#cortis drabble

Basketball was weird. You liked to watch soccer, watched golf with your dad sometimes and honestly you found hockey quite interesting whenever a fight broke out. But basketball... felt like a mini, weirder version of soccer.

Tonight, though, your close-minded opinion would change. 100% if five of your best friend's brother's friends had anything to do with it.

Everybody Here Wants You by Jeff Buckley leaked out of someone’s phone and the bass turned the heavy July air even thicker. Summer in the suburbs meant humidity that stuck to your skin with the sharp smell of cut grass, hot asphalt, and streetlights blinking on just as the sun dropped low enough to stain everything orange.

You’d been here a million times. Ji‑hye’s house sat at the end of the cul‑de‑sac, her driveway split down the middle by a crooked crack where a tree root had bullied the concrete years ago. The hoop at the top was one of those adjustable ones, net frayed, backboard cracked in the corner, a faded NIKE sticker peeling at the edges. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

The guys were already there.

Juhoon was mid‑shot when you and Ji‑hye walked up. The ball arced high, spun once against the streetlight glow, and dropped through the net with a clean swish. He didn’t celebrate, just stepped forward to catch the rebound, body moving on muscle memory, and bounced it once before swinging a pass out to James.

“Finally,” Keonho called from the grass. He was half‑lying on his side, propped on one elbow. His phone was in one hand and a half‑empty Gatorade in the other, socks already dirty from rolling around. “Thought you guys died.”

“We stopped for snacks,” Ji‑hye announced, shaking a plastic convenience‑store bag so the wrappers rustled. “Unlike you animals who probably haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“I had ramen like an hour ago,” Martin chimed in. He sat on the curb, bending over to tie his shoe. When he stood up, the height difference hit you all over again. Six‑three did not need to be that dramatic for someone who couldn’t make a free throw to save his fucking life.

“That doesn’t count,” you pointed out, following Ji‑hye toward the hammock strung between two trees at the edge of the driveway. “Ramen is like… water with flavor.”

“It’s carbs,” Martin argued, eyebrows pulling together to make that outraged face he loved so much.

“It’s sodium overload, you stupid idiot,” Ji‑hye shot back.

Seonghyeon laughed under his breath. He was leaning against the garage door, arms folded, hair pushed back from his forehead in a way that should’ve looked messy but of course it didn’t. Because it was Seonghyeon. “She’s right. You’re gonna have a heart attack before you’re twenty‑five.”

“Worth it,” Martin muttered, but he smiled.

You dropped into the hammock first. The nylon fabric dipped under your weight and creaked slightly as it rocked. Ji‑hye flopped in beside you, shoulder pressed to yours, one knee hooked over the side. She immediately started digging through the bag—chips, gummies, a chocolate bar that had probably already melted into one unfortunate slab.

As you got settled, James glanced over from the wing. His eyes flicking between you, the hammock, and the hoop like he was taking inventory of the whole scene. He lifted his hand in a small wave that was so casual. You wiggled your fingers back, and he ducked his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up before he reset his stance.

It hit you then. This funny, dumb revelation: they were all kind of cute. In their own different, annoying, very obvious ways. Tall and obnoxious. Handsome and deadly accurate. Fox‑eyed and too observant. Loud and ridiculous and way too into you. You didn’t say it out loud to Ji-hye—you weren’t insane, god—but the thought sat there anyway.

“You guys playing or what?” Juhoon asked. He started dribbling again and the steady thump‑thump of the ball against concrete cutting through the music.

“We’re supervising,” Ji‑hye replied, already tearing open a bag.

“That means no,” James translated without looking away from the hoop. He lifted the ball, flicked his wrist, and hit another swish that didn’t even touch the rim.

“Show‑off,” Keonho groaned.

You smiled into your shoulder. This was normal. It was comfortable in this specific way summer nights got.

“Tell me you’re at least hydrated,” Ji‑hye warned. “I’m not trying to watch any of you pass out in my driveway.”

“I have Gatorade,” Keonho bragged, holding it up like a trophy before taking a long, obnoxious sip.

“That’s sugar salt water,” you pointed out.

“And?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tastes like winning.”

“You literally just missed your last three shots,” Martin reminded him.

“Minor detail.”

The song switched. SUMMER by BROCKHAMPTON came on, the bass heavier and the vocals muffled through the tiny speaker on the hood of Juhoon’s mom’s car. The sound distorted on the louder parts, but it still wrapped around the driveway like a blanket.

“This is my song,” Keonho declared, pointing at his phone like he’d invented it.

“You say that about every song,” Seonghyeon commented and rolled his eyes.

“Because I have taste.”

“You have ADHD, bruh,” Martin deadpanned.

Keonho kicked the ball at him. Martin caught it with one hand, unimpressed.

“Can we play an actual game, or are we just gonna brick shots all night?” Juhoon asked. He spun the ball lazily on his palm, gaze flicking between them.

“I vote actual game,” James said. He rolled his shoulders once, like he was finally waking up.

“Teams?” Seonghyeon suggested, pushing off the garage. Up close, you could see a faint sheen of sweat along his hairline, his shirt sticking slightly at the collarbone as he adjusted his chain.

“Nah.” Keonho straightened, dribbling between his legs in a way that looked more chaotic than impressive. “Let’s do a challenge. Make it interesting.”

“Interesting how?” Juhoon pressed and arms folded over his chest, full skeptical.

Keonho’s eyes flicked toward the hammock. Toward you. He didn’t even bother hiding it this time. Then he looked back at the others, a grin already working its way onto his face.

“Hold up,” he said, letting the ball roll toward James. “Team meeting.”

He hooked a hand into Martin’s hoodie sleeve and yanked him forward. Seonghyeon stepped in automatically. James drifted closer like gravity had tugged him. Juhoon sighed, but walked into the circle last, because pretending he didn’t care was pointless and everyone knew it.

They huddled near the free‑throw line, backs half‑turned to you and Ji‑hye. From the hammock, you caught flashes of faces and half‑heard words over the music.

“—most makes—”

“That’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, it’s incentive.”

“You’re gonna lose anyway.”

“Shut up, I’m manifesting.”

Martin said something you couldn’t catch. His jaw was clenched, eyes cutting your way for a second before he snapped them back to the group. James shook his head slowly, but his mouth twitched like he was amused despite himself. Seonghyeon had his hand over his lips like he was hiding a smile.

“What does the winner even get?” Martin asked. His voice was a little louder.

Keonho dropped his voice, but the night carried enough over to the hammock.

“ISO,” he whispered, all cheerful like he birthed the greatest idea ever. “One‑on‑one time. Duh.”

Juhoon groaned immediately. “You are not turning my driveway into a fucking dating show.”

“It’s not a dating show,” Keonho argued. “It’s a friendly performance incentive.”

“That’s literally worse,” James muttered, eyes crinkling.

“You’re actually insane,” Seonghyeon added, but he was fully smiling now.

“It’s summer,” Keonho insisted. “Let me be delusional in peace, damn.”

“Bullshit, you’re 'delulu' year‑round,” Martin replied.

“Exactly. I’m consistent.”

From beside you, Ji‑hye whispered, “If Keonho gets any closer to you with that ‘ISO’ crap, I’m locking you in the house.”

“The fact that you think I’d willingly do that,” you murmured back, “is crazy.”

She snorted.

You already knew Keonho had a crush. He’d been soft‑launching it for months. But oh my... it was in the loudest, most obvious way possible. Pointed “you’re pretty”s and carrying your bag then forgetting it on the bus. Tonight was just like… more. The others, though—that was where your brain short‑circuited. You’d always filed them under “Juhoon’s friends,” safe category. They were not acting safe right now.

The huddle broke. The boys drifted back to their spots. They were all pretending that had been a very normal, not a conversation for plotting.

“All right,” Keonho announced, clapping his hands once. “New rules. Everyone shoots. Most makes wins.”

“Wins what?” Juhoon questioned, like he didn’t already know.

“Bragging rights,” Keonho replied smoothly. “Obviously.”

“That’s it?” Martin pushed, eyebrows raised.

“That’s it,” Keonho confirmed, but he didn’t look at Martin when he said it. He looked at you.

James exhaled through his nose, the tiniest almost‑laugh. “Sure. I’m in.”

“Same, I guess,” Seonghyeon agreed, spinning the ball once before passing it to Juhoon.

Juhoon stepped up to the top of the key, adjusted his grip once, then shot. The ball sailed clean and hit the net with a satisfying swish.

“One,” he announced, casual like it hadn’t even been a question.

James moved into place, checked his footing, then lifted. His shot hit nothing but net.

“Two,” he counted, nodding once.

As he backpedaled, James’s eyes found you again for a beat. He didn’t say anything, just gave this small, almost shy half‑smile like he was quietly pleased you’d seen it. You raised your brows like, obviously, and his shoulders relaxed a fraction before he slid back into position.

Seonghyeon took his, form smooth. Those stupid broad shoulders relaxed. Swish.

“Okay, I see you,” Juhoon called, clapping his hands once.

You watched the way Seonghyeon’s wrist snapped, the way he followed through. He didn’t glance over right away, but when he did, it was quick—eyes dragging from your face down to your legs and back up in one smooth pass before he looked away like nothing had happened. It was so fast you probably could’ve pretended you imagined it. You chose not to. Your face felt warmer.

Martin stepped to the free‑throw line. He bounced the ball twice, jaw working. For a second, his eyes flicked to you again, like he needed to check you were still watching. Then he looked back at the hoop, exhaled, and shot.

The ball hit the back of the rim and spun out.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“Skill issue,” Keonho tossed in immediately and clapped his hands.

“You literally just airballed a layup ten minutes ago,” Martin shot back.

“That was different.”

“How?”

“It just was.”

You bit back a laugh, pressing your lips together. The hammock swayed slightly as Ji‑hye shifted, her head dropping against your shoulder.

“They’re so stupid,” she murmured.

“The stupidest,” you agreed.

But your eyes stayed on the court.

When it was finally his turn, Keonho jogged to a spot somewhere between the free‑throw line and the three‑point line. He dribbled once, twice, shoulders a little too loose, energy buzzing under his skin. Then he turned his head fully toward the hammock.

“This one’s for you,” he announced, pointing at you with the ball.

“Oh my god,” you muttered and shook your head.

Ji‑hye didn’t even try to hide her grin. “He’s so embarrassing.”

He shot.

It hit the rim and bounced off with a loud, tragic clank. The ball skidded toward the grass.

“That was definitely for her,” Ji‑hye cackledv.

“In spirit,” Keonho defended as he jogged after it. “The ball just didn’t get the memo.”

“Skill issue, lil bro,” Martin added, mocking the youngest.

“Shut up.”

The song switched. Rollercoaster by Justin Bieber started playing and immediately Keonho's head whipped toward his phone on the car hood.

"Ugh, this song," he groaned, but there was zero bite to it. He was grinning.

"Yo bruh, whose playlist is this?" Martin asked while lining up another shot.

You raised your hand lazily from the hammock. "I just put Keonho's on."

Keonho froze mid-dribble. "Wait, what?"

"Your phone was unlocked," you explained innocently. "So I commandeered the aux."

"Commandeered," Seonghyeon repeated, laughing under his breath. "She's fancy with it."

"I just didn't want to listen to you complain about every song," you defended.

"I don't complain about every song," Keonho protested.

"You literally do," Juhoon confirmed while catching a pass from James.

"Name one time."

"Last week. The entire car ride to the mall."

"That was constructive criticism."

"You said the Jonas Brothers made your ears bleed."

"And I stand by that."

Ji-hye snorted next to you. "He's got a point though. Your music taste is questionable."

"Thank you," Keonho replied, then paused. "Wait, is that a compliment or—"

"It's not," you and Ji-hye said at the same time.

They kept shooting. And slowly, the atmosphere changed.

Juhoon and James stayed locked in, each make earning a low hum of approval from the other. Seonghyeon hovered just behind them, form tightening, eyes flicking in your direction now and then like he was quietly checking if you'd noticed he was actually kind of good at this. Martin missed more than he made, but every time he got the ball, his shoulders squared like he was trying to will the rim into cooperating.

And every time it was Keonho's turn, he turned to you first.

Sometimes he pointed. Sometimes he just held your gaze a second too long. Sometimes he muttered, "Okay, watch this," under his breath like a prayer to no one in particular.

Half the time he missed badly. Once, he launched it so hard it sailed right over the backboard into the bushes.

It was calm for a second while the moment set in and... then the entire driveway cracked.

“OVER THE BACKBOARD?” Martin doubled over, hands on his knees. “HOW.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Keonho blurted, staring at the bushes like they’d betrayed him.

“You launched it into a different fucking time zone,” Seonghyeon laughed. For a minute his voice cracked and that stuttering version of himself came out.

“That was close though,” Keonho tried.

“It wasn’t even close to close,” James pointed out and shook his head while going to retrieve the ball until Keonho, the culprit himself—stopped him.

“Mentally it was close,” Keonho insisted, running a hand through his sweaty hair in desperation.

You were absolutely gone. The hammock shook under you, Ji‑hye wheezing into your shoulder.

“That’s your man,” she whispered and patted you on the shoulder again.

“What the hell? He is not my anything,” you protested, wiping at your eyes.

“Okay, but he just attempted intergalactic basketball in your honor. Airball times a million, deadass. I feel like that counts for something.”

Keonho trudged into the bushes and the branches scraping his legs, and came back holding the ball.

“I’m done,” he declared. “Retiring while I’m ahead, sorry to my fans.”

“You’re at like three,” Juhoon reminded him.

“Exactly. I’m preserving my legacy.”

“What legacy?” Martin asked.

“The legacy of trying my best,” Keonho replied. “And looking so sexy while doing it.”

“Very debatable,” you called with a hand to accentuate your voice.

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Wow. Can’t believe you—out of anyone—would say something this harsh to my face.”

“Accurate,” you rebutted.

The music shifted again. Tell Me by Wonder Girls filtered through the speaker and Keonho's entire face lit up.

"Oh shit, this is THE song," he announced, immediately starting to do the choreography. Badly. Very badly.

His arms flailed in what was probably supposed to be the signature move but looked more like he was swatting invisible flies. His footwork was nonexistent. He was just vibing, fully committed to the bit.

"Please stop," Juhoon begged, laughing so hard he had to brace himself against the garage.

"Never," Keonho shot back, spinning in a circle that was definitely not part of the actual choreo.

Martin covered his face with both hands. "This is painful to watch."

"This is art," Keonho corrected, still going. He pointed at you during what was supposed to be a hip roll but looked more like a full-body twitch. "You see this? This is dedication."

You and Ji-hye were dying. Like... fully losing it. She was laughing so hard no sound was coming out, just this silent wheeze while tears streamed down her face.

"He's so stupid," she managed.

"The stupidest," you agreed, trying to catch your breath.

Keonho finished with a dramatic spin and bow and his chest heaving. "So how was my performance? A ten, right?"

"Three out of ten," you offered generously.

"THREE?"

"Maybe two and a half."

"You're brutal," he accused while clutching his chest like you'd shot him.

"You asked."

"I didn't think you'd actually roast me."

"Should've thought that through," Ji-hye added, still wiping her eyes.

Seonghyeon was bent over laughing, one hand on his knee. Even James had cracked, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Martin just shook his head, grinning despite himself.

"Alright, alright," Juhoon cut in, trying to regain some control. "Can we please get back to the game before Keonho decides to audition to be an idol?"

"I would kill that audition," Keonho defended.

"You would kill the PDs," Martin muttered. "With secondhand embarrassment."

They picked up where they'd left off. The competition was ramping up now. You could feel it in the way they moved. It was a bit less casual and more locked in. Every shot seemed to matter a tiny bit more.

Juhoon took his next shot. Swish.

“Nine,” he said, a little proud of himself.

James followed. Another clean make.

“Eight.”

