Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
idol! yoon jeonghan x college graduate fem! reader smau
summary your're graduating college, and jeonghan can't be there because he still has a few weeks left in the military, but he surprises you anyways showing up in his uniform
warnings/tags no smut, all fluff, social media au, use of "y/n", reader and jeonghan are dating, reader is friends with the other members, based off of true events (heehee yay i'm a college graduate!)
author's note Hi!! This SMAU is inspired by me (loll) because I just recently graduated early from college with my BA in Psychology!! Jeonghan gets discharged from the military in I think 2 weeks, and I thought this little idea fits perfectly together. Keeping this short and sweet, enjoy my lovies!! xoxo, gyucheolgirly😉
divider and photo credit pinterest & @dividersnook11
your_username & jeonghaniyoo_n
liked by sound_of_coups, pledis_boos, min9yu_k, dk_is_dokyeom, and 720 others
your_username & jeonghaniyoo_n '26 grad with my two bachelors 🤭
jeonghaniyoo_n congrats my love so glad to be there for your special day🥰🥰
⤷your_username ahh love you hannie!! you being there made it even more special💕
min9yu_k yayy!!! y/n's a college grad!!🎉🍾🥳
pledis_boos congratulations y/n!!!!! love you sooo much😘
dk_is_dokyeom y/n yayyyyy!!! congratulations you deserve the world❣️
sound_of_coups congrats y/n/n! so proud🥹😊
vernonline good job y/n/n, no more lat night study sessions and fast food loll😙
junhui_moon yayay y/n congratulations!!
ho5hi_kwon MY Y/N IM SO HAPPY CONGRATS WE NEED TO CELEBRATE😆😆
woozi_universefactory proud of you y/n, congratulations🫶
feat.dino ahhhhh congrats y/n, love you and can't believe you did it!! all your hard work paid off💛
xuminghao_o congratulations! you did so good😊
joshu_acoustic almost teared up when they announced your name, love youuu and congrats 🥲🙌
everyone_woo congratulations y/n!!! 💜💜
your_username awee you guys are gonna make me cry🥲 love you guys so so much and thank you for everything! 😘😘
pairing: soonyoung x reader
synopsis: Dance major Hoshi ropes you into being his partner for a psychology thesis on nonverbal intimacy and mirror neurons. The problem? You're both a little too good at dancing like you're in love.
wc: 6.3k
genre: Romance, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Collage AU
warnings: Public Confession, Second-hand Embarrassment, Miscommunication (kinda)
a/n: happy birthday soonyoung!! This is apart of the Kiss Me, It’s for Academia Series!! All other parts of the series will come out on each respective members birthdays!!
The first time Kwon Soonyoung speaks to you directly, he does not introduce himself.
This is largely because he assumes you already know who he is.
Unfortunately for him, the feeling is mutual.
You know exactly who Kwon Soonyoung is.
Not personally, of course.
Nobody in the dance department can claim they do, because every version of Soonyoung seems to contradict the last. To some professors, he is one of the most promising performers in the program. To others, he is a headache disguised as a student. To the underclassmen, he is a legend. To his friends, judging by the volume of complaints that constantly echo through the building, he is apparently impossible to manage.
Every assessment. Every showcase. Every audition. Every ranking posted outside the faculty office.
There is your name.
And directly above it—
Kwon Soonyoung.
You have spent nearly two years pretending this does not bother you. You are doing a decent job of it. Until he sits beside you on a Monday morning and ruins everything.
The psychology lecture hall is crowded with students from multiple faculties, an arrangement that already feels suspicious. Dance students rarely interact with psychology students unless somebody is dating across departments, and even then it usually ends with one person psychoanalysing the other during finals week.
You are halfway through answering emails when somebody drops into the seat beside you with enough force to shake the entire row.
A water bottle rolls across the desk. A notebook falls open. Someone behind you groans. You do not need to look up.
There is only one person on campus capable of making sitting down feel like a dramatic entrance.
"Good morning."
You continue typing.
"Morning."
"You didn't look at me."
You sigh. Then slowly raise your head. Soonyoung beams. Immediately. Like he has been waiting for this exact moment.
"Hi."
"Hi."
For several seconds he simply stares. You stare back. Neither of you blink.
"What?"
His grin widens.
"You know who I am."
"No."
"You're lying."
You return your attention to your laptop.
"You have tiger stickers on your water bottle."
"So?"
"You wore tiger-print socks to Contemporary Technique last week."
"So?"
"You introduced yourself to a guest lecturer by saying, and I quote, 'I'm Soonyoung but spiritually I'm a tiger.'"
The student in front of you snorts. Soonyoung looks delighted.
"See? You do know me."
"I know of you."
"That's basically friendship."
"It really isn't."
Before he can respond, the lecturer enters the room. The conversation dies immediately. Unfortunately, your peace dies with it.
The professor begins setting up a presentation at the front of the room while students settle into their seats.
"Dance and psychology students," she says. "Thank you for attending. Today's briefing concerns an interdisciplinary research project that will run throughout the semester."
A collective groan spreads through the room. Nobody likes hearing the word project. Nobody likes hearing the word interdisciplinary even more. The PowerPoint clicks to the next slide.
NONVERBAL INTIMACY AND MIRROR NEURON ACTIVATION IN PARTNERED MOVEMENT
Silence. Then—
"What does that mean?"
The professor smiles.
"It means we're studying how people subconsciously mirror one another's movements and emotions."
More slides appear. Brain scans. Research papers. Movement diagrams. Psychological studies. You try to pay attention. You genuinely do. Unfortunately, the person beside you keeps vibrating with excitement.
"You okay?" you whisper.
"So cool."
"It literally involves brain activity."
"Exactly."
"You dance."
"And now I get to dance and do science."
"That's not how either of those things work."
The professor continues speaking.
"Students will be paired across participating disciplines. Throughout the semester, partners will complete movement exercises designed to measure synchronization, trust-building behaviours, emotional recognition, and nonverbal communication."
A psychology student near the front raises her hand.
"So we need a partner?"
"Correct."
The next slide appears.
PARTNER REGISTRATION TODAY.
A wave of panic immediately spreads through the room. Students begin turning toward friends. Names are exchanged. Groups start forming.
The entire lecture hall descends into chaos. You are still reading the registration requirements when somebody abruptly places a form in front of you. You stare at it. Then at the hand holding it. Then at Soonyoung.
"No."
"What?"
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You don't need to."
His smile becomes suspiciously innocent.
"I just thought—"
"No."
"—that since we're both dancers—"
"No."
"—and we're around the same performance level—"
"Absolutely not."
"—and the study specifically involves movement synchronization—"
"No."
"So that's a maybe."
"It isn't."
He looks genuinely offended.
"Why not?"
You gesture vaguely toward him.
"You're you."
"What does that mean?"
"You know exactly what it means."
"I really don't."
"You have too much energy."
"So your problem is that I'm fun."
"My problem is that you treat every situation like a game show."
"So your problem is that I'm entertaining."
"My problem is that partnering with you sounds exhausting."
He considers this. Then nods.
"That's fair."
You blink. The agreement catches you off guard.
"So you'll find somebody else?"
"No."
The agreement was a trap.
"I'll simply prove that I'm not exhausting."
"You are exhausting right now."
"I haven't even started."
"That's somehow worse."
Around the room, registration forms continue disappearing as students finalize partnerships. One by one. Until very few names remain unclaimed. You return your attention to the paperwork. Unfortunately, Soonyoung does the same. Unfortunately, he does it faster.
By the time you realise what he's doing, he has already written something down. Your stomach drops.
"Did you—"
"No."
"You absolutely did."
"No."
You snatch the paper. There, under partner registration, are two names. Kwon Soonyoung. And yours.
You stare. Slowly. Dangerously.
"Why is my name there?"
"Efficiency."
"That's not efficiency."
"It saved time."
"That is forgery."
The psychology student collecting forms reaches your row. Before you can react, Soonyoung hands her the paper. She takes it. Smiles. And walks away. Your soul leaves your body.
"Did you just submit that?"
"Looks like it."
"Are you insane?"
"A little."
You drop your head onto the desk. Somewhere above you, Soonyoung laughs. The sound is irritatingly warm.
You hate it. A lot.
—
The first research session takes place three days later. You arrive determined to maintain professionalism. The psychology students are already setting up cameras around the rehearsal studio. Clipboards appear. Laptops appear. There are far too many clipboards.
Nobody should ever trust a room containing that many clipboards. You spot Soonyoung immediately. He is stretching in the corner. Or attempting to. Most of his effort appears focused on talking. His friends occupy the surrounding floor space. One of them notices you first.
"Oh."
Another follows his gaze. Then another. Then another. The entire group collectively turns. You immediately regret arriving. Soonyoung spots you next. His face lights up.
"Partner!"
You close your eyes. Deep breath. Very deep breath. When you open them again, he is somehow already standing beside you.
"Good morning."
"It is eight a.m."
"Exactly."
"Nobody should be this awake."
He grins.
"You ready?"
"No."
"Perfect."
A psychology student claps her hands.
"Okay, everyone. First exercise."
The participants gather. Clipboards ready. Researchers waiting. You are already suspicious. Then she explains the activity. Mirroring. One person moves. The other follows.
Simple. Straightforward. Entirely harmless. Unfortunately, Soonyoung treats it like a competition. The moment the exercise begins, he narrows his eyes. You narrow yours back.
"Oh, we're doing this?"
"We're doing what?"
"The thing."
"There is no thing."
"There is absolutely a thing."
Then he moves. You follow immediately. His arm rises. Yours matches it. A step forward. A turn. A shift in weight. You mirror everything effortlessly. The exercise grows faster. Then more complex. Then absurdly complex. Neither of you notice.
You are too focused. Too determined. Too unwilling to lose whatever invisible argument has developed between you. The room gradually falls silent.
Researchers stop writing. Other participants stop moving. Somewhere in the background, somebody whispers,
"What the hell?"
You and Soonyoung continue. Perfectly synchronized. Without hesitation. Without discussion. Without needing to think. Eventually the exercise ends. Neither of you realise until the instructor calls time. The room remains strangely quiet. You look around.
Every researcher is staring. Every participant is staring. The lead psychology student slowly lowers her clipboard.
"...well."
You frown.
"What?"
She exchanges a look with another researcher. Then glances down at her notes. Then back at you.
"You two have never partnered before?"
"No."
"Nope," Soonyoung says.
Another pause. The researcher looks even more confused.
"Are you sure?"
Beside you, Soonyoung starts smiling. Slowly. Dangerously. You immediately know you're going to regret whatever comes next. The researcher clears her throat.
"Your synchronization score is currently the highest we've recorded."
Silence. Then Soonyoung turns toward you. Looking unbearably pleased.
"See?"
You groan.
"Don't."
"We're scientifically compatible."
"We are not scientifically compatible."
"The data disagrees."
The psychology students begin discussing results among themselves. Clipboards fill with notes. Numbers. Observations. Excitement. You watch all of it with growing dread.
Because if this is what happened during the first session, the rest of the semester is going to be a disaster. Beside you, Soonyoung is still smiling.
Like somebody who has just won something. Maybe he has.
And for the first time, you have the uncomfortable feeling that partnering with Kwon Soonyoung might end up changing far more than a research project.
—
[CASE FILE 001]
SUBJECTS
Y/N
Me
OBSERVATION
Y/N says I'm exhausting.
This is hurtful.
Possibly true.
Further observation:
Y/N mirrored every movement perfectly today.
Not ninety percent.
Not ninety-five percent.
Perfectly.
Psychology students looked like they had discovered a new species.
I looked normal about it.
(Seungkwan says this is a lie.)
WORKING THEORY
Y/N is secretly competitive.
Evidence:
The death stare.
The death stare.
The other death stare.
IMPORTANT SCIENTIFIC NOTE
When Y/N concentrates, they bite the inside of their cheek.
I noticed this after approximately thirty seconds.
This information probably means nothing.
Probably.
K.S
—
The problem with spending three hours a week attached to another person is that eventually you start learning things about them.
Not important things. Not the kind of things that would matter. Just small things. Completely insignificant things.
Things that absolutely do not explain why you find yourself looking for Kwon Soonyoung whenever you enter a room.
The first thing you learn is that he talks constantly. The second thing you learn is that he somehow talks even more when he's nervous. The third thing you learn is that he becomes nervous far more often than anyone realizes. This revelation arrives during the second research session.
The psychology students have transformed Studio B into something that resembles a social experiment designed by people who enjoy causing emotional damage.
Several cameras line the walls. Observation tables sit in one corner. Clipboards have multiplied. You are beginning to suspect clipboards reproduce when left unsupervised.
"So," one researcher says brightly, "today we'll be focusing on trust-building exercises."
The room collectively groans. The researcher ignores everyone.
"The first activity involves blindfolded guidance."
The groaning becomes louder. Your stomach sinks. Across the room, Soonyoung raises his hand.
"Question."
"Yes?"
"Have any of these exercises been approved by people who actually have to do them?"
"No."
"Okay. Just checking."
The researcher smiles.
"You'll take turns leading your partner through movement sequences while they're unable to see."
You already hate this. You hate it even more when a black blindfold lands in your hands.
"Absolutely not."
"It's just walking."
"It's never just walking."
"You sound like you're about to enter a haunted house."
"Because this feels like a haunted house."
Soonyoung laughs. Unfortunately, the sound makes you laugh too. The researchers immediately notice. Pens begin moving. You narrow your eyes. The pens continue moving. You are starting to dislike psychology students. A lot.
—
You lose the coin toss. Which means you're blindfolded first. Wonderful. Just wonderful. The fabric settles over your eyes, plunging the studio into darkness. Immediately, every sound becomes louder.
Footsteps. Conversations. The faint hum of the air conditioning. And somewhere very close—
"Ready?"
Soonyoung's voice. Much closer than expected. You nearly jump.
"No."
"Good answer."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Your heart does something strange. Something deeply annoying. You choose to ignore it.
"Can we start?"
"Sure."
A hand brushes your elbow. Gentle. Careful. Steady. The contact catches you off guard. Because Soonyoung is rarely careful.
Most of the time he barrels through life with the enthusiasm of somebody who believes consequences are optional.
Yet now his movements are deliberate. Measured. Like he's genuinely worried about making a mistake.
"Step forward."
You obey.
"Good."
"You sound surprised."
"I was mentally preparing for you to walk into a wall."
"I wasn't going to walk into a wall."
"You absolutely were."
His laughter echoes through the studio. Then his hand shifts slightly. Still resting against your arm. Still guiding. For several minutes he leads you through a series of movements. Turns. Weight shifts. Simple dance combinations. Nothing particularly difficult. And yet the strange awareness from last week returns. You know where he is. Even without seeing him. You know when he steps closer. When he moves away. When he's watching you.
The realization is unsettling.
By the time the blindfold comes off, you're relieved. Then you look up. And find three psychology students staring. One slowly lowers her clipboard.
"Oh, come on."
She blinks.
"What?"
"You wrote something."
"We're supposed to write things."
"Whatever it was, I don't like it."
The researcher exchanges a look with another student. Neither of them answer. That is somehow worse.
—
The next exercise is worse. Much worse. Catastrophically worse. Weight-sharing. A concept that sounds innocent until someone explains it.
"You'll be supporting your partner's balance."
You already know where this is going. You dislike where this is going. The researcher continues.
"Trust your partner completely."
You glance at Soonyoung. He glances back. Neither of you look convinced.
"Trusting him completely feels irresponsible."
"Hey."
"It's true."
"It kind of is," another dance student admits.
"Traitor."
The exercise begins. For the first ten minutes, everything goes fine. Then somebody introduces lifts. You immediately regret attending university.
"Okay," Soonyoung says.
"We're not doing that."
"We have to."
"We could fake our deaths."
"That's not a solution."
"It's a pretty good solution."
Unfortunately, the researchers insist. Which is how you find yourself standing in front of him while he stretches his shoulders.
"This is a terrible idea."
"You say that about everything."
"Because everything involving you becomes a terrible idea."
"So dramatic."
You cross your arms.
"So if I fall—"
"I'll catch you."
"You don't sound confident."
"I am confident."
"You hesitated."
"I didn't."
"You absolutely did."
"I was breathing."
The lift itself lasts less than five seconds. One moment your feet are on the floor. The next they're not. Your stomach drops.
Instinctively, your hands find his shoulders. His grip tightens. Steady. Secure.
You are suddenly aware of several things at once. The strength in his arms. The way his concentration replaces his usual grin. The fact that he's looking directly at you. The fact that you are looking directly at him. The fact that neither of you seem capable of looking away.
The room disappears. Just for a second. Then—
"Okay!"
A psychology student practically shouts.
"Great data!"
You nearly fall out of the lift. The moment shatters instantly. Soonyoung sets you down. Too quickly. Both of you step back. Immediately. Like the extra space might somehow undo whatever just happened.
"See?" he says.
Voice slightly higher than usual.
"Told you I'd catch you."
You clear your throat.
"Good for you."
Very smooth. Exceptionally normal response. Nobody suspects anything. Especially not the psychology students furiously writing notes.
—
The semester progresses. The project continues. And despite your best efforts, spending so much time together becomes routine.
You rehearse between classes. Grab coffee before sessions. Complain about assignments. Argue over choreography. Argue over music. Argue over whether cereal counts as soup.
The answer is obviously no. Soonyoung remains wrong. You discover he leaves encouraging sticky notes inside borrowed textbooks. You discover he stays late helping first-year students practice.
You discover he pretends not to care about grades despite checking assessment results within minutes of release.
Meanwhile, he learns things too. Like how you always arrive fifteen minutes early. How you rehearse difficult sequences long after everyone else leaves. How you keep old performance programs folded inside your notebook. Neither of you mention these observations.
Doing so would require admitting you've been paying attention.
Far too much attention.
—
The trouble starts during the fifth research session. Everything is going normally. Or as normally as possible when a room full of psychology students is analysing your body language.
You and Soonyoung finish another improvisation exercise. Applause breaks out from somewhere in the room. The researchers look thrilled.
Again. A familiar feeling of dread settles over you. One of the graduate students approaches.
"Can I ask something?"
"No," you say immediately.
"Please?"
You sigh.
"What?"
The student checks her notes. Then looks between you and Soonyoung. Then back to her notes. Then back to both of you. You already know this conversation will end badly.
"How long have you been together?"
Silence. The entire room freezes. Your brain stops functioning. Beside you, Soonyoung chokes on his water. Violently. Someone starts laughing. Then another person. Then another. The graduate student looks horrified.
"Oh my god."
"We're not together," you manage.
"We're not?" Soonyoung blurts.
You stare at him. He stares at you. The room explodes.
"Oh, you're unbelievable."
"I meant—"
"You are unbelievable."
"I was joking."
"You were not."
"I was mostly joking."
"SOONYOUNG."
The psychology student is frantically apologising now.
"I'm so sorry. It's just that your synchronization scores are extremely high and—"
"And?" you ask.
She immediately regrets speaking.
"And you kind of dance like you're in love."
Silence. Again. Somehow worse this time.
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Nobody speaks.
Then Seungkwan, who has apparently materialized from nowhere, says exactly what everyone is thinking.
"Thank god somebody finally said it."
The room erupts. You want the floor to open beneath you. Preferably immediately.
—
Later that night, long after rehearsals end and everyone goes home, Soonyoung sits alone in an empty practice room. The notebook appears again. The same notebook that now contains far too many observations.
Far too many thoughts. Far too many things that should probably stay inside his head. Instead, he uncaps a pen.
And starts writing.
—
[CASE FILE 002]
Today's research findings:
Apparently Y/N and I dance like we're in love.
This conclusion was reached by:
Psychology students
Dance students
Seungkwan
A random professor
One janitor
Current scientific consensus seems concerning.
COUNTER-ARGUMENT
Maybe we're just really good dancers.
COUNTER-COUNTER-ARGUMENT
Nobody believed this.
Not even me.
Additional observation:
Y/N laughed today when I accidentally called a pirouette "spinny spin."
This was the best part of my week.
This information is irrelevant.
Probably.
PERSONAL NOTE
Need to stop noticing things.
Need to stop noticing Y/N.
Need to stop thinking about how safe they looked when they trusted me to catch them.
Research integrity is suffering.
Severely.
K.S
—
By the middle of the semester, the entire project has become a problem. Not because the research is difficult. Not because the rehearsals are exhausting. Not even because every psychology student in the study has apparently developed a personal investment in your relationship status.
The problem is that you have stopped being able to remember what life looked like before Kwon Soonyoung became part of it.
At some point between the blindfold exercises and the synchronization assessments, he had quietly inserted himself into the spaces between your classes, your rehearsals, your study sessions, and your weekends, until looking up and finding him there felt less surprising than looking up and not finding him there at all.
You dislike thinking about this. You dislike it even more when Seungkwan points it out.
"You know he's waiting outside."
You don't look up from your laptop.
"I know."
"You looked through the window before I even finished speaking."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
You finally glance toward the café window. Unfortunately, Seungkwan is right. Soonyoung is outside. Waiting.
A takeaway coffee balanced in one hand. His dance bag slung over his shoulder. The bright afternoon sun catches his grin the moment he spots you looking.
He immediately waves. You immediately look away. Across the table, Seungkwan sighs heavily.
"Hopeless."
"We're not dating."
"I didn't say you were."
"You implied it."
"I implied nothing."
"You always imply things."
"Because they're usually true."
Before you can formulate a response, the café door swings open. The source of all your current problems enters.
"Hi."
"Why are you here?"
"I came to get my dance partner."
"So dramatic."
"I learned from the best."
You stare. He grins. Seungkwan looks like he wants to throw himself into traffic.
"Please leave," Seungkwan says.
"No."
"You've become unbearable."
"No."
"You've gotten worse."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I choose to accept it as one."
The fact that you laugh is unfortunate. The fact that Soonyoung immediately notices is even worse.
—
The final phase of the project begins two weeks later. Every participating pair is assigned one last task.
A performance. An original duet. The culmination of the entire semester. Months of data collection. Months of observation. Months of increasingly invasive psychological analysis. The presentation slide appears at the front of the room.
FINAL ASSESSMENT: NONVERBAL EMOTIONAL COMMUNICATION THROUGH PARTNERED MOVEMENT
You already hate it. The researcher continues.
"The performance should communicate a clear emotional narrative without spoken dialogue."
Your stomach drops. Beside you, Soonyoung sits up straighter.
"Any emotional narrative?"
"Within reason."
"Define reason."
The researcher immediately ignores him.
"The purpose of this assessment is to evaluate emotional expression, synchronization, and nonverbal communication."
Several students begin writing notes. Several others begin panicking. You fall into the second category. Because emotional communication is one thing. Emotional communication with Soonyoung is another.
The psychology students hand out project guidelines. You scan the document. Then freeze.
PARTNERS MUST CREATE CHOREOGRAPHY COLLABORATIVELY.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. As if spending hours together every week wasn't already becoming dangerous. Now you're expected to build an entire performance together.
—
The first rehearsal goes badly. Not because you disagree. That would actually be easier.
The problem is that you agree too much. Every movement one of you suggests immediately makes sense to the other. Every transition works. Every adjustment improves the piece.
The choreography develops faster than either of you expect. Which means you quickly run out of technical discussions. And begin having personal ones instead.
You hate personal discussions. Unfortunately, Soonyoung likes them.
"What emotion are we starting with?"
You pause. The music continues playing softly through the studio speakers.
"Curiosity."
"Okay."
"So the opening should feel uncertain."
"Like meeting someone."
You glance at him. He doesn't seem to realize what he just said. Or maybe he does. The distinction is becoming increasingly difficult to identify.
"What about the middle section?"
You think for a moment.
"Comfort."
"Comfort?"
"People don't fall in love immediately."
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Silence follows. Immediate. Dangerous silence. Your pulse jumps. Soonyoung doesn't speak. The music continues. A distant door closes somewhere down the hall. Finally, he clears his throat.
"No."
His voice sounds softer than usual.
"They don't."
Something shifts. Neither of you acknowledge it. Instead, you return to the choreography. Because pretending is easier.
—
The duet begins taking shape. Curiosity becomes familiarity. Familiarity becomes trust. Trust becomes something neither of you are willing to define. The movements grow increasingly intimate.
Not intentionally. At least, that's what you keep telling yourself. The problem is that dance rarely lies.
People do. Words do. Excuses do. Bodies don't.
Every rehearsal leaves you feeling exposed in ways you cannot explain. Especially during one particular section. A section involving eye contact. Prolonged eye contact. The worst kind.
"Five counts."
You immediately shake your head.
"No."
"It's five counts."
"No."
"You literally wrote it."
"I've changed my mind."
"You can't change your mind."
"I absolutely can."
The choreography says otherwise. Unfortunately. You take your positions. The music starts. The sequence unfolds.
Step. Turn. Reach. Closer. Closer. Then—
Eye contact. Five counts.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Something tightens painfully in your chest. Because Soonyoung is looking at you the way he always does lately. Like you're the only thing he's paying attention to. Like he forgot the rest of the room exists.
The music ends. Neither of you move. For a moment. Then Soonyoung steps back. Too quickly. The spell breaks. Again.
The problem is that these moments keep happening. And every time they do, they become harder to ignore.
—
By the week before the presentation, everyone notices. Everyone. Your classmates. The psychology students.
Your professors. Even strangers.
One afternoon, while rehearsing in an open studio, a first-year student walks past. Stops.
Watches for thirty seconds. Then turns to her friend.
"They're definitely dating."
You nearly trip over your own foot. The first-year immediately flees. Coward.
—
The disaster arrives three days later. Because of course it does. You should have expected it. Life has become far too peaceful. The universe was bound to correct itself eventually. The psychology department schedules a preliminary review.
Each pair performs an unfinished version of their duet and explains the emotional narrative behind it.
Simple. Professional. Entirely manageable. At least until it's your turn. You and Soonyoung finish performing.
The room applauds. The researchers look thrilled. Again. One of the faculty supervisors smiles.
"Beautiful work."
"Thank you."
"The emotional progression feels very genuine."
Your stomach twists. The supervisor turns toward Soonyoung.
"How did you approach developing the narrative?"
You watch him think. A mistake. A terrible mistake. Because Soonyoung always tells the truth when he's thinking out loud. Always. Even when he shouldn't.
He scratches the back of his neck. Glances at the choreography notes. Then shrugs.
"I kind of imagined what it'd feel like to fall for your best friend."
The world stops. Immediately. The room goes silent. A researcher drops a pen. Someone coughs. A chair squeaks. You stare at him. He stares at the floor. Realization dawns across his face.
Slowly. Horribly. The supervisor blinks.
"Oh."
Across the room, Seungkwan makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a scream being strangled. You stand. Instantly. Your chair nearly topples over.
"Y/N—"
You leave before he can finish.
—
The hallway feels too small. Too warm. Too loud. Your pulse pounds against your ribs.
Fall for your best friend.
The words replay endlessly.
Again. Again. Again.
You know he could have meant anything.
The choreography. The narrative. The project. The performance. Any of those explanations would be reasonable.
Yet none of them feel convincing. Not after months of shared rehearsals. Not after every glance.
Every smile. Every late-night conversation. Every moment that felt suspiciously like something more. Footsteps echo behind you.
Fast. Familiar. You don't turn around.
"Y/N."
You keep walking.
"Y/N, wait."
You stop. Eventually. Not because you want to. Because your legs refuse to carry you any farther.
The silence stretches between you. Heavy. Awkward. Uncomfortable. When you finally turn around, Soonyoung looks as miserable as you feel. Neither of you speak immediately.
For once, he doesn't seem to know what to say. The realization frightens you more than anything else.
Because if Kwon Soonyoung has run out of words, something must have gone very, very wrong.
—
[CASE FILE 003]
Emergency update.
Huge problem.
Massive problem.
Catastrophic problem.
Potentially career-ending problem.
Emotionally devastating problem.
Today I accidentally told an entire room of psychology professors that I wrote our choreography based on falling in love with my best friend.
Technically speaking, this is true.
Unfortunately, the best friend in question is Y/N.
Further unfortunately, Y/N was present when I said this.
Additional unfortunately:
Y/N left.
Immediately.
I would like to report that my soul also left.
Current status:
Regret
Panic
More panic
Seungkwan yelling at me
Additional panic
WORKING THEORY
Maybe if I throw myself into the ocean, this situation will resolve itself.
Seungkwan says this is not a solution.
Seungkwan has never appreciated innovation.
FINAL OBSERVATION
I think I've been in love with Y/N for a while.
Long enough that I stopped noticing when it happened.
Long enough that dancing with them stopped feeling like pretending.
Long enough that the choreography became honest without me realizing it.
This seems important.
Unfortunately, I am currently too busy ruining my own life to investigate further.
K.S
—
The problem with leaving dramatically is that eventually you have to stop leaving. Unfortunately, there are only so many places on campus where you can hide before reality catches up to you.
Reality, as it turns out, wears oversized practice clothes and has a tendency to follow you around until you listen.
Three days pass before you speak to Soonyoung properly. Three days of avoided messages. Three days of rehearsals cancelled under increasingly ridiculous excuses. Three days of pretending the final presentation is not rapidly approaching.
The psychology department is unimpressed. The dance department is unimpressed. Your friends are extremely unimpressed.
You are sitting in an empty practice room attempting to ignore seventeen unread messages when the door suddenly opens.
Seungkwan walks in. Looks at you. Looks at the phone in your hand. Then closes the door behind him.
"Oh good."
You immediately know this is going to be unpleasant.
"What?"
"I'm about to say something as your friend."
"No."
"And you're going to hate it."
"No."
"And then you're going to realize I'm right."
"No."
He pulls a chair around and sits backwards on it. The posture of a man preparing for violence. Verbal violence. The worst kind.
"You know he's miserable."
You stare at the floor.
"He'll survive."
"That's not the point."
"He said it in front of everyone."
"Because he's stupid."
You can't argue with that. Unfortunately. Seungkwan notices.
"Exactly."
The silence stretches. Neither of you move. Finally, he sighs.
"You know what the annoying thing is?"
"What?"
"He didn't even realize he'd confessed."
You blink.
"What?"
"He genuinely didn't."
The words settle heavily in your chest. Because that sounds exactly like something Soonyoung would do.
Not plan. Not prepare. Just accidentally tell the truth before realizing what he'd done. Seungkwan shakes his head.
"Nobody should be that emotionally constipated and emotionally honest at the same time."
"That isn't a thing."
"It is when it's him."
Against your better judgement, you laugh. Seungkwan points accusingly.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The reason this entire situation is ridiculous."
You narrow your eyes. He narrows his right back.
"You like him."
You immediately look away. Unfortunately, your silence answers for you. Seungkwan groans.
"Oh my god."
"Stop."
"You actually do."
"Stop."
"You're both unbelievable."
He throws his hands into the air.
"Do you know how annoying you've been?"
"I haven't done anything."
"You've spent months staring at each other."
"We have not."
"You literally choreographed a love story."
"It wasn't—"
"It absolutely was."
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. Nothing comes out. Seungkwan stands. Victorious. The worst kind of victorious.
"I hate being right."
"You love being right."
"That's true."
He heads for the door. Then pauses. For a moment, his expression softens.
"If it helps, he's just as scared as you are."
The door closes behind him. Leaving you alone. And with far too much to think about.
—
The next day, you find Soonyoung waiting outside the studio. Of course you do. For a brief moment, neither of you move. Neither of you speak.
Months ago, this silence would have been impossible. Now it feels strangely natural. The familiar shape of him. The familiar weight of his presence. The familiar nervous habit of rubbing the back of his neck.
You know all of them now. Far too well.
"Hi."
His voice is quieter than usual. You hate how relieved you feel hearing it.
"Hi."
The silence returns. Then—
"I'm sorry."
The words come immediately. Before you can speak. Before you can react. Like he's been carrying them around for days.
"I shouldn't have said that in front of everyone."
You swallow.
"So you didn't mean it?"
His head snaps up. The answer arrives so quickly it almost startles you.
"No."
The word hangs between you. Then—
"No, that's not what I mean."
His eyes close briefly.
"See? This is why talking is terrible."
Despite everything, a laugh escapes. Small. Unexpected. His shoulders relax slightly. Just slightly.
"I meant..." He exhales slowly. "I meant I shouldn't have said it like that."
Something shifts. The air feels different. Lighter. More fragile.
"I wasn't supposed to tell you like that."
Your pulse begins climbing. Dangerously.
"What way were you supposed to tell me?"
The question slips out before you can stop it. Soonyoung freezes. Immediately. You watch the realization hit him.
The understanding. The opportunity. The absolute panic.
His eyes widen.
"Oh."
For a moment he genuinely looks like he'd rather perform six consecutive dance showcases than continue this conversation.
Then he laughs softly. Disbelieving. At himself. At the situation. At both of you.
"Honestly?"
You wait.
"I had no plan."
That sounds right. Painfully right. A smile pulls at your mouth.
"So your strategy was to accidentally confess during an academic presentation?"
"Apparently."
"That's terrible."
"I know."
You stare at each other. The distance between you suddenly feels much smaller than before. The months of rehearsals. The study sessions. The coffee runs. The choreography. The trust exercises. Every moment begins stacking together.
One after another. Until neither of you can pretend anymore.
"Soonyoung."
His breath catches. Just slightly.
"Yeah?"
You look directly at him. And decide you're tired. Tired of avoiding. Tired of pretending. Tired of acting like the best part of your week isn't standing beside him.
"I think I started falling for you during the blindfold exercise."
The confession arrives quietly. Without drama. Without fanfare. Without choreography. Yet somehow it feels more terrifying than any performance you've ever given. For one horrifying second, Soonyoung simply stares. Then his entire face changes.
Like sunrise. Like someone switched on every light in the room.
"You did?"
You immediately regret saying anything.
"Don't make me repeat it."
His grin appears. Slowly. Wonderfully.
"You liked me during the blindfold exercise."
"I hate you."
"You trusted me."
"I regret everything."
"You totally trusted me."
You cover your face. Somewhere above you, Soonyoung laughs. The sound is warm. Familiar. Dangerously fond.
When your hands finally lower, he's still smiling. Still looking at you. Like he can't quite believe you're real.
Neither can you.
—
The final presentation arrives three days later. The auditorium is full. Far too full. Faculty members.
Students. Researchers. Friends.
People who absolutely have better things to do than attend a psychology presentation. Yet somehow everyone is here. Especially Seungkwan. Who looks entirely too excited.
The traitor.
Backstage, the nervous energy feels overwhelming. You adjust your costume. Check your shoes. Check them again. Beside you, Soonyoung bounces lightly on his feet.
Anxious. Excited. Both. The familiar sight settles something inside your chest. You reach out. Without thinking.
Your fingers find his.
Immediately. The movement surprises both of you. His eyes widen. Then soften. The smile he gives you is small. Private. Different from the bright ones he shares with everyone else. This one belongs only to you.
"You ready?"
You squeeze his hand.
"Yeah."
And for the first time all semester, you actually mean it.
—
When the music begins, everything else disappears.
The audience. The researchers. The expectations. The nerves.
Gone.
Only the dance remains. The story remains.
The two of you remain.
The choreography no longer feels like acting. Perhaps it never did. Because every moment now carries the truth beneath it.
The curiosity. The friendship. The trust. The affection. The love.
None of it needs translating anymore. You don't have to perform it. You simply have to let it exist. And somehow that makes the dance more beautiful than either of you imagined.
When the final note fades, the silence that follows feels endless. Then applause erupts.
Loud. Immediate. Overwhelming.
Beside you, Soonyoung is breathing hard. Smiling.
Looking happier than you've ever seen him. You realize you're smiling too. Neither of you stop.
—
Later, during the presentation of findings, one of the graduate researchers clears her throat.
"Our study found that strong nonverbal synchronization was often associated with emotional familiarity, trust, and interpersonal attachment."
The audience nods. Notes are taken. Slides advance. Then the researcher smiles. A dangerous smile. The kind that means trouble.
"In one particular partnership, the synchronization scores exceeded every prediction in our original model."
The room begins laughing. Because everyone knows exactly which partnership she's talking about. You bury your face in your hands.
Soonyoung looks delighted. The researcher continues.
"Although the study cannot scientifically prove romantic feelings..."
More laughter.
"...the data certainly suggested something."
The entire auditorium turns toward you. Immediately.
Traitors.
Every single one of them.
Beside you, Soonyoung groans. Then laughs. Then reaches for your hand beneath the table.
And doesn't let go.
—
[CASE FILE 004]
Status update:
Y/N likes me back.
This feels important.
Scientific conclusion:
Mirror neurons are real.
Synchronization is real.
Psychology students are terrifying.
Seungkwan is annoying.
Most important finding:
Apparently dancing like you're in love becomes significantly easier when you actually are.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: yoon jeonghan x f.reader, choi seungcheol x f.reader
things feel more complicated then ever, when love gets involved.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): roommates to fucking, angst, smut, romance, friends to lovers, love triangle
𝐚𝐮(𝐬): nonidol
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.5k
𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: seungcheol is trying his best, fuckboy Seungcheol, jealous seungcheol, mentions of protective/jealous jeonghan, jeonghan is quite literally the best boy here, lots of hurt and emotions in this one. mc is extremely confused about her feelings, best boy roommate joshua.
𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, soft sweet vanilla sex, heated make out session, oral (fem rec), body worship, marking, cum play, creampie, breast play, p in v intercourse, cock warming?, nicknames: baby, darling (hers), hannie, baby (his)
𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw
𝐚𝐧: I’m sorry this took so long to post. I’ll try and have part four out quicker. Thank you @aeristudios for helping me with this one. Thank you @supi-wupi for beta reading. I wanna know what everyone thinks of each of the boys.
series masterlist | series taglist
🎧: beg for you - charli xcx (ft rina sawayama) | we can’t be friends - ariana grande | pov - ariana grande
They say all is fair in love and war. After Jeonghan’s not so pleasant conversation in the kitchen with Seungcheol, he’s made the decision that he doesn’t need to fight fair. He’s not going to outright tell you to pick him, but he’s going to fight like hell to prove he’s the one.
After Jeonghan's encounter with Seungcheol you immediately know something happened. Jeonghan is trying to act normal, but you can tell he seems to be overthinking everything. Hell, even Seungcheol is acting weird. It’s been a long day at school studying and you’re sitting in the kitchen with Jeonghan and Joshua working on some homework. Seungcheol comes into the kitchen and watches you guys for a minute. He’s standing holding two coffees.
Joshua looks up and gives Seungcheol a confused look. “What’s up Cheol?”
“I just came from class and stopped by a coffee shop to grab coffee. ____ I got you the banana latte I know you like.” You look up and knit your brows confused by his sudden nice gesture.
Jeonghan leans back and crosses his arms. It’s clear Seungcheol wasn’t lying, he planned on trying to win you over. Jeonghan looks at you, watching you study Seungcheol for a moment before finally speaking. “Thanks Cheol. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I kept thinking of you today, and I thought you might enjoy a surprise coffee.”
Jeonghan knew Seungcheol wasn’t going to make this easy. “I’m just stopping by, before heading to the gym for Jihoon. Maybe we can all order pizza tonight.” It’s been months since the entire apartment hung out together. Jeonghan is literally silent, unsure of even what he should say. You’re also quiet, this is all very unexpected.
“I planned on staying home. I think Kitten might come over.” Joshua’s other best friend coming over might make this whole situation a little less awkward.
“How does it sound like eight?” Seungcheol asked.
“That works.” You chime in.
Seungcheol heads off to the gym and shortly after Jeonghan excuses himself, leaving you alone with Joshua.
“I should go pick up Kitten. You should maybe talk to Jeonghan.”
Closing your laptop you look at Joshua for a moment. This whole apartment feels filled with tension. “Is Jeonghan mad at me?”
“No, you silly goose.” Joshua pats your head. “I think he is just under a lot of pressure at school and Cheol and him have been butting heads.” There is a nauseous feeling in your stomach at the thought that you’re the reason he and Seungcheol are butting heads. “Just go spend time with him before the movie. I’ll be back soon with Kitten.”
Walking into Jeonghan's room you shut and lock the door behind you. You find him sitting on his bed scrolling through his phone. “Hannie, are you okay?”
He looks up and gives you the best smile he can muster. “Yeah.”
“That doesn’t sound convincing.” Putting your knee on the bed you crawl towards him. You move so you’re sitting on his lap. He silently watches you as you push his hair away from his face. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“You, you’re always on my mind. Even before we could comfortably be intimate. You’re always on my mind. You’ll probably be on my mind forever.” Since he met you, he’s known he was going to fall head over heels in love with you.
“Are you upset with me?” You rest your hand gently on his cheek.
“No, I’m not upset with you.” He shakes his head gently.
“What’s wrong?” It’s clear you don’t plan on dropping this.
“Seungcheol pissed me off the other day.”
Your face falls instantly. Jeonghan hates that you immediately seem sad. “Hey, don’t worry about it—” he pauses. “Darling?”
“Yeah?”
“I just want you to know, I care about you so much. I like you, like I have never liked someone before.” He wants to tell you he loves you, but until he can figure out the Seungcheol situation he doesn’t want to confuse you more, by just blurting it out.
Leaning forward you rest your forehead against his. “Hannie—”
“You don’t have to say anything else. I just want you to know that I care about you.” He rubs his hand up and down your back. Leaning forward you press your lips to his for a gentle kiss.
“Darling, why don’t we just lay here for a little while?”
Pulling back you give him a small smile. You wanna cancel tonight. You just want to stay locked away in his bedroom, away from Seungcheol. “Can I sleep in here tonight?”
“Of course.”
Wrapping his arms around you, he moves you both so he’s laying down with you practically plastered on top of him. Your head rests on his chest. Mindlessly, he runs his hands up and down your back. Lifting your baggy sweater, he drags his hand across your bare skin.
“We have about two hours.” You sigh.
“Does that mean we can nap?”
Looking up at him you give him a mischievous smile. “All you want to do is nap?”
He captures his bottom lip between his teeth. “What are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know.” You rest your head back down on his chest.
“Baby look at me.”
Looking up at him through your lashes, you can't help but think he looks good. “Hannie, what should we do?” Shifting your leg you grind against his thigh. “Can you eat me out?”
“Take off your panties and leggings, baby.”
Rolling off him, you follow his request. You leave your sweater on, you’re sprawled out on his bed. Your feet rest on the grey cotton comforter, with your legs spread. He’s laying on his stomach. His face is buried in your wet core. Your fingers are tangled in his dark hair holding him against your core. He’s so good with his mouth. One arm is wrapped around your thigh, while the hand is busy teasing your wet entrance.
Biting your bottom lip you try your hardest not to scream. You moan his name like a prayer. “That’s it baby.” He moans, pulling away slightly.
“Fuck—” Every muscle in your body feels tense as you get close to the edge. “Please.” You’re practically begging for your release. Jeonghan adds another finger, pumping them in and out of your tight walls. “Han—nie.” You whine.
The noise he’s pulling from you, is enough to make him hard. He grinds against the bed hoping for some relief as he pushes you close and closer to the edge.
Your high hits you hard. Rolling your head back, you bite your bottom lip so hard you’re worried you might draw blood. Your walls flutter around his fingers. He slowly licks at your clit, helping you ride out your high.
Pulling back, he’s wearing a grin. He puts his fingers in his mouth licking your release. “You taste so sweet.”
He pushes himself up sitting on his knees between your spread legs. His erection is straining against his lounge pants.
“Do you want me blow you, or do you want to fuck me?” You push your sweater up just below your bra.
“Baby what do you want?”
“I want you to fuck me.”
“As you wish.”
He gets off the bed long enough to remove his clothes. He pumps his length slowly watching you. His length is leaking precum, he’s clearly ready to go. Crawling back on to the bed, he sits on his knees between your spread legs.
He takes his cock in hand and runs it through your wet folds. Earning a moan as he nudges your sensitive clit. Pushing into you slowly, a gasp passes your lips as he bottoms out.
“I want you close.” You want to feel him as physically close as possible.
He moves so he is practically resting on top of you. Your fingers tangle in his dark hair. He’s staring at you, as if you’re the only person in the entire world.
He moves at a slow and deep pace rolling his hips into you. One of your legs wrap around his waist. Your foot rests just above his butt, pulling him closer to you.
He grabs one of your hands, holding it above your head. His fingers are laced with yours. He continues thrusting into you with deep thrust. He starts picking up the pace.
“Fuck—” You moan against his lips.
“You’re so good.” He groans.
He grabs your other hand, pinning it above your head. His nose rests against yours. Desperately you want to kiss him.
“Hannie—”
“Close.” Your body feels like a live wire.
“Cum for me baby.” He crashes his lips against yours. He kisses you like he needs you to breathe. The world feels as if it’s stopped moving and all that matters is you and Jeonghan. Your walls contract around him as your release crashes over you.
Logically he should pull out, but all the logical parts of his brain have shut off. He picks up his paces, chasing his own high.
He falls apart moaning against your lips. His milky release fills you to the brim. He still for a long moment. He releases your hands. Reaching up he pushes your hair away from your face. Closing your eyes you give him a dazed smile.
“My pretty girl.”
Gently he pulls out, watching as his release starts to drip. Without thinking, he runs his finger through your wet folds, pushing his cum back inside you. There is this dirty little voice in the back of his head that’s happy about the fact that even though Seungcheol wants you, you’re filled with his cum. He hates that he has that possessive thought.
“I need to clean you up.” He hops off the bed and grabs his lounge pants. He throws them on before jogging off to the bathroom to grab a wet cloth. Crawling back on the bed he sits between your legs, and gently wipes away the mess he’s made.
“Thank you.” You sound dazed.
“You don’t need to thank me.” He rubs your thigh.
“You made me feel good though.” You sigh.
“My one goal is to make you always feel good.”
“Can you lay down with me?” You pat the bed next to you. Without saying a word he lays down next to you. You reach over lacing your fingers with his. “I know Cheol is upsetting you. I just want you to know, I want you.”
You saying that should ease his mind, but he’s so scared he’s going to lose you. He’s not sure he can handle the heartbreak of watching you slip through his fingers. “I want you too.”
There is a long beat of silence. “Why don’t we take a nap before movie night starts.” You cuddle close to him.
-
Joshua and Kitten have arrived back at the apartment. The first thing you notice on the side of Kitten’s neck is two hickeys. You saw her yesterday, and she definitely didn’t have them. You’ve had a sneaking suspicion for a while something was going on with her and Joshua. And by the way she’s watching him set the pizza up at the table, you’re starting to think your suspicions are right.
Realizing you can’t find your phone you head off to Jeonghan’s room to find it. You quickly find your phone sitting on his nightstand. Walking out of the room you’re greeted to the sight of Seungcheol exiting his room right across the hall.
“How was your coffee?” He asked, leaning against his door.
“It was good. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Contrary to popular belief, I actually think about you all the time.” He has a good idea what unfolded between you and Jeonghan while he went to the gym. Jeonghan isn’t going to make this easy, so there is no point in Seungcheol trying to be subtle.
“Cheol.”
“I meant it when I said I was sorry. I also meant what I said about wishing I would have acted on my feelings.” He steps closer to you.
“I have something really good with Jeonghan, and you’re complicating it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think you’re sorry.” You tilt your head studying him.
”I just want to prove to you I can be a good guy.” He reaches out slowly, testing the waters. His hand lingers against your cheek as he pushes the hair away from your face.
“Darling, can you grab my spare phone charger?” Jeonghan shouts from the living room. Pulling away from Seungcheol you snap out of it.
“Sure.” You yell back.
You step back from Seungcheol and rush off to Jeonghan room. Stepping inside you take a deep breath. Being that close to Seungcheol makes your head spin.
Walking towards Jeonghan you hand him his phone charger. He gives you a smile before leaning in and kissing the side of your mouth. You don't need to turn around to know that Seungcheol is watching you closely.
Everyone quickly devours the pizza. The boys take this time to pick something to watch. You could careless what you watch. You're honestly too distracted by Seungcheol.
Sitting on the living room couch, cuddled close to Jeonghan. Joshua is sitting on the couch next to you with Kitten sitting on the floor between his legs. Your eyes keep flicking over and watching him mindlessly play with her hair. Seungcheol is sitting in the chair next to the couch. You can feel his eyes burning into you. After way too much arguing between the boys, they decided to turn on some action movie. Personally, you aren’t paying attention, you’re focused on Jeonghan’s arm that is thrown over your shoulder. His hand resting by your shoulder is toying with your sweater.
The longer the movie plays the harder it is for you to stay awake. The movie ends and Joshua takes Kitten home. You're left on the couch as Seungcheol and Jeonghan silently clean up. You're in a twilight sleep, barely awake.
Jeonghan is try to focus on making the apartment look decent so he can escape Seungcheol and take you to bed. At this moment all he wants to do is hold you.
Jeonghan is washing a few of the dishes that were used while Seungcheol is putting away left overs.
"Jeonghan?" Seungcheol closes the fridge.
"What Cheol?" He continues washing the last dish.
"Do you want me to carry her to bed?" Seungcheol already knows Jeonghan is going to say no, but he can't stop himself from asking.
"No."
"She's tired."
Jeonghan shuts off the sink and lets out a heavy sigh. "I'm aware. I'll get her into my bed. Just leave her alone." He wipes his hands dry on the towel hanging near him.
"Are you really that territorial of her?"
"Fuck off Cheol. I'm too tired for your bullshit."
Seungcheol lets out a bitter laugh, "You act like I asked if I can take her to my bed."
"I'm not playing this game. I'm going to bed."
He walks out of the kitchen and heads straight to the couch, where you're sound asleep. He pushes your hair away from your face. Seungcheol stands in the door way watching both of you.
"Baby, let's go to bed." Jeonghan calling you ‘baby’ feels like a stab to Seungcheol’s gut.
Your eyes flutter open. You had barely fallen asleep. You slowly blink at Jeonghan. A silent yawn passes your lips. You stand up with Jeonghan's help.
Looking over by the kitchen you find Seungcheol watching you both with a hurt look on his face. Lacing your fingers with Jeonghan he leads you off to his room.
Stripping down to your panties and shirt you've left in his room. You crawl under the covers.
Laying on your side you watch Jeonghan start getting ready for bed. He seems tense.
"Hannie?"
"I'll be there in a minute, darling."
"I like when you call me baby."
He turns around, tension slowly dissipates from his body. "Okay, baby." You've always loved that he's called you darling since you met, but now that things have shifted between you, you've grown fond of him calling you baby.
He pulls back the cover crawling into bed next to you. Pulling your body close, he pushes your hair away from your face.
A quiet yawn passes your lips. He can help but smile at how cute you look.
"Someone is ready for bed."
He lays on his back, pulling you close to him. Your bodys as close to eachother as possible. Your head is resting on his chest, as your leg is thrown over his stomach. It doesn't take long before you're sound asleep in his arms.
Jeonghan lays there hold you. He hopes no matter what happens he never loses you.
-
This morning is off to a terrible start. You forgot to set your alarm, and normally Jeonghan would wake you up, but he's has a super early class in the morning.
You start throwing on any clothes you can grab that make you look at least decently nice.
Rushing out into the kitchen you're praying Joshua is home so he can take you to work. Instead you're greeted to the sight of Seungcheol making a cup of coffee.
"Fuck." You say under your breath.
Seungcheol glances up from his coffee. "What's wrong?"
"I'm definitely going to be late for work. I overslept. Jeonghan is at class and I was hoping Shua was home."
"I can take you. I don't have class today. I was just going to go to the gym in an hour."
"It's fine." You turn on your heels.
"It's clearly not fine. Let's go, I'll drive you." He sits his coffee on the counter.
This is probably a terrible idea, but you can't say no. You can't be late for work, and Seungcheol is your only option.
He grabs his keys sitting on the table next to the door. You silently you follow him. Arriving at his car, you're reminded of what unfolded between the two of you in the back seat.
Hopping into the passenger seat, you push away the vivid memories of his hands all over your body. Staring out the window you focus on the road.
The drive is filled with silence. The radio lightly plays giving a little bit of background noise, slightly cutting the awkward tension. Seungcheol loosely grips the steering wheel as he strums his fingers. Leaning your head against the window, you try to focus on anything other then him. This day is terrible and it just started. You somehow forgot to set your alarm. It's also Jeonghan’s long day at school, so there is a good chance he can't pick you up. Maybe Joshua can pick you up after work.
Seungcheol clears his throat catching your attention.
"What time are you off?" He asks breaking the awkward silence.
"At five."
"Jeonghan has school until seven, and Joshua mentioned something about dinner with Kitten's parents." You might not realize it, but Seungcheol is actually very observant. He tends to always know what is happening in the apartment.
"I know about Jeonghan's schedule, and I assumed Shua was probably busy." It looks like you're taking the bus home from work.
"I can pick you up. I don't want you walking home or taking the bus." He pulls into the parking lot of you work.
Unbuckling your seatbelt you glance at him, knitting your brows together. In the last two days, Seungcheol has been going out of his way to be nice to you.
"It's okay, you're busy, I can take the bus."
"I would prefer I pick you up." He turns the car off.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'll see you right here at five."
Work was quite uneventful to say the least. On your break you were checking in with Jeonghan, trying to see if he wanted to do something for dinner. You weren't expecting him to tell you he's going to be at school even later then normal.
When work finally ends you find Seungcheol leaning against his car outside. The worst part is he looks incredibly good. He's dressed in jeans and a shirt that shows off all his muscles. Staring at him for probably too long, you're reminded of your stupid crush on him. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath.
"How was work?" He ask as soon as you get close enough.
"Uneventful."
You open the passenger door and get into the car. Seungcheol hops in and watches as you buckle your seatbelt.
"Do you have dinner plans?" He asks.
"I was trying to have dinner with Hannie, but he's stuck at school." You let out a sigh.
"Joshua said he's at Kitten's place tonight." You're hit with the realization that it's really just you and Seungcheol tonight. "Did you maybe want to grab something on the way home?"
"I'm not sitting down in a restaurant with you." That would feel too much like a date, and you refuse to do that to Jeonghan.
He holds his hands up surrendering. "I was thinking we could grab take out. Hell we can even pick food up for Jeonghan."
Your brows knit together trying to think of what to say. This entire situation feels weird.
"Sure."
"Did you want to stop by that Thai food place I know you like?" You realize that Seungcheol pays attention to you more than you thought he did.
"You know which Thai food place I like?"
"Yeah, it's the one off third street. I always see the menu in our kitchen." He gives you a gentle smile.
"Oh."
Seungcheol buckles up and starts driving towards the restaurant. You send Jeonghan a text letting him know you'll have dinner for him once he's finally home from school.
Arriving at the restaurant, you both head inside together. You order pad the Thai and tom yum soup that you and Jeonghan both like, and before you can pay, Seungcheol jumps in and adds to the order. He hands over his credit card before you can even process what's happening.
"You didn't have to do that." You say as you walk over towards little table to wait for your food.
"I know but I wanted to."
The wait for the food only takes about ten minutes. Seungcheol grabs the bag and you both head out to the car.
Arriving home you follow Seungcheol into the kitchen. He sets the bag down and starts grabbing bowls and plates. You work on dishing yourself and saving Jeonghan's food for him. You set it aside and join Seungcheol at the table.
This is definitely and odd experience, in the whole time you've lived with Seungcheol, you don't think you've ever had dinner just the two of you.
You eat in silence for a few moments before Seungcheol finally speaks. "This place is really good. I can see why you and Jeonghan like it."
"He actually found it. He took me there one night to get me to stop studying. I had given myself a headache from studying nonstop and he begged me to take a break. He bribed me by telling me he found the place with the best pad Thai around." You remember that night fondly. You were well aware of your feelings for Jeonghan long before then, but you realized that night you fallen so hard for your best friend/roommate.
"Jeonghan has always been really good to you." He sounds sad as he says it.
"He is."
"I wish I had treated you better." He wishes he could go back and change things.
"I didn't need you to treat me better." You sit your spoon down. "I know you regret things Cheol, but maybe it's best you didn't complicate things back then."
"Back then?" He raises his brow.
"You're complicating things now." You don't want to have this conversation. You don't want him to know that he does nothing but confuse you.
"I am?"
You pick up your chopsticks and take another bite of your food. Seungcheol carefully watches each of your moves.
"What do you mean?" He asks.
"Things should be easy for me and Hannie, but you've managed to make things complicated." You let out a sigh, putting your chopsticks back down.
"Are they not easy?"
"No, because you're confusing me. I'm doing nothing but hurting Hannie because I'm so fucking confused."
"How am I confusing you?" He respones.
"Because for some reason I don't just have feelings for him." It hurts to say it out loud. You don't want Seungcheol to know you feel something for him.
"Do you like me?"
"No." You stand up quickly.
"Liar." He follows you and stands up.
"I don't want to like you. I want love only Jeonghan." You point your finger at him.
You saying you love Jeonghan feels like a bucket of ice cold water being poured in him.
"You love Jeonghan?"
"Yes. I haven't been able to say it out loud to him yet because I'm scared I'm going to hurt him."
You turn on your heels desperately needing to escape this conversation. Seungcheol grabs your hand stopping you from leaving. "Why would you hurt him?"
"Because I can’t shut off my feelings for you." You practically seethe. He drops your hand and stares at you completely shocked.
"Darling."
You shake your head. "Don't call me that."
Seungcheol stomach is twisting at the thought of you being so upset. He doesn't mind pushing Jeonghan's buttons while fighting for you, but the thought of you being upset at the idea of having feelings for both of them hurts. Seungcheol never wanted to do anything to upset you.
"I'm sorry." That the only thing he can think to say.
"I think dinner is over." You pull your hand away and instead of going to your room, you go off to Jeonghan's to wait for him.
It's close to ten at night with Jeonghan finally walks into the apartment. He finds Seungcheol sitting on the couch looking extra pouty.
Jeonghan knits his brows and debates on even interacting with him.
"What's wrong Cheol?"
Seungcheol glances up. "I just had a bad night. I'm going to stay with Jihoon tonight. You two can have the apartment to yourself."
Jeonghan instantly knows something happened between the two of you.
"She's in your room." Seungcheol says before heading out.
Jeonghan walks into his room and finds you laying on his bed. You're dressed in a baggy shirt that you've definitely stolen from his closet and a pair of panties. You instantly light up at the site of him.
"Hi, Hannie."
He walks over and presses his lips to yours for a quick kiss.
"Cheol, said we have the place to ourselves tonight."
"Oh." He was expecting more of a response then that.
"Is everything okay?" He starts to remove his clothes he's worn today, and gets dressed in just a pair of sweatpants.
"Seungcheol was just annoying me. Nothing new really." He can tell there is more to the story, but if you don't want to talk about it he won't push you.
"I have Thai food waiting to you."
You both head out into the kitchen. You get Jeonghan food and place it on the table. You both sit there chatting as he eat a very late dinner.
"With tomorrow being Saturday, why don't we spend the day together?" Jeonghan asks between bites.
"That would be great." Desperately need some alone time with Jeonghan, especially after today.
"Maybe we could take a trip to the aquarium. I know you mentioned wanting to see the jellyfish."
"I would love that."
Jeonghan takes a couple more bites of his food. "Darling, what actually happened with Seungcheol?"
You let out a heavy sigh and look down at the table. “We kinda got into a fight, or I guess you could say I just yelled at him." You feel embarrassed thinking back to it.
"About what?"
"Just about how he's interfering with what's going on with us."
Jeonghan puts his chopsticks down and reaches across the table. He takes your hand and gently squeezes it. "Baby, he's not messing up what we have."
"I feel like I'm just hurting you, because I can't turn off my feelings for him."
"It's okay. As long as your like me that's all that matters. It doesn't matter that you like him too." Jeonghan has told himself that if he loves you and you like him nothing else matters. He knows what you have together will be nothing compared to Seungcheol.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
He gives your hand another squeeze. "Baby stop stressing about Cheol. Just let yourself enjoy what we have. We can figure out the whole Cheol situation later."
You both clean up the kitchen before heading off to Jeonghan's room. You're curled up in bed next to him. He's scrolling through his phone as your head is resting on his chest.
"Hannie, thank you for being patient with me."
He leans down and kisses the top of your head. "I'm just glad I finally get to be with you." He wants to tell you he loves you, but he knows right now isn't the time. He's just happy he gets to go to bed holding you every night right now.
Early in the morning Jeonghan wakes up and makes you both a cup of coffee. He left you in his room sound asleep.
Can't help but let out a little laugh at the sight of Joshua slowly sneaking back into the apartment looking disheveled.
"Must have been one hell of a sleepover." Jeonghan says startling him.
Joshua stops and looks at his roommate. "Nothing happened."
"The three hickies on your neck says otherwise." Joshua can pretend all he wants that him and Kitten are being sneaky, but it's very obvious to everyone that lives in this apartment what is going on.
