for all the simps

bang chan is pretty handsome, fuck, even beautiful if you ask me.

but also an asshole.

and the worst part?

he knows it.

you woke up today at 7:42 am, you were supposed to be at work by 7.

you leap out of bed, trip over a shoe you swear wasn’t there last night, and stumble into the bathroom. toothbrush in one hand, hairbrush in the other, you try to do everything at once. minty foam dribbles down your chin as you pull on a wrinkled shirt and hope no one notices.

you grab your travel mug, barely giving the coffee time to cool before rushing out the door. the morning air is cold, your nerves are hot, and your brain is running on panic and caffeine dreams.

halfway down the sidewalk, your phone buzzes again. a message from your coworker- from chan.

where are you?

you’re unbelievable

i swear if u don’t come in 5 minutes im starting without you

you look down to reply, and in that exact moment your foot catches the edge of the curb.

the phone in your hand tilts.

the coffee flies.

your reflexes slower than the time.

no, no, no-

splash.

a wave of scalding brown liquid soaks your shirt, your jacket, and somehow even your pants. the lid clatters to the ground, rolling away like it’s ashamed of what it’s done.

you stand there, dripping, smelling like a walking café, watching steam rise from your chest. people pass by pretending not to stare. your phone buzzes again.

you wipe your screen with your sleeve and type back, jaw tight.

im literally almost there

his answer came immediately.

just get here already

don’t talk to me like you’re my boss

the reply comes almost instantly, again.

keep that attitude when you see me

we’ll see how brave you are in person

oh fuck you, bang chan.

you leave him on read after that.

not because you don’t have anything to say, but because if you keep trying, you might actually throw your phone into the traffic.

your hands are still shaking, partly because of the hot coffee, partly because of fucking bang chan.

it has been going on like this for weeks, months even. you and chan- constantly at each other’s throats, snapping in hallways, arguing over the smallest things.

no one at work was surprised anymore. the both of you just couldn’t stand each other, it was an unspoken rule. they’d learn to go quiet when the two of you were in the same space, to suddenly find reasons to leave the room, to exchange knowing looks when voices started to raise.

the funny part?

when it was just you, without him, you were loud. way too loud. always laughing, always talking, always hyped over small things. you were the kind of person who filled the room without even trying. 

and chan?

he was the same- easy smiles, effortless charm, the type every girl would bark for. 

okay, no.

he was a dick.

still is.

together, though?

it was like throwing sparks into gasoline.

so everyone assumed the truth was simple: you hated each other.

that friday every one from your work sits a the table. the conference room smells like coffee and printer ink, the kind of stale, familiar comfort that comes with end‑of‑week meetings. everyone’s there- every department, every familiar face packed around the long table, chairs scraping, low chatter buzzing.

you slide into your seat, and of course, chan drops into the one right next to you.

of course.

your friend across from you flashes a grin, and you grin back. normally, you’d be loud already, bouncing your leg, whispering jokes. chan, too, usually fills a room without trying- laughing, charming, teasing anyone within reach.

but today?

he’s quiet.

too quiet.

your boss stands at the front, hands clasped. “first of all, I want to congratulate everyone on how well this week went. the latest project was a success because of the effort from every single one of you.”

polite applause fills the room.

“and especially,” the boss continues, looking down the table, “bang chan. your coordination with the client and how you handled the final revisions, excellent work.”

a few people turn to look at him. someone murmurs a “nice job, chan.”

he only nods once.

no smile. no little laugh. no charming, self‑deprecating comment. not even one of his stupidly egoistic lines.

you glance sideways.

his jaw is tight, lips pressed into that thin, straight line- the one he gets when he’s irritated or holding something back. his eyes are fixed on the table, unreadable.

that’s weird…?

you frown for half a second, then shrug it off. maybe he’s just tired.

“also,” your boss says, shifting his gaze, “i want to point out y/n’s work this week. your attention to detail and how you kept the team on track, really impressive.”

your head snaps up.

“thank you,” you say, a little surprised, heat creeping up your neck as a few people smile at you.

and you feel it.

chan’s eyes.

you can feel his stare on the side of your face, steady and intense, like he’s burning a hole through you. he’s sitting close enough that your elbows almost touch, his presence heavy, silent.

you keep your eyes forward, but your heartbeat picks up anyway.

the boss goes on, thanking others, listing names, praising effort.

and then-

something warm presses against your hand in your lap.

your breath catches.

you look down.

it’s his hand. resting over yours like it belongs there.

your eyes fly up to him, wide, confused, a silent what the hell? written all over your face.

chan finally looks at you.

and he smiles.

not his usual easy grin. not the cocky smirk he throws when he’s being a menace.

just a small, slow curve of his lips. 

like he’s fully aware he’s messing with your head.

then, just as casually, he lifts his hand away and folds it back on the table, posture relaxed, expression neutral again- like nothing happened. like he didn’t just short‑circuit your brain in the middle of a meeting.

the boss clears his throat. “and one more thing, since the project wrapped up so successfully, we’re going to have a celebratory dinner tomorrow, saturday. I expect everyone to come.”

a ripple of excitement moves through the room.

you’re still staring at chan out of the corner of your eye, heart thudding, trying to understand what the hell that was.

he keeps his gaze forward, calm, unreadable.

like he didn’t just touch you at all. 

like it didn’t make your heart race.

saturday evening comes faster than you expect.

your bathroom is warm with steam from the shower, music playing from your phone on the counter- something upbeat, something that makes you sway a little as you stand in front of the mirror. you lean closer, focused, carefully applying your lip combo. the one you love. the one that makes you feel put together, confident, a little dangerous in the best way.

liner first. gloss. a soft press of your lips together.

perfect.

your phone buzzes and you pick it up, your friend already rambling on the other end about outfits, heels, whether the restaurant will be fancy-fancy or just fancy. you laugh, twirl a strand of hair around your finger, promise you’ll send pictures, promise you won’t be late.

eventually you hang up.

that’s when it gets real.

you smooth your clothes, fix your hair properly, take one last look at yourself. and, annoyingly, your thoughts drift.

to chan.

to the way he barely reacted to the praise. to the way his lips went flat. to the way his hand had covered yours like it was the most natural thing in the world… and then how he’d taken it back just as easily.

weird. confusing. so not him.

you shake your head. whatever. he’s just being his usual complicated, infuriating self.

you grab your bag and head out.

the restaurant is already buzzing when you arrive. warm lights, clinking glasses, voices overlapping in happy chaos. you step inside and immediately start greeting people- smiles, hugs, congratulations thrown back and forth.

and then, as you walk further in, you see him.

bang chan, dressed all in black like he planned it, sitting at the bar with a glass of whiskey in his hand. the amber liquid catches the light as he lifts it, takes a slow sip.

but his eyes?

they’re on you.

not wandering. not distracted.

just on you.

for a second, the noise around you fades. he doesn’t smile. doesn’t look away. just watches, calm and unreadable, like he’s taking you in and filing every detail away.

your step falters for half a heartbeat before you force yourself to keep moving.

after a while, everyone’s called over, laughter and chatter guiding you toward the big table that’s been reserved. chairs scrape, people squeeze in, someone complains about the lighting, someone else orders another round.

and, like fate is laughing at you-

chan ends up sitting right next to you.

again.

his arm brushes yours as he settles in, close enough that you can feel his warmth, close enough that every small movement suddenly feels loud.

you don’t look at him.

not yet.

you already know he’s there.

the table slowly settles as your boss stands, tapping his glass lightly to get everyone’s attention. the low hum of conversation fades into expectant quiet.

you’re still half-turned toward your friend, whispering something under your breath, laughing softly, when your boss starts talking about the team, about how proud he is, about the long hours finally paying off.

you nod along, polite, distracted-

and then you feel it.

a hand, warm and unfamiliar in the wrong place, resting on your thigh.

your first thought is that it’s your own, that maybe you shifted and didn’t realize, but then the fingers move.

a gentle squeeze.

your breath stutters.

you look down.

black sleeve. long fingers.

chan.

your head snaps toward him, eyes wide, and you whisper-yell under your breath, barely moving your lips.

“what are you doing?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you, that infuriating calm in his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting into the smallest smirk.

his hand squeezes once more, slow and deliberate.

then he leans in, close enough that only you can hear, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

“got dressed up tonight, hm?”

before you can react, before you can even form a proper response, he pulls his hand away and leans back in his chair, posture relaxed, expression neutral.

like nothing happened.

like he didn’t just completely wreck your focus right as your boss raises his glass.

“to the team,” your boss says. “and to many more successes.”

glasses lift. people cheer.

and chan sits beside you, perfectly composed, eyes forward,

as if his hand was never on your thigh at all.

your brain is a mess. your skin feels warm everywhere his hand had been, and you’re painfully aware of how close he’s sitting, how easily his arm could brush yours again.

your friend nudges you. “what are you getting?”

“huh? oh-uh-” you blink at the menu, realizing you’ve been staring at the same line for way too long. “probably the pasta. yeah. the pasta.”

the waiter comes by, people start ordering. you follow along, trying to sound normal, trying not to think about how chan is right there, quiet, composed, like he didn’t just undo you with one whispered sentence.

and then-

you feel it again.

his hand, returning to your thigh like it never left, resting there with infuriating confidence.

your breath catches. you stiffen, pretending to focus on your water glass, on anything but the slow way his fingers settle, warm and possessive.

they slide.

higher. and higher.

your heart starts racing. no. nope. 

absolutely not.

you cross your legs quickly, trapping his hand between them.

you glance at him, eyes wide in warning.

he looks at you.

and smirks.

instead of pulling away, his fingers tighten, squeezing your thigh more firmly than before, deliberate, teasing, like he’s enjoying the fact that you’re flustered, that you’re trying to keep it together in a room full of people.

your jaw tightens. you turn your face away, pretending to listen to your friend, pretending everything is normal- biting down on your lip to keep any reaction from slipping out. you can already tell your lip combo is definitely going to need to be reapplied after this.

beside you, chan stays relaxed, shoulders loose, expression calm.

and his hand?

it lingers for just a second longer than it should. 

but we all know chan isn’t sweet like that.

soon, his fingers start tracing the outline of your panties. at that point, you were beginning to soak right through them, and he could feel the wetness peeking through the fabric and staining his finger. 

he inhaled a deep breath, wanting so desperately to plunge his fingers inside your core,

“think anyone’ll notice if i start fucking you with my fingers right now?” he whispered into your neck, and your hand reached out to land on top of his, attempting to push him away from your drenched knickers. 

your breath hitched, not just from the words, but from how badly your body betrayed you. from the way his words settled low in your stomach- warm and heavy, 

the restaurant noise suddenly felt too loud, too close, like every clink of glass might give you away.

“you’re insane,” you whispered back, half-threat, half-plea, fingers tightening around his wrist.

he didn’t pull away. just watched you, eyes dark, mouth curved in that infuriating, knowing smile.

he leaned in close, so close you could feel his breath brush your ear, his voice dropping to a low murmur meant for you alone.

“be a good girl and don’t make a sound, hm?” he whispered, the words soft but commanding. “wouldn’t want the whole restaurant knowing what a fucking slut u are, baby”

your fingers tightened around his wrist, tugging harder now, a silent warning, a plea, a protest all at once. your pulse was racing, your skin too warm, every nerve lit up in a way you absolutely refused to let show.

he only smirked at your reaction, like he could read every thought you were trying so desperately to hide. “chan what are you- plea-“

you could barely finish your sentence before he had pushed your underwear to the side, circling his finger in the juices that splattered across your cunt. you gasped loudly, covering your mouth immediately. your free hand gripped the tablecloth, ignoring all eye contact with him, for you knew if you did, you would be at his mercy. 

“y/n?”

your boss’s voice cut through the moment, clear and sudden. you flinched, shoulders tensing, heart jumping straight into your throat.

“yes—yes, sorry?” you answered too quickly, turning your head toward him, praying your face didn’t look as heated as it felt. “what was the question?”

your boss was asking something about the project, about deadlines, about next week’s schedule- normal, harmless things. you nodded along, forcing yourself to focus, forcing your voice to sound steady.

all while chan, that stupid fucking jerk you despised, had his fingers knuckles deep in your soaking cunt.

you could almost hear his quiet amusement in the way he breathed, the way his shoulder brushed yours like it was an accident.

when you finally answered your boss, he leaned in just enough for you to hear him murmur, soft and infuriatingly calm,

“good job, baby, keep talking. you’re doing great.”

chan put his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand to watch your face contort in pleasure, struggling to swallow back a moan when he curled his fingers into your sweet spot. 

“you better be fucking quiet if u wanna cum” 

you clamped a hand over your mouth, reaching down underneath the table to grasp his wrist. you stifled your moans behind your hand, your fingernails digging into his wrist, his beautiful fingers coaxing the knot of your orgasm to break apart. 

chan withdrew his fingers, soaking them in your release as he rubbed slow circles on your clit. he put his lips close to your ear again. 

“look at you, baby. that’s it, just like that. god, you’re so fucking pretty when you cum on my fingers.” chan talks you through it.

just like that.

the words sink into you, filthy in a way that has nothing to do with touch and everything to do with tone, with timing, with the way he says it like he knows you’re barely holding it together.

you sit there for a second, frozen, heart racing, thoughts crashing into each other-

what the hell was that, what is wrong with him, what is wrong with me, why did that feel like that

-your mind a mess of heat and confusion.

“y/n?” your friend says, nudging you lightly. “you okay?”

you jolt, realizing you’ve been staring at absolutely nothing.

“i-uh,” you stand up too fast, chair scraping the floor. “sorry. i just-bathroom. i’ll be right back.”

you don’t wait for a response. you weave between tables, pulse loud in your ears, acutely aware of his gaze on your back the entire time. you don’t look at him, but you can feel it- steady, knowing, like he’s watching every step you take.

the bathroom is quiet compared to the restaurant. you push inside, lock the door behind you, and lean forward, gripping the edge of the sink.

you look up at your reflection. your eyes are bright, your lips slightly parted, your face flushed- not just from the warm lighting. you stare at yourself like you’re trying to make sense of what just happened, of what you felt, of why your heart is still beating so fast.

And you don’t have an answer.

what the actual fuck, bang chan?

the first night after the dinner, you don’t sleep.

you lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, the room dark except for the soft glow of your phone on the nightstand. every time you close your eyes, the same moments replay like a loop you can’t pause- his hand, his voice, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

and the worst part?

you don’t know why.

not why it happened. not what it meant. not what you’re supposed to feel about it now.

it’s bang fucking chan you’re talking about. 

what the fuck is wrong with you.

you roll onto your side, groaning quietly into your pillow. your brain is loud, chaotic, full of questions that refuse to line up neatly, and also full of him.

was he just messing with you?

was it a joke that went too far?

or… was it something else entirely?

you unlock your phone.

his contact sits there, innocent and unassuming: chan (work).

you don’t remember when you added the “(work)” part, but now it feels painfully ironic.

your thumb hovers over the screen.

you open the chat. the last messages are still from days ago- snippy, sarcastic, the usual back-and-forth that always danced on the edge of something sharp.

you start typing.

what was that about?

you delete it.

what are we doing?

delete.

don’t ever touch me like that again

or do

no wait

you sigh and lock your phone, pressing it to your chest like it might quiet the storm in your head.

sleep finally drags you under sometime near morning, only for the same thoughts to follow you into your dreams.

and then into the next night.

and the next.

at work, you’re hyper-aware of everything.

the way his chair scrapes when he sits down.

the way his voice carries across the office when he laughs with someone else.

the way he doesn’t look at you… and somehow looks at you too much at the same time.

he’s normal. too normal.

no smug smirk. no teasing comment. no sign that anything happened at all.

which somehow makes it worse.

you catch yourself staring at him in meetings, in the hallway, in the break room. wondering if he’s thinking about it too. wondering if your name ever crosses his mind the way his refuses to leave yours.

one afternoon, you find yourself alone in the stairwell during a break, phone in hand again, heart thudding for no good reason.

you type-

can we talk?

you don’t send it.

about saturday.

delete.

your thumb trembles, just a little.

for the first time, the thought hits you clearly, fully formed and terrifying in its simplicity.

you don’t know if you hate him anymore.

and you don’t know what it would mean if you don’t.

stop.

he’s still a jerk.

you lock your phone again, exhaling shakily, staring at the concrete wall like it might give you answers.

it doesn’t.

but the feeling stays.

somewhere deep down, you know this is only the beginning.

the next morning, you take longer than usual getting ready.

you tell yourself it’s because you’re tired. because you didn’t sleep well. because you have a meeting later and you want to look presentable.

not because of him.

definitely not because of him.

still, you choose your outfit with more care than normal. something that fits just right, something that makes you feel sharp and put-together, like armor made of confidence instead of fabric. you fix your hair twice. reapply lip gloss even though the first layer is perfectly fine.

not for him, you insist to your reflection.

just for you.

the office is already humming when you arrive. keyboards clicking, low conversations, the smell of coffee and printer paper. you step inside, scanning the room without meaning to.

you spot him immediately.

of course you do.

he’s at his desk, focused, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in concentration as he types. for a split second, your chest tightens, waiting for him to look up.

he doesn’t.

you walk past his area. no glance. no flicker of recognition. not even the bare minimum acknowledgment that you’ve entered the room.

it stings more than you expect.

fine, you think. whatever. two can play at this.

you head to your office, drop your bag, and open your laptop, forcing yourself to focus on the screen instead of the way your mind keeps drifting back to him. you’re halfway through answering emails when the doorframe darkens.

you don’t look up at first.

then you hear his voice.

“there’s a meeting. everyone’s supposed to be there.”

flat. curt. the same tone he uses when he’s all business and no patience.

you lift your head.

he’s standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable, eyes cool and distant like nothing ever happened, like the space between you isn’t charged with a hundred unspoken things.

for some stupid reason, your heart sinks.

you’d half expected something. a look. a hint. a sign that saturday wasn’t just a fever dream in your head.

instead, he looks at you like you’re just another coworker who’s five seconds from being late.

“okay,” you say, quietly.

not even a full word. just a small, noncommittal hum.

“hm.”

because part of you had hoped he’d come in to talk.

and the other part is suddenly, painfully aware that he didn’t.

the conference room is already half full when you walk in. chairs scrape softly against the floor, low conversations blending into a steady hum. you find your seat near the middle of the long table.

and, of course, chan ends up sitting right across from you.

your eyes meet for a split second.

then he looks away.

no reaction. no expression. nothing.

your chest tightens in that stupid, unreasonable way, like you were expecting something different even though you promised yourself you wouldn’t. you tell yourself it’s fine. it means nothing. whatever happened on saturday was just a mistake. a weird, impulsive, one-time thing that your brain blew completely out of proportion.

he’s acting normal.

so you should too.

you shift in your chair and turn slightly toward the guy sitting next to you, axel, your coworker from another department. he smiles easily, the kind of friendly, harmless smile that doesn’t make your heart trip over itself.

you start talking, quietly at first. about deadlines, about how tired everyone is, about how the week feels like it’s dragging even though it’s only just started.

he says something- some dry little comment about the coffee in the office tasting like regret and poor life choices.

you laugh.

not a polite laugh. a real one. soft, but genuine, the kind that lifts your shoulders and makes your eyes crease a little.

you’re suddenly very aware that you’re being watched.

you don’t look, but you feel it. that familiar weight of attention.

the guy beside you tilts his head, studying you for a second. “you look nice today, by the way.”

it catches you off guard.

your cheeks warm immediately. “oh-um. thank you,” you say quietly, almost shy, fingers brushing the edge of your notebook.

and then- 

a scoff.

low. sharp. unmistakable.

your head turns before you can stop yourself.

chan is already looking at you.

his jaw is tight, eyes dark, something like irritation flashing across his face so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

for half a second, the air between you feels charged again, heavy with everything you’re not saying.

then the door opens.

your boss walks in, clapping his hands once to get everyone’s attention. “alright, let’s get started.”

chan breaks eye contact immediately, turning forward, posture straightening, expression smoothing into professional indifference like a mask sliding back into place.

like he wasn’t just staring at you with something sharp and unreadable in his eyes.

you swallow, heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest, and face the front too.

it’s nothing, you tell yourself.

just work.

just noise.

just a stupid mistake that doesn’t mean anything at all.

the boss’s voice keeps rolling on, steady and authoritative, words about budgets and timelines and deliverables blending into a low, distant hum in the background. 

you nod at the right moments, scribble a few notes you barely register, all while still half-leaned toward the guy beside you.

he whispers another comment, something sarcastic about the project scope, and you huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop yourself. it’s soft, controlled, but it’s still a laugh, and it feels too loud in the otherwise serious room.

that’s when it happens.

a sharp nudge against your shin.

not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to be unmistakable.

you freeze for a split second, then slowly turn your head.

chan is looking at you from across the table, his expression tight, jaw set. you mouth a silent, confused what the hell? at him, brows drawing together.

he doesn’t answer. just tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking downward, then back up to yours.

your phone.

your pulse gives a small, stupid jump.

trying to stay subtle, you shift in your chair and slide your phone off the table into your lap, shielding it with your arm so the boss and everyone else won’t notice. the meeting continues uninterrupted, your boss now talking about next week’s schedule, completely unaware of the silent exchange happening two rows back.

your screen lights up.

not one notification.

several.

all from the same name.

chan.

your throat goes dry as you unlock it, brightness turned low, eyes scanning the top of the screen while the room stays filled with the sound of professional voices and shuffling papers.

you don’t open them yet.

you just stare at his name, stacked in a small column of unread messages, heart thudding a little harder than it should.

across the table, you can feel his gaze on you again, even though you don’t look up.

whatever he’s about to say, he didn’t want to say it out loud.

the messages stay unopened.

you can feel them there, buzzing quietly against your palm, the weight of them heavier than they should be. but you don’t look. you keep your eyes on your notes, on the boss, on anything that isn’t the screen lighting up with his name.

another kick lands against your leg.

firmer this time.

you don’t react.

not because you didn’t feel it, but because you refuse to give him the satisfaction. you keep your posture still, your expression neutral, like nothing under the table is happening at all.

the boss continues, oblivious, wrapping up the last points of the meeting. people start closing notebooks, shifting in their chairs, already half mentally checked out.

“and that’s it for today,” your boss finally says. “let’s all stay focused this week.”

chairs scrape. the room fills with movement and low conversation again.

you slip your phone into your pocket without ever opening his messages and stand, gathering your things. your mind is still buzzing, part of you oddly tense, like you’re bracing for something you can’t name.

you’re almost at the door when a hand closes around your wrist.

you stop short and turn.

chan is standing close, eyes dark, expression tight with something that looks a lot like irritation.

“so now you’re just ignoring me?” he says quietly, voice low so no one else can hear. “not even bothering to read what I send you?”

your heart jumps, more from the suddenness than the words.

“what are you doing?” you whisper back, trying to pull your hand free, glancing around the room where people are still filing out.

his grip tightens for a second.

“too busy, hm?,” he mutters, eyes flicking in the direction of the guy you’d been sitting next to. “well you’re definitely hopping from dick to dick.”

your stomach twists.

“you’re disgusting,” you breathe under your breath, more hurt than angry, though the anger is starting to burn too. then, louder, “is all of this about axel?”

his jaw clenches.

he lets out a short, humorless huff and finally releases your wrist. “thought you were smarter than that.”

for a moment, his expression softens- not in kindness, but in exasperation, like he’s fed up with the whole situation. “saturday…” he begins, voice low, dangerous, almost reluctant, “that was just a stupid mistake. nothing more. don’t let it get to your head.”

and then he turns and walks away.

no explanation. no clarification. not even a backward glance.

you stand there for a moment, the echo of his words ringing in your ears, your wrist still warm where he’d held it.

confused.

a little hurt.

and, as the feeling settles in your chest, unmistakably angry too.

that was just a stupid mistake.

just a stupid mistake.

why are you doing this, chan?

the rest of the day drags.

by the time you finally get home, your body feels heavy, weighed down by a mix of exhaustion, irritation, and that stubborn ache in your chest that comes from not knowing exactly how to deal with him. you drop your bag on the couch with a soft thud, kicking your shoes off without caring whether they land neatly.

your clothes are unbearable now, tight, constricting, reminders of everything that happened today- so you peel them off quickly, leaving them in a messy heap on the floor. the shower is warm, almost soothing, and you let the water run over your shoulders, down your back, trying to rinse off the tension.

when you finally step out, wrapped in a soft towel, you feel the day’s weight settle just a little. you pull on comfortable clothes- an oversized t-shirt, soft shorts and flop onto your bed. the familiar comfort of your own space is grounding, a small refuge from the storm that seems to follow him everywhere.

you grab a book from your nightstand, something light, something familiar. reading always helps, grounding you, making your thoughts feel quieter. for a while, it works. 

you lose yourself in the story, letting the world of someone else’s problems fill the edges of your mind instead of your own.

after a while, though, curiosity, maybe a little fear, creeps back in. your phone sits on your nightstand, finally off dnd. you reach for it slowly, expecting maybe a few notifications from friends, nothing serious.

but the screen lights up and your chest drops.

missed calls. several.

unread messages. dozens.

your heart thumps in your chest, unease twisting into worry as you sit up straighter, hands trembling slightly as you unlock the phone. you scroll through the list, realizing almost immediately who it’s from.

chan.

your chest tightens. no hesitation this time. you don’t pause, don’t think. you immediately open the messages, thumb trembling slightly as the conversation loads.

the first one flashes across the screen, and your heart skips. then the next. and the next.

dozens. missed calls, texts, everything. all from him.

heyi

aer you aewake

pplese im sorrx

it was nit amistake

what the hell?????

[ 2 missed calls from chan (work)]

yn plesse

i dotn know why I said ir

your chest tightens, mind racing, and suddenly the quiet of your room feels suffocating, every buzz and ping echoing in your ears.

your thumb hovers over the screen, shaking slightly. your chest is tight, stomach twisting, and finally you type, fingers fumbling over the keys.

what’s happening? what’s wrong?

okay, no. you hit delete.

another few seconds, and you type quickly-

where are you? are you okay?

the screen blinks as the messages send, your eyes flicking nervously around the room, as if he could appear out of nowhere. your heart won’t stop racing, every ping of the phone like a small punch to your chest.

the mess of typos and half-formed words he’d sent before plays over and over in your mind, making your fingers hesitate to type again. you don’t know what to expect- anger, panic, maybe even him laughing, but you need answers.

the room feels suddenly too quiet. too small. too full of waiting.

your phone buzzes almost immediately. you blink, heart hammering, and open it.

i really triwd to forhet but i canr

everytime I close my eyes i see ur fsce

anf i keep thinking abt saturday

im sl stipid

i dont kno whx i said it

your chest tightens. every word feels like a punch, like he’s unraveling right in front of you.

you stare at the screen, heart thudding, fingers hovering over the keyboard. you don’t know whether to respond, what to say, or if you even should.

your thumb hovers over the screen for a split second and then you press call.

the phone rings once twice and then you hear it, his voice rough and tired.

your chest tightens.

“chan” you whisper panic threading through your tone “where are you? what did you drink?”

there is a long pause then a low hiccupping laugh.

“y/n I- i need you. i messed up, i really messed up, i am so sorry i- i dont know what to do. i need you, please come get me” his words come slow messy repeating themselves over and over.

bang chan, the man you are.

“chan talk to me, tell me where you are.” your voice is soft gentle but urgent.

“i dont know- i dont know, i just- i just need you, please, i am sorry” he keeps saying, almost begging.

“calm down, chan. breathe for me.” 

his breathing is uneven through the phone, a little too loud, a little too close to the mic like he’s holding it with shaky hands.

“i shouldn’t have said it was a mistake,” he murmurs, words slurring together but the emotion behind them painfully clear. “i was mad. jealous. scared. i don’t know. i just- i panicked, okay? and i hurt you and i hate that i did.”

there’s a soft sound, like he drags a hand down his face.

“i’ve been trying to act normal at work, like nothing got to me. like you don’t get to me. but you do.” a breath. “you really, really do.”

your heart twists at the sound of him unraveling.

“chan,” you say gently, grounding, “where are you right now?”

another pause. longer this time.

“some bar. near the river, i think. i walked, i don’t even remember the name. it’s loud and i don’t like it here.” his voice drops. “i just wanted to not think, but that didn’t work.”

you close your eyes, steadying yourself.

“are you safe?” you ask. “are you sitting down?”

“yeah… yeah. i’m in a booth. i’m not driving. i wouldn’t. i swear.” then, softer, “I just-i didn’t know who else to call.”

the weight of that settles in your chest.

“listen to me,” you say, calm but firm. “i’m going to come get you. but you have to tell me exactly where you are, okay?”

a shaky exhale. “you don’t have to. i don’t want to make this worse for you.”

“chan,” you interrupt quietly, “you already did that part. let me help now.”

there’s a faint sound, like relief slipping through the cracks of his panic.

“i’m so sorry,” he repeats, softer this time, not frantic, just raw. “for what i said. for acting like i didn’t care when i did. i do. i care too much, and i didn’t know what to do with it.”

your grip tightens around the phone.

“we’ll talk about it,” you promise. “but first, you’re not staying there alone and drunk and spiraling.”

another breath, steadier now that he knows you’re coming.

“okay,” he whispers. “okay. i’ll send you the location.”

the street is quiet in that late‑night way, neon from the bar sign flickering weakly against the pavement. music thumps faintly through the walls, muffled, distant. you shut the car door and for a second just stand there, keys still in your hand, heart beating too fast.

then you see him.

chan is leaning against the side of the building, one hand braced on the brick, the other hanging loose at his side. his hair is a mess, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed from alcohol and emotion and too many thoughts he couldn’t drown. he looks… stripped down. like all the walls he keeps so carefully in place at work have just collapsed.

raw is the only word for it.

when he spots you, his face changes instantly. relief, guilt, something aching and soft all at once.

“y/n…” he breathes, pushing himself upright a little too fast and swaying for it. “you came. i- i didn’t think you would, i mean i hoped but-”

his words tangle over each other, apologies spilling out in a rush. “i’m so sorry. about today. about what i said. about everything. i didn’t mean it, i swear, i was just- i was jealous and stupid and i didn’t know how to-”

you step closer, close enough now to smell the alcohol on his breath, to see how red his eyes are, how tight his mouth is like he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

he reaches for you, not quite touching, just hovering like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. “i shouldn’t have said it was a mistake. it wasn’t. you weren’t. i just panicked and-”

“chan,” you say quietly.

he stops, blinking at you.

you don’t argue. you don’t scold. you don’t dig into the words yet. you just take his arm gently but firmly.

“you’re drunk,” you say, steady. “you can barely stand.”

he lets out a small, broken laugh. “yeah… yeah, i guess i am.”

you guide him toward the car, his steps uneven, his weight leaning into you more than he probably realizes. he keeps mumbling apologies under his breath the whole way, like a mantra.

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to hurt you. i don’t want you to hate me…”

oh.

you open the passenger door and help him in, buckling him without ceremony when he fumbles with the belt.

“we’ll talk later,” you say, closing the door gently. “when you’re sober.”

he looks up at you through the window, eyes searching your face, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen him.

“you won’t leave, right?” he asks softly.

you pause, just for a second.

then you shake your head. “i’m here. i’ve got you. we’ll figure it out.”

and for now, that has to be enough.

the drive to his apartment is quiet, almost unbearably so. chan leans against the passenger seat, head resting against the window, eyes half-lidded, expression slack in a way that makes him seem smaller, less invincible than he does at work. his hand occasionally twitches, like he’s trying to grab control of something he’s lost, and every now and then, he mutters another apology under his breath.

you park in front of his building, taking a deep breath before helping him out of the car. his steps are unsteady, relying on your arm more than he probably wants to admit. you guide him through the lobby, the faint hum of the elevator, and into his apartment. it smells faintly of him- clean, but with that subtle hint of musk that’s unmistakably his.

“here,” you say softly, guiding him toward his bedroom. “sit down.”

he drops onto the edge of the bed, finally letting himself slump in relief. you kneel in front of him, gently tugging off his shoes and socks. his shirt follows almost immediately, hanging loose as he exhales shakily. the sight of him, stripped just to his boxers, makes a rush of heat climb your neck and cheeks. you clear your throat and force yourself to focus elsewhere.

chan pauses for a second, eyes on you, lips parting like he wants to say something, before he reaches for the waistband of his boxers. your chest tightens, your words spilling out before you can think.

“who- whoa. sleep in those, bang.”

he huffs, lips pressing into a thin line, and then slumps fully onto the bed with a soft groan, spreading across the mattress in a way that makes it clear he has zero intention of moving again. his eyes slide closed almost immediately, breaths even and deepening as sleep claims him.

you exhale, the tension in your shoulders melting slightly. gently, you pull the covers over his body, careful not to wake him up. his arm twitches beneath the blanket as he shifts once, settling into comfort.

you stand and cross the room to the bedside table. on it, you leave a small note beside a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen, your handwriting neat but soft-

“here’s some water and ibuprofen, you’ll need it. call me if you need… yn”

-you glance at him one last time, he’s peaceful now, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache- and then quietly slip out, closing the door softly behind you.

the apartment is still. the quiet hum of the city outside fills the space you leave behind, and for the first time tonight, you feel some semblance of calm.

stop messing with my feelings, bang chan.

saturday morning comes too quietly.

no alarm. no rush. just pale light slipping through your curtains and the dull ache behind your eyes that isn’t from lack of sleep this time, but from everything that happened the night before.

you lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, phone resting face-down on your chest.

no new notifications.

no missed calls.

nothing.

your heart gives a small, stupid dip anyway.

you tell yourself it’s fine. he was drunk. emotional. probably embarrassed. probably sleeping it off. you’re not going to be the one to chase him again. you already did enough by picking him up, by making sure he was safe.

still, the silence stings a little.

you roll onto your side and check the time. late morning. your friends are meeting up in a few hours, something you’d planned weeks ago- brunch, shopping, just getting out and letting the world be loud and normal for a while.

good. distraction.

you get up, shower, let the warm water wash away the leftover tension from the week. you put on something comfortable but cute, the kind of outfit that makes you feel like yourself again instead of a bundle of unresolved feelings.

as you’re drying your hair, your phone lights up on the counter.

for half a second, your heart jumps.

then you see it’s just your group chat blowing up.

where are youuuu

don’t be late

we’re starving already

you smile despite yourself and type back that you’re on your way. you grab your bag, your keys, one last glance at your phone screen, still nothing from him- and then you force yourself to let it go.

if he wants to talk, he’ll talk.

if not… you’ll have to deal with that too.

you lock your door behind you and head out, not knowing that this quiet, empty morning is just the calm before the next shift in whatever is starting between you and bang chan.

time skips the way it always does when you finally stop overthinking and start moving.

by the time you meet up with the girls, the air feels lighter. the kind of saturday that smells like coffee and warm pavement, where the world feels busy but not rushed.

lexi is the first one you spot, standing outside the café with her hands wrapped around her phone like she’s been waiting five minutes too long even though it’s only been one. 

she lights up when she sees you.

“there you are!” she says, pulling you into a soft hug.

kira barrels in right after, nearly knocking both of you over. “oh my god, group hug or i riot.”

you laugh, really laugh, for the first time all day, and let yourself get pulled into the familiar chaos of them. it’s grounding. it’s safe.

you head inside the café together, the bell above the door chiming as you step into warmth and the smell of fresh coffee and sugar. you claim a small round table by the window, sunlight spilling across it, and settle in with your drinks.

for a while, it’s easy. work gossip, random complaints, kira dramatically reenacting some guy tripping on the street like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen. lexi listens with wide eyes, giggling, chiming in with soft “no way” and “that’s so bad”.

then, inevitably, the conversation turns.

kira rests her chin in her hand, smirking. “sooo… y/n. what about you? any cute prospects lately? secret crush? mysterious coworker?”

lexi tilts her head, genuinely curious. “yeah, you’ve been kind of quiet about that stuff recently.”

your stomach tightens just a little.

you shrug, casual, stirring your drink. “not really. nothing serious.”

kira raises a brow. “really? because from where i’m standing, there’s been a lot of… tension lately.”

“what tension?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

she grins. “you and chan. the bickering, the glares, the way you two light up a room when you’re arguing. come on, you know what they say, the line between hate and love is thin.”

lexi’s eyes widen a bit. “oh… i kind of see it too. you guys are always so intense around each other.”

you let out a short laugh and wave it off immediately. “it’s nothing. he just gets on my nerves. that’s it.”

“mmhmm,” kira hums, clearly unconvinced but not pushing. “sure. whatever you say.”

you keep your expression light, easy, like the topic doesn’t affect you at all. like there isn’t a knot in your chest at the sound of his name, like last night didn’t happen, like there isn’t still silence where a message could be.

you take a sip of your coffee and force a shrug. “it’s really whatever.”

but kira doesn’t buy it.

you see it in the way she squints at you over the rim of her cup, head tilting slightly, like she’s trying to read between lines you’re not saying out loud. every other time you’ve all gone out like this, you’ve been the first to spill everything- every crush, every fight, every tiny shift in tone that meant something.

today, you’re closed off in a way that doesn’t match your usual self.

“you’re being weird,” she says finally, not accusing, just observant.

you give her a small, practiced smile. the kind that says i’m fine without actually saying it. then you pivot, quick and smooth. “what about you though? how are things with nick?”

that does it. kira’s face softens immediately, the suspicion easing into fondness.

“good,” she says, a little brighter. “really good, actually. we moved in together last month and it’s been… easy. like, stupidly easy. he makes me coffee in the morning, leaves notes on the fridge, the whole cheesy package.”

lexi smiles at that, genuinely happy for her. “that’s so cute.”

you nod, listening, letting their warmth wash over you. kira keeps talking about shared groceries and late-night movies and how weird but nice it is to wake up next to someone every day.

then, naturally, the attention shifts.

“what about you, lexi?” you ask gently. “how’s… you know.”

lexi’s smile falters just a little. not gone, but thinner. “he’s been kind of distant,” she admits. “not in a mean way. just… shorter texts. always busy. i don’t know if i’m overthinking or if something’s actually changed.”

your chest tightens in quiet sympathy.

you reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “that sucks. i’m sorry.”

“yeah,” kira murmurs. “that limbo feeling is the worst.”

lexi nods, staring into her drink. “you never really know what to expect from him anymore.”

the words hit closer to home than you’re ready for.

because that’s exactly it, isn’t it?

never knowing what version of someone you’re going to get. the warm one. the distant one. the jealous one. the one who says it meant nothing. the one who begs you not to leave.

you swallow, forcing the thought back down, keeping your face neutral. you don’t want your friends to see the way it stings, how easily you relate.

not yet.

not until you understand it yourself.

you sit there with them, the noise of the café around you, sunlight on the table, laughter and soft concern mixing in the air- and that strange, familiar ache settles quietly in your chest.

you finish your drinks, the heaviness of the earlier topic lingering for a second too long. then kira claps her hands together suddenly, bright and decisive.

“okay. enough,” she declares. “screw boys. seriously. we’re at the mall, it’s saturday, and i refuse to let emotionally unavailable men ruin my serotonin.”

lexi laughs softly, nodding. “yeah. screw them. today is just us.”

you feel something loosen in your chest at that. “exactly. we have each other. that’s already a lot.”

so you leave the café and head toward the mall, the air buzzing with weekend energy, people everywhere, music drifting from open store doors. the moment you step inside, it’s like a switch flips. the lights, the noise, the movement- it all pulls you out of your head.

kira drags both of you into the first clothing store she spots. “no one is allowed to say ‘i don’t need anything.’ that’s a lie we tell ourselves.”

lexi giggles as she gets pulled along. you follow, laughing, letting yourself be swept into the chaos.

you try on ridiculous sunglasses. kira models a jacket like she’s on a runway. lexi finds a sweater and asks your opinion three times even though she already knows it looks good. you hype each other up in the mirrors, take blurry pictures, roast each other lovingly.

“we’re hot,” kira announces at one point, hands on her hips. “men should be grateful we even consider them.”

“their loss,” you say, smiling, and for once you actually mean it.

you move from store to store, sharing pretzels, stealing sips of each other’s drinks, talking about everything and nothing- future trips, stupid childhood memories, what your dream apartments would look like.

for a while, the ache in your chest quiets.

it’s just laughter, noise, warmth, and the simple comfort of being understood without having to explain.

screw boys.

today, it’s you three against the world.

zara is chaos in the best way.

you’re all crammed into one fitting room area, passing clothes under the curtains, laughing when something looks completely different on than it did on the hanger. 

kira keeps stepping out like she’s on a runway, striking dramatic poses while you and lexi hype her up way too seriously.

“turn, turn, give us the spin,” you say, clapping.

“i feel like a divorced mom on vacation,” she groans, looking at herself in a flowy blouse.

lexi nearly chokes laughing. “no, no, it’s giving rich aunt who brings the best gifts.”

you’re all wiping tears from your eyes by the time you leave, arms full of shopping bags and energy way lighter than it was that morning.

victoria’s secret is next, and it somehow turns into even more giggling. you and lexi end up picking matching sets without even planning to, holding them up side by side.

“twin era,” lexi says softly, smiling.

“we’re committing,” you nod. “no backing out.”

kira rolls her eyes but ends up buying one too. “fine, fine. but if we’re matching, i’m the hot one.”

after that, you squeeze into the photobooth, three of you barely fitting, counting down and pulling faces, laughing so hard the pictures come out blurry and crooked. one serious pose, one kissy face, one completely unhinged.

when the strip of photos prints, you all stare at it like it’s a treasure.

“we look insane,” kira says.

“we look iconic,” you correct.

you finish it off with drinks, sitting at a small table with your bags piled at your feet. you and lexi order matcha. kira watches with visible judgment.

“i will never understand how you drink that,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “it tastes like grass. like someone blended a lawn.”

you take a sip and smile. “it’s calming.”

“it’s suspicious,” she counters. “coffee at least tastes like suffering. this tastes like nature attacking you.”

lexi giggles into her cup. “you’re just uncultured.”

kira gasps dramatically. “betrayal. absolute betrayal.”

you lean back in your chair, watching them bicker, warmth settling in your chest. for a moment, everything feels easy. no confusion. no mixed signals. just laughter, green drinks, shopping bags, and the kind of comfort that only comes from people who know you too well.

and for now, that’s enough.

you say goodbye to the girls outside the mall, hugs lingering a little longer than usual.

“text when you get home,” lexi says softly.

