jamie

you stare at james from across the room and immediately feel your chest tighten. the moment he walks through the door, your brain refuses to process what it's seeing.

you stare. and stare. and stare some more. there must be a mistake because the image in front of you makes absolutely no sense. james left the apartment this morning looking like james.

the man currently standing in the doorway looks like somebody used a character customization screen and dragged the hair slider all the way down.

his hair is gone. well, not gone gone, but close enough to send you into mourning. the hairstyle you've spent months absentmindedly playing with during movie nights has been reduced to something that looks criminally short.

he doesn't notice at first, too busy taking off his shoes and rambling about his day. he's halfway through a story about his barber when he finally looks up and sees your expression, the smile slowly slipping off his face. his eyebrows pull together in confusion as he glances around the room, checking if something terrible happened while he was gone.

when his eyes land back on you, you're already looking way too emotional.

"why are you looking at me like that?"

the question breaks whatever fragile thread was holding you together. your lips tremble before you can stop them. you point at his head with devastation. he follows your finger upward and frowns.

"no, no, no," your eyes start watering.

he lets out a horrified laugh because surely you're joking. unfortunately for him, you are not joking in the slightest.

a tear escapes before you can stop it. the second it rolls down your cheek, james' face transforms from amusement to absolute panic.

"no!" you burst into tears.

the sound that leaves his mouth is somewhere between a scream and a malfunctioning appliance, practically launching himself across the room to reach you. within seconds he's kneeling in front of the couch, grabbing your hands while staring at you with genuine concern.

"you cut your hair."

the fact that you're sobbing over a haircut hasn't fully registered yet. his protective instincts activated before his critical thinking skills could catch up. "baby, what's wrong?"

james blinks. then he blinks again. he slowly turns his head toward the nearest reflective surface as if maybe the mirror will explain what's happening. the room becomes so quiet that you can hear him processing the information in real time.

when he looks back at you, his mouth hangs open. "that's why you're crying?"

"you cut it too short," you try to explain yourself, but every sentence gets interrupted by another wave of emotional devastation.

james watches helplessly while you mourn the loss of several inches of hair. the more you cry, the more guilty he starts feeling despite having absolutely no clue how he got himself into this situation.

"i thought somebody died."

"it did."

"what died?"

"your hair!"

james throws his head back toward the ceiling, closing his eyes. a long, exhausted sigh leaves his body.

he opens his eyes again and immediately softens when he sees your miserable expression. "oh, sweetheart."

you hate how pathetic you sound when another sob escapes. james reaches up and cups your face with both hands, thumbs gently wiping away tears while he tries—and fails—not to smile. the corners of his mouth keep twitching upward every few seconds, clearly fighting for his life.

"don't laugh."

"i'm not laughing."

"you are."

"i'm trying not to."

that only makes you cry harder. he pulls you against his chest before another accusation can leave your mouth.

one arm wraps around your shoulders while the other rubs slow circles across your back. "it'll grow back."

"not fast enough."

"it literally grows every day."

you can physically feel him suppressing laughter above your head. "you don't understand."

"then explain it to me."

"you had perfect hair. i loved the old one."

james leans forward until your foreheads touch, his hands settling on either side of your face again.

he reaches up and gently smooths a hand over the side of his newly-short hair. for the first time, he actually seems to understand why you're upset.

he knows how attached you get to little things. he knows how much comfort you find in familiar routines and familiar versions of the people you love.

the sight of him trying so hard to take your hair-related grief seriously almost makes you laugh. "i'm sorry i shocked you. i look ugly, don't i?"

"no."

"then why are you crying this hard?"

"because you actually walked into a barbershop, sat down in a chair, looked another human being in the eye, and willingly allowed them to butcher your hair!"

james lets out a laugh so loud it startles both of you. before you can protest, he pulls you right back into his arms, chin resting on top of your head while he continues laughing into your hair. eventually the laughter fades into soft kisses pressed against your forehead.

"baby, couples who match stay together."

your head remains tucked beneath his chin while the forgotten takeout he got for you on the way home sits cold by the front door, abandoned in favor of dealing with the emotional fallout of a haircut that should never have existed in the first place.

the worst of your tears have passed, leaving behind the occasional sniffle and a lingering sadness that resurfaces every time your eyes wander toward his head. somewhere in the back of your mind, you're already beginning to accept reality, even if acceptance tastes bitter.

james, unfortunately, mistakes your temporary peace for recovery.

you lift your head slightly and glance up at him. "what?"

his eyes drift toward the ceiling for a moment while he organizes whatever nonsense has been brewing inside his head, and the longer he takes, the more nervous you become.

there are people who pause because they're searching for the right words. james pauses because he enjoys building suspense.

but suspense rarely benefits the people forced to listen to him. "okay, hear me out."

you know that tone and that expression. you know the particular sparkle in his eyes that appears whenever he's convinced himself he's about to change someone's life with an idea that should have remained private.

somewhere in the distance, common sense begins packing its bags and leaving the conversation.

"i'm listening."

james brightens instantly. "so . . . bob?"

your brain refuses to process the words. then the meaning settles in. then the image appears and the horror arrives. you stare at him while the full weight of his suggestion crashes directly into your soul.

he watches the realization happen in real time, every ounce of color drains from his face because your eyes have already started filling with tears.

"oh, no," he watches your expression crumble piece by piece, every second bringing him closer to disaster.

he seems to finally understand that suggesting additional hair removal to someone actively mourning hair removal may have lacked strategic brilliance.

"you want me to cut my hair too?" the question comes out weak and wounded.

james immediately starts shaking his head, panic spreading across his face with impressive speed.

his hands rise defensively, searching desperately for an explanation capable of saving him from the consequences currently approaching. nothing useful arrives. every possible response sounds terrible. every available path leads directly toward failure.

"no, that's— okay, hearing it out loud sounds worse."

"sounds worse?"

"i mean—"

"another haircut? that's your solution? and a bob?"

his head drops backward against the couch while a groan escapes from somewhere deep within his soul. one hand covers his face completely, his fingers dragging downward in the universal gesture of somebody realizing they've ruined their own evening.

above them all, fate quietly adds another tally mark beside james' name.

you're kneeling on the floor in front of the couch with three different medicine packets spread beside your knee, trying to remember which one doesn't make people drowsier than they already are.

the apartment smells faintly like alcohol and peppermint because you'd forced james to chew gum the second he stumbled through your door, swaying with one shoe untied.

a bucket sits beside the couch within arm's reach, a bottle of water balanced on the coffee table, and your phone is plugged in nearby in case he suddenly decides he's dying and needs emergency reassurance at three in the morning.

meanwhile, he's completely relaxed about the whole thing, sitting there with his head tipped back against the cushions and his hands folded over his stomach like he's on vacation instead of one bad movement away from throwing up. every few seconds he watches you move around with lazy eyes, following you silently while you mutter to yourself about electrolytes and whether soup would've been smarter than instant noodles.

"you're doing too much," he says eventually, his voice rough and sleepy as he watches you crouch by the table for the third time in five minutes.

"you said the room was spinning," you remind him without looking up, tearing open the medicine box to double check the dosage instructions again.

"yeah, but in a fun way," he replies with a lazy grin, shoulders sinking deeper into the couch cushions.

you shoot him a flat look while unscrewing the cap off the water bottle. "drink before you start speaking nonsense again."

"i've been speaking nonsense since birth," he takes the bottle from you with both hands because his coordination is terrible right now, fingers brushing yours for a second too long.

you sigh and move closer, pushing his hair back from his forehead because it keeps falling into his eyes every time he blinks. he lets you do it without complaint, sitting unusually still while you stretch the soft headband over his head and tuck the loose strands away from his face.

the second your fingers brush near his ears, he closes his eyes with a dramatic exhale almost like you've just granted him peace after years of suffering.

you ignore him and lean back to inspect your work, making sure nothing's bothering his skin because drunk james becomes weirdly sensitive to everything. his gaze stays fixed on you the entire time, heavy and unfocused but quieter than usual and that makes you nervous.

"you're pretty," he says suddenly, staring at you with the kind of sincerity only drunk people seem capable of.

you don't even look up from the medicine packets in your lap. "you're drunk. you must be seeing things."

"no, i mean it," he insists softly, brows furrowing slightly, hating that you brushed it off so quickly.

"mhm," you hum absentmindedly, pretending to focus very hard on reading the back of the medicine box.

"did i ever tell you that before?" he asks after a pause, voice quieter as he tilts his head against the couch.

you pretend not to hear him, too busy rearranging things on the table that honestly don't need rearranging anymore. the bucket is already in the perfect spot, the water bottle is full, and the medicine instructions are facing upward so even half asleep you could read them, but keeping your hands occupied feels safer than acknowledging the softness in his voice.

james watches you for another long moment before shifting slightly on the couch, the blanket sliding down one shoulder as he tilts his head. his eyes look glossy under the dim light, but there's something oddly awake about the way he's staring at you.

you can already tell he's about to start talking again, and drunk people always say things they don't remember later. right?

"the first time i met you," he starts slowly, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, "i thought you hated me."

you snort quietly at his words. "because i did."

"no, you didn't," he argues, shaking his head against the couch cushion with sleepy confidence.

"i remember rolling my eyes at you," you remind him, lips twitching into a small smile.

"yeah," he says with a crooked, tired grin, "and i liked you immediately because of it."

you finally glance over at him properly, and he's smiling to himself, probably replaying the memory in his head. his fingers tap lazily against the water bottle while he talks, words slightly slurred but still clear enough for you to understand every single one.

outside, rain taps softly against the windows, filling the spaces between his sentences while you stay crouched beside the couch listening. he looks strangely boyish like this, hair pushed back with the ridiculous plush headband and cheeks warm from alcohol and exhaustion. it makes him easier to look at and harder to ignore at the same time.

"you were sitting in the corner at that stupid party," he continues, blinking slowly as his gaze drifts back to you. "everyone else was trying so hard to look cool, and you looked miserable."

"i was miserable," you admit dryly, leaning your shoulder against the side of the couch.

"and you kept glaring at me every time i got loud," he says, sounding far too amused by that fact.

"you were very very loud," you point out, remembering exactly how unbearable he'd been that night.

"but you still handed me your charger when my phone died," he murmurs, smile softening at the edges.

you remember that night embarrassingly clearly once he mentions it. he'd spent nearly an hour making people laugh in the middle of the room while you sat on the armchair wishing your friend would finally decide to go home already.

at some point he'd dropped onto the floor beside you out of nowhere, smiling like you'd been friends for years, and asked if you had a charger because his phone was 'on spiritual life support.' you expected him to leave after that, but instead he stayed beside you talking nonsense until two in the morning, counting your silence as participation.

looking back on it, that was probably the first mistake either of you made.

james watches recognition settle across your face and laughs softly to himself.

"i remember thinking," he murmurs, rubbing sleepily at one eye, "‘she's mean, but like . . . in a pretty way.’"

"you're actually unbearable drunk," you tell him, even while heat creeps annoyingly into your face.

"no, no, listen," he says quickly, lifting a hand toward you as if trying to physically stop you from brushing him off again.

"you need water, not a confession, james," you mutter, reaching over to push the bottle closer to him anyway.