Seonghyeon stepped up. His shot kissed the rim before dropping through. His hand flexed at his side and his tongue rolled inside of his cheek.

“Seven.”

They were stacked now. A little toooo close. You could feel it in the air, that unspoken thing thickening between the bouncing ball and the soft vocals bleeding out of the tiny speaker.

Martin made another one—somehow—and actually let out a small, disbelieving laugh, running a hand through his hair like he couldn’t believe it either.

“Two,” he counted.

“Character development,” you called and stifled a laugh.

He glanced over, cheeks a little pink, and that was enough to make your stomach turn a little.

"Rewind" by Wonder Girls came on next and the vibe shifted. The song was dreamier, slower. The driveway seemed to exhale with it.

"Oh, I love this one," Ji-hye murmured next to you, eyes closed as she swayed slightly.

You did too. Something about the melody made the night feel more suspended, almost like you were all moving through honey.

The ball rolled back to Seonghyeon. He caught it, spun it in his hands once, then walked a little closer to where you sat, like he’d drifted off‑mark on purpose.

“You’re judging, huh?” he asked, looking right at you. His gaze almost knocked the wind out of you.

Seriously, this guy's eye contact hit like a spotlight. He didn’t look away, but leaned into it—deep, scanning your face almost as if he was memorizing it. The attention made your throat feel dry for the first time tonight, changing it from the joking and t4easing persona you took on for Keonho and Martin.

“Somebody has to keep you humble,” you managed and tucked a stray hair behind your ear.

He nodded slowly. His gaze dropped for half a second— to your shirt, shorts, bare knees crossed in the hammock—and then back up to your face. It wasn’t gross or anything. But just… incredibly obvious. It was weirdly confident in a way he usually wasn’t around you. Or anyone, actually. Your heart flipped over in your chest like a fish or something.

“Then watch this one,” he said, simple and smirking.

He stepped back to his spot, lifted, and sank it clean.

Of fucking course he did.

The song melted into the next and you found yourself getting lost in the rhythm of it all. The bounce of the ball. The swish of the net. The occasional groan when someone missed. The laughter when Keonho inevitably did something stupid.

They kept playing until Hurt by NewJeans started playing and the whole energy shifted again. It was sweet and more introspective. The kinda song that made you want to lie on your back and stare at the sky.

The ball rolled back to Keonho again. He caught it against his hip and didn't move right away, chest lifting with each breath. Sweat glowed along his throat and collarbone. Up close, the little scrapes on his shins and the tiny cut on his knuckle made him look less like the loud clown who never shut up and more like a boy who'd actually run himself into the ground for this stupid game.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Lock the fuck in.”

“You say that every time,” Juhoon remarked.

“This time I mean it,” Keonho replied narrowing his eyes at his supposed friend turned competition.

“You meant it last time,” James reminded him.

“Let him cook,” Seonghyeon said, even though he was clearly laughing at his misery.

Keonho dribbled once, then looked at you again. Less of a bit this time. Sort of more of a question he hadn’t figured out how to ask out loud.

“Rate my shot if I make this,” he called.

“If you make it, I’ll think about it,” you shot back.

“About rating it?”

“About watching you embarrass yourself again.”

He grinned, shook out his shoulders, and finally shot.

The ball left his hands clean. For a second, it hung there, cutting through the yellow light. Then it dropped, hitting nothing but net.

The driveway exploded.

“OKAY,” he yelled, running in a small, stupid circle. “OKAY, THAT’S HOW YOU FRICKIN' DO IT, CLOWNS.”

“Finally,” Juhoon said but he was smiling anyway.

“Three makes,” James noted. “Your field‑goal percentage is still awful, by the way.”

“Let me have this,” Keonho pleaded. He looked back at you, breathing hard, cheeks flushed. “So?”

You shrugged, even though your heart had gone weird in your chest. “Seven out of ten.”

“SEVEN?” He looked personally offended, throwing up a hand. “That was at least a nine.”

“The ball barely went in.”

“It went in. That’s all that matters”

“If you say so.”

Ji-hye leaned close and whispered so quietly only you could hear. "They look like squirrels racing for an acorn. Bro, what is this competition?"

You bit your lip to keep from laughing because she was absolutely right. That's exactly what it looked like. Five guys suddenly trying way too hard, taking this way too seriously, and for what?

Bragging rights. Sure.

They kept playing until bodies started slowing down and the air turned from heavy to chilled. Somebody checked a phone and squinted at the time.

“It’s almost midnight,” James reported. “For real this time.”

“That’s late?” Martin asked.

“For a school night? Yeah.”

“It’s summer,” Seonghyeon reminded him.

“Oh. Right.”

Eventually they collapsed onto the grass and curb in a loose sprawl. The game dissolved into half‑hearted shots and lazy passes. The music dropped to background noise and fireflies blinked out near the neighbor’s yard. The street felt quieter, like the whole cul‑de‑sac empty save for you guys.

You slipped out of the hammock carefully so you didn’t wake Ji‑hye—she’d gone fully limp against the fabric, mouth slightly open, phone still in her hand. Your legs were stiff from sitting so long, but the ache was a good one to stretch out.

You walked over and sank down on the grass next to where Keonho had starfished out, arms spread like he’d tried to hug the entire planet and lost.

“You good?” you asked.

“Never better,” he mumbled without opening his eyes.

“You played terrible.”

“I’m aware.”

“Like really terrible.”

“You don’t have to keep saying it,” he complained.

You nudged his shin with your foot. He cracked one eye open, squinting up at you.

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

On the curb, Martin watched the exchange, chin propped on his knees. “She’s not wrong,” he added.

You turned your head toward him. “You’re talking a lot for someone who finally hit a free throw in, like, overtime.”

He laughed once, surprised. “That’s slander.”

“It’s literally what happened.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a softness there you weren’t used to. “You make it sound like a documentary,” he said. “ ‘Local man bricks twelve in a row in front of the girl his friend is in love with.’ ”

The words slipped out and hung there. Your brain short‑circuited for a second.

“Martin,” Keonho warned.

“What?” Martin said, shrugging. “Everybody knows.”

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting to all of them.

Seonghyeon laughed softly from where he’d slid back against the garage again. “You guys are hopeless,” he said.

A quiet rustle next to you made you glance over. He had pushed off the wall and dropped down to sit a little closer, stretching his legs out in front of him. From this angle, you could see the faint purple of a bruise on his shin and the way his socks didn’t match.

“You were really watching, huh?” he asked, his deep voice low enough that it didn’t carry past the small patch of grass you were both in.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “You’re kind of stupidly good at this.”

He huffed out a small laugh, mouth curving. His eyes locked on yours again, and this time he didn’t look away. “Don’t tell them that. I like when they underestimate me,” he said. “Makes it easier to surprise them. It feels like I'm the goated underdog.”

The way he held your gaze made your stomach do something ridiculous. He didn’t stutter and or fumble over his words like usual. Seonghyeon just sat there, looking at you like he was done pretending he hadn’t already noticed you’re always here.

You dropped your eyes first. You were staring very hard at a piece of grass near your shoe.

The conversation drifted back into comfortable nothing—half‑plans about the beach, arguments about which convenience store had the best kimbap, someone insisting they needed to do this again “for real” next week. You leaned back on your hands and looked up at the sky, that weird almost‑black, almost‑purple color with a couple of stubborn stars fighting through the light pollution.

“This was fun,” you said quietly, more to the air than to anyone specific.

“Yeah?” Keonho asked. He’d pushed himself up on his elbows now, looking at you with an expression that wasn’t a bit, not really.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He held your gaze for one second, two, three—you didnt know, but long enough for your heartbeat to stutter.

Then a bottle cap pinged off his arm.

“Stop being weird,” Juhoon ordered.

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re being so weird,” Martin agreed.

“All of you are weird,” Ji‑hye’s voice cut through from the hammock. Apparently she’d resurfaced. “And loud. I’m going inside.”

She peeled herself out of the hammock with her hair a mess, and stomped toward the front door, letting the screen slam behind her.

“She’s so pleasant,” Keonho muttered.

“She’s my sister,” Juhoon reminded him.

“And?”

“And shut up.”

You pushed yourself to your feet, brushing grass off the backs of your legs. “I should probably go too.”

“Already?” Seonghyeon askedand he sounded genuinely disappointed.

“It’s midnight.”

“So?”

“So I have a curfew.”

“Lame,” Keonho complained.

“Responsible,” James corrected.

“Same thing.”

You pulled your phone out, thumb hovering over your mom’s contact, but before you could tap it, Juhoon shook his head and stood.

“I’ll drive you,” he offered with a wave of his hand. “It’s late, don’t bother your parents.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s fine.”

The boys started moving again, gathering bottles and phones and the rogue snack wrappers that had escaped. The music finally cut off when someone grabbed the phone from the car hood, and the sudden quiet felt strange after hours of constant noise.

“Same time next week?” Keonho called as Juhoon headed for the porch.

“Probably,” Juhoon answered.

“Cool.”

Keonho glanced at you one more time. The same easy, tilted smile back in place like he hadn’t spent the entire night accidentally confessing via terrible jump shots. “See you around.”

“See ya, airballee,” you echoed and he rolled his eyes with zero bite whatsoever.

As you turned toward the car, James drifted closer, hands tucked into the pocket of his shorts.

“Hey,” he started. His voice was low enough that it didn’t feel like part of the group noise. “Thanks for… uh, staying the whole time.”

“You guys would’ve cried if you lost your audience,” you replied.

He actually laughed at that, head dropping for a second. “Probably. It’s more fun when you’re here, anyway.” He said it so casually you almost missed how honest it sounded. “Text me if you get home too late and your mom kills you, okay? I’ll tell my parents it was my fault.”

“You’re volunteering as tribute?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I owe you for having to watch all those embarrassing bricks.”

You smiled and said bye after he gave you a high-five.

You followed Juhoon to the car. The drive home was a blur of empty streets and blinking traffic lights and some Daniel Caesar song humming low on the radio while you stared out the window and replayed everything: the music, the missed shots, the laughter, the way they’d all kept looking over like there was more at stake than a stupid bet.

Ji‑hye’s voice echoed in your head. They look like squirrels racing for an acorn.

You fought a smile at the thought.

Juhoon pulled up to your house and put the car in park. He turned to you and stared at you with a tilt of his head. "Here we are."

"Thanks," you offered.

"Anytime."

You unbuckled and opened the door with a pause.

"Hey Juhoon?"

"Yeah?"

"Your friends are idiots."

He laughed. "Yeah. I know."

You shut the door and headed inside. Waved once from the porch. He waited until you were fully in before driving away.

When you finally collapsed into bed—hair smelling like sweat and summer air and someone else’s fabric softener—your brain wouldn’t shut up. It looped through every glance and every pointed “this one’s for you,” every quiet look from Seonghyeon, every rare grin from Martin, James’s small smiles and even Juhoon’s “this is weird” comment.

And the way Keonho had kept looking at you like maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t all a joke anymore.

That dumb basketball game did not feel like just fun and games now.

You didn’t know what to do about that, so you were gonna do nothing. You just laid there, thinking, wondering and trying so very hard not to admit that you found all of them a little bit dangerous, in different ways. The ghost of bass still thudded somewhere in your chest like the night hadn’t actually ended yet.

kim juhoon’s first meeting is at eight-thirty. board members from overseas. you’ve already sent the documents, printed three extra copies just in case, flagged the page he always forgets to reference.

his coffee will need to be on his desk at exactly eight-ten—black, no sugar, one splash of milk he will pretend he doesn’t need. you know this because on days when you forget, he drinks it slower. because on days when you add too much milk, he frowns without realizing it.

you unlock his office before he arrives. the lights flick on, illuminating clean lines and glass walls and a desk that never seems to gather dust because you never allow it to. you set the coffee machine running in the adjacent room, the quiet gurgle familiar enough that it feels like breathing.

by the time the rest of the office starts filtering in, you’ve already answered three emails, rescheduled one lunch juhoon forgot he had agreed to, and sent a reminder to legal on his behalf.

you don’t think about it. you rarely do. this is muscle memory. six years of it.

“morning, y/n.”

you look up to see martin hovering by your desk, adjusting his tie like he’s already stressed. senior management, finance. older than you by enough years that he treats you like both a colleague and a worrying younger cousin.

“morning,” you say, smiling automatically.

“is he in yet?”

“not yet,” you reply. “but he’ll be here in twelve minutes.”

martin raises his eyebrows. “of course he will.”

you don’t respond. there’s nothing to say. everyone knows this. kim juhoon doesn’t need to be punctual because you are punctual for him. he doesn’t need to remember because you remember. the company doesn’t need to worry because you are already worrying enough for everyone.

martin leans closer, lowering his voice. “you’re a lifesaver, as always.”

you nod, fingers already moving across your keyboard.

by eight-oh-eight, you hear the elevator ding again.

you don’t look up immediately. you never need to.

kim juhoon’s footsteps are precise. measured. expensive shoes on polished floors. he smells faintly of cologne—something clean and sharp—and the city air. he stops by your desk, exactly where he always does.

“good morning,” he says.

“good morning,” you reply. “your coffee will be ready in two minutes. your eight-thirty meeting room has been changed to conference b because a/v requested better acoustics. i’ve placed the revised agenda on your desk, and legal confirmed the clause revision you asked for last night.”

he hums, satisfied. “good.”

he doesn’t ask how you know what he asked for last night. he never does. he steps into his office without another word.

this is how it always goes.

by nine-thirty, the floor is fully alive. phones ringing, quiet conversations, the low thrum of productivity. you sit straight-backed at your desk, headset on, managing schedules like a conductor leading an orchestra that doesn’t realize it’s being guided.

james passes by, coffee in hand, giving you a lazy salute. “surviving?”

“thriving,” you say dryly.

he laughs. “you’re a better person than me.”

james has been with the company almost as long as you have, operations team. he knows the truth. he also knows juhoon would be lost without you. everyone does.

later, seonghyeon stops to ask about a presentation slot. yoonchae sends you a message asking if juhoon is in a good mood today. keonho, fresh-faced and still a little too earnest, asks if you think it’s okay to approach the ceo about a proposal.

you answer all of them.

what mood is he in? focused, slightly irritable, don’t push before lunch. yes, he’ll be free at three-fifteen. no, not today—try next week. you know the rhythms of him better than you know the rhythms of yourself.

around noon, you place lunch on his desk without being asked. he glances at it, then at you.

“i didn’t order this.”

“you skipped breakfast,” you say. “and you have back-to-back meetings until two.”

he frowns, then exhales. “right.”

he eats because you are watching. he always does.

you don’t eat until almost three, standing by the counter in the break room with a convenience store sandwich you barely taste. kang haerin joins you, scrolling through her phone.

“you’re staying late again, aren’t you?” she asks casually.

you shrug. “probably.”

she studies you for a moment, then smiles softly. “you know, you’re allowed to have a life.”

it’s meant to be a joke. light. harmless.

it still lands wrong.

you laugh because that’s what you’re supposed to do. “this is my life.”

haerin doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. no one ever does. they assume if there were a problem, you’d say something. they don’t realize how quietly problems can live inside you.

by the time the day winds down, juhoon is still in meetings. you reschedule dinner plans you never made. you answer emails marked urgent that no one else wants to deal with. you fix mistakes before they become visible.

when the office finally begins to empty, you remain.

the lights outside juhoon’s office are still on. you glance through the glass wall and see him standing by the window, phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight. focused. driven. brilliant.

you know this version of him well.

what you don’t know—what you don’t realize yet—is how little of yourself exists outside of this glass, this desk, this role.

as you pack up for the night, long after everyone else has gone, you pause with your hand on your bag. the office is quiet. too quiet. your phone lights up with a notification.

it’s a reminder.

kim juhoon — flight details to confirm.

you set your bag down and sit back at your desk.

you confirm the flight.

you don’t leave work so much as you detach from it.

it’s nearly nine by the time you step out of the building, the city already deep in its second wind. neon lights flicker on, traffic hums, laughter spills from somewhere down the street. life, happening loudly and without your permission.

you stand there for a second, phone in hand, thumb hovering over nothing in particular.

no missed calls. no messages that aren’t work-related. no plans waiting to be fulfilled.

you tell yourself that’s fine.

you walk toward the subway with your blazer draped over one arm, heels pinching slightly in a way you’ve learned to ignore. your reflection in the dark glass of a storefront looks polished, composed—someone who has it together. someone important.

someone tired.

your phone buzzes just as you step onto the platform.

james: we’re at the bar near the office. you coming or are you being held hostage again

you stare at the message longer than necessary.

you had forgotten about that.

forgotten like you forget birthdays, like you forget weekends, like you forget that people can exist without calendars and deadlines pressing in on them.

you type back.

you: idk if i can make it. juhoon might need—

you stop.

delete the message.

retype.

you: i’ll try

it feels like a lie even as you send it.

by the time you reach the bar, they’re already on their second round. the place is warm and loud and alive in a way your office never is. seonghyeon is leaning back in his chair, laughing at something keonho is saying far too animatedly. yoonchae spots you first and waves you over dramatically.

