𝙻𝚄𝚉

Lee Minho never really had another “you.”

There was something otherworldly about you. At least that’s what he had concluded within a month of meeting you.

The first friend he made in his dance class. The first girl he ever truly looked at and felt something shift inside his chest. The first person who made the studio feel less like a place he had to survive and more like somewhere he could belong.

The first everything.

And, without him realizing when it happened, the first person he began to love.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It didn’t arrive like thunder or lightning. It was quieter than that—like music slowly becoming familiar until he could repeat every second word for word without thought at all.

You were not the best dancer in the room. You were not the most disciplined, nor the most technically precise. Frankly, you weren't very close either.

But you were alive in a way that made everything around you feel softer. Like even mistakes had meaning when they came from you.

He noticed you the first day you walked into the studio.

Everyone else came in with hesitation, careful steps and guarded expressions, as if the mirrors themselves might judge them back. And if not that they looked at everyone else as competition, as stepping stones they needed to place their heels on to get to the top. But you had entered like someone who wasn’t entirely sure she belonged there—and yet had decided, regardless, that she would try anyway.

You had ended up beside him without meaning to. Or maybe it had been exactly where you were supposed to be.

You had glanced at him, nervous but curious, and asked quietly if he already knew the routine. And for some reason he had nodded. Even though he didn’t.

Because something about you made him want to be someone who could say yes. Even at just a glance.

From that moment on, everything changed in ways he didn’t yet have words for.

You laughed when you made mistakes, like failure didn’t scare you the way it scared everyone else. Like it scared the shit out of him. You stayed behind after practice, not out of obligation, but out of stubborn hope that you could become better. You wanted to become an idol, too. Were willing to practice until your joints were swollen just to have a shot.

And Minho, who had always preferred solitude, found himself staying too. Not because he had to. He was far from needing to. But because you did.

You became a rhythm in his life he began to unconsciously follow. A presence he looked for without meaning to. A person his attention always returned to, no matter where it drifted.

Some days, you would sit beside him after practice, both of you too tired to speak much, legs stretched out across the floor. The studio would be nearly empty, the hum of distant traffic bleeding through the walls.

And you would talk. About dreams you were almost afraid to say out loud. About standing on stages that felt impossibly far away. About becoming someone you weren’t yet sure you had the right to be.

Minho didn’t talk much about himself. But with you, silence didn’t feel like distance. It felt like an understanding only the two of you could reach.

It happened slowly. The way he started saving you a water bottle without thinking. The way he learned your timing better than his own. The way his eyes began to search for you the moment he entered the room.

And the way, one day, he realized he couldn’t imagine a version of his future that didn’t somehow include you in it.

That realization should have frightened him. But instead, it strengthened his resolve to make you his. Like something long overdue finally settling into place.

He planned to tell you.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rehearsed in front of the bathroom mirror or whispered into unsent voice notes. It was simple in his mind.

He would walk you home like always. He would stop before your door like always. But this time, he would not let you walk away without knowing.

He didn’t know the exact words yet. But he knew the feeling behind them was real.

And for someone like him, that was enough.

The next day never came the way he expected it to.

You didn’t show up to practice. At first, he didn’t think much of it.

People were late sometimes. Life happened. Schedules changed.

But then one day became two. And two became three. And three a pattern that refused to make sense.

Your locker stayed untouched. Your name stopped appearing on attendance sheets. Your phone no longer rang through.

And the space you occupied in his life did not slowly fade the way he thought absence would.

It disappeared all at once.

Like someone had reached into the world and erased you from it.

He waited.

Longer than he admitted to anyone. Longer than he admitted to even himself.

He waited after practice ended. He waited in the hallway where you used to sit. He waited in silence that began to feel heavier with each passing day.

But you never came back.

And there was no explanation. No goodbye. No final glance that might have made sense of it all in hindsight.

Only an absence so sharp and complete he could have sworn it was the closest feeling to that of a punctured lung.

The day before he planned to confess. That detail would never stop hurting.

Because it meant there had been a moment—just one—where everything still could have happened differently. Where you were still there. Where he still had time.

But time did not wait for him. And neither did you.

“Hyung… chips or crackers?”

The question drifted lazily through the convenience store, breaking the quiet in a way that felt almost absurd given how late it was. Minho didn’t look up right away. His attention stayed on the drink fridge, fingers resting against the glass as he scanned rows of bottles he wasn’t even sure he wanted, just needing something to occupy his eyes while Jisung made yet another life-or-death decision over snacks.