"i thought you were the kind of person who'd leave early and never talk to me again," his voice drops softer near the end that you almost miss it over the rain. the joking tone fades little by little until he's just looking at you with tired honesty sitting heavily behind his eyes.

you stop fussing with the medicine box and lean back against the couch instead, arms resting loosely over your knees while he talks.

"but then you kept showing up, you know?" he starts blinking heavily while his thumb rubs against the condensation on the water bottle. "you answered my messages even when they were stupid."

"yeah, they usually were stupid," you reply quietly, unable to stop the small smile pulling at your mouth.

"you remembered things about me," he continues, eyes still fixed on you.

"well, someone had to," you joke weakly, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness in the room.

"and every time i thought maybe you were getting tired of me, you'd do something that proved you weren't."

for a second neither of you says anything after that. the apartment falls quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the rain outside your windows.

your bestfriend stares at you with heavy eyelids, looking seconds away from passing out, but knowing him and his stubbornness, he will fight sleep just to keep talking.

"you make me feel safe," he says quietly, gaze dropping toward his hands for the first time.

your breath catches before you can stop it. "okay. you're definitely drunk."

"i know," he agrees with a small, tired smile, looking back up at you again. "still true, though."

"you should sleep before you start getting emotional. don't wanna see you cry your eyes out," you mumble, looking away first because holding eye contact suddenly feels impossible.

you don't know if he'll remember any of this tomorrow morning, and honestly you're not sure which possibility is worse. because if he forgets, then this becomes yours alone to carry.

"i met you and suddenly wanted to stay alive long enough to see you again the next day," he says softly. "that's kinda emotional already."

you stare at him for a long second, completely speechless for once in your life. he just blinks slowly back at you from under the ridiculous headband, looking so calm after casually dropping something devastating into the middle of your living room.

then, like the universe deciding you've suffered enough emotional damage for one night, his expression abruptly twists. you react instantly, grabbing the bucket and shoving it toward him while he groans and folds forward.

"oh my— waitwaitwait," you mutter, scrambling closer while holding the bucket steady in front of him. "there he is."

"i think i'm dying," he groans into his hands, voice muffled and pathetic.

he stays folded over the bucket for another minute, breathing dramatically like he's just survived something life threatening instead of one too many drinks and a bad decision involving tequila.

you sit beside him on the couch, one hand rubbing slow circles against his back while the other keeps the water bottle balanced on your knee.

his hair keeps slipping out from under the headband no matter how many times you push it back, strands sticking slightly to his forehead from the warmth in the room.

the second he leans away from the bucket, you immediately hold the water toward him with narrowed eyes because you already know he's going to fight you on this for absolutely no reason. sure enough, he squints suspiciously at the bottle.

"drink," you tell him firmly, nudging the bottle closer to his chest.

"i don't want it," he complains instantly, voice rough as he sinks deeper into the couch.

"you just threw up."

he turns his head away the second you try to hand it to him. you stare at him in disbelief before grabbing his jaw lightly to force him to look at you again. his skin feels warm under your fingers, cheeks flushed from alcohol and exhaustion, eyes half-lidded in stubborn refusal.

normally he's annoying in a loud, energetic way, but drunk james becomes difficult like a sleepy child fighting bedtime.

"james, please," you sigh tiredly, scooting a little closer so he can't avoid you as easily.

"i said no," he mutters immediately, keeping his eyes fixed somewhere near the floor instead of looking at you.

"you need water."

"i need the room to stop moving first," he complains weakly, pulling the blanket higher over himself.

"you're making this harder than it has to be."

"nah."

"please just one sip," you plead, trying to push the bottle back into his hands again. "you're going to wake up feeling horrible tomorrow."

he groans softly under his breath but still refuses to take it from you. you reach over, brushing his hair back again because it's sticking to his forehead from sweat. the second your fingers touch him, he goes quiet. his eyes close briefly like he's trying to focus on that instead of the nausea twisting through him.

"just a sip and i'll stop bothering you. promise."

"you never stop bothering me," he murmurs lazily.

"i'm serious."

"so am i."

"okay, james—"

"i like you."

the words cut cleanly through the middle of your sentence. your hand freezes around the water bottle while he keeps looking at you with this awful honesty that makes it impossible to pretend he's joking.

the room suddenly feels too warm, too quiet, every sound outside the apartment fading underneath the sharp pounding in your chest. james doesn't look away after saying it either. if anything, he looks relieved.

"you're drunk," you say quickly, forcing your expression into something unaffected even while your chest tightens painfully.

"i know i'm drunk," he says quietly, his brows pulling together slightly. "but i'm not confused."

"you don't mean that."

"yes, i do. i've meant it for a long time."

you look away first. "james . . . "

he watches you carefully, trying to decide whether he should stop talking while he still has the chance. but something about the way your fingers tighten around the water bottle must give you away a little because his expression softens instead of shutting down.

he leans his head back against the couch again with a quiet exhale, eyes fixed on the ceiling for a second before drifting back to you.

"i think i realized it the night you stayed with me at the hospital."

months ago, sometime past midnight, james had called you sounding strangely calm after getting into a minor accident on his way home. he kept insisting he was fine, said it wasn't serious, told you not to come because he'd probably get discharged soon anyway.

you completely ignored him, of course. you showed up at the hospital twenty minutes later still wearing pajama pants and mismatched flip flops because you left so fast you hadn't even noticed.

"you were angry at me," he continues quietly, eyes lowering toward his hands. "like genuinely angry."

"because you got hurt."

"no," he says softly, shaking his head once. "because you were scared."

you swallow hard but say nothing.

"i think nobody's ever looked at me like that before." he's talking slowly, carefully, like each sentence costs him something to admit out loud.

you remember sitting beside his hospital bed at two in the morning while fluorescent lights buzzed overhead and he kept trying to joke around despite the cut near his eyebrow and the bandages wrapped around his wrist. you'd spent hours pretending to be annoyed with him because being angry was easier than admitting how terrified you'd felt getting that phone call.

"you stayed the entire night even after i told you to go home and you fell asleep sitting in that horrible chair beside me."

you look down at the water bottle in your hands.

"and every time i woke up," he continues softly, "you were still there. i remember thinking that if i lost you someday, i genuinely wouldn't know what to do with myself."

there's nothing playful about his words anymore, nothing easy to laugh off or blame on alcohol. he looks exhausted saying it, eyes slightly red from being sick and tired and maybe from holding this inside for too long.

you don't think you've ever heard him sound this vulnerable before. james is always the person filling silence, making people comfortable, making everything lighter than it really is. but right now he sounds almost scared.

"you make everything feel less lonely," he admits quietly.

your throat feels tight suddenly.

"you made me want to tell you everything first. good things, bad things, dumb things. half the time something happened and my first thought was literally just ‘i need to tell her.’" he laughs weakly to himself before looking down again. "and whenever you got quiet or pulled away even a little, i'd spend the entire day wondering if i did something wrong. did i fuck something up? was it something i said?"

"you shouldn't say things like that drunk," you whisper.

his eyes lift back to yours immediately at that. there's something devastating about how serious he looks. it's almost like he's been waiting forever to say this and hates that it's happening under circumstances where you can dismiss it tomorrow if you want to.

he shifts slightly closer without seeming to realize he's doing it, shoulders brushing yours lightly beneath the blanket. "i tried not to like you. i really did."

"james," you say again because it's the only thing your brain can manage.

"but then you started becoming part of every important thing in my life without even trying. and one day i realized that every version of my future somehow had you in it."

"you take care of me even when i make it difficult," he murmurs, eyes flicking briefly toward the untouched water bottle still in your hands. "you remember things about me. you stayed."

your chest feels painfully tight, heartbeat uneven while he watches your expression carefully, bracing himself for rejection.

you stare at him for another long second before finally loosening your grip on the water bottle. he watches your face carefully while you unscrew the cap. you try not to think too hard about the fact that your hands are shaking a little when you hand the bottle over.

"and i think," he says slowly, almost embarrassed by how honest he sounds, "a part of me started loving you because of that long before i admitted it to myself."

he glances at the water bottle again. "can i have the water now?"

"here," you murmur quietly, finally placing it into his hands.

"thank you," he says just as softly, fingers brushing yours for a second before pulling away. he takes a slow sip of water while you sit beside him trying very hard to keep your breathing normal.

you glance away first again because looking at him too long suddenly feels dangerous. beside you, he swallows carefully before lowering the bottle into his lap.

"there," you say quietly, mostly because the silence is starting to make you awake of everything. "see? that wasn't difficult."

"i think i'm too exhausted to fight you anymore," he murmurs with a faint tired smile.

"that's dramatic."

"you like dramatic."

"i tolerate it."

he lets out a quiet laugh, but it fades quickly. his thumb rubs absently against the side of the bottle while his gaze drifts downward again.

"can i say something selfish?" he asks after a long pause.

you glance at him carefully. "you already confessed. i think we passed selfish a while ago."

he let's out a weak laugh, staring down at the water bottle in his hands for a moment before finally speaking.

"i really, really want it to be me someday," he admits softly. "the person that gets to stay beside you."

your chest tightens immediately.

"but if it isn't . . . " he pauses briefly, jaw tightening a little before he continues. "if somebody else makes you happier than i can, then i think i'd still be okay with it."

you blink at him quietly, caught off guard by the steadiness in his voice.

"because i like seeing you happy more than i like the idea of you liking me back."

you know he's not saying it in some self-pitying way or trying to make himself sound noble. if anything, he looks almost embarrassed admitting it out loud. like he hates that loving you has become something so genuine it stopped being about what he gets in return.

"that's a really sad thing to say," you murmur after a second, trying to keep your voice light even though it comes out softer than intended.

"it's true, though," his shoulders lift slightly in a helpless shrug.

"you shouldn't just accept that."

"i'm not accepting it." his eyes linger on your face before drifting away again. "i'm saying i wouldn't want you to stay with me out of guilt if your heart was somewhere else."

it's clear that he wants you to understand exactly what he means without making this harder for you than it already is.

"i think . . . " he exhales quietly. "i think loving someone should feel kind, even when it hurts."

you stare at him silently.

"my feelings for you were never supposed to become your responsibility. i never wanted you to feel trapped because i couldn't shut up about them."

"you're not trapping me."

"but i don't want you sitting here panicking because you think you owe me an answer tonight either."

that shuts you up immediately because unfortunately he's right. your thoughts have been spinning ever since he confessed, emotions crashing into each other too fast for you to sort through properly.

and even now, james is more worried about making sure you're comfortable than protecting himself from getting hurt.

"you know what my favorite thing is?" he asks suddenly.

"what?"

"when you laugh so hard you hide your face."

you groan quietly. "i don't do that."

"you do," he says with a tiny smile. "every time."

"and when you're excited about something, you start talking really fast."

you shake your head immediately, but he just looks amused in that sleepy, affectionate way that makes it impossible to argue with him properly.

you glance down at your hands.

"and you pretend you're cold whenever you want someone to stay close to you longer."

"that's not true."

"it is. i notice everything about you."

he says it so simply too, without expecting anything for it. maybe to james, paying attention to you was the easiest thing he'd ever done.

"i don't know," he murmurs. "i just— i think you deserve someone who looks at you and feels lucky every single day. if one day that's somebody else . . . then i'll still be glad they found you first before the world got mean enough to change you."

you look at him helplessly while he smiles softly to himself, already accepting something you haven't caught up to yet. there's no bitterness in his voice when he talks about losing you to somebody else someday.

