zaza𖦹

Great.

You freeze, heat flaring behind your ears. Your hands go useless for a second, hovering above the mess as if you can will it back into order.

A hand appears in your periphery—long fingers, clean nails, a silver ring catching the light. He crouches without hesitation, gathering your books with a quick, practiced rhythm, as if helping is something he does the way other people breathe.

“Here,” he says, voice soft enough that it doesn’t disturb the quiet. “This one’s yours too, right?”

He holds up a notebook—yours, yes, with the corner bent and your name scrawled on the first page. When you look up, your mouth opens on a thank you that gets snagged on your own surprise.

Because Euijoo is—beautiful, yes, but not in a distant way. More like… deliberate. Like someone who’s learned how to exist in his own skin and decided to be gentle with the world anyway. He wears a plain hoodie and a scarf that’s too thin for the weather, and his hair is damp at the ends as if he ran here through drizzle. His eyes are dark and awake and kind.

“You dropped your whole semester,” he whispers with a faint smile.

You swallow a laugh, relief loosening the tightness in your chest. “I’m trying to make an impression.”

“Mission accomplished.”

Your fingers brush when you take the notebook. Electricity is such a cliché, but you feel something—small and quick and bright—skitter through your bones like a match struck in the dark.

He stacks the last book in your arms with careful precision. “Do you want help carrying these?”

You should say no. You’re an adult! You can manage a few books. But his hands are already reaching, his posture already angled toward your burden like he’s decided you’re something worth making lighter.

“Sure,” you whisper, and then, because the quiet makes honesty feel dangerous, you add, “If you don’t mind.”

He takes half the stack and nods toward the study tables. “I don’t.”

That’s it. That’s the beginning. Not fireworks. Not a dramatic confession under moonlight. Just a Tuesday that thinks it’s a Monday, and Euijoo deciding—wordlessly, instinctively—that you matter.

…

You become a pattern in each other’s lives the way the seasons become a pattern: slowly, then all at once.

At first it’s small. Study sessions that start as coincidence and turn into agreement. Coffee runs where he remembers—somehow—that you like two sugars and no lid because you hate the taste of plastic. Messages about deadlines, jokes about professors, photos of lecture slides taken at an angle because you’re late and he’s already in the room.

You learn him in pieces.

Euijoo taps his pen against his teeth when he’s thinking. He looks up when he’s nervous, like he’s checking the ceiling for permission. He laughs with his whole body—shoulders, eyes, hands—like laughter is a thing that has to be let out or it will split him open.

And he’s good. Not performative-good, not the kind of kindness that expects applause. Just—good in the way some people are good the way some nights are clear. He holds doors, yes, but he also notices when you’re quiet for too long. He walks you home when the campus gets emptier and the streetlights flicker, and he never makes it feel like a favor. He just… does it. Like it would be stranger not to.

One evening in late October, you’re sitting on the grass outside the student union, sharing fries that taste like salt and oil and comfort. The air smells like fallen leaves and distant smoke from someone’s cigarette. Euijoo has his knees pulled up, arms folded over them, scarf looped too loose.

You’re telling him about your family—some half-complaint, half-confession—and your voice does that thing it does when you’re trying not to be vulnerable.

He listens without interrupting. When you finish, you stare at the fries so you don’t have to stare at him.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You glance up.

His eyes are steady, almost solemn. “You don’t have to earn love.”

The words hit you like a hand on your chest—not pushing, but anchoring.

You blink. “I—”

“You don’t,” he repeats. And then, softer, like he’s telling himself as much as you, “You’re already… you.”

You swallow. Something inside you shifts, like the world has tilted a degree in a direction you didn’t know existed.

For a second, you think you might cry. Instead, you steal a fry and point it at him like a weapon. “Are you always this serious?”

He breaks, smiling, tension falling away. “Only when it matters.”

“Does this matter?” you ask, waving the fry.

He watches you, eyes warm and bright. “Yes,” he says, and then he leans forward and bites the end of the fry you’re holding.

Your fingers freeze.

His lips brush your knuckles.