"We're not discussing this." Joshua lets out a sigh and walks towards Jeonghan.
Jeonghan rolls his eyes and sits down at the kitchen table. "Fine we don't have to discuss it."
Joshua walks over and steals the coffee that was intended for you. "So what's going on with you and darling?"
Jeonghan takes another sip of his coffee. "We're definitely together. We haven't labeled it officially, but to me she's my girlfriend."
"Why haven't you labeled it?"
Jeonghan isn't sure how much Joshua knows. In this apartment, there aren't many things that are kept a secret.
"Cheol has complicated things."
"Is it because they slept together?" Joshua is a smart man, and he was clearly able to put two and two together.
"You know about that?"
"She hinted about it one day, and after she was covered in hickies a while back I just assumed that's when it happened."
"I don't care that they slept together. Things are just complicated."
Joshua has been one of Jeonghan's best friends for a while now. If anyone could give him advice, it would be him.
"How are the complicated?"
"Darling likes me a lot, and I love her. The problem is she has feelings for Seungcheol too. She said they're not as strong as what she feels for me. She just said she can't seem to shut off what she feels for him."
"Does it matter to you?" Joshua asks, before taking another sip of his coffee.
"Honestly no. As long as she likes me, it doesn't matter. I just want to be with her. I don't think one day she'll decide she wants to leave me for him."
"Then I say tell her that. Tell her you love her."
Jeonghan lets out a little chuckle. "How did you know that I havent told her I love her?"
"Because I know you."
"I need to tell her."
-
Standing in the middle of the big glass that looks out in the sea of jellyfish Jeonghan pulls out his phone to snap some photos of you. He doesn't want to forget this moment ever. You turn around and signal for him to join you.
Walking over, he stands right next to you. You reach out lacing your fingers with his.
"Thank you for bringing me here." You glance over at him.
"Anything for you darling." He looks out at the dark water, watching as the fluorescent jellyfish move around.
He glances at you watching as you smile. You look so incredibly happy, to the point you're practically glowing.
"Can I say something?"
You glance over at him. "Of course."
"I love you." Instantly a weight feels as if it's been lifted off his shoulders as those three little letters finally leave his lips.
You turn to face him. A smile tugs at your lips. "I love you too." There was this little voice inside his head telling him you didn't feel the same way. Hearing you say it back makes his heart flutter. He knows things aren't going to be easy and even though you both love each other, there’s still a certain someone complicating things between you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
pairing: Jun x reader
synopsis: Jun adopts a cat who turns out to be a cursed human. You’re the only other person who knows the secret—and Jun might be falling for both the cat and you.
wc: 6.9k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Magic?, Found Family, Neighbours,
warnings: Cat was cursed…
a/n: happy birthday to junnie!!! This isn’t apart of the academia series like other members will be, bc HE STARTED THE SERIES!!! I highhhlyyyyy recommend reading Kiss Me, Its for Science or any other ones from the series! it was so so sooo fun to write any junnie fic!! Though i must say, while reading this fic, please ignore ALL logic and just accept whatever i have written regarding the cat…
The first time you meet the cat, it is sitting in the middle of the apartment hallway like it pays rent.
You nearly trip over it on your way home from work.
One second you're balancing a grocery bag against your hip while fumbling for your keys, and the next you're staring down at an orange-and-white cat sitting directly in front of your door with the kind of confidence usually reserved for landlords and people who cut queues without apologising.
The cat stares back. You stare back. The cat blinks. You blink.
"Hello?"
The cat's ears twitch.
Then, with all the dignity of a tiny king inspecting his territory, it stands up, walks directly over your shoes, and begins rubbing against your ankles.
"Oh," you say, immediately folding. "You're friendly."
The cat lets out a short meow.
It sounds less like a greeting and more like a sigh.
You crouch down carefully, setting your groceries on the floor, and reach out a hand. The cat sniffs your fingers before accepting a scratch beneath its chin, closing its eyes briefly as if granting approval.
"Do you belong to someone?"
The cat opens one eye. You swear it looks offended. Before you can investigate further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hallway. A moment later, a man rounds the corner.
A very tall man.
A very tall man who looks as though he's been running through the entire apartment complex for the last twenty minutes. His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, his hoodie is half-zipped, and he looks simultaneously exhausted and relieved when he spots the cat.
"There you are!"
The cat immediately walks behind your legs. The man stops. The cat stops. You glance between them. The cat presses itself against your ankle. The man sighs. The cat somehow manages to look smug.
"...I'm guessing this is yours?"
"Unfortunately," the man says.
The cat meows loudly.
"See? This is exactly what I mean."
You laugh before you can stop yourself. The stranger's expression brightens instantly, as if he hadn't expected anyone to find this situation amusing.
"I'm Jun," he says, holding out a hand. "From 8B."
You shake it. The cat bites his shoelace. Jun doesn't even look surprised.
"I'm Y/N."
"Nice to meet you."
The cat bites harder. Jun pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Please stop embarrassing me in front of my neighbours."
The cat releases the shoelace only to immediately sit on top of it. You laugh again. Jun looks delighted by this reaction. The cat looks annoyed by both of you.
And that, unfortunately, is how it starts.
—
Three days later, the cat escapes again.
Five days after that, it somehow ends up outside the building entirely.
A week later, you discover it sitting inside the communal laundry room watching a washing machine spin with the concentration of someone studying advanced physics.
At this point, you and Jun have exchanged numbers entirely for cat-related emergencies. Your conversation history consists primarily of photographs. Most of them are from Jun. Most of them are evidence.
[JUN] Found him inside my kitchen cabinet.
[JUN] *image attached*
[JUN] How did he get there?
[YOU] You own the cabinet.
[JUN] That's not the point.
[JUN] I was using that cabinet.
[YOU] Clearly he disagreed.
The responses usually arrive immediately. Jun, you discover, texts exactly the way he talks—enthusiastically, slightly randomly, and with enough exclamation marks to suggest every thought is exciting.
You also discover that he is alarmingly easy to like.
Not because he's famous, although you'd recognised him eventually after spending an embarrassing amount of time wondering why he looked familiar. Not because he's handsome, although that certainly doesn't help.
Mostly it's because Jun is kind. He remembers things. The name of your favourite convenience store drink. The fact that you hate mornings. The bakery near your office that sells those strawberry pastries you mentioned once in passing.
Small details seem to stick in his mind as naturally as breathing. Unfortunately, he applies this same energy to the cat. The cat, meanwhile, seems determined to make his life difficult.
—
You are in the middle of watering your plants when your phone rings.
Jun.
You answer immediately.
"Hello?"
"He's gone."
You glance at the clock. It's eight in the morning.
"Good morning to you too."
"He's gone."
"Have you checked under the couch?"
"Yes."
"The bed?"
"Yes."
"The cabinets?"
"Every cabinet."
You hear rustling.
Then silence.
Then a muffled curse.
"Jun?"
"He was in the laundry basket."
You pause.
"...Was?"
"He escaped again."
You close your eyes.
"How does one cat keep defeating you?"
"That's what I've been asking."
The answer arrives ten minutes later when a scratching sound comes from outside your apartment. You open the door. The cat strolls inside. Not into the hallway. Into your apartment. Like it lives there.
"You have got to be kidding me.”
The cat jumps onto your sofa. You call Jun.
"I found him."
The groan that follows sounds deeply personal.
—
The cat's official name is Dumpling. The cat hates this name. You know this because every time Jun says it, the animal visibly reacts. Not dramatically. Just enough. A flick of an ear. A narrowed stare. An expression that somehow communicates disappointment.
"You know," you tell Jun one evening, "I don't think he likes his name."
Jun looks scandalised.
"Dumpling is adorable."
The cat turns its back on him. You point.
"See?"
"He's being dramatic."
The cat knocks a pen off the coffee table. Jun gasps. The cat knocks another one down.
"I raised you better than this."
You nearly choke on your tea.
"You've had him for three weeks."
"That's enough time to learn manners."
The cat jumps onto the back of the sofa. Jun sighs heavily.
"Maybe he's entering his rebellious phase."
"Maybe?"
The cat stares directly at him while deliberately pushing a coaster off the edge of the table.
The silence that follows is incredible.
"Okay," Jun admits. "Maybe definitely."
—
You spend more time in Jun's apartment than you mean to. It starts innocently enough. A movie recommendation. An extra portion of dinner.
Help assembling a cat tree after Jun accidentally orders one with instructions written entirely in a language neither of you can read.
The cat supervises from the couch. Correction. The cat judges from the couch.
"Pass me the screwdriver?"
You hand it over. Jun smiles. The expression catches you off guard every single time.
Warm. Open. The kind of smile that makes a room feel brighter.
You look away before he notices.
Across the room, the cat watches the interaction with unsettling focus.
"Why is he staring at us like that?" you ask.
Jun glances over.
"Dumpling?"
The cat doesn't move.
"Yeah."
"He always does that."
"That's concerning."
"I think he's just curious."
The cat continues staring. You are unconvinced.
—
The strange thing is that the cat almost feels human sometimes. Not in a creepy way.
Just...
Odd.
He understands too much. Not commands. Not tricks. Conversations.
You mention a specific toy once and find him playing with it the next day.
You complain about a difficult coworker and the cat appears beside you with suspiciously good timing.
Sometimes it feels as though he's listening. Actually listening. When you mention this to Jun, he beams.
"I know."
"That wasn't supposed to be a positive observation."
"He's smart."
The cat puffs up proudly. You point immediately.
"See? That. Why did he react to that?"
Jun follows your gaze. The cat instantly stops. The three of you stare at one another.
No one says anything.
Eventually Jun shrugs.
"Dumpling is just special."
The cat looks pleased. You look concerned.
—
The moment everything changes happens on a rainy Thursday evening. You aren't supposed to be at Jun's apartment. That's important.
You're only there because he'd left his umbrella at your place after movie night and you happened to notice the weather getting worse.
The walk takes less than thirty seconds. You knock once. No answer. You knock again.
Still nothing.
Maybe he's showering. You try the handle. The door opens.
"Jun?"
You step inside. The apartment is quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear movement.
"Jun?"
A voice answers. But not Jun's.
"Wait."
You freeze. The voice sounds unfamiliar. Young. Panicked.
"Don't come in here."
Your stomach drops.
There is a stranger in Jun's apartment. You move toward the kitchen anyway. The stranger appears around the corner at exactly the same moment.
Orange hair. Wide eyes. An oversized hoodie. For one impossible second, they stare at you. Then their expression shifts from surprise to absolute horror.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
"What?"
The stranger points at you.
"No, no, no, no—"
You blink. The stranger vanishes. Not runs. Not ducks away. Vanishes.
A flash of movement. A burst of orange and white. And suddenly, sitting in the exact same spot on the kitchen floor—
—is Dumpling.
The cat stares up at you. You stare down at the cat. Neither of you moves. Then, very slowly, the cat closes its eyes.
As if already accepting its fate. And somewhere in the distance, you hear Jun's voice calling from the hallway outside.
"Y/N? Are you here?"
—
The first thing you do is scream. Not loudly, and definitely not dramatically (it was only a cutesy scream, you swear.)
More like the sound a person makes when their brain has completely stopped functioning and is desperately trying to restart itself.
The cat flinches. You point. The cat stares back. You continue pointing. The cat continues staring.
The front door opens.
"Y/N?" Jun calls. "Sorry, I had to grab a package from downstairs—"
The cat launches itself across the kitchen floor. You have never seen something move that fast in your life. One moment it's sitting in front of you. The next it has disappeared beneath the dining table. Jun rounds the corner.
"There you are."
You whip around. Jun pauses.
"You look pale."
You look at Jun. Then the table. Then Jun again. The cat remains hidden. You wonder if this is what having a breakdown feels like.
"Y/N?"
The cat's tail appears briefly from beneath a chair. Then disappears.
You inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
"Everything okay?" Jun asks.
No. Nothing is okay. Five minutes ago you watched his cat become a person.
"Yeah."
Jun blinks.
"Really?"
"No."
"Okay."
You appreciate the honesty.
Unfortunately, you cannot explain the situation because explaining the situation would involve saying, Jun, your cat is a human being and I watched him transform in your kitchen.
You are fairly certain that conversation would not go well.
"Work stress," you blurt.
Jun immediately looks concerned. The guilt nearly kills you.
"Do you want tea?"
You almost laugh. Because of course that's his solution. Tea. The world could literally be ending and Jun would probably offer snacks.
"Sure."
While Jun busies himself making tea, you slowly lower your gaze toward the underside of the table. Two golden eyes stare back. The cat has the audacity to look embarrassed.
—
You leave twenty minutes later. Not because you want to. Because if you remain in that apartment for one more second, you might accidentally start asking questions.
Such as:
Why is your cat human?
Why was your cat wearing clothes?
Where did the clothes come from?
And perhaps most importantly:
Why did your cat seem more worried about being caught than transforming itself?
The answers arrive at eleven thirty-seven that night.
In the form of scratching.
You stare at your apartment door. The scratching continues. Three scratches. Pause. Three more scratches. Pause. Three more.
"That is either a cat or a serial killer."
The scratching grows more impatient. You open the door. The cat immediately walks inside. Not unusual.
What is unusual is the folded piece of paper tied around his collar. You stare. The cat stares.
Slowly, you remove the note. There are four words written on it. WE NEED TO TALK. You look down. The cat nods. Actually nods. You close the door.
"This is somehow worse."
—
Half an hour later, you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor while the cat sits opposite you.
Neither of you speaks. Mostly because one of you physically cannot. The cat seems annoyed by this limitation. Eventually he hops onto your coffee table. A notebook slides toward you. You blink. The cat taps it with one paw. Then taps the pen.
"Oh."
The cat taps again.
"Right."
You open the notebook. The cat immediately begins writing.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat.
YOU SAW THAT.
You stare.
"Unfortunately."
The cat writes again.
I CAN EXPLAIN.
"I would love that."
A pause. The cat writes:
IT SOUNDS STUPID.
"Try me."
Another pause. Then:
I AM CURSED.
You stare at the words. The words stare back. The cat waits.
"...That's it?"
The cat narrows his eyes.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S IT.
"I mean," you say carefully, "if someone had asked me yesterday what explanation I'd expect for a human turning into a cat, curse would've been pretty high on the list."
The cat seems genuinely offended by this.
—
The explanation takes nearly an hour. Partly because writing everything down is slow. Partly because the cat keeps stopping to glare whenever you laugh.
Apparently, several years ago, he had been travelling through a small village and accidentally destroyed an elderly woman's herb garden. Not maliciously. Just catastrophically.
There had been a bicycle. A slope. A misunderstanding. Several chickens.
The story somehow becomes less believable every time he tells it. The woman, who may or may not have been a witch, cursed him. Since then, he has spent most of his life stuck as a cat.
Sometimes he transforms back. Sometimes he doesn't. Strong emotions tend to trigger changes. Unfortunately, emotions happen constantly.
Which means so do transformations.
"And Jun doesn't know?"
The cat writes:
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
"Why?"
The answer appears immediately.
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY.
You consider this. Fair point.
"How long have you been living with him?"
THREE MONTHS.
"Three months?"
The cat nods.
"He just found you?"
Another nod.
"That's insane."
The cat points at himself. Exactly.
—
The following week becomes a disaster. Not because of the curse. Because now you're involved.
Monday afternoon, Jun texts you.
[JUN] Question.
[YOU] That depends.
[JUN] Can cats learn how to unlock doors?
You immediately sit upright.
[YOU] Why?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
[JUN] No reason.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
[JUN] If my cat opened the bathroom door while I was showering.
[YOU] HE WHAT.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
You receive a photograph. The cat is sitting outside a bathroom door. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. You put your phone down.
The cat, currently sleeping on your couch, opens one eye.
"You need to stop doing crimes."
The cat closes his eye again.
—
Tuesday is worse. You stop by Jun's apartment after work. The door opens.
Jun smiles immediately when he sees you. Something warm settles in your chest.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
"Perfect timing."
You blink.
"Why?"
"Dumpling's hiding."
You look down. The cat, currently in human form, is standing behind the kitchen counter.
His eyes widen. Your eyes widen. Neither of you says anything.
Jun continues.
"I haven't seen him for an hour."
The human-cat begins gesturing wildly.
"That's weird."
"Right?"
The gestures become increasingly desperate.
You cough. Loudly.
The human-cat dives beneath the counter. A second later, an orange tail appears. Jun notices instantly.
"There he is!"
The cat emerges. Now fully feline. You do not ask questions. For the sake of your own sanity.
—
The problem is that keeping secrets creates opportunities for friendship. You hadn't intended to become friends with the cat.
It simply happened. Mostly because he's surprisingly easy to talk to. When he isn't stealing food.
Or causing problems. Or nearly exposing supernatural secrets.
One evening he appears on your windowsill carrying another notebook. You let him inside.
"What happened now?"
The notebook opens.
JUN BOUGHT ME A SWEATER.
You laugh.
The cat looks deeply unhappy.
HE HAS ONE TOO.
"That's adorable."
I LOOK RIDICULOUS.
"You look adorable."
The cat glares. You continue smiling. The cat eventually writes:
YOU ARE BOTH IMPOSSIBLE.
—
The truly unfortunate part is that the more time you spend around Jun, the harder everything becomes.
Because he's thoughtful. Because he's funny. Because he still texts you photographs every day. Because he always seems happy to see you.
And because your life has somehow become intertwined with his in ways neither of you planned.
Movie nights become routine. Shared dinners become normal. Sometimes you'll realise hours have passed without either of you noticing.
The cat notices. Unfortunately.
One evening you're sitting on Jun's couch watching a movie when his head slowly drops onto your shoulder.
At first you think it's accidental. Then you hear his breathing deepen. He's asleep.
Your entire body freezes. The room suddenly feels very warm. Across from you, the cat sits on the armchair.
Watching. Judging. Witnessing.
You glare. The cat stares back.
Slowly, he picks up a notebook from the side table. Writes something. Then turns it around.
OH YOU HAVE IT BADDDD.
You nearly throw a cushion at him. The cat looks delighted.
—
Later that night, after you've returned home and the apartment has fallen quiet, a folded note appears beneath your door.
You already know who it's from. The handwriting confirms it.
THANK YOU.
You smile despite yourself. Then flip the paper over. Additional text has been squeezed into the corner.
PLEASE DON'T TELL JUN.
You shake your head. A second line sits beneath it.
HE WOULD WORRY.
And somehow, more than the magic, more than the curse, more than the impossible situation you've found yourself trapped in—
That is the thing that makes your chest ache.
Because he's right. Jun would worry. About everyone. About everything. And maybe that's exactly why neither of you can bring yourselves to tell him. Not yet. Not when he smiles every time he sees the two of you waiting for him at home.
—
The first member to meet the cat is Soonyoung. This is unfortunate for everyone involved.
Especially the cat.
"HE LOOKS LIKE A TIGER."
The declaration arrives less than ten seconds after Soonyoung steps through Jun's front door. The cat, currently loafing on the sofa, visibly flinches.
You witness it. The cat witnesses it. Unfortunately, Soonyoung witnesses absolutely nothing. Jun lights up immediately.
"I told you he was cute."
"Cute?" Soonyoung repeats. "Jun, this isn't a cat."
The cat narrows his eyes. Soonyoung points dramatically.
"That is a tiger trapped in a smaller body."
The cat turns away.
"You hurt his feelings," you say.
"I spoke the truth."
"You compared him to a completely different species."
"So?" Soonyoung asks. "I'd be honoured."
The cat appears unconvinced.
—
The second problem is that Jun has started inviting you over so frequently that you've stopped knocking. At some point during the past month, the line between neighbour and friend had quietly disappeared.
You have your own mug in his kitchen. You know where he keeps spare blankets. You can navigate his apartment in the dark. Nobody ever discusses it.
It simply becomes normal. Dangerously normal.
The cat notices immediately. You know this because every time you arrive, he watches the interaction with increasingly concerning levels of interest.
Not judgment. Observation. Like he's conducting research. Like he's documenting evidence.
One afternoon, you arrive carrying takeout and find the cat sitting on the kitchen counter beside a notebook. The notebook is open. Several pages are filled with writing.
The moment he notices you looking, he slams it shut. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
"What are you writing?"
NOTHING.
"You're literally writing."
NOTHING IMPORTANT.
"You realise I can read."
The cat hugs the notebook against his chest.
You immediately become suspicious.
—
The situation worsens when the rest of Jun's friends begin appearing. Joshua arrives first. Then Minghao. Then Seungkwan.
The apartment somehow doubles in volume.
You are halfway through helping Jun prepare snacks when voices spill in from the hallway.
"Oh, Y/N's already here."
Your stomach performs an embarrassing little flip. Not because of Seungkwan. Because of the way Jun smiles.
Bright. Immediate. Unconsciously happy.
"Yeah," Jun says. "They got here earlier."
The cat, perched on the back of the sofa, immediately looks between both of you. You pretend not to notice. The cat continues noticing.
—
The evening begins normally.
Or as normally as possible when several members are crammed into one apartment arguing over board game rules.
The problems start approximately thirty minutes later. Specifically when Seungkwan begins paying attention.
"Wait."
Everybody ignores him.
"Wait."
Joshua continues setting up the game.
"Wait."
Minghao sighs.
"What?"
Seungkwan points.
At the cat. The cat freezes.
"That cat is weird."
The room falls silent. You nearly choke. The cat stops breathing. Jun blinks.
"Dumpling?"
"Yeah."
"What about him?"
Seungkwan squints. The cat squints back.
"He's looking at me."
Jun laughs.
"That's what cats do."
"No."
Seungkwan points harder.
"He's looking at me like he knows my tax information."
The cat immediately looks away. You cover your mouth. Minghao's shoulders start shaking. Joshua physically leaves the room because he's laughing too hard.
"See?" Seungkwan says triumphantly. "THAT."
"What?"
"That guilty look."
The cat leaps off the sofa and disappears into the bedroom. Seungkwan gasps.
"HE KNOWS."
—
The cat spends the next week avoiding Seungkwan. This only makes things worse. Apparently, if a person believes a cat is suspicious, the correct response is not to act suspicious.
Unfortunately, nobody explains this to the cat. The result is catastrophic. Every time Seungkwan enters a room, the cat leaves. Every time Seungkwan sits down, the cat relocates. Every time Seungkwan tries to pet him, the cat stares into the distance like he's remembering a war.
"It's personal," Seungkwan concludes.
"It's not personal," Jun says.
"It feels personal."
The cat immediately jumps off the couch. Seungkwan points.
"SEE?"
—
Minghao notices first. Not the curse. Not the transformations.
You.
Specifically, the way Jun looks at you. Which is significantly worse. The discovery occurs during movie night.
The apartment is quiet. The lights are dim. Everybody is focused on the screen except Minghao.
Minghao is focused on Jun. Jun is focused on you. The cat is focused on everyone. Minghao slowly turns toward Joshua.
Joshua follows his gaze. Then pauses. Then smiles.
"Oh."
The cat immediately notices. His eyes widen. Minghao notices the cat noticing. Now three people are aware of something.
You remain blissfully ignorant. Jun remains even more oblivious.
—
A group chat appears two days later. You discover its existence entirely by accident. Specifically because Jun leaves his phone unlocked while helping carry groceries. A notification appears.
[seungkwan] he smiled again
[minghao] i know
[joshua] it's getting embarrassing
[seungkwan] should we tell them
[joshua] absolutely not
[minghao] this is free entertainment
You immediately lock the screen.
Your face feels approximately one thousand degrees. Across the kitchen, the cat watches everything.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He gives you a thumbs up.
You nearly drop the groceries.
—
The truly alarming thing is that Jun keeps getting more comfortable around you.
Not intentionally. Not consciously.
It happens in small moments.
He hands you the first portion of food automatically. Saves your favourite seat. Texts you whenever something funny happens. Includes you in plans before asking if you're free.
As though your presence has become expected. As though you're already part of his life.
One evening you arrive after a particularly exhausting day. You don't even have time to say hello before Jun notices.
"Tough day?"
You blink.
"How did you know?"
"You look tired."
The answer is simple. Casual. Immediate. Something in your chest aches.
"Work was awful."
Jun frowns. The expression looks genuinely offended on your behalf.
"Want dinner?"
"That's your solution to everything."
"Dinner helps."
"It really doesn't."
Jun considers this.
"Okay."
A pause.
"Dinner and dessert?"
You laugh despite yourself. Across the room, the cat quietly writes something down.
—
The disaster happens on a Friday. Naturally. Disasters always happen on Fridays.
You arrive at Jun's apartment carrying coffee.
The door is unlocked. You let yourself inside.
"Jun?"
No response. The apartment appears empty. You walk toward the kitchen. Then stop. Human.
The cat is human. Very human.
Very surprised. Very standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a spoon.
The spoon falls. Neither of you moves. The cat closes his eyes.
"Oh no."
The front door opens.
"Oh no," the cat repeats.
Jun's voice echoes from the hallway.
"Y/N?"
Panic erupts instantly. The cat grabs your shoulders. You grab his shoulders. Neither of you has a plan.
"Hide."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Helpful."
Footsteps approach. The cat spins in a circle. You spin with him. Somewhere in the distance, Jun gets closer.
"Guys?"
"Window?"
"We're on the eighth floor."
"Right."
The cat gestures wildly. You gesture back. Neither of you contributes anything useful.
Finally, the cat dives behind the kitchen island. A second later, orange fur replaces human limbs.
You stare. The transformation still feels impossible.
Jun enters. The cat immediately appears from behind the counter.
That night, a folded page appears beneath your apartment door. You already know what it is. You unfold it. The familiar handwriting fills the page.
—
[CASE NOTES]
Current Threat Assessment:
Seungkwan suspicious.
Minghao observant.
Joshua entertained.
Jun oblivious.
Additional Notes:
Y/N and Jun spent thirty-two minutes talking in the kitchen today.
Neither realised everyone else had already left.
Concerning.
—
A final line has been squeezed into the bottom corner. At first glance, the handwriting appears rushed. Almost hesitant.
I think Jun likes you.
You stare at the sentence. Then immediately flip the page over. Nothing else is written there.
When you look back, the words haven't changed. The cat's handwriting remains stubbornly visible.
I think Jun likes you.
For some reason, that possibility feels far more terrifying than any curse.
—
The cat begins sabotaging your love life on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, he begins by sabotaging Jun's.
You don't realise this immediately. Mostly because the disaster starts small.
A missing shirt. A mysteriously hidden wallet. A phone that somehow ends up inside the linen cupboard.
Individually, none of these events are particularly suspicious. Together, however, they create a pattern.
Specifically, the pattern of a cat committing crimes.
"Have you seen my jacket?"
Jun is standing in the middle of his apartment looking genuinely confused. You glance up from the sofa.
"No?"
"I left it right here."
The cat, sitting three feet away, immediately looks out the window. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
Jun continues searching. The cat continues pretending to be innocent. Nobody is convinced.
—
The explanation arrives later that evening. Specifically after you corner the cat in your apartment and refuse to let him leave until he talks.
Human form this time. Mostly because he can actually explain himself.
"You're hiding things."
"I'm not hiding things."
"You hid his phone inside a cereal box."
The cat looks offended.
"It was a strategic location."
"You are impossible."
"So I've been told."
He drops onto your couch dramatically. You wait. The cat waits. Eventually, he sighs.
"It's because of the date."
You blink.
"What date?"
The look he gives you suggests you're the stupidest person alive.
"The blind date."
Oh. Right.
A few days earlier, one of Jun's friends had apparently decided he needed help finding romance. The resulting blind date had been arranged for this weekend.
Jun had agreed.
Mostly because he was too nice to refuse. The cat had hated the idea immediately.
Apparently.
"You've been sabotaging a blind date?"
"I've been delaying a blind date."
"That's worse."
"It's different."
"It isn't."
The cat folds his arms. You stare at each other. Eventually, he looks away first. And suddenly, for the first time since you've met him, he looks genuinely upset.
Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Just... sad. The change catches you off guard.
"What is it?"
The cat doesn't answer immediately. His gaze settles somewhere near the window. The city lights glow softly beyond the glass. For a long moment, the apartment feels strangely quiet.
Then—
"If the curse breaks, I'll leave."
The words land heavily between you. You freeze. The cat continues staring outside.
"I was always supposed to leave."
You don't know what to say. Because the thing is—
You've never actually thought about it. Not really. The curse has become part of daily life.
The transformations. The notes. The absurdity. The cat himself.
Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped feeling temporary. Stopped feeling like a problem that needed solving. Instead, he'd become...
Family.
The realisation hits harder than expected.
"I don't want to leave."
His voice is quiet.
"So don't."
The cat laughs. Not happily.
"You think curses work like rental agreements?"
"You're being dramatic."
"I learned from Jun."
You can't even argue with that.
—
The problem is that the conversation stays with you.
For days. Long after the cat leaves. Long after movie night. Long after Jun walks you home and lingers outside your apartment door for a few seconds longer than necessary.
The thought keeps returning. If the curse breaks. If the curse ends.
Then what? The cat leaves. Life changes. Everything changes. The idea feels wrong.
Uncomfortable.
Like imagining a missing piece in a picture you've grown used to. And perhaps that's why, a week later, you finally ask the question that's been bothering you.
"What actually breaks the curse?"
The cat pauses. He'd been halfway through stealing food from your kitchen. Now he simply stares.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I know what the old woman said."
"Which was?"
The cat sighs.
"'You'll return to yourself when you're accepted as yourself.'"
You blink.
"That's it?"
"That's literally it."
"That's incredibly vague."
"I KNOW."
The frustration in his voice sounds years old.
—
The answer arrives from somewhere completely unexpected. Seungkwan. Because, apparently, life enjoys irony.
It happens during one of the increasingly common group dinners at Jun's apartment.
Everyone is present. Food covers every available surface. Conversations overlap. The cat is currently asleep on Jun's lap. Which would be adorable if you didn't know he was actually a person.
"So," Seungkwan says suddenly.
You immediately become suspicious.
"So?" Jun asks.
"I've solved the mystery."
Nobody likes the way he says that.
"What mystery?" Joshua asks.
Seungkwan points dramatically. At Jun. Then at you. Then at the cat.
"The three of you."
Silence. The cat opens one eye.
"What about us?" you ask carefully.
Seungkwan leans back. Looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You all act like a family."
The room falls silent. Completely silent. The cat stops moving. Jun blinks. Minghao immediately looks interested. Joshua looks delighted. Seungkwan continues.
"It's weird."
"Thank you?" Jun says.
"No, seriously."
Seungkwan gestures vaguely.
"You."
Pointing at Jun.
"Cook."
Then you.
"You clean."
Then the cat.
"That one commits crimes."
The cat looks offended.
"That's a family."
Nobody says anything. Because somehow—
As ridiculous as the statement is—
It doesn't feel wrong.
—
That night, after everyone leaves, Jun walks you home. The journey takes less than a minute. Neither of you seems particularly eager to end it. The hallway is quiet.
The building mostly asleep. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. You glance over.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Jun."
He smiles. A little sheepish.
"A family, huh?"
Your chest immediately betrays you. The worst part is that he doesn't sound embarrassed. Or uncomfortable. Instead, he sounds...
Happy.
Like the idea itself makes him happy.
"Seungkwan says a lot of things."
"He does."
You reach your apartment door. Neither of you moves. The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.
The kind that makes you suddenly aware of every little thing. The warmth of the hallway lights. The softness in Jun's expression. The fact that he's standing much closer than usual.
For one impossible second, you think he might say something. Instead, he smiles.
"Goodnight."
The disappointment is immediate. And embarrassing.
"Goodnight."
Jun turns. Walks away. Then pauses.
Just before reaching his own apartment. He glances back. Smiles again. Then disappears inside.
Your heart remains absolutely useless.
—
The next morning, a note appears beneath your door. The handwriting is familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE #004]
Subject: Curse Investigation
Status: Ongoing.
Recent Findings:
Jun considers Y/N family.
Y/N considers Jun family.
I consider both idiots.
—
You laugh despite yourself. There is more. The writing below is messier. Less organised.
Like it was added later.
I think I finally understand.
You frown. Understand what?
The final paragraph answers.
For years, I thought breaking the curse meant becoming human again.
Maybe that was never the point.
Maybe the point was finding somewhere I didn't have to hide.
The words hit unexpectedly hard. Because for the first time, they don't feel like notes.
Or reports. Or evidence. They feel like a goodbye. And somehow, deep down, you know something is changing.
The curse is getting weaker. The cat knows it. Maybe even understands it. And for the first time since all this began—
You think he might finally be close to going home. The problem is that home isn't a place anymore.
It's Jun. It's you.
And none of you know what happens when the magic finally lets go.
—
The truth comes out because the cat finally gets tired.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Years of hiding have a way of wearing a person down, and despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat is still a person.
It happens on an ordinary Sunday. Which somehow makes it worse. There is no dramatic thunderstorm. No magical prophecy. No ancient witch appearing out of nowhere to explain things.
Just takeout containers, a half-finished movie, and Jun complaining because someone keeps stealing food off his plate.
"I'm serious," Jun says.
The cat, currently curled beside him on the couch, pointedly avoids eye contact.
"Every time I look away, something disappears."
You nearly choke on your drink. The cat looks offended. Jun narrows his eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
And then—
Without warning—
The room fills with golden light.
Everybody freezes. The cat freezes. You freeze. Jun freezes.
For one impossible moment, the entire apartment falls silent. The light swirls around the cat.
Brighter. Warmer. Familiar.
The same glow you've witnessed dozens of times before.
Except this time it doesn't stop.
"Oh."
The cat's voice returns first. Human. Entirely human.
Sitting where the cat had been seconds earlier. The takeout container slides off his lap.
Nobody reacts. Nobody breathes.
Jun stares. The cat stares back.
And after months of preparation, after endless contingency plans and increasingly ridiculous emergency scenarios, the only thing the cat manages to say is:
"...This isn't ideal."
—
The silence lasts approximately four seconds. Then Jun speaks.
"Oh."
Another pause.
"Oh."
The cat winces. You consider hiding. Jun continues staring. The cat continues existing.
You continue questioning every life decision that led to this moment.
Then, unexpectedly—
Jun stands up. Walks forward. And pokes the cat's forehead. The cat blinks. Jun blinks. The cat blinks again.
"You're real."
The cat stares.
"That is your first question?"
"What was I supposed to ask?"
"I don't know!"
The cat throws his hands into the air.
"Maybe why your pet is secretly a human?"
"That was definitely my second question."
"Jun."
"I'm getting there."
The cat looks ready to scream. You honestly can't blame him. For several long moments, Jun simply stands there processing. Then his expression changes.
Softens. The panic never comes. The anger never comes. Instead—
"You've been dealing with this alone?"
The cat freezes. The question hangs in the air. Everything suddenly feels very quiet. Because out of every possible reaction, somehow that is the one none of you expected. The cat's shoulders slump. Just slightly.
"Yeah."
Jun's expression crumples immediately.
"Oh."
And somehow that single syllable contains more heartbreak than any dramatic speech could.
—
The explanation takes hours. Mostly because Jun keeps interrupting. Not with accusations. Questions. Thousands of questions.
Have you been eating enough?
Where did you sleep before?
Were you scared?
Why didn't you tell me?
Did the veterinarian know?
The answer to that last one is apparently no. Thankfully.
The cat buries his face in his hands.
"I knew this would happen."
"What?"
"You worrying."
Jun looks genuinely confused.
"Of course I'm worried."
The cat laughs helplessly. And for the first time since you've met him, you realise just how exhausted he's been. How much effort it must have taken to keep carrying this alone.
Jun notices too. Because of course he does.
Without hesitation, he moves beside him on the couch. Close enough that their shoulders touch. Close enough that neither of them has to pretend anymore.
"You idiot."
The words are fond. The cat immediately starts crying.
—
The curse breaks completely three days later.
Not with magic. Not really. Not with fireworks or dramatic declarations. Just certainty.
No tail. No whiskers. No transformation. The curse is gone.
Just like that.
The moment should feel triumphant. Instead, everybody ends up strangely emotional. Including you. Especially Jun. The apartment feels different.
Not empty. Just unfamiliar. Like a favourite song rearranged into a new key. Better.
But still strange. The cat notices immediately.
"You're mourning me."
"No we're not."
"You absolutely are."
"We literally saw you this morning."
"Then stop looking at me like I've died."
Jun points a chopstick at him.
"You used to fit inside a tote bag."
"That's not a normal thing to miss."
"It is for me."
The cat groans. You laugh. For the first time in days, everything feels normal again.
—
The confession happens because Seungkwan finally loses patience. As expected.
Everyone has gathered for dinner. The former cat now occupies an actual chair. A development that continues to disturb Jun. Halfway through dessert, Seungkwan slams both hands on the table.
"ENOUGH."
Everybody jumps.
"What?" Joshua asks.
"No."
Seungkwan points. At Jun. Then at you. Then back at Jun.
"This has gone on long enough."
The room immediately erupts. Minghao starts laughing. Joshua covers his face. The former cat sighs dramatically. Jun looks confused. You look terrified.
"What's happening?"
"You like each other."
Seungkwan says it with the confidence of someone announcing the weather. Silence. Then:
"What?"
Jun and you speak simultaneously. The entire table groans. The former cat drops his forehead onto the table.
"You are unbearable."
"No," Seungkwan says. "I've suffered enough."
"Seungkwan—"
"No."
He points at Jun.
"Do you like Y/N?"
Jun opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at you. Then looks away. His ears turn red. The entire room explodes.
"Oh my god."
"I KNEW IT."
"Finally."
"THANK YOU."
Jun hides his face. You consider moving countries. The former cat looks seconds away from standing up and applauding.
—
Somehow, eventually, everyone leaves. Except Jun. And you.
The apartment grows quiet. The dishes remain forgotten. The city lights glow beyond the windows. For several moments, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. Embarrassed.
"I think they planned that."
"They definitely planned that."
"Yeah."
Silence returns. Not awkward. Just fragile.
The kind where everything important sits between two people waiting to be acknowledged.
Jun rubs the back of his neck. Looks down. Then up again. And suddenly he looks more nervous than you've ever seen him.
"I do, by the way."
Your breath catches.
"What?"
He smiles. Small. Warm. Entirely sincere.
"I do like you."
The words are simple. Which somehow makes them hit harder. No dramatic speech. No rehearsed confession. Just honesty.
The kind that's impossible to hide from.
"I think I've liked you for a while."
The smile spreads before you can stop it. Jun's eyes soften immediately. The sight nearly destroys you.
"Good."
His voice comes out quiet. Hopeful.
"Good?"
"Because I like you too."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then Jun laughs. The relieved, disbelieving kind. And somehow that's what finally pushes you both forward.
The kiss is gentle. Warm. A little awkward.
Perfect.
When you pull apart, Jun immediately starts smiling again. Like he physically cannot stop. You suspect you look exactly the same.
—
The next morning, a final note appears beneath your apartment door. The handwriting is instantly familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE: CLOSED]
Former Alias: Dumpling.Current Status: Human.Curse Status: Broken.Additional Findings:The old woman was right. Being human again wasn't the solution. Being loved was.
—
Your chest tightens. A final paragraph sits beneath it. Shorter. Messier. Like it wasn't rewritten a hundred times.
Thank you for seeing me. Even when I was a cat.
You stare at the page for a long moment. Then smile. A knock sounds at your door. You already know who it is.
When you open it, Jun stands there holding breakfast. And flowers. And the most hopeful expression you've ever seen.
"Hi."
You laugh immediately.
"Hi."
"Would you maybe want to go on an actual date?"
The flowers shake slightly. Nervous. Endearing. Very Jun. You take them from his hands. His smile brightens instantly.
And just like that, standing in the hallway where all of this began, surrounded by neighbours and ordinary apartment walls and absolutely no magic whatsoever, you realise something.
pairing: Jun x reader
synopsis: Jun adopts a cat who turns out to be a cursed human. You’re the only other person who knows the secret—and Jun might be falling for both the cat and you.
wc: 6.9k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Magic?, Found Family, Neighbours,
warnings: Cat was cursed…
a/n: happy birthday to junnie!!! This isn’t apart of the academia series like other members will be, bc HE STARTED THE SERIES!!! I highhhlyyyyy recommend reading Kiss Me, Its for Science or any other ones from the series! it was so so sooo fun to write any junnie fic!! Though i must say, while reading this fic, please ignore ALL logic and just accept whatever i have written regarding the cat…
The first time you meet the cat, it is sitting in the middle of the apartment hallway like it pays rent.
You nearly trip over it on your way home from work.
One second you're balancing a grocery bag against your hip while fumbling for your keys, and the next you're staring down at an orange-and-white cat sitting directly in front of your door with the kind of confidence usually reserved for landlords and people who cut queues without apologising.
The cat stares back. You stare back. The cat blinks. You blink.
"Hello?"
The cat's ears twitch.
Then, with all the dignity of a tiny king inspecting his territory, it stands up, walks directly over your shoes, and begins rubbing against your ankles.
"Oh," you say, immediately folding. "You're friendly."
The cat lets out a short meow.
It sounds less like a greeting and more like a sigh.
You crouch down carefully, setting your groceries on the floor, and reach out a hand. The cat sniffs your fingers before accepting a scratch beneath its chin, closing its eyes briefly as if granting approval.
"Do you belong to someone?"
The cat opens one eye. You swear it looks offended. Before you can investigate further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hallway. A moment later, a man rounds the corner.
A very tall man.
A very tall man who looks as though he's been running through the entire apartment complex for the last twenty minutes. His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, his hoodie is half-zipped, and he looks simultaneously exhausted and relieved when he spots the cat.
"There you are!"
The cat immediately walks behind your legs. The man stops. The cat stops. You glance between them. The cat presses itself against your ankle. The man sighs. The cat somehow manages to look smug.
"...I'm guessing this is yours?"
"Unfortunately," the man says.
The cat meows loudly.
"See? This is exactly what I mean."
You laugh before you can stop yourself. The stranger's expression brightens instantly, as if he hadn't expected anyone to find this situation amusing.
"I'm Jun," he says, holding out a hand. "From 8B."
You shake it. The cat bites his shoelace. Jun doesn't even look surprised.
"I'm Y/N."
"Nice to meet you."
The cat bites harder. Jun pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Please stop embarrassing me in front of my neighbours."
The cat releases the shoelace only to immediately sit on top of it. You laugh again. Jun looks delighted by this reaction. The cat looks annoyed by both of you.
And that, unfortunately, is how it starts.
—
Three days later, the cat escapes again.
Five days after that, it somehow ends up outside the building entirely.
A week later, you discover it sitting inside the communal laundry room watching a washing machine spin with the concentration of someone studying advanced physics.
At this point, you and Jun have exchanged numbers entirely for cat-related emergencies. Your conversation history consists primarily of photographs. Most of them are from Jun. Most of them are evidence.
[JUN] Found him inside my kitchen cabinet.
[JUN] *image attached*
[JUN] How did he get there?
[YOU] You own the cabinet.
[JUN] That's not the point.
[JUN] I was using that cabinet.
[YOU] Clearly he disagreed.
The responses usually arrive immediately. Jun, you discover, texts exactly the way he talks—enthusiastically, slightly randomly, and with enough exclamation marks to suggest every thought is exciting.
You also discover that he is alarmingly easy to like.
Not because he's famous, although you'd recognised him eventually after spending an embarrassing amount of time wondering why he looked familiar. Not because he's handsome, although that certainly doesn't help.
Mostly it's because Jun is kind. He remembers things. The name of your favourite convenience store drink. The fact that you hate mornings. The bakery near your office that sells those strawberry pastries you mentioned once in passing.
Small details seem to stick in his mind as naturally as breathing. Unfortunately, he applies this same energy to the cat. The cat, meanwhile, seems determined to make his life difficult.
—
You are in the middle of watering your plants when your phone rings.
Jun.
You answer immediately.
"Hello?"
"He's gone."
You glance at the clock. It's eight in the morning.
"Good morning to you too."
"He's gone."
"Have you checked under the couch?"
"Yes."
"The bed?"
"Yes."
"The cabinets?"
"Every cabinet."
You hear rustling.
Then silence.
Then a muffled curse.
"Jun?"
"He was in the laundry basket."
You pause.
"...Was?"
"He escaped again."
You close your eyes.
"How does one cat keep defeating you?"
"That's what I've been asking."
The answer arrives ten minutes later when a scratching sound comes from outside your apartment. You open the door. The cat strolls inside. Not into the hallway. Into your apartment. Like it lives there.
"You have got to be kidding me.”
The cat jumps onto your sofa. You call Jun.
"I found him."
The groan that follows sounds deeply personal.
—
The cat's official name is Dumpling. The cat hates this name. You know this because every time Jun says it, the animal visibly reacts. Not dramatically. Just enough. A flick of an ear. A narrowed stare. An expression that somehow communicates disappointment.
"You know," you tell Jun one evening, "I don't think he likes his name."
Jun looks scandalised.
"Dumpling is adorable."
The cat turns its back on him. You point.
"See?"
"He's being dramatic."
The cat knocks a pen off the coffee table. Jun gasps. The cat knocks another one down.
"I raised you better than this."
You nearly choke on your tea.
"You've had him for three weeks."
"That's enough time to learn manners."
The cat jumps onto the back of the sofa. Jun sighs heavily.
"Maybe he's entering his rebellious phase."
"Maybe?"
The cat stares directly at him while deliberately pushing a coaster off the edge of the table.
The silence that follows is incredible.
"Okay," Jun admits. "Maybe definitely."
—
You spend more time in Jun's apartment than you mean to. It starts innocently enough. A movie recommendation. An extra portion of dinner.
Help assembling a cat tree after Jun accidentally orders one with instructions written entirely in a language neither of you can read.
The cat supervises from the couch. Correction. The cat judges from the couch.
"Pass me the screwdriver?"
You hand it over. Jun smiles. The expression catches you off guard every single time.
Warm. Open. The kind of smile that makes a room feel brighter.
You look away before he notices.
Across the room, the cat watches the interaction with unsettling focus.
"Why is he staring at us like that?" you ask.
Jun glances over.
"Dumpling?"
The cat doesn't move.
"Yeah."
"He always does that."
"That's concerning."
"I think he's just curious."
The cat continues staring. You are unconvinced.
—
The strange thing is that the cat almost feels human sometimes. Not in a creepy way.
Just...
Odd.
He understands too much. Not commands. Not tricks. Conversations.
You mention a specific toy once and find him playing with it the next day.
You complain about a difficult coworker and the cat appears beside you with suspiciously good timing.
Sometimes it feels as though he's listening. Actually listening. When you mention this to Jun, he beams.
"I know."
"That wasn't supposed to be a positive observation."
"He's smart."
The cat puffs up proudly. You point immediately.
"See? That. Why did he react to that?"
Jun follows your gaze. The cat instantly stops. The three of you stare at one another.
No one says anything.
Eventually Jun shrugs.
"Dumpling is just special."
The cat looks pleased. You look concerned.
—
The moment everything changes happens on a rainy Thursday evening. You aren't supposed to be at Jun's apartment. That's important.
You're only there because he'd left his umbrella at your place after movie night and you happened to notice the weather getting worse.
The walk takes less than thirty seconds. You knock once. No answer. You knock again.
Still nothing.
Maybe he's showering. You try the handle. The door opens.
"Jun?"
You step inside. The apartment is quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear movement.
"Jun?"
A voice answers. But not Jun's.
"Wait."
You freeze. The voice sounds unfamiliar. Young. Panicked.
"Don't come in here."
Your stomach drops.
There is a stranger in Jun's apartment. You move toward the kitchen anyway. The stranger appears around the corner at exactly the same moment.
Orange hair. Wide eyes. An oversized hoodie. For one impossible second, they stare at you. Then their expression shifts from surprise to absolute horror.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
"What?"
The stranger points at you.
"No, no, no, no—"
You blink. The stranger vanishes. Not runs. Not ducks away. Vanishes.
A flash of movement. A burst of orange and white. And suddenly, sitting in the exact same spot on the kitchen floor—
—is Dumpling.
The cat stares up at you. You stare down at the cat. Neither of you moves. Then, very slowly, the cat closes its eyes.
As if already accepting its fate. And somewhere in the distance, you hear Jun's voice calling from the hallway outside.
"Y/N? Are you here?"
—
The first thing you do is scream. Not loudly, and definitely not dramatically (it was only a cutesy scream, you swear.)
More like the sound a person makes when their brain has completely stopped functioning and is desperately trying to restart itself.
The cat flinches. You point. The cat stares back. You continue pointing. The cat continues staring.
The front door opens.
"Y/N?" Jun calls. "Sorry, I had to grab a package from downstairs—"
The cat launches itself across the kitchen floor. You have never seen something move that fast in your life. One moment it's sitting in front of you. The next it has disappeared beneath the dining table. Jun rounds the corner.
"There you are."
You whip around. Jun pauses.
"You look pale."
You look at Jun. Then the table. Then Jun again. The cat remains hidden. You wonder if this is what having a breakdown feels like.
"Y/N?"
The cat's tail appears briefly from beneath a chair. Then disappears.
You inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
"Everything okay?" Jun asks.
No. Nothing is okay. Five minutes ago you watched his cat become a person.
"Yeah."
Jun blinks.
"Really?"
"No."
"Okay."
You appreciate the honesty.
Unfortunately, you cannot explain the situation because explaining the situation would involve saying, Jun, your cat is a human being and I watched him transform in your kitchen.
You are fairly certain that conversation would not go well.
"Work stress," you blurt.
Jun immediately looks concerned. The guilt nearly kills you.
"Do you want tea?"
You almost laugh. Because of course that's his solution. Tea. The world could literally be ending and Jun would probably offer snacks.
"Sure."
While Jun busies himself making tea, you slowly lower your gaze toward the underside of the table. Two golden eyes stare back. The cat has the audacity to look embarrassed.
—
You leave twenty minutes later. Not because you want to. Because if you remain in that apartment for one more second, you might accidentally start asking questions.
Such as:
Why is your cat human?
Why was your cat wearing clothes?
Where did the clothes come from?
And perhaps most importantly:
Why did your cat seem more worried about being caught than transforming itself?
The answers arrive at eleven thirty-seven that night.
In the form of scratching.
You stare at your apartment door. The scratching continues. Three scratches. Pause. Three more scratches. Pause. Three more.
"That is either a cat or a serial killer."
The scratching grows more impatient. You open the door. The cat immediately walks inside. Not unusual.
What is unusual is the folded piece of paper tied around his collar. You stare. The cat stares.
Slowly, you remove the note. There are four words written on it. WE NEED TO TALK. You look down. The cat nods. Actually nods. You close the door.
"This is somehow worse."
—
Half an hour later, you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor while the cat sits opposite you.
Neither of you speaks. Mostly because one of you physically cannot. The cat seems annoyed by this limitation. Eventually he hops onto your coffee table. A notebook slides toward you. You blink. The cat taps it with one paw. Then taps the pen.
"Oh."
The cat taps again.
"Right."
You open the notebook. The cat immediately begins writing.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat.
YOU SAW THAT.
You stare.
"Unfortunately."
The cat writes again.
I CAN EXPLAIN.
"I would love that."
A pause. The cat writes:
IT SOUNDS STUPID.
"Try me."
Another pause. Then:
I AM CURSED.
You stare at the words. The words stare back. The cat waits.
"...That's it?"
The cat narrows his eyes.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S IT.
"I mean," you say carefully, "if someone had asked me yesterday what explanation I'd expect for a human turning into a cat, curse would've been pretty high on the list."
The cat seems genuinely offended by this.
—
The explanation takes nearly an hour. Partly because writing everything down is slow. Partly because the cat keeps stopping to glare whenever you laugh.
Apparently, several years ago, he had been travelling through a small village and accidentally destroyed an elderly woman's herb garden. Not maliciously. Just catastrophically.
There had been a bicycle. A slope. A misunderstanding. Several chickens.
The story somehow becomes less believable every time he tells it. The woman, who may or may not have been a witch, cursed him. Since then, he has spent most of his life stuck as a cat.
Sometimes he transforms back. Sometimes he doesn't. Strong emotions tend to trigger changes. Unfortunately, emotions happen constantly.
Which means so do transformations.
"And Jun doesn't know?"
The cat writes:
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
"Why?"
The answer appears immediately.
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY.
You consider this. Fair point.
"How long have you been living with him?"
THREE MONTHS.
"Three months?"
The cat nods.
"He just found you?"
Another nod.
"That's insane."
The cat points at himself. Exactly.
—
The following week becomes a disaster. Not because of the curse. Because now you're involved.
Monday afternoon, Jun texts you.
[JUN] Question.
[YOU] That depends.
[JUN] Can cats learn how to unlock doors?
You immediately sit upright.
[YOU] Why?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
[JUN] No reason.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
[JUN] If my cat opened the bathroom door while I was showering.
[YOU] HE WHAT.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
You receive a photograph. The cat is sitting outside a bathroom door. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. You put your phone down.
The cat, currently sleeping on your couch, opens one eye.
"You need to stop doing crimes."
The cat closes his eye again.
—
Tuesday is worse. You stop by Jun's apartment after work. The door opens.
Jun smiles immediately when he sees you. Something warm settles in your chest.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
"Perfect timing."
You blink.
"Why?"
"Dumpling's hiding."
You look down. The cat, currently in human form, is standing behind the kitchen counter.
His eyes widen. Your eyes widen. Neither of you says anything.
Jun continues.
"I haven't seen him for an hour."
The human-cat begins gesturing wildly.
"That's weird."
"Right?"
The gestures become increasingly desperate.
You cough. Loudly.
The human-cat dives beneath the counter. A second later, an orange tail appears. Jun notices instantly.
"There he is!"
The cat emerges. Now fully feline. You do not ask questions. For the sake of your own sanity.
—
The problem is that keeping secrets creates opportunities for friendship. You hadn't intended to become friends with the cat.
It simply happened. Mostly because he's surprisingly easy to talk to. When he isn't stealing food.
Or causing problems. Or nearly exposing supernatural secrets.
One evening he appears on your windowsill carrying another notebook. You let him inside.
"What happened now?"
The notebook opens.
JUN BOUGHT ME A SWEATER.
You laugh.
The cat looks deeply unhappy.
HE HAS ONE TOO.
"That's adorable."
I LOOK RIDICULOUS.
"You look adorable."
The cat glares. You continue smiling. The cat eventually writes:
YOU ARE BOTH IMPOSSIBLE.
—
The truly unfortunate part is that the more time you spend around Jun, the harder everything becomes.
Because he's thoughtful. Because he's funny. Because he still texts you photographs every day. Because he always seems happy to see you.
And because your life has somehow become intertwined with his in ways neither of you planned.
Movie nights become routine. Shared dinners become normal. Sometimes you'll realise hours have passed without either of you noticing.
The cat notices. Unfortunately.
One evening you're sitting on Jun's couch watching a movie when his head slowly drops onto your shoulder.
At first you think it's accidental. Then you hear his breathing deepen. He's asleep.
Your entire body freezes. The room suddenly feels very warm. Across from you, the cat sits on the armchair.
Watching. Judging. Witnessing.
You glare. The cat stares back.
Slowly, he picks up a notebook from the side table. Writes something. Then turns it around.
OH YOU HAVE IT BADDDD.
You nearly throw a cushion at him. The cat looks delighted.
—
Later that night, after you've returned home and the apartment has fallen quiet, a folded note appears beneath your door.
You already know who it's from. The handwriting confirms it.
THANK YOU.
You smile despite yourself. Then flip the paper over. Additional text has been squeezed into the corner.
PLEASE DON'T TELL JUN.
You shake your head. A second line sits beneath it.
HE WOULD WORRY.
And somehow, more than the magic, more than the curse, more than the impossible situation you've found yourself trapped in—
That is the thing that makes your chest ache.
Because he's right. Jun would worry. About everyone. About everything. And maybe that's exactly why neither of you can bring yourselves to tell him. Not yet. Not when he smiles every time he sees the two of you waiting for him at home.
—
The first member to meet the cat is Soonyoung. This is unfortunate for everyone involved.
Especially the cat.
"HE LOOKS LIKE A TIGER."
The declaration arrives less than ten seconds after Soonyoung steps through Jun's front door. The cat, currently loafing on the sofa, visibly flinches.
You witness it. The cat witnesses it. Unfortunately, Soonyoung witnesses absolutely nothing. Jun lights up immediately.
"I told you he was cute."
"Cute?" Soonyoung repeats. "Jun, this isn't a cat."
The cat narrows his eyes. Soonyoung points dramatically.
"That is a tiger trapped in a smaller body."
The cat turns away.
"You hurt his feelings," you say.
"I spoke the truth."
"You compared him to a completely different species."
"So?" Soonyoung asks. "I'd be honoured."
The cat appears unconvinced.
—
The second problem is that Jun has started inviting you over so frequently that you've stopped knocking. At some point during the past month, the line between neighbour and friend had quietly disappeared.
You have your own mug in his kitchen. You know where he keeps spare blankets. You can navigate his apartment in the dark. Nobody ever discusses it.
It simply becomes normal. Dangerously normal.
The cat notices immediately. You know this because every time you arrive, he watches the interaction with increasingly concerning levels of interest.
Not judgment. Observation. Like he's conducting research. Like he's documenting evidence.
One afternoon, you arrive carrying takeout and find the cat sitting on the kitchen counter beside a notebook. The notebook is open. Several pages are filled with writing.
The moment he notices you looking, he slams it shut. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
"What are you writing?"
NOTHING.
"You're literally writing."
NOTHING IMPORTANT.
"You realise I can read."
The cat hugs the notebook against his chest.
You immediately become suspicious.
—
The situation worsens when the rest of Jun's friends begin appearing. Joshua arrives first. Then Minghao. Then Seungkwan.
The apartment somehow doubles in volume.
You are halfway through helping Jun prepare snacks when voices spill in from the hallway.
"Oh, Y/N's already here."
Your stomach performs an embarrassing little flip. Not because of Seungkwan. Because of the way Jun smiles.
Bright. Immediate. Unconsciously happy.
"Yeah," Jun says. "They got here earlier."
The cat, perched on the back of the sofa, immediately looks between both of you. You pretend not to notice. The cat continues noticing.
—
The evening begins normally.
Or as normally as possible when several members are crammed into one apartment arguing over board game rules.
The problems start approximately thirty minutes later. Specifically when Seungkwan begins paying attention.
"Wait."
Everybody ignores him.
"Wait."
Joshua continues setting up the game.
"Wait."
Minghao sighs.
"What?"
Seungkwan points.
At the cat. The cat freezes.
"That cat is weird."
The room falls silent. You nearly choke. The cat stops breathing. Jun blinks.
"Dumpling?"
"Yeah."
"What about him?"
Seungkwan squints. The cat squints back.
"He's looking at me."
Jun laughs.
"That's what cats do."
"No."
Seungkwan points harder.
"He's looking at me like he knows my tax information."
The cat immediately looks away. You cover your mouth. Minghao's shoulders start shaking. Joshua physically leaves the room because he's laughing too hard.
"See?" Seungkwan says triumphantly. "THAT."
"What?"
"That guilty look."
The cat leaps off the sofa and disappears into the bedroom. Seungkwan gasps.
"HE KNOWS."
—
The cat spends the next week avoiding Seungkwan. This only makes things worse. Apparently, if a person believes a cat is suspicious, the correct response is not to act suspicious.
Unfortunately, nobody explains this to the cat. The result is catastrophic. Every time Seungkwan enters a room, the cat leaves. Every time Seungkwan sits down, the cat relocates. Every time Seungkwan tries to pet him, the cat stares into the distance like he's remembering a war.
"It's personal," Seungkwan concludes.
"It's not personal," Jun says.
"It feels personal."
The cat immediately jumps off the couch. Seungkwan points.
"SEE?"
—
Minghao notices first. Not the curse. Not the transformations.
You.
Specifically, the way Jun looks at you. Which is significantly worse. The discovery occurs during movie night.
The apartment is quiet. The lights are dim. Everybody is focused on the screen except Minghao.
Minghao is focused on Jun. Jun is focused on you. The cat is focused on everyone. Minghao slowly turns toward Joshua.
Joshua follows his gaze. Then pauses. Then smiles.
"Oh."
The cat immediately notices. His eyes widen. Minghao notices the cat noticing. Now three people are aware of something.
You remain blissfully ignorant. Jun remains even more oblivious.
—
A group chat appears two days later. You discover its existence entirely by accident. Specifically because Jun leaves his phone unlocked while helping carry groceries. A notification appears.
[seungkwan] he smiled again
[minghao] i know
[joshua] it's getting embarrassing
[seungkwan] should we tell them
[joshua] absolutely not
[minghao] this is free entertainment
You immediately lock the screen.
Your face feels approximately one thousand degrees. Across the kitchen, the cat watches everything.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He gives you a thumbs up.
You nearly drop the groceries.