"because you're good," he finishes quietly. "you don't even realize how good you are."

you can tell he's getting sleepier by the second, the water bottle loose in his hands. his words are slower, softer, shoulders sinking deeper into the couch cushions

you should probably make him sleep properly soon. instead, you stay exactly where you are.

he's debating whether to say one more thing before finally letting himself rest. then his mouth curves into something faint and sad all at once. "do you remember that charity gala thing martin tried setting us up for?"

your brows pull together immediately. of course you remember.

it had happened many months ago during one of your friend group dinners when everyone decided it would apparently be funny to pair the two of you together for the annual winter charity gala. couples tickets were cheaper, your friends had argued. besides, you and james were already attached at the hip anyway. the entire table had erupted into teasing almost instantly.

"oh my god, no," you'd said back then between embarrassed laughter while everyone kept talking over each other. "james would actually hate that."

you remember how easy it was to brush off at the time. how harmless it felt. just another joke. another thing to laugh away before anyone looked too closely at why your face had gone warm so suddenly.

beside you now, james smiles weakly, remembering the exact same thing. "you laughed so fast. was the idea of us together that ridiculous?"

"it wasn't like that," you say before you can stop yourself.

he shakes his head gently, still smiling. "no, i know. you didn't mean anything bad by it."

you swallow hard.

"but i remember everybody looking at me after you said no." his fingers tighten slightly around the bottle. "so i laughed too."

you remember him leaning back in his chair that night, grinning easily while waving your friends off like the idea amused him too. he'd joked about how unbearable you'd be as a date. everyone laughed and the conversation moved on quickly after that.

but sitting here now, hearing him talk about it like this, you suddenly wonder how much effort it took for him to sound casual back then.

"if the decision was only up to me," his eyes are unfocused, drifting through the memory more than speaking to you directly, "i would've said yes."

james lets his head fall back against the couch again with a tired exhale, exhaustion finally winning against the alcohol and emotions keeping him awake this long. still, he keeps talking anyway.

"i wanted to say yes so badly. it was embarrassing. i remember thinking . . . " he pauses, blinking slowly. "i remember thinking that if you'd looked at me for even one second like you wanted me there, i would've agreed immediately."

your fingers curl tightly in your lap.

"but you laughed first."

the worst part is that you remember why you laughed. not because the idea sounded impossible or because you didn't want it.

you don't know what to say to that.

"you should've told me," but the words feel painfully insufficient the second they leave your mouth.

"i couldn't. you looked so sure."

you'd laughed because everybody was staring, because your heart had jumped into your throat too quickly, because the idea of people noticing how much james already mattered to you had terrified you more than the joke itself.

but he didn't know that. all he saw was you rejecting the possibility before he even got the chance to want it openly.

"and i . . . i think i liked you too much already to hear you reject me twice in one night."

you look down quickly because suddenly your eyes burn. james shifts slightly closer without thinking, his shoulder pressing more fully against yours.

"if it was up to me," he says again, sleep beginning to pull at every word, "i would've said yes."

he blinks heavily, fighting to keep his eyes open while his fingers slowly loosen around the water bottle. the confession seems to have drained the rest of his energy.

"i would've gone with you. would've worn whatever stupid suit they wanted." his head tilts slightly until it rests against your shoulder without him realizing.

"if it was up to me," barely awake, he keeps mumbling the same thing over and over. "i would've said yes."

"i would've stayed beside you the whole night. would've said yes immediately if it was my choice." the words start slurring together near the end, exhaustion finally overtaking him.

you stay frozen beside him while his breathing gradually slows, warm against your shoulder.

maybe if he says it enough, someday you'll finally say yes. maybe if he says it enough, he'll finally get the happiest night of his life instead of just dreaming about it.

"always yes with you."

martin insists on walking on the outer side of the sidewalk the entire way there, one hand lightly hovering near your back whenever the crowd thickens around you both.

he keeps pointing at random things to make you laugh, stopping mid sentence whenever he notices you're carrying too much and immediately taking it from you without asking.

the restaurant he picks is small and warm, dim yellow lights and old songs humming softly through the speakers. he pulls your chair out before sitting beside you instead of across from you, saying it feels weird to talk from so far away.

you almost say yes right then just because of how naturally he makes room for you in everything he does.

"you've been quiet today," he says while pouring water into your glass first before touching his own.

you shake your head quickly and mumble that you're only hungry, which earns you a suspicious little smile from him.

"that serious?" he asks, leaning closer with his elbow against the table. "should i be worried?"

you laugh softly, telling him he's dramatic, but your fingers tighten around the napkin resting on your lap.

he spends most of dinner making sure you eat before him, pushing the better looking pieces of food onto your plate without even noticing he's doing it.

"try this one," he says, holding his fork near your mouth before pausing. "wait, sorry, was that too much?"

you stare at him for a second before taking the bite anyway, pretending not to notice how pink his ears become afterward. "you always do things before thinking."

he grins immediately, shrugging. "only around you."

the entire time, you keep rehearsing the words inside your head while he talks about smaller things, like a dog he saw earlier or how he almost missed the train trying to buy your favorite drink. every few minutes he glances at you with that same careful expression, constantly checking whether you're comfortable.

"are you cold?" he asks after noticing you rubbing your hands together once. before you can answer, he's already taking off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders.

"martin," you sigh quietly, and he blinks at you.

"yeah?" he asks innocently, genuinely unaware he's making this harder for you.

when dessert arrives, he slides the prettier slice toward you automatically. "have the strawberry one. you looked at it longer."

you stare at the plate for a moment before finally laughing under your breath. "you notice everything."

he takes a sip from his drink. "only the things that matter to me."

that makes your chest ache badly enough that you almost lose your nerve again. you watch him wipe a bit of cream off the corner of your mouth with a napkin without teasing you even once about it.

"sorry," he says softly afterward, like he's done something embarrassing instead of something unbearably sweet. your heart has been saying yes for weeks already. you just need your mouth to catch up.

"hey," you call quietly once the plates have been cleared away.

he turns toward you immediately with that same open expression he always has whenever you speak, patient and attentive all at once. "hm? you're scaring me a little. what's with the staring?" he admits with a small laugh.

you look down at your hands before speaking. "if you ask me again," you say slowly, "i think i'll say yes this time."

he simply stares at you for a second, almost blank, the words refusing to settle properly in his head. "wait," he breathes. "deada— seriously?"

you nod once and martin immediately sits up straighter beside you.

"you mean— like officially?" he asks, pointing between the two of you in disbelief.

"okay, you're kind of ruining the moment."

"no, wait, sorry," he rushes out, suddenly smiling so hard he has to cover part of his face with one hand. "i just thought maybe you still needed time." his voice softens near the end of the sentence. "i was willing to wait longer."

you feel something twist painfully sweet in your chest hearing that. "i know."

martin looks at you carefully before hesitantly reaching for your hand on top of the table, giving you room to pull away. when you intertwine your fingers with his first, his entire expression changes.

he stares at your joined hands for three whole seconds then abruptly stands up.

you blink at him in confusion while he points at you with wide eyes. "wait here," he says urgently before speed walking away toward the other side of the restaurant.

"martin?" you call out, completely lost.

he ignores you, crouches beside a nearby wall, pumps both fists silently in the air, then aggressively whispers, yes! let's go! to absolutely nobody. one waiter watches the entire thing happen while carrying drinks.

he fixes his expression before calmly walking back to the table like nothing happened. he sits down, clears his throat once, then reaches for your hand again with forced composure.

"sorry about that," he says smoothly. "i just needed a private moment."

you stare at him in disbelief before laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

martin immediately breaks character and starts laughing too, burying his face into your shoulder while muttering, "i thought i was being subtle."

you're still laughing when he suddenly goes very quiet beside you. at first you think he's embarrassed from getting caught doing whatever that victory celebration near the wall was supposed to be.

"you're actually insane," you tell him through another laugh while slowly turning toward him. martin immediately straightens up the second your eyes land on him, pressing his lips together so hard it almost looks painful. "are you . . . crying?"

"no!" he answers instantly in a voice so obviously choked that it makes the situation worse.

you lean closer, trying to look at his face properly while he actively avoids eye contact with you for the first time all night.

"i'm not crying, i swear," he insists, blinking rapidly. "my eyes are just—" his voice cracks horribly halfway through the sentence.

you stare at him for one long second before bursting into laughter again. "you actually are crying."

"i'm trying not to!" he whisper-yells, grabbing a napkin and wiping under his eyes quickly before anyone else can notice, except the waiter from earlier definitely notices because he slows down while walking past your table.

martin sees him looking and immediately drops his head into his hands. "this is awful," he groans. "i look like i just got proposed to."

"you kind of did," you point out.

that only makes him laugh harder, which unfortunately makes the tears worse too. "stop making me laugh," he says between sniffles. "you don't understand, i've been emotionally preparing for rejection this entire month."

he takes a shaky breath and looks at you again with watery eyes. "do you know how many speeches i rehearsed in case you said no?"

"you rehearsed rejection speeches? you practiced?"

"three," he admits. "one mature version, one respectful version, and one where i mysteriously disappear and join the mountains."

he watches you laugh with the softest expression imaginable, eyes still red while he smiles helplessly at you. "see? this is exactly why i like you so much."

"you're not flirting your way out of this one."

"i'm just really happy," he says defensively while dabbing at his eyes again. "leave me alone. i'm delicate right now."

ZHAO YUFAN

gets oddly serious whenever someone implies you "settled" for him. suddenly he's sitting up straighter, talking clearer, and proving himself.

he gets weirdly competitive about taking care of you even when you're literally only a year or two older than him. if you mention your shoulder hurts, he's already dragging a chair over so you can sit while he finishes whatever you were doing. he acts smug about it too, talking about how you're getting old, then immediately dodges when you try to hit him for it.

during stressful situations, he's pacing around talking fast while you sit there staring at him until he eventually slows down on his own. sometimes he catches himself thinking that maybe this is what people mean when they talk about wanting someone who feels safe.

obsessed with hearing stories from before you met him. random details about old classmates, terrible fashion phases, or part time jobs you had before him. he listens like you're telling him forbidden historical records because technically you were alive longer than him by a tiny margin and for some reason he thinks that's funny.

thinks being younger makes him naturally more athletic until you beat him at something once. after that, he starts accusing you of having veteran experience because you had one extra year to develop hand-eye coordination.

KIM JUHOON

he trusts your judgment more than anyone else's. if he's unsure about something, he unconsciously looks at you first before answering. it's not because he's dependent on you, but because your opinion genuinely matters to him more than anyone else's in the room.

he likes hearing you talk about things you're interested in, even if he knows absolutely nothing about the topic. you could be rambling about the most random thing and he'll still listen carefully, asking questions just because he likes hearing your voice get more animated.

does reasearch about your interests so he can keep up in conversations.

if someone jokes about him being younger he doesn't get embarrassed. i think he just doesn't give a shit about the tiny tiny gap.

juhoon doesn't interrupt people often, but he interrupts you constantly in tiny ways. it's more like quietly pushing his drink toward you because he knows you'll steal a sip anyway, pulling your sleeve because he wants to show you something, or muttering "look" whenever he spots something that reminds him of you.

sometimes he says unexpectedly sweet things so casually. you'll be complaining about something small and he quietly says, "i like taking care of you though," before returning to whatever he was doing.

he communicates affection through presence more than words. if you're cooking, he's sitting on the counter nearby scrolling on his phone. if you're studying, he's stretched across your bed doing his own thing in silence.

