#juno_woo

COPYRIGHT.

This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.

The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.

Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.

Morning doesn’t arrive all at once. It seeps in. Through the thin space between the curtains , stretching slowly across the floor through the quiet stillness of a house that's testing whether the house is ready to wake up or not.

It isn't.

The air is cool, faintly carrying the scent of polished wood and something older—something familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful, suspended. Like something has been left unfinished. Mark stands in the middle of it barefoot, unmoving, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other without him realizing it. The wooden floor is cool beneath him, grounding in a way that almost feels unfamiliar. Like he walked into a memory that isn’t his anymore. This house—his house, his family’s house in Toronto—should feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something he’s stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocating—just… present. It fills every corner, stretches between the furniture, settles into his chest in a way that feels heavier than noise ever did. His phone vibrates in his hand. He doesn’t look at it.

He already knows.

Another call. Another message. Another voice waiting for him to pick up and explain what he meant with the message he sent hours ago into a new day to his managers and colleagues that have become part of his family over the years. Questions waiting to be asked. Answers expected. He exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen before the vibration stops on its own. The quiet comes back. And with it— you.

Not as a thought, not even as a memory crashing in, but like something that has already settled into the space before he even noticed it was there, as something that lingers. In the way the morning light touches the floor—soft, warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t belong to this house. In the way the quiet feels…incomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesn’t know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.

It doesn’t help.

The doorbell rings. It’s sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.

Real.

He blinks, like he’s being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this time—impatient, urgent, like whoever is on the other side needs him to open it fast. His fingers tighten slightly around his phone before he sets it down without thinking. Then he moves. Each step feels heavier than it should. The hallway feels even longer than it normally is. His hand pauses on the door handle, just for a second, just long enough for something in his chest to hesitate— then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.

Not calm.

You’re moving before he even processes it—stepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like you’re searching for something wrong.

“Mark—”

Your voice breaks slightly, and before he can respond, before he can even register the way your face looks, your luggage. The one that's barely upright behind you, shoulder bag long thrown on the floor—eyes wide, breath uneven, something frantic sitting just beneath your skin. Your hands are already on him. On his face first, warm, quick. Careful and almost trembling. Your fingers brush along his jaw, up to his temples, pushing his hair back like you’re trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find something—an injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesn’t feel like enough proof that he’s okay. “Are you okay?” you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesn’t sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something you’re trying to confirm with your own hands. You don’t wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like you’re searching for something broken, something he hasn’t told you.

He freezes.

Not because he’s uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide down—his shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like you’re grounding yourself in the fact that he’s here. That he’s real. That he’s not… broken. That he’s here, that he didn’t disappear along with the screenshot he sent you regarding the decision you knew he had been hesitant to make about his career after ten years of the same routine. Your breathing is uneven. He notices that.

He notices everything.

The way your lips part slightly like you want to say more but don’t know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesn’t respond. Mark doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way you’re touching him like he matters outside of everything else.

Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Just— him.

Your hands slow, your movements pause, and then you look up at him properly, really look at him. Your expression softens, but the worry doesn’t leave. “Mr. Idol…” you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. “Talk to me.” Something in his chest tightens because he wants to. He really does. He should. A hundred things are sitting in his chest, pressing against his ribs, waiting for space.

But the words don’t come.

Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way you’re looking at him like he’s something you might lose if you don’t hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything else—the noise, the expectations, the endless movement—feel far away.

His throat tightens.

No words come out because if he starts— he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tilts…

It’s never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when it’s quiet.

“Mark, just a few more minutes—”

The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesn’t think too hard about it. The lights are too bright. They always are. Too bright. They sit above him, angled just enough to catch every expression, every shift, every blink—no shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.

Controlled.

“How would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?” He hears the question, registers it but there’s a slight delay before he answers. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, just long enough for something inside him to hesitate.

He smiles, because of course he does.

“It means a lot,” he says, voice smooth, steady. “I think… it’s a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.” The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, “And where is that?”

There it is.

The follow-up, the part where the answer is supposed to go deeper. His gaze flickers slightly, just for a second.

Because the truth?

The truth isn’t something he can package neatly into a sentence,the truth is unfinished. Messy and still forming. So he does what he always does. He adjusts.

“It’s… a process,” he says instead, softer now. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

It sounds honest.

It is honest.

Just not complete. The camera keeps rolling. She smiles across from him, tablet resting against her knee, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that never really turns off. “What was the most personal track for you on the album?” The camera lens is fixed, unrelenting, watching for something real it can capture and package. Mark leans back slightly, fingers loosely intertwined, his smile already in place before he speaks.

“That’s a hard one,” he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I think… all of them had something personal in them.”

It’s a safe answer. A good one.

The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. “Is there one that felt… closer to you than the others?”

There’s a pause.

Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocused—like he’s somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would mean—feeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watching—He can't afford that.

So he smiles again, soft and polished.

“I think it changes,” he says instead. “Depending on where I am.” She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.

It never does.

—

Backstage, it’s louder. Not with questions—but with movement. Staff walking quickly, voices overlapping, schedules being called out, things being adjusted at the last minute. Mark sits on a couch, shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through something on his phone without really seeing it. Someone drops down beside him. Close enough that their shoulder bumps him with a little force.

“Hyung.”

He looks up and finds Jisung—familiar, grounding—drops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.

“You good?”

The question is casual but the look isn’t. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. “Yeah,” he says.

It’s automatic.

He doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve been… quiet,” he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. “Have I?"

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, “You okay?”

The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This one—waits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.

“I’m just tired,” he says finally.

It’s not a lie but it’s not everything either. Jisung studies him for a second longer, like he knows better than to believe him but also knows him well enough to know he really won't be getting the truth out of him regardless, still, he can't help being concerned. They both stay silent looking ahead at the chaos unfolding in front of them. Then, Jisung nudges his shoulder again, lighter this time.

“If you need a break, you should take one.”

Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. Just like that.”

It’s said simply, like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t come with consequences. Mark doesn’t respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, “You should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.” Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesn’t get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. There’s no pressure in the statement.

Just—understanding.

And somehow, that makes it harder because he has thought about it. More than once. The idea sits at the back of his mind, quiet but persistent.

A question.

Not fully formed. He exhales slowly, nodding once. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”And in the back of his mind— something shifts. Something small. Persistent.

What if I did?

—

A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe it’s just the way the air sits—still, heavy with things unsaid. The tension. Mark sits across from two managers. One leans forward slightly, hands clasped, expression open. Listening. The other sits back, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating, already tense, already anticipating resistance. “I just need some time,” Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “That’s all I’m asking.”

There’s something underneath it, something strained.

“How much time?” the second manager asks immediately. There’s no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, “A few weeks,” Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like he’s already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, “We’re in the middle of promotions,” he says. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“Then you also know this isn’t exactly—” “I said I know,” Mark cuts in, sharper this time.

The room stills.

Mark’s jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. “I’m not trying to mess anything up,” he continues, more controlled now. “I just… I need a break.” There’s a pause, a shift in the room.

Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. “You’ve been pushing a lot,” he says gently. “We’ve seen it.” Mark doesn’t respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t.

Pushing.

That’s one way to put it. Pushing doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. “Can you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?” There it is again. The question lingers, that expectation. That timing that never quite lines up with how he feels. Mark looks between them, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer because that question, that small, persistent one…is still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Mark’s fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mind— shifts. Just a little.

He finally exhales.

“…No.”

Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesn’t take it back.

The airport doesn’t rush him. It should. People move around him in currents—rolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragments—but none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like he’s watching everything through glass. It’s not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that — feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesn’t feel like an expectation. A black backpack hangs off one shoulder, the strap worn slightly where his fingers have been gripping it too tightly. In his other hand, he drags a medium-sized suitcase behind him—the wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.

There’s another one.

Larger and heavier. Left momentarily beside one of the seating areas he passed earlier, because what was inside was heavier physically, mentally, and most of all emotionally. A compact MIDI keyboard. A pair of headphones. A small interface, wires tangled together in a way that suggests he packed quickly rather than carefully. Like he told himself, this was just a break, but still couldn’t leave that part of himself behind.

You’re not really running, he thinks distantly. You just… changed locations.

The thought sits uncomfortably because it’s true and maybe that’s why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadn’t meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than they’ve been in weeks, but there’s something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasn’t exactly found it yet and that’s when he sees you.

He sees you even before he realizes he’s looking. You’re slightly off to the side of the main flow of people, near one of the quieter pillars. Your setup is small but intentional. A camera angled down. A container is wide open in front of you. Your hands moving with focus—adjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. There’s something about the way you exist in that space that feels… untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. You’re sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, contained—camera angled carefully, container open in front of you.

Your hands move with precision. Adjusting and plating. Fixing something small that no one else would notice. He slows. The suitcase behind him rolls once more before stopping. His fingers loosen slightly around the handle. He continues watching. You’re talking—softly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesn’t quite catch the words, but the tone reaches him. Calm and steady. Unbothered. It feels simple and something in his chest tightens because nothing about his life has felt like that in weeks.

Months, maybe longer.

He doesn’t fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been standing there until you look up. Your eyes meet his, and something pauses.

A small one but it stretches.

Your eyes narrow just a little, not unfriendly—just… trying to place him. Trying to understand why there's a stranger standing there watching you like he forgot where he was going. You tilt your head slightly.

He blinks—

Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. There’s a beat. Your gaze sharpens. Curious now. You blink back at him.

Then tilt your head the other way.

He mirrors you again.

And for a second, it’s ridiculous. Everything else fades. No noise, no movement. Almost like neither of you wants to be the first to break whatever this strange, wordless moment is. Just this strange, silent exchange between two people who don’t know each other. Then you straighten.

“…Can I help you?” you ask.

Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like he’s just remembered how to exist in his own body. “Yeah,” he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. “I—uh…” He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that he’s here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.

What are you doing? You don’t even know her.

Just walk away. Say something normal. Ask for directions?!?!?

LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE!!!

His jaw tightens slightly. He could still leave. He should, but then you cross your arms loosely, weight shifting to one leg, and there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—not impatient, not dismissive, just… waiting—that makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himself—

“Can I stay with you Angel?” he asks.

The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they don’t just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesn’t just change—it stills.

“…Excuse you?”

There’s disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick again—this time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.

“You’re serious?”

Suddenly, Mark becomes very aware of how this looks. A stranger, with luggage, asking to stay with you, a stranger no less.

You actually sound insane!!!

He almost backtracks, almost laughs it off, because he seriously takes time to listen to himself talk since meeting you and hears himself the way you must be hearing him.

Dude, you actually are insane!!!

Immediately then, he wants to take it back, but something in his chest—tight, stubborn—doesn’t let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. “…You know there are hotels, right?” Your tone isn’t harsh; it’s logical. Grounded because now this isn’t just weird, it's concerning, and in his mind, he does know. He knows exactly how many, knows the best ones, knows he could walk into any of them and disappear into a room that costs more than most people’s monthly rent.

He knows all that.

But the thought of it, the silence, the emptiness, the same four walls, the same distance makes something in his chest feel hollow. His gaze drops briefly to his suitcase, to the life he packed into it, clothes, work, and half-decisions waiting to be made on the only oath he's ever truly known for almost a decade. “I know,” he says quietly.

I don’t want to be alone.

The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesn’t say all of it. Your brows knit together. “Then why—”

“I just don’t want to be alone.”

It comes out softer than everything else he’s said so far. Less guarded and for a moment— he hates that he said it because it’s too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldn’t even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasn’t the answer you expected. There’s a shift, and it makes you loosen your arms slightly from where they were crossed in front of you. Still cautious, still unsure, but a lot more open than before. Your expression shifts, not soft but not dismissive either. A flicker of something that tries to understand instead of just rejecting. Your eyes linger on him a second longer this time. Still, you tilt your head slightly. “…That doesn’t make this any less weird, you know.” Fair.

Completely fair.

Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he admits. “I figured.” Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze moves—his face, his posture, the way he’s standing like he’s unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.

Real.

He didn’t just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, “What if I’m a serial killer?” you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesn’t hesitate to answer, “Then I guess that’s how I was meant to die.” You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if he’s serious. If he’s joking, if he’s just reckless. “…You’re serious,” you say slowly in realisation, trying to grasp at the idea that this was in fact a conversation happening with a stranger you were trying to push away.

“I am.”

Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. “You’re either really smart… or just really, really stupid.” A faint smile pulls at his mouth, “Yeah,” he says. “I get that a lot.” There’s another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isn’t his anymore.

It’s yours.

And you feel it. The weight of it is sitting right in front of you. A stranger. A very strange stranger. Who could very easily just walk away. Who probably should walk away. Your mind runs faster than your expression shows.

He has luggage. He didn’t just say it—he meant it. This is not normal.

You don’t do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!

You don’t bring strangers home??!?!

And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasn’t moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way he’s standing—not imposing, not pushy, just… waiting. On the way, there’s something tired in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the rest of him, the way he didn’t argue when you questioned him. Didn’t try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel… real.

You’re insane.

The thought hits you clearly.

There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?

“…Five days,” you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. “Five days,” you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. “That’s it.” There’s a beat, then his shoulders drop—just slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.

“Okay,” he says quietly. His grip on the suitcase loosens slightly, and as you turn to start packing up your things, he reaches for his suitcase again. Then pauses and looks back briefly towards where he left the second one. “…I should probably get my other bag,” he mutters. You blink. “You have another one?”

“…Yeah.”

There’s a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. “Of course you do.” You can’t help the thought that lingers, quiet but persistent in the back of your mind, and under your breath, you whisper quietly as you watch him go.

You’ve actually lost your mind or you just might be the craziest person alive. This is how you die with him.

And just like that, you don’t just take him with you. You take everything he brought with him, too. The half-packed life, the unfinished thoughts and the version of him that hasn’t decided anything yet but is already changing.

_

The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. It’s not unpleasant.

Just… lived-in.

Mark sits in the back seat beside you, his knee angled slightly away to give you space that neither of you explicitly asked for. The window beside him is cracked open just enough to let in a steady stream of cool air, carrying with it the distant hum of the city slowly fading behind you. Your smaller suitcase rests between your legs. His are in the trunk. All of them. He had watched the driver load them in—first the large one, then the medium, then your carry-on, placed more carefully on top like it mattered differently. It had felt strange, seeing everything he brought with him disappear into a space he couldn’t see anymore.

Like letting go but not fully. Now, the road stretches ahead. The city gives way slowly, buildings thinning, noise softening, until it becomes something quieter. Trees begin to line the streets, their shadows flickering across the car windows in slow, shifting patterns as the sun dips lower. Mark watches it all. Not because he’s trying to, but because there’s finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. There’s a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesn’t interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesn’t. Not yet. The driver hums softly under his breath, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel in rhythm with a song playing too low to fully make out. It feels normal, and that alone makes something in Mark’s chest tighten because normal hasn’t felt like this in a long time.

By the time the taxi turns into the estate, the light has softened into something warmer. Gold spills across the road, catching on rooftops, on windows, on the edges of passing fences. The air looks different here—quieter, slower, like everything has agreed to move at its own pace. Mark leans slightly, looking out. Children run across a small open field in the distance, laughter visible in the way they move, even if it doesn’t fully reach the car. A bicycle lies abandoned near a curb. Someone waters plants near a gate, glancing up briefly as the taxi passes. It feels lived in.

Real.

You don’t say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. “Wait,” he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.

“I’ve got it.”

You pause. Not arguing. Just watching. Mark steps out, the air cooler now against his skin as he closes the door behind him. He walks around to the driver’s side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. “How much was it?” The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properly—two hands, respectful, like it’s something that matters.

“Thank you,” he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightly—then smiles. “Welcome,” he says warmly. “Have a good evening.” Mark nods again. “You too.” There’s a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you briefly—

“You and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.”

Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you haven’t quite sorted out yet. He thinks it's ridiculous considering you only learnt each other's names when you demanded to stay with his passport and documents for 'my safety reasons' until the five days came to pass while waiting on the said taxi to arrive

He doesn’t respond to that, though, just gives a small, polite nod. The trunk opens with a soft click. Mark moves to it immediately, lifting it up before the driver can step out to help. He pulls his larger suitcase out first, setting it down carefully, then the medium one, then finally your smaller carry-on—placing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. “Thanks,” you say quietly. He glances at you, “Yeah.”

Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you don’t move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. He’s strange, that part hasn’t changed. Not even a little but, your gaze flicks briefly to the road where the taxi disappears. Then back to him.

At least he seems...decent??

The thought settles quietly. Not loud, not decisive, but enough to soften something that had been sitting rigid in your chest since the airport. You pick up your suitcase. “Come on,” you say. And this time, it sounds more certain. The walk to your door is short, but Mark feels it every step. The weight of his luggage in one hand, the quiet shift in the air, the way the house sits ahead of him like something he hasn’t earned but is being let into anyway.

You’re really doing this.

You don’t reach for keys. You don’t hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesn’t understand yet. Inside, the air wraps around him differently. Warmer. Softer. And before he can take it in, an older woman steps into view, her face lighting up instantly when she sees you. “Oh, you’re back.” Your posture shifts and softens.

You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. “Let me see you, baby,” she murmurs, turning your face slightly. “You’ve gotten thinner.” “I haven’t,” you say, but there’s a small laugh in your voice. “You have,” she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. “Working too much again?” Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you don’t pull away. “The trip was fine,” you say. “Work was good.” “Mm,” she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. It’s quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him in—the luggage, the way he’s standing, the space between you—and something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.

A look passes.

Quiet.

Knowing, you straighten slightly. “This is Mark.” He nods. “Hello.” She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. “Take care of her,” she says lightly. Mark blinks, “…I’ll try.” You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. “Rest,” she adds. “Both of you.”

And then she’s gone.

The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time it’s not empty. It’s full. Mark steps in properly now, and that’s when it hits him, not all at once, in pieces. Light spills in through wide windows, stretching across the floors in soft, golden lines. The walls are tall—higher than he expected—and filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, there’s you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someone’s shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parents—your father’s arm around you, your mother’s smile softer but just as warm. Another frame—two older guys, one with his arm slung around your neck, the other mid-laugh like the picture was taken in the middle of a joke.

Your brothers, maybe?

There’s another—an older woman. The same one who just left. You’re holding her face the same way she held yours. Mark’s chest tightens slightly, he doesn’t realize it. Not until his gaze shifts again to another frame.

You.

Standing next to a guy. Close. Too close.

He stills.

Boyfriend?

