#cortis drabbles

JAMES

he lasts exactly twenty minutes before wandering into the living room like nothing happened. “so…” he says, dropping onto the couch. “this silent treatment thing is kinda boring.” you don’t even look up from your phone. “right. tough crowd.” he lets out a quiet laugh before nudging your foot with his. “you know i was being an idiot, right?”

you finally glance at him, and he points at you. “there it is. eye contact. progress.” he smiles but it softens almost immediately. “seriously, though… i didn’t mean half the stuff i said. i was annoyed, and you just happened to be standing there.” he winces. “that sounded worse out loud.”

you can’t help but laugh, and he grins like he’s just won something. “there you go.” he slips his hand into yours, giving it a quick squeeze. “let’s not do that again, hm? i like you way more when you’re making fun of me than ignoring me.”

JUHOON

he knocks softly on your bedroom door, even though he knows it’s unlocked. “can i come in?” he asks. when you don’t tell him no, he steps inside and sits on the floor beside your bed instead of next to you. “i don’t really like ending the day like that,” he says quietly. “it feels… weird.”

he looks down at his hands for a moment before smiling to himself. “i knew we were both frustrated. i’m not saying it was all my fault.” he glances up at you. “but i still wish i’d handled it better.” after a beat, he asks, “are we okay?”

you reach over and slightly bump his shoulder with yours. he smiles instantly, the kind that reaches his eyes. “okay,” he murmurs, “i was starting to miss you already.”

SEONGHYEON

he’s standing in the hallway when you come out, like he’s been trying to decide whether to knock or just wait it out. “hey,” he says, quieter than earlier. no attitude this time, just a bit tired. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “can we not leave it like that?”

you don’t respond right away, and he nods like he’s expected it. “yeah, okay. fair.” he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “i shouldn’t have said it like that. i was bothered, and i made it bigger than it needed to be.”

there’s a pause where neither of you move much. he looks at you properly then, not challenging, but steady. “i’m not trying to keep this going,” he says. “i just don’t want it weird between us.” another beat. “i’m sorry. we’re good right?”

KEONHO

he doesn’t really settle after the argument. you can hear him moving around the apartment like he’s trying to look normal and failing at it. when he finally does come into the room, he doesn’t try to pretend he’s fine. “i don’t like this.” he says, like he’s been holding it in for a while. to be frank, he has.

he sits down near you, not quiet close enough at first, then he slowly shifts until he is. his hands clasped together loosely, fidgeting. “i keep thinking about what i said,” he admits. “it wasn’t fair. i just got overwhelmed, and i took it out on you.” he looks down, then back up. “i’m sorry. really.”

there’s a quiet stretch where he doesn’t rush you to respond. when you finally move closer, his shoulders drop like he’s been holding his breath. “okay.” he says softly, almost relieved. “i just — i really don’t want us to feel far away from each other.”

pensieri haven’t written something like this so ntm on me …. this is just a filler post since i have a keonho smau coming up ! pls like and reblog ( ˊ ᗜ ˋ )

But the moment the guy disappeared from sight, James’s hand dropped from your waist, his strides carrying him ahead of you like a prince who’d just been betrayed by his princess. “Hey?! You’re supposed to be the guy in this relationship, not me,” you called out, half-laughing, half-stunned at his sulking.

“Oh, my sweet angel, come back. I’m so sorry,” you baby-talked dramatically, not caring that you were on the street. Luckily, it was empty—because a second later, you burst out laughing hard at yourself, while James walked on, slightly embarrassed but unable to hide the way your silly voice cracked through his pout.

MARTIN EDWARDS

Martin couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he watched your friend lean in a little too close—ESPECIALLY WHEN MARTIN WAS RIGHT THERE!!! And even though it was just because you were showing something on your phone, Martin absolutely hated the way your friend rested his chin on your shoulder. That was his thing. Something only Martin got to do. You had even “signed” that agreement before you started dating, alongside twenty other rules you barely skimmed through—thinking it was just him being cute. But Martin? He took it very, very seriously.

“Isn’t this cute?” your friend asked, and you simply smiled, nodding. Martin was basically fuming at this point, heat simmering as he watched the two of you. And of course, being the one who couldn’t keep quiet, he cut in with an annoyed tone: “Baby, it’s getting late… why don’t we go home already?” The way he dropped that baby was less affection and more of a warning shot toward your friend, his grip firm as he tugged you by the hand without so much as a glance back.

But the second you both got home? He collapsed dramatically on the bed, turning away like a sulking child. You sighed, hands on your hips as you watched his broad back before climbing onto the mattress and smothering his face with kisses until his jealousy melted away. Honestly, you sometimes wondered why Martin—towering at 6ft—always needed the baby treatment in your relationship. But you couldn’t stop yourself. Not when you knew he did the exact same thing to you whenever you were the one grumpy and jealous.

KIM JUHOON

“Omg!! Look at him, Juhoon!!!” you gushed, patting his shoulder, trying to get him to rewatch Niki’s part in the MV for the tenth time. He rolled his eyes, biting back the urge to tell you to just go marry the guy if you were going to fangirl this hard. Instead, the words stayed trapped in his throat—replaced by the sudden press of his lips against yours. The kiss stole the breath right out of you, his hand firm on your shoulder, keeping you pinned against the back of the couch while your hands flew to his chest, desperately trying to push him off from how dizzy he was making you feel.

When he finally pulled away, he acted far too nonchalant, scrolling through Pinterest and swiping at pictures of pretty girls. But his eyes flickered to you in the corner of his vision, waiting to see if you’d get just as jealous. Instead, you sat there on the bed, stunned into silence, lips still tingling from the out-of-nowhere kiss. This wasn’t like Juhoon at all.

You kept poking at him, asking why he did that, completely oblivious to the fact he’d been jealous and was trying to cover it up. The next day, though? All your Riki photocards were mysteriously missing, every saved aesthetic picture of him wiped from your phone. The culprit? None other than the guy who always pretends to be chill.

EOM SEONGHYEON

Seonghyeon is the type to only get jealous when you give your attention away for too long—because that’s when it finally clicks for him. You staring at your phone and smiling? No problem, that’s normal and he does the same. But laughing at your screen, blushing at whatever’s on it, all while he’s sitting right next to you? Yeah, something’s definitely up, and he can sense it.

His ears would burn red, embarrassed by his own thoughts, as he starts poking your cheek harder than usual. “You’ll dig a hole in my cheek if you keep pressing like that,” you mutter in annoyance, shifting onto your side until your eyes meet his. But instead of looking away like he normally would, he holds that eye contact—fifteen seconds, maybe more—almost like it’s some kind of challenge, leaving you wondering why he’s acting so strange.

He’d never outright admit that he’s jealous, but his actions would tell on him anyway: an arm slipping around your waist, pulling you close to fall asleep; a sudden kiss pressed into your hair; clinging even tighter to you in his sleep. Sometimes he’d even hide your phone behind him so you couldn’t reach it. It was painfully obvious what was going on, but you’d just brush it off as one of his clingy episodes.

AHN KEONHO

You came home without the hoodie you left in, and Keonho noticed instantly. You’d gone out with friends wearing it, but now you were back in just the plain white t-shirt you’d layered underneath. His brow shot up immediately—because if you’d actually given someone else that hoodie, the same one you wouldn’t even let him touch, let alone try on, then something was seriously off.

“My friend took it, his shirt was all sweaty and looked weird—” you explained quickly, but Keonho’s ears perked at one single word. “He??” he repeated in disbelief. You gave a sheepish nod, and without another word he turned his back to you, lying on the couch and staring up at the ceiling like you’d just committed the ultimate betrayal.

“I’ll go and get my hoodie back if that’s what you want,” you offered, trying to ease his sulk, but that only made him whip his head around, glaring at you with the intensity of a puppy scorned. “You’re not taking that hoodie back,” he declared firmly, voice burning hotter than his expression. “We’ll buy a new one. A better one.”

Later on, he’d make an extra effort to pull you into matching hoodies, dragging you in front of a mirror for a selfie. The caption, before he posted it, said it all: proof she’s still mine, even if you manage to steal her hoodie, boo!! 😝❤️

© cortizzlr | tumblr

Your parents kept saying the new house had “character,” which was basically parent-code for old but not haunted enough to complain about. You stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by cardboard boxes stacked like beige skyscrapers, and tried to convince yourself this was fine.

New city.

New school.

New everything.

Totally fine.

Your shoes stuck a little to the hardwood floor with every step — the previous owners definitely did not believe in mops — and the echo in the house made it feel bigger than it actually was. Your mom fluttered from room to room, narrating where the furniture could go, like imaginary interior design was her coping mechanism. Your dad was hauling boxes like he was competing in the “I can do this without help” Olympics.

