fer ꪆ୧

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎' JONGSEONG

he comes up from behind, his hands snake around your waist while his head leans on your shoulder. while you cut up some fruit, he watches you move so silently.

jay slowly leans to peck your cheek, but you suddenly move away from him.

his face was a literal question mark when you glanced at him, trying not to laugh.

"what was that?" he asked, confusion lacing his voice.

"what was what?" you asked, staying oblivious on purpose.

he sighed and took your hands away from the knife and placed it away. he turned you around to corner you, pressing your hips against the kitchen counter.

"kiss me." jay said, his voice stern.

"mm, make me." you teased him further, and since you wanted to play he agreed with a silent stare, but he was going to play his way.

his hands gripped your hips harder as his lips suddenly crashed onto yours. the kiss was full of unspoken feelings even though you both just kissed earlier that day. it was everything you were searching for and you didn't even know it.

when jay pulled away, you leaned forward, chasing his lips.

"kiss me." he said, out of breath while he whispered.

you didn't need to hear it again as you rejoined your lips with his.

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎' JAEYUN

you're not really sure if you would count this as your ideal date; building the red bull lego model car with jake on the floor. but here you were cross legged, handing out whatever piece you could find to the nerd beside you.

"the blue 2x6 brick please." he asked, extending his palm without looking at you.

you give it to him.

"mm, the black circle thingy," he asked again.

you sighed, while giving it to him.

"hmmm," he examined. "kiss please?" jake asked, finally looking at you. you were thankful he acknowledged you, but it took him long enough.

"why don't you go kiss daniel riccardo." you pouted as you stood up from your seat.

he whined, seeing you leave as he quickly stood up after you, reaching out to hold your hand.

"baby, 'm sorry." jake pouted seeing you so sad and neglected.

"no go away." but you'd actually kill him if he did.

he came closer, his arms gripping at your sides. "i'm sorry," jake dragged on. "really am, pinky."

the boy said, before coming closer to forcefully giving a peck on your cheek. you tried to dodge it, but it was no use.

he kissed you all over your face until you physically couldn't breath without laughing. "forgive me now?" he asked, batting his eyelashes at you like that would work ( it did ).

"fine, but I swear if you─"

and just like that, he shut you up with a real kiss.

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎' SUNGHOON

he had a routine, sunghoon always did. he put on his favourite black coat and took his briefcase and jus as he was about to step foot out of the house, he waited for you to come down to give him his goodbye kiss.

you headed to the door where he was standing and adjusted his tie. but your eyes never reached his lips.

“forgetting something?”

you shake your head twice before trying to hide your smile. you hoped this would work, but with knowing sunghoon, he'd stay in place before he got his goodbye kiss.

his hands find your waist, closing the gap between you two. "use that pretty head of yours to remember." he said, his voice soft and gentle while a small smile played on his lips.

you blushed immediately looking away from him. but his fingers slipped beneath your chin, making you look at him. "come on baby, i need to get to work."

"you're so needy." you smiled at his antics, but that was all it took for you to drop the act and kiss him silly.

your hands wrapped around his neck and his grip on your waist tightened. he kissed you with extra passion, extra force. sunghoon didn't care if he was late for work, if it meant he spent every moment on your lips.

"can't imagine my mornings without your kisses." sunghoon murmured as you pulled out.

"is that all i am to you?" you pout jokingly, "just morning kisses?"

"you're so much more." his voice laced with sincerity and care.

and you knew it came from the heart, because he never looked at someone else the way he was looking at your right now.

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎' SUNOO

sunoo thought the world ended.

did he do something wrong?

the moment you turn your head to miss the kiss he was about to give, his jaw falls ajar. titling his head, he thought this was serious until he saw that sublt smile on your face before you were about to break into a fit of laughter.

"you just─" he pouted, words not forming in his mouth. "baby, don't dodge my kisses!"

he crosses his arms, slightly whining as you looked away. "too bad you keep missing." you smirked at his sour face.

within seconds, he had you pinned down on the bed, trying to give you a successful kiss. but everytime, you would jerk your head away so it would be almost impossible for him.

"yn, be honest. do you love me?" that question itself made you freeze.

ofcourse you did. you were just being silly.

but what you didn't know was that sunoo already made his move while you were still. gently cupping you face to place the lightest kiss on your lips.

"gotcha." he whispered against your lips, not wanting to leave your embrace.

you wrapped your hands around his neck, bringing him closer. "that's unfair." you smiled softly at his antics.

but honestly, you didn't care. not when he was this close to you, looking at you like you were his entire world.

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎' JUNGWON

in the entirety of your relationship with him, you had never once missed his kisses. but that ended today when he beat you at mario kart for the umpteenth time today.

your lips jutted as you crossed your arms while he embraced his sweet victory, not noticing that you were being sulky.

he turned his head to the side, your face making him smile. in his eyes, you looked the cutest right now.

"come on, pretty. don't make that face." he said, coming closer to you on the couch.

when he leaned in to press a kiss onto your cheek, you jerked your head away with a 'hmph'. jungwon let out a breathy laugh at your hissy fit.

before you could look at his face, he wrapped his arms around your waist and picked you up. "jungwon! what are you doing?" you yelped as you were lifted into the air.

"give me my kiss!" he demanded, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

"never!" you playfully refused. "let me win first."

for jungwon, everything was a competition for him. so letting someone win over him? over his dead body. but you weren't someone, no you were his pretty girl, the one he adored the most.

so he wouldn't have to think twice before nodding along to your demands. "baby, i'll let you win a thousand times."

you giggled at his cheesy words before joinign your lips with his in a sweet kiss.

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎' RIKI

he's such a baby. you thought.

you whipped your head away once when he leaned in. you just wanted to see what he would do. riki pulled away, his eyes laced with hurt and confusion.

he sinked back onto the couch as you smiled at him, wondering what he'd do.

"whatever, i didn't want a kiss anyways."

you raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin on your face. "mm, you sure? you look sad."

he only hummed, looking at the tv. "i don't want it. but some people...appreciate them, you know?"

you laughed at his pouty looking before rolling your eyes. when you leaned in closer and pecked that pout away from his lips, his eyes instantly brightened as he wrapped his arm around your waist to pull you closer.

"see," riki mumbled. "wasn't that hard."

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James has you pressed against the wall before you can breathe, his body hot and solid against yours like he’s been dying to get his hands on you.

He pulls his shirt off in one swift motion. Muscles flexing, stomach tightening and the second he catches the way your eyes linger, his mouth curls into a dirty, knowing smirk.

“Yeah?”

His voice drops, low and cocky.

“You like that don’t you?”

Your thighs clench without permission. You nod, helpless. He slides a hand down your waist, fingers dipping under your waistband, brushing heat, barely there, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he laughs softly, lips dragging along your jaw. “Look at you—so pretty.”

His thumb presses against your clothed pussy, firm enough to make your hips jerk forward.

You gasp, a quiet, desperate sound, and he eats it from your mouth as he kisses you hard, tongue pushing past your lips like he owns the right. Your back hits the wall again.

His hips grind into you, slow and deliberate, the thick shape of his cock rubbing exactly against the spot that makes your knees buckle.

“Thought you’d break for me this easy,” he mutters against your mouth. His fingers slip lower “Let me hear it.”

“J-James.. I-“

You jolt so hard the pen flies out of your hand.

You’re instantly pulled back from your fantasy—heat to ice water in a heartbeat.

“Y/n?” your dad calls, voice muffled through your bedroom door. “Dinner will be ready in ten. Your sister will set the table today.”

You slap your palm over the letter like you’re hiding a crime scene. “I—I’ll be down in a sec!”

Your voice cracks. Horribly. Clearing your throat, you try again. “Yeah! Just—uh—finishing something!”

Footsteps retreat down the hallway. Silence drops. Then the fright hits you. You stare down at the paper. At the graphic, thirsty disaster you apparently wrote while possessed by a sex demon.

“Oh my fucking god.” You grab the paper in both hands, crumpling it so fast it practically crunches like aluminum foil.

“What is wrong with you, Y/n?” You fling the balled-up letter toward the overflowing trash can. It bounces off the rim and lands on the floor like it’s mocking you. Of course it misses. Even your garbage has better aim than your life. A waste of paper and your time. You bury your face in your hands and groan into your palms.

“He doesn’t even know you exist,” you mutter, pacing once, twice, like that might shake the embarrassment off. “How stupid do you have to be writing porn about James!”

James, the school’s most popular student who also happens to be in the soccer team. James who probably doesn’t know you exist and has a girlfriend. Or situationship. Or whatever the hell Amy counts as.

You drop back into your desk chair, heart still racing from the stupid fantasy. A mixture between wetness and heat still clings to your skin in places you wish it didn’t.

“This is insane,” you whisper to the ceiling. “Actually insane.”

You grab another sheet of paper, intending to write something normal. Something sane. Something not involving walls and grinding and his stupid smirk.

The page stays blank. Your hand trembles slightly. You shove it away and stand up.

“Dinner,” you tell yourself. “Food. Air. Brain reset. No… horny… writing.”

You take one step toward the door. Then stop. Then glance at the trash pile, the paper mountain you swore you’d never let anyone see.

One of them shifts from the movement of your fan. A small, sinking feeling hits your stomach. You really need to get a better trash can. Or maybe a shredder—no! Therapy. But first: dinner.

You yank open your bedroom door before you can psych yourself out again. And somewhere in the back of your head—the part you hate the most—James’s voice from your imagination lingers like smoke: Yeah? You like that?

You swallow hard.

“Shut UP,” you whisper to absolutely no one. You go downstairs anyway.

You drift down the stairs the minute the kitchen smells like something worth living for again. Your sister Annie is figuring out how her new phone works that she got for her thirteenth birthday recently. Your dad has his elbows on the counter, the kind of casual that says he’s trying to be chill but actually means business.

“You okay?” he asks between ladles of sauce. He always asks when you look a little too quiet. 

You shrug and grab a roll. “Yeah. Fine. Hungry.”

He’s stirring the pot and watching you like someone trying to read the news in a window reflection. “You’re eighteen, Y/n. That means you should try opening up to people a little. Join a club, meet someone new. Don’t close yourself off to the same circle forever.”

You give him the eyebrow. “You mean Bella?”

“Bella’s great,” he says, tone is deliberately even. “But reliable isn’t everything. You have this… tendency to tuck yourself away. Try something that rattles you.”

“Bella is the most reliable person one could ever know,” you scoff, crossing your arms in front of you. Suddenly, the words slide into the hollow place where your thoughts live and rattles something loose. Open up. Rattle. Shake. It’s stupid, obvious, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, it feels like the exact sentence you needed to hear.Before your dad can say anything else, you quickly get up from your seat.

“Honey- where’re you going?!” Your dad asks, your sister’s gaze following his. You don’t answer him. There’s no time for that. Sitting at your desk with your lamp low, you carefully grab another slip of paper.. You’ve always been the type to catalogue everything. Feelings, small humiliations, the way your chest tightens when you see James in the hallway, into the soft, safe pages of your diary. But you ran out of pages two days ago. You didn’t throw the journal away; you just taped the spine and pretended that was a solution. Now the spine is a Band-Aid and your life is still leaking.

So you do something slightly insane. You write a letter. A letter to James that you’re obviously not going to send. But you’re not going to send it—fuck no. You might be crazy but not to that extent. Instead, this letter will just fulfill your delusions, knowing you’re too much of a pussy to actually go talk to him. 

Plus, James as Amy. A girl that’s ten times prettier than you. Even if the letter was sent, it wouldn’t do anything but humiliate her. You sit down and you write like the instruction are pressed into your ribs. 

Dear James,

I don’t know what kind of courage is even required to put this into paper and not just into the soft pulp of my diary where it will sit forever and never hurt anyone but me. I’m out of pages. I like to pretend that’s why this is happening, but really it’s because your face keeps crowding the edges of the life I think I should lead and I am tired of pretending nothing has changed.

I’m writing this because my dad said something tonight about opening up, and for once his advice didn’t annoy me. It lit the part of my chest that likes to tell the truth. Usually, I tell myself the truth in tiny, private scribbles. I tuck things away in notebooks and call it safety. But safe is starting to feel smaller than the way my thoughts about you try to grow.

So here it is: I like you. Not the kind of like that’s polite and fits into a yearbook quote. The kind of like that rearranges the soundtrack in my head and makes dumb songs sound like they were written for mornings when you’re still asleep beside me. I like the way you laugh when someone says something stupid on the field. I like the way your that little pout you make when you miss your shot during your soccer practice. I like the scar on your thumb. I notice the ways you look at nothing and I wonder if you’re keeping a private joke with yourself.

I don’t expect anything. I’m not asking you to change your life, and I’m not asking you to break anything open to fit me inside. I’m just telling you the shape of my heart as honestly as I can. If you look back and you don’t feel anything close, that’s okay. I’ll make more pages. I’ll close my hands around the feeling and let it be pretty and lonely and mine.

If by some impossibility you feel even a fraction of this, if you ever want to talk in the quiet and not for show, I’d like that. If you want to laugh and make terrible jokes and steal fries off my plate, I’d like that too. If you want to touch me and find out how the rest of me holds together like how you do with Amy—well. I want that too, but more than anything I want you to be honest with me the way I’m trying to be honest with you now.

— Y/n

You read it back and feel twelve whole things at once — proud, mortified, relieved, as well as questioning your life decisions. You fold it carefully like it it’s an explosive and slide it into an envelope. You address it with your own hand: Zhao Yufan, his legal name. Under his name, you scribble the address you only learned after realizing he lives six houses down. You seal the flap, press it flat like a bandage, and set the envelope on your nightstand.

You think about putting it in the diary, or a secret drawer, or burning it in the tiny metal box you use to store old receipts, but something about the whole open up thing makes you stubborn. This one you want to feel like it could be sent. So you tuck it under a small stack of textbooks on the nightstand, slide a pen across it like you’re filing it into safety, and tell yourself you’ll shower, you’ll calm down, you’ll decide tomorrow whether you actually post it or not.

You strip and step into the shower, the hot water hitting your skin in a rhythm that slows the part of you that wants to panic. Steam climbs the glass and you lean your forehead against the wall and breathe. You imagine the envelope still on the nightstand where you left it, protected by the textbooks like a little fort.

You shampoo and rinse and think of nothing and everything and finally step out, towel-wrapped and lightheaded. You cross your room, expecting the envelope to be exactly where you left it. But you don’t see it.

You assume you put it somewhere else—under a different stack, in a drawer you forgot about, safe. That makes you breathe easier. You make a mental note to check after you put your hair up. Only thing is you don’t get the chance. As soon as you lay down on your bed, you’re fast asleep.

—

Morning punches you in the face the moment your alarm shrieks. You bolt upright with that weird post-shower fog still clinging to your brain, and then the memory hits you like a shovel: The letter.

“Shit—” You stumble out of bed, hair a disaster, sleep shirt twisted around your waist as you lunge toward the nightstand.

Textbooks: check. Pen you left on top: check. Envelope? Not check. You flip the books. Nothing. Just kill me.

You yank open the drawer. Receipts, scrunchies, a rogue stick of gum. Oh—there’s your favourite lip gloss you lost in eighth grade. No envelope.

You drop to your knees and check under the bed like the letter might be hiding out of spite. Nada. 

“Okay, no. No no no—” Your voice rises, scrapes, breaks. You tear through your desk. Under the lamp. Behind your laptop. In your laundry basket like you’re truly losing it.

It’s gone.

You freeze so hard your breath forgets what it’s supposed to be doing. For a full five seconds you just stand there, staring at the nightstand like it personally betrayed you.

“Y/N! You’re gonna make Annie late!” your dad yells from downstairs.

Jesus Christ. Of course the universe picks today to make you a missing-letter fugitive.

You slap on makeup with the precision of a maniac, yank on loose jeans, absolutely forget deodorant, and sprint out the door with Annie trailing behind you.

She’s eating a Pop-Tart like nothing is wrong in the world. “Can you walk faster?” you hiss.

“You woke me up late,” she mumbles around strawberry filling. “This is your fault.”

She’s not wrong, and it only makes you want to scream into a pillow. “Actually, you could have set an alarm on your phone,” you say defend yourself. “What’s the point of having a phone if you can’t put it to use?” Annie rolls her eyes. The whole walk to her school, your brain is doing a full Olympic-level panic routine.

You drop Annie off—barely hearing her bye—and then you’re speed-walking toward your school like your life depends on it. Which, honestly? It kind of does.

Inside the hallway, it’s the usual teenage circus. Lockers slamming. People laughing too loud. Someone aggressively spraying Axe body spray like they’re trying to fumigate the building.

And then, you see him. James. He’s leaning against his locker, talking to Jihoon and some really tall guy, hair falling over his forehead in that stupidly soft way that makes your chest squeeze. He wipes his bangs aside with his knuckles and you swear your soul leaves your body like you’re some Victorian child witnessing the beauty of art for the first time. 

Your feet keep walking but your eyes stay glued to him as you’re now walking backwards somehow—hey, is it just you or did he bleach his hair blondish orange?

“Ouch! Watch where you’re going.”

Your shoulder ricochets off a wall of person, and a sharp, irritated gasp snaps you back to reality. “Hi Amy.”

Believe it or not, you and Amy were best of friends back in middle school until popularity took over her. Her brown wavy hair is perfectly glossy. Her skin is so flawless it looks like someone airbrushed her in real time. She’s applying a swipe of lip gloss with one hand and glaring at you like you just stepped on her dog with the other.

“Oh, it’s just you,” she snaps, pursing her lips as she caps the gloss. “Some of us actually care about how we look in the morning.”

Heat floods your cheeks, crawling up your neck. You mutter, “Sorry,” but it comes out thin and squeaky—humiliating.

Her eyes flick over you, slow and critical, before she glances past your shoulder toward James—her whole expression softening instantly, like flipping a switch.

You try your hardest not to look. It would be very embarrassing to do so. But you do.

James is watching. Not glaring. Not smirking. Just watching with that unreadable, calm expression he always gets when he’s trying to figure something out. His friends are waving their hands in front of his face to catch his attention. 

Your stomach drops to your toes. Because for one terrible, dizzy moment, you wonder if that letter got somewhere it shouldn’t. You swallow tightly.

This day is already hell. And it’s only 8:07 AM. 

You don’t even get three steps down the hall before Bella materializes beside you like she teleported straight out of loyalty. Her ponytail bounces while her iced latte sloshes, eyebrows already raised. “I saw that, by the way,” she says.

You groan into your hands. “Please. Please, Bella. Don’t.” Bella wiggles her brows. “You full-on stared at him like he was Michelangelo’s David, and then you—what was that? Moonwalked into Amy?”

“Let’s. Not. Talk about it.” You want to crawl inside your hoodie and never come out. Bella laughs so hard she snorts. “Okay, fine. But holy crap, you’re lucky she didn’t claw your face off.”

You don’t tell her about the letter. God, no. Bella is your ride-or-die, but even she doesn’t deserve to carry that radioactive emotional grenade.

The day crawls by at the pace of a wounded snail. Class, class, pretend to take notes, class. After school, you follow your usual routine: cut through the side field, slip past the bleachers, and make your quiet little trail toward the soccer field.

It’s stupid. SO stupid. But watching the practices has always been… calming? Or maybe masochistic. Hard to tell. They’re already running drills. Cleats thudding. Shouts carrying. 

And there he is, James, wearing the neon-pinnied version of perfection. He’s quick. Controlled. Focused. The way his legs move is ridiculous. He spins the ball like it’s attached to him by secret magnets.

Usually Amy’s on the bleachers, cheering him on with her friends. But today there were no signs of her being no where near this field. Strange. You wonder where she is. That should make you feel relieved. It doesn’t.

For once, James isn’t playing like you’re invisible. Because suddenly, he sees you. Actually sees you. His brows knit. His chest rises, pauses. And before you can process what’s happening, he jogs off the field. Then he’s running. Running toward you.

Panic detonates in your ribcage.

No. No no no no—

He stops way too close. Close enough that you smell him—clean, sharp, expensive. Something like cedar and citrus and everything you absolutely should not like.

“Hey,” he says, breath still catching from the run. “Y/n? Is that your name?” You freeze. He rubs the back of his neck. Looks down for a second. Then back at you.

“I see you watching the games sometimes and I, uh… got your note.”

Your heart stops. Literally stops. If a doctor checked you right now, you’d be declared clinically dead. “I just—” he swallows hard. He’s awkward. He’s never awkward. “I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring it.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not even a squeak. He shifts his weight, eyes flicking toward the field like he wishes someone would rescue him.

“Listen… I just got out of a breakup. Like. Recently.” He laughs once, dry and not very funny. “And… I don’t even know you. So I can’t—it wouldn’t be fair. Or right. You know?”

“Then get to know me.” That’s what you want to say. Instead you nod slowly. Or maybe you physically malfunction. Hard to tell. He gives you this tiny, apologetic half-smile that somehow hurts worse than being stabbed.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. And then he jogs back onto the field like he didn’t just smash your chest open with his bare hands. You stand there frozen long enough that a stray soccer ball rolls by your foot and you don’t even flinch.

James looks even better up close. And yeah he smells like something expensive. Something that makes your stomach twist. You were never supposed to know that. You swallow, throat tight. It’s the start of the new school year and this day was- well... You’re not sure there’s even a word for it.

The next few days are awkward as hell.

You avoid his locker like it’s a landmine. You walk a little faster in the halls. How the hell did he get his hands on your letter in the first place? If your brain had a mute switch, you would’ve used it. Bella notices and gives you the exact look that says tell me everythingwithout actually making you talk.

You don’t tell her anything. Not about the letter, and about how your stomach clenches when he passes.

One afternoon you cut across the field and freeze halfway, because there they are, the once infamous couple arguing in that tense whisper that looks loud from a distance. Amy’s hands are animated, her face flushed in that way people get when they think they’re right and are also angry. James is calm but tight; his jaw works like he’s chewing on something heavy. You don’t hear words. You only see the body language: Amy stepping closer, James stepping back. The rest of the team keeps practicing around them like it’s normal to be emotionally shredded in the middle of drills. Maybe this happens a lot? Expect this time, they’re arguing as exes, not as a couple.

Three days later, you’re sitting with Bella like every other lunch school-day—salad in front of you, two conversations happening at once. “Hey,” Bella starts, “you think that I could fit three French fries up one nostril?”

You barely get two fries into your mouth before a shadow falls over your lunch table. Bella freezes mid-sip of her iced latte. Her eyes go huge. “Um… incoming.” You turn slowly, like your neck is rusted, praying it isn’t who you think it is. 

James. Hands in pockets. Hair slightly damp from gym. Looking like a walking problem. You could recognize his cologne from miles away.

“Y/n,” he says, voice low. “Can we talk?” Bella nearly breaks her own neck nodding. You shoot her a warning look, but she just winks. Or tries to. It looks more like a seizure. You follow James out to the side courtyard, heart punching your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Did he see you eves dropping on him and Amy’s argument? Or even worse—he somehow got a hold of that piece of paper you wrote a whole entire smut scene of you and him on. No. There’s no way that’s possible. But the letter- shut up y/n.

Finally, he stops by a bench and shifts his body awkwardly. You brace yourself for whatever’s coming.

“Okay, so… about what I said a few days ago.” Deep breath. “I changed my mind,.”

You blink. Not once. Not twice. About twelve times. “I’m sorry—what?” He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “Amy found out I talked to you the other day.” His eyes flicker to you. “And she’s… not handling it well.” You say nothing. Your brain is buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “So,” he continues, “she’s convinced I’m into you. And she’s trying to make me jealous by flirting with every guy in our grade. Which is…” He grimaces. “Annoying.”You’re staring at him, blank-faced, because what else are you supposed to do? “So if she thinks you and I are together,” he finally says, “she’ll calm down. And maybe she’ll want to get back together. It’s just… easier this way.”

Ah. There it is.

It’s not because he suddenly sees you. It’s not because your face lives rent-free in his mind the way his does in yours. It’s because you’re convenient and somehow read the stupid love letter you were going to keep to yourself and through away after a few days. 

You swallow, throat scraping. “So you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend… so your get back together?” He nods, relieved you understand. “Yeah. Exactly.”

You take your time thinking—way longer than necessary, honestly. But you’re not stupid. Fake dating James? James, whose face makes your brain glitch? James, who already thinks you confessed some weird crush? Why the hell wouldn’t you?

“Fine,” you say eventually. “I’ll do it.” His whole body loosens like he’s been holding tension since August. “Thank you. Seriously. Okay, uh… we should follow each other on Instagram.”

Shit. 

He pulls his phone out. You do the same—hesitantly. “It’s @y_notn?” He repeats, typing the username into Instagram, then clicking onto your page. You see his lips form a smirk. “You’re already following me I see.” You cheeks match the color of his shoes.

He types fast. “I’ll tag you in my bio. You can tag me in yours too.” Your pulse jumps but you nod in agreement anyways.

He pockets his phone again. “Meet me after practice today. Same field as always.” He gives you a small smile that’s entirely too soft to be legal. “I assume you know what time that is.” Like you haven’t literally watched every practice he’s had since school started.

You nod, trying not to implode. “Yeah. I know.”

“Cool.” He steps back, gives you a once-over that feels like a warm hand on your spine. “See you then, Y/n.” When he walks away, you realize you’re not breathing. You’re not sure you’ll ever breathe normally again.

Bella ambushes you before you even sit down. She’s practically vibrating with questions, textbooks forgotten in her hand.

“So spill. What did you two even talk about? Why is he talking to you when he has a—what is she—Amy? What the freak is going on?” Her eyes are all sharp curiosity and that ridiculous, fierce-protective thing only best friends get. You do the only mature thing you can think of: play it cool. “It’s nothing,” you say, which is still a lie and also technically not. You haven’t explained anything to anyone, not even to yourself.

Bella doesn’t buy it for one second. “Nothing? Y/n. You’ve been crushing on that guy ever since I’ve known you. Do you know how dramatic that was? Spill.”

You fold your fork over your lips. “He said some stuff. Nothing huge.” You focus on making your voice flat, unimpressed, as though your heart didn’t vault into your throat and refuse to come down two hours ago. She leans in until her face invades your space. “Did he… break up with Amy?”

You stare at her. The question feels like a live wire. “Yeah,” you say before you can stop it. “They—he said they broke up.”

Bella’s jaw drops so hard you’d think she swallowed a stone. “And you didn’t tell me? Am I not your best friend anymore or what?” She half-pleads, half-accuses. You laugh because panic tastes weird and small. “I didn’t know until this week, B. Chill. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be the person who screams and jumps on him or whatever you do when you’re extremely dramatic.”

She pouts, not actually mad. “Wait—so was he talking to you because he likes you or something and wants to move from Amy?”

It takes you a moment to respond. “It’s… complicated,” you say, and she deflates into a theatrical sigh. “I’ll keep you updated for sure.”

Later, after classes pretend to move slower than molasses. You go to the side courtyard like you promised. He’s there early, hands in pockets, looking like he walked out of a billboard and then stole your ability to breathe. He waves you over like he’s practiced casualness in a mirror.

“So,” he says, hands folded like he’s bracing for feedback as you two settle down on a nearby bench. “About us.”

You swallow. “About us.” Something you thought you’d never hear come out of his mouth, This is ridiculous. Then you remind yourself why you’re here in the first place.

He exhales. “I should make—uh—parameters. Boundaries. Whatever you want to call them..” He looks earnest. Which is both disarming and scalding.

“Okay,” you say. “No kissing. No… anything farther.” You say it like you’re filing a restraining order against your hormones. Your cheeks heat up right after you say it, like you’ve exposed your soul in public.

He gives you a genuinely confused look. “What’s so wrong with kissing?” You look at him and feel stupid and stubborn and painfully sincere. “I want my first kiss to mean something. I don’t want my first kiss to be a prop in someone’s plan. I want it to be because of… feelings. Real ones.”

He studies your face. For a second you think he’s scoffing. Instead he looks surprised, like he expected something else out of you entirely. “So you’re saying you’ve never kissed anyone? You don’t seem like a first-kiss kind of person,” he says, like it’s an observation, not an accusation.

You don’t know if that’s supposed to be a compliment. “I’m not,” you say. “I just… want one that matters.”

He nods slowly, and shockingly, he takes it in. “Okay. No kissing,” he repeats. “No making out. No—anything. Got it. I was looking forward to that part though.” That last sentence makes you look up immediately. He lets out a “oh look at you, you feel for it,” laugh. Of course he didn’t mean it.

“And pet names? Like, are we team ‘babe’ or are we staying sane?”

You sigh. “Pet names are allowed but No PDA that crosses boundaries. Hand-holding okay. Quick pecks on the cheek—fine, but only if it’s not humiliatingly dramatic in front of Amy.”

He snorts at that, and for a moment the tension loosens. “Dates?” he asks. James going on a date with you? You want to poke yourself to make sure this isn’t all just a dream.

“Sure.”

You actually grin, and it feels like a defect in your usual composure. This is insane. You’re literally negotiating love like it’s a group project. He hesitates, then asks, “Can I—uh—pick you up to school? Like, to drive you? Make things look… convincing.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I walk my younger sister to school,” you say. “So no.” He brightens, thinking on his feet. “I can drive her too. Drop them both off. Make it seem legit.”

You gape. “You’d drive my twelve-year-old sister to school?” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah. Less awkward than you explaining a fake boyfriend every morning.”

“Wow,” you say, simultaneously mortified and oddly touched. “That’s… actually kind. Okay, maybe.”

“And—if you want—I can drive you home now,” he adds. “Make it easier. Practical.” You almost laugh because this feels exactly like a dream for someone else and not like your actual life. But then you see his eyes dart—just for half a beat—toward the tree line at the edge of the parking lot. Amy. 

He looks back at you and, without missing a beat, pulls you closer. His hand rests on the small of your back, which feels equal parts possessive and protective. His other hand ghosts over your arm, fingers light, claiming. “Smile,” he whispers into your ear, breath hot and soft and ridiculous.

His hands wander like they’re memorizing the geography of you—over your shoulder, along your ribs—nothing obscene, just bordering on intimate enough to make your teeth ache.

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you home.” He makes sure to emphasize on the baby part so it’s loud enough for Amy to hear. The pet name lands heavy in your chest.

He slides his fingers into yours and leads you toward the parking lot. Your sneakers scuff the concrete. Maybe the letter getting sent out wasn’t as bad after all. But then you remember this is all an act. James doesn’t actually like you. And once he’s back with Amy? You don’t even want to think about it.

You find the car before you recognize it. Low, polished, the kind of car that hums quietly like it was born rich. Leather seats. Chrome that catches sunlight like it’s showing off. You knew he was from money, but you’d never actually seen it up close like this.

He opens the passenger door for you with a theatrical little bow that somehow feels oddly considerate. “Hop in,” he says, and for a second the world narrows to leather and the faint plastic smell of air freshener and the rapid, stupid beating of your heart.

You climb in, and as the engine starts, you wonder which part of your life is a fever dream and which part, if any, is real.

James pulls up in front of your house like he’s done this a hundred times, like this is just routine for him now. The car quiets, he taps the steering wheel once, and turns toward you.

“Thanks for driving me,” you say, suddenly shy for no reason except he’s looking at you like that. You try to keep your smile contained, but it still slips out, tiny and embarrassing.

He catches it immediately. “Cute,” he says under his breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. He clears his throat, hoping you didn’t hear him slip. 

“So this is where y/n lives? Didn’t know you lived a couple houses down from me.” You smile and reach for the door handle, trying to act like a normal functioning human being, when he stops you with a soft, “Y/n—wait.”

You blink at him. “Yes?” He holds up his phone. “Can I take a picture of us holding hands? For my Insta so Amy can see.” You swear you felt something real between you two until he snapped you back to reality. “Like… right now?”

“Yeah.” He extends his hand, palm up, waiting. “C’mon.”

You place your hand in his because what else are you supposed to do? Say no? Die? Teleport? His fingers lace through yours, warm and soft, and your whole bloodstream turns into electricity. You feel your body heat up. This is your first ever physical contact with him.

He lifts his phone with the other hand and pulls your joined hands closer to the console where the lighting is better. Of course he knows his angles; he’s literally James.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. You do. He snaps the picture the moment you meet his eyes, like he wants you in the frame even if you’re only visible in the reflection of the screen. 

After the photo is taken, he stares at it for a quick second. Call yourself delusional but you swear you saw him holding back his smile. After tagging you, he uploads it instantly. Your heart legitimately forgets how to beat.

“Great,” he says, dropping your hand slowly, almost reluctantly. “Text me when you’re inside.”

“S-sure,” you mutter, stumbling over your own voice like a clown. You climb out of the car. He waits until you’re at the porch before he pulls away, tires rolling smooth and silent like he didn’t just flip your entire life upside down.

You walk in, still clutching the warmth of his hand like an idiot who’s never known happiness before. Your dad glances up from the kitchen, eyes narrowing with that suspicious dad-squint. “Someone’s smiling.” You almost choke. “I’m not—I’m literally—I wasn’t—”

He laughs. “Alright, alright. I’m not interrogating you. How’d you get home so fast?”

Panic rushes through your veins. “Uh. Bella’s brother drove us. We were going the same way.”

Lie. Instant lie. Horrible lie. Bella doesn’t even have a brother. You want to fistfight yourself.

“Huh,” your dad says, not looking convinced but not digging either. “Alright, well—oh! Before I forget.” He stands, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and smiles like he’s about to tell you something wholesome. Instead he says the single worst sentence you’ve heard in your entire life. “I forgot to tell you this but I saw that letter on your desk last week and helped mail it for you, honey.” Your stomach hits the floor. You swear your vision goes white around the edges.

“What—what letter?” You hear your own voice crack like a broken flute.

“The envelope under those textbooks on your desk thst was addressed to one of our neighbours? I figured it’d save you and I less time because I was stopping by the post office anyways,” He beams, proud of himself.

You cannot breathe. So that’s how James got your note. The letter that was literally your unhinged, handwritten, half-fantasy confession about James. The one you should have burned. “Thanks,” you whisper, voice tiny and hoarse. 

