The party is at one of the upperclassmen dorms—loud music, low lights, bodies pressed into couches and corners and kitchen counters. It smells like cheap beer and sugar, like something is about to happen.
Y/N follows Lana through the crowd like a ghost, feeling half-there, until—
“Felix is here,” Lana says suddenly.
Y/N freezes. “What?”
“He’s here. Over there. Dance floor.”
Y/N’s eyes flicker across the room—and she sees him.
Golden curls tucked under a beanie. White tee sticking to his collarbone. He’s laughing with a girl from their class—Aria, Y/N remembers vaguely—but he’s not looking at her.
No.
He’s looking at Y/N.
Like he forgot how to smile.
Like she just knocked the wind out of him.
Lana smirks. “He’s been looking for you since the minute we walked in. You see that, right?”
“Lana—”
“I’m just saying,” she sings, sipping her drink, “if he murders you, I’ll avenge you. But also? You look hot. So live a little.”
Y/N rolls her eyes.
But her heart is thudding.
Because now he’s walking toward her.
Felix’s voice is soft over the bass. “Hey.”
He’s closer than he needs to be. Just enough to smell like something sharp and sweet—maybe citrus, maybe something darker.
Y/N swallows. “Hey.”
His eyes flick down and up once—fast, but not subtle.
“You clean up nice,” he says, smiling. But his tone is lower. Rougher.
She raises a brow. “You say that to all your classmates?”
“No,” he says without hesitation. “Just the ones I want to get to know.”
The air? Thick.
Music’s pounding, bodies are moving around them, but it’s like they’re in their own gravity.
She’s not moving away.
And he’s not moving at all.
“Wanna dance?” he asks.
And it doesn’t sound like a question.
It sounds like a challenge.
Just as she opens her mouth, Lana swoops in—looping an arm through Y/N’s and fake-smiling at Felix.
“Sorry, she promised me the first dance,” she says sweetly, dragging Y/N away before Y/N can decide if she wanted to say yes.
Y/N looks back.
Felix is still watching.
But now his smile has teeth.
Y/N leans into Lana’s ear. “Did you just save me or ruin me?”
Lana grins. “Why not both?”
---
The music shifts into something bass-heavy and lazy, like it’s daring people to get closer.
Lana’s glitter is already catching the light when she gasps and grabs Y/N’s wrist like it’s life or death. “Group game time. You’re coming.”
Y/N raises an eyebrow. “I just got comfortable.”
“You’ll be more comfortable once you’ve emotionally humiliated yourself in a circle of strangers. Come on.”
The living room is half-lit by string lights and bad decisions. Someone pushes the coffee table back. People sink into couches, curl up on the carpet, fill Solo cups with things too strong to taste.
Y/N finds herself tugged down beside Lana on the floor. She pulls her knees in. Tries not to look too out of place. She's scanning the room when she sees him.
Felix.
Lounged out on the couch like he lives there.
His arm’s draped over the back like it belongs around someone. There’s a beer bottle in his fingers, but he hasn’t even sipped it. His legs are spread like he doesn’t realize how distracting it is.
And he’s already looking at her.
Not staring. Just—watching.
Like he’s measuring something.
Like he’s waiting.
"Okay," Aria announces from across the circle, flipping her long hair back like she owns the moment, “We’re playing Most Likely To but with a twist.”
Changbin groans dramatically, “If this turns into truth or dare, I’m leaving.”
“It won’t,” she smirks. “Unless someone’s too scared to be honest.”
Felix chuckles under his breath. “Scared of what?”
“Most likely to sleep through finals” gets pointed unanimously at Jaehyun, who accepts the title with pride.
“Most likely to start a cult” goes to Lana, who bows with both hands like a K-pop idol and whispers, “Drink the glitter.”
Then Aria tosses a grenade.
“Most likely to break someone’s heart without even trying.”
A beat. A murmur.
And then—like it’s obvious—four people point at Y/N.
Her eyes go wide. “What?”
Lana cackles. “It’s the mystery, babe. You’ve got main character heartbreak aura.”
“I literally only said two words to any of you.”
Felix, voice quiet but sure,
“Exactly.”
She looks up—sharp. “That’s a bold statement for someone who’s only known of me for less than twenty-four hours.”
He smiles, slow and amused. “It’s a feeling.”
“Maybe you should get that checked.”
He laughs. “Maybe you should stop pretending you don’t like being watched.”
Lana coughs violently into her drink. Aria looks like she’s about to throw her cup at the wall.
Y/N just blinks. Then tilts her head.
“Do you flirt like this with everyone or just girls who ignore you?”
“Only the ones who make it interesting.”
The room is buzzing again.
Even Seungmin looks mildly entertained.
A few questions later,
“Most likely to fall in love first.”
It lands like a thunderclap.
Everyone looks around, unsure—until Changbin points directly at Felix.
“You. You’re a simp and we all know it.”
Felix lifts his drink, not denying it.
“Only if it’s the right person,” he says, smiling slightly, eyes already on her.
When the game starts to fizzle and people break off into groups—dancing, making out, disappearing into hallways—Lana leans close, voice low.
“He was so undressing you with his eyes.”
Y/N sips her drink. “Was he?”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I wasn’t looking.”
“You blinked less than five times.”
Y/N shrugs. “He’s fine.”
Lana gasps. “FINE?”
“He’s… symmetrical.”
“Bitch. If he looked at me like that, I’d have to unalive myself immediately from sheer embarrassment.”
Y/N tries to act unaffected. “He’s too much. Too charming. Too confident.”
“Okay, and? That’s the whole fantasy package!”
“It feels fake.”
“Or maybe you just don’t like being the one who’s wanted.”
Y/N looks away.
That’s when he appears.
Felix. Again.
Two drinks in hand.
He offers her one, voice softer now—lower, almost sincere.
“You looked like you needed water.”
She stares at him, arms crossed. “You watching me again?”
He smiles, like it’s a joke—but his eyes don’t laugh.
“Maybe.”
Lana opens her mouth. Y/N jabs her in the ribs before she can speak.
“Thanks,” Y/N says, taking the cup.
His fingers brush hers—just enough to make it feel like maybe it was on purpose.
“You’re full of surprises,” she mutters, sipping.
“You have no idea,” he says back, voice velvet.
Then, just like that—he walks away.
Lana is already vibrating. “WHAT. THE. FUCK.”
Y/N exhales. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine. You just got main-character seduced and then abandoned.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Uh-huh. Say that again while not staring at his ass.”
---
Y/N slips into class early the next day for the first time since she's started classes.
She’s hoping to beat the crowd. To get a seat by the wall. To pull her hoodie over her face and pretend last night never happened.
Unfortunately, fate—and the universe—hate her.
Because the moment she steps into the lecture hall, someone’s already in her usual seat.
And Felix is in his.
Smack in the middle. Empty seat next to him.
Looking like sin in a fitted hoodie and silver chain, a pencil tucked behind one ear.
And when he sees her?
His smile is unfair.
“You’re early,” he says, soft like it’s a secret between them.
She blinks. “So are you.”
He taps the notebook on his desk. “Had some inspiration to write out.”
“Inspiration, huh?”
His eyes flicker to her lips.
“You’d be surprised what sticks in your head after a party.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t sit either.
Just stands there, debating—back row, empty seat behind a pillar, anywhere but next to him.
He pats the desk beside him.
“You’re not really gonna avoid me after I gave you water, are you?”
Y/N raises an eyebrow. “That was water?”
“Mostly.”
He’s grinning. She hates that she doesn’t walk away.
She sighs. Sits beside him. One desk, too close.
The room starts to fill. Changbin appears and gives them both a look that screams interesting.
Aria walks in, sees them, and nearly walks back out.
Felix leans over slightly.
“You’re popular this morning.”
“I’m regretting everything already.”
“No you’re not.”
She side-eyes him. “You always this cocky?”
“Only around people I like.”
A beat. A pause. Her pulse jumps.
“Do you flirt with everyone who sits next to you?”
“No,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “Just the ones who try to act like I don’t exist.”
Professor Min walks in. The lights dim. The projector starts.
Felix finally stops talking.
But he doesn’t stop looking.
Not completely.
He watches her out of the corner of his eye. The way her fingers tap the desk when she’s bored. How she chews the inside of her cheek when she’s thinking. The soft crease between her brows when she concentrates.
And when she finally looks back—just for a second—he smiles again.
Not big. Not obvious.
Just enough.
Still watching?
Always.
As the lecture rolls on, he leans closer, voice a whisper meant for her alone.
“I was thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
He smiles. “Maybe.”
Pause.
“You never answered my question.”
She glances sideways. “Which one?”
“Do you always stare at people when you don’t like them?”
She exhales, eyes back on the board.
“Maybe I just like the view.”
He stops.
The tension snaps like a thread pulled too tight.
He looks at her—really looks.
And this time?
He’s the one who blushes.
---
It starts with a list.
Posted in the middle of Dr. Min’s lecture slides, like it’s not about to change lives.
Group Project: Midterm Analysis.
Partnered Work.
Pairs assigned randomly.
Y/N’s heart stutters before she even sees the names.
And when she does?
Of course.
Lee, Felix — Y/L/N, Y/N
“Of course,” she mutters under her breath, dragging her fingers down her face.
Beside her, Felix hums like he’s just been handed a birthday present.
“Guess fate ships us.”
“Fate’s on something.”
He leans toward her, propping his chin on his hand. “Or maybe I just manifest really well.”
“You manifested me into a group project?”
He shrugs. “I’ll take what I can get.”
They meet at the campus library later that evening—quiet corner table, papers everywhere, books stacked like walls.
Y/N’s typing notes. Felix is... doodling.
“Are you seriously drawing right now?”
“I’m multitasking.”
She glares.
He smirks.
“I can’t help it,” he says, pencil flicking across the edge of the page. “You’re very drawable.”
“You’re very irritating.”
He holds up the page: a surprisingly decent sketch of her side profile, brows furrowed mid-glare.
“It’s not done yet,” he says. “You look too composed.”
They don’t get much work done.
Every time she reaches for a pen, he steals it.
Every time she rolls her eyes, he grins like it’s a victory.
He keeps bumping her knee under the table. “By accident.”
He asks for help reading something over his shoulder—leans in too close.
And every time their eyes meet, the air thickens.
By the time she escapes the library, it’s past 9, and her phone lights up with a string of all-caps texts:
LANA 🧚♀️✨
WHERE ARE YOU
ARE YOU WITH HIM
I KNOW YOU’RE WITH HIM
DID HE TOUCH YOUR KNEE
DID HE DRAW YOU LIKE ONE OF HIS FRENCH GIRLS
OPEN THIS DOOR RN
Y/N opens the dorm room and Lana literally dives at her with a pillow in one hand and a face mask in the other.
“You’ve been gone for three hours and I demand DETAILS,” she declares.
Y/N kicks her shoes off and sighs. “We were studying.”
“Studying each other’s faces???”
She tries to play it cool. “It was fine. He was... annoying.”
Lana gasps. “Oh my god. You like him.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. You do! You have Felix Face™.”
“What is Felix Face?”
“It’s the face of a girl who’s being seduced by dimples and sketchbooks and bad intentions!”
Y/N groans. “It’s a group project.”
“He’s going to fall in love with you.”
“He’s not.”
“You’re going to fall in love with him.”
“No I’m not.”
Lana narrows her eyes. “Then why are you smiling?”
Y/N turns away. “I’m not.”
---
The next partner meeting isn’t in the library.
It’s in Felix’s dorm room.
His side is clean, lived-in, filled with scraps of paper and charcoal-streaked sketchpads. A record player hums something soft in the background, and there’s an open bag of gummy bears on the desk.
He offers her the desk chair. He takes the floor.
And still manages to look like he owns the whole damn room.
“I brought notes,” she says, flipping her laptop open.
“I brought snacks,” he says, already tossing her a chocolate bar.
They start working.
Kind of.
Y/N types. Felix watches her.
Y/N rereads. Felix sketches a corner of her hair where it curls near her ear.
She doesn’t notice. Not until she leans over his shoulder to see what he’s working on and realizes—
He’s drawing her again.
“You’re literally obsessed.”
He grins. “Obsessed is a strong word.”
“Then pick a different one.”
He looks at her for a second. Eyes soft. Almost serious.
“Enchanted.”
Her breath catches.
He doesn’t say it like a joke. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t wink.
Just says it.
Like it’s a fact.
Like it’s truth.
They finish the outline. Barely.
She leaves just before curfew.
And as she walks down the dorm steps, her phone vibrates.
Unknown number.
[ 9:27 PM ]
hey. it’s felix.
don’t freak out, lana gave me your number
(also threatened to stab me if i made u cry)
did you get home safe?
She stares at it for a second.
Smiles.
Then types back:
[ 9:29 PM ]
i survived.
shocked you didn’t draw it.
[ 9:29 PM ]
i would’ve if you’d let me walk you back
next time?
Her stomach flips.
Stupid.
She types: maybe.
---
The next morning.
It’s too early. She’s running on three hours of sleep. She walks into the café on campus needing caffeine more than air.
She does not expect to see Aria at the front of the line.
Worse?
Aria sees her first.
And smiles.
But it’s the kind of smile you feel like a knife.
“Y/N, right?” she says, too loud, too friendly. “From Art History?”
Y/N nods slowly.
Aria cocks her head. “You and Felix seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.”
There it is.
Y/N keeps her voice calm. “We’re just partners.”
Aria leans in slightly. “That’s what they all say.”
Her eyes say the rest: He flirts with everyone. You’re not special.
Y/N takes her coffee, says nothing, walks out with her chin a little higher.
But still—
Her heart is beating faster.
That night, Felix texts again:
[ 10:12 PM ]
aria said something, didn’t she.
[ 10:13 PM ]
i can explain, if you want.
Y/N stares at the message.
The air is still. Her phone lights up again.
[ 10:15 PM ]
or
you can let me show you you’re not just another name.
She almost doesn’t go.
The message sat in her inbox all night.
She read it. Reread it. Didn’t reply.
But now it’s sunset.
And she’s at the edge of campus, phone buzzing.
Felix: I’m out back. You’ll know which car is mine.
She finds it immediately.
The black Jeep. Windows cracked. Music playing low.
And him—leaned against the side in a gray sweatshirt and backwards cap, looking like a sin she’s about to commit.
“Hey,” he says softly as she approaches.
Like this is normal. Like this isn’t something big.
She crosses her arms. “So what exactly am I here for?”
Felix smiles. “Closure.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Closure to what?”
He shrugs. “That question in your head. The one you’ve been asking since the party.”
Is he serious?
Is he like this with everyone?
Am I just another girl he draws and forgets?
She never said it out loud.
But somehow—he heard it anyway.
“Come on,” he says, opening the passenger door. “Let me show you something.”
---
It’s three flights of an old music building, one locked door (he has a key, of course), and a fire escape that definitely looks like it’s not up to code.
Y/N follows him anyway.
And when she steps onto the rooftop—her breath catches.
Fairy lights strung between pipes.
A paint-stained mattress with pillows.
Half-empty sketchbooks tossed in a crate.
A small speaker playing a sleepy playlist.
And the stars.
Not many. But enough.
“I come here when I can’t sleep,” Felix says quietly. “Which is most nights.”
She walks around slowly, taking it in. “You did this?”
He shrugs. “No one else comes up here. Just me. And now you.”
There’s a moment.
Not silence—because the music still hums—but something close.
He sits on the mattress. Tugs his hoodie sleeve over his hand. Looks at her like she’s the only thing that matters.
“You think I’m playing a game with you,” he says. “But I’m not.”
“You flirt with everyone.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “But I don’t watch everyone walk away like I’m afraid I’ll never see them again.”
“I don’t remember what people smell like. Or how they take their coffee. Or what side of the desk they always choose.”
He leans forward.
“But I remember you.”
---
She doesn’t sleep.
She just lies in bed, wide awake, heart loud.
Lana notices immediately. Slides onto her bed with a face mask on and a bag of M&M’s.
“Okay,” she says. “Talk.”
Y/N sighs. “There’s nothing to—”
“Try again.”
She stares at the ceiling. “He showed me this rooftop he goes to when he can’t sleep. He said I’m not just anyone.”