“she lives!” yoonchae announces. “we were starting to think you were a myth.”

you smile, genuine this time, sliding into the empty seat beside her. “i exist. occasionally.”

james raises his glass. “to y/n, the only person keeping this entire company from collapsing.”

“don’t say that,” you say automatically.

he grins. “it’s true though.”

haerin passes you a drink without asking what you want. she already knows. you take a sip, the alcohol burning pleasantly on the way down, loosening something in your chest.

for a moment, it’s easy.

you laugh. you listen. you complain about small things that don’t matter. keonho talks about a mistake he made earlier that day and how you saved him from getting yelled at. seonghyeon nudges you with his elbow.

“seriously,” he says. “what would we do without you?”

the question is light. rhetorical.

it still makes your stomach twist.

“you’d survive,” you say, brushing it off.

yoonchae tilts her head, studying you in a way that feels a little too perceptive. “do you ever do anything that’s not… this?” she asks, gesturing vaguely. “work. us. him.”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“like,” haerin cuts in gently, “hobbies. dating. literally anything that doesn’t involve kim juhoon’s calendar.”

james snorts. “bold of you to assume juhoon would survive without her for that long.”

they all laugh. you do too, because it’s easier than answering. the truth sits heavy and unspoken between you.

you don’t have a good answer because you don’t have an answer at all.

your phone buzzes on the table.

you don’t need to look to know who it is.

still, you do.

juhoon: where are you?

you swallow.

the table goes quiet, just for a beat. yoonchae notices your expression change.

“you don’t have to,” she says softly.

you hesitate. “he just—”

“always does,” james finishes, not unkindly.

you type back anyway.

you: out. is something wrong?

three dots appear almost immediately.

juhoon: i need the itinerary for next week’s trip. now.

now. not please. not when you can. now. your fingers move before your brain can protest.

you: give me five minutes

you stand up, already reaching for your bag.

“you’re leaving,” keonho says, disappointed but unsurprised.

“i’ll be right back,” you lie.

no one calls you out on it.

outside, the night air feels colder. quieter. you step away from the bar, leaning against the wall as you pull up your laptop on instinct, fingers flying through folders and documents you know by heart.

you send the file.

almost immediately, your phone buzzes again.

juhoon: good.

that’s it.

no thank you. no acknowledgment of the fact that it’s late. that you’re not at your desk. that you were doing something—anything—else.

you close your laptop slowly.

when you go back inside, the energy has shifted. the moment is gone. the laughter feels distant now, like you’re watching it through glass.

“everything okay?” haerin asks. you nod. “yeah. i should head out though.” james groans. “you always do this.”

“i know,” you say quietly.

yoonchae walks you to the door. she doesn’t say anything at first, just stands beside you as you slip your coat back on.

finally, she asks, “are you happy?”

the question catches you off guard. “of course,” you say automatically. she looks at you for a long moment, then smiles sadly. “okay.”

you walk home alone.

your apartment is clean. too clean. minimal furniture, neutral colors. a place you sleep in more than live in. you kick off your shoes, toss your bag onto the chair, and stand there in the silence.

you think about the question.

are you happy?

you think about how your phone is still in your hand.

you think about how even now, you’re waiting for it to buzz again.

you sit on the edge of your bed and scroll through your calendar. tomorrow is full. the day after that too. weeks stretch ahead of you in neat, color-coded blocks, all of them centered around one name.

kim juhoon.

you scroll back. months. years.

you can’t remember the last time you put something on the calendar just for yourself.

the realization doesn’t come with tears or drama. it settles quietly in your chest, heavy and undeniable.

you don’t have a life outside of work.

worse—you don’t know how to start one.

you set your phone down, face-down this time, and stare at the wall.

for the first time in six years, the thought forms clearly in your mind.

something has to change.

you don’t know how yet.

but you do know this:

you can’t keep living like this.

—

the call comes in the middle of the afternoon, right when everything is balanced on a knife’s edge.

you’re standing by the printer, papers warm in your hands, already mentally rearranging the rest of the day. juhoon’s meeting ran ten minutes over. legal is waiting on confirmation. james needs approval on a revised budget. it’s all manageable. it always is.

your phone vibrates in your pocket.

once.

twice.

you frown. no one calls you during work hours unless something is wrong. you step into the hallway without thinking, press the phone to your ear.

“hello?”

there’s a pause on the other end. breathing. rushed, uneven.

“y/n,” a voice says. familiar. too tight. “it’s me.”

your chest tightens immediately. “what’s wrong?”

another pause. longer this time.

“it’s your brother,” your mother says. “he—there was an accident. nothing life-threatening, but he’s at the hospital. they want family here.”

the hallway feels suddenly too narrow. the walls too close.

“what?” you whisper. “is he—”

“he’s conscious,” sne cuts in quickly. “but shaken up. hurt. he keeps asking for you.”

your hand curls into the fabric of your skirt.

“where?” you ask.

she tells you. it’s not far. an hour, maybe less if traffic cooperates. you could be there before evening. you could—

“can you come?” she asks softly.

you look back toward the office floor through the glass. see your desk. see juhoon’s office door closed, light still on.

“i—” your voice falters. you swallow. “i’ll try.”

you hang up before she can hear the hesitation.

for a moment, you just stand there.

then you straighten your shoulders and walk back to your desk.

juhoon exits his office as you’re pulling up his schedule. he looks mildly irritated, like someone whose day has been inconvenienced.

“where are the revised contracts?” he asks.

“i’ll send them in five minutes,” you say, then hesitate. “sir—”

he pauses, glancing at you. “what is it?”

your heart is beating too fast.

“i need to take immediate leave,” you say carefully.

the words feel foreign in your mouth. you don’t explain. you don’t justify. you just state it.

juhoon blinks. “now?”

“Yes.”

he exhales sharply, already shaking his head. “that’s not possible.”

you stiffen. “it’s urgent.”

“everything today is urgent,” he says, tone clipped. “you know that. we have back-to-back meetings, and i still need you here to prep for tomorrow. you can’t just leave.”

you open your mouth. close it.

“I can finish what’s necessary remotely,” you try. “i just need to step away for a few hours.”

“No,” he says immediately. “i need you here.”

the words land harder than you expect.

he doesn’t ask why.

doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

doesn’t even look concerned.

he just turns back toward his office, already moving on. “push my six o’clock and reschedule dinner. and i want the travel details finalized by end of day.”

you stand there, frozen.

“y/n?” he adds, not looking at you. “are you listening?”

“Yes,” you say automatically.

he nods once, satisfied, and disappears behind glass.

you sit down slowly.

your phone vibrates again.

you don’t pick it up.

you finish the revised contracts. you finalize the travel details. you reschedule the dinner you know he won’t remember agreeing to. you answer emails, type notes, fix mistakes before anyone notices them.

your phone vibrates again.

and again.

finally, during a brief lull, you pick it up and step into the stairwell.

you call back.

“hey,” you say quietly. “i can’t come.”

there’s silence on the other end. then—

“…what?”

“I can’t,” you repeat. “work is—today is bad. i can’t leave.”

“y/n,” she says slowly. “your brother is in the hospital.”

“I know,” you whisper. “i’m sorry.”

the silence that follows is sharp.

“do you hear yourself?” she asks. “are you serious right now?”

you close your eyes.

“you always do this,” she continues, voice rising. “it’s always work. always him. do you even realize how insane that sounds?”

“please,” you murmur. “i don’t have a choice.”

“you do,” she snaps. “you just never take it. you’re married to that job. no—married to him.”

“That’s not—”

“isn’t it?” she interrupts. “when was the last time you chose yourself? or us? do you even have a life outside of kim juhoon?”

the name hits something raw inside you.

you don’t answer.

because you can’t.

she exhales harshly. “i’ll tell him you’re busy,” she says bitterly. “like always.”

the call ends.

you stay in the stairwell long after the screen goes dark.

do you even have a life outside of him?

the question echoes, louder than yoonchae’s had been. harsher. unavoidable.

you return to your desk on autopilot. the rest of the day passes in a blur.

by the time the office empties, you’re still there. the lights hum overhead. juhoon finally exits his office, shrugging on his coat.

“good work today,” he says absently. “send me the updated schedule when you’re done.”

you look at him.

really look.

at the man whose life you have organized down to the minute. the man who didn’t hesitate to say no. the man who doesn’t know anything about your brother, or the call, or the way your hands were shaking.

“okay,” you say.

he leaves. you don’t send the schedule. instead, you open a blank document.

the cursor blinks at you, patient. you stare at it for a long time. then you start typing. the letter isn’t dramatic.

it’s polite. grateful. composed.

you thank him for the opportunity. for the trust. for the years. you state your intention clearly, calmly. you give notice. you offer to assist with the transition.

six years reduced to paragraphs.

when you’re done, you read it once. you don’t cry.

you print it, slide it into an envelope, and place it neatly on your desk. the office is silent.

for the first time in a long time, so are you.

tomorrow, everything will change.

—

you place the envelope on his desk like you always do with important documents. neat, centered, polite. you take a step back. let him see it. wait.

he glances up from the contract he’s reviewing. frowns.

“what’s this?” he asks. voice calm, clipped, but curiosity flickers across his eyes.

“my resignation,” you say evenly.

his eyebrows rise. “you’re joking.”

you don’t smile. you don’t laugh. you don’t say anything.

he sets the contract down. “you’re joking.”

“i’m not,” you reply.

he leans back in his chair, studying you like he’s trying to analyze a malfunctioning machine. “you’re serious?”

you nod. “yes. two months’ notice.”

he blinks. pauses. looks back down at the desk as if the envelope might spontaneously vanish. then, slowly, irritation creeps into his voice. “this—this can’t happen. you need approval. you can’t just—no one just—”

you fold your arms lightly. “i’ve already decided. i’ll train whoever takes my place over the next two months.”

he waves a hand, dismissive, a little sharp. “training? that’s not enough. i need to approve it. i need to—this is sudden. unprofessional. you’re—what are you doing?”

“i’m giving my notice,” you repeat calmly. “as per company policy. two months. i’ll make sure there’s a smooth transition.”

he leans forward, resting his forehead in one hand, exhaling sharply. “you can’t just walk away. six years—y/n, six years! you know how dependent everything is on you.”

“i know,” you say softly. “that’s why i’ll train my replacement. so it doesn’t collapse after i leave.”

he freezes. his hand falls away. there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, irritation blooming into disbelief again. “you—this isn’t how it works. people don’t just… resign.”

“i do,” you say.

for a long moment, neither of you speaks. the office hum continues around you, quiet observers in the fluorescent light. your heartbeat slows. for once, you feel like the one in control.

then he speaks again, lower, tighter: “you’re not negotiating?”

“i’m not.”

“no counteroffer?” his voice rises slightly, disbelief mingling with frustration. “you don’t want a raise? extra vacation? better office? i can—”

“i’m not negotiating,” you repeat. the words are calm, soft, but firm.

he leans back, jaw tightening. silence stretches. longer than usual. longer than either of you likes.

finally he mutters, almost to himself, “you can’t do this… without—without me approving it.”

you glance at the clock. twenty-seven minutes since you placed the letter on the desk.

“two months’ notice,” you say quietly. “i will train my replacement. everything else is arranged. that is all.”

his fingers drum on the desk. you can see the internal calculations, the impossibility of the situation playing in his head.

annoyance, then confusion. a small crease forms between his brows. his usual arrogance fights the unfamiliar feeling of—powerlessness.

“you’re serious,” he says at last. almost accusingly.

you nod. yes. very serious.

the balance that existed for six years—the invisible rhythm of your life orbiting around his—tilts, and you are finally standing at the center of your own.

the next morning, the office reacts. you gather your friends at work quietly. “she’s leaving in two months,” james says, mock groaning, but eyes soft.

“i’m happy for her,” haerin adds, shaking her head. “but also… sad.”

you smile faintly. “i’ll train my replacement. it’ll be okay.”

“we’ll miss you,” yoonchae says. voice small.

“we know,” you say. “but it’s time.”

meanwhile, juhoon is still reeling in his office. no one has seen him flustered like this before.

—

the morning is quieter than usual, and you let it be. no early arrival. no preemptive emails. the lobby is empty when you step in at eight-fifteen, exactly fifteen minutes before the first meeting. the coffee machine hums. your heels click softly on the marble. nothing extraordinary. nothing heroic. nothing juhoon can weaponize against you.

he notices immediately. eyes narrowing slightly as he walks past you. “you’re late,” he says, tone clipped.

“on time,” you reply evenly.

he stops, frowning. “you usually—”

“i’m on time,” you repeat. no inflection, no apology.

the first ripple of panic forms in his chest. he doesn’t like deviation. not from you.

by mid-morning, he’s cornered you in his office. papers stacked in neat piles, contract revisions in hand. his eyebrows are tight, voice sharper than usual.

“you can’t do this,” he says. “i’ll give you whatever you want. raise, benefits, promotion. just don’t leave.”

you fold your hands calmly. “thank you. but i’m not negotiating.”

he blinks, then leans back, irritation mounting. “what about authority? control over your schedule? flexible hours?”

“not interested,” you say.

he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “what—what is it then? do you hate the company? me?”

you shake your head. “i don’t hate anything. i just… don’t know who i am outside of this.”

his expression freezes. confusion, disbelief, irritation, all at once. his carefully curated ego isn’t built for this kind of honesty. it’s not about fixing things with money or perks. it’s about something he doesn’t know how to navigate: you existing for yourself.

he’s silent for a long moment. then he mutters, almost to himself, “i don’t understand…”

you nod once. no more explanation needed. you return to your desk. no extra work. no running ahead of schedule. no answering emails at midnight. nothing that isn’t your responsibility. you’re calm. professional. distant. human.

your coworkers notice immediately. james leans over mid-morning. “you’re actually… on time?”

“for once,” you say, sipping your coffee.

haerin frowns but smiles. “you’re actually… leaving work when it’s done?”

“i promised myself i would,” you reply. soft but firm.

—

by the second week of your new rhythm, the cracks start to show. the office isn’t silent anymore—it’s tense, chaotic, uneven.

meetings overlap. legal receives documents late or with missing signatures. board presentations are scheduled in the wrong rooms. keonho double-books a call.

seonghyeon misplaces reports. james sighs heavily, scanning spreadsheets that don’t balance. the rhythm you once maintained effortlessly no longer exists.

juhoon grows irritable. pacing, muttering to himself, snapping at minor mistakes. the coffee isn’t the right temperature. the printers jam. the office plants die.

little things, but cumulatively they scream that the system has depended on you far more than anyone admitted.

he glances at you—still composed, still polite, still on schedule—and something in him twists. he notices things he used to ignore: how you reordered a pile of files he never noticed missing, how your notes preempted errors before they happened, how every employee subtly relied on your presence to survive.

flashbacks flicker in his mind: the time he left early and you stayed late to finish the report. the meeting you saved by correcting a mistake he hadn’t noticed.

the call you took for him at midnight. the small, invisible labor that never registered as labor at all.

guilt forms, slow, unfamiliar, uncomfortable.