Jiwoong, meanwhile, had elected to contribute absolutely nothing by lying sprawled on the carpet of his new room, mumbling something about “recharging his social battery” after the move. Classic.

You nudged one of your boxes toward your bedroom with your foot. It was light — probably clothes. You already had a sinking feeling you were going to procrastinate unpacking until you were forced to choose between wearing wrinkled shirts or doing laundry at 2 a.m.

Your room had big windows that let in warm afternoon sunlight, lighting up all the dust floating in the air like dramatic movie particles. The air smelled like fresh paint, cardboard, and the weird emptiness of a place that didn’t feel like yours yet.

You flopped onto your mattress — still wrapped in plastic, squeaking under you like a dying dolphin — and stared at the ceiling.

Moving wasn’t new. You’d done this before.

But the feeling in your chest was.

A mix of anticipation and dread, like the world was about to shove you into something and you weren’t sure if it’d be exciting or just… a lot.

From the hallway, Jiwoong yelled, “Hey! Do you want the desk by the window or can I take it?”

“You already took it,” you yelled back.

A guilty pause.

“…Yeah.”

You snorted. Same old brother, new address.

Your mom poked her head in, cheeks flushed from cleaning. “We’re ordering takeout. Anything you want?”

“Something spicy,” you said. Comfort-food level spicy. Something that tasted like home, whatever “home” even meant anymore.

When she left, your phone buzzed on the mattress beside you. You glanced down at the screen:

Stella Bella: “Did you move in?? How’s the house???”

You smiled a little. Stella wasn’t a long-time friend — more like a chaotic miracle you ran into at the mall a couple months back. You’d been hovering near the same sale rack, both reaching for the same hoodie, and somehow ended up wandering the mall together for two hours. Ever since then, you guys have been inseparable. 

You figured that was that — a fun one-time thing — until you learned she was transferring to the same secondary school.

Small world. Or maybe the universe just had a weird sense of humor.

You snapped a picture of your room: half-unpacked boxes, your plastic-wrapped mattress, and the single lonely water bottle on the floor.

You: “It’s… coming together. Slowly.”

Stella Bella: “LMAO babe that looks like a crime scene. Need help tomorrow?? I’m coming over.”

You laughed, tossing your phone to the side.

You hadn’t even stepped foot into your new school yet. You didn’t know the teachers, the hallways, the people — whether they’d be nice or judgmental or just aggressively normal.

But at least you had one familiar face already waiting for you there.

And that was something.

You lay back again, the faint sounds of your family moving around the house filling the quiet. Tomorrow would probably be messy and confusing and too bright too early… but tonight?

Tonight was just settling into the new silence.

The calm before everything starts.

You woke up to the kind of sunlight that felt rude.

Too bright, too early, too… optimistic for what your brain was prepared to deal with.

Your alarm hadn’t even gone off yet. You stared at the ceiling for a solid ten seconds before your body finally agreed to sit up.

First day of school.

Your stomach fluttered — a weird combo of nerves and caffeine withdrawal.

You swung your legs off the mattress, peeled off the leftover plastic, and dug through your half-unpacked boxes for something that said “I’m new but not socially dead.”

Easier said than done.

Fifteen minutes later, your room looked like a clothing explosion.

Jeans? Too stiff.

Skirt? Too “trying.”

Sweatpants? Too “I give up.”

You landed on something in-between — comfy but flattering. A simple top, layered jewelry, socks that didn’t match but looked intentional. Good enough.

As you exit the house , Jiwoong was already dressed, leaned back on the car seat, scrolling his phone like this was just another Tuesday. His hair looked perfect in that “I swear I didn’t try” way.

“Ready?” he asked, grabbing his bag.

“Define ready.”

Before he could answer, your phone buzzed.

Stella Bella:

“Have you left yet??  Come save me before I freeze or get kidnapped by a raccoon.”

You blinked.

“Stella’s already there.”

Jiwoong raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Mom’s third cousin.”

Jiwoong looked at yoh weird.

“No you idiot, she’s my friend!”

He shrugged, turning on the car engine. “Cool. Let’s go.”

The second you opened the car door, Stella practically lunged forward — curls bouncing, oversized hoodie swallowing her whole body, coffee in one hand like a lifeline.

“Y/n!” she yelled, arms out. “You look adorable—”

Her eyes slid past you.

Stopped. Froze. Jaw: dropped.

Because she was looking at your brother.

Fuck.

“Oh,” she breathed dramatically, “my God.”

You stared at her, then at Jiwoong, then back at her.

“Stella,” you whispered, “please close your mouth.”

But she couldn’t. She was in awe.

Like she’d just seen her celebrity crush step out of a K-drama fog machine.

Jiwoong blinked. “…Hi?”

Stella whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother who looks like that?”

You elbowed her so fast you nearly punctured a rib.

“He’s just… normal.”

Jiwoong shrugged, unbothered, already stepping off the porch. “I’m heading to meet some guys. See you at lunch.”

Stella watched him leave like she was witnessing a tragic love story unfold in real-time.

You snapped your fingers in front of her face. “Focus. School. Survival. Tour. Let’s go.”

She grinned, finally recovering. “Right. Right! Sugar’s waiting at the caf.”

“Sugar…?” you repeated.

“Mm-hm.” Stella wiggled her eyebrows. “You’ll like her. She’s chaos in eyeliner.”

Fantastic.

The school building looked bigger in person — tall, brick, slightly intimidating, like the kind of place where getting lost was guaranteed at least once a day.

Inside, the main office smelled like paper and stale coffee. You checked in with the principal, got your schedule, a map, and a smile that somehow managed to be both polite and exhausted.

Stella looped her arm around yours the second you stepped back into the hallway.

“Okay,” she declared, “your unofficial tour begins now. Sugar! Over here!”

A girl with glossy black hair, winged eyeliner sharp enough to commit a felony, and the most unimpressed expression you’d ever seen turned toward you.

She flicked her gaze up and down — assessing — then nodded like she approved.

“You’re the new kid,” Sugar said. “Cute shoes.”

“Thanks?” you laughed.

“Come on,” Stella chimed, dragging both of you toward the stairs. “We’ll show you the important stuff first — bathrooms with good lighting, which teachers give pop quizzes, which corners to avoid unless you want to get trampled—”

“And which vending machines actually work,” Sugar added.

You felt yourself relax — just a little.

New city, new school, new everything… but this didn’t feel impossible.

Just unfamiliar in a way that might actually turn into something good.

As Stella talked your ear off and Sugar pointed out shortcuts like she had insider blueprints of the building, you had no idea that your life was about to get significantly more complicated.

Stella led you through the hallway like she’d been appointed your emotional support GPS.

“First class is English,” she announced, swinging your joined arms dramatically. “Lucky for you, we have it together.”

“Thank the lords,” you muttered. Getting abandoned on the first day would’ve been cruel and unusual punishment.

The classroom was already half-full, clusters of people chatting, comparing schedules, leaning back in their seats like they’d been glued there since last spring. You felt that tiny pinch of self-consciousness that comes with walking into a room where everyone else already knows the drill.

Stella waved at someone across the room, then tugged you toward two open desks.

“Sit,” she commanded playfully, dropping her bag with a thud. “You can hide behind me if needed. I bite.”

“Comforting,” you deadpanned, though you did feel a little lighter.

People glanced your way — nothing mean, just the kind of curiosity that comes with new faces. A few whispers. A few stares. Typical.

Before you could get too in your head, the classroom door shut and the teacher — a woman who looked like she required three coffees to function — clapped her hands.

“Good morning, everyone. Let’s settle in.”

She pushed her glasses up. “We have a new student joining us today. Would you like to introduce yourself?”

Your soul briefly left your body.

Stella nudged your leg under the desk, mouthing you got this.

You stood, giving a polite smile — or something that you hoped resembled one.

“Hi. Um… I’m Y/n. I just moved here.”

A few nods. Someone in the cat called, another gave her a thumbs up. The teacher waved you to sit down, already launching into attendance.

You exhaled and sank into your seat.

But as the teacher started droning about syllabus expectations, your attention drifted — unintentionally — across the room.

Sitting just a couple rows over, angled slightly toward the window, earbuds dangling around his neck like he forgot to put them away. His hair caught the light, soft and messy in that I-totally-woke-up-hot way, and his posture was relaxed, long legs stretched under the desk like he owned that amount of space without even trying.

He wasn’t looking at you, or anyone. Just absentmindedly tapping his pen against his notebook.

Too good to be real. Almost unreal, honestly.

You leaned slightly toward Stella. “Who’s that guy?”

