Parings. Yoo Jaeyi x F!Reader
Genre. Psychological Romance, Drama, Slice of Life
Warnings. Sleep deprivation, exhaustion, Manipulative relationships / emotional control
Trigger Warnings. psychological manipulation, , Obsessive behavior , stalking , Mental health strain (anxiety, stress, burnout), Dependency
A/N. Some people wanted a Yoo Jaeyi FR fic so i hope you guys liked this !!
Chaehwa Girls High School had a way of polishing everything until it shined. The pressed uniforms, the smiles plastered on every student’s face. But among all that practiced perfection, Yoo Jae-yi gleamed brighter than anyone else.
She wasn’t just the top of the class — she was the picture of Chaehwa’s ideal: graceful, intelligent, untouchable. The daughter of a hospital director. The kind of girl other students whispered about in awe, but never approached without shaky hands.
You weren’t like her. You weren’t popular, or admired, or dazzling. You werent special. You stayed near the back of the classroom, hands folded neatly over your notes, blending in like you’d perfected the art of silence. Calm. Steady. A shadow among the gleam. And yet… Yoo Jae-yi noticed you.
It started in subtle ways. A glance across the cafeteria tables. A pause when your name was called during roll. That curve of her lips when she saw your neat handwriting, as if she’d found something amusing in your restraint.
One day, she sat beside you without asking. The rustle of her uniform filled the quiet space, her perfume faint but expensive. You felt her gaze flick over your textbook before she spoke.
she said, like it was a revelation. Her voice was smooth, casual, but something lingered in the way she tilted her head, studying you as though she’d already decided you were worth her time.
“I like that. Most people talk too much.”
You didn’t answer right away .. words often came to you slower than thoughts — but she didn’t seem to mind. Instead, Jae-yi leaned in, resting her chin on her hand, waiting with a patience that felt less like kindness and more like possession.
From that day on, Yoo Jae-yi didn’t just notice you. She made a place for herself at your side. In the cafeteria, she’d set her tray across from yours. During study periods, she’d want to be next to you. Always calm, always polite — but her presence was steady, undeniable.
And though you never asked for her attention, it began to feel like the most natural thing in the world.
The room was dimly lit by the single desk lamp, casting uneven shadows across stacks of notebooks and textbooks. Your desk was covered in papers — some neat, some crumpled and slightly torn— each one a reminder of tasks unfinished, answers that doesn’t feel right , formulas that refused to click.
You rubbed your eyes and blinked against the harsh glare of the lamp. Your hand ached from writing. Pencil lead had broken twice already, leaving smudges across the margins. The lines of numbers and symbols seemed to blur together, twisting in ways that made your chest tighten. Every problem was a mountain, every page a precipice, and you were alone at the edge, trying not to fall.
The exams loomed like shadows in the back of your mind, relentless, unforgiving. Each one stacked atop the last — math, science, history, everything — a chain you couldn’t break. Chaehwa didn’t forgive mistakes. Chaehwa didn’t pause. You had to keep moving, keep solving, keep reaching, or risk falling behind.
You leaned back in your chair for a moment, stretching tired arms, but the pressure didn’t let you rest.
Your thoughts circled endlessly:
Did I understand that formula correctly? Did I memorize everything? Am I behind in most subjects?
The questions multiplied in your mind faster than you could answer them, gnawing at your focus, pulling threads of calm from your chest.
Every page you turned brought a new set of problems to test your smartness. You tried to trace solutions carefully, step by step, but your mind wavered under exhaustion. Mistakes that should have been obvious slipped past you. You corrected them, only to make new errors seconds later. Your own patience thinned, but you didn’t speak. You didn’t shout. You didn’t even sigh loudly.
The silence around you was almost suffocating. The quiet of your room, the ticking of the clock, the distant hum of your town beyond your window — all of it pressed down like a weight you couldn’t lift. Your shoulders ached. Your vision blurred. Your stomach knotted. Yet still, you bent over your notebooks, tracing every line, filling every blank space, convincing yourself that if you just kept going, if you just pushed harder, it would be enough.