Lana is quiet.
Then, “And do you believe him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or are you just scared?”
Y/N blinks.
“Scared that if he’s telling the truth… you’re gonna fall.”
“And if he’s not… you already have.”
---
She doesn’t text him the next day.
Or the day after that.
Not because she’s mad. Not because he did something wrong.
But because she still feels it.
The echo of his voice on that rooftop.
The way he looked at her like she was the secret to keep.
Like he was safe with her.
And she knows what it’s like to trust too quickly.
Knows what it’s like to fall into something and mistake it for forever.
So she doesn’t respond.
She doesn’t reach out.
She hides.
And Felix?
Felix lets her.
Until the fourth day.
She’s in the library.
Same corner. Same seat. Pretending to study.
And then he slides into the seat across from her like he never left it.
Quiet. Calm. Tired.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Her throat tightens. “I’m busy.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
She keeps reading.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t push.
Just sits there with that soft, open stillness that hurts more than anger.
Finally—she breaks.
“Why are you doing this?”
He looks at her. Really looks.
“Because I think about you when I’m trying not to think about anything.”
Her breath catches.
“Because when you walked into that classroom, something clicked.
And I haven’t stopped hearing it since.”
Y/N looks down. Her hands are shaking.
“Felix…”
“Let me talk. Just for a second.”
She doesn’t stop him.
“I get it, okay? You don’t trust me.
I wouldn’t either if I were you.”
He exhales. Rubs the back of his neck.
“People think I’m this golden retriever guy. Friendly. Flirty. Soft.
And I am… kinda. But no one really sees me.
Not the part that stays up at night.
Not the part that feels too much and says too little.”
He finally meets her eyes.
“You do.
And that scares the hell out of me.”
Silence.
He laughs once—short, breathless. “Wow. That was a lot.”
She opens her mouth. Then closes it.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she says quietly.
Felix leans forward, voice gentle.
“Then we’ll learn together. But please—stop pretending you don’t feel this. Because I know you do. And I’m not gonna hurt you. Even if you run again.”
Her voice cracks.
“I don’t want to need anyone.”
“You don’t have to.”
Pause.
“But I want to be someone you choose. Even when you don’t have to.”
She stands up.
He doesn’t stop her.
She walks out of the library—heart racing, throat tight.
But she doesn’t go back to her dorm.
She walks for miles. Through campus. Through her own head.
And she hears him the whole time.
"I think about you when I’m trying not to think about anything."
"You see me."
"I want to be someone you choose."
She doesn’t sleep that night.
Neither does he.
---
Something shifts.
She doesn’t realize it at first.
It’s little things.
Felix stops sitting next to her in class.
Not obviously. Not out of spite. Just… further away.
He doesn’t text first.
He doesn’t send a meme at 2 a.m.
Doesn’t bump into her at her favorite café.
Doesn’t smile across the quad like she’s his favorite secret.
He’s not gone.
He’s just... absent in all the ways that mattered.
And it hurts.
Worse than she expected.
Because she wanted space.
Didn’t she?
She told herself she needed air. But now all she can breathe in is the space where he should be. In class, she glances sideways. He’s laughing at something Changbin says.
Not looking at her.
Not at all.
And it burns.
You don’t get to miss someone you pushed away.
Except... you do.
And she does.
Every second.
Later that night, she’s curled in her hoodie, staring at the blank notes on her laptop. She can’t write a word.
Lana bursts in like glitter-coated lightning, holding two bags of chips and a mission.
“Okay. Talk.”
Y/N doesn’t even blink. “There’s nothing—”
“STOP,” Lana snaps, dropping the snacks and sitting cross-legged on the bed. “We are not doing the emotionally constipated thing tonight. I’ve let you spiral long enough.”
Y/N swallows.
Lana softens.
“You’re allowed to be scared.
But don’t confuse fear with truth.”
Y/N shakes her head. “What if I fall?”
Lana looks her in the eye.
“Babe, you already did.”
Silence.
“You’re not afraid of getting hurt. You’re afraid that for once... this might be real. And you don’t know what to do with something that isn’t pretending.”
Y/N breathes in shaky.
“I miss him.”
Lana smiles, gentle now. “Then tell him.”
---
It’s midnight.
The hallways are silent, except for the hum of fluorescent lights and her racing heart.
She’s standing in front of his door.
Hand raised.
Not knocking.
Not yet.
She doesn’t know what she’ll say.
Doesn’t even know if he’ll answer.
But she’s here.
And that has to mean something.
She finally knocks—three soft raps that sound like a plea.
A second passes.
Then another.
And then—
The door opens.
Felix stands there, shirt hanging loose, hair tousled like he hasn’t slept. Eyes tired. Voice rough.
“Y/N?”
She doesn’t say anything.
Just looks at him.
Everything in her chest is loud. He steps back, silently letting her in.
She walks past him, stands in the center of the room like she’s still deciding whether to leave or beg.
“Why’d you stop?” she asks finally, voice thin.
He blinks. “Stop what?”
“Everything. The texts. The looks. The rooftop.”
He exhales. Runs a hand through his hair.
“Because you didn’t want it. And I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.”
“You left.”
“You didn’t follow.”
He stares at her. Then steps forward.
“Do you want me to?”
Y/N’s voice breaks. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Felix closes the space between them, slowly. Gently.
“Then let me show you. But you have to let me. Let me try. Let me in.”
She shudders. Blinks up at him.
“I’m scared.”
His hand finds hers. Warm. Solid. There.
“So am I.”
And then she lets go.
Of the fear. Of the silence. Of the weight she’s been holding for too long.
And she kisses him.
---
Felix’s POV
He didn’t think she’d come.
Even when she knocked, even when he opened the door and saw her standing there—bare-faced, breathless, beautiful—he thought he was dreaming. But then she walked in. And his whole world tilted.
Now she’s here.
In his room. In his space. In his arms.
Her lips are on his and her hands are fisted in his shirt like she’s holding herself together with him—and God, he’s never felt anything so good in his life.
She tastes like everything he’s ever wanted.
And everything he’s afraid to lose.
It’s not gentle. It’s not chaste.
It’s months of tension. Weeks of watching her from across rooms, memorizing her smile, her silence, the way her voice softens when she’s tired. It’s every second he spent wondering if she was going to be the one thing in his life he could never have.
And now? Now she’s right here.
His hands grip her hips like she might disappear if he lets go.
She gasps when he deepens the kiss, and the sound shoots straight through him—low in his spine, hot in his blood.
He wants more.
Not just of her skin.
Of her.
Her thoughts. Her fears. Her trust. Her time. Her everything.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at her.
Her eyes are blown wide. Lips kiss-bitten. Breath shaking.
“Y/N,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Are you sure?”
She nods. “Are you?”
He lets out a breath. A laugh, almost.
“I’ve been sure since the moment you sat next to me.”
She kisses him again—softer now. Slower.
And that’s worse.
Because it’s not hunger anymore.
It’s need.
He kisses down her jaw, to the soft spot under her ear. She tilts her head, exhales his name like it’s a prayer. His fingers slide under the hem of her shirt, touch skimming her waist—waiting, waiting, waiting—
Until she arches into him. And he loses it.
They fall back onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and breath.
He’s above her, holding himself up with shaking arms. Her hands are tugging at his hoodie, slipping underneath, palms warm on his stomach.
He wants to take it slow.
He wants to savor it.
But his heart is pounding like it’s chasing something—
Like it already knows it belongs to her.
She pulls him down again and whispers against his mouth:
“Don’t stop. Keep kissing me.”
And he doesn’t.
Not until both of them are breathless and wrecked and whispering each other’s names like it’s the only thing that matters.
Later, when she’s curled into his chest, fingertips tracing circles over his ribs, he lies there in the dark and realizes—
This isn’t a crush.
This isn’t infatuation.
It’s possession, blooming slow.
She’s not his. Not really.
But he wants her to be.
He wants to be the only one she touches like this. The only one she lets in when she’s scared. The only name she says when she’s falling apart.
He wants to be her favorite place.
And if that means playing nice…
He will.
For now.
Because this?
This is just the beginning.
---
The first thing she feels is warmth.
Not the kind that fades. Not morning sun or heated blankets.
It’s Felix.
He’s curled around her—arms wrapped tight like even in sleep, he’s afraid she’ll leave.
His face is buried in her shoulder, breath soft, his hand resting just beneath her shirt. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just... there.
And it’s terrifying how good it feels.
Y/N opens her eyes slowly, her heart beating unevenly.
Last night wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t planned either. It was them—in their most unguarded, breathless state.
She turns her head. Looks at him.He’s still sleeping. Lips parted slightly. Lashes kissing his cheeks. Soft. And for a second, she lets herself feel it.
All of it.
The intimacy.
The closeness.
The ache that this might be more than she was ever ready for.
She slips out of bed quietly—his shirt pulled over her body, her phone clutched in her hand—and pads toward the common tiny dorm kitchenette.
The moment she opens the fridge to grab water—
The door opens.
She freezes.
Aria stands there.
Mascara perfect. Hair tied up. Holding her binder like she owns the damn building. And her eyes flick to Y/N’s clothes.
Felix’s shirt.
Bare legs.
The flush on her cheeks.
Aria’s lips part.
And then curl. Just slightly.
“Oh,” she says coolly. “Sorry. Didn’t realize this was... occupied.”
Y/N blinks. “I—”
But Aria’s already walking away.
Heels clicking like gunfire.
---
Felix finds her earring on his pillow after she leaves.
Tiny. Silver. Bent just slightly at the hook. The one she always wore with the little moon charm.
He stares at it for a while. Rolls it between his fingers.
He should return it.
He should text her, say she forgot something. But he doesn’t.
He walks to his desk.
Opens the small drawer near the back—the one she hasn’t seen yet. The one with scraps and sketches and folded paper corners.
And he places it there.
Right next to the ribbon she wore in her hair the day they first spoke.
And the napkin she doodled on during their second project meeting.
And the sticky note where she wrote “focus, dumbass” and stuck it to his laptop.
Just little things.
Things she left behind.
Things he never meant to keep.
But now?
He can’t throw them away.
Because they’re hers.
And as far as he’s concerned?
What’s hers is his now.
---
It starts between the shelves of the art building.
Y/N didn’t mean to hear it.
She was looking for extra graphite pencils.
What she found instead was Aria’s voice, low and razor-sharp, cutting through soft laughter like a scalpel.
“...she’s cute,” Aria says, her voice just loud enough. “But let’s be honest. She’s not his type. She’s just new. Mystery always makes the game more fun.”
Someone chuckles. Aria goes on.
“You think you’re the only girl he’s ever drawn? Please. It’s how he reels you in. Little sketches, stolen looks. Makes you feel like you’re the only girl he sees—until he’s done playing.”
Y/N freezes behind the bookshelf. Her fingers curl around the pencil tin.
“He doesn’t mean it. None of them ever do. It’s just another knotch in the belt. A fun chase. A pretty face.”
The laugh that follows is cruel.
Y/N doesn’t cry. She doesn’t run.
She walks away calmly, even as her chest is splintering.
They didn’t even go all the way. Not even close.
Just a makeout—heavy, yes. Her hands in his hair, his mouth at her neck, heat pooling low in her stomach. But it wasn’t sex. It was something else. Something more.
At least, she thought it was.
By sunset, it’s unbearable.
She’s been pacing her dorm for over an hour, trying to make it not matter. Trying to tell herself Aria’s bitter. Trying to believe the rooftop, the softness, the way he kissed her like she was the air he needed—meant something.
But the words echo like poison.
Just another game.
She grabs her phone.
“Where’s Felix?”
Changbin replies instantly.
“Not sure. He’s not in the art lab. Might be at the pool.”
She doesn’t even hesitate.
---
The pool is mostly dark.
The lights shimmer under the surface, casting ghost-like ripples onto the walls. There’s a low hum of the filtration system and the occasional splash of water.
And then—him.
Felix.
Alone in the water, shoulders slicing through the surface like it’s second nature. His hair is pushed back, slick and shining. His chest rises with each breath, droplets trailing down to where the V of his hips disappears beneath the surface.
He hasn’t seen her yet.
And for a moment?
Y/N just watches.
He’s beautiful. And she hates that she’s just now admitting it.
The way his muscles move. The way water clings to his skin like it worships him. The tattoos on his ribs and arms. The way his eyes close when he floats on his back like he’s finally at peace.
If this is a game, he’s damn good at playing it.
Her voice cuts through the quiet.
“So was I just another sketch to you?”
He stops.
Turns slowly in the water.
And when he sees her—rage burning behind her eyes, mouth trembling—his chest tightens so violently it aches.
“Y/N—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He swims to the edge, arms resting on the side of the pool. Water drips down his jaw, over his collarbone. He looks up at her like she’s the sun and the fire that burns him alive.
“What did she say to you?”
Y/N crosses her arms. “That this is a game. That you do this to everyone. The sketches. The attention. The pretending.”
“It’s not pretending,” he says immediately, voice raw.
“Then what is it?”
He climbs out of the pool slowly, water running down every inch of golden skin. His chest heaves slightly. His eyes don’t leave hers.
And she can’t stop looking.
His body. His expression. The way he walks toward her, wet hair dripping, towel forgotten.
He’s all beauty and intensity and want.
But she doesn’t back down.
“Tell me the truth, Felix. If this is just some game you’re playing, end it now.”
He stops in front of her. So close.
Water glistens on his chest. His hand twitches, like he wants to touch her but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
Then—
“You think I’d do all this... obsess over you... just to win a game?”
His voice is low, dangerous.
“You think I lie awake replaying your voice in my head because it’s fun? You think I can’t focus in class because I’m faking it? You think I kissed you like that because I do it with everyone?”
She stares. Her chest is heaving now, too.
He steps closer.
“Y/N, I’ve never wanted anything like this before. And that scares the shit out of me.”
Her breath catches.
He keeps going.
“But you— You walk into a room and I feel it. In my teeth. In my chest. In my fucking bones.”
A pause. The air thickens.
“So if this is a game? Then fuck it. I’ll lose. I’ll rip the board to pieces. Just—don’t stand there and act like you don’t feel it too.”
She looks up at him. She does feel it. It’s been clawing at her ribs since the day they met.
And now, it’s screaming.
He moves. Just slightly. Tilts his head. His breath brushes her cheek.
“Still think I’m pretending?”
She doesn’t answer.
She grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him like she needs to prove something.
And he kisses her like he’s breaking.
Hands sliding to her waist. Water soaking into her clothes. Her anger fueling his desperation. This isn’t soft. It’s not careful.
It’s teeth. Tongue. The need to devour.
Her fingers slide through his wet hair. His grip tightens on her waist. He presses her into the wall of the pool room like he’s trying to burn himself into her skin.
And in that moment—
He knows.
She’s not a crush.
She’s not a phase.
She’s his.
Whether she wants to be or not.
---
Since the night at the pool, Felix has changed.
Not drastically.
Not loudly.
But it’s there—in every look, every step, every breath when she’s near.
He’s always touching her now.
A hand on her back when they walk through the quad. Fingers brushing the inside of her wrist when he leans in to whisper something that isn’t school related. Knees pressed against hers under the desk like he needs to feel her to focus.
It’s subtle enough to be deniable. But constant enough to make her burn.
And his voice? Lower. Softer. Like velvet over fire.
“You always smell so good,” he murmurs one day in the hallway.
“You gonna let me kiss you right here?”
She shoves him away, flustered—
And he grins like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen.
They’re now studying in her dorm—well, supposed to be.
Felix is stretched across her bed like he owns it, flipping through his sketchbook while Y/N sits at her desk, highlighting a sentence for the third time without actually reading it.
She gets up to grab her charger.
Before she makes it two steps, he hooks an arm around her waist from behind and pulls her back down into his lap.
“Where you going, baby?”
She freezes for half a second.
Baby.
It’s casual. Easy. Like he’s said it before.
But she knows he hasn’t.
And the way it rolls off his tongue, low and warm, with his breath on her neck? It lights a fire in her blood.
She glances at him over her shoulder. “That’s new.”
Felix smiles, all teasing and lazy confidence. “What? You don’t like it?”
