Sam🫰🏻

B A N G C H A N

How Do I Tell Him? ≈

Just Like Him [part one] [part two] ≈ ∞

L E E M I N H O

Stuck Wanting You [part one] [part two] ≈ ∞

[REQUESTED] The Cure ≈ ∞

S E O C H A N G B I N

Cash vs Chemistry (AU) ≈ ∞

H W A N G H Y U N J I N

No Feelings ≈

H A N J I S U N G

Misunderstandings (AU) ≈ ∞

[REQUESTED] Fat, Funny Friend ≈ ∞

L E E F E L I X

The Table By The Window ∞

K I M S E U N G M I N

Never Too Much ≈ ∞

Comfort After Cancellation ∞

Y A N G J E O N G I N

Time Changes Everything (AU) ∞

The Bet (AU) [part two]∞ ≈

S E R I E S

The SKZ Playlist: Rosie edition ≈ ∞

Chapter Three

You stared at the message that you'd received after the last.

Unknown Number: Did you survive today?

It was a simple question, but one that still turned your brain to mush. The ridiculous thing was that your heart immediately knew who it was messaging you before your brain caught up.

Minho.

You dropped your phone onto your chest and groaned. Of course, it was him. Who else would text like that?

The screen lit up again as the message remained open, still waiting for a response. The normal thing would be to reply, except every possible response made you want to launch yourself directly into traffic.

Thanks for checking on me.

Too sincere.

Sorry about crying in your taxi.

Too embarrassing.

Who is this?

A blatant lie.

You sighed dramatically and picked your phone back up. Before you could overthink it, your thumbs moved.

You: Barely.

You sent it before your brain had the chance to catch up, but once you saw ‘delivered’ under the message, regret immediately flooded your system.

"Oh shit."

You launched yourself from your bed, hands flapping uselessly as you paced the length of your room. Your phone lay face down as your thoughts ran wild.

Why had you replied?

Why had you said that?

Why—

Your phone buzzed not even a minute later. You’d missed the three dots pop up nearly immediately. Your stomach dropped, but you took a deep, steadying breath and picked up your phone.

Unknown Number: That's probably my fault.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You covered your mouth immediately, staring at the screen. Your fingers hovered above the keyboard before you decided to throw caution to the wind.

You: Definitely your fault.

The reply came almost instantly, like he'd been waiting with his phone in hand. The thought made your stomach do something strange.

Unknown Number: I knew I should've left you outside the bar.

You smiled despite yourself.

You: You're too nice for that.

The typing bubble appeared, and you chewed at your lip as you waited for his reply.

Unknown Number: Don't spread rumours.

Your smile widened. For some reason, talking to him was easy - embarrassingly easy. There was no pressure, no overthinking every word or wondering if he secretly wished he was talking to somebody else. Just simple, comfortable messages.

Your thumbs moved before you could stop them.

You: How was the rest of your night after me?

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Unknown Number: Terrible.

You: Worse than a stranger crying in your taxi and refusing to go home?

Unknown Number: A woman threw up in my taxi.

You stared for a second before bursting out laughing. A second message came through quickly.

Unknown Number: I blame you.

You: That seems unfair.

Unknown Number: You're my only point of reference.

Your phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number: Also, Felix gave me your number. Just so you know who to blame.

You groaned because of course it was the meddlesome blond.

You: I hate him.

Unknown Number: Get in line.

An unexpected warmth settled somewhere in your chest. It felt dangerous. You couldn't remember the last time a conversation had felt this effortless.

Your phone buzzed again, pulling you back to your screen.

Unknown Number: You know, most people introduce themselves before crying in my taxi.

Heat rushed to your face, and you buried your face in your pillow. You were mortified.

You: Can we never talk about that again?

Unknown Number: Need I remind you that you brought it up first?

You: I’m allowed to.

Unknown Number: Nope.

The smile was still on your face when three familiar knocks sounded against your bedroom door. Your heart immediately stuttered, everything inside you shifting. You knew that knock; you probably always would. The warmth in your chest disappeared beneath something far more familiar, and far more dangerous.

Han.

Your eyes flicked between your phone and the door. The conversation with Minho remained open; three dots still sat beneath his latest message. You quickly locked your screen, but you felt stupid for doing so. Why were you acting guilty? You weren't doing anything wrong.

Another knock sounded, and you stood before you could think too hard about it. Before you could question why your pulse had suddenly sped up. Before you could reply to Minho.

Before you could do anything except follow years of habit.

The door opened, and there he was. One hand was already up and resting against the doorframe, and he was wearing your favourite soft, grey hoodie. His hair was messy, and that familiar smile was already pulling at his lips.

"Hey."

Your heart stuttered in your chest, just like it always did.

"Hey."

Han looked at you for a moment before his smile widened, and suddenly, remembering to answer a text message was the last thing on your mind.

“Seungmin’s gone out. Wanna watch a film together?”

Right. Because that’s how it always starts – with a film that always goes unwatched.

You step back to let him in, and the door clicks shut behind him. The lock snaps into place with a finality that makes your stomach clench. He’s here, despite the glossy-eyed girl from yesterday, despite the cheap perfume still clinging to him from his date. You can’t help but wonder if he kissed her. You guys never kissed on the lips. It wasn’t that personal, you told yourself time and time again. Friends didn’t need to kiss if they were just sleeping together.

His gaze locks onto you, dark and hungry, and you know exactly what he wants—same as always. Your body betrays you, nipples tightening under his perusal, thighs pressing together.

Film. You’re watching a film.

You step away and settle on your bed, patting the spot next to you as you pull your laptop closer. You’d ask what he wants to watch, but you both know it doesn’t matter. You never watch it anyway, and Han never stays long enough to see the ending.

The film started, and as always, he didn't waste time. You felt his arm come up and around your shoulders, his calloused fingers tracing the strap of your tank top before dragging it down your shoulder. He turned to you, lips brushing your bare shoulder as he hummed against you. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, straight to the space between your thighs. Pushing himself up, he hovered over you as cool air hit your bare skin, but his hands were hot, searing as they cupped your breasts through your top, thumbs flicking over your nipples until they were stiff and aching.

"You’re always so ready for me," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in. His lips grazed your neck, and you shivered, tilting your head to give him better access. His fingers trailed lower, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, before they slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts and panties in one smooth motion. You both never took your time, but you didn't need to. You didn't make love, and you only had so long before Seungmin was back. You were already wet for him, and he groaned when his fingers slid through your slick folds.

"Fuck," he breathed, dragging a finger back through your folds and up to your clit. "Soaked."

You whimpered as he circled your clit with his thumb, pace almost punishing, moaning loudly as he suddenly pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right to send delicious shivers up your spine. Your hips jerked forward, needing more, and he chuckled, massaging your gummy walls harder. Your laptop flickered behind you both, some rom-com playing on mute, but neither of you cared. His thumb slowed, circling in slow, maddening strokes while his fingers continued to fuck into you, deep and relentless.

"Han—" you gasped, nails digging into his arms. He brought the index finger of his free hand up to your lips, hushing you as your moans grew louder. His gaze burnt into you as he watched you wriggle beneath him, trying to both chase and escape the building pressure in your abdomen. You wanted to cum desperately, but you didn’t want this to end so soon.

"You want my dick?" he asked, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound. You whimpered at the loss, but he was already shoving his own shorts down, his cock springing free, thick and flushed.

You subconsciously licked your lips at the sight of his leaking slit, shuffling to the side of your bed and dropping to your knees as you wrapped your fingers around his shaft. He was already hard, but you jerked him slowly, savouring the way his breath hitched, the way his hips jerked forward. You licked over the tip, tonguing the slit and relishing the taste of salt on your tongue before taking him deep.

"Fuck—" Han groaned, his fingers tangling in your hair. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking hard as you pumped the base of his cock with your hand. After sleeping with Han and studying what brought him pleasure, you knew just how to use your mouth to bring him to the edge. You also knew that if you brought your other hand to cup his balls and roll them gently, he’d lose some of his control. He did just that, hips stuttering forward as he fucked your mouth in shallow thrusts, his grip tightening before he pulled you off his cock.

"Enough," he panted, pulling you up by your arms. He spun you around, pushing you onto your hands and knees on the bed. You and Han had never fucked facing each other, never had that connection during sex. Your shorts and panties were yanked down in one rough motion, leaving you bare and needy beneath him.

You heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper behind you, and then the head of his cock was pressing against your entrance, slick with lube. He didn't tease you – didn't waste what little time you had - before he slammed into you in one deep thrust, filling you completely. You cried out, your fingers clawing at the sheets as he set a punishing pace, his hips snapping against your ass.

"Look at you. Taking my dick so well," he moaned quietly, his hands gripping your hips to keep them up as you collapsed forward into your pillow.

His right hand left your hip to sneak around to the apex of your thighs where your clit sat, throbbing for attention. You almost screamed out as his fingers worked you over, matching the rhythm of his thrusts effortlessly. The stimulation was too much, and you were already close, your walls fluttering around him. He leant down, biting your shoulder as he grunted, his cock twitching inside you.

Your phone buzzed, and for a second, you were distracted, remembering the conversation you were halfway through before Han came to your door. Your head snapped up to where it was hidden under your pillow, but you were quickly pulled back into the moment by Han’s voice in your ear.

"Come for me," he ordered, his voice rough. One flick of his thumb over your clit and you shattered, your orgasm ripping through you as you cried out his name. He followed with a groan, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into the condom, his hips stuttering against your ass.

You collapsed onto the bed, your chest heaving. You felt Han pull out and heard him shuffle about behind you, disposing of the condom before flopping onto his back beside you. The movie was still playing, some couple laughing on screen, oblivious to the mess the both of you had just made. You forced yourself over onto your back and stared at the ceiling, your body still thrumming with aftershocks.

Your heart ached in a way it never had before.

Han shifted beside you, his fingers brushing your thigh. "Thanks, Y/N.”

You bit back the words you wanted to say—the ones that would ruin everything. Instead, you forced a smirk, rolling onto your side to face him. "My pleasure."

You forced yourself to keep the smirk on your face until he was gone, the door closing softly behind him. Once he was gone, tears filled your eyes. You felt disappointed in yourself. He hadn’t cared about you last night, had gone for coffee with another girl today, and you’d still slept with him.

Fuck, you were pathetic.

Your phone buzzed once more under your pillow, and you cringed internally.

Lee Know.

He'd been waiting for a reply for a while now, and you’d just dipped from the conversation with no warning. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much, but it did. Maybe it was because he showed interest, or maybe it was because he seemed to genuinely care.

You shook your head, wanting to clear those thoughts from your head. They were too dangerous, too new. You reached under the pillow and pulled your phone out to see multiple unread messages.

Unknown Number: Hello?

                                    You’ve not disappeared into another random taxi, have you?

                                     Y/N?

It was the last one that made you pause, that caused the pieces of your broken heart to flutter.

Unknown Number: I’m sorry if I took the joke too far. Just let me know you’re alive.

You couldn’t remember Han having ever apologised for taking jokes too far. You couldn’t remember him ever checking in with you or caring enough to send multiple texts to check you were okay.

Why did a stranger care more than the guy you were sleeping with? More than your friend?

More importantly, why were you comparing them?

You shook your head, saving his number before typing out a reply.

You: I'm alive.

         Sorry. I got distracted.

Minho: For an hour?

You: It was a long day.

Minho: That sounds suspicious.

You: It probably is.

You tried to change the topic, wanting to steer it away from heavier topics. You’d already ruined your first impression by drunk crying in his taxi; you didn’t want to ruin your second one, too.

(If you paid attention to that little voice asking why you cared so much… well, no, you didn’t.)

You: Anyway. You can stop planning my funeral now.

Minho: I hadn't picked flowers yet.

You smiled to yourself again and, once again, you were surprised by how comfortable it felt. How natural it felt speaking to someone you’d ‘known’ for all of two hours. Granted, most of those hours had involved you crying, yet somehow, talking to him felt easier than talking to most people you actually knew.

The thought made you pause.

Your eyes drifted towards your bedroom door, towards the empty hallway beyond it and Han’s room. The smile faded slightly as you thought of what you'd just done. You wondered if you’d ever stop wanting him to stay, needing him to stay.

The familiar ache settled back into your chest as your phone buzzed again.

Minho: Gone again?

You blinked.

You: What?

Minho: You stopped replying.

You stared at the message. For some reason, your throat felt tight. Lately, nobody usually notices when you disappear. Not unless they needed something.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard before you typed out your reply.

You: Sorry. Just thinking.

Minho: About him?

You froze. The two words sat on your screen, simple but painfully accurate. Impossible to avoid. You didn’t know what to say. You knew it was obvious, but you didn’t want to talk about him again with Minho, not when you could carry on with a conversation that felt as easy as breathing.

But you’d also cried in his taxi last night, so.

You: Was it that obvious?

This time, the reply took longer, and a small part of you worried that you’d bored him into not wanting to talk to you anymore. When it finally arrived, it was only one sentence.

Minho: Only to somebody looking.

Something in your chest squeezed painfully. Han hadn’t looked for it if you were being honest. You doubted he even cared enough to notice. You were starting to think that you were just a body for him.

But Minho? Minho looked – cared enough to look. He was so unlike Han, and you couldn’t help but wish that they’d switch attitudes. Or that Lee Know would at least share some of his.

The silence stretched and, once again, you weren't sure what to say to that. Thankfully, Minho spoke first.

Minho: Anyway.

              I have work, so I'd better go.

              Not a great look being on your phone whilst driving.

You found yourself smiling again. The sudden change of topic felt deliberate, as if he'd sensed you spiralling and was offering you an escape route.

You: Saving people from random taxis?

Minho: I save that just for you.

Your heart fluttered, and your stomach flipped. Was he… flirting? No. Definitely not. You’d only met last night, and you’d only had one conversation. There was no way.

There was no way you wanted him to, either… At all.

You: A hero.

Minho: Finally. Someone appreciates me.

You laughed. The sound filled your room, warm in its realness. For the first time since waking up that morning, the ache in your chest eased. Just a little, but more than it had for anything – or anyone - else.

Minho: Try not to cry in anybody else's vehicle.

You gasped. The audacity. Two could play at that game.

You: I save that just for you.

         Goodnight, Minho.

Minho: Sweet dreams.

The conversation ended there. You told yourself that it was just a stupid conversation with a man you'd met in the rain. Yet, as you set your phone down beside you, something felt different. You weren’t fixed, weren’t suddenly healed, and Han still occupied far too much space in your heart. That much hadn't changed. But for the first time in a very long time, you didn't fall asleep thinking about him.

