Sunny

Meanwhile, on the other side of Awa'atlu, Lo'ak is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Not even an hour ago he was dreaming about riding his ilu into a sunset. He was ruthlessly woken up by a loud thud echoing in the open room of his home. His body instantly on alert as he jumped to his feet, hand on the closest object in his reach, ready to fight. Thought, he was not met with an intruder, but a very stressed Ao'nung.

He has long since given up. Now mindlessly listening to his friend's rambling. Ao'nung's moves are erratic, with quick steps, he paces around, avoiding the messy piles of garments scattered across the floor. Each of his hand holding a different chest guard. To Lo'ak, they both look pretty much the same.

"This one makes my chest look bigger." Ao'nung points out, holding up the sturdy piece in his right hand.

"But this one shows off my tattoos more". His bare eyebrows knit together as he studies the piece in his left hand.

Lo'ak lets out a loud heavy sigh, palms slapping against his face in frustration. Now sitting up, he looks at his friend. He's had just about enough.

"Bro." Annoyance evident in Lo’ak’s voice as he continues,

"I promise you, she is not going to care."

Ao’nung looks at him for a brief moment. No words coming out of his mouth. Lo’ak swears he can almost see the gears turning in his head.

Ao’nung’s head snaps to his left hand, eyeing the item he’s holding. His lips softly parted as he prepares to speak.

“You are right, this one is better”. He finally says, not even acknowledging Lo’ak’s words. Clearly lost in his own thoughts.

“She likes my tattoos.” He states, a small smirk forming across his face, his chest puffed up. And with two long strides, he’s gone, leaving behind a confused Lo’ak.

The day before, you asked Ao’nung to join you for your morning swim. Unlike him, you like to start your day early, when the waters of your village are still calm. Ao’nung couldn’t say no, not like he even wanted to, always eager to be in your presence. That night he couldn’t sleep. He felt like a child the day before completing the rite of passage. Excited, yet terrified. He kept tossing around in his hammock, his mind loud.

Sweaty palms adjusting the chest guard, he makes his way to the reef pools. He can see your diving form in the distance, your strong tail swaying, letting the currents guide you as the water glimmers around you. His heartbeat quickens when he gets closer. You resurface, small droplets of water adorning your skin. Your hand holding a small pearl you must have found during your dive. Tsireya's right next to you, admiring the delicate gem.

“Pretty.”

You hear his low voice before you see him. You look up, ears folded down, eyes glued to his broad frame. Years of training reflecting on his body.

You think his words must have been directed at the small gem in palm.

Your body reacts sooner than your mind can catch up.

“You keep it”. You say, thrusting the pearl into his hand. You give him no time to react when you dive back in the water. Your tail splashing him in the process. He lets out a quiet chuckle at your antics. He puts your small gift into the pouch attached to his hip. Keeping it safe as he dives right after you.

The sun is soft against your warm skin, your body relaxed as you lay in the cool salty water of the shallow reef pool, creating a perfect contrast. Leaned back and propped on your arms, you are listening to Tsireya, who is animatedly telling you about the date Lo'ak took her on.

"...and there was this underwater cave, I couldn't believe my eyes" Tsireya goes on, eyes wide, arms moving in the air as to help her express her joy.

You listen patiently, but every so often, your attention drifts towards the heavy arm lying next to you.

Ao'nung sits behind you, his presents calm yet strong. His body drifting closer to yours with every passing second. Tsireya's words fade into the background as his mind is solely occupied by you. Fingers idly playing with the ends of yours braids, his tail thumping in satisfaction. Eyes drifting over you smooth skin, his gaze fixed on the faint freckles sprinkled across your shoulder. What if he just leaned a little closer.

"I have to go." Tsireya says, standing up.

"I will see you later?" She adds with an honest smile, the question directed at you. You give her a faint nod, and with that, she leaves.

The water around you stirs softly, Ao’nung moves, now kneeling in front of you.

“You want me to stay or should I leave?” Unsure whether you want to be alone with him or not. The question is genuine, giving you the space to decide. His ears folded down, tail low.

You look at him. Letting the question linger in the air, you say nothing.

Not wanting to make you uncomfortable, he slowly shifts, ready to stand up.

Your hand reaches out, swiftly catching his bicep, fingers tightly gripping the muscle.

“Stay.”

“Please”. You beg with a whisper.

He surrenders to your touch, letting you pull him closer. His hands and knees in the water as he slowly crawls to you. Your noses almost touching, he studies your face. His eyes staring into yours, he notices the slight blush on your cheeks.

Your hand cups the back of his neck and you guide him to rest his head on your chest. Careful not to put too much weight on you, his body relaxes against yours. The heaviness grounding you.

The water around you stills as you embrace each other.

Your arm lies across his broad back as your finger tips softly brush his side. The gentle drag of your nails along his ribs sending shivers through his body.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep, slow breath, savoring this sweet moment. His soul satisfied with the newfound proximity.

it all started two months ago, when the exact same formation was assembled to delude jeongin into sending you a follow request on instagram. it was, by far, the longest three hours of his life.

after arguments ("HE'S GOING TO SOUND DESPERATE"), insults ("maybe she's into guys who have a bit of loser in them!"), and a near mental-breakdown ("GUYS SO YES OR NO" "YES!" "NO!"), the poor ginger-haired boy was as conflicted as ever to press the not-so-simple blue button.

it's not like you were strangers either — he's definitely made eye contact with you upwards of five times in class! he was basically halfway there! you were falling in love with his charms for sure...

right when jeongin was about to give up and shut down his phone for the day, a notification brought him out of his misery. [@ your name] has requested to follow you.

and the crowd goes WILD!!

claps on the back, wiping fake tears from their faces as the seven other boys embraced one another, as if they were the ones who manifested this absolute alignment of the universe.

jeongin didn't care, nor did he notice, as he was taking a million screenshots of the screen before the notification disappeared. finally liberated from the fear of being accused of instagram stalking, he confirmed your follow and followed you right back — not caring about jisung's protests in the background talking about how he should probably wait a few more minutes. true love doesn't wait, jisung!

but maybe true love does wait. because it has been a whole week since you guys last spoke through instagram, and even that seemed like a stretch for conversation. this was it; jeongin had finally ran out of topics. he had exhausted his (very limited) list of conversation starters — putting his dignity on the line by asking you what the calculus homework was from time to time, stopping only when seungmin laughed at him as he asked the same question for the third time in a week ("DUDE she's going to think you're a D1 slacker").

it doesn't help that your interactions in real life have dwindled as well, other than jeongin's pre-mapped route on campus that allows him to cheerfully wave 'hi!' to you on your way to class. the last time he truly had a conversation with you, you had complimented his shoes (it wasn't the diabolical jurassic stompers 1 2 unbuckle those shoes this time guys trust... or maybe it was) and he had nearly passed out. if he hadn't been keeping his aura in check by monitoring his own movements, he definitely would have stared at you, open-mouthed in shock right then and there.

but that was two weeks ago. the jeongin lore environment is now drier than the sahara desert. we need improvement, now!

so that's how we get seven self-proclaimed top-of-the-line rizz counselors, hooking up jeongin's phone to the television through airplay to cook up something foolproof.

unfortunately for jeongin, there is a lot of debate on what foolproof looks like.

"whatever you do, just don't send the exclamation mark," minho warned.

"i still stand by my 'hi!' idea," felix advised.

a series of "NO!"s were yelled out.

"too simple."

"too bland."

"what about a 'how ya doin?'" chan offered. "with a winky face?"

they all cringed simultaneously.

"by far, that is the worst idea..."

"chan... i think you're in the wrong generation to be giving advice," seungmin deadpanned.

jeongin put his head down. and they said chan was supposed to be the best at this!

"it's time to be a man," changbin laughed, putting both hands on the coffee table. "just be more dominant."

"dOMINANT?!"

and the room erupts in chaos again.

"okay wait, how about you just write her a long, heartfelt message about how you feel about her?" hyunjin cut in, grinning deviously.

the boy looked terrified at the suggestion. "definitely not. that's so out of character for me."

"everything about this is out of character for you," shrugged hyunjin. "look, how about you post a fit check and put some cryptic lyrics over it. it always works, trust."

and that's how the youngest found himself digging through his closet for the most mogalicious outfit he will cook up for 2025.

under usual circumstances, this would've been right up his alley. but the stakes were higher than ever today, and jeongin found himself being rushed with "BROO just take a photo already" after his eighth outfit change of the day to find the best effortlessly-trendy-but-not-too-aloof combination for the most important post of his entire life.

cooking takes time.

hyunjin was nominated to be the designated photographer of the day, clicking the shutter button at millisecond intervals and praying that one of them was the shot. the older boy was having the time of his life, twisting his hand at every angle (while doing dramatic back bends), sniping jeongin like no tomorrow.

"you're doing great sweetie!" minho yelled from the other room.

"how's it going guys?" bang chan peeked through the doorframe, holding the bowl of instant noodles that he had made at the beginning of this makeshift runway show. the noodles have since cooled down, with chan's chopsticks sticking out precariously from the near-empty bowl.

"OH MY GOD YOU'RE PLOTTING MY DOWNFALL," jeongin cried, swiping through five consecutive photos of himself mid-blink.

"oh. yikes i really caught you lacking with that one... keep swiping i swear there's beautiful ones too."

it then took fifteen more minutes of jeongin analyzing song lyrics with full rhetorical analysis before he had a postable instagram story. he even recruited seungmin to help him press post.

"AAAND... POSTED!"

and now we wait.

not even a whole minute had passed before you liked his story.

"HOLY SHIT IT'S HAPPENING."

"JEONGIN YOU BETTER LOCK THE FUCK IN."

"that response time is genuinely CRAZY."

then you started typing.

[[your name] sent a message].

the living room exploded with yells, with each member pointing at the tv screen with their own piece of (contradicting) advice.

"OPEN IT OR SHE'LL THINK YOU'RE UNINTERESTED."

"DO NOT OPEN THAT—"

"HE HAS TO."

"THAT'S WHY YOU CAN'T PULL."

"OH SHUT THE HELL UP—"

chan decided to save poor jeongin. scooting over, he told the youngest of the secret method: looking at the preview without opening the message itself.

except that backfired.

because it said 3 new messages. dammit!

ignoring the chaos surrounding him, jeongin's eyes flickered around the room to decide his next move. should he risk it all?

"JUST OPEN IT ALREADY!"

so he did.

and oh my god. this is not real.

"fit is FIREE 🔥🔥"

"as always tbh"

"lock your closet tonight"

your messages rocked jeongin's world, i fear. jeongin's world was also literally being rocked by the sheer decibel level vibrating through the house at that exact moment.

"SHE WANTS YOU," yelled changbin.

felix nodded aggressively. "SHOOT YOUR SHOT NOW."

jeongin looked up, exasperated, with ears burning red. "but. WHAT do i say?!"

"ok look," said minho, swinging his leg over the couch to sit next to the youngest. "she swiped up on your story, which, by the way, has already exceeded my wildest expectations. you can say anything at this point and she'll still be halfway in love with you."

jisung shrugged. "i think you should send 'ouuu do you fw me.'"

"might as well send 'you DON'T pmo ❤️' then as your next message," groaned seungmin.

"yes! and top it off with a 'will you be my huzz ❤️' too!"

"STOP."

"at least i'm offering suggestions—"

jeongin was on his own.

his fingers started typing before he could form coherent thoughts. (thankfully, he did hear bang chan telling him that "whatever you do, just don't stop at liking the message" #blessed him up)

"haha thank you"

"that means a lot to me!"

"also wdym your outfits are crazy good too"

it was a little awkward, a little cute, but very organically jeongin.

"is this tuff," jeongin whispered to chan.

"very," chan affirmed.

the crowd, however, was not impressed.

"we take our eyes off the screen for FIVE seconds and he's already fumbling."

"TRIPLE TEXTING???"

"JEONGIN PAUSE—"

jeongin didn't gaf. because his target audience was REACHED.

the moment he saw you typing, he was back at the edge of his seat. "omg thank you," you sent, before your three typing bubbles appeared again. "funny story but remember the shoes that you wore two weeks ago? i actually got the same one!!"

the word count of your messages (and the shoes comment) made jeongin turn around to the rest of them with a smug smile on his face.

"and you all were massive haters about my footwear," he huffed. (he was hyperventilating)

"HURRY UP AND REPLY, DAMMIT!"

he was too invested. jeongin continued to type. "no way."

minho facepalmed. "and we've entered sahara territory again."

jeongin didn't know what came over him as he typed out the sentence and pressed send. "we could twin if u wanted to hangout sometime??" in fact, he typed it out at record speed just so he wouldn't process his own actions and stop himself from the top 1 riskiest text of his entire lifetime.

the room was silent.

at last, all eight boys huddled around the tv screen froze mid-action, eyes widening as they witnessed what had just been done.

"oh shit," whispered jisung. "we should've went with my idea."

it was agonizing. then eight unison gasps. the typing bubbles were back!

you replied."what about tomorrow?"

jeongin jumped up, staring at the message with wide eyes. then he locked the fuck in. "12 pm?"

ding! "i'm down :)"

and that's how yang jeongin, the youngest of his friend group, secured his first date.

he blinked.

then it hit him.

"oh my god it happened. IT HAPPENED!"

"WE are locked in twin. WE are pulling the huzz."

little did jeongin know, seungmin was recording. the entire time. he's totally playing this at the wedding.

Han Jisung existed in muted tones. Not by choice, but by a practiced art of blending. His daily uniform was a rotation of oversized hoodies – deep grays, faded blacks, the occasional forest green – pulled low over a mess of dark hair, a pair of slightly smudged glasses perched on his nose, and perpetually, an anchor of noise-canceling headphones. He moved through the sprawling university campus like a ghost, a whispered afterthought in the vibrant cacophony of student life. His realm was the hushed corners of the library, the back row of lecture halls, and the occasional, almost accidental, bump in the cafeteria line.

During lunch, while others dissected their social lives over steaming trays, Han dissected the universe. His current obsession, scrawled in neat, almost artistic diagrams in the margins of his well-worn textbook, was quantum entanglement. Particles defying space, linked across impossible distances. He found a strange comfort in the logic of it, a stark contrast to the chaotic, often illogical, reality he inhabited outside of these theoretical frameworks. He rarely spoke unless directly addressed, and even then, his replies were clipped, precise, and utterly devoid of anything resembling small talk.

The campus, indeed the entire city, was gripped by a single, all-consuming obsession: Spider-Man. Every news cycle, every casual conversation in the student lounge, every graffiti tag on a crumbling brick wall, screamed his name. He was the city's new hero, a blur of red and blue, a quippy, gravity-defying marvel who swooped in to save cats from trees and citizens from muggers. Han, from his perpetually shadowed existence, observed the fervor with a blank, almost detached gaze. He saw the excited faces, heard the fervent debates about Spider-Man’s identity, but felt nothing. Not excitement, not pride, not even a flicker of recognition for the hero everyone else worshipped. His dark, cluttered room was a sanctuary where the news played silently on a muted screen, projecting images of a web-slinging figure he knew intimately, yet treated as a stranger.

Then there was you.

You were everything Han was not: sharp, striking, and possessed of a formidable presence that cleaved through any crowd. Your name, if he dared to whisper it even in the silent confines of his own mind, felt like a spark igniting in his chest. You were known for your intellect, your incisive wit, and a tongue that could flay an unprepared lecturer with surgical precision. You held court in seminar rooms, your opinions delivered with an unwavering conviction that commanded respect, and, perhaps more tellingly, kept everyone at a polite, yet unbreachable, arm's length. You had no friends, not in the traditional sense, only a reputation that preceded you, a shimmering, almost intimidating aura of competence.

Han, from his usual vantage point—a corner table in the library, a bench beneath a sprawling oak, or, most often, the back of a lecture hall—watched you. His sketchbook, usually filled with intricate quantum diagrams and equations, held a secret section dedicated solely to you. More than ten, perhaps fifteen, charcoal and pencil renderings of you, caught in various unguarded moments: brow furrowed in concentration, a slight, almost imperceptible curve of your lips as you considered a difficult problem, the fierce intensity in your eyes when you challenged a point. He never intended for anyone to see them, especially not you. They were a clandestine devotion, a silent testament to the magnetic pull you exerted over his meticulously ordered world. He was already hopelessly, irrevocably whipped for you, even if you had no idea he existed beyond a blurry shape in the background.

He remembered you scoffing once, in the student lounge, as a news report about Spider-Man saving a bus full of schoolchildren played on the mounted TV. "Overhyped," you'd muttered, your voice cutting through the hushed awe of the room. "Just a glorified acrobatic nuisance. Give me actual, tangible solutions, not flashy heroics." Han, hidden behind a textbook, had felt a pang, sharp and unexpected. Not for Spider-Man, but for the disconnect. You, who valued truth and logic above all else, would never understand the messy, desperate, and often unglamorous reality behind the mask. He’d wanted, foolishly, to defend him, to defend himself, but the words had died in his throat.

One particularly dreary Tuesday, the kind where the sky hung low and bruised, you, in a rare act of rebellion, decided to bunk your usual afternoon lecture. The hum of the fluorescent lights in the empty corridors, the muted echoes of distant voices, provided a strange solace. You wandered, aimless yet purposeful, through the less frequented wings of the campus, finding a peculiar peace in the silence.

Han, meanwhile, felt it before he saw it. A subtle tremor beneath his feet, a prickling at the back of his neck, the distinct, almost electric wrongness that was his Spidey-sense. It wasn’t a blaring alarm, more like a dissonant hum, emanating from the direction of the science labs. Something was glitching, something was unstable. He needed to move, to suit up, to investigate before a ripple became a tidal wave. His heart hammered, not just with adrenaline for the danger, but with the frantic knowledge that he needed to disappear now.

He moved with uncharacteristic haste, his usual spectral movements replaced by a clumsy urgency. He cut through a rarely used corridor near the old engineering building, his mind already racing through contingency plans, suit-up routes, and potential portal dimensions. He yanked off his headphones, stuffing them into his pocket, his glasses suddenly a hindrance. And then, he rounded a blind corner.

Crash!

Books flew, scattering across the tiled floor like startled birds. A sharp gasp, surprisingly melodic, cut through the sudden silence. Han found himself sprawled on the ground, one arm instinctively thrown out to break his fall. And tangled in his limbs, amidst a landslide of scientific journals and weighty textbooks, was you.

Your eyes, usually so sharp and self-possessed, were wide with surprise, a flicker of genuine shock momentarily eclipsing their customary coldness. Your hair, usually so neatly pulled back, had come loose around your face, framing it in a soft disarray. For a fleeting second, Han’s breath caught. You were even more stunning up close, a vibrant, startling splash of color in his muted world. His heart, already racing from his Spidey-sense, now beat a frantic, panicked rhythm against his ribs. You were here. You were on the floor with him.

Then, the shock morphed into something colder. A glare. Your brow furrowed, your lips thinned, and a familiar ice settled in your gaze. "Watch where you're going, creep," you bit out, your voice a low, dangerous growl. You scrambled away from him, gathering your scattered books with swift, indignant movements, pointedly avoiding his outstretched, apologetic hand.

Han stammered, "I—I'm so sorry! I wasn't looking, I was just… in a hurry." His face flushed a furious red. He felt like an idiot, clumsy and exposed. Every fiber of his being screamed to help you, to apologize properly, to do anything to make that furious glare soften, but his brain had short-circuited.

You didn't acknowledge his apology. Instead, you swept up your last book, straightened your jacket with a snap, and walked away, your back ramrod straight, leaving him a tangled mess of limbs, textbooks, and burning humiliation on the cold university floor. He watched you go, a fresh wave of despair washing over him. Creep. That's all he was to you. A clumsy, invisible creep. He was Spider-Man, capable of leaping buildings in a single bound, yet he couldn't even manage a graceful collision with the one person he secretly adored.

That night, the city hummed with its usual symphony of sirens and distant chatter. You, still feeling the sting of the clumsy encounter, decided to take a longer route home, trying to shake off the lingering irritation. You turned onto a quieter side street, lined with dormant businesses, when you heard it: a scuffle, a shout, a man's voice laced with menace.

You froze. Two hulking figures were cornering a terrified elderly woman, attempting to rip her purse from her grasp. Your usual instinct was to analyze, to assess the threat, but before your logical mind could formulate a plan, a blur of red and blue descended from the rooftops.

Spider-Man.

He moved with an impossible grace, a whirlwind of acrobatic efficiency. A precise web shot disarmed one mugger, another sent the other sprawling. A quip, light and surprisingly confident, echoed through the alley. In less than a minute, it was over. The muggers were webbed to a streetlight, grumbling incoherently, and the elderly woman was clutching her purse, tears of relief streaming down her face.

You watched, a strange, unfamiliar emotion swirling within you. This wasn't the overhyped nuisance you'd dismissed. This was quick, decisive, effective. A small part of you, the logical part, couldn't deny the efficiency of his methods.

Spider-Man, ensuring the woman was safe, turned his head. His masked gaze swept over the alley, and then, for a fraction of a second, landed on you. You felt an odd jolt, like static electricity, as if his eyes were truly seeing you, piercing through the dim light. He didn't move, just held your gaze, his head tilted slightly, as if studying you, or perhaps, recognizing you.

You looked back. Really looked. The way he stood, the breadth of his shoulders, the lean musculature beneath the suit. There was something familiar about his build, something that tugged at a nascent memory. The awkward boy who had just crashed into you, the flash of a broad shoulder as he tried to catch himself… A flicker, a phantom echo of a moment you'd tried to erase.

The moment was fleeting. With a final, almost imperceptible nod, Spider-Man launched himself upwards, a red and blue streak against the bruised evening sky, disappearing into the labyrinth of buildings.

The alley was quiet once more, save for the distant sirens approaching. You remained, staring at the empty space where he had been. Your mind, usually so clear and rational, was a chaotic jumble.

His shoulders. They felt… familiar. You shook your head slightly, dismissing the thought. It was ridiculous. Spider-Man was a hero, a phenomenon. That clumsy boy was… just a clumsy boy. But the thought, once planted, refused to fully wither, a tiny, persistent seed in the back of your mind.

-

The campus labs, usually sterile havens of controlled experiments and hushed concentration, began to hum with a new, unsettling energy. Not the buzzing of ancient machinery or the precise whir of centrifuges, but something… off. Han, hunched over a flickering oscilloscope during his advanced physics lab, saw it first. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer in the air, like heat haze, but without the heat. Then, the numbers on the screen began to glitch. Not just a minor jump, but a rapid, chaotic scramble of digits, dissolving and re-forming into nonsensical sequences before snapping back to normal.

He noted it down, his pen scratching furiously in his notebook. Particle instability. It was an anomaly he’d never encountered in his textbooks. Later that week, during a routine check of the campus server room—a task he'd volunteered for, knowing it gave him unparalleled access to the building's infrastructure and, more importantly, its many escape routes—he found a similar distortion. A momentary flicker in the security cameras, a split-second lapse in the network connectivity. The feeling, that familiar prickling sensation at the back of his neck, was growing stronger. The city wasn't just facing random acts of crime anymore. Something fundamental was bending.

You, meanwhile, were already knee-deep in the theoretical. Your mind, ever drawn to the perplexing, had latched onto the fringe theories being whispered in hushed tones among a select few post-grad students: dimensional rips. You weren't a believer yet, not without irrefutable evidence, but the concept intrigued you. Your latest paper, meticulously researched and fiercely argued, explored the implications of "particle instability as a precursor to theoretical dimensional rips." You cited obscure physicists, posited elegant equations, and tore apart counter-arguments with your usual precision. Your professors, impressed by your intellect, if slightly unnerved by your unconventional focus, gave you a wide berth.

The news was abuzz again, of course, with Spider-Man. He'd saved a train this time, derailing it safely before it could plunge into the river. The footage was grainy, but the hero's voice, captured by a bystander's phone, was clear. "Just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, keeping things on track! Next time, try the express lane, folks, it’s much less… derailed."

You watched the clip on a loop in the common room, a strange, prickling sensation tracing your spine. His sarcasm, sharp and quick, was familiar. Not just familiar in a general sense, but in a way that resonated with an uncomfortable memory. That voice… that tone… it wasn't just any voice. It was… him. The clumsy boy. No, that was ridiculous. You shook your head, trying to dislodge the thought, but it clung stubbornly, like a persistent cobweb.

Lately, you’d started noticing things. Small things. Han Jisung, the quiet boy who’d crashed into you, seemed to be developing a curious limp. A wince, almost imperceptible, as he shifted his weight in line for coffee. A slight favoring of his left arm as he opened a heavy door. You, with your innate observational skills honed by years of dissecting complex problems, began to piece together a new, unwelcome pattern. He was often late to morning classes, sometimes looking utterly exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes, only to be followed by news reports of Spider-Man's late-night heroics. The correlation was too consistent to ignore.

Han, acutely aware of your presence even when you were rooms apart, felt your gaze like a physical touch. He'd catch your eyes across the library, or feel the heat of your stare as you passed his usual table in the cafeteria. Every time, a cold dread would seize him. Had you seen too much? Were you finally putting the pieces together?

His sketchbook, once a safe haven for his secret adoration, had become a source of immense anxiety. It was filled with you. Over ten drawings? Make that twenty. Your profile as you stared out a window, lost in thought. Your hands, delicate yet strong, as you furiously took notes. The subtle curve of your back as you walked away from him that disastrous day. Each one was a testament to his burgeoning feelings, a silent, desperate plea for you to see him. Every time you walked by, a rush of panic would seize him, and he’d slam the book shut, or discreetly slide it under his textbook, heart pounding. He was utterly, pathetically whipped, living in constant fear you'd discover the depth of his secret affection for you.

The "glitches" escalated. One afternoon, as students bustled between classes, a distortion shimmered mid-campus, near the main plaza. It wasn't just a flicker now. It was a momentary, shimmering tear in the air itself, like heat haze distorting reality. Through it, for one terrifying second, something looked back. A figure, dark and strangely ethereal, with what looked like swirling vortexes on its form. Then, it vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind a faint smell of ozone and a collective gasp from the few students who witnessed it.

Spider-Man investigated at night. He traced the lingering energy signature to the very spot of the rip. It was colder here, almost like the air itself had been stretched thin. He found residual quantum energy readings that made no sense. As he knelt, analyzing a strange residue on the pavement, a small, dark portal suddenly opened at his feet, almost silently. He barely had time to react before a concentrated burst of energy, like a mini-portal-powered punch, slammed into his side. He cried out, stumbling back, clutching his ribs. The portal winked out. This was different. This wasn't just a mugger with a gun. This was something new, something that defied physics.

The next morning, you were walking across campus, mind preoccupied with the implications of the "glitch" sighting, when your foot snagged on something. You looked down. It was a piece of fabric, dark gray, torn along the edge. You recognized the brand immediately. It was one of Han Jisung's ubiquitous hoodies. You'd seen him in it countless times. You picked it up, feeling the worn softness of the material, and for a long moment, you simply paused, the torn fabric suddenly heavy in your hand. Had he been here last night? This close to where the glitch had appeared? The questions began to solidify, no longer whispers, but insistent shouts in your mind.

You saw him later that morning. He was walking slowly, deliberately, his shoulders hunched, his glasses slightly askew. He looked utterly drained, and there was a subtle, almost imperceptible discoloration beneath his left eye, like a bruise he'd tried to cover. Your gaze, sharp and analytical, landed on him. Han, feeling your eyes, instantly tensed. He panicked. His usual blank expression morphed into one of pure, unadulterated terror, a deer caught in headlights. He looked away instantly, practically fleeing into the nearest lecture hall, leaving you standing there, the torn hoodie still in your hand, a chilling realization beginning to bloom in your chest.

Later that day, Spider-Man saved a professor from a collapsing scaffolding on the science building, narrowly avoiding a spectacular, multi-story fall. You happened to be nearby, crossing the quad, drawn by the shouts and the sudden, dramatic presence of the hero. You stopped, watching him, no longer dismissing him as "overhyped." He secured the professor, then landed lightly on the ground, just meters from you.

His head tilted, and he looked down at you. His masked eyes lingered for a fraction too long, a beat held beyond what was strictly necessary for a casual glance. It wasn't the fleeting dismissal of a hero acknowledging a bystander. It was a look that felt… personal. Intense. And you, surprisingly, didn’t look away. You held his gaze, a silent challenge in your eyes, a curious tension thrumming between you. It was almost as if he was waiting for you to say something, to recognize something.

In class that afternoon, a philosophy lecture, the discussion turned to identity. "People wear masks," the professor mused, "because they're cowards. They're afraid to show their true selves, afraid of vulnerability, of judgment." You listened, your mind drifting. Your own carefully constructed walls, your aversion to friends, your "reputation" as armor. You knew about masks. And you also knew the person you just saw as Spider-Man, the one with the familiar shoulders and the intense gaze, was wearing one.

"People wear masks because they're cowards," you said aloud, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the lecture hall. "They don't want to be chosen, because choosing means being seen. And being seen means being known." You spoke with a quiet conviction that silenced the room, including the professor.

In the back row, Han, still reeling from your gaze at the quad and your searing words, sketched. He'd been trying to focus, but your presence, your words, were a constant, intoxicating distraction. On the page, Spider-Man hung by a single web, but he wasn't looking at the city. He was looking at you, perched on a nearby gargoyle, your silhouette outlined against the cityscape. It was a secret world, one where his two identities could coexist, where he could be Spider-Man and still be by your side. He was truly gone for you, already.

You finished class, gathering your things, the professor still looking slightly stunned by your pronouncement. You slung your bag over your shoulder and turned to leave. Your eyes swept over the back row, a habitual glance, and then, you froze.

Han, in his haste to shut his sketchbook, had been too slow. The book lay open on his desk, and your gaze, sharp as a laser, landed directly on the page.

It was you. Unmistakably. Not a casual doodle, but a detailed, intimate sketch. And next to you, almost protectively, was Spider-Man.

Your breath hitched. Your mind, already teeming with suspicions, suddenly clicked. The limping, the wincing, the exhausted mornings, the torn hoodie, the voice, the shoulders, the look… and now this.

You walked slowly, deliberately, towards his desk. Han, catching your movement, snapped his head up, his eyes widening in pure, unadulterated panic. He lunged for the book, but it was too late. You were already there, your shadow falling over him.

"Why do you keep watching me?" you whispered, your voice low, not angry, but laced with a chilling realization.

Han froze, his hand hovering over the open sketchbook, his face draining of all color. He couldn't speak. He couldn't lie. All he could do was stare at you, his eyes a mixture of profound fear and utterly desperate devotion. His silence was deafening, a confession more damning than any words. The static between you two, once just a faint hum, was now a roaring current, undeniable and terrifying.

The silence that fell between you and Han in the lecture hall was thick, suffocating. His hand still hovered over the damning sketchbook, his eyes locked onto yours, a raw, exposed vulnerability in their depths. The air crackled with unspoken questions, with accusations that hung heavy, though you uttered not a single word. You simply knew. The pieces, once scattered and seemingly disparate, had clicked into place with a horrifying, undeniable precision. The limp, the exhaustion, the hoodie, the shared gaze with Spider-Man, and now, your face staring back from his secret drawings.

He said nothing. He couldn’t. Every excuse, every denial, evaporated under the laser-like intensity of your gaze. His usual quietude, a shield he’d perfected, became a prison. He looked utterly, miserably defeated, like a child caught red-handed with a stolen cookie, but the stakes here were infinitely higher than confectionery. He was Spider-Man. And you knew more likely guessed.

You broke the silence again by questioning, your voice barely a whisper, a strange mix of dawning awe and cold accusation. "Why do you keep watching me?" The question wasn't about the drawings, not really. It was about everything. The secret glances, the hidden adoration he’d poured onto those pages, the unsettling truth that this quiet, clumsy boy had been observing you with an intimacy you were only just now grasping.

He flinched, a subtle tremor running through him. "I… I just…" He trailed off, utterly incapable of forming a coherent sentence. His gaze flickered from your face to the sketchbook, then back to your eyes, a silent plea for understanding, for mercy. He was so undeniably, pathetically whipped for you, terrified of your judgment, terrified of losing this fragile, unacknowledged connection even before it had truly begun.

Without another word, you turned and walked away. Not in anger, not in a huff, but with a quiet, devastating finality. Each step echoed in the suddenly vast lecture hall, leaving Han alone, exposed, and trembling. He watched your retreating back until you vanished, the open sketchbook a gaping wound on his desk. The vibrant colors of your sketched face mocked him, a testament to a secret devotion now irrevocably, brutally revealed. He wanted to chase after you, to explain, to beg, but his limbs felt like lead, weighed down by the crushing certainty that he had just shattered everything.

The very next day, a chilling, surreal incident tore through the campus. The "glitches" that Han had been tracking, that you had theoretically outlined in your paper, erupted into a tangible, horrifying reality. A lab portal distortion, violent and hungry, ripped open in the very heart of the advanced physics lab. It wasn't just a shimmer now; it was a swirling, malevolent vortex, bending light and sound, pulling objects into its chaotic maw. Alarms shrieked, glass shattered, and students screamed, scrambling for exits.

You, ever the academic and drawn to the inexplicable, had been too close, too curious. You had disregarded the initial warnings, your fascination overriding your sense of self-preservation. When the tear fully blossomed, you were caught in its devastating wake, the sheer force of it pulling you towards the hungry maw of distorted space.

Just as the world began to warp around you, a red and blue blur shot through the chaos. Spider-Man. He moved with desperate speed, a focused intensity that brooked no argument. He grabbed you, his strong arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you clear of the immediate danger just as a piece of lab equipment was sucked into the void where you’d been standing seconds before.

He held you for a moment longer than strictly necessary. Your back was pressed against his chest, your head nestled against his shoulder, and you could feel the frantic thrum of his heartbeat against your own. The danger was still palpable, the lab still in pandemonium, but for that suspended second, there was only the fierce, protective embrace of Spider-Man. You could feel the texture of his suit against your cheek, smell the faint scent of ozone and something uniquely him – something that was a strange mix of youthful energy and desperate exhaustion.

Then, he spoke. His voice, usually laced with playful sarcasm on the news, was different now. It was calm, surprisingly gentle, and laced with an undertone of palpable concern. "Are you alright? You almost took a trip to… somewhere else." The teasing inflection was still there, but it was softened, almost tender.

And in that moment, as you registered the warmth of his hold, the subtle tremor of his body, and the specific cadence of his words, a cold certainty settled over you, chilling you even more than the close brush with death. You heard his voice—calm, teasing, gentle. And it was Han’s voice. Unmistakably. The same low tone that had stammered apologies just days before, the same gentle lilt you’d subconsciously noted when he’d answered a professor's question in class. The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow, reverberating through your very bones. It's him. It's really him.

He released you quickly after that, once you were clearly safe, and vanished back into the fray, helping other trapped students, his focus now on containing the portal. But the seed of knowledge had been planted, irrevocably.

The next day, Han was conspicuously absent from campus. No sign of his usual hoodie-clad figure, no quiet presence in the library. His seat in your shared lecture was empty. Then, he reappeared the following morning, looking even more drained than usual. His left hand was conspicuously bandaged, wrapped tightly from wrist to knuckles. He tried to hide it, keeping it tucked into his pocket, but you saw it. You always saw everything.

The voice of Spider-Man, Han’s voice, played on a relentless loop in your head. “Are you alright? You almost took a trip to… somewhere else.” The concern, the gentle teasing. It was him. It had to be. Your mind, a meticulous investigator, began compiling evidence with renewed fervor.

You decided to confirm your suspicions. One afternoon, you saw Han leaving the library, his headphones on, ostensibly heading towards the student dorms. You followed him, maintaining a discreet distance. He walked with his usual self-effacing gait, occasionally glancing over his shoulder, almost as if he was expecting someone. You kept to the shadows, using your knowledge of the campus's less-traveled paths. He turned into a narrow alleyway between the science building and an old administrative annex – a dead end for anyone not truly familiar with the campus's hidden routes. You sped up, expecting to see him emerge on the other side, but when you reached the alley’s mouth, it was empty. He vanished mid-building. It was impossible, unless… unless he hadn't just 'vanished.' Unless he had gone up.

You spent the next few days in a feverish, almost obsessive state, mapping out when Spider-Man appeared—when Han’s missing. You cross-referenced news reports, social media posts, emergency service logs, and your own observations of Han’s schedule. The patterns were too precise, too consistent to be coincidence. A major incident with Spider-Man? Han was absent, or showed up late, looking exhausted, sometimes with new injuries. A quiet night? Han was present, though still often tired. The evidence was overwhelming.