She doesn’t answer. But her pulse answers for her.
And he feels it—under his fingertips, in the way her breath catches. And that’s all the confirmation he needs.
---
That friday night,
It starts like always.
A movie playing low. Felix behind her on the bed, arms around her waist, lips brushing her neck every few minutes like he has to touch her or he’ll lose his mind.
She leans back against him, biting her lip.
“You’re not even watching.”
“You’re distracting.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Exactly.”
He flips her onto her back in one smooth move and hovers over her, lips inches from hers, voice warm and teasing.
“Tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t.
She grabs him by the collar and drags him down.
It’s heat.
Hands slipping under shirts. Breaths stuttering. His mouth on her throat, his teeth scraping her collarbone. Her legs wrapping around his hips as he groans into her mouth like he’s starved.
“Mine,” he whispers again. “You hear me?”
Her nails dig into his back.
“Say it, Y/N.”
“Yours,” she gasps.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s all I needed.”
Then—
The door opens.
“BABE I BROUGHT PIZZA—WHAT THE ACTUAL—”
Lana stands frozen in the doorway, holding a pizza box like a weapon, eyes wide and absolutely horrified.
Y/N lets out a strangled yelp and shoves Felix off her.
He barely moves. Just rests beside her on one arm, completely unbothered, smirking.
“Hey, Lana.”
“Don’t hey me while your tongue’s halfway down my best friend’s throat!”
Felix laughs—actual, full-on laughs—and Y/N shoves a pillow at his face, humiliated.
Lana blinks. Then slowly sets the pizza down.
“You know what? I’m happy for you both. But I swear to God, if I hear one moan through these paper-thin walls, I will Sage this room myself.”
She slams the bathroom door.
Felix flops back on the bed, still grinning.
“I like her.”
Y/N covers her face with a groan. “I’m going to die.”
Felix leans over, kisses the edge of her jaw.
“You’re gonna live. Right here. With me.”
And he means it.
Every word.
---
Y/N’s sprawled on her bed, hair still tangled from Felix’s fingers, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands as Lana stares her down with her arms crossed.
Pizza box open. Tension thick.
“So,” Lana says, chewing slowly, “when were you gonna tell me you’ve been playing tonsil tennis with Mr. Sunshine Sketchbook?”
Y/N groans. “You were there when it happened.”
“Yes. And now I’m here to ask if you’ve lost your entire mind.”
Y/N sits up. “He’s not like that.”
“He’s literally exactly like that. Charming. Hot. Confusingly sweet. Probably a little obsessive—”
“Lana—”
“—which you clearly like, by the way. You’ve got the post-makeout glow of a girl who saw God and he was blonde with wet curls.”
Y/N blushes, hard.
“I’m serious, though,” Lana says gently, voice dropping. “I just… want to make sure you’re not getting swept up in the Felix Lee Effect. He makes people feel like the center of the world. But is he showing you that you are?”
Y/N hesitates.
And that’s the problem. He is.
It’s not just the kisses. It’s how he looks at her like she holds the answer to every question he's ever asked.
And that might be even more dangerous.
It starts small.
The next day, in class, he sits beside her again—his thigh brushing hers, warm and steady.
When a guy from their Art History class leans over to talk to Y/N, Felix slips his hand casually onto her knee under the table. His fingers curl slightly.
She notices.
So does the guy. That’s the point.
Later, in the quad, they’re walking side by side. She mentions a party that night.
He doesn’t ask to go. Doesn’t beg. He just says,
“Text me when you’re there. I’ll find you.”
And when she starts to walk away, he catches her wrist, pulls her back gently, and presses a kiss to her cheek—his lips lingering just a second too long.
“You look so pretty today, baby.”
Y/N walks away on shaky legs.
And Felix?
He’s already planning where he’ll stand so she can’t slip through the crowd without him seeing.
---
It’s Lana’s idea, of course.
She pulls Y/N into a glittery top and thigh-high boots, gives her a winged liner so sharp it could kill, and they arrive together to a pulsing house lit by LED lights and bad decisions.
Y/N’s only had one drink when she sees him.
Felix—leaning against the hallway wall, in a black button-up that’s undone just low enough. His hair is pushed back. His eyes? Already on her.
But she’s tipsy. And she’s mad.
Because the moment she walked in, three different girls said hi to him.
Because even if he’s looking at her now—how long will that last?
She turns back toward the kitchen—
And that’s when he shows up.
Han Jisung. Tall. Golden. Class clown. Been in two of her lectures. Sweet enough.
“Hey, I know you,” he says, flashing a grin. “Y/N, right?”
She nods. Smiles. Feels the heat of Felix’s stare even as she turns.
Jisung keeps talking. Flirting, even. Offers her a drink. Compliments her hair. And Y/N? She lets him.
Just a little.
Just to see.
And then she feels it.
A hand—warm and firm—on her lower back.
“Hey, baby.”
Felix’s voice is soft. But there’s something in it. Something sharp.
She turns slowly.
He’s standing close.
Too close.
Jisung blinks. “Oh. You guys—?”
Felix just smiles, all teeth. “Yeah. We’re together.”
Y/N opens her mouth to say something because they're not officiall together—but Felix’s hand is already sliding up her side, slow and deliberate, like he’s staking a claim.
Jisung clears his throat. “Got it. I’ll, uh… catch you later.”
He walks away fast.
Felix waits until he’s out of sight.
Then looks at her.
“Was that fun?”
Y/N crosses her arms. “Were you jealous?”
He leans in.
“No,” he lies. “I was possessive. Big difference.”
Her breath hitches.
His fingers trace the curve of her waist, barely there.
“Do it again,” he murmurs, eyes burning. “Let someone else touch you. And I’ll show you exactly what that means.”
They don’t speak for ten minutes after the Jisung moment.
Y/N walks ahead of Felix down the sidewalk, heels clicking, air cold on her skin and his hands still ghosting her waist even though he’s not touching her anymore.
He trails her like a shadow.
Close. Silent. Watching.
They make it to her dorm. She pushes the door open hard. Doesn’t wait for him to be invited in.
Felix steps inside anyway. Of course he does.
“You mad?” he asks, voice casual—but laced with heat.
She whirls around.
“You don’t get to just claim me like that.”
His mouth twitches. “Didn’t hear you complain.”
“I didn’t want to make a scene.”
He steps closer.
“But you liked it.”
“That’s not the point.”
He stops in front of her. Looks down.
“Then what is?”
“You don’t own me, Felix.”
“I know.”
“I’m not yours to control—”
“I know.”
He leans down, his lips brushing her ear.
“But I want to be. I want you to want that.”
Her knees nearly buckle.
She shoves him, weakly. “You’re such an asshole.”
He catches her wrists. Gently. Warm fingers. Steady grip.
“But I’m your asshole, right?”
“Felix.”
He’s close again. Breathing heavy.
“Say it again.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Say I don’t own you. Look me in the eye and tell me I don’t already have a piece of you.”
Silence.
She can’t.
Because she does want it.
His intensity. The way he looks at her like he’s starving. The way his touch lingers.
It’s terrifying. But it’s also...
Addictive.
“You’re insane,” she whispers.
“Only about you.”
He leans in, and this time when he kisses her—
It’s slower. Deeper. More dangerous.
Like he’s carving his name into her lips.
And when he pulls back, eyes glazed, breathing hard—
He whispers,
“I think I’m losing it.”
---
Later that night, he’s in his room.
Alone.
Lights off.
Sketchbook open in his lap. Dozens of pages already filled.
All of them?
Her.
Her asleep. Her smiling. Her with her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her mid-laugh. Her annoyed. Her biting her lip. Her crying—he imagined that one.
He flips through the pages slowly, like each one is a confession.
“You don’t own me,” she said.
But she’s everywhere.
His walls. His folders. His phone.
He’s not even sure when it started.
He just knows he hasn’t drawn anyone else in weeks.
He reaches into his drawer.
Takes out the box.
The one with the earring. The napkin. The note.
He presses her earring to his lips.
“You're mine,” he whispers. “Even if you don’t say it yet.”
His breath hitches.
“I’ll wait.”
---
She doesn’t sleep that night.
Not because she’s overthinking. Not because she’s scared. But because the sheets still smell like him. And her body won’t stop remembering.
The press of his hands.
The weight of his stare.
The way he kissed her like he was trying to leave fingerprints on her soul.
She should want distance.
But all she wants is him.
She catches herself scrolling through old texts. Replaying his voice. Imagining his fingers tracing down her spine.
I want to be yours.
Say it again.
You look so pretty today, baby.
Her thighs squeeze together. Her breath hitches.
She hates how much she likes it.
He’s consuming her.
And the worst part?
She’s letting him.
---
“Something’s wrong with you.”
Seungmin says it over coffee, sitting across from Felix in the dining hall. He’s watched Felix tap his pen twelve times in a row, eyes glazed, not listening to a single word being said.
Felix blinks. “Huh?”
Seungmin narrows his eyes. “You’re obsessed.”
Felix chuckles. “I like her. That’s all.”
“No,” Seungmin says, sharper now. “You orbit her. You rearranged your schedule to match hers. You’ve stopped drawing anything but her. You don’t even eat when she’s not around.”
Felix’s jaw ticks.
“You think I don’t see it?” Seungmin adds. “I know what obsession looks like, Felix. And this? It’s not love.”
Felix leans back in his chair, slowly. His voice is soft.
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“You think I wanted this?” he whispered, voice cracked and wild. “To crave you like air? To wake up with your name already on my tongue? You think I meant to love you like this? I didn’t choose this, Y/N. I just looked at you and—”
“You got stuck in my fucking bloodstream.”
Warnings: (WC: 10k +/-), MDNI!!!, classmates2lovers, soft yandere! au, obsessed!felix, felix is so gone for y/n its not funny, artist! felix, college au, y/n is emotionally constipated, stalkerish actions? , mutual pining, the he fell first and fell harder trope, talks of rumors, comedic relief roommste- lana, swearing, jealously, lots of kissing- and i mean lotssss of it, possessive lix, suggestive actions, eventual sexual content, will add more as we get to the other parts, lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: hey lovelies, instead of a oneshot- im going to make this a 3 part series, because Tumblr said it was too long. So far I was the first 2 parts finished ( the second part needs editing so it'll be scheduled for next week) , and i'm already 3/4 way done with the finale, so keep a look out for this!
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Finale
There are two empty seats in Lecture Hall 3A.
Felix Lee already has one of them.
He’s lounging halfway into it, legs stretched long under the desk, head tilted back as he grins up at something Changbin’s saying. The sleeves of his hoodie are bunched at the elbows, revealing faded ink on his forearm—something abstract, sharp-edged, soft like a memory.
People watch him like he’s the main character in a movie they all paid to see.
And he gives them a show—eyes crinkling, laugh low and warm, every movement loose and easy like he’s never once felt out of place.
He belongs here.
Until she walks in.
Y/N slips through the door quietly—barely a sound, barely a presence. But somehow it still echoes.
Felix doesn’t notice her at first.
It’s not until she pauses—just for a second, scanning for a seat—and pushes her hair back in a motion so fluid it could’ve been choreographed…
That his head snaps up.
Time doesn’t stop. It slows.
Like the universe is turning down the volume just for him to hear his heartbeat.
“Who the hell…”
She’s not glowing. She’s not dramatic. She’s not even dressed to stand out—oversized jacket, headphones still tangled in her pocket, a messenger bag bumping her hip.
But something in her quiet sets him on fire.
She doesn’t look like she’s trying to be seen.
Which is exactly why he can’t look away.
There’s only one seat left beside him.
And when she takes it—without looking at him, without knowing—he forgets how to breathe.
She doesn’t know who he is.
She doesn’t look at him like he’s someone.
And that’s the most exciting thing he’s ever felt.
The professor starts speaking. Slides click into place. Pens begin to scratch.
Felix doesn’t move.
He just looks—sideways glances at first, then longer ones. Her lashes are thick. Her notes are tiny and organized. She frowns when she concentrates, bottom lip tucked under her teeth like a habit she never broke.
She smells like jasmine and ink and something warmer. Something real.
And when she finally glances his way—maybe by accident, maybe not—he smiles.
Slow. Soft.
The kind of smile that makes girls fall in love.
She blinks.
And turns away.
He’s never been ignored like that in his life.
By the time class ends, he knows three things:
Her name is Y/N.
She smells better than anything he’s ever inhaled.
He’s going to ruin himself trying to make her his.
---
Y/N pushes open the dorm room door with her shoulder, keys jingling in one hand, phone buzzing in the other. She’s halfway through a sigh when—
“Tell me everything.”
Lana is already sprawled across her bed, legs kicked up against the wall, holding a bag of Hot Cheetos and an iced matcha like a goddess of academic survival. There’s a face mask on her nose and glitter stars in her hair. She looks like chaos in a crop top.
Y/N drops her bag. “About?”
Lana sits up fast. “Don’t play dumb with me. You had Art History today. With the hot professor. And him.”
“Who’s ‘him’?”
“Felix Lee. Campus sweetheart. Looks like an angel, probably sins like a demon. Blonde, dimples, voice like melted caramel?”
Y/N blinks. “Oh. Yeah. He was in my class.”
Lana stares at her like she just said the sky was optional.
“And?? What happened? Did he speak to you? Did he offer you his soul? Did he kiss the air and make flowers grow?”
Y/N snorts. “He smiled at me.”
Lana gasps, clutching the bag of Cheetos to her chest like pearls.
“Bitch,” she whispers dramatically. “He smiled at you?”
Y/N kicks off her shoes and shrugs, trying way too hard to act like her pulse didn’t jump when it happened.
“It was just a smile.”
“Oh my God, you’re delusional,” Lana says, already grabbing her phone. “That boy does not just smile. He looked at you like you were a croissant in a Paris bakery window, i saw it! i was there!”
Y/N rolls her eyes. “I barely looked at him.”
Lana pauses, then narrows her eyes.
“But you knew he looked at you.”
Silence.
Caught.
Y/N shoves a pillow at her, and Lana squeals, dodging.
“I knew it! You’re blushing! That Felix Lee smile got you in 4K, baby!”
“I’m not blushing.”
“You’re so blushing. I’m hosting your future wedding party.”
Y/N flops back on the bed and stares at the ceiling.
She had noticed. Of course she had. He was practically glowing. His presence felt like sunlight through glass—warm, bright, but too much if you stayed too long.
And when he looked at her… it was like being seen. Fully. Silently. Like a hunger she couldn’t name yet.
And it scared the hell out of her.
Across campus, a sketchbook lies open in Felix’s lap.
He’s redrawing the curve of a girl’s jaw.
He doesn’t know her middle name.
But he already knows how she looks when she concentrates.
How she turns pages with her left hand.
How she won’t meet his eyes.
He’ll learn the rest.
He has time.
He does always gets what he wants.
---
Felix didn’t notice her at first.
That’s what he tells himself.
Because he should’ve been listening to Dr. Min. Or teasing Changbin about his caffeine addiction. Or even half-paying attention to the slides clicking by at the front of the room.
But all of it blurred the moment she walked in. Late, as always.
Not like a scene in a movie.
Not with wind blowing through her hair or some dramatic soundtrack.
Just... softly.
Quiet, like a secret no one told him he’d been waiting to hear.
She sat beside him. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t smile.
Didn’t try.
That’s what did it.
Now, Felix’s pen taps against his notebook without rhythm. He’s back in his dorm, propped against his headboard, textbook open in his lap and headphones buzzing low in his ears.
He’s replaying it. Over and over.
The way she tucked her sleeve over her hand when she reached for her pen. The little frown line between her brows when she was concentrating. The scribble of her notes, all slanted and small.
She didn’t notice him.
And maybe that’s the part that’s driving him insane.
Everyone notices him.
He’s used to it—teachers, classmates, strangers. Even the janitor calls him “Sunshine.”
But she?
She acted like he was just… someone.
Not someone special.
And he’s not sure which of those things he wants to be yet.
“Dude,” Changbin’s voice comes through the shared bathroom door. “You coming to dance rehearsal or not?”
Felix glances at the clock. He’s already fifteen minutes late.
