it's written on my skin

You offer an apologetic smile and start to reach into your bag anyway, hoping maybe — somehow — there’s one hiding in the lining.

There isn’t.

The noise behind you grows louder. The next customer shifts impatiently.

And then there’s a presence at your side.

Not intrusive. Not too close.

Just there.

A tall figure steps slightly forward, not blocking you — just enough to be within your line of sight. There’s a gentle tap against the wooden counter near your hand, not touching you, just grounding the moment.

You look up.

He’s already looking at you.

Soft eyes. Curious. Calm.

And then—

His hands move.

Clear. Smooth. Familiar.

What size?

You stare at him for half a second, brain scrambling to catch up.

He repeats the sign more slowly, eyebrows lifting slightly in question.

You answer automatically.

Medium.

He nods once, easy.

He turns to the barista and speaks, voice low and even. “Medium. Oat milk.”

The barista nods and punches it in.

It’s over in seconds.

He steps back slightly, giving you space again, not lingering too close. When the receipt prints, he picks it up and hands it to you — not making a show of it, not smiling like he did something extraordinary.

Just normal.

Just natural.

You hesitate before signing.

Thank you.

His lips curve, subtle but warm.

No problem.

There’s a beat where neither of you move.

You study him more openly now.

He doesn’t look nervous. Doesn’t look proud. He looks… comfortable. Like that interaction was as ordinary to him as ordering coffee.

You sign carefully.

Do you know sign language?

A small huff of laughter escapes him — quiet, almost shy.

Yeah.

Then, after a second:

My younger siblings are deaf.

Something in your chest softens. That explains the ease. The instinct.

Your name is called — well, spoken — and you both glance toward the counter. He steps aside automatically so you can grab your drink. When you turn back around, he’s still there, adjusting the sleeve of his hoodie.

You hesitate.

He does too.

Then he signs:

You always get that one.

You blink.

What?

He gestures gently toward your cup.

Vanilla. Oat milk. Medium.

Your stomach flips.

You’ve noticed?

He shifts, suddenly looking almost embarrassed.

I come here a lot.

A pause.

I’ve seen you before.

Not invasive — honest.

The café noise swells again, but it feels distant now — like you’re standing in a quieter pocket of space carved out just for the two of you.

He glances toward the tables near the window. The one you usually choose is empty.

He looks back at you.

There’s the smallest flicker of hesitation in his expression — not uncertainty about you, but about whether he’s allowed to ask.

His hands lift slowly.

Do you mind if I sit?

The question hangs between you — not heavy, not demanding. Just offered.

You glance toward the window seat.

Your seat.

Then back at him.

You shake your head gently and sign.

I don’t mind.

The relief that crosses his face is small but real. He nods once, almost like he’s steadying himself, then follows you to the table.

The café is still loud. Steam, chatter, the scrape of chairs. But once you sit across from each other, it dulls. The world narrows to hands and eyes and the space between you.

He waits until you’re settled before signing again.

I’m Mingi.

His name feels warm in your hands when you sign it back, asking him to repeat it once so you can get the movement right. He laughs softly when you exaggerate the last motion on purpose, teasing.

You’re making it dramatic, he signs.

You tilt your head.

It deserves drama.

His smile widens. You tell him your name.

He doesn’t just nod. He studies it carefully — the shape of it, the way your fingers curve. Then he repeats it slowly.

He gets it right on the second try.

Something inside of you shifts.

Most people rush. Most people glance away mid-conversation. Most people’s eyes drift toward their phones or the door or anywhere but you.

Mingi doesn’t.

When you sign, he watches your hands. Then your face. Then your hands again. Fully present.

It’s almost disarming.

He asks how long you’ve been coming here.

You tell him.

He admits he’s noticed you for months.

Not in a rehearsed way. Not like a line.

You always sit here, he signs, tapping the edge of the table lightly. You face the window. A notebook sometimes. Or a book.

You feel heat creep up your neck.

You were observing me? you tease.

He winces dramatically.

That sounds worse when you say it like that.

You laugh — silent but unmistakable — and he laughs too, shoulders shaking slightly.

It’s easy.

Too easy.

You ask about his siblings. His expression softens instantly.

Twins, he signs. They’re twelve. They argue constantly. But they’re cooler than me.

You raise an eyebrow.

Impossible.

He pretends to consider it seriously.

Okay. Maybe not cooler.

The conversation flows in waves. Childhood stories. Favorite books. Why he prefers cold brew on certain days. Why you like the window seat — because it feels less crowded when you can see outside.

Time slips quietly.

At some point, the café grows dimmer as the sun lowers.

You don’t notice until a barista flicks the lights slightly brighter near closing time. You both look around at the same moment.

Then at each other.

He checks his phone and his eyes widen.

It’s been three hours.

You blink.

That’s not possible.

He turns the screen toward you.

It is.

There’s a brief, fragile silence. The kind where reality tries to creep back in.

You feel it — that familiar instinct to retreat, to say goodbye politely, to tuck this moment away as something that almost happened.

He hesitates.

Then his hands lift again, slower this time — more careful.

Can I…

He pauses, like he’s recalibrating the wording.

Can I have your number?

Not smooth or overly confident.

Just hopeful.

And there it is — the soft edge of something new forming between you.

He doesn’t rush to fill the silence after. He doesn’t backtrack or laugh it off. He just waits — shoulders slightly tense, fingers loosely intertwined like he’s holding himself steady.

You feel your pulse in your fingertips.

You’ve done this before. Exchanged numbers. It’s not monumental.

But it feels monumental.

Because this doesn’t feel casual.

You nod.

His breath leaves him in the softest exhale, almost like he didn’t realize he’d been holding it.

Yeah? he signs, just to be sure.

You nod again, a little more firmly this time.

Yeah.

He fumbles for his phone in his hoodie pocket — actually fumbles — nearly dropping it in the process. You bite back a smile.

Relax, you sign, amused.

He shakes his head lightly.

I am relaxed.

He is not relaxed.

You type your number into his phone, hyper-aware of how close he’s sitting now. Not touching — he doesn’t crowd you — but near enough that you can feel warmth from his sleeve.

When you hand the phone back, he looks at the screen for a second longer than necessary.

Then he types something quickly and your own phone buzzes on the table.

A new message.

Unknown number.

You open it.

Coffee emergency hotline.

You look up at him immediately. He’s trying to look serious — he fails. You laugh again, shoulders shaking, and sign:

That’s terrible.

He grins.

You smiled.

That shuts you up for half a second.

You’re observant.

He inclines his head slightly.

I told you. I’ve seen you around.

The barista calls out that they’re closing soon. The lights dim just a little more. Reality settles gently over the table. You both stand at the same time, awkward and synchronized.

Outside, the air is cooler. Evening settling in. The sky painted in fading gold, pink and blue.

You hesitate on the sidewalk. So does he. This is usually where moments end—but it doesn’t feel finished. He signs carefully.

I’m glad you didn’t have a pen today.

You smile.

Me too.

There’s that look again — the one where he seems to be choosing something quietly inside himself.

I’ll text you, he signs.

You nod.

I’ll answer.

He laughs softly at that. Then he signs:

Get home safe.

And he waits until you start walking before he turns away. Not hovering. Just… making sure. Your phone buzzes before you even reach the corner.

You glance down.

Coffee emergency hotline checking in. Did you make it to the crosswalk safely?

You smile at your screen like an idiot.

And for the first time in a long time, the walk home doesn’t feel routine.

It feels like something just started.

———

Typing…

You don’t expect him to text again that night.

But he does.

Did you get home?

You’re already in bed when it buzzes. The room is dim, the glow of your screen lighting up your face.

You hesitate before answering — not because you’re unsure, but because you don’t want to seem too eager.

The urge wins.

Yes. Coffee hotline doing a great job.

His reply comes almost instantly.

I take my responsibilities seriously.

There’s a pause. Then:

Can I ask you something?

You sit up a little straighter.

Okay.

Were you nervous today?

You stare at the screen for a long moment before typing.

At the counter? A little.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

I didn’t want to overstep.

You hadn’t even considered that.

You didn’t, you reply. You were… gentle.

Three dots. They sit there for a while.

I’ve wanted to talk to you before.

You inhale sharply.

Why didn’t you?

A longer pause this time.

I didn’t know if you wanted to be approached.

It’s such a small sentence. But it tells you everything. He noticed. He cared. He chose patience.

You press your phone to your chest for a second like that might steady your heartbeat.

The conversation stretches into the night. Favorite movies. The worst coffee either of you have ever had. His siblings’ chaotic group chat (they’ve already demanded to know who he was smiling about earlier).