She didn’t even pretend not to know who you meant. One glance at where you were looking and she made a face.

“Oh. Him.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Yeah, he’s… I mean, look at him. Obviously.” She shrugged. “But nobody really knows much about him. Super weird, super hot, and super single. I think his names is Jay-no James or something.”

You bit back a laugh. “So… a hot weirdo.”

“Exactly.” Stella pointed casually with her eyes. “Everyone agrees he’s kind of the school’s, like… golden boy? But in an overstimulated cat way. But he’s approachable. Like if you had a question, he’d be open to talk about stuff. No one knows much about him though, mostly his inner circle of loud friends.”

Stella leaned in. “Also, don’t worry. Literally everyone thinks he’s pretty. You’re not special.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Across the room, the boy shifted, flipping his pencil between his fingers with lazy ease. You looked away before he could accidentally catch you staring.

Your heart didn’t skip or flutter or explode — nothing dramatic.

But something in the air shifted.

A simple, tiny awareness.

The kind that doesn’t mean anything yet…but eventually will.

The bell rang, everyone bolted like they hadn’t eaten since the Jurassic era, and you… well, you stood in the hallway staring at your schedule like it might suddenly just end it all right then and there.

Stella had said, “Meet us near the caf! You can’t miss it!” You absolutely missed it.

You turned left when you should’ve turned right, walked into a random math wing, ended up near a trophy case glittering with sports achievements you did not care about, and somehow found yourself facing a locked supply closet.

Fantastic.

Your first day and you were already lost in the academic wilderness.

You pulled out your phone.

You: “I think I’m in Narnia.”

Stella Bella: “STOP MOVING I’M COMING TO FIND YOU”

You waited, clutching your lunch tray (which you regretted paying for the moment you realized the lasagna was suspiciously gray), until a familiar voice echoed from down the hall.

“Y/N!”

Stella skidded around the corner like she’d sprinted the whole way, Sugar strolling behind her with the calm indifference of someone who did not run for anyone.

“There you are!” Stella huffed, grabbing your arm dramatically. “Why didn’t you text me sooner?? I thought you were kidnapped.”

“I texted you literally two minutes ago.”

“Exactly. Two minutes too long.”

Sugar nudged you with her shoulder. “Come on. We saved you a spot in the back.”

The cafeteria was loud. Like, concert bass loud. And smelled like pizza, fries, and teenage stress. They led you to a table tucked in the corner, away from the chaos.

Stella plopped down. “Okay, okay, so… first impressions. Spill.”

You opened your mouth… and she answered her own question.

“The first thing you noticed was James, wasn’t it?”

You choked on air. “What— no— I was just— he was sitting right there!”

Sugar snorted. “Mhm. Sure.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what, you guys didn’t notice him on your first day?”

Stella and Sugar exchanged a look.

Then, in perfect unison:

“Oh, absolutely.”

“He looked like a Pinterest board walked into class,” Stella said.

“Like god said ‘let me just try something real quick,’” Sugar added.

You shoved a fry in your mouth to hide your smile. “You guys are making way too big of a deal out of this.”

“Not really.” Sugar shrugged. “I’m actually friends with his sister. Livie? We’re in art together.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Since when did he have a sister?”

“Since Birth?” Sugar twirled her straw. “Anyways, super cool. Kinda quiet. But she told me that he has never had dated anyone.”

Stella leaned in so fast her hair nearly slapped you. “No way??”

Sugar lowered her voice even though no one was listening.

“And has never even held hands with a girl.”

Stella’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean ever?”

“I mean ever ever,” Sugar repeated. “Like, according to Livie, he’s never had a girlfriend or whatever. Never a situationship. Never even kissed anyone at a party.”

You blinked. That… didn’t match the boy you saw in English — pretty, composed, attention-grabbing without even trying.

“That’s… surprising,” you said honestly.

“Right?” Stella waved her fork. “I swear, half the school has thrown themselves at him.”

Sugar smirked. “And he dodges every single one like he’s in a video game.”

You laughed before you could help yourself.

“He’s probably just picky,” you said.

“Or emotionally unavailable,” Stella added cheerfully.

“Or both,” Sugar concluded.

—

You spilled out of the building with the rest of the student population, everyone scattering to buses and parking lots. Your shoulders ached from carrying a backpack that had no business being that heavy, and all you wanted was to sit down somewhere that didn’t smell like teenage sweat and institutional despair.

You spotted your brother leaning against your car, scrolling on his phone like he owned the vehicle and the entire surrounding ZIP code.

Jiwoong looked up when you approached. “Hey. Survived?”

“Barely,” you said, unlocking the doors. “I think my lunch might’ve been sentient.”

“Nice,” he grinned, sliding into the passenger seat. “Builds character.”

You started the engine, letting the AC blast your face back to life. “How was your day?”

Jiwoong shrugged, but in that I’m-trying-to-pretend-it-wasn’t-actually-kinda-good way.

“Pretty chill. Classes aren’t too bad. Met this really cool guy in physics, actually.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Making friends already?”

He nodded, casual. Too casual.

“Yeah, he’s… I dunno. Just easy to talk to. Funny. Kinda bad at pretending he’s paying attention. We ended up partnered for some lab thing.”

“Nice,” you said, pulling out of the parking lot. “What’s his name?”

Jiwoong stretched his arms behind his head, completely unhelpful.

“Would it be bad if I said I forgot?”

You squinted at him. “Nope. I understand the old age is getting to you.”

He snorted. “I’m just saying. You forgot our cousin’s name for, like, three years.”

“That was one time.”

“That was every family reunion until ninth grade.”

You flicked his arm. He laughed.

A comfortable quiet settled in while you navigated the after-school traffic, until Jiwoong suddenly snapped his fingers like he’d remembered something urgent.

“Oh — we gotta stop by Walmart.”

“What? Why?”

“Mom texted me.” He unlocked his phone and held it up as proof. “She wants stuff.”

You sighed. “Of course she does. What kind of stuff?”

“Dunno. ‘A few things.’ You know how she gets. It’s gonna be like… detergent, batteries, lettuce, and a single onion for some reason.”

You groaned, turning toward the store. “Fine. But you’re running inside. I am not going in there looking like a melted candle.”

He smirked. “Deal. But if it’s more than ten items, I’m calling for backup.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

The sun was setting by the time you pulled into the Walmart parking lot — sky turning soft shades of purple and orange, that peaceful moment where the day starts to exhale.

You didn’t think about English class. Or Stella’s theories. Or Sugar’s gossip.

Or the boy with the messy hair and the lazy pen tapping. Not yet. But the universe wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

You probably should’ve been resting.

But instead, you were wrapped burrito-style in your blanket, half-dead, half-scrolling, fully miserable. Your phone hovered dangerously above your face — because of course if you dropped it in your current state, you’d simply let it crush you. Natural selection.

Your nose was clogged, your eyes were puffy, and you were convinced your body was 73% mucus. Cute. You had just liked a post titled “soup is the sluttiest food” when you heard the front door slam.

Jiwoong’s voice echoed through the house.

“HELLO? I’M HOME—”

Then another voice — unfamiliar, deeper, smoother — chimed in:

“Bro, you don’t have to yell. Isn’t your sister contaminated with sickness and resting peacefully?”

You froze. You didn’t know who that was.

But you knew exactly which species it belonged to:

One of Jiwoong’s loud, dramatic, painfully extroverted friends.

Great. Just what your feverish corpse needed.

You sank deeper into your bed, debating pretending to be asleep for the next seven hours.

Footsteps thudded down the hallway, voices getting closer — Jiwoong laughing, the Mystery Guy laughing back, the kind of easy, familiar banter that made it clear they’d been friends for a while.

You had zero intention of going out there. You looked like a sick Victorian child. You sounded like a dying vacuum cleaner. But eventually, fluids and biology forced you out of bed.

You shuffled into the hallway wearing your oldest pajama shorts and a giant hoodie, hair in some shape that wasn’t found in nature.

You turned the corner —And froze.

Because standing next to your brother…

Was James. James.

Messy-haired English-class James. Lazy-pen-tapping James. The boy everyone kept whispering about like he was a mythological creature.

He looked… different up close. More real.

Softer. Less glowing. Messy laces untied. Hoodie slightly wrinkled. A little awkward with where to put his hands.

Not “golden boy.” Just a guy.

Jiwoong brightened. “Oh! You’re alive.”

You lifted a hand in greeting. “Barely.”

He grinned. “Come say hi.”

You shot him the are you insane look, but he just pointed anyway.

You trudged over like an NPC on low battery.

Jiwoong gestured between you two. “So, uh, this is James. I told you about him.”

You blinked.

“You said it was some guy in one of your classes and that you forgot his name when I asked for it.”