Hours passed. The numbers became less distinct, the letters less readable. Your thoughts were foggy, but you continued. The deadlines were absolute. The pressure unrelenting. Each solved problem felt like a small victory, fleeting and immediately replaced by the next challenge.
By the time midnight came, your hand shook from exhaustion. Your eyes stung. Your back ached from hours of sitting. And still, the stack of work remained. Still, the exams loomed, waiting to expose every weakness, every lapse.
You were quiet. Observant. Alone. And the weight of it pressed on every corner of your mind, a pressure you could neither escape nor fully understand. It wrapped around you like a living thing, insistent, demanding, and you didn’t dare stop.
The night stretched on endlessly, and though your body screamed for rest, your mind refused it. Every formula unsolved, every paragraph misread, every question unanswered — it all mattered. All of it threatened to crush you.
And yet, you kept going. Quiet, steady, relentless.
The following week offered no reprieve. Chaehwa’s schedule was relentless, a machine that churned through students without pause. Exams stacked on top of each other like bricks in a wall, each heavier than the last. You woke each morning with the weight already pressing on your chest, the lingering exhaustion of the previous night gnawing at your focus.
In class, the teacher’s voice droned on, but your mind was elsewhere. Equations from the previous night looped endlessly in your head, formulas repeating themselves like a mantra you couldn’t escape. Every new problem felt like a trap — a test of endurance, patience, and sanity. You wrote silently, methodically, fingers trembling slightly, trying to ignore the shakiness that seeped into every movement.
The exams themselves were no kinder. Math questions twisted in ways you hadn’t anticipated. Science required precise recall, minute details that your mind scrambled to remember. You tried to focus, tried to isolate one subject at a time, but Chaehwa demanded perfection in all of them, simultaneously.
Between classes, your notes became your only companion. You scribbled endlessly in the margins, copied formulas, repeated definitions, checked and doublechecked answers. Every small mistake was magnified in your mind, a reflection of inadequacy. You didn’t speak to anyone, barely met anyone’s gaze, and each passing glance at peers only reinforced the isolation — everyone else seemed to move effortlessly, while you struggled to keep pace.
By the evening, your body was weary, your mind frayed. Your hands ached from writing, your eyes burned from staring at textbooks, and yet you could not stop. You couldn’t allow yourself to fall behind. Every unsolved problem, every missed detail, loomed like a shadow threatening to consume you.
Even simple meals became background noise. You ate mechanically, barely tasting the food, your thoughts consumed by formulas, perfection, and notes. Sleep came in brief, shallow bursts, never enough to recharge. And yet, each morning, the exams waited, unyielding, pressing on.
You were alone, quiet, diligent — every ounce of energy dedicated to surviving the onslaught of Chaehwa’s expectations. Each day chipped away at you, but you pressed forward. Mistakes were lessons. Exhaustion was certain. And still, you continued, a silent figure against the tide of pressure.
And in all of it, there was no relief. Only the next quiz, the next problem, the next reminder that nothing was ever enough.
It was during one particularly tiring evening of self study in the library that Yoo Jae-yi finally approached. She didn’t rush or announce herself , she simply slid into the chair across from you, her presence precise and unassuming, yet impossible to ignore.
“You’ve been at this for hours,”
she observed softly, her eyes flicking over your notebook with a faint, calculating interest. Not judgmental, not critical — just… aware.
You looked up briefly and gave a quiet nod. Words felt unnecessary. She didn’t seem to mind the silence.
she said, tilting her head slightly, her tone smooth, measured.
“If you want. Maybe together we can figure things out faster.”
You hesitated for a moment, then nodded again, accepting her offer silently. That small motion seemed enough for her.
She leaned over your notebook and pointed at a math problem with her pen.
“Try solving it this way,”
“I think this method will be simpler for you.”
