Cassy

he lets out a groan that could’ve contained stress and tiredness across several generations, and now is released as his eyes flutter close, not quite tired —he wishes he could be that lucky— but itchy in that sleepy way that tells him he’s well over his bedtime.

but, to be fair, could anyone blame him? love makes people a little bit crazy.

“chan-ahhhh,” your voice echoed in the hotel room through his computer, left not too far away from the bed, sitting on the dark desk table there. “muffinnnn,” you teased.

chan knew himself to be a weak man. and a weak man knows no law. or what was it?

“oh noooo,” your voice echoed with that electric sound coming from the computer call. if chan’s eyes were open, he could see you lying on your bed, arms folded beneath your face with one hand holding your face up as you made silly faces at the screen. “baby, your camera’s off.”

a weak man knows no law? no, that can’t be. a something man knows no something. god, english can be such a prick of a language sometimes.

it only came to chan’s head when you started making kissy sounds from your end of the facetime. drowning. a drowning man knows no law. and it only occurred to him because chan would’ve given by now exorbitant amounts of anything, there it be money or else, to be drowning in your kisses as you spoke.

“mmmm,” he hummed all smily, knowing you could hear it from the other end.

“darling,” you mumbled softly, sweet as so many different things that chan would probably get type one diabetes if he tried them all one after the other.

you teased him. “you’re soooo sleepy, mr. chan.” your accusation was met with nothing but silence, so you knew you were right. “you should sleep, honey,” you spoke, softer again.

chan let out tiny whines and moans as he stretched himself.

you hummed, smiling. “mmm, hot boy noises.”

“yes,” he let out before relaxing his body again, now less tense. “your hot boy,” he giggled, the smile rolling off his tone.

there was a bit. two. he turned his head over and looked at the camera.

maybe it was how you were the closest thing he could get to have you there with him, in the flesh, and still, the computer screen could never be enough, or maybe he was just very sleepy indeed, but before he could think too much about it, he let out a soft,

“i miss you so much i get flashbacks of you when i close my eyes.”

and the worst part is that the affirmation wasn’t just said to hear your lovingly cute giggle and the “awww baby” that you let out before, or to see your face all smiley on his computer screen. It was true.

“really?” you asked all giggly, like just the mere thought of your boyfriend thinking of you could turn your heart and your brain into fluffy mush.

it was something like that, to be honest.

“i swear,” he sighed softly, both loving and tired.

“what do you see? Is it like, do you picture me like in dead wife flashbacks, or like, more of a powerpoint of me’s.” you rambled, also starting to feel sleepy.

he snorted, and snuggled into himself, lying on the bed the closest he could be to the computer.

“dead wife?” he let out, “i don’t want my wife to die.”

you cackled, your chest all warm and fuzzy just because he uttered the w-word. “im not dead yet, silly. you don’t know what dead wife flashbacks are?”

maybe chan knew what it was. maybe he’d seen some in a couple of movies here and there. but, it was the perfect excuse to keep hearing your voice and watching you talk as you snuggled against your pillow at the other side of the screen.

he’d be a fool not to take it.

“what are you even talking about.”

you snorted at his tired confussion, and answered the question he was too tired to ask with the necessary questioning tone. “it’s like, in movies, when the main character’s partner dies, usually when they also have a child together, and there’s always like, old videos of usually him recording her while they’re like, on the beach late in the day and the sun is going down and it shines against her and she’s laughing, or something,” you licked your lips, yawning.

he yawned back, the damn thing ever so contagious.

he closed his eyes again, and now tried to imagine you in the way you just described. but, without noticing, he turned around and opened his eyes again, staring at the screen.

“i see my beautiful girl,” he started, his heart softening when he saw your smile on the screen. “she’s all smiley. i see her in a computer screen, lying on her bed,” he chuckled as you started cackling.

“so you just see me in your flashbacks?”

it wasn’t just you. it was you. he didn’t need anything else but you. and he loved you. he loved you, warm, and solid, and equally soft, and tender, and all so… yourself. he’s truly mad for you. and it’s all madness. the one that made him unable to think about all this properly, let alone put it into words —not when there’s so many things left to be said.

he loved you. he’d be nothing but a fool if he didn’t mention the way he was obsessed with every square milimeter of your skin. he wanted to crawl beneath it and cover himself with it like a blanket. he wanted to swim in the ever so shimmery colour of your eyes.

but this was all too much to let out for sleepy, sleepy chan. so he blinked slowly as he looked at you.

“yeah,” he sighed instead, smile still on his face. “no wives killed in the process.”

you let out a soft giggle at his sleepy humour.

“it’s so unfair that your camera’s off,” you then mumbled, your face snuggled in your pillow.

chan shrugged, even though you couldn’t see him. “I turned off the lights, so the camera can’t really see anything. maybe that’s why it turned off.”

“maybe,” you nodded softly.

there’s a beat in which none of you spoke, and then you sighed.

“my love.”

he found himself in awe at how soft the words came out. It tickled his heart, warming it. chan blinked, looking at his computer’s screen.

“i’m so in love with you,” he mumbled. “i miss you so much. two months without seeing you is torture,” he almost whined. “and there’s still a month left.”

“i miss you too. so much.” you smiled sofly, honesty oozing off of it. “i should let you sleep.”

you giggled at chan’s dramatic whine, as you started to drag out the moment you’d need to hang up the call. but you couldn’t help but smile. maybe because you were so in love with your boyfriend he had already drove you mad.

or maybe because of the plane ticket you had, scheduled in a couple days.

but, to be fair, could anyone blame you? love makes people a little bit crazy.

[🔸★💗★🔸]

~kats, who'S POSTING AFTER ALMOST A YEAR?? …yeah, um, sorry, my dudes. this doesn’t mean im back (because writer’s block is still out to fucking catch me and i don’t like making promises i could break) but this short bit came out in a whim and i miss my little tumblr blog corner <3 hope y’all don’t hate me for this one.

catiuskaa, july 2026 ©

You come home late, uniform still on, eyes red. You drop your bag and go straight to the bedroom without looking at him. You don’t even notice he’s sitting there watching you from the kitchen table, jaw tight, foot bouncing. You shut the bedroom door. You lie on your side and pull the blanket over your head.

Chris follows a minute later. No hello. No small talk. Just him filling the doorway, hoodie half off his shoulders, hair a mess. He stands there staring at you under the blanket until his breathing turns rough.

“You think I’m a fucking idiot?” His voice is low, cracked. “You been texting all night. Didn’t answer me once. You come home and turn your back like I’m not even here. Who is he?”

You roll over, bleary. “There’s no one. I’m just tired.”

He laughs once, no humour. “Yeah, tired. Always tired when it’s about me.”

He crosses the room and rips the blanket off. You’re still on your side, curled up. He climbs onto the bed behind you. His chest is hot against your back, his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you in tight until you can’t move.

“Not tonight,” he mutters against your neck. “Not fucking shutting me out tonight.”

“Chris, please…”

He pushes his hips against your ass. You can feel him already hard through his trackies. His other hand slides down and yanks your skirt up. His fingers hook in your underwear, pulls them down just enough to bare you.

“You’re wet,” he growls. “You come home acting like I don’t exist but your cunt still gets wet for me. What’s that, baby? Who’s this for?”

You shake your head. “Nobody. I’m—”

“Shut up.” He pushes the head of his cock against you, not in yet, just rubbing, marking. “Don’t want your excuses. Want you open.”

You start to say his name but he’s already sliding in from behind. One long, hard push until he’s buried. You gasp. He grips your hip tight, keeps you pinned on your side.

“Stay still. Let me fuck this out of you,” he says, voice low and dirty. “You wanna ignore me all day? Fine. But this is mine. This is always mine.”

He starts to move, slow at first, deep. His hand clamps your throat, tilts your head back so his mouth is at your ear.

“You feel that?” he pants. “That’s me. Not him. Not anyone. Me. This hole. This heat. All mine.”

You whimper. He pulls your leg up over his hip, opening you wider, driving in harder. His breathing is ragged.

“Keep running from me and I’ll keep taking it back,” he mutters. “I don’t care if you’re tired. I don’t care if you’re mad. You don’t get to disappear from me. Not in this bed.”

You’re shaking, the angle pushing him deep. He bites your neck, grinds his hips in small rough circles, still spooning you, still holding you like a hostage.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say who you belong to.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

He groans, hips snapping faster. “Yeah you are. This body. This cunt. This sound. All mine. Nobody else gets to hear you like this.”

He reaches over to thumb at your clit with a heavy hand and rough pace, that and his thick cock driving into every part of your walls is causing you to clench around him, your cry muffled into the pillow.

"That's right, cum on this fucking cock like the good girl you are" His fingers tighten on your jaw slightly, not painfully but in a way that anchors you to him.

“Fuck—yeah—clench on me like that. Don’t ever hide from me again,” he spits against your ear. “Gonna fill you up until you remember who you come home to.”

He finishes inside you with a groan, his teeth scraping against your ear lobe.

“You don’t shut me out,” he mutters finally. “You don’t go quiet and expect me to sleep next to an empty body. You hear me?”

You nod against the pillow.

He presses his mouth to your shoulder, still panting, still holding you pinned. “Good. Stay here. Stay in my arms. Stay in my cock. Don’t make me lose you again.”

He keeps you caged there from behind, cock softening inside you, hand on your belly like an anchor.

Lovely gift for one of my loyal followers @lyramundana thanks hun!

Now, not all types of music or songs express a romantic vibe, such as unrelated Belgian techno anthem, Pump Up The Jam. Chan thinks it’s not about the music per se, but rather that one, unanimous concept that englobes music as a whole.

It’s an art form consisting of sound and silence. It makes us feel things, even. Understand some kind of narrative that the composer put out in its melody, there it be how Vivaldi’s Four Seasons had four separate scenes for each movement, each depicting intricate pictures of how the composer viewed said season, or how Justin Bieber apologized to everyone and their mother —attention, Sorry was mentioned— for something this author hasn’t investigated. Or rather, well. Clocked, he’d say.

Nevertheless, feelings. Happy, sad, angry. It can calm us down and make us feel anxious. Chan knows this because he sat on the TV remote while watching a particular scene in Jaws, accidentally muting it, and the movie stopped being scary for a good three to five seconds, until his roommate Jeongin found the remote again.

Music speaks in the language of emotion. It bypasses logic, slips past defences, and nestles directly into the heart. It understands what plain words so often fail to express. It knows how to ache, how to tremble, how to yearn. It makes us able to feel just about anything, when in some cases, we wouldn’t even know where to begin. Even silence between notes can be electric, if it’s well played. It’s the only art form that exists purely in time, unfolding second by second.

Isn’t that romantic? How different sounds all mean and change something within each person that gets to hear? How the rhythm travels down from the tips of one’s toes up to one’s head and shoulders and makes us —at least the ones brave enough to go out and do it— want to dance our hearts out, even if most of us have no idea how?

He blinks, still half lost in thought, when you start giggling in cheeky excitement, having just remembered something Chan’s waiting to find out what it is. Or rather, what it’ll sound like.

“You haven’t taken out your laptop yet, so you know what time it is,” you say with a kind of chuckle that means fun, and Chris knows, feeling his cheeks grow hot with it. “It’s Britney, bitch,” you smirk.

You stand from the couch and leave his side, kneeling in front of the table that remains to the right of where he’s still sitting, and start fidgeting with the vinyl player, trying to turn it on.

A part of him doesn’t miss how the side of his thigh that wasn’t covered by the fabric of his shorts brushes against your thigh. A vague thought crosses his mind, something about how the short skirt you’re wearing looks good on you —even if good wasn’t the first word that came to mind, but thinking of it as something that tops ‘good’ or ‘pretty’ makes him feel a certain type of way, one that he keeps discarding into the back of his mind, so he settles—, but he makes it a point to barely acknowledge it, and instead fixes his position to take up more space from the couch, almost lying down, comfortable.

“What are you doing,” he doesn’t ask, but giggle. It’s summer, and he usually runs hot, but he misses the warmth you brought to the side of his leg, and notices the way your skirt rides barely an inch up your thigh because of how you kneel in front of the record player. He also tries not to acknowledge those thoughts either.

“Trust me on this one!” You smile, taking out a small vinyl from the plastic bag you had brought with you, grinning as you take it out of the plastic cover and softly settle it in his turntable. “You need to listen to this, it’s really good.”

Hell, some people even play music during sex. But Chan isn’t thinking about that when you smile and turn on the vinyl player in his studio apartment. Because thinking about sex while you’re in his home would be… weird… right? Too much for him. Friends. Friendly friends, you two are. No other… funny business. So he shakes his head, unconsciously hoping the thought flows out of it through one of his ears.

“Who’s this?” Chris smiles, leaning his head on his hand, his arm resting on the armrest of the couch.

“Lisa Ono. My wife, basically,” you let out in a mumble, and softly watch as the needle touches and starts scratching the spinning vinyl.

And as the music starts to play and the vinyl’s recording fills the apartment, a part of Chan agrees that there’s a reason he could be biased as to why he thinks music is inherently romantic. And that reason is linked to the fact that lately, he’s been listening to bossa nova a lot.

Bossa nova music, with its soft, sophisticated vocal rhythms and improvisations, and overall collection of lyrics, has to be one of the most romantic-inducing styles Chris has listened to. Ever, he might add.

No one yearns quite like they do in bossa nova.

‘It’s a fact,’ Chan reckons you’d say, followed by ‘and facts don’t care about your feelings,’ paired with a giggle. And he believes it as well. Lyrics that Chan has had to pass through a translator, lyrics he has found in many different songs —mostly ones that he has found through you and that have still stuck with him.

Examples almost fall from his mouth like a raging waterfall, but he picks one from the flood to spare the reader from wasting their time. When the singer Isadora sang ‘but it’s only the rain when it falls the one who kisses my lips,” what —if anything— could ever possibly compare to that?

There’s also something to be said about the way bossa nova gets hold of him, somewhat different from the way other music styles get to make him dance. It’s as if bossa nova softly asks for his hand, pulls him up gently from his sofa, and, accompanied by the sound of jazzy-like chords played by an acoustic guitar, teaches him how to sway his body to the rhythm.

What could be said is different, and as an answer, he finds nothing, because Chan’s brain seems to turn off the moment it isn’t the music asking him to dance, but you.

“C’mon, Chrissy,” you tease with that nickname you loved to use, only because of his mocked annoyance at it.

“Nah, nah,” Shaking his head, he chuckles, “floor’s all yours,” he says, shrugging you off by taking a sip from the canned beer you brought.

You side-eye him, letting out a playful ‘boo’ as you grin, and start butchering the Portuguese lyrics as one of the songs plays from the recording.

“Where did you even get this from?” Chris asks with a big smile, dimples at full display.

“I thrifted it,” you say with a proud tone as you sway your body to the music. “Lisa Ono Greatest Hits,” you let out with a smile, “an awesome find, honestly.”

If either one of you is aware that Chan’s eyes are locked onto your figure as you sway your body to the music, while seemingly attempting to summon demons with the way you’re singing the foreign lyrics to the song that’s currently playing, neither you nor he makes a comment about it. He takes a large swig of his beer, finishing it. Yours is still half full on the coffee table, watching you have fun, but not as intently as Chan.

Chris really enjoys when you invade his studio apartment like this. Ever since his roommate Jeongin found a part-time job that was able to deal with a couple of changes here and there so it’d fit with his classes’ timetable, the apartment had started to feel a bit empty in the evenings. As a producer, although Chan didn’t dislike working in the booth, which he could very well do at home, he probably would do so out of comfort. So, before, his roommate’s company had been totally welcomed, and even favoured over being alone most of the time.

He doubts you do it consciously. Matter of fact, it’s something Chan finds very endearing about you, because you manage to bring comfort and overall fun just by randomly popping up in his apartment anytime.

“You’re here?” He had asked in a gingerly surprised tone when he opened the door just this afternoon and found you at the other side of the threshold.

You only smiled, shrugging, which made it so that the cans of beer clanked against each other in the plastic bag you had brought with you.

“You said you were bored, right?” You had chuckled. “You’d do the same if I asked.”

It was so simple when you put it like that, and honestly, it disarmed him, weakening his little heart. It was the way you carried yourself from his door to his big couch, “best couch,” you’d mumble in comfort every time you let yourself fall limp to it, which always made Chan chuckle. The way you handed him the can of beer you had bought in a convenience store on the way here, opening it for him. The way you sometimes bought fruit because, as you put it, you ‘remembered he had mentioned craving it’. The way that when he was with his head deep into the computer, headphones so thick he could mostly only listen to his thoughts, aside from the loud music he was working on, and you’d suddenly hand him an apple slice, feeding him. The way you kept him company when he’d rest his headphones on his neck, and intently listened to whatever story he had about work, or talked about anything, really.

It was all so simple that maybe someone else would’ve brushed it off, but not Chris. When he says ‘hi,’ you hear ‘come over,’ and he truly believes there won’t ever be a moment where he doesn’t feel his heart kick its imaginary little legs whenever you’re the one behind the door.

He wasn’t one to ask for that sort of comfort, but Chan had to admit it felt… good. The first word he thought to describe it was otherworldly, but he feels too shy to even think of it that way. It was like you said, “you’d do it too if I asked.” You never did, but you both knew you weren’t wrong about it.

“What’s this song called?” Chan asks softly, grabbing his phone.

“Mhh?” You hum, distracted.

“I wanna have a look at the lyrics,” he sighs, sinking into the couch in a deep kind of comfort, lulled into it by the warmth summer reeks into his apartment, even with some of the windows open.

You stopped dancing, letting out a short “oh” pass your lips with a small grin. “Hold on, there’s a booklet inside the cover. Pretty sure they’re translated there.”

The moment when your fingers brush, when the plastic feeling of the paper moves from your hands to his, something inside him buzzes, but interrupting it and saving him from paying it any attention, your phone rings.

He’s about to tease you for it. Maybe let out a comment about how surprising it is that you don’t have your phone on silent for once. But, for some reason, it all dissolves in his tongue like a piece of candy.

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t seen you look so giddy before, when you pick up the phone. Maybe it's because your voice turns soft when you reply, a simple ‘hi’ that a part of him wishes was meant to him. Which is ridiculous, because he has you quite literally in front of him. But when you smile and head into the less noisy kitchen, where the music coming from the turntable doesn’t reverberate in every corner, he hears your soft voice let out a sheepish, tender, ‘What’s up, baby?’