—
The truly alarming thing is that Jun keeps getting more comfortable around you.
Not intentionally. Not consciously.
It happens in small moments.
He hands you the first portion of food automatically. Saves your favourite seat. Texts you whenever something funny happens. Includes you in plans before asking if you're free.
As though your presence has become expected. As though you're already part of his life.
One evening you arrive after a particularly exhausting day. You don't even have time to say hello before Jun notices.
"Tough day?"
You blink.
"How did you know?"
"You look tired."
The answer is simple. Casual. Immediate. Something in your chest aches.
"Work was awful."
Jun frowns. The expression looks genuinely offended on your behalf.
"Want dinner?"
"That's your solution to everything."
"Dinner helps."
"It really doesn't."
Jun considers this.
"Okay."
A pause.
"Dinner and dessert?"
You laugh despite yourself. Across the room, the cat quietly writes something down.
—
The disaster happens on a Friday. Naturally. Disasters always happen on Fridays.
You arrive at Jun's apartment carrying coffee.
The door is unlocked. You let yourself inside.
"Jun?"
No response. The apartment appears empty. You walk toward the kitchen. Then stop. Human.
The cat is human. Very human.
Very surprised. Very standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a spoon.
The spoon falls. Neither of you moves. The cat closes his eyes.
"Oh no."
The front door opens.
"Oh no," the cat repeats.
Jun's voice echoes from the hallway.
"Y/N?"
Panic erupts instantly. The cat grabs your shoulders. You grab his shoulders. Neither of you has a plan.
"Hide."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Helpful."
Footsteps approach. The cat spins in a circle. You spin with him. Somewhere in the distance, Jun gets closer.
"Guys?"
"Window?"
"We're on the eighth floor."
"Right."
The cat gestures wildly. You gesture back. Neither of you contributes anything useful.
Finally, the cat dives behind the kitchen island. A second later, orange fur replaces human limbs.
You stare. The transformation still feels impossible.
Jun enters. The cat immediately appears from behind the counter.
That night, a folded page appears beneath your apartment door. You already know what it is. You unfold it. The familiar handwriting fills the page.
—
[CASE NOTES]
Current Threat Assessment:
Seungkwan suspicious.
Minghao observant.
Joshua entertained.
Jun oblivious.
Additional Notes:
Y/N and Jun spent thirty-two minutes talking in the kitchen today.
Neither realised everyone else had already left.
Concerning.
—
A final line has been squeezed into the bottom corner. At first glance, the handwriting appears rushed. Almost hesitant.
I think Jun likes you.
You stare at the sentence. Then immediately flip the page over. Nothing else is written there.
When you look back, the words haven't changed. The cat's handwriting remains stubbornly visible.
I think Jun likes you.
For some reason, that possibility feels far more terrifying than any curse.
—
The cat begins sabotaging your love life on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, he begins by sabotaging Jun's.
You don't realise this immediately. Mostly because the disaster starts small.
A missing shirt. A mysteriously hidden wallet. A phone that somehow ends up inside the linen cupboard.
Individually, none of these events are particularly suspicious. Together, however, they create a pattern.
Specifically, the pattern of a cat committing crimes.
"Have you seen my jacket?"
Jun is standing in the middle of his apartment looking genuinely confused. You glance up from the sofa.
"No?"
"I left it right here."
The cat, sitting three feet away, immediately looks out the window. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
Jun continues searching. The cat continues pretending to be innocent. Nobody is convinced.
—
The explanation arrives later that evening. Specifically after you corner the cat in your apartment and refuse to let him leave until he talks.
Human form this time. Mostly because he can actually explain himself.
"You're hiding things."
"I'm not hiding things."
"You hid his phone inside a cereal box."
The cat looks offended.
"It was a strategic location."
"You are impossible."
"So I've been told."
He drops onto your couch dramatically. You wait. The cat waits. Eventually, he sighs.
"It's because of the date."
You blink.
"What date?"
The look he gives you suggests you're the stupidest person alive.
"The blind date."
Oh. Right.
A few days earlier, one of Jun's friends had apparently decided he needed help finding romance. The resulting blind date had been arranged for this weekend.
Jun had agreed.
Mostly because he was too nice to refuse. The cat had hated the idea immediately.
Apparently.
"You've been sabotaging a blind date?"
"I've been delaying a blind date."
"That's worse."
"It's different."
"It isn't."
The cat folds his arms. You stare at each other. Eventually, he looks away first. And suddenly, for the first time since you've met him, he looks genuinely upset.
Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Just... sad. The change catches you off guard.
"What is it?"
The cat doesn't answer immediately. His gaze settles somewhere near the window. The city lights glow softly beyond the glass. For a long moment, the apartment feels strangely quiet.
Then—
"If the curse breaks, I'll leave."
The words land heavily between you. You freeze. The cat continues staring outside.
"I was always supposed to leave."
You don't know what to say. Because the thing is—
You've never actually thought about it. Not really. The curse has become part of daily life.
The transformations. The notes. The absurdity. The cat himself.
Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped feeling temporary. Stopped feeling like a problem that needed solving. Instead, he'd become...
Family.
The realisation hits harder than expected.
"I don't want to leave."
His voice is quiet.
"So don't."
The cat laughs. Not happily.
"You think curses work like rental agreements?"
"You're being dramatic."
"I learned from Jun."
You can't even argue with that.
—
The problem is that the conversation stays with you.
For days. Long after the cat leaves. Long after movie night. Long after Jun walks you home and lingers outside your apartment door for a few seconds longer than necessary.
The thought keeps returning. If the curse breaks. If the curse ends.
Then what? The cat leaves. Life changes. Everything changes. The idea feels wrong.
Uncomfortable.
Like imagining a missing piece in a picture you've grown used to. And perhaps that's why, a week later, you finally ask the question that's been bothering you.
"What actually breaks the curse?"
The cat pauses. He'd been halfway through stealing food from your kitchen. Now he simply stares.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I know what the old woman said."
"Which was?"
The cat sighs.
"'You'll return to yourself when you're accepted as yourself.'"
You blink.
"That's it?"
"That's literally it."
"That's incredibly vague."
"I KNOW."
The frustration in his voice sounds years old.
—
The answer arrives from somewhere completely unexpected. Seungkwan. Because, apparently, life enjoys irony.
It happens during one of the increasingly common group dinners at Jun's apartment.
Everyone is present. Food covers every available surface. Conversations overlap. The cat is currently asleep on Jun's lap. Which would be adorable if you didn't know he was actually a person.
"So," Seungkwan says suddenly.
You immediately become suspicious.
"So?" Jun asks.
"I've solved the mystery."
Nobody likes the way he says that.
"What mystery?" Joshua asks.
Seungkwan points dramatically. At Jun. Then at you. Then at the cat.
"The three of you."
Silence. The cat opens one eye.
"What about us?" you ask carefully.
Seungkwan leans back. Looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You all act like a family."
The room falls silent. Completely silent. The cat stops moving. Jun blinks. Minghao immediately looks interested. Joshua looks delighted. Seungkwan continues.
"It's weird."
"Thank you?" Jun says.
"No, seriously."
Seungkwan gestures vaguely.
"You."
Pointing at Jun.
"Cook."
Then you.
"You clean."
Then the cat.
"That one commits crimes."
The cat looks offended.
"That's a family."
Nobody says anything. Because somehow—
As ridiculous as the statement is—
It doesn't feel wrong.
—
That night, after everyone leaves, Jun walks you home. The journey takes less than a minute. Neither of you seems particularly eager to end it. The hallway is quiet.
The building mostly asleep. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. You glance over.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Jun."
He smiles. A little sheepish.
"A family, huh?"
Your chest immediately betrays you. The worst part is that he doesn't sound embarrassed. Or uncomfortable. Instead, he sounds...
Happy.
Like the idea itself makes him happy.
"Seungkwan says a lot of things."
"He does."
You reach your apartment door. Neither of you moves. The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.
The kind that makes you suddenly aware of every little thing. The warmth of the hallway lights. The softness in Jun's expression. The fact that he's standing much closer than usual.
For one impossible second, you think he might say something. Instead, he smiles.
"Goodnight."
The disappointment is immediate. And embarrassing.
"Goodnight."
Jun turns. Walks away. Then pauses.
Just before reaching his own apartment. He glances back. Smiles again. Then disappears inside.
Your heart remains absolutely useless.
—
The next morning, a note appears beneath your door. The handwriting is familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE #004]
Subject: Curse Investigation
Status: Ongoing.
Recent Findings:
Jun considers Y/N family.
Y/N considers Jun family.
I consider both idiots.
—
You laugh despite yourself. There is more. The writing below is messier. Less organised.
Like it was added later.
I think I finally understand.
You frown. Understand what?
The final paragraph answers.
For years, I thought breaking the curse meant becoming human again.
Maybe that was never the point.
Maybe the point was finding somewhere I didn't have to hide.
The words hit unexpectedly hard. Because for the first time, they don't feel like notes.
Or reports. Or evidence. They feel like a goodbye. And somehow, deep down, you know something is changing.
The curse is getting weaker. The cat knows it. Maybe even understands it. And for the first time since all this began—
You think he might finally be close to going home. The problem is that home isn't a place anymore.
It's Jun. It's you.
And none of you know what happens when the magic finally lets go.
—
The truth comes out because the cat finally gets tired.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Years of hiding have a way of wearing a person down, and despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat is still a person.
It happens on an ordinary Sunday. Which somehow makes it worse. There is no dramatic thunderstorm. No magical prophecy. No ancient witch appearing out of nowhere to explain things.
Just takeout containers, a half-finished movie, and Jun complaining because someone keeps stealing food off his plate.
"I'm serious," Jun says.
The cat, currently curled beside him on the couch, pointedly avoids eye contact.
"Every time I look away, something disappears."
You nearly choke on your drink. The cat looks offended. Jun narrows his eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
And then—
Without warning—
The room fills with golden light.
Everybody freezes. The cat freezes. You freeze. Jun freezes.
For one impossible moment, the entire apartment falls silent. The light swirls around the cat.
Brighter. Warmer. Familiar.
The same glow you've witnessed dozens of times before.
Except this time it doesn't stop.
"Oh."
The cat's voice returns first. Human. Entirely human.
Sitting where the cat had been seconds earlier. The takeout container slides off his lap.
Nobody reacts. Nobody breathes.
Jun stares. The cat stares back.
And after months of preparation, after endless contingency plans and increasingly ridiculous emergency scenarios, the only thing the cat manages to say is:
"...This isn't ideal."
—
The silence lasts approximately four seconds. Then Jun speaks.
"Oh."
Another pause.
"Oh."
The cat winces. You consider hiding. Jun continues staring. The cat continues existing.
You continue questioning every life decision that led to this moment.
Then, unexpectedly—
Jun stands up. Walks forward. And pokes the cat's forehead. The cat blinks. Jun blinks. The cat blinks again.
"You're real."
The cat stares.
"That is your first question?"
"What was I supposed to ask?"
"I don't know!"
The cat throws his hands into the air.
"Maybe why your pet is secretly a human?"
"That was definitely my second question."
"Jun."
"I'm getting there."
The cat looks ready to scream. You honestly can't blame him. For several long moments, Jun simply stands there processing. Then his expression changes.
Softens. The panic never comes. The anger never comes. Instead—
"You've been dealing with this alone?"
The cat freezes. The question hangs in the air. Everything suddenly feels very quiet. Because out of every possible reaction, somehow that is the one none of you expected. The cat's shoulders slump. Just slightly.
"Yeah."
Jun's expression crumples immediately.
"Oh."
And somehow that single syllable contains more heartbreak than any dramatic speech could.
—
The explanation takes hours. Mostly because Jun keeps interrupting. Not with accusations. Questions. Thousands of questions.
Have you been eating enough?
Where did you sleep before?
Were you scared?
Why didn't you tell me?
Did the veterinarian know?
The answer to that last one is apparently no. Thankfully.
The cat buries his face in his hands.
"I knew this would happen."
"What?"
"You worrying."
Jun looks genuinely confused.
"Of course I'm worried."
The cat laughs helplessly. And for the first time since you've met him, you realise just how exhausted he's been. How much effort it must have taken to keep carrying this alone.
Jun notices too. Because of course he does.
Without hesitation, he moves beside him on the couch. Close enough that their shoulders touch. Close enough that neither of them has to pretend anymore.
"You idiot."
The words are fond. The cat immediately starts crying.
—
The curse breaks completely three days later.
Not with magic. Not really. Not with fireworks or dramatic declarations. Just certainty.
No tail. No whiskers. No transformation. The curse is gone.
Just like that.
The moment should feel triumphant. Instead, everybody ends up strangely emotional. Including you. Especially Jun. The apartment feels different.
Not empty. Just unfamiliar. Like a favourite song rearranged into a new key. Better.
But still strange. The cat notices immediately.
"You're mourning me."
"No we're not."
"You absolutely are."
"We literally saw you this morning."
"Then stop looking at me like I've died."
Jun points a chopstick at him.
"You used to fit inside a tote bag."
"That's not a normal thing to miss."
"It is for me."
The cat groans. You laugh. For the first time in days, everything feels normal again.
—
The confession happens because Seungkwan finally loses patience. As expected.
Everyone has gathered for dinner. The former cat now occupies an actual chair. A development that continues to disturb Jun. Halfway through dessert, Seungkwan slams both hands on the table.
"ENOUGH."
Everybody jumps.
"What?" Joshua asks.
"No."
Seungkwan points. At Jun. Then at you. Then back at Jun.
"This has gone on long enough."
The room immediately erupts. Minghao starts laughing. Joshua covers his face. The former cat sighs dramatically. Jun looks confused. You look terrified.
"What's happening?"
"You like each other."
Seungkwan says it with the confidence of someone announcing the weather. Silence. Then:
"What?"
Jun and you speak simultaneously. The entire table groans. The former cat drops his forehead onto the table.
"You are unbearable."
"No," Seungkwan says. "I've suffered enough."
"Seungkwan—"
"No."
He points at Jun.
"Do you like Y/N?"
Jun opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at you. Then looks away. His ears turn red. The entire room explodes.
"Oh my god."
"I KNEW IT."
"Finally."
"THANK YOU."
Jun hides his face. You consider moving countries. The former cat looks seconds away from standing up and applauding.
—
Somehow, eventually, everyone leaves. Except Jun. And you.
The apartment grows quiet. The dishes remain forgotten. The city lights glow beyond the windows. For several moments, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. Embarrassed.
"I think they planned that."
"They definitely planned that."
"Yeah."
Silence returns. Not awkward. Just fragile.
The kind where everything important sits between two people waiting to be acknowledged.
Jun rubs the back of his neck. Looks down. Then up again. And suddenly he looks more nervous than you've ever seen him.
"I do, by the way."
Your breath catches.
"What?"
He smiles. Small. Warm. Entirely sincere.
"I do like you."
The words are simple. Which somehow makes them hit harder. No dramatic speech. No rehearsed confession. Just honesty.
The kind that's impossible to hide from.
"I think I've liked you for a while."
The smile spreads before you can stop it. Jun's eyes soften immediately. The sight nearly destroys you.
"Good."
His voice comes out quiet. Hopeful.
"Good?"
"Because I like you too."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then Jun laughs. The relieved, disbelieving kind. And somehow that's what finally pushes you both forward.
The kiss is gentle. Warm. A little awkward.
Perfect.
When you pull apart, Jun immediately starts smiling again. Like he physically cannot stop. You suspect you look exactly the same.
—
The next morning, a final note appears beneath your apartment door. The handwriting is instantly familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE: CLOSED]
Former Alias: Dumpling.Current Status: Human.Curse Status: Broken.Additional Findings:The old woman was right. Being human again wasn't the solution. Being loved was.
—
Your chest tightens. A final paragraph sits beneath it. Shorter. Messier. Like it wasn't rewritten a hundred times.
Thank you for seeing me. Even when I was a cat.
You stare at the page for a long moment. Then smile. A knock sounds at your door. You already know who it is.
When you open it, Jun stands there holding breakfast. And flowers. And the most hopeful expression you've ever seen.
"Hi."
You laugh immediately.
"Hi."
"Would you maybe want to go on an actual date?"
The flowers shake slightly. Nervous. Endearing. Very Jun. You take them from his hands. His smile brightens instantly.
And just like that, standing in the hallway where all of this began, surrounded by neighbours and ordinary apartment walls and absolutely no magic whatsoever, you realise something.
pairing: Jun x reader
synopsis: Jun adopts a cat who turns out to be a cursed human. You’re the only other person who knows the secret—and Jun might be falling for both the cat and you.
wc: 6.9k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Magic?, Found Family, Neighbours,
warnings: Cat was cursed…
a/n: happy birthday to junnie!!! This isn’t apart of the academia series like other members will be, bc HE STARTED THE SERIES!!! I highhhlyyyyy recommend reading Kiss Me, Its for Science or any other ones from the series! it was so so sooo fun to write any junnie fic!! Though i must say, while reading this fic, please ignore ALL logic and just accept whatever i have written regarding the cat…
The first time you meet the cat, it is sitting in the middle of the apartment hallway like it pays rent.
You nearly trip over it on your way home from work.
One second you're balancing a grocery bag against your hip while fumbling for your keys, and the next you're staring down at an orange-and-white cat sitting directly in front of your door with the kind of confidence usually reserved for landlords and people who cut queues without apologising.
The cat stares back. You stare back. The cat blinks. You blink.
"Hello?"
The cat's ears twitch.
Then, with all the dignity of a tiny king inspecting his territory, it stands up, walks directly over your shoes, and begins rubbing against your ankles.
"Oh," you say, immediately folding. "You're friendly."
The cat lets out a short meow.
It sounds less like a greeting and more like a sigh.
You crouch down carefully, setting your groceries on the floor, and reach out a hand. The cat sniffs your fingers before accepting a scratch beneath its chin, closing its eyes briefly as if granting approval.
"Do you belong to someone?"
The cat opens one eye. You swear it looks offended. Before you can investigate further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hallway. A moment later, a man rounds the corner.
A very tall man.
A very tall man who looks as though he's been running through the entire apartment complex for the last twenty minutes. His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, his hoodie is half-zipped, and he looks simultaneously exhausted and relieved when he spots the cat.
"There you are!"
The cat immediately walks behind your legs. The man stops. The cat stops. You glance between them. The cat presses itself against your ankle. The man sighs. The cat somehow manages to look smug.
"...I'm guessing this is yours?"
"Unfortunately," the man says.
The cat meows loudly.
"See? This is exactly what I mean."
You laugh before you can stop yourself. The stranger's expression brightens instantly, as if he hadn't expected anyone to find this situation amusing.
"I'm Jun," he says, holding out a hand. "From 8B."
You shake it. The cat bites his shoelace. Jun doesn't even look surprised.
"I'm Y/N."
"Nice to meet you."
The cat bites harder. Jun pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Please stop embarrassing me in front of my neighbours."
The cat releases the shoelace only to immediately sit on top of it. You laugh again. Jun looks delighted by this reaction. The cat looks annoyed by both of you.
And that, unfortunately, is how it starts.
—
Three days later, the cat escapes again.
Five days after that, it somehow ends up outside the building entirely.
A week later, you discover it sitting inside the communal laundry room watching a washing machine spin with the concentration of someone studying advanced physics.
At this point, you and Jun have exchanged numbers entirely for cat-related emergencies. Your conversation history consists primarily of photographs. Most of them are from Jun. Most of them are evidence.
[JUN] Found him inside my kitchen cabinet.
[JUN] *image attached*
[JUN] How did he get there?
[YOU] You own the cabinet.
[JUN] That's not the point.
[JUN] I was using that cabinet.
[YOU] Clearly he disagreed.
The responses usually arrive immediately. Jun, you discover, texts exactly the way he talks—enthusiastically, slightly randomly, and with enough exclamation marks to suggest every thought is exciting.
You also discover that he is alarmingly easy to like.
Not because he's famous, although you'd recognised him eventually after spending an embarrassing amount of time wondering why he looked familiar. Not because he's handsome, although that certainly doesn't help.
Mostly it's because Jun is kind. He remembers things. The name of your favourite convenience store drink. The fact that you hate mornings. The bakery near your office that sells those strawberry pastries you mentioned once in passing.
Small details seem to stick in his mind as naturally as breathing. Unfortunately, he applies this same energy to the cat. The cat, meanwhile, seems determined to make his life difficult.
—
You are in the middle of watering your plants when your phone rings.
Jun.
You answer immediately.
"Hello?"
"He's gone."
You glance at the clock. It's eight in the morning.
"Good morning to you too."
"He's gone."
"Have you checked under the couch?"
"Yes."
"The bed?"
"Yes."
"The cabinets?"
"Every cabinet."
You hear rustling.
Then silence.
Then a muffled curse.
"Jun?"
"He was in the laundry basket."
You pause.
"...Was?"
"He escaped again."
You close your eyes.
"How does one cat keep defeating you?"
"That's what I've been asking."
The answer arrives ten minutes later when a scratching sound comes from outside your apartment. You open the door. The cat strolls inside. Not into the hallway. Into your apartment. Like it lives there.
"You have got to be kidding me.”
The cat jumps onto your sofa. You call Jun.
"I found him."
The groan that follows sounds deeply personal.
—
The cat's official name is Dumpling. The cat hates this name. You know this because every time Jun says it, the animal visibly reacts. Not dramatically. Just enough. A flick of an ear. A narrowed stare. An expression that somehow communicates disappointment.
"You know," you tell Jun one evening, "I don't think he likes his name."
Jun looks scandalised.
"Dumpling is adorable."
The cat turns its back on him. You point.
"See?"
"He's being dramatic."
The cat knocks a pen off the coffee table. Jun gasps. The cat knocks another one down.
"I raised you better than this."
You nearly choke on your tea.
"You've had him for three weeks."
"That's enough time to learn manners."
The cat jumps onto the back of the sofa. Jun sighs heavily.
"Maybe he's entering his rebellious phase."
"Maybe?"
The cat stares directly at him while deliberately pushing a coaster off the edge of the table.
The silence that follows is incredible.
"Okay," Jun admits. "Maybe definitely."
—
You spend more time in Jun's apartment than you mean to. It starts innocently enough. A movie recommendation. An extra portion of dinner.
Help assembling a cat tree after Jun accidentally orders one with instructions written entirely in a language neither of you can read.
The cat supervises from the couch. Correction. The cat judges from the couch.
"Pass me the screwdriver?"
You hand it over. Jun smiles. The expression catches you off guard every single time.
Warm. Open. The kind of smile that makes a room feel brighter.
You look away before he notices.
Across the room, the cat watches the interaction with unsettling focus.
"Why is he staring at us like that?" you ask.
Jun glances over.
"Dumpling?"
The cat doesn't move.
"Yeah."
"He always does that."
"That's concerning."
"I think he's just curious."
The cat continues staring. You are unconvinced.
—
The strange thing is that the cat almost feels human sometimes. Not in a creepy way.
Just...
Odd.
He understands too much. Not commands. Not tricks. Conversations.
You mention a specific toy once and find him playing with it the next day.
You complain about a difficult coworker and the cat appears beside you with suspiciously good timing.
Sometimes it feels as though he's listening. Actually listening. When you mention this to Jun, he beams.
"I know."
"That wasn't supposed to be a positive observation."
"He's smart."
The cat puffs up proudly. You point immediately.
"See? That. Why did he react to that?"
Jun follows your gaze. The cat instantly stops. The three of you stare at one another.
No one says anything.
Eventually Jun shrugs.
"Dumpling is just special."
The cat looks pleased. You look concerned.
—
The moment everything changes happens on a rainy Thursday evening. You aren't supposed to be at Jun's apartment. That's important.
You're only there because he'd left his umbrella at your place after movie night and you happened to notice the weather getting worse.
The walk takes less than thirty seconds. You knock once. No answer. You knock again.
Still nothing.
Maybe he's showering. You try the handle. The door opens.
"Jun?"
You step inside. The apartment is quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear movement.
"Jun?"
A voice answers. But not Jun's.
"Wait."
You freeze. The voice sounds unfamiliar. Young. Panicked.
"Don't come in here."
Your stomach drops.
There is a stranger in Jun's apartment. You move toward the kitchen anyway. The stranger appears around the corner at exactly the same moment.
Orange hair. Wide eyes. An oversized hoodie. For one impossible second, they stare at you. Then their expression shifts from surprise to absolute horror.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
"What?"
The stranger points at you.
"No, no, no, no—"
You blink. The stranger vanishes. Not runs. Not ducks away. Vanishes.
A flash of movement. A burst of orange and white. And suddenly, sitting in the exact same spot on the kitchen floor—
—is Dumpling.
The cat stares up at you. You stare down at the cat. Neither of you moves. Then, very slowly, the cat closes its eyes.
As if already accepting its fate. And somewhere in the distance, you hear Jun's voice calling from the hallway outside.
"Y/N? Are you here?"
—
The first thing you do is scream. Not loudly, and definitely not dramatically (it was only a cutesy scream, you swear.)
More like the sound a person makes when their brain has completely stopped functioning and is desperately trying to restart itself.
The cat flinches. You point. The cat stares back. You continue pointing. The cat continues staring.
The front door opens.
"Y/N?" Jun calls. "Sorry, I had to grab a package from downstairs—"
The cat launches itself across the kitchen floor. You have never seen something move that fast in your life. One moment it's sitting in front of you. The next it has disappeared beneath the dining table. Jun rounds the corner.
"There you are."
You whip around. Jun pauses.
"You look pale."
You look at Jun. Then the table. Then Jun again. The cat remains hidden. You wonder if this is what having a breakdown feels like.
"Y/N?"
The cat's tail appears briefly from beneath a chair. Then disappears.
You inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
"Everything okay?" Jun asks.
No. Nothing is okay. Five minutes ago you watched his cat become a person.
"Yeah."
Jun blinks.
"Really?"
"No."
"Okay."
You appreciate the honesty.
Unfortunately, you cannot explain the situation because explaining the situation would involve saying, Jun, your cat is a human being and I watched him transform in your kitchen.
You are fairly certain that conversation would not go well.
"Work stress," you blurt.
Jun immediately looks concerned. The guilt nearly kills you.
"Do you want tea?"
You almost laugh. Because of course that's his solution. Tea. The world could literally be ending and Jun would probably offer snacks.
"Sure."
While Jun busies himself making tea, you slowly lower your gaze toward the underside of the table. Two golden eyes stare back. The cat has the audacity to look embarrassed.
—
You leave twenty minutes later. Not because you want to. Because if you remain in that apartment for one more second, you might accidentally start asking questions.
Such as:
Why is your cat human?
Why was your cat wearing clothes?
Where did the clothes come from?
And perhaps most importantly:
Why did your cat seem more worried about being caught than transforming itself?
The answers arrive at eleven thirty-seven that night.
In the form of scratching.
You stare at your apartment door. The scratching continues. Three scratches. Pause. Three more scratches. Pause. Three more.
"That is either a cat or a serial killer."
The scratching grows more impatient. You open the door. The cat immediately walks inside. Not unusual.
What is unusual is the folded piece of paper tied around his collar. You stare. The cat stares.
Slowly, you remove the note. There are four words written on it. WE NEED TO TALK. You look down. The cat nods. Actually nods. You close the door.
"This is somehow worse."
—
Half an hour later, you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor while the cat sits opposite you.
Neither of you speaks. Mostly because one of you physically cannot. The cat seems annoyed by this limitation. Eventually he hops onto your coffee table. A notebook slides toward you. You blink. The cat taps it with one paw. Then taps the pen.
"Oh."
The cat taps again.
"Right."
You open the notebook. The cat immediately begins writing.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat.
YOU SAW THAT.
You stare.
"Unfortunately."
The cat writes again.
I CAN EXPLAIN.
"I would love that."
A pause. The cat writes:
IT SOUNDS STUPID.
"Try me."
Another pause. Then:
I AM CURSED.
You stare at the words. The words stare back. The cat waits.
"...That's it?"
The cat narrows his eyes.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S IT.
"I mean," you say carefully, "if someone had asked me yesterday what explanation I'd expect for a human turning into a cat, curse would've been pretty high on the list."
The cat seems genuinely offended by this.
—
The explanation takes nearly an hour. Partly because writing everything down is slow. Partly because the cat keeps stopping to glare whenever you laugh.
Apparently, several years ago, he had been travelling through a small village and accidentally destroyed an elderly woman's herb garden. Not maliciously. Just catastrophically.
There had been a bicycle. A slope. A misunderstanding. Several chickens.
The story somehow becomes less believable every time he tells it. The woman, who may or may not have been a witch, cursed him. Since then, he has spent most of his life stuck as a cat.
Sometimes he transforms back. Sometimes he doesn't. Strong emotions tend to trigger changes. Unfortunately, emotions happen constantly.
Which means so do transformations.
"And Jun doesn't know?"
The cat writes:
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
"Why?"
The answer appears immediately.
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY.
You consider this. Fair point.
"How long have you been living with him?"
THREE MONTHS.
"Three months?"
The cat nods.
"He just found you?"
Another nod.
"That's insane."
The cat points at himself. Exactly.
—
The following week becomes a disaster. Not because of the curse. Because now you're involved.
Monday afternoon, Jun texts you.
[JUN] Question.
[YOU] That depends.
[JUN] Can cats learn how to unlock doors?
You immediately sit upright.
[YOU] Why?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
[JUN] No reason.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
[JUN] If my cat opened the bathroom door while I was showering.
[YOU] HE WHAT.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
You receive a photograph. The cat is sitting outside a bathroom door. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. You put your phone down.
The cat, currently sleeping on your couch, opens one eye.
"You need to stop doing crimes."
The cat closes his eye again.
—
Tuesday is worse. You stop by Jun's apartment after work. The door opens.
Jun smiles immediately when he sees you. Something warm settles in your chest.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
"Perfect timing."
You blink.
"Why?"
"Dumpling's hiding."
You look down. The cat, currently in human form, is standing behind the kitchen counter.
His eyes widen. Your eyes widen. Neither of you says anything.
Jun continues.
"I haven't seen him for an hour."
The human-cat begins gesturing wildly.
"That's weird."
"Right?"
The gestures become increasingly desperate.
You cough. Loudly.
The human-cat dives beneath the counter. A second later, an orange tail appears. Jun notices instantly.
"There he is!"
The cat emerges. Now fully feline. You do not ask questions. For the sake of your own sanity.
—
The problem is that keeping secrets creates opportunities for friendship. You hadn't intended to become friends with the cat.
It simply happened. Mostly because he's surprisingly easy to talk to. When he isn't stealing food.
Or causing problems. Or nearly exposing supernatural secrets.
One evening he appears on your windowsill carrying another notebook. You let him inside.
"What happened now?"
The notebook opens.
JUN BOUGHT ME A SWEATER.
You laugh.
The cat looks deeply unhappy.
HE HAS ONE TOO.
"That's adorable."
I LOOK RIDICULOUS.
"You look adorable."
The cat glares. You continue smiling. The cat eventually writes:
YOU ARE BOTH IMPOSSIBLE.
—
The truly unfortunate part is that the more time you spend around Jun, the harder everything becomes.
Because he's thoughtful. Because he's funny. Because he still texts you photographs every day. Because he always seems happy to see you.
And because your life has somehow become intertwined with his in ways neither of you planned.
Movie nights become routine. Shared dinners become normal. Sometimes you'll realise hours have passed without either of you noticing.
The cat notices. Unfortunately.
One evening you're sitting on Jun's couch watching a movie when his head slowly drops onto your shoulder.
At first you think it's accidental. Then you hear his breathing deepen. He's asleep.
Your entire body freezes. The room suddenly feels very warm. Across from you, the cat sits on the armchair.
Watching. Judging. Witnessing.
You glare. The cat stares back.
Slowly, he picks up a notebook from the side table. Writes something. Then turns it around.
OH YOU HAVE IT BADDDD.
You nearly throw a cushion at him. The cat looks delighted.
—
Later that night, after you've returned home and the apartment has fallen quiet, a folded note appears beneath your door.
You already know who it's from. The handwriting confirms it.
THANK YOU.
You smile despite yourself. Then flip the paper over. Additional text has been squeezed into the corner.
PLEASE DON'T TELL JUN.
You shake your head. A second line sits beneath it.
HE WOULD WORRY.
And somehow, more than the magic, more than the curse, more than the impossible situation you've found yourself trapped in—
That is the thing that makes your chest ache.
Because he's right. Jun would worry. About everyone. About everything. And maybe that's exactly why neither of you can bring yourselves to tell him. Not yet. Not when he smiles every time he sees the two of you waiting for him at home.
—
The first member to meet the cat is Soonyoung. This is unfortunate for everyone involved.
Especially the cat.
"HE LOOKS LIKE A TIGER."
The declaration arrives less than ten seconds after Soonyoung steps through Jun's front door. The cat, currently loafing on the sofa, visibly flinches.
You witness it. The cat witnesses it. Unfortunately, Soonyoung witnesses absolutely nothing. Jun lights up immediately.
"I told you he was cute."
"Cute?" Soonyoung repeats. "Jun, this isn't a cat."
The cat narrows his eyes. Soonyoung points dramatically.
"That is a tiger trapped in a smaller body."
The cat turns away.
"You hurt his feelings," you say.
"I spoke the truth."
"You compared him to a completely different species."
"So?" Soonyoung asks. "I'd be honoured."
The cat appears unconvinced.
—
The second problem is that Jun has started inviting you over so frequently that you've stopped knocking. At some point during the past month, the line between neighbour and friend had quietly disappeared.
You have your own mug in his kitchen. You know where he keeps spare blankets. You can navigate his apartment in the dark. Nobody ever discusses it.
It simply becomes normal. Dangerously normal.
The cat notices immediately. You know this because every time you arrive, he watches the interaction with increasingly concerning levels of interest.
Not judgment. Observation. Like he's conducting research. Like he's documenting evidence.
One afternoon, you arrive carrying takeout and find the cat sitting on the kitchen counter beside a notebook. The notebook is open. Several pages are filled with writing.
The moment he notices you looking, he slams it shut. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
"What are you writing?"
NOTHING.
"You're literally writing."
NOTHING IMPORTANT.
"You realise I can read."
The cat hugs the notebook against his chest.
You immediately become suspicious.
—
The situation worsens when the rest of Jun's friends begin appearing. Joshua arrives first. Then Minghao. Then Seungkwan.
The apartment somehow doubles in volume.
You are halfway through helping Jun prepare snacks when voices spill in from the hallway.
"Oh, Y/N's already here."
Your stomach performs an embarrassing little flip. Not because of Seungkwan. Because of the way Jun smiles.
Bright. Immediate. Unconsciously happy.
"Yeah," Jun says. "They got here earlier."
The cat, perched on the back of the sofa, immediately looks between both of you. You pretend not to notice. The cat continues noticing.
—
The evening begins normally.
Or as normally as possible when several members are crammed into one apartment arguing over board game rules.
The problems start approximately thirty minutes later. Specifically when Seungkwan begins paying attention.
"Wait."
Everybody ignores him.
"Wait."
Joshua continues setting up the game.
"Wait."
Minghao sighs.
"What?"
Seungkwan points.
At the cat. The cat freezes.
"That cat is weird."
The room falls silent. You nearly choke. The cat stops breathing. Jun blinks.
"Dumpling?"
"Yeah."
"What about him?"
Seungkwan squints. The cat squints back.
"He's looking at me."
Jun laughs.
"That's what cats do."
"No."
Seungkwan points harder.
"He's looking at me like he knows my tax information."
The cat immediately looks away. You cover your mouth. Minghao's shoulders start shaking. Joshua physically leaves the room because he's laughing too hard.
"See?" Seungkwan says triumphantly. "THAT."
"What?"
"That guilty look."
The cat leaps off the sofa and disappears into the bedroom. Seungkwan gasps.
"HE KNOWS."
—
The cat spends the next week avoiding Seungkwan. This only makes things worse. Apparently, if a person believes a cat is suspicious, the correct response is not to act suspicious.
Unfortunately, nobody explains this to the cat. The result is catastrophic. Every time Seungkwan enters a room, the cat leaves. Every time Seungkwan sits down, the cat relocates. Every time Seungkwan tries to pet him, the cat stares into the distance like he's remembering a war.
"It's personal," Seungkwan concludes.
"It's not personal," Jun says.
"It feels personal."
The cat immediately jumps off the couch. Seungkwan points.
"SEE?"
—
Minghao notices first. Not the curse. Not the transformations.
You.
Specifically, the way Jun looks at you. Which is significantly worse. The discovery occurs during movie night.
The apartment is quiet. The lights are dim. Everybody is focused on the screen except Minghao.
Minghao is focused on Jun. Jun is focused on you. The cat is focused on everyone. Minghao slowly turns toward Joshua.
Joshua follows his gaze. Then pauses. Then smiles.
"Oh."
The cat immediately notices. His eyes widen. Minghao notices the cat noticing. Now three people are aware of something.
You remain blissfully ignorant. Jun remains even more oblivious.
—
A group chat appears two days later. You discover its existence entirely by accident. Specifically because Jun leaves his phone unlocked while helping carry groceries. A notification appears.
[seungkwan] he smiled again
[minghao] i know
[joshua] it's getting embarrassing
[seungkwan] should we tell them
[joshua] absolutely not
[minghao] this is free entertainment
You immediately lock the screen.
Your face feels approximately one thousand degrees. Across the kitchen, the cat watches everything.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He gives you a thumbs up.
You nearly drop the groceries.
—
The truly alarming thing is that Jun keeps getting more comfortable around you.
Not intentionally. Not consciously.
It happens in small moments.
He hands you the first portion of food automatically. Saves your favourite seat. Texts you whenever something funny happens. Includes you in plans before asking if you're free.
As though your presence has become expected. As though you're already part of his life.
One evening you arrive after a particularly exhausting day. You don't even have time to say hello before Jun notices.
"Tough day?"
You blink.
"How did you know?"
"You look tired."
The answer is simple. Casual. Immediate. Something in your chest aches.
"Work was awful."
Jun frowns. The expression looks genuinely offended on your behalf.
"Want dinner?"
"That's your solution to everything."
"Dinner helps."
"It really doesn't."
Jun considers this.
"Okay."
A pause.
"Dinner and dessert?"
You laugh despite yourself. Across the room, the cat quietly writes something down.
—
The disaster happens on a Friday. Naturally. Disasters always happen on Fridays.
You arrive at Jun's apartment carrying coffee.
The door is unlocked. You let yourself inside.
"Jun?"
No response. The apartment appears empty. You walk toward the kitchen. Then stop. Human.
The cat is human. Very human.
Very surprised. Very standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a spoon.
The spoon falls. Neither of you moves. The cat closes his eyes.
"Oh no."
The front door opens.
"Oh no," the cat repeats.
Jun's voice echoes from the hallway.
"Y/N?"
Panic erupts instantly. The cat grabs your shoulders. You grab his shoulders. Neither of you has a plan.
"Hide."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Helpful."
Footsteps approach. The cat spins in a circle. You spin with him. Somewhere in the distance, Jun gets closer.
"Guys?"
"Window?"
"We're on the eighth floor."
"Right."
The cat gestures wildly. You gesture back. Neither of you contributes anything useful.
Finally, the cat dives behind the kitchen island. A second later, orange fur replaces human limbs.
You stare. The transformation still feels impossible.
Jun enters. The cat immediately appears from behind the counter.
That night, a folded page appears beneath your apartment door. You already know what it is. You unfold it. The familiar handwriting fills the page.
—
[CASE NOTES]
Current Threat Assessment:
Seungkwan suspicious.
Minghao observant.
Joshua entertained.
Jun oblivious.
Additional Notes:
Y/N and Jun spent thirty-two minutes talking in the kitchen today.
Neither realised everyone else had already left.
Concerning.
—
A final line has been squeezed into the bottom corner. At first glance, the handwriting appears rushed. Almost hesitant.
I think Jun likes you.
You stare at the sentence. Then immediately flip the page over. Nothing else is written there.
When you look back, the words haven't changed. The cat's handwriting remains stubbornly visible.
I think Jun likes you.
For some reason, that possibility feels far more terrifying than any curse.
—
The cat begins sabotaging your love life on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, he begins by sabotaging Jun's.
You don't realise this immediately. Mostly because the disaster starts small.
A missing shirt. A mysteriously hidden wallet. A phone that somehow ends up inside the linen cupboard.
Individually, none of these events are particularly suspicious. Together, however, they create a pattern.
Specifically, the pattern of a cat committing crimes.
"Have you seen my jacket?"
Jun is standing in the middle of his apartment looking genuinely confused. You glance up from the sofa.
"No?"
"I left it right here."
The cat, sitting three feet away, immediately looks out the window. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
Jun continues searching. The cat continues pretending to be innocent. Nobody is convinced.
—
The explanation arrives later that evening. Specifically after you corner the cat in your apartment and refuse to let him leave until he talks.
Human form this time. Mostly because he can actually explain himself.
"You're hiding things."
"I'm not hiding things."
"You hid his phone inside a cereal box."
The cat looks offended.
"It was a strategic location."
"You are impossible."
"So I've been told."
He drops onto your couch dramatically. You wait. The cat waits. Eventually, he sighs.
"It's because of the date."
You blink.
"What date?"
The look he gives you suggests you're the stupidest person alive.
"The blind date."
Oh. Right.
A few days earlier, one of Jun's friends had apparently decided he needed help finding romance. The resulting blind date had been arranged for this weekend.
Jun had agreed.
Mostly because he was too nice to refuse. The cat had hated the idea immediately.
Apparently.
"You've been sabotaging a blind date?"
"I've been delaying a blind date."
"That's worse."
"It's different."
"It isn't."
The cat folds his arms. You stare at each other. Eventually, he looks away first. And suddenly, for the first time since you've met him, he looks genuinely upset.
Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Just... sad. The change catches you off guard.
"What is it?"
The cat doesn't answer immediately. His gaze settles somewhere near the window. The city lights glow softly beyond the glass. For a long moment, the apartment feels strangely quiet.
Then—
"If the curse breaks, I'll leave."
The words land heavily between you. You freeze. The cat continues staring outside.
"I was always supposed to leave."
You don't know what to say. Because the thing is—
You've never actually thought about it. Not really. The curse has become part of daily life.
The transformations. The notes. The absurdity. The cat himself.
Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped feeling temporary. Stopped feeling like a problem that needed solving. Instead, he'd become...
Family.
The realisation hits harder than expected.
"I don't want to leave."
His voice is quiet.
"So don't."
The cat laughs. Not happily.
"You think curses work like rental agreements?"
"You're being dramatic."
"I learned from Jun."
You can't even argue with that.
—
The problem is that the conversation stays with you.
For days. Long after the cat leaves. Long after movie night. Long after Jun walks you home and lingers outside your apartment door for a few seconds longer than necessary.
The thought keeps returning. If the curse breaks. If the curse ends.
Then what? The cat leaves. Life changes. Everything changes. The idea feels wrong.
Uncomfortable.
Like imagining a missing piece in a picture you've grown used to. And perhaps that's why, a week later, you finally ask the question that's been bothering you.
"What actually breaks the curse?"
The cat pauses. He'd been halfway through stealing food from your kitchen. Now he simply stares.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I know what the old woman said."
"Which was?"
The cat sighs.
"'You'll return to yourself when you're accepted as yourself.'"
You blink.
"That's it?"
"That's literally it."
"That's incredibly vague."
"I KNOW."
The frustration in his voice sounds years old.
—
The answer arrives from somewhere completely unexpected. Seungkwan. Because, apparently, life enjoys irony.
It happens during one of the increasingly common group dinners at Jun's apartment.
Everyone is present. Food covers every available surface. Conversations overlap. The cat is currently asleep on Jun's lap. Which would be adorable if you didn't know he was actually a person.
"So," Seungkwan says suddenly.
You immediately become suspicious.
"So?" Jun asks.
"I've solved the mystery."
Nobody likes the way he says that.
"What mystery?" Joshua asks.
Seungkwan points dramatically. At Jun. Then at you. Then at the cat.
"The three of you."
Silence. The cat opens one eye.
"What about us?" you ask carefully.
Seungkwan leans back. Looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You all act like a family."
The room falls silent. Completely silent. The cat stops moving. Jun blinks. Minghao immediately looks interested. Joshua looks delighted. Seungkwan continues.
"It's weird."
"Thank you?" Jun says.
"No, seriously."
Seungkwan gestures vaguely.
"You."
Pointing at Jun.
"Cook."
Then you.
"You clean."
Then the cat.
"That one commits crimes."
The cat looks offended.
"That's a family."
Nobody says anything. Because somehow—
As ridiculous as the statement is—
It doesn't feel wrong.
—
That night, after everyone leaves, Jun walks you home. The journey takes less than a minute. Neither of you seems particularly eager to end it. The hallway is quiet.
The building mostly asleep. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. You glance over.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Jun."
He smiles. A little sheepish.
"A family, huh?"
Your chest immediately betrays you. The worst part is that he doesn't sound embarrassed. Or uncomfortable. Instead, he sounds...
Happy.
Like the idea itself makes him happy.
"Seungkwan says a lot of things."
"He does."
You reach your apartment door. Neither of you moves. The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.
The kind that makes you suddenly aware of every little thing. The warmth of the hallway lights. The softness in Jun's expression. The fact that he's standing much closer than usual.
For one impossible second, you think he might say something. Instead, he smiles.
"Goodnight."
The disappointment is immediate. And embarrassing.
"Goodnight."
Jun turns. Walks away. Then pauses.
Just before reaching his own apartment. He glances back. Smiles again. Then disappears inside.
Your heart remains absolutely useless.
—
The next morning, a note appears beneath your door. The handwriting is familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE #004]
Subject: Curse Investigation
Status: Ongoing.
Recent Findings:
Jun considers Y/N family.
Y/N considers Jun family.
I consider both idiots.
—
You laugh despite yourself. There is more. The writing below is messier. Less organised.
Like it was added later.
I think I finally understand.
You frown. Understand what?
The final paragraph answers.
For years, I thought breaking the curse meant becoming human again.
Maybe that was never the point.
Maybe the point was finding somewhere I didn't have to hide.
The words hit unexpectedly hard. Because for the first time, they don't feel like notes.
Or reports. Or evidence. They feel like a goodbye. And somehow, deep down, you know something is changing.
The curse is getting weaker. The cat knows it. Maybe even understands it. And for the first time since all this began—
You think he might finally be close to going home. The problem is that home isn't a place anymore.
It's Jun. It's you.
And none of you know what happens when the magic finally lets go.
—
The truth comes out because the cat finally gets tired.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Years of hiding have a way of wearing a person down, and despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat is still a person.
It happens on an ordinary Sunday. Which somehow makes it worse. There is no dramatic thunderstorm. No magical prophecy. No ancient witch appearing out of nowhere to explain things.
Just takeout containers, a half-finished movie, and Jun complaining because someone keeps stealing food off his plate.
"I'm serious," Jun says.
The cat, currently curled beside him on the couch, pointedly avoids eye contact.
"Every time I look away, something disappears."
You nearly choke on your drink. The cat looks offended. Jun narrows his eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
And then—
Without warning—
The room fills with golden light.
Everybody freezes. The cat freezes. You freeze. Jun freezes.
For one impossible moment, the entire apartment falls silent. The light swirls around the cat.
Brighter. Warmer. Familiar.
The same glow you've witnessed dozens of times before.
Except this time it doesn't stop.
"Oh."
The cat's voice returns first. Human. Entirely human.
Sitting where the cat had been seconds earlier. The takeout container slides off his lap.
Nobody reacts. Nobody breathes.
Jun stares. The cat stares back.
And after months of preparation, after endless contingency plans and increasingly ridiculous emergency scenarios, the only thing the cat manages to say is:
"...This isn't ideal."
—
The silence lasts approximately four seconds. Then Jun speaks.
"Oh."
Another pause.
"Oh."
The cat winces. You consider hiding. Jun continues staring. The cat continues existing.
You continue questioning every life decision that led to this moment.
Then, unexpectedly—
Jun stands up. Walks forward. And pokes the cat's forehead. The cat blinks. Jun blinks. The cat blinks again.
"You're real."
The cat stares.
"That is your first question?"
"What was I supposed to ask?"
"I don't know!"
The cat throws his hands into the air.
"Maybe why your pet is secretly a human?"
"That was definitely my second question."
"Jun."
"I'm getting there."
The cat looks ready to scream. You honestly can't blame him. For several long moments, Jun simply stands there processing. Then his expression changes.
Softens. The panic never comes. The anger never comes. Instead—
"You've been dealing with this alone?"
The cat freezes. The question hangs in the air. Everything suddenly feels very quiet. Because out of every possible reaction, somehow that is the one none of you expected. The cat's shoulders slump. Just slightly.
"Yeah."
Jun's expression crumples immediately.
"Oh."
And somehow that single syllable contains more heartbreak than any dramatic speech could.
—
The explanation takes hours. Mostly because Jun keeps interrupting. Not with accusations. Questions. Thousands of questions.
Have you been eating enough?
Where did you sleep before?
Were you scared?
Why didn't you tell me?
Did the veterinarian know?
The answer to that last one is apparently no. Thankfully.
The cat buries his face in his hands.
"I knew this would happen."
"What?"
"You worrying."
Jun looks genuinely confused.
"Of course I'm worried."
The cat laughs helplessly. And for the first time since you've met him, you realise just how exhausted he's been. How much effort it must have taken to keep carrying this alone.
Jun notices too. Because of course he does.
Without hesitation, he moves beside him on the couch. Close enough that their shoulders touch. Close enough that neither of them has to pretend anymore.
"You idiot."
The words are fond. The cat immediately starts crying.
—
The curse breaks completely three days later.
Not with magic. Not really. Not with fireworks or dramatic declarations. Just certainty.
No tail. No whiskers. No transformation. The curse is gone.
Just like that.
The moment should feel triumphant. Instead, everybody ends up strangely emotional. Including you. Especially Jun. The apartment feels different.
Not empty. Just unfamiliar. Like a favourite song rearranged into a new key. Better.
But still strange. The cat notices immediately.
"You're mourning me."
"No we're not."
"You absolutely are."
"We literally saw you this morning."
"Then stop looking at me like I've died."
Jun points a chopstick at him.
"You used to fit inside a tote bag."
"That's not a normal thing to miss."
"It is for me."
The cat groans. You laugh. For the first time in days, everything feels normal again.
—
The confession happens because Seungkwan finally loses patience. As expected.
Everyone has gathered for dinner. The former cat now occupies an actual chair. A development that continues to disturb Jun. Halfway through dessert, Seungkwan slams both hands on the table.
"ENOUGH."
Everybody jumps.
"What?" Joshua asks.
"No."
Seungkwan points. At Jun. Then at you. Then back at Jun.
"This has gone on long enough."
The room immediately erupts. Minghao starts laughing. Joshua covers his face. The former cat sighs dramatically. Jun looks confused. You look terrified.
"What's happening?"
"You like each other."
Seungkwan says it with the confidence of someone announcing the weather. Silence. Then:
"What?"
Jun and you speak simultaneously. The entire table groans. The former cat drops his forehead onto the table.
"You are unbearable."
"No," Seungkwan says. "I've suffered enough."
"Seungkwan—"
"No."
He points at Jun.
"Do you like Y/N?"
Jun opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at you. Then looks away. His ears turn red. The entire room explodes.
"Oh my god."
"I KNEW IT."
"Finally."
"THANK YOU."
Jun hides his face. You consider moving countries. The former cat looks seconds away from standing up and applauding.
—
Somehow, eventually, everyone leaves. Except Jun. And you.
The apartment grows quiet. The dishes remain forgotten. The city lights glow beyond the windows. For several moments, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. Embarrassed.
"I think they planned that."
"They definitely planned that."
"Yeah."
Silence returns. Not awkward. Just fragile.
The kind where everything important sits between two people waiting to be acknowledged.
Jun rubs the back of his neck. Looks down. Then up again. And suddenly he looks more nervous than you've ever seen him.
"I do, by the way."
Your breath catches.
"What?"
He smiles. Small. Warm. Entirely sincere.
"I do like you."
The words are simple. Which somehow makes them hit harder. No dramatic speech. No rehearsed confession. Just honesty.
The kind that's impossible to hide from.
"I think I've liked you for a while."
The smile spreads before you can stop it. Jun's eyes soften immediately. The sight nearly destroys you.
"Good."
His voice comes out quiet. Hopeful.
"Good?"
"Because I like you too."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then Jun laughs. The relieved, disbelieving kind. And somehow that's what finally pushes you both forward.
The kiss is gentle. Warm. A little awkward.
Perfect.
When you pull apart, Jun immediately starts smiling again. Like he physically cannot stop. You suspect you look exactly the same.
—
The next morning, a final note appears beneath your apartment door. The handwriting is instantly familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE: CLOSED]
Former Alias: Dumpling.Current Status: Human.Curse Status: Broken.Additional Findings:The old woman was right. Being human again wasn't the solution. Being loved was.
—
Your chest tightens. A final paragraph sits beneath it. Shorter. Messier. Like it wasn't rewritten a hundred times.
Thank you for seeing me. Even when I was a cat.
You stare at the page for a long moment. Then smile. A knock sounds at your door. You already know who it is.
When you open it, Jun stands there holding breakfast. And flowers. And the most hopeful expression you've ever seen.
"Hi."
You laugh immediately.
"Hi."
"Would you maybe want to go on an actual date?"
The flowers shake slightly. Nervous. Endearing. Very Jun. You take them from his hands. His smile brightens instantly.
And just like that, standing in the hallway where all of this began, surrounded by neighbours and ordinary apartment walls and absolutely no magic whatsoever, you realise something.
pairing: flower shop owner!seungcheol x reader
synopsis: When you were ten, Seungcheol taught you to blow dandelion seeds and make wishes. Years later, after moving away, you return to town and discover he's inherited his grandmother's flower shop. Inside an old drawer is a collection of childhood notes: "Things I wish for." Almost every one mentions you.
wc: 6.6k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Mild Angst, Slice of Life, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Flower Shop AU
warnings: Grief/Loss of a grandparent (past event), Emotional Discussions about Separation and Missed Opportunities, Nostalgia, References to Childhood Loneliness
a/n: this fic is a part of the First Bloom collab hosted by @svthub!
The strangest thing about coming home is discovering that the places you left behind never received the memo that you were gone.
You notice it almost immediately after stepping off the bus.
The old bakery on the corner still has the faded striped awning that seemed enormous when you were ten years old. The convenience store still has the crooked sign hanging above the entrance. Even the park across the road appears unchanged, the swings swaying gently in the afternoon breeze as if time itself had simply decided to settle down here and refuse to move forward.
Only you seem different. Only you seem out of place.
You stand beside your suitcase for a moment longer than necessary, staring down the familiar street while an uncomfortable ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs.
Three days ago, you had been packing up your apartment. Two days ago, you had been sorting through legal documents and answering sympathetic phone calls.
Now, after years of saying you'll visit eventually, after years of finding excuses and postponing plans and convincing yourself there would always be another opportunity, you're back in the town you spent most of your childhood trying to leave.
Not because you wanted to return. Because your grandmother died. The thought lands heavily, even now.
Your grip tightens around the suitcase handle. The funeral had been small. Simple.
Exactly what she would've wanted.
Most of the relatives had already left again, returning to their own lives, while you stayed behind to sort through paperwork and prepare the house for sale.
Just a few weeks, you told yourself. Long enough to finish everything properly. Long enough to say goodbye.
Then you'd leave again. The plan sounds reasonable in theory. In practice, every step through town feels like walking through memories.
The route to your grandmother's house passes the elementary school where you spent countless afternoons pretending to pay attention during class. The creek behind the football field still winds lazily through town, hidden beneath the same willow trees that once provided the backdrop for summer adventures so important they had felt life-changing at the time.
You know exactly where every turn leads. You hate how much of it you remember. The house itself sits exactly where it always has. The garden is slightly overgrown. The mailbox leans to one side. The front porch creaks beneath your weight.
Home.
Not home anymore. But close enough to hurt.
—
The first few days disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities. Boxes. Documents. Phone calls. Dust-covered photo albums.
Closets packed with items your grandmother had somehow convinced herself she might need someday.
You spend hours sorting through decades of accumulated memories, discovering things you forgot existed and things you wish you could forget.
Old school reports. Birthday cards. Drawings. Photographs. Far too many photographs. By the fourth day, the house feels quieter than ever. The silence eventually becomes unbearable.
Which is how you find yourself wandering through town with no destination in mind, hands shoved into your jacket pockets while the late afternoon sun bathes everything in warm gold.
You tell yourself you're just getting fresh air. You tell yourself you aren't searching for anything. The lie lasts approximately fifteen minutes.
Because eventually you turn a corner. And stop.
The flower shop still stands exactly where it always did. For a second, you think you've imagined it.
The familiar brick storefront. The flower boxes beneath the windows. The painted sign hanging above the entrance.
Only one thing has changed.
The name.
Your chest tightens. Not because the shop exists. Because you know who owns it now. You learned it from one of the older ladies at the funeral.
"Oh, have you seen Seungcheol yet?"
As if that were the most natural question in the world. As if years hadn't passed. As if hearing his name didn't still do something strange to your heartbeat. You haven't seen him. Not yet.
You hadn't planned to.
But suddenly there he is. Standing inside the shop. Alive. Real. Older.
The breath catches somewhere in your throat. For a moment, all you can do is stare.
He's arranging flowers near the front counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he focuses on adjusting a bouquet.
You knew he would have changed. Of course he would've changed.
The last time you saw him, he was fourteen years old and trying very hard not to cry while helping load boxes into a moving truck.
The man standing in front of you now is nothing like that boy. Except he is. The shape of his smile when he speaks to a customer. The way he absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck. The slight furrow between his brows when concentrating. Some things remain stubbornly familiar.
Then, as if sensing your stare, he looks up. And sees you.
The world doesn't stop. Nothing dramatic happens. Cars continue driving past. The shop door remains closed. The flowers continue existing. But something shifts.
You know it does because Seungcheol freezes. The bouquet slips slightly in his hands. For one stunned second, neither of you move.
Then his eyes widen. Your stomach drops. And suddenly you're ten years old again.
—
"You have to make a wish first."
"I already made one."
"That doesn't count."
"It does count."
"No, it doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Ten-year-old Seungcheol had always been incredibly confident for someone who spent half his time making things up.
The two of you sat cross-legged in a field behind his grandmother's flower shop, surrounded by dandelions and sunlight.
He held one proudly between his fingers. You rolled your eyes.
"You literally just invented that rule."
"Every game has rules."
"This isn't a game."
"It is now."
You groaned dramatically. He ignored you.
"Close your eyes."
"No."
"Y/N."
"No."
"Trust me."
At ten years old, trusting Seungcheol was the easiest thing in the world. You closed your eyes.
"Now make a wish."
You sighed. Made one anyway.
"Done."
"Okay."
You opened your eyes just in time to watch him blow the dandelion apart. White seeds scattered into the wind.
"What'd you wish for?" you asked.
His expression became immediately suspicious.
"You can't tell people."
"You made that up too."
"Maybe."
"You definitely did."
"But what if it's true?"
You laughed. He grinned. The sunlight caught in his hair.
And somehow, without either of you realizing it, that afternoon became one of the memories that followed you everywhere.
—
The bell above the flower shop door rings softly when you finally step inside. The scent hits you immediately.
Fresh flowers. Soil. Greenery. Something sweet and familiar.
The same scent that used to cling to Seungcheol whenever he spent all day helping his grandmother. The same scent you haven't thought about in years.
He stands behind the counter now. Watching you. Still looking mildly shocked. You suspect you look exactly the same. For several awkward seconds, nobody says anything. Then—
"Hi."
Brilliant. Absolutely incredible. Years apart and that's the best you can manage. Seungcheol laughs. The sound eases something inside your chest instantly.
"Hi."
His voice is deeper than you remember. Everything about him feels older. Not unfamiliar. Just older.
"You came back."
The words aren't accusatory. If anything, they sound slightly disbelieving. You nod.
"Temporarily."
Something flickers across his face. Gone too quickly to identify.
"Right."
The conversation stumbles forward after that. Careful. Tentative. Questions about work. About family. About how long you've been back.
Neither of you mentions how strange this feels. Neither of you mentions how many years disappeared between one conversation and the next.
Eventually another customer enters. Then another. The moment passes. You tell yourself that's probably for the best. Still, when you finally leave, Seungcheol walks you to the door.
"If you're bored," he says casually, "you can stop by anytime."
You blink.
"What?"
"The shop."
He gestures vaguely around himself.
"I'm usually here."
The invitation sounds simple. Normal. Yet your heart reacts as if he's offered something much bigger. You smile before you can stop yourself.
"Maybe I will."
His smile mirrors yours.