EDWARDS MARTIN

makes jokes about being "a younger man" every single chance he gets.

loves listening to you talk when you're tired. the sleepy version of you that mumbles nonsense, loses track of sentences, and squints at him because you can barely stay awake anymore completely ruins him. he never interrupts either. he just watches you with the fondest expression, thinking about how lucky he is that you chose him out of everybody else.

asks questions that make you stare at him in silence. "so when you were my age, what was life like?" in the most serious tone imaginable, despite the age gap being microscopic.

absolutely shameless about flirting with you in front of other people because he enjoys seeing you get caught off guard.

quietly memorizes things you mention once and brings them up months later. it can be a snack you liked in childhood, a book you read years ago, a perfume you miss. suddenly it's sitting on the kitchen counter because he found it somewhere. when you ask how he remembered that, he genuinely looks confused because of course he remembered. you told him. why wouldn't he?

the kind of boyfriend who brags about you constantly. "yeah she told me about that already." "my girlfriend actually knows a lot about this." like alright man we get it.

the type to become weirdly sentimental about growing old together. he'll randomly pause and think about how badly he wants to keep experiencing life with you years from now. gray hair, wrinkles, boring grocery trips, arguments over furniture. all of it.

EOM SEONGHYEON

seonghyeon used to say his type was someone younger because he liked the idea of taking care of somebody. but he met you and realized what he actually liked was feeling comfortable with someone.

incredibly affectionate in small ways. fixing the strap of your bag while you're talking, pulling you closer by the waist absentmindedly, rubbing circles on your palm during long drives. it's all so natural that sometimes you don't even notice he's doing it until later.

gets weirdly happy whenever you refer to the two of you as we. "we should buy groceries later" or "we need to leave soon" make him smile without realizing it. he likes the feeling of belonging somewhere with you.

really admires how independent you are. he likes that you have your own routines, opinions, and life outside of him.

the type to silently stare while you're doing something simple because he finds maturity attractive in a very specific way???

loves making you laugh specifically when you're trying to stay serious. the second he sees you fighting a smile, he commits harder to the bit just to hear you finally crack.

AHN KEONHO

weaponizes your age when he's losing arguments as a joke. if you catch him doing something annoying, suddenly he's smiling and going, "you should be more mature than this."

follows you around the apartment while you're doing things just to keep talking to you. you'll be in the kitchen or folding laundry and he's leaning against the counter discussing something completely random because he likes existing in the same space as you.

"you're getting cranky because you skipped lunch." "no i'm not." five minutes later he's eating the sandwich you handed him without another word.

like juhoon, keonho likes hearing your opinions on everything. which jacket looks better, how he should reply to a text, whether his hair looks fine. the second you answer, your opinion becomes the correct one in his head forever. if somebody disagrees, he immediately goes, "yeah but she said this one."

the first thing you notice is the shifting.

it's the restless, sheets-twisting, mattress-dipping sort that pulls you from sleep in slow, reluctant increments until you finally open your eyes, blinking against the dim gray of early morning.

keonho is beside you, facing away, then not, then back again, like he can't settle into any position without something bothering him. his breathing is uneven, a little too sharp on the inhale, a little too frustrated on the exhale.

at first, you don't say anything. you only watch him in that half awake haze, trying to piece together what feels off. then you sigh softly and scoot closer, your hand instinctively finding his hair.

your fingers slip into the soft strands, pushing them away from his forehead, slow and gentle like you're smoothing out the restlessness itself.

he stills a little at the touch, not fully, but enough for you to notice. you hum under your breath, absentmindedly combing through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you know he likes.

"what's wrong with you?" you murmur, voice thick with sleep but laced with quiet concern. he doesn't answer immediately, which only makes you squint at him suspiciously.

"did you eat something weird again? have a bad dream? overthinking?" you continue, each guess softer than the last, tossing possibilities into the air and waiting to see which one sticks.

he finally turns toward you, and the pout hits immediately. it's subtle, but you know him too well. his lips slightly pushed forward, brows faintly drawn together, eyes a little glossy like he's been dealing with this for a while on his own.

"i think . . . " he starts, voice small and a little congested, "my allergy attacked me again."

"allergy attacked you?" you repeat, raising a brow, fingers still lazily threading through his hair.

he nods, pout deepening as if you've just invalidated a very serious struggle.

"yeah," he mumbles, sniffling again, rubbing his nose against the back of his hand in the laziest, sleepiest way possible. "my nose is all stuffy and my throat feels weird and i keep waking up." his voice dips at the end, quieter, almost sulky, genuinely upset about being inconvenienced by his own body.

you tilt your head, watching him with a mix of fondness and disbelief.

"it's so annoying," he adds.

"that's too bad," you murmur, shifting closer until your forehead almost brushes his. your hand moves from his hair to his cheek, thumb lightly tracing under his eye where he still looks a little sleepy and worn.

"got personally targeted by dust particles, huh?" you tease gently.

he lets out a quiet, offended sound, but doesn't move away. instead, he leans into your touch slightly. "don't make fun of me."

you smile, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before pulling him closer.

"okay, okay, i won't," you whisper, voice softer and more soothing than teasing. your fingers return to his hair, slow and rhythmic, the kind of touch that makes it hard to stay restless for long.

he relaxes, the tension in his shoulders easing as he shifts closer, tucking himself against you.

"go back to sleep," you murmur, barely louder than the morning silence. you're just about to drift off when you feel him nudge your shoulder. keonho shifts closer again, forehead pressing against your arm like he's trying to fuse himself there.

"i really can't," he mutters, voice muffled and thick. there's a pause, then a quieter, more miserable addition, "i can't breathe through my nose."

you crack one eye open, turning your head toward him with a tired sigh.

"of course you can't," you mumble, pushing his hair back again, more out of habit than necessity.

his nose is a little red, his pout somehow worse than before, and you have to fight the urge to laugh at how dramatically inconvenienced he looks.

"do you want me to make soup?" you ask, voice still low, already halfway preparing yourself to get up. "something warm might help." you start to shift, but he immediately reaches for you, hand loosely catching your wrist.

he shakes his head, stubborn even in his misery.

"no," he says a little too quick, brows pulling together. "i don't want you to get up just for me."

you blink at him, surprised for a second, before your expression melts into something softer.

he sniffs again, then adds, "it's fine, i'll just suffer."

great. the dramatics are back. you squint at him, unimpressed.

"please," you mutter, flicking his forehead lightly. "you've been suffering for ten minutes." you shift onto your elbow, studying him for another moment before sighing.

"then what do you want to do?" you ask, because clearly he didn't wake you up (on purpose or not) just to complain. well, not only to complain.

there's a brief pause before his expression shifts into something almost hopeful.

"i saw something on tiktok," he starts, voice still congested but suddenly more awake.

you immediately narrow your eyes. "not the tiktok remedy—" you begin, but he keeps going anyway.

"it's like . . . ginger, garlic, onion with honey—stuff like that. people said it helps." he sniffs again, nodding slightly like he's convincing himself as much as you. "we could try it?"

you stare at him in silence for a long second. "you want to eat raw garlic at this hour," you say flatly.

"it's for my health," he replies, just as flat, but with a stubborn little lift of his chin.

you exhale slowly through your nose, already knowing you've lost this argument before it even started.

"i don't think this is safe," you mutter, pushing the blanket off as you sit up. he watches you, a little sheepish, but there's relief in his eyes.

"if this kills you, it's not my fault," you add, sliding off the bed. he lets out a weak, stuffy laugh, following after you a second later.

you move around the kitchen automatically, pulling out whatever you can find: ginger, garlic, an onion, honey. half of it questionable, all of it smelling stronger by the second.

behind you, keonho drags himself to the counter like a ghost of his former self, resting his head against the cool surface with a soft thunk.

"i hate this already," he mumbles, voice echoing slightly against the countertop. you don't turn around, just snort quietly as you start peeling the garlic.

"you were the one who suggested it," you remind him, glancing back briefly.

"i know. gotta use my free will to the max," he groans, turning his face to the side, cheek squished against the counter. "but my nose—" he sniffles dramatically, lifting his head to breathe through his mouth. "it's not working."

you watch him for a second, looking utterly betrayed by his own sinuses, before shaking your head and going back to what you're doing.

"you'll live," you chop the ginger with more confidence than you actually feel.

"i don't think i will," he mutters, voice muffled again as he lets his head drop back down.

you roll your eyes, but there's a smile tugging at your lips. the smell of garlic fills the air, sharp and unmistakable, and he groans again.

"why is it so strong?" he complains.

"oh, i don't know, maybe because it's garlic," you reply, deadpan.

"i still can't breathe."

"just wait. i don't know if i'm doing this right, though. should i mix all of them?"

he hums weakly in response, not lifting his head.

you hand him the concoction like it's a peace offering. it looks questionable at best. honey glistening over uneven chunks of ginger, garlic, and onion that already smell strong enough to clear a room.

"this is what people eat on purpose?" he mutters, voice thick with doubt.

you cross your arms, leaning against the counter, watching him expectantly. "you said you wanted to try it," you remind him, raising a brow.

he sighs, about to make the bravest decision of his life.

"i did," he drags the words out, before reluctantly taking a small bite.

there's a moment of silence before his entire face twists. "oh—no," he chokes out, immediately grabbing the counter for support.

you burst into quiet laughter, unable to help it as he scrambles for water, coughing lightly and shaking his head.

"this is terrible," he insists, sniffling again, somehow even more miserable. "why would anyone lie like that?"

you shake your head, still smiling as you take the bowl from him.

"alright, that's enough of that," you set aside the bowl before he can traumatize himself further.

he leans back onto the counter again, defeated, nose still red, eyes slightly watery now for a completely different reason.

"did it help? at least a little bit?" you ask, already knowing the answer. he stares at you blankly for a second.

"no," he says, flat and immediate.

you hum, like you expected nothing less.

"told you we should've just made soup," you murmur, nudging his arm lightly.

he exhales, long and dramatic, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. "yeah, okay," he admits, voice quieter. "let's just do soup. at least i'll deal with the allergy with something good instead."

that earns him a small smile.

"wow," you tease lightly, already turning back to the counter. "look at you, making smart decisions."

he lets out a faint, congested laugh, shuffling a little closer. not quite resting his head this time, but staying near to watch you.

the kitchen slowly fills with a softer, warmer smell. keonho leans against the counter, arms loosely folded, watching you with half lidded eyes. "this already smells better."

you glance at him briefly, catching the way his shoulders have finally relaxed. "told you."

by the time the soup is ready, he's practically melted into the space beside you. you hand him a bowl, warm and steady in his hands, and he exhales softly like this alone fixed half his problems.

"careful, it's hot," you mumble, watching as he takes a cautious sip.

"this is way better." he says, nodding faintly.

you huff a quiet laugh, leaning your shoulder against his. "obviously."

he nudges you gently, a soft, wordless thank you in the gesture.

he still sniffles, still breathes through his mouth every now and then, but it doesn't seem as frustrating anymore. especially not when he's got something warm in his hands.