His heart stills, and if it were something more human-like, something within him tells him it’d frown. If it were dog-like —or rather wolf-like, you’d surely tease— its ears would have perked up.

“Baby?”

It’s like a piece of candy because your tone is just… sweet. Too sweet. He isn’t sure he’s ever heard you talk like that before. Maybe to Berry, when you’d FaceTime him and say nonsense through the phone, or when you’d tag along on a trip to the beach and stay at his parents’ place for the day.

But on the other side of the line isn’t a dog. You’re speaking like that to someone. Someone else.

He’s surprised when he realises he’s unconsciously trying to listen to the conversation you’re having. The music doesn’t allow him to, and neither does he move to find out more, because he’s… stunned.

You’ve been friends for years now. He knows you, maybe not as much as you know him, honestly, but he knows you. He knows he does. Even friends he has that you haven’t met know about you, not entirely on purpose, but because Chris can’t help but mention your name whenever something reminds him of you. Casually, offhandedly, but the fact remains —a part of him always has you in his mind.

He’s still stunned when you come out of the kitchen, all smiles, your eyes creased because of it, barely there. Even in his stupor, Chris can’t help but think you look so pretty when you smile like that.

“Chan, sorry, I have to leave,” you let out, excitement rolling off your tongue. Chan, you said. Not baby.

He clears his throat. What’s gotten over him suddenly?

“Did something happen?” He blinks, moving to sit on the couch with his feet planted on the floor. Ready to leave with you if you just uttered the word.

You don’t. Instead, you shake your head sideways. “No, no, it’s all good. I’ll call you, though.”

It happens before his very own eyes. Fast, in what feels like blinks, sort of like the vignettes of an old censored movie with scenes badly cut out. Like there are blank spaces in the way. One second you’re dancing, the next you’re all suns and giggles in the kitchen, then you’re in front of his door, putting your shoes back on.

“What about the vinyl?”

Chris almost curses out loud at the most stupid question he could’ve asked, from the myriad of choices he had, going from where? to why?, and even though not even his heart would dare to let it out, can I come with? also crosses his head.

You shrug his question off just as it deserves, because, Chan thinks again, it’s stupid. You don’t even look at him when you swat it off with a flick of your hand.

“I’ll just come back for it. Keep it safe!”

And after a loud bang of the door shutting close behind you, the only thing that keeps him from being completely alone is the suave voice of Lisa Ono, still echoing inside the room.

[🔶 ★ 🎵 ★ 🔶]

Jeongin is used to finding Chris sitting on the couch when he arrives home.

Working in a dry cleaner has never been his first thought —not even his second, actually—, but for a part-time job, washing and ironing clothes for a couple of hours —in between other things—, isn’t that bad when all that he wants is to have something to bring back home at the end of the month.

The owner offered flexible hours for students like him who wanted to start saving up. As she told Jeongin, her grandson was about to move to start college, and she figured that she could still use some young hands and arms around. Jeongin liked her very much.

And so, it has become a routine, coming back home sore, smelling of ironed clothes and cleaning chemicals after being kindly bossed around by a woman in her late 60s, and finding Chris slouched with his laptop on his legs and thick headphones on, no matter the time.

Sometimes you’re there, too. Either watching something on the TV or scrolling on your phone while Chan’s head rested on your thigh as he stared into his laptop, or preparing dinner for the both of them. You usually didn’t stay long after Jeongin arrived, but he didn’t mind having you around.

Nevertheless, today —or, well, tonight—, Jeongin can tell something’s different the moment he steps out of the elevator and stands in front of the door. Tonight, there’s music coming out from the thin space between the door and its hinges. Music he knows sounds nothing like the style Chris usually works with.

When he opens the door and leaves his shoes on the rack in the small entrance, it stops being a wandering feeling to a full-on fact. There has to be something different, because, for the first time in months, Jeongin doesn’t find Chan working on his computer.

He’s sitting on the couch like he doesn’t know where he is, elbows resting over his knees like in a beat he’ll stand up and dash somewhere. He looks down at the floor with a puzzled, lost expression while he fidgets with a can of beer.

Jeongin pushes his glasses in a sort of tic.

“Yo, DJ,” he says in the low, comfortable tone he always teases Chris with. “I’m gonna make pack ramen. Want one?” He asks, leaning on the kitchen’s doorframe as he looks at him, waiting for an answer. When Chan replies with an absentminded nod of his head, Jeongin can’t help but feel a bit worried while he heats up the water and prepares the plates.

As soon as they’re ready, Jeongin lets out a groan when he takes a seat on the couch next to his roommate. He leaves the plate of ramen in front of the older man, settling the chopsticks on the table next to it.

Only when he sits down, he notices that next to the empty can of beer Chan had been fidgeting with lies another can of beer that his roommate hasn’t touched.

“Was noona here?” He asks, even though he knows. There’s lipstick on the side of the can, and Chris would have texted him if he had invited over someone he didn’t know. He’s nice like that.

With that comment, Chan blinks, and finally reacts. 

“Oh, uh, yeah.” He mumbles, licking his lips, grabbing the chopsticks and the plate of ramen and starting to eat, slowly. “Thanks,” he lets out lowly, appreciating the gesture.

Jeongin shrugs, crossing his legs as he sits comfortably on the couch. “Why d’you sound off though,” he mumbles with his mouth full of hot pack ramen noodles.

It’s not properly formed as a question, so maybe, just maybe, Chris can ignore it and go on with this weird night he’s having. But, maybe because he had made him dinner, he turns to face Jeongin and attempts to make sense of what had happened barely half an hour before the younger one arrived.

At this retelling of events, Jeongin just blinks. He takes his glasses off and hangs them on the neck of his shirt while he slurps the last bits of his plate and shrugs.

“Just… left, huh?” He mumbles, chewing on the ramen still in his mouth.

Chan nods.

Jeongin mulls it slowly in his brain, and he stands up to leave the plate inside the dishwasher. He comes back to the living room and turns to the vinyl player, not recognising the record in it. 

And then, with the same tranquil tone as one who asks what his plans are going to be for tomorrow, Jeongin drops a sentence that hits Chan as hard as if he were the floor and his roommate a young Korean version of Kurt Cobain, slapping him with a guitar. 

“Didn’t she mention someone a few days ago?” The younger one lets out in a casual tone, fidgeting with the turntable.

There’s some sort of pause in the air that Chan doesn’t recognise, and it is possibly because he hasn’t felt like this before. 

“Someone?” 

Jeongin nods, grabbing his glasses from where he had hung them on the neck of his shirt and mindlessly starting to clean them with it. 

“Mhh,” he hums. “Maybe that’s who called her.” 

His stare is blank and somewhat dull as the words Jeongin mumbles sink deep into his brain. He blinks. Once, maybe twice. He doesn’t feel Jeongin’s gaze studying him with a sleepy, silent concentration. 

“Oh,” he mumbles, and softly moves the needle of the vinyl player back. “So you’re jealous.” 

Jeongin presses a small lever, and the needle lowers and scratches the recording once more.  Lisa Ono Greatest Hits fills the apartment again, only quieter this time, because with a soft sigh and a ‘night, hyung,’ Jeongin heads off to bed. If he had said something else, Chris hadn’t heard it.

There’s an indefinite amount of time in which he remains sitting on the couch in the same still position. It’s like there’s a bit of ramen stuck to the back of his throat, but he doesn’t even attempt to clear it. 

Maybe it’s because a part of him knows that the awkward feeling there has nothing to do with food. 

…Jealous?

[🔶 ★ 🎵 ★ 🔶]

“Hey,” you greet him with a cheerful smile. 

He smiles at you softly when you see him and get closer. No matter how hard he tries, his heart skips a beat when you link your hands behind his head and pull him slightly downwards for a hug. 

It’s been a week since Jeongin said that what was happening to him was that he was jealous. It’s been a week since he saw you before you dashed out of his apartment like someone had promised you an exorbitant amount of money. And, ultimately, it’s been a week since Chan hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you in a different way than usual.

You’d called less than five minutes ago and, filled with the boredom of not having anything planned for a lovely summer afternoon, you’d asked Chris to wait for you. 

And so, there he was, heading into a supermarket to do groceries. With you. An action so incredibly mundane that it's definitely not making his heart giddy. Not one bit. 

As you take one of the carts and step with him into the supermarket, Chris doesn’t know what to do with himself. The barrier that had existed for so long between his brain and the back of his head —to which he sent all of those thoughts he hadn’t previously acknowledged— seems to have disappeared, because as he looks at you, he has to force his hands into the pockets of his grey jeans. He cracks his knuckles inside them, because he can’t, by any means, follow what his heart is screaming at him to do. 

Friends don’t hold hands like that, he repeats over and over in his head. But, sadly for him, his heart doesn’t give a fuck. 

Your eyes look soft as they stare at him, but not softer than your lips. He barely remembers what you just asked. Oh, God, he’s ruined. He has known for a while now, hasn’t he? It's always been you, and will only ever be you. And he has tried so hard for it not to be you, but also didn't try at all, because the first time you touched him you left your handprint on his heart and a part of him always knew it was permanent. 

But now, he’s not blind. And the sheer weight of it gnaws at his chest, because a heart is a heavy burden, although maybe not as heavy as how his feet feel when, after he sends you a text with the grocery list, he forces himself to look for different items than you. 

“C’mon, Chris,” he whispers to himself. “Get your shit together.”

As he’s trying to find that one brand of cream cheese that his buddy Changbin at the gym recommended, his phone buzzes. 

innie★彡: hyung i’m staying over at a friends to finish a project

innie★彡: don’t overwork urself -_- 

He can’t help but let out a soft chuckle, and after he replies and looks up from his phone, he finds what he has been looking for. 

When he turns his head and looks at the end of the hall and finds you, he finds what his heart has been screaming at him to look at. 

And now he can’t even stop himself from looking. Not when, even if he hasn’t left your sight for maybe two or three minutes, you smile at him like he has placed the stars on the night sky just for you. 

It suddenly dawns on him, how beautiful you are. He wonders who or what you are thinking of, and feels his heartbeat skip when he imagines you’re smiling for him, because of him. Every part of your being seems to him like a song he has listened to a million times, because he knows you, and yet he can’t stop playing the song, enticed by its sound. Chris thinks it’s crazy that he has never let himself reel in the thought of you before, or how your laughter truly sounds like music to his ears. 

The walk back to his apartment is both exhilarating and dreadful. He dies and comes back to life every time your knuckles brush his. He’s so entranced by how full his heart is that Chris can’t help but let out a sigh as you keep going on about something that happened with one of your friends that he is trying his best to pay attention to. 

But the one thing he wants to do most is hold your hand, and he doesn’t. And his heart holds so much feeling, and he just wastes it, this feeling of his. Because he can’t hold your hand as you walk by his side. Because he can’t kiss you when you’re doing groceries together. Because you’re his friend, and nothing else. 

So Chris dreads it, the walk back home. Because the moment he steps inside, you follow, and with a chuckle, you fall limp onto his couch. “Best couch,” he mouths as he puts away the groceries, just at the same time you say it. 

He might not know you the same way you know him, but he loves everything he knows. And it’s eating him from the inside, that simple word. His heart is pushing it into his throat every time you speak, giggle, or look at him. 

“Oh, the vinyl!” You let out suddenly, and stand up, as if looking for it. “Where’d you put it?” 

In my room, he doesn’t say. I like to read the booklet at night. My favourite song is the fourth one, even if I can’t pronounce the title in its original language. When I read the translated lyrics, and when I hear the song, as the artist sings ‘kiss me, kiss me a lot, as if tonight were the last time,’ I can’t help but wonder if you’d let me.

And he’s… done. He’s done pretending or not acknowledging any of this any more. 

So when he steps into his room to give you back the vinyl, and then turns and finds you on the doorstep, waiting, something inside him breaks. 

You must see it in his face, because before he can even let out a word, your hands brush his when you take back the music record. 

“Chris?” 

His heart is very little and he doesn’t want it to break. Now, wearing it on his sleeve, Chan sighs again. Maybe he thinks music is romantic because he always listens to music with you. 

But then, as he looks into your eyes, suddenly, Chan can’t take it anymore. He wants more, more than just looks and brushes of hands and legs. He wants to taste your lips, and your neck, and everything. He wants to cradle your face with one hand and hold you close by slithering his other hand to your waist, and feel the electricity of love rush through him as he has heard and sometimes even written in the myriad of songs he has heard in his life. He wants to pull you in and never let go.

There are too many thoughts inside his head. Maybe that’s why he leans down and, in a swift move driven by the sight of you alone, he presses his lips to yours. 

Just then, the voices dim, and eventually, they disappear —or so he’s led to believe, because he can’t hear them anymore. Chris is now able to understand just why some people say silence is also music. 

And he’s home. He’s home. And he can’t explain it, but it makes so much sense. His name doesn’t start with a Y, but he wants you to call him yours. He’s drowning in it and he kisses you even deeper, softer, knowing he’ll have to apologize anyways, because now he has kissed you, and yet you’ve ruined him even more, because there hasn’t been a moment in this past week, and even longer, in which he hasn’t thought about kissing you just like this. And he’s kissing you now, knowing there won’t be another chance for him. 

He pulls away because you haven’t moved. Because now he has to say he’s sorry for doing that, although he knows he’ll go to bed and dream about it, keeping it to himself forever. 

But before he even thinks of the words he has to say, you let the vinyl fall to the floor and you pull him back in by the neck of his shirt. 

Oh. Oh. 

This is your first kiss.

He’s known you for years and this is the first time he’s known your mouth, and Chris can’t help but think it’s outrageous. You should've been kissing the very first moment you met. You should've been kissing for days, for months, for years. 

You let him pin you against the casing of the door, and his knees almost go weak. 

“We should…” You pant in between kisses. “Should talk about this.”

Although he hears your voice, his brain, dizzy with how your lips taste, barely acknowledges that you’re speaking. Not when he’s kissing you again. Kissing you properly, kissing you how you deserve to be kissed, how he has been yearning to kiss you. Not when his hands can finally roam from your waist to your hips, and then below your shirt. 

You’re letting out sounds that make him ravenous. 

“We should,” he agrees against your skin, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses from your jaw to your collarbone. 

Chris feels like a snowball rolling down the top of a mountain. His greed takes control of him, and he doesn’t care if it’ll kill him, not if it’s your mouth that takes his life. Hell, he’ll give it to you willingly, knowing he’d die in your arms. His lust powers him. 

“Stop me,” he lets out breathlessly. 

Before he realises, he’s on his knees. He doesn’t acknowledge if one goes before the other, but if it were the case, he’d marry you in a heartbeat. Matter of fact, he can hear said heartbeat ringing in his ears, the unstable beat marking the path his hands make underneath your shirt, now able to go through every part of your body he didn’t know before. 

His hands move to your thighs, and there’s this moment in which he, as an atheist, realises this is how heaven must feel like.

Manicured nails travel from his hair, scratching his scalp in a way that threatens his sanity, to his jaw, stroking his cheek with the soft touch of a thumb. He leaves a soft kiss on your hip, and looks up at you. 

“I… don’t want to,” he can see the way your throat bobs up and down when you swallow dry. “Don’t want to stop, I mean,” you blush. 

For the first time in his life, as he looks from below and into your eyes, Chris feels like he’s about to beg. 

Never in his life has he needed to breathe in as slowly as he does now, which does nothing to his racing heart, and only makes it so that the scent of your perfume travels deep into his lungs. He wants to drown in it. 

“Gonna talk about it later, mhh?” He lets out over your middle, his lips brushing against your skin. 

Give me five minutes. Or five hours, he thinks, reeling in the fact that he can now touch you like this, his hands greedily almost kneading as they trail paths on your thighs. Maybe then we can talk.

You nod, swallowing dry, letting out something between a hum and a whine that has Chris’ mind reeling, and he feels his cock twitch at the thought of just how much louder he can make you sing.

“Up we go,” he groans with a smirk when you let out a tiny yelp, his hand grabbing your thighs and holding you tightly against him, feeling your hands settle around his neck. Both of you giggle when he lets you fall onto his bed, him following right behind.

Never do his hands stop from roaming, touching and grabbing every square inch of skin they can access. The moment he settles on top of you, he sits down on his heels, admiring something he has only ever dreamed of before.

“Gonna take this off now.” His tone dims as his hands move and unzip that sin of a denim miniskirt —more like denim belt, taking in its short length— that you’re wearing. He tongues his cheek at the sight, his hands reaching for his own clothes, everything in him urging him to just tear them off.

“Let me,” you move quickly, settling your hands above his, grabbing the hem of his black tank top. He can feel the ghost of your nails on the skin that peeks from below the garment the moment you move your hands up, and he has to use all of his willpower not to moan.

You successfully take it off of him, and the way your eyes trail him up and down like he’s your next meal has his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows dry. 

Down travels his blood, and he does feel dizzy with need as your hands now find the buckle of his belt, and you undo it with ease. 

The belt slips loose, and in one impatient motion he shoves it aside, his mouth already crashing back onto yours. There’s nothing careful about him now, only heat and hunger as his hands grip your thighs, spreading you open beneath him.

His eyes are dark as he, without any other thought in his mind, dives right in. Your back arches just as quickly as how your hands tangle in his hair, and Chris makes out with your  cunt just like he had denied himself from wanting before. 

It doesn’t take long before you move him away, your eyes as dark as his, cheeks red and chest heaving. 

“C-chris, I need you,” you whine. 

At this, he licks his lips, coated with your essence. You’re the sweetest lip gloss he has ever worn before. 

He’s made you sing. Now, as his lips take yours again, making you able to taste yourself on his tongue, Chan is going to make sure you’ll scream. 

He slides inside with little difficulty, letting out a moan against your neck. “F-fuck, pretty,” he mumbles, kissing you there. “So good to me. Such a sweet pussy, mhh?” His teeth scratch your skin, and he reels in the whimper you let out, how you clench around him. “Gonna make you feel s’good, mhh?”

“C-chris,” you whine, failing to roll your hips in an angle that suffices your hunger for him. 

Biting the shell of your ear, he lets out a low chuckle. 

“Needy, huh?” 