“and don’t spiral,” kira adds, squeezing your shoulders. “we’ll debrief later. in detail.”

you promise, even though you already know your brain won’t listen.

the uber ride is quiet. city lights blur past the window, neon and headlights smearing together as the car moves through traffic. your bags rest at your feet, your phone heavy in your hand.

and, like he’s been all day, chan is there in your thoughts.

uninvited. persistent.

you stare out the window, jaw resting against your knuckles, replaying everything in pieces-

the way he’d looked at you that night.

the way he’d said it was a mistake.

the way his messages had fallen apart into typos and apologies.

the sound of his voice on the phone, rough and scared and nothing like the confident man at work.

does he even remember what he said?

does he remember how he sounded, how vulnerable he was?

or did he wake up with a headache and regret and decide to bury it all, pretend it never happened?

your phone is silent.

no new messages. no “are you okay.” no “thanks for last night.” no anything.

your chest tightens just a little.

you tell yourself he’s probably sleeping it off. probably embarrassed. probably doesn’t know what to say. maybe he’s trying to give you space.

or maybe… he really does want to forget.

the car slows as it pulls up in front of your building. you thank the driver, step out into the cool evening air, and for a second you just stand there, staring at the entrance like you’re bracing yourself for something.

your apartment greets you with quiet. you drop your bags, kick off your shoes, and collapse onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

“does he even remember?” you murmur to no one.

your phone lies on the coffee table, screen dark.

and you don’t know which scares you more-

that he does.

or that he doesn’t.

sunday comes quietly, the kind of morning that feels heavy before anything even happens.

you wake up with that familiar weight in your chest, the one that’s been there since friday night, since the phone call, since the silence. sunlight filters through your curtains, soft and warm, but your thoughts are already loud.

first thing you do is reach for your phone.

emails.

work threads, reminders, follow-ups you promised you’d send. you open your laptop in bed and start answering them, trying to slip back into that professional, organized version of yourself. you type, delete, retype. your focus drifts every few minutes, your mind looping back to the same questions.

did he wake up embarrassed?

does he regret calling you?

does he even remember what he said?

your replies start to get shorter, sloppier. you sigh and shut the laptop.

okay. enough.

you get up and decide to clean. not because your apartment is that messy, but because you need something to do with your hands, something that doesn’t let your mind spiral. you put on music and start wiping down counters, folding clothes, straightening pillows that were already straight. busy work for a busy mind.

by late morning, the air in your apartment feels too still again.

so you grab your bag and your laptop and head out.

the coffee shop a few blocks away is warm and familiar, buzzing with soft conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine. you order your usual, then choose a small table by the window. you set your laptop down, wrap your fingers around the warm cup, and open your inbox again.

you start answering properly this time, typing with more focus, the glow of the screen reflecting in your eyes. outside, people pass by with shopping bags, dogs, headphones, lives that seem so uncomplicated from here.

you sip your coffee and work through the emails one by one.

and still, between sentences, between sips, between the soft tapping of your keys- 

your thoughts drift.

to his voice.

to his apologies.

to the silence that followed.

sunday, sunlight, coffee, a laptop full of responsibilities…

and bang chan still sitting quietly in the back of your mind, refusing to be ignored.

you pack up your laptop and stand, already a little tired of thinking, when you turn too fast and- 

bump.

the cup tilts. gravity does the rest.

coffee sloshes over the rim, warm and brown, splashing across your hand and the edge of your sleeve, dripping onto the floor.

“oh my god, i’m so sorry,” the stranger says at the same time you do, both of you fumbling with napkins, laughing awkwardly as you try to salvage what’s left of the drink.

great. just great.

you end up tossing it and heading out, mildly annoyed, caffeine-less, and already ready for the day to be over.

and then the sky opens.

not a soft drizzle. not a polite rain.

a full-on downpour.

within seconds your hair is plastered to your face, your jacket dark and heavy with water. you hunch your shoulders and keep walking anyway, telling yourself your place isn’t far.

halfway down the street, a car speeds past a puddle at the curb.

you don’t even have time to react.

water arcs up in a wave and soaks the front of your white t‑shirt, cold and shocking, leaving you standing there, dripping, staring after the taillights in disbelief.

you let out a humorless laugh. “of course.”

by the time your building comes into view, you’re completely drenched, shoes squelching slightly with every step, hair sticking to your neck. you just want a hot shower and dry clothes and a few hours where your brain will finally shut up.

and then you see him.

standing a little off to the side of the entrance, half in shadow, rain darkening his hair and jacket, water running down his face like he doesn’t even notice it.

in his hands-

a bouquet of flowers.

your heart stutters.

no.

that’s not…

it can’t be-

but as you get closer, the streetlight catches his face.

chan.

soaked, silent, eyes fixed on you like he’s been waiting, like he’s been standing there for a while, rain and all.

your steps slow without you meaning them to.

what is he doing here?

with flowers?

in the rain?

you stop in your tracks, rain dripping from your hair, clothes plastered to your skin, and for a second the world narrows down to just him.

chan stands there, flowers in his hands, head tilted slightly, rain streaking his hair across his forehead. his eyes.

oh god, his eyes.

they’re huge, glistening, dark and wet like the storm itself, and he’s staring at you like he’s… begging.

but he doesn’t say a word.

your pulse starts to race, a mix of confusion, disbelief, and something dangerously close to hope.

and just as you’re about to speak-

just as he opens his mouth-

you realize this sunday is about to get a lot more complicated.

he opens his mouth to speak, then stops.

his eyes drop to you-  to your hair dripping, to your sleeves dark and heavy with water, to the way your white t-shirt is completely soaked through from the rain and the car splash earlier. his brows knit together immediately.

“you’re… you’re freezing,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

before you can even say it’s fine, before you can protest, he’s already moving.

he shrugs his jacket off in one smooth motion and steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth still clinging to the fabric. he drapes it over your shoulders carefully, like he’s afraid to startle you, pulling it around you so it actually shields you from the rain.

“here,” he says softly. “you’re soaked.”

it’s instinctive. protective. no teasing, no attitude, just concern.

then he seems to realize what he’s done and gets shy all over again, hand going back to the back of his neck.

“i-uh…” his voice is quieter than usual, almost swallowed by the rain. “i came to apologize.”

you blink, caught off guard by how small he suddenly seems.

“i messaged you, but… you probably didn’t read the texts I sent,” he adds, eyes flicking away for a second before coming back to you, uncertain.

then he glances down at what he’s holding, as if he’s only just remembered it. the bouquet is a little damp around the edges, petals darkened by rain.

his gaze flicks to the bouquet, again. a little embarrassed. “i, um… i got you flowers?”

it’s not cocky. it’s not smooth. it’s awkward and sincere and completely unlike the chan you’re used to seeing at work.

your chest tightens.

you hesitate for a second, then slowly reach out and take the bouquet from his hands. the petals are cool and slightly damp against your fingers.

“thank you,” you say quietly, almost shy, eyes flicking up to his and then away again.

for a moment he just watches you, like he’s trying to read your reaction, like he’s holding his breath.

the rain keeps falling around you, soft but relentless.

“um… you can come in,” you add, voice gentle. “if you want. my apartment’s right there. we can… talk inside.”

it’s an open invitation, careful, not pushing.

he doesn’t hesitate.

“yeah,” he says quickly, a little too quickly, like he was afraid you might change your mind. then softer, “yeah, i’d like that.”

relief flashes across his face, subtle but real. he nods once, gripping the strap of his bag, and follows you toward the entrance, rain still dripping from both of you as you move closer to the warmth and quiet waiting inside.

inside, the door clicks shut behind you, muting the sound of the rain. the apartment is warm and quiet, a soft contrast to the storm outside.

you slip his jacket off your shoulders and hang it over the back of one of the bar stools, careful with it, like it’s something fragile. your own clothes are still a little damp, but you don’t think about it too much. you’re too aware of him standing a few steps behind you, looking around like he’s trying to ground himself.

he follows you into the kitchen and leans his elbows against the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers lacing and unlacing together.

“do you want something to drink?” you ask, voice casual, trying to keep things light.

“yeah… sure,” he says softly.

you pour two glasses of wine, the sound of liquid filling them the only noise for a moment. when you turn back, he’s watching you, eyes serious now, focused.

he inhales, like he’s bracing himself.

“okay. um.” he straightens a little. “i’ve been… thinking about what to say. like, a lot. probably too much.”

you can already tell, his tone is careful, deliberate, nothing like the slurred, emotional voice from the night before.

“i’m really sorry,” he begins. “for putting you in that position. for confusing you. for saying things and then acting like they didn’t matter. i never meant to make you feel like you were just… an accident, or something i could take back.”

he pauses, swallowing, eyes dropping to the counter before lifting again.

“what i said last night- some of it came out messy, but it wasn’t a lie. and i hate that i made it seem like it was.”

it really does sound like he’s practiced this in his head a hundred times, rearranging the words until they felt right.

you hand him a glass of wine, and as you do, a small, involuntary chuckle slips out of you.

he blinks, a little startled. “what?”

“nothing,” you say softly, shaking your head. “you just… you sound like you’ve been rehearsing that in front of a mirror all day.”

a faint, nervous smile tugs at his lips, but his eyes stay earnest, waiting for what you’re going to say next.

he lets out a slow breath, fingers tightening around the stem of his glass.

“and… there’s something else,” he says quietly. “something i should’ve apologized for a long time ago.”

his eyes meet yours, steady but full of that same vulnerability.

“i’ve been mean to you. like, unnecessarily mean. always provoking you, pushing your buttons, acting like an ass just because i could.” he shakes his head a little, frustrated with himself. “you didn’t deserve that. at all.”

there’s no joking in his voice now. no defensiveness. just honesty.

“i don’t know why i did it. maybe it was easier to hide behind being sarcastic and annoying than to actually… be real with you.” he swallows. “but it wasn’t fair. and i’m really sorry for that too.”

he looks down at the counter again, jaw tight, like he’s bracing for you to tell him how much it hurt.

“you’ve always been good to me. and i repaid that by being difficult and confusing and, yeah… kind of a jerk.”

the rain taps softly against the window behind him.

“you didn’t deserve any of that.”

he hesitates, then pushes himself off the counter and takes a small step closer to you, careful, like he doesn’t want to crowd you.

“you don’t… you don’t have to forgive me right now,” he says quietly. “or at all, if you don’t want to. i get it. i really do.”

his voice is steady, but there’s something raw underneath it.

“i just needed you to know that i’m aware of how i treated you. and that i’m not expecting things to magically be okay because i showed up with flowers and said sorry.”

he exhales, rubbing a hand over his face before looking at you again.

“the truth is… i was an ass because i didn’t know how to deal with what i was feeling.” a small, almost self-deprecating smile flickers and disappears. “i’ve liked you for a long time. longer than i ever admitted to myself.”

your breath catches slightly.

“and instead of being normal about it, i got defensive. sarcastic. i pushed you away and pulled you in at the same time, because it was easier to argue than to risk actually… caring out loud.”

his eyes soften when they meet yours.

“it doesn’t excuse anything. but it’s the reason. and i wanted you to hear it from me, sober, clear, and honest.”

he’s close. closer than you realized.

close enough that you can see the way rain still clings to his lashes, the way a few wet strands of hair have fallen over his forehead, the way his white t-shirt is still damp and clinging to him, outlining lines you very pointedly try not to stare at… and fail.

his arms are braced on the counter on either side of you, not touching, but there, creating this small, enclosed space that makes your pulse pick up for no good reason at all.

and his eyes.

soft. worried. hopeful. those ridiculous, honest puppy eyes that make it impossible to tell where the confident, teasing chan went and where this vulnerable one came from.

you feel your face warming, heat creeping up your neck, and you’re suddenly way too aware of your own breathing.

he notices.

of course he does.

his head tilts just a little, brows knitting in that gentle, concerned way. “what?” he asks quietly.

you let out a small, breathy laugh, half from nerves, half from the absurdity of how unreal the moment feels.

“please,” you mumble, almost to yourself, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “pinch me if i’m just making this up.”

for a second, he just looks at you.

then a slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face, one corner of his lips tilting up just enough to make your chest flutter. his eyes sparkle, dark and mischievous, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and exactly how it’s affecting you.

he leans in slowly, the movement deliberate, like he’s savoring every second. one hand comes up, cupping your cheek gently, thumb brushing against your skin. his eyes search yours, dark and intense, seeking something unspoken.

“can i…?” he murmurs, voice low, barely above the sound of the rain tapping against your window.

your heart stutters, words catching somewhere in your chest, but all you can do is nod, breath hitching.

he smiles softly at your response, just for a moment, before leaning the rest of the way in. you tilt your head, matching his motion, and your lips meet in a slow, tentative kiss, the kind that makes the world shrink to just the two of you.

his lips brushed against yours- soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. but the second he felt you respond, a quiet exhale escaping you, something in him shifted.

his hand found your waist, warm and a little unsure, but steady enough to make your stomach tighten. his other hand hovered near your cheek, not quite touching but so close it sent a shiver down your spine.  

this was chan. your biggest enemy. the man who had spent years arguing with you.

and now he was kissing you. 

a quiet, surprised hum slipped from your lips, and that sound alone seemed to undo him. his grip on your waist tightened just slightly, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss- still gentle, still careful, but undeniably real.

it was happening. you tugged onto his hair as he as he deepened the kiss, going lower to your jaw and neck. 

his fingers trailed across your back and shoulders before reaching into your hair again, tangling their way through your locks while his tongue teased along your collarbone.

you couldn’t help the soft noise that escaped your lips, and the second chan heard it, a quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest. his face hovered just above yours, amber eyes dark with something unreadable.  

“chan…” you breathed, your fingers tightening slightly against his shirt.  

“yeah?" his voice was low, a little breathless, as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. his expression softened, concern flickering behind the heat in his eyes, always wanting to make sure you were comfortable.  

you hesitated for just a second before lowering your gaze, suddenly feeling so much shyer than before. “can we… take this to the bedroom instead?"  

chan blinked, his lips parting in surprise. but then, as your words fully registered, a slow, almost mischievous smile tugged at his lips.  

“yeah," he murmured, nodding before standing up- only to suddenly scoop you up into his arms like you weighed nothing.  

a surprised gasp left your lips as your feet left the ground, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. “c-chan!”  

“what?" he grinned down at you, eyes twinkling. “gotta put all this muscle to good use, right?" your heart flipped in your chest.

he carried you effortlessly into the room, his grip warm and secure as if he never wanted to let go. and when he finally set you down on the bed, he did it so gently, as if you were something precious, something he wanted to take his time with. 

you barely had a moment to process the warmth creeping up your neck before he reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it over his head in one smooth motion. your breath caught as you stared. 

chan tossed his shirt aside and leaned over you, bracing himself on his arms. his toned chest, the sharp lines of muscle carved into his stomach, the definition in his arms- how the hell did you never notice??

you teased, trying to sound casual even though your breath gave you away. “what happened to the annoying, scrawny guy I used to argue with all the time?”

chan’s lips curved into that familiar, cocky smirk. he leaned in just enough that his nose brushed yours, voice low and warm.

“guess I grew up,” he murmured. “in more ways than one.”

his lips hovered just above yours again, his breath fanning against your skin.  

“want me to show you just how much?”chan’s smirk deepened at your flustered expression, and before you could even think of a response, he moved.  

slowly, deliberately, he dipped his head down, his lips barely grazing the sensitive skin of your jaw. a sharp inhale slipped from your lips, your fingers curling into the sheets as he trailed lower, so achingly slow it sent shivers down your spine.  

then a kiss. right at the base of your neck. soft. testing.  

and then another.  

chan exhaled against your skin, his breath warm, his lips pressing more firmly this time. a soft hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he felt you tense beneath him.  

“channie-“ you bit your lip, your hands twitching, unsure where to place them as he continued his path downward.  

then, he sucked. 

a startled gasp escaped you as his lips latched onto your neck, his teeth barely scraping against your skin before he soothed the spot with his tongue. his hands gripped your waist, holding you steady as he worked another mark just a little lower.  

he wasn't stopping.

another kiss. another slow, teasing graze of his teeth. another deep, lingering press of his lips, leaving behind warmth and a faint sting.  

your head tipped back, your breath uneven. “chan…”  

he hummed against your skin, his lips curving into a knowing smile. “you called me channie earlier," he murmured, pressing another kiss just below your ear. “i think i like that better."

chan’s fingers ghosted beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch featherlight yet searing against your skin. slowly, deliberately, his hand slid higher, tracing the curve of your waist before stopping just below your breasts.  

your breath hitched, your body tensing ever so slightly. he hesitated, amber eyes flickering up to meet yours, searching- asking a silent question.  

you swallowed, your pulse pounding in your ears, and after a moment, you gave a slow, tentative nod. something in his gaze darkened, but his lips curved into the softest, most reassuring smile.  

“okay," he murmured, his voice warm, steady.  

then, with aching slowness, he pushed your shirt higher, his fingers skimming over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. he took his time, almost as if savoring the moment, before finally slipping the fabric over your head and tossing it aside.  

chan’s breath caught. this was his first time seeing you like this. 

his gaze roamed over you, admiration flickering across his face- like he wasn’t sure whether to blush, stare, or touch. 

“wow," he whispered, more to himself than to you.  and just like that, the heat in your cheeks spread all throughout your body. 

instinctively, your hands moved to cover your bare chest, a flush creeping up your neck.  

chan’s gaze softened as he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek before cupping your face gently. “hey," he murmured, his thumbs stroking soothing circles against your skin. “you’re beautiful. inside and out."  

your heart fluttered in your chest.  

before you could even process the warmth pooling in your stomach, he leaned in, pressing soft, open mouth kisses along your jaw, trailing lower, down the column of your neck, across your collarbone, his lips leaving a trail of heat in their wake.  

your breath hitched when he dipped even lower, his hands tracing along your sides before his fingers grazed your sensitive nubs. the sensation sent a shiver down your spine, a quiet gasp slipping past your lips.  

chan paused, his warm breath fanning against your skin. “tell me to stop if it’s too much, okay?" he murmured, his voice low, almost hesitant.

and then- an experimental flick of his tongue.  

a sharp inhale. your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you as a quiet whimper escaped before you could stop it.  

chan stilled for a moment, watching your reaction with something unreadable in his gaze, before he smiled.  

“guess I’m doing something right," he teased, his voice husky, before leaning in again. 

your cheeks burned, and you opened your mouth to respond- to say anything, but any words you had were lost when he dipped his head again, sucking teasingly as his other hand simultaneously twisted your sensitive nubs between his thumb and index finger. 

“mm!” you moaned, your whole body tensing as his tongue glided over your sensitive flesh as his fingers tugged at the waistband of your shorts. your head fell back, your nails digging into his shoulders as another shudder rolled through your body. when he looked up at you, his eyes held something softer now.

“you okay?" he asked, searching your face as be slipped one hand in your shorts. 

you swallowed, your fingers reaching up to thread through his messy blond locks.

“yeah," you breathed, your heart hammering as he trailed against your heat while maintaning eye contact with you. “you’re being really sweet, you know that?"

chan let out a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar, slightly awkward way. “it’s you,” he said quietly, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “of course I’m gonna take it slow… i just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

chan’s words sent a whole new kind of warmth rushing through you- one that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way he was looking at you. like you were something precious. like he wanted to memorize every single detail.

"aah–" a whimper escaped your lips as he slipped a finger inside. the sound and the sight made chan groan as he felt his own dick twitch in his pants. fuck

he slowly slipped off your shorts while pumping his index finger in and out of you, trying not to rush things because he wanted to make you feel every bit of it, to really take his time and make it good for you.

but god.

his cock was getting harder by the second as he watched you squirm underneath him. the slight hitch in your breathing, the way your body trembled in his hands.

"mmhm channie..” chan bit his lip, his breath hitching at the soft, unfiltered sound that slipped from your lips. his grip on your thigh tightened as he increased his pace. 

your fingers curled into the bedsheets as his finger pumped in and out, one hand slipping higher along your side, grazing over your chest in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. 

then, just when you were about to come undone, he suddenly stopped.a whimper of protest left your lips before-

a sharp gasp.

chan pressed two fingers against your sensitive bud, applying just enough pressure to send a jolt of pleasure through your entire body. your back arched off the bed, head tilting back as a strangled moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

“you’re incredible," he murmured, his voice husky, filled with something that made your skin burn. “i could do this all night."

and trust me, he did.

“Wait—!” you managed to say, but it was too late, he was already halfway through the door.

He stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw you.

“What happened? Are you okay? Did someone say something to you? Was it about work? Did something—” he stopped, blinking, catching himself after firing off five questions in a single breath.

You turned your head toward him and gave him the best version of a smile you could manage, one that felt tight and hollow at the corners.
“I’m fine,” you lied, voice soft. “Just… felt sick all of a sudden.”

You hated lying to him. You hated lying to Jeongin. But what else could you say? That you’d just seen the man you were slowly falling for kissing his not so ex wife in his office? No. That wasn’t something you could unravel in a fluorescent lit bathroom with a friend/coworker who just happened to have a crush on you.

Jeongin’s eyebrows furrowed. He was quiet for a second too long, his gaze scanning your face, as if trying to catch the real answer in your eyes.
“I can grab you something—tea or water? I think there’s still ginger ale in the fridge at the end of the—”

You shook your head quickly, forcing a chuckle. “No, it’s okay. Just—get out of the women’s bathroom before someone walks in and reports you.”

That made him pause. Realization dawned on his face and then both of you actually laughed. It broke the heaviness hanging in the air for just a moment.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, stepping back like the walls had just grown eyes. “Yeah, uh—I’ll meet you outside before I get banned from the building.”

You followed him out, wiping the last trace of emotion from your face as you stepped back into the hallway, back into the world where you had to pretend like you were fine.

Once the two of you were walking side by side again, he tilted his head toward you with that signature gentle concern.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice to hold steady if you said more.

He didn’t press. That was one of the things you loved about Jeongin. He knew when to give you space, even if it killed him not to ask.

“Alright,” he finally said, grinning with forced brightness. “I’ll get it out of you later tonight then. My place, your place—I don’t care. I’m following you home like a lost puppy.”

You cracked a genuine smile at that, nudging his shoulder. “My place. But only if we stop at the convenience store and get you whatever you want.”

Jeongin gasped dramatically, like you’d offered him a winning lottery ticket. “Whatever I want? You mean I can get those overpriced spicy chips and ice cream that makes me lactose intolerant cry?”

You snorted. “Yes. You can suffer. It’s your night.”

He threw his hands up in mock celebration. “Then it’s settled. Tonight, I eat like a king and cry like a baby.”

You both laughed, walking down the hallway together, and for a moment you let yourself forget. You let yourself forget that only fifteen minutes ago, you saw Chan kissing someone else. That the person he’d sworn was in his past just stepped into his office like she never left. That the man who made pasta in your kitchen just last night had been pulled back into a life you weren’t sure you belonged in. You didn’t know what tonight would bring, maybe a movie, maybe silly snacks, maybe just sitting on the couch in silence with Jeongin talking until the memory faded. But one thing was certain. Right now, being away from Chan felt like the only way to feel okay. Even if it was temporary and even if the image of them was still burned into the back of your mind.

-

Jeongin did follow you home. He held two overstuffed bags in one hand like a prize, proudly swinging them with exaggerated excitement, the plastic crinkling with every step. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye and couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. He was humming softly, head bobbing to some made up tune as you two walked the quiet, dimly lit streets toward your apartment.

“You really went all out,” you teased, motioning to the bulging bags.

He nodded, feigning seriousness. “Well, you said I could get whatever I wanted, and you were paying, so technically this is your fault.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours and giggled. “I should’ve known better than to give you that kind of power.”

“Too late,” he said with a mischievous grin. “The power has already gone to my head.”

By the time you made it inside your apartment, you were both starving. The ramen packets were opened and boiling before the door even finished closing behind you. You slipped into something comfortable while Jeongin unpacked the snacks like he was setting up for a sleepover. The spicy chips. The chocolate. The soda. The pints of ice cream. It was all there. It almost made you forget the weight in your chest.

Sitting side by side on your couch, your legs tucked beneath you, you devoured your bowls of ramen like you hadn’t eaten in days. Between slurps and complaints about how hot it was, there was laughter, warmth, familiarity. Until Jeongin put his bowl down. He turned slightly, his voice softer now.

“Okay,” he said, “are you ever going to tell me what’s been going on with you?”

You looked up from your nearly empty bowl.

He continued, gently but seriously, “And don’t lie. You’ve been off for days. Like.. really off. And I know you.”

You hesitated. You weren’t sure how to start, or even if you should. How could you unravel the complicated mess of the last few weeks? How could you explain the emotional whiplash of kissing Chan, meeting his daughter, getting stood up, kissing Jeongin, and then watching Chan kiss Ria?

You were quiet long enough for Jeongin to reach for your hand and squeeze it lightly.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s me. We’ve been friends for how long? You can trust me.”

You took a deep breath. Then another.

“I’ve… been seeing someone,” you admitted quietly. Jeongin didn’t speak at first. But you saw the slight shift in his eyes, the way the light in them dimmed just a little. His expression didn’t change much but you noticed the pause, the barely there breath he took, like he was preparing for something.

“Oh,” he said. Just that.

You continued before it could get more awkward.

“It’s new. Kind of. I mean.. it’s been a mess from the start.”

He nodded once, encouraging you.

You swallowed hard.

“He has a daughter,” you said, watching his expression.

Jeongin blinked, his brow knitting just slightly. “Like… a young daughter?”

“Yeah. She’s seven.”

Another pause.

“And he has an ex,” you added, cautiously. “A long term partner. They… had history. A life together.”

His jaw twitched. “That why you asked me that weird question last week?”

You nodded. He didn’t say anything right away.

You wanted to stop there but the truth was heavy and wanted out.

“I thought they were done,” you whispered. “That’s what he told me. He said they’d been over for a year. He made me believe he was trying to move on.”

“But now you’re not sure,” Jeongin said, finishing the thought for you.

You nodded again, slower this time. “Something happened today. Something that… made me wonder if maybe I was wrong. If maybe he wasn’t as honest as he said.”

You didn’t tell him what. You didn’t tell him about the kiss. About the word husband slipping so casually from Ria’s lips. You didn’t say his name. You couldn’t. Jeongin sat quietly. You could see his thoughts moving behind his eyes, his hands resting in his lap. He wasn’t looking at you. When he did speak, his voice was low, firmer than you expected.

“You shouldn’t be with someone like that,” he said.

You looked at him then, and for the first time, saw the simmer of anger in his face, not explosive, not directed at you, but heavy and protective.

“He sounds like a mess,” Jeongin went on. “And I don’t mean that in a bad way, I just—” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I’m saying this because I’m… jealous or whatever, or if I’m just trying to look out for you. Probably both.”

You were quiet. His honesty made your chest hurt.

“I just think,” he said more softly, “you deserve more than someone who might be two timing you or lying about where he stands with his ex. You deserve someone who makes you feel safe and wanted. Someone who never makes you question if you’re a priority.”

You blinked back the sting in your eyes. You weren’t sure what to say. So you didn’t say anything. Instead, you leaned back and reached for the chocolate bar, unwrapped it slowly, and took a small bite. Jeongin did the same. The silence stretched between you thick, but not unbearable. And for a while, the only sound in the room was the rustle of snack wrappers and the soft buzz of the city outside your window.

—

Chan was still buzzing.

Even after you’d gently dodged his kiss the night before, even after the way you’d tiptoed away from intimacy just as things had started to heat up, he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as he left your apartment. The warmth of your touch, the softness in your laugh, the spark he saw in your eyes, it lingered with him all night and well into the morning.

He didn’t mind the slow pace. He respected it.

You were cautious, and he got that. You had every reason to be. The past few weeks had been tangled with misunderstanding, delays, and broken plans. But last night felt different, it felt like promise.

So when he got to work early, coffee in hand and tie askew, he didn’t even complain about the mountain of reports on his desk. He dove into them headfirst, energized by the memory of your shared laughter, of how you’d looked at him over your dining table, even if just for a moment, like he was someone you could fall for.

He planned to find you at lunch. Maybe pick up something warm for you, today had turned bitterly cold, and you were always nursing a coffee in the mornings. Maybe something sweet too, because he knew you liked little treats in the afternoon. But before he could finish even a third of the morning’s tasks, his office door creaked open without a knock.

“Ria,” he sighed, already sitting straighter in his chair, his jaw subtly tensing. “What are you doing here?”

She walked in like she owned the place like she always had. She wore a sharp black coat, heels that clicked too loudly against the floor, and a carefully curated expression of indifference. “What, I’m not allowed to visit anymore?” she asked, a tilt of her head adding to the faux innocence.

Chan didn’t take the bait. He didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t sigh again. He kept calm and controlled. Not this time.

“You used to let me drop in whenever I wanted,” Ria added, stepping further into the room, scanning the space as though expecting to find some trace of you there.

“Things change,” Chan replied carefully.

She scoffed, her eyes narrowing. “Afraid I’ll run into your new girlfriend?”

His mouth opened, instinctively ready to defend you, to correct her but he paused. Ria was always laying traps, and this one was obvious. If he admitted you worked here, it would only get worse. She’d dig, poke even manipulate.

“Guess by your reaction that she does work here,” Ria snapped, lips curling. “You’re so predictable, Chan. Always chasing those young, naive women who think you’re deep and complicated.”

He kept his voice low, even. “What do you want?”

Ria crossed her arms. “I talked to your mother,”

Chan looked up sharply.

“She agrees with me,” Ria said, satisfied at his reaction. “Thinks you need to focus on Ella. That this whole new romance thing is just another distraction.”

He scoffed, almost laughing. “Why would you even tell her? What was the point of that?”

Ria didn’t flinch. “Because you’ve changed. You don’t call as much. You don’t come over every night like you used to. Ella asks about you. And I have to explain that her father is off chasing some woman instead of being there for her.”

Chan stood up then. Slowly. Towering over her even as he stayed calm. “You know I’ve always been there for her. Always. Even when you made it hard.”

“Still doesn’t mean you get to move on and act like nothing’s changed.”

“That’s exactly what it means,” he shot back, quiet but firm. “Because everything has changed. And that’s your doing too, Ria. You ended things.”

She looked at him, her anger wavered just a second, revealing something deeper. Something sadder. “Doesn’t mean it has to stay that way.”

And then she leaned in. Her lips brushed his before he even realized it. But the moment was gone just as fast. He pushed her back, blinking in shock and immediate disgust, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice steel. Her eyes flickered, as if she hadn’t expected rejection. As if somewhere deep down, she believed he still belonged to her.

“Go,” he said.

She stood there, her lips parted like she wanted to cry but her eyes were dry and angry, humiliated.

“You’re really going to act like we didn’t love each other?” she hissed. “Like I didn’t give you a family?”

“I’ll never forget that,” he said. “But that doesn’t give you the right to control who I see now.”

“You think I’m controlling?” she snapped. “I’m protecting Ella.”

Chan’s fists clenched, but he stayed composed. “Don’t use her as a shield.”

“I’m not,” she whispered, already walking toward the door, her heels suddenly sounding quieter. “Just don’t let her see you with someone else yet. She doesn’t need that. She doesn’t need confusion.”

She reached for the handle, paused, then added one final jab without turning around.

“You’re still mine, you know. Whether she knows it or not.”

Then she left. The office door clicked shut with a finality that rattled through his bones. Chan stood there for a long moment before sinking back into his chair. He leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face, letting out a long, exhausted breath.

He wasn’t even thinking about the kiss. He was thinking about you. And how this, whatever this storm was might be enough to push you away completely.

-

Chan had been restless. Not the kind of restlessness that comes from lack of sleep or caffeine withdrawal, this one was different, heavier. It had been two days since that night at your apartment. Two days since he'd kissed you, since you'd kissed him back, since you'd laughed softly at his lame cooking jokes and winked as he walked out the door with pink ears and a bashful smile. He remembered every second of it. He remembered the way you had leaned into him just before pulling away. He remembered the way your voice had trembled slightly when you told him to text when he got home. He remembered feeling like maybe things were finally falling into place. But now? Now, you hadn’t replied to a single one of his messages. Not even the dumb meme he sent to break the silence. Or the casual "how’s your day?" text. Not even the “Are we still okay?” message, sent late last night after he'd stared at your read receipt for over an hour. It was unlike you.

You always answered. You always smiled when you passed him in the halls. But today? Nothing.

He’d only seen you once and even that had been fleeting. You were walking down the hall, eyes locked on your phone, before Jeongin had appeared beside you, tapping your arm and rerouting you toward your desk. You hadn’t even noticed Chan standing just feet away. Or maybe you had, and chose to ignore him.That possibility twisted his stomach. Now, hours later, he finally worked up the courage to go talk to you. No more waiting around, no more overthinking. He just needed to ask, find out what he’d done wrong because he must have done something. Right? But as he approached your desk, his chest tightening with every step, you stood up and breezed right past him without even acknowledging his presence. Just silence.

You walked straight into the hallway, toward the bathroom, like he didn’t exist.

He stood there frozen for a moment, the rejection ringing louder than any argument could. He looked around. A few coworkers noticed the exchange or lack thereof but said nothing.

Chan clenched his jaw and pivoted, trying not to let the flush of humiliation show as he walked stiffly toward the employee lounge. He needed Something, anything to quiet the storm inside his head.

The lounge was already buzzing with the usual low chatter and clinking mugs. A few senior managers were huddled near the window chatting about weekly targets, while a couple members of Jeongin’s team occupied the small round table near the microwave. They greeted him politely.

Chan nodded back silently and moved to the far side of the counter to make himself a mug of green tea. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to smile. He just wanted answers. His thoughts swirled like the steam rising from his cup. Maybe he had crossed a line at your place. Maybe kissing you was too much, too soon. Maybe he shouldn’t have let his guard down, shouldn’t have opened himself up so easily.

He hadn't done anything wrong… had he?

He stilled instantly when he heard your name, halfway through stirring his tea, the clink of his spoon paused mid air.

“—so when are you finally gonna make her your girlfriend, huh?” one of the senior team leads teased loudly, his voice unmistakable.

Chan didn’t turn. He didn’t have to. The conversation was happening at the table just behind him. And Jeongin was the one being teased.

“You’ve been soft for her for what, like years?” the manager laughed. Laughter broke out around the table. Chan’s hand tightened around the mug.

Jeongin’s voice was sheepish. “Can you not embarrass me in front of my own team?”

“Just make a move,” another voice chimed in. “It’s obvious.”

Jeongin chuckled awkwardly. “Make a move? I think it’s a little late for that.”

Chan’s breath hitched.

“I don’t even remember when I first noticed you liked her,” the manager teased, “it’s been forever. Since training week or something?”

Jeongin’s ears turned visibly red, but he didn’t deny it. He laughed softly, almost bashful. “Yeah… it’s been a while.”

There was a pause. Chan could hear Jeongin shifting in his chair.

“We… kissed. A few days ago.”

It felt like the air was knocked out of Chan’s lungs.

He turned before he could stop himself. Eyes zeroing in on Jeongin, who sat at the center of the table, blushing furiously as the others hollered and congratulated him. Chan didn’t hear them.

He didn’t hear anything except those words again, repeating in his head like a broken echo.

We kissed. A few days ago. He blinked.

The only time that could’ve happened was after your night together after the night you kissed him, the night you invited him into your home, let him cook for you, held his face in your hands like he meant something to you.

Had you run to Jeongin after? Had you let him in when you told Chan to go? Had you been playing both sides? No. No, that didn’t feel right. That didn’t sound like you. He knew you. He was learning you. But doubt was a poison and right now, it was already spreading. Chan almost said something. The words were right there burning at the back of his throat, pressing against his teeth, begging to be let out. He could’ve interrupted the laughter in the lounge. Could’ve asked Jeongin what he meant. Could’ve laughed it off, played it casual, said something like “Oh yeah? When was that?” or “You two dating now?”

Anything.. just one question might’ve cleared the fog choking his chest but the conversation had already moved on. Someone joked about office romances. Someone else mentioned deadlines. The moment passed like it hadn’t shattered something inside him. Chan swallowed hard.

He set his untouched tea down on the counter, murmured an excuse about needing to take a call, and walked out of the lounge before anyone could notice the way his hands were shaking.

The hallway felt too long and too bright.

He looked at your desk and saw you sitting, focused, quiet. Alive in a way that made his chest ache. You looked up just then, maybe sensing someone watching, and your eyes met his. For half a second, the world stopped.

Your expression didn’t soften. It didn’t harden either. It was unreadable guarded, distant, like a door he no longer had the right to knock on.

That hurt more than anger would have. He almost walked toward you. Almost opened his mouth. Almost asked the question that had been tearing him apart since he heard Jeongin’s words.

Did you kiss him? When? Why? What am I to you?

But instead he turned away. He pivoted on his heel and stormed back toward his office, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Didn’t trust that if he did, his voice wouldn’t crack, or worse sound desperate. He shut his office door harder than necessary and locked it. Only then did he let himself breathe.

He paced once. Twice. Ran a hand through his hair and let out a laugh that sounded more like a scoff. He leaned back against his desk, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling too fast.

So that’s how it is.

You’d smiled at him in the elevator. Invited him into your home. Let him cook for you. Kissed him back, more than once. Looked at him like maybe he was worth the risk. And then you’d kissed someone else. Someone who didn’t have baggage. Someone who could walk you home without phone calls interrupting. Someone who’d always been there, steady, safe, uncomplicated.

Jeongin. The thought burned. Chan clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

He wasn’t angry at you. Not really. He was angry at himself for letting his guard down, for believing that maybe this time could be different. For forgetting that his life was messy, that loving him came with consequences he couldn’t shield anyone from. Still, Why lead him on?

That question echoed louder than anything else.

If you were unsure, why not say it? If you wanted someone else, why let him get close at all?

His phone buzzed on his desk. He didn’t look at it. He already knew it wouldn’t be you. Chan sank into his chair and stared at the dark screen of his computer, heart heavy, thoughts tangled.

He didn’t know if he should be hurt. He didn’t know if he had the right to be. All he knew was that the woman he’d been thinking about nonstop for days now felt farther away than she ever had and for the first time since meeting you, he wasn’t sure if you were ever really his to lose.

—

You weren’t sure when it started, this quiet ache in your chest every time you saw Chan’s name light up your phone. But ever since that night with Jeongin, you’d been avoiding Chan like your heart depended on it. Jeongin had said something the morning after, something simple yet sharp that stuck with you. “If he’s serious about you, why is she still around in that way?"

You didn’t answer him. You didn’t have to. The image of Ria’s lips against Chan’s had already answered it for you.

You weren’t going to fight for someone who wasn’t fighting for you. You weren’t going to be that woman, the one tangled in someone else’s family, stealing moments and lying to herself just to feel wanted. So, you distanced yourself.

Two days passed.

Chan’s messages went from sweet to concerned to confused. He tried to be gentle. "how’s your day?" Then more direct. "Are we still okay?"
Eventually, just “Please say something."

You read them all, every word but you didn’t respond.

It was Friday evening now. Work was finally done for the week, and you packed up your things with a sigh that was meant to feel like relief but felt more like dread. You just wanted to go home, curl up, and sleep off the confusion that had taken up residence in your chest.

Jeongin jogged over just as you were walking toward the elevators.
"Wait up!" he said, grinning. "What’s on the agenda tonight? Hot date with your pillow?"

You chuckled. "Exactly. A hot, committed, non toxic relationship."

He laughed, bumping your shoulder lightly. "I’m heading to my parents’ this weekend. Thought I’d sneak back before my mom complains about me never taking the time to see her."

You smiled. "Tell her I said hi."

Jeongin groaned. "No way. She’ll spend ten minutes asking why I didn’t bring you."

You rolled your eyes just as the elevator dinged open and then you felt it, that shift in the air.

You glanced over your shoulder. Chan stood behind you. Your breath hitched before you could stop it. He looked… different. His shoulders were tense, jaw clenched so tight it made his cheek twitch. He didn’t look at you right away, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, distant and sharp. When his eyes finally flicked to yours, they hardened. He looked away immediately.

Good, you thought bitterly. Be upset. He had no right. You were upset because he was trying to keep you while still orbiting Ria. Because he kissed you in your kitchen and then let her kiss him in his office the next day. Because he told you they were done and then proved otherwise.

You turned away as all three of you stepped into the elevator. Jeongin chatted easily, oblivious to the tension practically choking the small space.

"I told her if we go shopping I’m not spending more than two hours max—" Jeongin kept going.

You weren’t listening. You were too aware of the space beside you, where Chan stood completely still. The silence between you two felt louder than Jeongin’s voice.

When the elevator doors opened, Jeongin stepped out first. "See you Monday!" he called.

You nodded, but your body felt frozen because Chan didn’t leave. The doors slid shut behind Jeongin, leaving only you and Chan alone.

You turned slowly, already bracing for the confrontation but his words still hit like a slap.

"You having fun?" he asked, voice low and bitter. "Leading both of us on like this?"

You blinked, taken aback. "What?"

He stepped forward, eyes dark. "You kiss Jeongin, then play coy with me. What the hell are you doing?"

You scoffed in disbelief. "Are you serious right now?"

"You think I wouldn’t find out?" His voice cracked slightly. "You think I wouldn’t hear about it eventually?"

“You’re accusing me of leading people on? That’s rich, Chan." you snapped.

"Don't turn this on me—"

"You kissed Ria!"

His anger faltered. You took a breath, trembling with rage and pain. "I saw you kissing her."

Realization sank into his face like a punch.

You nodded slowly. "Yeah. Ria. You let her kiss you the day after we kissed. Were you planning on telling me? Or were you just hoping I wouldn’t find out?"

Chan opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"I didn’t lead you on," you said softly. "I thought we were starting something real. But I’m not going to be the woman in the shadows. Not while you’re still tangled up with the mother of your child."

"That’s not fair—" he started.

"No," you cut him off. "What’s not fair is pretending you’re available when you’re clearly not. What’s not fair is thinking I could be okay playing second to your past."

He stepped back, like your words physically struck him. His jaw clenched, eyes searching yours.

"You don’t understand," he said, quieter now. "She kissed me. I didn’t—"

"But you didn’t stop her," you said. "Not fast enough. Not like you should’ve."

Silence, he looked at you like he wanted to say something more, like he was trying to gather the words that could undo this but you were already turning away. The elevator dinged again, opening on the lobby and this time, you stepped out first.

Your steps were quick, almost panicked like you needed to outrun the way his voice had broken in the elevator, the weight behind his accusation, the disappointment in his eyes. But you hadn’t taken more than five steps before you heard his voice again, low and rough, stopping you in your tracks.

"Wait."

You froze. His footsteps closed the distance, fast and full of purpose, until he stood in front of you, gaze unwavering.

"I'm not letting this happen," he said, breath heavy, voice firm. "Not like this. Not because of a misunderstanding."

You said nothing, just stared at him with wary eyes.

"I like you," he said again, clearer this time like he needed you to feel it. "A lot. And I’m not going to let things fall apart without at least trying to explain."

You swallowed, unsure whether to believe him or brace yourself for more pain.

"Ria kissed me," he continued, eyes locked on yours. "She came into my office unannounced and said she wanted to try again… but I pushed her away. If you’d stayed one second longer, you would’ve seen that."

His voice cracked slightly at the end. Not from weakness but urgency. Like someone trying to fix a vase before the last shard slipped through his fingers.

"I don’t know why she’s telling people I’m her husband," he added quickly. "Maybe because it’s easier for her to pretend we’re not over. But we are. We have been for over a year. I haven't been with her. I haven’t wanted to be."

You looked away, processing, but your silence didn’t stop him.

"I came to Seoul for Ella," he said softly, taking a step closer. "Not for her. And yeah, we have to co parent, but that’s all it is. She can kiss me a hundred times and it won’t mean anything, because the only person I’ve wanted since I met her… is you."

The words landed with a thud in your chest. Part of you wanted to believe him. You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the way his voice trembled beneath the surface. But another part, the part that had watched Ria kiss him still wasn’t sure.

