#james fic

for some reason, before meeting cortis, you imagined the members would be reserved and overly polished the way idols usually seemed in interviews. you were very wrong.

the second you walked onto set, martin nearly knocked over a lamp trying to bow to you too fast.

keonho immediately started apologizing for him while laughing.

“this is so embarrassing,” somebody muttered.

“you’re literally making it worse,” martin shot back.

you liked them almost instantly. the entire group was very polite and kind, but one member caught your eye. james.

he stood slightly behind the others at first, hoodie sleeves pushed over his hands while everyone else talked over each other.

he smiled when you introduced yourself. “nice to finally meet you,” he said casually, like you were just another person walking onto set instead of someone whose face had been on billboards for the last year.

that was the first thing you noticed about him. he didn’t act impressed. throughout the first day of filming, you mostly stayed around the whole group.

between takes everybody crowded around the monitors together arguing over scenes and making fun of each other’s expressions on camera.

you learned quickly that the five of them never shut up.

at one point seonghyeon and keonho started debating whether one of them looked taller in a specific shot. they kept dragging you into the argument like it was life or death.

“be honest,” keonho said dramatically, pointing at the screen. “does he look taller than me there?”

“absolutely not,” you answered immediately.

the room exploded.

“thank you!”

“she’s lying.”

“you’re insecure.”

“move.”

in the middle of all the yelling, you looked over and caught james laughing quietly to himself near the back of the room.

when he noticed you looking, he grinned slightly.

that was the second thing you noticed about him.

he paid attention to everything.

after that, little things started standing out.

like how he naturally moved aside so staff could get through crowded spaces first, how he always noticed when you looked cold between takes and silently handed you hand warmers without making a thing out of it, or how he looked directly at whoever was talking even in chaotic conversations, like he actually cared about listening.

the mv itself only made things worse. the concept was supposed to be dark and cinematic, which meant your scenes with james ended up being the most tension heavy.

the first time the director asked james to pull you closer during a scene, he did it easily and naturally, with one hand settling lightly against your waist that you could tell was a little shaky.

“perfect,” the director called out immediately. “that’s exactly what i wanted.” the members behind the monitors started yelling instantly.

“holy shit!”

you laughed, stepping away once the cameras cut, but when you glanced over at james he was already rubbing the back of his neck with a small smile. after that, everyone started noticing. especially the members.

noticing how you somehow always ended up beside james during breaks even when the whole group was around. how james started looking at you first whenever something funny happened on set. how you asked him questions more than the others without realizing it.

one night during filming, the five of them and you were crowded around a tiny table eating takeout while staff reset equipment.

you sat down beside whoever had left an empty chair open.

james.

martin immediately smiled and put down his fork.

“crazy coincidence.”

james threw a balled-up napkin at him instantly.

“shut up.”

by this point, the entire group was amused.

“i didn’t even say anything.”

“you were about to.”

“because you’re acting weird.”

“i am not.”

you looked down at your food to hide your smile while the group started losing their minds around him.

james just shook his head, muttering something under his breath while everyone laughed at him. that was probably the moment you realized the attention between you wasn’t one-sided.

then came the hotel.

filming wrapped late and everybody was exhausted. managers wanted everyone leaving separately because the teaser photos had already started going viral online.

you were halfway through the lobby with the group when security suddenly sped up. camera flashes exploded through the glass doors outside.

“seriously?” keonho groaned.

everything became loud fast. security talking over each other., staff rushing people toward exits, cameras already pointed directly at the doors. you hated paparazzi, you always had.

james cursed quietly under his breath while martin tried joking to lighten the mood, but the second the doors opened the yelling started instantly.

without really thinking, you moved closer toward whoever was nearest to you, which of course, was james, who glanced over immediately.

“y/n, you okay?” he asked.

you nodded and looked down, pulling your sunglasses down over your eyes as you walked out of the hotel. his expression shifted slightly, his hand pressed lightly against your back while guiding you through the crowd toward the suv waiting outside.

the cameras went insane. your hand gripping james’ sleeve for balance while security rushed everyone forward.

“oh my god,” martin muttered under his breath behind you.

“not now,” james shot back instantly.

the second you all got into the car, martin shot his eyes toward james. “they’re gonna think you guys are dating.”

“oh lord.” you covered your face with both of your hands, slumping forward and sighing.

“we didn’t even do anything,” james shot back.

“you two were literally glued together.”

by morning, the whole universe would think you’re dating james.

It started small. A sparkly hair clip left on his desk next to his MIDI keyboard. A tube of pink sugar Summer Fridays lip gloss that somehow migrated to his nightstand. A pastel pink scrunchie tangled in his collection of black caps. His side of the room he shared with Juhoon had always been deliberately minimalist—black, white, gray, the occasional pop of red. Clean lines and no clutter. Everything exactly where it should be. Maybe a little bit of a mess, but it was natural for a guy.

Then you happened.

James noticed it gradually, the way your presence seeped into his space similar to watercolor bleeding into black ink.

Juhoon thought it was hilarious. "Hyung, is that a Hello Kitty phone charm?" he'd asked last week, watching James plug in his phone with the tiny pink charm dangling from the case.

"It's my girlfriends'," James had replied, face completely neutral.

"Then why is it on your phone?"

James had just shrugged, but the tips of his ears went red. You'd put it there during a studio session, said his phone looked "too sad and lonely" without any personality. He'd rolled his eyes at the time, but he hadn't made any move to take it off.

Your stuff multiplied like it had a life of its own. There was a little ceramic cat figurine (pink, obviously) sitting on their windowsill now. A fuzzy blanket in some shade between lavender and baby pink draped over his desk chair. Glossy magazines with skincare routines and fashion spreads stacked on the corner of his desk, acting as a makeshift coaster for the iced americanos he never finished.

The members noticed immediately.

"James-hyung has been infected," Keonho had declared dramatically during dinner one night, pointing at the pink hair tie around James's wrist.

"It's not mine," James had said, which was technically true. It was yours. You'd left it after tying your hair up during a movie night, and he'd picked it up, intending to give it back. Somehow it ended up on his wrist instead. He fidgeted with it when he was thinking now.

"Sure, hyung," Seonghyeon had grinned and clicked his tongue. "Just like that lip balm in your pocket isn't yours either?"

James had pulled out the tube of peach-flavored lip balm—the one you'd insisted he try because "your lips get so dry in the winter, Yufan"—and set it on the table without a word. The conversation moved on, but the lip balm went right back in his pocket.

He didn't mind it, really. If anything, he kind of... liked it? Seeing your things mixed with his made his chest feel warm in a way he didn't have words for. It meant you were comfortable here. It meant you existed in his space even when you weren't physically present. It meant you weren't going anywhere.

Juhoon had been cool about the gradual pinkification of their shared room. "As long as she doesn't touch my side, we're good," he'd said with raised hands. But even he smiled in secret when he caught James carefully moving one of your scrunchies so it wouldn't fall behind the desk.

What James did mind, apparently, was the hoodies.

It was a Saturday afternoon when he finally noticed. He was standing in front of his closet—well, his section of the closet he shared with Juhoon—staring at the hangers with growing confusion.

"Juhoon-ah," he called out, still staring. "Did you borrow my black hoodie? The oversized one?"

"Which black hoodie?" Juhoon replied from his bed, not looking up from his phone. "You have like eight."

"The really soft COLDCULTURE one. With the embroidered logo."

"Nope. Check the laundry?"

James did in fact check. It wasn't there. He frowned, scratching his head and going back to his closet. His favorite gray hoodie was also missing. And the black zip-up he'd just bought last month. And—wait, where was the hoodie he wore to the airport two weeks ago?

He did a mental inventory. Out of his extensive hoodie collection (because if there was one thing James loved besides music and anime and his hat collection, it was a good hoodie), at least four were missing.

His phone buzzed. A text from you: 

my baby 😻 [Sat, Sep 5, 12:04PM] practicing for my presentation!! wish me luck 🤞🤞🩷🩷🩷

Attached was a selfie of you at your apartment, sitting cross-legged on your bed surrounded by notes and textbooks, your hair in a messy bun, glasses sliding down your nose. You were wearing his gray hoodie. The one that had been missing for a week.

He stared at the photo. The hoodie completely swallowed you—the sleeves were rolled up multiple times and it fell to your mid-thigh. You looked adorable and comfortable and you were in his clothes, in your space, and something about that made his heart do a weird flip.

He texted back: 

You [Sat, Sep 5, 12:04PM] Good luck. Is that my hoodie?"

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

my baby 😻 [Sat, Sep 5, 12:05PM] ...maybe ok yes :3 but it smells like you and it's really comfy and i have a long study session ok DON'T JUDGE ME ☹️☹️🥺

James read the texts three times. First order of business, he screenshotted the selfie (he'd die before admitting this to anyone). Then he went to check on his hoodie situation again with growing suspicion.

"I need to go to my girlfriend's," James announced, grabbing his keys.