He sets a slow pace that quickly succumbs to just how good you feel, growing faster, sharper. The room is filled with moans and pants and sex, and some part of him still can’t believe he isn’t dreaming. 

“Hear that, pretty?” He gasps, speeding up as he gets closer. “Those sticky sweet sounds, mhh? That’s all you. This pretty pussy sings for me, doesn’t it?” 

Your moans grow louder, his fingers gripping your hips in an almost bruising hold, and you love it. 

“Y-yes!” You whine, eyes closed out in bliss. “For y-you!” 

That sends Chris into oblivion. Using the very last of his energy, he moans, and you join not so far behind. He keeps going, helping you ride out your orgasm until he feels too overstimulated to continue. 

When he sighs into your neck, falling limp next to you, he’s floating. 

You smooth a hand over his damp hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, and he hums at the touch like it’s the only thing tethering him back to earth. His chest still heaves, pressed tight to yours, and for a while, neither of you moves.

Only when the stickiness of your sweat and other fluids catches up to both of you does he stand up —not before pressing a kiss to your temple— and come back with a damp cloth to clean you up. 

Eventually, he lies back down next to you, pressing a lazy kiss to your collarbone before reaching for the blanket at the edge of the bed. He drapes it over you both, pulling you against his chest. His thumb rubs circles into your hip, slow and absent, until his breathing evens out.

It’s not until late into the next morning, when your phone buzzes and you pick up, that it happens again. 

“Baby!” You squeal in glee. “Yeah, no, he’s here.” Something in Chris dings, and he frowns softly at you in confusion, mouthing, ‘who is it?’

“Hold on, baby,” you smile, and turn to him. “It’s your sister. I’m helping her out with a song, doing some adlibs.” You turn back and look at the floor, while he now hears his sister’s distinctive accent as she very loudly argues about something. 

“What? You haven’t shown it to him? Oh, no, baby, that’s okay. I haven’t played the demo out loud…” 

He blinks as you stand up. The conversation you’re having turns to white noise at the slow realisation that he had been jealous of the nickname you had very affectionately bestowed upon his sister. 

It’s hard to believe Chris expected something like this could’ve happened. Because he didn’t. He had completely forgotten about the situation, actually, when he saw just how good the hickeys he left last night now look on your neck. But now, he’s just as surprised as this author, who doesn’t really know how to cope with this discovery. Well. So…. What has Chan learned after all? Music may or may not be inherently romantic. 

“She says hi, by the way,” you snicker as you come back to his side, cuddling next to him on his couch. 

But as Lisa Ono Greatest Hits plays in the background, slowly, Chris thinks that maybe everything is rather much more like jazz. 

It’s the best when you improvise. 

[🔶 ★ 🎵 ★ 🔶]

~kats, who has actually just rickrolled each and every one of you while y'all read this fluffy filth, mwhahahaha

catiuskaa, august 2025 ©

Small talk is a curse made by the devil. He, along with his slightly anxious tendencies when it comes to speaking —not just in a general sense, but rather in what involves unveiling and expressing one’s thoughts and feelings—, he just… um, Jeongin… well.

He’s not the kind of person who possesses that mysterious ability to bewitch people with small talk. Which, he believes, is probably why he hates it. If he thinks about it really hard, he only ever mentions the weather, maybe traffic if he has driven anywhere recently, and then patiently waits for the other person to make some kind of comment for him to smile at.

It’s been quite a while since you two started being paired up together as “the losers who had to walk back home,” a title coined thanks to a tipsy Jisung and a mean-spirited Seungmin. By that time, he had only known you as “Felix’s and Hyunjin’s friend,” and that was about it. And at first, he was a bit timid about walking alone with you after group hangouts, because, on a normal basis, Jeongin never really knew what to say. Now, imagine the situation with someone he isn’t even close to.

Yeah. Terrifying.

But somehow, you always had something hidden, perhaps powered by the soju everyone had shared minutes ago, or just powered by sheer will to never stay in silence for longer than a minute.

“What’s your take on pineapple on pizza?” You had asked him one of your first nights walking back together. “Watch out, because there is a right answer,” you had grinned, smiling in what he didn’t fully know if it was cheekiness or sheepishness, your cheeks rosy from the alcohol you’d had before.

Ever since then, as he so gratefully has discovered, your gingerly weird, odd, and unconventional small talk, in between other synonyms of said words, beats his. He’s not going to say out loud, because he knows you’d never let him forget it until you’d eventually forget it yourself —and he won’t risk it just in case that doesn’t happen—, but thanks to the fact that you two have to head toward the same direction when leaving Changbin’s and Hyunjin’s shared apartment, considering that almost every night ends there for everyone, after the rest of the gang hop in the same bus together, it’s not something strange anymore.

Damn the bus lines for not heading your way so late at night, but in the end, what is it, twenty minutes, give or take? Sometimes, if he has had something to drink, it feels slower.

But much to his amusement —even if he likes to pretend otherwise, for the sake of entertainment—, today, the one who is a little bit drunk is you.

And, mind you, it shows.

“No, ‘cause watch me be so normal about this,” you frown at your phone, slurring your words slightly, as you keep mumbling angrily —angily? What’s the adverb for angy?— about something he’s lost the plot to, but he’s not crazy enough to ask you to repeat yourself.

“Just look at ‘em. Ugh.”

Your arm bumps against his as you, in rough, yet somewhat technical terms, shove your phone towards him to see. For some bamboozling reason, though, Jeongin can’t make out whoever it is on the screen. Blaming it to the much rather convenient fact that he’s wearing his glasses on his head, and not to the fact that your ability to hold your arm still is very much not present in this very moment, you click your tongue and stop trying, frowning back at your screen again.

“Six years together. Yeah, isn’t that great,” you ask to no one in particular.

Or maybe it wasn’t even a question, honestly. Jeongin has fallen into listener mode, and still, he has no clue what tonight’s podcast is about. But finally, your not-sober brain comes up with an explanation for why you’ve been highly cranky since you both left the rest of the group at their respective bus stop, while looking at your phone for the last two to five minutes.

“It’s just that, sure, I’m happy for them, but why does everybody get to have someone? As in… how?”

Jeongin blinks. Maybe he’s done it one eye after the other, but he’s not going to entertain the idea —at least not now. The thing is, he’s not much for commentary when it’s clear you’re venting —he’s discovered it happens easily when you’ve had your fun drinking—, but in his tipsy state, he parts his lips softly.

“Sounds like you’re jealous.”

He blinks again, missing the blurry, tipsy figure in the corner of his eye after a few steps. His brain buzzes, because you’re suddenly not there, and he turns around, facing you.

“And the crowd has… stopped walking?”

He lets out a chuckle, confused in some sort of soft sense. He steps back towards you, nudging you gently with his elbow.

“Please tell me you’re not going to puke like last week.”

There’s a gentle, proud feeling in his chest when his joke makes you chuckle. But still, you shrug your shoulders, like there’s a dark cloud over your little head, and even though it’s still very much summer, Jeongin’s tiny heart wishes he could get an umbrella for your sorrows.

“I just… I always feel like I’m hopeless and awkward and desperate for love, and I still never get it,” you sigh, lips pressed into a thin line in a sort of pout.

Jeongin doesn’t like to comment as you speak because he’s usually too focused on your expressiveness. Then —as in, twenty seconds ago—, you had been drunkenly pissed off about whatever post he hadn’t seen properly about your friends dating —or whatever, truly, because he’s still as lost as a goose in a hailstorm— but now, even if you were frowning slightly, your eyes were fixed on the floor, and you were nibbling on your lower lip.

Cute. Even if now you’re actually sulking, he can’t help but think that.

He nudges you again softly. He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t believe there’s anything clever for him to say. At his warmth now closer against you, you blink, sighing.

“Sorry. Way to ruin the night.”

Jeongin fidgets with his fingers as he keeps them warm in his jacket’s pockets, cracking them as he shakes his head no.

“Better to say it out loud,” he states in what he can only hope sounds like a calm, comforting tone. “You know I don’t mind.”

He doesn’t miss how you bite the inside of your cheek before speaking again. But, strangely so, you don’t, just yet.

Instead, you hold the air in your lungs for a couple of seconds, and then sigh, looking at the floor. Whatever it is that you want to say right now, the right words seem to be escaping you. Jeongin recognises the feeling, and he merely watches you blink as your eyes lock on a small pebble in the middle of the pavement, and you move to go fetch it, softly starting to kick it while you continue walking back home again.

Your hands move to the pockets of your jeans, and unconsciously, he does that same thing too, zipping up the pockets of his jacket, where his hands have been seconds ago.

There’s a distinct sound every time your shoe hits the pebble, and both of you watch it as it sort of bounces on the sidewalk. Not profound enough to be described with a thud. It’s definitely not pluck, for there’s no water involved. He doesn’t know that many onomatopoeia —in fact, he’s surprised enough that he can spell that word correctly—, but the other one he knows, clack, seems to him something too metallic. He settles in that last one for lack of a better description.

Jeongin lets the jacket fall from his shoulders, the fabric now hanging low on his arms alone, his forearms out for the mosquitoes’ enjoyment. Summer nights are getting warmer as the days go by, and he’s starting to notice it. What he also notices, and it’s something that makes him chuckle softly, it’s that even when you seem to be lost in thought, there’s never just silence with you.

Clack, clack, clack…

“Is this like one of those videos where you start kicking a rock until it ends up being round?” He smiles lightly, taking his glasses from his hair and hanging them on the neck of his shirt.

Watching your frown grow slightly, he tries to hold his laugh back.

“I thought Felix was the one who spent the most time on his phone?” You mumble with a teasing smile.

That does get the laugh out of him. “Right. But guess who he sends the stupid videos to.”

You turn your head to face him, your smile slightly incredulous.

“You? Really?”

“No. Channie-hyung. But he’s got his phone on such a loud volume at the gym, it’s almost like I’m watching them too.”

As you snort at his dramatic expression, a small part of Jeongin’s brain acknowledges that he really enjoys making you laugh. Sadly, neither does he realise that in this very moment, nor does your laugh last too long.

Clack, clack, clack…

“Big sigh,” you let out in a murmur, following up with said big sigh.

“What for?”

Clack, clack, clack…

The question makes you fidget with your nails, and you start to look around, trying to find something distracting enough on the view of the street before you, so that maybe you wouldn’t find the words to voice your thoughts.

Unfortunately, the street, which had gone still, did absolutely nothing to help you. Storefronts stand dark, their metal grates pulled low and locked with rusty chains. The neon signs off, leaving only the old, yellow-stained wash of the streetlamps to pool on the sidewalk. The air warm and gingerly heavy, pressing close, filled with the lingering scent of mosquito repellent —although somewhere in your brain, you know that has to be you.

Everything felt paused, like the city was slowly falling asleep. Or rather, like every piece of the street —from the streetlamp, to the manhole cover, and even the moth that was surely going to get burnt— wants you to let it all out.

“I don’t know,” you say, bending down while you keep walking, picking up your pebble to inspect it up close.

Truthfully, it’s the best start you can come up with, your voice a little weaker than what Jeongin’s used to listening to, your words coming out a bit tangled, like the alcohol is helping you to not filter them anymore.

“I just feel like… I missed something. Like everyone else got some kind of guidebook on how to… find someone to be in love with, or whatever. And I just… I didn’t.”

You let out a breathy laugh, more of an exhale than anything, like you’re trying to brush it off but can’t quite.

“My friends are falling in love left and right. Like, ‘y’all bitches are making me diabetic’ in love. Meanwhile, while they’re making eye contact across rooms and… texting goodnight and good morning and… soft-launching each other on Instagram like it’s normal, I’ve had relationship issues when I’ve never even been in a proper relationship to begin with. But, like these guys who just posted… just… they just do it. Like it’s… easy.”

Your hands move while you talk, as if you’re trying to give shape to something you still don’t fully understand. “And they’re so good at it, too. Like… they know how to be vulnerable, and open, and not… weird about it. And I’m just here. Falling behind. Getting older. People watching. Everyone else moves forward while I’m still stuck fantasising about people who don’t even know my name and also somewhat hung up on people who I know I don’t want to be with, but the fact that at some point there was a chance, a real possibility, still makes me miss them? In a weird way?”

The warmth in the air is not the only thing that makes it feel heavy anymore. Or maybe that’s just the weight of your heart as it lets out a sigh just as big as the one you let out before.

Somehow, it is only now that Jeongin realises he stopped hearing the pebble against the pavement while you talked, but as silence slowly comes back, you drop it back to the floor, and he starts hearing it again.

Clack, clack, clack.

He walks in step with you, silent, but not absent. Clack, clack, clack. His brows draw together just slightly, like he’s hearing every word twice —once with his ears, and again somewhere deeper inside him. Clack, clack, clack. He glances at you, then down back at the clacky pebble, jaw ticking as if he wants to say something —but what if anything could anyone say to all that? Clack, clack, clack. His thumbs rub absently along the seams of his pockets.

There’s a silent understanding that while you’re the one who’s good with silly small talk enough to fill the walk home —or rather speak about anything that’s been clouding your sunshines recently—, Jeongin excels in being exactly the opposite: a really good listener.

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away, at least, like he lets the world hear you loud and clear before he gets to answer, or sometimes, like he lets you hear what just came out of your mouth. Quietly so, he just walks beside you, silent in that steady way he always is when you’re spiralling a little —like he knows better than to try and fix it, like he understands that what you really need is just to say it. His hands stay in his pockets, his gaze on the sidewalk —or right now, on the stupid pebble—, but you can feel his attention on you like a second heat pressing against your skin. Not judging —not even teasingly, which is sometimes expected. Not pitying. Just… listening.

It triggers something within you. As if the fact that he can just let you spew your nonsense unlocks just more loads of nonsense inside you.

“My Instagram is full of cute, flirty, silly reels that people would send to their partners, and I just share it to some of my girlfriends as a joke,” your voice gets louder, as if your sulking has been shunned away by the petty anger only a lonely, hopeless romantic can understand. You don’t know if any of what you’ve been saying makes sense to Jeongin, but fuck, your tipsy brain probably isn’t processing it properly either.

“And it’s not even that I want some perfect fairytale thing,” you say, voice tighter now, like the words are starting to scrape on the way out. “I just want something. Some… kind of… proof that… I’m not completely invisible. Like, I don’t know. I just want someone to choose me without… making me feel like I need to keep… begging for it,” you swallow, dry and hard.

It’s unfamiliar and unprecedented, how Jeongin’s silence lets your heart swim up to your throat and tangle itself into your vocal cords, voicing the weight you’ve dealt with and hid for what feels like months.

And somehow, with him just quietly walking beside you, it feels safe enough to say the things you’ve only ever admitted in your head.

“It just gets to a point where I almost feel… pathetic,” you let out, and the relief that floods you pushes you to just keep going. “I’m so good at being alone until I remember what it would be like to be loved. Loved like how I see them love each other. And then it’s almost embarrassing, when it all shows,” you let out a soft chuckle, so very weakly, somehow finding yourself still strong enough to be laughing at this. “I wouldn’t say I’m jealous, because I don’t want to take one of their places. I just… I want. I keep wanting. And I just… I never get.”

With one of your kicks, the pebble threatens to go onto the road, so you move towards it to kick it back to the pavement, and now you walk closer to Jeongin. Somehow, you didn’t lose your trail of thought, and with a sigh, you get right back on track.

“The only thing I get is seeing. I see them hold hands, I see them giggle at their phones, I see them hug and cuddle. I see them look into each other's eyes like they’ve been married in another life, and not just dating for the last three or four years.” You bite the inside of your cheek, as a part of you is starting to make you feel like you’ve been talking too much. And so, with a last thought in mind, you just sigh and let it out. “It just gets worse, when I look at them and blink as they make out at outings, and I just look away like a fucking loser who’s never been kissed before.”

The words hang in the warm night air longer than you mean them to. For a second, you wonder if you’ve finally reached the point where you’ve said too much, even for Jeongin. You risk a glance at him. He's still quiet, still thinking, or so it seems. So you sigh, which doesn’t help the anxious feeling in your chest as much as you hoped it would, and softer this time, almost like you don’t really want the answer, you let out a small, soft, almost weak, “…what do you think?”

That’s what pulls him out of whatever thought he’s been stuck in. Jeongin blinks, then lets out a breath like he’s been holding it. Not quite a laugh, but rather a puzzled disbelief at the way you talk about yourself.

“You’re not a loser,” he says first, instinctively, then pauses like he’s trying to sort through the words before they come out. “I mean… I think I get it. You’re watching everyone else live the thing you’re waiting for, and it makes you think you’re missing something. But… maybe it’s not that. Maybe you’re just… not rushing it like they are.”

His voice dips a little softer, more thoughtful. “You want something real. And you’re holding out for it. That’s not pathetic. That’s actually kind of… rare.” He licks his lips, not liking the lights being on him as he tries to mull through your rant the best he can.

“What I think is, there’s bound to be someone for you out there. The world would have to be crazy to miss making at least one someone for you to love and for them to love you back,” he lets out, not knowing if the thought makes sense now that he’s voiced it. He shrugs. He can blame it on the alcohol until he’s sober.

“There’s always some filler episodes,” he says in weird thoughtfulness. “And sure, they might be boring, and you’d rather just skip them —even if life doesn’t really work like that—, but it doesn’t mean the entire season is done for. Honestly, it usually means something’s going to happen sooner or later.”

He rubs the back of his neck, a crooked smile playing at his mouth. “Or what do I know. If the problem is that you just want to experience all that and you don’t have someone to…” He glances at you, and for the first time all night, there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure anyone would want to kiss you if you asked.”

With a blink, whatever was there leaves his eyes. You, who takes a couple of seconds to process what he has just said, are too busy to even acknowledge how the brown in them seems deeper when his eyes trail off. It also takes him a second, and it doesn’t quite click until he notices he has to physically move his eyes away from your lips. 

Caught off guard, you also blink. Not because the words were shocking exactly, but because of how offhand they sounded. Light. Like a throwaway comment you were supposed to laugh at and move on from.

So you do. You let out a small, awkward laugh, shaking your head like he’s just made some dumb joke.

“Right,” you say, your voice laced with sheepish disbelief and something bordering on a scoff. “Sure. Okay. Let me just start asking people to kiss me, as one does.”

You glance at him, expecting him to be laughing too, maybe nudging you with his elbow, teasing back with something equally dumb.