“Be there in five!” he calls back, slipping his pencil between the pages of his book like a bookmark—even though he hasn’t read a word of it.
Later, after dance practice, after he showers and changes and throws on a hoodie too big to be his, he finds himself halfway across campus.
He swears he didn’t plan it.
He just… remembered she had her next class around this time.
And the courtyard near the library has a good view of the walkway.
That’s all.
Totally normal.
He sits on the low brick wall, pops in a single earbud, and scrolls through his phone.
Just in case she walks by.
Just… to see.
And when she does—shoulders hunched against the breeze, headphones in, fingers wrapped tight around a coffee cup—he doesn’t say anything.
He just watches.
She’s so quiet in the way she moves, like she doesn’t want to disturb the world.
He wonders what would happen if someone made her want to.
Made her laugh too loud.
Or kiss too long.
Or feel too much.
He wonders what it would take.
--
There’s glitter all over the floor.
And on the mirror.
And in Lana’s hair. Again.
“I swear to God,” Y/N says, dabbing concealer under her eyes, “you shed like a fairy stripper.”
Lana beams. “That’s the goal, babe.”
She’s in a black corset top and low-rise jeans that should be illegal. Her makeup is dramatic, dewy, and completely perfect. She’s halfway through applying star-shaped rhinestones to her cheekbone when she leans over Y/N’s shoulder.
“You’re wearing that?”
Y/N blinks at her reflection. “What’s wrong with this?”
“It’s giving ‘I might be a witch,’ not ‘I’m here to break hearts and summon chaos.’ We’re fixing that.”
Twenty minutes later, Y/N is standing in front of the same mirror—but this time she barely recognizes the girl staring back.
Fitted crop top. Small black skirt. Layered silver chains. Soft smokey eyes. Glossed lips. Her hair is wild in a good way. Intentional. Like she knows she’s a problem and doesn't care.
Lana whistles.
“Now that’s the girl who’s gonna ruin someone tonight.”
The party is at one of the upperclassmen dorms—loud music, low lights, bodies pressed into couches and corners and kitchen counters. It smells like cheap beer and sugar, like something is about to happen.
Y/N follows Lana through the crowd like a ghost, feeling half-there, until—
“Felix is here,” Lana says suddenly.
Y/N freezes. “What?”
“He’s here. Over there. Dance floor.”
Y/N’s eyes flicker across the room—and she sees him.
Golden curls tucked under a beanie. White tee sticking to his collarbone. He’s laughing with a girl from their class—Aria, Y/N remembers vaguely—but he’s not looking at her.
No.
He’s looking at Y/N.
Like he forgot how to smile.
Like she just knocked the wind out of him.
Lana smirks. “He’s been looking for you since the minute we walked in. You see that, right?”
“Lana—”
“I’m just saying,” she sings, sipping her drink, “if he murders you, I’ll avenge you. But also? You look hot. So live a little.”
Y/N rolls her eyes.
But her heart is thudding.
Because now he’s walking toward her.
Felix’s voice is soft over the bass. “Hey.”
He’s closer than he needs to be. Just enough to smell like something sharp and sweet—maybe citrus, maybe something darker.
Y/N swallows. “Hey.”
His eyes flick down and up once—fast, but not subtle.
“You clean up nice,” he says, smiling. But his tone is lower. Rougher.
She raises a brow. “You say that to all your classmates?”
“No,” he says without hesitation. “Just the ones I want to get to know.”
The air? Thick.
Music’s pounding, bodies are moving around them, but it’s like they’re in their own gravity.
She’s not moving away.
And he’s not moving at all.
“Wanna dance?” he asks.
And it doesn’t sound like a question.
It sounds like a challenge.
Just as she opens her mouth, Lana swoops in—looping an arm through Y/N’s and fake-smiling at Felix.
“Sorry, she promised me the first dance,” she says sweetly, dragging Y/N away before Y/N can decide if she wanted to say yes.
Y/N looks back.
Felix is still watching.
But now his smile has teeth.
Y/N leans into Lana’s ear. “Did you just save me or ruin me?”
Lana grins. “Why not both?”
---
The music shifts into something bass-heavy and lazy, like it’s daring people to get closer.
Lana’s glitter is already catching the light when she gasps and grabs Y/N’s wrist like it’s life or death. “Group game time. You’re coming.”
Y/N raises an eyebrow. “I just got comfortable.”
“You’ll be more comfortable once you’ve emotionally humiliated yourself in a circle of strangers. Come on.”
The living room is half-lit by string lights and bad decisions. Someone pushes the coffee table back. People sink into couches, curl up on the carpet, fill Solo cups with things too strong to taste.
Y/N finds herself tugged down beside Lana on the floor. She pulls her knees in. Tries not to look too out of place. She's scanning the room when she sees him.
Felix.
Lounged out on the couch like he lives there.
His arm’s draped over the back like it belongs around someone. There’s a beer bottle in his fingers, but he hasn’t even sipped it. His legs are spread like he doesn’t realize how distracting it is.
And he’s already looking at her.
Not staring. Just—watching.
Like he’s measuring something.
Like he’s waiting.
"Okay," Aria announces from across the circle, flipping her long hair back like she owns the moment, “We’re playing Most Likely To but with a twist.”
Changbin groans dramatically, “If this turns into truth or dare, I’m leaving.”
“It won’t,” she smirks. “Unless someone’s too scared to be honest.”
Felix chuckles under his breath. “Scared of what?”
“Most likely to sleep through finals” gets pointed unanimously at Jaehyun, who accepts the title with pride.
“Most likely to start a cult” goes to Lana, who bows with both hands like a K-pop idol and whispers, “Drink the glitter.”
Then Aria tosses a grenade.
“Most likely to break someone’s heart without even trying.”
A beat. A murmur.
And then—like it’s obvious—four people point at Y/N.
Her eyes go wide. “What?”
Lana cackles. “It’s the mystery, babe. You’ve got main character heartbreak aura.”
“I literally only said two words to any of you.”
Felix, voice quiet but sure,
“Exactly.”
She looks up—sharp. “That’s a bold statement for someone who’s only known of me for less than twenty-four hours.”
He smiles, slow and amused. “It’s a feeling.”
“Maybe you should get that checked.”
He laughs. “Maybe you should stop pretending you don’t like being watched.”
Lana coughs violently into her drink. Aria looks like she’s about to throw her cup at the wall.
Y/N just blinks. Then tilts her head.
“Do you flirt like this with everyone or just girls who ignore you?”
“Only the ones who make it interesting.”
The room is buzzing again.
Even Seungmin looks mildly entertained.
A few questions later,
“Most likely to fall in love first.”
It lands like a thunderclap.
Everyone looks around, unsure—until Changbin points directly at Felix.
“You. You’re a simp and we all know it.”
Felix lifts his drink, not denying it.
“Only if it’s the right person,” he says, smiling slightly, eyes already on her.
When the game starts to fizzle and people break off into groups—dancing, making out, disappearing into hallways—Lana leans close, voice low.
“He was so undressing you with his eyes.”
Y/N sips her drink. “Was he?”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I wasn’t looking.”
“You blinked less than five times.”
Y/N shrugs. “He’s fine.”
Lana gasps. “FINE?”
“He’s… symmetrical.”
“Bitch. If he looked at me like that, I’d have to unalive myself immediately from sheer embarrassment.”
Y/N tries to act unaffected. “He’s too much. Too charming. Too confident.”
“Okay, and? That’s the whole fantasy package!”
“It feels fake.”
“Or maybe you just don’t like being the one who’s wanted.”
Y/N looks away.
That’s when he appears.
Felix. Again.
Two drinks in hand.
He offers her one, voice softer now—lower, almost sincere.
“You looked like you needed water.”
She stares at him, arms crossed. “You watching me again?”
He smiles, like it’s a joke—but his eyes don’t laugh.
“Maybe.”
Lana opens her mouth. Y/N jabs her in the ribs before she can speak.
“Thanks,” Y/N says, taking the cup.
His fingers brush hers—just enough to make it feel like maybe it was on purpose.
“You’re full of surprises,” she mutters, sipping.
“You have no idea,” he says back, voice velvet.
Then, just like that—he walks away.
Lana is already vibrating. “WHAT. THE. FUCK.”
Y/N exhales. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine. You just got main-character seduced and then abandoned.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Uh-huh. Say that again while not staring at his ass.”
---
Y/N slips into class early the next day for the first time since she's started classes.
She’s hoping to beat the crowd. To get a seat by the wall. To pull her hoodie over her face and pretend last night never happened.
Unfortunately, fate—and the universe—hate her.
Because the moment she steps into the lecture hall, someone’s already in her usual seat.
And Felix is in his.
Smack in the middle. Empty seat next to him.
Looking like sin in a fitted hoodie and silver chain, a pencil tucked behind one ear.
And when he sees her?
His smile is unfair.
“You’re early,” he says, soft like it’s a secret between them.
She blinks. “So are you.”
He taps the notebook on his desk. “Had some inspiration to write out.”
“Inspiration, huh?”
His eyes flicker to her lips.
“You’d be surprised what sticks in your head after a party.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t sit either.
Just stands there, debating—back row, empty seat behind a pillar, anywhere but next to him.
He pats the desk beside him.
“You’re not really gonna avoid me after I gave you water, are you?”
Y/N raises an eyebrow. “That was water?”
“Mostly.”
He’s grinning. She hates that she doesn’t walk away.
She sighs. Sits beside him. One desk, too close.
The room starts to fill. Changbin appears and gives them both a look that screams interesting.
Aria walks in, sees them, and nearly walks back out.
Felix leans over slightly.
“You’re popular this morning.”
“I’m regretting everything already.”
“No you’re not.”
She side-eyes him. “You always this cocky?”
“Only around people I like.”
A beat. A pause. Her pulse jumps.
“Do you flirt with everyone who sits next to you?”
“No,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “Just the ones who try to act like I don’t exist.”
Professor Min walks in. The lights dim. The projector starts.
Felix finally stops talking.
But he doesn’t stop looking.
Not completely.
He watches her out of the corner of his eye. The way her fingers tap the desk when she’s bored. How she chews the inside of her cheek when she’s thinking. The soft crease between her brows when she concentrates.
And when she finally looks back—just for a second—he smiles again.
Not big. Not obvious.
Just enough.
Still watching?
Always.
As the lecture rolls on, he leans closer, voice a whisper meant for her alone.
“I was thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
He smiles. “Maybe.”
Pause.
“You never answered my question.”
She glances sideways. “Which one?”
“Do you always stare at people when you don’t like them?”
She exhales, eyes back on the board.
“Maybe I just like the view.”
He stops.
The tension snaps like a thread pulled too tight.
He looks at her—really looks.
And this time?
He’s the one who blushes.
---
It starts with a list.
Posted in the middle of Dr. Min’s lecture slides, like it’s not about to change lives.
Group Project: Midterm Analysis.
Partnered Work.
Pairs assigned randomly.
Y/N’s heart stutters before she even sees the names.
And when she does?
Of course.
Lee, Felix — Y/L/N, Y/N
“Of course,” she mutters under her breath, dragging her fingers down her face.
Beside her, Felix hums like he’s just been handed a birthday present.
“Guess fate ships us.”
“Fate’s on something.”
He leans toward her, propping his chin on his hand. “Or maybe I just manifest really well.”
“You manifested me into a group project?”
He shrugs. “I’ll take what I can get.”
They meet at the campus library later that evening—quiet corner table, papers everywhere, books stacked like walls.
Y/N’s typing notes. Felix is... doodling.
“Are you seriously drawing right now?”
“I’m multitasking.”
She glares.
He smirks.
“I can’t help it,” he says, pencil flicking across the edge of the page. “You’re very drawable.”
“You’re very irritating.”
He holds up the page: a surprisingly decent sketch of her side profile, brows furrowed mid-glare.
“It’s not done yet,” he says. “You look too composed.”
They don’t get much work done.
Every time she reaches for a pen, he steals it.
Every time she rolls her eyes, he grins like it’s a victory.
He keeps bumping her knee under the table. “By accident.”
He asks for help reading something over his shoulder—leans in too close.
And every time their eyes meet, the air thickens.
By the time she escapes the library, it’s past 9, and her phone lights up with a string of all-caps texts:
LANA 🧚♀️✨
WHERE ARE YOU
ARE YOU WITH HIM
I KNOW YOU’RE WITH HIM
DID HE TOUCH YOUR KNEE
DID HE DRAW YOU LIKE ONE OF HIS FRENCH GIRLS
OPEN THIS DOOR RN
Y/N opens the dorm room and Lana literally dives at her with a pillow in one hand and a face mask in the other.
“You’ve been gone for three hours and I demand DETAILS,” she declares.
Y/N kicks her shoes off and sighs. “We were studying.”
“Studying each other’s faces???”
She tries to play it cool. “It was fine. He was... annoying.”
Lana gasps. “Oh my god. You like him.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. You do! You have Felix Face™.”
“What is Felix Face?”
“It’s the face of a girl who’s being seduced by dimples and sketchbooks and bad intentions!”
Y/N groans. “It’s a group project.”
“He’s going to fall in love with you.”
“He’s not.”
“You’re going to fall in love with him.”
“No I’m not.”
Lana narrows her eyes. “Then why are you smiling?”
Y/N turns away. “I’m not.”
---
The next partner meeting isn’t in the library.
It’s in Felix’s dorm room.
His side is clean, lived-in, filled with scraps of paper and charcoal-streaked sketchpads. A record player hums something soft in the background, and there’s an open bag of gummy bears on the desk.
He offers her the desk chair. He takes the floor.
And still manages to look like he owns the whole damn room.
“I brought notes,” she says, flipping her laptop open.
“I brought snacks,” he says, already tossing her a chocolate bar.
They start working.
Kind of.
Y/N types. Felix watches her.
Y/N rereads. Felix sketches a corner of her hair where it curls near her ear.
She doesn’t notice. Not until she leans over his shoulder to see what he’s working on and realizes—
He’s drawing her again.
“You’re literally obsessed.”
He grins. “Obsessed is a strong word.”
“Then pick a different one.”
He looks at her for a second. Eyes soft. Almost serious.
“Enchanted.”
Her breath catches.
He doesn’t say it like a joke. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t wink.
Just says it.
Like it’s a fact.
Like it’s truth.
They finish the outline. Barely.
She leaves just before curfew.
And as she walks down the dorm steps, her phone vibrates.
Unknown number.
[ 9:27 PM ]
hey. it’s felix.
don’t freak out, lana gave me your number
(also threatened to stab me if i made u cry)
did you get home safe?
She stares at it for a second.
Smiles.
Then types back:
[ 9:29 PM ]
i survived.
shocked you didn’t draw it.
[ 9:29 PM ]
i would’ve if you’d let me walk you back
next time?
Her stomach flips.
Stupid.
She types: maybe.
---
The next morning.
It’s too early. She’s running on three hours of sleep. She walks into the café on campus needing caffeine more than air.
She does not expect to see Aria at the front of the line.
Worse?
Aria sees her first.
And smiles.
But it’s the kind of smile you feel like a knife.
“Y/N, right?” she says, too loud, too friendly. “From Art History?”
Y/N nods slowly.
Aria cocks her head. “You and Felix seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.”
There it is.
Y/N keeps her voice calm. “We’re just partners.”
Aria leans in slightly. “That’s what they all say.”
Her eyes say the rest: He flirts with everyone. You’re not special.
Y/N takes her coffee, says nothing, walks out with her chin a little higher.
But still—
Her heart is beating faster.
That night, Felix texts again:
[ 10:12 PM ]
aria said something, didn’t she.
[ 10:13 PM ]
i can explain, if you want.
Y/N stares at the message.
The air is still. Her phone lights up again.
[ 10:15 PM ]
or
you can let me show you you’re not just another name.
She almost doesn’t go.
The message sat in her inbox all night.
She read it. Reread it. Didn’t reply.
But now it’s sunset.
And she’s at the edge of campus, phone buzzing.
Felix: I’m out back. You’ll know which car is mine.
She finds it immediately.
The black Jeep. Windows cracked. Music playing low.
And him—leaned against the side in a gray sweatshirt and backwards cap, looking like a sin she’s about to commit.
