#jistay

"let me see," he murmurs, his voice low and serious. he guides you to the sink, turning on the cold water and holding your hand under the stream. he inspects the tiny cut with the intense focus of a surgeon, his brow furrowed. "okay, apply pressure here. keep it elevated above your heart." he grabs the first aid kit (which he keeps fully stocked) and applies a hello kitty band-aid he bought specifically for you because he thinks it's cute.

while holding the gauze to your finger to stop the bleeding, he starts humming the melody of the demo you were listening to, but he changes the lyrics to be about how the knife is "naughty" and "in time-out." it makes you giggle through the sting.

you are officially banned from the kitchen for the night. he positions you on the counter, kissing your knuckles. "no sharp objects for you for at least 24 hours. i'm serious." he finishes cooking the pancakes himself, feeding you the first bite to make sure you're okay.

two days later, an amazon package arrives. it contains a pair of professional-grade, cut-resistant chef gloves. "put these on," he says, dead serious. "every time you chop. i'm not negotiating."

lee know

it's a lazy sunday morning. minho is already awake, feeding soonie, doongie, and dori. you're still half-asleep, shuffling out of the bedroom in your oversized socks to get water. you're scrolling on your phone, not paying attention to the rug that doongie bunched up earlier. your foot catches, and you go down hard, scraping your knee against the rough carpet and knocking over a stack of magazines.

the crash makes him jump, but when he sees it's just you tripping over air, he sighs. loudly. he doesn't rush over; he saunters, looking down at you with a mix of judgment and concern, hands on his hips. "gravity works, you know. it's a law of physics. you should try respecting it."

despite the sass, he crouches down immediately. his hands are incredibly gentle as he inspects the carpet burn. "you're clumsy," he mutters, but he goes to the bathroom and comes back with antiseptic and a cotton pad. he cleans the scrape with precision, blowing on it softly when the alcohol stings. he wraps it neatly, his touch lingering for a second longer than necessary.

he threatens the rug. literally. he hits the bunched-up fabric. "bad rug. you attacked her. i'm going to feed you to dori." the absurdity of seeing lee know fight a piece of home decor makes you forget your knee is throbbing.

he scolds you the entire time he’s patching you up, but then he goes to the kitchen and makes you a cup of coffee, bringing it to you on the couch. "next time, lift your feet. i'm not carrying you to the hospital if you break a leg." (spoiler: he absolutely would carry you, and he'd probably threaten to fight the rug).

he spends the afternoon aggressively applying double-sided tape to every single rug in the apartment. "try to trip now," he challenges. "the floor is basically glue."

changbin

you're trying to fix a button on his favorite shirt—the one he popped because his arms are getting too big. you're sitting on the sofa, tongue poking out in concentration, trying to push the needle through the thick fabric. the needle slips, pricking your thumb deep enough that a single, bright drop of blood wells up instantly.

he's sitting next to you on his phone, but he sees the flinch. he gasps louder than you do. he physically recoils, his eyes going wide. for a man who loves dark concepts and raps aggressively, he is surprisingly weak to seeing your blood. "ouch! baby! oh my god, that looks deep! are you okay??"

he hovers frantically, hands fluttering around you but afraid to touch the injury. "do we need a doctor? should we ice it?" he looks a little pale. eventually, he grabs a tissue and wraps your entire hand, not just the finger, the whole hand, as if you lost a limb in battle. he holds your hand with both of his, treating it like it's made of glass.

he starts flexing his bicep distractingly close to your face. "look at this instead. don't look at the blood. look at the gainz. is it working? are you distracted?" (it works because he looks ridiculous trying to flex while holding a tissue).

he refuses to let you finish sewing. "leave it. i'll buy a new shirt. it's not worth the bloodshed." he kisses the bandaged finger repeatedly, pouting. "does it still hurt? do you need anything? i'll carry your bag today so you don't strain it."

he buys you a thimble. actually, he buys you five thimbles in different sizes. "wear them on all fingers," he instructs. "like armor."

hyunjin

you ordered some new art supplies for him as a surprise. the box arrives, and you're excited to open it before he gets home. you grab a pair of scissors and try to slide them through the heavy packing tape. the scissors slip, and you get a nasty, stinging paper cut right across your palm from the cardboard edge. you hiss in pain just as hyunjin walks through the door.

he sees you clutching your hand and the box on the floor. his eyes go wide and instantly watery. "nooo! your poor hand!" he drops his bag and rushes over, looking at the tiny, thin cut like it's a personal tragedy of shakespearean proportions. "why is the world so cruel to you??"

he doesn't care about the medical part as much as the emotional comfort. he holds your hand gently, bringing it up to his face to inspect it closely. he kisses your wrist, your uninjured fingers, your palm (avoiding the cut carefully). "i'm so sorry. i bet it stings so bad." he runs to get a band-aid but spends five minutes choosing the cutest pattern because "a boring beige one won't make it feel better."

he starts dramatically re-enacting how he thinks the cardboard attacked you, treating the box like a villain in a movie. "how dare you bite my love! you villainous box!" he pouts until you laugh.

he treats you like a porcelain doll for the rest of the day. he opens the box for you. he opens your water bottle. he opens the door. "don't use that hand! you're injured! just sit there and look pretty while i do everything."

he buys a box cutter with a safety guard and hides all the scissors. "from now on, i open the boxes. i have the reflexes of a dancer. you are too delicate."

han

it's movie night, and you're making popcorn and tea. the kettle whistles, and you reach over to grab it, but you're distracted by jisung yelling at the tv from the other room. your hand brushes against the hot metal of the toaster oven you just used. it's a minor burn, just a red mark, but it stings sharply. "ow!"

panic mode activated. he hears your yelp and comes sprinting into the kitchen, sliding in his socks. "what?? what happened?? are you dying??" he sees you holding your hand and his brain short-circuits. "hot! cold water! where is the water? ice? no, not ice, cool water!" he spins in a circle before realizing the sink is right there.

he drags you to the sink and turns on the tap, holding your hand under it. he's rambling nervously the whole time to distract himself. "i told you that toaster was evil. it’s plotting against us. is it blistering? do we need aloe? i think we have aloe. wait, is that expiration date from 2019?"

he starts telling you a completely nonsensical story about a squirrel he saw earlier that day to keep your mind off the stinging. "it was doing parkour, babe. literally backflips. i think it was training for the olympics."

he makes you sit on the couch with a cold pack while he finishes making the snacks. he keeps glancing over at you with big, guilty boba eyes even though he didn't do it. he refuses to let you near the toaster again for a week. "i'll make the toast. you just sit there and be safe." (he burns the toast, but you eat it anyway because he looks so proud).

he unplugs the toaster oven. "it's in time out." he then goes around the kitchen unplugging everything else that generates heat, just in case.

felix

you're rushing to get ready for a date. you're running around the bedroom looking for your other earring, moving too fast. you turn a corner too sharply and stub your toe violently against the leg of the heavy oak dresser. the pain is blinding for a second, and you let out a strangled cry, hopping on one foot.

felix is sitting on the bed putting on his shoes. he winces immediately, his face scrunching up in genuine sympathy pain. "oh, baby! no! that sounded loud." he's off the bed instantly, his hands reaching out to steady you so you don't fall over.

he guides you to the bed and sits you down. he kneels on the floor to inspect the toe, his touch feather-light and reverent. "is the nail okay? is it throbbing?" he looks genuinely heartbroken that you are in pain. he runs to the kitchen to get an ice pack wrapped in a soft towel.

he uses his deep voice to soothe you, murmuring compliments. "breathe with me. you're so brave. you're doing so good. look at me, sunshine." the rumble of his voice is physically calming.

he glares at the dresser like it personally offended his ancestors. "bad furniture." he massages your foot gently once the pain subsides. later, you catch him trying to subtly shift the dresser a few inches to the left so it's not in the walkway anymore. he brings you a brownie as a "recovery snack" because sugar fixes everything.

the next day, you notice he has put corner guards (the bubbly foam kind meant for babies) on the legs of the dresser. and the nightstand. and the bed frame.

seungmin

seungmin just finished mopping the kitchen floor. he warned you it was wet. he even put a chair in the way as a barrier. but you, distracted by a text, walked right past the chair and slipped. you didn't fall completely, but you caught yourself on the counter hard, bruising your hip and elbow.

he is leaning against the fridge, watching the whole thing happen in slow motion. he doesn't gasp. he just stares at you for a solid three seconds of silence. then he chuckles, a low, dry sound. "i put a chair there. you walked around the chair. to slip on the floor i told you was wet."

despite the roasting, he walks over and helps you straighten up, his grip firm on your arm to steady you. he checks your elbow, pressing on it methodically to make sure nothing is broken. "it's just a bruise. you'll live. but your dignity might not recover from that slide."

he gets you an ice pack but continues to tease you about your lack of coordination for the rest of the night. "do you need a helmet to walk to the bathroom? should i install handrails?" later, when you're cuddling, he rests his hand gently over the bruised hip, protecting it without saying a word.

he immediately pulls up a video on his phone of a penguin falling on ice. "look. twins." you're too busy laughing and hitting his arm to feel the bruise on your hip.

he buys an actual bright yellow "caution: wet floor" sign like janitors use. he sets it up in the kitchen every time he cleans. "since you ignore chairs, maybe you'll respect official signage."

i.n

you're eating dinner together—something crunchy like fried chicken or chips. you're laughing at something he said, and you accidentally bite down hard on your own lip/tongue. the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth instantly, and your eyes water from the sharp pain. you stop chewing abruptly, hand flying to your mouth.

he stops chewing immediately. he grimaces, his nose scrunching up because he knows exactly how much that hurts. "eugh. i felt that. did you bite it hard?"

he hands you his glass of cold water immediately, pushing it into your hand. he watches you intently, his playful maknae vibe gone for a second. "don't talk. just drink. swish it around. let me see?" he leans across the table to inspect the damage, frowning. "it's gonna swell."

he starts making silly faces, puffing out his cheeks or crossing his eyes, trying to make you laugh without opening your mouth. "does it hurt? blink twice for yes. blink three times if i'm handsome."

he realizes you can't eat the crunchy food anymore because it hurts. without asking, he swaps his bowl of mashed potatoes or soup with your plate of fried chicken. "eat the soft stuff. i'll eat the chicken." it's a quiet, practical sacrifice, but he steals glances at you to make sure you aren't still in pain.

The forecast had innocuously called for light showers, a mild inconvenience for the evening commute. The forecast was a liar.

It was a torrential downpour, a violent deluge that turned the streets of Seoul into rushing, murky rivers and made the neon signs of the city blur into streaky, unrecognizable watercolors against the glass. The wind howled around the corners of the apartment building, rattling the window frames with a persistence that made the warmth of the living room feel fragile.

I was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a thick knit blanket, staring blankly at the mute TV. My eyes kept drifting to the digital clock on the cable box. 1:45 AM.

Minho had texted over an hour ago—a brief, characteristic message: Leaving now. Don't wait up. It was a twenty-minute drive from the JYP building at this hour, maybe thirty with bad weather. It shouldn't take this long.

My phone sat silent on the coffee table, screen dark. I picked it up, unlocked it, checked the messages, locked it, and set it down. I repeated this cycle every three minutes.

"He's fine," I told the empty room, my voice sounding thin against the drumming of the rain. "He probably stopped at the convenience store for pudding. Or he's stuck in traffic because of an accident."

But the knot in my stomach tightened, twisting into nausea. Lee Minho was precise. He was punctual to a fault. He valued efficiency. If he said he was coming home, he came home. He didn't meander, and he certainly didn't go radio silent in a storm like this.

Suddenly, the electronic lock on the front door beeped. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound was sharp, piercing the ambient noise of the storm.

The deadbolt clicked back, and the door swung open with a heavy thud, hitting the wall.

"Minho?" I called out, scrambling to stand up, the blanket pooling at my feet.

He didn't answer. He stumbled into the entryway, bringing the smell of ozone and wet pavement with him. He was dripping wet—not just damp, but soaked to the bone as if he had walked through a waterfall. He hadn't used an umbrella, or if he had, it had been useless. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead in heavy strands, water running down his nose and chin. His expensive coat, usually kept immaculate, was heavy with water, darkening the fabric to a near-black.

But he wasn't alone.

He was cradling something against his chest, hunched over it protectively, curving his spine to shield it with his own body. His arms were locked tight, his knuckles white.

"Minho?" I rushed forward, ignoring the puddle forming on the hardwood floor. "What happened? Is it the car? Are you hurt?"

He looked up then. His face was ghastly pale, lips tinged with blue. But it was his eyes that stopped me cold. They were wide, blown with a raw, unadulterated panic—a look I had never, ever seen on Lee Minho. Not during stressful comebacks, not during injury scares. He looked terrified. He was shaking violently, his teeth chattering audibly.

"I need towels," he rasped, his voice cracking and ruined. "Y/n, get towels. Warm ones. Now."

He unzipped his jacket with trembling fingers, struggling with the wet metal. Inside, nestled against the damp warmth of his hoodie, was a tiny, sodden lump of orange fur. It looked more like a drowned rat than a cat. It wasn't moving.

"It was in the gutter," Minho whispered, staring down at the creature, his eyes losing focus. "The water was... it was rising so fast. It swept him under. He wasn't moving."

My heart broke in an instant. I knew Minho's weakness. The world saw the sharp-tongued, confident dancer who led Stray Kids with an iron fist. I saw the man who talked to his cats like they were his children, who softened instantly at the sight of anything small and helpless. An animal in pain didn't just make him sad; it destroyed him.

"Go to the bathroom," I ordered, snapping into crisis mode. Panic wouldn't help him, and it wouldn't help the kitten. "Turn the heater on. I'll get the towels and the kit. Go."

The bathroom became a makeshift triage center, the harsh fluorescent lights humming overhead.