Han, unaware of your meticulous investigation, began to grow bolder in his attempts to connect with you. He left a discreetly placed coffee cup on your usual library table one morning—your favorite order, black, no sugar, just the way you liked it. It was anonymous, but you knew. You looked up, scanning the room, and caught him watching you from across the stacks, his head bowed over a book, but his eyes subtly tracking your reaction. His heart was probably thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs, hoping you’d accept his silent offering. He was undeniably, hopelessly devoted, risking exposure just for a fleeting moment of your acknowledgment.

You felt a confusing mix of irritation and a strange, unfamiliar warmth. He was so transparent, so painfully obvious in his efforts, and yet… it was endearing in a way you couldn't quite articulate.

The next day, you saw him again, watching you from across the street as you walked towards your next class. He stood partially obscured by a tree, but his intense gaze, almost a physical weight, was unmistakable. He didn't look away, not until you directly met his eyes, and then he flinched, turning sharply, as if caught in a forbidden act.

You couldn't take it anymore. You deviated from your path, crossing the street, your footsteps purposeful, your expression unreadable. You stopped directly in front of him, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"Why are you doing this, Han?" you asked, your voice low and steady. "Why do you keep watching me? Why the coffee?"

His face went pale. He stammered, "I—I don't… I just… I saw you. You looked… tired." His voice was barely a whisper, laced with a desperate plea for you to believe him, to not press for the real truth he couldn't possibly reveal. He denied nothing explicitly, but avoided the core of your questions, his silence an admission in itself.

You stared at him for a long moment, a quiet battle playing out in your eyes. Then, without another word, you turned and walked away. He stood there, frozen, watching you go, his heart aching with a familiar sense of helpless despair.

For three days, he avoided you. He took circuitous routes, ducked into lecture halls early, even ate lunch in his dorm room. He couldn't face the weight of your knowing gaze, the questions he knew you held. His internal world was a mess of fear and longing.

On the fourth day, the world screamed.

The Spot, no longer content with subtle glitches, opened a massive tear near campus. It wasn't a portal, but a gaping wound in reality itself, stretching across the sky, swallowing chunks of buildings, spitting out debris from unknown dimensions. People were trapped, buildings were crumbling, and the campus, usually a bastion of academic calm, dissolved into pure, unadulterated chaos.

Spider-Man arrived just in time, a desperate blur of red and blue against the horrifying backdrop of shifting reality. You watched him fight in real-time, the raw power and desperation of his movements making the grainy news footage seem like a children's cartoon. He was everywhere at once, saving falling students, webbing crumbling structures, his movements more frantic, less controlled than usual. He was clearly outmatched, clearly exhausted, but he wouldn't stop.

He web-zipped past you, securing a broken bridge, and for a split second, you saw it. A fresh tear in the sleeve of his suit, higher up on his bicep. And underneath, a flash of familiar skin tone. And then, unmistakably, a small, distinctive birthmark—a cluster of three faint, almost freckle-like dots—that you had glimpsed, just once, on Han Jisung's arm when his sleeve had ridden up during that disastrous crash.

The world tilted. The screams, the chaos, the tearing of reality faded into a dull roar. Your gaze locked onto that tiny mark, the final, irrefutable piece of your terrifying puzzle. You watched him, your eyes wet, as he disappeared through a rapidly expanding portal, probably chasing The Spot.

After the portal snapped shut, the air still thick with dust and residual energy, you found yourself stumbling towards a piece of discarded red and blue fabric on the ground. It was a fragment of his suit, ripped off in the fight. You knelt, your fingers trembling, and reached out. Your fingers brushed against the rough texture of the fabric, the familiar stretch of the spandex.

“It’s you,” you whispered to yourself, the words catching in your throat, a desperate, tearful confession. The quiet boy who drew you in secret, the clumsy stranger who crashed into you, the hero who saved lives, the voice that echoed in your mind… it was all him. And he had lied…… Or more likely you were hoping it was him.

The revelation had hit you like a physical blow, leaving you reeling in the aftermath of The Spot's attack. "It's you," you'd whispered, the words a raw, torn confession to the fragmented piece of suit in your trembling hand. The campus was a cacophony of sirens, panicked shouts, and the eerie, lingering hum of unstable reality, but all you could hear was the deafening roar of your own mind. Han Jisung, the quiet, clumsy boy you’d dismissed as a "creep," the one who sketched your face with a secret devotion, was the same impossible, gravity-defying hero who had just saved your life. The two worlds, once distinct, had violently collided, leaving you to navigate the wreckage of your own perceptions.

Sleep became an elusive ghost. Your apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, felt too still, too empty. Your thoughts spun in a dizzying helix: his familiar shoulders, the slight limp you’d noted, the intense gaze through the mask, the tender worry in his voice when he’d saved you in the lab, the undeniable birthmark, and the desperate, adoring sketches. He had been there, watching, protecting, lying.

The betrayal was a bitter pill, but beneath it, a strange, terrifying curiosity pulsed. He’d hidden so much, endured so much. Why? Why you?

You found yourself drawn to the rooftop. Your own building wasn't particularly tall, but it offered a sweeping, if slightly obstructed, view of the city’s skyline. It was a place for quiet contemplation, for the sharp edges of your mind to process. And it was, you realized, the perfect vantage point for a certain masked vigilante.

The first night, you simply sat, wrapped in an old blanket, the chill night air biting at your exposed skin. You didn't expect him. You didn't even know if you wanted him to come. But a primal part of you, now understanding the silent language of his hidden adoration, hoped. You watched the stars, bright pinpricks against the vast canvas of the night, and thought of him, swinging through that very same darkness.

He didn't come.

The second night, you brought a thermos of hot tea. Earl Grey, your favorite, the one he'd anonymously left for you in the library. A silent dare, perhaps, a gesture of unexpected understanding. You poured yourself a cup, the steam rising like a warm breath into the cold air. Still nothing.

The third night, as a sliver of moon hung high above the city, a shadow detached itself from a distant skyscraper. A flash of red and blue, a graceful arc, and then, a figure landed silently on your rooftop, just meters away.

Spider-Man.

He stood there, unmoving, outlined against the faint city glow. His masked face was turned towards you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze, even through the fabric. Your heart hammered, a frantic drum against your ribs. This was it. The confrontation. The unraveling.

You didn't say a word. You simply held out the thermos, offering him the second cup of tea. It was a gesture born of exhaustion, of a strange, burgeoning empathy, and of a raw, unyielding curiosity that demanded answers.

He hesitated for a long moment, then slowly walked towards you. His movements were fluid, graceful, utterly unlike the clumsy boy who’d collided with you. He took the cup, his gloved fingers brushing yours, a tiny spark of static electricity passing between you. He looked at the tea, then back at you, a silent question in his posture.

"Earl Grey," you finally said, your voice raspy from disuse. "No sugar. Your preference, I assume."

He stiffened slightly, a subtle flinch that told you everything. He knew you knew. The mask, for all its power, couldn't hide the truth that hung between you like a fragile spiderweb. He raised the cup to his masked face, and you imagined him taking a sip, though you couldn't see it.

"Thank you," he said, his voice deeper than you remembered from the news, softer, almost hoarse with fatigue. It was Han's voice, unmistakable now, stripped of its public bravado.

And so, you began your strange, nocturnal conversations. Under the vast expanse of stars, with the city lights twinkling below like scattered jewels, he in his mask and you in your silence, a fragile truce was formed. You didn't demand explanations, not yet. You simply listened. And he, surprisingly, began to talk.

He talked about the loneliness. The crushing weight of pretending, of being two people, none of whom were truly him. He spoke of the endless nights, the constant vigilance, the bone-deep weariness that settled in his muscles and his very soul. He talked about the impossible choices, the lives he saved and the lives he couldn't. His voice was quiet, raw, devoid of the usual quips. He sounded tired, so incredibly tired, a young man carrying the weight of a city on his impossibly broad, familiar shoulders.

You just listened. And listened. And listened. It was a role you rarely played, usually preferring to dissect and analyze, to offer solutions, not just silent presence. But something about his raw vulnerability, exposed under the anonymity of the mask, compelled you to simply absorb his words. You saw not Spider-Man, the legend, but Han, the burdened boy. And a strange, protective warmth began to unfurl within you.

One night, after a particularly harrowing account of a building rescue, he went silent, staring out at the distant glow of the city. "You," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "you don't have friends. Why?"

The question startled you. It was so direct, so personal. You considered lying, deflecting with sarcasm, but something in his quiet honesty disarmed you. "I don't believe in people," you admitted, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "They always disappoint. They're unreliable. They leave." It was a confession you’d never uttered aloud, a core belief you’d built your fortress around.

He was silent for a long moment. Then, he shifted, turning slightly to face you. "You scare people," he said, his voice gentle, almost contemplative. "Because you're honest. You don't sugarcoat. You don't pretend. And I… I like that."

Your breath hitched. He liked that. The very thing that kept everyone else away, the sharp edges you’d cultivated as armor, he liked. It was a quiet bomb, exploding softly in your chest.

Then, the mood shifted. A sudden tension tightened in his posture. "You lie about who you are," you said, your voice regaining some of its usual sharp edge, the sting of betrayal resurfacing. The words hung in the air, cold and pointed, a stark contrast to the fragile intimacy you'd just shared.

He went completely silent. The air crackled with unspoken remorse, with the weight of his impossible secret. You watched his masked face, unable to read his expression, but feeling the profound shift in his energy. He knew your words were true, knew the depth of the lie. The tea in your cup had gone cold.

Just then, his body stiffened. His head snapped up, turning towards a distant rumble. You felt it too, a low tremor beneath your feet, growing rapidly. The Spot. His name flashed in your mind like a neon warning sign. A deep, guttural roar echoed from below, followed by the sickening groan of metal.

Subway tunnel destabilized.

Han was on his feet in an instant, the gentle, exhausted confidante replaced by the hyper-alert hero. He dropped the tea cup, the ceramic clattering against the concrete. "I have to go," he said, his voice tight with urgency, already moving towards the edge of the rooftop. He didn't wait for your reply, launching himself into the night, a red and blue streak against the urban glow.

You watched him go, your heart heavy. He had opened up, shown you fragments of himself, but the lie remained, a chasm between you.

The next morning, the city news was plastered with images of the subway disaster. Miraculously, no fatalities, thanks to Spider-Man. But the damage was extensive. You were walking across campus, towards your early lecture, when you saw him. Han Jisung. He was hunched over a water fountain, splashing water on his face, trying to scrub something off his shoes. You caught a glimpse. Blood. Not a lot, but enough to make your stomach lurch. He looked utterly ravaged, his face pale, his eyes sunken, a deep, bruising exhaustion etched into every line of his body. He was trying to be inconspicuous, but you saw him. You saw everything.

You walked past him without speaking. You wanted to, desperately. To ask if he was okay, to offer help, to acknowledge the impossible burden he carried. But the words stuck in your throat, choked by the lingering hurt of his deception. You felt his eyes on you as you passed, a palpable ache emanating from him, a silent plea. His shoulders slumped further. He looked devastated.

You were halfway down the corridor when you stopped. Something in your chest twisted. He looked so alone, so broken. Despite the lie, despite everything, he was still him. And he was hurting.

You turned back. He was still there, leaning against the wall, staring blankly at the floor. Your voice was soft, barely audible, but it cut through the din of the bustling campus.

"You should rest more."

He flinched, his head snapping up. His eyes, dark with fatigue, met yours. A flicker of surprise, then something akin to desperate hope, ignited within them. You didn't wait for a response, continuing your walk, leaving him standing there, a ghost of a bewildered, grateful smile beginning to form on his lips.

That night, you were on the rooftop again. You hadn't brought tea this time, just a small first-aid kit. You sat, staring at the cityscape, waiting. You didn't have to wait long.

He arrived, a little less gracefully than before, landing with a soft thud. He walked towards you, his movements stiff, favoring his left arm. The suit was torn again, higher up this time, near his shoulder.

You held out the first-aid kit. He looked at it, then at you, his masked eyes searching yours. He slowly sat down beside you, his injured arm held slightly away from his body.

Without a word, you took out the antiseptic wipes and gauze. Your fingers, usually so precise with equations, were surprisingly gentle as you peeled back the torn fabric of his suit. Beneath, the skin was bruised and scraped, a raw gash running just below his shoulder. It looked painful.

You cleaned the wound with meticulous care, the antiseptic stinging. He winced, a soft hiss escaping his lips, but he didn't pull away. Your fingers brushed against his warm skin, a surprising intimacy in the quiet night. He watched your face, his masked gaze intense, unblinking.

As you applied a fresh bandage, securing it firmly, he shifted. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned into your hand, pressing his cheek against your palm, a soft, almost desperate gesture. The rough fabric of his mask brushed your skin.

And then, his voice, a low, broken whisper against your palm, sent shivers down your spine. “Don’t stop looking at me like that.”

It wasn't a demand, but a plea. A desperate, raw longing from the man who carried the weight of the city, and the secret of his heart, in silence. You felt the warmth of his skin against your hand, the vulnerability in his words. And for the first time, you didn't feel the sting of his lie, but the profound, aching truth of his lonely devotion.

The confession, whispered against your palm on that cold rooftop, had sent a tremor through you that resonated deep within your bones. “Don’t stop looking at me like that.” It was a plea, raw and vulnerable, from a man who had dedicated his life to a secret burden. In that moment, the sting of his lie, which had been a constant thrum beneath your skin, receded, replaced by a profound, aching empathy. You had bandaged his wound, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers, the fragile intimacy of the act forging a bond that transcended mere suspicion.

You stayed there on the rooftop, side by side, for what felt like hours. He didn’t speak of his secret identity directly, and you didn't press him. The unspoken truth hung between you, a tangible thing, heavy with its implications, yet softened by the shared silence and the unspoken comfort you found in each other's presence. He was still Spider-Man, the city’s elusive hero, but now, he was also Han Jisung, the tired, lonely boy who sketched your face in secret and was clearly, deeply, utterly whipped for you. The duality was jarring, terrifying, and unbelievably alluring.

You left the rooftop just before dawn, a silent agreement passing between you. He vanished first, a red and blue shadow melting into the city’s waking hum. You returned to your apartment, the scent of antiseptic and ozone clinging to your clothes, his unspoken plea echoing in your ears. Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful, haunted by glimpses of red and blue, and the quiet intensity of his masked gaze.

The next few days were a strange, delicate dance. Han was back on campus, his movements still favoring his left arm, though the fresh bandage was hidden beneath his hoodie. His eyes, when they met yours across a crowded hall, held a new depth—a silent question, a tentative hope. He still looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes stubbornly prominent, but there was a guarded optimism in his posture, as if your small act of kindness on the rooftop had given him a fragile new strength.

You, however, found yourself pulled in conflicting directions. The vulnerability he’d shown you, the sheer exhaustion etched onto his face, resonated deeply. But the lie… the enormity of it, the years he’d spent hiding this monumental truth, still grated. He hadn't chosen to tell you. You had found out. And that distinction felt like a chasm between you.

You started watching him with a different kind of intensity now. Not to uncover his secret, but to observe the human cost of it. You saw him flinch at loud noises, saw the subtle tension in his shoulders even when he was just reading a book, a constant vigilance that had clearly become second nature. You noticed how he would often zone out in class, his gaze distant, likely assessing potential threats or replaying past battles. He was always on, always aware, even when trying to appear invisible. He was a boy living under the crushing weight of a hero's burden, and your heart ached for him, even as your mind grappled with the implications of his deception.

Then came the night that would shatter everything. You couldn't say why you did it. Perhaps it was the lingering doubt, the need for absolute, undeniable confirmation. Perhaps it was a subconscious desire to force his hand, to make him finally choose honesty. Or perhaps, deep down, it was just the overwhelming, magnetic pull you felt towards him, the need to truly understand the man behind the mask, no matter the cost.

You followed him.

It was late, the city quiet save for the distant thrum of traffic. Han moved quickly, his usual hooded figure silhouetted against the streetlights. He took a familiar route, one you’d mentally mapped out as a likely "suit-up" point—a secluded alleyway behind an abandoned warehouse district, far enough from the residential areas to offer some privacy.

You kept your distance, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You watched as he ducked into the deep shadows of the alley, a place where no one would typically venture. You held your breath, straining your eyes in the dim light. You saw him pause, heard the faint rustle of fabric, and then…

He reached for his head. His hands, large and capable, moved with practiced ease. And then, he was pulling off his mask.

The sight was a silent scream in your mind. The red fabric peeled away, revealing damp, disheveled dark hair plastered to his forehead. His face, usually obscured by shadows or glasses, was starkly illuminated by the single, flickering streetlamp overhead. It was Han. Han Jisung. Unmistakable. His eyes, the same ones that had held so much raw desperation on the rooftop, were now filled with a weary relief as he took a deep, shuddering breath. He didn't know you were watching. He was utterly alone in that shadowed alley, utterly vulnerable, a hero shedding his skin.

Your heart broke. Not because he was Spider-Man. That part, you had already suspected, even prepared for. No, your heart broke because he didn’t trust you. He hadn't trusted you enough to tell you. Even after the rooftop conversation, after you'd bandaged his wounds, after you’d seen the exhaustion in his eyes. He had still chosen the lie, had still kept you in the dark, allowing you to discover the truth in such a stark, brutal manner. It felt like a profound betrayal of the fragile, unacknowledged bond you had begun to forge.

You turned and fled, silent as a ghost, leaving him to his moment of solitude. The tears came fast and hot, blurring the city lights into streaking watercolors. The anger flared, sharp and incandescent, overriding the empathy, overriding the burgeoning affection. He didn’t let you choose. He lied.

You ghosted both Spider-Man and Han.

You stopped going to the rooftop. You avoided the library, changed your class schedule to sidestep any potential encounters. When you saw him approaching on campus, you would duck into the nearest building, or cross the street, your phone held to your ear as if in an urgent conversation. You couldn't bear to look at him, to see the pain you knew would be in his eyes, the questions he couldn't ask. The image of him pulling off his mask, that intimate, raw moment you had stolen, burned behind your eyelids.

Han, desperate and bewildered by your sudden, complete disappearance, began to fall apart. His usually meticulous routines unraveled. He missed classes, his grades, once impeccable, started to slip. His quiet demeanor devolved into a restless, agitated energy. The weight of your absence, of your silent rejection, was crushing him.

His performance as Spider-Man suffered too. Without the quiet solace of your presence, without the unspoken understanding that had begun to blossom on the rooftop, he was reckless. He was sloppy. In a fight against a minor gang of armed robbers, he miscalculated a swing, tangled his web, and nearly got stabbed. A knife slashed dangerously close to his side, leaving a long, shallow cut. He survived, but barely. His usual precision was gone, replaced by a desperate, almost suicidal abandon.

You watched from afar. You still read the news, still followed the online chatter. The reports spoke of Spider-Man being "off," "sloppy," "distracted." You saw the blurry photos, the missed catches, the uncharacteristic hesitation. And you knew. You saw his self-loathing and guilt manifest in every missed step, every reckless leap. The image of his raw, vulnerable face in the alley, combined with the news of his struggles, twisted your gut. You had broken him. You had utterly shattered the man beneath the mask, even as his lie had shattered you.

The tension on campus, already high from the recent attacks, reached a fever pitch. The glitches were becoming more frequent, more violent. Everyone was on edge. And then, the inevitable happened.

The Spot tracked Spider-Man to the campus library.

It was a tactical move, brutal and calculated. Spider-Man was there, likely trying to research solutions to the dimensional distortions, or perhaps just seeking a rare moment of peace. The Spot, a swirling vortex of dark energy and portals, burst through the main entrance, tearing apart the ornate lobby, screaming Spider-Man’s name.

Chaos exploded. Students screamed, shelves toppled, books flew like confetti. The library, once a sanctuary of quiet knowledge, became a war zone. You, caught up in a desperate scramble to escape, found yourself trapped between collapsing bookshelves and a rapidly expanding miniature portal that threatened to suck in everything around it.

Just as the portal yawned wider, its distortion pulling at your clothes, a familiar blur of red and blue slammed into you. Spider-Man saved you again. He pulled you out of the path of the void, throwing himself in front of you, shielding you with his own body as debris rained down. He landed clumsily, his injured arm screaming in protest, but he held you tight, pulling you against his chest, sheltering you.

You were shaking, tears streaming down your face, the raw terror of the moment overriding everything else. But through the fear, you felt his body, solid and warm against yours, the desperate tremor in his muscles. And then, his masked face lowered to yours, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing tenderness, a plea ripped from the depths of his soul.

“I know you know.”

The words were a quiet explosion, finally tearing open the wound between you. The dam broke. You sobbed, deep, gut-wrenching sobs, the terror and the anger and the aching hurt all converging into one agonizing wave. You pushed against his chest, not to escape, but to inflict a fraction of the pain he’d inflicted on you. You punched his chest, weak, ineffectual blows that still resonated with the force of your broken heart.

"You didn’t let me choose!" you choked out, your voice hoarse, raw with emotion. "You lied! You let me find out like that!"

He didn’t defend himself. He just held you tighter, absorbing your desperate punches, his body shaking with unspoken regret. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking, a raw, desperate plea that tore at your heartstrings. "Please, just… a chance. Let me explain. Please."

But the pain was too fresh, too sharp. The betrayal, however unintentional, still burned. You pushed harder, twisting out of his grasp, and then, you ran. You ran out of the shattered library, past the screaming students and the terrified faculty, leaving him standing alone amidst the wreckage, a hero broken by his own secret.

The rain started then, cold and relentless, mirroring the storm in your heart. You didn't know where you were going, just away. Away from the chaos, away from him, away from the truth that had become too heavy to bear.

Hours later, the rain still pouring, Han sat alone in the deserted dorm stairwell. The cold concrete bit into his skin, but he barely felt it. His suit was torn, his body a symphony of aches and throbs, but the pain in his chest eclipsed it all. He was shaking, a deep, uncontrollable tremor wracking his entire frame. He had lost you. He had truly, irrevocably lost the one person he was hopelessly, pathetically whipped for. The mask, his burden, had cost him everything.

A memory surfaced then, sharp and clear through the haze of his despair. The first day. Your voice. The first time he'd truly noticed you, standing in the lecture hall, delivering a cutting, insightful remark that had sliced through the mundane. He remembered the spark of fascination, the almost immediate, undeniable pull he'd felt. He had started sketching you that very day, an unconscious act of devotion.

His sketchbook. He'd ruined it. In a fit of self-loathing after your ghosting, after his near-fatal mistake in the alley, he had burned it. Ripped the pages, tore the binding, reduced the precious, secret repository of his feelings for you to ash and scraps. The thought of those meticulously drawn faces, now gone, was another twist of the knife.

He buried his face in his hands, the cold, wet reality of his choices crashing down on him. A single, broken whisper escaped his lips, lost in the echoing stairwell, unheard by anyone but himself.

"I love you."

He knew it now, with a clarity that stung worse than any physical wound. He loved you. And the page, the countless pages that had held your likeness, were no longer there to bear witness to his silent devotion. He was alone, shattered, and the world he had fought so hard to protect suddenly felt utterly meaningless without you in it.

The rain poured, mirroring the deluge in your heart, as you fled the shattered library. Every step was a desperate attempt to outrun the truth, the image of Han’s masked face, wet with tears, burned into your mind. "You didn't let me choose. You lied!" Your words, screamed into the chaos, echoed with a pain so profound it felt physical. You ran until your lungs ached, until the cold rain plastered your hair to your face, until the city blurred into a watercolor of despair.

You ended up in your apartment, shivering, soaked to the bone, the silence of your space amplifying the ringing in your ears. Your mind was a battlefield. The betrayal, sharp and incandescent, warred with a crushing wave of empathy. He was a liar, yes, but he was also the tired, lonely boy who carried the weight of a city on his impossibly young shoulders. You’d seen his raw vulnerability on the rooftop, the genuine fear in his eyes when he nearly got stabbed, the utter devastation in his face when you’d ghosted him. He was breaking, and you, inadvertently, were part of the fracture.

Sleep was impossible. You paced, a caged animal, the memories looping endlessly: his gentle touch as you bandaged his arm, his desperate whisper, "Don't stop looking at me like that." The warmth of his cheek against your palm, the sheer vulnerability. And then, the cold, hard fact of his deception. He hadn’t trusted you. Not really. And that was the wound that wouldn't heal.

Meanwhile, Han was in hell. He barely registered the cold seeping into his bones in the dorm stairwell, the tremor that wracked his body. Your words, "You didn't let me choose. You lied," sliced through him, each syllable a fresh wound. He had known, logically, that the reveal would be catastrophic. But he hadn't anticipated the sheer, soul-crushing agony of your rejection. He had loved you from afar, poured his secret heart into sketches, protected you from shadows and portals, but in the end, his greatest fear had come true. He had lost you. And it was all his fault.

He spent the next hours huddled there, the rain washing over him, indistinguishable from his tears. Every breath was a struggle, every thought a torment. The idea of being Spider-Man, of swinging through the city, which had once been his escape, now felt like a hollow mockery. What was the point of saving a city if he couldn't even save the one person who truly mattered? He was a hero to millions, but a liar to you. And that was a burden heavier than any collapsing building. He was utterly, completely, irrevocably broken, reduced to nothing but the pathetic, whipped boy who had lost the one person who could truly see him.

The city, however, had no time for heartbreak. The Spot was escalating. His earlier campus attack was just a prelude. The glitches, once isolated incidents, were now spreading like a contagion. News alerts screamed across every screen: The Spot had opened a massive breach beneath the city itself. Not a tear in the sky, but a literal crack in the urban foundation. Entire sections of the city began glitching, phasing in and out of existence, buildings shimmering like heat mirages, streets buckling and dissolving into chaotic, swirling voids. It was an existential threat, the very fabric of reality unraveling.

Spider-Man was needed. Desperately.

But Han couldn't move. He tried. His body screamed in protest, not just from the physical injuries he’d sustained, but from the sheer, crushing weight of his despair. He was beyond exhausted, beyond broken. He was running on empty, his emotional core fractured. He felt the familiar surge of his Spidey-sense, a blaring alarm now, but his limbs wouldn't respond. He had pushed himself too far, emotionally and physically. The world was tearing itself apart, and its hero was crumbling, too.

He collapsed. An unconscious heap in the cold, wet stairwell, his suit still tattered, his mask askew, revealing a sliver of pale, tear-streaked skin.

You, despite your shattered heart, had been meticulously following the news, the worsening reports of The Spot’s rampage. You knew Han would be out there, fighting, pushing himself past his limits. The image of his raw, vulnerable face in the alley, combined with the news of his struggles, had gnawed at you relentlessly. The anger was still there, but it was slowly, terrifyingly being eclipsed by a primal fear. Fear for him.

You had no idea why, but something pulled you towards the campus dorms, towards the quiet stairwell you’d once seen him duck into. A desperate, irrational hope that he might be there. And then you saw him.

A flash of red and blue, crumpled in the dim light. Spider-Man, unconscious.

Your breath caught in your throat. All the anger, all the hurt, vanished in a searing wave of pure, unadulterated terror. He was pale, alarmingly still, his breathing shallow. The cut on his arm, the bruise under his eye, stood out starkly against his pallor.

You didn't hesitate. You rushed to him, your hands trembling as you gently pushed his mask back, revealing his full face. It was Han, undeniably. So young, so exhausted, so vulnerable in his unconsciousness. A fresh wave of tears stung your eyes, this time born of fear, not anger.

He was heavy, impossibly heavy, but a surge of adrenaline gave you strength. You carefully, painstakingly, half-dragged, half-carried him back to your apartment. It was a struggle, a desperate, silent journey through the chaotic streets, your only thought to get him somewhere safe, somewhere quiet. You didn't care who saw you, didn't care about the whispers or the stares. He was dying, and you couldn't let that happen.

You finally got him into your apartment, collapsing him gently onto your worn sofa. You quickly stripped away his torn suit, revealing the extent of his injuries—bruises blooming across his ribs, cuts on his arms and legs, the familiar gash on his shoulder still angry and red. He was battered, broken, utterly spent.

No words were spoken. Your actions were your only language. You moved with a frantic, desperate efficiency, grabbing your first-aid kit, a warm blanket, a cool cloth. You cleaned his wounds, gentle as a caress, your heart aching with every wince he made, even in his unconscious state. You dabbed cool water on his forehead, brushing damp hair from his face. You didn't think about the lie, didn't think about the betrayal. You only thought about keeping him alive.

He finally stirred, a low groan escaping his lips. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then slowly, agonizingly, settling on your face. His brow furrowed in confusion, then realization, then a profound sorrow.

You sat beside him on the floor, your own face streaked with tears and dirt, your hands still hovering over his injured body. You looked at him, truly looked at the fragile human beneath the invincible hero, and the words spilled out, raw and unfiltered.

“Don’t die without asking me if I care.”

The air in the room seemed to crackle. His eyes widened, a flicker of something desperate, something akin to hope, igniting in their depths. He reached out a trembling hand, slowly, almost tentatively, towards you. You didn't pull away. Your hand met his, his fingers wrapping around yours, a tight, almost painful grip. It was a silent reconciliation. Not a spoken one, not yet, but a desperate, physical acknowledgment of the shattered bridge beginning to mend.

No kiss yet—just hands held tight. It was enough. More than enough. It was a promise, a silent agreement that you would fight for him, even if he had lied.

The city outside groaned. News reports, flashing on your phone, showed the scale of the disaster: "City in Chaos," "Reality Warps," "Spider-Man Missing." The Spot wasn't stopping. You looked at Han, his eyes still heavy, but now holding a flicker of determination.

"He's destroying everything," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "We have to do something."

Han nodded, pushing himself up, wincing. "He's manipulating dimensional energy. If we can't stabilize it, the city won't just glitch, it'll collapse into itself."

And that was it. The moment of truth. The merging of your two worlds. You, the theoretical physicist who understood particle instability and dimensional rips; he, the practical hero who could navigate chaos and manipulate webbing.

Y'all teamed up: you engineered a quantum stabilizer. He fine-tunes it with web tech.

You worked with a fierce, almost manic energy. Your apartment became a makeshift lab. You furiously sketched diagrams, wrote equations, explaining complex quantum physics in simplified terms that Han, with his intuitive understanding of the universe, grasped with surprising speed. He, in turn, explained the practicalities of his web-shooters, how he could integrate and amplify the device. You were a terrifyingly effective duo, minds buzzing, hands working in tandem, a perfect, chaotic symphony of intellect and ingenuity. He watched you, every movement, every furrow of your brow, every intense concentration, and he was even more whipped, if that was even possible. He could spend an eternity just watching you work.

But The Spot was relentless. He wasn't just tearing reality; he was actively tracking Spider-Man, his consciousness linked to the distortions. He sensed their progress, the counter-frequency you were developing.

Just as you were nearing completion, a searing, white-hot pain erupted through your apartment. A sickening crunch of breaking wood, the shattering of glass. The entire building shook violently. Spot found their trail. Reader’s apartment exploded.

The force of the blast threw you across the room. You hit the wall with a sickening thud, pain lancing through your head. Smoke billowed, fire licked at the edges of your vision. For a horrifying moment, you couldn't breathe, couldn't move. You heard Han scream your name, a guttural roar of pure terror.

You nearly died.

But Han was faster. He was on you in an instant, pulling you up, shielding you, his body a solid wall between you and the collapsing debris. And then, something snapped in him. The fear for you, the sheer, visceral terror of losing you, unleashed something primal, something utterly terrifying.

Han went berserk.

He launched himself through the gaping hole where your living room wall once was, directly towards The Spot, who hovered amidst the wreckage, a swirling vortex of malevolent glee. Han wasn't Spider-Man anymore. He was a force of nature, a raging storm of fury. His movements were brutal, unforgiving. He fought with a ferocity you'd never imagined, beyond anything you'd seen on the news. There were no quips now, no playful dodges. Just raw, unbridled rage. He webbed The Spot's portals shut with savage force, slammed him against crumbling walls, punched with a desperate, terrifying strength. He was fighting like a monster, aiming for a kill. He was going to end him.

The other heroes, the ones the news talked about, Tony Stark and the Avengers, they weren't here. They wouldn't know the depth of this threat, or the fury of this specific Spider-Man. They would eventually look into The Spot, contain him. But Han was not waiting. He was going to finish this now.

You watched him, horrified, a cold dread seizing you. This wasn't the Spider-Man you knew. This was something darker, something forged in fear and the near-loss of you. He was losing himself.

"No!" you screamed, your voice raw, broken, cutting through the din of collapsing debris and his guttural roars of effort. "Spider-Man! Stop! You're not like him! You're not!"

It was a gamble, a desperate plea to the man you knew was still in there. You knew The Spot needed to be stopped, contained, but not like this. Not by becoming a killer. And the other heroes would look into it—the larger, established forces like Tony Stark, widow the avengers, they would handle the systemic threat, the long-term containment. Han couldn't sacrifice himself, not like this.

He paused, a flicker of your voice reaching him through the red haze of his rage. The Spot, momentarily stunned by the sheer brutality of Han's attack, writhed in his webbed restraints.

You stumbled towards him, ignoring the pain in your head, the smoke filling your lungs. You grabbed his arm, your fingers digging into his suit. "You're not like him. You're not. And the other heroes will look into it—" You tugged, pulling him back from the precipice of utter savagery, forcing him to look at you, truly look. Your eyes, blazing with conviction, pleaded with him.

He looked at you, the primal rage slowly receding, replaced by a shuddering breath, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his fury. He was still Spider-Man, but in that moment, in his eyes, you saw Han, broken and terrified.

Back at campus, people panicked. Glitches worsened. The city was actively tearing itself apart. You had no time.

"The stabilizer!" you gasped, pointing to the half-finished device. "We have to finish it! Now!"

He nodded, the last vestiges of his rage dissipating into a fierce, desperate resolve. Together, you scrambled through the ruins of your apartment, gathering the pieces of your quantum stabilizer. You found it, miraculously intact amidst the destruction.

You rushed to the largest, most volatile breach near campus, the epicenter of the chaos. The air hummed with destructive energy, reality shimmering and dissolving around you. People were screaming, buildings were phasing, swallowed by the void. It was pure pandemonium.

"It needs to be held steady, directly in the core of the largest distortion," you yelled over the roar of the glitching reality. "For at least a minute! It’ll be incredibly unstable!"

"I'll hold it," he said, his voice grim.

"No!" you countered, surprising even yourself. "You're too injured. And you need to be ready to pull me out if it goes wrong. I understand the frequencies. I can fine-tune it." It was the most dangerous part, the most exposed. You risk your life holding the device.

He stared at you, his masked eyes blazing with furious protectiveness. "Don't you dare! I can—"

"You're Spider-Man!" you cut him off, your voice fierce. "You save people. And I… I fix things. We do this together. Now!"

He hesitated for only a second, then nodded, a silent, desperate trust passing between you. He webbed you securely, but with enough give for you to reach and manipulate the device. He positioned you directly at the edge of the largest, most volatile tear, hovering just inches from the swirling, destructive void. You held the quantum stabilizer, its delicate circuits glowing faintly, your fingers flying across the controls, making micro-adjustments as the energy readings shrieked.

The sheer force of the tear pulled at you, threatening to rip the device, and your very essence, apart. Your teeth gritted, your muscles screamed. It felt like holding back a raging current with your bare hands. Your vision blurred, the world twisting around you.

Han was a phantom, a red and blue blur, protecting your flanks, diverting rogue energy bursts, battling spectral figures that phased in and out of the distortion, all while keeping a desperate, unwavering web line attached to you. His masked gaze was fixed on you, every muscle in his body coiled, ready to yank you out at the slightest sign of catastrophic failure. He was terrified, his heart in his throat, utterly whipped for you, watching you brave the impossible.

"Almost!" you yelled, your voice strained, the device vibrating violently in your hands. "Just a few more seconds!"

The Spot, sensing his defeat, materialized directly in front of you, a last, desperate, furious surge of power. He lunged, a dark, consuming vortex of pure rage, aiming for you, aiming for the device.

But Han was faster. He launched himself, a desperate missile, a final, full-force punch. It wasn't elegant. It was raw, unadulterated power born of love and terror.

Final punch: Spot is absorbed into his own portal.

The villain shrieked, a sound of pure agony and defeat, as Han’s fist, infused with the stabilizing frequency, slammed into him. The Spot, his powers turned against him, was consumed by his own destructive energy, sucked back into the largest, most chaotic portal he had created.

The portal began to shrink, to unravel, to recede. Reality groaned, then slowly, agonizingly, began to reset. The shimmering buildings solidified, the ground stopped buckling, the screams faded into stunned silence.