It lasts half a second. It feels like a lifetime.

You stare at him, caught somewhere between laughter and panic, and Euijoo’s gaze flickers—down, then up—like he knows exactly what he just did.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t look sorry. He looks… struck. Like he’s just realized something about himself and he doesn’t know where to put it.

You manage, very calmly, “It’s just a fry.”

He nods, eyes dropping again, voice rougher. “Yeah. Just a fry.”

But you both know it wasn’t.

…

The first time he kisses you is not planned, and that’s what makes it feel inevitable.

It happens in December, when the cold becomes a personality trait and the sky goes dark at four in the afternoon. Finals week has turned everyone into ghosts with caffeine breath. You’re exhausted in a way that feels like your bones are full of sand.

Euijoo finds you in an empty hallway outside a lecture room you’re not even supposed to be in, sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, your notes spread around you like you exploded.

He crouches beside you. “Hey.”

You lift your head. Your eyes burn. “I’m failing.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately, like he’s correcting an insult.

“I don’t understand anything,” you whisper, and the worst part is how true it feels in the moment. Like your brain is a locked door and you’ve lost the key.

Euijoo’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then settles there gently. His thumb moves once, a small stroke through your sweater. “Look at me,” he says.

You do.

He holds your gaze, steady as a heartbeat. “You’re tired,” he says. “Not stupid.”

Something in your throat tightens. “I can’t—”

“Breathe,” he tells you. “Just breathe with me.”

You inhale. He inhales. You exhale. He exhales. His eyes never leave yours, as if he’s physically keeping you from falling apart.

The hallway is silent, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above you, the distant sound of someone laughing far away like another world.

You don’t know who moves first. You only know that Euijoo’s face is suddenly closer, his hand sliding from your shoulder to your cheek, his palm warm against your cold skin. His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up, a question he doesn’t ask out loud.

You nod, barely.

He kisses you like he’s been carrying it for months. Like he’s been holding his breath and finally decided he’s allowed to exhale.

It’s not desperate. It’s not messy. It’s—precise, careful, reverent. He pulls back after a second, forehead almost touching yours, and you see it: the stunned softness in his eyes, the way his pupils look blown wide, as if he can’t believe this is real.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You laugh, shaky. “Yeah.”

He swallows. “I… I wanted to do that for a long time.”

Your heart kicks hard. “Why didn’t you?”

His gaze drops, and for the first time you see him looking unsure—Euijoo, who always seems so quietly certain.

“Because,” he says, voice low, “I didn’t want to be the kind of person who takes something you weren’t ready to give.”

You stare at him.

His eyes flick up again, earnest enough to hurt. “I don’t want to ruin you. Or—well, us.”

You lift a hand and press your fingers to his scarf, anchoring him the way he anchored you. “You didn’t.”

Something shifts in his expression—relief, tenderness, a bloom of something older than a crush.

He kisses you again, slower, and you swear you feel it all the way down to your ribs.

…

After that, you become each other’s home in the middle of everything that keeps changing.

You learn the shape of Euijoo’s affection: the way he tucks you into his side when you’re waiting for the bus, palm splayed on your shoulder like a claim that isn’t possessive, just protective. The way he watches you when you talk, like he’s memorizing the movement of your mouth, the curve of your smiles, the moments your eyes light up. The way he says your name like it’s a secret and a prayer.

Sometimes you catch him staring.

Not in a creepy way. In a wrecked way.

Like he’s looking at you and remembering that you exist, and it hurts him because it’s so beautiful it’s almost unbearable.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask once, half teasing, half self-conscious. You’re sitting in his tiny dorm room, legs tangled on his bed, a cheap movie playing on his laptop. The air smells like laundry detergent and instant noodles.

He blinks, as if returning from somewhere far away. “Like what?”

“Like I’m—” You wave a hand, searching. “Like I’m the answer to a question you didn’t know you asked.”

His mouth twitches, but his eyes don’t soften into humor. They stay serious, almost raw.

“You are,” he says simply.

You laugh, because you don’t know what else to do when someone says something that honest. “Euijoo.”

