Once upon a time, a knight fell in love with a woman he could never keep.

But this story does not begin with armor, or crowns, or the slow shatter of a wedding bell.

It begins, as all impossible things do, with a stolen afternoon— and a boy who did not know how to bow.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Chapter 1: The Boy with the Wooden Sword

You are eight years old the first time you learn that loneliness has a taste.

It is the flavor of cold porridge eaten in a dining hall built for forty. Of honeyed tea gone tepid because there is no one to drink it with. Of the silence that follows your own footsteps through corridors too vast for a child so small.

Your mother watches you from a gilded frame above the fireplace, her painted eyes kind and forever frozen. Your father is a king before he is a parent— you see him at feasts, at councils, at the distant end of long tables where his crown catches the candlelight and you are not allowed to run to him. Your brother, the crown prince, is away at military academy, learning to be the man you will one day serve.

The castle swallows you whole.

It is a beast of gray stone and stained glass and a thousand rooms you have never entered. Turrets claw at the sky like fingers. Tapestries whisper old battles when the wind blows through unsealed windows. The servants call you Your Highness in voices that never quite reach their eyes, and the ladies-in-waiting arrange your hair like you are a doll they are dressing for a shelf.

No one calls you little one.

No one calls you sweetheart.

No one asks what you dream about when the candles burn low and the moonlight paints silver stripes across your bedroom floor.

So you wander.

You have mapped most of the castle by the time you are six. By eight, you have begun searching for the places the maps forgot— the narrow staircases that lead nowhere, the walled-up doors that hide forgotten chambers, the corners where the dust settles thick and undisturbed and the world seems to hold its breath.

The garden behind the stables is one such place.

It is not a proper garden. There are no manicured hedges here, no marble fountains carved into the shapes of weeping maidens, no roses bred to bloom in colors that do not exist in nature. Just weeds and wildflowers and a single gnarled apple tree bent sideways by decades of wind. The ground is uneven, patched with mud and the ghosts of old footprints. The knights use it for training drills, which means it is usually scattered with broken practice swords and dented shields and the fading echoes of gruff laughter.

Your governess would collapse into a dead faint if she knew you went there.

That, you have decided, is precisely why you keep going.

On this particular afternoon— a Tuesday, you think, though Tuesdays have a habit of bleeding into Wednesdays into Thursdays into a blur of identical hours— you slip away during your embroidery lesson.

It is laughably easy.

The lady-in-waiting, a woman named Elara whose corsets are always too tight and whose patience is always too thin, has dozed off over her sewing. Her needle hangs suspended above a half-finished rose, a silver thread trailing from its eye like a spider’s silk. Her breath comes in soft, rhythmic puffs.

You set down your own needle. You rise from your cushion. You step over the discarded threads and the scattered pins and the small, sharp scissors that Elara would die if she knew you touched.

The door opens without a sound. You have learned how to make it do that.

And then you are running.

Your slippers whisper against the stone floors. Your braid— tight, immaculate, the work of twenty minutes and seven hairpins— begins to unravel behind you like a banner. The corridors blur past: portraits of ancestors you have never met, suits of armor standing sentinel over nothing, windows that spill rectangles of sunlight across the floor like spilled honey.

You do not stop until you reach the stables.

The smell hits you first— hay and leather and the warm, animal musk of horses dozing in their stalls. A stable boy looks up from a bucket of oats, recognizes the silver embroidery on your dress, and promptly forgets how to speak.

You press a finger to your lips.

He nods, wide-eyed, and goes back to his bucket.

You slip past him, through the narrow passage behind the tack room, and out into the garden.

And that is when you hear it.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound of wood striking wood. Rhythmic. Relentless. A heartbeat with a blade.

You slow, pressing your shoulder against the rough stone wall. The garden opens before you, drenched in afternoon gold. The apple tree casts a crooked shadow. The weeds sway in a breeze that smells of distant rain.

And there, in the corner—

A boy.

He is maybe twelve years old, though you are not good at guessing such things. He is all sharp angles and too-long limbs, the kind of gangly that suggests he grew three inches over the summer and hasn't figured out what to do with them yet. His hair is dark— black as wet stone, black as the space between stars— and it falls across his forehead in unkempt waves that he keeps shoving back with an impatient hand.

He is wearing a tunic of plain brown wool, patched at the elbow with a stitch so crooked it must have been his own work. His boots are scuffed nearly to ruin, the leather cracked and stained with old mud. There is dirt smeared across his cheekbone and a fresh scrape on his knuckles and a smear of something that might be grease or sap across his collar.

He is holding a wooden sword.

No, not a sword. A stick. A rough-hewn piece of oak, splintered at the hilt, wrapped in fraying leather that has seen better decades. He swings it at a battered training post— an old stump hammered into the earth, scarred with a thousand previous impacts— and the impact jars up his arm.

He stumbles back. Corrects. Swings again.

He is not good at this.

His footwork is clumsy. He overcorrects, throwing his weight too far forward, then wobbling as he tries to recover. He holds the sword too high, then too low, then too high again. His jaw is set with the particular stubbornness of someone who has been told he is not good enough and has decided to prove the world wrong through sheer, bloody-minded repetition.

A bead of sweat traces a path down his temple. Another follows. His breathing is heavy but controlled— he has been at this for a while.

You should leave.

You should turn around, go back to your embroidery, pretend you never saw him.

Instead, you step forward.

A twig snaps beneath your slipper.

The boy whirls around, wooden sword raised, his dark eyes wide and immediately wary. He scans the hedge, the wall, the gap where you are standing with your silver-embroidered dress and your half-unraveled braid.

You step through the gap.

"You're doing it wrong," you say.

The boy stares at you.

You stare back.

The afternoon holds its breath. Somewhere in the stables, a horse snorts. The wind rustles the apple tree, sending a few sour-smelling blossoms drifting down between you.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says finally. His voice is lower than you expected— not quite a boy's, not yet a man's, hovering somewhere in the middle like a bird deciding whether to land.

"I'm not supposed to be anywhere," you reply.

It is the truest thing you have said all week.

He blinks. His eyes drop to your dress— blue silk, deep as midnight, embroidered with tiny silver flowers that catch the light and throw it back in fractured sparkles. The kind of garment that costs more than most people see in a year. The kind of garment that announces royalty before a single word is spoken.

Something shifts in his face.

You have seen this before. The recognition. The calculation. The moment when a stranger realizes exactly who you are and decides exactly how to behave.

But this boy does not bow.

He does not stammer.

He does not avert his eyes or back away or call you Your Highness in a voice thick with fear.

He lowers his wooden sword, tilts his head, and studies your face like you are a map he is trying to read.

"You're the princess," he says.

It is not a question.

You lift your chin. "I am."

He looks at you for a long moment. His eyes are very dark— the color of wet earth, of old forests, of secrets kept too long. They move across your face: your braid, your stubborn chin, the small scratch on your cheek from the thorn bush you pushed through yesterday.

Then he says, "You're short."

The world stops.