But he doesn’t.

You keep going, trying to fill the silence he leaves behind. A silence not even the stupid pebble can attempt to fill. 

“Can you imagine?” you say, still smiling but starting to ramble now, words spilling just a bit too fast. “Like, ‘hey, I’ve never been kissed, so could you just do that real quick?’ Tryna get that off the checklist, ya know.”

You laugh again, but this time it rings a little hollow. Your cheeks feel warm, not from the soju but from the way the air between you suddenly feels... even warmer. And heavier. 

Tighter.

You don’t look at him right away. You just keep walking, one step, then another, pretending you don’t feel how the air has shifted. Kicking the pebble once, twice. Rhythmically. You pretend you don’t notice how it’s no longer just warm, but charged. You’re hyper-aware of everything now: the quiet scuff of your shoes against the pavement, the faint buzz of a distant streetlamp, the way your shoulder brushes his when the sidewalk narrows and neither of you steps away.

There’s a stillness to him that draws your attention even before you turn to glance his way, and when you do —quickly, like it might catch you off guard—, you catch the look on his face.

“Humour me,” he lets out softly. 

Your steps falter, just barely. The pebble gets kicked almost too far away, and you lose it.

Something about the way he says it —like he’s not making fun of you, like this is suddenly something different— tugs at your chest in a way you’re not prepared for.

You glance at him, expecting a smirk, a punchline.

But he’s just looking at you.

In the stillness, loneliness of his own mind, Jeongin curses at himself. Stupid, stupid boy. He doesn’t dare. He knows it. His mind, or at least the small portion of his mind that dares to look at his heart and hear out the one and only truth he’s been ignoring for weeks, looks at you and wants you in a way that he’s never wanted before.

His eyes are dull as he stares at you, and your expression of worry at the fact makes his heart skip a beat. “Jeongin?” you mumble, softly, drunkenly, warily. He can’t stop staring at you, and while he supposes success and defeat can look the same in a mirror —therefore, he doesn’t really blame your confusion—, he finds no words to explain which one he’s feeling, as those words seemed to have cursed him once and for all. 

The cat is out of the bag as the eyes of a hopeless romantic —a timid, hidden, terrified one, dare I add—, meet yours, the different shades in the midst of your irises tinted with blooming confusion and something you never thought someone would’ve found in your eyes for the past days, even weeks. Months.

Hope. In a hopeless romantic’s eyes, yes.

Just a speck. A shimmer that maybe Jeongin imagined, because curse his stupid eyes for always seeing things that end up being far from the truth. Curse his stupid eyes for being unable to look away from yours ever since you asked him that ridiculous question about that ghastly thing that is pineapple on pizza. 

Curse his stupid, stupid heart for making them stare at your lips.

He can’t help it. His mind starts spinning the second the words leave his mouth, twisting and turning through every possible way it could’ve sounded wrong. Too forward, too careless. Maybe he’d crossed a line or made things awkward, maybe he’d read too much into the way you’ve looked at him tonight —and all past nights combined—, or the way you laughed, or how your hands brushed just a moment ago. 

But then again, his heart whispers, trying to get into his head like many times before, you sounded so tired, so raw when you said it, as if you weren’t asking for advice or comfort. Or maybe he’s just accepting that his heart has finally taken control of his head and climbed up his throat, and it has started making him hear tones that didn’t exist, making your voice sound like what you need is someone to hold onto, even if only briefly, when maybe that’s a voice inside his head. But maybe, just maybe, if all you want is to feel something real, even if only once, then the least he can do —the only thing he could do— was offer himself in some small way, even if it scares the hell out of him. 

Or worse, even if it means the whole world to him, and not to you.

But he downplays it. He hides between layers of alcohol, and behind the fact that you can’t see him fidgeting with his bitten nails through his jeans’ pockets. You don’t need to know how his palms are starting to sweat, and how there’s an earthquake inside his head right now as words start to come out of his mouth again.

“I mean, just a kiss?” he shrugs lightly, glancing over at you again. “I would.”

A beat passes. Or maybe two. Maybe even three. Time gets trickier to measure for both of you now that neither of you can count the sounds that the pebble made against the floor. 

You’re positive that a part of your brain is aware that his apartment is getting closer. You can almost see the door from the corner of your eye. That rational, albeit small part of your brain attempts to make you snort, pat Jeongin on the shoulder as he crosses his apartment door, and then go back to sulk against your pillow like last night, and the one before.

But inside you, it’s like something magical occurs. Without being given the order, your feet move just one single step towards Jeongin. Hesitant, almost like a mistake in their code. Like even the writer doesn’t know how on Earth to get some stupid characters to just kiss already. 

A flush creeps up your neck as your eyes flicker to his, then dart away like you’re suddenly aware of how close you are. You bite your lip, a nervous laugh escaping before you can stop it. “Yeah, right,” you say, trying to sound casual, but your voice cracks just a little. “Like that’d happen.”

Jeongin’s entire system is collapsing. It starts in his chest —tight, unsteady— then spreads like static to his fingertips, his pulse tripping over itself as if trying to catch up to what he’s just said. His brain, foggy from the alcohol and the heat of your slow closeness, starts throwing every alarm at once. And still, some stubborn part of him, the part that’s been too quiet for too long, holds its ground.

“I mean it.” His throat has never been this dry. “I don’t mind.”

You blink at him, unsure whether to laugh or speak or just stand there and let your heart keep stumbling over itself. The look in his eyes doesn’t budge—it’s quiet and sure, not teasing, not daring. Just… there.

Your mouth opens, then closes. 

“Why?”

It’s a whisper, half breath, half disbelief. Because, indeed, why doesn’t he mind? 

And as intensely as Rome fell, his heart leaps, and his brain hands in its two-week notice, Jeongin swallows hard, his voice barely more than a murmur. 

“Because I’ve thought about it more times than I should.”

The world narrows down to the space between you. The street is still, silent, like it knows better than to interrupt. Your heart drums against your ribs, stubborn and loud, and you swear Jeongin must hear it.

You wet your lips without meaning to, and his eyes track the motion like gravity. There’s a question hanging in the air. He doesn’t say it, but it’s there. And somehow, without thinking too hard about it, your feet move the tiniest bit closer.

Just enough to see if he’ll meet you halfway.

Jeongin’s thumb brushes over his knuckles as he fidgets with his own hands, gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes, then back again. There’s a quiet beat between you, the kind that makes everything else blur out —the city, the street, the air still thick with heat and something else neither of you can name.

He clears his throat, gentle, stepping closer in an uneasy stance. “Because this is your first kiss…” he begins, the words almost hesitant, careful, “how do you… want it to be?”

You blink, startled by the question, by how seriously he asks it. Your breath catches somewhere between your chest and your throat, and your eyes search his face for a hint of teasing, something to laugh off. But there’s nothing there but softness. A shy kind of earnestness. 

He shrugs faintly, like maybe he regrets putting it out there, but then he nods once. Small, almost apologetic. “I just… thought it’d matter. Since it’s your first. Right?”

The air hangs there, expectant, a little too warm. “Right.” You shift your weight, glancing down to hide a sheepish, almost awkward smile, that creeps out before you even realise, your voice quiet. “That’s… kind of a weird thing to ask.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, eyes still on you, a sheepish pull at the corner of his mouth too. “But I still want to know.”

Weirdly, the answer comes easier than expected, like it’s been sitting there just waiting to be let out.

“I’ve… imagined…” you start, voice smaller than you meant it to be. Your fingers twitch at your sides, nervously fidgeting as you crack them. Your eyes don’t leave his, wide and searching, even as your cheeks warm. “That he’d… hook his fingers under my chin,” you say, swallowing hard as your breath catches, and finally move your eyes away, stunned by the intensity of his brown ones. “Just enough to tilt my face up.” Your lips part slightly, and you can feel your heartbeat pounding in your throat. 

You hesitate, a soft warmth creeping into your cheeks as your words falter. “He’d… say something...” you murmur, your voice barely louder than the night air around you. Your fingers nervously twist the edge of your sleeve, and you glance down for a moment, not daring to meet his eyes again.

Jeongin lets out a quiet snicker, the sound low and easy, like a secret just shared between the two of you. His eyes sparkle in the dim light. “Anything?” he asks, voice teasing but gentle.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your breath catching a little. You bite your lip, sheepish, and the blush on your cheeks deepens. “I never really thought it’d happen like that anyway.”

For a moment, he just watches you, his gaze steady, clearly mesmerised by the way you look now. Then, as if deciding on a whim, he nods, voice dropping into a quiet mumble, half teasing, half sincere. 

“Okay... I’ll make something up.”

You don’t say anything. Just look at him, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips, the world outside the sidewalk narrowing until it’s only him in front of you.

And then his hand lifts.

He moves slowly, like he's still giving you a chance to pull away. To laugh this off, to undo the tension humming between you. But you don’t. You stay rooted to the spot as his fingers graze your jaw, gentle, then tilt your face up by the softest hook of his fingertips under your chin.

His eyes search yours —careful, cautious— but not unsure.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, low enough that only the quiet summer night can hear it, too.

Your heart is pounding, a wild drum inside your chest. The heat of his touch spreads through you, quiet and steady like a spark ready to ignite.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice not to break.

His lips brush against yours —just a soft, quick peck. You blink, your brow furrowing softly, caught off guard by how light it feels. Feeling him pull back, the alcohol that hasn’t flown out of your system takes control for one sentence. 

“I know we’re like, just friends, but you could do it like you mean it, Innie.”

And that stupid sentence threatens to kill him. Jeongin breathes in deeply, trying to steady himself, but inside, everything’s breaking apart. His mind is spinning with how much he wants you, how badly he’s wanted this moment. Your words snap through the fragile wall he’s been holding up, and for a heartbeat, his control shatters. 

A darkened part of him wants your sheepish, drunken heart to regret calling him by that cute nickname. The same one that is about to let the alcohol take over, just like you did. The same one that lets his fingers slide from your chin to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. He licks his lips, voice low and rough with sudden need.

 “Fine. But you asked for this.”

He leans in, his breath mingling with yours, and suddenly it’s all too much. The softness of your hair under his fingers, the warmth radiating off your skin, the way your lips part ever so slightly in anticipation. It unravels something in him. His heart stumbles. His restraint weakens.

You’re right there.

And for a moment, all he can think about is how much he wants this. Not just now, not just once. It almost surprises him, the sheer weight of it, the underlying possessiveness it holds. He wants to kiss you in every way he can think of. He wants to learn what makes your knees go weak, what kind of kiss makes your breath hitch, what softness makes you smile against his mouth. He doesn’t think he’s too good at this —not really—, but he’d die trying to be, if it meant getting to show you. Getting to teach you, gently, playfully, patiently. Not because he knows best, but because he wants to be the one you get to figure it all out with.

His thumb grazes your cheek, but his jaw tightens.

He’s so close now. Too close.

And suddenly, he falters.

A breath catches in his throat. He can’t believe the words that are about to leave his mouth. Can’t believe he’s going to pull away from the thing he’s wanted for longer than he’s willing to admit —not even just the kiss, but this, the raw closeness, the way your eyes search his like they want something more. Every inch of him protests it, screams to just lean in and take what he’s been offered. But instead, he breathes through the ache in his chest, lets his forehead rest heavier against yours, and… stops.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t do this when we’re both drunk.”

It’s like someone drops an ice-cold water bucket straight over your head. The warmth you’d just settled into vanishes in an instant, leaving your skin cold and your chest tighter than before. You blink once, then again, like that’ll somehow reset whatever just happened. But it doesn’t. He’s still looking at you, all sincere and controlled and kind, and it makes your stomach twist.

Your brows knit together, confusion slipping into something sour.

“Oh,” you mutter, your voice tight. “Right. Okay.”

Jeongin feels it like a gut punch.

The moment your fingers wrap around his wrist and gently push his hand away from your face, something in his chest physically recoils. He thinks he’s going to be sick. It’s not dramatic, but it’s sharp in a way he doesn’t know how to recover from. 

Your arms wrap around yourself like some dumb shield. A pout tugs at your lips before you can stop it. The lingering alcohol makes your throat sting. 

“You know… you didn’t have to offer if you were just gonna… take it back.”

You’re not trying to be mean. Not really. But the words come out sticky with hurt, slurred just enough to sound softer than they feel. And your eyes don’t quite meet his now. Not because you’re scared of him, but because you’re scared he might look sorry.

After all, what did you expect? That someone who’s been your friend for months, who’s been there for every group hangout, who’s laughed with you over inside jokes, who always ends up walking home with you, matching your pace under dim streetlights and sharing with you convenience store ice cream would suddenly want more than all that friendship you’ve built?

Maybe you’ve had some small crush on him ever since you met him. No one tries that hard at small talk without a reason, even if the reason is mere, foolish hope. But now, with that hope sinking like a stone in your chest, it feels like all those moments were just… moments. Not signs. Just loads of imagination from your trusty, stupid, stupid romantic lover girl. 

After all, trust a romantic to see something that isn’t there. Because no, this brush against each other’s lips wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t a beginning. It was just a moment. One that, by the looks of it, maybe he already regretted. 

Maybe that’s why you start getting mad. Not at him, really, but at yourself. At how much you let yourself believe it. Believe everything that, as it seems, you made up in your head. At how quickly you built whole, stupid daydreams out of soft glances during group dinners and slow walks back from convenience stores. At how easily your heart had started to fall without a fight.

“I don’t need you to… walk me the rest of the way,” you mutter suddenly, voice sharp in a way that surprises even you. “I can do it myself.”

Jeongin blinks. “What do you—”

“We can —don’t touch me.” You swat his hand away when it hovers too close to your arm, not hard, but with the kind of clumsy force only a half-tired, half-drunk person uses. “I said I’m fine,” you sniff. “We can… walk, and you can leave when we reach your place. I’m doing the rest by myself.”

He says your name, quiet and careful, like he’s stepping into a storm barefoot.

“Shut up. I don’t need your… pity talk again,” you spit with almost child-like disgust in your face. You sniff hard, dragging your sleeve across your cheek, voice growing smaller and meaner all at once. “I get it, okay? I just… I almost thought…” You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together. Your cheeks feel hot as stray tears travel through them. “Whatever. Just… let me walk the rest alone.”

He watches you, frozen for a breath. Jeongin blinks, like he’s missed a step on a moving staircase. And what he feels he can only describe as whiplash, but not the kind he can blame on the alcohol. It’s worse. It’s somehow… personal. And if he can’t fix this, his heart looks up at his brain through the lump that has formed in his throat, and threatens to kill him. 

He takes a step closer, firm but not harsh.

“No,” he says quietly. “You’re too drunk to walk the next ten minutes or so by yourself. So either I walk you home, or you sleep at mine. That’s it.”

His voice isn’t sharp. It isn’t angry. It’s steady, low, the kind of calm that feels like safety even when your chest is on fire. It’s so stupidly him that your eyes water again. 

Curse him, damnit. Curse romance, for fuck’s sake. 

“I’m not… ” you sniff, voice cracking, “not… gonna sleep at yours.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, gently, agreeing almost like one does with toddlers. 

“Good. Because I won’t.”

“Sure.”

“I won’t even look at your stupid couch.”

“That’s fine.” Jeongin would rather die than let you sleep on his couch anyways. His bed is yours, anytime —and still not as much as his jaded heart. 

“I’ll just… walk fast, and then… then I’ll go to the 24-hour convenience store, and get—get bread. Or something.”

“Bread.” 

A part of him wonders if there may be hidden cameras somewhere. 

“I’m serious, Jeongin.” Your lip wobbles.

“I know you are,” he whispers, and it sounds heartbreakingly fond.

You try to swipe your tears away, but more just keep coming, frustrated and hot. “I don’t wanna sleep at yours and… smell your laundry and think about this tomorrow and… and feel stupid.”

He’s quiet for a second. “You’re not stupid.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You’re just sad.”

“I’m not sad,” you snap, wiping your face again.

Jeongin swallows. “Okay.”

You hiccup. “Just tired.” 

“Mmh.”

“And cold.”

He slips off his jacket, holding it out gently toward you, the fabric warm between his fingers. You glance at it, then at him, your brow furrowing. Quietly, almost stubbornly, you pull back.

“No. I don’t want it,” you say, voice trembling just a little, a flicker of frustration hiding behind your words.

“Okay,” Jeongin says quietly.

“ I don’t… need your jacket,” you add with a trembling tone. “I don’t need anything.”

He doesn’t argue. Jeongin clenches his hands, gripping the jacket with almost white knuckles.

You sniff, louder than you meant to. “I’m not a… baby. I don’t need someone to tell me where to sleep or when to… cry or… or…” Your voice cracks, and your lip wobbles again. “God. I’m pathetic.”

Jeongin flinches at that. “You’re not.”

Your fists tighten. “You’re just being nice because you… feel bad,” you say, voice rising, shakier now, turning your head away like it hurts to look at him. Your heart keeps saying it does. “You said all that stuff and then you… changed your mind, and I’m… I’m… fine, actually. So stop it. Forget it. Just… stop.”

“I know you’re fine,” he says softly. He’s so close to lying down in the middle of the road beside you two and crying. “But you don’t like being cold, right?”

There’s a pout in your lips that Jeongin wishes to kiss away. But his mind is a mess, and he feels so fucking stupid, so instead, he sighs. 

You stare at him, frowning hard, the way someone does when they want so badly not to believe something that feels too gentle. And then, without asking, he steps forward —slowly, gently—, and drapes the jacket over your shoulders.

You go still. Completely still. Like something inside you has short-circuited, like your brain is too tired to fight back but your heart hasn’t caught up yet.

The warmth of the fabric settles on your skin. It smells like him —clean, faintly citrus—, and it sinks into your bones like something you didn’t know you needed until now.

And then your body gives in. All at once.

You sag into him without meaning to, forehead resting against his chest like your bones forgot how to hold you upright. Your arms don’t lift, but rather dangle useless at your sides, limp and tired, like the fight’s been drained from you completely.

You don’t sob. You just breathe out in short, broken bursts, tears slipping down your cheeks in silence. They soak into his shirt one by one, hot and aching and a little bit ashamed.

One of his hands finds the back of your head, his fingers combing lightly through your hair. The other rests flat against your back, warm and steady and impossibly patient.

