#junhao x reader

you met wen junhui the summer before sixth grade, barefoot on your front porch with an orange popsicle dripping down your wrist. he’d just moved in across the street with his mother. you watched as he set the box down on the porch and wiped his palms on his shorts. the handwriting on the cardboard was messy but clear—written in chinese characters you didn’t recognize then, squinting.

“what’s that say?”

“kitchen stuff,” he answered plainly, the words slow and a little stiff on his tongue. then he added, “my mom writes everything like that.”

his korean was careful—each syllable slightly rounded, like he was still getting used to the way they fit together. you noticed the lilt of something unfamiliar tucked beneath his voice, a faint accent that softened some vowels and sharpened others.

he stuck out a hand like he remembered it was something people did. “i’m wen junhui. but my parents said my name’s supposed to be moon junhui here.”

you blinked. “moon?”

he nodded. “like the one in the sky.” his voice dipped a little on sky, the accent peeking through, and for some reason, it made your chest flutter.

you didn’t quite get it back then, but you liked the way it sounded like something distant and important. so you said it again, quietly to yourself, as he picked the box back up.

“moon junhui, like the one in the sky.”

later that evening, you told your mom that you were going to marry the new boy across the street. she laughed and said, “at least bring him some food before proposing.”

so you did. or, well, your mom did. that week, she sent you over with a plate of mandu, and when jun opened the door, you almost tripped over your words.

“my mom made these,” you said, holding out the container. “she said... welcome to the neighborhood.”

he blinked at it, then blinked at you, taking it with one hand. “cool,”

and just when you turned around, cheeks burning, he added, “tell your mom thank you.”

after that, it became a rhythm. tupperware went out, tupperware came back, always filled with something new, a blend of korean-chinese dishes as your family’s own way of communicating—stir-fried lotus root, soy-sauce eggs, and jujube tea in the winter. your mom would beam, and you always offered to bring it over. sometimes he opened the door, sometimes his mom did. but it never stopped, and neither did you.

you started school that year with a thrill in your chest, already imagining how it would go—new erasers, fresh notebooks, and maybe, just maybe, junhui waving to you in the hallway between classes. that was enough to make your stomach flip.

but nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the moment moon junhui walked into your classroom.

you were doodling in the corner of your planner when the door creaked open and the teacher looked up.

“we have a new student joining us today,” she said, smiling. “this is moon junhui. he just moved here, so i’d like someone to help him settle in.”

your pencil dropped to the floor with a soft clatter, your head jerked up. sure enough, there he was, standing right there at the front of the room—hands awkwardly clasped in front of him, bangs flopping in his eyes, that same worn-out backpack you recognized from their huge stash of things from the moving truck. your mouth fell open, and the boy looked just as stunned to see you, blinking once, twice, like oh.

and then his mouth twitched into what might’ve been a grimace—tight-lipped, slightly panicked—but you, in your hopeless little heart, registered it as a lopsided smile. a charming one, even. your heart did a cartwheel.

“any volunteers to show him around today?” the teacher asked.

your hand shot up so fast your chair wobbled beneath you. “i volunteer!” you squeaked, louder than you meant to.

a few kids giggled. your face burned, but you didn’t care. not when moon junhui was making his way toward the empty seat next to you, the one you definitely hadn’t saved on purpose (except you had, just now, while jun was introducing himself—shooing poor soonyoung away earlier with a whispered, “don’tcha think you’d like that seat by the window better?”).

he sat down quietly, and when the teacher turned to write on the board, you leaned over, trying to sound cool and not like your brain was melting. “you’re in my class?”

he nodded, eyes still a little wide. “didn’t know ‘till just now, either.”

you beamed like it was fate, while he blinked slowly, probably still trying to figure out if the look on your face was excitement or if you were about to sneeze.

either way, you decided right then: this wasn’t just going to be a good year. this was the beginning of something—your little heart didn’t know what that something was quite yet, but it was.

the start of your quiet orbit around moon junhui’s life.

one revolution at a time.

soon enough, jun grew taller. broader in the shoulders, and quicker with his smirks. his voice dropped one day in eighth grade and never rose again. his hair grew out, brown and messy and a little longer than most boys kept it—always flopping into his eyes, brushing past his eyebrows, that kind of effortless boyish mess that made him look like he belonged in a teen drama. he stopped wearing t-shirts with holes and started playing basketball with the neighborhood boys.

you, however, stayed the same—still orbiting moon junhui like he was your personal axis, still finding excuses to knock on his door. sometimes he let you sit on the curb with him after practice, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat and eyes glued to his flip phone as you rambled about school. sometimes he offered you half a banana milk. most days, he barely looked up.

but by freshman year, gravity had started to shift.

jun stopped leaving you the last sip of his banana milk, finishing it in two quick gulps without looking your way. he started walking home with the other boys from the basketball team, voices loud and rough and filled with inside jokes you weren’t part of. when you waved from your porch, he’d give a distracted nod—if he noticed at all. and on the days you gathered your courage to wait for him after school, he’d emerge with someone new at his side, laughter spilling from his lips, eyes already somewhere else.

still, you kept orbiting him—like a lone planet locked in quiet rotation, pulled in by a force you couldn’t name. drawn in spite of yourself, never quite able to land—pathetic, maybe almost embarrassingly, but never enough to stop.

like this morning, when your mom handed you a warm container wrapped in a dish towel and told you to bring it next door, and you didn’t even try to hide how fast you slipped your shoes on.

jun answered in sweatpants and bed hair, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand like he’d just rolled out of bed. he didn’t even greet you, just blinked down at the container in your hands, half-asleep and completely unbothered.

you stood there like a fool on his porch, heart thudding way too loud for how mundane the moment was. he was the cutest boy on earth and didn’t even know it—or worse, didn’t care. you were painfully aware of the way his hair fell into his eyes, the slope of his nose, how his voice came out scratchy when he finally muttered,

“what now?” like he hadn’t seen you just two days ago returning his mom’s glazed sweet potatoes.

your heart does a backflip. damn it.