He reaches out and takes your hand, threading your fingers together. His grip is firm—not painful, but solid, like a promise.

“I mean it,” he says, voice quiet over the movie’s dialogue. “Sometimes I look at you and I think… how is this real?”

Your chest tightens. “It’s real.”

He nods, but his gaze flickers, betraying something inside him that doesn’t fully believe he gets to keep good things.

You squeeze his hand. “Hey.”

He looks at you.

“Don’t make yourself suffer over something you haven’t lost,” you whisper.

For a moment, his eyes shine like he might cry. Then he lifts your hand and presses his mouth to your knuckles—gentle, devotional.

“Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll try.”

But you learn, over the months, that Euijoo’s love is not a simple thing.

It’s not light. It’s not casual.

It’s deep and old, like it was waiting in him long before he knew what to call it.

…

By spring, everyone knows you’re together.

Not because you make a show of it, but because Euijoo looks different when you’re near. Softer. Brighter. Like his body relaxes into a shape it prefers.

He walks you to class and carries your bag when you’re tired. He buys you ridiculous little things—a keychain shaped like your favorite animal, a cheap bouquet from the corner store because it “looked like you.” He leaves notes in your textbooks when you’re not looking: Eat. Sleep. Don’t die. I love you.

The first time he says it out loud is in April, on a night the wind is warm enough to feel like a hand.

You’re sitting on the roof of a campus building you’re probably not supposed to be on, legs dangling over the edge, the city sprawled below like a sea of lights. Euijoo has brought two cans of soda and a blanket that smells like him.

You’re talking about nothing—summer plans, internships, how adulthood feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and pretending you’re not scared.

Euijoo goes quiet. When you look at him, he’s staring at his hands, fingers worrying the tab of the soda can.

“What?” you ask gently.

He exhales, and the sound trembles. “I’m thinking,” he says.

“About what?”

He turns his head and looks at you.

And the expression on his face makes your breath catch—like he’s standing in front of something sacred. Like he’s terrified of saying the wrong thing and breaking it.

“I love you,” he says.

The words aren’t dramatic. They’re not shouted into the wind. They’re said like a fact. Like a confession. Like something he has carried for so long it has become part of his spine.

You stare at him, stunned for a second. And then warmth floods your chest so fast you almost choke on it.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

Euijoo’s eyes squeeze shut for a heartbeat, as if he’s absorbing it physically. When he opens them, they’re wet.

“Hey,” you say, voice soft. “Why are you crying?”

He laughs, but it’s broken. “Because—” He swallows hard. “Because I didn’t think I would get this.”

You reach for him, pulling him into your arms. He clings like he’s been starving. His hold is careful but fierce, hands spread over your back, his forehead pressed to your shoulder.

And you feel it: the way his body shakes, the way his breathing stutters, like his heart is trying to learn a new rhythm.

It hits you then, quietly, like a truth settling into place.

Euijoo loves like he’s afraid.

Not of you. Not of love.

Of losing it.

…

Time moves the way it always does—relentless and tender. You survive finals. You survive summers that stretch like taffy and winters that make your cheeks sting. You move from dorm rooms to tiny apartments, from instant ramen to grocery lists and shared chores, from “I miss you” texts between classes to “What do you want for dinner?” shouted from the kitchen.

You grow up together in all the unglamorous ways that matter.

And somewhere along the line, Euijoo changes.

Not in the sense that he becomes a different person—he doesn’t lose his gentleness, his quiet humor, his habit of tapping his pen against his teeth. But something in him settles. Deepens. Hardens into certainty.

You see it in the way he stands behind you when you’re cooking, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder. In the way he looks at you at parties, across crowded rooms, eyes finding yours like a compass needle snapping north. In the way he reaches for your hand in public without thinking, like your fingers belong there.

At first, his love feels like a bright, frantic thing—like he’s afraid that if he doesn’t hold you, you’ll disappear.

Then, gradually, it becomes something else.

Something older.

Something that doesn’t just want you.

Something that wants a life.