Jiwoong looked offended. “Okay, wow.”

You turned to James. “Hi.”

James nodded, that polite half-smile boys give when they’re friendly but not talkative.

“Hey.”

You never thought that Jame’s first impression of you would be you in your pjs, bed head, and barefaced yet here you are.

His voice was warmer than you expected. A little shy at the edges.

Like he didn’t talk very loud unless he needed to.

You didn’t comment on any of it.

Jiwoong clapped James on the back and immediately launched into some story about physics class and a lab explosion that apparently wasn’t his fault.

You stepped aside, leaning on the hallway wall while the two of them kept yapping — animated, loud, chaotic — and James, despite being quiet, chimed in with these dry one-liners that made Jiwoong wheeze.

You watched them for a second.

School-James was untouchable.

House-James was… human.

You tried to sleep. Really, you did.

You even did the whole “roll over dramatically and sigh at the wall like a dying Victorian poet” routine, but apparently the universe didn’t care because the noise downstairs was relentless.

Laughter. Thudding footsteps. The clack clack of controllers. Jiwoong yelling like he was livestreaming to a nonexistent fanbase.

You pulled the blanket over your head, groaned, flipped your pillow. Nope. Nothing worked. Every five seconds someone downstairs shouted something like:

“BRO YOU MISSED THAT—”

“NO, YOU MISSED THAT—”

And that was it. You were done being sick and peaceful. You threw off your blanket, stomped out of your bedroom, and trudged down the stairs like a disgruntled raccoon emerging from a trash can.

When you reached the bottom, you paused.

Jiwoong was in his usual chaotic position: half off the couch, controller clutched to his chest, yelling at the TV like it owed him money.

Beside him, sitting way too neatly for how loud the room was, was James.

Messy-soft hair. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his wrists. Long legs folded under him like he didn’t know where to put them.

And quiet.

Painfully, noticeably quiet.

You lifted a hand. “…Hi.”

James looked over.

Not a smile-smile — just a small, polite upturn, the “I’m trying to be normal but I am absolutely uncomfortable” kind of expression.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Jiwoong blinked at the air between you two, then at James, then back at you.

Then he pointed, offended.

“Why are you being quiet? Dude, you were literally yelling at me in the car two hours ago.”

James’s ears went pink. “I wasn’t yelling.”

“You were yelling, James,” Jiwoong insisted. “Now you’re sitting like someone pressed your mute button.”

James shot him a glare. “…I’m not quiet.”

You watched them bicker, arms crossed. This was weird. You’d seen James at school — effortless, composed, almost too pretty — but this version, the quiet one who barely knew what to do with his own hands, didn’t match the image in your head at all.

Jiwoong plopped his controller down and groaned dramatically.

“Y/n. Save us. Sit. Play. Maybe he’ll talk again.”

You opened your mouth to say “no,” because normally you’d rather evaporate than play games with two chaotic boys while sick… but for some reason, maybe fever brain, maybe boredom, maybe mild curiosity, you just sighed and sat down.

Jiwoong tossed you a controller.

“You’re defense.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“I’ll teach you,” he said. “James, stop being quiet and help.”

James looked like he wanted to be offended but didn’t have the energy.

He scooted a little closer, not enough to be obvious, just enough to explain the controls without shouting across the couch.

His voice was low when he spoke.

“This button blocks. This one switches positions.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to be good. Just, uh… be in the right place.”

It was awkward. Painfully.

But kind of cute, too.

The match started. Jiwoong yelled first, obviously.

“LEFT—LEFT—NO THE OTHER LEFT—”

You panicked and pressed three wrong buttons in one go.

James leaned in just a little, pointing at your screen. “It’s okay. Just angle toward him. Like… there.” His tone was calmer than you expected — gentle, even.

You followed his direction, somehow blocked a play, and Jiwoong yelled like you had just saved his life.

“YESSS—SHE CLUTCHED—LET’S GOOO!”

James huffed a quiet laugh. The awkwardness thinned.

Not gone — just… less sharp.

Over the next few rounds, he talked more:

“Watch the flank.”

“There—nice.”

“Good save.”

“That was actually really good.”

You weren’t good, not really, but every time you did something halfway right, James gave these tiny, approving nods like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

And every time he talked, Jiwoong smirked like he knew something you didn’t.

At one point, Jiwoong leaned forward, whispered something into James’s ear — too quickly for you to catch — and James’s eyes flicked toward you for half a second.

Then he immediately looked away like he’d been caught doing something illegal.

Your stomach did something stupid and fluttery. You blamed the fever.

The match ended in a dramatic victory.

Jiwoong threw his arms up. “WE WIN AGAIN. Because we’re gods. And because my sister stopped being trash.”

You elbowed him. “You’re welcome.”

James actually laughed — really laughed this time. Not a breath, not a tiny smile — an actual sound that made his shoulders shake and his eyes soften.

He looked… different when he laughed.

More boyish.

Less distant.

A little brighter.

It was weird to see.

After a few more rounds, James checked his phone and winced.

“I should go,” he said, standing up. “My dad’s gonna think I got kidnapped.”

Jiwoong stood too. “I’ll walk you out.”

James nodded, then glanced at you again — quick, fleeting, almost shy.

“Feel better,” he said quietly.

“Thanks,” you replied, voice cracked and slightly pathetic.

He smiled — small but real — and followed Jiwoong to the door.

You heard their muffled voices by the entryway, Jiwoong saying something that made James groan.

Then the door opened. Closed.

Silence settled over the house.

You were sick, exhausted, still a little annoyed…

But your brain replayed one stupid moment:

James laughing.

James looking over at you.

James warming up, slowly, like someone turning on a light they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch.

You groaned, flopped face-first onto the couch, and blamed everything on your fever.

And yet you knew tonight had shifted something.

The morning light wasn’t trying to murder you this time, which was already a win. Your throat still felt a little scratchy, but the fever haze was gone, and your brain had returned from whatever coma dimension it visited yesterday.

—

By the time you stepped out of Jiwoong’s car, you spotted Stella and Sugar waving at you like two chaos gremlins who had been caffeinated without adult supervision.

Stella practically tackled you first.

“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE ALIVE.”

Sugar crossed her arms like a disapproving doctor. “You look less corpse-like. Congrats.”

They flanked you on both sides as you walked toward the building.

“So,” Stella said immediately, “are you actually recovered or are you doing that thing where you pretend you’re fine and then die in third period?”

“I’m fine,” you said. “Mostly. I mean… except for the part where my brother’s dumb ass somehow got close with James and he was at my house yesterday.”

They both stopped walking.

Sugar blinked. “James… James?”

The tone meant one thing: they definitely thought you were messing with them.

Stella narrowed her eyes. “Be serious.”

“I am serious,” you insisted, hands up. “He was literally in my hallway. Like, physically real. Standing there. Breathing air.”

Sugar’s jaw actually dropped in slow motion. “Wait—wait—hold on. You’re telling me the James was in your house?”

“Yup.”

Stella shook her head like she needed to reset her brain. “Okay, I know you’re not a liar, but that sounds like a lie.”

“I said the same thing to myself,” you muttered.

They kept interrogating you all the way down the hall — what did he say?, was he weird?, did he glow?, did he talk like a normal human or like a mysterious anime protagonist?

You were still insisting that he was surprisingly normal when the hallway got louder — that particular energy that meant the older guys were around.

A cluster of guys — tall, loud, comfortable like they owned the oxygen around them — walked down the opposite end of the hallway. You recognized Jiwoong immediately, because he waved his hands while talking, like he was trying to conduct an invisible orchestra.

Next to him Jame’s orange-dirty blond hair a little messy, backpack hanging off one shoulder, hands in his pockets, that soft, unreadable expression he always carried. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t trying to be charming — just existing in that effortlessly attractive way that wasn’t fair to the general student population.

Jame’s didn’t pause, didn’t break his conversation, didn’t even tilt his head.

He just lifted one hand and waved.

A simple, quick, casual gesture.

The kind someone does when they recognize you.

Or when they remember the way you looked half-dead in a hoodie on their friend’s couch.

Stella’s mouth opened. Sugar’s eyebrows practically flew off her face.

And Jiwoong?

He slowed, side-eyed James like

…since when the hell do you wave at my sister?

The expression lasted half a second before he went back to whatever he was ranting about.

You lifted your hand back in a tiny wave — because what else were you supposed to do — while your friends stared at you as if you had just announced you were secretly royalty.

Stella leaned in. “Okay, so you weren’t lying.”

“Holy shit,” Sugar whispered. “He actually knows your face.”

You rolled your eyes, heat rising in your cheeks. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah,” Stella said. “And I’m Beyoncé.”