At some point, you fall asleep mid-conversation.

You wake up to:

Good morning.

And for the next few days, it becomes a quiet rhythm.

Morning check-ins. Midday jokes. Late-night honesty. He sends you a picture of the café window seat when it’s empty.

It looks weird without you there.

You stare at that one longer than you should.

———

You’re in a bookstore when you see him again.

You almost don’t notice at first — you’re crouched near a lower shelf, flipping through a novel.

Then a familiar pair of sneakers stops at the end of the aisle.

You look up. He looks down. The recognition is immediate. His eyebrows lift, surprised. Then he signs.

You again?

You stand slowly, trying not to smile too wide.

You’re following me.

He gasps dramatically.

I come here all the time.

You narrow your eyes playfully.

You say that about every place.

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.

Okay. Maybe the universe is just efficient.

You don’t miss the way he steps a little closer this time. Not invading your space — just reducing the distance.

What are you reading? he asks.

You show him. He nods thoughtfully.

I’ve read that one. Chapter five made me sit in silence for ten minutes.

You blink.

You read romance?

He shrugs.

I read everything.

There’s something in his expression that says: including you.

You end up wandering the store together, pointing out books, bumping shoulders lightly. At the register, he glances at you.

Coffee?

You pretend to think about it.

That’s becoming predictable.

He smiles slowly.

I don’t mind predictable if it’s you.

And your heart? Gone.

———

You’re sitting across from him again.

Same café. Different day.

He brought you a pastry “because it looked like something you’d like.” He doesn’t make a big deal of it.

You split it anyway.

Conversation is easier now. Lighter. But deeper too. At one point, your fingers brush when you both reach for a napkin.

You both freeze.

He looks at your hand. Then at you. He doesn’t pull away immediately. Just… lets the moment sit. You clear your throat softly.

This is not a date, you sign, trying to look casual. He considers that.

Right.

A small pause.

What would make it one?

Your stomach somersaults. You tilt your head.

Are you asking?

He leans back slightly, pretending to come across as relaxed.

I’m gathering data.

You roll your eyes. But your hands move anyway.

Maybe if someone admitted they’ve been hoping for this.

He goes still. Then slowly:

I have been.

No teasing or cheeky grin. Only truth. Hoping for this. You swallow—not because of nerves—because hope is fragile. And suddenly, the thought slips out before you can stop it. Your hands move slower now.

You don’t… have to.

He tilts his head in confusion.

Have to what?

You hesitate. It’s embarrassing to say. But you’ve learned that silence sometimes builds walls faster than words.

You don’t have to feel responsible for me.

The air shifts. He doesn’t look offended. He looks like he’s trying to understand. You push forward, heart racing.

Because of the counter. Or because it’s easy for you to communicate with me. I don’t want you to think this is… charity.

The word stings even in sign. You brace yourself.

He leans forward — not dramatically. Just enough that you have to focus on him. His hands move carefully.

I did not talk to you because I felt responsible.

His brows pull together slightly — not angry. Intent.

I talked to you because I wanted to.

He pauses, making sure you’re following.

If it was my responsibility, I would have left after ordering. I stayed because you make me want to stay.

You involuntarily let out a soft breath. He continues.

I was nervous for days before that. I almost said something three times before the pen thing happened.

You blink.

You were?

He nods once.

I didn’t step in to help you. I stepped in because it gave me a reason to finally talk to you.

There’s no hero complex in his expression. He signs slower now.

I don’t feel responsible for you. I feel drawn to you.

That word.

Drawn.

You look down at your hands for a second, overwhelmed. When you look back up, he’s still watching you — steady, patient.

Waiting.

Not rushing you out of your fear. You exhale slowly.

I’m not used to someone choosing me without a reason.

The vulnerability in that admission makes your pulse thrum in your ears.

His expression softens immediately.

His hand lifts slightly — hesitates — then gently rests on the table palm-up between you.

An offering.

I don’t need a reason, he signs. I just like you.

And then — because he can’t help it — he says it too.

“I like you.”

Soft. Real.

The words vibrate in his chest. You see them shape on his lips. You feel them in the way his shoulders rise slightly with the breath. Your eyes sting unexpectedly. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he signs:

You’re doing that thing.

You sniff lightly.

What thing?

He smiles.

The one where you pretend you’re not melting.

You laugh through the tightness in your throat. Your hands lift.

Then stop pretending with me.

He freezes. Your heart pounds as you attempt to steady yourself.

I like you too.

You hold his gaze.

I want this to be a date.

Silence.

Then his breath leaves him in a shaky laugh. He signs like he’s sealing something sacred.

Then this is a date.

And softly, barely above a whisper:

“Then you’re mine.”

Not possessive.

Chosen.

You slide your hand into his open palm. He closes his fingers around yours.

Official.

———

A few weeks later, you’re standing outside of Mingi’s childhood home.

They’re excited, he signs.

You swallow.

Are you?

He smiles.

Very.

The door swings open before he can knock. Two boys — identical — appear in the doorway. They spot you instantly. Then they look at Mingi. Then back at you.

Their hands move fast.

Is this her?

You were smiling about her.

You practiced her name like five times.

Mingi flushes.

Stop exposing me.

You laugh silently, nerves dissolving. One of the twins steps forward and signs directly to you.

He talks about you a lot.

The other nods enthusiastically.

He’s annoying about it.

Mingi groans. You glance at him. He looks nervous now. Not about you.

About whether you’ll feel comfortable here.

You gently intertwine your fingers with his. The twins notice and exchange a look. Then both of them grin. In perfect synchronization, they sign:

We approve.

And Mingi — tall, soft Mingi — looks at you like he just won something he didn’t think he was allowed to have.

The twins step aside dramatically, ushering you in like you’re royalty.

Come in, one of them signs.

Before he changes his mind, the other adds.

Mingi nudges them with his shoulder as you step inside.

The house feels warm.

Not just temperature-wise — warm in the lived-in way. Shoes by the door. Framed photos along the wall. A faint smell of something simmering from the kitchen.

You don’t miss the way Mingi’s grip on your hand tightens slightly.

Nervous.

That surprises you.

From the kitchen, a voice calls out — muffled but bright. Footsteps follow.

His mother appears first, wiping her hands on a towel. His father right behind her.

Their eyes land on you. Then on your joined hands. Then back on you. And the smiles that spread across their faces are immediate. His mother signs first.

You must be the one.

You blink.

The one?

Behind you, one of the twins snickers.

He’s been unbearable.

Mingi groans softly.

Please don’t start.

His father steps forward and signs with exaggerated seriousness.

He cleaned his room voluntarily.

You gasp softly in mock horror. Mingi looks betrayed.

That was strategic information.

His mother waves him off and steps closer to you, signing gently.

We’re very happy to meet you.

There’s no interrogation in her expression. No sizing you up.

Just warmth.

You introduce yourself properly this time, signing your name slowly so they can see it clearly.

His mom repeats it carefully.

His dad nods approvingly.

The twins hover near the doorway, clearly waiting for more embarrassing content.

Dinner is already set up — bowls steaming, plates arranged neatly.

You sit beside Mingi at the table. His knee bumps yours under it. He doesn’t move it away.

Conversation flows in overlapping waves of sign and occasional spoken words. The twins tell a story about Mingi trying to teach them to rap when they were younger.

He thought he was cool, one of them signs.

He was not cool, the other confirms.

You look at Mingi. He looks at his food like if he stared hard enough it would take him into deep space. You grin.

I would pay to see that.

He points at you dramatically.

Traitor.

His mother laughs and signs:

He used to practice signing in the mirror.

Your heart skips. Mingi freezes.

Mom.

She continues anyway.

When he was little, he wanted to make sure his expressions were clear.

His father nods.

He said he didn’t want anyone to ever misunderstand him.

The table quiets for just a second. You glance at Mingi. He won’t look at you. Your chest feels tight again — but in that overwhelming, grateful way.

The twins recover first.

He practiced confessing too, one of them signs suddenly.

You nearly choke on air. Mingi’s head snaps up.

You promised you wouldn’t say that.

We did not promise anything, the other corrects.

Your eyes widen. You look at him slowly. He covers his face with one hand.

It was hypothetical practice.

You lean closer, teasing.

Hypothetical?

He peeks at you through his fingers. His expression softens.

Not anymore.

The twins make exaggerated gagging motions. His mother waves them off affectionately.

Dinner continues with stories, laughter, overlapping hands moving across the table. At some point, you forget you were nervous at all.

You belong here.

Not as a guest.

As someone chosen.

When you stand to help clear dishes, his mother gently stops you.