He seemed to sense that hesitation. He exhaled slowly, shoulders falling.

"But if you don’t want to see me anymore," he said, quieter now, "I’ll get it. I won’t chase you if you don’t want me to. I just... I don’t want you to think that I didn’t fall for you. Because I did. And I still am."

That’s when he paused.

"And if we’re being honest," he said, gaze softening, "can I ask something?"

You nodded, reluctantly.

"The kiss," he said gently. "With Jeongin. Was that… something?"

You blinked, surprised by how calm he sounded no accusation, just vulnerability.

You didn’t owe him an explanation. Not really. But still, you found yourself speaking, voice quiet.

"It wasn’t planned," you said. "It happened the night you stood me up. I was hurt, confused. I went to Jeongin’s place and he was there for me. It just… happened."

He didn’t interrupt. He listened.

"And it was small," you added. "Quick. It didn’t mean anything. Not like… this."

He nodded slowly, taking it in. "So… we both messed up."

"Yeah," you said. "But at least now it’s all out."

He looked at you for a moment. There was something in his expression, something fragile and aching and full of hope.

"What happens now?" he asked softly.

You shrugged, eyes dipping to the floor before returning to him.

"I need time," you admitted. "To think. To be sure."

He inhaled sharply, like he’d been hoping you’d say something different but he still nodded.

"Okay," he said. "I’ll give you that. Take all the time you need."

"Just… don’t shut me out forever, okay?”

You gave a faint nod. "I won’t."

He stepped aside then, letting you walk past him.

You didn’t look back but for the first time in days… your heart wasn’t so heavy. Because now, at least, everything was on the table.

-

Your apartment was too quiet. You sat on your couch with the lights dimmed, your phone face down beside you like it was the source of all your anxiety. But truthfully, it wasn’t the device, it was the conversation still echoing in your mind. You believed him.

That’s what you kept telling yourself after walking away from Chan earlier that day. You believed his urgency, his honesty, the way his voice cracked just slightly when he said he was falling for you. But the belief didn’t erase the ache or the uncertainty. How were you supposed to move forward now? Could you really trust that the worst was behind you?

After what felt like hours of overthinking, you picked up your phone and typed a single word.

You: Hey.

It was simple. Safe. His reply came faster than you expected.

Chan: Hey :)

You stared at the smiley face, your lips twitching into a faint smile of your own.

You: What are you doing?

A pause. Then the typing bubble appeared, followed by a photo. It was him with Ella tucked into his arms, her eyes not on the camera but clearly locked on something off frame. A soft halo of light from the screen cast a warm glow across her features. She looked so content, her small hand curled against his chest like he was her entire world. Your heart clenched.

You: She’s so cute. 
Chan: She actually mentioned you today

You blinked.
You: Wait, what?

Chan: Said she wants to show you her new drawings and when we’d see you again

You weren’t prepared for how that would make you feel. A smile bloomed across your face, soft and completely involuntary.

You: I would love to see her new drawings

You watched the typing bubble come and go for five long minutes like he was debating if he should say what he wanted to say. Your heart picked up pace with each blink of the bubble, each second it disappeared. Finally, the message came through.

Chan: Would you want to hang out? With me and Ella, I mean. Sometime soon.

Your breath hitched.

It was one thing to flirt, to have secret kisses and half spoken truths but this was different. This was stepping into his life and into Ella’s life. You didn’t reply right away. He noticed because a econd message quickly followed.

Chan: It’s okay if you don’t want to, just thought I’d ask

You bit your lip.

You: I do. I’d love to. I’m just… unsure.

Chan: You’ve met her before

You: I know but it wasn’t like this.

Chan: She’s sweet promise she wont bite

You laughed quietly.
You: I’m sure she won’t but I still want a little time before I see her again… as someone who might matter to you.

Chan: You already matter

Your heart stuttered.

Chan: Maybe just you and me then.

Chan: One on One

Chan: Just like before

You smiled to yourself, feeling the warmth bloom in your chest.

You: Are you asking me out again?

The pause was shorter this time.

Chan: Unless you have plans with Jeongin.
He included a period at the end. So final. So pointed, it made you giggle 
You: Was that jealousy?

Chan: No. 
Chan: Definitely not.
Chan: Absolutely not.

You laughed out loud this time.

You: Relax. I’m free tomorrow. 
Chan: Perfect i’ll pick you up. We’ll make plans from there.

But you couldn’t help it. You needed to say it.
You: Don’t leave me standing again.

A second passed.

Chan: I won’t, never again.

Chan: 😊

A few seconds later, his final message came through.

Chan: See you tomorrow, Ella says goodnight💤🐰

You melted again.

You: Tell her I say goodnight too.

You locked your phone with a blush on your cheeks, the kind that warmed you from the inside out.

-

You stared at your reflection for a moment longer than necessary unsure why you were nervous when this wasn’t your first time seeing him. But maybe it felt like the first time again… now that things were cleared or at least, mostly cleared.

Your phone buzzed on the counter.

Chan: I’m downstairs :)

You inhaled slowly, grabbed your purse, and tucked your phone inside before heading for the door. The walk down felt longer than usual, maybe because of the growing thump of your heartbeat, loud and impossible to ignore.

He was standing near the front entrance, fidgeting slightly with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. He looked exactly how you wished he had on your very first real date, the one that never really happened. But tonight, the image was enough to make your heart flutter.

He looked up as the door opened, and the moment your eyes met, his mouth curled into a sheepish smile. He didn’t try to hide the nerves either.

You walked up slowly, and just as you reached him, he softly extended the bouquet toward you.

“Ella picked them out,” he murmured with a small shrug. “Helped me choose them before I dropped her off with her mom.”

It was a wildflower mix lilies, tulips, daisies, some sprigs of lavender. Nothing flashy. Just thoughtful, sweet, and beautiful.

You looked at them for a long moment before lifting your gaze to him. “They’re perfect.”

“She said to tell you… she wants to see you again soon. Like so bad, her words not mine.”

You smiled, your grip on the flowers tightening gently as warmth spread through your chest. “Tell her I do too. And maybe next time… we can color together.”

His eyes lit up. “She’d love that.”

Then he hesitated. You saw it in his posture, the slight shift of his shoulders, the way his fingers rubbed together like he was unsure if he should keep going.

“Thank you…” he finally said, voice quieter now. “For giving me another chance.”

You looked down for a second. And then back at him.

“This is the final chance, Chan,” you said, tone even. Serious. “I don’t care if it’s something big or small. If I see something or feel something that makes me question this again, I’m done. No more trying to explain. No more ‘you caught the wrong moment.’ I’m not doing that anymore.”

He swallowed hard, the weight of your words clearly pressing on his chest but he nodded.

“No more misunderstandings,” he promised. “I swear.”

There was a short silence. Then, with another small sigh, he added, “And… I know it might sound like I’m repeating myself, but Ria and I… we’re not together. We haven’t been for over a year. I only see her when we’re talking about Ella. We co parent, that’s it. We’re civil, at least we try to be but we’re not close anymore.”

You stared at him, searching his face for any cracks, any hidden truths. But all you saw was someone trying really hard to hold onto something that mattered.

His hand reached up slowly, palm cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed just under your eye.

“I don’t want to ruin this. Not with you,” he said softly. “It might sound cheesy, but I really, really like you. And I’m not gonna screw this up. Not again.”

He looked down at your lips and paused, waiting.

And when you nodded, he kissed you. It was gentle at first, like he didn’t want to rush the moment, as if the soft brush of his lips could somehow whisper how sincere he was. You giggled into the kiss, the kind of laugh that breaks tension and fills silence with hope. You pulled away softly and tilted your head, teasing.

“Do you really like me that much?”

He exhaled a small laugh, eyes sparkling. “You don’t even know.”

You blushed and let your gaze drift down to the flowers again.

“So,” you asked lightly, “what’s the plan tonight?”

He tilted his head. “Honestly? I just want to cuddle with you like that one night we met.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Cuddle?”

“Cuddle,” he repeated, hands raised defensively. “Not the other stuff. I swear.”

You playfully smacked his chest. He gasped dramatically.

“I’m being serious!” he laughed. “Anywhere with you would be perfect.”

You paused, letting his words linger in the air for a second before you asked, “You hungry?”

He shook his head. “Not really. You?”

You shook yours in return.

“Want something warm? Tea? Coffee?”

“Nope,” you replied again.

He gave you a thoughtful look. Then, he smiled. “Wanna come see my new apartment?”

Your head perked up. “You finished moving in?”

“Almost. Ella’s room is completely done. That was my first priority,” he said proudly. “The rest is still kinda chaos...”

You bit your lip. “Can I see it? Maybe I can help.”

His expression softened even more. “I’d love for you to see it but no way you’re lifting a finger.”

He opened the passenger door for you with a chivalrous little bow.

You groaned playfully. “I’m not that fragile, you know.”

“You’re very pretty. That’s close enough,” he quipped.

You rolled your eyes but smiled. As you climbed into his car, you glanced back once, at the man who just might deserve this second chance, the one who chose flowers with his daughter and told you, you mattered. And for the first time in a while, something in your chest fluttered not with fear, but hope.

The ride to Chan’s apartment felt like one of those rare, golden hours where everything slows down just enough to notice the small things, how his hand settled naturally over yours on the center console, how his thumb brushed slow circles over your knuckles while he focused on the road, occasionally glancing at you with the kind of soft gaze that said he was just happy you were there.

You hadn’t expected the building to look like this, though.

“Whoa,” you said under your breath as he parked and helped you out. “This looks… expensive.”

Chan laughed, a full belly laugh that made your cheeks warm. “Don’t say that,” he waved you off. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“You’re a director, Chan.”

“And you’re judgy,” he teased, tugging your hand gently as you both made your way up to his unit.

The elevator ride was brief, but comfortable. He unlocked the door with ease and pushed it open to reveal a modern but cozy space bright, open, and surprisingly homey.

“I thought you said you weren’t fully moved in,” you said, turning slowly in place, taking it all in.

He scratched the back of his neck. “I mean… there’s still some stuff in boxes.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “You lied.”

He shrugged with a sheepish grin. “Not completely. I am missing stuff. Like kitchen stuff. And I haven’t even started on my room.”

Your eyes swept around again. It didn’t look like much was missing, but he was right, there was something about the place that still felt a little too perfect like a catalog setup.

“I can help,” you offered.

His reaction was immediate, defensive but fond. “Only the light stuff,” he said, holding up a finger. “You’re not lifting anything heavy, no matter how many times you argue with me about it.”

You giggled. “Fine. Show me to the ‘approved’ box.”

He pointed you toward a half open cardboard box labeled FRAMES, and you knelt beside it, carefully peeling back the flaps. Your heart softened immediately. Inside were photo frames, dozens of them mostly of Ella.

Tiny Ella swaddled in soft pink blankets. Ella in a birthday hat with frosting on her nose. Ella in Chan’s arms, grinning with missing teeth. Ella asleep in his lap, a picture clearly taken in quiet admiration.

You picked one up gently, tracing the edge with your thumb. “She’s so… adorable.”

“She was the cutest baby,” Chan said, crouching beside you. His eyes were full of pride and nostalgia. “She had this laugh… it sounded like a duck squeak. Cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You placed the frame down and picked up another. “She really does look like you.”

“I hear that a lot,” he smiled. “We’ve got the same scowl, apparently.”

You both laughed. Together, you arranged the frames on shelves, the TV console, even a small wall gallery near the hallway. You offered little suggestions, move this one a bit left, add a plant here, maybe put Ella’s framed art in her room and to your surprise, he agreed to all of it. He wasn’t particular about these things, he admitted. He just wanted it to feel like home. And with you moving around, fixing tiny details, it was starting to.

Eventually, you both collapsed onto the couch with tired sighs. He pulled you into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you didn’t resist. His arms were warm and solid around you, his breath steady, anchoring you. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You giggled softly. “For what?”

“For this. For helping. For showing up.”

You looked up at him. “Okay, but… you’re not allowed to kiss me anymore.”

His expression dropped in confusion and mild horror. “What?”

You fought back a grin. “No more kisses.”

His mouth opened. “Why?! What did I do?”

“Not until you make it official.”

He stared at you, then narrowed his eyes. “Are you being serious?”

You didn’t answer.

He stood up dramatically. “Then I’m making it official now.”

You laughed, pulling at his hand. “Wait, I was kidding—! That wasn’t serious.”

But he walked to a drawer near his TV stand, pulling it open with a small grin. He returned with a delicate little box in hand.

“I was saving this,” he said, standing in front of you. “But I guess this is as good a time as any.”

You stared at the box, confused.

“Do you…” he scratched his neck nervously, “want to start dating me? Like, for real?”

Your lips parted. “Is this how you ask?”

He groaned. “Give me a break! It’s been like, what? A decade since I had to do this. I’m a little rusty.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed so hard your chest hurt. He looked so sincere and so endearingly awkward that it melted you completely.

“I do,” you said between breaths. “I want to start dating you.”

His smile grew, disbelieving. “Are you serious?”

You smirked. “Actually, I’m changing my mind.”

“No, no, no—!” He shook his head quickly, lunging forward to block your escape.

“Okay, okay!” You laughed, grabbing his hands. “But only if you put it on me.”

He blinked, then opened the box and pulled out a delicate silver necklace with a small charm hanging from it. It sparkled softly in the light.

“You’re sure?” he asked again.

You nodded, turning so he could clasp it.

His fingers were careful as he fastened the necklace. You could feel his breath just behind your ear, warm and steady. When you turned to face him again, he was already smiling.

The charm shimmered gently, catching the warm glow of his living room. You leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. And this time, neither of you had to ask for permission.

Your lips parted from Chan’s slowly, the kiss lingering in its warmth as he pulled back with a deep, slightly breathless chuckle. His forehead rested gently against yours, both of you trying to calm your racing hearts. The spark between you had ignited quickly, too easily but Chan was the one to pull away first, and you couldn’t tell if it made you frustrated or more fond of him. Maybe both. He let out a soft sigh, almost disappointed but amused. “If we keep going,” he murmured with a teasing edge, “I’m not going to be able to stop.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers along the hem of his shirt. “We can’t make it too obvious at work.”

He groaned dramatically and leaned his head back against the couch cushion. “Don’t remind me.”

“I’m serious,” you said, shifting slightly to face him better. “No hand holding, no sneaking into my office, no favoring me in meetings, nothing that makes it seem like I’m getting special treatment.”

He raised an eyebrow. “But you are special treatment.”

You shoved his shoulder with a roll of your eyes. “I mean it, Chan.”

“I know,” he said, reaching for your hand and threading his fingers through yours. “I know. You want to be treated like everyone else.”

“I am like everyone else.”

“You’re the office worker,” he said, playfully mocking your tone, “who just so happens to be dating her incredibly charming, successful, and—”

You covered his mouth with your hand. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He grinned beneath your palm and kissed it before gently prying your fingers away. “Okay, okay. I won’t be obvious. No special treatment. No one will know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Not even Jeongin.”

That made him pause, just for a second.

“Why the specific mention of Jeongin?” you asked, suspicion laced in your voice.

Chan smirked. “Because he’s practically glued to your hip at work. It’s not exactly subtle.”

You sighed, letting your head fall back on the couch. “We’ve been friends since the start. He’s just—he’s always been there.”

“I know,” Chan said, his tone softening. “And he’s a good guy.”

You turned to him again. “Then what’s the problem?”

Chan’s gaze flicked to yours, something glinting behind the affection in his eyes. “He likes you.”

You blinked, playing dumb. “He liked me.”

Chan snorted. “He likes you. Present tense.”

You looked down at your lap, biting back a smile. “I know.”

Chan leaned toward you, nudging your chin with his fingers so you’d meet his eyes again. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

“Would it work?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

You gave him a pointed look. “Are you jealous?”

He returned the question with a cheeky grin. “Are you jealous of Ria?”

Your smile faltered. He noticed instantly and laughed, brushing his thumb gently across the frown forming on your lips. “I’m kidding,” he whispered. “Okay, maybe not entirely kidding. But I’m not jealous, not really. Just a little…” he trailed off, searching for the right word. “Protective.”

You studied his face for a long moment. “That’s a nicer word for jealous.”

He shrugged. “Probably. But I’m allowed to feel something when the guy who’s always around you literally admitted he has a crush on you.”

“You kissed her,” you said plainly, the edge in your voice returning without your permission.

Chan didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. “And I explained that. You know what happened.”

“I do.”

“And I know about the kiss with Jeongin, too,” he said gently. “I’m not going to act like it didn’t bother me. It did. But I also know you’re here now. With me. Not him.”

Your expression softened at that.

“I’m not expecting you to forget all the complicated things around us overnight,” Chan said. “I’m not asking for perfection, or for blind trust. Just that you keep giving me the chance to show you that this—” he squeezed your hand in his “means something to me. More than anything else.”

You looked down at your intertwined hands. He was warm. he man who’d made pasta in your kitchen and cleaned up without asking. The man who looked at you like he was already picturing a life with you in it. He had his past messy, tangled but he wasn’t hiding from it. He was inviting you into it, if you were willing. You looked up and smiled. “No favoritism.”

Chan smirked. “Fine.”

“No surprise kisses at work.”

“Okay.”

“No staring at me during meetings.”

He opened his mouth and paused. “That one’s gonna be hard.”

You hit his chest, laughing again.

“Okay, okay!” he raised his hands in surrender. “No staring. Maybe just glancing.”

You leaned back against the couch, resting your head on his shoulder. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, resting his head on top of yours. “We are.”

//

masterlist.

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @euphysia @shinygubbins @geni-627 @enhacolor @lunaspov @jisuperboard @hyujim @linogatinho @puppymsworld @alondra6011 @you-dont-know-my-name @rylea08 @luvbangchan @chezzeballs300 @luvbangchan @astrophia13 @bemyaehiweloveskz @luvvvivi @mrsbbg @jeonginholic @iwannabang-chan @kaybeerrosa @elenas-kaleidoscope @nightmarenyxx @pinklasagna04 @minnieewon @rianzysworld @seungminimpossible @imnota-bot-iswear @imelteverytimeihearminniesing @hyunnnieeeeee @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis @sillylittlecat1 @maddy24207 @inmyfelixera @senaenabear lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

Every afternoon, Chan would look at you with that careful, searching gaze and ask questions like he was piecing together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

“Tell me about our first date,” he said one evening, voice soft as he sat up in the hospital bed, the cast on his arm resting awkwardly in his lap.

You hesitate.

“I want to understand it,” he continues.

“Because the way I look at you in those videos… I’ve never looked at anyone like that.”

Your throat tightens.

“You don’t have to force anything, Chan.”

“I’m not forcing it,” he says quickly.

“I just… I don’t want to lose something that mattered that much. Even if I don’t remember it.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smiled faintly.

“It was nothing fancy. You snuck me into the practice room after midnight because you said you wanted to show me the choreography for a song that hadn’t been released yet. We ended up ordering tteokbokki and eating it on the floor. You kept messing up the steps on purpose just to make me laugh. Then you played the demo on your phone and asked me if it felt like ‘us.’”

Chan listened intently, brow slightly furrowed, nodding along like it was a beautiful story someone else had lived.

Not his. Never his.

“Sounds… nice,” he murmured. “I wish I could remember laughing like that with you.”

He kept asking.

About how you met, about the silly arguments you had over who got the last bite of ice cream, about the way he used to call you at 4 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep just to hear your voice.

Each time, he listened with genuine curiosity, but his eyes stayed distant—polite, appreciative, but empty of recognition.

Still, small things began to surface in him unconsciously.

He noticed how you always took your coffee with oat milk and two sugars, sliding the cup toward you exactly the way you liked before you even asked. He noticed how you grew quiet when sadness crept in, your shoulders curling inward, and he’d gently bump his knee against yours without thinking. He noticed you always sat on his left side, close enough that your arm brushed his when you leaned in.

One rainy afternoon, while you were sharing a small meal in his hospital room, a bit of sauce clung to the corner of your lip. Without hesitation, Chan reached over and wiped it away with his thumb, the gesture so natural, so familiar, that time seemed to stop.

Both of you froze.

His thumb lingered for half a second against your skin, warm and gentle—the exact motion he used to do a hundred times before. Your breath caught. Chan’s eyes widened, confusion and something deeper flickering across his face before he pulled his hand back like he’d been burned.

“I… sorry,” he whispered, voice rough. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You couldn’t speak. That single touch felt like a crack in the wall between you, but it wasn’t enough to bring the memories flooding back.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Weeks passed.

Chan was discharged from the hospital, and the members insisted on taking a full break—no schedules, no recordings, no pressure—until he felt like himself again. You continued visiting him at the dorm, bringing food, sitting with him on the couch while he tried to catch up on the music he’d missed, helping him relearn the new choreography through videos.

He was kind. Always kind.

He smiled at your stories, thanked you for being there, even held your hand once when you looked particularly tired.

But the distance remained.

He still looked at you like a cherished stranger, not like the person he once loved with his whole guarded heart.

The ache inside you grew heavier with every passing day.

Until one quiet evening, when the dorm was empty except for the two of you, you finally couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You sat on the couch, hands twisted in your lap, voice barely above a whisper.

“Chan… I think you should just move on.”

He looked up sharply from the notebook he’d been scribbling half-remembered melodies in.

“I don’t want to be someone you feel obligated to love,” you continued, eyes stinging with unshed tears. “You’re trying so hard, and I can see it. But every time you look at me, it’s like you’re forcing yourself to feel something that isn’t there. I can’t keep watching you struggle like this. It’s killing me. So… maybe it’s better if I step back. Let you heal without the weight of a relationship you don’t remember.”

The silence that followed was devastating.

His mouth opened, but no words came out at first. His eyes—those beautiful, tired eyes—filled with a pain he couldn’t name.

That night, after you left with a quiet goodbye and a soft kiss on his cheek that felt like farewell, Chan couldn’t sleep.

He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, the dorm unusually quiet without the usual chaos of the members. His chest felt tight, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with his lingering bruises.

The thought of you leaving—of never seeing your quiet smiles again, of never hearing the way you said his name like it mattered—hurt.

Not because of memories.

But because of feeling.

A deep, inexplicable ache bloomed behind his ribs, raw and unfamiliar yet impossibly real. It wasn’t recollection. It was something newer, something born in the present: the terrifying realization that even without the past, the idea of losing you carved a hole in him he didn’t know how to fill.

He pressed a hand over his heart, breathing shallow.

“…Don’t go,” he whispered into the empty room, voice breaking in the dark.

But you were already gone.

And for the first time since the accident, Christopher Bang felt something terrifyingly close to love… and the fear of losing it all over again.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Chan drowned himself in work.

Even though the members had agreed on a break, he couldn’t sit still. He watched every performance video from the past year on repeat, mouthing lyrics he didn’t remember writing, learning choreography his body had already mastered once.

The small flashes of recognition — a familiar beat here, a harmony he instinctively knew — pumped adrenaline through his veins like nothing else.

“Hyung, you should rest,” Jisung said gently one night, watching Chan replay the same bridge for the twentieth time.

“I can’t,” Chan muttered, fingers flying over the keyboard. “I lost a whole year. I need to catch up. The fans are waiting. The group… we can’t stay behind.”

Every tiny success lit a fire in him.

When he perfectly recreated a rap flow he’d forgotten, when he instinctively fixed a melody that felt “off” even though he didn’t remember composing it — those moments made his chest swell with purpose.

For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, he felt like he was moving forward instead of drowning in everything he’d missed.

But the memories of you started slipping in at the worst times.

It began small.

One afternoon in his kitchen, he opened the cupboard and saw the oat milk carton.

His hand paused mid-reach.

“YN used to like these, right?” he said quietly, almost to himself.

The words hung in the air before he even realized he’d spoken them. He froze, staring at the carton like it had burned him.

A few days later, while scrolling through old photos on his phone for reference, he landed on a candid shot from a late-night convenience store run.

A pack of strawberry candies sat in the corner of the frame.

“She liked these too… the sour ones,” he murmured, thumb hovering over the screen. His heart stuttered.

Why did he know that?

He didn’t remember buying them. He didn’t remember handing them to you. But the knowledge was there, soft and insistent, like muscle memory.

Each time it happened, he stopped cold.

The momentum he’d built in the studio shattered for a few painful seconds. He’d rub his chest unconsciously, feeling that same unfamiliar ache from the night you’d told him to move on.

The small recognitions kept coming, uninvited.

He caught himself humming a soft melody one evening on the balcony — the exact tune he used to play for you when you couldn’t sleep. He stopped singing the moment he realized.

Another time, while helping Hyunjin pick out a new hoodie online, a soft gray one popped up.

“I think YN would’ve liked that color on me,” he said without thinking, then immediately closed the tab, jaw tight.

The fragments were torture.

They weren’t full memories — just echoes, feelings, habits.

Enough to remind him that something important had lived in the space he couldn’t reach, but not enough to bring you back.

After three weeks of this, Chan couldn’t take it anymore.

He showed up at your apartment building unannounced one night with hoodie pulled low over his eyes. His heart was hammering harder than it had during any comeback stage.

He didn’t even know what he was going to say.

He just knew he needed to see you.

You opened the door after the third knock, eyes widening in surprise. You looked tired — the kind of tired that came from forcing yourself to move on.

The promise ring was no longer on your finger.

“Chan?” Your voice was soft, guarded. “What are you doing here?”

He stood there in the hallway, searching your face like he always did — hoping something would click. It didn’t. Not fully. But the ache in his chest sharpened into something unbearable the moment he saw you.

“I…” He swallowed hard, voice rough from disuse and emotion. “I keep remembering things. Not big things. Just… little pieces. The oat milk. The strawberry candies. The way you always sat on my left. How you go quiet when you’re sad.” He let out a shaky breath, stepping closer.

“Every time it happens, I stop. Everything stops. Because it feels like my body remembers you even when my head doesn’t.”

You stayed silent, arms wrapped around yourself.

“I’ve been drowning in work, trying to get back on track with everything Stray Kids missed,” he continued, eyes glistening. “And it helps. It really does. But then these fragments of you keep cutting through, and I… I don’t know what to do with them. They hurt, but they also feel like the only real thing in all this mess.”

He lifted his hand like he wanted to reach for you, but let it fall.

“I know you told me to move on. I know I’m not the person who loved you before. But tonight, when I was in the studio alone, I caught myself reaching for my phone to send you a voice note. And it hit me… even without the memories, the thought of you walking away completely is tearing me apart in a way I can’t explain.”

His voice cracked, raw and desperate.

“I’m not asking you to wait forever. I’m not even asking you to love me again right now. I just… I need you to know that these little pieces of you keep finding me. And every time they do, I stop and wonder what kind of idiot I must’ve been to have someone like you and not be able to remember it.”

He looked at you, eyes pleading.

“So I came here. Because I’m scared that if I keep drowning in work and ignoring these feelings, I’ll lose the only parts of you that are still trying to come back to me.”

The hallway light flickered above you both. Chan stood there, vulnerable, no longer the confident leader who had thrown himself into schedules to forget the emptiness.

Just a man chasing fragments of a love he couldn’t fully recall — but was starting to feel all over again.

You didn’t speak right away.

The words you’d said weeks ago still hung between you — I think you should just move on. You had meant them. You still did, in a way.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to help him remember you.

God, you wanted that more than anything.

But you refused to force something he didn’t truly feel. You wouldn’t become an obligation, a task he tackled out of guilt or responsibility.

“I…” Your voice came out small. “I don’t want to push you into this, Chan. If we try, it has to be because you want it. Not because you feel like you owe me the past. Not because the members are watching or because it’s the ‘right’ thing to do. If the feelings aren’t there… if they never come back… I can’t survive watching you pretend.”

Chan’s breath hitched. He stepped closer.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m scared too. But these fragments… they keep pulling me toward you. And the thought of you walking away for good — it hurts in a place I don’t even have memories for. So yeah… I want to try. Please. Let me try.”

You searched his face for any sign of doubt. There was none — only raw, uncertain hope.

Slowly, you nodded.

The moment you did, Chan closed the distance and pulled you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest. His uninjured arm wrapped around your back with surprising strength, his face buried in your hair. For the first time since the accident, he held you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The following weeks became a careful, exhausting blur.

Stray Kids eased back into light activities now that Chan was healing well — short dance practices, vocal sessions, and group meetings where they revisited old concepts without pressure.

Chan threw himself into it with renewed fire, the small sparks of recognition coming faster now.

A familiar chord progression. The way his body instinctively knew the new choreography. Late-night studio sessions where melodies he’d half-forgotten started flowing again.

Each tiny victory lit him up, pumping him with the drive to keep going.

But every evening, he came back to you.

You helped him relearn your relationship in the gentlest, most painful way possible — piece by fragile piece.

You sat together on the couch late at night and went through old photos on your phone.

“This was the night you cooked for me,” you’d say softly, showing him a blurry selfie of burnt pancakes and both of you laughing.

He’d stare at the image, brow furrowed, then quietly ask, “Did I make you laugh like that a lot?”

You told him stories about your first real fight, how he’d shown up at your door the next day with flowers and apologies. How he used to trace little stars on your wrist when he was anxious. He listened to every word, sometimes reaching out to touch your wrist absentmindedly, as if his fingers remembered what his mind didn’t.

Small memories kept surfacing — triggered by scents, sounds, touches.

One night, while you were cooking together, he unconsciously started singing the exact silly song he used to make up for you when you were stressed. He stopped mid-verse, eyes wide, and whispered, “That was for you, wasn’t it?”

You nodded, throat tight. “Yeah… it was.”

But it wasn’t all gentle progress.

There were nights when nothing came back. Nights when he looked at you with that lingering distance, frustration and guilt etched across his face.

“I’m trying,” he’d say, voice cracking as he held your hands. “I swear I’m trying so hard. But sometimes it still feels like I’m reaching for someone else’s life. And I hate that I’m hurting you while I do it.”

You’d pull him close then, letting him bury his face in your shoulder. “I know. I’m not asking for perfect. Just… don’t force it if it’s not there.”

Yet every time he held you tight — like he had that first night at your door — something in him seemed to settle. His arms remembered the shape of you even when his mind was still catching up.

The members watched quietly, supportive but worried. Changbin would text you encouraging messages. Minho would leave snacks for both of you with a small note: Take it slow.

Chan was getting better every day — stronger, sharper, more like the leader they all knew.

The memories of Stray Kids’ recent year were slowly knitting back together.

But the memories of you came slower, softer, like fragile threads he was terrified of snapping.

Still, he kept reaching for them.

And every night, when the apartmenr grew quiet, he’d pull you into his arms again, holding you like you were the one thing anchoring him to the missing pieces of himself.

“I don’t remember all of it yet,” he whispered one night, lips brushing your temple as rain tapped against the window. “But the parts that are coming back… they feel like they belong to you. And that scares me. Because what if I remember everything… and it still doesn’t feel enough? What if I remember how much I loved you… and I can’t love you the same way again?”

You closed your eyes, heart breaking and mending at the same time in his tight embrace.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” you whispered back.

Because loving Chan had always hurt a little.

And forgetting him — even for him — hurt even more.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

In the quiet dark of his apartment room at 3 a.m.

Chan had fallen asleep exhausted after another long night of catching up on Stray Kids’ schedules.

The members were giving him space, the apartment unusually still.

He’d been replaying old voice notes on his phone — ones he didn’t remember recording — trying to force the pieces together.

His body gave out before his mind did.

In sleep, the dam finally broke.

It started as fragments, the same small ones that had been teasing him for weeks: the taste of strawberry candy on your tongue, the way you always took your coffee, the soft sound of your laugh in the empty practice room.

Then the flood came without mercy.

He saw everything.

The nervous way he’d asked you out that first time, heart pounding louder than any stage.

The rainy balcony where he’d kissed you so hard he forgot how to breathe.

The nights he’d crawl into your arms and whisper “I love you” like it was the only truth that mattered.

The promise ring, the way your fingers trembled when he slipped it on.

The way you looked at him like he was more than Stray Kids’ leader — like he was just Chan, your Chan.

Every memory slammed into him at once, vivid and merciless.

The love.

The laughter.

The fear of losing you to his idol life.

The way he’d promised you he’d always fight for “us.”

Chan woke up gasping, tears already streaming down his face before he was fully conscious. His chest heaved like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

The room spun.

His heart hurt so badly he clutched at it, nails digging into his hoodie.

He remembered.

He remembered everything.

And you weren’t here.

The realization hit harder than the accident itself — you were ten minutes away in your own apartment, probably trying to sleep after another day of quietly helping him while protecting your own breaking heart.

He had left you alone with the weight of his amnesia for weeks. He had looked at you like a stranger. He had made you say the words “maybe you should move on.”

Chan didn’t think. He didn’t change clothes. He didn’t even grab an umbrella.

He ran.

The streets were slick with rain, neon lights blurring through his tears as he sprinted the short distance between the his and your building.

His lungs burned. His legs ached from the healing bruises. But none of it mattered. The only thing that existed was the desperate need to reach you — to hold you before the guilt swallowed him whole.

He reached your door, soaked to the bone, chest heaving, knuckles slamming against the wood with shaking hands.

You opened it after the third frantic knock, eyes wide with worry, still in your pajamas, hair messy from sleep.

“Chan? What’s wrong? Are you okay—”

The moment he saw your face, the face he now remembered loving with every fiber of his being, something inside him shattered.

He lunged forward without a word.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it lifted you slightly off the ground. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, body trembling violently as broken sobs tore from his throat. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto your shoulder, mixing with his tears.

“I remember,” he choked out, voice raw and cracking. “I remember everything. Oh God, baby… I remember.”

His hold tightened, almost desperate, like he was afraid if he let go even an inch you would disappear the way his memories had. His fingers dug into your back, clutching the fabric of your shirt as if it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed, the words muffled against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry I forgot you. I forgot us. I forgot how you sound when you laugh, how you feel in my arms at 4 a.m., how you made the whole world quiet for me. I looked at you like you were nothing and you stayed. You stayed even when I didn’t deserve it.”

He pressed his wet cheek harder against yours, lips brushing your ear as more tears fell.

“I remember the roof. The ring. The way I promised you I’d never let you feel alone. I remember loving you so much it terrified me because I thought being an idol would take it away… and then it did. It took me away from you.”

His voice broke completely, shoulders shaking with the force of his cries.

“Don’t let me go,” he begged, holding you even tighter, rocking you both gently in the doorway. “Please. I know I hurt you. I know I made you think you were forgettable when you were the best thing that ever happened to me. But I’m here now. I’m me again. And I love you. I love you so much it hurts.”

He pulled back just enough to cup your face with both cold, trembling hands, thumbs desperately wiping at your tears even as his own kept falling.

His eyes — red, swollen, but finally, achingly familiar — locked onto yours with devastating clarity.

“I’m home,” he whispered, voice hoarse and shattered. “I came home to you.”

Chan looked at you — really look at you — his hands still cupping your face like you were something fragile and irreplaceable. His eyes, red and swollen from crying, searched yours with a depth that hadn’t been there for weeks.

No more polite distance. No more careful stranger.

Just raw, devastating recognition.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate — the kind of kiss that tasted like relief and regret and eight months of love he’d lost and suddenly found again. His lips pressed to yours with trembling intensity, salty from the tears still streaming down his cheeks.

More tears fell as he kissed you, hot and endless, mixing with the rainwater on his skin.

He made a broken sound against your mouth, half-sob, half-whisper of your name.

The moment your lips met, something deeper unlocked inside him. More memories flooded in, sharper and more vivid than before.

The way you used to kiss him backstage after stressful performances — quick and secret, just enough to ground him. The slow, lazy kisses on lazy mornings when he’d sneak you into his bed. The way you tasted when you smiled into his mouth. The way your fingers always found the back of his neck, pulling him closer like you never wanted to let go.

His heart ached in the best and worst way possible — a beautiful, crushing ache that reminded him exactly how much he had loved you, how much he still loved you, and how terrifyingly close he had come to losing it all forever.

He kissed you harder, tilting his head, pouring every unspoken apology and every recovered memory into it. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, wiping away your tears even as his own kept falling.

When he finally pulled back for air, forehead resting against yours, his breathing was ragged and his voice came out wrecked.

“I feel it,” he whispered, lips brushing yours with every word. “I feel everything again.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek and landed on your lips. He kissed it away immediately, soft and reverent, then kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to memorize the feeling all over again.

“I’m so sorry I made you wait,” he murmured between kisses, voice thick and trembling. “I’m so sorry I looked at you like you were someone I didn’t know. You were my everything. You are my everything.”

He held your face a little tighter, eyes squeezing shut as fresh tears spilled. The ache in his chest bloomed wider — not painful in a bad way, but overwhelming in its intensity.

Love. Guilt. Gratitude. Longing.

All of it crashing through him at once because of one kiss.

“I love you,” he breathed against your mouth, the words shaky but certain. “I love you so much it hurts right now. In the best way. Like my heart is finally waking up and it’s screaming because it missed you this whole time.”

He kissed you once more, lingering, pouring every recovered memory and every new feeling into it. His arms wrapped around you again, pulling you flush against his soaked body as if he could fuse the two of you together so nothing could ever separate you again.

In the quiet doorway, with rain drumming against the walls and tears still falling freely, Chan held you and kissed you like a man who had been given back his entire world — aching, grateful, and terrified of ever forgetting again.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The rain had finally stopped by morning, leaving the world outside your apartment quiet and washed clean.

Chan woke first, just like he used to.

Soft morning light filtered through the curtains, painting your bedroom in gentle hues of gold and pale pink. He lay still for a long moment, heart full and aching at the same time, simply watching you.

You were curled tightly into his side, face pressed against his chest, one leg draped over his, your hand fisted loosely in the front of his hoodie like even in sleep you were afraid he might slip away again. Your breathing was slow and even, warm against his collarbone.

Everything from last night came rushing back — the flood of memories, the desperate run through the rain, the way he had lunged into your arms crying, the kisses that tasted like tears and second chances.

His chest tightened with overwhelming gratitude.

He didn’t move to wake you. Instead, his hand found the curve of your back and began stroking slow, soothing lines up and down your spine — the exact gentle rhythm he used to use when you couldn’t sleep after a long day.

His fingers were careful, reverent, tracing every dip and rise like he was relearning the map of you.

With his other hand, he threaded through your hair, playing with the strands, twisting a lock around his finger before letting it fall softly.

He pressed a feather-light kiss to the top of your head, then another to your forehead, his lips lingering as if he could pour every ounce of love and apology into your skin.

“I’m here,” he whispered against your hair, voice low and hoarse from last night’s tears. “I’m right here, baby. I remember you. I remember everything now.”

He kissed your temple, then the bridge of your nose, then the corner of your closed eye where a dried tear track still lingered.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” he breathed, lips brushing your cheek. “Thank you for staying even when I looked at you like a stranger. You’re so strong… so patient. I don’t deserve you, but God, I’m so grateful I have you back.”

Another kiss, this time to your jaw, then just below your ear — random, tender presses wherever his lips could reach without waking you.

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses, the words spilling out like a quiet vow. “I love you so much it still hurts in the best way. You’re my safe place. The only one who makes the noise in my head stop. I missed you even when I didn’t know how to miss you.”

His fingers kept stroking your back in slow circles, while his other hand continued playing gently with your hair. He nuzzled closer, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head, then your shoulder, then the spot where your neck met your collarbone.

“You make me want to be better,” he whispered. “Not just for Stray Kids. For you. I promise I’ll never take this — take us — for granted again. Never.”

You stirred then, a soft sound escaping you as consciousness slowly returned. Your body shifted against his, eyes fluttering open, still heavy with sleep.

The second you moved, Chan tightened his hold, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. Both arms locked around you protectively — one hand still buried in your hair, the other splayed wide across your back as if he could shield you from every painful week you’d endured.

“Shh… don’t go anywhere,” he murmured, voice warm and thick with emotion, lips brushing your forehead again. He pressed another kiss there, then to your temple, holding you tighter as you fully woke in his arms.

“Stay right here with me. Just a little longer. I’ve got you.”

His fingers resumed their gentle strokes along your back, playing with your hair, while he scattered more random kisses — your cheek, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth — each one soft and full of quiet joy.

“I’m so happy,” he whispered against your skin, voice cracking just slightly. “I’m so happy I remember. I’m so happy you’re mine again.”

He held you like that, tight and unwavering, heart beating steady and full against yours — grateful, happy, and finally home.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

⤷ ゛ TAGLIST ˎˊ˗

You existed in the spaces between things.

You existed in the quiet sigh you released when Mr. Harrison asked, for the third time this week, if you could please help him organize the papers. You existed in the thin, nearly-invisible line where your notes ended and a classmate’s hurried transcription began—notes that would be returned to you with barely a nod, if at all. You were dependable, a fixed point in the chaotic school day, but you were never truly seen. To them, you were an extension of a task, a resource to be used and forgotten. It was a familiar, dull ache that settled in your bones, a quiet resentment that you refused to let surface. You were a good person, you told yourself, and good people did these things. You smiled, you nodded, you said, “Of course,” and you watched the world move on without you.

Your friends, Mira, Asha, and Dev, were the only ones who saw the pattern. They adored you fiercely, and their love was a blanket that you could hide under when the cold indifference of others became too much.

"Eat, you're too nice for your own good," Dev would say at lunch, shoving his container of fries toward you. It was his way of feeding you warmth, of acknowledging the quiet exhaustion that lived in your eyes.

You'd laugh it off, batting his hand away with a gentle smile. “It’s fine, Dev, really. I don’t mind.” But you did. You minded the way the world seemed to take and just take from you, leaving you with a hollow space inside. You minded being the invisible one, the girl whose name was only spoken when a favor was needed.

From across the cafeteria, you could see the sun. His name was Christopher Bahng. He was the nucleus of the entire school, surrounded by a constant, buzzing orbit of friends and admirers. His laugh was a loud, joyous sound that echoed off the walls. The soccer team chanted his name, their voices a triumphant symphony, and he would grin, his face bright with an easy, unburdened confidence that you had never known. He moved with a loud grace that seemed to defy the ordinary rules of physics, and you watched him from the quiet corners of your world, a world of half-eaten sandwiches and neatly organized papers. You were the moon, he was the sun. The thought made you feel both small and safe, as if the immense distance between you was a protective force. He was too bright, too brilliant for someone who spent her life in the shadows.

But the universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

He saw you.

It wasn't when you were helping with the papers, or when you were lending your notes. It was after everyone had left the lunch tables, leaving behind a battlefield of crumpled napkins, empty water bottles, and discarded wrappers. It was a mess that nobody, least of all the captain of the soccer team, would ever think to touch. But you saw it, and the sight of it, left to fester, was a small wrong that you felt compelled to make right.

You moved quietly, your hands working with a practiced, almost automatic rhythm. You collected the trash, your eyes downcast, a quiet, mournful ghost gliding through the empty space. Christopher, however, was still there, leaning against a locker, talking to a few remaining friends. He wasn’t watching the conversation; he was watching you.

The question formed in his mind, sharp and insistent. Why is she always cleaning up when no one else cares? It was a small, almost insignificant action, yet it was the first time he had truly noticed you as a person, and not just as another face in the crowd. Your quiet, unassuming dependability was an anomaly to him, a stark contrast to the loud, demanding world he lived in.