The stabilizer glowed, its work done. And then, your strength gave out. You felt the world tilt, your vision going black. The device slipped from your numb fingers.

And you collapse.

Han was there in an instant, his web line taut, pulling you out of the rapidly closing tear, catching you mid-fall before you hit the ground. He held you tight, pulling your limp body against his, pressing his masked face into your hair, breathing in the scent of smoke and something uniquely you, tears streaming freely beneath his mask. You were safe. You were alive.

You woke up to a soft warmth, a familiar scent. You were lying on something soft, a couch, and a heavy, incredibly comfortable fabric was draped over you. You blinked, your eyes adjusting to the dim light. You were in Han's room, which was surprisingly neat, though still with a subtle scent of his unique mix of ozone and… youthful clutter. The warmth came from an oversized hoodie, too big for you, draped over your body like a comforting blanket. You recognized it instantly. It was his. And you were secured to the chair by something soft, yet firm. Webbed to the chair.

You tried to sit up, groaning softly, your head still throbbing from the explosion.

Han was there in an instant, perched on the edge of his bed, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed and exhausted, but blazing with a fierce, possessive relief. He wasn't wearing his mask now. Just a plain T-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the rain. He looked like the boy you’d first seen, but so much older, so much more burdened, yet now, so clearly vulnerable before you.

"You could've died," he whispered, his voice hoarse with unshed tears, accusation warring with overwhelming relief.

You managed a weak smile, your voice raspy. "I didn't. You were there."

His eyes, full of unspeakable emotion, burned into yours. He leaned in, closer, closer, until his face was just inches from yours. He reached out, his hand trembling, and gently, but possessively, grabbed your chin. His grip was tight-gentle, forcing you to look up, to meet his intense gaze.

"Don't ever do that," he murmured, his voice thick with unadulterated fear and desperate love. "Don't ever, ever do that again. Don't risk yourself like that. Not for me. Not for anyone." The unspoken 'because I can't lose you' hung heavy in the air. He was utterly, completely whipped, and the terror of nearly losing you had stripped him bare.

You just smiled, a soft, genuine smile that reached your eyes. All the anger, all the hurt, dissolved in the face of his raw honesty, his profound care. You reached up, your hand finding his on your chin, a silent promise. "I would fight for you too, my baby."

He froze. His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise, then something utterly, heartbreakingly vulnerable. "My… baby?" The words seemed to short-circuit his already fried brain. He blinked, a faint blush creeping up his neck. The tough, battle-worn hero, the raging monster who'd almost killed The Spot, suddenly looked like a startled, flustered boy. And he glitches. Trying to be tough. A tiny, almost imperceptible shimmer around his edges, like a residual effect of the dimensional chaos, a fleeting visual representation of his overwhelmed emotions.

"Yeah," you affirmed, your smile widening, a gentle tease in your voice. "My baby. Now, can you get me out of these webs? My legs are falling asleep."

He blinked again, trying to regain his composure, to put his usual stoic mask back on, but the effort was clear. He cleared his throat, a faint smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes still held that soft, adoring gaze. "Oh, these?" he said, backing off slightly, deliberately putting a bit of distance between you. "They're pretty strong. Might take a while." He watched your expression, enjoying your immediate exasperation. "They'll melt… eventually. In a few hours."

You sighed dramatically, rolling your eyes. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

He just chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made your heart flutter. "Maybe a little." He folded his arms, clearly amused by your predicament. "You should rest."

You groaned, giving up for now. "Fine. But you owe me."

He grinned, a rare, unguarded smile that transformed his tired face. "Anything for you."

And as you settled back against the cushions, wrapped in his hoodie, still webbed but safe, you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your soul, that he meant every single word.

The faint glow of morning filtered through Han's apartment window, painting dusty motes in the air. You stretched, a soft groan escaping your lips as you realized you were still webbed to the chair, albeit comfortably so. The oversized hoodie, still draped over you, smelled faintly of ozone and Han's unique, comforting scent. Across the room, Han was meticulously cleaning up the remnants of your impromptu lab, his movements quiet, almost reverent.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he murmured, without turning, as if he'd felt your gaze. There was a lightness in his voice you hadn't heard before, a quiet joy that bordered on disbelief.

"Still webbed," you deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. "Are you going to let me go, or am I part of your decor now?"

He chuckled, a low, warm sound. He finally turned, a soft, fond smile playing on his lips. His eyes, though still tired, held a sparkle you hadn't seen before, a profound adoration that made your stomach flutter. "It's a good look on you," he teased, walking over and carefully, painstakingly, melting the webs with a barely visible chemical spray from his wrist. He did it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing your skin as the sticky threads dissolved. His movements were tender, almost hesitant, as if you were something precious he was afraid to break.

Once free, you stretched again, wincing slightly as your muscles protested. "So," you began, looking at him directly, "this is your life, huh? Saving the city, then crashing in your dorm room, bleeding everywhere?"

His smile faded slightly, replaced by a quiet vulnerability. "Something like that." He fidgeted with his hands, then looked up, meeting your gaze head-on. "About… everything. I'm so sorry. I know I should have told you. I just… I couldn't. I was so scared."

You reached out, your hand finding his, surprising him with the gesture. His fingers instinctively tightened around yours. "I know," you said, your voice soft, "I get it now. It doesn't make it okay, but I get it." You squeezed his hand. "But don't you ever lie to me again, Han Jisung."

His eyes, wide with a mixture of relief and fervent promise, bore into yours. "Never," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion. "Never again. I promise."

And just like that, without grand declarations or dramatic kisses, you began dating. Quietly. There was no need for labels, no formal conversation. The intense intimacy forged in shared secrets, near-death experiences, and the raw vulnerability of his confessions had already bypassed all the conventional steps. He was Han, your secret hero, and you were his brilliant, sharp-tongued anchor.

Han still couldn't quite believe you wanted him. He’d spend moments just staring at you, a soft, bewildered smile on his face, as if expecting you to vanish. His inherent shyness, amplified by years of invisibility, was charmingly at odds with the powerful hero persona. He'd blush at your compliments, stammer over simple requests, and occasionally, when he thought you weren't looking, he'd just watch you with an almost painful adoration. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly whipped for you, and it radiated from him like heat.

His sketchbook was out again, but this time, it was different. He sketched you every day, yes, but now from beside you. On shared study dates, during quiet meals, even as you dozed off on his bed while he was supposed to be researching quantum anomalies. His lines were softer, more confident, capturing not just your striking features, but the subtle warmth that was now beginning to bloom around you.

Because you, in turn, started smiling more. Not for the world, not for the students or professors, but only for him. It was a small, private phenomenon, a softening of the sharp edges you presented to everyone else. Your smiles for Han were real, gentle, and utterly mesmerizing. He lived for them, for the rare moments your usually serious eyes would crinkle at the corners, for the slight upturn of your lips when he cracked a particularly lame joke.

He found himself listening to you talk for hours. About the stars, about the theoretical physics that made his head spin, about your dreams of understanding the fundamental laws of the universe. But also about your fears, the anxieties you kept locked away from the world, the quiet loneliness you’d cultivated as self-protection. He absorbed every word, every nuance, silently cataloging them in his mind. He would often reach out, intertwining his fingers with yours, offering a silent comfort that spoke volumes.

Their dates were far from conventional. "Dinner at that new ramen place?" you'd suggest. He'd grin, his eyes sparkling. "Or… we could skip the queue?" And suddenly, you'd find yourself being web-swung across rooftops, the wind whipping through your hair, the city lights a dazzling tapestry beneath your feet. He was surprisingly adept at carrying you, his strong arms secure around your waist, his body always instinctively protecting yours. He started swinging her across rooftops for their dates.

You'd land softly on the highest skyscraper, the city sprawling beneath you like a vast, glittering carpet. There, nestled amongst the towering antennas and pulsating lights, they would lie on skyscrapers, whispering dumb jokes and deep things. He'd point out constellations, his voice low and melodic, while you, ever the scientist, would correct his amateur astronomy with playful jabs. You'd talk about the future, about the impossible possibilities of space-time, about the quiet hopes you harbled for a life together. It was during these moments, suspended between the earth and the stars, that the last vestiges of your guarded nature began to melt away.

Life, for Han Jisung, was suddenly vibrant. He was still Spider-Man, the protector of the city, but now, he had a secret strength, a quiet joy that fueled him. He still got tired, still carried the burden, but it was lightened by the knowledge that you knew, that you accepted him, that you cared.

One afternoon, while grabbing coffee near campus, you overheard a group of excitable first-years gushing over Spider-Man. "Oh my god, he's so hot!" one girl squealed, showing her friends a blurry photo of him perched on a gargoyle. "And his voice! So deep and comforting! I bet he's super strong and protective."

You felt a strange, unfamiliar pang. Not exactly anger, but a prickling irritation. Reader gets jealous when Spider-Man fan girls flirt. They were talking about your Han, your exhausted, sweet, slightly clumsy Han, whom they only saw as a fantasy.

You glanced over at Han, who was pretending to be engrossed in his phone, though you knew he’d heard every word. A faint blush crept up his neck. He was clearly flustered by the casual adoration, but also, you suspected, a little awkward about it.

Before you could stop yourself, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "Ready to go, babe?" you asked, making sure your voice carried just enough for the fan girls to hear.

Han nearly choked on his coffee. His head snapped up, eyes wide, a deep blush staining his cheeks. He looked at you, a mixture of shock and sheer adoration in his gaze. You just smirked, a challenge in your eyes.

He cleared his throat, suddenly flustered and wonderfully possessive. Without a word, he set down his coffee, leaned in, and web-yanked you close with a swift, subtle movement of his wrist, pulling you against his side. His arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you closer still, until there was no space left between you. His head dipped down, lips brushing your ear. "You're mine," he whispered, his voice low and possessive, a delicious rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

You bit back a laugh, pressing a kiss to his jaw, right where the shadow of his stubble lay. "Possessive much?" you teased, your voice playful.

He just tightened his grip, pulling you even closer, his cheek resting against your hair, a silent declaration to the world, and to those giggling fan girls, that you were unequivocally his.

Their relationship, once defined by secrets and silent observations, blossomed into a comfortable, almost domestic rhythm. He’d leave you little web notes on your door, silly doodles or reminders to eat. You, in turn, started leaving him energy bars and hot coffee on his desk, knowing he’d need them after a long night.

Han, ever the inventor, spent weeks tinkering in secret. One evening, on your usual rooftop perch, he surprised you. "Here," he said, holding out a small, metallic charm. It was shaped like a stylized spider, sleek and understated. Han builds her a gadget—spider charm that beeps if she’s in danger. "It's a low-frequency tracker," he explained, a blush creeping up his neck. "And it'll emit a specific signal if you're, uh, in trouble. Just… for emergencies." His voice trailed off, clearly embarrassed by the overt possessiveness, but his eyes pleaded for you to accept it.

You took the charm, your fingers tracing its smooth surface. It was absurd, sweet, and utterly Han. You smiled, a genuine, soft smile that he loved. "Thank you," you said, slipping it onto your keychain. It was a tangible link, a silent promise of his constant vigilance.

One moonlit night, high above the city, they were lost in a shared moment, lips pressed together, the world forgotten. He was leaning against a ventilation unit, your arms wrapped around his neck, his hands resting on your waist, when a faint thwip broke the silence.

They broke apart, startled. Perched on an adjacent building, a figure in a red and blue suit, bulkier, more angular, stood observing them. The mask was different, more intimidating. You recognized the distinctive silhouette.

Another Spider-Man variant. Miguel.

Han stiffened, his eyes wide with panic. "Oh, crap. Oh, crap, crap, crap." He immediately moved to shield you, his body tensing, ready for a confrontation. His secret, his quiet, intimate life with you, suddenly exposed to the wider Spider-Verse.

You, however, surprised him. You looked at the imposing figure, then back at Han, who was practically vibrating with anxiety. You grinned, a mischievous glint in your eye. "Relax," you said, leaning in and whispering loud enough for both Han and the other Spider-Man to hear, "He ships us."

Miguel, surprisingly, let out a low, rumbling chuckle that echoed across the rooftops. He gave a single, slow nod, a gesture of approval, before turning and leaping into the night, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared.

Han stared after him, then back at you, utterly bewildered. "He what?"

You just laughed, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. "Never mind. Come here, you big baby."

The rest of the night was spent in a blissful haze of shared warmth. They fell asleep on a rooftop wrapped in his webbing and hoodie. He spun a cocoon of his softest, warmest webbing around you both, shielding you from the night air. You snuggled into his side, his arm a secure weight around you, his hoodie pulled snugly around your shoulders. You could hear the steady beat of his heart, a comforting lullaby.

And then, just before dawn, as the first blush of pink touched the horizon, illuminating your faces in a soft, ethereal glow, you stirred. You looked up at him, his face still and peaceful in sleep, the mask long discarded. You reached up, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw, the gentle line of his lips.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open, soft and heavy with sleep. He looked at you, a soft, adoring gaze that held no secrets, no masks.

And in that moment, with the city just beginning to wake around you, under the pale light of the fading moon, you leaned in. And you kissed him. First full kiss without the mask, under the moonlight. It was soft, tender, a culmination of all the unspoken longing, all the shared pain, all the quiet promises. It was the kiss of two souls finding their true home, utterly, irrevocably entwined.

The years that followed, after that moonlit kiss on the rooftop, were a quiet symphony of shared lives and intertwined destinies. Han and you, once two disparate halves of a hidden truth, had finally found your perfect congruence. The world continued to spin, oblivious to the secret superhero who walked among them, his heart now irrevocably bound to a brilliant, sharp-tongued woman.

Graduation arrived with the bittersweet rush of accomplishment and farewells. Han, still preferring to avoid the spotlight unless swinging through it, graduated quietly. His name was called, he accepted his diploma with a humble nod, and then melted back into the crowd, a ghost once more. He didn't need the accolades; his reward was a quiet, knowing glance from you, standing in the bustling hall.

You, however, were not one for quiet exits. You had, as expected, topped the department, your name now synonymous with groundbreaking research and an intellect that few could rival. You were chosen to deliver the graduation speech, a rare honor reserved for the brightest and most promising.

You stood on the podium, bathed in the harsh glare of the stage lights, a sea of faces stretching before you. Your voice, usually precise and unwavering, held a surprising tremor as you began. "We live in a world that often demands we present a curated version of ourselves," you began, your gaze sweeping over the audience, instinctively seeking out Han, who sat tucked away in the very back row, his ubiquitous hoodie pulled low, his eyes fixed on you.

"We hide parts of ourselves, behind masks of composure, of intellect, of even indifference," you continued, your voice gaining strength, a quiet conviction that resonated through the grand hall. "And sometimes, we hide not because we're liars, but because we're scared. Scared of being seen. Scared of being vulnerable. Some people hide. Not because they’re liars, but because they’re scared of being loved."

Your eyes met Han's across the vast expanse of the hall. He flinched, a subtle tremor running through him, a tear tracing a path down his cheek. He hadn't known you knew the full depth of his fear, the core reason behind his silence. He had been terrified, not just of exposure, but of your judgment, of losing your respect, of you not loving the complicated, burdened man behind the mask. He listened, his heart aching with a profound, almost unbearable love, eyes wet with gratitude and overwhelming emotion.

You finished your speech to thunderous applause, a standing ovation that seemed to last forever. You smiled, a genuine, warm smile, acknowledging the cheers, but your eyes were already searching for him.

You found him backstage, a few minutes later, still trying to disappear. He stood alone, his hands shoved into his pockets, looking utterly overwhelmed. You didn't hesitate. You marched straight up to him, grabbed his arm, and, ignoring the lingering stage crew and curious onlookers, dragged him into the wings, into the shadowed space just out of sight of the main hall.

He stumbled after you, bewildered, his eyes wide. Before he could utter a single word, you reached up, pulled his face down, and kissed him breathless. It was a kiss born of years of unspoken longing, of shared secrets, of profound understanding. A kiss that tasted of victory and belonging, a promise sealed against his lips.

He gasped into the kiss, his arms coming up instinctively to wrap around your waist, pulling you impossibly close. He kissed you back with a fierce, desperate hunger, pouring all his pent-up emotion into the embrace. His fingers tangled in your hair, holding you tight, as if afraid you might vanish.

No one saw. Not truly. The shadows of the wings, the bustling post-graduation chaos, provided the perfect cover. But Han didn't care. He was glowing. From the inside out, a luminescence that no mask could ever contain. He was seen, he was known, he was loved. And it was you who had finally given him that freedom.

Life settled into a rhythm that was uniquely yours. You found a loft apartment with roof access, the perfect compromise between your love for high places and his need for discrete entrances and exits. It was filled with your books, his scattered gadgets, and the quiet hum of two lives finally in sync.

Spider-Man was still a legend. He swung through the city most nights, a vigilant protector, his reputation as a quippy, gravity-defying hero only growing. But now, when he returned, exhausted and sometimes bruised, it was to you. He would shed the suit, the mask, and slip into bed beside you, his arm finding its familiar place around your waist. Reader sleeps in his shirt, the soft cotton smelling faintly of him, a constant reminder of his presence, both heroic and wonderfully human.

You made it official, in your own quiet way, by extending your family. They adopted a cat. A small, scruffy creature with enormous eyes, found hiding in a dusty corner of the animal shelter. And, with a shared, mischievous grin, you decided to name it "404." A little inside joke, a nod to the "feelings not found" that had once defined your lives, but were now overflowing.

Han still got nervous confessing love. The grand, spoken declarations sometimes felt too big, too vulnerable for the boy who’d spent so long in the shadows. So, he found his own language. He draws it instead. His sketchbook was now filled with vibrant colors, not just shades of charcoal. Drawings of you, laughing, studying, sleeping. Drawings of you together, sometimes in his arms, sometimes standing by his side as he watched the city. Each sketch was a whispered "I love you," a tangible piece of his heart laid bare.

One quiet evening, as you sat on the couch, reading, he came up behind you, placing a small, wrapped parcel in your lap. You looked up, surprised. He was blushing, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

You unwrapped it carefully. Inside, protected by layers of tissue, was a drawing. Not a recent one, not a vibrant watercolor. This was an old sketch, in charcoal, faded and soft. It was the very first ever Spider-Man sketch he had ever done, years ago, when the burden had first settled on his shoulders. He was swinging through the cityscape, a tiny, almost insignificant figure, but in the foreground, etched with meticulous detail, was you. Your back to him, walking through a crowd, utterly oblivious.

"You were always the reason I jumped," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze fixed on the drawing, then on your face. "Even before I knew you, before I knew… this."

Tears stung your eyes. You looked from the drawing, to his blushing, earnest face. You knew what this meant. This was his soul laid bare. You gently reached out, your fingers finding the discarded mask that lay on his bedside table, a silent symbol of his double life. You picked it up, feeling its familiar texture, the weight of its importance.

"You were always him," you said, your voice soft, filled with a love that felt boundless. "I just didn’t know I loved him yet." You laid the mask back down, no longer a barrier, but a testament to his strength, a part of the man you loved.

The city called, as it always did. The stars beckoned.

One final night, a perfect symphony of your shared world. Final swing through the city. You were in his arms, soaring above the glittering grid of lights, the wind whipping through your hair, the exhilaration a dizzying rush. He held you tight, secure and cherished, your laughter echoing into the vast expanse of the night.

The crowd below, a tiny, faceless mass, cheered. They pointed upwards, yelling his name. "Spider-Man!"

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, looking up at the endless, star-dusted velvet of the sky. And who knew you would fall for him? the wierdo who crashed into. But one thing was for sure this clumsy boy and everyone's lovely neighbourhood spidey was your endgame and maybe thats what truly mattered.

The end.

The fluorescent lights of the deserted hallway hummed, casting a sickly yellow glow that did nothing to soothe the frantic beat of your heart. You clutched your textbooks tighter, knuckles white against the worn covers, as Mark’s shadow loomed closer. His usual cologne, a cloying mix of something vaguely sporty and entirely too much ambition, now felt like a suffocating cloud.

“Come on, [Y/N],” his voice, smooth as polished concrete, grated on your nerves. “Just one date. What’s the big deal? Everyone knows we’d be perfect together.”

Everyone meant Mark and his circle of jock-brained sycophants who believed your role as head of the student council meant you were fair game for the school’s most entitled. You’d spent the last month deflecting his increasingly persistent advances with practiced smiles and vague excuses. But today, after an exhaustive three-hour council meeting that had drained you of all your polite reserves, his unwavering confidence was a suffocating weight.

“Mark, I’ve told you,” you tried, your voice a little breathier than you would have liked. You glanced around frantically. The hallway was completely empty, the last stragglers having vanished moments ago. Even the ever-present janitor seemed to have taken an early leave. “I’m really busy. And besides, I… I’m already seeing someone.”

A perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, really? That’s news to me. And to everyone else, for that matter. Who’s the lucky guy, then? Because last I checked, you were practically married to the student council, not anyone with a pulse.” He stepped closer, his imposing frame blocking your escape route to the main exit. The faint scent of stale locker room and fake confidence was overwhelming.

Panic, cold and sharp, coiled in your gut. You needed an out, and you needed one now. Your eyes darted wildly, desperate for a distraction, a human shield, anything. They landed, almost comically, on a figure hunched over a locker at the far end of the hallway.

He was a silhouette against the muted light from the window, his form swallowed by a voluminous, dark grey hoodie that looked several sizes too big. Baggy jeans pooled around his worn sneakers. A pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses sat low on his nose, catching the light as he meticulously rearranged what looked like a stack of obscure-looking textbooks and a tangle of wires. Even from a distance, you could tell he was flinching slightly, as if the last sliver of afternoon sun dared to trespass into his personal space. His head was bowed, hidden by the hood, and a pair of headphones were clamped firmly over his ears, effectively isolating him in his own world.

Han Jisung. The resident genius-slash-recluse of the school. He was known for his almost supernatural ability to avoid eye contact, his mumbled responses, and his uncanny knack for solving the most complex calculus problems while simultaneously sketching what looked like intricate circuit boards in the margins of his notes. He was the antithesis of everything Mark represented. He was… perfect.

A reckless, desperate impulse seized you. Without a second thought, you pointed.

“Him,” you declared, your voice ringing with a conviction you absolutely did not feel. “That’s my boyfriend.”

Mark’s smirk faltered, replaced by a look of bewildered incredulity. He followed your gaze, his eyes narrowing as they landed on the oblivious Jisung. He looked back at you, then back at Jisung, then back at you again, as if trying to reconcile two vastly different species.

“Him?” Mark scoffed, the word dripping with disbelief. His voice was loud enough to echo in the empty corridor. “Han Jisung? The… the library hermit? You’re telling me he’s your boyfriend? The guy who looks like he’s allergic to sunlight and hasn't had a conversation longer than three sentences in his life?” He actually let out a short, disbelieving laugh, as if the idea was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard.

His reaction, the open ridicule, fueled a sudden surge of stubborn defiance in you. You squared your shoulders, a cold resolve replacing the earlier panic. If he wanted to mock, you’d give him something to mock about.

“Yep,” you said, injecting a breezy confidence into your tone, though your stomach was doing somersaults. “My boyfriend. He’s… private. And very studious. We like to keep things low-key.” You even managed to give a small, saccharine smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see my boyfriend. We have… private, studious things to do.”

You brushed past Mark, his jaw still slack with disbelief, and walked with as much nonchalance as you could muster towards the far end of the hallway. Every step felt like walking a tightrope over a canyon. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the corridor. Jisung was still oblivious, humming tunelessly to whatever was blasting through his headphones as he meticulously organized his locker.

You reached him, slowing your pace. He was so engrossed that he didn't even notice you until you cleared your throat, a little louder than intended. He startled, his head snapping up so fast that his glasses almost slid off his nose. His eyes, wide and a startling shade of brown behind the lenses, were framed by wisps of dark hair peeking out from under his hood. He looked like a startled woodland creature caught in the headlights.

His gaze flickered to your face, then down to your textbooks, then back up to your eyes, his brow furrowed in utter confusion. He pulled one earbud out, a strand of wire dangling awkwardly.

“Uh… hi?” he mumbled, his voice soft, almost a whisper, as if he rarely used it.

You forced a smile, trying to appear calm despite the residual tremor in your hands. “Hey, Han. Can I… can I talk to you for a second?”

He blinked, clearly thrown off by the direct address. “Me?” he squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. He glanced around as if expecting someone else to appear from behind you.

“Yes, you,” you confirmed, stepping a little closer. You lowered your voice, conscious of Mark’s lingering, disbelieving stare from down the hall. He was still watching, you could feel it. “Look, I know this is going to sound completely insane, but I just… I need your help. It’s important.”

Jisung’s eyes widened even further, darting nervously between you and the empty space around him. He took another earbud out, completely. “Help? With what? Did you… did you lose your keycard? I have a master for the lab, but…”

You quickly shook your head. “No, no, nothing like that. It’s… it’s a personal emergency.” You hesitated, then decided honesty was the best, albeit most embarrassing, policy. “That guy, Mark, he’s been harassing me..not exactly- but like cornering me. Really persistent. And I just… I panicked. And I told him I had a boyfriend.”

Jisung’s face remained a blank canvas of confusion. “Okay…?”

“And then he asked who,” you continued, wringing your hands. “And you were the only person in the hallway. So… I pointed at you.”

He stared at you. A long, silent moment stretched between you, broken only by the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system. His eyes, usually so focused, seemed to be buffering, trying to process this unprecedented data. A faint, mortified flush began to creep up his neck, dusting his pale cheeks.

“Me?” he finally managed, his voice barely audible, a mixture of disbelief and genuine fluster. “You… you told him I was your boyfriend?”

You winced. “I know! I’m so, so sorry, Han. It was completely impulsive. I just needed him to back off. He… he only cares about appearances, you know? And he would never believe I’m dating someone who’s, well, not like him.” You gestured vaguely in his direction, then immediately regretted it. That sounded worse. “Not that you’re not amazing! You are! Just… different. Which is great! He just wouldn’t get it- He is- dumb!”

He was still staring, his face growing progressively redder. His hands, which had been fumbling with a calculus textbook, stilled. He looked so utterly out of his element, so clearly unused to this kind of direct, chaotic attention, that a pang of guilt shot through you.

“I understand that you were scared,” he said, surprising you with his quiet empathy. His voice was still soft, but there was a genuine understanding in his eyes now, replacing the initial bewilderment. “He… he can be very… persistent.” He paused, then sighed. “So, now he thinks… we’re dating?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, feeling a fresh wave of mortification. “And he’s the type to double-check. He’ll make it his mission to find out if I was lying. He’ll make my life a living hell if he thinks I strung him along.”

Another beat of silence. Jisung seemed to be doing complex mental calculations, weighing the pros and cons of this entirely unexpected predicament. He ran a hand through his slightly messy hair, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

“So,” you ventured, taking a deep breath and plunging into the proposal you’d mentally formulated on your panicked walk over. “Here’s the deal. I need you to… fake date me. Just until he backs off. A few weeks, maybe a month or two. You wouldn’t have to do much. Just… be seen with me sometimes. Acknowledge me in the halls. Maybe walk me to class once in a while i will do so too! I’ll make it as easy as possible for you. And… I’ll pay you, if you want. Or I can help you with anything, any projects, extra credit, anything you need.”

Jisung’s eyes were wide, fixed on you. He looked like he was witnessing a complex scientific phenomenon he couldn't quite explain. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His cheeks were still flushed, but a strange glint, almost of… intrigue, flickered in his gaze.

He took a moment, then, to your utter surprise, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was quick, fleeting, but undeniably there.

“I’ve read about this trope,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice barely audible. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly behind his glasses.

Your breath hitched. Trope? Of course, he would know the literary term for it. You almost laughed in relief. This might actually work.

“So… you’ll do it?” you asked, a hopeful tremor in your voice.

He exhaled slowly, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. He looked at you, really looked at you, with an intensity that made you momentarily forget the chaos that had led you here. There was a quiet kindness in his gaze that you hadn't expected.

“Okay,” he said, the single word a quiet agreement. “I… I can help.”

Relief washed over you so intensely that your knees felt a little weak. “Oh, Han! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea what a lifesaver you are!”

You were so overwhelmed that you almost hugged him, but caught yourself just in time. He flinched slightly at your enthusiasm, confirming that physical contact was probably still off-limits.

“Okay,” you said, trying to dial back your excitement. “So, starting now. We’re… we’re dating.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “So, maybe… let’s walk out together? Mark’s still out there.”

He nodded, a hesitant bob of his head. He pulled his backpack onto his shoulder, adjusting the heavy strap. The hood was still up, almost completely obscuring his face.

As you walked down the hallway side-by-side, a bizarre sense of unreality settled over you. You, [Y/N], the perpetually composed student council head, were now fake-dating Han Jisung, the human embodiment of the library. It was absurd. It was terrifying. And somehow, exhilarating.

You passed Mark, who was still standing there, looking like someone had just told him the sky was purple. He stared, wide-eyed, as you and Jisung walked past. You even managed a small, victorious smirk in his direction. Jisung, for his part, kept his head down, but you felt a slight tremor in his arm as he walked beside you. He was radiating an almost palpable aura of anxiety.

As you stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, Jisung blinked, wincing slightly. He seemed to shrink further into his oversized hoodie.

“I live… this way,” you said, pointing down the street.

“Oh. Right.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked like he might genuinely faint. His hands were clenched at his sides.

You resisted the urge to laugh, knowing it would probably send him spiraling. This was going to be a fascinating few weeks. You wondered what kind of internal monologue was running through his head right now.

Later that night, curled up in his bed, surrounded by an impressive array of coding books and music equipment, Han Jisung pulled out a worn, leather-bound journal. The pages were filled with neat, precise handwriting, diagrams, and what looked like musical notations. He uncapped his pen, hesitated for a long moment, then wrote:

Dear brain, what are we doing?

He paused, chewing on the end of his pen. He scratched out a line, then started a new one.

Log Entry: Day 1. Operation: Fake Dating. Initiated: [Y/N], Head of Student Council. Subject: Me. Purpose: Deter persistent… jock. Status: Extremely Confused. Data points: Elevated heart rate, inexplicable sweating, internal system overload. Hypotheses: This is either the most illogical decision of my life, or… a new variable in an otherwise predictable equation. Further research required. Must procure more rom-coms. For science. Obviously.

He closed the journal, running a hand over its cover. The memory of her intense gaze, her nervous yet determined smile, and the fleeting relief in her eyes when he agreed, played back in his mind. He still couldn't quite believe it. Her. And him. Boyfriend. The word felt alien on his tongue, a foreign program his system was struggling to run. He sighed, a soft, bewildered sound, and pulled his blanket tighter around himself. This was going to be… interesting.

-

A few weeks bled into a month, and the initial, stomach-lurching awkwardness of your fake relationship with Han Jisung had, surprisingly, begun to settle into a strange, almost comfortable rhythm. Mark, thankfully, seemed to have taken your declaration seriously. His smirks had vanished, replaced by a sullen, confused frown whenever he saw you and Jisung in the same vicinity. Victory.

The “public moments” you’d proposed were surprisingly easy to orchestrate. Jisung, true to his word, would nod stiffly when you passed him in the hall, sometimes even offering a fleeting, almost imperceptible half-smile that was more a nervous twitch than genuine amusement. He’d walk you to class, head down, eyes usually scanning the floor as if searching for a lost theorem, but always staying a respectful half-step behind you. He’d even mastered a quick, almost imperceptible glance around the corner before you turned it, a silent check for the creep. It was endearing, in its own peculiar way.

Today was a test of the new normalcy. You were meeting your friends for lunch in the bustling cafeteria, a place where privacy went to die. Jisung was already there, meticulously dissecting a sandwich and ignoring the world through his omnipresent headphones. You spotted him, a small island of quiet in a sea of raucous chatter, and a mischievous idea sparked.

"Hey, guys!" you chirped, approaching your table where Sarah, Liam, and Chloe were already digging into their trays. "Sorry I'm late, had to grab something." You didn't wait for their replies. Instead, you veered slightly, heading straight for Jisung's table.

He looked up, startled, as your shadow fell over him. He pulled out an earbud, his eyes wide. Before he could utter his usual mumbled greeting, you leaned down, a bright, easy smile plastered on your face, and linked your arm through his.

"Hey, babe," you said, loud enough for your friends to hear, but soft enough to sound somewhat natural. You squeezed his arm gently. "Mind if I steal a fry?"

Jisung froze. Absolutely, completely froze. His entire body stiffened, and you could feel the tremor in his arm even through the fabric of his hoodie. His eyes, already wide, somehow managed to widen further, darting from your arm to your face, then wildly around the cafeteria as if searching for an escape route. A deep, mortified blush bloomed on his neck, creeping upwards to engulf his ears. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, about to spontaneously combust.

"G-girlfriend?" he choked out, the word escaping him in a strangled gasp. It sounded less like a term of endearment and more like a medical emergency.

You tried to suppress your giggle, biting the inside of your cheek. "Yeah, girlfriend," you repeated, your smile unwavering. "These fries look amazing."

He let out a small, strangled sound that might have been a whimper. He didn’t reply, didn’t move. He just sat there, a statue of flustered confusion, his eyes fixed on your arm linked with his, as if it were a venomous snake about to strike. He finally managed to push his tray of fries vaguely in your direction, then just… shut down. He sat rigidly, observing you, his gaze following your every movement as you casually plucked a fry from his tray.

Your friends, who had been watching the entire exchange with open mouths, finally reacted.

"Wait, that's him?" Sarah whispered, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning fascination. She knew Jisung existed, of course, everyone did, but seeing him up close, interacting with you… it was jarring.

Liam, always the cynic, raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, [Y/N]? The guy who communicates exclusively through hums and the occasional muttered equation?"

"He's actually… kinda adorable," Chloe mused, a soft smile playing on her lips. She was known for seeing the good in everyone, and even she seemed genuinely surprised. "And he's so respectful. Look at him, he just gave her his fries."

You shot them a look that clearly said, Play along, then turned back to Jisung, who was still rigid. You nudged him gently with your elbow. "You okay there, Han?"

He finally blinked, like a computer restarting. "Fine," he mumbled, though his face was still burning. He carefully, almost tentatively, picked up his sandwich again, but his movements were stiff, like a robot whose joints needed oiling.

Over the next week or so, something remarkable happened. Jisung, the boy who flinched at your slightest movement, started to get used to your touch. Not just used to it, but almost… receptive. When you linked arms in the hall, he still tensed for a split second, but then his muscles would relax. If you accidentally brushed his hand reaching for a textbook, he wouldn’t jerk away. Once, during a particularly boring lecture, you leaned your head on his shoulder, pretending to rest, and after an initial rigid shock, he actually… sagged slightly, as if finding a strange comfort in your proximity.

Alone in his room, he’d freak out. He’d replay the day’s interactions in his mind, dissecting every touch, every accidental brush. His journal entries became a chaotic mix of calculus theorems and frantic questions about synaptic responses to unexpected tactile stimuli. Why did her arm feel… right? Why did my shoulder not immediately recoil? Is this a malfunction?

"Okay, boyfriend," you declared one afternoon, holding up your phone. "We need more proof. For believability. We're taking selfies."

Jisung looked at the phone as if it were a deadly weapon. "Selfies?" he croaked, his voice cracking. "But… my face…"

"Your face is just fine," you laughed, pulling him closer. He stiffened, but didn't pull away. You pressed your cheek against his, tilting the phone. "Just smile! Or don't. Just… exist, awkwardly. Would suggest smile a little"

He died inside. You could practically feel his soul departing his body. His smile was less a smile and more a grimace of pure existential dread, but the photos, to your surprise, were perfect. They captured his endearing awkwardness and your playful charm. You posted one on your private story, adding a heart emoji. You could almost hear Mark's blood pressure rising from across campus.

One afternoon, heading home, you spotted a photo booth in a small arcade. "Come on," you tugged on his sleeve, "Boyfriend duty! We need more proof."

He looked utterly terrified, but followed you inside. The small, cramped space felt even smaller with his nervous energy. You put in the coins, and the flash went off, startling him. He jumped, his face a mask of surprise in the first shot. The next few were a blur of you laughing, him looking utterly bewildered, and then, in the final shot, you leaned in, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek. He froze, eyes wide, a blush erupting on his face.

When the strip of photos slid out, you both looked at them. You burst out laughing at his expressions. He, surprisingly, didn't look completely horrified. He even managed a tiny, shy smile at the one where you kissed his cheek. You took the strip, carefully tearing it in half. One half, you tucked into the clear case of your phone, hidden behind your favorite polaroid. The other half, you offered to him.

He took it with trembling fingers, his gaze fixed on the image. Later that night, alone, he would carefully fold it and tuck it into his wallet, a secret treasure.