You bolt up the stairs the second you’re free, close your bedroom door with the gentlest click ever because of course tonight is the night you suddenly care about door volume, and just… collapse. Face-first into your bed. You don’t even bother turning the lights on.

Your body is still buzzing, like James’s handprint is burned into your skin. Your heart keeps replaying the whole car scene at 8K resolution, IMAX, Dolby Atmos, every upgrade possible.

James and Amy? Over. James talking to you? Actually real. James fake dating you? Also real. You? Completely malfunctioning.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling like it personally betrayed you. Because the thing is, it’s fake. He asked for to take the picture for Amy, not because he wanted it for himself. He’s James. He dates girls who look like they stepped out of a perfume commercial. You literally tripped over air in homeroom last week.

Still… your chest squeezes around this tiny, dangerous wish. You wish it wasn’t fake, how he meant the way he looked at you in the car, and the warmth in his hand wasn’t just acting. But whatever. That’s not your life. Guys like him don’t like girls like you. You know that. You’ve always known that.

Next morning starts off painfully normal, which is honestly rude given the way last night cracked your brain open. You drag yourself out of bed, brush your teeth while half-asleep, pull on a hoodie that still smells vaguely like laundry detergent and despair, and braid Annie’s hair while she wiggles like a caffeinated squirrel.

“Hold still,” you mutter, trying to tame the last strand. “I am holding still,” she says, not holding still. You finally get her ready, grab your bag, and step out of the building with her hand in yours. It’s quiet outside, cool enough to wake you up a little. The walk to her school is familiar, easy, predictable.

Your brain needs predictable right now. You’re three blocks down before a car honk breaks the morning calm—one sharp, deliberate beep.

You and Annie both turn at the same time.

James’s car is parked at the curb. Leaning slightly toward the window, one hand on the wheel, raising his eyebrows in a “Really? You forgot?” kind of way.

“Oh shit,” you whisper. Annie gasps dramatically and sprints toward the car like she’s starring in her own movie. “Did you just say a bad word?” she calls out over her shoulder. “Also who’s that?”

“My… uh…” You have nothing. No explanation. Just panic. “Just—wait—Annie!” But she’s already yanking open the passenger door. “Did you forget about stranger danger?!”

“Hiiiiii!” she beams at him. James grins back, all sunshine and dimples. “Good morning.” He looks cute when he smiles.  You stumble up behind her, cheeks burning. “Sorry—she just—uh—”

“It’s fine,” he says. “She’s cute.”

Annie giggles like he handed her a scholarship. “My sister thinks cute! Her face literally turned red when she—” You quickly slap your palm on top of her mouth, nearly choke on your own tongue. “Annie! You can’t just—say things—!”

James laughs. “I can see that.” Fuck you. He nods toward the backseat. “You riding or walking?” Right. The whole fake dating thing. You climb in, mumbling, “I totally forgot you were picking us up.”

He shoots you a look in the rearview. Teasing. “Kind of figured.” Annie, meanwhile, is already telling him her entire life story. “So my sister woke me up late again, and Y/N didn’t let me have candy in the morning, so can you convince her t—“

“Annie,” you hiss, “personal space!” James glances at you, amused. “Your sister’s very bubbly.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Runs in the family.” He raises an eyebrow. “Really? Haven’t noticed much of that in you.” You look out the window so he can’t see your face fall and combust at the same time. “Well… it takes me a while to open up.”

There’s a beat of silence—soft, not awkward. Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t mind that. Your breath trips.  Annie thankfully interrupts you before your brain melts. “Are you Y/N’s boyfriend?” You and James say entirely different things at the exact same time.

You: “NO—no no no—he’s not—don’t—” James: “Something like that.”

You whip your head toward him so fast your neck protests. “What?!” He smirks. “Relax. Just keeping the story consistent.” “That’s not consistent, that’s— that’s—”

“Convincing,” he finishes, winking. You swear your pulse jumps like it’s trying to break out of your body. By the time he pulls into the school parking lot, your nerves are shredded.

“Wait.” His voice stops you again. You freeze halfway out. He gets out too. Walks around the car. And then extends his hand. Palm up, a silver ring on his index finger. 

“Come on,” he says. “They’re already staring.” Your stomach drops to your knees. You place your hand in his, because apparently you’ve lost all brain function. His fingers lace through yours. Firm. Warm. Familiar already in a terrifying way. You wonder what if he uses hand cream—and if so, what kind?

You walk side by side, hands joined, through the courtyard. Every. Single. Person. Looks. Someone literally whispers, “Are you kidding me?” as you pass. Another girl stares like you committed a war crime. You try to keep your face blank, but your heart is doing parkour. Even his friends look at him weird. James leans toward you just slightly. “You good?”

“I’m—fine,” you lie. He squeezes your hand. A tiny squeeze. You nearly short-circuit. Then you turn down the hall. And there she is. Perfect hair. Perfect face. Perfect everything. Leaning against her locker with her friends, scrolling through her phone—Amy.

Until she sees you and James. Her entire expression freezes—then sharpens. Expression goes from neutral to knives-out in half a second.

It hits you so hard your stomach does a full gymnastics routine. You instantly look away, like you’re gonna be burned alive if you make eye contact for more than a microsecond. James actually glances. Quick, sharp, assessing—like he’s checking if she saw. And apparently she did, because he gives the smallest nod to himself and keeps walking.

Your palm is sweating in his, which is honestly humiliating, but he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t squeeze or slow down or look at you twice. He’s just walking. Playing the part. Cool. Unbothered. Like this is all just logistics. People are still staring, whispering, straight-up gawking as you pass.  You keep your face forward. Try not to shrink… or die. All three are failing.

When you reach his locker, he drops your hand casually like he’s turning off a light switch. He spins his combo, grabs a book, and says, completely normal, “I saw her staring.”

Your heart is still in your throat. “It’s progress, I guess.” He nods once, satisfied. “Think it’s working.”

James doesn’t look at you again—just shuts his locker with a quick clack and tosses his bag over his shoulder like he didn’t just nuke your nervous system in the hallway.

“See you later,” he says, already turning away. And you’re left standing there, trying not to look like you’re about to dissolve into mist.

The rest of the week doesn’t calm down — it just mutates into this weird fever dream where James keeps doing things that make your brain short-circuit.

Like Wednesday morning, when you’re trying to open your locker and the stupid thing jams for the eighth day in a row. You mutter under your breath, “I hate this place,” and kick the bottom corner. Out of nowhere, James appears behind you, lean and warm and annoyingly tall.

“Move,” he says, voice low like he’s about to break into a safe.

“I’ve tried that,” you snap, not even looking up. “It doesn’t—” He slams his palm against the top left edge with one clean, confident hit. The locker pops open like it’s scared of him. Hot. “Are you—what? How—?!”

He shrugs, smirking. “You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes way too dramatically, but you’re pretty sure your soul floats out the back of your head when he taps the top of your hair and says, “I’ll be here if you need help with anything else.”

You stare after him like a malfunctioning Roomba as he walks off.

Then there’s Thursday, when you’re walking through the courtyard with James and trip over absolutely nothing. Like, genuinely nothing. A single leaf. A shadow. Air. You go stumbling forward like a newborn deer. Before you can fall, James catches the back of your hoodie and pulls you upright by the hood like you’re a cat being relocated.

“I swear to God,” you wheeze, face on absolute fire, “the ground attacked me.”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, “the ground looked really hostile.”

You shove his shoulder because you can’t come up with a good comeback and also because you’re mortified. He lets out a quiet chuckle and it unlocks something sweet and dangerous in your chest.

Next it’s Friday morning. You and Annie are waiting for him outside, and your sister is bouncing around talking about how she wants to get a hamster named Bean. James comes out of the car, leans over the passenger seat, and gives Annie an exaggerated thumbs-up.

“Bean’s a great name,” he says, like he’s taking her dead seriously. “Very strong. Very intimidating.”

Annie giggles like she’s met a celebrity. You can tell that your sister likes him a lot. Too bad it might all end soon. You’re standing there blinking because why is he being sweet when no one is watching? There’s no audience at 7:53 AM on a suburban sidewalk. No reason to impress anybody. He looks at you for a beat too long. “What?” you say, defensive because your nervous system is fried.

“Nothing,” he says, that tiny smile tugging at one corner. 

Later that same day, you’re at his soccer practice again, this time on mandatory fake-girlfriend attendance, apparently, but this time you don’t sit on the bleachers. You’re late, so you stand awkwardly by the fence, hugging your bag. 

James sees you. Mid-scrimmage. He’s literally making it past two guys and still looks over like you’re a lens flare he enjoys catching. Amy’s on the far side of the field glaring daggers, and that’s probably why he does it, why he pushes a bit harder. For some reason, she started showing up again. 

But then he smirks. And it’s not aimed at Amy. He jogs up after scoring, out of breath, flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. The kind of sweaty that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.

Before you know it, his practice ends, the sun’s low, and the field looks like it’s glowing. You’re standing by the fence scrolling your phone, pretending you’re not waiting for him even though obviously you are.

They scrimmage one more play. James gets the ball. The field actually erupts. He slips past two defenders, cuts left, shoots—Goal. The boys yell and explode like he just cured cancer. And then he does something so stupidly cinematic you almost faint: He runs straight toward you. Like you’re his checkpoint.

He stops right by the fence, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, jersey sticking to him — black and green, drenched in sweat, clinging to every muscle that should not legally exist on an 20-year-old.

“Did you see that?” he breathes out, grinning like he’s half-drunk on adrenaline.

“I—I mean—yeah,” you say, but it comes out more like a squeak because you are absolutely staring. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his neck glistening, jaw sharp enough to slice your willpower in half. He smirks when he notices.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” he teases, voice low. You immediately snap your eyes away. “I wasn’t—looking. I was—blinking.”

“I didn’t know blinking took that long,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to the fence. You nearly dissolve into the grass.

By the time he drops you off, your brain is a puddle. He taps the steering wheel, looks at you with that same unreadable-soft expression you’re starting to recognize. “Same time tomorrow?” 

Before you could answer, your dad comes out on the porch at the worst possible moment, holding a mug and squinting into the driveway. “Is that the handsome guy Annie keeps talking about?”

Why oh why. “Wha—dad—I—no—?” James, traitor that he is, just smiles and waves like this is a barbecue and not the crumbling of your sanity. “Yes I am!”

Your dad lights up. “Well! Why don’t you stay for dinner?” You see James glance at you like he’s asking for permission—like you’re the deciding vote before he says, “Sure. If that’s okay.” Okay?? You’re already having an out-of-body experience. Inside, Annie is THRIVING. She pats the couch between her and James like she’s the host of a reality show. You sit, fully preparing to be normal. You fail immediately.

Halfway through the movie, James shifts closer—casual, smooth, evil—and drapes an arm behind you on the couch, feeling himself at your home. Not even touching you yet, just… there. Warm. Heavy. Loud in your peripheral vision. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage with a crowbar.

Then, out of nowhere, he reaches over and slides the scrunchie out of your ponytail. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s unwrapping a present. Your hair falls down your shoulders and you swear the air temperature spikes 40 degrees.

“Looks better like this,” he murmurs, barely audible over the TV.

You’re going to combust. Annie is too invested in the movie to notice you dying.

He loops it around his wrist, then pulling out his phone to check something. You assume he’s going to post something on his Instagram for Amy to see, but he checks the time instead. Strange

Your dad comes in once to ask if you all want snacks. James answers politely. You stare at the wall like you’re seeing God. He grabs a piece and feeds it to you. Even morestrange.

Eventually it gets late, and he stands, gives Annie a little salute, thanks your dad for the evening, and looks at you with this unreadable softness that makes your stomach flip.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

—

The night air is cold enough to bite, but he doesn’t feel it. His whole skin is still warm from your house, your couch, your hair brushing his shoulder. 

As he hopped into the car, shouldn’t be thinking about that. It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. Getting out, he walks up his front steps, keys halfway out of his pocket, when he freezes.

Amy is sitting on his porch. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Wearing that perfume he likes.

“James,” she says, chin tilted, voice honeyed she knows works on most people.

He exhales, slow. “Amy. What are you doing here?”

She stands up, taking a step closer. “I wanted to talk. We haven’t really—y’know—processed everything. And I…” She lets the sentence trail off, fingers brushing his arm like muscle memory. “I miss you. We were good together.”

He should want this. He knows that. This was the whole point, wasn’t it? Proving he could move on, making her jealous, getting her to come back.

“We were,” he says quietly. It comes out flat. Even he hears it.

Amy leans in, confidence flickering back. “I mean… moving on to someone like her?” She smirks. “Convincing. I’ll give you that.”

He doesn’t say anything. She slides her hand down his arm like she’s done it a thousand times — because she has. Her voice drops. “You could’ve just talked to me, James. You didn’t have to pretend.”

Her eyes glint. She steps closer again, enough that her breath hits his collarbone. “What do you say? Are you up for a redo?” Amy reaches for his wrist, then stops at a certain spot.

“Oh.” Her voice shifts — sweet turning sour. “What’s this?” Her fingers brush the scrunchie. Your scrunchie. Still warm from your hair. She looks up at him, eyebrows lifted like she’s caught him with a crime weapon.

“Is that Y/n’s?” she asks, sickly sweet. His voice is small, quieter than he expects. “It is.”

Amy lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Wow. You’re really committing to the bit.” He doesn’t correct her.

She slips it off his wrist and ties her hair with it, steps back, arms folding. “Well,” she says, lips curling, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, James.”

She walks away without waiting for an answer. Her perfume lingers. But his wrist feels heavier than everything she tried to imply. He stands there a long time after she’s gone. And the scrunchie stays exactly where it is.

—

James picks you up like nothing happened, acting like he didn’t stand on his porch last night looking existential with your scrunchie on his wrist while his ex tried to crawl back into his life.

“Morning,” he says, voice warm, as you hop into the car. 

“Good Morning.”

He glances over, tapping the steering wheel. “Tired?” You scratch your neck, letting out a soft groan. “Not at all.”

He actually laughs under his breath. “Liar.” Ugh. Of course he knows.

He drives for a bit, a comfortable quiet settling between you — or, well… almost comfortable. Then he says it. Soft. Almost shy. “I really like spending time with you.”

You freeze. Brain: 404 error. “Why?” you say before your filter can save you. He looks over. “Why not?”

“No, like—” you wave a hand, “you don’t have to do the whole… nice boyfriend act right now. No one’s looking.” 

His brows pull together, confused, just a tiny bit hurt. “I know.” It’s nothing. It’s everything. You don’t know what to do with it, so you shove it into the mental junk drawer and slam it shut.

—

After your second class, Bella picks you up and you two walk to your lockers, minding your own business, when Amy appears like a horror movie jump scare, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, eyes on you like target practice.

“You know James doesn’t actually like you?” She says sweetly.

It’s not like you didn’t know that. The thing going on between James and you is all for show. Bella stiffens beside you. You close your locker and keep walking. 

Amy clicks her tongue. “Y/n—you forgot something.”

You turn just in time to see her toss your scrunchie. It hits the floor at your feet like a punchline. Bella’s eyes go HUGE. “Um. What—?”

“I’ll explain later,” you mutter, scooping it up with fingers that are absolutely trembling.

You don’t go to his practice after that. Screw that. Screw all of it. You go home, burrow under your blanket, and try to convince yourself you don’t care even though you obviously care so much it feels like a bruise.

Around six, there’s a knock downstairs. Please don’t tell me it’s who I think it is.

You hear your dad open the door.

“Oh! Hi James!”

“Is Y/n home?” he asks, and his voice is nervous. Nervous? Since when does James get nervous? “Yes, she’s upstairs in her room, doing whatever you teenagers do.”

“Can I— uh— can I talk to her?”

“…Sure, come in.”

You want to sink into the floorboards. Your dad calls up the stairs, “Y/n! James is here!”

Yeah, you heard.

A moment later, there’s a soft knock on your door. “Can I come in?” You don’t answer, and quickly pull the cover over you. He opens just enough to peek inside. “Hey.” You sit up, knees tucked to your chest. “Hi”

He steps inside, closes the door behind him, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to hit CTRL+ALT+DEL on his own life. “Why didn’t you show up to my game? You always show up.” 

You look at him for a long second, then ask the question that’s been chewing through your ribs all day.

“Did you… meet up with Amy last night? And then give her my favourite scrunchie?” 

His head snaps up fast. “No.”

“No?”

“I mean—yes and no. It’s not what you think.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then what happened?”

He sighs, shoulders dropping. “She just spawned in front of my house as I was driving home. I never asked her to come” Your chest tightens, but you keep your voice steady. “Right. And when she took my scrunchie… you just let her take it?” He flinches a little — just barely, but you see it.

“Yeah, that’s my bad,” he says quietly. “But hey, at least you got it back.”

You stay quiet, jaw set as you look down at the scrunchie on your wrist.

“And it’s not a big deal,” he adds quickly. “It’s just a scrunchie y/n.” He stops himself. “Well — not just a scrunchie. Yours.” Your lungs betray you with a small inhale. He moves a little closer, hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Really. And… I wanna make it up to you.”

You tilt your head “How?” And because he’s him — chaotic, dramatic, inexplicably confident — he smiles.

“You heard of ‘Ski Slopes Nation?” The ski trip party my friend hosts every year. It’s, uh, kinda big. And really fun. I want you to come with me.”

You look down at yojr hands, unsure what to say. Strange, wouldn’t he have asked Amy? “James, I don’t even know anyone there.”

“Okay,” he says, shrugging, taking one small step closer. “So what? You’ll know me.”

“That’s not enough. You’ll be distracted by you know who.”

He sighs, walking towards your bed as he puts his finger under your chin, turning your head to face him. He tilts his head, smirk creeping back. “You’re the only distraction I need.”

Your stomach flips so hard you have to look away again. How can he say this when he doesn’t even like you?

“Think about it,” he murmurs. He reaches for the doorknob, pauses, glances back at you with that soft half-smile. “And for the record, I’ll buy you snacks for the whole time we’re there.”

Then he leaves you alone with your heartbeat trying to set a new world record.

“Wait… it was fake?!” Bella’s voice is a cartoon of betrayal—half screech, half wounded martyr. You’re sitting across from her at your usual greasy-spoon table, regretting your life decisions, and she’s dramatically clutching her phone like you’ve personally stolen her childhood.

“I thought he actually liked you,” she adds, scandalized. “I mean, everything! His stories, the way he looked at you—God, I practically had a panic attack of joy.”

You shrug, because what else do you do when your life is embarrassing and baffling at the same time. “It was the plan. To make Amy jealous. To get her to get back with James.”

Bella pokes your forehead with the end of a fry. “So you were a pawn? That is actually a geniu—horrible!”

You let out a sigh and then tell her about the ski thing—James’s invitation that felt suspiciously like a peace offering. Bella immediately goes into PR mode.

“Why aren’t you going?” she asks, all business now. “This could be huge. Honestly, go. I’ll totally come with you if that’ll change your mind.”

You almost say no. You almost say yes. You do say, finally, “Okay, but you cannot leave my side for once.”

She claps and picks up your phone from the table. “Text him now.” She demands while handing you her phone. Slowly, you unlock your phone and type in: “Ok, Ski Slopes Nation it is.” Sent.

Weekend flies. Saturday morning, you stand by the curb, heels tapping like a metronome, expecting Bella’s overzealous face any second. Typical you overpacked for a three night trip. James pulls up right on time, engine purring luxury. You get in. You do a full inventory of your nerves.

Ten minutes later you notice Bella’s text: one-line replies. 

Bella: Sorry guys, mom lowkey got mad because I fumbled my test 🙁. Maybe next time?

You stare at the message like it physically hurt. She didn’t tell you before. This was her plan all along for you to go to the Ski Slopes Event alone with James. She was never going to come.

You turn to James, ready to explode with “where is she?” but the words scramble and bail right out of you. Your hand goes for the door handle. You’re doing the awkward petty-exit thing when he reaches over, still driving, and grabs your wrist gently.

“Wait,” he says. His voice is small, not demanding, just…earnest. “Please. Don’t go.”

You stare at his hand on yours. Your knee-jerk plan is to get out and walk, to reclaim dignity off the side of the highway, but the highway is suddenly very far away and his palm is somehow steadying.

“Why?” you ask, because why not make him explain himself.

He pulls into the next parking spot, kills the engine, and turns fully to you like it’s the thing he’s meant to do all day. The car becomes its own little island of breath.

“I wanted you to come,” he says, simple and flat, like it’s obvious and he’s been dying to say it. “Not because of Amy. Not to make her jealous. I… I actually like doing this with you. I like spending time with you.”

Your brain files that under “unreliable information” and simultaneously under “this actually matters.” You blink. “But—wasn’t this whole thing supposed to get Amy back?”

He hesitates, then answers honestly, the way people answer when the truth is awkward but necessary. “Yes that was the plan. At first. But I don’t know if I want to go back to that. I don’t know if I ever did. And the more time I spend with you—not pretending—it’s not the same. You’ve made me felt something no one else has ever made me feel. But what I know is that I like you. A lot.”

You roll your eyes because dramatic vulnerability is embarrassing even when it’s kind of endearing. And your body heats up. Your cheeks are probably tomato colored, but you try staying nonchalant. “So what, you just switched teams mid-game?”

He gives you one of those looks that’s half apology, half dare. “Sort of. Do you… do you wanna keep doing this? Not for Amy. For us. Keep this—whatever this is—going?”

You inhale, exhale, try to be sensible. “You know how this looks,” you say. “Welp, the love letter sure worked out—just now how I expected.”

He smiles, small and stubborn. “It sure did.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes—part incredulous, part hopeful. You tuck your hand back into yours under the dash. “Fine,” you say, because why be brave when you can be cautiously stupid instead. “But I’m watching you. One misstep and I will glare you into ashes.”

“Deal,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips that’s half triumphant, half relieved. “Also, I’m getting your scrunchie back. Properly next time.”

You look out at the highway ahead, and despite the chaos, despite the lying and the staging and the way your life currently reads like a badly edited montage, there’s a tiny part of you that answers before your brain can veto it.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s keep doing this—carefully.”

He squeezes your hand. The car pulls back onto the road, and the rest of the world sounds like muffled static for a second, just you and the hum of the engine and the very complicated possibility of something messy and real.

“Are you sure you have snow tires on?” You double check as more snow comes down while you guys drive up the mountain. The atmosphere in the car was not quiet, but soft. Not awkward anymore, not tense, just this gentle humming between you two—like the car has its own heartbeat now and it somehow synced to yours. James lets out a low chuckle, reaching for your hand, giving it a tight squeeze. 

“I’m sure y/n.” The way he spoke your name was so attractive yet reassuring. Snow lines the trees like powdered sugar and the sky is a blue so obnoxiously pretty it looks edited. James keeps flicking quick glances at you like he’s checking if you’re still real. You’re still trying to get over the fact that you’re seated in Jame’s car that actually has feelings for you.

When he parks outside the lodge, you hop out and the cold instantly punches your lungs. He grabs the bags before you can even protest because he’s a show-off with biceps, apparently. Inside, the place is gorgeous—warm lights, crackling fireplaces, couples everywhere wearing matching sweaters like they’re in a Pinterest board.

James leads you down a hallway lined with wooden doors and stops at one. Unlocks it, then opens the door. You follow him in. And freeze.

There are multiple reasons why you freeze. First and most obvious reason, the scenery. You knew James and his friends were filthy rich, but this is on a next level. The place was small, but it felt so cozy and expensive at the same time. Second reason, the bed. Notice how it’s bed and not beds plural? 

“…Hold on,” you say, voice thin. “Where’s—uh—the other bed?” There is one bed. One. Big, yes. Fluffy, absolutely. But still ONE BED.

James glances at it like it’s the weather. “Oh. Yeah. They ran out of doubles.” He looks at you over his shoulder. “Is that okay? It is pretty spacious so we can sleep on either ends.” 

Is that OK??

Your soul: NOPE. SOUND THE ALARMS. EVACUATE THE PREMISES.

Your mouth: “Yeah it’s fine.”

Typical y/n. Always lying out of your ass crack.

He tosses his duffel on the floor and starts unpacking, casual as ever, while your brain is mapping out emergency escape routes and calculating the surface area of the bed to figure out how far you can sleep from him without dying.

“We’ve got, like, four hours until the big event,” he says, kicking off his shoes. “It’s basically a party with drinks and games. Then we go skiing. People kinda go all out.”

Skiing? You? “Is it bad that I don’t know how to Ski?”

He snorts—soft, fond. “It’s okay. I’ll teach you if you’re down. I’m sure you’ll be able to manage.

He finishes unpacking and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “You can talk, y’know,” he says, teasing. “You’re doing that quiet-stressing face again.”

“I’m not”—

“You are.”

“Stop reading my mind.”

“Stop being readable.”

You grab your water bottle just to have something to do. He watches you, amused. The silence stretches—not awkward, but charged. Like static in the air before lightning strikes. 

You sit on the edge of the bed, rambling about something—how cold it is, how Bella tricked you, how the hallway smells weirdly like cinnamon. You don’t stop talking because if you stop, you’ll think, and if you think, you’ll panic.

Halfway through your rant about overpriced ski equipment, you notice he’s not responding. He’s just… staring. Not in a bored way. Or in a polite-listening way.

In a hungry way. In a memorizing-your-mouth-movements way. In a way no fake boyfriend should ever stare. No one has ever looked at you like that.

You clear your throat. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

James’s voice is low, a little rough. “I don’t know.”

You short-circuit. “I—what—you—you don’t know—?”

“Yeah.” He shifts closer—just enough for your knees to touch. 

You swallow. Loudly. “Cute.”

“Mm.” His eyes drop to your lips like gravity dragged them there. “And distracting.”

Your heart is doing backflips. Your hands start sweating. You are ninety percent sure you’re about to ascend straight off the bed.

“James…” you whisper, though you’re not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation. He moves closer, slow enough to give you time to pull back. You don’t. You couldn’t even if you tried. His forehead almost touches yours, breath warming your skin. “Tell me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You lean in. Never once in life were you expecting James to be your first kiss. Obviously in those little fantasies of yours, but never in real life.

His lips brush yours—barely, like a question he’s too scared to ask out loud—and your breath catches so hard your ribs ache. He tilts his head, closes the space, kisses you properly this time, soft but hungry, like he’s been holding this in for weeks.

He pulls back, breathless, eyes flashing with something you can’t quite name. Then suddenly he’s dragging you into his lap, steady hands guiding you, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear before pulling you in for another kiss. This one is hungrier—messy, frantic, almost starving.

A small moan slips out of you the second his tongue pushes into your mouth. He’s good—too good. And you were the complete opposite. Heat blooms low in your stomach, and you can feel him hardening beneath you, the realization sending a shiver through your whole body.

He chuckles against your lips, the vibration buzzing straight through you as his tongue keeps exploring your mouth.

“You like that?” he murmurs, fingers trailing up your thigh. You nod instantly, needy, like your body answered before your brain could catch up.

He leans in, breath brushing your ear. “Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs. You part your lips, but nothing comes out—you’re too wound up, too turned on from everything he’s already done.

“Tell me, baby.” The pet name makes your pussy clench around nothing.

“I—I don’t know,” you finally manage to whisper.

“You don’t know?” he repeats, eyebrow lifting in a teasing way. Embarrassment floods your cheeks as you shake your head and bring your hands up to hide your face.

“Hey,” he says softly, pulling your hands away. Your eyes meet, and he him unintentionally bitting his lower lips, his eyes now roaming all over your body.

Before you can even react, he’s kissing you again—deep, consuming, pulling you straight back into the heat of him.

“Do you know how to grind on me?” he asks when he pulls away again. You shake your head no.

“Here, let me guide you.”

His hands settle on your ass, gentle but sure, guiding your hips back and forth over his clothed cock as he pulls you back into the kiss. You both let out soft moans, the sound tangled between your mouths. It’s overwhelming, your fingers sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to pull another sound out of him.

“God, baby… you look so hot on top of me,” he whispers, his hands roaming over your ass again.

Before you know it, James’s hands slide down to the zipper of your jeans. He wants more—you can feel it in the way his breath catches, the way his fingers hesitate there like he’s waiting for permission. You stop him, catching his hands before he can go any further.

He looks up at you immediately, eyes searching your face.

“Something wrong?” he asks softly, tilting his head just a little.

“I—I don’t want to go further than that,” you say, your voice small but steady. “Not right now.”

James searches your face like he’s trying to read every micro-expression you’ve ever had in your whole life.

“Am I making you feel uncomfortable?” he asks quietly. You shake your head fast. “No, it’s not that. I just… don’t wanna do that right now.”

His shoulders loosen immediately. “Oh. Okay.” And the way he says it—soft, not offended, not disappointed—makes something warm twist in your chest.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead before sliding you gently off his lap. “I’m gonna go shower,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek, “then we’ll get ready for the party.”

When he disappears into the bathroom and the door clicks shut, the room feels too big. Too quiet. Too… loud inside your head. You flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling again, because apparently that’s your hobby now. And, of course, your brain immediately starts being a menace.

Yeah, he used to do this with Amy. Plus, breakup wasn’t even that long ago. Maybe you’re just some transitional little detour while he untangles whatever is still left inside him.

You groan into a pillow. “Get it together,” you mumble at yourself. Your overthinking is doing parkour.

Then the bathroom door swings open—and your soul exits your body.

James steps out with a towel sitting dangerously low on his hips, droplets rolling down his chest like they were directed by a film crew. His torso? Toned. Defined. Absolutely from-the-cover-of-a-ski-lodge-soccer-player-romance-novel level sculpted.

His dyed dirty blonde hair is wet, dripping onto his shoulders, making him look unfairly good. You snap your gaze to the window like it personally offended you.

He grabs his bag and looks over at you. “You gonna get ready?” he asks casually, like he isn’t currently the hottest man alive standing half-naked five feet away.

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, I was just… thinking.” (About your sanity evaporating.)

You peel yourself off the bed and rummage through your bag, already annoyed at yourself because you did not pack for a fancy winter party. You pull out something normal, plain, safe—because of course you brought nothing special. James glances over with a soft smile. “Going casual?” You shrug. “I didn’t really bring, like… party clothes.”

His eyes drag over your outfit, then your face.

“You’ll look amazing,” he says simply.

The Ski Slopes Nation’s “big event” is already at full volume by the time you and James walk in. It’s loud. Like… loud-loud. Bass thumping through the floorboards, laughter coming from every corner, people yelling over each other like they’re competing for the Olympic gold medal in being obnoxious. James doesn’t even flinch. He’s been to a million of these. You on the other hand—feel like you just walked into a live-action TikTok POV.

James keeps a warm hand at the small of your back as he leads you through the crowd. “C’mon,” he says, leaning down so you can hear him, breath brushing your ear. “Gotta introduce you.”

His friends spot him immediately.

“AYYYY ZHAO YUFAN BOY!” A giant wasian guy—Martin—throws his arms up like James just scored a goal. He’s tall. Like… tree-level tall. The kind of tall that makes you physically tilt your head back to make eye contact. Next to him is Keonho—smaller, ridiculously handsome, annoyingly charming. Both of them stare at you for a beat, confused as hell.

James just grins. “Guys, this is Y/N.” Martin nods like he’s analyzing an alien species. “Ohhh… she’s the one.” Keonho elbows him. “Bro, don’t be weird.”

You want to evaporate. James squeezes your hand like he can tell. People around the room keep glancing. Whispering. Doing double-takes. James showing up with another girl this soon after Amy? Yeah. You can practically feel the gossip starting to ferment.

You clear your throat. “I’m, uh, gonna grab something to drink.” James nods, gentle. “I’ll be right here.” The second you leave, Martin leans in with that tall-guy nosiness. “Dude. She’s so different from Amy.”

James rolls his eyes. “Okay?”

“No, like… in a good way,” Martin says. “She’s calm. Doesn’t have that whole… I’m-influencing-the-room energy.”

Keonho smirks. “And you like her. It’s obvious.” James gives them a look but doesn’t deny it. Across the room, Amy is staring—hard. Snow-white expensive looking sweater that somehow makes her look like a judgmental snow angel. She watches James talk to his friends, then looks you up and down like you’re the clearance rack version of her.

You return with a drink—your first real drink ever—and try to pretend the room isn’t spinning from nerves. You take a sip. And another. And another. Warmth blooms in your chest, buzzing under your skin. James finds you instantly. “Hey.”

His brows pinch. “You good? You seem… off.”

You look at him. And your brain decides now is the perfect time to unhinge.

“You… used to have sex with Amy a lot, right?”

James chokes. Like, full cough-wheeze combo. “That’s what’s been bothering you?”

You shrug, trying to play it off. “It—doesn’t really matter. I mean… I know you’re with me right now, so that’s all that counts.”

James steps closer, hand cupping your jaw gently. “Y/N. She’s my past. You’re the one I’m choosing now. And every second with you feels… different. Better.”

Your chest squeezes so tight you forget how to swallow.

You look down at your shoes. “It’s just… I guess my first time with you would be your… I don’t know… however-many-th time with her.”

A breath leaves him—soft, understanding. “Hey. Look at me.”

“I’m not comparing you to her. I’m not thinking about her when I’m with you. I’m here, with you. And I like us. A lot.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.” And just like that, the tension melts a little.

The night blurs in the best way—laughter, games, James’s friends warming up to you, your drink going down way too easily. You’re not drunk, but definitely… pleasantly wobbly. James stays close the whole time, his arm brushing yours, hand grazing your lower back, fingers brushing your knuckles. Subtle, tiny things that keep your brain fried the entire night. 

At one point Martin challenges James to some stupid game that involves taking shots and hitting a mini soccer ball into a trash can, and you swear the cabin shakes when everyone screams after he makes it. You’re laughing. Actually laughing. And your cheeks hurt in the happiest way.

Eventually, when you’re both a little tipsy and the cold outside feels way too sharp, James wraps an arm around your waist and walks you back to the room.

Inside, you both stand awkwardly over the giant bed again.

“Uh… I’ll sleep on that side,” you say, pointing to the edge like it’s a danger zone.

James nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

You settle under the covers, facing away, trying to breathe normally. James climbs in on the opposite end, careful, respectful, leaving a canyon of space between you. As you close your eyes, the coldness of your body was stopping you from falling asleep. After laying there for a few minutes, you finally resort to your last option.

“James?”

He replies immediately. “Yeah?”

“I’m cold.”

There’s a beat. A quiet little inhale. You could practically hear him breathing from the other side of the bed. Then the mattress dips as he moves closer, sliding an arm around your waist and gently pulling you back into him. Warm. Solid. Safe. You exhale without meaning to, your body relaxing instantly into his.

His breath brushes your neck. “Better?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

And just like that, wrapped in him, heartbeat syncing with his, you fall asleep.

The next night creeps in faster than you expect. The final night of the trip—the big skiing day. The sky’s already going dark-blue, that weird shade where you can’t tell if it’s late afternoon or 11 p.m., and the cold is sharp enough to pinch your nose.

James helps you zip up your jacket, his fingers brushing your neck, sending chills that have nothing to do with the weather.

“You ready?” he asks, all smug confidence.

“No,” you answer instantly.

He laughs. “You’ll be fine. I’ll teach you.”

Outside, the slopes glow under tall floodlights, making the snow sparkle like someone dumped glitter everywhere. Kids and pros and show-offs are zooming down the hill like Olympic qualifiers. You’re already planning your funeral.

James clips your boots in for you because he doesn’t trust you with anything involving gravity.

“Okay,” he says, stepping behind you, hands gripping your arms gently. “Lean forward a tiny bit. Just enough to not fall backwards.”

“Okay,” you say, immediately leaning like a malfunctioning tower.

He steadies you. “Not that much—unless you wanna eat snow.”

“I’m gonna eat snow regardless.”

“That’s fair.”

He teaches you slowly, patiently—how to stop, how to turn, how not to accidentally kill yourself. And you… kinda get the hang of it? Ish? You manage to go five whole meters without face-planting.

Every time you wobble, he’s right there catching you by the waist. Every time you mess up, he laughs—not mean, but soft, fond, like he likes seeing you try. Eventually, you’re actually skiing—well, sliding down at the speed of an elderly turtle, but still.

James skis backwards in front of you, because of course he can. His eyes are warm, cheeks flushed red from the cold.

“You’re doing good!” he calls out.

“You’re lying to be nice!”

“I am,” he admits.

You finally stop at the bottom and nearly fall, but he lunges forward, catching you. Your helmet bumps into his chest.

“Hey,” he breathes, smiling down at you. “See? You didn’t die.”

“Yet,” you mutter.

After a while, you both sit in the snow, helmets off, catching your breath. Snow somehow gets down the back of your jacket and into your gloves and probably your soul.

You shriek. “OH MY GOD IT’S IN MY SHIRT—” James bursts out laughing. “You good?”

You do the most logical thing: grab a handful of snow and yeet it at his face.

He freezes. Then smirks. “Oh, it’s on.”

Next thing you know, you’re in a full snowball war—screaming, laughing, slipping everywhere, James chasing you around trees with perfect aim while you miss every single throw like you’re allergic to accuracy.

By the time you both stumble back toward the lodge, you’re breathless and soaked and ridiculously happy. Right outside the hallway to your room, James bumps your shoulder lightly. “Hey, uh… go ahead to the room. I need to tell Martin something real quick.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He kisses your cheek—quick, warm—before turning away.

You head inside. You shower, change, check your phone, sit on the bed, go through photos, scroll TikTok, stare at the ceiling, contemplate the meaning of life…

Forty-five minutes pass.

The door finally opens. James steps in, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s tired. “Sorry. Martin was being annoying.”

You smile. “It’s okay. I had fun these two days. Thank you for convincing me to come.”

His eyes soften. “I’m glad you did.”

—

The next morning is chaotic—bags everywhere, people rushing, doors slamming, winter air biting at your face. James looks exhausted, barely awake, stuffing clothes into his duffel like a zombie.

His other friend is waiting for him outside, yelling for him to hurry.

You zip your jacket and head into the hallway. Martin’s there, tying his boots.

“Hey, Martin?”

He looks up. “Hm?”

“What did you and James talk about last night?”

He blinks. “Last night? …We didn’t talk.”

Your stomach drops. “He didn’t see you?”

“No? I didn’t see him at all.”

Oh. Oh great. Fanfuckingtastic. A cold wave rolls through your chest harder than the mountain wind.

When you climb into the passenger seat of James’s car, he’s quiet—clearly tired. He yawns as he turns the engine on. The drive is silent for a long time. Like… too long.

Finally, he speaks. “Are you going to the match today?”

“No.”

He glances at you, confused. “Why not?”

You keep your eyes on the window. “Because I know you didn’t go see Martin.”

The air tightens.

“So who was it?” you ask. James doesn’t answer. Your heart beats loud enough to hurt. The coach starts calling him the second you guys pull into the parking lot.

“James! Let’s go! You’re 14 minutes late. Warm-ups!”

He’s still staring at the steering wheel.

“Tell me,” you whisper. “Did you go see Amy?”

“Look—” he starts, voice low, strained, “I can explain.”

The coach yells again. “FIVE MINUTES, JAMES!”

Your throat burns. “Am I just your second best?”

He winces—like the words physically hit him.

The coach yells again, sharper this time: “Last warning!”

James steps out of the car, but turns back, gripping the door.

“Please,” he says, eyes desperate. “Just come to the game. I promise I’ll explain everything after. Please.”

And then he’s gone, jogging off toward the field, leaving you sitting in the quiet car, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out.

—

The school library is quiet in that specific after-school way — soft humming lights, the vague smell of old pages, one kid coughing somewhere like he’s auditioning for a Victorian death scene. You’re still not sure about meeting up with James after his games. It has been a hell of a week,

You’ve been curled up in a corner armchair for about an hour or two with some random book you grabbed just to distract your brain from… everything. It’s working, sorta. 

Until you flip the page and land on a quote that hits you like a truck:

“If someone chooses silence when they owe you honesty, let them go.

But if your heart aches louder than your pride…

you’ll find your way back anyway.”

You stare at it like it personally slapped you across the face. Why does everywhere you go have to remind you of James. And then you glance at the clock.

You are one hour late to the end James’s game. 

Like — not fifteen minutes, not “oops my bad,”

but a FULL sixty minutes late.

“Shit.”

You jump up so fast the librarian gives you a death glare that could shatter glass.

You shove the book back on the shelf sideways (crime) and practically sprint out. It’s pouring outside — full dramatic movie thunderstorm pouring. The kind that soaks your socks instantly.

You take out your sad little umbrella and start the walk home, hugging your jacket to your chest like that’ll protect you from your own thoughts. But when you reach the edge of the outdoor courts—the ones the team cuts across after games—you pause,

Because there’s someone standing there. Alone. Soaked. Head down. Kicking at the gravel like he’s fighting ghosts. James.

He’s drenched top to bottom, rainwater mixed with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, jersey clinging to him. And he’s… waiting. Still. Just standing there like he refuses to leave until something changes. Your chest does something stupid and painful, a mixture of guilt and anger.

You walk up quietly, stepping behind him, lifting the umbrella up on your toes so it covers the both of you. One tiny circle of dryness in a whole world of rain.

He tenses first—then turns slowly. The moment he sees you, his expression crumples in this soft, relieved way that knocks the breath right out of you.

“…You came,” he says, voice low, almost disbelieving.

You swallow. “Yeah. I— I was late. And then it started raining, so I was just walking home but…”

Your eyes flick to him.

“But you’re still here.”

You lower the umbrella slightly so you can see his face better. Drops of rain slide down his cheek, and he looks exhausted — not physically, but in that “I’ve been stressing about losing you for hours” kind of way.

“What made you come?” he asks quietly. You shrug, breath fogging the air. “I… read something. And it made me realize I wasn’t done. With us.”

His jaw clenches, and he looks away for a second like he’s overwhelmed.

You take a small step closer. “Who were you with, James?”

He lets out a breath that’s practically a sigh of defeat. “Amy.”

Your stomach sinks — until he lifts his head, eyes sharp, honest.

“But not for what you think.”

You don’t say anything. You just hold the umbrella and wait.

“I went to tell her to stop,” he says. “To stop showing up everywhere. To stop spreading shit about you. About us. To stop acting like I owe her something.”

His voice strengthens, anger threading through it.

“I told her if she messed with you one more time, I’d—” He stops, shaking his head. “—I’d actually lose it. I didn’t want things to blow up in front of you, so I waited until later. That’s it. That’s all it was.”

Your eyes sting. And your voice comes out smaller than you want.

“…Why didn’t you just tell me?”

He steps closer, rain dripping off his jaw. “Because when you asked, you already looked like I’d punched a hole in your chest. And then the coach was yelling at me, and I panicked.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I should’ve told you. I’m sorry.”

The rain softens around you, or maybe you just stop noticing it.

You whisper, “I thought you were… choosing her again.”

His face twists — hurt, like the idea physically wounds him.

“Y/N.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist gently, like he’s asking permission.

“You were never my second best.” Your throat closes up.

“And I waited,” he adds. “For an hour. In the rain. Just in case there was even a 1% chance you’d show up.” You let out a tiny, shaky laugh. “That’s really dumb of you.”

He smiles, soft and crooked. “Yeah. But I’m yours, so… it tracks.”

You look at him—really look—soaked, shivering, but eyes warm like he never doubted you’d return.

You step forward and tuck yourself against him, arms looping around his waist. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole day and pulls you in, umbrella tilting awkwardly over both your heads.

His chest is warm even though his clothes are freezing. His chin rests on your hair. His heartbeat is steady and loud.

“Hey,” he murmurs into your ear.

“What?”

“Thanks for coming back.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

“Don’t make me chase you through a storm again,” you mumble.

He chuckles, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Then don’t leave me behind.”

You shrug playfully. “No promises.”

He leans down, forehead touching yours, breaths mixing in the cold air.

Warm and close and full of everything you’ve been too scared to say.

“Let me walk you home,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Let’s go home.”

He takes the umbrella from you, threads his fingers through yours, and the two of you walk out of the storm together — matching steps, matching heartbeats — leaving every misunderstanding behind on the wet pavement.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

You don’t feel like you’re someone’s temporary choice. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. With him.

The impact came fast and hard, sending a sharp sting across your cheek. Your eyes watered instantly as the ball bounced away somewhere across the field, but you barely noticed. All you could do was stand there, blinking in disbelief.

Seriously? Out of everyone on the field, it had to hit you?

A mixture of gasps and laughter erupted around you. Heat rushed to your face immediately, not from the pain, but from the sudden realization that half the football field was staring at you. Great.

Nothing was more humiliating than becoming the center of attention because a football had smacked you directly in the face. You pressed a hand against your cheek, hoping the ground would open up and swallow you whole.

A pair of hurried footsteps pounded across the grass, growing louder by the second. Before you could even recover, someone came to a stop right in front of you. “Oh my god.”

You looked up, it was Seonghyeon. His eyes were wide, his face pale. Judging by his expression, you’d think he just witnessed a murder.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately. You opened your mouth to answer.

“I am so sorry.” Then closed it again.

“I wasn’t aiming anywhere near you, I swear. I don’t even know how that happened. Are you hurt? Does your head hurt? Can you see properly?”

The questions came so quickly that you barely had time to process them. You just stared at him. It wasn’t really because your head hurt, more so because Eom Seonghyeon, the same Seonghyeon who usually looked far too cool and confident for his own good, looked like he was seconds away from having a complete breakdown. Finally, you sighed.

“I got hit by a football, not hit by a truck’’

‘’Some would argue that that’s worse.’’

Despite yourself, a faint laugh escaped you. The tension in Seonghyeon’s shoulders eased immediately at the sound of your laugh. For some reason, that made your stomach do something strange.

“You laughed,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly.

‘’Hm?’’

“It means you’re okay.”

You blinked at him. Then, before you could stop yourself you let out a quiet groan and pressed a hand to your forehead. Immediately, panic returned to his face. “Wait. What happened? Are you dizzy?”

“…Very.”

The reaction was instant.

“Oh god.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “Very” was apparently the wrong thing to say. Seonghyeon looked seconds away from calling an ambulance.

“I might die, it could be because of you.” you said dramatically.

“It’s that bad?!”

Then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Come on.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you to the nurse.”

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. Actually…that didn’t sound so bad.

A few minutes later, you found yourself sitting on a chair in the nurse’s office while Seonghyeon hovered nearby like an anxious parent. The nurse had spent less than thirty seconds checking you over before declaring you completely fine. Unfortunately for Seonghyeon, he didn’t seem convinced.

“Are you sure?” he asked. The nurse looked mildly offended.

“Yes.”

“But the ball hit her pretty hard.”

“She’s fine.”

“How do you know?”

You looked away before either of them could see your smile. This was getting ridiculous. Yet you couldn’t remember the last time someone had worried about you this much. When the nurse finally sent you back out, Seonghyeon stayed beside you the entire walk down the hallway.

“You sure you’re okay? Do you want me to get you something? You’re not bruised, are you? Wait, let me check-” Before you could respond, Seonghyeon was already leaning closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he examined your cheek. You froze for a second, suddenly very aware of how close he was. After a moment, he leaned back with a small frown.

“I think it’s going to bruise.”

A few days have gone by, and Seonghyeon had somehow managed to become your personal caretaker. At first, it had been small things.

A bottle of water placed on your desk every morning with a bright smile that had you not doubt why everyone was charmed by him. When you carried many books, he’d take them out of your hands without hesitation. Everytime he would walk past you, he’d ask you this question:

‘’How’s your head today?’’ as if you were recovering from a life threatening injury. You have never met someone so commited. At some point you stopped correcting him because everytime he checked on you, his face softened in a way you have never seen before.

Before what happened in the football field, Seonghyeon had been one of those people you only knew from a distance. The kind of person everyone seemed to recognize. He wasn’t loud or constantly trying to be noticed, he never really had to. People gravitated towards him naturally.

Teachers liked him. Students liked him. Heck, even the security guard near the front entrance seemed happy to see him every morning. You had always thought Seonghyeon was cold and intimidating, which is why you have never spoken to him before. You weren’t exactly the type to walk up to people.

While Seonghyeon seemed to move through school as if he belonged everywhere, you preferred blending into the background. You kept your circle small, avoided unecessary attention and spent most of your time in your own world. The idea of starting a conversation with someone like Seonghyeon had never even crossed your mind. You were pretty sure he didn’t know who you were, or at the very least never bothered to pay any attention to you. Then he kicked a football directly into your face, now he wouldn’t leave you alone.

You really should’ve kept your mouth shut. It had been a completely harmless comment, a passing observation. Something you’d mutter to your friend while packing up your things after class.

‘’I’m hungry’’

You hadn’t asked anyone to get you anything, and you certainly hadn’t been talking to Seonghyeon. Yet somehow a few minutes later, he came back with a recognizable sandwich from the school cafeteria. You looked up in confusion.

“So..”

Before you could finish your sentence, Seonghyeon handed you the sandwich.

“You said you were hungry”

You stared at him, then the sandwich, then back at him.

“..oh.”

Very articulate. His expression didn’t change.

“Eat.”

“I was going to buy one after class.”

“Now you don’t have to.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. Because the problem wasn’t the sandwich. The problem was that half the classroom had suddenly become very interested in what was happening. You could practically feel the stares.

The girls sitting by the window had stopped talking. Someone behind you let out a suspiciously amused laugh. Your friend looked seconds away from exploding. She had many questions, the look upon her face says it all. Heat immediately rushed to your face.

‘’Tha..nks.’’ You mumbled, taking the sandwich quickly in your hand while lowering your head. Seonghyeon was completely unaware of the crisis unfolding internally.

‘’Your head okay?’’

‘’Yeah..’

‘’You sure?’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’Good.’’

The conversation really should’ve ended there. Instead, Seonghyeon remained standing next to your desk. Your face grew warmer. Why is he still here? Finally, after a few seconds he spoke again.

‘’Let me know if it starts hurting.’’

Then, as casually as he’d arrived, turned and walked away. You turned to your friend, you already knew where this was going.

‘’Y/n-‘’

‘’No.’’

‘’There’s like-clearly something going on that you’re refusing to inform me about.’’

‘’Like what?’’

Her expression changed, as if it was obvious and self explanatory.

Choi Haejin was the complete opposite of you. You were reserved, she was sociable and open. You were in your own world and Haejin was in everybody else’s, gathering information to gossip about later. Somehow this dynamic worked extremely well. You needed a friend to do all the talking, and you really do enjoy it.

‘’Hello? Why is he practically working for you?’’

‘’There’s obviously something going on!’’

‘’WHAT IF HE POISONED THE SANDWICH?!’’

‘’It’s not reasonable for him to have any hatred towards you though..”

‘’How are you so calm?!’’

Yes, one of Choi Haejin’s many loveable qualities. Her overwhelmingly stacked questions.

Seonghyeon’s concern didn’t seem to fade with time. If anything, it had simply evolved. A week after the football incident, you found yourself stuck in a conversation you had absolutely no interest in being part of. You’d only been trying to get to class. That was it.

Somehow, somewhere between leaving the cafeteria and reaching the stairs, a girl from your year had stopped you. You knew who she was, but not well enough to have a ten minute conversation in the middle of the hallway. Yet here you were, smiling politely, nodding occasionally and secretly praying for an escape.

“-and then she literally posted about it!” the girl continued. “Really?” you replied.

You didn’t even know what you were saying “really” to anymore. The conversation had dragged on for so long that you’d completely lost the plot. You shifted your weight awkwardly, glancing toward the staircase. Your next class started in a few minutes, but cutting her off felt rude. Standing here forever also felt rude to yourself.

“So then I told her-‘’

“There you are.”

The familiar voice made you look up immediately. Seonghyeon. For a second, you just stared. He stopped beside you, one hand shoved casually into his pocket.

“Why are you still here?” he asked.

You blinked.

“What?”

“Class starts in like two minutes.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

It did?

Before you could check your phone, Seonghyeon looked over at the girl.

“Sorry,” he said easily. “I need her for something.”

Need you?

The girl glanced between the two of you.

“Oh.”

You felt your face heat up instantly.

“Oh.”

Seonghyeon, meanwhile, looked completely unaffected. The girl quickly stepped aside.

“Yeah, of course.”

And just like that, you were free. You followed Seonghyeon down the hallway, still trying to process what had happened. Neither of you spoke.

“You didn’t need me for anything.” You began.

“Nope.” You stared at him. He glanced over.

“You looked like you wanted to escape.” Your steps faltered slightly.

“Was it that obvious?”

“To me?” he shrugged. “A little.”

You looked away before he could see the smile threatening to appear. The strange thing was that you hadn’t even told him you were uncomfortable. You hadn’t said anything at all. And somehow, he’d noticed anyway.

The next day, by the time you reached your classroom, you were expecting everyone to already be inside. Instead, a small crowd had gathered outside the locked door.

A few students sat on the floor scrolling through their phones while others stood around complaining about the teacher being late. Relieved that you hadn’t actually missed anything, you slipped into an empty spot against the wall and pulled out your phone, hoping to blend into the background until the classroom opened. It was working for about thirty seconds, then a familiar voice spoke beside you.

“You’re late, It’s not because of your head is it?’’

You looked up to find Seonghyeon standing there. Before you could answer, someone walking down the hallway lifted a hand.

“Hey, Seonghyeon.”

“Hey.”

Another student nodded at him as they passed. A group farther down the hall called his name and he acknowledged them with a small wave. It was such a normal thing that he barely seemed to notice it. You did.

Before he acknowledged you, this was exactly how you’d always seen him, from a distance. Someone who seemed to know everyone and be known by everyone. Teachers greeted him. Students greeted him. Even people who weren’t in his friend group seemed comfortable walking up to him. Meanwhile, you were usually trying to avoid being perceived altogether.

“Well?” he asked.

You blinked.

“What?”

“Why are you late?” You immediately looked away because the answer was embarrassing.

“I couldn’t find a pen.” Seonghyeon stared at you.

“A pen.”

“Yes.”

“You were late because of a pen.”

“It was an important pen.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, you felt strangely defensive.

“It was.”

A laugh escaped him.

Not loud enough to draw attention, but enough that you looked up in surprise. You weren’t sure why the sound caught you off guard. Maybe because Seonghyeon always seemed so composed around everyone else. Maybe because you’d spent months assuming he was intimidating. Now he was laughing because you apparently make hilarious jokes.

The interaction hadn’t gone unnoticed, somehow you caught two girls nearby glancing over before quickly looking away. One of them whispered something to the other. Heat immediately crept up your neck.

For some reason, whenever Seonghyeon talked to you, it felt like everyone else suddenly became interested too. Seonghyeon either didn’t notice or didn’t care. A few minutes later, one of his friends appeared and nudged his shoulder.

“Come here for a sec.” You expected him to leave but instead he glanced over briefly. “I’ll be there in a minute, Keonho.’’ His friend looked between the two of you before smirking slightly. “Right.”

The second he walked away, you wanted to disappear. Seonghyeon meanwhile, looked completely oblivious. The conversation continued in small pieces after that. Nothing important. Complaints about homework. A teacher neither of you liked. The upcoming test everyone was stressing about. You still weren’t saying much but for the first time, the silences didn’t feel awkward.

That was what surprised you the most because before all of this, talking to Seonghyeon had never even seemed like a possibility. Now you found yourself hoping the teacher would stay late for a few more minutes.

If there was one thing you’d learned from being friends with Haejin, it was that she was incapable of making a quick decision. She was supposed to buy a game for her younger brother’s birthday.

You were only there because she’d insisted she needed a “second opinion”. According to Haejin, this was a very important responsibility. According to you, she just didn’t want to go alone. Twenty minutes later, your theory was proven to be correct.

“You’ve been staring at these three games for like ten minutes”

Haejin gasped dramatically. “This is a life changing decision.”

“…It’s a birthday gift?’’

‘’Exactly.’’

You sighed and glanced around the store.

The place was busier than you’d expected for a saturday afternoon. The game store was warm and slightly crowded, lined with shelves stacked with colorful game cases and collectibles. Bright lights reflected off display screens scattered throughout the store, while the faint sounds of racing games, button mashing, and excited conversations filled the air.

Groups of friends wandered between aisles, kids begged their parents to buy things and somewhere in the back of the store, a racing game played loudly through a set of speakers.

‘’Oh, what do i do? Haemin likes all of these.’’ At this point, you were mostly waiting for Haejin to decide which game she’d buy for her brother so you could both leave. Then a familiar voice drifted across the store.

‘’You can’t blame me for that.’’

For a second, you thought you’d imagined it but then another voice answered.

‘’Oh yes i can.’’

You turned your head slightly. Near the racing simulator setup stood two boys. One was sitting in the simulator, controller still in hand. The other stood beside him with his arms crossed. You recognized them immediately.

Seonghyeon and Keonho.

You simply stared. Not because seeing them was surprising, you’re sure many highschoolers come here.

Because seeing them like this was.

‘’You literally drove into me!’’ Keonho blamed.

‘’I didn’t-‘’

‘’You did.’’

‘’I barely touched you.’’

Keonho looked genuienly offended.

‘’You sent my car into a wall.’’

‘’Well you suck at this game anyway.’’

A laugh escaped Seonghyeon.

Even after becoming friends with him, most of your conversations had happened between classes, in hallways, or during lunch breaks.

School Seonghyeon was confident, calm, and seemingly unbothered by everything. This version felt more relaxed, warm. More real. Like the moment he stepped outside school, some invisible pressure disappeared.

Beside you, Haejin finally noticed where your attention had gone. She looked at the two boys.

“No way.”

You already knew that tone.

“Haejin.”

“No way.”

“Haejin.”

“That’s Seonghyeon- and Keonho.’’

“I can see that.”

She looked far too excited about this discovery. Fate apparently hated you because at that exact moment, Keonho looked up and spotted the two of you. His grin appeared instantly.

“Oh, this is interesting.”

Seonghyeon frowned.

“What?”

Keonho tilted his head toward the entrance. Slowly, Seonghyeon turned around. For a brief moment, surprise flashed across his face. His eyes met yours. The first thing he did was smile, a genuine smile. Suddenly, becoming very interested in the floor seemed like a fantastic idea. Haejin had other plans. Before you could stop her, she grabbed your wrist and started walking.

“Haejin.”

“Nope.”

“Haejin, come on-”

“We’re already committed.”

“We absolutely are not.”

Across the store, you could hear Keonho laughing which somehow made everything worse. By the time the two of you have reached them, your dignity had already left the building.

‘’Y/n,’’ Seonghyeon said.

The fact that he greeted you first did absolutely nothing to help.

‘’Hi.’’

Haejin meanwhile, had abandoned all subtlety.

‘’What happened to fourth place?’’

Keonho immediately pointed at her.

‘’THANK YOU.’’

Seonghyeon closed his eyes briefly. ‘’You are not helping.’’

‘’You came fourth?’’

You really couldn’t help asking. The look Seonghyeon gave you was almost enough to make you laugh, almost. Keonho looked delighted. Finally, someone was on his side. “You see?” he said, pointing at you. “Even y/n agrees.”

“I didn’t agree with anything,” you replied immediately.

“You asked the question.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It basically is.”

“It absolutely is not.”

Seonghyeon looked exhausted.

“You two are impossible.”

The comment earned matching offended expressions from both you and Keonho which, unfortunately, only made Haejin laugh.

“Wow,” she said. “I’ve never seen him lose an argument before.”

“I’m not losing.”

“You came fourth.”

“I came fourth because somebody doesn’t know how to drive.”

Keonho gasped.

The betrayal.

The audacity.

The complete disrespect.

For a second, the two of them resumed arguing while you stood there trying- and failing not to smile. It was strange. Before today, you’d never really seen Seonghyeon with his friends. Not properly.

At school, people always seemed drawn to him. There was always someone talking to him, waving at him, asking him something. But this felt different, like it was more real, less intimidating.

“You know,” Seonghyeon said, glancing toward Keonho and Haejin, “I don’t think they’re coming back.”

You followed his gaze. Haejin was holding up two game cases while Keonho looked like he was defending his thesis.

“Yeah.”

“They’ve been arguing about the same thing for like ten minutes.”

“You say that like you weren’t arguing over a racing game when I walked in.”

Seonghyeon looked over.

“That was different.”

“Was it?’’

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Neither of you said anything for a moment. You found yourself looking around the store instead, eyes moving over shelves packed with games you knew nothing about. Then Seonghyeon pointed toward one.

“Have you played that before?”

You glanced at the cover.

“No.”

“What about that one?”

“No.”

He pointed at another.

“No.”

Another.

“No.”

Seonghyeon stared at you.

“Have you ever had fun before?”

You were slightly taken aback.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m trying to figure out why Haejin brought you to a game store.’’

“I’m here to supervise.”

To your surprise, he laughed.

Slowly, Your conversations started to flow naturally. It felt easier to talk to him. Maybe because it didn’t feel like talking to the cool guy everyone knew. Or the football player.

Just Seonghyeon.

Talking to him was becoming easier than talking to most people.

“You owe me.”

You looked up from your phone.

Across the lunch table, Haejin was staring at you expectantly.

“What?”

“You owe me.”

“..I don’t think I do.”

“You do.”

You narrowed your eyes, then Haejin leaned forward.

“Aren’t friends supposed to support each other’s interests?” She gave you a cheeky smile.

‘’Mm..that depends.’’

‘’On what?’’

“Whether those interests involve dragging me somewhere against my will.”

A look of betrayal crossed her face.

“Wow.”

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“Haejin.”

She grinned. “What?”

You gave her a knowing look before she finally decided to answer.

“There’s a football match after school.”

You stared at her.

“Seriously? No.”

The answer came so quickly that she looked offended.

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did.”

“You really didn’t.”

“I absolutely did.”

Haejin pointed at you.

“See? This is exactly why I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Unfortunately, that was how you found yourself sitting on the school bleachers three hours later, questioning every life decision that had led you to this moment. It seemed fun though.

The field was already crowded by the time you arrived.

Students filled up most of the seats, scattered in groups with friends, snacks and far more enthusiasm than you could ever relate to. The noise was conversations overlapping, people calling out to eachother, the occasional burst of laughter carrying across the field.

You adjusted your position on the bleachers and glanced around.

“This is way more people than I expected.”

“Obviously,” Haejin replied.

“Why obviously?”

She looked at you as if you’d asked something ridiculous.

“It’s the biggest match of the season.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t know that either?”

“No.”

Haejin sighed. Sometimes you genuinely worried about her blood pressure whenever she talked to you. The teams began gathering on the field below. A few students immediately started cheering. Others waved at friends playing.

You found yourself mostly observing, until a familiar figure stepped onto the field. The annoying thing was that you recognized him immediately. Not because of the jersey, not because he was standing the closest, your eyes had simply found him automatically.

You hated that, a lot.

Before he hit you with the football, Seonghyeon would’ve blended into the crowd of players. Now he stood out immediately. The realization was embarrassing enough that you quickly had to look elsewhere.

When you looked back a few moments later, your eyes found him again. And again. And again. It was becoming a problem.

The whistle blew.

The game began.

At first, you paid attention out of politeness. Haejin had dragged you here, after all. The least you could do was pretend to care. A few minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. Somewhere along the way, you realized you were actually watching.

Not football.

Seonghyeon.

The thing was, you’d never seen him like this before. At school, Seonghyeon always seemed relaxed and comfortable. The type of person who could walk into any room and immediately belong there. On the field, however, there was something different about him. He moved with an ease that made everything look effortless. Even from a distance, you could tell people listened when he spoke.

Teammates glanced toward him constantly. A few times, he called something out and everyone immediately adjusted. It was strange. Not because you hadn’t known he played football. Because you’d never really thought about what that meant.

For the first time, you understood why so many people admired him. And for some reason, that realization made your stomach feel weird. Beside you, Haejin followed your gaze. Then smirked. You knew that smirk. It was never a good sign.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Haejin.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“I am.”

You groaned.

“Please don’t.”

The smirk only grew.

Thankfully, before she could speak, the crowd suddenly erupted around you. Cheers echoed across the bleachers. Students jumped to their feet. You blinked.

Apparently something had happened. Unfortunately, you’d been too busy arguing with Haejin to notice.

“What happened?”

Haejin stared at you, then at the field, then back at you.

“You weren’t watching.”

“I was.”

“You literally weren’t.”

“What happened?”

She pointed toward the field and you followed her gaze. Seonghyeon was jogging back toward the center, teammates crowding around him.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Haejin repeated.

“He scored.”

“He scored.”

You nodded.

For some reason, a smile pulled at your lips. A small one. One you didn’t even notice until Haejin did. Her eyes widened immediately.

“Wow.’’

Your smile disappeared.

“What?”

“You smiled.”

“So?”

“You smiled because he scored.”

Heat immediately rose to your face. You felt your ears swell.

“No i didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

You looked away before she could continue. You weren’t entirely sure she was wrong. That realization lingered for the rest of the match. Long after the cheering died down. Long after the game resumed. Long after you’d convinced yourself you were imagining things.

Because every time something happened on the field, your attention drifted toward the same person. Everytime he did something impressive, you felt strangely proud. As if you’d somehow earned the right.

Which was absurd.

You were still trying to convince yourself of that when the final whistle blew. The crowd immediately came alive. Students began standing, gathering their things, and making their way toward the exits. Some headed toward the field. Others were already talking excitedly about the game.

You stayed seated. Mostly because moving required effort. Partly because Haejin had disappeared five minutes ago after spotting someone she knew. You’d just pulled out your phone when a shadow fell across you. You assumed it was Haejin. Then a familiar voice spoke.

“I need an unbiased opinion.”

You looked up.

And immediately wished you hadn’t. Seonghyeon was standing there. Still wearing his uniform. Still slightly out of breath. His hair was damp from the game, falling messily across his forehead. For some reason, that bothered you.

Not because it looked bad, quite the opposite actually. Judging by the expression on his face, something had clearly bothered him.

“Hello to you too.”

“That can wait-‘’

You blinked.

“That’s sort of concerning.”

“I was robbed.”

A pause.

‘’Didn’t you guys win?’’

‘’That’s not the point.’’

‘’Feels like a pretty important point.’’

Seonghyeon looked genuinely frustrated, his breathing was heavier since the game had ended.

‘’The referee was seriously against me.’’

You stared at him for several seconds before you shifted in your seat.

‘’You’re one of those people?’’

‘’What?’’

‘’The people who blame the referee everytime something doesn’t go their way.’’

‘’It didn’t go my way.’’

‘’Well, you won.’’

‘’Of course i did.’’

You laughed, the reaction was immediate.

‘’You didn’t even pay attention.’’

‘’I was.’’

‘’No you weren’t’’

‘’How would you know?’’

‘’Because if you did, you’d be angry too.’’

‘’I’m not emotionally invested enough to be angry.’’

The look he gave you suggested this was the wrong answer.

“Okay, imagine this’’

‘’Oh-‘’

‘’I score.’’

‘’You score.’’

‘’A beautiful score.’’

‘’According to whom exactly?’’

‘’Everybody.’’

‘’Mm.’’

‘’Then the referee- who’s job is to observe accurately, calls it offside.’’

You considered this, then shrugged.

‘’Well- maybe it was offside.’’

The betrayal on his face creeped up fast.

‘’I swear it wasn’t.’’

‘’Were you the referee?’’

‘’No.’’

‘’Then how do you know?’’

For a moment, Seonghyeon simply stared at you, then he pointed accusingly.

‘’You’re terrible at this.’’

‘’At what?’’

‘’At being supportive.’’

‘’You wanted an unbiased opinion.’’

‘’I wanted you to agree with me.’’

‘’That’s not quite what unbiased means.’’

The corner of his mouth twitched. You knew he was competitive, he shot a football straight at you a few weeks ago.

‘’You know what? Nevermind.’’

You laughed again.

This time, Seonghyeon shook his head dramatically and dropped down to the bleacher seat in front of you. The field behind him remained crowded with players and students slowly making their way home. Voices carried across the evening air while coaches gathered equipment near the sidelines.