He said something to his friends, a quick goodbye, his eyes never leaving your back. A nervous energy hummed in his veins, an unknown curiosity that he couldn't explain. He watched you finish your task, your shoulders a little slumped, and then you were gone, melting back into the silent hallways.

The next day, it happened. The first real interaction.

The bell had just rung, and the classroom was a chaotic sea of chatter and motion. You were packing your backpack, trying to shrink into the corner of your desk, when you saw it. A pen, a simple black pen with a silver clip, had rolled off Christopher's desk and lay forgotten on the floor. It was nothing, a small object that he probably had ten of, but a small part of you felt a pull to return it. It was what you did. You were the one who made things right.

You walked over, the noise of the room seeming to grow louder with every step. You picked up the pen, your hand trembling slightly, and you tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, his face a bright, warm surprise that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"Hey," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the din. You held the pen out to him, your eyes fixed on his chin, unable to meet his gaze.

A slow smile, different from his usual brilliant one, spread across his face. It was a gentler, more genuine smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. He took the pen from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting moment that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Thanks," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "Didn't think anyone noticed."

The words hit you with the force of a tidal wave. They were so simple, so small, but they were the words you had been waiting to hear your entire life. Someone noticed. You couldn't handle the weight of that sincerity. You simply nodded awkwardly, your face flaming, and fled the classroom before you could overthink it.

You were halfway down the hallway, your heart still pounding, when you heard Mira's voice behind you. "Ohhh, the captain noticed you."

You scoffed, the sound shaky. "Don't be ridiculous. He's just being polite." The lie felt sour on your tongue. You wanted to believe it, you needed to believe it, because the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.

Across the hall, Christopher leaned against a locker, a small smile on his face. He replayed the moment in his mind, your shy smile, the way you had looked at him before you ran. He sensed something genuine about you, something quiet and unassuming and utterly real, and it was a stark contrast to the endless demands for his attention that he was so used to. He couldn’t explain why he was so curious. He didn't know your name, but he knew your hands were gentle and your heart was honest. And thus, curiosity, a strange and insistent feeling, planted the first seed in his mind.

That night, lying in bed, you replayed the moment in your mind. The brush of his fingers, the look in his eyes, the simple words that had meant so much. You told yourself it was nothing, that he was just being nice, that you were overthinking it. But a small, hopeful part of you, a part you had long forgotten, couldn't help but wonder. Was it possible that you, the invisible one, had finally been seen? And in a different part of town, Christopher lay awake, his mind replaying the moment, his chest filled with a strange, new feeling he couldn't quite name...

--- x ---

You were a walking library, a mobile fortress of books held together by sheer hope and the delicate balance of your chin resting precariously on the top one. It was a strategy born from a desire to carry everything in one trip and avoid a second interaction with the gruff librarian. Your arms ached under the weight of the novels and research materials, but you were so close. Just a few more feet and you would be free.

Then, the world tilted.

A loud, familiar laugh cut through the hallway noise, followed by the clatter of cleats and the energetic chatter of the soccer team. In the seconds before impact, you knew exactly who it was. The sun, Christopher Bahng, was heading your way, too absorbed in his conversation to notice the human pile of paper in his path.

You braced yourself, but it was no use. The collision was a soft thud followed by a loud, echoing crash as your fortress came tumbling down. Books scattered everywhere, their spines splayed open, pages fluttering like startled birds. You felt a flash of mortified panic, a heat that rushed to your face as you knelt immediately, desperate to gather your life before anyone could notice the quiet girl who had just caused a scene.

"Oh no—sorry, sorry!" a voice exclaimed, and you didn't even have to look up to know it was him. "Let me help."

He was kneeling on the cold floor beside you, his presence filling the space with an energy you were not used to. His voice was soft, genuinely apologetic, and for a moment, you forgot to be embarrassed. Your hands, however, were still frantic, darting from book to book. Your fingers brushed his as you both reached for the same worn copy of Pride and Prejudice.

It was a small, fleeting contact, but it felt like an electric shock. The touch was warm and solid, and you quickly pulled your hand away, muttering, "It's fine, don't worry." You focused on grabbing the remaining books, not daring to look at him. You could feel his eyes on you, his frown as he noticed your avoidance, the way you were trying to shrink in on yourself. The silence was louder than the laughter and chatter that surrounded you, and you couldn't stand it. You gathered your books, clutched them to your chest, and stood, muttering another quick "Thanks," before hurrying away, your cheeks still burning.

Christopher watched you go, his brow furrowed. He had been expecting a scolding, a sigh of annoyance, a loud protest. But all he got was a quiet apology and a hasty retreat. At soccer practice later, his friends noticed his distracted air.

"What's with you, Chris? Why'd you bother with her? She's weird," one of them said, laughing.

Christopher snapped back without thinking. "She's not weird. She's just… different." The words hung in the air, a defense he hadn't planned on, and he realized with a jolt that he meant them. She was different. Unlike everyone else, she didn't want his attention or his apologies. She wanted to be left alone, and that, more than anything, intrigued him.

His curiosity grew into a conscious effort. He started noticing where you sat in class. You were always at the edge, the last desk in the last row, a sentinel guarding your own quiet solitude. He saw you scribbling notes with a meticulous hand, and when you thought no one was looking, you would doodle. Your pen would move across the page, creating intricate patterns and small, detailed sketches that seemed to tell an entire story.

One day, he couldn't take it anymore. You were alone, as usual, doodling while you waited for the next class to start. He walked over, his heart pounding a little too fast, and stood by your desk. "You like drawing?" he asked, his voice low.

You froze, your pen still, your hand hovering over the paper. The question was so simple, so direct, that it caught you completely off guard. You quickly covered your notebook with your arm. "It's nothing," you stammered. "Just… passing time."

He smiled, a gentle, understanding expression. "Well, it looks cool. A lot better than my stick figures."

You looked up at him, a flicker of surprise in your eyes. He wasn't teasing you. His smile was warm, and his gaze was sincere. The tension in your shoulders lessened, and a small, unexpected laugh escaped you—your first laugh around him. It was a soft, melodious sound, and Christopher felt his heart stutter in his chest. His cheeks flushed, a warmth spreading through him as he realized, with a sense of pure, innocent panic, God, why is her laugh so cute?

You immediately regretted laughing. You brushed it off as him being nice, a simple gesture from a genuinely kind person. He was, after all, Christopher Bahng, the sun, and you were just… you.

But you were wrong. Across the room, Mira noticed him looking over at you often now, a different look in his eyes than the one he used for everyone else. "You sure he's not staring?" she asked you later.

"No," you insisted, scoffing at the thought. "Guys like him don't look at girls like me." You had built your walls high, and you had no intention of letting them fall.

That night, alone in his room, Christopher sat at his desk. He wasn't thinking about soccer practice or the upcoming game. He was thinking about you, about your shy smile and that quiet, unexpected laugh. He opened his notebook, the one filled with messy song lyrics and ideas, and found himself copying your doodle from memory, your intricate patterns filling the margin. He didn't even realize he was smiling at it, a genuine, content grin that only appeared when no one else was watching. The invisible girl was becoming more visible to him every single day. And he, the sun, was drawing her world into his.

Your friends were your shield, your protectors, and the first line of defense against a world that you had learned to navigate with quiet caution. They had watched the subtle shifts in Christopher's behavior—the lingering glances, the soft smiles, the way he seemed to gravitate to your orbit—and their suspicions had reached a boiling point. They were not malicious, just fiercely protective. They had seen too many people take advantage of you. They had seen the way your light dimmed each time someone took without giving, each time your kindness was mistaken for weakness. Their love for you was a wall, and now, someone was trying to breach it. They were not going to let him pass without a fight.

One afternoon, Asha decided to act on it. She was blunt and brave in a way you couldn't be, armed with a fierce loyalty that left no room for subtlety. She found Christopher by the vending machines, his attention momentarily absorbed in choosing a drink. Dev stood by her side, a silent, unyielding presence, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his posture radiating a quiet but firm disapproval.

"What's your deal with her?" Asha began, her voice low and direct, meant to be heard only by the three of them. "Is this some bet? Some joke?"

The question hung in the air like a storm cloud, thick with accusation. Christopher, who had been humming a song under his breath, froze. The easy, friendly warmth that had been a permanent fixture on his face for weeks vanished, replaced by a coldness that made his eyes go flat. He had expected this. He knew people would talk, would assume the worst, but hearing it directly from your friends—from the people who loved you—stung him more than he could have anticipated. It was an accusation that went deeper than just him; it was an insult to you, and he felt a flash of white-hot anger at the thought.

"What? No," he said, the words sharp with frustration. "Why would you even think that?"

Dev stepped forward, his voice a low rumble, the words a painful confirmation of your deepest insecurities. "You're the soccer captain, Christopher. You're… you. People like you don't notice people like her unless it's for fun. Or unless you need something from her." It wasn't just a warning. It was a statement about the way the world worked, about the rigid social hierarchy that kept everyone in their place. It was a line drawn in the sand, one you had always instinctively known not to cross.

Christopher's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping in his cheek. He hated the way they were categorizing you, as if you were some quiet, insignificant project he had stumbled upon, a new toy to entertain him. He had spent his life navigating a world of people who wanted something from him—his influence, his attention, his popularity. You were the first person who seemed to want nothing at all, the first one who saw him as just another person, and it was a relief he hadn't known he was craving. He hated that they couldn't see that.

"She's not a joke," he said, his voice firm and unwavering, each word a stone-cold promise. "She's… someone I actually want to know."

Asha and Dev exchanged a look, half-suspicious, half-surprised. The sincerity in his tone was hard to dismiss. He saw their hesitation and pushed on, an almost desperate urgency in his voice. "She means a lot more than you think. Even if she doesn't realize it." With that, he turned and walked away, the weight of his words hanging in the tense, silent air.

Later that afternoon, Asha reported back to you, her voice a mix of disbelief and grudging respect. You were organizing your locker, your head down, trying to disappear into the familiar rhythm of the school day. "He didn't deny it," she said, her eyes wide. "He's serious."

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, hummingbird beat that made it hard to breathe. Your hands, which had been neatly stacking books, froze. "Please," you scoffed, your voice shaky, a desperate attempt to sound nonchalant. "Christopher Bahng? No. Don't play with me." The thought was absurd, a ridiculous fantasy that you refused to entertain. You had spent so long building your walls, reinforcing the idea that you were not someone who could be seen, let alone wanted, by a boy like him. The idea that he might genuinely be interested was more terrifying than the thought that he was just playing a cruel joke. At least with a joke, you knew the end was coming. But a genuine connection? That was a vulnerability you didn't know how to handle. But the seed of doubt Asha had planted, a tiny, persistent thing, shook the foundation of your well-guarded walls.

Meanwhile, Christopher was restless. The confrontation with your friends had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He was used to people wanting things from him, but their assumption that he would use you for a joke was a new kind of low. He hated that they saw him that way, and he hated even more that they saw you as someone who could be so easily dismissed. The anger simmered in his chest, a constant, low-level burn that he couldn't shake.

At practice, his frustration bubbled over. His friends, oblivious to the confrontation and the emotional weight he was carrying, teased him relentlessly. "Got a new project, Captain?" one of them would say, nudging him in the ribs. "What's the goal with this one, anyway?"

"She's not a project. Shut up," Christopher snapped, his voice venomous, his eyes dark with a rage that was entirely disproportionate to the comment. His sudden, brutal anger shocked them, and they fell silent, their confused stares a new kind of pressure. He realized then that he was more protective of you than he thought. The thought of anyone seeing you as a joke, as a project, filled him with a quiet, simmering rage that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

He needed to show them. He needed to show the world. And more importantly, he needed to show you.

The next day at lunch, you noticed it immediately. The noise of the cafeteria, the blur of faces—it all seemed to quiet as you saw him. He was walking toward your table, not with a soccer player's confident swagger, but with an almost hesitant, purposeful stride. He didn’t sit with his teammates. He sat with you and your friends, sliding into the empty spot next to Dev, a subtle but monumental shift in the social landscape of the entire school.

He started small, a gentle infiltration into your world. He joked with Dev about soccer drills, the two of them a surprisingly easy pair. He learned Mira's favorite song, humming a few bars to get a genuine smile out of her. He even engaged in Asha's sarcastic banter, his own wit a match for her sharp tongue. He was trying to show your friends, I'm not here to hurt her. His eyes, however, kept finding yours, and in them, you saw a sincerity that you were terrified to believe.

You watched him, your mind a whirlwind of confusion. Why me? you thought. Out of everyone here, out of all the people who would fall at his feet, why me? You kept your gaze fixed on your plate, your heart a frantic drumbeat in your chest. His presence was a constant, unsettling force, a reminder that the quiet, predictable life you had built for yourself was now in danger of being torn apart.

Christopher, on the other hand, had a different thought. He saw you, sitting there, your shoulders a little tense, your eyes still holding that beautiful, quiet sadness. He saw the way you listened to your friends, the way your small smiles were so genuine. He saw you as you truly were, stripped of the pretense and performance that defined the world around him. He was exhausted by the constant need to be perfect, to be the charismatic leader everyone expected him to be. And in your quiet existence, he found a profound sense of peace.

In his mind, the answer was simple, the most honest truth he had ever known. Because you’re real. And that's all I've ever wanted.

The universe, in its own strange way, seemed to be conspiring to bring you together. The sky, a bruised tapestry of purple and grey, opened up with a torrential downpour, a sudden and violent wash of rain that canceled soccer practice and stranded Christopher inside the school's quiet sanctuary. You, however, had nowhere to be but the library. The storm was a symphony that muted the frantic energy of the hallways, and the rain-lashed windows provided a perfect backdrop for your sketching. It was your element, a world of quiet contemplation where you could exist without the demanding, watchful eyes of others.

You were completely lost in your own world, a world of intricate lines and gentle curves. Your pen moved across the paper with a practiced, almost subconscious grace, the tip leaving a delicate trail of graphite in its wake. The rain hammered against the glass, a rhythmic drumbeat that lulled you into a meditative state. You didn't even hear him approach, his usual loud, confident stride replaced with a careful, quiet grace that you had never known he possessed.

He simply pulled up a chair and sat near you, the silence between you a soft, comfortable blanket that was a stark contrast to the storm outside. He was not the loud, boisterous captain of the soccer team you knew from the hallways. He was just Christopher, a boy with damp hair that clung to his forehead and a restless energy that seemed to quiet the moment he sat down. He wasn't reaching for you, or demanding anything from you. He was just… there.

"Show me?" he asked, his voice a low, gentle rumble that was barely audible over the sound of the rain.

You froze, your pen still, your hand hovering over the paper. The question was a simple one, but it felt impossibly heavy, weighted with all the unspoken things that had passed between you. It was one thing for your friends to see your doodles, but for him, the sun, to ask? Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, nervous beat that made your hands tremble. The act of sharing your art was an act of profound vulnerability, a laying bare of your inner world. You hesitated, the walls you had so carefully constructed threatening to crumble. But something in his gaze, a quiet sincerity that you were beginning to recognize, made you give in. You flipped the page reluctantly, revealing a detailed sketch of an old, gnarled tree, its roots twisting like a forgotten symphony and its branches reaching into a dark, stormy sky.

He stared, genuinely amazed. He didn't just glance at it; he truly looked at it, his eyes tracing every line, every shadow, every intricate detail you had poured your soul into. The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was an appreciative, thoughtful silence, not an awkward, painful one. "This is… beautiful," he said, his voice a whisper of pure awe.

You laughed, a nervous, almost self-deprecating sound. "It's just lines on paper." The words were a defense mechanism, a way to deflect the vulnerability you felt. You weren't a great artist, just a girl with a sketchbook and a lot of quiet hours to fill. You didn't want him to think it was more than it was.

He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on your drawing. "No," he said, and his voice was so firm, so sure, that you believed him. "It's not just lines. It's you. Quiet, but… it says so much." His words were a mirror, and you saw yourself reflected in them in a way you had never done before. He wasn't seeing just the drawing; he was seeing the emotions behind it—the loneliness, the resilience, the quiet strength.

His words made your cheeks warm with a blush that you couldn't control. You looked away, your gaze fixed on the rain streaming down the window, a desperate attempt to hide the raw emotion on your face.

He seemed to sense your discomfort because he didn't push. Instead, he pulled out his own notebook, the one you had so briefly seen on the day of the book collision. He flipped it open to a page filled with messy, frantic song lyrics, words scribbled in the margins, and an energy that was palpable. "Don't laugh," he said, a genuine nervousness in his voice that made him sound so much younger, so much more vulnerable than you had ever thought possible. "It's rough."

You took the notebook, your fingers brushing his as he passed it to you, a now familiar shiver running down your arm. You read the lyrics softly, and your eyes widened as you read his words. They were raw and honest and filled with a quiet melancholy that was so completely at odds with the loud, charismatic person he presented to the world. They were filled with loneliness and the pressure to be someone he wasn't, to constantly perform. You looked at the words and you looked at him, your gaze filled with a new kind of understanding. "This… this is you, isn't it?"

He nodded, a vulnerable, almost shy expression on his face. "Yeah. No one else sees this stuff."

And in that moment, the world shifted. You realized you were seeing a side of him that no one else had—the boy who wrote poetry and music in the quiet moments between soccer games and loud laughter. He was more than the loud, bright sun. He was a universe of his own, filled with a quiet, introspective sadness you recognized. He had given you a glimpse of it, a silent invitation into his world, and in turn, he had shown you that he truly saw yours.

He relaxed around you, the conversation flowing as naturally as the rain outside. He talked about music, about late-night walks, about the quiet pressure he felt to be perfect all the time. He talked about the loneliness that came with being everyone's idol, the constant feeling that people loved the idea of him, but never the real person. You listened without judgment, a quiet, non-demanding presence that he seemed to crave. He didn't have to be anything for you. He could just be Christopher.

A comfortable silence fell between you, a heavy, warm quiet that was a far cry from the awkward silences you were used to. The air was thick with unsaid things, with the growing weight of your shared vulnerabilities. It felt like a safe space, an emotional bunker you had both unknowingly built.

He broke the silence, his voice a low, almost surprised whisper. "You’re easy to talk to. Like I don’t have to perform."

You smiled softly, the feeling a foreign but welcome one. "Maybe that's because I don't expect anything."

He caught himself staring at you again, his pulse quickening as he realized how much he craved your quiet presence. His eyes, dark and searching, held yours for a moment, and you felt your own breath catch in your throat. He wasn't just looking at you; he was studying you, as if committing every detail to memory.

He leaned in, his voice barely audible, as if he were saying a secret to himself. "Yeah… that’s why I like being here."

You didn't catch it. The words were a whisper, and your mind was too busy unraveling the mess of emotions you were feeling to pay attention. But across the room, tucked away behind a row of bookshelves, Mira saw the way he was looking at you. She saw the genuine warmth in his eyes, the soft smile on his face, the quiet intensity of his gaze. And she knew, without a doubt, that he wasn't just being polite. He was falling. And you, oblivious and caught in your own walls, had no idea.

The afternoon sun, a tired and golden light, slanted through the tall classroom windows, casting long, dusty stripes across the desks. It was the last period of the day, a collective, heavy silence that had settled over the entire class like a thick blanket. The low, incessant hum of the air conditioning was the only thing keeping most of you from falling completely asleep. Your pen had slowed to a near halt, your notes a jumble of half-finished thoughts and a series of geometric shapes that were slowly turning into something more intricate—a castle of polygons, a fortress built from your own fatigue. You were tired, the day's constant, quiet performance of being “fine” weighing you down in a way that felt physical.

Mr. Peterson, your math teacher, was a kind man who had a penchant for terrible puns. He had just finished explaining a particularly complex algebraic equation when he paused, a mischievous glint in his eye that you recognized with a tired sigh. “Now, remember,” he said, drawing out the words in a slow, dramatic fashion, “an angle is acute when it’s so… little.” He paused for a beat knowing he was giving the most useless and known information out ther, but with a hopeful smile on his face, waiting for a laugh that never came.

A collective, exhausted silence followed. A few people offered a courtesy chuckle, a polite gesture from a class that was too tired to do anything else. But for the most part, the joke landed with a thud, a hollow, echoing sound in the quiet room. You, however, had your own brand of quiet humor, one born from a lifetime of internal monologues. Without thinking, the words slipped out, a soft, self-deprecating murmur under your breath that was meant only for yourself. “Well, at least the numbers and angles are more balanced than my life.”

Next to you, Mira snorted, a sharp, surprised sound that she quickly tried to stifle with a hand over her mouth. But from a few rows ahead, a sound so explosive and unexpected it made the entire class jump erupted from the back of the room. It was Christopher Bahng, and he was laughing. Not his usual loud, boisterous, soccer captain laugh, but a genuine, unrestrained sound that started as a choked gasp and ended in a full-throated, joyous roar. His laugh was a waterfall of pure, unadulterated amusement, and it seemed to break the very silence of the room.

Every single person turned, their eyes wide with shock. Christopher never laughed like that. He was a constant source of effortless cool, a controlled smile always in place, but this was different. He was laughing so hard that tears were starting to well in the corners of his eyes, his shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to contain it. He felt the heat rise to his ears, the flush of embarrassment spreading across his neck, and he quickly tried to quiet down, pressing a hand over his mouth, his chest still heaving with silent giggles.

You, meanwhile, felt a wave of mortification wash over you. Your joke was meant for you and Mira. It was a joke for the invisible, a shared moment of dark humor that was meant to exist only in the shadows. It was not meant for the sun. You felt your face burn as you looked at him, your voice barely a whisper. “…It wasn’t that funny.”

He shook his head, still trying to catch his breath. His eyes, when they finally met yours, were sparkling with a light you had never seen before—a light of pure, unvarnished delight. "No—it was," he managed, his voice still thick with laughter. "It was. You’re funny. Like… stupid funny."

The words were so sincere, so honest in their clunky delivery, that they left you speechless. He wasn’t mocking you. He was genuinely, truly, hilariously impressed. You hid your face in your hands, the embarrassment almost unbearable. It wasn't just that he had laughed; it was that he had laughed at your joke, a joke that was so inherently you, so personal and quiet. It was the most seen you had ever felt.

For the rest of the day, the image of your laughing face was burned into his mind. He found himself grinning at random moments, a warmth spreading through his chest every time the memory of your whispered joke and your startled, embarrassed laugh replayed in his head. The weight of his world seemed to lift, replaced by a simple, joyous lightness. He was so used to hearing jokes that were loud and obvious, jokes that were meant to be heard and appreciated by a crowd. But your joke was a quiet whisper, a small, perfect thing that only he had been able to catch.

At soccer practice, his focus was gone. He missed a simple pass, something he never did, and the ball rolled harmlessly out of bounds, his teammate yelling in frustration. Christopher barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere, lost in a quiet classroom with the afternoon sun slanting through the windows. He couldn't concentrate. He was usually so precise, his movements sharp and calculated, but today he felt clumsy, his feet tangled in a way he couldn't explain.

His teammate, sensing something was wrong, came over, his expression concerned. "Yo, what's with you, Chris? You've been off all day."

Christopher shook his head, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just tired.” But in his mind, it wasn't the heat or the drills or the pressure that had him distracted. It was the sound of your laugh, a quiet, unexpected melody that he couldn’t get out of his head. He replayed the entire conversation, the way you had looked at him, the way your eyes had widened when he called you "stupid funny."

That night, he was restless, unable to focus on his homework. He couldn't shake the memory of your joke, the way it had broken through his composure. It wasn't just funny; it was real, and it was a glimpse into your world that he desperately wanted to know more about. He pulled out his phone, his fingers hovering over his contact list, before finally landing on Mira's name.

He texted her, a simple, direct question. “What kind of jokes does she usually make?”

The reply came back almost instantly, a string of emojis and a knowing, teasing line. “Oh, so the Captain is interested, huh?”

He groaned aloud, but he didn’t deny it. He couldn't. He knew there was no going back. The seed of curiosity had blossomed into a full-blown obsession, a need to know you, to see you, to hear your quiet wit. He wanted to hear you laugh again, and he knew, with a sudden, startling clarity, that he was the reason for it.

The next day, he sat by your group again at lunch. You saw him coming, and you knew exactly what he was doing. You rolled your eyes, a half-playful, half-serious gesture. “Why are you here again?”

He grinned, a playful glint in his eyes as he leaned forward, his voice a low, teasing whisper. “Waiting for my daily dumb joke.”

You stared at him, your defenses crumbling. You had no witty comeback, no sarcastic retort. You were completely disarmed by his directness, by the way he was so shamelessly, openly, and playfully invading your space. You stared back, your expression a mixture of surprise and confusion, and for a fleeting moment, he was flustered, the tables turned on him.

From across the table, Dev muttered, shaking his head with a resigned smile. “God, he’s whipped already.”

Christopher laughed, the sound easy and genuine, but deep down, a profound and startling realization settled over him. He wasn't just curious about you anymore. The crush he had been fighting, the attraction he had been denying—it was all so much bigger than he had ever thought. He was in too deep. And with a silent sense of relief and quiet panic, he realized that he was falling.

The easy, comfortable silence between you and Christopher became something else entirely. It became a public, unspoken language that those who were paying attention could read with alarming clarity. What started as quiet moments in the library and whispered jokes in the back of the classroom had blossomed into something more tangible, a physical orbit you couldn't seem to escape, nor did you truly want to.

It started with small things, so subtle you almost didn't register them as new. You would be gathering your books at the end of class, your shoulders already aching from the day’s weight, and he would simply be there, leaning against the doorframe as if he’d been waiting for you all along. His presence was a subtle shift in the air, a warmth that you felt before you even saw him. "Heading to the library?" he'd ask, his hands in his pockets, a casual smile on his face that was anything but. You would shake your head, muttering, "Just to my locker." He would shrug, his grin widening, and say, "Cool. I’ll walk with you." He made it sound like a happy coincidence, a convenient overlap in your schedules, but you knew, with a quiet, certain part of your heart, that it was a deliberate choice to insert himself into your world. His presence was a warm blanket you didn’t know you were cold without, and you had grown to crave the quiet rhythm of his stride beside yours, the comfortable way he would fill the silence with the sound of his voice, talking about music, about late-night walks, about the mundane pressures of his life.

One afternoon, your arms were heavy with a stack of textbooks that felt particularly unforgiving. The weight was a physical manifestation of your exhaustion, the kind that made your shoulders ache and your knuckles white. He saw you struggling from across the hall and jogged over, his hands reaching for the books without a moment of hesitation. "Here," he said, his voice soft, as if you were a fragile thing that could break. "Let me help."

You flinched back, your grip on the books tightening so much your fingers went numb. The thought of him carrying your things, of the two of you walking together, was too much. It was too visible, too blatant a display of… something you couldn't even name. You couldn't handle the inevitable stares and whispers, the way their curious, judgmental eyes would follow you both. "No, it’s fine," you protested, your voice a little shaky. "I’ve got it."

He stopped, his brow furrowed in confusion. A fleeting look of hurt crossed his face before he masked it with a light, teasing smile. "What? You think I’ll drop them?" he joked, trying to lighten the tension.

You shook your head, your eyes fixed on a spot on the floor just past his shoulder. The words came out in a rush, a quiet admission of your deepest fear. "No… I just don’t want people staring."

The easy smile on his face faltered, replaced by a quiet understanding that was more devastating than any anger. He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the crowded hallway, and he saw it. He saw the subtle, knowing looks, the small groups of people whose eyes followed your every move, like a flock of vultures circling a single, vulnerable bird. He saw the hushed conversations, the way they would suddenly fall silent as you passed. He saw it all, and it made him angry, a hot, protective rage that he had to swallow down. He lowered his hand, the offer of help rescinded, and simply walked beside you in silence, his presence a solid, unyielding wall against their prying eyes. Because you were right. People were staring.

The whispers started small, a low, buzzing static in the background of your life that slowly began to crescendo. You heard them in the hallways, in the crowded cafeteria, and in the worst place of all—the bathroom. You were washing your hands, your gaze fixed on your reflection, the tired girl with the kind eyes staring back at you. Two girls walked in, their voices pitched low, their words a knife twisting in your chest.

“Did you see Christopher with her?” one of them whispered, her voice laced with a mixture of envy and disbelief. “I just… don’t get it. Like, why her? She’s so…” a long, cruel pause, a searching for the right word. “…plain.”

The word, when it came, was a poison in the air. It was spoken with such casual cruelty, such a careless lack of concern for the person it was describing. "I mean, she’s nice and all, but she just… blends in."

The other girl laughed, a brittle, sharp sound. "He’s just being nice, you know? He’s the Captain. He’s always being polite. She’s probably just reading too much into it."

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. You felt your chest tighten, a familiar, agonizing pain that you had spent your life trying to ignore. You had always known you were plain, that you were the type of person who blended in. But hearing it spoken aloud, in connection with him, in connection with the quiet, hopeful thing that was growing between you—that hurt in a way nothing else ever had. You kept your head down, not daring to move, not wanting them to know you had heard.

That night, lying in bed, you texted Mira, the words a raw, honest confession that felt like a betrayal to the fragile hope in your heart. “It’s not real,” you wrote, the words a desperate plea for her to agree. “He’s… just bored.”

Mira’s reply was almost instant, her words a lifeline in the suffocating darkness of your self-doubt. “You think he’d waste this much time if he didn’t care? You think he’s bored enough to learn about your weird doodles and listen to you talk about old books? He’s not bored. He’s into you. Seriously.” Her words were meant to be a comfort, but they only fueled your insecurity. The logic was sound, you knew it was, but a part of you couldn't accept it. It was too easy for Christopher Bang, the sun, to get bored. To him, you were a puzzle, a quiet mystery, and once he solved you, he would move on. You struggled to believe that you could be enough, that you could be the real thing he was looking for.

Meanwhile, Christopher was fighting his own battles. His world was full of noise and constant feedback, and it was hard for him to tune it out. His teammates, who were used to his laser focus and unwavering dedication to the game, were getting frustrated. They saw the distraction in his eyes, the way he would miss a pass or be a beat too slow. They didn’t understand, and their frustration turned into a quiet, resentful curiosity.

“What’s with you and that girl?” one of his friends asked him in the locker room after practice, his voice a low, teasing whisper, his eyes a cold, judgmental assessment. “Bet she’s just using you for clout.”

The words were so disgusting, so far from the truth of who you were, that Christopher felt a hot, blinding flash of anger. He spun around, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes a storm of furious protectiveness. “She’d never,” he snapped, the words a harsh hiss. “Don’t talk about her in that manner.” His sudden, venomous anger shocked them all into silence. They had never seen him so protective, so quick to anger. It was a clear, unmistakable line in the sand, a stark declaration that you were no longer a topic for their locker room jokes.

The next day, you noticed he was quieter. The usual easy banter was gone, replaced by a simmering tension in his shoulders that you instinctively felt. He seemed heavier, the light that usually followed him dimmed by a shadow you couldn’t quite place. You waited until lunch, until his friends had walked away to get their food, and leaned forward, your voice soft with genuine concern. “Did something happen?”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, his eyes meeting yours with a profound weariness. “Nah,” he said, the word a forced casualness. “Just… don’t listen to what people say, okay?”

His gaze was so intense, so full of unspoken things, that your heart stirred in your chest. His protectiveness, raw and simple, was a powerful thing. He was fighting for you, in a way that you had never thought anyone would. But the insecurity, the fear that you were just a phase, that you were just a quiet girl he would eventually grow bored of, lingered. The whispers still echoed in your ears, the words ‘plain’ and ‘bored’ a constant, nagging refrain.

That night, lying awake in bed, Christopher’s mind was not on his team or the upcoming finals. It was on you, and on the quiet, fragile thing he was trying to protect. He thought about the fear in your eyes when you asked him not to stare, the way you had flinched away from him. He realized, with a sudden, bone-deep clarity, that he wasn’t just crushing on you. It wasn't just a crush. It was more. He didn't just want to know you; he wanted you to be safe. He wanted you to be happy, and he wanted to be the person who could make you feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in your life. The weight of that realization, the sheer vulnerability of it all, terrified him more than the soccer finals ever could. He was in too deep. And he wasn't sure he wanted to get out.

The goodbye was a soft, gentle thing, a quiet moment in the chaotic blur of the school parking lot. You stood beside your friends, trying to smile, trying to act like this was just a normal departure. Christopher was surrounded by his team, their cheers and excited chatter a loud testament to the final game. It was a regional championship, the biggest game of his uni-life, a chance for his team to make history. He deserved to be focused, to be free of any distractions, and you were determined to not be one.

“Win for us, Captain,” you said, your voice a little shaky, a false brightness to it that you hoped he wouldn't notice. You tried to project a calm, unwavering confidence that you were far from feeling.

He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that you would cling to for the next few days. He reached out and ruffled your hair, a small, familiar gesture that made your heart flutter. "For you," he said, his eyes finding yours, holding your gaze for a moment longer than they should have. "Always." The word was a promise, a quiet vow that sent a shiver down your spine.

Then he was gone, a blur of red and white as he climbed onto the bus. You watched the bus drive away, the exhaust a faint cloud in the humid air, and as it disappeared around the corner, a hollow, empty space bloomed in your chest. It was a physical ache, a profound sense of loss that felt both familiar and new. You were a planet without its sun, and you were already beginning to feel the cold.

At first, everything was normal. The halls were still crowded, the classes still mundane, the lunches still loud. But as the days bled into one another, his absence became a tangible thing, a vacuum in your world that sucked all the light out of the room. The noise seemed louder, the stares more pointed. The whispers, which had been a low hum, now felt like a crescendo, a venomous chorus that followed you everywhere.

The popular girls, who had been silenced by his presence, were now emboldened. Their whispers were louder, their glances more direct. You overheard them in the lunchroom, their voices sharp and cruel. "She thinks she's special just because he talks to her." The words, so stupidly simple, lodged themselves in your brain, an echo of your own deepest fears. You felt a wave of nausea, the familiar self-doubt a bitter taste in your mouth.

His friends on the team, not as kind or as mature as Christopher, saw an opportunity. They didn't understand the bond between you two. To them, you were a distraction, a quiet girl who had somehow taken up too much of their Captain's time. They would sneer as you passed, their voices dripping with contempt. "He's bored of you already," one of them said as he walked by you in the hallway, the words a cold knife in your back.

You shrank into yourself, the familiar weight of your quietness a shield you wrapped around yourself. You brushed off the comments, pretended not to hear the whispers. You could handle this. You had always handled this. It was a part of your life, the quiet dismissal, the unseen labor. But your friends, your three fierce protectors, noticed the way your shoulders had begun to slump, the way you would subtly change your route to avoid a hallway, the way your smiles no longer reached your eyes.

Mira, her jaw clenched with a simmering fury, grabbed your arm one day in the cafeteria. "Say something to Christopher," she insisted, her voice low and urgent.

You shook your head violently, a wave of panic rising in your chest. "No. He doesn't need this. Not when he's away." You thought of him, focused and determined, his eyes on the prize. The last thing he needed was your petty high school drama. You were a minor distraction, a footnote in his life. You could handle this on your own. It was a fierce, desperate kind of pride that made you refuse to reach out.

But the bullying escalated. The snide comments turned into malicious acts. An "accidental" spill of water on your notes in the library, your meticulous handwriting a blurry, ruined mess that made your heart ache with every illegible word. A shoulder check in the hallway that sent you stumbling, your books scattering across the floor like a second collision. One girl cornered you by the lockers, her face a mask of bitter jealousy. "He'll drop you the second finals are over," she hissed, her voice a low, ugly sneer. "He just likes the chase. You're not special."

You swallowed the tears that burned in your throat, gripping the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink, your knuckles white. You looked at your reflection, at the girl with the tired eyes, and you whispered the words that had been your mantra your entire life. "It's fine. I'm used to this. I can handle it." But your friends, standing outside the door, knew better. They exchanged worried looks, their hearts breaking for you. They knew you were breaking.

Dev, the quietest of the three, spoke the words that they were all thinking. "She won't tell him. So we will."

They huddled together, their phones a small circle of light in the dim hallway. They drafted a message to Christopher, the words a careful, concise explanation of everything that was happening. They hesitated, their fingers hovering over the send button. They didn’t want to be the ones to ruin his concentration, to distract him from his dream. But Mira, her face set in a determined scowl, pressed the button. It wasn't about the finals anymore. It was about you.

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, Christopher’s team was celebrating a hard-won victory. The cheers were loud, the music was blaring, and the air was thick with the triumphant smell of sweat and adrenaline. He held the trophy in his hands, but it felt hollow. Something was missing. He pulled out his phone, a little annoyed, and saw a text from Mira. He read the first line, then the second, and his chest dropped with a sick, twisting panic. "She's not saying anything, but they're destroying her here. She's getting bullied."

He reread the words three times, his mind refusing to accept them. The elation of victory vanished, replaced by a cold, numbing fear. He felt the blood drain from his face, and his hands began to tremble. His whole world, which had been so bright and so focused on this victory, came crashing down around him. He didn’t think. He didn't process the cheers or the congratulations. He just knew he had to get back to you.

"I have to go back," he muttered, his voice hoarse, the words barely audible over the music.

A teammate, overhearing him, grabbed his arm. "Are you crazy? The finals—the media's waiting for you!"

Christopher pulled his arm away, his eyes wild with a fear that was deeper than any he had ever felt on the field. "She's more important," he said, his voice a quiet, resolute promise. "Always." He turned and ran, leaving behind the victory, the celebration, and the stunned faces of his teammates. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Please… please let her be okay. He was running on pure adrenaline, a desperate, undeniable need to get back to the only person who mattered. He would leave the trophy behind, leave the cheers, leave the victory—it all meant nothing without you.

The world had shrunk to the size of a single desk. The classroom, once a place of quiet refuge, was now a suffocating space filled with the low hum of whispered poison. You sat there, pretending to take notes, your pen moving across the page with a practiced, automatic rhythm. But the words on the paper were a meaningless blur, and the page might as well have been blank. Your mind was a frantic cacophony of fear and humiliation, replaying every cruel comment, every sneer, every dismissive glance you had endured in the last two days. It was a vicious cycle of remembered pain, a silent torture that left you feeling like a ghost in your own body.

You had become a target, a quiet scapegoat for a jealousy you never asked for. The girls who had been silenced by Christopher’s presence were now emboldened, their words a constant, nagging refrain of your own deepest insecurities. "She thinks she’s special," one would whisper as you passed, the words a low hiss in the crowded hallway. "He's just bored," another would mutter, her eyes a cold, judgmental assessment that cut you deeper than any physical blow. You tried to be invisible again, to shrink back into the shadows you had so painstakingly crawled out of, but it was no use. The quiet space you had carved out for yourself was gone.

A crumpled paper ball hit your desk with a soft thud, a silent act of aggression. You didn't flinch. You didn't dare. You just stared at it, a knot of pure misery tightening in your stomach. When you finally looked, a quick, furtive glance, you saw the words scrawled in an angry, jagged handwriting: Not worth his time. The phrase was a dagger, a cold confirmation of your worst fears. Your chest tightened, a sharp, searing pain that felt like a physical wound. You clenched your pen tighter, your knuckles white, fighting the hot, humiliating tears that threatened to spill over and betray the quiet composure you were so desperately clinging to. You felt so utterly alone, so impossibly exposed, as if the entire room could see the words on that paper ball, could see the fragile state of your heart.

Suddenly, a wave of gasps rippled through the room. The quiet, monotonous drone of the teacher's voice stuttered to a halt. A hush fell over the classroom, a stunned, collective silence that was so profound it felt like the world had stopped spinning. The air crackled with a strange, frantic energy. You looked up, your eyes wide with confusion, and that's when you saw him.

He was standing in the doorway, a living, breathing anachronism in the orderly world of the classroom. He was still in his soccer jersey, sweat-soaked and rumpled from a game you had heard had ended in a triumphant victory. The jersey was a brilliant red, but it looked faded and dirty from the road. His hair was a mess, his face pale and drawn, and his chest heaved with the heavy, uneven breaths of a man who had run a thousand miles to get here. He looked less like the undefeated captain of the soccer team and more like a lost boy who had just run through a storm, fighting against every obstacle just to stand in this room.

His eyes, frantic and wild, scanned the room. They passed over the shocked faces of his teammates, the stunned silence of the popular girls, the confused expression on the teacher's face. They were searching, a desperate, frantic search for a single face, and when they finally landed on you, your heart stopped. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the chaos and the noise of the room fading into a distant, buzzing static. For a brief, terrifying moment, you were the only person in the world who existed to him.

"Y/N," he said, and the sound of your name, spoken by him for the first time, was a soft, ragged whisper in the heavy silence. The sound of it, the way it rolled off his tongue, was a beautiful, disorienting thing. It was so simple, and yet it held all the weight of the universe.

You froze, a shot of pure panic shooting through you. He was here. He was supposed to be celebrating. He was supposed to be a million miles away, enjoying his victory, basking in the glow of the media. This was a nightmare. This was all your fault. You stammered, the words getting caught in your throat. "W-what are you doing here? Your finals—"

He didn't listen. He didn't even hear you. He was already striding forward, his boots a loud, heavy drumbeat against the linoleum floor. He ignored the stunned silence, the disbelieving stares, the murmurs of his teammates. His gaze never left you. He reached your desk and knelt, his hands gripping your shoulders, his touch firm and grounding. He held you as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, his eyes searching your face for any sign of a wound. "Did they hurt you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, a raw rumble of emotion that made every hair on your arms stand up. "Tell me."

You shook your head furiously, the tears you had been fighting so hard to suppress finally breaking free and running hot and fast down your cheeks. "No, no—you shouldn't be here," you insisted, the words a desperate, broken plea. "This is my fault—I shouldn’t have—"

"Don’t you dare blame yourself," he cut you off, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before. He didn’t give you another moment to protest, another second to pull away. He pulled you from your chair and into his arms, crushing you against his chest in a tight, desperate hug. His touch was so strong, so protective, so utterly real.

Gasps erupted around the room. It was the moment that broke the spell, the moment that shattered the silence. The whispers were no longer quiet, but loud and venomous.

One of the popular girls, her face a mask of bitter jealousy and confusion, found her voice. "Chan, what are you doing?! Think about your image! You just won!"

His teammates, still stunned, shook their heads in disbelief. "She's no one, man," one of them said, his voice laced with disgust, as if he were talking about a stray dog. "Remember who you are!"

Christopher’s arms tightened around your trembling body, holding you in a fierce, unyielding grip. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in as if you were an antidote to the poison in the room. He didn’t respond to the protests, to the outrage. He simply looked up, his head still low, and glared at them. His eyes were not the easy, confident gaze of the Captain they knew. They were the cold, unwavering stare of a lion protecting his cub.

"She’s not no one," he snapped, the words a thunderclap in the room. His voice was laced with a raw, undeniable fury that made every single person in the room flinch and take a step back. "She’s everything. And if you can’t respect her—you don’t respect me."

Silence crashed over the room, a profound stillness that was more terrifying than any noise. His words hung in the air, a final, unyielding declaration. You buried your face deeper in his chest, trembling harder. The solid warmth of his body was a fragile fortress against the sudden, devastating weight of his words. You had never been chosen before. Not like this. Not so loudly, not so unapologetically. You were terrified, but you were also safe.