You discovered a new hobby: leaving him notes. Little Post-it notes, sometimes with a doodle, sometimes just a silly message, sometimes a reminder for a "date" (read: walking you to the library). You'd slip them into the pocket of his hoodie when he wasn't looking, or stick them to his locker.

He kept every single one. Even the dumbest ones, like the one that just said "Hi, Boyfriend!" with a smiley face, or the one with a crude drawing of a stick figure holding a pizza slice. He had a small, otherwise empty box in his desk drawer, and each note was carefully smoothed out and placed inside. They were tangible proof of… something. Something new, something confusing, something that made his chest feel strangely warm.

His protectiveness, while still subtle, was growing. During one of your student council meetings, as you presented your budget proposal, you felt a prickling sensation on your neck. You glanced up, and there he was, standing just outside the meeting room, leaning against the wall. His gaze wasn't on you, but sweeping the hallway, then settling on the figure of Mark, who was loitering near the water fountain, pretending to be absorbed in his phone, but clearly watching you.

Jisung's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He pushed off the wall and, with a casualness that was entirely un-Jisung-like, walked closer to the meeting room door, positioning himself squarely in Mark's line of sight to you. He pulled out his own phone, feigning interest, but his posture was subtly different now – less reclusive, more… present. He was a silent sentinel. You almost smiled.

Every morning, he’d be there. Waiting by your locker, or just outside your first class. He always looked sleepy, a slight slouch to his shoulders, but his eyes, behind his glasses, were always scanning the hallway, a quiet vigilance about him. And he would listen. He wouldn't interrupt, wouldn't offer advice unless explicitly asked. He just listened, head tilted slightly, as you yapped about the latest student council drama, or a funny thing your friend did, or a particularly frustrating chemistry problem. He absorbed it all, a silent, comforting presence.

You found yourself teasing him more and more. Gently, of course. Just enough to see that fascinating blush creep up his neck, to watch him fumble for words.

"You know," you'd muse, as he meticulously organized his pens by color, "for a genius, you really get flustered easily, Jisung."

He'd drop a pen, pick it up, his ears turning bright red. "It's… it's a physiological response to unexpected… stimuli," he'd mumble, avoiding your gaze.

"Uh huh," you'd hum, batting your eyelashes playfully. "Or maybe you just think I'm really charming."

He’d be 0.2 seconds from imploding. His entire system seemed to overload. He’d clear his throat, adjust his glasses, and find sudden, urgent interest in the scuff mark on his shoe. It was addictive, seeing him unravel in such a delightful way.

At night, in the quiet solitude of his room, the journal entries grew longer, more introspective.

Log Entry: Day 57. Subject: [Y/N]. Observation: Increased tactile interaction. Response: Initial system shock, followed by inexplicable sense of… comfort? Hypothesis: Proximity effect. Further testing required. Current research focus: Human romantic comedies. Objective: Understand typical ‘boyfriend’ behaviors. Data collection: Kissing scenes. Note: Significant variation in technique. More data needed. For academic purposes only, of course. Just in case.

He’d rewatch a particularly passionate movie kiss, pausing it, rewinding, watching it again. He’d make mental notes: Angle of head tilt, duration, lip pressure… He’d flush furiously in the dark, wondering what on earth he was doing, what kind of ridiculous rabbit hole this "fake dating" was leading him down. But then he’d remember your laugh, the way your hand felt linked with his, the way you trusted him to just be there, and a strange warmth would spread through his chest.

The "Boyfriend.exe" program was definitely running. And to his utter bewilderment, it was running surprisingly well.

Five months. Five months had somehow evaporated since you’d pointed a desperate finger at the unassuming figure of Han Jisung and declared him your boyfriend. What started as a chaotic lie had morphed into an oddly comfortable, undeniably complex routine. The initial panic of the fake dating had long subsided, replaced by a nuanced understanding, a silent communication that had slowly, subtly, woven itself into the fabric of your daily lives.

You’d grown fond of him. More than fond, actually. You found yourself looking forward to his quiet presence, his sleepy morning greetings, the way he’d listen intently to your endless stories without interruption. He was a steady, grounding force in your otherwise bustling world, and you realized, with a quiet jolt, that you genuinely enjoyed his company.

And Jisung? The metamorphosis was remarkable. He was still Jisung, the boy who wore his hoodie like armor and spoke in soft mumbles, but cracks had appeared in that carefully constructed shell. He was opening up. Tentatively at first, like a shy bloom unfurling in the sun, then with increasing confidence.

It started with music. You’d been walking home one evening, the sky painted in hues of lavender and bruised orange, when he’d suddenly cleared his throat.

“You know,” he’d begun, his voice still quiet but laced with an unfamiliar excitement, “I’ve been working on a new track. It’s… it’s a bit experimental. Combines trap beats with a classical piano melody. I’m trying to capture the feeling of… organized chaos.” He looked at you then, a rare, direct gaze, his eyes shining with an almost childlike enthusiasm. “Do you… do you want to hear it sometime?”

Your heart had done a funny little flip. “I’d love to, Jisung,” you’d said, genuinely. “Tell me about it. What inspired it?”

And he did. He talked about his dreams of producing, about the intricate layers of sound, about how he heard melodies in mundane things, like the rhythm of raindrops or the hum of the school’s heating system. He spoke about his favorite artists, dissecting their compositions with a passion that was almost startling. His words tumbled out, faster than you’d ever heard him speak, and his hands, usually so still, moved animatedly as he described complex musical structures.

You just listened. Really listened. Not because you had to, but because you wanted to. You watched his face light up, the way his eyes danced behind his glasses, and a warmth spread through you. He was more than just the quiet nerd. He was a brilliant, passionate soul hidden behind a thick, soft hoodie. And you found him incredibly, irresistibly cute when he was so excitedly absorbed in his world.

One particularly sweltering afternoon, you were sitting in the near-empty library. He was sketching furiously in a notebook, a diagram of a complex sound system by the looks of it, while explaining something about song octaves – a topic completely lost on you, but his enthusiasm was infectious. As he leaned closer to point out a detail, his glasses, perpetually sliding down his nose, slipped precariously. Without thinking, your hand reached out, your fingers gently pushing them back into place on the bridge of his nose.

His hand, which had been mid-air, froze. He stopped talking mid-sentence, the word ‘frequency’ hanging unfinished in the air. His eyes, magnified by the lenses, were suddenly wide and fixed on your face. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. It was as if a crucial circuit in his brain had suddenly overloaded. He short-circuited.

A faint, but undeniable, blush crept from his neck, up his cheeks, and flooded his ears. It was a deep, fiery red. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. He just… stared. His breathing seemed to hitch.

You pulled your hand back, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. His reaction was always so extreme, so beautifully, awkwardly honest.

“Cute,” you murmured, a genuine warmth in your voice. “You’re cute when you get all excited about music.”

His blush intensified, reaching the tips of his ears. He looked away, his gaze darting to the ceiling, then the floor, anywhere but at you. He cleared his throat, a rough, dry sound.

“It’s… it’s not… frequency is important for… harmonics,” he stammered, trying to pick up where he’d left off, but his voice was strained, and he clearly couldn't remember what he was saying. He eventually gave up, closing his notebook with a soft thud. The tension in the air was palpable, a delicious, unspoken energy simmering between you.

That night, after your part-time job at the local café, you found him waiting for you outside, leaning against a lamp post, his hoodie pulled low. The streetlights cast long shadows, and a cool breeze had picked up.

“Hey,” you said, a little surprised, but pleased. “Didn’t expect you to still be here.”

“Just… thought I’d walk you home,” he mumbled, pushing off the lamp post.

As you walked, the air grew chillier. Your hands, still slightly damp from washing dishes at the café, were cold. You shivered. Jisung, ever observant, noticed. He stopped, and without a word, slowly, awkwardly, offered you his hand.

It wasn't a confident, bold grab. It was a hesitant, open palm, almost a question. Your heart thumped. You slid your cold fingers into the warmth of his sleeves, finding his hand beneath the layers of fabric. His fingers were long and surprisingly warm. He didn’t intertwine them with yours, but simply held them, your hand enveloped by his and the soft fabric of his hoodie. It was an awkward, almost clumsy hand-hold, but it felt incredibly intimate. A surge of warmth spread through you, far beyond the physical. This was new. This was different. This was something.

He started composing something with you in mind. You didn't know it, not explicitly. But sometimes, when he was humming to himself, or scribbling in his music notebook, you’d catch snatches of melody that felt… like you. Bright, sometimes a little chaotic, but with an underlying sweetness. He’d quickly stop if he noticed you listening, muttering about “just experimenting.” But you suspected. You felt it in the way his eyes would linger on you after a particularly poignant chord, or the way he’d absentmindedly tap a rhythm that mirrored the beat of your own heart. He wouldn’t admit it, not yet, but you knew.

One afternoon, you were at his house, his room, ostensibly working on a group project, though you were mostly procrastinating while he was immersed in something on his laptop. He suddenly flinched, slamming his laptop shut with an almost comical speed.

“Everything okay?” you asked, startled.

“Yeah! Fine! Just… uh… a bug. In the code,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze, his face a little pale.

You raised an eyebrow, suspicious. He’d never been this flustered about a coding bug. He was usually methodical, calm. Later, after you’d left, he reopened his laptop, his heart pounding. There, in his image folder, was a candid photo of you. You were laughing, caught off guard, your hair a little messy, sunlight streaming through the window. He’d taken it weeks ago, completely on instinct, because you’d looked so beautiful in that moment. He hadn't realized he'd saved it.

A wave of self-loathing washed over him. Creep. What if she found out? What if she saw it? She’d be disgusted. She’d think he was some weird, obsessive stalker. His carefully constructed fake-dating facade would crumble. Without a second thought, he deleted the photo, emptying the recycle bin. It was better to erase all evidence, to protect this fragile, confusing thing they had.

The tension, however, wasn't just sweet and domestic. It had an edge, a sharp, possessive quality that began to emerge from Jisung.

It happened during basketball tryouts. Mark, of course, was there, dominating the court. Your guy friends, convinced Han needed more "extracurriculars" to appear "normal" (and because they secretly found his awkwardness hilarious), had somehow dragged him along. You were there too, cheering them on from the bleachers. Jisung, surprisingly, wasn't terrible. He was methodical, if not flashy, and his long limbs proved surprisingly useful for blocking.

During a water break, you overheard Mark, loud and obnoxious, talking to his cronies.

“Yeah, [Y/N]’s been weird lately,” he scoffed, loud enough for half the gym to hear. “Still parading around with that, what’s his face, the library kid. Seriously, what does she even see in him? Probably just using him to make me jealous. She’ll come crawling back once she realizes what she’s missing. I mean, look at her, she’s practically begging for it, wearing those-“

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because at that exact moment, a basketball, thrown with surprising force and precision from across the court, sailed through the air and hit Mark squarely in the face. It wasn't a soft tap. It was a solid thwack. Mark staggered back, clutching his nose, a stream of expletives erupting from him.

Everyone turned. Jisung was standing in the middle of the court, a basketball still cradled in his hands, his face oddly blank, almost serene.

“Oops,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying surprisingly well in the sudden silence. “My bad. Must’ve slipped.” He offered a small, unconvincing shrug.

The coach, a gruff man who secretly admired Jisung’s unexpected court sense, just sighed. “Jisung, focus!” But there was no real reprimand in his voice. And to everyone’s surprise, Jisung, the library hermit, actually got into the basketball team.

Later, as you walked home, you looked at him, a flicker of something new in your eyes. "You 'accidentally' hit him with that basketball, didn't you?" you asked, a knowing smile playing on your lips.

He looked at you, his usual flustered expression back, but something else lingered behind it – a spark of something fierce. He reached out, his hand gently patting your head, a soft, almost paternal gesture.

“He was being annoying, baby,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual, but with an underlying steel. “Don’t worry about it.”

Baby. The word, spoken so casually, yet with such unexpected possessiveness, sent a shiver down your spine. This quiet, awkward boy was changing. And the tension, once a playful hum, was tightening, growing thicker, hinting at depths you hadn't anticipated. The glasses might still be glitching, but something was very, very clear. This wasn’t just fake anymore. Not for him, and maybe, just maybe, not for you either.

The air in the stadium was thick with anticipation, a palpable buzz that vibrated through the bleachers. Today was the first inter-college basketball match, eleven months into your "relationship" with Han Jisung. Eleven months that had taken you on a journey from panicked desperation to… well, whatever this quiet, intense, undeniably real connection was.

You scanned the court, searching for him. The team was warming up, a flurry of bouncing balls and athletic bodies. Jisung, despite his initial reluctance, had proven to be a surprisingly valuable player. Not flashy, not a showboat, but strategic, precise, and with an uncanny ability to anticipate plays. He was the quiet anchor of the team, the one who didn't seek the spotlight but consistently delivered.

The whistle shrieked, signaling the start of the match. The crowd roared, a wave of sound crashing over the court. The game began, a fast-paced blur of motion. Jisung was in the thick of it, his long limbs surprisingly agile as he weaved through opponents. He made a crucial block, then sprinted down the court, his usually bowed head held high.

The stadium lights beat down, hot and unforgiving. The air was heavy, humid, sticking to skin. As the first half drew to a close, a timeout was called. The players clustered around their coach, sweat slicking their brows. You watched as Jisung, breathing heavily, reached down and, with a casualness that made your breath hitch, lifted the hem of his jersey to wipe the sweat from his face.

And then you saw them.

Not just you. Everyone did.

Beneath the loose fabric of his jersey, revealed for a fleeting moment, were toned abs. A sculpted, defined core that spoke of hidden strength and consistent effort. He was lean, yes, but undeniably muscular not too much but in a manner to make people swoon. The "baggy hoodie" image you, and everyone else, had of him shattered in that single, sweat-drenched instant.

A collective murmur rippled through the stands. Whispers, surprised gasps. He wasn’t just “nerdy Jisung” anymore. He wasn't just “the quiet one who got dragged into basketball.” He was suddenly… Han Jisung. An athlete. And a seriously, unexpectedly attractive one.

Your eyes widened. You knew he worked out. He’d mentioned late-night gym sessions, a way to de-stress from his studies and composing. But you’d always pictured it as a casual thing, a functional necessity, not something that produced… that. You felt your cheeks warm, a heat that had nothing to do with the stadium lights. You tried desperately not to stare, to maintain your composure, to pretend you hadn’t just witnessed a paradigm shift in the universe.

You failed. Hard. Your gaze kept drifting back to him, even after his jersey settled back down. You weren't the only one. People were openly staring, pointing, a new kind of interest dawning in their eyes.

Jisung, oblivious, seemed deeply confused by the sudden change in the crowd's energy. He furrowed his brow, glancing around, as if trying to locate the source of the collective gaze. He tugged at his jersey, as if sensing the newfound scrutiny, but he didn't connect it to his brief, accidental reveal.

The second half began, and a new energy coursed through Jisung. Whether it was the heat, the adrenaline, or the subconscious awareness of being watched, something ignited. He played with fierce precision, making incredible passes, and then, in the last two minutes, he did something truly remarkable. He stole the ball, dribbled with unexpected speed, and sank a perfect three-pointer. Then another. And another. Each shot was met with an explosion of cheers, the crowd now fully invested in the quiet dark horse.

He was the reason they won. The final buzzer blared, and the scoreboard confirmed it. The team rushed him, patting his back, shouting his name. Jisung, looking overwhelmed but undeniably pleased, gave a shy, triumphant smile.

After the post-game chaos, you met him outside the locker rooms. He was still in his sweaty jersey and shorts, his glasses slightly askew, a water bottle clutched in his hand. He looked exhausted, but exhilarated.

“You were amazing, Jisung!” you exclaimed, genuinely proud.

He blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… got lucky, I guess.”

“Lucky? You practically carried the team!” You nudged his arm playfully. “Everyone was staring at you.”

He frowned, a hint of confusion still in his eyes. “Yeah, I noticed. It was… weird.” He hadn’t put two and two together yet. Bless his oblivious heart.

“Come on,” you said, deciding to let him bask in his innocence for a bit longer. “Let’s go back to your place. We still have that history project to work on.”

He nodded, and you started the walk to his dorm. The evening air was cooler now, but the lingering heat from the stadium seemed to cling to him. As you reached his building, he fished out his keys, his movements a little clumsy with fatigue. He opened the door, stepping aside to let you in first.

His room was exactly as you remembered it – a controlled chaos of books, music equipment, and half-eaten snack wrappers. But today, the most striking thing was the air-conditioning, blasting cool air. You shivered slightly, feeling the sweat dry on your skin.

“You look cold,” he observed, his voice still a little breathless from the game. He gestured vaguely to his bed. “There’s… there’s a hoodie on my bed if you want.”

It was his signature dark grey hoodie, the one that usually swallowed him whole. You picked it up. It still smelled faintly of him – something clean, and a little like old books and fresh laundry. You pulled it over your head, the soft fabric a comforting weight. It was still huge on you, the sleeves dangling past your fingertips.

You glanced at him, a playful smirk touching your lips. He was still standing by the door, watching you, his eyes wide. He had stopped functioning. Completely. His mouth was slightly agape, and a deep, mortified flush was spreading across his face again, even darker than before. His gaze was fixed on you, specifically on his hoodie, now adorning your smaller frame.

You loved that you could do this to him. His reactions were always so pure, so uninhibited.

“Is the brain the only thing toned about you, Han Jisung?” you flirted lightly, watching his reaction. You leaned against his desk, crossing your arms, the oversized hoodie making you feel both small and powerful.

He stammered. “W-what? No! I mean… my… my muscles… for… for… strength!” His words tumbled out in a nonsensical jumble. He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Without another word, he spun on his heel and practically sprinted towards the kitchen.

“I’ll go get you something to eat!” he yelled back, his voice strained. “Water! Snacks! Food!”

You laughed, a soft, warm sound that filled his room. He was still so gloriously awkward, even with his newly discovered abs.

A few minutes later, as you scrolled through your phone, a notification popped up. A text message. From Mark.

'Still with that loser? Heard he actually scored a few points today. Cute. You know who the real MVP is, [Y/N]. I’m still waiting.'

Your jaw tightened. He just didn't quit. You were about to delete it, to block him for good, when Jisung walked back into the room, two bottles of water and a bag of chips in his arms. His eyes, still slightly red from his internal system overload, landed on your phone screen. He saw Mark’s name.

The playful awkwardness vanished. His face, usually so soft, hardened instantly. His eyes, behind his glasses, glinted with a dangerous intensity. He dropped the chips and water onto his desk with a thud.

“What did he say?” he asked, his voice low, deceptively calm, but laced with an undeniable edge.

You looked up, surprised by the sudden shift in his demeanor. “It’s nothing, Han. Just Mark being Mark. I was about to delete it.”

He walked over to you, his eyes still fixed on the screen, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Give it to me.”

“No, really, it’s fine,” you tried, but he gently, firmly, took the phone from your hand. His gaze scanned the message, and then a primal, possessive anger flashed in his eyes. He clenched his fist around your phone.

“I’m going to confront him,” he said, his voice quiet, but utterly lethal. “He needs to learn. He needs to understand that you are not available. And he needs to stop.”

He looked like he was genuinely about to walk out the door and hunt Mark down punch some god damn sense into him. The raw intensity in his eyes startled you. This was a side of Jisung you’d only glimpsed – the silent guardian, the one who “accidentally” hit people with basketballs. This was different. This was pure, undiluted fury on your behalf.

You reached out, your fingers gently touching his arm, feeling the tense muscle beneath the hoodie’s sleeve. He flinched, but didn't pull away.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice soft, but firm. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, just below his glasses. His entire body tensed again, but this time, it was a different kind of tension. “He’s not worth it. You are.”

His breath hitched. The anger slowly, visibly, bled out of him, replaced by a deep, almost overwhelming softness. He lowered your phone, his grip loosening. His eyes, unfocused, stared straight ahead, as if processing the simple, profound statement. He lifted a hand, his fingers tentatively touching the spot where your lips had been.

The anger was gone. Replaced by something else. Something much, much deeper. The system had overheated, but the emotional core was still running. And it was starting to feel a lot less like a glitch, and a lot more like a fundamental change.

-

One year. A full 365 days had spiraled past since that chaotic afternoon in the hallway. A year of shared glances, whispered jokes, accidental touches that felt anything but accidental, and the slow, insidious growth of something far more complex than a "fake" relationship. Today marked their one-year anniversary, and you’d decided to celebrate it quietly, just the two of you, with the slightly-burnt cookies you’d baked.

You met in his room, the familiar space now feeling like a second home. The scent of vanilla, faintly clinging to your clothes from your baking, mingled with his subtle, comforting scent of old books and something uniquely Han. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, meticulously tuning his guitar, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Happy Anniversary, Jisung," you said softly, holding out a small, velvet pouch.

He looked up, startled, a shy smile gracing his lips. "Oh. Right. Happy… anniversary, [Y/N]." He took the pouch, his fingers brushing yours, sending a familiar spark through your skin. Inside was a delicate silver pendant, engraved with a small, abstract musical note.

"It's for your music," you explained, a little nervously. "So you always have a piece of it with you."

His eyes widened slightly as he took it out, tracing the tiny lines. "It's… it's really beautiful, [Y/N]. Thank you." He looked genuinely touched. He then reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, intricately carved guitar pick, attached to a delicate silver chain. It was polished, gleaming, clearly well-loved.

"And this," he said, his voice a little softer than usual, "is for you. It’s my favorite plectrum. It’s seen a lot of… inspiration. I thought… you should have it."

Your heart swelled. It was such a him gift – personal, meaningful, something he clearly cherished. You took it, a warmth spreading through your chest. "It's perfect, Han."

You slid the silver pendant around his neck, his skin warm beneath your fingertips. He did the same for you, his long fingers surprisingly gentle as he fastened the chain, the small, cool pick resting against your collarbone. The air felt thick, charged with unspoken emotions.

He looked up then, his gaze meeting yours. Your eyes drifted down, almost involuntarily, to his lips. They were soft, slightly parted, and you found yourself wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to truly, really kiss him.

As if he’d read your mind, his gaze dropped to your lips too. The space between you, normally filled with comfortable silence, crackled with an undeniable tension. Your breath hitched. His eyes, usually hidden behind the shield of his glasses, were intense, almost hungry. He leaned in, just slightly, a silent question in his gaze. You felt yourself leaning in too, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The moment stretched, taut and fragile, ready to snap. But then, a sudden, loud laugh from the hallway broke the spell. A group of students passed by, their voices echoing. Jisung flinched, pulling back abruptly, his face flushing crimson. The moment was gone, shattered like fragile glass.

Later that week, as you walked home from school, the sky opened up. Rain, cold and sudden, lashed down. You instinctively pulled your bag over your head, but it was useless. You were already soaked.

"Wait," Jisung called, pulling his umbrella from his backpack. He opened it quickly, holding it over you. He maneuvered it so that the bulk of it shielded you, leaving his own shoulder exposed to the downpour. He hated the rain. You knew that. He always grimaced, always complained about the damp clinging to his clothes. Yet, here he was, deliberately getting wet to keep you dry.

As you reached your doorstep, dripping and shivering, he looked at you, a soft, concerned look on his face. "You're soaked. You'll catch a cold." He reached out, slowly taking out his hoodie from his bag – the very one you’d worn that day, the one that smelled faintly of your vanilla perfume. He pulled it out and offered it to you.

"Here. It's dry. Put this on."

Your heart gave a funny lurch. He was giving you his hoodie. Not just a hoodie, but his hoodie. The very symbol of his comfort, his privacy, his world. You took it, clutching the warm, dry fabric to your chest.

You looked up at him, standing there in the rain, his hair now plastered to his forehead, droplets clinging to his glasses. He looked so vulnerable, so open. The tension from the other night, the almost-kiss, returned with a vengeance.

He was still holding the umbrella, but he slowly, tentatively, lowered it. The soft drizzle started to land on both your faces. His eyes, usually so guarded, were fixed on yours, vulnerable and full of an unspoken longing. He leaned in again, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

Your lips were so close. You could feel his warm breath ghosting across them. Your eyes fluttered closed. This was it. This was the moment.

And then, just as your lips were about to brush, you both pulled back. Simultaneously. A silent, shared retreat, born not of rejection, but of a sudden, terrifying realization of the precipice you were standing on.

Jisung's eyes were wide, a flicker of panic in their depths. He looked away first, turning his head sharply, his hand instinctively reaching up to push his wet hair back.

Over the next few days, he started pulling away. Subtly at first. He wouldn't meet your gaze as readily. His morning greetings were a little more subdued. He stopped walking you all the way to your door, dropping you off a block away with a mumbled excuse. He was becoming more guarded, slipping back into his familiar shell, and it frustrated you to no end. Why? Why now? Especially after giving you his hoodie, after that almost-kiss that had felt so incredibly real?

You tried to break through his new distance, to tease him like you used to, but he would just nod, or offer a tight, almost forced smile. He wasn't short-circuiting anymore; he was shutting down.

Then came the incident that sent him spiraling. You were studying in the library, working with Liam, a close friend from your chemistry class. He was showing you something on his tablet, and you both leaned in, laughing at a particularly ridiculous diagram. It was completely innocent, just two friends sharing a moment.

Jisung, who had been at a table across the room, looked up. He saw you, leaning close to Liam, your head thrown back in laughter. He saw Liam’s hand gesturing, brushing your arm. And something inside him snapped. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even move. He just stared, his face paling, his eyes turning cold and blank. He quickly packed up his things, stuffing them into his bag with a jerky, uncharacteristic urgency, and walked out without a word, leaving his usual quiet farewell unsaid.

You found him later, sitting alone on a secluded bench behind the dorms, staring at nothing.

"Jisung," you began, your voice firm, but gentle. "What is going on? Why are you being so weird?"

He flinched at your presence, as if he hadn’t heard you approach. He refused to look at you. "Nothing. I'm fine." His voice was flat, devoid of its usual soft inflections.

"No, you're not," you insisted, sitting beside him. "You’ve been pulling away for days. And then you just walked out of the library. What happened?"

He finally looked at you, his eyes clouded with a pain you hadn't seen before. "It's… it's just… complicated." He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough. "This… this isn't real, [Y/N]."

Your heart clenched. "What are you talking about? Of course it's real! We’ve been 'dating' for a year, Jisung! We—"

"No!" he cut you off, his voice rising, a raw edge to it. He finally met your gaze, and the agony in his eyes was unmistakable. "It’s not real for you! This was fake. It started fake. You’re not mine." The words were ripped from him, laced with a bitterness that cut deep. He pulled away from you, physically, emotionally.

You stared at him, stunned. The air grew cold, even colder than the recent rain. "Then tell me," you challenged, your own voice trembling with a mix of hurt and frustration. "Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me this past year meant nothing. Tell me you don't feel anything for me."

He opened his mouth. His eyes searched yours, desperate, conflicted. His jaw worked, and he looked like he was in physical pain. He couldn’t do it. The words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t say it.

He finally looked away, shaking his head slowly. "I… I can't."

The silence that followed was deafening, crushing. The unsaid hung heavy between you.

The very next day, news spread like wildfire. The fake-dating "break" was announced. How, you weren’t sure. Perhaps Jisung had simply stopped waiting for you in the mornings, or you’d walked out of class alone. People just assumed. And everyone, especially Mark, assumed you’d broken up. Whispers followed you in the halls, pitying glances, speculative stares.

Jisung regretted it immediately. The moment the words left his lips, the moment he saw the hurt in your eyes, a crushing wave of despair hit him. He saw you walking alone, the space beside you starkly empty. He saw the looks people gave you. He saw Mark's renewed, predatory interest. He hated it. He hated himself.

But then, the self-doubt, a lifelong companion, crept in. You’re not enough. You’re just the weird kid. She deserves someone better. Someone who isn’t afraid to kiss her in the rain. Someone who isn’t constantly short-circuiting around her. Someone who isn't a coward. He felt like he’d somehow sabotaged the best thing that had ever happened to him, because he was simply… not enough.

The malfunction was complete. The system was off. And the "Do Not Disturb" sign was firmly in place.

-

The "break" lasted exactly three days. Three days that felt like an eternity, each hour stretching into a raw, aching expanse of regret. You moved through them like a ghost, the vibrant world around you muted, the usual clamor of the student body replaced by a hollow echo in your ears. Every time you saw Jisung’s usual spot by your locker empty, or the table in the library where he’d quietly hunch over his notes deserted, a fresh wave of despair washed over you. You missed him with a ferocity that startled you, the absence of his quiet presence a gaping wound.

He missed you too. You knew it. You felt it in the charged silences that hung between you when your paths accidentally crossed, in the quick, painful glances he’d steal before looking away, a haunted look in his usually gentle eyes. He looked pale, even more withdrawn than when you’d first met him. His hoodie seemed to swallow him whole, a desperate attempt to disappear.

The last straw came when you saw Mark, a sickeningly triumphant smirk plastered on his face, sauntering towards you in the cafeteria. He looked like a cat that had gotten the cream, ready to pounce now that his rival was seemingly out of the picture. The thought of going back to endless, polite deflections, of tolerating his smug advances, was utterly unbearable. You couldn't do it. You wouldn't.

You had to fix this.

Without a second thought, you walked straight out of the cafeteria, ignoring Mark’s surprised call. You didn’t even grab your bag from your locker. You knew where he lived, of course. His house was only a ten-minute walk from campus. The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, dramatic shadows. Your heart hammered with a desperate urgency. You needed answers. You needed him.

When you reached his apartment building, you didn't hesitate. You marched straight to his house, raising your hand to knock, but before your knuckles could connect, it swung open. Jisung’s mom, a kind-faced woman with warm eyes who looked remarkably like a slightly more extroverted version of her son, smiled warmly at you. She knew about the "dating thing," of course, as you had both clumsily, vaguely explained it months ago.

“Oh, [Y/N], dear!” she chirped, her smile unwavering. “Jisung’s in his room. He’s been a bit… quiet today. Go on in.” She gestured vaguely down the hall.

Your stomach clenched. His mom was home. This added an entirely new layer of terrifying awkwardness to the situation, but there was no turning back now. You mumbled a quick thank you and made your way down the short hallway to his bedroom door.

You knocked twice, a firm, decisive rap. The sound seemed deafening in the quiet apartment. After a moment, the door slowly creaked open.

And then you saw him.

He was standing there, framed in the doorway, a vision that simultaneously stole your breath and made your heart ache. He was wearing a pair of dark grey sweatpants, hanging low on his hips, revealing the faint V-line above the waistband. He was shirtless. The lean, toned abs you’d glimpsed at the basketball game were fully exposed, glistening faintly from a recent shower. His hair was messy, still damp, curling artfully around his ears. And around his neck, resting against his skin, was the silver pendant you had given him, the little musical note catching the light.

He looked utterly shocked to see you. His eyes, usually hidden behind his glasses (which were now conspicuously absent), were wide and vulnerable, a raw confusion etched on his face. His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

The sight of him, so exposed, so unexpectedly beautiful, jolted something loose inside you. The anger, the frustration, the hurt – it all coalesced into one burning question.

“Why didn’t you fight for me, Jisung?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, but laced with all the pain of the past three days. Your eyes searched his, desperate for an answer. “Why did you just… let me go?”

He flinched, as if the words were physical blows. His gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping. “I… I didn’t think I deserved you,” he admitted, his voice hoarse, barely audible. The confession was ripped from him, an agonizing truth. “I’m… I’m just me. And you’re… you. You deserve someone who isn’t… constantly short-circuiting. Someone who’s… better.” He sounded utterly defeated.

The raw, heartbreaking honesty of his confession hit you like a punch to the gut. He thought he wasn’t good enough. All this time, all this beautiful, confusing tension, all his shy attempts at closeness, and he’d been battling this profound self-doubt.

It was too much. The unspoken yearning, the quiet suffering, his vulnerable confession – it all converged into an undeniable, overwhelming urge. You couldn't hold back anymore. You wouldn't.

Before you could think, before he could react, you surged forward. Your hands, with a sudden, fierce determination, reached up and cupped his face, pulling him down. You found his lips, soft and hesitant, and you kissed him.

It was desperate. It was messy. It was everything the almost-kisses hadn't been. Your lips molded against his, an explosion of pent-up emotion. He was stiff for a split second, utterly shocked, then his mouth softened, responding tentatively. His hands, which had been hanging uselessly at his sides, slowly, hesitantly, came up to rest on your waist, pulling you a fraction closer.

You broke apart, breathless, your foreheads touching. Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his. His eyes were wide, blown out, reflecting a mixture of shock, confusion, and a dawning, incandescent hope. His lips were still parted, slightly bruised from the force of your kiss.

“My mom is still home,” he whispered, the words tumbling out on a shaky breath, a last vestige of his awkward, logical brain.

You pulled back just slightly, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips. You looked at him, truly seeing him, shirtless and beautiful and utterly in love.

Then, he moved. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you against him with a sudden, possessive strength that made your breath catch. He leaned down, his lips finding yours again, this time with a confident, undeniable hunger.

The kiss was longer. Deeper. It was a declaration, a surrender, a desperate claiming. His hands moved from your waist, one tangling in your hair, the other pressing into the small of your back, arching you against his bare chest. You felt the hard planes of his abs, the rapid thrum of his heart against yours. Your hands, still on his face, tangled in his damp hair, holding him close.

“I don’t think she would really care,” he mumbled against your lips, a low, husky sound that sent shivers down your spine. His voice was thick with emotion, utterly unlike the quiet whispers you were used to.

He pulled his head back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and intense. Then, with a decisive move, he reached behind you, pushing the door shut with a soft click, plunging the room into a more intimate, hushed light. He didn’t break the kiss, simply deepened it, stepping further into his room, pushing you gently backward towards the bed.

You stumbled back, still locked in his embrace, your legs hitting the edge of the mattress. You both tumbled onto the bed, a soft thud. He landed half on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure, his lips still devastatingly on yours.

He finally pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, both of you panting slightly. His eyes, still wide and vulnerable, searched yours. The fear was still there, a tiny flicker, but it was overshadowed by something powerful, something new.

“I think,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a confession that had been building for months, for a year, for a lifetime, “I think I’m in love with you.”

The words, spoken so simply, so honestly, were the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. Tears welled in your eyes. You reached up, cupping his face again, your thumb stroking his jaw.

“I think I’m in love with you too, hannie,” you whispered back, the admission feeling liberating, profoundly right.

You fell asleep tangled up on his bed, the soft glow of his bedside lamp casting a warm light over the room. He was shirtless, his arm wrapped tightly around you, holding you close. You were still fully clothed, but your hearts were racing in tandem, a frantic, joyous beat that echoed the tumultuous journey you’d taken. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by a profound sense of peace.

The next morning, the sun streamed through his window, painting the room in hues of gold. You woke to the feeling of his steady breathing, his arm still around you. He was fast asleep, his face peaceful, a faint smile playing on his lips. You carefully disentangled yourself, sitting up. You looked at him, truly looked at the man beside you, and your heart swelled.

He woke moments later, blinking groggily, then his eyes snapped open, a dawning realization on his face. He looked at you, then at himself (still shirtless <3), then at the messy bed, and a blush began to creep up his neck. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t panic. It was a shy, happy flush.

He reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. He squeezed gently. “Good morning, [Y/N].”

You smiled, a genuine, radiant smile. “Good morning, Jisung.”

He walked you to class that morning. Not a block away. Not with his head down. Hand-in-hand. His fingers were firmly, possessively linked with yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. His shoulders were straighter, his head held a little higher. He wasn't hiding. Not anymore. He met the stares of curious students, not with defiance, but with a quiet, undeniable confidence. This was his. You were his.

As you neared the main entrance, a familiar, unwelcome voice cut through the morning chatter.

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Back with the librarian, are we, [Y/N]? Thought you’d finally come to your senses. Don’t worry, the offer’s still on the table. You know you want someone real, someone who can actually handle you—”

Mark. He was leaning against the lockers, his usual smug grin back in full force, his eyes raking over you, then flicking dismissively to Jisung.

You felt Jisung stiffen beside you. His grip on your hand tightened, almost painfully. You braced yourself, ready to step in, to deflect, to protect him from Mark’s usual condescension.

But Jisung didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat. He stopped. He turned to face Mark, his entire posture radiating a cold, coiled fury you’d never seen before. His eyes, unshielded by glasses, were blazing.

“Listen here, dickhead,” he said, his voice low, gravelly, and utterly devoid of its usual softness. Every word was precise, cutting, delivered with an icy calm that was far more terrifying than any shout. “I let you talk before because I felt sorry for you. Because you’re pathetic. But you’re not going to talk about her like that. Not ever again.”