"no more tiktok remedies." he mumbles after a moment, glancing at you.

you've always thought it was a little ironic that someone as soft hearted as martin could be so completely, hopelessly terrible with cats.

you knew he wasn't much of a cat person, but you didn't realize just how spectacularly bad he was at it until he met yours.

it's not that he's mean. he's the exact opposite, actually. but something about him seems to offend your cat on a deeply personal level.

maybe it's the way he reaches out too quickly because he's excited, or how he hovers and waits for the approval that never comes, or the way his voice jumps an octave when he panics.

the first interaction ends with a hiss, a scratch, and martin who sat in the corner of your room saying he got rejected by something the size of a loaf of bread.

it becomes a pattern after that one. it's almost impressive in how consistently it goes wrong.

he tries offering treats, only to pull his hand back too late and get swatted for it, staring at the tiny red line on his skin.

he attempts the whole let them come to you approach, sitting stiffly on your couch like a statue, only for your cat to walk up, stare at him, and then hiss anyway before leaving.

at one point, he tries to pet them mid-walk-by, completely misreading the situation, and earns himself the most offended noise you've ever heard come out of such a small creature.

every failure just makes him more confused. still, he keeps showing up, determined to win over the one animal that clearly wants nothing to do with him.

what makes it harder to tease him about is that he's genuinely trying. he starts doing actual research, casually at first but you catch him watching videos and reading articles when he thinks you're not paying attention.

he learns about body language, about patience, about how cats don't like being stared at, which leads to him very obviously trying not to look at your cat while still being hyper aware of where she is.

it doesn't work, not really, but there's effort in every attempt. he even buys toys, proudly presenting them like offerings, only for her to ignore him completely and bat at a random string on the floor instead.

the only thing that seems to change anything is when he starts talking. not to you, but to your cat.

it starts off awkward, mumbled sentences under his breath, little comments like okay, that was my fault or you didn't like that, huh? other times it's we should grab a bite sometime.

he explains what he's doing before he does it, narrates his movements like a warning. "i'm just gonna sit here, alright?"

somehow, your cat stops reacting as aggressively to him. the hisses don't disappear, but they lessen, turn into wary stares instead of immediate rejection. he notices it before you say anything, of course. the very first time your cat doesn't immediately bolt or lash out while he's talking, he goes quiet.

he starts greeting her when he walks in, updating them about his day, even apologizing in advance before attempting anything that might go wrong.

"okay, listen, i'm gonna eat here," he murmurs one evening, easing himself onto the floor, "and you're not gonna hate me for it this time, right?"

your cat flicks her tail, unimpressed, and he sighs, nodding like he understands. "yeah, that's fair. i probably deserve that. so, hotdogs?"

"you know, i think you're just misunderstood," he says one afternoon, dragging a feather toy across the floor while your cat watches with narrowed eyes. "like, people don't get you, but i do or i'm trying to, at least."

when your cat swats at the toy, hard and aggressive, but not at him, he brightens. "oh, okay, that's progress, right? that's gotta be progress."

you don't have the heart to tell him that your cat attacks everything like that.

eventually, it stops being something he does only when you're around. you catch him once or twice talking under his breath when he thinks you're asleep or busy, voice low and gentle.

"i think she likes you more than me," he admits one night, glancing over at where you're curled up on the couch while your cat naps nearby. "which, okay, rude, but i get it." your cat blinks at him slowly, and he mirrors it because he thinks it's their shared language now.

one morning, you stir to the sound of soft mumbling near the edge of your bed, the quiet rustle of movement paired with martin's voice clearly trying not to wake you.

"alright, listen," he whispers, crouched slightly as your cat sits in front of him, tail wrapped neatly around her paws. "i think it's time we wake mom up, yeah? but gently, okay? we don't wanna get in trouble."

he pauses, waiting for an answer, and then a small, decisive nod. "okay, good plan. you go first, i'll back you up."

you finally crack your eyes open just a little, enough to see the blurry outline of him sitting at the edge of your bed, fully invested in whatever conversation he thinks he's having. "just jump up there. she won't even be mad, i promise."

"are you conspiring with her right now?" your voice comes out groggy as you shift under the blankets.

he startles slightly, glancing up at you before breaking into a sheepish grin. "i mean—yeah, but in my defense, we're on the same team now."

you huff out a quiet laugh, closing your eyes. "i leave you two alone and suddenly you're plotting something."

"i figured if we did it together, you'd be less grumpy about it."

you shake your head, reaching out for your cat. "you couldn't even do it on your own, so you recruited backup."

you stand at the edge of the bed with your arms crossed, staring down at keonho sprawled across the mattress. sunlight cuts through the curtains and lands directly across his face, bright enough to wake a normal person, yet he doesn't even twitch.

you call his name once, then twice, then louder, each attempt sharper than the last, but all you get is the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips. it's insulting, really, how peaceful he looks while you're worried about the reservation because of him.

you lean closer, narrowing your eyes, hoping sheer willpower might drag him out of sleep. you check your phone again.

time is ticking.

"ahn keonho," you drag out each syllable like a warning, your voice dipping low. no response. only a soft exhale, as though he's settling deeper into whatever dream he's chosen over you.

your hand hovers over his shoulder before you shake him, not gently, not even close.

he groans, barely audible, turning his face into the pillow as if escaping you is as simple as shifting angles. you pause, incredulous, because how is he still asleep after that?

you grab a pillow and smack it against his side, once, twice, then a third time for emphasis, the sound loud enough to echo off the walls. "get up," you demand, though it comes out closer to a threat now.

he finally reacts. sort of. his hand lazily reaching out to grab the pillow, pulling it toward him like you just gifted it. a quiet laugh slips out of him, low and amused, eyes still closed as if he finds this entire situation entertaining. that laugh makes something in you snap, because he's enjoying this.

"stop," you warn, already climbing onto the bed, your knees sinking into the mattress as you loom over him.

you tug at his arm, trying to haul him upright, but he goes limp on purpose, dead weight in the most annoying way possible. "i'll leave you here," you add, though both of you know that's a lie.

he finally cracks one eye open, just enough to look at you, grin slow and teasing like he's been awake longer than he lets on. "you won't," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and confidence annoyingly intact.

you grab his blanket and yank it clean off him in one swift motion. the sudden loss of warmth earns you a proper reaction. a sharp inhale, his body curling slightly as he tries to chase the missing heat.

you don't give him the chance, though, already grabbing his wrist and pulling again, harder this time. "get up! get up!" your tone leaves no room for negotiation, but keonho just lets his head roll back against the pillow, laughing again.

"five more minutes," he negotiates, dragging the words out in a way that makes it sound less like a request and more like a joke.

"no."

he exhales softly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

you slide off the bed and plant your feet firmly on the ground, still holding onto his arm, and start dragging him inch by inch. his laughter follows you, soft at first, then louder as he realizes you're actually committed to this.

"are you serious right now?" he asks, voice laced with disbelief and amusement, his free hand gripping the mattress to slow you down.

you glare at him, breath uneven from the effort and your patience officially expired. "we're going out. you asked me out, remember?"

"mhm. future me sounds like a great guy," he mutters.

you blink, disbelief written all over your face. "future you is about to get dumped by present me."

"you wouldn't dump me before a date," his voice is softer, almost coaxing.

"watch me."

he sighs, shaking his head, "this is how you treat your boyfriend on date day?"

"date day you're currently ruining, by the way," you fire back, climbing onto the bed once again so you can get leverage. you grab his arm and pull again. "stop doing that!" you complain, tugging harder.

"i'm saving energy," he replies instantly, eyes closed.

"for what?" you demand. "for the date you're trying to cancel by being late?"

you pause, then lean closer, voice dropping into something dangerously sweet. "fine. stay here. i'll just go without you."

that earns you another reaction. his grip tightens slightly on the pillow, though his eyes remain closed. "you won't."

you tilt your head, pretending to think. "you're right. i won't go alone. i'll just invite someone else. maybe someone who wakes up on time."

his eyes open immediately at that. "what?"

"what? i'm sure someone else would love to go out with me. someone responsible."

he squints at you, suspicious, but there's a spark of competitiveness in his expression. "name one person," he challenges.

"i don't know. it can be anyone who isn't currently horizontal."

"that was unnecessary," he complains.

you grab his wrist immediately after, pulling again. "so is this," you drag him inch by inch toward the edge of the bed.

he resists just enough to test your patience. "are you seriously dragging me?"

"yes," you snap, tugging harder. "and i will drag you all the way to the bathroom if i have to."

"running a strict program here" he mutters, though he finally lets himself be pulled upright, hair a mess, eyes heavy.

you don't let go, still holding his wrist like he might disappear back into sleep the second you blink. "we're supposed to be there in forty minutes."

he glances at the clock, then back at you, completely unbothered. "we have time."

"we don't have time," you repeat, incredulous. "do you know how long it takes you to get ready?"

he smirks, leaning slightly closer. "you like it when i take my time."

you push his shoulder lightly, refusing to react.

instead, he suddenly grabs your wrist and tugs you forward, making you lose your balance and fall onto the bed beside him. "hey!"

he laughs again, turning his head toward you and holding up his hand. "five minutes. stay with me for five minutes, then i'll get up."

"if you don't get up right now, i'm cancelling the reservation."

he sighs dramatically, pushing himself up while running a hand through his already messy hair. "you're scary."

you turn toward the door, already moving. "bathroom. now. move."

he groans but follows this time, dragging his feet just enough to be annoying like always. as he passes you, he leans down slightly, voice low. "you owe me for this, by the way."

"i'm the reason you're making it to your own date."

"exactly. you owe me for being this patient."

you stop in your tracks. "patient? do you know how long i— you know what? it doesn't matter. i don't care!"

you barely make it two steps away before you hear the mattress creak again, followed by the unmistakable sound of him collapsing right back into it.

you freeze mid step, eyes widening slowly as you turn your head, already knowing what you're about to see. there he is, fully horizontal again, one arm tucked under his head, the other lazily reaching for the blanket you snatched earlier.

he peeks at you with a sleepy grin, completely unashamed. "what? my body is rejecting."

without a word, you march back to the bed, lean over him, and snatch his phone right off the nightstand in one swift motion.

he doesn't react at first, too relaxed. not until you turn on your heel and bolt toward the bathroom.

"hey—" he starts, voice cutting off as realization hits. "don't you dare," he calls after you, suddenly wide awake as he scrambles out of bed.

you don't stop, pushing the bathroom door open and holding his phone over the toilet. "get up!" you shout, breath slightly uneven, adrenaline kicking in. "or i swear i will flush this."

he appears in the doorway a second later, eyes sharp now, all traces of sleep gone. "you're joking."

you raise a brow, tilting the phone slightly over the bowl. "do i look like i'm joking?"

he steps forward cautiously, hands half raised like you're handling something explosive. "that's my entire life in your hand," he argues.

you shrug, unfazed. "and my entire date is being ruined in that bed."

he exhales sharply, clearly weighing his options. "put it down . . . please?"

you shake your head. "get dressed."

there's a brief pause before his expression shifts into something just as stubborn as yours. "okay," he says slowly, nodding once. "if we're doing this, we're doing this properly."

you frown, already suspicious. "what does that mean?" you ask, grip tightening slightly on his phone.

he doesn't answer. instead, he turns around and walks out of the bathroom.

you blink, thrown off for a second, then call after him, "keon?"

there's no response, just the sound of drawers opening and something being moved around. you hesitate, then step out of the bathroom carefully, still holding his phone hostage.

and that's when you see him standing by the dresser, holding one of your things.

your expression drops instantly. "oh, put it down!"

he lifts it slightly, examining it with curiosity, then glances at you with a smile that's way too calm. "oh, this?" he asks, turning it in his hand. "it's nice. expensive, too, i'm guessing."

you take a step forward, panic flickering beneath your glare. "i mean it."

he takes a step back instead, putting a little more distance between you, then starts walking toward the sink. "you flush mine," he says lightly, "i drop yours."

your eyes widen, heart jumping into your throat. "you wouldn't," you shoot back, but it sounds a lot less convincing this time.

he stops right in front of the sink, holding your item directly over it, fingers loose on purpose. "do i look like i'm joking?" he echoes, raising a brow.

you stare at each other from across the room, both holding something the other cares about, both too stubborn to back down first. "this is insane," you mutter under your breath.