You sniff once —loud, final— then drag the back of your hand across your cheeks. The tears stop like a faucet turned off too quickly, leaving your skin damp and your breath unsteady, but no more sound comes out of you.

You blink up at him, but you can’t even attempt to hold his gaze, your eyes rimmed red, lashes still wet.

“Not. One. Word,” you mutter, voice rough and low.

And then you turn, shoulders squared just enough to look like you’re holding it together, and start walking again. Not fast. Just… steady. Determined.

Jeongin watches for half a second, then catches up without saying anything. It’s as if his own heart twists painfully in response, helpless and raw. He feels it like a physical ache. A sudden, sharp pang deep in his chest that tightens with every quiet sob you try to hide. His steps are quiet beside yours. Careful. Like even his footsteps know not to cross a line.

Neither of you speaks as the city hums gently around you. Neon glints off puddles. A breeze curls past your ankle. It’s only when his building comes into view that you pause again —just for a second—, and he holds the door open without a word. You don’t thank him. You just walk inside.

[★☆🍀☆★]

You barely cross the door to his apartment before you’re muttering again, dragging your feet stubbornly as you tug at the hem of his jacket.

“I’m not… sleeping in your bed, Jeongin,” you mumble, wiping at your cheeks with your sleeves. “That’s… weird. You sleep there. I’ll… take the couch. Or the floor. Or I’ll… stand, I don’t care—”

He sighs, clearly trying to be patient, but his eyes are glassy too, and he looks like he’s done entertaining arguments for the night. “You’re literally falling apart.”

“I’m fine!” you snap, wobbling slightly as you kick your shoes off. “You don’t have to treat me like some… some sad little mess—”

“Okay,” he breathes, clapping his hands once and nodding to himself as if reaching a decision. “That’s it.”

Before you can react, without warning, he wraps his arms around your waist and hauls you right off the ground.

“Jeongin! What—?! Put me down!”

“No,” he says, face entirely too calm for someone who's just carrying another someone on their shoulder, almost like he does it every Thursday. “You had your chance. You blew it.”

“I will scream.”

“You already cried on me. Might as well go for the full set.”

“You’re such an… ugh!” But your protests dissolve into indignant squeaking as he dumps you —gently— into the middle of his bed.

You scramble upright, hair wild, eyes wide. “I said I didn’t wanna—!”

“And I said,” he cuts in, putting his hand over your mouth, eyes locked onto yours, “that you’re too drunk and sad and… stubborn, to decide anything right now. So just… sleep, okay?” He sighs. “Please.” He mumbles softly. 

Not only is he entirely too close for your sanity after everything that has happened tonight, but your body’s already sinking into the mattress like it’s been waiting for this. Your limbs betray you. You stay.

Jeongin sits on the edge of the bed, moving his hand and  mumbling what you think has to be a quiet apology —classic Jeongin—, brushing your damp cheek with his thumb again, in a touch so soft it almost doesn’t register. He stares at you for a second longer than he should, and his voice drops.

“You’re really going to kill me one of these nights.”

You blink, but you don’t speak. You just watch him. With a tired sigh, he gets up and walks toward the door, one hand dragging through his hair.

“Sleep,” he whispers, voice low and tired, “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

In your defense, you really do try. But, as it seems, sleep doesn’t come easy.

You’re lying in his bed, curled up on your side, staring at the wall. The sheets smell like him —fresh laundry and something faintly woodsy—, and it’s almost enough to make your chest ache again. You squeeze your eyes shut.

In the other room, you can hear Jeongin moving around. The quiet shuffle of a blanket. The faint creak of his couch. Then silence. Then more shuffling. Then silence again.

Neither of you says anything, but somehow, the space between you feels loud. Like the aftermath of an argument that never quite finished. You roll over and bury your face in the pillow. God, you’ve got to be so stupid. 

A moment later, he does the same on the couch. Turning, sighing, pulling the blanket higher. Like maybe it’ll muffle the thoughts racing through both of your heads.

The night stretches on. Neither of you sleeps. Not really.

And when you think you’ll finally get some rest, all of a sudden, the light through the blinds is ruthless.

It slices through your eyelids, prying you out of sleep with all the gentleness of a slap. Your head is pounding, your mouth tastes like regret, and every inch of your body feels like it’s been slightly overcooked. The unfamiliar ceiling stares back at you, and for a moment, your brain plays catch-up with the rest of your senses.

Right. Jeongin’s bed.

You groan softly, throwing the blanket off with the exaggerated dramatics of someone deeply betrayed by their own choices. Your feet find the floor like they’ve never walked before. When you finally open the door, wincing at the sudden brightness of the apartment, the silence makes everything feel louder.

And there he is.

Jeongin’s passed out sideways on the couch, hair mussed in a way that makes him look younger than usual, one arm dangling off the side like he lost the will to exist halfway through getting comfortable. His blanket is doing a pitiful job of actually covering him, and the sock situation on his feet is, frankly, tragic.

You blink at him. Sigh. Then drag your hand down your face.

Your head is still pounding, but your chest… your chest aches differently.

You scratch the back of your head, annoyed at the cold in the room and the way it wraps around your shoulders. Your skin pebbles with goosebumps, and you rub your arms, shivering.

Then, without thinking too hard about it —because thinking hurts— you walk over and carefully lower yourself onto the narrow couch beside him. It’s barely big enough for one person, let alone two, but you scooch close anyway, your thigh pressing lightly against his.

He doesn’t stir.

You fold your arms with a huff and close your eyes again, forehead bumping softly against the edge of his shoulder.

Just for five minutes, you tell yourself. Just until the room stops spinning.

The couch creaks quietly under the added weight, but Jeongin doesn’t move. His breathing stays slow, steady—just the faintest hitch when your leg brushes his. Whether he’s still asleep or pretending, you don’t know. Don’t really care, either.

You let your eyes close again, head still heavy, every part of you aching in strange places, some physical, some… not.

The room is quiet in the way mornings are when no one’s ready to admit they’re real yet. You listen to the ticking of a clock somewhere, the distant hum of cars below, and Jeongin’s soft breaths right beside you.

It’s stupid, how warm he is.

You lie there for a while, not touching him beyond the lazy press of your side against his. The blanket tangled around his legs shifts slightly when he exhales deeper,like his body is reacting to yours even if he’s not awake enough to know why. Maybe it should make you uncomfortable. It doesn’t. Eventually, you speak, barely above a whisper.

“…Your couch sucks.”

He lets out a sleepy, rough noise, half snort, half hum. “Says the one who got the bed.”

You freeze. Then tilt your head up.

Jeongin’s eyes are still closed, sleepiness clinging to him. He doesn’t turn to look at you, still facing the ceiling like it’s easier that way. His voice is hoarse, like it had to drag itself back from sleep just to speak.

“I thought you were out,” you mumble.

“Was,” he says. “Then someone elbowed me in the ribs with all the grace of a wet mop.”

You blink. “Did not.”

“Did too.”

A beat. He finally turns his head to look at you, opening his eyes, and you wish he wouldn’t. Not because it’s awkward, but because he still looks so soft. His hair flattened on one side. His eyes ringed faintly with exhaustion and… something else.

You can’t bear to look him in the eyes. 

“I didn’t mean to… uh. I mean, I just didn’t wanna be alone. Not… not because of last night.” You pause, grimace. “Or… okay, maybe a little because of last night...”

Jeongin’s brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton, slow and thick with the aftermath of too much alcohol and too little sleep.

He tries to listen. Really, he does. But your voice becomes a soft blur around the edges of his hangover and the sleepy glow of morning light catching in your hair. You look worried. Hesitant. Like you’re bracing for him to push you away.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just squints, then reaches out slowly —like he’s moving underwater—, and hooks a lazy arm over your waist, dragging you a few inches closer until your forehead nearly brushes his collarbone.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, voice sleep-rough and dry. “My head hurts.”

You freeze, breath caught, unsure what to do with your hands or your heart.

But then he exhales, long and tired, and tucks his chin gently over your head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Shhhhhh,” he adds, like a half-hearted lullaby, already drifting again.

Slowly, almost like he’s moving through a dream, Jeongin’s hand slides from your waist to your forearm. His fingers brush softly against your skin as he gently nudges your arms around him, guiding you closer until your arms settle naturally against his chest.

He sighs, eyes fluttering shut, a tired smile ghosting his lips as he moves his arm back to your waist. His breath is warm against your skin as he murmurs, “…stay… just like… this…” 

And, with your heart going crazy in your chest, you do. But eventually, Jeongin shifts with a grunt, rubbing at his face and blinking blearily at the ceiling. “Water,” he mutters like a prayer, already pushing himself up with a groan.

You follow, slowly detangling your limbs and wobbling to your feet. Your head’s pounding, your mouth is dry, and when he hands you a glass of water in the kitchen, your fingers brush his. Neither of you says anything about it.

The air is quieter now. More fragile.

You sip the water and lean your elbows over the counter, watching him pull cereal from the cabinet and set it down like it’s the most complicated task in the world.

He doesn’t look at you. Not really.

You breathe in slowly. Then, carefully, casually, as if it doesn’t matter, as if you haven’t rehearsed the question a dozen ways in your head already. 

“So,” you start, cautious, “are we gonna… talk about it or not?”

Jeongin lifts his eyes to look at you briefly, then shrugs. “I… don’t know what to say.”

You huff. “That’s convenient.”

His brow twitches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” you say, sharper now, “you keep starting things and then… pretending they didn’t happen. The more I think about it, it’s just there. First you kiss me, then you back off, then you carry me home and now you just cuddle me like nothing’s weird—”

“I didn’t pretend nothing happened.”

“Yeah right.” you argue, voice rising. “I don’t get it, Innie. You’re looking at me like you want something, and then you pull away when I try to meet you halfway.”

Jeongin winces. “I was trying to be… careful.”

“Careful?” You laugh, and it’s bitter. “Careful would’ve been not even kissing me in the first place.”

He exhales sharply. “I was drunk.”

“Dude.” You throw your hands up. “I was drunk too, but I remember what happened. I remember what you said.”

Something starts to itch all over him. 

“Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

That stings. You flinch, mouth opening and closing before the words catch up.

“Oh,” you say, voice suddenly small.

Jeongin notices too late. “Wait. That’s not… I… didn’t mean it like that.”

“No?” You shake your head, eyes narrowing. “Then how did you mean it? Because I’m seriously going crazy trying to figure out if you actually feel something or if I’m just… just convenient.”

His jaw tightens. He looks away. Then back at you. Then down. Then up again. Cornered.

He’s gonna have to come clear, isn’t he?

You lean forward, breath shallow. “We can’t start this. If you don’t want anything, just—.”

Sudden would be a good word to describe it. You barely register it before his mouth crashes into yours, shutting you up with a jolt of startled heat. His hands find your jaw, your neck, your cheek, soft in the way he holds you but desperate in how he kisses you.

It’s not soft, not thoughtful. It reeks of instinct, panic, feeling. He’s kissing you because he can’t take another second of pretending he doesn’t want to. And you freeze, just for a breath, before kissing him back.

His heart kicks wildly in his chest, tripping over itself like it’s trying to catch up with everything he’s ever wanted. You taste like leftover sleep and the faintest trace of lipbalm, and it’s messy and real and completely, utterly you.

He exhales against your lips like it hurts to breathe otherwise. Like he’s needed this more than he could ever say aloud. 

The kiss breaks, breathless and messy, your lips barely apart as you stare at each other, dazed, blinking, stunned by the weight of what just happened.

Jeongin doesn’t pull far. He pants softly, his chest rising and falling against yours, and leans his forehead to yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded. His eyes flutter shut for a second before he lets out a long sigh. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that… for longer than just last night.”

His words slip out on an exhale, voice low and hoarse, like they’ve been bottled up for too long and finally broke free. His thumb brushes your cheek —shaky, careful— and he doesn’t open his eyes, like he’s afraid to see your reaction.

But before you can form a single thought, Jeongin keeps going, words spilling from him like he’s afraid if he stops, he won’t get the chance again.

“I didn’t mean to confuse you. I swear I didn’t.” He pulls back just enough to see your face, his brows drawn, the panic creeping into his voice even as he tries to sound calm. “I was just… God, I was scared. Of ruining everything. Of saying something too soon. Or too late. Or just… wrong.”

You blink at him, stunned.

“And last night? When you said to do it like I meant it?” He huffs a soft, helpless laugh, like the memory still short-circuits his brain. “I almost lost my mind. You looked at me like… like you meant it too. But we were drunk, and I thought maybe I was just being stupid again. So I pulled back, but it killed me. It…”

He runs a hand through his hair, completely unraveling in front of you.

“Maybe I seemed confusing. But I didn’t lie.” He swallows dry. “I meant all of it. Every second.”

His eyes find yours again. Soft. Cracked open.

“I’ve liked you for ages.”

A soft noise leaves him, part sigh, part laugh, part disbelief. He’s dizzy. He’s warm. And he’s certain now, more than ever, that he’s never wanted anything the way he wants this. You.

“Ever since Felix and Hyunjin introduced you that night, months ago. You were wearing that yellow sweater and you kept apologizing for being late even though no one cared, and I just…” He lets out a helpless laugh. “Part of me knew I was screwed already.”

He shakes his head, eyes flicking away, embarrassed now, but still talking, because there’s no turning back.

“You kept talking to me even when I barely said anything back. You remembered what I said about my favorite drink. You offered me the last dumpling and smiled like it wasn’t a big deal, and…” He swallows hard. “It became a big deal. You became a big deal.”

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, heart thudding painfully.

“And then we had to walk back together almost every day, and… I felt like the luckiest man in the world. You just asked the most stupid questions, and every night, I wanted to kiss you before you crossed your door. I love hearing you ramble about your day, or your books, or that barista you think has it out for you. I remember every dumb story you’ve told me.”

He exhales, like saying all of it has gutted him.

“I don’t know when it stopped being casual for me. I just know I kept pretending it was, because you deserved someone who—“

You don’t let him finish.

You surge forward, catching his face between your hands and kissing him hard, nothing soft or hesitant about it this time. It’s messy, sudden, teeth knocking slightly in your urgency, but it shuts him up like nothing else could.

For a second, he freezes —just barely— like his brain short-circuits at the contact.

And then he kisses you back.

His hands shoot up, gripping your waist as he pulls you flush against him. Without breaking the kiss, he backs you gently until your body meets the edge of the counter. There’s a sharp, light click as your hips hit the cool surface, and before you can think, he lifts you effortlessly, settling you on the counter.

Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and he deepens the kiss, lips parting and tongues dancing. His arms tighten around you as if afraid to let go, his heart pounding as loud as yours. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You’re both still catching your breath, eyes wide and searching, and it hits you. What just happened. What it means. Your chest tightens, overwhelmed and giddy all at once.

You let out a soft, sheepish laugh, the kind that catches in your throat before spilling out as a gentle giggle. It’s unexpected —light and fluttery, like the first warm breeze after a cold night—, and it makes Jeongin’s heart loosen, just a little. He watches you closely, the corners of his mouth lifting into a slow, genuine smile as your eyes sparkle with that shy amusement.

Jeongin’s smile deepens, his gaze softening as he reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, still holding you close.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, voice thick with affection, but the smile never fades. “What are you laughing for, mhh?” 

You giggle again, leaning into his touch, and the kitchen around you blurs into the background. “I just… I have no idea if I did any of that right,” you giggle, blushing, attempting to hide in the crook of his neck.

Jeongin’s lips twitch into a teasing grin as he hears your giggle. He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Oh, that.” He smirks. “I’m pretty sure you did something right.”

He nuzzles your neck lightly, his voice dropping into a playful whisper. “Though if you want… lessons, I could… give you a few tips.”

You catch the challenge in his eyes, and for a moment, the whole kitchen feels charged with quiet mischief and something a little dangerous.

“Well, well.” You tease, eyeing him up and down as his hands move to your waist, almost sneaking to the bits of skin that your shirt doesn’t cover. “Yang Jeongin.” 

He shrugs, smirking. “I’m just sayin’.” 

“Oh, I know what you’re saying.” You snicker. “You better not start something you can’t finish.”

Jeongin snickers low in his throat, eyes crinkling with mischief as he leans in and gives your cheek a cheeky little bite, soft, barely more than a nip, but it makes you squeal and giggle, squirming in his hold.

“Oh, jagi,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement, “you won’t have to worry about finishing.”

Your face goes hot immediately. You swat at his chest, trying —and failing— to look scandalized through your smile. “You’re the worst,” you mutter, eyes shining as you finally manage to slip off the counter, backing away just a step. He watches you, thoroughly amused, as you cross your arms and raise your brows at him. “What a tease,” you say, clearly trying to sound unimpressed even though your cheeks are still flushed. “At least make me breakfast first, mister.”

It dawns on you as softly as how his hands surrounded you seconds ago. When a hopeless romantic falls for another hopeless romantic, it doesn’t feel like falling at all, but rather like being caught. Tenderly, gently, by someone who’s been waiting with open arms and the same fluttering heart. Or someone who, through one sick hangover, still decides to make you breakfast first. 

Maybe that’s how the lover girl curse lifts. Not because you stopped dreaming, but because someone finally started dreaming with you.

"Who do you think is going to freak out the most if we show up to the next hangout and say we're together?" you smile offhandedly, scrolling through last night's pictures on your phone.

Jeongin blinks, tongueing his cheek.

"Actually, about that..."

Smiling sheepishly and turning his own phone so you could see the screen, you blink, eyebrows raising.

“What the…?”

"I may have been texting him all night because I was, um... worried." Jeongin licks his lips. "I haven’t updated him yet, but...” He swallows, smiling. “If Hyunjin shows up here with a bat, calling me a fucking dumbass, it’s my fault." 

He pauses.

"And if Felix brings you chocolate brownies to ‘cheer you up’, that’s probaly also my fault, because Hyunjin can't keep shit to himself."

[★☆☘️☆★]

~kats, who’s obsesion with Jeongin (as well as everybody else, who am i kidding) grew so much more ever since she could attend the concert in Madrid!!

catiuskaa, august 2025 ©

All his friends knew that the moment Jisung put on his hood and managed to grab his phone from the manager's bag, his social battery had reached rock-bottom levels. Unfortunately, he had no hood in which to hide from the rest of the world at the moment, and the anxiety clawed at his throat from the inside, warning him that unlocking his phone's screen for anything other than taking pictures of the event would make him look ridiculous. He felt the bespoke black Balmain suit soft against his skin, almost a soothing weight, but he was surrounded by strangers who were likely to be more famous than he could ever be, and he had hundreds of cameras pointed in his direction, waiting for the reaction to every outfit that appeared on the catwalk in front of him.