“you’re… irreplaceable,” he mutters under his breath one afternoon, staring at a misprinted schedule he can’t fix.

not because of skill alone—but because of care, meticulous, constant care he never acknowledged.

you notice none of it. you continue your routine: work assigned to you, work done, clock out on time. professionalism, boundaries, calm. your smile is softer. your energy quieter. you are present, and yet absent.

around the office, your coworkers whisper, shake their heads, glance at each other. “i can’t believe she’s actually leaving,” haerin murmurs.

“we’ll survive,” james says, though his tone is only half-joking.

you smile faintly, acknowledging the truth. yes, things are unraveling, yes, the office will feel the impact—but not catastrophically. not irreparably.

juhoon doesn’t speak to you about it directly. he doesn’t admit his panic. he doesn’t ask for explanations. but you see it in the tension around him. the minor irritations.

the subtle shifting of schedules. the way he checks the clock at six, again at six-thirty, then finally leaves the office reluctantly, watching you leave at exactly six.

for the first time in six years, you’re no longer an extension of him.

and for the first time, he realizes he doesn’t know what that means.

—

it’s mid-afternoon. sunlight spills lazily across your living room, warm and quiet. you’re in comfort: oversized hoodie, soft sweatpants, hair tied in a messy bun, face mask slapped on with the precision of someone who doesn’t care. a mug of tea steams on the table beside you.

you’re exactly where you want to be. not at the office. not fixing schedules. not putting out fires that shouldn’t exist. not worrying about him.

the doorbell rings. twice.

frowning, you shuffle to the door, peeking through the peephole. your heart stutters. he’s standing there. juhoon, in a sharply pressed suit, hair perfect, eyes wide with disbelief—or is it panic?—and somehow, even now, vaguely intimidating.

you open the door.

“y/n.”

“hi?” your voice is slow, cautious. you’re acutely aware of the face mask, the hoodie, the sweatpants. you make no effort to explain. he steps forward, ignoring your threshold.

“what—what are you doing here?” you ask.

he stares at you, unblinking. “why aren’t you at work?”

“i’m at home,” you say simply.

“at home?!” he snaps. “the office is—chaotic. everything is falling apart. reports missing, meetings overlapping, keonho double-booked, seonghyeon—”

you raise a hand. “i know. you’re handling it.”

“handling it?!” he yells, voice rising, eyes wide. “it’s a mess. a mess! we need you. please, just come back. today. right now.”

you tilt your head, calm. “no.”

he freezes for half a beat, then goes red, then flustered, pacing the narrow walkway to your door. “what do you mean no? why not? why won’t you come back? please, i’m asking you—this isn’t a negotiation, this is an emergency. y/n—”

you raise an eyebrow, sipping your tea. “i’m not coming back. not today.”

“not coming back?!” his hands ball into fists. “do you understand what’s happening without you? the office is a disaster. i can’t—we can’t function without you! please! why are you like this?”

you set the mug down slowly. “because for six years, everything has been you. your schedule, your convenience, your needs. i’ve organized your life, anticipated your every move, canceled my own, ignored my own life. and now i’m finally doing something for me.”

he blinks, mouth slightly open. then, panic rising again, he steps closer, lowering his voice, pleading. “i don’t care about that! we need you! you’re irreplaceable! please, just for a day—just come back today. i’ll—i’ll make it work. whatever you want, i’ll fix it. just… just come back.”

you shake your head gently. “it’s not about one day. it’s about everything. i need boundaries. i need a life outside of work. outside of you. i need to exist for myself. that’s why i handed in my resignation. that’s why i’m doing this.”

his chest rises and falls, frustration and panic and disbelief warring on his face. “but we can’t! you can’t just leave us like this. please, y/n. just… come back. i’ll… i’ll—”

“i’m not coming back today,” you interrupt softly, firmly. “but i will be there tomorrow. for my transition. for the office. for them. not for you.”

he staggers back slightly, processing. his jaw tightens. lips pressed into a thin line. he wants to argue, to beg, to manipulate—but you’re calm, unshakable. the balance of power has shifted.

“tomorrow,” you repeat. “and i’ll do my part to train my replacement. everything else is mine to decide. i’m not stepping into your chaos today. not for you. not for anyone.”

he glares, but says nothing. the words he wants to scream can’t pierce the wall of your composure.

finally, with one sharp inhale, he mutters, voice low but tense, “fine… tomorrow.”

you nod, closing the door gently behind him, leaving him on your doorstep, slightly out of control, while you go back to your tea.

the quiet settles around you again. you feel it: your life, small but yours.

—

you arrive at the office, on time as always, calm, collected. nothing extraordinary, no early mornings, no last-minute heroics. the hum of fluorescent lights and quiet chatter is familiar, grounding.

he’s already there, leaning against his desk, arms crossed, sharp gaze fixed somewhere in the distance—or so you think.

you glance up from your planner, and for the first time in six years, he looks directly at you. really looks.

“y/n,” he says, voice low, a little uncertain. “can i… ask you something?”

you pause. the question is innocent enough, but there’s an unfamiliar weight behind it.

“sure,” you say cautiously.

he hesitates, as if weighing every word. “what… what do you… like to do… outside of work?”

the question stuns you—not because it’s impossible to answer, but because it’s coming from him. him. the man whose life you’ve organized, whose needs you’ve anticipated, whose expectations you’ve met without fail. suddenly, he’s curious about you.

“i—” you start, then pause. you straighten in your chair. “this isn’t part of my job anymore,” you say calmly. “so i don’t answer questions like that.”

he blinks, jaw tightening slightly. the usual arrogance, the polished confidence, doesn’t fit here. he fumbles slightly with his words, awkward, stiff, sincere in a way that’s unfamiliar. “i… i’m not asking as your boss. i just—”

“i know,” you say, softer now. “but boundaries still exist. this is my life.”

he exhales, clearly frustrated, but it’s tempered by something else—a quiet, careful attention. he notices the little things you do differently now.

the way you organize your notes neatly without obsessing over perfection. how you glance up at him once, calmly, and then go back to your work without waiting for his approval. the subtle shift in your posture, relaxed but confident. the faint smile you allow yourself when james cracks a joke across the room.

he leans back slightly, watching you as if you were a complicated equation he’s been trying to solve for years and is only now beginning to understand the variables.

“y/n,” he tries again later, carefully, almost awkwardly, “did you—have dinner last night… alone?”

you blink. “i did.”

he frowns slightly. “was it… good?”

you glance at him, surprised by his interest. genuinely surprised. “it was fine,” you reply. “i don’t need to discuss it with you.”

he looks down, rubbing the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, “i don’t… i didn’t realize…”

you notice the tension in his jaw, the way his hands twitch slightly as he folds papers he doesn’t need to fold. the careful, careful attention he’s giving you now is almost… dangerous.

dangerous because it’s new. dangerous because he’s noticing you, not the work you do, not the office chaos you prevent.

“y/n,” he says quietly, almost as an afterthought, “do you… want help with anything? personally?”

you stare at him, then shake your head. “no,” you say, firm but not cold. “i don’t need you to fix me. this… is no longer your responsibility.”

he freezes again, the words hitting him harder than he expects. he’s used to control, used to solutions, used to power. now he’s confronted with someone he’s never really had to care about like this.

you return to your work, and he watches. quietly. carefully.

and in the way he studies you, you realize something subtle but undeniable: he’s learning how to see you.

you, not your work.

the room feels smaller suddenly. closer. warmer. and for the first time in years, the boundaries between professional and personal feel like fragile glass.

something blooms in that silence.

you don’t reach for it. he doesn’t force it. but both of you know it’s there, waiting.

—

the office feels… different. not quieter. not calmer. just… ordered in a way that doesn’t require your constant intervention.

you notice it first in the mornings. the elevator doors open, and you step onto the floor at exactly eight-fifteen. no one stares at you. no one hovers.

meetings are scheduled efficiently, room assignments accurate. reports arrive on time, signed, double-checked. the chaos that once clung to every corner of the office has softened.

you glance across at him—juhoon—leaning back in his chair, arms folded, observing rather than directing. he catches your eye. there’s no question, no demand. just a subtle acknowledgment, almost apologetic.

the first small proof comes when he asks for your schedule—not to control it, not to demand your presence—but simply to coordinate.

“you have the afternoon free?” he asks quietly.

you nod. “yes. i’ll be off-site after lunch.”

“good,” he says. no pushback, no insistence, just… respect.

you blink. it’s a small thing. almost imperceptible. but after years of intrusion, it feels monumental.

by the second week, he’s adjusting meetings without consulting you unnecessarily. he keeps your workload reasonable.

he stops expecting last-minute approvals. he respects your time—not because he’s told to, not because it benefits him, but because he’s learning, slowly, that your life exists outside of him.

you begin to live again.

hobbies return. the yoga mat you forgot you owned gets dusted off. painting supplies emerge from the back of the closet. you take walks at sunset, just because.

your evenings are your own. your weekends are your own. the boundaries you set are respected, and for the first time in years, it feels like you’re breathing outside of the office walls.

distance exists between you and him now. not coldness, not hostility, just… room. space. choice.

and yet the tension lingers. subtle. electric. unspoken.

he watches more closely now, notices small details you never realized he’d see.

the way you smile when keonho cracks a joke at your expense. how your hair falls differently after an evening walk. the faint scent of tea or perfume that lingers after your brief moments away.

he doesn’t comment. he doesn’t intrude. he simply notices. and in noticing, you realize trust is slowly rebuilding—not in words, not in promises, but in action.

you carry on with your life. and he… adjusts. imperfectly, fumblingly, but consistently.

for the first time in years, the office is no longer your cage, and juhoon is learning how to respect the boundaries that make you whole.

—

it’s subtle at first. the kind of change that almost slips by if you’re not paying attention.

you’re at your desk, quietly reviewing documents, when he stops by—not for a signature, not to demand a revision, not to tell you how something should be done. just… stops.

“y/n,” he says softly. “did keonho manage to finish his report on time?”

you blink. pause. “yes… he did. surprisingly.”

he frowns, small but genuine, as if he’s upset he didn’t notice. “i should’ve checked in. i… didn’t realize.”

the moment passes quickly, and he moves on, but something in it lingers. he’s asking about people. not just about deadlines or workflow. not just about results. about them, the people who work under you—or rather, around him.

you catch him later in the day, talking quietly to haerin. not commanding, not correcting, just listening. really listening. she’s gesturing animatedly about some minor problem she had, and for once, he doesn’t cut in.

he doesn’t dismiss her concern. he nods, occasionally asking questions. you notice the corners of his mouth twitch, almost… amused. a hint of warmth.

at first, you hesitate to believe it. six years of habits aren’t undone in a week. his old tendencies—the control, the obsession with perfection, the subtle narcissism—are still there.

you catch the faint smirk when a minor mistake is made, the tiny eyebrow raise when he realizes he can fix it better himself, the sharp tone when someone genuinely drops the ball. it’s him. unmistakably.

but layered underneath, there’s something new. patience. curiosity. care.

later, he stops by your desk again. you’re sipping tea, a small ritual you’ve reclaimed for yourself.

“y/n,” he begins, almost hesitantly. “how… are you? today?”

you blink. your hands still. your mind ticks. he’s never asked about you—not like this. not since you can remember.

“i’m… fine,” you say cautiously, still wary of old patterns.

“really?” he presses, leaning slightly forward. there’s no command here, no assumption that he knows. just… inquiry. genuine, awkward, stiff, sincere.

“really,” you repeat. you notice the effort it takes him. the small vulnerability hidden under his habitual control.

it’s almost funny—juhoon, the man who has orchestrated every aspect of everyone’s life for six years, trying to ask someone how they feel without sounding like a CEO running a crisis.

you sip your tea, letting the moment linger. you realize, slowly, almost uncomfortably, that you’ve never seen him like this before.

throughout the week, you notice more patterns.

he asks keonho how his weekend went and actually listens. he leaves a note on yoonchae’s desk praising a well-done presentation.

he comments quietly when seonghyeon brings in homemade snacks, genuinely complimenting the effort. he doesn’t hover, doesn’t micromanage, doesn’t assume he knows best.

and all of it—the subtle attention, the small care—catches you off guard.

sometimes you catch him glancing at you, timing a question perfectly, tilting his head slightly, as if he’s waiting for a reaction. it’s almost… playful. a little dangerous.

you catch yourself smiling faintly, shaking your head. six years of thinking of him as untouchable, cold, narcissistic—and now he’s… human.

or at least, a version of him that’s human enough to notice you and the people around you in ways he never did.

the tension is quiet. almost imperceptible. not romance yet. just… observation. recognition. attention. a subtle shift that feels like the first crack in the carefully controlled wall he’s built around himself.

and for the first time in a long time, you start thinking: maybe there’s more to him than the man who demanded your life. maybe he’s… capable of more.

and the smallest flicker of curiosity blooms in your chest.

you don’t act on it. not yet. you don’t have to. it’s enough to notice.

and that, you realize, is the beginning.

—

the park is buzzing with energy. a soft summer sun hangs overhead, the smell of grilled meat mingling with grass and laughter. music hums from a speaker someone dragged along. chairs are scattered in clumps; blankets lay on the grass.

you’re leaning against a tree, holding a plate, sipping a drink, scanning the scene. it’s relaxed, chaotic, exactly what everyone needs after months of deadlines and back-to-back meetings.

and then you see him.

juhoon. in a polo shirt, sleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets. watching quietly from the edge of the group.

you blink. he’s never been here. not once. he usually sends a polite “have fun” email or skips entirely, citing urgent matters. yet here he is. actually here.

“he’s… actually here,” keonho mutters beside you, wide-eyed.

“i know,” you whisper, equally surprised. a strange flutter forms in your chest.

he doesn’t just stand there. after a moment, he’s drawn into a game of frisbee with seonghyeon, laughing—really laughing, a sharp contrast to his usual controlled self. people cheer as he makes a surprisingly good throw.

later, at the barbecue, he steps forward to flip a burger. the action is casual, efficient, competent—but not controlling. he doesn’t bark orders. he doesn’t micromanage. he just… participates.

you catch him from across the table. he’s watching you laugh at something james said, eyes tracking lightly, almost shyly. for a fraction of a second, he smiles at you. small. subtle. almost imperceptible.

your chest tightens. you blink. what… did that mean?

he joins a water balloon toss. someone misses and the balloon bursts on his shirt. he steps back, startled, then laughs—bright, unguarded. the office collectively stares. “he’s… human,” haerin mutters under her breath.

he reaches for a plate of food at the same time as you. your hands brush. light. fleeting. you freeze for a heartbeat. so does he.

“oh—” he murmurs, stepping back. faint blush in his cheeks.

“it’s fine,” you say, heart beating slightly faster than usual. you pick up the plate and move slightly aside.

he nods, almost imperceptibly, and doesn’t comment further—but the corner of his mouth twitches, that faint trace of amusement that feels directed only at you.

later, when everyone is gathered around a bonfire, laughing and drinking, he passes behind you. your fingers brush as he reaches for a napkin. again, small, casual, and yet your chest flutters.

you glance at him. he meets your eyes briefly. not saying anything, just… looking. paying attention. not like the boss you once knew.

you shake your head slightly, trying to dismiss the feeling. it’s nothing, you tell yourself.

but later, as the night winds down, and you watch him laughing with the group, relaxed and human, you catch yourself wondering: when did he… become like this?

it’s tiny. imperceptible. a flicker of curiosity and something else you’re not ready to name.

and it’s enough.

enough to make you pause, notice him in a way you haven’t before, and quietly, uncomfortably, question what it means.

the outing ends. people drift back to cars, the park emptying under the fading stars.

juhoon lingers for a moment near your side—not forcing conversation, just standing there, present.

you glance up at him, and in the quiet aftermath, the smallest question forms in your mind:

is this… different?

and for the first time, you don’t have an answer.