"Good."
—
The following afternoon, you return. Then again two days later. Then once more. Not intentionally.
It just keeps happening.
Sometimes you help carry deliveries. Sometimes you organize shelves. Sometimes you sit near the counter pretending to read while Seungcheol works.
The ease returns surprisingly quickly. Not completely. There are still years between you. Still things unsaid. But the foundation remains.
As if friendship had simply been waiting patiently beneath the surface. One evening, after closing time, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to answer a phone call. You volunteer to finish organizing a neglected storage room.
The space is cramped. Dusty. Filled with forgotten boxes. You sneeze twice. Immediately regret your life choices.
And then you notice the drawer. Small. Wooden. Hidden behind a stack of old gardening catalogues.
Curiosity wins.
You pull it open. Inside are dozens of folded papers.
Hundreds, maybe.
All carefully preserved. You hesitate before reaching for the top one. The paper is yellowed with age.
The handwriting is instantly recognizable. Even after all these years.
Your breath catches.
Slowly, you unfold the note. Across the top of the page, written in uneven childhood handwriting, are four words.
Things I wish for.
And underneath:
For Grandma's roses to survive winter.
For my knee to stop hurting.
For Y/N to stop crying when they lose races because I don't like it.
At the bottom, squeezed into the corner:
I think wishes work better when you blow two dandelions instead of one.
– Seungcheol
You stare at the page. Then read it again. And again.
Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak. The sound barely registers.
Because suddenly you're ten years old.
Standing in a field.
Holding a dandelion.
Listening to a boy make up rules about wishes.
And for the first time since returning home, you wonder whether maybe some memories never left at all.
—
The problem with nostalgia is that it never arrives alone.
It comes hand-in-hand with comparison, with grief, with all the quiet questions that only appear when you're staring at the person you used to know and trying to reconcile them with the person standing in front of you now.
By the end of the second week, you have become painfully aware of that fact. You have also become painfully aware of how often you find yourself at the flower shop. The first few visits had reasonable explanations.
You needed somewhere to walk. You needed a break from sorting through your grandmother's belongings. You needed a distraction.
The seventh visit is significantly harder to justify.
Especially when you're carrying two iced coffees and walking toward the shop before you've fully finished convincing yourself you're only dropping by for a few minutes.
The bell above the door rings. Seungcheol immediately looks up. The smile that appears on his face happens so naturally that neither of you seem to notice it.
You do. Unfortunately.
"You're late."
You stop.
"What?"
He gestures toward the wall clock.
"You usually get here fifteen minutes ago."
The realization settles over both of you simultaneously.
Because he's right. Because apparently you've established a routine. Because apparently Seungcheol has noticed.
Heat crawls up your neck.
"You timed me?"
"I didn't time you."
"You literally knew I was fifteen minutes late."
"I just noticed."
"That's timing me."
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
His laugh fills the shop. You hate how much you missed that sound.
—
The flower shop feels different now that you've spent enough time inside it to notice the details. The place still carries traces of his grandmother. The old cash register remains displayed on a shelf near the counter.
Framed photographs line one wall.
The ancient rocking chair in the corner somehow survived several decades despite looking permanently one bad day away from collapse.
But Seungcheol is everywhere too. The organization. The handwritten signs. The new displays. The garden outside. The entire place feels like a conversation between generations.
A continuation rather than a replacement.
His grandmother would've loved that. You think she already knew he would inherit the shop.
You glance up from the arrangement you're helping prepare.
"Daisies?"
"Dandelions."
He nods toward the window.
Outside, several bright yellow flowers have appeared amongst the carefully maintained garden beds.
You smile.
"They're kind of pretty."
"Exactly."
He sounds offended.
"Kind of?"
"Okay, they're pretty."
"There we go."
"You care way too much about dandelions."
"I inherited that."
His voice softens slightly.
"Grandma used to say they were the bravest flowers."
You pause.
"What does that mean?"
He carefully trims a stem.
"They grow everywhere."
A shrug.
"They survive getting stepped on."
Another cut.
"People call them weeds, but they keep blooming anyway."
You watch him for a moment. Sunlight filters through the front window. Dust drifts lazily through the air.
The shop smells faintly of lavender and soil. For a second, the years between childhood and now seem remarkably small.
"They sound stubborn."
Seungcheol grins.
"Exactly."
—
The first time someone mistakes you for his partner, you're unprepared. The culprit is an elderly customer named Mrs. Kim.
One moment she's purchasing carnations. The next she's looking between you and Seungcheol with obvious satisfaction.
"It's nice to finally meet them."
You blink.
"I'm sorry?"
Mrs. Kim waves dismissively.
"Don't worry."
Seungcheol visibly tenses. You immediately become suspicious.
"Don't worry about what?"
The woman pats your hand.
"Oh, honey, we've all heard about you."
Silence. Complete silence. You slowly turn toward Seungcheol. He refuses to make eye contact.
"Seungcheol."
"No."
"What does she mean?"
"No."
Mrs. Kim laughs. The traitor.
"You know, Y/N this and Y/N that and—"
"Mrs. Kim."
The warning in his voice only makes her smile widen. You stare. He stares determinedly at the floor.
A customer enters. The conversation mercifully dies.
Unfortunately your curiosity survives.
—
You corner him later.
"What exactly have people heard?"
"Nothing."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It isn't."
"Seungcheol."
He groans.
"You're impossible."
"You avoided the question."
"I mentioned you sometimes."
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes."
The response is entirely too fast. You narrow your eyes.
"How many times?"
His expression immediately suggests the answer is significantly higher than either of you would like.
—
That night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the drawer again. You know you probably shouldn't be reading the notes.
They're private. Personal. Hidden for a reason. And yet. The temptation wins.
Again.
The next paper is dated in messy twelve-year-old handwriting. You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To beat Jeonghan at soccer.
To grow taller.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Don't tell them I wrote that.
You stare. Then reread the sentence. Then reread it again.
The words somehow feel heavier each time.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Simple. Innocent. Childish. Yet something twists painfully inside your chest.
Because you didn't stay. Because neither of you had any control over that. Because twelve-year-old Seungcheol didn't know he was writing a wish that would never come true.
—
Middle school had been awkward. Not terrible. Not dramatic. Just awkward.
The age where suddenly everyone became aware that boys and girls existed. The age where friendships acquired strange new rules nobody explained properly.
You remember sitting beside Seungcheol during lunch one afternoon. He arrived carrying two juice boxes. Immediately handed you one.
Completely normal. Entirely routine. Unfortunately half your classmates witnessed the exchange. The teasing started instantly.
"Ooooh."
"Look."
"It's Y/N and Seungcheol."
You remember wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Seungcheol had looked equally horrified. The two of you spent the rest of lunch aggressively denying accusations nobody had technically made.
Neither of you acknowledged how red your faces became.
—
You wake the next morning determined not to think about old letters. The determination lasts approximately twenty minutes.
By lunch, you're back at the flower shop. By evening, you're helping prepare arrangements for a wedding. By closing time, you're laughing so hard you nearly drop an entire bucket of peonies.
The transition feels alarmingly natural. As if this version of life has been waiting patiently for your return. As if leaving had only been an interruption.
Not an ending.
The thought unsettles you.
—
The following week, the town begins treating your presence as permanent. The bakery owner asks whether you've found a job yet. The librarian asks if you're staying. Three separate neighbors mention available apartments.
You spend most conversations repeating the same answer.
"I'm only here temporarily."
Every single person responds the same way.
"We'll see."
The most irritating part is that nobody sounds uncertain.
Least of all Seungcheol.
—
One afternoon, while helping water plants behind the shop, you finally ask.
"Did everyone in this town secretly agree to annoy me?"
He laughs.
"Probably."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
You splash water toward him. He dodges. Barely.
"Traitor."
"I didn't do anything."
"You never tell them I'm leaving."
His expression changes slightly. The smile remains. Something else disappears.
"Oh."
Immediately, guilt settles in your stomach. You hadn't meant—
"I mean—"
"It's okay."
The words are gentle. Too gentle. The conversation moves on.
Yet the silence lingers.
—
That evening, while closing up, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to search for inventory records. The opportunity presents itself. You tell yourself you're only checking one note.
One. That's all.
The lie fools absolutely nobody. Especially not yourself. You return to the drawer. Select another folded paper. Open it carefully.
The handwriting is older this time.
Less childish. More controlled. The date makes your chest tighten.
The year you moved away.
Things I wish for:
To have my own flower shop someday.
For Grandma to stop working so hard.
For Y/N to smile like they did before they found out they're moving.
I hate this wish.
The words blur slightly. You blink. Look away. Look back.
The paper remains unchanged.
The same ink. The same handwriting. The same impossible honesty.
For a long moment, you simply sit there.
Remembering.
—
The moving truck had arrived too early. Or maybe it only felt that way.
You remember cardboard boxes. Your mother's stressed voice. Relatives carrying furniture.
Everything happening much too fast. You remember friends saying goodbye. Teachers promising you'd make new ones. Adults insisting change was exciting.
You remember hating every second of it.
Most of all, you remember Seungcheol. Standing beside the driveway. Hands shoved into his pockets. Trying very hard to act normal.
You'd both promised to stay in touch. You'd both promised nothing would change. At fourteen, promises like that feel unbreakable.
Reality is less cooperative. Calls become texts. Texts become occasional messages. Then birthdays. Then silence.
Not because either of you stopped caring.
Because life happened. Because growing up happened. Because distance is sometimes quieter than heartbreak.
—
A floorboard creaks overhead. You quickly fold the letter. Return it to the drawer. Close everything.
By the time Seungcheol returns, you're standing beside a shelf pretending to examine gardening supplies.
His eyes narrow immediately.
"You look suspicious."
"What?"
"You look guilty."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
You point at a random bag of fertilizer.
"Did you know this contains nitrogen?"
The silence that follows is devastating. Then Seungcheol starts laughing.
The kind of laugh that forces him to lean against a table for support. You hate him. Possibly. A little.
—
Later, after you've returned home, sleep proves impossible. Your mind keeps returning to the notes.
The wishes. The years. Everything that existed while you were gone.
Eventually curiosity wins one final time. Near midnight, you retrieve the drawer once more.
One last letter. Just one. You unfold it slowly.
The handwriting immediately looks different.
Shakier. Messier. Lonelier.
The date makes your stomach drop. A few months after you left. Nothing else is written on the page.
No numbered list. No jokes. No soccer. No flowers.
Just a single sentence.
Things I wish for:
Y/N comes back.
Just once. That's all. For a long moment, the room remains completely silent.
Outside, wind rattles softly against the windows. Inside, your chest feels painfully tight. You remember all the times you almost visited. All the summers you said maybe next year. All the holidays that slipped away. All the opportunities lost to convenience and distance and the assumption that there would always be more time.
The note trembles slightly in your hands.
And for the first time since returning home, you begin to understand that maybe you weren't the only person who spent years missing someone.
The realization follows you long after the lights go out. Long after the letter is folded away. Long after sleep finally arrives.
And somewhere across town, completely unaware of the storm currently unfolding inside your chest, Seungcheol closes his flower shop for the evening and locks the front door, still carrying pieces of a wish he made twelve years ago.
—
The worst part about reading the letters is that they make everything impossible to ignore. Not impossible in the dramatic sense. Not in the way movies portray it, where suddenly every interaction becomes charged with unbearable tension and every glance feels life-altering.
Instead, it becomes impossible to ignore the accumulation of small things. The details. The habits. The spaces someone occupies in your life without permission.
Before finding the drawer, spending every afternoon at the flower shop had felt natural.
After finding the drawer, you become painfully aware that Seungcheol automatically hands you a drink before grabbing one for himself.
That he remembers how you take your coffee. That he moves around the shop with the unconscious expectation that you'll be somewhere nearby. That every time the front door opens, his eyes immediately search for you before searching for the customer.
None of these things mean anything individually. Together, they begin to feel like something dangerous. Something you've spent years pretending not to recognize. Something that looks suspiciously like first love growing up and refusing to leave.
—
The flower festival arrives at exactly the wrong time. Or perhaps exactly the right time. You haven't decided which.
The annual event has existed for as long as you can remember, transforming the town into something bright and overwhelming for a weekend every spring. Streets fill with flower displays. Local businesses compete for awards. Families wander between stalls carrying bouquets and iced drinks.
As children, you and Seungcheol used to treat it like the most important event of the year. Now, as adults, it means two weeks of preparation and approximately zero free time. Not that you mind.
Being busy makes it easier not to think.
Unfortunately, Seungcheol keeps ruining that strategy by existing.
—
"You're staring."
You nearly drop the box you're carrying.
"What?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"You've been looking at me for ten seconds."
"I was not."
"You were."
"No."
"Y/N."
The use of your name should not feel that unfair. It does. Especially when accompanied by a smile. Especially when he knows exactly what he's doing. You point aggressively at the display you're assembling.
"I was looking at the flowers."
"Sure."
"Why would I stare at you?"
His grin widens. You immediately regret speaking. Across the room, an elderly volunteer watching preparations sighs dramatically.
"Please date already."
Both of you nearly choke.
—
The town has become unbearable. Not because the people are cruel. Quite the opposite. The people are far too invested.
Everyone appears convinced that you and Seungcheol are one conversation away from getting married. The florist across the street keeps offering relationship advice. Mrs. Kim has started winking whenever she enters the shop. Even children seem suspicious.
At one point, a ten-year-old asks if you're Seungcheol's spouse. You spend five full minutes recovering.
Seungcheol spends ten.
—
The problem is that every joke lands slightly closer to the truth than either of you are comfortable admitting.
Because somewhere between sorting flowers and revisiting childhood memories and reading letters you definitely should not be reading, something has changed.
Or maybe nothing changed. Maybe you've simply stopped running from it.
You don't know which possibility scares you more.
—
One evening, after the shop closes, rain begins unexpectedly. Heavy. Relentless.
The kind that turns roads silver beneath streetlights. You're trapped. Not that either of you seem particularly bothered.
Seungcheol locks the front door and flips the sign to CLOSED.
The two of you remain inside. Waiting. The shop feels different after hours. Quieter. More intimate.
The scent of flowers seems stronger somehow. The silence stretches comfortably between conversations. You sit together behind the counter drinking tea.
Outside, rain taps steadily against the glass. Inside, memories linger everywhere.
"You know," Seungcheol says eventually, "Grandma used to think you were going to marry me."
You nearly inhale your tea.
"What?"
His laughter echoes through the empty shop.
"I'm serious."
"Why would she think that?"
"You were ten."
"That's not an answer."
"You followed me around everywhere."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"You're making things up."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He shakes his head.
"She used to tell me all the time."
The smile softens.
"'That one loves you very much, Seungcheol.'"
Something catches unexpectedly in your chest. You look away.
The rain suddenly becomes fascinating.
—
Later that night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting on the floor beside the drawer again. You don't even pretend to resist anymore. The letters feel less like an invasion now.
More like a conversation delayed by years. The next note is dated two years after you left.
You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To stop thinking about Y/N.
Didn't work.
For several seconds, you simply stare. Then laugh. Actually laugh.
Because somehow, despite everything, fourteen-year-old Seungcheol and sixteen-year-old Seungcheol remain unmistakably the same person.
Hopeless. Earnest. Painfully honest. You continue reading.
The next note is eighteen.
Things I wish for:
To see Y/N again.
To stop comparing everyone else to Y/N.
Didn't work either.
The smile disappears. A strange ache replaces it. You know what he's implying.
You wish you didn't.
Because suddenly every year between then and now feels tangible.
Every missed opportunity. Every person he met. Every relationship that apparently failed to become something lasting.
The thought follows you into the final letter. Age twenty-one.
Things I wish for:
Y/N.
Just Y/N.
No explanation. No joke. No elaboration. Only your name.
The page trembles slightly in your hands.
—
The next morning, you arrive at the flower shop exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Possibly spiritually.
Seungcheol notices immediately.
"Rough night?"
You consider your options. Lie. Deflect. Change the subject.
Instead:
"Why didn't you throw them away?"
His hands stop moving. The flowers remain half-arranged between his fingers. For a moment, neither of you speak.
Then:
"The notes?"
You nod. The silence stretches. Long enough for your pulse to become annoying. Long enough for the question to feel dangerous. Finally, Seungcheol exhales softly.
"Because throwing them away felt like giving up."
The answer lands harder than expected. You stare. He continues looking at the flowers.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you looks away. The shop suddenly feels too quiet.
Too small. Too honest.
—
The conversation changes after that. Not dramatically. Not immediately. But something shifts.
A wall lowers. A distance disappears. You begin talking about things you've avoided for years.
University. Family. The struggles nobody posted online. The loneliness. The uncertainty. The versions of yourselves that existed while the other wasn't there to witness them.
For the first time, it feels like you're catching up properly. Not on events.
On each other.
—
The breakthrough arrives unexpectedly. Through gossip. Naturally. Because this town cannot help itself.
You're helping arrange flowers outside the festival pavilion when Mrs. Kim appears. You should have run. Instead, you smile politely. A mistake.
"Did you know," she begins immediately, "that Seungcheol never brought anyone serious home?"
Your heart stops.
"What?"
Mrs. Kim continues cheerfully.
"Such a waste."
You stare. The woman sighs dramatically.
"Everyone liked him."
The implications begin arriving one by one. Slowly. Terribly. You don't want to ask. You ask anyway.
"Why?"
Mrs. Kim blinks.
"Why what?"
"Why didn't he date anyone?"
The answer comes far too quickly.
"As if we don't all know."
Then she walks away. Leaving you alone with approximately twelve different emotional crises.
—
The festival opens the next day. Crowds flood the streets. Music drifts through the air. Children race between displays. Customers fill the shop. The entire town seems alive.
You should be enjoying it. Instead, you're distracted.
Because every time you look at Seungcheol, another letter appears in your memory.
Another wish. Another year. Another version of him quietly hoping for something he thought he would never get.
By evening, exhaustion settles over everyone. The crowds thin. Sunlight begins fading. And somehow you find yourselves alone behind the shop.
Again.
The garden glows gold beneath the setting sun. Dandelions sway gently amongst the flower beds.
The same flowers. The same stubborn flowers. Hope disguised as weeds.
Seungcheol sits beside you on a wooden bench. Close. Not touching. Close enough. For several minutes, neither of you speaks. The silence feels full. Waiting. Anticipating.
Like the final moments before a storm breaks. Then he says quietly:
"I was happy you came back."
Your breath catches. The confession isn't romantic. Not technically. But it feels significant anyway. You glance toward him. His gaze remains fixed on the garden.
A nervous habit you've started recognizing.
"I was happy too."
The words come easily. Truth always does. He smiles. Small. Soft. Real.
And suddenly you're struck by a realization so obvious it almost feels ridiculous. Every important moment in your life somehow leads back to him. Every memory. Every wish. Every version of home.
The thought settles heavily between your ribs. Not uncomfortable. Just undeniable. The sun sinks lower. The dandelions sway.
And for the first time, you begin wondering whether the final letter in the drawer isn't actually the end of the story.
Maybe it's only the beginning. Because tomorrow is the final day of the flower festival. Tomorrow you'll finish sorting the last boxes from your grandmother's house. Tomorrow you'll have to decide whether you're leaving again.
And somewhere deep down, beneath years of distance and excuses and carefully maintained walls, a small stubborn hope begins to bloom.
Much like a dandelion. Refusing to die. Refusing to be ignored. Refusing, despite everything, to stop growing.
—
The last day of the flower festival arrives far too quickly. You know this because you spend most of the morning trying not to think about it. Unfortunately, thinking about something and trying not to think about something are often the exact same activity.
By noon, you're painfully aware that this is your final week in town. By three o'clock, you've mentally packed your suitcase twice. By five, you've considered extending your stay. By six, you've considered cancelling your return entirely. None of these thoughts help.
Especially because every possible future seems to revolve around the same person. Across the square, Seungcheol is helping a little girl choose flowers for her mother. You watch him crouch down so they're eye level. Watch him listen seriously to her explanation. Watch him help arrange a tiny bouquet.
The girl leaves looking delighted. Seungcheol looks equally pleased. The sight hurts. Not because it's sad. Because it feels familiar.
Because it feels like home.
Because somewhere along the way, without realizing it, you've started measuring places by whether or not he exists in them.
And that seems like a dangerous way to live.
—
The festival winds down slowly. Stalls begin packing away displays. Families drift home. The streets gradually quiet.
For the first time all weekend, the town feels peaceful. You spend most of the evening helping return decorations to storage.
Boxes. Signs. Flower stands. The work is repetitive enough to keep your hands busy. Not your thoughts.
Those remain frustratingly active. By the time darkness settles over town, only a handful of people remain.
The cleanup continues. The shop stays open late. And eventually you find yourself alone.
Again. In the storage room. Again. Standing in front of the drawer. Again.
At this point, you suspect fate has completely given up pretending to be subtle.
—
The final note is hidden beneath all the others. Tucked carefully at the very bottom. Almost as if someone wanted it protected. Your pulse quickens immediately. Because unlike the others, this paper looks newer.
Not recent. Just newer. Adult handwriting. Adult paper. Adult ink.
Slowly, you unfold it. And the world narrows.
Things I wish for:
I don't think this one belongs to a dandelion anymore.
I think some wishes are supposed to be said.
I love Y/N.
I've loved them since we were kids making rules about wishes in the park.
And if they come back someday, maybe I'll finally tell them.
– Seungcheol
For a long moment, nothing happens. You simply stare. Reading the words once. Twice. Again. As if repetition might somehow make them less overwhelming.
It doesn't.
The confession sits plainly on the page. No jokes. No hiding. No pretending. Just the truth. The same truth that has apparently existed for years. The same truth you've spent the entire month slowly uncovering one letter at a time.
Outside the storage room, a floorboard creaks.
You look up.
Your heart immediately attempts escape.
Because Seungcheol is standing in the doorway. And judging by his expression, he knows exactly what you're holding.
—
"Oh."
Brilliant. An excellent response. Truly.
Years of emotional buildup and the first thing either of you manages is:
"Oh."
Seungcheol closes his eyes. Briefly. The expression on his face suggests he is considering several possible methods of spontaneous death.
"You found that one."
You hold up the paper.
"A little late to ask me not to read it."
His groan echoes off the walls. You almost laugh. Almost.
If your heart wasn't currently beating hard enough to qualify as a medical emergency. The silence stretches. Neither of you seem sure how to continue.
Finally:
"You were never supposed to find that."
Your eyebrows rise.
"There are literally eight hundred letters in that drawer."
"There are not eight hundred."
"There are enough."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Then disappears. The seriousness returns. And suddenly the air changes. The humor fades. The truth remains.
"You meant it?"
The question comes out quieter than intended. Seungcheol looks at the floor. Then the shelves. Then literally anywhere except you.
Eventually, he exhales.
"Yeah."
Just one word. Simple. Certain. Enough.
Your chest tightens painfully. Because there is no hesitation. No uncertainty. No attempt to take it back. Just honesty.
The kind that takes years to build. The kind that only appears when someone is finally tired of hiding.
"Since we were kids?"
A small laugh escapes him.
"Unfortunately."
The response is so Seungcheol that tears immediately threaten.
"You make it sound tragic."
"It was."
Now he smiles. Softly.
"I liked you for fifteen years."
Your laugh comes out suspiciously emotional.
"I was very committed."
The tears win. Just slightly. Enough for your vision to blur. Enough for Seungcheol's expression to immediately change. Concern replacing nervousness.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'm having a normal reaction."
"This doesn't seem normal."
"It absolutely isn't."
And somehow that breaks the tension. Both of you laugh. Both of you look slightly overwhelmed. Both of you look suspiciously close to crying.
When the laughter fades, the truth remains. Patient. Waiting. You stare down at the letter again.
At your name. At years of wishes. At every version of him that existed before this moment.
Ten years old. Twelve. Fourteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-six. Every single one hoping for the same thing. Every single one writing your name.
The realization settles heavily inside your chest. Not because it's surprising.
Because it isn't. Not anymore.
Somewhere between the first letter and the last, you've already known.
You simply weren't ready to admit it.
"Do you know something funny?"
Seungcheol looks confused.
"A dangerous start."
You ignore him.
"I used to wish for you too."
The words leave before you can stop them. His expression freezes. Completely.
"What?"
You laugh softly. Because honestly, the universe has a terrible sense of humor.
"Every birthday."
You look down at the letter.
"Every shooting star."
A smile. Small. Embarrassed.
"Every dandelion."
Silence. Absolute silence.
"Seriously?"
You nod. His eyes widen.
"You never told me."
"You never told me."
"That's because I was terrified."
"So was I."
The answer arrives instantly. Truth again. Always truth.
—
The confession isn't dramatic. There are no grand speeches. No perfectly rehearsed declarations. No movie-worthy dialogue.
Instead, there is honesty. Messy honesty. The kind built from years of friendship.
Years of absence. Years of missing someone without fully understanding the shape of that feeling.
You talk. Really talk. For the first time. About moving away. About losing touch. About all the almost-visits.
The unanswered messages. The missed opportunities. The people you both tried and failed to become. And somehow, through all of it, the conversation keeps returning to the same conclusion.
You found your way back. Not immediately. Not perfectly. But eventually. You came back. And he waited. Not intentionally. Not actively. Just quietly.
Like someone protecting a wish.
—
The flower shop closes early the following evening. Not because business is slow. Because Seungcheol insists on taking you somewhere.
You recognize the destination immediately. The field.
The one behind the shop. The one from childhood. The one where everything started.
The walk there feels strangely familiar. As if no time has passed. As if every version of yourselves still exists somewhere among the grass.
The field is smaller than you remember. Most places are. The dandelions aren't.
They remain everywhere.
Bright. Stubborn. Impossible to ignore.
Exactly like him.
—
"Do you remember the rules?" Seungcheol asks. You laugh.
"The rules changed every week."
"They were very sophisticated."
"They were completely made up."
"They were based on science."
"They absolutely were not."
His offended expression is immediate. You grin. Some things never change.
Thank God.
—
Eventually the conversation fades. The evening settles around you. Warm. Peaceful. Comfortable.
Seungcheol picks a dandelion.
Then another. Holding one out. You accept it automatically.
Like muscle memory. Like childhood. Like home.
The white seeds tremble gently in the breeze. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
"What are you wishing for?"
The question is familiar. The same question from years ago. The same field. The same flowers. The same boy.
Only now he's a man looking at you like you're the answer to something. You stare at the dandelion. Then at him. Then smile.
"Nothing."
His eyebrows lift.
"Nothing?"
You shake your head.
"No."
The answer feels surprisingly easy. Certain. Complete.
For the first time in a very long time, there is nothing left to ask for.
No missing piece. No distance. No unanswered question. No wish waiting to be granted.
Just this. Just him. Just the future.
Whatever shape it takes. And somehow, that's enough.
More than enough.
Seungcheol smiles. Slowly. Softly. The kind of smile that belongs entirely to you.
Then together, sitting side by side in a field full of dandelions, you blow the seeds into the evening air.
Thousands of tiny white fragments drift upward.
Carried by the wind. Carried toward whatever comes next. Not because you need wishes anymore.
But because some traditions deserve to survive. Some things deserve to bloom again.
And some first loves, despite distance and time and every reason they should have faded, are stubborn enough to wait.
Like dandelions. Like hope.
Like Choi Seungcheol.
Like you.
The seeds disappear into the sunset. This time, neither of you watches them go.
Because for the first time, you're both looking in the same direction.
pairing: Jun x reader
synopsis: Jun adopts a cat who turns out to be a cursed human. You’re the only other person who knows the secret—and Jun might be falling for both the cat and you.
wc: 6.9k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Magic?, Found Family, Neighbours,
warnings: Cat was cursed…
a/n: happy birthday to junnie!!! This isn’t apart of the academia series like other members will be, bc HE STARTED THE SERIES!!! I highhhlyyyyy recommend reading Kiss Me, Its for Science or any other ones from the series! it was so so sooo fun to write any junnie fic!! Though i must say, while reading this fic, please ignore ALL logic and just accept whatever i have written regarding the cat…
The first time you meet the cat, it is sitting in the middle of the apartment hallway like it pays rent.
You nearly trip over it on your way home from work.
One second you're balancing a grocery bag against your hip while fumbling for your keys, and the next you're staring down at an orange-and-white cat sitting directly in front of your door with the kind of confidence usually reserved for landlords and people who cut queues without apologising.
The cat stares back. You stare back. The cat blinks. You blink.
"Hello?"
The cat's ears twitch.
Then, with all the dignity of a tiny king inspecting his territory, it stands up, walks directly over your shoes, and begins rubbing against your ankles.
"Oh," you say, immediately folding. "You're friendly."
The cat lets out a short meow.
It sounds less like a greeting and more like a sigh.
You crouch down carefully, setting your groceries on the floor, and reach out a hand. The cat sniffs your fingers before accepting a scratch beneath its chin, closing its eyes briefly as if granting approval.
"Do you belong to someone?"
The cat opens one eye. You swear it looks offended. Before you can investigate further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hallway. A moment later, a man rounds the corner.
A very tall man.
A very tall man who looks as though he's been running through the entire apartment complex for the last twenty minutes. His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, his hoodie is half-zipped, and he looks simultaneously exhausted and relieved when he spots the cat.
"There you are!"
The cat immediately walks behind your legs. The man stops. The cat stops. You glance between them. The cat presses itself against your ankle. The man sighs. The cat somehow manages to look smug.
"...I'm guessing this is yours?"
"Unfortunately," the man says.
The cat meows loudly.
"See? This is exactly what I mean."
You laugh before you can stop yourself. The stranger's expression brightens instantly, as if he hadn't expected anyone to find this situation amusing.
"I'm Jun," he says, holding out a hand. "From 8B."
You shake it. The cat bites his shoelace. Jun doesn't even look surprised.
"I'm Y/N."
"Nice to meet you."
The cat bites harder. Jun pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Please stop embarrassing me in front of my neighbours."
The cat releases the shoelace only to immediately sit on top of it. You laugh again. Jun looks delighted by this reaction. The cat looks annoyed by both of you.
And that, unfortunately, is how it starts.
—
Three days later, the cat escapes again.
Five days after that, it somehow ends up outside the building entirely.
A week later, you discover it sitting inside the communal laundry room watching a washing machine spin with the concentration of someone studying advanced physics.
At this point, you and Jun have exchanged numbers entirely for cat-related emergencies. Your conversation history consists primarily of photographs. Most of them are from Jun. Most of them are evidence.
[JUN] Found him inside my kitchen cabinet.
[JUN] *image attached*
[JUN] How did he get there?
[YOU] You own the cabinet.
[JUN] That's not the point.
[JUN] I was using that cabinet.
[YOU] Clearly he disagreed.
The responses usually arrive immediately. Jun, you discover, texts exactly the way he talks—enthusiastically, slightly randomly, and with enough exclamation marks to suggest every thought is exciting.
You also discover that he is alarmingly easy to like.
Not because he's famous, although you'd recognised him eventually after spending an embarrassing amount of time wondering why he looked familiar. Not because he's handsome, although that certainly doesn't help.
Mostly it's because Jun is kind. He remembers things. The name of your favourite convenience store drink. The fact that you hate mornings. The bakery near your office that sells those strawberry pastries you mentioned once in passing.
Small details seem to stick in his mind as naturally as breathing. Unfortunately, he applies this same energy to the cat. The cat, meanwhile, seems determined to make his life difficult.
—
You are in the middle of watering your plants when your phone rings.
Jun.
You answer immediately.
"Hello?"
"He's gone."
You glance at the clock. It's eight in the morning.
"Good morning to you too."
"He's gone."
"Have you checked under the couch?"
"Yes."
"The bed?"
"Yes."
"The cabinets?"
"Every cabinet."
You hear rustling.
Then silence.
Then a muffled curse.
"Jun?"
"He was in the laundry basket."
You pause.
"...Was?"
"He escaped again."
You close your eyes.
"How does one cat keep defeating you?"
"That's what I've been asking."
The answer arrives ten minutes later when a scratching sound comes from outside your apartment. You open the door. The cat strolls inside. Not into the hallway. Into your apartment. Like it lives there.
"You have got to be kidding me.”
The cat jumps onto your sofa. You call Jun.
"I found him."
The groan that follows sounds deeply personal.
—
The cat's official name is Dumpling. The cat hates this name. You know this because every time Jun says it, the animal visibly reacts. Not dramatically. Just enough. A flick of an ear. A narrowed stare. An expression that somehow communicates disappointment.
"You know," you tell Jun one evening, "I don't think he likes his name."
Jun looks scandalised.
"Dumpling is adorable."
The cat turns its back on him. You point.
"See?"
"He's being dramatic."
The cat knocks a pen off the coffee table. Jun gasps. The cat knocks another one down.
"I raised you better than this."
You nearly choke on your tea.
"You've had him for three weeks."
"That's enough time to learn manners."
The cat jumps onto the back of the sofa. Jun sighs heavily.
"Maybe he's entering his rebellious phase."
"Maybe?"
The cat stares directly at him while deliberately pushing a coaster off the edge of the table.
The silence that follows is incredible.
"Okay," Jun admits. "Maybe definitely."
—
You spend more time in Jun's apartment than you mean to. It starts innocently enough. A movie recommendation. An extra portion of dinner.
Help assembling a cat tree after Jun accidentally orders one with instructions written entirely in a language neither of you can read.
The cat supervises from the couch. Correction. The cat judges from the couch.
"Pass me the screwdriver?"
You hand it over. Jun smiles. The expression catches you off guard every single time.
Warm. Open. The kind of smile that makes a room feel brighter.
You look away before he notices.
Across the room, the cat watches the interaction with unsettling focus.
"Why is he staring at us like that?" you ask.
Jun glances over.
"Dumpling?"
The cat doesn't move.
"Yeah."
"He always does that."
"That's concerning."
"I think he's just curious."
The cat continues staring. You are unconvinced.
—
The strange thing is that the cat almost feels human sometimes. Not in a creepy way.
Just...
Odd.
He understands too much. Not commands. Not tricks. Conversations.
You mention a specific toy once and find him playing with it the next day.
You complain about a difficult coworker and the cat appears beside you with suspiciously good timing.
Sometimes it feels as though he's listening. Actually listening. When you mention this to Jun, he beams.
"I know."
"That wasn't supposed to be a positive observation."
"He's smart."
The cat puffs up proudly. You point immediately.
"See? That. Why did he react to that?"
Jun follows your gaze. The cat instantly stops. The three of you stare at one another.
No one says anything.
Eventually Jun shrugs.
"Dumpling is just special."
The cat looks pleased. You look concerned.
—
The moment everything changes happens on a rainy Thursday evening. You aren't supposed to be at Jun's apartment. That's important.
You're only there because he'd left his umbrella at your place after movie night and you happened to notice the weather getting worse.
The walk takes less than thirty seconds. You knock once. No answer. You knock again.
Still nothing.
Maybe he's showering. You try the handle. The door opens.
"Jun?"
You step inside. The apartment is quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear movement.
"Jun?"
A voice answers. But not Jun's.
"Wait."
You freeze. The voice sounds unfamiliar. Young. Panicked.
"Don't come in here."
Your stomach drops.
There is a stranger in Jun's apartment. You move toward the kitchen anyway. The stranger appears around the corner at exactly the same moment.
Orange hair. Wide eyes. An oversized hoodie. For one impossible second, they stare at you. Then their expression shifts from surprise to absolute horror.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
"What?"
The stranger points at you.
"No, no, no, no—"
You blink. The stranger vanishes. Not runs. Not ducks away. Vanishes.
A flash of movement. A burst of orange and white. And suddenly, sitting in the exact same spot on the kitchen floor—
—is Dumpling.
The cat stares up at you. You stare down at the cat. Neither of you moves. Then, very slowly, the cat closes its eyes.
As if already accepting its fate. And somewhere in the distance, you hear Jun's voice calling from the hallway outside.
"Y/N? Are you here?"
—
The first thing you do is scream. Not loudly, and definitely not dramatically (it was only a cutesy scream, you swear.)
More like the sound a person makes when their brain has completely stopped functioning and is desperately trying to restart itself.
The cat flinches. You point. The cat stares back. You continue pointing. The cat continues staring.
The front door opens.
"Y/N?" Jun calls. "Sorry, I had to grab a package from downstairs—"
The cat launches itself across the kitchen floor. You have never seen something move that fast in your life. One moment it's sitting in front of you. The next it has disappeared beneath the dining table. Jun rounds the corner.
"There you are."
You whip around. Jun pauses.
"You look pale."
You look at Jun. Then the table. Then Jun again. The cat remains hidden. You wonder if this is what having a breakdown feels like.
"Y/N?"
The cat's tail appears briefly from beneath a chair. Then disappears.
You inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
"Everything okay?" Jun asks.
No. Nothing is okay. Five minutes ago you watched his cat become a person.
"Yeah."
Jun blinks.
"Really?"
"No."
"Okay."
You appreciate the honesty.
Unfortunately, you cannot explain the situation because explaining the situation would involve saying, Jun, your cat is a human being and I watched him transform in your kitchen.
You are fairly certain that conversation would not go well.
"Work stress," you blurt.
Jun immediately looks concerned. The guilt nearly kills you.
"Do you want tea?"
You almost laugh. Because of course that's his solution. Tea. The world could literally be ending and Jun would probably offer snacks.
"Sure."
While Jun busies himself making tea, you slowly lower your gaze toward the underside of the table. Two golden eyes stare back. The cat has the audacity to look embarrassed.
—
You leave twenty minutes later. Not because you want to. Because if you remain in that apartment for one more second, you might accidentally start asking questions.
Such as:
Why is your cat human?
Why was your cat wearing clothes?
Where did the clothes come from?
And perhaps most importantly:
Why did your cat seem more worried about being caught than transforming itself?
The answers arrive at eleven thirty-seven that night.
In the form of scratching.
You stare at your apartment door. The scratching continues. Three scratches. Pause. Three more scratches. Pause. Three more.
"That is either a cat or a serial killer."
The scratching grows more impatient. You open the door. The cat immediately walks inside. Not unusual.
What is unusual is the folded piece of paper tied around his collar. You stare. The cat stares.
Slowly, you remove the note. There are four words written on it. WE NEED TO TALK. You look down. The cat nods. Actually nods. You close the door.
"This is somehow worse."
—
Half an hour later, you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor while the cat sits opposite you.
Neither of you speaks. Mostly because one of you physically cannot. The cat seems annoyed by this limitation. Eventually he hops onto your coffee table. A notebook slides toward you. You blink. The cat taps it with one paw. Then taps the pen.
"Oh."
The cat taps again.
"Right."
You open the notebook. The cat immediately begins writing.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat.
YOU SAW THAT.
You stare.
"Unfortunately."
The cat writes again.
I CAN EXPLAIN.
"I would love that."
A pause. The cat writes:
IT SOUNDS STUPID.
"Try me."
Another pause. Then:
I AM CURSED.
You stare at the words. The words stare back. The cat waits.
"...That's it?"
The cat narrows his eyes.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S IT.
"I mean," you say carefully, "if someone had asked me yesterday what explanation I'd expect for a human turning into a cat, curse would've been pretty high on the list."
The cat seems genuinely offended by this.
—
The explanation takes nearly an hour. Partly because writing everything down is slow. Partly because the cat keeps stopping to glare whenever you laugh.
Apparently, several years ago, he had been travelling through a small village and accidentally destroyed an elderly woman's herb garden. Not maliciously. Just catastrophically.
There had been a bicycle. A slope. A misunderstanding. Several chickens.
The story somehow becomes less believable every time he tells it. The woman, who may or may not have been a witch, cursed him. Since then, he has spent most of his life stuck as a cat.
Sometimes he transforms back. Sometimes he doesn't. Strong emotions tend to trigger changes. Unfortunately, emotions happen constantly.
Which means so do transformations.
"And Jun doesn't know?"
The cat writes:
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
"Why?"
The answer appears immediately.
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY.
You consider this. Fair point.
"How long have you been living with him?"
THREE MONTHS.
"Three months?"
The cat nods.
"He just found you?"
Another nod.
"That's insane."
The cat points at himself. Exactly.
—
The following week becomes a disaster. Not because of the curse. Because now you're involved.
Monday afternoon, Jun texts you.
[JUN] Question.
[YOU] That depends.
[JUN] Can cats learn how to unlock doors?
You immediately sit upright.
[YOU] Why?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
[JUN] No reason.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
[JUN] If my cat opened the bathroom door while I was showering.
[YOU] HE WHAT.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
You receive a photograph. The cat is sitting outside a bathroom door. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. You put your phone down.
The cat, currently sleeping on your couch, opens one eye.
"You need to stop doing crimes."
The cat closes his eye again.
—
Tuesday is worse. You stop by Jun's apartment after work. The door opens.
Jun smiles immediately when he sees you. Something warm settles in your chest.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
"Perfect timing."
You blink.
"Why?"
"Dumpling's hiding."
You look down. The cat, currently in human form, is standing behind the kitchen counter.
His eyes widen. Your eyes widen. Neither of you says anything.
Jun continues.
"I haven't seen him for an hour."
The human-cat begins gesturing wildly.
"That's weird."
"Right?"
The gestures become increasingly desperate.
You cough. Loudly.
The human-cat dives beneath the counter. A second later, an orange tail appears. Jun notices instantly.
"There he is!"
The cat emerges. Now fully feline. You do not ask questions. For the sake of your own sanity.
—
The problem is that keeping secrets creates opportunities for friendship. You hadn't intended to become friends with the cat.
It simply happened. Mostly because he's surprisingly easy to talk to. When he isn't stealing food.
Or causing problems. Or nearly exposing supernatural secrets.
One evening he appears on your windowsill carrying another notebook. You let him inside.
"What happened now?"
The notebook opens.
JUN BOUGHT ME A SWEATER.
You laugh.
The cat looks deeply unhappy.
HE HAS ONE TOO.
"That's adorable."
I LOOK RIDICULOUS.
"You look adorable."
The cat glares. You continue smiling. The cat eventually writes:
YOU ARE BOTH IMPOSSIBLE.
—
The truly unfortunate part is that the more time you spend around Jun, the harder everything becomes.
Because he's thoughtful. Because he's funny. Because he still texts you photographs every day. Because he always seems happy to see you.
And because your life has somehow become intertwined with his in ways neither of you planned.
Movie nights become routine. Shared dinners become normal. Sometimes you'll realise hours have passed without either of you noticing.
The cat notices. Unfortunately.
One evening you're sitting on Jun's couch watching a movie when his head slowly drops onto your shoulder.
At first you think it's accidental. Then you hear his breathing deepen. He's asleep.
Your entire body freezes. The room suddenly feels very warm. Across from you, the cat sits on the armchair.
Watching. Judging. Witnessing.
You glare. The cat stares back.
Slowly, he picks up a notebook from the side table. Writes something. Then turns it around.
OH YOU HAVE IT BADDDD.
You nearly throw a cushion at him. The cat looks delighted.
—
Later that night, after you've returned home and the apartment has fallen quiet, a folded note appears beneath your door.
You already know who it's from. The handwriting confirms it.
THANK YOU.
You smile despite yourself. Then flip the paper over. Additional text has been squeezed into the corner.
PLEASE DON'T TELL JUN.
You shake your head. A second line sits beneath it.
HE WOULD WORRY.
And somehow, more than the magic, more than the curse, more than the impossible situation you've found yourself trapped in—
That is the thing that makes your chest ache.
Because he's right. Jun would worry. About everyone. About everything. And maybe that's exactly why neither of you can bring yourselves to tell him. Not yet. Not when he smiles every time he sees the two of you waiting for him at home.
—
The first member to meet the cat is Soonyoung. This is unfortunate for everyone involved.
Especially the cat.
"HE LOOKS LIKE A TIGER."
The declaration arrives less than ten seconds after Soonyoung steps through Jun's front door. The cat, currently loafing on the sofa, visibly flinches.
You witness it. The cat witnesses it. Unfortunately, Soonyoung witnesses absolutely nothing. Jun lights up immediately.
"I told you he was cute."
"Cute?" Soonyoung repeats. "Jun, this isn't a cat."
The cat narrows his eyes. Soonyoung points dramatically.
"That is a tiger trapped in a smaller body."
The cat turns away.
"You hurt his feelings," you say.
"I spoke the truth."
"You compared him to a completely different species."
"So?" Soonyoung asks. "I'd be honoured."
The cat appears unconvinced.
—
The second problem is that Jun has started inviting you over so frequently that you've stopped knocking. At some point during the past month, the line between neighbour and friend had quietly disappeared.
You have your own mug in his kitchen. You know where he keeps spare blankets. You can navigate his apartment in the dark. Nobody ever discusses it.
It simply becomes normal. Dangerously normal.
The cat notices immediately. You know this because every time you arrive, he watches the interaction with increasingly concerning levels of interest.
Not judgment. Observation. Like he's conducting research. Like he's documenting evidence.
One afternoon, you arrive carrying takeout and find the cat sitting on the kitchen counter beside a notebook. The notebook is open. Several pages are filled with writing.
The moment he notices you looking, he slams it shut. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
"What are you writing?"
NOTHING.
"You're literally writing."
NOTHING IMPORTANT.
"You realise I can read."
The cat hugs the notebook against his chest.
You immediately become suspicious.
—
The situation worsens when the rest of Jun's friends begin appearing. Joshua arrives first. Then Minghao. Then Seungkwan.
The apartment somehow doubles in volume.
You are halfway through helping Jun prepare snacks when voices spill in from the hallway.
"Oh, Y/N's already here."
Your stomach performs an embarrassing little flip. Not because of Seungkwan. Because of the way Jun smiles.
Bright. Immediate. Unconsciously happy.
"Yeah," Jun says. "They got here earlier."
The cat, perched on the back of the sofa, immediately looks between both of you. You pretend not to notice. The cat continues noticing.
—
The evening begins normally.
Or as normally as possible when several members are crammed into one apartment arguing over board game rules.
The problems start approximately thirty minutes later. Specifically when Seungkwan begins paying attention.
"Wait."
Everybody ignores him.
"Wait."
Joshua continues setting up the game.
"Wait."
Minghao sighs.
"What?"
Seungkwan points.
At the cat. The cat freezes.
"That cat is weird."
The room falls silent. You nearly choke. The cat stops breathing. Jun blinks.
"Dumpling?"
"Yeah."
"What about him?"
Seungkwan squints. The cat squints back.
"He's looking at me."
Jun laughs.
"That's what cats do."
"No."
Seungkwan points harder.
"He's looking at me like he knows my tax information."
The cat immediately looks away. You cover your mouth. Minghao's shoulders start shaking. Joshua physically leaves the room because he's laughing too hard.
"See?" Seungkwan says triumphantly. "THAT."
"What?"
"That guilty look."
The cat leaps off the sofa and disappears into the bedroom. Seungkwan gasps.
"HE KNOWS."
—
The cat spends the next week avoiding Seungkwan. This only makes things worse. Apparently, if a person believes a cat is suspicious, the correct response is not to act suspicious.
Unfortunately, nobody explains this to the cat. The result is catastrophic. Every time Seungkwan enters a room, the cat leaves. Every time Seungkwan sits down, the cat relocates. Every time Seungkwan tries to pet him, the cat stares into the distance like he's remembering a war.
"It's personal," Seungkwan concludes.
"It's not personal," Jun says.
"It feels personal."
The cat immediately jumps off the couch. Seungkwan points.
"SEE?"
—
Minghao notices first. Not the curse. Not the transformations.
You.
Specifically, the way Jun looks at you. Which is significantly worse. The discovery occurs during movie night.
The apartment is quiet. The lights are dim. Everybody is focused on the screen except Minghao.
Minghao is focused on Jun. Jun is focused on you. The cat is focused on everyone. Minghao slowly turns toward Joshua.
Joshua follows his gaze. Then pauses. Then smiles.
"Oh."
The cat immediately notices. His eyes widen. Minghao notices the cat noticing. Now three people are aware of something.
You remain blissfully ignorant. Jun remains even more oblivious.
—
A group chat appears two days later. You discover its existence entirely by accident. Specifically because Jun leaves his phone unlocked while helping carry groceries. A notification appears.
[seungkwan] he smiled again
[minghao] i know
[joshua] it's getting embarrassing
[seungkwan] should we tell them
[joshua] absolutely not
[minghao] this is free entertainment
You immediately lock the screen.
Your face feels approximately one thousand degrees. Across the kitchen, the cat watches everything.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He gives you a thumbs up.
You nearly drop the groceries.
—
The truly alarming thing is that Jun keeps getting more comfortable around you.
Not intentionally. Not consciously.
It happens in small moments.
He hands you the first portion of food automatically. Saves your favourite seat. Texts you whenever something funny happens. Includes you in plans before asking if you're free.
As though your presence has become expected. As though you're already part of his life.
One evening you arrive after a particularly exhausting day. You don't even have time to say hello before Jun notices.
"Tough day?"
You blink.
"How did you know?"
"You look tired."
The answer is simple. Casual. Immediate. Something in your chest aches.
"Work was awful."
Jun frowns. The expression looks genuinely offended on your behalf.
"Want dinner?"
"That's your solution to everything."
"Dinner helps."
"It really doesn't."
Jun considers this.
"Okay."
A pause.
"Dinner and dessert?"
You laugh despite yourself. Across the room, the cat quietly writes something down.
—
The disaster happens on a Friday. Naturally. Disasters always happen on Fridays.
You arrive at Jun's apartment carrying coffee.
The door is unlocked. You let yourself inside.
"Jun?"
No response. The apartment appears empty. You walk toward the kitchen. Then stop. Human.
The cat is human. Very human.
Very surprised. Very standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a spoon.
The spoon falls. Neither of you moves. The cat closes his eyes.
"Oh no."
The front door opens.
"Oh no," the cat repeats.
Jun's voice echoes from the hallway.
"Y/N?"
Panic erupts instantly. The cat grabs your shoulders. You grab his shoulders. Neither of you has a plan.
"Hide."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Helpful."
Footsteps approach. The cat spins in a circle. You spin with him. Somewhere in the distance, Jun gets closer.
"Guys?"
"Window?"
"We're on the eighth floor."
"Right."
The cat gestures wildly. You gesture back. Neither of you contributes anything useful.
Finally, the cat dives behind the kitchen island. A second later, orange fur replaces human limbs.
You stare. The transformation still feels impossible.
Jun enters. The cat immediately appears from behind the counter.
That night, a folded page appears beneath your apartment door. You already know what it is. You unfold it. The familiar handwriting fills the page.
—
[CASE NOTES]
Current Threat Assessment:
Seungkwan suspicious.
Minghao observant.
Joshua entertained.
Jun oblivious.
Additional Notes:
Y/N and Jun spent thirty-two minutes talking in the kitchen today.
Neither realised everyone else had already left.
Concerning.
—
A final line has been squeezed into the bottom corner. At first glance, the handwriting appears rushed. Almost hesitant.
I think Jun likes you.
You stare at the sentence. Then immediately flip the page over. Nothing else is written there.
When you look back, the words haven't changed. The cat's handwriting remains stubbornly visible.
I think Jun likes you.
For some reason, that possibility feels far more terrifying than any curse.
—
The cat begins sabotaging your love life on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, he begins by sabotaging Jun's.
You don't realise this immediately. Mostly because the disaster starts small.
A missing shirt. A mysteriously hidden wallet. A phone that somehow ends up inside the linen cupboard.
Individually, none of these events are particularly suspicious. Together, however, they create a pattern.
Specifically, the pattern of a cat committing crimes.
"Have you seen my jacket?"
Jun is standing in the middle of his apartment looking genuinely confused. You glance up from the sofa.
"No?"
"I left it right here."
The cat, sitting three feet away, immediately looks out the window. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
Jun continues searching. The cat continues pretending to be innocent. Nobody is convinced.
—
The explanation arrives later that evening. Specifically after you corner the cat in your apartment and refuse to let him leave until he talks.
Human form this time. Mostly because he can actually explain himself.
"You're hiding things."
"I'm not hiding things."
"You hid his phone inside a cereal box."
The cat looks offended.
"It was a strategic location."
"You are impossible."
"So I've been told."
He drops onto your couch dramatically. You wait. The cat waits. Eventually, he sighs.
"It's because of the date."
You blink.
"What date?"
The look he gives you suggests you're the stupidest person alive.
"The blind date."
Oh. Right.
A few days earlier, one of Jun's friends had apparently decided he needed help finding romance. The resulting blind date had been arranged for this weekend.
Jun had agreed.
Mostly because he was too nice to refuse. The cat had hated the idea immediately.
Apparently.
"You've been sabotaging a blind date?"
"I've been delaying a blind date."
"That's worse."
"It's different."
"It isn't."
The cat folds his arms. You stare at each other. Eventually, he looks away first. And suddenly, for the first time since you've met him, he looks genuinely upset.
Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Just... sad. The change catches you off guard.
"What is it?"
The cat doesn't answer immediately. His gaze settles somewhere near the window. The city lights glow softly beyond the glass. For a long moment, the apartment feels strangely quiet.
Then—
"If the curse breaks, I'll leave."
The words land heavily between you. You freeze. The cat continues staring outside.
"I was always supposed to leave."
You don't know what to say. Because the thing is—
You've never actually thought about it. Not really. The curse has become part of daily life.
The transformations. The notes. The absurdity. The cat himself.
Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped feeling temporary. Stopped feeling like a problem that needed solving. Instead, he'd become...
Family.
The realisation hits harder than expected.
"I don't want to leave."
His voice is quiet.
"So don't."
The cat laughs. Not happily.
"You think curses work like rental agreements?"
"You're being dramatic."
"I learned from Jun."
You can't even argue with that.
—
The problem is that the conversation stays with you.
For days. Long after the cat leaves. Long after movie night. Long after Jun walks you home and lingers outside your apartment door for a few seconds longer than necessary.
The thought keeps returning. If the curse breaks. If the curse ends.
Then what? The cat leaves. Life changes. Everything changes. The idea feels wrong.
Uncomfortable.
Like imagining a missing piece in a picture you've grown used to. And perhaps that's why, a week later, you finally ask the question that's been bothering you.
"What actually breaks the curse?"
The cat pauses. He'd been halfway through stealing food from your kitchen. Now he simply stares.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I know what the old woman said."
"Which was?"
The cat sighs.
"'You'll return to yourself when you're accepted as yourself.'"
You blink.
"That's it?"
"That's literally it."
"That's incredibly vague."
"I KNOW."
The frustration in his voice sounds years old.
—
The answer arrives from somewhere completely unexpected. Seungkwan. Because, apparently, life enjoys irony.
It happens during one of the increasingly common group dinners at Jun's apartment.
Everyone is present. Food covers every available surface. Conversations overlap. The cat is currently asleep on Jun's lap. Which would be adorable if you didn't know he was actually a person.
"So," Seungkwan says suddenly.
You immediately become suspicious.
"So?" Jun asks.
"I've solved the mystery."
Nobody likes the way he says that.
"What mystery?" Joshua asks.
Seungkwan points dramatically. At Jun. Then at you. Then at the cat.
"The three of you."
Silence. The cat opens one eye.
"What about us?" you ask carefully.
Seungkwan leans back. Looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You all act like a family."
The room falls silent. Completely silent. The cat stops moving. Jun blinks. Minghao immediately looks interested. Joshua looks delighted. Seungkwan continues.
"It's weird."
"Thank you?" Jun says.
"No, seriously."
Seungkwan gestures vaguely.
"You."
Pointing at Jun.
"Cook."
Then you.
"You clean."
Then the cat.
"That one commits crimes."
The cat looks offended.
"That's a family."
Nobody says anything. Because somehow—
As ridiculous as the statement is—
It doesn't feel wrong.
—
That night, after everyone leaves, Jun walks you home. The journey takes less than a minute. Neither of you seems particularly eager to end it. The hallway is quiet.
The building mostly asleep. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. You glance over.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Jun."
He smiles. A little sheepish.
"A family, huh?"
Your chest immediately betrays you. The worst part is that he doesn't sound embarrassed. Or uncomfortable. Instead, he sounds...
Happy.
Like the idea itself makes him happy.
"Seungkwan says a lot of things."
"He does."
You reach your apartment door. Neither of you moves. The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.
The kind that makes you suddenly aware of every little thing. The warmth of the hallway lights. The softness in Jun's expression. The fact that he's standing much closer than usual.
For one impossible second, you think he might say something. Instead, he smiles.
"Goodnight."
The disappointment is immediate. And embarrassing.
"Goodnight."
Jun turns. Walks away. Then pauses.
Just before reaching his own apartment. He glances back. Smiles again. Then disappears inside.
Your heart remains absolutely useless.
—
The next morning, a note appears beneath your door. The handwriting is familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE #004]
Subject: Curse Investigation
Status: Ongoing.
Recent Findings:
Jun considers Y/N family.
Y/N considers Jun family.
I consider both idiots.
—
You laugh despite yourself. There is more. The writing below is messier. Less organised.
Like it was added later.
I think I finally understand.
You frown. Understand what?
The final paragraph answers.
For years, I thought breaking the curse meant becoming human again.
Maybe that was never the point.
Maybe the point was finding somewhere I didn't have to hide.
The words hit unexpectedly hard. Because for the first time, they don't feel like notes.
Or reports. Or evidence. They feel like a goodbye. And somehow, deep down, you know something is changing.
The curse is getting weaker. The cat knows it. Maybe even understands it. And for the first time since all this began—
You think he might finally be close to going home. The problem is that home isn't a place anymore.
It's Jun. It's you.
And none of you know what happens when the magic finally lets go.
—
The truth comes out because the cat finally gets tired.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Years of hiding have a way of wearing a person down, and despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat is still a person.
It happens on an ordinary Sunday. Which somehow makes it worse. There is no dramatic thunderstorm. No magical prophecy. No ancient witch appearing out of nowhere to explain things.
Just takeout containers, a half-finished movie, and Jun complaining because someone keeps stealing food off his plate.
"I'm serious," Jun says.
The cat, currently curled beside him on the couch, pointedly avoids eye contact.
"Every time I look away, something disappears."
You nearly choke on your drink. The cat looks offended. Jun narrows his eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
And then—
Without warning—
The room fills with golden light.
Everybody freezes. The cat freezes. You freeze. Jun freezes.
For one impossible moment, the entire apartment falls silent. The light swirls around the cat.
Brighter. Warmer. Familiar.
The same glow you've witnessed dozens of times before.
Except this time it doesn't stop.
"Oh."
The cat's voice returns first. Human. Entirely human.
Sitting where the cat had been seconds earlier. The takeout container slides off his lap.
Nobody reacts. Nobody breathes.
Jun stares. The cat stares back.
And after months of preparation, after endless contingency plans and increasingly ridiculous emergency scenarios, the only thing the cat manages to say is:
"...This isn't ideal."
—
The silence lasts approximately four seconds. Then Jun speaks.
"Oh."
Another pause.
"Oh."
The cat winces. You consider hiding. Jun continues staring. The cat continues existing.
You continue questioning every life decision that led to this moment.
Then, unexpectedly—
Jun stands up. Walks forward. And pokes the cat's forehead. The cat blinks. Jun blinks. The cat blinks again.
"You're real."
The cat stares.
"That is your first question?"
"What was I supposed to ask?"
"I don't know!"
The cat throws his hands into the air.
"Maybe why your pet is secretly a human?"
"That was definitely my second question."
"Jun."
"I'm getting there."
The cat looks ready to scream. You honestly can't blame him. For several long moments, Jun simply stands there processing. Then his expression changes.
Softens. The panic never comes. The anger never comes. Instead—
"You've been dealing with this alone?"
The cat freezes. The question hangs in the air. Everything suddenly feels very quiet. Because out of every possible reaction, somehow that is the one none of you expected. The cat's shoulders slump. Just slightly.
"Yeah."
Jun's expression crumples immediately.
"Oh."
And somehow that single syllable contains more heartbreak than any dramatic speech could.
—
The explanation takes hours. Mostly because Jun keeps interrupting. Not with accusations. Questions. Thousands of questions.
Have you been eating enough?
Where did you sleep before?
Were you scared?
Why didn't you tell me?
Did the veterinarian know?
The answer to that last one is apparently no. Thankfully.
The cat buries his face in his hands.
"I knew this would happen."
"What?"
"You worrying."
Jun looks genuinely confused.
"Of course I'm worried."
The cat laughs helplessly. And for the first time since you've met him, you realise just how exhausted he's been. How much effort it must have taken to keep carrying this alone.
Jun notices too. Because of course he does.
Without hesitation, he moves beside him on the couch. Close enough that their shoulders touch. Close enough that neither of them has to pretend anymore.
"You idiot."
The words are fond. The cat immediately starts crying.
—
The curse breaks completely three days later.
Not with magic. Not really. Not with fireworks or dramatic declarations. Just certainty.