"They’ll hate you for this," you whispered, the words a broken sob against his chest. "You’ll regret it."

He lowered his head, his lips pressing against your hair, his words a low, fierce murmur meant only for you. "The only regret I’d have is not protecting you."

And in that moment, in the middle of a stunned classroom, with everyone watching, you finally believed him. He had chosen you. And for the first time in your life, you felt like you mattered. You were not a side character, a background player. You were the main event. And he had just told the world exactly why. He had left his victory behind, and come running. For you.

The classroom was a battlefield, and you were the sole casualty. After the explosion of that afternoon, a sudden, blinding storm of raw emotion, the school buzzed with a low, electrified energy. The whispers were no longer just whispers; they were a frantic, unyielding chorus of questions. Everyone wanted to know. Why her? Why would Christopher, the golden boy, the soccer captain, throw away his victory, his image, for the quiet girl who no one ever noticed? You felt a crushing, unbearable weight on your chest, convinced that you had single-handedly ruined his life. The shame was a physical thing, a hot flush that rose from your stomach to your cheeks every time you heard your name.

You avoided everyone. You walked with your head down, your hands clenched into fists, a desperate, silent prayer on your lips that no one would acknowledge you. You changed your routes, you ate lunch in the library, you lingered in the bathroom until the last possible second. But the walls had ears, and the rumors followed you like a cloud of poison. In the hallways, you could hear them. “I saw it with my own eyes,” a girl would whisper, her voice dripping with disbelief. “He snapped for her? What’s so special about her?” The words were a bitter pill, confirming every single one of your insecurities. You felt the hollow ache in your stomach deepen with every passing minute.

Lunch the next day was a particularly painful ordeal. You sat tucked away in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, a single plate of food a sad, lonely testament to your solitude. You were a planet without an orbit, a moon with no sun. You tried to read, to lose yourself in the quiet world of your book, but the words were a meaningless jumble. The whispers were louder here, a constant, buzzing commentary that made your skin crawl. You heard your name again, a name that had once been so private, now a common currency on the lips of strangers. Your hands trembled, and you dug your nails into your palms, trying to ground yourself.

Then, the murmurs stopped. A sudden, jarring silence fell over the room, a collective intake of breath that was more powerful than any noise. You looked up from your book, your heart lurching with a terrible premonition, and saw him. He was walking toward your table, a resolute, unyielding force. He ignored the stunned stares, the gaping mouths, the quiet, judgmental assessment of the entire cafeteria. He was still in his worn soccer hoodie, his shoulders broad and a tense line to his jaw, and he slid into the chair directly across from you, his presence a loud, unmistakable declaration.

Your chest tightened with a fresh wave of panic. You leaned forward, your voice a desperate, urgent whisper. "What are you doing? Don't make it worse." You couldn't bear to look at the faces watching you, the silent judgments that you knew were burning into your back.

He reached across the table and covered your hand with his, his touch warm and firm. "I don’t care what they think," he said, his voice low and unwavering, meant only for your ears.

You looked down, unable to meet his gaze. The tears you had been holding back for days burned in your throat. "You should," you whispered, the words choked with a quiet, defeated resignation. Your heart ached, not for yourself, but for him. He was losing his friends, his reputation, everything he had worked so hard for. And it was all because of you.

His chest ached at your defeated tone. He saw the way you were trying to shrink into yourself, to become invisible again, and a fresh wave of anger pulsed through him. He had faced down a raging crowd, he had thrown away a victory, but the raw, unadulterated pain in your voice was more terrifying than any of it. He wanted to shake you, to tell you to look at him, to see that none of it mattered, but he held back, his hand a gentle, steady presence on yours. He knew he couldn't push you too hard, too fast.

That night, alone in your room, you avoided his texts. You sat in the dark, your phone a beacon of light on your nightstand, its screen lighting up with a quiet persistence that broke your heart. The messages were so simple, so painfully sincere. "Are you okay?" "Please talk to me." "Don't shut me out." You couldn't respond. The shame was too great. The fear of being a burden on him, of taking any more from him than you already had, was a paralyzing, unbearable weight. You curled up in bed, crying silently into your pillow, a deep, mournful sob that shook your entire body. You were so alone. You had never been chosen before, and you were convinced that you had ruined the one person who had ever chosen you.

The next day, he cornered you. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You were leaving class, your head down, trying to escape the room before he could find you, but he was waiting for you, his back against the wall, his arms crossed. The hallway was empty, the quiet a sudden, unnerving thing. He looked at you, his eyes raw with a mix of frustration and profound sadness.

"Why are you running from me?" he asked, the words a low, painful plea.

You flinched, your body tensing, a thousand excuses dying on your tongue. You finally looked at him, and you saw the deep ache in his eyes, a pain that mirrored your own. You couldn't lie. You had to tell him the truth. You whispered, the words catching in your throat, "Because I don't want to be your downfall."

His heart cracked. The words were a dagger, a testament to the quiet cruelty he had seen over the last few days. He had expected anger, frustration, but not this—this bone-deep resignation, this conviction that you were the one to blame. He took a step forward, his hands reaching out to cup your face gently, forcing you to meet his eyes. His touch was so soft, so careful, as if he were holding something precious and fragile. He forced you to look at him, to see the sincerity, the love, the deep, abiding truth in his gaze.

"You're not my downfall," he said, his voice a low, fierce murmur that was meant only for you. "You’re the only reason I stand tall."

You gasped softly, a little broken sound that you couldn’t suppress. His eyes, dark and unwavering, were so full of a truth you had never dared to believe. You were lost in his sincerity, in the warmth of his hands, in the raw honesty of his expression. You were just a girl who had always existed in the shadows, and he was the one who had come running, a bright and powerful force, just to bring you out into the light. The silence stretched between you, thick with unsaid words, with the crushing weight of everything you had gone through, everything he had sacrificed.

Finally, you pulled back, the trembling in your body a thing you couldn't control. "Please," you whispered, "just… give me time."

He exhaled, a pained but understanding sound, and nodded, his hands falling slowly from your face. "I'll wait," he said, his voice a quiet, resolute promise. "For however long you need."

From then on, he didn’t push. He stayed close but quiet, a silent, unwavering presence in your life. He walked you home, his footsteps a gentle, steady rhythm behind you. He studied beside you in the library, his quiet, focused presence a comfort you were slowly growing used to. He was a shadow, a silent guardian, a soft whisper that said, "I'm here," without ever having to say the words. And as the days turned into weeks, you began to realize that his silence, his quiet, unyielding presence, spoke louder and more truthfully than anyone else’s words ever did. He was your quiet constant, and the world finally felt a little less lonely.

Months passed like the turning pages of a book you couldn't put down, each one a testament to a truth you were still too terrified to believe. The awkward silence that had once defined your interactions, the tense anticipation, the paralyzing fear—it all melted away, replaced by a comfortable rhythm of shared, stolen moments. Your world, once a quiet, monochromatic place, was now filled with vibrant color. It was in the hushed study sessions in the library, the late-afternoon walks home when the sun bled into the horizon, and the secret, lingering smiles you exchanged when no one else was looking.

He was no longer just Christopher, the soccer captain. He was Chris, the boy who liked to listen to old records on his scratched-up vinyl player, the one who found solace in the quiet of a shared space. He was the boy who would gently push a loose strand of hair from your face when you were focused on an essay, and the one who made you feel seen in a way you had only ever dreamed of. The way he would notice the smallest things—a new drawing in the margin of your notebook, the subtle change in your mood, the small, shy smile that would only appear when you were truly happy—felt like a secret language meant only for you.

The change wasn’t just in your world; it was in his as well. He seamlessly integrated himself into your quiet orbit, a sun that had found a home in the shadows. He helped Dev with soccer drills, a patient mentor who never made him feel inferior. He would join Mira’s musical banter, surprising her with his knowledge of obscure artists and effortlessly singing along to her favorite songs. He even laughed at Asha’s biting sarcasm, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he delivered a witty retort. Your friends, once so wary and protective, had slowly but surely accepted him. They saw what you saw—a boy who was so much more than his public persona, a boy who treated you with a quiet, unwavering reverence that made their initial suspicions seem like a long-forgotten memory.

You felt lighter, safer, as if the crushing weight you had carried for so long had finally been lifted. For the first time, you felt a sense of belonging, not just in your friend group, but in the world at large. The constant background noise of insecurity, of feeling like you were an afterthought, had faded into a soft hum. But with that lightness came a terrifying new fear. The fear of what would happen if you let yourself believe it was real. You had spent so long building your walls, convincing yourself that you were unworthy of this kind of attention, that the very idea of it was a dangerous, fragile thing that could shatter at any moment. You were terrified that if you let him in, truly let him in, you would scare him away and be left with nothing but the broken pieces of a dream.

One evening, as the semester wound down, he found you on the school rooftop, your usual quiet spot. The sky was a deep, velvet blue, sprinkled with the first shy stars of the night. The cool evening air was a welcome contrast to the humid heat of the day. You were sitting on the ground, your knees pulled to your chest, your gaze fixed on the quiet, sprawling cityscape below. He sat beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The silence was comfortable, a silent conversation you had perfected over the past few months.

You broke it first, your voice a soft, teasing murmur. “Bet the captain of the soccer team doesn’t usually waste time stargazing.”

He smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth turning up in a way that made your heart do a nervous little flip. He didn't look at the stars; he looked at you, a soft, unwavering gaze that made your cheeks feel warm. “Only when it’s with you,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the night.

Your chest fluttered, a wild, frantic thing, but you hid it with a small, nervous scoff. "Don't be cheesy, Christopher," you said, your voice a little shaky. The name felt strange on your tongue now, a formal remnant of a person you barely knew. You had started thinking of him as Chan, and sometimes, in the quiet solitude of your own thoughts, as Chris.

Silence fell between you again, but this time it was different. It was thick with a tension that was both exhilarating and terrifying. You could feel his knee touching yours, a gentle, solid presence. He was fiddling with his bracelet, a nervous habit you had come to recognize as a sign of his vulnerability. Your heart began to race, a frantic drumbeat in your chest.

"Can I tell you something?" he whispered, his voice so low and raw that it sent a shiver down your spine.

You glanced at him, a nervous energy humming in your veins. You were so used to keeping your emotions locked away, to being the quiet one, that his sudden vulnerability felt like an earthquake. "You're scaring me," you whispered back, a nervous laugh catching in your throat.

He chuckled softly, a sound filled with a hint of pained truth. “Good,” he said, his voice dropping a little lower. “Then maybe you’ll take me seriously.” He turned to face you fully, and in the faint glow of the city lights, you could see the raw honesty in his eyes. He took a deep breath, and then the words, the words that would change everything, spilled from him, trembling and sincere.

"I like you," he confessed, the three words a world-shattering sound. He leaned in just a little, his eyes searching yours for a sign of… something. “More than I should. More than I planned. I like you, Y/N.”

The use of your name, your real name, the one he had never spoken directly to you before, hit you with a force you couldn’t have anticipated. It was a formal declaration, a stake planted in the ground, and it made the air feel thin and hot. You stared at him, wide-eyed, a panicked denial already forming on your lips.

"No… no, you don't. Not me. You can't—"

He cut you off, his voice now rough with frustration, a mix of hurt and anger. "Why not you, Y/N?" he demanded, his hands reaching out to cup your face, his touch so gentle it was a contradiction to the fierce frustration in his eyes. "Tell me. Is it because you're quiet? Because people think you're plain? Because they've been using you your whole life?" The last part was a quiet, pained whisper, a testament to what he had seen, what he had understood. "That’s why I like you. You're real. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, and everything I never knew I needed."

Tears, hot and sudden, pricked your eyes. You had no defenses left. All your carefully constructed walls, all the quiet self-deprecating thoughts, all the years of feeling invisible—they were crumbling to dust under the weight of his sincerity. You felt a soft sob catch in your throat, a quiet, broken sound that echoed the ache in your chest. You had never believed you were worthy of something so real, so honest, so profound.

He saw your tears and his gaze softened, his thumbs gently wiping a single tear from your cheek. He leaned closer, his voice a low, rough murmur. “Someone like me has only ever wanted someone like you,” he said, the words so full of a truth you had never dared to believe. He wasn't a hero, a captain, a sun. He was just a boy, and you were just a girl. And in that moment, in the soft, hushed privacy of the night, nothing else mattered.

A quiet, broken laugh escaped you through your tears, and you buried your face in your hands, the embarrassment of your emotions a fleeting thing against the overwhelming wave of happiness and disbelief. He pulled your hands down gently, his touch a careful, steady presence. He was grinning nervously, his eyes filled with a hope that made your own heart ache.

"So?" he whispered, his voice filled with a hopeful anticipation. “Do I get a chance?”

The question hung in the air, a final, monumental decision. You looked at him, at his hopeful, sincere eyes, and you knew. The fear was still there, a tiny, nervous thing, but it was nothing compared to the blossoming warmth in your chest.

After a long, breathless silence, you whispered, "…Yes. But don't regret it."

A profound sense of relief washed over his face, and he exhaled, a long, shaky breath that was both pained and relieved. He pulled you into a crushing hug, a gentle but firm embrace that made your heart feel safe for the first time in your life. You buried your face in his chest, your own hands clutching his shirt, and a soft sob of pure, unadulterated relief escaped you.

"Regret?" he murmured, his voice muffled in your hair, his arms tightening around you. “The only regret would be if I never asked.”

The confession on the rooftop had been a dam breaking, a release of a lifetime of suppressed emotion. But in the days and weeks that followed, your relationship with Chan wasn't a loud, public affair. It was quiet, private, and tender, a secret garden you cultivated away from the prying eyes and judgmental whispers of the school. You didn’t need grand gestures or public displays of affection. Your love language was one of hushed moments, soft touches, and whispered truths.

Your first "date" wasn’t a planned event. It was simply a continuation of a familiar ritual—walking home together. The only difference was the nervous, electrified energy that hummed between you. Your shoulders brushed with an almost agonizing lightness, a silent communication of your newfound status. He nervously cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on the pavement, a blush creeping up his neck. "So… is this a date?" he asked, the question so simple and raw that it made your chest ache with affection.

You looked at him, a genuine smile spreading across your face. The captain of the soccer team, the confident sun of the school, was so endearingly flustered. You couldn’t resist teasing him. "If you want it to be," you said, your voice a soft murmur. His ears burned red, a sign of his charming embarrassment. He looked at you, a soft, unwavering sincerity in his eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath, as if steeling himself for a leap of faith. "Then yes," he said, the words a little shaky but firm. "It is."

Your friends noticed the difference immediately. It wasn't in the way you held hands or kissed; it was in the way Christopher looked at you. Mira whispered it to Asha one afternoon, her voice filled with a profound wonder. “He looks at her like she’s the only star in the sky.” The boys on his team, too, noticed the change. He was still the fierce, dedicated captain, but a newfound softness had settled into his features. His grin, once wide and boisterous, was now a private, tender smile reserved just for you.

Your world became a series of small, perfect moments. You'd sneak out for late-night coffee shop visits, the air thick with the smell of espresso and the quiet murmur of conversation. He would scribble lyrics on napkins, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to put his whirlwind of emotions into words. When he got too serious, too lost in his own head, you would gently take his hand and doodle on his skin with a small pen. Your little sketches of cats and stars and constellations would bloom across his knuckles and the back of his hand, a quiet protest against his intense focus. He would pretend to grumble, a playful frown on his face. "I'm the captain, you know. People take me seriously." You would laugh, the sound a light, melodic thing he had come to adore. "Not when you've got cats and stars all over your skin," you'd tease. But you knew he kept the doodles, refusing to wash them away, a silent promise that you were a part of him now.

At soccer practice, his teammates would groan in frustration. "Bro, focus!" one of them would yell, after he missed a pass he should have easily made. He would glance at the stands, distracted, and his grin would widen as he saw you sitting there, a silent, unwavering presence, a small wave of your hand a promise of a future you were slowly learning to believe in. "I am focused," he would shout back, his eyes twinkling. It was true. You were his focus now, the one thing that mattered.

After practice, he would run to you first, sweaty hug and all. You'd wrinkle your nose in mock disgust. "Gross, you smell like turf." He would smirk, his breath a little ragged, his eyes full of a playful tenderness. "Still hugging me though."

On weekends, you'd study together in the library, the quiet so thick you could almost taste it. He would be poring over a textbook, his face a mask of concentration, and you would find yourself just staring at him, mesmerized by the quiet beauty of his profile. The way his brow would furrow in thought, the way a loose strand of hair would fall over his forehead, the perfect, gentle curve of his lips. He would catch you staring and your cheeks would burn, your heart racing with a familiar panic. "What? You had something on your face!" you'd stammer, your voice a little too loud in the silent room. He would chuckle, his eyes warm and knowing. "Yeah, sure. On my face."

Slowly, his quiet, unwavering devotion began to earn your trust. It was an unspoken, fragile thing, a promise that he wasn't going anywhere. One night, huddled on a bench in the park, the streetlights a warm, golden glow against the dark sky, you finally confessed. "I kept waiting for you to get bored," you whispered, the words a raw, honest admission of your deepest fear. He frowned deeply, his eyes filled with a profound sadness. He gripped your hand, his touch firm and reassuring, as if he were trying to physically burn the words into your memory. "Bored? I could spend a lifetime and still not get enough. You're the most fascinating person I've ever met." His words made you cry, the tears a hot, silent stream of relief and gratitude. He wiped them away with his thumbs, his touch a tender, gentle thing.

He leaned in, his gaze fixed on your mouth. The kiss was gentle, trembling, and almost shy. It was a question and an answer all at once, a silent confirmation of everything you had built, everything you had whispered in the quiet of the night. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath a warm, steady rhythm against your cheek. "I'm yours," he murmured, the words a vow. "Completely."

From then on, he became your loudest protector. The gossip still existed, a constant, buzzing irritation in the background, but he shut it down instantly. When his teammates or friends would start to say something cruel or insensitive, he would simply look at them, his eyes hard and unwavering, and they would quiet down immediately. And when people would ask what was so special about you, the quiet, unremarkable girl who had somehow managed to capture the sun, he would only smile, a tender, knowing grin that reached his eyes. "Everything."

---x---

Fifteen years. A lifetime ago, you were just a girl with a stack of books and a quiet heart, and he was the sun, a force of nature who seemed to exist on a different plane entirely. Now, fifteen years later, the world had settled, and the vast, intimidating universe had shrunk to the space between you. The boy who had once run across a field just to make sure you were okay was now the man who still woke up before you every morning, a soft, unwavering smile on his face as he watched you sleep. His gaze wasn't just loving; it was a profound, quiet worship, a silent testimony to the miracle of your existence.

It was a familiar, constant ritual. You'd groan, your voice thick with sleep, a pillow clutched to your face. “Stop staring. It’s creepy.”

He would simply grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The lines on his face were new, a testament to the years of shared laughter and late-night talks, but his grin was the same as the one that had made your heart stutter on the school rooftop all those years ago. “Sorry, can’t help being proud I married you,” he’d whisper, his voice a low, husky sound that was just for you. He’d lean in and press a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment as if to imprint the feeling of you being right there, next to him, forever.

He still insisted on cooking breakfast. The sounds of him in the kitchen—the clatter of pans, the gentle sizzle of oil—were the soundtrack to your mornings. And just like fifteen years ago, he’d still manage to burn the eggs. The smoke alarm would chirp a nervous little protest, and you’d get up, your hair a messy halo, to find him pouting in front of the stove. “Captain, you can’t even flip an omelet,” you’d tease, laughing softly as you took over, your movements practiced and easy. He would hug you from behind, his arms a warm, solid presence around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder. He’d nuzzle his face into your neck, a familiar, comforting gesture. “Still whipped for you though,” he’d whisper, the words a low, happy rumble against your skin.

Your home wasn't a grand, perfect space. It was a lived-in canvas, a testament to your shared life. The walls were filled with doodles—not just the intricate sketches you made, but also his. He’d frame your sketches and place them beside his neatly handwritten lyrics, a silent testament to how he saw you. In a small, lacquered box on his nightstand, he still kept the old, crinkled napkins from your first coffee dates, a secret treasure he’d pull out on quiet nights when he wanted to remember where it all began. The house was a quiet echo of the quiet love you had built.

Sometimes, a song would come on the radio, a forgotten tune from a high school dance, and he’d pull you into his arms. The music would be low, but the laughter between you would be high, a chorus of joy that filled every corner of your home. He still wrote songs, but now, he didn't have to search for inspiration. You were in every lyric, a muse for his melodies, a quiet presence that defined his every note.

When you were working too hard, hunched over a drawing tablet with a deadline looming, he’d pout dramatically. His voice would be a theatrical whine that still made you laugh. “What about your husband? Neglected and starving.”

“You literally ate five minutes ago,” you’d say, a grin on your face as you threw a pillow at him. He would catch it, his grin wide, and he’d kiss you until you gave in, the gentle press of his lips a soft plea that you never had the strength to deny.

Your friends, now a tight-knit family of their own, still visited often. They’d watch the two of you, a quiet, knowing wonder in their eyes. "He’s still obsessed with you after all these years," Mira would say, her voice a mix of humor and sincere awe.

Chan would simply shrug, a proud, contented smirk on his face. “Of course. I told you—she’s everything.” He wasn’t a loud, boastful man, but when it came to you, a quiet, confident pride would settle over him.

On your anniversaries, he still planned chaotic but heartfelt surprises. A picnic with a wobbly blanket and a basket of burned food, a rooftop dinner where the constellations were the only light, homemade gifts that were more sentiment than artistry. You’d laugh at his corny speeches, but you’d always cry too, the tears a hot, silent stream of gratitude for a love that had grown so deep it had become a part of you.

Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, a flicker of that old insecurity would creep into his eyes. “Am I enough for you?” he’d whisper, the question a vulnerability you still found breathtaking. You would cup his face in your hands, your touch as tender and sure as his had been on the school rooftop. “You’ve always been more than enough.”

Your nights were filled with soft, sacred intimacy, a gentle obsession, an endless affection. He worshiped your body like it was sacred, his voice a low, reverent murmur against your skin. “Mine. Always mine,” he’d whisper, the words a possessive, loving vow. And then, the morning after, he’d be back to being goofy, burning pancakes, his hair a mess, and his eyes filled with a love so pure and honest it made your chest ache.

Even after fifteen years, he refused to let you carry any burden alone. If someone, even a stranger, tried to use you or take advantage of your quiet nature, he’d step in immediately, his gaze hardening with a familiar protectiveness. You’d tease him, a soft, loving smile on your face. “Still my bodyguard, huh?”

He’d smirk, kissing your forehead, the gesture a silent promise. “Still your biggest fan too.”

Their love was slow, steady, a quiet, deep-burning fire. He had never stopped trying to show you how adored you were, and in every single one of his words, his actions, his glances, you felt it. And when people would ask what his greatest achievement was, what he was most proud of, Chan would always smile, his eyes finding yours across the room. “Her. Always her.”

THE FIRST TIME YOU MET SEO CHANGBIN, you were pretty sure you had made a bad impression.

or so you thought, at least.

the jyp entertainment building loomed over the busy seoul street like any corporate giant, yet the cafe on its ground floor, your current workplace, was a world away from the polished, high-pressure energy of the floors above. it was your sanctuary, your little pocket of warmth in the city, you had worked part-time for the past year, ever since your cv required a little more padding and your bank account required a little more cushion. what started as a necessity had become a comfort, where the scent of freshly ground coffee beans had become synonymous with a life that existed outside of your own spiraling thoughts.

you loved it here. the way the afternoon sun slanted through the large windows, casting golden light across the wooden floors. the way regular customers, especially idols, smiled and greeted you when they saw you behind the counter. the way the chaos of the entertainment world swirled just upstairs while you remained in your quiet, cozy bubble. it was cozy, it was inviting.

you were wiping down the counter, humming along to a mellow piano piece, when the little bell above the door chimed. you looked up, a practiced smile already forming on your lips, ready to greet the customer.

“welcome–”

and then, your brain just… short-circuited.

not in a panicked, static-noised kind of way. more like the way the world goes silent right before a first snowfall. everything else in the coffee shop, the hiss of the espresso machine, the dull roar of small talk, all of them just… faded.

he was average height, sure, yet the way he stood made him feel like the only solid thing in a tilting room. his shoulders were broad, not in an intimidating way, but in a way that they seemed to carry the weight of the world in the most attractive way possible. the simple black hoodie looked impossibly soft, his jeans worn perfectly, and a black mask that covered the lower half of his face.

but it was his eyes that got you. god, his eyes.

they were sharp, almost too sharp for a place this ordinary, scanning the menu board like he was solving a puzzle. there was a warmth behind the intensity, though, a quiet fire that made you wonder what it would be like to be the sole focus of that gaze. and then, as if he felt the weight of your staring, his eyes dropped from the menu.

and they landed on you.

thump.

your heart didn’t just skip a beat; it stopped entirely, forgot its rhythm, and then started again in a completely new tempo meant only for him. you almost forgot how to breathe, almost forgot your own name.

you had seen those eyes a thousand times on your phone screen. in music videos. in variety shows. in the photos your best friend, kim seungmin, occasionally sent you from their dorm, captioned with things like ‘this idiot fell asleep on the couch again’ or ‘this greedy motherfucker ate the entire chicken and left me with nothing.’

seo changbin was literally standing three meters away from you, and you were already a sweating mess.

“hi,” he greeted, his voice slightly muffled by the mask yet still undeniably warm, a rich baritone that seemed to resonate somewhere deep within your chest, “can i get an iced americano, please? and a tuna salad sandwich.”

“of course,” you managed, mentally proud that your voice only wobbled slightly. you tapped his order into the tablet with his fingers that definitely weren’t trembling. “that’ll be 10,300 won.”

the card reader beeped. he tapped it once, twice, then slipped it back into his wallet with hands that looked like they had been drawn by someone who understood art–okay, y/n, keep your shit together.

you told him you would call his order number and he nodded. just a dip of his chin. just a small thing. it shouldn’t have made your stomach drop.

then he moved.

you watched him thread through the cafe, watched him choose the table by the window like it had been waiting for him his whole life, watched him comfortably settle into the chair. the light loved him immediately–of course it did, everything would, now.

you watched for exactly three seconds. long enough to memorize the way his shoulders relaxed against the chair. long enough to burn the image behind your eyelids. long enough to admire.

then you forced yourself to look away.

number one-four-three. your hands found his cup, and you began to make his order as if the axis of your world hadn’t just permanently tilted towards a window seat.

concentrate, you told yourself firmly. it’s just coffee. you’ve made thousands of coffees. this one is no different. he’s just a customer.

except, it was different, and you knew it, and your stupid hands knew it too.

you made his iced americano with painstaking care, measuring the espresso shot twice, making sure the water ratio was exact. you placed the sandwich on a small plate with the kind of reverence usually reserved for offering sacrifices to ancient gods. you took a deep breath, steading yourself before calling out his number.

“order number one-four-three?”

he looked up from his phone, and even through the mask, you could see the slight crinkle around his eyes that suggested a smile. he rose from his seat and walked towards the counter, and with every step, your heart pounded harder against your ribs.

just hand him the order. that’s it. hand him the order and walk away.

you set the tray on the counter, “one iced americano and one tuna salad sandwich, enjoy!’

he reached for it, his fingers brushing against the edge of the tray, and you quickly pulled your hands back as if burned.

“thank you,” the words unfurled slowly, warm honey dripping into the space between you, and you wanted to bottle them, keep them, play them back on every cold morning for the rest of your life. his voice didn’t just reach your ears, it settled into your bone, made a home there, started building furniture.

you nodded and smiled. you felt it split your face open–too wide, too bright, the kind of helpless expression that belongs to people who have just realized they’re in a huge, huge trouble.

then you turned away because staying would have been impossible.

the espresso machine waited for you, cold and patient, and you ran a cold over its surface like you could smooth away the shakiness in your hands–news flash, you couldn’t. you didn’t. your pulse was a metronome counting time to a song only your heart could hear.

out of the corner of your eye, you watched him. you watched him carry his tray back to the window table, watched him settle in, watched him pull down his mask to take that first sip.

and then you watched him pause.

his eyebrows drew together slightly. he looked at the cup. took another sip. look at the cup again.

your stomach dropped.

no. shit. nonono.

you glanced at the order screen on your tablet. one-four-three: iced americano, tuna salad sandwich. you swore you had made it correctly. you had been so careful. you–

he was looking at you now. not angrily, not even with frustration. just… confused, slightly puzzled.

you walked over before you could stop yourself, your feet moving on autopilot. you could feel a hard lump stuck between the depths of your throat, “is everything okay?”

his eyes remained fixated on you, and even confused, even puzzled, his eyes were so incredibly kind.

“sorry,” he began, his voice without the mask was even deeper, even warmer, even more unfairly attractive, “i think there might be a mistake. this tastes like… vanilla syrup?”

you stared at him. stared at the cup. stared back at him.

and then your gaze snagged on something over your shoulder; a flash of wood, a drink sitting lonely on the counter behind you. the vanilla latte, made for the woman at the table across, who was now craning her neck, scanning the cafe, looking around like she had been forgotten.

…shit.

“oh my god,” you breathed, your face instantly flooding with heat, “i am so sorry. i mixed up the orders—i gave you the wrong drink. i don’t know how–i was so sure… i’m so sorry, i’ll make you a new one right away.”

you reached for the cup, already mentally kicking yourself, preparing for the sigh, the eye roll, the cold dismissal that someone like him… someone important, someone famous, someone who had places to be and people to see, would surely give to someone like you, someone who couldn;t even get a simple coffee order.

however, instead, he laughed.

it was soft, barely more than an exhale, yet it was genuine. his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way you had only ever seen in videos, and it was even more beautiful in person.

“it’s okay,” he breathed, “honestly, it’s a nice surprise. i was expecting bitter, and yet i got something sweet instead.”

he took another sip, and his eyes–those eyes, sparkled with amusement. “not bad. but i was really looking forward to that bitter kick.”

you stared at him, momentarily speechless. he wasn’t annoyed. he wasn’t rude. he was just… kind. patient. human.

“i’ll get you a new one,” you repeated, your voice steadier now, touched by his unexpected grace, “right away, i promise!”

“thank you… y/n.”

he said your name.

he said your name.

his eyes had dropped to your chest; to the small rectangle pinned to your apron, the one you had worn a thousand times without thinking, the one that now felt like the most important in the entire universe. he had read it. he had looked at it. he had formed the letter in his mind and then let them fall from his lips like they belonged there.

y/n. the same name you had been called your entire life.

and yet, hearing it from him was like hearing it for the first time. as if no one had ever said correctly before. as if every other person who had spoken your name had been practicing for this moment, and he was the first one to get it right.

something fluttered in your chest.

scratch that. something ignited. something small, warm, and terrifying, like the first spark of a fire you wouldn’t be able to control. it fluttered, yes, but it also burned. it settled into the space between your ribs and started growing roots.

you looked at him.

he was still watching you. still patient. still kind. still impossibly, devastatingly there, with your name still hanging in the air between you like a gift you hadn’t earned.

“r–right away!”

you rushed back to the counter, and made a perfect iced americano, ensuring that it wouldn’t contain any syrup or other condiments. you then grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the display case, before bringing everything back to him, setting it down with trembling hands.

“again, i’m so sorry for the mix-up,” an apologetic smile hovered your lips, “the cookie is on me, a peace offering.”

his gaze remained on the cookie, before diverted back to you. for a moment, he just stared, and you could feel your cheeks burn under his gaze. then slowly, he smiled–a real smile, full, and warm.

“my, you really didn’t have to,” a soft chuckle escaped his lips, the cookie now within his grasp, “we make mistakes all the time. thank you, i love chocolate chip cookies.”

you let out a shaky laugh, “i’m glad. i mean–i’m glad you like them. i mean–”

you idiot. stop talking. you’re so embarrassing.

“i mean… i’m just glad you’re not.. mad.”

his smiles widened, his eyes crinkling into those beautiful crescents. “that will be unnecessary. thanks for fixing my drink.”

you nodded, managed to say something that might have been ‘enjoy your coffee,” and practically fled back to the counter. from there, you had him under your scrutiny as he ate his sandwich, sipped his coffee, and scrolled through his phone. he also ate the cookie, taking large bites and looking genuinely pleased with it.

when he finally got up to leave, he paused at the counter on his way out, “have a good day, y/n,” giving a small wave.

“you too. please come again–”

and then he was gone, the little bell chiming softly behind him, leaving you in a daze with a heart that refused to stop racing.

that was the moment. the exact moment your heart began to stutter for seo changbin.

YOU DIDN’T TELL SEUNGMIN ABOUT IT. it felt too silly, too insignificant. it was just a three-minute interaction, for fuck sakes. yet you couldn’t stop thinking about it. the kindness in his eyes. the soft laugh. the way he had looked at you like you were an actual person, not just an average part-time worker who had messed up.

a week later, seungmin invited you over for game night at his apartment. it was a regular occurrence; you had been friends with him since high school, and his groupmates had become familiar faces over the years. through him, you had grown close with jeongin, which you often played mario kart with (who definitely cheated during the games), and you had deep conversations with the two of them at two in the morning about life in general. you were comfortable there, a part of the furniture in their chaotic, lovely world.

you arrived on a friday evening, two large tteokbokki takeouts in each hand. seungmin opened the door, his round glasses on, looking like the epitome of a cute, studious nerd.

except, he was the complete opposite–that menace, you hate him. (affectionately, of course.)

“hey! what took you so long?” he demanded, already reaching for the bags, “i’ve been waiting forever. jeongin’s been complaining about the controller for twenty minutes straight. my ears are bleeding.”

you rolled your eyes, pushing past him into the apartment, “you’re living in seoul, idiot–traffic exists. also,what happened to ‘hi, hello?” nice to see you, seungmin. i’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“yeah, yeah, whatever. now give me my tteokbokki.”

you held the bags above your head, grinning at his glare. “say please.”

“please,” he said flatly, without an ounce of sincerity.

“woooow. so heartfelt. i’m moved.”

“y/n.”

“seungmin.”

he lunged for the bags, and you dodged, cackling as you ran into the living room where jeongin was sprawled on the couch, controller in hand, looking betrayed by the game on screen.

“noona,” jeongin perked immediately, his face splitting into a wide grin, “you actually brought food! i take back every bad thing i have ever said about you.”

“you what?” a scoff followed your inquiry as you dropped onto the couch next to him, the bags clutched to your chest.

“in my defense, only when you beat me at mario kart. which is never, by the way, because i’m simply amazing.”

“you cheat,” you and seungmin sang in unison.

jeongin gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense, “this is slander! defamation! i’m hurt!”

“you’re annoying,” seungmin corrected, finally wrestling the tteokbokki from your grip and settling on your other side, “now shut up and eat so we can play.”

the night progressed as it always did, with jeongin somehow winning at every round of mario kart, seungmin complaining about unfairness, and you comfortably existing in the middle of the chaos, laughing until your stomach hurt.

it was around ten when you heard the front door open and close.

jeongin perked up, “is that–”

“hey! how can you guys order tteokbokki without me!”

the voice came roaring from the hallway–loud, indignant, and absolutely unmistakable. it was deeper than you had heard back in the cafe, rougher around the edges, laced with playful outrage.

you froze, your hand hovering over the controller.

changbin burst into the living room like a man on mission, his eyes scanning for the source of the spicy and savory scent that had clearly been tormenting him sinc he walked through the door. he was in a loose gray t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp, as if he had just got back from the gym. his expression was one of exaggerated betrayal.

“i can smell it from the elevator! you guys are so inconsiderate, i’ve been starving all evening and you–”

he stopped dead on the tracks.

his eyes had found you.

you watched the realization dawn on his face–the shift from playful indignation to startled recognition. his mouth, which had been agape mid-complaint, slowly closed. his ears, you noticed with a strange sense of detachment, were turning slightly pink.

for a suspended second, no one moved. the mario kart soundtrack played cheerfully in the background, completely oblivious to the tension crackling through the room.

jeongin, bless his chaotic heart, was the first to break the silence, “hyung, you’re so loud! also, there’s still some left. noona brought two large portions.”

“...noona,” changbin repeated, his voice now significantly softer than the roar that had preceded it, he was still looking at you, and you watched as he seemed to piece everything together; you, on the couch, holding a controller, seemingly a close friend to his younger members, very much not behind a coffee counter.

you raised your hand in a small, awkward wave. “hi…i… also brought the tteokbokki. sorry. for existing–i mean, with the food. that you can smell.”

kill me now, literally.

however, instead of looking annoyed or embarrassed, changbin’s face broke into that same genuine smile from the cafe–the one that crinkled his eyes and made your heart do dangerous things.

“miss best barista strikes again,” he observed, warmth curling through his voice like steam off fresh coffee. no trace of annoyance, “first coffee, now tteokbokki. you’re going to spoil me.”

“you two know each other–”

you shot a glare at seungmin. a playful smirk hovered his lips by that exchange, his eyes dancing with mischief behind those round glasses. he knew exactly what he was doing.

“we’ve met,” changbin said easily, finally tearing his gaze away from you to look at seungmin, “at the cafe downstairs. how about you? you’ve never formally introduced me to your friend.”

the accusation in his voice was mild, yet there was something underneath it–curiosity, maybe, interest. seungmin, the traitor, just shrugged.

“didn’t think you’d be interested,” he uttered casually, and you wanted to strangle him.

changbin’s eyebrows rose, “why wouldn’t i be interested in meeting my favorite dongsaeng’s oldest friends?”

favorite dongsaeng. the term of endearment made something warm flutter in your chest, even though it wasn’t directed at you.

seungmin gestured vaguely between you and changbin, “well, now you’ve met. y/n, this is changbin hyung, you know him. changbin hyung, this is y/n, a close friend from high school.”

you managed a small wave. again. “hi. officially.”

changbin’s smile widened, his teeth peeking through his plump lips, “hi, officially.”

jeongin, who had been watching this exchange with the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel, finally interrupted, “so, are we gonna play mario kart or? the tteokbokki’s getting cold and my winning streak is getting lonely.”

seungmin threw a pillow at him, “you don’t have a winning streak. you cheat.”

“i don’t cheat! i’m just talented!”

changbin laughed, and the sound wrapped around your heart and squeezed gently, as if it was testing whether you were real. he moved towards the couch, settling onto the floor across from you with the kind of casual grace that made everything look effortless, “i haven’t played in awhile, you have to go easy on me.”

“i don’t go easy on anyone,” jeongin declared, “victory shall be mine–”

“this brat–”

you couldn’t help but laugh, and when you looked up, changbin was watching you again with that soft expression. this time, he didn’t look away when you caught him. he just smiled; a smaller yet more intimate smile, and something warm bloomed within your chest. something that felt like the first real thing you had felt in years.

the night progressed in the familiar chaos of races and trash talk. you learned that changbin was surprisingly quiet bad at video games, or just mario kart, despite his confident claims, that he had a habit of biting his lip when concentrating, and that his laugh was even more fun and beautiful up close.

you also learned that he was kind. when seungmin got frustrated with a difficult course, changbin was the one who calmed him down. when jeongin made a self-deprecating joke, changbin was quick to reassure him. and when you accidentally knocked over your drirnk, he was the first one to grab paper towels.

and without you knowing, seungmin was already documenting the entire scene. that asshole.

“don’t worry about it,” he said, kneeling beside you to wipe up the mess, “accidents happen.”

he was so close you could smell him. you could feel your cheeks burning, could feel the heat crawling up your neck, staining your ears, betraying every calm thought you had ever had.

“...thanks,” you managed, the smile on your lips trembling.

he looked up at you, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. his eyes were dark and warm, and you could see yourself reflected in them.

“anytime,” he exhaled softly.

seungmin’s voice shattered the moment, “is it just me or is it getting hotter here? get a room, you two!”

you jerked back, face burning.

changbin shot him a dirty look, despite his ears turning pink, “dude, shut up!”

both seungmin and jeongin looked at each other, mirroring each other’s grin.

by the time midnight rolled around, jeongin was yawning, and seungmin was checking his phone with a grimace.

“i should go,” a soft yawn accompanied your words, starting to gather your things, “thanks for having me. this was really fun.”

seungmin stood up, “i’ll walk you–”

“i’ll do it,” changbin offered immediately, “it’s late, i need air anyway.”

seungmin looked at him, then at you, that knowing smirk playing on his lips, “suuure, hyung.”

you grabbed your bag, avoiding seungmin’s gaze. as you headed for the door, you heard jeongin’s loud whisper: “noona’s down bad, isn’t she?”

the door closed behind you before you could hear changbin’s response, and you were figuratively, metaphorically, dying inside.

you wanted to melt into the floor of the hallway and never resurface.

the walk to the lobby was short, barely five minutes, yet if felt charged with a new, electric energy.

“it was really nice talking to you tonight, y/n,” changbin was first to break the silence as you reached the shelter. the night air was cool, and he stood with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, looking down at you.

“you too,” you replied, and you meant it with every fiber of your being, “i had a lot of fun.”

his signature smile returned, “maybe we can do it again sometime? not a game night, necessarily. just… talk more in general. about music, or movies, or anything.”

your heart soared. this man will be the end of me.

“i’d like that,” you whispered, your voice full of a hope you were terrified to feel.

“great… that’s great! i’ll reach out to you, of course,” a sigh of relief slipped past his lips, “i’ll see you then, y/n.”

your taxi rumbled into view, its headlights cutting through the darkness. you climbed in, turning back to wave. he was still standing there, under the streetlight, a figure who had somehow, in the span of a single evening, managed to capture a piece of your heart you hadn’t even known was available.

as the taxi pulled away, you pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the wild, erratic beat beneath your palm.

oh, you were so screwed.

THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED WERE A MONTAGE OF STOLENT MOMENTS AND GROWING FEELINGS. it started with messages. he would send you little snippets of songs he was working on, asking for your honest opinion, and you would send back voice memos of your thoughts; voice cracking slightly, too shy to call.

and then the messages changed.

they became life updates. mundane thing such as what he ate for lunch, a funny thing seungmin said, a picture of the sky from his studio window. however, tucked between the ordinary were photographs of him: messy hair after gym sessions, sleepy eyes over morning coffee, that same smile he had always given you every time you meet.

and of course, you couldn’t help but to admire him even more. an idol was literally sending you messages for free, and that also happened to be the man you had grown feelings for.

he would reply with long advice when you were struggling, or compliments that landed soft and warm within your chest. and you would find yourself smiling at your phone like an idiot; on the subway, on your breaks, in bed at three in the morning.

and then came the casual meet-ups–the coffee ‘dates’, although neither of you would necessarily call that a date. you would meet at a small cafe in hongdae, and you would talk for three hours without realizing it. about music, movies, your families, your dreams. he would tell you about his producing process, and you would tell him about your studies, and somehow, impossibly, the conversation had never once felt awkward.

after that, it became a pattern. coffee dates turned into walks by han river. walks turned into late-night calls that stretched into the early morning. late-night calls turned into him showing up at your cafe during your shifts, just to say hi and make you laugh.

and with every shared moment, every lingering glance, every comfortable silence, you fell deeper and deeper in love with him.

it was quite a kind of falling. the kind that happens without a drama, without any announcement, without any of the fanfare you had always imagined love would bring. just the slow, steady gravity of wanting someone. just the soft, relentless pull of his existence against yours.

you fell like the rain into the ocean, like dusk into night, like you had never been anywhere else, never wanted anything else, never knew what it meant to be whole until he walked into your coffee shop and looked at you like you were worth looking at.

and yet.

you knew, a hundred percent certain, that he would never feel the same way.

you were just… ordinary.

just a barista who made him the wrong coffee. just a stranger who happened to be there. just someone who laughed too loud, smiled too wide, and loved too easily. just ordinary.

and that fact hurt a lot.

yet the feelings remained growing until they were a physical presence in your chest, a constant, aching thrum of affection and longing. you couldn’t keep it to yourself anymore. you had to tell someone.

so, on a rainy thursday afternoon, you found yourself sprawled on seungmin’s couch, staring at the ceiling while he sat on the other couch, typing on his laptop.