“d-dan dan,” you stutter pathetically, holding the tupperware of noodles out. “and a note from my mom that says, quote, ‘your mother’s garlic green beans changed my life.’”

his mouth curved, finally. “that dramatic, huh?”

“you know how she is.”

he took the dish, the warmth of his fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than necessary—or maybe that was just your imagination again.

“tell her thanks,” he said, and you waited, just a little, like maybe he’d invite you in or ask about your day or say literally anything else.

of course he didn’t. jun just stepped back, one foot behind the other, and pulled the door halfway closed. “go home before your mom starts thinking we’re dating.”

you pretend it doesn’t sting, your mind racing with something along the lines of “would it really be so horrible?”—instead, you roll your eyes, raise a brow to match his smirk.

“gross,” you shoot back—because it’s easier to play along than to admit you’d probably say yes in a heartbeat.

jun grins at the floor, not at you. and that’s when it hits you—he never really looks at you when it matters. jun is always quick with a joke, always flashing that grin like it’s armor. but never steady, never really enough.

you turn around without pushing further, letting his words hang in the air like always.

and maybe that’s when something inside you shifted, just a little. not a full unraveling, not yet—but a thread pulled loose. not because of what jun said, but because of what he didn’t.

soon enough, summer melted into early fall, and everything started to shift in ways you didn’t have words for. the cicadas quieted, the skies stretched longer in the evenings, and somewhere in the middle of it, you stopped showing up at the moons’ front door. not all at once—but slowly and gradually, the way your feelings turn like fermented tofu left too long, the bitterness deepening day by day.

your little sibling was old enough now, old enough to carry tupperware with both hands and knock politely like your mother taught you. so you let them go in your place, making up excuses and saying you were busy or complained that you were tired.

but really, it just all started feeling kind of stupid—showing up at jun’s doorstep like clockwork when he never looked at you quite the way you hoped. senior year was just beginning, and you weren’t about to waste your last year of high school chasing a hopeless childhood crush—that silly, stubborn thing you promised yourself you’d outgrow by now.

one afternoon, he came to the door the same way he always did—sweatpants, bed hair, and rubbing sleep from one eye. only this time, when he pulled it open, he blinked down not at you, but at the top of someone else’s head.

your sibling squeaked out a practiced greeting, arms stretched out with the side dish your mom had made. jun stared for a second longer than usual, the corner of his mouth twitching like he didn’t know whether to smile or frown.

and maybe—for a beat, no longer—jun wondered where you’d gone. maybe something tugged at his chest, quiet and annoying, like a thread snagged in the fabric of a routine he hadn’t realized he’d grown so used to.

without you even noticing, the first day of senior year comes rushing in. and for the first time in a long time, you weren’t waiting at the door to walk to school with jun or pretending not to time your steps with his. no rushing out in your uniform just to catch up and scold him for walking so fast, no sarcastic “what a coincidence” from him as he adjusted his backpack, smirking without looking at you.

this time, you waited by the window until you saw him head down the street, hoodie thrown over his shoulders, earphones half in. he didn’t look up—not at your window, not at your house—and that should’ve made it easier. it didn’t. maybe a small part of you hoped he’d look back and wonder where you were, wait for you, or even send you a text on his flip phone. but jun simply kept walking, indifferent, until his back disappeared from your view.

you took that as a signal. you slipped on your shoes, the ones with the worn heels, grabbed your headphones and portable cd player, and shrugged into your jacket like muscle memory. your little sibling was still asleep on the couch, and your mom’s voice echoed faintly from the kitchen, but everything else felt unusually quiet.

by the time you stepped outside, the air had cooled just enough to make you wish you’d grabbed a scarf. you kept your head down, trying not to think too much, trying not to glance across the street even though you knew he wasn’t there.

what you didn’t see—what you couldn’t see—was jun leaning against the old oak tree halfway down the block, tucked just far enough behind the trunk to stay out of view. one foot pressed to the bark, hands deep in his hoodie pocket, chewing his bottom lip like he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

and then you passed by. head down, steps steady, walking right past him without a glance. he watched your back as it grew smaller, the morning light catching the edge of your sleeve. that feeling tugged at his chest again—the same one he felt a few weeks ago when you first sent your sibling to bring food over instead of yourself.

jun shifted his weight, exhaled slowly, and pushed off the tree.

you didn’t look back.

you kept your headphones in as you slipped into the courtyard, a half-hearted attempt to seem occupied. a few familiar faces nodded as they passed, but you didn’t stop to talk. not when your heart was still trying to unlearn a pattern it had followed for years.

