my heart sound goes paw ~ you heard what's on my mind

It began as something casual — @archiveof_accidents. A place to dump random photos with ridiculous captions. He told himself it was just for fun. Aesthetic shots mixed with absurdity. Nothing serious.

The first post was a blurry brown sunset with the caption: “the sky copied my hair color today. rude.”

Then a photo of a cat knocking over a cup: “this guy owes me money.”

Slowly, without him realizing it, you started appearing in the background.

Not obviously. Never your face.

Just traces.

Your favorite iced coffee cup left on a table at the café you both frequented. A blurry reflection of your jacket in a bookstore window. Your handwriting on a napkin in the corner of a shot. An empty seat across from him at the library, your bag still hanging on the chair.

The captions stayed chaotic at first.

“someone left their overpriced coffee again. tragic.”

But the frequency increased.

Beomgyu told himself it was coincidence. He just took photos of his daily life. You happened to be in it a lot. That was all.

He posted a photo of your silhouette against golden hour light, half-hidden behind a tree. Caption: “this person thinks they’re sneaky. they’re not.”

He laughed when he posted it, thinking it was funny.

He didn’t realize he had taken thirty-seven photos of you in the past two weeks.

At first, it was exactly what Beomgyu intended — chaotic, unserious, a digital scrapbook of his daily absurdity. Followers liked the randomness: blurry photos of streetlights with the caption “he’s trying his best,” or a half-eaten ramyeon bowl labeled “this is my emotional support dinner.”

But something was shifting.

You started noticing it one random Tuesday night while scrolling through your phone in bed. You followed the account because Beomgyu had sent you the link months ago with the message “for my future biopic” and a string of laughing emojis. You thought it was just another one of his jokes.

Until you really looked.

The most recent post was a photo of a familiar café table. Your usual order — iced oat milk latte with an extra shot — sat half-drunk in the frame, condensation sliding down the cup. The chair across from it was empty, but your denim jacket was draped over the back.

Caption: “left their jacket again. some people have zero survival instincts.”

You stared at the photo for a long time. That was last Friday. You had left your jacket at the café when you rushed to class. Beomgyu had been the one who brought it back to you the next day without saying much.

You scrolled further.

Another post from two days ago: a blurry shot of the university library’s third floor. Your favorite corner seat was visible, your notebook open with your distinct handwriting scribbled across the page. The caption read: “someone’s handwriting is worse than mine. impressive.”

You felt your stomach twist in a strange way. Not bad. Just… unsettlingly warm.

The further back you went, the more traces appeared.

A reflection in a bookstore window showing the sleeve of your favorite hoodie. An empty bench at the park with two cups of coffee — one with your signature lipstick mark on the rim. A blurry candid of someone laughing (you knew it was you) taken from behind during a group outing, captioned: “this person laughs like the world owes them comedy.”

Beomgyu never tagged you. Never posted your face clearly. But the details were too specific. Too intimate.

He was documenting you without ever saying it.

The next day, you ran into him on campus.

Beomgyu was leaning against a wall, headphones around his neck, scrolling through his phone with that signature lazy grin. When he saw you, his face lit up in that playful way that made it hard to stay serious around him.

“Yo! My favorite co-conspirator,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders dramatically. “Missed me? Be honest. I know you did.”

You laughed despite yourself. “You saw me yesterday, Gyu.”

“Exactly. A whole twenty-four hours. Tragic.”

He was the same as always — loud, teasing, quick to deflect with humor. But when you mentioned the photography account casually, testing the waters, something flickered across his face for half a second.

“Oh that? It’s just random stuff,” he said, waving it off with a grin that felt a little too practiced. “Don’t read too much into it. I’m basically a chaos artist.”

You didn’t push.

But later that night, he posted again.

A photo of your favorite late-night convenience store. The empty stool where you always sat when you studied together was centered in the frame. A single strawberry milk carton sat on the counter — your usual order.

Caption: “somebody forgot their milk again. hopeless.”

You stared at the post for twenty minutes.

The account wasn’t random anymore.

It was becoming a quiet archive of every small moment you shared — captured through his eyes, hidden behind jokes and blurry angles.

And Beomgyu was still pretending he didn’t notice what he was doing.

What started as random chaos had slowly morphed into something more intentional, more intimate — though he refused to acknowledge it. Every few days, a new post would appear. Sometimes it was still absurd: a pigeon staring judgmentally at the camera with the caption “this man gets me.” But more and more often, the posts carried traces of you.

A half-empty iced americano with your specific order written on the cup and an empty seat beside him on the subway, your silhouette barely visible in the background, captioned: “someone fell asleep on my shoulder and then denied it. bold.”

He always posted with the same playful energy, as if none of it meant anything.

But his friends noticed.

It happened during a group hangout at Yeonjun’s apartment.

The five of them were sprawled across the living room, snacks everywhere, a random variety show playing on low volume. Beomgyu was in the middle of telling an exaggerated story about nearly tripping over his own feet during dance practice when Soobin suddenly sat up straighter, phone in hand.

“Wait. Pause. Gyu, what the hell is this account?”

Beomgyu froze mid-gesture. “What account?”

Soobin turned his phone around. The screen showed @archiveof_accidents.

Taehyun leaned over, eyes widening. “Oh my god. He’s been posting this whole time?”

Beomgyu tried to snatch the phone, but Yeonjun was faster, scrolling rapidly.

“Dude,” Yeonjun said, voice filled with disbelief and amusement. “There are like… four hundred photos. And half of them are just… stuff that belongs to one specific person.”

Beomgyu laughed — that bright, deflecting laugh he used like armor. “It’s just random shit I take when I’m bored. Don’t make it weird.”

Kai raised an eyebrow, scrolling slowly. “Random? Hyung, there’s a photo of their coffee order every single week. With the exact customizations. And look at this one—” He turned the phone toward the group. It was a soft, golden-hour shot of your laughing silhouette from behind, taken at the park last month. The caption read: “this person’s photogenicity should be studied. for science.”

The room went silent for half a second before exploding.

“Bro,” Soobin said, trying and failing to hide his grin. “You are down bad.”

“I’m literally not,” Beomgyu protested, snatching the phone back. His cheeks were slightly pink, but he played it off with an exaggerated eye roll. “It’s aesthetic. I’m building a vibe. You guys have no artistic vision.”

Taehyun smirked. “Yeah...”

Beomgyu opened his mouth. Closed it. Then laughed again — louder this time.

“You’re all delusional. I just take pictures of my life. And yes, they happen to be in my life. A lot. That’s normal.”

But later that night, after everyone had gone home, Beomgyu sat alone in his room, scrolling through his own account.

He stopped on a photo from two weeks ago: your hand resting on a table, fingers loosely wrapped around a pen while you studied. The caption was simple: “focused mode activated. dangerous.”

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he opened his camera roll — thousands of photos, most of them of you in some form. Blurry. Candid. Carefully framed. Moments he told himself were “just for the aesthetic.”

He whispered to the empty room, voice barely audible:

“…what the hell am I doing?”

But he didn’t delete a single photo.

Instead, he posted another one that night.

A blurry shot of two shadows walking side by side on the sidewalk. Yours was slightly ahead, his trailing just behind like he was always following.

Caption: “some people walk too fast. someone has to keep up.”

He told himself it was still a joke.

Deep down, he was starting to realize it wasn’t.

The next day, you ran into him on campus again.

Beomgyu greeted you with his usual chaotic energy — ruffling your hair, cracking a joke about your messy bun, stealing a sip of your coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But when you mentioned you’d been scrolling through his account again, something flickered behind his playful smile.

“Oh yeah?” he said, voice light. “Find anything good?”

You shrugged, watching him carefully. “A lot of familiar things.”

For the briefest moment, his grin faltered. Then it was back, brighter than ever.

“That’s because I have excellent taste. Obviously.”

He changed the subject immediately, launching into a dramatic story about his latest failed attempt at cooking.

You let him.

But you were starting to see through the jokes.

At first, you told yourself you were overthinking it. Beomgyu posted random things all the time — it was part of his chaotic charm. But the more you scrolled, the less random it felt. Every few posts, another quiet piece of evidence appeared, like breadcrumbs leading somewhere you weren’t sure you were ready to follow.

You were alone in your room one rainy Thursday night, curled up in bed with your phone. The rain tapped steadily against the window as you went further back in the archive — weeks, then months.

The pattern became devastatingly clear.

Early posts were pure Beomgyu: ridiculous selfies with captions like “handsome and humble,” or a photo of his messy desk labeled “organized chaos (don’t @ me).”

Then you started appearing.

Not your face — never your face. Beomgyu was careful like that. But the details were too intimate, too consistent to be coincidence.

Many photos of your favorite strawberry milk carton sitting on a convenience store counter, taken from his usual angle when you studied together.

Another from the library: your open notebook with your distinct, slightly slanted handwriting visible in the corner. Caption: “this person’s notes are prettier than mine. annoying.”

A blurry shot taken during golden hour at the park — your silhouette laughing at something he’d said, the light catching the edge of your smile. Caption: “this laugh should be illegal in at least three countries.”

You kept scrolling.

The further back you went, the more your chest tightened. The very first photo on the account — posted almost a year and a half ago — was a blurry, candid shot of you laughing at something during a group dinner. Your head was tilted back, eyes crinkled, completely unguarded. The caption was simple, almost shy compared to his usual style:

“i think something started here.”

You stared at it until the screen dimmed.

Your hands were shaking.

This wasn’t just an aesthetic account.

This was Beomgyu’s quiet, hidden archive of you — of every small moment, every shared coffee, every late-night walk home, every time you’d made him laugh for real. He had been documenting you for over a year, hiding it behind jokes and blurry angles and ridiculous captions.

And he never once said anything.

The next day, you couldn’t look at him the same way.

You met Beomgyu at your usual café after class. He was already there, sprawled in the corner booth with two drinks — yours exactly how you liked it. When he saw you, his face lit up with that signature mischievous grin.

“There she is! My favorite person who definitely doesn’t owe me money for all the times I’ve carried her books,” he teased, pushing your drink toward you. “You look like you didn’t sleep. Rough night?”

You forced a smile and sat down. “Something like that.”

He launched into a chaotic story about his latest streaming fail, waving his hands dramatically, making you laugh despite everything. But you kept noticing the little things now — the way his eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary, the way he subconsciously angled his phone away when he opened it, the way he always positioned himself so he could see your face clearly.

When he excused himself to the bathroom, you glanced at his unlocked phone on the table.

The photography account was open.

A new draft waited to be posted: a photo he’d taken of you five minutes ago while you were looking out the window. The light was soft on your profile. The caption draft read:

“some people make rainy days look warm.”

Your heart clenched so hard it hurt.

When Beomgyu returned, you acted normal. You laughed at his jokes. You teased him back. But inside, everything had shifted.

He had been falling for you in silence, one photo at a time, for over a year.

And he still hid behind the jokes.

That night, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, phone glowing with the archive open beside you.

The account wasn’t just photography.

It was a love letter written in fragments — one he never meant for you to read.

And Beomgyu still had no idea you’d found it.

It sat heavy in your chest for days.

You tried to act normal around him. You laughed at his ridiculous jokes, teased him when he stole your snacks, and pretended everything was the same. But every time he pulled out his phone, you wondered if he was taking another photo. Every time he laughed too loudly at something small, you wondered how many of those laughs were hiding something deeper.

Beomgyu, for his part, remained the same charming menace on the surface.

Until one rainy Friday night.

You were both in his room after a group hangout got canceled. The rain pounded against the window as you sat on his bed, scrolling through your phone while he lounged on the floor, back against the bedframe, pretending to play a game on his Switch. The account was still open in your tabs. You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Gyu,” you said quietly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Hm?” He didn’t look up, thumbs moving rapidly on the controller.

“Why do you take so many photos?”

He paused the game. The room filled with the sound of rain.

“For the account,” he answered lightly. “Aesthetic chaos. You know me. I’m a visionary.”

You turned your phone toward him, showing the account open. His most recent post — the one of your profile in the café, captioned “some people make rainy days look warm” — was still at the top.

Beomgyu’s entire body went still.

For once, he didn’t laugh. Didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t deflect.

He just stared at the screen, ears slowly turning red.

“…You noticed,” he said, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“I’ve been scrolling through it for days,” you admitted. “Gyu… it’s me. Almost all of it is me.”

He set the Switch aside and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking smaller than usual. The charming, untouchable Beomgyu was gone. In his place was someone vulnerable, exposed, and visibly panicking.

“I didn’t mean for it to become that,” he said, voice strained. “It started as just random stuff. Then you… you kept showing up in my days. And I kept taking pictures because… I don’t know. It felt easier than saying anything out loud.”

You moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed right in front of him.

“Easier than what?” you asked softly.

Beomgyu looked up at you. His usual mischievous spark was gone. What remained was raw and terrified.

“Easier than admitting I’ve been in love with you for over a year,” he whispered.

The confession hung between you, heavy and honest in a way Beomgyu almost never allowed himself to be.

Then he was moving.

He surged up from the floor and kissed you like he’d been holding it in for lifetimes — desperate, messy, years of hidden feelings pouring out at once. His hands cupped your face, trembling slightly as he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against yours with a needy groan.

You pulled him onto the bed with you. Clothes came off in a rush — his hoodie, your shirt, his sweatpants. Beomgyu’s usual playful energy was replaced by something hungry and reverent. He kissed down your neck, sucking marks into your skin like he needed proof this was real.

“Been wanting this for so long,” he breathed against your collarbone, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you have no idea.”

He moved lower, spreading your legs with gentle but insistent hands. The first swipe of his tongue against your clit made you arch off the bed. Beomgyu moaned like he was the one receiving pleasure, licking and sucking with messy enthusiasm, two fingers sliding inside you and curling perfectly.

“You taste so good,” he groaned, voice muffled. “Knew you would. Dreamed about this.”

He ate you out like a man starved — tongue fucking into you, fingers pumping steadily, thumb circling your clit until you came hard on his mouth, thighs shaking around his head. He didn’t stop, working you through it with soft, praising murmurs.

When you finally caught your breath, you pulled him up and flipped positions, taking him into your mouth in one smooth motion. Beomgyu cursed loudly, hips jerking, one hand gently threading through your hair.

“Shit— baby, you don’t have to— fuck,” he gasped, head falling back as you sucked him deep, hollowing your cheeks. His usual cocky demeanor completely shattered; he was a mess of whimpers and broken praises.

He didn’t last long. He pulled you off with a shaky groan and flipped you onto your back, sliding into you in one deep thrust. The stretch was perfect. He fucked you slow and deep at first, eyes locked on yours, every thrust deliberate and emotional.

“I’m so gone for you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “The account… every photo… it was all you. It’s always been you.”

You switched again, riding him hard while he gripped your hips, thrusting up to meet you. The room filled with the sound of skin against skin, rain against the window, and Beomgyu’s broken moans.

When you both came — you first, clenching around him, then him spilling deep inside you with a guttural groan — he held you tightly, arms wrapped around your back like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Afterward, he cleaned you up with gentle hands, then pulled you into his chest, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

“I’m sorry I hid it for so long,” he whispered into the dark. “Joking was easier than being scared.”

You kissed his chest, right over his racing heart.

“You don’t have to joke with me anymore.”

Beomgyu let out a shaky breath and held you closer.

For the first time, he didn’t deflect.

He just stayed.

-----

The morning after felt surreal.

You woke up in Beomgyu’s bed, his arm draped heavily over your waist, face buried in your neck like he’d been afraid you’d slip away in the night. The faint scent of his shampoo and the warmth of his body grounded you. When you stirred, he didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he pressed a slow, sleepy kiss to your shoulder.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice hoarse and softer than usual. No jokes. No dramatic flair. Just Beomgyu — raw and quiet.

You turned in his arms and kissed him properly. He melted into it, hands sliding down your back with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache.

For a few perfect hours, everything felt easy.

But Beomgyu had spent years mastering the art of deflection. Old habits died hard.

By the afternoon, the jokes returned — but they felt different now. Sharper. More frequent. Like he was testing the waters, making sure the vulnerability of last night hadn’t broken something irreparable.

You were at the campus café with a few mutual friends when it started.

A guy from your literature class — tall, friendly, and a little too confident — stopped by your table. He’d been flirting with you on and off for weeks, never quite crossing the line but always lingering.

“Hey,” he said, smiling brightly at you. “You look good today. That sweater’s cute. New?”

Before you could answer, Beomgyu — who had been mid-bite of his sandwich — let out a loud, dramatic laugh.

“Cute? That’s the best you’ve got?” he teased the guy, grin sharp. “She looks incredible. Try harder, man.”

The table laughed. The guy chuckled awkwardly and left after a few more words.

But you noticed how Beomgyu’s hand had tightened around his cup. How his usual playful teasing carried a new, protective edge. How his eyes followed the guy until he disappeared into the crowd.

Later, when you were alone walking back to his apartment, you brought it up gently.

“You were a little intense back there.”

Beomgyu shoved his hands in his pockets, kicking a pebble. “What? I was just being honest. He was lame.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Gyu.”

He was quiet for a long moment, the playful mask slipping.

“I didn’t like it,” he admitted, voice low. “I know I have no right to feel possessive after hiding for so long. But seeing him look at you like that… it made me want to post every photo I’ve ever taken of you just to prove—”

He stopped himself, cheeks flushing.

You stopped walking and turned to face him.

“Prove what?”

Beomgyu looked away, jaw tight. For the first time in years, his humor failed him completely.

“That you’re mine,” he said quietly. “Even if I was too scared to say it before.”

The confession was small, almost shy. But it carried the weight of every hidden photo, every unsaid feeling, every time he’d chosen a joke over honesty.

You pulled him into a kiss right there on the sidewalk, rain starting to fall lightly around you. Beomgyu kissed you back like he was drowning, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with trembling care.

That night, the tension snapped again.

You barely made it inside his apartment before he had you pressed against the door, kissing you hard and deep. His usual playful energy was gone — replaced by something desperate and sincere.

“Need you,” he breathed against your mouth, hands already sliding under your shirt. “Been thinking about you all day.”

He carried you to his bed, laying you down with surprising gentleness. Clothes disappeared slowly this time, like he wanted to savor every second. Beomgyu kissed down your body with focused reverence, sucking marks into your inner thighs before spreading your legs and burying his face between them.

He ate you out like he was making up for lost time — tongue slow and thorough, two fingers curling deep inside you while he moaned against your clit. When you came on his tongue, he didn’t stop, working you through it until you were shaking.

Then he flipped you over, pulling your hips up and sliding into you from behind in one smooth thrust. The angle was devastating. He fucked you deep and steady, one hand reaching around to rub your clit while the other gripped your hip.

“Mine,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “Been mine for so long. Should’ve told you sooner.”

You switched again, riding him slow and deep while he looked up at you with glassy, adoring eyes. His hands traced every curve like he was memorizing you, thumbs brushing over your nipples, lips parted in quiet awe.

When you both came — you first, clenching around him, then him spilling deep inside you with a broken moan of your name — he held you tightly against his chest, arms wrapped around you like a lifeline.

Afterward, while cleaning you up, he pressed soft kisses to every mark he’d left.

“I’m still scared,” he whispered into the darkness later, curled around you. “But I don’t want to hide anymore. Not with you.”

You kissed his forehead and held him closer.

-----

Beomgyu was still Beomgyu — loud, chaotic, quick with a joke — but the armor had visible dents now. He touched you more freely: a hand on your lower back when walking, fingers brushing yours when passing in the kitchen, forehead kisses when he thought you were focused on something else. The jokes remained, but they felt softer around the edges, like he was slowly learning he didn’t need them as a shield with you.

But old habits were stubborn.

One night, after a long group dinner where he’d spent the entire evening making everyone laugh until their stomachs hurt, you both returned to his apartment. The rain was falling softly outside again, like the universe was giving you another quiet moment.

You were curled up on his bed together, lights dimmed, his head resting on your chest while you played with his hair. The quiet felt safe. Beomgyu’s breathing was steady, but you could feel the tension in his shoulders.

“Gyu,” you said softly, running your fingers through his dark strands. “Why do you do it?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

For a long time, he stayed silent, tracing lazy patterns on your arm.

“Because it’s easier,” he finally whispered. “If I make everything a joke, no one looks too closely. No one asks the scary questions. If I laugh first, I control how the moment ends.”

You waited.

Beomgyu shifted, turning so his chin rested on your sternum, eyes meeting yours in the low light. He looked younger like this. Vulnerable.

“My family… we didn’t do serious well,” he said quietly. “Whenever things got heavy, someone would crack a joke. Change the subject. Pretend everything was fine. It worked. Until it didn’t. People left anyway. Friends. Relationships. They got tired of the clown who never got serious.”

His voice cracked just slightly.

“So I got really good at it. Being funny. Being charming. Being the guy everyone wants around because he makes things light. But then you…” He let out a shaky breath. “You started showing up in my life and suddenly the jokes felt… insufficient. Taking pictures felt safer. Like I could keep pieces of you without having to admit what they meant.”

You cupped his face gently, thumb brushing his cheek.

“You don’t have to be funny with me,” you whispered. “You don’t have to perform.”

Beomgyu’s eyes shimmered. He leaned up and kissed you — slow, deep, full of everything he’d been holding back for years. The kiss quickly grew heated, his hands sliding under your shirt, tugging it off with trembling urgency.

He took his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin he revealed like he was apologizing for every joke he’d used as a wall. When he reached between your legs, he used his mouth and fingers with devastating patience — licking slow stripes up your folds, sucking your clit gently while two fingers curled inside you, stroking that perfect spot until your thighs shook around his head.

“Want to make you feel good,” he murmured against your wetness. “Want to deserve you.”

You came hard on his tongue, crying out his name. Beomgyu didn’t stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, then crawled up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and deep. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in as he rocked into you with long, deliberate thrusts.

“I’m scared,” he admitted against your skin, voice breaking on a moan. “I’m so fucking scared of needing someone this much. But I need you. I’ve needed you for so long.”

You switched positions, riding him slow and intimate while he looked up at you with glassy, adoring eyes. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, but his touch was reverent. Every thrust, every moan, every whispered “I love you” felt like another wall crumbling.

When you both came — you first, clenching around him, then him spilling deep inside you with a broken groan of your name — he held you tightly against his chest, arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go.

After cleaning you up with gentle hands, he pulled you back into his arms and whispered into the darkness:

“I don’t want to hide behind jokes anymore. Not with you. You make me want to be real.”

-----

Time moved gently after Beomgyu finally stopped hiding.

The charming menace didn’t disappear overnight. He still made ridiculous jokes at the worst possible moments, still sent you memes at 3 a.m., still dramatically gasped when you stole his food. But now the jokes felt like seasoning rather than armor. Underneath them was a boy who was learning, day by day, that he didn’t have to be funny to be loved.

The photography account became something beautiful.

He still posted chaotic photos, but more and more often he included your face — clear, unguarded, smiling. The captions grew softer, more sincere:

“found my favorite view again.” “this person makes bad days feel like plot twists.” “been collecting moments like these for two years. finally brave enough to say why.”

His followers lost their minds in the best way. The comment sections filled with heart emojis and people saying they’d never seen someone fall in love so visibly through photos.

Beomgyu read every single one with a shy, pleased little smile.

One year after the confession, on a quiet spring evening, you found him sitting on the floor of his room surrounded by printed photos.

He’d printed hundreds — every important shot from the account, carefully laid out in chronological order across the floor like a timeline of his heart.

When you walked in, he looked up at you with soft, nervous eyes.

“I wanted to show you something,” he said quietly.

You sat down beside him. Beomgyu picked up the very first photo — the blurry one of you laughing at that group dinner years ago. The original caption still read: “i think something started here.”

“I took this the night I realized I was screwed,” he admitted, voice thick. “You laughed at one of my stupid jokes and it wasn’t polite laughter. It was real. And I just… kept taking pictures after that. I told myself it was for the account. But really, I was just trying to keep pieces of you. In case you ever left.”

He picked up another photo — one of you sleeping on his shoulder on the subway, taken secretly.

“I was terrified of needing someone this much,” he continued. “So I turned it into art. Into jokes. Into anything except saying it out loud.”

You reached out and took his hand.

Beomgyu looked at you, eyes shining.

“But I’m not scared anymore,” he whispered. “I love you. Not in a funny way. Not in a chaotic way. Just… completely. And I want to keep taking pictures of us for the rest of my life. No more hiding.”

You kissed him then — slow, deep, full of every feeling you’d both carried for so long.

The kiss quickly grew heated.

Beomgyu pulled you into his lap, hands sliding under your shirt as he kissed you like he was still making up for lost time. Clothes came off with trembling urgency but also reverence. He laid you down gently among the scattered photos, kissing every inch of skin he could reach.

He took his time with his mouth between your legs — licking slow, thorough stripes up your folds, sucking your clit while two fingers curled deep inside you. When you came on his tongue, he moaned like it was his own pleasure, working you through it with soft praises.

Then he moved up your body and slid into you in one smooth thrust, forehead pressed to yours.

“I love you,” he breathed with every deep stroke. “I love you. I love you.”

You switched, riding him slow and intimate while he looked up at you with glassy, adoring eyes. His hands traced your body like he was still memorizing every curve, whispering how beautiful you were, how lucky he was, how he never wanted this to end.

When you both came — you first, clenching around him, then him spilling deep inside you with a broken moan of your name — he held you tightly against his chest, arms wrapped around you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Afterward, he cleaned you up with the gentlest hands, then pulled you back down among the photos. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder as you both looked at the timeline of his love spread across the floor.

“I used to think the archive was an accident,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Now I think it was the bravest thing I’ve ever done. Because it led me to you.”

You turned in his arms and kissed him softly.

“The archive of accidents,” you murmured against his lips.

Beomgyu smiled — small, real, and full of quiet joy.

“Our archive,” he corrected gently. “And I’m never deleting a single photo.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You came back.”

The words were simple, but they carried years.

You hugged him without thinking. He hugged you back immediately, arms wrapping around you like no time had passed at all. He smelled the same — clean laundry and faint cologne and something that felt like home.

When you pulled away, both of you were smiling, but there was a carefulness in the air. Like you were both afraid to acknowledge how much had changed.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was nervous. “You're majoring here?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Music production. You?”

“Same.” His smile widened, but there was something quieter underneath it. “Looks like we’re stuck together again.”

The rest of orientation passed in a blur of small talk and shared memories. You fell back into old rhythms so easily it was almost scary — finishing each other’s sentences, laughing at the same inside jokes, instinctively walking at the same pace.

But every so often, you caught him watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

Like he was memorizing you.

That evening, your mutual friends dragged both of you to a welcome party. Chan stayed close the entire time — not obviously, but always within reach. When someone bumped into you, his hand found the small of your back to steady you. When you mentioned being thirsty, he was already handing you a drink before you could finish the sentence.

It felt exactly like old times.

And somehow that made it hurt more.

Because you had missed years of his life.

Years you could never get back.

When the party wound down, Chan walked you back to your dorm. The campus paths were quiet under the streetlights, leaves crunching under your shoes.

At your door, he lingered.

“It was really good seeing you again,” he said softly. “I missed this. Missed you.”

You smiled, but your chest felt tight. “I missed you too, Chan.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something heavy and unspoken in his eyes. Then he gave you that familiar dimpled smile and ruffled your hair gently — the same way he used to when you were kids.

“Get some rest,” he said. “Text me tomorrow?”

You nodded.

He waited until you were safely inside before walking away.

You closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a shaky breath.

Nothing had changed.

And that was the problem.

Because the boy you had loved since you were seven years old was still carrying something heavy behind that bright smile.

You just didn’t know what it was yet.

-----

The first few weeks after the reunion felt like slipping back into a favorite sweater you thought you’d outgrown — warm, familiar, and a little too tight in places you didn’t remember.

You and Chan fell into old rhythms so effortlessly it was almost frightening.

Mornings started with coffee runs.

Chan would text you at 7:45 a.m. sharp — never earlier, never later — with a simple “outside?” You’d come down to find him leaning against the wall near your dorm building, two cups in hand, wearing an oversized hoodie and that same soft, dimpled smile that used to make your childhood heart race.

“Extra shot, oat milk, light ice,” he’d say, handing you your cup like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Still your order, right?”

It was.

He remembered everything.

The two of you would walk to your first class together, shoulders brushing, trading stories about professors and dorm life like no time had passed. Chan listened like he always had — head tilted, eyes focused, laughing at the right moments. But every so often you’d catch him watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

When you mentioned struggling with a new assignment, he showed up at the library that evening with notes he’d already organized.

“You don’t have to help me every time,” you said, half-teasing, half-serious.

Chan just smiled and slid into the seat beside you. “I want to. Besides, I missed studying with you.”

The words were light, but they carried weight.

Late-night walks became routine.

One evening after a long group project, you texted him at 11 p.m. complaining that your brain wouldn’t shut off. Twenty minutes later he was at your door in sweats and a hoodie, hair messy from sleep.

“Walk with me?” he asked softly.

You did.

The campus was quiet under the streetlights, leaves crunching beneath your shoes. Chan walked slightly slower to match your pace, hands in his pockets, occasionally bumping your shoulder when he wanted your attention. You talked about everything and nothing — old neighborhood stories, new dreams, the way time had changed you both without changing the way you understood each other.

At one point, you teased him about a silly childhood memory.

Chan laughed — that bright, genuine laugh you had missed so much — but then added quietly, “Yeah… I was always the loud one trying to keep up with you.”

There was something in his tone. A small, self-deprecating edge you almost missed.

You glanced at him. “You were never trying to keep up. You were the best part of everything.”

He looked away, smiling, but his shoulders tensed just slightly.

You didn’t push.

Convenience store dinners became sacred.

One rainy night, after you both finished late assignments, Chan showed up at your door with plastic bags full of your favorite late-night snacks.

“Emergency rations,” he declared with a grin. “We’re not studying anymore tonight.”

You ended up sitting on the floor of your dorm eating ramyeon and sharing earphones, playing old playlists you used to listen to together. Chan leaned against your bed, legs stretched out, humming along softly. Every so often he’d steal food from your container, then pretend to be innocent when you glared at him.

It felt exactly like when you were thirteen.

And it hurt.

Years of his laughter, his quiet support, his steady presence, all missed.

One night, as you were both half-asleep on the floor surrounded by empty containers, Chan spoke into the quiet.

“I thought about you a lot after you moved,” he admitted, voice low. “Wondered if you were okay. If you made new friends. If you still liked the same songs.”

You turned your head to look at him. His profile was soft in the dim light, but there was something heavy in his expression.

“I thought about you too,” you whispered. “All the time.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good,” he said softly. “I was scared you’d forget me.”

The words lingered.

You wanted to tell him you could never forget him.

But something in the way he said it made you hold back — like there was more pain behind the sentence than he was letting on.

The cracks were small, but they were there and you noticed them.

Chan would dismiss compliments instantly.

When you told him he looked good with his new hair color, he laughed and said, “It’s just hair. Doesn’t matter.”

When a professor praised his latest project in front of the class, he shrugged it off with, “I got lucky.”

When you told him you were proud of how hard he worked, he looked away and muttered, “I could do better.”

You didn’t understand yet.

But the foundation was forming.

The boy who used to be your entire world was carrying something heavy.

And you were starting to see the weight he tried so hard to hide behind that bright, familiar smile.

Then, the podcast found you by accident.

It was a ordinary Thursday night, the kind where exhaustion sat heavy in your bones and sleep refused to come. You were lying in bed, scrolling through Spotify’s “Discover Weekly” with half-lidded eyes, when a recommendation appeared near the bottom of the list.

People I Used To Know

Private audio archive • 34 episodes • Anonymous

The thumbnail was simple — a faded polaroid of an empty playground at dusk. No face. No name. Just a soft, melancholic image that felt strangely familiar.

You tapped a random episode without thinking.

“Episode 12: The Girl Who Promised She’d Write Back.”

A low, warm voice filled your headphones — gentle, slightly raspy, the kind of voice that made you lean in closer.

Your heart stopped.

You knew that voice.

You would know it anywhere.

You sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders as Chan’s voice continued, soft and honest in the dark.

“I don’t think she meant to leave,” he said quietly. There was no anger in it. Only a gentle, aching nostalgia. “We were kids. Life got bigger. Different schools, different time zones, different friends… I get it. But for a long time, I kept checking my phone anyway. Waiting for a message that never came.”