Mark’s smirk wavered, replaced by genuine shock. This wasn’t the Jisung he knew. This was something else entirely.

Jisung took a step forward, pulling you slightly behind him, shielding you. His voice dropped even lower, becoming a lethal whisper. “Touch her again, speak to her again, even look at her again with that disgusting glint in your eye, and you will regret ever being born and breathing the same fucking air as her. Learn to respect first, dickhead.”

The final word was delivered with such venom, such quiet menace, that Mark actually took a step back, his face paling. He stammered, opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Jisung didn’t wait for a reply. He simply turned, his hand still firmly clasped in yours, and continued walking towards your class, leaving a stunned, speechless Mark in his wake.

The system had not only rebooted, it had upgraded. And the "Do Not Disturb" sign was now backed by a very, very powerful firewall.

-

The atmosphere around Han Jisung had undergone a complete thermodynamic shift. Where once there was awkward tension and self-conscious fluster, there was now an almost unbearable softness. It was like watching a perpetually guarded hedgehog suddenly bloom into a purring housecat. And you, it seemed, were his favorite scratching post.

He was, quite simply, whipped.

The transformation began subtly, a quiet hum beneath the surface, but now it was loud and clear, echoing in every gesture, every stolen glance. He’d arrive at your dorm every morning, not just to walk you to class, but with a freshly brewed coffee clutched in his hand – exactly how you liked it, black with just a dash of oat milk. He’d learned your order within days of you mentioning it once.

He still wore his hoodies, of course, but now they seemed less like a shield and more like a comfortable second skin, an extension of his soft, quiet confidence. He still mumbled, sometimes, especially when caught off guard, but his words now carried a warmth, a possessiveness that made your stomach flutter.

You found him taking pictures of you. Not secretly, like before, but openly, unabashedly. During study sessions, on walks, even just as you were laughing at something silly. He’d frame you in his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration, then show you the result, a shy, proud smile on his lips. They were always good, capturing candid moments you didn't even know he noticed.

And he listened. Oh, how he listened. If before he was a silent sponge, now he was an active, engaged audience of one. He’d remember details of your day, your frustrations, your small victories, and bring them up later, offering quiet comfort or genuine celebration. Your voice had become his favorite melody, and he absorbed every single note.

Despite the newfound confidence and possessiveness, the core Jisung remained. He was still nerdy, still prone to the endearing stutter when truly flustered, and still occasionally blinked like an owl in direct sunlight. But now, those traits were layered with a thrilling new boldness. He kissed you whenever he wanted. A quick press to your temple as you worked, a soft brush against your lips when he caught your eye across a room, a lingering, breathless touch when you were alone. Each kiss was a silent confirmation, a tangible declaration that you were irrevocably his.

One sunny afternoon, you were lounging on his bed, flipping through one of his comic books. He was at his desk, tinkering with a new beat. A playful impulse struck you. You reached over, snatching his glasses right off his face.

“Hey!” he yelped, a startled sound, his eyes blinking rapidly, temporarily unfocused. He looked hilariously vulnerable without them.

You held them out of his reach, a mischievous grin on your face. “What’s the magic word, Jisung?”

He squinted at you, a soft smile replacing his surprise. He knew this game. He knew you. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made your chest warm. “Please, my love?” he said, his voice husky, an entirely new nickname that sent shivers down your spine.

You melted. You placed the glasses back on his nose, his touch lingering on your fingers. He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. He let you steal them. He let you get away with anything.

One evening, he was showing you the progress on his latest composition – a melody that swelled and pulsed with an undeniable emotional depth. You recognized the faint echoes of your own laughter, the rhythm of your hurried footsteps, the quiet comfort of his presence woven into the notes. It was about you. You knew it.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his guitar resting against his hip. “This part here,” he murmured, his fingers hovering over the fretboard, “is supposed to feel like… like the moment you realize something beautiful is happening.” He gestured for you to come closer.

You didn't hesitate. You shifted, swinging your legs over and settling onto his lap, facing him. He tensed for a split second, then his arms naturally came around your waist, holding you close. His chin rested on your shoulder as he guided your fingers over the strings. His breath ghosted against your ear, and the warmth of his body seeped into yours.

“See?” he whispered, his voice soft against your skin, “Your thumb here, on the C chord. And then these two fingers for the G…” His large hands enveloped yours, teaching you the chords, his body pressed against yours, the guitar a physical conduit for the intimate lesson. The melody, now imbued with his closeness, felt impossibly tender.

Later, much later, curled up in his bed, half-asleep after hours of talking and listening to his music, you murmured, the words slipping out unbidden, soft and hazy with sleep.

“I love you, Hannie.”

His breathing hitched. He stiffened, infinitesimally. He thought he misheard. It was too quiet, too soft, too… monumental. His mind, usually a hyper-efficient processing unit, sputtered. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at your face, illuminated by the faint glow of the moon through the window.

“What… what did you say?” he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming emotion.

You blinked, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep. You looked up at him, meeting his wide, questioning eyes. A soft, lazy smile touched your lips.

“I said,” you repeated, clearer this time, your voice imbued with all the quiet certainty of your heart, “I love you, Jisung.”

He melted. Physically. His entire body seemed to relax, to soften into the mattress. He buried his face in your hair, a low, contented groan escaping his lips. His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between you. He pressed kisses to your scalp, your temple, your forehead. He didn’t say anything back immediately, but you felt the shudder that ran through him, the profound relief, the utter bliss. His silence was louder than any words.

He started wearing the hoodies you selected for him during your infrequent, chaotic shopping trips. You’d pick out soft fabrics, unique colors, or subtle patterns that you knew he’d never choose for himself. He’d try them on, looking bewildered, but then he’d wear them. And sometimes, you’d catch him, subtly, almost instinctively, spraying your vanilla perfume on the collar. He felt like it would be cute, he confessed once, a shy whisper. Like he was hugging you all day.

Those became your "hoodie dates." Simple, quiet evenings, often just in his dorm, him in a hoodie you’d picked out, you in one of his. The air would be filled with the scent of vanilla and Jisung, a comforting, intoxicating blend.

He kissed your shoulder, a soft, deliberate press of his lips against your skin. Then his lips moved, tracing a path along your collarbone, up your jaw, until they reached the sensitive skin just behind your ear, down the column of your neck. Each touch was light, feather-soft, yet utterly devastating. Your breath hitched, a delicious shiver running through you. His hand, warm and firm, rested on your hip, pulling you closer still.

The unspoken hung heavy in the air, a silent question. You both knew where this was leading. The soft breaths grew shorter, more ragged. The air crackled with a dizzying heat. His lips moved to your throat, eliciting a soft gasp. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, closer.

You almost took things further. The desire was a burning, undeniable ache. But then, in the exquisite tension of the moment, you pulled back, breathless, a wide, joyous smile breaking across your face. He looked up, his eyes dark with longing, a question in their depths.

“I could live like this forever,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin.

You held him close, your own smile unwavering. This fragile, beautiful thing you had built, brick by awkward, heartfelt brick, was now your sanctuary. His soft possessiveness, your gentle teasing, the constant hum of unspoken affection – it was everything you never knew you needed. And in his arms, you knew, with profound certainty, that you were exactly where you were meant to be. The “whipped” program was fully installed, and running perfectly.

-

The campus auditorium buzzed with an electric current, a palpable hum of anticipation that felt almost dizzying. Tonight was the annual student talent showcase, an event usually dominated by seasoned performers and boisterous bands. But tonight, something felt different. Tonight was Han Jisung’s night.

You sat in the third row, a knot of nerves and exhilarating pride twisting in your stomach. You had known he was composing something with you in mind. You had felt it in the subtle melodies he hummed, heard it in the passionate way he spoke about weaving emotions into sound. But he hadn't revealed the full scope of it, only that he was playing an "original composition."

The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd. A spotlight flared, illuminating the center of the stage. Jisung walked out, carrying his guitar, a familiar dark blue hoodie clinging comfortably to his frame. His glasses, nestled on his nose, reflected the stage lights, giving him an almost ethereal glow. He looked nervous, his shoulders slightly hunched, but there was a quiet determination in his posture that radiated outward. He sat on the stool placed center stage, his fingers already finding comfort on the fretboard.

He glanced up, his eyes sweeping across the audience, and then, he found you. His gaze softened, a small, private smile touching his lips. It was a smile that spoke volumes, a silent promise. And then, he began to play.

The first notes were soft, hesitant, like a tentative beginning. A simple, ethereal guitar melody, almost fragile. But then, a subtle beat dropped, a low, pulsing rhythm that grounded the sound, giving it depth. His fingers danced over the fretboard, coaxing out intricate chords, weaving complex arpeggios that built and swelled. His voice, usually so quiet, rose, a clear, melodic rap that wove through the music, telling a story.

It was your story.

He sang about a chance encounter in a deserted hallway, a panicked lie, the disbelief of others. He rapped about hesitant glances, fumbled conversations, and the unexpected comfort of a shared silence. He sang about notes in a hoodie pocket, about shy smiles and the warmth of a hand in his sleeve during a cold night walk. The lyrics detailed every awkward, sweet, tension-filled moment you had shared, painting a vivid picture of your journey.

He spoke of secrets kept, of watching rom-coms for "research," of accidentally hitting someone with a basketball. He even recounted the moment you pushed his glasses back on his nose, the "short circuit" in his brain. His voice swelled with emotion as he described the subtle shift, the growing fondness, the undeniable pull.

Then the music shifted, growing more intense, more vulnerable. He rapped about the fear of falling too hard, about pushing away, about the agony of seeing you laugh with another, the crushing weight of self-doubt. The melody became almost painful, raw with regret. He confessed his fear of not being enough, his belief that you deserved "someone better."

And then, the music shifted again, brightening, soaring. His voice filled with an overwhelming tenderness as he described your unannounced visit, the desperate question, the electric touch. He sang about the kiss, about finding home in your arms, about realizing that love wasn’t about being "perfect," but about being perfectly you.

His gaze found yours again, unwavering now. He saw the tears streaming down your face, hot and unbidden. He saw the pure, unadulterated emotion reflected in your eyes. And he played harder. The guitar chords resonated with a newfound power, his voice imbued with every ounce of his confessed love. It wasn't just a performance; it was his soul laid bare, a public declaration of how utterly, completely whipped he was for you.

He brought the song to a crescendo, a final, powerful chord that hung in the air, vibrating with undeniable emotion. The last notes faded, leaving a stunned silence in the auditorium.

Then, he lowered his guitar, looked directly at you, his eyes shining, and spoke into the microphone, his voice clear and ringing with a newfound confidence that sent shivers down your spine.

“This,” he announced, his voice echoing through the silent hall, “is for the girl who rewired my heart.”

And that was your cue. You didn’t think. You didn't hesitate. You pushed past the stunned audience members, scrambling over knees and chairs, your heart thundering against your ribs. You ran, a blur of motion, towards the stage.

He saw you coming. A wide, incandescent smile spread across his face, lighting up the entire auditorium. As you reached the stage, he slid off the stool, meeting you halfway. You launched yourself into his arms, your arms wrapping around his neck, and you kissed him.

It was a public kiss, in front of the entire campus, and it was glorious. It was everything the almost-kisses hadn’t been, everything the tentative first kiss on his bed had promised. It was deep, possessive, overflowing with years of unspoken longing and months of tender affection. The crowd erupted, a deafening roar of cheers, whistles, and applause. It was loud, chaotic, and utterly perfect.

The creep? You heard he was quietly expelled the following week. It seemed his behavior hadn't gone unnoticed by the administration, especially after his increasingly aggressive online messages. Karma, indeed.

A week later, the dust had settled, the campus still buzzing with the afterglow of Jisung’s performance and your very public declaration. You had a final date planned, a quiet, familiar comfort: your favorite café, the one with the best vanilla lattes and the mismatched armchairs.

You spotted him immediately. He was sitting by the window, bathed in the soft afternoon light. He wasn’t in a hoodie. Instead, he wore a crisp white button-down, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows, revealing the toned forearms you now loved. He had on sky-blue pants and a pair of worn Converse, a subtle nod to his casual style, but undeniably more put-together. The silver pendant you’d given him glinted at his throat, and his glasses sat comfortably on his nose. He held a small, artfully arranged bouquet of wildflowers, a whimsical contrast to his new, confident demeanor.

He saw you, and that familiar, shy-but-smitten smile blossomed on his face. He stood up as you approached, and for the first time, he openly, unabashedly flirted.

“Took you long enough, love,” he murmured, his eyes twinkling as he held out the flowers. “Thought I’d have to send out a search party.”

You laughed, taking the bouquet, leaning in to inhale the delicate scent. “Someone’s feeling bold today, Han Jisung.”

“Only for you,” he whispered, his eyes lingering on your lips. He paused, a flicker of his old hesitation, but it was quickly replaced by a confident smirk. “You spent time on your makeup, didn’t you? I don’t want to ruin the lipstick.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in your gaze. “Oh, really?” You leaned in, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to his lips, smudging your lipstick just a little. “Too late.”

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that vibrated through your chest. “Good,” he said, his eyes darkening with desire. He leaned in, deepening the kiss, no longer caring about the lipstick.

After you ordered, he reached under the table, pulling out a small, elegantly wrapped box.

“Happy… non-anniversary,” he said, pushing it across the table to you.

You opened it carefully. Inside, nestled in satin, was a sleek, silver flash drive. You looked at him, puzzled.

“It’s our story,” he explained, his gaze soft, full of emotion. “In music. Everything. From ‘Error: You’re My Boyfriend Now’ to… well, this.” He gestured between the two of you, a profound happiness radiating from him. “Every moment. Every feeling. Every glitch. All captured.”

You felt tears prick your eyes again. It was the most Han Jisung gift he could have ever given you. A symphony of your shared journey, from chaos to profound love.

You reached across the table, taking his hand, intertwining your fingers. His thumb stroked the back of your hand, a familiar, comforting gesture.

He leaned in, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The nerdy boy was still there, but now, he was entirely, unapologetically himself. And entirely, irrevocably yours.

He squeezed your hand gently, his gaze unwavering, and then, he spoke the last line, a simple truth that echoed the entirety of your story, a perfect loop of beginning and end, and a promise of forever.

“I may be nerdy, but I’m yours. Always."

After a hell of week with noses buried into books and never ending lectures, friday night finally arrived and everyone could finally relax, and if you lived around the campus you'd surely get plenty of options to pick: whether it be night clubs or rooftop bars to karaoke or crashing into fraternities, the dorms would be completely silent, unless… you decided to enjoy some other type of fun.

Hyunjin was walking down the hall with his phone in hand blowing up with messages.

Lia (library) - how come you aren’t at Jack's? 😔

Cecilia (class) - hyun, come to the rooftop, they are having dj’s battle

Angel - bro, they are giving double drinks until 2 *attached: a picture of a blue bottle*

Kelly (café) - Felix told me you just left, right when I arrived? 💔

“So clingy…” Chuckled to himself, putting his phone in his back pocket, stopping in front of his door, pressing the keyword.

Hyunjin coming back to his dorm before midnight and all alone? That was a new.

Because the boy did love to party. You could always know that if there was good music and girls, Hyunjin and his friends would always be there. It was like a pattern, they didn't even need to do anything, the boys simply would leave traces and suddenly be stumbled upon by coincidence by them. It was fun but after some time it got boring, all those hollow girls felt and acted the same, the only difference was their faces, sometimes not even their names.

Hyunjin was bored, he wanted more. He wanted someone new, something different…

The chuckles and muffled chat coming from the end of the corridor caught his attention and he looked over, seeing you opening the door of your dorm with a boy waiting behind, poking your sides.

…someone like you.

The only girl from the building that didn't try to get his number, the one that he only knew the name because you were classmates and still, you never bothered to look for excuses to study with him. In fact, you looked pretty annoyed this morning, when the professor paired up you two for a new project.

Neither you nor Yunho noticed Hyunjin before you entered your dorm. But he thought it would be better that he would get inside too, before calling Felix.

“Hey angel!”

“Changed your mind after seeing the drinks?” The blonde teased when he picked up the call.

“Tonight I'll pass. I'm actually calling because I need a little help” Hyunjin plopped down in bed, kicking off his shoes.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Ji’s there, right?” There was a moment of silence before Felix confirmed.

“Ok, great. I need you to ask her to call y/n, say she needs help” He reached for the bubblegum on his bedside table, unwrapping one and popping it into his mouth.

“What?” Felix chuckled, curious about what his best friend was up to now.

“I will explain it all later, now just do me this favor, alright?”

“Yep” Felix beckoned for Ji to come where he was “Gonna talk to her now”

“Ok, great, oh and tell her to be careful, we don’t want to scare y/nnie… just need to interrupt something” Hyunjin smirked, thinking about his next steps.

“Ok, I get it now” Felix also had a smirk while staring at the girl beside him

“She will be calling soon. May I help with anything else?”

“No, thanks. That was all, have fun!”

“Oh, I definitely will…” Felix winked at Ji, that was twirling her hair around her fingers, staring up at him.

~ ♡ ~

Exactly 10 minutes later Hyunjin heard footsteps outside. Waiting just a bit, he opened the door and peaked to check if the area was clear before stepping out.

You were putting your jacket back on when you heard a soft knock on the door. Smiling, you walked there, imagining Yunho changed his mind, deciding to be decent and not letting you risk go out so late all alone.

“You?” Your smile faded when Hyunjin popped the bubble, offering you one of his stupid (and perfect) grins.

“Hello to you, too. May I come in?” His ask was useless since he was already doing it, his shoulder brushing against yours as he casually stepped inside.

You groaned in annoyance, watching him stop and gaze around. The small lilac couch matched the dark purple fluffy rug and pink cushions, beside it there was the desk with your computer, a panel with colorful sticky notes and some pictures, his mouth twisted when he saw a polaroid of Yunho there.

“Nice place…” His eyes roamed over again, everything was so neat and well organized, exactly how he imagined the straight A's room would be. He stopped in front of your bookshelf, noticing how the books were perfectly organized by colors, he couldn’t help the urge to pull the blue and pink out and switch them.

“Stop it!” You grabbed his wrist as he picked the yellow one, ready to switch it with another too. Hyunjin laughed, sitting in your bed while watching you put them back in order.

“As much as I wouldn’t love for you to stay and chat, I gotta a place to be so you need to leave” You grabbed your purse, and paced around looking for where you left your phone.

He sat down in your bed, picking the teddy bear that was lying against your pillow, he scoffed before chuckling lightly, running his finger on its head “Cute”

“So… where are we going?” He looked up at you with mischief when you came by his side and grabbed the phone.

“We aren’t going anywhere. I'm calling an Uber” You drew the password code and opened up the app, Hyunjin shook his head.

“There’s no way I'm letting you get into a stranger's car this late at night” You stopped typing, side glancing at him

“How could it be any different from getting into your car?”

“C'mon, you can't be serious right now” He rolled his eyes.

“I mean, we aren’t friends, I've never even spoken to you before. How could I know if you aren’t dangerous too?”

“Yeah, if it wasn't for Mr Park you'd still be ignoring me…” He gazed at you with wide eyes before narrowing his eyebrows in suspicion “Aren't you the strange one, then?”

You slapped his arm and he let out a fake ouch as if it hurted

“See? I should be the one afraid to get inside a car with you!”

You raised your hand to smack him again, but he quickly grabbed your wrist, pulling you closer to face him, making another bubble. Your free hand landed on his knee and you ignored the way your heart skipped a beat and your sudden wish to lean even closer and pop it before he did it, smirking devilishly at you after snapping you back to reality.

“Hey hey, easy there doll. If you wanted to touch me, you should simply ask” He teased and you pulled your hand back with an annoyed groan, straightening up again.

“Ugh, you're so annoying!”

Hyunjin stood up, too close for your liking so you took a little step back, making him chuckle.

“Annoying? Oh, I've been called a lot of stuff before, but that's new” He teased with that damn smirk glued on his face, you crossed your arms in front of your chest, looking away.

He was loving it, it was refreshing although it surprised him at first. How come you could be so unbothered by him when girls would always be gravitating around him, trying to get his attention, hoping to get in his bed?

“Oh, I know” You scoffed. Of course you knew, every girl loved to brag when they had a chance.

Could you blame them?

You wouldn't lie, you weren’t blind, he was handsome, way too handsome… With that black long and silk hair, his cute nose and plush lips that insisted on tugging into that annoying smile you wanted to rip off his stupid pretty face.

Yes, you could blame them!

Gorgeous or not, he was just a boy at the end of the day, not just that, but one with commitment issues too, which only made everything worse. They should be wiser and use their brains instead of thinking with theirs...

“You know? Oh good, so it means you weren’t so oblivious about me, after all” Teased again, poking your side. You took one more step back, frowning at him, a silent warning for him to stop if he wanted to keep those five fingers intact.

“Yeah, I know exactly what type of man you’re”

“Hmm, why are you making it sound like it's something bad?”

“Because it is” Your cold reply caught him by surprise, he wasn't expecting it, he wasn't used to someone being so bold with him like this.

You couldn’t read his expression while he stayed silent and looked at you, as if thinking about something, and for some reason you felt bad, realizing you should have chosen your words carefully. You felt awkward now.

“One chance!” Hyunjin grabbed your hands, sending a sudden jolt of electricity through them, your eyes widened.

“Uh?”

“Give me one chance, to prove you I'm not as bad as you think”

“Hyunjin…”

“Please” You couldn’t tell if he was playing or being serious right now.

“Why do you care so much about what I think, anyways?” You tried to laugh it off, it wasn't a big deal, but he stayed serious, gazing at you.

“I like you…” He said so casually with a shrug “...Plus, you're stuck with me for the rest of the semester as we work on our project, so I think at least we should get along”

You shook your head, he couldn’t be serious.

“Hyunjin…”

“Two…” He showed two fingers up, biting down his bottom lip, then shook his head, lifting one more “Three!”

“You really won’t leave it, will you?”

“Obviously not” He shook his head, mischievously smiling and poking your sides again and you squirmed “C'mon, y/nnie… just three dates, imagine all the girls who would be dying to be in your shoes right now”

“Yeah, I'll text them on the group chat” You waved your phone “Who wants to volunteer?”

“Ha ha, aren’t you so funny?” He asked sarcastically, picking the phone from your hand “But I already told you, I don’t want them, I want you!”

~ ♡ ~

20 minutes had passed and your heart was still thrumming, stealing glances of Hyunjin while you sat on the passenger's seat of his car.

I want you.

Three little words being repeated inside your mind over and over again.

He was quiet during the whole drive, which was actually surprising, the only sound being the soft balad playing on the radio, but there was a little grin lingering in the corner of his mouth as his gaze was focused on the road ahead.

You couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in his mind.

As for Hyunjin? He was just hoping your friend wouldn’t ruin his plan when you’d arrive at the pub.

You texted Ji to let her know that you arrived, but got no response, thinking she could be drowning her sorrow with alcohol after being dumped by her man, you decided to walk in and go after her. Hyunjin followed you, grabbing your hand and guiding you inside, you noticed the not subtle glances from some girls towards you, after they would greet Hyunjin, you rolled your eyes and held his hand tighter without even realizing, but he did, gently stroking your hand with his thumb, a smirk playing on his lips as you walked around looking for the blonde.

“You've got to be kidding me!” You exclaimed when you spotted her, or at least who you thought was her…

The colorful lights that danced around them were making it difficult to tell where Ji started and Felix ended.

Hyunjin's eyes widened up in surprise when he heard your gasp and a wide and proud grin appeared on his face. You started walking towards them, but got pulled back by him, gasping in surprise when you crashed against his chest.

You looked up at him and there it was, that annoying thrumming inside your chest again, but not only that, there was also a subtle dizziness too, as you inhaled the woody scent of his cologne. His hands rested on your arms, and you shivered slightly when he leaned closer.

“Wait, wait. What do you think you're doing?” He whispered and you rolled your eyes, peeking over his shoulder, noticing the blondes’ heavy makeout session was still going on. “Don't you know that’s rude to disturb? Let them have fun!” Hyunjin chuckled, which only annoyed you even more.

“Ugh, I can't believe Ji did that, she was crying just minutes ago”

“Well, it seems like Yongbok saved the day, then” Hyunjin wiggled away just in time before you smack him.

“Y/nniiieeee!” Arms were thrown over your shoulders as an excited Ji hugged you from behind.

You turned to face her, noticing the girl had lipstick smeared all around her lips, pretty much like Felix did when he came around with two cups in hand. You twisted your mouth, watching him talk with Hyunjin, your drunk friend giggling by your side.

“I'm so happy you're here, y/nnie. We are gonna have so much fun!” Ji side hugged you, squeezing you against her.

“Ji, you were crying, what happened? Where's Hong-joong?” You looked around “I'll fight him, what did he do?”

“Hong-joong, uh?” Her eyebrows raised up a bit, looking at you with slightly confusion, Ji noticed Hyunjin's silent plea for her to play along, so she did it. Small nodding, rubbing her forehead “Oh yeah, about that…”

“He isn't worth it, I'm okay…” She waved off as if it wasn't a big deal and then she grabbed your hands, her eyes sparkling with mischief “...now, tell me, you and Hyunjin, uh?”

“There’s no me and Hyunjin, he simply just drove me here” You shrugged, quickly glancing at him just to find out he was already staring at you while chatting with his friend. You turned back to Ji, trying to ignore him.

“He said he wouldn’t let me get into a random's car so late at night”

“Awwn, that’s so sweet!” Ji excitedly clapped and you looked down, feeling a little flustered, it was sweet indeed.

You glanced at him again, noticing he was beckoning at you to go there and you shrugged again at your friend, acting nonchalantly.

“Anyways, it doesn't mean anything” “Of course it does, Hong-joong never offered to do it for me…” Ji admitted and then chuckled, but the humor didn't reach her eyes “...damn, he would call me over and make me pay for the ride to his place…”

Ji's voice was becoming a faint sound as you came to realize how neither did Yunho. The cute boy that you met at the library on a random friday and had been ‘talking’ ever since.

Cute boy skipping a party at some random frat house to focus on his exams that would happen in two weeks? That felt like a huge green flag!

Or maybe he just needed every single point if he didn’t want to fail that semester.

Hyunjin held out a cup for you, but you shook your head.

“We are leaving” You simply told him, crossing your arms.

“Uh? Not even my girlfriend yet and you're already bossing me around?” He grinned and you flustered right away, gritting your teeth.

“No, that’s not what I meant, it's just that we came together and… ugh!”

Hyunjin chuckled, taking a sip of the soda he just offered you “Relax, y/nnie… I'm just teasing you” He took one step forward, invading your personal space as he leaned in before you took one step back, which only made his grin get wider “Has anybody told you how cute you look when you're all flustered?”

“Stop that!” You scoffed, looking away.

“Even more cute when annoyed”

“You seem to enjoy it a lot, don’t you?”

“Oh, I surely do” A new step forward, another step back. Hyunjin smirked, taking one more step and picking a little strand of your hair between his fingers, playing with it then gazing back at you.

Looking into his eyes for a moment that felt way too longer than actually was, your breath hitched and you felt speechless.

“I wanna leave…” You cleared your throat, feeling awkward.

“Oh c'mon, we just got here. Let's stay for a little while” His fingers were still caressing your hair, a mischievous smile playing on his lips “Please…”

Damn, how could you say no to that cute face?

“Okay, fine. Just a little more” Hyunjin's smile got wider and he suddenly hugged you, taking you completely by surprise and also intoxicating you with his delicious cologne that would get stuck on your skin and give you trouble sleeping that night.

“Stay with me and I'll make you glad you came” He whispered in your ear. It wasn't in reference to the lyrics of the song that was playing, Hyunjin knew exactly what he was doing and the way you got tense between his arms, he noticed it worked.

“You really think you're funny” You pulled back, rolling your eyes.

“Oh I can be that, I can be a lot of things actually and I'm sure you'll love every single one of them” His words dripped like honey and a funny sensation rushed down your body like little electricity jolts.

“Very cocky too” You did your best to not let it show, but you were enjoying that side of him, maybe a little too much for your own liking.

“I can be that too…” Hyunjin held your hands, pulling you to dance with him. His hands rested on your waist and you let your own rest on his shoulders, a little too close and a little too good, but you wouldn't dare to say it out loud. So you would turn around when it would get too much, a moment of clarity when the invisible pull to kiss him would become too strong, making Hyunjin fight his own urges then, to not hold your hips and pull you flush against him.

Obviously he was losing it, but could you blame him? So you let him, but just for a second or two, before you'd pull away again, cheeky.

That was the first time you danced with Hyunjin. That was also the first time he didn’t even get a simple kiss when the night ended.

And as ironic as it could sound, he loved it.

~ ♡ ~

You clutched your cardigan tighter around your body, it was particularly chill in that morning and way too early to leave the comfort and warmth from your bed. Stepping inside the bus, you sighed with relief when you felt it was warmer inside, your destination was the natural park, a school trip to do some research for the project you were working on.

Finding an empty seat, you slid down, leaving your backpack by your side and resting your head against the window, your eyes closing instantly, you were tired from staying up until late studying, didn't notice your bag being moved or the shoulder brushing against yours, your head being gently tilted to the opposite side and you let out a little sigh while nuzzling your face against the soft fabric of his hoodie, that known woody scent filling up your nostrils, warming you up inside.

Hyunjin looked down at you all cozied against him and his hand reached out, gently running his fingers on your hair, breathing in the floral scent of your shampoo, he smiled, feeling good and he noticed he could get used to it.

You sleepy groaned, trying to brush his hand off when he poked his finger into your ear, Hyunjin chuckles woke you up.

“Hey, sleepyhead, we arrived” Blinking a few times, you jolted in your seat when you noticed you were basically laying on top of him.

“Slept well?” His tease came along with his chuckles, watching you fix your disheveled hair with your hands. You rolled your eyes.

Looking out of the window, you noticed the trees that surrounded the entrance of the park, a big sign hanging on the trunk of the biggest one with the draw of the map of the site and some instructions for the visitors, glancing back at Hyunjin, you watched him stand up, picking both your bags, you stood up too, following him out.

“You should have woken me up…” You murmured, standing by his side.

“Yeah, but you were so cute talking in your sleep, I didn’t want to interrupt you” He side glanced at you, leaning closer, his tone low just for you to hear, as the other students gathered around, listening to Mr Park's instructions.

“What? I don’t talk in my sleep!” You scoffed.

“Oh Hyunjin, just give me a kiss” He mocked with a tiny voice and your cheeks burned high so you smacked his arm.

“Stop it or I'll ask Mr Park to pair me up with someone else” You hissed at him and he made a zipper motion on his mouth.

“...and you're all adults with internet access so be smart, I'm here to help you with your projects and not to play baby-sitter!” Mr Park didn't bother with the laugh of the students when he finished his talk, turning around and guiding the group to the cabins area.

~ ♡ ~

“I can't believe you got a cabin just for yourself!” Hyunjin followed you out of the reception in the direction of your cabin, still carrying your stuff.

“Why wouldn’t I?” You smiled, admiring the diversity of flowers that made a pathway towards the little matching wooden cabins, it was charming like a little village, with windows adorned with flowers too.

“We're partners, you should stay with me” He said it nonchalantly, as if it was the most obvious thing.

“Project partners, there's a difference” You corrected him, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

The interior was simple, but as charming as the outside, there were two beds looking cozy with the white wool covers and fluffy pillows, a small bedside table with a lamp, a fluffy white rug between them, a small wardrobe and a door that you assumed was for the bathroom.

“I'm gonna change that soon” He placed the bags on the floor next to the bed.

“A little too confident, aren’t we?” You teased giggling, sitting down on the opposite bed.

“I mean, I've got some credits…”“Just two…” You reminded him when he sat on the bed in front of you, casually resting his hand on your knee, the other going to play with a strand of your hair again.

He was too close again, you wondered what was this boy's problem with personal space. And also with your heart, you definitely should make an appointment to check those random beat skips…

“I thought we agreed on three…” His eyes widened in surprise, letting the strand slip between his fingers.

“We did, but you already used one” You nodded, smiling.

“When?”

“That day at the pub, the Ji emergency…” You didn't notice how soft you sounded, remembering how you danced together but luck for you, neither did him.

“No way, that one doesn't count, I wasn't ready!” He whined dramatically smacking his forehead

.“Of course it does” You insisted, nodding again and chuckling.

“I'd try harder if I knew…” He murmured under his breath, clearly talking to himself as he looked down, his lips pouting as if he was concentrating, contemplating.

You couldn’t help but laugh, it was funny how it looked like he was really taking it seriously “As if you were the ‘try hard’ type”

“You're right, I'm not” His behavior suddenly shifted back to cocky again and you laughed out loud by accident.

You covered your face, letting your laugh calm down and he smiled, admiring you, leaning slightly closer again while the room became silent as you stared at each other.

“Hmm, let’s go look around, we need to find some samples before it gets dark” You stood up suddenly, already making your way out.

Hyunjin followed you, not bothering to take his bags out of your cabin.

~ ♡ ~

Your exploration time had to be cut short due to the weather changing, after waiting for the rain to end, you and Hyunjin decided to go back and explore a little further into the woods, not too far because the sun would set soon, just a quick look to find a very specific flower you wanted, known for its strong healing properties it would be perfect for future works.

“Are you sure they grow in places like this?” Hyunjin was getting tired, it felt like you’ve been working in circles for hours.

“Yeah, they don’t enjoy much sun, so it's probably around here” The path was surrounded by big full trees and pebbles, lots of them, you frowned when you looked down at your feet, the dirt became mud and not only was it slippery it also ruined your allstar.

“What does it look like again?” “It looks like a pink heart, with tiny lilac dots at the end of the petals and… I found it!” You squealed excitedly when you spotted the flower almost hidden between the rocks. Hyunjin chuckled with your excitement, but also felt relieved that the search was over.

In the hype state you hushed to pick it, ignoring how slippery it was, but nature was quick to remember you, making you awkwardly slip your way down the rock you were about to step and if Hyunjin wasn’t quick enough and held your arm, pulling you flush against him, you'd fall right on your butt and completely embarrass yourself in front of your crush with the bonus of doing a special version of the walk of shame with mud all over your butt.

Luckily none of this happened, but from the way you yelped, Hyunjin noticed something still wasn't right. He held you by your shoulders, eyes training down your figure.

“My foot… I think I twisted it…” You looked down, it was hurting pretty bad.

“Ouch, okay… Let's go back and…” His hand was sliding around your waist, but you stopped.

“Wait, we must pick the flower first”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, that’s the most important thing of the project, plus if we simply leave then I'll have hurt myself for nothing” You looked up at him, waiting.

“Okay, fine. Stay here” He rolled his eyes, letting go of you and you did a small nod, smiling.

“Please be careful, Jinnie” His heart fluttered, it was the first time you used that nickname for him. He decided to not tease you about it now, and simply nodded, going to the rocks to pick the flower for you.

It wouldn’t be Hyunjin if he didn’t show off, so of course he had to slid the pathway and go pick another one too, prettier than that first you found, but just to have an excuse to roll his sleeves up and hop back on the rock, coaxing a little worried squeal from you.

“You could hurt yourself” You whined when he approached you, chuckling.

“I'm sorry, promise won’t happen again” He held out the pretty flower “For you”

You smiled, admiring it and feeling a bit flustered, murmuring a shy thank you. You were about to pick it, when he gently placed it behind your ear.

“Cute” He scoffed quietly, chuckling and you felt the heat in your cheeks again. Same heat that would travel all over your body when he held your waist and slid his other arm behind your knee, easily picking you up.

“Oh my God, what are you doing?” You squealed.

“I'm carrying you back, your foot will get worse if you walk” He shrugged “Now let's go, it's starting to get dark”

You just nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your head on his shoulder, ignoring the insistent thrumming of your heart as he made the way back and in that moment, you forgot that others could run into you, only focusing on his scent and the heat coming from him.

“Hyunjin! What are you…” You heard Mr Park's surprised voice and you hid your face against the fabric of his hoodie “You know what? I don’t wanna know”

Hyunjin blushed, his fingers gripping a little tighter on you and he started walking quicker to prevent running into anyone else.

Back into your cabin, Hyunjin placed the pillows against the wall for you to lean against it and put one under your feet, sitting by your side and taking a good look to check the damage, luckily it was just a little swollen. He threw a blanket over you and went out to grab some ice.

Your heart fluttered while you watched the scene unfold, Hyunjin's concerned gaze on your ankle, the plastic bag in his hand getting wet because of the ice melting inside it.

“Is it still hurting?” He murmured, placing the bag a little to the side.