You have been called many things in your eight years of life. Graceful. Precocious. A credit to your bloodline. The kingdom's greatest treasure. A flower blooming in winter.

No one has ever called you short.

No one has ever called you anything so simple, so honest, so unvarnished.

You should be offended. Your governess would be scandalized. Your father would have the boy whipped for insolence.

Instead, you laugh.

The sound startles you— bright and unexpected, cracking through the quiet like a stone thrown into still water. You clap a hand over your mouth, but it is too late. The laughter spills out anyway, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, a place you had forgotten existed.

The boy's eyes widen. He wasn't expecting that.

"You're bad at that," you say, pointing at the training post. The laughter is still trembling in your voice, making your words wobble.

His jaw tightens. "I'm practicing."

"You're going to hurt yourself."

"I'm not—" He stops, defensive now. A flush creeps up his neck, reddening the tips of his ears. "How would you know? You're a princess. You've probably never held a sword in your life."

"I've read about swords."

"Reading isn't the same."

"Then teach me."

The words fall out before you can catch them. They hang in the air between you— impossible, ridiculous, the kind of thing no princess has ever said to a strange boy in a ruined garden.

He stares at you like you have grown feathers.

"Teach you," he repeats flatly.

"That's what I said." You step forward, already reaching for the wooden sword in his hand. "Show me how to hold it. And then show me how to do it properly, since you're clearly doing it wrong."

He pulls the sword back, clutching it to his chest like a lifeline. "I can't teach a princess to fight."

"Why not?"

"Because—" He fumbles, words tangling. "Because you're a princess. You're supposed to embroider things and dance at balls and—"

"And die of boredom before I'm thirty?"

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

You plant your hands on your hips. "I don't want to embroider. I want to learn how to hit things."

The words hang there, absurd and glorious.

The boy looks at you.

You look at him.

The afternoon light filters through the branches of the apple tree, dappling his face in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. He is still dirty. Still wary. Still holding that stupid wooden sword like it is the only thing in the world that belongs to him.

But there is something else in his eyes now. Something curious. Something almost warm.

"You're strange," he says slowly.

"So I've been told."

"For a princess."

"I don't know how to be anything else."

He considers this. His thumb traces a splinter on the sword's hilt. The wind lifts his hair, revealing a small scar above his eyebrow—a thin white line, old and silvered.

Then, with a sigh that seems far too weary for someone who cannot be older than twelve, he holds out the wooden sword.

"Fine," he says. "But when you fall on your face, I'm not carrying you back to the castle."

You grin— wide and unguarded and utterly, gloriously unladylike.

"Deal."

His name is Taesan.

You learn this an hour later, after you have fallen on your face approximately seven times and he has laughed at you approximately fourteen.

"The grip is too tight," he says, circling you like a hawk circling a very confused mouse. "You're strangling it. It's a sword, not a chicken."

"I've never held a chicken either."

He pauses. Blinks. "You've never—" He stops. Shakes his head. "That explains a lot."

You stick your tongue out at him.

He raises an eyebrow but does not scold you for it. You get the sense that he does not care much about propriety— that he has spent his life outside the careful dance of courtly manners, and he sees no reason to start bowing and scraping knees now.

He steps behind you. His hands close over yours on the hilt— not tentatively, the way the older knights touch you when they must guide you down a staircase, but firmly. Like you are just another trainee and not the king's only daughter.

His palms are calloused. Warm. Slightly rough against your soft, uncalloused skin.

"Loosen your shoulders," he says, and his voice is closer than you expected, right by your ear. "You're holding all your tension here." He taps your shoulder blade with one knuckle. "You'll wear yourself out in five minutes."

"How do you know so much about swords?"

He is quiet for a moment. The only sounds are the wind dancing through the leaves of the apple tree and the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer from somewhere beyond the stables.

Then: "My father was a knight."

"Was?"

"He died."

The words fall flat. Unadorned. He does not look away when he says them, and he does not add the usual but it's fine or don't worry about it that adults always tack onto grief like a bandage over a wound that will not close.

He just says it. A fact as solid as the stone walls of the castle.

You do not know what to say. No one has ever spoken to you so plainly about loss. The adults in your life wrap their grief in velvet and store it in dusty rooms where no one has to see it.

So you say the only thing you can.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs. It is a small movement, barely a twitch of his shoulders, but you see something flicker across his face— gratitude, maybe. Or surprise. Or the particular ache of being seen when you expected to be invisible.

"I'm going to be one too," he says. "A knight, I mean. That's why I'm here. The captain took me on as a squire." He nods toward the training post. "I have to get better."

"You will."

He looks at you. "How do you know?"

You think about it. About the way he kept getting up every time he stumbled. About the focus in his eyes when he swung— not anger, not desperation, but something quieter. Something like promise. About the dirt on his face and the calluses on his palms and the stubborn set of his jaw that reminds you of your own reflection.

"Because you're still here," you say. "Even when no one's watching."

The words land somewhere soft.

His expression shifts— a crack in the armor he did not know he was wearing. Something raw and young and achingly vulnerable passes through his dark eyes, there and gone so quickly you almost miss it.

Then he reaches out and ruffles your hair.

Your braid, already half-undone, gives up entirely. Strands spill across your face. A few hairpins ping to the ground.

"You're still strange," he says.

But his voice is warmer now. Softer. Like honey left too close to the fire.

And when you push the hair out of your eyes and smile up at him— shameless, unafraid, unreasonably happy—

He smiles back.

It is the first time you have seen him smile.

It changes his whole face. The wariness melts away. The sharp edges soften. He looks, for one breathless moment, like a boy instead of a soldier. Like someone who might laugh at your jokes and catch you when you fall and stay, just because you asked him to.

You do not know it yet.

But you will spend the rest of your life trying to see that smile again.

You go back to the garden the next day.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Each time, you find him there, practicing his swings against the old training post. Each time, he pretends to be annoyed to see you. "Don't you have princess things to do?" Each time, he hands you the wooden sword without being asked.

He teaches you to stand without wobbling. To swing without closing your eyes. To block, though your arms ache and your palms blister and your governess asks why you keep sneaking off to "explore the library" with a strange, secret little smile.

You teach him, in return, without meaning to. You teach him that not all nobles are cold. That loneliness wears the same face whether you sleep on silk or straw. That there is a difference between being alone and being lonely, and you have been both for longer than you can remember.

You teach him that the princess is not just a crown on a cushion.

She is a girl who laughs too loudly and falls too often and asks too many questions.

She is a girl who, for reasons she cannot name, feels safe when he is nearby.

He teaches you, in return, without trying. He teaches you that strength is not the absence of fear but the refusal to stop swinging. That grief does not have to be loud to be real. That the best conversations happen in silence, side by side, watching the clouds drag their shadows across the distant mountains.

He teaches you that the heart does not wait for permission.

It simply wants.

And yours, small and eight years old and utterly unprepared, has already begun to want him.

That night, you lie in your vast bed, staring at the canopy above your head.

The castle is silent. The servants have tucked you in. The guards have bowed at your door. The candles have been extinguished one by one, leaving only the silver wash of moonlight through the window.