“Carbs or carbs,” Minho replied flatly after a moment. “Just pick one and let’s go.”

Behind him, Han Jisung let out a sound of protest that immediately escalated into dramatic indignation as he crouched in front of the snack aisle like he was negotiating peace treaties rather than buying something to eat. He gestured between two bags with exaggerated seriousness, like they represented fundamentally different philosophies of life.

“But it’s not the same thing,” Jisung insisted. “Chips are emotional support food. Crackers are like...wait, wait chips are like an emergency funds account and crackers are like a 401k...wait...”

Minho finally glanced at him, expression deadpan in a way that suggested he had heard variations of this argument far too many times in his life.

“It’s processed flour.”

“That’s disrespectful,” Jisung said immediately, grabbing both bags anyway as if the conversation had already ended in his favor. “Obviously you don't understand the duties of a true snacker. What if I were to choose wrong?”

“You didn't.”

“Well what if I did?”

“Then you would just walk your sorry little ass back up here and buy the one you didn't get in the first place. And before you say that's a waste of money, it isn't because you're far from short of it. Plus you would use Chan's card anyways like you're doing now.”

Jisung gasped softly like he had just been deeply betrayed. “Hyung, how could you call me out like that?”

Minho let out a quiet breath through his nose and turned away, already done with the conversation. The store was quiet in the way late-night places always were, everything softened by fluorescent lighting that hummed faintly overhead. A few shelves looked half-empty, the kind of place people only came to when they didn’t want to think too much, when they just needed something quick before disappearing back into their own lives.

It should have stayed like that. Predictable. Uneventful. Forgettable.

But then a sound cut through the quiet, small and sharp enough to shift the atmosphere instantly.

A child crying.

Minho paused without meaning to, his hand hovering near the fridge door. Even Jisung stopped mid-rant, both of them instinctively glancing toward the sound as another cry followed, more uneven this time, like it was already starting to tire itself out.

And then there was a voice.

Soft. Frantic. Strained in a way that suggested this wasn’t the first time tonight something had gone wrong.

“Ah…Eunbyul-ah, please…I know, I know—just a second, okay?”

Minho froze.

Not because the situation itself was unusual, but because of the voice.

There are things the body remembers before the mind is willing to catch up, and for a moment everything inside him went completely still, like the world had narrowed down to that one sound and refused to let anything else exist alongside it.

Slowly, before he even fully understood why, he turned his head completley.

And there you were.

It didn’t feel real at first. Not in the way memories sometimes overlap with imagination, not in the hazy, distant way the mind recreates things it has almost forgotten. This was sharper than that, more grounded, as if the world had simply placed you back in front of him without warning and expected him to adjust.

You were a few aisles over, standing under the same harsh fluorescent lights, one arm holding a child against your hip while the other reached for something on the shelf with hurried precision. Medicine, he realized distantly. Fever reducers, maybe. Something urgent enough to make you move like that, like you had already done this too many times before.

You looked older. Of course you did. Time had a way of doing that to people, stretching them out, reshaping them, leaving traces of who they used to be while layering something new over it.

But even so, it was still you.

In the way your brow tightened slightly when you focused. In the way your mouth parted as you tried to soothe the child while still functioning, still handling everything at once. In the way your voice softened instinctively even when it sounded like you were barely holding yourself together.

“I know, baby…I know,” you murmured, shifting the child more securely on your hip. “We’re almost done, okay? Just a little longer.”

The little girl—Eunbyul—cried harder, small hands gripping your shirt tightly as if letting go would mean something worse than just being uncomfortable. Her face was red, her breathing uneven, the kind of distress that made the whole situation feel heavier than it should have been in a place like this.

“Eomma…”

“I know,” you said quickly, voice softer, almost pleading. “I know, I know. I’m right here.”

Minho couldn’t move.

It wasn’t shock in the way people usually described it. It was something quieter, heavier, like his body had decided to stop reacting while his mind struggled to catch up to something it wasn’t prepared to process. Nine years had stretched between this moment and the last time he had seen you, and yet none of that distance felt real now.

Because you were here.

Not a memory. Not something half-formed from the past. Here.

And there was a child in your arms.

That realization landed slowly at first, like it didn’t want to fully take shape, but once it did, it stayed.

Of course you had a life.

Of course you moved on.

Of course—

“Hyung?”

Jisung’s voice was quieter now, less chaotic than before, like he could sense something had changed even if he didn’t understand what it was. Minho didn’t answer him. He couldn’t. His attention stayed fixed on you without meaning to, on the way you adjusted the child again, on the way you kept moving even while everything looked like it was weighing you down.