“You stayed for the whole match.”

The comment caught you off guard.

“What?”

“The whole thing.”

He leaned back slightly.

“I thought you’d get bored and leave.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You have a very low opinion of me.”

“I watched you spend twenty minutes in a game store staring at absolutely nothing.”

“I was being supportive.”

“You were wandering.”

“I was observing.”

“You were probably lost.”

“I knew exactly where I was.”

“Sure.”

You hated how satisfied he looked, with a smile to follow up on. His smile was genuine, like you could argue about anything- and it would still feel like you won, simply because he gave you that smile.

Then again, you hated how often he made you laugh. Before either of you could continue, a voice called from somewhere behind him.

“Seonghyeon!”

You looked up automatically.

A girl was jogging across the field toward the two of you, a bottle of water in one hand. She couldn’t have been much older than you. She looked pretty, and confident. The type of person who seemed completely comfortable talking to anyone. The type of person you immediately disliked for absolutely no reason.

She stopped beside him and held out the bottle. “You left this.”

“Oh.” Seonghyeon took it.

“Thanks.”

The interaction was completely normal.

The girl smiled. “No problem.”

Then she started talking, and Seonghyeon talked back. Which again, was normal. Because why wouldn’t he? But as you stood there listening to their conversation, a strange feeling settled in your chest. One you didn’t particularly like. The girl seemed familiar with him, she was comfortable like this wasn’t the first time they’d spoken. Obviously it wasn’t, Seonghyeon knew everyone. You already knew that.

Still, you found yourself looking away. Suddenly very interested in fixing the strap of your bag.

“You coming to practice on monday?” the girl asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She grinned.

“Coach would’ve killed you if you missed it.”

Seonghyeon laughed. The same laugh you’d spent the last few weeks becoming far too fond of. Hearing it now felt different, a little less special.

You’d never thought it was special. Not really. Right? The realization hit, maybe that was the problem. You had.

At some point, without noticing, you’d started treating every conversation with Seonghyeon like it meant something. When in reality this was just who he was. He was friendly, easy to talk to. He was comfortable around everyone.

The girl finally glanced toward you.

“Oh.”

For a second, she looked between the two of you then smiled politely.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

The conversation lasted another minute or two.

You weren’t really paying attention anymore because the stupid feeling in your chest had only gotten worse. Thankfully, someone else called Seonghyeon’s name from across the field. A teammate this time.

“Seonghyeon!”

He looked over, then back at you.

“I should probably go.”

The words were simple and harmless, but for some reason they felt disappointing.

“Yeah,” you said.

“See you monday?”

You smiled, disingeniously.

“See you.”

The second he stood up and walked away, you knew something was wrong. Not with him, but with you. You spent the entire walk home thinking about a conversation that hadn’t even involved you. You replayed everything, the exchanged conversation, his gaze, his laughter. You replayed him.

The realization irritated you more than anything else. It wasn’t as if Seonghyeon had done something particularly memorable. He’d talked to a teammate, that’s all. The interaction had been completely normal, yet somehow your brain insisted on revisiting it every few hours like there was some hidden meaning you’d failed to uncover the first time around.

By monday morning, you’d become so annoyed with yourself that you’d practically banned yourself from thinking about him altogether. Unfortunately, that lasted less than a day.

School carried on as usual. Teachers assigned work, students complained about it, and Haejin continued collecting gossip the way other people collected hobbies, which was admirable really. Everything felt normal. At least until the end of third period.

Your teacher had been gathering her things when she suddenly bent down and picked something up from beside one of the desks near the front of the classroom. It was a dark grey hoodie, slightly oversized and folded in on itself as if somebody had shoved it underneath a chair and forgotten about it.

“Did someone leave this behind?” she asked, holding it up.

A few students glanced over before immediately losing interest, you looked up too and knew exactly who it belonged to.

The answer came so quickly that you didn’t even question it at first. Seonghyeon. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation, you simply looked at the hoodie and knew.

Maybe it was because you’d seen him wearing it countless times over the past few weeks. Maybe it was because it had become one of those things your brain automatically associated with him. Whatever the reason, the certainty came naturally enough that you barely thought twice about it.

Then somebody behind you spoke.

“Oh, that’s Seonghyeon’s.”

Somehow, it felt odd. It wasn’t because they’d confirmed it, it was more so because they hadn’t told you anything you didn’t already know.

The rest of the class moved on immediately. The teacher placed the hoodie on her desk, someone made a joke and within seconds everyone was talking about something else. Everyone except you.

For some reason, that insignificant moment refused to leave your head. You spent the next hour trying to convince yourself it meant nothing. It was just a hoodie. People recognized each other’s belongings all the time. There was really nothing strange about it.

The argument would’ve been much more convincing if you hadn’t immediately noticed he wasn’t wearing it during lunch. The realization hit you before you even saw his face.

Your eyes found him automatically across the cafeteria surrounded by Keonho, Martin, James and Juhoon, the same group of friends he was always with. The first thing your brain registered wasn’t the conversation he was having or the fact that Keonho was laughing at something.

It was the absence of the hoodie. That’s why he looks different. You seriously didn’t like this, you in fact hated it. Seonghyeon, whom you hadn’t bat an eye on two months ago had occupied your mind the past four days. It was torture, simply because you refused to accept the thoughts. You denied everything, you brushed everything off and went about your day.

The following morning started with a problem. Not a particularly serious one, nor one that should have occupied more than a few seconds of your time, yet somehow you found yourself standing in front of your bedroom mirror far longer than necessary. You’d already finished getting ready.

Your makeup was done, your uniform was on, your bag was packed and waiting by the door. By all accounts, you should’ve been downstairs eating breakfast. Instead, you were still there staring at your reflection as if it had personally offended you. Something felt wrong.

The frustrating part was that you couldn’t figure out what. Your hair looked fine, more than fine actually. You had spent enough time on it to ensure that. Yet your hand still reached up to smooth down a strand near your cheek before stepping back again.

A few seconds later you found yourself leaning toward the mirror adjusting something else, then immediately questioning whether it had looked better before. The cycle repeated itself often enough that by the time you finally checked the clock, nearly fifteen minutes had disappeared. You frowned. That couldn’t be right.

Normally, getting ready in the morning wasn’t something you thought much about. You liked looking presentable and usually put effort into your appearance, but there was a difference between effort and whatever this was. This felt suspiciously close to perfectionism, except there was nothing to perfect.

Every time you fixed one thing, your eyes immediately found something else to focus on. A different hairstyle. A little more lip tint. Maybe a different pair of earrings. None of the changes were dramatic enough for anyone else to notice, but you noticed them, and apparently that was enough to keep you rooted in front of the mirror like an idiot.

Moments later, your phone buzzed. Haejin was texting you.

HAEJIN

Overslept.

Can’t make it to first period.

Meet you second period😴

Haejin was a bit careless when it came to school. You don’t think it’s on purpose, she just doesn’t see the need to wake up at 7:30 AM for merely first period. She makes it so justifiable, so you guess you could see it from her perspective, however not today. Today, was an important day.

By the time first period began, you were already feeling self aware. Now, instead of sitting beside your best friend, you found yourself alone at your desk while the teacher droned on at the front of the classroom. The seat beside you remained empty, which felt strangely noticeable. Haejin had a way of filling every space she occupied, and without her there the morning seemed significantly quieter.

When the bell finally rang, you gathered your things and stepped into the hallway with no particular destination in mind. Your next class was on the opposite side of the building, leaving you with more than enough time to get there. Normally, you would have spent the break with Haejin. Today however, you found yourself wandering alone through the crowded hallways.

“Y/n, hey.’’

The familiar voice made you turn immediately.

Seonghyeon stood a few feet away, one strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder. For a moment, your brain supplied an extremely unhelpful thought.

Did he notice?

You hated yourself instantly.

Notice what?

Your hair?

Your makeup?

The fact that you’d spent half your morning acting like a love island contestant? Thankfully, Seonghyeon seemed completely unaware of the spiraling thoughts currently unfolding.

“Haejin’s late,” you explained before he could ask. Before you could think of a more logical answer, like a simple hey.

Seriously?

What does Haejin have to do with this?

Why would he care?

Seonghyeon almost surpressed his reaction.

‘’Oh- right.’’

He was confused. Did you think he approached you to talk to Haejin? He didn’t read much into it though.

However, he did notice something was different about you today.

At first, he couldn’t figure out what it was.

Maybe your hair looked different. Maybe your makeup. Whatever it was, it gave you a slightly softer appearance than usual. Not dramatically different, just enough to make him pause for a second longer than normal.

“You look tired” he said instead.

You stared at him. Of all the things he could’ve said.

“Tired?”

“Yeah.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t sleep?”

The betrayal you felt was immediate. You had spent an embarrassing amount of time getting ready this morning. An embarrassing amount. And somehow the only conclusion he’d reached was that you looked tired. For a brief moment, you considered pushing him down the nearest staircase.

“That’s offensive.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

“I’m choosing peace.”

Seonghyeon laughed.

Unfortunately, the sound did absolutely nothing to improve your mood. If anything, it made it worse. Because now all you could think about was the twenty minutes you’d wasted staring at yourself in the mirror. The universe clearly had a sense of humor.

“You look fine, by the way.”

The comment was casual. So casual that he probably didn’t think twice about saying it. You however, nearly forgot how to function. Before you could respond, Martin called Seonghyeon’s name from farther down the hallway. He looked over his shoulder, then back at you.

“I’ll see you later.” And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving you standing in the middle of the hallway wondering why two completely harmless words had managed to ruin the rest of your morning. The rest of the day passed surprisingly quickly after that.

Haejin eventually arrived halfway through second period carrying the same energy she always did, immediately filling the empty space beside you with stories, complaints and dramatic retellings of how she had supposedly fallen victim to circumstances completely beyond her control.

According to her, the blame rested entirely on a combination of faulty alarms, unfair school schedules and a universe that seemed personally determined to make her suffer.

“I woke up and it was 9:12.”

“You start at 8:30.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s doesn’t quite help.” Haejin pouted.

The rest of the day continued pretty much the same way. Haejin spent most of her time insisting she was being unfairly persecuted by the education system. By the final bell, you had almost forgotten about the awkward interaction from that morning. Almost. Unfortunately, while you were fully prepared to go home, Haejin apparently had other plans.

“I’ll be two minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You also meant it last time.”

Ignoring you entirely, she disappeared back into the building after being stopped by a teacher regarding an assignment she had forgotten to submit. So you waited.

The afternoon air was cool, carrying the familiar sounds of students lingering around school grounds before heading home.

Groups gathered near the entrance, conversations overlapping as people delayed going home for as long as possible. You had been scrolling through your phone for several minutes when a football rolled across the pavement a few meters away. Your eyes followed it automatically.

Several members of the football team had gathered near the edge of the courtyard, passing time before practice. Some were kicking a ball around while others leaned against a nearby fence talking amongst themselves. The sight would’ve gone largely unnoticed if Haejin hadn’t finally emerged from the building at that exact moment.

“Oh.”

“What?”

Her eyes lit up. “Keonho’s here.”

Before you could stop her, she’d already started walking.

“Haejin.”

No response.

“Haejin.”

Still nothing.

Sometimes you genuinely believed she could hear only the things she wanted to hear. Unfortunately, Keonho seemed equally enthusiastic. A few minutes later, the two of them had somehow dragged everyone into the same conversation.

You weren’t entirely sure how it happened. One moment you were waiting for Haejin, the next you were standing in a loose circle listening to Keonho passionately argue that football players deserved special treatment during exam season.

“You kick a ball around.”

“That’s not all we do.”

“That’s literally what football is.” Seonghyeon let out a faint laugh. Keonho pointed at him immediately.

“See? He understands.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your silence supports me.”

The conversation drifted from one topic to another after that. Homework became complaints about teachers, which somehow turned into stories from middle school and then an argument over who had the worst attendance record. At some point, Keonho glanced toward Seonghyeon.

“Actually, speaking of people abandoning their friends.” Seonghyeon already looked tired.

“You spend more time talking to y/n than you do with me nowadays.”

The comment earned a laugh from Haejin. You wished it hadn’t, because now everyone was looking at the two of you. Seonghyeon meanwhile, seemed completely unaffected.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

For a second, Keonho gestured vaguely between the two of you as though presenting evidence to a jury. The response came easily. Without hesitation. Without even a second of thought.

“She’s my friend.”

The following morning began with rain.

Not the kind that belonged in movies, where people stared moodily out of windows while life changing realizations unfolded in the background. This was ordinary rain. Annoying rain. The sort that turned sidewalks slippery and made umbrellas feel completely useless because somehow you still ended up getting wet anyway.

By the time you arrived at school, your shoes were damp, your patience was gone and Haejin was already waiting by the entrance looking personally offended by the weather. She immediately launched into a five minute rant about how rain should be illegal before eight in the morning, only pausing long enough to complain about an upcoming assignment and the fact that she had forgotten to study for a quiz she apparently hadn’t known existed until fifteen minutes ago.

The conversation continued all the way to class. Then through first period. Then through half of second period. That was one of the things you liked most about Haejin. Being around her left very little room for overthinking. Unfortunately not no room, just very little.

The thought arrived sometime during lunch. You were sitting across from Haejin while she attempted to convince three people that she deserved compensation for having to wake up before sunrise every day. Around you, the cafeteria buzzed with the usual noise of conversations, laughter and the occasional argument over stolen food. It was normal. Completely normal.

Yet for some reason, you found yourself looking up whenever the doors opened. The first time, you didn’t think much of it. The second time, you barely noticed. The third time however, you caught yourself doing it and immediately looked back down at your food. That was strange. You frowned slightly.

Because you knew exactly what you had been looking for. Or rather, who. The thought irritated you far more than it should have. The problem was that it happened automatically. You had not consciously wondered where Seonghyeon was. You hadn’t been sitting there waiting for him to appear. Your eyes had simply searched the room on their own before your brain had the chance to stop them. Annoying. Deeply annoying. Across from you, Haejin paused mid-sentence.

“…Why do you look angry?”

“I’m not angry.”

“You look like it.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That explains nothing.”

You stabbed a french fry with considerably more force than necessary. Haejin narrowed her eyes immediately. Never a good sign.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It isn’t.”

“It literally is.”

You sighed. The problem with having a best friend for years was that they became impossible to fool.

“You know,” Haejin continued, leaning back in her chair “most people don’t glare at potatoes unless something is bothering them.”

For a brief moment, you considered telling her. Not everything. Then immediately decided against it. Mostly because hearing your thoughts out loud would somehow make the situation significantly worse, and because deep down there was a part of you that already knew exactly what Haejin would say. The problem was that you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to hear it.

If someone had asked Seonghyeon whether anything had changed over the past couple of weeks, he probably would’ve said no.

Life looked exactly the same as it always had. Football practice continued to consume most of his afternoons and Keonho remained committed to making every situation at least twice as loud as necessary. The days blended together in the way school days often did. One class became another. One week became the next. Nothing particularly significant seemed to happen. At least, that was what he thought.

The realization didn’t arrive all at once. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t even particularly noticeable at first. Instead, it appeared in small moments and then disappeared again before he could properly think about it. A hallway conversation that felt strangely short. An empty seat during lunch that shouldn’t have mattered. The first few times, he ignored it. By the tenth, it was becoming difficult to.

Thursday afternoon found him sitting through one of the most painfully boring lessons of the semester. Even the teacher seemed tired of listening to himself speak. Around the classroom, students had long since given up pretending to pay attention. Some were doodling in notebooks, others were staring blankly out windows, and James had somehow managed to fall asleep while sitting upright. Honestly, it was impressive.

Seonghyeon’s attention had drifted somewhere around twenty minutes earlier. His notebook remained open in front of him, untouched except for a few half finished notes written without much thought behind them. He wasn’t really looking at anything in particular when the teacher suddenly stopped speaking and sighed.

“Since nobody seems interested in participating today, let’s try something easier.”

Immediately, several students sat up. The word easier had that effect.

The teacher began asking questions instead, pointing at different students around the room whenever he needed an answer. Most people responded with varying levels of enthusiasm. Some answered correctly. Others guessed. One student somehow managed to produce an answer so incorrect that the entire class burst out laughing. Including Seonghyeon. For some reason, the moment reminded him of y/n. The thought appeared so unexpectedly that he almost frowned.

It wasn’t even a specific memory. Just a vague association. Something about the expression she would’ve made if she’d heard the answer. The way she tried not to laugh when she found something funny. The way she usually looked away immediately afterward as if being caught smiling was somehow embarrassing. For a second, he found himself glancing toward the row she usually sat in. Then paused, because that was strange. He hadn’t spoken to y/n properly in what felt like ages. It didn’t make sense.

A few weeks ago, running into her had somehow become normal. Conversations before class. Conversations after class. Random interactions in hallways that stretched far longer than either of them intended. Nothing major. Just enough that he’d stopped noticing when they happened.

Now he was noticing when they didn’t. The thought lingered for the rest of the lesson. Then followed him into the hallway. Then all the way to lunch. By the time football practice started, he still hadn’t managed to shake it. People got busy, that was all. School happened, life happened. There was no reason to think about it this much.

Unfortunately, that explanation became slightly harder to believe when he realized he couldn’t remember the last actual conversation they’ve had.

Instead, he found himself standing on the edge of the football field staring at absolutely nothing while the rest of the team warmed up around him.

“Earth to Seonghyeon.”

Martin’s voice snapped him out of it.

“What?”

“You’ve been staring at the same patch of grass for thirty seconds.”

Seonghyeon blinked.

Had he? Apparently. Keonho narrowed his eyes immediately.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Seonghyeon didn’t understand why he had thought about it this much. He wasn’t the type to. He’d logically examine situations, come up with a logical answer and move on with his day. Somehow this was different, yet he couldn’t pinpoint why.

Keonho had never been the type of person to let things go. In fact, if Seonghyeon had to describe him using a single phrase, it would probably be incapable of minding his own business. The moment practice ended, Keonho’s attention returned to the subject with the determination of somebody investigating a crime.

At first, Seonghyeon didn’t even realize it was happening. The team had just finished collecting equipment, everyone moving around the field in various states of exhaustion while the sun slowly disappeared behind the school buildings. Conversations overlapped from every direction.

Somebody was complaining about the coach, somebody else was arguing about where to eat afterward and a football rolled across the grass before being kicked back toward a storage cart. Everything felt normal. Until Keonho appeared beside him. That wasn’t unusual. The fact that he remained there in complete silence however, definitely was.

For several seconds he simply walked beside him without saying anything. Coming from Keonho, that was concerning enough on its own. When Seonghyeon finally glanced over, he immediately regretted it. Keonho was already staring at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Seonghyeon asked.

“I’m thinking.”

A sigh escaped him. The evening air had turned noticeably cooler now, students gradually filtering away from the field in small groups as the noise around them slowly faded into the distance. For a brief moment it almost seemed like Keonho might finally drop the subject. Then he spoke again.

“You know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think you’re lying.”

Seonghyeon barely reacted. Mostly because this conversation happened at least three times a week.

“About what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The answer was so stupid that a laugh almost escaped him.

“No, seriously.” Keonho adjusted the strap of his bag before continuing. “You’ve been zoning out lately.”

That got his attention. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard something similar. Over the past week different people had made almost identical observations often enough that it was becoming difficult to ignore. Martin had asked whether he was tired. His mother had asked whether something was bothering him. Even the coach had commented on him being distracted during practice yesterday.

At the time Seonghyeon had brushed all of it off. Now however, standing on the sidewalk outside the school while Keonho kicked absentmindedly at loose gravel beside him, he found himself wondering whether they all had a point.

The problem was that he couldn’t figure out what exactly was different. Or rather, he could. He just didn’t particularly like the answer. Because every time he started pulling at the loose thread of the thought, it somehow led back to the same place. The same person. The same question. When was the last time he’d actually talked to y/n?

Not seen her. Not waved at her from the other end of a hallway. Talked to her, a proper conversation. The answer should’ve come immediately. Instead, he found himself drawing a blank.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that really bothered him.

By the time he got home later that evening, dropped his bag beside the door and collapsed onto his bed, the thought was still there. Which was annoying, because he had homework to finish and football practice again tomorrow. He had significantly more important things to think about. Yet somehow, while staring at the ceiling of his room, his mind drifted back to the same thing. He dug deep into his thoughts.

The first time was almost laughably insignificant. Class had just ended, and students were spilling into the hallways at every direction. Seonghyeon had been halfway through putting his books away when he spotted y/n a little farther down the corridor.

She was standing beside her locker, listening to something Haejin was saying. Or rather, dramatically performing. Haejin’s hands were moving so aggressively that even from a distance it looked less like a conversation and more like an emergency press conference.

Without really thinking about it, Seonghyeon started heading that way.

Then suddenly y/n grabbed Haejin by the wrist and dragged her around the corner. Gone. Seonghyeon stopped walking, he had simply stared at the space where she’d been stadning.

‘’Why are you just standing there?’’

He looked over and Juhoon was staring at him.

‘’Nothing-‘’

Juhoon looked unconvinced.

The second time happened during lunch, Seonghyeon had just entered the cafeteria when he noticed y/n sitting at her usual table. For some reason, the sight made him smile.

He grabbed his tray and joined his friends. Halfway through James’s completely unecessary rant about him having to balance both the exams- since he’s a few years older, and football practice, Seonghyeon glanced across the cafeteria again.

The seat was empty, he frowned.

‘’How dare they stack up on exams the second football season gets serious? I can’t be expected to memorize biology and score goals.’’

Yeah that was just background noise for Seonghyeon.

The third time was when it had actually started bothering him. School had ended, and the campus was filled by students and chatter. Seonghyeon, Keonho, Juhoon, Martin and James stood in front of the school, talking while Martin shot the basketball into the hoop continuously.

Suddenly, he spotted y/n coming out of the main entrance. She was carrying a bag over her shoulder, already heading toward the front gate. He considered calling her name, the thought had appeared automatically. Then he paused. Because that would be weird, wouldn’t it? He wasn’t even sure what he would’ve said. Hey? Hello? Why have we apparently forgotten how to exist in the same space lately?

Before he could decide, a group of guys crossed between them. By the time they passed, she had already disappeared around the corner. That annoyed him.

He found himself looking for her the next day. Which felt ridiculous, that’s what he told himself while scanning the cafeteria without realizing he was doing it. He didn’t understand why it had bothered him so much.

Everytime he looked up, she seemed to walk the other way. He could’ve sworn she stood wherever he saw her, then poof she’s gone again. He missed talking to her. The more he thought about it, the more he realized y/n hadn’t actually disappeared. She was still around.

The strange thing about time was that it continued moving whether you wanted it to or not.

A few weeks ago, you’d convinced yourself that liking Seonghyeon was some life altering catastrophe. Every conversation felt important. Every interaction lingered longer than it should have. You’d spent an embarrassing amount of energy thinking about things that in hindsight, probably didn’t deserve nearly that much attention.

Now however, life had begun settling back into place. It wasn’t really because your feelings had disappeared, they hadn’t. You still liked him, that much obvious.

The difference was that it felt like your entire existence no longer revolved around it. Somehow, focusing on all ordinary frustrations had made everything else feel smaller. For the first time in a while, you felt like yourself again, which was probably why you agreed to help one of your teachers after class.

It seemed harmless enough at the time. It was just a simple favour, five minutes of your time. Unfortunately, teachers had a very different understanding of the word simple. Twenty minutes later, you found yourself carrying what felt like the entire contents of a storage room through one of the academic buildings.

A stack of folders was balanced precariously against your chest, several textbooks were tucked underneath one arm and a plastic container filled with miscellaneous classroom supplies kept threatening to slide out of your grasp every time you took a step.

You couldn’t see properly.

You couldn’t walk properly.

You were beginning to suspect your teacher had deliberately chosen you because you looked too polite to say no.

The hallway itself was mostly empty. Classes had ended nearly half an hour ago, leaving only the occasional student lingering behind for clubs, sports or whatever mysterious activities seemed to keep people at school long after everyone else had gone home. The combination of limited visibility and questionable balance meant you didn’t notice someone approaching from the opposite direction.

Not until it was too late.

The collision wasn’t dramatic, nobofy went flying across the hallway, well just the stack of folders that immediately tilted sideways, and the plastic container that slipped- oh and a pencil case launched itself onto the floor.

And before you could react, several sheets of paper had already escaped and scattered across the hallway like they were making a run for freedom. For one dreadful second, you simply stood there staring. Of course this was happening. Then a voice spoke.

“Whoa.”

You froze. Slowly, you looked up.

Seonghyeon looked just as surprised as you felt, then he looked down at the disaster surrounding your feet. Then back up at you. Then back down again. A smile appeared.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“I am.”

You sighed.

“Great.”

The smile widened slightly.

Without another word, he crouched down and began gathering the papers scattered across the floor.

You hated how familiar the sight felt.

A few months ago, seeing Eom Seonghyeon kneeling on a hallway floor collecting your homework would’ve felt absurd. Now it barely registered as unusual. Together, the two of you began collecting the mess. Most of it in silence. The kind that had somehow become normal between you before either of you noticed.

The strange thing was that for the first time in weeks, you weren’t hyperaware of him. You weren’t overthinking every word, you weren’t wondering what something meant. You were simply trying to stop your papers from disappearing underneath a nearby vending machine.

“You know,” Seonghyeon said eventually, handing over another folder “for somebody who was late because of a pen, I feel like this tracks.”

You stared at him then immediately groaned.

“No.”

“Oh, yes.”

“That happened once.”

“You were defeated by a mere pen.”

“I wasn’t defeated.”

“You absolutely were.”

To your annoyance, a laugh escaped before you could stop it. The sound earned a grin from him. The folders had been restacked, the notebooks gathered and the loose papers that had scattered across half the hallway had been retrieved. Only one sheet remained. It had drifted farther than the others. The hallway itself had grown noticeably quieter during the few minutes.

You moved first, or atleast you thought you did. The second you stepped forward, Seonghyeon did too. The realization seemed to hit both of you simultaneously. You stopped, he stopped. The paper remained exactly where it was.

‘’Go ahead.’’

You looked up.

‘’What?’’

‘’You saw it first.’’

‘’No i didn’t’’

‘’You did.’’

‘’I was being polite.’’

‘’You’re never polite.’’

The response left his mouth so quickly that he seemed to realize what he had said only afterward. You stared at him, and he stared back. Then a smile appeared, it was small. The kind that always seemed to show up before he could stop it.

‘’You know what i mean.’’

‘’Do i?’’

‘’No.’’

You smiled- it was stupid. You loved the conversations, you missed them. Both of you moved at the same time again. The result was immediate. Your shoulders bumped together.

‘’Ow.’’

You immediately laughed in shock. He was being dramatic, it was a small bump.

The past few weeks suddenly seemed a little ridiculous. Seonghyeon spent so much time wondering why something felt off only to discover the answer was embarrassingly simple. He’d missed this aswell.

Haejin had never been particularly interested in making your life easier. The first sign of trouble appeared at exactly 5:34 PM on a Saturday.

Your phone buzzed.

Haejin

Can i come overrrr~

You stared at the message. Of course she could, rather it was weird she didn’t show up at your door to ask that.

You

obv

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Haejin

keonho is coming too apparently

You

Oh

Why?

Haejin

because he’s annoying and won’t leave me alone

he just texted me

he’s already on the bus

Before you could gather your thoughts to respond, another message arrived.

Haejin

oh Seonghyeon’s coming too

You nearly dropped your phone.

The thirty minutes Haejin had promised turned into forty three. Not that you were counting. You absolutely weren’t. The problem was that once somebody informed you that Haejin, Keonho and more importantly- Seonghyeon would be entering your house, suddenly every insignificant detail became a problem.

The blanket draped over the couch looked wrong. The cushions looked wrong. The stack of books sitting on the coffee table looked wrong. Even the framed photo sitting on the shelf near the television somehow looked wrong despite having remained in the exact same position for nearly three years. You were in the middle of rearranging the cushions for the third time when a voice spoke from behind you.

‘’Is Haejin coming over?’’

Your mother stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Her eyes moved from you to the perfectly arranged couch, then to the freshly folded blanket, then to the coffee table you’d wiped down approximately fifteen minutes ago.

You nodded, before following it up.

‘’And two other friends.’’

‘’That’s fine- Should i go make something? A snackplate? Cut up some fruits?’’

‘’No, that’s okay.’’

The doorbell rang. The sound practically echoed throughout the house. The second your hand touched the doorknob, you could swear your heart dropped, like seriously. The door opened, and Haejin immediately walked inside without waiting for an invitation.

‘’Hello to you too.’’ You said.

‘’Thank you.’’

‘’What?’’

Behind her came Keonho, then Seonghyeon.

For some reason, seeing him standing on your doorstep felt stranger than seeing him anywhere else. Maybe because he’s become so firmly associated with school that your brain momentarily struggled to place him here. There was no football field, no hallway. Just your front porch, and Seonghyeon standing on it looking mildly uncomfortable beneath your scrunity. There was a long pause, it felt awkward.

‘’Hi.’’

Immediately, you wanted to throw yourself into traffic. It was a groundbreaking greeting, really. Thankfully, Seonghyeon wasn’t much better.

‘’Hi.’’

Behind him, Keonho sighed dramatically. ‘’This is painful.’’

The two of them stepped inside while Haejin continued acting like she had lived there for years. Almost immediately, your mother appeared from the kitchen.

‘’Hello, dear.’’

‘’Hi!’’

The response came so naturally that it sounded like a part of a routine they had performed hundreds of times before. Then your mother looked toward the boys. Before Seonghyeon could do anything, Keonho stepped forward.

‘’I’m Keonho,’’

‘’Nice to meet you.’’

‘’And that’s Seonghyeon.’’

A brief silence followed. Seonghyeon looked over, Keonho looked back.

‘’I can introduce myself.’’

‘’You were taking too long.’’

‘’You spoke first.’’

‘’Exactly.’’

Your mother laughed.

‘’It’s nice to meet both of you.’’

‘’Nice to meet you too.’’ Seonghyeon replied, then bowed out of respect, Keonho followed. Hearing him speak to your mother felt oddly surreal. Your mother smiled politely.

The second everyone made it upstairs, the energy somehow shifted.

Maybe it was because school had become such a permanent backdrop to all of your interactions that seeing those same people inside your house felt strangely unnatural. Haejin immediately made herself comfortable. Keonho wasn’t much better.

He wandered around without shame, examining random objects on your shelves with the confidence of somebody who had been granted permission despite the fact nobody had actually given him any. Meanwhile, you found yourself standing near your desk, suddenly hyperaware of everything around you.

The room wasn’t messy. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that it was yours.

School only allowed people to know certain versions of each other. Hallway conversations. Lunch breaks. Shared classes. Small pieces. Nobody saw what happened outside of that. Nobody saw your room at midnight when you were studying for exams. Nobody saw the stuff lying on your vanity or the old concert tickets tucked into your mirror frame. Nobody saw the photos you had forgotten were hanging on the wall until this exact moment.

And Seonghyeon seemed to notice everything.

Not in an obvious way. He wasn’t walking around inspecting things. If anything, he seemed quieter than usual. While Keonho was busy making himself at home and Haejin was already flopped across your bed scrolling through her phone, Seonghyeon’s gaze occasionally drifted around the room before moving elsewhere again. Small observations. Brief glances. Yet somehow those felt worse. You couldn’t tell whether he was actually paying attention or whether your brain was simply inventing reasons to be nervous.

“You definitely cleaned.”

You immediately looked at Haejin.

“No.”

“Yes you did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You moved something.”

“I didn’t.”

Haejin’s eyes slowly travelled across the room.

“The cushions downstairs.”

You hated her.

The smile spreading across her face told you she’d won.

“Oh my god. You did move the cushions.”

“I hate talking to you.”

From somewhere beside the bookshelf, a laugh escaped Keonho.

“You cleaned for us?”

“It wasn’t for you.”

The room fell silent for half a second before Haejin started laughing because of Keonho’s reaction. The next hour passed surprisingly quickly. Conversations drifted from one topic to another without much direction. Somebody brought up an old teacher. That somehow became a discussion about embarrassing middle school memories. Then football. Then exams. Then an argument, nobody actually cared about the answer. The argument continued anyway.

At some point, somebody stole your blanket. At some point, Keonho and Haejin became invested in a debate so stupid that the original topic had long since been forgotten.

“You are fundamentally misunderstanding the point.”

“I understand it perfectly.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re just wrong.”

“I’m always right.”

“That’s not how opinions work.”

Watching them argue was a bit like watching two people accidentally start a fire and then continue pouring gasoline on it.

Eventually, they ended up sitting on the floor near your television, completely absorbed in whatever nonsense they were discussing now. For the first time all afternoon, the room became quieter. You were sitting near the edge of your bed, scrolling through your phone while the sound of Haejin and Keonho arguing faded into the background. Beside you, Seonghyeon sat comfortably against the wall. Neither of you were really speaking.

The silence wasn’t awkward. A few months ago, silence between you would’ve felt unbearable. Now it barely registered. You scrolled past an old photo without thinking, then immediately scrolled back. A small laugh escaped you.

“What?”

You glanced up.

“Nothing.”

“That’s never true.”

You looked back down at the screen.

“It was from middle school.”

“Let me see.”

Without thinking, you handed him your phone but the second you did, you regretted it. Because the photo was awful. Seonghyeon looked at the screen, then looked at you. He smiled.

“What?” His smile widened.

“You look twelve.”

“I was twelve.”

“You look younger than twelve.”

“Give it back.”

You reached for the phone. At the exact same moment he pulled it slightly away, your hand brushed against his. The movement was tiny, it was barely anything. Yet both of you froze for a second. The noise from the rest of the room suddenly felt strangely distant. You weren’t sure why, it was stupid. People accidentally touched hands all the time, nothing should’ve happened.

Then Seonghyeon handed the phone back.

And somewhere across the room, Haejin suddenly yelled:

“THAT’S LITERALLY NOT WHAT I SAID.”