…

It happens on an ordinary day, which is how you know it’s real.

You’re in a grocery store aisle arguing about cereal, because you’ve reached that stage of intimacy where your biggest conflicts are about sugar content and brand loyalty. Euijoo has a box of something aggressively healthy in his hand, and you’re holding a bright, childish, chocolate-covered option like it’s the only joy left in the world.

“You can’t eat that every day,” he says, trying to sound stern.

“You eat instant noodles like it’s a personality,” you shoot back.

He huffs, amused. “That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

He looks at you, eyes narrowing, and you prepare for him to make some ridiculous comeback.

Instead, his gaze shifts—past you, down the aisle.

You follow it and see, near the endcap, a young couple with a toddler. The child is in a puffy jacket too big for her, hair sticking up in staticy wisps, cheeks flushed. She’s holding her parent’s finger with both hands, babbling happily while the adults laugh and try to wrangle her toward the cart.

It’s nothing special. Just life.

But Euijoo goes still.

Not stiff. Not tense. Just… quiet, as if something inside him has stopped moving long enough to listen.

You glance at him. “Euijoo?”

He doesn’t answer at first. His eyes are fixed on the child’s tiny hands, the way she leans into the safety of her parents like she has never doubted she’ll be caught.

When he finally looks at you, it’s like he’s seeing you in a new light.

His pupils are wide. His mouth is slightly open, like he’s been punched with the thought.

“What?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

He swallows. His throat moves hard. “I—” He stops, as if he doesn’t know how to say what’s in him without breaking it.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “What is it?”

His gaze drops to your mouth, then to your hands, then back to your eyes, like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“I don’t think,” he says slowly, “I love you like a boy loves someone anymore.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going, voice raw, as if once he starts he can’t stop. “I think… I love you like—” He presses a hand to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. “Like something in me is old.”

You blink, stunned. The grocery store hums around you: carts squeaking, a kid whining somewhere, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Euijoo’s eyes shine. “Sometimes I look at you and it feels like my bones crack if I don’t hold you,” he whispers, and there’s a faint, trembling laugh in the words, like he knows it sounds insane but it’s true anyway. “And it scares me, because it’s not just… wanting you. It’s not just missing you.”

He leans closer, voice dropping to a confession meant only for you. “It’s like my soul knows you. Like it’s been waiting.”

Your hands tighten around the cereal box.

Euijoo reaches out and covers your fingers with his, warm and steady. “I keep thinking about… years,” he says. “Not just weekends. Not just next semester. Years. Like—”

He swallows again, and this time his voice breaks slightly. “Like I want to marry you.”

The words land in you like a bell struck deep.

Euijoo’s eyes fill. He looks almost anguished, like saying it hurts, like wanting you this much is something he both craves and fears.

“I want to call you my wife,” he whispers, and his expression twists, love and terror braided together. “I want… kids. I want to watch you hold our baby like it’s the only thing in the universe. I want to watch us get old and complain about our backs and still reach for each other in our sleep. I want to sit at a table with you and our grandchildren and think—we did it.”

Your throat tightens until you can barely breathe.

Euijoo’s voice drops even softer, almost a plea. “And it makes me feel like I’m breaking, because if I want it that much—if I let myself want it—then losing it would kill me.”

He looks at you like you’re the sun and he’s been orbiting you without admitting it. Like he’s terrified you’ll say no and confirm his worst fear: that good things aren’t meant to stay.

You set the cereal down carefully on the shelf, hands shaking just a little.

Then you step into him.

Euijoo inhales sharply when your arms wrap around his waist. For a second he’s frozen, as if he can’t believe you’re doing it, and then he folds around you—tight, fierce, protective. His hold is the kind of hold that says mine without ownership, home without walls.

You bury your face in his shoulder. “Euijoo,” you whisper, voice thick.

He presses his cheek to your hair. His breathing is uneven. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” you cut in, pulling back just enough to look at him.

His eyes are wet. He looks wrecked.

You cup his face with both hands. “Look at me.”

He does, trembling.

“I want that,” you say.

He stares. “What?”