The thought comes quick. Uninvited. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle.

Of course she could have a boyfriend. Why wouldn’t she?

Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t understand why it’s there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that don’t exist.

What if you’re not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?

His jaw tightens slightly.

Then— “You can leave your bags there for now.” Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. You’ve already stepped further in, your suitcase set aside casually as you move toward the kitchen. Like this is second nature. Like this space is an extension of you. He leaves his suitcase by the entrance, the handle still extended, like it’s waiting for instructions he hasn’t decided on yet. The house feels… still, but not empty. There’s a softness to the quiet here, something that doesn’t press on him, doesn’t demand anything.

It just… exists, and for a moment, he does too. You disappear into the kitchen without ceremony, like the transition from outside to inside didn’t require adjustment. Like you’ve done this a hundred times—come home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like he’s trying to understand something he hasn’t had access to in a long time. The light stretches further now, deeper into the house, brushing over the edges of furniture, catching on the glass of framed photos. The air smells faintly of something clean, something lived-in—like citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he can’t quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,

Don’t get comfortable.

The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesn’t stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feel…unnecessary. “You can sit,” you call from the kitchen, not looking at him, your voice carrying just enough to reach him without forcing itself into the room. He exhales quietly.

“Yeah,” he answers, even though you didn’t ask a question.

He doesn’t sit.

Not yet. Instead, he finally lets go of the suitcase handle, the soft click of it retracting louder than it should be in the quiet. His fingers flex slightly after, like they’re remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he’s aware that he’s stepping into something that isn’t his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, it’s something else entirely. Books line the walls—not perfectly arranged, not color-coded or curated for display, but stacked, layered, used. Cookbooks with worn edges. Novels with folded pages. Papers tucked between them like bookmarks that were never meant to be permanent. There’s a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to you—equipment, cables, a microphone, papers with scribbled ideas. And it looks like you left it mid-thought. It feels alive, like something is always being created here. A microphone angled slightly to the side. A laptop, half-closed, is sitting next to your desktop computer. Sticky notes scattered—some with full sentences, some with single words that don’t make sense on their own.

He steps closer.

Doesn’t touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.

Shoot before sunset — plating!!

There’s a small underline under the last word.

Urgent.

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. It’s… endearing, without trying to be.

You’re busy.

The thought comes easily,

You have a life.

It shouldn’t matter but for some reason, it does.

“Water?”

Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, you’re standing in the doorway now, holding out a glass without stepping fully into the room. Your posture is relaxed, but your eyes, your eyes are still watching him. Not suspicious in the same way as before but not careless either.

Aware.

He takes the glass. “Thanks.” Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but it’s enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. “Kitchen’s this way,” you say, like he didn’t just watch you walk in and out of it twice already. He nods anyway and follows. The kitchen feels warmer as it opens up; it feels more lived in than the rest of the house somehow. Wide and bright. An island sits at the center, stools tucked neatly beneath it. The breakfast nook by the window catches the light perfectly, soft and inviting in a way that makes it feel like mornings linger there longer. The dining space sits just beyond. Prepared, intentional, and everything, everything feels warm. Lived in. You move easily, filling another glass. Opening a cabinet and closing it again. Mark leans slightly against the edge of the island, the glass still in his hand. He watches you, not in a way that feels heavy. Just curious, and you feel it. You don’t look at him immediately but you’re aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. It’s strange. You don’t bring people home, not like this, and certainly not strangers.

What are you doing?

The thought comes again. Louder this time, but then, you glance at him and he’s just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like he’s trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now you’re curious too. “…So,” you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause.

Not awkward. Just measured. “You always do this?” you ask. “Ask random people to let you stay with them?” A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “First time.” You narrow your eyes a little, “Convenient.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah.”

There’s something about the way he doesn’t defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just… agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. “…You’re really not going to explain yourself, are you?” He looks at you for a second, then he looks away. His grip tightens just slightly around the glass.

You could, you could tell her everything.

The thought surfaces. Tempting, dangerous, but he doesn’t, not fully. “I just needed to leave for a bit,” he says instead. It’s not a lie… but it’s not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, “From what?” The question lands softer than expected, not accusatory. Just curious. Mark exhales slowly and looks down at the water in his glass like it might give him an answer for everything, but that sounds dramatic. So he shrugs slightly,“…Work.” You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell that’s as far as he’s willing to go. For now, and strangely, you respect that.

A soft thud interrupts the moment. Then another. He looks down, and something small brushes against his ankle. He startles slightly, stepping back just enough to look down properly, only he finds himself staring at a cat. Fluffy. Almost ridiculously so. Cream-colored with darker markings, its tail flicking lazily as it looks up at him like he’s the one intruding.“…Oh,” Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.

Unimpressed.

Then walks past him like he doesn’t exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. “What’s his name?” he asks. You glance over your shoulder, “Biscuit.”

“…Biscuit?”

You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. “He answers to it.” Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.

His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadn’t noticed before. “…He does that,” you say, like it explains everything. “He wasn’t there a second ago.”

“He was. You just didn’t notice.”

Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like it’s already bored. A tall, carefully built tree, not just functional but aesthetic. Wood and soft fabric blending into the space like it belongs there, levels stacked in a way that feels intentional. Biscuit hops onto one of the platforms with practiced ease, curling up like he’s claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.

“…That’s a strong name.”

You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. “Strong?" He shrugs, deadpan, “He looks like he runs things.” You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, “He does.” “He’s judging you, by the way.” Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.

“…I can tell.”

And for a moment, the tension breaks. Just slightly. It settles again after, not heavy. Just present. Mark sets the glass down slowly on the counter, his fingers lingering against the surface for a second longer than necessary. His gaze drifts back to you. You’re closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you weren’t before, and he notices it.

She said yes.

The thought comes back.Clearer now.

She let you in.

And something about that, about you pulls at him. Not sharply, not overwhelmingly. Just enough to make him aware of it.

The thought settles quietly.

But it stays, and on your end, you feel it too. Not the same thought, but something like it, because he’s still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldn’t have brought into your home, and yet—he doesn’t feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.

“…You hungry?” you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter—

“…I can try cooking.”

You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, “…Try?” He hesitates, “…I mean—” You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. “Sit down.” There’s a hint of a smile in your voice, and he catches it. He moves toward the breakfast nook, sliding into the bench by the large window slowly, like he’s still adjusting to being allowed to do anything with your space. To just be here and as you start moving around the kitchen, pulling things out and setting them down, he watches. Not obviously, no, constantly but enough, because something about this— about you in your space, feels like something he didn’t know he was looking for, and somewhere, quietly, without either of you saying it out loud, the question begins to form.

For him,

What happens if I don’t want to leave?

For you,

What happens if I end up wanting him to stay longer?

And neither of you answers it, not yet. Then he looks back at you, and something in his chest shifts again. Quiet and uncertain, but real because this place— your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesn’t feel like a stop; it feels like something rooted, something steady, slow, and quiet. Something that might, without him realizing it yet, change everything, and standing in the middle of it, he realizes something he hasn’t let himself think about yet. He didn’t just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesn’t know it yet, but this might be the first place in a long time that feels like it could hold him without asking for anything in return.

The rain starts sometime in the night and it settles into the morning like it had every intention of staying—soft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like it’s moving differently.

It's not what wakes you, not at first.

What wakes you is not the rain. It’s the sound. Irritating and repetitive, then a shift in your body. The sharp, aggressive beeping that slices through the quiet like it has something personal against you. For a second, your mind doesn’t catch up. It’s just noise and movement—You don’t even realize you’re awake until your eyes snap open, your heart racing, your body already pushing upright, the sheets slipping off your legs as instinct takes over.

The smoke alarm.

You’re out of bed almost immediately, your feet barely registering the cold of the floor as you move, faster than you mean to, down the hallway, past the stairs, the sound gets louder. Insistent. Almost accusatory. You reach the kitchen and stop because it’s not what you expected. There’s no fire. No panic. No urgency.Just… smoke. Not thick. Not dangerous. But enough, enough to make the alarm scream like the house is falling apart. Light, stubborn curls of it rising from the pan on the stove and Mark, he’s standing there, wooden spatula in hand, staring at the pan like it personally betrayed him.

Very still and very focused.

Like if he stares at it long enough, it might fix itself out of sheer intimidation. You stop, and you don’t say anything. You just take him in because the sight is so absurd that it takes a second to process. His hair is messy in a way that feels unintentional, like he woke up and immediately got into this. He’s wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like it’s the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like he’s accepted his fate. There’s a slight panic in his posture, but he’s trying—very visibly—to stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like it’s about to file a complaint, “don’t move,” you say instinctively, already moving past him. You reach up to switch off the alarm, grab a towel, and wave it lightly near the sensor until the beeping finally stops. Silence crashes back in. Only the rain remains. You exhale. Slowly.

Then you turn.

He’s still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking… guilty. “…Hi Angel,” he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. “…What happened?”

There’s a pause. A very real, very visible pause where he debates how honest to be, where he considers lying but decides against it when he blinks back at your sharp features. You can see it. The way his lips part slightly, close again. The way his gaze flickers to the pan like it might answer for him. “I was trying to make eggs.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, “…Those are eggs?” “They were,” he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you try—you really try—not to laugh because he's already panicking, “I just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.” You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. “…You declared war on breakfast.” A breath escapes him—half a laugh, half defeat. “I thought—” he continues, gesturing vaguely, “—how hard can it be? It’s eggs. People make eggs all the time.” “And yet,” you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, “you’ve managed to reinvent them.”

He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. “They stuck,” he says, “And then I tried to unstick them. And then they… got worse. I didn’t think it would go like this,” he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly now—burnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are… unrecognizable. They’ve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.

Something… experimental.

“…Did you use oil?” There’s another pause. Smaller this time, “…I thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?” That’s it. That’s the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it—sharp and sudden at first, catching you off guard as much as it catches him. It spills out before you can stop it, warm and unrestrained in a way that feels unfamiliar in your own chest. Then softer, fuller, spilling out in a way you don't recognise because it’s been a while since something this small felt this funny, since you've laughed this hard.

He watches you, and something in his expression softens. Not embarrassed, not defensive. Just watching you like this is the outcome he didn’t know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. “Okay,” you say, voice lighter now, easier. “Step aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.”

He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesn’t leave. He lingers, stays there. Of course he lingers. You can feel it.

You start over. With enough oil this time, you crack the eggs properly a second time, the soft sound grounding, familiar. The smell changes—warm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just… there. “…I was trying to say thank you,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. “You did,” you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, “This is very memorable.”

He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, he’s smiling. Not the polite kind, not the careful kind he always has ready for the cameras. Something softer. Something… real.

Silence settles over you both again but this time, it’s not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each other’s space you are okay with what quietly settles instead. You end up eating at the breakfast nook. The earlier rain is painting soft patterns against the glass now as the world outside blurs into greys and greens, inside, everything feels warmer than it should for two people who barely know each other. Biscuit appears like he’s been summoned by the promise that was breakfast, jumping up onto the table with quiet authority, tail flicking once as he eyes both of you like he’s judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.

Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. “…Does he always look like that?” You follow his gaze, “That’s his face.” “…He looks like he has opinions.” “He does. They’re just not for you.” Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like he’s trying to understand the rules.

Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, “…I’ve been dismissed.” You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. “So,” you say, glancing at him, “you cook often?” He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, “God, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.” You hum, “Good call.”

Then you blink up at him, confused, “members?” Mark swallows hard. His throat dries up despite having the option of juice and coffee in front of him. He hadn't thought of his guys up until now, hadn't really checked his phone either, “ colleagues.” You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because there’s nothing to say but because… there’s no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesn’t feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like he’s deciding something, “…You laugh like that often?”

You pause mid-bite, “…Like what?” “Like that, Angel,” he says simply. “Earlier.” You don’t answer immediately because the honest answer is—No. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, “Depends.”

“On what?”

You glance at him, “…On who I’m with.” There’s a beat, something passes between you then. Small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t. Instead, “…I almost set your house on fire.” You snort, “And yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.” “Temporarily banned,” he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggs—something settles.

Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to say— this could be something.

Time moves differently after that morning. Not fast or slow .Just… present. Days pass, and Mark stays, not like a guest anymore. Like something between a stranger and something worse—someone becoming familiar. Some mornings, he leaves early and returns with a small bag of items he bought from exploring the city, and other nights, he'll bring you flowers, thrifted recipe books, and worn-out vintage notebooks he thought you might like. Other days, he sits near the living room window, experimenting quietly with sound, fingers hesitant over keys like he’s afraid the music might reject him, but most of the time, he just watches you work. Not interrupting. Just existing in the same space as you focus while he flips aimlessly through your endless collection of books. Biscuit also slowly decides Mark belongs here more than anyone has officially said.

Five days arrive without announcement.

The house feels different that day. Not louder, not quieter. Just… aware. Too aware. Like something is about to shift, and everything in it knows before either of you says it out loud. You don’t notice it at first. You’re moving through your space the way you always do—barefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.

It’s the sound that stops you. Soft and measured. Zippers. You frown slightly and follow it down the hallway past the open coffee space you have upstairs, where light spills in gently through the windows, catching dust in the air like suspended time next to the hallway that spills into your room, guest room, the open balcony, and the door that opens up to the Terrance on your rooftop.

You find him packing. The guest room is half-folded silence. Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.

No, no, he wouldn’t—

You don’t knock, you don’t think, you don't even breathe, you just push the door open, and there he is. Kneeling on the floor. His suitcase was open in front of him, and everything inside you… stills. For a moment, you don’t say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirts—neatly, carefully, like he’s done it a hundred times before. The clothes are arranged carefully in a suitcase that looks too empty for someone who has not been here long enough to fully unpack. Another sits beside it— notebooks, things he treats more carefully than clothing. It all seems like a routine to him. Like leaving is something he knows how to do but staying isn’t.

Your voice comes out before you can stop it, “…What are you doing?” Mark freezes. Not dramatically, not suddenly. Just enough. His hands still on the fabric and his shoulders go slightly rigid. Then he looks up and for a second—just a second—he looks… confused.

Like you’re the one who’s out of place here.

“I’m packing,” he says, slowly. Carefully, like he’s choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.

Of course.

“Why?” you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesn’t make sense. “You said five days, Angel.” The words land heavier than they should, heavier than you expected.

Five days.

You feel something in your chest pull tight because you remember saying it. At the airport. When he was still a stranger. When this was supposed to be temporary. Controlled. Safe.

Five days.

But that was before, before the burnt eggs, before the not-so-quiet nights, the grocery runs, before the badly cut-up fruit, before him draping your favorite throw blanket over you as he settles onto the couch next to you to watch trashy reality shows as Biscuits finds the perfect spot to settle in on his chest. Before he put the trash outside without you having to ask, before he started leaving his shoes by the door like he belonged there.

Your grip tightens around the mug. “…So you’re just leaving?” you ask. Mark frowns slightly, “I mean… yeah?” But it doesn’t sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesn’t sound like you, “Wow.” He straightens a little, confusion deepening. “What?”

“You couldn’t wait, huh?”

Now he’s really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, “Wait for what?” You don’t answer immediately because suddenly everything feels… too close to the surface. Too raw. “For the five days to be over,” you say instead, quieter now. “Or did you just hate being here that much?”

The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Mark’s expression changes, not to anger but something else...“What?” You laugh again—but this time it breaks halfway through. “I mean, it makes sense,” you continue, words coming faster now, messier. “ You basically forced me into this, and now you want to leave me hanging. You were just waiting it out, right? Counting down the days until you could leave without being rude—”

“That’s not—”

“But you don’t have to pretend anymore,” you cut in, your voice tight. “Five days are up. You can go.” Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. “No Angel, that’s not what this is,” he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.

You shake your head, already stepping back, “It’s fine, Mark. Really. You don’t have to explain—” He moves before you can finish. It’s instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wrist—not tight, not rough—but firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.

You freeze.

And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, “Stop.”

The word is quiet but it holds. You look up at him really look this time and what you see makes your chest tighten in a completely different way. He’s not annoyed, he’s not distant. He’s not relieved to be leaving. He’s… frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.

His hands still slightly.

“I didn’t want to overstay,” he says quietly. “Or make you uncomfortable.” Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, “so you were just… planning to disappear?”

That word makes him flinch slightly.

“No.”

A beat passes. Then more honestly, “I just didn’t know how long I was allowed to exist here.”

Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, “I didn’t mean it like a countdown.” That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. “I wasn’t counting down the days,” he says, softer now. “I was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.”

You blink.

“…What?”

You stare at him again. There’s a beat. Then another. “You took my documents,” he adds, almost awkwardly now. “Remember? As a condition?”

Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Then—despite everything—a small, disbelieving sound escapes you, “you were packing… because you didn’t know how to ask for your passport back?”

Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.” “It is stupid,” you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.

He huffs a quiet laugh, “Yeah, well. I didn’t want to overstep.” Something in your chest shifts again.

“You could’ve just asked,” you say.

“I know,” he replies. “But you gave me a timeline. I thought… pushing past that would be.” You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had to— because he was trying to respect you—It does something to you.

Something you don’t have a name for yet. “So you were just going to leave?” you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, “I didn’t think you’d want me to stay.”

That—

That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,

“Do you want to leave?”

The question is barely above a whisper. Mark looks at you and for the first time since you met him he doesn’t dodge it, “No.” The word is simple. Honest and it changes everything. Your breath catches. “Then why are you packing?” you ask, softer now. He lets out a quiet breath, “because I didn’t know if I was allowed to stay.” Without thinking, you close the distance completely. Your arms wrap around him. It’s not graceful. Not planned but it’s real. Mark freezes. Completely. For half a second. Maybe less. Then, slowly, carefully—he hunches down to your level to hold you back. One hand settling at your waist, the other against your back. Keeping you flush against him as you rest your head on his chest. The hug is not tight, not possessive. Just…there. Grounding.

“I don’t hate being here,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair. Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. “I know,” you whisper. Even though, five minutes ago— You didn’t. He exhales softly and you feel it. Warm.

Real.

“I just didn’t want to assume,” he adds. You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. “Stay,” you say, softer now. “Not because of the five days. Not because you think you have to.”

A pause.

Your voice drops,“but because you want to.” Something in his expression shifts. Deepens. “Okay,” he says quietly but it feels… big.

Neither of you move right away.