We laid the kitten on the thick, fluffy bathmat. It was tiny—maybe five weeks old, if that. A stray, clearly. Its ribs were visible through the wet, matted fur which stuck to its skin like oil. One of its back legs was bent at a sickeningly odd angle, trailing uselessly behind it. It was barely breathing, just tiny, jagged gasps that rattled in its small chest.

Minho dropped to his knees, ignoring the pain of the impact on the tile. His hands hovered over the kitten, terrified to touch it and cause more pain, but terrified to let go. His hands, usually so steady when he cooked intricate meals or executed complex choreography, were trembling uncontrollably.

"He's so cold," Minho choked out, water from his hair dripping onto the mat. "Y/n, he's freezing. I can feel it. His heart is barely beating."

"I know," I said softly, rushing in with an armful of towels fresh from the dryer. I draped a warm one over the tiny body, rubbing it gently but firmly. "We need to dry him and warm him up. Rub him gently. We have to stimulate the circulation. I'm going to call the emergency vet."

"They're too far!" Minho snapped, panic edging his voice into a shout. He looked wild, desperate. "I tried! Traffic is stopped because of the flooding near the Han River. We can't get there in time. He won't make it."

"Then we do it here," I said firmly, sitting down opposite him. "We save him here."

For the next hour, the only sounds in the room were the whir of the hairdryer and Minho's ragged breathing.

I prepared a syringe of warm honey water, trying to trickle it into the kitten's gums to combat shock and hypoglycemia. Minho manned the hairdryer, keeping it on the lowest setting, moving his hand constantly to warm the small body without burning the fragile skin.

Minho didn't blink. He was hyper-focused, his jaw clenched so hard I thought a tooth might crack. He was whispering to it, a constant, desperate stream of low, nonsensical murmurs. It was a plea to the universe.

"Come on," he whispered, his voice rough. "You're tough. You're an orange cat, right? Orange cats are crazy. You have to be crazy to survive this weather. You can't go out like this. Not in the rain. Not when I just found you. Come on."

Every time the kitten's breathing hitched or paused for a fraction of a second too long, Minho stopped breathing too. His entire existence had narrowed down to the rise and fall of that tiny ribcage.

I watched him, my heart aching with a fierce, protective love. He looked wrecked. He was still in his soaking wet clothes, shivering as the adrenaline coursed through him, but he hadn't even noticed his own discomfort. His lips were still pale, his skin clammy.

"Minho," I said gently, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "You're freezing. You need to change."

"I'm fine," he jerked away, his eyes never leaving the cat. "Don't touch me. Just... look. Look, his ear twitched."

It was true. A tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of the left ear. As the warmth from the dryer and the towels seeped back into its bones, the kitten let out a tiny, raspy sound. Not quite a meow, but a protest. A sign of life.

Minho let out a breath that sounded like a sob, his shoulders sagging forward.

"Yeah," he whispered, stroking the top of the kitten's head with just the tip of his pinky finger, afraid to use more weight. "Yeah, that's it. Be angry. Scream at me. Just don't stop."

By 4 AM, the kitten was stable.

We had splinted the broken leg as best we could using a sanitized chopstick and gauze—a trick Minho remembered from one of the countless survivalist videos he watched at 3 AM. The kitten—whom I had mentally named 'Citrus' for his color—was now sleeping in a cardboard box lined with a heating pad and Minho's favorite soft t-shirt. His breathing was steady, the rattling noise gone.

The crisis was over. And as the immediate threat vanished, the adrenaline that had been holding Minho upright suddenly evaporated, leaving him hollow.

He slumped back against the porcelain bathtub, his wet clothes squelching against the tile with a miserable sound. He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, his hands falling limply into his lap.

"He's okay," I whispered, turning off the hairdryer and the bright overhead light, leaving us in the softer glow of the vanity bulb. I sat down next to him on the cold floor.

"For now," Minho murmured. He didn't open his eyes.

"You saved him, Minho. He would have drowned in minutes."

"I almost didn't see him," he said, his voice devoid of emotion now, flattening out into a monotone that was scarier than the panic. "I was walking from the car. The water was up to my ankles. I just... looked down. I don't know why. If I hadn't looked down... I would have stepped on him. Or walked past him."

He trailed off, the horrific alternate reality playing out in his mind.

I reached out and took his hand. It was ice cold, the skin pruned from the damp. "But you did. You looked. That's what matters."

Minho turned his head to look at me then. His eyes were red-rimmed, the dark circles under them profound against his pale skin. He looked stripped bare. The sarcasm, the 'tsundere' act, the untouchable idol persona—it was all washed away by the rain.

"I hate it," he whispered, a tremor returning to his voice.

"Hate what?"

"How small they are," he said, his voice breaking on the word small. He gestured vaguely toward the box where the kitten slept. "Soonie. Doongie. Dori. This one. They're so small. And the world is so... big. And loud. And heavy. There are cars, and storms, and people who don't care."

He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, making himself small.

"I can't protect them," he confessed, the words tearing out of him like a physical wound. "I'm supposed to be strong. I'm Lee Know. I'm the one who scolds the members, the one who doesn't cry. But I saw that cat in the water and I... I felt useless. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was watching him die and there was nothing I could do."

This was the angst I knew lurked beneath the surface. The paralyzing fear that his love wasn't enough to stop the inevitable pain of the world. That no matter how much money he made or how famous he became, he couldn't stop a storm.

"Minho," I said, scooting closer until our shoulders were pressed together, ignoring the dampness of his sleeve. "You aren't useless. You brought him home. You warmed him up. You sat on a bathroom floor for three hours refusing to give up. You are the strongest person I know, not because you don't cry, but because you care this much."

He shook his head, a single tear finally escaping and tracking through the water already drying on his cheek. "I was scared," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I was so scared he was going to die in my hands."

"Come here," I said softly, shifting so I was facing him.

I opened my arms, and Minho, the man who usually swatted away affection unless it was strictly on his terms, collapsed into me.

He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his wet hair soaking my shirt instantly, and he let go. He didn't sob loudly; Minho was a silent crier. He just shook. His shoulders heaved with the force of the tension leaving his body. He held onto the back of my shirt like I was the only solid thing in a spinning world, his grip desperate.

I held him tight. I rubbed his back in slow, firm circles, running my fingers through his damp, tangled hair, murmuring the same soothing things he had whispered to the kitten.

"It's okay," I said into his hair. "Let it out. I've got you. He's safe. You're safe. You did good."

We stayed like that for a long time on the bathroom floor. Slowly, the violent shaking stopped, replaced by the occasional shudder of a leftover sob. His breathing evened out, syncing with mine, hot against my neck.

He pulled back eventually, wiping his eyes aggressively with the back of his hand, sniffling. He looked at me, embarrassed now. The walls were trying to come back up, the bricks of his defenses sliding into place.

"I got your shirt wet," he muttered, looking at the damp patch on my shoulder, avoiding eye contact.

"I don't care about the shirt," I said, reaching out to brush a wet strand of hair from his eyes. "But you need a hot shower. You're turning blue, and if you get sick, Chan will kill me."

He nodded stiffly, clearing his throat. "Yeah. Okay. Shower."

He stood up, groaning as his stiff joints protested the hours spent on the hard tile. He paused at the door, looking back into the box one last time. The kitten was asleep, a tiny orange ball of fluff rising and falling rhythmically.

Minho's expression softened, that profound, terrifying love returning to his eyes, warring with the lingering fear.

"I'll watch him," I promised, standing up to guide him toward the shower. "I won't leave the room. Go."

When Minho finally emerged from the shower twenty minutes later, dressed in dry grey sweatpants and an oversized white t-shirt, he looked more like himself. Tired, yes—exhausted even—but the haunting, wild panic was gone.

I was in the kitchen, the kettle whistling softly. The apartment was quiet again, the storm outside reduced to a rhythmic drumming rather than a roar.

He walked up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his chin heavily on my shoulder. He was warm now, radiating heat, smelling of his body wash and the steam from the shower.

"Thank you," he murmured against my ear, his voice raspy but steady.

"For what?"

"For not thinking I'm crazy," he said. "For helping. For... handling me. I know I was a mess."

I turned around in his arms to face him. I reached up and cupped his face, running my thumbs under his eyes. "You have a big heart, Lee Minho. It's my favorite thing about you. Even if you try to hide it behind threats of air fryers and death stares."

A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the first real smile I'd seen in hours. "He tried to bite me earlier. When I checked his leg before I got in the shower."

"The kitten?"

"Yeah." Minho's eyes sparkled with a hint of pride. "He hissed at me. He's got a temper. He's a fighter. He's not going to give up."

"Sounds like someone else I know," I teased, smoothing his eyebrows.

Minho leaned down and kissed me. It was slow and soft, a kiss of gratitude and exhaustion, tasting of mint toothpaste and relief. He lingered, pressing his forehead against mine.

"We have to keep him," he stated when he pulled away. "Obviously."

"Obviously," I agreed. "We can't put a three-legged orange cat back on the street. Doongie needs a chaotic little brother. And Soonie needs someone else to ignore."

"I was thinking of a name," Minho said, taking the mug of chamomile tea I offered him. He blew on the steam, looking thoughtful.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Bada," he said softly. "Ocean. Because I found him in the water. And because he was drowning, but now he's safe."

"Bada," I tested the name. "It fits. It's cute."

"And if he misbehaves," Minho added, his tone sharpening into his usual playful menace, a glint returning to his eye, "I will threaten to turn him into sushi. So the name works on two levels. It keeps him humble."

I laughed, swatting his arm lightly. "You're back. Thank god. The sentimental Minho was starting to worry me."

"I'm back," he agreed, taking a sip of tea.

He took my hand and led me toward the bedroom, but he detoured to the bathroom door first. He opened it a crack, just enough to peek inside at the sleeping kitten in the box. Bada was still asleep, warm and safe.

"Goodnight, Bada," he whispered. "Don't cause trouble."

He closed the door gently and pulled me into the bedroom. We climbed into bed, the rain still hammering against the window, but it didn't sound scary anymore. It just sounded like background noise, a reminder of what we had survived.

Minho pulled the duvet up and curled around me, his arm draped heavy over my waist, his face pressed into the back of my neck. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, his body finally relaxing completely into the mattress.

"Y/n?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you," he whispered into the dark.

My heart squeezed. He didn't say it often. He usually showed it by cooking for me, or fixing my computer, or buying me things I mentioned once. Hearing it spoken aloud, in the quiet dark, felt heavy and important.

"I love you too, Minho."

He tightened his hold on me slightly. "Tomorrow, we go to the vet. Then, we buy more cat treats. And maybe a new scratching post. I think Bada is going to be high maintenance."

"Probably. He's your son, after all."

"Good thing I'm rich," he mumbled sleepily, his words slurring as sleep finally claimed him.

I smiled, closing my eyes.

Just as I was about to drift off, the bedroom door creaked open. It wasn't the wind.

A soft thump signaled an arrival at the foot of the bed. Then another lighter thump. And finally, the distinct sound of claws clicking tentatively on the hardwood floor.

"Soonie," Minho murmured, not opening his eyes but shifting his leg instinctively to make room. "Doongie. Dori. You guys are late."

The three cats had apparently finished their investigation of the new arrival in the bathroom—likely sniffing the door and judging the newcomer—and had come to reclaim their territory. Doongie, bold as ever and the closest in color to the new recruit, hopped up and kneaded the duvet right between our ankles before settling down with a heavy sigh. Soonie, the eldest and wisest, curled up at the foot of the bed, a warm, solid weight against Minho’s feet, acting as the anchor. And Dori, the maknae and ever the observer, jumped onto the nightstand, watching over us like a small, furry gargoyle with glowing eyes.

Minho let out a contented hum, reaching out blindly with his foot until he made contact with Soonie’s fur.

"Whole family," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. "All here."

The storm raged on outside, but inside, surrounded by Minho's warmth, the soft purring of three cats at our feet, and the knowledge that a tiny new life was safe in the next room, everything was perfect.

The apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Minho chopping vegetables in the kitchen. It was a domestic sound, usually comforting—a signal that the day was over and safety had begun—but tonight it felt like a countdown. The scent of sesame oil and stew filled the air, rich and warm, but it only made the nausea churn violently in your stomach.

You sat on the living room couch, knees pulled tight to your chest, trying to make yourself as physically small as possible. You had angled your body carefully away from the open-concept kitchen, keeping your hair draped over the left side of your face like a heavy, protective curtain. You stared at the turned-off TV screen, watching the reflection of the room behind you, waiting for the inevitable.

"Dinner in ten," Minho called out. His voice was light, casual, humming with the satisfaction of a man who enjoys feeding his people. "Doongie is trying to steal the beef, so it might be nine."

"Okay," you replied. You flinched internally before the word even fully left your lips. Your voice came out strained, a little too high, a little too brittle—a cracked note in a perfect melody.

The chopping stopped instantly.

The silence that followed was deafening, heavier than any shout. You squeezed your eyes shut, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You knew Lee Minho. You knew that he noticed everything, a shift in the wind, a change in your breathing pattern, a tone that was half an octave off. He could read the atmosphere of a room before he even stepped fully into it.

"Y/n?"

His footsteps were silent on the hardwood floor. He didn't stomp; he prowled. There was no warning sound, just the sudden, overwhelming pressure of his presence shifting from the kitchen to the living room. You felt him standing behind the couch before you saw him—a radiating heat, a sudden static in the air. A hand, warm and firm, rested on your shoulder. It wasn't a comfort; it was an anchor.

"Look at me."

It wasn't a request. It was a command wrapped in velvet, low and absolute.

You hesitated, gripping your knees tighter, and that was your second mistake. Minho didn't wait. He moved around the sofa with fluid, predatory grace, crouching down in front of you so he was eye-level. He reached out, his fingers gentle but unyielding, and tucked the curtain of hair behind your ear.