junhui should be walking with you right now. he should be a step behind, yawning into his sleeve, bumping your shoulder with his on purpose. his friends should be calling out his name from the front steps, tossing lazy grins and half-waved hellos. and he should be answering them over his shoulder, still tugging at the frayed strap of your backpack and telling you your hair looked like a bird’s nest—then ruffling it like that wasn’t the most heart-fluttering, pulse-skipping, can’t-breathe-for-a-second thing he could possibly do to you. ‘fix your ugly bangs,’ he’d mumble, always the same tone—half-teasing, half-careless—and then he’d disappear into the crowd like you hadn’t been walking together at all.

that’s how the first day was supposed to go. it was how it always did, for years in a row.

but today, the only hands in your hair are your own, brushing it down nervously as you stare straight ahead and try not to think about how hollow the space beside you feels.

at the front of the school, students gathered near the bulletin board where class lists were taped up in uneven rows. you hesitated before stepping in, heart skipping like it did every year, eyes skimming the columns faster than they could register names—just one name, really.

there he was: moon junhui, class 3-2.

you dragged your gaze down, your name sitting two lines below his.

same class. again.

you didn’t know whether to sigh or smile. because a year ago, you would’ve been squealing in delight, skipping your way to first period with the kind of giddy, reckless hope that only came from liking someone as loudly as you did him. now, your heart still beat just as fast—but it was different. muddier, a bit conflicted. like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that you were trying to stop feeling this way.

and just when you took a step back, someone brushed past your shoulder, close enough to make your breath hitch.

“ah—sorry,” came a soft voice, unfamiliar and low, tinged with the faintest accent. you turned, blinking up.

he stood tall, maybe taller than jun, with sharp features and dark eyes that took their time looking over the list. his hair fell just slightly into his face, and his uniform hung neat, collar straight despite the morning bustle.

“do you know which one is class 3-2?” he asked, glancing down at you like you might already have the answer.

his lips are slightly pouted, brows pinched like he’s trying to make sense of the board in front of him, and it takes a second for you to register that he’s talking to you.

you blink, heart lurching a little too hard at the sight—because wow, he’s pretty—then quickly jab your finger—maybe a bit too eagerly—toward the list posted on the wall.

“that’s me,” you say, trying not to sound breathless, “i’m in that class.”

your name, still sitting two lines below junhui’s, stares back at you. still there. still in close proximity with the name of the boy you swore you were growing out of. you’ve seen it a hundred times before, but beside someone new, it feels strange—like a thread has quietly shifted in a pattern you hadn’t expected.

he leans in slightly, eyes skimming over where you’re pointing. then he lifts a finger, taps it just beneath yours.

“seo myungho here, but i’d prefer if you called me by my chinese name—xu minghao.” he says, smiling now. “guess i’m right behind you.”

then you finally register it—that subtle lilt in his voice, the way his words land with a soft, rounded rhythm. an accent, warm and unmistakably northern, threads through his speech like a familiar tune from somewhere far from here. it’s not like junhui’s—his had always been rougher at the edges, syllables clipped and pulled from the south, the faint drawl curling around his words. minghao’s, though, settles in softer and more deliberate. and for a second, you forget what you were going to say.

you let out a small laugh before you can stop it, surprised at the way it slips out so easily.

“looks like it.”

minghao steps back, still looking at the list like he’s memorizing it, and you steal a glance—his expression is open and curious, like someone seeing everything for the first time and already wanting to know more.

and maybe it’s just this new feeling of a fresh start you promised to have, or the fact that he spoke to you first—out of all the kids here, he picked you. maybe your teenage brain is overthinking it, spinning meaning where there is none, but you honestly don’t mind the undivided attention for once.

junhui steps into the courtyard a little late, the sleeves of his uniform hoodie pushed up and hair still a bit damp from a rushed morning shower. he scans the crowd, eyes flicking past familiar faces as he adjusts the strap of his bag over one shoulder.

you’re not where you usually are.

a habit he didn’t realize he’d built until it broke—expecting to see you waiting near the bulletin boards or waving him over with some dumb comment about how the first day of school should be illegal. but this time, you’re nowhere in sight.

he shifts on his feet, gaze sweeping again, slower this time—until something fuzzy catches his eye.

your keychain. that stupid fuzzy creature you insisted on keeping, dangling off the zipper of your bag. the fur’s worn now, patchy in spots, the color a little dull from all the years of being dragged around—but it’s still there, bobbing amongst the crowd like a flag. it swings gently as you move, and junhui catches sight of it before he sees you.

he remembers the claw machine in that dingy arcade three summers ago, remembers how you clapped when he knocked the toy into the chute on his second try. jun remembers how you snatched it from his hands before he could even look at it properly, beaming as you said, “you won it for me!” like it was some grand romantic gesture. he’d rolled his eyes and said something about how annoying you were, but he’d let you keep it anyway. didn’t even have the heart to argue.

now, your figure’s nearly swallowed up by someone else’s—someone taller and unfamiliar. raven-black hair and legs that go on forever. and he wonders, bitterly, if the new guy knows that fact. if he even noticed it or asked where that keychain came from. not that it matters. whatever.

his brows pull together as he watches the two of you talking by the list, your head tilted slightly toward the guy beside you, smiling at something he says. it’s subtle, but jun catches the way your posture softens, the way you seem to lean in without meaning to. and for some reason, something shifts in his chest yet again—small and barely there, but noticeable. like a paper cut you don’t feel until after it’s happened, sharp and mildly irritating in the worst way.

he doesn’t know why it bothers him. maybe it’s the way you used to save that smile for him, or maybe it’s just habit that he would be the one next to you by that list, just like every year before this one.

either way, he tells himself it’s nothing. just the first day of school. just a new kid. nothing to think twice about—so he looks away.

