juno

clara was your whole heart. she had your husband's soft brown eyes and your smile—the one people always said looked a little sad even when you were happy.

she was polite, clever, a little stubborn, and incredibly gentle. you wanted her to grow with confidence. you wanted her to be the kind of girl who didn’t hesitate when she spoke, who didn’t shrink herself down when she walked into a room.

she was seven. still small enough to fall asleep in your lap, still young enough to not know how cruel life could be.

you remembered it well.

poverty tasted like the terrible aftertaste of cough medicine in the back of your throat. like skipping meals so your younger brother could eat. it felt like sharing a bunk bed with peeling paint and no heating in the winters.

you couldn’t afford the luxuries your daughter now had. your first piano was an abandoned upright at the back of a church, one missing a pedal and five keys. you loved it anyway.

he was the one who taught you.

sunghoon.

your first love, your first kiss, the first person who saw you.

he was just two years older. he offered you lessons when he found you lingering after hours in the church. said he saw potential in the way your fingers danced over the keys even when you didn’t know the proper names.

"you play like you’ve lived a thousand lives," he’d once told you. and you fell for him the moment he said it.

but it didn’t last.

you lost contact after a fight about him moving to study abroad. you remember crying in his arms, saying you'd wait for him.

but then real life swept you up. scholarships, long nights, a corporate job, and then… love again. a different kind. safer, warmer. the kind that promised stability and a quiet home.

you married your husband a few years later. and life moved forward.

you never thought you’d live in a house like this. wide hallways, warm lights, soft rugs under your bare feet. your husband provided well. he was kind. hardworking. responsible. he kissed your forehead before he left for work and held your hand at every small event. you told yourself you were happy. because you were.

"i’ve already done the background check," your husband said as he buttoned up his sleeves beside you in bed. “he’s one of the best in the area. studied in vienna and everything. they say he’s brilliant.”

you nodded from where you lay tucked into the duvet. the tv buzzed softly in the background, muted.

"and clean record," he continued, "no scandals, no weird rumors—kind of rare these days, you know?"

you hummed again.

he glanced over his shoulder as he rolled his cuffs up higher. "you okay with him teaching clara here? some parents prefer lessons at the studio, but i figured with your schedule and everything…"

"no, here’s fine, i’d like to be around, just in case."

he smiled at that, leaning over to kiss your forehead. "you’re a good mom."

you smiled back, the quietness of the room enveloping the both of you. you thought back to the times where the piano was your only escape. music was your world back then, and you hoped it would be clara's too.

the day came for you to meet clara's piano teacher.

"he’s here," your housekeeper had said, and you remember walking down the hallway, drying your hands, half-focused on clara’s snack when you saw him again.

you froze.

he stood tall, dressed in sleek black like a shadow from the past.

sunghoon. you hadn’t heard that name in fifteen years.

he looked older—sharper cheekbones, neater hair, a slightly deeper voice. but it was him. the same sunghoon who once held your fingers over middle c, who once kissed you behind the choir room curtain like you were a sin he didn’t regret committing.

"...hi."

it was all you could manage. you would think sunghoon's expression would mirror your's at the moment. but no. he still had that content look on his face, like your past was nothing, a mere fleeting moment.

"mrs. choi." he said, formally, to calmly for your liking. his gaze flickered from you to clara. "this is your daughter?"

you nodded. your hands were cold.

your husband had shaken his hand, oblivious, praising sunghoon’s credentials while you stood a step behind them, trying not to remember your history. but it was hard.

later that night, your husband leaned against the bathroom sink while you combed your hair out beside him.