No tail. No whiskers. No transformation. The curse is gone.
Just like that.
The moment should feel triumphant. Instead, everybody ends up strangely emotional. Including you. Especially Jun. The apartment feels different.
Not empty. Just unfamiliar. Like a favourite song rearranged into a new key. Better.
But still strange. The cat notices immediately.
"You're mourning me."
"No we're not."
"You absolutely are."
"We literally saw you this morning."
"Then stop looking at me like I've died."
Jun points a chopstick at him.
"You used to fit inside a tote bag."
"That's not a normal thing to miss."
"It is for me."
The cat groans. You laugh. For the first time in days, everything feels normal again.
—
The confession happens because Seungkwan finally loses patience. As expected.
Everyone has gathered for dinner. The former cat now occupies an actual chair. A development that continues to disturb Jun. Halfway through dessert, Seungkwan slams both hands on the table.
"ENOUGH."
Everybody jumps.
"What?" Joshua asks.
"No."
Seungkwan points. At Jun. Then at you. Then back at Jun.
"This has gone on long enough."
The room immediately erupts. Minghao starts laughing. Joshua covers his face. The former cat sighs dramatically. Jun looks confused. You look terrified.
"What's happening?"
"You like each other."
Seungkwan says it with the confidence of someone announcing the weather. Silence. Then:
"What?"
Jun and you speak simultaneously. The entire table groans. The former cat drops his forehead onto the table.
"You are unbearable."
"No," Seungkwan says. "I've suffered enough."
"Seungkwan—"
"No."
He points at Jun.
"Do you like Y/N?"
Jun opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at you. Then looks away. His ears turn red. The entire room explodes.
"Oh my god."
"I KNEW IT."
"Finally."
"THANK YOU."
Jun hides his face. You consider moving countries. The former cat looks seconds away from standing up and applauding.
—
Somehow, eventually, everyone leaves. Except Jun. And you.
The apartment grows quiet. The dishes remain forgotten. The city lights glow beyond the windows. For several moments, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. Embarrassed.
"I think they planned that."
"They definitely planned that."
"Yeah."
Silence returns. Not awkward. Just fragile.
The kind where everything important sits between two people waiting to be acknowledged.
Jun rubs the back of his neck. Looks down. Then up again. And suddenly he looks more nervous than you've ever seen him.
"I do, by the way."
Your breath catches.
"What?"
He smiles. Small. Warm. Entirely sincere.
"I do like you."
The words are simple. Which somehow makes them hit harder. No dramatic speech. No rehearsed confession. Just honesty.
The kind that's impossible to hide from.
"I think I've liked you for a while."
The smile spreads before you can stop it. Jun's eyes soften immediately. The sight nearly destroys you.
"Good."
His voice comes out quiet. Hopeful.
"Good?"
"Because I like you too."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then Jun laughs. The relieved, disbelieving kind. And somehow that's what finally pushes you both forward.
The kiss is gentle. Warm. A little awkward.
Perfect.
When you pull apart, Jun immediately starts smiling again. Like he physically cannot stop. You suspect you look exactly the same.
—
The next morning, a final note appears beneath your apartment door. The handwriting is instantly familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE: CLOSED]
Former Alias: Dumpling.Current Status: Human.Curse Status: Broken.Additional Findings:The old woman was right. Being human again wasn't the solution. Being loved was.
—
Your chest tightens. A final paragraph sits beneath it. Shorter. Messier. Like it wasn't rewritten a hundred times.
Thank you for seeing me. Even when I was a cat.
You stare at the page for a long moment. Then smile. A knock sounds at your door. You already know who it is.
When you open it, Jun stands there holding breakfast. And flowers. And the most hopeful expression you've ever seen.
"Hi."
You laugh immediately.
"Hi."
"Would you maybe want to go on an actual date?"
The flowers shake slightly. Nervous. Endearing. Very Jun. You take them from his hands. His smile brightens instantly.
And just like that, standing in the hallway where all of this began, surrounded by neighbours and ordinary apartment walls and absolutely no magic whatsoever, you realise something.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
pairing: Jun x reader
synopsis: Jun adopts a cat who turns out to be a cursed human. You’re the only other person who knows the secret—and Jun might be falling for both the cat (platonically) and you (romantically).
wc: 6.9k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Magic?, Found Family, Neighbours,
warnings: Cat was cursed…
a/n: happy birthday to junnie!!! This isn’t apart of the academia series like other members will be, bc HE STARTED THE SERIES!!! I highhhlyyyyy recommend reading Kiss Me, Its for Science or any other ones from the series! it was so so sooo fun to write any junnie fic!! Though i must say, while reading this fic, please ignore ALL logic and just accept whatever i have written regarding the cat…
The first time you meet the cat, it is sitting in the middle of the apartment hallway like it pays rent.
You nearly trip over it on your way home from work.
One second you're balancing a grocery bag against your hip while fumbling for your keys, and the next you're staring down at an orange-and-white cat sitting directly in front of your door with the kind of confidence usually reserved for landlords and people who cut queues without apologising.
The cat stares back. You stare back. The cat blinks. You blink.
"Hello?"
The cat's ears twitch.
Then, with all the dignity of a tiny king inspecting his territory, it stands up, walks directly over your shoes, and begins rubbing against your ankles.
"Oh," you say, immediately folding. "You're friendly."
The cat lets out a short meow.
It sounds less like a greeting and more like a sigh.
You crouch down carefully, setting your groceries on the floor, and reach out a hand. The cat sniffs your fingers before accepting a scratch beneath its chin, closing its eyes briefly as if granting approval.
"Do you belong to someone?"
The cat opens one eye. You swear it looks offended. Before you can investigate further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hallway. A moment later, a man rounds the corner.
A very tall man.
A very tall man who looks as though he's been running through the entire apartment complex for the last twenty minutes. His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, his hoodie is half-zipped, and he looks simultaneously exhausted and relieved when he spots the cat.
"There you are!"
The cat immediately walks behind your legs. The man stops. The cat stops. You glance between them. The cat presses itself against your ankle. The man sighs. The cat somehow manages to look smug.
"...I'm guessing this is yours?"
"Unfortunately," the man says.
The cat meows loudly.
"See? This is exactly what I mean."
You laugh before you can stop yourself. The stranger's expression brightens instantly, as if he hadn't expected anyone to find this situation amusing.
"I'm Jun," he says, holding out a hand. "From 8B."
You shake it. The cat bites his shoelace. Jun doesn't even look surprised.
"I'm Y/N."
"Nice to meet you."
The cat bites harder. Jun pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Please stop embarrassing me in front of my neighbours."
The cat releases the shoelace only to immediately sit on top of it. You laugh again. Jun looks delighted by this reaction. The cat looks annoyed by both of you.
And that, unfortunately, is how it starts.
—
Three days later, the cat escapes again.
Five days after that, it somehow ends up outside the building entirely.
A week later, you discover it sitting inside the communal laundry room watching a washing machine spin with the concentration of someone studying advanced physics.
At this point, you and Jun have exchanged numbers entirely for cat-related emergencies. Your conversation history consists primarily of photographs. Most of them are from Jun. Most of them are evidence.
[JUN] Found him inside my kitchen cabinet.
[JUN] *image attached*
[JUN] How did he get there?
[YOU] You own the cabinet.
[JUN] That's not the point.
[JUN] I was using that cabinet.
[YOU] Clearly he disagreed.
The responses usually arrive immediately. Jun, you discover, texts exactly the way he talks—enthusiastically, slightly randomly, and with enough exclamation marks to suggest every thought is exciting.
You also discover that he is alarmingly easy to like.
Not because he's famous, although you'd recognised him eventually after spending an embarrassing amount of time wondering why he looked familiar. Not because he's handsome, although that certainly doesn't help.
Mostly it's because Jun is kind. He remembers things. The name of your favourite convenience store drink. The fact that you hate mornings. The bakery near your office that sells those strawberry pastries you mentioned once in passing.
Small details seem to stick in his mind as naturally as breathing. Unfortunately, he applies this same energy to the cat. The cat, meanwhile, seems determined to make his life difficult.
—
You are in the middle of watering your plants when your phone rings.
Jun.
You answer immediately.
"Hello?"
"He's gone."
You glance at the clock. It's eight in the morning.
"Good morning to you too."
"He's gone."
"Have you checked under the couch?"
"Yes."
"The bed?"
"Yes."
"The cabinets?"
"Every cabinet."
You hear rustling.
Then silence.
Then a muffled curse.
"Jun?"
"He was in the laundry basket."
You pause.
"...Was?"
"He escaped again."
You close your eyes.
"How does one cat keep defeating you?"
"That's what I've been asking."
The answer arrives ten minutes later when a scratching sound comes from outside your apartment. You open the door. The cat strolls inside. Not into the hallway. Into your apartment. Like it lives there.
"You have got to be kidding me.”
The cat jumps onto your sofa. You call Jun.
"I found him."
The groan that follows sounds deeply personal.
—
The cat's official name is Dumpling. The cat hates this name. You know this because every time Jun says it, the animal visibly reacts. Not dramatically. Just enough. A flick of an ear. A narrowed stare. An expression that somehow communicates disappointment.
"You know," you tell Jun one evening, "I don't think he likes his name."
Jun looks scandalised.
"Dumpling is adorable."
The cat turns its back on him. You point.
"See?"
"He's being dramatic."
The cat knocks a pen off the coffee table. Jun gasps. The cat knocks another one down.
"I raised you better than this."
You nearly choke on your tea.
"You've had him for three weeks."
"That's enough time to learn manners."
The cat jumps onto the back of the sofa. Jun sighs heavily.
"Maybe he's entering his rebellious phase."
"Maybe?"
The cat stares directly at him while deliberately pushing a coaster off the edge of the table.
The silence that follows is incredible.
"Okay," Jun admits. "Maybe definitely."
—
You spend more time in Jun's apartment than you mean to. It starts innocently enough. A movie recommendation. An extra portion of dinner.
Help assembling a cat tree after Jun accidentally orders one with instructions written entirely in a language neither of you can read.
The cat supervises from the couch. Correction. The cat judges from the couch.
"Pass me the screwdriver?"
You hand it over. Jun smiles. The expression catches you off guard every single time.
Warm. Open. The kind of smile that makes a room feel brighter.
You look away before he notices.
Across the room, the cat watches the interaction with unsettling focus.
"Why is he staring at us like that?" you ask.
Jun glances over.
"Dumpling?"
The cat doesn't move.
"Yeah."
"He always does that."
"That's concerning."
"I think he's just curious."
The cat continues staring. You are unconvinced.
—
The strange thing is that the cat almost feels human sometimes. Not in a creepy way.
Just...
Odd.
He understands too much. Not commands. Not tricks. Conversations.
You mention a specific toy once and find him playing with it the next day.
You complain about a difficult coworker and the cat appears beside you with suspiciously good timing.
Sometimes it feels as though he's listening. Actually listening. When you mention this to Jun, he beams.
"I know."
"That wasn't supposed to be a positive observation."
"He's smart."
The cat puffs up proudly. You point immediately.
"See? That. Why did he react to that?"
Jun follows your gaze. The cat instantly stops. The three of you stare at one another.
No one says anything.
Eventually Jun shrugs.
"Dumpling is just special."
The cat looks pleased. You look concerned.
—
The moment everything changes happens on a rainy Thursday evening. You aren't supposed to be at Jun's apartment. That's important.
You're only there because he'd left his umbrella at your place after movie night and you happened to notice the weather getting worse.
The walk takes less than thirty seconds. You knock once. No answer. You knock again.
Still nothing.
Maybe he's showering. You try the handle. The door opens.
"Jun?"
You step inside. The apartment is quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear movement.
"Jun?"
A voice answers. But not Jun's.
"Wait."
You freeze. The voice sounds unfamiliar. Young. Panicked.
"Don't come in here."
Your stomach drops.
There is a stranger in Jun's apartment. You move toward the kitchen anyway. The stranger appears around the corner at exactly the same moment.
Orange hair. Wide eyes. An oversized hoodie. For one impossible second, they stare at you. Then their expression shifts from surprise to absolute horror.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
"What?"
The stranger points at you.
"No, no, no, no—"
You blink. The stranger vanishes. Not runs. Not ducks away. Vanishes.
A flash of movement. A burst of orange and white. And suddenly, sitting in the exact same spot on the kitchen floor—
—is Dumpling.
The cat stares up at you. You stare down at the cat. Neither of you moves. Then, very slowly, the cat closes its eyes.
As if already accepting its fate. And somewhere in the distance, you hear Jun's voice calling from the hallway outside.
"Y/N? Are you here?"
—
The first thing you do is scream. Not loudly, and definitely not dramatically (it was only a cutesy scream, you swear.)
More like the sound a person makes when their brain has completely stopped functioning and is desperately trying to restart itself.
The cat flinches. You point. The cat stares back. You continue pointing. The cat continues staring.
The front door opens.
"Y/N?" Jun calls. "Sorry, I had to grab a package from downstairs—"
The cat launches itself across the kitchen floor. You have never seen something move that fast in your life. One moment it's sitting in front of you. The next it has disappeared beneath the dining table. Jun rounds the corner.
"There you are."
You whip around. Jun pauses.
"You look pale."
You look at Jun. Then the table. Then Jun again. The cat remains hidden. You wonder if this is what having a breakdown feels like.
"Y/N?"
The cat's tail appears briefly from beneath a chair. Then disappears.
You inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
"Everything okay?" Jun asks.
No. Nothing is okay. Five minutes ago you watched his cat become a person.
"Yeah."
Jun blinks.
"Really?"
"No."
"Okay."
You appreciate the honesty.
Unfortunately, you cannot explain the situation because explaining the situation would involve saying, Jun, your cat is a human being and I watched him transform in your kitchen.
You are fairly certain that conversation would not go well.
"Work stress," you blurt.
Jun immediately looks concerned. The guilt nearly kills you.
"Do you want tea?"
You almost laugh. Because of course that's his solution. Tea. The world could literally be ending and Jun would probably offer snacks.
"Sure."
While Jun busies himself making tea, you slowly lower your gaze toward the underside of the table. Two golden eyes stare back. The cat has the audacity to look embarrassed.
—
You leave twenty minutes later. Not because you want to. Because if you remain in that apartment for one more second, you might accidentally start asking questions.
Such as:
Why is your cat human?
Why was your cat wearing clothes?
Where did the clothes come from?
And perhaps most importantly:
Why did your cat seem more worried about being caught than transforming itself?
The answers arrive at eleven thirty-seven that night.
In the form of scratching.
You stare at your apartment door. The scratching continues. Three scratches. Pause. Three more scratches. Pause. Three more.
"That is either a cat or a serial killer."
The scratching grows more impatient. You open the door. The cat immediately walks inside. Not unusual.
What is unusual is the folded piece of paper tied around his collar. You stare. The cat stares.
Slowly, you remove the note. There are four words written on it. WE NEED TO TALK. You look down. The cat nods. Actually nods. You close the door.
"This is somehow worse."
—
Half an hour later, you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor while the cat sits opposite you.
Neither of you speaks. Mostly because one of you physically cannot. The cat seems annoyed by this limitation. Eventually he hops onto your coffee table. A notebook slides toward you. You blink. The cat taps it with one paw. Then taps the pen.
"Oh."
The cat taps again.
"Right."
You open the notebook. The cat immediately begins writing.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat.
YOU SAW THAT.
You stare.
"Unfortunately."
The cat writes again.
I CAN EXPLAIN.
"I would love that."
A pause. The cat writes:
IT SOUNDS STUPID.
"Try me."
Another pause. Then:
I AM CURSED.
You stare at the words. The words stare back. The cat waits.
"...That's it?"
The cat narrows his eyes.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S IT.
"I mean," you say carefully, "if someone had asked me yesterday what explanation I'd expect for a human turning into a cat, curse would've been pretty high on the list."
The cat seems genuinely offended by this.
—
The explanation takes nearly an hour. Partly because writing everything down is slow. Partly because the cat keeps stopping to glare whenever you laugh.
Apparently, several years ago, he had been travelling through a small village and accidentally destroyed an elderly woman's herb garden. Not maliciously. Just catastrophically.
There had been a bicycle. A slope. A misunderstanding. Several chickens.
The story somehow becomes less believable every time he tells it. The woman, who may or may not have been a witch, cursed him. Since then, he has spent most of his life stuck as a cat.
Sometimes he transforms back. Sometimes he doesn't. Strong emotions tend to trigger changes. Unfortunately, emotions happen constantly.
Which means so do transformations.
"And Jun doesn't know?"
The cat writes:
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
"Why?"
The answer appears immediately.
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY.
You consider this. Fair point.
"How long have you been living with him?"
THREE MONTHS.
"Three months?"
The cat nods.
"He just found you?"
Another nod.
"That's insane."
The cat points at himself. Exactly.
—
The following week becomes a disaster. Not because of the curse. Because now you're involved.
Monday afternoon, Jun texts you.
[JUN] Question.
[YOU] That depends.
[JUN] Can cats learn how to unlock doors?
You immediately sit upright.
[YOU] Why?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
[JUN] No reason.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
[JUN] If my cat opened the bathroom door while I was showering.
[YOU] HE WHAT.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
You receive a photograph. The cat is sitting outside a bathroom door. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. You put your phone down.
The cat, currently sleeping on your couch, opens one eye.
"You need to stop doing crimes."
The cat closes his eye again.
—
Tuesday is worse. You stop by Jun's apartment after work. The door opens.
Jun smiles immediately when he sees you. Something warm settles in your chest.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
"Perfect timing."
You blink.
"Why?"
"Dumpling's hiding."
You look down. The cat, currently in human form, is standing behind the kitchen counter.
His eyes widen. Your eyes widen. Neither of you says anything.
Jun continues.
"I haven't seen him for an hour."
The human-cat begins gesturing wildly.
"That's weird."
"Right?"
The gestures become increasingly desperate.
You cough. Loudly.
The human-cat dives beneath the counter. A second later, an orange tail appears. Jun notices instantly.
"There he is!"
The cat emerges. Now fully feline. You do not ask questions. For the sake of your own sanity.
—
The problem is that keeping secrets creates opportunities for friendship. You hadn't intended to become friends with the cat.
It simply happened. Mostly because he's surprisingly easy to talk to. When he isn't stealing food.
Or causing problems. Or nearly exposing supernatural secrets.
One evening he appears on your windowsill carrying another notebook. You let him inside.
"What happened now?"
The notebook opens.
JUN BOUGHT ME A SWEATER.
You laugh.
The cat looks deeply unhappy.
HE HAS ONE TOO.
"That's adorable."
I LOOK RIDICULOUS.
"You look adorable."
The cat glares. You continue smiling. The cat eventually writes:
YOU ARE BOTH IMPOSSIBLE.
—
The truly unfortunate part is that the more time you spend around Jun, the harder everything becomes.
Because he's thoughtful. Because he's funny. Because he still texts you photographs every day. Because he always seems happy to see you.
And because your life has somehow become intertwined with his in ways neither of you planned.
Movie nights become routine. Shared dinners become normal. Sometimes you'll realise hours have passed without either of you noticing.
The cat notices. Unfortunately.
One evening you're sitting on Jun's couch watching a movie when his head slowly drops onto your shoulder.
At first you think it's accidental. Then you hear his breathing deepen. He's asleep.
Your entire body freezes. The room suddenly feels very warm. Across from you, the cat sits on the armchair.
Watching. Judging. Witnessing.
You glare. The cat stares back.
Slowly, he picks up a notebook from the side table. Writes something. Then turns it around.
OH YOU HAVE IT BADDDD.
You nearly throw a cushion at him. The cat looks delighted.
—
Later that night, after you've returned home and the apartment has fallen quiet, a folded note appears beneath your door.
You already know who it's from. The handwriting confirms it.
THANK YOU.
You smile despite yourself. Then flip the paper over. Additional text has been squeezed into the corner.
PLEASE DON'T TELL JUN.
You shake your head. A second line sits beneath it.
HE WOULD WORRY.
And somehow, more than the magic, more than the curse, more than the impossible situation you've found yourself trapped in—
That is the thing that makes your chest ache.
Because he's right. Jun would worry. About everyone. About everything. And maybe that's exactly why neither of you can bring yourselves to tell him. Not yet. Not when he smiles every time he sees the two of you waiting for him at home.
—
The first member to meet the cat is Soonyoung. This is unfortunate for everyone involved.
Especially the cat.
"HE LOOKS LIKE A TIGER."
The declaration arrives less than ten seconds after Soonyoung steps through Jun's front door. The cat, currently loafing on the sofa, visibly flinches.
You witness it. The cat witnesses it. Unfortunately, Soonyoung witnesses absolutely nothing. Jun lights up immediately.
"I told you he was cute."
"Cute?" Soonyoung repeats. "Jun, this isn't a cat."
The cat narrows his eyes. Soonyoung points dramatically.
"That is a tiger trapped in a smaller body."
The cat turns away.
"You hurt his feelings," you say.
"I spoke the truth."
"You compared him to a completely different species."
"So?" Soonyoung asks. "I'd be honoured."
The cat appears unconvinced.
—
The second problem is that Jun has started inviting you over so frequently that you've stopped knocking. At some point during the past month, the line between neighbour and friend had quietly disappeared.
You have your own mug in his kitchen. You know where he keeps spare blankets. You can navigate his apartment in the dark. Nobody ever discusses it.
It simply becomes normal. Dangerously normal.
The cat notices immediately. You know this because every time you arrive, he watches the interaction with increasingly concerning levels of interest.
Not judgment. Observation. Like he's conducting research. Like he's documenting evidence.
One afternoon, you arrive carrying takeout and find the cat sitting on the kitchen counter beside a notebook. The notebook is open. Several pages are filled with writing.
The moment he notices you looking, he slams it shut. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
"What are you writing?"
NOTHING.
"You're literally writing."
NOTHING IMPORTANT.
"You realise I can read."
The cat hugs the notebook against his chest.
You immediately become suspicious.
—
The situation worsens when the rest of Jun's friends begin appearing. Joshua arrives first. Then Minghao. Then Seungkwan.
The apartment somehow doubles in volume.
You are halfway through helping Jun prepare snacks when voices spill in from the hallway.
"Oh, Y/N's already here."
Your stomach performs an embarrassing little flip. Not because of Seungkwan. Because of the way Jun smiles.
Bright. Immediate. Unconsciously happy.
"Yeah," Jun says. "They got here earlier."
The cat, perched on the back of the sofa, immediately looks between both of you. You pretend not to notice. The cat continues noticing.
—
The evening begins normally.
Or as normally as possible when several members are crammed into one apartment arguing over board game rules.
The problems start approximately thirty minutes later. Specifically when Seungkwan begins paying attention.
"Wait."
Everybody ignores him.
"Wait."
Joshua continues setting up the game.
"Wait."
Minghao sighs.
"What?"
Seungkwan points.
At the cat. The cat freezes.
"That cat is weird."
The room falls silent. You nearly choke. The cat stops breathing. Jun blinks.
"Dumpling?"
"Yeah."
"What about him?"
Seungkwan squints. The cat squints back.
"He's looking at me."
Jun laughs.
"That's what cats do."
"No."
Seungkwan points harder.
"He's looking at me like he knows my tax information."
The cat immediately looks away. You cover your mouth. Minghao's shoulders start shaking. Joshua physically leaves the room because he's laughing too hard.
"See?" Seungkwan says triumphantly. "THAT."
"What?"
"That guilty look."
The cat leaps off the sofa and disappears into the bedroom. Seungkwan gasps.
"HE KNOWS."
—
The cat spends the next week avoiding Seungkwan. This only makes things worse. Apparently, if a person believes a cat is suspicious, the correct response is not to act suspicious.
Unfortunately, nobody explains this to the cat. The result is catastrophic. Every time Seungkwan enters a room, the cat leaves. Every time Seungkwan sits down, the cat relocates. Every time Seungkwan tries to pet him, the cat stares into the distance like he's remembering a war.
"It's personal," Seungkwan concludes.
"It's not personal," Jun says.
"It feels personal."
The cat immediately jumps off the couch. Seungkwan points.
"SEE?"
—
Minghao notices first. Not the curse. Not the transformations.
You.
Specifically, the way Jun looks at you. Which is significantly worse. The discovery occurs during movie night.
The apartment is quiet. The lights are dim. Everybody is focused on the screen except Minghao.
Minghao is focused on Jun. Jun is focused on you. The cat is focused on everyone. Minghao slowly turns toward Joshua.
Joshua follows his gaze. Then pauses. Then smiles.
"Oh."
The cat immediately notices. His eyes widen. Minghao notices the cat noticing. Now three people are aware of something.
You remain blissfully ignorant. Jun remains even more oblivious.
—
A group chat appears two days later. You discover its existence entirely by accident. Specifically because Jun leaves his phone unlocked while helping carry groceries. A notification appears.
[seungkwan] he smiled again
[minghao] i know
[joshua] it's getting embarrassing
[seungkwan] should we tell them
[joshua] absolutely not
[minghao] this is free entertainment
You immediately lock the screen.
Your face feels approximately one thousand degrees. Across the kitchen, the cat watches everything.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He gives you a thumbs up.
You nearly drop the groceries.
—
The truly alarming thing is that Jun keeps getting more comfortable around you.
Not intentionally. Not consciously.
It happens in small moments.
He hands you the first portion of food automatically. Saves your favourite seat. Texts you whenever something funny happens. Includes you in plans before asking if you're free.
As though your presence has become expected. As though you're already part of his life.
One evening you arrive after a particularly exhausting day. You don't even have time to say hello before Jun notices.
"Tough day?"
You blink.
"How did you know?"
"You look tired."
The answer is simple. Casual. Immediate. Something in your chest aches.
"Work was awful."
Jun frowns. The expression looks genuinely offended on your behalf.
"Want dinner?"
"That's your solution to everything."
"Dinner helps."
"It really doesn't."
Jun considers this.
"Okay."
A pause.
"Dinner and dessert?"
You laugh despite yourself. Across the room, the cat quietly writes something down.
—
The disaster happens on a Friday. Naturally. Disasters always happen on Fridays.
You arrive at Jun's apartment carrying coffee.
The door is unlocked. You let yourself inside.
"Jun?"
No response. The apartment appears empty. You walk toward the kitchen. Then stop. Human.
The cat is human. Very human.
Very surprised. Very standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a spoon.
The spoon falls. Neither of you moves. The cat closes his eyes.
"Oh no."
The front door opens.
"Oh no," the cat repeats.
Jun's voice echoes from the hallway.
"Y/N?"
Panic erupts instantly. The cat grabs your shoulders. You grab his shoulders. Neither of you has a plan.
"Hide."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Helpful."
Footsteps approach. The cat spins in a circle. You spin with him. Somewhere in the distance, Jun gets closer.
"Guys?"
"Window?"
"We're on the eighth floor."
"Right."
The cat gestures wildly. You gesture back. Neither of you contributes anything useful.
Finally, the cat dives behind the kitchen island. A second later, orange fur replaces human limbs.
You stare. The transformation still feels impossible.
Jun enters. The cat immediately appears from behind the counter.
That night, a folded page appears beneath your apartment door. You already know what it is. You unfold it. The familiar handwriting fills the page.
—
[CASE NOTES]
Current Threat Assessment:
Seungkwan suspicious.
Minghao observant.
Joshua entertained.
Jun oblivious.
Additional Notes:
Y/N and Jun spent thirty-two minutes talking in the kitchen today.
Neither realised everyone else had already left.
Concerning.
—
A final line has been squeezed into the bottom corner. At first glance, the handwriting appears rushed. Almost hesitant.
I think Jun likes you.
You stare at the sentence. Then immediately flip the page over. Nothing else is written there.
When you look back, the words haven't changed. The cat's handwriting remains stubbornly visible.
I think Jun likes you.
For some reason, that possibility feels far more terrifying than any curse.
—
The cat begins sabotaging your love life on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, he begins by sabotaging Jun's.
You don't realise this immediately. Mostly because the disaster starts small.
A missing shirt. A mysteriously hidden wallet. A phone that somehow ends up inside the linen cupboard.
Individually, none of these events are particularly suspicious. Together, however, they create a pattern.
Specifically, the pattern of a cat committing crimes.
"Have you seen my jacket?"
Jun is standing in the middle of his apartment looking genuinely confused. You glance up from the sofa.
"No?"
"I left it right here."
The cat, sitting three feet away, immediately looks out the window. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
Jun continues searching. The cat continues pretending to be innocent. Nobody is convinced.
—
The explanation arrives later that evening. Specifically after you corner the cat in your apartment and refuse to let him leave until he talks.
Human form this time. Mostly because he can actually explain himself.
"You're hiding things."
"I'm not hiding things."
"You hid his phone inside a cereal box."
The cat looks offended.
"It was a strategic location."
"You are impossible."
"So I've been told."
He drops onto your couch dramatically. You wait. The cat waits. Eventually, he sighs.
"It's because of the date."
You blink.
"What date?"
The look he gives you suggests you're the stupidest person alive.
"The blind date."
Oh. Right.
A few days earlier, one of Jun's friends had apparently decided he needed help finding romance. The resulting blind date had been arranged for this weekend.
Jun had agreed.
Mostly because he was too nice to refuse. The cat had hated the idea immediately.
Apparently.
"You've been sabotaging a blind date?"
"I've been delaying a blind date."
"That's worse."
"It's different."
"It isn't."
The cat folds his arms. You stare at each other. Eventually, he looks away first. And suddenly, for the first time since you've met him, he looks genuinely upset.
Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Just... sad. The change catches you off guard.
"What is it?"
The cat doesn't answer immediately. His gaze settles somewhere near the window. The city lights glow softly beyond the glass. For a long moment, the apartment feels strangely quiet.
Then—
"If the curse breaks, I'll leave."
The words land heavily between you. You freeze. The cat continues staring outside.
"I was always supposed to leave."
You don't know what to say. Because the thing is—
You've never actually thought about it. Not really. The curse has become part of daily life.
The transformations. The notes. The absurdity. The cat himself.
Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped feeling temporary. Stopped feeling like a problem that needed solving. Instead, he'd become...
Family.
The realisation hits harder than expected.
"I don't want to leave."
His voice is quiet.
"So don't."
The cat laughs. Not happily.
"You think curses work like rental agreements?"
"You're being dramatic."
"I learned from Jun."
You can't even argue with that.
—
The problem is that the conversation stays with you.
For days. Long after the cat leaves. Long after movie night. Long after Jun walks you home and lingers outside your apartment door for a few seconds longer than necessary.
The thought keeps returning. If the curse breaks. If the curse ends.
Then what? The cat leaves. Life changes. Everything changes. The idea feels wrong.
Uncomfortable.
Like imagining a missing piece in a picture you've grown used to. And perhaps that's why, a week later, you finally ask the question that's been bothering you.
"What actually breaks the curse?"
The cat pauses. He'd been halfway through stealing food from your kitchen. Now he simply stares.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I know what the old woman said."
"Which was?"
The cat sighs.
"'You'll return to yourself when you're accepted as yourself.'"
You blink.
"That's it?"
"That's literally it."
"That's incredibly vague."
"I KNOW."
The frustration in his voice sounds years old.
—
The answer arrives from somewhere completely unexpected. Seungkwan. Because, apparently, life enjoys irony.
It happens during one of the increasingly common group dinners at Jun's apartment.
Everyone is present. Food covers every available surface. Conversations overlap. The cat is currently asleep on Jun's lap. Which would be adorable if you didn't know he was actually a person.
"So," Seungkwan says suddenly.
You immediately become suspicious.
"So?" Jun asks.
"I've solved the mystery."
Nobody likes the way he says that.
"What mystery?" Joshua asks.
Seungkwan points dramatically. At Jun. Then at you. Then at the cat.
"The three of you."
Silence. The cat opens one eye.
"What about us?" you ask carefully.
Seungkwan leans back. Looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You all act like a family."
The room falls silent. Completely silent. The cat stops moving. Jun blinks. Minghao immediately looks interested. Joshua looks delighted. Seungkwan continues.
"It's weird."
"Thank you?" Jun says.
"No, seriously."
Seungkwan gestures vaguely.
"You."
Pointing at Jun.
"Cook."
Then you.
"You clean."
Then the cat.
"That one commits crimes."
The cat looks offended.
"That's a family."
Nobody says anything. Because somehow—
As ridiculous as the statement is—
It doesn't feel wrong.
—
That night, after everyone leaves, Jun walks you home. The journey takes less than a minute. Neither of you seems particularly eager to end it. The hallway is quiet.
The building mostly asleep. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. You glance over.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Jun."
He smiles. A little sheepish.
"A family, huh?"
Your chest immediately betrays you. The worst part is that he doesn't sound embarrassed. Or uncomfortable. Instead, he sounds...
Happy.
Like the idea itself makes him happy.
"Seungkwan says a lot of things."
"He does."
You reach your apartment door. Neither of you moves. The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.
The kind that makes you suddenly aware of every little thing. The warmth of the hallway lights. The softness in Jun's expression. The fact that he's standing much closer than usual.
For one impossible second, you think he might say something. Instead, he smiles.
"Goodnight."
The disappointment is immediate. And embarrassing.
"Goodnight."
Jun turns. Walks away. Then pauses.
Just before reaching his own apartment. He glances back. Smiles again. Then disappears inside.
Your heart remains absolutely useless.
—
The next morning, a note appears beneath your door. The handwriting is familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE #004]
Subject: Curse Investigation
Status: Ongoing.
Recent Findings:
Jun considers Y/N family.
Y/N considers Jun family.
I consider both idiots.
—
You laugh despite yourself. There is more. The writing below is messier. Less organised.
Like it was added later.
I think I finally understand.
You frown. Understand what?
The final paragraph answers.
For years, I thought breaking the curse meant becoming human again.
Maybe that was never the point.
Maybe the point was finding somewhere I didn't have to hide.
The words hit unexpectedly hard. Because for the first time, they don't feel like notes.
Or reports. Or evidence. They feel like a goodbye. And somehow, deep down, you know something is changing.
The curse is getting weaker. The cat knows it. Maybe even understands it. And for the first time since all this began—
You think he might finally be close to going home. The problem is that home isn't a place anymore.
It's Jun. It's you.
And none of you know what happens when the magic finally lets go.
—
The truth comes out because the cat finally gets tired.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Years of hiding have a way of wearing a person down, and despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat is still a person.
It happens on an ordinary Sunday. Which somehow makes it worse. There is no dramatic thunderstorm. No magical prophecy. No ancient witch appearing out of nowhere to explain things.
Just takeout containers, a half-finished movie, and Jun complaining because someone keeps stealing food off his plate.
"I'm serious," Jun says.
The cat, currently curled beside him on the couch, pointedly avoids eye contact.
"Every time I look away, something disappears."
You nearly choke on your drink. The cat looks offended. Jun narrows his eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
And then—
Without warning—
The room fills with golden light.
Everybody freezes. The cat freezes. You freeze. Jun freezes.
For one impossible moment, the entire apartment falls silent. The light swirls around the cat.
Brighter. Warmer. Familiar.
The same glow you've witnessed dozens of times before.
Except this time it doesn't stop.
"Oh."
The cat's voice returns first. Human. Entirely human.
Sitting where the cat had been seconds earlier. The takeout container slides off his lap.
Nobody reacts. Nobody breathes.
Jun stares. The cat stares back.
And after months of preparation, after endless contingency plans and increasingly ridiculous emergency scenarios, the only thing the cat manages to say is:
"...This isn't ideal."
—
The silence lasts approximately four seconds. Then Jun speaks.
"Oh."
Another pause.
"Oh."
The cat winces. You consider hiding. Jun continues staring. The cat continues existing.
You continue questioning every life decision that led to this moment.
Then, unexpectedly—
Jun stands up. Walks forward. And pokes the cat's forehead. The cat blinks. Jun blinks. The cat blinks again.
"You're real."
The cat stares.
"That is your first question?"
"What was I supposed to ask?"
"I don't know!"
The cat throws his hands into the air.
"Maybe why your pet is secretly a human?"
"That was definitely my second question."
"Jun."
"I'm getting there."
The cat looks ready to scream. You honestly can't blame him. For several long moments, Jun simply stands there processing. Then his expression changes.
Softens. The panic never comes. The anger never comes. Instead—
"You've been dealing with this alone?"
The cat freezes. The question hangs in the air. Everything suddenly feels very quiet. Because out of every possible reaction, somehow that is the one none of you expected. The cat's shoulders slump. Just slightly.
"Yeah."
Jun's expression crumples immediately.
"Oh."
And somehow that single syllable contains more heartbreak than any dramatic speech could.
—
The explanation takes hours. Mostly because Jun keeps interrupting. Not with accusations. Questions. Thousands of questions.
Have you been eating enough?
Where did you sleep before?
Were you scared?
Why didn't you tell me?
Did the veterinarian know?
The answer to that last one is apparently no. Thankfully.
The cat buries his face in his hands.
"I knew this would happen."
"What?"
"You worrying."
Jun looks genuinely confused.
"Of course I'm worried."
The cat laughs helplessly. And for the first time since you've met him, you realise just how exhausted he's been. How much effort it must have taken to keep carrying this alone.
Jun notices too. Because of course he does.
Without hesitation, he moves beside him on the couch. Close enough that their shoulders touch. Close enough that neither of them has to pretend anymore.
"You idiot."
The words are fond. The cat immediately starts crying.
—
The curse breaks completely three days later.
Not with magic. Not really. Not with fireworks or dramatic declarations. Just certainty.
No tail. No whiskers. No transformation. The curse is gone.
Just like that.
The moment should feel triumphant. Instead, everybody ends up strangely emotional. Including you. Especially Jun. The apartment feels different.
Not empty. Just unfamiliar. Like a favourite song rearranged into a new key. Better.
But still strange. The cat notices immediately.
"You're mourning me."
"No we're not."
"You absolutely are."
"We literally saw you this morning."
"Then stop looking at me like I've died."
Jun points a chopstick at him.
"You used to fit inside a tote bag."
"That's not a normal thing to miss."
"It is for me."
The cat groans. You laugh. For the first time in days, everything feels normal again.
—
The confession happens because Seungkwan finally loses patience. As expected.
Everyone has gathered for dinner. The former cat now occupies an actual chair. A development that continues to disturb Jun. Halfway through dessert, Seungkwan slams both hands on the table.
"ENOUGH."
Everybody jumps.
"What?" Joshua asks.
"No."
Seungkwan points. At Jun. Then at you. Then back at Jun.
"This has gone on long enough."
The room immediately erupts. Minghao starts laughing. Joshua covers his face. The former cat sighs dramatically. Jun looks confused. You look terrified.
"What's happening?"
"You like each other."
Seungkwan says it with the confidence of someone announcing the weather. Silence. Then:
"What?"
Jun and you speak simultaneously. The entire table groans. The former cat drops his forehead onto the table.
"You are unbearable."
"No," Seungkwan says. "I've suffered enough."
"Seungkwan—"
"No."
He points at Jun.
"Do you like Y/N?"
Jun opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at you. Then looks away. His ears turn red. The entire room explodes.
"Oh my god."
"I KNEW IT."
"Finally."
"THANK YOU."
Jun hides his face. You consider moving countries. The former cat looks seconds away from standing up and applauding.
—
Somehow, eventually, everyone leaves. Except Jun. And you.
The apartment grows quiet. The dishes remain forgotten. The city lights glow beyond the windows. For several moments, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. Embarrassed.
"I think they planned that."
"They definitely planned that."
"Yeah."
Silence returns. Not awkward. Just fragile.
The kind where everything important sits between two people waiting to be acknowledged.
Jun rubs the back of his neck. Looks down. Then up again. And suddenly he looks more nervous than you've ever seen him.
"I do, by the way."
Your breath catches.
"What?"
He smiles. Small. Warm. Entirely sincere.
"I do like you."
The words are simple. Which somehow makes them hit harder. No dramatic speech. No rehearsed confession. Just honesty.
The kind that's impossible to hide from.
"I think I've liked you for a while."
The smile spreads before you can stop it. Jun's eyes soften immediately. The sight nearly destroys you.
"Good."
His voice comes out quiet. Hopeful.
"Good?"
"Because I like you too."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then Jun laughs. The relieved, disbelieving kind. And somehow that's what finally pushes you both forward.
The kiss is gentle. Warm. A little awkward.
Perfect.
When you pull apart, Jun immediately starts smiling again. Like he physically cannot stop. You suspect you look exactly the same.
—
The next morning, a final note appears beneath your apartment door. The handwriting is instantly familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE: CLOSED]
Former Alias: Dumpling.Current Status: Human.Curse Status: Broken.Additional Findings:The old woman was right. Being human again wasn't the solution. Being loved was.
—
Your chest tightens. A final paragraph sits beneath it. Shorter. Messier. Like it wasn't rewritten a hundred times.
Thank you for seeing me. Even when I was a cat.
You stare at the page for a long moment. Then smile. A knock sounds at your door. You already know who it is.
When you open it, Jun stands there holding breakfast. And flowers. And the most hopeful expression you've ever seen.
"Hi."
You laugh immediately.
"Hi."
"Would you maybe want to go on an actual date?"
The flowers shake slightly. Nervous. Endearing. Very Jun. You take them from his hands. His smile brightens instantly.
And just like that, standing in the hallway where all of this began, surrounded by neighbours and ordinary apartment walls and absolutely no magic whatsoever, you realise something.
this was so cute! I loved dumpling and Y/N’s interactions with each other and the little notes <3 plus Jun not freaking out on Dumpling when they changed back into a human I wished Dumpling could stay with them forever
pairing: flower shop owner!seungcheol x reader
synopsis: When you were ten, Seungcheol taught you to blow dandelion seeds and make wishes. Years later, after moving away, you return to town and discover he's inherited his grandmother's flower shop. Inside an old drawer is a collection of childhood notes: "Things I wish for." Almost every one mentions you.
wc: 6.6k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Mild Angst, Slice of Life, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Flower Shop AU
warnings: Grief/Loss of a grandparent (past event), Emotional Discussions about Separation and Missed Opportunities, Nostalgia, References to Childhood Loneliness
a/n: this fic is a part of the First Bloom collab hosted by @svthub!
The strangest thing about coming home is discovering that the places you left behind never received the memo that you were gone.
You notice it almost immediately after stepping off the bus.
The old bakery on the corner still has the faded striped awning that seemed enormous when you were ten years old. The convenience store still has the crooked sign hanging above the entrance. Even the park across the road appears unchanged, the swings swaying gently in the afternoon breeze as if time itself had simply decided to settle down here and refuse to move forward.
Only you seem different. Only you seem out of place.
You stand beside your suitcase for a moment longer than necessary, staring down the familiar street while an uncomfortable ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs.
Three days ago, you had been packing up your apartment. Two days ago, you had been sorting through legal documents and answering sympathetic phone calls.
Now, after years of saying you'll visit eventually, after years of finding excuses and postponing plans and convincing yourself there would always be another opportunity, you're back in the town you spent most of your childhood trying to leave.
Not because you wanted to return. Because your grandmother died. The thought lands heavily, even now.
Your grip tightens around the suitcase handle. The funeral had been small. Simple.
Exactly what she would've wanted.
Most of the relatives had already left again, returning to their own lives, while you stayed behind to sort through paperwork and prepare the house for sale.
Just a few weeks, you told yourself. Long enough to finish everything properly. Long enough to say goodbye.
Then you'd leave again. The plan sounds reasonable in theory. In practice, every step through town feels like walking through memories.
The route to your grandmother's house passes the elementary school where you spent countless afternoons pretending to pay attention during class. The creek behind the football field still winds lazily through town, hidden beneath the same willow trees that once provided the backdrop for summer adventures so important they had felt life-changing at the time.
You know exactly where every turn leads. You hate how much of it you remember. The house itself sits exactly where it always has. The garden is slightly overgrown. The mailbox leans to one side. The front porch creaks beneath your weight.
Home.
Not home anymore. But close enough to hurt.
—
The first few days disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities. Boxes. Documents. Phone calls. Dust-covered photo albums.
Closets packed with items your grandmother had somehow convinced herself she might need someday.
You spend hours sorting through decades of accumulated memories, discovering things you forgot existed and things you wish you could forget.
Old school reports. Birthday cards. Drawings. Photographs. Far too many photographs. By the fourth day, the house feels quieter than ever. The silence eventually becomes unbearable.
Which is how you find yourself wandering through town with no destination in mind, hands shoved into your jacket pockets while the late afternoon sun bathes everything in warm gold.
You tell yourself you're just getting fresh air. You tell yourself you aren't searching for anything. The lie lasts approximately fifteen minutes.
Because eventually you turn a corner. And stop.
The flower shop still stands exactly where it always did. For a second, you think you've imagined it.
The familiar brick storefront. The flower boxes beneath the windows. The painted sign hanging above the entrance.
Only one thing has changed.
The name.
Your chest tightens. Not because the shop exists. Because you know who owns it now. You learned it from one of the older ladies at the funeral.
"Oh, have you seen Seungcheol yet?"
As if that were the most natural question in the world. As if years hadn't passed. As if hearing his name didn't still do something strange to your heartbeat. You haven't seen him. Not yet.
You hadn't planned to.
But suddenly there he is. Standing inside the shop. Alive. Real. Older.
The breath catches somewhere in your throat. For a moment, all you can do is stare.
He's arranging flowers near the front counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he focuses on adjusting a bouquet.
You knew he would have changed. Of course he would've changed.
The last time you saw him, he was fourteen years old and trying very hard not to cry while helping load boxes into a moving truck.
The man standing in front of you now is nothing like that boy. Except he is. The shape of his smile when he speaks to a customer. The way he absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck. The slight furrow between his brows when concentrating. Some things remain stubbornly familiar.
Then, as if sensing your stare, he looks up. And sees you.
The world doesn't stop. Nothing dramatic happens. Cars continue driving past. The shop door remains closed. The flowers continue existing. But something shifts.
You know it does because Seungcheol freezes. The bouquet slips slightly in his hands. For one stunned second, neither of you move.
Then his eyes widen. Your stomach drops. And suddenly you're ten years old again.
—
"You have to make a wish first."
"I already made one."
"That doesn't count."
"It does count."
"No, it doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Ten-year-old Seungcheol had always been incredibly confident for someone who spent half his time making things up.
The two of you sat cross-legged in a field behind his grandmother's flower shop, surrounded by dandelions and sunlight.
He held one proudly between his fingers. You rolled your eyes.
"You literally just invented that rule."
"Every game has rules."
"This isn't a game."
"It is now."
You groaned dramatically. He ignored you.
"Close your eyes."
"No."
"Y/N."
"No."
"Trust me."
At ten years old, trusting Seungcheol was the easiest thing in the world. You closed your eyes.
"Now make a wish."
You sighed. Made one anyway.
"Done."
"Okay."
You opened your eyes just in time to watch him blow the dandelion apart. White seeds scattered into the wind.
"What'd you wish for?" you asked.
His expression became immediately suspicious.
"You can't tell people."
"You made that up too."
"Maybe."
"You definitely did."
"But what if it's true?"
You laughed. He grinned. The sunlight caught in his hair.
And somehow, without either of you realizing it, that afternoon became one of the memories that followed you everywhere.
—
The bell above the flower shop door rings softly when you finally step inside. The scent hits you immediately.
Fresh flowers. Soil. Greenery. Something sweet and familiar.
The same scent that used to cling to Seungcheol whenever he spent all day helping his grandmother. The same scent you haven't thought about in years.
He stands behind the counter now. Watching you. Still looking mildly shocked. You suspect you look exactly the same. For several awkward seconds, nobody says anything. Then—
"Hi."
Brilliant. Absolutely incredible. Years apart and that's the best you can manage. Seungcheol laughs. The sound eases something inside your chest instantly.
"Hi."
His voice is deeper than you remember. Everything about him feels older. Not unfamiliar. Just older.
"You came back."
The words aren't accusatory. If anything, they sound slightly disbelieving. You nod.
"Temporarily."
Something flickers across his face. Gone too quickly to identify.
"Right."
The conversation stumbles forward after that. Careful. Tentative. Questions about work. About family. About how long you've been back.
Neither of you mentions how strange this feels. Neither of you mentions how many years disappeared between one conversation and the next.
Eventually another customer enters. Then another. The moment passes. You tell yourself that's probably for the best. Still, when you finally leave, Seungcheol walks you to the door.
"If you're bored," he says casually, "you can stop by anytime."
You blink.
"What?"
"The shop."
He gestures vaguely around himself.
"I'm usually here."
The invitation sounds simple. Normal. Yet your heart reacts as if he's offered something much bigger. You smile before you can stop yourself.
"Maybe I will."
His smile mirrors yours.
"Good."
—
The following afternoon, you return. Then again two days later. Then once more. Not intentionally.
It just keeps happening.
Sometimes you help carry deliveries. Sometimes you organize shelves. Sometimes you sit near the counter pretending to read while Seungcheol works.
The ease returns surprisingly quickly. Not completely. There are still years between you. Still things unsaid. But the foundation remains.
As if friendship had simply been waiting patiently beneath the surface. One evening, after closing time, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to answer a phone call. You volunteer to finish organizing a neglected storage room.
The space is cramped. Dusty. Filled with forgotten boxes. You sneeze twice. Immediately regret your life choices.
And then you notice the drawer. Small. Wooden. Hidden behind a stack of old gardening catalogues.
Curiosity wins.
You pull it open. Inside are dozens of folded papers.
Hundreds, maybe.
All carefully preserved. You hesitate before reaching for the top one. The paper is yellowed with age.
The handwriting is instantly recognizable. Even after all these years.
Your breath catches.
Slowly, you unfold the note. Across the top of the page, written in uneven childhood handwriting, are four words.
Things I wish for.
And underneath:
For Grandma's roses to survive winter.
For my knee to stop hurting.
For Y/N to stop crying when they lose races because I don't like it.
At the bottom, squeezed into the corner:
I think wishes work better when you blow two dandelions instead of one.
– Seungcheol
You stare at the page. Then read it again. And again.
Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak. The sound barely registers.
Because suddenly you're ten years old.
Standing in a field.
Holding a dandelion.
Listening to a boy make up rules about wishes.
And for the first time since returning home, you wonder whether maybe some memories never left at all.
—
The problem with nostalgia is that it never arrives alone.
It comes hand-in-hand with comparison, with grief, with all the quiet questions that only appear when you're staring at the person you used to know and trying to reconcile them with the person standing in front of you now.
By the end of the second week, you have become painfully aware of that fact. You have also become painfully aware of how often you find yourself at the flower shop. The first few visits had reasonable explanations.
You needed somewhere to walk. You needed a break from sorting through your grandmother's belongings. You needed a distraction.
The seventh visit is significantly harder to justify.
Especially when you're carrying two iced coffees and walking toward the shop before you've fully finished convincing yourself you're only dropping by for a few minutes.
The bell above the door rings. Seungcheol immediately looks up. The smile that appears on his face happens so naturally that neither of you seem to notice it.
You do. Unfortunately.
"You're late."
You stop.
"What?"
He gestures toward the wall clock.
"You usually get here fifteen minutes ago."
The realization settles over both of you simultaneously.
Because he's right. Because apparently you've established a routine. Because apparently Seungcheol has noticed.
Heat crawls up your neck.
"You timed me?"
"I didn't time you."
"You literally knew I was fifteen minutes late."
"I just noticed."
"That's timing me."
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
His laugh fills the shop. You hate how much you missed that sound.
—
The flower shop feels different now that you've spent enough time inside it to notice the details. The place still carries traces of his grandmother. The old cash register remains displayed on a shelf near the counter.
Framed photographs line one wall.
The ancient rocking chair in the corner somehow survived several decades despite looking permanently one bad day away from collapse.
But Seungcheol is everywhere too. The organization. The handwritten signs. The new displays. The garden outside. The entire place feels like a conversation between generations.
A continuation rather than a replacement.
His grandmother would've loved that. You think she already knew he would inherit the shop.
You glance up from the arrangement you're helping prepare.
"Daisies?"
"Dandelions."
He nods toward the window.
Outside, several bright yellow flowers have appeared amongst the carefully maintained garden beds.
You smile.
"They're kind of pretty."
"Exactly."
He sounds offended.
"Kind of?"
"Okay, they're pretty."
"There we go."
"You care way too much about dandelions."
"I inherited that."
His voice softens slightly.
"Grandma used to say they were the bravest flowers."
You pause.
"What does that mean?"
He carefully trims a stem.
"They grow everywhere."
A shrug.
"They survive getting stepped on."
Another cut.
"People call them weeds, but they keep blooming anyway."
You watch him for a moment. Sunlight filters through the front window. Dust drifts lazily through the air.
The shop smells faintly of lavender and soil. For a second, the years between childhood and now seem remarkably small.
"They sound stubborn."
Seungcheol grins.
"Exactly."
—
The first time someone mistakes you for his partner, you're unprepared. The culprit is an elderly customer named Mrs. Kim.
One moment she's purchasing carnations. The next she's looking between you and Seungcheol with obvious satisfaction.
"It's nice to finally meet them."
You blink.
"I'm sorry?"
Mrs. Kim waves dismissively.
"Don't worry."
Seungcheol visibly tenses. You immediately become suspicious.
"Don't worry about what?"
The woman pats your hand.
"Oh, honey, we've all heard about you."
Silence. Complete silence. You slowly turn toward Seungcheol. He refuses to make eye contact.
"Seungcheol."
"No."
"What does she mean?"
"No."
Mrs. Kim laughs. The traitor.
"You know, Y/N this and Y/N that and—"
"Mrs. Kim."
The warning in his voice only makes her smile widen. You stare. He stares determinedly at the floor.
A customer enters. The conversation mercifully dies.
Unfortunately your curiosity survives.
—
You corner him later.
"What exactly have people heard?"
"Nothing."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It isn't."
"Seungcheol."
He groans.
"You're impossible."
"You avoided the question."
"I mentioned you sometimes."
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes."
The response is entirely too fast. You narrow your eyes.
"How many times?"
His expression immediately suggests the answer is significantly higher than either of you would like.
—
That night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the drawer again. You know you probably shouldn't be reading the notes.
They're private. Personal. Hidden for a reason. And yet. The temptation wins.
Again.
The next paper is dated in messy twelve-year-old handwriting. You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To beat Jeonghan at soccer.
To grow taller.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Don't tell them I wrote that.
You stare. Then reread the sentence. Then reread it again.
The words somehow feel heavier each time.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Simple. Innocent. Childish. Yet something twists painfully inside your chest.
Because you didn't stay. Because neither of you had any control over that. Because twelve-year-old Seungcheol didn't know he was writing a wish that would never come true.
—
Middle school had been awkward. Not terrible. Not dramatic. Just awkward.
The age where suddenly everyone became aware that boys and girls existed. The age where friendships acquired strange new rules nobody explained properly.
You remember sitting beside Seungcheol during lunch one afternoon. He arrived carrying two juice boxes. Immediately handed you one.
Completely normal. Entirely routine. Unfortunately half your classmates witnessed the exchange. The teasing started instantly.
"Ooooh."
"Look."
"It's Y/N and Seungcheol."
You remember wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Seungcheol had looked equally horrified. The two of you spent the rest of lunch aggressively denying accusations nobody had technically made.
Neither of you acknowledged how red your faces became.
—
You wake the next morning determined not to think about old letters. The determination lasts approximately twenty minutes.
By lunch, you're back at the flower shop. By evening, you're helping prepare arrangements for a wedding. By closing time, you're laughing so hard you nearly drop an entire bucket of peonies.
The transition feels alarmingly natural. As if this version of life has been waiting patiently for your return. As if leaving had only been an interruption.
Not an ending.
The thought unsettles you.
—
The following week, the town begins treating your presence as permanent. The bakery owner asks whether you've found a job yet. The librarian asks if you're staying. Three separate neighbors mention available apartments.
You spend most conversations repeating the same answer.
"I'm only here temporarily."
Every single person responds the same way.
"We'll see."
The most irritating part is that nobody sounds uncertain.
Least of all Seungcheol.
—
One afternoon, while helping water plants behind the shop, you finally ask.
"Did everyone in this town secretly agree to annoy me?"
He laughs.
"Probably."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
You splash water toward him. He dodges. Barely.
"Traitor."
"I didn't do anything."
"You never tell them I'm leaving."
His expression changes slightly. The smile remains. Something else disappears.
"Oh."
Immediately, guilt settles in your stomach. You hadn't meant—
"I mean—"
"It's okay."
The words are gentle. Too gentle. The conversation moves on.
Yet the silence lingers.
—
That evening, while closing up, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to search for inventory records. The opportunity presents itself. You tell yourself you're only checking one note.
One. That's all.
The lie fools absolutely nobody. Especially not yourself. You return to the drawer. Select another folded paper. Open it carefully.
The handwriting is older this time.
Less childish. More controlled. The date makes your chest tighten.
The year you moved away.
Things I wish for:
To have my own flower shop someday.
For Grandma to stop working so hard.
For Y/N to smile like they did before they found out they're moving.
I hate this wish.
The words blur slightly. You blink. Look away. Look back.
The paper remains unchanged.
The same ink. The same handwriting. The same impossible honesty.
For a long moment, you simply sit there.
Remembering.
—
The moving truck had arrived too early. Or maybe it only felt that way.
You remember cardboard boxes. Your mother's stressed voice. Relatives carrying furniture.
Everything happening much too fast. You remember friends saying goodbye. Teachers promising you'd make new ones. Adults insisting change was exciting.
You remember hating every second of it.
Most of all, you remember Seungcheol. Standing beside the driveway. Hands shoved into his pockets. Trying very hard to act normal.
You'd both promised to stay in touch. You'd both promised nothing would change. At fourteen, promises like that feel unbreakable.
Reality is less cooperative. Calls become texts. Texts become occasional messages. Then birthdays. Then silence.
Not because either of you stopped caring.
Because life happened. Because growing up happened. Because distance is sometimes quieter than heartbreak.
—
A floorboard creaks overhead. You quickly fold the letter. Return it to the drawer. Close everything.
By the time Seungcheol returns, you're standing beside a shelf pretending to examine gardening supplies.
His eyes narrow immediately.
"You look suspicious."
"What?"
"You look guilty."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
You point at a random bag of fertilizer.
"Did you know this contains nitrogen?"
The silence that follows is devastating. Then Seungcheol starts laughing.
The kind of laugh that forces him to lean against a table for support. You hate him. Possibly. A little.
—
Later, after you've returned home, sleep proves impossible. Your mind keeps returning to the notes.
The wishes. The years. Everything that existed while you were gone.
Eventually curiosity wins one final time. Near midnight, you retrieve the drawer once more.
One last letter. Just one. You unfold it slowly.
The handwriting immediately looks different.
Shakier. Messier. Lonelier.
The date makes your stomach drop. A few months after you left. Nothing else is written on the page.
No numbered list. No jokes. No soccer. No flowers.
Just a single sentence.
Things I wish for:
Y/N comes back.
Just once. That's all. For a long moment, the room remains completely silent.
Outside, wind rattles softly against the windows. Inside, your chest feels painfully tight. You remember all the times you almost visited. All the summers you said maybe next year. All the holidays that slipped away. All the opportunities lost to convenience and distance and the assumption that there would always be more time.
The note trembles slightly in your hands.
And for the first time since returning home, you begin to understand that maybe you weren't the only person who spent years missing someone.
The realization follows you long after the lights go out. Long after the letter is folded away. Long after sleep finally arrives.
And somewhere across town, completely unaware of the storm currently unfolding inside your chest, Seungcheol closes his flower shop for the evening and locks the front door, still carrying pieces of a wish he made twelve years ago.
—
The worst part about reading the letters is that they make everything impossible to ignore. Not impossible in the dramatic sense. Not in the way movies portray it, where suddenly every interaction becomes charged with unbearable tension and every glance feels life-altering.
Instead, it becomes impossible to ignore the accumulation of small things. The details. The habits. The spaces someone occupies in your life without permission.
Before finding the drawer, spending every afternoon at the flower shop had felt natural.
After finding the drawer, you become painfully aware that Seungcheol automatically hands you a drink before grabbing one for himself.
That he remembers how you take your coffee. That he moves around the shop with the unconscious expectation that you'll be somewhere nearby. That every time the front door opens, his eyes immediately search for you before searching for the customer.
None of these things mean anything individually. Together, they begin to feel like something dangerous. Something you've spent years pretending not to recognize. Something that looks suspiciously like first love growing up and refusing to leave.
—
The flower festival arrives at exactly the wrong time. Or perhaps exactly the right time. You haven't decided which.
The annual event has existed for as long as you can remember, transforming the town into something bright and overwhelming for a weekend every spring. Streets fill with flower displays. Local businesses compete for awards. Families wander between stalls carrying bouquets and iced drinks.