“jun, you’re in 3-2 too, did you see?”

it’s joshua, already slinging an arm loosely around jun’s shoulder like no time has passed at all since last semester. he’s grinning, waving a folded schedule in one hand.

“i saw your name on the list. looks like we’re stuck together again.”

jun hums something in agreement, sparing one last glance over his shoulder—your fuzzy keychain already vanishing around the corner—before letting joshua steer him toward the hall. their footsteps fall into rhythm, laughter rising easily between them, but there’s a crease in junhui’s brow that doesn’t quite smooth out.

the classroom buzzes with first-day energy—chairs scraping, windows cracking open to let in the crisp air, conversations picking up where summer left off. you step in a little hesitantly, fingers tightening around the strap of your backpack, only to catch sight of a familiar head of tousled brown hair near the center.

junhui.

middle row, third seat from the front—the one he always liked. far enough to nap unnoticed, close enough not to get called on. but maybe more than that, it was more or less the same area where you’d saved a seat for him on his first day, the one you carved out space for him to take when he first moved in. the seat beside him is empty, and your steps falter.

but before the thought can root itself too deep, minghao nudges your arm gently and gestures to the back corner by the windows. “over here?”

his voice comes low and steady, easy to listen to—not pushy, just gently warm, like a quiet invitation you don’t feel the need to refuse.

you find yourself following him without saying much, feet moving first and slipping into the seat by the window as he takes the one beside you. your bag hits the floor with a soft thud. the early morning light spills across your desk, warm against your skin. a breeze stirs your hair.

jun doesn’t turn around.

you tell yourself it’s fine. it is. you’re in a new seat, next to someone new. someone who didn’t grow up with the version of you that tripped over her own feet just to keep up, the version who doesn’t follow jun pathetically like a shadow.

this feels like the change you didn’t know you needed—the breath of fresh air that makes your steps a little lighter, the quiet comfort of minghao by your side softening the edges of everything you thought you knew.

eventually, lunch becomes an unspoken thing between you and minghao.

it’s not planned at first, he just starts showing up—next to you in the hallway, at your desk after class, and in the cafeteria line with his tray angled toward yours. when teachers say to group into pairs, his eyes find yours before anyone else’s even has the chance. and it doesn’t take long before you realize you’re basically attached at the hip.

his presence is quiet, but it holds weight—like gravity, steady and subtle. and somehow, it pulls you in. he doesn’t talk much to others, never the first to speak in a crowd, but he always greets you first. always. like it’s second nature. and maybe your high school brain is reading too much into it—but then again, maybe it isn’t.

junhui notices when you stop waiting for him.

he notices when you stop waiting for him by the front gate. when you don’t pause outside the cafeteria, scanning for his face before heading in. he sees you laughing quietly at something minghao says, the two of you already halfway through your lunch trays before he’s even stepped inside. it’s where you always liked sitting, but now it’s him that’s sitting there with you.

and the kicker? minghao’s chewing on rice cakes that look painfully familiar—your mom’s recipe, the one she always makes in bulk when the ingredients are fresh from the market.

your little sibling had dropped off a container of them last night, waving cheerfully at the door. jun hadn’t opened it—his mom had—but he remembers the smell and how it tasted. freshly made, still warm from the kitchen.

does minghao even know what they taste like fresh?

jun bets he doesn’t.

and then he blinks, the thought catching him off guard. why did that matter? why was he thinking like that? since when did he care who got the first bite?

he tells himself it’s nothing. just food. just your mom’s cooking.

but then jun looks back at the way you’re leaning in, nodding at something minghao says—and he hates how natural it looks. how effortless and how easy.

like that space beside you was never his to begin with.

minghao took the space you’d carved jun out of, like it had always been waiting, like it had always been his.

he didn’t rush to fill it, just slipped in quietly—slid his tray next to yours at lunch, fell into step beside you in the hallways, always found you first when it came time to pair up in class. you didn’t have to ask because he was already there.

minghao noticed. of course he did.

maybe he just pretended not to—kept his gaze steady, let you talk, let you laugh—like he didn’t feel the weight of someone else’s eyes on his back.

the boy with the messy brown hair—moon junhui, was it?—had a habit of staring like he was trying to set minghao’s head on fire with just his eyes. sometimes from across the classroom, or when you were laughing a little too loudly beside minghao’s shoulder. that boy would stare like he was waiting for you to pull away, waiting for you to take your usual seat back beside him in the middle row, like you always used to.

minghao had overheard stories about how you would be one step behind jun, always lingering around him from your classmates. he didn’t bring it up—he didn’t have to, not when your gaze never really wandered, or when he already had all of your attention. maybe a part of him was selfish enough to hold onto it, to keep you looking only at him.

in the blink of an eye, autumn blurred into winter. and suddenly, it was midterm season—gray skies, tired eyes, the weight of your future pressing down in textbook margins and red underlines.

you were hunched over a desk in the corner of the library, highlighter uncapped, fingers tangled in your own hair as you muttered formulas under your breath. there were empty snack wrappers beside your notes, a half-empty bottle of water, and post-it tabs clinging to your fingers like tiny reminders of all the things you have yet to finish.