You’re our new family. Relax.

You glance at Mingi. He signs quietly, just for you:

You’re more than that.

And when the twins catch you both looking at each other, they exchange one final dramatic look and sign in perfect sync:

Definitely approved.

——

anyways… damn. i wish Mingi was real.

His silhouette looked sharper this comeback. Darker. The mix of black and platinum-blonde hair brushed his shoulders now, styled to look messy in that intentional, editorial way. His makeup carved his features into something colder — harsher contour, smudged liner, gloss that caught the light like frost.

Stage Wooyoung.

Fans were losing their minds over it.

He looks insane. Totally unreal. Ice prince energy.

The company loved it and said it was his best image yet.

But right now—his shoulders slumped under the leather jacket. His head tipped forward slightly. Like gravity weighed more on him than everyone else. Even while nodding along to the choreographer’s notes, he looked… far away.

Like he’d already left the room.

You didn’t mean to stare. You just—it was hard not to notice when someone you knew so well suddenly looked like a stranger wearing their face.

He glanced up and caught you looking. For half a second, something slipped through. Not cool. Not sharp. Just—tired. So tired it almost hurt to see.

Then the mask snapped back on.

He smirked. Chin tilted. Ice prince. You gave him the same small, neutral smile you gave everyone. Professional. Unobtrusive. Just the stylist. Nothing more.

But later—during mic checks—he asked for you.

Backstage before the first Seoul concert felt like a war zone. People running. Cords everywhere. Managers shouting over each other. Someone swearing about batteries. Your brain ran on autopilot.

Clip. Tape. Adjust. Fix. Move.

Another stylist was working on Wooyoung’s in-ears when you heard it. A tiny sound, sharp, like a hiss between teeth.

You looked up.

She kept brushing his hair back too roughly, tugging the wires through without looking. Wooyoung’s hands were curled into fists at his sides.

“Hold still,” she said.

“I am,” he said tightly. She pulled again and flinched. Almost invisible. But you saw it. You always saw it.

“…No,” he said quietly.

She paused. “Hm?”

“…Get Y/N.”

You blinked.

“They’re with Hongjoong—” she started.

“I said get Y/N.”

So you stepped in carefully.

“Sorry,” you murmured, already softer than the other stylist had been.

Your fingers brushed his temple first, tucking a strand behind his ear before you even touched the wires. You felt it instantly—the way his shoulders dropped a fraction. Like someone loosened a string holding him too tight.

You worked slowly, gently. Nothing rushed or careless.

“Okay?” you asked quietly. He didn’t look at you but he nodded.

“…Yeah. Thanks.”

And for some reason, that soft little thanks felt heavier than it should’ve.

——

The tour blurred after that.

Airports. Security lines. Arenas that all smelled the same. Hotel carpets. Cold. New York cold that bit your ears. Tokyo wind that cut through coats. Osaka damp that sank into your bones.

You handed out hand warmers like candy. To staff. To members. To anyone shivering.

But Wooyoung always took his from you.

Never from the box.

From your hands.

And every time your fingers brushed, he held your gaze for just a second too long. Like he was memorizing something and warmth meant more than temperature.

And slowly —without either of you saying it — he started hovering near you.

Then Berlin happened.

You were heading back to your hotel room when you heard it. A broken, gasping breath. Then another. Too fast. Too sharp.

Your stomach dropped instantly. You knew that sound.

He was on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. Hair hiding his face shaking. Not stage shaking. Not tired shaking.

Panic.

The kind that steals oxygen.

You didn’t think. You just moved to sit beside him—close enough to be there, far enough not to overwhelm.

“Wooyoung,” you whispered.

He flinched like you’d startled a stray cat, breath hitching, choking.

“I can’t—” he gasped. “I can’t—”

“You can,” you said softly. Calm. Steady. “Match me. Okay?”

You exaggerated your breathing.

Slow.

In.

Out.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until his stuttering breaths started following yours. Until the shaking eased. Until he wasn’t drowning anymore.

“…tired,” he rasped. It sounded like a confession. Like something shameful. “So fucking tired… of pretending.”

Your chest cracked open.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you said.

And you meant it with everything you had.

When he finally looked at you—eyes red, glass-sharp, shattered—you realized something quietly terrifying.

Stage Wooyoung might belong to the world. But this version? This small, exhausted, fragile version?

He only ever showed you.

——

You don’t talk about Berlin the next morning.

Neither of you do.

But he starts looking for you first.

Always. Every venue. Every room. Every chaotic backstage shuffle. His eyes scan —

Managers.

Staff.

Members.

Then you.

Like he needs visual confirmation that you exist before he can breathe properly or you’re a landmark.

Sometimes you catch him already standing near your station before you even get there—against the table and scrolling through his phone, pretending he just happened to be there.

You never call him out.

You just hand him a water bottle or fix the crooked collar of his jacket like it’s routine.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t make your heart beat weirdly fast every single time.

In Tokyo, you find him asleep sitting up backstage, ten minutes before call time.

Still in full makeup. Head tipped back against the wall. Mouth slightly open. Dead to the world.

You hesitate before touching him.Then gently tap his knee.

“Wooyoung.”

Nothing.

“Woo.”

His eyes snap open immediately — panicked, disoriented. Until he sees you. Then—softly…

“Oh,” he breathes.

Like thank God it’s you.

And it scares you a little, how much trust sits in that tiny sound.

——

Osaka is worse.

The ankle.

He lands wrong and you hear it before you see it. Everyone does. That sick, dull thud.

The kind of sound that makes everyone in the room flinch. He stumbles, recovers fast and keeps dancing. Because of course he does. Because stopping isn’t allowed. Because idols don’t get hurt. They just push.

Push.

Push until something breaks.

By the time rehearsal ends, he’s limping.

Medics crowd him. The members hover like worried puppies. Managers talk over each other. But Wooyoung isn’t looking at them. He’s looking past them. Scanning. Searching. Until—

There.

You.

Across the room, frozen, carrying a bundle of jackets. Watching him.

Your eyes meet and you see it. That same look from Berlin. That quiet, desperate don’t leave.

So you don’t.

You move closer, not dramatically.

Just there. Close enough that if he reached out, you’d be within arm’s length. You don’t speak. You don’t fuss. You just exist beside him and slowly—slowly—his breathing evens out.

Like your presence alone turns the volume of the world down.

By the time Prague comes around, you’re both running on fumes.

Everyone is.

Final concert energy is weird.

Half excitement and half exhaustion. He’s quieter than ever. Not sad. Not upset.

Just… distant like he’s thinking too much. You catch him touching his hair constantly. Running his fingers through the long blonde strands, twisting and pulling lightly at the ends as if they’re bothering him and they don’t belong to him anymore.

You don’t ask.

But you understand.

Too well.

——

The knock comes at 2:07 a.m.

Like whoever’s there might change their mind and leave.

You open the door and there he is.

Barefaced. Hair loose around his shoulders. Looking younger. Smaller. Just Jung Wooyoung. Not the stage version. Just him.

He’s holding your scissors—the cheap silver ones from your kit—like a lifeline.

“Y/N,” he says quietly.

Your name sounds fragile in his mouth.

“…Can you…?”

He lifts the scissors slightly.

Doesn’t finish the sentence.

Doesn’t need to.

Your chest aches. Because you know this isn’t about hair. You step aside and he walks in.

He sits in the chair by the desk, facing away from the mirror. You notice that immediately. He doesn’t want to watch. He just wants it gone.

“All of it?” you ask softly.

Your fingers brush the ends. So carefully maintained. So loved by fans and praised by the company. So… not him.

“Short,” he whispers. A beat. “…Like before.”

Before the concept. Before the mask. Before he started disappearing. Your throat becomes dry.

“Okay,” you say.

Okay.

Like it’s the most normal thing in the world and you’re not about to witness him shedding months of pressure strand by strand.

You gather the first section.

Your fingers slide through it slowly, memorizing the weight and warmth. He closes his eyes the second you touch him. Like he trusts you and he already knows you won’t hurt him. And that trust nearly wrecks you.

The first snip is shockingly loud, metal slicing through silence.

A thick lock falls into your hand then down to the carpet.

Final.

His shoulders drop like something physically lifted.

You keep going, sections falling like pale ribbons around your feet. Each one feels like peeling off armor or dismantling something that never fit right to begin with. The room is so quiet you can hear his breathing getting lighter with every snip.

When you finish, you rake your fingers through the short layers, shaping them messily. Nothing styled or sharp. Just him.

“Done,” you whisper.

He opens his eyes slowly, as if he’s afraid.