The exposure felt like a burn. The bruise was blooming across your cheekbone, an ugly mottling of deep purple and sickly yellow that stood out starkly against your pale skin, accompanied by a small, jagged cut at the corner of your lip where the skin had split.

The air in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees. The warmth of the kitchen vanished, replaced by a cold, suffocating vacuum.

Minho didn't gasp. He didn't shout. He went terrifyingly, completely still. His eyes, usually sparkling with mischief or softened by affection, turned completely black. The pupil dilated until there was no iris left, just a void of cold, calculating fury. It was the look of something ancient and dangerous waking up.

He reached out, his thumb hovering over the bruise, shaking slightly. Not from fear, not from disgust, but from the Herculean effort of restraining his own violence. He traced the outline of the injury without actually touching it, as if mapping the pain onto his own soul.

"Who did this to you?"

His voice was a low rumble, barely a whisper, but it vibrated through your bones. It was the voice of a predator realizing something had dared to touch what was his. It wasn't a question of if there would be consequences, but when.

"Minho, it was just an accident," you lied, your voice trembling, desperation clawing at your throat. "I fell at the station, the stairs were slippery—"

"Don't," he cut you off. His gaze snapped to yours, sharp enough to cut glass. "Don't lie to me. Not about this. That is not a fall. That is a hand."

He stood up slowly, the domesticity of the evening shattered beyond repair. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. For a moment, he looked like a stranger, someone capable of burning the world down just to keep you warm, someone who would paint the streets red to ensure you never bled again.

"I asked a question," he said, his jaw clenching, a muscle jumping frantically in his cheek. "And I won't ask it again. Who?"

The rain in Seoul that night didn’t just fall; it felt like it was trying to drown the city, washing away the neon grit of the day until nothing was left but grey puddles and the sound of rushing water.

Inside Whisk & Moon, the world was muffled and warm. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of caramelized sugar and yeast. It was a smell that usually comforted me, but tonight, at 11:45 PM on a Tuesday, it just smelled like exhaustion.

I leaned my hip against the cool marble counter, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. My sketchbook lay open next to the register, a half-finished charcoal drawing of a cat sleeping on a windowsill smudged by my flour-dusted sleeve.

"Twenty minutes," I muttered to the empty shop. "Just twenty minutes until I can lock the door and pretend the world doesn't exist."

My aunt, the owner of the bakery, liked to say that late-night shifts were 'romantic.' She claimed that the most interesting people bought pastries at midnight. So far, my 'interesting people' consisted of drunk salarymen looking for sobering carbohydrates, university students running on caffeine and panic, and the occasional stray cat scratching at the glass.

I picked up my rag and started wiping down the espresso machine for the third time, purely for something to do. The silence was heavy. The only sound was the hum of the display fridge and the rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I liked the solitude, usually. As an illustrator struggling to find her style, the quiet hours were supposed to be my creative peak. But lately, the silence just felt lonely. It felt like I was waiting for something to happen, but I had no idea what.

I walked over to the display case to pull the unsold items. We usually donated them to the local shelter in the morning, but there was a batch of brownies on the bottom shelf that I had accidentally over-baked. They were perfectly edible, just a little too crispy on the edges to sell at full price. I plated one for myself, staring at its cracked, chocolatey surface.

Ding.

The brass bell above the door cut through the rain, startling me so bad I nearly dropped the brownie.

I snapped my head up. "I'm sorry, we're technically clo—"

The words died in my throat.

The figure standing in the doorway looked like he had been spat out by the storm itself. He was drenched. Absolutely soaked. He wore an oversized black hoodie that swallowed his frame, the hood pulled so low it cast a shadow over his entire face. His baggy grey sweatpants were dark with water up to his shins, and his sneakers squeaked pitifully as he shifted his weight on the welcome mat.

He didn't move further inside. He just stood there, dripping onto the tile, shivering slightly.

"I... I saw the light," he said.

The voice stopped me cold.

It didn't match the pitiful image of the boy in the hoodie. It was deep. Startlingly deep. A rich, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and settle somewhere in my chest. It was the kind of voice that should be narrating a noir film, not apologizing in a bakery doorway.

I blinked, recovering my wits. "The light is on," I agreed, my voice sounding thin compared to his. "But the registers are closed."

He slumped visibly. It wasn't an angry slump, or an entitled one. It was the body language of someone whose last thread of hope had just snapped. "Ah. Right. Okay. Sorry to disturb you."

He turned to leave, his hand reaching for the brass handle.

I looked at his shaking shoulders. I looked at the relentless deluge of rain smashing against the glass outside. I looked at the lonely, rejected brownie on the plate in my hand.

"Wait," I called out.

He froze, hand on the door.

"You're dripping on my floor," I said, softening my tone. "If you go back out there, you're going to catch pneumonia, and I don't want that on my conscience. Come in. I'm not selling anything, but... I have rejects."

He turned back slowly. "Rejects?"

"Pastries," I clarified, gesturing to the counter. "Ugly ones. They taste fine, they just have low self-esteem."

A pause. Then, a low, breathy sound came from under the hood. A chuckle. "Low self-esteem pastries," he repeated. The deep voice curled around the syllables. "Sounds like my kind of crowd."

He stepped fully inside, and the door clicked shut, severing the noise of the storm.

"I'm Y/n," I said, walking around the counter to the small seating area. I pulled a chair out at the corner table, the one furthest from the window and hidden from the street view. "Sit here. It's the warmest spot."

He hesitated, seemingly wary of being seen, but he took the seat. He kept his hood up.

"I'm... Yongbok," he said quietly, then paused. "I mean... Felix. You can call me Felix."

"Two names?" I asked, walking back to the kitchen to grab a clean towel.

"Complicated life," he murmured.

I returned and held out the towel. He took it with hands that were slender and pale, his fingers long and elegant. As he dried his face, the hood fell back slightly, and I finally got a look at him.

I sucked in a small breath.

He was striking. There was no other word for it. Even with wet, blonde hair plastered to his forehead and dark circles under his eyes that spoke of bone-deep exhaustion, he was beautiful. Ethereal, almost. But what caught my attention wasn't the sharp jawline or the delicate features; it was the freckles. A constellation of them dusted across his cheeks and nose, raw and uncovered by makeup.

He looked up, catching me staring. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, as if bracing for a camera flash or a scream.

I blinked and turned away, focusing on the espresso machine. "I can't make coffee," I lied. I could, but he looked like he hadn't slept in three days. Caffeine was the last thing he needed. "But I can steam milk. Do you like chocolate? Or honey?"

The tension in his shoulders dropped an inch. "Chocolate," he said softly. "Please."

I got to work. The familiar ritual of steaming milk, the hiss of the wand, the clink of the ceramic mug—it filled the awkward silence. I mixed in a generous amount of dark cocoa powder and a drop of vanilla, creating a hot chocolate that was thick enough to be a meal.

I brought the mug over, along with the plate of two "ugly" brownies.

"On the house," I said, sliding them toward him.

He wrapped both hands around the mug, closing his eyes as the heat seeped into his palms. "Thank you," he whispered. "You have no idea."

"Rough night?" I asked, pulling out the chair opposite him. I sat down backward, resting my chin on my arms. I didn't treat him like a customer. At this hour, we were just two tired people escaping the rain.

"Rough week," he corrected. He took a sip of the cocoa and let out a long, satisfied sigh. "Rough month, actually."

"I get that."

He looked at me over the rim of the mug. His eyes were dark, intense, and surprisingly observant. "You're an artist?" he asked, nodding toward the sketchbook I'd left on the counter.

"Trying to be," I admitted. "Currently, I'm a professional flour-duster who draws cats on napkins."

He smiled. It was a small thing, but it transformed his face. The sunshine quality of it was at odds with the deep voice and the storm outside. "I like cats. And I like flour." He broke off a piece of the brownie and popped it into his mouth.

His eyes went wide.

He chewed, swallowed, and stared at the brownie as if it had personally offended him. "Who made this?"

"I did," I said, suddenly defensive. "I told you, the edges are burnt, it's not my best work—"

"It's perfect," he interrupted, his voice serious. He took another bite, larger this time. "It's not too sweet. It’s dense. Fudgy. Did you use sea salt?"

"A pinch. To cut the sugar."

He looked at me with a newfound respect. "I bake," he said, shifting in his seat, leaning in closer. The wariness was melting away, replaced by genuine enthusiasm. "Or, I try to. When I have time. Which is never. But my brownies never turn out like this. They get... cakey."

"Too much baking powder," I diagnosed instantly. "Or you're over-beating the eggs. You have to fold them. Gently. Like you're tucking them into bed."

Felix laughed. It was a bright, airy sound that made the empty shop feel less lonely. "Tucking them into bed. I'll remember that."

For the next twenty minutes, we didn't talk about why he was walking in the rain at midnight without an umbrella. We didn't talk about why he looked so familiar, though my brain was starting to itch with the recognition of a face I’d seen on billboards or YouTube ads.

Instead, we talked about sugar ratios. We argued about whether white chocolate was valid chocolate (he said yes, I said absolutely not). He told me about a video game he was stuck on, and I sketched a quick, caricature doodle of him fighting a boss monster with a whisk, which made him laugh so hard he nearly choked on his cocoa.

For a moment, in the bubble of Whisk & Moon, he wasn't whoever he was out there. He was just a boy with freckles and a sweet tooth.

The rain eventually slowed to a drizzle. The spell broke when his phone, hidden somewhere in the depths of his wet hoodie, began to buzz.

It wasn't a normal vibration. It was a frantic, continuous buzzing that suggested someone on the other end was losing their mind.

Felix’s face fell. The light in his eyes dimmed, replaced instantly by the exhausted mask he had worn when he walked in. The walls went back up.

"I have to go," he said, his voice dropping back to that low, formal register.

"Duty calls," I said, standing up.

He stood too, pulling the damp hoodie back up, hiding the blonde hair, hiding the freckles. He looked at the empty mug and the crumb-dusted plate. "How much do I owe you? Really. For the towel, the shelter... the best brownie of my life."

I shook my head. "It was a reject batch, remember? You did me a favor by eating them. Consider it a garbage disposal service."

He paused, looking at me. He seemed to be searching for something in my face—maybe recognition, maybe judgment. He found neither.

"Y/n," he said, testing the name.

"Felix," I replied.

He reached into his pocket, but instead of a wallet, he pulled out a small, slightly damp piece of paper. It looked like a receipt from a convenience store. He grabbed the pen from my apron pocket—a bold move—and scribbled something on the back of it.

"I can't pay you," he said, placing the paper on the table face down. "But... thanks for not asking."

"Asking what?"

"For a photo," he said simply.

Before I could respond, he turned and pushed out into the night. The bell chimed, ding, and the door swung shut.

He was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

I stood there for a moment, listening to the fading rhythm of the rain. The shop felt twice as empty as it had before. I walked over to the table to clear his mug. The ceramic was still warm from his hands.

I picked up the receipt he had left. On the back, written in a hurried, angular scrawl, was a short list.

1. Don't over-beat the eggs. 2. Use sea salt. 3. Overwatch username: BBokari_915. 4. I'll be back for the non-rejects.

I stared at the paper, a laugh bubbling up in my throat.

I walked over to the window, pressing my hand against the cool glass. The street was empty, the boy in the hoodie long gone, swallowed up by the Seoul night.

I finally realized where I knew him from. My cousin had a poster on her wall. Stray Kids. The one with the voice that didn't match his face.

"Lee Felix," I whispered to the empty bakery.

I looked down at the username on the receipt.

My apartment was only a ten-minute walk from Whisk & Moon, but that night, the walk felt like a fever dream. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflecting the neon signs of the convenience stores like oil on water.

I climbed the three flights of stairs to my studio apartment, tossed my keys into the bowl, and immediately slumped onto my sofa without taking off my coat.

In my hand, the receipt was already softening from the damp air.

BBokari_915.

I stared at the scrawl. It was messy, hurried. The handwriting of someone who didn't have time to write things down often, or perhaps someone whose hands were shaking from exhaustion.

"Lee Felix," I said aloud, testing the weight of the name in the safety of my own living room.

I pulled my phone out and did what any rational person in the 21st century would do. I opened Google.

The search results populated instantly. Millions of hits.

Stray Kids Felix deep voice compilation.

Stray Kids Felix 'God's Menu' killing part.

Is Felix the sunshine of K-pop?

I clicked on the first video. The screen filled with bright lights, cheering crowds, and aggressive camera cuts. And there he was. Sharp eyeliner, silver jewelry, moving with a precision that looked lethal. He rapped with a growl that rattled my phone speakers. He looked untouchable. Dangerous, even.

I paused the video and looked at the receipt again.

The boy who had sat in my bakery an hour ago had apologized for dripping water on my floor. He had looked at a brownie like it was a holy relic. He had laughed at a drawing of himself holding a whisk.

"It's the same person," I muttered, trying to reconcile the two images. The idol on the screen and the wet kitten in my shop.

I tossed the phone aside. It felt invasive to keep looking. If he wanted to be the idol, he would have stayed at the dorm. He had come to Whisk & Moon to be... well, just Felix.

I walked over to my desk, where my PC setup hummed in sleep mode. I woke it up, the monitors bathing the dark room in a soft blue glow. I loaded Overwatch, the familiar theme music swelling through my headset.

I hesitated over the "Add Friend" button.

What if it was a joke? What if he gave me a fake ID? Or worse, what if he wakes up tomorrow morning, realizes he gave a random baker his private gaming handle, and blocks me before I can even say hello?

I typed it in anyway. BBokari_915.

Sent.

I expected it to sit in limbo for days. I expected him to be asleep, or practicing, or being an idol.

Ding.

Friend Request Accepted.

My heart did a traitorous little flip against my ribs. Almost immediately, a chat invite popped up.

BBokari_915: You’re the brownie girl, right? Or did I just add a random stranger?