—

the office feels lighter the day after the outing. a faint warmth lingers—not from the sun, but from the small, unspoken moments everyone noticed yesterday. laughter, teasing, shared jokes. even juhoon seems… different.

you’re at your desk, quietly reviewing notes, when he stops by—not for signatures, not for instructions, just… stopping.

“y/n,” he says, voice softer than usual. “did you… sleep okay last night?”

you blink. pause. six years, and he’s never asked how you slept. “yes,” you reply, cautious. “why?”

“just… checking,” he says, shrugging, almost embarrassed. a flicker of something—concern? curiosity?—flashes in his eyes.

you raise an eyebrow, amused. “you’re really asking personal questions now, aren’t you?”

“maybe,” he admits, faintly, almost reluctantly. “it’s… new.”

you tilt your head, watching him. something about the way he hesitates, the slight tension in his shoulders, the careful tone—it’s disarming. you realize: he’s trying. really trying.

later, by the coffee machine, you catch him observing the team. his eyes soften when he notices haerin struggling with a heavy tray. he steps in without comment, lifting it for her. no performance. no ego. just action.

you watch him, silent. it surprises you how… human he seems. approachable. gentle in ways he’s never been before.

you feel it. a small flutter in your chest. confusion, curiosity, something tender you haven’t allowed yourself to feel in years.

he catches your glance once, and the corners of his lips twitch—half-smile, half-amusement, fully directed at you. it lingers. too long to be accidental.

you shift your focus back to your work, but your mind lingers on the moment. why does that feel… different?

lunchtime arrives, and he approaches again, holding two cups of tea. one for himself, one for you.

“i thought… you might like this,” he says. no condescension, no obligation—just… thoughtfulness.

“thanks,” you say, voice soft. you accept it, noticing the warmth in your hand as your fingers brush briefly.

he looks at you, awkward, unsure. “if… if you want to talk, about… anything… i’m here.”

the words feel clumsy, unfamiliar. vulnerable. human.

you sip your tea, quiet, and notice your own heartbeat. the office hums around you, but this small bubble—this fleeting connection—is all that exists in this moment.

you realize something: the boundaries you set are still intact, your life still your own, yet… there’s a tiny shift. tension that feels almost dangerous.

not romance yet. not even close.

sparks—tiny, careful sparks—are starting to kindle.

and you can’t quite ignore them.

—

you’re walking through the quiet streets on a Sunday afternoon, sunlight spilling lazily between the buildings. the city hums softly around you, distant car engines and the occasional chatter of pedestrians. you’ve left the weekend for yourself, no work, no schedules, no obligations. your hoodie is loose, sneakers comfortable, hair tied back in a messy bun. the kind of casual freedom that feels almost foreign after years of living for the office.

you’re halfway through a small park tucked between two blocks, enjoying the rare stillness, when you hear a familiar voice.

“y/n?”

you freeze mid-step, scanning the area. a shadow falls across the sunlit path, and there he is—juhoon. not in a suit, not in command mode, just him. Polo shirt, jeans, casual sneakers.

his hair slightly mussed, the edges of his collar lifting in the breeze. He’s holding a coffee cup loosely in one hand, hands tucked into pockets, expression unreadable but unmistakably… him.

“juhoon,” you manage, eyebrows raising in surprise.

he blinks, caught off guard by your equally casual appearance, the hoodie, the messy bun. “i… didn’t expect to see you here,” he admits, voice slightly hesitant, low.

you shrug lightly. “weekend. off the grid. you know how it is.”

he nods slowly, then gestures toward a bench nearby. “mind if i—sit?”

you hesitate. curiosity prickles, mingled with caution. but there’s something in his tone, softer, human, and you find yourself moving to make space.

he sits, letting the coffee cup rest between his knees, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks. The park feels suspended in time, distant from work, from deadlines, from schedules.

finally, he says, almost tentatively, “i didn’t… realize how rare this is. quiet. not… constant noise.”

you glance at him. “six years of offices and meetings teaches you that,” you reply lightly. “sometimes, the quiet is the only thing that feels real.”

he nods, watching a squirrel dart across the grass. “i… didn’t notice… you.”

you frown slightly, turning toward him. “what do you mean?”

he exhales, hands tightening briefly around the coffee cup. “i mean… how you are. when you’re not in the office. when you’re… yourself. i’ve only ever… seen you work. planned, prepared, perfect. but… not this.”

the words hang between you. his gaze is careful, almost vulnerable, and it’s disarming. the careful control he’s always had—slightly narcissistic, slightly untouchable—is gone, replaced with something quieter, softer, and for the first time, attentive.

you shift on the bench, suddenly aware of the flutter in your chest. “i… i’m still me,” you murmur. “just… not for work anymore.”

he nods slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “i can see that,” he says, voice low. “and i… like it. seeing it.”

you blink. his words are simple, unadorned, but something in them catches your heart off guard. you clear your throat, focusing on a leaf drifting lazily on the wind. “it’s… just a walk in the park,” you say, trying to keep things light.

“maybe,” he agrees. “but… i’m glad i saw it. glad i saw you.”

there’s a pause, a stillness, and you notice his eyes—soft, careful, attentive—tracking your face, your hands, the subtle ways you move. the smallest brush of attention that’s not about work, not about control, just… noticing.

and in that quiet, ordinary moment, the space between you feels charged. not overwhelming, not confessional, just… electric in the way ordinary things become extraordinary when someone finally sees you.

you sip your coffee, heart thudding faintly, aware of the flutter. he’s close enough to be noticed, distant enough to remain enigmatic.

“we… shouldn’t linger too long,” you murmur eventually.

“probably not,” he says, but doesn’t move. “but… i hope we do again. just… like this.”

you glance at him, surprised by the admission. your chest tightens—not panic, not alarm, but that peculiar mixture of curiosity and awareness you’ve been quietly avoiding.

“we’ll see,” you say softly, letting the words float.

he smiles faintly, just the corner of his lips, mischievous but careful. the kind of small, private smile that makes you wonder if he’s always been capable of it, or if this is something new.

and as you stand to leave, brushing past him, his hand briefly touches yours—not lingering, not grabbing, just a light, accidental brush that sends an unexpected shiver down your spine.

you step away, heart racing faintly, mind suddenly aware of him in a way it hasn’t been before.

and you realize, quietly, that this—this simple, accidental meeting—has shifted something. small, almost imperceptible, but undeniable.

something is beginning.

and it isn’t work.

—

the days following the park encounter are strange. the office hums around you, but your mind drifts, unexpectedly, to juhoon.

it isn’t the old juhoon you remember—the rigid, controlled, untouchable CEO who demanded your life for six years. this version is different. lighter. sharper, yes, but softer in ways that catch you off guard. attentive without hovering. confident without commanding. and now… playful.

he begins small.

a comment as he passes your desk: “i hope your tea is better than mine. i might need tips from the master.” it’s effortless, teasing, but not cheesy. you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

later, when you’re reviewing reports together, he leans over, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “you always catch the mistakes no one else sees,” he murmurs, voice low. “you must have eyes everywhere.” you glance at him, eyebrows slightly raised. “i have a job to do,” you say, but your heart betrays you with a faint flutter.

he smirks subtly, a little confident, a little playful. “i know. but it’s… impressive.”

it’s small. barely noticeable to anyone else, but to you it lingers. your chest tightens slightly, your stomach flips—a flutter you haven’t felt in a long time.

outside the office, it’s more pronounced. a quiet coffee shop one evening, him joining you unexpectedly. he sits across, hands wrapped around his cup, eyes observing—not scrutinizing, but curious.

“you always order the same thing,” he says casually, a playful inflection in his voice. “is that habit, preference… or are you avoiding experimentation?”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “habit,” you admit. “comfort.”

“i see,” he says, leaning back slightly, expression thoughtful, almost smug—but not arrogant. just… aware. “but maybe you should try something new sometime. life’s too short for only one flavor.”

your heart skips. something about the way he says it, effortless, teasing, charming, makes you notice the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles, the subtle warmth in his tone.

it hits you quietly, terrifyingly: you’re noticing him differently.

he notices the small things too—the way your hair falls over your shoulder when you tilt your head, the faint crease at your brow when you’re concentrating, the way your laughter sounds when it’s unguarded.

and he doesn’t point them out. he doesn’t make it awkward. he just… notices.

it’s dangerous.

a week later, back in the office, he stops by your desk with a book he thinks you’d like. “i saw this and thought of you,” he says, hand extending it across the table. the gesture is casual, but the way he watches your reaction—his eyes soft, attentive—makes your heart skip again.

“thanks,” you murmur, taking it. your fingers brush briefly. the touch lingers, just a fraction longer than necessary.

he catches it, smiles faintly, and glances away, pretending it was nothing.

and as you settle back into work, book in hand, you feel it—your thoughts straying, your chest tightening, your mind realizing that the careful boundaries you’ve held are starting to shift.

you are… attracted to him.

not the boss who demanded everything from you. not the man who controlled your life for six years. but the man who is present, attentive, charming, effortless in ways you never expected.

and it terrifies you.

because you can see now that he’s changed. really changed. and somewhere deep down, you’re wondering if your feelings might change too.

the spark isn’t a fire yet. not even a flame. but it’s alive. and it’s dangerous.

—

the restaurant is warm, smoky with the scent of grilling meat, crowded with laughter and chatter. everyone is relaxed, letting loose after a long week. bowls clink, plates pile high, and the office team settles into their usual rhythm—except tonight, something feels different.

you slide into your seat and notice immediately that juhoon is beside you. not across the table like usual, beside. it’s subtle, but it makes your chest flutter.

he doesn’t acknowledge it at first, his usual composed expression intact, but you catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes when your elbow brushes his as you reach for a plate.

the evening starts normally enough, with small talk, everyone teasing each other, jokes flying across the table. but soon, the tension builds—the kind that’s quiet, almost electric.

you feel it, the way he watches your reactions, the way he leans just slightly toward you when the conversation is loud, the way he smirks faintly when you make a dry comment about keonho’s terrible aim at tossing a meatball into someone’s mouth.

and then it begins: subtle gestures.

he picks up a slice of grilled meat with his tongs and places it gently on your plate.

“you need this,” he murmurs, eyes catching yours.

you blink. your fingers brush it as you pick it up, flustered. “i—thanks,” you mumble, face heating.

later, he cuts a piece of meat for you, carefully, the precision almost exaggerated, but somehow intimate. You feel the warmth of his attention settle on you like a physical weight.

he offers you sauces, pours you drinks, checks if your chopsticks are steady when you’re juggling food and laughter. every motion is effortless, almost casual—but the undercurrent is unmistakable. every action directed at you, gently protective, quietly attentive.

by the middle of the evening, the wine is flowing, the laughter loud, and you’ve had more than a few glasses. your cheeks are warm, your speech a little slower, and your gaze wanders… often to him.

he notices immediately, eyes tracking you, concern flickering beneath the teasing smile.

when your head tilts back laughing at something james said, you nearly tip your chair. he’s there instantly, steadying it, murmuring something like, “careful, you’ve had enough.”

you try to wave him off, swaying slightly, but he doesn’t relent. instead, he drapes his jacket lightly over your shoulders when you shiver from the cold draft near the door, and you melt.

by the end of the night, you’re leaning against him slightly, laughing at a story seonghyeon is telling. he leans back, hand brushing yours occasionally, eyes soft, attentive, careful.

“ready to go?” he asks quietly when it’s time to leave.

you nod, slightly flustered, still giggling, and he guides you out, hand brushing your elbow, silent in his care.

the ride home is quiet but intimate. he doesn’t fill the space with words, just lets you lean against the window, watching the city lights flicker past.

when he stops in front of your building, he waits until you gather your things, then opens the door for you. “make sure you get inside safely,” he murmurs.

you’re fumbling slightly with your keys, the city lights outside a blur through your vision.

your hoodie is slipping off your shoulder, and your cheeks are flushed—not just from the wine, but from the warmth of the evening, the closeness, the attention.

“wait,” you slur slightly, spinning on your heel. “do… do you want to come in?”

juhoon freezes, eyebrows rising. “you… you mean—inside?”

“yeah!” you wave your hand, clearly too drunk to articulate fully. “come on, don’t just… stand there.”

he hesitates, silent for a beat, then gives a small nod. “alright,” he says quietly, following you in.

the door shuts behind you, and you stumble slightly, giggling. he catches you instantly, hands steady and strong. “easy,” he murmurs, guiding you toward the small living space.

he takes your bag from your hand, neatly hanging it on a hook, sliding your coat onto a hanger. every motion is precise, calm, domestic—and you can’t help but stare, drunk and delighted.

“sit,” he orders gently, and you flop onto the couch, waving your hands wildly. “help… help me with… everything.”

he kneels beside you, taking your hands to gently remove the rings and bracelets you’ve been wearing. then, carefully, he helps you with your makeup.

his hands are skilled, careful, patient. when he notices you fumbling with your hair or trying to tug at your hoodie, he steps closer and adjusts it for you, fingers brushing your skin lightly.

when it’s time for you to change out of your clothes, he looks away immediately, eyes politely averted. “i’ll… wait here,” he murmurs. “take your time.”

you stumble toward the bedroom, giggling at the absurdity of your drunken state. he stays true to his word, sitting patiently by the edge of the bed, keeping a careful watch without being intrusive.

finally, you collapse back onto the bed, fully clothed in fresh, comfortable pajamas. you’re drunk enough that your coordination is questionable, but sober enough to notice the care in every action he’s taken.

“water,” he says softly, placing a glass by your hand. “drink. slowly.”

you manage a small sip, flopping back against the pillows. “juhoon…” you murmur, voice slurred but tender. “you… you’re so… good.”

he smiles faintly, settling in a chair beside the bed. “someone’s had too much to drink,” he teases lightly, though the warmth in his eyes is genuine.

“i… can’t sleep,” you mutter, drunk honesty spilling freely. “don’t… don’t leave.”

he tilts his head, considering you for a moment, then gently reaches for your hand. your fingers entwine with his, clumsy and warm, and you relax against the pillow, the glass of water forgotten for a moment.

“i’m here,” he murmurs. “just… here.”

you squeeze his hand, eyes half-closed, letting the alcohol and warmth lull you toward sleep. “don’t… leave…” you mumble again, more to yourself than to him.

he sits quietly, hand holding yours, eyes soft but alert, watching over you. not in bed, not crossing any line—but close enough that the space between you feels intimate, tender, and impossibly charged.

and as you drift into a hazy, comfortable sleep, still gripping his hand, he doesn’t let go.

because tonight… he wants to be the one you can rely on. and maybe, slowly, that means more than just being a boss, more than just being a friend.

for now, it’s enough to simply be here, beside you, quietly watching over you.

—

light spills through the blinds, warm and lazy. you stir under the blankets, head heavy, the remnants of last night’s wine and laughter lingering in your mind. movement is sluggish, and a faint groan escapes you as you try to lift your head.

“y/n,” a calm voice murmurs.

your eyes blink open to find him standing at the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up, a small tray in his hands. toast, eggs, a cup of tea—neatly arranged. the faint smell of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the aroma of food.

“you’re awake,” he says softly, voice lower than usual, careful.

you blink, heart thudding faintly. “juhoon…” you manage, still groggy, watching him set the tray carefully on the side table. “you… made breakfast?”

he nods, expression calm, almost serious. “figured you’d need it. water last night wasn’t enough. you need… something real now.”

you tilt your head, startled by the effort, the care, the attention. there’s no hint of ego, no casual arrogance—just him, focusing on your wellbeing. it feels… warm. familiar, but in a different way than before.

he waits until you sit up slightly, helping you with a pillow behind your back. “slowly,” he advises. “no sudden moves.”

you smile faintly, brushing your hair out of your face. “you’re… really taking care of me.”