The suitcases still sit open on the floor. Half-packed. Forgotten and somewhere between the misunderstanding and the truth— Something else has settled in its place. Not just comfort or familiarity, something heavier. Warmer. More dangerous because now it’s not about five days anymore. It’s about choosing to stay and neither of you are ready to admit what that really means…but you both feel it. After that, things don’t become easier. They become quieter, more loaded. When night comes again the following week, it doesn’t come empty, it doesn’t feel like the first night anymore. You notice it the moment you step out of your car. The house looks the same but it doesn’t feel the same. There’s light in the windows. Warm. Waiting. Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your shoulder bag as you step closer, your heels clicking softly against the pavement.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That this is normal. That he’s just… inside but something in your chest feels… different. You push the door open and step into the house, heels clicking softly against the floor, your body tired in that familiar, satisfying way after a long day and before you can even call out, the door opens wider to reveal Mark. He’s standing there like he’s been waiting and beside him sits Biscuit like he’s been listening for you as well. You just stand there because he’s— different now. Not in a big, obvious way but enough. He looks… comfortable, relaxed in a way he wasn't the previous week with the sleeves of his shirt pushed up, hair falling naturally almost into his eyes, posture easy like he’s started to fit into the space instead of just occupying it.His eyes land on you and everything else— stops because you see it. The shift. The way his gaze catches, the way it lingers. You hadn’t thought much about what you were wearing when you left that morning. Now, you do. The dress hugs where it should. The heels add just enough height. Your hair sits perfectly in a way that feels effortless but isn’t. “Hi, Angel.” He says almost breathlessly and it comes out quieter than he probably intended.Your steps slow because something about the way he’s looking at you—it lingers. You became too aware of it slowly. The way his eyes take you in. Not in a way that feels uncomfortable but in a way that feels—seen. Too seen, almost like you are the only thing he can't help focus on.

“Hi,” you echo.

You step in slowly, closing the door behind you, your gaze drifting past him and then you see it. The table. Set. Candles. Food. Tonight’s dinner doesn’t feel like dinner, it feels like something neither of you agreed to call it what it actually was. The candles aren’t too bright. The house holds warmth in a way that feels intentional now—like it’s aware of the two of you sitting side by side instead of across from each other.

You notice everything.

The way he adjusted the cutlery—slightly uneven, like he wasn’t sure what the right way was but wanted it to look like he tried. The way the napkins are folded—not professionally, but carefully. The way the takeout containers sit next to the trash by your back kitchen door is replaced by plated food like it didn’t arrive in paper bags thirty or so minutes ago. You hoped he wasn't waiting for you long. Your brows lift slightly teasing, “You didn’t cook this.” “I learned my lesson,” he says quickly. You laugh under your breath, stepping closer, your fingers brushing the edge of the table, “but you set it up like this?” He shrugs, suddenly a little unsure,“…Is that weird?” You look at the chairs set side by side. Close and your chest tightens slightly. “No,” you say softly. “It’s not weird.” It’s something else, something you don’t name. He pulls out one of the set chairs offering it to you. You sit and sits beside you closer than necessary. Closer than expected and as the candlelight flickers between you, you feel it. That shift. Not loud. Not overwhelming but there. Growing. Time doesn’t rush after that. It unfolds. Slowly. You glance at him. He’s pretending to be focused on his food but he isn’t. His posture gives him away—slightly too aware, slightly too still. You take a bite first just to break it. “Okay,” you say after a moment, thoughtful. “This is actually good.” He exhales, not dramatically but enough for you to notice that this dinner is important to him.

“Good,” he mutters. “I was worried you’d say it tastes like the eggs.” You smile into your glass of wine, lifting it slightly, “I would’ve been honest.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

You both laugh at that and there’s a quiet rhythm to the conversation. It doesn’t rush, it doesn’t try to fill every space. It moves the way the rain does—steady, patient. At some point, your knee brushes his under the table. You both still, just for a second. Then continue like nothing happened but something did. It lingers. You don’t realize how much time has passed until your phone buzzes faintly on the table. You glance at it. A message. Another. You ignore it at first, reaching for your red again instead.

“…You’re busy,” he says, not as a question. You tilt your head slightly, “Sometimes.” He nods, like he expected that. Silence stretches again. Not empty, just… waiting.You tap your fingers lightly against the glass, thinking and then, “You know,” you say casually, almost like it just crossed your mind, “this is the part people don’t see.”

He looks at you, "…This?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you. The table. The quiet. “The in-between,” you explain. “Everyone thinks it’s just filming, posting, smiling. But it’s mostly this. Planning. Thinking. Editing. Redoing things that already took hours.” He listens, really listens. Not interrupting, not rushing you along. You glance at him, then away again. “I don’t like being on camera,” you add, softer now. “Not really.” He frowns slightly, “but you still do it.” “Parts of it,” you correct. “Hands. Voice. Angles. Enough to tell the story without…” You trail off, shrugging lightly. “…being in it.” He leans back slightly, studying you in a way that feels different now. “ So you wouldn't be on camera at all?” he says. You blink at him. It’s not a question and it’s not said lightly. It’s… observed. Your lips part slightly, “yeah, maybe…it depends.” He nods once, like that makes sense to him. Like it fits and for some reason, that matters more than it should. Later, when the plates are empty and the candles have burned lower, you don’t move immediately. Neither does he. Biscuit has claimed the space near your feet, curled into himself like this is his version of approval. “You didn’t have to do all this,” you say after a while. Your voice is softer now. Not teasing, not light. Just honest. He looks down at his hands for a second. Then at you. “I wanted to,” he says simply and there’s no performance in it. No exaggeration. Just the truth. It sits between you, heavy in a quiet way. You nod, not because you have something to say but because you understand it and somewhere in between the question begins to form

Not spoken. Not yet. Too afraid to but very present all the same. In him. In you, something that neither of you is ready to ask…but neither of you can ignore anymore.

The first thing you noticed wasn’t the groceries. It was the way he walked in like he belonged. Keys set down in the same spot. Shoes nudged off near the door without hesitation. A soft exhale leaves him as he steps fully into the space like he’d been holding his breath outside. Then, “Angel, awake from your nap?”

“Hey.”

You looked up from the couch, laptop balanced on your knees.

“Yeah, I decided to work on something finally."

Your voice comes out softer than you intend. He places the bags he was carrying on the counter, already moving like he knew where things went and that—that made you pause. “You went shopping?” you ask, sitting up slightly. “Yeah.” Mark glanced over his shoulder, “ we were running out of things.”

We

We as in us. We, as in we are a unit. As if…

We are dating…?

“That doesn’t mean—”

“You were out of the granola you like to plate your favorite banana yoghurt bowl,” he added simply. You blinked.

Since when did he know how I like my fruit bowl?

You stood slowly, walking into the kitchen, watching as he unpacked everything. Bananas, apples, strawberries and then— granola. Your favorite. The kind that was extra nutty and packed with raisins for sweetness.The exact brand, the exact variety you reached for everyday. Your fingers hovered over it. “You remembered?” you asked, quieter now. Mark froze for just a second. Then shrugged, casual—but not really, “You can't exactly function in the afternoon without it.”

You swallowed and you swallowed hard because you were starting to realise how much trouble you would be in when he decides to go back to wherever the hell he came from. He didn’t think it was a big deal. Except—it was because he hadn’t even been trying to remember.

He just… did.

Somewhere along the way, your preferences matter. More than they should. “You didn’t have to,” you said softly, ignoring the fluttering waking happening in the depths of your chest. Mark glanced at you then—really looked at you.

“I know.”

And that was the problem.

Morning settles into late morning without you noticing. It always does when you’re working. The house shifts around you quietly—the kind of quiet that isn’t empty, but lived-in. The windows are still slightly open from earlier, letting in the cool, rain-washed air. The scent of damp earth lingers faintly, mixing with the clean sweetness of the fruit Mark had cut earlier. You’re already halfway into your workflow. Laptop open, camera set. Tripod adjusted just slightly off-center because you hate perfect symmetry—it feels too staged, too forced. Your sleeves are pushed up to your elbows, one of your oversized shirts slipping slightly off one shoulder without you noticing. Your hair is tied loosely, strands falling where they want because you stopped caring about fixing them after the third take.

“…and then you let it simmer—not too long, just until it thickens slightly…”

Your voice is calm. Measured. Familiar. You don’t look at the camera, you never do. Your hands move instead—confident, precise, comfortable in a way that makes it clear this is your space. Your rhythm. Behind you, Mark leans lightly against the doorway. He’s been there longer than you realize. He hadn’t meant to stop, he was just passing by but then he heard your voice and now, he can’t move because this version of you is…different. Not louder, not bigger. Just…fully in yourself. He notices everything. The way your fingers move without hesitation, the way you tilt your head slightly when you’re thinking, like you’re listening to something only you can hear, the way your voice softens at certain points—not for an audience, but because it feels right. He doesn’t understand what you’re making but he understands you. Or at least, he feels like he’s starting to.

He shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing the doorframe. The sound is small but you notice. You glance back and for a second you freeze because you hadn’t realized he was there. He looks… comfortable. Grey sweatpants. A loose black t-shirt—one of his, not a baggy one of yours this time. His hair falls naturally over his forehead, slightly damp at the ends from his shower after a quick workout. There’s something unfair about it, the way he stands there like he belongs. “You’ve been there long?” you ask, your voice softer now, the filming tone slipping away naturally. He straightens slightly, “not really.” A lie but not one you call out. You turn back to your setup, reaching forward to stop the recording, your fingers brushing lightly against the camera. The click is soft and the silence that follows is softer. You exhale, stretching your shoulders slightly, rolling tension out of your neck. Behind you, “I didn’t know you talk like that when you work.”You pause, “like what?” “Calm,” he says. “Different.” You turn halfway, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms loosely folded, “different how?” He shrugs, pushing himself off the doorframe, stepping a little closer—but not too close. “Like you’re not trying,” he says. “You just… are.” that lands. You don’t show it immediately but it does. “That’s kind of the point,” you reply after a moment, quieter now. He nods, like that makes sense, like it fits into whatever he’s already building in his mind about you and then, there's a knock on your front door. Sharp. Familiar. You don’t even think about it.“The door's open!” you call out, already turning back to adjust your setup again, checking the angle, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Footsteps. Fast. Unapologetic. “Finally,” your best friend’s voice carries in before you even see him, dramatic as always. “Do you know how long I’ve been—”

He stops. Mid-step and mid-sentence. Mid-everything. The silence that follows is immediate and strange. You don’t look up right away because Eli is always dramatic like that. You’re used to his pauses—they usually mean he’s about to say something ridiculous and stupid but this one stretches too long. “What?” you ask, still focused on your screen. No response. You glance up and that’s when you see it. He’s not looking at you. He’s staring past you at Mark. Completely still, like his brain is buffering.

“No,” he says slowly. You blink, “no what?” He doesn’t answer, he only takes a step forward. Then another, like he’s being pulled. “…No way,” he breathes, quieter now, like he doesn’t trust the sound of his own voice. You follow his gaze to Mark. Who has gone very still. There’s a shift in him. Subtle but there. His shoulders straighten just slightly. His expression closes off—not completely, but enough that you can feel the difference without understanding it. “What is happening?” you ask, slower now, your eyes moving between the two of them. Your best friend finally looks at you and the look on his face. It’s not confusion. It’s disbelief. “Wait,” he says, pointing between you and Mark. “Wait—wait, wait.” You frown slightly, “you’re not making sense.” “When you told me—” he starts, pacing once, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically rearrange his thoughts, “—when you told me you had a stranger in your house…” You nod slowly, “…yes.” “I thought you meant, like, a stranger!!!” he says. You blink, “he is a stranger!!” “No,” he says, pointing again, more aggressively this time. “That is not just a stranger.”

You glance at Mark again. He exhales quietly.”Hi,” he says, almost apologetically because he already knows where this conversation is about to go. Your best friend lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scream, “you said his name was Mark,” he continues, turning back to you, voice rising slightly. “You said ‘Mark’ like it was just—just Mark—not THE MARK!?!?”

Your brows knit together, “The what Mark?” He freezes then says your name in disbelief and looks at you, really looks at you as if you've just managed to grow another head, “you can't be serious!!” You stare back. “Am I not serious enough?” He turns slowly, ignoring your existence completely and back to Mark. Back to you. Then, “you know those groups Igogo and I are always talking about?” he asks carefully.

You nod, “yeah…”

“The one I keep sending you songs from. Videos. The ones you never watch properly.” You shrug slightly, “I listen sometimes.” “You don’t look,” he corrects.

“…I don’t need to. Ears are meant to listen.”

He inhales sharply with closed eyes before he points at Mark again. “That’s him. At least one of the men behind some of the songs.” Silence. Real silence this time, the kind that stretches, settles and waits. You look at Mark, really look at him. Not the way you’ve been looking at him, not the way you look at someone you’re getting to know but like you’re trying to place something. Something familiar that never mattered enough before.

“…Oh.”

It comes out softer than expected. Not dramatic, not shocked. Just… realization. Your best friend stares at you like you’ve just committed a crime. “That’s it?” he demands. “That’s all you have?” You glance at him then back at Mark, “should I scream?” “Yes!” he says immediately. “No,” Mark says at the same time. You pause. Then, a small smile pulls at your lips. “You’re famous, Mr Celebrity?” It’s not a question, it’s not admiration. It’s just… a statement. Mark nods slightly, “…something like that.”

You tilt your head. Studying him, no wonder he can take some time off in this economy and strangely, nothing changes. Not the way he laughed this morning, not the way he stood in your kitchen and definitely not the way he looked at you last night.

Your best friend, however, is losing his mind. “I need to call her,” he mutters, already pulling out his phone. “I need to call Igogo right now—she’s not going to believe this.”You sigh softly, rubbing your temple, “don’t start.” “It’s too late,” he says, already dialing. “It’s already started, I love you but she'll give me the enthusiasm I need right now. You are a kpop buzzkill” Mark watches the entire thing unfold and for the first time since the reveal—he laughs. Soft. Real because somehow, this chaos feels… normal and that feels more dangerous than anything else.

Igogo arrives in less than fifteen minutes. Hair slightly disheveled, breath uneven, eyes wide like she’s just sprinted through half the city. “I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!!” she exclaims the second the door opens. “I CAN'T BELIEVE MARK LEE IS IN YOUR—” and then she sees him again. In full. Not through a screen Eli had shown her when he called and she told him to shut up because the chances of that happening were almost as extinct as you showing your face on your channel. Not distorted. Real. Standing in your kitchen like he belongs there and she just— freezes. “Hi,” Mark says softly and the sound that comes out of her after is not human.

Lunch happens after the chaos settles, after introductions that are half coherent, half laughter, half Eli and Igo hitting each other's arm before they hit Mark hard on his and make him sign an autograph on paper before claiming two of your thrifted picture frames for themselves. After Eli has already started retelling the story like it’s breaking news, after she circled Mark twice like she’s verifying his existence now, you’re seated together. All four of you.The table is fuller than usual. There’s the dish you filmed earlier—rich, layered, something slow-cooked with spices that cling to the air even now. A soft stew, thickened just enough, served beside fluffy rice that still carries heat. There are leftovers too—small plates you'd had for dinner the previous night. Roasted vegetables tossed lightly in oil and herbs. A chilled fresh pasta you’d forgotten about until midmorning as you were thinking what to prepare for you, Eli and Mark before the company got bigger. Sliced fruit arranged lazily on a side plate. Eli was supposed to help you film…he clearly could not be bothered with that anymore. Mark sits beside you. Not angled away. With his knee brushing yours under the table. His arm resting along the back of your chair again—like earlier, like it’s becoming something he does without thinking. You don’t move away and you don’t acknowledge it either but Igogo sees it, Eli sees it and the silent conversation that passes between them is loud enough to feel.

“So,” Igogo starts, slowly, dragging the word like she’s savoring it, “when you said ‘Mark’…” You close your eyes briefly, “don’t.”

“…you meant him.”

“I didn’t know I meant him.” Eli snorts, “that’s worse.” Mark huffs a quiet laugh beside you. “In my defense,” you add, picking at your food, “he didn’t exactly introduce himself with a résumé.”

“I said my name,” he says.

“You said your name like it was normal.”

“It is normal!!”

Igogo leans forward, “not that name.” You nudge her lightly with your foot under the table and she grins. Unapologetic. Conversation flows. Easy, layered with teasing, curiosity, small moments that slip between laughter.They ask him questions. Some direct, some disguised as jokes. He answers. Carefully at first, then less carefully because something about this space, about you— makes it easier to loosen the edges of himself. “…so you just left?” Eli asks at some point, chewing slowly, eyes fixed on him and there it is. That shift. Subtle but real. Mark’s fingers pause against his glass, “I’m on a break.”

Igogo tilts her head. “That sounds temporary."

“It is.”

“Do you want it to be?”

Silence. It doesn’t stretch awkwardly, it settles. Heavy. Mark exhales quietly, “I don’t know.”And that— that lands because it’s honest. Too honest. You glance at him, really glance and for a moment— you see it. Not the version people know, not the composed, polished version but the one you know, the one sitting beside you now and having lunch with two of his fans. The uncertain one. The one tired in a way that isn’t physical, looking for something he hasn’t named yet. Lunch lingers. No one rushes, no one checks the time. It just…exists until plates are empty and the conversation slows naturally. “I’ll wash up.” Mark says it easily, already standing, gathering plates before you can protest.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

He meets your eyes briefly. Soft and certain. “I want to,” and something about the way he says it— makes your chest tighten.The kitchen fills with the sound of running water. Low, steady and familiar. You don’t stay not because you don’t want to but because Elii is already grabbing the wine bottle and Igogo is already trailing behind him like she’s been waiting for this moment all afternoon. “Come on,” she says, dragging you gently by the wrist. “We need to talk.” You've learnt not to resist. The living room feels quieter. Warmer and softer. You sink into the couch, the glass of wine pressed into your hand before you even realize it. Eli sprawls across the armchair like he owns it. Igogo curls beside you, knees tucked under her, eyes already locked on the kitchen.

On him.

“He’s washing dishes.”

“Yes.”

“Like this is his house.”

You sigh, “he’s helping.” Eli snorts, “he’s settling.” Igogo hums in agreement, “very quickly.” You shoot them both a look, “can we not?” “No,” they say in unison. A moment passes, then, Igogo leans closer more mischievous now, lowering her voice for the drama of it all, “so.” You already hate the tone, “what?” She tilts her head toward the kitchen, “he hasn’t stopped looking at you. Have you guys had sex already?” Your grip tightens slightly around the glass, “ seriously? That’s what—” “and you haven’t stopped pretending you don’t notice, “ Eli raises his glass to his lips taking a cheeky sip before lifting it up in the air.