“You,” you whisper. “All of it. The years. The old love. The terrifying love. The stupid grocery store fights. The kids, if we decide. The getting old. The being yours.”

Euijoo’s breath leaves him like he’s been shot.

“You mean it?” he asks, voice cracked.

You smile through the ache in your chest. “I’ve meant it.”

His face crumples with something so intensely relieved it hurts to witness. He closes his eyes, forehead dropping to yours, and a sound escapes him—half laugh, half sob.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he whispers, words desperate with sincerity. “I’m going to love you so well. I’m going to—”

“You already do,” you murmur.

He shakes his head, as if he can’t accept that it’s enough. “No,” he says. “More. I will—more.”

And then, right there between the cereal and the pasta sauce, Euijoo kisses you like a man who has found the thing he intends to keep for the rest of his life.

Not reckless. Not showy.

Burning.

Deep.

Old.

Like he’s making a vow with his mouth.

When he pulls back, his eyes are shining so brightly it feels like staring into a flame.

He looks at you the way people look at miracles.

And you realize something too, in the quiet after his confession:

Euijoo doesn’t love you like a story.

He loves you like a future.

…

Later, when you’re home and the groceries are half-put away and you’re both still dazed from what happened in aisle seven, he comes up behind you in the kitchen.

You’re rinsing apples at the sink. The window above it is dark, reflecting your own faces back at you: you in a soft sweatshirt, hair messy, Euijoo behind you like a shadow made of devotion.

He wraps his arms around your waist.

His chin settles on your shoulder.

You feel him breathe in, slow and deep, like he’s inhaling you into his lungs.

“You’re real,” he murmurs.

You turn your head slightly. “I’m real.”

His grip tightens, just a little. The kind of tightness that says he’s trying to fuse you into him.

You cover his hands with yours. “Hey,” you whisper. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

He exhales, shaky. “I’m not afraid of you,” he says.

“I know.”

He nuzzles your shoulder, voice low. “I’m afraid of how much I want this. Because it’s… huge.”

You turn around in his arms and face him fully. His eyes are soft but haunted, like the depth of his love sometimes scares even him.

You reach up and smooth your thumb under his eye, catching the smallest hint of moisture. “Then we’ll hold it together,” you say. “We don’t have to carry it alone.”

Euijoo stares at you like you’ve just handed him the missing piece of himself.

Then he smiles—small, trembling, utterly ruined.

“Wife,” he whispers experimentally, like he’s tasting it.

Your heart stutters.

You laugh, breathless. “Not yet.”

He nods, serious as a vow. “Someday.”

You lean into him, forehead against his, and for a moment the whole world narrows to the space between your breaths.

Euijoo’s arms tighten around you, and you understand what he meant about bones and cracking and needing.

His love is not gentle because it is weak.

It’s gentle because it is powerful enough to be careful.

“Someday,” you agree softly.

Euijoo closes his eyes, and his soul—no longer crying, no longer breaking—sounds like it’s finally found a place to rest.

And when he kisses you again, it’s not like a boy.

It’s like a man who has already chosen you for every version of the future.

Every season.

Every lifetime.

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @sunoo-mint-choco @leehanaholic @delirioastral @todorokiskitten

Y/n had always been independent.

Not in the loud, performative way people liked to romanticize, but in the quiet, ingrained way that came from years of relying only on herself. 

She carried her own bags, fixed her own problems, swallowed her stress whole and kept walking. She didn’t ask for help unless she absolutely had to. Even then, it came out clipped, awkward, almost apologetic.

So when she started dating Seonghyeon, she didn’t expect much to change.

She expected affection, sure, hand-holding, late-night calls, after school hangouts. She expected kisses stolen when no one was looking, physical touch, the warmth of knowing someone chose her.

What she didn’t expect was how gently he would dismantle her independence without ever making her feel weak for it.

It started small.

Too small to notice at first.

Like how he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk without saying anything. Or how he carried an extra charger in his bag “just in case,” and somehow it was always her phone that died. Or the way he wordlessly took her empty cup and refilled it when they studied together, setting it back down beside her like it had always belonged there.