“i am,” he says quietly. “because i… like looking after you. because i like knowing you’re okay.”

your stomach flips. his words are gentle, not a confession, not a dramatic proclamation—just honesty laced with warmth.

you glance at him, half-drunken laughter from last night still tickling the memory. “and… you like doing this?”

“yes,” he admits simply, eyes meeting yours. “it’s… satisfying. seeing you… comfortable.”

you notice the way he moves, careful with every gesture, patient, attentive, as he adjusts the tray, pours a bit of tea, offers you a bite of toast. the old juhoon, the commanding, narcissistic CEO, would never have done this.

and yet… you like it. more than you expected.

“thanks,” you murmur, soft, letting the words linger. your fingers brush his as you reach for the cup, and he doesn’t pull away.

he smirks faintly, subtle, teasing, but not arrogant. “don’t mention it,” he says, though the corner of his mouth quirk hints that he’s pleased by your attention.

you find yourself relaxing more than you have in months, maybe years. letting him in, letting him see you unguarded. letting yourself notice him—the subtle curl of his lips when he smiles, the soft intensity in his gaze, the way he moves like he’s thinking about nothing but this small, shared moment.

“you’ve changed,” you murmur, quietly, almost to yourself. “since… the office. since… everything.”

he pauses, then tilts his head, eyes soft but direct. “i had to. for you. for… us, i guess.”

your heart skips. “us?” you whisper, barely audible.

“just… enjoying this,” he says quickly, almost embarrassed, “being here. with you. nothing else.”

you realize you’re smiling, responding without thinking. “i… like this,” you admit, voice low. “like… you.”

his gaze flickers, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. he doesn’t say more, just continues serving breakfast, quietly careful, letting the intimacy linger.

you sip your tea, heart warm, mind drifting, noticing the little things: how natural he seems here, how safe, how… comforting.

and somewhere in the quiet of your small apartment, with sunlight spilling across the bed, you realize: you’re starting to show him attention back.

not just gratitude, not just friendship—but interest.

and it feels… surprisingly easy.

because he’s different. and you like it.

—

you’re standing in front of the restaurant, dressed carefully—not too formal, not too casual, but enough that you feel… noticeable. your hair falls naturally around your shoulders, your makeup light. you’re nervous, not about the evening itself, but because you know juhoon is waiting.

he arrives in a sleek, black car, perfectly timed, exuding that calm, controlled presence you’ve grown used to—but tonight there’s something different. softer. attentive. more… aware.

“ready?” he asks quietly, hand holding the door open for you.

“ready,” you murmur, sliding in beside him.

the evening is effortless, surprisingly relaxed. laughter comes easy, jokes are shared, and for the first time outside the office, he doesn’t command the conversation—he participates. genuinely. attentively.

you notice him noticing you, too: the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love, the faint blush on your cheeks when he teases you gently, the subtle curl of his lips when he laughs at something you say.

the night stretches pleasantly. dessert, then a walk along quiet streets, just the two of you. His hand brushes against yours occasionally, never forcing, never lingering too long—just enough to make your chest race.

finally, he says softly, “shall we head back?” and you realize—he’s not talking about a taxi, or the car, but… his apartment.

your stomach flips. “okay,” you murmur, heart thudding.

the moment you step inside, the world seems to shift. the playful, teasing energy of the evening hangs heavy in the air. he closes the door, lights low, and for a long beat, neither of you moves.

“you’re… beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes dark with something dangerous and magnetic.

your chest tightens. “juhoon…” you whisper, voice breathless.

he takes a slow step closer, eyes never leaving yours. “i’ve wanted this,” he admits quietly, a confession hidden in the tone, not in words, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

you stumble back slightly, but he doesn’t let the distance linger. he’s there, close, fingers brushing yours, lips nearly grazing as he leans in. the tension snaps into electricity.

one kiss. tentative, testing, then another.

hands find each other, exploring, grasping, holding. the world shrinks to the heat between you.

he presses you against the wall, lips devouring, hands roaming, and you feel the thrill—the dangerous, intoxicating pull of him finally claiming the space between you.

he guides you toward the couch, but neither of you care where. every touch, every kiss, every whisper is electric. the playful teasing, the attention, the subtle care—all of it explodes into desire.

he kisses you deeply, hungrily, hand tracing your curves, hips pressing close, and you melt against him, letting go of all restraint. your hands clutch him, desperate, alive with longing you’ve ignored for too long.

he whispers your name between kisses, low and hoarse, and you shiver. the world outside—the office, the past six years, everything—fades. It’s just him. Just you. Just this.

and when he presses you fully against him, the tension, the teasing, the careful flirtation, the subtle care—all of it culminates.

your lips, your bodies, the way he touches, the way you respond—it’s no longer just attraction. it’s fire. it’s undeniable.

and in the heat of the moment, with the city lights flickering outside the window, you realize: there’s no turning back.

because what’s begun tonight… is all-consuming.

—

the weeks after that night are different. everything is slower, warmer, lighter. the office still exists, deadlines still come and go, but your world has expanded beyond it.

juhoon is no longer the untouchable, demanding CEO; he’s present, caring, teasing, attentive—the kind of guy who notices the small details and makes you feel like the center of his universe.

dates become routine—but in the best possible way. brunches at quiet cafés, walks through the park where you first ran into each other, evenings painting together in your tiny studio corner, wine glasses clinking, laughter spilling through the apartment.

He never overshadows your space; instead, he encourages it.

“try this color,” he says one afternoon, holding up a brush for you. “i think it would suit your style.”

you smirk, splattering a bit of paint deliberately. “i think i like making a mess more.”

he laughs, shaking his head, and brushes a speck of blue off your cheek with a finger. “adorable,” he mutters, and your heart skips.

you start looking into art galleries, taking small steps toward a life beyond your office persona.

juhoon notices everything. he reads articles with you, helps you research exhibitions, occasionally sneaks in a quiet pep talk about following what you love.

“y/n,” he says one evening while you’re both sprawled on the couch with notebooks and sketches, “you don’t need me at work to succeed. i… i want to see you do this, even if it means i don’t get my daily dose of your brilliance in the office.”

your chest warms at his words. it’s not just support—it’s belief. And for the first time in years, you feel fully free to pursue your own passions, your own life, without guilt.

family dinners become a thing. juhoon joins you at your parents’ home, subtly charming, calm, and attentive in ways that surprise everyone.

He listens, laughs at your brother’s antics, helps carry dishes, and makes your mother nod approvingly.

“he’s… different,” your mother murmurs later to you. “he… actually cares about you.”

your friends notice too. haerin and yoonchae poke you gently about the newfound glow in your cheeks, the ease in your laughter, the way you talk about juhoon without restraint or caution.

he’s patient, gentle, still teasing just enough to keep the spark alive. every date, every casual moment, every brush of his hand is a reminder that he’s attentive, loving, and fully present.

finally, one quiet evening at your apartment, after an afternoon wandering an art exhibit together, he turns to you, serious but soft.

“y/n,” he says, voice low, eyes bright with honesty, “i… i want this. i want us. officially. do you… want to be my girlfriend?”

you blink, heart racing. the answer is obvious—yes—but not just because of desire. because he’s supportive, caring, has made space for you, made you feel seen, made you feel safe.

“yes,” you whisper, voice trembling slightly, “i want that.”

he smiles, small, satisfied, and kisses your forehead, a soft, grounding touch that makes you melt.

life continues. weekends are spent painting, exploring galleries, meeting friends for coffee, and spending time with your family.

juhoon supports everything, even if it means you’re not at the office, no longer his secretary. He celebrates your wins, encourages your growth, and loves you fiercely in quiet, everyday ways.

and the more you live, the more you see the change—not just in yourself, but in him. The man who once demanded everything now offers everything, not for control, not for duty, but because he wants to.

you notice it in the small things: the way he always remembers your favorite tea, the way he brushes paint off your hands during your sessions, the way he slips an arm around your shoulder when you stand close.

you notice it in yourself too: the way you laugh freely, the way you let yourself relax, the way you reach for his hand without hesitation, the way you start imagining a life together outside the confines of work.

and when the two of you sit together, sipping tea on a lazy Sunday, his head resting lightly against yours, you realize: this isn’t just romance. it’s partnership, support, growth, love in its quietest, most perfect form.

the world feels wide open, and for the first time, it feels like yours.

—

the apartment smells faintly of coffee and something sweet—baked bread, maybe cinnamon rolls—from juhoon’s insistence on trying a new recipe. sunlight spills through the windows, painting everything in warm gold. you’re perched on the edge of the couch, sketchbook in hand, hair falling loose around your face, paint smudges faint on your fingers.

he’s across from you, feet kicked up, reading a book, occasionally glancing up with a soft smile. sometimes he just watches you. quietly, attentively, like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“hey,” you murmur, putting your pencil down. “you’ve been staring for five minutes.”

he tilts his head, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “i’m just… appreciating my girlfriend,” he says smoothly, almost casually, but you feel it—the warmth, the pride, the love behind it.

you blink, flustered, cheeks warming. “stop being… so… domestic and cute at the same time,” you tease, smirking.

he smirks back, leaning forward, eyes glinting. “i call it evolution. you should try it sometime.”

you laugh, tossing a stray paintbrush at him, which he catches with ease. the apartment fills with your laughter, the kind of laughter that isn’t forced or calculated, the one that feels free, alive.

later, you wander into the kitchen, and he’s already plating breakfast. eggs, toast, fresh fruit, coffee steaming in mugs. “i'm getting spoiled,” you say lightly, leaning against the counter.

“good,” he murmurs, handing you a plate. “you deserve it.”

you sit together at the small table, side by side, elbows brushing lightly, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist. there are no deadlines, no emails, no office tensions—just the quiet comfort of shared space, shared life, shared moments.

after breakfast, you both curl up on the couch, him draping an arm around your shoulders while you lean against him, sketchbook forgotten.

fingers brush occasionally, a hand lingers, a small squeeze here and there. playful teasing, whispered jokes, soft touches—they are your language now.

you watch him carefully, noticing the small changes from the man he used to be: softer, warmer, still sharp and teasing but now fully aware of your needs, your dreams, your space.

he notices you too, not just the work-perfect version but the full, living, breathing you, painting, laughing, planning, living.

sometimes, the two of you slip into playful arguments—about paint colors, what to watch, who forgot the groceries—but they end in laughter, in kisses, in holding each other close.

he’s met your family, knows your friends, celebrates your achievements, teases you lovingly, holds your hand in public without hesitation.

every interaction reinforces that he’s no longer just your boss or a fleeting presence in your life—he’s your partner, your home, your heart.

and you—you’ve found yourself again. living fully, laughing freely, following your passions, and loving someone who sees you, truly sees you.

evenings are quiet now, sometimes spent painting together, sometimes cooking, sometimes just sitting in silence, bodies entwined, hearts in sync. The small, ordinary moments—the ones you used to sacrifice for work—are now your world, rich, full, and vibrant.

and when you lie down at night, head on his chest, fingers intertwined, the last thing you hear is his soft murmur, almost a promise:

“i’ve got you. always.”

and for the first time in years, you believe it.

because this—this life, this love—is steady, warm, messy, perfect. it’s the life you’ve built together. the life you’ve earned.

and it’s everything.

—

eight months had passed like a gentle tide, reshaping both your worlds. mornings now smelled of fresh paint, coffee, and sunlight spilling into your apartment. evenings were for laughter, sketches sprawled across the table, and the quiet warmth of a shared life.

you were officially the director of a small but prestigious art gallery, your name now on a plaque at the entrance. juhoon had been there from the first day of your promotion, quietly supportive, celebrating each milestone without overshadowing it. he had shown up to every exhibition, every meeting, every small victory—sometimes teasing you, sometimes holding your hand, always proud.

today, though, he had something different in mind. he arrived at the gallery unexpectedly, a small bouquet of your favorite flowers in one hand and a nervous energy you rarely saw in him.

“what’s all this?” you asked, slightly breathless, suspicion tugging at your heart.

“follow me,” he said softly, eyes glinting.

he led you to the rooftop terrace, where fairy lights twinkled, overlooking the city skyline. the soft hum of evening traffic and distant laughter made the space feel intimate, magical.

and then he was on one knee.

“y/n,” he said, voice low but steady, heart in his eyes. “these past months… years… with you have changed me. you’ve changed my life, my heart, my world. i love you. i want to spend every day proving that to you. will you… marry me?”

your breath catches. heart thunders. “juhoon…” you whisper, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes.

“say yes,” he murmurs, almost impatient, but tender, eyes never leaving yours.

“yes,” you breathe, the word spilling out with laughter, sobs, joy, and disbelief all at once.

he rises, slipping the ring onto your finger, and pulls you into a long, desperate, ecstatic kiss. the city lights blur around you as he holds you close, hands roaming your back, fingers threading through your hair, lips claiming yours again and again.

when you finally break apart, gasping for air, his forehead rests against yours. “my fiancée,” he murmurs, voice husky.

“my fiancé,” you echo, laughing, trembling, heart utterly full.

but the night isn’t over.

once home, the apartment door shuts behind you, and the world outside ceases to exist.

you sigh into his chest, arms wrapped tightly, feeling the weight and warmth of him, the solidity of your future together, the undeniable truth that this—this life, this love—is yours, fully and completely.

“i love you,” he whispers again, voice low and intimate.

“i love you too,” you reply, smiling, trembling, and already craving the next moment, the next kiss, the next heartbeat shared.

and in that quiet, messy, passionate aftermath, you know one thing: you’ve found home. not just in a place, not just in a life, but in each other.

the city outside glimmers, but you only see him, the two of you entwined, alive, in love, unstoppable, together.

──────────────────────

‘dating an idol is fun’ they say.

it was fun. you couldn’t deny that. but fun doesn’t last forever — that was the realisation you had come to.

it was a fever dream. your boyfriend, the very boy you spent your days with, the boy you thought you would spend forever with, became a singer. martin sought his dreams out, accomplished them. and for that, you were proud.

but it meant change.

you didn’t like change, but you learned to make do. after all, you didn’t have much of a choice.

it happened slowly. the distance. and it only seemed to grow as time went by.

little things — that’s how it started. those daily night calls? they became weekly. and you noticed, of course you noticed ; how martin seemed to become disinterested in them. his eyes on the screen, but it always seemed like he’d be staring past you. like there was something after you, like you were an obstacle — like you weren’t someone important, but now just something in his way.

but you glossed over it. ‘he must be tired’, ‘training probably ran through’, ‘he’s just busy’. you reassured yourself with countless excuses, making up for his latecomings.

and then texts became less frequent, and more dry. from messages like ‘how were your classes? i miss you, like crazy bad’ to ‘i’m fine’ and ‘imyt’.

from giving and taking, it was just you giving, and him taking.

but you tried to not let it get to you. you were still a girl with her boyfriend. her boyfriend who was now plastered all around world. but he was still, your boyfriend — your martin. right?

martin rain checked, a lot. yeah, he was busy — he had an actual job where he could hardly catch a break. but sometimes he didn’t even bother letting you know, or probably just forgot about the date itself. you can’t recall the last time he hadn’t stood you up.

it was getting to a point. you could no longer make up reasons for the changes. his changes. you guys weren’t just growing up, but growing apart. an hit hard. when family and friends would ask you how martin was, how he’s doing as an idol ; you’d be silent, because you didn’t know. in truth, you were now no longer different to them. you too wish you knew how martin was, to be able answer these questions.

you loved martin, truly. but you began to doubt that the feeling was still reciprocated. and so, you drifted away just as he did. you no longer sought him out.

there were no more good morning, goodnight texts, no more i love yous and no more late night calls. but couldn’t cut contact just yet. every now and then, you’d try text. to hold at least one conversation a week, no matter how awkward it felt.

but then he stopped replying overall. last weeks texts? still on delivered. those tiktoks you sent? all left on seen.

martin edwards had given up, now he was just waiting on you to do the same.

and so you did. but you were doing it officially — not silently backing out as he did. you texted him, the first time in a while : “can we meet? js for 10 mins max.”

he couldn’t say no to that. so he agreed to meet you tonight, at the park.

you sat on a swing, looking down at your feet. it was dark, and quiet. a moment one could describe as peaceful. but in such a situation, you weren’t able to find solace.

slow steps made their way to you, leaves crunching under the soles of trainers.