“you forgot to eat lunch,” came a quiet voice beside you.

you looked at him through tired lashes, heart fluttering with something you couldn’t name—something that didn’t feel loud or sudden, but slow and warm like a shift in the tide.

jun had never been like this. when you asked him to go over notes or lessons, he’d brush you off or give you a distracted nod, like your questions were just background noise to him. he barely gave you the time of day.

but minghao—he didn’t tell you to rest, didn’t hover, didn’t ask questions. he simply set down the kimbap, opened his own book, and settled in beside you, steady and unintrusive. his presence felt like a quiet anchor, like a hand guiding you gently forward without pressure.

somewhere between the rustle of pages and the steam curling from the kimbap wrapper, you haven’t realized you’d been holding your breath.

maybe it wasn’t exactly the moment you fell. maybe it was the moment you crawled out of that hole junhui let you fall into, and quietly fell into a new one—one carved out by minghao. this one didn’t feel as deep or dark, unsure like the former, but warm and inviting.

that night, you and minghao had stayed late at the library, lost in quiet study and soft conversations, the hours slipping by unnoticed until the lights flickered off at eight. 

that night, jun lingered by his bedroom window, waiting. the digital clock on his nightstand glowed 9:42PM—later than you’d ever been home before. he’d almost left the house himself to go find you.

his chest tightened as he watched you and minghao move slowly down the sidewalk, your voices low, your steps in quiet sync. jun watched quietly from where he was, the soft glow of the streetlamp outlining your figure as you walked home. your books were tucked under one arm, and minghao’s hand—steady and sure—held yours in the other. it was a small thing, but jun felt it like a sudden jolt beneath his ribs.

but then, when you paused at your door and tiptoed to press a gentle kiss on minghao’s cheek, it was like his heart stopped altogether.

jun practically ambushed you the next morning, stepping out of his door quick enough to fall into step beside you.

“h-hey,” he said, a little breathless, “did you get home safe last night?”

you blink, caught off guard. “how’d you know i got home late?”

he scratched the back of his neck, cheeks reddening a bit. “uh, your mom was looking for you last night. said she thought maybe you were still out with… someone. or, you know, whatever.” he shrugged, trying to play it cool but failing just a little. “guess she thinks you’re out on a date or something.”

he raised a brow, waiting for your response. you shook your head at this, smiling slightly. “who has time for that right now, junhui? we’re too busy caught up with midterm exams in our senior year.”

he didn’t miss the way you said his full first name, but he only nodded quietly, mostly to himself, a flicker of relief settling in.

as you walked to school together, the old routine seemed to snap back into place—familiar, but tinged with something awkward underneath.

when you get to school, minghao spots you from a few meters away, his pace slowing just slightly. he doesn’t miss the boy walking beside you, eyes flicking to junhui with a polite nod and a quiet, almost casual, “hey, junhui.”

then he steps between the two of you without hesitation, hand resting lightly on your shoulder—gentle, but unmistakably there. “mind if i borrow y/n for a sec?”

junhui blinks, then looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “oh. yeah, sure. just wanted to ask real quick—could you maybe tutor me next week?”

you tilt your head, surprised—jun rarely asked for academic help. he usually got decent grades without much effort. still, you shrug and say, “sure.”

to face him properly, you shift a little, gently nudging minghao aside so you can meet jun’s gaze. “which subjects do you need help with?” the cold air makes your cheeks flush; your breath puffs out in soft vapor. your hair’s a little messy, bangs falling over your eyes—the same bangs jun used to tell you to fix every single time. back then, he never minded. maybe because you were kind of adorable like that, with those messy bangs barely brushing your eyes, and the way you’d finally fix them just so only he could see that slightly windswept look of yours. his heart starts racing faster than usual.

minghao raises a brow, watching the quiet exchange, as jun rambled on about how history has been kicking his ass lately. after a beat of silence, he clears his throat. “hey, i’ve been meaning to tell you. i have a family trip until next week,” he says, voice calm but not unreadable. “i’ll be away for a bit, but you can spend more time tutoring jun. looks like he needs it,” he mutters, an unamused gaze barely meeting the other boy’s own.

his hand stays steady on your shoulder, warm even through the fabric of your coat.

“jun can walk you home, anyway,” he adds, glancing at you with a faint smile. “neighbors’ privilege.”

then, softer—just for you—“sorry,” he murmurs, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. not possessive, just reassuring.

that afternoon, minghao was already gone, a quick text sent your way about heading out early for family dinner, leaving you and jun standing outside the school gates as the sun dipped lower behind gray clouds.

you fell into step beside him without thinking, the familiar rhythm of your footsteps side by side settling around you like an old song. the conversation was quiet—more comfortable than it had been in a long time. the world felt steady again, but your heart didn’t thud like it used to when you were near him. it was softer, calmer, like you were finally seeing jun without the pull of chasing, without the weight of hoping.

that day, jun walked you back to your front porch. your mom’s face lit up when she opened the door, offering him dinner like she used to all those years ago. and, surprisingly—maybe for the first time since middle school—he accepted with a willing nod.

jun went home that night with the tupperware of your mom’s mapo tofu balanced carefully in his arms. jun flashed you a soft, hesitant smile—like he wasn’t quite sure how to carry the moment—with his brown hair still brushing past his lashes, catching the last light of the evening.