Juhoon finally looked up. "Why? You guys have plans?"

"She has my hoodies."

"...okay?"

"Multiple hoodies, Juhoon-ah. Like, four of them."

Juhoon blinked in that slow way of his. "And this is a problem because...?"

"It's not a problem, I just—" James stopped. Why was he going over there? Mmm... because you looked happy in his hoodie. You said it smelled like him. You were keeping pieces of him close while you studied. That was... actually really cute.

But also, he was running out of hoodies.

"I'm going," he finished.

"You're so whipped, hyung," Juhoon said, shaking his head with a grin. "Say hi to her for me."

Twenty minutes later, James was standing outside your apartment with a fresh bouquet of flowers in hand—soft pink peonies and white roses, because he'd noticed last time that the ones on your kitchen counter were starting to wilt. He knocked, and when you opened the door, you were still wearing his gray hoodie.

"Babe!" Your face lit up, and you immediately noticed the flowers clutched in his hands. "Are those—wait, are those for me?"

"The other ones were dying," he answered simply, handing them to you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart melted. "You noticed that?"

His ears went slightly pink. "You kept looking at them last time. Seemed like you liked having them."

And he just shrugged. And it made you swoon to another level, like genuinely. You loved that you were the only person to make the oh -so-viral, handsome, intimidating Zhao Yufan look so small and darling.

You clutched the bouquet to your chest, suddenly feeling very soft. "You're too sweet, you know that?"

"Come on," he pushed, avoiding your gaze as you pulled him inside. "You have studying to do."

But you caught the small smile on his face as you went to find a vase, already gushing about how pretty the flowers were. He'd been here enough times that it didn't faze him anymore—the aggressively pink and white color scheme, the string lights, the stuffed animals taking up half your bed, the vanity covered in more skincare and makeup than he knew existed.

What did make him stop was his closet situation apparently recreated in your room.

His black embroidered hoodie was hanging on the back of your desk chair. The black zip-up was draped over your vanity chair. He spotted his airport hoodie peeking out from your laundry hamper.

James paused his analyzing and called out your name.

"Hm?" You were already back on your bed, reorganizing your notes, completely oblivious.

"Why do you have all my hoodies?"

You froze. Literally like a deer in headlights. Slowly, you looked up at him, then at the various hoodies scattered around your room, then back at him.

You squeaked and bit the inside of your cheek.

"I can explain."

James crossed his arms, leaning against your doorframe. His face was completely neutral, but there was the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes. "I'm listening."

"Okay, so." You fidgeted with the hoodie sleeves—his hoodie sleeves. "You know how you left the gray one here after movie night last week?"

He nodded.

"And I was cold, so I put it on, and it was really comfortable and warm and it smelled like your cologne and I may have... forgotten to give it back?"

"And the other three?"

You had the decency to look embarrassed. "I didn't mean to take them! You just... you leave them at my place sometimes, or you give them to me when I'm cold, and then I forget I'm wearing them and I take them home and—" You gestured helplessly at the collection. "It happened multiple times."

James was quiet for a moment, just looking at you. You were drowning in his hoodie, your hair messy from studying, glasses askew, and you looked so flustered trying to explain yourself. You'd surrounded yourself with pieces of him without even realizing it.

"You could've just asked," he admitted finally, one of his eyes squinting at you.

"Asked what?"

"If you wanted my hoodies." He pushed off the doorframe, walking over to your bed. "You didn't have to steal them."

"I didn't steal them! I borrowed them. Indefinitely. Without asking. Which is—okay, yeah, I stole them." You covered your face with your hands. "I'm sorry, my love. Do you want them back? I can wash them and—"

"No."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "No?"

James sat on the edge of your bed, and there was something soft in his expression that made your heart skip. "Baby, you can keep them."

"Really?"

"Really." He reached out, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "You look..."

"Like a hoodie thief?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I was going to say cute. But sure, that too."

You felt your face heat up. "You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad?" He was still holding your hands, thumbs brushing over your knuckles in that absent-minded way he did. "You said they smell like me."

"Oh my god, forget I said that—"

"You keep them because they remind you of me when I'm not here." It wasn't a question. He was looking at you with that intense focus he usually reserved for his chores, like he was trying to figure out a beat and step.

"...yeah," you admitted quietly. "Is that weird?"

James didn't answer right away. Instead, he glanced around your room again—at his hoodies scattered among your pink and white aesthetic, at the photo of you two on your nightstand, at the black cap (his) hanging on your door handle next to your collection of cute bags.

His stuff in your space. Your stuff in his space. It was the same for both of you. His black ink was seeping into your rainbow. The way you naturally existed in each other's lives, taking up room, leaving marks, and making space.

"No," he assured finally. "It's not weird."

Then, in Chinese, he added something soft that you didn't catch.

"What does that mean?"

He shook his head, ears going pink. "Nothing."

"Yufan—"

"It means..." He looked away, clearly flustered. "It means I like knowing you want me around. Even when I'm not there."

Your chest felt tight in the best way. "Of course I do. You know that, right?"

He nodded, but his grip on your hands tightened slightly. "I know. I just... I like seeing my stuff here. In your room."

"Because it's extremely out of place with my aesthetic?"

"Because it means you're thinking about me." He finally met your eyes again, and god, the way he was looking at you was so unfair, it made you wanna jump his bones. "And I think about you all the time, so it's... fair."

You were pretty sure you'd stopped breathing. James didn't say things like this often—he showed it through actions, through the little things he did without being asked. But when he did say it, it hit different.

"You think about me all the time?" you whispered, in disbelief of how transparent and vulnerable he was being. Because you knew all too well how stiff and macho macho he was usually.

"Yeah." He said it so simply, like it was obvious. "When I'm working on music. When I'm at practice. When I'm trying to sleep. You're just... always there. Up here." He tapped at his forehead.

"Funny, I thought there was nothing up there." You teased him because of how much you wanted to smother him.

"Ha-ha. You're up there. Always."

You launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, one arm around your waist, and you felt him smile against your shoulder.

"You can't just say things like that," you mumbled into his neck.

"Why not? It's true."

"Because it makes me all sappy and making me melt and I'm supposed to be studying."

"Then study." But he didn't let go, and neither did you.

You stayed like that for a moment, just holding each other. His hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

"Keep the hoodies," he told you quietly. "All of them."

"You're gonna run out."

"I'll buy more."

"James—"

"I like the idea of you wearing my stuff." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and his cheeks were definitely red now. "It's... I don't know. I like it."

You were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "Okay. But if you need one back, just tell me."

"Deal." He glanced at your desk, at your notes spread everywhere. "How's the studying going?"

You groaned, dropping your forehead to his shoulder. "It's going. I've been at it for three hours and I still have two more chapters."

"You want help?"

"You don't have to—"

"I know." He was already moving, settling back against your headboard and pulling you with him. You ended up tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest. He reached for your textbook with his free hand. "What chapter are you on?"

And you spent the rest of the afternoon just like that—curled up against James while he read your textbook aloud in that low, calm voice of his, occasionally stopping to explain things when you asked questions. He played with your hair absently while he read. You fidgeted with the strings of his hoodie (the one you were wearing, the one that was technically his).

At some point, Juhoon texted him: 

choco's daddy 🐢🐢 [Sat, Sep 5, 5:47PM] hyung are you coming back for dinner or are you staying there

James looked down at you, nearly asleep against his chest despite trying to study, still wearing his hoodie, surrounded by your impossibly pink room.

He texted back one-handed: 

You [Sat, Sep 5, 5:48PM] Staying here. Don't wait up

Juhoon's response was immediate: 

choco's daddy 🐢🐢 [Sat, Sep 5, 5:48PM] CALLED IT. you're so cooked bro

James didn't even deny it. He just locked his phone, pressed a kiss to the top of your head—you were 100% asleep now, and went back to reading your textbook.

Yeah. You were all his. Hoodies and glitter and eccentrics and pink shit and all.

Two weeks later, you showed up at the CORTIS dorm for movie night wearing a new black hoodie from Aritzia. You'd been wanting it for literal ages and finally got it. James spotted it immediately.

"Is that a new one?"

"Yeah I did! I felt bad about taking all yours, so I bought my own." You did a little spin, showing it off. "It's even oversized like how you wear them!"

It was objectively a nice hoodie. Plain black, good quality, oversized fit. It looked great on you.

James hated it. "Take it off," he said.

You blinked. "What?"

"The hoodie. Take it off."

"But I just—"

He was already pulling one of his hoodies over his head—the soft black one with subtle embroidery that was his current favorite. He handed it to you, still warm. "Wear this one instead."

"James, that defeats the whole purpose of me buying my own—"

"I don't like you in other hoodies."

The possessiveness in his tone made your stomach flip. "You... what?"

His ears were red again, but he didn't take it back. "Your other hoodies don't smell like me. They should smell like me."

From the living room, Martin called out: "HYUNG, THAT'S THE FREAKIEST THING I'VE EVER HEARD YOU SAY."