Seonghyeon didn’t realize he was still thinking about it until he walked straight into his bedroom door. The impact wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it was embarrassing enough that he immediately looked around despite being completely alone. A second later he let out a quiet groan and rubbed a hand over his face.

A few minutes later after showering and changing into comfortable clothes, he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed with a towel draped around his neck. His phone had been abandoned somewhere beside him. Downstairs, he could faintly hear the television playing. Everything felt normal. The day was over. There was absolutely no reason for him to still be thinking about it.

Nothing important had happened. They had gone to y/n’s house, wasted an entire afternoon doing nothing productive, listened to Keonho and Haejin argue about things neither of them cared enough to remember and eventually gone home. That was it. Yet every time Seonghyeon tried focusing on something else, his mind drifted right back there again.

The strangest part wasn’t that he had seen y/n’s room for the first time. It wasn’t even that he had spent several hours with her outside of school. It was the fact that every new thing he had learned about her somehow felt oddly expected. Not because he knew those things already, but because they fit.

The way everything looked slightly messy until you paid attention and realized there was a system behind it. Even the way she’d reacted whenever somebody pointed something out. Half embarrassed. Half annoyed. Like she wanted people to know her but only on her own terms.

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He could already imagine how offended she’d be if she knew he was sitting here psychoanalyzing her bedroom.The thought should’ve ended there, instead another one immediately followed.

The look on her face when Haejin exposed the fact that she had obviously cleaned before they arrived. The way she tried denying it despite the evidence being painfully obvious. Then the laugh she’d let out later. Then the smile she’d been trying not to show when he teased her.

Seonghyeon dropped backward onto his mattress and stared at the ceiling. There it was again. That same problem. Every thought somehow led back to her. It was infuriating, it’s like his brain had no originality.

He had known y/n for what? A couple of months? Yet lately it felt like she kept appearing in places she wasn’t even supposed to be. In random thoughts, in conversations, in moments where he was supposed to be focusing on literally anything else. It was getting harder and harder to ignore. For the first time, Seonghyeon found himself staring directly at a possibility he had been avoiding for weeks. Not accepting it. Definitely not accepting it. Just looking at it from a safe distance. Then immediately backing away.

Nope, absolutely not.

For a long moment he simply layed there with one arm thrown across his face, feeling increasingly annoyed with himself. Because the more he thought about it, the worse his life defense became. Maybe there wasn’t some complicated explanation. Maybe the reason he had spent weeks looking for her in crowded hallways, noticing when she wasn’t around, and wondering why everything felt different lately wasn’t because something weird was happening.

Maybe the problem was much simpler than that, and that’s exactly why he didn’t wanna think about it, didn’t wanna consider it.

The problem started with a pencil.

Not because the pencil itself was important. It wasn’t. The pencil belonged to Keonho, who had somehow managed to drop it three separate times during a single class period. By the third time, the teacher looked ready to launch it out the nearest window.

A few people around the classroom were already trying and failing to hide their laughter, while Keonho seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was seconds away from becoming someone’s least favorite student.

Normally, Seonghyeon would’ve found this entertaining. He probably would’ve made a comment. Maybe laughed. Maybe joined Martin in making fun of Keonho later. Instead, he was staring out the classroom window, his attention drifting somewhere beyond the teacher’s voice and the half finished notes sitting in front of him.

He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. At least, that was what he told himself. The lesson had become background noise a long time ago, blending together with the scratching of pencils, turning pages and the occasional sigh from students who had already mentally checked out for the day.

Outside, students crossed the courtyard below in small groups. Some were heading back toward the academic building after lunch while others lingered near the benches despite the fact that the break had ended nearly ten minutes ago. From up here everyone looked smaller, moving through familiar routines without much urgency. It was the sort of thing he would’ve glanced at for a second before looking away.

Then movement caught his attention. Someone familiar stepped through the courtyard gate. Immediately, his eyes followed. Which would’ve been fine if he hadn’t recognized her from half a building away. That felt excessive.

The distance alone should’ve made it impossible. He couldn’t even properly see her face from here. Yet somehow he had known it was y/n before he consciously registered any actual details. Before he thought about it. Before he even realized he was paying attention.

She was walking beside somebody. Just some guy from their year that Seonghyeon vaguely recognized. For a moment, he found himself watching longer than necessary. Not because anything unusual was happening. The opposite, actually. They were just talking. The guy said something and y/n laughed before shaking her head slightly. Then the conversation continued as if nothing had happened.

Have they always been friends?

Worked on a project together?

Why was he even thinking about this?

Because he genuinely didn’t care. He shouldn’t, atleast. His eyes remained fixed on the courtyard for another moment before he finally looked away. The strange thing was that nothing about the situation actually bothered him. Y/n was allowed to talk to whoever she wanted. She was allowed to have other friends. The thought shouldn’t have occupied more than two seconds of his attention.

The thought lingered for the rest of the lesson. It followed him when the bell rang, when students immediately began shoving books into bags and when Keonho somehow dropped the same pencil again while standing up.

Seonghyeon barely heard Martin laughing about it beside him. His attention had drifted elsewhere. Not toward the courtyard anymore, but toward the uncomfortable realization itself. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have noticed.

A few months ago, y/n would’ve blended into the hundreds of students moving around campus every day. Not really because there was anything forgettable about her, but because she had never given people a reason to look twice. She wasn’t loud. She didn’t try to draw attention to herself. Half the time she seemed perfectly content existing just outside the center of things.

The weather was unusually good, good enough that nobody wanted to spend lunch indoors. The football field, basketball court and every bench around campus were crowded with students taking advantage of the rare sunshine. Conversations echoed across the courtyard.

Seonghyeon sat on a low concrete wall near the basketball court with Martin, Keonho, James and Juhoon. Or rather, everyone else was sitting. Martin had somehow convinced himself he was the next basketball prodigy and had spent the last ten minutes repeatedly shooting the same ball at the hoop missing every time.

“You know,” James said, watching another failed attempt, “at some point this becomes a public safety hazard.”

Martin caught the rebound.

“You people don’t understand greatness.”

“Stick to football, please.”

Martin looked offended.

Beside them, Keonho was lying dramatically across the wall as if he’d just survived a life threatening event.

“I’ve decided something.”

Nobody reacted.

“I’m serious.”

Still nothing.

“You guys never support me.”

Juhoon didn’t even look up from his phone. “That’s because your ideas are usually terrible.”

“See? Exactly what I’m talking about.”

James sighed.

“What realization have you had now?”

Keonho sat up immediately.

“I should get priority in the cafeteria queue.”

‘’Why?’’

‘’Because i’m an athlete.’’

‘’…and so are we.’’

‘’Yeaaaaah- whatever.’’ Keonho immediately leaned back again.

The bookstore had always felt different after sunset.

Because there were fewer people around, or because the street outside became quieter once the shops started closing for the evening. Whatever the reason, everything seemed softer at night. The warm yellow lights reflected against the shelves, the air smelled faintly of paper and old wood and somewhere near the front counter low music played quietly enough that it blended into the background. It was one of the reasons you came here so often. Nobody bothered you. You could spend an hour staring at the same shelf and nobody would question it.

Which was exactly what you had been doing for the last ten minutes. At least until a familiar voice drifted from somewhere deeper in the store. You didn’t react immediately. At first your brain simply registered the sound as familiar. Then a second passed. Then another. And suddenly your head snapped up.

For a brief moment you genuinely convinced yourself you were imagining things. The possibility would’ve been less embarrassing than the alternative. Slowly, you stepped around the end of a bookshelf and glanced down the next aisle. Immediately, your stomach betrayed you.

Because standing near the back of the store was Seonghyeon. Not somebody who looked like him. It was him. Seeing him here felt like spotting a teacher at the grocery store. Not wrong exactly, just unsettling enough to force your brain to restart.

He was standing beside a rolling cart filled with books, listening while the owner explained something. Every now and then he would nod before reaching over to place another book onto a shelf. Judging by how comfortably he moved around the store, this clearly wasn’t his first time here. Then the owner noticed you. His face brightened instantly. “Y/n.”

Oh great, Seonghyeon was turning around too. For a second, surprise crossed his face. Then he smiled. The same smile that had become increasingly dangerous for your emotional wellbeing over the past few months.

“Hey.’’

It still managed to make your heart forget how to function. The owner looked between the two of you before immediately deciding this was the most entertaining thing that had happened all week.

“You two know each other?”

The silence that followed felt unnecessarily heavy. Technically, the answer was simple. Still, none of you spoke immediately. Eventually Seonghyeon answered first. “We go to school together.”

The owner looked unconvinced. You understood why. Because there was something suspicious about the way Seonghyeon had smiled while saying it. As if the answer was technically true. Just not the entire truth.

The owner eventually disappeared toward the front of the store after receiving a late delivery, leaving the two of you alone with several half empty shelves and a cart stacked with books that apparently needed to be reorganized before closing. The task itself wasn’t particularly difficult, but the aisle he had assigned you to was.

It was narrow enough that every time one of you moved, the other had to adjust accordingly. At first neither of you paid much attention to it. The conversation flowed naturally. It should have felt normal. In theory, it was normal. Still, somewhere between reaching for the same stack of novels and arguing over whether a book belonged in the mystery section or literary fiction, you became increasingly aware of how little space actually existed between the two of you.

You noticed gradually rather than all at once. One moment you were focused on sorting books, the next you found yourself noticing things that shouldn’t have mattered. The sleeves of Seonghyeon’s hoodie were pushed up to his forearms. His hair kept falling into his eyes every few minutes. Every time it did, he would push it back before continuing whatever he was doing. It wasn’t remarkable.

It wasn’t even interesting. Yet for some reason, your attention kept returning to it. Across from you, Seonghyeon wasn’t doing much better. He had spent the last several weeks trying very hard not to think too deeply about certain things, only to discover that being alone with you outside school made that task significantly more difficult. At school there were distractions. Friends, classes, teachers, noise. Here there was only the soft hum of the bookstore, the occasional turning page from a customer somewhere in the distance, and you.

You reached for a book resting near the top shelf at the exact same moment Seonghyeon stepped forward to place another back in its place. Neither of you noticed the timing until it was already too late. The aisle was far too narrow for both movements to happen at once. One second you were focused entirely on the shelf in front of you, the next you found yourself stopping abruptly as Seonghyeon did the same. Far too close.

You hadn’t walked into him. Neither of you had. Yet somehow the distance between you had disappeared anyway. The narrow aisle had trapped both of you in the same small space and now neither of you could move without brushing past the other. Instinctively, you took a small step backward. Though, your shoulder bumped lightly against the bookshelf behind you, leaving nowhere else to go. The movement seemed to catch Seonghyeon’s attention. His eyes flickered toward you before immediately looking away again. Then back. That was worse.

Because now he was actually looking at you. Not casually. Not the way he normally did. The kind of look that lasted a second too long. The kind that made you suddenly aware of every inch separating you.

Neither of you moved. Somewhere outside, a car passed by. Somewhere inside, somebody turned a page. Neither sound felt real. Not compared to this. Not compared to the fact that Seonghyeon was standing close enough for you to notice details you never should have been able to notice. The faint scent of his cologne. The slight rise and fall of his breathing. The way his gaze kept dropping for the briefest moments before returning to your eyes again.

Seonghyeon wasn’t doing much better. A normal person would have stepped away by now. That was the logical thing to do. The obvious thing. Yet for some reason, neither of them seemed capable of being the first one to move. His hand was still resting against the shelf above your shoulder. Not touching you. Close enough that it felt like it.

Close enough that every rational thought in his head had abruptly stopped functioning. He couldn’t even remember what book he had been reaching for. Couldn’t remember what either of you had been talking about thirty seconds ago. All he knew was that you were looking up at him and that suddenly felt like a very torturous thing. The silence stretched. Your eyes dropped briefly, then lifted again.

Mistake.

Because the second your gaze met his again, something shifted. Neither of you moved, yet the distance felt smaller than before. Small enough that for one completely irrational second, the possibility crossed both of your minds at the same time. And judging by the way Seonghyeon’s breathing faltered, he knew it too.

The sound of a stack of books being dropped somewhere near the front counter shattered the moment instantly. Both of you stepped back so fast it almost hurt.

The rest of the evening felt strangely disconnected after that.

You had left the bookstore not long after, mumbling some excuse about needing to get home before it got too late. The owner had teased you for leaving earlier than usual, but you barely remembered what you had said in response. Your brain had been somewhere else entirely.

The walk home should’ve felt familiar. You had taken the same route hundreds of times before. The same streets. The same convenience store on the corner. The same traffic lights that always seemed determined to turn red at the worst possible moment. Yet everything felt slightly off, as if somebody had shifted the world half an inch to the left without telling you.

The problem was that your brain had apparently become incapable of behaving normally whenever he was involved. Every time you replayed the evening, you found yourself stopping at the same moment. Your thoughts kept drifting there on their own. The narrow aisle. The silence. The way neither of you had moved. The way you suddenly became aware of absurd things you never paid attention to before, like how close he was standing or how easy it would’ve been to reach out and touch him.

Meanwhile, Seonghyeon made it approximately twelve minutes before realizing he was completely screwed.

The bookstore owner had eventually returned to find him standing in the wrong aisle holding a book he had already shelved three separate times. Seonghyeon wasn’t usually the type to get distracted. If anything, one of the things people liked most about him was how calm he was under pressure. Football matches didn’t stress him out, presentations didn’t stress him out. Exams stressed him out a little, but not enough to make him lose sleep. One interaction with y/n had completely destroyed his ability to focus. The owner had asked him a question and Seonghyeon had stared at him for three seconds before realizing he had not heard a single word.

Every time he thought he had moved on, he would remember some tiny detail and immediately get distracted again. The way she looked up at him. The way she froze. The fact that neither of them had stepped away immediately. That part bothered him most. A normal person would’ve moved. A normal person would’ve laughed it off and continued shelving books. Instead, they had both just stood there staring at each other like complete idiots until somebody dropped books near the front counter and snapped them back to reality.

The days after the bookstore felt strangely normal on the surface and completely unbearable underneath. Y/n would be halfway through listening to Haejin before suddenly remembering the look on Seonghyeon’s face in that aisle and immediately losing track of the conversation. Seonghyeon wasn’t doing much better. Looking for y/n had somehow become a habit. Not a conscious one. His eyes just seemed to find her automatically now, and what bothered him most wasn’t seeing her. It was when he couldn’t.

By Thursday afternoon, students flooded out of their classrooms as the bell rang. Conversations echoed through the hallways while people pushed toward their next lesson. Seonghyeon was walking with his friends, half listening to whatever argument Keonho was currently having, when he spotted y/n a little ahead. She was walking through the crowd. He didn’t think about it. Not really. The words left his mouth before his brain had the opportunity to intervene.

‘’You coming this friday?’’ The second he said it, she turned around.

‘’What?’’

Seonghyeon blinked, for a moment neither spoke.

‘’Where?’’

And suddenly every functioning thought in Seonghyeon’s head disappeared. Apparently, he had skipped an entire conversation.

‘’You know..’’ He started. No, obviously she didn’t know.

‘’The game.’’ She stared. ‘’The football game?’’

‘’Yeah.’’ Only now did Seonghyeon realize how insane this looked. They had never actually discussed her coming. Not once. For some reason though, it had already become a possibility in his head.

‘’Oh.’’ The hallway suddenly felt far too crowded. ‘’You don’t have to.’’ The words came out faster than he intended and he immediately regretted them, because now it sounded like he didn’t care. Which wasn’t true. Not even remotely. ‘’You could- you-‘’ He paused, then looked at her. Actually looked at her. ‘’I’d like it if you did.’’

Y/n’s heart had stopped functioning. There was no reason that sentence should’ve affected her the way it did. It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t even flirting. Yet standing there in the middle of a crowded hallway, it felt dangerously close to something else. And suddenly she realized he actually meant it.

He wanted her there. A smile threatened to appear, she fought it immediately and failed. ‘’Okay.’’ The answer came out softer than she had intended.

Something shifted in Seonghyeon’s expression. The tension in his shoulders eased and the smallest smile appeared.

By the time you arrived, most of the stadium was still empty. The match wasn’t starting for another hour, leaving the school caught in that strange period between preparation and chaos. Staff moved equipment across the field, a few students wandered through the entrance gates and somewhere deeper inside the athletic building, the football team was getting ready. You honestly hadn’t planned on coming this early. At least, that was what you kept telling yourself. The hallway leading toward the locker rooms was nearly deserted when you spotted him.

Seonghyeon was standing beside a row of lockers, already dressed in his uniform, one hand resting against the metal door while he searched through his bag for something. For a moment, you simply watched. It felt unfair how normal he looked. Like he hadn’t spent the last few weeks slowly becoming the cause of half your problems.

Maybe he felt you staring, because a second later he looked up and smiled. Not the polite smile. Not the one he gave teachers. The real one. The one that always seemed to appear before he could stop it.

“You know the game’s not starting for another hour, right?” The greeting caught you off guard.

“What, you’re kicking me out already?”

“No,” he said immediately, a little too quickly.

“I’m just trying to figure out why you’re here this early.”

You adjusted the strap of your bag. “Maybe I have nothing better to do.”

“That’s depressing.” You stared at him.

“You’re about to play an important match.”

“And you’re making fun of me.”

“I’m helping you stay humble.” A laugh escaped him, and for a moment neither of you said anything else. The conversation should’ve ended there. It didn’t. For some reason, Seonghyeon was still standing there. For some reason, you were too.

“You nervous?” you asked eventually.

“About the game?” You nodded.

“Unless you’re secretly taking a math exam afterwards.” His smile returned.

“A little.” The answer surprised you, it sounded genuine.

“You?” he asked. You frowned. “What?”

“Nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous?” Something shifted in his expression. “Good question.” The look he gave you made your stomach drop because suddenly it didn’t feel like you were talking about football anymore.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. That was the problem. It felt too easy. Too comfortable. The kind of silence that only happened when you genuinely liked being around someone. You looked away first, which immediately turned out to be a mistake because the second you did, you became aware of how close he was standing. Not close enough to be strange. Close enough to matter. When you looked back up, Seonghyeon was already looking at you.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The hallway felt quieter than before, and you couldn’t remember what you had been about to say. His gaze dropped for the briefest second before lifting again. The movement was tiny. It still made your heart nearly stop. For the first time since you had met him, Seonghyeon looked completely thrown off, like he was realizing something at the exact same time you were.

The realization hung between you. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you looked away. The distance somehow felt smaller now. A lot smaller. You weren’t sure whether one of you had stepped forward or if you had simply stopped paying attention to everything except him. Seonghyeon let out a quiet breath. His eyes flickered down again. This time neither of you pretended not to notice. The moment stretched. One second. Two. Three. Long enough for your pulse to start racing. Long enough for him to look like he’d completely forgotten where he was.

Long enough that if either of you moved even slightly-

“SEONGHYEON!”

The shout echoed through the hallway, making both of you jump apart so fast it was embarrassing. A teammate appeared around the corner. “Coach is looking for you.” Seonghyeon genuinely looked annoyed. Actually annoyed. Which somehow made everything worse.

“Yeah.” he muttered. The teammate disappeared again, leaving the two of you standing there in the aftermath of something neither of you seemed willing to acknowledge.

Then Seonghyeon rubbed the back of his neck and let out a short laugh. “I should probably go before he benches me.”

“Probably.”

Then he looked at you properly. Not past you. Not around you. At you.

‘’Stay until the game finishes.’’

You blinked.

‘’What?’’

‘’You came all the way here, it’d be rude to leave earlier.’’ The excuse was terrible, both of you knew it. You were smiling. You gave him a reassuring hum. His own smile softened.

The whistle blew before you were ready for it.

Almost immediately, the atmosphere shifted. The scattered conversations around the stadium disappeared beneath the sound of cheering as both teams surged forward. Whatever relaxed energy had existed before kickoff vanished entirely. Suddenly everything felt louder. Faster. More important. You tried focusing, you really did.

For the first few minutes, your attention stayed where it was supposed to. The ball moved rapidly across the field, players weaving around each other while the crowd reacted to every near miss and interception. It was impossible not to get caught up in it. Even people who barely cared about football seemed invested tonight.

Then your thoughts wandered. Without warning, your mind dragged you back to the hallway. To the silence. To the way Seonghyeon had looked at you. A collective groan erupted from the crowd. You blinked. Apparently you missed something.

“That would’ve been such a good goal!’’ Haejin complained beside you.

“Are you even watching?’’

‘’I am.’’

‘’You’re not!’’

Before you could argue, the game resumed and your attention returned to the field. This time it stayed there for a while.The match itself was good. Really good. Both teams were evenly matched which only made the atmosphere more intense. Every attack felt intense. Every mistake earned a reaction from the crowd. By the time twenty minutes had passed, even you had stopped pretending not to care. A player from the opposing team broke through the defense. The stadium collectively held its breath. The shot missed by centimeters and the entire crowd exploded. Students jumped to their feet.

And before you realized it, you were standing too. For a moment, you just stared then slowly sat back down.

Huh. Maybe football wasn’t completely boring.

The final minutes of the match passed in a blur. The score was tied. Every touch of the ball seemed to pull a reaction from the crowd, every mistake earning groans and every opportunity drawing people to the edge of their seats. Even students who barely cared about football were standing now. The atmosphere had become infectious. Somewhere beside you, Haejin had completely abandoned any attempt at acting normal. She was half standing, half leaning over the railing, reacting to every play as if her life depended on it.

The clock was running down when Seonghyeon received the ball near midfield. The crowd immediately reacted. Maybe it was because everybody trusted him. Whatever the reason, the second he moved forward thousands of eyes followed. Including yours. The play happened so quickly you barely had time to process it. A pass. A turn. Somebody shouting. Then suddenly the ball hit the back of the net. The stadium exploded, the noise that had erupted was unbelievable.

Students jumped to their feet. Teammates rushed across the field. People screamed loud enough to make your ears ring. Somewhere beside you, Haejin grabbed your shoulders and started shaking you like she had personally scored the goal herself. You laughed in surprise.

The first thing Seonghyeon did after his teammates swarmed him was lift his head and look at you. The distance between you was enormous. The field, the track, hundreds of people, yet he found you.

The final whistle blew moments later. The match was over. The celebration wasn’t. Students immediately flooded toward the exits, some heading for the field while others crowded around friends and teammates. The entire stadium seemed alive with movement. You lingered for a while, letting people pass before eventually gathering your things.

You weren’t entirely sure where you were going. Only that suddenly being surrounded by hundreds of people felt overwhelming. The night air was cooler outside the stadium. The noise became quieter with every step until it faded into the background completely. For the first time all evening, you were alone with your thoughts.

You had almost reached the corner of the building when you heard footsteps behind you. You turned around, it was Seonghyeon. He was still wearing his uniform, still slightly out of breath. He looked at you, the corners of Seonghyeon’s mouth lifted first.

“You were leaving.”

You laughed softly.

“Why does everybody keep accusing me of that?”

“Because you keep doing it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Maybe you would’ve argued. Maybe you would’ve defended yourself. You found yourself smiling instead. The noise from the stadium felt distant now. The world seemed smaller somehow. Reduced to the stretch of pavement between the two of you and the fact that neither of you seemed interested in leaving.

A group of students passed somewhere behind Seonghyeon still loud from the match, still arguing over goals and missed opportunities and who deserved credit for the win. One of them called his name. Normally he would’ve responded automatically. You had seen it happen a hundred times before. Yet he didn’t even turn around. His attention never left you. Something about that made your stomach flip.

For months, Seonghyeon had existed in constant motion. Surrounded by teammates, friends, conversations. There was always somebody looking for him. Always somewhere else he needed to be. Now, after one of the biggest matches of the season, after scoring the winning goal, after spending two hours being pulled in every direction, he was standing here looking at you like the rest of the world had become background noise.

The smile on Seonghyeon’s face faded slightly. Your pulse sped up immediately, you knew. Not what he was thinking, not exactly. However, you knew this moment mattered.

The distance between you felt ridiculous, like it was the only thing both of you could focus on. Every second stretched longer than it should have. Your heart was beating so hard, you became painfully aware of it.

Seonghyeon took a step forward. You hated how quickly your breath caught. You hated how your eyes immediately dropped before finding his again. You hated that he noticed. You were standing close enough to notice details you never should’ve noticed. The faint flush lingering across his cheeks from the match. The way his hair had fallen messily across his forehead. The fact that he looked just as overwhelmed as you felt.

Your hand found the sleeve of his jersey before you even realized what you were doing. The second your fingers curled around the fabric, Seonghyeon’s eyes dropped to your hand. Then back to you. Something in his expression completely softened. Then finally, after a dreadful amount of missed chances and interrupted moments and terrible timing,

Seonghyeon kissed you.

The football field, the crowd, the noise from the stadium, all of it disappeared into the background until there was nothing left except the overwhelming realization that this was actually happening. The kiss wasn’t rushed, it felt like both of you had spent so long circling around this moment that neither of you quite knew what to do once you had reached it. Your grip tightened slightly against his jersey without meaning to, and something about that made his hand find yours.

You had spent weeks turning Seonghyeon into a problem inside your head. Something complicated. Something impossible to ignore. Yet standing here now, there was nothing complicated about it.

Then, your lips crashed against his. Off-center at first, your nose bumping his jaw accidentally before you corrected. You were pulling him closer. Seonghyeon had reacted immediately, his hands reached to cup your face delicately. His lips were warm and softer than you had expected for a boy who felt so intimidating and cold at first. The contrast sent something sharp down your spine.

He shifted one of his hands to your waist, the touch light at first, like he was questioning if you’d pull away. You didn’t, you kissed him harder. He tilted his head, adjusting the angle, and suddenly the kiss fit differently, better, deeper. His chest was pressed against yours. Your heart was pounding, he could feel it. Or maybe it was his own heart.

His thumb was brushing along your cheekbone, tilting your face up to meet his more fully. He kissed you properly now, he matched your energy. He kissed you until his lips were numb, he kissed you with genuine love. He kissed you like he was trying to get inside your skin. He was a mess for you. He took over the pacing, guiding slowly through it.

At some point, neither of you seemed to care how long you had been standing there. When you finally pulled apart, it wasn’t because either of you wanted to. It was because breathing had become somewhat important. The distance between you barely existed. Seonghyeon’s hand remained at your waist, his forehead nearly brushing yours as both of you tried to remember how to function.

You simply looked at each other. Weirdly, after months of wondering and guessing and pretending not to notice, that felt like enough. For the first time since all of this started, neither of you had to question it anymore.

Seonghyeon liked you.

You liked Seonghyeon.

And after everything it had taken to get here, It felt so good.

The next morning felt strangely normal. The school building was still crowded. Students still dragged themselves through the hallways half awake. Somewhere down the corridor, Martin was already being unnecessarily loud before first period had even started.

He was greeting everyone with the biggest smile plastered across his face, he was way too happy at 8:30 in the morning. Not as happy as you though. Your cheeks hurt, genuienly hurt reaching the main building. Everytime you remembered yesterday, another smile appeared before you could stop it. You were very warm, you just hoped it wasn’t obvious externally.

‘’You look happy.’’

You looked up, Seonghyeon was standing beside your locker. Immediately your smile got worse, a strange feeling in your stomach had come from nowhere when you looked at him.

‘’Hi.’’

He smiled.

His hand found yours so naturally it almost sent shivers through your body. His fingers slipping through yours as though they’d belonged there since forever. The action sent a completely unreasonable amount of warmth through your chest.

the two of you started walking toward your classroom. The hallway buzzed with conversation around you, people moving in every direction. A few students greeted Seonghyeon as they passed. He greeted them back automatically. Everything felt familiar. Yet every few steps your attention drifted toward your joined hands again. It was such a small thing.

“You know,” Seonghyeon said after a moment, glancing sideways, “you look less tired today.” You immediately narrowed your eyes. “You said I looked tired.”

“I said you were tired.”

“No.’’

“I meant it differently.”

“Sure.”

You tried very hard not to smile. Failed immediately. Beside you, Seonghyeon looked equally hopeless. The two of you reached your classroom far too quickly. Students were already filtering inside. The bell would ring any minute now. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to acknowledge that. Eventually, Seonghyeon stopped outside the door.

“So.”

‘’So.’’

A smile appeared, and a matching one answered it. Then Seonghyeon sqeezed your hand once before letting you go.

‘’I’ll see you later.’’

☘︎

Your face goes red hot, the heat creeping up your neck and settling in your cheeks. "That was ages ago, Dad."

”Yes, sir.” Seonghyeon gave a small nod, and your dad held his gaze for a beat longer before grunting and stepping back inside. The door closes with a solid click. The porch light stays on, casting a pale yellow glow across the front steps, a reminder that someone is watching.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and walk the rest of the way down the drive.

Seonghyeon was holding the flowers out before you even reached him. Store bought roses, you noticed, mixed with something white. You'd told him to stop stealing the cornflowers from Mrs. Park's garden after she'd gone on a neighbourhood-wide threatening spree, standing on her front porch with her hands on her hips, announcing to anyone within earshot that she would find out who kept stealing her flowers and she would 'deal with them'. You'd laughed about it at the time, but Seonghyeon had gone pale. He hadn't stolen anything since.

“Hi.” You say, taking the flowers, your finger’s briefly touching his.

"Hi, baby." He smiles, and his head tilts slightly as his eyes scan your face. You'd dressed up tonight, just a little: a nice dress from the back of your wardrobe that you never wear, and a cardigan that isn’t your mother’s for once. A small layer of make-up, too, just enough to cover the tiredness under your eyes. You didn't realise any of it made his heart beat faster, but you can see it now, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for a second too long.

"You know you don't have to bring me flowers every time," you say, looking down at the roses. They're nice. Proper. The kind of flowers a girl's father might approve of. But something about them feels less like him, less like the boy who flicked your forehead daily and threw rocks at windows and handed you bent stems tied with kitchen string like they were made of gold.

He shrugs, easy, but there's something underneath it. "What kind of boyfriend wouldn't get his girlfriend flowers?"

You look up at him, at the way the porch light catches the edge of his jaw, at the small smile playing at his lips, and you realise he's nervous. Actually nervous. Like he's still trying to impress you, like nine months together hasn't made him any less scared of messing this up.

"They're nice," you say quietly. "Thank you."

His smile widens, just a little, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. "You're welcome."

He lingers there for a moment longer than necessary, warm against your skin, and then he drops his hand, shoving it into his jacket pocket like he's trying to play it cool. Like you can't see the way his ears have gone pink at the tips.

"You look really nice," he says, quieter this time, as though he's not sure he should say it out loud.

You feel your face warm and look down at the flowers, turning them in your hands. The paper crinkles softly. "We should go. Before my dad changes his mind and comes back out here."

Seonghyeon glances toward the front door, and the memory of the last time your dad caught you trying to sneak back in flickers through his mind.

"Good point," he says, and moves to open the passenger door. "After you."

You climb in, settling onto the worn vinyl seat, and he closes the door behind you. You set the flowers carefully on your lap, arranging them so they won't get crushed, and watch him walk around the front of the car through the windshield.

He moves easy, one hand trailing along the hood as he passes. The streetlight catches his profile, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, and you catch yourself staring, looking away before he catches you.

He slides into the driver's seat, and the car dips slightly under his weight. The door closes, and suddenly the world shrinks to just the two of you, the dark, and the low rumble of the engine.

"Can't believe your dad let you use his car again," you comment, watching him reach for the radio dial.

"Used my charm." He doesn't look at you, just clicks his seatbelt into place with a quiet snap after finding the station he wanted. "Seems to work. It won you over too, didn't it?"

"You're so annoying." You roll your eyes, but you're already pulling your own seatbelt across your chest, the metal latch clicking into place. He watches you do it; his eyes tracking your hands, your shoulders, the way your hair falls across your face. You feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.

"What?" you say.

"Nothing." He turns back to the wheel, starts to pull away from the curb. "Just looking."

"You're always looking."

"Hard not to."

You shove his arm. He laughs, low and warm, and the car rolls forward into the night.

The radio crackles through the speakers, searching for a signal before it lands on one of the local stations, the one you know Seonghyeon adores because it plays nothing but love songs from dusk until dawn. The instrumental of 'Waiting for a Girl Like You' by Foreigner fills the silence, the song familiar and soft, the same one he'd put on a mixtape for you months ago. The one you'd played so many times the tape started to wear thin.

He reaches over and turns it down, just enough that it sits underneath everything else: a quiet heartbeat beneath the sound of the engine and the rush of air through the cracked windows. 

Streetlights pass overhead in rhythm, painting the inside of the car in orange and shadow, orange and shadow. You watch his profile for a while: the way his jaw moves when he swallows, the way his thumb taps against the steering wheel in time with the song, the way his hair falls across his forehead and he doesn't push it back because he knows you'll do it for him later.

"You're staring," he says, his eyes still on the road.

"I'm looking out the window."

"My face is not a window."

You laugh, soft, and turn to face forward, watching the neighbourhood slip by. Houses become fewer, trees become thicker, and the lights of the city grow smaller in the rearview mirror until they're nothing but a warm glow on the horizon.

The car pulls into the drive-in just as the sky finishes its fade from blue to black. Rows of cars are already scattered across the lot, facing the massive screen that looms at the far end, pale and blank and waiting. Headlights cut through the dark as people find their spots, and somewhere in the distance, someone's radio is playing something you can't quite make out.

Seonghyeon finds a spot near the back, far enough from the other cars that you have your own space, close enough that you can still see the screen clearly. He backs in smoothly, one hand on the wheel, the other hooked over the back of your seat as he looks over his shoulder. The car settles into place, and he kills the engine.

The silence that follows is sudden. Heavy. The radio hums quietly, still tuned to the right frequency, the movie's audio not quite started yet. Just static, soft and waiting.

He doesn't move. Just sits there, one hand still on the wheel, the other moving to rest on the console between you. His thumb traces slow circles on the vinyl.

You look at him. His face is half-lit from the dashboard, half in shadow, and his eyes are on the screen, but he's not really watching it. You can tell by the way his jaw is set, the way his breathing is slow and deliberate.

"What?" you ask.