“hey..” you raised your head. martin.

of course, he was covered up. baggy jeans and a hoodie of a deep shade thrown on, a face mask hanging just off his ear.

you swallowed hard. this was it. “…hi,”

he hesitated before taking a seat in the swing beside you. “you wanted to talk?” he spoke up, his gaze ahead — never on you.

“mhm,” you didn’t know how to say it. but you had a feeling he already knew what you were going to say. you took a moment, contemplating. was this really happening? were you actually going to break up with him? was your relationship of many years coming to an end?

yes, yes, and yes.

“i think..” you inhaled sharply “i think that we should end things.” you finally mustered up.

neither of you looked at each other, sitting in silence for a couple seconds.

“okay..” he agreed. that was what hurt. he didn’t question anything, he didn’t argue and he didn’t apologise. he merely agreed with a simple ‘okay’.

you nodded back, slowly. and then he got up, not a word leaving his lips, as he made his way out — his back to you.

you watched him walk away. and you didn’t try fight it this time. you were done trying.

002. kim juhoon

nonchalant > chalant

003. martin edwards

YOU'RE SO FUNNY 😂😂😂😂 LMFAOOOOOO 😂😂😂

navigation

your mom once told you:

“i was in the hospital hallway getting checked in when yufan’s mom walked in behind me. you two decided to show up the same week. you were basically competing for who gets out first.”

(your mom won by two days. she still teases his mom about it during every family dinner.)

from the moment you were both tiny, your families blended like one unit. two sets of parents, one chaotic lovechild friendship.

there are photo albums — thick ones — full of memories you can’t recall but feel anyway:

• you, a wide-eyed toddler, gripping his shirt while he waddles ahead

• him, sleeping with his head on your shoulder in a stroller

• the both of you sitting in a sandbox, sharing a single plastic shovel like it’s some solemn pact

• him crying during kindergarten orientation and you crying because he was crying

• both moms wiping your faces like this was normal

your dad once said:

“you weren’t raised as two kids. you were raised as a pair.”

and honestly, that explains everything.

you grew up in the same apartment complex— building A for you, building C for him — but he always said your house felt more like home than his.

mornings meant brushing your teeth at the same sink because he always showed up uninvited before school. afternoons meant him sitting on your living room floor doing homework while complaining loudly. evenings meant your moms gossiping over tea while you two sprawled on the sofa upside down watching cartoons.

summers?

that was when both families travelled together. jeju, busan, seoul, even one chaotic trip to japan where you lost him in a toy store for five minutes and cried like the world ended, only to find him standing calmly in the pokemon aisle, clutching two plushies — one for him, one for you.

even the vacations blurred together. one year yufan’s mom posted a picture of the two of you on the beach with the caption:

“siblings by bond, not by blood.”

and your comment underneath — typed by seven-year-old you — said:

“no we r married.”

you didn’t even know what married meant back then.

but you knew he was yours in that small, childish way where possession and affection feel the same.

every teacher, every neighbour, every random auntie who visited your home, they all said the same thing:

“they’re inseparable.”

and they were right.

because when he wasn’t next to you, you felt off. like the day was missing a button. like you’d left something important at home.

you were ten.

yufan had gotten into a fight with a boy who pushed you during recess. it wasn’t serious — just some messy hair-pulling and dramatic shoving — but he came home with a band-aid on his cheek.

when your moms asked why, he just crossed his arms and said:

“he touched her.”

like that was explanation enough.

you didn’t say anything.

you simply sat next to him, both your legs dangling off the couch, and pressed a sticker onto his band-aid — a little cartoon peach.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t complain.

he just looked at you, cheeks red in a way ten-year-old boys would die before admitting.

that’s the first time your chest did something weird — a fluttery, fizzy, unfamiliar twist.

you ignored it.

you had the rest of your life with him anyway.

what was one strange feeling supposed to change?

middle school turned the two of you into a unit people relied on, envied, whispered about:

“they’re not dating?”

“no, they’re just like that.”

“but they act like…”

“i know.”

yufan would wait outside your classroom every day even if his was on the other side of the building.

you’d save him the last melona bar from the cafeteria freezer because he always forgot to bring money.

he gave you half his hoodie when you were cold in the library (which made zero sense because half a hoodie helps no one, but he insisted you take the left side anyway).

and whenever your moms had dinner together — which was almost weekly — you’d end up sitting right next to him, your knee bumping his, his shoulder touching yours.

no one questioned why you were so close.

it was normal.

it had always been normal.

and maybe that was the problem.

because somewhere in the blur of childhood comfort, you had grown attached in a way that felt deeper than habit, heavier than friendship.

but you didn’t know that yet.

not truly.

after all, childhood love is just affection.

you thought this would stay the same forever.

and now—

now you’re eighteen, a first–year psychology major at yonsei, walking across campus with a half-finished iced latte and your backpack slipping off one shoulder, because your last class just ended and your body has officially entered “i’m done for the day” mode.

you check your phone.

a text from him, sent ten minutes ago:

james: done w lab

james: where r u

james: come meet me before next class

he never says please. he just assumes you’ll come.

and the annoying part?

you always do.

so you start weaving through the courtyard, passing clusters of freshmen, clubs recruiting, people studying on the grass. the sky is bright, warm, too gentle for how fast your heart picks up at the thought of seeing him.

you tell yourself it’s normal.

habit.

a lifelong routine.

but you know better.

as you turn a corner near the engineering building, someone calls your name.

“yn!”

you look up.

yoonchae jogs toward you, ponytail bouncing, holding a cup of bubble tea and a folder stuffed with pastel highlighters. she always looks like a pinterest board came to life.

“oh my god, you look exhausted,” she says, linking her arm through yours immediately. “psych 101 again?”

“the prof hates us,” you mumble. “he wants us to suffer.”

“he wants everyone to suffer.” she takes a sip of her drink. “you going to find your clingy man-child?”

“he’s not clingy,” you lie automatically.

chae gives you a look. a full, raised-eyebrow, girl, please look.

“yn. he literally threatened to walk across campus in the rain last week because you didn’t answer for twenty minutes.”

“that was an exaggeration.”

“he SENT A PHOTO OF HIM STANDING OUTSIDE YOUR BUILDING.”

you sigh. “okay, maybe that one was bad.”

chae grins like she’s won something. “are you meeting him now?”

“yeah. he has a break before comp eng.”

she squeezes your arm. “i’ll walk with you. i just came from the library anyway.”

so the two of you head down the steps— and as you reach the courtyard again, you spot a familiar group near the campus fountain.

martin is loudly laughing at something on his phone.

seonghyeon is trying (and failing) to do a bottle flip.

keonho is holding iced americanos for everyone like a stressed single father.

juhoon is sitting on the edge, earphones in, judging the world.

and james—

james is there too, leaning against the railing, sleeves rolled up, hair a little messy from the lab, backpack at his feet.

he’s scrolling through his phone with that resting bitch face he swears he doesn’t have.

and the second he looks up, his entire face shifts.

he brightens— subtly, almost unnoticeably— but you catch it. you always catch it.

“yn.” he straightens immediately. “finally.”

your pulse stumbles.

martin nudges juhoon. “look at lover boy.”

“shut up,” james mutters without moving his eyes away from you.

chae smirks beside you, whispering, “not clingy my ass.”

you nudge her back.

you walk closer, trying to act like your stomach isn’t doing actual gymnastics.

“you said you were free,” you tell him, stopping in front of him.

“i am.” he slings his bag over his shoulder like he’s ready to leave with you. “you ate?”

“coffee counts.”

“no, it doesn’t.” he rolls his eyes. “i’ll take you to the cafeteria.”

you open your mouth to argue— but seonghyeon cuts in:

“yn, save me, he’s been in a mood all day. the moment you didn’t reply he started pacing like someone stole his router.”

“i was not pacing,” james snaps.

“bro, you circled the same tree five times,” keonho says calmly.

chae bursts out laughing. “and you say he’s not clingy.”

you try not to smile.

you fail.

james just grumbles, grabbing your wrist gently— not pulling, just holding, warm and familiar.

“let’s go,” he says quietly, like the rest of the world is background noise.

and it hits you again—

that same fluttery, fizzy, dangerous feeling from when you were ten.

you thought you’d outgrow it.

that you’d get used to him.

that this comfort would stay simple forever.

but now, walking beside him, his fingers brushing your pulse, his friends still teasing in the background—

you know the truth.

you didn’t outgrow it.

you grew into it.

you’re in love with your best friend.

and he has no idea.

the cafeteria is loud — metal trays clattering, students shouting across tables, someone dropping chopsticks for the third time — but somehow, the noise dims a little when you and james walk in together.

maybe because you’re used to matching your pace to his.

maybe because he’s still lightly holding your wrist like you’ll run away if he lets go.

he doesn’t let go until you reach the food counters.

then he stops, turns to you, and gives you that look.

the “i know you didn’t eat anything today except caffeine and lies” look.

“what do you want?” he asks.

“i’m not really—”

“no,” he cuts you off instantly. “pick something. anything. but actual food.”

you roll your eyes dramatically. “you’re so controlling.”

he actually scoffs. “i’m literally keeping you alive.”

you laugh under your breath because he’s not wrong.

you point at the ramyeon station. “fine. that.”

“and dumplings,” he adds.

“james—”

“and fruit.”

he’s already walking ahead to order. “no arguing.”

you just stand there, watching him talk to the cafeteria ajumma with the most serious expression, like ordering food for you is a life-or-death mission.

he pays before you can even reach for your phone.

“i was going to—”

“no, you weren’t.” he picks up the tray. “sit.”

you obey him purely because it’s easier than fighting. (and also because you like when he bossy-cares you.)

you sit by the window, and he places the tray in front of you with the gentleness of someone setting down a newborn baby.

then he sits across from you, eyes narrowed.

“eat.”

you pick up your chopsticks and poke the dumpling. “why are you like this?”

“because if i don’t supervise, you’ll eat three mints and call it ‘lunch.’”

you make a face. “i do not—”

“yn.” he raises an eyebrow.

… okay, maybe sometimes you do.

you sigh in defeat. “fine. i’ll eat.”

his expression softens instantly. “good.”

for a moment, he doesn’t speak. he just watches you blow on the hot ramyeon, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms.

you slurp a noodle, pretending not to notice.

but he does that thing — that stupid, unconscious thing — where he tilts his head and studies you like you’re the only person in the room.

“what?” you ask, cheeks warm.

“nothing,” he says too fast. “you just… look tired.”

his voice softens more than it should.

it hits something inside you, embarrassingly fast.

“i’m fine,” you mumble.

he doesn’t buy it. “did you sleep?”

“…define sleep.”

he gives you the flattest glare.

“yn.”

you bite into a dumpling to avoid answering, and he sighs, pushing a water bottle toward you.

“you’re impossible.”

“you love it,” you shoot back without thinking.

he freezes for half a second — barely noticeable — then clears his throat.

“just eat.”

you smile into your bowl.

you shouldn’t enjoy this.

the fussing.

the caring.

the way he acts like you’re his responsibility, like he knows all your bad habits and wants to fix every one.

you shouldn’t enjoy it.

but you do.

you really, really do.

he watches until you’re halfway through the meal.

then he finally relaxes, leaning back, arms crossed.

“see?” he says. “doesn’t kill you to eat real food.”

you stick your tongue out at him.

he rolls his eyes again — but the corners of his mouth curve up, small, soft.

you pretend you didn’t notice.

because if you did, your heart might actually combust.

dinner with the whole group was not planned.

it never is, honestly.

it starts with martin yelling across campus that he’s starving, seonghyeon shouting that he wants bbq, keonho insisting everyone should eat something “nutritional,” chae whining that her boyfriend ditched her for a study group, and james tugging your sleeve asking, “you coming?”

and somehow all of that turns into nine people crammed into a corner booth at a busy korean bbq place downtown, half of them shouting over the grill.

the table is a mess — kimchi everywhere, lettuce baskets overflowing, someone knocked over a water cup, and juhoon already looks like he regrets showing up.

you end up wedged between james and chae, which is honestly the safest place to be. james handles the grill (obviously — he trusts no one else) and chae feeds you lettuce wraps she builds with too much meat.

“chae— it’s literally falling apart,” you complain.

“shut up and eat it,” she demands, stuffing it into your hand. “i’m coping with abandonment.”

“your boyfriend is literally at the library.”

“yeah. abandoning me.”

you laugh as she dramatically wipes a fake tear.

across from you, martin is telling a story way too loudly.

“so then she says, ‘martin, you’re not emotionally available enough,’ and i’m like, girl, you knew that from day one.”

“you’re the red flag she saw coming,” seonghyeon says, stealing meat off the grill.

“exactly!”

keonho sighs, sipping water like he’s 42 years old and has kids in the car. “you shouldn’t be proud of that.”

“whatever, i’m thriving.”

juhoon doesn’t look up from his phone. “you’re single.”

“THRIVING,” martin repeats aggressively.

you nearly choke on your rice.

next to you, james nudges your arm. “drink some water.”

you blink. “i’m fine.”

“you literally inhaled a grain of rice,” he mutters, handing you his cup.

you drink just to shut him up. (you don’t mind. it’s familiar. comforting. too comforting.)

chae leans over you. “see? clingy.”

“not clingy,” james says through gritted teeth, flipping the pork belly.

“he is,” seonghyeon adds, grinning. “bro, if yn said she wanted snow from the arctic he’d try to go get it.”

“okay, that’s—”

“true,” martin finishes.

you kick him under the table.

james glares at the entire universe for a second.

the conversation shifts into everyone talking about relationships — real, fake, situationships none of them should be proud of.

chae talks about her boyfriend who sends her long paragraphs and heart emojis.

martin claims he’s “emotionally stable now” (a lie).

seonghyeon says he’s seeing someone but “it’s not serious,” and keonho threatens to smack him with a lettuce leaf.

it’s chaotic. loud. stupid. perfect.

you’re warm, full, laughing — and you’re hyper aware of james next to you:

his knee brushing yours under the table,

his arm occasionally pressed against yours,

the way he keeps giving you the good pieces from the grill without saying anything.

you’re not sure when your heart started doing this thing — tightening at every small gesture — but you hate and love it equally.

it’s halfway through dinner when juhoon finally speaks just to read something from his phone.

“apparently the university opened that exchange program application again,” he says casually. “the one posted like two weeks ago. slots are almost full.”

you don’t react. why would you? it’s random information.

but next to you—

james goes still.

not visibly. not dramatically.

just… still.

like someone hit pause on him.

you don’t notice — you’re too busy watching martin argue with the grill tongs — but the boys do.

seonghyeon glances at him.

keonho raises an eyebrow.

martin smirks knowingly.

but none of them say anything.

juhoon scrolls again. “waterloo’s the top pick. comp sci kids are going feral over it.”

you hum, sipping your drink. “makes sense. that school’s no joke.”

james doesn’t say a word.

his hand is gripping the chopsticks too tightly.

his jaw clenched.

his gaze fixed on the grill but not actually looking at anything.

chae, oblivious and happy, adds, “oh yeah! someone in my class said it’s super competitive. barely anyone gets in.”

you nod. “i wouldn’t survive abroad alone. i’d probably cry and come back in a week.”

martin snorts. “james wouldn’t. he’d adapt. he’s built like a robot.”

you laugh.

james doesn’t.

he pointedly clears his throat. “anyway—did you guys finish the econ assignment? the one on market structures?”

it’s so abrupt that everyone’s heads swivel toward him.