"Shut up, Martin," James yelled back, still looking at you. "So?"

You were trying really hard not to smile and failing miserably. "So I should only wear your hoodies?"

"Yes."

"What if I run out?" you contradicted.

"I'll give you more."

"What if you run out?"

"Then I'll buy more. For you to take." He stepped closer, voice dropping lower. "Okay?"

You were already pulling off your new hoodie and slipping into his. It was warm and smelled like his cologne and you were pretty sure you were never taking it off.

"Okay," you breathed.

James kissed your forehead, satisfied finally. "Good."

"You two are just so precious," Seonghyeon mocked from the kitchen.

"Should we leave?" Keonho added, peeking out from the corner. "This feels like a moment."

"Movie's starting!" Juhoon called out, completely oblivious to the hoodie drama.

James just took your hand, pulling you toward the couch. You were wearing his hoodie, he was wearing a t-shirt in the cold dorm, and he could not care less.

Later, when you were curled up against him during the movie, he leaned down and whispered in Chinese: "看到你穿我的衣服,我很开心。" 

You didn't know what it meant, but the way he said it, the way he held you a little tighter—you felt it anyway.

And when you fell asleep before the movie ended, James carefully worked his arms out of his zip-up hoodie and draped it over you like a blanket, layering it over the one you were already wearing.

Juhoon took a picture for blackmail purposes. But James didn't even care.

You could have all his hoodies. You could turn his entire side of the room pink if you wanted. You could leave your stuff everywhere until there was no part of his space that didn't have a trace of you.

He was keeping you, and apparently, you were keeping his entire hoodie collection.

Fair trade.

You open the door, pushing a box in front of you. “Okay, I think that's all of it.” James stands in front of you. Hood over his head. Sunglasses on. You look at him for a second before clearing your throat, “So, uh—let me know if I missed anything.” He doesn't look up.

His eyes are locked in on the floor. He doesn't bend down to pick up the box. He doesn't say hi to you. All he does is stare at the floor. His hands clenched into a fist, “What did I do?” You grip the door, “Don't make it harder than it already is,” you mutter, starting to close the door. James grabs the door before you can close it. “At least tell me what I did wrong?” he asks, finally looking up at you. His eyes are bloodshot red. Dark circles sit beneath them—he clearly hasn't been sleeping. “It’s been a whole week, get over it. Please.” You say forcing the door close. 

You broke up with James. You don't know why you did it.

Lies.

The truth sits ugly in your chest, refusing to be swallowed. You know exactly why you broke up with him. You loved him—no, you love him. Maybe that was the problem. Love is supposed to be selfless, right? You’re supposed to help each other grow, right? So why did it feel like you were holding him back? He’s an idol. He has a job, a life and dreams to achieve. 

Love is supposed to be selfless—full of sacrifices and putting someone else's happiness before your own. That's what James always does. When he loves, he loves heavily. He'd always been like that. Even during his trainee years, and back when he was in Trainee A. Irrespective of his schedule he always made time for you. And you saw it, you always did. The way his shoulders would slump down. The way exhaustion lingered beneath his eyes. The way he showed up even when you told him not to. Even when you said it's okay. Even when you scolded him and told him sternly to get rest. He always simply said—”I’ll rest better with you.”

Somewhere along the way, his schedule only got worse when he debuted in Cortis. Days packed with music production, dance practices, music video shoots, and whatnot.

 And yet, he always showed up. 

It started off normal. He’d show up around 8 p.m. looking sort of energetic. But it went downhill. It always does. He started showing up at random hours. In the early hours of the morning. Once he came over at 3 a.m.

You remember waking up with a familiar grip on your waist—James. “James?” Your voice low and groggy. He hummed into the crook of your neck. You slid closer to him, ‘When did you come over?” His voice came out muffled, “Around 3, I don’t really remember.”

“Why didn’t you stay at the dorm? Why travel so much to come here?” 

He only gripped you tighter, “Wanted to.” 

One thing about James is that he always shows up. He showed up for your fifth anniversary after a sixteen-hour work day. He spent the entire dinner trying to convince you he wasn't exhausted. He failed miserably. Halfway through a story, he'd forgotten what he was talking about. His eyes kept drifting shut whenever there was a pause in the conversation. At one point, he reached for his drink and completely missed it. 

And still, when you told him he should've stayed home and rested, he only laughed. "It's our anniversary." Like that explained everything.

You knew his schedule was packed, but you never really realised how bad it had gotten. With the second album on the way, you should’ve received the memo. When someone talks to James, they have his full attention. So you knew it was bad when he had to check work messages during dinner with your parents. 

You tried to ask him about it. Tried to tell him it was okay if he didn't always show up. He wouldn't listen. 

The members were always supportive of both of you. They even joked about you both being their parents. So you understood it was bad when, right before the GREENGREEN release party, Martin called you. Telling you to make sure James stayed at the dorm that night. Traveling back and forth was exhausting for him. Martin sounded worried, genuinely worried.

And somehow, that was your cue to leave him. 

Sounds fucking ridiculous, you know that too. 

Everyone could see what loving you was costing him. Apart from him. 

The days following the breakup were brutal. You would see James everywhere. Especially with the new album out. The billboards were everywhere. They even won. 10 times at that. You wanted to tell James how proud you were of him. 

But you couldn't. 

Reaching out would only make things harder for him. At least, that's what you tell yourself.

“James?”

“Hello? James?” A kick to his chair finally breaks his trance, “Dude, what is it with you?” Martin asks, scoffing in annoyance.

James doesn't look up at him. He just buries his face in his palms. “Fuck,” he murmurs. 

Everybody knows about it. Of course they do, they’re his friends. “It’s about her again?”

“Her” 

That’s the term James has been hearing ever since the new album dropped. Everyone practically treated your name like a curse. It pissed him off. It pissed him off more than he’d want to admit. “Fuck Martin, just say Yn.” He sneered. 

“Right, sorry.” Martin rolled his chair back towards his side of the desk. “Is it about Yn?”

“Let’s just get back to this track.” He inhaled deeply. “Please,” he whispered.

James couldn't explain how he felt without sounding like an idiot. Nobody would understand how his days felt. How his days felt so empty. Knowing you’re not there to spam him with weird reels or tiktoks at weird hours. Knowing you weren't there to ask if he'd eaten. Knowing you weren't there to spam him with blurry selfies and pictures of things that reminded you of him.

He still woke up, still got ready, performed and all that. Everything looked normal. But it didn't feel normal. He was drowning in something, but he didn't know why. He wasn’t able to sleep at night knowing he did something to hurt you enough to break up with him. 

How could it be something a conversation couldn't fix?

Everything felt hollow, shallow. Even though the album climbed up charts, even though the album won multiple awards. He didn't feel happy. It felt too mundane. It's not mundane—it shouldn’t be. He should be over the moon. This is all he’s dreamt of ever since he was 15. 

Where were you when he needed you the most? He didn't know what to do without you by his side. It was almost as if the days he'd spent without you were utterly meaningless. You slid into his life so easily—like the missing piece of a puzzle. Without you, everything was incomplete. You were the finishing touch on a painting he'd spent years working on. Without you, he felt empty.

James tried everything. He tried to be angry at first. Keyword: tried. He even tried blocking you. He couldn't. His fingers would freeze halfway through.

Every good thing that happened made him reach for his phone. 

So did the bad things. 

He was so used to texting you after every minor inconvenience. With you gone, who was he supposed to talk to? He remembered vividly how he'd text you at exactly 2 a.m. Back when James was just Zhao Yufan trying to court you. You both used to talk till the morning. You both would walk to school together with the same drowsiness in your eyes. The reason? Two lovesick fools trying to salvage the few hours of privacy they got at night.

James’ initial attempts at being angry failed. He knew he had to move on. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. But how was he supposed to keep you out of sight when you were everywhere? James opened his phone? A picture of you two. He opens his wallet to pay for something? A polaroid of you. He opens his laptop to produce music? A picture of you again. Fuck that, he even found a polaroid of you both in his pocket.

He almost thought you found a way to haunt him for his mistakes. Mistakes he isn't aware of because you wouldn't tell him. Maybe it was the universe mocking him. Maybe it was truly that evident. Maybe he’s just stupid.

“James?” Martin whispered, leaning closer to him. He turns his head slightly to look at Martin. Martin exhales loudly, “Dude, you’re not doing okay.” He spins in his chair. “Go talk to her. Get closure.” Seonghyeon chimes in, “Yeah, it’s kinda stupid how she didn’t tell you why.”

“It makes no sense.” Keonho adds on. “Just go.” Juhoon says with finality. James could only look around the room. “She said she’s fine,” He mutters. “She probably doesn’t care.” He leans back in his chair, looking straight at the ceiling. His eyes look soulless.