"you started it."

"you went back to bed," you tighten your grip on his phone, lowering it just a fraction closer to the water. "last chance," you warn.

he mirrors you, letting your item dip just slightly toward the sink. "same to you."

a few seconds pass.

"on three?" he suggests suddenly, like this is a game.

you blink. "the fuck? why would i agree to that?"

"because you trust me."

"i actually absolutely do not."

"that's fair."

you exhale sharply, then lift his phone again, just to prove a point. "get. ready."

he sighs, the fight slowly leaving his shoulders. "you're actually serious about flushing it. you scare me sometimes."

"thank you."

another second passes before he finally lowers your item, carefully placing it back on the dresser. you don't move right away, still suspicious, waiting for a trick.

"i'm getting dressed," he holds his hands up in surrender. "happy?"

you hesitate, slowly pulling his phone away from the toilet, though you don't give it back yet. "i am."

he shakes his head, a small laugh escaping him as he turns toward the closet. "you almost flushed my phone over brunch."

you lean against the doorframe, watching him this time, making sure he doesn't even think about going back to bed. "if you try that again . . . " you warn, twirling his phone slightly in your hand.

he glances at you over his shoulder. "yeah? and what if i just carry you back with me?"

"i'll flush it while you're holding me."

SEONGHYEON had never been particularly good at understanding girls.

it wasn't that he disliked them or avoided them on purpose. it was more like there had always been some invisible instruction manual that everyone else seemed to receive except him. whenever girls in his class laughed about something subtle or exchanged those quick, knowing looks with each other, he always felt like he had arrived three steps too late to the conversation. even when someone explained things to him directly, he still ended up second guessing whether he had interpreted the situation correctly.

somewhere along the way he simply accepted the quiet, embarrassing truth that girls were a mystery he had never quite figured out.

the funny thing was that he actually spent a lot of time around them growing up.

most of the girls he was close to just happened to fall into the category of family. his mom, for example, had always been the kind of woman who narrated her thoughts out loud while cooking, which meant seonghyeon spent most of his childhood standing in the kitchen listening to stories about other people's relationships. she would stir a pot of soup while sighing about someone's partner or analyzing a text message.

sometimes she would pause in the middle of a rant, look over at him, and say something like, "remember this when you grow up. if a girl says she's ‘fine,’ she is not fine." young seonghyeon would nod seriously even though he had absolutely no idea what she meant.

then there was his younger sister, who had somehow grown into the opposite of him in every possible way.

where seonghyeon was awkward and hesitant, she was loud, expressive, and frighteningly confident when it came to anything involving social situations. she talked about friendships, crushes, and school drama with the intensity of someone hosting a talk show.

every afternoon she would burst into the house, throw her backpack onto the floor, and immediately begin recounting the emotional disasters happening in her friend group. sometimes she dragged seonghyeon into the middle of her storytelling and demanded his opinion on situations he had absolutely no qualifications to judge. once, after listening to him struggle through an answer, she stared at him for a long moment before announcing, with complete seriousness, that he had the emotional awareness of a decorative rock.

their relatives didn't help his confidence either. especially his cousin.

growing up, she treated seonghyeon less like a cousin-bestfriend and more like a slightly incompetent older brother who needed constant supervision. if he said something awkward around her friends, she would immediately turn to them and explain, "ignore him, he doesn't know how girls work."

there was even a memorable incident where she forced him to sit through a thirty minute lecture about why replying "k" to a message was apparently the equivalent of slamming a door in someone's face. by the end of it, seonghyeon felt like he had attended a class he didn't sign up for.

despite all this exposure, he still somehow managed to remain completely clueless.

there had been moments throughout his life that made this painfully obvious. like the time a girl in middle school gave him a handmade bracelet, and he thanked her politely before immediately giving it to his sister because he thought she would like it more. or the time a classmate tried to hint that she wanted to walk home together, only for him to respond by recommending a faster route she could take by herself. his sister found out about that one later and stared at him while saying how unbelievable he was.

at some point, he stopped pretending he understood any of it.

instead, he quietly relied on the women already in his life to explain things whenever possible. if he had a question about something confusing, he usually asked his mom or his sister first, though their answers often came with a heavy amount of teasing.

their cousin would join the conversation too, turning it into a full group discussion about whatever mistake seonghyeon had accidentally made that time.

they seem to enjoy analyzing his social life like it was an ongoing case study. he usually just sat there wondering how something that looked simple from the outside could feel so complicated once he was actually part of it.

he had heard the name pretty girl hotline more times than he could count, though he had never once taken it seriously. it was something his younger sister talked about the way people talked about a favorite café or a celebrity account, constantly and casually. she would sit on the couch with her phone pressed to her ear, twirling the charger cord around her fingers while laughing at something the anonymous girl on the other end had said.

after every call, she would immediately launch into a dramatic retelling of the advice she'd been given.

to seonghyeon, it sounded ridiculous, like a late night infomercial disguised as a social experiment. still, the way his sister talked about it made the hotline seem strangely . . . safe?

i mean, it's a quiet network of girls somewhere in the world patiently waiting for strangers to call and confess their problems. what could possibly go wrong?

apparently, it was one of those trends that had quietly taken over the internet without him noticing. the pretty girl hotline was exactly what it sounded like: an anonymous advice line where girls volunteered to give tips about relationships, crushes, situationships, and the thousand confusing little emotions that came with them.

most callers were girls, according to his sister, but technically anyone could dial in if they needed advice that only a girl's perspective could give. the volunteers were usually around college age, sometimes a little older, sometimes exactly the same age as the people calling. no names were exchanged, no faces were shown, and conversations disappeared the moment the call ended. it was half therapy session, half gossip circle, and apparently it worked well enough that people kept recommending it to their friends.

seonghyeon only started paying attention to the idea when his sister decided that he had a problem.

she noticed the silence during dinner and the way he stared at his phone for a long time before shoving it back into his pocket. after watching him mope around for two days straight, she leaned against the kitchen counter and squinted hard at him. it took less than thirty seconds before she declared, with absolute confidence, that whatever was wrong with him was definitely a girl problem.

he denied it immediately, of course. he brushed her off with the tired patience of someone who knew his younger sister loved dramatizing almost everything. but the more she talked, the more irritatingly accurate her guesses became.

she started listing possibilities out loud: maybe he liked someone who didn't like him back, maybe he said something stupid, maybe he didn't understand what a girl meant when she said something that sounded simple but clearly wasn't. each suggestion landed a little too close to the truth, and his silence became suspicious enough that she gasped like she'd just cracked a code.

that was when she brought up the hotline.

"you should call them," she said, pointing at his phone. in her mind, the pretty girl hotline had an answer for everything, especially problems involving emotions that boys were apparently terrible at decoding.

she insisted the girls who worked there were experts in the strange, complicated language of feelings, texts that meant more than they seemed, and the mysterious art of figuring out what someone actually meant when they said "it's fine". according to her, they could untangle situationships like detectives and predict emotional disasters before they happened. It sounded ridiculous when she explained it, but she spoke with the unwavering confidence of someone who had personally tested the system multiple times.

seonghyeon's first reaction was a hard no.

the idea of calling a random stranger to talk about something that was already embarrassing enough made his stomach twist in discomfort. he imagined some overly cheerful girl answering the phone and immediately recognizing how clueless he sounded. worse, he imagined his sister somehow listening in from the other room and teasing him about it for the rest of his life.

the entire concept felt like stepping into unfamiliar territory where he had absolutely no idea what the rules were. even thinking about it made him rub the back of his neck in quiet frustration.

his sister, however, was nothing if not persistent.

she followed him around the house. every time he tried to dismiss the idea, she countered it with another enthusiastic explanation about why the hotline was perfect for his situation. the girls were anonymous, she reminded him, which meant no one would know who he was. they were around his age too, which meant the advice would actually make sense instead of sounding like something a parent or an older relative might say. most importantly, she pointed out that the whole reason the hotline existed was for moments exactly like this when someone was too confused to figure things out alone.

then she added one final condition that made him pause.

"you can't ask me," she said firmly, folding her arms. her logic was simple but brutally honest: whatever his problem was, it clearly involved someone his own age.

that meant he needed advice from someone who understood the same social world he lived in, not his little sister who still had homework and group chats about school gossip. even if she wanted to help, she admitted she would probably say something immature or completely off base.

the hotline, on the other hand, had girls who were older and more experienced.

later that night, he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed with his phone in his hand, staring at the number his sister had saved into his contacts. the name of the hotline looked strangely official on the screen, as if it belonged to some secret service rather than a volunteer advice line run by strangers.

the room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan and the faint sounds of his sister watching videos in the next room. he kept turning the phone over in his hands, debating whether calling would be stupid or surprisingly helpful.

the problem he was dealing with sat heavily in the back of his mind, tangled and impossible to solve alone.

eventually, with a long sigh and the reluctant curiosity of someone who had run out of better options, seonghyeon hovered his thumb over the call button.

the hotline always seemed busier at night.

you sit cross-legged on your bed with your laptop half open beside you, the glow from the screen dimming the fairy lights taped along your wall. the pretty girl hotline dashboard quietly refreshes every few seconds, a small list of incoming calls blinking in and out as volunteers pick them up.

most of them are exactly what you'd expect: girls whispering about confusing texts, someone asking if a situationship counts as a real relationship, another caller nervously asking for advice before confessing to her crush.

you've been doing this long enough that it feels natural now. listen, ask a few questions, offer your perspective, and let the anonymity keep everything light.

when the next call lights up on your screen, you answer it without much thought.

you straighten slightly, using the friendly tone the hotline encourages. your headset settles comfortably against your ears, the faint static of the connection humming before the line fully opens. usually callers start talking right away, filling the silence with nervous rambling or awkward laughter. this time, though, the person on the other end says nothing at all.

you could hear faint background noise through the line. maybe a fan spinning somewhere or someone shifting on a mattress, but the caller didn't say anything right away.

for first time callers, it wasn't unusual to hesitate like this, especially if they weren't used to explaining their problems out loud. some people needed a moment to remember that the whole point of the hotline was anonymity, that they could talk freely without worrying about being judged.

you leaned back against your pillow and waited patiently, giving the silence room to breathe instead of rushing to fill it. eventually, the quiet broke with the sound of someone clearing their throat.

whoever this caller is, they clearly didn’t dial the number by accident. the hotline guidelines always say the first few seconds matter. if the caller feels rushed, they'e more likely to panic and hang up.

the silence stretches for a moment longer, long enough that you glance at the screen to make sure the call didn't drop. the line is still active. whoever called is still there.

it happens sometimes. people gather courage before explaining something that feels embarrassing out loud.