“Just a bit…” You replied and he hummed.You wouldn't lie, you were a little surprised with him, it felt very unexpected to you to see Hyunjin like that.

You couldn’t help but wonder if it was Yunho, would take care of you like this too? It was Yunho, the most boyfriend material guy you knew, of course he would, what a silly question was that? You thought. He appeared to like you, but then why haven't you heard from him for weeks?

Gazing back at Hyunjin, you remembered about a movie you watched, it was a silly romcom, but had a clear message: if he wants you, he will show it, if he wants to date you, he will work for it. Yunho knew all the right words to say, but why did it feel like he would only call you when he was bored?

Your contemplative moment vanished when your phone buzzed, Hyunjin looked up at you, he had put the ice bag aside and was now massaging your ankle slowly, his thumbs pressing the soft skin, sending little jolts up your body. You reached out and pulled the device from your purse, eyebrows narrowing when you saw the notification, surprised with who decided to come back after weeks of pure silence.

Gazing up you saw Hyunjin not even trying to be subtle as he tried to peek up and see who texted you. You bit down your bottom lip, holding back a smirk.

“Your contender…” You waved your phone, teasing him.

“Hunf, I don’t feel threatened” He scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Oh really?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms.

“Yeah…” He shrugged, scooting up to sit close to you, smirking, he held a strand of your hair and played with it “I know I’m the favorite”

“Hmm, is that so?” You asked and he nodded, coming even closer.

“Don't you agree?” He whispered, too close, once again. You stayed silent, tucking in your bottom lip, a spark appearing in your eyes as you stared into his just to look away.

Hyunjin’s fingers gently touched your jaw, turning your face back to him. The cabin was quiet, but inside you there was a storm forming up quickly.

“It's a secret…” You whispered, gaze traveling down from his eyes to his plush lips just in time to witness him wetting them. You trembled slightly, looking back up.

“That's okay, your secret is safe with me…” He whispered back, his fingers held under your chin and pulled you towards him, the gap was small but still he did it slowly, as if giving you time to change your mind, to pull back if you wanted to. But you didn't…

Instead, you closed your eyes and a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he finished closing the gap. His hand caressed your neck until it reached the back while his lips moved against yours, slowly like a caress, your lips parted and his tongue brushed against yours, making your heart skip a beat, he tasted sweet, like the strawberry bubblegum he had earlier, his fingers played with your hair, you couldn’t help smiling through the kiss, noticing how he really seemed to be obsessed with touching it.

He thought it was cute and soft, later you'd learn that, but in that moment he just wanted to keep kissing you and that's what he did.

Kiss you. Over and over again.

Just like that, kiss after kiss, Hyunjin managed to spend the night in the cabin with you…

And much to even his own surprise, he didn’t do anything beyond that.

‘I don’t want you to think I'm using you or anything like that…'

‘I really like you…’

And in that night, between his soft whispered confessions and slow kisses while caressing each other, you met yet another version of Hyunjin, the soft one and probably that would be your favorite.

~ ♡ ~

After a hell of a week filled with projects and finals, all you wanted was to get back to your dorm, slide under the covers and shut off the world for the rest of the month. Your feet dragged on the floor, a sigh of relief leaving your lips when you heard the soft click of the door being unlocked.

You yawned, kicking your shoes and letting your purse slide down your arm and fall by the chair, books being carelessly placed on the desk. You didn't notice how the picture of Yunho was gone from your panel, your other friends’ pictures and sticky notes still there, a new picture of a certain shaggy haired boy winking being there instead, your books all out of order went unnoticed too.

But you noticed something new in your bed, lying there beside your plushie, you walked toward it and grabbed it: a new plushie, an extremely squeezable teddy bear holding a heart written be mine. The surprise was so cute you didn't think about the fact he knew your dorm's password, you giggled, holding it tight against you before you called Hyunjin's phone, one, two, three times and no answer, so you decided to go there.

Hyunjin opened the door after the second knock, popping a pink bubblegum and smirking.

“May I come in?” You did it like him when you first interacted, walking inside before he could reply. Hyunjin smirked, watching your reaction.

It was your first time getting into his dorm, so you were definitely curious to see what it looked like, and what you saw was pretty different from your imagination.

The mattress was on the floor, there were cushions and pillows, lots of them, and blankets, one sheet was half up, hanging in a chair. Your eyes widened and you turned to face him.

“A fort?” You smiled as you watched his cheeks getting rosy.

“Hello to you too and yeah… It was a surprise” He scratched the back of his neck, murmuring the end, suddenly fearing your reaction since he never done such a thing for a girl.

“A surprise for me?” Your smile got wider, that was lovely and so unexpected.

“Yeah, I thought I'd have more time before you came back” He shrugged, looking around, it was almost everything done.

You covered your eyes with both hands, shaking your head “Pretend that I'm not here” Hyunjin chuckled, finding your intention to fix the problem very endearing. Noticing how you stood still with your eyes covered, he finished setting the sheets and came back to stand in front of you, he pulled your hands down and your mouth fell agap when you saw the blanket fort complete.

“Awwn, that’s so cute!”

“You're cute” Hyunjin squeezed both your cheeks between his hands, gently shaking your head before he gave you a kiss when you whined.

You both slid inside, cozying up and putting a random movie on the projector that you pretended you’d watch. It didn’t last not even 10 minutes because Hyunjin was already all over you.

“About that plushie…” You whispered a little breathless, fingertips running down his back, under his shirt.

“Hmm…?” His murmur was muffled against your neck, as he kept kissing under your ear, making you shiver.

“Be mine?” You repeated the words written in the heart, waiting for his explanation, Hyunjin smirked against your skin, giving a little nibble before he lifted his head up to look at you.

“Say please” He bit down his bottom lip, cheeky.

“Hyunjin!” You smacked his arm, but a little laugh escaped your lips anyways.

“Ouch! I’m kidding, baby…” He gave you a peck, grinning again “I already am” Hyunjin teased again, as if you were the one asking him to date you.

“Oh my God, you're truly impossible!” You scoffed, but Hyunjin noticed the little smirk on your lips.

“Okay, this time’s serious. Be mine?” He asked softly, caressing your waist, feeling the warmth of your skin under his palm.

“Hmm, I don’t know… gimme some time to think” You did your best to attempt to sound nonchalant, but his frustrated expression and squeeze on your waist broke you into laughter.

“I’m kidding, Jinnie…” You caressed his back again, embracing him a little tighter and leaning forward, whispering against his lips “Because I already am…”

His heart fluttered and he kissed you, resting his forehead against yours as he spoke again.

“Ha ha, seems like somebody's getting really funny”

“What can I say? I'm learning with the best” You shrugged, giggling.

“Oh really? Well, let’s see what else I can teach you…” He closed the gap between you two, kissing you again, this time deeper, body pressing against yours.

And as the night stretched out, you two got lost into each other inside the blanket fort. His phone on silent mode on his desk, shining with new messages notifications, all those girls turned into unknown numbers.

———————— ♡♡ ————————

BANG CHAN

MINHO

CHANGBIN

HYUNJIN

HAN

FELIX

SEUNGMIN

JEONGIN

The night your soul mark appeared was the day you promised yourself that you would vengefully kick your soulmate's ass. Except you didn’t end up kicking anyone in their behind. 

For one, you were in the school cafeteria, and you were not beyond following the rules and regulations enforced by the system. If a revolution was to happen, you should be the last person anybody calls for aid. 

For two, you weren't actually very strong, so you doubted your vengeance could be adequately expressed. Unfortunately, issues regarding grudges should always be dealt with a 'go big or go home' mindset, and you should go home.

For three, the boy who said it to you, your supposed soulmate, was Han Jisung.

You had gone as far as to turn around to make sure no one else was sitting anywhere within a five-centimeter radius of you. It was a plausible mistake. Putting one soul mark on two people? It shouldn't be a mistake. Not many people start their conversation with, "Tell me, baby, you're the happiest when you're with me, right?"

"This can't be," you muttered grimly when you realized your thoughts were illogical. You were alone in the cafeteria. 

You always sat alone in the corner with a homemade sandwich, a carton of apple juice, and a store-bought pudding on the food tray. It wasn't pitiful.

You enjoy eating alone; you do it at home, and you do it at restaurants. The only reason it felt awkward at school was the lack of entertainment from a small screen, forcing you to focus only on chewing and looking thoughtful.

Perhaps that was the reason why Jisung thought you were approachable. You weren’t occupied enough. Some students were reading books, others were cramming their next tests, and most of them were in a circle chatting with their friends. You were the only person who was just eating.

That wasn't the current issue, though. You sat alone, which meant he was talking to you, given that direct eye contact wasn't proof enough that he was. 

Han Jisung, who is multi-talented, not too academically excellent, not really athletic but light enough to be fast, has a wide smile, a voice so soulful, and a heart so pure, is undoubtedly your soulmate.

You weren't sure how you felt about that. You weren't sure how you felt about him.

A mixture of emotions and thoughts flashed before your eyes the moment you turned your head to face him. It was almost like a defense mechanism; you didn't want to see him, so your brain conjured thoughts to cover your eyes.

The way he smirked at you made your cheeks heat up more than you wanted them to. What was there not to like about him? He was handsome, hilarious, and, from what you've heard, had a very tender heart. 

For a moment, you felt a congratulatory spark, a sense of pride that your soulmate was someone so brilliant.

Immediately after, you thought about yourself. Dull, indecisive, and lost. 

You wanted to do so many things at once that you ended up never doing anything, let alone anything groundbreaking.

You were the type of people stuck in a cubicle box when you grew up or stuck riding the same train home every day. You were the type of person who would definitely be able to go somewhere in the future, just nowhere exciting.

Soulmates were supposed to be compatible and similar. Brilliant people stick with brilliant people; intelligent people talk to other smart people; attractive people group with attractive people. They look good with each other, and they elevate each other to be better than before. 

You weren't necessarily self-deprecating, but you were realistic about the situation. You simply weren't the type to pretend to be someone you weren't, and a person like Jisung was someone you could never be.

You sighed. You did know how you felt about him and his identity as your soulmate: you didn't appreciate it. You were happy to know that he was your soulmate, but you decided to keep that to yourself for both of your sake. Jisung doesn't have to know about that.

The story of the swan and the hermit, except you were the knowing frog, and he was the unsuspecting swan. This time, the frog wasn't greedy. This time, the frog lets the swan flourish elsewhere.

It would be unfair to Jisung that he has to grow old without ever finding out who his soulmate was. But at least he knew he had one and could keep the benefit of the doubt that his soulmate was doing amazing things elsewhere in the world.

Not the gloomy and doomy [Name] who sits alone in the cafeteria daily and decides other people's fate for them.

Jisung tilted his head to the side upon your lack of reaction. He saw you mouth something but couldn't hear you over the cafeteria noise. He leaned in a little closer, his eyes squinted. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

You inwardly breathed out a sigh of relief. That made it easier to keep your status a secret. Maintaining a flat expression, you spoke a little bit louder this time and made sure you put some grit into your words to scare him off. “I said why the fuck did you ask me that?”

His expression did not dim one bit upon your harsh words. Instead, his smile widened, and he sat on the seat across you. He raised his brows when he noticed you flinching at the chair squeak. Pulling himself closer to the table, he lifted the chair and placed it down lightly. 

Folding his arms over the table, he finally replied, "Jiae dared me to say something funny to you. She said you would curse at me, and guess what? She was right!"

You stared at him pitifully. The pity was genuine and not an act to push him away. “You are playing truth or dare? In a school cafeteria?”

"Hey! You're never too old to play those games!" he said defensively, his mouth forming a slight pout as he waved his arm lightly by his side.

He looked adorable. You knew that. He had always been charming, but you never took the time to look at his face and appreciate his wonderfully cohesive features.

His chubby cheeks and sun-kissed smile were attractive individually, and they didn't ruin each other together. You wished you were less influenced by them.

"You can be too old to learn to read the room and notice that some people just don't want to talk to you," you laughed, making sure the noise from the back of your throat sounded sarcastic enough. "But don't worry, you're still young! You can learn now, starting with me!"

Jisung's eyes dimmed, and his grin fell flat. You could visibly see his gears turning and his demeanor changing when he realized you were being hostile on purpose. His brows furrowed ever so slightly in mild dismay as he leaned back. 

He has met people like you before. If anything, he has encountered people far worse than you. It wasn't that you acted so distantly that you made him click his tongue and drop his bubbly personality, but that you were a close friend of Jiae. The chirpy and sweet Jiae who sat with his circle of friends every day. 

He was never one to judge. He believes in the phrase: everyone is going through something you don't know about, and he had always chosen to keep the negative thoughts to himself. However, when Jiae mentioned you used to be her best friend back in middle school, he thought you would be brighter.

His expectation of you was so much higher than bitter and mean.

“That’s not nice,” he said. “I didn’t do anything to you.”

You were pleasantly surprised that he bit back but also not too weirded out that he did. After all, people like him were the most likely to defend themselves. 

Tilting your head, you shrugged. 

"A lot of people in this school didn't do anything to anyone, yet people like you–“ You closed your mouth and exhaled quietly, staring at his clueless expression without the willpower to make accusations. You couldn't possibly blame all cases of bullying on him; he's probably never hurt anyone in this school. Neither should you fight fire with fire.

“Never mind,” you said. “You need to learn how to let people be a little mean to you. You can’t expect everyone to defend themselves without ever getting hurt yourself.”

Jisung rubbed his lips together and sulked. You were right. Besides, he was the one who initiated an unwanted conversation. Discreetly, he looked behind his shoulder at his table of friends before turning back to you, ignoring the expression of complete boredom you were showing him.

“Actually,” he started, his voice soft and his shoulders shrunk. “I have a favor to ask."

You raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"You know prom is coming up, right?”

"No, Jisung. Thank you so much for telling me," you mumbled, sipping your apple juice. "I never see all the informational flyers they put up over the school to let us know what theme this year's prom will be."

Jisung sucked in a deep breath, willing himself to smile through your sardonic remark. "Anyway, I wanted to ask Jiae to prom, but I…" His voice trailed off when you held up your hand to stop him.

He waited curiously as you turned your head to the side to finish your drink, crushing the carton in your hand and throwing it back onto the trade. Your pursed lips brushed against each other as you held back a burp. Well, you'll be damned! The universe was helping you ensure Jisung never ended up with you!

"Let me guess," you said, looking away solemnly as if staring off into the ocean, and then you turned back to him.

"You want me to help you ask her to prom because you don't know what to do and what she likes. However, since she claims I am her best friend, you think I would be a good candidate for your prom proposal project."

“Yes!”  Jisung replied after a moment. “Was that predictable?"

"Yes. When ten out of ten people who approach you ask for a favor, you learn many people don't have any real issues to deal with because they'd have to take it up with a professional if it is serious, so don't blame yourself too much." You shrugged." Also, the answer is no. I can't help you.”

"You can't help me or you won't help me?" Jisung asked.

“I can’t, and I won’t.”

“Why?” 

"Oh my god, it's like you lack any thought process." You chuckled in disbelief, but some of you found humor in this situation, where his logic had flown out the window. 

"Jiae is not the same person she was in middle school. I don't know what she likes now. You have better chances asking people in your friend group for help than asking me," you said.

"I don't know which screw got lost in your head, but it is fascinating that you'd rather turn to a stranger for help before asking your friends."

His lips quirked downward. “How would you know I haven’t already asked my friends?”

“Because you wouldn’t be asking me if you did,” you said, the lightheartedness in your voice made into a tone of mockery. “People like you love those things. Embarrassing public proposals, taking pictures of regular food, talking so loud people can hear your business from five yards away. Whatever.”

Jisung gulped down a grumble in his throat. More than being defensive about the stereotypes you seemed so fixated on, he was disturbed that you tossed him and his friends into the group of people like that. 

There was nothing wrong with being that way, of course. Some people enjoy attention, and some people love to gossip, but he wasn't so illiterate as to not understand what group of people you were referencing and how you felt about them. He didn't think he was part of that group. 

Popular? Yes. Superficial? A little! Horrible? No.

The drop in his optimism was hard to miss. However, even though you felt terrible, you thought it was necessary if you wanted him to keep a distance from you permanently. The soul mark under your arm can never be revealed, and you didn’t feel like deliberately hiding it for the rest of your life. 

Having him be as far removed from your life as possible, to not even have any mutual acquaintances, was the way to go.

"For what's worth, Jisung, I think you'll be fine." You stood up, one hand holding onto the food tray as you left your seat. As you brushed past him, you lightly bumped the tray against the top of his head. This was your farewell. "Good luck to you."

His eyes followed your back. He watched you empty your tray and return it by the kitchen window. You jogged towards the stairway and disappeared upstairs.

It has bothered him since the conversation started, but he felt an unexplainable attraction toward you. It wasn't necessarily romantic attraction; you weren't his type, or at least he didn't think so.

He merely felt a desire to get to know you more, even though you spent most of your first encounter talking down to him. 

Turning around, he stared at the vacant seat across him. His hand subconsciously reached for his hair and he pressed on the spot where you hit him with the tray. 

You were certain Jisung had no knowledge of your soul bound with him. Yet, somehow, he has been bugging you any chance he got.

He was there during lunch when you ate alone and recess when you sat in your classroom with your head buried deep in your arms. He was also there during joint PE classes when you sat on the sideline watching other students play a foul basketball game. 

You have underestimated his stubbornness in befriending you, which source was muddy and confusing. At this point, you were convinced that no number of one-word answers and defeated sighs would deter him from trying to talk to you.

He has singlehandedly developed your instinct to examine a room as you walk into it, forcing you to follow a new routine to avoid him. 

You started eating lunch at the rooftop, where you met Felix, a transfer student who hadn't yet found his way around the school. After hearing your endeavor to avoid Jisung, which he thought was hilarious, he also agreed to hide with you by the stairway during each fifteen-minute recess. 

With Felix’s help, you have successfully avoided Jisung most of the time. 

Flipping a page of the textbook you borrowed from the library, you calmly scribbled down some important notes you jotted in class as you tried to cultivate a concept sensible enough to understand the topic. 

“I swear these books say something different from what my teacher taught,” Felix complained as he dropped his forehead to the page. He swung his head from left to right as if copying the material into his brain. “I don’t get it! I don’t get it!”

You grimaced and dropped your pencil. Lifting your head from your palm, you reached over and carefully pulled the textbook from his head. His face fell against the table with a thud loud enough to embarrass himself. You let him stay in that position, swallowing the attention of those who looked up from the noise.

"Your class is moving ahead fast," you said, running a finger down the lines in your notebook to check for accuracy. "Did you write any notes from class?"

“No.” He turned slowly with a tearful frown. “The teacher talks too fast. I couldn’t really understand him.”

"That's," you licked your lower lip, "I can't help you now, but I made some notes while preparing for the chapter. You can use them to see if they help."

He shot up, forcing his chair into a squeak. Your sharp gaze peered over at his face, and he pursed his lips bashfully, trying to hide his presence by shrinking his body. Discarding the second noise commotion, you went into your folder in search of what Felix needed. Once you found it, you put it on the table to check for anything illegible.

A black-colored schoolbag suddenly dumped itself next to you, startling you and Felix. Your pencil scrapped a big line across the paper as you leaned away with a breath hitched in your throat. 

Felix eyed the newcomer with an awkward smile, his body already turning away to his belongings so he could pack up. He has heard enough of Jisung from you to know he didn't want to sit around your bickering. Confused by his reaction, you turned to look briefly and then immediately turned away, closing your eyes and sucking down a lump of frustration upon the familiar sight of a squirrel keychain.

"You again," you mumbled as you grabbed your eraser from your pencil case to clean up the mess you made on your notes.

“Yes, indeed.” Jisung plopped down on the chair next to you. “It is I.”

A triumphant smile was evident on his face, both from finding you amongst all the other places near the school and from being able to annoy the living daylight out of you. It was never his intention to do the latter, but he took any reaction he could get out of you as an achievement worthy of celebrating. 

“I see you’ve got a friend,” he said.

“I’m actually leaving,” Felix announced with a wave. When you snapped your head to glare at him for being disloyal, he only gently waved his hands before your face, leaning in but never quite touching you. Soft nothings flew out of his lips, but they were definitely apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you later, I promise.”

He left in the blink of an eye, almost quicker than when he realized curry buns were in the cafeteria. Picking up your jaw, your lips pursed together into a dissatisfied grimace as you faced the table again. Despite the rush, he didn't forget to take your notes with him, that coward! 

“Who was that?”

“Lee Felix,” you replied. “He just transferred here.”

“Oh, no wonder! I’ve never seen him before!”

That was partly your fault. You asked him to hide away with you during all the social hours.

"Are you two friends?" Jisung asked. "Or did your homeroom teacher make you his guide?"

“He’s not in my class,” you said. 

“So…” he fiddled with his thumbs, “you two are friends.”

“Sure.”

You deliberately turned away from him so you wouldn't catch his pitiful gaze. Something about the way his eyes were wide and round was different. His was like a deer, but not a deer in headlights. His eyes were pouty, pathetic, and sad. A foul-proof weapon to get whatever he wants. You have some resolve against that because you were on a mission to stay away from him, but you were not entirely immune to it. 

You understood why he could feel unfairly treated knowing Felix became your friend while you never let your guard down around him, but that wasn’t for him to analyze. 

"Jisung, why are you doing this?" you asked without looking at him. "I already told you I can't help you with the prom proposal."

"I'm not here for the prom proposal," he clarified. "I just wanted to be friends with you."

You pursed your lips together and nodded. That would make your plan backfire. With someone as playful and touchy as him, who knew when he'd want to play around with your sleeves, and then bam! One careless mistake could send the secret flying out to the public, and people would whisper about you, the incompatible and underserving soulmate.

“I don’t want to be friends with you.”

“Why?” he asked. 

“Why do you want to be my friend?”

He shrugged. “I just want to.”

“Apply that to your question,” you said. “I just don’t want to be your friend.”

“That’s different!” he exclaimed quietly. “I don’t understand. You became friends with Felix!”

"What do you want me to do, Jisung?" You dropped your pencil and glared at him. "You find me at the most inconvenient time. You ramble on and on about your problems. I don't have the energy for someone like you! You're–" You clamped your mouth shut as Jisung leaned back against his chair. He tore his eyes away from you for the first time. "I'm just–I'm sorry. I'm drained."

Jisung didn't speak, and your heart dropped in the rare silence. Assuming that he had finally given up, you exhaled and began to collect your belongings. You stuffed your stationaries inside your pencil case and closed up the books, shoving them inside your school bag.

"Wait, where are you going?" Jisung asked after noticing your hasty movement.

"Home," you replied, zipping up your schoolbag and flinging it across your shoulder.

"Wait. Hold on, wait for me," he hissed as he grabbed his schoolbag quickly and followed you into the aisles, his eyes never leaving your figure.

Standing between the narrow space, Jisung trailed closely behind, trying to find an opportunity to speak up. At the same time, your legs moved quickly from one aisle to another, finding the borrowed textbook's original place. When you finally slipped the book in between the perfect gap with other identical textbooks, you turned and bolted out of the library. He watched you, exhaled, and picked up his pace.

“Look, I get it, you're tired. You really don't have to apologize for it,” he said once you were outside. 

"I don't have time to satisfy your savior complex, Jisung," you said. "There are plenty of students like me. Go find someone else."

“You’re literally just saying things now,” he said. “I just want to chat with you.”

“We don’t have anything in common,” you muttered.

“You don’t know that!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “What do you like to do in your free time?”

"I'm not a masochist like you, that's for sure," you said as you gripped the strap of your bag. Briefly looking at him, you pulled a face almost condescendingly. "I would never chase after someone who treats me like I treat you."

Jisung stopped following you then. You stalked away, moving further and further away from him. His fingers dangled, barely brushing past each other, and then he rubbed them together until his hand turned into a fist. The corner of his lips twitched, but instead of wallowing in helplessness, he felt wronged and frustrated. 

You were clearly capable of socializing; you could chat with others and go to places with your friends. What was so wrong about him that made you so hostile? Did you truly believe in your words that day at the cafeteria, where you indirectly called him superficial and embarrassing? Was the only difference between him and Felix the bridge of popularity? 

If so, then you were undoubtedly worse than him.

 “You’re the superficial one!” 

You froze with your shoulders hunched up, and your eyes widened. Your heart nearly beat out of your chest when you turned around and found him stomping toward you, his hair bouncing with every animated step. Leaning back to avoid him crashing into you, you frowned at his accusing finger and even more aggressive ramble. 

"You know nothing about me, and I have done nothing to you! You generalized a group of people you hate and applied that judgment to my friends and me based on less than five commonalities," he snapped. 

"I admit I also did that to you. I thought you were mean and crass, but I changed my mind when I found out you had been hanging out with Felix while avoiding me every chance. You never tried to see where I am coming from or who I am as a person, removed from your assumptions! That makes you worse than me! That makes you a horrible person!"

He didn't know he had it in him to string together so many sentences verbally without stuttering once, especially when speaking from his mind without letting the words load. Before he knew it, his hand flew to cover his mouth, suppressing the urge to throw up apologies. 

You didn't think he had it to tell the hard truth, so his rant was a pleasant surprise. You weren't the least bit offended. If you didn't want to be accused, then you wouldn't have acted the way you did, and your willingness to own up to your horrible personality always made you feel superior to others. However, turning a new leaf was a whole different step to take.

“You knew I was avoiding you?” you asked calmly.

His hand slowly dropped from his mouth, and he nodded. He looked almost grief-stricken, and you supposed he would be. He has probably never been treated this way.

“Do you really think we can be good friends?” 

Jisung looked up curiously. "Why won’t we be?"

“I don’t fit in with your group of friends,” you said. 

He ruffled his hair, his eyes squinted in disbelief. “Why does that matter?”

“It matters to me. People like you don’t have to worry about that because everyone likes you,” you grumbled, a sense of unfairness sparking deep within you. "You've never been the kid who gets pushed over in the cafeteria or the girl who got bet on, so you can shove that."

It was your turn to call him out. You were right. He was never the public plaything, the cafeteria humiliation, nor did he ever attempt to stop those weekly events from happening. Asking you to ignore everything when he was sitting comfortably on top of the social hierarchy was inconsiderate.

"Who did those to you?" he asked instead, choosing to carefully approach you, to take baby steps towards the gate of your heart.

"That's funny. I swear you were in the cafeteria when it happened, too." Your shoulders slacked visibly as you spun on your heels, an eye roll tailing after. "Pretentious."

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t stand up to anyone.” He followed you. “I care. I really do!”

“Gee! How noble of you!” you mocked. "You care now because you need my help with the prom proposal. I don’t need that kind of pity.”

Jisung let out a groan of frustration, one that was loud enough to make you halt to a stop again. It felt more aggressive than the rant just a moment ago. 

"I'm only going to say this one last time. I am not talking to you because I need your help," he exclaimed. His hands were deep in his hair, borderline pulling them from his scalp, and he was sure it would be less painful than this conversation. 

Letting his hair go, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply enough to calm himself. "You intrigued me. I don't know how or why, but you did, so now I want to be your friend. That's it."

It was the truth. You never once doubted that he genuinely wanted to start a friendship with you. The problem was you. You were so afraid of being found that you would rather stab him over and over again than accept him, even though you didn't hate him at all.

You gulped hard, giving yourself some time to think. "There is no point in us being friends when you have closer friends to hang out with."

He shook his head with a disagreeing frown. “I have friends outside of the group I always hang with. Just because we are not as close doesn't mean I don’t still value their friendship.”

A fleeting friendship. He would still hang out with you, but most of the time, he would be around his existing friends, which would eat away the time he could spend with you. You would never ask him to choose you over his friend group, and you didn't feel like wasting your time maintaining a distant friendship if you could just pretend he was never in your life. 

That way, you never have to worry about each other. That way, things would be the way they were supposed to be. You were used to that. 

“Agree to disagree,” you said. “I’d rather commit to a few people full than have to spare minor commitments to several others. I’m not willing to spend that kind of effort for someone who is just a friend.”

You waited for his response. He heard you, loud and clear. Through the silence, he could finally look at you for the first time. He took everything you said into consideration, his eyes boring holes into your features and sending shivers down your spine with their intensity. After a moment, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He poked at it impatiently, his nail clanking against the screen.

"What are you doing?" you asked in defeat.

“Here," Jisung replied as he showed you his phone. The screen showed his calendar, where he marked all the upcoming events and important dates. Birthdays, hangouts, tests, and extracurricular activities. “I am really good at managing my time. I promise I will make time for you. I will make space for our friendship to flourish.”

Your eyes moved between his phone and his face. A noticeable heat brewed under your uniform, and it tried its mightiest to stretch the nerve around your lips into a smirk. You didn't want to feel optimistic about this, so you focused on the fingerprints on his screen and slowly smacked your tongue against your top front teeth. 

It just occurred to you that he has continuously made accommodations for you. You wouldn’t initiate conversations, so he did. You wouldn’t find him during free time, so he did. You didn’t like to talk too much, so he filled the space. You didn’t like fleeting friendships, so he made space. 

All of that for what? To be friends with someone like you?

"I'm sorry," you muttered after a sigh, touching your forearm and avoiding eye contact with him. “You’re going to regret being my friend.”

"That's not up to you to decide," Jisung said. 

You couldn't deal with the risk of letting him know, and you didn't have the energy to hide your mark constantly. But even more than that, your weak heart couldn't handle seeing Jisung look as defeated and sulky as he did whenever you treated him less than decent.

Jisung was your soulmate, after all. As pessimistic of a person as you were, you care about and like him. Enough to try turning over a new leaf.

"I'm heading to the Taiwanese shop," you informed as you started to walk away again.

"Huh? I thought you were going home?"

"I lied. My mom isn't home to make dinner today, so I'm eating outside," you replied, stopping in your tracks and looking behind your shoulder at Jisung, who was still grounded on his spot. You beckoned him over. "Are you tagging along or not?"

Jisung grabbed hold of the straps of his schoolbag as a smile lit up on his face. He rushed over to you quickly, not wanting to waste another minute.

After ordering food, you two went to find a small table in the middle of the restaurant and settled down.

Jisung gave his parents a call about not being able to make it back home for dinner despite your consistent protest that immediately melted away when Jisung let out a playful growl your way to display his sense of dismay. You told him not to act like a dog in public and let it go.

Jisung rubbed his hands together as he placed his food on the table. He snapped the wooden chopsticks open and dug in, quietly praising the food with each slurp of his wonton noodle soup. You focused on your food, not bothering to start a conversation until both of you finished dinner.

Crossing your legs under the table, you leaned against the chair and wiped your mouth with a napkin. “Regardless, you want my help with the prom proposal, right?”

Jisung’s chewing slowed as he smiled up at you sheepishly. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, so it’s okay. I’ll find someone else for help.”

“No, it’s fine.” You shrugged. “It’s better for you to talk to me about a problem. I might actually have something to contribute than me struggling to relate to what you did during the day.” 

He squinted his eyes a little at you. It was probably because you have never spoken to him much about what really goes on inside your head that you appeared entirely unpredictable for him.

Jisung wasn’t saying he was ever good at observing people’s behavior and understanding their feelings. He was always more of a sympathizing and comforting person than analyzing and accessing.

But with you, he couldn’t tell anything at all. Your expression betrays your thoughts, and your tone betrays your words. You mix sharp wit with a mellow voice and joy with exhaustion.

At the last second, you were all up his face about him only caring about his problems, but now you offered to help him with them.

As confusing and rude as you had been to him, he couldn’t feel an ounce of hatred towards you, nor did he ever feel lost in this relationship. Logically, he should have been, but deep inside his chest, something kept tugging him back to you.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded. “People usually find me to ask for something, so it’s more comfortable if you need me to do something for you.”

"That doesn't sound very nice," Jisung frowned, sitting up straighter as he looked at you with saddening eyes.

"It doesn't, but you get used to it," you said.

He pouted. ”Still, everyone deserves someone who wants to be with them simply because they want to."

You chuckled harshly. The idea was foreign to you—mostly a fault of your own. You weren’t attractive enough for people to be interested in you from the get-go.

You weren’t decent enough for those curious to stay for a long time. You also weren’t too socially endurable, so besides other people getting tired of you, you couldn’t stand being around anyone for too long.

“You wouldn’t understand, and I hope you never do.” You smiled bitterly. A rare, genuine smile, accompanied by your shoulders slacking from tension and your alerted eyes softening. 

It’s a sight that indicated to Jisung the tearing down of your mental walls. A second later, you built it back up again. Your back arched, and your lips pursed. The heartfelt expression changed too fast for Jisung; he didn’t even have the time to store the image in his brain.

“I’ll start by saying I can’t guarantee your success rate because, as I have told you, Jiae and I aren’t friends anymore,” you said.

"We’re also not that close back then. I have no idea why she still goes around announcing that we’re good friends. The last time we hung out was during middle school, and that was it.”

Jisung's confused expression gave you an idea that he didn't really believe you, so you placed your palm on the table and leaned in to assert more confidence. “We are not friends. Have you ever seen me hang out with her before?"

"Uh..." Jisung opened his mouth.

“No, Jisung! You’re thinking, and this question shouldn’t involve any thinking!” You snapped your fingers at his face. “The fact is right in front of you. The answer is no, you have never seen us hang out before.”

Jisung pursed his lips together, taken back by your fast movements. 

"Okay, fine," he said. “Then help me out as my friend. Tell me what she might want. Give me your standard."

You bumped against the back of the chair and snorted with your arms crossed. “Does it look like I have a standard to base upon?"

“Oh, you know!” Jisung whined, "Any celebrities? Fictional characters? Songs?"

You let out another snort as you shook your head comically, "Of course, because fictional characters are so achievable.”

“They can be if you try!” Jisung declared.

“You’re not serious, are you?” You raised a brow. “You know why fictional characters are so desirable because they are not obtainable. It is impossible to become them or be with them. The most enticing part about them is the process of desire, which will promptly be eliminated once you obtain it.”

“Hey, I don’t know what you’re mouthing off about,” he said between chews of his food. “I just know that if my partner has a list of boyfriend goals, then you bet I am giving them everything on the list. That includes fictional character standard.” 

You rolled your eyes, but a smile played on your lips. The way Jisung furiously wanted to give his love everything they wanted sent shivers down your spine and made you feel a sense of excitement in conjunction with a yearning for a potential future. 

Whoever ends up with him in the future will receive such an immense amount of love that you could feel your envy creeping up, which was in conjunction with bitterness. 

That person could have been you if you weren't so much like yourself.

“I don't think your partner would ask you to do that. I think you're already great,” you said. “If that’s worth anything.”

Jisung's eyes widened at the unpredicted compliment. “You think so?” 

You nodded in confirmation, and he laughed shyly, scratching the back of his head.

“Thanks,” he said. “No one's ever told me that before."

"No way,” you denied in disbelief. “Someone must have told you that you are good enough before. Or anything along the lines of that.”

“I have been complimented before, of course! But telling me I’m a nice guy doesn’t reassure me,” he mumbled.

“I mean–“ You snorted air out of your nose as you looked away. “What else do you want? I’d give anything to be told I’m a nice person.” 

He unknowingly snorted, too. “That requires you to be a nice person.”

“Oh?” You leaned up from the back of the chair and uncrossed your arms. “Suddenly, you’re a comedian! You know how to joke!”

“I’m just saying!” he exclaimed. “I don’t think you are horrible, but you can be mean and unapproachable sometimes. ”

“Yet you approached me.”

“Now who’s the comedian?” He pointed at you with his chopsticks and dropped them on the napkin. 

You waited for him to finish chewing the last of his food. His words irked you, but not in the way one would assume. You still didn’t really care for the consequences of your attitude. You cared to know how you turned out that way or when you changed because you didn’t used to be this way. 

You had a social circle back then, and you were involved in different hobbies, and then your father left the picture, and you were gone.

Looking up at Jisung, who sipped his drink as he casually checked his phone for any messages from his parents, you cast your eyes down when you realized perhaps you did care a little about how others thought of you.

Specifically, you cared about how he thinks of you. You didn’t have to worry about it when you were gatekeeping yourself from him. It was a mistake to let loose.

“Do you really think I’m mean?” 

Jisung slowly looked up at you from his phone. He stopped sucking on the straw when he saw your determined expression, and he dropped his phone and pushed away his drink with a prepared expression as if he had been waiting for this his whole life.

But he wasn’t prepared. He was gently panicking; he thought he hurt your feelings, and that stung his skin terribly.

“No. No, no, no,” he sped out. “Whatever you are thinking of, I probably didn’t mean it that way.”

“How did you mean it?”

“I don’t know? It’s just–“ He sighed. “You were rude to me when I first talked to you.” 