“...i think i’m in love with him, seungmin,” you mumbled into the silence.

the words fell out of you like something heavy you had been carrying too long. like a confession you had whispered to yourself so many times it had worn grooves in your brain, and now it was finally loose in the world, vulnerable, real, and terrifying.

having feelings for someone had always been terrifying.

you waited for the shock, the questions. for the careful unpacking of a secret you had protected with everything you had.

seungmin didn’t even look up from his screen, “with seo changbin? yeah, i know.”

the world stopped.

you sat up so fast the room tilted. your heart slammed against your ribs like it was trying to escape, like it knew it had been caught, having nowhere left to hide.

“how do you know?” the words came out too high, too fast, too desperate, “am i that obvious?”

seungmin finally turned, pushing his glasses up his nose with a sigh that carried the weight of someone who had been watching this ongoing disaster unfold for weeks and was frankly exhausted by it.

“y/n,” his voice was patient. too patient. the kind of patient that meant he was about to say something devastatingly obvious, “you’ve been going on these ‘dates’ with him. you talk about him all the damn time. you always have this dreamy, faraway look in your eyes whenever he’s around. you get so flustered easily. it’s not exactly a state secret.”

you deflated.

all the air left your body in one long, defeated exhale, and you flopped back onto the pillows like a puppet with cur strings. the ceiling stared down at you, blank and indifferent, and you stared back at it, wishing it would swallow you whole.

you could never fight with kim seungmin on this. he saw too much. remembered too much. cared too much to let you pretend.

“well, fuck,” the word came out flat, resigned, “i’m screwed, huh?”

“not exactly,” seungmin was quiet for a moment, before continuing, “so, what are you going to do about it?”

the question landed in your chest like a stone.

you laughed; a hollow, humorless sound, “what am i going to do about it? nothing. absolutely nothing.”

the silence that followed was different, heavier, you could feel his gaze on you, could feel him turning something over behind those glasses, could feel the exact moment he decided this conversion wasn’t over,

you heard the soft click of his laptop closing, the creak of his chair as he turned to fully to face you.

and you knew, with the kind of dread that sits in your stomach like lead, he wasn’t going to let you off that easily.

a frown grazed over his features, “why not? he clearly likes you. he mostly spends all his free times with you. not to mention how he always light up whenever you walk into the room–”

“no.”

the word came out sharper than you intended, sharp enough to cut through the gentle concern in seungmin’s voice. you felt it leave your mouth like a dagger, felt the way it landed in the space between you, felt the way it made him stop mid-thought,

“he doesn't,” your voice was brittle now, cracking at the edges. you couldn’t hear this. “he's just being friendly. he’s a kind person, seungmin. he’s like that with everyone.”

he’s like that with everyone.

the words hung in the air between you, fragile and false, and you hated how they sounded out loud. hated how they tasted like excuses. hated how even as you said them, a small, traitorous part of you was remembering the way he looked at you, the way he smiled at you, the way he treated you right.

but that didn’t mean anything, didn’t it?

it couldn’t mean anything.

“no, he’s not,” seungmin insisted, his voice firm. “he’s polite to everyone. but with you? it’s a whole different world. he’s softer, more open. i’ve known him for years… i can tell.”

you shook your head. the familiar wave of self-consciousness washed over you, cold and heavy, dragging you under. it whispered in your ear, that agitating voice, the one that knew you better than anyone: you’re not special. why would he even have feelings for you? have you seen yourself? stop humiliating yourself further.

you sat up slowly, pulling your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them like they were the only thing keeping you together. like if you held tight enough, you could protect the small, fragile thing inside you from hoping. from believing. from getting hurt.

“seungmin, look at me,” you muttered, your voice laced with an old, familiar pain, “really, look at me.”

he did, his expression patient yet puzzled.

“i’m not…” the words stuck in your throat, stumbled over years of careful swallowing, of biting back, of learning to smile through the quiet devastation of never feeling like enough.

you struggled to find them; the ones that had been whispered by cruel voices in your head as long as you could remember. the ones that had been reinforced by a thousand tiny cuts from a world obsessed with a narrow definition of beauty. magazine covers, movie screens, the way people’s eyes slid past you in rooms full of people who looked like they were born for the covers.

“i’m not the kind of woman someone like him falls for. he’s seo changbin. he’s talented, successful, and painfully gorgeous. he could have anyone. any of those perfect, thin, out-of-this-world beautiful women. why would he ever look twice at someone like me?”

seungmin’s frown deepened, “what do you mean, ‘someone like you’?”

“you know what i mean,” your voice trembled–just slightly, just enough to betray the years of careful composure you had built around this particular wound. you gestured vaguely at your body. at the curves you had spent years learning to hide. at the softness that had been pointed out to you as a flaw. your hand moved through the air, encompassing everything you had been taught to hate about yourself.

“i’m not… i’m not physically attractive. not in the way that matters. i’m not thin. i’m not pretty. i’m just… me. and me isn’t enough for a man like him. he wouldn’t, couldn’t, ever love a woman with this body.”

the words hung in the air between you; they were ugly, raw, and bleeding, like wounds you had picked open in front of someone who actually cared.

you couldn’t look at him. couldn’t bear to see the confirmation in his eyes, the quiet agreement that you had finally said out loud what everyone must have been thinking all along.

yet as the silence stretched too long, you risked a glance.

seungmin’s expression had shifted. the gentle confusion was gone, replaced by a dawning, horrified understanding that made your stomach drop. he got up from his seat and sat next to you. the mattress dipped under his weight, pulling you slightly towards him, and you hated how even that small act made you want to cry.

“y/n…” he called, his voice gentle, the way he used to talk you down from panic attacks back in high school, “that’s the most ridiculous thing i’ve ever heard you say.”

“it’s not ridiculous, it’s true–”

“it’s not,” he insisted, “do you think changbin hyung is that shallow? that he only sees the surface? the guy who spends hours talking to you, hangs out with you during his free times, visits your every shift, buys you gifts, that guy–you think he only cares about what you look like?”

“he cares about me as a friend,” you mumbled into your knees, “that’s different.”

“it’s not different!” the words burst out seungmin with a force that made you flinch. you knew it wasn’t anger, never anger, but it was definitely something close to desperation. like he was watching you drown and couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t take the rope he kept throwing.

“ attraction isn’t just about one thing. it’s about everything! it’s about how you laugh, how you listen, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. it’s about who you truly are. not what you look like. not the number on a scale. not whether you fit into some impossible standards that wasn’t even healthy in the first place,” his voice softened, just slightly, just enough to crack something even open in your chest.

his eyes were boring into yours, “and changbin hyung is head-over-heals for who you are. i’m telling you, he likes you back. he’s crazy about you.”

you wanted to believe him. desperately. but the voice of insecurity was too loud. it kept taunting you for far too long.

“you’re a good friend, seungmin,” you whispered, learning your head on his shoulder, “but you’re wrong. he could never like me. not like that. and i would rather have him as a friend than not have him in my life at all. so i’m just going to… i’m going to be okay with that.i have to be.”

a long, frustrated sigh escaped seungmin. he wanted to argue, you could tell. however, he also knew you well enough to know that when you had built a wall like this, pushing against it would only make it stronger.

“okay,” he exhaled softly, wrapping an arm around you for comfort, “okay, fine. but for the record. i think you’re beautiful. and i think you’re wrong about him. one day, you’ll see.”

you closed your eyes, letting your best friend’s warmth comfort you.

yet, the cold knot of insecurity remained, coiling tightly within your chest.

THE UNIVERSE, YOU DECIDED, HAD A SICK SENSE OF HUMOR. not even a week after your conversation with seungmin, it decided to test your fragile resolve in the cruelest way possible.

you were at the company building on a tuesday afternoon, having just dropped a jacket that changbin had lent you during one of your walks by the han river. it had been cold that night, and he had wrapped it around your shoulders without a second thought, insisting he was fine even as you watched him shiver.

you remembered laughing. it had bubbled up out of you, helpless and warm, watching that gorgeous man freeze for your sake.

“you’re a terrible liar, changbin,’ you teased, and he just smiled; shrugging like it was nothing. as if you were worth freezing for.

you remembered the way laughter had faded into something softer when he looked at you. the way the city lights had reflected in his eyes. they way you had wanted, so badly, to reach out and pull him close, share the warmth of his own jacket.

you hadn’t, of course. you just walked a little closer, let your shoulders brush, pretended that was enough.

the jacket was safely delivered to the security guard now, with a small note tucked into the pocket: ‘thanks for keeping me warm. – y/n’

simple. innocent. friendly.

you were heading towards the exit, your head down, scrolling through your phone to check bus times–just another ordinary tuesday, just another mundane task, just another moment in a life that had been carefully, painfully returned to normal.

the elevator doors slid open.

and there was changbin.

the world stopped. your thumb froze over the screen. your heart forgot its rhythm and stumbled into something chaotic and desperate.

he was walking out with a woman.

she was beautiful–of course, she was. tall and slender, with the kind of effortless elegance that made you feel like a shadow just by standing near her. her hair caught the light like it was paid to. her smile resembled helen of troy’s, the kind of smile that could make a thousand men forget themselves and burn cities to the ground.

and all you could do was stand there, ordinary and invisible, watching her exist in the same space as him like she had every right to.

like she was born for it.

she was probably a producer. or a friend. or a girlfriend.

it didn’t matter which. the evidence was right there in front of you. your worst fear made flesh.

she was laughing at something he had just said, her head tilted back slightly, her hand resting lightly on his arm as if it belonged there.

changbin was smiling. not his polite, professional smile, yet a real one–warm and genuine, his head tilted towards her, listening intently to whatever she was saying. his free hand was gesturing as he spoke, animated in that way he got when he was comfortable with someone.

they looked perfect together.

your heart didn’t just drop. it didn’t skip a beat. it shattered into a million tiny pieces, each one a sharp, cold shard of confirmation that lodged itself deep in your chest.

see? the shards whispered, smug and cruel. seungmin was wrong. this is who he eventually chooses. she’s someone you’ll never be.

you could feel them settling between your ribs. could feel the weight of them pressing against your lungs, making it hard to breathe. could feel the sharp edges cutting into everything soft you had left.

this is what you were afraid of.

this is why you never told him.

this is why you never left yourself hope.

because hope was dangerous. hope was a knife you handed to the universe and prayed it wouldn’t use. and now, you were bleeding out in the middle of the lobby, watching the person you loved walk away with someone who was in all aspects, especially physically wise, better than you, and all you could do was walk away.

you fled the building.

you didn’t run, that would have drawn attention. yet you walked faster than you had ever walked in your life, bursting through the glass doors and into the chilly afternoon air. you made it half a block before you had to stop, pressing yourself against the side of a building, your hand over your heart as if you could physically hold the pieces together.

you didn’t cry. you were too numb for tears. you just felt a hollow, aching emptiness where the warmth of your feelings for changbin used to be.

of course, you thought, the voices in your head now sounding almost reasonable. of course he has someone. did you really think someone like him would be single? did you really think he was spending time with you because he wanted more than friendship. he’s seo changbin, for fuck sakes.

you thought about all those walks you did with him. all those late-night conversations about your lives. all those times he had looked at you like you were the only person in the room. all those messages, the shared playlists, the way he remembered your coffee order even when you weren’t at work. the jacket. the way he had wrapped it around your shoulders so carefully, so tenderly.

just friendly. that’s all it ever was. you just read into it because you wanted it to be more. because you’re desperately, lonely, and pathetic.

the walk home was a blur. you don’t remember the bus ride, don’t remember getting into your apartment, don’t remember collapsing onto your bed. you just remember staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, the image of the them burned into the back of your eyelids.

that was the beginning of the end.

you began to set barriers, just as you had told seungmin you would. it was the only way to protect yourself, the only way to survive this. you couldn’t keep going the way you had been, couldn’t keep letting yourself fall deeper and deeper when there was no safety net at the bottom.

you started with small things.

and speaking of the devil, changbin texted you that night.

binnie : hey, thanks for dropping off the jacket

binnie : you didn’t have to wash it you know

binnie : it smells like your detergent now and i’m not complaining lmao

binnie : also i saw your note, you’re so cute ~

binnie : you know you can always keep it, right?

you waited an hour to reply. then two. then you sent a simple: glad u got it back! talk soon!

no emojis. no playful banter. no opening for conversation.

binnie : you free this weekend? there’s this cafe in hongdae i wanted to check out. thought you might like it!

binnie : heard the food’s great

ah, i have a crazy week ahead. maybe another time!

binnie : oh okay

binnie : no problem, just let me know when you’re free!

okay! 👍

the thumbs up emoji felt like a betrayal of everything you failed. but it was safer than a heart, safer than the smiley faces you used to send, safer than the ‘i’d love to’ that was screaming inside your chest.

he tried again a few days later.

binnie : i found this indie band today, they remind me of that playlist you made me

binnie : can i send you their stuff

sure

he sent three songs. you immediately added them to your playlist, listening to them on repeat for hours. it was the only way to hold onto a piece of him without reaching for all of him, the only way to love him quietly, safely, from a distance where he couldn’t see you aching.

and when morning came, you replied with three words that buried everything.

nice! added them!

nothing more.

after two days, he started showing up at the cafe again.

the first time, your heart lurched with that familiar, painful mixture of joy and despair. he walked in, ordered his usual iced americano, and flashed you his smile when he saw you behind the counter.

“y/n, hey.”

you served him with a tight, professional smile, “hi, changbin. the usual?”

something flickered within his eyes–confusion, maybe, at the formality. at the distance you had carefully crafted between your words. at the wall you had built brick by brick since the last time you saw him.

yet, he nodded, “yeah, thanks.”

you made his drink in silence, your hands trembling as you worked–measuring, pressing, pouring, each of your movements felt mechanical. the espresso machine hissed. the milk steamed. your heart cracked a little more with every second that passed without either of you speaking.

when you handed it to him, you didn’t linger. you didn’t ask how he was, didn’t mention how your day has been, didn’t do any of the things you used to do. you just simply, handed him the cup.

your eyes didn’t meet his. your fingers didn’t brush against his. your usual bright smile was nowhere to be found. you were terrifyingly indifferent, and it shook his poor heart.

“have a good day,” you mumbled, already turning to the next customer.

“y/n–” he started, yet you were already gone, busying yourself with the espresso machine, your entire physique hidden from him.

when you finally risked a glance, he was standing there for a moment longer, holding his coffee, staring at you with an expression that you unfortunately couldn’t read. then he turned and left.

the second time, you hid in the back room until one of your coworkers took his order.

the third time, he didn’t come at all.

his messages became more frequent, more confused.

binnie : hey, is everything okay?

binnie : you seem differently lately

all good! just busy.

for a moment, just a moment, the little bubble appeared. read. the words stared back at you, utterly devoid of the panic rising in your throat.

and for a second, you thought you were already losing your mind. he had to know that you were lying, and jokes on you, you weren’t fully mentally prepared.

then, a message appeared.

binnie : are we still on for our walk this weekend? the weather’s supposed to be nice

a trembling exhale escaped your lips, carrying the weight of everything you couldn’t say as you read his message. your thumb trembled, not from cold, not from nerves, but from the sheer effort of holding yourself together when all you wanted was to fall apart.

your thumb moved before your brain could stop it.

typing…

sorry i can’t

family stuff

there. it was a lie. you had nothing planned for the weekend. it was a lie wrapped in something almost believable. almost innocent. almost enough to explain why you were pushing him away without actually explaining anything at all.

binnie : oh okay

binnie : just let me know if you need to talk about anything

binnie : i’m always here

damn you, seo changbin

thanks

one word. after months of paragraphs, of shared thoughts, inside jokes, and late-night rambles, you could only manage by giving him one word.

the typing indicator appeared immediately. disappeared. appeared again. you watched it as if you could see him pacing outside of your door, afraid to knock on.

then his message came through.

binnie : y/n… did i do something?

the ellipsis hung there like a held breath. like he was scared to ask yet more scared not to.

binnie : if i upset you somehow, i’m really sorry

binnie : just tell me and i’ll make up for it

you stared at that message for a long time, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. you wanted to tell him everything. you wanted to scream that he hadn’t done anything wrong, that it was a ‘you’ problem, that you were just scared and didn’t know how to be around him without falling apart.

but you didn’t. fear wouldn’t let you.

what are u talking about lmao

u didn’t do anything wrong. dw about it

binnie : if you say so

binnie : but i do worry. about you. you know that right?

i know. thanks.

another brick in the wall, final.

TWO WEEKS PASSED LIKE THIS. fourteen days. three hundred and thirty-six hours. thousands of minutes stretched thin with short replies, avoided encounters, and a growing, aching silence that filled every space you used to share.

two weeks of you dying a little more inside every day–slowly, quietly, the way flowers die when you forget to water them. two weeks of him growing more and more confused, more hurt, more desperate with every unanswered question. every casual deflection,l every door you closed in his face.

you told yourself it was for the best.

you told yourself a lot of things.

and then you saw him. you were crossing the street, head down, invested in your phone, when something made you look up.

he was there. across the street, standing outside with jeongin, both of them laughing about something. his head was thrown back slightly, his smile wide and real, his whole body loose with the kind of happiness that used to make your chest ache in the best way.

for a moment, you forgot to breathe.

he looked happy. he looked like he was moving on. he looked like your absence didn’t affect him at all, as if you were just a footnote in a story he had already finished reading.

good, you told yourself, the word sharp and cold in your chest. that’s good. he has his life. he doesn’t need you.

you believed it. almost.

and then he looked up.

across the crowd, across the distance, across the cars, the people, and the weeks of silence, his eyes finally found yours. like they knew where to look. like they had been searching for you without permission. like some part of him had been waiting for this moment even when he didn’t know it.

god, the look on his face.

his smile faltered first. flickered. died. then his eyes went soft, achingly familiar, with something that looked like… longing. like confusion. like hurt. like he was seeing a ghost he had been trying to forget and realizing he had never stopped hoping she was real.

it almost broke you.

right there, in the middle of the street, with people pushing past on you both sides and the light about to change–the look alone almost broke you.

you couldn’t do it. couldn’t watching him cross the street. couldn’t hear his voice. couldn’t let him close enough to shatter what was left of you.

so you turned. you walked away.

behind you, you didn’t hear his footsteps. didn’t know if he had started towards you. didn’t let yourself look behind to find out.

you just walked.

and somewhere behind you, changbin stood frozen, watching you disappear into the crowd, wondering what he had done to lose you and why you wouldn’t talk to him.

the breaking point came on a thursday evening.

you were walking from work, your head down against a chilly autumn wind, your work bag heavy with the weight of your uniform and the extra pastries your manager had insisted on taking home. the days had blurred into a gray mess and self-recrimination, and you were so exhausted. so incredibly, bone-deep exhausted.

the cafe had been busy that evening; a constant stream of customers ordering seasonal drinks and desserts, their happy chatter grating against your frayed nerves. you had smiled, nodded, and made drinks on autopilot, your mind somewhere else entirely. somewhere with dark eyes, a warm laugh, and a hand that used to find yours.

you had checked your phone approximately forty-seven times during your shift. each time, hoping for a message from him. each time, telling yourself you didn’t deserve one.

he stopped texting three days ago.

and the silence was torturing you mentally.

you did this. you had pushed him away, built your walls, retreated behind a mask of politeness and distance. and now he was gone, just like you had known he would be. just like you had prepared for.

this is better, you told yourself for the thousandth time. this is what you wanted. to protect yourself. to protect the friendship.

however, it didn’t feel better. it felt like someone had dug into your chest and hollowed you out, leaving nothing but echoes and ache.

the street was quiet this time of night, most of the officer workers already home, the usual bustle reduced to the occasional taxi and the distant hum of traffic, a soft lullaby for a city that never quiet slept.

you welcomed the solitude.

it meant you didn’t have to pretend. didn’t have to smile when someone asked if you were okay. didn’t have to perform the exhausting charade of being fine when every step you took felt like walking through water.

the night air was cool against your skin. the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. your footsteps echoed in the silence, steady, rhythmic, the only sound besides your own breathing.

you were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t hear the car until it was right beside you.

the familiar purr of the engine made your heart stop.

you recognized that sound.

you would know it anywhere—in a crowded parking lot, in the middle of a song, in your sleep. it was the sound of late-night convenience store runs, of drives to scenic overlooks where you'd sit for hours just talking, of that one time he had driven you home at 3 am because you had fallen asleep on his couch during a movie marathon and he hadn't had the heart to wake you.

it was the sound of him.

you didn’t look up.

you couldn’t. if you looked up, if you saw him, if you let yourself acknowledge that he was here–right here, within arm's reach, you would break. you would shatter into a thousand pieces right here on the sidewalk, and you would never be able to put yourself back together.

so you kept walking.

your pace quickened. your eyes stayed fixed on the sidewalk ahead, on the cracks in the pavement, on anything that wasn’t the dark car gliding alongside you.

the car matched your speed.

of course it did.

the window rolled down. the sound was soft, just a mechanical hum, yet it might as well have been a gunshot in the silence. it echoed in your chest, in your ears, in the space you had been trying so hard to keep empty.

you felt him there. felt his presence like a gravitational pull, like the tide being drawn towards the moon, like every atom in your body screaming at you to turn around.

you didn’t look, and you heard the car kept moving.

the window stayed down.

and you kept walking, heart pounding, breath caught, waiting for the sound of his voice to finally destroy you.

“y/n.”

his voice. that warm baritone that used to make your heart soar, now making it clench with a painful mixture of longing and dread. you could hear the exhaustion of it, the confusion, the hurt.

you kept walking, the upcoming words came out smaller than you intended–fragile, thin, barely held together, “i’m fine. it’s a short walk–”

“y/n,” his voice was firmer now, yet still gentle. always gentle with you. even now, even after weeks of distance, he was still gentle, “it’s late at night. please, get in.”

you shook your head–a small movement, quick and dismissive. you couldn’t trust your voice, couldn’t trust that if you opened your mouth, something other than words would come out. a sob, maybe. a confession. a broken, desperate ‘i have feelings for you and it sickens me’ that you would never be able to take back.

the car stopped.

you heard it. the soft deceleration, the click of the gear shift, the sudden absence of movement beside you. then, his door opened.

heavy footsteps chased behind you, steady, determined. closing the distance you had been trying so hard to maintain.

and then his hand found your arm, his fingers wrapped around your elbow; not gripping, not trapping, just there. just enough to stop you. just enough to turn you around.

you didn’t resist.

his touch, his warm… it undid you so easily. it unraveled weeks of careful construction in a single second. it remind you of everything you had been trying to forget.

you turned reluctantly, and there he was.

changbin. standing in the middle of the quiet street, the streetlight casting shadows across his attractive face, his gorgeous eyes searching yours, looking for answers to his unanswered questions.

he looked tired as well. there were shadows under his eyes, deep purple crescents that spoke of sleepless nights and restless thoughts. a tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there before, a tightness around his mouth that made him look wearier, like someone carrying a weight they didn't know how to put down. he looked like he hadn’t been sleeping either, and that hurt more than anything.

you had convinced yourself that you were the only one suffering. that your absence alone was a final gift, a mercy, a kindness that allowed him to move on without the burden of your feelings, you had told–reminded yourself he was fine, happy, moving forward into a future that didn’t have to include you.

however, standing here now, looking at the exhaustion etched into every line of his face realized how wrong you had been.

“please,” he begged once again, softer this time. “just… talk to me. five minutes. that’s all i’m asking.”

you looked at him, really looked at him, and your heart fissured, cracks spreading like spiderwebs. the walls you had been so carefully building crumbled in an instant, leaving you raw and exposed, and so, so tired of running.

you nodded.

he led you back to the car, his hand was still on your arm–gentle, guiding, like he was afraid you might disappear again if he let go. he opened the passenger door for you, a small gesture something he had done a hundred times before, and you slid into the warm interior.

the scent hit you immediately. laundry detergent. something faintly woody. that familiar, impossible combination that was so uniquely him. it wrapped around you like a memory, like a hug you hadn’t known you needed, like everything you had been trying to forget suddenly flooding back all at once.

it made your heart ache further.

that deep, hollow longing you had been suppressing for weeks; it rose up like a tide, threatening to drown you right there in the passenger seat of his car. you gripped your hands together in your lap, knuckles white, and tried to breathe through it.

he pulled over to the side of the road, into a small parking lot near a closed convenience store. the engine idled softly, the heater hummed, and the world outside the windows felt very far away.

then, he turned to face you.

his dark eyes were intense–searching, desperate, hungry for answers you had been starving him of for weeks. they moved across your face as if he was trying to read a brook written in a language he didn't understand.

“what’s going on?” he began. his tone was cautious, as if he was approaching something wounded, “did i do something wrong?”

the question was a knife to your heart. it slide between your ribs with surgical precision, finding the softest parts of you, the places where all your fears lived, he thought it was his fault. he had been carrying this for weeks, thinking he was the reason for the ordeal.

and you had let him.

“...no,” your voice barely above a whisper. you looked down at your hands, at the white-knuckled grip you had on yourself, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

the silence stretched between you, heavy with everything you weren’t saying out loud. you could feel his gaze on you, his confusion, his desperate need to understand. you could feel him waiting, always so patient for you to give him something, anything, to hold onto.

however, the truth was too big. too messy. too terrifying.

“then why?” the hurt in his voice was raw, undisguised, stripped of all the careful composure he had been holding onto. it was the kind of hurt that couldn’t be hidden, couldn’t be smoothed over.

“why are you avoiding me? why do you barely talk to me anymore?” each question landed like a blow, as if he was listing wounds he didn’t know how to treat. “whenever i see you at the cafe, you can’t get away from me fast enough. you used to–”

a pause, his jaw tightening; that muscle jumping beneath his skin, the one you watched flex a hundred times when he was concentrating, when he was frustrated, whe he was trying not to feel too much.

however, he was feeling it now. all of it.

“i thought we were close. i thought–”

he ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it made your chest cave in. frustration. confusion. the kind of helplessness that came from wanting to fix something and now knowing how.

“did i misread everything?” his voice came quieter now, more fragile. as if he was bracing for the answer, “were we not… were not friends the way i thought we were?”

friends.

the word hit you like a slap–a reminder. like everything you had been afraid of, crystallized into seven letters.

he thought this was about friendship. he thought you were pushing him away because you didn’t care enough, didn’t value him enough, didn’t want him in your life the way he wanted you.

he had no idea.

he had no idea that you cared too much. that you wanted him too much. that every moment near him felt like standing too close to a fire; beautiful, warm, and absolutely capable of melting you.

“no!” the denial tore out of you before you could stop it–sharp, desperate, and raw in its own way. you finally glanced up at him, finally let yourself see him, finally stopped hiding behind your own walls.

and the look on his face–god.

it was hope, desperation, and fear all tangled together, mirroring your current emotional chaos; the same storm you had been drowning in for weeks, now reflected back at you in his eyes.

“you didn’t… you didn’t misread anything. you’re my… you’re one of the best friends i’ve ever had, changbin–”

“but?”

you took a shaky breath. this was it. the moment you had been dreading. you had to say something, and the words were stuck in your throat like shards of glass.

“but i can’t do this anymore,” you whispered, “i can’t keep pretending.”

changin’s brows furrowed, “pretending what?”

you looked down at your hands, twisting together in your lap like they could anchor you to something solid. the tears were already coming, hot and traitorous, spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them.

"pretending that i don't—" your voice cracked. "pretending that you're just my friend. pretending that every time you text me, my heart doesn't race. pretending that when you smile at me, i don't forget how to breathe. pretending that i haven't been falling in love with you since the moment we first hung out.”

you looked down at your hands, twisting together in your lap like they could anchor you to something solid. the tears were already coming, hot and traitorous, spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them,

you couldn’t look at him. you couldn’t bear to see the pity, the awkwardness, the careful let-down that was surely coming. so you just kept talking, the confession spilling out of you like water through a broken dam.

“i know i shouldn’t feel this way. i know i’m not–” you, yet again, gestured vaguely at yourself–at your body, at everything you had seen as insufficient, “i’m not what someone like you want. i know that. i’ve always known that. but i couldn’t help it. i tried so hard to just be your friend, to just be happy with what we had, but every time i was with you, i wanted more. i wanted things i have no right to want.”

a sob escaped you, and you turned your attention towards the window, trying to hold it in.

“and then i saw you with that woman at the company. she was so pretty, so perfect, and i realized–” a sad laugh broke through your lips, “i realized that that was it. that was my wake-up call. you have a life, changbin. a real life with real people who belong in your world. you are loved. and i’m just.. just some girl who works at a cafe. i don’t belong there.”

you finally looked up at him once more, your eyes swimming with tears, your heart laid bare and bleeding between you.

“so i tried to give you space. to make it hurt less when you eventually–” you swallowed hard, “when you eventually found someone who was actually good enough for you. i thought if i did it first, if i created the distance, maybe it wouldn’t destroy me when you left.”

another tear fell.

“but it didn’t work. nothing worked–regardless, i still love you. i still think about you constantly.”

silence.

heavy, terrifying silence.

you waited for him to speak, to let you down gently, to explain that he was sorry but he only saw you as a friend. you waited for the kindness you knew he possessed to deliver the rejection in the softest way possible.

yet, he didn’t speak.

he just stared at you, his eyes wide, his expression frozen somewhere between shock and something you couldn’t name. something softer. something that looked almost like wonder.

“i’m sorry,” you breathed, the words falling like stones–heavy, clumsy, irreversible, “i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t have–i know this makes things weird. i know you probably don’t–”

you couldn’t finish.

you reached for the door handle, desperate to scurry away, “i’ll just–i’ll go. we can pretend this never happened. i’ll understand if you don’t want to–”

his hand caught your wrist, warm fingers circling the place where your pulse was trying to beat its way out of your body.

“y/n. stop.”

his voice was rough, strained, nothing like the gentle tone you had expected, you turned to look at him.

his chest was rising and falling too fast. his jaw was working around words he hadn’t said yet. his eyes were burning with something that looked almost like… relief.

“that woman,” he murmured slowly, carefully, “the one you saw me with at the company.”

you nodded miserably, mentally preparing yourself for the impact.

he let out a shaky breath, as if he was trying to suppress his… laugh?

“that was my cousin.”

cousin.

“she’s a stylist,” another breath, steadier this time, “she’s married.”

one second. two. your brain turning the words over, examining them from every angle, trying to find the catch, the lie, the evidence you were missing.

then the blood drained from your body.

“she’s–”

“my cousin,” he nodded, and something flickered in his eyes–something that looked almost like a smile, almost like disbelief, almost like he couldn’t believe this was the reason, “my cousin, y/n–who, by the way, has been asking about you for weeks because i may have mentioned you plenty of times.”

you stared at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, “but–”

“i was telling her about this girl i’ve been spending time with. this amazing, beautiful, incredible girl who makes me laugh, listens to my music, and definitely the best cook. this girl who i’ve been falling in love with for months.”

all of the sudden, the world tilted. the car felt too small, the air too thin, your body too fragile to contain everything that was suddenly blooming inside you. your heart literally stopped.

“i wanted to introduce you, i wanted you to meet her, to meet my family, to–” he stopped. swallowed, before starting again, “but you were gone before i could get to you. and then everything changed.”

his thumb traced a slow arc against your wrist–the same wrist he was still holding, still grounding, still keeping you here when every instinct was screaming at you to run or cry… or even both.

“you started pulling away, and i didn’t know why. i kept thinking–” his voice cracked, just slightly, “i kept thinking i had done something. said something. pushed too hard or moved too fast. i really thought i had lost you.”

“...changbin–”

“no, let me finish,” he inhaled another shaky breath, his thumb still tracing those gentle circles on your wrist–an anchor, the only thing keeping you from splintering apart completely, “i replayed every conversation in my head, every moment we spent together. every laugh, every look, every stupid joke you made that i still think about when i can’t sleep.”

a broken laugh, soft and self-deprecating.

"i kept asking myself where i went wrong. what i could have done differently. because losing you—" his voice fractured, the words splintering on the way out. "losing you felt like losing something i never even got to have. something i wanted so badly it hurt. something i didn't even know i was allowed to want until it was gone.”

you shook your head, fresh tears spilling over, carving warm paths down your cheeks.

“you didn’t do anything wrong,” your voice came out fragile, trembling on the edge of breaking. it was the most honest thing you had said in weeks, stripped bare of all the restraints you had put on yourself, “nothing. it was never you.”

“then talk to me,” his eyes searched for yours, desperate, “please, whatever it is, just tell me. i need answers.”

you looked at him. at the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hand was still wrapped around yours like he was afraid you would disappear if he let go.

the truth sat on your tongue, heavy and bitter.

“because you deserve better.”

your answer fell into the silence like heavy stones into deep water, irreversible, sending ripples through everything.

his brows furrowed, “what?”

“you deserve better,” you repeated, voice cracking, “you deserve someone beautiful. someone thin. someone who looks like she belongs next to someone like you.”

you gestured at yourself, your body, at everything you had been taught to hate, “not this. not me.”

“y/n–”

“i’m not pretty, changbin,” the tears came faster now, “i’m not any of the things that you should want. and i thought–”

a sob caught in your throat, “i thought if i let myself love you, it would only hurt more when you finally figured it out. when you finally saw me the way everyone else does.”

“everyone else?”

“everyone else. you don’t understand,” you pulled your hand away, now wrapping your arms around yourself like you could hold the pieces together, “i’ve spent my whole life being looked at and looked through. being told i’m too much in some ways and not enough in others. i’ve made peace with it, or i thought i had.”

you wiped your tears with the back of your hand, sucking in another deep breath, “but then… you came along. and you looked at me. really looked at me. like i mattered. like i was worth seeing–and i didn’t know how to handle that, didn’t know how to be someone worthy of that look.”

silence.

he didn’t speak for a long moment. didn’t. just sat there, his eyes never leaving yours.

then, slowly, he reached out.

his hand found yours again, gently prying it away from where you were clutching your own arm. he held it in both of his, warm and steady.

“can i tell you something?” he asked gently.

you nodded.

“when i first met you,” he began, shifting closer to you–close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, could smell that familiar scent that had haunted your dreams for weeks, “i thought you were cute. adorable, even. the way you smile like you couldn’t help it. like happiness just spilled out of you whether you wanted it or not.”

a tiny, sad smile tugged at his lips, “and so incredibly sincere. you wore your heart on your sleeve in a way i had never seen before. no pretense. just… you.”

he paused, his gaze mapping your features as if he was trying to memorize every detail.

“and i remember thinking, ‘i hope she keeps looking at me. i hope she keeps smiling like that. i hope i get to be the reason for it someday.’”

his hand came up, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

“i fell for you ever since game night. when you laughed at one of jeongin’s stupid jokes and your whole face lit up. when you talked about movies like it was something you felt in your bones. when you paid attention to the subtlest changes about me. i fell for you because of who you are.”

a tear slipped down your cheek, and he caught it with his hand.

“not who you think you should be. not who the world tried to tell you to be. not some edited, polished version of yourself. you, the real you.”

he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours. you could feel his breath warm against your lips.

“and you,” he continued, “you are the most beautiful person i’ve ever met. not just on the outside–although god knows i could spend an entire day just looking at you–but inside is where it counts. your heart. your kindness. the way you care about people, about me.”

his words settled in your chest like warmth, like light… it was something you had wanted to hear.

a sob escaped you–yet it was different, it bubbled up from somewhere deep and joyful, somewhere that had been locked away for so long you had forgotten it existed. it was a sob of relief. of disbelief. of hope.

"you're so silly." the words came out wet and wobbly, tangled up with laughter and tears and everything in between. a smile broke through despite everything—despite the crying, despite the weeks of pain, despite the walls you'd built so carefully. it split your face open, too wide and too bright, the way it always did when you couldn't help yourself. "how can you say things like that?”

he smiled back—that small, intimate smile, the one he saved just for you.

"because they're true." he shrugged, simple and honest and utterly devastating. "and because someone needs to say them. someone needs to tell you, every single day, until you finally believe it.”

his thumb traced your cheekbone, feather-light, “and i volunteer. full-time. no days off.”

a laugh bubbled out of you—wet and surprised and absolutely genuine. it felt strange in your throat, after weeks of nothing but silence and sorrow. it felt like coming home.

“god, i love you,” you breathed, the confession coming easier than ever, “i love you so much.”

a soft giggle bubbled up from his chest, warm and infectious, “say it again.”

“i love you.

“again.”

“i love you, seo changbin,” his name on your tongue felt like a prayer, something sacred, “i love the way you make me laugh. even when i’m sad, even when i’m scared, even when i’m trying so hard to push you away–you still find a way to make me smile.”

a watery laugh escaped you, genuine.

“i love the way you listen. really listen when i talk. like what i’m saying matters–like i matter. you don’t just hear my words, you understood everything underneath them. the things i’m too scared to say, the feelings i can’t put into words. you hear me.”

his breath caught. you felt it in the way his chest stilled, in the way his hand tightened ever so slightly against your cheek. you could've swore you could see his eyes glistening.

“i love the way you look at me. like i’m the only person in the world–”

“you are,” he cut in, his voice rough, almost breaking, “the only person in my world. have been for a while now.”

“changbin…’ another tear slipped down your cheek, and he caught that one too.

“it’s true,” his voice was fierce now, desperate in needing you to believe his words more than he had ever needed anything. “don’t you dare try to deny it. not for a second.”

a soft laugh escaped you. you shook your head, a reflexive motion, years of self-doubt wired so deep into your bones that even now, even with him saying his truths, your first instinct was to push back. to deflect.

“chang–”

he didn’t let you finish.

his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck—slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world and wanted to savor every second of this. his fingers threaded gently into your hair at the nape, tangling in the soft strands there, and the touch sent a shiver cascading down your spine like the first notes of a melody you'd been waiting your whole life to hear.

and then he kissed you.

it wasn’t a frantic desperate kiss. it was something far more devastating.

his lips met yours with a tenderness that felt like a question and an answer all at once. it was soft, warm, a whisper of pressure that seemed to ask ‘is this okay?’ even as it promised ‘i’ve been wanting this forever.’ he hovered at the edge of you, giving you time, giving you space, giving you every chance to pull away if you needed to.

as if you had ever wanted to pull away from this.

he kissed you as if he was memorizing you. there was no rush in the way his lips moved against yours. he was a dedicated scholar, and it seemed as though the curve of your lips was a sacred text he intended to learn by heart. every angle, every soft sigh, every tiny movement you made… he absorbed it, catalogued it, stored it away in the deepest parts of his memory.

he traced the seam of your mouth with his own, a slow exploration that was more intoxicating than any rush. his upper lip brushed against your lower, then the reverse, a gentle push and pull that made your head spin and your knees weaken despite being seated.

one of your hands rose to rest against his chest, seemingly on its own initiative. your palm pressed flat against the solid warmth of his, fingers spaying slightly over the fabric of his shirt.

you could feel the frantic, staccato beat of his heart beneath your palm, and it shattered the last of your resistance.

whatever walls you had been clinging to, whatever voices in the back of your mind still whispered that this couldn’t be real, they all crumbled into dust, carried away by the truth of his heartbeat against your palm.

you kissed him back with everything you had.

your hand fisted gently in his shirt, pulling him slightly closer. your lips parted against his, inviting him, welcoming home. a soft sigh escaped you, and he swallowed it like a man dying of thirst, like you were the only thing that could sustain him.

his hand tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding, just keeping you close. his other hand splayed over your waist, drawing you against him until there was no space left between you, until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

when the kiss finally ended, it wasn’t because either of you wanted it to. it was simply that you both needed to breathe, needed to come up for air and remind yourselves that the world still existed outside of this moment.

he pulled back slowly, his lips lingering against yours even as he moved away, like they couldn’t bear to break contact completely. his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven, mingling with yours in the tiny space between.

you opened your eyes and just looked at him, at the man who had just rearranged your entire universe with a single kiss. your hand was still on his chest, rising and falling with every breath. the shiver he had sent down your spine had settled into deep, resonant warmth in the very core of you.

“that…” you exhaled, a toothy smile touched your lips–unguarded and real, “what a way to shut me up, seo changbin.”

a laugh rumbled in his chest beneath your palm–low, warm, and a little bit breathless.

“been wanting to do that for a while,” he murmured softly, his voice intimate in a way that made your stomach flip. his thumb traced a slow, absent-minded pattern on your waist, like he couldn’t stop touching you, like he was still reassuring himself you were really here.

your face flushed hot, the heat crawling up your neck and settling in your cheeks like it had every right to be there. you ducked your head slightly, a flustered smile tugging at your lips. you gave him a light, playful shove on his chest.

“shut up,” you mumbled, yet there was no heat in it. only embarrassment and the giddy, overwhelming rush of being wanted by him.

changbin stumbled back, a hand flying to his chest right where you had hit him, his eyes going wide with theatrical offense.

“ow,” he breathed, genuinely, like you had actually wounded him, “right in the heart. direct hit. you’re a dangerous woman, y/n y/l/n!”

you laughed, rolling your eyes even as your smile grew. your tears had dried up by now, replaced by the warm, bubbling joy that seemed to fill every corner of your chest whenever you were around him. the weight that had settled there earlier, the years of self-doubt and insecurity, felt lighter now. it was as if he had somehow shouldered some of it without you even noticing.

“dangerous,” you repeated, shaking your head at him, “it was just a little tap.”

“a little tap, huh?” he clutched his chest with both hands now, staggering another distance for good measure, “i think you cracked a rib. i might need medical attention!”

“hah, funny,” you crossed your arms, attempting to look unimpressed, yet the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you completely, “okay, drama queen. should i call an ambulance?”

he nodded solemnly, still clutching his chest, “yes. but only if the paramedic looks like you. and performs CPR exactly like you do.”

your face went red again–so quickly, so fiercely, that you could feel the heat radiating from your own skin. you opened your mouth to respond, to fire back with something witty, yet nothing came out. just a sputter. a flustered, embarrassed sputter.

changbin’s expression shifted instantly, the playful theatrics melting into something softer, more tender.

“god, y/n, you're so cute,” before you could react, his fingers were pinching your cheek–gently, of course. he squished your cheek slightly, his grin widening as your lips pursed into an involuntary pout.