"he seems strict," he said casually. "but good. clara could use that discipline. i’m glad we picked him."

you nodded slowly, swallowing. "mhm... he's good."

he smiled, leaning in to kiss you before he turned the lights off, already half-asleep by the time he hit the bed.

you stared at the ceiling. you didn't sleep.

he came on a thursday. always every thursday.

and clara did like him. a lot. she’d sit at the piano with sparkling eyes while sunghoon gently corrected her hand posture, praising her when she got things right.

but for you—every thursday became a strange sort of torture.

you'd busy yourself in the kitchen, pretending not to notice how his laughter still sounded exactly like you remembered. how his voice could still crack something soft and stupid in your chest.

he never looked your way. not once.

but your stomach twisted every time he smiled. because you remembered how it used to feel when he would smile at you. when his eyes would crinkle at the corners, when he’d nudge your knee under the piano bench, whispering, "you’re getting better, you know. you don’t need me much longer." and you’d laugh, your cheeks dusted a rosy pink.

but now everything was different. all of that was buried beneath folded laundry and errand runs and a sparkly diamond around your finger.

and you couldn’t help but dread the day you would have to admit to him that the reason you haven't played in years was because the mere thought of touching a piano made your heart ache.

"thank you, mr. park!" clara beamed one evening as the lesson ended, clutching her little notebook to her chest.

he ruffled her hair gently, that same soft smile on his lips.

"you’re doing great, clara. keep practicing."

you stood at the kitchen island, gripping the edge as he walked past to leave. he nodded politely at you. like a stranger. like you didn’t share a past written in the chords of music.

"have a good night," you suddenly blurted out before you could stop yourself.

he paused at the door. just for a second.

"you too, mrs. choi."

and he left.

you never once told your husband that you used to play piano.

or that sunghoon was the boy who taught you.

you never told him about the church basement and the cold winters that followed, or how sunghoon used to wrap his scarf around your neck before you walked home. you never told him how you’d fallen in love to the sound of nocturnes, or how sunghoon wrote you a song once.

you buried it.

until one thursday evening, your husband called from the airport.

"they pushed my flight back to sunday," he said. "don’t wait up, okay? i love you."

you said it back.

and then clara got a fever.

sunghoon arrived anyway, early. you answered the door in a pale cardigan and tied-up hair. tired. "she’s sick," you told him. "no lesson today."

he smiled, not leaving. "is it okay if i come in anyway? i brought her sheet music to practice."

you let him in.

clara was asleep upstairs. 

and somehow, you ended up at the piano again.

"i haven’t played in years," you said, sliding into the bench beside him. "i don’t even remember anything."

"i doubt that," he murmured.

he pressed a single key.

your fingers followed. slowly. a little shaky.

he played a few more, and you mirrored them. your fingers brushing. the atmosphere tense.

it was familiar. too familiar. and you could already feel in your chest that this was dangerous.

you didn’t mean to keep playing.

you’d only meant to sit there for a second—test out the old muscle memory, the kind that used to feel like second nature. but sunghoon didn’t move. he didn’t shift away from you on the bench. his thigh was warm against yours, and the room had gone quiet, softer than it had ever felt in this house.

his fingers moved to a familiar melody. you felt your heartbeat pick up.

"you remember this?" he asked, low.

you didn’t answer right away, but your hands did. they responded before you could think, finding their place beside his, echoing notes you didn’t know were still inside you.

it was the piece he wrote for you. the one he never gave to anyone else.

your vision blurred for a second.

"you kept it," you whispered.

"i never forgot it."

the silence that followed was heavy. louder than any music.

your eyes traced the keys. "i couldn’t bring myself to play after… after everything."

he said nothing.

you looked at him, finally. "you just left. you didn’t say goodbye. you left me in that church stairwell like i was something you outgrew. like i meant nothing to you."

sunghoon’s jaw clenched. "i wrote to you. every week. you never replied."

you blinked.

"i didn’t get any letters."

his brows furrowed. "i sent them. i—I mailed them to your house. i thought… maybe you moved on."

you swallowed. the air in your chest felt too thin.

"my mom," you said softly. "she hated you. she threw them away. i only found out after she passed."

his expression changed. everything in him seemed to still. "you thought i left you."

"you did."