Y/n noticed, but she brushed it off.

Seonghyeon was just… like that.

He was the type to smile without realizing it, lips curved up while his eyes crinkled softly, as if joy sat naturally on his face. He laughed easily, openly, head tipping back, shoulders shaking, then immediately got shy when he realized how loud he’d been.

His expressions betrayed him constantly. Every emotion flickered across his face before his brain could filter it.

He was silly in a way that felt effortless. Jokes slipping out of him mid-conversation, playful nudges, teasing comments followed by a sheepish grin. But underneath all that was something steady. Thoughtful. Observant.

And deeply, deeply devoted.

One afternoon, Y/n was sprawled across her bed, laptop balanced precariously on her knees as she typed furiously. 

Her brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, fingers flying over the keyboard like she was racing someone unseen.

Seonghyeon sat beside her with his legs crossed, pretending to scroll on his phone.

Pretending, because in reality, he was watching her.

He noticed the way her shoulders tensed the longer she worked. How she forgot to breathe properly when she concentrated. How she hadn’t moved in over an hour.

Without a word, he slipped off the bed.

She didn’t notice until a familiar scent, warm coffee, lightly sweet, drifted into the room.

She looked up just as he returned, holding a mug out to her with both hands like it was something precious.

“You forgot this,” he said softly.

“I didn’t—” she started, then stopped when she realized her cup had been empty. “…Thanks.”

He smiled, pleased in that quiet way of his, and sat back down. Then, just as casually, he reached out and gently tugged the blanket up around her legs.

She froze.

“…You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he replied simply, his eyes still on his phone, but his ears were red.

Moments like that kept happening.

Seonghyeon tying her shoelaces when they came undone, mumbling, “Hold still,” like it was the most natural thing in the world. Seonghyeon setting reminders for her deadlines. Seonghyeon packing snacks he knew she liked and pretending it was coincidence.

And always checking in.

“Did you eat?”

“Are you tired?”

“Want me to walk you home?”

She said no half the time.

He stayed anyway.

One evening, rain poured down unexpectedly, soaking the pavement and blurring the city lights into soft halos. Y/n stood under an awning, arms crossed, staring at the downpour with mild annoyance.

“I can walk,” she said when Seonghyeon held his jacket above both of them.

“You can,” he agreed. Then smiled, “But I can also hold this.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t move away as he draped the jacket over her shoulders instead, carefully adjusting it so it covered her completely.

They walked like that, pressed close, his arm snug around her waist, her fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. Rain pattered around them, the world shrinking into something soft and intimate.

Halfway there, she stopped.

Seonghyeon turned instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“…Why do you do all this?” she asked quietly.

He blinked.

Then he laughed a little, shy and breathy. “Because I love you?”

She stared at him, something warm and unfamiliar swelling in her chest.

Later that night, curled up together on the couch, her head resting against his shoulder, y/n finally let herself relax fully. Seonghyeon’s hand traced lazy patterns along her arm, thumb brushing over her skin in slow, comforting motions.

She shifted, turning to face him. “Can I just say something?”

Seonghyeon hummed. “What is it baby?”

“You know, I’m not used to being taken care of.” she murmured.

His smile softened immediately.

“I know.”

She leaned closer. “But… I think I like it. When it’s you.”

His cheeks flushed pink.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice quiet.

She nodded.

He leaned in first, hesitant, gentle, until their lips met in a soft kiss that tasted like comfort and warmth. It lingered, unhurried, his hand sliding to cup her cheek as if she might disappear.

When they pulled apart, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.

“My strong girl,” he whispered, teasing affection woven into the words.

She laughed softly and kissed him again, this time deeper, surer, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulled her into his lap like it was instinct.

Maybe she was independent.

But loving Seonghyeon meant learning that letting someone care for you wasn’t weakness.

“Comfortable here?” Seonghyeon chuckled as you lay on top of him, dozing off from how comfortable his chest was, the warmth of the covers not helping either. One of his hands rested on your waist while the other caressed the back of your head. Seonghyeon wanted to drift off too, lulled by the comfort of the position. But he couldn’t.