“Doesn’t matter, you’re fucking yourself up. You weren’t even happy after winning an award. That says enough.” Juhoon said, annoyance laced in his words. Keonho gets up from the couch, grabbing James' hands. He pulled him up. “Go. Now. Stop being a loser, we can’t have you like this.” He spins James around. “I’m sure you can get her back.” He said, finally pushing James to the door. 

You’re scrolling through your phone. Scrolling through Cortis’ instagram, to be precise. And to be even more precise, you were stalking Martin's account—it was the safest place to get updates. Martin barely used the account apart from posting silly stories. These silly stories were your holy grail this month. 

You knew Cortis was in the studio today. You knew they were all busy. You threw your phone on the couch, getting up to grab something to drink. Before you could pull the handle of your refrigerator, your door was met with loud thuds. Three loud thuds echo through the hallway.

You knew who it was. You didn't even have to check. But nonetheless, you walk to the door. All you want is a glimpse of James, you get on your tippy-toes to peep through the peephole. 

And then you see him. His eyes are still red. He’s been crying. He’s constantly fidgeting with his fingers. 

“Yn I know you're standing there.” He said You freeze for a second, opening your door now. “James?” You let out shakily. 

He looks at you, “Do you still love me?” He pauses, “Do you?”

“James, go back to the studio. Stop making it this complicated.” He chokes on a sob, “If you think it’s complicated, that means you still care. I can’t go back. I can’t not love you, I don’t even know what went wrong, Yn.” You should tell him to leave, you should slam the door on his face. You’re holding him back. You drain him. He’s exhausted because he goes above and beyond for you. “Please leave.”

“No.” he says sternly, now entering your apartment without letting you protest. 

He grabs your hand and leads you to the couch. He pushes you down, making you sit on the couch as he gets on his knees. His face now buried in your lap. His voice comes out muffled, “Please. Baby please tell me what I did wrong.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Nothing.”

James goes still, he looks up at you. “Nothing?” he repeats.

“You didn't do anything wrong.”

“Then why?” His voice cracks on the single word. You can feel his fingers tightening around yours. “Yn, look at me.” You don't, because the second your eyes meet his. You don’t know what’ll happen. “Look at me.”

Slowly, you do. His eyes are red. His lashes are wet. He looks exhausted. “You don't just throw away five years and tell me nothing happened.”

The tears burn behind your eyes. “James—”

“No.” He shakes his head. “A month ago you were telling me I was the love of your life.” His laugh comes out broken. “Four weeks ago we were arguing over what movie to watch.” Another sarcastic chuckle. “Three weeks ago, you broke up with me.” His voice is shaky. “So tell me what happened.”

You stare at him. At the eyebags. At the way his hands won't stop shaking. At how tired he looks. And that only further proves your point. “You're exhausted.”

James blinks. “What?”

“You never sleep.” The words start tumbling out before you can stop them. “You show up after sixteen-hour work days.”

“Yn—”

“You come over at three in the morning.”

“Yn.”

“You're constantly working.”

You wipe your tears. “Martin literally called me and told me to make sure you stayed at the dorm because travelling back and forth was exhausting you.”

James freezes.

 “You remember our anniversary?” You laugh bitterly. “You could barely keep your eyes open.”

“Baby—”

“Stop calling me that.” Your voice breaks. “Do you know how horrible it feels watching someone you love run themselves into the ground?”

James stares.

“You have albums to make. Stages to perform on. Fans waiting for you.” You look away. “And all I do is take more from you.”

“Yn.”

“You don't understand.” The tears are falling freely now. “You always show up.” You feel your heart twists. “Even when you're exhausted. Even when you're sick. Even when I tell you not to.” You laugh shakily. “You'd choose me every single time.”

James' head tilts. And suddenly he understands, not completely but almost enough. Not completely. “That's why you left?” You don't answer. “You left because you thought I loved you too much?”

A sob escapes your throat. “You were so tired, James.” The confession leaves you in pieces. “You looked so tired.”

Silence engulfed the room for a second. 

“You idiot.” Your head snaps up. James is crying now too.“You absolute idiot.”

“James—”

“You think that's what I wanted?” His voice shakes. “You think I was showing up because I had to?”

“James—”

“I showed up because I wanted to.”

He grabs your hands, grounding you right by his side. Desperately , afraid you’ll pull back. “Because every good thing that happened made me want to tell you first.” Another tear slips down his cheek. “Every bad thing too. I don't know how to do this without you. Do you know what this feels like?” His grip tightens on your wrists now. “I'd wake up and reach for my phone.” He takes a deep breath. “Nothing. I'd finish a schedule. Nothing. We won awards.” His voice breaks completely. “And all I could think was that you would've been happy.”

You start sobbing harder. “James...”

He wipes the tears on your face. “Pease, don’t let me go. Days feel so incomplete without you here, I swear I go insane.” His forehead rests against your hands.

“Please. I don't care if you're scared, I don't care if we fight, I don't care if things get messy. Fuck, I don’t care if the whole world finds out about this.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Just don't run away from me. I'm not tired because of you.” He shakes his head. “I'm tired because my job is tiring.” A weak laugh escapes his lips. “But you?” His thumb brushes across your knuckles. “You're the only reason I’m surviving,”

You break completely, tears flow down uncontrollably now. And before you know it, you're crying into his shoulder while he holds you like he's terrified you'll disappear again.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Over and over, and over again. Like he's making up for every day he didn't get to say it. “I love you.” A kiss to your forehead. “I love you.” another on the corner of your mouth, “I love you.” His voice cracks. “Don’t ever do that.”

“I’m sorry,” you say amidst your sobs. “I’m sorry.” The apology sounds pathetic the second it leaves your mouth. “I’m sorry—I should've talked to you. I should've communicated.” Your voice cracks. “Instead I—I just...” The words refuse to come out. You broke up with him. You hurt him. You spent weeks pretending it was for the best. And now that he's here, kneeling in front of you, holding onto you like you'll disappear again, none of it makes sense anymore.

A sob escapes your throat. “I was scared.” Before you can say anything else, James pulls you into his arms. His arms wrap around you. “It's okay,” he whispers.

His own voice isn't steady either. “It's okay.”

“No, it's not.”

“Baby.”

“It's not,” you repeat through tears. “I hurt you.”

James lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah.” The honesty and exhaustion in his voice makes you cry harder. “Yeah, you did.” His grip tightens. “But I'm sorry too.”

You pull back slightly. “What?”

James wipes his eyes. “I should've realised sooner.”

“Realised what?”

“That you were worried.” His gaze drops. “I kept thinking if I showed up, it'd be enough.” A weak smile appears on his face. “I didn't realise you were watching me fall asleep halfway through dinner.”

A chuckle escaped your lips. “We're really stupid, huh?”

“Extremely.”

“Very embarrassing.” Another laugh slips out between your tears. And for the first time in what feels like ages, James hears it. Your laugh.

perm tags: @amb4rluvs / @beatbymarzz / @sailuvsu / @lcvehyeon / @frizzyyo / @09zpzkeonnss / @yunjiiin / @hyuneskkami / @one-chance-pls / @rickyshensgirlfriend / @snowzxki / @yuu-kizx / @myen2rude / @meowchness / @jjuhyeons / @6rei-ji / @luffyloving / @w0narchy / @zzzeeetttaaa / @ddolleri / @1giss4swft3 / @ilovegojosatoru13 / @bitemhoon / @lovedove00 / @pixel-zombie / @tateholic / @mershyjershy

miu's corner ✦ soo! for mee this is my best creation srslyyy likeee uhhh the weather the romance I was able to just write my feelings and all the romance in my heart into this fic. If you like my work don't forget to follow and support<33

The rain had been falling for hours.

Not the violent kind that rattled windows and made people nervous.

This rain was softer.

Steady.

Patient.

The sort of rain that transformed the entire world into something gentler.

Everything beyond the glass had dissolved into silver.

The streets below were blurred beneath a veil of mist and water, streetlights glowing like tiny stars trapped inside clouds.

You sat curled on the window seat of James's apartment, knees tucked beneath a blanket while rain tapped endlessly against the glass.

The room smelled faintly of coffee.

And James.

A familiar mixture of detergent, cedarwood, and whatever comfort itself might smell like.

Outside, thunder rumbled lazily in the distance.

Inside, everything felt warm.

Safe.

Quiet.

Your fingers traced absent patterns through the condensation on the window.

You didn't hear James approach until warm arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind.

A content sigh escaped you immediately.

"Found you."

His voice was sleepy.

Like he'd just woken from a nap.

You smiled.

"I wasn't hiding."

"Mm."

His chin rested atop your head.

"Still found you."

The smile tugging at your lips became impossible to suppress.

That was very James.

Simple.

Affectionate.

Completely sincere.

He stayed like that for a moment.

Just holding you.

No conversation necessary.

The rain filled every silence beautifully.

After a while, his nose brushed your temple.

Then your cheek.

Then your jaw.

You laughed.

"James."

"What?"

"You're being weird."

"I'm being affectionate."

"You're sniffing me."