Everything is exactly as it should be.

But something has shifted.

You close your eyes and see him. The boy with the wooden sword. The dirt on his cheek. The roughness of his palms. The way he looked at you when he smiled— not at the princess, not at the crown or the title or the weight of a kingdom's expectations—

But at you.

You do not know his last name. You do not know where he sleeps or what he eats for breakfast or whether he misses his father as much as you miss your mother's voice. You do not know that one day, his name will be the first thing you reach for in the dark, or that his absence will feel like a hole in the world.

You only know that when you are with him, you do not feel lonely.

And that, you are beginning to understand, is the most dangerous thing in the world.

Because princesses are not allowed to keep the things that make them happy.

Princesses are allowed to keep kingdoms.

And a boy with a wooden sword, a boy with dirt on his face and calluses on his palms, a boy who looks at you like you are a person instead of a position—

He is not a kingdom.

He is something far more precious.

taglist: @moesthinking ℘ @taestulipss ℘ @tsanho

credits: lace, sparkle line, line and glowing stars by @cursed-carmine, chapter divider by @honeyluvsw, header by @niiqv

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one cute movie of your choice, and at the very of it, you were squealing into his arms.

taesan still doesn't really get some of it. most of his qualms are with the fact that you find mr. darcy to be so very charming, his yearning need for elizabeth making him a 'better man, worthy of her.'

well, he gets it. he just doesn't want to admit he's jealous.

it's been well over an hour, you both cuddling into the night. you cannot stop talking about it, and usually at the end of your movie nights, he loves that you like to discuss what you both watched so in depth. but he's jealous! and he doesn't like that you can't stop talking about a mr. darcy when your mr. darcy has you in his arms at the very moment. he really couldn't take it anymore, so he decided to take matters into his own hands.

"y/n," he calls out to you, making you pause mid thought. you were still gushing, all of your scene analyses ending with the very last one of the movie being replayed over and over in your head.

he used that to his advantage, reading your mind. clearing his throat, you both shifted your positions to be facing each other.

"how are you this evening, my dear?"

you gasped, understanding where he was going with this. so you followed him, clearing your own throat and licking your lips to form a grin before continuing, "very well... although I wish you would not call me 'my dear.'" (truth be told, it's one of your favorite things he calls you by, but for the sake of the scene? so be it.)

"why?"

"because it's what my... da—father always calls my mom—i mean mother—when he's cross about something," you try to remember the lines, blinking at him right after.

he let out a short and breathy laugh, finding your slip of tongue adorable. "what am i allowed to call you then?"

"let me think... 'y/nnie' for every day, 'my pearl' for sundays, and... 'goddess divine'," you playfully articulated the last one, "but only on very special occasions."

"and... what should i call you when i'm cross? mrs. han?"

hearing him call you that made you feel something you've never felt before. the idea of marrying him and taking his last name wasn't something you'd ever really put out into the open air, simply opting to fantasize about it one in a while. you suddenly understood, on a much deeper level, what elizabeth must've felt hearing mr. darcy say so.

"no. you may only call me... 'mrs. han'... when you are completely, and perfectly, and incandescently happy." your voice grew fainter with each word you said, unknowingly letting out a breath you had no idea you'd kept in you for so long.

taesan simply listened, his hand bringing up your own to his lips, kissing the back of them. "then how are you this evening... mrs. han?"

it really did feel like your lungs were getting both sucked out of air while also getting supplied with it by his voice and presence at the very same time. his lips touched your skin so softly, and your chest rose with each kiss and utter of the term so fondly.

"mrs. han," he kissed your forehead.

"mrs. han," he kissed your right cheek.

"mrs. han," he kissed your nose.

"mrs. han," he kissed your left cheek.

"mrs. han," he kissed you.

what taesan was doing out of jealousy instead became what he dreams of having with you one day: a real title, as your real spouse.

SUNGHO

Dear Y/N,

You know what's funny? You spend so much time worrying about whether people will keep loving you, and yet I've never once had to convince myself to love you. It just happened so naturally that sometimes I forget there was ever a version of my life where you weren't in it.

I love how alive you are. I love how you get excited over things other people overlook and how your emotions always show on your face no matter how hard you try to hide them. I love that you care so deeply, even when it exhausts you. You apologize for being emotional sometimes, and every time you do, I want to tell you that your heart is one of my favorite things about you.

You know me. You know how I like things neat and predictable. I like schedules, routines, having everything exactly where it's supposed to be. But then you came into my life, and suddenly I started looking forward to surprises. I started looking forward to your random late-night thoughts, the stories that take ten minutes longer than they need to, the little moments that don't make sense to anyone else but somehow become my favorite memories.

And I think that's why it hurts me when you doubt yourself.

Because while you're busy wondering if you're enough, I'm standing here wondering how someone as wonderful as you still hasn't realized how easy she is to love.

You don't have to become softer or quieter or less emotional. You don't have to earn my affection by pretending to be okay all the time. I love you when you're happy and when you're upset. I love you when you're confident and when you need reassurance for the hundredth time.

I love you on the days you love yourself, and I love you even more on the days you don't.

I hope one day you see yourself the way I see you.

Until then, I'll keep reminding you.

RIWOO

Dear Y/N,

I know I'm not always good at saying things like this. Most of the time I'd rather make a joke or quietly sit beside you than try to explain how much you mean to me. But there are moments when I look at you and think, there's no way she understands how loved she is.

I love watching you exist.

That sounds strange, doesn't it?

But I do.

I love watching you decide what dessert to order and somehow change your mind three times before choosing the very first thing you pointed at. I love how you tell stories with so much enthusiasm that I forget what the story was even about and just end up staring at you instead. I love how comfortable silence feels when it's with you.

You make ordinary things feel important.

You make me want to leave the house when I don't feel like talking to anyone. You make me laugh when I've convinced myself I'm in a bad mood. You make me feel understood without demanding explanations.

I don't think you realize how rare that is.

Sometimes you ask me if I still like you when you're insecure. You ask it casually, like you're joking, but I know you're not.

And every time I want to say, "How could I not?"

How could I stop loving someone who is kind even when she's tired? Someone who gets excited over tiny things? Someone who tries so hard to make the people she loves feel special?

I know you see your flaws first.

But I see your heart first and I don't think I'll ever get tired of it.

JAEHYUN

Dear Y/N,

I wish I could lend you my eyes for one day.

Not forever. Just one day.

Because I think you'd finally understand why I look at you the way I do.

You'd see how your smile changes when you're genuinely happy. You'd notice the way your eyes light up when you're talking about something you love. You'd realize how naturally people gravitate toward you, how comfortable they become around you, how much warmth you carry without even noticing.

You spend so much time wondering if you're enough.

Meanwhile, I'm over here thinking you're unbelievable.

I know there are days when you feel insecure. Days when you compare yourself to other people and convince yourself they have something you don't. And every time that happens, I wish I could shake you a little and ask if you've forgotten who you are.

You're funny, you're thoughtful, you're brave in ways you don't give yourself credit for.