"hi," you greet warmly into the headset, voice relaxed and reassuring. "you've reached the pretty girl hotline. you can stay anonymous, don't worry about names or anything." you spin the pen between your fingers while waiting, keeping your tone light. "take your time. what's on your mind tonight?"

there's another pause before a voice finally answers.

"uh . . . hi," he clears his throat a little awkwardly. his voice sounds young, probably around your age, but there's a noticeable hesitation in the way he speaks, like he's stepping carefully around every word. "sorry. i didn't . . . i didn't think someone would pick up that fast."

it's a guy.

that's the first thing you notice immediately because it's less common. the hotline is open to everyone, but most callers are girls talking to other girls. his voice sounds low and a little unsure, like someone stepping into unfamiliar territory.

you smile a little to yourself, already used to that reaction. "we're quicker than people expect. no pressure. you can think for a bit if you need to."

you could almost picture him sitting somewhere with his phone pressed to his ear, staring at the floor while trying to figure out how to start a conversation that felt impossible to explain.

"first time calling?"

"is it that obvious?"

"it kind of is," you admit gently. "but that's okay. most people are nervous the first time."

the urge to hang up hits him instantly, a sharp wave of embarrassment crashing over him. what exactly was he supposed to say? hi, i'm a guy who doesn't understand something a girl said to me, please decode for me. even thinking about explaining it makes his stomach twist.

but the fact that you sound so normal about this somehow makes the situation feel slightly less humiliating. you're not judging him, not rushing him or asking a million questions right away.

he stares at the floor for a long moment, debating whether to explain the situation or pretend the call dropped. but he didn’t sit here debating the number for ten minutes just to hang up now. and somehow, the way you're speaking makes it feel possible to say something without immediately regretting it.

"right. yeah." he exhales softly, trying to collect his thoughts. "this is kind of weird."

"that's basically the theme of this hotline," you say lightly. "everyone calls about weird things."

a quiet, embarrassed laugh escapes him. it's the type of laught someone lets out when they're not actually amused but appreciate the attempt to ease the tension.

"okay . . . good," he mutters. "because i'm about to explain this badly."

"that's okay," you assure him. "bad explanations are also part of the theme."

another small pause stretches across the line before he starts again.

"so there's this girl," he begins carefully. "i know that probably sounds like every call you get."

"it does," you admit playfully. "but keep going."

"right." he shifts around on the other end, fabric rustling faintly against the phone. "she's not just someone random. i mean—she's someone i've known for a while. not that long."

you tilt your head slightly even though he can't see you, listening closely. "okay. and what happened?"

"well, that's the problem," he says with a quiet sigh. "i'm not really sure what happened."

you raise an eyebrow at the ceiling, amused but intrigued. "that's a strong start."

"i told you this would sound stupid," he mutters quickly. "my sister said girls would understand this better but i think she overestimated me."

your interest perks up slightly. "most things people worry about feel stupid when you say them out loud, but that doesn't mean they actually are. your sister made you call the hotline?"

"yeah," he admits, sounding almost embarrassed. "she said this is apparently where you go when you don't understand girls."

you laugh softly under your breath. "she's not entirely wrong."

on the other end of the line, he seems to relax just a little.

"so basically," he continues slowly, "this girl said something to me. or maybe it wasn't what she said. it's more like . . . the way she said it."

you wait patiently, sensing another pause forming. "and?" you prompt gently.

"and i can't tell if it meant something," he says, frustration creeping quietly into his voice. "or if i'm just reading too much into it."

"what did she say?"

he hesitates again. "that's the thing," he murmurs awkwardly. "when i try to explain it, it sounds really normal."

"that's okay," you reassure him. "normal things sometimes can cause the most confusion."

"okay, so," he begins again. "we were talking, and she said something like— well, not exactly like this but basically she said i'm the kind of person she feels comfortable with."

you hum thoughtfully. "that's the confusing part? for you?"

"well— yeah," he says quickly. "because she said it in this way that made it sound like . . . more than just comfortable. but also maybe not."

"that's very vague," you point out.

"i know," he groans quietly. "that's why i said i'm explaining this badly."

he pauses again, clearly trying to find the right words.

"i guess what i'm trying to ask is . . ." he trails off before sighing softly. "see? i can't even say it properly."

you lean back into your pillow, listening to the frustration in his voice. "take your time. you're doing fine."

another small stretch of silence passes before he speaks again.

"how do girls usually mean it when they say something like that?" he finally asks. "like when they say someone makes them comfortable."

from the way he asked it, uncertain and just a little hopeful, you get the feeling the answer might matter more to him than he's letting on.

you don't answer right away not because you don't have one. if anything, there are too many answers. but the way he asked it makes it clear he isn't just looking for a definition.

he's looking for something specific, something that fits his situation, and you can hear it in the quiet tension of his voice.

you shift slightly against your pillow, pressing the side of your headset closer as if it helps you hear him better, even though the line is already clear.

on the other end, he stays quiet, waiting in a way that tells you he's bracing himself for whatever you're about to say. the earlier awkwardness is still there, but it's thinner now. you tap your pen once against your notebook before finally speaking.

"when a girl says she feels comfortable with you, it usually means you're someone she trusts. someone she doesn't feel the need to impress or hide parts of herself from."

you pause, choosing your next words. "but tone matters more than the sentence itself. it's the way she says it. sometimes it's just appreciation like ‘you're easy to be around’. or it can be something she says when she's testing whether it's safe to let you see a little more of her."

"so it's not just nothing," he says quietly.

"it can be nothing, but if you're still thinking about it, then it probably didn't feel like nothing."

you let a brief silence settle before asking. "what else happened between you two?"

you can hear him breathe in, then out, trying to decide how honest he's willing to be with a stranger he'll never meet.

"i think i messed it up," he admits.

you don't interrupt. you let him build it at his own pace.

"there was something before that. and after. it's just . . . everything kind of piled up. we had this thing. there was this rule between us. not really said out loud, but we both knew it."

"what kind of rule?"

"that we wouldn't do anything that would make the other uncomfortable especially when it came to other people."

your grip on the pen tightens slightly. "did someone break it?"

"i did."

the honesty in it is immediate.

"what happened?"

"there's this other girl,” he begins, already knows how bad it sounds. "a friend. we all hang out in the same group sometimes. she's more of the straightforward type who doesn't think too much before doing something."

you nod to yourself, waiting.

"one night, we were all together hanging out, talking, whatever." his voice dips slightly. "at some point, she—"

he stops, frustrated. "i don't know how to explain this without it sounding worse than it already is."

"don't overthink it."

"she got a little too close and i didn't stop it."

you don't react out loud, but you listen more closely. "what do you mean by that?"

"she was sitting next to me, and she leaned into me. everyone saw it including her."

you don't need him to clarify who her is. "i'm assuming you didn't move?"

"i laughed it off and acted like it wasn't a big deal."

"why?"

"i don't know," he sounds more frustrated than confused. "it felt awkward to push her away in front of everyone. i thought if i ignored it, it would just pass."

"and did it?"

"no," he says immediately. "it made things worse."

you can already see how this connects.

"what did she do?"

"she didn't say anything right away. stayed on her phone and didn't look at me."

his voice lowers. "and i knew. i knew she noticed."

"what happened after that?"

"she left early. said she was tired and went home. i texted her later, asked if she got home safe. she said yes. that was it."

"the next time you saw her?" you prompt.

"that's when she said it.the whole ‘i feel comfortable with you’ thing."

you frown slightly, piecing the timeline together. "that's interesting timing."

"that's why i didn't know what to do with it."

you lean back, staring at the ceiling.

"so after she saw you not setting a boundary with someone else . . . she tells you she feels comfortable with you."

"exactly," he agrees, a hint of frustration creeping in. "it didn't make sense."

"it does, actually. it sounds like she was trying to remind you of what you were to her or maybe what she thought you were."

"i made it worse after that."

you close your eyes briefly. "what now?"

"we argued."

"about what?"

"she asked if i always act like that with other girls." his voice tightens slightly. "i said she was overthinking."

"and she didn't like that," you guess.

"she said it wasn't about overthinking. it was about respect."

"that's fair," you sigh quietly under your breath.

"i told her she was making it into something bigger than it was."

"what did she say?"

"she asked me if she meant nothing too."

the silence that follows is heavy.

"i didn't answer. i got annoyed and said she was twisting my words."

you press your lips together slightly.

"she said i didn't get it. after that, she shut down completely."

there's a faint sound of him shifting again, restless.

"i don't know if she meant something when she said she felt comfortable. or if i already ruined whatever that was supposed to mean." he says after a while.

you let out a slow breath, steadying your thoughts before answering. "you didn't ruin it in one moment. it sounds like it was a series of moments. you brushed off something important to her and you didn't set a boundary. when she tried to talk about it, you made her feel unreasonable for caring."

"that doesn't mean it's beyond fixing, but it does mean the situation is heavier than just one sentence you didn't understand," you add.

"so what do i even say now?" he asks, voice low, stripped of the earlier defensiveness.

"you start by not defending yourself. no brushing it off. you acknowledge what actually happened and that you didn't respect the boundary the two of you had. you dismissed her when she tried to talk about it."

"and then?"

"then you tell the truth about why you acted that way. even if it makes you look bad. only if you mean it, though. trust me, she'll hear the difference."

you roll onto your back again, staring at the ceiling while lightly tapping your pen against your notebook, the soft rhythm filling the space between breaths.

on the other end, you can hear him shifting, the faint creak of his bed giving away his restlessness, probably replaying every moment he just confessed in his head.

it's quiet enough that you almost think he might end the call there, overwhelmed or unsure what to say next. but then a small, curious thought crosses your mind, something that might explain more than anything he's said so far.

"can i ask you something?" you tilt your head slightly, even though he can't see it, a small smile forming at the corner of your lips.

"have you ever had a girlfriend before?" you ask, casual but deliberate, as if it's just another question on a list.

you hear him shift again, a soft exhale following right after.

"no."

you hum softly, nodding to yourself.

"yeah," you say without thinking too much about it. "that makes sense."

"what does that mean?" he asks immediately, confusion slipping into his voice. he sounds mildly offended, though not enough to actually argue. more like he's trying to figure out if you just insulted him.

"what's that supposed to mean?" he repeats, a little more defensive.

you let out a small laugh, not mocking. amused.

"it means you're not used to navigating this kind of situation yet. not in a real, emotional way."

you twirl the pen between your fingers, thinking as you speak.

"you're reacting based on instinct instead of experience, which is why you keep defaulting to jokes or shutting things down." a small pause follows as you glance at the ceiling again. "it's not a bad thing. it just explains a lot."

"i don't think i'm that bad," he mutters.

"i didn't say you were bad," you reply, smiling faintly. "maybe inexperienced."

"that sounds worse."

"okay, wait," you add, a hint of curiosity slipping into your voice. "what do you actually know about girls?"

you prop your head up on your arm, suddenly more entertained than before. "not what you think you know. what you actually know,” you clarify. "be honest."

you can already feel this going somewhere unexpected.

on the other end, he hesitates. "that's a weird question."

"come on."

there's a short pause before he starts. "they overthink."

you nod slightly.