A small, self-deprecating laugh.

“I told myself it was fine. That friendships fade. That it wasn’t her fault. But sometimes… I still wonder what I did wrong. If I wasn’t interesting enough. If I was too much. If the version of me she knew wasn’t enough to make her stay.”

You pressed pause, breath shaky.

The date on the episode was from three years ago.

You didn’t sleep that night.

You listened to every episode.

Some were short — two or three minutes of Chan talking about old friends, teachers, neighbors who had drifted away. Others were longer, more vulnerable.

He never named anyone.

But you knew.

You knew which stories were about you.

The one about the girl who used to share her headphones with him on the bus. The one about the person who made him feel seen when he felt invisible. The one about the friend who promised they’d always find their way back to each other.

In one episode, recorded late at night, his voice cracked.

“I keep thinking… maybe if I had been better, she wouldn’t have left. Maybe if I had been more fun, or less needy, or less… me, she would have stayed in touch. I know that’s not fair. But it’s what I believed for a long time.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you listened.

You had moved away for your father’s job. You had tried to keep in touch at first. But life had pulled you in different directions — new school, new friends, new pressures. Texts became less frequent. Calls stopped. You had assumed he was fine. That he had moved on like you thought you had.

You never knew he had been carrying this.

By 4 a.m., you had listened to every episode twice.

The final one, uploaded only a month ago, destroyed you.

Title: “Hope”

Chan’s voice was quieter than usual, tired but warm.

“I spent years thinking every goodbye was permanent. That people left because they eventually saw the real me and decided I wasn’t worth staying for. But lately… someone came back. Someone who’s making me believe that maybe not every ending is forever.”

A long pause.

“I’m scared to hope. But I’m hoping anyway.”

The episode ended.

You sat in the dark, phone still glowing in your hands, tears streaming silently down your face.

The boy who used to be your entire world had spent years believing he wasn’t enough.

And you had no idea.

The next morning, you met Chan at your usual coffee spot.

He was already there, two cups in hand, smiling that familiar dimpled smile when he saw you. But you saw it now — the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes searched your face like he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Hey,” he said softly, handing you your drink. “You look tired. Did you sleep okay?”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his.

“Not really,” you admitted. “I found something last night.”

Chan tilted his head, curious but relaxed. “Yeah? What was it?”

You looked at him for a long moment, heart aching with everything you now knew.

“Nothing important,” you lied gently, forcing a small smile. “Just an old playlist.”

He accepted the answer easily, like he always did when someone didn’t want to burden him.

You walked to class together like always.

But inside, something had shifted.

You weren’t just rediscovering your best friend.

You were discovering the boy who had been quietly breaking for years.

And you didn’t know how to fix something he had never asked you to see.

-----

You didn’t tell him you knew.

Not yet.

Instead, you carried the weight of his words like a secret you weren’t sure you had the right to hold. Every episode played on repeat in your mind — late at night when the dorm was quiet, during lectures when your attention wandered, in the shower where the water couldn’t wash away the ache in your chest.

The grief wasn’t loud.

It was quiet. Personal. A deep, aching sorrow for the boy who had smiled through years of believing he wasn’t enough.

The next time you saw Chan, it was a ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

He was waiting outside your lecture hall like always, two coffees in hand, wearing that soft gray hoodie you secretly loved on him. When he spotted you, his whole face lit up with that familiar dimpled smile.

“Hey,” he said, handing you your usual order. “Extra shot, just how you like it. How was class?”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his, and forced a bright smile.

“It was fine,” you lied. “Thanks for this.”

He fell into step beside you, matching your pace without thinking — the same way he used to when you were kids walking home from school. You talked about small things: a funny story from your professor, the new café that opened near campus, how cold the weather was getting.

But you noticed everything now.

The way he brushed off a compliment from a passing classmate with a casual laugh and “It’s nothing.” The way he changed the subject when you tried to ask how he was doing. The way his smile stayed in place even when his eyes looked tired.

Every small moment felt like a new wound.

Because you now knew what those smiles were hiding.

That night, you couldn’t sleep again.

You lay in bed listening to another episode — one from two years ago.

Chan’s voice was softer then, younger, but the pain was the same.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m only good at beginnings,” he said quietly. “I’m really good at making people like me at first. But eventually… they see the real me. The version that gets quiet when things get hard. The version that overthinks everything. And then they leave. Not because they’re mean. Just because I’m not enough to make them stay.”

A long pause.

“I don’t blame them. I get it.”

You pressed pause, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

You grieved for the thirteen-year-old boy who had stayed up all night waiting for your texts after you moved. You grieved for the sixteen-year-old who had convinced himself your fading messages meant he wasn’t worth remembering. You grieved for the young man who had turned every goodbye into proof that he was temporary.

And most of all, you grieved for the fact that you had been part of that proof — without ever knowing it.

The next day, you started noticing more.

During a group study session, someone praised Chan’s latest track. He laughed it off immediately.

“It’s not that good,” he said with an easy smile. “I got lucky with the beat.”

You reached under the table and gently squeezed his knee. He glanced at you, surprised, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand covered yours for a brief second — a silent thank you.

Later, when the group teased him about being “too perfect,” Chan deflected again.

“Trust me, I’m far from it.”

You waited until everyone left, then turned to him.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said softly. “Downplay yourself like that.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes.

“It’s just easier,” he said finally, voice quiet. “If people don’t expect too much, they can’t be disappointed.”

The words broke something inside you.

You wanted to tell him about the podcast. You wanted to tell him you knew. You wanted to hold him and promise that you saw him — all of him — and you weren’t going anywhere.

But you weren’t ready and neither was he.

Instead, you started loving him more intentionally.

You repeated compliments, casually but sincerely. You showed up at his dorm with his favourite snacks when he mentioned a long day. You walked him home instead of the other way around sometimes. You stayed.

And Chan noticed.

He started looking at you longer. Touching you more — small brushes of his hand against yours, fingers lingering when he passed you something. His smiles became softer when they were directed at you.

But the fear was still there.

One night, after walking you back, he hesitated at your door.

“You know you can tell me if it’s too much, right?” he asked quietly. “If I’m around too often. If I’m… too much.”

You stepped forward and hugged him tightly.

“You’re not too much,” you whispered against his chest. “You never were.”

He held you for a long time, arms wrapped around you like he was afraid to let go.

But you both knew the real conversation was coming.

The one where you would have to tell him you knew about the recordings and the one where he would have to let you see the parts he had spent years trying to hide.

-----

You continued to show him your love.

And Chan, slowly but surely, started letting you in.

One particularly cold night in late November, you found him in the music building practice room long after everyone else had gone home. The lights were dim, only the soft glow of his laptop screen illuminating his face. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, headphones around his neck, staring at nothing.

He looked exhausted.

You didn’t knock. You simply walked in, closed the door behind you, and sat down beside him on the cold floor.

Chan didn’t say anything at first. He just shifted closer until his shoulder pressed against yours, seeking warmth without asking for it.

“Bad day?” you asked gently.

He let out a small, tired laugh. “Just one of those days where I feel like I’m not doing enough. For anyone.”

You turned to face him, heart aching at the familiar self-doubt in his voice. You reached out and gently took his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

“You’re enough, Chan,” you said softly. “You’ve always been enough.”

He looked at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours like he was waiting for the catch. When he didn’t find one, something in him cracked open.

He kissed you — slow, hesitant, full of years of unspoken longing. You kissed him back just as tenderly, cupping his face, thumbs brushing away the tension in his jaw. The kiss deepened gradually, turning emotional and needy. Chan’s hands slid under your sweater, tracing your skin like he was memorizing you.

“Can I…?” he whispered against your lips, voice trembling. “I need to feel close to you tonight. Please.”

You nodded, pulling him closer.

He laid you down gently on the practice room floor, spreading his hoodie beneath you like a blanket. Clothes came off slowly, reverently. Chan worshipped every inch of you with his mouth and hands — kissing down your neck, across your chest, between your thighs until you were arching and whispering his name.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was deep and slow, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked the entire time. He moved with tender, rolling thrusts, breathing your name like a prayer.

“You feel like home,” he gasped, voice breaking. “You’ve always felt like home.”

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, nails gently dragging down his back. The intimacy was overwhelming — skin against skin, breath mingling, hearts beating in sync. Chan made love to you like he was afraid to rush a single second of having you.

When you came, clenching around him with a soft cry, he followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a quiet, broken moan. He stayed inside you afterward, arms wrapped tightly around your body, face pressed into your neck as quiet tears slipped down his cheeks.

You held him through it, stroking his hair, whispering that you were here, that you saw him, that you weren’t going anywhere.

He cleaned you gently with his hoodie, brought you water from his bag, then pulled you into his chest and held you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“I don’t know how to do this without feeling like I have to earn it,” he whispered into the dark.

You kissed his collarbone, fingers tracing soothing patterns on his skin.

“You don’t have to earn me,” you murmured. “You already have me.”

Chan held you tighter, legs tangling with yours, breathing you in like he was still afraid you might disappear.

For the first time in years, Bang Chan let himself be loved without trying to be perfect first.

And you stayed.

The closeness that followed was both healing and terrifying.

You and Chan existed in a delicate new rhythm — late-night study sessions that turned into quiet cuddles, shared meals where his hand would find yours under the table, mornings where he’d show up with coffee and a shy smile that made your heart ache with how much you had missed this version of him.

But the more you saw him, the more you noticed the cracks he tried so hard to hide.

Minjae’s return complicated everything.

Your other childhood best friend had always been loud, confident, and competitive — especially when it came to you. When he heard through mutual friends that you and Chan had reconnected so deeply, he treated it like a challenge rather than a reunion.

He started showing up more intentionally.

One afternoon in the campus café, Minjae slid into the seat across from you while you were waiting for Chan.

“Long time no see, stranger,” he said with that familiar cocky grin. “Heard you and Chan are basically attached at the hip again. Didn’t know you two were still that close.”

You smiled politely. “We’re figuring things out. It’s nice having him back in my life.”

Minjae leaned forward, eyes sparkling with that competitive edge you remembered from childhood games. “You know I’m always here too, right? We have history too. Real history. If Chan gets too busy with his producing stuff, I can take you out. Like old times.”

Before you could respond, Chan appeared at the table, two drinks in hand. His expression remained calm, but you saw the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders stiffened.

He set your drink down gently in front of you, then sat beside you — close enough that his thigh pressed against yours under the table.

“Hey,” Chan said softly to you, completely ignoring Minjae at first. His hand found yours under the table, fingers intertwining possessively. “Missed you.”

Minjae’s smile sharpened. “Chan. Good to see you, man. We were just talking about how close you two have gotten again. Almost like no time passed, huh?”

Chan’s thumb brushed over your knuckles — steady, but you felt the tension in his grip.

“Yeah,” Chan replied quietly, voice even. “Some things don’t change.”

The air grew thick.

Minjae leaned back, crossing his arms. “Funny how that works. I was her emergency contact plan back in the day. Guess I got replaced pretty easily.”

Chan’s fingers tightened around yours. Not painfully — protectively.

“She chose who she wanted,” Chan said, still calm, but there was steel underneath. “And she’s happy with that choice.”

You squeezed his hand back, trying to ground him.

Minjae eventually left with a forced laugh and a “Catch you later,” but the damage was done. Chan was quiet the rest of the afternoon, thumb still tracing patterns on your hand but his mind clearly elsewhere.

That night, when he walked you home, he lingered at your door longer than usual.

“You know you can tell me if this isn't what you want, right?” he asked suddenly, voice low. “If Minjae is… easier. If I’m getting in the way of your old friendships.”

You turned to him, heart breaking at the quiet fear in his eyes.

“Chan,” you said gently, stepping closer. “You’re not in the way. You’re exactly where I want you.”

He searched your face for a long moment, then pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair.

“I just keep waiting for the day you realize you don’t need me anymore,” he whispered. “Like everyone else eventually does.”

You held him tighter, feeling the weight of every recording you had listened to — every quiet confession of self-doubt he had never voiced out loud to you.

“I’m not everyone else,” you murmured against his chest. “I’m staying this time. I promise.”

He kissed you then — desperate and emotional, hands framing your face like he was afraid you might slip away. The kiss quickly turned heated. You pulled him inside your dorm, clothes shedding in a trail toward your bed.

Chan made love to you with quiet intensity that night — deep, slow thrusts, eyes locked on yours, whispering “stay with me” and “I need you” between every moan. He switched halfway through, letting you take control, his hands gripping your hips as you rode him, both of you chasing comfort and connection in the most intimate way possible.

When you both came undone, he held you through the aftershocks, staying buried inside you, arms wrapped around you like a lifeline.

The tension with Minjae wasn’t over.

But for now, Chan let himself believe you would choose him.

Even if part of him still waited for the day you wouldn’t.

-----

The confrontation didn’t come from a single dramatic fight.

It came from the slow accumulation of small moments — Minjae’s competitive comments, Chan’s quiet deflections, and the growing weight of everything you now knew from the recordings.

It finally broke on a rainy Thursday night.

You had been studying together in Chan’s dorm when Minjae texted you about a group project deadline. Chan saw the notification light up your phone. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing at first.

Then, when you casually mentioned meeting Minjae the next day to finish the work, Chan’s mask slipped.

“You don’t have to go,” he said quietly, staring at his laptop screen. “I can help you with it instead.”

You turned to him, heart sinking at the tension in his shoulders.

“Chan… Minjae and I have been working on this together for weeks. It’s just a project.”

He let out a small, bitter laugh — the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Right. Just a project. Like everything else.”

The words hung heavy.

You set your notes down. “What is this really about?”

Chan was silent for a long moment. Then he closed his laptop, ran a hand through his hair, and finally looked at you. His eyes were tired. Defeated. Full of years of pain he had never let anyone see.

“I hate myself,” he said suddenly, voice raw and quiet. “Not just sometimes. All the time. I look in the mirror and I see someone who’s never enough. Someone who tries too hard and still disappoints everyone eventually.”

Your breath caught.

He continued before you could speak, the words pouring out like they had been waiting for years.

“When you moved away in high school… it broke something in me. I told myself it was fine. That life happens. That friendships fade. But deep down, I believed it was my fault. That if I had been more fun, more interesting, less… me, you would have stayed in touch. You were the one person who made me feel like I wasn’t just the loud kid trying to be liked. And then you left. And it felt like proof.”

He swallowed hard, eyes glistening.

“After that, it just kept happening. Friends drifted. Teammates left the group. Relationships ended. Every time someone walked away, I didn’t get angry. I just thought, ‘That’s fair.’ Because who would want to stay with someone like me long-term? Someone who overthinks everything. Someone who smiles so people don’t see how exhausted he is. Someone who believes he has to earn every single person in his life.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them away.

"And the podcast?" You finally asked.

He laughed, not a happy laugh though, more like a half-hearted, pain-filled one. “I figured you knew," he paused then sighed. "I recorded those episodes because I needed somewhere to put it all. Somewhere no one would hear how much I hated myself. How much I still hate myself. And when you came back… I was so happy. But part of me kept waiting for you to realize the same thing everyone else does. That I’m not worth staying for.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You moved closer, kneeling in front of him, gently cupping his face with both hands. Your own tears fell freely now.

“Chan,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You are worth staying for. You always have been. I didn’t leave because of you. I left because life pulled me away. And I’m so sorry I made you feel like it was your fault. I’m so sorry you carried that alone for years.”

He let out a shaky sob and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. You held him tightly as he cried — deep, cathartic tears that felt like years of pain finally being released.

“I love you,” you whispered against his hair. “Not the version you think people want. The real you. The one who overthinks. The one who smiles when he’s tired. The one who carried all of this alone because he thought he had to. I love all of him.”

Chan held you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

When the tears finally slowed, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red but clearer than they had been in years.

“I don’t know how to stop believing I’m temporary,” he whispered. “But I want to try. With you.”

You kissed him then — slow, deep, and full of promise.

That night, the intimacy was different.

It wasn’t just desire. It was healing.

Clothes were shed slowly, reverently. Chan worshipped every part of you with his mouth and hands — kissing down your neck, across your chest, between your thighs until you were trembling and moaning his name. He took his time, like he was trying to memorize you, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was deep and slow, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked the entire time. He moved with tender, emotional thrusts, whispering “I love you” and “thank you for staying” between every gasp.

You switched halfway through, pushing him onto his back and sinking down onto him. Chan’s head fell back with a broken moan, hands gripping your hips as you rode him slow and deep, eyes never leaving his.

“I love you,” you told him, grinding down deliberately. “All of you. The parts you hate. The parts you hide. The parts you think no one could love. I love them the most.”

That undid him.

Chan sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms tightly around you as he thrust up into you, burying his face in your neck. The new angle made both of you moan loudly. He moved with you, desperate and emotional, tears slipping down his cheeks as pleasure and years of pain mixed together.

“I don’t deserve you,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “But I’m trying so hard to believe I do.”

You came together — clinging, trembling, crying each other’s names. Chan spilled deep inside you with a choked sob, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

And for the first time in years, Bang Chan fell asleep believing someone might stay — not because he earned it, but because he was loved exactly as he was.

-----

The morning after Chan’s breakdown felt like the first real breath either of you had taken in years.

Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains of his dorm room. You woke up tangled in his arms, his face buried in your neck, one leg thrown over yours like he was still afraid you might slip away in the night. When you stirred, Chan tightened his hold for a second before relaxing, pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to your collarbone.

“Good morning,” he whispered, voice hoarse from crying and everything that had passed between you.

You turned in his arms and kissed him properly — slow, deep, and full of quiet promise. Chan melted into it immediately, hands sliding up your back, holding you like you were the most precious thing he had ever been allowed to keep.

When you finally pulled back, he looked at you with soft, wondering eyes.

“I want to do this right,” he said quietly. “I want to be your boyfriend. Not just someone you’re figuring things out with. I want to call you mine and mean it. I want to wake up next to you and know I don’t have to earn it.”

Your heart swelled.

You brushed your thumb across his cheek, tracing the faint traces of dried tears.

“I want that too,” you whispered. “I want to be your girlfriend, Chan. I want to stay.”

His breath hitched. Then he was kissing you again — deeper this time, full of relief and joy and years of waiting.

From that moment on, you were official.

Dating Chan was everything you had missed and more.

He was proudly, unapologetically yours.

He held your hand in public without hesitation, pulling you close when people walked by. He kissed your temple when you passed each other between classes. He reintroduced you to his friends as “my girlfriend” with the brightest, most genuine smile you had ever seen on him.

The small gestures continued, but now they felt like love instead of atonement.

He still brought you coffee exactly how you liked it. He still remembered your favorite snacks and left them in your bag when you weren’t looking. But now he also stole kisses in the library stacks, walked you to every class even when it made him late for his own, and sent you good morning voice notes that made your heart flutter.

One weekend, he took you to the beach — the same one you used to talk about going to together as kids. You spent the day building terrible sandcastles, running from the waves, and taking blurry photos on his phone. That night, wrapped in a blanket on the sand, he kissed you under the stars and whispered, “I used to dream about this. About getting to love you out loud.”

You cried.

He held you through it.

The final podcast episode came a month later.

You were sitting beside him on his bed when he uploaded it. The title was simple:

“Epilogue: The Ones Who Came Back”

He held your hand and let you listen together, earphones shared like you used to do as kids.

Chan’s voice filled the quiet room — softer than usual, but full of quiet strength.

“I spent years thinking every goodbye was permanent. I turned every faded friendship into proof that I was temporary. That I was only lovable when I was useful. When I was smiling. When I was easy.”

A long pause.

“Then someone came back. Someone who knew me when I was awkward and loud and trying too hard. Someone who saw the parts I tried hardest to hide… and stayed anyway. Not because I earned it. Not because I was perfect. Just because she chose me. Exactly as I am.”

His voice cracked slightly, but he continued.

“So this is my last episode. Not because I’m fixed. But because I’m trying. Because I’m learning that love isn’t something you have to earn by disappearing when things get hard. And because I finally believe that some people do come home.”

The episode ended with a small, hopeful laugh.

“I spent years thinking every goodbye was permanent. Turns out sometimes people come back. And sometimes… they stay.”

You turned to him, tears streaming down your face.

Chan was already looking at you, eyes shining with emotion.

He gently wiped your tears with his thumbs.

“I don’t need the list anymore,” he whispered. “I just need you.”

You kissed him — slow, deep, and full of everything you had both survived to reach this moment.

Months later, you were sitting on the same beach where he had first told you he loved you out loud.

Chan was leaning against you, head on your shoulder, watching the waves. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles — a habit he had developed since you started dating, like he still needed the constant reminder that you were real.

You glanced over at him.

He looked peaceful. Not perfect. Not fixed. But peaceful.

He caught you staring and smiled — that bright, dimpled smile you had fallen in love with as a child and never stopped loving.

“What?” he asked, tilting his head.

You leaned in and kissed him softly.

“Nothing,” you whispered against his lips. “Just thinking about how lucky I am that you came back to me too.”

Chan’s eyes softened. He pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I never really left,” he said quietly. “I was just waiting for you to find me again.”

You stayed like that until the sun set — two childhood best friends who had lost each other, found each other, and finally chosen to stay.

The list was gone.

But the love?

After his performance (which he somehow nailed despite the distraction), instead of heading to the VIP section where managers and sponsors were waiting, he found himself walking straight toward you.

You were wiping paint from your hands when he approached.

“Hi,” he said, voice softer than usual, that famous bunny smile appearing without effort. “You made this whole stage look incredible. The lighting, the colors… it’s perfect.”

You looked up, slightly startled but offering a warm, friendly smile. “Thank you. You sounded amazing up there. The crowd loved it.”

Jungkook’s heart did something stupid in his chest.

He wasn’t used to feeling nervous. He was used to being the center of attention, the one everyone wanted to talk to. But standing in front of you, watching the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about the backdrop design, he felt strangely… small.

“I’m Jungkook,” he said, even though he knew you probably already knew.

You told him your name. He repeated it softly, like he was tasting it, committing it to memory.

The conversation flowed easily after that. You talked about art and music, about how you loved capturing moments and he loved creating them. He asked questions — real ones — about your process, your favorite mediums, what inspired you. For once, he wasn’t performing. He was just… listening.

When the event started winding down, Jungkook lingered.

“Can I walk you out?” he asked, almost shyly. “It’s late.”

You agreed.

The walk to the parking lot was filled with easy conversation, but Jungkook’s mind was already racing. He wanted to know more. He wanted to know everything. By the time you reached your car, he had already decided.

He needed you in his life.

The next morning, your phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Unknown number

hi it’s jungkook from last night :) your backdrop was really beautiful also you have really nice energy would you want to get coffee sometime?

You smiled at your screen.

You had no idea you’d just become the center of Jeon Jungkook’s universe.

He didn’t wait for you to reply to his text.

He waited exactly four hours, then sent another.

jungkook

no pressure at all btw i just thought it would be nice to talk more about art and music you seem really cool :)

You replied that evening with a simple:

sure, coffee sounds good :]

Jungkook stared at the message for a full minute, heart racing like he’d just finished a sprint. Then he smiled so wide his cheeks hurt.

From that moment on, you became part of his daily routine.

The first coffee “date” (he called it a date in his head immediately) happened three days later at a quiet café near campus. Jungkook arrived fifteen minutes early, nervously fixing his hair in the reflection of his phone screen. When you walked in, he stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his chair.

“You came,” he said, beaming that golden smile. “I brought you this.”

He slid a small sketchbook across the table — simple, high-quality paper, with a tiny golden sticker on the cover.

“I noticed you were sketching during the gala,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought you might like it.”

You were touched. Most people saw his fame and charm. Very few saw the thoughtful boy underneath.

The conversation flowed effortlessly. Jungkook asked real questions — about your favorite artists, what inspired your work, how you balanced school and creativity. He listened like every word mattered. When you mentioned a song you loved, he immediately added it to a playlist and sent it to you on the spot.

By the end of the meet-up, he was already planning the next one.

From then on, Jungkook became a constant presence in your life.

He showed up at your art building after practice, sweaty and glowing, asking if you wanted company while you worked. He’d sit quietly in the corner, watching you paint with soft, fascinated eyes, occasionally asking questions in that gentle voice.

“You make colors feel like feelings,” he said one afternoon, chin resting on his arms as he watched you. “It’s really beautiful.”

He started carrying your portfolio without asking. Texting you good morning messages with little motivational quotes. Showing up at your favorite café with your usual order when you had long studio days.

At first, it felt sweet.

Then it became… a lot.

One night at 2 a.m., your phone buzzed.

jungkook

are you still awake?

i’m outside your dorm with snacks

you said you were stressed about your deadline so i brought your favorites

You opened the door to find him standing there in a black hoodie, holding a bag of snacks and looking adorably hopeful.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said, laughing softly.

“I wanted to,” he replied, stepping inside like he belonged there. “You work too hard. Someone has to make sure you eat.”

He stayed for three hours, sitting on your floor while you worked, occasionally handing you snacks and humming songs under his breath. When you finally told him to go home, he pouted but obeyed.

The next morning, another text was waiting:

jungkook

did you sleep okay?

i’m free after practice if you need help with anything :)

His friends started noticing.

“He’s down bad,” Jimin teased during one of their group practices. “He canceled plans twice this week because she had a deadline.”

Jungkook just shrugged, smiling shyly. “She’s important.”

But underneath the golden-boy charm, something deeper was brewing.

Jungkook was terrified of not being enough.

Every text he sent, every snack he brought, every time he showed up — it wasn’t just affection. It was fear. The fear that if he wasn’t perfect, if he wasn’t always there, if he wasn’t the best version of himself… you might lose interest.

He didn’t know how to love lightly.

With you, he only knew how to love with his whole heart.

And that intensity was only going to grow.

-----

Within two weeks, Jungkook had seamlessly inserted himself into every corner of your life.

It wasn’t aggressive. It was gentle, persistent, and disarmingly sweet — like sunlight slowly filling a room until you forgot what shade felt like.

He started showing up at your art building after his morning track practice, still slightly sweaty, hair damp, wearing oversized hoodies that made him look softer than his athletic build suggested. He’d knock lightly on the studio door, holding two coffees and a shy smile.

“Thought you might need fuel,” he’d say, offering your usual order. “You mentioned you get tired around 10 a.m. when you’re deep in a piece.”

You never told him your exact schedule. He just… noticed.

He’d sit in the corner of the studio for hours, legs stretched out, quietly watching you paint while playing soft music from his phone. Sometimes he’d hum along, voice low and melodic, the same voice that sold out arenas and stages. Other times he’d simply watch, eyes soft and focused, like your brushstrokes were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re really talented,” he said one afternoon, chin resting on his arms as he observed you mixing colors. “The way you blend everything… it feels alive. Like the painting is breathing.”

His compliments never felt generic. They were specific. Thoughtful. Like he spent time truly seeing you.

Gym dates became a new routine.

Jungkook invited you to his private training sessions at the university athletic center, claiming it was “just to keep me company.” The first time you went, he was already on the treadmill, earbuds in, running with focused intensity. When he saw you, his entire face lit up.

“You came!” he said, slowing the machine and stepping off, sweat glistening on his skin. He looked unfairly attractive — black tank top clinging to his toned body, tattoos peeking out, that golden smile breaking through the exertion.

He spent the next hour “teaching” you light workouts, but mostly he just hovered close, correcting your form with gentle hands on your waist or shoulders.

“Like this,” he murmured, standing behind you, chest brushing your back as he adjusted your posture. His breath was warm against your ear. “You’re doing great, baby.”

The nickname slipped out naturally. He didn’t take it back.

After the session, he insisted on carrying your bag and walking you back to your dorm, even though his own schedule was packed.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you told him one evening as he held the door open for you.

Jungkook just smiled, bright and sincere. “I told you already, I want to. Being around you makes everything feel better.”

But underneath the golden-boy charm, small cracks were starting to show.

You noticed how he pushed himself harder during workouts when he thought you weren’t looking. How he’d skip meals but bring you snacks without fail. How his smile would falter for half a second when someone praised his performance, like the compliment carried an invisible weight.

One night after a particularly intense gym session, he drove you home in his car. His hand rested on your thigh the entire drive — not sexual, just… needing contact. When you reached your dorm, he didn’t let go immediately.

“Can I stay for a bit?” he asked quietly. “I don’t want to go home yet.”

You let him in.

He ended up curled up on your couch, head in your lap, eyes closed as you played with his hair. For once, the golden boy looked exhausted.

“You take care of everyone,” you whispered, fingers gently massaging his scalp. “Who takes care of you?”

Jungkook went very still.

Then he turned his face into your stomach, hiding.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “As long as you’re okay… I’m fine.”

But his arms tightened around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.

The obsession deepened with every passing day.

He started texting you good morning and good night without fail. Sent you playlists titled things like “songs that remind me of your laugh” and “for when you’re painting at 2 a.m.” He showed up at your favorite café with your usual order before you even mentioned you were going there.

His friends teased him relentlessly.

“He’s whipped,” V laughed during one group dinner. “Never seen him this gone for someone.”

Jungkook just shrugged, pulling you closer on the couch. “She’s really important.”

But late at night, when he thought you were asleep during one of his unannounced visits, you’d hear him whisper against your shoulder:

“Don’t get tired of me, okay?”

The golden boy who had the world at his feet was quietly terrified of not being enough for the one person who made him feel seen.

And you were starting to realize just how deeply he had fallen.

-----

The first real crack in Jungkook’s golden facade appeared on a rainy Friday night.

You were in your art studio late, working on a major piece for your final portfolio. The deadline was looming, and stress had turned your usually steady hands shaky. You hadn’t eaten properly all day. Your phone had died hours ago.

At 1:23 a.m., there was a soft knock on the studio door.

You opened it to find Jungkook standing there, soaked from the rain, holding a bag of your favorite late-night snacks and two hot drinks. His hair was damp, hoodie clinging to his broad shoulders, but his eyes lit up the moment he saw you.

“I was worried,” he said simply. “You didn’t reply to my texts. I brought reinforcements.”

You let him in without hesitation.

He set everything down and immediately started fussing — draping his dry hoodie over your shoulders, making sure you ate something, even adjusting the lighting so it was better for your eyes. For once, he didn’t fill the silence with bright chatter. He just sat on the floor beside your stool, watching you paint with quiet intensity.

“You’re carrying too much,” he murmured after a while, voice low. “I can see it in your shoulders.”

You turned to look at him. The usual golden-boy smile was gone. In its place was something raw and exhausted.

“Jungkook…”

He looked away, jaw tight. “I know what it feels like. To push yourself until you break but still smile for everyone.”

The confession slipped out so quietly you almost missed it.

You set your brush down and knelt in front of him. Jungkook’s breath hitched when you cupped his face.

“You don’t have to push yourself all the time,” you whispered. “Not with me.”

Something in him shattered.

He pulled you into his lap and kissed you like he was drowning — desperate, emotional, months of restrained longing finally breaking free. His hands trembled as they slid under your shirt, gripping your waist like you were the only steady thing in his world.

“Can I… please?” he breathed against your lips, voice wrecked. “I need you. I need to feel close to you right now.”

You nodded.

The studio was quiet except for the rain against the windows and the soft sounds you both made. Jungkook was needy and intense, kissing you like he was afraid you’d vanish. He laid you down on the old couch in the corner, hands worshipping every inch of you as he undressed you slowly.

When he finally pushed inside you, both of you moaned brokenly.

“Fuck… you feel like home,” he gasped, forehead pressed to yours as he thrust deep and slow. “I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted you.”

It was emotional from the start. Jungkook moved like he was pouring every unspoken fear and affection into each roll of his hips. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he whispered praises and confessions between kisses.

“I love you,” he choked out, voice cracking. “I love you so much it scares me. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

You held him through it, legs wrapped around his waist, kissing away his tears as you moved together. When you came, clenching around him, Jungkook followed right after with a broken sob of your name, burying himself deep and holding you like you were his lifeline.

Afterward, he didn’t pull out immediately. He stayed inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body, face buried in your neck as quiet tears continued to fall.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know I’m too much. I get scared and I cling and I—”

You silenced him with a gentle kiss.

“You’re not too much,” you murmured. “You’re exactly what I want.”

Jungkook let out a shaky, relieved breath and held you even tighter.