"i thought you didn’t want me anymore."

the words fell between you like broken glass.

you stared at each other. not like strangers. not anymore.

sunghoon leaned forward slowly, his voice breaking. "i wanted everything with you. i wanted to wait, to come back, to build a life—"

"but you didn’t," you said. your tone wasn’t harsh, but your voice was shaking. and you hated the pressure that was building in your throat; like you were about to cry.  "and i had to make peace with it."

he didn’t respond.

his hands fell from the ivory keys and dropped to his lap. he looked at you like he was memorizing the lines of your face all over again.

"do you love him?" he asked quietly.

you swallowed. you weren’t sure why the question made your eyes sting when you knew the answer so clearly.

"i do," you said. "he’s good to me. he’s a good man."

sunghoon nodded softly, quietly.

and then he spoke out again. this time more intense, more forward. "do you love him like you loved me?"

your stomach twisted.

because he was the kind of love you remembered in colors and chords and promises made under snowy church lights. he was first. he was heartbeats and hushes and the kind of longing you bury deep and forbid yourself to ever touch again.

your husband was the kind of love you clung to like a steady branch. your comfortability. someone who wouldn’t drop you, who didn’t have the power to ruin you just by looking at you.

sunghoon had always had that power.

"don’t ask me that," you whispered.

but he didn’t look away.

"i came back for you," he said. "not on purpose. i didn’t know clara was yours. but the second i saw you… it was like no time had passed. like you were still someone i could call mine."

his voice cracked.

"you were always mine."

your hands were shaking in your lap now.

"sunghoon…"

he reached out, slowly, like he was afraid you’d vanish. his fingers brushed the side of your face. he just looked at you—really looked—and you felt nineteen again. sitting beside him on the piano bench as the keys told a story you wouldn't have to use words for.

"you still play beautifully," he whispered, his gaze trained on you like he never wanted to look away. 

you grew silent.

"i’m married," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper.

"i know."

"you shouldn’t be here."

"then tell me to leave."

you didn’t.

instead, your lips brushed his, barely.

it was soft. unsure. like testing the surface of something you swore you’d never indulge in ever again. and then it deepened, and it wasn’t soft anymore—it was desperate. hungry. like all the years in between were collapsing under the weight of one kiss.

your hands were on his shoulders.

his met the curves of your waist.

your cardigan slipped off your shoulders, and his mouth trailed down the side of your neck like it remembered the path.

you gasped. "upstairs—"

"she’s asleep."

you should have stopped.

but he was laying you down gently on the rug near the piano, the same place your daughter had played just days ago. and he touched you like he used to. like he remembered every inch, every curve, every sound you made.

you didn’t cry.

not until after.

after he held you, skin on skin. after his thumb traced the edge of your jaw and you whispered, “this is wrong,” even as your hand instinctively curled around his wrist to keep him from leaving.

guilt was a strange thing.

it didn’t come crashing down. it sunk in slow, like the way dust settles on something that’s been untouched.

sunghoon kissed your forehead before he left, and you curled up on the piano bench, pulling your soft pale cardigan back onto your figure, wondering if you'd made the biggest mistake of your life… or just remembered what it meant to feel something that wasn’t safe.

that night, your husband texted:

"flight's been moved again. i’ll be back home tomorrow. miss you both."

and all you could do was stare at the screen. because for the first time in years, you weren’t sure who "you" even was anymore.

you only knew that next thursday would come.

and you didn’t know if you’d be strong enough to not let him in.

the days didn’t get easier. they just got quieter.

you still woke up every morning, made clara’s breakfast, folded the laundry with precision. you kissed your husband with practiced lips, gave him the answers he wanted to hear. you were careful. poised. everything a good wife should be.

but thursdays kept coming.

and so did sunghoon.

it started with soft glances across the room, the kind that lingered a second too long when no one wasn’t looking. a brush of his fingers against yours when he handed you the latest music sheets for clara to use. a low hum behind you as you sat at the piano, his breath warm at your nape.