You still hadn’t seen him.

And somehow, that made everything worse.

Because now he was standing there, completely within reach of the person who had once been everything to him, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do with the fact that you had already built a life that clearly didn’t include him at all.

The walk back was quiet in a way that didn’t belong to Han Jisung.

Minho noticed it the moment they stepped out of the convenience store, the usual noise that followed Jisung wherever he went completely absent. No complaints about the time, no commentary about snacks, no unnecessary philosophy about life he tried to disguise as something profound within something as simple as snacks or scenery. Just silence, stretching between them as they walked back toward the dorm.

Minho kept his hands in his pockets, keys pressing faintly into his palm with every step. He tried to tell himself it was nothing, that it was just a coincidence he was thinking too much about, but the image from the store didn’t loosen its grip on him. The sound of the crying child, your voice trying to steady it, the way you had looked like you’d been carrying more than you could comfortably hold—all of it stayed looping endlessly in his mind.

When they reached the dorm building, Jisung finally spoke.

“You’re going to tell me what that was, right?”

Minho didn’t slow down as he pushed the door open. “Nothing.”

“Hyung.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated, a little sharper this time, as if saying it more firmly would make it true.

Inside, the dorm was dark and still. Minho moved automatically, slipping off his shoes, setting his keys down, doing anything he could that didn’t involve much thinking. But Jisung didn’t follow him in fully. He stayed near the entrance, watching.

“Don’t do that,” Jisung said after a moment.

Minho paused but didn’t turn. “Do what.”

“That thing where you pretend I didn’t just see whatever just happened. You stopped breathing back there. Something is wrong.”

A quiet exhale left Minho’s nose. He ran a hand through his hair once, slow and tired, then finally turned slightly toward him. “It’s late. Drop it.”

“No,” Jisung answered immediately, and there was no humor in it anymore.

That made Minho stop fully.

For a moment neither of them moved, the silence between them heavier than it had been outside. Then Minho leaned back against the kitchen counter as if his body needed something solid to hold him up.

“She used to be in my dance class,” he said finally.

Jisung’s expression shifted slightly. “Used to be?”

“Years ago.”

“How many years?”

“Eight. Maybe nine?”

Jisung frowned, trying to place it. “And you reacted like that because… what? She left your class?”

Minho shook his head faintly, almost like the idea itself was insulting. “She didn’t just leave the class.”

He hesitated for a second, jaw tightening as the memory surfaced again, uninvited. “She just disappeared. No goodbye. No explanation. One day she was there, and then she wasn’t. Messages stopped. Everything stopped making sense. And that was it.”

Jisung didn’t interrupt this time, his expression shifting into something more serious as he listened.

“And you never found out why?” he asked quietly after a moment.

“No,” Minho said. Then, after a pause that felt heavier than the word itself, “I stopped trying.”

It wasn’t entirely true, and they both knew it, but neither of them pushed it further.

A silence settled again, different this time. More careful.

Then Jisung tilted his head slightly. Then his mouth opened into a wide "o". “NO WAY. You liked her. Like...like liked her?”

Minho didn’t deny it. “Yeah.”

The word came out quieter than he intended.

“I didn't think you had it in you Hyung I thought you'd just be a crazy cat man. And now your first love is back...” Jisung rambled, his words slowing down, as if thinking through it carefully now, “and she... has a kid...”

Minho felt it immediately—something tightening low in his chest, something he didn’t have language for yet.

He reached for the fridge without really thinking, pulling out a bottle of water just to keep his hands busy. “Before you say anything stupid like I know you will, I’m not going to pursue a taken woman.”

Jisung didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was quieter.

“I’m just saying… wouldn’t Eunbyuly's dad have been the one to come get medicine if she was taken?”

Minho stopped with the bottle halfway to his mouth.

The way Jisung said it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t even speculation. It was simple, like he was observing something that didn’t quite add up.

Minho set the bottle down slowly. “You're high. And stop giving nicknames to child you don't know its weird.”

But Jisung didn’t let it go. “I am not! It's just strange past potential Mrs. Lee didn't have her partner get the medicine.”

Minho’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know anything about her situation.”

“I know what I saw,” Jisung replied. “A woman alone in a convenience store at two in the morning with a sick kid. No one else with her. No mention of anyone else. Doesn’t really sound like there’s a ‘taken’ label in this situation.”

Minho didn’t answer immediately.