You just kept walking, pretending you weren’t replaying the wave in your head like a deranged little GIF on loop.

—

You weren’t sick this time.

Thank God.

Your hair was brushed, your face wasn’t melting, and you weren’t wearing pajamas from the Great Depression. You were actually… kinda cute today. Not on purpose — you weren’t dressing for him — but still. Nice timing from the universe.

Jiwoong had dragged someone inside behind him, talking a mile a minute, when you poked your head out of your room to see who—

Yeah. Of course. James.

He stepped in behind your brother, hands shoved in his pockets, hair a little neater today but still doing that messy-soft thing that made him look unintentionally perfect. And annoyingly tall. And stupidly good in a simple hoodie and jeans.

He glanced up when he saw you.

Just a small flick of his eyes.

Barely a second.

But something about it was… different.

Like he noticed you more today than when you were dying.

You tried not to think about that too hard.

Jiwoong kicked off his shoes, already talking. “We’re gonna set up the game in the living room. You can come join if you want—”

“Maybe,” you said, trying to sound casual instead of definitely maybe absolutely maybe.

Jiwoong disappeared into the kitchen to grab snacks, leaving the two of you standing in the hallway like two Sims waiting for commands.

You shifted your weight. James looked at the ceiling. Beautiful. Cinematic. Oscar-winning awkwardness.

Finally, you cleared your throat. “So… uh. How did you even become friends with my brother?”

James blinked, like he didn’t expect you to speak first.

His voice, when it came out, was quiet — that warm, slightly shy tone he carried.

“Physics,” he said. “He talked to me first. Kinda forced me to, actually.”

You snorted. “Sounds like him.”

James looked at you again — longer this time — like he wanted to smile but didn’t fully let it happen.

It should’ve ended there.

You should have walked away.

But no. Your mouth decided to betray you.

“Um… I heard you’re really popular for your looks but you’ve, like… never dated anyone?”

The silence that followed was immediate and LOUD.

You wanted to die. Actually die. Crawl into the garbage disposal.

James’s ears turned bright red. Not a little pink. Red.

He opened his mouth — actually opened it, like he was about to answer you, to explain something he had clearly never planned on explaining out loud —

“ALRIGHT I GOT THE CHIPS!”

Jiwoong stomped back into the hallway like a toddler in a parade, arms full of snacks, completely obliterating the moment.

James shut his mouth instantly.

Looked away. You wanted to strangle your brother on wsight.

Jiwoong walked past you, but not before glancing between the two of you with the most obnoxiously knowing expression.

You ignored him.

You followed them into the living room, trying not to think about what James had almost said. Or how close you ended up sitting to him on the floor — knees nearly touching, elbows accidentally brushing, every little thing making your heartbeat do cardio.

And when the game started, and Jiwoong started yelling orders like a drill sergeant, it was James — calm, quiet James — who leaned a tiny bit closer and murmured:

“Defense on the right.”

His voice brushed your ear. Light. Warm. Way too nice.

You did what he said without thinking, and he gave you this tiny approving nod that shouldn’t have been attractive but absolutely was.

And in the middle of all the chaos — the yelling, the button mashing, Jiwoong screaming at the TV — you caught yourself looking at James again.

He looked better this close.

Which you didn’t even think was possible.

The sharp nose, the gentle eyes, the stupidly pretty face that everyone at school obsessed over — but here, up close, he looked more real. More boy-ish. More… something you couldn’t pin down without sounding delusional.

You looked away before he noticed you staring.

Except he already had.

Because he turned slightly, eyes flicking toward you for half a second — that unreadable expression on his face — before returning to the game like nothing happened.

You could swear Jiwoong saw it.

Because he kept giving James these suspicious side-eyes, like he was trying to solve a puzzle that had suddenly become way more interesting than Fortnite.

“Hey,” he said after they lost one final round, grabbing his hoodie from the couch. “I should head out. My mom wants me home before dinner.”

He said goodbye to Jiwoong first, then to you — just a soft little “see you,” quiet enough that you almost thought you imagined the warmth in it.

Then he slipped out the door.

And you were left sitting on the floor, pretending your heartbeat had not just been emotionally waterboarded.

—

James didn’t exactly become part of the furniture in your house, but he was getting… dangerously close. What used to be a once-in-a-blue-moon visit somehow turned into him appearing often enough that even your mom stopped reacting. One day she just opened the door, saw him, and said, “Hi James, shoes,” like he was a neighbor kid who lived down the street.

And you? You acted normal. Super normal. Olympic-level normal.

He wasn’t loud like Jiwoong’s other friends; he didn’t crash into rooms or yell at the TV the second he arrived. He just existed there quietly — hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, hair a little chaotic, knees folded on the carpet. Sometimes he asked you the smallest things, like if you’d finished the English worksheet or whether Jiwoong liked spicy chips. Nothing dramatic, nothing that would make Stella start screaming. But… stuff that made him feel less like The James Everyone Talks About™ and more like a boy you saw a lot.

School wasn’t much different — except it sort of was.

Most days it was just simple greetings:

“Morning.”

“You good?”

“Yeah. You?”

You’d pass each other in the hallway, and half the time he didn’t even stop, just gave you that soft little acknowledgement that felt weirdly personal because he didn’t do that with everybody.

But the moments in English had a different texture.

There were plenty of people sitting closer to him, but somehow he’d turn toward youwhen he needed something — a pen, clarification on the assignment, the page number you were all supposed to be on. And every time, he’d go right back to taking notes like he hadn’t just casually short-circuited your brain.

Stella caught one of those moments — specifically the “do you have an extra pen?” moment — and nearly bent her pencil in half.

All of it was subtle enough to ignore if you wanted to.

You didn’t want to.

But you tried.

Too bad the school refused to mind its own business.

By Thursday, the hallways were clogged with whispers. The kind of whispers you didn’t even need to decode.

“Apparently he likes someone.”

“No way.”

“How did the person manage to pull him? She must be really pretty.”

“I heard it’s someone unexpected.”

Stella practically slid into you at your locker like she was reenacting a K-drama. Sugar followed behind her looking like she wanted to file a complaint with the universe.

“You heard, right?” Stella demanded.

“About what?”

You absolutely knew “what,” but you were not about to encourage their detective arc.

“James,” Sugar said, folding her arms. “Rumor is he likes someone. And not one of the girls who film him during PE.”

Stella leaned in. “So… thoughts?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “I’m not his spokesperson.”

Sugar snickered.

“Yeah, but he talks to you.”

“Barely!”

They didn’t look convinced.

You were about to escape when the universe decided to drop James directly into your path — walking with Jiwoong, hoodie bouncing slightly with each step, hands stuffed in his pockets like the hallways were too loud for him.

He looked up. Just for a second. Not a smile. Not a full wave.

Just a lift of his hand — tiny, subtle, unmistakably meant for you.

And then he kept walking.

Jiwoong nudged him in the shoulder.

James ignored him.

Stella and Sugar were staring at you like witnesses in a crime scene.

You pretended to be unbothered even though your stomach was doing gymnastics.

And just like that, the hallway swallowed everyone again — the rumors, the looks, the stupid little wave that somehow made everything ten times more complicated.

The rumour didn’t die down — it mutated.

By Friday, it felt like the entire school had collectively lost their minds. Everywhere you walked, someone was whispering “James,” “someone unexpected,” “he totally likes her,” like he was a walking plot twist in a teen drama and everyone had decided to become unpaid extras.

You tried to ignore it. Stella did not try.

Sugar tried, but only physically — emotionally she was absolutely listening and analyzing and judging every whisper.

The three of you were walking toward the east building when fate shoved you right behind James and his friend group. Not close enough to be part of them, but close enough to hear everything the universe didn’t want you to miss.

A pack of girls further up the hall spotted the group.

And then it happened.

“JAMES!” one of them called out, like she was announcing a celebrity sighting.

He didn’t turn.

She tried again. “HEY, WHO’S THE SPECIAL GIRL?”

Two more joined in, voices overlapping.

“Tell us who you like!”

“Come onnn, we know it’s someone!”

“Is she in our grade? Is she pretty? Is she—”

The laughter, the teasing — loud, playful, absolutely clueless that you were ten steps behind him losing your internal organs.

You watched James tense. Not a dramatic flinch — just a tiny tightening in his shoulders, like someone had pulled a string too tight.

The boys around him reacted the way boys do when they smell chaos: half entertained, half instigating.

Jiwoong swatted him on the arm. “Bro, just tell them to shut up.”

James didn’t answer so Jiwoong stuck his tongue out at the group of girls while flipping them off. 

Another friend chimed in, “You could literally point at a random wall and they’d blush at it—”

“These fuck ass people,” James muttered, too quiet for the girls to hear but loud enough for his friends.