At least he wasn't completely alone. He had his manager sitting right behind him, Felix chatting quietly with a girl three seats to his right, and he knew that the leader of his group was somewhere in all the chaos, also displaying an extroversion that overwhelmed Jisung. He couldn't understand, no matter how many years he had been witnessing it, how the two Australians in his K-pop group could engage in conversation with anyone unrelated to them so easily. And it wasn't even that he envied them for it, because it wasn't something he wanted to be able to do, he just stared at them in horror and prayed that the panic wouldn't show on his face. But he had travelled all the way from Seoul to Madrid just to attend the event, so he had to swallow his nervousness and make a good impression.

Stray Kids was starting to become quite famous, even if he wasn't really aware of the magnitude, and apart from music, his company had started to explore other fronts. Around the last few months of the year, they were going to shoot a kind of short film with one of the songs from their second comeback in 2023 as the soundtrack, and in addition to various advertising campaigns, they had been considering the world of fashion for some time. The Louis Vuitton brand had taken Felix in almost instantly, showering him with French clothes and affection, just as Versace had done with Hyunjin. In his opinion, it seemed that Fendi wanted to see how Bangchan's image would look in their campaigns, and he had read in Stay's comments that there were rumours they would end up being international ambassadors for the brands.

Jisung was grateful that Balmain had chosen him, out of all the idols in the industry, even out of all the members of his group, to represent the brand at this collaborative event between Balenciaga and Zara for the winter campaign. He knew it was an amazing opportunity for Stray Kids, and especially for him as an artist, but the management team at his company hadn't given him the option to refuse, and perhaps that lack of choice was what was making his outlook on the situation so negative. He couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he was almost thirteen hours away from his family, his boyfriend, part of his band, and in a place he didn't know at all. Every second that passed in which he allowed the weight of that certainty to overwhelm him, his heart began to beat faster.

“First time?” someone suddenly whispered to his left, causing him to startle.

Jisung squinted around the semi-dark room, focusing his gaze on the figure of the girl he had greeted nervously as he sat in the chair that bore his name, both Korean and Romanised. Her hair was pulled back, stretched in neat, defined lines, though the long mane fell down her back in a smooth cascade of chocolate-coloured strands. Her clear, delineated gaze was fixed on him, expectant, as if she couldn't stop the almond shape of her eyes from taking on that sharp edge. He merely nodded, smiling as much as he could, curving his lips into a more enthusiastic copy of hers.

“Me too!” her shoulders twitched when Jisung heard her laugh, and for a moment he feared that the people around them would tell them off because of the melodious and easy way the laughter left her lips. Jisung had the feeling that she was the type of girl who attracted attention without even being aware of it.

And then he realised that they were both speaking Korean. He frowned, confused, because he knew that most of the people in the audience were Spanish一and she certainly seemed to be, with her tanned skin and foreign accent一but her level was quite good. He moved slightly closer to her as he noticed the cameras around them starting to flash at their unexpected interaction, but turned in such a way as to leave a respectful distance between them.

“Are you from here?” Jisung cleared his throat.

“More or less,” she replied, leaning towards him as if she were telling him a secret. “I'm from Spain, and I live here, but I'm from a town to the south, down at the bottom of the map.”

“Oh,” he murmured, his mind completely blank.

“From your reaction, it's as if I've spoken to you in a completely different language,” she laughed.

“The truth is, this is my first time in Spain,” he replied, smiling more confidently, as if striking up that small conversation with the girl, who was so nice, distracted him from the rest. “It's been a ride from the airport to the hotel, from the hotel to here…”

“I can imagine,” she whispered, nodding. “When I arrived in Madrid it was the same, but it's a city that has its charm. I got to know it thanks to my friends at uni, who showed me around a bit. If you want, I can give you a tour”.

Jisung opened his eyes wide in surprise and gave his manager a quick glance in case he had heard them. Maybe he'd gone too far in talking to a stranger, maybe he actually should find a polite way to turn down her offer without making her feel bad. He had to do it fast, he thought, because staring at her with that look on his face didn't seem like a good idea.

“Huh... The truth is... Well, I…”

“Hey, it wasn't obligatory to answer,” she murmured, resting a hand on his arm gently, ready to pull it away if she saw that he wasn't at ease with the physical contact. “My best friend always tells me I have no filter, which is hypocritical because she acts the same way, but I'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable. Do you want us to introduce ourselves first?”

He saw her smile again as he nodded slowly, his heart still trying to escape his chest, feeling the warm palm of her hand through the fabric of the expensive black suit. But it was all right, wasn't it? She was a kind girl, who had a definite trust issue一of placing it in strangers, obviously一but who didn't seem to have any ill intentions. And they were both in a room full of people, anyway. Nothing could go wrong.

“My name is Abril,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “I studied at EID, the European Institute of Design, I have a silly little vlog on YouTube and I really like makeup”.

“I'm Jisung” he replied, mimicking the bow. “Han Jisung, and I'm an idol, and... well, huh…”.

“No, no, no, no, you're doing it wrong,” she corrected him, refusing his answer firmly, and also shaking her hands, as if she was incapable of not using them when she spoke. “I know you're an idol and which brand invited you to represent them. Usually, anyone who has informed themselves about the event knows that. Introduce yourself for real, like I did”.

“Like you?”

“Mm-hm,” she made eye contact with him, and indicated the beginning of the sentence. “You're Jisung, you come from...”

“Oh, yeah” he nodded, now with more enthusiasm, understanding where she was going. “I'm Jisung, I live in Seoul, and I'm a K-pop producer and singer. I like music a lot, and anime, and watching documentaries”.

“See, fantastic introduction,” she told him, clapping quietly, but with a big smile on her face. “So, it's your first time on a catwalk”.

“And yours,” he replied, unable to bite his tongue. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Jisung realised that they were fully turned towards each other, and that with how focused he was on the conversation he had stopped stressing over the myriad thoughts that anxiety had been pushing into his mind.

“If you're from here how come you speak Korean so well?” his brow was furrowed, lips forming a pout, and she thought it was adorable because it was the same gesture her best friend used when she didn't understand something.

“I like to listen to Korean music,” she replied, hoping not to scare him off, “occasionally”.

“So you already knew who I was?” he asked, his leg starting to move up and down.

“I know which group you belong to,” Abril said, her smile adopting a relaxed, casual gesture. “And I know you're not the boy with the foxy eyes, or the one with the freckles, which are the ones I find the most recognisable”.

“Oh,” Jisung murmured, exhaling a relieved sigh that he didn't know he was holding back. “Jeongin and Felix”.

“Yeah, that was it,” he heard her crystalline laughter again, “but I prefer girl groups, sorry. Or Seventeen. I saw Mr. Freckles around earlier, though, he looks amazing”.

“Louis Vuitton is doing an awesome job with him, and they're very nice and attentive,” he explained, smiling at the thought of his best friend. “He's been very well-received, and our fans love it”.

“No wonder,” Abril replied, nodding, “Louis Vuitton has a very good reputation”.

There was a pause, and Jisung looked away from the Spanish girl, suddenly self conscious. She knew who he was, and not because she was a fan, part of Stay, but because she had studied the guests at the event. However, he didn't know her at all and it was starting to become less of a problem to talk to her and more of a reason to start feeling bad. He wasn't good at starting a conversation, and he doubted that in a situation like that asking her about her favourite colour was the best move.

He opened his mouth, ready to ignore the anxiety bubbling in his chest, but the lights dimmed without warning, and Jisung let all the air in his lungs escape with a sigh. His manager, his older brother, tapped him on the shoulder gently, resting the palm of his hand to anchor him to reality, to let him know that this was the first sign that the catwalk was about to begin. The murmur in the room gradually died down, and as soon as he no longer felt his brother's hand on his shoulder muscles his knee began to rise and fall uncontrollably, in an insufferable twitch that at least helped him to relax the racing heartbeat in his chest.

He barely had had time to talk to the girl, Abril, and just when it seemed that he had finally realised that he was capable of making a new friend on his own, he had been interrupted. He wasn't even able to concentrate on the introduction to the event, on what songs were playing as the first models came out. All he could think about was how sweet she had been to him, and how unresponsive he had been in return. He had made such a terrible impression. If only he could go back in time, perhaps change the few words he had spoken to something more intelligent, something that sounded more confident…

But then she felt Abril's soft hair brush against his arm, her bright eyes still following one of the girl's figures around the stage as she whispered, excitedly, how much she liked that specific outfit. And somehow, all the voices in Jisung's head quieted a little. He cleared his throat, as if he could reset the reaction he had just had, and tried to locate the model she was talking about, offering her his opinion on the cute knitted jumper she was wearing.

It didn't take long for them to start gossiping, choosing a classic one-to-ten point system to evaluate the clothes, whispering numbers and softly hushed giggles to each other between models, slyly pointing at each one of them to comment on the outfits. And with some glee, Jisung realised that he was having a really good time. He didn't feel judged when Abril made him laugh and his laughter sounded slightly louder than it should, and he didn't worry about the image he was giving, not even when he was so into their conversation that he totally missed Felix's tender gaze, full of affection and pride that anxiety hadn't crept up his chest until it choked him.

Even as the catwalk came to an end, and the CEOs of each fashion brand came out to greet the audience, Jisung was still glued to the girl, clapping but exchanging murmurs, and when the lights shone over them again, it was Jisung who asked her to accompany him outside, to the small terrace hidden from the eyes of the public waiting at the outdoors stairs, so that they could talk some more. Or meet Chan and Felix, whichever made her feel more comfortable.

“Actually, I have to take a taxi home,” the brunette apologised, clutching her small bag in both hands, pursing her lips into a pout. “I have to get there before the pizza delivery guy does”

Abril's laughter hung in the air, triggered by a joke that Jisung hadn't understood, but the Korean's face turned somewhat serious as he realised what it implied. After nearly two hours with her, perhaps letting her go so quickly didn't seem quite so right.

“Maybe we can drop you off at home on our way to the hotel,” he suggested, forgetting to glance at his manager to confirm that he could do that.

“No way, don't worry,” she replied, resting a hand on his arm. Her smile was genuine, and Jisung wondered if she really didn't mind having to pay for the taxi or if she was just saying that to avoid compromising him with his companions. “It's right here, nearby”.

Jisung looked at her, letting her know with a raised eyebrow that precisely because it was right there, nearby, it wasn't a problem for them to drop her off.

“If your fans see me get into your car, I'll lose my public career,” she added, her mouth quivering in a rueful gesture, and Jisung knew she was absolutely right.

Jisung deflated, and gave her an apologetic smile. Maybe in Spain the fans weren't as pushy as in other countries, he didn't know, but there were sasaengs everywhere, and a photo taken out of context could ruin her life and force him to go on hiatus.

“But,” Abril continued, looking away, but letting him notice the mischievous glint in her eyes, which didn't bode no good, “if you're going to stay longer in Madrid, the tour offer still stands. Signing whatever NDA's it takes to make you feel safer, just as a friend showing you around the city”.

“For real?”

Jisung saw that as a possibility. It wasn't the first time they had made the most of events in other countries and visited the city or hung out with friends. It was true that they had to return to Korea as soon as possible to finish preparing for the imminent comeback, but it wouldn't be anything they hadn't done before. Even their company could investigate Abril's digital footprint if they didn't trust her. The city looked very nice, and he knew he wouldn't be bored with her. He could even invite Chan and Felix and introduce them.

“Of course! Tomorrow is the birthday of two of my best friends,” Abril explained, making calculations with one finger, counting days in the air. “We're going to the Warner, which is an amusement park very close by. I know Lucas won't mind if a few extra friends join us. And then I think we're going to Murcia for a couple of days, but you can join us too. We're good people, promise”.

And he knew she wasn't lying. A soul as pure as hers could only get along with people just as fantastic. The plan sounded like a lot of fun, and even if his manager wouldn't allow him to travel with strangers, he couldn't deny him an innocent visit to an amusement park in the city, so he would most likely be able to see her the next day. That was enough for him.

“I'll have to consult with my manager and the guys about the trip,” he announced, taking a breath of air to pretend he didn't feel guilty about making decisions without the input of his hyungs and Felix.

“Mm-hm,” she mumbled, nodding.

“But I guess I'll see you tomorrow at the Warner.”

“My God, that's fantastic!” she exclaimed, tightening her grip on the young rapper's arm, her touch warm in the Spanish capital's night breeze. “If you need anything, text me on Instagram!”

Before he could react, the girl threw her arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a gentle hug, and hurried off, unlocking the screen of her phone to check the time and blurting out a string of what Jisung thought sounded like a litany of aggressive insults in Spanish. Jisung stared at the screen of Abril's phone, a selfie of her and two young boys who looked like they could be her brothers, and as he processed her words he thought the Spaniards were having a very late dinner if they intended to have pizza at eleven o'clock at night. Then he remembered all those times he had made himself ramen when he got home late, and smiled as he realised he couldn't say anything about it. Maybe their cultures weren't so different after all.

He saw Abril's white lace dress flutter behind her as she descended the stairs to the main entrance and he also saw her disappear into the crowd, letting a high whistle escape from between her lips and then exclaiming an unmistakable ‘Taxi!’ in a loud, musical Spanish accent.

He turned towards the inside of the building, looking for Felix's unmistakable blond hair, which would be the easiest to spot among so many people, and waited in a corner for his friend to get lost in the area he had escaped to. The staff would wait for all the guests to leave the venue before starting to rearrange the chairs and decorations for the after party, but a few people with the organisers' costumes and name cards were already guiding the stragglers towards the entrance.

Jisung felt that it would be an opportune moment to pull out his phone, and at least try to contact Chan or his manager to let them know where he was. After giving a couple of rather competent directions, it was Jaehyun, his older brother, who managed to reach him, and Felix who greeted him with a pat on the shoulder and his eyebrows rising and falling suggestively.

“That's a rather childish reaction when you consider I'm a taken man,” he commented with an incredulous smile, before the blond could say anything.

“That wasn't why I did it,” he protested in reply, the high-pitched whine catching in his throat. “But you could share her number in the group chat or something, in case anyone's interested”.

He let out a laugh at his own words, as if he had told a hilarious joke, and Jisung rolled his eyes playfully. He shook his head, knowing Felix loved to act like that, and turned to his leader when he called his name.

“Did she know us?”

“She's a Kpop fan, but not Stay,” he explained, getting defensive immediately. He knew Chan was only asking that question because he cared about him, but he couldn't help but think that maybe if they had been the ones sitting next to Abril, they probably would have introduced her by now and been close friends. “I wish you had met her, she has a responsible little girl aura, so adorable”.

He saw Felix frown, perhaps not quite understanding the phrase, but ignored it. He thought it was a fairly accurate description of Abril, but it was true that it could come off as a bit odd if you hadn't interacted with her. It reminded him a bit of the way the blond himself lit up the room he was in, and made you feel special when he gave you his undivided attention. But he couldn't dwell on what description to use for his new friend, at least not yet. He had more important things to think about.

His priority was to figure out how to introduce the topic of meeting up the next day without causing rejection out of mistrust. Because he knew that no matter how much he infected Felix with enthusiasm, the final word rested with Chan and Jaehyun, his manager, who were directly responsible for him, especially overseas. And while Jae answered directly to Division 1, Chan would primarily look out for his safety. And Jisung had to admit that his hyung didn't seem too sure he could trust anything Abril had said.

“Jae hyung, do we have any plans for the next few days?”

“A scheduled visit tomorrow to the Bernabeu stadium for Chan,” he said, his gaze automatically flicking to the screen of his phone as he tried to recall the trip schedule from memory. “But I can't think about anything else. Why? Do you want to add anything?”

“Can we go to the Warner in the afternoon?” continued Jisung, waiting for that pause where the question would sink into their heads before they asked what that was.

But it didn't take long. Felix grabbed his arm, his eyes wide with excitement as he looked at him, as full of anticipation as Abril had been when he'd told her they'd see each other tomorrow. He knew Felix wouldn't let him down一what had surprised him had been how little time he had taken to react.

“What is…” began Chan.

“Do I want to know what the Warner is?” interrupted Jaehyun, crossing his arms.

“It's the amusement park in Madrid!” exclaimed Felix, doing all the work for Jisung without realising it. “Can we go, please?”

Chan narrowed his eyes, recognising Jisung's gesture of fake innocence, but decided to keep quiet, leaving the decision in the manager's hands. For a few moments the four were silent, and Jisung could count his heartbeat in the agonising seconds it took Jaehyun to weigh the pros and cons of the idea. Felix's eyes were closed tightly, fingers folded in prayer, and at the cute sight the manager could only exhale a defeated sigh.

“I'll take care of getting the tickets,” he muttered, hiding a smile at the enthusiasm of the youngsters.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⭐๋࣭⭑

Unable to sit still, Jisung stirred once more in the seat of the tinted-window car he felt he had been stuck in all day. It had just turned five in the afternoon, and although he knew that if he were in Seoul it would start to cool down soon, he was finding out that  that didn't apply in Madrid, with the high temperatures still sliding down his back in sweat in a way he wasn't used to. It was very hot, and having to wear a mask and hat to avoid being recognised only added to the discomfort of his long-sleeved clothes. He was looking forward to getting to the amusement park, to being able to get out of the car and get some air, but at times his only wish was to get to the hotel and take a cold shower as soon as possible.

The night before he had made a video call with Minho, telling him everything that had happened at the event, from the most tense and nerve-wracking moments to the sweetness of the lovely April. He'd listened to him for a good while in silence until Jisung realised he hadn't even looked at what time it was in Seoul, and when the dancer told him not to worry, that his day was worth hearing about, Jisung had eventually hung up on him, knowing that Minho would answer a call from him even if he was really busy. He felt there had to be boundaries.

Boundaries that Minho loved to cross, Jisung thought, when he realised that eleven o'clock at night in Spain was equivalent to six o'clock in the morning in Korea, and he knew he had woken Minho up too early.