I smiled, my fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard.

Y/n_Banana: I’m the brownie girl. And you’re the guy who owes me for a towel.

BBokari_915: I’m good for it. I promise. You up for a match? Can’t sleep.

Y/n_Banana: It’s 2 AM.

BBokari_915: Is that a no?

I sighed, pulling my headset over my ears.

Y/n_Banana: Invite me.

Two seconds later, I was in a lobby. I saw his mic icon light up.

"Hello?" The voice was unmistakable. Even through the compression of the voice chat, that deep rumble was there. But it sounded different now—lighter. Less burdened.

"Hey," I said, leaning back in my gaming chair. "You know, usually when people say they can't sleep, they drink herbal tea. They don't log on to shoot people."

"Shooting people is therapeutic," he replied. I could hear the click-clack of his keyboard in the background. "I'm going Genji. Please tell me you play support. I need a pocket healer. My usual team... they let me die on purpose. It's tragic, really."

"I play Ana," I said, locking in the sniper healer character. "But I don't pocket. You want healing, you stay in my line of sight. If you dash behind a wall, you're on your own, sunshine."

There was a pause. A beat of silence where I worried I’d been too casual, too familiar with someone who had millions of fans screaming his name.

Then, a low, delighted laugh filled my ears.

"Yes, ma'am," Felix said. "Let's win."

We played for two hours.

He was good. Surprisingly good. He played with a hyper-focused aggression that contrasted steadily with his polite demeanor in the bakery. He called out enemy positions, cheered when I landed a sleep dart on a charging tank, and groaned theatrically when he got eliminated.

We didn't talk about his job. I didn't mention the Google search, the music videos, or the fact that I knew exactly why he was awake at 3 AM (probably jet lag or adrenaline from a schedule).

We just existed in the game.

"One more," he pleaded around 4 AM. "We're on a winning streak. You can't break the streak, Y/n. It's bad luck."

"My eyes are burning," I said, rubbing my temples. "And I have to open the shop in five hours."

"Ah." The energy in his voice deflated instantly. "Right. The shop. The real world."

"The real world," I echoed. "Some of us have to knead dough."

"I wish I could help," he said, and he sounded strangely sincere. "I'd rather knead dough than... do what I have to do tomorrow."

"What do you have to do tomorrow?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

A pause. "Dance practice. Seven hours of it. Then a fitting. Then recording." He sighed, a heavy sound that crackled the mic. "My legs hurt just thinking about it."

I stared at my screen, at his username glowing in gold. "Then go to sleep, Felix. The game will be here later."

"Yeah," he murmured. "Okay. Goodnight, Y/n. Thanks for... you know. Carrying me."

"I totally carried you," I teased.

"In your dreams. Night."

He logged off instantly.

The silence that rushed back into my apartment was deafening. I sat there for a long time, staring at the offline status of BBokari_915.

For the next three days, I didn't see him.

He didn't come to the bakery. He didn't log onto Overwatch, or at least, not when I was online.

I tried to convince myself I didn't care. I was a 23-year-old woman with a business to help run and an art portfolio to build. I didn't have time to pine after a K-pop idol I had met once.

But every time the bakery bell chimed, I looked up.

I found myself falling down the rabbit hole of "Stray Kids" content during the slow hours at the shop. I learned their names. Chan, the leader who looked like he carried the weight of the world. Hyunjin, the dramatic artist. Han, the all-rounder.

And Felix.

I watched interviews where he smiled so bright his eyes turned into crescents, radiating happiness. I watched him comfort the other members. I watched him do aegyo that made me cringe and laugh at the same time.

It was disorienting. The Felix on the screen was Felix the Idol. He was performing. He was giving pieces of himself to millions of people.

But the Felix who had sat at table four, dripping rainwater and eating a brownie? That felt like something rare. Something he didn't give away often.

And I realized, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that I wanted to protect that version of him.

It was Friday night when he returned.

The weather was clear this time, the Seoul sky a hazy purple from the city lights. It was late, just past 11 PM, and I was in the back kitchen, finishing up the prep for the weekend rush.

The chime rang.

I wiped my flour-dusted hands on my apron and walked out, my heart doing a stupid, hopeful flutter.

It was him.

He wasn't wearing the hoodie this time. He was wearing a black bucket hat pulled low, a grey flannel shirt over a white tee, and a mask covering half his face. But I recognized the eyes. And the blonde hair peeking out from under the hat.

He was standing by the display case, looking at the empty trays.

"We're closed," I said, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen.

He turned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. I could tell he was smiling behind the mask.

"I heard a rumor," he said. The voice was just as deep as I remembered, sending a shiver down my spine. "That this place has the best brownies in the city. But the service is terrible. The baker forces you to dry off before she feeds you."

I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. "Only the stray cats. They track mud everywhere."

He pulled his mask down, revealing that scattering of freckles. He looked tired again, but not as desperate as the first night. He looked... comfortable.

"I brought you something," he said.

He reached into a paper bag he was carrying and pulled out a small, rectangular box. He placed it on the counter and slid it toward me.

I approached cautiously. "What is it?"

"Payment," he said. "For the towel. And the carry."

I opened the box. Inside was a brand new, high-end gaming mouse. It was sleek, black, and definitely more expensive than my rent.

My jaw dropped. "Felix, I can't accept this."

"You have to," he said simply. "I heard you clicking the other night. Your switch springs are dying. It was driving me crazy. I can't have my support playing on faulty hardware."

"My hardware is fine! And this is... this is too much."

"It's spare," he lied. I knew he was lying. "Please. Just take it. Consider it an investment in my future wins."

I looked at him, really looked at him. He was leaning against the counter, looking at me with an expression of hopeful expectancy. He wanted me to take it, not because he was rich and could throw money around, but because he wanted to contribute to the thing we shared.

"Fine," I sighed, closing the box. "But only because my left click actually is sticking."

"I knew it," he whispered triumphantly.

"So," I said, crossing my arms. "Are you here to critique my hardware, or do you want a brownie?"

"Actually," he said, glancing toward the kitchen. "I was hoping I could help you bake."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I have two hours," he said, checking a sleek watch on his wrist. "Manager thinks I'm at the gym. I'm not supposed to eat sugar, and I'm definitely not supposed to be baking it. But..." He looked around the empty, quiet shop, inhaling the scent of vanilla and yeast. "I really need to not be Lee Felix for two hours. Can I just... help?"

It was a terrible idea.

If anyone saw him back there, I’d be in trouble. If he burned himself, his company would sue me into oblivion. It was risky, stupid, and illogical.

I looked at his hands, twitching slightly at his sides. Hands that were used to clutching microphones and signing albums, now itching to hold a whisk.

"Wash your hands," I said, nodding toward the back. "And here. Put this on."

I tossed him a spare apron. It was bright pink and had a cartoon strawberry on the front.

He caught it, held it up, and stared at it.

"Pink with strawberries?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It's the only spare I have," I lied. "Take it or leave it, Sunshine."

He huffed a laugh, tying the apron around his waist. "Fine. But if we're doing this, we're making brownies. And we're doing it my way. No folding the eggs like they're sleeping."

"Get in the kitchen, Felix," I laughed, pushing the swinging door open.

As he walked past me, smelling like expensive cologne and rain, I knew I was in trouble. Big trouble.

"Where's the flour?" he asked, rolling up his sleeves.

"Top shelf. Don't make a mess."

"I never make a mess," he said, grabbing the jar.

Five minutes later, he dropped the measuring cup, sending a plume of white flour exploding into the air, coating his black shirt, his eyelashes, and the tip of his nose in white powder.

He froze, looking like a deer in headlights.

I stood there, covered in the collateral damage, staring at him.

Slowly, a grin spread across his face. A mischievous, boyish grin that belonged entirely to him, not the idol.

"Oops," he whispered.

I grabbed a handful of flour from the counter and threw it right at his chest.

"You are cleaning that up," I declared.

He laughed, the sound echoing off the tile walls, loud and free. And for the next two hours, the world outside—the fans, the cameras, the pressure—ceased to exist. It was just flour, sugar, and the boy who smiled like the sun.

permanent taglist: @theartisticlibrarian

In the month that followed the "Great Flour Explosion," my life split into two distinct timelines.

Timeline A was the daylight hours. I was Y/n, the baker who argued with suppliers about the price of vanilla beans, paid rent, and tried to stop my aunt from buying tacky neon signage for the shop.

Timeline B existed between the hours of 1 AM and 4 AM. This was the timeline where my phone would light up with messages that felt like transmissions from another planet.

BBokari_915 (1:12 AM): Hyunjin keeps stealing my chargers. I’m going to hide his paintbrushes. 

Y/n_Banana (1:13 AM): Don't do that. He’ll write a diss track about you.

BBokari_915 (1:15 AM): He’s too dramatic. Anyway, are you open? I need a sanctuary. The dorm is loud tonight.

Felix became a ghost in my bakery. He didn't come every night—sometimes he was gone for days, flying to Japan or the US for schedules—but when he was in Seoul, he always found his way to Whisk & Moon.

We had a routine. I’d leave the back door unlocked after closing. He’d slip in, usually wearing a mask and a hat, looking like he carried the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders. He’d sit at the counter while I prepped dough, sometimes talking, sometimes just putting his head down on his arms and sleeping while I worked around him.

He was safe here. That was the unspoken rule. I never asked about the rumors I saw online. I never mentioned the comeback teasers that were trending #1 on Twitter. In the bakery, he wasn't Felix of Stray Kids. He was just the guy who was surprisingly bad at cracking eggs without getting shells in the bowl.

But routines, I learned, are fragile things.

It was a Tuesday, the month anniversary of the night we met. The rain was holding off, but the air was thick and humid, signaling a storm.

Felix was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, leaning against the industrial refrigerator. He was scrolling through his phone, his brow furrowed. He looked edgier than usual. Restless.

"Stop doom-scrolling," I said, tossing a clean towel at his head. "You look like you're trying to set your phone on fire with your mind."

He caught the towel without looking up. "Just reading comments. Bad habit."

"Terrible habit. Put it away. You want to help me glaze these donuts?"

He sighed, tossing the phone onto the counter. He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rode up slightly, revealing the lean muscle of his stomach. I quickly looked away, focusing intently on the bowl of icing sugar.

"I don't want to glaze," he said. His voice was tight. "I want to go outside."

I paused. "Outside? Felix, it's 2 AM."

"Exactly. No one is awake. I feel like I've been trapped in practice rooms and cars and dorms for weeks. I just want to... walk. Breathe real air." He looked at me, his dark eyes pleading. "Walk with me? Just to the convenience store on the corner? I want a melona bar."

My stomach gave a nervous lurch. "Is that safe?"

"It's Gangdong-gu at 2 AM on a Tuesday," he reasoned, pulling his black mask up over his nose. "And I have the bucket hat. I'm invisible. Please, Y/n? I feel like I'm suffocating."

I looked at him. I saw the genuine desperation in his posture. He wasn't asking as a star; he was asking as a twenty-something guy who just wanted to buy an ice cream without a security detail.

"Fine," I sighed, untying my apron. "But if we get kidnapped, I'm blaming you."

The street was quiet. The humidity made the air feel heavy, amplifying the sound of our footsteps on the pavement.

Felix walked close to me, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his oversized cargo pants. He seemed to relax the moment we stepped out of the alley. He tilted his head back, looking up at the smog-hazy stars.

"It smells like rain," he murmured.

"It smells like asphalt," I corrected, but I smiled.

We walked shoulder to shoulder. The distance between us had shrunk over the last month. Initially, he had kept a respectful bubble of personal space. Now, our elbows brushed as we walked.

"So," he said, lowering his voice as we passed a sleeping stray dog. "I've been working on a new song. A solo track."

"Oh? The one with the heavy bass you told me about?"

"Yeah. But I'm stuck on the lyrics. It's about... hiding." He glanced at me sideways, his eyes visible above the mask. "About having things you want to keep to yourself, but the world keeps trying to pry them open."

My heart skipped a beat. "Sounds... personal."

"It is."

We reached the convenience store. The fluorescent lights inside were blindingly bright compared to the dark street.

"I'll go in," I said. "You stay in the shadows. If the cashier is a Stay, you're toast."

"I'm not toast," he grumbled, but he stepped back into the darkness of the building's overhang. "Get me melon. And maybe some banana milk."

I went inside, bought the ice creams and the milk, and hurried back out. Felix was waiting exactly where I left him, but his posture had changed.

He wasn't relaxed anymore. He was rigid. His head was turned toward the intersection down the street.

"Felix?" I whispered, handing him the bag.

He didn't take it. He reached out and grabbed my wrist instead. His grip was tight, bordering on painful.

"Don't look," he hissed, his voice dropping to a low, urgent growl. "Just walk. Back to the shop. Now."

"What? Why?"

"Walk, Y/n."

He pulled me. We weren't strolling anymore; we were speed-walking. I tried to glance over my shoulder.

"Don't," he commanded.

But I had already looked.

Half a block down, a black sedan was idling with its headlights off. As soon as we started moving faster, the car rolled forward. It wasn't a taxi. The windows were tinted pitch black.

And then, I saw it. The glint of a lens catching the streetlamp reflection from the passenger window.

"Is that..." My throat went dry.

"Keep your head down," Felix said, pulling me into the shadow of a construction scaffolding. He let go of my wrist and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me physically into his side, shielding my face with his body. "Pull your hood up."

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The car was creeping closer. It was predatory. Silent.

"Are they following us?" I whispered, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

"They've been there since the corner," he muttered. "I thought it was just a parked car. I was wrong."

We were two blocks from the bakery. It felt like two miles.

Suddenly, a flash of light erupted from the car window. Click-whirrr.

The sound was distinct. It was the shutter of a high-speed camera.

Felix swore under his breath—a sharp, English curse word I rarely heard him use.

"Run," he said.