"you always play softer when you know i’m watching," he whispered once, fingers ghosting over the keys beside yours.

you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to.

and then came the rest.

your dress on the floor. your back pressed to the cool glass of the living room window, his mouth pressed on your neck. the piano bench creaking beneath you, his hands gripping your waist like he still remembered how you felt when you were nineteen and brave.

"this is wrong," you breathed once, between kisses.

he paused, only for a moment. his forehead rested against yours. "then tell me to stop."

you didn’t. you never did.

instead, you let him touch you like time was at a standstill, like your life hadn’t split away from his in quiet, bitter lines. like there wasn’t a diamond that highlighted your loyalty to your husband on your fingers and a child asleep down the hall.

and maybe, deep down, you were still waiting for him to come back.

but sunghoon never stayed.

he left before the sun rose, always. no goodbyes. no promises. just a kiss to your shoulder, a whispered "next week," and the door clicking shut behind him.

he never called. never texted. he just… came.

sometimes once a week. sometimes twice. always thursdays. sometimes mondays too. like he couldn’t help himself.

"you should hate me," he said once, his voice quiet against your skin, his thumb brushing your cheek.

 "i don't," you whispered, staring at the ceiling. "that's the problem."

he never stayed long. just enough.

enough to memorize your face all over again. enough to lie beside you like he never left. enough to remind you of who you were before all this.

and you let him.

while clara napped. while your husband worked late for you to live this comfortable life. while the house breathed in guilty silence.

you told yourself you could stop. that it was temporary. a phase. a slip up.

but you didn’t. or maybe—you didn’t want to.

because with him, you weren’t just the wife. you weren’t the mother. you were just you. soft and aching and wanted.

"you still wear the perfume i like," he murmured once, lips pressed to your shoulder.

you didn’t answer. you just closed your eyes and leaned into him.

but eventually, the lies caught up with you.

you forgot which excuse you used last. you flinched when your husband touched your waist. your lips left his early when he leaned in to kiss you.

"i’m tired," you said.

"you’re always tired lately," he said back, frowning.

you smiled. forced.

"I guess I’m just… overwhelmed."

and through it all, sunghoon never asked you to leave. never asked you to run away or start over. he just kept coming back. and you allowed him with open arms.

you wanted to stop.

but every time he touched you, you forgot why you should.

until one thursday came and he didn’t show.

no knock.

no text.

no familiar footsteps.

just silence.

you told yourself it was nothing. that maybe he got caught up at the studio. maybe he’d forgotten. maybe it was over and you should be grateful.

but then friday came. and in the mailbox, there was a letter.

your name. his handwriting.

you knew it was coming. somehow, you’d always known even if you denied it.

you didn’t open it right away. instead, you stared at it while stirring soup on the stove, while brushing clara’s hair, while lying beside your husband in the dark, heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it.

you finally read it the next morning.

alone. in the music room. the piano untouched.

the paper shook in your hands.

i've made numerous attempts to write this, but each time i felt that it fell short of what i really wanted to say.

i've wondered if you still remember the way i do, and i've thought about you and us too many nights. and too many days attempting to forget how well we fit together, like a piece of a puzzle that was never supposed to be broken.

however, i've realized that no matter how hard i try, i can't let go. you have always been a part of me. i believe you always will be.

i wanted to stay. you need to know that. i wanted to build something with you, the kind of life i thought we’d have. but the truth is, i never knew how to make it work. i was too afraid of failing, too afraid of ruining you the way i ruined myself. so, i left. and i thought it would be easier, that i would forget the weight of your absence.

but i didn’t.

every day without you felt like a day i didn’t deserve. every step i took away from you pulled me farther from who i used to be, the person who loved you like there was no end, no goodbye. and it hurt. god, it hurt. but i thought i was doing what was best—for you, for me, for everyone.

you were always better off without me.

but now, i realize how wrong i was. the truth is, i never stopped loving you. i never stopped needing you, even when i thought i could.

when i came back, i thought i could walk away again, that i could simply say goodbye and let you move on with your life. but seeing you again—seeing you alive and full of life—pulled me right back into the storm i thought i could escape.