But he hadn't been able to sleep, too excited about what would happen the next day. He had been up late watching YouTube videos, as usual, and by the time he realised he could look up the channel April had told him about, it was already one in the morning. The long plane ride had disrupted his sleep schedule, and he didn't really feel tired, so he started watching his new friend's latest vlogs.

He flicked through the covers of all the videos, guided by the images, as the titles were of little use to him because they were in Spanish, and ended up watching one from the previous week that featured the logo of his group. He recognised the words ‘Zara x Balenciaga 2023’ at the end of the title, and knew it was going to talk about the event they had attended that afternoon. As it started, an upbeat melody began to play in the background while the intro was shown: figures of celebrities with the effect of being cut out of paper appearing and disappearing against a light background, and then the same words he had seen as the title in typewriter font. Abril seemed to really enjoy editing videos.

And then she appeared, this time with all her hair down over her shoulders, the chocolate colour contrasting with the white T-shirt, and began to speak. It took Jisung a good forty seconds to realise that he didn't understand a word she was saying. He snorted, suppressing a smile, and paused the video, praying that there would be Korean among the subtitle options. As he searched for it, he found himself thinking that this was probably what all the international Stays were experiencing with their group's content. He should talk to Division 1 to make sure there was a variety of language options before uploading their videos.

When he finally pressed play, Jisung understood what the Spaniard had meant when she had said she had researched which celebrities would represent which brands. The video was basically about that. She had a roulette wheel with the main fashion brands, all invited by the organisers, and throughout the almost fifteen minutes that her explanation lasted she talked about what the event was going to be like, and who she would meet once she got inside. At the mention of Prada, Valentino and Gucci, Jisung remembered seeing some of the people Abril was talking about. But the minutes passed quickly, her voice soft in the background as he read the subtitles, until he realised she had left Fendi, Louis Vuitton and Balmain for last.

“The novelty in Europe is the three members of Stray Kids coming to Madrid” he had read, at the same time as the group photographs they had taken for Maxident appeared on his screen. “It's rare for a Kpop group to bother sending so many of their members to fashion events, but we're happy to host them here whenever they want.”

She had given a brief overview of how the Korean music industry worked for those who had no idea, and then objectively detailed what role each of them had in the group and which brand had invited them. He appreciated the professional and open way she had introduced them, and once again he understood why he had felt so comfortable with her. She made you feel welcome, listened to. She made you understand without making you feel foolish. With one warm look you knew you could trust her.

So he had told Minho, before he noticed he was falling asleep again.

But at that moment, in the car, after a busy morning in which he'd been late for his appointment at the gym with Chan only to then walk around the city for a while, before even going on the scheduled visit to the stadium of his hyung's favourite football team, it was too hot. Too hot. He rolled up the sleeves once more on the oversized yellow checked shirt he'd bought before the trip and turned to Felix, leaning his head back against the backrest with a huff. The blond, who had his phone in his hands as he played a game of Genshin, made an affirmative noise, almost as if asking if he was alright, leaning back against Jisung's shoulder.

“We're getting there, Ji,” said his manager, from the passenger seat, noticing his uneasiness.

He didn't reply, too distracted to notice that Jaehyun couldn't see him nod. Instead he fiddled with his own phone, removing and reattaching one of the corners of the case, deciding if it was a good idea to text Abril. He didn't have an individual Instagram account, even though more than half their members were considering creating one, and he didn't know if they'd let him use the group one for something like this. He hadn't discussed it with anyone, his plan to meet the Spanish girl at the Warner, and not knowing if it would be okay with his friends made him get in over his head.

He didn't even listen to the giddy answers Felix gave Chan, when their hyung asked him about what kind of attractions they would find, which ones he was looking forward to the most. Jisung would go into the Instagram app he hadn't even used that much, then turn off the screen. He would look for Abril's username, which he had memorised, then turn off the screen. When he turned it back on, the search box had gone blank, so he had to type it in. But when he finally had her account in his hands, he had to turn it off. Again. He wanted to contact her, but somehow he felt bad about it.

And then he felt Felix playfully nudging his head on his shoulder, as if he didn't have to shrink slightly to do so, as if he were a kitten, and heard him say “Do it.”

He didn't even register the way his heart stopped, thinking he'd been caught committing a crime. He glanced at Felix fleetingly, his wide eyes colliding with his best friend's soft gaze, and he slipped into the Spaniard's private messages, hoping that his shy “Just arrived at Warner's, where are you? Jisung” along with the blue check symbol indicating the authenticity of his account would get Abril to see it as soon as possible. And then he wrapped himself up in Felix, the two of them entwined like the hands of two lovers, answering Chan's questions with renewed energy.

Once they arrived, Jaehyun escorted them to the entrance of the huge amusement park, letting them wander along the cobblestone paths after showing the employees the tickets he had obtained the day before online, and Jisung tried to calm himself, to avoid looking at his phone, to enjoy the afternoon with his friends. He let Felix, to whom he had attached himself, as always, with his arms intertwined, guide them to the first attraction he wanted to go into, which had a short queue. Chan began to prattle on about the memories brought back by the pictures around the place, and Jisung took a breath of air to calm down as he looked at every person who passed them.

By the time Felix caught his attention, Jisung had already had a heart attack for every straight-haired brunette girl he'd seen, and the touch of his best friend's hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality, to the spinning mugs with Scooby Doo decorations, and to his leader's terrible jokes about how it was a betrayal to be there without his own Mystery Inc. gang's dog, Seungmin. He closed his eyes to relax a little before the ride got started, and then had to hold on to Felix and his manager, looking for a support that he could only find on the edge of the giant cup they'd been stuffed into as it began to spin, so as not to fly off.

It was funny, he thought. And then he let out a shaky laugh, hearing Felix's excited shout to his left, followed by one from Chan, in front of him, and stopped thinking. He didn't need to. Not as long as he could rest his mind and fill his memory with moments like that one.

And for a while it did work, exiting Scooby Doo's Tea Party Mystery and heading straight for the bumper cars themed after the cartoon Joker movie. The park was huge, and what was most striking was the continuity with which people screamed. It was all conversation and laughter and shouting all around him, until he realised that he too was laughing with his friends, and chatting. And he'd be screaming too, he thought to himself, when Felix pointed out all the roller coasters surrounding the smaller hotels and other attractions. The blond was going to want to go on one, probably the one that looked the most dangerous, as soon as they let him, even if he ended up passing out. Felix always did the same thing.

And Chan was always going to let him get away with riding one, even if it made Felix dizzy, because it also made him happy. He'd say it would be better if he could get on with Felix, check that everything was okay, be there to hold him when he lost consciousness, and that would leave Jisung alone, because Jaehyun refused to participate in crazy ideas like that.

So after getting out of the bumper cars with sore knees, but with their adrenaline pumping, he had already given up. They used the map they had been given on entry to get to the queue for Stunt Fall, the park's star roller coaster, and after fifteen minutes of pent-up nerves and waiting, they found themselves first in front of the roller coaster entrance. Chan went first, Felix behind him, following the directions in English from the staff, and Jisung waited for them to come back for him.

“Are you coming alone?” the boy asked, in a rough accent.

Jisung nodded, his throat suddenly dry, and he began to regret it as he realised he was being led to the opposite area where Felix and Chan had been placed. But he said nothing. It wasn't worth it. He was sure that the boy who was guiding him had already been annoyed at having to speak in English, which he had probably put on his résumé for the sake of puffing it up, and he didn't want to bother him with useless protests. 

He didn't feel able to formulate a sound, anyway. His vocal cords were as strained as the muscles in his shoulders, and if the girl in the seat next to him noticed it as the staff secured the harness on his body and the belt on his lap, she said nothing. Jisung closed his eyes and tried to swallow, highly attentive to the remaining people before the attraction was full and they could start. It was going to be hell.

“First time?” he heard from his left, as he watched the same staff member lead the couple who had waited behind his friends and him to a seat even further towards the back of the seating rows.

“First time?” the girl repeated, this time in English. Jisung turned to her all too quickly, utterly convinced he was experiencing déjà vu. This time he didn't need to squint to focus his eyes in the dark, but to make sure that the girl he had failed to greet nervously as he sat down wasn't Abril. She didn't actually look anything like her, her skin slightly paler and her hair chaotically curly and much darker, but she was the owner of a similar smile. Broad, kind, luminous.

Jisung nodded again, too overwhelmed to do anything else.

“Not mine,” she said, as if it were a matter of pride. “I always come with my friends when I can. It's pretty awesome, but you don't have to be afraid of safety. Nothing's going to happen to you, I promise.”

“Huh..., thanks.”’ he murmured, taking another breath of air.

A pause. Jisung concentrated on his breathing, on trying not to start shrieking too soon, on anything but his hands starting to shake.

“Do you want me to distract you for a bit?” the girl asked, catching his attention again, tilting her head to one side, her hands loosely attached to the harness, “or would you rather I leave you alone?”

Jisung was grateful to be able to choose. It gave his brain a sense of being in control of something, even if before she finished pronouncing the second part of the question he was already willing to say yes to the first option. He would give anything to pretend he wasn't about to die.

“A..., a distraction would be nice, actually,” he managed to mutter, his words causing the girl's sharp gaze to soften slightly.

“Mm-hm, I'll tell you random stuff then,” she warned him, as if Jisung could back out at any moment. “You can interrupt me whenever you want, I know I can be a pain in the ass. Or you can talk to me if you want, too. Did you come alone?”

“No,” he replied, his voice still trembling a little, glad to be able to focus on something other than the suffocating way the harness was digging into his skin. “I came with two other friends, but we were separated.”

“Oh, you didn't see the sign,” she sighed, scowling as if the information had really hurt her.

“What sign?”

“We didn't see it the first time we came here either,” the girl told him, smiling a shy, apologetic smile. “While you're queuing to get on, there's a sign that says if you don't have a partner to share a seat with, they'll put you with someone who doesn't have one either. That's why they put you with me.”

“You came alone?” asked Jisung.

“Nope,” she said, smiling, “I also came with my friends. But we are five. One gets dizzy so she goes with the one who doesn't have vertigo. And of the other three, last time Lucas went alone, so this time it was my turn. My name is Noa, by the way.”

“Jisung,” he said, more animated. “The same thing happened to me. Felix gets dizzy, so he can't go alone. And I wouldn't be much help either. Heights make me nervous.”

“It's okay, Jisung,” Noa said, savouring every syllable of his name, “you can be of help to me. Sometimes I need to squeeze someone's hand when the curves are too sharp. If you need it too, we can make a deal.”

It sounded good. He knew she would earn nothing off that deal, and that she was proposing it because he was probably so pale he looked sick. It was he who needed to be able to anchor himself to someone so he wouldn't get too overwhelmed, or dizzy, or faint, like Felix. The girl, Noa, was already being helpful to him, and he would be eternally grateful —it was either trust her or ask the boring boy from before to get him out of there and let him put his feet on solid ground. For a moment he even wondered if she was so kind to all the rookies they put next to her when she went alone, or if he had been an exception.

“I'd like to make that deal,” he confided, holding out his hand in front of them.

She took it, and Jisung held his breath, feeling Noa's soft palm against his. He felt her squeeze lightly, shaking both their hands, and had to try not to let it show as a shiver ran down his spine. For a moment he even forgot the way the mask had been sticking to his face and allowed himself to smile a little as he heard Noa's words, “I promise to hold on tight to your hand and let you know what's going to happen so it doesn't catch you by surprise.’

“I promise not to let go of your hand, and to hold on a lot tighter in response,’ he replied, and Noa saw his eyes narrow as he smiled, Jisung’s mask trembling as he let the air that had been choking him in his throat shakily come out.

They didn't separate their hands once the deal was made. Instead, Noa rested them on her lap, humming the song stuck in her head, giving Jisung a chance to observe her. She was tanned, not as tan as Abril, but a caramel shade that made the freckles on her cheeks blend with the wrinkles that formed around her eyes when she smiled. Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail, but the curls spilled over her bare shoulders like waterfalls of coffee. The top she was wearing was bright red, with a straight-across neckline that hugged her chest, crossed by a black fanny pack.

He let his gaze wander until Noa's voice brought him back to reality, “There's only one more minute left. Maybe you should put your hat away so it doesn't fly away.”

Jisung hadn't thought about that. The clothes he was wearing were loose, the way he liked them, and he didn't have a backpack. Jaehyun had all his belongings, as well as Felix’s and Chan's, so he didn't know where he could leave it. Noa must have seen the hesitation in his eyes, because with her free hand, she reached for his head, murmuring a quiet “May I?” and waiting for a nod before taking it. Jisung watched her fold it in half and stuff it as best she could behind her back, tucking it between her skin and the secure grip of her bra. His cheeks flushed red when he realized, but he didn't say anything, letting her settle back.

She gave him a smile, and he did the same, leaning back against the seat, closing his eyes, and breathing deeply. He felt Noa's hand give him a friendly squeeze, and despite the fear building in his chest, nerves rising in his throat, vertigo clouding his mind, he was able to return the squeeze, stroking the back of Noa's hand with his thumb.

And when the ride began, Jisung started screaming.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⭐๋࣭⭑

Once they returned to their starting point, silence fell over the roller coaster. It lasted only a few seconds before shaky sighs and adrenaline-fueled screams began to sound around them, reactions that gradually ranged from euphoria to relief. Jisung would have considered himself in the second group, his heart pumping blood at full speed, if he weren't too busy trying to figure out if all his limbs were still part of his body. His chest rose and fell in hurried movements that felt too much like terrified hyperventilation, and he continued to hold Noa's hand as if his life depended on it.

She belonged to the first group, however. Her hair was somewhat disheveled, she was taking deep breaths, but her eyes shone with the intensity of someone who had just experienced a great adventure. Jisung wanted to memorize that vision, but he felt a tingling sensation on his skin that made him uncomfortable, so he tried to close his eyes and think of something else. The worst part was over. He should have checked what was all about before getting on, because he certainly wouldn't have set foot on Stunt Fall if he knew it had a free-fall section of fifty meters, but at least he was lucky enough to be next to Noa.

While he had been screaming, yelling out phrases in Korean and English, thinking his heart was going to burst out of his chest at any moment and that he was making a fool of himself in front of a beautiful girl, Noa had warned him that the worst moment was coming, and to close his eyes tightly. He had reacted two seconds too late, and by the time he saw the void before him, despite having shrunk down in his seat, his imagination did the rest. It was the longest moment of his life, and he couldn't even recover before the ride played another trick on him with a section where the seats spun on their axis and he ended up upside down.

He didn't know if he wanted to curse Felix for his love of roller coasters, or Abril for inviting him to the Warner.

And then, thinking about the brunette, he remembered the text he'd sent her just a couple of hours earlier, and that if she'd responded to the message, the first person to see the reply would be his brother. He froze for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. If his brother found out he'd been planning to meet a stranger and hadn't told him... He tried to get up abruptly, unaware that he was still strapped into the seat by the harness, and when he felt the straps against his chest, the heat fell over him, overwhelming his senses. He tried to move his hand, which had gone numb from his tight grip on Noa's, and gave her a frightened look.

Noa immediately realised what was going on, and gently slid her hand out of his, taking the back of it to leave a quick, friendly caress, trying to calm him down. She removed the safety bar that had allowed them to hold onto something during the hellish ride and got rid of her own harness before jumping down to solid ground and starting to undo Jisung’s. She removed rings and buckles with the speed of someone who knows how they work, and barely a minute later she had taken Jisung’s arm to walk him out, to one of the aisles closest to the Stunt Fall, the one Noa knew was less crowded. Jisung allowed her to lead him, his gaze clouding and his ribcage choking him, and he tried to focus on his breathing.

Jisung knew he was losing control of the situation, and the devastating realization of it made him even more uneasy. The heat wasn’t helping, with its syrupy stickiness clinging to him, and even though  the shirt he was wearing was quite thin—he could feel Noa’s palm on his arm—it stuck to his skin with sweat. The mask adhered to the curve of his mouth, damp and cloying, and he tried to take it off with a trembling hand while following Noa with shaky legs. He had no idea if it was all his anxiety side effects or also the feeling after going on the roller coaster, but he was shivering. And it was so hot, he genuinely thought he would faint right there. He would faint, and his brother would never find him, and no one would actually come looking for him.

“Hey, Sung,” Noa murmured, helping him lean his back against the wall, rubbing his arms, keeping him grounded, “can I call you Sung, mm?”

Jisung nodded, closing his eyes tightly, concentrating on inhaling, concentrating on exhaling. That was important. He knew regulating his breathing was important. But he also knew it was stupid for him to be having this completely dramatic reaction after everything had already happened. The normal thing, what would have happened to a normal person, was for him to be overwhelmed when he had no idea what the ride would be like. It didn't make sense like this. And while focusing on how pathetic he felt wasn't helping this attack end quickly, he couldn't help it. All the tricks he should have used had vanished from his head, his mind blank, like it always did when anxiety started to bubble in his chest and he wasn't in the comfort of his room, or with one of his members.

“Listen, you're doing great, okay?” He listened again and tried to focus his gaze on Noa's eyes, concentrating on where the chocolate brown turned into hazel, losing himself in the depths of her pupils. “But I'm going to need you to breathe with me, okay? Do you think you can do it?”

Jisung processed her words, frowning at the persistent dizziness he felt tingling at his temples, but nodded again. Noa had chosen a shaded area, and the wall was somewhat cool. He could do it; he wasn't losing his mind. He had to do it so he could apologize properly. A girl like Noa didn't deserve someone like him ruining a pleasant May afternoon with her friends. So he pretended the chill that crept over his skin had been from anxiety and not from her when he felt Noa's hand slide down to rest on his chest.

“Is that okay?” she asked, barely a whisper, and Jisung simply nodded.

It was sweet, gentle, the way she'd placed her hand on his shirt, on his skin, as if time had stopped, as if there was no rush, as if she'd done that routine many times before. Anyone with anxiety who had someone to lean on in moments like those was very lucky, but having Noa was a gift. Jisung hadn't thought of himself as a burden for her, not even when he was still sitting on the roller coaster. She'd made him think it was a team effort, that she needed to help him as much as he needed the help. His breath caught in his throat when he felt one of Noa's fingers brush against the skin of his chest, accidentally slipping through the hole between two buttons, and he closed his eyes.