He turns to look at you. "Nothing."

"You're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you pretend you're not thinking about something."

He smiles, just slightly, and reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

"Maybe I'm just thinking about you," he says.

"That's so corny."

"You love it."

Before you can respond, the movie crackles to life, Seonghyeon quickly reaching over to switch off the radio entirely as you adjust into your seat. The speakers on the post beside the car hum with static for a moment, then clear, the familiar Universal logo appearing on the massive screen in front of you.

Back to the Future.

You've seen it before—twice, maybe three times—but you don't mind. You settle back into the seat, tucking your legs up beneath you, the flowers now resting on the dashboard between you.

Seonghyeon shifts beside you, one arm draping against the headrest of your seat, his fingers brushing your shoulder. He's not looking at the screen. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady.

"Marty's late again," you say, nodding toward the screen.

"Mm."

"You're not watching."

"I'm watching you watch it."

You turn to look at him. His face is soft in the glow from the screen, the light shifting with each scene, painting him in blues and whites and the occasional flash of colour. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip.

"You're so weird," you say.

"You're just noticing?"

You laugh, quiet, and reach into the bag of snacks you brought: crisps, chocolate, two bottles of Coke that are already going warm. You pull out the chocolate, break off a piece, and hold it up to his mouth.

He looks at it. Then at you. Then opens his mouth just enough for you to feed it to him, his lips brushing your fingers as he takes it.

"Good?" you ask.

He chews slowly, watching you the whole time. The chocolate melts on his tongue, and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Yeah."

You break off another piece for yourself, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating. On the screen, Marty McFly is skateboarding, weaving through traffic, late for school. You've seen this part before. You know what happens next. But somehow, with his arm around your shoulder and his thumb tracing slow circles on your sleeve, it feels different.

"You're staring," you say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't deny it. Doesn't look away. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady, like a hand cupping your cheek. He shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against yours and his breath warm on your cheek.

"So?" he says.

You turn to face him properly, ready with a retort, and find him closer than you expected. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his lashes cast small shadows on his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, and you can see the moment his gaze drops to your mouth.

"Seonghyeon—"

He kisses you. His hand slides from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you feel it everywhere: the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your scalp, the way he tilts your head just slightly to deepen the kiss.

You forget what you were going to say. You forget the movie. You forget the other cars, the other people, the whole world outside this small space. There's just him. His mouth on yours. The quiet sound he makes when your fingers curl into the front of his jacket to pull him closer. The way his thumb traces the curve of your jaw like he's memorising the shape of you.

His lips are warm, familiar, and they move against yours with an ease that comes from months of practice. But despite all of that, it still feels new. Still feels like the first time, a little. Still makes your chest ache in the best way.

He tastes like chocolate and something else, something that's just him, and it's the taste of someone you know better than anyone. You want to stay here forever, wrapped up in this moment, in the dark of the car with the movie playing forgotten and the whole world reduced to the space between his lips and yours

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow. The movie plays on, forgotten: someone on screen is shouting about plutonium, about the future, about something that doesn't matter. Someone laughs somewhere in the distance, and a car door closes, and the speakers crackle with static, but none of it matters. None of it exists.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hi."

He smiles. That smile. The one that won you over from the very beginning.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Was that distracting you from the movie?"

You shove his chest, but there's no force behind it. Your hand lingers there for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "You're impossible."

"You say that." He kisses the corner of your mouth, quick and soft, and you feel the shape of his smile against your skin. "But you still haven’t gotten rid of me."

You settle back against him, your head finding its usual spot against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you like it belongs there, his thumb tracing slow patterns through the fabric of your dress. On the screen, Marty plays guitar, too loud, too fast, and Doc Brown's lab fills with smoke and light. 

You watch it, but you're not really watching it. You're watching the way Seonghyeon’s chest rises and falls. You're watching the way the light from the screen catches his profile. You're watching the way his thumb moves, slow and steady, like it's keeping time with something only he can hear.

"Hey," he says quietly.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you came."

You turn your head, press a kiss to his jaw. His skin is warm and you feel the muscle twitch under your lips when you do it, before turning back to continue watching, his arm tightening around you.

The movie eventually reaches one of your favourite scenes, of which you have many: the one where Marty's dad is trying to ask out Marty’s mother, stumbling over every word, face flushed, hands trembling.

‘Lorraine. My density has popped me to you.’

You feel Seonghyeon shift beside you, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he adjusts his position. His arm, which had been draped loosely around your shoulders, tightens just slightly, pulling you closer. His thumb, which had been tracing idle patterns on your sleeve, stills.

You glance at him. He's not watching the screen. He's watching you.

"What?" You whisper, not wanting to break the quiet of the moment.

"Nothing." His voice is low, almost lost beneath the dialogue from the movie. "Just... you like this scene? You’re smiling."

You nod, turning back to the screen. "It's sweet. He's so nervous, but he tries anyway. Even though he thinks he's going to mess it up."

‘I’m George, George McFly. You’re density. I mean, your destiny.’

You don't even realise it, but your lips form a small pout when listening to him speak on screen: the way he stumbles over the words, the way his voice cracks just slightly and he can barely even get a word out.

Seonghyeon makes a quiet sound beside you and you feel his thumb start moving again, tracing slow circles on your shoulder.

"You look cute pulling that face," you hear him say.

You turn to look at him. His hand reaches up, cupping your cheek, and his thumb gently touches the corner of your mouth. The pad of his finger is warm, slightly rough, and it lingers there for a moment, tracing the curve of your lip where it's still pressed into that small pout.

"What face?" you ask, but your voice comes out softer than you meant it to, muffled slightly by his thumb.

"This one." He presses his finger against your bottom lip, just barely, and you feel the corner of your mouth twitch, wanting to smile. "The one where you're all soft and focused and you don't even know I'm looking at you."

You don’t know what to say, the feeling of his thumb on your lip ridding you of any logical thought.

“You used to do it before we started dating too.” You watch him smile softly, the memories of the two of you sitting next to each other in class flashing through his mind.

“I always knew you were looking at me.” You finally say.

His thumb stills from its tiny movements, and his eyes bore into yours, like he was trying to read if you were bluffing or not. “So why didn’t you do anything?”

“Because,” you shrug, turning back to face the screen, the movie flashing through. “I wanted to see if you were brave enough to ask me out yourself. Even if you stumbled over every word like George McFly, I still would have given you a chance.”

He's quiet for a long moment. The movie plays on. 

Then he laughs, a breath of a sound that you feel more than hear.

“I was so nervous.” He finally says, glancing down at his lap briefly. "I was so scared I was going to mess it up. That I'd say the wrong thing, or freeze, or—" He stops, swallows. "That you would say no. But not saying anything would have been worse. Not knowing would have been worse."

You turn to him, blinking in surprise. "Seonghyeon," you say slowly. "You asked me out behind the bleachers."

"I know."

"You kissed me before I could even finish saying 'yes'."

"I know that too." He's smiling now, small and almost shy, like he's remembering it the same way you are. The way he'd been standing there when you rounded the corner, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair messy from practice. The way he'd looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

"You were so confident," you say.

He laughs and shakes his head, "I was terrified." His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. "I just didn't want you to know."

The pout quickly returns to your face as you watch him, your heart sinking at the thought of you making your confident boyfriend so nervous. All this time, you'd thought he was calm, collected, completely sure of himself. But he'd been scared. He'd been terrified. And he'd done it anyway.

You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly rough from the faintest hint of stubble, and you feel the small exhale he lets out: a breath he didn't know he was holding. Then you settle back onto his shoulder, the curve of his neck fitting perfectly against your temple.

His arm tightens around you immediately, like he was waiting for you to come back, like the few seconds you were gone were seconds too long. His hand moves to settle on your waist, fingers spread wide, and you feel the warmth of him seep through your dress.

"Hey," he says quietly, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath your ear.

"Mm?”

"You're not allowed to feel bad about that."

"I'm not feeling bad."

"You're pouting again."

You press your lips together, trying to stop. It doesn't work. "I'm not."

"You are." He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "I can feel it."

You're quiet for a moment, watching the movie without really seeing it. All you can think about is him. About the boy who stood behind the bleachers with his heart in his throat and asked you out anyway.

"I would have said yes," you say softly. "Even if you'd stumbled. Even if you'd forgotten every word. Even if you'd just stood there looking at me like an idiot. I still would have said yes."

His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, and you feel his cheek press against the top of your head.

"I know," he says, and his voice is thick, barely above a whisper. "I know that now."

The movie plays on. The night settles around you, dark and warm. And you stay there, tucked against his side, his heart beating under your ear, steady and real.

"You were worth the nerves," he says after a while.

You tilt your head up, looking at him. His face is soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours.

"Yeah?" you ask.

"Yeah." He leans down, kisses the tip of your nose. "You always have been."

You smile, and he smiles back, and then you both turn back to the screen, the lights flickering against both your faces.

The scene changes, the clock tower fades, and suddenly the screen is filled with the soft glow of the dance. Streamers hang from the ceiling in shades of blue and silver, and the band is playing something slow.

‘Earth Angel, Earth Angel, will you be mine?’

"My favourite part," you murmur, not even realising you've said it out loud.

"Yeah?" His voice is low, close to your ear.

"Mm. When George finally kisses her. When he stops being scared and just... does it."

On screen, George is dancing with Lorraine on the dance floor, his face set with determination, his hands trembling whilst the music swells.

‘My darling dear, love you all the time’

You feel Seonghyeon's hand slide from your waist to your chin, tilting your face up toward his and this thumb starts brushing your cheek. His eyes are dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you.

"What?" you whisper.

He glances at the screen, where George is leaning in, where Lorraine is waiting, where everything is about to change. Then he looks back at you.

“I was terrified of our first kiss too…” He whispers, barely audible over the movie, “but not enough to stop me from trying.”

Your heart stutters. 

On screen, George kisses Lorraine. The music swells. The audience cheers. And in the darkness of the car, with the glow of the movie painting everything in soft blues and silver, Seonghyeon leans in and kisses you.

It's soft. Slow. His hand moves to cup the back of your head, sifting through the strands of your hair. You tilt your head slightly and feel his breath catch against your lips, a small sound that he swallows before it can escape.

His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he's anchoring himself to you. His thumb traces the curve of your skull, slow and absent, and you shiver despite the warmth of the car, despite the heat of his body pressed against yours. The leather of his jacket is cool under your hands where you've gripped the collar, and you feel the steady beat of his heart through the fabric, through his shirt, through the space where your chest presses against his.

‘I'm just a fool,’

The song drifts through the speakers, soft and distant, barely heard over the sound of your own heartbeat, over the quiet exhale of his breath, over the soft slide of his lips against yours. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world—like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, nothing else he'd rather be doing. Like this moment, right here, is exactly where he's supposed to be.

His hand on your waist shifts, fingers spreading wide against your hip, and he pulls you closer until there's no space left between you, until your ribs are aligned with his despite the gearshift’s attempts to separate you, until you can feel every breath he takes.

When he finally pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he's having to remind himself to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow, your breath mingling with his in the small space between you.

‘A fool in love with you’

"See?" he whispers, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the fading song. "Not so scary after all."

You laugh, soft and breathless, the sound strange and bright in the darkness of the car and he just watches you with that look. The one that makes your stomach flip, the one that makes everything else fall away. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, something that looks like awe and wonder, like he can't quite believe you're real.

You lean in and kiss him again.

This time, it's slower. Sweeter. His lips part under yours like it's the most natural thing in the world, like your mouth was made to fit against his. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your jaw, cradling your face like something precious and it makes your stomach flutter.

The movie continues. George wins the girl, and Marty makes it back to the future… or present, or was it—it doesn't really matter. Not when his thumb is tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he's memorising the shape of you. Not when his breath is warm against your lips, slow and steady, matching yours without either of you trying. Not when the world outside this car has shrunk to nothing, faded to static, disappeared entirely.

On screen, the DeLorean disappears in a flash of light and fire, the movie ending in a cliff hanger. Someone shouts. Someone cheers. The credits begin to roll, music swelling, names scrolling up the screen in white text.

Neither of you notice.

His forehead presses against yours again, and his eyes are closed, and his hand is still cupping your face like you're something worth holding onto. You watch him for a moment: how his lips are still slightly parted whilst his chest rises and falls beneath your palm where your hand rests against his heart.

"Seonghyeon," you whisper.

He opens his eyes. They're dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you. "Yeah?"

"The movie's over."

He glances at the screen, then back at you. Doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. "So?"

"So..." You smile, and you feel his thumb brush the corner of your mouth, catching the curve of it. "Aren't you going to take me home?"

He's quiet for a moment. The credits keep rolling, the music keeps playing, and somewhere behind you, car engines are starting up, headlights flickering on, people beginning to leave.

"No," he says finally.

You blink. "No?"

"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Not yet."

"Seonghyeon, I have a curfew."

"I know."

"My dad will kill you."

"I know that too." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's that smile again—the one that's gotten him into trouble more times than you can count, the one that makes you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure. "But I'm not ready to take you home yet."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. You should argue. You should remind him of the last time you were late, of the way your dad had stood on the porch with his arms crossed, of the five weeks Seonghyeon hadn't been allowed within thirty feet of your house.

But he's looking at you like that, and his hand is warm on your face, and the night is dark and soft and full of something that feels like possibility.

"Five more minutes," you say.

His smile widens. "Ten."

"Seven."

"Deal."

He pulls you closer, and you go willingly, settling against his chest. His arm wraps around you, his hand resting on your hip, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.

The credits finish. The screen goes dark. The car is quiet except for the soft hum of the radio he had turned on after the credits finished and the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

"Baby," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"You’re my density."

You tilt your head up, look at him. His face is soft in the darkness, his eyes steady on yours like he’s never been so sure of something in his life.

"And you’re mine," you say.

And you stay there, tangled up together, watching the empty screen, not watching anything at all. The night stretches on around you, dark and endless, and the world feels very far away.

Seven minutes, you think. But you know, even as you think it, that you're not going to remind him when the time's up.

"It slipped your mind."

"Yeah. I'll make it up to you."

"You always say that."

"Because I always mean it."

"Then why does it keep happening?"

He shrugged.

That was what did it. Not the forgetting or the lateness. The shrug. His shoulders going up and down like it didn't matter, and your time didn't matter, and you hadn't sat in that library for an hour and a half watching the door like an idiot. Like you weren't worth remembering.

"Forget it," you said.

"Come on, don't be like that—"

"Like what? Upset? Sorry for expecting my boyfriend to show up when he says he will."

"I said I was sorry."

"And I said forget it."

You turned around and walked out. The arcade door swung shut behind you, cutting off the noise, and suddenly it was quiet. Too quiet. The evening air hit your face, cool and damp, and you realised your hands were shaking.

He called your name once. Twice. His voice was muffled through the glass, distant, like he was calling from underwater.

You didn't look back.

That was three days ago.

The first day, you were furious.

The kind of furious that felt good, felt right, felt like armor. You wore it everywhere: to class, to lunch, to bed. You rehearsed speeches in your head while you brushed your teeth, while you walked to class, while you lay in bed with the lights off. Sharp, cutting things, all the words you should have said at the arcade but had been too hurt to think of in the moment.

You don't get to make me feel like I'm asking for too much.

I'm not crazy for wanting you to show up.

I deserve someone who remembers.

You told yourself you were right and he was wrong. You told yourself you didn't need him. You almost believed it.

The second day, you were stubborn.

The anger had cooled overnight and settled into something harder that felt more deliberate. You weren't shouting anymore, not even in your head. You were just... done. Done explaining. Done hoping. Done waiting for him to change.

You walked past him in the hallway like he wasn't there. He said your name. You kept walking, your eyes fixed straight ahead, your bag heavy on your shoulder. He fell into step beside you, his hands in his pockets, his voice careful like he was approaching something that might bite.

"Can we talk?"

"No."

"Just for a minute—"

"I said no."

You turned down another hallway by the science wing and he didn't follow. Good. You didn't want him to follow. You didn't want to talk. You didn't want to hear his excuses or his apologies or his promises to do better. You'd heard them all before, and they'd never stuck. They were like water off a raincoat: shed easily, leaving nothing behind.

At lunch, Mina asked where he was. You said you didn't know. She gave you a look—the kind that meant she knew you were lying but wasn't going to call you on it. She passed you a fry instead. You ate it. It tasted like cardboard.

That night, the phone rang constantly. You didn't pick it up.

The third day, you were still stubborn.

But it was heavier now. It had become a weight you had to carry. Your shoulders ached. Your eyes burned from lack of sleep. 

You saw him again between second and third period as he was standing by your locker, waiting. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the wall like he was trying to make himself smaller. His hair was a mess—unwashed, sticking up in the back—and there were dark circles under his eyes that matched your own. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.

You didn't care. You told yourself you didn't care.

"Hey," he said.

You walked past him and spun your lock. The combination felt wrong under your fingers, too many turns and too much fumbling on your part. You could feel him standing behind you, the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck, the space between you feeling like a physical thing, thick and heavy.

"Can you just—please. Just listen for a second."

You didn't answer. Your lock clicked open and you reached in to grab your book, though not really paying much attention to which one your hand latched onto.

"I messed up. I know I messed up. I should've been there. I should've called. I—"

You turned and walked away, your sneakers squeaking against the tile. The hallway was crowded, students pushing past, voices loud and bright, but you heard him behind you. Heard his footsteps, faster than yours, closing the gap.

He caught up in three steps. His hand reached forward to hold your elbow, but he stopped himself beforehand, unsure on if he was allowed to touch you anymore.

You shook your head, refusing to meet his eye. "Stop trying to talk to me."

"Then stop walking away from me."

"Then stop following me."

"I'm trying to apologise."

"I don't care."

The words hung in the air and you still didn't look at his face. You couldn't. Because you knew if you looked at his face, you'd see the hurt there, and the hurt would make you falter, and you couldn't afford to falter. Not yet.

He stopped walking and you kept going. You could feel him watching you, could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck, heavy and sad. You chose to not look back.

But your hands were shaking. And your eyes were burning. And when you turned the corner and disappeared from his view, you had to stop for a second, lean against the lockers, and breathe.

He tried again at lunch.

You were sitting with Mina and Martin at your usual table by the window, your tray sitting in front of you, untouched except for the few bites you'd forced down to make Mina stop giving you that look. You were pushing a piece of broccoli around your plate, mashing it into the plastic with the tines of your fork, not really seeing it.

You saw him approach before they did. The familiar jacket with that familiar walk, and that easy swagger he didn't even know he had, except today it wasn't easy. Today his shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his whole body folded in on itself like he was trying to take up less space. The familiar way he ran his hand through his hair when he was nervous, messing it up even more than it already was.

"Incoming," Martin said, nodding toward Seonghyeon. He didn't sound surprised, none of them were surprised anymore.

You didn't look up. Just stabbed a piece of vegetable with your fork and put it in your mouth. It tasted like nothing, everything had tasted like nothing for days.

"Hey," Seonghyeon said. He was standing at the end of your table, his hands in his pockets, his weight shifting from foot to foot like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to stand still. His voice was careful, quiet, the way you'd talk to a stray cat you didn't want to scare off. "Can we talk?"

"No."

"Just for a minute."

"I'm eating."

You weren't eating. You were pushing food around your plate. The broccoli had turned into mush, and the chicken was getting cold, and everyone at the table knew you hadn't taken more than three bites. But he didn't call you out on it, he just stood there, looking at you and waiting.

Mina shot you a look from across the table—her way of saying just talk to him, please, for the love of God, just talk to him—and you ignored her. Your jaw tightened. Your fingers tightened around your fork.

"Please," he said. His voice cracked on the word, just slightly, and you hated the way it made your chest ache.

You picked up your tray and stood up. The plastic was cold against your palms, and you could feel everyone's eyes on you: Mina's worried glance, Martin's careful neutrality, the other kids in the cafeteria staring and whispering like you were a show they'd paid to see.

"I'm done," you said. You didn't look at him. You couldn't.

You walked away, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, your tray balanced on your palm. You could feel his eyes on your back, heavy and sad, but you didn't turn around. 

He didn't follow this time.

He tried again after school.

You were walking toward the front entrance, your bag slung over your shoulder, your headphones on, connected to a mixtape you had made. You'd turned the volume up loud enough that you couldn't hear anything else. Loud enough that you almost didn't hear him calling your name.

Almost.

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. You stopped walking and pulled the headphone off your ears.

"What?"

"Can you please just—"

"No."

"You won't even let me explain?"

"There's nothing to explain. You forgot. You didn't show up. You shrugged. End of story."

"I know. I know I messed up. But it's not—it's not the end of the story. It doesn't have to be."

You looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in three days. He looked tired: dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than usual, his jacket rumpled like he'd been sleeping in it.

You didn't care.

"Move," you said.

"Not until you listen."

"Move, Seonghyeon."

"No."

You stepped around him. He reached for your arm. You pulled away.

"Don't touch me."

"Then stop ignoring me."

"I don't have to stop anything. You're the one who messed up. You're the one who should be trying to fix it."

"I am trying. You won't let me."

"You're not trying hard enough."

You walked away. He didn't follow.

That night, he called.

Your phone rang at 8pm. Then 8:30. Then 9. You let it ring. You watched it from your bed as the receiver shook in its cradle.

Your mother poked her head in. "Are you going to get that?"

"No."

"It might be important."

"It's not."

She looked at you for a long moment and you could see her trying to decide whether to push. 

"Okay," she eventually said, still eyeing you suspiciously. "Dinner's in an hour."

She closed the door, and the phone’s ringing soon halted. A minute later, it started again.

You turned over and faced the wall.

The next morning, there was a note on your locker.

It was folded in half, your name written on the front in his handwriting. You recognised it immediately—how he looped his letters and pressed too hard with the pen. You'd seen it on a hundred notes before. Meet me after school. I love you. Don't forget to eat lunch.

You unfolded it.

I'm sorry. I know I keep saying it. I know it doesn't mean anything anymore. But I'm sorry. I messed up. I'll do better. Just give me a chance.

You read it twice. Then you folded it back up, tucked it into your pocket, and walked to class.

You didn't write back.

He left another note on your locker the next day. And the next. Each one shorter than the last, like he was running out of things to say.

I miss you.

Can we please just talk?

I'm not going to stop trying.

You read each one. You kept each one, folded small, tucked into the back pocket of your jeans where no one could see. But you didn't respond. You didn't call. You didn't stop ignoring him in the hallways.

Your friends noticed. Mina asked you about it at lunch, her voice careful, her eyes searching.

"He keeps trying to talk to you," she said.

"I know."

"And you keep ignoring him."

"I know."

"Aren't you going to eventually—"

"No."

She was quiet for a moment before she then she sighed. "You're so stubborn."

"I know."

She didn't push and neither did Martin. They could see it on your face, you were serious this time around.

By the fifth day, Seonghyeon was running out of ideas.

He'd tried talking to you in the hallways and you'd walked away. He'd tried calling and you hadn't picked up. He'd tried notes and you hadn't written back.

He stood by your locker between classes, waiting. You turned the corner, saw him, and kept walking.

"Come on," he said, falling into step beside you. "You can't ignore me forever."

"Watch me."

"I'm trying to apologise."

"You already did."

"Then why won't you talk to me?"

You stopped walking and turned to face him. The hallway was crowded, students pushing past, voices loud and bright, but you didn't care. Let them hear.

"Because I'm tired," you said. "I'm tired of you forgetting. I'm tired of you apologising and then doing the same thing over and over. I'm tired of waiting for you to show up and being disappointed when you don't."

He flinched. "I know. I know I've been—"

"You know? Then why haven't you changed?"

He didn't have an answer. You could see him searching for one, see the words dying on his tongue.

"That's what I thought," you said.

You turned and walked away. He didn't follow.

And you felt bad for it. How could you not? Watching the shine slowly disappear from his eyes every time he saw you—it did something to your chest. He looked smaller now than he used to. That easy confidence he always carried around like a second skin had cracked, and underneath it, he just looked... tired.

But you were tired too.

Tired of him forgetting. Tired of making excuses for him. Tired of telling your friends he's not usually like this when he was, actually. He was usually like this. That was the problem.

The study date wasn't the first thing he'd forgotten. It was just the last straw.

He'd forgotten your friend's birthday party last month. Shown up two hours late with a half-hearted apology and a bag of chips he'd grabbed from the corner store on his way over. You'd let it slide because he'd looked sorry, because he'd kissed your forehead and promised to make it up to you.

He'd forgotten the movie you'd planned to see the weekend before. Texted you at 7pm to say practice ran late, he'd catch the next showing, don't wait up. You'd waited anyway. Sat in the dark theater by yourself, watching the previews, saving the seat next to you like an idiot.

He'd forgotten to call you back that time you'd had a bad day. You'd sat by the phone for hours, waiting, replaying the conversation in your head where you'd told him you needed him, you really needed him, and he'd said I'll call you tonight, I promise.

He hadn't called.

And every time, he said sorry. Every time, he looked at you with those big brown eyes, and you forgave him. Because you loved him, and you wanted to believe him, and you thought maybe this time would be different.

It wasn't different. It was never different.

So yeah, you felt bad. You weren't a monster. You saw the way his face fell when you walked past him without a word. You saw the way his friends clapped him on the shoulder, trying to cheer him up, and the way he'd nod along and pretend he was fine.

But feeling bad wasn't enough anymore. Feeling bad didn't fix anything. Feeling bad didn't make him show up.

That night, you lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

The phone sat on your nightstand, silent. He hadn't called tonight. Maybe he was finally giving up. Maybe he'd realised you weren't worth the effort and had decided to move on to someone who was easier, and didn't expect him to remember things, or would get upset when he forgot.

The thought made your stomach hurt.

Your eyes drifted across the room, landing on your desk and spotting the stacked crooked tower of tapes that were held together by sheer will and lack of anywhere else to put them.

Cassette tapes. Dozens of them. Spines lined with Seonghyeon's handwriting, the title always underlined twice because he said it looked more official that way.

For you. Volume 1.

Songs that made me think of you (Vol. 2).

Late night driving mix (for when you can't sleep).

The one with all the love songs. You know the one.

You'd listened to every single one of them. Some of them so many times the tape had started to wear thin, the sound warbling in places, the songs skipping in the way that meant you'd played them too much and your brother had told you to buy a CD player already, it was the 80s, not the Stone Age.

Each tape had a story. You could trace your relationship through them like a timeline.

Volume 1 was given to you the night he asked you out. Tucked it into your hand with stolen cornflowers tied with kitchen string. You'd played it that night in your room, lying on your bed, the volume turned down low so your parents wouldn't hear. 

Songs that made me think of you (Vol. 2) was left in your locker with a note that just said "Hi." You'd played it on repeat for three days straight, until your brother threatened to throw your stereo out the window.

The third one. The fourth. The fifth.

They were everywhere now. Spilling off your desk, stacked on your nightstand, crammed into the drawer of your bedside table. You'd find them in your coat pockets sometimes, tucked into your textbooks, hidden under your pillow. He left them like breadcrumbs, like love letters, like proof that he was thinking about you even when he wasn't there.

You sat up, swung your legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room to your desk.

Your fingers brushed the spines of the tapes, one by one. The plastic cases were warm from sitting in the sun. The handwriting blurred in the dim light, but you didn't need to read it. You knew every word.

For you.

For you.

For you.

You pulled one out—The one with all the love songs. You know the one.—and held it in your hands. The case was worn, the edges soft, the plastic cracked at the corners. You'd played this one so many times it probably had permanent grooves in the tape.

He'd made this one for you last month. Not for any special reason, just because. He'd shown up at your door with it and a bag of your favourite snacks and a grin that made your heart do something stupid in your chest.

"What's this for?" you'd asked.

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"There's always a reason with you."

You'd played the tape that night, lying in bed with your headphones on, and you'd listened to every single song. Some of them you knew: ones he'd played for you before and had gradually become yours. Some of them were new, songs you'd never heard that he'd found just for you.

He'd spent hours on this. You knew he had. Sitting in his room with his cassette player and his stack of records, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the timing right. His mother had probably yelled at him to turn it down a dozen times. His father had probably asked him why he was wasting his time on something so silly.

But he'd done it anyway. For you.

You looked at the tape in your hands. The label was smudged now, the ink fading, but you could still read it. "You know the one."

He'd written that. For you.

You thought about the study date. The hour and a half you'd spent in the library. The way he'd shrugged when you confronted him. The way you'd walked away.

And then you thought about the tapes. Dozens of them. Hours of his time. Proof that he loved you, even when he forgot. Even when he messed up. Even when he made you want to scream.

You put the tape back on the stack, then climbed back into bed and stared at the ceiling.

You still weren't going to call him. But you weren’t going to throw the tapes away either.

Across town, Seonghyeon was going mad, to put it lightly.

He lay in his bed, staring at the same ceiling he'd been staring at for four nights. 

He hadn't slept at all. He'd dozed off here and there, in brief, fitful bursts, but his dreams were filled with your face: the way you'd looked at him in the arcade, the way you'd spoken to him like you’d finally given up, the way you'd walked away and he hadn't followed.

His room was a mess: clothes on the floor, empty glasses on his nightstand, jacket still rumpled and draped over the back of his chair

He picked up the phone again, held it in his hand and stared at the rotary dial.

He'd called you every night for three nights. Every night, you hadn't picked up. The first night, he'd let it ring fifteen times before he gave up. The second night, ten. The third night, five. Tonight, he hadn’t even tried, because what was the point? You weren't going to answer. You'd made that clear.

He put the phone back and dropped his arm over his eyes, breathing a sigh.

He knew you weren't going to forgive him. He knew it was his fault. He'd been a complete idiot let you walk away when it was entirely his fault. He'd done all of it, and now he was lying in his bed at—he glanced at the clock—almost 2am, staring at the ceiling, going slowly insane.

He thought about the tapes.

Dozens of them. Hours of his time. He'd made them in his room, late at night, when his parents were asleep and the house was quiet. He'd sat on his floor with his cassette player and his stack of records, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the timing just right. He'd wanted them to be perfect. For you.

"You're wasting your time," his father had said once, watching him from the doorway. "She's not going to care how many tapes you make if you can't remember to show up on time."

He'd been right. His father had been right, and Seonghyeon hadn't listened, and now here he was.

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room to his desk.

His desk was a mess too: apers scattered everywhere, a half-empty mug of coffee that had gone cold days ago, and stacked in the corner, a pile of blank cassette tapes, still wrapped in plastic, waiting to be filled.

He'd bought them last week, before the fight had even occured. He'd had plans: songs he wanted to put on them that had made him think of you and that he'd been saving for a special occasion.

He picked up one of the blank tapes. Turned it over in his hands and watched as the plastic crinkled.

He thought about making you another one and filling it with all the songs he should have been listening to instead of being at the arcade. Even thought about leaving it on your doorstep with a note that just said "I'm sorry" over and over until you believed him.

But what was the point? You wouldn't listen to it. You'd probably throw it away without even opening it.

He put the tape back. Ran his hands over his face. Breathed.

He missed you. That was the worst part. He missed you so much it felt like someone had reached into his chest and pulled something vital out that he couldn't live without. He missed your laugh. He missed the way you said his name. He missed the way you'd look at him when you thought he wasn't paying attention, like you were trying to memorise his face.

He missed you and it was his fault.

He turned his head, closing his eyes as he breathed a sigh. Then his eyes caught on something.

A lone cassette tape. Sitting on the corner of his desk, slightly hidden behind a stack of notebooks. And stuck to the front of it was a sticky note, yellowed at the edges, the adhesive long since dried. Written on it in his own handwriting, messy and rushed: ‘for when you need it.’

He stared at it for a long moment. His brain felt sluggish, slow to catch up. And then the memory dawned on him, rising up from somewhere deep that he'd tucked it away and forgotten about.

Months ago you’d had anothet fight that wasn’t as bad as this one, but had still bruised him just as deeply. You'd been angry at him for something stupid, something he couldn't even remember now. You'd ignored him for a whole day, a full twenty-four hours of silence, and he'd practically gone insane.

He'd sat in this same room, at this same desk, and he'd made you a tape full of songs that made him think of sorry, I miss you, please come back. He'd spent hours on it, fast-forwarding and rewinding, trying to get the order just right. He'd wanted it to be perfect. He'd wanted to give it to you and have you listen to it and understand everything he couldn't say out loud.

But he never gave it to you.

You'd forgiven him before he had the chance. Shown up at his door the next morning with a bag of his favourite snacks and a small smile, and he'd kissed you, and the fight was over, and the tape sat forgotten on his desk. He'd meant to put it away, meant to save it for the next time—because there was always a next time, wasn't there?—but he'd forgotten. He'd shoved it behind his notebooks and let it collect dust.

Until now.

His hand reached out, almost without his permission, and picked up the tape. The case was dusty. The sticky note was peeling at the corners. He turned it over in his hands, reading his own handwriting again. For when you need it.

He needed it now more than he'd ever needed anything.

He sat down at his desk, the chair creaking under his weight. He brushed the dust off the case, opened it, pulled out the tape. The label on the cassette itself was smudged, but he could still make out the tracklist: song titles he'd chosen carefully and deliberately, each one a message he'd been too scared to say out loud.

He held the tape in his hands for a long moment and the plastic was cool against his palms.

He thought about making you a new, better one that had songs from the last few months, songs that had made him think of you since then. But there wasn't time. He couldn't wait and spend hours in his room, fast-forwarding and rewinding, while you were out there somewhere, still ignoring him, still hurting.

He stood up, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, shoved the tape into his pocket, and grabbed his keys from his nightstand. His shoes were by the door; he shoved his feet into them, didn't bother with socks.

His parents were asleep. The house was dark. He crept down the stairs, his hand trailing along the wall for balance, until he arrived in front of the back door, clicking it open before he slipped through.

The night air hit his face, cool and damp, smelling like cut grass and distant rain. He sucked in a breath and started to run.

His sneakers pounded against the pavement. His lungs burned. His legs ached. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The streets were empty, the houses dark, the streetlights casting pools of orange on the pavement like stepping stones leading him toward you. None of that mattered. None of it registered. Because to him, time felt like a ticking bomb, each second another excuse for you to decide he wasn't worth it, each moment he wasted giving you more reason to leave him for good.