“I guess I was,” you muttered. You avoided his eyes. “I wasn’t always like this.” 

“Yeah?” He chuckled. “What were you like?”

Happier was the most straightforward word you knew to describe it. You had no worries for the future, you had friends, and your parents were still together.

Although, you couldn’t blame your parents’ separation for the bitter change in your personality, at least not entirely. Some part of it was your own doing. You wanted to be cynical and unapproachable to avoid socializing and being known. 

You sniffed and rubbed the tip of your nose, a grimace obvious on your lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

He stared at you in dissatisfaction as you gathered the trash from the table onto your tray. You moved fast and without any words, which he couldn’t find any reason to. Besides that, you were even more upset at his imposing question. 

You wore your schoolbag and stood up. He followed dramatically, bumping into table corners and kicking chairs on his way.

“I like you, [Name],” he clarified, his legs matching your pace. “I really do. I’m sorry!”

“I know,” you said as you slowed down. You peered at him with a smirk. “I’m messing with you.” 

He paused on the spot, the worried frown slowly quirked into a smile.

You could consider him humored.

You spent a week of (debatably) quality time with Jisung. It happened more frequently than you liked, occurring every day after school. 

Each of your hangouts consisted of you denying his offer to eat dinner with you since your mother works late at night, and him arguing that teenagers should always eat with someone to decrease loneliness.  

It felt both relieving and uncomfortable for you to be in such a quiet environment during Saturday lunch.

Jisung was always there to yell in your face about his day after you finished dinner at a random restaurant that you had to force him to pick. The never-ending process of deciding where to eat usually ends with a game of rock-paper-scissors, which the loser has to choose, and Jisung miraculously always lost. 

Now that you had finished lunch at home alone, the quiet process of cleaning up after yourself was deafening. You never had a problem with it, but you supposed it made sense to have a gaping hole in your chest now that Jisung's terrific company has been etched in your brain.

Being without him made any atmosphere duller, even with the television on as background noise.

After covering the unfinished dish with a plastic wrap, you picked the plate up just in time to hear the doorbell ring. Putting the plate back down curiously, you slowly glided to the door, thinking it was just the delivery guy.

"Hello–" You eyes widened and your voice came to a sharp end after you shamelessly swung the front door open. 

"Hi, you!" Jisung greeted, grinning at you with his chubby cheeks and bright teeth. 

You panicked. Your arm was propped up, your hand around the edge of the wooden frame, and you wore short sleeves. It had been too hot inside the kitchen when you cooked lunch, so you had to change it, and you knew very well that your soul mark was entirely on display.

All Jisung needed to do was turn his head a little, and he would catch sight of it.

Quickly, you brought your arm behind your back and smiled up at him. Jisung, who had caught on to the faint ink on your arm and the nervous smile that followed closely behind, tilted his head to the side as his cheerful grin dimmed to a curious smirk.

“I saw your soul-mark there,” he said, pointing at where your arm was propped up. “Why are you hiding it?” 

When you shrugged and shakily told him it was nothing, it only spiked his interest, so he pressed on. He squinted his eyes and carefully removed his shoes by stepping on the outer sole.

You laughed when he began walking inside your home uninvited, but you weren’t sure if you got nervous from his unrelenting gaze or humored that he was visibly shorter after taking off his shoes.

“Oh, come on, what does it say?” he asked.

“Nothing! I wasn’t even trying to hide it,” you replied, forcing the nonchalance into your tone. 

“Then show me,” he said, holding a hand out politely. “If you weren’t hiding it.”

You looked around the living room for any saving grace, but there was none. It was an open space without anything interesting to redirect his attention to. Unfortunately, you were the most interesting thing to him.

You scoffed, feeling your heart pump all its blood onto your neck and cheeks. 

You have been hiding this secret for a week already. 

Given that you have relatively let your guard down around him and knew that he wasn’t the type of person to judge you based on your social status. Given that you two have hit it off very well and were surprisingly compatible. Given that you thought, for a moment, that there was a chance your relationship could work out, you couldn’t tell him. 

You’ve lied for long enough. It would be too awkward to tell the truth. 

Besides, it could have been a honeymoon phase. If you spend more time with him, he could show his real face and change your mind.

"It can't be that embarrassing, can it?” 

He reached for your arm, his fingers curling around it. If he really wanted to yank your arm out of your back, he could, and he would. With a speeding heart, you let out a strangled noise from the back of your throat and decided to turn in a circle quickly, startling him. Your hand flew up to slap against his eyes, which caught him off guard. You backed him up to the nearest wall and held him still. 

"Woah, woah! Okay, I won't look!" Jisung exclaimed defensively, holding his hand up in surrender. 

He could feel you pressed up to his torso as you asked him for confirmation. He wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of your sudden exert of dominance or more attracted by the proximity you unknowingly bestowed upon him.

"I promise," he confirmed. Seconds later, he felt your hand slip away.

You rubbed your arm shyly, pressing it close to your side. “What are you doing here?"

Jisung's shoulders hunched as he looked around your house. “Nothing much. I just wanted to spend some time with you."

“Why? Were you bored being home alone?” you asked as you returned to the dining table and started to take the plates back into the kitchen, dropping them in the sink so you could deal with them later.

“Uh, yes.” Jisung raised a finger. “But I’m not just here for me! I also really want to hang out with you."

Your eyes squinted at the emphasis of his tone, eyeing him with contemplation as you walked out of the kitchen slowly. It wasn’t out of his character to need constant stimulation from the outside world, either music, public transport, food, or people.

However, how he rubbed his hands and pulled on his fingers spoke an ulterior motive that only he and his savior complex would have. 

“Is this about what I said before? About people asking me for a favor whenever they look for me?”

Jisung blinked at you. You were correct. That thought had been bugging him day and night. He genuinely thought that people should never have to think with such a cynical mindset that was antagonistic towards oneself. His friends should never feel that way, and you especially should not. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied nonchalantly, a pout evident on his face.

You let out a faint laugh as you shook your head, beckoning him to follow you before leading him to your room. Jisung was hesitant as he took the first step inside, but soon, he was drowned in the cozy fragrance of your room and basked in the sight of what was the embodiment of you.

Folded laundry, comic books, posters on your walls, and bed sheet patterns. Everything meant something when it belonged to you; someday, he thought he would be part of the atmosphere. However that would unfold.  

“I knew there would be a pile of clothes in your room. I knew it!” Jisung pointed at the laundry basket in the corner next to your closet. 

“Everyone owns a laundry pile, Jisung.” 

"I knew there would be a lot of books in your room, ha!" He turned and pointed at the bookshelf of textbooks and fiction books stacked on two columns of your shelf. 

“Students tend to have books in their room, Jisung.”

“I knew you like music! Look at all the albums!” He spun and gestured at the albums of your favorite band displayed in a small rectangular space.

“A lot of people like music, Jisung.”

“Okay, what is your problem? I’m trying to get riled up here.” Jisung frowned, and you laughed at his defeated state. 

He slumped down on the floor, leaning his back against the edge of your bed. At the same time, you sat on your rolling chair after turning on the air conditioner so you could put on a sweater. 

“I’m going to ask you again,” you said. “What are you doing here?”

Jisung pulled a face at your mocking tone. ”To steal a glance at your soul-mark, duh."

You pursed your lips together and threw your eraser at him. He giggled as he held up his arm to block his face, your reaction once again kick-starting his interest. 

Why are you so defensive?

"I don't want to talk about it," you said, as if reading his mind.

“Why? Did something happen?"

You hopelessly glared at Jisung, unsure if he was simply dumb at catching onto hints or if his curiosity was really getting the best of his noisiness. You looked away, annoyed but also overwhelmed. Jisung offered you a chance to talk about your feelings; it would be weird if you didn't take it, considering how many emotions you bottle up, even if the topic was you and him.

You just have to be careful.

You sighed, giving in to his semi-pleading eyes. “He wouldn't love me. We're too different."

Jisung raised an eyebrow. "You are so sure he's a he–"he suddenly shot forward–"Oh my god, you already found him."

You had one job.

He sat up on his knees, looking at you with wide and excited eyes before he let out a disappointed groan, snapping his fingers aggressively. “Who is he? Do I know him? Is he from our school? I will go talk to him!"

“It’s nothing exciting,” you replied timidly. “You’re getting worked up over nothing.”

"What are you talking about? He’s your soulmate!” He slumped down onto his legs again and stared at you in disbelief. He ran a hand through his hair, pouting as he took secret glances at you, hoping for an agreement. When you didn’t give him any, he groaned and smacked his legs. “He’s supposed to love you forever!”

When you threw him a face, he rolled his eyes and shook his hand at you to indicate that he understood your pessimistic sentiment. “Okay, fine. Maybe not forever, but still! He’s supposed to love you.”

"First of all, you said it yourself, he's my soulmate. I don't know why you're being more excited about this than I am," you pointed out. "Second, you have a very fantasized perception of soulmates."

Piping down, Jisung looked at you with squinted eyes, challenging and determined.  His voice was low as he spoke briefly. "How? Elaborate."

You shrugged. You thought it was evident from the get-go. "It's just a link. It's not a predetermined bond. You don't have to love your soulmate if you don't want to. The universe can't force you to do what you don't want to.

“But soulmates!” he exclaimed in a whine. 

He inched forward slowly, moving over to you by the rolling chair and placing his hand on your knee to stop you from spinning. 

"Soulmates have a unique link together. They are supposed to guarantee that someone out there is willing to accept you no matter what, so you don't have to worry about your current problems," he said. "They're a promise that lasts forever!"

You pressed your hand on his, landing on soft initially before suddenly shoving him off your knee. “No one is supposed to do anything. No one is supposed to love anyone.”

“Parents are supposed to love their children,” he retorted, crossing his arms.

You exhaled as you stared ahead. Once upon a time, you thought that too. You still believed in it, somewhat. Your father’s sudden departure left you in disarray; you weren’t sure if you passionately advocated for the idea or had abandoned that hope. 

“They are supposed to,” you muttered. “Alas, some of them don’t.” 

Jisung sat on his heels quietly when you turned around to be by your desk. You leaned your head on your arms and closed your eyes, relishing the peace and quiet you hadn't gotten since he arrived at your home. It felt awkward, almost like you knew he figured something was wrong, and he did. 

You were always so frustrated and hurried. You think and speak fast, yet you rarely say the wrong thing. It was very unlike himself, who had to ensure the words went through his brain if he didn't want to mess up. He figured that was why it was evident whenever you're upset, because the frustration turns into sadness, and you stop arguing.

Rubbing his hands on his pants, he looked around your room again and carefully moved closer to sit by your desk. He looked up, his lips pursing with uncertainty as he poked the side of your leg. 

“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”

You sighed and turned your head to look down at him. He was small, all curled up to occupy as little space as possible, so you would let him stay around because he knew you hated noise, long rambles, animated gestures, and everything that encompasses himself as a person.

It was guilt-inducing. Looking at him, your soulmate, was painful, from knowing what could have been to how you have treated him so far. But he remained kind and welcoming. For the most part, he did. And he was loud. You knew he tried not to be. You didn't care for it.

You would have forgotten what you were arguing about if he hadn't left such a lasting impression on you for you to care so much. 

How could you ever doubt him in regard to his willingness to embrace his soulmate despite any kind of circumstances? How could you ever even think about Jisung purposefully pushing you away if he ever knew about the truth between you and him? That was unlike him. You knew it wasn't.

“You believe in all of that,” you whispered. “About your soulmate.”

He blinked, the gears behind his round eyes turning. He left his hand near you in the tiny space on your seat.

“Yeah. I can’t imagine not loving my soulmate,” Jisung confessed, staring into your soul. “I really want to meet them.”

You pursed your lips together, desperately wanting to tell him the truth, but your paranoia told you to lie. You were too deep into it. Telling him now would only cause him anger, and you were scared of the consequences despite him admitting that he would, no matter what, be in love with his soulmate.

“You’re so nice, Jisung,” you complimented, your eyes softening with a smile. “I wish everyone was like you.”

His lashes fluttered, but only he felt it. Looking away to compose himself, nervously pulling his fingers and settling his wiggly toes, he bit back a bashful grin by blowing air into his cheeks. You watched his ear gradually turn red, its cause a mystery to you, and you reached a hand down to rub it between your fingers. 

He jumped, his head snapping to look at you as his hand flew up to block the sensation. You retreated immediately, equally as startled by his reaction. His eyes darted between your face and your hand, almost as if he could piece together what happened. 

You frantically tried to find something else to cover up the fact that you subconsciously attempted to soothe the redness on his ear, releasing yourself from your sullen position.

“I–uhm, hey! Do you want to know about my college application process?" you asked.

Jisung furrowed his brows, his jaw agape to say words that refused to come out.

He was sure you touched him—his ears were a weird body part to touch, but he was willing to take whatever you gave him. But he wanted to know what it meant or if you had something to tell him but was deterred by his reaction. Could it have meant something? He should consult the internet about that!

The subject change was ridiculous, too! Have college applications started already? He knew his teachers were reminding the class about it daily. However, the urgency among the student body hadn't started yet, so he assumed there was still time. 

"I–I mean–"Seeing your nervous expression, he decided to let the matter go. He sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "Should we start applying already?"

"I applied a little earlier for a specific college I wanted to attend just to boost my chances. Otherwise, I am applying at the same time as everyone else. You should start preparing for it, though," you said, glancing at him. "I got into the interview round. If I do well during the interview, I'll be accepted."

Jisung widened his eyes. He fist-bumped your arm. “Look at you, being one step ahead of the rest of us.”

"I'm not the only student in our grade who did an early application," you said. 

“But did they all get invited to an interview?”

"I don't know. I'm not really friends with any of them," you muttered as you put together a few pieces of paper. "I started practicing with my mom, and she wrote down some sample questions for me. Here, take a look."

Jisung moved away from leaning on your desk to sitting across from you. You turned your chair and handed him the stack of paper with multiple correction marks. You pursed your lips nervously as you waited for him to finish reading, watching as his mouth moved across each word and his head nodded in understanding.

He has never looked so serious before. You were too used to seeing the animated side of him, and you realized you'd never watched him pay attention to something boring before. He actually looked very decent when he was concentrated. It wasn't a surprise.

"Most of them are good answers." He pointed at the question and flipped the paper around for you to see. "Except for this one." 

You knew all the mock questions and answers like the back of your hand, so you barely had to read what he pointed at. "What's wrong with that?"

"It's asking about what you want to do in the future. I'm guessing if a school is asking that question, they are trying to gauge the student's career path and how it can align with the school's personal interest," Jisung said, looking at you through his fallen bangs. "You can't tell the interviewer you don't have a dream."

“I don’t,” you said. “I don’t have anything. I don’t have anything I want to do.”

“No one is ever honest in an interview," Jisung pointed the tip of the pen at you. “You can lie.”

You shrugged. “I suppose? I’ll just take any job that is offered to me.” 

With the current market, a college graduate would be lucky to be offered a job, so there wasn't the option to choose unless you were extraordinary. But a lot of people are not. Even if many people are extraordinary, it will be oversaturated, and a new standard will emerge. Nobody will ever be good. 

Everyone will only be good for a little bit until they're not enough anymore.

“What? No!” Jisung waved his hand dismissively. “Come on, [Name], you must have a dream job!”

"I really don't. I just want to earn money.” Your lips arched downward. When Jisung frowned at you, you could only roll your eyes. You asked, almost accusingly, ”Don’t look at me like that. Do you have a dream job?” 

Jisung nodded without hesitation. "I want to be a producer.”

“Like a filmmaker?” you asked, tilting your head. “You don’t strike me as a movie watcher.”

“That’s a director,” he pointed at you, “and you are wrong. I love movies. I watch dating shows all the time.”

"Directors are by default also producers because they produce films," you returned the point, "and you are wrong. Dating shows are not movies. They are variety shows."

“You know what I mean!”

“Do I, though?”

Jisung rolled his tongue over his front teeth, a chuckle sneaking onto his shoulders. “Do you have to argue with me about everything?” 

"You think I like to start fights? Is that how it is?" you gritted out playfully, tilting your head to stare at him dead in the eyes. When he breathed out the chuckle, you relaxed and shook your head. "If you're not planning to write stories, are you planning to produce music?"

“You are correct!” he exclaimed with a congratulatory clap. “I sing my own songs during every school talent show.”

“Those are nap sessions to me,” you said. 

The school forces everyone to attend the talent shows, but since the assembly hall would remain dark for most of it, you always used the time to doze off in your seat.

It was a miracle that you've never fallen off the chair, and it's a shame that you've missed every performance Jisung has performed over the past three years. He has never won them, but he must be excellent. 

He pressed his hands to his heart and made a cartoonish gunshot noise. He leaned back, whining in pain. “Oh, you sure are hurtful, [Name]!”

"Don't be dramatic. It's not like I singled you out. I slept through everyone's performance," you said as you leaned forward to kick him. "Are you going to also work part-time as an idol, or do you want to only work behind the scenes?"

"Either one is fine. I don't necessarily have to be in a company. I can get big on doing covers, too," Jisung said.

You nodded in acknowledgment. You couldn’t provide any insight because you knew nothing about the industry besides the songs and a few outrageously famous individuals it produces. 

"Don't forget me when you get famous," you said. "But if you need anything, like an insightful critique on your latest album, do find me. If a hater like me likes it, everyone else will like it too."

“But I will also be hanging out with you,” he said, giving you finger guns. "I'm not going to find you just because I need you to do something for me."

"Uh, have you met me before?"

"Yes, and I hereby announce that I, Han Jisung, adore your presence," he said, dipping his head into a slight bow.

You defeatedly scoffed at him as you pressed your hand to his head, pushing him away from you. “You're so dumb."

"You love me for it!” He grinned.

You sighed inwardly. You do, you really do.

You two shared a moment of silence. You hadn't even realized you two were comfortable enough with each other that a long silence wouldn't result in you wanting to bury your head in your arms and never see the light of day again.

"You're really not going to show me your soul mark?” he said suddenly. “Could you at least tell me who he is? I’ll kick his ass for you."

"Hey, here's an idea. Your debut album should be called 'Jisung really can't mind his goddamn business,'" you said. 

Jisung frowned, turning away from you childishly, and you hoped he always forgets to mind his goddamn business. 

The admission interview landed on a school day and took place at the college of choice. They picked a time after lunch hours so students could ask their teachers for the day’s school work before leaving early. Some students choose not to attend school the day to prepare, but you weren’t one of them.

Your palms were sweaty as you stood before the cafeteria door, debating whether or not you should walk in and look for Jisung. You told him you wouldn’t be having lunch today since you wanted to practice and prepare for the interview on your own, and you urged him to spend lunchtime with his friends instead. 

In retrospect, you should have taken Jisung up on his offer to help you rehearse your answers. It would be better practice to have someone play the role of the interviewer than having you spend most of the time trying not to feel awkward talking to yourself. Besides, his presence would have provided emotional support or a decent distraction. 

You started to panic the more you looked at your notes. The more you panic, the more you stuttered and messed up your practice. By then, thousands of worst-case scenarios had already been through your head, bringing your self-esteem to a negative. 

The only person you thought would be able to calm you down was Han Jisung. Not just because he was your soulmate but also because he was the only friend you’ve got.

Unconsciously, your legs had already brought you to Jisung's table in the cafeteria. When you made your way there, your eyes focused only on his silhouette. His friends ceased to chat with each other when you stood by the table with an unreadable look on your face. It took a brief glance for Jisung to see the worried gleams behind your eyes, and his brows furrowed.

As he opened his mouth, another voice spoke, beating him to talking first. 

Jiae waved excitedly at you, a smile on her face. “[Name]! You are here at the right time. We were just talking about something interesting!"

You removed your eyes from Jisung and turned to look at the unfamiliar girl. You tilted your head to the side, unsure how to respond to her, trying to pull you into the middle of a supposed interesting conversation. “What–what were you talking–”

“Can you get some pudding for my friends and me? We forgot to get them when we were in line to get our food,” she cut you off, reaching a hand out to you on the table. “Gossip sounds better with good food, you know?”

You blinked and turned to look at the line of students waiting with their trays in hand, moving like ants one by one to speak to the lunch lady. She has a terrible tone and was never pleasant, but at least she was willing to talk to you about things other than lunch preferences. Either way, you didn’t come here for this. 

“You can get it yourself,” you said.

“But we are in the middle of an interesting conversation!” She pouted. “I didn’t want to pause it. That’s why I’m asking you for a favor.”

Jisung brushed his hand on his pants and turned to Jiae. He didn’t know they were missing the dessert or that it was essential to the conversation. But since you were already here to speak to him anyway, he thought he could do that and deal with the pudding problem on his way back. “Actually, I got it–“

“You’re in high school. How interesting can your conversations really get? What else do you talk about besides celebrities who accomplished something in their life and some other dumb things?” you retorted with a faux dismissive frown. “The shop is literally right there. It won’t take you five minutes.”

Jisung snapped his head around to grimace at you. His eyes widened in panic because he never thought you would take a jab at his friends. You caught his glance and shrunk. 

“My god, if you’re gonna be annoying about it!” One of the girls got up from her chair with a scoff. She faintly checked your shoulder as she walked past you. “I’ll get the damn pudding since it’s so fucking hard to.” 

“Thank you,” Jiae sounded after her friend before returning to the table.

It was awkward and quiet after the unnecessary scene. Everyone at the table pretended to peer at you discreetly and mutter under their breath.

They made sure it appeared as your fault and wanted you to see that they were being the bigger person and not directly accusing you of it. Except they were. They were stealing glances at you and talking amongst themselves. 

“That wasn’t nice, [Name],” Jiae said. “I didn’t know why you said those.”

You flicked your nails with increasing velocity. There was an urge to apologize. You told yourself to hold it back. When you spoke, it wasn’t defensive or demanding. You sounded confused. “I didn’t say anything wrong.” 

Waiting in line to buy the pudding for a bunch of people or being ostracized in real-time by them shouldn’t even begin to top your list of worries now. You’ve got more important things to deal with! You’ve got college, your future!

“You provoked me first!” you pointed out desperately. “I came here with a valid reason, not to get bossed around by you people.”

“'You people' is some way to describe your fellow classmates.”

“Asking for a small favor is apparently provocative now.”

“What? I didn’t mean it like that.” Your pleading eyes turned to Jisung. 

He was the only one who would most likely get you out of this situation compared to anyone else sitting around the table. He tensed up as if all his friends’ eyes were on him and they were all judging his next move. 

You’ve put him in a terrible position. Between his friends and you, who were also his friends, he understood that Jiae should not have continued to push you to do something you refused. Her friend also should not have made a scene out of something trivial. But you also said something you shouldn’t have.

You knew you were wrong because you two talked about a variety of things when you two were together. Why couldn’t you apply that to him and his friends?

Jisung licked his lower lip, watching your fingers fumble with each other and your teary eyes gleaming with hurt. He curled his fists tightly as he turned to Jiae, who stared at him expectantly, and he looked down at the table.

“I…” he bit his tongue. “I don’t know.” 

You gave him a few seconds to say anything else before you breathed out a hopeless scoff, realizing he had chosen all his friends over you. You supposed that was normal. He has known them for years, and they probably never forced him to work for their friendship.

It was easier being their friends than it was being yours. You were sure of that. It just hurt to have it backfire. 

He felt a harsh tug at his chest, a sharp pain that beat along with his slow heart when he saw the disappointment on your face. Not the playful kind of disappointment he has always seen from you. This was genuine, paired with a few tears quickly wiped away. 

You let your guard down to ask for him, and he ignored you. This was a true heartbreak. A faint moment of hatred that you held for him flashed before your eyes before you turned around and walked away.

“Wait, [Name]!” He shot up from his seat, leaving his group of friends to follow you out of the cafeteria. 

You sped through the hall with him high on your tail, apologies flying out of his mouth until there was barely any meaning attached to them anymore. Once you arrived at your locker, you stopped and turned to him, a veil dark over your eyes.

“What do you want?” you asked.

He exhaled with difficulty. Your eyes freaked him out. It was the same from when he first tried to befriend you, back when you hated his guts and wanted nothing to do with him. This couldn’t be it. It couldn’t revert to the beginning. He cared about you too much for you to not want to know him anymore. 

“I’m so sorry.”

“Okay,” you said and opened your locker. “Leave me alone. I have to go soon.”

“Oh, come on,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry. I really am. I froze and just… I don’t know what happened either.”

“That’s convenient.” You randomly messed with the things in your locker. “The next time I do something horrible, I’ll tell them I don’t know what came over me.” 

Jisung groaned, but he was left speechless. He wasn’t sure what else to say or do if an apology wasn’t good enough for you, and rewinding time wasn’t possible.

“You came looking for me,” he said. “You don’t have to forgive me, but at least let me help you with whatever it was.”

“Yeah, right,” you stuttered out a fake chuckle. “I’m gonna let you help me after the phenomenal help you just provided.”

This might be the rare occasion where he let time deal with the mistake instead of going out of his way and making an embarrassment of himself by sticking his head into the mud by your feet.

You would be furious if he did that. It would be more embarrassing for you to receive that kind of apologetic attention than for him to be treated less than human. He wouldn’t complain. He did it first. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his hands uncomfortable by his side. “Please try to forgive me.”

His lovely eyes drew you into him, an uncontrollable habit of the mind. You tried to let yourself give in. You wanted to tell yourself it wasn’t a big deal, that only a tiny table of students were there to experience the invisible bullying, that it could have been much worse! 

But it hurt looking at him. It reminded you that you weren’t the only person in his life and that he had other friends he’d been around for much longer than he’d known you.

It gave you a reality check that just because you two were soulmates, it didn’t mean you had an advantage. It told you that even though Jisung swore to love his soulmate, he didn’t love you when he didn’t know you were the one.

If you two hadn’t been soulmates, perhaps he would have never cared at all. Did that not defeat the defining feature of love? The choice was there. He didn’t choose you.

“I have something to do,” you muttered. “I’m gonna go.”

You raised the arm opposite to the locker door, and he subconsciously leaned his head toward it. But you only reached over to close your locker, slowly revealing that your other hand was occupied with books. 

“Oh hey. I didn’t think you’d be up here today,” Felix greeted when he saw you emerge from the rooftop door. 

He sat up from trying to nap on the floor, his eyes squinted to avoid the sun. You approached him sluggishly and sat down, dropping your books by your hip. He raised a brow curiously as you leaned back onto your arms and sighed like you’d walked a mile. 

“Did the interview happen early?” he asked. “You look horrible.”

“Thanks. I’m confident I will do well,” you replied. “I’m feeling the jitters.” 

He raised a brow for a moment before he mirrored your action and put his face under the sun, feeling its warmth. “Those statements contradict each other.”

“I’m sure this is the speaking condition I want to have going into an interview,” you said. 

He laughed, and you relaxed your shoulders. You sometimes forgot Jisung wasn’t the only person who could alleviate your stress. He was merely the first person you thought to go to. Over these past few weeks, you have become good friends with Felix, and he shares your burdens and even knows of the past you never told Jisung. 

Things would have been different if you had come to the roof first. His sunny disposition could also be what you needed.

“Do you think I’ll do well?” 

Felix opened an eye to peer at you. He hummed thoughtfully for show before he replied, “I don’t know. These things are unpredictable, but I really hope you will.”

“See, Jisung would have told me I would do so well, but they would be stupid not to accept me.”

“But I’m not him. That’s why you came up here to find me,” Felix said. “My response was different than his, wasn’t it?” 

You opened your eyes and hunched forward, leaving the sun in your shadow. From how he sounded, he wasn’t upset that you’ve considered him a second option. You felt guilty, nonetheless, because you cared about him a lot. You never wanted him to feel less as a friend in any capacity.

“I swear nothing gets past those detective skills,” you said, looking at him as he enjoyed the sun. You stayed silent momentarily before suddenly speaking, “I’m glad you’re here to help me, Felix.”

He grinned, finally opening his eyes and raising his brows at you. “It’s no problem.”

“I see you’ve cut your hair,” you said, gesturing to your head. “I thought your blonde hair was natural when you first told me you moved here from Australia.”

“It is,” he said. “They wouldn’t believe me and forced me to dye it black.”

“I don’t believe in you,” you hummed. “You look horrible, too.” 

You patted your school uniform as you left the entrance of the universe after politely bidding the receptionist goodbye. 

There was no way for you to tell whether you’ve done a great job. The professors’ expressions were reserved as you were speaking to them. Only a smile could be seen when the grueling process was finally over. Now it’s just the gut-wrenching process of waiting for the letter.

You strolled across the campus. When you first arrived, you were in awe of how big it was, and now you just disliked the distance it would take to get out of here. 

Gently sighing, you ran the interview over in your head a few times more, finding the conversation different each time as you falsified your memories to shine a negative light on yourself, all so you could force down the hope of acceptance in yourself.

You believed in your opinion of how you did, which was downright horrible. It wasn’t a good feeling to distrust your ability, but you figured it would be worse when the rejection letter came in, and you thought you had a chance, so you didn’t stop yourself.

After texting your mother and Felix about how things went, you left the chat box and were disappointed that Jisung hadn’t sent you anything since lunch. He shouldn’t have to, but you thought he would. 

After several hours of not thinking about him and what happened, you were much less angry than you were. Besides, you wanted to talk to him about the interview. You convinced yourself to feel bad about how you did and wanted him here for support. 

Pausing your feet, you clicked his name and stared at the chat box. You typed something, deleted it, retyped something else, and deleted it again. What should you say? That you forgave him? That you were sorry for making something out of nothing? That you were done wrestling with your conscience and you were actually his soulmate?

Tears dropped onto the screen, and you wiped them away. You turned the phone off and wiped your eyes with your arm, walking amongst sounds of sniffing and whimpers as you prayed that no college students walk by. 

Brushing your uneasy hands together, you blinked away the tears and stopped momentarily again when you saw a familiar figure standing at the entrance arch of the campus. He caught sight of you, too, and reluctantly raised his arm to wave at you. 

You hiccuped in question but began to walk toward him. Jisung’s face slowly came into view the closer you approached. Eventually, you were close enough for him to see that you had been crying.

He pursed his lips, his hands curling and uncurling. “It went that bad?”

His soft voice hit your heart and squeezed your tear ducts. You cried, giving frantic nods in between. “I thought I was gonna die.”

“It went that bad,” he muttered. “I’m so sorry.”

“You keep saying that, but–“you hiccupped–“I don’t–I don’t believe you.”

His heart dropped. You weren’t talking about school or the interview anymore. You were talking about him. 

He didn’t know what to do. You have a comeback for everything he said and one for everything he planned to say. It didn’t occur to him that maybe not saying anything was the best thing to do, but there were many wordless ways to reconcile besides—he exhaled nervously. 

There was one way. He doubted you’d like it.

He gently pulled at your wrist and brought you toward him. He hugged you loosely. His skin was warm, and so was yours, but you felt hotter than anything because of the sobbing. The shape of his body was not extraordinary; he was like every teenage boy, and most of them were not athletic. His hands were careful, as they should be, in an attempt to comfort.

There wasn’t anything to him, but this was your first hug with someone your age, someone you liked. 

It was impressive, to say the least, how easy it was for you to drop yourself at his hands entirely. 

“I’m…” he closed his mouth and hugged you tighter. “I was a coward.”

You pressed your mouth to his shoulder and hugged him back, tears sticking his shirt to his skin. Your cries were muffled, but even without that, they were quieter and contained within the peripheral of his hearing. 

“You hurt me.” Your nails dug into his back. Your soul mark pressed across his spine. “You hurt me.”

“Yes.” He bit the inside of his lower lip to avoid apologizing and to stop the sound of tears cleanly falling down his cheeks. “I will never do that again.”

You could hear him cry. He couldn’t hide his sadness if his life depended on it. You wished you stood your ground longer, but torturing him was never your intention, and it was for the first time you believed he meant everything he said. He’s sorry, and he’ll never do it again.

“Do you want to have dinner somewhere?” you asked after you pulled away. “I’m starving.”

“Actually,” his voice was strained as he threw himself off his train of thought, “all of us are heading over to Jiae’s home for dinner and a sleepover. “

You furrowed your brows. “That's sudden.”

“It’s actually not.” He scratched the back of his head. “Seungmin shit-talked us into apologizing to you, and we thought this would be a good opportunity.” 

“He should have spoken up when it was happening,” you said.

"I know. He must have his reasons not to.” Jisung said. "But can you come along anyway? I'd love it if you will. You can get to know my friends. They’re not all bad, I promise.”

You sighed. If he opened his mouth to ask, how would you refuse? He could be right. It may require some getting used to before they let you blend into their friend group. You also had a bad first impression of Jisung, and you gave him a chance. You could do that for his friends.

"Can we get something to drink first?”

"Of course," he said. “It’s my treat. Tell me everything about the interview.”

“Ugh, don’t even remind me,” you groaned, taking impatient steps forward.

He laughed at your eagerness, his hand slowly gliding down until it met yours. Your fingers were loosely interlaced. It was timid and tender, like hugging a ticking bomb. You went on about the interview, what they asked, how the professors were, and how you replied to their questions. 

Slowly and carefully, your fingers were wholly locked together. Neither of you minded.

Spin the Bottle is a better game than Truth or Dare.

Truth or dare engages people in dense, involuntary acts and unconvincing lies that people have to spring up on the spur of the moment. Spin the bottle serves a chance that it might never land on you. Even if it did, so what? A kiss on the cheek will always suffice.

You kept repeating it in your head as you sat in a circle of unfamiliar people. Jiae insisted that you sit beside her despite her friends sending you uncomfortable glances. 

Jisung, who sat across from you, shared a pointed look with you before the game started that asked if you wanted him to step in and pull you out of your position.

You had shook your head. The tension was awkward enough when you showed up, and his desperate vouch for you made it worse when his friends verbally questioned your presence. You didn’t want to make it worse by refusing to sit where you were wanted. 

In retrospect, you should have thought this through. All you did all night was rub your arms and feel out of place. Jisung could try to include you, but he also has to engage with his friends and could never be at two places at once.

You had gobbled your dinner so you could hide in the kitchen, where you had a decent conversation with Seungmin, who admitted that he should have spoken up at the cafeteria this afternoon but also did not feel bad that he didn’t. You appreciated he stood by his decision. You thought you two could become friends because of it. 

Annoyed groans ensued after a round of Jisung frantically smooching Hyunjin’s cheek. People who enjoyed the game were always the most boring to observe, but even you couldn't help but breathe out a giggle or two at their over-exaggerated action. 

After the two lovebirds were finished, Hyunjin reached out to turn the water bottle. It landed on Seungmin, who rolled his eyes when his friends whistled and hollered. 

He got down from the couch and reached over to turn the water bottle. You focused on it intently, watching as it slowed to a halt and realizing that the tip of the bottle was pointed directly at you.

You opened your mouth and attempted to scoot off to the side. "Oh, I think it is pointing at you, Jiae."

“What? No, it’s not.” Hyunjin leaned down to the level of the bottle. He opened one eye for accuracy as it shifted between the bottle and you. “Uh-huh. I’m sure it’s on you, [Name].”

You blew air out of your mouth, your eyes widening awkwardly. Talk about speed-running a friendship. You just introduced yourselves to each other in the kitchen, and you openly accused him of keeping silent when you were being picked on while he explained it by telling you he didn’t really care when it was happening. 

Looking over at Jisung, you saw that he was suppressing a giggle, gesturing to his friend and whispering inside jokes you would never understand. You shuddered when you caught his eyes while he shrugged, hardening his gaze at you mischievously.

Upon the silence, Jiae gigged as she waved at Seungmin. 

“I know you’re not being shy,” she said. “Of do you just not want to kiss them?”

“You’re right,” Seungmin replied monotonously. “I don’t want to kiss them.”

Your jaw dropped with a disdainful scoff. His expression was valid, but you didn’t like that he said it first. 

“I don’t want to kiss you either. I barely know you,” you retorted. “You’re not all that, Kim Seungmin.”

“Where did that even come from?” he questioned with a raised brow. “This can’t be about what I said in the kitchen, can it?”

“What did you say in the kitchen?”

“What if it is?” You both ignored Hyunjin’s question. You leaned forward with a glare, but your lips quirked gradually into a patronizing smirk. “Why does it matter to you? I thought you didn’t care.”

“I didn’t.”

“The conversation would have ended way earlier if that’s true.”

Hyunjin nudged Jisung’s side with his elbow as his eyes darted between you and Seungmin, who were sparking up a lightning line across your glares. Jisung turned to him, equally as confused but intrigued by the conversation differently.