“Hey,” he says softly as she approaches.
Like this is normal. Like this isn’t something big.
She crosses her arms. “So what exactly am I here for?”
Felix smiles. “Closure.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Closure to what?”
He shrugs. “That question in your head. The one you’ve been asking since the party.”
Is he serious?
Is he like this with everyone?
Am I just another girl he draws and forgets?
She never said it out loud.
But somehow—he heard it anyway.
“Come on,” he says, opening the passenger door. “Let me show you something.”
---
It’s three flights of an old music building, one locked door (he has a key, of course), and a fire escape that definitely looks like it’s not up to code.
Y/N follows him anyway.
And when she steps onto the rooftop—her breath catches.
Fairy lights strung between pipes.
A paint-stained mattress with pillows.
Half-empty sketchbooks tossed in a crate.
A small speaker playing a sleepy playlist.
And the stars.
Not many. But enough.
“I come here when I can’t sleep,” Felix says quietly. “Which is most nights.”
She walks around slowly, taking it in. “You did this?”
He shrugs. “No one else comes up here. Just me. And now you.”
There’s a moment.
Not silence—because the music still hums—but something close.
He sits on the mattress. Tugs his hoodie sleeve over his hand. Looks at her like she’s the only thing that matters.
“You think I’m playing a game with you,” he says. “But I’m not.”
“You flirt with everyone.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “But I don’t watch everyone walk away like I’m afraid I’ll never see them again.”
“I don’t remember what people smell like. Or how they take their coffee. Or what side of the desk they always choose.”
He leans forward.
“But I remember you.”
---
She doesn’t sleep.
She just lies in bed, wide awake, heart loud.
Lana notices immediately. Slides onto her bed with a face mask on and a bag of M&M’s.
“Okay,” she says. “Talk.”
Y/N sighs. “There’s nothing to—”
“Try again.”
She stares at the ceiling. “He showed me this rooftop he goes to when he can’t sleep. He said I’m not just anyone.”
Lana is quiet.
Then, “And do you believe him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or are you just scared?”
Y/N blinks.
“Scared that if he’s telling the truth… you’re gonna fall.”
“And if he’s not… you already have.”
---
She doesn’t text him the next day.
Or the day after that.
Not because she’s mad. Not because he did something wrong.
But because she still feels it.
The echo of his voice on that rooftop.
The way he looked at her like she was the secret to keep.
Like he was safe with her.
And she knows what it’s like to trust too quickly.
Knows what it’s like to fall into something and mistake it for forever.
So she doesn’t respond.
She doesn’t reach out.
She hides.
And Felix?
Felix lets her.
Until the fourth day.
She’s in the library.
Same corner. Same seat. Pretending to study.
And then he slides into the seat across from her like he never left it.
Quiet. Calm. Tired.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Her throat tightens. “I’m busy.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
She keeps reading.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t push.
Just sits there with that soft, open stillness that hurts more than anger.
Finally—she breaks.
“Why are you doing this?”
He looks at her. Really looks.
“Because I think about you when I’m trying not to think about anything.”
Her breath catches.
“Because when you walked into that classroom, something clicked.
And I haven’t stopped hearing it since.”
Y/N looks down. Her hands are shaking.
“Felix…”
“Let me talk. Just for a second.”
She doesn’t stop him.
“I get it, okay? You don’t trust me.
I wouldn’t either if I were you.”
He exhales. Rubs the back of his neck.
“People think I’m this golden retriever guy. Friendly. Flirty. Soft.
And I am… kinda. But no one really sees me.
Not the part that stays up at night.
Not the part that feels too much and says too little.”
He finally meets her eyes.
“You do.
And that scares the hell out of me.”
Silence.
He laughs once—short, breathless. “Wow. That was a lot.”
She opens her mouth. Then closes it.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she says quietly.
Felix leans forward, voice gentle.
“Then we’ll learn together. But please—stop pretending you don’t feel this. Because I know you do. And I’m not gonna hurt you. Even if you run again.”
Her voice cracks.
“I don’t want to need anyone.”
“You don’t have to.”
Pause.
“But I want to be someone you choose. Even when you don’t have to.”
She stands up.
He doesn’t stop her.
She walks out of the library—heart racing, throat tight.
But she doesn’t go back to her dorm.
She walks for miles. Through campus. Through her own head.
And she hears him the whole time.
"I think about you when I’m trying not to think about anything."
"You see me."
"I want to be someone you choose."
She doesn’t sleep that night.
Neither does he.
---
Something shifts.
She doesn’t realize it at first.
It’s little things.
Felix stops sitting next to her in class.
Not obviously. Not out of spite. Just… further away.
He doesn’t text first.
He doesn’t send a meme at 2 a.m.
Doesn’t bump into her at her favorite café.
Doesn’t smile across the quad like she’s his favorite secret.
He’s not gone.
He’s just... absent in all the ways that mattered.
And it hurts.
Worse than she expected.
Because she wanted space.
Didn’t she?
She told herself she needed air. But now all she can breathe in is the space where he should be. In class, she glances sideways. He’s laughing at something Changbin says.
Not looking at her.
Not at all.
And it burns.
You don’t get to miss someone you pushed away.
Except... you do.
And she does.
Every second.
Later that night, she’s curled in her hoodie, staring at the blank notes on her laptop. She can’t write a word.
Lana bursts in like glitter-coated lightning, holding two bags of chips and a mission.
“Okay. Talk.”
Y/N doesn’t even blink. “There’s nothing—”
“STOP,” Lana snaps, dropping the snacks and sitting cross-legged on the bed. “We are not doing the emotionally constipated thing tonight. I’ve let you spiral long enough.”
Y/N swallows.
Lana softens.
“You’re allowed to be scared.
But don’t confuse fear with truth.”
Y/N shakes her head. “What if I fall?”
Lana looks her in the eye.
“Babe, you already did.”
Silence.
“You’re not afraid of getting hurt. You’re afraid that for once... this might be real. And you don’t know what to do with something that isn’t pretending.”
Y/N breathes in shaky.
“I miss him.”
Lana smiles, gentle now. “Then tell him.”
---
It’s midnight.
The hallways are silent, except for the hum of fluorescent lights and her racing heart.
She’s standing in front of his door.
Hand raised.
Not knocking.
Not yet.
She doesn’t know what she’ll say.
Doesn’t even know if he’ll answer.
But she’s here.
And that has to mean something.
She finally knocks—three soft raps that sound like a plea.
A second passes.
Then another.
And then—
The door opens.
Felix stands there, shirt hanging loose, hair tousled like he hasn’t slept. Eyes tired. Voice rough.
“Y/N?”
She doesn’t say anything.
Just looks at him.
Everything in her chest is loud. He steps back, silently letting her in.
She walks past him, stands in the center of the room like she’s still deciding whether to leave or beg.
“Why’d you stop?” she asks finally, voice thin.
He blinks. “Stop what?”
“Everything. The texts. The looks. The rooftop.”
He exhales. Runs a hand through his hair.
“Because you didn’t want it. And I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.”
“You left.”
“You didn’t follow.”
He stares at her. Then steps forward.
“Do you want me to?”
Y/N’s voice breaks. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Felix closes the space between them, slowly. Gently.
“Then let me show you. But you have to let me. Let me try. Let me in.”
She shudders. Blinks up at him.
“I’m scared.”
His hand finds hers. Warm. Solid. There.
“So am I.”
And then she lets go.
Of the fear. Of the silence. Of the weight she’s been holding for too long.
And she kisses him.
---
Felix’s POV
He didn’t think she’d come.
Even when she knocked, even when he opened the door and saw her standing there—bare-faced, breathless, beautiful—he thought he was dreaming. But then she walked in. And his whole world tilted.
Now she’s here.
In his room. In his space. In his arms.
Her lips are on his and her hands are fisted in his shirt like she’s holding herself together with him—and God, he’s never felt anything so good in his life.
She tastes like everything he’s ever wanted.
And everything he’s afraid to lose.
It’s not gentle. It’s not chaste.
It’s months of tension. Weeks of watching her from across rooms, memorizing her smile, her silence, the way her voice softens when she’s tired. It’s every second he spent wondering if she was going to be the one thing in his life he could never have.
And now? Now she’s right here.
His hands grip her hips like she might disappear if he lets go.
She gasps when he deepens the kiss, and the sound shoots straight through him—low in his spine, hot in his blood.
He wants more.
Not just of her skin.
Of her.
Her thoughts. Her fears. Her trust. Her time. Her everything.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at her.
Her eyes are blown wide. Lips kiss-bitten. Breath shaking.
“Y/N,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Are you sure?”
She nods. “Are you?”
He lets out a breath. A laugh, almost.
“I’ve been sure since the moment you sat next to me.”
She kisses him again—softer now. Slower.
And that’s worse.
Because it’s not hunger anymore.
It’s need.
He kisses down her jaw, to the soft spot under her ear. She tilts her head, exhales his name like it’s a prayer. His fingers slide under the hem of her shirt, touch skimming her waist—waiting, waiting, waiting—
Until she arches into him. And he loses it.
They fall back onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and breath.
He’s above her, holding himself up with shaking arms. Her hands are tugging at his hoodie, slipping underneath, palms warm on his stomach.
He wants to take it slow.
He wants to savor it.
But his heart is pounding like it’s chasing something—
Like it already knows it belongs to her.
She pulls him down again and whispers against his mouth:
“Don’t stop. Keep kissing me.”
And he doesn’t.
Not until both of them are breathless and wrecked and whispering each other’s names like it’s the only thing that matters.
Later, when she’s curled into his chest, fingertips tracing circles over his ribs, he lies there in the dark and realizes—
This isn’t a crush.
This isn’t infatuation.
It’s possession, blooming slow.
She’s not his. Not really.
But he wants her to be.
He wants to be the only one she touches like this. The only one she lets in when she’s scared. The only name she says when she’s falling apart.
He wants to be her favorite place.
And if that means playing nice…
He will.
For now.
Because this?
This is just the beginning.
---
The first thing she feels is warmth.
Not the kind that fades. Not morning sun or heated blankets.
It’s Felix.
He’s curled around her—arms wrapped tight like even in sleep, he’s afraid she’ll leave.
His face is buried in her shoulder, breath soft, his hand resting just beneath her shirt. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just... there.
And it’s terrifying how good it feels.
Y/N opens her eyes slowly, her heart beating unevenly.
Last night wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t planned either. It was them—in their most unguarded, breathless state.
She turns her head. Looks at him.He’s still sleeping. Lips parted slightly. Lashes kissing his cheeks. Soft. And for a second, she lets herself feel it.
All of it.
The intimacy.
The closeness.
The ache that this might be more than she was ever ready for.
She slips out of bed quietly—his shirt pulled over her body, her phone clutched in her hand—and pads toward the common tiny dorm kitchenette.
The moment she opens the fridge to grab water—
The door opens.
She freezes.
Aria stands there.
Mascara perfect. Hair tied up. Holding her binder like she owns the damn building. And her eyes flick to Y/N’s clothes.
Felix’s shirt.
Bare legs.
The flush on her cheeks.
Aria’s lips part.
And then curl. Just slightly.
“Oh,” she says coolly. “Sorry. Didn’t realize this was... occupied.”
Y/N blinks. “I—”
But Aria’s already walking away.
Heels clicking like gunfire.
---
Felix finds her earring on his pillow after she leaves.
Tiny. Silver. Bent just slightly at the hook. The one she always wore with the little moon charm.
He stares at it for a while. Rolls it between his fingers.
He should return it.
He should text her, say she forgot something. But he doesn’t.
He walks to his desk.
Opens the small drawer near the back—the one she hasn’t seen yet. The one with scraps and sketches and folded paper corners.
And he places it there.
Right next to the ribbon she wore in her hair the day they first spoke.
And the napkin she doodled on during their second project meeting.
And the sticky note where she wrote “focus, dumbass” and stuck it to his laptop.
Just little things.
Things she left behind.
Things he never meant to keep.
But now?
He can’t throw them away.
Because they’re hers.
And as far as he’s concerned?
What’s hers is his now.
---
It starts between the shelves of the art building.
Y/N didn’t mean to hear it.
She was looking for extra graphite pencils.
What she found instead was Aria’s voice, low and razor-sharp, cutting through soft laughter like a scalpel.
“...she’s cute,” Aria says, her voice just loud enough. “But let’s be honest. She’s not his type. She’s just new. Mystery always makes the game more fun.”
Someone chuckles. Aria goes on.
“You think you’re the only girl he’s ever drawn? Please. It’s how he reels you in. Little sketches, stolen looks. Makes you feel like you’re the only girl he sees—until he’s done playing.”
Y/N freezes behind the bookshelf. Her fingers curl around the pencil tin.
“He doesn’t mean it. None of them ever do. It’s just another knotch in the belt. A fun chase. A pretty face.”
The laugh that follows is cruel.
Y/N doesn’t cry. She doesn’t run.
She walks away calmly, even as her chest is splintering.
They didn’t even go all the way. Not even close.
Just a makeout—heavy, yes. Her hands in his hair, his mouth at her neck, heat pooling low in her stomach. But it wasn’t sex. It was something else. Something more.
At least, she thought it was.
By sunset, it’s unbearable.
She’s been pacing her dorm for over an hour, trying to make it not matter. Trying to tell herself Aria’s bitter. Trying to believe the rooftop, the softness, the way he kissed her like she was the air he needed—meant something.
But the words echo like poison.
Just another game.
She grabs her phone.
“Where’s Felix?”
Changbin replies instantly.
“Not sure. He’s not in the art lab. Might be at the pool.”
She doesn’t even hesitate.
---
The pool is mostly dark.
The lights shimmer under the surface, casting ghost-like ripples onto the walls. There’s a low hum of the filtration system and the occasional splash of water.
And then—him.
Felix.
Alone in the water, shoulders slicing through the surface like it’s second nature. His hair is pushed back, slick and shining. His chest rises with each breath, droplets trailing down to where the V of his hips disappears beneath the surface.
He hasn’t seen her yet.
And for a moment?
Y/N just watches.
He’s beautiful. And she hates that she’s just now admitting it.
The way his muscles move. The way water clings to his skin like it worships him. The tattoos on his ribs and arms. The way his eyes close when he floats on his back like he’s finally at peace.
If this is a game, he’s damn good at playing it.
Her voice cuts through the quiet.
“So was I just another sketch to you?”
He stops.
Turns slowly in the water.
And when he sees her—rage burning behind her eyes, mouth trembling—his chest tightens so violently it aches.
“Y/N—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He swims to the edge, arms resting on the side of the pool. Water drips down his jaw, over his collarbone. He looks up at her like she’s the sun and the fire that burns him alive.
“What did she say to you?”
Y/N crosses her arms. “That this is a game. That you do this to everyone. The sketches. The attention. The pretending.”
“It’s not pretending,” he says immediately, voice raw.
“Then what is it?”
He climbs out of the pool slowly, water running down every inch of golden skin. His chest heaves slightly. His eyes don’t leave hers.
And she can’t stop looking.
His body. His expression. The way he walks toward her, wet hair dripping, towel forgotten.
He’s all beauty and intensity and want.
But she doesn’t back down.
“Tell me the truth, Felix. If this is just some game you’re playing, end it now.”
He stops in front of her. So close.
Water glistens on his chest. His hand twitches, like he wants to touch her but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
Then—
“You think I’d do all this... obsess over you... just to win a game?”
His voice is low, dangerous.
“You think I lie awake replaying your voice in my head because it’s fun? You think I can’t focus in class because I’m faking it? You think I kissed you like that because I do it with everyone?”
She stares. Her chest is heaving now, too.
He steps closer.
“Y/N, I’ve never wanted anything like this before. And that scares the shit out of me.”
Her breath catches.
He keeps going.
“But you— You walk into a room and I feel it. In my teeth. In my chest. In my fucking bones.”
A pause. The air thickens.
“So if this is a game? Then fuck it. I’ll lose. I’ll rip the board to pieces. Just—don’t stand there and act like you don’t feel it too.”
She looks up at him. She does feel it. It’s been clawing at her ribs since the day they met.
And now, it’s screaming.
He moves. Just slightly. Tilts his head. His breath brushes her cheek.