Because the problem wasn’t just Jisung’s words—even if they were a wild stretch—the problem lay in the way his mind had already started filling in the blanks without permission. It was the way the simplest explanation didn’t fit as cleanly as it should have.

“I don’t care what it looks like,” Minho said finally, but it came out more strained than he meant it to. “I’m not getting involved.”

Jisung studied him for a moment before speaking again, softer this time. “Hyung…”

Minho didn’t look at him.

“You’re crying.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. Not until the silence stretched long enough for Minho to realize Jisung wasn’t joking.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted a hand to his face.

His fingers came away damp.

He blinked once, then again, as if that would reset whatever was happening. He hadn’t even noticed it. Hadn’t felt it start.

“…What?” he said quietly.

Jisung didn’t move closer, but his voice lost all its usual underlying cheer. “You’re crying.”

Minho exhaled, and it came out uneven. Like something inside him had finally given up trying to stay contained.

“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, because there wasn’t anything to finish with.

His hand dropped back to the counter as he leaned slightly into it, head dipping forward. The realization didn’t come with clarity or relief.

The silence after it happened didn’t feel like an ending to the conversation so much as a shift in gravity.

Minho was still leaning against the counter, one hand braced on the edge like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His breathing had evened out again, but not in a way that felt like calm.

Jisung watched him for a moment longer before letting out a slow breath.

“I mean…” he started carefully, like he was testing the air, “if we’re being honest, this is kind of historic.”

Minho didn’t look up. “Don’t start with wherever this is going.”

“I’m not starting anything!” Jisung said immediately, raising his hands slightly. “I’m just saying, hypothetically speaking, if you and her had gone through with whatever tragic slow-burn romance you were clearly building in that dance studio, then technically speaking, I would have been the one standing next to the winner of the sperm race.”

Minho finally lifted his head. “What did you just say.”

Jisung nodded like he was making a serious point. “I’m honoring your potential legacy, Hyung. And mine. I would’ve been the favorite uncle. I already know it.”

“You're brain dead.” Minho said flatly.

“I'm brain alive.” Jisung corrected. “Think about it, if she hadn't fumbled our prescious Eunbyuly would have had 7 uncles. And most importantly a super cool one named Han Jisung.”

Minho rubbed a hand down his face, still visibly trying to recover from whatever emotional collapse had happened five minutes ago. “You’re unbelievable. And what did I say about the nicknames?”

“Not unbelievable.” Jisung replied. Then, after a beat, his expression softened slightly. “But seriously though… Hyung.” Jisung leaned back against the wall. “You’re acting like this is something you can just lock away again. But you already saw her, and all those feelings rushed out. Meaning you have to deal with them.”

Minho exhaled slowly, gaze dropping to the counter. “I’m not trying to interfere.”

“She interfered first.” Jisung said. “You're crying in the kitchen at an odd hour of the morning because you saw your first love.”

“That is not interference.”

“It is because...uh...its disruptive to your schedule. And its all her fault! Can you just let me comfort you, bro?!”

Minho let out a quiet, humorless breath, but there was less resistance in it now.

Jisung sighed. “Just…I think you deserve an answer. And obviouslyy there is still some feelings there, and I think the only way you can move on is if you figure out if that is from lack of closure or because you truly still do love her. I haven't seen you like this before...and I'm worried. So I'll support you with whatever you decide. But you can’t pretend you didn’t see her.”

Minho was quiet for a long moment before speaking.

“I don’t even know what I would be stepping into,” he said finally. “She didn’t just leave me. She built an entire life without me being part of it. For fuck's sake she has a kid Ji.”

Jisung watched him carefully. “Just because you don't know all that her life entails, that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to exist in it now.”

Minho shook his head slightly. “That’s not how it works. Plus I'm not going to be a homewrecker.”

“It is if you don’t force it,” Jisung said. Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he added, “Also I’m still saying something is off.”

Minho glanced up. “Her husband could be away.”

“I didn’t see a ring.” Jisung said matter-of-factly. “And she looks exhausted in a way that makes me think shes a single mom. She couldn't have called up a friend? Facetimed said potential husband? Its dangerous for a woman and child to be alone at night. You sure she wasn't abandoned or something? People do that a lot with single moms.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed immediately. “That is not your conclusion to draw. And even if she was who are you to judge? Plenty of unfortunate circumstances lead to single motherhood you have no right to say anything bad.”

“I didn't mean it in a harsh way!” Jisung defended quickly. “I’m just observing. Doesn't mean I'm judging.”

“You’re insinuating she’s available based on harsh stereotypes. Sounds judgey to me.”