Instead, your final thought before sleep pulled you under was of dark eyes reflected in a rearview mirror. And the stranger who'd stayed when you asked him not to leave.

a/n: Soooo... I promise I'll (try to) get better at the whole smut thing. It was wiiiiiildly out of my comfort zone but I need to include it to highlight the differences OKAY. Anyway, next chapter, reader and Lee Know will meet in person for the first time since meeting ooooop

The bell was still echoing through the corridor when you finally moved.

You didn’t move because either of you wanted to end the conversation, but because if you stayed in that little music room much longer, someone was bound to come looking for the spare key Jeongin had borrowed, and the thought of being found like this—eyes red, emotions skinned raw, your whole relationship cracked open in front of you—made your stomach twist.

You scrubbed at your face with your sleeve one last time and looked at the floor. “I should go to class.”

Jeongin nodded immediately, eyes roaming your face carefully. “Yeah. Okay.”

You felt your heart break all over again at the sound of his voice. It was rough, like he’d spent the last half hour swallowing glass.

For a second, neither of you moved. The room still felt too full of everything that had just been said—too many confessions, too many apologies, too much pain still hanging in the air for either of you to know how to step around it. Eventually, though, Jeongin reached past you for the door handle, careful not to brush your shoulder. It made your chest ache because you realised that he was already trying. He opened the door and stepped back to let you out first.

The corridor outside was mostly empty now, just a few stragglers hurrying to lessons, voices echoing faintly off the walls. You could feel Jeongin behind you, not close enough to touch, but not far enough to disappear either. It was strange, suddenly, after six months of him always at your side or with a hand on your back or his fingers curled loosely around your wrist to steer you through crowds.

Now there was just space. Careful, deliberate space.

You made it halfway down the corridor before he spoke again.

“Do you want me to walk you to class?”

The question was soft, cautious in a way it never had been before, making you stop. Your first instinct was to say no. To put distance between you before this strange, fragile truce could start feeling too familiar, before you forgot even for a second why your chest still hurt.

But then you pictured Jisoo by the benches. The way the whole courtyard had gone quiet when you approached. The possibility of everyone staring if you walked back out there alone with your face still blotchy from crying.

You didn’t want that, didn’t want to give people another reason to laugh and to stare, so after a second, you nodded.

Jeongin looked almost startled by the yes, like he’d braced himself for rejection and hadn’t quite adjusted in time. But all he said was, “Okay.”

He fell into step beside you - not with you, exactly - but slightly behind, giving you room to move away if you wanted to. He kept his hands in his pockets and his gaze mostly on the floor, and if you hadn’t known him so well, you might’ve missed the tension in his shoulders - the way he was clearly thinking too hard about every step, every breath, every inch of space between you.

You hated that you knew him well enough to see it.

The walk to English felt surreal. Students moved around you in little clusters, laughing, complaining about homework, shoving books into lockers. Normal Monday morning chaos, as if the world hadn’t shifted on its axis inside the music room half an hour ago. The contrast was clear when neither of you spoke. There was too much left to say, but it all felt too big for a hallway between first and second period, too sharp and fragile to touch in public.

When you reached your classroom, you stopped outside the door and tightened your grip on your books. Jeongin stopped too, leaving the same careful distance he’d kept the whole walk. He looked like he wanted to say something - a hundred things, probably – but he settled on something simple instead.

“Are you okay to go in?”

The question made something twist in your chest. It was such a Jeongin thing to ask - so instinctive, so familiar, so horribly normal.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat before you replied, “Yeah.”

He nodded before adding after a pause, “If you need to leave class, text me.”

Your eyes flicked up to his face. He looked almost embarrassed the second the words were out, like he knew he didn’t really have the right to offer anymore but couldn’t quite stop himself.

“I’m not saying you have to,” he added quickly, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Just - if it gets too much, or if anyone says anything, or if you need me to come get you, I will.”

You stared at him for a second too long before looking away.

“Okay.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but the relief on his face was immediate.

“Okay,” he echoed softly.

A group of girls pushed past you into the classroom, forcing the moment to break. You stepped back automatically, and Jeongin moved with the same instinctive awareness he always had, shifting out of the way before you could be crowded.

Your throat tightened at the instinctual consideration.

“I should go,” you murmured.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t try to stop you. He didn’t reach for your hand or your sleeve or your bag like he usually would. He just stood there, eyes fixed on your face with that same careful, aching expression, and let you leave. You felt him watching you until you slid into your seat.

The rest of the day was awful. No-one said anything—not to your face, anyway—but now that the conversation had happened, you couldn’t stop replaying it. Every answer. Every flinch. Every apology.

Fifty quid.

It stopped before I asked you out.

I loved you every day.

You spent all of Maths staring at the same half-finished equation without understanding a single number. In history, your teacher called on you twice, and both times you had to ask her to repeat the question because you’d been too busy thinking about the look on Jeongin’s face when you stepped away from him.

By lunchtime, your head was pounding. You escaped to the library with the excuse of homework and sat tucked into the corner behind the nonfiction shelves, picking at the label on your water bottle and trying not to cry from sheer emotional exhaustion.

Your phone buzzed once against the table, and you looked down to see a text message from Jeongin on your screen.

Jeongin: You don’t have to reply. Just checking you’re okay.

Your chest tightened as a second message came through almost immediately after.

Jeongin: Minjae tried to apologise to me at lunch. I told him not to come near you.

You stared at the screen. There was no pressure, no please answer me, and no desperate flood of messages demanding reassurance. It was just information. A check-in.

Slowly, you typed back, settling on a simple I’m fine.

The three little dots appeared so quickly that it was almost ridiculous, before they vanished, just to come back again immediately.

Jeongin: Okay.

                 Do you want me to leave you alone for the rest of today?

The question caught you off guard, and you had to read it a few times to believe it, because Jeongin, for all his many flaws, had never been good at leaving things alone when he was worried about you. If you were upset, he hovered. If you were anxious, he checked in every ten minutes. If you looked remotely overwhelmed, he’d find an excuse to appear at your elbow with water or snacks or that stupid little frown between his brows.

And now he was asking, actually asking.

You swallowed and typed back slowly.

You: No. Just… don’t hover.

The reply came a few seconds later.

Jeongin: Okay. I can do that.

You stared at those four words for a long moment before you locked your phone and shoved it face down on the table, refusing to overthink it.

He did, in fact, stick to his word.

He didn’t come to the library, and he didn’t wait outside your next lesson or materialise at your locker with that soft, worried look that always made your pulse do stupid things, but every time you glanced up in class or crossed the courtyard or moved through the hallway between periods, you had the strange, prickling awareness that if you needed him, he was there.

He wasn’t close enough to crowd. He was just… there.

At one point in the afternoon, as you were heading to the toilets between classes, you caught sight of Jisoo at the far end of the corridor talking animatedly to two girls from your year. She looked up, spotted you, and visibly opened her mouth.

Before she could say anything, Jeongin - who you hadn’t even realised was nearby - stepped directly into her line of sight. He didn’t touch her or make a scene; he just looked at her with such a cold, flat warning that her mouth snapped shut. He then turned and kept walking without even glancing at you.

Your pulse stuttered. It was ridiculous, really, how much that tiny moment affected you. He hadn’t done anything dramatic. Hadn’t marched over to make a speech or demand an apology. He’d just made it clear, in the quietest possible way, that she wouldn’t be getting another shot at you if he could help it.

By the end of the school day, you were exhausted.

Not the normal kind of tired. The deep, full-body exhaustion that came after too much adrenaline and too many emotions and an entire day spent trying to hold yourself together in public. You just wanted to go home.

You were halfway through shoving books into your bag when your phone buzzed again.

Jeongin: I’m outside by the bike racks.                  You absolutely do not have to let me walk you home. I just didn’t want to leave without asking.

You stared at the message.

Then, because apparently your life had become a long series of emotionally catastrophic decisions, you typed back Okay.

By the time you got outside, he was exactly where he said he’d be- leaning against the low wall by the bike sheds, hands shoved deep in his blazer pockets, tie loosened, hair falling into his eyes. He straightened the second he saw you, nervousness flashing across his face so openly it almost made your chest hurt. He didn’t come towards you, just waited.

You adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder and walked over.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi.”

He looked surprised that you’d even answered before nodding towards the gate. “Ready?”

You fell into step beside him, and again, he kept his distance. There wasn’t as much space as there had been in school—there were fewer people on the pavement, less risk of being overheard—but still enough that you could’ve put another person between you. It was strange, that distance. Unnatural. You kept noticing it in tiny, awful ways: when you stepped off the curb and his hand twitched at his side before he stopped himself reaching for you, when you moved closer to avoid a cyclist and he immediately gave you space again, when a gust of wind blew your hair into your face and he looked like he had to physically stop himself tucking it behind your ear.

You wrapped your arms around yourself in an attempt to hold yourself together.

The silence stretched for nearly half the walk before you finally broke it.

“Did you mean it?”

Jeongin looked at you immediately. “Which part?”

You kept your eyes fixed on the pavement when you responded, “When you said you loved me every day.”

The words felt stupid the second they were out of your mouth. Too vulnerable. Too close to asking for reassurance when you still weren’t even sure you had the right to want it.

But Jeongin didn’t laugh or hesitate when he answered.

“Yes.”

Your throat tightened at the certainty in his voice.

“All of it?” you asked quietly. “Even after we’d been together for months and you knew it was getting worse the longer you left it?”

“Yes.”

You stopped walking, and Jeongin stopped too, turning to face you fully on the pavement. There was no one else around this stretch of road, just the hum of distant traffic and the wind tugging at the trees overhead.

“If you loved me,” you said, and your voice shook despite your best efforts, “how could you stand there and let your friends joke about me like that?”

Jeongin’s face crumpled at your question.

“I didn’t let them joke about you,” he said hoarsely. “Not really. Not once I realised how serious this was to me.”

You stared at him, and he dragged a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated with himself. “That sounds bad. I know it sounds bad. What I mean is—if they said anything about you now, I shut it down. Every time.”

“Clearly not every time.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“No,” he whispered. “Not every time.”

The wind shifted around you. Jeongin opened his eyes again, and the guilt in them was almost hard to look at.

“I got too used to trying to act normal around them,” he admitted. “I’d spent so long pretending the bet had never happened that when they made comments, I’d just tell them to piss off and move on because I didn’t want to turn it into a bigger conversation. I thought if I ignored it, it would die.”

He laughed bitterly at his own words, looking away from you as he continued. “It was cowardly. All of it. I know that.”

He took a breath before turning back to you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eye.

“I should’ve cut them off sooner,” he said. “I should’ve told them exactly what you meant to me and made it very clear that none of it was funny. I should’ve told you. I should’ve done about a hundred things differently.”

His voice softened. “But I need you to know this one thing, even if you don’t believe anything else right now. When they talked about you like that, it made me feel sick.”

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, and you could feel the tears threatening to fall again.

“I’m not saying that to make myself look better. It doesn’t. I still stood there and let it happen too many times. But none of them ever understood what you were to me.” His voice roughened. “They were laughing about a version of you that didn’t exist to me anymore. Not after the first few weeks. Not after you started trusting me.”

You swallowed hard as he took a tiny step closer, before he remembered and stopped himself.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he said, “but I’m asking you to believe that part.”

The worst thing was that you did. Or at least, you believed he believed it. Somehow, it just made it all the more confusing.

You resumed walking without a word, and Jeongin followed. He didn’t push for more conversation after that. He just stayed beside you, quiet and careful, matching your pace all the way back to your building.

Chan was sitting on his front steps when you turned the corner. He had a textbook open on one knee and a packet of crisps in his hand, but the second he saw you with Jeongin, his eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline. He studied your face, took in the fact that you didn’t look actively panicked or devastated, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Well,” he drawled, snapping the book shut. “This is new.”

You shot him a look that was half warning, half exhausted plea.

Chan lifted both hands innocently. “I’m just saying. Last time Romeo here was on this pavement, I had to physically send him away.”

Jeongin, to his credit, looked like he knew better than to rise to it, choosing to respond politely, “I’m just walking her home.”

Chan looked between the two of you, clearly clocking the careful distance Jeongin was keeping, and his expression softened by a fraction.

“Mm,” he said. “I can see that.”

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, suddenly desperate to get inside before either of them said anything else.

“I’m tired.”

“Right,” Chan said immediately, standing up and scooping his textbook under one arm. “Inside, then.”

Jeongin’s gaze flicked to you. “I’ll go.”

You nodded, then felt weirdly rude for doing only that.

“Thanks,” you said, voice quiet.

The effect of that one word on him was almost painful to witness. He looked like someone had punched all the air out of his lungs.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Always.”

Chan made a face like he deeply regretted having functioning ears, and you would’ve laughed if you weren’t so tired. Instead, you watched as Jeongin stepped back from the path, giving you room to reach the front door. He didn’t try to follow. Didn’t ask for one more minute or one more conversation or one more chance to explain something he’d already explained. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets and watched you like he was memorising the fact that you were still willing to let him walk you home at all.

“Text me if you need anything,” he said.

Then, before you could panic at the implication of having to answer, he added quickly, “Or don’t. Sorry. Ignore me.”

Chan snorted, and you bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself smiling and fished your keys out of your bag. When you looked back, Jeongin was still there, waiting to make sure you got inside safely.

The sight of it did something unpleasantly soft to your chest.

You unlocked the door and stepped into your house. Chan followed you in, but before he let the door swing shut behind him, he glanced back over his shoulder at Jeongin.

“Go home,” he called. “You look like death.”

Jeongin gave him a tired, unimpressed look before the door closed on him.

That night, after a shower and half a mug of tea you were too drained to finish, you sat cross-legged on your bed in oversized pyjamas and stared at your phone.

You’d been trying to read the same page of your English homework for ten minutes and hadn’t absorbed a single word. Your mind kept drifting back to the walk home, and to Jeongin stopping himself from reaching for you. To the way he’d answered every question like he was trying to hand you something fragile and precious without cutting you on the edges of it.

To the fact that when you’d thanked him, he’d looked like you’d given him oxygen.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you smiled wryly. Speak of the Devil.

Jeongin: Thank you for letting me walk you home.

You stared at the message when another came through.

Jeongin: I meant what I said earlier. You can ask me anything. Any time. Even if it’s 3am and it’s something horrible.

A third bubble appeared, then vanished before another message came through.

Jeongin: Also, I blocked Jisoo.

Your eyebrows rose despite yourself, but before you could ask him about it, another message followed.

Jeongin: And I told Minjae that if he comes near you without your permission, I’ll actually kill him.