That night marked the first time he let you see the fear behind the golden smile.

And you loved him even more for it.

-----

The jealousy started subtly, like a small spark that refused to die.

Jungkook had always been affectionate, but after that night in the studio, his need for closeness became almost constant. He texted you good morning before practice, good night after late studio sessions, and everything in between. He showed up at your art building with snacks, carried your portfolio without being asked, and found excuses to touch you — a hand on your lower back, fingers brushing yours, forehead kisses that lingered longer each time.

You didn’t mind.

But the world around you did.

It happened during a big campus music festival where Jungkook was performing as one of the headliners.

You were backstage with him, helping adjust his in-ear monitors while he paced nervously. Even though he was a global star, the pressure still got to him. You calmed him down with quiet words and gentle touches until he was smiling again — that bright, bunny-toothed smile reserved mostly for you now.

Right before he went on stage, a rising female idol from another agency approached him. She was beautiful, confident, and clearly interested. She laughed at his jokes a little too loudly, touched his arm, and complimented his performance in a way that felt flirtatious.

Jungkook smiled politely, but his eyes kept darting back to you.

When the girl leaned in to whisper something in his ear, Jungkook visibly stiffened. He stepped back gently but firmly, excusing himself to come straight to you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, burying his face in your neck right there in front of everyone.

“Don’t like it when they touch me,” he mumbled against your skin, voice low and slightly pouty. “Only want you to touch me.”

You turned in his arms, amused but touched. “Uncomfortable, golden boy?”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he pressed a quick, possessive kiss to your lips — not caring who was watching — before heading onstage with renewed energy.

But the jealousy didn’t stay backstage.

A few days later, you were at the university gym with Jungkook. He was spotting you during lifts when one of his teammates — a tall, charismatic basketball player named Minjun — walked over and started chatting with you.

“You’re really dedicated,” Minjun said, smiling. “Most people don’t come to the gym just to support their friends.”

You laughed lightly. “He’s more than a friend.”

Minjun raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Lucky guy.”

Jungkook’s hand tightened on the barbell. He finished the set in silence, then immediately pulled you closer, arm wrapping possessively around your shoulders.

“She’s taken,” he said, voice calm but edged. His fingers traced small circles on your arm — a subtle claim. “Very taken.”

Minjun chuckled awkwardly and left.

The second he was gone, Jungkook turned to you, eyes dark.

“I don’t like when they look at you like that,” he admitted, voice low. “Like they could have you if they tried.”

You cupped his face. “They can’t. I’m yours.”

His breath hitched. He pulled you into a deep kiss right there in the middle of the gym, not caring about the stares. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I know I’m being annoying,” he whispered. “But I can’t help it. You’re the best thing in my life. I get scared someone better will come along and you’ll realize I’m… too much.”

The vulnerability in his voice broke your heart.

That night, the intensity spilled over.

Jungkook showed up at your dorm unannounced, eyes stormy. The second you let him in, he backed you against the wall and kissed you like he was drowning.

“I need you,” he breathed, hands already sliding under your shirt. “Can I have you? Please?”

You nodded.

He didn’t hold back.

He took you against the wall first — hard and possessive, one hand gripping your thigh, the other tangled in your hair as he thrust deep. “Mine,” he growled against your neck, sucking dark marks into your skin. “Only mine.”

You switched later, pushing him onto the bed and riding him slow and deep while he looked up at you with glassy, desperate eyes.

“I love you,” he gasped, hands gripping your hips. “I love you so fucking much. Don’t leave me. Please don’t ever leave me.”

You came together, clinging to each other, his arms wrapped so tightly around you it almost hurt.

Afterward, Jungkook held you close, face buried in your neck, breathing you in like you were oxygen.

“I’m sorry I get like this,” he whispered. “I just… I’ve never had someone who feels like home before. I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”

You stroked his hair gently.

“You won’t,” you promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He fell asleep like that — wrapped around you, still inside you, like even in dreams he was afraid to let go.

-----

The conversation that changed everything happened on a quiet Wednesday night, long after the city had gone to sleep.

Jungkook had shown up at your dorm unannounced again, eyes tired but smile bright. He claimed he just wanted to see you, but you could tell something was weighing on him. After an hour of him fidgeting and avoiding real conversation, you gently pulled him to your bed and made him lie down with his head in your lap.

“Talk to me,” you said softly, fingers carding through his hair. “No performing. Just you.”

Jungkook was quiet for a long time. Then his voice came out small, almost childlike.

“I’m scared all the time,” he whispered.

You kept stroking his hair, patient and steady.

“I’m scared that if I’m not perfect — if I miss a note, if I lose a race, if I’m not the best version of myself every single day — people will stop loving me. My coaches, my fans, my company… everyone expects me to be golden. Untouchable. And I try so hard to be that person.”

His fingers traced anxious patterns on your thigh.

“But it’s exhausting,” he continued, voice cracking. “I skip meals because I’m scared of gaining even a little weight and people noticing. I push myself until I can’t breathe because resting feels like failing. I smile even when I want to cry because if I show weakness, someone might leave.”

He turned his face into your stomach, hiding.

“I don’t know how to be loved when I’m not performing,” he admitted, voice muffled and raw. “I’ve spent so long making sure everyone around me feels cared for… but I don’t know how to let anyone care for me. It feels like I have to earn it. Every single time.”

Tears soaked through your shirt.

You held him tighter, heart breaking for the boy the world saw as perfect.

“You don’t have to earn love from me,” you whispered. “You already have it. All of it. The tired parts. The anxious parts. The imperfect parts. I love every version of you, Jungkook.”

He cried harder then — quiet, shaking sobs that he’d probably been holding in for years. You held him through every wave, stroking his back, kissing his hair, whispering that he was safe.

When the tears finally slowed, Jungkook looked up at you with red, swollen eyes.

“I love you,” he said, voice hoarse but certain. “Not the performer version. The real me. The one who gets scared and overthinks and needs you too much. I love you with all the messy parts I usually hide.”

You leaned down and kissed him softly.

“I love that version too,” you murmured against his lips. “I love all of you.”

The kiss deepened slowly, turning from comfort into something more urgent. Jungkook pulled you down onto the bed, hands trembling as they roamed your body. This time, the intimacy was raw and healing.

He undressed you with reverence, kissing every inch of skin like he was trying to memorize you. When he pushed inside you, he stayed still for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in.

“I need you,” he whispered. “I need this. I need to feel like I’m enough.”

You moved together slowly at first, deep and emotional. Jungkook’s thrusts were laced with every fear and every love he’d been carrying. He switched positions, pulling you on top so he could look up at you while you rode him.

“You’re my safe place,” he gasped, hands gripping your hips. “The only place I don’t have to be perfect.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks again as pleasure built. You kissed them away, moving faster, taking him deeper until both of you shattered together — clinging, moaning, whispering “I love you” like a promise.

Afterward, Jungkook held you close, refusing to let go even as he cleaned you up. He curled around you in bed, face buried in your neck, legs tangled with yours.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he whispered into the dark. “The real me.”

You kissed his temple. “I’ll always see you.”

He held you tighter, enjoying the moment.

Little did he know the breaking point would come after one of the biggest performances of Jungkook’s career.

It was a major charity concert streamed live to millions. Jungkook was the headliner — expected to deliver his usual flawless mix of powerful vocals, sharp choreography, and that golden-boy charm that made the world adore him.

He practiced for weeks.

He barely slept.

He barely ate.

And on the night of the show, something went wrong.

A small misstep during a particularly intense choreography section. Nothing catastrophic to the audience, but enough for him to feel it. Enough for the coaches backstage to notice. Enough for the internet to clip and dissect within minutes.

The comments flooded in instantly:

“He looked tired.” “His timing was off.” “Is the golden boy slipping?” “Maybe he’s not as perfect as we thought.”

Jungkook smiled through the rest of the show. He bowed, thanked everyone, posed for photos, and laughed with his team like nothing was wrong.

But the moment he stepped off stage, the mask shattered.

You found him hours later in the empty practice room of the university athletic center.

The lights were dim. Jungkook was sitting on the floor in the corner, knees drawn to his chest, head buried in his arms. His breathing was uneven. The golden boy who lit up every room was nowhere to be found.

You approached slowly and knelt in front of him.

“Jungkook…”

He flinched at your voice but didn’t look up.

“I messed up,” he whispered, voice hoarse and broken. “I practiced so hard. I wanted to be perfect for them. For everyone. And I still wasn’t good enough.”

His shoulders started shaking.

“I hate this,” he continued, words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them anymore. “I hate that I can never just be good. I have to be the best. The fastest. The strongest. The one who never makes mistakes. Because if I slip even once… people leave. They lose interest. They realize I’m not worth it.”

He lifted his head. His eyes were red, swollen, and filled with a pain so deep it stole your breath.

“I’m so tired,” he choked out. “I’m so fucking tired of performing all the time. Of smiling when I want to cry. Of making sure everyone else feels okay while I’m falling apart inside. I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to be loved when I’m not perfect.”

Tears streamed down his face.

“And the scariest part,” he whispered, voice barely audible, “is that I’m terrified you’ll see all of this… the real me… and leave too.”

You moved forward and pulled him into your arms without hesitation.

Jungkook collapsed against you, sobbing into your shoulder like a dam had finally broken. He clung to you desperately, fingers digging into your back, body shaking with years of suppressed fear and exhaustion.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered, holding him as tightly as you could. “You don’t have to be perfect with me. Ever. I love you when you’re shining. I love you when you’re breaking. I love every version of you, Jungkook.”

He cried harder, the kind of deep, cathartic sobs that come from finally being seen.

You held him through every wave — stroking his hair, rubbing his back, whispering that he was safe, that he was enough, that you weren’t going anywhere.

When the sobs finally quieted into shaky breaths, Jungkook stayed curled in your lap, face hidden against your chest like he was afraid to face the world.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice raw. “I love you so much it scares me. I don’t know how to do this without being terrified every day.”

You kissed the top of his head.

“Then we’ll be scared together,” you said softly. “And I’ll remind you every day that you’re more than enough.”

He looked up at you then, eyes swollen but shining with something new — fragile hope.

“Stay with me?” he asked, small and vulnerable.

“Always.”

That night, you took him back to your dorm.

Jungkook let you take care of him completely — letting you help him shower, feeding him when he admitted he hadn’t eaten properly in days, holding him while he trembled through the aftermath of his breakdown.

The intimacy that followed was slow, emotional, and healing.

He kissed you like you were his salvation, hands trembling as they mapped your body. When he pushed inside you, he stayed still for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in.

“I need you,” he whispered. “I need this. I need to feel like I’m home.”

You moved together gently at first, then deeper, more desperate. Jungkook switched positions multiple times, needing to feel close in every way possible. He cried again as he came, holding you so tightly it almost hurt, whispering “I love you” like a lifeline.

Afterward, he curled into your chest, legs tangled with yours, refusing to let even an inch of space come between you.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he whispered into the dark. “The real me.”

You kissed his temple and held him closer.

“I’ve always seen you, Jungkook. And I’m never looking away.”

He didn’t disappear.

For once, he let you see the parts he usually hid from the world — the anxiety that kept him up at night, the way he counted calories in his head even when he tried not to, the fear that if he wasn’t shining, he would be forgotten. He still smiled for cameras and fans, but with you, he was learning how to rest.

You became his safe place.

One evening, after a long day of rehearsals, Jungkook showed up at your dorm looking drained but determined. He didn’t say much at first. He simply walked over, wrapped his arms around your waist from behind while you were painting, and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I ate today,” he whispered, almost like a confession. “A full meal. Because you asked me to.”

You turned in his arms and kissed him softly. “I’m proud of you.”

His eyes watered. He pulled you closer, kissing you deeper, hands sliding under your shirt with a new kind of urgency — not just desire, but need. The need to feel grounded. The need to feel loved exactly as he was.

“Can I have you?” he asked, voice hoarse and vulnerable. “Please… I need to feel close to you tonight.”

You nodded.

The intimacy that followed was slow, deep, and profoundly healing.

Jungkook undressed you with trembling reverence, kissing every inch of skin like he was trying to memorize salvation. When he pushed inside you, he stayed still for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing shakily.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Not the perfect version. This version. The one who’s scared and tired and still trying.”

He moved deep and slow at first, hips rolling with emotional intensity. His hands never stopped touching you — tracing your curves, gripping your hips, cupping your face so he could look into your eyes with every thrust.

You switched later, pushing him onto his back and sinking down onto him. Jungkook’s head fell back with a broken moan, hands gripping your thighs as you rode him.

“You feel like home,” he gasped, voice cracking. “The only place I don’t have to perform.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks again as pleasure built. You leaned down, kissing them away while moving faster, taking him deeper. When you both came, it was together — clinging, trembling, whispering “I love you” like a promise into each other’s mouths.

Afterward, Jungkook held you like you were the most precious thing in his universe. He cleaned you up with gentle hands, then pulled you into his chest, wrapping his entire body around yours. Legs tangled. Arms tight. Face buried in your neck.

“Thank you for staying,” he whispered into the dark, voice thick with emotion. “For seeing the ugly parts and still choosing me.”

You stroked his back softly. “There are no ugly parts. Just you. And I love all of you.”

He cried again — quiet, relieved tears — and you held him through every single one.

The healing wasn’t linear, but it was real.

Jungkook started opening up before things became unbearable. He texted you when anxiety spiked instead of pushing through alone. He ate meals with you without counting every calorie in his head. He let himself rest — curling up in your lap during studio sessions, falling asleep while you painted, trusting that you wouldn’t think less of him for it.

One night, after a particularly vulnerable conversation, he looked at you with soft, shining eyes.

“You’re teaching me how to be loved,” he whispered. “Not as the golden boy. Just as me.”

You kissed him deeply, pouring every ounce of love into it.

And Jungkook — for the first time — let himself believe he was worthy of it.

Healing didn’t happen overnight, but it happened.

Jungkook still had hard days. Days when the pressure felt crushing, when old habits whispered that he wasn’t enough, when he wanted to skip meals or push himself until he broke. But now he had you — his safe place, his quiet anchor in a world that demanded he always shine.

And he was learning how to let you carry some of the weight.

The months that followed were filled with small, beautiful changes.

He started eating full meals with you without counting calories in his head. He’d sit across from you at the dining table, stealing bites from your plate with that bright bunny smile, then laugh when you stole them back. The anxiety was still there, but it no longer controlled him the way it once did.

One quiet evening, after a long day of rehearsals, he came to your dorm carrying takeout and a small bouquet of flowers.

“I ate lunch today,” he said proudly, setting everything down. “A proper one. Because you told me I deserve to take care of myself too.”

You pulled him into a deep kiss, hands framing his face. Jungkook melted against you, arms wrapping around your waist like he still couldn’t believe he got to have this.

That night, the intimacy was slow and full of gratitude.

He laid you down on your bed and worshipped every inch of you with his mouth and hands, murmuring praises between kisses.

“You’re so good to me,” he whispered, lips brushing your inner thigh. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

When he finally pushed inside you, it was deep and reverent. He moved with long, rolling thrusts, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“I love you,” he gasped, voice breaking with emotion. “Not the performer me. The real me. The one who gets scared and still tries. You love all of him.”

You switched, riding him slow and deep while he looked up at you like you were his whole universe. His hands gripped your hips, but his touch was gentle, full of wonder.

When you both came, it was together — trembling, clinging, whispering “I love you” like a sacred promise.

Afterward, Jungkook held you close, refusing to let even an inch of space come between you. He pressed soft kisses to your hair, your temple, your shoulder, murmuring observations like always.

“Your heartbeat is my favorite sound,” he whispered. “It calms me down when nothing else can.”

Publicly, Jungkook became proudly possessive in the softest way.

He held your hand during walks on campus. Kissed your temple in front of his teammates. Posted subtle photos of the two of you on his private stories — your hand in his, your head on his shoulder during late-night drives, a candid shot of you painting while he watched with pure adoration.

His fans noticed the change. The golden boy who once seemed untouchable now looked genuinely happy.

One night at a big industry event, a famous actress tried flirting with him on the red carpet. Jungkook smiled politely, then immediately found you in the crowd, pulling you close and kissing your forehead for the cameras.

“She’s the only one I see,” he told the interviewer later with a shy but certain smile. “Always has been.”

The cute dates became sacred rituals.

Late-night drives — Windows down, music loud, his hand on your thigh as he sang along dramatically just to make you laugh.

Studio nights — Him falling asleep on the couch while you painted, then waking up to pull you into his lap for slow, sleepy kisses.

Gym dates — He’d spot you during workouts, then reward you with forehead kisses and snacks he actually ate too.

Quiet mornings — Waking up tangled together, Jungkook pressing soft kisses along your spine before murmuring, “Stay in bed with me a little longer.”

One year after that first gala, Jungkook took you back to the same venue for a private night.

The stage was empty. The lights were low. He stood in the center where he’d first seen you and held out his hand.

“Dance with me?” he asked, voice soft.

There was no music.

Just the two of you, swaying slowly under the stage lights, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, your head resting on his chest.

“I used to perform for everyone else,” he whispered. “Now I just want to be good enough for you.”

You looked up at him, eyes shining.

“You’ve always been more than enough.”

Jungkook’s eyes watered. He kissed you deeply, pouring every ounce of love, fear, gratitude, and devotion into it.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m still going to be a lot sometimes,” he said with a small, self-aware smile. “I’ll probably text you too much. Get jealous. Need reassurance. But I promise I’ll keep choosing to heal. For us.”

You smiled, bright and full of love.

“Good. Because I’m keeping you. All of you. The golden parts and the scared parts. The performer and the boy who just wants to be held.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and relieved, and pulled you into another kiss.

In that moment, under the same lights where your story began, Jungkook finally understood:

He didn’t have to be perfect to be loved.

He just had to be yours.

That night, while you were asleep, Jiung quietly got up. He found an old towel, dried the cat gently, and left a small bowl of tuna near the couch.

He told himself it was just practicality.

The next morning, the cat was still there — curled up on Jiung’s favorite chair like it already belonged.

Jiung stared at it for a long moment, then sighed again.

“…Do not feed the stray cat,” he said firmly, mostly to himself.

The orange menace meowed innocently.

You smiled from the kitchen, watching Jiung pretend to be annoyed while secretly checking if the cat had eaten.

Neither of you knew it yet, but that stubborn little cat had just wandered into both of your lives and refused to leave.

And slowly, it would teach Jiung that some things, and some people, were worth keeping.

By the third day, it had claimed the apartment as its territory. It slept on the windowsill where the sun hit just right, batted at Jiung’s shoelaces whenever he walked by, and somehow always ended up on his bed by morning — even though Jiung swore he closed his door.

“I’m not feeding it,” Jiung announced one morning, arms crossed as he watched the cat eat from a bowl you’d set out. “This is temporary. Strays leave eventually.”

You raised an eyebrow from the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee. “You bought the wet food yesterday.”

“That was on sale,” he muttered, ears turning pink. “It would’ve gone bad.”

You didn’t point out that the can was unopened before he brought it home.

The shared custody began awkwardly.

You worked different schedules, so caring for the cat (who you’d started calling “Mango” despite Jiung’s protests) fell into a strange rhythm. You’d come home to find fresh water and a clean litter box. Jiung would wake up to find Mango fed and a small note on the counter: “He seemed hungry.”

Jiung pretended to be annoyed by everything.

But you started noticing things.

He’d leave the heating pad on low near the cat’s favorite spot when it was cold. He’d come home with a new scratching post “because the couch was getting destroyed.” He’d sit on the floor at 2 a.m. when Mango couldn’t settle, quietly petting him until he fell asleep.

One night you came home late from a shift and found Jiung on the couch, Mango curled up on his chest, one of his hands gently stroking the cat’s back while he stared at the ceiling.

He looked… peaceful.

When he noticed you, he immediately sat up, gently moving Mango aside like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.

“He wouldn’t stop crying,” Jiung explained, voice flat. “I was just… shutting him up.”

You smiled softly. “Sure.”

The tension between you two — previously polite strangers sharing an apartment — began to thaw through Mango.

Small conversations turned into longer ones. Jiung started leaving notes for you:

“Leftover pasta in the fridge. Eat it before it goes bad.” “Mango knocked over your plant again. I repotted it.” “Your charger was dying. I left mine on the table.”

You started doing the same.

One evening, after a particularly long day, you came home to find Jiung cooking. Not a lot — just enough for two. He didn’t look at you when he slid a plate across the counter.

“I made too much,” he said, sounding almost defensive. “Don’t read into it.”

You sat down and ate with him in comfortable silence. Mango weaved between your legs under the table.

For the first time since moving in together, the apartment didn’t feel like two separate lives sharing a space.

It felt like the beginning of something warmer.

Jiung still maintained his emotional walls. He was polite. Respectful. Self-sufficient to a fault.

But he was starting to notice you the same way he noticed Mango.

When you came home tired, he’d quietly warm up leftovers. When you mentioned your favorite tea was running low, a new box appeared on the counter the next day. When you stayed up late studying, he’d leave a blanket draped over the couch “because the living room gets cold at night.”

He always had an excuse.

But both of you were starting to run out of plausible deniability.

Especially when Mango began sleeping between the two of you on the couch during movie nights — forcing you to sit closer than necessary.

Jiung would pretend not to notice how your shoulder brushed his.

You would pretend not to notice how his hand sometimes rested near yours on the cushion.

Mango, the tiny orange chaos agent, had decided that these two emotionally constipated humans needed each other.

And he was not giving up.

-----

The shift was so gradual that it felt like it had always been there.

Mango had been living with you for three weeks now, and the apartment no longer felt like a neutral shared space. It felt lived-in. Warmer. Jiung still muttered “Do not feed the stray cat” under his breath every time he caught you giving Mango extra treats, but his actions told a completely different story.

He was starting to take care of you, too.

It began with small, practical things that he always had an excuse for.

One evening you came home exhausted from a long day of classes and part-time work. Your shoulders were tense, your eyes heavy. You barely made it to the couch before collapsing.

When you woke up an hour later, a warm blanket was draped over you and a mug of chamomile tea was sitting on the coffee table with a sticky note:

You looked cold. Tea helps with headaches. - J

You stared at the note for a long time.

The next morning, your favorite yogurt was in the fridge — the exact brand and flavor you always bought but had run out of two days ago. When you asked Jiung about it, he didn’t even look up from his phone.

“I was already at the store. It would’ve gone bad if I didn’t get it.”

You knew he was lying. He’d gone to the store just for that.

The acts of service kept coming.

Your phone charger that only worked at a specific angle? Suddenly replaced with a new one that actually worked properly. Your favorite hoodie that had a small tear in the sleeve? It was neatly mended and folded on your bed one afternoon. When you mentioned in passing that your neck hurt from staring at your laptop too long, a cute heating pad appeared on the couch the next day.

Jiung never made a big deal about any of it. He’d just shrug and say things like:

“It was practical.” “I had extra.” “Don’t read into it.”

But you were reading into it.

Deeply.

One night, after you’d had a particularly rough day, you came home to find Jiung in the kitchen. He wasn’t a flashy cook, but he was competent. There were two plates on the counter.

“I made too much stir-fry,” he said without looking at you. “Eat before it gets cold.”

You sat down across from him. Mango jumped onto the chair between you, purring loudly. For the first time, dinner wasn’t eaten in polite silence. You talked — really talked — about your day. Jiung listened attentively, nodding, occasionally offering quiet advice or dry humor that made you laugh.

When you finished eating, he took your plate without a word and washed it.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said softly.

“I know,” he replied, back still turned to you. “But I want to.”

The air felt heavier after that.

That same night, Mango got sick.

He threw up twice and looked miserable. You and Jiung stayed up late taking care of him — cleaning, monitoring, gently petting him when he cried. At some point around 3 a.m., you were both exhausted on the couch, Mango curled between you.

Jiung looked at you, eyes tired but soft in the dim lamplight.

“You should sleep,” he said. “I’ll watch him.”

But when you tried to get up, he gently pulled you back down, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

“Nevermind. Can you just stay,” he murmured. “It’s nice.”

You fell asleep like that — head on Jiung’s shoulder, his arm carefully draped around you, Mango purring softly between your bodies.

When you woke up the next morning, Jiung was still there. He hadn’t moved. His hand was resting lightly on your waist like it belonged there.

He pretended to be asleep when you stirred.

But the faint pink on his ears gave him away.

The walls were cracking.

And for the first time, Jiung wasn’t sure he wanted to keep rebuilding them.

-----

The night after that, Mango got much worse.

It started around midnight. The little orange cat had been unusually quiet all evening, presumably better, then suddenly threw up multiple times and curled up in a tight ball, trembling. You and Jiung were both still awake — you studying on the couch, him pretending to read a book in the armchair.

Without a word, Jiung stood up, grabbed a clean towel, and gently wrapped Mango in it. His movements were careful, practiced, like he’d done this before.

“I’ll watch him,” he said quietly. “You should get some sleep.”

But you shook your head. “I’m staying up too.”

So the two of you stayed on the couch together, Mango resting between you. Jiung kept checking on him every few minutes — feeling his nose, gently petting his back, making sure he was warm. You watched him in the dim lamplight, the way his brow furrowed with quiet worry, the way his hand never stopped moving soothingly over the cat’s fur.

Around 3:30 a.m., Mango finally settled and fell asleep. The apartment was silent except for the rain still falling outside.

You were exhausted. Your eyes were burning, shoulders tight from stress and lack of sleep. When you tried to stand up to get water, your legs felt shaky.

Jiung noticed immediately.

He stood up without hesitation, gently guiding you back down onto the couch. “Stay here.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a glass of water, painkillers, and a warm compress. He knelt in front of you, carefully placing the compress on your neck and shoulders where you’d been tense all night.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard again,” he murmured, voice low and rough from exhaustion. His hands worked gently, pressing the warmth into your muscles. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Something in you broke open at his words.

The way he said it, so quietly, so sincerely, made your eyes sting. Jiung, who swore he didn’t need anyone, who kept everyone at arm’s length, was on his knees taking care of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You reached out and cupped his face. He froze for a second, then leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“Jiung…” you whispered.

He looked up at you, something raw and vulnerable in his gaze. Then he leaned forward and kissed you.

The kiss started soft — tentative, almost scared. But months of quiet tension, shared late nights, and unspoken care exploded between you. Jiung kissed you like he was afraid you’d disappear, hands sliding up your thighs as he moved between your legs on the couch.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against your lips, voice trembling. “How long I’ve wanted to take care of you properly.”

Clothes were shed slowly, reverently. Jiung’s hands explored your body like he was memorizing every inch — practical, attentive, and devastatingly gentle. He kissed down your neck, your chest, your stomach, whispering praises the entire time.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, lips brushing your inner thigh. “So good for me. Let me make you feel better.”

He ate you out with quiet devotion — slow, deep licks and gentle sucks on your clit, two fingers curling inside you perfectly. He didn’t rush. He took his time, humming softly against you when you moaned his name, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

When you came on his tongue, trembling and gasping, he didn’t stop. He worked you through it, then crawled back up and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself.

“Can I have you?” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Please.”

You nodded, pulling him closer.

Jiung slid into you slowly, savoring every inch, a broken groan leaving his throat as he bottomed out. He stayed still for a moment, buried deep inside you, just breathing.

“Fuck… you feel like home,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Then he started moving — deep, steady thrusts that felt like making love rather than just sex. His hands never stopped touching you — stroking your sides, holding your face, intertwining your fingers. Every movement was full of care, full of all the words he couldn’t say yet.

“You’re mine to take care of,” he panted against your neck, sucking a soft mark into your skin. “Let me. Please let me.”

You came again with a quiet sob, clinging to him. Jiung followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a shaky moan of your name.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He stayed inside you, holding you tightly against his chest as he pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. He cleaned you up gently with a warm towel, then wrapped you both in a blanket, Mango still sleeping peacefully nearby.

Jiung held you like you were something precious he was terrified of losing.

“I don’t know how to need people,” he whispered into the quiet, voice barely audible. “But I think I’m starting to need you.”

You kissed his collarbone, heart full.

“Then keep needing me,” you whispered back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in a long time, Jiung fell asleep feeling like he didn’t have to carry everything alone.

-----

The jealousy crept in quietly, like everything else with Jiung.

It was a Saturday afternoon when your neighbor, Minjun, knocked on the apartment door. He was holding a package that had been delivered to him by mistake. Tall, friendly, and always quick with a smile, Minjun had been chatting with you more often lately — casual conversations in the hallway, offers to help carry groceries, that sort of thing.

You opened the door, Mango weaving between your legs curiously.

“Hey,” Minjun said with an easy grin, handing over the package. “This was in my mailbox again. Also… you look really nice today. That sweater suits you.”

You laughed softly, a little flustered. “Thanks. I’ve had it forever.”

Minjun leaned against the doorframe, clearly in no rush to leave. “You know, if you ever need help with anything around the apartment, I’m right down the hall. I’m pretty handy. Unlike some people who seem too proud to ask for help.”

Before you could respond, Jiung appeared behind you.

He wasn’t loud. He never was. But his presence was suddenly heavy in the doorway.

Mango immediately trotted over to him, rubbing against his leg with a loud purr. Jiung reached down and picked the cat up without a word, holding him securely against his chest.

“We’re busy,” Jiung said calmly, voice even but cool. His eyes flicked to Minjun. “Thanks for the package.”

Minjun blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in atmosphere. “Oh, right. No problem. I was just saying to your roommate here—”

“Our cat gets anxious around new people,” Jiung interrupted smoothly, emphasizing the word our. Mango purred louder, as if on cue, nuzzling into Jiung’s neck. “We should get back inside.”

Minjun raised his hands in surrender, chuckling awkwardly. “Got it. See you around.”

The second the door closed, Jiung set Mango down gently. The cat immediately scampered off to play with a toy. Jiung stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, jaw tight.

You turned to him, eyebrows raised. “That was a little intense.”

Jiung shrugged, avoiding your eyes as he moved toward the kitchen. “He was lingering too long.”

You followed him, leaning against the counter. “He was just being friendly.”

Jiung opened the fridge and started pulling out ingredients, even though it wasn’t close to dinner time. His movements were precise, controlled — the way he always got when he was feeling something he didn’t want to name.

“He doesn’t get to sit in the passenger seat of your life,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

You froze. “What did you say?”

Jiung paused, realizing he’d spoken out loud. He closed the fridge and turned to face you, ears slightly pink but expression carefully neutral.

“Nothing,” he mumbled.

The possessiveness was quiet. Subtle. Devastating in its softness.

You stepped closer, heart beating faster. “Jiung… are you jealous?”

He looked away, running a hand through his hair. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, in that quiet, self-contained way of his:

“Maybe I am.”

The confession hung in the air between you. Jiung, who swore he didn’t need anyone, who handled everything alone, was admitting — however indirectly — that the idea of someone else getting close to you bothered him.

That night, after Mango had been fed and was curled up asleep on the couch, the tension finally snapped.

You found Jiung in the kitchen, quietly washing dishes that didn’t need washing. You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his back.

He stilled.

“You don’t have to be jealous,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jiung turned around slowly, drying his hands before cupping your face. His eyes were dark, full of emotions he usually kept locked away.

“I know I shouldn’t feel like this,” he said, voice low and rough. “We’re just roommates. But the thought of someone else taking care of you, it makes me feel like I’m losing something I didn’t even know I had.”

You kissed him first.

It was slow and deep, full of all the quiet yearning that had been building for weeks. Jiung kissed you back like he was afraid you’d vanish, hands sliding under your shirt, pulling you closer.

He lifted you onto the kitchen counter, stepping between your legs. Clothes were removed with trembling hands and soft touches. When he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and intense, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked.

“You’re mine to take care of,” he whispered, thrusting deep and steady. “Only mine. Please.”

The sex was emotional and possessive in the quietest way — his hands everywhere, marking your neck and shoulders with soft bites, murmuring praises against your skin. He made you come twice before he finally let himself go, burying himself deep inside you with a broken groan of your name.

Afterwards, he carried you to his bed, cleaned you up gently, and held you against his chest like he never wanted to let go.

Mango jumped onto the bed later, curling up at your feet.

Jiung looked at the cat, then at you, and whispered into the dark:

“I think I’m starting to understand why he keeps coming back.”

You smiled against his skin, heart full.