i can’t tell you how many times i’ve asked myself what it means for me to still love you after everything. how can i still feel this way when i’ve already broken your heart once?

i’m sorry. i’m so sorry. but i can’t change the way i feel, and i can’t pretend that i don’t want to be with you.

maybe this is selfish of me. maybe i should let you go, like i always promised myself i would. but i don’t know if i can. and i don’t know if i’m strong enough to watch you move on with someone else, knowing that i’m the one who left you behind.

so here i am. writing these words that i’m not sure you even want to hear. but they’re the truth, and the truth is that i love you more than anything.

i always will.

i’ve always been the storm in your quiet life, haven’t i? the echo that wouldn’t leave. the fire you couldn’t put out.

and i hate myself for that. for not being able to walk away when i should’ve. for not being able to give you the peace you deserve. for letting you hold onto me when i knew i would only leave again.

and now, i’m leaving again.

i’m moving back to vienna.

not because i want to. not because i’m ready. but because i know—deep down—that staying would only make this worse.

i’m sorry for everything, for all the hurt i caused you. i wish i had been braver, i wish i had stayed. but i couldn’t.

you deserve more than someone like me.

but i can’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, you still feel the same way.

i’m sorry i couldn’t stay.

i’m sorry i never said goodbye properly.

i’m sorry.

- sunghoon

you stared at it for what felt like hours. the words blurred into each other. maybe you wanted to cry. maybe you wanted to rip it up and pretend it never existed. but you just sat there, holding his letter with trembling hands.

the guilt was back, sharper than before. it scratched at you, reminding you of every moment you couldn’t undo. the moments that were supposed to be forgotten, left behind in the past—but instead, they became part of your present. you realized then: you never really stopped longing for him.

your lungs ached with the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

because part of you wanted to reply. to tell him it wasn’t his fault. that you hadn’t said no. that you’d wanted him more than you’d ever allowed yourself to admit.

but the other part of you remembered the way your daughter had laughed that morning. the way your husband had kissed the inside of your wrist when he thought you were asleep.

you couldn’t go back. you couldn’t throw away everything you’d built.

with the letter still in your hands, you walked to the piano. your fingers hovered over the keys. you remembered how the sound used to be so effortless, so natural. now it felt like a burden.

you played the piece—the one he’d written for you. the one he’d never shared with anyone else. your hands stumbled, but you played anyway. each note felt like a confession. each key, a reminder of everything you had lost and everything you could never have again.

when the song ended, silence filled the room. and then, the sound of your own breath caught in your chest.

you looked down at the paper. his words echoed in your head.

you picked up the letter again, reading it for what felt like the hundredth time. only this time, the words burned differently.

and then, softly, you whispered:

"you’re a liar, sunghoon."

because you knew the truth now. he would always leave. and you would always be the one left behind.

𝓢igning off... @pnghoon

── 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 [OPEN 🗯] @onlyhees @amouriu @greentulip @enhluv1 @samiikeu @hoonwhile @dearrwoni @won4kiss @jakesangel

his pencil clattered to the ground, calculus homework long forgotten, as he scrambled up from his desk and leaned against the windowsill, eyes wide with fascination. meatball, his orange cat, lazily blinked up at him from the corner of the room.

he blinked, stunned.

"do you see her?" sunoo whispered dramatically, pointing out the window like he’d just seen a shooting star. "meatball, she’s so pretty."

meatball meowed. uninterested.

sunoo ran a hand through his hair, already spiraling. "oh my god, what if she hates cats?"

he found out two days later that you actually loved cats.

you’d crouched to pet meatball when you bumped into them in the hallway and sunoo had stood there, frozen, watching the two loves of his life get along like it was the most magical thing in the world. he swore he almost teared up.

"he’s cute," you said, smiling at meatball before glancing up at sunoo. "what’s his name?"

sunoo’s brain short-circuited.