“I wasn't trying too geesh...” Jisung pouted. “I’m just saying… how do you leave your precious Eunbyuly out there facing the elements like that?”

“Stop calling her that.”

“No,” Jisung said immediately. “She is my niece. I felt the soul tie of the favorite uncle activate. You can’t undo that.”

“There is no soul tie.”

“There is. I’ve accepted my role.”

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose, but there was something dangerously close to exhaustion-laced amusement in it now. “You met her for five seconds.”

“And she cried in my general direction,” Jisung said solemnly. “That is connection. That is trust.”

“That is a baby crying randomly.”

“That is recognition.”

Minho finally let out a real breath—not quite a laugh, but something closer to surrender than frustration.

Jisung watched him for a second before his tone softened again, just slightly.

“Fine” he said, “I'll let it go after this. I’m not telling you to go back in time or replay whatever tragic main character thing you’re doing in your head. I’m just saying… you deserve answers.”

Minho's gaze lingered somewhere unfocused, like he was seeing the convenience store again instead of the kitchen.

After a long moment, he spoke quietly.

“I never stopped thinking I’d see her again,” he admitted. “I always had a feeling I just didn’t think it would feel like this.”

Jisung pushed off the wall slightly. “Then don’t run from it immediately. Just… look. That’s it. No dramatic confessions. Just look. See if you find answers.”

Minho’s fingers tapped once against the counter, slow.

“…And if I don’t like the answers I see?”

Jisung shrugged. “Then you walk away again.”

A pause.

“But at least this time,” he added, softer, “you’d know why.”

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Jisung had always considered himself a words guy. The amount of time he spent sitting anxiously led him to be an observer in certain circumstances; and the one thing he always observed was words.

Language was a funny thing to him. How a few letters could change the entire meaning of a word. Or a few words could change the entire meanings of sentences, and sentences monologues, and monologues stories. And how a wrench was thrown into that based on the tone someone delivered certain things in.

It was fascinating to him. And it was also fascinating to see how things could change by not saying a few simple words.

It was something he was living through firsthand.

In a sense, it felt scandalous to him. Being so close to you, breathing in your scent—warm vanilla and that new, maddening hint of sweet fruit that clung to your skin—having the warmth of your body pressed flush against his, his hand delicately resting on the curve of your hip, thumb unconsciously tracing the smallest, slowest circle over the fabric of your shirt. Every shallow breath you took lifted your back against his chest, syncing your rhythms until he couldn't tell where his heartbeat ended and yours began.

He could only focus on your lips. He could only imagine how it would feel to have his own connect with yours; they looked so kissable, painted a beautiful powder pink, still glossy from the lip balm you'd reapplied earlier while telling him about your job interview. He wondered what flavor it was—strawberry or something sweeter?—and if it would taste like you on his tongue.

He adored moments like these, where he could delude himself into believing that you guys weren't just friends. But he had to be careful with delusion, because soon enough delusion would become action, and he didn't think he could easily take back the action of shoving his tongue down your throat while you were in the middle of explaining the difference between a buyer persona and a target audience as one of your interview questions.

He hummed in acknowledgement of your words, the sound low and vibrating through his chest into your back. You shifted in his embrace, the bony part of his shoulder digging a little too much into your cheek for comfort—but you didn't pull away. Instead, you pressed closer, as if chasing the solid warmth of him.

"I think I got the job. Although, I already know the lead from team two is going to be a bitch." You mumbled. "Making comments about foreigners and saying we're incompetent. Excuse me but I don't think you can speak five languages, pabo. Pinche cabrón. Cadela. Uderay iserablemay insufferableay itchbay. The incompetent woman couldn't even understand basic English phrases! Before dissing an entire language maybe try understanding it first? I don't see how it's my fault you can't understand grammar rules and slang. Maybe study harder—isn't that what you're teaching your kids? Cause that's how it's portrayed in the office! All of the parents go on and on about their kids, and how much they’re teaching them, as if one could take credit for their child’s ability. The ironic thing was I actually could have told her that and she wouldn't have understood any of it!" You sighed and tilted your head back to look up at the ceiling. Meanwhile, Jisung's focus remained glued to your mouth—the way your tongue darted out to wet your lower lip, the faint sheen left behind.

You bit your lip slightly, the spot where your front tooth connected turning a faint red. Jisung wanted to reach out and pull your bottom lip free from that gentle bite. You'd drawn blood before—no need to do it again. But goodness, the urge to replace your teeth with his own—soft at first, then firmer—made his throat tighten.