Some strays were worth feeding.

-----

The rain came down harder than it had in weeks.

It was one of those nights where the world felt muffled — streets empty, lights blurred into soft glowing orbs, the kind of weather that made people stay inside and confront the things they usually avoided. You and Jiung had spent the evening quietly taking care of Mango, who had been extra clingy all day.

After putting the cat to bed in his favorite spot on the couch, neither of you went to your separate rooms. Instead, you ended up on the living room floor together, backs against the couch, sharing a blanket while the storm raged outside.

Jiung was quieter than usual. He kept glancing at Mango, who was curled up asleep, small orange chest rising and falling steadily. Something heavy seemed to be sitting on his shoulders.

You nudged his knee gently with yours. “You’ve been staring at him for twenty minutes. What’s going on?”

Jiung was silent for a long time. The rain filled the quiet between you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost hesitant — the most unguarded you’d ever heard him.

“I had a cat when I was younger,” he said, eyes fixed on Mango. “Not really had. He was a stray. Orange, just like this one. Skinny. Skittish. He started showing up at the back door of the house every evening. I was maybe nine or ten. My parents were always working late, so the house was empty a lot. I started leaving food out for him. Talked to him when no one else was around.”

He let out a small, self-deprecating breath.

“I named him Cloud. Stupid name. He’d wait for me every day after school. I’d sit on the back steps and tell him about my day. He’d actually listen — or at least pretend to. For a kid who felt invisible most of the time, it meant everything.”

You stayed quiet, sensing this was something he rarely shared.

Jiung continued, voice getting quieter. “He kept coming back for almost two years. I thought… maybe he’d stay. Maybe I’d finally have something that chose to stick around. Then one day he just… didn’t show up. I waited for weeks. Left food out every night. Nothing. He was just gone. Life moved on, I guess. But I never forgot how it felt when he stopped coming back.”

He looked at you then, eyes glassy in the dim light.

“That’s why I pretended not to want Mango at first. Because the second I started caring… I remembered how much it hurt when Cloud left. I told myself I didn’t need anyone. Not a cat. Not people. I’ve spent most of my life learning how to handle everything alone. It’s safer that way.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache.

You reached over and gently took his hand. Jiung didn’t pull away. Instead, he intertwined your fingers, holding on a little too tightly.

“You’re not alone anymore,” you whispered. “Not with Mango. And not with me.”

Jiung turned to look at you fully. The rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows, but the apartment felt warmer than it ever had.

He leaned in slowly and kissed you.

This kiss was different from the others — deeper, slower, full of all the things he’d been holding back. His hands cupped your face like you were something fragile and precious. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I don’t know how to need people,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m starting to need you. Both of you.”

The confession hung between you, raw and honest.

You kissed him again, pouring everything you felt into it. The kiss quickly grew heated. Jiung pulled you into his lap, hands sliding under your shirt as he explored your skin with reverent touches. He was still so careful, so attentive — even when desire was burning between you.

Clothes came off slowly in the soft glow of the living room lamp. Jiung laid you down on the blanket, hovering over you as he kissed down your body. He took his time — lips on your neck, your chest, your stomach — whispering quiet praises the entire time.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured against your hip. “Let me be good to you too.”

He went down on you with quiet devotion, tongue and fingers working together until you were trembling beneath him. When you came, he held you through it, kissing your thighs softly.

Then he moved back up and slid into you in one smooth, deep thrust. The moan he let out was broken and beautiful. He made love to you slowly on the living room floor — deep, steady thrusts, eyes locked on yours, hands intertwined with yours above your head.

“I need you,” he whispered against your lips, voice cracking with emotion. “I didn’t want to, but I do. So much.”

You came together — quiet, intense, and full of feeling. Jiung buried his face in your neck as he spilled inside you, holding you like you were the only solid thing in his world.

Afterwards, he cleaned you up gently, then pulled you against his chest under the blanket. Mango had woken up at some point and curled up against your legs, purring softly.

Jiung stroked your hair, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

“I’m still scared,” he admitted into the quiet. “But I think I’m more scared of going back to how things were before you and Mango showed up.”

You snuggled closer, heart full.

“Then don’t go back,” you whispered. “Stay with us.”

Jiung held you tighter as the rain continued outside.

For the boy who had spent his life learning how to be alone, needing someone finally felt like coming home.

-----

The cat went missing on a Tuesday night.

It started like any other evening. Mango had been his usual chaotic self — zooming around the apartment, batting at Jiung’s shoelaces, demanding attention by headbutting your legs until you picked him up. After dinner, he curled up on the windowsill like always, watching the rain streak down the glass.

Then, sometime after 11 p.m., he was gone.

You noticed first. The apartment felt too quiet. You checked all his usual spots — the couch, Jiung’s bed, the warm spot near the heater — but Mango was nowhere to be found. The window had been left cracked open earlier for fresh air. Just a few inches. But it was enough.

“Jiung,” you called, voice tight with worry. “Mango’s not here.”

Jiung emerged from his room, hair slightly messy from running his hands through it while working. At first he looked calm, almost dismissive.

“He probably just went exploring. He’ll come back. Strays do that.”

But as the hours passed and Mango still didn’t return, Jiung’s calm facade began to crack.

By 2 a.m., he was pacing the living room, checking the window every few minutes, stepping outside with a flashlight despite the pouring rain. You watched him from the doorway, heart aching at how quickly he was unraveling.

“He’s fine,” Jiung kept muttering, more to himself than to you. “He always comes back. Cloud came back every day… until he didn’t.”

The name slipped out, the one he’d told you about weeks ago. The one that had disappeared and left a permanent scar on his heart.

You stepped closer, gently touching his arm. “We’ll find him. Let’s go look together.”

Jiung nodded, but his movements were mechanical. The two of you walked the neighborhood in the rain for over an hour, calling Mango’s name, checking alleys, looking under cars. Every empty spot seemed to make Jiung withdraw further into himself.

By the time you returned to the apartment empty-handed at 4 a.m., Jiung was silent.

He sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The usual self-sufficient mask was completely gone. In its place was raw, quiet fear.

“I shouldn’t have let him get close,” he whispered. “I knew better. I always know better. But I let him in anyway. And now he’s gone. Just like Cloud.”

You sat beside him, close enough that your thighs pressed together. Jiung didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into you slightly, like he was fighting the urge to collapse.

“I hate this,” he continued, voice cracking. “I hate needing things. I hate caring. I spent my whole life learning how to be fine alone. Fixing things myself. Not depending on anyone. And then this stupid orange cat shows up… and you. And suddenly I’m waiting by the door like an idiot every night. Checking if he’s eaten. Making sure you have dinner. Remembering your stupid coffee order. I told myself it was just practicality but—”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes glassy.

“I need you both,” he admitted, barely audible. “And that terrifies me. Because if you leave, or if Mango doesn’t come back… I don’t know how to go back to being okay alone anymore.”

The vulnerability in his voice broke something in you.

You pulled him into your arms. Jiung resisted for half a second — the last stubborn wall — then collapsed against you, face buried in your neck as silent tears slipped down his cheeks. He didn’t sob loudly. He never did. But his shoulders shook, and his grip on your waist was almost bruising.

You held him through it, stroking his hair, whispering that it was okay to need people. That you weren’t going anywhere. That Mango would come back.

Around 6 a.m., just as the sky was beginning to lighten, there was a weak scratching at the door.

Jiung bolted up. You both rushed to open it.

Mango stood there, soaked, dirty, but alive — meowing pitifully as he stumbled inside.

Jiung dropped to his knees instantly, gathering the little orange cat into his arms. He held Mango tightly against his chest, pressing his face into the damp fur as fresh tears fell.

“You came back,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You stupid cat… you came back.”

You knelt beside them, tears in your own eyes as you stroked Mango’s head. Jiung looked at you then — exhausted, relieved, and completely unguarded.

“I can’t lose either of you,” he said hoarsely. “Not anymore.”

-----

The relief of finding Mango alive didn’t last long.

After bringing the exhausted cat inside, cleaning him up, and making sure he was warm and fed, the adrenaline that had kept Jiung going for hours finally crashed. You both sat on the floor of the living room, backs against the couch, Mango curled up asleep between you. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle outside, but the air in the apartment felt thick with everything Jiung had let slip in his panic.

He was quiet for a long time, just staring at the sleeping cat with red-rimmed eyes.

Then, without warning, he spoke.

“I meant what I said earlier.”

His voice was rough, exhausted, and painfully honest. He didn’t look at you — just kept his gaze fixed on Mango, like it was safer that way.

“I can’t lose either of you,” he continued, barely above a whisper. “I thought I could handle everything alone. I’ve spent years perfecting it. Fixing things myself. Not asking for help. Not needing anyone. But then this stupid cat showed up… and you. And suddenly I’m checking the door every night. Making extra food because I know you forget to eat when you’re stressed. Buying that ridiculous blanket because you said you get cold easily.”

Jiung finally turned to look at you. His eyes were raw, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before.

“I need you,” he said, voice cracking. “Both of you. And that scares the hell out of me. Because needing someone means they can leave. And I don’t know how to survive that again.”

The confession hung heavy in the quiet apartment.

You reached for him first, cupping his face with both hands. Jiung leaned into your touch like he was starving for it.

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “And neither is Mango. We’re staying. We choose you, Jiung.”

Something in him broke.

He pulled you into a desperate kiss — messy, emotional, full of months of suppressed longing and fear. His hands trembled as they slid under your shirt, pulling you closer, like he needed to feel your warmth to believe you were real.

Clothes came off in a haze of quiet urgency. Jiung laid you down on the soft rug, hovering over you like you were something sacred. This time there was no pretense, no excuses of “just practicality.” Every touch was full of need.

He kissed down your body with reverent lips — neck, collarbones, breasts, stomach — whispering broken confessions against your skin.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he breathed, voice shaking. “Wanted to take care of you properly. Wanted to stop pretending I don’t need you.”

When he finally settled between your thighs and pushed inside you, it was slow and deep. Both of you moaned at the feeling. Jiung stayed still for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked.

“I need you,” he whispered again, like the words were being torn from his chest. “I need you so much it hurts.”

He started moving — deep, steady thrusts that felt like making love and falling apart at the same time. His hands never stopped touching you — stroking your sides, holding your face, intertwining your fingers. Every movement was full of emotion. He kissed you through it, swallowing your moans, letting you taste his quiet desperation.

Tears slipped down his cheeks as pleasure and relief mixed together. You wiped them away gently, holding him closer.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered against his lips. “You don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”

Jiung’s rhythm faltered as he got closer. He buried his face in your neck, hips snapping deeper, more desperate.

“I love you,” he choked out, voice breaking. “I love you. I love you.”

You came first, clenching around him with a soft cry, pulling him over the edge with you. Jiung followed with a broken moan of your name, spilling deep inside you as he held you like you were his lifeline.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body as quiet tears continued to fall. You held him through it, stroking his back, pressing soft kisses to his hair.

“I’m sorry I waited so long to say it,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I was scared. But I’m done pretending. I need you. I want you. All of it.”

You kissed him softly. “I need you too, Jiung. We both do.”

Mango stirred between you, letting out a tiny, sleepy meow as if agreeing.

Jiung let out a watery laugh, pressing his face into your neck.

“My favorite strays,” he murmured.

For the boy who had spent his life learning how to survive alone, finally admitting he needed someone felt like the hardest and most beautiful thing he’d ever done.

-----

Spring arrived gently that year, bringing warmer air and longer evenings. The apartment had changed in small, beautiful ways. Mango’s toys were scattered across the living room floor like permanent residents. Your favorite blanket was always folded neatly on the couch. Jiung’s quiet presence had become the steady heartbeat of your home.

He was still Jiung — self-contained, practical, a little stubborn — but he was learning how to let you in. And you were learning how to stay without forcing him to ask.

One quiet Saturday night, months after Mango first wandered in, the three of you were settled on the couch. Mango was sprawled across Jiung’s lap, purring loudly as Jiung absentmindedly stroked his orange fur. You were curled against Jiung’s side, head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around you.

The TV was playing something neither of you were really watching. The moment felt perfectly ordinary.

And perfectly right.

Jiung turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “You know,” he said quietly, voice warm with affection, “I used to think I didn’t need anyone. That depending on people only led to disappointment. But then this ridiculous cat showed up… and you. And now I can’t imagine going back to how things were before.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. “You don’t have to go back. We’re staying.”

Jiung smiled — small, genuine, and so full of love it made your chest ache. He gently moved Mango onto a cushion, then pulled you fully into his lap. His hands settled on your waist as he kissed you slowly, deeply, like he had all the time in the world.

The kiss grew heated, but it stayed tender. Jiung’s touch was reverent as he undressed you, lips trailing down your neck, your collarbones, your chest. He took his time, murmuring against your skin:

“I love you. I love how patient you are with me. I love how you stay even when I make it hard. I love that you chose me.”

When he finally slid inside you, it was slow and deep. You rode him gently on the couch, hands braced on his shoulders, eyes locked. Jiung’s hands guided your hips, thumbs stroking your skin as he looked up at you with glassy, adoring eyes.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice breaking with emotion. “You and Mango… you’re my home.”

The pleasure built gradually, beautifully. When you came, clenching around him with a soft cry of his name, Jiung followed right after, pulling you down against his chest as he spilled inside you, holding you like you were the most precious thing in his world.

Afterwards, he cleaned you up with gentle care, then carried you to his bed (now very much your bed too). Mango followed, jumping up and curling at your feet with a satisfied purr.

Jiung pulled you against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around you. He pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your nose, your lips — over and over, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

“I used to think needing someone was weakness,” he whispered into the quiet. “But you taught me it’s strength. Thank you for being patient with me. For choosing me even when I didn’t know how to choose myself.”

You smiled against his skin, tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

“You’re my favorite stray,” you murmured. “Both of you.”

Jiung let out a soft, watery laugh and held you tighter.

Mango purred louder, as if agreeing.

In the end, Jiung never stopped being the boy who handled things himself. He still fixed things around the apartment without being asked. He still made too much food “by accident.” He still carried heavy bags and remembered appointments.

But now he let you help.

He let you love him.

And every night, when the three of you curled up together — Mango between you, Jiung’s arm around your waist, rain or city lights outside the window — he understood what the little orange cat had been trying to teach him all along.

Some strays were worth feeding.

Some people were worth needing.

The smile didn’t disappear — Sunoo was too good at performing happiness for that — but it changed. It became smaller. Careful. Fragile around the edges.

You forced your own smile, bright and polite, the kind you gave to people you used to know better than yourself.

The seating arrangement placed you almost directly across from him.

The dinner was filled with loud conversations, old stories, and laughter that you participated in on autopilot. You smiled when expected. Answered questions with your usual bright energy. But every time your gaze accidentally met Sunoo’s across the table, something deep and painful twisted in your chest.

He still remembered exactly what foods you didn't eat. He still quietly moved the spicy dishes away from your side without being asked. He still glanced at you when someone mentioned a memory from high school, checking if it hurt you the way it hurt him.

The ghost of your broken friendship sat heavily between you.

After dinner, the group moved to a nearby café. You tried to slip away early, but a friend grabbed your wrist.

“Just one drink. It’s been years since we were all together like this.”

You couldn’t refuse without seeming cold.

So you stayed.

Sunoo ended up sitting beside you on the long couch. The space was tight. His knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you moved away.

For a long while, you both pretended to listen to the conversations flowing around you.

Then Sunoo spoke, voice soft enough that only you could hear.

“You changed your hair,” he murmured.

You glanced at him. “Yeah. A while ago.”

He smiled — small, genuine, and a little sad. “It suits you. Everything always did.”

The compliment was quiet. Careful. Full of years of things left unsaid.

You didn’t know how to answer, so you didn’t.

Sunoo seemed to understand. He went back to laughing with the group, playing the role of cheerful Sunoo perfectly. But you noticed the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his glass. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes when they landed on you.

When the night finally ended and goodbyes were exchanged, Sunoo lingered near you.

For a moment, it looked like he might say something real.

Instead, he gave you that familiar bright smile — the one that used to make your worst days feel lighter.

“It was really good seeing you again,” he said softly.

You nodded, chest tight. “You too, Sunoo.”

He hesitated, like there were a thousand apologies and memories fighting to come out. Then he gave a small wave and walked away.

You watched him go, heart aching with the weight of everything you had both lost.

What you didn’t know was that the moment Sunoo got home, he opened a hidden note on his phone titled:

Things I Should Have Done

And added a new entry at the very bottom:

Tell her I never stopped missing her.

-----

The days after the reunion felt like walking through a minefield wearing silk slippers.

You told yourself it was fine. That seeing Sunoo after all these years was just a brief, awkward encounter and nothing more. Life would go back to normal. You would go back to pretending the hole he left had healed years ago.

But the universe had other plans.

Three days later, you found the first small gesture.

You had complained in passing during the dinner that your favorite blue notebook — the one you’d used since high school — had been lost during your last move. It was nothing important to anyone else. Just a silly, worn notebook full of old doodles, song lyrics, and memories.

You came back from class to find a small package outside your apartment door.

Inside was a brand new notebook. Same size. Same shade of blue. Even the same brand you used to buy religiously.

No note.

No explanation.

Just the notebook, wrapped carefully in brown paper with a single pressed daisy on top.

You knew immediately who it was from.

Your hands trembled as you held it.

The gestures didn’t stop.

The next week, you mentioned in a group chat that your favorite mechanical pencil had finally died after years of loyal service. The following morning, a new one was waiting in your campus mailbox — the exact model, color, and grip you preferred.

Then came the umbrella.

You had posted a story complaining about forgetting yours on a rainy day. That evening, when you stepped out of the library, Sunoo was waiting under the awning with a soft cream umbrella in his hand.

“The color you used to like,” he said quietly when you approached, not quite meeting your eyes. “I saw it and thought… maybe.”

You took it from him. Your fingers brushed his.

“Sunoo… you don’t have to do this.”

He gave you that familiar bright smile, but it was softer around the edges now. Almost fragile.

“I know,” he whispered. “I want to.”

He walked you back to your dorm under the shared umbrella, shoulders brushing with every step. The silence between you was heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. It felt like the ghost of your old friendship was hovering just out of reach — close enough to ache, but still too far to touch.

At your door, he lingered.

“Goodnight,” he said softly.

You watched him walk away, heart twisting.

The pattern continued in small, devastating ways.

Your broken desk lamp suddenly worked again after you casually mentioned it during a phone call with a mutual friend. A book you had lost in second year appeared on your doorstep with no note. Your favorite hoodie — the one you’d ripped last winter — was returned repaired and neatly folded.

Each gesture was thoughtful. Personal. Impossible to ignore.

You started noticing him more in daily life too.

He was always nearby, but never intrusive. Sitting a few tables away in the library. Waiting at the bus stop you took. Appearing with warm drinks when you looked particularly tired.

It felt like he was documenting your life from a distance — remembering everything, fixing everything, loving you through actions he still didn’t know how to put into words.

One rainy evening, you finally confronted him.

You found him sitting alone in the small campus garden, hood up, watching the rain fall. When he saw you approaching, he stood up quickly, eyes widening.

“You’re going to get sick,” he said immediately, already shrugging off his jacket to drape over your shoulders.

You caught his wrist before he could finish.

“Sunoo,” you said quietly. “What are you doing?”

He froze.

For a long moment, he just looked at you — raindrops clinging to his lashes, that bright smile nowhere to be found. Only raw, aching honesty remained.

“I’m trying to apologize,” he whispered.

Your heart clenched.

“Because I never got to say it properly back then,” he continued, voice trembling. “Because I hurt you. Because I let you walk away thinking I didn’t care.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“And I know it’s too late. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I can’t stop trying to make things right. Even if it’s just small things. Even if you never forgive me. I just… I need you to know I never forgot you. Not for a single day.”

The rain continued falling around you.

You stood there, wearing his jacket, staring at the boy who used to be your entire world — now looking at you like you were still his.

The gestures didn’t stop.

If anything, they became more frequent, more personal, like Sunoo was slowly unraveling years of silence through careful, quiet devotion.

You found yourself waiting for them without meaning to — a strange mix of warmth and ache every time something appeared at your door or in your path.

One Saturday afternoon, you complained during a group chat about how your favourite pair of earphones broke while your friend was bragging about a new pair she had bought. You didn’t think much of it.

The next morning, a new pair was waiting in your mailbox — the exact model, color, and noise-cancelling version you had been eyeing for months but never bought because they were too expensive.

No note.

Just the earphones, carefully wrapped with a tiny pressed flower tucked into the box.

You sat on the edge of your bed holding them for a long time, thumb tracing the packaging. The ache in your chest grew heavier.

That evening, you finally texted him.

you

you have to stop doing this.

His reply came almost immediately.

sunoo

doing what? :)

you

you know what. the earphones. the notebook. the umbrella. all of it.

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

sunoo

i just want you to have the things that make you happy.

You stared at the message until the screen went dark.

you

sunoo… why?

This time, the reply took longer.

sunoo

because i should have done more back then. because i remember everything. because i still care.

The honesty hit like a quiet storm.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t know how.

The following week, the weather turned colder. You had complained a while back about how your old scarf wasn’t warm enough, saying you regretted choosing looks over quality. On a particularly freezing morning, you found a new one hanging on your doorknob — soft, cream-colored, the exact shade you used to borrow from him in high school.

When you wore it to class, Sunoo was waiting near the entrance of the building, hands in his pockets, looking like he hadn’t slept well.

His eyes softened the moment he saw you wearing it.

“It looks good on you,” he said quietly, voice barely carrying over the wind.

You stopped in front of him. The campus moved around you — students rushing to lectures, laughter echoing in the distance — but the space between you felt frozen in time.

“Sunoo,” you said, voice gentle but firm. “You can’t keep doing this. It’s too much.”

He looked down at his shoes for a moment, then back up at you. His usual bright smile was nowhere to be found. Only quiet, aching sincerity remained.

“I know it’s too much,” he whispered. “But every time I fix something small… it feels like I’m undoing one tiny piece of the hurt I caused. Even if it doesn’t fix everything.”

His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his coat.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he admitted, so softly you almost missed it. “Not once. I’d see something that reminded me of you and wonder if you still liked it. If you were okay. If you were happy.”

The wind picked up, carrying fallen leaves across the path.

You stood there, heart pounding, the new scarf suddenly feeling heavier around your neck.

“Why didn’t you just reach out?” you asked, voice cracking slightly.

Sunoo’s eyes glistened. He gave you a small, heartbreaking smile.

“Because I was scared you’d tell me not to. And I wouldn’t have known how to live with that.”

The confession hung between you, raw and trembling.

For the first time in years, the wall felt thin enough to reach through.

You didn’t know what to say. So instead, you stepped closer and gently fixed the collar of his coat, a small gesture you used to do when you were kids.

Sunoo’s breath caught.

Neither of you spoke after that.

But when you started walking toward your next class, he fell into step beside you — quiet, careful, but undeniably present.

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

You opened your phone and stared at the old photos you still hadn’t deleted — blurry pictures of the two of you at thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Laughing in arcade booths. Sharing earphones on the bus. Making silly faces at sleepovers.

The ache felt fresh again.

Meanwhile, across campus, Sunoo sat at his desk at 2:47 a.m., scrolling through his hidden note.

He added a new entry at the bottom:

Tell her the truth about why I never reached out.

Then he closed the app, rested his forehead on his arms, and let out a shaky breath.

He was running out of small things to fix.

And he was terrified of what would happen when the list finally ran out.

The small gestures continued, but something in the air between you had shifted.

It was no longer just Sunoo leaving things at your door like a ghost. He was present now — carefully, hesitantly, but undeniably there. The distance you had both maintained for years was shrinking, one quiet moment at a time.

One particularly cold evening, you came back to your apartment after a long day to find Sunoo sitting on the steps outside your building, knees drawn up, a familiar paper bag beside him. His cheeks were flushed from the wind, hair slightly messy, but he lit up the moment he saw you.

“I brought soup,” he said softly, standing up and brushing off his coat. “The kind you liked when we were sick as kids. With the extra green onions.”

You stopped a few feet away, heart twisting at the sight of him waiting for you like this — like no time had passed and yet all of it had.

“You didn’t have to wait out here,” you said, voice quieter than intended.

Sunoo gave you that small, gentle smile. “I wanted to make sure it was still warm.”

He followed you inside when you unlocked the door, hovering near the entrance like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to come any further. You gestured for him to sit at the small table while you heated the soup. The silence was heavy but not entirely uncomfortable.

When you finally sat across from him with two bowls, Sunoo watched you take the first sip with careful, hopeful eyes.

“Good?” he asked.

You nodded, warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the soup. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He smiled — small, relieved, and so genuinely happy that it made your throat tight.

You ate in companionable silence for a while. Then Sunoo spoke, voice soft.

“I’ve been thinking about that fight a lot lately,” he admitted, staring into his bowl. “Not the big parts. The small ones. How I kept canceling our plans because I was trying to be everywhere for everyone. How I made you feel like you were last on my list.”

He swallowed hard.

“I was scared back then,” he continued quietly. “Scared that if I wasn’t the perfect friend to everyone, I’d lose people. So I spread myself thin. And I ended up losing the one person who mattered most.”

You set your spoon down, heart aching.

“I said some cruel things too,” you whispered. “I accused you of caring more about being liked than being there for me. I ran away instead of staying to fix it.”

Sunoo looked up at you, eyes glistening.

“I deserved it,” he said. “At least some of it.”

The honesty between you felt fragile and precious.

After dinner, he helped you clean up without being asked. When you complained about the broken string on your favorite hoodie, he took it from your hands gently.

“I can fix this,” he murmured.

You watched him work — fingers careful and precise as he rethreaded the string with the same focused patience he used to have when fixing your bicycle chain as kids. The familiarity of the moment made your chest feel too full.

When he finished, he held the hoodie out to you.

“Good as new,” he said softly.

You took it, fingers brushing his. Neither of you pulled away immediately.

“Sunoo…” you started, but the words caught in your throat.

He looked at you with those warm, patient eyes that had always seen too much.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “I’m not asking for forgiveness yet. I just… I want to be here. If you’ll let me.”

You nodded, unable to speak.

He stayed a little longer that night — sitting on the edge of your bed while you worked on assignments, occasionally handing you things before you even reached for them. His presence was quiet, steady, and overwhelmingly comforting.

When he finally stood to leave, he hesitated at the door.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice soft.

You watched him go, the weight of years pressing down on you both.

The next morning, you found another small package at your door.

Inside was a new keychain — a tiny polaroid frame with an old photo of the two of you from middle school, smiling brightly at the camera, arms around each other.

On the back, in Sunoo’s neat handwriting:

For the days you forget how important you were to me.

You sat on the floor holding it for a long time, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

The list was growing.

And so was the ache in your heart.

-----

Sunoo no longer left things at your door like a ghost. He started showing up in person — always careful, always asking permission with his eyes before stepping closer.

One particularly exhausting Friday, you came home from back-to-back lectures and group meetings with a pounding headache and zero energy left. You had barely kicked off your shoes when there was a soft knock at your door.

Sunoo stood there with a small bag, wearing an oversized beige sweater that made him look soft and approachable. His hair was slightly messy from the wind, and his expression was gentle, almost hesitant.

“I saw you mention the headache in the group chat,” he said quietly. “I brought medicine, tea, and some soup. If you want company… I can stay. If not, I’ll just leave this and go.”

You stared at him for a long moment. The offer felt too big, too kind, too much like the Sunoo you used to know — the one who would stay up all night with you when you were sick, humming songs and making silly faces to distract you from the pain.

“Come in,” you whispered.

He stepped inside carefully, like he was afraid of taking up too much space. He moved around your small kitchen with quiet familiarity, heating the soup, brewing the tea, setting everything out neatly on your table. When you sat down, he didn’t hover. He simply sat across from you, hands folded, watching with soft, worried eyes as you ate.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you said after a while, voice thick.

Sunoo gave you a small smile. “I know. But I want to. I missed taking care of you.”

The words slipped out so naturally that both of you froze.

He looked down at his hands, cheeks faintly pink. “Sorry. That sounded… too much.”

You shook your head. “It didn’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt full — heavy with years of missing each other, with all the things neither of you had said yet.

After you finished eating, Sunoo insisted on cleaning up. While he washed the dishes, you watched him from the couch, heart aching at how natural it felt to have him here again. Like muscle memory. Like coming home.

When he was done, he hesitated near the couch.

“I can go if you want to rest,” he said softly.

You reached out and gently tugged his sleeve. “Stay. Just for a bit.”

He sat beside you, close but not touching. You leaned your head against his shoulder without thinking. Sunoo’s breath caught, but he slowly wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer until your head rested properly against his chest.

His heartbeat was fast.

“You’re really warm,” you murmured.

He let out a soft, shaky laugh. “You always said that.”

The nostalgia hit hard.

You stayed like that for a long time — Sunoo’s fingers gently stroking your hair, your body slowly relaxing against his. The headache faded. The exhaustion felt lighter.

At some point, you tilted your head up to look at him.

Sunoo was already looking at you, eyes dark and full of unspoken things.

The space between you shrank.

The first kiss was hesitant — soft, testing, full of years of regret and longing. Sunoo cupped your face like you were something fragile, his thumb brushing your cheek as his lips moved gently against yours.

When you kissed him back, something in him broke open.

The kiss deepened, slow and emotional. His hands trembled as they slid under your shirt, tracing your skin with reverence. You pulled him closer, fingers threading through his hair, and he made a quiet, needy sound against your mouth.

Clothes came off slowly, between soft kisses and whispered names. Sunoo laid you down on the couch, hovering over you with dark, adoring eyes.

“Can I?” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Please… I need to feel closer to you.”

You nodded, pulling him down.

He entered you slowly, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked the entire time. The stretch was perfect. The intimacy was overwhelming. Sunoo moved with deep, rolling thrusts, every movement full of emotion — like he was trying to pour years of missing you into every stroke.

“I missed you,” he gasped against your lips, voice breaking. “Every single day. I missed us.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks as he made love to you — gentle, deep, devastatingly tender. You held him through it, legs wrapped around his waist, whispering that you were here, that you weren’t going anywhere.

You came together, clinging to each other, names falling like prayers in the quiet room.

Afterward, Sunoo didn’t pull away.

He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body, face pressed into your neck as quiet tears continued to fall. You stroked his hair, his back, whispering soft reassurances while he trembled against you.

The aftercare was slow and loving. He cleaned you gently, brought you water, then pulled you into his chest and held you like you were the only thing keeping him together.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered into the dark, voice raw. “Even when I tried.”

You kissed his collarbone, fingers tracing soothing patterns on his skin.

“I never stopped either,” you admitted softly.

Sunoo let out a wet, relieved sound and held you tighter, legs tangling with yours under the blanket.

For the first time in years, the space between you felt like home again.

-----

The morning after felt like stepping into a new world with old memories.

Sunoo woke up first, his arm still wrapped around your waist, face buried in the crook of your neck. For a long moment he didn’t move — just breathed you in, like he was afraid the night had been a dream. When you stirred, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, then another to your jaw, his touch hesitant but full of quiet reverence.

“Good morning,” he whispered, voice hoarse from sleep and everything that had passed between you.

You turned in his arms and kissed him properly — slow, deep, and full of morning warmth. Sunoo melted into it immediately, hands sliding up your back, holding you like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to.

The kiss didn’t turn heated this time. It stayed tender. Healing. Like both of you were testing the fragile bridge you had started rebuilding.

The following weeks were a careful dance of closeness and caution.

You spent more time together, but never forced it. Sunoo would show up after your last class with warm drinks and quiet company. You started inviting him over for simple dinners, recreating old traditions — making instant ramen the way you used to as kids, sharing earphones while listening to playlists you’d made together years ago.

One evening, you were sitting on the floor of your apartment surrounded by old photos you’d found while cleaning. Sunoo sat across from you, knees touching, carefully sorting through them with gentle fingers.

He stopped on one — a blurry polaroid of the two of you at fourteen, arms around each other at an amusement park, both laughing so hard your eyes were closed.

“I remember this day,” he said softly, thumb tracing the edge of the photo. “You made me ride the tallest rollercoaster even though I was terrified. Then you held my hand the whole time.”

You smiled, but it was bittersweet. “And then we fought on the way home because I said you were being too quiet.”