Then he turns toward you.

It almost hurts to look at. Still tired. Still worn down. But lighter. Like someone finally took the weight off his chest.

He touches his hair. Short, blunt ends, still natural enough to not look awkward.

He allows himself a shaky breath.

“…Feels weird,” he murmurs. Then quieter— “…Feels like me.”

You pick up one of the long strands from the floor and hold it out. He studies it like a ghost of someone he used to pretend to be. Then gently folds your fingers back around it.

“You keep it,” he says.

“Why?”

A small shrug.

“…You’re the one who carried me through it.”

So you do the only thing you know how to do. You reach into your bag and pull out a fresh hand warmer, pressing it into his palm. Same as always. Routine. Normal. Safe.

His fingers close around it immediately. Then after a second they close around your hand too.

Not tight. Just there. Warm.

Outside, snow keeps falling over Prague, soft and quiet. And for the first time in months— Jung Wooyoung breathes like it doesn’t hurt.

———

anyways yea that was short but here you go Woo biased psykis i hope it was ok<3

She’d smiled, happy that you seemed to have made a new friend, and assured you that you could keep communication - “just ask your parents permission to share your home address,” she advised.

Your parents, who had heard you excitedly speak about Jongho since you received the first letter, had smiled with amusement and agreed. They helped you write it down at the bottom of your next letter. You took your time to make sure each letter was clearly written so Jongho wouldn’t get confused and send it to the wrong place.

Two weeks later, a new letter with Korean postal stamps landed on your doormat and, you supposed, that was really the beginning.

Some of your hometown friends kept writing to their penpal but eventually, physical distance became too much. There were bigger worries, the kind that plague the mind of pre-teens, and then the problems of those teenagers that feel like the end of the world. 

You had those too, of course. 

You worried about whether the pimples on your nose were too obvious and whether your breasts were growing in appropriately because Sabrina already was already a DD while you were barely fitting a B cup. You dated the greasy boys that attended your school and cried into the lap of your friend, Hana, when they inevitably broke your heart. 

You held Hana when the same thing happened and punched her girlfriend in the face when she spread a rumour that your friend wore granny panties (because those were incredible embarrassments in secondary school).

You didn’t tell everything to Jongho but you did tell him a lot. Once you hit 13, you became more aware that he was a boy and you were a girl, even if you’d known each other since before that mattered. When you got your first phone at eleven, you’d carefully written your number at the bottom of the page so he could text you. It was only later, when your mum raged at you about the phone bill, that you realised that probably wasn’t as viable as you had originally thought it was.

You didn’t speak in letters any more but you spoke every day on Kakao, which took a lot of translation apps to figure out how to set up an account.

I really need to learn Korean, you told him.

I can teach you, Jongho promised.

You sent each other videos and photos when you were fourteen. You’d sent him a version of yourself you considered perfect, made up with the appropriate lighting. You blushed when he called you pretty. The first selfie Jongho sent you was similar to yours - head angled up to get the right part of jaw, lips pressed together, eyes focused on the image on his phone screen. He was handsome, you’d known that, but you remembered the moment that you thought you actually liked him. 

It was snowing in Seoul and he was trying to show you it. He’d spun the camera around his head, giggling his delight. He was bundled up in a massive ski jacket, hood pulled over his head. His eyes were sparkling in reflected light and his cheeks were burnt pink from the brutal winds that came in winter. You’d screenshotted it without even thinking and found yourself, embarrassingly, gazing at the secret photo while your heart beat in your throat.

You didn’t tell him of course, you couldn’t - that was embarrassing.

You didn’t know whether the rules for dating in Korea were the same in England but you knew you couldn’t bear the thought of doing something to ruin this relationship. It was important to you, more so than anything in your life.

I like talking to you, Jongho admitted.

I like talking to you too, you had replied, and then quickly added, even if you tell terrible jokes.

Hana would tease you about your international boyfriend, and you would blush and deny it vehemently. She was the only one that knew though you wished it were true.

“You’re my dream couple,” Hana had joked once. “I ship you.”

You’d groaned and shoved her off the bed in retaliation, even as your cheeks burned and your mind jumped in a hopeful dance.

-

Jongho was pretty sure that he was in love with you by the time he was sixteen.

There wasn’t any big moment or any one thing that truly made him realise. It just was. You were an important part of his life in a way no one else was. You were the first person he messaged when he woke up and the last before he went to sleep. When he ate new food, he’d think about whether you’d like it. When he listened to music, you were the first person he would recommend it to. 

His eomma would always get this knowing look on her face when he brought you up. “Oh, she’d like this?” she’d say as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever said. 

His appa had taken to calling you that ‘sweet foreign girl’. “Are you going to show that sweet foreign girl?” he’d ask whenever he took a photo. “Make sure you tell her the history, it’s important.”

There had been a girl that lived down the street from him during high school. Peonghwa. She was sweet, he recalled. She would always wait for him on the corner so they could walk to school together. She kissed him once before she’d darted away into her house, and Jongho remembered this sickening feeling that he’d done something wrong.

“Peonghwa-ah kissed me,” he told his eomma.

She hesitated for a moment before humming. “Okay. She’s a good girl.”

“She is,” Jongho agreed.

Eomma eyed him closely. “Did you want her to kiss you?”

He thought about his answer for a moment, debating the curling discomfort in his stomach. “No.”

Eomma pushed. “Because it’s her? Or because you’re thinking of someone else?”

Your face came to mind immediately. You updated your kakao profile picture constantly and he was greedy in how he took them in. The one you had up now was cute - you’d dressed up as a witch for some halloween party. You were all in black with your hair pulled into pigtails. You’d scrunched your nose up as you grinned into the camera.

Jongho had never lied to his eomma and he wasn’t able to start now. “Someone else.”

He’d let Peonghwa down the next day. He told her politely that he was flattered but he didn’t think about her that way. “I like...someone else.”

The first person Jongho actually told about you was Yeosang. The older friend was on the high school volleyball team with him. His phone had buzzed, a message from you and Yeosang had caught the dopey look that crossed his face when he read it.

“You didn’t mention you were dating,” Yeosang mused.

Jongho visibly startled. “Huh?”

“Dating?” his hyung gestured to the phone, still lit with your message, “I mean, I hope you don’t smile like that when you get texts from your eomma.”

Jongho’s ears burned red. “It’s not like that,” he insisted, “we’re just friends.” he paused and then added, “she lives abroad anyway. It’s not like anything is going to happen.”

Yeosang’s lips formed an ‘o’ shape. “Is that why you’ve never dated anyone?”

“Maybe,” Jongho admitted.

Of course, Yeosang told Wooyoung and it got passed around the whole team. His hyungs’ insisted on calling you his girlfriend and when no one was looking, he sometimes wondered what it would be like to actually ask you.

Do you like him? Do you like him? Would you date him? It all felt woefully embarrassing. Jongho had typed it out a few times, let the question sit there before ultimately deleting it.

Instead, he told you - you look pretty. I like talking to you. You make me laugh.

And every reply he got, every moment where you thought of him for even a second, made his heart skip a beat.

Even now, at twenty, it was still the same.

What university do you go to again? You asked.

Yonsei. He replied, why?

My school has an exchange program. Yonsei’s on the list. Should I apply?

Jongho couldn’t breathe, joy and terror and hope all weaving together in the center of his chest to make every inhale unbearable. He floundered trying to answer you, thumbs hitting the wrong letters. How do you say ‘fuck yeah’ in English again?

If you want to. He said.

Do you want me too?

He was honest. I’d love nothing more than to meet you in person.

The word love made him feel sick. Was that the right thing to say? He didn’t know. The wait for your reply felt like millenia, pushing against the fabric of time and space, because in reality, it was only a minute. Still, he watched the three dots like they were a lifeline.

I want to meet you too Jongho. Wish me luck.

-

I’ll meet you in front of Yonhi’s gates.

Roger that.

You sent your agreement and then stood at the door of your dorm room, deciding whether it was appropriate to hide away for the next semester. It had been one thing applying for the exchange program and a completely different thing to be standing in dorms on Korean soil, your closest friend just minutes away from meeting in person. The nerves and excitement had steadily increased as this dream became more of a reality, until just now when it slammed into your chest - made your heart pick up speed and your breath catch in your throat.

You stared at Jongho’s message for a moment longer. It was only natural, you reasoned, to feel anxious. You’d known Jongho for so long, he was practically a second skin, but you didn’t actually know him, right? You didn’t know what he really sounded like. You didn’t know how he really looked under the midday sun. You didn’t know how you fit into life with him in person rather than over the phone.