He kept walking, jaw set, eyes fixed forward.

And for the first time since he’d started coming over often, he didn’t look back. Not at the girls, not at the hallway… not at you.

Later that day — when James came over again with Jiwoong — the shift was instant.

He didn’t linger in the hallway like before. Didn’t say hi. Didn’t ask anything. He just walked in, quiet in a way that wasn’t his usual quiet, and went straight to Jiwoong’s room like he was trying to move through the house without touching the air.

You tried acting normal. Not staring. Not noticing.

But he barely looked at you. Not in a rude way. More like… avoidance was safer.

Jiwoong noticed instantly.

Ten minutes into their game, you heard him through the slightly cracked door.

“What is your problem?”

Silence.

“Dude. What’s wrong with you?”

Still nothing.

Then a faint, tired-sounding sigh — James.

“I don’t feel like talking about it.”

Jiwoong scoffed loudly. “Okay, well, you’re acting weird. Did something happen?”

Another pause. A shift. The creak of a chair.

“No,” James said. Too fast to be believable.

Jiwoong wasn’t buying it. “You can’t fool me, bro. Every time we come here you act—”

“Jiwoong.”

James’s voice — low, tight, the kind he used when the conversation was inching too close to something real.

It shut your brother up for a whole two seconds.

Then came the suspicious tone. “This is about the rumour, isn’t it?”

You froze outside the door.

James didn’t answer.

Which was basically an answer.

Jiwoong exhaled hard. “People are stupid. Just ignore it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

James didn’t respond.

Another rustle. Probably him sitting back, messing with his hoodie strings — that thing he did when he was bothered.

Jiwoong tried one more time, softer this time

“Hey. Seriously. Who cares what they’re saying?”

You could picture James’s expression without even seeing it — that silent, steady look he had when he was hiding something behind the calm.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet you almost doubted you heard it:

“Because they’re not wrong.”

A beat of silence.

Then Jiwoong, confused: “Who is it that you li-?”

Before he could finish, James cut him off. “Drop it.”

And the room went silent again.

You backed away before they could catch you eavesdropping. Heart doing backflips, lungs nowhere to be found.

Because he wasn’t just avoiding people. He was avoiding you.

And whatever he refused to say out loud? It was starting to feel a lot less like a rumour.

The weekend hit like a wall.

Not a dramatic, emotional, cinematic wall — more like an awkward, invisible one you kept walking into face-first.

James didn’t come over Saturday.

Or Sunday.

Or Monday.

Jiwoong brushed it off at first.

“He’s busy.”

“He had practice.”

“He had to help his mom.”

By Tuesday, the excuses were running out. Even he started sounding confused.

“He said he was coming today, but… I don’t know. He might be stuck at something.”

Something, right.

Something that conveniently made him vanish only when he’d have to risk running into you.

Weird thing was — he and Jiwoong were still fine. Totally normal at school. Still talking, still walking to class together, still arguing about which snacks were better. Their friendship hadn’t cracked even a little.

But the minute you were within ten feet?

James became a ghost.

If he noticed you walking into a room, he’d look away first.

If you passed him in the hallway, his greetings shrank down into a quick nod that barely existed.

If Jiwoong invited him over after last period, he’d mumble something about “another time” and bolt.

And the worst part?

This was the same boy who once waved at you across a hallway like it meant something.

The same boy who leaned closer during games, quiet voice warm against your ear.

The same boy who almost told your brother something he was too afraid to say out loud.

Now he couldn’t even look you in the eye.

You tried not to overthink it — A LIE — and lasted approximately 45 minutes before you found yourself sitting with Stella and Sugar under the stairwell after lunch, poking at the remains of your sandwich like it had personally offended you.

Stella watched you for exactly three seconds before kicking your shoe.

“Okay, what’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” you said.

Sugar laughed out loud. “Liar. You look like a sad Victorian boy in a window.”

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “He’s avoiding me.”

Both their heads snapped toward you like you had just announced the school was on fire.

“James?” Stella whispered, eyes huge.

“No, the Easter Bunny,” you snapped. “Yes, James.”

Sugar leaned closer. “Avoiding as in… avoiding-avoiding?”

You nodded.

Stella smacked the ground. “Then he totally likes you.”

You nearly choked. “HOW does that make sense?”

“Because boys are stupid,” Sugar said calmly, taking a sip of her drink. “When they like someone, they either breathe on them nonstop or sprint away like they’re allergic.”

Stella pointed dramatically. “And he’s doing the sprinting.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you argued weakly.

Stella raised an eyebrow. “Let me list it out for you. He talks to basically no one in English, except you. He waved at you in the hallway like you two had a three-season romance arc. He’s been coming over to your house like it’s his side-quest home. And then the second rumors start? Poof — he evaporates.”

Sugar crossed her arms. “If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t care enough to freak out.”

You hated that it made sense.

And you hated even more that a small, traitorous part of you hoped it was true.

After school, you tried heading straight home, but the universe had other plans. You spotted him outside the front gate — backpack slung over one shoulder, hair messed up from the wind, talking quietly to one of his friends.

He looked different today.

Not bad. Not tired. Just… preoccupied. Like his brain was somewhere else entirely.

And that tiny, painful avoidance? It showed again when his friend said something funny. James laughed — soft, real — and the second he turned slightly and spotted you?

His smile fell.

Not all the way. Not dramatically.nJust enough that you felt it.

Stella nudged you from behind. “Go.”

You swallowed. “No.”

“Go,” Sugar said, pushing your shoulder.

“I’m not—”

Stella shoved you. Hard.

You stumbled forward like a malfunctioning robot, and by the time you regained balance, you were already walking toward him.

James noticed.

His friend said something, but James didn’t answer.

He just watched you come closer — eyes shifting, posture tensing like he wasn’t prepared for this at all.

“Hey,” you said, stopping a few feet away.

For a second, he didn’t answer.

Then, in a voice much softer than you expected:

“…Hey.”

You took a breath. “Can we talk?”

His friend took that as a cue to leave. “I, uh… gotta go,” he said, already halfway down the sidewalk.

Now it was just the two of you.

James shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder, gaze flicking away like the pavement was suddenly fascinating.

“What’s up?” he asked.

He was trying so hard to sound normal.

It didn’t work.

You crossed your arms, not to look intimidating, but to keep your hands from visibly shaking. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

His jaw tightened.

“I haven’t—”

“James,” you said gently.

Silence.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the ground. “I didn’t mean to.”

“But you did.”

He didn’t argue that.

You stepped a little closer. Not enough to corner him — enough to make him look at you.

“Did I… do something?” you asked. “Or say something? Or—”

“No,” he said immediately. “No. It’s not you.”

You waited.

He didn’t continue.

The afternoon breeze tugged at the ends of his hair, and he finally looked up — really looked — and it hit you again how pretty he was. Not the kind of pretty people whispered about. The quiet kind. The kind that made your chest tighten.

James swallowed hard. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Because of the rumour?”

He didn’t answer.

His ears flushed — faintly, but enough that you noticed.

And then he said your name for the first time that day — so soft you almost missed it.

“Can we… not talk here?”

Your heartbeat tripped.

“Where then?”

He hesitated, then nodded toward the sidewalk leading away from the school — quieter, emptier, out of earshot.

“Just… walk with me for a bit?”

You followed him down the sidewalk, both of you heading nowhere specific but pretending you were. The air between you felt heavy — not bad, just full. Like every unspoken thing was walking beside you.

James kept his hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders just a little too tense.

You gave him time to speak. He didn’t.

So finally you said it — the question that had been eating you alive.

“James… do you like me?”

He stopped walking. You did too.

He didn’t look shocked — more like he was bracing for impact. His eyes flicked to yours, then away, then back again… but he still didn’t say anything.

Seconds passed. Way too many seconds.

Your chest tightened. “You’re not saying anything.”

He swallowed, jaw clenching once before he finally spoke.

“I don’t know how to feel about you.”

It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t mean.

It was confused — painfully honest in the worst possible way.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “It’s not that I don’t—”

He stopped, tried again.

“I just… don’t know what I’m supposed to do. People won’t shut up. Everyone’s staring. And you’re—”

“Your best friend’s sister?” you cut in.

He winced. “No. That’s not— I mean, yes, but that’s not the issue.”

“It kind of sounds like it.”

He shook his head hard. “I just didn’t want to make things worse for you. Or me. Or… whatever this is.”

Your voice came out smaller than you meant. “So you’re avoiding me.”

His silence said everything.

“It’s fine,” you whispered. “You made it clear.”

His eyes widened just a little, like he hadn’t meant for it to land the way it did.