Sunoo’s expression faltered. He placed the photo down carefully, like it was something sacred.

“I was scared,” he admitted, voice low. “Scared that if I wasn’t fun enough, you’d get bored of me. So I tried to be perfect. And I ended up pushing you away instead.”

The honesty hung between you.

You reached out and took his hand. “We both pushed.”

He squeezed your fingers, eyes glistening. “I know. But I was the one who let it stay broken for so long.”

The small gestures continued, but they felt different now — less like atonement and more like love finding its way back.

One night, you came home exhausted from a long day. Sunoo was already there (he had a spare key now, given with shy permission). He had cooked your favorite comfort meal and set up a little blanket fort on the couch with fairy lights and your favorite movie ready to play.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, voice thick as you stepped into his arms.

“I wanted to,” he whispered against your hair. “I missed doing this for you.”

You spent the night curled up together, his head in your lap as the movie played. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your thigh while you played with his hair. Every so often he’d look up at you with those warm, adoring eyes, like he was still amazed you were letting him stay.

When the movie ended, the room fell into comfortable silence. Sunoo shifted until he was hovering over you, eyes dark but soft.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, the same gentle question he always asked.

You pulled him down.

The kiss started slow and tender, but quickly deepened with months of pent-up longing. Clothes were shed with trembling hands. Sunoo worshipped every inch of you — lips trailing down your neck, across your chest, between your thighs until you were moaning his name.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was deep and emotional. He moved with slow, rolling thrusts, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked the entire time.

“I missed this,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I missed you. Every version of you.”

You switched halfway through, pushing him onto his back and riding him slow and deep. Sunoo’s hands gripped your hips, eyes wet with emotion as he looked up at you like you were his entire universe.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words slipping out like he couldn’t hold them back anymore. “I’ve loved you for years. Even when we were apart.”

You came together, clinging to each other, tears mixing with sweat. Afterward, Sunoo held you tightly, staying buried inside you as he pressed soft kisses to your skin and whispered apologies and promises into the dark.

But the list still existed.

You hadn’t seen it yet.

Sunoo still added to it in secret, late at night when the guilt crept back in like an old, unwelcome friend. He would sit at his desk with only the glow of his phone screen lighting his face, thumb scrolling through hundreds of entries that spanned years. Each one was a small wound he refused to let scar over.

Replace the blue notebook she lost in second year. Buy her the earrings she wanted but never got. Apologize for missing her performance. Tell her she was right. Give back the photo booth strip. Return her favorite hoodie. Ask if she’s eating properly. Say thank you. Say sorry. Explain.

The oldest entries dated back to the week after your fight. The newest ones were from last night:

Tell her I never stopped loving her.

He would close the note with trembling fingers, press his forehead to the desk, and breathe through the ache until he could smile again the next day.

-----

The revelation happened on a quiet Sunday evening.

You were at Sunoo’s apartment for the first time since the reunion — a small, warmly lit space filled with soft blankets, neatly organized shelves, and polaroids of friends and family pinned to a corkboard. He had invited you over for a simple dinner, nervous but hopeful, cooking your favorite childhood meal with the same careful focus he gave everything.

After eating, you offered to help clean up. While Sunoo was in the kitchen washing dishes, you noticed his phone on the coffee table, screen still unlocked from when he’d shown you a funny video earlier. A notification had popped up — a reminder from his notes app.

Curious, you tapped it.

The title appeared first:

Things I Should Have Done

Your breath caught.

Hundreds of entries. Neatly dated. Spanning years.

You scrolled slowly, heart pounding harder with every line. Each one was a memory. A regret. A moment he had carried alone.

Fix the charm bracelet she broke in 8th grade. Apologize for canceling her birthday plans. Tell her I was scared too. Don’t let her walk away.

Some were practical. Most were devastatingly personal.

Be better at saying I need her. Stop smiling when I’m breaking. Ask her to stay.

Tears blurred your vision.

You hadn’t realized you were crying until a tear dropped onto the screen.

Sunoo walked back into the living room, drying his hands on a towel. He froze when he saw you holding his phone, face pale, eyes wide with shock and pain.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Sunoo’s expression crumpled.

He crossed the room in quick steps and gently took the phone from your trembling hands. His own fingers were shaking.

“I…” His voice cracked. He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

You looked up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“You kept a list,” you whispered. “All this time. Years of this.”

Sunoo sank to his knees in front of you, like the weight of everything he’d carried finally became too heavy to stand under. He rested his forehead against your knees, shoulders shaking.

“I didn’t know how to fix it,” he said, voice muffled and broken. “Every time I thought about reaching out, I remembered how I hurt you. How I let you feel unimportant. How I chose being liked by everyone over being there for the one person who mattered most. So I started making the list. Fixing small things. Hoping that one day… maybe I’d deserve to talk to you again.”

He lifted his head, eyes red and glistening with tears.

“I never stopped missing you,” he confessed, voice raw. “Not one single day. I smiled and laughed and acted like I was fine because that’s what everyone expected. But every night I would open this list and add another thing I should have done. Another way I failed you.”

You slid off the couch and knelt in front of him, cupping his wet face with both hands.

“Sunoo…” Your voice broke. “You didn’t have to earn me back. You just had to talk to me.”

He let out a shaky sob and pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You clung to him just as hard, both of you crying quietly in the middle of his living room.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I love you. I’ve loved you for years. Even when we were apart. Especially when we were apart.”

You kissed him then — messy, tear-stained, full of years of pain and longing. Sunoo kissed you back like he was afraid you might disappear, hands cradling your face, thumbs brushing away your tears.

The kiss deepened, turning desperate and emotional. Clothes were shed with trembling hands. Sunoo laid you down on the couch, moving over you with reverence and need. He made love to you slowly, deeply, whispering apologies and love confessions between every thrust, every kiss, every touch.

When you both came undone, clinging to each other and crying, Sunoo stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body.

“I don’t want to fix the past anymore,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I just want to build something new. With you. If you’ll let me.”

You held him closer, fingers in his hair.

“I’m here,” you whispered back. “I’m choosing you. Again.”

-----

The days after you discovered the list were quieter, but heavier with meaning.

Sunoo didn’t try to hide anything anymore. The note stayed open on his phone. He left it on the table sometimes, like a silent offering — an invitation for you to see every regret, every small way he had tried to love you from a distance. He never pressured you to read more. He simply let you in.

You spent evenings together doing ordinary things that felt extraordinary now: cooking simple meals, watching old movies you used to love, sitting in comfortable silence while he played with your fingers and you rested your head on his shoulder. Every touch felt like a promise. Every shared glance carried years of unsaid words.

But the fear still lingered — on both sides.

On a soft, rainy Sunday night, You were curled up on his couch, legs tangled with his under a shared blanket. The lights were dim, a half-finished drama playing quietly in the background. Sunoo had been unusually quiet for the past hour, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand while his other arm held you close against his chest.

You could feel his heartbeat — faster than normal.

Finally, he spoke.

His voice was barely above a whisper, hesitant and full of nerves.

“…Can I be your boyfriend?”

The question landed gently, but it stopped your breath.

You lifted your head to look at him. Sunoo’s eyes were vulnerable, hopeful, and a little scared. His cheeks were faintly pink, and he was biting his lower lip the way he used to when he was anxious as a kid.

“I know we’re still figuring things out,” he continued softly, fingers tightening around yours. “I know I hurt you. I know there’s still a lot we need to talk about. But I don’t want to keep guessing where we stand. I want to be yours. Officially. I want to call you my girlfriend and mean it. I want… I want to do this right this time.”

He swallowed hard, eyes searching yours.

“But only if you want that too.”

The silence stretched.

You wanted to say yes. The word was on the tip of your tongue.

But fear gripped your chest — sharp and familiar.

What if you said yes and something went wrong again? What if the same misunderstandings returned? What if you lost him a second time? And this time it would hurt even more because you had let yourself believe in him again.

Your eyes stung.

“I want that,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I really do. But… I’m scared, Sunoo. I’m scared that if we make this official, something will happen again. That we’ll fight. That you’ll pull away. That I’ll lose you like I did before.”

Sunoo’s expression softened with understanding and pain. He shifted so he could cup your face with both hands, thumbs gently brushing away the tears that had started falling.

“I’m scared too,” he admitted, voice cracking. “Every day I’m terrified I’ll mess this up again. That I’ll say the wrong thing or not be enough. But I don’t want to let fear keep us apart anymore.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I know I can’t promise nothing bad will ever happen,” he whispered. “But I can promise I’ll fight for us this time. I’ll talk instead of smiling through it. I’ll stay instead of running. I’ll choose you every single day, even when it’s hard.”

His voice dropped even softer.

“Please… let me be your boyfriend. Let me love you the way I should have years ago.”

You let out a shaky breath, tears slipping down your cheeks. The fear was still there — quiet but real. But so was the love. So was the boy who had carried your memory for years in a list no one else would ever see.

You nodded slowly.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Yes. Be my boyfriend, Sunoo.”

His breath hitched. Then he was kissing you — deep, emotional, full of relief and love and years of waiting. His hands trembled as they held your face, like he still couldn’t believe you had said yes.

The kiss turned heated, but stayed tender. Clothes were shed slowly between soft whispers and gentle touches. Sunoo made love to you with overwhelming emotion — slow, deep thrusts, eyes locked on yours, whispering “I love you” like a prayer between every moan.

When you both came undone, clinging to each other and crying quietly, Sunoo held you through the aftershocks, staying buried inside you as he pressed kisses to your tear-stained cheeks.

“I’m yours now,” he whispered against your lips. “And you’re mine. No more running. No more distance.”

You curled into his chest, feeling safe for the first time in years.

The list was still there.

But for the first time, it felt like the end of one chapter…

smoooothoperatorrrr

you simply don’t understand the art of calculated chaos. max was robbed again.

You snorted and immediately fired back. The argument lasted three hours — paragraphs upon paragraphs about tire management, team orders, Max Verstappen’s sheer talent being wasted by questionable strategy, and why Red Bull’s radio messages sounded like emotional manipulation. By the end, you were laughing at 6 a.m., adrenaline high from the banter.

@smoooothoperatorrr followed you afterward.

You followed back.

Neither of you knew it then, but this single interaction would unravel both your lives.

The next morning, you were on an ENHYPEN media assignment — filming behind-the-scenes content for a variety show. Jay was in the corner reviewing lyrics, looking as composed and untouchable as always.

You’d worked with him before. The dynamic was always the same: dry sarcasm from him, competitive teasing from you. He acted like nothing fazed him. You called him emotionally unavailable every chance you got.

During a break, you muttered under your breath about Red Bull’s latest strategy disaster and how Max Verstappen deserved better.

Jay’s head snapped up so fast he nearly dropped his coffee.

He stared at you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, voice perfectly even. But his fingers tightened around the cup.

Across the room, you didn’t notice the way his pulse raced.

Because @smoooothoperatorrr had just realized the person he’d stayed up until sunrise arguing with about Max’s radio messages and tire compounds… was you.

And you had no idea the emotionally repressed idol you loved to bicker with was the same dramatic, ride-or-die Red Bull (and especially Max Verstappen) fan who wrote entire essays about “the art of calculated chaos” at 4 a.m.

The secret account had just collided with real life.

But Jay didn't plan to stop talking to you.

-----

The arguments became a habit faster than either of you expected.

@smoooothoperatorrr quickly became your most consistent online rival. Every race weekend turned into a battlefield of witty roasts, passionate defenses of strategy, and long threads analyzing driver psychology. He was dramatic, sarcastic, and strangely addictive to argue with.

smoooothoperatorrr

max was carrying the whole team again and you people still blame him for strategy. be serious.

yourusername_sotuff

maybe if red bull stopped treating him like a robot he wouldn’t have to carry so hard.

smoooothoperatorrr

bold words from someone who clearly doesn’t understand the art of suffering for the greater good.

You spent hours typing paragraphs back and forth at 4 a.m., laughing alone in your dorm while Jay — in his own dorm across campus — smiled at his phone like an idiot, heart racing every time your username appeared.

He told himself it was just fun. Just racing banter.

He was lying.

In real life, your paths crossed constantly.

As a media student assigned to various idol schedules, you ended up on several ENHYPEN shoots. Jay was always there — composed, professional, and annoyingly good at pretending he barely noticed you.

During one behind-the-scenes filming day, you were adjusting lighting when Jay walked past. He stopped, gave you that signature cool, slightly arrogant look, and said:

“Still causing chaos wherever you go?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Still pretending you’re emotionally unavailable?”

He smirked, but there was something sharper in his eyes now — like he was seeing you differently after all those late-night arguments online.

The bickering continued in person, but it felt different now. Charged. Like every sarcastic comment carried a secret layer only the two of you (unknowingly) understood.

One Thursday night, after a particularly chaotic race, your phone buzzed with a voice note from @smoooothoperatorrr.

You played it while lying in bed.

The voice was slightly distorted, but warm and passionate: “I can’t believe they did that to Max again. I’m actually losing my mind. If you’re awake… call me. I need to rant properly.”

Your heart skipped.

You called.

The voice on the other end was low, slightly raspy from staying up late. You argued for nearly an hour — about strategy, driver pressure, the emotional weight of being Max Verstappen. The conversation slowly drifted from racing into deeper territory.

“You ever feel like you’re performing all the time?” the anonymous voice asked quietly. “Like everyone expects you to be this perfect version and if you slip even once… they’ll stop caring?”

You answered honestly.

And for the first time, Jay — hiding behind the anonymous account — felt truly seen.

He stayed on the call long after the race talk ended, voice softening as he told you things he’d never told anyone.

“I don’t know why I feel safe talking to you,” he admitted near the end. “But I do.”

You fell asleep on the call with him.

The next morning, Jay woke up with his phone still warm against his ear and a stupid smile on his face.

He was falling.

Hard.

Meanwhile, in real life, the tension between you and Jay grew stranger.

During a group interview shoot, Jay kept glancing at you while you worked. When another staff member flirted lightly with you, Jay’s jaw tightened. He interrupted smoothly, voice cool but edged:

“She’s busy. Focus on the schedule.”

You shot him a confused look. He just shrugged, ears slightly pink.

Later that day, @smoooothoperatorrr sent you a message:

smoooothoperatorrrr

had a weird day. felt like someone was watching me too closely. anyway, what did you think about quali?

You didn’t know the “someone” was you.

The lines were starting to blur.

And neither of you had any idea how close you already were.

-----

The voice calls became the highlight of race weekends.

What started as post-race rants quickly evolved into something deeper. You and @smoooothoperatorrr would stay on the phone for hours — analyzing strategy, arguing about driver psychology, then drifting into conversations about life, pressure, and the strange loneliness that came with caring too much about something public.

His voice was low, slightly raspy from staying up late, and strangely comforting. He never showed his face. Never gave personal details. But he was honest in a way that felt rare.

One night after a chaotic sprint race, he called you at 2 a.m.

“I shouldn’t be this invested,” he admitted, voice tired but warm. “It’s just cars going fast in circles. But when Max fights like that and still gets screwed over… it hits different.”

You laughed softly. “You sound like you’ve been personally betrayed.”

He chuckled — a low, melodic sound that made your stomach flip. “Maybe I have. I just want him to win. He deserves it.”

He started sending you voice notes during his overseas schedules. Sleepy airport pictures (no face obviously) with captions like “this terminal feels like quali in the rain.” Photos of rainy streets captioned “this looks like spa weather.” Little updates that made you feel like you were part of his life even when he was thousands of miles away.

Meanwhile, in real life, your interactions with Jay remained… complicated.

During a filming day for ENHYPEN content, you were assigned to help with some interview segments. Jay was in his usual composed, slightly aloof mode — answering questions with perfect politeness. But when you accidentally dropped a piece of equipment, he was the first to help you pick it up.

His fingers brushed yours.

For a second, his mask slipped. His eyes met yours with an intensity that felt too familiar.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower than usual.

You nodded, heart racing for reasons you couldn’t explain.

Later that same day, @smoooothoperaorrrr sent you a voice note: had another weird day on set. kept thinking about someone who drops things when they’re nervous. made me smile though.

You stared at the message.

The coincidences were starting to pile up.

One particularly rainy qualifying night, you were on a call with him when something shifted.

You were both ranting about a controversial penalty when he suddenly went quiet.

“You know,” he said softly, “talking to you feels like the only time I don’t have to be ‘on.’ I can just… be dramatic and emotional and you don’t judge me for it.”

Your heart clenched.

“I like when you’re dramatic,” you replied honestly. “It makes me feel less alone in caring this much about cars going in circles.”

He laughed — that warm, genuine laugh that was becoming your favorite sound.

“I think I’m getting addicted to this,” he admitted quietly. “To you.”

The line went silent for a heartbeat.

Then he quickly added, “As a racing friend. Obviously.”

But you both knew it wasn’t just about racing anymore.

-----

The Singapore Grand Prix weekend was a chaotic race — rain, crashes, controversial strategy calls. You and @smoooothoperatorrr had been on a voice call for nearly four hours, ranting, laughing, and spiraling together as the race unfolded.

At 2:47 a.m., after Max crossed the line in a dramatic P2, the adrenaline was still high.

“I can’t believe that overtake on lap 47,” you said, voice hoarse from hours of talking. “My heart is still racing.”

There was a pause on his end. Then his voice came through low and rough:

“Mine too. But not just because of the race.”

The air shifted.

You both went quiet.

Then quietly you said, “I know. I figured it out days ago.”

"Figured out what?"

You didn't answer. He knew the answer.

You both lay in silence for the next few minutes. Then Jay spoke again:

“I'm so scared you’ll hate me if you find out,” he whispered.

"Find out what?"

He didn't answer. You knew the answer.

But neither of you were ready to approach it.

-----

The weeks after that conversation that pretty much confirmed your suspicions were a strange, intoxicating mix of awkwardness and magnetic pull.

In real life, Jay was still the composed, slightly arrogant idol who traded sarcastic barbs with you during schedules. But now every interaction carried double meaning. Every dry comment felt like a continuation of your late-night voice note arguments. Every lingering glance felt like the way he’d looked at you when he was buried inside you, whispering how much he needed you.

He became clingier.

Not obviously. Jay was too controlled for that. But the signs were there.

He started showing up early to shoots just to sit near you. He’d casually steal the seat beside you during group meetings. During lunch breaks, he’d bring you coffee without being asked, fingers brushing yours a second too long when handing it over.

One afternoon during a filming break, another staff member — a friendly PD named Minho — started chatting with you about F1. He was genuinely knowledgeable and enthusiastic, leaning in as he talked about Max Verstappen's latest qualifying lap.

You laughed at something he said.

Across the room, Jay’s jaw tightened.

He walked over smoothly, sliding an arm around your shoulders in a way that looked casual to everyone else but felt possessive to you.

“Break’s almost over,” he said, voice cool but edged. His fingers pressed lightly into your shoulder. “You should rest while you can.”

Minho got the hint and excused himself politely.

The second he was gone, Jay leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“I don’t like when other people make you laugh like that,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. “Especially when they talk about my driver.”

You turned to look at him, amused. "Jealous much?”

His ears turned pink. He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he pulled you into a quiet corner during the next break and kissed you like he’d been dying to all day — deep, hungry, one hand cupping your jaw while the other gripped your waist. When he pulled back, breathing hard, his eyes were dark.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Online and offline. Don’t forget that.”

He took a risk to say that last part.

The overlap became impossible to ignore.

During a late-night voice call, still pretending to be anonymous, Jay’s voice came through low and sleepy:

“I had a long day on set. This girl I work with… she keeps arguing with me about strategy like she knows more than I do. It’s annoying. But also kind of hot.”

You bit your lip to stop from laughing. Both of you guys knew exactly who you were.

“Sounds like she might be right,” you teased.

He groaned. “Don’t side with her. She’s infuriating.”

-----

Jealousy hit its peak during a big group schedule.

A popular motorsport influencer was visiting the set for a collaboration. He was charismatic, knowledgeable about F1, and clearly interested in you — complimenting your work, asking for your opinion on races, leaning in a little too close while showing you something on his phone.

Jay watched from across the room, expression calm but eyes sharp.

Later, in the van back to the dorms, he was unusually quiet. The second you were alone in the parking lot, he pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck.

“I didn’t like him talking to you,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “He doesn’t know you like I do.”

His hands slid under your shirt, possessive but needy.

“Can I have you?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Right now. Please.”

You ended up in the backseat of his car, windows fogged up, rain starting to fall outside.

Jay was intense — hands gripping your thighs, mouth marking your neck and chest as he thrust deep and desperate. He switched positions multiple times, needing to feel you in every way possible.

“You’re mine,” he gasped against your skin, voice breaking with emotion. “Only mine. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you moaned, nails digging into his back. “Only yours, Jay.”

He came hard with a broken groan of your name, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. Afterward, he cleaned you up with gentle hands, then pulled you into his lap, refusing to let go.

“I know I’m being too much,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. “But, I'm scared I’ll lose you.”

You cupped his face, kissing him softly.

“You won’t,” you promised.

He laughed — a warm, relieved sound — and held you closer.

The secret was becoming harder to keep.

But for the first time, Jay wasn’t sure he wanted to keep it anymore.

Online, @smoooothoperatorrr had become softer. More vulnerable. He sent voice notes at odd hours, voice low and raspy: had a long day. felt like everyone wanted something from me. talking to you is the only time i don’t feel like i have to perform.

You replied honestly, and the conversations grew deeper. He started sharing small pieces of himself — the pressure of being an idol, the fear of not being enough, the way he sometimes felt lonely even when surrounded by people.

You couldn't believe you were falling for the same person twice.

-----

Slowly you were both approaching the reveal. More specifically, it happened during the Japanese Grand Prix weekend.

It was a rain-delayed session. You were on a call with @smoooothoperatorrr to rant about strategy.

Then you heard it.

A familiar voice — not distorted, not hidden. "I swear their strategy's just getting worse."

Then he realized. The next thing you heard was Jay’s real voice again, clear and slightly panicked:

“Shit—.”

The call dropped.

Your heart stopped.

You stared at your phone, mind racing. The voice was unmistakable. The slight accent, the low timbre, the way he cursed under his breath.

It was him. I meant you already knew, but now you'd have to approach what the both of you were avoiding.

The next day on set, the air between you and Jay was electric.

He avoided looking at you directly, but you caught him stealing glances when he thought you weren’t watching. During a break, he cornered you in a quiet hallway, pressing you gently against the wall.

“You know, don’t you?” he whispered, voice rough.

You nodded, heart pounding.

Jay let out a shaky breath and rested his forehead against yours.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” he admitted. “I liked having one place where I didn’t have to be perfect. Where I could just… be dramatic and emotional and you still liked me. It was more comfortable being somewhat anonymous.”

His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“But it doesn't change the fact that it's you,” he continued, voice breaking slightly. “It’s always been you. The girl who argues with me about tire compounds at 4 a.m. and the girl who calls me emotionally unavailable during shoots. I fell for both versions. I just didn’t know they were the same person.”

You kissed him then — deep, emotional, full of months of hidden longing. Jay kissed you back like he was terrified this moment would disappear, hands sliding into your hair as he pressed you harder against the wall.

When you pulled back, both of you breathing heavily, Jay rested his forehead against yours again.

“I’m scared,” he whispered. “I’m scared that now I've admitted to everything, you’ll see how messy I really am and leave.”

You cupped his face, looking into his eyes.

“I already know the messy parts,” you said softly. “And I’m still here.”

Jay’s eyes shimmered. He kissed you again, slower this time, pouring every unspoken fear and every ounce of love into it.

The secret was out.

But instead of ending the story, it felt like the real, problematic beginning.

For three full days, Jay disappeared from the anonymous account.

No posts.

No voice notes.

No late-night arguments about strategy or tire compounds.

@smoooothoperatorrr went completely dark.

You panicked more than you expected to. The account had become a strange comfort — a place where you could be honest, dramatic, and emotionally open without the pressure of real-life expectations. Losing it felt like losing a friend.

Meanwhile, in real life, Jay became a ghost.

He was polite during schedules — composed, professional, the perfect idol. But he avoided your eyes. He stopped lingering after shoots. He no longer brought you coffee or stole glances when he thought you weren’t looking.

The tension was unbearable.

On the fourth night, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You showed up at the ENHYPEN dorm building after midnight, heart pounding, and texted him:

you

we need to talk. I’m outside.

Ten minutes later, Jay appeared at the side entrance, wearing a black hoodie pulled low over his eyes. He looked exhausted — dark circles, tense shoulders, the golden boy mask nowhere to be found.

He didn’t say anything. He just grabbed your hand and pulled you inside, leading you to a quiet practice room on the lower floor.

The second the door closed, the dam broke.

“Why did you disappear?” you asked, voice shaking. “After everything we talked about… after all those nights where you told me things… after i told you i liked both versions of you... you just vanished.”

Jay ran a hand through his hair, pacing.

“Because I’m terrified,” he admitted, voice raw. “I built that account so I could be honest without consequences. So I could feel things without everyone expecting me to be perfect Park Jongseong. And then I found out the person I was falling for online… was the same girl who calls me emotionally unavailable in real life.”

He stopped pacing and looked at you, eyes glassy.

“I was scared that once you knew it was me, you’d realize the online version was the real one. The dramatic, anxious, messy one who stays up until 4 a.m. writing paragraphs about Max Verstappen. And that you’d prefer the version of me that’s easy to argue with but hard to love.”

His voice cracked.

“I didn’t want to lose you in both worlds.”

The confession hung heavy in the air.

You stepped forward and took his hands.

“I don’t want the perfect idol,” you said softly. “I want the boy who argues with me about strategy at 4 a.m. The one who sends voice notes when he’s overwhelmed. The one who notices everything but thinks no one notices him.”

Jay smiled — small, real, and full of relief.

The secret account was no longer needed.

Because the person he trusted most with his vulnerable heart was finally holding it in real life.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out desperate and raw. “I’ve been falling for you for months and I’m so fucking scared that now you know everything, you’ll leave.”

He stepped closer, eyes glassy and intense.

“So tell me,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Tell me if this means something to you. Because I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t destroy me every time I see you and can’t touch you like I want to.”

The confession hung heavy in the air.

You closed the distance again and kissed him.

It was messy. Desperate. Full of months of hidden tension, late-night voice notes, and unspoken feelings finally given permission to exist. Jay groaned against your mouth, hands framing your face as he kissed you like he was terrified this was the last time.

The kiss quickly turned heated. Jay backed you against the mirrored wall, hands sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist like he needed to feel you were real. Clothes were shed in a frantic blur — his hoodie, your shirt, pants pushed down just enough.

“Can I have you?” he breathed against your neck, voice wrecked. “Please. I need you right now.”

You nodded.

He lifted you against the mirror, thrusting inside you in one deep stroke. Both of you moaned loudly at the feeling. Jay fucked you hard and desperate, hips snapping with months of pent-up emotion, one hand gripping your thigh, the other braced beside your head on the glass.

“Fuck— you feel perfect,” he gasped, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted you. All of you.”

You switched later, pushing him down onto the floor and riding him slow and deep while he looked up at you with glassy, adoring eyes. His hands gripped your hips tightly, but his touch was reverent.

“I love you,” he choked out, voice breaking as pleasure built. “I love you so much it hurts. Don’t leave me. Please don’t ever leave me.”

You came together, clinging desperately as waves of pleasure crashed over you both. Jay held you tightly afterward, refusing to let go, face buried in your neck as quiet tears slipped down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry I hid,” he whispered. “I was scared the real me wouldn’t be enough.”

You kissed his temple, stroking his back gently.

Jay let out a shaky, relieved breath to your touch and held you closer.

The secret was gone and the love — raw, messy, and real — was finally free.

-----

The weeks after the confession were a beautiful, chaotic mess.

Jay no longer had the anonymous account to hide behind, so he had to learn how to be honest in real life. It wasn’t easy. The polished, emotionally guarded idol had spent years perfecting distance. Now he was trying to let someone in completely.

But he tried.

He started small.

During schedules, he’d find quiet moments to pull you aside — not for stolen kisses (though those still happened), but for real conversations. After a long filming day, he’d sit with you in the van, head on your shoulder, voice low as he admitted when he felt overwhelmed.

“I was scared today,” he whispered during one late-night drive. “The choreographer kept correcting me. I felt like I was failing everyone.”

You squeezed his hand. “You’re not failing. You’re human.”

He looked at you with soft, grateful eyes and kissed your knuckles.

The public side was trickier.

Jay became proudly possessive in a way that made fans and staff raise eyebrows. He’d casually drape an arm around your shoulders during group photos, pull you closer when other idols or staff got too friendly, and send you private texts during lives that made you blush.

One night after a concert, he found you backstage and immediately wrapped himself around you, face buried in your neck.

“Too many people touching you today,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “I don’t like sharing.”

You laughed softly and ran your fingers through his damp hair. “You’re such a menace.”

“Your menace,” he corrected, pressing a kiss to your collarbone.

The dates were a mix of chaotic and sweet.

Late-night drives after concerts — windows down, music loud, his hand on your thigh as he sang along dramatically just to make you laugh.

Quiet studio nights — him falling asleep on the couch while you worked, then waking up to pull you into his lap for slow, sleepy kisses that turned heated.

Coffee runs at 2 a.m. — him showing up with your favorite order, eyes tired but smile bright, sitting with you while you edited content and ranting about racing strategy like it was therapy.

The relationship wasn’t perfect.

Jay still had moments of insecurity. He’d get quiet when schedules got overwhelming. He’d overthink small things. But now he told you instead of disappearing.

One night, after a bad day, he showed up at your door with puffy eyes.

“I felt like I wasn’t enough today,” he admitted, letting you pull him inside. “The company kept saying I needed to smile more. Perform better. Be more.”

You held him tightly.

“You’re already more than enough,” you whispered. “Exactly as you are.”

He cried in your arms that night — not from sadness, but from relief.

And when the tears stopped, he made love to you slow and deep, whispering how much he loved you with every thrust, every kiss, every touch.

The anonymous account was officially retired.

Jay deleted it one quiet night, sitting beside you in bed.

“I don’t need it anymore,” he said softly, leaning his head on your shoulder. “I have you. The real version is better than any secret.”

You kissed his temple.

He blinked.

Then, for the first time anyone had probably ever seen, the corners of his mouth twitched upward — a tiny, awkward, almost-smile.

He didn’t say anything else.

But when you both finished feeding them and stood up, he walked beside you toward the school gate without being asked.

The walk was silent.

But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

And when you reached the main road, Riwoo stopped, ears slightly red.

“…I’ll walk you home,” he muttered, not looking at you. “It’s getting dark.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he said, already falling into step beside you. “I want to.”

That was the beginning.

Not of a friendship.

Not yet.

Just the start of Riwoo — the scary delinquent everyone feared — becoming completely, hopelessly attached to the one girl who wasn’t scared of him at all.

He started walking you home every day after that.

He never asked. He just… appeared.

Sometimes he was leaning against the school gate on his motorcycle, helmet under his arm, glaring at anyone who looked at you too long. Sometimes he was waiting by the shoe lockers, hands in his pockets, hood up like he was trying (and failing) to look casual.

You never minded.

At first, the walks were silent. He’d carry your bag without a word, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. When you tried to take it back, he’d just give you a flat look and keep walking.

“It’s heavy,” he’d mutter. “I’ve got it.”

You learned quickly that arguing with him was useless.

So you let him.

The snacks started next.

One afternoon, he shoved a small carton of your favorite strawberry milk into your hands without looking at you.

“…Found it on the ground,” he said, ears turning red. “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You just happened to find my exact favorite drink?”

He shrugged, looking anywhere but at you. “Whatever.”

The next day it was your favorite honey butter chips.

The day after that, a small pack of the limited-edition cookies you’d mentioned once in passing.

He always pretended he “just had extras” or “didn’t like them anyway.”

You never called him out on it.

But you started bringing him things too — extra notes from classes he skipped, warm coffee on cold mornings, and once, a small drawing you did of the stray cats behind the gym.

He stared at the drawing for a long time, fingers tracing the lines carefully.

“…Thanks,” he mumbled, voice unusually soft. He folded it gently and put it in his wallet.

The rumors started spreading fast.

“Riwoo’s walking her home every day.”

“Did you see him carrying her bag?”

“I heard he got into a fight because someone talked shit about her.”