You’d confessed your uncertainty to your mother, only once, in the hours before you boarded the plane. “What if I’m making a mistake?” What if he doesn’t like me?

Your mum had heard the unspoken question. She smiled in that way that mothers do when they want to reassure you but can’t know for sure. She smoothed her hands over your cheeks like she once did when you were a baby and said, “Then you come home to people who love you in three months. Something tells me you won’t want to though.”

Three months. You only had three months.

Your fingers curled around the door handle and pulled sharply. You’ve got to make the most of it.

On the way, you got lost four times. Yonsei campus was vast, and more often than not, you got distracted staring at unfamiliar ancient architecture and took a wrong turn. Eventually, you got to the gate. You had searched the location and seen the photos, but it was different in person. Your first palace entrance, the gate stretched high in dramatic fashion. The reds and greens that adorned so brightly were clearly part of a restoration project.

And, standing on the other side like something out of a drama, was Jongho.

You recognised him immediately, almost instinctively. You didn’t have the forethought to wonder if that was too fast for someone you’d only seen through photos. You were too distracted, taking in that he looked so much better in person. He was taller than you thought, shoulders broader, head held higher. His nose was curved and his jaw sharp, his lips plump into a pout that you had spent far too much time analysing. When he glanced over, you took notice of the recognition that rose in his dark eyes and the way his smile blossomed so beautifully.

Fuck. 

He really was unfairly attractive.

Jongho called your name, his voice slightly deeper in person than over the voice note, and raised a hand to wave. You did the same a second later, trying not to get distracted by the long strides he took to reach you.

When he hugged you, your heart leaped in your chest and you couldn’t stop the way you relaxed into his strong arms. He smelt so good and he held you so tight, he must have felt your heart beating against his. You hesitated a moment before returning the hug, arms folding around his waist and letting yourself enjoy the heat of him pressed against you, just for a moment longer than would be deemed appropriate.

When you parted, his happy grin was so wide that his eyes curled at the edges.

Truly unfairly attractive.

“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he laughed.

“Neither can I,” you admitted, “I don’t know why they picked me.”

Jongho nudged your shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he scolded, “You studied hard.”

“And now I’m here,” you said.

“And now you’re here,” he echoed, “with me.”

You had to be imagining the way his voice softened at the end there, or reading into the fondness that he gazed at you. You had to be because he glanced away and when he looked back, it was gone, replaced with a friendly edge. It shouldn’t have made your stomach drop as much as it did.

“I was thinking,” Jongho said, “we could get coffee and then I can release you for orientation.”

“How’d you know when my orientation is?” you wondered.

The tips of his ears went pink. “One of my hyungs is a student representative,” he admitted, “I asked him to look after you.”

This time, it was you who nudged him. “Ooh, special treatment already?” you joked.

“Only the best,” Jongho nodded, “for my friend.”

You didn’t like how tight that made your throat, and you swallowed around it determinedly. You linked your arms with his, trying not to notice how firm the muscles were when he hooked his elbow, and glanced out around them, anything to avoid making eye contact. “Lead the way, Jong-oppa,” you ordered. “This jet lag is severe. I’m going to need a litre of coffee.”

-

Jongho could still feel the heat of your hand in the crook of his arm. Your scent of your sweet perfume still lingered, stuck to his clothes where you had touched him. And Jongho felt like he hadn’t been able to breathe properly since he first saw you in person.

Of course, he knew you were pretty and funny and smart in so many ways. He’d spent so long ruminating on your face, on the voice messages you’d left him, on the memes you shared. But it was different in person. It was better.

Your face lit up when he made you laugh. Your accent slipped through so strongly on certain English words and the way Korean - learnt for him - formed on your tongue was mesmerising. You hummed when you drank your coffee and when you tried to find the right words to express yourself, your gaze drifted to the right, as if that could help you focus.

Jongho was enamoured, way more than he thought possible.

When he dropped you off at the orientation meeting zone, he almost didn’t want to let you go. Maybe you didn’t want to go either because you hovered by him as you greeted other foreign exchange students you recognised from previous online zooms you’d had to partake in. There was a small selfish and irrational part of him that wanted to invite you somewhere else - for dinner, for a walk, anything - but he held his self-restraint enough until the representatives approached and San made eye contact with him, beaming as he always did when he saw one of his precious teammates. San always called that on nights of team drinking, hooking one of them - usually Woo or Yeosang - with his strong arms. The outside hitter was a good person, Jongho knew, probably one of the best he knew. There was a reason that he was part of the student representative committee and not just because he was one of the few people he knew that spoke three languages confidently. 

“Jongho,” San greeted happily. He clapped his teammate on the back before turning a charming smile onto you. “And I assume this is...” he said your name and then made a show of dramatically bowing as he introduced him, “I’m Choi San. Jongho and I play on the same team.”

You looked a little starry eyed at the sight of the man, and Jongho squashed down on the ball of displeasure that rose within him. It was just San, he reasoned. He was an attentive flirt but he would never - they all knew how Jongho felt about you and San would never betray his trust like that. Still, it twisted him up inside to see how the handsome man made you swoon without much effort. The insecure part of him needlessly compared himself - what did San have that he didn’t? Would you like San more than him? Would you want San over him?

“Charmed,” you said and smiled so prettily, unaware of the anxious and self-deprecating spiraling of his thoughts. That really didn’t help.

“Jong has told us so much about you,” San confessed with a cheeky grin.

“San-hyung,” Jongho’s cheeks turned pink.

Your eyebrows jumped up and you sounded amused when you said, “Did he now?”

“Only good things,” San assured.

“San.” Jongho tried to interrupt, but his hyung was on a roll.

“But I don’t think he truly explained how beautiful you were.”

Jongho snapped. “San.”

You were pink as well. “You told your friends I was beautiful?” you asked, shyly. Your eyes darted to him and away, like you were afraid to settle for too long. Was that good? Jongho hated how uncertain he felt.

It felt like a trap, like whatever he said something could go wrong. Jongho stumbled over his words before eventually saying, “It’s an objective truth,” he muttered.

His chest felt tight. Your eyes sparkled. San looked immensely pleased with himself.

When Jongho had taken his leave, he had been both relieved to escape the combined teasing and disappointed that he couldn’t spend any more time with you. Which was silly, he reasoned firmly, he’d already made plans with you for dinner, but walking away from you after waiting so long felt like it was happening way too soon.

Of course, he couldn’t quite escape the teasing.

Mingi threw the ball at him as soon as he entered the practice room. Jongho cursed in surprise and the taller blocker grinned at him in delight. “How’s your girlfriend?”

Seonghwa rolled his lips to hide his grin and Yunho giggled behind his hand.

Yeosang looked up from a long stretch from the middle of the court. “How is she finding Seoul?”

He had long given up trying to get them to stop calling you that. He chucked the ball back. “She’s good. She says she likes it so far,” he murmured.

“And?” Wooyoung pushed. He was throwing a ball into the air as far as he could and rushing around to catch it. “Did you fall into her arms and declare your love for her?”

Once again, Jongho felt hot. “No, of course not. I-I wouldn’t - that isn’t appropriate, I just...”

“Waaaa,” Hongjoong arched a surprised eyebrow, “How’d you manage to form a sentence in front of her?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted bitterly. He moved to one side of the practice room to drop his bag and shed off his hoodie - reluctant, because it meant he couldn’t smell you as he worked. Pathetic, he mocked himself and frowned down at the fabric like it offended him.

He could feel his teammate’s - his friend’s - eyes on him. He had no doubt that could read his genuine frustration, leading to the pause in teasing. They were good like that. It was one of the reasons they had remained friends for so long - each of his hyungs knew when they could mess around and when things were getting too real. It was why Jongho knew everyone was listening when he continued talking, “I didn’t expect...that seeing her in person would be so different. She was just...”

So beautiful, so smart, so charming, so funny. So much more in person than just in text. Was it possible to fall in love with someone who already had your heart? Because Jongho was pretty sure that was what happened.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Yunho wondered, voice softer, “Means you weren’t imagining your connection.”

Jongho let the hoodie drop on top of his bag and turned around. “Maybe, or maybe it's worse,” he murmured, “She’s even more perfect than I could have imagined.” He licked his lips, “And she’s my friend.”

“A friend you’ve had feelings for since high school,” Seonghwa reminded, “friendship is a good start to a relationship.”

Jongho pressed his lips together and tried not to dwell on that. He knew his older friend was just trying to help him, but he couldn’t bear it, not if it caused things to fall apart. His friendship with you was one of the most important things in his life - the idea of risking it...