you offer him a quiet ‘good night,’ your voice soft like the fading light outside. your eyes linger on him, not closing the door right away—watching until he disappears into his room across the street, the faint glow of his window the last thing you see before you finally step inside.

it feels strange at first—like the world’s shifted its usual rhythm just a little. for the next few days, it’s like everywhere you turn, there’s jun. not the distant planet you once orbited from afar, but somehow closer, like he’s started circling you instead. it’s subtle—the way he lingers near your locker, the way his shadow falls a little too close when you pass in the hallway—but it’s enough to make your heart skip, wondering if maybe the tides have finally changed.

one morning, you find a fresh banana milk waiting on your desk, cool and slightly sweet, just like the ones jun used to share with you after practice. there’s no note, just the familiar warmth of the gesture, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to say something without words.

at lunch, you sit alone, scrolling through your phone quietly. then jun appears beside you, holding a small container of something homemade—pickled radish, your favorite side dish. he shrugs, avoiding your eyes, and says, “thought you might like this.” you look up, caught off guard, but the way he lingers before walking away feels like a silent moment, maybe of hope.

meanwhile, minghao’s been sending you quiet messages every night since he first arrived at their vacation home—small check-ins, a good night here, a joke there. you read them with a smile, the softness in his words a warm anchor. even miles away, he’s somehow still holding your hand steadily and sure.

the day you’d promised to tutor jun finally rolled around, coinciding with the last day of minghao’s family vacation—he’d be back at school the following day. the last bell had already rung, and most of the classrooms had emptied out, the quiet hum of students lingering only in the stairwells and front gates. outside, the sun was starting to dip low, casting the hallways in a soft glow, the ground blanketed with a few inches of snow that made everything feel quieter, like the end of something you couldn’t name.

jun was waiting near your locker, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, the tip of his shoe nudging the floor like he was working up to something.

“ready to go?” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the direction of the library. his voice was awkward, tentative, like he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to say next.

you nodded anyway, falling into step beside him as the last traces of sunlight poured through the windows. your heart flipped just a little when he reached up and brushed a few stray snowflakes from your hair. the touch was quiet—almost familiar—and it made something in your chest pull tight. you shoved the feeling down, steadying yourself before it could bloom into anything more.

no. you couldn’t waste all those weeks of distance, all the effort it took to carve out space between you and junhui, just to feel like this again. not when you were doing so well.

you almost scoffed at this—at the way he slowed his pace, glanced over his shoulder once, then again, just to make sure you were still behind him.

because back then, all you ever saw was the back of his stupid brown-haired head, moving ahead like he didn’t even notice you were trying to keep up. like he knew, knew you’d always be a few steps behind, reaching for something he never quite gave.

soon enough, you reached the library, jun holding the door open for you. you ducked inside from the cold, instantly enveloped by warmth and the faint scent of old books. you didn’t look at him as you passed, choosing instead to pull your scarf a little tighter.

you found a quiet table tucked into a corner, one you used to sit at back in second year, and settled down. he sat across from you, dragging out his notes and a pen, and for the next hour or so, you walked him through formulas and vocab lists. made flashcards. quizzed him. and he answered everything in just a couple of beats.

still, he kept staring.

he watched the way your lips moved when you read out questions, the way your handwriting curved on the paper, the way you furrowed your brows when he got something slightly off. his heart skipped when your fingers brushed as you reached for the same pen, and he watched you quietly tuck it behind your ear, bangs messy over your eyes.

you always left them that way. he used to tease you about it, telling you to fix them so he could see your face. back then, it never really bothered him.

but now… now he thought maybe he told you that because he liked it. because the way you looked with messy bangs, slightly flushed from the cold, lips parted with vapor curling into the air—it was something he didn’t want anyone else to see.

and maybe it was dumb. maybe it was stupid to start chasing and pining after you now, after everything. after he saw you press a kiss to the new guy’s cheek under a streetlamp just a couple nights ago. but junhui was a teenage boy. and teenage boys were dumb.

by the time you were zipping up your bag, it was nearly 7PM, the sky outside dusky and blue. jun watched quietly, fingers resting on his own books, mind still halfway stuck on the way your cheeks pinked from the cold.

and then he noticed it. next to that old, fuzzy keychain he won from the claw machine—a new, brighter one.

a plush froggie, bright green and smug, winking at him like it knew something he didn’t. almost like it was mocking him.

he opened his mouth, the start of a question on his tongue—until you spoke first.

“hey, junhui…” your voice was quieter now, not cold, but distant. measured. “i… i don’t know what you’re trying to do.”

something in jun’s chest faltered. his heart dropped at the way you said his first name completely—carefully, as it cut through the silence.

you were looking down as you adjusted the strap of your bag, fingers brushing over the keychains before slipping away. “you knew all the answers,” you said plainly, not accusatory—just true. “you didn’t need my help tonight.” 

you met his gaze then, finally, your expression unreadable but steady.

“i think you can study on your own next time, yeah?”

jun didn’t want to admit it, but what you said during your study session a few days ago had been sitting heavy in his chest ever since. it echoed in the quiet moments—in the space between thoughts, his classes, and between breaths. he’d always thought of you as reliable, familiar, and constant.

but he hadn’t realized how far he’d fallen behind until now.

until he couldn’t even pretend you needed him anymore.

he couldn’t avoid the way minghao had greeted you the morning after that tension-filled library exchange, arms full of neatly packed lunch boxes leftover from the last night of his fancy family trip the day before. he watched the way your eyes lit up, how you gasped and clutched his arm, laughing as you peeked inside one of the containers.