Hyunjin was here for gossip. Jisung wanted to know when you even had a conversation with Seungmin and what you guys talked about that was enough to allow you two to argue like this—

“Dude,” Hyunjin giggled under his breath, “this is the beginning of every rival to lovers story.”

—like you two had chemistry together. 

Seungmin pursed his lips in silence as he accessed your furrowed brows. Next to you was Jiae, whose fingers uncontrollably tapped against her crossed legs impatiently. 

If there was anything he knew, he was in better standing with you than with her because of all the accusations he threw at the friend group this afternoon after Jisung left the table. 

She was making an attempt to single you out and humiliate you. You were trying to put him down out of a personal grudge. He disliked you less than he couldn’t care about her.

Most importantly, he wanted to spite you both.

“I’ll kiss you,” he said. “Actually, I’ll kiss you on the mouth because I don’t care.”

You widened your eyes and stuck your tongue to your inner cheek, a chuckle of disbelief vanishing when you watched him get up from the couch to walk toward you. He never struck you as someone who would care about his first kiss, or a kiss. You couldn’t imagine someone like him having a first kiss already.

You wanted to move out of the way or to verbally protest, but the competitive spirit in your heart told you to go through with it so you wouldn’t be some big loser. 

You glared at him when he crouched in front of you, leaning away from his hand when he tried to hold your face. “Are you serious?”

Seungmin smirked triumphantly, his nose scrunching. “Scared?”

“Who’s scared?” 

“You are.”

“I’m–“ you pursed your lips and exhaled. “I’m not. I just–“

Before you finished your sentence, he leaned in to plant a peck on your cheek, causing you to gasp. Your hand automatically flew up to grip his wrist, a flushing heat spread over your face when he leaned away and met eyes with you. The hair on your neck rose at the unexpected occasion, and if you weren’t so appalled, you would have noticed the tint of red on his ears.

Jisung's initial playfulness was partially gone when you and Seungmin were bantering. It has completely vanished now that the deed was done. At his angle, he wasn’t sure if his friend really kissed you on the mouth, and your reactions gave him no benefit of the doubt.

He rolled the inside of his bottom lip over his front teeth; grind, pull, grind, pull. There was a knot in his stomach he couldn’t loosen and frustration in his fists he couldn’t uncurl. When the stare you and Seungmin shared prolonged for over a few seconds, he forced himself to look down at his lap.

He hadn’t realized it, but all that crossed his mind was that he was being close. Seungmin was being too close to you. It was out of his comfort zone. He wanted to get between you and laugh him away. 

“Jisung! Spin the bottle!"

He snapped out of his thoughts. Seungmin returned to his seat on the couch, and you looked at him curiously. Everyone was looking at him, but you were the only face he cared to decipher. 

Hesitantly, he reached out and turned the bottle. His heart beats with every turn, flickering with prayers that it lands on you. Not just because he wanted to kiss you but also because he couldn’t fathom kissing anyone else. 

Miraculously, the tip of the bottle landed on you again. There was a gentle uproar in the circle as Jisung’s visibly perked up. In his head, he had already crawled over to you and pressed his lips against yours. In his dreams, you accepted it. 

In his dreams, you were together, love clear, and hearts inter-winded. He always woke up blushing, recalling every moment as he stared at the ceiling until his mother came knocking. 

It also plagued him sometimes. He wasn’t sure how he could explain to his future soulmate that he had already fallen in love with someone else.

Your alarmed gaze met his when he searched for you. There was a burn where your soul mark was, and you palmed over it uneasily. When Seungmin spun the bottle, you didn’t particularly cared if he kissed you outside of the conditioned value that a kiss was meant between lovers. But with Jisung—he’s too important. 

This would be the closest you have ever been with each other. His lips on your skin. It could not happen because of some stupid game. It could not be dictated by a sleepover activity you didn’t want to participate in.

“[Name]! Can you change out the water bottle? It’s been squeezed so much it doesn’t even turn that well anymore,” Jiae requested quickly when she noticed Jisung getting up. She moved to the center, grabbed the plastic bottle, and handed it to you. “Here. You’re such a love!”

“Huh? It’s a plastic bottle. You can just blow it back up–" Hyunjin clamped his mouth shut when the girl threw him a threatening smile.

You received the bottle reluctantly but nodded anyway. This was a good reason to escape the game. Without arguing, you stood up and walked out of the living room. Jisung watched your departure with disappointment, his feet pausing into a dejected position. Hyunjin yelped when he dropped his weight on the floor and sulked. 

“Why would you do that?”

Jiae, who had sat down with a satisfied expression, tilted her head. “I’m sorry?”

“Why did you do that?” Jisung looked up, frustrated but not rude enough to show his anger. He rubbed his face and dropped his head between his knees, a bored and monotonous hum fleeing his mouth. “I almost had it. You ruined my chance. Seungmin did it and you ruined mine.”

“Jisung?" Hyunjin called gently with a poke to his friend’s arm. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not!” Jisung exclaimed. He let go of his face and sighed. “You’re being rude. You have been rude to [Name] this whole time. Getting puddings, switching out a water bottle. They’re my friend, too!”

Jiae looked startled, as did everyone else. Jisung had never been one to scold. He was always the mediator while the others stepped up to make everything worse. This headstrong side of him has only been brought out by you, back at the library when he accused you and this moment. 

Ever since what happened at the cafeteria, there was no chance that Jisung would let that kind of disappointment flash before your eyes again.

“That’s one way to make sure she’ll go to prom with you, Jisung,” someone said.

“I haven’t even asked,” Jisung said. “I don’t think I plan to anymore.”

There was a moment of painful silence. Hyunjin and Seungmin shared a knowing glance with each other, acknowledging that your presence alone might have just ruined the overall atmosphere of their friend group, but their eyes were accepting when they turned to look at Jisung.

If Jisung cared about you this much to break out of his comfort zone, they would do the same.

“Um, I’m not sure if it’s okay, but I got a different type of water bottle.” You entered the living room again to be welcomed by a dreadful quietness. Glancing at Jisung questioningly, you decided to stand by the door and wait it out.

Jiae rolled her eyes and scoffed. Scrambling onto her feet, she brushed past you to leave the living room. “Whatever, I'm heading to bed. You guys can have the guest room."

You made space as her friends scooted past you, leaving you bewildered. Last time you checked, it only took you a minute to get a new water bottle, not half an hour. Hyunjin and Seungmin got up, too, the taller boy dragging his friend along and bidding you a cheerful farewell before disappearing into the hallway. 

"Nothing happened," Jisung replied without your need to ask.

“Okay.” You eyed him suspiciously as he approached you. “I'm gonna head back home then."

"What? No, stay,” he said, gesturing upstairs. “We're all sleeping in the guest room.”

“Your friends–“

“Would love to get to know you too.”

You pursed your lips and shook your head. There must be a limited number of beds in the guest room, if there wasn’t just one. You would not be comfortable sleeping with strangers and weren’t sure if you were ready to be so close to Jisung. Your odd presence would mess up the sleeping arrangement, so you’d rather leave peacefully. 

“I’ll sleep in the living room. You go hang out with your friends,” you said. “This is a sleepover. Go and have fun. Besides, it’s the best chance for you to ask Jiae to prom right now.”

Jisung opened his mouth to protest, but you interrupted him by pushing him back and getting him out of the living room.”  Don’t make this more complicated than it has to be. I’ll stay here, I promise. You will see me in the morning.”

He pouted, looking at you as he took a few steps back. He stopped by the staircase, his hand holding onto the railing in hopes that you would change your mind at the last minute, but you only shooed him away with your arms. 

"I'll be fine. I have the couch all to myself," you said. "Go have a nice girl talk."

You shut the door between the hallway and the living room and turned around to face the empty area. With a tired sigh, you moved over to your bag and got out your essentials, preparing to start your nighttime routine alone.

Jisung had woken up in the middle of the night. His groggy eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light outside the window before he stood up and carefully stepped over his friends who slept on the floor. He put his arms out to feel for the walls and any obstacles as he headed for the kitchen to get a well-deserved glass of water.

Opening the door to the living room, his eyes trailed from the dining table to the couch, and it hit him that you had chosen to sleep on the couch. He tilted his head to the side, his thirst for water disappearing as he approached your sleeping figure instead. The floor beneath him was cold, but the edge of the couch where you lay wasn’t. 

He knelt at the side, his arms flat against the soft surface with his chin on top.

Your peaceful face was one of the things he loved about you. You were utterly unguarded and unaware. Sometimes, he thought the only time you weren’t angry was when you were asleep, and he wished things were different. He wished nothing bad ever happened to you. 

Reaching out to gently trace the back of his finger against your cheek, his eyes admired your features every step before they landed on your arm.

The sleeve of your sweater was scooted up loosely around your wrist, threatening to reveal the soul mark you had once desperately hidden from his sight. You hid it from him for a reason, and he would have otherwise respected your wishes if curiosity didn’t get the best of him. 

Observing your stillness, his hand timidly moved to grab hold of the fabric and pulled it up your forearm. The long sentence began to reveal itself. He angled his head to look at the words better.

tell me baby you're the happiest when you're with me right

Jisung inhaled, and his breathing stilled. He told you that. That was the first thing he has ever said to you. It was the exact line. 

He’s the one. He is your soulmate.

He is yours.

Your eyes were opened when Jisung turned to look at your face. You had been awake ever since you felt the gentle touch on your cheek, but you were too late to have stopped him from reading your mark.

You trembled, expecting Jisung to show you anger or at least something akin to frustration. But he only held your gaze under the soft light. 

"I'm your soulmate,” he whispered.

You nodded, and your voice was equally quiet. “Yeah.”

"Why didn't you tell me?"

“I didn’t think you’d love me.”

Jisung sighed heartbrokenly. How could you still think after all the conversations you’ve had? 

Wordlessly, he got onto his knees and leaned over so his face could get close to yours. Your eyes were getting hazy at the proximity, and you couldn’t do anything but wait for him. He took the initiative, mostly because he felt like if he didn’t take the chance to kiss you right now, he would regret it later.

You closed your eyes as soon as you felt the soft surface of his lips touch yours. The next few seconds as Jisung pressed himself up against you were pure ecstasy, the blossomed longing in his chest withering into fallen petals before the breeze blew them toward you.

Your hands found their way to his neck, pulling him down as you sunk against the pillow. The background had dissolved into a shade of white. It was only the two of you, sharing an intimate moment on the couch with the dim moonlight shining at the end of your legs as if it was shyly glancing away from Jisung’s wandering hands and your delighted expression.

Jisung was short of breath when his hands went from your hips to your hair. He hadn’t even recognized it until he found himself laying his entire weight down on your body in exhaustion, feeling your heart beat in line with his.

He wouldn’t have known. Your lips were like oxygen, and he couldn’t tell if he was breathing when he kissed you. He gently angled his face to take your bottom lip, pressing tight for a long moment before pulling away, resisting the temptation to dive in again when he saw your eyes.

You two didn’t speak. There wasn’t a need to say any words. Your actions had conveyed pretty much everything you needed to know about him and him about you.

Refusing to leave, Jisung laid his head on your shoulder, the warmth of your body giving him complete solace. He found himself never wanting to leave this position.

He had known all along the feeling he held for you. He wouldn’t have debated his feelings for you and how they conflicted with his future soulmate if he didn’t know. It took a slight push for him to finally bring it to light. 

Jisung smiled a little at the thought of having a sacred bond between you and him, and he would be eternally amazed at how miraculous it was. 

Despite not knowing the truth, the link had brought you two together anyway. It pulled him towards you and made him feel things he had never felt. He didn’t need to know his soulmate to love them; he had been right before. He couldn’t imagine never being in love with you.

You woke up earlier than everyone else and slowly slipped out of the couch, leaving Jisung sound asleep. You moved quick, getting ready in the bathroom and sneaking back to the living room to pack your things and leave with a small note stuck to the tea table.

But Jisung was a step ahead of you, his eyes big and round as he greeted you from the couch, his lips pursing into an excited grin. 

You melted, offering him a faint smile. “Hey, Jisung. I’m going to head back home, so I’ll see you in school, okay?”

Jisung sat up with a pout. “Why? Did your mom call?”

“Uh, sure,” you replied.

“Oh,” he nodded as he exited the couch, “I’ll come with you.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said. 

“It’s Saturday. We can hang out!” he exclaimed, rubbing his head. “And, you know, I can meet your mom.” 

“What? That’s so–“ you laughed as you aggressively zipped your bag. “You’re funny!”

He squinted his eyes. He thought he was hallucinating because he was groggy, but there was something off about you. When you threw your bag over your shoulder, he reached out to hold your hand and pulled you back.

“Hold on, what’s wrong?” he asked. “You’re off.”

“Off to go home! Yes, I am!” 

“[Name].”

“Okay, fine.” You sighed. “It’s nothing. I’ve always been like this. You’re you, and I’m me.”

You wouldn’t look at him in the eyes. Judging by your impulsive actions and the lack of bashfulness, he knew this was about what happened yesterday night. 

“You’re pushing me away,” he said, his voice sounding like alarm bells. “You’re freaked out.”

“Jisung, I'm not pushing you away," you muttered. “We're still friends.”

“You kissed me back,” he pointed out in disbelief. “Your arms were around my neck. I was on top of you. We made out.”

You gulped at the thought of that. It had been going on rewind in your head the whole morning. Even now, as you looked at Jisung, you felt your gaze gravitating towards his lips.

“I’m not ready, Jisung,” you whispered. “I can’t do it now.”

“Okay.” He nodded, his voice much softer. “But it meant something. It meant something to you?”

"Yeah, I guess," you muttered. "But you–"

“You are very worried about me.”

"You don't love me, Jisung," you whispered. “You love me because we're soulmates.”

That wasn’t true, but telling you that wouldn’t suddenly change your point of view. Otherwise, Jisung wasn’t sure if there was anything he could say to convince you that he was wholeheartedly in love with you.

You licked your lip and pulled away from him. “I'll see you at school,”

The softness of your voice pierced a hole in his heart, but he told himself to be patient. The time will come when he knows what to say, which will surely make you change your mind and believe that someone could love you.

When he finally crossed through your barrier, and you finally let him all the way in, he could never let you go again.

Things have changed. You two continued to hang out after school, having dinner in a different restaurant every day and chatting away as you would. But occasionally, a moment of dreadful silence would send the back of your hair raising.

You hated it as much as you hated the prom proposal you were witnessing.

Standing at the corner of the cafeteria where the entrance doors were, your deadpan eyes watched as everyone stopped to watch the public proposal unfold. No one questioned when Jisung stepped up on the table with empty hands as if they had expected this to happen at some point.

There were no banners, flowers, speakers, or microphones. It was him and his voice alone. You were certain half of your annoyance came from seeing his bare minimum. 

Jiae playfully shoved her friends as they pushed her forward, making her stand close to the table. She looked up at Jisung expectantly, and Jisung looked unfocused and nervous. It took a harsh shove from his Seungmin and a sharp glare thrown toward you for him to snap out of his trance.

Jisung crouched suddenly, facing Seungmin, who rolled his eyes in return.

Jisung ran a hand through his hair, a grimace on his face. ”Is it necessary? They probably hate public proposals like this.”

“Listen, they are standing all the way over by the doors. Either way, you're going to have to yell for them to hear you," Seungmin pointed out, nudging his head toward the direction you were in.

“So none of us care that Jiae stepped up alone?” Hyunjin asked shakily as he pushed himself closer to Seungmin, occasionally peeking behind Jisung’s shoulder.

Seungmin raised a fist and put it down when Jisung habitually leaned away. He stepped up, leaning over to speak in Jisung's ear. 

“If you want things to return to the way they were, you have to try,” he said, then shrugged. “Either you ask them to prom, or I will.”

"Or I will!” Felix chimed in, “We’ve become pretty good friends. They will go to a friendly prom with me!”

Jisung exhaled deeply. Seungmin was right. He has to properly announce his feelings for both of your sake. You needed to hear from him that he loves you, all business and no jokes.

“Yeah.” He looked off to the side and nodded. “You guys are insufferable. I love you both.”

Seungmin flinched and shook the words off his chest while Hyunjin grinned and sent Jisung flying kisses as he stood up to be in the spotlight. 

“[Name],” Jisung started, his voice echoing throughout the room. He looked over to the side, to where you were standing. When you flashed him a reluctant smile of encouragement, his heart clenched. He didn’t look away as he spoke. “Will you go to prom with me?”

You gasped along with the rest of the students, your eyes widening in shock. His proposal prompted everyone else to stare at you. It was embarrassing. You could only curse, duck your head, and spin to leave the cafeteria.

The crowd hollered in disappointment and hilarity at your reaction. Jisung panicked and jumped off the table, tipping over and barely catching himself when he landed on the ground. He shifted past a sea of people laughing at his face and welcomed the fresh air outside the cafeteria. He ran, turning corners and racing down hallways before he caught up to you.

You could hear the door to your empty classroom burst open harshly and rapid footsteps following behind. You spun around, glaring at him with a heavy frown. It was still baffling that he would do something outrageous, knowing how much you hated the attention. Still, you were more mad at him for the indirect confession than the crowd.

“What was that? We had a plan!"

“No, you had a plan, and I had a plan of my own,” Jisung said, marching up to you. He halted to a stop when he was of considerable distance, and he took a dramatic breath. 

This was the moment for him to change everything. This has to work.

“I love you. I really do. I don’t know how else I can express that besides being straightforward. Just because you don’t believe me or don’t want to believe me does not make my feelings any less true. I can’t read your mind, I don’t know how you feel, but I know that you’re denying my feelings because you don’t think you’re good enough for me, which isn’t a call for you to make. I choose what is best for me

“And fine, maybe I wouldn't have loved you if we weren't soulmates. But you are my soulmate, and I do love you now. Actually, if anything, your lack of trust in me is invalidating and demeaning. It upsets me! You upset me!”

His voice sounded as if he had bottled up many emotions inside. He wasn’t sticking to the script his friends made for him anymore. He was going to pour his heart out to you, and his heart told him he was pretty angry.

You blinked at the increasing grit in his voice. It felt familiar. He called you out once like this; that was the beginning of your friendship. You let your guard down back then because you liked him, and no matter how much you tried to cover your eyes, you could see it was the best decision you’ve made. 

“This is your master plan?” you muttered. “To yell at me?”

“What, no. I’m not yelling at you. I don’t want to yell at you.” His eyes rounded as he waved his hands in disagreement. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

His pleading eyes made you scoff, but there was laughter in them like you couldn’t stand him in the most endearing way possible. 

His shoulders shuddered when you reached for his hands and carefully closed the gap between your feet. 

“This is a chance,” you said. “I’m still not entirely ready for this.”

It took him a moment. When he realized you mailed him an acceptance letter, he squeezed your hands and nodded. “We’ll figure it out.”

You smiled, relief flushing over your chest upon his familiarity, like closing the last page of a long book. You’ve missed his stillness and his presence overall. You’re glad you got to have him back so quickly.

"I'm not going to prom," you said.

"It's okay,” he said. “We can stay home. We can turn on fairy lights and be cliché together."

“As if falling in love with your soulmate isn’t cliché enough,” you snorted with a slight eye roll while Jisung scrunched his nose at how casually you talked about you both.

“Speaking of soulmates,” he said. “You haven't given me an answer yet.”

You tilted your head. “To what?”

Jisung pulled at your sleeve to reveal your soul mark before he turned to look at you, a smirk on his face.” Tell me, baby. You’re the happiest when you're with me, right?”

“Goodbye.” You rolled your eyes, giving him a light shove before spinning on your heels and walking away.

Jisung giggled, catching up to you again and again. Judging by how you smiled as he interlocked your hands, the answer was crystal clear without needing words.

Still tucked in your pajamas, you stood beside the kitchen island and sang quietly to yourself. The small flame reflected in your eyes and once you finished the song, the dark kitchen went back to silence. Your eyes remained on the flickering flame. 

The wax of the single black candle slowly began to ooze down the side. In the back bedroom, your boyfriend was sound asleep. Han had been out cold since he came home a few hours ago. Another day of practice and recording left him exhausted. 

In your head, it was fortunate. Your birthday was today, but the truth? You never had plans to celebrate it. What was the point, anyway? Another year of growing older. Another year where you’re forced to confront that you’re creeping closer and closer to death. 

Days tick by, but the thought haunts your subconscious. One of these days, it just might be your last and you’ll never know until it happens. Your anxiety surrounding death had been growing lately. 

Birthdays weren’t special to begin with. Birthdays were somewhat enjoyable as a kid. There was cake and ice cream. A few presents and a signed card. 

And then you grew up. 

The presents became less. The cakes disappeared. The few friendships dissolved and that was that. If anything, birthdays were just a painful reminder of how lonely you felt. Was there really anything to celebrate anymore? 

The wrinkles deepened and the mistakes of the past weighed on your heart heavily. Three-hundred and sixty-five days had passed since this time last year. So many years from when you were born into this world and it still felt pointless; just another nail in the coffin. 

“What are you doing?” Han’s sleepy voice broke through your thoughts. Across the way, his hands wiped at his sleepy eyes. He yawned and his attention went down to the flickering flame. “You made yourself a cupcake at this hour?” 

“Um…” Your head shook and you leaned forward to blow out the candle. “Something like that, I suppose.” 

Finally more awake, his half-lidded eyes met yours. He scanned the sink behind you for dirty dishes, but there wasn’t any. The scent of cake didn’t linger in the air. It must have been something you bought from a store. 

“A cupcake for a midnight snack is a weird choice, isn’t it? I’ve heard that sugar can give you nightmares before bed.” 

An ache squeezed your hollow heart at his words. You longed for the flavors to burst on your tongue, but instead you nodded. “Yeah, thanks for reminding me. I’ll probably just save it for dessert tomorrow after lunch or something.” 

The empty plastic container that used to hold the cupcake had been placed on the back counter. You spun around to grab it and blinked rapidly, trying to hide your tears. Han didn’t remember your birthday, of course, he didn’t. 

It wasn’t something you could be mad about. It’s not like you told him about your birthday. In fact, when he brought it up, you switched the topic. Your birthday felt so unimportant and dull, you tried to forget about it most of the time. 

But this birthday? Nostalgia bit into your heart this year. You longed for rich icing and moist cake. You wanted to recall the way your laugh sounded higher-pitched in childhood. If you chewed and squeezed your eyes shut, you were sure you could remember your mother back when you were only seven. 

When her hair was its original color and time hadn’t worn her down. Back when her joints were younger and she didn’t mention pain all the time. Her hair was longer and life seemed brighter. 

To a time when your father seemed to notice you more. When the future was bright and sitting on top of his shoulders made you squeal with delight. Up there, anything seemed possible and with his hands supporting your legs, you could do anything. 

Time is cruel and adulthood will rob you of everything you hold dear if you let it. Sharp teeth rip bites from your heart. Relationships fade and without work on either end, the distance between people grows like wild ivy. Phone calls dwindle and the steady texts disappear. 

Your parents become strangers. Friendships you knew like the back of your hand become foreign. Everything crumbles and then you’re left holding onto, not people, but the memories. Memories are just daggers to a beating heart. 

Things feel so achievable when you're young. Birthdays are some of the most exciting times of a child’s life. Dreams were so easy to accomplish back then, the sky was the limit, but this was now. Your star-dusted dreams died out so long ago, you couldn’t see them anymore. 

Han didn’t notice you reaching up to wipe a tear, but he noticed the rainbow sprinkles on the cupcake. He knew a lot of things about you and he knew that you didn’t like sprinkles on your cupcakes. You claimed they were too childish and yet, they were scattered along top of swirled icing. 

When it finally clicked, his eyes widened. “Oh my god, wait.” You spun around and his head snapped to you. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“But it does! What do you mean?” He rushed across the tile floor and grabbed you. “Happy birthday! I can’t believe I missed out on telling you that. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Maybe birthdays are just stupid.” 

You pulled yourself from his grip and grabbed the cupcake with two hands. You didn’t get far when he grabbed a fistful of your shirt and gently tugged you back to face him. “What do you mean?” 

Your eyes stayed on the floor. You couldn’t bear to look at those soft brown eyes. Not tonight, not with all the jumbled emotions swarming you. If your eyes found him, you’d fall apart in seconds. 

“What?” 

“Do you ever think about how pointless they are? So? I’m a year older, who cares?” You tried to squirm from his grip. 

“I care.” His hand reached up, gently grabbed your chin, and he made you face him. “I care an awful lot about your birthday. You’re here with me, aren’t you?” 

His cheeks puffed up in a sad smile. “You made it. Look at you go. Isn’t that something worth celebrating? Something to be proud of? You’ve done so much.” 

“I’ve done nothing.” 

“You’ve done everything. You’ve survived every challenge and you learned a lot. You discovered new things about yourself. You exist and that itself should be celebrated.” 

Your bottom lip quivered and you blinked rapidly. Your voice came out wobbly. “You’re not supposed to make me cry on my birthday.” 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to make your boyfriend cry on your birthday either, but it’s happening.” His thumb reached up to catch a stray tear. Just as your tear fell, his own soon followed. 

“Why are you crying?” 

“Because it makes me sad that you don’t view yourself like I do. You’re so precious to me and I hate that you can’t see the good. Birthdays are meant to be celebrated. Haven’t you ever had a surprise party or a party with all of your friends?” 

“Not really. I’ve had stuff with one or two friends, but never a surprise party. I didn’t have a large group of friends. My birthday parties were themed around my family and then I started to grow up. Families don’t care about birthdays once you reach a certain age.” 

His head shook, but you nodded. “That’s how it was with my family,” you continued. “Birthdays are just a waste of time and-” You gently lifted the cupcake. “Money. Besides, sprinkles are childish.” 

It tore his heart to shreds. In the dim light, you looked defeated. Your hair was a mess and brown bags curled beneath your eyes. Sadness pooled in the corners of your eyes and stayed there. 

He reached out and pulled the cupcake from your cupped hands. Setting it back on the counter, he hurried over to grab a lighter from a distant junk drawer. His name left your lips, but he ignored you. 

He came back to the table and the lighter flickered to life. The sparking flame reappeared and relit the candle on the cupcake. He stepped back and gestured to you to step forward. “Go ahead and make a wish.” 

“But I-” 

“Make a wish.” 

You stared at him for a moment. Wet streaks lined his cheeks, but the way he looked at you in that moment, it inflated your heart again. The flutter of hope in his eyes. The way the flame danced in his pupils. His hands kept gesturing for you to blow out the candle. His usual smile still tugged at one side of his mouth. 

You shut your eyes, stepped up, and sent out a single stream of air. The flame was there and then gone, just like that. Before you reopened your eyes, Han clapped excitedly.  “Happy birthday, baby!” 

You squealed as you were grabbed by your waist. “Han Jisung!” He giggled with glee and slung you over his shoulder. “Put me down!” 

“No can do, we’ve got places to go, people to go see, and a birthday to celebrate. The night is still so young and we’re not going to waste it.” 

“It’s midnight!” 

“It’s basically happy hour somewhere. So first I was thinking that we should go get Minho. We can use him to break into Seungmin and Felix’s dorm. We can steal Felix’s video games and while we do that, Minho can draw a mustache on Seungmin with a permanent marker. In the morning, it’ll all be Lix’s fault.”  

“That’s cruel.” 

“And the entertainment from pranks lasts forever. So then we’ll sneak into Chan’s and Jeongin’s place and raid their food stash. We’ll end the night in Changbin and Hyunjin’s dorm. You can get sappy with Hyunjin while we eat snacks. Changbin can sing happy birthday at the top of his lungs.” 

When he put you down outside your apartment’s front door, he grimaced. Your arms were crossed over your chest and you scowled at him. “That’s the best you could come up with?” 

“Uh…” 

“It’s perfect, let’s go.” You looped your hand through his and began to tug him into Seoul’s darkness. “But since it’s my birthday, I had nothing to do with this.” 

“Hey, I thought you didn’t like your birthday.” 

“It turns out, I like it when it can be used as a get out of jail free card.” 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @danihwang882

Masterlist

Taglist and inbox rules

stray kids masterlist

ⓒ strrykais

follows you around like a bodyguard after that

never ever lets you carry your own bag and always makes sure you have something to eat for lunch whether he has to pay for you or not

pretty smart in most subjects so you have study dates often because he just likes your presence

won’t smoke around you if you don’t like it

never posts anything besides you and aesthetic pictures he takes

isn’t the type to fight but he will if someone disrespects you, but they back off because of his size before it gets to that point

hyunjin as the artsy! loner

has one black pen and one red pen that he abuses every day

pays attention for the most part but occasionally gets distracted doodling in his notebooks

def has drawings all over his hands

the first time he noticed you was in art class and he thought you were so pretty he started drawing you

you glance over and he’s mortified when he realizes he probably looks like a creep

too nervous to go up to you and explain so he leaves you a note with little drawings all over (plus the drawing of you) and a replacement of the pink gel pen he notices you using all the time

gets super nervous when he sees you walking up to him the next day

you ask him to partner up for a project and thank him for the drawing

“ i couldn’t help it , you’re just so pretty . ”

ends up kissing you at your last project session

asks you out with the most thoughtful basket filled with things you like and a letter with another drawing of you and almost cries when you don’t answer right away

does everything for you after you get together

the art teacher is yalls biggest fan

has no one else to cling to so he’s all over you 24/7

gives nasty glares to men who simply look at you

felix as the fashion design! loner

like hyunjin, spends most of his time sketching out designs in his scrap book where he keeps all his miniature fabric samples in

sulks because there’s no fashion club for him to join

is initially drawn to you because of an outfit you wore that he loves

eventually asks where you got your top when you wear it again and his heartstrings pull at the way you answer so sweetly and compliment his hair

after that the two of you gradually got closer and closer

you help him learn to sew and he starts planning marriage then and there (he wants to help design your wedding dress)

sews matching patches on your backpacks

you catch him texting his best friend that lives abroad about you

gets so nervous he cries

you tell him you feel the same way and he cries even harder

“ be mine ? please ? ”

just gets even clingier once you end up together

loves kissing you and laying together while he sketches

takes you out whenever you want and spoils you rotten because he has rich parents

matching outfits = fire insta pics

jeongin as the sour patch! loner

never talks to anyone so everyone thinks he’s mean but he’s really an angel

your elective teacher makes your class do a secret santa and he gets you

he gives you oddly specific gifts (he has a massive crush on you and overhears you telling your friends your wishlist) and includes a note sweet talking you

you go up to him and thank him with a kiss on the cheek and he turns red

he asks you to hang out and pays for brunch and the cutest pottery painting date

“ will you go out with me ? n-not like that ! ”

gets the teacher to move you two to sit next to each other

everyone’s a little surprised when they see how he’s so gentle with you

decides he needs to get over himself and ask you out and gets you a pandora charm bracelet and a pretty bouquet of flowers

pampers you with your favorite snacks or meals randomly, refills of makeup you use, randomly does your homework for you

flips off ur exes and flexes on them when you aren’t looking then turns around to kiss you

is at your house 24/7 because he can’t breathe without you but is supportive when you go out with your friends or need a solo day

loves going to the beach with you and carrying you so your feet don’t get sandy

jisung as the nerdy! loner

has good grades and the teachers remember his name because his work is always on time

eats alone in the library because he has no one to sit with

you walk in on him while picking up a book you need and he’s super embarrassed (he’s had a crush on you since middle school)

you ask to sit with him because you think he’s cute and he trips over his words answering you

you spend lunch with him every day after that and he starts packing a lunch for you too

accidentally confesses he has a fat crush on you when you ask if he has a girlfriend

he starts rambling after and shuts up when he notices you’re giggling at him

you kiss him and he swears his lifelong dream has come true

“ i like , really like you . ”

is the sweetest boyfriend ever

does all your homework for you and insists it’s really no problem

drives you to and from school every day because “that’s what boyfriends are for”

never looks at anyone but you and writes down threats and shoves them in guys lockers when they hit on you

minho as the gym! loner

purposefully gets his free period after his weightlifting class so he can spend two periods working out

isn’t really shy, just doesn’t like anyone enough to have friends

girls check him out occasionally but he always ignores them

catches you freaking out when you have no clothes to change in and offers you his shirt because he thinks you’re cute

uses that as an excuse to mess with you

“ if i can bench you , you owe me a date ”

spoiler, he can.

makes sure to tell you you don’t really owe him anything and he’s just messing with you

you agree to the date and he picks you up and takes you on a surprisingly thoughtful date

drive around town, food and watching the sunset, takes your pictures next to pretty flowers and keeps his arm around you the whole time

asks you if you really have to go when he’s dropping you off

walks you to your door and gives you a hug (he’s never dated anyone and too scared to kiss you)

texts you that he had a really good time and he would “work to make you his”

it doesn’t take much work and he kisses you right after he asks you to be his

is way too proud of his build and wears sleeveless shirts just to scare anyone that looks at you

carries you around any chance he gets

seungmin as the music lover! loner

walks around with his headphones in 24/7

hums to himself quietly while he studies

you ask him about a song he was humming and he’s surprised you were talking to him

you think he hates you till he smiles at you when you walk into class

makes you a playlist to make his move on you

doesn’t know how to tell you he likes you at all so he just kinda teases you to flirt with you

takes you to a record store at lunch because he wanted to show you the spot

stares at you a little too hard so you ask him if he wants a kiss as a joke

says yes and moves your hair out of your face, you guys have a make out sesh and only stop when the owner clears his throat awkwardly at the both of you

“ so , if i ask you to be mine what are the chances of you saying yes ? ”

you make him go back inside alone and buy you the vinyl you want

he comes back out with it and 5 more that you didn’t wanna ask for but knows you wanted anyway

you skip the rest of the day and go to his house and use his record player

you fall asleep on him and he takes 0.5s of you

shares his headphones with you, but doesn’t share his food (until you make a sad face at him and he gives in instantly. works every time.)

changbin as the sweetheart! loner

all of his professors adore him, all the school staff does at this point

has the maximum hours of community service that he can have but won’t stop helping around where he can

notices you from the start because he thinks you’re pretty, but really starts liking you when he sees you volunteer at an elementary school

accidentally scares you coming up behind you when you’re hanging a banner

you guys start helping at the same places and make a tradition of hanging up banners together

after a while he figures he might as well just tell you how he feels, is elated when you hug him and tell him the feelings mutual

“ oh thank god . ”

confesses that he was actually really nervous and gets flustered when you tease him about it because he thinks you’re the prettiest

when you ask why he never hangs out with anyone he says he doesn’t like people with unpure hearts and that’s why he loves you so much

definitely takes you out and buys you guys matching stuff

married couple

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

this is 100000% inspired by a tweet i just saw <3

“Binnie, let me see your phone,” you lock your own phone and he grabs his off the table, passing it to you, not even pretending to glance away from his laptop.

“What are you looking for?” Your boyfriend ponders, clicking away on his computer. You had been scrolling on your phone quietly for a while and he was wondering what you were doing.

“I ordered something online and I can’t find the confirmation email. I might have accidentally put your phone number,” you reply and type the word “order confirmation” into his search bar.

You click the first email that comes up and your eyes widen and you let out a gasp when you realize what it is. This immediately catches your boyfriend’s attention, especially when he sees the blush rush up your neck and the soft smile on your face.

“What? What happened?” He leans back in the couch and glances over at the screen of his phone.

There, you both stare at the confirmation email for the engagement ring that he had ordered. You quickly swipe out of the email and scroll, finding the email you’re looking for and forwarding it to yourself.

You’re speechless and, to your surprise, so is Changbin. You swallow thickly and lock his phone, placing it on the couch between the two of you.

Neither you nor Changbin say anything for a few minutes. He clears his throat and starts typing on his computer again and you unlock your phone once more but you can’t even pretend to be focused on anything on your screen.

Before you know it, a quiet giggle escapes your lips and you bite your lip to try to suppress it. Your boyfriend hears you, his cute giggle following yours and you can’t help but laugh again.

The two of you continue to giggle, falling back on the couch and leaning into each other.

“What are you giggling at?” you tease, interlacing your fingers with his and resting your head on his shoulder.

“What are you giggling at?” he rebuttals and you let out another quick giggle before taking a breath and calming down enough to speak.

“You know why I’m giggling,” you reply and turn towards your boyfriend, who was already looking at you, “Is it here?” you add on, a small smile covering both of your faces. He already knows exactly what you’re asking about.

He chuckles once more before nodding his head at you, “It is,” he confirms and a huge grin covers your face.

“Is it hidden?” You ask, sitting up and grabbing the laptop off his lap. You sit it on the coffee table before swinging your leg over his lap and straddling him.

“It is,” he repeats himself, giving you nothing to work with. Your boyfriend (soon to be fiancée, apparently) wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You wrap your arms around his neck and lean forward, pressing a kiss to his lips.