You didn’t care about the whispers.

Riwoo did.

One afternoon, a group of girls giggled loudly as you two walked past.

“She’s probably just using him for protection.”

Riwoo stopped walking. His jaw tightened.

Before you could say anything, he turned toward them, eyes sharp and intimidating.

“Mind your own business,” he said lowly. Not loud. Not aggressive.

But the way he said it made them scatter immediately.

You sighed. “You don’t have to do that.”

He looked at you, expression softening just a fraction. “I want to.”

The walk home that day was quieter than usual.

When you reached your house, he lingered at the gate, hands in his pockets.

“…You’re not scared of me, right?” he asked suddenly, voice barely audible.

You smiled gently. “No, Riwoo. I’m not.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes.

Then he nodded once, turned around, and walked away.

But the next morning, he was waiting outside your house again.

This time, he had two helmets.

“Get on,” he said, patting the seat behind him. “I’ll drive you to school.”

You climbed on without hesitation, wrapping your arms around his waist.

Riwoo’s body tensed for half a second… then relaxed.

As the motorcycle roared to life, you felt him exhale like he’d been holding his breath.

He was getting attached.

Fast.

And you were starting to realize you didn’t mind at all.

-----

The rumors continued to spread like wildfire by the end of the week.

“Riwoo and the honor student are dating.”

“She's using him as a bodyguard.”

“I heard he beats up anyone who looks at her wrong.”

You heard the whispers in the hallways. Saw the curious (and sometimes judgmental) stares. But you kept your head high, focused on your studies like always. You didn’t care what people thought.

Riwoo cared.

A lot.

He became even more protective — walking you to every class, waiting outside your classroom door like a silent guard, glaring at anyone who stared too long. He still didn’t say much, but his actions spoke loudly.

One afternoon, it finally boiled over.

You were at your locker when a group of boys from the soccer team walked by. One of them — Minjun, loud and arrogant — smirked as he looked at you.

“So you’re really with that delinquent Riwoo? What, you like bad boys now? Or are you just trying to rebel against your perfect grades?”

His friends laughed.

Before you could respond, Riwoo appeared at the end of the hallway like a shadow. His expression was dark, jaw tight.

He walked straight up to Minjun, voice low and dangerous.

“Say that again.”

Minjun turned, trying to act tough. “What? I’m just saying—”

Riwoo grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the lockers. Not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make a point.

“Talk about her again and I won’t be this nice next time.”

The hallway went dead silent.

Teachers came running. The fight was broken up quickly, but Riwoo still ended up with split knuckles and a warning slip.

You found him behind the gym after school, sitting on the steps feeding the stray cats like nothing happened. His hand was bleeding.

You sighed and sat down beside him, pulling out the small first-aid kit you’d started carrying because of him.

“Give me your hand.”

He hesitated, then held it out without arguing.

You cleaned the cuts gently, wrapping them carefully. Riwoo watched you the entire time, eyes soft in a way no one else ever got to see.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly.

“He was talking shit about you,” Riwoo muttered, looking away. “Couldn’t just stand there.”

You finished bandaging his hand and held it for a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “But I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then, barely audible:

“…I don’t mind getting hurt if it’s for you.”

Your heart skipped.

Riwoo immediately looked embarrassed, ears turning bright red. He pulled his hand back gently and stood up.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said gruffly, already picking up your bag.

The walk was quieter than usual. But when you reached your gate, Riwoo lingered again.

He took off his jacket — the oversized black one he always wore — and draped it over your shoulders without asking.

“It’s cold,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes. “Keep it.”

You pulled the jacket closer. It smelled like him — faint cologne, motorcycle exhaust, and something warm.

Riwoo turned to leave, but stopped after a few steps.

“…You’re still not scared of me, right?” he asked again, voice small.

You smiled softly. “Never.”

-----

The rumors had died down a little, but the stares hadn’t.

Riwoo still walked you home every day. Still carried your bag like it was his personal duty. Still waited outside your classroom with his hood up, looking like a guard dog no one wanted to approach.

You were starting to get used to it.

But other people weren’t.

Especially not Kim Minho — one of the popular guys in your year, captain of the debate team, always smiling like he knew he was charming. He’d been trying to talk to you more lately, especially during group projects.

One afternoon, after class, Minho caught you at your locker.

“Hey,” he said with an easy grin, leaning against the locker next to yours. “You did really well on the presentation today. Smart and pretty — dangerous combination.”

You smiled politely. “Thanks. You weren’t bad yourself.”

He laughed, stepping a little closer. “We should study together sometime. Maybe grab coffee after? I know a quiet café near—”

A familiar presence appeared behind you.

Riwoo.

He didn’t say anything. He just slid between you and Minho, gently but firmly taking your bag from your shoulder and slinging it over his own. His expression was blank, but his jaw was tight.

Minho blinked, surprised. “Oh… Riwoo. Didn’t see you there.”

Riwoo didn’t respond. He just looked at you.

“Ready to go?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, trying not to smile at how obviously sulky he was. “Yeah.”

As you walked away, you could feel Minho’s confused stare on your back. Riwoo stayed close the entire way out of the building, shoulder brushing yours.

“You’re being clingy again,” you teased once you were outside.

“I’m not,” he muttered, ears turning red. “He was standing too close.”

You raised an eyebrow. “He was just asking about studying.”

Riwoo gave you a flat look. “He was flirting.”

You laughed softly. “And that bothers you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept walking, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

When you reached the usual quiet alley shortcut, he suddenly stopped and turned to face you. His eyes were darker than usual, a mix of frustration and something softer.

“I don’t like it,” he admitted quietly. “When other guys talk to you like that. Like they think they can have you.”

Your heart skipped.

Riwoo stepped closer, backing you gently against the wall. Not trapping you — just close enough that you could feel his warmth. His hand came up, hesitating for a second before brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I know I’m not… good at this,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but your eyes. “I’m not like him. I skip class. I look scary. But when I’m with you… I don’t feel like that.”

The air between you felt thick.

He leaned in slowly, like he was giving you time to pull away.

Your noses brushed.

His breath was warm against your lips.

Then, at the last second, he chickened out. He pressed his forehead against yours instead, eyes squeezed shut.

“…I’m bad at this,” he whispered, embarrassed.

You smiled, heart racing. “You’re doing fine.”

He stayed like that for a long moment — forehead against yours, breathing you in — before finally stepping back, cheeks flushed.

“Come on,” he muttered, grabbing your hand awkwardly. “I’ll drive you home.”

You let him intertwine your fingers, his grip tight like he was scared to let go.

Riwoo was getting dangerously attached.

-----

The late-night convenience store runs became your new normal.

It started after a particularly long study session. You were walking home alone when Riwoo appeared on his motorcycle, pulling up beside you without a word. He didn’t ask if you wanted a ride. He just handed you the spare helmet like it was obvious.

You ended up at the 24-hour convenience store two blocks from your house, buying ramyeon and snacks under the fluorescent lights.

Riwoo paid for everything before you could reach for your wallet.

“You don’t have to—” you started.

“I want to,” he said quietly, not looking at you. He grabbed your favorite strawberry milk without asking and added it to the bag.

That became the pattern.

After school, after your academy classes, or even at 11 p.m. when you texted him you couldn’t sleep, Riwoo would show up. Sometimes on foot. Sometimes on his bike. Always ready to walk with you in comfortable silence or sit on the curb outside the store while you ate.

One night, it rained.

You were both soaked by the time you reached the store. Riwoo took off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders without hesitation, even though he was shivering in just a black t-shirt.

“You’ll get sick,” you protested.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

You bought him warm canned coffee and forced him to drink it while you sat on the bench outside under the awning. The rain poured around you as the stray cats slowly appeared, knowing Riwoo would have tuna.

He fed them quietly, one by one, murmuring soft words to the skittish ones until they trusted him enough to eat from his hand.

You watched him, heart softening.

“You’re really gentle with them,” you said.

Riwoo froze, ears turning red. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then reached into his bag and pulled out a small, worn sketchbook. He hesitated before handing it to you.

“…Don’t laugh.”

You opened it carefully.

The pages were filled with delicate pencil drawings — the stray cats, the school rooftop at sunset, a detailed sketch of a motorcycle, and… a few pages of you. Walking home. Sitting in class. Smiling softly while feeding the cats.

They were beautiful. Sensitive. Full of quiet emotion.

“Riwoo…” you whispered, genuinely touched. “These are amazing.”

He looked away, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just something I do when I skip class.”

You closed the sketchbook and handed it back, but not before gently touching his hand.

“You’re not what people think you are,” you said softly. “You’re really kind. And talented. And… soft.”

He stared at you, eyes wide and vulnerable in the glow of the convenience store lights.

No one had ever called him soft before.

He looked down at the cats, voice barely audible.

“…Only with you.”

The next few days, he showed you more pieces of himself.

He let you sit behind him on his motorcycle as he took the long way home, driving slowly so you could enjoy the night air.

He waited outside your academy until 10 p.m. just to walk you home, even when he had early practice the next day.

He started leaving small gifts in your locker — a new set of pens, a keychain of your favorite anime character, a warm scarf “because winter is coming.”

He never admitted they were from him.

But you knew.

One evening, after he’d gotten into another minor scuffle (someone had bumped into you too roughly in the hallway), you patched up his knuckles again on the school steps.

“You don’t have to keep fighting for me,” you said gently.

Riwoo looked at you, eyes serious.

“I know,” he murmured. “But I want to. You’re the only person who sees me like this. Not the delinquent. Not the scary guy. Just… me.”

You finished wrapping his hand and held it between yours.

“I like this version of you,” you whispered.

Riwoo’s breath hitched.

He leaned forward slowly, resting his forehead against yours — the same almost-kiss position from before. His hand squeezed yours tightly.

“I’m bad at saying things,” he admitted, voice rough. “But… I really like being around you. A lot.”

You smiled, heart full.

“I really like being around you too.”

He didn’t kiss you that night.

But he walked you home with your hand in his the entire way, thumb brushing softly over your knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Riwoo was no longer just attached.

He was falling.

Hard.

And you were falling right beside him.

-----

The rumors had evolved.

Now they weren’t just about you and Riwoo “hanging out.” They had reached your parents.

Your mother brought it up during dinner one evening, voice tight with disapproval.

“I heard you’ve been seen with that Riwoo boy. The one who rides a motorcycle and skips class. Is that true?”

Your father set his chopsticks down, looking serious. “We didn’t raise you to get involved with troublemakers. You’re an honor student. Focus on your studies. That kind of boy will only drag you down.”

You tried to explain — that he wasn’t what people thought, that he was kind, that he walked you home to keep you safe.

But they didn’t want to hear it.

“Stay away from him,” your mother said firmly. “We won’t allow it.”

You left the table with a heavy heart.

The next day at school, Riwoo noticed something was wrong immediately.

You were quieter than usual. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes. When he tried to take your bag like always, you hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice low as you walked together after school.

You told him everything — your parents’ words, their warnings, how they saw him as nothing but a delinquent.

Riwoo went very still.

He didn’t get angry. He didn’t argue.

He just looked… hurt.

Quietly, painfully hurt.

“…They’re right,” he muttered after a long silence. “I’m not good for you. I skip class. I look like trouble. You have a future. I don’t want to ruin that.”

You stopped walking and turned to face him.

“Riwoo.”

He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“I should stop walking you home,” he said, voice rough. “Stop bothering you. You deserve someone better. Someone your parents would like.”

The insecurity in his voice broke your heart.

You stepped closer and gently took his hand.

“I don’t want someone better,” you said softly. “I want you. The real you. The one who feeds stray cats. The one who carries my bag even when I don’t ask. The one who draws beautiful things when no one’s looking.”

Riwoo finally looked at you, eyes wide and vulnerable.

“But your parents—”

“They don’t know you,” you interrupted. “I do.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something fragile flickering across his face.

Then he pulled you into a tight hug, arms wrapping around you like he was scared to let go. His face pressed into your hair, breathing shaky.

“…I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. “You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m not just the scary guy.”

You hugged him back just as tightly.

“You’re not losing me.”

But Riwoo started pulling away anyway.

Not completely.

He still waited for you after school, but from farther away. He still walked you most of the way home, but stopped at the corner before your street so your parents wouldn’t see. He still bought you snacks, but left them in your locker instead of handing them to you.

It hurt him.

You could see it in the way his shoulders stayed tense, in the way his sulky jealousy turned into quiet sadness.

One evening, after he’d gotten into another small fight (someone had spread more rumors about you), he didn’t show up at all.

You found him on the school rooftop at dusk, sitting alone with his knees drawn up, staring at the sunset.

He looked exhausted. Defeated.

You sat down beside him without a word.

Riwoo didn’t look at you at first.

Then, quietly:

“I’m trying to do the right thing. To stay away. But it’s hard… when all I want is to be near you.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Then stop trying to stay away,” you whispered.

But he didn't listen.

-----

Riwoo disappeared for two days.

No texts. No motorcycle waiting at the gate. No quiet presence walking beside you after school.

You knew something was wrong the moment he didn’t show up on the third day. After classes ended, you went looking for him — checking the gym where he fed the cats, the alley where he sometimes parked his bike, and finally the school rooftop.

He was there.

Sitting on the edge with his knees pulled to his chest, hood up, staring at the fading sunset like it had personally betrayed him. His knuckles were freshly split again, and his shoulders were shaking slightly.

You approached slowly and sat down beside him.

For a long time, he didn’t speak.

Then, in a rough, broken voice:

“My dad found out about you.”

You stayed quiet, letting him continue.

“He said I’m dragging you down. That I’m a disappointment who’ll ruin your future. That I should stay away from good girls like you.” His laugh was bitter. “He’s not wrong. I’m not good for you. I skip class. I get into fights. I’m the delinquent everyone warns their kids about.”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were red, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before.

“I tried to stay away. I really did. But every time I see you, I forget how to be distant. I forget I’m supposed to be scary. I just… want to be near you.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away angrily, embarrassed.

“I’m so tired of pretending I don’t care,” he whispered. “I care so much it scares me. You’re the only person who looks at me like I’m not a lost cause. Like I’m… worth something.”

You moved closer and gently took his injured hand, holding it carefully.

“You are worth something,” you said softly. “To me, you’re everything. The boy who feeds stray cats. The boy who carries my bag even when I don’t ask. The boy who draws beautiful things when he thinks no one’s watching. I see you, Riwoo. All of you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He stared at you, breathing shaky.

Then he broke.

Riwoo turned and buried his face in your shoulder, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as quiet sobs shook his body. He didn’t cry loudly — he never did — but the way he clung to you like you were the only steady thing in his world said everything.

You held him close, stroking his hair, letting him tremble against you.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, voice muffled against your uniform. “You’re the only good thing in my life. Please don’t listen to them. Please don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” you promised, holding him tighter. “Not now. Not ever.”

He stayed like that for a long time — the scary delinquent everyone feared, falling apart in your arms on the school rooftop as the sun set.

When his breathing finally calmed, he didn’t pull away.

He just held you closer, like he was afraid the moment would end.

The rooftop was quiet except for the distant sound of the city and the soft evening breeze.

Riwoo hadn’t let go of you since his breakdown. He stayed curled against your side, head on your shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he loosened his grip.

You stroked his hair gently, letting the silence stretch.

Then, in a small, shaky voice, he spoke.

“…I think I like you enough to become embarrassed about it.”

You turned your head to look at him.

Riwoo’s cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy and vulnerable as he continued, barely above a whisper.

“I know I’m bad at this. I don’t say things right. I get sulky instead of telling you how I feel. I act like a delinquent because it’s easier than admitting I’m scared. But you… you make me want to try anyway.”

He swallowed hard, ears burning red.

“I like you. A lot. More than I know how to handle. I like walking you home. I like carrying your bag. I like when you patch me up and call me soft even though everyone else thinks I’m scary. I like you so much it makes me stupid.”

He finally met your eyes, terrified but honest.

“So… yeah. I like you. If you don’t feel the same, I’ll stop. I’ll go back to just being the guy who feeds cats and stays out of your way. But if you do… I want to be yours. Even if I’m embarrassing about it.”

The confession hung in the air between you.

You cupped his face gently and kissed him.

Riwoo froze for half a second — then melted, kissing you back with months of hidden longing. His hands trembled as they held your waist, pulling you closer like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

The kiss deepened. Became needy. Desperate.

You ended up on the old bench in the corner of the rooftop, clothes coming off in a rush of hands and soft gasps. Riwoo was everywhere — kissing down your neck, leaving possessive marks on your collarbone, whispering your name like a prayer.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and deep, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked.

“Fuck… you feel so good,” he gasped, voice breaking. “So perfect. Mine.”

You moaned softly, nails digging into his shoulders as he thrust deeper, emotions pouring out with every movement. He was vocal — soft whimpers, broken praises, quiet curses every time you clenched around him.

You switched later, pushing him down and riding him slow and loving. Riwoo’s head fell back, lips parted, eyes glassy with overwhelming pleasure and love.

“I love you,” he choked out, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I love you so much.”

You leaned down, kissing him through it as you moved together — emotional, intense, healing.

He came first with a quiet, overwhelmed sob of your name, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you. You followed right after, holding him through the waves.

Afterward, Riwoo didn’t pull out.

He kept you wrapped around him, arms locked tightly around your body, face buried in your neck as he trembled.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice raw. “For seeing me. For staying. For… everything.”

You stroked his hair gently, kissing his temple.

“I love you too,” you murmured. “All of you. The scary parts. The soft parts. The embarrassing parts.”

He held you tighter, a small, shy smile forming against your skin.

“…I’m going to be really embarrassing about this from now on.”

You laughed softly.

“I’m counting on it.”

-----

Dating Riwoo was secretly the softest kind of chaos.

There were no big announcements or dramatic confessions to the school. It was quiet, private, and entirely yours.

He still waited for you after every class, but now he held your hand (awkwardly at first, then more confidently). He still carried your bag, but now he’d sometimes swing it playfully before giving it back. He still walked you home, but now he’d stop at the corner near your house and steal soft, shy kisses when no one was looking.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you’d tease, smiling against his lips.

He’d turn red and mutter, “Worth it,” before kissing you again.

The dates were small and perfect.

One evening he took you to the quiet rooftop after school. He’d brought blankets, snacks, and even a small portable speaker playing soft music. You spent hours up there — feeding the stray cats that followed him everywhere, talking about everything and nothing, and making out like teenagers who finally had permission.

Another night, he showed up at your house on his motorcycle with an extra helmet.

“Get on,” he said, trying (and failing) to look cool. “I want to show you something.”

He took you to a secluded spot by the river where the city lights reflected beautifully on the water. You sat together on his jacket, sharing earbuds, his arm around your shoulders as the stars came out.

He was still shy about affection in public, but when you were alone, he couldn’t stop touching you — playing with your fingers, resting his head on your shoulder, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

But dating a “delinquent” came with complications.

One afternoon, a group of boys cornered you near the school gate, trying to intimidate you into staying away from Riwoo.

Before you could respond, Riwoo appeared like a storm.

He didn’t yell. He just stepped in front of you, glare sharp and dangerous, voice low.

“Touch her and I won’t be nice.”

The boys scattered.

Later, while patching up his slightly bruised knuckles again (he hadn’t even thrown a punch this time — just the threat was enough), you sighed.

“You can’t keep fighting for me.”

Riwoo looked at you, eyes soft. “I know. But I’ll always protect what’s mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice made your stomach flip.

That night, after he walked you home, you pulled him into the quiet alley near your house and kissed him hard.

The intimacy that followed was heated and emotional.

You ended up in his arms against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust deep and steady, one hand covering your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Mine,” he whispered against your neck, leaving fresh marks. “You’re mine.”

You switched later in his room when he snuck you in after curfew — riding him slow and deep while he gripped your hips, eyes glassy with love and lust.

“I love you,” he gasped, voice breaking as he came hard, holding you like you were his whole world.

You followed right after, collapsing on his chest as he wrapped his arms around you tightly.

He was still a delinquent to everyone else.

But to you, he was just Riwoo — soft, protective, and hopelessly in love.

-----

The school festival was loud and crowded, but Riwoo only had eyes for you.

He stood at the edge of the courtyard in his usual black hoodie, hands in his pockets, watching you help run the art club booth. No more hiding in the shadows. No more pretending he didn’t care.

When a group of students started whispering nearby — the usual “isn’t that the delinquent?” comments — Riwoo walked straight over to you without hesitation.

He slipped his hand into yours in front of everyone.

The whispers got louder.

He didn’t care.

“You done yet?” he asked quietly, voice soft just for you. “I want to walk you home.”

You smiled up at him, squeezing his hand. “Almost. Want to help?”

He nodded, ears turning slightly pink, and spent the next thirty minutes awkwardly helping you organize paintings. He looked completely out of place — the scary motorcycle guy carefully handling delicate watercolor pieces — but he did it with surprising gentleness.

When the booth closed, he took your bag like always and walked you out through the front gate, hand in hand, in front of the entire school.

No one dared say anything to his face.

But the rumors would spread anyway.

Riwoo didn’t mind this time.

That night, he took you to the rooftop again.

The same place where he’d broken down weeks ago. The same place where he’d confessed.

This time, the air felt lighter.

He spread out the blanket he’d brought, pulled you down beside him, and wrapped his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder as you watched the sunset.

“I used to hate this school,” he said quietly. “Felt like everyone had already decided who I was. But then you saw me feeding those cats… and everything changed.”

You leaned back against his chest. “You changed it for me too.”

He was quiet for a moment, then turned you gently in his arms so you were facing him.

“I love you,” he said simply. No hesitation this time. “I’m still bad at saying it, but I mean it. A lot.”

You kissed him softly.

The kiss quickly grew deeper, more heated. Clothes came off slowly under the fading sunset light. Riwoo laid you down on the blanket with careful reverence, kissing every inch of skin like he was still afraid this might disappear.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and deep, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“I love you,” he whispered again with every thrust, voice breaking. “So much.”

You switched later, riding him under the stars while he gripped your hips, moaning your name like a prayer. He came with tears in his eyes, holding you so tightly it felt like he’d never let go.

Afterward, he kept you wrapped around him, still buried inside you, pressing soft kisses to your neck and shoulders.

“I’m not scared anymore,” he whispered. “Not when I have you.”

You stroked his hair, smiling. “Good. Because I’m keeping you.”

Months later, Riwoo still rode his motorcycle.

He still skipped the occasional class (though less often now).

But he also held your hand in the hallways without hiding.

He waited for you after every club activity.

He fed the stray cats with you every weekend.

And when people whispered “delinquent,” he no longer flinched.

Because you looked at him like he was the best person in the world.

The scary delinquent was gone.

In his place was just Riwoo.

You were sitting one computer over, laptop open to an anime episode paused mid-scene, cup of instant ramen in hand. You looked amused, not offended.

“Bold of you to blame your teammates when your positioning is that bad,” you said casually, raising an eyebrow. “You walked straight into that ambush like it was a meet-and-greet.”

Jongseob turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing behind his slightly crooked glasses.

He was used to people recognizing him. Whispering. Asking for photos. Treating him like P1Harmony’s maknae.

But you? You just looked at him like he was any other terrible gamer at 3 a.m.

Before he could respond, both of you reached for the last cup of Shin Ramen on the shared shelf between your stations.

Your fingers brushed.

You didn’t pull away first. Neither did he.

“…You’re watching Jujutsu Kaisen,” he said instead, glancing at your screen.

You nodded, taking the ramen from his hand. “Season three. You have opinions?”

“Terrible opinions,” he deadpanned, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Gojo should’ve ended it in Shibuya.”

You laughed again — bright, easy, and completely unfazed by who he was.

“That’s a take,” you said, tearing open your ramen. “But you're still suck at League. You died six times in the last twenty minutes.”

Jongseob stared at you, half-offended, half-intrigued.

No one talked to him like this.

Not lately.

Everyone else walked on eggshells or treated him like he was made of glass.

But you? You called him bad at the game he was supposed to be good at for fun.

He liked it.

A lot.

“…Fine,” he muttered, turning back to his screen but not really focusing anymore. “One more game. If I win, you have to admit I’m better than you think.”

You smirked, stirring your ramen. “And if you lose?”

He glanced at you again, eyes tired but sparkling with something new.

“Then I buy you another ramen and you tell me why you’re here at 3 a.m. watching anime instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

You smiled.

“Deal.”

That was the beginning.

Not romantic.

Obviously.

Just two tired people in a 24-hour PC café who both happened to like the same anime and terrible decisions at ungodly hours.

Jongseob told himself that as he queued up for another game, secretly hoping you’d keep talking.

It started with one more game.

Then another.

Then another.

By the end of that first night at the PC café, you and Jongseob had exchanged Discord usernames under the excuse of “rematch.” He told himself it was just for the ranked climb.

He was lying.

The next night, at 1:45 a.m., your Discord lit up.

seob

you online?

don’t say no i’m already queued

You laughed softly in your dark room and joined the voice channel. His voice came through — low, slightly raspy, tired in that way only night owls understood.

“You’re late,” he muttered, but there was a hint of relief in his tone.

“Some of us have actual classes tomorrow,” you teased, adjusting your headset.

“Some of us have schedules at 6 a.m.,” he shot back, deadpan. “We’re both losers. Queue.”

What was supposed to be one match turned into four. Then six. Then the sun was creeping up outside your window while Jongseob’s laughter — soft, rare, genuine — filled your ears as you roasted his gameplay again.

“You died because you’re greedy,” you said calmly. “Stop chasing kills like a raccoon with shiny trash.”

He groaned dramatically. “You’re mean. I’m never playing with you again.”

He queued again immediately.

It became routine faster than either of you expected.

Every night after his schedules — whether it was practice, recordings, or interviews — Jongseob would message you the same way.

seob

vc?

Sometimes he’d be quiet, just breathing softly while you talked about your day or whatever anime you were watching. Sometimes he’d rant passionately about game balance or character writing like it was the most important thing in the world.

You learned quickly that behind the deadpan gamer gremlin was someone incredibly observant.

He remembered the name of your favorite character.

He noticed when your voice sounded tired and would switch to a chill co-op game instead of ranked.

He started texting you during the day too.

seob

did you eat dinner

don’t say yes if you had cup ramen again

You sent back a photo of actual food just to mess with him.

He replied with a single thumbs up emoji, but you could picture the small, satisfied smile on his face.

One night, after a particularly long schedule, Jongseob joined the call sounding completely drained.

He didn’t say much. Just breathed quietly while the game loaded.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

A long pause.

“…Tired,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Today was rough. Felt like I couldn’t do anything right.”

You didn’t push. You just stayed on call, talking softly about random things — your terrible professor, the new anime episode, how bad the new map was. Anything to fill the silence.

At some point, you heard his breathing even out.

He had fallen asleep on call.

You didn’t hang up.

You stayed there, listening to him breathe, occasionally humming along to the faint game music still playing, until the sun started rising.

When he woke up two hours later, embarrassed and groggy, the first thing he said was:

“…You stayed?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Figured you needed the company.”

Jongseob was quiet for a long moment.

Then, softly:

“Thanks.”

He didn’t say much else that morning, but from then on, the goodnight texts became more frequent.

And the calls became longer.

He was starting to depend on you — on your voice, your teasing, your calm presence — more than he wanted to admit.

Jongseob didn’t announce it. He just… started appearing more.

It began with the arcade.

You had casually mentioned in a Discord call that your favorite arcade had a new rhythm game cabinet you wanted to try. Two nights later, while you were feeding coins into the machine at 11:30 p.m., someone in a black hoodie, cap pulled low, and mask on slid into the spot beside you.

You glanced over, ready to ignore the stranger.

Then the stranger spoke.

“Your timing on that last note was trash.”

You froze.

“…Jongseob?”

He pushed his mask down just enough to show a mischievous grin, eyes tired but sparkling under the neon lights.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, already swiping his card to join the game. “Move over. I’m carrying you.”

You laughed, half-disbelieving. “You came all the way here in disguise just because I mentioned an arcade?”

He shrugged, ears slightly pink. “I was in the area.”

He was not in the area.

His dorm was on the other side of the city.

But you didn’t call him out on it.

Not yet.

From then on, the late-night routines became even more intertwined.

The Discord calls stretched longer. Sometimes you’d both be playing different games in silence, just existing in the same voice channel. Sometimes he’d join your call while lying face-down on his bed after practice, voice muffled by his pillow.

“Talk about something,” he’d mumble. “Anything. My brain won’t shut up.”

So you’d ramble about your day, your classes, the latest anime episode, whatever came to mind. He rarely responded with full sentences — just soft hums, occasional sleepy chuckles, or quiet “mhm”s.

Until one night he went completely silent.

You kept talking for another ten minutes before realizing he had fallen asleep again, breathing slow and steady through the call.

You stayed on.

Again.

When he woke up the next morning, the first thing he sent was:

seob

…you stayed on call again

you’re weird

But he kept calling you every night anyway.

His members started noticing.

One evening, Keeho walked into the dorm living room while Jongseob was on call with you, laughing softly at something you said about a character’s terrible decisions.

Keeho raised an eyebrow. “Who are you giggling at like that?”

Jongseob immediately straightened up, trying to look nonchalant. “No one. Just… a friend.”

Keeho smirked. “A friend who makes you smile at your phone like a lovesick puppy? Sure.”

Jongseob threw a pillow at him.

But the teasing didn’t stop.

The other members started calling you “the mysterious VC girl” whenever they overheard him saying “join vc” at 2 a.m.

Jongseob denied everything.

Internally, he was spiraling.

Because you had somehow become the first person he wanted to talk to after long schedules. The first person he sent random videos to at 3 a.m. The first person whose voice made the constant noise in his head go quiet.

He didn’t know how to handle that.

So instead of saying anything real, he got clingier.

He started pouting (very dramatically) when you took too long to reply.

He’d send voice messages that were just him sighing dramatically: “You left me on read for thirteen minutes. I’m expiring.”

He’d randomly say “I’m bored” at 1 a.m. which was code for “I miss you but won’t admit it.”

And every time you logged off without saying goodnight, he’d send:

seob

you logged off without saying goodnight

rude.

You teased him mercilessly for it.

But you always said goodnight now.

One night, after a particularly exhausting schedule, Jongseob showed up at the arcade again — still in disguise, eyes heavy with fatigue.

He didn’t play any games.

He just slumped against your shoulder while you played, cold hands sneaking under your sleeves to warm them against your skin.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled sleepily, voice barely audible.

You let him stay there, heart doing something complicated in your chest.

Jongseob was getting dangerously attached.

And the scary part?

You were starting to like it.

-----

The jealousy crept in quietly at first.

Jongseob wasn’t the type to explode. He was more the type to sulk dramatically in voice chat and pretend he didn’t care while very obviously caring.

It started during a late-night ranked session with a group of mutual online friends. One of them — a guy with the username “RivenMain42” — had been playing with you and Jongseob for a few nights. He was loud, cocky, and had a habit of flirting through the mic in that annoying gamer way.

“You’re actually cracked at support,” RivenMain42 said after a good team fight. “Way better than most girls I play with. We should duo sometime, just us.”

You laughed it off casually. “I’m good, thanks. I already have a duo.”

Jongseob, who had been unusually quiet the entire game, finally spoke.

“Yeah,” he said, voice flat and deadpan. “She’s with me.”

The silence in the voice channel was loud.

You raised an eyebrow at your screen, even though he couldn’t see it. “Since when am I ‘with you’?”

“Since you keep carrying my terrible positioning,” he muttered. “Obviously.”

But you could hear the slight edge in his voice. The way he got a little too aggressive in the next fight, like he was taking out his irritation on the enemy team.

After the game ended, the others left the call. It was just the two of you.

“You okay?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.

“I’m fine,” Jongseob replied quickly. Too quickly. Then, after a beat: “He talks too much.”

You smirked. “Are you jealous, Seob?”

“No,” he said immediately, but you could hear him shifting around, probably burying his face in his pillow. “Why would I be jealous? It’s just a game.”

You stayed quiet, waiting.

A long sigh came through the mic.

“…Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted, voice small and embarrassed. “I don’t like when other people try to take my duo spot. Especially not loud idiots who think they’re smooth.”

You laughed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he groaned. “Ignore me. I’m just tired.”

But he didn’t hang up.