You trusted her completely and followed the steps she indicated. But the solution didn’t come together as expected. Something felt off — numbers didn’t align, logic wavered. Your brow furrowed slightly, but you kept working, silently, trying to make sense of it.
Jaeyi watched patiently, a faint, approving smile on her lips.
“Hmm… it’s tricky at first,”
she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Keep going. You’ll figure it out.”
Hours passed, and you retraced steps, erased lines, recalculated, trying desperately to reconcile the method she had shown. Her gaze was calm, measured, observing every move. Occasionally, her fingers adjusted your pen or nudged your notebook — gentle, guiding touches — yet the method she had offered was subtly flawed.
And all the while, she remained composed, serene. The slight struggle you felt was invisible to her. Every failure, every moment of quiet frustration, was part of her careful coordination.
When she finally leaned back, she smiled faintly, as if nothing had happened.
“See? You solved it. Much better.”
You nodded silently, exhausted, relieved, unaware of the subtle manipulation that had guided every misstep.
In those quiet, measured moments, something shifted. You began to rely on her, even without realizing it. Her calm presence felt like an anchor in the storm of Chaehwa’s endless pressure, and you silently allowed yourself to depend on it.
Back in your small house in your room, the quiet was suffocating. The soft glow of your desk lamp cast sharp shadows across the stack of notes Yoo Jae-yi had given you. Neat, organized, written with perfect penmanship …. they looked flawless at first glance. You laid them out carefully, almost reverently, and began working through the problems again.
But the deeper you went, the more unease settled in.
Some explanations were… missing. Whole steps had been skipped, equations leaping from one line to another without showing how. You traced them over and over, pencil moving steadily, erasing, rewriting, retracing, but the gaps remained stubborn, like holes in the middle of a bridge.
You were quiet as always — no sighs, no muttered complaints. Just your pencil scratching across the page, pauses, and small hesitations. Your focus sharpened, but the answers still slipped away.
Hours passed. You rubbed your eyes, blinked against the sting of exhaustion, then tried again. The silence of your room made the frustration louder, pressing into your temples, into your chest. You thought maybe it was your fault — maybe you were careless, maybe too slow. Chaehwa demanded perfection, after all, and you weren’t flawless.
The next day was no better. You carried her notes with you, flipping through them between classes, copying formulas into your notebook, trying to decipher the missing steps. Your pencil hovered hesitantly, but every time you thought you’d found the path forward, you reached another gap. Another missing piece.
By the second night, exhaustion and pain clung to your body like a weight. Your eyes burned from staring at the same pages, your fingers ached from writing the same lines again and again. The silence of your house pressed down on you, and yet you stayed at your desk, pushing through until the numbers blurred together.
You didn’t realize it — couldn’t realize it — but the struggle was never yours alone. Jae-yi’s flawless notes weren’t flawless at all. They were crafted, deliberate, missing just enough to make you falter. Enough to keep you locked in exhaustion, circling endlessly. Enough to ensure that when she returned, calm and steady, she would be the one to rescue you.
But in those long, quiet nights, you only knew this: you were trying, and failing, and trying again.
The days began to blur together. Your room was no longer a space of rest, but of endless calculations and revisions, pages scattered across the desk like remnants of battles lost.
Every night, you sat in the same chair, under the same lamp, staring at the same problems. Pencil pressed tightly between your fingers, you traced the formulas again, step by step, hoping that repetition would finally reveal what you were missing. It never did.
The silence became louder.
It filled the room, pressing into your ears, amplifying the faint scratch of pencil on paper, the shallow rhythm of your own breathing. You didn’t sigh. You didn’t groan. You simply endured, quiet and focused, even as the frustration gnawed deeper at your chest.
By the third night, fatigue coated your thoughts like a fog. You copied lines directly from Jae-yi’s notes, obediently, even when they led nowhere. You filled entire pages with numbers that refused to settle into answers. Each unfinished equation was a thorn — small, precise, cruel.