“To mutual delusion.”

You glare, “I’m not delusional.” “No,” Igogo agrees lightly. “You’re just letting a very attractive, very famous man live in your house and acting like that means nothing.” “It doesn’t mean nothing,” you snap quietly. They both pause because— that wasn’t what you meant to say. In the kitchen—Mark rinses a plate slowly but his focus isn’t on the dishes. It drifts to the sound of your voice. Soft. Lower now and private. He can’t hear the words but he can feel the shift and something in his chest pulls because he wants to be there. Not here, not separated by a room. He dries his hands slower than necessary trying not to think about why.

Back in the living room, Igogo nudges your shoulder lightly,“…if you two end up together—”

“We’re not—”

“—I need tickets.”

You stare at her, “…you’re unbelievable.” “I’m practical,” she corrects. Eli nods, “very, ticket prices are outrageous these days.” You laugh despite yourself shaking your head but your gaze drifts back to the kitchen where he stands. Quiet and focused. Like he fits too easily and somewhere, quietly, without asking permission— something shifts inside you. Not loud, not dramatic but enough because now, it’s not just curiosity anymore and across the room, Mark feels it too.

He just doesn’t have the words for it yet, only the weight, only the pull, the quiet, growing realization that leaving is going to be harder than he thought not because of where he came from but because of where he is now and you being in it.

One afternoon, you are working in your office space when he finds you. Curled into your chair, glasses slipping slightly down your nose, your attention fixed on your screen. Your world again. Structured and focused. Safe. You don’t hear him come in. You only notice when something appears beside you.

A bowl. You glance. Fruit.

Cut neater than before. It's always fruit. You look up. He’s standing there—one hand resting lightly against the back of your chair, the other still holding the edge of the desk.

“…You’ve improved,” you murmur.

“I’ve been practicing,” he replies quietly. There’s something softer about him now, something lighter. Like the building tension hasn’t disappeared—but it’s been… redirected. You reach for a piece without thinking.

“…Thanks.”

He doesn’t move, not right away. Instead, his gaze drifts to your screen, “What are you working on?” You tilt the monitor slightly toward him,“my next video,” you say. “Planning, editing… fixing things I’ll probably change again tomorrow. It’s complicated.”

A pause.

Then, unexpectedly, “I get that,” he says slowly. You look at him more carefully now. He continues, quieter, “Music used to feel simple for me. Now it doesn’t.” That is the first time he admits it out loud. Not the decision but the fracture. He leans in slightly. Closer, close enough that you feel it before you register it. His arm shifts, brushing lightly against your back. Not intentional but not entirely accidental either. Your breath stutters. He notices because of course he does but he doesn’t pull away. Not immediately. Instead, his gaze lingers on the screen. Then drifts slowly to you. Your glasses. The way your lips part slightly when you’re concentrating, the faint crease between your brows and something in his chest tightens. “You should rest later,” he says quietly. You blink, “What?” “You’ve been at this for a while,” he adds, softer now. You swallow.

“Okay I will.”

But neither of you moves. The air changes..Thickens and your awareness sharpens. Every small movement amplified. His hand shifts slightly against the chair, your shoulder brushes his arm and then before either of you can think it through…he leans in. Just slightly to press a soft kiss to the side of your head. Your temple. It's barely there but enough to make everything stop.

You freeze.

He freezes.

The world narrows into that single point of contact that no longer exists and suddenly it’s too much...he pulls back immediately, “I—” .You don’t respond. You can’t because your heart is racing too fast. Your thoughts are too loud and your body is too aware. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair, “I didn’t mean—” but he did and you both know it. Silence crashes in.

Heavy.

Awkward and charged. Then, he turns and leaves. Too quickly. Like if he stays, something else will happen, something bigger. Something you both won't be able to walk back from. You sit there. Frozen. The fruit untouched beside you, your screen forgotten and your thoughts spiraling because—

What does that mean?

Days later when you both mutually, reluctantly decided to ignore what had happened in your office that night, the room was quiet except for the soft clicking of the keyboards on your laptop. Mark sat next to you on your kitchen island, headphones on, one foot tapping lightly against the floor in a rhythm only he could hear. The lamp between you cast a warm glow—soft enough to blur the edges of everything. Including him.

You glanced up.

Just for a second. He was focused on his worksheet in front of him. Completely and for a moment, you forgot what you were doing. On his end, he felt it. That look. Still, he didn’t turn, didn’t break. Minutes passed or maybe hours, neither of you kept track. At some point, you both reached for something at the same time.

Your hand.

His.

Brushing. Lingering. You didn’t look at each other but neither of you pulled away quickly either. And that silence? It said more than anything else could have.

Another night comes slowly. Deliberately and neither of you knows how to act but it’s you who breaks it.

“Pizza?”

Your voice carries from the kitchen. Casual. Like nothing happened but like everything happened. He appears a moment later smiling softly at you with a nod, “Yeah.”

You lead him to the small makeshift terrence you had on your roof. One you insisted your brothers helped you make one past summer when the house was still new. Now, the rooftop is colder than expected. The city stretches around you—lights scattered like something alive, distant but present. You sit close on the small two seater couch you had. Not touching, but close with the pizza box sat squarely on his lap. The silence is different now. Not awkward, not entirely. Just… full.

“…Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly.

You glance at him, “Leaving what?”

“Everything,” he says.

His voice is quieter now, more honest. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” You don’t interrupt. You let him speak because something about this feels important. “I don’t know if I fit where I am anymore,” he continues. “Or if I ever did.” The confession sitting between you is heavy. Real. The truth behind his almost distant smiles and the permanent do not disturb on his phone. You exhale softly, “maybe you’re not supposed to stay there forever.” He looks at you. Like that possibility terrifies him. “What if I regret it?” You shrug lightly, “then at least it was still your choice.” You both stay silent again until he speaks up again after a sip of his coke, “I think I might leave.”

You don’t ask what, you already know. His group. His contract. The life he has been performing inside. The life people only seemed to care about. His jaw tightens slightly.

“I don’t know how they’ll take it.”

A pause.

Then, softer, "I'm terrified to find out who I am outside of it.” That is the first time he sounds afraid in a way that is not controlled. Your hand reaches up to pull some of his hair out of his eyes, he turns to look at you, “You don’t have to know all of it right now.” Mark looks at you and there is something dangerous in how much he is looking at you. Not possession. Recognition. His hand finds yours without ceremony and you let it stay. You both grow silent again in understanding but this one feels closer, warmer and then—rain. Sudden.

Sharp.

You both laugh instinctively, scrambling to stand, grabbing the box, the drinks before seeking shelter back inside. Breathless, drenched and laughing. The rain doesn’t stop when you reach the stairwell. It follows you in—soft at first, then louder, drumming against the rooftop door you just pushed open, as if it refuses to let the moment end.

You’re laughing.

Not gracefully. Not softly. You’re laughing in broken pieces, breathless, shoulders shaking, fingers still curled around the cardboard pizza box that is now slightly ruined from the rain and Mark—he’s behind you, one hand hovering near your back like he doesn’t trust the wet steps, like he doesn’t trust himself not to reach for you. His other hand is still holding onto both your drinks. “Careful—” he says, but he’s laughing too, the words barely forming, dissolving into quiet disbelief. “You’re the one who said rooftop,” you shoot back, glancing over your shoulder. Your sweater is soaked through. It clings and it’s heavier now, dragging at your shoulders, the hem brushing against your thighs where your shorts barely exist beneath it. Your socks are damp, soft against the cold tile, and your hair is dripping down your neck in slow, quiet rivulets. Mark notices everything.

He shouldn’t but he does.

Every step down the stairs feels slower than it should be. Like time is stretching. Like something is building and neither of you is naming it. By the time you reach the hallway, the laughter has softened. Not gone. Just… quieter. Warmer. The house greets you with stillness and Biscuit is sitting right by the hallway entrance like a silent judge, tail flicking lazily, watching the two of you drip rainwater all over the floor like you’ve lost all sense of dignity. “Oh my God,” you breathe, pointing weakly, “he’s judging us.” Mark huffs a laugh under his breath. “He should. We look insane.”

“You look worse.”

“That’s offensive.”

“It’s honest.” That earns a real laugh from him—low, easy, the kind that makes your chest tighten without permission and then it fades naturally because now you’re both standing there.

Close. Too close.

“I—uh…” you start, suddenly aware of everything. The wet fabric against your skin, the way your hair sticks to your neck and most importantly, the way he’s looking at you. “I should get towels,” you say quickly, stepping past him but he moves at the same time.

You almost collide.

For a second—just a second—you’re chest to chest, breath to breath, the space between you disappearing so fast it feels like a mistake. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Neither of you move. Mark recovers first. He clears his throat, dragging a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back—water droplets flicking onto the floor, “I’ll grab them,” he says. You nod, grateful for the distance but it doesn’t last because when he comes back, he doesn’t hand you the towel. He steps closer.

Again.

“Hold still,” he says, softer this time and you do. You don’t even question it. He lifts the towel to your head, hesitates—just briefly—before pressing it gently against your hair. His touch is careful, almost… reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he’s too rough.You laugh under your breath. “You don’t have to be that gentle. I’m not glass.” “I know,” he says quietly but still, he doesn’t change the way he touches you.

This is dangerous.

He thinks in between his movements with both his hands on either side of your face, looking down at your frame as you find the floor more intriguing in exaggerated wonder.

You are dangerous.

The way you’re standing in front of him, soaked, smiling softly, trusting him without even realizing it. He drags the towel down slowly, drying the strands near your temple, your cheek and his fingers brush your skin. Accidentally but not enough to ignore. You feel it. The shift, it's small but it’s there.Your laughter fades completely now, your breath catches—just slightly—as his hand pauses against one side of your face and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of everything.

The quiet. The rain. Him.

“You’re freezing,” he says but his voice is different now. Lower. Closer. You swallow, “So are you.” And that’s when you notice it, really notice it. His shirt. Clinging and soaked through, the fabric outlining everything it shouldn’t be outlining so clearly.Your gaze flickers, just for a second but he catches it.

Of course he does.

“Oh—right,” he mutters, almost to himself and then, he pulls the shirt over his head. It’s not dramatic.It’s not slow for effect but to you it feels like everything slows anyway.The way the fabric lifts, the way his shoulders move, the way the air changes. You forget how to breathe for a second.“Better,” he says, running the towel through his own hair now with his eyes still on you. Not casually and definitely not lightly. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out. Something important. You shouldn’t step closer but you do anyway. “Let me,” you say softly, reaching for the towel in his hands. He lets you take it but he doesn’t step back. Your fingers brush his bare shoulder as you start drying his hair, mimicking what he did for you. Except you’re not as careful.You’re nervous.Your hands aren’t steady and when the towel slips slightly, your fingers graze the back of his neck, he inhales sharply.

You freeze.

“I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says quickly. Too quickly. Your eyes meet and this time, neither of you looks away. Something unspoken passes between you. Heavy. Undeniable. This is the moment. The one you’ve been circling for days. Almost touches, almost glances, almost something more and now there’s no space left for almost. “Mark…” you whisper, you don’t even know what you’re going to say. You don’t get the chance because he closes the distance. The first kiss isn’t rushed, it's not overwhelming. It’s…careful. Tentative. Like he’s asking a question and you answer immediately. Your palms rest carefully on his chest, grounding yourself as the kiss deepens—not fast, not messy, but certain. His hand finds your waist. Warm and steady, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you might step back. You don’t. The world narrows. To this, to him.To the way your breath mixes, your movements slowly syncing without thought and then, something shifts. The kiss breaks for a second. Just enough for air, just enough for realization.“We shouldn’t—” you start but your voice is weak, reminding him how cruel the world he lives in is to whatever is starting between you. Unconvincing.“Fuck,” he curses yet he doesn’t move away, telling you that he couldn't give two shits about it when you kissed him back “I know.”

Silence. One heartbeat. Two. Then, he kisses you again. This time, it's not careful, it’s deeper. Hungrier. Like something in him finally gave in. You stumble back a step, then another and he follows. Not forcing, just not letting go either. Your back meets the hallway wall. Softly but the impact sends a spark through you anyway. His other hand slides up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough and his lips move from yours, to your cheek. Your jaw, slowly down to your neck.You gasp. Quiet. Sharp. Mark is gone. He’s so gone he couldn't even be bothered with saving himself at this point. Completely. He knows this is the line. He knows this changes everything but the way you react, the way your hands grip him tighter instead of pushing him away. He can’t stop. Doesn’t want to and he’ll be damned if he has to, still, he can't help asking.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin. He doesn’t sound like he wants you to.

Please don't.

You don’t. Your fingers weakly slide into his wet hair instead and that’s all the answer he needs.The tension that’s been building, days of it. Weeks, maybe. Every almost moment, every held breath, every glance that lingered too long.

It finally breaks.

He pulls you off the wall. Not roughly but with intention and suddenly you’re moving backwards. Towards the room that's undeniably yours.Your laughter comes back for a second. Breathless. Disbelieving. “This is—this is insane,” you whisper. “I know,” he says but he’s smiling against your lips. The door hits softly behind you. You don’t even remember walking that far along and when it closes, the space becomes smaller, quieter, all him, everything intensifies again. He pauses. Just for a second. Forehead resting against yours weakly, breathing you in like he needs it.“Is this okay?” he asks and this time, he means it. You nod because you don’t trust your voice to not betray your desperation and then, he pulls you back in. Slower this time. Deeper, like he’s savoring it now. Not rushing, not questioning. Just… feeling and the world completely disappears.

The brush of Mark's lips was soft…too soft, like he could break if you pulled away. Softly, they travelled down your throat as he took a step forward, pushing you back to where your bed was. Then, you wanted more…needed it actually, because what was once slow built itself up into something you both couldn't hold back from much longer. The crash of your lips again becomes feral and desperate…too desperate from the tiptoeing you both have been doing around each other since the first day he stepped into the world you've managed to make your own. The world he's long since wanted to belong to from the moment you blinked up at him and asked if he was serious about staying with a stranger all because he was lonely. All because he actually could open up about being lonely, something he forgot how to open up about because his glossy and flashy world expects him to be okay with everything handed to him.His hands travels low to edge of your soaking sweater, fingers travelling under, touching skin before cupping the curve of your ass through your ever tempting boyshorts. Yours clawed on his shoulders, travelling down to feel him up fully.Your hands slowly run over his chest then trace up to his muscles and biceps before settling back on his shoulders, tugging him down as you braid your fingers on the hairs at the back of his head. Mark pulls away pulling your sweater up and over your shoulders. Then his lips are back on you again, softly placing a kiss on your forehead, your cheek. Then the other before kissing you longingly and traveling down south to your neck again, your shoulder while his hands worked on your bra unclasping it before snapping it off like an expert auditioning for a magic mic number.

Mark took both your breasts warm in his hands, toying with them softly as he kissed down your cleavage leaving wet traces behind as he kneeled down in front of you before taking one into his mouth with hooded eyes that hadn't looked away from you since his cruel ministrations started, the hardened bud warm despite the cold in the room and the cold from the rain outside. The taste of your skin was enough to grow his hunger. You hummed in approval before sighing in pleasure as your fingers held the side of his head. Mark nips on the skin under the other breast he's left neglected, both his hands pull on your shorts, drawing them off your smooth legs and removing one wet sock after the other, still kissing low on your stomach. He then slowly stands up nipping his way up, on your sternum, your shoulder, your neck laving his tongue on the sting he leaves behind before kissing you on the lips again.

“You're so fucking gorgeous Angel.” He whispers on your lips as he held on your jaw. He pushes you back on the bed, climbing over you, “my gorgeous gorgeous baby.” Soft whimpers leave your lips as you arch your back into him. Your fingers dig into his back making the flesh there turn red, drawing him closer to you as he settles between your thighs. “I want you.” You whine lifting your hips to grind on his still in sweatpants. He moves to your neglected breast, flicking on your nipple with his toungue so deliciously that it has you moaning desperately for him. “No rush.” Mark smirks before latching his mouth around it and sucking hard before heading south and kissing his way over your stomach before surprising you by spreading your thighs open with his hands, groaning low when his eyes feast upon your glistening pussy with a wet lick of his lips his hunger for you clear as day when he looks at you.

“Fuck.”

Mark doesn't wait for you to protest, he dives straight in, burying his face between your legs and sliding his tongue up and down your slit. He moans into you, the vibrations make you shudder and even before you can recover, he's pulling back again to play with your clit with his thumb, his other hand opening your legs further apart before lightly slapping on your arse and grabbing a handful. He sucks on your clit again, flicking his tongue over it repeatedly as one of his fingers slowly eases into you building pressure deep inside your stomach. You don't even think you've breathed properly since all of this started and it's slightly getting to you because you are practically breaking and screaming. Your hands pull at his hair as you roll your hips against his tongue while he slowly adds in another finger, fucking you slowly as you come undone before him.

Mark pulls away from you completely and he hurriedly tugs on his sweatpants, baring himself completely naked before you. He kneels on the bed again, “Do we have protection?” You nod pushing yourself up to your bedside table pulling the bottom drawer to grab one. You hand it to him and watch as he swipes your wetness from his bottom lips while opening the condom up. Mark's eyes never leave yours as he wraps himself up. His dick long, veiny and thick that just looking at it threatens to have you soaking the bed. Then, he drags your backside into his lap grabbing his cock, slapping it against your pussy, rubbing the broad tip on your clit torturously. Your thighs twitch in his hold as he presses into you ever so slightly before pulling back.

“Ready?”

You nod moaning his name before your voice cuts short when he slides his cock into you so slowly until he is fully seated. Your spine arches wordlessly as you bite down on your bottom lip hard and he starts thrusting slowly, holding your legs to his chest so that they are straight up in the air and apart. Slowly, his thrusts begin to build up, his hips begin to move so fast. The pleasure is maddening. His cock presses every nerve, stroking every sweet spot with every delivered hard thrust. The pressure in your stomach is steadily building into higher heights than the last, faster than you anticipated. One of his hands rests squarely on your stomach, tracing his movements slowly before pressing down so deliciously that it has him pushed out of you abruptly. Mark's other hand comes down hard on your arse before holding himself to your entrance again and sliding right in. The bliss feeling makes you clench around him. His hips stutter as he rubs on your clit with his thumb in tight precise circles. You know you both won't last with how worked up you've both been to make your first time last long and he's not really helping your case with his head down, watching his cock slide in and out of you, shining with your juices as beads of cum gather in the condom. His hand slaps on your arse again and he groans at the feeling of you clenching even tighter than before around him before plunging in balls deep. He draws back slowly and slams back in again and again. Your brain is fuzzy and you can barely hold on already losing all your senses. Mark leans over you to kiss you sweetly while still fucking into you, sending you over the edge making you clench around him so hard he groans while spilling into the condom. He sucks keenly on your bottom lip as you contract down and milk him dry for all he is worth.