“Still think I’m pretending?”
She doesn’t answer.
She grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him like she needs to prove something.
And he kisses her like he’s breaking.
Hands sliding to her waist. Water soaking into her clothes. Her anger fueling his desperation. This isn’t soft. It’s not careful.
It’s teeth. Tongue. The need to devour.
Her fingers slide through his wet hair. His grip tightens on her waist. He presses her into the wall of the pool room like he’s trying to burn himself into her skin.
And in that moment—
He knows.
She’s not a crush.
She’s not a phase.
She’s his.
Whether she wants to be or not.
---
Since the night at the pool, Felix has changed.
Not drastically.
Not loudly.
But it’s there—in every look, every step, every breath when she’s near.
He’s always touching her now.
A hand on her back when they walk through the quad. Fingers brushing the inside of her wrist when he leans in to whisper something that isn’t school related. Knees pressed against hers under the desk like he needs to feel her to focus.
It’s subtle enough to be deniable. But constant enough to make her burn.
And his voice? Lower. Softer. Like velvet over fire.
“You always smell so good,” he murmurs one day in the hallway.
“You gonna let me kiss you right here?”
She shoves him away, flustered—
And he grins like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen.
They’re now studying in her dorm—well, supposed to be.
Felix is stretched across her bed like he owns it, flipping through his sketchbook while Y/N sits at her desk, highlighting a sentence for the third time without actually reading it.
She gets up to grab her charger.
Before she makes it two steps, he hooks an arm around her waist from behind and pulls her back down into his lap.
“Where you going, baby?”
She freezes for half a second.
Baby.
It’s casual. Easy. Like he’s said it before.
But she knows he hasn’t.
And the way it rolls off his tongue, low and warm, with his breath on her neck? It lights a fire in her blood.
She glances at him over her shoulder. “That’s new.”
Felix smiles, all teasing and lazy confidence. “What? You don’t like it?”
She doesn’t answer. But her pulse answers for her.
And he feels it—under his fingertips, in the way her breath catches. And that’s all the confirmation he needs.
---
That friday night,
It starts like always.
A movie playing low. Felix behind her on the bed, arms around her waist, lips brushing her neck every few minutes like he has to touch her or he’ll lose his mind.
She leans back against him, biting her lip.
“You’re not even watching.”
“You’re distracting.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Exactly.”
He flips her onto her back in one smooth move and hovers over her, lips inches from hers, voice warm and teasing.
“Tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t.
She grabs him by the collar and drags him down.
It’s heat.
Hands slipping under shirts. Breaths stuttering. His mouth on her throat, his teeth scraping her collarbone. Her legs wrapping around his hips as he groans into her mouth like he’s starved.
“Mine,” he whispers again. “You hear me?”
Her nails dig into his back.
“Say it, Y/N.”
“Yours,” she gasps.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s all I needed.”
Then—
The door opens.
“BABE I BROUGHT PIZZA—WHAT THE ACTUAL—”
Lana stands frozen in the doorway, holding a pizza box like a weapon, eyes wide and absolutely horrified.
Y/N lets out a strangled yelp and shoves Felix off her.
He barely moves. Just rests beside her on one arm, completely unbothered, smirking.
“Hey, Lana.”
“Don’t hey me while your tongue’s halfway down my best friend’s throat!”
Felix laughs—actual, full-on laughs—and Y/N shoves a pillow at his face, humiliated.
Lana blinks. Then slowly sets the pizza down.
“You know what? I’m happy for you both. But I swear to God, if I hear one moan through these paper-thin walls, I will Sage this room myself.”
She slams the bathroom door.
Felix flops back on the bed, still grinning.
“I like her.”
Y/N covers her face with a groan. “I’m going to die.”
Felix leans over, kisses the edge of her jaw.
“You’re gonna live. Right here. With me.”
And he means it.
Every word.
---
Y/N’s sprawled on her bed, hair still tangled from Felix’s fingers, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands as Lana stares her down with her arms crossed.
Pizza box open. Tension thick.
“So,” Lana says, chewing slowly, “when were you gonna tell me you’ve been playing tonsil tennis with Mr. Sunshine Sketchbook?”
Y/N groans. “You were there when it happened.”
“Yes. And now I’m here to ask if you’ve lost your entire mind.”
Y/N sits up. “He’s not like that.”
“He’s literally exactly like that. Charming. Hot. Confusingly sweet. Probably a little obsessive—”
“Lana—”
“—which you clearly like, by the way. You’ve got the post-makeout glow of a girl who saw God and he was blonde with wet curls.”
Y/N blushes, hard.
“I’m serious, though,” Lana says gently, voice dropping. “I just… want to make sure you’re not getting swept up in the Felix Lee Effect. He makes people feel like the center of the world. But is he showing you that you are?”
Y/N hesitates.
And that’s the problem. He is.
It’s not just the kisses. It’s how he looks at her like she holds the answer to every question he's ever asked.
And that might be even more dangerous.
It starts small.
The next day, in class, he sits beside her again—his thigh brushing hers, warm and steady.
When a guy from their Art History class leans over to talk to Y/N, Felix slips his hand casually onto her knee under the table. His fingers curl slightly.
She notices.
So does the guy. That’s the point.
Later, in the quad, they’re walking side by side. She mentions a party that night.
He doesn’t ask to go. Doesn’t beg. He just says,
“Text me when you’re there. I’ll find you.”
And when she starts to walk away, he catches her wrist, pulls her back gently, and presses a kiss to her cheek—his lips lingering just a second too long.
“You look so pretty today, baby.”
Y/N walks away on shaky legs.
And Felix?
He’s already planning where he’ll stand so she can’t slip through the crowd without him seeing.
---
It’s Lana’s idea, of course.
She pulls Y/N into a glittery top and thigh-high boots, gives her a winged liner so sharp it could kill, and they arrive together to a pulsing house lit by LED lights and bad decisions.
Y/N’s only had one drink when she sees him.
Felix—leaning against the hallway wall, in a black button-up that’s undone just low enough. His hair is pushed back. His eyes? Already on her.
But she’s tipsy. And she’s mad.
Because the moment she walked in, three different girls said hi to him.
Because even if he’s looking at her now—how long will that last?
She turns back toward the kitchen—
And that’s when he shows up.
Han Jisung. Tall. Golden. Class clown. Been in two of her lectures. Sweet enough.
“Hey, I know you,” he says, flashing a grin. “Y/N, right?”
She nods. Smiles. Feels the heat of Felix’s stare even as she turns.
Jisung keeps talking. Flirting, even. Offers her a drink. Compliments her hair. And Y/N? She lets him.
Just a little.
Just to see.
And then she feels it.
A hand—warm and firm—on her lower back.
“Hey, baby.”
Felix’s voice is soft. But there’s something in it. Something sharp.
She turns slowly.
He’s standing close.
Too close.
Jisung blinks. “Oh. You guys—?”
Felix just smiles, all teeth. “Yeah. We’re together.”
Y/N opens her mouth to say something because they're not officiall together—but Felix’s hand is already sliding up her side, slow and deliberate, like he’s staking a claim.
Jisung clears his throat. “Got it. I’ll, uh… catch you later.”
He walks away fast.
Felix waits until he’s out of sight.
Then looks at her.
“Was that fun?”
Y/N crosses her arms. “Were you jealous?”
He leans in.
“No,” he lies. “I was possessive. Big difference.”
Her breath hitches.
His fingers trace the curve of her waist, barely there.
“Do it again,” he murmurs, eyes burning. “Let someone else touch you. And I’ll show you exactly what that means.”
They don’t speak for ten minutes after the Jisung moment.
Y/N walks ahead of Felix down the sidewalk, heels clicking, air cold on her skin and his hands still ghosting her waist even though he’s not touching her anymore.
He trails her like a shadow.
Close. Silent. Watching.
They make it to her dorm. She pushes the door open hard. Doesn’t wait for him to be invited in.
Felix steps inside anyway. Of course he does.
“You mad?” he asks, voice casual—but laced with heat.
She whirls around.
“You don’t get to just claim me like that.”
His mouth twitches. “Didn’t hear you complain.”
“I didn’t want to make a scene.”
He steps closer.
“But you liked it.”
“That’s not the point.”
He stops in front of her. Looks down.
“Then what is?”
“You don’t own me, Felix.”
“I know.”
“I’m not yours to control—”
“I know.”
He leans down, his lips brushing her ear.
“But I want to be. I want you to want that.”
Her knees nearly buckle.
She shoves him, weakly. “You’re such an asshole.”
He catches her wrists. Gently. Warm fingers. Steady grip.
“But I’m your asshole, right?”
“Felix.”
He’s close again. Breathing heavy.
“Say it again.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Say I don’t own you. Look me in the eye and tell me I don’t already have a piece of you.”
Silence.
She can’t.
Because she does want it.
His intensity. The way he looks at her like he’s starving. The way his touch lingers.
It’s terrifying. But it’s also...
Addictive.
“You’re insane,” she whispers.
“Only about you.”
He leans in, and this time when he kisses her—
It’s slower. Deeper. More dangerous.
Like he’s carving his name into her lips.
And when he pulls back, eyes glazed, breathing hard—
He whispers,
“I think I’m losing it.”
---
Later that night, he’s in his room.
Alone.
Lights off.
Sketchbook open in his lap. Dozens of pages already filled.
All of them?
Her.
Her asleep. Her smiling. Her with her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her mid-laugh. Her annoyed. Her biting her lip. Her crying—he imagined that one.
He flips through the pages slowly, like each one is a confession.
“You don’t own me,” she said.
But she’s everywhere.
His walls. His folders. His phone.
He’s not even sure when it started.
He just knows he hasn’t drawn anyone else in weeks.
He reaches into his drawer.
Takes out the box.
The one with the earring. The napkin. The note.
He presses her earring to his lips.
“You're mine,” he whispers. “Even if you don’t say it yet.”
His breath hitches.
“I’ll wait.”
---
She doesn’t sleep that night.
Not because she’s overthinking. Not because she’s scared. But because the sheets still smell like him. And her body won’t stop remembering.
The press of his hands.
The weight of his stare.
The way he kissed her like he was trying to leave fingerprints on her soul.
She should want distance.
But all she wants is him.
She catches herself scrolling through old texts. Replaying his voice. Imagining his fingers tracing down her spine.
I want to be yours.
Say it again.
You look so pretty today, baby.
Her thighs squeeze together. Her breath hitches.
She hates how much she likes it.
He’s consuming her.
And the worst part?
She’s letting him.
---
“Something’s wrong with you.”
Seungmin says it over coffee, sitting across from Felix in the dining hall. He’s watched Felix tap his pen twelve times in a row, eyes glazed, not listening to a single word being said.
Felix blinks. “Huh?”
Seungmin narrows his eyes. “You’re obsessed.”
Felix chuckles. “I like her. That’s all.”
“No,” Seungmin says, sharper now. “You orbit her. You rearranged your schedule to match hers. You’ve stopped drawing anything but her. You don’t even eat when she’s not around.”
Felix’s jaw ticks.
“You think I don’t see it?” Seungmin adds. “I know what obsession looks like, Felix. And this? It’s not love.”
Felix leans back in his chair, slowly. His voice is soft.
You guys... I'm seriously locked in over here lol. I will be seperating Make You Mine in probably 3 parts cause this one is going to be LONG. Tumblr told me so when i tried doing it in one lol. I'm also thinking of making this like a 3 part series for all of the members. Hmmm, ig we'll see what you guys want once im finished with this one. Stay tuned, this one is going to be.... something hehehe
"They said obsession was dangerous.
But they never warned me what it would feel like...
to win.”
The room smells like her.
Not just perfume—but that invisible, electric scent that only comes from skin against skin. He never knew how to describe it. Only that he knows it now. Knows it so well it’s soaked into the sheets. Into him.
She was just here.
Maybe ten minutes ago. Maybe ten years.
It’s hard to tell time when everything else in your life has revolved around one person for so long. Her presence lives in him now, even in absence.
The walls are covered—photos, sketches, scraps of her handwriting taped beside torn notebook paper. A cracked necklace she once wore. A receipt from the first café they ever went to. A napkin she once wiped her lip with, stained with cherry-red gloss.
A shrine.
Built piece by piece.
Day by day.
Touch by touch.
Fantasy to life.
She said he was relentless.
She said it like a warning.
He took it like a promise.
“You say you’re not mine,” he murmurs to the quiet, “but you never looked at me like I was anyone else’s.”
His voice is gentle, almost affectionate. It always was.
That was the trick, wasn’t it?
He never had to shout.
Never had to threaten.
Never had to force.
All he had to do was love her… a little too much.
And she let him in.
Now, he sits on the edge of the bed, fingers still stained with charcoal from the last sketch he finished before she left. Before she said don’t come looking.
He didn’t listen.
He never does.
Because from the moment he saw her—new girl, quiet eyes, soft voice, walking into that lecture hall like she didn’t already belong to him—
It was done.
Sealed.
Inevitable.
And now?
He finally has her.
Even if it means losing himself.
"This isn’t about love.
It never was.
It’s about the moment her lips parted and I thought:
I’d ruin everything just to taste that again."
Your image has been tainted ever since Dispatch saw you leave another idols’ house in the early hours of the morning. Dating rumors spread and you were no longer the loving, sweet, innocent idol anymore. You were labeled everything under the sun, everything but a talented artist. Desperately wanting to fix your tarnished image, the company decides to make you seem more nurturing and caring; so they force you to adopt a hybrid.
So out of the loop of caring for another person, you fail to notice how attached your new hybrid is towards you, and you underestimated how much you would care for him.
Warnings: nothing, jinnie softens up a little bit, domestic-ish jinnie, mentions of insecurities, lmk if i missed anything!
Previous | Next Chapter
The days that followed were filled with a strange mix of unease and cautious understanding. Hyunjin remained a quiet presence in your apartment, keeping mostly to himself while you attempted to navigate your newfound role as his caretaker. You didn’t know what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this awkward dance of trying to figure each other out.
You didn’t dare ask him too many questions. He was always guarded, always distant, and when you did try to engage him in conversation, the answers were short, clipped. Sometimes, he’d even disappear into his room for hours, leaving you to wonder if he was truly comfortable or just tolerating the situation.
At night, when you'd occasionally fall asleep on the couch, you could feel his eyes on you from across the room. There was a quiet intensity to his gaze, one that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It was as if he were studying you, always trying to figure out something you couldn’t put into words.
But then, there were moments—tiny, fleeting moments—where something else shone through. In the way he’d almost imperceptibly soften when you handed him a drink, or the way he’d wait for you to enter a room first, even though he didn’t have to. Small gestures that spoke volumes, yet neither of you were ready to admit what they meant.
It was the third night since Hyunjin moved in that you found yourself awake far later than you expected. The city lights outside your window cast a faint glow over the apartment, and you stared at the ceiling, mind racing. The stillness of the night was almost suffocating.
A soft shuffle of feet across the floor broke your concentration, and you immediately turned your head, eyes locking with Hyunjin’s in the dim light. He had quietly slipped out of his room, his bare feet making almost no sound as he moved.
You blinked at him, still surprised by how silently he moved. “Hyunjin? What are you doing up?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.
He paused, his golden eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Couldn’t sleep,” he replied, his tone almost dismissive. “You?”
“Same,” you said with a small sigh. “Too many thoughts. I… don’t really know what I’m doing with all this.”
Hyunjin gave a soft chuckle, but it didn’t sound mocking. Instead, it was almost like a quiet understanding, as if he recognized that neither of you had any idea how to navigate this situation. “You’re not the only one,” he said, his gaze shifting to the window as he walked toward it.
You watched him carefully, trying not to make it too obvious. His long hair swayed slightly as he moved, the faint glint of his scales catching the light. He looked almost ethereal, like something not entirely of this world.
There was a moment of silence before he spoke again, his voice softer than usual. “I didn’t want this either. I didn’t ask for any of this. But I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
The words hung in the air, a confession more than an explanation. You could feel the weight of them, the bitterness laced with something far deeper—something that wasn’t entirely his fault, but still felt so raw.