Your body bore the weight of it. Your shoulders ached from hunching forward. Your neck burned from craning down. Your hand trembled slightly every time you lifted the pencil, but you ignored it. Stopping wasn’t an option. At Chaehwa, hesitation was failure, and failure was unthinkable.
And still, the gaps in her notes mocked you. They left you circling endlessly, repeating the same mistakes, the same futile attempts.
You closed your eyes briefly, resting your forehead against the edge of your desk. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.
But even then, the numbers flickered in the dark of your mind. Relentless. Demanding.
You lifted your head, picked up the pencil again, and pressed on.
Alone. Silent. Sinking deeper into a struggle you thought was your own fault.
Unaware that it had been designed that way all along.
The corridors of Chaehwa hummed with the usual noise , footsteps against polished floors, the low chatter of students trading answers, the faint noises of chalk pressing against the board. You sat quietly at your desk, notes spread in front of you, staring at the same problem you’d been circling for days.
When Jae-yi slid into the seat beside you, you didn’t flinch. Her presence was expected by now, as natural as the weight of your pen against paper. She glanced at your notebook, and her smile was as faint and deliberate as always.
“You’ve been working hard,”
You paused, your pen hovering. Normally, you would’ve only nodded. But exhaustion sat heavy in your chest, and the words slipped out before you could second-guess them.
you admitted quietly, almost flatly. Your eyes stayed on your papers.
“I tried the notes you gave me. It’s not working.”
It was simple. Plain. No stutter, no hesitation — just quiet truth.
Her eyes lingered on you, unreadable for a moment. Then she tilted her head, a faint smile curling at the corner of her lips.
she repeated softly, like she was savoring the word.
She leaned back, resting her chin against her hand, studying you with that patience that always felt less like kindness and more like ownership.
“Then don’t push yourself like this anymore,”
“If it isn’t working, let me help. Properly this time.”
You looked up at her briefly, eyes meeting hers for the first time that day. There was no hesitation in her expression, no uncertainty — just calm assurance, as though she had been waiting for you to say this.
she said, her voice smooth, certain.
“Not just notes, not half-explanations. Sit with me. I’ll guide you through everything.”
You hesitated for only a moment, then gave a small nod. Relief flickered faintly in your chest, though you couldn’t explain why.
Her smile widened just slightly, the barest edge of satisfaction in it.
“We’ll start after class today.”
It felt like salvation. Like the pressure finally had a release. You didn’t realize, of course, that it was the moment she had been waiting for all along.
The sun had dipped low by the time you left class, your bag heavier than usual with books and notes. Jaeyi’s presence beside you felt natural, unspoken, as you walked through the quiet streets toward her house. You didn’t speak, only followed, careful to match her pace.
Her house was modern and immaculate, just as precise as she was — soft lighting, clean surfaces. She motioned for you to sit at the table, her fingers brushing lightly over a stack of notes as she arranged them. You watched quietly, your eyes following every movement.
“Let’s start with this problem,”
she said, sliding one of your math exercises toward you. Her voice was calm, deliberate, almost melodic. She watched you carefully as you worked, leaning back slightly in her chair, arms crossed loosely.
You nodded at her instructions, silent, pencil moving methodically. Your eyes never left her as she guided you .. showing a formula, pointing out a step — occasionally brushing her hand over yours as she adjusted the page. Each slight touch was deliberate, measured. You noticed, but didn’t react, only absorbed it quietly.
she murmured, watching your eyes track her movements, the faintest curve of a smile appearing on her lips.
“You’re paying attention. I like that.”
You offered a subtle nod in response, quiet, reserved, but your gaze remained fixed, observant.
The session continued like this for hours — her guiding, you following, silent communication passing between gestures, glances, and small corrections. When a tricky problem came up, she leaned closer, letting her hand almost touch yours as she pointed at the correct step. Your chest tightened slightly, but you said nothing, only followed.