But it was too late — the bruise was already there.

You stepped back.

“I should go.”

“Y/n—”

“It’s okay. Really,” you lied, and walked away before he could make it hurt more.

He stayed standing there long after you left.

The next week was… awful.

There’s no softer word for it.

If the school had been nosy before, now it felt like you were both walking around with neon signs over your heads.

And you weren’t even together.

You weren’t even talking.

Every hallway felt tight. Too many eyes. Too many whispers that weren’t even about you two but somehow felt like they were.

And then there was James.

He didn’t avoid you the way people do when they hate someone.

It was worse.

He avoided you the way someone does when they care too much and don’t trust themselves to look.

In English class, he didn’t sit next to you even though that’s where the empty seat was. He chose the seat one row over, and you pretended not to notice even though your pulse stuttered when he walked past without meeting your eyes.

Stella noticed immediately.

She leaned in and whispered, “Uh… why does he look like he’s afraid of breathing near you?”

You kept your eyes on the worksheet. “He’s not.”

“He is,” Sugar said flatly from your other side, chin propped on her hand. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

Both of them stared at you.

“Y/n.”

You tensed. “Can we not?”

Stella’s mouth snapped shut. Sugar exchanged a look with her, something silent and worried, but neither pushed.

You were grateful.

And also… not.

Because everything felt like it was pressing on your ribs — the air, the silence, the unsaid things.

By Wednesday, the tension was so thick even people who didn’t know you started sensing it.

Like when you and James reached the same hallway intersection at the same time — you from the left, him from the right — and both of you paused like two NPCs whose scripts glitched.

You looked at him for half a second.

He looked away first.

Your heart dropped through the floor.

Stella whispered, “Yeah okay, I’m officially worried.”

You forced a smile. “It’s nothing.”

Sugar raised a brow. “It’s definitely something.”

You walked faster so you wouldn’t have to answer.

By Thursday, Your brother was involved.

Which was your personal nightmare.

He cornered you in the kitchen before school, eyebrows drawn together like he’d been thinking about this for too long.

“What’s going on with you and James?” he asked bluntly.

You froze mid-toast-butter-swipe. “…nothing.”

He scoffed. “You’re my sister and he’s my best friend. I can tell when something’s up.”

You shot him a look. 

“Y/n—”

“Please,” you said quietly.

Jiwoong paused, thrown off by the softness of it.

He didn’t push.

But the confusion — the worry — stayed on his face like a smudge he couldn’t wipe off.

And you hated that too.

Then Friday came. The day everything cracked.

James came over. It wasn’t planned. At least not by you.

You heard his voice downstairs — low, clipped, familiar in a way that hurt to hear now. Jiwoong opened the door laughing about something, and James laughed too, but it was that small laugh he did when he didn’t actually feel like laughing.

You stayed in your room.

Not because you wanted to.

Because you had no idea how to walk past him without turning into smoke.

You sat on your bed with your textbook open, rereading the same sentence over and over without absorbing a single word. Every sound downstairs made the pit in your stomach twist tighter — footsteps, murmurs, the creak of the couch, the fridge door opening.

At one point, you heard Jiwoong call, “Y/n! We ordered food, you want—”

Then James’s voice, quiet but firm: “Dude. Leave her. She’s probably doing something.”

You pressed your lips together.

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or… whatever the other thing was. The ache-y thing.

You stayed upstairs the entire afternoon.

At some point the house got quieter — probably Jiwoong playing a game while James scrolled on his phone.

You thought avoiding him in your own house made you pathetic.

But then again — he’d avoided you first.

You were lying on your stomach, staring at the floor, when you heard it.

A soft knock.

Not Jiwoong’s knock — his was always too loud, too careless.

This one was hesitant. Almost gentle.

Then:

“…Y/n?”

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse jumped.

You didn’t move at first — like if you stayed still enough he’d think you weren’t there and walk away.

But he didn’t. He stayed.

“Can we talk?” he asked quietly through the door.

“Please?”

Your breath caught.

He sounded… nervous. Genuine. Almost a little scared.

You stared at the door handle like it might burst into flames.

Another pause.

Then softer — softer:

“I know you don’t want to see me. But I need to talk to you. Just for a minute.”

Your heartbeat was so loud you were sure he could hear it from the hallway.

You stood up slowly, legs shaky, fingers cold.

Took one step toward the door.

Then another. Your hand hovered over the knob.

You swallowed.

And finally — finally — you turned it.

The door opened a crack.

James was standing there, hair messy from running his hands through it, hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, something painfully earnest in his eyes.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure whether you were going to slam the door or let him speak.

“…hey,” he murmured.

And the hallway suddenly felt too small for everything unsaid between you.

The hallway felt too tight. Too quiet.

James shifted his weight like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to breathe near you.

He cleared his throat first — barely.

“I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your door.

“About what?” you asked, even though you knew exactly what.

He lifted his eyes — cautiously — like he was afraid the wrong move would make you disappear.

“You,” he said quietly. “And… what I said. Or didn’t say. And how I said it.”

Your chest squeezed.

James’s face crumpled slightly — not dramatically, just a tiny pull in his expression like he’d been waiting for that sentence and hating it.

“I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t. I just freaked out.”

His jaw flexed once. “Everything felt too loud. And I didn’t want to mess you up. Or mess Jiwoong up. Or—”

He exhaled, frustrated with himself. “I don’t know. I panicked.”

You didn’t say anything.

He stepped a little closer — slow, like approaching a skittish cat.

“But I don’t want to keep avoiding you,” he said, voice softer now. “I can’t. It feels worse.”

You swallowed. “So what do you want?”

He hesitated — not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he was scared of it.

“I… want to stop being scared of whatever this is,” he said.

The sentence landed in your chest like a warm weight.

You didn’t realize you’d moved until you were standing closer — close enough to see how his eyelashes trembled a little, how he kept glancing at your mouth and then forcing himself to look at your eyes again like he was trying to behave.

“Okay,” you whispered.

James blinked. “Okay what?”

You didn’t answer with words.

You leaned in — gently, like a test, like a question you hoped he’d understand.

Your lips brushed his.

Just the faintest touch.

Soft. Warm. Barely there.

James froze.

Not pulling away.

Not moving forward.

Just stunned.

You started to retreat, embarrassed heat flooding your face—

But then he whispered, almost breathlessly:

“I’ve never… done that before.”

You stilled.

“I know,” you said softly.

James let out a tiny, incredulous scoff. “Shit.”

You smiled a little. He didn’t.

He looked… embarrassed. Almost vulnerable.

“Why me?” you asked. “You could have anyone. Literally anyone. People line up for you.”

His answer was immediate — quiet but sure.

“They line up for my face,” he said. “Not me.”

Your breath caught.

He kept going, eyes flicking between yours.

“You… actually talk to me. You make fun of me sometimes. You don’t act like I’m—”

He shook his head, searching for the word.

“—some character in your phone. You look at me like I’m a person.”

Something warm and electric rushed through your stomach.

Before your brain could stop you, you reached up and grabbed the front of his hoodie — gently but decisively — pulling him closer.

This time, he didn’t freeze.

This time, he kissed you back.

Slow at first, like he was trying to memorize how it worked.

Then deeper — a little desperate — like he’d been holding back for too long.

His hands didn’t know where to go; one hovered awkwardly before landing on your hip, then shifting, then settling, then second-guessing itself.

At one point he bumped your nose and muttered “shit—sorry—” against your mouth, cheeks burning, and you laughed into the kiss, which somehow made him kiss you harder, like he was trying to make up for it.

It was clumsy and sweet and stupidly warm.

His breath hitched. Yours did too.

And then—

The door swung open.

Jiwoong froze.

James practically jolted backward like he’d touched an electric fence.

“—oh,” Jiwoong finished weakly, face twisting like he’d walked into a crime scene.

You jumped away from James so fast you nearly tripped over your own feet.

James looked mortified. Like “dig a hole and bury me alive” mortified.

Jiwoong stared between you two, mouth hanging open.

Then he turned slowly to James.

“Bro,” he said, voice cracking. “We’re gonna have to fight.”

James made a strangled noise you’d never heard from a living human.

You couldn’t even look at either of them — embarrassment sizzling through your skin all the way to your toes.

Jiwoong pointed at you.

Then at James.

Then at the wall like he needed physical support.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

You covered your face.

James muttered, “Kill me.”

And honestly?

You kind of wanted to evaporate right there.

Jiwoong’s eyes went HUGE — like cartoon huge — and for a second nobody moved. Not you. Not James. Not even the dust motes floating in the hallway light.

Then Jiwoong let out the most scandalized gasp you’d ever heard from a human being.