You keep loving people even after being hurt. You keep trying even when you're scared. You keep showing up as yourself in a world that constantly tells people to be someone else.

Do you know how incredible that is?

I don't love some perfect version of you.

I love the girl who laughs too loudly. The girl who overthinks texts. The girl who gets embarrassed and hides her face in her hands. The girl who asks me if she's annoying and then immediately starts talking again before I can answer.

I love every version of you and if I have to spend the rest of my life convincing you of that, honestly?

That sounds pretty fun to me.

TAESAN

Dear Y/N,

You have this habit of looking at yourself like you're a problem waiting to happen.

I hate it.

Not because I'm annoyed with you, but because I know you so well now, and every bad thing you think about yourself feels absurd to me.

You think you're too emotional.

I think you care fearlessly.

You think you're too much.

I think you've never once given me a reason to want less of you.

You think you'll eventually become difficult to love.

I think that's impossible.

You know, before I met you, I thought love was supposed to be dramatic. Big moments. Big feelings. Something overwhelming.

But loving you is strangely quiet.

It's remembering your favorite snack when I'm at the store.

It's hearing a song and immediately wondering if you'd like it.

It's reaching for my phone because something funny happened and realizing you're the first person I want to tell.

You've become part of the way I experience the world.

I don't know when that happened.

I just know that now, whenever you doubt yourself, it feels personal.

Because I love you so much that I can't understand how you don't.

I know you're not perfect.

You overthink.

You get insecure.

You cry over things you pretend don't matter, and none of that has ever made me love you less.

If anything, it's made me love you more.

Because you're real.

And Y/N, I would choose your imperfect, messy, emotional self over perfection every single time.

LEEHAN

Dear Y/N,

I was watching my fish today and thinking about you.

Which probably isn't surprising anymore.

You laughed the first time I compared you to the ocean, remember? You said it was cheesy.

Maybe it was.

But I meant it.

Because you have this quiet depth to you that people don't notice immediately. They see your smile or hear your laugh and think they know you. But I know how much you think before you speak. I know how deeply you love. I know how many worries you keep hidden because you don't want to burden anyone.

And I wish you wouldn't carry those worries alone.

I wish you could see yourself the way I do.

You are gentle.

You are bright.

You are endlessly interesting.

I could listen to your thoughts for hours and still want more.

You don't need to become extraordinary because you already are. Not in some dramatic movie kind of way. Just in the small, everyday ways that matter most.

The way you remember things.

The way you care.

The way you make people feel seen.

You make my world softer, calmer and brighter.

And I hope you never doubt that you deserve to be loved.

Because if loving you has taught me anything, it's that some people don't have to try to be special.

They just are.

WOONHAK

Dear Y/N,

I think if someone asked me why I love you, I'd accidentally talk for three hours.

Seriously.

I'd start with something simple like, "She's really cute," and somehow end up explaining how your laugh can fix my mood or how I still get excited every time you text me even though we've talked a thousand times already.

I love you loudly.

I don't know how to do it any other way.

I love celebrating your tiny achievements like they're national holidays. I love hyping you up when you're doubting yourself. I love hearing your opinions, even the ridiculous ones. I love the way you get excited and talk faster and faster until your words start tripping over each other.

And I know sometimes you get scared.

I know there are moments when you ask yourself, What if I'm not enough?

But Y/N—

You are enough for me on your happiest days.

You are enough for me on your saddest days.

You are enough when you're confident and enough when you're crying in my hoodie because the world feels too heavy.

Nothing you do could make me wake up one morning and suddenly decide you aren't worth loving.

Because loving you isn't a decision I keep making.

It's become part of me.

As natural as breathing.

As easy as smiling when I see you, and if you forget that tomorrow, I'll tell you again.

And the day after that.

And every day after that too.

Because that's what loving you means to me.

© All rights reserved @gigisnextdoor 2026.

you sigh, picking at the food in front of you. not that the boy across from you notices. he’s too absorbed in his phone, scrolling with a small smile on his face.

what is so interesting?, you wonder. what is so interesting that it takes precendence over talking to me for just a bit?

“y/n”, he laughs a bit, looking up at you with a small smile. and despite all your inner turmoil, you can’t help but smile back at the sight of the boy you’ve been crushing on for years looking so happy.

but not because of you.

“hm?”

“onedoor are so funny. look,” he shows you his phone screen. on it is a meme of him, edited to look like a pepper.

you nod, exhaling slightly. “mm. very funny.”

he chuckles to himself and settles back into his chair, no doubt typing out a reply. he’s been like this the whole day. first at the movies, now at this restaurant. always ignoring you.

when did this happen?

so many years ago, he had looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky. when you had told him he should go for his dream of becoming an idol, he’d thanked you for believing in him.

where had that gotten you now?

“today was nice,” riwoo hums as the two of you approach your home. the neighborhood that riwoo grew up in as well. you remember running back from school with him, laughing as you raced down the street, shouts of who would get a sweet treat first echoing in your mind.

“yeah,” you say, but your chest feels hollow.

riwoo stops in front of your walkway, and you stop too. he stares at your face for a moment, dark eyes studying your features, before his gaze dips down to your lips. he steps closer, hands coming up to cup your cheeks, leaning in, coming closer and closer and closer-

“riwoo!” you snap, pushing him away, stumbling back. your chest is heaving, your heartbeat is pounding in your ears, and you’re sure you’re wearing a matching look of bewilderment as the one on riwoo’s face.

“what- y/n?” he sputters, eyes wide.

“was that- were you trying to kiss me!?”

“no- yes- i just- at the end of the first date, don’t people usually,-”

“god,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “this isn’t a stupid movie, riwoo.”

“i’m trying to make this a good date for you!”

“you’re trying?” you scoff. “listen. when i confessed to you, did you accept my feelings just so you wouldn’t hurt my feelings?”

he’s silent. and that’s all the confirmation that you need.

“you’ve changed, riwoo. if you don’t like me,” you begin, crossing your arms over your chest, “you could have at least been honest with me.”

riwoo shakes his head, eyes wide. “no, y/n, that’s not true. i do like you!”

“then why didn’t you treat me like you do?”

“i…”

“and i thought… oh, forget it,” you sigh. “we’re done.”

“what?”

“we’re done.”

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ want to check out the planetarium's other exhibits?

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw his expression.

He didn’t try to soften it much.

The new treatment wasn’t working.

There were no improvements.

And continuing would only cause your body more pain than it could already handle.

“I’m very sorry,”

he said quietly.

You only nodded.

Strangely enough, you didn’t cry there.

Maybe part of you had already known.

Maybe you were simply too tired to react anymore.

When you returned to the room, Sungho was asleep. Afternoon light spilled softly across his bed, and for a moment you just stood there watching him breathe.

He looked peaceful.

And somehow, that made it hurt even more.

The next morning, you woke up early and went to the bathroom before he could wake up. The second you leaned over the sink, a violent cough tightened painfully in your chest.

Then came the blood.

You stared at it silently against the white porcelain sink.