He calls out your name softly, still kissing you deeply as he gives long slow thrusts to keep your aftershocks going, “I like you a lot Angel.” He sighs deeply as he releases your legs from beneath him while slowly pulling out letting you wrap them around his waist while he covers you up with the soft sheet. He brushes your hair out of your face while cupping the back of your head and presses his mouth hard to yours before pulling back to look at you. “I like you too, Mr Celebrity.” You tell him and he smiles ecstatic. You smile back happy and calm, euphoric in the aftermath of the bubble he has created around you. Mark pulls back from the bed already stepping into your bathroom and you get curious as to what he's doing because you can hear water running. Then he steps back into the bedroom, pulling the sheets away from you and carrying you towards the bathroom again. The man sits you on the toilet and you look at anything but him, “We have to pee.”

Oh my goodness!?! There's that ‘we’ again?!

“Can you turn around?”

“Baby,” Mark is about to protest but the redness on your face stops him. So he simply sighs and turns around. You thank him for it and pee, when you tell him you are done, the man takes you into his arms again before carrying you into the soapy bathtub.

“A good ten minute soak, a kiss to your forehead and a good night's sleep.”

“You're doing too much.”

Mark simply shakes his head while kneeling besides you outside the tub, “this is the bare minimum Angel.” All you do is laugh. Mark places a kiss on your forehead again, “I'll come back for you,” before walking back outside for some fresh shorts to sleep in. Your heart is swelling like you like him a little bit more than you intended to even though that seems impossible. The way he makes you feel is beyond your comprehension and you can't help hoping that he feels the same because his actions towards you would be cruel if he didn't want anything serious after tonight.

The next morning does not arrive all at once. It seeps in. Soft, gray light filtering through the curtains, the kind that doesn’t wake the world but brushes against it gently, like it’s asking permission first. Mark is awake before it fully settles. He doesn’t move at first, doesn’t know exactly when he woke up—only that at some point in the quiet, his eyes open, and he doesn’t move. For a moment—just a moment—he forgets everything else. He turns his head slightly and you are there.Your presence is everywhere. In the quiet, in the warmth. In the unfamiliar, overwhelming awareness that he can still smell the faint scent of your body wash on the pillow. Curled into him, half on his chest, half tangled in the sheets like you belong there. Like you’ve always belonged there.

Your breathing is slow, deep, even.

One of your hands rests loosely against his ribs, your fingers occasionally twitching in your sleep, like you’re dreaming something soft. For a long moment, he doesn’t breathe properly because this—this right here—is the kind of peace he didn’t know he was allowed to have.

His gaze traces your face slowly.

Your lashes resting against your cheeks. The faint crease between your brows that only appears when you’re deeply asleep. The way your lips part slightly, relaxed in a way he’s never seen on you when you’re awake. No guardedness. No quick wit. No careful distance. Just…you. Something in his chest tightens. Not painfully but enough to make him swallow because there’s something painfully tender about it.

Something that makes his chest ache.

Carefully—so carefully he almost doesn’t move at all—he lifts his hand and brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. His fingers linger longer than they should. They always do with you. You stir slightly, shifting closer instead of away, your cheek pressing more firmly against him. Mark’s breath catches.

“You’re mine,” he whispers under his breath, like he’s reassuring himself more than anything. He lets his fingers trail down, just once, along your temple—soft, reverent. “How are you this pretty?” Then, before he can think too much about it, he leans down and presses a quiet kiss to your forehead. It’s instinctive, gentle. Almost shy and it lingers. For a second too long. When he pulls back, his expression shifts— something deeper settling in his eyes. Something heavier because this isn’t just comfort anymore and he knows it.

It is dangerous

You are dangerous.

He thinks and not in the way people usually mean it. Not reckless. Not impulsive.

No.

This is dangerous because it feels right. His gaze lingers longer than it should. Long enough to memorize. Carefully, he shifts under you, easing himself out from your hold without waking you. It’s a slow process—adjusting the sheets, lifting your arm, guiding you gently onto the pillow. You mumble something incoherent, brows furrowing for a second and he freezes but you don’t wake. Instead, you curl into the space he leaves behind, instinctively seeking warmth.

His chest tightens.

“So fucking pretty Angel,” he exhales quietly. Then he reaches for the blanket, pulling it up over your shoulders, tucking it around you like it matters more than anything else in the world because right now, it does. He lingers there, just watching you for a second longer. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you.

Soft, unaware and his.

His phone vibrates. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and unwelcome. Mark’s jaw tightens immediately. He doesn’t need to look. He already knows. Still, he reaches for it. Careful and slow. Trying not to wake you. The screen lights up. A name.

One he’s ignored for days.

His manager. There’s a pause. A long one. His thumb hovers over the screen and for a second, he almost lets it ring out again. Like he has every other time because it’s easier that way. Easier to stay here, easier to pretend the outside world isn’t waiting for him, demanding things from him or expecting answers he’s been avoiding giving. His mind flickers, Unwanted. Uninvited. Missed calls. Texts stacking up.

Call me back.

We need to talk.

Mark!! Where the hell are you?

He remembers silencing them. Turning his phone face down, choosing you, choosing quiet dinners, choosing the shared glances. The slow, careful way something had been building between you. Choosing…this. His gaze slowly shifts back to you. Still asleep, still close and still unaware of the way his world is starting to pull at him again. His chest tightens. He exhales, soft. Resigned. The phone vibrates again before it rings a second time. A sharp, intrusive sound against the quiet. Mark’s head snaps back down toward it instantly. He doesn’t need to see the name but he does anyway and his jaw threatens to break. He’s ignored the calls for days. Weeks. Letting them ring out while he sat in your living room, while he laughed with you in the kitchen, while he stood on the rooftop just yesterday under the rain like nothing else existed. It's more insistent this time. Mark exhales slowly and glances back at you. Still asleep, still peaceful. Still completely unaware of the storm waiting just outside this room.

“…I can’t ignore this one,” he murmurs to himself under his breath.

Not today.

Carefully, he looks back at you with soft smitten eyes and doesn’t miss the way your hand instinctively reaches for warmth that’s no longer there. He pauses. Just for a second. He doesn’t put on a shirt. He doesn’t even think about it. He just steps out in black boxer shorts, bare chest still warm from where you were pressed against him moments ago, his hair still messy, sleep clinging to him in the way he moves—slower, heavier.

Real.

He steps out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him. Only then—the call connects almost immediately, “Yeah.” His voice is low. Rough with sleep but steady. His voice is sharp. Controlled. Frustrated. There’s no greeting on the other end. Just tension. Immediate. “Where have you been?”

Mark closes his eyes briefly. Straight to it. Of course.

Mark exhales quietly, leaning against the wall, one hand running through his hair, “I’ve been busy.” There’s a pause. A dangerous one, “busy ignoring your responsibilities?” Mark’s gaze drifts. Not really seeing the hallway but seeing something else entirely. You. Laughing over burnt eggs, standing barefoot in the kitchen. Looking at him like he wasn’t just what everyone else saw him as. His jaw tightens slightly. A few days ago, he would’ve apologized immediately, he would’ve softened. Backtracked. Made himself smaller to make this easier but something about this morning, about you still asleep in your bed changes the way he answers.

“I needed time.”

The silence on the other end stretches, “that’s not how this works, Lee.” His jaw tightens slightly, “I know how it works.”

“Then act like it.”

There it is. That tone. Familiar. Pressing. Expecting. Mark straightens slightly. Not defensive, not aggressive but…firmer.

“I said I’d come back,” he replies. It’s quiet again. There’s a shift on the other end. “You don’t get to just disappear, Mark. We have schedules. We have commitments. The comeback—”

“I know.”

He cuts in, but not harshly.Just steady. Measured.

“I know.”

Silence. Then, “then explain to me why you’ve been unreachable.” Mark exhales slowly, looking down at his hands. For a second, his voice almost falters. Almost. Then it steadies again, “because I didn’t want to make a decision I’d regret.”

That lands. He hears it in the pause.

“Decision?”

Mark tilts his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. His chest feels tight but clear. “I’ll be in time for the comeback,” he says finally. “Don’t worry.” Another pause. This one is heavier. “That’s not enough.” Mark closes his eyes briefly, “it’s what I can give you right now.” The words hang between them. Not careless, not impulsive. Deliberate. “You’re risking a lot,” his manager says. Mark lets out a quiet breath. A humorless one. “I know.”

“And for what?”

The question lands. Sharp. Mark doesn’t answer immediately because the answer isn't simple anymore. His gaze shifts toward the closed bedroom door, “I have some decisions to make,” he says instead.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s honest.”

Silence. Then, “you’re not thinking clearly.” That—that almost makes him laugh, but he doesn’t. “I’ve never thought more clearly,” Mark replies, quieter now. Steadier and he means it because for the first time, he’s not just thinking about expectations. Or schedules, or what he’s supposed to be. He’s thinking about what he wants and somehow even though he had been contemplating it for a while, you’re now at the center of that. On the other end, his manager exhales sharply, “we’ll talk when you’re back.” Mark nods, even though it can’t be seen.

“Yeah.”

The call ends and the silence that follows feels…louder than the conversation did. Mark lowers the phone slowly. His hand lingering there. The door creaks open behind him. Soft. Barely there but he hears it and when he turns, he expects you there but you aren't and it makes him release a breath he didn't even realise he was holding.

The house had learned the shape of him. That was the first thought that crossed your mind as you stood barefoot at the kitchen doorway, watching him. You were always watching him. Late afternoon light spilled through the windows in long, golden sheets, settling across the counters, the floor, him. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, catching on the soft fabric of the oversized grey hoodie he wore—yours, you realized absently. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Hair slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. He was standing at the counter, cutting fruit on your small fruit chopping board with your favorite watermelon bowl in front of him already prepped with your yoghurt and granola.

Carefully.

Too carefully. Like if he focused hard enough on slicing strawberries into perfect halves, he wouldn’t have to think about anything else. You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across your chest, and just… watched. He had been like this all day. Soft. Attentive.

Careful.

Breakfast had appeared without you asking—toast slightly uneven, bacon cooked better than the disaster from that first morning because in order to achieve the crunchy bacon they needed to slightly be burnt so he was safe from your scrutiny, but still clearly his effort. He’d hovered while you ate, pretending to wipe the already clean counter. He’d carried your camera bag without being asked when you filmed. He’d folded laundry, your laundry and his, with this quiet concentration that made your chest tighten and every time your fingers brushed, every time your eyes met, he smiled but it didn’t quite reach the place you had memorized. Not anymore. You shouldn’t have listened in. That thought had replayed in your head all day, like a song stuck in a loop. The phone call. His voice, low and firm in the hallway that morning.

“I said I’d come back.”

“…because I didn’t want to make a decision I’d regret.”

And then softer, softer in a way that made your chest ache, “I have some decisions to make.”

You hadn’t heard everything. Just enough, enough to let doubt bloom, enough to make you feel like this had an expiration date and now he was being so kind. Gentle. Like someone preparing to leave without making a mess. Your throat tightened.You pushed yourself off the doorframe, “Are you… opening a fruit shop?” Your voice came out lighter than you felt. Mark glanced up and for a second—just a second—his face softened fully, “There you are.” There it was, that look. The one that made everything inside you go quiet. He smiled, small, almost shy. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.” Your stomach dropped because you had been. “Just a little busy,” you said, stepping into the kitchen. It sounded wrong even to your own ears and he noticed. Of course he did.

He always noticed.

Something was off.He’d felt it the moment you woke up, in the way you didn’t wake up. The way you stayed turned away from him in bed, the way your breathing had been just a little too even. Like you were pretending and now, now you stood across from him like there was a line drawn between you.

Invisible.

But there. His grip tightened slightly on the knife before he forced himself to relax.

Dude, don’t overthink it. Don’t mess this up.

You were quieter today. More distant and the thought hit him—sharp, sudden—

Did I push too far?

Last night. The way you had looked at him, the way you had said his name, the way he had kissed you like he had been starving because he actually was and then some.

God.

His chest tightened. Maybe, maybe it had meant more to him than it did to you.

Maybe…

He set the knife down, “I, uh…” He cleared his throat, wiping his hands on a towel that didn’t need wiping. “About last night—” Your head snapped up. Too fast. Too sharp. Something in your expression flickered—panic? hurt?—and suddenly he becomes very aware that he was stepping into something fragile. Still, he pushed forward because the silence between you felt worse. “It’s okay,” he said, voice careful. “If it didn’t mean—if you don’t want what happened last night to mean anything. I get it. We didn’t…talk about it, and I don’t want you to feel like—”

Oh.

Oh.

The words hit you like cold water. Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

So that’s what this was?

You let out a small, breathless laugh but there was nothing amused about it, “Wow.” Mark freezes. You stepped back slightly, arms wrapping around yourself now. “That’s—” you swallowed, shaking your head. “That’s actually insane.” His brows furrowed. “What?” “You’re leaving,” you said, the words spilling out faster now, emotion cracking through your voice, “and the first thing you think to say is that it meant nothing?” His eyes widened. “What—no, that’s not—” “You think I didn’t hear you?” you cut in, sharper now. Silence. Heavy and immediate. Mark’s expression shifted, realisation hitting him all at once.

Slowly.

“You…heard?” he asked, quieter. Your laugh came out hollow. “Hard not to.” You looked at him then. Really looked and God, that hurt more because he still looked at you like you mattered and that just made no sense. “You’re going back,” you said, voice trembling now despite your effort to steady it. “You’re making plans. You’re deciding your future. And I’m just—what? A stopover? Something that happened while you were figuring things out?”

“That’s not—”

“And now you’re trying to make it easier by pretending it didn’t matter?” Your chest tightened, “Do you know how insulting that is?” He stared at you. For a second. Two, and then three— Nothing made sense. “You think I’m leaving you?” he asked, almost incredulous. “Yes!” you shot back. “Why would you think that?” You laughed again, but this time it broke, “because you said you’re going back!”

“I said I’m going back for work!”

“And what happens after that?"

“I—” he stopped because he didn’t have a clean answer and the hesitation— It hit you like confirmation. Your face fell, “Exactly.” Something inside his chest finally snaps, “Hey—no.” He steps forward quickly. “That’s not what that means.” “Then what does it mean, Mark?” you asked, voice softer now—but somehow that made it worse. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you’re already preparing to leave.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out my life!” he said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once. “I’ve spent years doing what everyone expects of me and for the first time I’m—” he exhaled, frustrated, vulnerable— “I’m trying to decide something for myself.” Your eyes softened slightly but the hurt didn’t disappear, “And where do I fit into that?” you asked quietly. He stops and looks at you, really looks. The answer comes easily. Too easily.

“You’re the only thing that feels certain.”

Silence.

Soft and fragile. Your breath hitched. His shoulders dropped slightly, like the fight had left him all at once, “I wasn’t saying last night didn’t matter,” he said, quieter now. “I was saying…I didn’t want to assume it meant something to you and make things harder.” Your lips parted slightly, “That’s what you meant?”

“Yes.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“Oh.” A beat passes.Then, softer, “Oh.”

You felt stupid. Not in a harsh way. Just… small because everything suddenly made sense. The way he’d been careful, the way he’d been watching you, the way he’d been trying. You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your hands. “I thought…” you trailed off, then shook your head, “I thought you were trying to make it easier to leave.” Mark steps closer. Slowly. Like approaching something delicate, “I don’t want to make anything easier if it means losing you.” Your heart stuttered. You looked up at him and this time, there was no confusion. No hesitation. Just the truth.

Say it.

You’ve been circling it for days. Weeks.

Say it.

“I love you,” he said. Simple but it landed heavy. “I don’t—” he exhaled softly, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t even know when it happened. But it did and now I can’t imagine…not having this.”

You swallowed hard.

“I love you too,” you whispered and that was it. The last thread snapped. He closed the distance first. Not rushed, not hesitant. Just certain. His hand comes up to your cheek, warm, grounding. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie and when your lips met, it wasn’t like last night.That had been fire. This was—

Home.

Slow. Deep. Intentional. Like both of you were trying to say everything you hadn’t managed to put into words. You exhaled softly against him. He pulled you closer. Your bodies fit together like something that had already learned how.The kiss deepened, then softened, lingered.Foreheads resting together. Breath mingling.His arms wrapped around you.Fully.Firmly.Like he meant it. You melted into him, your face tucked into his chest.For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, quietly, “I’m not leaving you,” he murmured into your hair. Your fingers tightened slightly against him.“Not now,” he continued.

A pause.

Then softer, “Not ever, if I can help it.” Your chest ached but this time, it wasn’t from fear. You pulled back just enough to look at him, “Even when you go back?” He nodded. “I’ll come back too.” A small, shaky smile broke across your face, “You better.” He smiled back, “I will.” Soft and certain, “and if not, I can always fly you out to me.”

And just like that, the tension didn’t disappear. It settled. Turned into something steadier. Something deeper, something that could survive distance because now, it had a name.

The next morning doesn’t feel heavy. It feels…settled. Not perfect, not resolved in some dramatic, life-changing way. Just more gentle. You wake up before him this time and for a moment, you don’t move.

Because he’s there.

On his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair falling messily over his eyes like he lost a fight with sleep and didn’t care enough to fix it. One arm is stretched toward your side of the bed, fingers just barely brushing your wrist like even in sleep, he refuses to let you drift too far. Your chest tightens.Not painfully, just… full. You shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his fingers react anyway—curling faintly, like your movement pulled him closer even in his dreams.

A small smile tugs at your lips, "clingy,” you murmur under your breath. His response is immediate. A quiet groan, “I heard that.” Your eyes widen slightly, “You were asleep.” “Was,” he mumbles, voice rough, barely awake. “Then you started talking.” You huff softly, “Well, you shouldn’t eavesdrop on people when you’re unconscious.” That earns a low, sleepy laugh from him, “that's what she said.” You scoff in disbelief, hitting his arm playfully at the jab from your previous day's overthinking. He shifts, turning onto his side now, facing you properly. It feels different, being looked at like that first thing in the morning. Unfiltered. Unhurried.He studies your face for a second. Then, without saying anything, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. It lingers. Too long to be casual yet too natural to question. “…morning,” he murmurs against your skin. Your breath catches slightly, “…morning.”