"meatball," he blurted before even realizing how stupid it sounded. "i mean. yeah. meatball. he’s... my roommate."

you laughed. you laughed. and sunoo had never wanted to throw himself off the balcony and into the flower bushes more in his life.

he decided then and there he needed a plan. a subtle, charming, not desperate looking plan to woo his new neighbor.

he baked.

it started as a simple idea—something to pass the time on a lazy sunday, a kind gesture for the new girl who’d just moved in next door. but by the time sunoo was elbow's deep in flour and drowning in tabs titled "chewy chocolate chip cookies that actually work," it had spiraled into something else entirely.

the first batch was a disaster. he misread the recipe and used baking powder instead of baking soda, which wouldn’t have been that bad if he hadn’t also gotten distracted imagining what your smile might sound like when you tried them.

the second batch was better—surprisingly so. he sifted the flour properly this time, creamed the butter and sugar with care, and even rotated the tray halfway through baking like the blogs told him to.

he hummed to himself while scooping out perfect little mounds of dough, thinking of your eyes and how nice it might be to see them sparkle.

when they came out, golden brown and soft in the middle, he actually gasped. "oh my god. i should be on the great british bake off."

he barely let them cool before arranging them neatly into a pink box he found in the back of his cupboard. then he pulled out a pen and a sticky note, scribbling "welcome to the complex :)" in handwriting he re-did at least four times because the first three looked like a cryptic warning.

and then came the part he hadn’t thought through: delivering them.

sunoo stood in front of his mirror, holding the box like it was a fragile heirloom, practicing lines like, "hey, thought you might like these!" and "i was just passing by haha, no big deal!" except they all sounded way too forced and he kept tripping over his words. eventually, he settled on just… winging it. how bad could it go?

well.

he knocked. his heart stuttered when the door creaked open.

you were in sweatpants, hair loosely tied back, a sleepy look in your eyes that somehow made you look effortlessly cute—like the kind of cute that belonged in quiet morning scenes of romance movies. sunoo’s brain went blank instantly.

"hey," you said nonchalantly, leaning casually on the doorframe. "what’s up?"

he blinked. his fight or flight began to kick in. he thrusted the box forward like a sacred offering. "i baked," he blurted. "not poisoned."

you raised an eyebrow, then laughed—actually laughed—and the sound was somehow better than anything his imagination had come up with. "that’s comforting," you said, reaching for the box. "thanks."

sunoo nodded. "yep. anytime. enjoy. okay. bye." he turned too fast, bumped into the wall, muttered "ow," and then kept walking like nothing happened.

from then on, sunoo found any and every excuse to talk to you.

he offered to help carry your groceries even when you clearly only had a carton of milk and a bag of round green grapes. he went as far as to water your plants for you every now and then.

one time he even showed up with a tiny potted plant, saying it was a "welcome gift from the "neighborhood committee" (there was no committee, you googled it.).

"you didn’t have to," you’d always say, cheeks slightly warm. to be honest, you were never that good at accepting gifts, or even compliments. but the way sunoo's eyes would stare at you expectantly made your heart flutter. or maybe it was the sweet words that came after.

"i wanted to," he’d reply every time, pretending not to melt when you smiled back.

he lent you a charger. a whisk. a hammer he didn’t even own before he ran to the hardware store to buy one just in case you needed it.

you, on the other hand, were chill about the whole thing. or so you tried to be.

you’d greet him every time with a small smile and a "hey, sunoo," like you knew he was going to be there. and honestly, he usually was. in the hallway. by the mailboxes. once suspiciously by your doormat.

"were you just crouched outside my door?" you asked once.