“whoa—your family really goes all out, huh?”

minghao just smiled, modest. “my mom got carried away. here, try this one.”

jun looked away.

because he remembered when you used to look at him like that.

when he’d hand you a tupperware his mom made him bring to school—sometimes braised tofu with soy sauce and scallions, sometimes stir-fried egg and tomato, or on special days, hong shao rou with a little too much fat clinging to the corners.

your face would light up just the same. not because the food was fancy—it never was—but because it came from someone like jun, and you like jun—

you liked jun. so much.

and now, you were looking at someone else like that—with that same sparkle and warmth.

and jun couldn’t shake the ache that bloomed in his chest.

because he hadn’t realized how much he missed that warmth, not until someone else had it, someone else slipping into the space he hadn’t even known he’d left empty.

because somewhere along the way—between brushing you off, never texting back, and pretending he didn’t see the way you looked at him—jun had royally, completely fucked it all up.

maybe he’d been too comfortable, too sure you’d always be around.

maybe he was too busy being the guy who never cut his stupid brown hair, even when it kept falling into his eyes, past his eyebrows, because he thought he looked cool like that—too busy being blinded by his own bangs to notice the way you’d started pulling away.

the senior ball was coming up fast—fliers on every classroom door, teachers reminding you to buy tickets, and group chats flooded with dress photos and playlists and gossip. it was the one event that managed to distract everyone from the impending doom of finals week, the looming pressure of graduation, and college applications creeping in like fog under a door.

proposals had started popping up left and right.

confetti in hallways, flowers in lockers, and notes scribbled on whiteboards.

you were definitely in the headspace, clapping and cheering with your friends as your classmates got asked by their dates—screaming when someone said yes, laughing when someone blushed too hard to speak.

and even if you didn’t say it out loud, even if you pretended you weren’t looking…

something in your heart hoped.

hoped that maybe—maybe a certain raven-haired boy would ask you.

quiet, steady, and thoughtful—someone who’d held your hand under the glow of a streetlamp and never made you feel like you were too much. someone who made you feel seen in a way that didn’t burn or overwhelm.

but the next thing you know, a head of brown hair steps into your line of sight.

your breath catches.

junhui.

not minghao.

he’s holding something behind his back, eyes flicking nervously to yours.

and just like that, everything stills.

your eyes flicker to what he’s holding behind his back—a neatly packed bento box, mismatched lid and all, the kind you used to exchange when you were younger. junhui had cooked it himself, you could tell. the rice wasn’t level, the side dishes a little uneven, but something about it made your chest tighten.a quiet, clumsy echo of something you used to share—a ritual buried beneath teenage silence.

your gaze drifts back to him. his eyes are hopeful and uncertain, watching you like he’s bracing for a hit he knows might still come.

“i’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “for making you wait. for being—god—stupid. i should’ve said something sooner. i just…”

you hear the rest, but it’s faint, drowned beneath the roar of your own thoughts—the ones rapid-firing, all jumbled and too much.

you swallow the lump in your throat.

you should want this. should be squealing, saying yes before he could even get the words out. a few months ago, you would have. the you that still clung to every small moment, every glance and maybe, every time he turned and waited for you to catch up.

you’re still standing there, trying to catch up to everything all at once

but now—

now, when jun finally asks, bringing out the bento box from behind him, his voice low and rushed—

“will you go to the ball with me?”

you don’t know what to say.

somewhere behind you, some students that notice pause to watch, someone muttering with a laugh,

“i knew they’d get together one of these days.”

you don’t turn to look, you just stand there, the weight of old memories and new feelings pressing into your chest, unsure which ones you’re supposed to carry forward.

because this—jun’s bento box, his quiet apology, the soft tremble in his voice—it should’ve been everything.

but it wasn’t comfortable anymore, it didn’t feel warm. warm like minghao’s steady presence, not like the quiet way he always made space for you without asking anything in return, or like the way he would greet you first, making sure your presence is acknowledged.

and maybe that’s when you realize—you weren’t still chasing the moon anymore. you’d stopped somewhere along the way without even noticing that you’d started turning toward the warmth of the stars instead.

you swallow hard, the words catching in your throat. jun’s face shifts, the smile faltering—eyes dimming as he reads the hesitation in your expression.

“sorry, junhui… i—”

but you don’t get to finish.

because before the rest can tumble out, there’s already a familiar warmth at your side. a gentle hand finds your shoulder, another wrapping easily around you as a voice cuts through the tension.

“hey,” minghao says, tone light and almost casual, but gaze unwavering as he glances at jun. “sorry, am i late?”

he doesn’t wait for an answer—just guides you forward, slipping past the small crowd of curious onlookers, his grip steady as he steers you away from the fluorescent hallway and the boy still standing in it. the boy whose name sits heavy on your tongue.

you let yourself lean into minghao’s touch, not because it’s easier, but because right now, it feels like the only thing keeping your heart from tumbling out of your chest.

minghao doesn’t say much as he guides you down the quiet corridor, hand gentle at your back until he pushes open the door to an empty classroom. it clicks shut behind you, soft but final. the silence settles between you like fresh snow.

he doesn’t turn around at first, just runs a hand through his hair before leaning against the teacher’s desk, eyes flicking to yours.