You snorted before you could stop yourself and laughed outright at the ones that followed.

Jeongin: Not literally. Probably.                  I know murder would be unhelpful right now.

You bit your lip before typing back.

You: Chan says murder is a disproportionate response.

The reply came so quickly, it was obvious he’d been staring at the screen.

Jeongin: Chan’s just upset he didn’t think of it first.

You huffed another laugh and curled further into your duvet. For a moment, your thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating on whether you should send your next messages before doing it anyway.

You: Thank you for today.          For not pushing.

This time the dots took longer. It was long enough that you wondered if he’d gone to rewrite the message five times before sending it. When it finally came through, it was enough for your chest to tighten.

Jeongin: I’m going to keep trying. Even if all I can do right now is get it right in the small things.

You read the message three times. Then, before you could lose your nerve, you sent one back.

You: Good.

It wasn’t forgiveness or trust. It wasn’t even close to okay.

But it was something.

And judging by the way Jeongin’s reply took nearly a full minute to arrive—as if he’d needed that long to get his hands to stop shaking enough to type—it was enough to keep him going.

Jeongin: Goodnight, Y/N.

You looked at the words on your screen for a long time before answering.

You: Night.

Then you put your phone face down on the pillow beside you and lie back against the headboard, heart still bruised, still uncertain, still nowhere near healed, but no longer entirely convinced that everything between you had been broken beyond repair.

The week after Monday settled into something strange. It wasn’t normal, and it definitely wasn’t okay, but it wasn’t unbearable either. It was a limbo of half-healed things and careful distances, of glances across classrooms and texts that came without pressure attached. You still woke up every morning with that heavy ache in your chest - the one that reminded you, before you were even fully conscious, that something had broken between you and Jeongin and you still hadn’t figured out whether it could be fixed.

But alongside that ache now was something else: expectation.

Because every day, Jeongin showed up. Not in the overwhelming, desperate way he had on Friday - chasing after you, following you, trying to force a conversation you weren’t ready to have. This was different. Quieter. More deliberate. Like he’d taken your hurt and your boundaries and built his whole week around proving he could respect both.

On Tuesday morning, you found a bottle of water and your favourite lemon sweets on the corner of your desk before registration. There was no note, no dramatic gesture. Just the two things sitting there, like they’d appeared by magic.

You turned around automatically, scanning the classroom. Jeongin was two rows back, pretending very hard to be interested in a worksheet he absolutely hadn’t been looking at ten seconds ago. But the second he felt your eyes on him, his gaze flicked up.

Then, almost shyly, he mouthed, “For your headache.”

Your chest tightened. The headache had been real yesterday. You’d spent half of chemistry rubbing at your temple and trying not to let the fluorescent lights split your skull in two. You hadn’t mentioned it to him. Hadn’t texted him. Hadn’t even looked at him much.

He’d just noticed.

You stared at the water for a second too long before unscrewing the cap and taking a sip. When you looked up again, Jeongin had gone back to his worksheet, but there was something softer in the line of his shoulders. Something relieved.

On Wednesday, Minjae tried to approach you outside the library.

You saw him before he reached you - hands shoved into his blazer pockets, expression pinched with the kind of guilt that had probably been chewing him alive since Friday. He hesitated when you looked at him, like he wasn’t sure if you’d walk away immediately, then took another step anyway.

“Y/N, can I just—”

“Minjae.”

The voice came from behind him. Jeongin wasn’t loud, but he didn’t need to be. Something in the flatness of his tone made Minjae stop dead. You looked up to find Jeongin halfway down the corridor, school bag hanging from one shoulder, face unreadable in a way that immediately made your stomach dip.

Minjae turned. “I just want to apologise.”

“I know,” Jeongin said. “Do it somewhere she can choose to leave.”

The corridor went quiet, and Minjae’s face flushed as people turned to watch the drama unfold. “I’m not trying to upset her.”

“Then stop cornering her when she’s alone.”

Something about the way Jeongin said it - calm, but absolutely immovable - made Minjae take a step back. His eyes flicked to you then, properly taking in the way you’d gone tense at being trapped between the library doors and his body, and guilt flashed across his face.

“Right,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

He looked at you again, shoulders slumping. “I am sorry, by the way. For all of it.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know if you wanted his apology or if hearing it from one of the boys who’d stood there laughing would only make everything worse. So, you just nodded once.

Minjae looked like he wanted to say more, but one glance at Jeongin seemed to change his mind. He muttered another apology and left.

The silence he left behind stretched awkwardly. Jeongin stayed where he was. He didn’t come closer or ask if you were okay. He just gave you the space to decide whether you wanted him there at all.

After a second, you exhaled shakily. “Thanks.”

He shrugged one shoulder, trying for casual and failing completely. “He should’ve left you alone.”

You looked at him properly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.”

The answer came so quickly that it caught you off guard. Jeongin seemed to realise it too, because he rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, suddenly awkward.

“I mean…” He swallowed. “I know I can’t fix it. But I can at least stop them from making it worse.”

Your throat tightened as he gave you a tiny nod and headed for his next class before you could think of a response.

By Thursday, Mia had noticed.

She hadn’t noticed the details, obviously. You still hadn’t told anyone the full truth except Chan, and even then, half of it had come out through tears and panic and the kind of emotional exhaustion that made coherent storytelling impossible.

But she noticed the distance.

The way Jeongin still walked you to class sometimes, but never touched you. The way he’d appear with coffee or snacks or a spare pen when you forgot one, only to leave them on your desk and disappear before anyone could make a thing of it. The way he watched you in the hallway was like he was constantly checking whether you were about to bolt.

“You two are weird,” she announced at lunch, shoving a forkful of pasta into her mouth and narrowing her eyes at you over the table. “Not bad weird. Just… weird.”

You nearly choked on your drink at her bluntness. Across the cafeteria, Jeongin was standing by the vending machines with Hyunwoo, visibly not listening to a word the other boy was saying because his eyes kept drifting back to your table every few seconds. You looked away quickly.

“We’re fine,” you lied.

She snorted. “You are many things, babe. Fine is not one of them.”

You kicked her lightly under the table, but she only grinned and stole one of your chips.

The thing was, she wasn’t wrong. You weren’t fine, because every tiny kindness from Jeongin made things harder, not easier. It would’ve been simpler if he’d been sulky. Defensive. If he’d acted like you were punishing him unfairly or expected forgiveness because he’d cried in a music room and told you he loved you. It would’ve been easier to stay angry if he’d made this about getting you back instead of proving he could be what you needed, even if what you needed right now was distance. Instead, he kept doing things like leaving your favourite sweets on your desk. Like texting only once in the evening to ask if you’d eaten after a bad day, and accepting “yes” as a complete answer without trying to turn it into a conversation.

Like waiting outside your maths class on Thursday because he knew presentations made you anxious, only to fall into step beside you and say, very casually, “You looked pretty. I mean—confident. Not pretty because you always—” He stopped, mortified with himself. “Forget I said anything.”

You’d laughed before you could stop yourself. It was a real laugh, sudden and startled and impossible to hold back, and Jeongin had gone completely still at the sound of it, staring at you like he hadn’t expected to hear it again. Then his whole face softened in that awful, lovely way that made your stomach twist.

“There you are,” he murmured, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.

The words hit you like a punch because Chan had said the exact same thing. You looked away immediately, throat tight, and Jeongin’s smile faded at once.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t. Because for the rest of the afternoon, all you could think about was the way his face had looked when you laughed. Like relief. Like homesickness. Like something inside him had finally unclenched after days of holding itself rigid.

And you didn’t know what to do with the fact that it had made your chest hurt.

Friday was the worst day of the week, and nothing particularly bad even happened. It was just one of those horrible, low-level anxiety days where your skin felt too tight, and every sound seemed a fraction too loud, and you couldn’t shake the sense that you were one wrong word away from crying in public. You’d slept badly, had a nightmare about the party that left your heart racing before dawn, and by lunchtime, your hands were trembling so badly you nearly dropped your tray in the cafeteria.

You abandoned food altogether and escaped to the old courtyard behind the art block, where hardly anyone ever went in winter because it was too cold and the benches were damp from the morning rain. You sat on the low stone wall with your knees pulled to your chest and tried to breathe.

In for four.

Hold.

Out for six.

You did it again and again, but the anxiety in your chest wouldn’t ease. You were spiralling further when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You ignored it at first, but a minute later, it buzzed again. Then once more.

Something in your chest tightened painfully. You dragged the phone out with clumsy fingers, half convinced it would be Chan telling you to come round after school, or Mia asking where you’d gone. You were mildly surprised to see it was Jeongin.

Jeongin: You left your bag in chemistry.

Then, thirty seconds later:

Jeongin: I’m not hovering. I swear. Mr Evans noticed and gave it to me.

And finally:

Jeongin: I’m outside the art block. I can leave it by the door if you don’t want to see me.

Your eyes burned unexpectedly, and you looked up, eyes scanning. Sure enough, through the old glass door at the end of the corridor, you could just make out Jeongin’s shape inside the building, your bag hanging from one hand. He wasn’t trying to come out. Wasn’t peering around for you. Just standing there and waiting, giving you the choice.

Your fingers shook as you typed back.

You: You can bring it.

A few seconds later, the door opened, and Jeongin stepped into the courtyard with your bag slung over one shoulder and a cup of something steaming in his free hand. He stopped the second he saw your face properly. You weren’t quite crying, but you were close enough for his whole expression to change. He didn’t come any closer than a few feet.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You hated how much gentleness there was in that one word.

He held out your bag first, then, after a tiny hesitation, the paper cup.

“Tea,” he said. “Chamomile. I know it’s not magic, but…”

Your throat tightened, and you took both from him with trembling hands. “Thanks.”

Jeongin’s eyes flicked to your face, to the way you were trying too hard to keep your breathing even, then back to the ground.

“Do you want me to stay,” he asked quietly, “or go?”

The question cracked something open in your chest, because he was asking instead of deciding for you. He wasn’t assuming or hovering because he thought he knew better than you what you needed.

You stared at the steam curling from the lid of the cup as you thought about it.

“I don’t know.”

Jeongin nodded as if that were a perfectly reasonable answer.

“Okay.” He glanced at the wall beside you. “Can I sit there? Not close.”

You swallowed and nodded, and he moved to sit at the opposite end of the stone wall, leaving enough space between you for two more people. Then he just… stayed there. Quiet. There were no questions, no pressure. No what’s wrong? or talk to me or you’re scaring me. Just his presence beside you while you tried to drag your breathing back into something manageable.

You tried to focus on the tea warming your hands through the cup, and on the air, damp and cold, like rain-soaked brick and wet leaves. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the muffled thud of a basketball in the sports hall and the faint chatter of students heading back to class.

Still, Jeongin said nothing, and after a while, that silence stopped feeling heavy. It just felt… safe.

Your breathing slowed first, then your shoulders started to unhunch from around your ears. The awful, buzzing pressure under your skin eased enough that you could unclench your jaw without realising you’d been grinding your teeth. You took a shaky sip of tea as you weighed up what to say.

“It was a nightmare,” you said eventually.

Jeongin went very still. “About Friday?”

You nodded, and for a second, he looked like he might apologise again, but whatever he saw on your face made him stop himself. Instead, he just said, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

You glanced at him, but there was no disappointment or hurt. Just acceptance. He was looking straight ahead, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely laced together between them. From here, with the winter light catching the side of his face, he looked tired enough to drop.

“You can sleep, you know,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Jeongin blinked and turned to you. “What?”

“You look awful.”

For one terrifying second, you thought you’d crossed some line - that the words had come out too intimate, too much like the old you, the girlfriend who noticed when he was tired and nagged him into bed before midnight. Then Jeongin huffed a tiny laugh.

“So do you.”

You stared at him, and his mouth twitched, just slightly. “Sorry. That was probably not the right response.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It was soft and breathless, barely there. But enough.

Jeongin’s face changed all over again. There wasn’t that open, aching relief from before, but something quieter this time. More fragile. Like he’d stumbled across a wild animal in the woods and knew better than to move too quickly in case it bolted.

“Sorry,” you muttered, looking away.

“For what?”

“For being a mess.”

The words slipped out before you could catch them, ugly and automatic and familiar in the worst way. Jeongin’s expression sharpened instantly.

“No.”

You blinked, and he shook his head once, eyes fixed on you now with a kind of quiet intensity that made your pulse trip.

“No more saying that about yourself.”

You felt the lump in your throat at the passion in his voice.

“I mean it,” he said, voice softening but no less firm. “You’re having a shit day. That’s not the same thing.”

You looked down at the tea in your hands. It was so Jeongin of him. Such a painfully familiar thing - drawing a line between you and whatever your brain was doing to you, refusing to let you blur them together. This was the same boy who’d sat on his bedroom floor with you months ago and told you your panic didn’t make you weak. The same boy who’d stroked your hair back from your face and called you strong when you’d felt anything but.

Your eyes burned, and you swallowed hard and changed the subject before you could embarrass yourself.

“Why were you outside the art block?”

He hesitated, then, with the tiniest hint of sheepishness, “I know Fridays are usually bad.”

Your chest ached. Of course, he knew that. Of course, he’d noticed the pattern somewhere along the line - the way the end of the week always left you more wrung out, more brittle, less able to pretend you were fine. He’d probably been watching for signs all day.

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and something in your expression must’ve given too much away because Jeongin’s shoulders tensed.

“I wasn’t spying,” he said quickly. “I just—when you left chemistry without your bag, I figured you were overwhelmed, and I thought if you wanted to go straight home after school, you’d need it, so—”

“I know.”

He stopped, and the silence stretched, but apparently, your self-preservation instincts had given up for the day, so you asked the question that had been sitting in your chest since Monday.

“Does it hurt?”

Jeongin frowned slightly. “Does what hurt?”

“Not touching me.”

The words were so quiet you almost hoped he hadn’t heard them, but he had. You saw it in the way his whole body went still. For a second, he just looked at you, before he laughed once under his breath - not because it was funny, but because the truth of it had apparently caught him off guard.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

Your heart stumbled at his words.

“Yeah,” he repeated, gaze dropping to the tea in your hands. “It does.”

You didn’t know why you’d asked. Maybe because you’d noticed every aborted movement this week - every time his hand twitched toward your back in a crowded corridor, every time he caught himself reaching for your wrist or your bag or the strand of hair blowing into your face. Maybe because some selfish, wounded part of you needed to know that this distance hurt him too.

Jeongin rubbed his thumb over the seam of his blazer sleeve as he chose his next words carefully.