As children, you and Seungcheol used to treat it like the most important event of the year. Now, as adults, it means two weeks of preparation and approximately zero free time. Not that you mind.
Being busy makes it easier not to think.
Unfortunately, Seungcheol keeps ruining that strategy by existing.
—
"You're staring."
You nearly drop the box you're carrying.
"What?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"You've been looking at me for ten seconds."
"I was not."
"You were."
"No."
"Y/N."
The use of your name should not feel that unfair. It does. Especially when accompanied by a smile. Especially when he knows exactly what he's doing. You point aggressively at the display you're assembling.
"I was looking at the flowers."
"Sure."
"Why would I stare at you?"
His grin widens. You immediately regret speaking. Across the room, an elderly volunteer watching preparations sighs dramatically.
"Please date already."
Both of you nearly choke.
—
The town has become unbearable. Not because the people are cruel. Quite the opposite. The people are far too invested.
Everyone appears convinced that you and Seungcheol are one conversation away from getting married. The florist across the street keeps offering relationship advice. Mrs. Kim has started winking whenever she enters the shop. Even children seem suspicious.
At one point, a ten-year-old asks if you're Seungcheol's spouse. You spend five full minutes recovering.
Seungcheol spends ten.
—
The problem is that every joke lands slightly closer to the truth than either of you are comfortable admitting.
Because somewhere between sorting flowers and revisiting childhood memories and reading letters you definitely should not be reading, something has changed.
Or maybe nothing changed. Maybe you've simply stopped running from it.
You don't know which possibility scares you more.
—
One evening, after the shop closes, rain begins unexpectedly. Heavy. Relentless.
The kind that turns roads silver beneath streetlights. You're trapped. Not that either of you seem particularly bothered.
Seungcheol locks the front door and flips the sign to CLOSED.
The two of you remain inside. Waiting. The shop feels different after hours. Quieter. More intimate.
The scent of flowers seems stronger somehow. The silence stretches comfortably between conversations. You sit together behind the counter drinking tea.
Outside, rain taps steadily against the glass. Inside, memories linger everywhere.
"You know," Seungcheol says eventually, "Grandma used to think you were going to marry me."
You nearly inhale your tea.
"What?"
His laughter echoes through the empty shop.
"I'm serious."
"Why would she think that?"
"You were ten."
"That's not an answer."
"You followed me around everywhere."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"You're making things up."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He shakes his head.
"She used to tell me all the time."
The smile softens.
"'That one loves you very much, Seungcheol.'"
Something catches unexpectedly in your chest. You look away.
The rain suddenly becomes fascinating.
—
Later that night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting on the floor beside the drawer again. You don't even pretend to resist anymore. The letters feel less like an invasion now.
More like a conversation delayed by years. The next note is dated two years after you left.
You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To stop thinking about Y/N.
Didn't work.
For several seconds, you simply stare. Then laugh. Actually laugh.
Because somehow, despite everything, fourteen-year-old Seungcheol and sixteen-year-old Seungcheol remain unmistakably the same person.
Hopeless. Earnest. Painfully honest. You continue reading.
The next note is eighteen.
Things I wish for:
To see Y/N again.
To stop comparing everyone else to Y/N.
Didn't work either.
The smile disappears. A strange ache replaces it. You know what he's implying.
You wish you didn't.
Because suddenly every year between then and now feels tangible.
Every missed opportunity. Every person he met. Every relationship that apparently failed to become something lasting.
The thought follows you into the final letter. Age twenty-one.
Things I wish for:
Y/N.
Just Y/N.
No explanation. No joke. No elaboration. Only your name.
The page trembles slightly in your hands.
—
The next morning, you arrive at the flower shop exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Possibly spiritually.
Seungcheol notices immediately.
"Rough night?"
You consider your options. Lie. Deflect. Change the subject.
Instead:
"Why didn't you throw them away?"
His hands stop moving. The flowers remain half-arranged between his fingers. For a moment, neither of you speak.
Then:
"The notes?"
You nod. The silence stretches. Long enough for your pulse to become annoying. Long enough for the question to feel dangerous. Finally, Seungcheol exhales softly.
"Because throwing them away felt like giving up."
The answer lands harder than expected. You stare. He continues looking at the flowers.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you looks away. The shop suddenly feels too quiet.
Too small. Too honest.
—
The conversation changes after that. Not dramatically. Not immediately. But something shifts.
A wall lowers. A distance disappears. You begin talking about things you've avoided for years.
University. Family. The struggles nobody posted online. The loneliness. The uncertainty. The versions of yourselves that existed while the other wasn't there to witness them.
For the first time, it feels like you're catching up properly. Not on events.
On each other.
—
The breakthrough arrives unexpectedly. Through gossip. Naturally. Because this town cannot help itself.
You're helping arrange flowers outside the festival pavilion when Mrs. Kim appears. You should have run. Instead, you smile politely. A mistake.
"Did you know," she begins immediately, "that Seungcheol never brought anyone serious home?"
Your heart stops.
"What?"
Mrs. Kim continues cheerfully.
"Such a waste."
You stare. The woman sighs dramatically.
"Everyone liked him."
The implications begin arriving one by one. Slowly. Terribly. You don't want to ask. You ask anyway.
"Why?"
Mrs. Kim blinks.
"Why what?"
"Why didn't he date anyone?"
The answer comes far too quickly.
"As if we don't all know."
Then she walks away. Leaving you alone with approximately twelve different emotional crises.
—
The festival opens the next day. Crowds flood the streets. Music drifts through the air. Children race between displays. Customers fill the shop. The entire town seems alive.
You should be enjoying it. Instead, you're distracted.
Because every time you look at Seungcheol, another letter appears in your memory.
Another wish. Another year. Another version of him quietly hoping for something he thought he would never get.
By evening, exhaustion settles over everyone. The crowds thin. Sunlight begins fading. And somehow you find yourselves alone behind the shop.
Again.
The garden glows gold beneath the setting sun. Dandelions sway gently amongst the flower beds.
The same flowers. The same stubborn flowers. Hope disguised as weeds.
Seungcheol sits beside you on a wooden bench. Close. Not touching. Close enough. For several minutes, neither of you speaks. The silence feels full. Waiting. Anticipating.
Like the final moments before a storm breaks. Then he says quietly:
"I was happy you came back."
Your breath catches. The confession isn't romantic. Not technically. But it feels significant anyway. You glance toward him. His gaze remains fixed on the garden.
A nervous habit you've started recognizing.
"I was happy too."
The words come easily. Truth always does. He smiles. Small. Soft. Real.
And suddenly you're struck by a realization so obvious it almost feels ridiculous. Every important moment in your life somehow leads back to him. Every memory. Every wish. Every version of home.
The thought settles heavily between your ribs. Not uncomfortable. Just undeniable. The sun sinks lower. The dandelions sway.
And for the first time, you begin wondering whether the final letter in the drawer isn't actually the end of the story.
Maybe it's only the beginning. Because tomorrow is the final day of the flower festival. Tomorrow you'll finish sorting the last boxes from your grandmother's house. Tomorrow you'll have to decide whether you're leaving again.
And somewhere deep down, beneath years of distance and excuses and carefully maintained walls, a small stubborn hope begins to bloom.
Much like a dandelion. Refusing to die. Refusing to be ignored. Refusing, despite everything, to stop growing.
—
The last day of the flower festival arrives far too quickly. You know this because you spend most of the morning trying not to think about it. Unfortunately, thinking about something and trying not to think about something are often the exact same activity.
By noon, you're painfully aware that this is your final week in town. By three o'clock, you've mentally packed your suitcase twice. By five, you've considered extending your stay. By six, you've considered cancelling your return entirely. None of these thoughts help.
Especially because every possible future seems to revolve around the same person. Across the square, Seungcheol is helping a little girl choose flowers for her mother. You watch him crouch down so they're eye level. Watch him listen seriously to her explanation. Watch him help arrange a tiny bouquet.
The girl leaves looking delighted. Seungcheol looks equally pleased. The sight hurts. Not because it's sad. Because it feels familiar.
Because it feels like home.
Because somewhere along the way, without realizing it, you've started measuring places by whether or not he exists in them.
And that seems like a dangerous way to live.
—
The festival winds down slowly. Stalls begin packing away displays. Families drift home. The streets gradually quiet.
For the first time all weekend, the town feels peaceful. You spend most of the evening helping return decorations to storage.
Boxes. Signs. Flower stands. The work is repetitive enough to keep your hands busy. Not your thoughts.
Those remain frustratingly active. By the time darkness settles over town, only a handful of people remain.
The cleanup continues. The shop stays open late. And eventually you find yourself alone.
Again. In the storage room. Again. Standing in front of the drawer. Again.
At this point, you suspect fate has completely given up pretending to be subtle.
—
The final note is hidden beneath all the others. Tucked carefully at the very bottom. Almost as if someone wanted it protected. Your pulse quickens immediately. Because unlike the others, this paper looks newer.
Not recent. Just newer. Adult handwriting. Adult paper. Adult ink.
Slowly, you unfold it. And the world narrows.
Things I wish for:
I don't think this one belongs to a dandelion anymore.
I think some wishes are supposed to be said.
I love Y/N.
I've loved them since we were kids making rules about wishes in the park.
And if they come back someday, maybe I'll finally tell them.
– Seungcheol
For a long moment, nothing happens. You simply stare. Reading the words once. Twice. Again. As if repetition might somehow make them less overwhelming.
It doesn't.
The confession sits plainly on the page. No jokes. No hiding. No pretending. Just the truth. The same truth that has apparently existed for years. The same truth you've spent the entire month slowly uncovering one letter at a time.
Outside the storage room, a floorboard creaks.
You look up.
Your heart immediately attempts escape.
Because Seungcheol is standing in the doorway. And judging by his expression, he knows exactly what you're holding.
—
"Oh."
Brilliant. An excellent response. Truly.
Years of emotional buildup and the first thing either of you manages is:
"Oh."
Seungcheol closes his eyes. Briefly. The expression on his face suggests he is considering several possible methods of spontaneous death.
"You found that one."
You hold up the paper.
"A little late to ask me not to read it."
His groan echoes off the walls. You almost laugh. Almost.
If your heart wasn't currently beating hard enough to qualify as a medical emergency. The silence stretches. Neither of you seem sure how to continue.
Finally:
"You were never supposed to find that."
Your eyebrows rise.
"There are literally eight hundred letters in that drawer."
"There are not eight hundred."
"There are enough."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Then disappears. The seriousness returns. And suddenly the air changes. The humor fades. The truth remains.
"You meant it?"
The question comes out quieter than intended. Seungcheol looks at the floor. Then the shelves. Then literally anywhere except you.
Eventually, he exhales.
"Yeah."
Just one word. Simple. Certain. Enough.
Your chest tightens painfully. Because there is no hesitation. No uncertainty. No attempt to take it back. Just honesty.
The kind that takes years to build. The kind that only appears when someone is finally tired of hiding.
"Since we were kids?"
A small laugh escapes him.
"Unfortunately."
The response is so Seungcheol that tears immediately threaten.
"You make it sound tragic."
"It was."
Now he smiles. Softly.
"I liked you for fifteen years."
Your laugh comes out suspiciously emotional.
"I was very committed."
The tears win. Just slightly. Enough for your vision to blur. Enough for Seungcheol's expression to immediately change. Concern replacing nervousness.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'm having a normal reaction."
"This doesn't seem normal."
"It absolutely isn't."
And somehow that breaks the tension. Both of you laugh. Both of you look slightly overwhelmed. Both of you look suspiciously close to crying.
When the laughter fades, the truth remains. Patient. Waiting. You stare down at the letter again.
At your name. At years of wishes. At every version of him that existed before this moment.
Ten years old. Twelve. Fourteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-six. Every single one hoping for the same thing. Every single one writing your name.
The realization settles heavily inside your chest. Not because it's surprising.
Because it isn't. Not anymore.
Somewhere between the first letter and the last, you've already known.
You simply weren't ready to admit it.
"Do you know something funny?"
Seungcheol looks confused.
"A dangerous start."
You ignore him.
"I used to wish for you too."
The words leave before you can stop them. His expression freezes. Completely.
"What?"
You laugh softly. Because honestly, the universe has a terrible sense of humor.
"Every birthday."
You look down at the letter.
"Every shooting star."
A smile. Small. Embarrassed.
"Every dandelion."
Silence. Absolute silence.
"Seriously?"
You nod. His eyes widen.
"You never told me."
"You never told me."
"That's because I was terrified."
"So was I."
The answer arrives instantly. Truth again. Always truth.
—
The confession isn't dramatic. There are no grand speeches. No perfectly rehearsed declarations. No movie-worthy dialogue.
Instead, there is honesty. Messy honesty. The kind built from years of friendship.
Years of absence. Years of missing someone without fully understanding the shape of that feeling.
You talk. Really talk. For the first time. About moving away. About losing touch. About all the almost-visits.
The unanswered messages. The missed opportunities. The people you both tried and failed to become. And somehow, through all of it, the conversation keeps returning to the same conclusion.
You found your way back. Not immediately. Not perfectly. But eventually. You came back. And he waited. Not intentionally. Not actively. Just quietly.
Like someone protecting a wish.
—
The flower shop closes early the following evening. Not because business is slow. Because Seungcheol insists on taking you somewhere.
You recognize the destination immediately. The field.
The one behind the shop. The one from childhood. The one where everything started.
The walk there feels strangely familiar. As if no time has passed. As if every version of yourselves still exists somewhere among the grass.
The field is smaller than you remember. Most places are. The dandelions aren't.
They remain everywhere.
Bright. Stubborn. Impossible to ignore.
Exactly like him.
—
"Do you remember the rules?" Seungcheol asks. You laugh.
"The rules changed every week."
"They were very sophisticated."
"They were completely made up."
"They were based on science."
"They absolutely were not."
His offended expression is immediate. You grin. Some things never change.
Thank God.
—
Eventually the conversation fades. The evening settles around you. Warm. Peaceful. Comfortable.
Seungcheol picks a dandelion.
Then another. Holding one out. You accept it automatically.
Like muscle memory. Like childhood. Like home.
The white seeds tremble gently in the breeze. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
"What are you wishing for?"
The question is familiar. The same question from years ago. The same field. The same flowers. The same boy.
Only now he's a man looking at you like you're the answer to something. You stare at the dandelion. Then at him. Then smile.
"Nothing."
His eyebrows lift.
"Nothing?"
You shake your head.
"No."
The answer feels surprisingly easy. Certain. Complete.
For the first time in a very long time, there is nothing left to ask for.
No missing piece. No distance. No unanswered question. No wish waiting to be granted.
Just this. Just him. Just the future.
Whatever shape it takes. And somehow, that's enough.
More than enough.
Seungcheol smiles. Slowly. Softly. The kind of smile that belongs entirely to you.
Then together, sitting side by side in a field full of dandelions, you blow the seeds into the evening air.
Thousands of tiny white fragments drift upward.
Carried by the wind. Carried toward whatever comes next. Not because you need wishes anymore.
But because some traditions deserve to survive. Some things deserve to bloom again.
And some first loves, despite distance and time and every reason they should have faded, are stubborn enough to wait.
Like dandelions. Like hope.
Like Choi Seungcheol.
Like you.
The seeds disappear into the sunset. This time, neither of you watches them go.
Because for the first time, you're both looking in the same direction.
pairing: Jun x reader
synopsis: Jun adopts a cat who turns out to be a cursed human. You’re the only other person who knows the secret—and Jun might be falling for both the cat (platonically) and you (romantically).
wc: 6.9k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Magic?, Found Family, Neighbours,
warnings: Cat was cursed…
a/n: happy birthday to junnie!!! This isn’t apart of the academia series like other members will be, bc HE STARTED THE SERIES!!! I highhhlyyyyy recommend reading Kiss Me, Its for Science or any other ones from the series! it was so so sooo fun to write any junnie fic!! Though i must say, while reading this fic, please ignore ALL logic and just accept whatever i have written regarding the cat…
The first time you meet the cat, it is sitting in the middle of the apartment hallway like it pays rent.
You nearly trip over it on your way home from work.
One second you're balancing a grocery bag against your hip while fumbling for your keys, and the next you're staring down at an orange-and-white cat sitting directly in front of your door with the kind of confidence usually reserved for landlords and people who cut queues without apologising.
The cat stares back. You stare back. The cat blinks. You blink.
"Hello?"
The cat's ears twitch.
Then, with all the dignity of a tiny king inspecting his territory, it stands up, walks directly over your shoes, and begins rubbing against your ankles.
"Oh," you say, immediately folding. "You're friendly."
The cat lets out a short meow.
It sounds less like a greeting and more like a sigh.
You crouch down carefully, setting your groceries on the floor, and reach out a hand. The cat sniffs your fingers before accepting a scratch beneath its chin, closing its eyes briefly as if granting approval.
"Do you belong to someone?"
The cat opens one eye. You swear it looks offended. Before you can investigate further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hallway. A moment later, a man rounds the corner.
A very tall man.
A very tall man who looks as though he's been running through the entire apartment complex for the last twenty minutes. His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, his hoodie is half-zipped, and he looks simultaneously exhausted and relieved when he spots the cat.
"There you are!"
The cat immediately walks behind your legs. The man stops. The cat stops. You glance between them. The cat presses itself against your ankle. The man sighs. The cat somehow manages to look smug.
"...I'm guessing this is yours?"
"Unfortunately," the man says.
The cat meows loudly.
"See? This is exactly what I mean."
You laugh before you can stop yourself. The stranger's expression brightens instantly, as if he hadn't expected anyone to find this situation amusing.
"I'm Jun," he says, holding out a hand. "From 8B."
You shake it. The cat bites his shoelace. Jun doesn't even look surprised.
"I'm Y/N."
"Nice to meet you."
The cat bites harder. Jun pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Please stop embarrassing me in front of my neighbours."
The cat releases the shoelace only to immediately sit on top of it. You laugh again. Jun looks delighted by this reaction. The cat looks annoyed by both of you.
And that, unfortunately, is how it starts.
—
Three days later, the cat escapes again.
Five days after that, it somehow ends up outside the building entirely.
A week later, you discover it sitting inside the communal laundry room watching a washing machine spin with the concentration of someone studying advanced physics.
At this point, you and Jun have exchanged numbers entirely for cat-related emergencies. Your conversation history consists primarily of photographs. Most of them are from Jun. Most of them are evidence.
[JUN] Found him inside my kitchen cabinet.
[JUN] *image attached*
[JUN] How did he get there?
[YOU] You own the cabinet.
[JUN] That's not the point.
[JUN] I was using that cabinet.
[YOU] Clearly he disagreed.
The responses usually arrive immediately. Jun, you discover, texts exactly the way he talks—enthusiastically, slightly randomly, and with enough exclamation marks to suggest every thought is exciting.
You also discover that he is alarmingly easy to like.
Not because he's famous, although you'd recognised him eventually after spending an embarrassing amount of time wondering why he looked familiar. Not because he's handsome, although that certainly doesn't help.
Mostly it's because Jun is kind. He remembers things. The name of your favourite convenience store drink. The fact that you hate mornings. The bakery near your office that sells those strawberry pastries you mentioned once in passing.
Small details seem to stick in his mind as naturally as breathing. Unfortunately, he applies this same energy to the cat. The cat, meanwhile, seems determined to make his life difficult.
—
You are in the middle of watering your plants when your phone rings.
Jun.
You answer immediately.
"Hello?"
"He's gone."
You glance at the clock. It's eight in the morning.
"Good morning to you too."
"He's gone."
"Have you checked under the couch?"
"Yes."
"The bed?"
"Yes."
"The cabinets?"
"Every cabinet."
You hear rustling.
Then silence.
Then a muffled curse.
"Jun?"
"He was in the laundry basket."
You pause.
"...Was?"
"He escaped again."
You close your eyes.
"How does one cat keep defeating you?"
"That's what I've been asking."
The answer arrives ten minutes later when a scratching sound comes from outside your apartment. You open the door. The cat strolls inside. Not into the hallway. Into your apartment. Like it lives there.
"You have got to be kidding me.”
The cat jumps onto your sofa. You call Jun.
"I found him."
The groan that follows sounds deeply personal.
—
The cat's official name is Dumpling. The cat hates this name. You know this because every time Jun says it, the animal visibly reacts. Not dramatically. Just enough. A flick of an ear. A narrowed stare. An expression that somehow communicates disappointment.
"You know," you tell Jun one evening, "I don't think he likes his name."
Jun looks scandalised.
"Dumpling is adorable."
The cat turns its back on him. You point.
"See?"
"He's being dramatic."
The cat knocks a pen off the coffee table. Jun gasps. The cat knocks another one down.
"I raised you better than this."
You nearly choke on your tea.
"You've had him for three weeks."
"That's enough time to learn manners."
The cat jumps onto the back of the sofa. Jun sighs heavily.
"Maybe he's entering his rebellious phase."
"Maybe?"
The cat stares directly at him while deliberately pushing a coaster off the edge of the table.
The silence that follows is incredible.
"Okay," Jun admits. "Maybe definitely."
—
You spend more time in Jun's apartment than you mean to. It starts innocently enough. A movie recommendation. An extra portion of dinner.
Help assembling a cat tree after Jun accidentally orders one with instructions written entirely in a language neither of you can read.
The cat supervises from the couch. Correction. The cat judges from the couch.
"Pass me the screwdriver?"
You hand it over. Jun smiles. The expression catches you off guard every single time.
Warm. Open. The kind of smile that makes a room feel brighter.
You look away before he notices.
Across the room, the cat watches the interaction with unsettling focus.
"Why is he staring at us like that?" you ask.
Jun glances over.
"Dumpling?"
The cat doesn't move.
"Yeah."
"He always does that."
"That's concerning."
"I think he's just curious."
The cat continues staring. You are unconvinced.
—
The strange thing is that the cat almost feels human sometimes. Not in a creepy way.
Just...
Odd.
He understands too much. Not commands. Not tricks. Conversations.
You mention a specific toy once and find him playing with it the next day.
You complain about a difficult coworker and the cat appears beside you with suspiciously good timing.
Sometimes it feels as though he's listening. Actually listening. When you mention this to Jun, he beams.
"I know."
"That wasn't supposed to be a positive observation."
"He's smart."
The cat puffs up proudly. You point immediately.
"See? That. Why did he react to that?"
Jun follows your gaze. The cat instantly stops. The three of you stare at one another.
No one says anything.
Eventually Jun shrugs.
"Dumpling is just special."
The cat looks pleased. You look concerned.
—
The moment everything changes happens on a rainy Thursday evening. You aren't supposed to be at Jun's apartment. That's important.
You're only there because he'd left his umbrella at your place after movie night and you happened to notice the weather getting worse.
The walk takes less than thirty seconds. You knock once. No answer. You knock again.
Still nothing.
Maybe he's showering. You try the handle. The door opens.
"Jun?"
You step inside. The apartment is quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear movement.
"Jun?"
A voice answers. But not Jun's.
"Wait."
You freeze. The voice sounds unfamiliar. Young. Panicked.
"Don't come in here."
Your stomach drops.
There is a stranger in Jun's apartment. You move toward the kitchen anyway. The stranger appears around the corner at exactly the same moment.
Orange hair. Wide eyes. An oversized hoodie. For one impossible second, they stare at you. Then their expression shifts from surprise to absolute horror.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
"What?"
The stranger points at you.
"No, no, no, no—"
You blink. The stranger vanishes. Not runs. Not ducks away. Vanishes.
A flash of movement. A burst of orange and white. And suddenly, sitting in the exact same spot on the kitchen floor—
—is Dumpling.
The cat stares up at you. You stare down at the cat. Neither of you moves. Then, very slowly, the cat closes its eyes.
As if already accepting its fate. And somewhere in the distance, you hear Jun's voice calling from the hallway outside.
"Y/N? Are you here?"
—
The first thing you do is scream. Not loudly, and definitely not dramatically (it was only a cutesy scream, you swear.)
More like the sound a person makes when their brain has completely stopped functioning and is desperately trying to restart itself.
The cat flinches. You point. The cat stares back. You continue pointing. The cat continues staring.
The front door opens.
"Y/N?" Jun calls. "Sorry, I had to grab a package from downstairs—"
The cat launches itself across the kitchen floor. You have never seen something move that fast in your life. One moment it's sitting in front of you. The next it has disappeared beneath the dining table. Jun rounds the corner.
"There you are."
You whip around. Jun pauses.
"You look pale."
You look at Jun. Then the table. Then Jun again. The cat remains hidden. You wonder if this is what having a breakdown feels like.
"Y/N?"
The cat's tail appears briefly from beneath a chair. Then disappears.
You inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
"Everything okay?" Jun asks.
No. Nothing is okay. Five minutes ago you watched his cat become a person.
"Yeah."
Jun blinks.
"Really?"
"No."
"Okay."
You appreciate the honesty.
Unfortunately, you cannot explain the situation because explaining the situation would involve saying, Jun, your cat is a human being and I watched him transform in your kitchen.
You are fairly certain that conversation would not go well.
"Work stress," you blurt.
Jun immediately looks concerned. The guilt nearly kills you.
"Do you want tea?"
You almost laugh. Because of course that's his solution. Tea. The world could literally be ending and Jun would probably offer snacks.
"Sure."
While Jun busies himself making tea, you slowly lower your gaze toward the underside of the table. Two golden eyes stare back. The cat has the audacity to look embarrassed.
—
You leave twenty minutes later. Not because you want to. Because if you remain in that apartment for one more second, you might accidentally start asking questions.
Such as:
Why is your cat human?
Why was your cat wearing clothes?
Where did the clothes come from?
And perhaps most importantly:
Why did your cat seem more worried about being caught than transforming itself?
The answers arrive at eleven thirty-seven that night.
In the form of scratching.
You stare at your apartment door. The scratching continues. Three scratches. Pause. Three more scratches. Pause. Three more.
"That is either a cat or a serial killer."
The scratching grows more impatient. You open the door. The cat immediately walks inside. Not unusual.
What is unusual is the folded piece of paper tied around his collar. You stare. The cat stares.
Slowly, you remove the note. There are four words written on it. WE NEED TO TALK. You look down. The cat nods. Actually nods. You close the door.
"This is somehow worse."
—
Half an hour later, you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor while the cat sits opposite you.
Neither of you speaks. Mostly because one of you physically cannot. The cat seems annoyed by this limitation. Eventually he hops onto your coffee table. A notebook slides toward you. You blink. The cat taps it with one paw. Then taps the pen.
"Oh."
The cat taps again.
"Right."
You open the notebook. The cat immediately begins writing.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat.
YOU SAW THAT.
You stare.
"Unfortunately."
The cat writes again.
I CAN EXPLAIN.
"I would love that."
A pause. The cat writes:
IT SOUNDS STUPID.
"Try me."
Another pause. Then:
I AM CURSED.
You stare at the words. The words stare back. The cat waits.
"...That's it?"
The cat narrows his eyes.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S IT.
"I mean," you say carefully, "if someone had asked me yesterday what explanation I'd expect for a human turning into a cat, curse would've been pretty high on the list."
The cat seems genuinely offended by this.
—
The explanation takes nearly an hour. Partly because writing everything down is slow. Partly because the cat keeps stopping to glare whenever you laugh.
Apparently, several years ago, he had been travelling through a small village and accidentally destroyed an elderly woman's herb garden. Not maliciously. Just catastrophically.
There had been a bicycle. A slope. A misunderstanding. Several chickens.
The story somehow becomes less believable every time he tells it. The woman, who may or may not have been a witch, cursed him. Since then, he has spent most of his life stuck as a cat.
Sometimes he transforms back. Sometimes he doesn't. Strong emotions tend to trigger changes. Unfortunately, emotions happen constantly.
Which means so do transformations.
"And Jun doesn't know?"
The cat writes:
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
"Why?"
The answer appears immediately.
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY.
You consider this. Fair point.
"How long have you been living with him?"
THREE MONTHS.
"Three months?"
The cat nods.
"He just found you?"
Another nod.
"That's insane."
The cat points at himself. Exactly.
—
The following week becomes a disaster. Not because of the curse. Because now you're involved.
Monday afternoon, Jun texts you.
[JUN] Question.
[YOU] That depends.
[JUN] Can cats learn how to unlock doors?
You immediately sit upright.
[YOU] Why?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
[JUN] No reason.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
[JUN] If my cat opened the bathroom door while I was showering.
[YOU] HE WHAT.
[JUN] Hypothetically.
You receive a photograph. The cat is sitting outside a bathroom door. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. You put your phone down.
The cat, currently sleeping on your couch, opens one eye.
"You need to stop doing crimes."
The cat closes his eye again.
—
Tuesday is worse. You stop by Jun's apartment after work. The door opens.
Jun smiles immediately when he sees you. Something warm settles in your chest.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
"Perfect timing."
You blink.
"Why?"
"Dumpling's hiding."
You look down. The cat, currently in human form, is standing behind the kitchen counter.
His eyes widen. Your eyes widen. Neither of you says anything.
Jun continues.
"I haven't seen him for an hour."
The human-cat begins gesturing wildly.
"That's weird."
"Right?"
The gestures become increasingly desperate.
You cough. Loudly.
The human-cat dives beneath the counter. A second later, an orange tail appears. Jun notices instantly.
"There he is!"
The cat emerges. Now fully feline. You do not ask questions. For the sake of your own sanity.
—
The problem is that keeping secrets creates opportunities for friendship. You hadn't intended to become friends with the cat.
It simply happened. Mostly because he's surprisingly easy to talk to. When he isn't stealing food.
Or causing problems. Or nearly exposing supernatural secrets.
One evening he appears on your windowsill carrying another notebook. You let him inside.
"What happened now?"
The notebook opens.
JUN BOUGHT ME A SWEATER.
You laugh.
The cat looks deeply unhappy.
HE HAS ONE TOO.
"That's adorable."
I LOOK RIDICULOUS.
"You look adorable."
The cat glares. You continue smiling. The cat eventually writes:
YOU ARE BOTH IMPOSSIBLE.
—
The truly unfortunate part is that the more time you spend around Jun, the harder everything becomes.
Because he's thoughtful. Because he's funny. Because he still texts you photographs every day. Because he always seems happy to see you.
And because your life has somehow become intertwined with his in ways neither of you planned.
Movie nights become routine. Shared dinners become normal. Sometimes you'll realise hours have passed without either of you noticing.
The cat notices. Unfortunately.
One evening you're sitting on Jun's couch watching a movie when his head slowly drops onto your shoulder.
At first you think it's accidental. Then you hear his breathing deepen. He's asleep.
Your entire body freezes. The room suddenly feels very warm. Across from you, the cat sits on the armchair.
Watching. Judging. Witnessing.
You glare. The cat stares back.
Slowly, he picks up a notebook from the side table. Writes something. Then turns it around.
OH YOU HAVE IT BADDDD.
You nearly throw a cushion at him. The cat looks delighted.
—
Later that night, after you've returned home and the apartment has fallen quiet, a folded note appears beneath your door.
You already know who it's from. The handwriting confirms it.
THANK YOU.
You smile despite yourself. Then flip the paper over. Additional text has been squeezed into the corner.
PLEASE DON'T TELL JUN.
You shake your head. A second line sits beneath it.
HE WOULD WORRY.
And somehow, more than the magic, more than the curse, more than the impossible situation you've found yourself trapped in—
That is the thing that makes your chest ache.
Because he's right. Jun would worry. About everyone. About everything. And maybe that's exactly why neither of you can bring yourselves to tell him. Not yet. Not when he smiles every time he sees the two of you waiting for him at home.
—
The first member to meet the cat is Soonyoung. This is unfortunate for everyone involved.
Especially the cat.
"HE LOOKS LIKE A TIGER."
The declaration arrives less than ten seconds after Soonyoung steps through Jun's front door. The cat, currently loafing on the sofa, visibly flinches.
You witness it. The cat witnesses it. Unfortunately, Soonyoung witnesses absolutely nothing. Jun lights up immediately.
"I told you he was cute."
"Cute?" Soonyoung repeats. "Jun, this isn't a cat."
The cat narrows his eyes. Soonyoung points dramatically.
"That is a tiger trapped in a smaller body."
The cat turns away.
"You hurt his feelings," you say.
"I spoke the truth."
"You compared him to a completely different species."
"So?" Soonyoung asks. "I'd be honoured."
The cat appears unconvinced.
—
The second problem is that Jun has started inviting you over so frequently that you've stopped knocking. At some point during the past month, the line between neighbour and friend had quietly disappeared.
You have your own mug in his kitchen. You know where he keeps spare blankets. You can navigate his apartment in the dark. Nobody ever discusses it.
It simply becomes normal. Dangerously normal.
The cat notices immediately. You know this because every time you arrive, he watches the interaction with increasingly concerning levels of interest.
Not judgment. Observation. Like he's conducting research. Like he's documenting evidence.
One afternoon, you arrive carrying takeout and find the cat sitting on the kitchen counter beside a notebook. The notebook is open. Several pages are filled with writing.
The moment he notices you looking, he slams it shut. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
"What are you writing?"
NOTHING.
"You're literally writing."
NOTHING IMPORTANT.
"You realise I can read."
The cat hugs the notebook against his chest.
You immediately become suspicious.
—
The situation worsens when the rest of Jun's friends begin appearing. Joshua arrives first. Then Minghao. Then Seungkwan.
The apartment somehow doubles in volume.
You are halfway through helping Jun prepare snacks when voices spill in from the hallway.
"Oh, Y/N's already here."
Your stomach performs an embarrassing little flip. Not because of Seungkwan. Because of the way Jun smiles.
Bright. Immediate. Unconsciously happy.
"Yeah," Jun says. "They got here earlier."
The cat, perched on the back of the sofa, immediately looks between both of you. You pretend not to notice. The cat continues noticing.
—
The evening begins normally.
Or as normally as possible when several members are crammed into one apartment arguing over board game rules.
The problems start approximately thirty minutes later. Specifically when Seungkwan begins paying attention.
"Wait."
Everybody ignores him.
"Wait."
Joshua continues setting up the game.
"Wait."
Minghao sighs.
"What?"
Seungkwan points.
At the cat. The cat freezes.
"That cat is weird."
The room falls silent. You nearly choke. The cat stops breathing. Jun blinks.
"Dumpling?"
"Yeah."
"What about him?"
Seungkwan squints. The cat squints back.
"He's looking at me."
Jun laughs.
"That's what cats do."
"No."
Seungkwan points harder.
"He's looking at me like he knows my tax information."
The cat immediately looks away. You cover your mouth. Minghao's shoulders start shaking. Joshua physically leaves the room because he's laughing too hard.
"See?" Seungkwan says triumphantly. "THAT."
"What?"
"That guilty look."
The cat leaps off the sofa and disappears into the bedroom. Seungkwan gasps.
"HE KNOWS."
—
The cat spends the next week avoiding Seungkwan. This only makes things worse. Apparently, if a person believes a cat is suspicious, the correct response is not to act suspicious.
Unfortunately, nobody explains this to the cat. The result is catastrophic. Every time Seungkwan enters a room, the cat leaves. Every time Seungkwan sits down, the cat relocates. Every time Seungkwan tries to pet him, the cat stares into the distance like he's remembering a war.
"It's personal," Seungkwan concludes.
"It's not personal," Jun says.
"It feels personal."
The cat immediately jumps off the couch. Seungkwan points.
"SEE?"
—
Minghao notices first. Not the curse. Not the transformations.
You.
Specifically, the way Jun looks at you. Which is significantly worse. The discovery occurs during movie night.
The apartment is quiet. The lights are dim. Everybody is focused on the screen except Minghao.
Minghao is focused on Jun. Jun is focused on you. The cat is focused on everyone. Minghao slowly turns toward Joshua.
Joshua follows his gaze. Then pauses. Then smiles.
"Oh."
The cat immediately notices. His eyes widen. Minghao notices the cat noticing. Now three people are aware of something.
You remain blissfully ignorant. Jun remains even more oblivious.
—
A group chat appears two days later. You discover its existence entirely by accident. Specifically because Jun leaves his phone unlocked while helping carry groceries. A notification appears.
[seungkwan] he smiled again
[minghao] i know
[joshua] it's getting embarrassing
[seungkwan] should we tell them
[joshua] absolutely not
[minghao] this is free entertainment
You immediately lock the screen.
Your face feels approximately one thousand degrees. Across the kitchen, the cat watches everything.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He gives you a thumbs up.
You nearly drop the groceries.
—
The truly alarming thing is that Jun keeps getting more comfortable around you.
Not intentionally. Not consciously.
It happens in small moments.
He hands you the first portion of food automatically. Saves your favourite seat. Texts you whenever something funny happens. Includes you in plans before asking if you're free.
As though your presence has become expected. As though you're already part of his life.
One evening you arrive after a particularly exhausting day. You don't even have time to say hello before Jun notices.
"Tough day?"
You blink.
"How did you know?"
"You look tired."
The answer is simple. Casual. Immediate. Something in your chest aches.
"Work was awful."
Jun frowns. The expression looks genuinely offended on your behalf.
"Want dinner?"
"That's your solution to everything."
"Dinner helps."
"It really doesn't."
Jun considers this.
"Okay."
A pause.
"Dinner and dessert?"
You laugh despite yourself. Across the room, the cat quietly writes something down.
—
The disaster happens on a Friday. Naturally. Disasters always happen on Fridays.
You arrive at Jun's apartment carrying coffee.
The door is unlocked. You let yourself inside.
"Jun?"
No response. The apartment appears empty. You walk toward the kitchen. Then stop. Human.
The cat is human. Very human.
Very surprised. Very standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a spoon.
The spoon falls. Neither of you moves. The cat closes his eyes.
"Oh no."
The front door opens.
"Oh no," the cat repeats.
Jun's voice echoes from the hallway.
"Y/N?"
Panic erupts instantly. The cat grabs your shoulders. You grab his shoulders. Neither of you has a plan.
"Hide."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Helpful."
Footsteps approach. The cat spins in a circle. You spin with him. Somewhere in the distance, Jun gets closer.
"Guys?"
"Window?"
"We're on the eighth floor."
"Right."
The cat gestures wildly. You gesture back. Neither of you contributes anything useful.
Finally, the cat dives behind the kitchen island. A second later, orange fur replaces human limbs.
You stare. The transformation still feels impossible.
Jun enters. The cat immediately appears from behind the counter.
That night, a folded page appears beneath your apartment door. You already know what it is. You unfold it. The familiar handwriting fills the page.
—
[CASE NOTES]
Current Threat Assessment:
Seungkwan suspicious.
Minghao observant.
Joshua entertained.
Jun oblivious.
Additional Notes:
Y/N and Jun spent thirty-two minutes talking in the kitchen today.
Neither realised everyone else had already left.
Concerning.
—
A final line has been squeezed into the bottom corner. At first glance, the handwriting appears rushed. Almost hesitant.
I think Jun likes you.
You stare at the sentence. Then immediately flip the page over. Nothing else is written there.
When you look back, the words haven't changed. The cat's handwriting remains stubbornly visible.
I think Jun likes you.
For some reason, that possibility feels far more terrifying than any curse.
—
The cat begins sabotaging your love life on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, he begins by sabotaging Jun's.
You don't realise this immediately. Mostly because the disaster starts small.
A missing shirt. A mysteriously hidden wallet. A phone that somehow ends up inside the linen cupboard.
Individually, none of these events are particularly suspicious. Together, however, they create a pattern.
Specifically, the pattern of a cat committing crimes.
"Have you seen my jacket?"
Jun is standing in the middle of his apartment looking genuinely confused. You glance up from the sofa.
"No?"
"I left it right here."
The cat, sitting three feet away, immediately looks out the window. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
Jun continues searching. The cat continues pretending to be innocent. Nobody is convinced.
—
The explanation arrives later that evening. Specifically after you corner the cat in your apartment and refuse to let him leave until he talks.
Human form this time. Mostly because he can actually explain himself.
"You're hiding things."
"I'm not hiding things."
"You hid his phone inside a cereal box."
The cat looks offended.
"It was a strategic location."
"You are impossible."
"So I've been told."
He drops onto your couch dramatically. You wait. The cat waits. Eventually, he sighs.
"It's because of the date."
You blink.
"What date?"
The look he gives you suggests you're the stupidest person alive.
"The blind date."
Oh. Right.
A few days earlier, one of Jun's friends had apparently decided he needed help finding romance. The resulting blind date had been arranged for this weekend.
Jun had agreed.
Mostly because he was too nice to refuse. The cat had hated the idea immediately.
Apparently.
"You've been sabotaging a blind date?"
"I've been delaying a blind date."
"That's worse."
"It's different."
"It isn't."
The cat folds his arms. You stare at each other. Eventually, he looks away first. And suddenly, for the first time since you've met him, he looks genuinely upset.
Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Just... sad. The change catches you off guard.
"What is it?"
The cat doesn't answer immediately. His gaze settles somewhere near the window. The city lights glow softly beyond the glass. For a long moment, the apartment feels strangely quiet.
Then—
"If the curse breaks, I'll leave."
The words land heavily between you. You freeze. The cat continues staring outside.
"I was always supposed to leave."
You don't know what to say. Because the thing is—
You've never actually thought about it. Not really. The curse has become part of daily life.
The transformations. The notes. The absurdity. The cat himself.
Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped feeling temporary. Stopped feeling like a problem that needed solving. Instead, he'd become...
Family.
The realisation hits harder than expected.
"I don't want to leave."
His voice is quiet.
"So don't."
The cat laughs. Not happily.
"You think curses work like rental agreements?"
"You're being dramatic."
"I learned from Jun."
You can't even argue with that.
—
The problem is that the conversation stays with you.
For days. Long after the cat leaves. Long after movie night. Long after Jun walks you home and lingers outside your apartment door for a few seconds longer than necessary.
The thought keeps returning. If the curse breaks. If the curse ends.
Then what? The cat leaves. Life changes. Everything changes. The idea feels wrong.
Uncomfortable.
Like imagining a missing piece in a picture you've grown used to. And perhaps that's why, a week later, you finally ask the question that's been bothering you.
"What actually breaks the curse?"
The cat pauses. He'd been halfway through stealing food from your kitchen. Now he simply stares.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I know what the old woman said."
"Which was?"
The cat sighs.
"'You'll return to yourself when you're accepted as yourself.'"
You blink.
"That's it?"
"That's literally it."
"That's incredibly vague."
"I KNOW."
The frustration in his voice sounds years old.
—
The answer arrives from somewhere completely unexpected. Seungkwan. Because, apparently, life enjoys irony.
It happens during one of the increasingly common group dinners at Jun's apartment.
Everyone is present. Food covers every available surface. Conversations overlap. The cat is currently asleep on Jun's lap. Which would be adorable if you didn't know he was actually a person.
"So," Seungkwan says suddenly.
You immediately become suspicious.
"So?" Jun asks.
"I've solved the mystery."
Nobody likes the way he says that.
"What mystery?" Joshua asks.
Seungkwan points dramatically. At Jun. Then at you. Then at the cat.
"The three of you."
Silence. The cat opens one eye.
"What about us?" you ask carefully.
Seungkwan leans back. Looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You all act like a family."
The room falls silent. Completely silent. The cat stops moving. Jun blinks. Minghao immediately looks interested. Joshua looks delighted. Seungkwan continues.
"It's weird."
"Thank you?" Jun says.
"No, seriously."
Seungkwan gestures vaguely.
"You."
Pointing at Jun.
"Cook."
Then you.
"You clean."
Then the cat.
"That one commits crimes."
The cat looks offended.
"That's a family."
Nobody says anything. Because somehow—
As ridiculous as the statement is—
It doesn't feel wrong.
—
That night, after everyone leaves, Jun walks you home. The journey takes less than a minute. Neither of you seems particularly eager to end it. The hallway is quiet.
The building mostly asleep. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. You glance over.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Jun."
He smiles. A little sheepish.
"A family, huh?"
Your chest immediately betrays you. The worst part is that he doesn't sound embarrassed. Or uncomfortable. Instead, he sounds...
Happy.
Like the idea itself makes him happy.
"Seungkwan says a lot of things."
"He does."
You reach your apartment door. Neither of you moves. The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.
The kind that makes you suddenly aware of every little thing. The warmth of the hallway lights. The softness in Jun's expression. The fact that he's standing much closer than usual.
For one impossible second, you think he might say something. Instead, he smiles.
"Goodnight."
The disappointment is immediate. And embarrassing.
"Goodnight."
Jun turns. Walks away. Then pauses.
Just before reaching his own apartment. He glances back. Smiles again. Then disappears inside.
Your heart remains absolutely useless.
—
The next morning, a note appears beneath your door. The handwriting is familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE #004]
Subject: Curse Investigation
Status: Ongoing.
Recent Findings:
Jun considers Y/N family.
Y/N considers Jun family.
I consider both idiots.
—
You laugh despite yourself. There is more. The writing below is messier. Less organised.
Like it was added later.
I think I finally understand.
You frown. Understand what?
The final paragraph answers.
For years, I thought breaking the curse meant becoming human again.
Maybe that was never the point.
Maybe the point was finding somewhere I didn't have to hide.
The words hit unexpectedly hard. Because for the first time, they don't feel like notes.
Or reports. Or evidence. They feel like a goodbye. And somehow, deep down, you know something is changing.
The curse is getting weaker. The cat knows it. Maybe even understands it. And for the first time since all this began—
You think he might finally be close to going home. The problem is that home isn't a place anymore.
It's Jun. It's you.
And none of you know what happens when the magic finally lets go.
—
The truth comes out because the cat finally gets tired.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Years of hiding have a way of wearing a person down, and despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat is still a person.
It happens on an ordinary Sunday. Which somehow makes it worse. There is no dramatic thunderstorm. No magical prophecy. No ancient witch appearing out of nowhere to explain things.
Just takeout containers, a half-finished movie, and Jun complaining because someone keeps stealing food off his plate.
"I'm serious," Jun says.
The cat, currently curled beside him on the couch, pointedly avoids eye contact.
"Every time I look away, something disappears."
You nearly choke on your drink. The cat looks offended. Jun narrows his eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.
And then—
Without warning—
The room fills with golden light.
Everybody freezes. The cat freezes. You freeze. Jun freezes.
For one impossible moment, the entire apartment falls silent. The light swirls around the cat.
Brighter. Warmer. Familiar.
The same glow you've witnessed dozens of times before.
Except this time it doesn't stop.
"Oh."
The cat's voice returns first. Human. Entirely human.
Sitting where the cat had been seconds earlier. The takeout container slides off his lap.
Nobody reacts. Nobody breathes.
Jun stares. The cat stares back.
And after months of preparation, after endless contingency plans and increasingly ridiculous emergency scenarios, the only thing the cat manages to say is:
"...This isn't ideal."
—
The silence lasts approximately four seconds. Then Jun speaks.
"Oh."
Another pause.
"Oh."
The cat winces. You consider hiding. Jun continues staring. The cat continues existing.
You continue questioning every life decision that led to this moment.
Then, unexpectedly—
Jun stands up. Walks forward. And pokes the cat's forehead. The cat blinks. Jun blinks. The cat blinks again.
"You're real."
The cat stares.
"That is your first question?"
"What was I supposed to ask?"
"I don't know!"
The cat throws his hands into the air.
"Maybe why your pet is secretly a human?"
"That was definitely my second question."
"Jun."
"I'm getting there."
The cat looks ready to scream. You honestly can't blame him. For several long moments, Jun simply stands there processing. Then his expression changes.
Softens. The panic never comes. The anger never comes. Instead—
"You've been dealing with this alone?"
The cat freezes. The question hangs in the air. Everything suddenly feels very quiet. Because out of every possible reaction, somehow that is the one none of you expected. The cat's shoulders slump. Just slightly.
"Yeah."
Jun's expression crumples immediately.
"Oh."
And somehow that single syllable contains more heartbreak than any dramatic speech could.
—
The explanation takes hours. Mostly because Jun keeps interrupting. Not with accusations. Questions. Thousands of questions.
Have you been eating enough?
Where did you sleep before?
Were you scared?
Why didn't you tell me?
Did the veterinarian know?
The answer to that last one is apparently no. Thankfully.
The cat buries his face in his hands.
"I knew this would happen."
"What?"
"You worrying."
Jun looks genuinely confused.
"Of course I'm worried."
The cat laughs helplessly. And for the first time since you've met him, you realise just how exhausted he's been. How much effort it must have taken to keep carrying this alone.
Jun notices too. Because of course he does.
Without hesitation, he moves beside him on the couch. Close enough that their shoulders touch. Close enough that neither of them has to pretend anymore.
"You idiot."
The words are fond. The cat immediately starts crying.
—
The curse breaks completely three days later.
Not with magic. Not really. Not with fireworks or dramatic declarations. Just certainty.
No tail. No whiskers. No transformation. The curse is gone.
Just like that.
The moment should feel triumphant. Instead, everybody ends up strangely emotional. Including you. Especially Jun. The apartment feels different.
Not empty. Just unfamiliar. Like a favourite song rearranged into a new key. Better.
But still strange. The cat notices immediately.
"You're mourning me."
"No we're not."
"You absolutely are."
"We literally saw you this morning."
"Then stop looking at me like I've died."
Jun points a chopstick at him.
"You used to fit inside a tote bag."
"That's not a normal thing to miss."
"It is for me."
The cat groans. You laugh. For the first time in days, everything feels normal again.
—
The confession happens because Seungkwan finally loses patience. As expected.
Everyone has gathered for dinner. The former cat now occupies an actual chair. A development that continues to disturb Jun. Halfway through dessert, Seungkwan slams both hands on the table.
"ENOUGH."
Everybody jumps.
"What?" Joshua asks.
"No."
Seungkwan points. At Jun. Then at you. Then back at Jun.
"This has gone on long enough."
The room immediately erupts. Minghao starts laughing. Joshua covers his face. The former cat sighs dramatically. Jun looks confused. You look terrified.
"What's happening?"
"You like each other."
Seungkwan says it with the confidence of someone announcing the weather. Silence. Then:
"What?"
Jun and you speak simultaneously. The entire table groans. The former cat drops his forehead onto the table.
"You are unbearable."
"No," Seungkwan says. "I've suffered enough."
"Seungkwan—"
"No."
He points at Jun.
"Do you like Y/N?"
Jun opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at you. Then looks away. His ears turn red. The entire room explodes.
"Oh my god."
"I KNEW IT."
"Finally."
"THANK YOU."
Jun hides his face. You consider moving countries. The former cat looks seconds away from standing up and applauding.
—
Somehow, eventually, everyone leaves. Except Jun. And you.
The apartment grows quiet. The dishes remain forgotten. The city lights glow beyond the windows. For several moments, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. Embarrassed.
"I think they planned that."
"They definitely planned that."
"Yeah."
Silence returns. Not awkward. Just fragile.
The kind where everything important sits between two people waiting to be acknowledged.
Jun rubs the back of his neck. Looks down. Then up again. And suddenly he looks more nervous than you've ever seen him.
"I do, by the way."
Your breath catches.
"What?"
He smiles. Small. Warm. Entirely sincere.
"I do like you."
The words are simple. Which somehow makes them hit harder. No dramatic speech. No rehearsed confession. Just honesty.
The kind that's impossible to hide from.
"I think I've liked you for a while."
The smile spreads before you can stop it. Jun's eyes soften immediately. The sight nearly destroys you.
"Good."
His voice comes out quiet. Hopeful.
"Good?"
"Because I like you too."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then Jun laughs. The relieved, disbelieving kind. And somehow that's what finally pushes you both forward.
The kiss is gentle. Warm. A little awkward.
Perfect.
When you pull apart, Jun immediately starts smiling again. Like he physically cannot stop. You suspect you look exactly the same.
—
The next morning, a final note appears beneath your apartment door. The handwriting is instantly familiar. You unfold it.
—
[CASE FILE: CLOSED]
Former Alias: Dumpling.Current Status: Human.Curse Status: Broken.Additional Findings:The old woman was right. Being human again wasn't the solution. Being loved was.
—
Your chest tightens. A final paragraph sits beneath it. Shorter. Messier. Like it wasn't rewritten a hundred times.
Thank you for seeing me. Even when I was a cat.
You stare at the page for a long moment. Then smile. A knock sounds at your door. You already know who it is.
When you open it, Jun stands there holding breakfast. And flowers. And the most hopeful expression you've ever seen.
"Hi."
You laugh immediately.
"Hi."
"Would you maybe want to go on an actual date?"
The flowers shake slightly. Nervous. Endearing. Very Jun. You take them from his hands. His smile brightens instantly.
And just like that, standing in the hallway where all of this began, surrounded by neighbours and ordinary apartment walls and absolutely no magic whatsoever, you realise something.
pairing: flower shop owner!seungcheol x reader
synopsis: When you were ten, Seungcheol taught you to blow dandelion seeds and make wishes. Years later, after moving away, you return to town and discover he's inherited his grandmother's flower shop. Inside an old drawer is a collection of childhood notes: "Things I wish for." Almost every one mentions you.
wc: 6.6k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Mild Angst, Slice of Life, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Flower Shop AU
warnings: Grief/Loss of a grandparent (past event), Emotional Discussions about Separation and Missed Opportunities, Nostalgia, References to Childhood Loneliness
a/n: this fic is a part of the First Bloom collab hosted by @svthub!
The strangest thing about coming home is discovering that the places you left behind never received the memo that you were gone.
You notice it almost immediately after stepping off the bus.
The old bakery on the corner still has the faded striped awning that seemed enormous when you were ten years old. The convenience store still has the crooked sign hanging above the entrance. Even the park across the road appears unchanged, the swings swaying gently in the afternoon breeze as if time itself had simply decided to settle down here and refuse to move forward.
Only you seem different. Only you seem out of place.
You stand beside your suitcase for a moment longer than necessary, staring down the familiar street while an uncomfortable ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs.
Three days ago, you had been packing up your apartment. Two days ago, you had been sorting through legal documents and answering sympathetic phone calls.
Now, after years of saying you'll visit eventually, after years of finding excuses and postponing plans and convincing yourself there would always be another opportunity, you're back in the town you spent most of your childhood trying to leave.
Not because you wanted to return. Because your grandmother died. The thought lands heavily, even now.
Your grip tightens around the suitcase handle. The funeral had been small. Simple.
Exactly what she would've wanted.
Most of the relatives had already left again, returning to their own lives, while you stayed behind to sort through paperwork and prepare the house for sale.
Just a few weeks, you told yourself. Long enough to finish everything properly. Long enough to say goodbye.
Then you'd leave again. The plan sounds reasonable in theory. In practice, every step through town feels like walking through memories.
The route to your grandmother's house passes the elementary school where you spent countless afternoons pretending to pay attention during class. The creek behind the football field still winds lazily through town, hidden beneath the same willow trees that once provided the backdrop for summer adventures so important they had felt life-changing at the time.
You know exactly where every turn leads. You hate how much of it you remember. The house itself sits exactly where it always has. The garden is slightly overgrown. The mailbox leans to one side. The front porch creaks beneath your weight.
Home.
Not home anymore. But close enough to hurt.
—
The first few days disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities. Boxes. Documents. Phone calls. Dust-covered photo albums.
Closets packed with items your grandmother had somehow convinced herself she might need someday.
You spend hours sorting through decades of accumulated memories, discovering things you forgot existed and things you wish you could forget.
Old school reports. Birthday cards. Drawings. Photographs. Far too many photographs. By the fourth day, the house feels quieter than ever. The silence eventually becomes unbearable.
Which is how you find yourself wandering through town with no destination in mind, hands shoved into your jacket pockets while the late afternoon sun bathes everything in warm gold.
You tell yourself you're just getting fresh air. You tell yourself you aren't searching for anything. The lie lasts approximately fifteen minutes.
Because eventually you turn a corner. And stop.
The flower shop still stands exactly where it always did. For a second, you think you've imagined it.
The familiar brick storefront. The flower boxes beneath the windows. The painted sign hanging above the entrance.
Only one thing has changed.
The name.
Your chest tightens. Not because the shop exists. Because you know who owns it now. You learned it from one of the older ladies at the funeral.
"Oh, have you seen Seungcheol yet?"
As if that were the most natural question in the world. As if years hadn't passed. As if hearing his name didn't still do something strange to your heartbeat. You haven't seen him. Not yet.
You hadn't planned to.
But suddenly there he is. Standing inside the shop. Alive. Real. Older.
The breath catches somewhere in your throat. For a moment, all you can do is stare.
He's arranging flowers near the front counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he focuses on adjusting a bouquet.
You knew he would have changed. Of course he would've changed.
The last time you saw him, he was fourteen years old and trying very hard not to cry while helping load boxes into a moving truck.
The man standing in front of you now is nothing like that boy. Except he is. The shape of his smile when he speaks to a customer. The way he absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck. The slight furrow between his brows when concentrating. Some things remain stubbornly familiar.
Then, as if sensing your stare, he looks up. And sees you.
The world doesn't stop. Nothing dramatic happens. Cars continue driving past. The shop door remains closed. The flowers continue existing. But something shifts.
You know it does because Seungcheol freezes. The bouquet slips slightly in his hands. For one stunned second, neither of you move.
Then his eyes widen. Your stomach drops. And suddenly you're ten years old again.
—
"You have to make a wish first."
"I already made one."
"That doesn't count."
"It does count."
"No, it doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Ten-year-old Seungcheol had always been incredibly confident for someone who spent half his time making things up.
The two of you sat cross-legged in a field behind his grandmother's flower shop, surrounded by dandelions and sunlight.
He held one proudly between his fingers. You rolled your eyes.
"You literally just invented that rule."
"Every game has rules."
"This isn't a game."
"It is now."
You groaned dramatically. He ignored you.
"Close your eyes."
"No."
"Y/N."
"No."
"Trust me."
At ten years old, trusting Seungcheol was the easiest thing in the world. You closed your eyes.
"Now make a wish."
You sighed. Made one anyway.
"Done."
"Okay."
You opened your eyes just in time to watch him blow the dandelion apart. White seeds scattered into the wind.
"What'd you wish for?" you asked.
His expression became immediately suspicious.
"You can't tell people."
"You made that up too."
"Maybe."
"You definitely did."
"But what if it's true?"
You laughed. He grinned. The sunlight caught in his hair.
And somehow, without either of you realizing it, that afternoon became one of the memories that followed you everywhere.
—
The bell above the flower shop door rings softly when you finally step inside. The scent hits you immediately.
Fresh flowers. Soil. Greenery. Something sweet and familiar.
The same scent that used to cling to Seungcheol whenever he spent all day helping his grandmother. The same scent you haven't thought about in years.
He stands behind the counter now. Watching you. Still looking mildly shocked. You suspect you look exactly the same. For several awkward seconds, nobody says anything. Then—
"Hi."
Brilliant. Absolutely incredible. Years apart and that's the best you can manage. Seungcheol laughs. The sound eases something inside your chest instantly.
"Hi."
His voice is deeper than you remember. Everything about him feels older. Not unfamiliar. Just older.
"You came back."
The words aren't accusatory. If anything, they sound slightly disbelieving. You nod.
"Temporarily."
Something flickers across his face. Gone too quickly to identify.
"Right."
The conversation stumbles forward after that. Careful. Tentative. Questions about work. About family. About how long you've been back.
Neither of you mentions how strange this feels. Neither of you mentions how many years disappeared between one conversation and the next.
Eventually another customer enters. Then another. The moment passes. You tell yourself that's probably for the best. Still, when you finally leave, Seungcheol walks you to the door.
"If you're bored," he says casually, "you can stop by anytime."
You blink.
"What?"
"The shop."
He gestures vaguely around himself.
"I'm usually here."
The invitation sounds simple. Normal. Yet your heart reacts as if he's offered something much bigger. You smile before you can stop yourself.
"Maybe I will."
His smile mirrors yours.
"Good."
—
The following afternoon, you return. Then again two days later. Then once more. Not intentionally.
It just keeps happening.
Sometimes you help carry deliveries. Sometimes you organize shelves. Sometimes you sit near the counter pretending to read while Seungcheol works.
The ease returns surprisingly quickly. Not completely. There are still years between you. Still things unsaid. But the foundation remains.
As if friendship had simply been waiting patiently beneath the surface. One evening, after closing time, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to answer a phone call. You volunteer to finish organizing a neglected storage room.
The space is cramped. Dusty. Filled with forgotten boxes. You sneeze twice. Immediately regret your life choices.
And then you notice the drawer. Small. Wooden. Hidden behind a stack of old gardening catalogues.
Curiosity wins.
You pull it open. Inside are dozens of folded papers.
Hundreds, maybe.
All carefully preserved. You hesitate before reaching for the top one. The paper is yellowed with age.
The handwriting is instantly recognizable. Even after all these years.
Your breath catches.
Slowly, you unfold the note. Across the top of the page, written in uneven childhood handwriting, are four words.