"that's not wrong. what else?"

"they say they're fine when they're not and then expect you to figure it out."

"also not entirely wrong," a smile tugs at your lips. "keep going."

"they test you," he adds.

you raise an eyebrow. "test?"

"i don't know," he says quickly. "in general. you're always supposed to say the right thing."

"ah, okay. that's more of an assumption, but i see where it's coming from. what else?"

"they care about small things and they remember everything."

"unfortunately, yes."

there's a brief moment where you think he's done. but then—

"they travel in groups."

you blink. "what?"

"they don't go to the bathroom alone, he sounds completely serious. "it's always at least two or three."

you stare at the ceiling, trying not to laugh. "that's your observation?"

"it's a pattern," he defends.

you press your lips together, holding it in. "anything else?"

"they can tell when something's wrong even if you don't say anything."

"that one's good."

"and they—" he pauses, debating whether to say it.

"go on," you encourage.

"they like borrowing clothes?" he finishes.

a laugh slips out before you can stop it, soft at first, then a little brighter, filling the quiet room as you turn your face into your pillow for a second.

you try to compose yourself, but the sincerity in his voice makes it worse. he genuinely sounds like he just listed important, well researched facts.

on the other end, he goes quiet, clearly registering your reaction.

"what?" he asks, a little defensive again.

"i'm sorry," you manage between a small laugh, shaking your head. "it's just— those are the things you came up with?"

"they're not wrong," he insists.

"i didn't say they were wrong," you reply, still smiling. "they're just very specific."

"yeah . . . they're based on observation. i guess."

"of course they are," you murmur, amused.

"i don't actually understand them though."

your laughter fades into something softer. "i can tell."

you absentmindedly trace small patterns against your bedsheet with your fingertips. it feels as if something has opened up in the conversation, a space where neither of you has to be as careful.

"what about you? what do you know about guys? since you seem to know everything about this."

"i don't know everything," your eyes drifting to the ceiling as you think. "but i know enough to notice . . . patterns? same as you, but different patterns. guys usually don't say things directly when they're unsure because they don't always know what they're feeling yet. so instead, they joke, deflect, etc. sounds familiar?"

"yeah."

"they're also more aware than people think," you add. "they notice changes in tone, energy, behavior but they don't always react to it immediately. when something actually matters to them, they think about it more than they admit. even if they act unaffected on the surface."

you can almost feel him listening.

"and this part's important. when a guy feels something real, it scares him a little. he either leans into it or pulls back without realizing why."

"how do you know that?" he asks, genuinely surprised. "that's not even general. that's specific."

"it is general. you just don't hear it explained that way often."

he exhales softly, trying to process it. "no, but— the thing you said about joking when you don't know what you feel . . . that's exactly what i did.

"exactly."

"the part about thinking about things more than you admit. that's also . . ." he trails off, then lets out a small, almost incredulous breath. "that's kind of annoying."

you let out a soft laugh. "why?"

"because it makes too much sense! i was expecting something vague. not—this."

"understanding people isn't supposed to feel vague. it's about paying attention."

"how do you make it sound so easy?"

"it's not," you reply honestly. "it just gets easier when you stop avoiding what's actually happening."

"so you just figured all that out?" he asks after a moment.

"not all at once. you learn by watching, listening, and sometimes messing up yourself."

"that's insane," he says quietly.

"in a good way!" he adds quickly. "i mean—" he exhales, a little awkward again. "you just understand things."

You don’t respond right away.

"you're not as clueless as you think. you noticed things too."

he lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.

"mine were just about hoodies and bathroom groups."

"those are important observations too."

the line settles into a comfortable silence again.

"i get it a little more now," his voice sounds calmer than it's been the entire call.

it feels like it could end there, naturally, without anything awkward or forced. but just as you're about to say something, maybe something light to close it out, the sound of a door opening cuts through the line.

"mom said dinner's ready," a younger voice calls out from his side, clear enough that you don't need him to explain who it is. there's a brief pause, then a quieter, more suspicious tone follows. "who are you talking to?"

everything changes in an instant.

there's a sudden rustle on his end, hurried, uncoordinated, like he nearly dropped his phone while trying to react.

you push yourself up slightly, blinking in surprise as his voice comes back. it's tight, rushed, and just a little too loud.

"huh? no one," he says quickly.

"no one?" the voice repeats, clearly unconvinced. you can almost picture her standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in that way younger siblings do when they know something's off. "you're literally on the phone."

there's a split second of silence before he scrambles again.

"it's—uh—it's martin," he blurts out.

"oh," you murmur into the headset, low enough that only he can hear. "so i'm a martin now?"

"yeah! martin!" he repeats, louder this time, committing fully. "i told you earlier i'd be on the phone. you never listen."

"put him on speaker."

"why?" he asks, trying to sound annoyed, but there’s a slight crack in his voice.

"because i wanna say hi." she replies simply.

"yo, martin. did you hear that? she wants me to put you on speaker." he says suddenly, tone clearer and directed straight into the phone now.

" . . . yeah," he continues, nodding to himself as if you answered. "no, i told you she's like this. always suspicious."

"i wanna say hi." his sister insists.

you feel the pressure of it, the absurdity of being silently cast as ‘martin’ in a conversation you're not supposed to exist in.

"martin," he repeats, a little more urgently now. "say hi."

"why is he not talking?" she asks.

"he is," he says immediately. "you just—can't hear him. bad connection."

"that doesn't make sense."

"it does. see?" he says after a brief pause, pretending you responded. "he said it makes sense."

"you're so lying."

"i'm not."

"then put it on speaker."

"uh—hey. anyway, i'll just talk to you later, okay? yeah, yeah, i'll see you tomorrow. alright, bye."

and then the line goes dead.

you're left staring at the ceiling, headset still pressed to your ear, the sudden silence almost deafening after everything that just happened. you don't move, processing everything.

you let out a small breath, a smile still resting on your lips as you glance down at your notebook, where you hadn't written a single thing the entire time.

"martin," you murmur to yourself, amused.

somehow, youre almost certain that wasn't the last time he was going to call.

you catch yourself wondering what he's doing now. whether he's actually sitting at dinner or still recovering from the near exposure of being caught on the hotline.

you pull the headset down so it rests loosely around your neck. the room feels a little different after calls like that.

you glance at your screen, half expecting it to light up again, though you know it won't. not tonight, at least. still, the thought lingers, uninvited but persistent. you press your lips together, a faint smile forming again as the interaction resurfaces in your mind.

you exhale softly, turning your head to the side, the faintest smile still lingering as the absurdity of the last few minutes settles in when your mom's voice cuts through from downstairs.

"sweetie, can you come down here for a second?" she calls, her voice carrying clearly up the stairs, firm but not urgent. "and bring the pie with you—the one i made earlier, not the one you were hovering around."

there's a brief pause, then she adds, louder this time, "we're giving it to the neighbors across the street, so don't take forever deciding.”

"did you hear me?" she calls again, more insistent.

"i heard you," you call back, your voice still carrying a trace of distraction as you move toward your door. "but why am i the one bringing it over?"

you step into the hallway, glancing briefly toward your sister's room before heading for the stairs, the faint creak of the floorboards following you as you make your way toward the stairs. your mind is still halfway stuck on the call, fragments of his voice overlapping with your mom's request, the shift between the two almost jarring.

"why are we calling them ‘new neighbors’ when they moved in months ago?"

you pause at the top of the stairs, leaning slightly over the railing.

your mom doesn't look up even as you come into view.

"because you walk faster. i'm calling them new because we haven't properly introduced ourselves with something baked yet, which makes it new in a social sense."

she finally glances up, giving you a pointed look. "and if you keep standing there debating semantics, they're going to stop being ‘new’ and start being ‘the neighbors we avoided for a year.’" she gestures toward the counter. "so just take the pie and go."

you walk over, eyeing the neatly wrapped dish.

"okay, and suhyeon?" you ask, picking it up carefully and testing the weight in your hands. 'why can't she do this one thing while i handle literally everything else in this house, apparently?"

you shift the pie slightly, balancing it as you glance at the stairs. "she's closer to the door than i am half the time anyway, and she actually likes talking to people." you look back at your mom. "so what's her excuse this time?"

your mom wipes her hands on a towel, her expression shifting into something quieter, more knowing.

"she's busy right now, and it's not the kind of busy you interrupt for something like this. she's dealing with something that feels big to her, even if it doesn't sound big when she tries to explain it out loud." she pauses briefly, then adds, "you know how that goes. when you're not sure if you're upset for a good reason, but you still feel it anyway." she gives you a small look. "so let her be for a bit."

you blink, then immediately shake your head a little.

"mom, it's just a test," you say, already half exasperated, half dismissive as you shift the pie in your hands. "she's acting like it's the end of the world when it's literally just something she can retake or forget about in a week. probably just overthinking it and making it bigger than it actually is."

you sigh softly. "it's not even a real problem."

she folds the towel neatly, setting it aside. "it's not about the test. it's about how it made her feel, even if she doesn't fully understand that yet. sometimes something small is just the surface of something else that's harder to explain." she meets your eyes. "and when you don't know how to explain it, it feels bigger than it is."

"did something actually happen, or is this one of those situations where nothing obvious happened but it still feels off?"

your mom gives a small, knowing nod.

"one of those in-between things. not a clear problem, not nothing either." she rests her hand lightly against the counter. "she tried explaining it earlier, but halfway through she stopped and said it didn’t matter, which usually means it does. i told her to take her time with it."

you stare at the floor for a second, thinking.

"right," you murmur.

because you recognize that.

the way something small can sit wrong in your chest, the way you try to explain it and end up stopping halfway because it sounds insignificant out loud.

for a brief second, the image overlaps with someone else. someone sitting on the edge of his bed, struggling to explain something that sounded simple but clearly wasn't.

you adjust your grip on the pie.

"i'll go," you say quietly.

your mom nods, satisfied. "don't overthink it."

the front door creaks softly as you push it open, the warm air from inside slipping past you and dissolving into the cooler evening outside.

the sky is already dimming into that shade where everything looks softer than it does during the day, the street quieter, slower, as if it's taking a breath before night fully settles in.

you step out carefully, balancing the pie in your hands, the faint scent of it still lingering even through the wrapping. the porch light flickers on above you, casting a gentle glow that stretches just far enough to touch the edge of the walkway.

across the street, the house lights are already on, warm and steady behind the windows, silhouettes moving faintly inside. it looks normal and calm like nothing complicated could possibly exist behind those walls.

you find yourself wondering if that's how it always looks from the outside. everyone carrying something small that feels big, something they can't quite explain without it sounding ridiculous.

you reach the edge of the walkway, pausing for half a second before crossing, your grip on the pie steady but absentminded.

it's strange, you think, how often things aren't really about what they seem to be. a test that isn't just a test. a sentence that isn't just a sentence. a joke that isn't really a joke.

you tilt your head slightly, eyes fixed ahead but unfocused, your thoughts threading together without effort. the patterns are always there, even when people don't notice them. you step onto the other side of the street, the porch of the neighbors' house just a few steps away now.

in your house somewhere upstairs, your younger sister is probably pacing around her room, overthinking something small that feels big, caught in that confusing space between what was said and what was meant.

and somewhere else, a boy who doesn't understand girls just a little too well is sitting at a dinner table, probably replaying everything he got wrong.