She seemed not to notice, too worried about ensuring his well-being, and continued with her rehearsed choreography. She took the hand that hadn't been abused by the ride, gently grabbing it by the wrist, and placed it on her own chest, slowly raising it with a breath, guiding him to do the same. Jisung's eyelids fluttered, feeling more clearly how smooth the skin of her collarbone was, soft and delicate beneath his guitarist fingers, and he forced himself to mimic the calm rise and fall of her chest.

They didn't exchange a word, there was no need for it, until Jisung felt sane enough to look at her again. They were only inches apart, arms pressed together, her hands on his, and though he could only hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, he felt hers, like a reflex, quicken beneath his fingertips.

Noa had beautiful eyes. Not only that, but the smile she offered hid a hypnotic tone that made him want to follow her wherever she wanted to go. For a moment, he considered doing so. For a moment, just an instant, he wanted to disappear with her, let her take him far away. But he couldn't. He was trapped, between the wall and her hands, between the wall and her gaze, and he didn't want to escape eihter. Not from her, at least.

Every second that passed was spent memorizing all the intermingled shades of mahogany and caramel in her irises, and when he realized he hadn't taken his eyes off hers even once, he was shocked. Jisung was incapable of maintaining eye contact for more than a few seconds with anyone.

“That's my girl! Now kiss him!”

The spell between them was broken as soon as Noa processed those Spanish words, and Jisung's body gravitated over hers, chasing after her when she moved slightly away from him. He stood a few inches from her, coming back to reality, and realized his chest was rising and falling more calmly.

“He was having a panic attack, you idiot," she whispered, her deep, strong tone contrasting with the gentleness of her hands against his skin.

The boy, a mess of walnut hair who had appeared unannounced, had a mischievous smile on his lips right until he heard the word panic—that wasn't that different in Spanish than in English, Jisung had been able to understand it—after which he approached them with a worried expression, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Do you need ice? Do you want us to find you somewhere cooler?” he asked, still speaking in a language Jisung didn't understand, dividing his attention between him and Noa.

“Please use English,” she asked, absentmindedly circling the backs of Jisung's hands with her thumbs. “He's a foreigner. And he's already had enough with what he just went through, he doesn’t need to worry about what we're actually saying.”

The boy nodded, turning somewhat serious, and put a safe distance between himself and Jisung, so as not to overwhelm him.

“Sorry.”

Then Noa turned to Jisung, her lips curling into an attentive smile, and asked, “Remember I mentioned my friends earlier?”

Jisung nodded, remembering every word he and Noa had exchanged.

“This is Lucas,” Jisung looked back at the boy, who had been standing apart from them, as if waiting for Noa to give him directions. He looked like he had just taken a nap, his hair sticking out in all directions, and Jisung noticed one particular strand dyed blonde near his bangs. “Her twin sister is the girl I told you about, the one who gets motion sickness on the roller coaster. She also has anxiety, so he’s asking if you need ice or a cooler place.”

“Huh, thanks, Lucas… Noa.” Jisung’s gaze flickered from one to the other, suddenly nervous. He wasn’t used to that kind of attention, all fixed on him, as if they were analyzing his every move. At least not this close. “I think I'm better.”

“Oh,” Noa murmured, clearing her throat and taking a step back. Jisung felt a chill at losing the warmth Noa's hands had provided, and he wanted to rest them on her skin again. He suppressed it. “Sure.”

“I'm grateful, really,” he repeated, realizing he'd just rejected her a bit rudely. Noa's gaze had fluttered, a little hurt, and Jisung hadn't liked it in the least. It wasn't fair, after everything she'd done for him. “But I should go, my friends…”

“Yeah, of course,” she affirmed, taking another step back, toward Lucas, and he approached her as well, like two planets orbiting on the same axis. Almost as if the Spanish boy's presence comforted her. “I understand, they must be worried.”

“I didn't mean to…”

“Hey, we made a deal,” she reminded him, forcing a smile on her rosy lips, “we're already off the Stunt. I'm glad I was of help.”

The deal was to hold hands tightly, Jisung thought. And now she was letting him go. That wasn't part of what they'd agreed to do.

“If he’s with his friends, we can always join groups…” Lucas suggested, placing a protective hand on Noa's waist. Feeling Lucas's arm around her back, however, Noa realized she was still holding Jisung's hat, pinned between her skin and her bra, and her eyes widened, reaching for her top to grab it and wanting to return it to its owner.

“Jisung!”

His heart skipped a beat at the sound of his name. At the end of the hall, striding forward, was Abril. He almost didn’t recognise her, with her hair loose and disheveled, and those oversized gray pants. She waved her hand, smiling as if her life depended on it, with the same bright vibe that had dazzled him the day before.

Jisung had no idea how she'd been able to recognize him, given how impeccably dressed he'd been at the event and how sickly he looked at that moment, but he supposed his ash-blonde hair and mask would have characterized him enough. Lucas spun around, frowning.

“Do you both know this guy?” he said, receiving an automatic smack from Noa for continuing to use Spanish. “Are you switching me for him? On my own birthday?”

“No, you moron,” Abril said, and Jisung found it odd to hear her voice in a softer tone, using English to communicate instead of the Korean they'd spoken the previous afternoon. “This is the guy I told you about yesterday, Han Jisung.”

“Ahh,” Noa said, holding the soft wool of Jisung's dark hat between her fingers, placing him in her memories, “the nice guy from Balmain. Honestly, I hadn't remembered the name, sorry.”

“It's okay,” he said, shrugging. For someone unfamiliar with Korean culture, understanding how names worked or remembering one must have been difficult. It certainly was for him with their Spanish names.

“I still don't get it,” Lucas interrupted.

“You were drunk yesterday,” Abril reminded him, reaching their level and bowing her head slightly towards Jisung. He did the same. “You made a terrible joke, let me remind you… Oh, jamón serrano. Ham in English. Ham, because of Han. He's one of the members of the group Carla likes.”

“Carla is another of our friends, but she didn't come today,” Noa informed Jisung, while Lucas nodded distractedly. He made an affirmative noise, too, indicating to his friends that he remembered, and was about to comment on the matter, searching for the right English words, but got completely cut off when someone shouted, again, behind him. And again, his name. Although this time it was his brother's unmistakable voice. Jisung grimaced and turned slowly, avoiding eye contact.

Instead, he directly faced the furrowed brows of Felix and his hyung, Chan, who had followed Jaehyun into the hallway, and they relaxed imperceptibly when they realized Jisung was okay—not so much when they realized he was surrounded by strangers.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Lucas said, putting himself between Jisung and the three Koreans who had just arrived, “do you even know each other?”

Jisung stood still for a moment, wondering who the question was directed at, but before he could process the situation and intervene to explain it, his older brother stepped forward, standing face to face with Lucas, and answered in broken English, “I’d like to know if you know him at all, because he doesn’t seem really comfortable in your presence, now does he?”

Jisung shifted uncomfortably at the sharp tension between the two boys, watching the incredulous looks of Felix and Chan, who were as stunned as he was to have witnessed such a scene. And especially coming from his manager, always so calm. Jaehyun never let his emotions, especially his anger, spill over into his actions. At least not if he could help it. But before Chan could jump in and try to resolve the misunderstanding, Abril and Noa burst into laughter behind them.

“Lucas, he looks so much like Jisung,” Noa said, gently punching Lucas in the chest, pulling him away from the manager a little. Her face was still gripped by almost uncontrollable laughter, but she managed to explain what had happened: “I'm sure he's his brother or something.”

“It's actually a little surprising that you didn't notice,” Abril added, tilting her head to the side, trying to suppress her smile behind Noa's shoulder. “Your protective cocky side came out, how cute.”

Jisung watched Lucas blush, muttering an apology to Jae, who accepted it with a nod, and stepped back so Jisung could join his friends. The first to approach when Jisung was close enough was his brother, putting his arm around his shoulders and asking him in Korean if he was okay. He explained that he hadn't been, but thanks to the girl he'd sat next to in the roller coaster, he was feeling better now. Noa smiled at the sound of her name, and Jisung found himself smiling back, adding that she'd been the perfect  companion for the ride.

“I'm glad you had someone up there,” Jaehyun stated, looking toward the attraction, which had started up again, and feeling guilty for not having ridden with his little brother. “Are you going to introduce us to the fashion girl and her friends?”

Jisung blinked, confused, thinking that Jae's next action as manager would be to rudely say goodbye, probably still angry, and send them back to the hotel, but he didn't let his brother think twice and nodded with a shy smile, turning to the three Spaniards.

“Guys, this is my brother and manager Han Jaehyun,” he began, placing his hand on the one Jae had on his shoulder. “Then there's Lee Felix,” he continued, allowing the blond to give one of his brightest smiles, “and Bang Chan hyung, our leader.”

Then he turned to his new friends and prayed he pronounced their Spanish names correctly. “I met Abril yesterday on the runway, because she was sitting next to me. Noa was the one who saved me a moment ago, and made me survive the Stunt Fall,” he paused, looking at the third member of the trio, and finished the introduction, “and Lucas, huh, the friend who thinks I'm jam.”

“Jamón,” he corrected. “Yummy, Spanish ham.”

“They're some of the ones that appear in the albums Carla buys,” Abril explained, turning to Noa and Lucas, who didn't seem to recognize them very well—it was true that with makeup they looked different, Jisung thought. “Stray Kids, for whom she had saved up for the concert in Madrid and couldn't go because it was canceled due to COVID.”

Noa nodded, as if she already knew all this information, but Lucas was staring at Chan.

“Luc, you're creepy,” Abril told him. “Stop, please.”

She saw Chan blush slightly under the Spaniard's insistent attention, but didn't say a word. Jisung couldn't quite tell if his leader was uncomfortable or nervous, but he knew Lucas's carefree nature was jarring him a bit.

“It just seems familiar, but I can't quite place him,” Lucas explained.

“Oh, I know!” Noa exclaimed. “It's from the Korean reggaeton music video! He's one of the ones where he plays the bodyguard!”

“Korean reggaeton?” Chan asked, confused.

“Maknae on top,” Abril replied, and their leader raised her eyebrows in understanding. “Carla, our Stay friend, plays us your songs if they say things in Spanish or have a Latin rhythm.”

“But Lucas recognizes Chan because there was a time when you wouldn't stop playing the video over and over again,” Noa informed, grinning sideways, waiting for the barely suppressed cry of alarm that Abril exclaimed when she was exposed.

“I'm a Seventeen fan, shush,” she confessed, but her face had turned a little red. “Anyway, I'm sure you don't like talking about these things.”

“Oh, we like knowing that people like our music, don't worry,” Felix said, smiling, enjoying the chaos. “I'm the one who says ‘Felix Navidad’ in a song called Christmas Eve.”

“And your name is Felix,” Lucas said, letting out a laugh, “Hilarious.”

“Jisung and Chan are the ones who write and produce all their songs,” Abril added.

“And Changbin,” Jisung added, his voice barely a whisper. He still couldn't believe they were actually having such a casual conversation with them.

“And Changbin,” Abril confirmed, smiling at him.

“Ugh, enough about work,” Noa interrupted, stretching out her arms and rotating her wrists, as if standing still for so long bothered her. “Do you want us to show you around? We can even go back for a walk around Madrid, if you want.”

The three of them automatically looked at Jaehyun, waiting for an answer, and he tried to keep a straight face, crumbling the moment Felix tugged on his shirt sleeve like a little kid, taking advantage of his adorable pout. Jae shrugged, deflating like a balloon as he exhaled a tired sigh, and Chan placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, but still couldn't help but smile victorious.

“You know what the limits are,” he said in Korean, looking at Jisung, as if he were the one to blame for everyone's enthusiasm. “And that you don't know these people. They could be fans, they could be stalkers.”

“Mr. Han, if I may,” Abril interrupted softly, in Korean, approaching slowly and timidly, as if she didn't want to get Jisung into trouble. “It's true that I'm a fan of their work and I'm familiar with the K-pop world, but we're not sasaengs.”

Jaehyun made the attempt to interrupt her, but Abril was quicker. “I can give you my word, and speak on behalf of my friends, that we simply want to make a good impression of Spain on your first visit to the country. If you don't trust me, which I understand, I can show you the content I make on my social media, as well as Noa's, and even provide documentation certifying that everything I've said is true.”

“I have no idea what Abril said, but I want you to know that nothing I've proposed is meant maliciously,” Noa added, approaching them. “We just want to have a good time because Jisung is a wonderful person, and I'd really like to spend more time with him and introduce him to my friends.”

Jaehyun stared at the two girls for a long moment, deciding how sincere they were.

“And your Stay friend?”

“Carla has been in New York for a couple of weeks, attending talks about her research,” Abril said. “She'll be jealous when she finds out, but she won't act crazy. She has more important things to think about than obsessing over the daily lives of idols, no matter how much of a fan she is.”

The battle of hard, unwavering brown stares between the Spaniard and his older brother lasted a few more moments, Abril maintaining a sincere smile on her curved lips and her back tense as a bow, while Jaehyun debated whether to accept her words or not. Finally, he extended his hand.

“I'm going to need you to sign NDA’s,” he said slowly, his chest warming as he watched the joy gradually light up Jisung's face. “You're a kind girl, and you seem sincere, so I'll respect that.”

“Thank you very much,” she replied, accepting the compliment with a nod.

“I already took care of investigating your social media last night, after seeing you talking to Jisung, anyway,” he added, with a mischievous smile.

Abril burst out laughing and turned to her friends to explain what they had just discussed. Felix hugged Jisung, excited, but Jisung waited to see the way Noa's eyes lit up as she processed the conversation between Jaehyun and Abril from her friend's lips, in her own language.

Jisung liked Noa. He liked the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, and the soft curve of her arms when she hugged them close to her body. He liked the way she had a habit of rolling her knees and wrists every now and then, or the mischievous look her smile took on when you least expected it. And he liked knowing that even though there were still a lot of details about her to discover, he would have a little more time to uncover them little by little.

Lucas whistled, drawing everyone's attention, and said, “I think the manager is going to need three more contracts.”

Jisung turned to him and saw three more people approaching them behind him. He assumed they were more of Noa's friends, given the familiarity with which Lucas had spoken about them, and Noa herself confirmed it as soon as she noticed Jisung's questioning gaze on her.

One of the girls was undoubtedly Lucas's twin, her blond hair falling behind her and the same curve in her smile. The only boy, also blond, had his arms covered in tattoos and walked a step behind them, completely in his head. Walking in the middle, approaching with her phone in her hand and the terrifying glare of an angry mother, was a Latina woman wearing a pretty blue summer dress. And she was the first to open her mouth.

“Oh, you think it's so funny!” she exclaimed in Spanish, seemingly unaware that there were other people with them. “Get off the Stunt, disappear, and then show no sign of life! I don't know what you want your phone for! You always have it in your hand, but you never use it when you're supposed to!”

The blond boy behind her quietly cleared his throat, hiding a smile behind his fist, and the soft noise seemed to bring the angry Latina out of her head. She stopped, almost swallowing all the words she'd been about to blurt out, and looked at Jisung, her gaze softening instantly and her lips curling in a gesture of welcome.

“Hey, guys. Sorry, I didn't see you.”

“In English, Nea,” Lucas said quietly, deciding not to make any mistakes—choosing his battles wisely when it came to his oldest friend.

“Oh, in English then,” she repeated, switching languages. “Sorry for the show. It's just that they disappeared and we couldn't find them.”

“Don't worry,” Chan said before anyone could say anything.

“Who are you, then?” she asked, and Jisung knew the motherly attitude wasn't a facade, because all her friends seemed to be circling around her like ducklings chasing after their mama duck.

“Jisung,” Noa began, “the guy Abril met yesterday sat next to me at the Stunt because they were odd numbers. Chan and Felix, along with him, are part of the K-pop group Carla likes, and Jaehyun,” she paused, looking at Jisung’s brother, waiting for his approval to know she’d pronounced his name correctly, “is their manager. And Sung’s older brother. I mean, Jisung’s older brother.”

Jisung couldn’t help but smile at the nickname.

“Oh,” whispered the blonde girl, sheltering with her twin brother, “welcome to Spain.”

“This is Isabel, Lucas’s sister,” introduced the Latina with a thick American accent, taking a step forward and indicating the names of the newcomers with her hand. “My name is Atenea, and this is Miguel.” The tattooed boy made a military salute with his fingers. Then he crossed his arms behind Atenea’s figure, as if he were her bodyguard, and Jisung jumped when she clapped her hands in the air. “So! Oh, sorry, Jisung,” she said, suppressing a smile, “I’ve had a couple of coffees today, I’m full of energy. So, do you guys want to go for a walk with us around Madrid? It’s Lucas and Isa’s birthday, and we’re going out to celebrate.”

“No walks downtown,” Jaehyun said, shaking his head.

“Then we can stay at the Warner, right?” Atenea waited for the manager to nod, with a victorious smile, and added, “Any friend of my girls is a friend of ours, and that means you’re already part of the group. Maybe I should offer my condolences; we’re a bit chaotic.”

“No more than all of these guys when they’re together,” Jaehyun replied, relaxing a little at Atenea’s words. Jisung understood why his brother seemed more willing to trust her: she was the force keeping all her menaces under control, just like Chan. People like them could always be trusted.

“You need to discuss the NDA’s with him,” Abril told her, and Atenea gave him a sweet smile.

“We'll talk about NDA’s, then,” she agreed. “Do you do this often?”

“It's a first.”

Jisung couldn't help but smile when he saw Jae getting along well with Athena, and even less so when he saw Noa and Abril surreptitiously high-five each other. He got carried away when each of them linked arms with his, asking him what he thought of the amusement park so far, and what he'd like to do next.

“I know a food stand where you can get something to get over the shock of the Stunt Fall,” Lucas interrupted, joining them almost immediately, unable to stay quiet for long. “Your friend Felix is ​​still a little pale.”

Jisung widened his smile, knowing his best friend would appreciate a sweet drink to recover from his fainting spell, and also the thoughtfulness of the Spaniard. He glanced back quickly, seeing that Chan had made his way next to Atenea and Jaehyun, both of them trying to draw Miguel into the conversation so he wouldn't be left alone—he didn't seem to know much English.

Felix, who was indeed still a little pale, had approached Isabel, who had fallen behind a bit, and had just whispered, “Happy birthday.”

Jisung could get used to it.