“oh god, that thing,” seonghyeon groans immediately, slumping forward like he’s been waiting for someone to bring it up so he could complain. “i swear my brain liquefied halfway.”

“same,” keonho jumps in, pulling out his phone instantly. “bro, look. i made this graph at 3 a.m. tell me why it looks like propaganda.”

yoonchae snatches the phone before he can protest. “a graph cannot look like propaganda—” she pauses. “okay. actually no. this looks illegal. why is the demand curve shaped like a question mark?”

“creative interpretation,” keonho defends.

“creative stupidity,” seonghyeon mutters.

the three of them are suddenly deep in discussion—complaints, bad explanations, dramatic reenactments of their suffering—like james hadn’t even been weird a second ago.

only martin notices.

he glances sideways at james, eyes narrowing just slightly.

james keeps his face neutral, focused, even nodding along at keonho’s rant like he totally cares about the shape of a question-mark demand curve.

martin’s mouth twitches.

interesting.

but he doesn’t say anything.

dinner ends in that slow, chaotic way it always does—with everyone talking over each other, gathering their things, yoonchae complaining about the cold, seonghyeon already half-asleep, and keonho loudly insisting he did in fact understand the econ homework (he did not).

martin and james both reach for the bill at the same time.

“i got it.”

“no, i got it.”

“james, don’t start.”

“you started.”

you watch them march to the counter like two dads trying to out-parent each other.

you, yoonchae, keonho, and seonghyeon wait by the exit. yoonchae is scrolling, keonho is humming, and seonghyeon is leaning on the wall like he’s about to nap standing up.

meanwhile, at the counter—

martin shoots james a side-glance. “so. when are you gonna tell her?”

james nearly drops his card.

he exhales through his nose, quiet. “soon. i’m… working on it.”

“you keep saying that.”

“because it keeps being true.”

martin just nods, grabs the receipt, and doesn’t push further.

outside, everyone debates the route home.

“i’m taking the shuttle,” yoonchae says, already pulling her jacket up to her ears.

“i’m biking,” keonho announces proudly.

“in this weather?” seonghyeon squints at him. “rest in peace.”

you’re shivering a little without realizing.

james notices instantly.

“i’ll walk her back,” he says before anyone else can volunteer. “my dorm’s on the way.”

it isn’t.

everyone knows it isn’t.

nobody comments.

you all wave goodbye, and then it’s just you and james, the cool night air settling around you.

you walk in comfortable quiet for a bit—until james suddenly stops, unwinds his scarf, and drapes it around your neck.

“james—”

“it’s cold,” he says simply, adjusting it so it sits properly on your shoulders. “you never dress warm enough.”

you blink. “you shouldn’t do all these things for me. you’ll never get a girlfriend like this.”

his hands still for half a second.

then he looks at you.

really looks.

soft, almost amused, but also… a little too honest.

“why would i need a girlfriend?”

you open your mouth.

nothing comes out.

your brain short-circuits, but you’re also sleepy, so all you manage is a confused little “…oh.”

he huffs a tiny laugh and starts walking again, like he didn’t just say something illegal.

you hurry to catch up, tugging his scarf closer around you.

“anyway,” he says lightly, “you have to stop skipping breakfast.”

“i don’t skip—”

“yn,” he warns.

“fine. maybe sometimes.”

“every day.”

“i like sleeping!”

“you like making me worry,” he mutters.

you grin. “you worry about me?”

“unfortunately,” he mumbles.

you bump his shoulder with yours. “sounds like a you problem.”

“it is,” he sighs dramatically.

you laugh, breath fogging the air, and the two of you keep walking—close, quiet, warm despite the cold—his scarf wrapped around you, his arm brushing yours, and neither of you mentioning the question hanging between you:

why would he need anyone else?

two weeks pass—two brutal, brain-rotting, soul-crushing weeks where every professor in the department collectively decides to unleash every assignment, project, and exam known to mankind.

everyone is half-dead.

group chats are filled with “i’m gonna drop out” and “this is my villain origin story” and pictures of iced coffee lined up like army soldiers.

so the moment exams end, yoonchae throws herself dramatically on the cafeteria table and declares:

“we’re hanging out. all of us. i don’t care where, i don’t care how. i need human joy.”

someone suggests a café, someone else suggests the arcade, and then you—still half-zombie—mutter,

“my house is fine. i’ll make food.”

everyone immediately agrees because free food + yn = perfect combination.

the plan is set.

everyone’s supposed to show up saturday afternoon.

saturday comes. you’ve cleaned, cooked, set up blankets, switched on fairy lights. yoonchae is on her way. keonho and seonghyeon are together. martin’s bringing drinks.

you text the group: “eta?”

everyone starts sending updates.

except james.

you frown, check his private chat.

you: hey?? you coming right??

james:

… typing

… stops typing

… typing again

james: hey uh

i think i can’t make it

something came up

sorry

you stare at your phone.

you: ?? what came up

james:

just something

you guys go ahead

you sit back on your heels, confused.

james doesn’t bail on plans.

ever.

“maybe he’s sick,” you tell yoonchae as she arrives and dumps her bag on your couch.

“james? sick?” she snorts. “that man refuses to get sick. he could cough up a lung and still show up to class with notes for the lecture.”

but she shrugs it off.

you try to.

you try really hard.

except the next week… and the next… and the next…

you start noticing things.

small things.

tiny things.

things he probably thinks you won’t catch.

but you do.

you always do.

he stops waiting outside your classroom like he usually does.

he sits at the opposite end of the table during lunch instead of sliding into the seat next to you.

he laughs at your jokes, but it’s delayed, like he wasn’t paying attention.

he leaves earlier. arrives later.

he texts less. replies shorter.

he gently avoids moments where it’s just the two of you.

none of it is enough to call out.

none of it is dramatic.

but all of it feels wrong.

and every time he steps back even a little, you feel something tight pull in your chest.

yoonchae notices your silence one afternoon in the library.

“you okay?”

“yeah.”

you aren’t.

because james isn’t just busy—he’s distancing.

and you don’t know why.

you don’t know when it started.

and what hurts the most?

he doesn’t even look at you long enough for you to ask.

the next week is worse.

like—noticeably worse.

even yoonchae, who sometimes misses the most obvious things (once she thought a stray cat was a purse), starts narrowing her eyes at james.

it starts during lunch on monday.

you arrive late—your professor kept you back—and normally, without fail, james shifts automatically to make space for you, legs bumping yours, tray pushed your way without asking.

today?

he doesn’t even look up.

there’s an empty spot beside him, but instead of waiting for you to sit, he slides over to talk to seonghyeon about some basketball thing.

you stand there for a second, awkward, before slipping into a seat next to yoonchae.

she stares at you.

then at him.

then back at you.

“…he didn’t even say hi,” she whispers.

“maybe he didn’t see me.”

“girl, a blind bat would’ve seen you. you were literally standing right in front of him.”

you stab your rice harder than necessary.

the next few days follow the same pattern.

texts left on read.

messages opened but not answered.

calls missed.

eye contact dodged like you’re radioactive.

he’s completely normal with the others.

laughing with keonho.

arguing with martin about some gaming strategy.

helping seonghyeon carry a box for his club.

but with you?

nothing.

you’re not invisible—you’re ignored.

and that stings worse.

yoonchae keeps giving you these pity side-eyes and elbow nudges whenever he does it. martin, who notices everything, watches james with this deepening frown. even juhoon tries to include you more, shooting james confused glances.

but james?

james keeps this careful, deliberate distance from you.

you feel it in every step he takes away.

friday afternoon, you’re in the kitchen helping your mom peel apples when it spills out of you.

“mom?”

“mm?” she looks over, smiling, hair tied back in a loose bun.

“is it… is it possible for someone to just… stop talking to you? even if nothing happened?”

she pauses.

not the general pause.

the mom pause.

“who?” she asks gently.

you shrug, slicing too hard. “yufan.”

she turns fully now.

“ah.”

that single syllable carries about twenty years of understanding.

“he’s avoiding me,” you say, voice cracking a bit. “and i don’t know why. he won’t talk to me. he won’t even look at me properly. and he—he doesn’t do that. not with me.”

your mom wipes her hands on a cloth, walks over, and cups your cheek like you’re still ten years old and crying over scraped knees.

“sweetheart,” she says softly, “you know yufan. that boy has loved you like a shadow since he was in diapers. he doesn’t change on a whim.”

“but he is changing.”

“then something happened.” she brushes your hair back. “or something’s happening. and he’s dealing with it on his own.”

“but why can’t he talk to me?”

“because whatever it is… he thinks it’ll hurt you.”

you blink up at her.

she continues, gentle, steady:

“give him space. he’s not ignoring you because he wants to hurt you. he’s doing it because he’s trying to figure himself out. boys get weird sometimes.”

“he’s not just a boy. he’s—”

“i know,” she smiles. “he’s your yufan.”

your throat closes.

her thumb rubs your cheek.

“just… give him time.”

you want to believe her.

you really, really do.

but when the person you’ve spent your entire life with suddenly starts treating you like a stranger—

time feels less like patience

and more like punishment.

it’s monday, and you’ve had enough.

you’ve been tiptoeing around his distance for a week now, stewing in confusion, frustration, and the quiet sting of being ignored by someone you’ve known your whole life.

so you go straight to the source.

you find him leaving comp eng, books and papers stacked precariously in his arms, as if he’s built this wall of things between himself and the world.

“james!” you call, striding forward before he can get away.

he glances up, expression unreadable. “yn.”

“why’ve you been avoiding me?” you ask, keeping your voice steady but sharp. “all week. texts, in person… you’re acting like nothing’s ever happened.”

he doesn’t falter. doesn’t look guilty. doesn’t apologize. he just shifts the stack in his arms, balancing them carefully. “i haven’t been avoiding you.”

“don’t lie,” you snap. “i see you. you’re… it’s only with me.”

he shrugs, calm, almost detached. “it’s complicated.”

“complicated?” you repeat, narrowing your eyes. “you mean you don’t want to tell me something, and you think ignoring me fixes it?”

he glances away. “i didn’t want to… i mean, it’s easier if you don’t know yet.”

“easier?” you echo, incredulous. “easier for who? for you?!”

he doesn’t answer.

instead, he starts to step past you.

you grab his arm instinctively. “don’t walk away from me.”

he freezes but doesn’t struggle.

and then the inevitable happens.

his tower of papers slips.

books and sheets scatter across the floor in a messy flurry.

“great,” he mutters, crouching to grab them.

“let me help.” you kneel down, collecting the loose sheets.

as you stack them, one paper catches your eye.

your heart skips.

the top sheet reads:

yonsei exchange program — duration one year

student: zhao yufan

accepted: yes

you stare at it. then at him. your voice low, tight: “you’re… going?”

he shrugs, picking up the remaining papers. “yeah.”

“and you didn’t tell me?” you ask, a bitter edge creeping in. your chest isn’t exploding with heartbreak, but your stomach twists, your jaw tightens. “you’re leaving… in three days… and you didn’t say a word.”

he doesn’t meet your eyes. he just keeps stacking his papers, methodical. “didn’t think you needed to know yet.”

“not think i needed to know?” you repeat, incredulous. “my best friend is leaving the country for a year and i find out from this?” you jab a finger at the paper. “you don’t even care that i barely have time with you? that—”

he finally looks at you. his expression is calm, almost cold. “i care. i just… don’t want to deal with it. with telling you, with…” he gestures vaguely at himself. “…everything this means.”

you blink. speechless. part of you wants to argue, part of you wants to storm off, part of you wants to punch him.

instead, you do the only thing you can.

you throw the paper at him.

“fine,” you mutter, your voice low, controlled, simmering with that mix of hurt and frustration. “go then.”

you turn and walk away, leaving him crouched there, papers half-gathered, watching you leave without another word.

the hallway is noisy around you, but you barely hear it.

all you hear is the echo of betrayal—the quiet, infuriating realization that he’s leaving, and for once, you weren’t in the loop.

and that hurts more than you thought it would.

that was the first night you cried over james. cried because of him, not just some sad thought or fleeting memory.

you’d even cancelled on his farewell dinner with the boys. the thought of sitting there, pretending everything was normal while he was leaving, while he’d kept you in the dark… it was unbearable.

yoonchae, being the angel she was, cancelled too. she didn’t argue, didn’t scold. she just came over, sat on your bed, and wrapped her arms around you.

“it’s okay,” she whispered, her hand rubbing gentle circles on your back. “it’s okay to feel this.”

you didn’t respond. couldn’t. the tears came in harsh, unstoppable waves. your pillow was wet before you even realized it, your chest aching with a mix of betrayal, frustration, and that hollow ache of missing him before he even left.

“i—i just…” your voice broke, muffled against her shoulder. “how could he…? after everything… we—”

“shhh,” she soothed. “i know. i know, yn. it hurts. it’s supposed to hurt.”

you sobbed harder. your whole body shook. the sound of your own crying was almost alien. you weren’t used to crying like this. not for him. not him, the boy you’d known since forever, the one you thought you’d always have at your side.

yoonchae stayed there, silent except for the occasional murmur of comfort, until your tears finally slowed. until your breathing, ragged and shaky, found a rhythm again.

then she pulled back slightly, cupping your face gently. “look at me,” she said. her eyes were warm, steady. “he may be leaving, yn. he may have hurt you. but you’re not alone. you have people who see you. people who care. people who aren’t going anywhere.”

you blinked at her, trying to catch your breath, trying to let that sink in. the ache in your chest was still there, tight and sharp, but somehow a little less suffocating.

“tomorrow,” she said softly, “we figure out how to survive this. together. okay?”

you wake up to the dull ache behind your eyes.

puffy. swollen. tired.

the weight of the past three days presses down on you like a physical thing.

you shuffle into the kitchen, hair messy, pajamas wrinkled, and see your mom standing there, coffee in hand. she smiles at you—but it’s not her usual warm smile. it’s sad. knowing.

“hey,” she says softly. “you slept in again.”

you frown. she notices. “what?”

“yufan came by early this morning,” she says, voice gentle. “he… he didn’t wake you. said you don’t sleep much, so he let you rest. then he left.”

something tightens in your chest. your stomach twists. you choke on the quiet, stunned.

“he… he came?” you whisper.

“yep,” she nods. “quietly. didn’t want to bother you.”

you turn away, leaning on the counter, fists clenched, feeling the familiar ache again. he came, and you didn’t even know. he came to see you one last time before leaving for a whole year, and you slept through it.

your mom rests a hand on your shoulder. “yn… i know it hurts. but he cares about you.”

you nod silently, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

later, you’re at college with seonghyeon, keonho, martin, juhoon, and yoonchae, trying to focus on assignments, lecture notes, anything.

your friends chatter around you, but your mind keeps wandering.

and then… your phone buzzes.

you glance down.

james posted a story.

somewhere in europe. café-lined streets, a small group of new friends laughing beside him, wind in his hair. smiling.

your chest tightens.

he hasn’t even texted you. not once.

you stare at the screen, silent. the laughter, the light in his face—it’s beautiful, and it stings.

finally, with a small, shaky sigh, you pull out your phone.

thumb hovering.

then you type:

hope you have a good time in europe.

send.

and put your phone down.

you glance at your friends, all busy with their own things. seonghyeon nudges you, but you shake your head. you’re not ready to talk about it.

then, quietly, you make a decision.

enough of the waiting. enough of the confusion. enough of the hurt.

you’re going to move on from james.

it’s not easy. it’s not sudden. it’s not dramatic.

but it’s final.

and as you take a deep breath, a small, bitter but steady strength blooms inside you.

this chapter is over.

and somewhere, far away, he’s starting his own.

and you… you’re ready to start yours too.