“look… y/n,” he starts, voice quieter than usual, but steady. “i don’t know what’s going on between you and jun,”

he pauses, as if waiting for you to say something. you don’t.

“but i know what it looked like. and admittedly, heard from other kids how you had always hovered over him.” his gaze softens, searching your eyes to check if he had crossed any lines, but your quiet nod urges him to go on, “ i can’t imagine how you must’ve felt—watching someone push and pull with you like that.”

his eyes darken, not with anger, but something softer. something more careful.

“and i just—” minghao swallows, the words catching in his throat for a moment. “i just wanted you to know… i could never do that to you.”

he shifts, finally stepping closer, slow and deliberate. his fingers twitch at his sides before he lifts his gaze to meet yours.

“and maybe i was being a little selfish,” he admits softly, voice almost a whisper now. “pulling you away from him back there like that, but…” a breath, his cheeks flushing, “i decided i’ll let myself be. just this once.”

his hand finds yours again, gentle but certain, like he’s been waiting to. “because if there’s even the slightest chance you might choose me… i couldn’t just stand there and watch him take it.”

“you made space for me. and i—i’d never let you chase. never make you guess where you stood.”

the words fall from minghao’s lips so softly they almost miss you, tucked between the silence of the empty classroom and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat. but they land with weight, like the hush that follows a snowfall—quiet, but thick, clinging to every surface inside you.

you blink, the words echoing in your head again and again, as if your heart needs time to understand them. because no one had ever said that to you before, no one had ever wanted to take the guessing out of love. no one had ever promised not to run, not to make you stumble after them, reaching for scraps of their attention like you once did with wen junhui.

your breath catches in your throat, fragile and unsure, and you look at him—at minghao, standing there with the softest kind of certainty, a warm glow. the kind that doesn’t shove its way into your chest but offers a place to rest instead. his gaze is steady, searching—like he means every word he just said, and is willing to wait if you need time to believe them.

it’s not loud or the type to sweep you off your feet, it’s not a movie-scene confession with roses or confetti or a marching band. but it’s real. and it’s everything you didn’t know you’d been aching for.

and suddenly you’re not back in that hallway with jun, fumbling and breathless with disappointment, as if you were lost in space. you’re here, grounded. held in place by the boy who never made you chase, who met you exactly where you were, who had just said he’d never let you question where you stood.

your hands tremble slightly by your sides, and minghao waits. he doesn’t rush or fill the silence with an awkward laugh or joke.

and it’s in that moment you realize—you were never chasing him to begin with.

he’d been walking beside you all along.

you don’t need to say a word. just a quiet step forward, the slight nod of your head, and minghao understands. something in his expression softens—like the knot between his brows finally loosens, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time too.

he gently brings your hand up between you two, fingers curling around yours. your cheeks flush even deeper when he brings your hand to his lips, eyes widening just a little as you watch him in awe. there’s something unhurried in the way he moves, like he’s treating the moment—treating you—with care. it makes your heart flutter, your throat tightening.

then, instead of letting go, he keeps your hand in his, fingers laced through yours as he gently pulls you closer. your feet move instinctively, closing the small distance, until you’re standing toe to toe in the quiet classroom.

his other hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek with the same gentleness he always offered—the kind that you never had to beg for, but simply given to you, no questions asked.

“may i?” he whispers, voice laced with something a little breathless, a little giddy, like he can’t quite believe this is real.

and the small laugh that escapes him, soft and sweet, wraps around you like warmth.

you nod before you can even think about it, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

he leans in slowly, giving you every moment to pull back if you want to—but you don’t. his lips brush yours gently at first, soft and tentative like a question, then deepen with quiet certainty, as if he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

the world shrinks down to nothing but the warmth of minghao’s touch, the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand, and the way his breath mingles with yours.

it’s tender and slow, a promise wrapped in a kiss that feels like the start of something new—something actually real, something that doesn’t make you chase, feelings that are reciprocated and solid.

from the corridor, jun’s grip tightens on the bento box in his hands, his eyes fixed on you through the empty classroom’s window. deja vu hits him hard—the same way he watched from his bedroom window the night minghao walked you home just weeks ago. without a word, he turns and walks away, the bento box slipping from his fingers and landing in a nearby trash bin with a soft thud, discarded like the chances he’d lost.

a soft smirk tugs at minghao’s lips against yours, subtle and knowing. one eye slips open, just barely—a quiet, amused glance over your shoulder.

he sees jun’s back retreating down the hallway, the stiff set of his shoulders, defeated, and the way his grip tightens around the bento box before it disappears into the nearest bin.

minghao only pulls you closer.

his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, thumb brushing gently as he leans in, deepening the kiss just slightly. this time, there’s no hesitation. it’s the clearest signal he could give—like a flashing green light above his head saying go. like a door wide open, no locks, no riddles, no second-guessing.

you finally weren’t chasing the moon anymore, so out of reach. you were here, grounded to minghao and being loved the way you always wanted and deserved to. and with every second that passed, the years wasted on moon junhui—on hoping, wondering, waiting—felt like they were finally, quietly, slipping away as you melted into minghao’s arms.

the space you once carved out for him now met with his own—two halves finally folding into place, like they were always meant to fit together. like the universe itself planned it to.