Instead, he stayed on call for another two hours, even though he barely spoke. Just the sound of him breathing, occasionally humming along to the game music, like your presence alone was enough to settle him.

The clinginess got worse after that night.

He started texting you more during the day, even when he was busy with schedules.

seob

what are you doing

i know you’re probably watching anime again

u should be studying

you

lol caught me

seob

…save an episode for me pls

He began calling you right after practice, even if it was just for five minutes.

Sometimes he wouldn’t say much. He’d just lie on his bed, phone on his chest, and listen to you talk while he recharged. Other times he’d send you random voice notes that were just him dramatically sighing:

“I had to do the same choreography twelve times today. I’m going to perish. Entertain me.”

You always did.

One night, after another long session, he showed up at the arcade again — still disguised, still pretending it was “on the way.”

This time he didn’t even pretend to play games.

He just slumped against your back while you played, chin resting on your shoulder, arms loosely wrapped around your waist from behind.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled sleepily, cold hands slipping under the hem of your hoodie to rest on your stomach.

You froze for a second, heart skipping.

“Jongseob…”

“Don’t move,” he whispered. “Just… stay like this for a bit.”

You let him.

His breathing slowly evened out against your neck as the arcade lights flashed around you. For someone who spent his life performing, he looked incredibly small and tired in that moment.

When you finally walked him to the back exit (still in disguise), he lingered.

“…Thanks for tonight,” he said quietly. “I don’t know why, but everything feels less heavy when you’re around.”

You smiled softly. “Anytime.”

He looked like he wanted to say more.

Instead, he just reached out and gently flicked your forehead.

“Log on tomorrow. Or I’ll be annoying about it.”

Then he disappeared into the night, hoodie up, shoulders a little lighter than when he arrived.

You were starting to realize that Jongseob wasn’t just clingy.

He was attaching.

Quietly. Desperately. Like you had become his safe place in a world that never let him rest and you didn’t mind at all.

-----

Jongseob had been gone for ten days.

An overseas schedule in Japan — photoshoots, fan meetings, recordings, and back-to-back performances. He’d texted you sporadically, mostly random anime stickers or “I’m alive” at weird hours. His voice notes had grown shorter, more tired.

When he finally came back, he didn’t message you immediately like usual.

That was your first sign something was wrong.

It was 2:19 a.m. when your phone lit up.

seob

vc?

No greeting. No meme. Just that.

You joined instantly.

His voice was rough, barely above a whisper when he spoke.

“Hey…”

“Hey,” you replied softly. “You sound dead.”

A weak chuckle. “Feels like it.”

He didn’t queue for a game. He didn’t even open Discord properly. You could hear him moving around, the faint sound of him collapsing onto his bed.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he admitted after a long silence. “Not just… sleep tired. Everything tired.”

You stayed quiet, letting him talk.

“I smiled for twelve hours straight today. Had to do the same interview three times in different languages. Pretended I was fine when my legs were shaking during soundcheck. Then I got back to the dorm and everyone expected me to keep being energetic Jongseob.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

The vulnerability in his voice hit you hard. This wasn’t the dramatic, pouty Jongseob who sulked over lost games. This was the real one — the one he usually hid behind sarcasm and late-night gaming.

“I’m coming over,” you said suddenly.

He paused. “What?”

“You heard me. Send me the address. I’m bringing food.”

“…You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Twenty-five minutes later, you were standing outside the P1Harmony dorm building wearing a hoodie and mask, holding a bag of warm ramyeon, kimbap, and his favorite energy drink. Jongseob met you at the back entrance in an oversized hoodie, hair messy, eyes tired and a little red.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder. His body sagged against yours like he’d been waiting to do this for days.

“You’re really here,” he mumbled into your hoodie.

“I told you I was coming.”

He held you tighter for a long moment before pulling back, ears pink.

“Come inside. The members are asleep.”

You ended up in his room.

It was surprisingly neat, but you could see the signs of burnout everywhere — empty water bottles, a gaming setup with three monitors, a mountain of snacks he clearly hadn’t touched, and his bed looking like he’d barely slept in it.

You made him sit on the bed while you heated up the food in the small microwave they had.

“Eat,” you said, handing him the ramyeon.

He stared at it for a second, then started eating slowly, like even that was exhausting. You sat on the floor beside his bed, watching him.

“You don’t have to perform right now,” you said gently. “Not with me.”

Jongseob looked at you, eyes glassy.

“I know I’m supposed to be grateful,” he whispered. “I get to do music. I get to perform. People love me. But sometimes it feels like I’m disappearing. Like if I stop smiling for even one second, they’ll realize I’m not who they think I am.”

His voice cracked.

“I’m so scared of not meeting their expectations.”

You moved to sit beside him on the bed. Without thinking, you pulled him into your arms. Jongseob melted instantly, pressing his face into your chest as quiet, exhausted tears slipped out.

You held him through it, stroking his hair, letting him shake silently.

When the tears slowed, he stayed curled against you, voice small.

“…You make everything feel quieter,” he mumbled. “I don’t feel like I have to be ‘on’ when I’m with you.”

You kissed the top of his head softly.

“Good. Because you don’t.”

He fell asleep like that — head on your chest, arms wrapped around your waist, breathing finally steady.

You stayed awake for a while longer, listening to his breathing, wondering how someone so bright could feel so heavy inside.

And how much you were starting to care about helping him carry it.

-----

The hate arrived suddenly.

A short clip from their latest performance went viral — taken out of context. Jongseob had missed a single beat during a particularly difficult formation. In the full performance it was barely noticeable, but the internet clipped it, slowed it down, and turned it into a full-blown narrative.

“Jongseob is losing his touch.”

“He’s dragging the group down.”

“P1Harmony was better before he got too comfortable.”

The comments flooded in. Hate accounts. Edited clips. Even some so-called fans piling on.

Jongseob laughed it off publicly.

In interviews, he smiled brightly and said, “I’ll work harder!” with that charming, youthful energy everyone loved.

Privately, he spiraled.

He stopped replying to your texts for two days.

He stopped joining VC.

He stopped sending his usual 3 a.m. anime memes.

You knew something was wrong the moment the silence stretched longer than usual.

On the third night, you couldn’t take it anymore. You showed up at the dorm building again, this time with snacks and his favorite strawberry milk. The security guard who recognized you from last time let you in after a quiet call upstairs.

You found him on the rooftop.

Jongseob was sitting on the edge, legs dangling over the side, hood up, staring at the city lights below. His shoulders were tense, phone discarded beside him, screen still open to hate comments.

He didn’t look up when you approached.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” he said quietly.

“Neither are you.”

You sat down beside him, close enough that your shoulders touched. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then, in a small, tired voice:

“…Why do people only see the mistakes?”

You stayed quiet, letting him continue.

“I know I’m not perfect. I know I mess up sometimes. But I try so hard. Every day. And one tiny mistake and suddenly I’m replaceable. Like everything I’ve done doesn’t matter.”

His voice cracked.

“I’m so tired of being perceived. Of wondering if people actually like me or just the version they see on stage. Of feeling like if I stop performing… they’ll all leave.”

He laughed bitterly, but it sounded closer to a sob.

“And the worst part? I keep thinking… what if you leave too? When it gets too much. When I’m not fun anymore. When I’m just exhausted Jongseob who can’t even win a stupid ranked game without tilting.”

You turned to face him.

“I’m not leaving,” you said firmly. “Not because of a few dumb comments. Not because you’re tired. Not because you’re human.”

Jongseob finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy, tired, and scared.

“…You’re kinda the only thing lately that feels real,” he whispered. “Everyone else wants something from me. But you just… stay. Even when I’m annoying. Even when I’m quiet. Even when I’m like this.”

You reached out and gently took his cold hand, intertwining your fingers.

“Then let me stay.”

He stared at your joined hands for a long moment.

Then he leaned sideways, resting his head on your shoulder with a heavy sigh. You wrapped your arm around him, letting him curl into your side as the city hummed far below.

For the first time in days, Jongseob’s breathing started to even out.

He didn’t say anything else.

But he held your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him.

That night, you stayed on the rooftop with him until the sky started to lighten.

Jongseob eventually fell asleep against you, exhausted but no longer alone.

You stayed right there, stroking his hair, protecting his peace the same way he was starting to protect yours.

The hate comments were still out there.

But for now, in this quiet moment, they didn’t matter.

Because he had you.

And you weren’t going anywhere.

Jongseob stayed curled against your side for a long time, head on your shoulder, fingers still loosely intertwined with yours. Neither of you spoke. He just breathed — slow, exhausted, like he was finally letting himself exist without performing.

Eventually, he broke the silence.

His voice was rough, barely above a whisper.

“…I think I’m really fucked.”

You waited.

He let out a shaky laugh that didn’t sound funny at all.

“I keep telling myself this is just a phase. That I’m just tired from the schedule. But it’s not just that. It’s everything. The comments. The expectations. The way I feel like I have to be ‘cool maknae Jongseob’ every second or people will get bored of me.”

He swallowed hard.

“And then there’s you.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him.

Jongseob kept his gaze on the city lights, ears burning red even in the dark.

“You logged on every night even when I was being annoying. You stayed on call when I fell asleep. You came here tonight even though I ghosted you for two days. You roast me when I suck at games but you’re also… gentle. When I need it.”

His voice got quieter.

“You’re like my respawn point. Every time I log off from the world and feel like I’m about to crash… I look for you. And somehow I feel okay again.”

He finally looked at you, eyes glassy and vulnerable under the dim rooftop lights.

“I don’t know how to do this halfway,” he whispered. “I’ve never been good at it. Once I care about someone, they become… everything. And I’m scared. Because idol life taught me that people leave when it gets inconvenient. When I’m not fun. When I’m like this.”

A long silence stretched between you.

Then, in the smallest, most Jongseob way possible:

“…So yeah. I think I like you. A stupid amount. Like, ‘I miss you after two hours’ amount. Like, ‘I saved that terrible drawing you sent me at 4 a.m.’ amount.”

He immediately buried his face in your shoulder, groaning.

“Fuck. Forget I said that. I’m tired. I’m not thinking straight. We can pretend this never—”

You cut him off by gently lifting his face.

“I don’t want to pretend,” you said softly, smiling. “I like you too, Seob. Even when you’re a dramatic gremlin. Even when you sulk over voice chat. Even when you show up at my arcade like a stalker.”

His eyes widened, a mix of panic and relief flooding his expression.

“…Really?”

“Really.”

The tension in his shoulders finally broke.

He leaned in slowly, hesitantly, and kissed you.

It was soft at first — tentative, like he was scared you’d pull away. Then it deepened, desperate and needy, months of late-night calls and hidden feelings pouring out. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if making sure you were real.

When you pulled apart, both breathing unevenly, Jongseob rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m still going to be clingy,” he mumbled, half-warning, half-promise.

You laughed softly. “I know.”

“Good,” he whispered, then kissed you again — slower this time, sweeter, like he was finally allowing himself to have this.

You didn’t go back to the dorm that night.

Jongseob quietly led you to a small, rarely used practice room on the upper floor instead — somewhere private, somewhere no one would look for him. The moment the door clicked shut, he was on you again.

Not rushed. Not desperate in a frantic way.

Just needy.

His hands trembled slightly as they cupped your face, kissing you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he stopped. Soft at first, then deeper, more emotional, like every late-night call and unspoken fear was pouring out through his lips.

“I meant it,” he whispered against your mouth, voice rough. “You’re my respawn point. I don’t know how to do this without you anymore.”

You pulled him closer, fingers threading through his messy hair.

“You don’t have to,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”

The couch in the corner of the practice room became your space.

Clothes came off slowly — reverent, unhurried. Jongseob kissed every inch of skin he revealed, like he was memorizing you. When you dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up with adoring eyes, he almost lost his breath.

You took you into his mouth with a soft, needy sound, eyes fluttering shut as you worked him slowly, lovingly. Your hands gripped his thighs like anchors, humming around him whenever he praised you.

“So good,” he whispered, stroking your hair. “You’re so good for me.”

You whimpered at the praise, taking him deeper, tears clinging to your lashes.

When you finally pulled back, lips swollen and eyes glassy, you pushed him gently onto the couch and straddled him, sinking down onto his cock inch by inch. Jongseob’s head fell back with a broken moan, hands flying to your hips.

“Fuck— you feel…” His voice cracked. “So warm. So perfect. Don’t stop.”

You rode him slow and deep, grinding down with every roll of your hips. He was vocal — soft gasps, whimpers, and quiet curses every time you clenched around him. His hands roamed everywhere — your waist, your breasts, your thighs — like he needed to touch all of you at once.

You switched again later.

Jongseob flipped you beneath him, thrusting deep and steady, forehead pressed to yours. Tears slipped down his cheeks as pleasure mixed with overwhelming emotion.

“I love you,” he choked out, voice shaking. “I love you so much it scares me.”

You cupped his face, brushing his tears away with your thumbs.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “All of you. The tired parts. The clingy parts. The gremlin parts.”

That broke him.

He buried his face in your neck and came hard, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you with a quiet, overwhelmed sob. You followed right after, holding him through the waves, clenching around him as pleasure crashed over both of you.

Afterward, Jongseob didn’t pull out.

He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body, trembling as you stroked his back and whispered praises against his hair.

“You’re safe,” you murmured. “You can rest now. I’ve got you.”

He cried softly against your neck — not from sadness, but from relief. Months of exhaustion, fear, and performance finally releasing.

You held him through all of it.

-----

Dating Jongseob was secretly chaotic in the best way possible.

There were no big announcements. No dramatic Instagram posts. Just quiet late-night texts that now ended with “I love you” instead of “goodnight.”

But Jongseob being Jongseob, he was still clingy as hell.

He’d send you voice notes at 2 a.m. from the practice room: “I miss you. Come over in my head and play with me.”

He’d show up at the PC café in disguise just to sit next to you and pretend he wasn’t stealing glances every five seconds.

He’d pout dramatically (in voice chat) whenever you had to study instead of gaming.

“You’re abandoning me for textbooks,” he’d whine. “I’m going to expire. My HP is at 3%.”

You’d laugh and call him dramatic.

He’d pretend to be offended, then send you a selfie of him making the saddest puppy eyes imaginable.

The first real date happened on a rare free night.

He took you to a small, hidden arcade far from the usual spots. Disguised in a hoodie and mask, he still managed to look ridiculously cute. You spent hours playing together — him getting overly competitive at fighting games, you destroying him at rhythm games, both of you laughing until your stomachs hurt.

At one point, after you beat him for the fifth time, he grabbed your hand and pulled you into a quiet corner behind the machines.

“No witnesses,” he mumbled, then kissed you like he’d been waiting all night to do it.

It was messy. Needy. Full of that intense Jongseob energy. His hands gripped your waist, pressing you against the wall as he kissed you deeper, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to do this.

When you pulled back for air, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I still can’t believe you chose me,” he whispered. “The tired, annoying version.”

You smiled, brushing his hair back. “I like the tired, annoying version.”

He kissed you again, softer this time.

But fame made everything complicated.

There were close calls.

Once, a fan spotted him leaving your apartment building early in the morning. The rumor spread fast online. Jongseob laughed it off in a live, but you could see the anxiety in his eyes when he called you afterward.

“What if they find out about you?” he asked quietly. “What if it messes up your normal life?”

You reassured him the best you could.

But the pressure was real.

One night after a particularly stressful schedule, he showed up at your place unannounced, still in his stage outfit under a hoodie. The second the door closed, he was on you.

This time the sex was different — still emotional, but with a possessive edge.

He had you pressed against the wall, hands gripping your thighs as he thrust deep and steady, whispering against your neck:

“You’re mine, right? Only mine.”

You moaned softly, nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes, Seob. Only yours.”

He switched later, letting you ride him on your bed, his hands everywhere — squeezing your hips, playing with your chest, pulling you down to kiss him like he needed you to breathe.

He came with your name on his lips and tears in his eyes, holding you so tightly afterward you could barely move.

“I love you,” he whispered into your skin, over and over. “Don’t get tired of me, okay?”

You stroked his hair, kissing his temple. “Never.”

Despite the chaos of secret dating, the soft moments outweighed everything.

Late-night anime marathons where he’d fall asleep on your chest.

Him bringing you snacks from overseas schedules with little notes attached.

Quiet mornings where he’d show up with breakfast, still sleepy and clingy, refusing to let you out of bed.

And for the first time in a long time, Jongseob was starting to sleep through the night.

Because he finally had someone waiting for him to log back in.

-----

The morning light filtered softly through your apartment window.

Jongseob was curled against your side on the bed, face buried in your neck, one leg thrown over yours like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. His breathing was slow and even — the kind of deep sleep he rarely got before you.

You stroked his hair gently, watching the sunrise paint the room in soft pinks and golds. For once, there were no schedules pulling him away at dawn. Just the two of you, tangled together under the blankets, the faint sound of an anime opening playing quietly from your laptop.

Jongseob stirred after a while, blinking sleepily up at you.

“…Morning,” he mumbled, voice hoarse and adorable.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Morning, Seob.”

He made a small protesting sound but snuggled closer, cold nose pressing against your collarbone.

“Don’t leave yet,” he whispered, half-asleep again. “Stay a little longer.”

“I’m right here,” you reassured him, rubbing his back.

He was quiet for a long moment, just breathing you in. Then, so softly you almost missed it:

“…You’re my favorite respawn point.”

You froze.

Jongseob realized what he said a second later and immediately buried his burning face in your chest.

“Forget I said that. I’m still half asleep. That was cringe. Delete it from your memory—”

You laughed brightly, pulling him up so you could kiss him properly. He melted into it instantly, hands cupping your face like you were something precious.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

“I like being your respawn point,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiled — small, shy, and so genuinely happy it made your chest ache.

Later that afternoon, Jongseob did something no one expected.

During a scheduled livestream with the members, while the others were joking around, he suddenly got quiet. The chat was spamming hearts and questions.

Jongseob stared at the camera for a long moment, ears turning pink.

Then, in his calm, slightly raspy voice:

“Um… I have something to say.”

The members went silent, sensing the shift.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” he continued, voice steady but soft. “For a while now. She’s… really important to me. She makes me feel normal. She stays even when I’m tired or annoying or not performing. So… yeah. We’re dating. Officially.”

The chat exploded.

Keeho nearly fell out of his chair. The other members stared at him in shock before breaking into proud, teasing cheers.

Jongseob just smiled shyly at the camera.

“She’s probably watching right now,” he added, looking straight into the lens. “Thank you for always logging back in. I love you.”

The members immediately started teasing him mercilessly, but Jongseob didn’t care.

He looked lighter.

Free.

That night, he showed up at your apartment again — no disguise this time, just a hoodie and a bright, nervous smile.

“You really did it,” you said, pulling him inside.

He nodded, wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“I didn’t want to hide you anymore,” he mumbled against your hair. “I want everyone to know you’re the reason I can rest now.”

You kissed him deeply, pouring every ounce of love into it.

The sex that followed was slow, emotional, and full of whispered promises.

He took his time worshipping you — soft kisses down your body, fingers and tongue working you open until you were trembling. When he finally pushed inside you, he kept his eyes locked on yours, thrusting deep and steady.

“I love you,” he gasped, voice breaking. “So much.”

You switched later, riding him slow and loving while he gripped your hips, tears of overwhelming emotion slipping down his cheeks.

Afterward, he held you close, still buried inside you, refusing to let go.

“I used to think I had to be perfect to be loved,” he whispered. “But you taught me I can just be me.”

You kissed his temple. “And I love every version of you.”

-----

Months later, Jongseob still gamed at ungodly hours.

But now he had a permanent duo.

He still sent you 3 a.m. anime screenshots.

He still pouted when you had to study instead of playing.

But he also slept better. Laughed easier. Let himself rest without guilt.

And every sunrise, when the world started getting loud again, he’d pull you closer, press a sleepy kiss to your shoulder, and mumble:

“…Don’t log off today.”

You never did.

You noticed him the way you noticed everything — quietly, carefully.

Today, he was laughing with a group of teammates at the counter, ordering enough food for half the table. His smile was wide, eyes crinkling, voice warm as he teased someone about their new haircut. The barista blushed when he thanked her by name.

But when he sat down with his tray, something shifted.

You watched from your corner as he picked at the rice bowl, pushing pieces around with his chopsticks. He laughed at something his friend said, bright and genuine. Then, when no one was looking, he quietly slid most of the food into a napkin and dropped it into the trash on his way to refill his water bottle.

It was smooth. Practiced.

No one else noticed.

But you did.

Your pencil paused on the page.

Felix returned to the table still smiling, still talking, still radiating that effortless sunshine. He took a few small bites, nodded along to the conversation, and eventually stood up with the group, waving goodbye with that same bright energy.

The untouched food sat in the trash like a secret.

You stared at your sketchbook, the half-finished drawing of the café window now feeling incomplete.

You didn’t know why it stuck with you.

But later that afternoon, when you passed him on the quad surrounded by friends, laughing loudly while carrying someone’s bag for them, you couldn’t stop thinking about the quiet way he had thrown away his meal.

Like carrying the weight of being everyone’s sunshine had started to cost him something he didn’t know how to name.

The next time you saw him was in the art building.

You were working late in one of the private studios, door cracked open for fresh air, when Felix appeared in the hallway. He was in his practice clothes, hair damp with sweat, backpack slung over one shoulder. He stopped when he saw the light on.

You looked up from your canvas.

He smiled — that warm, automatic sunshine smile.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re here late.”

“So are you,” you replied, voice quiet but steady. You weren’t the type to chatter, but you weren’t cold either. Just… observant.

Felix’s eyes flicked to your painting — a soft, moody piece of the campus at dusk. Something in his expression shifted, just for a second.

“That’s really beautiful,” he said, genuine this time. No performance.

You nodded, wiping your hands on a rag. “Thanks. Rough day?”

He shrugged, still smiling. “Practice was long. But it’s fine. You?”

You studied him for a moment. The faint shadows under his eyes. The way his shoulders carried tension even when he tried to look relaxed.

“Long day too,” you said simply.

He lingered in the doorway a second longer than necessary, like he wanted to say something else but didn’t know how.

Then he gave you that bright smile again.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he said, tapping the doorframe once before disappearing down the hall.

You stared after him.

The golden boy who took care of everyone.

But who, you were starting to suspect, forgot to take care of himself.

-----

Felix started appearing in your art studio after practice.

At first, it was occasional — a quick knock on the doorframe, that bright sunshine smile, a casual “mind if I sit here for a bit?” while he was still in his practice clothes, hair damp, muscles tired from sprinting.

You never said no.

You were the quiet art student, after all. You liked silence. You liked observing. And Felix, despite being the loudest presence on campus, somehow knew how to sit quietly when he was with you.

He’d settle on the old couch in the corner of the studio, legs stretched out, watching you paint with that gentle, focused expression he rarely showed anyone else. Sometimes he’d bring snacks — “I had extra,” he’d say, even though you suspected he bought them specifically for you. Sometimes he’d fall asleep there, head tilted back, soft freckled cheeks relaxed in a way they never were during the day when everyone expected him to be the golden boy.

You never woke him.

You just kept painting, stealing quiet glances at the way the studio light caught on his hair, the way his chest rose and fell evenly, the way the weight of being everyone’s sunshine seemed to slip off his shoulders only when he was here.

One evening, after a particularly long practice, he showed up with two cups of hot chocolate.

“You looked cold last time,” he said, handing you one without waiting for thanks. His voice was warm, gentle, the kind of tone he used when he was taking care of someone.

You accepted it, fingers brushing his. “You don’t have to keep doing this, Felix.”

He smiled — that bright, automatic smile — but his eyes were tired. “I want to.”

He sat on the couch again, watching you mix colors on your palette. After a while, he spoke softly.

“You’re really good at this. The way you see things… it’s different from everyone else.”

You glanced at him. “Different how?”

He thought for a moment, freckles standing out under the warm studio lights.

“Like you notice the parts people try to hide,” he said quietly. “The cracks. The shadows. Most people only paint the light.”

Your brush paused.

You looked at him then — really looked.

At the golden boy who spent all day giving light to everyone else.

And wondered how heavy that light had become.

-----

The small acts of care kept coming.

He started showing up with your favorite snacks when you had late critiques. He’d quietly refill your water bottle when it got low. He’d leave little notes on your desk when he left before you arrived — “don’t forget to eat” or “the light is nice today, you should paint by the window.”

You teased him about it once.

“You’re acting like a worried mom,” you said, holding up one of the notes with a small smile.

Felix’s ears turned pink, but he just shrugged with that sunshine grin. “Someone has to make sure you’re okay.”

You didn’t know how to tell him that no one had ever done that for you before.

So you let him.

And slowly, without either of you saying it out loud, the art studio started feeling like a shared space.

His practice bag in the corner. Your extra hoodie on the back of the couch for when he got cold after practice. His favorite playlist playing softly in the background while you worked.

One night, after a brutal practice, Felix showed up looking more exhausted than usual. He didn’t say much. Just collapsed on the couch and closed his eyes.

You kept painting.

But when you glanced over twenty minutes later, he was fast asleep, head tilted awkwardly, breathing slow and heavy.

You set your brush down, grabbed the spare blanket from the shelf, and gently draped it over him. Then, almost without thinking, you sat on the floor beside the couch and sketched him — soft lines, gentle shadows, the way his lashes rested against his freckled cheeks when he finally let himself rest.

When he woke up an hour later, he blinked at the blanket, then at you.

“You didn’t have to,” he said quietly.

You shrugged, still sketching. “You do it for me all the time.”

Felix watched you for a long moment, something soft and unspoken in his eyes.

Then he smiled — small, real, not the bright one he gave everyone else.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You didn’t reply.

But you kept the sketch.

And he kept coming back because the art studio had become Felix’s secret refuge.

He never said it out loud. He didn’t need to. After evening practice, when the rest of the campus was winding down or heading to parties, Felix would show up at your studio door with damp hair, tired eyes, and that same warm smile that fooled everyone else.

But you saw the difference.

The way his shoulders dropped the moment he stepped inside. The way he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. The way he kicked off his shoes and curled up on the old couch in the corner without asking — like this space had quietly become his too.

You never minded.

You were the quiet art student. You liked silence. You liked the soft scratch of charcoal on paper, the smell of paint, the way the world felt smaller and safer when you were focused on creating something. Having Felix there didn’t break the silence. It softened it.

Sometimes he’d watch you paint, chin resting on his arms, eyes following every stroke with quiet fascination.

“You make it look easy,” he said one night, voice soft in the dim studio light. “Like the colors just… listen to you.”

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “They don’t always listen. Sometimes I fight them for hours.”

He hummed, thoughtful. “I get that.”

There was something heavy in the way he said it. Like he wasn’t just talking about art.

You didn’t push.

Instead, you handed him a spare brush and a small canvas.

“Try it,” you said. “No pressure. Just mess around.”

Felix hesitated, then took the brush like it was something fragile. His first few strokes were careful, almost shy. Then he relaxed, and the canvas slowly filled with soft yellows and warm oranges — bright, hopeful colors that felt like him.

When he finished, he looked almost embarrassed.

“It’s not good,” he mumbled.

You studied it for a long moment.

“It feels like you,” you said quietly. “Warm. Even when it’s messy.”

Felix looked at you then — really looked — eyes wide and vulnerable in the soft light.

He didn’t say anything.

But he kept the painting.

-----

Felix started falling asleep more often in the studio. You’d find him curled up on the couch after practice, breathing deep and even, the weight of being everyone’s sunshine finally slipping off his shoulders for a few precious hours.

One particularly cold night, he fell asleep with his head on your shoulder while you were both sitting on the floor surrounded by sketches. You didn’t move. You just let him rest there, his hair tickling your neck, his breathing warm against your skin.

When he woke up an hour later, he blinked slowly, confused for a second. Then he realized where he was and sat up straight, ears turning pink.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you said softly. “You looked like you needed it.”

Felix stared at you for a long moment, something complicated flickering in his eyes.

Then he smiled — small, tired, but real.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

He didn’t move away.

Neither did you.

The quiet care between you grew deeper without either of you naming it.

You started leaving a spare blanket on the couch for when he showed up exhausted. He started texting you “did you eat?” even when he was at practice. You started saving the best corner of the studio for him — the one with the softest light.

It felt easy.

It felt safe.

But you were starting to notice the cracks more clearly.

The way he sometimes pushed food around his plate when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his smile faltered for half a second when someone praised his athletic performance. The way he carried the weight of being everyone’s golden boy like it was a responsibility he couldn’t afford to drop.

One night, after he fell asleep on the couch again, you sketched him once more.

This time, you drew the shadows too.

The ones he tried so hard to hide behind that sunshine smile.

And for the first time, you wondered how long he could keep carrying all that light before it started burning him.

-----

The first time you truly saw the cracks, it was late on a Thursday night.

Felix had shown up at the studio after practice like usual, but something was off. His usual bright energy was dimmed. He moved slower, smiled less, and when he sat on the couch, he curled into himself more than normal, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them.

You didn’t ask right away.

You just kept painting, letting the quiet stretch between you like it always did. But every few minutes, your eyes drifted to him.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He was staring at the floor, fingers picking at the hem of his hoodie, jaw tight.

After twenty minutes of silence, you set your brush down.

“Felix,” you said softly. “What’s wrong?”

He looked up, surprised, like he’d forgotten you were there. Then he forced that sunshine smile — the one that usually fooled everyone.

“Nothing,” he said, voice bright but brittle. “Just tired from practice. Coach is pushing us hard for the upcoming meet.”

You studied him.

The faint shadows under his eyes. The way his hands trembled slightly when he reached for the water bottle. The way he kept glancing at the snacks you’d brought but hadn’t touched any.

You stood up and walked over to the couch, sitting on the floor in front of him so you were eye level.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you said quietly. “Not here.”

Felix’s smile faltered.

For a second, the golden boy mask slipped completely. His eyes looked tired — exhausted in a way that went deeper than sore muscles. He looked away, swallowing hard.

“I’m fine,” he whispered. “I have to be fine.”

The words sounded like they had been repeated so many times they’d lost their meaning.

You reached out slowly and rested your hand on his knee. He didn’t pull away.

“You don’t,” you said gently. “Not with me.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then, voice barely audible:

“I threw up after practice again today.”

The confession landed like a stone in still water.

You stayed silent, letting him speak.

“I know it’s bad,” he continued, eyes fixed on the floor. “I know I should eat more. But every time I look at food before a big meet, I just… freeze. Coach says I need to stay lean. The team needs me fast. And if I gain even a little weight, I feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

He laughed, but it was small and broken.

“I’m supposed to be the happy one. The one who cheers everyone up. If they knew I was struggling with this… they’d look at me differently. So I just smile. And run faster. And pretend it’s enough.”

You felt your chest ache.

You moved to sit beside him on the couch and gently pulled him into a hug. Felix stiffened for half a second — like he wasn’t used to being held — then melted against you, face buried in your shoulder.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “Not with me.”

He didn’t cry.

But his breathing was shaky, and his arms wrapped around you like you were the only steady thing left.

That night, he fell asleep on your shoulder again.

You stayed awake, holding him, wondering how long the golden boy had been carrying all that weight alone.

The next few days, you started paying even closer attention.

You noticed how he pushed food around his plate during group meals, smiling brightly while taking tiny bites. You noticed how he ran extra laps after practice when no one was watching. You noticed how he laughed louder when someone praised his speed, like he needed the validation to keep going.

One evening, you brought him a small, carefully packed bento with foods you knew he liked — light but nourishing.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then looked at you with those wide, vulnerable eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.

“I want to,” you said simply. “Let me take care of you too, Felix.”

He ate every bite.

And when he finished, he leaned his head against your shoulder, quiet and grateful.

Little did you know, the jealousy would occur right after.

He never raised his voice. Never made scenes. He just… got closer.

It began the week the track team had joint training sessions with the soccer team. You were there to take photos for the campus sports magazine — your usual quiet presence behind the lens.

One of the soccer players, Chan, was friendly and outgoing. He noticed you during a water break and wandered over with an easy smile.

“You’re the photographer, right?” he asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I’ve seen your shots from last semester. Really good stuff.”

You smiled back, friendly as always. “Thanks. Just doing my job.”

Chan leaned against the fence beside you, chatting casually about the upcoming meet. He was tall, confident, and had that effortless charm that made conversation flow. At one point, he reached out to adjust the strap of your camera bag when it slipped off your shoulder.