"I'm appreciating my girlfriend."

His lips pressed against your shoulder.

A quick kiss.

Then another.

Then one more.

You laughed harder.

"Stop."

"No."

A kiss.

"No."

Another.

"James."

One directly against your neck.

You squealed immediately.

His laughter vibrated through his chest.

"There she is."

"You menace."

"You love me."

Unfortunately.

He was right.

You turned within his arms, intending to glare at him.

The attempt lasted approximately three seconds.

Because James looked unfairly handsome.

Soft dark hair falling over his forehead.

Comfortable hoodie.

Sleepy eyes.

The kind of expression that always made him look like he was carrying a secret smile.

You hated how weak it made you.

His gaze dropped briefly to your lips.

Then returned to your eyes.

The smile deepened.

"Hi."

You rolled your eyes.

"Hi."

"You're pretty."

"There it is."

"There what is?"

"The reason you came over."

He gasped dramatically.

"Unbelievable accusation."

"You wanted to flirt."

"I always want to flirt."

Fair point.

Before you could answer, he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

The kind of kiss that lingered.

Not rushed.

Not playful.

Just affectionate.

His hand settled against your cheek.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The rain continued beyond the window.

Thunder echoed somewhere far away.

The city felt distant.

Like the apartment existed separately from everything else.

A tiny universe made for only two people.

James looked at you for a long moment.

Then kissed the tip of your nose.

You groaned immediately.

"Oh my god."

"What?"

"That was illegal."

"It was cute."

"It was embarrassing."

"It was adorable."

You shoved his shoulder.

He laughed.

The sound filled the room.

Warm and bright.

Like sunlight trying to break through rainclouds.

—

Later, you found yourselves sitting on the floor beside the couch.

A movie played quietly in the background.

Neither of you were paying attention.

James sat beside you with one arm draped lazily around your shoulders.

Your head rested against him.

The rain had somehow become even heavier.

Water streamed endlessly down the windows.

Thunder rolled overhead.

You should have been listening to the movie.

Instead, you found yourself watching James.

The way his eyes followed scenes.

The occasional smile.

The tiny habit he had of rubbing circles against your arm without realizing.

James noticed eventually.

Of course he did.

His eyes shifted toward yours.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

You smiled.

"Maybe I like looking at you."

His ears turned red immediately.

The reaction made you grin.

Every single time.

No matter how long you dated him.

No matter how much affection he gave.

He still became flustered.

"You can't just say things like that."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because what?"

His gaze dropped.

Then returned.

"Because I don't know what to do."

You laughed softly.

"Yufan."

"What?"

"You're cute."

The poor man looked seconds away from combusting.

You reached forward and kissed his cheek.

Then the other.

Then his forehead.

He stared.

Completely stunned.

The expression lasted precisely three seconds before he recovered.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Oh, we're attacking each other now."

Your eyes widened.

"Wait—"

Too late.

He caught your wrist gently.

Pulled you closer.

And immediately buried kisses along your jaw.

One.

Two.

Three.

You burst into laughter.

"James!"

He continued.

Your cheek.

Your temple.

The corner of your mouth.

Each kiss accompanied by increasingly smug satisfaction.

"This is revenge."

"For what?"

"Emotional damage."

"You're ridiculous."

"And yet."

His lips brushed yours.

Gentle.

Warm.

"So in love with me."

Your heart betrayed you instantly.

Because you absolutely were.

The kiss that followed was soft.

Not rushed.

Not desperate.

Simply familiar.

Comfortable.

The sort of kiss that felt like coming home.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

Rain drummed against the windows.

Thunder rolled overhead.

Everything else disappeared.

There was only James.

Only warmth.

Only this.

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far.

Foreheads resting together.

Breathing the same air.

Sharing the same smile.

─

The storm intensified around evening.

Lightning flashed across the sky.

Briefly illuminating the entire apartment.

The lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then disappeared completely.

Darkness swallowed the room.

You blinked.

Silence.

Then:

"Well."

James's voice emerged from somewhere nearby.

"That's unfortunate."

You burst out laughing.

Within minutes candles had appeared.

Tiny golden flames flickering throughout the apartment.

The atmosphere transformed immediately.

Everything became softer.

Warmer.

More intimate.

The storm outside felt distant despite shaking the windows.

You sat together beneath a blanket on the couch.

Shoulders touching.

Watching rain slide down the glass.

For a long time neither of you spoke.

There was no need.

The silence wasn't empty.

It never was with him.

James eventually shifted closer.

His arm tightened around your waist.

You glanced up.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You definitely have something to say."

He smiled.

A small one.

The kind he reserved only for private moments.

"You know."

"What?"

"I think this is my favorite kind of day."

You looked toward the storm.

The candles.

The blanket.

Then back at him.

"Why?"

His gaze softened.

Because of course it did.

James always looked at you like that.

Like you were something precious.

Something worth protecting.

"Wanna know?"

You nodded.

His hand lifted.

Tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Then his lips brushed your forehead.

Another lingering kiss.

Slow.

Intentional.

"Because you're here."

Your heart nearly stopped.

Not because the words were dramatic.

They weren't.

James rarely spoke dramatically.

That was what made moments like this dangerous.

Every word was honest.

Every feeling genuine.

You leaned closer instinctively.

His nose brushed yours.

A smile touched his lips.

"So cheesy."

"You love it."

You did.

Unfortunately.

Hopelessly.

Entirely.

The realization made you laugh softly.

His gaze followed the sound.

Then drifted lower.

To your lips.

Back to your eyes.

There was something impossibly tender there.

Something that made your chest ache.

Not with sadness.

With affection.

The overwhelming kind.

The kind that made every ordinary moment feel beautiful.

You reached up.

Your fingers brushed his cheek.

James immediately leaned into your touch.

The sight alone nearly melted you.

"You know," you murmured.

"Hm?"

"I think this is my favorite kind of day too."

His smile appeared instantly.

Bright.

Genuine.

Beautiful.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The kiss that followed wasn't playful.

Or teasing.

Or even particularly passionate.

It was simply intimate.

A quiet promise.

His hand resting against your waist.

Your fingers tangled in his hair.

Rain falling endlessly beyond the windows.

Thunder humming softly overhead.

The world reduced to warmth and candlelight.

To two people sharing a couch.

Sharing a blanket.

Sharing a life.

When you finally separated, James rested his forehead against yours.

Neither of you moved.

Outside, the storm continued.

Inside, everything felt peaceful.

His eyes fluttered closed briefly.

A content smile lingering on his lips.

And in that moment, listening to the rain while held safely within his arms, you realized something.

Love wasn't always fireworks.

Or grand confessions.

Or impossible gestures.

Sometimes it was this.

A rainy evening.

A warm apartment.

A thousand tiny kisses.

And the quiet certainty that no matter how loud the storm became outside, home would always be wherever James was.

your mom once told you:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• both moms wiping your faces like this was normal

your dad once said:

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

and honestly, that explains everything.

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

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

summers?

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

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

“siblings by bond, not by blood.”

and your comment underneath — typed by seven-year-old you — said:

“no we r married.”

you didn’t even know what married meant back then.

but you knew he was yours in that small, childish way where possession and affection feel the same.

every teacher, every neighbour, every random auntie who visited your home, they all said the same thing:

“they’re inseparable.”

and they were right.

because when he wasn’t next to you, you felt off. like the day was missing a button. like you’d left something important at home.

you were ten.

yufan had gotten into a fight with a boy who pushed you during recess. it wasn’t serious — just some messy hair-pulling and dramatic shoving — but he came home with a band-aid on his cheek.

when your moms asked why, he just crossed his arms and said:

“he touched her.”

like that was explanation enough.

you didn’t say anything.

you simply sat next to him, both your legs dangling off the couch, and pressed a sticker onto his band-aid — a little cartoon peach.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t complain.

he just looked at you, cheeks red in a way ten-year-old boys would die before admitting.

that’s the first time your chest did something weird — a fluttery, fizzy, unfamiliar twist.

you ignored it.

you had the rest of your life with him anyway.

what was one strange feeling supposed to change?

middle school turned the two of you into a unit people relied on, envied, whispered about:

“they’re not dating?”

“no, they’re just like that.”

“but they act like…”

“i know.”

yufan would wait outside your classroom every day even if his was on the other side of the building.

you’d save him the last melona bar from the cafeteria freezer because he always forgot to bring money.

he gave you half his hoodie when you were cold in the library (which made zero sense because half a hoodie helps no one, but he insisted you take the left side anyway).

and whenever your moms had dinner together — which was almost weekly — you’d end up sitting right next to him, your knee bumping his, his shoulder touching yours.

no one questioned why you were so close.

it was normal.

it had always been normal.

and maybe that was the problem.

because somewhere in the blur of childhood comfort, you had grown attached in a way that felt deeper than habit, heavier than friendship.

but you didn’t know that yet.

not truly.

after all, childhood love is just affection.

you thought this would stay the same forever.

and now—

now you’re eighteen, a first–year psychology major at yonsei, walking across campus with a half-finished iced latte and your backpack slipping off one shoulder, because your last class just ended and your body has officially entered “i’m done for the day” mode.

you check your phone.

a text from him, sent ten minutes ago:

james: done w lab

james: where r u

james: come meet me before next class

he never says please. he just assumes you’ll come.

and the annoying part?

you always do.

so you start weaving through the courtyard, passing clusters of freshmen, clubs recruiting, people studying on the grass. the sky is bright, warm, too gentle for how fast your heart picks up at the thought of seeing him.

you tell yourself it’s normal.

habit.

a lifelong routine.

but you know better.

as you turn a corner near the engineering building, someone calls your name.