He didn't wait for me to agree. He grabbed my hand again, interlocking our fingers, and bolted.

I dropped the bag of ice cream. The melona bars splattered onto the sidewalk, forgotten.

We sprinted. My sneakers slapped against the pavement. The car engine revved behind us, tires screeching slightly as it tried to speed up, but we ducked into the narrow alleyway behind the pharmacy—a space too tight for a car.

We didn't stop running until we reached the back door of Whisk & Moon. I fumbled with my keys, my hands shaking so badly I dropped them twice.

"Hurry," Felix breathed, looking back at the alley entrance.

I jammed the key in, twisted, and we tumbled inside. I slammed the deadbolt home and leaned against the door, gasping for air.

The bakery was dark and silent, a stark contrast to the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

I slid down the door until I hit the floor, burying my face in my knees. "What... what was that?"

Felix didn't answer immediately. He was pacing the small kitchen, his chest heaving. He ripped his bucket hat off and threw it onto the stainless steel table. He tore his mask off next, running his hands through his damp hair.

He looked furious. Not at me, but at the world.

"Sasaengs," he spat the word out like a curse. "Or a freelancer looking for a scoop. I don't know. I didn't see the license plate."

He stopped pacing and looked at me. His expression crumbled. The anger vanished, replaced by a look of sheer horror.

"Y/n," he said, his voice cracking.

He crossed the room in two strides and knelt in front of me. He hovered his hands over my shoulders but didn't touch me, as if he was afraid he'd burn me.

"Did they get your face?" he asked urgently. "Did you look at the camera?"

I shook my head, trembling. "I... I don't think so. You covered me."

He let out a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. "Thank god."

"Felix," I said, my voice small. "Who were they?"

"People who sell photos," he said, opening his eyes. They were dark, filled with a mixture of guilt and exhaustion that broke my heart. "If they get a picture of me with a girl... especially at 2 AM... it doesn't matter who you are. The internet will find you. They'll find your name, your school photos, your family. They'll tear this place apart."

I stared at him. I knew he was famous. I knew he had fans. But hearing him say it like that, like he was a contagion that could destroy my life just by proximity, made the reality crash down on me.

"I shouldn't have asked to go out," he whispered. He sat back on his heels, looking at his hands. "I was selfish. I just wanted... I just wanted to be normal for ten minutes."

"It's not your fault that people are crazy," I said, reaching out to touch his arm.

He flinched away.

The rejection stung more than the fear.

"It is my fault," he said sharply. He stood up, putting distance between us. "This is my life, Y/n. This is what I bring with me. I thought... I thought I could keep it separate. I thought if I was careful, I could have this one place. But I can't."

He looked around the bakery—the place where we’d laughed over brownies, where he’d worn the pink apron, where we’d built a fragile little world.

"I can't come back here," he said.

The words hung in the air, cold and final.

"What?" I stood up, my legs still shaky.

"I can't come back," he repeated, his voice firming up, putting on his 'idol' mask. The walls were slamming back into place. "It's not safe for you. If they saw me enter, they'll be watching the building. If they see me come here again, they'll connect the dots. I won't let them harass you."

"Felix, wait—"

"I'm sorry," he said. He wouldn't look at me. "I'm so sorry, Y/n. Thank you for the brownies."

He grabbed his hat and mask. He didn't go out the back door. He moved toward the front entrance, checking the street through the blinds.

"Wait!" I grabbed his arm before he could unlock the door. "You're just going to leave? Like this? Because of one car?"

He turned to me. His eyes were glassy. "It's not just one car. It's millions of eyes, Y/n. You don't understand what they can do. I like you. I like you too much to let you get dragged into my mess."

He gently pried my fingers off his arm. His touch was warm, lingering for a fraction of a second too long.

"Goodbye, Y/n."

He slipped out into the night.

I watched through the glass as he pulled his hood up and disappeared into the shadows, walking alone in the rain that had finally started to fall.

The bakery was silent.

On the floor, near the entrance, lay the receipt paper from our first meeting, which I had pinned to the corkboard.

1. Don't over-beat the eggs.

I ripped it down, crumbled it in my hand, and let the tears finally fall.

permanent taglist: @theartisticlibrarian

You threw the heavy covers off your legs, ignoring the sudden rush of cold air against your flannel pajamas, and bounded out of bed. Your bare feet slapped loudly against the hardwood floor as you sprinted down the hallway.

The house was already alive with activity. The heater in the living room was blasting, creating a warm sanctuary against the winter chill. The kitchen was filled with the mouth-watering smell of sizzling bacon, butter, and freshly brewed coffee.

"There's the birthday girl!" your dad boomed the second you rounded the corner into the kitchen. He abandoned the frying pan he was manning and scooped you up into a massive bear hug, spinning you around once before setting you back down. "Happy birthday, kiddo! Twelve years old. Unbelievable. You're practically an adult. Should I start charging you rent?"

"Dad, I don't even have a job," you laughed, swatting at his arm.

"Happy birthday, my beautiful girl," your mom smiled, walking over to press a warm kiss to the top of your head. She was holding a large wrapped box. She set it down on the kitchen island right in front of your usual barstool. "Open this one first before the chaos arrives."

You didn't need to be told twice. You tore into the wrapping paper with the fierce enthusiasm of a newly minted twelve-year-old. Inside was a brand new navy blue winter coat. It had a faux-fur lined hood and deep pockets.

"It's beautiful!" you gasped, instantly pulling it out of the box and shrugging it over your pajamas. It was incredibly heavy and instantly warm. "Thank you! I'm going to wear it today!"

"I figured you'd need it down at the harbour," your mom smiled, turning back to the kitchen counter where an absolute mountain of sliced white bread was waiting. "The wind coming off the water is going to be brutal today. Now, grab a plate, your dad made pancakes. The Lees will be over any minute."

As if on cue, the front doorbell rang.

It didn't just ring once. It rang three times in rapid succession, followed by the muffled sound of Olivia's high-pitched voice through the heavy wood.

You scrambled to the front door, the oversized navy coat swishing around your knees, and pulled it open.

The entire Lee family was standing on your front porch, bundled up against the icy morning air. Mr. and Mrs. Lee were holding covered plates of food. Rachel was leaning against the brick wall of the house, holding a steaming travel mug of coffee, looking like she had been physically dragged out of bed against her will. Olivia was practically vibrating with excitement.

And standing right in the front, holding a somewhat crumpled handmade card, was Felix.

He was wearing his puffy black jacket and his thick grey scarf. The tip of his nose and his cheeks were already glowing a vibrant pink. When the door opened, his dark eyes instantly locked onto yours, and the most brilliant smile broke across his freckled face.

"Happy birthday!" Felix cheered, his boyish voice ringing loud and clear in the crisp morning air. He thrust the handmade card toward you. "I made this. My mom helped with the spelling, but I drew the dugong on the front."

You took the card, looking down at it. True to his word, there was a surprisingly good drawing of a plump sea cow floating on the front cover, wearing a tiny party hat.

"I love it," you beamed, stepping back to let them in. "Come in! It's freezing out there!"

"I claim the heater!" Olivia shrieked, bolting past you and making a beeline for the glowing orange radiators in the living room.

"Don't run in the house, Liv!" Mrs. Lee scolded gently, though she was smiling as she stepped inside. "Happy birthday, sweetheart. We brought some extra bacon and some Korean egg rolls for breakfast."

"You guys are the best," your dad called out from the kitchen. "Jiho, get in here and grab a plate!"

The next hour was a chaotic whirlwind of joint family breakfast. There were simply too many people to fit around your dining table, so it turned into a buffet-style feast. People were sitting on the couch, leaning against the kitchen island, and hovering near the heater.

Rachel had slumped into your dad's favourite armchair, nursing her coffee and glaring at a half-eaten pancake. "Why am I awake at eight in the morning on a Saturday during the school holidays?" she complained to no one in particular, her teenage angst on full display. "This is a violation of my human rights."

"Because it's a birthday, Rachel," Mr. Lee said cheerfully, walking past her and ruffling her dark hair, much to her absolute horror. "And you love the aquarium."

"I loved it when I was seven," she mumbled, aggressively fixing her hair. 

You were sitting cross-legged on the rug in the living room, a plate of syrup-drenched pancakes resting on your lap. Felix was sitting right beside you, mimicking your exact posture. He had forgone the pancakes entirely and was currently inhaling a massive plate of bacon and egg rolls.

"So," Felix mumbled around a mouthful of food, turning his head to look at you. "What's the plan? Do we go straight to the sharks?"

"We have to get the train first," you explained, feeling a thrilling flutter of anticipation in your stomach. "We drive to the station, park the cars, and then catch the train right into the city. We get off at Town Hall and walk down to Darling Harbour. It's awesome, you get to see all the massive buildings."

Felix's eyes widened. Living in the suburbs and previously in the Blue Mountains, trips into the towering concrete jungle of the Sydney CBD weren't an everyday occurrence for him. "Are we going to get lost?"

"My dad knows the way," you assured him confidently. "He used to work in the city. We just have to follow him."

Back in the kitchen, the assembly line had begun.

Your mom and Mrs. Lee were operating like a well-oiled machine. While feeding an entire group of people at a fancy restaurant for dinner was the plan, buying lunch for seven people at the notoriously overpriced aquarium café was out of the question. Instead, the mothers were preparing a mountain of sandwiches to pack into the esky.

"Right, how many Vegemite and cheese?" your mom asked, wielding a butter knife.

"Three," Mrs. Lee answered, meticulously wrapping finished sandwiches in cling wrap. "Yongbok won't eat the ham ones. He says the mustard is too spicy."

You giggled quietly from the rug, nudging Felix with your elbow. "Mustard is too spicy for you? Are you a baby?"

Felix's ears instantly turned a vibrant shade of pink, clashing violently with his dark hair. He swallowed his bite of egg roll defensively. "It tingles! It feels like bees in my mouth. I don't like it."

"You literally eat spicy Korean noodles without flinching," you pointed out, highly amused by his logic.

"That's a different kind of spicy," he argued stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Mustard is evil. Vegemite is safe."

"Whatever you say, mustard-boy," you teased.

By nine-thirty, the breakfast plates were cleared away, the massive blue esky was packed to the brim with sandwiches, popper juices, and fruit, and the logistical nightmare of transporting seven people was underway.

"Alright, listen up!" your dad announced, clapping his hands together. "We're taking two cars to the station. Jiho, you take Min and the older girls in the station wagon. The birthday girl, Felix, and Olivia are with me and the esky in the sedan. Everyone make sure you've gone to the toilet, because I am not pulling over on the highway!"

There was a mad scramble for the bathrooms, the rustling of heavy winter coats being pulled on, and a chorus of excited chatter.

You shoved your arms back into your new navy coat, buttoning it up to your chin. Felix was beside you in the hallway, wrestling with his thick scarf. He looked over at you, his eyes sparkling with an infectious, buzzing excitement.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice barely containing his enthusiasm.

"So ready," you beamed.

You piled into the back of your dad's car. Because of the massive esky taking up one of the seats, you and Felix were squished tightly together in the middle, with Olivia taking up the window seat. She was already pressing her face against the cold glass, leaving foggy breath marks.

The heater in the car was on full blast, countering the freezing temperatures outside. The radio was playing a low stream of classic rock, a stark contrast to the usual pop music your mom played.

As your dad pulled out of the driveway and joined the stream of traffic heading toward the train station, Felix bumped his knee against yours.

"I still can't believe we're doing this," he whispered, leaning closer so his voice wouldn't carry over the radio or Olivia's endless chatter about fairy penguins. "I've never been to the city before. Not properly."

"You're going to love it," you promised, a fierce sense of pride swelling in your chest. You were getting to show him your favourite place in the entire world. "The aquarium is huge. It takes hours to walk through the whole thing."

"Are the sharks really big?" he asked, a tinyl note of apprehension creeping into his boyish voice.

"Massive," you nodded solemnly. "Bigger than my dad's car."

Felix's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and he swallowed hard. But before the panic could fully set in, he looked at you, saw the mischievous glint in your eye, and playfully shoved your shoulder.

"You're lying," he accused, a massive smile breaking through the apprehension.

"Maybe a little bit," you laughed. "But they are still heaps big. Just stick close to me. I'll protect you."

Felix rolled his eyes, adjusting his scarf, but he didn't pull away. As the car sped down the highway toward the train station, bringing you closer to the towering skyline of the city, the warmth radiating between the two of you in the cramped backseat made the bitter Sydney winter feel entirely irrelevant.

Darling Harbour in the middle of July was a sensory assault.

The moment you stepped out of Town Hall station and began the long, downward walk toward the water, the icy wind whipping off the harbor hit you like a physical wall. It smelled sharply of salt, expensive coffee from the nearby cafes, and the unmistakable murky scent of the ocean.

The harbor was bustling despite the cold. Ferries were chugging across the dark blue water, leaving white wakes behind them. The towering skyscrapers of the CBD loomed overhead, casting long shadows over the pedestrian walkways.

Your two families moved as a large pack. The adults walked in the back, chatting amiably while your dad dragged the heavy blue esky by its handle. Rachel was walking a few paces ahead, her headphones firmly over her ears, pretending she didn't know any of you. Olivia was practically skipping, holding her mother's hand to keep from sprinting straight into the water.

And you and Felix were walking shoulder-to-shoulder in the middle.

"Whoa," Felix breathed, his head tilted all the way back as he stared up at the glass-fronted office buildings reflecting the grey sky. "They're so tall. It makes my neck hurt just looking at them."

"Wait until you see the aquarium building," you grinned, pointing toward a curved structure sitting right on the edge of the water. "That's it. Right there."

The SEA LIFE Sydney Aquarium was iconic. As your group shuffled through the front doors, escaping the biting wind, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The air inside was warm, thick with humidity, and heavily tinted with a calming, artificial blue light that reflected off the massive tanks. The ambient sound of bubbling water and the echoing hum of the filtration systems filled the space.