Mingi piped in to say, “If he has the balls to do something about it.”

Jongho’s eyes went sharp and Wooyoung threw the ball he had at Mingi’s head with a shout of, “dude, timing.”

Mingi ducked out of the way before it hit him. “What? Let’s be honest, Jong’s going to spend the next three months pining, pretending he doesn’t want to kiss her, and then when she goes back home, none the wiser, he’ll regret it.”

“I don’t want to-”

Mingi waved his hand dismissively. “Ruin anything, I get it dude, I do, but like - come on, not everyone gets this chance with their first and only love. She came here to see you.”

Jongho corrected it immediately. “She came here to study.”

Seonghwa, ever the peacemaker, spoke with reluctant disagreement. “She could have picked anywhere, right? But she picked here. For you.”

For you. God, Jongho’s heart did a traitorious leap at that. He swallowed and found himself tensing as if to turn that soft thought into discomfort. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to not miss your chance, bro,” Mingi said earnestly.

Hongjoong called for attention. “I want to practice,” he insisted, “and while you practice setting, you can decide whether it's worth the risk.”

The captain’s words echoed around Jongho’s head as much as Mingi’s. Worth the risk. Was it? Were you? It seemed so simple when he was thinking about it alone, void of real-life consequences.

Of course, you were worth it. Everything about you, about their relationship, about their history with each other, was worth it.

But it was all that which was at risk should things go south. He could just picture your pretty face, twisted in disgust or pity as you told him “I don’t see you like that”. His nightmarish imagining filled in the aftermaths with distance and tight smiles, low contact becoming unanswered questions.

But the hopeful part of him dreamed. He could see your smile, bright and joyful as when you saw him for the first time, as you told him “I feel the same.” He could imagine being allowed to press his lips to your plump bottom lip, to not have to fight the urge to pull you into a hug; to really know what it felt like to hold your hand tightly in his.

Was it worth the risk? At the end of practice, palms aching and shirt sweat drenched, Jongho had made his decision.

-

When people asked you how you were enjoying your time in South Korea, you were honest when you told them, “I love it.”

You loved the reliable wifi on the subway. You loved how cheap iced coffee was. You loved the call buttons in restaurants so that you didn’t have to try and make awkward eye contact with your server to get more drinks.

You loved your dormmates - Korean and foreign exchange students alike - and how welcome they made you feel. You loved your classes and the chance to build your Korean speaking skills properly. But most of all, the reason why you enjoyed your time so much, you loved your time with Jongho.

Any fears you might have had about your friendship moving from online to the real world was unfounded. Jongho folded you into his life as if you had always been there and you supposed you always had, in some sense. Old jokes and memes became part of everyday conversation. He reminded you to drink water, just now he was pushing a bottle into your hand with a disapproving frown. The names of friends, his teammates, were as familiar to you as you were to them.

When you finally met the volleyball boys, Wooyoung had asked if it was okay to hug you “because I feel like I’ve known you for years. Jongho never shuts up about you.”

“He spoke about you all too,” you had told them, “he really looks up to you all.”

Jongho mock-groaned. “Don’t tell them that.”

Yunho pretended to wipe a tear. “Jong-ah, you look up to us?”

“He has to,” Mingi said, “He’s just a little bear.”

The blond might have been quick witted but he wasn’t fast enough to dodge Jongho’s elbow to the stomach.

“Bear?” you arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Why bear?”

“He’s got the strength of a bear,” Hongjoong explained, “one of the best hitters on the team.”

“Plus he looks like a teddy bear,” San added cheekily. He giggled when he got a kick to the back of the ankles in retaliation.

You looked at Jongho’s narrowed eyes and pressed lips, and gasped in delight. “Oh my god, you do look like a teddy bear.”

“See?” San defended himself.

Jongho stuck his bottom lip out. “Please don’t encourage them.”

When you called him baby bear later, he sighed in despair and put an arm around your shoulder. Wooyoung and Mingi made a show of complaining that you were getting special treatment.

“That’s because I actually like her,” Jongho shot back immediately.

Of course, that caused more objections, as intended, but you couldn’t focus on what was being said. No, not when the comfort weight of his arm around your shoulders made you feel warm all over, not when the scent of his perfume - musky with citrus undertones - flooded your senses and made your heart clench with torturous interest.

He’d been doing that more, you had noticed. Finding himself next to you - an arm around your shoulder, a hand brushing yours when you walked together, body angled your way as he listened to you with his undivided attention. It was sweet but perhaps, too much for your poor heart. Every time, he made eye contact with you or he reached for you, you felt yourself melt every time. It was so easy to forget that you were friends and nothing more when he smiled at you like that.

You’d gotten used to saying that. We’re just friends. People had asked, mostly those in your dorm who had caught sight of Jongho dropping you off basically every night. He always did the same thing - hugged you close, wished you a good night, and would stay on the porch until you’d shut the door securely behind you.

Soyeon, one of the student representatives residing in your dorm, had wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Making friends with the locals huh?” she teased.

You’d explained the long story of your friendship and ended it with the familiar assertion of friendliness. “Nothing else,” you’d asserted, “Jongho doesn’t see me that way.”

Soyeon looked more amused than anything. “I’ve been to a few parties with the volleyball boys,” she said, “and I’ve never seen Jongho take even the tiniest interest in anybody. No one night stand rumours, no relationships that can be confirmed, nothing. But you show up? He’s here every night, walking you home, giving you his jackets.”

You glanced down as if guilty. The familiar weight of the jersey sat on your shoulders. Jongho was so much broader than yourself so it hung off your frame, the sleeves over your fingers. You liked wearing you, you’d shyly admit, because it smelt like Jongho. Under the older girl’s clear gaze and unwavering explanation, you felt like you were doing something wrong.

“I was cold,” you explained quietly.

“And our star hitter was only so happy to warm you up,” Soyeon winked.

The clear innuendo made you flush. “We’re friends, nothing else,” you insisted, “this is a friend’s jacket. The jacket of a friend. We’re not, I’m not - we’re friends.”

“Hey, I’m not judging you,” Soyeon put her hands up in defense, “Friends, more than friends, whatever you say.”

She’d walked away, leaving you trembling and nervous and horrifically aware that the way you felt right now was very much not friendly.

When you texted Hana that you might have a crush on Jongho, she sent you back: well yeah, obviously.

That was the thought that lingered with you now, squished between Jongho and Yeosang in the tiny booth of the beef barbecue restaurant just outside of campus. It had become a weekly routine to meet somewhere - a local restaurant, a park with convenience store ramyeon and fried chicken, or hongjoong’s off campus apartment - and just destress after a long week of classes and high expectations. You did enjoy the time, you liked Jongho’s friends a lot and it was a wonderful time to just relax.

But then Jongho would put the first piece of meat on your plate or laugh happily beside your ear, his body shaking against you, and you’d remember that you like-liked him.

God, you felt like a silly school kid. Hopelessly and pathetically overwhelmed by your crush, and Jongho didn’t make it any easier.

See, you knew your friend was handsome, funny, helpful - but it was so different in person. You could see the way his eyes lit up when he laughed, hear the way he formed his words so intelligently, feel how earnest he was in helping you. It was like the idea of him had formed into reality and it was so much better than you could have imagined.

You’d dated before. Your last boyfriend had been an engineering student at your university and told you that “he wasn’t ready for a relationship” before immediately starting to date one of his housemates. Before all the red flags became apparent, he had been handsome - but not like Jongho - and smart - but not like Jongho - and he made you laugh - but not like Jongho.

It was almost pathetic how much you were comparing them and you had this horrible feeling that you’d be looking for Choi Jongho in every man you dated going forward. Fuck.

“Are you okay?” when he ducked his head to speak with you, his breath was warm against your cheek.

You shivered, crossed your legs at the ankles for physical support, and smiled brightly. “Fine. Just thinking about the amount of homework I have to do.”

He rapped on your forehead gently and you tried not to visibly melt at the feeling of his fingertips on your skin. “Nope. No homework thoughts allowed.”

Yunho swept his gaze across the room and then darted back. He lowered his voice when he said, “Don’t look now. The lacrosse girls are out.”

Mingi sat up straighter in interest and Jongho let out a long suffering groan.

You blinked in confusion. “What’s wrong with lacrosse?”

“It’s less the team and more one person in particular,” Seonghwa explained.

San poked Jongho on the shoulder. “Minji has a crush on our baby bear.”

You swallowed your discomfort at the announcement as Jongho batted at San’s hand. “It’s not a crush,” he said, “she just thinks I’m playing hard to get.”

“Are you?” you found yourself asking.