"I shouldn’t gossip. That was rude of me, I apologize." Your eyes met his through your lashes, dark and searching, and oh, was Jisung so tempted to lean closer, with the dumb excuse of counting each of those long lashes. To let his nose brush yours. To feel the heat of your breath mingle with his.

Fuck, what are you doing, Han Jisung? Look away.

You watched as his face morphed into something that looked like pain? Disgust, perhaps? And he turned his big boba eyes away from you.

You tensed slightly in his arms, your mind latching onto the wrong things. Like the burning feel of his hand on your hip, your shirt riding up just slightly so you could feel exactly where each of his fingertips rested—warm, steady, almost possessive. The way his thumb had started that tiny, absent circle again, sending sparks racing across your skin. You wondered if he even realized he was doing it. If he felt the same low thrum of heat building where your bodies met.

Scandalous. You thought.

Should you have been so aware of your best friend's touch? So… happy being up close to him? Feeling his warm skin against your temple. Smelling his laundry detergent and shampoo so closely it was a smell you could conjure up on a dime? The faint musk of him underneath—clean sweat, something uniquely Jisung—that made your stomach clench in a way that wasn't entirely innocent.

There were so many words you wanted to say… so many things you wanted to tell the chubby-cheeked boy in front of you.

But how could you? How could you tell your friend of many years that you wanted to discontinue whatever it was between you and turn it into something more. Something more meaningful. Not that your friendship with him wasn't meaningful.

Rather the contrary. Maybe it was something too meaningful. 

Was it okay for you to be picking apart every interaction, weaving in your own little fantasies with them to the point where you yearned for the feel of a reality that wasn't existent? Yearned to slide your hand up his chest, feel his heart race under your palm, tilt your chin and close the distance until there was nothing left between you but heat and breath and need.

You couldn't bring yourself to speak any of it out loud. It would be odd of you; to confess. It wasn't something someone of your status could do, to someone of the magnitude Han Jisung was at. It hurt. Because you ached for his touch to be something more than a friendly gesture—ached for his fingers to trace the line of your spine, pull you impossibly closer until there was no space for doubt.

And Jisung ached for other things.

The amount of times you referred to him as a casanova of some sorts.

The way he perfectly formed lyrics, and simple things into grand poetic gestures.

Would you like it if it was aimed at you? He wondered.

Would you like it if he spoke his thoughts on a whim?

If he told you everything he noticed; even the slightest differences in neon and bold, ringing alarms in his head and becoming his new hyperfixation until something else about you caught his eye.

You'd changed your perfume. You always wore warm smells, yet this time there was a slight sweetness to your scent. Floral. It was a delicious change. A spark to the primal urges you probably didn't want him to direct at you.

 Not that he wanted to… he was rather vanilla, he concluded. 

The thought of intertwining his fingers with yours; giving you forehead kisses, hugging you from behind, braiding your hair, or even laying in a bed with a pillow fort separating you did things to his stomach that were 100x more powerful than they should be for a 20-something-year-old man. It was almost childish… but he loved that thought of chaste moments with you. 

He would proudly admit that it was the simple, innocent things—the fleeting glances and touches—that made the desire grow in him; that turned him on, for lack of a better phrase. Would you find that strange coming from him? Or would you melt into it, let him press slow, reverent kisses along your collarbone, your pulse point, until you were trembling?

It was moments like these that the world felt as if it had stopped moving. When Han's overthinking went into overdrive.

He was enamored.

Irreversibly so.

Holding you wasn't doing him any good either. Just fueling his craze.

Your fingers absentmindedly traced the seam of his hoodie sleeve, right over his wrist, and he had to fight the shiver that wanted to run through him. The touch was light, innocent, but it sent butterflies low in his belly. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, wondering if you could feel how fast his heart was hammering against your back. If you shifted just right, you'd feel the evidence of what you did to him—rather embarrassing evidence.

He sometimes hated how you both shared a love language of physical touch. Maybe if it wasn’t so normalized from the beginning of your friendship, he wouldn’t want it to mean anything other than what it did. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten so used to your cuddles and proximity that he would have never begun to wish for something other than platonicity. 

"How do you feel about a movie night tonight?" Jisung wondered aloud, voice a little rougher than intended, cracking on the last word as he tried to lead his mind elsewhere.

You felt him pull away slightly so he could gauge your response, though his hand lingered on your hip a second longer than necessary before sliding away—fingers dragging slowly, reluctantly, over the dip of your waist.