"Alright, team," your dad announced after securing the tickets. "Stay together. It's crowded today. If anyone gets lost, meet back at the café. Let's go!"

The journey through the aquarium started relatively tame. You wandered through the freshwater exhibits, watching the platypus swim in rapid circles. Olivia spent a solid ten minutes tapping gently on the glass of the fairy penguin enclosure, entirely captivated by the tiny birds waddling across the fake ice.

Felix was fascinated by everything. He read every single informational plaque, his lips moving silently as he absorbed the facts about the Australian river systems and the Great Barrier Reef. He stuck close to your side, occasionally pointing out a brightly colored fish or a strange-looking crab hiding in the rocks.

But as the pathway slowly began to descend, spiraling deeper into the building, the lighting grew darker. The blue hue became deeper, more intense, and the air felt a little heavier.

You were entering Shark Valley.

This was the main attraction. The path transitioned from a standard carpeted floor onto a slow-moving, mechanical walkway that carried you directly through a massive, acrylic tunnel. Above you, beside you, and beneath you was millions of liters of water.

As you stepped onto the moving walkway, Felix immediately tensed.

He didn't scream, and he didn't run, but his entire posture went rigid. He grabbed the fabric of your thick navy coat with one hand, his knuckles turning white as he pulled himself a fraction closer to you. He was staring up at the curved ceiling of the tunnel, his dark eyes wide with genuine fear.

"Felix?" you asked softly, leaning closer to him so you wouldn't be overheard by the crowds around you. "Are you okay?"

"It's... it's a lot of water," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. He didn't look at you; his eyes were frantically tracking the movement above.

Right on cue, a massive Grey Nurse Shark slowly glided directly over the top of the tunnel. Its jagged teeth were fully visible, its pale underbelly sliding silently across the acrylic just inches from where you were standing. A huge stingray, easily the size of a dining table, followed closely behind it, casting a shadow over the two of you.

Felix let out a breathless gasp. His grip on your coat tightened desperately.

"Is this glass?" he asked, his voice barely more than a squeak. He pointed a trembling finger at the wall. "What if it breaks? The water is too heavy. It's going to crack."

"It won't break, I promise," you assured him gently. You didn't tease him this time. You could see the genuine panic setting into his features. You reached over and placed your hand firmly over his, where he was clutching your coat. His fingers were ice cold despite the warm room. "It's not actually glass. It's super thick acrylic. It's practically bomb-proof. Look at my dad."

You pointed ahead on the walkway. Your dad was standing casually, leaning against the side of the tunnel, pointing out a passing shark to Olivia, entirely unbothered by the millions of liters of water pressing down on them.

"They wouldn't let us in here if it wasn't safe," you continued softly, stepping slightly in front of him to block his view of a particularly aggressive-looking shark. "Just look straight ahead. Don't look up. Look at the end of the tunnel."

Felix swallowed hard. He dragged his gaze away from the ceiling and focused entirely on the back of your head and the illuminated exit sign at the end of the long walkway. He took a few shaky breaths.

"Okay," he mumbled. "Okay. I'm looking at the exit."

You stood right beside him, keeping your hand resting comfortingly over his, forming a physical barrier between him and the massive predators swimming on the other side of the acrylic. It took about five agonizing minutes for the slow-moving walkway to deposit you back onto carpeted ground.

The moment you stepped out of the tunnel, the tension immediately drained out of Felix's body. He let go of your coat, taking a shuddering breath of air, and ran a hand through his dark hair.

"I survived," he whispered, looking back at the dark mouth of the tunnel with a look of pure relief.

"You did amazing," you smiled warmly, bumping your shoulder against his. "And you didn't even use me as a human shield. I'm proud of you."

Felix's ears flushed pink, a sheepish, gap-toothed smile breaking through his anxiety. "I thought about it. But my mum would have been mad if I got you eaten by a shark on your birthday."

"Very considerate of you," you laughed. "Come on. The best part is next. I promise there are no terrifying teeth in this one."

You led the way, pulling him through the crowds toward a two-story viewing window that looked into the Great Barrier Reef exhibit. This tank was flooded with artificial sunlight, filled with vibrant coral and thousands of tropical fish darting around in schools.

But you weren't looking at the fish. You were looking at the ancient-looking creatures slowly paddling through the water.

Sea turtles.

You hurried right up to the thick acrylic window, pressing your hands flat against the cool surface. A massive loggerhead turtle, its shell easily the size of a car tire, was slowly swimming right past the glass. It looked incredibly old, wise, and entirely unbothered by the hundreds of humans staring at it.

"Whoa," Felix breathed, stepping up to the glass right beside you. The fear from the shark tunnel was completely gone, replaced by pure wonder. "They're huge."

"I love them," you said softly, your breath fogging up the glass slightly. "They just cruise around all day. They don't care about anything. They just exist."

You turned your head, looking at Felix. The artificial sunlight from the tank was illuminating his face, making his constellation of freckles stand out starkly against his skin. A mischievous, teasing thought popped into your head.

"You know," you started, adopting a highly serious tone of voice. "I can see the family resemblance."

Felix blinked, tearing his gaze away from the tank to look at you in confusion. "What?"

"The turtles," you pointed a finger at the massive loggerhead, then pointed back at him. "Your distant cousins. Especially when you were buried up to your neck in the sand at the beach with that green bucket hat on. It's uncanny. Honestly, I think that one over there is waving at you."

It took Felix exactly three seconds to process the joke. When he did, his mouth fell open in mock outrage.

"I do not look like a turtle!" he protested loudly, shoving you playfully away from the glass.

"You did that day on the beach!" you shrieked with laughter, stumbling backward. "You were a screaming turtle! The seagulls thought so too!"

"I'm going to throw you in the shark tank," Felix threatened, though he was laughing so hard his eyes were scrunched into little crescents. He grabbed the sleeve of your navy coat, pulling you back toward the glass. "Apologize to my cousins."

You spent the next ten minutes standing by the massive window, watching the turtles and the brightly coloured fish, throwing affectionate insults at each other. The easy banter flowed between you effortlessly.

As you watched a diver in a black wetsuit slowly descend into the tank, carrying a bucket of chopped fish to feed the rays, a sudden wave of determination hit you.

"I'm going to work here," you announced, your voice ringing with absolute certainty.

Felix stopped laughing. He looked at you, surprised by the sudden shift in your tone. "At the aquarium?"

"Yeah," you nodded, keeping your eyes glued to the diver as a massive stingray swam right over his head to take a piece of fish from his hand. "I want to do that. I want to be an aquarist. Or a marine biologist. I want to put on a wetsuit and get in the water and take care of them. I don't want to work in an office like my dad. I want to be right here."

You turned to look at Felix, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. You hadn't really said it out loud to anyone before. At twelve years old, declarations about the future were usually met with patronizing smiles from adults who assumed you would change your mind a dozen times before high school.

But Felix didn't smile patronizingly.

He looked at you, his dark eyes wide and incredibly serious. The blue light from the tank reflected in his pupils. He looked at you as if you had just stated an undeniable fact, like the sky was blue or the grass was green. He believed you completely.

"You'll be amazing at it," Felix said softly, his voice full of quiet conviction. "You're going to be the best aquarist they've ever had. You're brave enough to fight off Harper, so feeding a shark will be easy for you."

A warm feeling bloomed right in the center of your chest. It was a sense of being seen and supported. You smiled, a genuine smile, and bumped your shoulder against his again.

"Thanks, Felix."

"Kids! Lunchtime!"

Your dad's booming voice echoed from the seating area a few meters away, breaking the quiet intimacy of the moment. He had claimed two circular tables near the café and was currently dragging the massive blue esky out from under a bench.

You and Felix walked over, rejoining the chaotic noise of your families.

Lunch was a messy affair. The esky was opened, and a mountain of squished sandwiches was distributed. Felix specifically requested the Vegemite and cheese, vehemently avoiding the 'spicy' mustard sandwiches, which earned him a fresh round of teasing from you and his older sister.

Sitting there, eating a slightly soggy sandwich while surrounded by the low hum of the aquarium filters and the loud laughter of the Lee family, you realized this was easily the best birthday you had ever had. And the day wasn't even over yet.

By the time your group finally emerged from the dark depths of the aquarium and stepped back out onto the concrete walkways of Darling Harbour, the sun had almost entirely set.

The winter evening had cast an inky indigo over the sky. The towering skyscrapers of the CBD were now lit up like massive Christmas trees, their lights reflecting beautifully against the dark water of the harbor. The biting wind had picked up, cutting straight through the thick layers of your coats.

"Right, let's get moving before we all freeze to the pavement," your dad announced, rubbing his gloved hands together. "Dinner reservation is at six. It's just a short walk down Cockle Bay Wharf."

The restaurant was an upscale, warmly lit Italian place right on the edge of the water. Outside, massive gas heaters shaped like pyramids glowed with orange flames, trying to combat the winter chill for the brave souls dining al fresco.

Thankfully, your dad had booked a table inside.

The moment you pushed through the heavy glass doors, the smell of roasted garlic, rich tomato sauce, and melting cheese enveloped you like a warm hug. The restaurant was bustling, filled with the loud chatter of Saturday night diners and the clinking of wine glasses.

Your group of seven was ushered to a large booth tucked into the back corner, offering a perfect view of the glittering harbor lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You slid into the plush leather booth first, claiming the spot right next to the window. Felix immediately slid in right beside you, pressing his arm warmly against yours as the rest of the families piled in. Olivia was banished to the other side of the table, safely wedged between her parents to prevent her from causing chaos with the silverware.

"Alright," your dad smiled, opening the menu. "Order whatever you want, kids. It's a celebration."

You didn't even need to open your menu. The birthday tradition was sacred, and you knew exactly what you wanted.

When the waiter, a tall man with a genuine Italian accent, arrived at the table with his notepad, your dad ordered a massive garlic pizza to share for the table, along with a few bottles of sparkling water and some wine for the adults.

"And for the birthday girl?" the waiter asked, offering you a charming smile.

"I'll have the biggest bowl of spaghetti bolognese you have, please," you answered confidently, handing him your unopened menu. "With extra parmesan cheese."

"An excellent choice," the waiter nodded, scribbling it down. He turned his attention to the boy sitting next to you. "And for you, young man?"

Felix froze. He looked down at the massive menu in his hands, his eyes darting frantically over the Italian words he clearly couldn't pronounce. Fettuccine Alfredo, Gnocchi al Pesto, Pappardelle al Ragù. The panic that had been absent since the shark tunnel suddenly flared back to life. He hated not knowing what things were. He hated drawing attention to himself in public.

He looked up at the waiter, his ears turning a violent shade of pink, and then looked frantically over at you for help.

You gave him an encouraging, microscopic nod under the table.

Felix swallowed hard, closing his menu with a soft snap. He looked back at the waiter, his voice quiet but steady. "I'll just... I'll have what she's having. Please. The spaghetti."

"Two spaghetti bolognese. Perfect," the waiter smiled, completely unfazed, before moving on to take Rachel's order.

Felix let out a quiet exhale, slumping slightly against the back of the leather booth. He nudged his knee against yours under the table. "Thanks," he whispered.

"No worries," you grinned back. "You're going to love it anyway. It's the best spaghetti in the city."

Dinner was an incredibly warm, loud, and joyful affair. The massive garlic pizza arrived, and a minor war broke out over the last slice between your dad and Mr. Lee, ending only when Mrs. Lee threatened to ban her husband from the barbecue next weekend. The adults were drinking wine, their cheeks flushed, sharing stories about their own childhoods.

When the main courses arrived, Felix's eyes went wide. The bowls of spaghetti were massive steaming mountains of pasta covered in a dark red meat sauce and buried under a small avalanche of freshly grated parmesan cheese.

You both dug in with the ravenous hunger of two pre-teens who had spent the entire day walking. You ate until you were absolutely stuffed, the heavy food warming you from the inside out.

As the waiter came around to clear the empty plates, the conversation among the adults shifted to local politics and housing prices, the cue that they were going to be occupied for a while.

Felix shifted in the booth beside you. The comfortable and relaxed energy he had carried all through dinner suddenly vanished. He sat up very straight, his hands disappearing into the deep pockets of his puffy black jacket. He bit his lower lip, a nervous habit he hadn't displayed since his first week at school.

"Hey," he mumbled, his voice dropping to a quiet whisper so his family wouldn't hear.

You turned away from the window, leaning closer to him. "What's up? Are you full? Do you need a stomach pump?"

"No," he let out a short laugh, shaking his head. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, keeping them clenched in tight fists resting on his lap. He looked down at them, his eyelashes casting long shadows over his freckled cheeks. "I... I have something for you. For your birthday."

Your eyes widened in surprise. "Felix, you didn't have to get me anything! The card was amazing, and you guys coming today was the present."

"I wanted to," he insisted softly, his Australian accent thickening slightly with his nerves. "I didn't buy it. I made it. I hope it's not stupid."

Slowly, he opened his fists.

Sitting in the palm of his hand were two handmade braided friendship bracelets. They were made of thick embroidery thread. One of them was a vibrant ocean blue, which you knew was his favourite colour. The other was a bright sunny yellow, your absolute favourite colour.

"I made them last week," Felix explained, his voice rushing slightly as he explained himself. He picked up the blue one. "I used to make them all the time at my old school. It's... it's a matching set. You take the blue one, and I wear the yellow one. So that... so that when we go to high school next year, even if we aren't in the same classes all the time, we'll still have them."

He looked up at you through his thick eyelashes, his expression incredibly vulnerable. He was terrified you were going to reject it, terrified you would think it was childish or silly.

Your heart did a flip in your chest. It wasn't just a gift; it was a physical promise. It was his way of securing your friendship, of making sure the bond you had built over the last six months wouldn't disappear when the scary reality of Year 7 hit them.