“No,” Jongho’s answer was quick, “No, I’m not interested.”

Your gaze drifts over. Across the room, the girls were still wearing their kit - you vaguely remembered the school’s itinerary email that shared the lacrosse team had a game today - and seemed unaware of the other team nearby.

“Which one’s Minji?” you asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jongho objected as Yeosang answered, “the one on the left. Red hair.”

Ah. The girl in question was laughing at something the teammate across from her said, eyes scrunching at the corners in pure joy. You hated how the sight of her hit you in the chest.

“She’s cute,” you murmured.

“And I’m not interested,” Jongho said firmly. He stabbed one of his chopsticks into a chicken wing as if it personally offended him.

“Soyeon told me about the volleyball boys,” you mentioned. “I didn’t know that you guys were so popular.”

Yunho and Wooyoung grinned. Hongjoong turned pink. Seonghwa coughed into his hand and ducked his head. Yeosang and Mingi gave you an embarrassed grin. Jongho kept his head on the plate in front of him.

“We...have stories,” Yeosang said slowly, “except for Jong. He doesn’t really like that scene.”

“Which adds to his mystery,” Wooyoung added.

“Unfortunately,” Jongho sighed.

You can’t really explain what this information does to you. Curiosity wars with delight and relief. It shouldn’t, it doesn’t really mean anything, but the part of your brain that had already imagined growing old together read it as something important.

You find yourself watching him again, tracing the curve of his jaw and the pretty curve of his nose. You take note of how his lips are angled downwards unhappily and how long he’s been chewing that piece of chicken.

When you reached up, you intended to touch his cheek but panicked that it was too intimate and changed the destination to pat the top of his head. He looked at you in surprise as you smiled and hoped you looked normal. Friendly. 

“Aigoo,” you cooed, “I didn’t know my baby bear had an admirer.”

He watched you, eyes wide and round. You told yourself you were imagining the soft edges or the twitch of his head as if he was leaning into you. You told yourself that the ‘my’ didn’t mean anything, that it was innocent. You told yourself that it didn’t mean anything when Jongho just sighed, shoulders slumping, and didn’t immediately try to remove your hands from him, like he did with his other friends.

“Minji can admire all she wants,” he murmured, “she’s not the one I’m interested in.” Before you had a chance to respond - not that you’d have been able to, your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth at the intensity of those words - Jongho picked a piece of meat off the grill and held it out to you. “Try this cut. It’s good.”

-

Since Jongho had announced he was going to ask you out, his friends had been intensely invested. Every night, after he’d drop you back to the shared dorm building, he’d get asked the same thing - “so?” - and he’d have to shake his head or avert his gaze.

It was truly embarrassing how terrified he was about taking that step.

He always had an excuse as to why he couldn’t ask. Too much to drink, someone walked passed, you saw someone from your course; his voice had broken and you’d laughed too hard, or -

Yeosang looked unimpressed. “She nearly choked on sweets?”

Jongho hummed and kept his gaze on a loose thread at the end of his shirt. “She ate them too fast,” he murmured, “And I don’t want her to think of a date with me and link that to her near death experience.”

“Yup, I’ll admit, that wasn’t an excuse I had predicted,” San commented.

“Not an excuse,” Jongho challenged, “I just, um, it has to be-”

“Perfect,” Yunho and Mingi finished his sentence with a roll of their eyes.

Jongho flushed. How many times had he really said this? “It’s important,” he insisted, “I just - it’s going to change everything and I...I have to do it right.” 

He’d imagined it so many times. That perfect moment. In reality, he knew it couldn’t be possible. Rationality, what he dreamed of was never going to match reality, but there wasn’t anything wrong with wanting it to at least be similar right? To have that one wonderful moment where confessing his feelings for you felt right rather than the most anxiety inducing thing he’s ever done. 

“You’re gonna miss your chance,” Wooyoung scolded, “you aren’t the only one who fancies her, you know?”

Jongho froze as his heart leaped horrifically into his throat. “What?”

“I heard it in my dance class,” the libero admitted, “Apparently, Hyunjin already asked her out.”

Jongho felt adrift, like his world had been unended by such a simple revelation. With 5 words, his mind was swirling, his chest tightened by the panic pumping through him.

He knew Hyunjin - he was Wooyoung’s friend of a friend who kept each other company during long rehearsal stretches. They’d spoken a few times at parties to know that Hyunjin was genuinely a nice person, and he wasn’t blind to the man’s attractiveness. He could just imagine the smooth smile that would have made you blush or the charming pick-up lines that would have made you blush.

You didn’t tell him, he thought vaguely, you didn’t tell him about any date.

“What did she say?” Jongho asked, though he didn’t want to hear the answer.

Wooyoung’s eyebrows furrowed as he hesitated. “Jongho...”

Jongho was up so quickly, the sofa pushed backwards on the wooden floor slightly. “I have to go,” he declared.

Hongjoong looked startled with worry. “Jong, are you-”

But the maknae of their group was already heading for the door, stumbling into his shoes and forgetting the keys still in the pocket of his hung jacket. He couldn’t think clearly, not with so much anxiety and dread coursing through his bloodstream. He didn’t know whether to laugh or scream or curse himself out for his avoidance. He should have thought - you were wonderful, perfect even, why wouldn’t anyone else see that? 

Their team captain looked ready to follow behind but was stopped by Seonghwa’s grip on his elbow. “Let him go,” Hwa sighed, “he’s gotta figure it out himself.”

“Maybe it’ll be the kick up the arse that he needs,” Yeosang murmured hopefully.

Mingi hummed in agreement. “50,000 won that he actually asks her out.”

“50,000 that he martyrs himself.” Yunho shot back.

“Guys,” San shook his head and then leant forward on his knees to add, “50,000 that he does ask her out but he fucks up the first time.”

Hongjoong pinches the bridge of his nose.

-

Soyeon had been out the night before and had made it clear she wasn’t to be disturbed, which was probably why she looked half asleep and unimpressed in your doorway. You didn’t get the chance to ask her why she was there before she said, “your boyfriend is at the door.”

You didn’t even try to correct her, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. You’d seen Jongho just an hour or so before, and he’d seen fine. You couldn’t think of a reason as to why he’d be here now, unless - you wondered if there was some kind of emergency, something that had him rushing here.

You muttered a quick apology to the older woman and moved out of your room, down the short hallway and stairs to get to the main door. On the steps, Jongho looked breathless, pink in the cheeks and eyes wide. You desperately scanned him for any signs of injury.

“I need to talk to you,” the words tumbled over his lips. “Alone.”

It sounded serious, terrifyingly so, and you could only nod in stunned agreement. He followed you up the steps quietly and your mind whirled. You jumped from one reason to another wildly - a family member hurt, an argument with the volleyball boys, an issue with the coach, a problem with a professor, or - your heart did a painful lurch - did he know you had feelings for him?

You let him into your dorm room and the door shut behind you with a weight of finality. Jongho hadn’t been in your room before, you realised, and a sense of inadequacy filled you. Your bed wasn’t made, covers crumbled from where you had been laying on him. You hadn’t cracked a window in a while because mosquitos kept getting in and you had a worried moment when you thought the space smelt funny, despite the diffuser you had placed on your desk. There was a pile of dirty clothes falling out of the basket because you hadn’t had time to go to the laundry room and god, yep, that was a pair of your comfortable granny pants sticking out the top.

You shuffled yourself so your body was blocking the view of the mess before you spoke. “What’s wrong, Jong-oppa? Are you okay?”

Jongho’s gaze was steady and his voice was raw when he said, “don’t go out with Hyunjin.”

You startled, surprised. “What?”

“Please,” Jongho begged. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

“Handle?” you repeated faintly.

When Jongho reached for you, you let his hands warm yours without much thought. You’ve never refused his touch and, like always, it made your heart pound in your ears. It was made worse by the way that he was looking at you, a desperate tinge seeping into his gaze. I’m dreaming, you thought, this has to be...

“If you’re going to date anyone, date me,” Jongho stated. His fingers flexed around yours. “Please.”

“Jongho...”

“It’s your choice. You can say no, fuck, I promise I won’t make it weird.”

“Jongho.”

“I just...please don’t date Hyunjin. The idea of him getting to hold your hand or kiss you o-or -”

“Jong,” you said his name louder, more forcefully. You had to hear it properly, you needed to be sure. But when he looked up at you like that, it couldn’t be anything else, right? “You want to go on a date with me?”

“I want to take you on as many dates as you’d let me,” he confessed.

Your voice shook. “Where?”

“Huh?” Jongho blinked.

You elaborated, “Where are you going to take me on our date?”