The day starts slowly. No rush, no urgency pulling either of you away. You drift out of bed together, half-laughing, half-arguing over everything that makes sense but doesn't like its routine. Like you always do but this time, it doesn’t feel like you’re adjusting to each other. It feels like you already have. Biscuit winds between your legs as you open the fridge, “Traitor,” Mark mutters, watching the cat ignore him completely.

“He knows who feeds him.”

“I fed him yesterday.” “You dropped half the food on the floor.” “That was strategic.” The man argues back like a prodigal child. You turn to look at him, “…how?” He shrugs, completely serious, “Bonding experience.”

You stare at him.Then laugh and something about that laugh, the way it comes easier now, fuller, makes his expression soften without him realizing. Cooking becomes…chaotic. Not because either of you can’t cook but because neither of you is really focused on it. You bump into each other constantly, reach for the same thing at the same time and pause too long when your hands brush. At one point, he stands behind you to grab something from the cabinet above—and doesn’t move away immediately after. You feel him there.Close. Warm. Your breath stutters slightly, “…Mark.”

“Hm?”

“You’re not grabbing anything anymore.”

A pause.

Then, “I forgot what I needed.” You turn your head slightly. Just enough to meet his eyes. He’s closer than you expected. Your gaze flickers to his lips, then back up and for a second, it almost happens again. That same pull, that same quiet gravity but this time, you both smile instead. Small. Knowing and stepping away before it consumes the moment. The rest of the day unfolds in pieces that feel almost…unreal in how normal they are.

You film.

He sits nearby, watching, occasionally offering suggestions that are surprisingly good. You tease him about it, “Since when are you a creative director?” He shrugs,“I have range.” “You have opinions Mr Celebrity.”

“Same thing.”

You roll your eyes, but you keep his suggestion anyway. Later when you both end up on the couch. Not doing anything important, not talking about anything serious. Just, existing in the same space with your legs draped over his lap, his hand absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your skin. Neither of you acknowledges it but neither of you stops it either. At some point, your head ends up resting against his shoulder, at some point, his chin rests lightly on top of your head and at some point, you both realize how quiet the world feels when you’re like this. “This is nice,” you murmur. He hums softly in agreement, “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then quieter, “Feels… easy.” Your fingers curl slightly against his shirt, “…yeah.”

Easy and somehow, that feels bigger than anything else. When night rolls in, it feels softer. Quieter. Like the house itself is exhaling.You’re both in comfortable clothes now. You are in one of your oversized sweaters, sleeves swallowing your hands, the tiny shorts you love to wear swallowed whole by it. Mark is in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still slightly damp from a shower. There’s music playing low

A guitar rests next to him on the couch.

You notice it immediately, “…you’re going to play?” He glances up. A little hesitant, “maybe.” Your heart does something strange at that. You shift slightly on the couch, turning toward him more fully, “I didn’t know you brought it with you.” He shrugs, “I didn’t. This is rented. I didn't think I was going to want to play anytime soon. A pause, then quieter, “cause I didn't for a while.”

There’s something there, something heavier but he doesn’t sit in it long. Instead, he adjusts the guitar, fingers brushing the strings lightly. The sound is soft. Tentative. Like he’s testing the space. You pull your legs away expectantly. Mark takes the guitar into his lap. Then, he starts playing. It’s not loud. Not showy. Just…gentle. A melody that feels unfinished, like it’s still finding itself but it’s beautiful. In a quiet, aching way. You don’t interrupt. You don’t move, you just watch him and for the first time, you see it clearly. Not just Mark. Not just the version of him that’s been living in your house but the part of him that’s still searching. Still figuring things out, still deciding who he wants to be. Your chest tightens, “that’s new,” you say softly when he stops. He nods, “Yeah.” “ It sounds really good.”

He hesitates. Then, “thank you.” Honest. Uncertain. You shift closer without thinking. Your shoulder brushes his.“You should keep it,” you say quietly. “It sounds like you.” He glances at you, “you think so?” You nod, “Yeah.” A small pause settles. Then, softer, “Not the version people expect.” That lands. He looks down at the guitar for a second. Then back at you. Something in his expression shifts. Warms.

“Stay?” he asks quietly.

You blink,“I am staying.” He shakes his head slightly, “I mean—like this.” You understand.

“…okay.”

You don’t move away and neither does he. He starts playing again. This time more sure. More grounded and you lean into him slightly, your head resting against his shoulder again, your presence steady, quiet, supportive. Outside, the world keeps moving but inside, time stretches. Slows and becomes something soft and almost fragile. His playing steadies, your breathing matches it and somewhere between the notes and the quiet, something deeper settles between you. Not rushed. Not loud. Just—real. When the song fades, neither of you moves immediately. “Thank you,” he murmurs. You tilt your head slightly, “For what?” He hesitates. Then, “for making this feel like mine again.” Your chest tightens, you don’t answer with words, you just lean further into him, pecking his lips lightly before taking his hand in yours, holding his tight. Like you’re not trying to keep him just letting him know he doesn’t have to leave. Not yet not tonight. Not from this and this time…

He holds on too.

The night settles into the house slowly, like it doesn’t want to disturb what’s already there. The rooms had settled into one of those quiet, lived-in silences that didn’t feel empty. It felt full. Full of the low, steady hum of the desktop, the faint crackle of the record spinning lazily as it played one of the records Mark brought home days ago, tucked under his arm like something precious. It plays from the corner of your office, warm and slightly imperfect, the kind of sound that makes everything feel softer around the edges and the soft rhythm of ASMR keys being pressed—hesitant at first, then more certain, like someone relearning a language they once spoke fluently. Your office light is dim—just the desk lamp on, casting a golden pool across the desk, across him where he sat at your desk like he had always belonged there.

You pause at the doorway.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

Your chair is pulled in close, his posture slightly hunched, one elbow resting on the table while his other hand scrolls slowly across the screen. The monitor’s glow reflects faintly on his glasses, and for a second, you just watch the way his eyes move—focused, intent, quieter than you’ve ever seen them. With the hood up, sleeves pushed just enough to reveal his wrists, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose every few minutes before he nudged them back up without thinking. There was something almost disarming about it—how easily he had folded himself into your space. Your chair, your desk, your work… your life. Like he’s settled into your world so naturally it almost scares you, like if you blink, he might disappear and take that feeling with him. Your fingers tighten slightly around the mug in your hands. He said he booked the ticket. That thought still sits somewhere in your chest, heavy but… not unbearable. Not anymore because now there’s this. This quiet, this closeness, this choice to stay—until he can’t. Still, there was a tension under him, you could tell from the stiffness on his shoulders. Not loud, not obvious but there.

Your gaze flickers to the screen. Lines of text. Emails. Too many.

He hadn’t opened them in days—weeks, maybe. Not properly anyway, not like this. Now they sat open on your screen, one after the other. His name threaded through subject lines. Urgent. Follow-up. Final notice. Check-in. His jaw tightened slightly as he read one, fingers hovering over the keyboard longer than necessary.

He exhaled slowly. Typed. Paused. Deleted.

Typed again.

You didn’t announce yourself when you reached the doorway. You just watched him. The soft glow of the monitor painted his face in pale blues and quiet shadows, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, the faint crease between his brows. He looked different like this. Not like the version of him the world knew. Not polished, not performing. Just… Mark.

Your Mark.

The thought landed softly, but it stayed and for a second, you didn’t move—just stood there with your mug warming your hands, letting the moment settle into you like something you’d want to remember later. Then your foot shifted against the wooden floor and he felt it, he always did. His head turned slightly, eyes lifting over his shoulder—and the moment he saw you, something in his face changed.

Softened.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice quieter than the room. Your lips curved before you could stop them. “Hey.” You stepped in slowly, the oversized sweater slipping just a little off one shoulder as you moved. Bare legs, no socks—he noticed that immediately, even before his eyes consciously tracked it. He always noticed. “Cold?” he asked automatically, gaze dropping for half a second before returning to your face. You shook your head, walking toward him. “I have coffee. That counts.” He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, but his eyes lingered anyway—like he didn’t quite believe you and then you were close. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to notice the faint scent of his body wash mixed with something warmer, something that had become distinctly him over the past weeks. You didn’t ask, you just climbed onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. One leg swinging over, then the other, settling carefully so you faced him fully—knees on either side of his hips, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders for balance. He freezes for half a second, breath catching—barely noticeable, but you feel it, not because it was new. It was but, it still did something to him every time. His hands come up instinctively, landing on your hips to steady you, fingers warm even through the thin fabric of your shorts.

“Hi,” you said again, softer now, closer.

His hands instinctively came up—not gripping, not pulling, just settling at your waist like they had learned exactly where to belong. Hi,” he echoed. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The record crackled softly, the cursor blinked on the screen behind you and Mark became painfully aware of everything at once—your warmth, your weight, the way your sweater bunched slightly under his fingers, the way your hair fell forward just enough that it brushed against his cheek when you leaned in closer. “Working?” you asked, even though it was obvious. He let out a quiet breath, glancing briefly past you at the screen. “Trying to.” Your eyes followed his for a second before returning to him. “That bad?” He huffed softly, a small smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.“It’s just… a lot,” he admitted and because you were here, because it was you, he didn’t stop there. “They’ve been waiting for me to respond,” he continued, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “I just… didn’t want to open anything. Because once I do, it would mean I have to actually decide.”

There’s something in the way he says it—not dread, not quite fear, but something heavier. Something that carries weight.

You don’t respond right away.

Instead, your fingers traced absent patterns along the fabric of his hoodie trying to sooth him, ground him soft and steady, “decide what?” He looked at you then, really looked and for a moment, all the noise—the emails, the expectations, the pressure—fell somewhere far behind you.

“Everything,” he said simply.

There was no dramatics in it. Just the truth. Your chest tightened slightly, but you didn’t let it show—not in a way that would weigh him down. Instead, you leaned in just a little more, your forehead brushing his lightly. “Okay,” you whispered. “Then don't decide everything.”

His breath caught—just for a second because you said it like it was simple. Like he could, like he was allowed to. His hands tightened slightly at your waist before relaxing again, thumbs brushing gently over the fabric of your sweater. “I think I already know,” he admitted after a moment. “I’m just… scared of what happens after I say it out loud.” You smiled softly, “Then don’t say it out loud yet.” He blinked at you, “What?” “Keep figuring it out,” you said, voice calm, steady. “You don’t have to rush it just because they want you to.”

There it was again. That quiet way you had of making things feel…possible. Mark let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his shoulders dropping slightly and then his eyes flickered downward again. Your legs. Still bare, "Seriously," he muttered suddenly, reaching blindly to the side. “How are you not freezing?” You blink. “I’m not.” “You’re not even wearing socks,” he argued back incredulously. “I don’t like socks.” “That’s not true and you know it baby.”

“It’s my house.”

He stares at you like that’s not a valid argument and you laugh softly as he grabs the throw blanket from the nearby beanbag, shaking it out before draping it over your shoulders and around your legs with gentle, careful movements. “There,” he said, adjusting it unnecessarily. “Better.” You tilted your head, watching him, “you’re very domestic.” That makes him snort, “I burnt eggs, like, three weeks ago.”

“Growth,” you said lightly.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile there now—real this time and then, without thinking, he leaned forward. Just a little, just enough. Your lips met his in something soft, unhurried. Not the kind of kiss that demanded, the kind that stayed. Warm, familiar and Certain. It lingered for a few seconds before he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours again, his nose brushing lightly against yours as he exhaled.

“Girlfriend privileges include temperature regulation now?” he murmured. You smiled, eyes still closed. “Boyfriend duties,” you corrected softly. That word settled between you, not new but still… delicate, still something that made his chest tighten in the best, most terrifying way.

His girlfriend.

The vinyl crackles softly in the background. The room feels smaller, warmer. You lean in just slightly, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Go on,” you whisper. “Work.” He huffs quietly. “You’re not helping.”

“You like it.”

“I do,” He can't help grinning as his hands settle again—one firm at your waist, the other returning to the keyboard. He starts typing, slower now, like his focus is split between the screen and the fact that you’re sitting on him like this. You tilt your head, watching the screen from over his shoulder, “What are they saying?” “Everything,” he mutters. “Asking where I am. Why I’m not responding. Schedules. Contracts. Deadlines.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It’s not.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, “Are you scared?” The question is soft but it lands. He stills slightly. His fingers hover over the keyboard, “…Yeah.”

Honest.

You shift a little, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair, “of what?” He exhales slowly, “of making the wrong choice.” Your thumb brushes gently against his skin, “there isn’t one.” “There is,” he says quietly. “There’s always one.” You pull back just enough to look at him, “you’ve spent so long doing what everyone else wanted,” you say. “Maybe the right choice now is just… doing what you want.” His eyes soften, “and what if that costs me everything?” You hold his gaze, “It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” you admit softly. “But I know you’ll regret it if you don’t try.” Silence. The kind that settles deep. He studies your face like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, his hand leaves the keyboard again and slides up your arm reaching for the back of your neck. Fingers brushing lightly against your skin and light hairs behind. “You make it sound easy.” “It’s not,” you whisper. “But it could be worth it.” He swallowed slightly with his hands shifting just enough to pull you closer—closer than before, like he needed to remind himself you were real. “I’m gonna have to go back,” he said quietly after a moment. You didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just nodded at him, “I know.” His grip tightened “I don’t want to,” he added, almost under his breath.This time, you pull back—just enough to look at him properly, “I know,” you repeated gently and you did. That was the thing. You understood him in ways that made it harder, not easier. Your hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from his face before your fingers lingered there. “You’re not choosing between things,” you said softly. “You’re just…adding something new.” His eyes searching yours, “and what if I mess it up?” he asked. You smiled—small, but certain, “Then we fix it.”

We.

The word landed heavier than anything else. Mark exhales slowly, something in him settling—not completely, not permanently, but enough. Enough to keep going, enough to try. He leans in again, and for a moment, the emails don’t matter, the world outside doesn’t exist. There’s just this.

You.

Him.

The quiet. It's slow, like he doesn't know how not to give you time to pull away. You don’t. Your lips meet. Soft and unrushed. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything—just stays. Your hand tightens slightly in his hoodie and his grip on your waist firms. Just a little, enough to pull you close, to pull you flush against him. Like he’s grounding himself in you. When he pulls back, it’s not far. His forehead rests lightly against yours. Then he pulls back slightly, tucking you closer against him. You shifted slightly, settling more comfortably now—your head resting against his shoulder, your arms loosely around him as the blanket cocooned you both. His chin rests lightly against your hair and then, quietly, he turns back to the screen. His hands moved again—typing, pausing, thinking—but this time, there was less hesitation. Less fear because you were still there. Warm. Close.

Real.

And even as his thoughts wandered—back to contracts, to music, to the uncertain shape of everything waiting for him—one thing stayed clear. He didn’t know how everything would turn out. He didn’t know what choosing himself would cost but he knew this, he wasn’t walking away from you. Not now, not after this. His fingers pause over the keyboard for a moment. Then he types again and behind him, you breathed softly against his shoulder, your presence steady in a way that made everything else feel… manageable. His thumb brushes absently against your side. Like a reminder that you’re still there, that he’s not doing this alone. The vinyl spins. The night deepens and in the quiet rhythm of keys and breath and closeness —You both hold onto the same fragile, steady thought.

We’ll figure it out.

The airport noise didn’t hit him all at once.It felt louder than he remembered or maybe it was just that everything inside him had gone quieter. It layered itself in—first the low hum of voices, then the sharper edge of camera shutters, then the unmistakable swell of recognition as people began to notice him stepping out of the car. Mark adjusted the hood of his jacket a little lower over his head as he stepped out of the car, the familiar choreography of it all settling over him like muscle memory—security, staff, movement, timing. He paused for half a second with the door still open behind him. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, long enough for him to feel it.

That shift.

From being yours—quiet, unobserved, soft around the edges, to being this again.

Public. Watched. Interpreted.

His fingers tightened briefly around his phone before he slipped it into his pocket, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped fully into the light.

And just like that, he wore it.

The small smile. The wave. The careful way his gaze lifted just enough to acknowledge without lingering too long. He knew how to do this, he had always known but now, there was a part of him that stood slightly apart from it, watching himself move through it like it was choreography he no longer fully belonged to. Somewhere between the flashes, his phone vibrated faintly in his pocket. He didn’t check but he felt it and the corner of his mouth softened, just slightly as his mind drifted. To your voice, to the way you had laughed into his shoulder. To the way your fingers used to absentmindedly trace patterns against his hoodie as you watched the many reality shows you loved to hate so much.He swallowed, stepping through the doors.

Back to this.

The schedule swallowed him whole. It always did. Fittings blurred into rehearsals, rehearsals into recordings, recordings into meetings. Rooms changed, outfits changed. The studio smelled faintly of hairspray and fabric steamers. Racks of clothes lined the walls—structured jackets, layered textures, pieces chosen with intention, curated to create something larger than any one person wearing them. Mark stood in front of the mirror, stylists moving around him with practiced ease—adjusting a collar, smoothing fabric along his shoulders, stepping back, stepping in again.

“Turn a little,” someone said.

He did. Automatically. The reflection staring back at him looked right. Sharp, controlled and composed but his eyes lingered on himself just a second longer than usual. Not because he didn’t recognize the person but because he was starting to realize that wasn’t all of him anymore. “Mark, ready for the first set!” He blinked, stepping away from the mirror. “Yeah,” he answered.

Then lighting changed,but the rhythm stayed the same. Fast. Efficient. Demanding. The photoshoot set was bright—white backdrops, stark lighting, cameras already positioned. He stepped into frame, posture shifting instinctively, expression settling into something precise. Click. Flash.

“Chin up slightly—yeah, hold that.”

Click.

“Good. Now soften your eyes a bit.”

Soften. He thought of you, not intentionally. Just, naturally. The way your eyes looked when you laughed. The way your voice softened when you called him Mr. Celebrity like it meant something more than just teasing him.Something in his expression changed. “—yes, that,” the photographer said quickly.

“Hold that.”

Click.

Mark blinked slightly, refocusing but it lingered. That softness, that warmth. He couldn’t turn it off as easily as he used to. Still, he moved through it all with the same quiet precision he always had.

Only now, there were cracks.

Small ones.