After four months of keeping your relationship a secret, Seonghyeon had suggested telling the others, but you weren’t ready yet. You could already imagine their reactions, see it written all over their faces as they learned that their sweet maknae, the shy girl who always hid behind their backs, had found herself a partner.

And Seonghyeon respected that choice, telling you that no matter how long it took to tell them—months, or even a year—he wouldn’t mind as long as you were okay with it.

“Baby...” Seonghyeon gently tapped your back, sitting against the headboard as he pulled you onto his lap. Your head rested on his shoulder while he tried to wake you up.

“We shouldn’t doze off right now. The bedroom door isn’t locked.” Seonghyeon warned as you nodded, slowly waking up. He played with your hair for a moment before pressing a kiss to your lips once then twice—until it deepened into something more passionate, Seonghyeon smiling into the kiss.

“What... WHAT!?” A voice cut through the sweet moment between the two of you. Seonghyeon and you snapped your heads around, only to find Martin standing there, blinking repeatedly as if trying to figure out whether what he’d just seen was real.

“Why are you screaming?” Juhoon asked as he walked over to Martin, casually munching on a bag of chips, only to freeze at the sight of you and Seonghyeon. The bag slipped from his hand, chips scattering onto the floor as his mouth fell open.

“What? What is happening?” Keonho’s curious voice echoed through the hallway as he sneaked a peek into Seonghyeon’s bedroom, his smile dropping instantly, replaced by a look of pure shock.

“JAMES!” They all screamed, rushing toward James in the kitchen. “N-NO WAIT!” Seonghyeon yelled after them. You slid off his lap as he grabbed your wrist, pulling you along while they ran ahead, already surrounding James.

“Zip your mouth!” Seonghyeon glared at the three, while Juhoon shot the two of you a sharp side-eye.

“What?” James looked around, clearly confused as he found himself surrounded. Seonghyeon tried to brush it off. “It’s nothing—” But Juhoon cut him off. “____ and Seonghyeon were kissing.” he blurted, making Seonghyeon hiss at him. Martin didn’t hold back either. “____ was sitting on his lap! HIS LAP JAMES!” he yelled, covering his face. “Seonghyeon, what did you do to ____?!” he added, practically losing his mind.

James was speechless, tilting his head as he glared at Seonghyeon. Keonho grinned—this was a entertaining drama to watch. But for Martin and Juhoon, it was traumatizing, like a horror film : the shy, innocent girl they had always known was doing this... Right under their noses.

“How long have you two been together?” James asked, his voice serious, one hand resting on the kitchen counter as he glared at Seonghyeon. “Four months...” Seonghyeon replied, his hand tightening slightly on your wrist, not enough to hurt—as he subtly guided you behind him. “But we were going to tell you eventually. It just... Wasn’t the right moment right now.”

James let out a heavy breath, then sniffed, his expression unreadable.

“My baby... What did you do to my baby, Seonghyeon?!” James shouted, suddenly lunging at Seonghyeon. The two of them toppled to the floor, wrestling and shouting, while you stayed on the side watching. Your gaze flicked to Juhoon, Martin, and Keonho, all still frozen in shock—except Keonho, who just nodded at you with a grin.

Guess it wasn’t a secret anymore...

You glance at Keonho, panic flashing in your eyes, silently begging him to do something—anything. “Speak up,” you whisper sharply, nudging him with your elbow. “You’re a guy.”

He shoots you a look, whispering back just as fast, “Well, technically, you’re a few months older than me.” Then, after a beat of silence, he adds, “You speak up.”

Before either of you can argue further, one of the men snaps, “We’re talking to you.” His hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. Your eyes widen at the sudden touch—rough, forceful—and Keonho’s jaw clenches, fury flickering across his expression. For a split second, he looks ready to throw a punch. But then his gaze lands on the metal bat one of them is holding, and hesitation kicks in.

“You guys… don’t know who our gang leader is,” Keonho blurts out suddenly, his voice unsteady but loud enough to catch their attention. Desperation leaks through his tone.