“You...you want to?”

The corner of your lips twitched up into a smile. “Do you want me to say no?”

“No,” Jongho said quickly, “but um, I didn’t expect you to actually say yes. Are you sure?”

“Probably the most sure I’ve been about anything,” you admitted.

Jongho shuffled closer, until the tops of his socks bumped against your house slippers. You noticed how much taller he was like this, looking down at you with such warmth. His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. “Can I kiss you?”

You shuddered a breath. It was insane how such a sweet question made you fall for him all over again. “Fuck yeah.”

The first touch of lips was soft, a gentle touch with an unsteady breath. It was a moment of stepping over that boundary, of the line between friendship and more being crossed. Jongho was so careful with you and you leant into him fully, eyes fluttering closed.

The second kiss was firmer, more assured. You shaped his lips the way you liked and your free hand splayed across the center of his chest to feel his heart beating against your palm. Jongho’s nose bumped against yours as he let you guide him, show him what you wanted, and obliged happily.

The third kiss was molten. It burned your skin as he took control, pressing in closer and when he licked into your mouth, you sighed in contentment. Your hands stretched until they could intertwine in Jongho’s hair, gripping tight enough to make him curse. He rocked forward instinctively and you could feel him, the bulge in his jogging bottoms a delicious sign of how much he was into this, into you. It gave you that pleasant fuzzy feeling at the back of your head and, driven by that feeling, you let one hand drift lower to feel him in your palm.

“Ah, shit,” Jongho twitched in your hold before rearing back. He looked even more attractive like this - pink cheeks, eyes blackened and lips swollen. You rubbed your thumb against the seam, only stopped when a hand grabbed at your wrist, panicked in how it stilled your movements.

“Wait, I...I’ve never...” his voice warbled, insecurity seeping in.

You didn’t want him to feel that way, embarrassed around you, but you couldn’t stop the disbelief that crossed your face. Could you really be blamed? Choi Jongho was a gorgeous man, a popular athlete; you knew he had the attention of others in the university. Had he really never... “Like, at all?”

Jongho pursed his lips and diverted his gaze to somewhere over your shoulder. “I’ve never been interested in anyone,” he said, “no one but you.”

If it were possible for you to love him more, you did at that moment. You pushed yourself up on tip toes to press a firm kiss to his lips and you grip on his clothed dick - mournfully because fuck, he felt so good - lessened. “We don’t have to do anything,” you murmured, “kissing is enough. Being with you is enough.”

Jongho’s expression was unreadable but you knew that meant he was thinking, debating his opinions and weighing the best response. He always did that when it was something important and you knew - your feelings, your relationship and anywhere it went - was incredibly important to him.

Eventually, he let out a low sigh. “Show me,” he asked, voice rougher than it was before, “show me how to make you feel good.”

You felt it in your stomach, the words and the earnest way he said them. “Are you sure?”

Jongho’s fingers released your wrist, stepping closer into your hold. One hand came to cup your jaw, stroking at the skin there until your eyes fluttered. “Show me,” he repeated.

Who were you to deny him?

“Strip,” you ordered, voice trembling. “And get on the bed.”

Later, under the thin bedsheets on your too small bed, you laid half on top of Jongho’s broad chest. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest, and listened to the beating of his heart against your cheek. It was the most content you had ever felt, safe and secure in his arms. Jongho traced ticklish patterns along the curve of your back, fingers dipping low to trace bite marks that he’d littered your thighs and hips with. You shivered and nudged your nose affectionately into his pec.

You looked up when his trail stalled and frowned as Jongho’s eyebrows furrowed together, as a thought came thundering back to him. “What about Hyunjin?”

You tilted your head. “What about him?”

“He asked you out.” 

Oh, right. Yeah. Jongho had come to you, looking so panicked, so desperate with love once hidden pouring into his words. You had been focusing on more important things, you reasoned.

You shook your head. “He didn’t. Hyunjin asked me to help him with his English language assignment.” 

“Oh.”

“Who told you that he did?” you wondered.

“Wooyoung,” Jongho admitted.

You huffed a laugh. In the short time you’d known his volleyball friends, Wooyoung was friends with everyone and thus, the person who seemed to know everything. He was also a terrible gossip and had more than once shared the most dramatic version of the story he’d heard. “Really?”

“He was really convincing,” Jongho defended himself.

You didn’t hide your smile. “Besides,even if Hyunjin had asked me out, I would have said no.”

Relief danced in Jongho’s eyes as he tried to hide it behind feigned nonchalance. “Oh? Why? He’s a good guy.”

“Well yeah, he’s smart and gorgeous,” you agreed and snorted in laughter when Jongho looked down at you with a deadpan disappointment. “But, see I already have feelings for somebody else.”

Jongho’s hold tightened around you, possessive in a way that made your toes curl. “Yeah?”

You hummed. “Yeah, we’ve known each other for years,” you murmured, “and he’s the best person I know.”

“And the most handsome?” Jongho teased. Another time, you might have rolled your eyes, pretended to feel nauseous and tell him nothing of the sort. 

It was different now though.

You reached up to cup his cheek, caressing the soft skin under his pretty eyes. “He’s beautiful,” you admitted and delighted in the way that Jongho went pink and grinned shyly, gums on display.

“Funny, I have someone like that,” he said. He angled his head to press a sweet kiss to your palm. “I’ve been in love with her for most of my life, to be honest.”

God, the word love made your stomach drop in the best way. “That’s a long time.”

“Yeah, but she’ll always be worth the wait,” he said, and you couldn’t stop yourself from rearing up to kiss him again.

-----------------

a/n: thank you so much for reading!! pls check out the works of the other writers in the collab :)

“What’s wrong?” He murmurs against your hair.

Uh oh. You tilt your head up slightly, and he leans back to meet your gaze.

“What do you mean?” You ask softly, stalling.

A wry smile plays in the corner of his mouth. “You’re mini-hyperventilating on me.”

You snap your mouth shut. Whoops.

“‘S the matter?” His voice is still peaceful, but the smile fades from his face.

You swallow hard. “Um. Nothing.”

He raises an eyebrow, and you sigh. Ah. You notice the shakiness to your breathing now.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you mumble, hiding against his chest again. “Really. Promise.”

He hums, the sound edged with skepticism, but he lets it pass.

You take another five minutes to build your courage up, consciously matching your breath to his.

“I love you,” you whisper so quietly even you can barely hear it in your own skull.

After the briefest pause, Jongho chuckles once, arms sliding to hold you tighter.

“I know.”

You blink, then raise your head to look at him again. There’s a dreamy look on his face.

“You told me in your sleep,” he whispers.

You’re pretty sure your heart stops beating. “I—what? When?”

He tucks you against him again, lifting a hand to sink his fingers into your hair. “Hm. A week ago, I think.”

“A week?”

He nods once, and you feel the warmth of his breath stirring against the top of your head.

“I didn’t know if it was just you dreaming,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Figures you’d blab on yourself when unconscious. “…Oh.”

You both fall into silence again, listening to the faint chirp of birds through the open window. You watch the shadow of the tree branches dance gently on the floor next to Jongho’s book, leaves trembling with the slight breeze.

“Did I upset you?” He whispers.

“No,” you wheeze. You clear your throat and try again. “Uh, no. I’m kinda annoyed at myself, but it’s not your fault.”

“Don’t be annoyed,” he murmurs, and you feel his lips curve into a smile in your hair. His fingertips massage gingerly at your scalp. “I was glad you were asleep. I cried a little.”

Your head shoots up. “What?”

The tips of his ears tinge scarlet. “It was stupid. I was just…happy.”

You watch him worry his lower lip between his teeth.

“You’re not upset?”

He frowns slightly. “Why would I be upset?”

“I mean, it’s…” You frown, too. “I don’t want you to feel, like…burdened.”

His frown clears immediately, followed by a fond exasperation.

“Jagi,” he murmurs, studying your face with a little smile. “It’s not a burden to be loved back.”

You stop breathing for a second.

He laughs quietly, guides your head up just enough for him to kiss the tip of your nose. “Don’t tell me I wasn’t obvious.”

“I didn’t want to assume,” you insist, your heartbeat racing again for this entirely different reason.

“You’re allowed to assume,” he says, tucking you against him again. “You’re allowed to do anything. You hung every star in the sky.”

“God,” you rasp, and he laughs again when you bury your face against his neck and pepper it with kisses.

“I love you.”

He says it so simply, like the sky is blue and water is wet and nothing else matters in the world. You breathe deeply in and out, hooking your hand underneath his arm and resting it against his shoulder.

“I love you, too.”