Barely visible. But there. In the way his eyes drifted toward his phone when he thought no one was looking. In the way his laugh came a little softer, a little slower, like it was echoing from somewhere else.

_____

The nights were the hardest. The dorm room felt quiet and impersonal, lights dimmed low while the city buzzed endlessly outside. Mark sat on the edge of the bed, guitar resting against his thigh, fingers moving absentmindedly over the strings. The melody was soft. Unfinished. It had been like that for days now—pieces of something forming, dissolving, reforming again. He thought of you when he played. Not intentionally, just…naturally. The way you used to sit and listen, your head tilted slightly, eyes focused on him like the sound mattered more because it came from him. He swallowed, fingers pausing. His phone buzzed. This time, he didn’t wait. He answered immediately. Your face filled the screen—slightly pixelated, hair messy, wrapped in one of your oversized sweaters.

“Hi,” you said softly and just like that, everything eased. “Hey baby” he breathed. For a moment, neither of you said anything. Just…looked. Smiled, existed in the same space, even if it was through a screen. “You look tired,” you murmured. He huffed a quiet laugh. “You look like you just woke up.”

“I did.”

“Of course you did.” He rolls his eyes groaning cheekily, “I’d give up anything for our midday naps.”

The naps were the best, after lunch, after clean-up, especially if it was days where you didn't have to edit till late at night. On the day bed you had on your balcony. Cuddling snugly, legs tangled up and hands wandering where the sun didn't normally shine under a big light throw blanket to protect you both from the wind before Biscuit interrupted your deep slumber with his constant meowing needing something to eat. He secretly believed the cat just grew jealous when he didn't see you for too long.

You smiled, shifting slightly, pulling a blanket tighter around yourself. “Did you eat?” He glanced at the half-empty takeout container beside him, “yeah…but I miss your food most Angel.” You laugh at that before answering softly, ”I miss watching you eat my food. You should still eat.” “I’m eating,” he corrected quickly. “Currently. See?” He lifted the container into view like proof. You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay. I believe you.” Silence settled again—but this time it was softer. Comfortable. “I miss you,” he said suddenly. It slipped out the same way everything important with you always did. Unplanned, unfiltered. Your expression softened immediately. “I know,” you whispered. “I miss you most, my idol.” His grip on the phone tightened slightly. “I don’t like this part,” he admitted.

“The distance?"

“Yeah.”

You nodded slowly, “but we knew it was coming.” “I know,” he sighed. “I just… didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Like what?”

He hesitated, “…like I left something important behind.” Your breath caught slightly—but you smiled anyway. “You didn’t leave it,” you said gently. “It’s still yours. I’m only yours.” Something in his chest ached. In the best way, in the worst way and all at once. “I’ll come back,” he murmured, more to himself than anything.

“I know you will.”

And you did. You always said things like that with so much certainty it made him believe them too.Even when he wasn’t sure how everything would unfold. For a moment, he wasn’t in Korea. He wasn’t in a hotel room, he wasn’t a performer, or an idol, or someone standing on the edge of a life-altering decision.

He was just—Yours.

“Did you talk to Taeyong?” you asked gently, startling him back to reality. He pauses not because the name seems so foreign coming from your glossy lips, it is but he pauses because you remembered him telling you about wanting to talk to him first before fully committing to what he wanted. That conversation was so rushed then and still, you remembered. Then he nodded, even though you couldn’t see it fully, “ yeah.”

“And?”

He laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. “I think I’m really going to do it.” Silence. Not empty, just… full. “Okay,” you said softly. No fear, no doubt. Just. Okay. His chest tightened. “You’re not scared?” he asked quietly. “I am,” you admitted. “But not about you.” That made him pause, “then what?” “The world you’re stepping into,” you said. “And how it might try to pull you away from yourself.”His grip on the phone tightened, “I won’t let it.” “I know,” you whispered and somehow, that was enough For now, for this moment, for the version of him that was still standing in between two lives, trying to figure out how to carry both.

Later that night, alone again, Mark sat by the window, city lights stretching endlessly beyond the glass. His phone rested in his hand, your voice still lingering in his head from earlier and beneath everything—the noise, the schedules, the expectations, his decision sat quietly. Steady. Unmoved. He hadn’t said it out loud yet. Not to them, not to the team he led that had become brothers ever since they fought for him back into the group when the system was meant to function differently. Not properly but it was there. Waiting, like everything else.He exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the wall. He didn’t know how it would go, didn't know what it would change but he knew this. He was choosing something for himself. For once and somehow, that choice still led back to you.

Always.

It scared him but for the first time in a long while, even before he met you, it felt right and for now…

That was enough.

_______

It was late when he met Taeyong. Not planned through managers or schedules. Just a message.

Hyung, are you free?

And somehow, Taeyong always was.The café was quiet, tucked away enough that they could sit without being watched too closely. The kind of place that didn’t demand attention—just offered space. Mark arrived first. Sat and waited. His fingers tapped lightly against the table before he forced them still, exhaling slowly. When Taeyong walked in, it was with that same calm presence he always carried—like he understood more than he said, like he saw more than he let on. “Hey,” Taeyong greeted, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Hey, hyung.”

They ordered drinks. For a moment, it was just comfortable silence. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Taeyong had always been like that—someone who didn’t rush silence, who let it stretch until it became comfortable instead of heavy.

“You look tired,” Taeyong said finally, studying him. Mark huffed softly. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

He nodded, glancing down at his hands.

“I think too much,” he admitted. Taeyong smiled faintly. “That’s not new.” Mark huffed a quiet breath. “Yeah.” A pause. “And distracted.” Mark’s eyes flickered up. Taeyong held his gaze, not accusatory, not pressing. Just there. Mark looked down at his hands, fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of the table.

“I went away,” he said finally.

“I know.”

“It was…different.” Taeyong nodded slightly, waiting. Mark swallowed, “I think I needed it more than I realized.”

Another pause.

Mark let out a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly. “I made a decision,” he said, voice lowering slightly.

Taeyong didn’t interrupt, just listened. Mark swallowed, “I don’t think I can… keep doing this the same way anymore.” There it was. Not fully said but close enough. Taeyong leaned back slightly, eyes steady on him, “what does that mean to you?” Mark hesitated because saying it out loud would make it real, would make it irreversible. “…I don’t think I’m going to renew,” he said finally. The words settled between them. Heavy but not surprising. Taeyong didn’t react immediately. He just nodded. Like he had already known. “Are you sure?” he asked gently. Mark exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time even before I left,” he admitted. “I just didn’t have a reason to actually do it.”

“And now?”

Mark’s lips curved slightly, almost involuntarily. Now, there was you. He didn’t say your name but it was there. In the way his expression softened, in the way his voice steadied. “I think I want to try something that feels like mine,” he said. Taeyong watched him carefully and then, quietly. “Then you should.” Mark blinked,”that’s it?” Taeyong shrugged lightly. “You already decided. You just wanted someone to tell you it’s okay.” Mark let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for weeks. “Is it?” he asked, softer now. Taeyong’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s your life,” he said simply. “Not the company’s. Not the fans’. Not even ours.”

The words landed deeper than anything else.

“And you’re not leaving us,” Taeyong added. “You’re just choosing yourself differently.” Mark’s throat tightened. He nodded slowly. “I was thinking maybe after the comeback,” he murmured. “When contract talks come up again. It can be announced officially when Dream and I head out for tour.” Taeyong tilted his head slightly, “how soon do you think you’ll do it? To tell the guys?” “Soon enough that it still feels like my decision.” Mark stared at the table for a moment, “Heachan might try to talk me out of it,” he said quietly. Taeyong laughed and nodded, “that’s all that matters.”

That, that hit deeper than anything else.Mark’s throat tightened slightly, his gaze dropping again, “it doesn’t feel that simple.” “It never is,” Taeyong replied softly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

Silence settled again. Warm and steady. For the first time since he had made the decision, it didn’t feel like something he was carrying alone.

Now, the silence doesn’t break all at once. It loosens. Gradually. Like the house itself exhales the moment you step fully inside, the door closing softly behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should. The cold from outside lingers in the entryway, clinging to your coat, to the ends of your hair, to the space between you and him—but it doesn’t last. Not when his presence is this close. Not when your hands are still on him like you haven’t quite convinced yourself he’s real.

Mark still hasn’t spoken.

But he moves.

It’s small at first—his hands coming up, slow, hesitant, like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to touch you back. His fingers hover near your wrists before settling there, warm against your skin, grounding in a way that makes your breath hitch without permission. You don’t step away, neither does he and for a moment, the world narrows down to just that—your hands on him, his on you, the quiet between breaths that says more than words ever could.

Then—

“Minhyung-ah?”

The voice comes from deeper in the house, gentle but curious, carrying the warmth of familiarity that doesn’t belong to you yet—but doesn’t feel unwelcome either. Everything shifts. You blink, the moment softening but not disappearing, and Mark exhales like he’s remembering where he is, who he is supposed to be here. His hands tighten around your wrists for just a second—just enough to say stay—before he finally, finally speaks.

“…I’m here.”

His voice is quieter than usual. Rougher when he looks at you. Really looks at you this time, like he’s catching up to what just happened—your presence, your hands, the way you crossed continents just to stand in front of him like this. Something in his expression softens, almost dangerously so. “Come in,” he murmurs, softer now, and this time his hand doesn’t leave yours when he turns.The house feels different once you’re inside it properly. Warmer. Lived-in.The kind of warmth that doesn’t come from temperature but from years—family dinners, laughter tucked into walls, quiet mornings that smell like coffee and something sweet baking in the oven. You notice everything because you don’t know where to look. The framed photos along the hallway. The soft hum of a heater somewhere. The faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen. And then, you see them.

His parents.

His mother turns first, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to something softer the moment her eyes land on Mark—and then, immediately, on you.

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just…assessing. Gentle.

“Oh,” she says, a small smile forming, “you must be the one he can’t stop reverting back to when I cook something wrongly,” like she already understands more than either of you have said out loud. “You didn't tell me she was so pretty, honey.”

Mark exhales sharply beside you.

“Mom—”

But it’s too late because his father is already stepping forward, a quiet warmth in his presence that mirrors Mark’s in a way that makes something in your chest tighten unexpectedly. “You came a long way,” he says simply, his voice calm, welcoming without being overwhelming. “You should sit. You both should.”

And just like that, the moment shifts again.From the doorway to something steadier, something real. The dining table is already set. Not formally, not in a way that feels staged—but thoughtfully. Plates arranged neatly, a soft cloth laid across the center, small bowls of cut fruit, slices of cake that look homemade. There’s steam rising from mugs—coffee, hot chocolate—the scent wrapping around you like an embrace you didn’t know you needed. Mark settles beside you after pulling out a chair for you. Your knee brushes his under the table and neither of you move away. His hand finds yours under the table before you even realize it’s happening. Firm. Grounding.

And this time—he doesn’t hesitate.

At first, the conversation is light. His mother asks about your flight, your work, even roping you into making lasagna for dinner that night despite you claiming to be booking a hotel as you didn't want to disturb them only for his father to threaten to disown his own son if you slept outside. His father asks about how long you’re staying, insisting that you stay as long as you want to. You answer, politely, softly—but your awareness never leaves Mark because he’s quiet. Too quiet. Not distant—no, not that. Present but like something inside him is gathering itself, slowly, carefully, waiting for the right moment to surface. You feel it in the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles. Absentminded, repetitive and nervous. And then, It happens.

“I told them.”

It’s simple. Too simple for what it means.The room stills—not dramatically, not abruptly—but in a way that feels intentional. His parents don’t interrupt. Don’t rush him. They wait because they know this matters.Mark exhales, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly, like he needs that contact to anchor himself, "my managers. The company. The members…” His voice steadies as he speaks, but there’s something underneath it—something raw, something exposed. “I told them I’m not renewing.”

The words land softly but they carry weight. Years. A decade of something built, something lived in, something that shaped him into who he is—and who he’s trying to become beyond it. “I’ll finish the tour,” he continues, quieter now, more certain. “I’ll stay until everything we planned is done. But after that…”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to because it’s already there, sitting in the space between all of you. The decision, the ending and the beginning of something else. You don’t realize your grip has tightened until he squeezes back. A quiet reassurance or maybe a question. You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him—and when you do, you see it. The fear. Tucked carefully behind the confidence he’s trying to hold onto and something in your chest aches because you understand it, because you feel it too but more than that, you believe in him. Your thumb brushes over his hand, slow, deliberate, and when you speak, your voice is soft—but steady.

“It’s going to be okay.”

Not rushed. Not forced.Just… true. You don’t say it because it’s easy. You say it because you’ve seen him. All of him. The uncertainty, the passion, the way he lights up when he talks about music that feels like his. When you watch him make music he actually likes and you trust that version of him more than anything he’s leaving behind.

His mother is the first to respond, “you’ve always known when something feels right for you,” she says gently, her gaze steady on him. “Even when it’s difficult.” His father nods once, slower, thoughtful, “you’re not losing anything,” he adds. “You’re choosing something else.”

Simple but it lands and you feel it in the way Mark’s shoulders loosen, just slightly. In the way he exhales—not like he’s been holding his breath, but like he’s finally allowed to. For a moment, no one speaks. Not because there’s nothing to say but because everything that needed to be said…has been.The warmth of the room settles around you again. The quiet returns—but it’s different now.

Full.

Complete.

Mark turns his head, just slightly to look at you and this time, there’s no hesitation in it. No uncertainty. Just…something soft. Something certain, something that looks a lot like hope. His fingers lace through yours fully now on the table, not hidden, not tentative—just there, open, real and when he squeezes your hand this time, it feels different. Like a promise, not just that he’s not leaving you but that he’s finally choosing himself and for the first time…

He believes he’ll be okay.

TAGLIST.

WARNING:

I had too much time on my hands...way too much time. I wanted chaos, comfort, comedy, but I swear things aren't just handed to you or run smoothly irl. 

Too many your and you in these damn episodes. (This format of writing is not for everyone AND THAT'S OKAY)

The romance is romancing (the tooth rotting kind, I hope) The chemistry just made science.

Heat, tension, and smut (maybe, not yet decided).

Mullet Jisung! Yes, that's a warning, as his dark, fluffy hair was a heavily paid actor in the making of this fan fiction. Jisung is undeniably, shamelessly smitten and in love, and Chenle gets second-hand embarrassment on his behalf every. Single. Time.

Make outs, Fall outs, Heartbreaks and Flashbacks...lots and lots of them. It's crazy. Please be keen while reading.

Their world is uniquely theirs. Do not hold me accountable for any inaccuracies you stumble upon. Let's just have fun and indulge ourselves, wildflowers!!!

Loosely very loosely inspired by TSITP because it was the only thing I could watch after love island but greatly influenced by the loverboyseries here on tumblr written @withlovemark

That series has a special place in my heart and this is my proof of that.

10- 60k words in each episode.

NOTE.

Nothing I write here is a true description of the real world or a definitive description of the personalities, identities, and sexuality of the idol face claims I have used in the fruition of the story I am telling. Stay safe, MNDI.

I am trying to challenge myself and my writing by tapping into the LGBTQ+  community, and this is an indirect way I will be using to understand and be educated more on it, so I could make unconscious mistakes (kindly let me know as you read). And in respect of that, my Gay couple will NOT have any smut scenes, but I am hoping their love for each other can shine through and be enjoyed regardless.

If this is not your tea, please don't get burned trying to drink it.

Let me know your thoughts and I am open to suggestions about anything.

Love you lots, kisses.

Memories have been indented, but all other events in the episodes follow each other. As for the minisodes, these are merely Jisung's POV on events that have already happened in the episodes prior or a present event in his world.

MAIN MASTERLIST

SOCIALS | BTS

Status (ongoing)

EPISODE 1.

You went looking for art.

You found him instead —a hockey boy with a nosy streak, ramen breath, and the softest laugh.

You promised yourself not to feel anything.

Then he handed you a ring, and kissed you like you already belonged to him.

minisode 1

EPISODE 2.

Between Yuta’s secrets, Jungwoo’s ghosts, and the endless IKEA manuals no one can read—you somehow find home in a boy who builds you a shelf, hands you a brush, and calls you his favorite mess.

It shouldn’t feel this simple. It shouldn’t feel this right.

But it does.

You weren’t supposed to find love between unpacked boxes.

minisode 2

EPISODE 3.

You woke up to warmth — his hand still resting on your waist, the morning too quiet to be innocent.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Then he kissed you goodbye like it meant something, and the world started spinning faster.

By sunset, old ghosts had names again — and one of them said yours like a prayer he shouldn’t still remember.

minisode 3

EPISODE 4.

You stopped looking for him years ago.

But time has a cruel way of circling back —some ghosts don't haunt. they wait.

And when the past collides with your present, you find Jisung's hand already there, steady, sure and warm —a reminder that love isn't always loud, but it can be enough to drown echoes.

minisode 4

EPISODE 5.

Somewhere between the speeches, the cheesecake, and the bass shaking the floor, you forget what quiet feels like and somehow leave with a story that feels like a promise.

There's laughter, bad dancing, and the boy who keeps looking at you like he's already written you into every plan. You laugh, kiss, fall asleep in his hoodie—safe, dizzy, warm.You almost let it feel like forever.

It should feel simple.

But simple things have a way of trembling. Maybe the heart doesn't hide—maybe it just hesitates.

minisode 5

CUTS.

EPISODE 6.

Between old names resurfacing and new routines settling in, the weekend stretches longer than it should. Everyone is orbiting something they shouldn’t be—you just happen to be standing still long enough to feel it.

You weren’t looking for permanence, yet somehow, it keeps finding you.

minisode 6

EPISODE 7.

Between old names resurfacing and new routines settling in, nothing feels as simple as it should. Everyone is orbiting something they shouldn’t—past choices, unspoken fears, almost-mistakes or something dangerously close to love.

And yet, somewhere between quiet confessions, shared glances, and a rooftop that holds too much truth, you begin to realize that maybe this time… you’re not the one running.

minisode 7

EPISODE 8.

EPISODE 9

EPISODE 10

EPISODE 11

EPISODE 12...

You didn’t look forward to the drinking they were excited for, or wearing various bikini sets just to nap aimlessly on a day bed during the month-long getaway.

Not even the parade of eye candy wandering around in low-hanging swim trunks made your stomach flip anymore, despite Karina and Somi’s endless squeals every time summer talk came up, much to Shotaro's disgust and Jeno's jealousy.

This summer, everything felt hollow. 