Things I wish for.
And underneath:
For Grandma's roses to survive winter.
For my knee to stop hurting.
For Y/N to stop crying when they lose races because I don't like it.
At the bottom, squeezed into the corner:
I think wishes work better when you blow two dandelions instead of one.
– Seungcheol
You stare at the page. Then read it again. And again.
Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak. The sound barely registers.
Because suddenly you're ten years old.
Standing in a field.
Holding a dandelion.
Listening to a boy make up rules about wishes.
And for the first time since returning home, you wonder whether maybe some memories never left at all.
—
The problem with nostalgia is that it never arrives alone.
It comes hand-in-hand with comparison, with grief, with all the quiet questions that only appear when you're staring at the person you used to know and trying to reconcile them with the person standing in front of you now.
By the end of the second week, you have become painfully aware of that fact. You have also become painfully aware of how often you find yourself at the flower shop. The first few visits had reasonable explanations.
You needed somewhere to walk. You needed a break from sorting through your grandmother's belongings. You needed a distraction.
The seventh visit is significantly harder to justify.
Especially when you're carrying two iced coffees and walking toward the shop before you've fully finished convincing yourself you're only dropping by for a few minutes.
The bell above the door rings. Seungcheol immediately looks up. The smile that appears on his face happens so naturally that neither of you seem to notice it.
You do. Unfortunately.
"You're late."
You stop.
"What?"
He gestures toward the wall clock.
"You usually get here fifteen minutes ago."
The realization settles over both of you simultaneously.
Because he's right. Because apparently you've established a routine. Because apparently Seungcheol has noticed.
Heat crawls up your neck.
"You timed me?"
"I didn't time you."
"You literally knew I was fifteen minutes late."
"I just noticed."
"That's timing me."
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
His laugh fills the shop. You hate how much you missed that sound.
—
The flower shop feels different now that you've spent enough time inside it to notice the details. The place still carries traces of his grandmother. The old cash register remains displayed on a shelf near the counter.
Framed photographs line one wall.
The ancient rocking chair in the corner somehow survived several decades despite looking permanently one bad day away from collapse.
But Seungcheol is everywhere too. The organization. The handwritten signs. The new displays. The garden outside. The entire place feels like a conversation between generations.
A continuation rather than a replacement.
His grandmother would've loved that. You think she already knew he would inherit the shop.
You glance up from the arrangement you're helping prepare.
"Daisies?"
"Dandelions."
He nods toward the window.
Outside, several bright yellow flowers have appeared amongst the carefully maintained garden beds.
You smile.
"They're kind of pretty."
"Exactly."
He sounds offended.
"Kind of?"
"Okay, they're pretty."
"There we go."
"You care way too much about dandelions."
"I inherited that."
His voice softens slightly.
"Grandma used to say they were the bravest flowers."
You pause.
"What does that mean?"
He carefully trims a stem.
"They grow everywhere."
A shrug.
"They survive getting stepped on."
Another cut.
"People call them weeds, but they keep blooming anyway."
You watch him for a moment. Sunlight filters through the front window. Dust drifts lazily through the air.
The shop smells faintly of lavender and soil. For a second, the years between childhood and now seem remarkably small.
"They sound stubborn."
Seungcheol grins.
"Exactly."
—
The first time someone mistakes you for his partner, you're unprepared. The culprit is an elderly customer named Mrs. Kim.
One moment she's purchasing carnations. The next she's looking between you and Seungcheol with obvious satisfaction.
"It's nice to finally meet them."
You blink.
"I'm sorry?"
Mrs. Kim waves dismissively.
"Don't worry."
Seungcheol visibly tenses. You immediately become suspicious.
"Don't worry about what?"
The woman pats your hand.
"Oh, honey, we've all heard about you."
Silence. Complete silence. You slowly turn toward Seungcheol. He refuses to make eye contact.
"Seungcheol."
"No."
"What does she mean?"
"No."
Mrs. Kim laughs. The traitor.
"You know, Y/N this and Y/N that and—"
"Mrs. Kim."
The warning in his voice only makes her smile widen. You stare. He stares determinedly at the floor.
A customer enters. The conversation mercifully dies.
Unfortunately your curiosity survives.
—
You corner him later.
"What exactly have people heard?"
"Nothing."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It isn't."
"Seungcheol."
He groans.
"You're impossible."
"You avoided the question."
"I mentioned you sometimes."
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes."
The response is entirely too fast. You narrow your eyes.
"How many times?"
His expression immediately suggests the answer is significantly higher than either of you would like.
—
That night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the drawer again. You know you probably shouldn't be reading the notes.
They're private. Personal. Hidden for a reason. And yet. The temptation wins.
Again.
The next paper is dated in messy twelve-year-old handwriting. You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To beat Jeonghan at soccer.
To grow taller.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Don't tell them I wrote that.
You stare. Then reread the sentence. Then reread it again.
The words somehow feel heavier each time.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Simple. Innocent. Childish. Yet something twists painfully inside your chest.
Because you didn't stay. Because neither of you had any control over that. Because twelve-year-old Seungcheol didn't know he was writing a wish that would never come true.
—
Middle school had been awkward. Not terrible. Not dramatic. Just awkward.
The age where suddenly everyone became aware that boys and girls existed. The age where friendships acquired strange new rules nobody explained properly.
You remember sitting beside Seungcheol during lunch one afternoon. He arrived carrying two juice boxes. Immediately handed you one.
Completely normal. Entirely routine. Unfortunately half your classmates witnessed the exchange. The teasing started instantly.
"Ooooh."
"Look."
"It's Y/N and Seungcheol."
You remember wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Seungcheol had looked equally horrified. The two of you spent the rest of lunch aggressively denying accusations nobody had technically made.
Neither of you acknowledged how red your faces became.
—
You wake the next morning determined not to think about old letters. The determination lasts approximately twenty minutes.
By lunch, you're back at the flower shop. By evening, you're helping prepare arrangements for a wedding. By closing time, you're laughing so hard you nearly drop an entire bucket of peonies.
The transition feels alarmingly natural. As if this version of life has been waiting patiently for your return. As if leaving had only been an interruption.
Not an ending.
The thought unsettles you.
—
The following week, the town begins treating your presence as permanent. The bakery owner asks whether you've found a job yet. The librarian asks if you're staying. Three separate neighbors mention available apartments.
You spend most conversations repeating the same answer.
"I'm only here temporarily."
Every single person responds the same way.
"We'll see."
The most irritating part is that nobody sounds uncertain.
Least of all Seungcheol.
—
One afternoon, while helping water plants behind the shop, you finally ask.
"Did everyone in this town secretly agree to annoy me?"
He laughs.
"Probably."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
You splash water toward him. He dodges. Barely.
"Traitor."
"I didn't do anything."
"You never tell them I'm leaving."
His expression changes slightly. The smile remains. Something else disappears.
"Oh."
Immediately, guilt settles in your stomach. You hadn't meant—
"I mean—"
"It's okay."
The words are gentle. Too gentle. The conversation moves on.
Yet the silence lingers.
—
That evening, while closing up, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to search for inventory records. The opportunity presents itself. You tell yourself you're only checking one note.
One. That's all.
The lie fools absolutely nobody. Especially not yourself. You return to the drawer. Select another folded paper. Open it carefully.
The handwriting is older this time.
Less childish. More controlled. The date makes your chest tighten.
The year you moved away.
Things I wish for:
To have my own flower shop someday.
For Grandma to stop working so hard.
For Y/N to smile like they did before they found out they're moving.
I hate this wish.
The words blur slightly. You blink. Look away. Look back.
The paper remains unchanged.
The same ink. The same handwriting. The same impossible honesty.
For a long moment, you simply sit there.
Remembering.
—
The moving truck had arrived too early. Or maybe it only felt that way.
You remember cardboard boxes. Your mother's stressed voice. Relatives carrying furniture.
Everything happening much too fast. You remember friends saying goodbye. Teachers promising you'd make new ones. Adults insisting change was exciting.
You remember hating every second of it.
Most of all, you remember Seungcheol. Standing beside the driveway. Hands shoved into his pockets. Trying very hard to act normal.
You'd both promised to stay in touch. You'd both promised nothing would change. At fourteen, promises like that feel unbreakable.
Reality is less cooperative. Calls become texts. Texts become occasional messages. Then birthdays. Then silence.
Not because either of you stopped caring.
Because life happened. Because growing up happened. Because distance is sometimes quieter than heartbreak.
—
A floorboard creaks overhead. You quickly fold the letter. Return it to the drawer. Close everything.
By the time Seungcheol returns, you're standing beside a shelf pretending to examine gardening supplies.
His eyes narrow immediately.
"You look suspicious."
"What?"
"You look guilty."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
You point at a random bag of fertilizer.
"Did you know this contains nitrogen?"
The silence that follows is devastating. Then Seungcheol starts laughing.
The kind of laugh that forces him to lean against a table for support. You hate him. Possibly. A little.
—
Later, after you've returned home, sleep proves impossible. Your mind keeps returning to the notes.
The wishes. The years. Everything that existed while you were gone.
Eventually curiosity wins one final time. Near midnight, you retrieve the drawer once more.
One last letter. Just one. You unfold it slowly.
The handwriting immediately looks different.
Shakier. Messier. Lonelier.
The date makes your stomach drop. A few months after you left. Nothing else is written on the page.
No numbered list. No jokes. No soccer. No flowers.
Just a single sentence.
Things I wish for:
Y/N comes back.
Just once. That's all. For a long moment, the room remains completely silent.
Outside, wind rattles softly against the windows. Inside, your chest feels painfully tight. You remember all the times you almost visited. All the summers you said maybe next year. All the holidays that slipped away. All the opportunities lost to convenience and distance and the assumption that there would always be more time.
The note trembles slightly in your hands.
And for the first time since returning home, you begin to understand that maybe you weren't the only person who spent years missing someone.
The realization follows you long after the lights go out. Long after the letter is folded away. Long after sleep finally arrives.
And somewhere across town, completely unaware of the storm currently unfolding inside your chest, Seungcheol closes his flower shop for the evening and locks the front door, still carrying pieces of a wish he made twelve years ago.
—
The worst part about reading the letters is that they make everything impossible to ignore. Not impossible in the dramatic sense. Not in the way movies portray it, where suddenly every interaction becomes charged with unbearable tension and every glance feels life-altering.
Instead, it becomes impossible to ignore the accumulation of small things. The details. The habits. The spaces someone occupies in your life without permission.
Before finding the drawer, spending every afternoon at the flower shop had felt natural.
After finding the drawer, you become painfully aware that Seungcheol automatically hands you a drink before grabbing one for himself.
That he remembers how you take your coffee. That he moves around the shop with the unconscious expectation that you'll be somewhere nearby. That every time the front door opens, his eyes immediately search for you before searching for the customer.
None of these things mean anything individually. Together, they begin to feel like something dangerous. Something you've spent years pretending not to recognize. Something that looks suspiciously like first love growing up and refusing to leave.
—
The flower festival arrives at exactly the wrong time. Or perhaps exactly the right time. You haven't decided which.
The annual event has existed for as long as you can remember, transforming the town into something bright and overwhelming for a weekend every spring. Streets fill with flower displays. Local businesses compete for awards. Families wander between stalls carrying bouquets and iced drinks.
As children, you and Seungcheol used to treat it like the most important event of the year. Now, as adults, it means two weeks of preparation and approximately zero free time. Not that you mind.
Being busy makes it easier not to think.
Unfortunately, Seungcheol keeps ruining that strategy by existing.
—
"You're staring."
You nearly drop the box you're carrying.
"What?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"You've been looking at me for ten seconds."
"I was not."
"You were."
"No."
"Y/N."
The use of your name should not feel that unfair. It does. Especially when accompanied by a smile. Especially when he knows exactly what he's doing. You point aggressively at the display you're assembling.
"I was looking at the flowers."
"Sure."
"Why would I stare at you?"
His grin widens. You immediately regret speaking. Across the room, an elderly volunteer watching preparations sighs dramatically.
"Please date already."
Both of you nearly choke.
—
The town has become unbearable. Not because the people are cruel. Quite the opposite. The people are far too invested.
Everyone appears convinced that you and Seungcheol are one conversation away from getting married. The florist across the street keeps offering relationship advice. Mrs. Kim has started winking whenever she enters the shop. Even children seem suspicious.
At one point, a ten-year-old asks if you're Seungcheol's spouse. You spend five full minutes recovering.
Seungcheol spends ten.
—
The problem is that every joke lands slightly closer to the truth than either of you are comfortable admitting.
Because somewhere between sorting flowers and revisiting childhood memories and reading letters you definitely should not be reading, something has changed.
Or maybe nothing changed. Maybe you've simply stopped running from it.
You don't know which possibility scares you more.
—
One evening, after the shop closes, rain begins unexpectedly. Heavy. Relentless.
The kind that turns roads silver beneath streetlights. You're trapped. Not that either of you seem particularly bothered.
Seungcheol locks the front door and flips the sign to CLOSED.
The two of you remain inside. Waiting. The shop feels different after hours. Quieter. More intimate.
The scent of flowers seems stronger somehow. The silence stretches comfortably between conversations. You sit together behind the counter drinking tea.
Outside, rain taps steadily against the glass. Inside, memories linger everywhere.
"You know," Seungcheol says eventually, "Grandma used to think you were going to marry me."
You nearly inhale your tea.
"What?"
His laughter echoes through the empty shop.
"I'm serious."
"Why would she think that?"
"You were ten."
"That's not an answer."
"You followed me around everywhere."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"You're making things up."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He shakes his head.
"She used to tell me all the time."
The smile softens.
"'That one loves you very much, Seungcheol.'"
Something catches unexpectedly in your chest. You look away.
The rain suddenly becomes fascinating.
—
Later that night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting on the floor beside the drawer again. You don't even pretend to resist anymore. The letters feel less like an invasion now.
More like a conversation delayed by years. The next note is dated two years after you left.
You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To stop thinking about Y/N.
Didn't work.
For several seconds, you simply stare. Then laugh. Actually laugh.
Because somehow, despite everything, fourteen-year-old Seungcheol and sixteen-year-old Seungcheol remain unmistakably the same person.
Hopeless. Earnest. Painfully honest. You continue reading.
The next note is eighteen.
Things I wish for:
To see Y/N again.
To stop comparing everyone else to Y/N.
Didn't work either.
The smile disappears. A strange ache replaces it. You know what he's implying.
You wish you didn't.
Because suddenly every year between then and now feels tangible.
Every missed opportunity. Every person he met. Every relationship that apparently failed to become something lasting.
The thought follows you into the final letter. Age twenty-one.
Things I wish for:
Y/N.
Just Y/N.
No explanation. No joke. No elaboration. Only your name.
The page trembles slightly in your hands.
—
The next morning, you arrive at the flower shop exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Possibly spiritually.
Seungcheol notices immediately.
"Rough night?"
You consider your options. Lie. Deflect. Change the subject.
Instead:
"Why didn't you throw them away?"
His hands stop moving. The flowers remain half-arranged between his fingers. For a moment, neither of you speak.
Then:
"The notes?"
You nod. The silence stretches. Long enough for your pulse to become annoying. Long enough for the question to feel dangerous. Finally, Seungcheol exhales softly.
"Because throwing them away felt like giving up."
The answer lands harder than expected. You stare. He continues looking at the flowers.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you looks away. The shop suddenly feels too quiet.
Too small. Too honest.
—
The conversation changes after that. Not dramatically. Not immediately. But something shifts.
A wall lowers. A distance disappears. You begin talking about things you've avoided for years.
University. Family. The struggles nobody posted online. The loneliness. The uncertainty. The versions of yourselves that existed while the other wasn't there to witness them.
For the first time, it feels like you're catching up properly. Not on events.
On each other.
—
The breakthrough arrives unexpectedly. Through gossip. Naturally. Because this town cannot help itself.
You're helping arrange flowers outside the festival pavilion when Mrs. Kim appears. You should have run. Instead, you smile politely. A mistake.
"Did you know," she begins immediately, "that Seungcheol never brought anyone serious home?"
Your heart stops.
"What?"
Mrs. Kim continues cheerfully.
"Such a waste."
You stare. The woman sighs dramatically.
"Everyone liked him."
The implications begin arriving one by one. Slowly. Terribly. You don't want to ask. You ask anyway.
"Why?"
Mrs. Kim blinks.
"Why what?"
"Why didn't he date anyone?"
The answer comes far too quickly.
"As if we don't all know."
Then she walks away. Leaving you alone with approximately twelve different emotional crises.
—
The festival opens the next day. Crowds flood the streets. Music drifts through the air. Children race between displays. Customers fill the shop. The entire town seems alive.
You should be enjoying it. Instead, you're distracted.
Because every time you look at Seungcheol, another letter appears in your memory.
Another wish. Another year. Another version of him quietly hoping for something he thought he would never get.
By evening, exhaustion settles over everyone. The crowds thin. Sunlight begins fading. And somehow you find yourselves alone behind the shop.
Again.
The garden glows gold beneath the setting sun. Dandelions sway gently amongst the flower beds.
The same flowers. The same stubborn flowers. Hope disguised as weeds.
Seungcheol sits beside you on a wooden bench. Close. Not touching. Close enough. For several minutes, neither of you speaks. The silence feels full. Waiting. Anticipating.
Like the final moments before a storm breaks. Then he says quietly:
"I was happy you came back."
Your breath catches. The confession isn't romantic. Not technically. But it feels significant anyway. You glance toward him. His gaze remains fixed on the garden.
A nervous habit you've started recognizing.
"I was happy too."
The words come easily. Truth always does. He smiles. Small. Soft. Real.
And suddenly you're struck by a realization so obvious it almost feels ridiculous. Every important moment in your life somehow leads back to him. Every memory. Every wish. Every version of home.
The thought settles heavily between your ribs. Not uncomfortable. Just undeniable. The sun sinks lower. The dandelions sway.
And for the first time, you begin wondering whether the final letter in the drawer isn't actually the end of the story.
Maybe it's only the beginning. Because tomorrow is the final day of the flower festival. Tomorrow you'll finish sorting the last boxes from your grandmother's house. Tomorrow you'll have to decide whether you're leaving again.
And somewhere deep down, beneath years of distance and excuses and carefully maintained walls, a small stubborn hope begins to bloom.
Much like a dandelion. Refusing to die. Refusing to be ignored. Refusing, despite everything, to stop growing.
—
The last day of the flower festival arrives far too quickly. You know this because you spend most of the morning trying not to think about it. Unfortunately, thinking about something and trying not to think about something are often the exact same activity.
By noon, you're painfully aware that this is your final week in town. By three o'clock, you've mentally packed your suitcase twice. By five, you've considered extending your stay. By six, you've considered cancelling your return entirely. None of these thoughts help.
Especially because every possible future seems to revolve around the same person. Across the square, Seungcheol is helping a little girl choose flowers for her mother. You watch him crouch down so they're eye level. Watch him listen seriously to her explanation. Watch him help arrange a tiny bouquet.
The girl leaves looking delighted. Seungcheol looks equally pleased. The sight hurts. Not because it's sad. Because it feels familiar.
Because it feels like home.
Because somewhere along the way, without realizing it, you've started measuring places by whether or not he exists in them.
And that seems like a dangerous way to live.
—
The festival winds down slowly. Stalls begin packing away displays. Families drift home. The streets gradually quiet.
For the first time all weekend, the town feels peaceful. You spend most of the evening helping return decorations to storage.
Boxes. Signs. Flower stands. The work is repetitive enough to keep your hands busy. Not your thoughts.
Those remain frustratingly active. By the time darkness settles over town, only a handful of people remain.
The cleanup continues. The shop stays open late. And eventually you find yourself alone.
Again. In the storage room. Again. Standing in front of the drawer. Again.
At this point, you suspect fate has completely given up pretending to be subtle.
—
The final note is hidden beneath all the others. Tucked carefully at the very bottom. Almost as if someone wanted it protected. Your pulse quickens immediately. Because unlike the others, this paper looks newer.
Not recent. Just newer. Adult handwriting. Adult paper. Adult ink.
Slowly, you unfold it. And the world narrows.
Things I wish for:
I don't think this one belongs to a dandelion anymore.
I think some wishes are supposed to be said.
I love Y/N.
I've loved them since we were kids making rules about wishes in the park.
And if they come back someday, maybe I'll finally tell them.
– Seungcheol
For a long moment, nothing happens. You simply stare. Reading the words once. Twice. Again. As if repetition might somehow make them less overwhelming.
It doesn't.
The confession sits plainly on the page. No jokes. No hiding. No pretending. Just the truth. The same truth that has apparently existed for years. The same truth you've spent the entire month slowly uncovering one letter at a time.
Outside the storage room, a floorboard creaks.
You look up.
Your heart immediately attempts escape.
Because Seungcheol is standing in the doorway. And judging by his expression, he knows exactly what you're holding.
—
"Oh."
Brilliant. An excellent response. Truly.
Years of emotional buildup and the first thing either of you manages is:
"Oh."
Seungcheol closes his eyes. Briefly. The expression on his face suggests he is considering several possible methods of spontaneous death.
"You found that one."
You hold up the paper.
"A little late to ask me not to read it."
His groan echoes off the walls. You almost laugh. Almost.
If your heart wasn't currently beating hard enough to qualify as a medical emergency. The silence stretches. Neither of you seem sure how to continue.
Finally:
"You were never supposed to find that."
Your eyebrows rise.
"There are literally eight hundred letters in that drawer."
"There are not eight hundred."
"There are enough."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Then disappears. The seriousness returns. And suddenly the air changes. The humor fades. The truth remains.
"You meant it?"
The question comes out quieter than intended. Seungcheol looks at the floor. Then the shelves. Then literally anywhere except you.
Eventually, he exhales.
"Yeah."
Just one word. Simple. Certain. Enough.
Your chest tightens painfully. Because there is no hesitation. No uncertainty. No attempt to take it back. Just honesty.
The kind that takes years to build. The kind that only appears when someone is finally tired of hiding.
"Since we were kids?"
A small laugh escapes him.
"Unfortunately."
The response is so Seungcheol that tears immediately threaten.
"You make it sound tragic."
"It was."
Now he smiles. Softly.
"I liked you for fifteen years."
Your laugh comes out suspiciously emotional.
"I was very committed."
The tears win. Just slightly. Enough for your vision to blur. Enough for Seungcheol's expression to immediately change. Concern replacing nervousness.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'm having a normal reaction."
"This doesn't seem normal."
"It absolutely isn't."
And somehow that breaks the tension. Both of you laugh. Both of you look slightly overwhelmed. Both of you look suspiciously close to crying.
When the laughter fades, the truth remains. Patient. Waiting. You stare down at the letter again.
At your name. At years of wishes. At every version of him that existed before this moment.
Ten years old. Twelve. Fourteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-six. Every single one hoping for the same thing. Every single one writing your name.
The realization settles heavily inside your chest. Not because it's surprising.
Because it isn't. Not anymore.
Somewhere between the first letter and the last, you've already known.
You simply weren't ready to admit it.
"Do you know something funny?"
Seungcheol looks confused.
"A dangerous start."
You ignore him.
"I used to wish for you too."
The words leave before you can stop them. His expression freezes. Completely.
"What?"
You laugh softly. Because honestly, the universe has a terrible sense of humor.
"Every birthday."
You look down at the letter.
"Every shooting star."
A smile. Small. Embarrassed.
"Every dandelion."
Silence. Absolute silence.
"Seriously?"
You nod. His eyes widen.
"You never told me."
"You never told me."
"That's because I was terrified."
"So was I."
The answer arrives instantly. Truth again. Always truth.
—
The confession isn't dramatic. There are no grand speeches. No perfectly rehearsed declarations. No movie-worthy dialogue.
Instead, there is honesty. Messy honesty. The kind built from years of friendship.
Years of absence. Years of missing someone without fully understanding the shape of that feeling.
You talk. Really talk. For the first time. About moving away. About losing touch. About all the almost-visits.
The unanswered messages. The missed opportunities. The people you both tried and failed to become. And somehow, through all of it, the conversation keeps returning to the same conclusion.
You found your way back. Not immediately. Not perfectly. But eventually. You came back. And he waited. Not intentionally. Not actively. Just quietly.
Like someone protecting a wish.
—
The flower shop closes early the following evening. Not because business is slow. Because Seungcheol insists on taking you somewhere.
You recognize the destination immediately. The field.
The one behind the shop. The one from childhood. The one where everything started.
The walk there feels strangely familiar. As if no time has passed. As if every version of yourselves still exists somewhere among the grass.
The field is smaller than you remember. Most places are. The dandelions aren't.
They remain everywhere.
Bright. Stubborn. Impossible to ignore.
Exactly like him.
—
"Do you remember the rules?" Seungcheol asks. You laugh.
"The rules changed every week."
"They were very sophisticated."
"They were completely made up."
"They were based on science."
"They absolutely were not."
His offended expression is immediate. You grin. Some things never change.
Thank God.
—
Eventually the conversation fades. The evening settles around you. Warm. Peaceful. Comfortable.
Seungcheol picks a dandelion.
Then another. Holding one out. You accept it automatically.
Like muscle memory. Like childhood. Like home.
The white seeds tremble gently in the breeze. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
"What are you wishing for?"
The question is familiar. The same question from years ago. The same field. The same flowers. The same boy.
Only now he's a man looking at you like you're the answer to something. You stare at the dandelion. Then at him. Then smile.
"Nothing."
His eyebrows lift.
"Nothing?"
You shake your head.
"No."
The answer feels surprisingly easy. Certain. Complete.
For the first time in a very long time, there is nothing left to ask for.
No missing piece. No distance. No unanswered question. No wish waiting to be granted.
Just this. Just him. Just the future.
Whatever shape it takes. And somehow, that's enough.
More than enough.
Seungcheol smiles. Slowly. Softly. The kind of smile that belongs entirely to you.
Then together, sitting side by side in a field full of dandelions, you blow the seeds into the evening air.
Thousands of tiny white fragments drift upward.
Carried by the wind. Carried toward whatever comes next. Not because you need wishes anymore.
But because some traditions deserve to survive. Some things deserve to bloom again.
And some first loves, despite distance and time and every reason they should have faded, are stubborn enough to wait.
Like dandelions. Like hope.
Like Choi Seungcheol.
Like you.
The seeds disappear into the sunset. This time, neither of you watches them go.
Because for the first time, you're both looking in the same direction.
pairing: flower shop owner!seungcheol x reader
synopsis: When you were ten, Seungcheol taught you to blow dandelion seeds and make wishes. Years later, after moving away, you return to town and discover he's inherited his grandmother's flower shop. Inside an old drawer is a collection of childhood notes: "Things I wish for." Almost every one mentions you.
wc: 6.6k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Mild Angst, Slice of Life, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Flower Shop AU
warnings: Grief/Loss of a grandparent (past event), Emotional Discussions about Separation and Missed Opportunities, Nostalgia, References to Childhood Loneliness
a/n: this fic is a part of the First Bloom collab hosted by @svthub!
The strangest thing about coming home is discovering that the places you left behind never received the memo that you were gone.
You notice it almost immediately after stepping off the bus.
The old bakery on the corner still has the faded striped awning that seemed enormous when you were ten years old. The convenience store still has the crooked sign hanging above the entrance. Even the park across the road appears unchanged, the swings swaying gently in the afternoon breeze as if time itself had simply decided to settle down here and refuse to move forward.
Only you seem different. Only you seem out of place.
You stand beside your suitcase for a moment longer than necessary, staring down the familiar street while an uncomfortable ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs.
Three days ago, you had been packing up your apartment. Two days ago, you had been sorting through legal documents and answering sympathetic phone calls.
Now, after years of saying you'll visit eventually, after years of finding excuses and postponing plans and convincing yourself there would always be another opportunity, you're back in the town you spent most of your childhood trying to leave.
Not because you wanted to return. Because your grandmother died. The thought lands heavily, even now.
Your grip tightens around the suitcase handle. The funeral had been small. Simple.
Exactly what she would've wanted.
Most of the relatives had already left again, returning to their own lives, while you stayed behind to sort through paperwork and prepare the house for sale.
Just a few weeks, you told yourself. Long enough to finish everything properly. Long enough to say goodbye.
Then you'd leave again. The plan sounds reasonable in theory. In practice, every step through town feels like walking through memories.
The route to your grandmother's house passes the elementary school where you spent countless afternoons pretending to pay attention during class. The creek behind the football field still winds lazily through town, hidden beneath the same willow trees that once provided the backdrop for summer adventures so important they had felt life-changing at the time.
You know exactly where every turn leads. You hate how much of it you remember. The house itself sits exactly where it always has. The garden is slightly overgrown. The mailbox leans to one side. The front porch creaks beneath your weight.
Home.
Not home anymore. But close enough to hurt.
—
The first few days disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities. Boxes. Documents. Phone calls. Dust-covered photo albums.
Closets packed with items your grandmother had somehow convinced herself she might need someday.
You spend hours sorting through decades of accumulated memories, discovering things you forgot existed and things you wish you could forget.
Old school reports. Birthday cards. Drawings. Photographs. Far too many photographs. By the fourth day, the house feels quieter than ever. The silence eventually becomes unbearable.
Which is how you find yourself wandering through town with no destination in mind, hands shoved into your jacket pockets while the late afternoon sun bathes everything in warm gold.
You tell yourself you're just getting fresh air. You tell yourself you aren't searching for anything. The lie lasts approximately fifteen minutes.
Because eventually you turn a corner. And stop.
The flower shop still stands exactly where it always did. For a second, you think you've imagined it.
The familiar brick storefront. The flower boxes beneath the windows. The painted sign hanging above the entrance.
Only one thing has changed.
The name.
Your chest tightens. Not because the shop exists. Because you know who owns it now. You learned it from one of the older ladies at the funeral.
"Oh, have you seen Seungcheol yet?"
As if that were the most natural question in the world. As if years hadn't passed. As if hearing his name didn't still do something strange to your heartbeat. You haven't seen him. Not yet.
You hadn't planned to.
But suddenly there he is. Standing inside the shop. Alive. Real. Older.
The breath catches somewhere in your throat. For a moment, all you can do is stare.
He's arranging flowers near the front counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he focuses on adjusting a bouquet.
You knew he would have changed. Of course he would've changed.
The last time you saw him, he was fourteen years old and trying very hard not to cry while helping load boxes into a moving truck.
The man standing in front of you now is nothing like that boy. Except he is. The shape of his smile when he speaks to a customer. The way he absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck. The slight furrow between his brows when concentrating. Some things remain stubbornly familiar.
Then, as if sensing your stare, he looks up. And sees you.
The world doesn't stop. Nothing dramatic happens. Cars continue driving past. The shop door remains closed. The flowers continue existing. But something shifts.
You know it does because Seungcheol freezes. The bouquet slips slightly in his hands. For one stunned second, neither of you move.
Then his eyes widen. Your stomach drops. And suddenly you're ten years old again.
—
"You have to make a wish first."
"I already made one."
"That doesn't count."
"It does count."
"No, it doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Ten-year-old Seungcheol had always been incredibly confident for someone who spent half his time making things up.
The two of you sat cross-legged in a field behind his grandmother's flower shop, surrounded by dandelions and sunlight.
He held one proudly between his fingers. You rolled your eyes.
"You literally just invented that rule."
"Every game has rules."
"This isn't a game."
"It is now."
You groaned dramatically. He ignored you.
"Close your eyes."
"No."
"Y/N."
"No."
"Trust me."
At ten years old, trusting Seungcheol was the easiest thing in the world. You closed your eyes.
"Now make a wish."
You sighed. Made one anyway.
"Done."
"Okay."
You opened your eyes just in time to watch him blow the dandelion apart. White seeds scattered into the wind.
"What'd you wish for?" you asked.
His expression became immediately suspicious.
"You can't tell people."
"You made that up too."
"Maybe."
"You definitely did."
"But what if it's true?"
You laughed. He grinned. The sunlight caught in his hair.
And somehow, without either of you realizing it, that afternoon became one of the memories that followed you everywhere.
—
The bell above the flower shop door rings softly when you finally step inside. The scent hits you immediately.
Fresh flowers. Soil. Greenery. Something sweet and familiar.
The same scent that used to cling to Seungcheol whenever he spent all day helping his grandmother. The same scent you haven't thought about in years.
He stands behind the counter now. Watching you. Still looking mildly shocked. You suspect you look exactly the same. For several awkward seconds, nobody says anything. Then—
"Hi."
Brilliant. Absolutely incredible. Years apart and that's the best you can manage. Seungcheol laughs. The sound eases something inside your chest instantly.
"Hi."
His voice is deeper than you remember. Everything about him feels older. Not unfamiliar. Just older.
"You came back."
The words aren't accusatory. If anything, they sound slightly disbelieving. You nod.
"Temporarily."
Something flickers across his face. Gone too quickly to identify.
"Right."
The conversation stumbles forward after that. Careful. Tentative. Questions about work. About family. About how long you've been back.
Neither of you mentions how strange this feels. Neither of you mentions how many years disappeared between one conversation and the next.
Eventually another customer enters. Then another. The moment passes. You tell yourself that's probably for the best. Still, when you finally leave, Seungcheol walks you to the door.
"If you're bored," he says casually, "you can stop by anytime."
You blink.
"What?"
"The shop."
He gestures vaguely around himself.
"I'm usually here."
The invitation sounds simple. Normal. Yet your heart reacts as if he's offered something much bigger. You smile before you can stop yourself.
"Maybe I will."
His smile mirrors yours.
"Good."
—
The following afternoon, you return. Then again two days later. Then once more. Not intentionally.
It just keeps happening.
Sometimes you help carry deliveries. Sometimes you organize shelves. Sometimes you sit near the counter pretending to read while Seungcheol works.
The ease returns surprisingly quickly. Not completely. There are still years between you. Still things unsaid. But the foundation remains.
As if friendship had simply been waiting patiently beneath the surface. One evening, after closing time, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to answer a phone call. You volunteer to finish organizing a neglected storage room.
The space is cramped. Dusty. Filled with forgotten boxes. You sneeze twice. Immediately regret your life choices.
And then you notice the drawer. Small. Wooden. Hidden behind a stack of old gardening catalogues.
Curiosity wins.
You pull it open. Inside are dozens of folded papers.
Hundreds, maybe.
All carefully preserved. You hesitate before reaching for the top one. The paper is yellowed with age.
The handwriting is instantly recognizable. Even after all these years.
Your breath catches.
Slowly, you unfold the note. Across the top of the page, written in uneven childhood handwriting, are four words.
Things I wish for.
And underneath:
For Grandma's roses to survive winter.
For my knee to stop hurting.
For Y/N to stop crying when they lose races because I don't like it.
At the bottom, squeezed into the corner:
I think wishes work better when you blow two dandelions instead of one.
– Seungcheol
You stare at the page. Then read it again. And again.
Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak. The sound barely registers.
Because suddenly you're ten years old.
Standing in a field.
Holding a dandelion.
Listening to a boy make up rules about wishes.
And for the first time since returning home, you wonder whether maybe some memories never left at all.
—
The problem with nostalgia is that it never arrives alone.
It comes hand-in-hand with comparison, with grief, with all the quiet questions that only appear when you're staring at the person you used to know and trying to reconcile them with the person standing in front of you now.
By the end of the second week, you have become painfully aware of that fact. You have also become painfully aware of how often you find yourself at the flower shop. The first few visits had reasonable explanations.
You needed somewhere to walk. You needed a break from sorting through your grandmother's belongings. You needed a distraction.
The seventh visit is significantly harder to justify.
Especially when you're carrying two iced coffees and walking toward the shop before you've fully finished convincing yourself you're only dropping by for a few minutes.
The bell above the door rings. Seungcheol immediately looks up. The smile that appears on his face happens so naturally that neither of you seem to notice it.
You do. Unfortunately.
"You're late."
You stop.
"What?"
He gestures toward the wall clock.
"You usually get here fifteen minutes ago."
The realization settles over both of you simultaneously.
Because he's right. Because apparently you've established a routine. Because apparently Seungcheol has noticed.
Heat crawls up your neck.
"You timed me?"
"I didn't time you."
"You literally knew I was fifteen minutes late."
"I just noticed."
"That's timing me."
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
His laugh fills the shop. You hate how much you missed that sound.
—
The flower shop feels different now that you've spent enough time inside it to notice the details. The place still carries traces of his grandmother. The old cash register remains displayed on a shelf near the counter.
Framed photographs line one wall.
The ancient rocking chair in the corner somehow survived several decades despite looking permanently one bad day away from collapse.
But Seungcheol is everywhere too. The organization. The handwritten signs. The new displays. The garden outside. The entire place feels like a conversation between generations.
A continuation rather than a replacement.
His grandmother would've loved that. You think she already knew he would inherit the shop.
You glance up from the arrangement you're helping prepare.
"Daisies?"
"Dandelions."
He nods toward the window.
Outside, several bright yellow flowers have appeared amongst the carefully maintained garden beds.
You smile.
"They're kind of pretty."
"Exactly."
He sounds offended.
"Kind of?"
"Okay, they're pretty."
"There we go."
"You care way too much about dandelions."
"I inherited that."
His voice softens slightly.
"Grandma used to say they were the bravest flowers."
You pause.
"What does that mean?"
He carefully trims a stem.
"They grow everywhere."
A shrug.
"They survive getting stepped on."
Another cut.
"People call them weeds, but they keep blooming anyway."
You watch him for a moment. Sunlight filters through the front window. Dust drifts lazily through the air.
The shop smells faintly of lavender and soil. For a second, the years between childhood and now seem remarkably small.
"They sound stubborn."
Seungcheol grins.
"Exactly."
—
The first time someone mistakes you for his partner, you're unprepared. The culprit is an elderly customer named Mrs. Kim.
One moment she's purchasing carnations. The next she's looking between you and Seungcheol with obvious satisfaction.
"It's nice to finally meet them."
You blink.
"I'm sorry?"
Mrs. Kim waves dismissively.
"Don't worry."
Seungcheol visibly tenses. You immediately become suspicious.
"Don't worry about what?"
The woman pats your hand.
"Oh, honey, we've all heard about you."
Silence. Complete silence. You slowly turn toward Seungcheol. He refuses to make eye contact.
"Seungcheol."
"No."
"What does she mean?"
"No."
Mrs. Kim laughs. The traitor.
"You know, Y/N this and Y/N that and—"
"Mrs. Kim."
The warning in his voice only makes her smile widen. You stare. He stares determinedly at the floor.
A customer enters. The conversation mercifully dies.
Unfortunately your curiosity survives.
—
You corner him later.
"What exactly have people heard?"
"Nothing."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It isn't."
"Seungcheol."
He groans.
"You're impossible."
"You avoided the question."
"I mentioned you sometimes."
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes."
The response is entirely too fast. You narrow your eyes.
"How many times?"
His expression immediately suggests the answer is significantly higher than either of you would like.
—
That night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the drawer again. You know you probably shouldn't be reading the notes.
They're private. Personal. Hidden for a reason. And yet. The temptation wins.
Again.
The next paper is dated in messy twelve-year-old handwriting. You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To beat Jeonghan at soccer.
To grow taller.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Don't tell them I wrote that.
You stare. Then reread the sentence. Then reread it again.
The words somehow feel heavier each time.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Simple. Innocent. Childish. Yet something twists painfully inside your chest.
Because you didn't stay. Because neither of you had any control over that. Because twelve-year-old Seungcheol didn't know he was writing a wish that would never come true.
—
Middle school had been awkward. Not terrible. Not dramatic. Just awkward.
The age where suddenly everyone became aware that boys and girls existed. The age where friendships acquired strange new rules nobody explained properly.
You remember sitting beside Seungcheol during lunch one afternoon. He arrived carrying two juice boxes. Immediately handed you one.
Completely normal. Entirely routine. Unfortunately half your classmates witnessed the exchange. The teasing started instantly.
"Ooooh."
"Look."
"It's Y/N and Seungcheol."
You remember wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Seungcheol had looked equally horrified. The two of you spent the rest of lunch aggressively denying accusations nobody had technically made.
Neither of you acknowledged how red your faces became.
—
You wake the next morning determined not to think about old letters. The determination lasts approximately twenty minutes.
By lunch, you're back at the flower shop. By evening, you're helping prepare arrangements for a wedding. By closing time, you're laughing so hard you nearly drop an entire bucket of peonies.
The transition feels alarmingly natural. As if this version of life has been waiting patiently for your return. As if leaving had only been an interruption.
Not an ending.
The thought unsettles you.
—
The following week, the town begins treating your presence as permanent. The bakery owner asks whether you've found a job yet. The librarian asks if you're staying. Three separate neighbors mention available apartments.
You spend most conversations repeating the same answer.
"I'm only here temporarily."
Every single person responds the same way.
"We'll see."
The most irritating part is that nobody sounds uncertain.
Least of all Seungcheol.
—
One afternoon, while helping water plants behind the shop, you finally ask.
"Did everyone in this town secretly agree to annoy me?"
He laughs.
"Probably."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
You splash water toward him. He dodges. Barely.
"Traitor."
"I didn't do anything."
"You never tell them I'm leaving."
His expression changes slightly. The smile remains. Something else disappears.
"Oh."
Immediately, guilt settles in your stomach. You hadn't meant—
"I mean—"
"It's okay."
The words are gentle. Too gentle. The conversation moves on.
Yet the silence lingers.
—
That evening, while closing up, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to search for inventory records. The opportunity presents itself. You tell yourself you're only checking one note.
One. That's all.
The lie fools absolutely nobody. Especially not yourself. You return to the drawer. Select another folded paper. Open it carefully.
The handwriting is older this time.
Less childish. More controlled. The date makes your chest tighten.
The year you moved away.
Things I wish for:
To have my own flower shop someday.
For Grandma to stop working so hard.
For Y/N to smile like they did before they found out they're moving.
I hate this wish.
The words blur slightly. You blink. Look away. Look back.
The paper remains unchanged.
The same ink. The same handwriting. The same impossible honesty.
For a long moment, you simply sit there.
Remembering.
—
The moving truck had arrived too early. Or maybe it only felt that way.
You remember cardboard boxes. Your mother's stressed voice. Relatives carrying furniture.
Everything happening much too fast. You remember friends saying goodbye. Teachers promising you'd make new ones. Adults insisting change was exciting.
You remember hating every second of it.
Most of all, you remember Seungcheol. Standing beside the driveway. Hands shoved into his pockets. Trying very hard to act normal.
You'd both promised to stay in touch. You'd both promised nothing would change. At fourteen, promises like that feel unbreakable.
Reality is less cooperative. Calls become texts. Texts become occasional messages. Then birthdays. Then silence.
Not because either of you stopped caring.
Because life happened. Because growing up happened. Because distance is sometimes quieter than heartbreak.
—
A floorboard creaks overhead. You quickly fold the letter. Return it to the drawer. Close everything.
By the time Seungcheol returns, you're standing beside a shelf pretending to examine gardening supplies.
His eyes narrow immediately.
"You look suspicious."
"What?"
"You look guilty."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
You point at a random bag of fertilizer.
"Did you know this contains nitrogen?"
The silence that follows is devastating. Then Seungcheol starts laughing.
The kind of laugh that forces him to lean against a table for support. You hate him. Possibly. A little.
—
Later, after you've returned home, sleep proves impossible. Your mind keeps returning to the notes.
The wishes. The years. Everything that existed while you were gone.
Eventually curiosity wins one final time. Near midnight, you retrieve the drawer once more.
One last letter. Just one. You unfold it slowly.
The handwriting immediately looks different.
Shakier. Messier. Lonelier.
The date makes your stomach drop. A few months after you left. Nothing else is written on the page.
No numbered list. No jokes. No soccer. No flowers.
Just a single sentence.
Things I wish for:
Y/N comes back.
Just once. That's all. For a long moment, the room remains completely silent.
Outside, wind rattles softly against the windows. Inside, your chest feels painfully tight. You remember all the times you almost visited. All the summers you said maybe next year. All the holidays that slipped away. All the opportunities lost to convenience and distance and the assumption that there would always be more time.
The note trembles slightly in your hands.
And for the first time since returning home, you begin to understand that maybe you weren't the only person who spent years missing someone.
The realization follows you long after the lights go out. Long after the letter is folded away. Long after sleep finally arrives.
And somewhere across town, completely unaware of the storm currently unfolding inside your chest, Seungcheol closes his flower shop for the evening and locks the front door, still carrying pieces of a wish he made twelve years ago.
—
The worst part about reading the letters is that they make everything impossible to ignore. Not impossible in the dramatic sense. Not in the way movies portray it, where suddenly every interaction becomes charged with unbearable tension and every glance feels life-altering.
Instead, it becomes impossible to ignore the accumulation of small things. The details. The habits. The spaces someone occupies in your life without permission.
Before finding the drawer, spending every afternoon at the flower shop had felt natural.
After finding the drawer, you become painfully aware that Seungcheol automatically hands you a drink before grabbing one for himself.
That he remembers how you take your coffee. That he moves around the shop with the unconscious expectation that you'll be somewhere nearby. That every time the front door opens, his eyes immediately search for you before searching for the customer.
None of these things mean anything individually. Together, they begin to feel like something dangerous. Something you've spent years pretending not to recognize. Something that looks suspiciously like first love growing up and refusing to leave.
—
The flower festival arrives at exactly the wrong time. Or perhaps exactly the right time. You haven't decided which.
The annual event has existed for as long as you can remember, transforming the town into something bright and overwhelming for a weekend every spring. Streets fill with flower displays. Local businesses compete for awards. Families wander between stalls carrying bouquets and iced drinks.
As children, you and Seungcheol used to treat it like the most important event of the year. Now, as adults, it means two weeks of preparation and approximately zero free time. Not that you mind.
Being busy makes it easier not to think.
Unfortunately, Seungcheol keeps ruining that strategy by existing.
—
"You're staring."
You nearly drop the box you're carrying.
"What?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"You've been looking at me for ten seconds."
"I was not."
"You were."
"No."
"Y/N."
The use of your name should not feel that unfair. It does. Especially when accompanied by a smile. Especially when he knows exactly what he's doing. You point aggressively at the display you're assembling.
"I was looking at the flowers."
"Sure."
"Why would I stare at you?"
His grin widens. You immediately regret speaking. Across the room, an elderly volunteer watching preparations sighs dramatically.
"Please date already."
Both of you nearly choke.
—
The town has become unbearable. Not because the people are cruel. Quite the opposite. The people are far too invested.
Everyone appears convinced that you and Seungcheol are one conversation away from getting married. The florist across the street keeps offering relationship advice. Mrs. Kim has started winking whenever she enters the shop. Even children seem suspicious.
At one point, a ten-year-old asks if you're Seungcheol's spouse. You spend five full minutes recovering.
Seungcheol spends ten.
—
The problem is that every joke lands slightly closer to the truth than either of you are comfortable admitting.
Because somewhere between sorting flowers and revisiting childhood memories and reading letters you definitely should not be reading, something has changed.
Or maybe nothing changed. Maybe you've simply stopped running from it.
You don't know which possibility scares you more.
—
One evening, after the shop closes, rain begins unexpectedly. Heavy. Relentless.
The kind that turns roads silver beneath streetlights. You're trapped. Not that either of you seem particularly bothered.
Seungcheol locks the front door and flips the sign to CLOSED.
The two of you remain inside. Waiting. The shop feels different after hours. Quieter. More intimate.
The scent of flowers seems stronger somehow. The silence stretches comfortably between conversations. You sit together behind the counter drinking tea.
Outside, rain taps steadily against the glass. Inside, memories linger everywhere.
"You know," Seungcheol says eventually, "Grandma used to think you were going to marry me."
You nearly inhale your tea.
"What?"
His laughter echoes through the empty shop.
"I'm serious."
"Why would she think that?"
"You were ten."
"That's not an answer."
"You followed me around everywhere."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"You're making things up."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He shakes his head.
"She used to tell me all the time."
The smile softens.
"'That one loves you very much, Seungcheol.'"
Something catches unexpectedly in your chest. You look away.
The rain suddenly becomes fascinating.
—
Later that night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting on the floor beside the drawer again. You don't even pretend to resist anymore. The letters feel less like an invasion now.
More like a conversation delayed by years. The next note is dated two years after you left.
You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To stop thinking about Y/N.
Didn't work.
For several seconds, you simply stare. Then laugh. Actually laugh.
Because somehow, despite everything, fourteen-year-old Seungcheol and sixteen-year-old Seungcheol remain unmistakably the same person.
Hopeless. Earnest. Painfully honest. You continue reading.
The next note is eighteen.
Things I wish for:
To see Y/N again.
To stop comparing everyone else to Y/N.
Didn't work either.
The smile disappears. A strange ache replaces it. You know what he's implying.
You wish you didn't.
Because suddenly every year between then and now feels tangible.
Every missed opportunity. Every person he met. Every relationship that apparently failed to become something lasting.
The thought follows you into the final letter. Age twenty-one.
Things I wish for:
Y/N.
Just Y/N.
No explanation. No joke. No elaboration. Only your name.
The page trembles slightly in your hands.
—
The next morning, you arrive at the flower shop exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Possibly spiritually.
Seungcheol notices immediately.
"Rough night?"
You consider your options. Lie. Deflect. Change the subject.
Instead:
"Why didn't you throw them away?"
His hands stop moving. The flowers remain half-arranged between his fingers. For a moment, neither of you speak.
Then:
"The notes?"
You nod. The silence stretches. Long enough for your pulse to become annoying. Long enough for the question to feel dangerous. Finally, Seungcheol exhales softly.
"Because throwing them away felt like giving up."
The answer lands harder than expected. You stare. He continues looking at the flowers.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you looks away. The shop suddenly feels too quiet.
Too small. Too honest.
—
The conversation changes after that. Not dramatically. Not immediately. But something shifts.
A wall lowers. A distance disappears. You begin talking about things you've avoided for years.
University. Family. The struggles nobody posted online. The loneliness. The uncertainty. The versions of yourselves that existed while the other wasn't there to witness them.
For the first time, it feels like you're catching up properly. Not on events.
On each other.
—
The breakthrough arrives unexpectedly. Through gossip. Naturally. Because this town cannot help itself.
You're helping arrange flowers outside the festival pavilion when Mrs. Kim appears. You should have run. Instead, you smile politely. A mistake.
"Did you know," she begins immediately, "that Seungcheol never brought anyone serious home?"
Your heart stops.
"What?"
Mrs. Kim continues cheerfully.
"Such a waste."
You stare. The woman sighs dramatically.
"Everyone liked him."
The implications begin arriving one by one. Slowly. Terribly. You don't want to ask. You ask anyway.
"Why?"
Mrs. Kim blinks.
"Why what?"
"Why didn't he date anyone?"
The answer comes far too quickly.
"As if we don't all know."
Then she walks away. Leaving you alone with approximately twelve different emotional crises.
—
The festival opens the next day. Crowds flood the streets. Music drifts through the air. Children race between displays. Customers fill the shop. The entire town seems alive.
You should be enjoying it. Instead, you're distracted.
Because every time you look at Seungcheol, another letter appears in your memory.
Another wish. Another year. Another version of him quietly hoping for something he thought he would never get.
By evening, exhaustion settles over everyone. The crowds thin. Sunlight begins fading. And somehow you find yourselves alone behind the shop.
Again.
The garden glows gold beneath the setting sun. Dandelions sway gently amongst the flower beds.
The same flowers. The same stubborn flowers. Hope disguised as weeds.
Seungcheol sits beside you on a wooden bench. Close. Not touching. Close enough. For several minutes, neither of you speaks. The silence feels full. Waiting. Anticipating.
Like the final moments before a storm breaks. Then he says quietly:
"I was happy you came back."
Your breath catches. The confession isn't romantic. Not technically. But it feels significant anyway. You glance toward him. His gaze remains fixed on the garden.
A nervous habit you've started recognizing.
"I was happy too."
The words come easily. Truth always does. He smiles. Small. Soft. Real.
And suddenly you're struck by a realization so obvious it almost feels ridiculous. Every important moment in your life somehow leads back to him. Every memory. Every wish. Every version of home.
The thought settles heavily between your ribs. Not uncomfortable. Just undeniable. The sun sinks lower. The dandelions sway.
And for the first time, you begin wondering whether the final letter in the drawer isn't actually the end of the story.
Maybe it's only the beginning. Because tomorrow is the final day of the flower festival. Tomorrow you'll finish sorting the last boxes from your grandmother's house. Tomorrow you'll have to decide whether you're leaving again.
And somewhere deep down, beneath years of distance and excuses and carefully maintained walls, a small stubborn hope begins to bloom.
Much like a dandelion. Refusing to die. Refusing to be ignored. Refusing, despite everything, to stop growing.
—
The last day of the flower festival arrives far too quickly. You know this because you spend most of the morning trying not to think about it. Unfortunately, thinking about something and trying not to think about something are often the exact same activity.
By noon, you're painfully aware that this is your final week in town. By three o'clock, you've mentally packed your suitcase twice. By five, you've considered extending your stay. By six, you've considered cancelling your return entirely. None of these thoughts help.
Especially because every possible future seems to revolve around the same person. Across the square, Seungcheol is helping a little girl choose flowers for her mother. You watch him crouch down so they're eye level. Watch him listen seriously to her explanation. Watch him help arrange a tiny bouquet.
The girl leaves looking delighted. Seungcheol looks equally pleased. The sight hurts. Not because it's sad. Because it feels familiar.
Because it feels like home.
Because somewhere along the way, without realizing it, you've started measuring places by whether or not he exists in them.
And that seems like a dangerous way to live.
—
The festival winds down slowly. Stalls begin packing away displays. Families drift home. The streets gradually quiet.
For the first time all weekend, the town feels peaceful. You spend most of the evening helping return decorations to storage.
Boxes. Signs. Flower stands. The work is repetitive enough to keep your hands busy. Not your thoughts.
Those remain frustratingly active. By the time darkness settles over town, only a handful of people remain.
The cleanup continues. The shop stays open late. And eventually you find yourself alone.
Again. In the storage room. Again. Standing in front of the drawer. Again.
At this point, you suspect fate has completely given up pretending to be subtle.
—
The final note is hidden beneath all the others. Tucked carefully at the very bottom. Almost as if someone wanted it protected. Your pulse quickens immediately. Because unlike the others, this paper looks newer.
Not recent. Just newer. Adult handwriting. Adult paper. Adult ink.
Slowly, you unfold it. And the world narrows.
Things I wish for:
I don't think this one belongs to a dandelion anymore.
I think some wishes are supposed to be said.
I love Y/N.
I've loved them since we were kids making rules about wishes in the park.
And if they come back someday, maybe I'll finally tell them.
– Seungcheol
For a long moment, nothing happens. You simply stare. Reading the words once. Twice. Again. As if repetition might somehow make them less overwhelming.
It doesn't.
The confession sits plainly on the page. No jokes. No hiding. No pretending. Just the truth. The same truth that has apparently existed for years. The same truth you've spent the entire month slowly uncovering one letter at a time.
Outside the storage room, a floorboard creaks.
You look up.
Your heart immediately attempts escape.
Because Seungcheol is standing in the doorway. And judging by his expression, he knows exactly what you're holding.
—
"Oh."
Brilliant. An excellent response. Truly.
Years of emotional buildup and the first thing either of you manages is:
"Oh."
Seungcheol closes his eyes. Briefly. The expression on his face suggests he is considering several possible methods of spontaneous death.
"You found that one."
You hold up the paper.
"A little late to ask me not to read it."
His groan echoes off the walls. You almost laugh. Almost.
If your heart wasn't currently beating hard enough to qualify as a medical emergency. The silence stretches. Neither of you seem sure how to continue.
Finally:
"You were never supposed to find that."
Your eyebrows rise.
"There are literally eight hundred letters in that drawer."
"There are not eight hundred."
"There are enough."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Then disappears. The seriousness returns. And suddenly the air changes. The humor fades. The truth remains.
"You meant it?"
The question comes out quieter than intended. Seungcheol looks at the floor. Then the shelves. Then literally anywhere except you.
Eventually, he exhales.
"Yeah."
Just one word. Simple. Certain. Enough.
Your chest tightens painfully. Because there is no hesitation. No uncertainty. No attempt to take it back. Just honesty.
The kind that takes years to build. The kind that only appears when someone is finally tired of hiding.
"Since we were kids?"
A small laugh escapes him.
"Unfortunately."
The response is so Seungcheol that tears immediately threaten.
"You make it sound tragic."
"It was."
Now he smiles. Softly.
"I liked you for fifteen years."
Your laugh comes out suspiciously emotional.
"I was very committed."
The tears win. Just slightly. Enough for your vision to blur. Enough for Seungcheol's expression to immediately change. Concern replacing nervousness.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'm having a normal reaction."
"This doesn't seem normal."
"It absolutely isn't."
And somehow that breaks the tension. Both of you laugh. Both of you look slightly overwhelmed. Both of you look suspiciously close to crying.
When the laughter fades, the truth remains. Patient. Waiting. You stare down at the letter again.
At your name. At years of wishes. At every version of him that existed before this moment.
Ten years old. Twelve. Fourteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-six. Every single one hoping for the same thing. Every single one writing your name.
The realization settles heavily inside your chest. Not because it's surprising.
Because it isn't. Not anymore.
Somewhere between the first letter and the last, you've already known.
You simply weren't ready to admit it.
"Do you know something funny?"
Seungcheol looks confused.
"A dangerous start."
You ignore him.
"I used to wish for you too."
The words leave before you can stop them. His expression freezes. Completely.
"What?"
You laugh softly. Because honestly, the universe has a terrible sense of humor.
"Every birthday."
You look down at the letter.
"Every shooting star."
A smile. Small. Embarrassed.
"Every dandelion."
Silence. Absolute silence.
"Seriously?"
You nod. His eyes widen.
"You never told me."
"You never told me."
"That's because I was terrified."
"So was I."
The answer arrives instantly. Truth again. Always truth.
—
The confession isn't dramatic. There are no grand speeches. No perfectly rehearsed declarations. No movie-worthy dialogue.
Instead, there is honesty. Messy honesty. The kind built from years of friendship.
Years of absence. Years of missing someone without fully understanding the shape of that feeling.
You talk. Really talk. For the first time. About moving away. About losing touch. About all the almost-visits.
The unanswered messages. The missed opportunities. The people you both tried and failed to become. And somehow, through all of it, the conversation keeps returning to the same conclusion.
You found your way back. Not immediately. Not perfectly. But eventually. You came back. And he waited. Not intentionally. Not actively. Just quietly.
Like someone protecting a wish.
—
The flower shop closes early the following evening. Not because business is slow. Because Seungcheol insists on taking you somewhere.
You recognize the destination immediately. The field.
The one behind the shop. The one from childhood. The one where everything started.
The walk there feels strangely familiar. As if no time has passed. As if every version of yourselves still exists somewhere among the grass.
The field is smaller than you remember. Most places are. The dandelions aren't.
They remain everywhere.
Bright. Stubborn. Impossible to ignore.
Exactly like him.
—
"Do you remember the rules?" Seungcheol asks. You laugh.
"The rules changed every week."
"They were very sophisticated."
"They were completely made up."
"They were based on science."
"They absolutely were not."
His offended expression is immediate. You grin. Some things never change.
Thank God.
—
Eventually the conversation fades. The evening settles around you. Warm. Peaceful. Comfortable.
Seungcheol picks a dandelion.
Then another. Holding one out. You accept it automatically.
Like muscle memory. Like childhood. Like home.
The white seeds tremble gently in the breeze. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
"What are you wishing for?"
The question is familiar. The same question from years ago. The same field. The same flowers. The same boy.
Only now he's a man looking at you like you're the answer to something. You stare at the dandelion. Then at him. Then smile.
"Nothing."
His eyebrows lift.
"Nothing?"
You shake your head.
"No."
The answer feels surprisingly easy. Certain. Complete.
For the first time in a very long time, there is nothing left to ask for.
No missing piece. No distance. No unanswered question. No wish waiting to be granted.
Just this. Just him. Just the future.
Whatever shape it takes. And somehow, that's enough.
More than enough.
Seungcheol smiles. Slowly. Softly. The kind of smile that belongs entirely to you.
Then together, sitting side by side in a field full of dandelions, you blow the seeds into the evening air.
Thousands of tiny white fragments drift upward.
Carried by the wind. Carried toward whatever comes next. Not because you need wishes anymore.
But because some traditions deserve to survive. Some things deserve to bloom again.
And some first loves, despite distance and time and every reason they should have faded, are stubborn enough to wait.
Like dandelions. Like hope.
Like Choi Seungcheol.
Like you.
The seeds disappear into the sunset. This time, neither of you watches them go.