Bright red.

Too red.

Your hands began trembling slightly.

No one needed to explain what it meant.

Your body was already starting to give up.

And you probably had even less time left than the doctors originally thought.

You covered your mouth quickly, trying to breathe steadily while tears started slipping down your face on their own.

You didn’t want Sungho to know.

You didn’t want to see that expression on his face.

So you cleaned yourself up, waited until you stopped crying, and returned to the room pretending everything was normal.

That same day, you made a decision.

You would stay in the hospital for one more week.

Then you’d go home.

You wanted to sleep in your own bed.

Listen to the rain outside your window.

See your mom cooking again.

Wait for the end somewhere that still felt like yours.

You had accepted it.

Or at least, you kept trying to tell yourself that.

But some nights you ended up locked in the bathroom staring at your reflection for too long, wondering when exactly you had started looking so tired.

And then you would cry again.

Quietly.

So Sungho wouldn’t hear.

“What did the doctor say?”

he asked one night.

You looked up from your bed slightly.

And lied.

“He said I’ll probably get discharged soon.”

There was a brief silence.

Then Sungho smiled.

A real smile.

So happy it made your chest ache even more.

“Really?”

You nodded.

“Yeah… maybe in a week.”

He let out a relieved laugh and ran a hand through his hair.

“That’s good,”

he murmured.

“Really good.”

You had to look away again.

You couldn’t bear how happy he looked.

“I’ll come find you once I get out too,”

he continued.

“Then we can finally go to all those places we talked about.”

Your throat burned painfully.

But you still smiled a little.

“Okay.”

Sungho pulled out his phone and asked for your number, then carefully wrote his address on a small piece of paper torn from a notebook.

You gave him yours too.

Even though you already knew he would probably arrive too late.

He folded the paper carefully like it was something precious.

Like he truly believed there was still time left for both of you.

And you let him believe it.

Because seeing him hopeful hurt less than breaking him with the truth.

A week later, you left the hospital.

Sungho hugged you before you went.

Carefully.

Like he was afraid you’d break apart in his arms.

“Wait for me a little longer, okay?”

he whispered.

You almost cried right there.

But instead, you nodded.

“I will.”

That was the last time you saw him.

A month later, Sungho was finally discharged.

He had improved.

The doctors smiled more around him now.

For the first time in a long while, he finally felt hopeful again too.

And the very first thing he did after leaving the hospital was go looking for you.

He brought small flowers with him.

Because he remembered you once saying you liked them.

When he arrived at the address, he stood outside the house for a few seconds before knocking.

He was nervous.

But happy.

So unbelievably happy.

The door slowly opened.

An older woman stood on the other side.

Sungho bowed politely out of instinct.

“Hello… I’m looking for Y/N.”

The woman stared at him for a moment.

Then something in her expression changed.

Like she understood immediately who he was.

She was dressed entirely in black.

Sungho noticed it right away.

A strange feeling settled heavily in his chest.

“Are you… a relative?”

he asked quietly.

The woman opened the door a little wider.

Then she smiled.

But it was the kind of smile that looked broken before it even fully formed.

“Ah… so you’re that boy.”

Her voice trembled.

“My daughter cared about you very much.”

Sungho felt his entire body go cold.

She lowered her head as tears started falling one after another.

“She told me to apologize for her… for not telling you anything.”

And then she broke down crying.

Completely.

Unable to stop.

She covered her mouth and slowly sank to the floor beside the doorway.

And Sungho…

finally understood everything.

The flowers slipped from his hands.

Because suddenly it all made sense.

The urgency hidden in your voice.

The exhaustion in your eyes.

The way you smiled even when you looked seconds away from falling apart.

And that promise.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Sungho stood there in front of the door feeling something inside him completely shatter.

Because in the end…

you really did keep your promise.

Two days later, the two of you were at the supermarket together.

And Taesan still insisted he wasn’t jealous.

“I don’t care,”

he said while pushing the cart.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Sure.”

“I mean it.”

But the aisle felt strangely warm.

And by now, you knew exactly what that meant.

The problem started when a guy approached you while Taesan was checking something on another shelf.

“Excuse me,”

the stranger said with a smile.

“I think I’ve seen you before.”

You smiled politely.

“I don’t think so.”

But the guy kept talking anyway.

Too comfortable.

Too close.

And right then, you felt something familiar.

Heat.

You turned your head slightly.

Taesan was standing on the other side of the cart watching the scene silently.

Too silently.

His hands were shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.

But the lights above you had started flickering softly.

Oh no.

“So, do you come here often?”

the guy asked.

Before you could answer, the coffee cup in his hand suddenly released a burst of steam.

A lot of steam.

The guy startled immediately.

“What the hell?!”

The coffee had gotten so hot he almost dropped the cup.

And you were already looking at Taesan.

He held your gaze calmly.

Like he hadn’t done anything.

But the air around him was hot.

Really hot.

“Dongmin.”

He raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Hm?”

The light bulbs above you exploded one after another.

The guy took a step back, completely confused.

And you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing.

Taesan walked over slowly until he was standing beside you.

Then he grabbed the cart handle with one hand and gently took your wrist with the other.

His palm was burning hot.

“Let’s go,”

he muttered.

The guy was still staring at the coffee in horror.

“Your boyfriend is scary.”

Taesan answered before you could.

"It's just a corner," you say.

"Exactly," Woonhak agrees.

Then both of you look at the empty corner. And then at each other. And then back at the corner.

Neither of you moves.

"Okay," you say. "How do we actually make it cozy?"

Woonhak squints at the space like he's an architect planning a skyscraper. "We need layers."

"What does that mean?"

"No idea."

You burst out laughing, "You're useless."

"Hey. I built the bookshelf."

"You forgot about the bookshelf for a week."

"But I built it."

You can't even argue with that.

The bookshelf stands proudly against the wall now, illuminated by the fairy lights you'd added two days ago. Every time you walk into the room, your chest warms a little.

It feels lived in.

Loved.

The reading nook is supposed to be the finishing touch. The problem is that Woonhak has immediately decided he's an interior designer.

"No, no," he says, grabbing one of the cushions. "This one goes here."

"Why?"

"Because it balances the energy."

You stare at him, "The energy?"

"Exactly."

"What energy?"

"The vibe."

"You're making words up."

"I'm absolutely not."

"You absolutely are."

He places the cushion down dramatically anyway.

You move it three seconds later.

He gasps, "Sabotage."

"It looked weird."

"It looked artistic."

"It looked like you threw it."

He points at you accusingly.

"You don't understand my vision."

"You don't have a vision."

The two of you spend the next twenty minutes arguing about pillow placement. Not real arguing. The kind that has both of you smiling halfway through every sentence.

At one point he deliberately puts a cushion in the middle of the floor. You immediately move it.

He puts it back.

You move it again.

He puts it back.

You throw it at his face. The pillow hits him directly in the nose.

Silence.

You freeze.

He freezes, then his eyes narrow.

"Oh."

"No."

"Oh, it's happening."

You back away immediately.

"Woonhak."