“No, you don’t,” you replied quietly, your heart tightening as you sat up in bed, pulling your knees to your chest. “I didn’t ask for this either. I didn’t think I’d be good at it. I don’t know how to help you.”
Hyunjin turned back to face you then, his expression softening just the slightest bit. “You’re not the only one who’s trying to fix things,” he said, his voice low but not unkind. “I don’t… know how to trust anyone anymore.”
You couldn’t help the pang of sympathy that shot through you. There was so much more to Hyunjin than the cold, distant exterior he put up. He was a hybrid, yes, but underneath that, he was someone who’d been hurt, someone who didn’t quite know how to heal. And here you were—both of you, strangers in each other’s lives, but tied together by circumstances neither of you had asked for.
“I won’t lie to you,” you said, swallowing thickly. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what you need or how to help you. But I’m willing to try. I’m… not perfect. I can’t fix everything.”
Hyunjin stared at you for a long moment, and for a second, you thought he might turn away, but then something in his gaze shifted. His posture relaxed ever so slightly, and the tension that had been thick in the room seemed to loosen, if only a little.
“You’re… not like the others,” he said, the words coming out haltingly. “Most people see hybrids as pets or experiments. But you… you’re trying. It’s… strange.”
You looked at him in surprise. “I don’t think of you as a pet. Or an experiment. I see you as a person… just like me. I just—” you hesitated, unsure how to voice the feelings churning inside. “I just don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want to make things worse.”
His gaze softened, and for the first time since he had arrived, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes—something that hinted at a deeper hurt. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly. “I’m not easy to deal with.”
You shook your head, looking down at your hands. “You don’t have to be easy. I don’t expect you to be. I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide who you are.”
Hyunjin didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took a step closer, his tail flicking slightly behind him. His presence was overwhelming, but this time, it felt different. Less threatening, more… peaceful. He hesitated for a moment, then settled onto the couch, keeping a comfortable distance from you.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You could feel the subtle change in the air around you—the shift from two strangers to something tentative, something fragile.
And then, breaking the silence, Hyunjin muttered, almost under his breath, “I guess we’ll figure it out. Together.”
You nodded, offering a small, uncertain smile. “Yeah. Together.”
The room felt warmer now, the distance between you not quite as vast. You couldn’t promise you would have all the answers, but for the first time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you could start figuring it out with Hyunjin by your side.
—-
The next few days passed by in a quiet blur, each one feeling like a step forward and back at the same time. You and Hyunjin settled into an unspoken routine, a delicate balance that neither of you dared to disrupt. There were still moments of silence between you, long stretches where neither of you knew what to say. But those moments were slowly becoming fewer.
Hyunjin wasn’t as cold as before, though he still kept his distance. He never demanded anything from you, but his presence had a way of making everything feel more alive, more tangible. He would sit in the living room, curling up on the couch or the armchair, cacooned in the guest bedroom, his eyes fixed on something—anything—that didn’t require him to engage too much. Still, there was something about his posture, the way he seemed to listen even when he wasn’t actively looking at you. Sometimes, you could swear that he was observing you just as much as you were observing him.
It was late afternoon when the shift came, just after you had returned from a long day of practice. You were exhausted, your body aching from hours of dance routines and vocal warm-ups. You let out a quiet groan as you stepped inside your apartment, kicking off your shoes and loosening the tight bun in your hair. The door clicked shut behind you, and you heard a soft rustle from the kitchen.
Turning, you saw Hyunjin standing by the counter, his back to you as he inspected a bowl of fruit. His movements were fluid, almost graceful, and it struck you how much effort he was putting into something so simple. The sound of the fridge door closing snapped you out of your thoughts.
“You’re home early,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft, though he didn’t turn to face you.
You blinked at him, your exhaustion mixing with the sudden discomfort of being noticed so closely. “Yeah. Practice ended earlier today. What are you doing?”
Hyunjin glanced at you, his golden eyes flickering to your face, then down at the fruit. “I figured you might be hungry. I made some fruit salad.”
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, you couldn’t quite process them. He made… fruit salad? It was such a simple, almost innocent gesture, but it struck you harder than it should have. Hyunjin, the distant, cold hybrid, making something for you?
“I didn’t know you could cook,” you said, taking a step forward.
He shrugged slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I can handle basic things. It’s not complicated. Besides, it’s… easier than being in my own head sometimes.”
You watched as he scooped some fruit into a bowl, the ease with which he moved making it clear that this wasn’t his first time preparing something like this. When he placed the bowl on the counter, he gestured for you to take it.
“Here,” he said, his voice steady but lacking its usual edge. “It’s not much, but… you’ll probably need something after being at the studio all day.”
You hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to take the bowl or not. Something in his tone felt different. Softer. More… genuine. You stepped forward cautiously and took the bowl from him, careful not to make eye contact for too long. You weren’t sure why it felt so intimate to accept this from him, but it did.
“Thank you,” you said, your voice quiet, as you took a bite. The sweetness of the fruit was refreshing, and it helped calm the gnawing hunger you hadn’t realized you’d been ignoring.
Hyunjin leaned against the counter, his posture still guarded, but less rigid than usual. “You’re welcome,” he replied, and there was no bitterness in his voice. For once, he didn’t sound like he was just going through the motions. You could sense a small shift in him, something fragile but real.
There was a long stretch of silence between you again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The kind of silence that settled into a quiet understanding, like two people who had begun to learn the shape of each other’s presence without needing to speak.
You finished the fruit salad, the cool sweetness lingering in your mouth, but as you set the empty bowl down on the counter, you found yourself glancing at Hyunjin again. This time, he was looking back at you.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, though you meant more than just the fruit salad. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything. We’re both trying to figure this out, right?”
Hyunjin’s gaze softened just a little, but he didn’t look away. “Maybe. But… it’s not always about owing someone something. Sometimes, it’s just about doing something because it feels right. At least, for once, I wanted to do something that didn’t feel like a chore.”
You frowned, not fully understanding the weight of his words but sensing that it was something important. “I get it,” you said, trying to offer him a smile. “I’m not perfect, you know. I don’t always know what’s right.”
“I don’t need you to be perfect,” Hyunjin said, and there was a quiet sincerity in his voice that made your heart skip a beat. “I never asked you to be.”
You couldn’t respond immediately, his words leaving you with a mix of relief and confusion. Was this progress? Had the wall between you finally cracked open, just a little?
Before you could think too much on it, the moment was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. You both turned toward the sound in surprise, the suddenness of it throwing you off balance.
“Who could that be?” you muttered, moving toward the door with Hyunjin close behind you.
When you opened it, you were met with the sight of your manager, Mr. Han, standing in the hallway with a stern expression. “Y/N,” he said, his eyes briefly flicking to Hyunjin, then back to you. “We need to talk.”
Your stomach tightened. You had been waiting for something like this—your company had been keeping a close eye on your situation. They hadn’t been shy about it. But you hadn’t expected it to come so soon.
“Now?” you asked, a little hesitant.
Mr. Han nodded, his gaze flicking to Hyunjin again, this time with less subtlety. “Yes. It’s important. Let’s step outside for a moment.”
You exchanged a glance with Hyunjin, but he didn’t offer any comment. You sighed, stepping out into the hallway. Before you could close the door behind you, Hyunjin’s voice stopped you.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, the words almost too quiet to catch.
You glanced back at him, catching the faintest flash of vulnerability in his eyes, but you nodded, offering a small smile. “I will.”
As you followed Mr. Han down the hallway, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. The world outside your apartment was closing in again, but this time, you weren’t sure if you were ready for it.
At five a.m., Y/N needed caffeine.
By five-thirty, she needed a way to survive.
Sometimes danger doesn’t come from the dark.
Sometimes it’s been sitting next to you all along.
Warnings: (WC: 5K +/-) , robber!au, acquaintances2?? . ANGST, graphic violence: gun violence, robbery gone wrong, physical struggles, blood loss, betrayal, Death/Injury, betrayal, panic/anxiety depiction, blood/gore mentions,this isn't where crime is glorified, it's real, and y/n doesnt get a pass in this because she's ''y/n''
a/n: if you know what this is based off of, I <3 u and chef's kiss, cause you have taste
Oneshots | Navigation
I woke up to the sound of nothing.
Not an alarm.
Not traffic.
Not birds.
Just the aching, hollow quiet of a world that hadn’t bothered to stir yet.
5:04AM blinked on my cracked phone screen, the numbers glowing soft blue in the dark like some half-forgotten promise.
I laid there for a long moment, staring at it, feeling the familiar heaviness behind my eyes, the slow pounding drumbeat of a headache coming on.
My mouth was dry.
My back ached.
The air in my tiny bedroom felt stale, thick with the kind of leftover heat that makes it impossible to tell if you're awake or still dreaming.
I didn’t want to get up.
There wasn’t any real reason to.
No job to clock into today, no class, no date circled on a calendar.
Just another blank day stretching out ahead of me like a parking lot after rain — wide and empty and kind of ugly if you looked at it too long.
But still, my body moved.
Habit.
Restlessness.
Some instinct that if I stayed too long under these sheets, I'd start to rot into them.
The bottle of Advil on the nightstand rattled when I shook it — empty.
Figures.
I flipped it onto the floor and swung my legs over the side of the bed, grimacing at the creak of the old wooden frame.
The floor was cold against my bare feet.
The room smelled faintly of old laundry and the cherry blossom candle I'd burned down to a waxy ghost weeks ago.
I pulled yesterday’s jeans off the floor and shoved my legs into them, not bothering to check if they were clean.
Tugged a hoodie over my head.
Tied my hair into a knot without looking.
Everything mechanical. Everything thoughtless.
When I cracked open my bedroom door, the apartment smelled of stale beer and microwave burritos.
The living room was a wreck — cluttered with empty cups, tangled chargers, an overturned chair no one had bothered to set upright.
And sprawled on the sagging couch like he owned the place —
Han Jisung.
Dead asleep.
Mouth slightly open.
One arm flung over the back of the couch like a discarded jacket.
Mia was curled up beside him, breathing in shallow puffs against his shoulder.
She always looked small when she slept, younger, like the roommate I'd first met two years ago in a college dorm instead of the girl who kept making terrible choices with stubborn devotion.
Jisung wasn’t supposed to live here.
Not officially.
But somehow he was always around — slipping through the cracks, living off our utilities, our groceries, our space, like a parasite too charming to get rid of.
Mia defended him endlessly.
"He’s just getting on his feet," she’d say.
"He’s looking at real estate investments," she’d insist, like it wasn’t painfully obvious he was selling something else entirely.
I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.
Wasn’t my life.
Wasn’t my mess.
Still, seeing him there — so casual, so settled — made something cold and sour twist under my ribs.
I grabbed my keys off the counter, shoving them deep into my hoodie pocket, and stepped into my sneakers.
The front door whined when I opened it, but neither of them stirred.
Not even a flicker.
Outside, the air was sharp and damp, clinging to my skin like mist.
The sky was still navy blue, the horizon only just beginning to blush with the earliest hints of sunrise.
The world felt half-frozen — streetlights buzzing in the quiet, a cat darting under a parked car, the hush of tires far away on a highway I couldn’t see.
Most of the town was still asleep.
The smart ones, anyway.
I shoved my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie and set off down the sidewalk, keeping my head low against the early spring chill.
Three blocks to the QuickMart.
I didn’t need anything, really — maybe some coffee, maybe a lottery ticket just to pretend there was a chance at something better.
Maybe just a reason to be anywhere but home.
The streets were empty except for the occasional distant glow of headlights.
Each step sounded too loud on the cracked pavement, but there was something comforting in it, too — the steady rhythm, the weight of my body anchored to the earth.
At least out here, no one was asking questions.
No one was offering excuses.
The world just was.
When I pushed open the door to the QuickMart, the bell overhead gave a weak little jingle, like even it was too tired to care.
Eddie looked up from behind the counter, offering me the kind of smile you gave to familiar faces you didn’t really know but saw often enough to fake it.
"Morning, Y/N," he said, his voice low and easy, like it was any other day.
"Morning," I muttered back, tugging my hood lower over my eyes as I wandered past him toward the back coolers.
The store smelled like burnt coffee, old newspapers, and something faintly metallic — maybe from the mop bucket half-forgotten by the bathroom door.
The QuickMart was almost empty this early.
Just Eddie behind the counter, a couple thumbing through the energy drinks by the coolers, and me — standing half-dead in the snack aisle trying to decide what kind of sugar bomb might wake me up.
I shoved my hands deep into my hoodie pocket, squinting at the shelves.
Maybe some chips.
Maybe candy.
Why not both?
I stood there longer than necessary, the quiet hum of the refrigerators filling the silence, the lights above buzzing faintly.
Everything about the store felt dull and tired, like the world hadn't fully booted up yet.
I started walking, passing the garbage can near the counter, reaching for the fridge to grab a drink — something cold, something to maybe jolt my heart into a normal rhythm.
The cooler doors hissed when I pulled one open, the blast of cold air making me shiver under my thin hoodie.
I stared blankly at the rows of energy drinks, barely reading the labels. God, why are they so expensive now?
My head was still fuzzy from sleep.
Or maybe just from life.
I grabbed a neon blue one — the kind that tasted like regret and sugar crashes — and tucked it under my arm.
Maybe some chips too.
If I was already wasting my morning, I might as well waste it properly.
The aisles felt cavernous this early, the store half-lit like it couldn't decide if it was awake yet.
Only the cashier, Eddie, stood behind the counter, lazily flipping through a magazine.
A couple — a guy and a girl about my age — wandered the candy aisle, giggling quietly to themselves like they were still drunk from the night before.
I drifted toward the junk food racks, my sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile.
Chips.
Candy.
Maybe both.
I grabbed a bag of BBQ chips off the shelf without thinking, then squatted down, scanning the lower shelves where the candy was crammed.
Twix or Starburst?
Twix or Starburst?
I stood there like an idiot, arguing with myself, while the clock above the counter blinked 5:23AM in tired red numbers.
I picked the Starburst.
Because why not.
Straightening up, I turned toward the drink coolers at the back again, planning to snag a bottle of water too, when—
Yelling.
It cracked across the sleepy store like a whip.
My body jerked instinctively — but my brain, slow and stubborn, whispered that it was nothing.
Probably some drunk guy arguing over cigarettes.
Or someone’s card got declined.
Not my problem.
I kept walking toward the fridge, trying to shove down the cold trickle of unease climbing my spine.
The yelling got louder.
Sharper.
Desperate.
I shut the fridge door with a soft clink and started toward the front counter, my arms loaded with junk.
"Hey — open up the drawer!" someone shouted.
I froze.
That wasn't just angry customer yelling.
There was weight behind those words.
Threat.
Slowly, heart hammering against my ribs, I crouched down behind the nearest aisle.
The tiles were icy under my knees.
I shifted, craning my neck, and peeked around the edge.
And there it was.
A gun.
Pointed squarely at Eddie’s forehead.
Everything inside me turned to ice.
I barely heard the couple somewhere to my left — the girl gasping, the guy whispering "Stay down, stay down," in a panicked hiss.
I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second, praying — actually praying for the first time in years —
Please, please, please let this not be real.
Please let him just take the money and go.
I couldn’t breathe right.
My hands shook so bad the Starburst slipped from my grip, hitting the floor with a soft, traitorous thud.
The noise felt like a gunshot.
The robber’s head snapped toward the sound.
I clamped my hands over my mouth, holding my breath, praying he hadn’t heard, hadn’t seen—
"Who's back there?" he barked.
The gun swung slightly, twitching in my direction.
My vision tunneled, black creeping at the edges.
At the counter, Eddie's hands shook as he stuffed crumpled bills into a plastic bag the robber shoved at him.
"Move faster," the robber snarled.
"Everything. Every dime. And throw in some cigarettes!"
"Which ones?" Eddie croaked.
"All of them!" the robber snapped, voice cracking again.
The second was dragging itself out, stretching thinner and thinner, like a thread about to snap.
I knew it in my bones —
If he came back here, he’d find me.
And he wouldn’t hesitate.
Run, something in me screamed.
Do something.
Across the counter, I saw Eddie’s hand, trembling toward the silent alarm — or maybe toward something hidden underneath.