"Felix," you breathed, entirely overwhelmed by the sweetness of the gesture. "They're beautiful. I love them."

The anxiety vanished from his face, replaced by a relieved smile. "Really?"

"Yes, really," you nodded vehemently. You held out your left wrist, pushing the sleeve of your thick navy jumper up to expose your skin. "Put it on me. Please."

Felix's fingers were trembling slightly as he carefully wrapped the deep blue braided thread around your wrist. He pulled the two ends tight, tying them into a secure double knot. His skin brushed against yours, warm and gentle.

When he finished, he sat back, admiring his handiwork.

"Now yours," you demanded playfully, reaching out.

Felix held out his own wrist. You took the bright yellow bracelet from his hand, carefully wrapping it around his wrist and tying the knot as tightly as you could.

You both looked down at your hands resting on the table. The blue and yellow bracelets sat starkly against your skin, a colorful testament to the boy who lived next door. You didn't say anything else, you didn't need to. The quiet moment spoke volumes louder than any words could.

"Alright, who's ready for dessert?" your dad's loud voice shattered the bubble, completely oblivious to the tender moment happening right next to him.

You and Felix quickly pulled your hands apart, both of your ears burning pink.

"Actually, Dad," you spoke up, a mischievous glint returning to your eye. You looked at Felix, who suddenly realized exactly what you were about to say. His eyes widened in absolute horror. "We need to go. We have a tradition to uphold."

"Oh, right!" your dad laughed loudly, slapping his hand against the table. "The grand finale! Jiho, Min, you're going to love this."

Ten minutes later, the bill was paid, and the entire group was bundled back up in their heavy winter coats, stepping out of the warm restaurant and back into the windy night of Darling Harbour.

Your dad made a quick detour to a small takeaway kiosk near the pier, returning with a greasy cardboard box filled to the brim with steaming hot chips.

"Alright," your dad announced, holding the box out toward you. "Do your worst."

You took the box, the heat radiating through the cardboard and warming your freezing hands. You looked at Felix.

He was standing several feet away, his thick grey scarf pulled all the way up to the bridge of his nose. He looked terrified. He was scanning the dark sky above the harbor, looking for the enemy.

"Come on, Yongbok," you teased, walking toward the wooden railing at the very edge of the pier. "Face your fears. They're just birds."

"They are feathered rats with a taste for human flesh," Felix argued, though he reluctantly shuffled a few steps closer to you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

You pulled a chip from the box and held it up high in the air.

It didn't take long. Within ten seconds, a loud squawk echoed through the night air.

"They found us," Felix whimpered, taking a step backward.

Suddenly, a white blur descended from the sky. A massive seagull swooped down, snatching the chip perfectly from your fingers before banking hard and flying away.

"Yes!" you cheered, laughing loudly at the sheer thrill of it. You grabbed a handful of chips and threw them high into the air over the water.

It was like ringing a dinner bell. Within a minute, a flock of seagulls had descended upon the pier. There were dozens of them, squawking loudly, fighting each other in mid-air, and hovering just inches above your head.

"Oh my god," Felix screamed, his boyish voice cracking as a particularly large bird swooped incredibly close to his dark hair. He ducked, throwing his arms over his head in a defensive crouch. "They remember me! They know who I am!"

"Throw one!" you yelled over the noise of the birds, shoving a hot chip into his hand. "Just throw it!"

Felix squeezed his eyes shut, let out a loud, terrifying battle cry, and blindly lobbed the chip into the air. A seagull caught it before it even reached its apex.

When Felix opened his eyes and realized he hadn't been attacked, a laugh bubbled up in his chest. "I did it."

"Do it again!"

For the next ten minutes, the wooden pier was an absolute warzone of squawking birds, flying chips, and hysterical laughter that came from the both of you. Even Rachel had joined in, aggressively throwing chips at the birds like she was pitching a baseball. Olivia was screaming with joy, safely tucked behind her father's legs.

Felix had completely abandoned his fear. He was laughing so hard he was gasping for air, throwing chips into the chaos and ducking when the birds got too close, his bright smile on full display.

As you stood there in the freezing Sydney night, watching the boy next door bravely fight off his greatest fear just to make you happy, you reached down and lightly touched the blue braided bracelet resting securely around your wrist.

Twelve was going to be a very, very good year.

©jistay. Do not repost or translate my works without permission.

permanent taglist: @thesirenqueen @clairementsolo @lostinmymind-daydreaming

"Felix, if you eat all the BBQ Shapes before we even get to dance class, you're going to throw up during the warm-ups," you warned, tossing a throw pillow across your bedroom.

The pillow hit Felix square in the face, but he didn't even flinch. He was currently sprawled out on his stomach across the carpet of your bedroom floor, his long legs kicked up behind him in the air. He was wearing an oversized grey jumper and a comfortable pair of thick black trackies. Without missing a beat, he reached his hand blindly into the red cardboard box beside him, pulled out another savory biscuit, and popped it into his mouth.

"I'm a growing boy," he mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs, offering you a cheeky grin that made his constellation of freckles scrunch up. "I need fuel for the dancing."

You rolled your eyes, pulling your hair up into a tight ponytail. "Miss Clara is going to make you do fifty pushups when you inevitably cramp up, and I am not going to help you."

It had been four months since the day Felix first knocked on your door to invite you to the beach. In those four months, the dynamic between the two of you had shifted so drastically that it was almost impossible to remember a time when he wasn't a permanent fixture in your life.

The painfully shy boy who hid behind his father's leg on moving day was entirely gone, at least when he was around you. In the safety of your bedroom, or hanging out in his living room playing Mario Kart with Olivia, Felix was loud. He was funny, relentlessly teasing, and prone to sudden bursts of laughter that made his eyes crinkle into little crescent moons.

He still struggled slightly at school. When Mrs. Gable called on him to read aloud, or when he had to stand in front of the class for a presentation, his voice would still tremble, and his shoulders would instinctively hunch up to his ears. But he wasn't completely isolated anymore. He had you. You were an inseparable front. Where you went, Felix went, and vice versa.

"Kids! Grab your bags! We're leaving in two minutes!" your mom's voice echoed down the hallway, cutting through the sound of the rain against the windowpane.

"Coming!" you yelled back. You grabbed your battered duffel bag from your desk chair, throwing a water bottle inside. "Come on, biscuit boy, let's go."

Felix scrambled off the floor, dusting the savory cracker crumbs off his trackies. He grabbed his own black duffel bag and followed you down the hallway.

The carpool routine had become a well-oiled machine over the last few months. Every Wednesday afternoon, either your mom or Mrs. Lee would pile the two of you into the back seat and ferry you to the Rhythm & Move Dance Academy.

Today, it was your mom's turn.

You and Felix bolted out the front door, pulling the hoods of your jumpers over your heads to shield yourselves from the icy winter drizzle, and dove into the back seat of the silver sedan. The car's heater was already blasting, filling the small space with an artificial warmth.

"Seatbelts on," your mom instructed, putting the car into reverse and carefully backing out of the driveway into the wet street.

The drive to the studio took exactly ten minutes. It was ten minutes of pure chaos.

As soon as your mom flicked the indicator to turn onto the main road, the opening beat of Carly Rae Jepsen’s "Call Me Maybe" blasted through the car's speakers from the local pop radio station.

Felix's eyes immediately widened. He turned to look at you, a look of absolute seriousness settling over his face. You mirrored his expression, nodding solemnly.

"I threw a wish in the well," Felix started, his slightly raspy voice perfectly in tune, but dramatically exaggerated. He grabbed an imaginary microphone in his hand and held it up to his mouth.

"Don't ask me, I'll never tell!" you shouted the next line, leaning toward him.

"I looked to you as it fell, and now you're in my way!" you both sang the next line in unison, completely abandoning any sense of pitch or dignity.

Your mom let out a loud groan from the driver's seat, though she was clearly smiling as she adjusted the rearview mirror to look at the two of you. "Please, not this song again. It plays every fifteen minutes. I'm begging you."

"You can't stop art, Mum!" you yelled over the chorus.

Felix was fully committing to the bit now. He was bouncing in his seat, using his water bottle as a prop microphone, and pointing dramatically out the rain-streaked window at passing cars. "Hey, I just met you! And this is crazy! But here's my number! So call me, maybe!"

You were laughing so hard your stomach ached, struggling to keep up with the lyrics while Felix serenaded the back of your mom's headrest. It was moments like these, trapped in the back of a warm car while the Sydney winter raged outside, that made you realize just how lucky you were. You couldn't imagine doing this with Harper. Harper would have complained about the heater ruining her hair, or rolled her eyes at the song. But Felix just threw himself into the fun, completely uninhibited and fiercely joyful.

By the time your mom pulled the sedan into the damp parking lot of the dance studio, the radio had transitioned into a One Direction song, and you were both completely out of breath from screaming the lyrics.

"Alright, you two maniacs, out you get," your mom laughed, putting the car into park. "I'll be back at five-thirty. Don't slip in the puddles."

"Thanks, Mum! Bye!"

You and Felix grabbed your bags and jogged through the freezing rain, pushing open the heavy double doors of the warehouse. The familiar wall of sensory overload hit you instantly. The smell of floor wax, the thumping bass vibrating through the walls, and the loud chatter of kids warming up.

"G'day, Barb!" you and Felix chorused in perfect unison as you passed the front desk.

Barb looked up from her clunky desktop computer, her reading glasses slipping down her nose. "G'day, you two troublemakers! Miss Clara is waiting for you in Studio Two! Get a move on!"

You pushed open the door to the mirror-lined studio. The humidity in the room was already high, the edges of the mirrors fogging up slightly despite the winter chill outside.

"There are my star pupils!" Miss Clara cheered, clapping her hands as you and Felix dropped your bags against the back wall. "Let's go, Year Sixes! We're finishing the eight-count for the Flo Rida routine today, and I want it sharp!"

Over the last few months, your dancing had improved dramatically, but Felix... Felix was a genuine revelation.

The moment the heavy beat of "Wild Ones" dropped through the studio speakers, the goofy boy from the car vanished. Felix transformed. When he danced, his face smoothed out into a look of intense focus. His small frame moved with a power and a precision that was completely mesmerizing. He hit every pop, every lock, and every slide with an instinctive understanding of rhythm that you could only dream of possessing.

You stood right next to him in the center of the formation, feeding off his incredible energy.

"Five, six, seven, eight!" Miss Clara counted loudly over the music.

You and Felix moved in perfect sync. You dropped low, swept your leg out, and popped back up, mirroring his sharp movements. He wasn't just good at the choreography; he actively made you better. When you struggled with a complicated transition, he would patiently break it down for you during the water breaks, his hands physically guiding your shoulders to show you where your weight needed to be.

"Yes! That's it, Felix, beautiful isolation on the chest pop!" Miss Clara yelled approvingly over the blaring music. "Keep that energy up, everyone! Let's take it from the top!"

The hour-long class was grueling. By the time the final chords of the song faded out, you were both dripping with sweat, your lungs burning and your legs feeling like absolute jelly.

Felix collapsed onto the scuffed wooden floorboards beside you, his chest heaving, a grin spreading across his flushed face. He reached out, his hand weakly finding yours on the floor, and gave you a sloppy high-five.

"Told you," you panted, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. "The BBQ Shapes. They slowed you down."

"Liar," Felix wheezed, laughing breathlessly. "I was flawless. I am a machine."

"You are a sweaty mess," you corrected fondly, sitting up and grabbing your water bottle.

As you looked at him, lying on the floor of the dance studio, utterly exhausted but happier than you had ever seen him, a warm feeling bloomed in your chest. The winter rain was still hammering against the corrugated iron roof of the warehouse, but sitting here, surrounded by the thumping music and the laughter of your best friend, the world felt incredibly bright.

By the time eight o'clock rolled around, the chaotic energy of the afternoon had completely settled into a domestic calm.

Felix was sleeping over. It had become a regular occurrence over the last two months, falling into a comfortable weekend routine. Your parents absolutely adored him, and his parents were more than happy to have a quiet night in their own house without him and Olivia bickering over the television remote.

You and Felix had both showered immediately after getting home from dance class, washing away the sweat and the smell of the studio floor wax. Now, you were both dressed in your pajamas. The winter rain was still falling steadily outside, a soothing drumbeat against your bedroom window.

You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, a thick fleece blanket draped over your shoulders. Felix was sitting on the floor leaning back against the side of your mattress, lazily flipping through a stack of your older comic books. The only light in the room came from the small yellow lamp on your bedside table, casting soft shadows against the walls.

It was quiet. The comfortable kind of silence that you only ever experienced with him.

You were staring blankly at the corkboard hanging above your desk. Pinned to the center of it was a calendar. The month of June was almost over, giving way to the rapidly approaching page for July.

Specifically, July 14th.

You let out an unintentional sigh, pulling the fleece blanket a little tighter around your shoulders.

Felix immediately stopped flipping the pages of his comic book. His head tilted back, resting against your mattress, and he looked up at you upside down. His dark eyes, usually bright and bubbling with mischief, were deeply observant.

"What's wrong?" he asked. His voice was quiet, respectful of the hushed atmosphere of the rainy bedroom.

"Nothing," you lied quickly, looking away from the calendar. "Just tired."

Felix raised an eyebrow. He slowly closed the comic book, setting it down on the carpet, and spun around so he was sitting on his knees, resting his arms on the edge of your bed to look you directly in the eye. He didn't say anything. He just gave you the look. It was a specific unwavering stare that he had perfected over the last few months, one that silently communicated that he knew you were lying and he was perfectly willing to wait until you told him the truth.

You crumbled under the pressure of his gaze almost instantly. You let out another heavier sigh, resting your chin on your knees.

"It's stupid," you mumbled, picking at a loose thread on your flannel pajama pants. "It's just... my birthday is coming up. In a few weeks. July 14th."