He bends down and picks up the pillow.

"Woonhak, be mature."

The grin spreading across his face tells you everything you need to know. You run. The pillow hits your shoulder before you even make it to the doorway.

"HEY!"

"You started it!"

"You literally asked for maturity!"

"Exactly!"

Another pillow flies. You shriek.

Soon the room is filled with feathers, blankets, laughter, and absolutely zero progress.

At some point Woonhak trips over a pile of cushions.

You watch him disappear.

One second he's standing. The next he's gone. A loud thump echoes through the room.

You stare.

Then immediately double over laughing.

"Oh my god."

Woonhak is sprawled on the floor. Half wrapped in a blanket. Completely defeated.

You laugh so hard tears gather in your eyes.

"You should've seen your face."

He points dramatically.

"You're a terrible girlfriend."

"I think you're just clumsy."

"You wounded me emotionally."

"You tripped over a pillow."

He reaches up suddenly and grabs your wrist. Before you can react, he pulls.

You yelp.

The world tilts. And suddenly you're falling too.

You land directly on top of him. The breath leaves your lungs in a surprised laugh.

"Woonhak!"

"There."

He sounds pleased with himself.

"Now we're both on the floor."

You try to sit up. His arms immediately wrap around your waist.

"Nope."

"Woonhak."

"The floor is our home now."

"We have work to do."

"I'm retired."

"You are twenty."

"I'm retired at twenty."

You laugh into his shoulder.

His chest vibrates beneath your cheek.

For a moment neither of you moves. The room is warm. The fairy lights cast soft golden shadows across the walls. Your bookshelf glows in the corner. And despite the mess, despite the unfinished project, despite the fact that absolutely nothing has gone according to plan you feel happy.

Ridiculously happy.

Woonhak must notice your smile because his fingers rub gentle circles against your back.

"What are you thinking about?"

You lift your head slightly, "Nothing."

"Liar."

You hum.

Then glance toward the bookshelf. The books. The lights. The blankets scattered everywhere.

"This room feels different."

His eyes follow yours, "Different good?"

"Different good."

He smiles.

"Yeah."

You settle against him again.

"It feels like us."

The words slip out quietly. But he hears them.

His arms tighten slightly. The smile he gives you is softer than usual. One of the rare ones. The ones that make your chest ache.

"I was thinking that too."

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

"You know what we're missing?"

You groan immediately, "What now?"

"A canopy."

You stare.

"A what?"

"A canopy."

"Woonhak."

"A reading nook needs a canopy."

"It absolutely does not."

"It absolutely does."

"We don't own a canopy."

His grin returns. Then he slowly turns his head toward the curtains.

You follow his gaze.

Immediately, "No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

Twenty minutes later, the curtains are somehow involved.

You don't ask questions.

At some point the reading nook evolves into a blanket cave. Then a blanket cave evolves into a blanket fortress. Then the blanket fortress evolves into what can only be described as an architectural violation. But somehow—

It's perfect.

Pillows cover the floor. The fairy lights glow overhead. Blankets drape from every available surface. And tucked into the corner beside the bookshelf sits a tiny nest built entirely from comfort.

You climb inside first. Woonhak follows immediately. Naturally taking up twice as much space as necessary.

"Move."

"I am moved."

"You are literally on my leg."

"Our leg."

You shove his shoulder.

He laughs.

Eventually the two of you settle. His arm draped around your shoulders. Your head resting against him. A book open in your lap. The fairy lights glowing softly above. The room falls quiet.

For once.

No teasing. No arguing. Just comfortable silence.

You turn a page.

Woonhak peeks over your shoulder.

"What happened?"

"You weren't listening."

"Tell me."

"I'm reading."

"Read it to me."

You glance up.

His eyes are already half closed. Sleepy. Comfortable. Content.

"You don't even care about the story."

"I care because you care."

Your heart does something embarrassing.

Again.

You look back at the book before he can catch your expression. But it's too late. His grin appears instantly.

"There it is."

You groan.

"Stop noticing things."

"Impossible."

You feel him press a kiss into your hair. Then another. And another. Until you're laughing and trying to push him away.

"Woonhak."

"Hm?"

"I think the reading nook turned out nice."

He looks around the blanket-covered corner.

The books. The lights. The pillows. The evidence of an evening spent together.

Then he looks at you, and smiles.

"Yeah."

His voice is quiet, warm and it feels like home.

"It really did."

Later, when you inevitably fall asleep halfway through your chapter with your head on his shoulder, Woonhak doesn't wake you.

He just reaches for the bookmark, carefully saves your page, and pulls the blanket a little higher around both of you.

Because somewhere between the bookshelf, the fairy lights, the pillow fights, and the ridiculous blanket fort, the reading nook stopped being a project.

It became a place.

A tiny corner of the world built by the two of you who turned an empty space into something soft.

Something safe.

Something entirely yours.

© All rights reserved @gigisnextdoor 2026.

you sigh as this has been a reoccurring back-and-forth between the two of you recently. you’ve decided on an earlier shift so you have the nights with him but no matter the time you’re gone, it’s still time without you. “20??— taesan, i could be fired if i show up that late.” you barely have enough room to turn in his hold and finally face him.

“shh, i’ll drive you. that’ll save you tons of time” he smiles lopsidedly at the sight of your face, thinking his plan is foolproof. he starts looking at you with those stupidly cat-like eyes that he knows you’re weak to because he thinks he’s soo clever.

“in order to drive me you also need to be awake.”

…

“we can figure that out later, darling please?” he groans and buries his face back into your neck. taesan is fully willing to let you drop your job and become the main provider. all for 20 more minutes in the mornings.

it came as a surprise to you to find out how clingy he was at home. at least in the beginning of your relationship; in public, he’s a stoic gentleman that keeps a steady arm around your shoulder or your back as you peruse around. occasionally his pinky will reach for yours and eventually engulf your hand as he pulls you closer. but at home? it’s physically impossible to pry him off of you.

taesan is fully on top of you on the couch, watching videos with you as you scroll on social media. he’ll poke at you while you prepare a snack and even keep his chin on your shoulder while you get ready in the mornings.

but that’s exactly the problem. getting from point a, the bed where he’s keeping you trapped, to point b, the bathroom while you do your hair.

you try meeting in the middle, offering 10 minutes and extra kisses. he counters with 17 minutes and his hoodie for the day. you tell him 13 as you consider leaving your hair in a looser style. taesan ponders, resting his forehead on yours as he makes his final decision.

“15 minutes.. and i get you breakfast. but!! you have to eat it in the car. with me. together. before you leave.” he has that dumb smile on his face that you just can’t say no to and that’s when he knows he has you.

his playfulness lately has been affecting you harder each day and seeing him be an unashamed, sillier version of himself melts your heart in a way you can never deny.

and so taesan falls back asleep with a smug grin on his face, so so proud for getting you all to himself while knowing he’ll still ask for 5 more minutes once you turn your alarm off.

They laughed when you got dramatic over tiny inconveniences. They listened when you rambled about a movie theory nobody asked for. They let you explain random facts you’d learned at two in the morning from some questionable internet rabbit hole.