By the end of the session, the problems that had once seemed impossible now made sense, thanks to her careful instruction. You finally closed your notebook, tired but calmer than you had been in days.
Jae-yi leaned back, studying you for a long moment.
“We should do this again.”
You only nodded, still quiet, still observing.
She pulled out her phone and handed it to you.
“Exchange numbers. That way we can plan our sessions.”
You accepted it silently, sliding your number into her contacts. She smiled faintly as she returned the phone.
“Perfect. I’ll message you later. Don’t overwork yourself before the next session.”
You didn’t answer with words, only a nod, your eyes lingering on her as she moved to straighten the notes on the table again. And though you didn’t speak, the unspoken trust — the quiet bond — had already begun to settle between you two.
By the time you left, the night air felt lighter. The storm of pressure still lingered, but for the first time in days, it felt like someone — someone deliberate, calm, and precise — had begun to shoulder it with you.
And you allowed yourself to lean on that, quietly, without question.
The sessions became routine. After school, after quizzes, after the endless fatigue of Chaehwa, you found yourself walking the same familiar path to Jae-yi’s house. She never asked if you would come — she simply assumed, and you followed. Quietly. Obediently.
Her room always looked the same: neat, orderly, a reflection of her. She would spread out the problems in front of you, her handwriting elegant and precise, and you would take your place at her side, pens and pencils ready.
Each time, she guided you through the missing pieces that had frustrated you for days. Her tone was patient, her explanations smooth, her corrections exact. When you faltered, her voice was steady, calm, as though nothing could rattle her.
she’d say softly, adjusting your notebook so your hand wouldn’t cramp.
“Do it like this. Watch.”
And you would. You always did. Your eyes followed her hands, the way her fingers moved across the page, the curve of her wrist as she wrote. You noticed the small details — the way her perfume lingered faintly when she leaned close, the precise sound of her pencil striking the paper, the faint smile when you finally copied the step correctly.
Your hands brushed more often now, when she slid a sheet toward you or steadied your wrist as you wrote. She didn’t pull away. Neither did you.
“You’re learning quickly,”
she remarked one evening, her lips curling into that quiet smile as your solution lined up perfectly.
“All you needed was the right guidance.”
You nodded, silent, the faintest warmth flickering in your chest. Her words carried a strange comfort — not praise exactly, but something steadier, heavier.
In those moments, the exhaustion that had haunted you seemed to slip away. The chaos of exams, the endless pressure, the lonely nights with incomplete notes — it all quieted under her voice, her presence. Jae-yi made the impossible manageable, the unbearable tolerable.
And slowly, without realizing it, you began to rely on her entirely. Her corrections felt like safety. Her calm became your anchor.
To you, she wasn’t just a tutor anymore. She was the one who pulled you back from the edge each time you teetered — the savior you hadn’t known you needed.
Little did you know, she had designed it that way from the beginning.
The house was quiet after you left. The door clicked shut, your footsteps fading into the night. Yoo Jae-yi remained at the study table, her chair tilted back slightly, arms resting on the armrests as if she hadn’t moved for minutes.
The air still carried faint traces of you — the shampoo in your hair, the subtle warmth you left behind in the seat, the smudge of graphite on the edge of her desk. Her eyes lowered to the notebook you’d left open, its lines half-filled in your steady, careful handwriting.
She turned the page with a fingertip, slow, deliberate. Numbers written neatly. Equations crossed out. Places where your pencil had pressed harder, as though the pressure itself had lived in your grip.
she murmured, the words barely above breath.
“Missing steps. Wrong paths. She just follows.”
Her eyes lingered on the faint eraser marks where you had struggled and tried again. For a moment, she simply looked, her gaze thoughtful, unreadable.
She let the notebook fall shut with a muted sound, her hand lingering on the cover.
Jae-yi’s voice trailed for a moment, her eyes drifting toward the empty chair across from her. The memory of your gaze — quiet, trusting, tired — flickered there, sharper than the numbers on the page.