He thought about what he'd say when he got to your house. Rehearsed the words in his head, over and over, like a song he couldn't quite get right. I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I'll do better. Please. Just give me one more chance. But the words felt small, inadequate, nothing compared to the weight of what he was feeling.

He thought about whether you'd even let him in. Whether you'd even open the window. Whether you'd take one look at his face and close the curtain, lock the latch, walk away.

He reached your street. Your house sat at the end of the block, the porch light on, the way it always was—a warm glow spilling across the front steps, a beacon he'd followed a hundred times before. Your parents' car was in the driveway. Your brother's bike was on the lawn, lying on its side where he'd left it. Everything was the same. The same house, the same street, the same familiar shape of your bedroom window at the side of the building.

But everything felt heavier, ike the air itself was thicker, harder to breathe.

He didn't go to the front door. He knew your father would open it, and he'd take one look at Seonghyeon's face—the dark circles, the desperation, the four days of sleeplessness written all over him—and close it again without a word. So he went around the back, to the side of the house, to the window he'd climbed through a hundred times before that you always left unlocked on nights when you were expecting him.

He didn't know if it would be unlocked tonight. He didn't know if you wanted to see him. He didn't know if you'd even let him in.

But he had to try.

He stood beneath your window, his chest heaving, his hands shaking at his sides. His breath fogged in the cold air, small clouds that disappeared as quickly as they came. The curtain was drawn so he couldn't see anything, or even tell if you were awake or asleep or somewhere in between, lying in your bed with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling the way he'd been doing for four nights straight.

He reached up, fingers curling around the ledge beneath the window before he hauled himself up, his sneakers scraping against the siding, his muscles straining. The ledge was narrow, just wide enough for his feet. but he'd done this before. He'd done it a hundred times. He knew exactly where to put his weight, exactly how to balance.

He steadied himself. Pressed one hand against the glass to keep from wobbling. Then he raised his other hand and knocked three times, harder than he intended.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound echoed through the quiet night, louder than he meant it to, louder than it should have been. The glass rattled in its frame but he didn't care. Let your parents hear. Let the whole street hear. Let the whole world know he was here, outside your window, begging.

He waited. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers where they pressed against the glass. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three.

The curtain moved. Just slightly, just a flicker, like someone was peeking through the gap.

Then, all at once, it was shoved aside, and you were standing on the other side of the glass. 

Your hair was a mess: tangled, falling across your face in waves you hadn't bothered to brush. Your eyes were puffy, ringed with dark circles that matched his own, proof that you hadn't been sleeping either. You were wearing his gray t-shirt that he’d left at your place after a sleepover, and always made his chest ache every time he saw you in it. 

For a long moment neither of you moved, just staring at each other. The streetlight caught the side of your face, illuminating the shadows under your eyes, the slight frown on your lips, the way your brow was furrowed like you were trying to figure out if he was real.

"You've got to be kidding me," you said, sliding the window ajar for him to hear you.

"I'm not kidding."

"It's two in the morning, Seonghyeon."

"I know what time it is."

"My parents are asleep."

"I know."

"You could have woken them up."

He swallowed. "I know."

You narrowed your eyes at him, but he remained unmoving.

"What do you want?" you asked.

"You know what I want."

"No, I don't. That's the problem. I never know what you want. One minute you're making me tapes and leaving notes on my locker, and the next you're forgetting I exist."

"I don't forget you exist."

"You forgot our study date."

"That's not the same thing."

"It feels the same from where I'm standing." You crossed your arms over your chest, your jaw set. "You forgot, Seonghyeon. Again. You were at the arcade with your friends while I sat in the library like an idiot, waiting for you."

"I know. I know, and I'm sorry—"

"You're always sorry."

"Because I'm always messing up."

"Then stop messing up!"

The words hung in the air between you, loud and sharp. You blinked, like you hadn't meant to shout, but you didn't take it back. You just stood there, your arms crossed, your chest heaving, your eyes bright with something that looked like tears.

He pressed his forehead against the glass. The cold bit into his skin, but he didn't move. He couldn't.

"I don't know how," he said. His voice was quiet, barely audible. "I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to be better. I don't know how to be the person you deserve."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I can't—I can't just—" He pulled back, looked at you. His eyes were wet. His hands were shaking. "I can't lose you. I can't. I know I mess up. I know I forget things. I know I'm late and I don't call and I make you feel like you don't matter. But you do. You matter more than anything. And I don't know how to fix it, but I have to try. I have to."

You were quiet for a long moment. Your arms were still crossed, your jaw still set, but your face had shifted to something softer.

"What's that?" You asked, nodding toward his hand.

He looked down. The tape was still clutched in his fingers, the plastic case warm from his palm. He'd almost forgotten he was holding it.

"I made this for you," he said. "Months ago. After our last fight when you ignored me for a day and I thought I was going to lose my mind."

Your eyes flicked down to the tape, then back up to his face.

"I never gave it to you because you forgave me before I had the chance. And I was relieved, so I shoved aside and forgot about it." He swallowed. "But I found it tonight. And I thought—I thought maybe you'd listen to it. If you still wanted to."

"Baby Come Back," you said, reading the tracklist through the glass. "Really?"

"It's a good song."

"It's cliché."

"Clichés exist for a reason."

You shook your head, but your lips twitched just slightly, just enough for him to notice. "You're impossible."

"I know."

"You're standing outside my window at two in the morning holding a cassette tape like some bad movie."

"I know that too."

"You don't even have socks on."

He looked down at his feet and realised you were right. His sneakers were loose, his bare ankles visible above the heels. He hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed anything except the need to get here.

"I didn't have time for socks," he said.

You stared at him for another long moment. Your hand moved from the window frame to the latch. You hesitated and he held his breath.

Then you unlocked the latch and slid the window open fully.

The night air rushed in, cool and damp, and you stepped back, just enough to give him room. Your arms were crossed again, your face guarded, but you'd opened the window and let him in, and that had to mean something.

He didn't wait. He hauled himself over the sill, his sneakers scraping against the frame, and landed on your bedroom floor with a soft thud. The tape was still clutched in his hand as he was now standing in the middle of your room, his chest heaving.

You closed the window behind him, pulling the curtain shut before turning to face him.

The room was dark except for the orange glow of the streetlight filtering through the fabric, casting long shadows across the floor. 

"Play it," you said.

He blinked. "What?"

"The tape. Play it. If you came all this way, you might as well."

He crossed the room to your stereo, the same one he'd used a hundred times before. He slid the tape into the deck, pressed play, and stepped back.

Static. Silence. The soft hiss of the tape spinning.

Then music.

The opening notes of 'Baby Come Back' filled the room and the words hung in the air between you like a confession he couldn't make himself.

‘Spending all my nights, all my money going out on the town

Doing anything just to get you off of my mind, yeah

But when the morning comes, I'm right back where I started again

And tryna forget you is just a waste of time’

"You're such an idiot," you finally spoke again, but your voice was softer this time. Quieter.

"I know."

"This doesn't fix anything."

"I know."

"One song doesn't make up for four days of silence."

"I know."

"And I'm still mad at you."

He nodded. "I know."

‘Baby come back, any kind of fool could see

There was something in everything about you’

You took a step closer. Then another. Your arms fell to your sides. Your face was still guarded, but your eyes were wet, and your hands were shaking slightly.

"You forgot," you said. "You forgot, and you were late, and you shrugged at me like it didn't matter."

"It did matter. It does matter. You matter."

"Then why do you keep doing this?"

He didn't have an answer. He'd been asking himself the same question for days, and he still didn't have an answer. He was scared, maybe. Or stupid. Or both.

‘Baby come back, yeah, you can blame it all on me

'Cause I was wrong, and I just can't live without you’

"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know why I keep doing this. I don't know why I can't just—remember. I don't know why I keep hurting you when you're the last person I want to hurt."

"Then figure it out."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

The song played on. He could see you fighting it—fighting the way your eyes kept dropping to his lips, the way your hands kept twitching at your sides like you wanted to reach for him.

"I'm scared," he said.

You blinked. "Of what?"

"Of you. Of this. Of how much I need you." His voice cracked. "I've never needed anyone the way I need you. And it terrifies me. Because what if I'm not good enough? What if I keep messing up? What if one day you wake up and decide I'm not worth the trouble?"

You stared at him. "Seonghyeon—"

"That's why I forget things. Not because I don't care. Because I do. I care so much it scares me, and I don't know how to handle it, so I just—shut down. And then you're upset, and I'm upset, and I don't know how to fix it."

‘All day long, wearing a mask of false bravado (false bravado)’

You crossed the room in three steps. Your hand found his face, your palm cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing away a tear he hadn't even realised had fallen.

"Idiot," you whispered.

"I know."

"You should have told me this days ago."

"I didn't know how."

‘Tryna keep up a smile that hides a tear (hides a tear)’

You were close now, close enough that he could see the way your breath hitched when his hand came up to cover yours.

"I'm still mad at you," you said.

"I know."

"Like, really mad."

"I know that too."

"This doesn't mean I forgive you."

He nodded. "I know."

‘But as the sun goes down, I get that empty feeling again

How I wish to God that you were here’

But you didn't step back. And neither did he. The song played on, soft and sad, and you stood there in the middle of your room, your hand on his face, his hand over yours, neither of you willing to be the first to let go.

"Well," you said finally, "are you going to kiss me or not?"

He blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I thought you were still angry at me."

"I am."

"So why—"

"Because I'm also tired, and I missed you, and you're standing in my room at two in the morning with a cassette tape like some lovesick fool, and it's kind of pathetic, honestly."

"Gee, thanks."

"But it's also kind of sweet." You shrugged, but your eyes were soft, and your thumb was still tracing circles on his cheekbone. "And I've been lying awake for four nights wondering if you were going to show up. So are you going to kiss me or not?"

He kissed you as the chorus finally swelled once more.

The moment his lips met yours, something in him broke open.

They were chapped from the cold, from the wind, from four days of not taking care of himself. They were rough against yours, almost unfamiliar, and he tasted like salt from the tears he'd shed running through the dark, and the ones that still clung to his lashes.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Like he'd been holding his breath for four days and you were the only thing that could save him. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly at your sides, slid to your waist and pulled you flush against him. There was no space between you now, just the warmth of his chest pressing against yours, the rapid thrum of his heartbeat echoing through his ribs into your own.

Your fingers slid to tangle through his hair. The strands were soft at the nape of his neck, curling around your knuckles the way they always did.

His hands slid up your back, fingers splaying wide, spanning the space between your shoulder blades. He pulled you closer, closer, until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.

Your hands slid from his hair to his jaw, cupping his face like you had moments ago. His skin was cold from the night air, and you could feel the muscles working beneath your palms as he kissed you: the way his jaw moved, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. The song was still playing, soft and sad, the words washing over you both like a wave.

‘Baby come back, you can blame it all on me

I was wrong, and I just can't live without you, no’

His forehead rested against yours. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and you could see the tear tracks glistening in the dim light. His breath was warm on your lips, uneven, hitching, and you felt his hands lower back down to your waist.

"Seonghyeon," you whispered.

He opened his eyes. They were dark in the dim light, pupils blown wide, and there was something in them that made your breath catch—something that looked like awe, like wonder, like he couldn't quite believe you were real.

"I'm not going to forgive you just because you showed up with a tape."

He nodded. "I know."

"But I'm also not going to pretend I didn't miss you."

His hands tightened on your hips. "I missed you too."

"So much it hurts."

"So much I couldn't breathe."

You looked at him. At the dark circles under his eyes, the ones that matched your own. At the way his hair fell across his forehead, messy and unwashed. At the way his lips were red and slightly swollen, parted like he was still trying to catch his breath.

"You look terrible," you said.

"I feel terrible."

"Have you been sleeping?"

"A little."

"Eating?"

He hesitated and you raised an eyebrow.

"A little," he said again.

You sighed and shook your head, but you didn't let go of his face, and he didn't let go of your hips.

"Idiot," you said.

"Your idiot."

"My idiot," you repeated. The words felt heavy in your mouth, weighted with everything you hadn't said in four days. "But only if you stop being an idiot."

"I'm going to try."

"That's not a promise."

"It's the best I can do."

You were quiet for a moment. The song played on, a hum in the background.

‘Baby come back, you can blame it all on me

'Cause I was wrong, and I just can't live without you’

"I guess that'll have to do," you said.

And you kissed him again as the electric guitar soared, blurring your every sense as all you could feel was him.

This time, it was slower. You kissed him like you were trying to tell him something you didn't have words for that had been sitting in your chest for four days waiting to come out.

I love you. I hate you. I missed you. Please don't leave again.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Like this moment, right here, was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Your hands slid from his jaw to his chest, pressing flat against his heart. It was pounding under your palm: fast, uneven, the same rhythm as yours. His hands slid from your hips to your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. 

He broke the kiss first. Not because he wanted to—you could see it in his eyes, the way they were still dark, still desperate, still fixed on your lips—but because he couldn't breathe. His chest was heaving, his shoulders shaking, and his forehead dropped to yours again, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

"I love you," he said. His voice was wrecked: raw and rough, like he'd been screaming, or crying, or both. "I love you so much. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it."

You brushed your thumb across his lower lip. It was still wet from the kiss, still chapped, still trembling just slightly.

"I know," you said.

"I'm going to do better."

"I know."

"I'm going to remember."

"I know."

"I'm going to—"

You kissed him again, soft this time, just a brush of your lips against his. "Stop talking," you whispered.

He nodded and swallowed, pressing his forehead to yours.

The song ended and the tape clicked off, waiting for you to confirm the next track. The room was silent except for the soft hum of the stereo and the sound of both of you breathing.

"I missed this," you admitted quietly, your thumb lowering to trace his jaw. "I missed you. Even when I was angry. Even when I didn't want to."

His breath hitched. His hands, still resting on your back, tightened just slightly. "I missed you too," he said, his voice rough. "Every second. Every minute. I couldn't breathe." He pressed his forehead harder against yours, like he was trying to fuse himself to you. "Don't ever shut me out again. I can't—I can't do that again."

He knew about the late-night drives, the missed curfews, the sound of a car engine idling outside your house fifteen minutes after you were supposed to be home. He knew Seonghyeon smiled his way through trouble instead of avoiding it, and somehow always managed to drag you directly into the middle of whatever terrible idea he’d had.

By the third time Seonghyeon had shown up at your house past midnight, and the second time your father had caught him trying to quietly drop you off only to nearly reverse into the mailbox, any chance of him being viewed as a respectable influence had disappeared completely.

So when you’d first brought up the idea of a sleepover your father had looked at you like you were insane.

"No," he'd said.

Then no again.

Then absolutely not.

Then not in this house, not while I'm breathing, not over my dead body, and did you think he was born yesterday?

You'd persisted anyway. You'd brought it up at dinner, pushing peas around your plate while your mother hid a smile behind her wine glass. You'd caught your father in the hallway before bed, in the kitchen over his morning coffee, in the garage while he swore at something under the hood of his car. You'd asked so many times that your brother had started mimicking you: "Dad, can Seonghyeon sleep over?" in a high-pitched whiny voice that made you want to throw a pillow at his head.

You even attempted dramatically insisting that everyone else’s parents allowed it, which only earned you a long look and a “I’m not everyone else’s parents.”

All of these attempts earned you nothing but your father's disapproving gaze and, consequently, the slow squashing of your heart. Every time you brought it up, he'd fix you with that look that said don't push your luck, and you'd feel your hopes deflate a little more.

Eventually, you'd recruited your mother.

Your father had always been weak when it came to her. It was something only years of love could really create—that quiet power she held over him, the way he'd soften around the edges whenever she asked for something. He'd deny you for weeks, but she could undo all his resolve with a single look across the dinner table.

Maybe you and Seonghyeon would be like that when you were older.

Not that you ever thought about that, obviously. That would be crazy. You were only seventeen. You definitely hadn’t ever dreamed what it would be like to have your own house with Seonghyeon. Not at all.

But your mother was your secret weapon and over the following days she slowly wore him down.

"He's a good student," she'd mention the next night, stirring her coffee. "I saw his report card. You saw it too, didn't you?"

Your father would grunt.

“They’re good kids.”

Another grunt.

“You used to sneak out too, you know.”

That usually got a longer silence.

And every single time, you’d watch your father try very hard not to look affected while your mother hid a tiny smile behind her coffee cup.

It took nearly three weeks.

Three weeks of promises. Three weeks of “we’ll stay apart.” Three weeks of “the door will stay open.” Three weeks of your father looking personally exhausted by the entire situation.

But eventually, somehow, he caved. Not happily or gracefully, but he did.

The conditions came immediately after.

“Guest room,” your father had said firmly, pointing directly at Seonghyeon from across the living room. “Down the hall.”

Seonghyeon had been sitting on the couch so stiffly it was almost painful to watch, hands flat on his knees, posture straight like he was interviewing for a scholarship instead of asking to sleep over at his girlfriend’s house.

“Yes, sir.”

“Not her room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not near her room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And absolutely no funny business upstairs.”

At that, you’d nearly choked trying not to laugh while Seonghyeon nodded with suspicious seriousness.

“No funny business,” he repeated solemnly, like he was signing a legal contract.

Your father narrowed his eyes immediately, clearly unconvinced by how agreeable he sounded.

The worst part was that Seonghyeon looked entirely too amused underneath it, like he was enjoying this.

Your mother had stepped in before your father could change his mind completely, patting Seonghyeon lightly on the shoulder as she stood.

“He likes you,” she’d whispered kindly once your father disappeared into the kitchen.

Seonghyeon had glanced toward the doorway your father had vanished through before looking back at her. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is,” your mother insisted. “He would have killed you by now if he didn’t.”

“That’s comforting.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

You’d had to look away because you were already starting to laugh.

Even now, hours later, lying awake in bed, you could still picture the expression Seonghyeon had worn all through dinner afterward: trying and failing to hide his smile every single time your father repeated one of the rules.

Which was exactly why sleep felt impossible now.

The house had been quiet for almost an hour.

The movie downstairs had ended. Your father had fallen asleep in his armchair halfway through it, your mother eventually nudging him awake while Seonghyeon tried very hard not to laugh. Everyone had gone upstairs after that, lights shutting off one by one until the whole house settled into silence.

And Seonghyeon was right down the hall.

Not far enough away to ignore.

You rolled onto your side again with a sigh, tugging the blankets higher before immediately kicking them back down again.

It was ridiculous, you saw him almost every day and yet somehow knowing he was only a few rooms away made you feel restless in a way you couldn’t fix.

The worst part was that the two of you had actually behaved all evening. Mostly.

You’d sat together on opposite ends of the couch at first, which was your father’s idea obviously, but little by little Seonghyeon had started inching closer whenever nobody was paying attention.

A shift of his knee against yours under the blanket. His shoulder brushing yours when he leaned over for popcorn. His hand lingering just slightly too long when he reached into your bowl instead of his own. Tiny, barely noticeable things.

Except your father noticed everything. Every single time your knees touched, you could practically feel your father narrowing his eyes from across the room without even looking away from the television.

At one point, Seonghyeon had leaned over to whisper something in your ear during the movie, and your father had immediately gone: “What was that?”

“Nothing,” both of you answered at the exact same time.

Which honestly only made it worse.

By the time everyone finally headed upstairs, you’d barely even gotten a proper goodnight. Just a quick glance, a small grin from him halfway down the hall, and a quiet: “Sleep well.”

Like that was actually possible now.

With a quiet sigh, you sat up in bed, throwing your blankets aside and pushing your hair back from your face as you stared toward your bedroom door.

This was ridiculous. You weren’t twelve. He was literally just a few doors away. You’d survived entire weekends without seeing him before. So why did knowing he was in your house suddenly make sleep impossible?

You flopped back dramatically for half a second, staring at the ceiling again. Then you immediately sat back up.

Just for a minute. That was all.

You’d go down the hall, see him, complain that you couldn’t sleep, maybe make fun of the guest room your father had stuck him in, and then come right back upstairs before anyone noticed.

Easy.

You slipped carefully out of bed, the floor cool against your feet as you crossed the room. The whole house had that deep, late-night stillness to it now, where every tiny sound suddenly felt dangerous.

The hallway outside your room was dark, lit only faintly by the pale moonlight spilling through the window at the far end. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards, the old house creaking softly around you as if it were settling deeper into sleep.

You reached for your doorknob slowly, trying not to make noise.

The hinges gave the faintest creak as you pulled it open—

—and froze instantly.

Seonghyeon was already standing right outside your room. For a second your brain genuinely stopped working.

He looked equally caught off guard, though far less guilty about it. One hand was half-raised like he’d been about to knock, his hair slightly messy from sleep or from running his hands through it too many times.

You just stared at each other silently in the dark hallway. Then his eyes flicked over your face once, and the corner of his mouth pulled upward slowly. “You too?” He whispered.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“You’re supposed to be down the hall.”

“And you’re supposed to be asleep.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again because unfortunately, it really wasn’t. He looked far too pleased about that realisation.

You tried crossing your arms, aiming for annoyed, but it lost some effect considering you were standing there in oversized sleep clothes staring at him in the middle of the night.

“You weren’t supposed to leave the guest room,” you whispered again, quieter this time.

“And you weren’t supposed to open the door.”

His voice stayed calm and low, but there was amusement tucked into every word. You rolled your eyes automatically, though your heartbeat had already started picking up.

He noticed, even in the darkness, how you were unable to meet his gaze for a moment.

Of course he noticed. Despite the impression you gave about not getting nervous around him, small parts of yourself that only he noticed ratted you out to him every single time. He’d known you long enough to tell.

Seonghyeon took a small step closer, enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent from the sweatshirt he’d changed into earlier. “You couldn’t sleep either?” He asked.

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Maybe.”

“Mm,” he murmured, clearly not believing you for a second.

Then, before you could think too hard about it, his hand slid around your waist naturally, easily, like it belonged there. The movement pulled you closer in one smooth motion and your breath caught before you could stop it.

He leaned down slightly, giving you barely enough time to realise what he was doing before his mouth met yours.

Soft at first, careful enough that you almost thought he was trying to behave.

Though that lasted about three seconds because the second you kissed him back, his grip tightened slightly at your waist, and you felt him smile against your mouth like he’d just proven himself right about something.

Your fingers curled instinctively into the front of his sweatshirt, bunching the fabric lightly, and you melted into him, making a small sound against his mouth, a sigh of relief. He chuckled slightly. You could feel it, the small gust of air that escaped him, and you wanted to stay here forever.

But then you remembered where you were, how your parents' bedroom was at the end of the hall that now felt increasingly small and dangerous

You pulled back and his mouth chased yours, his eyes still closed, his lips still parted. He leaned in for another kiss until you put your hand on his chest, pushing him back gently.

His eyes opened and he blinked, confused. His lips were pink, slightly swollen, he was looking at you like you'd just taken something vital away from him, a frown forming on his face. “Why?” He whispered, sounding genuinely betrayed by the interruption.

You stared at him incredulously before pointing toward your parents’ bedroom farther down the hall. “We cannot get caught,” you mouthed carefully.

He glanced once in that direction, then looked back at you completely unbothered. “They’re asleep.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“And I was right last time.”

“You almost got hit with a shoe.”

“That wasn’t that serious.”

You gaped at him quietly. “My dad threatened to kill you.”

“Yeah,” he whispered thoughtfully. “But he says that every time he sees me now.”

Which was, annoyingly, true.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You like me.” The smugness in his whisper made you roll your eyes again, even though the warmth climbing into your face completely ruined the effect.

Unfortunately, he noticed that too. His expression softened instantly, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Before he could lean down again, you grabbed his wrist suddenly. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as you tugged him backward down the hallway. “Wait—where are we going?”

“Shh,” you whispered immediately. You started guiding him carefully toward the stairs, both of you moving slowly to avoid the loud spots in the floorboards.

The old house creaked anyway. Every single noise made you freeze for half a second before continuing. At one point, the stair beneath Seonghyeon’s foot let out an especially loud groan, and you whipped around so fast you nearly ran into him, only to find his shoulders were already shaking silently with laughter.

“This isn’t funny,” you mouthed.

“It kind of is.”

You glared at him while trying not to laugh yourself.

By the time the two of you finally reached the bottom of the stairs, the house had gone still again.

Moonlight spilled through the living room windows in pale strips, turning everything soft silver-blue. The furniture looked different at night somehow: quieter, softer around the edges. Even the air felt still.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You could hear the faint ticking of the clock in the kitchen alongside the hum of the refrigerator somewhere down the hall.

Seonghyeon glanced around slowly before looking back at you, hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Now what?” He whispered.

You shrugged, trying to act like dragging him downstairs in the middle of the night had been a completely normal decision. “I don’t know,” you said quietly. “You’re the one lurking outside my bedroom.”

A small grin tugged at his mouth immediately. “I was being romantic.”

“You were standing in the dark outside my door.”

“Romantically.”

You snorted softly, shaking your head. He wandered away before you could answer, moving toward the vinyl cabinet beneath the stereo system in the corner of the room. Immediately, suspicion hit you. “Oh, don’t touch those.”

Too late.

Seonghyeon crouched in front of the cabinet anyway, flipping through your father’s records with the kind of confidence people only had when they absolutely should not be touching something. “You own, like, fifty sad old man albums,” he murmured.

“My dad likes music.”

“Your dad likes depression.”

You rolled your eyes, moving closer as he continued flipping through them one by one.

“What even is this?” He whispered, holding up a record sleeve covered in dramatic black-and-white photography.

You glanced at it. “I don’t know.”

“That guy looks miserable.”

“He’s probably singing about heartbreak.”

“Yeah, well. He should cheer up.”

You laughed quietly through your nose, quickly covering your mouth when the sound echoed slightly too loud in the room. Seonghyeon looked very pleased with himself for causing it.

He kept searching until one particular record made him pause. Slowly, he pulled it free from the shelf.

“My Love Will Never Die,” he read under his breath.

You immediately groaned. “Oh my god.”

“What?” He asked, already grinning.

“You cannot be serious.”

He turned the sleeve over in his hands dramatically. “This is perfect.”

“It’s ancient.”

“Barely.”

“It literally belonged to my parents before I was born.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Classic.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself while he carefully slid the vinyl from its sleeve. For all his usual recklessness, he handled it surprisingly gently.

“That thing’s older than both of us,” you whispered.

He glanced up at you while setting it onto the player. “Still works better than your dad’s rules.”

“You are obsessed with annoying him.”

“He makes it easy.”

A soft crackle filled the room as the needle settled. Eventually the music started low and warm, instantly making the whole room feel slower.

‘I know, I know I love you (love you)

And I really love you so, need you (love you)’

Something about it changed the atmosphere immediately. The teasing quieted a little and the darkness around you suddenly felt softer instead of sneaky.

Seonghyeon stood there for a second listening before turning toward you again and holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”

‘And I'll never let you go, honey (love you)

My love for you will never die, ooh, ooh’

You stared at him immediately. “Absolutely not.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Why not?”

“Because this is embarrassing.”

“It’s literally just dancing.”

“In my living room. At like one in the morning.”

“Exactly,” he whispered. “Makes it better.”

You crossed your arms. “No.”

“You dragged me downstairs.”

“That does not mean I owe you a dance.”

“You’re hurting my feelings.”

“You don’t have feelings.”

“Wow.”

You tried to stay serious, but his smile was already ruining it. Especially because he looked completely unashamed standing there holding his hand out like some dramatic movie character. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“Still waiting.”

You let out a quiet sigh, already losing the argument.

‘So, come on over (love you)

I want you to hold my hand, tell me (love you)’

Before you could properly refuse again, he stepped closer and took your hand himself. Your stomach flipped stupidly fast at the contact. “You’re so annoying,” you whispered.

“You’re still dating me,” he murmured, pulling you gently toward him anyway.

One of his hands settled naturally against your waist whilst the other stayed wrapped loosely around yours, and just like that something softened. The teasing faded a little around the edges.

You could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, could feel his thumb moving absently against your side while the music drifted quietly through the dark room.

Neither of you were really dancing properly. Just swaying slowly in place, being close enough that your slippers kept brushing against his socks every few seconds.

The floor creaked once beneath your feet and both of you froze instantly before trying not to laugh.

“Oh my god,” you whispered through a grin. “We’re actually going to get caught.”

“We’re fine.”

“That’s exactly what you said before my dad almost killed you.”

“He didn’t almost kill me.”

“He threw a shoe at your head.”

“And missed.”

You laughed quietly again, shaking your head as he smiled down at you.

‘That I'm your lover man, darling (love you)

My love for you will never die (ooh)’

For a little while, neither of you said anything after that. The music played softly around you while moonlight stretched across the floorboards. Somewhere outside, a car passed faintly in the distance before everything settled quiet again.

Seonghyeon looked down at you after a minute, his expression softer now, less teasing. “This song’s ridiculously old,” he murmured.

You glanced up at him. “You’re literally dancing to it.”

“Yeah,” he said easily. His hand shifted slightly at your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “Because you’re here.”

And somehow that was worse than his usual flirting, because he said it so simply like it wasn’t even a line to win you over, it was just the truth embedded so deeply into his soul he couldn’t help but share.

Your eyes dropped away from his immediately, warmth rushing into your face as you tried very hard to focus on literally anything else besides the way he was looking at you.

Which only made him smile a little more. You hated when he did that: looking at you like that afterward, all quiet and unfairly sincere, like he knew exactly what it did to you.

You glanced down at the front of his sweatshirt instead, fingers curling lightly into the fabric near his shoulder. “Don’t say stuff like that,” you muttered.

“Like what?”

“You know what.”

A small pause passed between you before he spoke again, quieter now: “You get shy.”

Your head snapped back up immediately. “I do not.”

“You do,” he whispered, smiling a little wider now. “Right now.”

“I’m literally looking at you.”

“Yeah, after avoiding eye contact for like thirty seconds.”

“It was not thirty seconds.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head slightly. “Felt long.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he was still holding you close in the middle of your dark living room while some ancient love song played softly behind him.

“This is why my dad doesn’t trust you,” you informed him.

“He didn’t trust me before this.”

“That’s true.”

“See?”

You shook your head, trying not to laugh again.

‘Love's so necessary (wow)

That's why I just gotta be your man, oh, come on’

The record crackled softly between verses, the sound warm and familiar in the quiet house. Seonghyeon swayed lazily with the music, more interested in watching you than actually dancing properly.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “your mom definitely knew we were gonna sneak downstairs.”

You looked up immediately. “No, she didn’t.”

“She definitely did.”

“She wouldn’t allow that.”

“She likes me.”

You snorted. “She tolerates you.”

“She offered me more dessert at dinner.”

“She felt bad for you because my dad kept threatening your life.”

“Still counts.”

You rolled your eyes, but he only grinned.

‘Oh, girl (love you)

I want you to hold me tightly, kiss me, baby (love you)’

The song kept playing low through the speakers while the two of you moved slowly across the living room in uneven little circles. Every now and then the floor creaked beneath your feet, and both of you would instinctively freeze before dissolving into muffled laughter when nobody came downstairs.

At some point, his hand slipped lower against your waist, settling against your hip.

“So this is your definition of ‘no funny business?’” You whispered.

His eyebrows lifted innocently. “We’re dancing.”

“You are absolutely pushing it.”

“Your dad specifically said no funny business upstairs.”

You stared at him and he stared back completely serious for about two seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, trying not to laugh too loudly. “You’re horrible.”

“Still won you over though, huh.”

You groaned quietly, dropping your forehead briefly against his shoulder as he laughed softly under his breath, the sound warm and sleepy.

The living room smelled faintly like dust and laundry detergent and your father’s aftershave lingering in the furniture. Outside, wind brushed softly against the trees near the window, and somewhere far off, a car drove past on the main road. Everything felt suspended somehow, as though the whole world had gone quiet around the two of you.

Your eyes drifted half-shut for a second before you felt Seonghyeon shift slightly.

“You tired?” He whispered, his lips just grazing your hair as you hummed in response.

“A little.”

“You should sleep.”

“You first.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You yawned like six times during the movie.”

“That was acting.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him incredulously, your eyebrows drawing together. “Why would you fake being tired?”

He shrugged lightly. “Wanted your mom to think I was innocent.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You are actually unbelievable.”

“Worked, though.”

“No it didn’t.”

“She called me sweet.”

“That’s because she doesn’t know you.”

He grinned. “You do.”

Unfortunately.

That stupid warm feeling hit your chest again. You looked away before he could notice it this time, but his hand squeezed lightly at your waist like maybe he already had.

‘And make me know how much you love me (love you)

My love for you will never die (ooh)’

The record neared its end, music softening under the crackle of vinyl, though neither of you moved to stop it.

Seonghyeon rested his chin lightly against the top of your head for a second, voice quieter when he spoke again. “You know your dad’s gonna blame me if we get caught down here.”

“He blames you for everything already.”

“Fair.”

“You breathed too loud at dinner and he looked ready to fight you.”

“I was nervous.”

You blinked, pulling back slightly. “You were nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“You? Nervous?”

He looked down at you like the answer was obvious. “Your dad scares me.”

You burst into quiet laughter immediately. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He threatened me with a garden tool last month.”

“That was one time.”

“It was a rake.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

You giggled slightly, forehead dropping against Seonghyeon’s shoulder for a second.

Upstairs, your father’s eyes opened immediately. He laid there for half a second, listening. Another faint laugh drifted up from downstairs and your father sat upright. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Beside him, your mother groaned softly, hands rising to rub her eyes. “What now?”

“They’re awake.”

He was already throwing the blankets off when your mother sat up and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t.”

“They’re downstairs.”

“So?”

“So?” He repeated in disbelief. “It’s one in the morning.”

Your mother squinted at him sleepily. “And?”

“And he’s down there with her.”

“You allowed him over.”

“That is suddenly feeling like a mistake.” Another muffled sound floated upstairs completely incoherent; for all he knew Seonghyeon could be plotting sneaking you out again. Your father pointed toward the floor. “You hear that?”