“But I’d rather it hurt than make you feel trapped,” he said.

The simplicity of it knocked the breath out of you, and he glanced at you then, hesitant.

“I miss you,” he admitted, so quietly it was almost lost to the wind. “Like… physically, I mean. Holding your hand. Tucking you into my side when you’re cold. All the tiny things I used to do without thinking.” His mouth twisted. “But if I don’t get to do any of that again, I’ll live.”

Your eyes stung. “Jeongin—”

“I mean it.” He looked at you properly now, all softness and exhaustion and terrible sincerity. “I’ll take whatever version of this you can give me. Even if it’s just sitting on opposite ends of a freezing wall while you drink tea and pretend not to like me very much.”

A watery laugh escaped you, and his expression softened instantly at the sound.

“You don’t make it easy to hate you,” you muttered.

Jeongin’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s sort of the problem.”

You stayed in the courtyard until the bell rang for the last period, not talking much. Just enough. A few questions, a few answers. The kind of soft, careful conversation that felt less like repairing a relationship and more like testing whether the floor beneath it might hold your weight again one day. When the bell went, you stood and slung your bag over your shoulder, and Jeongin rose too.

“Do you want me to walk you to class?”

You looked at him. At the careful distance he was still keeping. The way he hadn’t once tried to touch you, even when your hands were shaking so badly you nearly spilt the tea. At the quiet patience in his face.

And before you could overthink it, you said, “You can walk me home instead.”

Jeongin froze, and you immediately wanted to die. That had sounded too loaded, too hopeful. Too much like an invitation to something you hadn’t meant. But then you looked up and saw his face, and he was staring at you like he’d misheard.

“Home?” he repeated, very carefully.

You tucked your hands into your sleeves and looked away. “If you want.”

The relief that flooded his features was so naked it made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Yeah. I want to.”

So, he walked you home. And this time, halfway down the pavement, when a gust of cold wind made you shiver hard enough for your teeth to knock together, you stopped. Jeongin stopped too, and you looked at the ground.

Then, very quietly, you said, “You can hold my hand. If you still want to.”

The silence that followed was absolute, and you could feel him staring at you.

“You don’t have to if you don’t mean it,” he said, and his voice had gone almost frighteningly careful. “I’m serious. I don’t want you saying yes because you feel bad for me.”

You swallowed and forced yourself to look up. “I’m not.”

Jeongin’s face did something you never wanted to forget. It wasn’t outright joy on his face, but something softer than that. Smaller. Like hope trying not to scare itself away. He held his hand out slowly between you, palm up, giving you the final choice. Your chest hurt so badly it was ridiculous, but you slipped your fingers into his anyway. Jeongin inhaled sharply at the contact, but his hand closed around yours like it was something precious, something he was terrified of crushing. He didn’t squeeze too hard. Didn’t tug you closer or act like the tiny permission meant more than it did. He just held your hand, and it was warm and familiar, but careful.

By the time you reached your building, your fingers were curled around his so tightly you weren’t entirely sure who was holding on to whom.

The following Monday should’ve felt easier, but it didn’t. If anything, the weekend had made everything worse. You couldn’t explain it exactly. It wasn’t in a bad way, exactly. Not in the catastrophic, world-ending way it had all felt after the party. But in the quieter, more insidious sense that now there was hope where there hadn’t been before, and hope was dangerous.

Hope meant overthinking every little thing.

It meant replaying the feeling of Jeongin’s hand around yours all through Sunday night until you could still feel the warmth of his palm when you woke up on Monday morning. It meant catching yourself checking your phone before school, wondering if he’d texted, and then getting annoyed at yourself for wondering at all. It meant remembering the way he’d looked when you let him hold your hand - like he’d been handed something breakable and precious and had no idea what to do except protect it - and feeling your chest ache with something that was definitely not safe.

So, by the time you got to school, you were already on edge.

The sky was dull and grey, the kind of miserable winter morning that made the school grounds look washed out and tired. Students drifted through the gates in little clusters, coats pulled tight against the cold, breath misting in front of them as they talked too loudly for eight in the morning.

You spotted Jeongin almost immediately. He was leaning against the low brick wall near the main entrance, school bag slung over one shoulder, hands shoved into his coat pockets. He looked up the second you came through the gate, like he’d been waiting for the exact moment you’d appear, and something softened in his face when he saw you. It wasn’t enough to be obvious to anyone else; it was just enough that you felt it.

You walked over, trying not to think too hard about the fact that your pulse had kicked up at the sight of him.

“Morning,” he said softly.

“Morning.”

His eyes flicked over your face, checking, cataloguing, the same way they always did. Tired? Anxious? Hungover on panic and too little sleep? You could practically see him running through the list in his head. Then his gaze dropped briefly to your hands, like he was wondering whether he was allowed to reach for one of them this morning and already knew the answer was probably no, so he didn’t try.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asked.

You huffed a little laugh. “That obvious?”

“A bit.”

You rolled your eyes, but there wasn’t much heat in it. “Rude.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. It was small, barely there, but it was enough to settle something fluttery and uncomfortable low in your stomach.

You fell into step beside him toward the building, not touching, but close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed when someone cut between you on the path. For a few minutes, it was… nice. Dangerously nice. Jeongin told you he’d failed a practice question in maths so badly over the weekend that his dad had stared at him for a full minute and then asked if he’d hit his head. You laughed, and he looked absurdly pleased with himself for getting the sound out of you before first period had even started.

Then you reached the corridor by the lockers, and the day went to hell.

Hyunwoo was there, and so was Minjae. Two other boys from Jeongin’s team were there, too -Sungho and Jaemin, both standing by the windows with coffees from the canteen, halfway through a conversation that cut off the second they saw you.

The silence hit first, that horrible, instant silence. The guilt came after. You saw it flash across Minjae’s face. Saw Sungho look away too quickly. Even Jaemin, who had always been loud and obnoxious and generally allergic to shame, suddenly looked very interested in the floor tiles. Hyunwoo, at least, had the decency to look uncomfortable.

Your stomach dropped anyway, and you slowed without meaning to. Jeongin felt it instantly, and he looked at you, then at them, and the softness vanished from his face so quickly it was like a door slamming shut.

“Morning,” Minjae said, voice too careful, too measured. Like he was approaching a skittish animal.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat had closed up.

The corridor felt too narrow all of a sudden, the air too thin. You were aware of every pair of eyes on you, every shift of movement, every memory trying to claw its way back to the surface - the kitchen, the laughter, the words shy girl curling around your spine like something rotten.

Jeongin took half a step in front of you before you’d even realised you’d gone still. It wasn’t enough to block you in, but it was enough to block them out.

“What do you want?” he asked flatly.

Minjae swallowed. “Nothing. We were just saying hi.”

“You’ve got no reason to say hi to her.”

“Jeongin—”

“No.”

The word cracked through the corridor hard enough that a couple of students at the far end glanced over. Minjae’s mouth shut, and Jeongin didn’t raise his voice again, but somehow that made it worse. The anger in him had gone cold, compacted down into something much sharper than shouting.

“You don’t get to act normal,” he said. “Not with her.”

Hyunwoo shifted uncomfortably against the lockers. “Mate, we’re not trying to start anything.”

“You already did that,” Jeongin snapped.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. The corridor was too full. It felt too bright, both too loud and too quiet all at once. You wanted to leave. You should’ve left. But something rooted you to the spot, some horrible combination of dread and morbid curiosity and the sick need to know whether Jeongin really meant what he’d been saying for the last week. Whether he’d still mean it when it was inconvenient, or when it was his friends, or in public.

Minjae scrubbed a hand over his face. “Can we not do this here?”

Jeongin laughed once, sharp and humourless.

“Where would you prefer?” he asked. “Somewhere private, like a kitchen at a party?”

The words sliced clean through the air, and Minjae flinched like he’d been slapped.

Hyunwoo swore under his breath. “Jesus, Jeongin.”

“No, go on,” Jeongin said, eyes fixed on Minjae now with a kind of terrifying calm. “Tell me where you’d be more comfortable discussing the fact that you all thought it was funny to make her the punchline of some pathetic little game.”

“Stop acting like we forced you into it,” Jaemin muttered.

The second the words left his mouth, the whole corridor seemed to still. Jeongin turned to look at him slowly. You had never seen his face look like that before. It was anger in the explosive sense, not the kind of anger that brought shouting or wild, out-of-control actions. It was worse.

It was a quiet anger. White-hot. The kind of fury that had gone so still it felt dangerous.

“You really want to say that in front of me?” he asked.

Jaemin lifted his chin, clearly trying to act braver than he felt. “I’m just saying, you were part of it too.”

“I know I was.” Jeongin’s voice was frighteningly even when he spoke again. “That’s why I’m not speaking to myself right now, isn’t it?”

Jaemin blinked, unsure of what to say, and Minjae muttered, “For fuck’s sake,” under his breath, but Jeongin was already stepping forward. Again, not aggressive, not enough for anyone to call it threatening, but just enough that Jaemin straightened instinctively.

“I know exactly what I did,” Jeongin said. “I know what I’m guilty of. I’m the one who has to live with the fact that I hurt her. But don’t stand there and use my guilt to excuse your own.”

Jaemin opened his mouth, but Jeongin cut him off before he could speak.

“You stood there and laughed about her like she wasn’t a person. Like she was something to win. And then when it got serious—when you knew I actually cared about her—you kept going because it was funny to you.”

Jaemin’s jaw clenched, and he stared at the floor at his feet, avoiding eye contact with the furious man in his face.

“You knew I loved her, and you still talked about her like that.”

The words hit the corridor like a dropped glass. For a second, nobody moved. You felt your breath catch at the fact he’d said it out loud. In public. In front of them. No hesitation, no embarrassment, no attempt to soften it or hide it or protect himself from what it might cost him.

Hyunwoo looked away first, and Minjae’s face had gone pale, but Jaemin gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re seriously trying to make us the villains here?”

Jeongin’s expression didn’t change, though.

“No,” he said. “I’m saying you’re not my friends.”

There was silence as the words hung there, ugly and final.

Sungho looked up sharply. “Come on, man—”

“No.” Jeongin didn’t even look at him. “I’m done.”

Minjae stared. “Done with what?”

“With all of you.”

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs at the finality in his voice, but Jeongin just stood there in the middle of the corridor, school bag hanging off one shoulder, one hand curled so tightly at his side you could see the knuckles whitening, and looked at the boys he’d spent years with like he didn’t recognise them anymore.

“Do not talk to me,” he said. “Don’t text me, don’t wait for me after practice, don’t ask me to cover for you with teachers, don’t come to my house, and for the love of God don’t come near her unless she decides she wants to hear from you.”

“Jeongin,” Hyunwoo said, finally sounding genuinely rattled, “don’t be stupid.”

Something in Jeongin snapped, and every word after came edged in something raw.

“Don’t call me stupid when you’re the one who stood in that kitchen and let her hear you talk about her like she was some fucking joke.”

The corridor had gone completely silent now. Students were staring openly, and a couple of people had stopped by the stairwell to watch. Somewhere behind you, a classroom door opened and shut, but no one in this stretch of hallway seemed to breathe.

Hyunwoo ran a hand through his hair, looking increasingly panicked. “We were drunk—”

“And?”

“That’s not an excuse,” Minjae muttered, glaring at Hyunwoo.

“No, it’s not,” Jeongin said. “Because you’ve all had a week to apologise properly and somehow you’re still making this about how uncomfortable you feel.”

Minjae flinched at that.

“Jeongin,” he said quietly, “I know I fucked up.”

Jeongin laughed again, but it sounded tired now. Hollow.

“You think?”

Minjae looked at you then, properly. It wasn’t like before, when he’d tried to catch you alone outside the library. Not guilty in that vague, self-pitying way people get when they know they’ve done something awful but haven’t quite let themselves feel the full weight of it. This was different.

He looked ashamed.

“I am sorry,” he said, voice low. “Not because Jeongin’s angry at me. Because I was cruel, and you didn’t deserve any of it.”

The corridor was so quiet you could hear the heating clicking in the walls. You stared at him, your pulse thudding unsteadily. It should’ve felt satisfying, but it didn’t. It just felt exhausting. Like every apology was another reminder that this had happened at all.

You swallowed and looked away, and Jeongin noticed instantly.

“That’s enough,” he said.

Minjae shut his mouth just as the bell rang. The sound tore through the corridor like a starting gun, jolting everyone back into motion. Students started moving again, muttering to each other, throwing curious looks over their shoulders as they headed to class. The spell broke all at once. You should’ve moved, too, but your legs still felt strangely unsteady.

Jeongin turned to you immediately, the fury dropping out of his face so fast it made your chest ache. He looked at you like he’d nearly forgotten you were there in the middle of all that anger and was only just now remembering that you were the one who had to stand through it.

“Hey,” he said softly.

The gentleness of it after everything else nearly undid you.

“You okay?”

You nodded automatically. It was a lie. A terrible one, judging by the way his eyes narrowed with worry. But before he could say anything else, Jaemin scoffed behind him.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “You’re throwing away your mates over a girl you’ve been dating for six months.”

Everything in the corridor seemed to stop again. Jeongin went still, and then he turned around. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that Jaemin actually had to lean in slightly to hear it.

“That ‘girl’,” Jeongin said, “is more important to me than every single one of you put together.”

The breath left your lungs. Jaemin’s face drained of colour. Jeongin stepped closer, deadly serious in a way that made the whole thing worse.

“So, if you ever talk about her like she’s disposable again,” he said, “I won’t stop at not being your friend.”

“Jeongin,” you said, alarmed despite yourself.

His head snapped toward you immediately, and the second he heard your voice, all that cold fury faltered. It was just a crack, but it was enough for you to see the boy underneath it again—the one who’d sat on a freezing wall with you on Friday and handed you tea like it was a peace offering, the one who’d held your hand like it was something sacred. You shook your head once. Not because Jaemin didn’t deserve it, but because you couldn’t handle any more. Jeongin understood instantly, and he stepped back, looking at you. Without sparing any of the others another glance, he picked up your bag where you’d nearly dropped it in the middle of all the chaos and held it out to you.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “We’ll be late.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took the bag. The contact lasted less than a second, but still, his eyes flicked to your face as if checking whether it had been too much. You nodded once, just to let him know you were okay with it, before you followed him down the corridor.

You could feel the eyes on your back the whole way, but you didn’t look behind you.

By lunch, everyone knew something had happened. They didn’t know the details, but they knew enough to know that Jeongin had blown up at his team in the hallway and walked out with you while Hyunwoo looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.