“yn!”

you look up.

yoonchae jogs toward you, ponytail bouncing, holding a cup of bubble tea and a folder stuffed with pastel highlighters. she always looks like a pinterest board came to life.

“oh my god, you look exhausted,” she says, linking her arm through yours immediately. “psych 101 again?”

“the prof hates us,” you mumble. “he wants us to suffer.”

“he wants everyone to suffer.” she takes a sip of her drink. “you going to find your clingy man-child?”

“he’s not clingy,” you lie automatically.

chae gives you a look. a full, raised-eyebrow, girl, please look.

“yn. he literally threatened to walk across campus in the rain last week because you didn’t answer for twenty minutes.”

“that was an exaggeration.”

“he SENT A PHOTO OF HIM STANDING OUTSIDE YOUR BUILDING.”

you sigh. “okay, maybe that one was bad.”

chae grins like she’s won something. “are you meeting him now?”

“yeah. he has a break before comp eng.”

she squeezes your arm. “i’ll walk with you. i just came from the library anyway.”

so the two of you head down the steps— and as you reach the courtyard again, you spot a familiar group near the campus fountain.

martin is loudly laughing at something on his phone.

seonghyeon is trying (and failing) to do a bottle flip.

keonho is holding iced americanos for everyone like a stressed single father.

juhoon is sitting on the edge, earphones in, judging the world.

and james—

james is there too, leaning against the railing, sleeves rolled up, hair a little messy from the lab, backpack at his feet.

he’s scrolling through his phone with that resting bitch face he swears he doesn’t have.

and the second he looks up, his entire face shifts.

he brightens— subtly, almost unnoticeably— but you catch it. you always catch it.

“yn.” he straightens immediately. “finally.”

your pulse stumbles.

martin nudges juhoon. “look at lover boy.”

“shut up,” james mutters without moving his eyes away from you.

chae smirks beside you, whispering, “not clingy my ass.”

you nudge her back.

you walk closer, trying to act like your stomach isn’t doing actual gymnastics.

“you said you were free,” you tell him, stopping in front of him.

“i am.” he slings his bag over his shoulder like he’s ready to leave with you. “you ate?”

“coffee counts.”

“no, it doesn’t.” he rolls his eyes. “i’ll take you to the cafeteria.”

you open your mouth to argue— but seonghyeon cuts in:

“yn, save me, he’s been in a mood all day. the moment you didn’t reply he started pacing like someone stole his router.”

“i was not pacing,” james snaps.

“bro, you circled the same tree five times,” keonho says calmly.

chae bursts out laughing. “and you say he’s not clingy.”

you try not to smile.

you fail.

james just grumbles, grabbing your wrist gently— not pulling, just holding, warm and familiar.

“let’s go,” he says quietly, like the rest of the world is background noise.

and it hits you again—

that same fluttery, fizzy, dangerous feeling from when you were ten.

you thought you’d outgrow it.

that you’d get used to him.

that this comfort would stay simple forever.

but now, walking beside him, his fingers brushing your pulse, his friends still teasing in the background—

you know the truth.

you didn’t outgrow it.

you grew into it.

you’re in love with your best friend.

and he has no idea.

the cafeteria is loud — metal trays clattering, students shouting across tables, someone dropping chopsticks for the third time — but somehow, the noise dims a little when you and james walk in together.

maybe because you’re used to matching your pace to his.

maybe because he’s still lightly holding your wrist like you’ll run away if he lets go.

he doesn’t let go until you reach the food counters.

then he stops, turns to you, and gives you that look.

the “i know you didn’t eat anything today except caffeine and lies” look.

“what do you want?” he asks.

“i’m not really—”

“no,” he cuts you off instantly. “pick something. anything. but actual food.”

you roll your eyes dramatically. “you’re so controlling.”

he actually scoffs. “i’m literally keeping you alive.”

you laugh under your breath because he’s not wrong.

you point at the ramyeon station. “fine. that.”

“and dumplings,” he adds.

“james—”

“and fruit.”

he’s already walking ahead to order. “no arguing.”

you just stand there, watching him talk to the cafeteria ajumma with the most serious expression, like ordering food for you is a life-or-death mission.

he pays before you can even reach for your phone.

“i was going to—”

“no, you weren’t.” he picks up the tray. “sit.”

you obey him purely because it’s easier than fighting. (and also because you like when he bossy-cares you.)

you sit by the window, and he places the tray in front of you with the gentleness of someone setting down a newborn baby.

then he sits across from you, eyes narrowed.

“eat.”

you pick up your chopsticks and poke the dumpling. “why are you like this?”

“because if i don’t supervise, you’ll eat three mints and call it ‘lunch.’”

you make a face. “i do not—”

“yn.” he raises an eyebrow.

… okay, maybe sometimes you do.

you sigh in defeat. “fine. i’ll eat.”

his expression softens instantly. “good.”

for a moment, he doesn’t speak. he just watches you blow on the hot ramyeon, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms.

you slurp a noodle, pretending not to notice.

but he does that thing — that stupid, unconscious thing — where he tilts his head and studies you like you’re the only person in the room.

“what?” you ask, cheeks warm.

“nothing,” he says too fast. “you just… look tired.”

his voice softens more than it should.

it hits something inside you, embarrassingly fast.

“i’m fine,” you mumble.

he doesn’t buy it. “did you sleep?”

“…define sleep.”

he gives you the flattest glare.

“yn.”

you bite into a dumpling to avoid answering, and he sighs, pushing a water bottle toward you.

“you’re impossible.”

“you love it,” you shoot back without thinking.

he freezes for half a second — barely noticeable — then clears his throat.

“just eat.”

you smile into your bowl.

you shouldn’t enjoy this.

the fussing.

the caring.

the way he acts like you’re his responsibility, like he knows all your bad habits and wants to fix every one.

you shouldn’t enjoy it.

but you do.

you really, really do.

he watches until you’re halfway through the meal.

then he finally relaxes, leaning back, arms crossed.

“see?” he says. “doesn’t kill you to eat real food.”

you stick your tongue out at him.

he rolls his eyes again — but the corners of his mouth curve up, small, soft.

you pretend you didn’t notice.

because if you did, your heart might actually combust.

dinner with the whole group was not planned.

it never is, honestly.

it starts with martin yelling across campus that he’s starving, seonghyeon shouting that he wants bbq, keonho insisting everyone should eat something “nutritional,” chae whining that her boyfriend ditched her for a study group, and james tugging your sleeve asking, “you coming?”

and somehow all of that turns into nine people crammed into a corner booth at a busy korean bbq place downtown, half of them shouting over the grill.

the table is a mess — kimchi everywhere, lettuce baskets overflowing, someone knocked over a water cup, and juhoon already looks like he regrets showing up.

you end up wedged between james and chae, which is honestly the safest place to be. james handles the grill (obviously — he trusts no one else) and chae feeds you lettuce wraps she builds with too much meat.

“chae— it’s literally falling apart,” you complain.

“shut up and eat it,” she demands, stuffing it into your hand. “i’m coping with abandonment.”

“your boyfriend is literally at the library.”

“yeah. abandoning me.”

you laugh as she dramatically wipes a fake tear.

across from you, martin is telling a story way too loudly.

“so then she says, ‘martin, you’re not emotionally available enough,’ and i’m like, girl, you knew that from day one.”

“you’re the red flag she saw coming,” seonghyeon says, stealing meat off the grill.

“exactly!”

keonho sighs, sipping water like he’s 42 years old and has kids in the car. “you shouldn’t be proud of that.”

“whatever, i’m thriving.”

juhoon doesn’t look up from his phone. “you’re single.”

“THRIVING,” martin repeats aggressively.

you nearly choke on your rice.

next to you, james nudges your arm. “drink some water.”

you blink. “i’m fine.”

“you literally inhaled a grain of rice,” he mutters, handing you his cup.

you drink just to shut him up. (you don’t mind. it’s familiar. comforting. too comforting.)

chae leans over you. “see? clingy.”

“not clingy,” james says through gritted teeth, flipping the pork belly.

“he is,” seonghyeon adds, grinning. “bro, if yn said she wanted snow from the arctic he’d try to go get it.”