“stop,” you mumbled through your squished cheek, yet it came out sounding more like sthob and that only made him laugh harder.

“can’t do, princess,” another squish, “you’re stuck with me.”

princess. oh, he’s gonna’ be the death of me.

the thought barely had time to form before changbin’s eyes lit up with that familiar mischievous spark. his head tilted, studying your face with exaggerated curiosity, “cat got your tongue?”

your heart, yet again, did a full somersault in your chest. your face flushed even deeper, if that was possible. you tried to look away, to break free from his knowing gaze, yet his hands on your cheeks held you gently in place.

“n–no,” the stutter gave you away completely.

his grin widened.

“no?” he repeated, his voice was honey and mischief all at once. he finally released your cheeks, only to let his fingers trail slowly down to your chin, tilting your face up towards his, “then, can i kiss you again?”

you should be used to this by now. the way he looked at you. the way his touch made your skin tingle. the way his voice dropped just slightly when he was about to do something that would ruin you in the best way.

but you weren’t used to it. you didn’t think you had ever get used to it.

“…yes,” you whispered, your voice barely audible even in the quiet of the car.

when his lips finally met yours, it was like the first time all over again.

soft. warm. perfect.

he kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else he would rather be, like you were the only thing that mattered. his hand stayed on your chin, while the other found its way back to your cheek, gently cradling your face.

you melted into him.

your hands found his shirt again, fisting in the soft fabric, holding on as the kiss deepened. you could feel his smile against your lips, and you couldn’t help but to reciprocate it.

when he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath.

“i love you, y/n,” he whispered against your lips.

you couldn’t help but to press your lips against him once more, a gentle peck.

“i love you too.”

he captured your lips once again, before his kisses left a burning trail on your forehead, cheek, and jaw. returning to your lips once more.

“be my girlfriend?” he whispered against your lips, his bottom lip brushing against your upper as he spoke.

your heart stopped.

then started again, faster than before.

“yes,” an immediate response. the word tumbled out of you before you could think, before the doubts could creep in. for once, your heart spoke before your fears could silence it.

“yeah?”

“yeah,” you were smiling now, happiness radiating from every part of you, “yes, changbin. a thousand times yes.”

he smiled once more, before leaning in once again.

your eyes fluttered close.

not because you were scared. not because you were hiding. not because you were trying to block out the world.

because for the first time, you didn’t need to see to believe.

you could feel him–his warmth, his love, his unwavering certainty. the gentle pressure of his lips against yours. the way his hand cradled your cheek preciously. the steady beat of his heart against your chest, syncing with your own.

with your eyes closed, you left yourself fall.

into this. into him. into your future.

© lynsbng 2026

You like museums because they are honest about silence.

People whisper there, but even that feels optional. Sound exists, but it never demands you. No one expects conversation, no one expects responses. You can exist fully inside yourself without apologizing for it.

That’s why you came today on your day off from the atelier.

This exhibition has been advertised everywhere in Seoul, contemporary reinterpretations of classical Korean landscapes. Posters plastered on subway walls, colors blooming against concrete, brushstrokes promising emotion.

Art speaks your language.

You arrive early, before the afternoon crowd gets too overwhelming. The museum smells faintly of polished floors and old paper. Sunlight filters through tall windows, washing everything in gold. Your footsteps echo softly, or at least you imagine they do. You’ve learned to construct sound from memory rather than experience.

As you step inside you immediately feel calm settle over you.

Paintings line the white walls of the museum like open windows into other worlds. Mountains dissolve into mist. Rivers stretch endlessly toward horizons painted with impossible patience. You move slowly, hands clasped behind your back, reading each plaque carefully.

You don’t rush art. You let it happen to you.

A group passes behind you, you feel the vibration of footsteps through the floor before you notice them in your peripheral vision. You shift aside politely, used to navigating spaces by motion rather than sound.

People talk. Mouths move. Laughter appears in shapes you recognize but cannot hear. You don’t mind anymore. You stopped minding many years ago.

Silence isn’t loneliness. It can become a home if you know how to welcome it.

You stop in front of a smaller painting, ink brush mountains rising sharply against a pale sky. The artist captured distance so perfectly you almost feel wind on your face. Your chest tightens the way it always does when something beautiful finds you unexpectedly.

You lean closer..and that’s when you notice him.

You notice him the way you notice art that doesn’t belong to the rest of the room. He stands several paintings away.

Tall.

Black hair falling softly across his forehead, slightly messy like he forgot to tame it before leaving home. He’s wearing a brownish long coat, neutral colors, nothing flashy, yet he looks impossibly out of place among ordinary visitors.

Beautiful is too small a word.

Your brain supplies it anyway.

Beautiful.

A properly beautiful man, and you get lost in your head about how you’re pretty sure, you have never seen anyone this good looking before. Is he from here? Is he a visitor?

He studies a painting with complete focus, head tilted slightly, lips parted as if he’s thinking something profound. His hands rest loosely in his pockets, posture relaxed but elegant.

You stare longer than you should, and you know you are staring but you can’t take your eyes off of his face. You tell yourself to look away.

You don’t. You can’t.

There’s something gentle about him, something quiet, and you catch yourself wonder what he sees in the painting, and then you wonder what his voice sounds like. You rarely think about voices, but his lips move slightly, almost forming words to himself, and suddenly curiosity blooms painfully inside your chest.

You look away quickly, embarrassed.

Focus on the art.

You move to the next piece.

Then the next.

But awareness of him follows you like warmth at your back. Each time you pretend not to look, you somehow find him again across the room, turning a corner, standing beneath another canvas. Maybe he’s moving through the exhibition at the same pace as you. Maybe you’re both drawn to the same pieces. Or maybe you’re just being delusional about your destiny bullshit.

You stop in a room with a huge piece, and the painting dominates the room.

It stretches across nearly an entire wall, a sweeping landscape of storm clouds breaking over a coastline, waves crashing in thick, violent strokes of blue & gray. Light cuts through the storm in one brilliant opening, illuminating a lone figure standing at the edge of the sea.

You feel it immediately.

The ache.

You walk closer and closer, until the rest of the world disappears. You imagine the roar of the ocean, not as sound, but as motion. As pressure. As something vast and overwhelming that exists whether you hear it or not. The lone figure in the painting looks small against the storm, yet unafraid.

You exhale slowly, and you sit on the bench placed before the artwork.

You always sit for paintings like this. Standing feels disrespectful when something demands your full attention. You fold your hands in your lap and let your eyes trace every brushstroke. Minutes pass, or maybe longer. Time behaves differently when you’re absorbed in beauty.

Your thoughts drift.

You think about the waves, what sounds they might make, and your thoughts lead you to roads you don’t want to take right now, like how people describe music as emotional. You’ve never known music. Sometimes people pity you for that, but standing here, feeling emotion swell so strongly it almost hurts, you wonder if music could really feel more alive than this.

You don’t think so.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t notice him approach. Not until the bench shifts slightly beside you.

Your heart jumps and you glance sideways.

It’s him.

He is so much more unreal up close. His presence feels warm, and you study him from the corner of your eye as he looks at the painting in front of you.

Long fingers resting on his knees. Soft features sharpened by concentration. His eyes move across the canvas slowly, thoughtfully, and you watch yourself thinking that he looks like someone who feels deeply, just like you.

Then he turns slightly toward you, and his lips move.

You blink, not expecting any interaction at all with the beautiful stranger, as if you were invisible in this space and someone interacting with you was impossible.

You look around briefly, wondering if he’s speaking to someone else, but no one stands nearby.

You look back at him.

His mouth moves again. Gentle expression.

You catch only fragments, shapes of syllables, but he’s probably mumbling and being extra quiet given the space you’re in, so you can’t read his lips at all.

Your stomach drops.

Of course, of course he’s talking, and of course he’s talking to you.

Panic flutters in your chest with the familiar anxiety of misunderstandings. Of people thinking you’re ignoring them purposefully. One of those moment where the world just has to mind you that easy communication isn’t built for you.

You hesitate.

Maybe he wasn’t speaking to you after all.

You look back at the painting, pretending nothing happened, but then he leans slightly closer, clearly directing his attention at you this time.

His lips move again, slower. You recognize the expression now. He’s definitely talking to you.

Heat rises to your face, and you hate this part. The part where you must interrupt normalcy. The moment people’s expressions change, surprise, awkwardness, apology. You turn toward him fully and he waits politely, eyes kind.

You look at him in the eyes, his beautiful intense but kind eyes, and you shake your head, pointing at your ear and your cochlear implant.

Then you mouth silently and carefully, hoping he’ll understand.

I’m deaf.

His eyes widen slightly as he realises, and for a brief second you prepare yourself for the usual reaction, exaggerated apologies, embarrassment, people backing away because they don’t know what to do or how to respond back.

He nods slowly. Then he mouths something again, more carefully this time.

You catch nothing. Maybe because you’re so distracted by him, maybe because the beautiful stranger is literally sitting right next to you and is trying to talk to you.

He pauses.

Thinks.

Then, unexpectedly, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone.

You watch his every movement, surprised.

His fingers move quickly across the screen, and a moment later he turns his phone toward you.

“Sorry. I said the painting feels lonely but peaceful. I wondered if you thought the same since you’re sitting here too.”

You stare at the words. Then at him, and your chest does that thing again.

Most people would have simply smiled and stopped trying. They wouldn't try to have a conversation with you. But he was, he was trying. He was actively trying to communicate with you.

You take your own phone out, hands suddenly clumsy with awareness of him watching as you type.

“Yes. Like standing in a storm but not wanting to leave.”

You show him.

His eyes brighten instantly, he smiles and nods at you. Something about his reaction makes warmth spread through you.

He types again.

“Exactly.”

You both turn back toward the painting. Side by side. You can see a smile in his face, and you become acutely aware of everything.

The closeness of his shoulder. The subtle rise and fall of his breathing. The way he glances at the painting, then briefly at you, as if checking whether you’re experiencing the same emotion. Your heart beats faster.

Ridiculous.

You don’t even know his name. You don’t know anything about him. He’s just a beautiful stranger.

And then you catch him typing again, and directing his phone at you, again.

“Do you come to museums often?”

You nod, then write.

“Whenever I want to think.”

He smiles big at you and the smile changes his whole face, making it so soft and childlike, like he’s genuinely so unbelievably happy. And you almost forget how to breathe.

He writes.

“Funny you say that, me too.”

You want to ask more. So much more, but you hesitate. Conversations with strangers rarely last long. People move on. They always do. You don’t want to out yourself up for disappointment

Still, neither of you stands up to leave.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. You exist together in this shared silence, watching painted waves crash endlessly against a painted shore.

You glance at him again.. and he’s already looking at you.

Your gaze collides with his but neither of you looks away immediately. Something shifts. Unspoken. Fragile. Dangerous. You both smile at each other and he looks back at the painting, and he looks shy, cheeks red. You’re pretty sure you look like a radish yourself.

His phone lights up again in his hands. He hesitates before turning the screen toward you, but he does anyway.

“I’m Hyunjin by the way”

Hyunjin. You mouth it silently to yourself, testing how it looks. The name fits him somehow. Soft yet so elegant.

You quickly type your own name and turn your phone toward him.

He reads it carefully and smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and lingers there, warm and bright, like he’s committing your name to memory.

Your stomach flips again at how pretty he looks.

He types again.

“Nice to meet you.”

You nod and type quickly.

“You too.”

It feels insufficient for the strange gravity of the moment, but you don’t know how else to explain what meeting him already feels like.

He looks at the painting again.

Then at you.

Then types:

“Do you want to see the rest together?”

Your heart stutters. You hadn’t expected that. You were just hoping to stay like this besides him for a few more minutes before he’s gone and you never see him again. You stare at the words longer than necessary, and he waits patiently, a look in his eyes as if hoping more than anything you’ll say yes.

You nod, a small movement, but his face lights up immediately.

You both stand at the same time, almost awkwardly synchronized, and a soft laugh escapes him, you see it in the way his shoulders lift, and you wonder what that sounded like.

You begin walking side by side through the gallery.

At first, neither of you types anything. You simply appreciate the art around you. Stopping before paintings and leaning closer to read descriptions. Then you start to occasionally exchanging phones for short comments.

“I like the colors here.”

“It feels nostalgic.”

“I think this one makes me sad. I’m not sure why.”

It’s all so natural and so not forced.

You notice how patient he is when typing, never rushing, and it’s all just making you feel like this is easy, after all, it’s not some huge inconvenience to him. He waits for your responses fully, eyes attentive, focused only on you when you write your words on the screen.

It’s rare. This is rare for you and you know it. People often grow restless. They get tired of having to do this. It has happened too many times. Boyfriends, friendships, coworkers.

The beautiful stranger in front of you doesn't stop. At least not yet.

You start noticing small things about him. The way he tilts his head when thinking. How expressive his eyes are and how carefully he observes everything.

You’re standing before a sculpture when Hyunjin suddenly pauses as if he forgot something, or her left something behind accidentally. He glances around the room, quick subtle movements, and then he reaches into his bag. You watch curiously as he pulls out a black cap. He slides it onto his head, lowering the brim slightly, and then a mask appears too, covering the lower half of his face.

Strange, you think. All of a sudden, why?

He wasn’t wearing any of that earlier when you saw him walk around the museum alone. Your brows knit together slightly and you look around instinctively.

Nothing seems different.

Only his eyes remain fully visible now. And because you stand beside him thankfully you can still see him clearly.

He notices you looking.

For a brief moment, embarrassment flashes across his eyes as he sees the confused look at your face.

He types quickly.

“Sorry. It's just something I have to do.”

You read it twice.

Why?

You glance at him again, puzzled. Again, you think about how free he looked before talking to you, what changed now?

You type back before thinking clearly.

“Not because of me I hope.” and you smile at him, as if joking. So awkward, why would you say that to him, so passive aggressive and for what? You just met the guy.. relax.

He immediately looks apologetic and there’s panic in his eyes. You’re a fucking idiot that’s for sure.

“Of course not!”

Relief softens the tightness in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much you were holding your breath. You nod lightly to show you understand, even if you don’t really. People have private reasons for things. Everyone carries pieces of themselves they don’t explain to strangers. You have no right to ask for explanations on anything.

He studies your face for a moment longer, as if making sure you truly believe him. Then his shoulders relax. Whatever tension had briefly appeared in him fades, replaced again by that quiet warmth you’ve begun associating with his presence.

You continue walking.

He stays slightly closer to you than before, positioning himself so that anyone passing would see mostly the side of his face turned away. When other visitors walk by, his posture shifts subtly, head lowered, brim of his cap shadowing his eyes.

It feels more like a habit of his. Like muscle memory.

You don’t ask why. You’re not going to ask him anything, he has his reasons. You just hope he’s not a criminal or something and he’s scared of being found.

You laugh in your head at the thought of this beautiful, kind man being a criminal.

You slow near the next painting and gesture toward it, inviting his attention back to something else. You both stop in front of a watercolor landscape, pale greens and soft blues melting into each other. He leans closer to read the description while you type a thought onto your phone.

“This one feels quiet.”

He reads it, then nods immediately.

He types

“Comfortable quiet.”

You smile.

Yes.

Exactly that.

The conversation resumes naturally after that. Whatever moment of tension existed dissolves into shared observation again, phones passing back and forth between you like a language only the two of you understand.

And you notice how attentive he is.

When you pause longer at a painting he waits for you. When you step closer to examine brushstrokes, he follows your lead. At one sculpture you circle slowly around it, studying how light changes the shadows, and when you turn he’s watching you instead of the art.

You pretend not to notice but your heart still reacts anyway. You show him another message.

“Do you like art a lot?”

He thinks before answering.

His thumbs hover over the screen longer this time.

“Yes. A lot. I try to make as much time for art as I can.”

You walk through the remaining galleries together, falling into an easy rhythm. Sometimes you talk through text. Sometimes you don’t talk at all. And somehow the silence between you never feels empty.

It feels shared.

At one point your hands brush accidentally while reaching toward the same information plaque. Both of you pull back at the same time. He laughs silently again, shoulders lifting, eyes crinkling above the mask.

You feel warmth rush to your face.

You type quickly, hiding your embarrassment behind humor.

“We have synchronized museum instincts.”

He grins and nods enthusiastically.

You don’t notice how often he looks at you now.

Not just glances.

Lingering looks.

As if he’s trying to memorize something.

Eventually the exhibition begins to thin out and visitors move toward the exit. Afternoon light grows stronger through the windows, signaling the end of the experience.

You reach the final gallery together and neither of you says anything. Neither of you rushes forward. It feels strangely similar to standing at the end of a good book, not wanting to turn the last page because finishing means losing it forever, that it’s over.

You slow your steps and he matches them automatically.

Outside the gallery doors the museum lobby stretches wide and bright. Reality waits there. You stop walking. He stops too. For a moment you both just stand facing each other. The silence changes. Not comfortable now, but fragile. Temporary.

You suddenly become aware that this was never guaranteed to last longer than today, longer than a few hours. That soon he will become a stranger again. You grip your phone slightly tighter.

He shifts his weight, eyes flicking down before returning to yours.

He’s nervous, you can feel it.

You’ve seen nervousness before, in yourself, in others trying to bridge uncertain moments. He types something. Stops and deletes it, then types again

Your heart begins beating faster.

Finally, he turns the screen toward you.

“Can I have your number Y/N? I understand if not, of course.”

You look at him. At the hidden half of his face. At the eyes that have stayed soft with you all afternoon, at the stranger who chose to stay instead of walking away when he realised communication was going to be more complicated than he's used to.

You type your number and you’re smiling down at his phone, and your fingers feel strangely unsteady as you hand the phone back to him.

He exhales, a subtle release of tension you almost miss. He saves it immediately, then types.

“I’m glad I met you today.”

Your throat tightens.

You reply.

“Me too.”

It feels inadequate compared to what you actually mean. You both linger a moment longer near the exit. Neither moving first.

Finally, you bow slightly, and he mirrors you instantly. You turn toward the doors, the remaining sunlight spilling across the floor ahead of you and each step away feels heavier than it should.

You reach the exit and something pulls at you. You glance back.. and he’s still standing there watching you. Not checking his phone. Not leaving.

When your eyes meet again he lifts his hand in a small wave and you immediately smile at him and wave back in a small movement, and then you step outside into the afternoon air, unaware that somewhere behind you Hyunjin remains still for several seconds longer.

As if leaving this moment is harder than he expected.

_

You didn’t expect him to text.

That’s the rule you’ve learned about people who show interest in you. People are not willing to do all that, to put this much effort. These beautiful moments don’t follow you home.

Still, when you step into your apartment you place your phone down on the table more carefully than usual. As if being gentle to your phone will make him text. You change clothes. Wash your hands. Make tea. The routine unfolds exactly as it always does, predictable.

Your apartment is quiet, as it always is.

You sit by the window, watching the city move below. Cars glide past. People talk animatedly on sidewalks, conversations you can see but never enter. And then.. with the corner of your eye you see your phone light up.

Your heart jumps before logic catches up and you go and pick it up way too quickly.

A message.

Unknown number.

You already know.

“Hey, it’s Hyunjin, from the museum. Did you get home safely?”

Warmth spreads through your chest so suddenly it genuinely embarrasses you. You type back immediately, then delete it. You’re being too fast. Too eager. You don’t want to make it seem like he’s all you could think about, even though that’s exactly what’s happening.

You wait for at least five minutes, just hoping he didn’t see you typing.

You: Hi. Yes. Did you?

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

He was waiting too.

Hyunjin: Yes :) I keep thinking about the painting.

You smile instantly. You walk to the couch and sit down, pulling your legs beneath you.

You: The one with the storm?

Hyunjin: Yes. The one we met in front of.

Your breath catches. You stare at the message longer than necessary, unsure how to respond without revealing how much it affects you.

You: I can’t stop thinking about that piece too.

Three dots appear again.

Disappear.

Return.

You imagine him somewhere across the city, looking at his phone the same way you are now.

Hyunjin: I’m glad I talked to you today.

You blush like a schoolgirl. What even is this, why are you so effected by this man you barely know. Yes, he’s very attractive and he seems kind, but those things never effect you if you’re not knee deep in someone’s personality.

You: Me too, thank you for today.

The conversation ends there, but you can’t seem to be able to stop thinking about him for the rest of the night, before finally going to sleep, still thinking about him, replaying everything in your head.

_

As the days go by the beautiful stranger texts you nearly every day, almost always at the same hours, late evening, when the city softens and people begin disappearing into their private lives. And you blush and kick your feet like a teenager who’s interacting with a boy for the first time in her life every time you get a text from him.

At first, the questions are small.

Hyunjin: What do you usually do after work?

You: Go home. Read. Sometimes cook badly.

Hyunjin: Haha, I doubt it’s bad.

You: Do you paint?

Hyunjin: Yeah, I'm trying to find time for that.

You: What do you do for work?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Return.

Hyunjin: I’m a dancer.

You smile unconsciously. It fits him. The way he stood in front of the sculpture. The way his hands moved. The quiet awareness of his body in space.

You: That makes sense.

Hyunjin: Really? How come?

You hesitate, unsure how to explain something intuitive.

You: You notice things. Dancers notice things.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

Stops.

Appears again.

Hyunjin: I think you notice more than me.

The conversations grow slowly as days go by. He asks what silence feels like to you. No one has ever asked that before. You tell him silence isn’t always empty. It can be full. Full of movement, expressions, light shifting through rooms, people breathing.

He sends a message after several minutes.

Hyunjin: That sounds beautiful. I think sign language is very beautiful, maybe you can teach me something one day?

Your chest aches. Teach him sign? One day? This mean he's planning to see you again?

You: Oh, of course, if you'd like that :)

Hyunjin: I'd love it.

Some nights he tells you about the 'rehearsals' he has, as he calls them. You haven’t t quite understood what he does for work. Is he a dance teacher? Is he a backup dancer? He talks about long hours, sore feet and mirrors everywhere, and you imagine him practicing alone in a quiet studio.

You never push for details. You’ve learned people reveal only what they want to.

One evening after weeks of messages that feel strangely essential to your days, you type without overthinking.

You: I wish I could see you dance one day.

The message sends.

Immediately, the typing bubble appears.

Stops.

Appears again.

You watch it, heart beating faster than it should.

…typing…

…typing…

Then it disappears. Again. A minute passes. Two. Your stomach tightens.

Hyunjin: Maybe someday.

Another pause.

Hyunjin: Goodnight :)

You blink at the screen. Something about it feels unfinished. Like a door almost opened and then quietly shut again. What was he writing for minutes straight that he deleted?

You type goodnight back.

The next day passes without a text from him, and you don’t think much of it. People get busy. He clearly sounds like someone who has lots of work and lots of stuff to do. You go to work, come home, make tea and sit by the window as always.

Your phone stays dark.

Two days.

Five days.

A week.

No message.

You stop checking constantly. You place your phone face down now, as if removing the possibility will make disappointment smaller. It shouldn’t hurt. Yes, you both opened up a little bit about your lives, but still, you barely know him. But something settles quietly in your chest, familiar and heavy.

Because this is how it always happens.

People are kind at first. Curious. Interested. They like the novelty of learning how you communicate, the way you watch faces carefully, the patience required to speak with hands or typed words. But eventually comes the moment when effort becomes visible. When conversations require adjustment. When spontaneity disappears.

And then they fade.

Not cruelly or dramatically, but they do, and it always hurts the same. Maybe he wanted to meet with you, but the thought of having to text all the time made him change his mind.

You learned not to blame people for this.

And with him? You just tell yourself this was never different. You tell yourself that you knew better and to stop rereading the messages you exchanged the past weeks, and to stop wondering what he almost said that night.

Two weeks pass.

The rhythm of your life closes again around you, steady and predictable. Evening tea and city lights through your window. You feel foolish for having expected anything else. Some people are just passing moments. Beautiful ones, yes, but temporary. And you're still glad you got to know him even for just a bit. After all, he seemed like a nice, kind man.

_

It's Friday night and you’re halfway through washing dishes. You're planning on tidying up a bit, then putting on a movie and relaxing like that in front of the tv after a shitty day at the atelier.

You dropped your canvas, made a mess in the floor, ruined hours upon hours of hard work and had everyone trying to help you like you were some baby. You’re deaf, you’re not a toddler.

Everything today was just shit, and you deserved to relax and forget this day all together.

Suddenly your phone lights up on the counter. You don’t rush, you’ve trained yourself not to, and you're pretty much sure it's just your mom or your sister.

You dry your hands slowly.

His name.

Your heart forgets all the lessons you tried to teach it.

Hyunjin: Would you be up to meet again?

_

You start getting ready far too early.

The clock says you still have three hours before he arrives, yet you stand in front of your wardrobe like the decision carries unreasonable consequences. Shirts are lifted, held against your body, folded back again. Nothing feels right. Everything feels like trying too hard. You sit on the edge of your bed for a moment trying to catch your breath and looking at all the mess you’ve made in front of you.

You’re being so ridiculous. This is just tea. Just meeting a friend. Right? That’s what he is. A friend.

But your thoughts don’t cooperate. What if he realizes how exhausting it is to talk with you? The pauses while you type. The way conversations sometimes need to slow down or the constant awareness required to communicate with you. People always say it doesn’t matter at first. And then later it does.

You smooth your hands over the clothes you finally picked. A long skirt and a beautifully detailed top.

You tell yourself not to hope too much. To treat this as meeting a friend and nothing else. This is not a date, not a romantic one at least.

The message he sent yesterday replays in your mind.

Would you be up to meet again?

And then the location he chose.

A tea house.

You had mentioned weeks ago casually that tea makes you feel calm and that you collect different kinds, that choosing tea feels like choosing a mood.

He remembered.

The realization warmed you more than the invitation itself. He listens. He listens and he notices and he remembers. You'd be happy even having him in your life as just a friend, so you just hope tonight goes well.

The tea house isn’t in town. It sat far outside the city, near the hills, almost hidden, and you wondered why he would choose somewhere so far when there were dozens of tea places closer. The thought lingered, unanswered. And you didn’t have time to care.

Your phone lights up.

Hyunjin: I’m outside.

Your heart leaps. You grab your bag, check your reflection one last time and step outside.

The car waiting at the curb makes you slow down.

Sleek. Black. You can tell this is a nice, expensive car. Dancers don’t usually drive cars like that. Or do they? Before you can think longer, the driver’s door opens. Hyunjin steps out, and for a moment your brain stops working properly.

He looks unfairly beautiful.

Soft black hair falling into his eyes, simple clothes somehow looking elegant on him, long coat moving slightly with the breeze. There’s nothing flashy about him, yet everything about him draws attention effortlessly. He has a cup on again, a cup that hides most of his face.

He smiles when he sees you and it makes your stomach flip.

Oh no.

He looks even better than you remembered. How are you supposed to try become friends with someone you are so attracted to? A man so beautiful your heart is doing backflips inside your chest. This is never going to work. But you will try, you will do anything to keep him in your life, you're already sure of it.

He walks toward you, slightly nervous energy in his movements. Then he pauses, studying you carefully. He lifts his phone, types quickly, and shows you.

Hyunjin: How do you sign “beautiful” ?

You blink, surprised. You demonstrate slowly, showing him the motion, and his eyes follow your hands with intense focus, repeating the movement carefully, almost reverently.

He signs it back to you.

Beautiful. And points at you right after.

Heat rushes to your face instantly and you're pretty sure your cheeks are red, and he definitely noticed, because the corner of his eyes crinkles as a small smirk appears. You look away, suddenly very interested in the pavement.

The drive is quiet but comfortable.

He occasionally glances at you, like he’s reassuring himself you’re really there. The city slowly fades behind you, buildings giving way to open views and softer landscapes.

You watch the scenery change, curiosity returning. Why here? Why somewhere so far away? But you will not ask. Somehow, the distance feels intentional. Private. Safe. And you find that nice, you trust him. Maybe he just wants to be far away from people because it will be overwhelming having to text and hear all the noise all at once.

The tea house appears nestled between trees, large windows facing an expansive view of hills stretching toward the sea. When you step inside you can see that there are barely any people, and the air smells faintly of jasmine and citrus. They seat you by the window and the view was breathtaking.

For a while, neither of you speaks. You simply sit there, sharing the calm. Then he types something and turns the phone toward you.

Hyunjin: I’m sorry I disappeared.

You blink, caught off guard by the directness.

Hyunjin: Work became overwhelming. I didn’t want to text carelessly.

You nod slowly and you type back.

You: It’s okay.I thought maybe you got tired of talking to me.

You immediately wish the floor would open up and you’d disappear inside it. Why would you just blurt that out so easily? What is wrong with you?

His reaction is immediate. His eyes widen, genuine shock crossing his face. He shakes his head quickly.

Hyunjin: Of course not.

He hesitates before continuing.

Hyunjin: Why would you think that?

You stare at your hands before answering. You already fucked up by being completely honest, you might as well explain.

You: People usually do. They don’t always have patience. Talking with me takes effort.

You expect sympathy or awkward reassurance. Instead, his expression just softens, and he types slower this time.

Hyunjin: Talking to you is easy.

Your chest tightens, and you're still not used to the feeling even though he's making you feel like this way too often.

You hadn’t noticed how tightly you were holding yourself together until the tea arrived. Steam curls upward between you, carrying the faint scent of chamomile and something floral you don’t recognize. The porcelain cups are warm against your fingers.

Hyunjin watches you as you lift the cup.

Hyunjin: Can I ask something personal?

You nod immediately. You’re surprised by how easily trust comes with him.

Hyunjin: Were you always deaf?

You smile at his genuine curiosity and type back.

You: Yes. I was born this way.

You pause, then add more.

You: My parents found out when I was a baby. I have never experienced sound, so I don’t feel like I lost anything.

Hyunjin: Does the cochlear implant help you catch anything?

You reach up instinctively, fingers brushing the small processor resting behind your ear.

You: Sometimes, yes. In quiet places, I can pick up bits of sound, but it doesn’t come through clearly. It’s more like my brain turning electrical signals into rough shapes of meaning. I guess. Speech is the hardest. Some sounds are clearer than others, but none of it feels natural. And I get tired quickly, listening takes effort

He nods as he reads.

Hyunjin: Can you hear your own voice?

You: Not really. I feel it more than hear it.

You tap lightly against your throat.

You: Like vibration inside my chest.

His expression changes, something tender flickering there, and you realize he’s imagining it. Trying to understand your world from the inside.

He types again, slower this time.

Hyunjin: Thank you for explaining it to me.

You nod and smile at him.

Hyunjin: And do your parents know sign language?

You: Kind of, they're still learning, but we can communicate comfortably for the most part.

He smiles.

Hyunjin: I want to learn too.

You look up at him, smiling big without meaning to.

You: I'll teach you then.

And he nods excitingly, as he types again.

Hyunjin: Tell me about your paintings, about your work!

You describe them shyly at first, talking about your favourite techniques and explain how painting feels like translating emotions you can’t always express otherwise. He reads your messages intensely, elbows resting on the table, completely focused. You talk more than you meant to and you open up to him quickly.

Eventually, without thinking, the words slip out.

You: You could come to my house and see them sometime… if you want.

The moment you turn the phone towards him for him to read you immediately regret it and try to take the phone back, but he stops you and holds your hand, turning the phone back to himself. Soft hands, his long fingers making you feel dizzy.

Focus, you're trying to be his friend.

You read his lips: “Let me see.”

You look down quickly, wishing you could pull the invitation back.

He goes still, and you can see uncertainty flicker across his face as he reads it. You rush to type again.

You: Only if you want. No pressure!!!!!!!!

He interrupts gently, typing as a small laugh leaves his throat and you catch the movement.

Hyunjin: I’d like that.

You look at him and he nods once, as if confirming the decision to himself as much as to you. Warmth spreads through you, mixed with nervous excitement.

You: Enough about me though, tell me about yourself too.

He laughs and types.

Hyunjin: I’m not very interesting.

You snort softly before you can stop yourself, and you wonder if the sound you made just now sounded weird. You hope not, and you see him smile, so you don’t think about it too much.

You: That’s not true.

He smiles at your quick response, shoulders relaxing slightly, and he tries again.

Hyunjin: I dance. That’s most of my life.

You nod, already knowing that part, but you wait for him to continue.

Hyunjin: I started young. Training took a lot of time. Long days. Late nights. I still practice almost every day.

You: What kind of dance?

He tilts his head, thinking how to answer.

Hyunjin: Different styles. Contemporary, hip hop, performance dance.

You: Do you like it?

His answer comes immediately this time.

Hyunjin: Yes. When I dance, I don’t think about anything else.

You smile. You understand that feeling. Painting does the same for you.

You: That’s how painting feels for me.

He nods eagerly, clearly happy at the connection.

Hyunjin: Then you understand.

Golden light stretches across the road as you walk back to the car together, and the drive feels different now. You feel closer to him after the talk you had. You feel like you know more about him, but still, you know there's so much more. You can feel that he’s holding back, you just can't put your finger on what it is.

When the car stops outside your apartment your heartbeat picks up again. He picks up his phone after stopping the car right in front of your door and types.

Hyunjin: I have time to see your painting now, if you’re okay with that.

You look at him, not ready for this to happen so fast, but you want him to come and see so bad that you just can’t find it in you to care if your apartment is messy. You nod eagerly.

_

He’s here. About to see your space. Your world. You glance at him, unsure if he’s nervous too, and he meets your eyes and smiles softly.

He follows you quietly into your apartment and the moment the door closes behind him something shifts in the air. You don’t turn on the big overhead light. Instead you move through the small space flipping on the many warm lamps you’ve collected over the years, soft golden pools of light that make the cozy room feel even smaller, more intimate.

The apartment is tiny, walls lined with bookshelves and half finished canvases. The air smells faintly of oil paint, chamomile tea and a lavender candle that even though wasn't lit you could still smell it.

Having him here feels… overwhelming, in a good, perfect way.

Hyunjin looks impossibly beautiful under the warm lamplight. The harsh edges of the outside world are gone. His black hair falls softly across his forehead as he takes his cap off, catching threads of gold. His long coat is draped over the back of your old armchair, and in just a simple black sweater, he seems softer, more real. Every time he moves the light shifts across his face, highlighting the gentle slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the depth in his eyes. He looks like one of your paintings come to life, something delicate and aching all at once.

You lead him to the corner where you paint. The space is cramped but warm, brushes resting in jars, colors smeared on an old wooden palette. Several canvases are propped against the wall, your private little windows into everything you feel.

Hyunjin crouches down slowly so he can see better, eyes moving across each piece with genuine focus. He studies the stormy seascape, soft misty mountains, and the smaller abstract works where colors bleed into emotions you’ve never named out loud.

His expression changes as he looks. First curiosity, then quiet surprise, and finally something close to awe. He leans closer to one particular canvas, a figure standing on a cliff as golden light breaks through heavy clouds, and his lips part slightly.

He pulls out his phone, but then seems to change his mind. Instead, he looks up at you, eyes bright, and slowly signs the word you taught him earlier.

Beautiful.

The movement is careful, a little clumsy but full of effort. His long fingers shape the sign with reverence.

You look up at him, heart pounding so loudly you can feel it in your throat. Without thinking, you sign back “Thank you”, and you mouth the word silently at the same time.

For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you under the warm lamplight.

Hyunjin’s gaze softens. He rises slowly from his crouch until he’s standing close, closer than he’s ever been. The air between you feels charged, fragile, full of all the unspoken things that have been growing since you met. His eyes drop to your lips for half a second, then return to yours, asking without words.

And then he just leans in.

The kiss is impossibly soft.

Tentative at first, like he’s afraid of breaking the quiet you both cherish. His lips are warm and gentle against yours, tasting faintly of the tea you shared earlier. There’s no rush, only tenderness. One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek with feather light care, thumb brushing your skin.

Your eyes flutter closed. After a heartbeat of surprise, you lean in and kiss him back, your hands rising to rest lightly against his chest. You can feel the steady, slightly faster beat of his heart under your palm. The kiss deepens just a little, still soft, still slow.

When you finally pull apart you’re both breathing a little heavier. His forehead rests gently against yours for a moment, eyes closed, as if he’s savoring the closeness, and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, then reaches for his phone with slightly unsteady fingers.

Hyunjin: I wanted to do this since the moment I saw you in front of that painting.

You smile, cheeks flushed, and you grab his phone to type back

You: I wanted you to do this since that moment too, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.

His eyes are warm and shiny as he reads.

Hyunjin: I don’t want to scare you with how much I already like you. But being here, in your space, seeing your art… it feels like I’m seeing the real you. And I like her so much.

Your chest tightens with a sweet ache.

You: I’m not scared of you.

The hour now has grown late, and Hyunjin glances at the time on his phone, reluctance clear in his expression.

Hyunjin: I have early practice tomorrow… I should go. Thank you for letting me into your world tonight.

You smile at him as he touched your face one last time, and you walk to the door together. He puts his coat back on and pulls the mask and cap from his pocket, preparing once again for the outside world. Before he steps out, he turns to you one more time.

He leans down and presses a final, tender kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a few heartbeats, and you melt completely. Then he pulls back, eyes soft.

You sign “Goodnight” slowly as you mouth it, and he repeats the sign back to you with a smile.

You stand there for a long moment, fingers touching your lips where he kissed you, the warmth of his presence still lingering in your small apartment.

_

The next afternoon you stepped out to buy groceries, still carrying the warm glow from last night’s kiss. Your steps felt lighter. The world seemed a little softer, and you wanted more than anything to make soup.

You loved soup, and you loved making it. It felt so cozy to make soup. Mushroom soup, carrot soup, chicken soup, onion soup. You’ve tried everything, all of it equally delicious.

You got your groceries and you decided to go home from a different route, to walk around a little longer since the day was so nice. You turned the corner onto the main street, and right there as you looked up, you froze.

There, towering over the busy intersection was a massive billboard. Bright, impossible to miss. Hyunjin’s face, the face of the boy who was in your apartment last night filled most of it, sharp eyes, styled hair, wearing a striking outfit, promoting a luxury brand.

Your bags slipped from your fingers.

The world tilted. You stared, frozen on the sidewalk as people walked past you. Your chest tightened painfully. That was him. Your Hyunjin, splashed across a building like he belonged to everyone.

What the fuck? Is this actually him? Or is this a sick joke? Does he have a fucking twin or something? No. There’s no way that’s him.

_

The groceries hit the floor the moment the door of your apartment closed, milk carton cracking open, vegetables rolling across the tiles.

You didn’t care.

Hands shaking, you opened your laptop and typed “Hyunjin” into the search bar. You didn’t even know his last name, there’s no way anything will come up with just his name.

The page loaded.

Thousands of results.

Photos. Videos. News articles. “Hwang Hyunjin” — Stray Kids. Born March 20, 2000. Main dancer, rapper, visual. Millions of followers. Fancams. Magazine covers.

His face was everywhere.

You clicked frantically. More images flooded the screen, him on stage, glowing with confidence, blonde hair in older clips, intense expressions, surrounded by seven other men. He looked so different yet the same. Powerful. Distant. Like a completely different person from the man who had kissed you so tenderly the other night.

And then the betrayal hit and you felt tears running down your face.

He had lied to you. Not directly, but by omission. While you poured out your world to him he had hidden this enormous part of himself. The cap, the mask, the faraway tea house, the sudden disappearances… it all made brutal sense now.

Is he really that ashamed of me?

The thought tore through you. That’s why he hid his face whenever you were together. To protect himself. So no one would see the famous idol standing next to the deaf girl.

Tears burned hot down your cheeks.

You curled up on the floor beside the spilled groceries, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The apartment felt too small, too quiet, too full of him. You cried until your eyes ached and your chest felt hollow.

How could he do this?

_

The next morning your phone lit up.

Hyunjin: Hey. I keep thinking about your paintings… and you. How are you today?

You read it. Your thumb hovering over the keyboard, but you can’t bring yourself to answer. The hurt is too raw, too fresh.

Twenty minutes later, another message.

Hyunjin: Did you sleep well? I know I left late the other day, I hope I didn’t mess up your sleep schedule. if you’re busy, it’s okay. Just let me know you’re alright?

Read. No reply.

An hour passes.

Hyunjin: Is everything okay? I’m getting a little worried. Did I do something wrong?

You still couldn’t answer and the tears came again. Why was he doing this? What did he want from you? Why is he texting you acting like he cares if he’s so embarrassed to be around you to the point he has to hide under masks?

Then, late in the afternoon another message.

Hyunjin: Please talk to me. Even if it’s just one word. I can’t stop thinking that I messed up the moment I left your apartment. You’re important to me. I don’t want to lose this.

Something inside you snapped. You typed with trembling fingers, vision blurred

You: Are you embarrassed of me, Hwang Hyunjin? Is that why you were hiding your face every time we were together? What do you want from me exactly?

The message sent.

You saw the “Read” notification almost instantly.

He didn’t reply.

_

You feel slightly calmer now after getting that out of your chest, calm enough to look him up again. With a clearer head now, not filled with shock. You searched his name once more and click on a music video titled “God’s Menu.”

The video starts, and you can’t hear a single note. Hyunjin appears on screen, younger, with striking blonde hair, moving with fierce, sharp precision. His expressions are powerful, almost predatory, completely different from the gentle person who had crouched in front of your paintings to look. There were seven other men with him, all radiating raw energy and charisma. The choreography was intense, synchronized, explosive.

He had opened up to you about dancing, about how it made him forget everything. But he never told you this was his life. Why? Why were you not allowed to know about this?

Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks. The disappointment felt heavier than the anger now. You had trusted him, but he hadn’t trusted you with this.

It was past 9 p.m when your phone buzzed again.

Him.

Hyunjin: I’m outside your apartment. Please… can I come up and explain? Just five minutes. I’ll leave right after if you want me to.

Your heart clenched. Part of you wanted to ignore him. The bigger part, the one that still remembered his soft lips kissing you, made you walk to the door. You were angry, but you were mostly curious. Curious to know what the fuck he wants from you and why he hid this.

Hyunjin stood there in the dim hallway light, mask pulled down, eyes wide with worry and something else.. fear?.

He looked exhausted. He stepped inside carefully when you moved aside, and the moment the door closed he started typing frantically, then stopped and tried to speak slowly so you could read his lips.

“I’m not embarrassed of you,” he said clearly, voice careful. “Never. Please believe that.”

You stared at him, arms wrapped around yourself.

He continued, typing and showing you the screen.

Hyunjin: My company has very strict rules. Idols aren’t allowed to date publicly. If fans see me with someone, especially if pictures get taken, it can turn into a huge scandal. It could hurt my members, my career… and the person I’m with. I was trying to protect you. Your life and identity. I don’t want cameras or hate coming after you because of me. I was going to tell you. I swear. I just… I wanted you to like me for me, the guy who sat next to you in the museum.

His eyes were glassy and he looked genuinely devastated. Breaking your heart seeing him like this even though you were still upset with him.

“I’m so sorry,” he mouthed. “I never meant to hurt you like this.”

You felt your own tears return. The anger cracked, leaving only hurt and sudden guilt.

You didn’t know any of this. You weren’t familiar with idol culture, hell, you couldn’t even listen to music.

You typed with shaky hands.