Felix, who had been stretching nearby, stopped mid-movement.

You didn’t notice at first.

But then Felix was suddenly there — appearing at your side like a quiet shadow, his hand gently but firmly taking the strap from Chan’s fingers and fixing it himself.

“I’ve got it,” Felix said, voice warm on the surface but with an edge underneath.

Chan blinked, surprised. “Oh, hey Felix. You two know each other?”

Felix’s hand lingered on your shoulder a second longer than necessary. “Yeah. She’s with me.”

The words were casual.

But the way he said them wasn’t.

Chan raised his hands with a knowing grin and backed off. “Got it. Nice to meet you though.”

The second Chan walked away, Felix’s hand dropped from your shoulder. He didn’t say anything. Just went back to stretching like nothing had happened.

But you saw the tension in his jaw. The way his fingers flexed once, like he was trying to shake off the feeling.

You turned to him later, when the field had cleared a bit.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

Felix gave you that bright sunshine smile — the one that usually fooled everyone. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You studied him. “You seemed… tense.”

He shrugged, looking away toward the track. “Just focused on practice.”

But that night, when he showed up at your studio, he was clingier than usual.

He didn’t ask. He just sat on the couch, then slowly leaned over until his head rested on your shoulder, arms wrapping loosely around your waist like he needed the contact to breathe.

You let him.

You always let him.

The clinginess grew after that.

He started showing up at your studio earlier. He started texting you during his breaks: “where are you?” “are you eating?” “don’t stay up too late.”

One afternoon, you were talking with Chan again near the athletic center when Felix appeared. He didn’t say anything rude. He simply slid his arm around your shoulders, pulled you gently against his side, and smiled at Chan — bright, friendly, but with something sharp underneath.

“Hey,” Felix said. “We’re heading out. You ready?”

You hadn’t planned to leave.

But you went with him anyway.

As soon as you were far enough away, you looked up at him.

“You’re getting possessive,” you teased lightly.

Felix’s ears turned pink. He looked away, but his arm stayed around your shoulders.

“I’m not,” he muttered. “I just… don’t like when other guys talk to you.”

The honesty was quiet. Almost shy.

You didn’t push.

But you leaned into his side a little more as you walked.

-----

That night in the studio, Felix was quieter than usual.

He sat on the couch watching you paint, chin resting on his arms. After a while, he spoke softly.

“I know I’m being weird,” he said. “About Chan. About… other people.”

You glanced at him.

He continued, voice small. “I just… I like being the one who takes care of you. The one you come to. And when someone else gets close, it feels like I’m losing that.”

You set your brush down and walked over to the couch. You sat beside him and gently pulled him into a hug.

“You’re not losing anything,” you whispered. “I like when you take care of me. I like being around you.”

Felix buried his face in your shoulder, arms wrapping tightly around your waist.

He didn’t say anything else.

But he held you like he was scared to let go.

And for the first time, you realized how much weight the golden boy was carrying — not just for himself, but for the fear of not being needed.

You held him tighter.

And Felix let you.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered.

You held him closer, one hand stroking gently through his hair.

“I know,” you murmured. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”

Felix made a small, broken sound and clung to you tighter.

You guided him to the bigger couch in the corner. He followed without protest, letting you pull him down until he was lying on his back with you straddling his hips. His hands settled on your waist, fingers trembling slightly.

You leaned down and kissed him.

It was soft at first — gentle, careful, like you were afraid he might break. But Felix made a needy sound against your lips and pulled you closer, deepening the kiss with quiet desperation. His hands slid under your shirt, palms warm against your skin as he explored slowly, reverently.

You undressed each other with trembling hands.

When you finally sank down onto him, taking him inside you inch by inch, Felix’s head fell back against the couch with a broken moan.

“Fuck… you feel so good,” he gasped, fingers digging into your hips. “So warm… so perfect…”

You moved slowly, rolling your hips in deep, gentle circles. Felix’s eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, wide and vulnerable, tears clinging to his lashes.

“I’ve never let anyone see me like this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Never let anyone… take care of me.”

You leaned down, kissing him softly as you rode him. “Let me.”

He came first — with a quiet, overwhelmed sob of your name, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, tears slipping down his freckled cheeks. You followed right after, clenching around him as pleasure washed over you.

Afterward, Felix didn’t let you move.

He kept you wrapped around him, still buried inside you, arms locked tightly around your back as he pressed his face into your neck.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice raw. “For seeing me. For staying.”

You stroked his hair gently, holding him through the aftershocks.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured. “You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.”

Felix held you tighter, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

For the first time, the golden boy let someone carry some of his light.

And you held it carefully — like the precious thing it was.

-----

The next day, Felix had shown up after practice again, but this time he didn’t pretend to be okay. He walked in with heavy steps, shoulders slumped, eyes tired in a way that went far beyond sore muscles. He didn’t say anything at first. He just sat on the couch, knees drawn up, staring at the floor like it held answers he couldn’t find.

You set your brush down and sat beside him.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then, in a small, broken voice, Felix finally said:

“I think I’m losing control.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

You stayed quiet, giving him space. He needed it.

He swallowed hard, fingers twisting in the hem of his hoodie.

“I’ve always been the happy one,” he whispered. “The one who cheers everyone up. The one who smiles no matter what. My coach used to say, ‘Felix, your energy is your greatest weapon.’ So I gave it. All the time. Even when I was exhausted. Even when I felt like I was disappearing.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“When I was sixteen, I had my first big competition. I was the favorite. Everyone expected me to win. But the night before, I got so nervous I couldn’t eat. My coach told me if I didn’t fuel properly, I’d disappoint the whole team. So I forced myself. And I won. But after that… it became a cycle. The pressure got worse. The expectations got higher. Every time I felt full, I felt guilty. Like I was getting slower. Like I was letting everyone down.”

His voice cracked.

“I started skipping meals before meets. Telling myself it was just for performance. Then it wasn’t just before meets. It was every day. I’d throw away food when no one was looking. Smile and say I already ate. Run extra laps to burn it off. And every time someone praised me for being ‘so strong’ or ‘so dedicated,’ it made it harder to stop. Because if I admitted I was struggling… they’d look at me like I was broken. Like the golden boy was a lie.”

Tears slipped down his freckled cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them away.

“I’m so scared,” he whispered. “Of disappointing people. Of not being enough. Of them realizing I’m not the sunshine they think I am. That I’m just… tired. All the time.”

You felt your own eyes sting.

You moved closer and gently pulled him into your arms. Felix resisted for half a second — old habits — then collapsed against you, face buried in your neck as quiet sobs shook his shoulders.

“I’ve never told anyone,” he cried softly. “I didn’t want them to see me as weak. But with you… I don’t want to hide anymore. I’m so tired of carrying it alone.”

You held him tighter, stroking his hair, letting him cry.

“You’re not weak,” you whispered. “You’re human. And it’s okay to need help. It’s okay to let someone carry some of the weight.”

Felix clung to you like you were the only steady thing left in his world.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted, voice muffled against your skin. “The control. The pressure. The fear that if I’m not perfect, everyone will leave.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his face, thumbs brushing away his tears.

“I’m not leaving,” you said firmly. “Not when you’re struggling. Not when you’re tired. Not when you’re not smiling. I see all of you, Felix. And I’m still here.”

He stared at you, eyes glassy and vulnerable.

Then he kissed you.

It was slow. Desperate. Full of everything he’d been holding back. His hands trembled as they slid under your shirt, pulling you closer, needing to feel you.

You let him.

You let him undress you with reverent hands. Let him lay you down on the old studio couch. Let him worship every inch of you with his mouth and fingers until you were moaning his name, back arching off the cushions.

When he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and deep, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked as he moved.

“I need you,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I need this. I need us.”

You wrapped your legs around him, holding him close as he thrust deeper, emotions pouring out with every movement.

He came first — with a quiet, overwhelmed sob, tears slipping down his cheeks as pleasure and years of hidden pain crashed over him. You followed right after, holding him through it.

Afterward, Felix didn’t pull away.

He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body, face pressed into your neck as he trembled.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice raw. “For seeing me. For staying.”

You stroked his hair gently, kissing his temple.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured. “We’ll carry the weight together.”

Felix held you tighter, breathing you in like you were the first real light he’d felt in years.

-----

The championship meet was supposed to be Felix’s moment.

The entire campus had been buzzing about it for weeks. Posters with his smiling face were everywhere. “Golden Boy Felix Aims for Record.” Coaches were confident. Teammates were hyped. Even your art professors mentioned it in passing, asking if you’d be photographing the event.

Felix smiled through all of it.

But you saw the truth.

The way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking. The way he skipped meals more openly now, claiming he was “carb-loading properly.” The way he ran extra laps after practice until he could barely stand.

You tried to talk to him the night before.

“Felix,” you said softly in the studio, holding his hand. “You don’t have to push this hard. One meet doesn’t define you.”

He gave you that bright, practiced smile. “I know. I’m fine. Really.”

He wasn’t.

The day of the meet, the stadium was packed.

You were there with your camera, positioned near the finish line like always. When Felix stepped onto the track, the crowd cheered. He waved, smiling that golden smile, freckles bright under the sun.

But when the gun went off, something was wrong.

He started strong — graceful, powerful, the Felix everyone expected. But midway through the race, his stride faltered. Just slightly. Enough that you noticed.

He pushed through anyway.

Crossed the finish line in second place.

The crowd still cheered.

But Felix didn’t smile.

He bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. When his coach approached, he straightened up quickly, forcing that sunshine expression back on.

You knew better.

You slipped away from the press area and found him later in the quiet locker room corridor, away from cameras and congratulations.

He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, head buried in his arms.

Not crying loudly.

Just… breaking.

Quietly. Privately. The way he always did.

“Felix,” you whispered, crouching in front of him.

He flinched at your voice but didn’t look up.

“I failed,” he said, voice muffled and raw. “I was supposed to win. Everyone was counting on me. And I… I couldn’t even do that.”

You sat beside him on the cold floor and gently pulled him into your arms.

He resisted for half a second — old habits of being strong — then collapsed against you, face pressed into your neck as silent sobs shook his shoulders.

“I’ve been doing this since I was twelve,” he cried quietly. “My coach told me if I wasn’t the best, I was nothing. My parents sacrificed so much. Every time I felt hungry, I told myself it was weakness. Every time I wanted to rest, I told myself I was disappointing them.”

His fingers clutched your shirt like a lifeline.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to be okay with not being perfect. I’m so scared that if I’m not the golden boy… no one will want me anymore.”

You held him tighter, stroking his hair, letting him cry.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you said softly. “Not with me. Not ever. I see you, Felix. The real you. The one who’s tired. The one who struggles. The one who still tries so hard. And I love every part of you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red and vulnerable.

“…You love me?” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, brushing tears from his freckled cheeks.

“I do.”

Felix let out a shaky breath and kissed you.

It was desperate. Emotional. Full of every fear and every hope he’d been carrying alone for years. His hands trembled as they held your face, like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring every ounce of love and reassurance into it.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, Felix whispered:

“I don’t want to carry this alone anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” you promised.

The night after the meet, Felix didn’t want to be alone.

He showed up at your studio door after dark, eyes still red, shoulders heavy. He didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside and let you close the door behind him.

You didn’t ask questions.

You just pulled him into your arms.

Felix melted against you instantly, face buried in your neck, arms wrapping tightly around your waist like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “For falling apart like that. For making you see me like this.”

You stroked his hair gently. “You don’t have to apologize for being human.”

He held you tighter.

That night, the intimacy between you shifted from gentle comfort to something deeper.

You guided him to the old couch in the corner of the studio. Felix followed without resistance, letting you undress him slowly, reverently. His breathing was shaky as you kissed down his chest, taking your time, showing him with every touch that he didn’t have to be perfect here.

When you took him into your mouth, Felix’s head fell back with a broken moan, fingers threading through your hair. He was needy, vulnerable, whispering your name like a prayer as you worked him slowly, lovingly.

But he didn’t stay passive for long.

With a soft, desperate sound, he pulled you up and switched positions, laying you down beneath him. He kissed you deeply as he pushed inside you, slow and careful, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

You wrapped your legs around him, holding him close as he moved — deep, emotional thrusts that felt like healing. Every movement was laced with love, with gratitude, with the years of pain he was finally letting go of.

You switched again later.

You pushed him onto his back and straddled him, sinking down onto his cock with a shared moan. Felix’s hands gripped your hips, eyes glassy with overwhelming emotion as you rode him slow and deep.

“I love you,” he whispered, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I love you so much."

You leaned down, kissing him as you moved, pouring every ounce of love into it.

He came first — with a quiet, overwhelmed sob, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, tears flowing freely now. You followed right after, clenching around him as waves of pleasure and emotion crashed over both of you.

Afterward, Felix didn’t let you move.

He kept you wrapped around him, still buried inside you, arms locked tightly around your back as he trembled. His face was pressed into your neck, breathing uneven.

“I’ve never let anyone see me break like this,” he whispered, voice raw. “Never let anyone help carry it. But with you… it doesn’t feel heavy anymore.”

You stroked his hair gently, pressing soft kisses to his temple.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you murmured. “I’ve got you. Always.”

Felix held you tighter, tears still slipping silently as the weight he’d carried for years finally started to lift.

-----

The spring air was warm and golden the day Felix finally let himself rest.

No big competition. No cameras. No expectations.

Just the two of you at the small skatepark near campus late in the evening, the sun setting behind the trees, painting everything in soft oranges and pinks.

Felix had never been much of a skateboarder. He was a sprinter — all power, speed, and control. But you had brought your board anyway, teasing him until he agreed to try.

You watched as he stepped onto the board for the first time, arms out for balance, freckled cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and determination. He wobbled almost immediately.

You laughed brightly, rushing forward to steady him with both hands on his waist.

“Easy,” you said, grinning up at him. “Small pushes. Don’t fight it.”

Felix looked down at you, eyes soft and warm in the sunset light. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Immensely,” you replied, shameless and bright as always.

He tried again. This time he made it a few feet before wobbling. You caught him, both of you laughing as you tumbled onto the soft grass together. Felix landed on his back with you half on top of him, his arms wrapping around your waist instinctively.

For a moment, you just lay there, breathing each other in.

“I used to think I had to be perfect all the time,” Felix said quietly, fingers tracing patterns on your back. “That if I wasn’t the fastest, the strongest, the brightest… I’d disappear. But with you… I don’t feel like I have to run anymore.”

You lifted your head to look at him, brushing a strand of blond hair from his eyes.

“You don’t,” you whispered. “You can just be Felix. My Felix.”

His eyes shimmered with emotion. He pulled you down into a slow, deep kiss — full of gratitude, love, and the quiet joy of finally being seen.

When you pulled back, he smiled — not the bright, practiced sunshine smile he gave the world.

A real one.

Small. Shy. Yours.

That night, back in your apartment, the intimacy was different.

Softer. Deeper.

Felix let you take care of him completely.

You undressed him slowly, kissing every freckle, every tired muscle, whispering praise against his skin until he was trembling beneath you. When you took him into your mouth, he moaned your name like a prayer, fingers gently threading through your hair.

But he needed more.

He pulled you up and switched, laying you down and pushing inside you with a shared, breathless moan. He moved slow and deep, eyes locked on yours the entire time, tears slipping down his cheeks as pleasure and healing mixed together.

“I love you,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Thank you for carrying my light with me.”

You came together — soft, emotional, overwhelming — clinging to each other like you never wanted to let go.

Afterward, Felix curled into your arms, face pressed against your chest, breathing steady and calm for the first time in years.

“I don’t have to be perfect anymore,” he whispered.

“No,” you murmured, stroking his hair. “You just have to be you.”

He smiled against your skin.

And fell asleep like that — safe, loved, and finally resting.

-----

Months later, Felix still ran.

But now he ran because he loved it — not because he was scared of not being enough.

He still smiled brightly for the crowd.

But he saved the softest, realest smiles for you.

And on quiet evenings, when the weight of the world felt a little too heavy, he would find you — whether in the art studio or on the skatepark grass — and let you carry some of his light.

Because the golden boy had finally learned that sunshine didn’t have to burn alone.

It could be shared.

He played a soft, melancholic song you’d never heard before, the kind that wrapped around your ribs and held tight. Between tracks, HS spoke casually, like he was talking to an old friend.

“Some nights the silence gets too loud, doesn’t it? You smile all day, laugh at the right moments, but when the lights go out… there it is. That feeling like you’re floating in space and no one can hear you. You’re not alone in that. I promise.”

His voice wasn’t performative. It wasn’t polished radio perfection. It felt real. Tired, even. Like he understood the weight of existing.

You listened for nearly an hour, wrapped in your blanket, before something compelled you to call the anonymous line. Your hands shook as you dialed. You didn’t expect him to pick up so quickly.

A soft beep, then his voice — closer now, more intimate.

“Hey… you’re on STATIC. What’s your name tonight?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “Echo.”

“Echo,” he repeated, like he was tasting the name. There was a gentle smile in his voice. “Nice to meet you. First time calling?”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I… couldn’t sleep. Your show helps. You sound like someone who gets it.”

HS was quiet for a moment. The rain continued outside your window.

“I do get it,” he said finally, softer. “Some nights I put on this show because it’s the only time I don’t have to pretend I’m fine. So… what’s keeping you up tonight, Echo?”

You ended up talking longer than you planned. Not everything — just fragments. The pressure of keeping up appearances. The fear that people only liked the easy, smiling version of you. HS listened without interrupting, offering small hums of understanding, never pushing.

“You know,” he said quietly after you finished, “it’s brave to admit when things feel heavy. Most people don’t. They just keep smiling until they break. You’re not broken for feeling this way.”

When the call ended, he played a song you’d mentioned loving earlier and said into the mic, almost like he was speaking only to you:

“For Echo… and anyone else who needed to hear that they’re not too much. The rain will stop eventually.”

You fell asleep with his voice still echoing in your mind.

The next night, you tuned in again.

And the night after that.

STATIC quickly became part of your survival. A secret routine. A voice in the dark that made the loneliness feel a little less sharp.

What you didn’t know was that across campus, in a small broadcasting booth, Lee Heeseung — the charming, slightly mysterious guy from your literature class — sat with headphones on, heart beating a little faster every time a new caller joined.

Especially when it was you.

By the end of the second week, STATIC had become the most important part of your nights.

You’d lie in bed with your earphones in, waiting for the clock to hit 1:00 a.m. The moment HS’s calm, low voice came through, the weight on your chest would ease. He played soft lo-fi, indie, and the occasional nostalgic song that felt like a warm blanket. Between tracks, he spoke like someone who had spent many nights staring at the ceiling, just like you.

Some nights he read anonymous confessions sent in by listeners. Other nights he simply sat in comfortable silence with a song, letting the music speak for him. But the best nights were when callers joined — especially when it was you.

You started calling more often. At first it was once a week. Then twice. Then almost every other night.

“Echo,” HS would say when he picked up, and you could hear the subtle warmth in his voice, like he’d been waiting. “There you are. I was hoping you’d call tonight.”

The conversations grew deeper.

You told him about the pressure of maintaining perfect grades while feeling like you were barely holding yourself together. You admitted how exhausting it was to always be the reliable friend, the one who listened but rarely got listened to. HS never gave generic advice. He shared pieces of himself instead.

“I get that,” he said one night, voice quieter than usual. “Sometimes I feel like I’m performing even when I’m alone. Like if I stop being the version people expect, I’ll disappear. The radio helps with that. No one knows who I am here. I can just… exist.”

You teased him gently. “You sound tired tonight, HS. Rough day?”

He let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. You always notice that, don’t you? Your voice gets softer when you’re worried about me. It’s… nice.”

The line between anonymous caller and emotional anchor blurred fast.

He started tailoring playlists around things you’d mentioned. One night he played a song you said reminded you of home. Another night, after you told him you were stressed about an upcoming presentation, he opened the show with a gentle instrumental and said, “For anyone carrying too much tonight… this one’s for you.”

Listeners began noticing.

Comments flooded the anonymous submission box: “HS and Echo have insane chemistry.” “Are they flirting?? This is better than any romance podcast.” “HS sounds happier when Echo calls.”

HS never confirmed or denied it. But you could hear the shift in his voice whenever you called — lighter, more present, like your voice alone made the night easier for him too.

Meanwhile, in real life, you barely interacted with Lee Heeseung.

He was in your literature class, always a few rows behind you. He was popular in that effortless way — good-looking, friendly, always surrounded by people, but somehow still seemed a little distant. You’d exchanged polite smiles and the occasional “hi” when you passed each other, but nothing more.

You had no idea that the same Heeseung sat in the broadcasting booth every night, heart skipping every time your voice came through the line.

One night, after a particularly vulnerable call where you admitted how scared you were of being forgettable, HS stayed on the line even after the official segment ended.

“You’re not forgettable, Echo,” he said softly, off-air. “At least not to me. I look forward to your calls more than I probably should.”

Your heart fluttered dangerously.

“I look forward to talking to you too,” you whispered.

The silence that followed felt intimate. Loaded.

Heeseung, sitting alone in the dim studio with headphones on, closed his eyes and smiled to himself — a small, private smile no one else got to see.

Neither of you knew it yet, but you were already falling.

Not for a face.

But for a voice in the dark that made the loneliness feel shared.

-----

The realization hit Heeseung like a quiet car crash.

It was a ordinary Tuesday afternoon on campus. The sky was overcast, the kind of gray that made everything feel muted. Heeseung was walking to his literature class, earphones in but no music playing — just habit. His mind was still half on last night’s STATIC episode, replaying the way your voice (Echo’s voice) had sounded when you called.

Then he heard it.

A laugh.

Clear, warm, and slightly shy — the exact same laugh he’d grown addicted to hearing through his headphones at 1 a.m.

Heeseung froze mid-step in the middle of the pathway.

You were standing a few meters away with a small group of friends outside the arts building, laughing at something one of them said. The sound was unmistakable. That soft, genuine laugh you let out when you were relaxed — the one you’d given him on air two nights ago when he’d made a dry joke about insomnia.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

No. No way.

He stood there, completely still, staring at you like he’d seen a ghost. You looked… normal. Just a girl from his literature class. Someone he’d noticed before because you were pretty and sharp-tongued during discussions, but never someone he thought he knew.

But that laugh — it was you.

Echo was you.

You were Echo.

The girl he’d been slowly falling in love with through late-night conversations, the one who challenged him, teased him, and made the long nights feel less empty… was the same person who sat three rows ahead of him in class.

Heeseung felt the ground shift under his feet.

All this time, he had been talking to you. Telling you things he’d never told anyone. Letting his guard down completely because he thought it was safe. Anonymous.

And now the anonymity was gone.

You glanced up casually and caught him staring. Your eyes met for a brief second. You offered a small, polite smile — the kind acquaintances give each other — and then turned back to your friends.

Heeseung couldn’t move.

His mind was spiraling.

She’s Echo. She’s the one who said she feels forgettable. She’s the one who laughed when I said I talk to the moon some nights. She’s the one I stayed on air for after the show ended.

He felt exposed in a way he’d never experienced before.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. In literature class, he sat in his usual spot behind you, but everything felt different. He noticed how you tapped your pen when you were thinking. How you bit your lip when you were focused. How your voice sounded in real life — softer, less confident than when you called into the show.

You had no idea.

But Heeseung couldn’t stop watching you.

After class, he found himself walking the same direction as you, even though his dorm was the opposite way. When it started drizzling, he instinctively wanted to offer you his umbrella — the same protective instinct he felt every time you sounded tired on the radio.

He stopped himself just in time.

That night, during STATIC, Heeseung was quieter than usual.

He played slower songs. Spoke less. And when you called in near the end of the show, he had to steady his voice before answering.

“Echo,” he said, and even he could hear the slight tremble. “You’re here.”

“Yeah,” you replied, sounding a little shy. “Missed last night. Did you notice?”

Heeseung closed his eyes, leaning back in the broadcasting chair.

“I always notice,” he admitted softly, too honest for his own good. “The nights you don’t call feel… longer.”

The line went quiet for a moment. Then you laughed — that same laugh he’d heard on campus earlier.

His heart clenched painfully.

You were right there. Real. Breathing. Existing in the same world as him. And he couldn’t tell you.

From that moment on, everything changed for Heeseung.

In real life, he started gravitating toward you without meaning to.

He saved the seat next to him in literature class “by accident.” He lingered after lectures, hoping to walk out at the same time as you. He found excuses to talk to you — small things like asking about the reading or commenting on the weather.

You were confused by the sudden attention from the usually distant Lee Heeseung, but you didn’t mind it. He was charming, easy to talk to, and strangely familiar in a way you couldn’t place.

Meanwhile, Heeseung was slowly losing his mind.

Every time you laughed in class, his chest ached with recognition. Every time you said something sharp and witty, he heard Echo. Every time you looked tired, he wanted to ask if the rain had kept you up again — the exact question he’d asked you anonymously two nights ago.

The secret was eating him alive.

And the worst part?

He was falling even harder now that he knew it was you.

He was spiraling, and no one could see it but him.

In the broadcasting booth every night, he was still HS — calm, comforting, emotionally open in that quiet way that made listeners feel seen. But now that he knew Echo was you, everything felt different. Every word he said on air carried an extra weight. Every time you called in, his heart raced in a way it never had before.

He started tailoring the show even more obviously around you.

One night, after you’d mentioned in class that you were stressed about an upcoming paper, he opened STATIC with a soft piano track and said gently into the mic:

“For anyone burning the midnight oil on assignments… remember to breathe. You’re doing better than you think you are.”

You called in later that night.

“HS,” you said, voice soft and amused, “are you okay? You sound like you’re personally worried about someone’s paper deadline.”

Heeseung smiled in the dim booth, even though you couldn’t see it. “Maybe I am. Some people work too hard and forget to rest. You sound tired tonight, Echo.”

You laughed that familiar laugh. “How do you always know?”

“Because I listen,” he answered quietly. “I always listen to you.”

-----

The line between HS and real-life Heeseung was blurring dangerously.

In class the next day, Heeseung could barely focus. You were sitting three rows ahead, tapping your pen against your notebook just like you did when you were anxious on the radio. Without thinking, he leaned forward during a group discussion and slid a half-finished coffee toward you.

“You look like you need this more than I do,” he said casually when you turned around, surprised.

You blinked at him. “Thanks… Heeseung.”

The way you said his name made his chest tighten. You’d never really spoken to him much before, but now he was noticing everything — the way your eyes softened when you thanked him, how your shoulders relaxed slightly after taking a sip of the coffee.

He was becoming painfully obvious.

He started walking you to your next class “by coincidence” more often. He’d linger near your usual spot in the library, pretending to browse books while actually making sure you weren’t pushing yourself too hard. One evening when it started raining after class, he appeared beside you with an umbrella before you could even open your phone to check the weather.

“You always forget your umbrella when it rains,” he said, holding it over both of you.

You stared at him, eyebrows furrowed. “How did you know that?”

Heeseung froze for half a second, realizing his mistake. On the radio two nights ago, you (as Echo) had complained about always forgetting your umbrella.

He recovered with a smooth smile. “Lucky guess. You just seem like the type.”

But you were starting to notice how… familiar he felt.

The way he said certain phrases. The way he remembered tiny details. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you — eerily similar to HS.

One night after a long study session, Heeseung offered to drive you back to your dorm. You accepted, too tired to walk. Sitting in his car, the same calm lo-fi music he often played on STATIC was quietly playing through the speakers.

You glanced at him. “This song… it sounds familiar.”

Heeseung’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Yeah. It’s a good one for late nights.”

When he pulled up to your building, he didn’t drive off right away. He turned to you, eyes soft in the glow of the dashboard lights.

“You’ve been working really hard lately,” he said gently. “Make sure you rest, okay? The world won’t end if you take a break.”

The words were almost identical to something HS had said to you on air three nights ago.

You stared at him for a long moment, a strange flutter in your chest. “Why are you being so nice to me lately, Heeseung?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something vulnerable there — almost scared.

“Because I want to,” he answered simply. “Is that okay?”

You nodded slowly, heart beating faster than it should. “Yeah… it’s okay.”

Heeseung watched you walk into your building, then sat in his car for a long time afterward, forehead pressed against the steering wheel.

He was falling in love with you twice.

Once as HS, through late-night voices in the dark.

And now, painfully, as himself — terrified that when you finally connected the dots, you might not want the real version of him at all.

-----

The rain was pouring again.

It felt like the universe was mocking Heeseung — constant rain, constant late nights, constant ache in his chest every time he heard your voice. That night’s STATIC episode had been heavier than usual. You (as Echo) had called in sounding exhausted and small, talking about how sometimes it felt like you were screaming into the void and no one was listening.

Heeseung had stayed on the line with you long after the official segment ended, voice gentle and careful.

“I’m listening,” he had whispered. “I always am.”

After the show, he couldn’t sit still. He drove around campus aimlessly until he saw you walking alone under the rain, hood up, earphones in — probably listening to a replay of the show.

He pulled over without thinking.

You looked up, startled, then relaxed when you saw it was him. Heeseung leaned over and pushed the passenger door open.

“Get in,” he said softly. “You’re going to get sick.”

You climbed in, dripping water onto the seats just like the first night he’d driven you home. Only this time, the air between you felt completely different. Charged. Heavy with everything unsaid.

Instead of driving you straight to your dorm, Heeseung took the familiar route to the quiet riverside parking lot. The rain hammered against the roof of the car as he parked, the city lights blurring through the windshield.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Then Heeseung turned to you, eyes dark and intense in the low light.

“I hate when you sound like that,” he admitted, voice rough. “Like you’re carrying the world alone.”

You looked at him, heart racing. Something in his tone felt too familiar. Too much like HS.

Before you could overthink it, Heeseung reached over and gently cupped your face, thumb brushing a raindrop from your cheek. The touch was so tender it made your breath hitch.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It was slow, deep, and full of months of hidden longing — from both sides. You kissed him back instantly, fingers threading into his damp hair as the rain poured harder outside.

Clothes were shed between desperate kisses. Heeseung pulled you into his lap, the driver’s seat pushed back as far as it would go. His hands roamed your body with reverence, like he’d been dreaming about touching you for weeks.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against your neck, sucking a mark into your skin as he helped you sink down onto him.

The stretch was perfect. Heeseung groaned deeply, forehead pressed to yours as he filled you completely. For a moment, he just held you there, breathing shakily.

“Fuck… you feel like home,” he whispered.

Then he started moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips that made you moan softly against his mouth. The rain created a private cocoon around the car, the windows fogging up as he made love to you with heartbreaking tenderness.

Every thrust felt meaningful. Heeseung kept one hand on your hip, the other gently holding the back of your neck, eyes locked on yours even in the darkness.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “So perfect. I’ve wanted you for so long… both versions of you.”

You didn’t fully register his words through the pleasure, but they sank into your heart anyway. You rode him slower, grinding down deep, savoring every sensation. Heeseung’s praises never stopped — soft whispers of how good you felt, how much he needed you, how he never wanted to let you go.

When you came, clenching around him with a broken moan of his name, Heeseung followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a quiet, shuddering groan.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull out. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, holding you against his chest as the rain continued to fall. His heartbeat was frantic under your cheek.

Heeseung pressed soft kisses to your temple, your forehead, your hair — overwhelmed with emotion now that he’d finally crossed the line.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into the quiet. “Always.”

You stayed like that for a long time — tangled together in his car, rain blurring the outside world, hearts beating in sync.

Neither of you knew how much more complicated everything was about to become.

The jealousy consumed Heeseung whole.

It began with a new regular caller — a guy who called himself “Nocturne.” His voice was smooth, confident, and a little too flirtatious. He started calling more frequently, always during segments when you (Echo) were likely to be listening. He’d compliment your insights, tease you playfully, and linger on the line longer than necessary.

One night, Nocturne went further.

“Echo, you have the prettiest voice I’ve ever heard on this show,” he said smoothly. “HS is lucky he gets to talk to you every week. If I had your number, I’d be calling you outside the radio too.”

You laughed softly, a little flustered. “You’re bold tonight, Nocturne.”

Heeseung, sitting alone in the broadcasting booth, felt something ugly twist in his stomach. His hand tightened around the mic stand. For the first time in months, his usual calm radio persona cracked.

He interrupted faster than he meant to.