"Will the rest of the guys be joining?" You asked, a smile working its way into your voice. Jisung could tell it was that one particular smile—the left side of your mouth upturned just slightly more than the right, the one that made his chest ache.

"Yes. Minho has actually been wondering about you…" The quokka boy hummed in thought. "He said I've been hogging you? Whatever that means. I never have known Minho-hyung to be one to step outside of his comfort zone; or even really let people step inside of it. But he really loves you for some reason."

You looked at him with raised eyebrows and a smug expression as you pulled back fully.

"It's because I'm simply the greatest person to ever exist." You teased, bringing out yet another type of smile.

The slightly gummy smile that mimicked the boy in front of you's slightly.

I want to kiss her.

Instead he smiled.

Your heart fluttered at his heart-shaped smile. The way his eyes narrowed as the fat in his cheeks pushed upwards as his lips did the same. His brilliant white teeth reminding you of his representative animal; possessing you with the urge to take your hands and squish his face further. To feel the softness of his cheeks under your palms, then slide your fingers into his hair, tug him down until your mouths met in a slow, desperate collision.

Would his eyes widen? Becoming rounder than they already were? Round with wonder, or surprise, or shock… or affection? Admiration? Dreaminess or anything of the sort?

Or would you get to hear that glorious little giggle you loved so much. The giggle you would catch like a firefly and put in a jar if you could? The one that vibrated against your lips if you ever got brave enough to kiss him mid-laugh.

"You are, Y/N." He said with a light chuckle dancing in the tone of his words. "Undoubtedly."

You felt your cheeks warm up, as you searched for any hidden meaning in his words.

We're just friends. He couldn't have meant that as anything more than a tease. Is it bad that I'm so enamored right now? That my skin feels too tight, that every brush of fabric against me reminds me of how his hands could feel instead?

You got up from the couch. "I'm assuming we're headed to your dorms then? For movie night."

Jisung nodded once. "We should probably stop for some snacks on the way there. I know Lix made brownies but I'm not sure if we have anything around the house."

You smiled, a warm smile.

Your eyes were a little more soft with this smile. Your warm smile… 

My favorite. Especially when you speak warmly as well… 

It was little thoughts like this that Jisung could never seem to keep himself from thinking.

He only had the power to keep himself from speaking.

"It'll be nice to see the guys. Lixxie, Channie, Hyune, BinBin, MongMong, Jeonjeon, Minnie…" You sang out lazily as you pranced to the other end of the room, grabbing your hoodie off your loveseat and headed towards your room.

Your voice was the slightest bit softer when you referred to Minho.

Jisung would normally smile at your interactions with his hyung. He found it endearing how much Minho cared for you. Like you were his little… sister.

As you changed, Jisung rested his head back against your couch, against the makeshift padding you had due to your aversion of putting your hoodies away whenever you stripped yourself of them.

He couldn't help but turn his head into it slightly, breathing in the faintest whisper of you—your shampoo, your skin, and once more the faint trace of that new sweet perfume. He’d have to ask what you changed it to sometime. He pressed his face deeper, inhaling like it could satisfy the hollow ache in his chest. His hand fisted the fabric, imagining it was you he was holding instead.

I love her.

The thought crossed him suddenly; yet he was self-aware enough to know that it was inevitable for himself to reach this conclusion.

It was as if the l-word was just a waterfall at the end of a river of pent-up emotion.

He could see the current taking him to an inescapable fall. Yet he allowed himself to float merrily along without focusing too much on the semantics.

I know I love her… I just didn't label it as love until now… but who am I fooling?

He sighed as he brought the sleeve of the burgundy hoodie to his face, as if it was some sort of safety blanket; as if it could hide the ever-growing warmness of his face.

You don't think these things of your best friend unless it's love. I don't care what anyone says… it's just… semantics…

His eyes were half-lidded as he focused on the few pieces of stray string attached to the sleeve.

He picked at them mindlessly, one thought in the forefront of his strangely still mind—

It's love. Simple as that.

You thought as you stared at yourself in your bathroom mirror.

"What are you thinking, Y/N…" You mumbled to yourself as you washed your face. You met your own eyes in your slightly grimy mirror. Little flecks of eyeliner and foundation that had somehow managed to find their way onto the mirror glaring back at you.

You had known you were in love with Jisung for a while. Most people couldn't exactly pinpoint the moment they had fallen in love with another; but that wasn't the case for you.

Those stupid kdrama clichés.

Tying your shoe for you while your hands were full with snacks on a night similar to this. You guys had been headed towards the dorms for a marvel marathon.