You spent the whole morning in a daze. You weren’t panicking exactly, just… off-balance. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Jeongin standing there in front of all of them, face hard with anger, saying You knew I loved her like it was the simplest fact in the world. Like there had never been any shame in it. Like loving you publicly wasn’t something he needed to hesitate over.

It shouldn’t have mattered, not after everything. But it did.

It mattered so much that it made your chest hurt.

By lunchtime, you couldn’t sit in the cafeteria. It was too loud, too full of people staring and whispering and pretending not to stare and whisper. You ended up on the back steps behind the science block with Chan, who had somehow appeared at school during his free afternoon and was now eating crisps beside you like he hadn’t just strolled onto campus for the sole purpose of checking whether you were okay.

“I’m telling you now,” he said, kicking his heel against the step below, “if this boy has started a public fight for your honour, I reserve the right to be smug about it.”

You shot him a flat look, but Chan just grinned. “That’s not a no.”

You leaned your head against the brick wall behind you and stared at the grey sky. “He cut them off.”

Chan’s expression shifted, the teasing dropping out of it immediately. “All of them?”

You nodded.

“Bloody hell.”

There was no triumph in his voice. Just surprise.

You picked at the sleeve of your jumper. “I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

Chan was quiet for a second, considering his next words, before he asked the one question you didn’t know how to answer.

“Did you want him to?”

You opened your mouth, then promptly closed it again.

Part of you had wanted exactly that. Had wanted proof that Jeongin understood the scale of what had happened, that he knew he couldn’t keep people like that in his life and still ask you to believe he was sorry. But another part of you - the part that had spent the last six months watching him laugh with those boys in the corridor, the part that knew these were his oldest friends, the people he’d grown up with and played football with and spent half his life around - felt sick at the thought of being the reason all of that had just imploded.

Chan seemed to read enough of that on your face, because he sighed and nudged his shoulder lightly against yours.

“You’re not responsible for his choices.”

You swallowed hard, willing the tears that had gathered in your eyes away. “I know.”

“You sure?”

“No,” you admitted.

Chan hummed like he’d expected that answer. Then, because he was Chan and apparently incapable of leaving any emotional wound unattended, he asked, “How did he look?”

You frowned. “What?”

“When he did it.” Chan crunched another crisp thoughtfully. “Angry? Regretful? Like he was trying to impress you? What?”

You thought about it. About the set of Jeongin’s shoulders. The coldness in his voice. The way he hadn’t looked at you once while he was speaking to them, as if this wasn’t a performance and never had been, as if he was doing it because he genuinely couldn’t stomach being around them anymore.

“He looked…” You trailed off. “Done.”

Chan’s expression softened at that.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That sounds about right.”

You looked at him, but he just shrugged one shoulder. “I know boys like that. Not the exact situation, obviously, because thank God none of my mates have ever been that spectacularly awful. But the whole… realising the people you’ve been calling your friends are not actually people you want near someone you care about.” He paused. “That kind of clarity usually comes with a pretty ugly breaking point.”

You thought of Jeongin’s face in the corridor. The fury. The disgust. The finality of You’re not my friends. Your chest tightened in pain for him.

Chan crumpled up his empty crisp packet and stood, stretching his arms above his head. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“You’ve got ten minutes before afternoon registration, and you look like you’re halfway to a stress-induced coma. I’m getting you a hot chocolate.”

You snorted. “You can’t just wander into my school and bribe me with sugar.”

“Watch me.”

He held a hand out to haul you up, and you took it, rolling your eyes, and let him drag you toward the canteen.

You didn’t see Jeongin again until after school. He was waiting by the gates, hands shoved into his coat pockets, looking tired enough to drop. The second he saw you with Chan, some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

Chan, naturally, noticed and made it his mission to be insufferable.

“Look who it is,” he said under his breath as you approached. “Your emotionally compromised boyfriend.”

“He’s not—”

“Mm.”

“Chan.”

“Mm,” he repeated, entirely unrepentant.

Jeongin stopped in front of you, gaze flicking from your face to Chan and back again.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi.”

He hesitated before asking, “Can I walk you home?”

Chan made a thoughtful sound, as if he were considering whether to sell tickets. You elbowed him in the ribs without taking your eyes off Jeongin.

“Yeah,” you said.

The relief in his face was small, but there.

Chan clapped his hands together. “Brilliant. I’m off before I have to witness any yearning.”

“Go away,” you muttered.

He winked at you, then pointed at Jeongin. “No making her cry.”

Jeongin, to his credit, only nodded solemnly. “That’s the plan.”

Chan gave him a long look, as if trying to decide whether he believed him, before he squeezed your shoulder once and headed off toward the station.

You and Jeongin started walking, and for a while, neither of you said anything. The street was busy with students and parents, with buses crawling past in the late-afternoon traffic. Your shoulder brushed Jeongin’s coat once when someone jostled past you on the pavement, and he shifted away immediately, giving you space without making a thing of it. Eventually, you broke the silence.

“You meant it.”

It wasn’t really a question, and Jeongin just looked at you. “About what?”

“Cutting them off.”

He was quiet for a moment before he nodded. You stared at the pavement when you asked your next question, unable to stop thinking about how close he was to his friends, but one in particular.

“Even Minjae?”

Jeongin exhaled slowly through his nose. “Minjae’s the only one I can even vaguely stand to look at right now, and that’s mostly because he at least seems to understand he was a dickhead.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself, and Jeongin’s mouth twitched faintly.

“But yes,” he said. “Even Minjae.”

“Why?”

The question came out before you could stop it, and Jeongin glanced at you, clearly hearing the thing underneath it.

Why would you give up people you’ve known for years for me?

He looked ahead again as he answered.

“Because every time I looked at them after Friday,” he said quietly, “all I could think about was you hearing that.”

You winced slightly at the memory but didn’t interrupt.

“I kept replaying it,” he went on. “The idea of you standing there, listening to them talk about you like that while I wasn’t there to stop it.” His jaw clenched. “And then I’d see them in school acting like everything was normal, and it made me feel sick.”

The honesty of it made your chest ache.

“I know I’m the one who started all of this,” he said. “I know that. But I can’t ask you to trust me while I’m still laughing with people who helped turn you into a joke.”

You looked at him, but he still wasn’t looking at you, which somehow made it feel more true.

“I should’ve done it sooner,” he admitted. “Honestly, I should’ve done it months ago. The first time one of them made a comment about you that made me want to hit something.”

You blinked. “Months ago?”

Jeongin gave a humourless little huff. “Hyunwoo made some joke in October about me disappearing every Friday because I was ‘too busy babysitting my girlfriend’s panic attacks.’”

You stopped walking, and Jeongin stopped too, looking immediately alarmed.

“What?”

Your stomach twisted. “He said that?”

Jeongin’s face darkened. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I told him to shut the fuck up and then I went home and held you for three hours while you cried over your biology coursework.” His expression tightened. “It didn’t even occur to me to tell you. I didn’t want you thinking about him.”

The image hit you all at once - October, your room, mascara on his hoodie because you’d had a complete meltdown over a test score and your own stupid brain. Jeongin sitting cross-legged on your bed with you tucked into his chest, one hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulders while he told you that one bad mark wasn’t the end of the world.

And somewhere before or after that, Hyunwoo had made a joke about it.

Something cold and ugly moved through your chest, and Jeongin saw it happen and swore softly under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I shouldn’t have told you like that.”

“No.” Your voice came out strange, strangled almost. “No, I’m glad you did.”

He looked unconvinced, but you wrapped your arms around yourself against the words wind.

“Did they all know? About my panic attacks, I mean.”

Jeongin’s face changed. He didn’t look defensive, just… Ashamed.

“Not details,” he said quietly. “I never told them details. But they knew you struggled sometimes. Mostly because I’d leave things early if you texted me, or I’d skip parties to stay with you.” He swallowed. “And I didn’t shut down the jokes hard enough.”

The honesty of it stung, but not as much as it should have. Maybe because you already knew. Maybe because at least now he wasn’t trying to soften anything for his own sake.

You nodded slowly and started walking again, the rest of the journey passing in silence. It wasn’t a bad silence – it wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable – but it was full. Full of thoughts and new worries left unsaid.

By the time you reached your house, the sun had started to set, turning the windows orange at the edges. Chan was nowhere in sight for once, which felt suspicious in itself. You stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to Jeongin, who looked exhausted. More than exhausted, actually. Drained in that deep, emotional way that made him seem slightly too still, like if he moved too quickly, everything he’d been holding together all day might finally come apart.

“You didn’t have to do it for me,” you said quietly.

Jeongin frowned, and you clarified. “The friends thing.”

Understanding flickered across his face before he shook his head. “I didn’t do it for you.”

You frowned in doubt.

“I did it because of you,” he corrected softly. “There’s a difference.”

You looked at him, not sure what to say. Jeongin shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, suddenly looking awkward in a way that felt wildly at odds with the boy who’d nearly torn strips off four football players in the corridor that morning.

“You made me realise I was surrounded by people I don’t actually like very much,” he admitted. “That’s not your fault. It’s just… true.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, and some of the heaviness in his face eased.

“Also,” he added, “Jaemin’s been irritating me for years. This was honestly just efficient.”

A laugh slipped out of you, startled and impossible to stop, but Jeongin stared at you like he’d just been punched in the chest, his whole face softening. And because apparently the universe had decided you weren’t allowed one single uncomplicated emotion anymore, the sight of it made your eyes sting.

You looked away quickly, murmuring a quick, “I should go in.”

“Yeah.” His voice gentled immediately. “Okay.”

Neither of you moved. The evening air pressed cold against your cheeks. A car passed at the end of the road, tyres hissing over damp pavement. Somewhere upstairs, someone was playing music too loudly through open windows. Jeongin glanced at your hands, then back up at your face.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he said quietly. “Just so you know.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Today.” He gave a tiny shrug. “I’m not expecting it to… earn me anything.”

The ache in your chest sharpened. “I know.”

He nodded before he added after a pause, “I’d still do it again.”

He definitely wasn’t helping the stinging in your eyes. You stood there for another second, caught between too many feelings and not enough language for any of them. Then, before you could think better of it, you stepped forward. Jeongin went very still, waiting to see what you’d do. You only meant to do something small – a thank you, a peace offering. Something that wasn’t forgiveness but wasn’t nothing either.

Your fingers caught lightly on the sleeve of his coat near his wrist. It wasn’t quite his hand, but it was just enough to stop him from pulling away too quickly.

His breath caught on a breathless, “Y/N?”

You looked at the fabric between your fingers instead of at him.

“Just for a second,” you muttered, suddenly mortified, but Jeongin didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, from the sound of it. Then, very slowly, like he was handling something fragile, he turned his hand beneath your grip until his fingers brushed the inside of your wrist. It was a question, not a demand. You swallowed and let your hand slide down into his.

Jeongin made the smallest, shakiest sound in the back of his throat. His fingers closed around yours carefully, reverently, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed. And there, on the front steps of your house with the sky fading dark around you and the wreckage of the morning still sitting heavy in both your chests, you stood holding his hand in silence.

You didn’t kiss, didn’t make any grand declarations. You just shared your warmth - an apology and trust and grief and love all tangled together in the quiet pressure of his palm against yours.

Jeongin looked at your joined hands for a long moment before lifting his eyes to your face.

“Thank you,” he said, voice so soft it barely reached you.

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t need to. This wasn’t forgiveness, at least not yet, but it was the first time since the party that it felt possible.

Your worst panic attack to date hit three days later.

It wasn’t immediate. You think that that would’ve been easier, almost - something sudden and sharp that you could point to and say there, that’s the reason, that’s what did it. But this one built slowly, quietly, until by the time you realised what was happening, it already had its hands around your throat.

It started in history, the trigger a stupid group presentation. It was nothing cataclysmic, just you standing at the front of the classroom with cue cards trembling in your hands while thirty pairs of eyes stared back at you, and your teacher smiled encouragingly from the corner like that was somehow supposed to help. You’d done presentations before. You hated them, but you’d survived them. Usually, by speaking too fast, sitting down, shaking, and then spending the rest of the lesson wanting to crawl out of your own skin.

Today should’ve been the same.

Except halfway through talking about the economic impact of post-war rationing, one of the boys at the back whispered something to his friend, and both of them laughed. You knew that it probably wasn’t about you, and it probably wasn’t even about your presentation.

But your body didn’t care about logic.

Because suddenly you were back in that corridor, hearing Jaemin’s voice - You’re throwing away your mates over a girl you’ve been dating six months - and all at once the shame came roaring back, hot and humiliating and impossible to outrun.

Over a girl.

Like you were some temporary thing. Some mistake. Some pathetic little detour in Jeongin’s life before he came to his senses and went back to people who didn’t make everything difficult.

Your mouth dried up, the words on your cue card blurring. You forced yourself to keep talking anyway, pulse thudding too hard in your ears. You got through the rest of the presentation on autopilot, barely hearing your own voice, then sat down so quickly you nearly missed the chair. Mia shot you a concerned look from beside you.

“You okay?”

You nodded, but it was another terrible lie, because by the time the bell rang, your skin felt too tight and your heartbeat was somewhere up in your throat. You packed your bag with clumsy hands, every laugh in the classroom sounding too loud, too sharp, too much like it might be about you.

You needed air.

You needed somewhere quiet.

You needed—

“Y/N?”

You flinched so hard you nearly dropped your phone.

Jeongin was waiting outside your classroom like always. You’d mentioned, offhand, that you had a presentation in history today. He must’ve remembered. He must’ve come to check how it went.

The sight of him should’ve helped, but instead, something in your chest tightened even harder. Because all you could hear was Jaemin’s voice.

Over a girl.

Jeongin’s expression changed immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly, taking one look at your face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

The answer came too fast, too thin, but Jeongin didn’t call you on it. He just stepped out of the flow of students pouring into the corridor and tilted his head toward the quieter side hall near the music rooms.

“Come here a sec?”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve gone to the toilets and locked yourself in a cubicle until the worst of it passed, or texted Chan, or done literally anything other than follow the boy who had become both your safest place and the source of half your confusion. But your feet moved anyway.

The side corridor was mostly empty, the sounds of the school muffled by thick walls and closed classroom doors. Jeongin stopped near the window at the far end and turned to face you fully.

“What happened?”

You hugged your arms around yourself. “Nothing happened.”

“Y/N.”

The way he said your name - quiet, careful, full of concern that he wasn’t even trying to hide - made your eyes sting immediately. You looked away, and Jeongin took half a step closer before he stopped himself.

“Was it the presentation?”

You nodded once.

“Did something go wrong?”

“No.”

“Did someone say something?”