“HOLY SHIT MY SISTER AND MY BEST FRIEND ARE MAKING OUT—”

He blinked. Looked again — like maybe he mis-saw it and needed a second take.

“HOLY SHIT MY SISTER AND MY BEST FRIEND ARE MAKING OUT.”

And then he slammed the door so hard the frame rattled.

You and James just stood there in stunned silence, breathing like you’d run a mile.

Then James whispered, “…I should probably run...”

You covered your face with both hands because honestly? Same.

The next morning at school was… yeah. Awkward as hell.

James kept hovering near you but not too near, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to stand in your oxygen zone. You kept pretending to check your phone even though your phone was literally off. And every time you two accidentally made eye contact, it felt like the universe was flicking you behind the ears.

Stella and Sugar were confused as hell.

Stella almost tripped over her own shoe watching the two of you act like two magnets that desperately wanted to touch but were scared of electricity.

“Are you guys… good?” she asked slowly, eyes narrowed like she was solving a crime.

“Yep,” you lied.

Sugar nodded suspiciously. “So nothing happened?”

“Nope,” you lied again.

Behind you, James choked on air.

The day dragged, the tension simmered, and then somewhere between fourth period and lunch, something inside both of you just… clicked.

Maybe you were tired of pretending.

Maybe he was tired of being scared.

Maybe both.

Either way, you were walking down the hallway, trying to get past a cluster of juniors who walked like snails, when James slid up beside you.

Not too close.

But close enough that your arms brushed.

Your heart shot straight into your throat.

He hesitated… then his fingers skimmed yours.

Once.

Twice.

You glanced at him.

He glanced at you.

And then — slow, shaky, deliberate — he slid his hand into yours.

Warm. Solid. Soft.

Like he’d been waiting to do that forever.

You didn’t pull away.

Stella stopped mid-sentence while talking to Sugar.

Her jaw didn’t drop — it fell. Like gravity gave up.

“Oh my GOD—” she squeaked, grabbing Sugar’s arm.

Sugar’s eyes bugged out. “WAIT. WAIT. WHAT THE—”

You didn’t look at them. James didn’t either.

You just kept walking hand in hand, trying not to smile too hard, but failing. Miserably.

And from that moment on… yeah. Things were different.

James sat closer at lunch.

You two waited for each other after class.

He stole glances like he thought you weren’t noticing.

You absolutely noticed.

Jiwoong noticed too — and he was NOT handling it well.

One night, James came over to play video games with him like usual.

Or, well, that was the plan.

Except you were on the couch, scrolling your phone, and James’s attention just kept drifting your way like a puppy hearing food wrappers.

Jiwoong groaned dramatically from his PC chair.

“Bro. BRO. Come on. I’ll be support this time.”

James made some vague noise like “uh-huh, one sec” but his eyes were already drifting back to you again.

Jiwoong whipped around so fast his chair squeaked.

“NO. Absolutely not. I refuse. She is STEALING YOU.”

You raised a brow. “Stealing? Seriously?”

“Yes stealing,” he said, pointing between the two of you aggressively. “I’ve lost my man. My day-one. My duo. MY—”

You got up and walked toward James.

Jiwoong stopped mid-rant.

James looked up at you with that soft, stupidly fond expression he tried to hide.

“Hey,” he murmured.

That was all it took.

You grabbed the front of his hoodie again — the same way you did the night everything changed — and pulled him into a kiss.

Deep. Warm. Unapologetic.

His hand slid around your waist reflexively, pulling you closer.

His breath stuttered against your mouth.

You could feel the way he smiled a little into the kiss, just barely.

Behind you, Jiwoong made a sound like a dying animal.

“OH COME ON—NOT IN FRONT OF ME—WHY—WHY DO I HAVE TO SEE THIS—MY EYES—MY BEST FRIEND—MY SISTER—PLEASE—STOP—”

You ignored him.

James kissed you like he couldn’t not. Like he’d been waiting all evening. Like you were the only thing in the room, the hallway, the universe.

When you finally pulled back, James looked dazed — cheeks flushed, lips a little swollen, breath uneven.

Jiwoong was face-down on his desk like he’d fully given up on life.

You leaned over and patted his shoulder.

“It’ll be okay,” you said.

“No it won’t,” he muttered into the mousepad. “You two are disgusting.”

James snorted.

You grinned and reached for James’s hand again.

He took it instantly.

And that was how things were now — complicated, messy, chaotic, but warm.

Real. Yours. The boy who didn’t know how to feel about you?

Yeah. He figured it out. And he wasn’t letting go.

Nessas horas, ele fica tão faminto, chega tão afoito que você geralmente precisa guiá-lo. Ele deita a cabeça no seu colo e se aninha ali, derrete quando sente sua mão afagando as madeixas dele, o estresse já se dissolvendo. A boquinha, mesmo quando James tenta manter o controle, faz uma bagunça deliciosa, deixando seu peito todo lambuzado de saliva enquanto circula a língua molhadinha ali e brinca com o mamilo durinho, chupando o biquinho com tanta vontade que até barulhinhos escapam. A outra mão dele se dedica ao seio esquerdo: ele enche a palma com a sua carne, prende a pontinha rígida entre os dedos e brinca ali.

Os olhinhos fechados servem para ignorar tudo ao redor e focar a atenção só na sua pele macia, todinha para ele.

É tão gostosinho pra James momentos assim que a única coisa capaz de tirar o foco dele dali é quando sua mão tá punhetando ele ao mesmo tempo.

A calça está abaixada na altura dos joelhos, a cabecinha do pau já lambuzada. Ele se contorce sob seu toque, murmura sem desgrudar a boquinha de você, o semblante franzindo cada vez mais conforme você arrasta o polegar.

— Ah! noona… — Choraminga quando sua mão desce devagarinho, apertada, por toda a extensão do pau.

— Já tá tão sensível assim? Pobrezinho do meu lindinho… Quer que a sua noona te ajude a ficar melhorzinho, hm? Tá precisando gozar pra ficar mais calminho, amor? — Deposita beijinhos na testa e no rostinho dele o quanto consegue, enquanto o vai e vem da sua mão em volta da pica ganha velocidade conforme mais pré-gozo escapa da glande, deixando tudo bem escorregadio.

— Porra, sim… por favor, noona. — James solta a boca do seu peito com um estalo alto, a respiração toda desregulada. Olha pra baixo, com aquela carinha sofrida, e o quadril impulsiona contra seu toque. — Me ajuda a gozar na sua mãozinha, vai. — Joga a cabeça pra trás quando sente seus dedos descerem e alcançarem as bolas pesadas. Ele geme tão gostosinho, beirando uma putinha manhosa. Volta a olhar pra você de baixo, mamando seu peitinho outra vez, totalmente insaciável.

— Tão dengoso… se você continuar sendo tão bonzinho assim, não vai ser só na minha mão que você vai poder gozar.

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"just wait a little longer?" he followed your eyes before looking back at you, a smile finding him almost immediately. "it's okay, baby." he answered quietly. "i'll be going, 'kay?" you frowned before he even finished the sentence, fingers finding the sleeve of his hoodie the way they always seemed to when you wanted another minute. "you're going to get soaked." he looked down at your hand first, then back at your face, amusement warming his expression more than the weather ever could. "i've walked home in worse, baby." you didn't let go. neither did he ask you to. instead he stepped closer until the rain disappeared behind him, leaving only the sound of it around the two of you. "you worry a lot." he murmured. "because you're walking home in the rain." "i'll text you." "that's not the point."

he laughed under his breath, quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the rain. there was something about the way you worried over him that never embarrassed him, never made him brush it aside. if anything, he lingered because of it. because every extra second beneath your porch meant another excuse to look at you a little longer before going home. his hand settled around yours where it still held onto his sleeve, thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles before he leaned down, pressing one slow kiss against your lips. it wasn't meant to become anything more than a goodbye. neither of you seemed convinced by that. you smiled into the second kiss before it even happened. "...one more."

"that was already one more, baby."

"..shut up." he kissed you again anyway.when you pulled back, he stayed close enough that your foreheads rested together, smiling with his eyes closed as though leaving had quietly become the least important thing on his mind. "if i don't go now..." he started. "...you won't?"

"...probably not." you laughed, wrapping your arms around him before he could change his mind. he hugged you back immediately, chin resting against the top of your head with a content sigh that sounded suspiciously like someone who had already accepted he'd be standing on your porch for another five minutes.

eventually he tilted your chin up again, stealing one last kiss because apparently neither of you had ever been particularly good at saying goodbye.

© 𝓗o𝑛ey𝑓𝑠𝑐𝑒. ‎‎‎ ❤︎ all rights reserved. all works are a work of fiction. do not copy.