And honestly?

You liked that about yourself.

You liked being passionate. You liked caring loudly.

So maybe that was why it hurt more than it should’ve when the newest addition to the friend group sighed softly halfway through your story and said,

“Can you maybe let other people talk too?”

The words weren’t even harsh.

Her tone was polite. Calm. Casual.

But it still felt like someone had poured cold water directly over your head.

The entire table went quiet for a split second.

Not long enough for anyone to acknowledge it.

Just long enough for everyone to hear it.

Then conversation resumed almost immediately, awkwardly stumbling forward as if nothing had happened.

You felt your smile strain at the corners.

“Oh,” you laughed quietly. “Yeah. Sorry.”

And just like that, you shut up.

You stopped talking mid-thought. Stopped adding onto conversations. Stopped interrupting yourself with excited little side tangents. Even when people directly asked you things afterward, your answers stayed short.

The worst part was how painfully aware you suddenly became of your own voice.

Every time you almost spoke, your chest tightened.

Were you talking too much again?

Were people secretly annoyed all the time?

Did they only tolerate you because they felt bad?

You hated how quickly your brain spiraled.

So instead of risking it, you stayed quiet, and apparently nobody noticed.

Well.

Nobody except him.

Later that evening, the apartment door opened and Taesan walked in.

The atmosphere shifted almost immediately.

Maybe it was because Taesan naturally carried himself like someone impossible not to notice. Tall frame wrapped in an oversized black hoodie, dark hair slightly messy from the wind outside, rings glinting against his fingers as he pushed the door shut behind him.

Or maybe it was because your stupid heart still reacted to him like it hadn’t learned better yet.

“Finally,” Leehan groaned. “You’re late.”

Taesan snorted. “I brought food. That cancels out the lateness.”

“It absolutely does not.”

“It literally does.”

Everyone started talking over each other immediately.

Taesan laughed under his breath while slipping off his shoes, and then his eyes found you almost instantly.

Always.

It didn’t matter how many people were in a room.

His attention somehow landed on you first every single time.

Your chest squeezed painfully.

You forced a smile before he made his way over, setting the takeout bags down on the table first before dropping onto the couch beside you.

“Hi,” he murmured.

“Hi.”

He leaned down automatically to kiss your cheek.

Usually you’d immediately start talking after that.

You’d tell him something random before he could even settle properly. Maybe about the weird guy you saw earlier, or how Hana almost burned the garlic bread, or some ridiculous thing you read online.

Instead, you stayed quiet.

Taesan pulled back slowly. His brows furrowed almost instantly. There it is, you thought miserably.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He greeted everyone else casually, fell into the rhythm of the conversation for maybe five minutes, but you could feel him glancing at you every few seconds.

Studying you.

By the sixth glance, you couldn’t even focus on the conversation anymore.

Then he leaned closer.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly enough that only you could hear. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head immediately.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

You even smiled a little to make it convincing.

It didn’t work on him for even half a second.

Taesan stared at you for another moment before narrowing his eyes slightly.

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“You’ve said maybe six words since I got here.”

You shrugged.

“I’m just tired.”

That earned you an unimpressed look. Because Taesan knew you. Knew you in the terrifyingly specific ways that made lying almost impossible.

He knew your fake smiles from your real ones. Knew the difference between your annoyed silence and your hurt silence. Knew when your thoughts were moving too fast because your fingers twitched against your sleeves.

And right now?

He knew something had happened.

Still, he didn’t push.

Not there.

Not in front of everyone.

Instead, he rested his arm behind you on the couch and stayed quiet.

But you could feel it.

The way he kept looking at you.

The way his jaw tightened every time someone else spoke while you stayed silent.

The way he frowned slightly whenever you laughed too softly at something.

You hated that he could tell.

You hated that you cared this much.

The evening dragged on painfully after that.

Usually you were the loudest person in the room. Usually Taesan spent half his time teasing you for bouncing between topics too fast for anyone else to follow.

Tonight, you mostly just listened.

And somehow that felt worse.

At some point, Riwoo brought up conspiracy theories.

Normally that would’ve been dangerous territory for you because you loved talking about weird things. Taesan especially loved listening to you spiral through theories with dramatic hand gestures and completely unnecessary diagrams drawn on napkins.

Tonight, you stayed quiet, and Taesan noticed immediately.

His head turned toward you.

“You don’t have anything to say about this?” he asked.

You blinked.

“Hm?”

“The conspiracy thing.”

“Oh.” You looked down at your drink. “Not really.”

Now everyone was staring at you like you’d grown a second head.

“Not really?” Hana repeated. “You literally made a thirty-minute presentation once.”

“It was not thirty minutes.”

“It was forty-five.”

Normally you would’ve argued dramatically. Normally you would’ve laughed. Instead, you just shrugged again.

Taesan’s expression darkened slightly.

He looked genuinely concerned now.

And honestly?

That almost made you emotional.

Because nobody else seemed to realize how weird this was except him.

The conversation continued, but you could feel Taesan getting quieter beside you too.

Observing.

Thinking.

Then eventually he leaned down near your ear.

“Come outside with me for a second.”

Your stomach twisted.

You nodded quietly.

Nobody really questioned it when he stood up and held his hand out toward you. You slipped your hand into his automatically and let him guide you toward the apartment balcony.

The cool night air hit your face immediately.

Nights always felt strangely comforting to you. Cold enough to wake you up a little, soft enough to calm you down.

Taesan slid the balcony door shut behind him.

Then he turned toward you fully.

“What happened?”

You looked away instantly.

“Nothing happened.”

“Baby.”

That voice.

That soft, patient voice he only used when he knew you were lying but wanted to give you the chance to tell the truth anyway.

You swallowed.

“It’s stupid.”

“Then tell me the stupid thing.”

You rubbed at your sleeve nervously. Taesan waited quietly. Somehow that made it worse. Because he wasn’t rushing you. Wasn’t dismissing you. Wasn’t acting annoyed. He just looked at you like what you said mattered.

Always.

Finally you sighed.

“I think I talk too much.”

Taesan blinked once.

“What?”

You laughed awkwardly.

“There. See? That reaction alone proves it.”

“What are you talking about?”

You hesitated.

Then quietly explained what happened earlier. The more you talked, the more Taesan’s expression changed. Not annoyed. Not embarrassed. Just increasingly upset on your behalf.

“And I know she didn’t mean it badly,” you rushed to explain. “Like logically I know that. I probably was talking too much. I do that sometimes and I know it can be annoying and—”

“Hey.”

Your words stopped immediately.

Taesan stepped closer.

“You know what I noticed when I got here?”

You frowned slightly.

“What?”

“You weren’t talking.”

“Well obviously.”

“And that bothered me.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

Taesan shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie before continuing.

“You know what this friend group sounded like before you joined?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“Dead.”

You snorted softly despite yourself.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Nobody talked this much. Nobody got excited this much. Half the hangouts used to be everyone staring at their phones.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s true.”