"meatball ran away!" sunoo lied, voice high-pitched. "i was looking for him!"

meatball was inside sunoo’s apartment, sitting on the windowsill. judging him.

still, you laughed. you always laughed. and you always let him linger just a little longer.

by the end of the month, your fridge looked like a full on pastry display at a trendy bakery.

you hadn’t asked for it. really, you hadn’t—but somehow he had taken it upon himself to bake you almost every dessert known to mankind.

there were sugar cookies with doodles on them—little hearts, tiny cats, one that looked suspiciously like meatball. there was a slice of green matcha cake so beautifully decorated you genuinely stared at it for ten minutes straight, trying to convince yourself not to eat it.

and the red velvet cupcakes.

four cupcakes.

you told yourself they weren’t that good. but the way you devoured one in under sixty seconds said otherwise. to sum it up–his baking was criminal.

but then the days added up, and the baked goods piled up, and you came to a tragic realization—no matter how divine sunoo’s desserts were, you probably couldn’t survive off sugar and frosting alone.

probably.

so, one lazy afternoon, you slipped on your shoes, zipped up your jacket, and decided to make a trip to the nearest convenience store.

you had barely made it out of the apartment complex when—plop.

a fat drop of rain landed directly on your forehead.

your shoulders visibly slumped as the drizzle turned into full-on rain, cold and sudden. it felt like a sign from the gods themselves, gently nudging you to accept your fate—maybe the risk of diabetes was worth it, because eating sunoo's pastries really did feel like heaven. you sighed, already defeated, and instinctively turned to head back inside, but—

"y/n?

you turned around, blinking through the rain.

and there he was.

sunoo, in all his sunshine glory, holding the biggest, brightest yellow umbrella you had ever seen. he was dressed like he’d expected this weather—pulled together in a light windbreaker, sleeves rolled neatly, a mini beige tote bag in one hand.

"you’re going out?" he asked, eyes wide and curious like a puppy.

you nodded, holding your arms over your head like that would actually help. "i was gonna hit the store. kind of regretting it now."

sunoo didn’t hesitate. he stepped closer, tilting his umbrella so it covered you, too.

"come on," he smiled, motioning with his head. "i’ll walk you."

you bit back a smile, staring at him for a moment before stepping into pace beside him. the umbrella was just big enough to cover you both, though you still brushed shoulders here and there.

once you were both at the convenience store, you ended up at a white slim table near the window as you both watched the rain drops race.

sunoo had gone a bit overboard again. the plastic bag between you held honey butter chips, melon milk, lychee jelly, and a cream-filled bread you’d only bought because he practically begged you to try it.

he was swinging his legs like a little kid, cheeks full as he munched, rain tapping gently on the glass infront of you.

you took a bite of the cream bread, chewing thoughtfully. "not bad."

sunoo turned, hopeful. "but…?"

"not as good as your baking," you said calmly, straight-faced.

sunoo choked on his melon milk. literally choked.

his eyes widened, and he started patting his chest like he just got hit by a bus.

"what?!"

you raised a brow, amused. "your cupcakes? they were good. i still think about them sometimes."

his whole face turned pink like a peach. ears red. lips twitching like he didn’t know whether to smile or faint.

"you do?" he squeaked.

you nodded, taking another bite. "yeah. guess i like dorks who bake."

he froze. stared. blinked.

"are you saying that because—wait—are you flirting with me?"

you didn't say anything, your smile said it all. you glanced over at him with that same look plastered on your face before looking away to take another bite of your bread.

sunoo’s mouth opened. closed. opened again. still staring at you with such disbelief.

"i might be in love with you," he suddenly blurted out, staring at you like he was in a daze.

you blinked. now it was your turn to be shocked. only difference was that you didn't choke on your food.

his eyes bulged when he realized what just came out of his mouth. "i mean! like you. i like you. a lot. not love! i don’t love you! i mean i could—one day maybe—but not that i—"

you held up a hand, stifling your laugh.

"relax," you smiled, soft and sweet. "i like you too."

sunoo blinked. once. twice. he wasn't even sure.

and then he giggled. full on, shoulders shaking giggled. "meatball is never gonna believe this."

you snorted into your drink. "tell him i said hi."

𝓢igning off... @pnghoon

── 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 [OPEN 🗯] redoing...send me an ask if you want to be added :) @onlyhees @amouriu @greentulip @enhluv1 @samiikeu @hoonwhile @dearrwoni @won4kiss @jakesangel