“Like I’m the only one left.”
Silence again. She leaned back, folding her arms, letting the thought rest between breaths.
she finally said. A faint smile touched her lips, almost tender, but cold beneath.
“She thinks it’s her fault.”
Her eyes shifted, calm, steady.
“She doesn’t know it’s me.”
The words were plain, unembellished, but they hung in the room with a weight far heavier than their sound.
Jae-yi stood at last, smoothing her clothes as though nothing had been said. Her gaze lingered one last time on the empty seat where you had sat, eyes following her every move.
she whispered, quiet and certain.
“That way she’ll never leave.”
The results came back at the end of the week. Students crowded around the results in the hallway, voices rising as they compared scores, gasps, laughs, and groans echoing through the corridor. You stood quietly at the edge of the group, eyes scanning the list until your name appeared.
For a moment, your chest felt light, almost unfamiliar. Relief bloomed there, subtle but powerful .. the kind of relief that made your grip on the strap of your bag loosen. The endless nights, the exhaustion, the quiet pressure that had gnawed at you… it felt worth it.
You didn’t smile, not outwardly. But the tension in your shoulders eased as you stepped back, holding the weight of the grade in silence. Perfect. You had done it.
Jae-yi’s voice slid easily into the moment, calm and certain, as she appeared beside you. She didn’t need to look at the board to know your score.
“I told you. You just needed the right guidance.”
You gave a small nod, eyes lowering to your shoes. Quiet gratitude flickered in your chest, steady but unspoken. You didn’t know how to put it into words, so you didn’t try.
She didn’t push you to. Instead, she leaned slightly closer, her tone smooth.
“You should trust me more. Look where it got you.”
Jae-yi’s lips curved — the faintest smile, polished and harmless. But as she turned her head slightly, eyes still on you, the edge of something sharper flickered in her expression. A smirk, gone before you could catch it.
You didn’t see it. You were too busy clutching the relief of your score, too busy holding onto the quiet certainty that she had saved you.
Yoo Jae-yi was your anchor in your eyes.
To her, you were already caught.
By the tenth tutoring session, the routine felt natural. After school, after another heavy day of Chaehwa’s demands, you found yourself at Jaeyi’s house again. The same room. The same neatly stacked books. The same calm voice guiding you through every problem.
You didn’t question it anymore. When she slid the notebook closer, when her fingers brushed yours as she pointed to a formula, when her voice cut through the fog of your exhaustion — you simply followed. Quietly. Obediently. It was easier that way.
That night, as the clock ticked softly in the background, the two of you worked through problems. You answered steadily, pencil moving without hesitation now, her presence steady at your side.
she said softly, almost like a secret. Her eyes lingered on you, steady, unreadable.
“High scores. Everyone else notices too.”
You nodded once, eyes down, the faintest warmth flickering in your chest. Her words were steady, reassuring.
When the session ended, you leaned back slightly in your chair, letting out a small breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Jaeyi closed the notebook for you, her movements precise, deliberate, almost tender.
You nodded again, your gaze flicking to her. And in that quiet moment, you felt it — the sense that without her, you might have drowned in the endless exams, the crushing pressure. She had steadied you. Saved you.
And so you allowed yourself the smallest words, quiet but certain.
Her eyes softened, lips curving into that faint, patient smile.
You didn’t see the way her gaze lingered a moment longer. Didn’t see the sharp glint just beneath the calm surface. Didn’t see the truth hiding in the missing steps of her old notes, in the misdirections that had left you circling endlessly until she appeared to pull you free.
To you, she was your savior.
But to her.. she had built the storm only so she could be the one to carry you through it.
You loved her for saving you. You never realized she was the one who had ruined everything first.
✧─ Taglist : @kuinshiyas @lostlikesaebyeok @saebyeokswhitebra @saebyeokbliss @sunshinethatlooksalive @simply-gyuu