You: Okay, I get that, I’m sorry for reacting like this. I saw you on a billboard and then I googled you. So many people know you. Why do i not deserve to? I just instinctively thought you’re embarrassed of me because of my disability.

Hyunjin shook his head fiercely and pulled you into his arms without hesitation. He held you tight, one hand gently cradling the back of your head. You clung to him, face buried in his chest, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. He rubbed slow circles on your back, patient and warm.

After a long while, he pulled back just enough to type.

Hyunjin: I really like you Y/N, and I don’t give a fuck that you’re deaf. It’s just another beautiful part of you, nothing more, nothing less.

You read the text and looked up in his eyes, more tears forming in your eyes, in his too. And you hugged again, tightly, as he kissed the top of your head.

After a while like this..

You: I saw the music videos. You look so cool, and you dance so unbelievably great. I wish I could hear your music

The sadness in your own expression was impossible to hide. Hyunjin’s face softened and he cupped your cheeks gently, thumbs brushing away your tears. He leaned in and kissed you, soft, deep, full of apology and longing. You kissed him back desperately, clinging tighter, your hands fisting in his shirt as if he might disappear.

The kiss grew heavier. Your body pressed closer to his, seeking comfort, connection, anything to fill the ache. Your hands slid under his coat, under his sweater, touching his waist and now actively pulling him toward the bedroom as you kiss.

Hyunjin understood immediately and he stopped you gently as he smiled, breaking the kiss, forehead resting against yours.

He shook his head no, breathing uneven, cheeks flushed.

“Not like this,” he mouthed slowly, making sure you could read his lips. “You’re upset. I don’t want you to.. regret it later.”

And his words are kind but they still hit you like cold water. Your hands loosen from his sweater immediately, heat rushing to your face. Embarrassment floods through you so quickly it almost hurts. You pull back a little too fast, avoiding his eyes.

Of course.

Of course you misread everything and embarrassed yourself again.

You stare at the floor, fingers twisting together. You type quickly on your phone, movements slightly clumsy.

You: I’m so sorry. That was stupid. I didn’t mean to-

Before you can finish, he gently catches your wrist. His expression changes instantly, concern replacing surprise.

He shakes his head, almost panicked.

“No,” he mouths quickly. “No, no.”

He takes your phone, typing himself.

Hyunjin: Hey. It’s okay. Really. You didn’t do anything wrong. We can do that some other time, when you’re feeling better. I want it too.

He looks at you and smiles, warm, reassuring, the kind of smile meant to pull you out of your own thoughts. He’s still standing so close and it doesn’t help that you’ve touched his bare waist. You’re still embarrassed, and you don’t know what to do with your hands for the first time maybe ever.

His hand lifts slowly, hesitant, giving you time to pull away if you want.

You don’t.

His fingers tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Then he leans in again. Gentle, soft kiss, slow. Not desperate or overwhelming, reassurance pressed quietly against your lips.

When he pulls back his forehead rests against yours again for a second, both of you smiling a little shyly now. The tension melts and you breathe out a small laugh, still embarrassed but lighter. And he smiles at the sound you made.

He gestures towards the couch and you nod.

You sit side by side, knees touching, your shoulders brushing occasionally as you both pull out your phones to talk. The room feels calmer now. Safe again.

You glance at him, then type.

You: So… idol.

He groans immediately, covering his face with one hand, and you grin.

You: You hid that pretty well.

Hyunjin: I wasn’t trying to lie. I just… wanted you to meet me first.

You tilt your head, teasing.

You: So you’re secretly mega famous and thought I wouldn’t notice?

He laughs, shoulders shaking.

Hyunjin: You didn’t notice.

You nudge his arm.

You: I thought you were just suspiciously pretty.

He pretends to look offended, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. You both laugh, the last bit of awkwardness dissolving between you, but your next message is softer.

You: I was really hurt yesterday. It really shocked me and my mind went to the worse case scenario.

His smile faded, replaced by something serious.

Hyunjin: I know. I’m really sorry. I should’ve thought of the possibility of hurting you like this.

He looks at you while you read it, eyes vulnerable in a way that doesn’t match the polished image he probably shows the world.

Hyunjin: I was scared you’d treat me differently or feel like my life was too much.

Your chest tightens. You don’t type this time. You just lean in and kiss him. A quiet answer. Forgiveness. When you pull back he looks stunned and then relieved, smiling wider than you’ve seen all night.

You stand up suddenly and he blinks in confusion. You gesture toward the kitchen.

“Tea” you mouth, and sign it at the same time.

His face lights up immediately.

He watches you move around the kitchen, comfortable in your own space, sleeves pushed up as you prepare tea. Something about the normalcy of it seems to calm him more than anything else tonight. When you return handing him a warm cup his fingers brush yours deliberately.

He mouths thank you, and he tries to sign it from memory. His movement is a little clumsy, but you help him get it right as you both smile.

You grab the remote and put on some anime show you’ve left unfinished, looking at him to make sure he’s also cool with your choice, and his eyes widen in excitement as he nods immediately.

As the show starts playing quietly the screen colors flickering across the room. He keeps glancing at you more than the show at first, like he’s still grounding himself in the fact that you’re okay, that you’re still here with him.

Eventually you settle closer. Your head rests against his shoulder and his arm hesitates only a second before wrapping around you carefully, pulling you into his side.

He’s warm. steady, safe.

You both watch episode after episode, occasionally passing the phone back and forth to comment or joke. At some point you stop typing altogether. You’re just… comfortable. Your breathing slows and your body grows heavier against him, and a few minutes later he looks down and realises you’ve fallen asleep on him, your cheek pressed against his chest as one of your hands loosely hold his shirt.

His expression softens instantly and he stays still for a long time, unwilling to disturb you, watching your peaceful face like it’s something fragile.

After an hour he carefully shifts, sliding one arm under your knees and the other behind your back as he lifts you. You stir slightly but don’t wake, instinctively leaning closer into him.

He smiles at that. Finding it adorable.

Carrying you to the bedroom feels strangely intimate, more intimate than any of the kisses you’ve shared. He lays you gently on the bed, pulling the blanket over you and tucking it around your shoulders. He just stands there for a moment, watching you, memorizing your face as his fingers brush lightly against your hair.

He mouths quietly, though you can’t hear it,

“Goodnight baby”

And he hesitates… but then leans down and presses one last soft kiss to your forehead before he leaves. And the apartment returns to silence but holds all of the warmth he left behind.

_

Morning arrives slowly.

Sunlight slips through your curtains in golden lines, warming the blankets tangled around you. For a moment you don’t move, you just lie there, half awake, wrapped in the lingering feeling of last night.

Then memory returns all at once.

Hyunjin, the apologies, what almost happened but he’s just so sweet and considerate, the couch, the tea, his arms around you, falling asleep against him.

Your eyes snap open and you sit up quickly, looking around your room. Deep inside you hoping he’s here. A small flicker of disappointment rises… until your phone lights up beside you.

Hyunjin: Good morning! You fell asleep during episode four.

Your heart jumps, and you open the messages immediately. A smile spread across your face as another message appears.

Hyunjin: I carried you to bed. I hope that was okay. I had work pretty early today so I had to go.

You press your lips together, warmth blooming in your chest at the thought.

Hyunjin: Also… I just wanted to say that I’m sorry again for upsetting you. I never want to make you feel unsure of my intentions again.

You reread that one twice. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, but before you can answer, another message arrives.

Hyunjin: I have an idea, and a feeling you’re going to like it. Can I pick you up later?

You don’t even realize you’re smiling until your cheeks start hurting.

You: You don’t have to apologize anymore Hyun. And yes, you can pick me up!

Hyun.

He smiles at the nickname.

He’s down horribly and he knows it.

_

You notice immediately that this drive feels different. He looks excited but nervous too. His fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel while he glances at you every few seconds, like he’s waiting for your reaction before the surprise even happens.

The car stops in front of a large building and you tilt your head questioningly. He grins, a little shy, a little proud over his idea, and gestures for you to follow him.

You immediately realise you’re in a company building. The hallways are never ending, and staff members bow politely as he passes. You notice it, the familiarity, the respect, the way people instantly recognize him. This is his world. Some of them look at you with a strange look on their faces, but they don’t try to interact with you at all, so you simply follow Hyunjin.

He opens a door carefully.

A.. studio?

You’re suddenly inside a huge recording studio. And right there in front of you is another man who looks back at you and Hyunjin and smiles fondly. Does he know you?

Hyunjin signs slowly as he points at him for you to look:

“Friend”

Chan immediately mirrors the greeting, giving you an enthusiastic wave. His smile is kind, gentle in a way that eases your nerves instantly. He types something quickly on a tablet and turns it toward you.

Chan: Hi! I’m Chan, Hyunjin’s bandmate. Hyunjin talks about you a lot. Welcome to our studio. It’s nice to finally meet you”

You smile at him and nod.

He talks about you? He’s.. talked about you to his members? To his group?

Suddenly Hyunjin takes your hand and leads you towards an enormous speaker setup. Huge. Almost intimidating. He suddenly looks nervous, searching your face for trust.

He signs slowly so you can follow every movement.

“I want you to feel my music.”

Did he do research? How does he know how to signs sentences all of a sudden? Your head is already spinning at the fact he’s fully signing before what he actually said even registers.

He guides your hand gently toward the large speaker, an enormous one that’s resting against the wall.

The music starts, and..

BOOM.

A deep vibration surges through the speaker and travels straight into your palm. Strong and alive and you gasp, eyes widening.

The bass pulses again, and again and again. You feel it climb up your arm, into your chest, into your bones. Instinctively, your other hand presses over your heart. The beat syncs beneath your palm. You’re feeling it. Feeling him. His art, his effort. His voice translated into movement, into vibration and emotion.

Your smile grows uncontrollably and you know your eyes are shinning, and then tears spill before you even realize you’re crying. Hyunjin freezes when he sees them.

For one terrifying second he thinks Did I overwhelm her? Did I do something wrong?

But then you laugh silently through your tears, gripping the speaker tighter, shoulders shaking with emotion. And he understands. You feel it. You feel him. He steps closer, overwhelmed himself now, and gently cups your face. His thumbs wipe your tears away one by one, and then he leans down, kissing them softly from your cheeks.

Behind you Chan quietly smiles, and without a word he slips out of the room, closing the door, giving you privacy, protecting the moment.

Hyunjin rests his forehead against yours, the music still pulses through the floor, through your hands, through your heart.

He signs slowly, again: I wanted to share my world with you.

You squeeze his hand, pressing it over your chest so he can feel your heartbeat racing beneath his palm and you kiss kid knuckles.

That’s your answer.

He exhales shakily, overwhelmed by how deeply this moment means means to him, and scared of how much you mean to him.

The tears on your cheeks had barely dried when something shifted in the air between you. His breathing grew heavier, you could feel it. His thumbs stroked your skin once more, then slid down to your jaw.

He kissed you again, hard, passionate, desperate.

It wasn’t like his usual gentle kisses. This one carried everything he had been holding back, longing, fear, and overwhelming want.

His lips moved against yours with urgent hunger, tongue slipping into your mouth as his hands slid into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted and you whimpered into the kiss, hands fisting in his shirt.

He started to guide you to the couch now, and he locked the studio door with one hand without breaking the kiss.

He sat down on the wide, comfortable studio couch and pulled you with him. You climbed into his lap without thinking, knees bracketing his hips, straddling him. The moment your bodies pressed together you both instinctively moaned. And oh you were needy. So needy. And so was he. And the little sounds you were making were driving him crazy.

Your hips started moving on their own, grinding down against the growing hardness in his pants. The friction was delicious, and you rocked against him again and again, chasing the pressure. He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating against your lips as his hands gripped your waist, guiding your movements.

“Fuck… baby,” he breathed against your neck, making sure you could feel the low rumble of his voice. “You’re so eager for me…”

You answered by rolling your hips harder, desperate little sounds slipping from your throat. The music continued to pulse around you, deep bass thumping through the couch, through his body, into yours. Every beat seemed to sync with the way you moved against him.

Hyunjin’s hands slid under your shirt, palms hot against your bare skin. He helped you pull the fabric over your head, then leaned forward to kiss and bite softly at your neck and collarbone while you continued grinding down on him. The humping grew more frantic, and your breathing was ragged, thighs trembling around his hips as you rubbed yourself against his clothed cock again and again.

He was breathing hard too, forehead pressed to your shoulder, groaning every time you rolled your hips just right.

After several long minutes of this, he finally slid one hand between your bodies. His long fingers slipped under your skirt and into your panties, finding you already soaked.

“So wet for me baby” he said, making sure you read his lips, and his words made you shiver.

He circled your clit slowly at first, then faster. Two of his long, elegant fingers pressed inside you, curling gently, opening you up. He scissored them slowly, stretching you, stroking that sensitive spot inside while his thumb continued rubbing your clit.

You clung to his shoulders, hips rocking desperately onto his fingers, soft whimpers turning into broken moans. Hyunjin watched your face the entire time, eyes dark and full of adoration, occasionally leaning in to kiss you deeply whenever your sounds grew louder.

When he felt you were ready, trembling and dripping around his fingers, he pulled them out gently.

He quickly opened his pants, freeing himself. His cock was hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. He looked up at you, breathing heavily, eyes sparkling and asking for permission even now. And you answered by lifting your hips, pushing your panties aside, and slowly sinking down onto him.

The stretch was intense.

You gasped, forehead falling against his as you took him inch by inch. Hyunjin’s hands gripped your hips tightly, but he didn’t push, he let you control the pace, groaning deeply every time you sank a little lower.

When he was fully inside you, buried to the hilt, you both stayed still for a moment, breathing each other in.

Then you started moving.

Slow at first. Rolling your hips in deep, sensual circles. Hyunjin’s head fell back against the couch, lips parted, low groans spilling from his throat and you wrapped one arm gently around his neck so you could feel every groan, every moan through your palm. And every time you felt it you’d squeeze him inside you so deliciously.

His hands guided you, helping you ride him harder, deeper.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, looking at you straight in the eyes as he spoke “So tight… so warm… all mine. My perfect girl.”

Your pace quickened. You rode him with desperate need, breasts bouncing slightly with every movement, hands clutching his shoulders for balance. Hyunjin met every roll of your hips with upward thrusts, fucking up into you while keeping one hand on your lower back, pressing you closer.

When you finally came it hit you so hard. Your body clenched around him, a silent cry tearing from your throat as waves of intense pleasure crashed through you. Hyunjin followed right after, pulling out of you quickly, a shuddering groan you felt vibrate through your entire chest. His arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you against him as he spilled on his stomach.

You looked down at the beautiful mess he had made in himself, and you picked some of it with your finger, bringing it to your mouth.

His head was going to explode. The expressions on his face priceless, making you wet all over again by just how hot he looked looking at you.

His hands started to stroke your back slowly, tenderly. He pressed soft kisses to your sweaty temple, your cheek, your lips. His fingers brushed damp strands of hair away from your face with such gentle care it made your chest ache.

“I think i’m falling in love with you” he mouthed and touched his heart.

Your eyes widened, a smile you couldn’t control. You fell on his chest and kissed him, and you could feel each other’s smiles through the kiss

“Me too” you mouthed back.

You buried your face in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around him, heart still racing.

_

The award still feels unreal in his hands even hours later.

Even after the stage lights, the cameras, the cheers vibrating through the arena floor, the weight of the trophy resting beside the table keeps pulling Hyunjin back to reality.

They won.

The restaurant is loud, warm, crowded with late night laughter and clinking glasses. The members insisted on going out if they won, no managers hovering too closely tonight, just eight exhausted men finally allowed to breathe.

Chan lifts his glass.

“To surviving another year”

Everyone cheers. Glasses collide.

Hyunjin smiles, but his mind drifts elsewhere, and across the table Chan watches him carefully. Too carefully. He knows him too well.

Chan leans forward slowly, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion.

“Why do you look like you’re remembering something illegal?”

Laughter erupts instantly.

Changbin snaps his fingers. “He’s been smiling at nothing all night!”

Han points dramatically. “You can’t possibly be this happy over the award you little fuck, just tell us”

Hyunjin groans, dropping his face into his hands.

“I hate all of you.”

Felix grins. “No, no. We love you. That’s why we investigate.”

Seungmin tilts his head. “It’s her, right?”

The table quiets just slightly. Not teasing now, all of them genuinely curious to know.

Because they know.

They’ve watched Hyunjin change the past few months, softer rehearsals, distracted smiles, the way he stays up texting. The way he just looks happier now, more content, complete.

Chan leans back, arms crossed.

“The museum girl.”

Hyunjin exhales, there’s no hiding he’s down bad for her, they already know, he’s already told them, so what’s the point of shying away now.

His voice comes quiet.

“…Yeah.”

Immediately, smiles spread around the table. Jeongin kicks his leg under the table. “Finally.”

Changbin laughs. “So you’re officially together or what?”

Hyunjin shakes his head, embarrassed but smiling anyway. “I don’t know. Yes? I haven’t asked her to be her boyfriend but do I even have to? We both said we’re falling in love with each other.”

He looks down at his glass, thumb tracing condensation along the edge.

“I think…” he hesitates, searching for words. “…I think she sees me. Who I am, who I really am you know?.”

He thinks about how you looked at him before knowing who he was. How heartbroken you were because you thought he’s embarrassed of you, when the thing he wanted to do the most was yell from a rooftop about you.

“I mean, to find someone like her, so kind, so talented, and to not care at all about this life.. this is one in a lifetime”

His friends have long stopped teasing and are now listening to him, some of them smiling, others almost looking proud.

“When I thought I lost her I was a mess”

Felix nods gently. “But you didn’t.”

Hyunjin shakes his head, a small smile forming.

“No.”

Chan watches him carefully, then grins slowly.

“…So.”

Everyone leans in. Chan’s voice lowers dramatically.

“You brought her to the studio yesterday.”

Groans and laughter explode immediately and Hyunjin’s face turns bright red.

“Hyung...”

Chan points accusingly. “You never bring anyone to the studio.”

Changbin slams the table. “Oh my god, you fucked in the studio didn’t you?”

Hyunjin hides his face again, shoulders shaking with mortified laughter.

“That’s none of your goddamn business idiots.”

“Oh my god they did. They fucked in our studio.”

The reaction is instant chaos. Han nearly falls out of his chair. Felix covers his mouth, laughing and Minho claps like someone just scored a goal.

Chan leans back triumphantly.

“I knew it.”

Minho has been itching to ask this, and he finally does

“So, did you have her sign an NDA?”

Hyunjin looked at him like he had asked the craziest thing in the world. Almost disgust forming on his face

“Dude what? No. She will never do anything shady. She’s not like that”

Changbin nudged him. “You waited forever to meet someone like that.” shifting the conversation, knowing how Hyunjin gets with the whole idea of NDAs.

Felix nods warmly. “You deserve someone who understands you.”

Chan’s teasing fades into something softer. “You look lighter,” he says. “On stage today too. I noticed.”

Hyunjin looks at him and smiles, “Really?” he hadn’t realized it himself, but it was true. The performances felt more free lately. The pressure quieter. Because for the first time since forever.. he has somewhere to return to emotionally. Someone who knows him when the lights turn off and loves him anyway for who he really is.

He smiles to himself.

“She felt our music yesterday, that’s why I took her to the studio. She wanted to know, and that’s the only pleas for her to do that.” he says softly.

The table stills again. They are all so curious about how Hyunjin makes it work considering her deafness. He tells them about your hand on the speaker, the way your smile broke open, how you cried while feeling the rhythm through your body.

No one interrupts. Even Changbin grows quiet.

Chan exhales slowly, clearly moved.

“…That’s beautiful, man.”

Hyunjin nods.

“I think… I think this is serious guys. I’m like.. genuinely in love with her.”

Then eight matching grins spread around the table, and Han raises his glass again.

“To Hyunjin finally being in love.”

Glasses lift. They all cheer loudly as Hyunjin blushes, and he doesn’t deny it. How could he when it’s the truth.

He’s so madly in love with you.

Because when he checks his phone under the table and sees your name lighting the screen with a simple message —

Did you eat? Congratulations on your win, I saw you on tv!

— his chest warms in a way no award ever could ever make him feel.

He types back instantly.

Yes. I miss you already.

He doesn’t notice Chan watching him fondly from across the table. Doesn’t notice the knowing smiles exchanged between the members. They’ve seen Hyunjin chase perfection for years. Seen him doubt himself. Seen loneliness hide behind beauty and talent. Tonight he looks peaceful.

it seemed like an alright idea at the time. your classmate was sweet, always offered to send the notes, greeted you as you walked into the room, said all the right things that made you believe his intentions were pure and good. and since you had officially ended your arrangement with chan, you were free to pursue whoever you wanted. 

so you did.

you decided on dinner, and he picked you up right on time with flowers, the false gentleman persona on full display. guilt was beginning to tug at you for entertaining him when you weren’t all that interested. 

that guilt was misplaced and short-lived, though. once he had paid the bill and you both quietly accepted that the date was over, he asked if you wanted to go home with him. it sounded gentle, but your rejection shifted his tone into something spiteful quickly.

this was supposed to help you get over chan, and at first, you could’ve almost been convinced that it was working. you laughed heartily, smiled genuinely, flowed through conversation easily. but his question wiped all of that away instantly, a pit settling deep in your stomach. because the last person you slept with is chan — the only person you’ve slept with in almost a year.

and as his face unfurled into disgust, you realized chan was right all along. all the times you’d mention your classmate sending you the notes unprompted or asking if you were okay on days you were absent told him one thing: this guy expected something from you, and he was only doing what he needed to get it. call it cynicism, call it intuition, call it whatever you want; chan was firm in his opinion. 

you had never listened, though, laughing at him for being silly and jealous, brushing it off like nothing would ever come of it.

if only you had listened. 

maybe then you wouldn’t be sitting dejectedly at the table he left you at, hardly registering the past few minutes. your date — your ride — had just up and walked off like you were nothing. like the past months he’s spent being the nice guy were just a ploy. they were.

too much time passes with you stuck in your seat numbly. you’re not sure you can will any of your limbs to move. your waitress even comes over and asks if you’re okay, all pity and soft smiles. she promises you can stay for as long as you need, but you know that’s only a comforting lie. 

on your way to the exit, you call the one person you know will always be there, no questions asked. no expectations. even after telling chan it’s over, he’ll come to your rescue whenever you need. because he’s nothing like him; he’s real in everything he portrays, and his kindness isn’t rooted in anything selfish or superficial.

before sex entered the equation (a mistake, perhaps), you were friends, so of course he still cares about you beyond it. but not in the way you care about him. not in the way that craves for more than just physicality, that refuses to be confined by rules and limitations. 

just in the way that you know he’ll answer. he picks up on the second ring.

“y/n?” he greets, voice a little groggy, and it makes your heart drop stupidly. he almost always naps after sex; he’s probably still laid up in bed with someone else, and here you are calling him because your date left you stranded.

it’s still nice to hear his voice, though. that’s how badly you’ve fallen. 

“hi,” you breathe out. “are you busy?”

there’s rustling on the other end and then his voice comes out clearer, more intentional. “no. no, not busy…just dozed off is all,” he assures.

right. dozed off. it’s not abnormal for a human being to nap, but your brain has already come to its own conclusions. you suddenly wish you had called one of your friends instead. 

“oh.”

you don’t try to hide how deflated you sound, and he notices right away. he can read you like a book without even being in your presence. 

“what’s up? are you okay?” he asks quickly. each word is laced with sincerity and it reminds you of why you fell for him to begin with. chan is caring, attentive, gentle (when he isn’t fucking you like he has something to prove). 

that same sincerity, coupled with the night’s events, brings tears to your eyes. you squeeze them shut to stop them from falling. “i’m okay,” you lie, “i just need someone to pick me up…you were the first person i thought to call.”

too honest. he’s either going to wonder why you called him first, or, worse, feel way too smug that you did. 

“where are you?” 

or he’ll just ignore all of the obvious questions in favor of the only one that really matters to him. the semantics can come later. it’s clear you need him, and that means he has one single priority right now. 

“at some restaurant. i don’t know, he picked it, and i—” you begin. in your distress, you can’t even remember the restaurant’s name. quite frankly, you never want to come here again, anyways. 

he interrupts you swiftly, latching onto one specific word in your ramble. “‘he?’” he questions, and you can picture his face. eyebrows furrowed, mouth downturned, staring right through you.

“yeah,” you say quietly, trying to avoid the inevitable. might as well get the hard part over with now. “that guy from stats.” the one you warned me about. multiple times. 

“y/n,” he sighs. he doesn’t even sound angry; he just sounds disappointed. which is ten times worse, because you can handle anger, but you don’t know how to navigate disappointment. 

“i’m sorry,” you mumble.

it’s the only thing you can think to say. you aren’t even sure if he heard it over the boisterous laughs of patrons entering the restaurant and the whir of cars in the parking lot. 

but he heard you clearly, and it broke his heart. “baby, don’t apologize right now. just send me your location and i’ll be there as soon as i can, alright?” he soothes, already shrugging on a hoodie and slipping on a pair of shoes.

the pet name rolls off his tongue so smoothly he doesn’t even realize he probably shouldn’t use it anymore. and he certainly doesn’t realize how it unravels you, your heart still fluttering like it did the first time he’d called you something affectionate.

“okay,” you pull your phone from your ear and oblige, “i sent it.”

he’s walking out his door and heading for his car shortly after, all of his movements on fast forward since you’re involved. you’re about a twenty minute drive from him and he curses internally, wishing there was a way for him to get to you faster. 

“i’ll be there real soon. wait for me, okay, pretty?” 

you nod like he can see you, and then the call ends, and you’re left with only the night air and the chatter of strangers. 

it’s a colder night, the wind adding a harsh chill that nips at your face and bare legs. there’s the obvious option: go back inside until chan arrives so you aren’t suffering unnecessarily. but you dread even the thought of stepping foot in there again, no matter how warm it may be.

so you stand in place, arms enveloping yourself to contain some of your body heat, wishing you had never fucking smiled at stats guy that first day in class. 

meanwhile, chan’s gripping the steering wheel so hard it almost hurts. he’s desperate to get to you, so he isn’t driving reckless, but he’s definitely taking the speed limit as a suggestion. 

truthfully, his friends would probably judge him heavily right now. you’re the girl he’s head over heels for that ended things just last week. there’s no reason for him to still be so whipped for you, especially to the point of picking you up from a shitty date with another man. he’ll never feel bad for being someone you can count on, though. not even when you left him feeling this empty. 

it’s partially his fault. he should have known he couldn’t do no commitment, no feelings sex with you. his friend — his beautiful, funny, stubborn friend. you’re different than the other girls he kept around for only days at a time. 

a twenty minute drive becomes thirteen, seven minutes shaved off by his haste and the lack of traffic, thankfully. you recognize his car the moment it pulls into the parking lot from all your past experiences. all the times he picked you up in it and all the times he fucked you dumb in it. 

“you look good, princess. shame it was for him of all people,” he says as you climb into his passenger seat. 

you roll your eyes and settle into the warmth, pretending to not notice his eyes dragging over you. “thanks,” you force out, “for picking me up.” 

not a thank you for the compliment, no need to let him know how much his words affect you.

“so talk to me. what did that asshole do?” he asks, jaw clenched. he’s tried to prepare himself for it, but he feels an entirely new wave of anger wash over him now that you’re right next to him. still an angel, the last person any guy should dream of mistreating. 

“typical asshole shit,” you shrug, hoping you’d seem less bothered than you are, “just walked out when i wouldn’t go home with him.”  

he’s quiet, fuming with anger but determined to not take it out on you. his suspicions were correct, and he hates that they were. hates that someone hurt you, hates that some idiot didn’t see how fucking lucky he was that you gave him a chance. 

“i told you that guy was a fucking loser,” he finally growls. it’s far more filtered than what he’s truly thinking. 

“yeah, i know. can we save the ‘i told you so’s for later, please?” you sigh.

the car comes to a red light and he looks over at you, face illuminated perfectly by the light shining through the windshield. you tear your eyes away because looking at him is a stark reminder. his hand comes to rest on your thigh as if he was silently telling you he’d always be there. 

even if you look away, he’ll remain in the shadows of your mind ever-presently. you proved that by calling him today.

you both glance down at his hand, and when you make no attempt to move it, a sly smile spreads across his face. “i’m not gonna rub it in your face, baby. you know i’m not like that,” he promises.

something about hearing the word “baby” fall from his lips now — no longer over the phone but right beside you — unsettles something you tried to ignore. the ease and confidence with which he said it along with his satisfied smirk makes the question tumble out before you can bite it back.

“did you call her that, too?”

utter confusion. that’s the best way you could describe his expression right now. because he is confused, completely dumbfounded as the prospect of there being any “her” that isn’t you. 

“who?” he asks, wondering where that notion even came from. 

there’s been no one but you for a year. no girls coming in and out of his apartment, no drunken kisses at parties. his friends have tried to introduce him to other girls, hoping to revitalize the “fun” chan they once knew; he’s cut them off every time, throwing out quick greetings before taking off to find you.

you have a chance to turn back. to tell him you were joking and that you don’t care, anyway. for some reason, you dive forward into the conversation that’ll either break you or your secrets.

“the girl you were just with,” you answer matter-of-factly. 

“what?” his body nearly jerks back in his seat at the absurdity, his hand yanking away from your thigh at once. “i wasn’t with anyone.”

it’d be difficult to fake a reaction like that, so you know you’re wrong. you feel stupid for letting your assumptions have so much life, but being in love with someone you weren’t supposed to be in love with would make anyone a little irrational.

“i just assumed…because i woke you up.” god, now you even sound stupid. add napping to the list of things that apparently have secondary implications. 

chan pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales deeply. you really drive him crazy — in the best and worst ways. “jesus, y/n, just because i was taking a nap doesn’t mean i fucked someone,” he huffs.

“god forbid a girl notices a pattern,” you attempt to joke, but it comes out flat. he doesn’t even crack a smile. 

“you just ended things last week,” he reminds, “do you think i’d move on that fast?”

are you supposed to answer that? because the answer would be yes, yes you do. you’ve seen it before, when you were just friends and he’d have a different girl on his arm every weekend. why would you be any different? just because you happened to be regularly fucking for a year — longer than chan’s kept anyone else around?

no. no way. chan doesn’t do relationships or commitment and he certainly doesn’t do love. that’s exactly why you were trying to bury yours so far back you could pretend it never existed. 

“wouldn’t be the first time,” you scoff. “plus, it was just sex.” 

the dagger that pierces both of you. ouch. you, because it’s such a horrible lie it barely can find a voice outside your chest. him, because he thinks it’s your truth, and that tears him apart. 

he pokes his tongue in his cheek and shakes his head in disbelief. “okay,” he laughs dryly.

“what? am i wrong?” you shoot back. there’s a breaking point only each of you can bring the other to, and you’re both nearing it. usually it’s a game, but right now, it’s a warzone. 

“yeah, you’re dead wrong,” he snaps. his intensity startles you, so much so that you can’t even register his words. “i ‘sleep’ after we have sex because it feels like the only way i can get you to stay,” he continues, softer now but still with a lingering edge. 

you tilt your head and pout, fully committing to the battle. and you’re not even sure how you got here — things just seem to spiral with chan. that’s how you went from fucking to falling in love, and how so many nights you went from casual teasing to being driven into the mattress. 

“aw, you want me to stay, chan?” you taunt. “wanna cuddle and hold hands after you cum so you can pretend you’re this lover boy that you’re not?”

“god, you’re so annoying,” he groans. you don’t even realize that the car’s stopped moving. the tension in the small space has completely clouded your brain. 

“please, go on. really making my night so much better,” you retort. 

now that he’s no longer driving, he doesn’t need to keep his glances quick and sharp. he can stare right at you as much as he wants, and he’s taking full advantage of that. because he’s all too aware of what just a stare can do to you. a man conscious of his own power is dangerous. 

“you’re funny, y/n,” he chuckles, but there’s no humor. “you asked me about another girl. why is that? if it’s just sex, why do you care?”

fuck. him. seriously, fuck him for always being right and always seeing right through you and always knowing exactly how to leave you answerless.

“i was just curious.”

he laughs again, and this time it almost sounds genuine. sympathy laughter. “you’re a bad liar. and you drive me insane twenty-four fucking seven,” he huffs. “yeah, i want you to stay. at least i’m honest. you’re always trying to leave so quickly, and sometimes i’m not strong enough to watch you walk out the door.”

his voice shifts to something raw and unguarded, and you wonder if you’re misreading this. but if he wants honesty, fine, you’ll give him honesty and suffer with the consequences after. 

“i leave so quickly because if i don’t, i’m scared you’ll see,” you whisper. 

“scared i’ll see what? baby, i’ve seen every part of you. what are you trying to hide?” he questions, practically begging. 

it’s almost comical how fast you two switch from sarcastic quips and meaningless insults to gentle vulnerability. this is the perfect glimpse into the past year — the desperation that often unfolded into something you couldn’t quite fathom. 

all the times he’d bring you a towel to clean up with and then fall back into bed beside you, draping his arm across you and drifting to sleep with a quickness you envied. and you’d allow yourself the pleasure of staying a little longer while he slept, praying he wouldn’t wake up to notice you slowly cracking.

you wish you could hate him. there’s plenty of reasons for you to. like him being so certain that you’d catch feelings (and seemingly doing everything in his power to assure that you do), or pulling you out of deep study sessions because he “needs you.” 

but he’s begging, and you can’t hate him when he begs. 

“the part that’s so fucking desperate for more,” you choke out. his eyes go wide and you can’t tell with what — pure shock, horror, relief? it doesn’t matter; the truth is out, and you’re letting it all spill now. “that’s why i said we had to stop. because we promised no strings attached, but somehow you knew i’d fall for you and you were right.”

“y/n,” he says sharply. 

you hear him, but you continue as if you didn’t. now that you’ve finally confessed what you’ve swallowed back for so long, your lips won’t stop moving. they’re greedy, taking every single word you’ve kept from them at the back of your throat. 

“so i had to end things. i know we were just ‘friends with benefits’ or whatever and i’m an idiot for catching feelings, but—”

he interrupts you again, louder now. “y/n,” he repeats, dropping his hand on top of yours as it rests on the center console. hopefully his touch would be enough to pull you out of your rant. and it is. you fall silent abruptly, the weight of your confession sinking in. “i was wrong,” he corrects.

“huh?”

god, you’re cute. confusion written all over your perfect face, mouth slightly agape while you await an explanation. but now that he has your attention, he’s finding it rather difficult to find his voice. 

you fell for him. just like he predicted. what he didn’t predict, however, was how fucking happy he’d be when you did. 

because he fell for you too. against his rules, against his own will, he fell stupidly, madly, wholly in love with you. and now he can't hide it anymore. he doesn't need to hide it.  

he takes one deep breath before beginning his own ramble — his final breath before everything changes. hopefully. 

“i was wrong because i told myself you were just another girl,” he admits shakily, “and you’re not.” you interlock your fingers with his, and suddenly it’s all too easy to keep going. “you’re the girl i’ll always pick up for. the girl that doesn’t ever listen and yet i love her more for it. the girl i pretend to be asleep with just so she’ll stay a little longer.”

you blink at him slowly. “you were pretending?” 

out of all the things he just said, that’s what you choose to focus on? his frequent scheme to get you to stay by playing pretend? if he didn’t just reveal that he loves you, he’d probably call you annoying again.

“not always!” he defends. “just…sometimes. did you really not notice all those times i was smiling like an idiot while i held you?”

“no…” you trail, and he can’t help but laugh. how oblivious you’ve both been. 

“shit. i guess we’re just two clueless idiots.”

two clueless idiots who broke the rules and hopelessly fell for each other. and you realize that now. 

“wait,” you begin again, “you love me? like, you’re in love with me?”

please say yes, you chant internally. 

instead, his lips curl into a smug smile. “are you not in love with me?” he teases. 

“don’t be a child.”

“say it.”

his hand is strong against yours, trying to squeeze the words out of you. 

“fine,” you roll your eyes, “yes, i’m in love with you, stupid. and the sex. mostly the sex.”

definitely not mostly the sex. it was a plus — a huge one, sure. but it’s not what made you fall for him. 

you fell for him during the nights when you’d stay and watch his chest rise and fall (which you now know may have been partially a lie). you fell for him when he’d answer every call and every text no matter how late or how trivial. 

“trust me, you moan too loud for me to not know that,” he quips.

nevermind. you hate him.

“chan,” you deadpan, and he leans in closer.

dropping his voice to a whisper, he adds, “oh, yeah. i’m in love with you too,” like it’s an afterthought. messing with you is too fun, even as you’re spilling your hearts out to each other. he mostly just likes the trouble it gets him into later.

“fuck you,” you scowl, but your expression softens quickly. he’s so close now, and oh how you’ve missed his lips.

“promise?” he grins, breath hitting your face as he speaks. 

when you kiss, it’s like everything you remember yet something entirely new. it’s a kiss that has something to prove, something to say. 

i love you. i’m so in love with you.

and when you climb into his lap and it only plunges quickly from there, it’s clear it’s not just sex. was it ever, really?

for once, chan was wrong. he does do relationships, commitment, love, the whole damn thing. but only for you. only for you would he break every single rule he’s ever set. 

It began a little over 3 years ago, when you started your first day of high school. That first spring semester came upon you quickly, and while you were anxious to begin, there was an almost equal level of excitement. You unfortunately were arriving alone, with your friends from middle school having spread out to various different schools that suited either their families or their own ambitions for their future.

While you would have liked to go to the same prestigious schools as some of your friends, your father simply didn’t have the money to pay for that sort of thing. On top of that, admissions were fiercely competitive, and being intelligent didn’t matter if you weren’t in the top 1% lucky enough to earn yourself a scholarship. You needed to be perfect in every single way to be considered for the honor, and that’s something you simply weren’t, and would never be.

Maybe that was bleak, but you preferred to keep your hopes and expectations grounded in realism. You wouldn’t say that you lacked confidence necessarily– just that you know what is a realistic outcome and what isn’t.

And realistically, what were the chances of a miracle happening? Slim to none. So you tempered your expectations, you kept your hope on a leash, and you continued to have mundane hopes and dreams.

So it wasn’t arriving at your new, average school alone that made you the way you are now; you’d made your peace with that long before it happened. Sure, you would miss the friends you made in your younger years, but high school is supposed to be the place with the most opportunity.

As long as you gave it your best effort, you’d make new friends and new memories. You’d discover what your goals for the future are, you’d work towards them with earnesty and diligence, you’d make your father proud.

At least, that was your mindset going into it; and maybe those thoughts were a bit more optimistic than your usual, but they weren’t unrealistic by any means. All those hopes were tangible and achievable, nothing about them should have been out of reach or unobtainable.

And it wasn’t like you were losing contact with your friends forever– cellphones existed, and it would only be a matter of time before a free weekend arrived for you to meet up with them again. So all in all, you’d felt good. Sure, your circumstances weren’t the most ideal, but you were more than capable of making the best of them.

That’s what you thought at the time, anyways. Despite the perceived realism of your wishes, it quickly became clear to you that life had other intentions for you in the name of Park Jaehyung. A boy in the same class as you, who took a keen interest in you for reasons beyond your understanding.

It started with you noticing that he was often looking at you. You’d look up from your textbook or notes, eyes aimed at the board or your teacher for further instruction, and you’d notice his gaze in your peripheral vision. It didn’t bother you necessarily; you were friendless after all, and you thought maybe he was just trying to figure out if he should approach you.

You knew first hand how shyness or doubts could make a decision you really wanted to make more difficult than it needed to be, and the simple act of approaching a person for friendship could become the most nerve racking experience of your life.

You even considered approaching him first to make it easier on him. There were plenty of times you were able to be the brave friend simply because you wanted to help, moments where all anxieties were trumped by the simple desire to help a friend.

However, he ended up approaching you first in the end, on an otherwise uneventful Friday. Most of your classmates left quickly, eager to get a start on their weekends or meetup with fellow club members for practice for their upcoming events.

You were nervous as he approached but not necessarily in a negative way; at the time, you had no reason to believe he had any bad intentions with you. In fact, you were excited at the prospect of finally making a friend in your new environment after weeks of being awkward around everyone.

You were so ignorantly optimistic.

When you finished tucking your things away and lifted your head to look at Jaehyung, you met him with a smile. The conversation was pleasant at first, albeit a bit mundane. Simple small talk such as “how did you do on the test,” “how do you like the school,” and things of that nature.

You don’t remember how long you two talked like that, but what you do remember is the shift in atmosphere when his friends came into the room looking for him.

“What are you still doing in here, Jae? We’ve– Oh?” you remember one of his friends saying as he stepped into the room, pausing his sentence when he noticed the two of you stood at your desk talking.

The shift in Jaehyung’s expression was shockingly instant, the positivity of the boy in front of you quickly warping into an animosity that you could hardly comprehend. The friend, who you recognized as a boy who sat in the back of the classroom, let out a laugh as he stood in the doorway.

“I knew it! You do like her,” the boy chuckled with a smug expression. Jaehyung scowled as he turned away to face his friend's direction. “I told you, I don’t. I was just telling her to stay away from me,” he spits at his friend, “She’s obsessed with me.”

You were stunned, blood running cold as you looked at him in bewilderment. You just spent the last several minutes talking pleasantly and laughing, and now he’s lying about it right in front of you? So blatantly? Why?

Before you could even open your mouth to defend yourself, his friend laughed loudly. “I told you, you need to stop playing with the easy ones. They get way too attached, man.” He’d said as Jaehyung stepped away from you quickly, making his way to the door with haste.

You simply watched, the words playing in a loop in your brain. Jaehyung took one last glance at you before the pair of them exited the room, leaving you by yourself with your thoughts running a mile a minute. Easy? Easy how? Because you were alone all the time? Because you’re shy?

You didn’t really understand why his friend said that, or why Jae’s attitude changed so quickly. Naively, you started to think that maybe it was all a big misunderstanding, and you could clear it up on Monday when you saw him again. It was unlikely, but the shift in tone was so sudden that you really had nothing else to grasp onto to make sense of it.

But Monday came, and it was immediately clear to you that the pleasant Jaehyung you’d known for a short time was entirely fake. He’d approach you with venom, antagonize you any chance he got, his friends always cackling in the background. He’d call you names and push you around, a sick enjoyment clear on his face every time.

You’d wondered if this was his intention all along; to make you like him, to spend time with you because you were vulnerable before he’d turn it all around on you and embarrass you. His friend walking in on you in the classroom probably just sped things up a bit, and made him lose the need to build trust with you first.

Some days you’d be lucky, able to avoid them by bolting out of the room the minute the bell rang. Of course there were still times they caught up to you or got you into a corner, but for the most part, the strategy had worked.

Eventually though, that method became nearly impossible as they got used to the trick and found ways to get you in a corner consistently. You only ever managed to catch a break on days that they needed to stay behind for detention or to be disciplined by the staff.

You hoped, you prayed, harder than you ever had for anything, that one day they would grow tired of tormenting you and just leave you alone. That staff would actually help you instead of turning a blind eye, only intervening when the boys’ actions inconvenienced their ability to work. You prayed they’d get suspended, expelled even– an unrealistic hope you knew would never come true, as little of a priority to the school’s staff as you were.