“I hear two teenagers.”

“I hear bad decisions.”

Your mother snorted softly, letting go of his wrist and lowering herself back onto the mattress. “You used to climb through my bedroom window.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Your mother smiled a little, already pulling the blankets back up. “Leave them alone. Let them have this.”

Your father stared at the bedroom door for another long second, clearly still considering marching downstairs anyway. Then he sighed heavily and dropped back onto the mattress. “If he breaks my record player, he’s dead.”

“Sure, honey.”

Your father grumbled something under his breath before dragging a pillow over the side of his head dramatically. “I don’t want to hear it,” he muttered.

Your mother laughed quietly beside him, reaching over to switch the lamp off again while downstairs, completely oblivious, the static kept playing softly through the house, the two of you in your own world.

"This is nice," Seonghyeon finally spoke again, his voice muffled against your hair.

"Mm."

"We should do this more often. It’s much easier sneaking downstairs than climbing through your window."

"You're going to get us killed."

"Worth it."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. The streetlight caught the side of his face, illuminating the soft curve of his smile and the way his eyes were half-closed like he was already half-asleep. You reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. It fell right back, the way it always did.

"Come on," you whispered. "We should actually go to bed. Before he comes down here with a baseball bat."

He groaned but let you step back. His hand lingered on your waist for a moment longer, then dropped to his side. You walked together to the stairs, your bare feet silent on the cold floor, his heavier behind you. At the top of the stairs, you stopped, turning back to face him.

"Goodnight," you whispered.

"Goodnight."

Neither of you moved.

"You first," he said, a soft smile resting on his face.

"No, you."

He smiled—that slow, lazy smile that always made your stomach flip. His eyes softened in the dim light, crinkling at the corners, and for a moment, he just looked at you like he was trying to memorise the shape of your face. As though he wanted to remember this exact second.

Then he leaned in.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, gentle but sure. His thumb brushed against your temple and you felt your eyes flutter closed before his lips even touched your skin.

When they did, it was soft. Softer than you expected. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and they pressed against your forehead with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He stayed there longer than he needed to, just breathing you in, and his breath warmm against your hairline. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingers where they rested against your scalp, could feel the way his chest rose and fell with a slow, steady breath, like he was trying to steady himself.

Your own hands had found the fabric of his t-shirt at some point, your fingers curled into the soft cotton, holding on without meaning to. You could feel the heat radiating off him, and you never wanted to let go.

When he finally pulled back, it was slow, reluctant even. His lips brushed your skin one last time before he straightened, and his hand slid from your hair to your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. His eyes were dark in the dim light, soft, and he looked at you as though you were something precious.

"Goodnight," he whispered. His voice was low, rough, barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Then he let go. His hand dropped to his side and he took a step back, then another, his bare feet silent on the carpet. The hallway was dark, but you could see the outline of him: the slope of his shoulders, the mess of his hair, the way he kept his eyes on yours even as he moved away.

He reached the guest room doorway and paused. His hand rested on the frame. He looked back at you one last time, and something warm and unspoken passed between you.

Then, eventually, he stepped inside, and he was gone.

You walked to your room, climbed into your own bed, and pulled the blanket up to your chin, still feeling the warmth of his hands in your hair. The house was silent again, the needle of the vinyl player resting in the final groove, evidence of the events of what had just happened right under your father’s nose.

You closed your eyes and, for the first time all night, felt sleep pulling at the edges of your mind.

In the master bedroom, your father lay on his back with his arm over his eyes, pretending not to have heard the faint creak of the stairs twenty minutes ago. Beside him, your mother smiled into her pillow and said nothing.

You’d seen the aesthetic on Pinterest approximately four hundred times. You had manifested this trip. You’d made a playlist. You’d bought snacks in those little individual bags because it felt more road-trippy than just throwing a family-sized bag of chips in the back.

The reality, as of hour three, was James arguing with the GPS, Keonho eating your individually portioned snacks, Seonghyeon asleep against the window with his mouth open and drooling, Juhoon sending memes in the group chat while sitting three inches away from you, and Martin -who was pressed against your side because the back seat of this rental was not built for five people and a duffel bag- reading something on his phone with his elbow digging into your ribs.

“Martin.”

“Yeah”

“Your elbow motherfucker.”

“What about it.”

“It’s in my ribcage.”

He looked up, glanced down at his elbow, looked back at his phone. “You have space on your left.”

You looked to your left. Keonho had colonized your left side and was currently opening your strawberry gummies with his teeth.

“Yo Tin, i can guarantee that is NOT how you bag fine shit. Try the gallantry method instead.” He commented in between bites.

“I genuinely cannot stand any of you,” you announced to no one, scoffing.

“Same honestly,” said Juhoon, and sent you a meme about being trapped.

⛐.

James had insisted on being the one to drive because he was, as he’d reminded all of you approximately sixteen times, the only one of legal driving age, which he said with the gravity of someone announcing they’d won a Nobel Prize.

You had your license. You simply chose not to mention this because you also chose not to drive five idiots across three states.

He was doing fine, actually. James was a surprisingly good driver -calm, steady, kept both hands on the wheel. You’d give him that.

What you would not give him though, was the aux cord, which he’d seized at the start of the trip and defended with his life.

“James, this is the fourth time you’ve played this song,” Seonghyeon complained, apparently not as asleep as you thought.

“It’s a good song.”

“It was a good song the first two times.”

“Then it became a great song.”

“James-”

“I’m driving. The driver controls the music. It’s the law.”

It is absolutely not the law, you thought, but you were also leaning your head against the window and the vibration was kind of soothing so you let it go.

That was, in retrospect, the most peace you would get for the rest of the day.

⛐.

It started with Keonho.

It always started with Keonho.

“Yo Jamesss,” he called, in the voice he used when he was about to ask for something unreasonable.

“What.”

“Can you do something for me.”

“Depends.”

The younger one held up his phone, pressing record to film a video.

“Can you say happy birthday-” Keonho was already composing his face into something very innocent and sincere, which was your first warning sign- “to my little brother? His name is Dixson Mayaz. He turns seven today.”

You heard the name. You parsed the name. Something in your brain went oh this bitch approximately half a second before James, without thinking, turned up the radio slightly less and said cheerfully:

“I didn’t know you had a little bro. Happy birthday, Dixson Mayaz-“.

Silence.

“Dicks in your ass? Damn bro…” Martin scoffed, not looking up.

James’s hands tightened on the wheel.

“…Keonho.”

“Yeah?”

“You must be thinking you’re the funniest motherfucker alive right now.”

Keonho had turned his face into the window and his shoulders were shaking so hard he looked like a phone on vibrate. Juhoon had his hand over his mouth and Seonghyeon had gone completely still in the way people go still when they’re trying to decide if something is cringe or funny.

You pressed your lips together very hard.

Martin, to his eternal credit, lasted four full seconds before he lost it -this silent, wheezing laugh that he was very badly trying to muffle into his sleeve.

“that was ass, im not gonna lie-”

“I hate all of you,” James said, with great dignity. “I want all of you to know that.”

Martin had shifted slightly so his elbow was no longer actively bruising you, which you chose to interpret as personal growth on his part.

⛐.

“I’ve been thinking,” Juhoon declared at some point.

“Oh for fucks sake man, you’re always thinking,” said Seonghyeon.

“About what?” you asked, against your better judgment.

“About how I attract love and happiness or whatever they say.” He said this very seriously, staring out the window. “I just got my exam results back, my life is great, you guys are here.”

A beat.

“Who says that?” Martin asked.

“People. Manifestation people.”

“Do you manifest?”

“I’m considering it. I feel like I have the energy for it.”

“Juhoon,” you said carefully, “you spent twenty minutes this morning arguing with a vending machine. You have the energy of a crackhead my dude. Maybe try yoga?”

“That was the vending machine’s fault.”

“You called it a scammer.”

“It was a scammer. It took my money and gave me nothing. That’s a scam. That’s the definition of a scam.” He turned to look at you. “I’m just saying, despite that, I have good energy. I attract good things.”

“You’re unemployed,” Keonho said pleasantly.

“I’m in between opportunities.”

You shook your head, looking around, “Wait do you guys hear that? I can hear a big fat LIAR.”

“There’s this funny app called linkedin,” Keonho continued, with the same pleasant tone, “you might find it interestin-”

“I know what LinkedIn is, fuck you-”

“You can make a profile, list your skills-”

“That slot’s gonna stay empty, let me tell you that.” Martin snorted before Juhoon smacked him with his bottle.

“ You can also connect with professionals in your field.” Keonho continued, unbothered.

“What field is he even in,” Seonghyeon muttered, and this time it was your turn to muffle a laugh.

“I’m in a- good field bro,” Juhoon said, very grandly. “don’t even worry about me.”

“blah blah blah - unemployed, unqualified.” you rolled your eyes.

“You know what, let me know in the comments down below-” Juhoon gestured vaguely at the car- “whether you’ve ever had a vision so big it required a sabbatical.”

“Crickets, man, crickets. None of us are that stupid.” Martin deadpanned.

Here’s the thing about Martin that you’d spent approximately eight months trying not to think about too hard:

He was annoying. He was genuinely, consistently, specifically annoying to you in a way that felt almost personal, like he’d identified your exact frequency and decided to broadcast directly into it. He borrowed your things without asking. He argued with you about movies you hadn’t even said you liked. He had opinions about everything and expressed them directly into your ear because for some reason the universe kept seating you next to each other.

He also had a laugh that did something unfortunate to your chest cavity, but that was neither here nor there.

Currently, he was eating the last of his chips and reading something on his phone, and you kept noticing, in your peripheral vision, that he’d glance over at you every so often. Not for any reason. Just -glancing.

You were not going to acknowledge this. You were above it.

“What are you reading,” you asked.

He turned his phone so you could see the screen. It was a very long article about the history of … highways ?

You stared at it.

“We’re on a highway,” he said, as if this explained everything.

“That’s-“ You searched for the word, frowning. “That’s such a you thing to do.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means only you would drive down a highway and decide to read an essay about highways.”

“Context is great, maybe if you gave it a little chance-.”

“You find everything enriching. You’re so annoying about it.”

“You find me enriching,” he said, and then went back to his article with a completely straight face.

Your brain briefly buffered.

Did he ever think before speaking, or did he just continuously spat bullshit out.

“Y/N and Martin sitting in a tree,” Juhoon murmured, very quietly, directly into the back of your headrest.

You turned around.

Juhoon gave you the most serene smile you’d ever seen on a human face.

“I will fuck you up” you muttered.

“K-I-S-S-”“

“JUHOON-”

“-I-N-G,” he finished peacefully, and then held up his phone as if scrolling through it. Unbothered. Completely at ease. A man without fear or survival instinct.

Martin had, notably, not responded at all. You snuck a glance at him. He was still reading his highway article, but there was something very careful about the way he was holding his phone, something deliberate about how he wasn’t reacting, that made your brain do something complicated that you immediately filed away in the folder labeled not dealing with this right now.

⛐.

The tire blew on a stretch of highway that was, as far as you could tell, specifically designed by the universe to be as inconvenient as possible.

No exits for miles. Median to the left. A gentle slope to the right with a guardrail. Perfectly, specifically terrible.

James handled it well, actually -he kept the car steady, didn’t panic, eased onto the shoulder with both hands on the wheel like someone who’d practiced this exact scenario. You’d give him that. You would give him full credit for not killing anyone.

Then he put it in park, and everyone just… sat there.

“So,” Seonghyeon said.

“So,” said James.

“Let’s adress the whale in the room…That was a tire.”

“That was, yes, a tire.” James put his forehead on the wheel, exhaling.

“It popped,” Keonho confirmed, helpfully.

“Oh my fuck. Keonho thanks man, we didn’t fucking notice.” Juhoon scoffed.

“We should fix it,” Martin offered

“We should yeah.”

But no one moved.

You looked around the car. Five people. A blown tire. A rental. You waited, genuinely curious, to see how long it would take before someone admitted they had no idea what to do.

James got out of the car first, walked around to the rear right tire, looked at it, and then stood with his hands on his hips in the universal posture of I am assessing a problem I don’t know how to solve.

Everyone else got out. You all stood in a loose semicircle around the flat tire.

“Okay,” James said.

“Okay,” Seonghyeon agreed.

“So we need to-” James gestured.

“Change it,” Martin supplied.

“Change it. Yes. The tire.”

“There’s a spare in the trunk probably,” Keonho said.

“Probably,” James agreed.

“Should someone get it?” you fought a laugh.

“Yes.”

Nobody moved to get it.

You looked at all of them. Five people, standing in the highway shoulder sun, staring at a flat tire like it had personally wronged them and they were waiting for an apology.

Seonghyeon had his arms crossed. Keonho was squinting at it. Juhoon had his phone out, and you were 90% sure he was Googling “what to do if tire pops” except it was taking too long which meant he probably had no signal.

Lord, you thought. Lord above.

“Do any of you know how to change a tire?” you asked.

Silence.

“I know the general concept,” James stated, defensively.

“The concept, huh?”

“Of the process. Like, the steps. In theory.” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’ve never done it.”

You looked at Seonghyeon. He slowly shook his head. Keonho shrugged in a way that meant no. Juhoon held up his phone as if to indicate he was looking into it. Martin met your eyes and then had the audacity to look slightly sheepish, which- honestly -on him was devastating, you needed him to stop doing that immediately.

“Y/N,” James said slowly, reading something on your face. “Please say you know how to-”

“I know how to change a tire,” you exhaled.

“You-” Keonho started.

“My dad made me learn before I was allowed to take his car out. Figured it would come up eventually.” You paused. “Didn’t think it would be because I’m surrounded by dumb number 1 to number 5, who apparently never learned basic car maintenance, but -heh- here we are.”

“I could have figured it out,” James defended. “I’m just saying I’m not completely helpless-“

“yeah yeah, ladies step aside,” you said, very kindly.

The spare was in the trunk, under the floor panel, which you found in approximately forty-five seconds while Juhoon was still reading a WikiHow article about it. There was a jack and a lug wrench in there too, which was a relief because you genuinely weren’t sure this group would have been able to source those independently.

“Okay,” you said, setting things out. “Someone can make themselves useful and put the hazard triangle out.”

“On it,” said Seonghyeon, with the energy of someone very grateful to have been given a task.

“What do we do?” Keonho asked, crouching next to you with genuine curiosity.

“Listen, look, and learn.” you sighed.

You loosened the lug nuts before jacking the car up -an important step, you narrated to no one in particular, because if the car’s off the ground the tire just spins -and Keonho was actually paying attention, head tilted, following your hands. James was also watching with the expression of a man silently taking notes and pretending he wasn’t.

Juhoon, meanwhile, was still on WikiHow.

“It says here to loosen the nuts in a star pattern,” he announced.

“That’s what she’s doing,” Martin said.

“I know, I’m just trying to help.” Juhoon scoffed, raising both hands in mock surrender.

“Well maybe you can try zipping up that mouth” you mumbled, hands greasy and the sun hitting your back.

Keonho meanwhile- was pulling out his camera, he must’ve thought the moment absolutely called for a vlog, because he was narrating to invisible viewers in second.

“We’ve got y/n here, the woman of the hour. How does it feel being manlier than all of us y/n?”

“Fuck you.” you slapped away his camera. “Time to take those testosterone shots my guy.”

You laughed despite yourself, crouched in the highway shoulder with your hands on a lug wrench. Martin caught your eye and the corner of his mouth did something that you had been cataloguing and definitely not thinking about for the better part of eight months.

Stop it, you told yourself. Stop looking at his mouth specifically.

“Kim, you’re doing amazing sweetie,” Keonho told you encouragingly, seconds away from laughing.

“Thanks fuckface.”

“I’m learning so much.” Juhoon added, mocking.

“That’s what I’m here for.” you said sarcastically.

Juhoon did not stop, he kept adding comments on top of comments, watching the way you looked at Martin with interest.

That was the thing about Juhoon -he identified a bit and he committed to it. By the time you had the flat off and were fitting the spare, he’d made approximately four comments about you and Martin, each one more plausibly deniable than the last.

A little “oh, Martin, could you help Y/N with that” when you didn’t need help.

A soft “look at you two, working together” when Martin handed you the wrench you’d asked Keonho to hand you.

A very quiet, very smug “You attract love and happiness” directed at no one, immediately after you’d accidentally laughed at something Martin said.

You tightened a lug nut. Then another.

Okay, you thought. Okay. We’re going to address this. ( beat him up)

You stood up, dusted off your knees, and looked at Martin.

“Hey,” you said. “Can you get out of the car for a second? I need to talk to Juhoon.”

Martin looked at you. Looked at Juhoon. Something passed over his face -oh no- and he started to stand up.

Juhoon, without missing a beat, reached over and grabbed Martin’s shoulder, pulling him back down.

“If you have anything to say to me,” Juhoon said, with absolute serenity, “you can say it in front of the missus.”

Martin made a sound.

“The missus,” you repeated.

“The missus,” Juhoon confirmed, patting Martin’s shoulder warmly. “We’re a unit. What you say to me, you say to him. We don’t have secrets.”

“Juhoon, I will-“

“You’ll what?” He was smiling. He was smiling like a man who knew exactly how untouchable he was. “Tell me to shut up? You can tell Martin to tell me to shut up. We communicate.”

Martin’s head was bowed. His shoulders were doing the thing -the silent wheezing laugh thing.

“Martin,” you said.

“I’m not involved,” he said, to the ground.

“We’ve got a wild 6ft something Martin right here- being used as human shield. How pathetic.” Keonho angled his camera to zoom in on Martin’s face, ever the commentator.

“I’m the missus apparently. I’m staying out of it.” Martin defended.

“Y/N.” Juhoon folded his hands. Composed. Peaceful. A man who had achieved something. “I attract love and happiness. I’m just reflecting what I see.”

“I will leave you on this highway, boy.”

“No you won’t. You love me.”

“I’m going to change my mind about that.”

“The tire’s fixed,” Seonghyeon called from the other side of the car, peering at your work. “Looks good! She did great!”

“She really did,” James agreed, with genuine, slightly humbled respect.

“Thank you!” you called back, still glaring at Juhoon, who was grinning at you like a man who had won something and knew it.

“Oh yeah Y/n you’re officially part of the boys. You’re not like other girls.” Keonho mocked.

“Oh my fuck- if you don’t get that camera thing out of my face-“ you stomped your foot.

Martin finally looked up. His eyes were bright. He had the audacity, the absolute nerve, to look endeared.

“You’re good at that,” he said. “The tire thing.”

“As if you’d know…” you rolled your eyes.

You stared at him for one long moment. He looked back at you with those stupidly sincere eyes and the stupidly soft expression that he only got sometimes, when he wasn’t arguing with you about something, when he was just- looking at you like that.

Your chest did the thing.

You all got back in the car. Same order. Same cramped configuration. Martin pressed against your side, Keonho on your left, Juhoon and Seonghyeon in the far back.

James pulled back onto the highway with great ceremony.

“Alright,” he said. “Crisis averted. Thanks to Y/N.”

“Thank you, Y/N bro,” Seonghyeon and Keonho said, genuinely.

Martin said nothing. But about thirty seconds later, so quietly you almost missed it: “Yeah. Thanks, Y/N.”

Keonho immediately opened another one of your snack portions.

“Keonho you big back- i swear-“

“I’m celebrating dude.”

“With my food??”

“It’s an honor - tribute”

“Give me those-“ you started

“A toast,” he said, holding the gummies just out of reach, “to Y/N, who saved us all, and also to Dixson Mayaz-“

you blinked. "hello to you too."

"whose baby is that?"

"that's my cousin."

the relief that crossed his face was so immediate it nearly offended you.

"oh."

your eyes narrowed. "what exactly were you thinking?"

"nothing."

"seonghyeon."

he stepped inside. "for a second, i thought there was something you forgot to tell me about."

behind you, your cousin had gone completely still. the stuffed rabbit he'd been carrying hung loosely from one hand as his attention fixed entirely on seonghyeon.

his eyes followed him all the way across the room.

seonghyeon paused, glancing back toward him.

"...why is he looking at me like that?"

"i don't know."

"it's weird..."

"he's a baby."

"exactly."

you laughed. "are you intimidated by a fourteen-month-old?"

"yes."

"…that's embarrassing."

the answer was immediate. "...he's staring!"

"have you never met a baby before?"

"yeah. i've seen babies..."

his gaze flickered back toward your cousin, who was still staring.

"...i just don't think this one likes me."

if anything, the opposite seemed true.

within the next fifteen minutes, your cousin had apparently decided seonghyeon was the most interesting person he'd ever met.

you noticed it gradually at first.

the way his attention kept drifting toward wherever seonghyeon happened to be sitting. the way he would pause whatever he was doing just to watch him. the way every few minutes he'd wander over, linger nearby, then wander off again.

then the gifts started.

the first one was a plastic stacking cup.

your cousin carried it across the living room with both hands, marched directly up to seonghyeon, and deposited it onto his lap.

without a word, he turned around and left.

seonghyeon looked down.

"...what was that?"

"he gave you something."

"why?"

"probably because he likes you."

"i've only been here ten minutes, why would he like me."

the second offering arrived less than a minute later.

this time it was a toy car.

then a spoon.

then a stuffed rabbit.

then, somehow, a sock.

you weren't even aware there had been a sock lying around.

each item ended up in seonghyeon's lap. every attempt to return them was ignored. your cousin simply kept bringing more.

by the time half an hour had passed, there was a growing collection of random household objects sitting beside him.

seonghyeon looked more and more betrayed at the situation.

"i haven't even done anything."

seonghyeon gestured vaguely toward the growing collection beside him. at some point the toy car had disappeared beneath everything else. the rabbit was wedged awkwardly against the spoon. there was still a sock sitting on top of the pile for reasons nobody could explain.

"seriously," he continued. "i've literally just been sitting here."

"i know."

"so why does he keep doing this?"

you glanced over.

your cousin was currently searching beneath the coffee table, presumably for his next contribution.

"i think you've been adopted."

"i don't want to be."

"that's not your choice anymore."

the funniest part was that despite all his complaints, he was already paying attention to your cousin in the same absentminded way people did when they cared more than they realized.

every time your cousin stumbled, seonghyeon's head lifted automatically.

every time he wandered into another room, his eyes followed.

every time he got too close to something sharp or fragile, his posture shifted before he even seemed aware he was moving.

he never commented on it. probably because he didn't notice himself doing it.

you noticed, though.

which was exactly why, twenty minutes later, you found yourself leaning back against the couch with a grin.

"aw."

seonghyeon looked over at you warily. "...what."

"nothing."

"that wasn't a ‘nothing’ face."

your smile widened. "someone's attached."

"i'm not attached!"

"really?"

"…yes."

your cousin chose that exact moment to abandon his toys and toddle directly toward seonghyeon. without hesitation, he planted both hands on seonghyeon's knee and pulled himself upright.

then he raised both arms expectantly.

the message was obvious.

pick me up.

for a moment, neither of them moved— seonghyeon looking down while your cousin stared right back, unblinking.

the baby continued waiting with impressive confidence, pouting and swaying slightly in the beginnings of what seemed to be the start of a small tantrum.

eventually though; before the child could actually start his tantrum, and with the resignation of a man accepting his fate, seonghyeon leaned down and picked the baby up.

your cousin settled almost immediately once he was in seonghyeon's arms. one tiny hand curled into the front of his hoodie while the other rested against his chest. suddenly looking far too comfortable for someone who'd spent the last twenty minutes following him around.

kind of like this had been the goal the entire time.

you could already feel your smile growing.

"there he goes."

seonghyeon didn't even look at you. "don't."

"look at him."

"yn, do not—"

"baby got what he wanted."

his eyes narrowed at the overly sweet, teasing lilt in your voice.

but unfortunately for him, you were enjoying this far too much.

reaching down, you picked up the stuffed rabbit from the pile beside him.

"does baby want his toy?"

seonghyeon's eyes narrowed right away. "stop."

"does baby want bunny?" you held it out in front of him, the faint crease forming between his brows making it harder not to laugh.

"i'm serious."

"aw," you gave the rabbit a little wiggle. "baby likes bunny?"

seonghyeon dropped his head back against the couch cushion. "i hate you."

your cousin seemed fascinated by the conversation despite understanding absolutely none of it.

his gaze bounced between both of you as you spoke.

every time you laughed, he laughed too.

every time seonghyeon sighed, his attention drifted back toward him.

eventually, after several seconds of careful observation, he appeared to reach some sort of conclusion.

then, with complete confidence, he reached up and patted seonghyeon's head twice in quick succession. just a couple of gentle little taps like he was checking a box.

the room fell silent for a second— nobody entirely sure how to react. your cousin looked pleased with himself, while seonghyeon just looked genuinely speechless.

which, unfortunately, only made the situation funnier.

and as your cousin did it, you reached over and copied him.

pat. right on top of seonghyeon's hair.

his head snapped toward you, a faint scowl on his face.

"don't start."

another pat. "good job."

"stop."

"such a good baby."

by now, seonghyeon had developed the look of someone realizing a joke was about to follow him for the rest of his life. and clearly, you weren't planning on helping.

"does baby want a snack?"

seonghyeon exhaled through his nose. "i'm leaving."

"does baby need his nap?"

he turned toward you, exasperation written all over his face.

"i'm serious."

before seonghyeon could react, your cousin copied you.

apparently having decided this was simply how people interacted with him now, he reached up and patted seonghyeon's hair again.

the tiny hand landed with all the confidence of someone who believed he was being extremely helpful.

for a second, nobody moved.

then your cousin giggled.

you completely lost it.

and judging by the way seonghyeon dropped his face into one hand while the baby happily patted his hair again, he already knew this wasn’t something he’d live down anytime soon.

©young2keu, 2026

‘baby? what’re you doing up so late, hm?’ keonho’s voice lowers an octave, tender as you appear in his line of sight, a kiss dropped onto your temple. he makes his way to the corner of the room, dropping his bag on the floor unceremoniously before easing himself onto the bed, face buried in the covers.

you glance up from your papers, eyes crinkling, ‘didn’t hear you come in, keon. missed you today.’ a lazy smile stretches across your lips, beautiful even in the presence of exhaustion.

keonho only smiles in response, tracking your figure as you spin back around to face the desk. oh, and your stupid math papers he just can’t seem to detach you from for the past week.

he’s tired, sleep making suggestions he’s desperately trying to fend off, in favour of maybe even another minute of your attention. but your headphones are back on, pen scratching against paper, so keonho forces his eyelids open, forces his body towards you.

he plucks an earbud out your ear, only receiving a half-hearted ‘hm?’ as you continue whatever form of maths you were deciding to take on tonight. honestly, he’s a little amazed at your dedication to whatever’s going on, baffled at the sheer ratio of letters to numbers. he was never good at the subject anyways.

‘bro. what d’you want.’ your voice cuts through his slightly miffed thoughts, hazy in his fatigue.

‘want you.’ you huff out a laugh at that, cheek leaning into his palm as he grazes the skin. keonho moves his hand into your hair, combing through it slowly, reverently.

‘please come to bed? m’tired.’

‘yeah, ok. just after i finish this sheet, ok baby?’ your response sounds more like a compromise than an answer, keonho thinks, and he grumbles as you take back the earbud sitting idly in his palm. any other night he would’ve argued, thrown a minuscule tantrum complete with begging if needed. but he knows the exam you’re studying for is important, a midterm you can’t afford to fail. so his legs carry him back to bed, grumbling the few steps there.

keonho is slightly (very) peeved at the fact equations seem to be taking his place tonight, and he’s tired. tired, and clingy, and in need of you. the next few minutes are spent in agony only he can feel, mourning the loss of your late night embrace as you focus on maths.

when the clock hits a resounding twelve am, keonho’s had enough. he drags himself up from the indent he’s made in the bed, ambling towards the desk.

you feel him behind you, feel his hands roam the expanse of your shoulder blades before they settle at your waist, chin hooking over your shoulder. by now, you’ve already taken out both earbuds, grin making its way to your face.

‘hi baby.’ your words are like a salve, soothing over his half-moon eyes as they close.

‘hi. can you come to bed now? pretty please with lots of cherries on top?’

‘and whipped cream?’

‘and whipped cream.’

‘and sprinkles?’

‘and sprinkles.’

the smile on your face is full now; you bask in the air of keonho’s presence. a beat passes, and he slowly cracks an eye open, the sight of you involuntarily burning the fire in his chest a little brighter.

‘you can have every topping ever.’ the sentence is whispered near your ear, silent, low, just for you. warmth spreads into your heart, surpassing the sternum as you take in his words.

‘yeah?’

‘yeah. only if you come to bed though.’

you giggle at that, and he does too, peppering kisses onto your face before landing on your lips last. it’s careful, keonho always is when it comes to you. soft as the feelings of today are translated through the action, comforting as his right hand moves to cup the side of your neck, left thumb brushing against your (his) top.

you pause the kiss to murmur something against his lips, ‘wanna sleep now.’

keonho registers the words faster than you expect, teeth all on display as he finally makes his way back to bed with you in his arms.

he’s a little more awake now, the after effects of your attention, flushed pink from your affection. it quiets down again, the only sound a late night train as it passes through the neighbourhood.

after you make yourself comfortable in bed, he wraps a lazy arm around you, the weight of it soothing as he cards through your hair.

‘that was a lot of effort just for you to take me away from studying.’

‘worth it,’ he hushes, eyes easing closed at last.

the morning is coming soon, but for now, keonho rests with the fact that you’re in his arms, warm and real.

‘baby, i need you to notice me

see your name on my phone ‘fore i go to sleep’

james :

- super organised !!! he has everything you guys might need !!! he brought sunscreen and tanning oil for you in case the uv is high, fruit salads and sandwiches for you guys to eat, different refreshing drinks so you both stay hydrated, his beach bag is practically as big as him !!!

- both of you are really seeing this as a relaxing getaway, sitting under the umbrella together reading a book, tanning under the sun, collecting cool rocks + shells that remind you of each other and swimming calmly in the water, super chill vibes

- stayed out with you until the sun set so you could enjoy the beautiful view by the beach while being cuddled up and got pretty sad when he realised that you guys have to go back home in a bit, probably put some soft music on your drive back because he kept noticing how droopy your eyes were and he knew you’d want to nap in the car ( he might’ve stolen a few quick glances at you while driving )

juhoon :

- your chances of getting him in the water are very slim but while he may not want to go in to swim with you, he will spend most time either sitting on his towel while watching you enjoy yourself from afar or sit by the edge of the water with only his feet in so you too can talk and enjoy each other’s presence.

- napping !!!!! by !!!!! the !!!!! beach !!!!! i can totally see juhoon wanting to take a nap with you after a whole day of playing around with you. his social battery and energy has run out so all he wants to do is take a quick nap with you under the shade, using the sound of the waves as a lullaby 🥹 cuddling at the beach can be a bit too hot though considering the temperature outside + juhoon’s body warmth but who are you to deny him cuddles . . . especially when you’re just as tired !

- he would totally let you bury his feet under the sand. when you first started doing it he kept looking at you crazy but seeing you being so giggly and enjoying yourself while doing it gave him extreme cuteness aggression so in the end he just let you do your thing.

- sharing !!! ice !!! cream !!! with !!! you !!! + obv he’s the one that paid for it !!! you’ve never gotten the chance to even get your wallet outside from your bag while juhoon is around, he’s so quick to pay for all you stuff

martin :

- has a whole playlist made just for your day trip to the beach ! it’s super long too, he first put it on while you two were on your way to the beach and he didn’t turn it off until he was telling you goodbye while dropping you back home.

- he definitely uses both his height + strength to his advantage to pick you up at the most random times, toss you over his shoulder and run into the waves to throw you in the water. you give him a much deserved splashing after with as much water as you can throw his way

- i personally headcanon him as someone who gets sunburned really easily so i hope you brought a lot of sunscreen with you ! you will need to force him to reapply it every hour and by the end of your trip he will still somehow be a bit sunburned. resulting in you giving him kisses because in his defence they “help with the pain” ( he’s just looking for an excuse for you to give him more kisses )

seonghyeon :

- yells at you like he’s your mom when you forget to reapply your sunscreen !!!! it’s okay though because he just wants what’s best for you ( even when he keeps nagging you )

- i can see him being extra shy because of how pretty you look 🥹 definitely takes countless photos throughout your beach trip so he can remember everything, also takes the most gorgeous pictures of you when the sun sets too !!! he cherishes them because you literally look breathtaking with the lighting hitting your skin and making you seem like your glowing, the huge smile on your face, your wet hair and beautiful view behind you !!! he will 1000% set one of the pictures he took of you as his wallpaper later tonight when he’s back home and you’re not there to tease him

- has a sand castle competition with you and you’re both sabotaging each other’s sand castles throughout the whole process. when you’re both finished, he ends up jokingly ruining yours because he realises that it’s better than his. if you get pouty, he will attack you with kisses to make you smile again !

keonho :

- the second you both reach the beach he will immediately run to jump in the water, which results in you yelling at him to come back so you could both put on some sunscreen. he would impatiently wait for you to spread it on his skin but after that he would go in the water to swim and you better believe that he will not come out until the sun sets ( unless it’s to annoy you )

- def asks you to race in the water to see who’s faster ( we both know who would win ) and he keeps doing random tricks in the water in order to impress you. i can totally see you laying on your towel under the shade reading a book while keonho is deep into the sea yelling your name so you could look at him doing something cool 🥹 as annoying as that can get, it’s still really cute because at the end of the day he just wants to show off his cool tricks and make you swoon ( spoiler alert : it lowkey works ).

- he never gets tired though, even after swimming for so long he still has so so so much energy, so while you’re taking a break to recharge your energy and tan a bit he keeps coming over to shake his wet hair all over you, like a wet dog, to get you wet ( you threw sand at him and he ran back into the water while giggling) ( he will come back to annoy you more if you don’t join him soon ).

- when you do join him, he will not stop playfully splashing you with water, and after one too many times of him splashing you, you finally do it back which turns into a whole war between you too.

✉️ thank u for reading ! comments and reblogs are appreciated !

JAMES