It had rained earlier, and Jisung being the slight airhead he was had knelt down straight into a murky puddle while wearing light wash ripped jeans.

You didn't even give a second thought to falling for your best friend.

As he softly sung that stupid shoelace song from Shrek while knotting the laces.

…Shrek.

…In an angelic voice that did not fit such a childish song.

…While kneeling down in a puddle of extremely dirty rainwater.

Such a simple moment. That most anyone would forget.

But you remembered it so vividly. You could remember the exact angle the light of the convenience store was hitting him. The exact feel of the night time breeze. You could even remember the exact amount of pressure he had applied while tying your shoes. And if you thought hard enough you could remember exactly where you felt the warmth of his skin through your canvas shoes as he finished the knot with a soft little pat.

"All done. Double knot. Just like our song." He’d snorted at his own stupid joke and all you could do at that moment was stare.

That was at least a year ago. How had I held my affections in that moment? 

You had thought to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut at the memory of his hands so close to you, gentle and sure.

You made your way out of your room and saw Jisung standing at the door. He shook his keys. A little flash of burgundy under his gray sleeve.

"Ready to go?" He asked, voice low, eyes tracing the way your hoodie hung off one shoulder, exposing the line of your collarbone.

You nodded, feeling a strange tension in the air—like static before a storm.

It seemed to only intensify in the confined space of Chan's borrowed car.

The engine hummed low, the radio playing some soft R&B playlist Jisung had thrown on—slow beats, sultry vocals that only amplified the silence between you. The streetlights flickered past, casting shifting shadows across his face. You stole glances at him: the way his fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel, veins standing out against his skin; the slight furrow in his brow; how his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed, throat working like he was holding back words—or a groan whenever someone cut him off.

He glanced over once, catching your eye. For a heartbeat, neither of you looked away. His gaze dropped to your lips—again—lingering long enough that you felt the phantom press of them. Then lower, to the rise and fall of your chest, before snapping back to the road with a sharp inhale.

But you were sure you were just imagining it. There was no way. The Han Jisung. You?

“So uh…good thing I finally got my license huh?” He said as you sat at a red light. Car rides had never been silent with the two of you, even when you were the one in the driver's seat. 

Something was off with him too. Maybe you weren’t imagining…

You shifted to get more comfortable, your knee brushing his when you did. The contact was quick but electric, and you wondered if he felt it too—if his skin was buzzing the way yours was, even at such a small touch.

“Um…yeah. It is good, now you can finally be D-D.” You said, trying to salvage whatever conversation topic you could, but it didn’t do much.

At the convenience store, the fluorescent lights were too bright, and the aisle felt too small when you both reached for the same bag of chips. Your fingers overlapped, lingering. His were warm, calloused from guitar strings and late-night producing sessions, rough in a way that made you imagine them sliding over bare skin. You didn't pull away immediately.

"Sorry," he murmured, voice soft, pulling his hand back.

You laughed quietly, breathless. "You always pick the spicy ones. Trying to kill my taste buds?"

"Keeps things interesting. I may not like spicy stuff much, but you tolerate it better." He grabbed the bag and added it to the basket, grabbing a sweet flavor as well. “Besides Innie and Minho might kill me if I don’t grab at least one spicy item. Sickos.”

 At the register, he paid without asking, slipping the change into your hoodie pocket like it was nothing, even if you always urged him to his money rather than gifting it to you. But as he stuffed it in your pockets you were overly aware of his fingers grazing your side through the fabric dragging along your ribs, close enough to feel the heat of your skin underneath. You sucked in a breath, as if it was anything other than accidentally, pulse thundering in your ears.

Back in the car, the air felt thicker, heavier. The snacks sat between you like a flimsy barrier neither of you consciously could acknowledge. His cologne mixed with the faint sweetness of your perfume in the closed space, made your head spin a little, and your body warm instinctively.

Once more, Jisung’s anxious sitting led him to think.

Something is different…

Is it because I'm accepting it? Because now every glance feels like a touch, every silence intense? Or maybe Y/N…

No she couldn’t possibly feel that way.

Jisung was resolute in that. It had to feel this way only because he decided to acknowledge that his feelings for you were nothing close to being platonic.

But he wouldn't say anything.

You wouldn't say anything either.

Instead you both decided on silently suffering.

And struggling to navigate the feelings you two couldn’t possibly share.

♡ Amo: the feeling that you feel for Jisung; the feeling that Jisung feels for you; the feeling that both of you are unwilling to share with one another ♡

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