You rolled your eyes weakly.

Taesan leaned against the balcony railing.

“You talk a lot because you care a lot.”

Your throat felt weirdly tight now.

“You get excited over things. You tell stories like every detail matters. You make people laugh because your brain moves faster than your mouth.” His lips twitched slightly. “Sometimes significantly faster.”

You finally smiled a little.

“There she is,” he murmured immediately.

Your smile faltered from embarrassment.

“You don’t think I’m annoying?”

Taesan looked genuinely offended.

“Annoying? Baby, I voluntarily listen to you explain things I don’t even understand for hours.”

“That doesn’t count. You’re biased.”

“I’m absolutely biased. But I’m also right.”

You stared down at your shoes.

Taesan sighed softly before reaching over to tilt your chin up gently.

“I like listening to you.”

The sincerity in his voice made your stomach flip.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

You looked at him carefully, and unfortunately for your emotional stability, he looked completely serious.

Taesan laughed quietly under his breath.

“You know what's my favorite thing?”

“What?”

“The way you start rambling when you’re excited and then halfway through you realize you forgot the original point.”

You groaned immediately.

“Oh my god.”

“And then you try to backtrack but somehow the story gets even longer.”

“Taesan.”

“And your hands start doing this—” He mimicked your overly animated gestures badly.

You smacked his arm instantly.

“That is not what I look like.”

“That’s exactly what you look like.”

“You’re evil.”

He grinned.

“There she is again.”

You hated how easily he could pull you out of your moods sometimes.

Taesan’s expression softened after a moment.

“Do you know how quiet you got in there?”

You looked away again.

“Yeah.”

“I hated it.”

That surprised you.

“You did?”

“Mhm.”

He reached for your hand absentmindedly, playing with your fingers while he spoke.

“When you’re quiet because you’re tired, it’s different. Tonight you looked like you were trying to make yourself smaller.”

Your chest ached immediately. Because that was exactly what you’d been doing.

Taesan sighed softly.

“I don’t like when people make you feel like you need to shrink yourself.”

You blinked rapidly.

“It wasn’t even a big deal—”

“It hurt your feelings.”

The simple certainty in his voice almost undid you.

You laughed weakly instead.

“I sound dramatic.”

“You are dramatic.”

“Wow.”

“But you’re also sensitive.” He squeezed your hand gently. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

You stayed quiet for a moment before mumbling,

“I was trying really hard not to talk too much afterward.”

“I know.”

“I kept thinking about everything I said before speaking.”

“I know.”

“And then I got scared to talk at all because what if everyone secretly agrees with her?”

Taesan’s face softened painfully.

Then suddenly he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you. The hug caught you off guard enough that you melted into him almost instantly.

“You know what I think?” he murmured against your hair.

“What?”

“I think if somebody genuinely didn’t like you talking, they wouldn’t keep inviting you everywhere.”

You hummed quietly.

“And I think,” he continued, “you’re way too loved for that.”

Your throat tightened embarrassingly fast.

Taesan pulled back slightly just to look at you.

“And personally? I could listen to you talk forever.”

“That’s insane.”

“It probably is.”

You laughed quietly into his hoodie.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The city lights glowed softly around you while distant traffic hummed below.

Then unfortunately your brain started functioning normally again.

“So anyway speaking of conspiracy theories—”

Taesan burst out laughing immediately.

“There she is.”

“No because listen,” you said, suddenly animated again. “Why do celebrities always wear sunglasses inside buildings? That’s suspicious behavior.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious. There has to be a reason.”

Taesan leaned against the railing again while you started talking properly for the first time all evening.

And because he loved you hopelessly, completely, disgustingly much—

He listened. Not the fake kind of listening either. Not the kind where someone nods while waiting for their turn to speak.

Taesan listened like every word mattered.

Like your thoughts were something precious.

You started pacing slightly as you spoke, hands moving dramatically while you explained your ridiculous theory about celebrities, government replacements, and weird airport behavior.

Halfway through, you got distracted by another thought entirely.

“Wait actually speaking of airports, did I ever tell you about the guy I saw eating tuna at like six in the morning?”

Taesan smiled immediately.

The topic switch.

Classic you.

“Yes,” he said fondly. “Three times.”

“Right, okay, but that’s because it was genuinely disturbing behavior.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“No because imagine waking up and deciding tuna is breakfast food.”

Taesan watched you continue talking. Watched the way your face lit up again. Watched your eyes brighten more with every sentence.

And maybe it was pathetic how much affection filled his chest from something as simple as this. But he couldn’t help it. He loved listening to you. Loved the way your thoughts wandered unpredictably. Loved how passionate you got over tiny things. Loved how conversations with you never stayed on one topic for longer than three minutes.

You made everything feel alive.

Even silence felt warmer around you.

You eventually stopped mid-sentence suddenly.

Taesan blinked.

“What?”

You squinted at him suspiciously.

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you stare at me like I’m a cute puppy.”

“I’ve never made that face in my life.”

“You’re literally making it right now.”

He laughed quietly.

“Maybe I just like you.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically.

“Cringe.”

“And yet you stay.”

“Unfortunately.”

Taesan pulled you closer by your hoodie strings.

“You know what else?”

“What?”

“You look happiest when you’re talking.”

That hit you strangely hard. Because nobody had ever said that before, and maybe it was silly. Maybe it was stupid how emotional something so small made you feel.

But Taesan noticed things.

Tiny things.

The kinds of things people usually overlooked.

You looked away shyly.

“That’s embarrassing.”

“It’s cute.”

“Even more embarrassing.”

Taesan laughed softly before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Then the balcony door suddenly slid open behind you. Riwoo peeked outside dramatically.

“Oh thank god,” he sighed. “She’s talking again. We were getting scared.”

You groaned instantly.

Taesan smirked.

“Told you.”

Riwoo pointed accusingly at you.

“Do you know how weird it was in there without you talking about something random every five minutes?”

“That sounds fake.”

“It’s not fake,” Leehan called from inside. “Come back and tell us more conspiracy theories.”

You blinked in surprise.

Taesan watched your expression carefully.

That tiny moment of realization. Maybe they did like listening to you after all.

Riwoo grinned.

“Seriously. The silence was depressing.”

You laughed softly before looking at Taesan again, and the look on his face nearly melted you alive.

Fond.

That was the only word for it.

Like he was genuinely relieved to see you smiling again.

You nudged him lightly.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m adorable.”

“You are adorable.”

“Taesan.”

“You’re literally pouting.”

You immediately stopped pouting. Which only made him laugh harder.

Riwoo gagged loudly.

“You two are disgusting. Get back inside.”

Taesan snorted before intertwining his fingers with yours again. As he led you back inside, he leaned down slightly and murmured near your ear,

“By the way.”

“Hm?”

“If anyone tells you to stop talking again, I’m fighting them.”

You stared at him.

“That’s insane.”

“Mhm.”

“You can’t fight people for not wanting to hear me yap.”

“I can and I will.”

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

And that sound alone made Taesan think the entire world was worth it.

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