Hope flickered, weak and desperate.
I shifted slightly, getting lower, trying to plot a move — any move —
when my jacket brushed against a stacked can of soup on the bottom shelf.
It clattered to the floor.
Loud.
Wrong.
Final.
The robber cursed loudly, jerking toward the sound.
I held my breath, paralyzed.
But the distraction was just enough —
Eddie moved.
Fast.
Desperate.
He lunged under the counter, and when he came back up, there was a gun in his shaking hands.
For a second, time froze.
Two guns.
Two men.
Two terrible possibilities.
The robber screamed something —
and that’s when my body chose for me.
I shoved up from the floor, charging forward with everything I had.
No plan.
No finesse.
Just raw, terrified momentum.
He didn't see me coming.
Not until it was too late.
My shoulder slammed into him with a force I didn’t even know I had.
The masked guy staggered sideways, his gun arm flailing, scrambling to keep his balance.
He crashed against the edge of the counter, knocking over a display of lighters and gum that rained down like plastic hail.
I didn’t think — I couldn’t.
I just grabbed at him —
the hoodie, the sleeves, anything I could get my fingers around —
trying to pull him down, trying to rip the weapon from his hand, trying to survive.
He shouted something — hoarse, furious —
and we grappled clumsily, slipping and sliding across the cold tile, our sneakers screeching against the floor.
Eddie shouted too — behind the counter — but I couldn't make out the words.
It was all noise now —
noise and panic and the sharp, metallic taste of adrenaline burning in my mouth.
For a breath, for a wild second, I thought — maybe — maybe we could win this —
Then the gun went off.
BANG.
The explosion of sound shattered the air.
I hit the floor hard, my ears ringing, heart slamming against my ribs so hard it hurt.
I didn’t know who had fired.
I didn’t know if I was hit.
For a few seconds, I didn’t know anything.
I scrambled backwards on instinct, crab-crawling behind the nearest aisle, my hands slick with sweat, my breathing ragged and gasping.
The world had tilted — skewed sideways —
the fluorescent lights flickering like strobes overhead.
Across the store, Eddie was screaming.
Or maybe someone else was.
It was impossible to tell.
The robber I’d tackled staggered back toward the counter, clutching his arm —
his gun still in his hand.
And that’s when the second one appeared.
Another man —
taller.
Broader.
Calmer.
Moving through the smashed front door with a different kind of energy —
controlled. Calculated.
Like he wasn’t surprised by any of this.
Like he was expecting it.
He wore a mask too — black, tight against his face — but something about the way he moved made my stomach knot violently.
He wasn’t like the first one — the panicked kid scrambling for control.
He was cold.
Precise.
Dangerous.
The first robber — the one I’d tackled — stumbled toward him like a scared dog, clutching his side, babbling something too fast for me to catch.
The second one barely spared him a glance.
Instead, his eyes — dark behind the slit of the mask — swept across the store, cataloging everything.
The broken displays.
The bodies on the floor.
The fear thick in the air.
And me.
I flattened myself tighter behind the shelf, heart hammering so hard it made my vision blur.
He barked out an order — short, clipped, sharp.
"Move the cash. Now."
The first robber scrambled to obey, half-running back toward the register.
I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying not to make a sound, trying not to breathe.
Somewhere to my left, the couple whimpered, the girl crying softly against the guy’s chest.
The second robber’s head turned slightly — scanning — counting.
I saw the way his fingers flexed around the gun.
Loose.
Casual.
Like he didn’t need to think about it.
Something deep in my chest — something primal — told me that if he decided we were a problem, we wouldn’t be a problem for long.
I watched him, frozen.
And for a second —
a strange, flickering second —
something about him itched at the edge of my memory.
The way he shifted his weight.
The tilt of his head.
The almost lazy way he held the gun, like it was an extension of his hand.
But my brain — locked tight with fear — refused to put it together yet.
It didn't matter anyway.
Right now, survival was the only thing that mattered.
I shrank lower behind the rack, clutching the corner like it could shield me from bullets.
Praying they’d take the money and run.
Praying I wouldn't die next to a half-eaten bag of Doritos.
--
The seconds dragged on, thick and suffocating, until it was impossible to tell if time was moving at all.
The first robber — the panicked one — was yelling at Eddie again, waving the gun with jerky, clumsy movements.
The second — the tall one — stalked the aisles like a shadow with teeth, quiet and watching, waiting for someone to be stupid enough to move.
And then someone did.
The couple — huddled near the refrigerators — exchanged a glance.
A split-second decision.
A terrible one.
The guy grabbed the girl’s hand and they bolted — making a break for the door, their shoes slapping against the tile.
"Hey!" the first robber screamed, turning — too slow, too messy.
But the second one —
the tall one —
he moved like a predator.
One stride, two, and he was in front of them, blocking their path with terrifying speed.
He raised his gun — not quite aiming, but close enough.
"Get. Back," he growled — low, cold, unmistakable authority bleeding through the mask.
The couple stumbled back, hands up, the girl sobbing, the guy stammering apologies.
It should have ended there.
It could have.
But Eddie —
God bless him, idiot or hero —
made a move.
Maybe it was the way the couple flinched.
Maybe it was the gun pointed at a crying girl.
Maybe it was just panic and fury and the human need to do something.
Eddie yanked open the drawer beneath the counter and came up swinging —
a battered metal bat clutched in both hands, aimed squarely at the first robber’s side.
The crack of impact echoed through the store.
The first robber screamed in shock and stumbled back, the gun flying from his grip.
"Run!" Eddie shouted — not at the robbers — at us.
At me.
At the couple.
At anyone who could still move.
I moved.
Without thinking, I shoved up from behind the shelves and sprinted toward the counter, adrenaline pounding through my veins so fast it made me dizzy.
I didn’t have a plan.
Didn’t have a weapon.
Didn’t have anything but raw survival.
The first robber scrambled for his gun — Eddie kicked it across the floor, out of reach.
The second robber — the tall one — cursed viciously under his breath, stepping forward, raising his gun to aim.
And that’s when it happened.
As he shifted — turning to cover his partner, to reassert control —
his hood slipped back just slightly.
The mask tugged down around his jaw.
And I saw him.
For a second —
a terrible, perfect second —
our eyes met.
Brown, sharp, burning with a furious kind of focus.
Minho.
It hit me like a body blow, knocking the air out of my lungs.
Minho.
The boy who used to smirk over red Solo cups at Mia’s parties.
The boy who used to tap his fingers on the arm of the couch in restless little patterns.
The boy I used to look at — stupidly, harmlessly — and wonder what it would feel like to have someone notice me like that.
He noticed me now.
I used to wonder if he even knew my name. Now, I’ll never forget his.
For half a breath, everything froze.
His eyes widened — just slightly — in recognition.
Something flickered across his face — not regret.
Not apology.
Just cold, brutal calculation.
And then he raised the gun —
higher —
aiming straight at Eddie.
Everything moved too fast.
Too loud.
Eddie lunged again —
the couple screamed —
I threw myself forward —
and the world exploded.
BANG.
--
The shot echoed like a thunderclap, ricocheting off the walls, shattering whatever fragile reality had been left.
Eddie crumpled behind the counter, gasping, clutching his chest where the blood was already spreading thick and dark through his uniform.
The bat clattered to the floor with a hollow sound.
The world tilted —
shook —
cracked open.
I screamed — or maybe I didn’t.
Maybe it was just the sound tearing itself apart inside my head.
The couple —
God, the couple —
they moved.
The guy grabbed the girl by the wrist and they bolted, ducking low, weaving between shelves and knocked-over displays, running for the open door.
I saw Minho flinch like he might raise the gun again, might stop them, but —
he didn’t.
Maybe it was the shouting.
Maybe it was the sirens — faint, distant, growing louder by the second.
Maybe it was something else.
Either way, he let them go.
The door slammed open, and the couple vanished into the gray morning, sneakers pounding pavement, shouting for help.
For a heartbeat —
I was alone.
Me.
The robbers.
And Eddie, bleeding out behind the counter.
My lungs burned.
My legs refused to move.
Run, my brain screamed.
Move. Hide. Fight.
I couldn't.
The panic glued me to the floor.
And then the first robber — the one I'd tackled earlier — turned toward me.
His mask had slipped half-off during the fight, hanging loose around his neck.
His hair — dark, messy, familiar — stuck to his forehead with sweat.
When he barked something at Minho —
something frantic, cursing, desperate —
I recognized the voice.
Han Jisung.
It hit me like a second gunshot.
Han Jisung.
Mia’s boyfriend.
The parasite on our couch.
The boy I'd walked past this morning without a second glance.
The boy I'd joked about under my breath for months.
He’s probably dealing drugs, I used to say.
He’s not real estate, he’s a walking red flag.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know it would be this.
I didn’t know I’d be staring down the barrel of his choices, his wreckage.
Minho barked back at him — sharp, commanding — snapping Jisung out of his frozen panic.
They needed to move.
They knew the cops were coming.
They knew they were out of time.
Jisung scrambled for the fallen bag of cash and cigarettes.
Minho grabbed his arm, yanking him toward the door.
For one sickening second —
Minho’s eyes met mine again.
Through the mask, through the chaos, through the ruin of everything I thought I knew.
And I saw it.
Not pity.
Not anger.
Resignation.
Like he was saying — This is what it is. This is what I am.
And then he yanked the door open —
shoving Jisung ahead of him —
and they vanished into the breaking dawn.
The store was silent except for the low, wet gasps behind the counter.
I stumbled forward on shaky legs, slipping on blood and shattered plastic, reaching blindly over the counter for Eddie.
He was alive.
Barely.
His hand clutched mine weakly, eyes wide and glassy.
"Hold on," I choked out, my voice cracking into splinters.
"Hold on, Eddie. They're gone. You're gonna be okay. You're—"
The sirens howled closer.
Flashing lights bounced against the windows.
Doors slammed outside.
I pressed both hands against Eddie’s chest, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to do something, trying to exist in a world that had flipped upside down in under five minutes.
My hands were soaked in red.
It didn’t feel real.
---
The store was a crime scene by the time they dragged me out.
I don't remember when the cops stormed in —
guns drawn, voices booming, lights flashing like jagged knives against the walls.
I think I raised my hands.
I think someone yelled at me to get down.
I think I collapsed on the floor before they even touched me.
Everything blurred after that.
Hands patting me down for weapons.
Gloves pressing into my shoulders, checking for injuries.
Voices too loud, too fast, rattling around inside my skull without sticking.
Someone pulled me to my feet.
Someone else wrapped a blanket around my shoulders — scratchy and stiff, smelling like bleach and burnt fabric.
Eddie was loaded into an ambulance, his blood staining the stretcher, an oxygen mask strapped to his face.
I watched them wheel him away, my heart pounding so hard it made me sick.
I didn’t cry.
I couldn’t.
I just stood there — shivering, sticky with blood, staring at nothing.
A paramedic guided me to the back of a second ambulance, sitting me down on the hard metal step.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I nodded — a broken, jerky movement that didn’t feel like mine.
"Name?" she pressed, shining a tiny flashlight into my pupils.
"Y/N," I rasped, my voice barely there.
"Do you know where you are?"
"QuickMart," I whispered.
"My... local gas station."
She nodded, scribbling something down on a clipboard.
I rubbed my hands against my jeans, trying to clean them, trying to get the blood off. It didn’t work.
It just smeared.
Somewhere in the distance, a cop was shouting into a radio.
More sirens.
More lights.
The morning was breaking open like a wound — bleeding light and noise into a world that wasn’t ready to wake up.
A detective — or someone who looked important — crouched down in front of me, pulling a notepad from his jacket.
"I need to ask you a few questions, alright?"
I nodded again.
"Did you see the suspects?"
The question hung heavy between us.
I stared at him — blank, hollow — feeling the words lodge in my throat like splinters.
"Yes," I croaked finally.
"Can you describe them?"
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to focus.
Masks.
Guns.
Voices.
Minho's eyes burning into mine.
Jisung's voice cracking when he yelled.
I opened my mouth — and the truth clawed its way out.
"I knew them," I whispered.
The detective's pen paused, hovering above the page.
"You knew them?"
I nodded — once, twice — the motion jerky and frantic.
"Not... well. Not really. But—"
I swallowed hard, bile rising in my throat.
"They weren’t strangers."
The detective’s face tightened, something sharp flickering behind his professional mask.
"Names?"
I pressed my fists into my eyes until the darkness bloomed red and raw behind my lids.
"Han Jisung," I said, the name cutting like glass across my tongue.
"And... and Lee Minho."
Saying it made it real.
Saying it made the store real.
The blood real.
The gunshots real.
They weren’t faceless monsters.
They weren’t anonymous nightmares.
They were boys I had passed on stairwells.
Boys who sat on my couch.
Boys who laughed and lied and existed in the same world as me.
And now they were something else entirely.
The detective scribbled something quickly, nodding.
"We’ll need you to come down to the station after the medics clear you."
"Okay," I said.
But I didn’t mean it.
I didn’t feel it.
All I felt was the cold metal under my thighs.
The weight of the blood on my hands.
The sound of the door slamming open again and again inside my head.
The sick, heavy knowing that even if I survived this day —
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Warnings: angst, fluff, explicit sexual content, some stories can contain sensitive topics and dark themes such as; violence, abuse, insecurities, identity crisis, etc. lmk if i missed anything!
Somebody That I Used To Know | Lee Felix (exes2strangers, hurt/no comfort)🔞 - One of my personal favs!✨
Ten years ago, they were everything to each other — laughter in tiny apartments, promises whispered against cracked windows, a love so fierce it felt invincible. But time has a way of eroding even the strongest foundations, and when Felix and Y/N cross paths at a wedding they never thought they'd attend alone, all that's left are the fragments of a life they couldn't hold onto.
One night. One dance. One final collision of past and present.
In the spaces between the music and the chatter, they must face the truth they've tried so hard to forget: Some love stories don’t end with heartbreak. They end with strangers standing in the ruins of what they once believed was forever.
Summertime Sadness | Felix (summer fling!au , hurt/comfort)
You had a summer fling with a kind boy named Felix, turns out; despite his bright smile, Felix harbored deep sadness within himself. He calls it, summertime sadness.
He Kissed A Girl...And Liked It | Hyunjin (bestfriends2lovers , fluff)🔞
Hwang Hyunjin, the gayest man alive, kissed a girl -who is his best friend,.. and liked it... A little too much for his liking.
5 AM | Minho (robber!au, angst, hurt/no comfort)🔞
At five a.m., Y/N needed caffeine. By five-thirty, she needed a way to survive.
Sometimes danger doesn’t come from the dark. Sometimes it’s been sitting next to you all along.
Another Life | Jisung (angst, tragedy, mourning)
The world didn’t stop when she died. The sun still rose. Planes still landed. Fans still screamed his name like nothing had changed. And Jisung hated that. Because everything had changed.
Crazy In Love: “Tell me the truth,” she whispered, her voice trembling against the edge of his control. “Would you burn the world for me?” He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just looked at her like she was the last breath he’d ever take. “No.” A pause. “I already did.”
In a world of bloodlines, power, and inherited sins, Y/N never expected to inherit her father’s empire—or the man who once swore to destroy it. But some debts are paid in devotion, and some love stories are written in ash. (mafia! au)
Lee Know
Changbin
Felix
Make You Mine: “You think I wanted this?” he whispered, voice cracked and wild. “To crave you like air? To wake up with your name already on my tongue? You think I meant to love you like this? I didn’t choose this, Y/N. I just looked at you and—” “You got stuck in my fucking bloodstream.” (college!au, classmates2lovers, soft yandere) Part 1 , Part 2, Finale
Hyunjin
The Spaces Between Us: Your image has been tainted ever since Dispatch saw you leave another idols’ house in the early hours of the morning. Dating rumors spread and you were no longer the loving, sweet, innocent idol anymore. You were labeled everything under the sun, everything but a talented artist. Desperately wanting to fix your tarnished image, the company decides to make you seem more nurturing and caring; so they force you to adopt a hybrid.
So out of the loop of caring for another person, you fail to notice how attached your new hybrid is towards you, and you underestimated how much you would care for him. (hybrid!au)