“No.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, asking, “Then what is it?”

You pressed your lips together. How were you supposed to explain something this stupid? This ugly? That one offhand comment from Jaemin had lodged itself in your ribs and now every act of kindness from Jeongin felt tangled up in guilt, like each soft look and patient touch was another thing he’d eventually regret giving you.

Jeongin waited, and when it became obvious you weren’t going to answer, he lowered his voice even further. “Are you panicking?”

That was all it took for your breath to catch sharply in your throat. Jeongin’s whole face softened with alarm.

“Okay,” he said immediately, holding both hands up a little like he was trying not to startle you. “Okay. That’s fine. We’re fine.”

You hated how your eyes burned at that. We’re fine. Like this was a shared problem. Like he was already standing beside you in it.

“I’m not panicking,” you lied, even as your fingers started to shake.

Jeongin glanced down at them, then back up at your face.

“Right,” he said gently. “And I’m the Queen.”

A watery, offended laugh nearly escaped you, but it got swallowed by the tightness in your chest before it could become anything real. Jeongin seemed to take that as a win anyway.

“Come sit down with me?” he asked, nodding toward the little alcove by the music practice rooms—an old bench tucked beneath the trophy case, half-hidden from the main corridor.

You stared at it, then at him. And suddenly the thought of being alone with him in a quiet corner while your chest caved in felt unbearable.

Because what if he touched you?

What if you let him?

What if Jaemin was right and this—this constant orbit of your panic and your needs and your mess—was exactly what was ruining his life?

You took a step back, and Jeongin stilled.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

His face tightened. “Can’t sit down?”

“I can’t - I can’t do this with you right now.”

The words were barely out before you wished you could take them back when you saw something quieter than hurt flicker across Jeongin’s face.

“Okay,” he said at once. “That’s okay.”

But he didn’t leave. He stayed right where he was, close enough that you could see the worry gathering in his eyes, far enough that you couldn’t accuse him of crowding you.

“Do you want me to get Chan?”

The fact that he offered nearly broke you, and you shook your head too hard. “No.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t-” Your breath hitched. “Don’t call anyone.”

“I won’t,” he soothed.

Your pulse was everywhere now. In your wrists, your throat, behind your eyes. The corridor suddenly felt too bright, the fluorescent lights too sharp against the polished floor. You dragged in a breath, and it didn’t go deep enough.

Jeongin noticed instantly.

“Look at me.”

You shook your head.

“Y/N.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” His voice stayed soft, but there was a steadiness to it now, something firm enough to cut through the static. “Just for one second. Look at me.”

You forced your eyes up. Jeongin was watching you with that same infuriating, unwavering focus he always had when you were falling apart. Like nothing else in the world existed but getting you through the next thirty seconds.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Can you tell me five things you can see?”

You almost laughed at him. Almost cried. Maybe both.

“Jeongin—”

“Five things.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

He took a tiny breath, like he was fighting his own panic down with his teeth. “But I need you to do it anyway.”

Your chest clenched.

Need.

Not because he was making this about him. Not because he was asking you to perform wellness for his comfort. Because he was scared. You could hear it under the calm, and you looked away from him, scanning the corridor with blurred eyes.

“The… trophy case.”

“Good.”

“The piano room sign.”

“Good.”

“The window.”

“Mmhm.”

You swallowed hard. “Your stupid shoes.”

To your horror, Jeongin snorted. “Bit harsh, but I’ll allow it. One more.”

Your lips trembled around something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The fire extinguisher.”

“Perfect.”

He nodded once, like you’d just solved something much more difficult than basic grounding.

“Now, four things you can feel.”

You stared at him. “Jeongin.”

“Please.”

The word gutted you. He sounded so tired and worried and earnest that your stupid heart lurched anyway. You squeezed your eyes shut for a second.

“The floor under my shoes.”

“Good.”

“My sleeves.”

“Good.”

“The strap of my bag.”

“Yeah.”

You hesitated, but Jeongin waited patiently.

“The air,” you whispered. “It’s cold.”

“Good girl,” he murmured automatically.

Your breath caught, and Jeongin froze wide-eyed like he’d only just heard himself. For one awful second, you both just stared at each other, before you saw the colour climb up his neck.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, horrified. “Sorry. That just came out.”

Under any other circumstances, you might’ve laughed. As it was, the sudden rush of warmth in your face only made everything feel more unsteady. You looked away first; your heart was pounding too hard now for reasons that had nothing to do with the presentation. Jeongin dragged a hand through his hair, clearly trying to recover.

“Three things you can hear,” he said, a little too fast.

You answered because it was easier than thinking: the hum of the lights. Voices in the corridor outside. Jeongin breathing.

The last one slipped out before you could stop it, and silence followed. Your stomach dropped as Jeongin went so still it was almost comical. You wanted the floor to open up and eat you. Instead, your chest tightened again, harder this time, because now embarrassment was piling on top of panic and guilt and all the other things already clawing at your ribs.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your sternum.

“I can’t do this,” you said, and your voice cracked on the last word. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

“Hey.”

Jeongin’s voice sharpened - not harsh, but immediate – and your gaze snapped to his. He was closer – not by much, still giving you the choice to back away.

“Breathe with me.”

You shook your head frantically. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t, Jeongin, I can’t—”

“You can.” He swallowed hard, and for the first time, you heard the strain under his calm. “You’ve done this before. You know how. In through your nose, baby, come on.”

Baby.

The pet name hit somewhere deep and vulnerable and far too raw, and your eyes flooded. And then, because apparently your brain had decided to save the worst of it for now, Jaemin’s voice came back all over again.

You’re throwing away your mates over a girl you’ve been dating for six months.

The words tangled with baby and good girl and Jeongin’s worried face and the memory of his hand in yours outside your house, and suddenly, all you could think was that maybe Jaemin was right. Maybe this was pathetic. Maybe Jeongin was standing here talking his girlfriend through another panic attack in a school corridor while his whole life burned around him, and one day he’d wake up and realise you were never worth the cost.

The thought hit so hard you physically recoiled, and Jeongin’s expression changed instantly.

“What?” he asked, eyes frantically scanning you.

You shook your head, backing up another step. “No.”

“Y/N—”

“No, don’t.” Your voice came out high and thin and wrong. “Don’t be nice to me right now.”

Jeongin blinked, stunned, before he frowned, confusion cutting through the worry. “What?”

“I can’t—” You sucked in a breath that scraped on the way down. “I can’t tell if you actually want to be here or if you just feel bad, and I can’t—I can’t be the reason you lose everything and then just—just let you—”

The rest dissolved into a horrible, breathless sound, but he didn’t need to hear the rest. Understanding hit his face all at once.

“Jaemin,” he said flatly.

You covered your face with both hands, pacing now on wobbly legs. “Forget I said anything.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.” This time, there was steel under it. Not anger at you- never that. Anger on your behalf. “Look at me.”

You shook your head harder, and there was a beat of silence before Jeongin said, very carefully, “I’m going to come a little closer, okay?”

You froze in your pacing. You should’ve told him no, but you were already losing the fight with your own lungs, already shaking so badly your knees felt wrong, and some weak, traitorous part of you wanted him close enough to prove this wasn’t pity.

So, you didn’t say anything, and Jeongin took another step before he stopped, close enough now that if you reached out, you could grab his blazer, but still not touching.

“Listen to me,” he said.

You kept your face hidden in your hands.

“Y/N.” His voice gentled, “I did not lose anything worth keeping.”

Your breath hitched, and he waited until your hands lowered just enough for you to look at him through your fingers.

“Those boys?” he said, jaw tight. “That wasn’t me losing my life. That was me finally realising who didn’t belong in it.”

Your eyes burned. “But—”

“No.” He shook his head, fierce in a way you didn’t think you’d ever seen directed at you before. “Do not stand there and tell me I gave up something valuable when the thing they were laughing about was you.”

The tears spilt over, and Jeongin’s face softened immediately, but he didn’t back down.

“I’m here because I want to be,” he said, quieter now. “I’m here because you’re shaking and you can’t breathe, and the thought of leaving you like this makes me feel physically sick. Not because I pity you. Not because I owe you. Because I love you.”

The words cracked something open in your chest, and you saw his throat bob as he swallowed hard around the next words.

“And if you decide you don’t want me near you, I’ll go. I mean that.” His voice roughened. “But don’t rewrite this into me being trapped. I am choosing you. I have been choosing you.”

You made a broken sound that might have been a sob, and Jeongin’s hands twitched at his sides. He was so obviously fighting the urge to reach for you that it hurt to look at him.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, the words low and careful and so unlike the chaos in your own head that you almost cried harder. “Just your hands. Nothing else. Can I help you breathe?”

You stared at him. Every instinct in your body screamed yes, whilst every insecurity screamed no.

What if you let him and regretted it?

What if you let him, and he regretted it?

What if the second his arms were around you, all you could hear was Jaemin’s voice sneering over a girl like you were some burden Jeongin would eventually put down?

Jeongin must’ve seen the war on your face, because he took one slow breath as he held his hand out between you, palm up. He wasn’t reaching for you, just offering you support on your own terms.

“You don’t have to let me hold you,” he said softly. “I know that’s a lot right now. But give me your hands, yeah? Just that. We’ll start there.”

Your vision blurred again. He was still giving you a way out, still making this easy for you, even when he was the one standing there looking half-sick with worry. Your fingers trembled where they hovered near your chest, and then, before you could think better of it, you reached out. Jeongin took your hands so gently that it made your throat ache. His palms were warm, grounding, solid around your freezing fingers. He didn’t squeeze hard. Didn’t tug you closer. He just held on and lifted your joined hands between you.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured.

You tried. Failed. Tried again. Jeongin counted under his breath, matching his inhales to yours, his thumbs moving in tiny circles over your knuckles every time you started to shake too hard.

“That’s it,” he said softly. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you.”

The endearment should’ve made you flinch after everything in your head. Instead, it lodged somewhere warm and painful beneath your ribs. Your breathing stuttered again, and Jeongin’s brows drew together.

“Can I do one more thing?”

You blinked at him through tears. “What?”

“I think you need pressure.”

You stared, and his ears went slightly pink, which would’ve been funny if you weren’t actively dying.

“I mean—” He swallowed. “When it’s this bad, sometimes holding your hands isn’t enough. And I know that. So… if you want, I can hold you. Just until you come back down.”

Your whole body went still.

There it was.

The thing you’d both been circling around for days without touching. The thing you’d been missing so badly it felt like a physical wound, and fearing so badly you’d barely let yourself think about it. Jeongin didn’t move, didn’t push for it. He just stood there with your hands in his and let you have every second you needed to decide. And because your brain was cruel, Jaemin’s voice whispered one last time—

Over a girl.

You almost pulled away, almost said no. But then you looked at Jeongin. At the exhaustion in his face. At the fear. At the love he was trying so hard not to weaponise against you. At the fact that he was still asking, still waiting, still giving you room to refuse, even though you were clearly seconds from falling apart completely.

This wasn’t a performance, and it wasn’t guilt. This was Jeongin, standing in the wreckage and loving you anyway.

Your lip trembled, and then in a voice so small you barely recognised it as your own, you whispered, “Please.”

Jeongin moved like the word had been ripped out of him. He moved decisively, like the second he knew he was allowed, every part of him locked onto the one job that mattered. He let go of one of your hands only long enough to step into your space properly, then wrapped both arms around you and pulled you against his chest. The sound that left you was humiliating. A full-body, broken sob that seemed to tear itself from somewhere deep in your lungs the second the pressure of him settled around you. Jeongin held you tighter instantly. One arm across your upper back, the other around your waist, pinning you to him with exactly the kind of firm, steady pressure your body had been craving. Not crushing. Not desperate. Just secure. Like he was building a wall around you with his own body and daring the panic to get through.

“I know,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough. “I know, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Your hands fisted in the front of his blazer before you could stop them, and Jeongin made a tiny, wrecked sound and tucked you even closer. You think that it was somehow the worst part—that he reacted like this hurt him too, like getting to hold you again wasn’t a victory but a relief so sharp it bordered on pain.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped into his chest, the words dissolving into another sob. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“No.” His hand slid up the back of your neck, cradling you. “None of that. You have nothing to apologise for.”

“I do, I make everything—”

“You don’t.” The words came firm against your hair. “You do not get to take responsibility for my choices just because you’re panicking. I’m here because I want to be here. I cut them off because I wanted them gone. None of that is on you.”

You shook your head helplessly against him. Jeongin adjusted his grip, one hand flattening between your shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles there the exact same way he used to. The familiarity of it nearly undid you all over again.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered. “Just breathe. You don’t have to talk.”

So, you did. Or tried to. You clung to his blazer with both hands and let him hold you upright while your body shook itself empty. Jeongin counted breaths under his breath, low and steady against your temple. Every time you started to spiral again, he tightened his arms just slightly and anchored you back down with touch and warmth and the quiet certainty of his voice.

Minutes passed, you didn’t know how many, but it was long enough for the worst of the panic to burn through your system and leave you wrung out and trembling in its wake. By the time your breathing finally stopped fighting you, your cheek was pressed against Jeongin’s chest, and his blazer was damp where you’d cried into it.

Mortification crept in slowly, and you stiffened against him. Jeongin felt it at once, his hand pausing at the back of your neck.

“Hey,” he murmured. “You with me?”

You made a miserable noise.

“Mm. That bad?”

You pulled back just enough to glare weakly at the front of his blazer. “I got snot on you.”

For one horrifying second, there was silence. Then Jeongin laughed - a soft, helpless one, like he was so obviously relieved to hear you say something that your eyes immediately burned again.

“Oh no,” he said gravely. “Tragic. I’ll never recover.”

You let out a wet, exhausted huff that might have been a laugh. His arms tightened once—small, careful, like he was checking whether he was still allowed to be holding you now that the worst had passed, but that’s when the doubt came back. Quieter now, meaner for it. Because with your head clearer, you could feel exactly what position you were in: wrapped around Jeongin in a hidden school corridor, fingers still tangled in his blazer, letting him hold you as if none of the last two weeks had happened.

Your stomach twisted. What did this mean? Had you just undone all your careful distance because you were panicking? Was this forgiveness? Weakness? Did you actually want this, or had your body simply reached for the nearest familiar comfort, and now you’d have to deal with the consequences?

Jeongin must’ve felt the shift in you, because he loosened his hold a fraction immediately. He wasn’t dropping you; he was making it clear you could leave if you wanted.

“Talk to me,” he said softly.

You swallowed. “I don’t know if I regret this.”