You blink at him in disbelief. Gang leader? What the hell was he on about?

“Who is?” one of the men jeers, clearly entertained.

“He—he just came out of jail this week,” you jump in quickly, catching on to the bluff. Your voice shakes, but you manage to sound convincing enough, jerking your wrist out of the guy’s grip and shuffling back toward Keonho. Your heart is hammering so hard it’s almost painful.

“And?” The same man steps forward again, smirking. He doesn’t buy it. None of them do. His hand reaches out again—but before he can even touch you, an arm slides around your shoulder, pulling you back against a broad chest.

The voice that follows is rough, low, and carries an edge that instantly silences everyone.

“What were you doing?”

It’s Martin.

The six-foot wall of pure menace stands right behind you, his arm firm around your shoulders as his glare cuts through the group like a blade. Under the dim streetlight, his expression is unreadable—but the fury simmering behind his eyes isn’t.

The men stiffen, uncertainty flickering through their drunken haze.

“They were harassing us and even touched—” Keonho starts, but doesn’t get to finish.

Because Martin’s grip on your shoulder tightens, his jaw locking as he steps forward slightly. His voice drops even lower, colder, like he’s trying to hold back something dangerous.

“Who was it?” The words roll out sharp, controlled fury slipping through his teeth. “Who the fuck of you five dared touch my girl?”

Both you and Keonho freeze.

You can practically feel the heat rising to your face, not from fear but from the sudden protectiveness in his tone—even though you know he can barely tolerate you on most days.

Martin finally releases your shoulder, his posture tense, ready to swing. His glare doesn’t waver once. And right then, James appears—tall, sharp-eyed, and gripping a hockey stick like he’s more than ready to use it. His gaze scans the scene, his voice silent but his stance screaming threat.

The five men don’t wait for another word. They exchange a quick look before bolting down the street, stumbling over each other to escape.

And just like that, the street falls silent again.

You and Keonho stand there, staring at Martin in disbelief, the word my girl still echoing in both your minds.

so when he texted “come to the studio? i miss u” you showed up with snacks, oversized hoodie stolen from his closet, and sleep-rumpled hair.

he swiveled in his chair the moment you walked in, headphones around his neck, eyes lighting up like you were the best sound in the room.

“hi,” he grinned softly, reaching to pull you in by your sleeve.

“hi,” you said, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. he smiled into it, hand sliding to your waist like he wanted to keep you there forever.

the studio was cozy — dim lights, warm bass humming, his notebook scribbled with messy genius thoughts. you curled up on the little couch behind him, legs tucked under you, munching on chips while he layered vocals.

every now and then he’d glance back. like he just needed to make sure you were real, still there, still his.

"am i distracting?" you'd ask jokingly. "yes,” he answered immediately. then, softer, “but don’t go.”

you moved to sit beside him instead, cheek resting on his shoulder, watching his fingers fly over the controls. he played a melody, humming under his breath — that low, breathy tone that always melted you.

witthout thinking, your hand found his knee. without thinking, he placed his hand on top of yours, thumb brushing slow circles.

comfortable silence. warmth. a quiet kind of love.

“what do you think?” he asked, pressing play on a rough mix. the bass rolled through the room, gentle and dreamy — just like him.

“i like it,” you hummed. “it's very you." he flushed — that boyish, shy smile he only gave you. "it’s about you,” he murmured, almost embarrassed.

you choked on air. “what?” he shrugged, pretending to focus on the screen again. "everything i make feels like you lately.”

the room went still. your heart? gone. melted. deceased. you slid your arm around his neck, pressing a kiss against his cheek — soft, slow, lingering like a song that doesn’t want to end.

when you pulled away, he whispered, “you can sleep if you want. i’ll wake you when I’m done.”

“are you sure?” he nodded, pecking your forehead. “best inspiration stays close.”

so you curled up again, his hoodie swallowing you, the warmth of his music wrapping around your dreams — and the last thing you felt was his hand sliding over yours again.

just to make sure you didn’t go anywhere.