Because for the first time, you're both looking in the same direction.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
pairing: seokmin x reader
synopsis: A social psych class challenges you to test how humor affects attraction. DK’s in charge of stand-up sets. You’re in charge of audience reactions. You’re both in way too deep.
wc: 4.6
genre: Fluff, Comedy, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Friends
warnings:
a/n: happy birthday to dk and vernon!! two cuties hehe. My apologies if this lowkey doesn’t make sense, because reading through it lowkey made me a little confused… but i was a little tad bit a lazy to fix it….
This is apart of the Kiss Me, It’s for Academia Series!! All other parts of the series will come out on each respective members birthdays!!
The fluorescent lights hum over Lecture Hall 3B as you slide into your seat. Social Psychology 312 is supposed to be fun—at least in theory—but today feels like the start of something both scientifically important and personally dangerous.
Professor Kim clears her throat at the front, a tablet in one hand, pointer in the other.
“Good morning, everyone! Welcome to the Social Psychology of Humor module. This semester, you’ll be participating in a hands-on experiment: testing how humor affects attraction and social bonding. And yes, you will be graded.”
You take out your notebook, ready for the usual dry lecture, when Professor Kim continues.
“Here’s how it works. Each of you will be paired up. One student is the ‘Performer’—you’ll deliver a brief stand-up set. The other student is the ‘Observer’—you’ll record audience reactions, laughter levels, engagement, and anything you think might influence attraction. Every laugh, every smile, every eyebrow raise is data. Keep it objective… as much as possible.”
Your stomach twists when you hear the next part:
“Now, your pairs. Let’s see… Ah! Y/N, you’ll be paired with Seokmin.”
Your head snaps up. Seokmin? DK? The same Seokmin whose reputation precedes him—effortlessly charming, funny, and borderline infuriating in his energy.
Vernon, seated a few rows back, grins at you knowingly. He’s your friend—and DK’s friend too, the kind of person who exists to mediate chaos and tease mercilessly.
VERNON: Well… this is going to be fun.
YOU: Fun, yes. But also extremely scientific.
VERNON: Uh huh. Sure. That’s what they all say.
—
Professor Kim continues, writing the assignment expectations on the board:
Performer: 3–5 minute stand-up set, must include at least three self-deprecating jokes.
Observer: Record objective measures: laughter duration, smile intensity, eye contact, and general engagement.
Submission: Post-experiment report including transcripts, observations, and personal reflections (optional—but recommended).
“Remember, the point isn’t just who’s funny—it’s how humor influences attraction. Take notes carefully.”
You glance at Seokmin, who’s casually leaning against the side wall, hoodie oversized, grin teasing. He catches your gaze and winks, as if he already knows this is going to be… complicated.
Vernon messages you, again.
VERNON: “See? Already flirting. And it hasn’t even started.”
[0:00] DK walks on stage, sneakers squeaking, oversized hoodie flopping with every step. Audience murmurs.
[0:05] DK: “Good morning, class! Or as I like to call it… socially awkward humans in their natural habitat.”
[0:08] Y/N: laughs into notebook, scribbles “note: excessive charm detected”
[0:12] DK glances at you mid-joke. Eyebrow raise. Smirk.
You freeze mid-scribble, too aware of the way he’s watching you. It’s supposed to be objective observation—reaction levels, eye contact, mirroring—but all your carefully honed professionalism collapses when DK winks at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.
Vernon, now seated a next to you, nudges your shoulder.
“You’re writing more about him than the experiment.” He whispers with a grin you could see with your eyes closed. You still however, give a mortified half-smile.
“It’s called qualitative data analysis.”
“Sure. If by ‘qualitative’ you mean swooning.”
DK continues.
[0:20] DK: “So, I was thinking—why did the social psychologist cross the road? To measure the chicken’s attraction to humor, obviously.”
[0:24] Y/N: snorts laughter into notebook
You immediately scribble a footnote: “Note: uncontrollable laughter – possible variable: personal bias toward humor source.”
DK pauses mid-joke and tilts his head toward you.
“Y/N, you’re laughing way too early. Is this… part of your scientific protocol?”
You flush. You weren’t expecting to be named. You clear your throat. “Uh, yes, very professional.”
Vernon groans loudly next you. “Oh my god, she’s officially doomed.”
—
[Case File – DK’s Observational Notes]
Subject: Y/N
Observations:
Laughter onset occurs ~3 seconds before joke punchline.
Eye contact is unusually prolonged; subject appears flustered when caught.
Scribbles notes obsessively; suspect personal bias.
Hypothesis: Subject may be more interested in performer than performance.
Recommended action: Increase joke directivity to target subject.
—
After class, you retreat to the corner of the lab, balancing your clipboard and laptop. Vernon plops next to you, dramatically sighing.
“So… how does it feel to be scientifically ruined by Seokmin?”
“Vernon, I am not ruined.”
“Sure. Your notebook is literally filled with hearts and doodles disguised as ‘reaction codes.’”
You glare at him, but secretly, you’re grateful. Having someone else make jokes about your predicament is easier than confronting how DK makes you feel.
—
[Video Transcript – Lab Cleanup]
Observer: Y/N | Performer: Seokmin (DK)
[0:00] DK lingers near the lab projector. Hands on hips, grin wide.
[0:02] DK: “Y/N, I noticed your laughter metric was… particularly generous today.”
[0:04] Y/N: “Professional observation. Strictly objective.”
[0:06] DK leans over the projector, close enough to smell the coffee on your desk. “Hmm. Objective, sure… but your cheeks are suspiciously red.”
[0:09] Y/N: makes note: cheek redness – independent variable: DK proximity.
Vernon snorts from the doorway. “Do you two need a warning sign or something?”
DK smirks, ignoring Vernon. He nudges your notebook with his finger.
“You’re supposed to be grading audience reactions, not mine.”
You scribble furiously, pretending to record “objective laughter metrics” while your brain screams: He’s right here. Why am I laughing this hard?
—
[Email Case File – Professor]
Subject: Stand-up Set Analysis
Dear DK and Y/N,
Today’s experiment confirmed a very important principle: humor is amplified when someone you find… interesting is watching. The data is impeccable—but I will be monitoring further to ensure it’s not contaminated by personal interest.
Regards,Professor Kim
—
You reread the email, cheeks heating, then glance at Vernon, who grins.
“Yep. You’re doomed. And officially declared the variable of interest.”
You groan, but inside, there’s a little thrill. DK is too much, and somehow, it’s the beginning of something dangerously fun.
—
The lab is buzzing with anticipation. Today’s the first real experiment: Seokmin’s full stand-up set, and you are the official observer. You clutch your notebook like a lifeline, silently promising yourself that professional composure will hold… even though your heart is already doing somersaults.
Vernon leans against the doorway, arms crossed, grinning. “Reminder: you’re not allowed to fall in love on the clock,” he murmurs.
You huff a laugh. “Very funny.”
“He’s wearing that hoodie like it’s a weapon,” Vernon adds, smirking. “You’re doomed.”
Seokmin steps to the front, stretching exaggeratedly, sneakers squeaking across the floor. He scans the room dramatically before locking eyes on you. “Ah, my favorite observer. Ready to judge my impeccable comedic genius?”
Your cheeks heat, and you make a mental note to hide your reaction behind the notebook.
He cues the projector, and the slides illuminate his stage. “Welcome, humans of varying social competency levels. I, DK, shall attempt to make you laugh… scientifically.”
You scribble frantically, trying to record audience reactions. The numbers blur as you catch yourself laughing before the punchlines even land. He pauses mid-joke and cocks his head at you. “Y/N, are you measuring my comedy… or my effect on you?”
You cough, smothering a laugh behind your notebook. The class erupts around you, but your attention is entirely on him. Your pen dances across the page, attempting to remain professional, while your heart betrays every objective measure you’re supposed to be collecting.
Across the room, Vernon shakes his head with an exaggerated groan.
“Just try to stay alive through this,” he mutters.
Seokmin’s grin widens. He gestures pointedly at you, as if turning you into a living experiment. “Ah! A data point has come alive. Reaction: instant blushing.”
You immediately scribble a note: Variable compromised: observer interest is off the charts.
He keeps shifting the jokes subtly, weaving them around your reactions. Things that shouldn’t be funny make you laugh. Things that are genuinely funny make you laugh too much. He knows exactly how to push buttons, and you are powerless to resist.
Later, during a break, you notice your notes are almost unreadable—sketches of smiling faces, hearts disguised as data charts, scribbles where numbers should be. And yet, you can’t stop. You’ve become part of his experiment without meaning to.
Seokmin walks over to you, hands casually tucked in his hoodie pockets. “Careful with those notes,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that you can smell the faint scent of coffee and mint. “I might steal them for… scientific purposes.”
You frown, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips. Behind you, Vernon bursts into laughter, unable to keep quiet.
“She’s officially your human lab rat now,” he says, shaking his head.
Seokmin crouches slightly, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Or maybe I’m yours. Depends on which data set you’re analyzing.”
You nearly drop your notebook, your cheeks heating further, while Vernon snorts loudly, drawing attention. Seokmin smirks triumphantly and waves a hand dismissively. “Ignore him. He’s irrelevant to the experiment.”
—
[Email Case File – DK to Y/N]
Subject: Data Contamination?
Y/N,
I noticed today’s observations might be slightly biased… in my favor. Just a hypothesis.
Best,
DK
—
You reread the email, cheeks flaming, then glance at Vernon, who shrugs with a teasing grin. “Yep. There it is. He’s flirting with your experimental integrity.”
You groan, but secretly, the thrill makes you doodle another heart disguised as a bar graph.
By the end of the day, the first set is complete, and your notebook is a chaotic blend of scientific notes and personal fascination. You’re supposed to be objective. But you know, already, that objectivity has left the room entirely—and that’s the beginning of something dangerously fun.
—
The lab feels smaller after everyone has left. The fluorescent lights hum quietly, and only the projector glows faintly, looping the footage from Seokmin’s first full set. You’re sitting cross-legged on a chair, laptop balanced precariously on your knees, notebook open and half-doodled. Vernon leans casually against the doorframe, watching you with that knowing smirk that never fails to make you tense.
“Still measuring your heart rate?” he asks.
You huff a laugh. “I’m observing professional data. Obviously.”
He raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, and leans a little closer. “Uh-huh. Professional. Sure.”
At the front of the room, Seokmin crouches down, fiddling with the projector. His hoodie sways as he bends, and you can’t help noticing how… effortlessly he dominates the space. Every movement seems deliberate, almost performative, even when he isn’t on stage.
“Y/N,” he says suddenly, voice low and teasing. “You’re supposed to be grading audience reactions, not mine.”
You blink. “I—Of course. Strictly objective.”
“Mm-hmm,” he hums, smirking. He gestures at your notebook, tilting his head. “But you laughed at my jokes before the punchlines. That’s… concerning.”
You flush, flipping a page quickly to cover the notes you’ve scribbled—half observational, half doodles of him. “It’s just… anticipation.”
“Anticipation,” he repeats, clearly unconvinced. He leans over the projector, close enough that your shoulders brush. You try not to notice.
Vernon snorts from behind, arms crossed. “Careful. At this rate, she’ll start measuring flirtation intensity as a legitimate variable.”
You groan. “I am not doing that.”
Seokmin tilts his head toward you, one brow raised. “Are you sure? Because your pen keeps drifting, and your cheeks are… red.”
You nearly drop your pen. “I—I was just…”
He laughs softly, a sound that makes your stomach flip, and moves back slightly, giving you just enough space to breathe but not enough to escape the tension. “Keep recording,” he says, half teasing, half commanding.
You scribble furiously, trying to maintain focus. But your notes are compromised: your charts are chaotic, your lines blurred by laughter, hearts sneaking into bar graphs, and illegible arrows pointing toward him.
“Why are your notes so messy?” Seokmin asks innocently.
“Because they’re scientific,” you snap, then immediately cover your mouth.
“Scientific,” he echoes, smirking, clearly enjoying your flustered state.
The projector loops a clip of his set, and you can’t stop watching. Even the smallest gestures—the way he pauses mid-punchline, the tilt of his head, the glint in his eyes when he catches yours—feel like they’re aimed directly at you. Your fingers twitch toward the keyboard, typing notes that are no longer about audience reactions but about him.
Vernon sighs dramatically from the corner. “You’re screwed. Do you realize that? Completely compromised as a professional observer.”
“I am not,” you insist, though your voice is weaker than usual.
Seokmin crouches again to adjust the projector, then glances back at you. “You know, if this experiment is about how humor affects attraction… I think we might already have some data.”
You blink, heart racing. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” he says, smirk widening, “the observer seems… affected. It’s scientifically interesting.”
You groan, burying your face in your notebook. Vernon laughs so loudly that you’re sure the neighbors can hear.
Seokmin crouches lower, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Or maybe,” he murmurs, “I’m affected too. Depends on how you measure it.”
Your chest tightens, and you feel the notebook trembling in your hands. Vernon clears his throat, oblivious to the chemistry crackling between you two. “Yep. Definitely doomed. All lab rats accounted for.”
—
[Video Transcript – Lab Review, 10:15 AM]
[0:00] Seokmin rewinds a joke clip. Pauses dramatically.
[0:03] DK: “Notice here, the observer’s laugh—three seconds too early. Suggests either anticipation or… something more personal.”
[0:06] Y/N: scribbles frantic notes, tries to remain objective
[0:08] DK leans closer to the screen, hand brushing yours accidentally.
[0:09] Y/N: notices heart rate spike, scribbles illegible data
—
The clip loops again, this time showing the part where you actually trip over your pen and laugh mid-punchline. He grins at you, clearly pleased.
“You’re cute when you’re taking notes,” he says softly, almost offhand.
You groan, hiding your face in your hands. Vernon whistles from the doorway. “Ohhh, there it is. Direct observation confirmed.”
Seokmin shrugs innocently, but the teasing glint in his eyes betrays him.
You can’t help but laugh, despite yourself. The lab feels like a stage, and the two of you are performing a comedy that only you can understand. Every glance, every brush of his hand, every smirk directed at you is another data point you never expected to measure.
And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, you realize that the experiment is no longer about the audience.
It’s about him.
—
The day of the midterm set arrives faster than you expected. The lab is packed with students, some eager, some skeptical, but none of them matter because all your attention is on Seokmin. He’s pacing in the back, hoodie swaying, sneakers squeaking in perfect rhythm with his dramatic stretches. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes your stomach knot—like he knows this experiment isn’t going to go according to protocol.
You clutch your notebook as if it could protect you from the chaos that is about to unfold. Vernon leans against the wall, arms crossed, smirking. “Just remember,” he says, “professionalism is optional when DK’s in the room.”
You ignore him, but you can’t help stealing a glance at Seokmin. He’s grinning, clearly aware that you’re doing it.
—
[Video Transcript – Midterm Set, 09:58 AM]
Observer: Y/N | Performer: Seokmin (DK)
[0:00] DK steps onto the stage, the projector glowing behind him.
[0:02] DK: “Welcome to the midterm experiment. Today, I will attempt humor on a larger scale, scientifically measuring every laugh and blush.”
[0:05] Y/N: scribbles notes frantically, already feeling flustered
[0:08] DK pauses mid-sentence, eyes locking with yours. “Ah, my favorite data point. Still blushing, I see.”
[0:11] Y/N: pen slips, almost drops notebook, laughs into sleeve
Your notes are hopeless. Columns meant for audience reactions are now filled with hearts, arrows pointing toward Seokmin, and illegible scribbles marked “variable: DK effect.” He notices immediately, and a triumphant smirk crosses his face.
[0:15] DK: “Observation compromised, huh? Interesting. I think the observer might be the dependent variable here.”
The class laughs, but you barely notice because every word is aimed directly at you. Vernon’s face in the back of the room is a mixture of amusement and helplessness. He starts tapping notes into his phone, likely documenting your complete loss of composure.
DK’s midterm set is longer than the first, and he’s clearly escalating for your attention. Inside jokes, subtle gestures, even puns that only you understand—every joke lands harder than it should. You try to measure audience engagement, but your hands shake, your pen stutters, and every laugh feels louder than it should.
When he leans slightly closer to the projector, gesturing dramatically with his hands, your heart stutters. You scribble: Independent variable: DK leaning. Heart rate: off the charts.
The worst—and best—moment comes when DK improvises a joke that hits you directly:
DK: “Ever notice how some observers take notes so seriously… they forget to breathe? Someone here might be guilty…”
You freeze. The room goes quiet for a split second. Then, without thinking, you laugh. Loudly. Heart-racing, unable to stop. He grins, satisfied. Vernon groans audibly.
VERNON: She’s laughing again. I’ve lost count. SOS.
—
After the set, the class claps, but you barely hear it. Seokmin walks over to you, brushing past your chair, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his hoodie.
“Careful,” he murmurs, almost conspiratorially. “Your notes are… very revealing.”
You bite your lip and look down at the chaotic page: arrows, hearts, illegible numbers. “It’s still objective,” you lie, though the blush creeping up your neck says otherwise.
He crouches slightly to meet your eye level. “Objective, huh? Because it looks more like… affection metrics to me.”
Your notebook slips again, and he catches it with a wink. “We’ll call this a collaborative experiment.”
Vernon, from across the room, laughs so loudly that half the lab turns around. “Yep. Definitely doomed. All lab rats accounted for.”
Seokmin grins at you, clearly ignoring Vernon, and your heart beats faster. He leans just enough closer that your shoulder brushes his. “Next set,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, “I might need more precise data… directly from the observer.”
You can barely form a coherent response. “I… I’ll try to remain professional,” you manage.
“Good,” he says, smirking. “Try.”
And just like that, you know professional composure has left the room entirely.
—
[Case File – DK’s Private Notes, Midterm]
Subject: Y/N
Observations:
Observer completely compromised. Laughter occurs before, during, and after jokes.
Cheeks red for the majority of set.
Physical proximity correlates directly with blush intensity.
Recommendation: Targeted humor and personal attention recommended for further data collection.
—
By the end of the day, your notebook is a disaster zone: numbers, graphs, doodles, hearts, and illegible notes about DK’s every glance. The experiment is supposed to measure humor and attraction, but in reality, it’s measuring you—your reaction, your flustered fascination, your unwillingness to stay objective.
Vernon watches with a smirk, and Seokmin… well, he’s clearly enjoying every second.
And somehow, despite all the chaos, you’re already looking forward to the next set.
—
The lab is quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound as you settle at your desk, laptop open, notebook at the ready. You’ve been reviewing the footage of Seokmin’s midterm set for what feels like the hundredth time, pretending it’s strictly for analysis, but every laugh, every glance, every subtle gesture makes your chest tighten in ways your scientific notes aren’t supposed to record.
Your inbox pings. You glance down to see a new email from Seokmin. You bite back a groan—your heart races before you even open it.
—
[Email Case File – DK to Y/N]
Subject: Confidential Observations
Y/N,
Today’s data suggests your responses are… fascinating. Your laughter occurs consistently before punchlines, which may indicate anticipation… or personal interest. I’ve included a timestamped video clip for further analysis.
Consider this strictly professional… unless you’d like to discuss findings privately.
DK
—
You reread it, your cheeks heating, and type a reply almost reflexively:
Y/N (reply):
DK,
I assure you, any bias is strictly objective. Though I will admit, your timing may be influencing my measurements… purely as a variable.
Y/N
Seconds later, your laptop pings again. Another email.
DK:
Acknowledged. Noted.
But I might need to repeat the experiment… under controlled, more direct conditions.
DK
You groan, leaning back in your chair, notebook sliding to the floor. Vernon, who has been hovering somewhere near the lab door, snorts.
“Ohhhhhh. That escalated quickly. You’re officially his lab rat. Good luck.”
You groan again, but secretly, there’s a thrill in knowing this is only between you and him. The rest of the class is irrelevant; the experiment is just the two of you now.
—
Later, you meet him by the projector to review clips. He rewinds the video to a joke you laughed at far too hard.
“Notice here,” he murmurs, pointing at the screen, “the observer laughs three seconds too early. Suggests anticipation, maybe… personal interest.”
You glance at him sharply. “I’m recording objective data, not… interest metrics.”
“Objective,” he repeats, smirking. “That’s convenient, because it looks like… something else entirely.”
You groan, burying your face in your notebook. Your notes are hopeless: arrows pointing to him, illegible charts, tiny hearts disguised as statistical markers.
Seokmin crouches slightly, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Honestly… your reactions are the best part of this experiment.”
You lift your head, eyes wide. “I—That’s… you can’t write that in the report.”
“I didn’t,” he says softly, but his grin betrays him. “Just… observational commentary for my own records.”
—
[Video Transcript – Private Lab Review, 2:03 PM]
[0:00] DK rewinds a joke clip. Pauses dramatically.
[0:03] DK: “Here. Observer smiles before punchline. Reaction recorded. Data looks… revealing.”
[0:06] Y/N: scribbles frantic notes, tries to remain objective
[0:08] DK leans closer, hand brushing yours accidentally.
[0:09] Y/N: heart rate spikes, pen trembles on page
The brush of his hand feels like an electric shock, and you’re suddenly acutely aware of every tiny movement between the two of you. Vernon’s soft whistle from the doorway nearly makes you drop your notebook.
“Direct observation confirmed,” he says with a grin.
Seokmin ignores him, crouching closer. “Or maybe I’m just… as affected as you are. Depends on the metric.”
—
The next email from him arrives while you’re scribbling your “official notes”:
DK:
Subject: Follow-Up
Y/N,
If you want to maintain scientific rigor, please consider this a reminder: continued exposure to me may further compromise your observations.
Optional: coffee meeting for “field note review.”
DK
You blink at the screen. Your cheeks burn, and Vernon, leaning over your shoulder, nudges you.
“Field note review? Uh… yeah. That’s not professional anymore.”
You groan, knowing Vernon is right, but also knowing there’s no way you’re going to say no.
—
That evening, as you leave the lab, Seokmin calls softly from behind you: “Don’t forget to bring your notes tomorrow. I might have… further observations to discuss.”
You freeze, then manage a weak smile. “I’ll bring them… for science.”
He grins, walking a step closer. “Good. I think the experiment is getting… interesting.”
And somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize that “interesting” is the understatement of the semester.
—
The lab is packed tighter than ever. Every chair is taken, every laptop open, and you’re frantically reviewing your notes one last time, trying to prepare for the “final experiment” that Seokmin promised would be the most challenging yet.
He’s standing at the front, hoodie pushed back slightly, projecting confidence with every step. His grin makes your chest tighten. Vernon, leaning against the back wall, gives you a dramatic thumbs-up. “Brace yourself. This is it.”
You swallow, flipping open your notebook to the chaos of doodles, hearts disguised as charts, and scribbled notes about DK’s every glance. This is supposed to be about humor and attraction, but by now, it’s clear the experiment is all about the two of you.
Seokmin cues the projector and steps onto the stage. “Final experiment,” he says loudly. “Humor at maximum exposure. Observer attention required.”
You bite your lip, holding the pen like a lifeline.
—
[Video Transcript – Final Set]
Observer: Y/N | Performer: Seokmin (DK)
[0:00] DK paces the stage, every movement exaggerated.
[0:02] DK: “Welcome to the culmination of our semester-long study. Today, we measure humor, attraction, and… observer susceptibility.”
[0:05] Y/N: scribbles notes frantically, already flustered
[0:08] DK pauses mid-joke, eyes locking on yours. “Ah, my favorite data point… you’re still blushing.”
[0:11] Y/N: pen trembles, heart races, illegible notes scatter across page
He launches into a set that’s longer, bolder, and more personal than before. Inside jokes, subtle jabs, puns that only you understand—everything is aimed at making you react. You try to maintain professional distance, but every joke lands like it was written exclusively for you.
At one point, he leans over the projector, brushing your shoulder with his hand. The small contact makes your chest skip a beat. You scribble a frantic note: Independent variable: DK proximity. Heart rate off charts.
Vernon, unable to resist, whispers to someone behind him, “She’s officially lost all objectivity. All systems compromised.”
—
After the set, Seokmin walks over, projecting casual confidence but clearly savoring your flustered state. “So,” he murmurs, voice low, “what do the data say?”
You try to respond, notebook clutched like armor. “Scientific… results… inconclusive,” you manage, voice shaky.
He grins, crouching slightly. “Or maybe,” he murmurs, “they’re conclusive… just not about humor.”
Your pen slips, nearly falling, and he catches it with a wink. “We’ll call this… a joint observation.”
Vernon whistles, shaking his head. “Yep. Complete chaos. Confirmed.”
—
[Email Case File – DK to Y/N, Post-Final Set]
Subject: Experiment Conclusion
Y/N,
The final data are in. Observer completely compromised.Suggestion: a one-on-one debrief… preferably over coffee. Or something more… experimental.
Regards,
DK
—
The lab is quiet now, the semester winding down. You sit with your notebook, reviewing the final compiled data—the chaos of doodles, hearts, and arrows pointing at Seokmin. Officially, your report is “complete,” but unofficially, every page screams him.
Vernon pops his head in, grinning. “Well, all experiments are officially over. How’s your… relationship with DK?”
You groan, covering your face with your hands. “We’re not—this is professional…”
Vernon snorts. “Professional? Yeah, sure. And the cats will do my taxes.”
Seokmin appears at your side, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching you with that infuriatingly charming grin. “So,” he says softly, “the experiment… did it convince you?”
You blink. “Convince me… of what?”
“Of us,” he says simply, crouching slightly so you meet his eyes. “All the measurements, all the notes… they’ve been leading here. To this moment.”
Your heart races, mind spinning. You open your mouth, then close it, overwhelmed.
He leans in slowly. “So, Y/N… what do you say? Want to see the results… together?”
You can’t stop yourself. You nod, barely above a whisper. “Yes.”
And then it happens. The kiss is soft, tentative at first, but full of all the tension and humor and chaos of the semester. Vernon, from the doorway, pretends to clear his throat.
You laugh, blushing, resting your forehead against Seokmin’s. He grins, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “I’d call this… a perfect study outcome.”
“Control group unnecessary. Y/N already convinced.”
You roll your eyes, but can’t stop smiling. The semester may be over, the lab cleared, but somehow… the experiment isn’t done. Not by a long shot.
Another win for this series!!! I loved how unserious Seokmin was the entire time and she was so enamored. The only thing she didn’t doodle was “Mrs. Lee” 😂😂😂
pairing: flower shop owner!seungcheol x reader
synopsis: When you were ten, Seungcheol taught you to blow dandelion seeds and make wishes. Years later, after moving away, you return to town and discover he's inherited his grandmother's flower shop. Inside an old drawer is a collection of childhood notes: "Things I wish for." Almost every one mentions you.
wc: 6.6k
genre: Fluff, Romance, Mild Angst, Slice of Life, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Flower Shop AU
warnings: Grief/Loss of a grandparent (past event), Emotional Discussions about Separation and Missed Opportunities, Nostalgia, References to Childhood Loneliness
a/n: this was very fun to just make cheollie down baddd. this fic is a part of the First Bloom collab hosted by @svthub!
The strangest thing about coming home is discovering that the places you left behind never received the memo that you were gone.
You notice it almost immediately after stepping off the bus.
The old bakery on the corner still has the faded striped awning that seemed enormous when you were ten years old. The convenience store still has the crooked sign hanging above the entrance. Even the park across the road appears unchanged, the swings swaying gently in the afternoon breeze as if time itself had simply decided to settle down here and refuse to move forward.
Only you seem different. Only you seem out of place.
You stand beside your suitcase for a moment longer than necessary, staring down the familiar street while an uncomfortable ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs.
Three days ago, you had been packing up your apartment. Two days ago, you had been sorting through legal documents and answering sympathetic phone calls.
Now, after years of saying you'll visit eventually, after years of finding excuses and postponing plans and convincing yourself there would always be another opportunity, you're back in the town you spent most of your childhood trying to leave.
Not because you wanted to return. Because your grandmother died. The thought lands heavily, even now.
Your grip tightens around the suitcase handle. The funeral had been small. Simple.
Exactly what she would've wanted.
Most of the relatives had already left again, returning to their own lives, while you stayed behind to sort through paperwork and prepare the house for sale.
Just a few weeks, you told yourself. Long enough to finish everything properly. Long enough to say goodbye.
Then you'd leave again. The plan sounds reasonable in theory. In practice, every step through town feels like walking through memories.
The route to your grandmother's house passes the elementary school where you spent countless afternoons pretending to pay attention during class. The creek behind the football field still winds lazily through town, hidden beneath the same willow trees that once provided the backdrop for summer adventures so important they had felt life-changing at the time.
You know exactly where every turn leads. You hate how much of it you remember. The house itself sits exactly where it always has. The garden is slightly overgrown. The mailbox leans to one side. The front porch creaks beneath your weight.
Home.
Not home anymore. But close enough to hurt.
—
The first few days disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities. Boxes. Documents. Phone calls. Dust-covered photo albums.
Closets packed with items your grandmother had somehow convinced herself she might need someday.
You spend hours sorting through decades of accumulated memories, discovering things you forgot existed and things you wish you could forget.
Old school reports. Birthday cards. Drawings. Photographs. Far too many photographs. By the fourth day, the house feels quieter than ever. The silence eventually becomes unbearable.
Which is how you find yourself wandering through town with no destination in mind, hands shoved into your jacket pockets while the late afternoon sun bathes everything in warm gold.
You tell yourself you're just getting fresh air. You tell yourself you aren't searching for anything. The lie lasts approximately fifteen minutes.
Because eventually you turn a corner. And stop.
The flower shop still stands exactly where it always did. For a second, you think you've imagined it.
The familiar brick storefront. The flower boxes beneath the windows. The painted sign hanging above the entrance.
Only one thing has changed.
The name.
Your chest tightens. Not because the shop exists. Because you know who owns it now. You learned it from one of the older ladies at the funeral.
"Oh, have you seen Seungcheol yet?"
As if that were the most natural question in the world. As if years hadn't passed. As if hearing his name didn't still do something strange to your heartbeat. You haven't seen him. Not yet.
You hadn't planned to.
But suddenly there he is. Standing inside the shop. Alive. Real. Older.
The breath catches somewhere in your throat. For a moment, all you can do is stare.
He's arranging flowers near the front counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he focuses on adjusting a bouquet.
You knew he would have changed. Of course he would've changed.
The last time you saw him, he was fourteen years old and trying very hard not to cry while helping load boxes into a moving truck.
The man standing in front of you now is nothing like that boy. Except he is. The shape of his smile when he speaks to a customer. The way he absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck. The slight furrow between his brows when concentrating. Some things remain stubbornly familiar.
Then, as if sensing your stare, he looks up. And sees you.
The world doesn't stop. Nothing dramatic happens. Cars continue driving past. The shop door remains closed. The flowers continue existing. But something shifts.
You know it does because Seungcheol freezes. The bouquet slips slightly in his hands. For one stunned second, neither of you move.
Then his eyes widen. Your stomach drops. And suddenly you're ten years old again.
—
"You have to make a wish first."
"I already made one."
"That doesn't count."
"It does count."
"No, it doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
Ten-year-old Seungcheol had always been incredibly confident for someone who spent half his time making things up.
The two of you sat cross-legged in a field behind his grandmother's flower shop, surrounded by dandelions and sunlight.
He held one proudly between his fingers. You rolled your eyes.
"You literally just invented that rule."
"Every game has rules."
"This isn't a game."
"It is now."
You groaned dramatically. He ignored you.
"Close your eyes."
"No."
"Y/N."
"No."
"Trust me."
At ten years old, trusting Seungcheol was the easiest thing in the world. You closed your eyes.
"Now make a wish."
You sighed. Made one anyway.
"Done."
"Okay."
You opened your eyes just in time to watch him blow the dandelion apart. White seeds scattered into the wind.
"What'd you wish for?" you asked.
His expression became immediately suspicious.
"You can't tell people."
"You made that up too."
"Maybe."
"You definitely did."
"But what if it's true?"
You laughed. He grinned. The sunlight caught in his hair.
And somehow, without either of you realizing it, that afternoon became one of the memories that followed you everywhere.
—
The bell above the flower shop door rings softly when you finally step inside. The scent hits you immediately.
Fresh flowers. Soil. Greenery. Something sweet and familiar.
The same scent that used to cling to Seungcheol whenever he spent all day helping his grandmother. The same scent you haven't thought about in years.
He stands behind the counter now. Watching you. Still looking mildly shocked. You suspect you look exactly the same. For several awkward seconds, nobody says anything. Then—
"Hi."
Brilliant. Absolutely incredible. Years apart and that's the best you can manage. Seungcheol laughs. The sound eases something inside your chest instantly.
"Hi."
His voice is deeper than you remember. Everything about him feels older. Not unfamiliar. Just older.
"You came back."
The words aren't accusatory. If anything, they sound slightly disbelieving. You nod.
"Temporarily."
Something flickers across his face. Gone too quickly to identify.
"Right."
The conversation stumbles forward after that. Careful. Tentative. Questions about work. About family. About how long you've been back.
Neither of you mentions how strange this feels. Neither of you mentions how many years disappeared between one conversation and the next.
Eventually another customer enters. Then another. The moment passes. You tell yourself that's probably for the best. Still, when you finally leave, Seungcheol walks you to the door.
"If you're bored," he says casually, "you can stop by anytime."
You blink.
"What?"
"The shop."
He gestures vaguely around himself.
"I'm usually here."
The invitation sounds simple. Normal. Yet your heart reacts as if he's offered something much bigger. You smile before you can stop yourself.
"Maybe I will."
His smile mirrors yours.
"Good."
—
The following afternoon, you return. Then again two days later. Then once more. Not intentionally.
It just keeps happening.
Sometimes you help carry deliveries. Sometimes you organize shelves. Sometimes you sit near the counter pretending to read while Seungcheol works.
The ease returns surprisingly quickly. Not completely. There are still years between you. Still things unsaid. But the foundation remains.
As if friendship had simply been waiting patiently beneath the surface. One evening, after closing time, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to answer a phone call. You volunteer to finish organizing a neglected storage room.
The space is cramped. Dusty. Filled with forgotten boxes. You sneeze twice. Immediately regret your life choices.
And then you notice the drawer. Small. Wooden. Hidden behind a stack of old gardening catalogues.
Curiosity wins.
You pull it open. Inside are dozens of folded papers.
Hundreds, maybe.
All carefully preserved. You hesitate before reaching for the top one. The paper is yellowed with age.
The handwriting is instantly recognizable. Even after all these years.
Your breath catches.
Slowly, you unfold the note. Across the top of the page, written in uneven childhood handwriting, are four words.
Things I wish for.
And underneath:
For Grandma's roses to survive winter.
For my knee to stop hurting.
For Y/N to stop crying when they lose races because I don't like it.
At the bottom, squeezed into the corner:
I think wishes work better when you blow two dandelions instead of one.
– Seungcheol
You stare at the page. Then read it again. And again.
Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak. The sound barely registers.
Because suddenly you're ten years old.
Standing in a field.
Holding a dandelion.
Listening to a boy make up rules about wishes.
And for the first time since returning home, you wonder whether maybe some memories never left at all.
—
The problem with nostalgia is that it never arrives alone.
It comes hand-in-hand with comparison, with grief, with all the quiet questions that only appear when you're staring at the person you used to know and trying to reconcile them with the person standing in front of you now.
By the end of the second week, you have become painfully aware of that fact. You have also become painfully aware of how often you find yourself at the flower shop. The first few visits had reasonable explanations.
You needed somewhere to walk. You needed a break from sorting through your grandmother's belongings. You needed a distraction.
The seventh visit is significantly harder to justify.
Especially when you're carrying two iced coffees and walking toward the shop before you've fully finished convincing yourself you're only dropping by for a few minutes.
The bell above the door rings. Seungcheol immediately looks up. The smile that appears on his face happens so naturally that neither of you seem to notice it.
You do. Unfortunately.
"You're late."
You stop.
"What?"
He gestures toward the wall clock.
"You usually get here fifteen minutes ago."
The realization settles over both of you simultaneously.
Because he's right. Because apparently you've established a routine. Because apparently Seungcheol has noticed.
Heat crawls up your neck.
"You timed me?"
"I didn't time you."
"You literally knew I was fifteen minutes late."
"I just noticed."
"That's timing me."
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
His laugh fills the shop. You hate how much you missed that sound.
—
The flower shop feels different now that you've spent enough time inside it to notice the details. The place still carries traces of his grandmother. The old cash register remains displayed on a shelf near the counter.
Framed photographs line one wall.
The ancient rocking chair in the corner somehow survived several decades despite looking permanently one bad day away from collapse.
But Seungcheol is everywhere too. The organization. The handwritten signs. The new displays. The garden outside. The entire place feels like a conversation between generations.
A continuation rather than a replacement.
His grandmother would've loved that. You think she already knew he would inherit the shop.
You glance up from the arrangement you're helping prepare.
"Daisies?"
"Dandelions."
He nods toward the window.
Outside, several bright yellow flowers have appeared amongst the carefully maintained garden beds.
You smile.
"They're kind of pretty."
"Exactly."
He sounds offended.
"Kind of?"
"Okay, they're pretty."
"There we go."
"You care way too much about dandelions."
"I inherited that."
His voice softens slightly.
"Grandma used to say they were the bravest flowers."
You pause.
"What does that mean?"
He carefully trims a stem.
"They grow everywhere."
A shrug.
"They survive getting stepped on."
Another cut.
"People call them weeds, but they keep blooming anyway."
You watch him for a moment. Sunlight filters through the front window. Dust drifts lazily through the air.
The shop smells faintly of lavender and soil. For a second, the years between childhood and now seem remarkably small.
"They sound stubborn."
Seungcheol grins.
"Exactly."
—
The first time someone mistakes you for his partner, you're unprepared. The culprit is an elderly customer named Mrs. Kim.
One moment she's purchasing carnations. The next she's looking between you and Seungcheol with obvious satisfaction.
"It's nice to finally meet them."
You blink.
"I'm sorry?"
Mrs. Kim waves dismissively.
"Don't worry."
Seungcheol visibly tenses. You immediately become suspicious.
"Don't worry about what?"
The woman pats your hand.
"Oh, honey, we've all heard about you."
Silence. Complete silence. You slowly turn toward Seungcheol. He refuses to make eye contact.
"Seungcheol."
"No."
"What does she mean?"
"No."
Mrs. Kim laughs. The traitor.
"You know, Y/N this and Y/N that and—"
"Mrs. Kim."
The warning in his voice only makes her smile widen. You stare. He stares determinedly at the floor.
A customer enters. The conversation mercifully dies.
Unfortunately your curiosity survives.
—
You corner him later.
"What exactly have people heard?"
"Nothing."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It isn't."
"Seungcheol."
He groans.
"You're impossible."
"You avoided the question."
"I mentioned you sometimes."
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes."
The response is entirely too fast. You narrow your eyes.
"How many times?"
His expression immediately suggests the answer is significantly higher than either of you would like.
—
That night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the drawer again. You know you probably shouldn't be reading the notes.
They're private. Personal. Hidden for a reason. And yet. The temptation wins.
Again.
The next paper is dated in messy twelve-year-old handwriting. You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To beat Jeonghan at soccer.
To grow taller.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Don't tell them I wrote that.
You stare. Then reread the sentence. Then reread it again.
The words somehow feel heavier each time.
For Y/N to stay here forever.
Simple. Innocent. Childish. Yet something twists painfully inside your chest.
Because you didn't stay. Because neither of you had any control over that. Because twelve-year-old Seungcheol didn't know he was writing a wish that would never come true.
—
Middle school had been awkward. Not terrible. Not dramatic. Just awkward.
The age where suddenly everyone became aware that boys and girls existed. The age where friendships acquired strange new rules nobody explained properly.
You remember sitting beside Seungcheol during lunch one afternoon. He arrived carrying two juice boxes. Immediately handed you one.
Completely normal. Entirely routine. Unfortunately half your classmates witnessed the exchange. The teasing started instantly.
"Ooooh."
"Look."
"It's Y/N and Seungcheol."
You remember wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Seungcheol had looked equally horrified. The two of you spent the rest of lunch aggressively denying accusations nobody had technically made.
Neither of you acknowledged how red your faces became.
—
You wake the next morning determined not to think about old letters. The determination lasts approximately twenty minutes.
By lunch, you're back at the flower shop. By evening, you're helping prepare arrangements for a wedding. By closing time, you're laughing so hard you nearly drop an entire bucket of peonies.
The transition feels alarmingly natural. As if this version of life has been waiting patiently for your return. As if leaving had only been an interruption.
Not an ending.
The thought unsettles you.
—
The following week, the town begins treating your presence as permanent. The bakery owner asks whether you've found a job yet. The librarian asks if you're staying. Three separate neighbors mention available apartments.
You spend most conversations repeating the same answer.
"I'm only here temporarily."
Every single person responds the same way.
"We'll see."
The most irritating part is that nobody sounds uncertain.
Least of all Seungcheol.
—
One afternoon, while helping water plants behind the shop, you finally ask.
"Did everyone in this town secretly agree to annoy me?"
He laughs.
"Probably."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
You splash water toward him. He dodges. Barely.
"Traitor."
"I didn't do anything."
"You never tell them I'm leaving."
His expression changes slightly. The smile remains. Something else disappears.
"Oh."
Immediately, guilt settles in your stomach. You hadn't meant—
"I mean—"
"It's okay."
The words are gentle. Too gentle. The conversation moves on.
Yet the silence lingers.
—
That evening, while closing up, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to search for inventory records. The opportunity presents itself. You tell yourself you're only checking one note.
One. That's all.
The lie fools absolutely nobody. Especially not yourself. You return to the drawer. Select another folded paper. Open it carefully.
The handwriting is older this time.
Less childish. More controlled. The date makes your chest tighten.
The year you moved away.
Things I wish for:
To have my own flower shop someday.
For Grandma to stop working so hard.
For Y/N to smile like they did before they found out they're moving.
I hate this wish.
The words blur slightly. You blink. Look away. Look back.
The paper remains unchanged.
The same ink. The same handwriting. The same impossible honesty.
For a long moment, you simply sit there.
Remembering.
—
The moving truck had arrived too early. Or maybe it only felt that way.
You remember cardboard boxes. Your mother's stressed voice. Relatives carrying furniture.
Everything happening much too fast. You remember friends saying goodbye. Teachers promising you'd make new ones. Adults insisting change was exciting.
You remember hating every second of it.
Most of all, you remember Seungcheol. Standing beside the driveway. Hands shoved into his pockets. Trying very hard to act normal.
You'd both promised to stay in touch. You'd both promised nothing would change. At fourteen, promises like that feel unbreakable.
Reality is less cooperative. Calls become texts. Texts become occasional messages. Then birthdays. Then silence.
Not because either of you stopped caring.
Because life happened. Because growing up happened. Because distance is sometimes quieter than heartbreak.
—
A floorboard creaks overhead. You quickly fold the letter. Return it to the drawer. Close everything.
By the time Seungcheol returns, you're standing beside a shelf pretending to examine gardening supplies.
His eyes narrow immediately.
"You look suspicious."
"What?"
"You look guilty."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
You point at a random bag of fertilizer.
"Did you know this contains nitrogen?"
The silence that follows is devastating. Then Seungcheol starts laughing.
The kind of laugh that forces him to lean against a table for support. You hate him. Possibly. A little.
—
Later, after you've returned home, sleep proves impossible. Your mind keeps returning to the notes.
The wishes. The years. Everything that existed while you were gone.
Eventually curiosity wins one final time. Near midnight, you retrieve the drawer once more.
One last letter. Just one. You unfold it slowly.
The handwriting immediately looks different.
Shakier. Messier. Lonelier.
The date makes your stomach drop. A few months after you left. Nothing else is written on the page.
No numbered list. No jokes. No soccer. No flowers.
Just a single sentence.
Things I wish for:
Y/N comes back.
Just once. That's all. For a long moment, the room remains completely silent.
Outside, wind rattles softly against the windows. Inside, your chest feels painfully tight. You remember all the times you almost visited. All the summers you said maybe next year. All the holidays that slipped away. All the opportunities lost to convenience and distance and the assumption that there would always be more time.
The note trembles slightly in your hands.
And for the first time since returning home, you begin to understand that maybe you weren't the only person who spent years missing someone.
The realization follows you long after the lights go out. Long after the letter is folded away. Long after sleep finally arrives.
And somewhere across town, completely unaware of the storm currently unfolding inside your chest, Seungcheol closes his flower shop for the evening and locks the front door, still carrying pieces of a wish he made twelve years ago.
—
The worst part about reading the letters is that they make everything impossible to ignore. Not impossible in the dramatic sense. Not in the way movies portray it, where suddenly every interaction becomes charged with unbearable tension and every glance feels life-altering.
Instead, it becomes impossible to ignore the accumulation of small things. The details. The habits. The spaces someone occupies in your life without permission.
Before finding the drawer, spending every afternoon at the flower shop had felt natural.
After finding the drawer, you become painfully aware that Seungcheol automatically hands you a drink before grabbing one for himself.
That he remembers how you take your coffee. That he moves around the shop with the unconscious expectation that you'll be somewhere nearby. That every time the front door opens, his eyes immediately search for you before searching for the customer.
None of these things mean anything individually. Together, they begin to feel like something dangerous. Something you've spent years pretending not to recognize. Something that looks suspiciously like first love growing up and refusing to leave.
—
The flower festival arrives at exactly the wrong time. Or perhaps exactly the right time. You haven't decided which.
The annual event has existed for as long as you can remember, transforming the town into something bright and overwhelming for a weekend every spring. Streets fill with flower displays. Local businesses compete for awards. Families wander between stalls carrying bouquets and iced drinks.
As children, you and Seungcheol used to treat it like the most important event of the year. Now, as adults, it means two weeks of preparation and approximately zero free time. Not that you mind.
Being busy makes it easier not to think.
Unfortunately, Seungcheol keeps ruining that strategy by existing.
—
"You're staring."
You nearly drop the box you're carrying.
"What?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"You've been looking at me for ten seconds."
"I was not."
"You were."
"No."
"Y/N."
The use of your name should not feel that unfair. It does. Especially when accompanied by a smile. Especially when he knows exactly what he's doing. You point aggressively at the display you're assembling.
"I was looking at the flowers."
"Sure."
"Why would I stare at you?"
His grin widens. You immediately regret speaking. Across the room, an elderly volunteer watching preparations sighs dramatically.
"Please date already."
Both of you nearly choke.
—
The town has become unbearable. Not because the people are cruel. Quite the opposite. The people are far too invested.
Everyone appears convinced that you and Seungcheol are one conversation away from getting married. The florist across the street keeps offering relationship advice. Mrs. Kim has started winking whenever she enters the shop. Even children seem suspicious.
At one point, a ten-year-old asks if you're Seungcheol's spouse. You spend five full minutes recovering.
Seungcheol spends ten.
—
The problem is that every joke lands slightly closer to the truth than either of you are comfortable admitting.
Because somewhere between sorting flowers and revisiting childhood memories and reading letters you definitely should not be reading, something has changed.
Or maybe nothing changed. Maybe you've simply stopped running from it.
You don't know which possibility scares you more.
—
One evening, after the shop closes, rain begins unexpectedly. Heavy. Relentless.
The kind that turns roads silver beneath streetlights. You're trapped. Not that either of you seem particularly bothered.
Seungcheol locks the front door and flips the sign to CLOSED.
The two of you remain inside. Waiting. The shop feels different after hours. Quieter. More intimate.
The scent of flowers seems stronger somehow. The silence stretches comfortably between conversations. You sit together behind the counter drinking tea.
Outside, rain taps steadily against the glass. Inside, memories linger everywhere.
"You know," Seungcheol says eventually, "Grandma used to think you were going to marry me."
You nearly inhale your tea.
"What?"
His laughter echoes through the empty shop.
"I'm serious."
"Why would she think that?"
"You were ten."
"That's not an answer."
"You followed me around everywhere."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"You're making things up."
"I'm not."
"You are."
He shakes his head.
"She used to tell me all the time."
The smile softens.
"'That one loves you very much, Seungcheol.'"
Something catches unexpectedly in your chest. You look away.
The rain suddenly becomes fascinating.
—
Later that night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting on the floor beside the drawer again. You don't even pretend to resist anymore. The letters feel less like an invasion now.
More like a conversation delayed by years. The next note is dated two years after you left.
You unfold it carefully.
Things I wish for:
To stop thinking about Y/N.
Didn't work.
For several seconds, you simply stare. Then laugh. Actually laugh.
Because somehow, despite everything, fourteen-year-old Seungcheol and sixteen-year-old Seungcheol remain unmistakably the same person.
Hopeless. Earnest. Painfully honest. You continue reading.
The next note is eighteen.
Things I wish for:
To see Y/N again.
To stop comparing everyone else to Y/N.
Didn't work either.
The smile disappears. A strange ache replaces it. You know what he's implying.
You wish you didn't.
Because suddenly every year between then and now feels tangible.
Every missed opportunity. Every person he met. Every relationship that apparently failed to become something lasting.
The thought follows you into the final letter. Age twenty-one.
Things I wish for:
Y/N.
Just Y/N.
No explanation. No joke. No elaboration. Only your name.
The page trembles slightly in your hands.
—
The next morning, you arrive at the flower shop exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Possibly spiritually.
Seungcheol notices immediately.
"Rough night?"
You consider your options. Lie. Deflect. Change the subject.
Instead:
"Why didn't you throw them away?"
His hands stop moving. The flowers remain half-arranged between his fingers. For a moment, neither of you speak.
Then:
"The notes?"
You nod. The silence stretches. Long enough for your pulse to become annoying. Long enough for the question to feel dangerous. Finally, Seungcheol exhales softly.
"Because throwing them away felt like giving up."
The answer lands harder than expected. You stare. He continues looking at the flowers.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you looks away. The shop suddenly feels too quiet.
Too small. Too honest.
—
The conversation changes after that. Not dramatically. Not immediately. But something shifts.
A wall lowers. A distance disappears. You begin talking about things you've avoided for years.
University. Family. The struggles nobody posted online. The loneliness. The uncertainty. The versions of yourselves that existed while the other wasn't there to witness them.
For the first time, it feels like you're catching up properly. Not on events.
On each other.
—
The breakthrough arrives unexpectedly. Through gossip. Naturally. Because this town cannot help itself.
You're helping arrange flowers outside the festival pavilion when Mrs. Kim appears. You should have run. Instead, you smile politely. A mistake.
"Did you know," she begins immediately, "that Seungcheol never brought anyone serious home?"
Your heart stops.
"What?"
Mrs. Kim continues cheerfully.
"Such a waste."
You stare. The woman sighs dramatically.
"Everyone liked him."
The implications begin arriving one by one. Slowly. Terribly. You don't want to ask. You ask anyway.
"Why?"
Mrs. Kim blinks.
"Why what?"
"Why didn't he date anyone?"
The answer comes far too quickly.
"As if we don't all know."
Then she walks away. Leaving you alone with approximately twelve different emotional crises.
—
The festival opens the next day. Crowds flood the streets. Music drifts through the air. Children race between displays. Customers fill the shop. The entire town seems alive.
You should be enjoying it. Instead, you're distracted.
Because every time you look at Seungcheol, another letter appears in your memory.
Another wish. Another year. Another version of him quietly hoping for something he thought he would never get.
By evening, exhaustion settles over everyone. The crowds thin. Sunlight begins fading. And somehow you find yourselves alone behind the shop.
Again.
The garden glows gold beneath the setting sun. Dandelions sway gently amongst the flower beds.
The same flowers. The same stubborn flowers. Hope disguised as weeds.
Seungcheol sits beside you on a wooden bench. Close. Not touching. Close enough. For several minutes, neither of you speaks. The silence feels full. Waiting. Anticipating.
Like the final moments before a storm breaks. Then he says quietly:
"I was happy you came back."
Your breath catches. The confession isn't romantic. Not technically. But it feels significant anyway. You glance toward him. His gaze remains fixed on the garden.
A nervous habit you've started recognizing.
"I was happy too."
The words come easily. Truth always does. He smiles. Small. Soft. Real.
And suddenly you're struck by a realization so obvious it almost feels ridiculous. Every important moment in your life somehow leads back to him. Every memory. Every wish. Every version of home.
The thought settles heavily between your ribs. Not uncomfortable. Just undeniable. The sun sinks lower. The dandelions sway.
And for the first time, you begin wondering whether the final letter in the drawer isn't actually the end of the story.
Maybe it's only the beginning. Because tomorrow is the final day of the flower festival. Tomorrow you'll finish sorting the last boxes from your grandmother's house. Tomorrow you'll have to decide whether you're leaving again.
And somewhere deep down, beneath years of distance and excuses and carefully maintained walls, a small stubborn hope begins to bloom.
Much like a dandelion. Refusing to die. Refusing to be ignored. Refusing, despite everything, to stop growing.
—
The last day of the flower festival arrives far too quickly. You know this because you spend most of the morning trying not to think about it. Unfortunately, thinking about something and trying not to think about something are often the exact same activity.
By noon, you're painfully aware that this is your final week in town. By three o'clock, you've mentally packed your suitcase twice. By five, you've considered extending your stay. By six, you've considered cancelling your return entirely. None of these thoughts help.
Especially because every possible future seems to revolve around the same person. Across the square, Seungcheol is helping a little girl choose flowers for her mother. You watch him crouch down so they're eye level. Watch him listen seriously to her explanation. Watch him help arrange a tiny bouquet.
The girl leaves looking delighted. Seungcheol looks equally pleased. The sight hurts. Not because it's sad. Because it feels familiar.
Because it feels like home.
Because somewhere along the way, without realizing it, you've started measuring places by whether or not he exists in them.
And that seems like a dangerous way to live.
—
The festival winds down slowly. Stalls begin packing away displays. Families drift home. The streets gradually quiet.
For the first time all weekend, the town feels peaceful. You spend most of the evening helping return decorations to storage.
Boxes. Signs. Flower stands. The work is repetitive enough to keep your hands busy. Not your thoughts.
Those remain frustratingly active. By the time darkness settles over town, only a handful of people remain.
The cleanup continues. The shop stays open late. And eventually you find yourself alone.
Again. In the storage room. Again. Standing in front of the drawer. Again.
At this point, you suspect fate has completely given up pretending to be subtle.
—
The final note is hidden beneath all the others. Tucked carefully at the very bottom. Almost as if someone wanted it protected. Your pulse quickens immediately. Because unlike the others, this paper looks newer.
Not recent. Just newer. Adult handwriting. Adult paper. Adult ink.
Slowly, you unfold it. And the world narrows.
Things I wish for:
I don't think this one belongs to a dandelion anymore.
I think some wishes are supposed to be said.
I love Y/N.
I've loved them since we were kids making rules about wishes in the park.
And if they come back someday, maybe I'll finally tell them.
– Seungcheol
For a long moment, nothing happens. You simply stare. Reading the words once. Twice. Again. As if repetition might somehow make them less overwhelming.
It doesn't.
The confession sits plainly on the page. No jokes. No hiding. No pretending. Just the truth. The same truth that has apparently existed for years. The same truth you've spent the entire month slowly uncovering one letter at a time.
Outside the storage room, a floorboard creaks.
You look up.
Your heart immediately attempts escape.
Because Seungcheol is standing in the doorway. And judging by his expression, he knows exactly what you're holding.
—
"Oh."
Brilliant. An excellent response. Truly.
Years of emotional buildup and the first thing either of you manages is:
"Oh."
Seungcheol closes his eyes. Briefly. The expression on his face suggests he is considering several possible methods of spontaneous death.
"You found that one."
You hold up the paper.
"A little late to ask me not to read it."
His groan echoes off the walls. You almost laugh. Almost.
If your heart wasn't currently beating hard enough to qualify as a medical emergency. The silence stretches. Neither of you seem sure how to continue.
Finally:
"You were never supposed to find that."
Your eyebrows rise.
"There are literally eight hundred letters in that drawer."
"There are not eight hundred."
"There are enough."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Then disappears. The seriousness returns. And suddenly the air changes. The humor fades. The truth remains.
"You meant it?"
The question comes out quieter than intended. Seungcheol looks at the floor. Then the shelves. Then literally anywhere except you.
Eventually, he exhales.
"Yeah."
Just one word. Simple. Certain. Enough.
Your chest tightens painfully. Because there is no hesitation. No uncertainty. No attempt to take it back. Just honesty.
The kind that takes years to build. The kind that only appears when someone is finally tired of hiding.
"Since we were kids?"
A small laugh escapes him.
"Unfortunately."
The response is so Seungcheol that tears immediately threaten.
"You make it sound tragic."
"It was."
Now he smiles. Softly.
"I liked you for fifteen years."
Your laugh comes out suspiciously emotional.
"I was very committed."
The tears win. Just slightly. Enough for your vision to blur. Enough for Seungcheol's expression to immediately change. Concern replacing nervousness.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'm having a normal reaction."
"This doesn't seem normal."
"It absolutely isn't."
And somehow that breaks the tension. Both of you laugh. Both of you look slightly overwhelmed. Both of you look suspiciously close to crying.
When the laughter fades, the truth remains. Patient. Waiting. You stare down at the letter again.
At your name. At years of wishes. At every version of him that existed before this moment.
Ten years old. Twelve. Fourteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-six. Every single one hoping for the same thing. Every single one writing your name.
The realization settles heavily inside your chest. Not because it's surprising.
Because it isn't. Not anymore.
Somewhere between the first letter and the last, you've already known.
You simply weren't ready to admit it.
"Do you know something funny?"
Seungcheol looks confused.
"A dangerous start."
You ignore him.
"I used to wish for you too."
The words leave before you can stop them. His expression freezes. Completely.
"What?"
You laugh softly. Because honestly, the universe has a terrible sense of humor.
"Every birthday."
You look down at the letter.
"Every shooting star."
A smile. Small. Embarrassed.
"Every dandelion."
Silence. Absolute silence.
"Seriously?"
You nod. His eyes widen.
"You never told me."
"You never told me."
"That's because I was terrified."
"So was I."
The answer arrives instantly. Truth again. Always truth.
—
The confession isn't dramatic. There are no grand speeches. No perfectly rehearsed declarations. No movie-worthy dialogue.
Instead, there is honesty. Messy honesty. The kind built from years of friendship.
Years of absence. Years of missing someone without fully understanding the shape of that feeling.
You talk. Really talk. For the first time. About moving away. About losing touch. About all the almost-visits.
The unanswered messages. The missed opportunities. The people you both tried and failed to become. And somehow, through all of it, the conversation keeps returning to the same conclusion.
You found your way back. Not immediately. Not perfectly. But eventually. You came back. And he waited. Not intentionally. Not actively. Just quietly.
Like someone protecting a wish.
—
The flower shop closes early the following evening. Not because business is slow. Because Seungcheol insists on taking you somewhere.
You recognize the destination immediately. The field.
The one behind the shop. The one from childhood. The one where everything started.
The walk there feels strangely familiar. As if no time has passed. As if every version of yourselves still exists somewhere among the grass.
The field is smaller than you remember. Most places are. The dandelions aren't.
They remain everywhere.
Bright. Stubborn. Impossible to ignore.
Exactly like him.
—
"Do you remember the rules?" Seungcheol asks. You laugh.
"The rules changed every week."
"They were very sophisticated."
"They were completely made up."
"They were based on science."
"They absolutely were not."
His offended expression is immediate. You grin. Some things never change.
Thank God.
—
Eventually the conversation fades. The evening settles around you. Warm. Peaceful. Comfortable.
Seungcheol picks a dandelion.
Then another. Holding one out. You accept it automatically.
Like muscle memory. Like childhood. Like home.
The white seeds tremble gently in the breeze. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
"What are you wishing for?"
The question is familiar. The same question from years ago. The same field. The same flowers. The same boy.
Only now he's a man looking at you like you're the answer to something. You stare at the dandelion. Then at him. Then smile.
"Nothing."
His eyebrows lift.
"Nothing?"
You shake your head.
"No."
The answer feels surprisingly easy. Certain. Complete.
For the first time in a very long time, there is nothing left to ask for.
No missing piece. No distance. No unanswered question. No wish waiting to be granted.
Just this. Just him. Just the future.
Whatever shape it takes. And somehow, that's enough.
More than enough.
Seungcheol smiles. Slowly. Softly. The kind of smile that belongs entirely to you.
Then together, sitting side by side in a field full of dandelions, you blow the seeds into the evening air.
Thousands of tiny white fragments drift upward.
Carried by the wind. Carried toward whatever comes next. Not because you need wishes anymore.
But because some traditions deserve to survive. Some things deserve to bloom again.
And some first loves, despite distance and time and every reason they should have faded, are stubborn enough to wait.
Like dandelions. Like hope.
Like Choi Seungcheol.
Like you.
The seeds disappear into the sunset. This time, neither of you watches them go.
Because for the first time, you're both looking in the same direction.