The words came out before you could soften them, and Jeongin went very still. Mortification slammed into you again a second later.

“Not—” You squeezed your eyes shut. “That came out wrong.”

But he was already pulling back properly now, just enough to see your face.

“No, it’s okay.” His voice was quiet, unreadable in a way that made your chest clench.

You looked at him, your heart breaking at the distance that was between you again. The way he’d reacted so quickly to your doubt, your regret. You could see the worry he was trying to hide. The way he’d gone so careful again, like one wrong move might send you running. At the softness still lingering around his eyes from holding you while you cried.

And suddenly the truth untangled itself enough to say.

“I don’t regret you,” you whispered. “I regret that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Jeongin’s face changed. It was relief exactly, but something gentler, sadder even. He nodded once in understanding, still looking unsure.

“I mean…” You looked down at the space between you, at your fingers still curled weakly in his blazer. “Five minutes ago, I was convinced I was ruining your life, and now I’m standing here letting you hold me like I didn’t spend a week trying not to let that happen. I don’t know what that means.”

Jeongin was quiet for a long moment before he said, very softly, “It means you had a panic attack and you let someone you trust help you.”

Your eyes stung when he continued.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything else yet.”

The gentleness of his words nearly undid you more than the panic had, as well as the surprising wave of disappointment you felt at his words. In reality, he could have taken it as a sign. He could have treated it like progress, like proof that you were finding your way back to him. Instead, he was making room for your confusion, too.

You laughed shakily, wiping at your face with your sleeve. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”

Jeongin’s mouth twitched. “At panic attacks or saying the exact thing that makes you roll your eyes at me?”

“Both.”

“Excellent.”

Another tiny laugh escaped you, and Jeongin looked so absurdly relieved by it that you had to look away before your chest could do something embarrassing. His hand disappeared into the pocket of his blazer, and when it came back, he was holding out a crumpled packet of tissues. You stared blankly at it for a second.

“Are you eighty?” you asked, voice still rough from crying.

“I was dating you,” he said simply. “I adapted.”

A startled laugh burst out of you, and Jeongin smiled - small and tired and so fond it made your stomach flip. Apparently, your humiliation quota for the day wasn’t full yet, though, because he gently dabbed at a streak of mascara under your eye with his thumb before you could stop him. You froze, and he froze, too, his hand dropping instantly.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s—” You swallowed. “It’s okay.”

Silence settled between you again, and you realised just how exhausted you were. Mentally, emotionally, and physically.

Jeongin shifted his weight, eyes flicking toward the corridor. “Do you want to skip the rest of the day?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You look like you’re about thirty seconds from needing a nap and a medically irresponsible amount of chocolate.” His expression softened. “I can walk you home. Or to Chan’s. Or literally anywhere that isn’t this building.”

You stared at him in awe. The offer was so immediate, so matter-of-fact, like there had never been any other option in his mind but getting you somewhere safe. And there it was again - that dangerous warmth in your chest. That terrible, aching certainty that whatever else had happened, whatever else might still be broken, this part had always been real.

You looked down at the tissues in your hand, then back at him.

“Will you stay until I fall asleep?” you asked before you could lose your nerve.

Jeongin went absolutely motionless, and the corridor seemed to hold its breath with him. Your own pulse stumbled the second the words were out, panic of a completely different kind prickling at the back of your neck.

“That was too much,” you said quickly. “Forget I said—”

“Yes.”

You stopped. Jeongin swallowed, eyes fixed on you with something so open and startled and soft it made your chest hurt.

“Yes,” he said again, quieter this time. “If that’s what you want.”

You stared at him, then nodded once, because your throat had stopped working. His expression gentled immediately when he realised.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Then let’s get you home.”

And this time, when you started walking, you were the one who reached for his sleeve first, just to make sure he stayed close. Jeongin looked down at your hand, where it had caught in the fabric of his blazer, and something in his expression softened so quickly it made your chest ache. He didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t smile in that smug way he sometimes did when you gave him something small and unguarded. He just shifted a little closer to your side as you walked. He was close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm every few steps, and that if your knees gave out again, he’d catch you.

a/n: okay I need to edit part 3 but I wanna post it ASAP so I can focus on my other pieces (can you believe this was only meant to be a filler and now it's turned into like 50k total?)

Taglist: @hanniesbubuwife @skrach84 @felixstarz @starrynightviper @mrsleeknowsaurus @2minracha @cchapssaltteok @barbie-girl84 @hannieslovebot @nzzzzzzzzzzzz @mongmongsworld @sparklybunnygirl @lunr-eclipsee @jeonginsfavglazer @hyunjinswifey143 @whights-t @itsraininghyunebuckets

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday, and you almost threw it away with the rest of the post. There were the usual bills, advertisements, and junk mail. But then you noticed the quality of the envelope, the kind of quality that only came from something important.

You frowned in confusion – you weren’t expecting anything – and opened it. You couldn’t contain the smile that came to your face. It was from your old classmates, two people you'd known since you were sixteen. They were the kind of friends you didn't speak to every day but still cared about deeply.

A wedding.

It felt strange that enough time had passed for people to start getting married. Then again, two years had passed since you and Seungmin had broken up. The amount of time that had passed still surprised you sometimes. Some days it felt like yesterday, and other days it felt like another lifetime.

You RSVP'd that night. Not because you particularly wanted to attend a wedding alone, but because these were your friends.

And because, despite everything, you were trying to say yes to life again.

The venue was beautiful, an old countryside estate covered in fairy lights and summer flowers. It was the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a romance movie, you mused. You had arrived fifteen minutes before the ceremony, found your seat whilst smiling politely at familiar faces, and finally allowed yourself to relax.

But then you saw him.

At first, you thought your brain was playing tricks on you. There was absolutely no reason for Kim Seungmin to be standing near the back of the garden. Yes, they were his friends, too, but you didn’t think he’d kept in touch with them. Didn’t think he’d take time out of his schedule for their wedding. Yet there he was, dressed in a black suit with his hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking just as shocked to see you as you were to see him.

Your heart stopped before it kicked back into gear, immediately beating twice as fast.

No.

Not here.

Not today.

Not when you'd spent two years carefully learning how to exist without him.

The last thing you needed was to spend an entire wedding wondering whether he still took his coffee the same way or whether he still laughed at stupid jokes. Whether he still—

His eyes met yours, and suddenly every thought vanished. Because he smiled. Not the celebrity smile, or the one from interviews. The real one. The one that used to belong only to you.

The ceremony passed in a blur. You couldn't tell anyone afterwards what vows had been exchanged, what songs had been played, or what flowers decorated the aisle, because all you could think about was the fact that Seungmin was twenty feet away for the first time in two years.

You kept catching yourself looking. You knew you must look stupid, head constantly swivelling to look at him, then quickly looking away, only to look back a few seconds later. It was embarrassing how you were acting. You were an adult, not a teenager.

Yet somehow, he could still reduce your emotional maturity to zero.

The reception began. There was a dinner, followed by speeches filled with laughter, then dancing.

And somehow you still hadn't spoken to him.

Part of you was grateful, but the other part (the larger part, if you were to be honest) was disappointed. You hated both feelings equally.

The bride was halfway through thanking everyone for attending when someone slid into the empty seat beside you. You didn't need to look; you already knew from how your body reacted to his proximity before your eyes ever did.

"Hi."

The word was quiet and gentle. Careful in a way it never had been before.

You turned slowly, and there he was. Close enough to touch, to notice the tiny scar near his eyebrow - the one you'd kissed hundreds of times. Close enough to see the nervousness in his expression.

Kim Seungmin looked nervous.

The realisation almost made you laugh.

"Hi."

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then simultaneously—

"You look—"

You both stopped, laughed. Suddenly, for the first time all evening, you could breathe. You gestured for him to go first, wanting him to break the silence between you. Wanting him to be the first to speak in two years since he left you alone in your apartment.

"You look good," he said eventually.

"So do you."

He smiled a little sadly. "I've missed hearing your voice."

The honesty knocked the air from your lungs. There was no flirting in it. No game or performance. Just a genuine, heartwarming truth.

You looked away first, unable to handle the weight that came with it.

Hours later, the band started playing slower songs. Couples drifted toward the dance floor as the lights dimmed and the atmosphere softened.

You were watching the newlyweds dance when a hand appeared in front of you. Your gaze travelled upward and met Seungmin’s.

His expression was unreadable.  "Would you dance with me?"

Your heart and your mouth immediately betrayed you.

Because the answer was yes.

It had always been yes.

The dance floor felt strangely isolated despite the crowd.

The second his hand settled on your waist, something inside you unravelled. It still felt familiar, like coming home. Seungmin pulled you closer gently, his hand leaving your waist for a second to guide your own hands up onto his shoulders.

The music drifted around you, lending to a soft, warm atmosphere. One where there wasn’t a single rush in the world. You rested your forehead near his shoulder, and suddenly it hit you.

You could do this forever.

Still, after everything. After the break-up and after the two years of separation. You still wanted to be with him, to spend your days just talking to him and existing beside him. It was the simple things you craved the most. The things that fame had stolen that neither of you had been able to hold onto before.

You closed your eyes and imagined a world where he wasn't constantly flying somewhere. A world without schedules, contracts, and millions of people demanding pieces of him. A world where he was simply Seungmin, and you were simply you. In that world, you realised, this would be enough. More than enough.

You could spend an entire lifetime just like this.

"I still love you."

The words were so quiet you almost thought you'd imagined them.

Your eyes opened immediately, and you lifted your head to look at him, but Seungmin wasn't looking at you. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond your shoulder, like he couldn't bear to see your reaction. The song continued, and the people around you continued dancing, laughing and celebrating.

Yet everything had changed.

Because after two years, he'd finally said it.

Your chest tightened painfully. "Seungmin..."

"I know." His voice cracked as he finally met your eyes. "I know I probably shouldn't have said that."

You stared at him, unable to speak. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. What were you meant to say? You’d spent the past two years trying to live your life with a Seungmin-shaped space in it. But that space was there for a reason, and you both knew it.

He laughed softly, but it lacked any real humour.

"I've spent two years trying not to." His hand tightened slightly against yours as he continued, eyes back over your shoulder. "And I'm tired."

The song continued to sway around you, but neither of you moved, frozen by the weight of the conversation.

"I thought time would fix it." His eyes met yours again, scanning your face before he sighed softly. "It didn't."

Your vision blurred. You'd hoped for this very conversation – prayed for it – for two years. But nothing had changed. You were both still in the same situations, still standing in front of each other and breaking in exactly the same places as last time.

"I didn't come for the wedding."

The confession surprised you.

"What?"

A small smile appeared. "I mean, I did." His ears turned pink as he rolled his shoulders. "But not really."

For the first time all evening, you looked genuinely confused. Seungmin exhaled slowly, as if he were gathering courage. The kind of courage he'd never needed on stage, only here with you.

"Our friend told me you'd be here."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. "And?"

"And I decided I was done waiting."

The world seemed to tilt.

Done waiting.

The words echoed in your chest, and you felt the longing you’d tried to suppress for two years surge up with a vengeance. You didn’t know what to do, what to say. You knew you couldn’t go back to how it was years ago, but you longed to be with him again. To be the person he called when he had unimportant details about his day to share, the one he came home to at the end of long schedules. The one he shared all his love with.

"Seungmin..."

"I know what happened before."

His voice was steady now, certain in a way it hadn’t sounded until now.

"I know why we ended."

You swallowed hard. Neither of you had been wrong in your decision. The circumstances had simply been impossible, and you had to do what was for the best. What you thought was for the best.

"I can't undo any of that." His thumb brushed against your hand. "I can't go back and give you the years we lost. But things are different now."

You hesitated, a lump in your throat. "Worse?"

A surprised laugh escaped him. "No."

The smile he gave you was softer than anything you'd seen all night.

"Better."

The song shifted, another slow melody beginning, but neither of you noticed, too wrapped up in your own world to realise that the one around you still existed.

"I learned how to say no."

The confession was unexpected, and your eyebrows raised as he continued.

"I learned how to stop giving every piece of myself away. I learned that chasing my dream doesn't mean destroying everything else I love."

His eyes shone under the fairy lights.

"And for the first time in years, I actually have room in my life again."

Your heart ached because two years ago, that had been impossible. Not because he hadn't loved you enough, but because he hadn't known how to survive everything fame demanded of him.

Now he did.

He stepped slightly closer until he was all you could see. Like distance was needed for that.

"I don't expect you to forgive everything immediately."

Your eyes filled with tears.

"I don't expect us to pick up where we left off."

His voice softened, eyes searching yours once more.

"But I'd like to try again."

The words settled between you. You could see the hope on his face, but beneath it, you could see the fear. The fear of putting himself out there, of asking for a second chance.

"I'd like to do better this time."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The newlyweds laughed nearby, and someone cheered as glasses clinked. Life carried on regardless of the conversation between you both. Yet somehow it felt as though the entire universe was holding its breath, waiting for your response.

You looked at Seungmin. The Seungmin in front of you now wasn’t the idol. He wasn’t the celebrity that you’d spent two years mourning. You were looking at the boy who had loved you and the lost you.

The one who then found his way back.

You rested your forehead against his, the same way you used to, and felt him exhale shakily, like he'd been holding that breath for two years. You’d missed the feeling that came with it, the peace that enveloped you at having him this close.

You smiled through tears. It was a small smile, but enough to make his eyes close. Enough to make hope bloom between you and to tell him what words couldn't. Maybe you couldn't go back, and maybe that version of your story was gone forever.

But for the first time in a very long time—

Going forward didn't seem impossible anymore.

a/n: what do we think?

The first time you met Kim Seungmin, he was a nobody.

Not in a cruel way. Just… ordinary.

He was the lanky fifteen-year-old studying to be a prosecutor, the one with messy brown hair and an impossible habit of humming songs under his breath while his head was buried in his notes in the school library.

The first thing you ever said to him was, “You’re singing the wrong lyric.”

He’d looked up, startled and immediately frowned.

“No, I’m not.”

"You definitely are."

"I'm definitely not."

"You are."

He narrowed his eyes, and you just narrowed yours back.

Three minutes later, you were both laughing so hard that Seungmin had doubled over where he was sitting.

That was the beginning. There were no fireworks, nor was it love at first sight. You were just two teenagers who made each other laugh. It was the kind of beginning that never feels important until years later.

Years later, when everything has changed.

As the years passed, Seungmin's biggest dream narrowed down to simplicity.

He wanted to sing. He didn’t want to become famous, walk red carpets, or have millions of fans screaming his name. He just wanted to perform.