“okay, that’s—”

“true,” martin finishes.

you kick him under the table.

james glares at the entire universe for a second.

the conversation shifts into everyone talking about relationships — real, fake, situationships none of them should be proud of.

chae talks about her boyfriend who sends her long paragraphs and heart emojis.

martin claims he’s “emotionally stable now” (a lie).

seonghyeon says he’s seeing someone but “it’s not serious,” and keonho threatens to smack him with a lettuce leaf.

it’s chaotic. loud. stupid. perfect.

you’re warm, full, laughing — and you’re hyper aware of james next to you:

his knee brushing yours under the table,

his arm occasionally pressed against yours,

the way he keeps giving you the good pieces from the grill without saying anything.

you’re not sure when your heart started doing this thing — tightening at every small gesture — but you hate and love it equally.

it’s halfway through dinner when juhoon finally speaks just to read something from his phone.

“apparently the university opened that exchange program application again,” he says casually. “the one posted like two weeks ago. slots are almost full.”

you don’t react. why would you? it’s random information.

but next to you—

james goes still.

not visibly. not dramatically.

just… still.

like someone hit pause on him.

you don’t notice — you’re too busy watching martin argue with the grill tongs — but the boys do.

seonghyeon glances at him.

keonho raises an eyebrow.

martin smirks knowingly.

but none of them say anything.

juhoon scrolls again. “waterloo’s the top pick. comp sci kids are going feral over it.”

you hum, sipping your drink. “makes sense. that school’s no joke.”

james doesn’t say a word.

his hand is gripping the chopsticks too tightly.

his jaw clenched.

his gaze fixed on the grill but not actually looking at anything.

chae, oblivious and happy, adds, “oh yeah! someone in my class said it’s super competitive. barely anyone gets in.”

you nod. “i wouldn’t survive abroad alone. i’d probably cry and come back in a week.”

martin snorts. “james wouldn’t. he’d adapt. he’s built like a robot.”

you laugh.

james doesn’t.

he pointedly clears his throat. “anyway—did you guys finish the econ assignment? the one on market structures?”

it’s so abrupt that everyone’s heads swivel toward him.

“oh god, that thing,” seonghyeon groans immediately, slumping forward like he’s been waiting for someone to bring it up so he could complain. “i swear my brain liquefied halfway.”

“same,” keonho jumps in, pulling out his phone instantly. “bro, look. i made this graph at 3 a.m. tell me why it looks like propaganda.”

yoonchae snatches the phone before he can protest. “a graph cannot look like propaganda—” she pauses. “okay. actually no. this looks illegal. why is the demand curve shaped like a question mark?”

“creative interpretation,” keonho defends.

“creative stupidity,” seonghyeon mutters.

the three of them are suddenly deep in discussion—complaints, bad explanations, dramatic reenactments of their suffering—like james hadn’t even been weird a second ago.

only martin notices.

he glances sideways at james, eyes narrowing just slightly.

james keeps his face neutral, focused, even nodding along at keonho’s rant like he totally cares about the shape of a question-mark demand curve.

martin’s mouth twitches.

interesting.

but he doesn’t say anything.

dinner ends in that slow, chaotic way it always does—with everyone talking over each other, gathering their things, yoonchae complaining about the cold, seonghyeon already half-asleep, and keonho loudly insisting he did in fact understand the econ homework (he did not).

martin and james both reach for the bill at the same time.

“i got it.”

“no, i got it.”

“james, don’t start.”

“you started.”

you watch them march to the counter like two dads trying to out-parent each other.

you, yoonchae, keonho, and seonghyeon wait by the exit. yoonchae is scrolling, keonho is humming, and seonghyeon is leaning on the wall like he’s about to nap standing up.

meanwhile, at the counter—

martin shoots james a side-glance. “so. when are you gonna tell her?”

james nearly drops his card.

he exhales through his nose, quiet. “soon. i’m… working on it.”

“you keep saying that.”

“because it keeps being true.”

martin just nods, grabs the receipt, and doesn’t push further.

outside, everyone debates the route home.

“i’m taking the shuttle,” yoonchae says, already pulling her jacket up to her ears.

“i’m biking,” keonho announces proudly.

“in this weather?” seonghyeon squints at him. “rest in peace.”

you’re shivering a little without realizing.

james notices instantly.

“i’ll walk her back,” he says before anyone else can volunteer. “my dorm’s on the way.”

it isn’t.

everyone knows it isn’t.

nobody comments.

you all wave goodbye, and then it’s just you and james, the cool night air settling around you.

you walk in comfortable quiet for a bit—until james suddenly stops, unwinds his scarf, and drapes it around your neck.

“james—”

“it’s cold,” he says simply, adjusting it so it sits properly on your shoulders. “you never dress warm enough.”

you blink. “you shouldn’t do all these things for me. you’ll never get a girlfriend like this.”

his hands still for half a second.

then he looks at you.

really looks.

soft, almost amused, but also… a little too honest.

“why would i need a girlfriend?”

you open your mouth.

nothing comes out.

your brain short-circuits, but you’re also sleepy, so all you manage is a confused little “…oh.”

he huffs a tiny laugh and starts walking again, like he didn’t just say something illegal.

you hurry to catch up, tugging his scarf closer around you.

“anyway,” he says lightly, “you have to stop skipping breakfast.”

“i don’t skip—”

“yn,” he warns.

“fine. maybe sometimes.”

“every day.”

“i like sleeping!”

“you like making me worry,” he mutters.

you grin. “you worry about me?”

“unfortunately,” he mumbles.

you bump his shoulder with yours. “sounds like a you problem.”

“it is,” he sighs dramatically.

you laugh, breath fogging the air, and the two of you keep walking—close, quiet, warm despite the cold—his scarf wrapped around you, his arm brushing yours, and neither of you mentioning the question hanging between you:

why would he need anyone else?

two weeks pass—two brutal, brain-rotting, soul-crushing weeks where every professor in the department collectively decides to unleash every assignment, project, and exam known to mankind.

everyone is half-dead.

group chats are filled with “i’m gonna drop out” and “this is my villain origin story” and pictures of iced coffee lined up like army soldiers.

so the moment exams end, yoonchae throws herself dramatically on the cafeteria table and declares:

“we’re hanging out. all of us. i don’t care where, i don’t care how. i need human joy.”

someone suggests a café, someone else suggests the arcade, and then you—still half-zombie—mutter,

“my house is fine. i’ll make food.”

everyone immediately agrees because free food + yn = perfect combination.

the plan is set.

everyone’s supposed to show up saturday afternoon.

saturday comes. you’ve cleaned, cooked, set up blankets, switched on fairy lights. yoonchae is on her way. keonho and seonghyeon are together. martin’s bringing drinks.

you text the group: “eta?”

everyone starts sending updates.

except james.

you frown, check his private chat.

you: hey?? you coming right??

james:

… typing

… stops typing

… typing again

james: hey uh

i think i can’t make it

something came up

sorry

you stare at your phone.

you: ?? what came up

james:

just something

you guys go ahead

you sit back on your heels, confused.

james doesn’t bail on plans.

ever.

“maybe he’s sick,” you tell yoonchae as she arrives and dumps her bag on your couch.

“james? sick?” she snorts. “that man refuses to get sick. he could cough up a lung and still show up to class with notes for the lecture.”

but she shrugs it off.

you try to.

you try really hard.

except the next week… and the next… and the next…

you start noticing things.

small things.

tiny things.

things he probably thinks you won’t catch.

but you do.

you always do.

he stops waiting outside your classroom like he usually does.

he sits at the opposite end of the table during lunch instead of sliding into the seat next to you.

he laughs at your jokes, but it’s delayed, like he wasn’t paying attention.

he leaves earlier. arrives later.

he texts less. replies shorter.

he gently avoids moments where it’s just the two of you.

none of it is enough to call out.

none of it is dramatic.

but all of it feels wrong.

and every time he steps back even a little, you feel something tight pull in your chest.

yoonchae notices your silence one afternoon in the library.

“you okay?”

“yeah.”

you aren’t.

because james isn’t just busy—he’s distancing.

and you don’t know why.

you don’t know when it started.

and what hurts the most?

he doesn’t even look at you long enough for you to ask.

the next week is worse.

like—noticeably worse.

even yoonchae, who sometimes misses the most obvious things (once she thought a stray cat was a purse), starts narrowing her eyes at james.

it starts during lunch on monday.

you arrive late—your professor kept you back—and normally, without fail, james shifts automatically to make space for you, legs bumping yours, tray pushed your way without asking.

today?

he doesn’t even look up.

there’s an empty spot beside him, but instead of waiting for you to sit, he slides over to talk to seonghyeon about some basketball thing.

you stand there for a second, awkward, before slipping into a seat next to yoonchae.

she stares at you.

then at him.

then back at you.

“…he didn’t even say hi,” she whispers.

“maybe he didn’t see me.”