Felix's face instantly lit up. "Your birthday? That's awesome! Why is that a bad thing? You're turning twelve, that's practically a teenager."

"I know," you said, feeling a frustrating prickle of heat behind your eyes. You swallowed hard, forcing the sudden wave of emotion down. "It's just... Harper always came to my birthdays. Every single year since we were in Year 3. We always did everything together. And now she's not going to be there. She hasn't spoken a single word to me in four months, Felix. She walks right past me in the hallway like I'm invisible."

The words tumbled out of you before you could stop them. You hadn't really talked about Harper since that first week of school. You had successfully pushed the loss of her friendship to the back of your mind, burying it beneath the excitement of dance classes, sleepovers, and passing notes with Felix. But birthdays were milestones. They were markers of time, and realizing that your childhood best friend wouldn't be there to celebrate with you felt like a sudden punch to the gut.

Felix's expression softened entirely. The bright excitement faded, replaced by an empathetic sadness. He knew exactly why Harper wasn't talking to you. He knew that the silent treatment, the dirty looks across the classroom, and the sudden social exile were all because you had chosen to sit next to him under the wattle tree.

"I'm sorry," he whispered softly, his hands gripping the edge of your duvet cover. He looked down at his knuckles, guilt swimming in his eyes. "I know she was your best friend. And I know you gave that up for me. If... if you want to invite her, you can. I won't be mad. I can stay home."

"No!" you practically shouted, the force of your own reaction startling you. You reached out, grabbing his wrist firmly. "Absolutely not. I don't want to invite her, and I definitely don't want you to stay home. She made her choice. She decided she cared more about looking cool than being my friend. You're my best friend now, Felix. I just... I guess I just feel a bit sad about the memories, you know?"

Felix looked up at you, his eyes searching your face. When he saw the sincerity in your expression, the heavy guilt slowly lifted from his shoulders. He gave you a small smile, his freckles shifting in the warm lamplight.

"I know," he said quietly, slipping his hand out of your grip just to place it comfortingly over yours. "It's okay to be sad. But I promise, I'm going to make sure it's the best birthday ever. What do you normally do? Do you have a big party? Do we need to hire a jumping castle?"

You let out a wet laugh, wiping a stray tear from your cheek with the back of your hand. The melancholic feeling in your chest began to evaporate under the warmth of his easy acceptance.

"No jumping castles," you smiled, shaking your head. "I don't really do big parties. Usually, my parents let me pick one friend, and we take the train into the city. We go to the Sydney Aquarium in Darling Harbour for the afternoon, and then we go to this fancy Italian restaurant right on the water for dinner."

"The aquarium?" Felix's eyes went wide with genuine wonder. "The one with the glass tunnels where the sharks swim right over your head?"

"Exactly," you nodded, your excitement starting to build as you thought about it. "It's heaps good. They have massive stingrays, and you can see the penguins getting fed. But the best part is the dugongs. The sea cows. They just float around looking completely confused by everything. I love them so much."

"Sea cows," Felix repeated, a grin spreading across his face. "That sounds amazing. And then what? Fancy Italian food?"

"Yeah, my dad always orders this massive garlic pizza just for the table, and I get the biggest bowl of spaghetti bolognese they have," you explained, the familiar comfort of the tradition washing over you. "But the absolute best part of the whole day happens after dinner."

Felix leaned in closer, resting his chin on his crossed arms on the edge of your bed, completely invested in the story. "What happens?"

You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a dramatic, conspiratorial whisper. "We buy a large box of hot chips from the takeaway stand near the pier. And then... we go feed the seagulls."

Felix physically recoiled. He scrambled backward, his eyes widening in pure horror. He stared at you as if you had just suggested you both jump into a volcano.

"The seagulls?" he squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. "Are you insane? They are flying demons! They tried to eat my face off at the beach!"

You threw your head back and let out a loud laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls of your bedroom. The memory of him flailing in the sand, trapped while the white birds swarmed his bright green bucket hat, was still the funniest thing you had ever seen in your life.

"They won't eat your face!" you giggled, clutching your stomach. "We throw the chips at them! It's hilarious, they fight each other in mid-air to catch them. It's an essential part of the birthday tradition, Felix. You have to face your enemies."

Felix shook his head vigorously, his dark hair flopping into his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest in a protective stance, though he was trying very hard to fight back a smile.

"I refuse," he declared stubbornly. "I will go to the aquarium. I will look at the confusing sea cows. I will even eat the fancy spaghetti. But I am not going near the bin chickens of the sea. I value my life too much."

"Coward," you teased, throwing the fleece blanket over his head so it draped over him like a ghost.

Felix squawked, wrestling with the thick fabric, before pulling it down and glaring at you playfully. "I'm not a coward, I'm just incredibly smart. They hold grudges, you know. They'll recognize me."

"You're not wearing the green hat anymore, they won't know it's you," you reasoned, still giggling. "Please, Felix? For my birthday?"

Felix let out a long dramatic sigh, letting his head thunk against the mattress. He looked up at you with a long-suffering expression, his dark eyes sparkling with fond amusement.

"Fine," he grumbled, though his gap-toothed smile betrayed him. "I will sacrifice myself to the sky demons. But only because you're turning twelve. Next year, we're feeding pigeons instead."

"Deal," you grinned, feeling a massive wave of warmth settle over you.

The sadness over Harper was completely gone. Looking at Felix, sitting on the floor of your bedroom in his oversized pajamas, willing to face his absolute worst fear just to keep your silly birthday tradition alive, you realized that you hadn't lost a best friend at all. You had just upgraded to a much, much better one.

The conversation about your impending birthday naturally led to the far more terrifying topic that was currently looming over every Year 6 student in the state.

High School.

The transition from primary school to high school in Australia was a terrifying leap. You were going from being the absolute seniors of the playground, kings and queens of the school, to being the tiny terrified Year 7s at the absolute bottom of a meaner food chain.

"We only have, like, five months left of primary school," you murmured, pulling your knees up to your chest. The rain continued to beat a steady rhythm against the glass windowpane. "Are you scared? About Year 7?"

Felix, who had gone back to sitting cross-legged on the floor, picked at a loose piece of fluff on the carpet. The playful energy from the seagull conversation faded slightly, replaced by a quiet seriousness.

"A little bit," he admitted, his eyes looking up at you. "The high school is massive. My sister Rachel goes there, and she says there are, like, a thousand kids. And you have to switch classrooms for every single subject. You don't just stay with Mrs. Gable all day."

"I know," you groaned, burying your face in your knees. "And they give you mountains of homework. Plus, we're going to be the youngest kids there. The Year 12s are basically adults. Some of them have beards."

Felix shuddered at the thought. "And we have to wear blazers. Even when it's hot."

You peeked over your knees, looking down at him. A sharp spike of anxiety hit your chest, entirely separate from the fear of homework or older kids. It was a fear of separation.

"Felix..." you started hesitantly, your voice dropping to a quiet whisper. "You are going to the local high school, right? Your parents aren't sending you to a private school or something?"

The local public high school was just a few suburbs over. It was where almost everyone from your primary school went, but occasionally, parents would ship their kids off to strict private schools on the other side of the city. The thought of navigating the terrifying halls of Year 7 without Felix by your side, without your designated seatmate and dance partner, made your stomach churn.

Felix looked up, immediately catching the panic in your voice. His face softened instantly.

"Yeah, of course," he reassured you quickly, offering a warm smile. "My parents already filled out the enrollment forms last month. It's the same one Rachel goes to. So we're going to the same school."

You let out a massive sigh of relief, slumping back against your pillows. "Oh, thank god. I thought I was going to have to survive it alone. We have to make sure we're in the same roll call class."

"We will be," Felix promised confidently, leaning his arms on the edge of your bed again. "My mom requested that we be put together. She said it's important for me to have a familiar face. We're going to stick together. I promise."

"Best friends?" you asked, holding out your pinky finger over the edge of the bed.

Felix looked at your extended finger, his gap-toothed smile returning in full force. He reached up, wrapping his own pinky finger securely around yours. His skin was warm. "Best friends," he echoed solemnly. "Even when we're terrified Year 7s running away from the bearded seniors."

"Kids! Dinner is ready!"

The sound of your dad's voice echoing down the hallway shattered the quiet intimacy of the bedroom. You and Felix both jumped slightly, pulling your hands apart, before bursting into simultaneous giggles.

"Come on," you said, throwing the fleece blanket off your shoulders and sliding off the bed. "I'm starving. I hope Mom made spaghetti."

You and Felix padded down the hallway in your thick socks, drawn by the incredible smell wafting from the kitchen. The house was warm, a stark contrast to the miserable winter night outside.

Your parents were already sitting at the dining table. Your mom had outdone herself, preparing a steaming dish of shepherd's pie, the ultimate Australian winter comfort food. The mashed potato crust was baked to a perfect crispy golden brown, and the rich smell of gravy and minced meat filled the room.

"Take a seat, you two," your dad boomed cheerfully, gesturing to the empty chairs opposite him. "Dig in before it gets cold."

Felix politely waited for you to sit down first before sliding into the chair next to yours. He was always incredibly polite around your parents, remembering his 'pleases' and 'thank yous', which was exactly why your mother adored him so much.

"Thank you for dinner, Mrs yln," Felix said softly as your mom scooped a steaming portion of the pie onto his plate.

"You're very welcome, Felix," she smiled warmly. "Eat up. You need your strength after dancing so hard today."

The dinner table conversation was loud and easy. Your dad dominated the discussion, talking about his week at work and asking Felix about his older sister's upcoming exams. Felix answered politely, his initial shyness around your dad having melted away months ago. Now, he happily engaged in the banter, occasionally shooting you an amused look across the table.

"Speaking of your family, Felix," your dad started, taking a bite of his pie. "I ran into your dad at the hardware store this morning. Jiho, right?"

Felix nodded quickly, his mouth full of mashed potato. He swallowed before answering. "Yes, sir."

"Well, Jiho and I were talking, and we decided that since the rain is supposed to clear up by next weekend, we're going to fire up the barbie," your dad announced proudly, pointing his fork toward the window.

You stared at him, completely deadpan. "Dad, it's the middle of June. It's literally ten degrees outside. You can't have a barbecue in winter."

"Nonsense!" your dad scoffed, waving away your logic. "It's an Australian tradition. Put on a thick jumper, grab a pair of tongs, and stand around the grill. Jiho is bringing over some of those amazing marinated beef ribs your mom makes, Felix. And I'm doing the snags."

"My dad loves barbecues," Felix supplied helpfully, looking over at you with a teasing glint in his eye. "He bought a new pair of tongs just for this."

"See? Jiho understands," your dad grinned triumphantly. "So, next Saturday, it's a joint family barbie. In our backyard. Tell your sisters they're invited too."

"If we're having a barbie," you interjected, pointing your fork threateningly at your father, "then you have to restock the freezer. We are completely out of Zooper Doopers, and it is a known scientific fact that you cannot host a barbecue without them. Even if it is freezing outside."

"I will add fairy floss Zooper Doopers to the grocery list," your mom promised, rolling her eyes affectionately. "Though I suspect Felix will end up eating half the box."

Felix's ears turned bright pink, but he didn't deny the accusation. The frozen treats had remained his absolute favorite snack since that first day under the wattle tree.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of warm food and comfortable laughter. It struck you, as you watched your dad crack a terrible joke that made Felix snort gravy into his napkin, just how deeply intertwined your two families had become. The Lees weren't just the neighbors next door anymore. They were an extension of your own family.

Once dinner was cleared away and the plates were stacked in the dishwasher, you and Felix retreated back to your bedroom for the night.

Your mom followed closely behind, carrying a large mattress pad and a stack of thick winter blankets.

"Alright, boys and girls, time to set up camp," she announced, dropping the pile onto your bedroom floor.

The sleepover setup was a well-practiced routine. You and Felix quickly cleared a space on the carpet, pushing your desk chair into the corner. You helped your mom unroll the thick mattress pad, throwing a fitted sheet over it, while Felix grabbed the fluffiest doona from the pile and tossed it over the makeshift bed.

"There we go," your mom smiled, tossing two plump pillows onto the end of the mattress. "Nice and cozy. Now, I want lights out by ten-thirty, alright? You both need your sleep after that dance class."

"Yes, Mum," you chorused together.

"Goodnight, Felix," she said gently, turning off the main overhead light and leaving only the warm glow of the bedside lamp. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Goodnight!"

The door clicked shut, plunging the room into a quiet intimacy.

Felix immediately flopped down onto his floor mattress, burying himself completely under the thick doona until only the top of his messy hair was visible. You climbed into your own bed, pulling your duvet up to your chin. The rain was still drumming against the windowpane, providing a rhythmic soundtrack to the dark room.

"Hey," Felix's muffled voice came from beneath the pile of blankets on the floor.

"Yeah?" you whispered back, staring up at the dark ceiling.

Slowly, Felix pulled the doona down just enough to expose his face. He was looking up at you, his eyes heavy with sleep, but his expression was incredibly soft and sincere.

"I'm really glad we're going to the same high school," he whispered quietly, his voice barely audible over the rain. "I don't think I could do it without you."

A rush of warmth flooded your chest, completely chasing away the lingering winter chill in the room. You rolled over onto your side, looking down at him.

"Me too," you whispered back truthfully. "We'll survive it together. We're a team."

Felix gave a sleepy nod, a tiny smile resting on his lips as his eyes fluttered shut. "A team. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Felix."

As you lay there, listening to the soft sound of his breathing slowly evening out into sleep, you felt a profound sense of peace. Year 7 was going to be terrifying, and you were definitely going to get dive-bombed by seagulls on your birthday, but as long as the boy next door was with you, you knew everything was going to be perfectly fine.

©jistay. Do not repost or translate my works without permission.

permanent taglist: @thesirenqueen @clairementsolo @lostinmymind-daydreaming