You spent countless afternoons listening to him talk about music, watching his eyes light up whenever he spoke about melodies and lyrics. Sometimes you'd sit beside him while he practised. Sometimes he'd drag you to tiny local performances where only twenty people showed up. Sometimes he'd even sing just for you.

Every single time, you thought the same thing: He's going to make it someday.

You just didn't realise what "making it" would cost.

At seventeen, Seungmin got his first real break. He participated in JYPE's 13th Open Audition, placing second. Not long after that, he joined JYP Entertainment.

Just months later, it was announced that he would debut in Stray Kids.

You remembered sitting on the swings at the park between both your houses, quietly. The stars were bright, and you could feel Christmas in the air. Neither of you wanted to acknowledge that things were about to change.

"You'll forget about me," you teased.

Seungmin immediately scoffed. "Impossible."

"You'll be famous."

"I won't."

"You will."

"I won't."

You smiled. "You totally will."

He reached over and squeezed your hand. "Then you'll just have to remind me who I am."

At the time, it sounded romantic. Now you knew that it was a promise neither of them understood.

When Seungmin debuted, you cried harder than he did. You stood backstage after one of his earliest performances, tears streaming down your face while he laughed at you.

"Why are you crying?"

"You did it."

He smiled, the kind of smile that made your heart stop.

"We did it."

Then he pulled you into a hug, and for a moment, nothing felt different. He was still Seungmin - still your Seungmin. The boy who stole your fries and sent you terrible memes at two in the morning, the boy who knew exactly how you liked your coffee. The boy who held your hand whenever you got anxious.

Nothing had changed.

At least, that's what you both told yourselves.

The first year was easy, but busy.

There were late-night phone calls, endless text messages, and video chats that lasted until one of you fell asleep. Whenever he came home, he spent every spare second with you. The distance was hard, but your love wasn't.

Then Stray Kids exploded.

One successful comeback became another. Then another, and another. Concerts became arenas and arenas became stadiums. Schedules became impossible. And somewhere along the way, your lives stopped moving at the same speed.

The first crack appeared during an interview. It was small, so small you almost ignored it.

You were curled up on your sofa watching him on television. The interviewer had smiled and asked him a simple question:

"Who is Kim Seungmin when he's not an idol?"

Seungmin had laughed. "Honestly? I don't really have a life outside work."

The audience laughed, and the interviewer, but you didn't. You just frowned at the screen, feeling an uneasy feeling build in the pit of your stomach, because he did have a life. He had his members, his family, his friends.

He had you.

Yet, somehow, all of that had disappeared from his answer as though Kim Seungmin the idol had swallowed Kim Seungmin the person.

When you mentioned it later, he brushed it off. "You know what I meant."

You nodded, but something about it stayed with you, and the doubt started creeping in.

The years passed, and Seungmin changed. Not all at once, and not dramatically, but little by little. The way water smooths stone.

His laugh became quieter, and his words became more careful. Every answer felt rehearsed, every reaction measured. Every action seemed filtered through an invisible question:

What will people think?

You understood why, you really did. Millions of eyes were constantly watching him. They were waiting for him to make a mistake, to say the wrong thing. Waiting for him to be human.

The world demanded perfection, and eventually, Seungmin started demanding it from himself, too.

One evening, months after his latest tour ended, the two of you sat across from each other at dinner.

It was a rare night alone with no schedules demanding time and energy. There were no cameras to perform for, or managers rushing about requiring his attention. It was just you and him, exactly the way it used to be. Or at least it should have been.

You were halfway through telling a story about work when you noticed he wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on his phone. When you leaned over to look at his screen, you noticed he was scrolling through and reading comments on the last Stray Kids upload. He was checking the fans’ reactions and monitoring engagement.

Watching the endless flood of opinions from strangers instead of being here. With you.

"Seungmin."

Nothing.

"Seungmin."

He looked up. "What?"

You smiled sadly. "Exactly."

Guilt immediately flashed across his face. "I'm sorry."

You looked down at your plate, messing with the food that you no longer had the appetite for.

"You always say that."

The silence that followed felt heavier than any argument.

You convinced yourself that the worst part wasn't that he had changed, but that you knew why.

You knew what fame had done to him. You saw the exhaustion behind his smile, the anxiety hidden beneath his confidence, and the pressure sitting permanently on his shoulders. You knew he wasn't becoming distant because he wanted to. He was just surviving, and surviving meant adapting to protect himself.

Knowing that didn't stop your heart from breaking, though, because every day, you felt like you were losing the boy you fell in love with, and every day, he seemed a little harder to reach.

The argument happened on a rainy Thursday night.

It was the kind of rain that makes the city feel lonely. It had enveloped the city in a blanket of isolation, forcing people indoors and off the streets. By now, only a few people remain outside.

You were one of them.

You were standing outside the restaurant where he was meant to meet you. The one he’d made the reservations for himself. But that was before he'd cancelled dinner. Again. There was another schedule or meeting. Another apology. Another disappointment.

When he finally arrived home hours later, exhausted and breathless, you were already sitting in the dark, waiting. Seungmin immediately knew something was wrong. You hadn’t changed out of your wet clothes, and your hair was still sticking to the side of your face.

"Hey."

You didn't answer as he sat beside you.

"Talk to me."

For a long moment, you stared out the window. You knew what you needed to do – needed to say – but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

"I can't keep doing this."

His face fell. "Doing what?"

"Waiting." The word hung between you, heavy in its truth. "I've spent years understanding."

His eyes filled with guilt. "I know."

"I've defended you."

"I know."

"I've supported you."

"I know."

Your voice cracked. "Then why do I feel so alone?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

You knew then that he didn't have an answer.

You finally turned to look at him. Physically, he was the same Seungmin. His face hadn’t changed much over the years, only aged. He was still the same lean build as he was in his youth. What had really changed was on a deeper level. You saw the tired eyes, the carefully controlled expression.

The version of Seungmin that the world adored.

Suddenly, the question escaped before you could stop it. "What happened to you?"

Seungmin froze as if you'd physically hit him. It hadn’t come out as an accusation, but rather a plea. A plea to understand where it had all gone wrong.

The room fell silent around you both before he laughed brokenly.

"You think I don't ask myself that every day?"

Your breath caught. For the first time in years, the mask slipped, and there he was.

Not the idol, and not the celebrity.

Just Seungmin.

You could see how lost he was, see the humanity behind the cold mask of fame.

"I miss him too." His voice barely rose above a whisper. "The boy you fell in love with. I miss him all the time."

Tears filled his eyes, and you felt your heart shatter completely, because you realised something devastating.

You weren't the only one mourning who he used to be.

He was mourning him too.

The conversation didn't end that night.

After Seungmin admitted he missed the person he used to be, neither of you knew what to say. There wasn't a solution hiding somewhere between the two of you. There was no compromise or grand sacrifice. No choice that magically fixed everything. You loved him, and he loved you. That had never been the problem. The problem was that life kept moving, and neither of you could move with it.

The weeks that followed felt strange, almost… softer than before. It was like both of you were handling something fragile and trying not to break it. There were no more arguments, no accusations or frustrated tears.

In their place, however, were long silences. Conversations that trailed off before reaching the thing you were both thinking.

The thing neither of you wanted to say first.

One evening, Seungmin showed up at your apartment after practice. It was late, almost midnight. You opened the door and immediately knew he'd come straight from work. His hair was still styled, and there was makeup lingering around his eyes. Exhaustion sat heavily in his shoulders, yet somehow, he still smiled when he saw you.

The familiar one that made your heart ache now.

"Hey."

"Hey."

You stepped aside to let him in. Neither of you spoke much; he just curled up beside you on the sofa. You watched a movie that neither of you paid attention to. He was no doubt busy thinking about something from practise, and you were thinking about how handsome he looked, even this tired.

Eventually, his hand found yours. It was instinct, muscle memory from years of loving each other. For a while, everything felt normal – dangerously normal.

Then Seungmin spoke.

"So what do we do?"

The words were so quiet you almost missed them.

You stared at the television, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know."

He nodded slowly as if he'd expected that answer. He'd been asking himself the same question. Every day for months, maybe even years, without an answer.

"What if I try harder?" he asked.

Your throat tightened, and you looked at him. Even now, with barely enough energy left to watch a film, he was still fighting to make this work, still putting the pressure on his own shoulders.

Try harder.

As though he wasn't already giving every piece of himself away - to the company, the members, the fans, the public.

To everyone except himself.

"You already are."

His jaw tightened at your answer. "Then what if I make more time?"

"You can't."

"I can."

"You can't."

For the first time, frustration flashed across his face. "Why are you deciding that for me?"

"Because it's true."

The words came out sharper than intended. Seungmin immediately looked wounded, and you hated yourself for it. But you couldn't take it back. Not now.

"You have a tour next month. Then recordings. Then promotions. Then another comeback."

His eyes dropped to the floor as you checked them off on your fingers. He knew that you weren't guessing. You were describing reality - his reality. The life he'd worked years to build. It was the dream he'd sacrificed everything for; he just never expected you to be part of that sacrifice.

You reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "I'm not asking you to give that up."

His eyes lifted immediately, almost desperately. "Then tell me what you need."

The question shattered something inside you because he still didn't understand. You didn't need anything, not anymore. There wasn't something missing, and this wasn't a problem to solve. There wasn't a compromise waiting to be found.

There was simply reality.

It was a reality neither of you had created, yet both of you were trapped inside.

Your eyes stung. "That's the problem."

Seungmin's expression crumpled. "What is?"

You swallowed hard, then finally said the thing you'd been avoiding.

"We can't go back."

The room fell silent, and you felt his hand tighten around yours. Your voice trembled as you carried on.

"We can't go back to how things were before. Before the schedules and the tours. Before everyone knew your name."

His eyes filled with tears, but you had to say it. If you stopped now, you'd never would do.

"And we can't go forward."

The words cracked in the middle, the truth in them bringing you pain. You couldn't move forward together because nothing could change. At least, not in the ways that mattered. Seungmin wasn't choosing fame over you. He was living the dream he'd spent his entire life chasing. One he'd worked too hard to abandon. One he deserved.

And you would never ask him to give it up.

Never.

It was in the same way that he could never ask you to spend the rest of your life waiting for moments that became shorter every year. Waiting for him to come home, for a future neither of you could actually picture. He couldn’t ask you to wait for things to somehow become different, knowing that they wouldn't.

The silence stretched on, two hearts breaking in unison.

"So that's it?"

The sound of his whisper nearly broke you, and you forced yourself to look away. Seeing him cry had always made it difficult to breathe, and seeing him cry now might very well suffocate you.

"I don't know."

It wasn't the answer he wanted, but it was the truth. Because neither of you wanted this, and neither of you had chosen this. Somehow it was happening anyway.

Seungmin laughed suddenly, but it was a hollow, miserable sound. Far from the boy you once knew, doubled over in the library all those years ago.

"All these years… All this time."

You watched tears slide down his face.

"And this is what beats us?"

You couldn't answer – wouldn’t answer – because what were you meant to say? There has been no scandal, no cheating or betrayal as so many feared in his industry. It was just… time. Time and distance.  Life, really. All the things that nobody warns you about that love can't always survive.

You moved closer, wrapping your arms around him. Immediately, his arms locked around you like he was afraid you'd disappear. For a long time, neither of you spoke. You simply sat there, holding each other, memorising the feeling of being in each other’s arms for what might be the last time.

Somewhere deep down, both of you already knew. This was goodbye. Not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but soon. It was inevitable, the approaching elephant in the room, waiting to make its final appearance. You realised that the end had arrived long before either of you admitted it. You were only catching up to it now.

Three weeks later, Seungmin showed up outside your apartment. There were no flashing cameras, no security or manager.  It was just him, the same way he'd come to see you hundreds of times before.

You knew the second you opened the door. His eyes were red, but then again, yours probably were too. Neither of you smiled; there was no point in pretending anymore.

"Can I come in?"

You nodded.

The apartment felt impossibly quiet. He sat beside you, close enough to touch, but neither of you were willing to. For a long time, the only sound was your breathing.

"I kept trying to think of another answer."

Your chest tightened at his words, eyes closing to brace yourself against the inevitable.

"I know."

"I couldn't find one."

A tear slid down your cheek, but you didn't wipe it away, because neither of you were pretending to be okay anymore.

"I couldn't either."

His eyes closed, and for a moment, he looked younger. Like the boy from the library, you realised painfully. The one who used to sing the wrong lyrics on purpose just to make you laugh. The one who'd stolen your heart long before the rest of the world knew who he was.

When he opened his eyes again, they were shining.

"I love you."

The words landed between you, gentle but no less devastating.

You smiled through your tears. "I know."

"No." His voice broke. "I need you to know that this isn't because I stopped loving you."

Your heart shattered. Hearing it made everything worse, and you wondered, briefly, if it would have been easier to have something worse to blame this whole thing on.

"I know."

"I'll probably love you for a really long time."

A sob escaped you, and before you knew it, he was crying, too.

Years.

Years together. Years of memories, of becoming part of each other, and now you were sitting here trying to untangle something that had rooted itself into your bones. It felt impossible, and maybe it was.

Eventually, Seungmin reached for your hand, and you let him for one final time.

"I wish I'd met you in another life."

You laughed through your tears. "One where you weren't famous?"

He shook his head. "No." His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "One where I didn't have to choose between my dream and the person I love."

The tears came harder after that.

Neither of you had ever really been given a choice, at least not a fair one. Not one that let you keep everything. Life rarely worked that way, though. Sometimes it asked for sacrifices, and sometimes it made them for you.

When he eventually stood to leave, the final moment felt impossibly small. It was just a doorway and a pair of tear-filled eyes.

A goodbye.

At the same time, it felt bigger than all your previous years put together. Seungmin looked at you one last time, memorising every last inch of your face in the same way that you were memorising him.

He gave you one last smile. It was small and broken, but no less beautiful. It was still the smile you fell in love with all those years ago.

"Thank you."

You started crying again. "For what?"

"For loving me before any of this. For knowing me before I forgot who I was."

And then he was gone.

The door closed softly behind him. The silence was overwhelming, and you stood there for a long time staring at the space he'd occupied moments before. You knew you couldn’t go back, and you couldn’t move forward, so this was the only path to take.

You knew then just how difficult this would be. Because sometimes love doesn't end when the relationship does. Sometimes it stays, lingering quietly in the spaces someone used to occupy. Not as regret or anger, but rather proof.

Proof that once, before the world claimed him, Kim Seungmin was yours.

And for a little while, you were his.

[Part Two]

a/n: I TOLD YOU THERE WAS NO HAPPY ENDING OKAY?