“girl, a blind bat would’ve seen you. you were literally standing right in front of him.”

you stab your rice harder than necessary.

the next few days follow the same pattern.

texts left on read.

messages opened but not answered.

calls missed.

eye contact dodged like you’re radioactive.

he’s completely normal with the others.

laughing with keonho.

arguing with martin about some gaming strategy.

helping seonghyeon carry a box for his club.

but with you?

nothing.

you’re not invisible—you’re ignored.

and that stings worse.

yoonchae keeps giving you these pity side-eyes and elbow nudges whenever he does it. martin, who notices everything, watches james with this deepening frown. even juhoon tries to include you more, shooting james confused glances.

but james?

james keeps this careful, deliberate distance from you.

you feel it in every step he takes away.

friday afternoon, you’re in the kitchen helping your mom peel apples when it spills out of you.

“mom?”

“mm?” she looks over, smiling, hair tied back in a loose bun.

“is it… is it possible for someone to just… stop talking to you? even if nothing happened?”

she pauses.

not the general pause.

the mom pause.

“who?” she asks gently.

you shrug, slicing too hard. “yufan.”

she turns fully now.

“ah.”

that single syllable carries about twenty years of understanding.

“he’s avoiding me,” you say, voice cracking a bit. “and i don’t know why. he won’t talk to me. he won’t even look at me properly. and he—he doesn’t do that. not with me.”

your mom wipes her hands on a cloth, walks over, and cups your cheek like you’re still ten years old and crying over scraped knees.

“sweetheart,” she says softly, “you know yufan. that boy has loved you like a shadow since he was in diapers. he doesn’t change on a whim.”

“but he is changing.”

“then something happened.” she brushes your hair back. “or something’s happening. and he’s dealing with it on his own.”

“but why can’t he talk to me?”

“because whatever it is… he thinks it’ll hurt you.”

you blink up at her.

she continues, gentle, steady:

“give him space. he’s not ignoring you because he wants to hurt you. he’s doing it because he’s trying to figure himself out. boys get weird sometimes.”

“he’s not just a boy. he’s—”

“i know,” she smiles. “he’s your yufan.”

your throat closes.

her thumb rubs your cheek.

“just… give him time.”

you want to believe her.

you really, really do.

but when the person you’ve spent your entire life with suddenly starts treating you like a stranger—

time feels less like patience

and more like punishment.

it’s monday, and you’ve had enough.

you’ve been tiptoeing around his distance for a week now, stewing in confusion, frustration, and the quiet sting of being ignored by someone you’ve known your whole life.

so you go straight to the source.

you find him leaving comp eng, books and papers stacked precariously in his arms, as if he’s built this wall of things between himself and the world.

“james!” you call, striding forward before he can get away.

he glances up, expression unreadable. “yn.”

“why’ve you been avoiding me?” you ask, keeping your voice steady but sharp. “all week. texts, in person… you’re acting like nothing’s ever happened.”

he doesn’t falter. doesn’t look guilty. doesn’t apologize. he just shifts the stack in his arms, balancing them carefully. “i haven’t been avoiding you.”

“don’t lie,” you snap. “i see you. you’re… it’s only with me.”

he shrugs, calm, almost detached. “it’s complicated.”

“complicated?” you repeat, narrowing your eyes. “you mean you don’t want to tell me something, and you think ignoring me fixes it?”

he glances away. “i didn’t want to… i mean, it’s easier if you don’t know yet.”

“easier?” you echo, incredulous. “easier for who? for you?!”

he doesn’t answer.

instead, he starts to step past you.

you grab his arm instinctively. “don’t walk away from me.”

he freezes but doesn’t struggle.

and then the inevitable happens.

his tower of papers slips.

books and sheets scatter across the floor in a messy flurry.

“great,” he mutters, crouching to grab them.

“let me help.” you kneel down, collecting the loose sheets.

as you stack them, one paper catches your eye.

your heart skips.

the top sheet reads:

yonsei exchange program — duration one year

student: zhao yufan

accepted: yes

you stare at it. then at him. your voice low, tight: “you’re… going?”

he shrugs, picking up the remaining papers. “yeah.”

“and you didn’t tell me?” you ask, a bitter edge creeping in. your chest isn’t exploding with heartbreak, but your stomach twists, your jaw tightens. “you’re leaving… in three days… and you didn’t say a word.”

he doesn’t meet your eyes. he just keeps stacking his papers, methodical. “didn’t think you needed to know yet.”

“not think i needed to know?” you repeat, incredulous. “my best friend is leaving the country for a year and i find out from this?” you jab a finger at the paper. “you don’t even care that i barely have time with you? that—”

he finally looks at you. his expression is calm, almost cold. “i care. i just… don’t want to deal with it. with telling you, with…” he gestures vaguely at himself. “…everything this means.”

you blink. speechless. part of you wants to argue, part of you wants to storm off, part of you wants to punch him.

instead, you do the only thing you can.

you throw the paper at him.

“fine,” you mutter, your voice low, controlled, simmering with that mix of hurt and frustration. “go then.”

you turn and walk away, leaving him crouched there, papers half-gathered, watching you leave without another word.

the hallway is noisy around you, but you barely hear it.

all you hear is the echo of betrayal—the quiet, infuriating realization that he’s leaving, and for once, you weren’t in the loop.

and that hurts more than you thought it would.

that was the first night you cried over james. cried because of him, not just some sad thought or fleeting memory.

you’d even cancelled on his farewell dinner with the boys. the thought of sitting there, pretending everything was normal while he was leaving, while he’d kept you in the dark… it was unbearable.

yoonchae, being the angel she was, cancelled too. she didn’t argue, didn’t scold. she just came over, sat on your bed, and wrapped her arms around you.

“it’s okay,” she whispered, her hand rubbing gentle circles on your back. “it’s okay to feel this.”

you didn’t respond. couldn’t. the tears came in harsh, unstoppable waves. your pillow was wet before you even realized it, your chest aching with a mix of betrayal, frustration, and that hollow ache of missing him before he even left.

“i—i just…” your voice broke, muffled against her shoulder. “how could he…? after everything… we—”

“shhh,” she soothed. “i know. i know, yn. it hurts. it’s supposed to hurt.”

you sobbed harder. your whole body shook. the sound of your own crying was almost alien. you weren’t used to crying like this. not for him. not him, the boy you’d known since forever, the one you thought you’d always have at your side.

yoonchae stayed there, silent except for the occasional murmur of comfort, until your tears finally slowed. until your breathing, ragged and shaky, found a rhythm again.

then she pulled back slightly, cupping your face gently. “look at me,” she said. her eyes were warm, steady. “he may be leaving, yn. he may have hurt you. but you’re not alone. you have people who see you. people who care. people who aren’t going anywhere.”

you blinked at her, trying to catch your breath, trying to let that sink in. the ache in your chest was still there, tight and sharp, but somehow a little less suffocating.

“tomorrow,” she said softly, “we figure out how to survive this. together. okay?”

you wake up to the dull ache behind your eyes.

puffy. swollen. tired.

the weight of the past three days presses down on you like a physical thing.

you shuffle into the kitchen, hair messy, pajamas wrinkled, and see your mom standing there, coffee in hand. she smiles at you—but it’s not her usual warm smile. it’s sad. knowing.

“hey,” she says softly. “you slept in again.”

you frown. she notices. “what?”

“yufan came by early this morning,” she says, voice gentle. “he… he didn’t wake you. said you don’t sleep much, so he let you rest. then he left.”

something tightens in your chest. your stomach twists. you choke on the quiet, stunned.

“he… he came?” you whisper.

“yep,” she nods. “quietly. didn’t want to bother you.”

you turn away, leaning on the counter, fists clenched, feeling the familiar ache again. he came, and you didn’t even know. he came to see you one last time before leaving for a whole year, and you slept through it.

your mom rests a hand on your shoulder. “yn… i know it hurts. but he cares about you.”

you nod silently, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

later, you’re at college with seonghyeon, keonho, martin, juhoon, and yoonchae, trying to focus on assignments, lecture notes, anything.

your friends chatter around you, but your mind keeps wandering.

and then… your phone buzzes.

you glance down.

james posted a story.

somewhere in europe. café-lined streets, a small group of new friends laughing beside him, wind in his hair. smiling.

your chest tightens.

he hasn’t even texted you. not once.

you stare at the screen, silent. the laughter, the light in his face—it’s beautiful, and it stings.

finally, with a small, shaky sigh, you pull out your phone.

thumb hovering.

then you type:

hope you have a good time in europe.

send.

and put your phone down.

you glance at your friends, all busy with their own things. seonghyeon nudges you, but you shake your head. you’re not ready to talk about it.

then, quietly, you make a decision.

enough of the waiting. enough of the confusion. enough of the hurt.

you’re going to move on from james.

it’s not easy. it’s not sudden. it’s not dramatic.

but it’s final.

and as you take a deep breath, a small, bitter but steady strength blooms inside you.

this chapter is over.

and somewhere, far away, he’s starting his own.

and you… you’re ready to start yours too.