Pictures Jaemin snapped with his new camera barely elicited a smile, compliments barely made you feel pretty anymore, and third-wheeling in every corner of the cabin's resort had become second nature.

“Why the hell are you mopping?” Karina demanded one morning, cornering you before breakfast. You had just walked into the open hall from the resort's gym, having completed your morning workout bright and early.

“I’m not mopping!” you retorted, defensive, even though your hand still lingered over the wet mop.

“Oh my God, I can’t. Something is seriously wrong with you.” she groaned mortified before warning with a pointed finger while shaking her head like a disappointed parent,“ If anyone asks, I don't know you.”

Karina wasn’t wrong—she was not the only one who had been watching you for a while now.

In your defense, you were pretending to be Troy Bolton singing Bet On It, the tiled floor being your golf course and the mop your golf club. You’d rather die than admit that though.

And then you froze mid-step, staring down at the mop in your hands like it had personally insulted you.

Except… it wasn’t the mop at all.

From the corner of your eyes, as Karina walked away muttering low at how she couldn't believe she was friends with you, you saw him.

Fuck.

A few steps in front of you stood a man tall and striking, with a lean, athletic build that made his casual stance somehow both effortless and imposing. His wolf-cut hair fell just above his eyes in loose strands, some tied back into a messy ponytail that gave him a carelessly charming air. A few dark stray pieces curled at the nape of his neck, catching the morning light.

He wore only a sleeveless vest and dark shorts, the kind of outfit that made you painfully aware of how clearly he had been working out. A towel slung around his neck and earbuds dangling from his ears completed the picture—nonchalant, almost lazy, yet somehow magnetic. His hazel eyes glimmered with amusement, bright enough to make your stomach do something very un-summer-like.

He was not supposed to be watching you—but judging by that smirk, he clearly had been.

He was not supposed to be in your life, not on a week meant for pretending to have fun, not in the quiet corner outside the gym where you thought you were alone.

“You, uh… usually clean the gym floor in sneakers?” he asked, voice casual but teasing.

You blinked. “I… what?”

“That.” He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, his sneakers squeaking lightly on the polished floor. “You’re, like… half mopping, half dancing? I’m just curious. Safety regulations or a new fitness routine?”

Your cheeks heated, which was ridiculous. Who gets flustered by a guy in a towel? Apparently, someone with zero social self-preservation skills—that’s who. 

“Uh… I—It’s not what it looks like,” you mumbled, awkwardly trying to shove the mop behind you as if that would erase the nightmare he just witnessed, looking anywhere else but at him.

“I was just—”

“Yeah, yeah. Summer workouts. Got it,” he interrupted, finally smiling a little crookedly, like he was letting you off easy.

You exhaled, a breath you didn’t know you were holding, before finally meeting his eyes. Then you saw it—something in them that made you wish you’d actually said something clever instead of tripping over your words.

He thought you were a strange little woman. Perfect.

Karina’s earlier groan echoed in your mind, and you wanted to die just a little.

She would've died on your behalf then and there.

The man laughed softly at your frozen expression, which was probably the worst part. He was so easy-going, clearly so… effortlessly magnetic, and all you wanted was to disappear behind the nearest rowing machine.

“Name’s Jisung, by the way,” he said, extending a hand.

You stared at it, blinking ever so slowly. The mop was still in your hands. You dropped it—carefully, strategically—so it landed with a soft clunk. Finally, hesitantly, you shook his hand, hoping you didn’t reek of sweat despite your clammy palms.

“Uh… hi,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded like it belonged to someone cool, not someone caught half-dancing with a mop.

“Hi,” he grinned. “I’ll see you around. Maybe. Hopefully without mops next time.”

You awkwardly smiled at that, because knowing you, he probably won’t. 

Then without missing a beat, you turned and walked away, your heartbeat still doing cartwheels. You prayed on Somi's crystals that he was just a passerby in this big resort.

Yet somehow, after that very first “mop incident,” he’d suddenly been…everywhere.

First it had been in just the gym, you were in the middle of your half-hearted stretching routine, trying to convince yourself that lunges count as cardio, when your foot catches on the edge of the yoga mat.

And unceremoniously, down you go.

Not gracefully, not elegantly. 

Just a loud, flailing, 'oh-no-I’m-about-to-die-in-public' kind of fall.

“Whoa!” a voice calls out, and suddenly a strong hand shoots out to steady you.

Jisung.

He’s standing there, sneakers perfectly clean, towel slung casually over one shoulder, ear buds now dangling around his neck. His expression is a mix of amusement and mild concern, like he’s trying not to laugh at your misfortune but failing spectacularly.

“You okay?” he asks, his hand still hovering near yours, just in case.

“I… yeah. Totally fine,” you say, hopping to your feet, pretending your knees didn’t just betray you. “Just… testing gravity. You know, science stuff.”

Jisung raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Sure. Science.” He tilts his head, smirk forming. “Gym’s a dangerous place. Watch out for rogue yoga mats.”

You can feel the color creeping up your neck and the tips of your ears, and you desperately wish the floor would just swallow you whole. “Uh… I’m—” you start, but your mind goes blank. You’ve never been this flustered over a guy handing you your dignity back after a faceplant.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Alright. Well, Gravity Tester. I’ll see you around—hopefully with fewer wipeouts next time.”

You mutter something that hopefully sounded like a goodbye and gather your scattered pride but no...it was not the end of it because Somi's crystals clearly didn't do shit.

Then, it was at breakfast, he happened to be passing by just as you muttered sarcastically about how “my calories burned were from emotional distress.” And later, as you slumped on a lounge chair by the pool, he leaned against the railing, casually dangling his earbuds, pretending not to notice you glaring at him while reading the exact same book you had in your lap.

It was like he suddenly existed solely to invade your personal bubble, but in that frustratingly charming way that made it impossible to be mad at him for long.

By the third day, you were convinced he either was a stalker or he had some kind of sixth sense, appearing wherever misery struck you. And somehow, despite your best efforts to ignore him, each encounter left a little spark—a teasing smile here, an eyebrow raised there—that you couldn’t quite snuff out.

That morning, though, the spark nearly ignited a fire.

You had your phone pressed to your ear, pacing along the patio as you tried to keep your voice steady.

“Guys, seriously—remember? You promised me the gallery today. That was the only thing I wanted to do on this trip.”

On the other end, Karina groaned dramatically. “Ugh, the gallery again? Why are you like this? Just come to the beach party.”

“I don’t want the damn beach party,” you snapped. “You said we’d go together. I’ve been waiting all week.”

There was a muffled laugh—Somi. “Grandma mode activated.”

"She's not a grandma Somi." Shotaro chimed in, your twin brother's voice faint but clear, defending you, "We did promise her."

Jaemin was invited to a picture exhibition with the girl he had been hooking up with since the vacation started.

Somi grumbled "No one wants to sit through boring art when there’s literally a DJ on the sand.”

Your chest tightened. Same script, different summer. You weren’t fun enough, spontaneous enough, light enough. Never had been.

It was times like these you wish Jeno wasn't away for Hockey camp because he keeps his promises. Always.

You could faintly hear Jaemin asking for his charger in the background.

And then a voice cut through the air—smooth, warm, casual, but carrying just enough to reach you:

“Gallery, huh?”

You whipped around almost giving yourself whiplash.

Jisung was leaning against the patio railing, towel still slung across his shoulder. He looked irritatingly effortless, like the universe had staged the lighting just for him.

Him and that stupid towel.

On the phone, Karina was still talking. “Look, we’ll grab you la-" But she cut herself off once she heard the deep voice.

“I can offer,” he said, shrugging. “No group pressure. Just art. And maybe someone who knows the difference between a brushstroke and a mop.”

Your heart dropped to your knees. Oh, hell no.

"Is that a guy's voice?" She asked.

But you weren’t listening anymore. Because he was looking right at you. Waiting. Smiling like this was the most normal thing in the world.

You panicked. “Uh—bad signal, gotta go, bye!” you blurted into the phone, hanging up so fast you nearly flung it into the pond in front of you.

The second you shut the phone, as if on cue, it immediately started buzzing again.

Of course.

You glanced at the screen

BEETLE calling... 

Damn it.

"One moment please." You tell the man beside you and he nods, tucking a hand on his chin resting his elbow on the railing amused by the dread on your face.

You debated ignoring it, but you’d already pulled the disappearing act once. So, with a resigned sigh, you answered.

“Are you insane?" Shotaro hissed the second you picked up. His voice was sharp, cutting through background chatter. “Where are you? Do you want me to have an aneurysm? And did Karina just say a guy?”

You winced, holding the phone a little away from your ear. “Relax, Taro. Bad timing. That’s all.”

“Bad timing? You disappeared mid-fight with Karina and then left us on read for two hours yesterday. And now some dude—” He paused, his voice tightening. "Who the hell is he? Let me take you to the gallery."

You sighed, rubbing at your temples in frustration. Just a second ago he didn't seem to want to tag along...

"I'll call you later." You dismiss hanging up before he could protest.

For a moment, you just stood there, fingers tight around your phone, refusing to look up.

When you finally did, Jisung was still watching. Smirk tugging at his mouth. Like he knew. Like he’d just caught you red-handed in your own little social meltdown.

“Bad timing?” he teased.

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly got stuck at the back of your head. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

“Maybe.” He pushed off the railing, strolling closer, way too casual. “But the gallery sounds more interesting. And honestly, you don’t strike me as a party-on-the-beach kind of girl anyway.”

Your stomach twisted. “That’s a really creepy thing to say for someone that was eavesdropping and to someone you barely know at that.”

Instead of being offended, he just grinned wider, hands raised like you’d caught him. “Fair. I’ll work on my delivery.”

“Please do.”

“Still,” he added, voice dropping playfully, “the offer stands. Ride with me. Unless you’d rather mop the gallery floor instead of, you know, see it.”

You opened your mouth to say no. To tell him he gave off stalker vibes, to laugh it off, to put the wall back up.

But the thing was—Karina wasn’t coming. Neither was Somi. Or any of them despite Shotaro's overprotective instincts. You’d be stuck sulking in the cabin while they danced the night away barefoot on the beach.

And suddenly the thought of staying behind felt heavier than the risk of saying yes.

You exhaled through your nose, glaring at him like it might scare him off. “Fine,” you muttered. “But only because I actually want to see the gallery. Not because I trust you or your stalker energy.”

“Noted,” he said, eyes gleaming. “So that’s a yes?”

You groaned. “It’s a conditional yes.”

“Good enough.”

And just like that, he pulled his phone from his pocket, already tapping at the screen like the deal was sealed. “What's your cabin number? I'll swing by and pick you up. Give me twenty minutes.”

Your brows furrowed. “Pick me up? With what, your stalker van?”

He laughed, that easy grin returning. “You’ll see.”

“Wow. Super comforting,” you muttered. “This definitely doesn’t sound like how horror movies start.”

He just winked, stepping back toward the railing. “Relax. You’ll thank me later.”

"I hope so." You whispered and the man just grinned waiting patiently for your answer, " It's cabin 80."

"Cupcake. I know so."

You had barely stepped into your room when the door burst open behind you and in spilled Somi and Karina like they owned the place, Somi clutching a curling iron that was still warm, Karina carrying half her makeup bag.

“Okay, who is he?” Somi demanded, eyes wide, hair only half-curled so one side was perfectly bouncing while the other drooped like wet noodles.

“She hung up on us,” Karina had barely sat in front of your vanity and Somi had yet to plug in her curling iron beside her when Shotaro barged in after them. “Over a guy.”

Karina gasped dramatically, already missing an eyelash on her left eye but still looking glamorous in the way only Karina could. “She what?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I did not hang up on you for a guy. I hung up on you because… the signal was bad.”

“Bullshit,” Shotaro snapped. “Tell me his name.”

Somi flopped onto your bed like it was her throne, chin propped on her hands. Curling iron long forgotten the least of her problems at the mention of the opposite sex. “Oooh, is it the tall one? The hot one with the wolf-cut?”

You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

Karina gave you a sly look, crossing her arms even as the missing eyelash fluttered tragically. “So it is him. Jisung.”

Shotaro growled pacing the room nervously. “Oh, hell no. His name is—wait, you already know his name?!”

“Long story.” you said quickly, glaring at Somi before she could answer as she kicked her feet like a lovesick teenager. 

She was a love sick teenager.

“Not that long,” Karina said dryly, inspecting her compact mirror. “We saw him checking you out during breakfast. Hard not to notice, really. He was stares at you  like you are the Mona Lisa.”

“Karina!” you groaned.

"How do you guys even know his name already?" Shotaro asked, still glitching because this conversation was being too fast forwarded for the remaining two brain cells he had left.

"Asked a pool boy. He stares at you all the time, it's pathetically sweet.” Somi said, inspecting her nails like this wasn’t news. 

“Honestly, I was starting to get secondhand embarrassment for you." Karina replied before turning to address your brother, "He's the gym's fitness instructor, keep up." 

Somi nodded squealing, “He is hot, though. Like… unfairly hot. Tall, built, ponytail. If you don’t go, I will.”

“Over my dead body,” Shotaro declared. "I'm calling reinforcements."

As if summoned, Jeno’s name (HONEY BUN) flashed briefly on Karina’s phone where it lay next to her makeup—her lockscreen lighting up with his “Hockey Camp updates” text notification. “See,” you muttered under your breath. “At least Jeno wouldn’t gang up on me like this.”

“Oh, Jeno would definitely gang up on you, more than Taro even.” Karina corrected, arching her brow. “But right now, we’re more interested in what you’re going to wear.”

Somi clapped her hands squealing in excitement. “You’re going. What are we wearing?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said firmly.

“Wrong answer,” Karina said and before you could stop them, they raided your closet like a pair of personal stylists on a mission. 

Shotaro groaned, taking refuge on your bed the second it was free. “She’s not leaving this cabin with some stranger. Over my dead body.”

Somi ignored him, pulling a dress from the hanger. “Too brunch.”

Karina shook her head, holding up another. “Too grandma.”

Shotaro looked ready to combust. “Why are you helping her?!”

“Because,” Karina said sweetly, tossing a leather jacket onto the pile, “we’re not about to let her roll up to a date looking like she came out of a bad hair day franchise."

Somi cackled, shoving a pair of platform boots into your hands. “Let’s make our shy girl look like a rockstar.”

Shotaro groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose at the sight of them. “She’s going to break her ankle. And leather? In this heat?!”

“Fashion has no temperature,” Karina shot back, pointing at you like a drill sergeant. “Hair down, minimal makeup. The jacket will carry you.”

“Guys—” you tried, but they were already in motion, tossing clothes, plugging in irons, and arguing over eyeliner.

Your eyes widened. “A motorcycle outfit? You don’t even know if he—”

"A mullet like that definitely owns a motorcycle or at least can drive one." Karina answered firmly.

"It'd be so cool if he did." Somi whispered living vicariously through you when they both jumped in excitement.

Shotaro exploded.

“You’re NOT—”

“Out,” Karina and Somi said in unison, shoving him toward the door.

“You have no right!” he protested.

“You’ll thank us when she’s married off and not sulking all summer,” Karina said, giving him a final shove.

The door slammed.

From the hallway came Shotaro’s muffled voice: “If he so much as touches her, I swear—”

Karina rolled her eyes and yelled back, “Buy yourself a diary, Taro!”

You blinked at the mountain of clothes, the gleaming boots, the leather jacket now draped like a challenge.

“Where did those even come from?” you muttered still eyeing the boots…they were yours but you don't remember carrying them.

“Destiny,” Somi declared. "You're about to look cooler than all of us combined."

On the other side, his muffled voice rang out. “This is kidnapping! I’m reporting this to Mom!”

Karina grinned, holding up your leather jacket like a crown jewel. “Now. Let’s make you hot enough to make him call you mommy.”

By the time you wrestled yourself into the outfit Karina and Somi had pieced together for you, the room had transformed into chaos disguised as teamwork.

Somi’s blonde curls now bounced in perfect, glossy spirals, her smug grin proof that she had spent the last ten minutes admiring herself in your vanity mirror while pretending to “help.” Karina, perched cross-legged at the edge of your bed, with both eyelashes glued on, was finishing the sharp wing of her eyeliner with surgeon-like precision, looking more runway-ready than vacation casual. They looked like they had gotten ready for a party, while you were sweating bullets in platform boots.

“Okay,” Somi announced, snapping her compact shut before looking at you. “Moment of truth.”

You glanced at yourself in the mirror. The leather jacket hugged your shoulders just right, the boots gave you an extra inch of height, and with your hair left loose and makeup minimal, you looked… like someone who wasn’t about to combust at the idea of riding off with a stranger.

Cool. Maybe even intimidating, if you squinted hard enough. 

Then because you are a chronic overthinker, panic hits you full force.

“What the hell am I doing?” you whispered in your reflection.

Your pulse hammered so hard it made your hands shaky as you smoothed your hair down again, then immediately regretted it and fluffed it back up. You turned sideways, frowned at the way the jacket framed your body, then turned again.

“This is insane. He’s insane. I’m insane for even—”

“You’re welcome,” Karina cut in flatly.

She said your name assuringly. "Everything's going to be okay. You're going to have fun, I know it."

“This is a terrible idea,” you muttered, tugging at the zipper.

“Nope,” Somi said, busy scrolling through her phone, legs swinging. “Terrible would be staying in while your hot gym stalker drives away on a motorcycle without you. This is character development.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands.

Shotaro, however, wasn’t impressed. The door had long been opened for him and Karina swore to castrate him a second time if he so much as breathed wrongly in your direction.

He stood stiffly near the door, arms crossed, glaring at you like a dad about to cancel prom.

“She’s not leaving,” he declared.

“She is,” Karina countered, standing up to block him.

“This is reckless—”

“So is your haircut, but here we are,” Somi shot back sweetly, sliding in between you and Shotaro like a human shield.

You sighed. “Guys—”

But it was already happening. The room erupted into muffled chaos, Somi and Karina physically holding Shotaro back while you slipped past them toward the door.

“Don’t you dare step out that door!” Shotaro barked, straining against their grip.

“God, you’re so dramatic,” Karina groaned, digging her heels in.

And then—

The sound of an engine. Low. Smooth. Rumbling closer.

Karina perked up instantly. “Called it.”

Somi launched herself to the window that stretched over the front porch, yanking the curtain aside just in time for Karina to see it too.

A sleek, black motorcycle pulled up in front of your cabin, its polished chrome catching the fading amber light of the evening. The engine hummed deep in your chest before it cut off, leaving only the thrum echoing in your ears.

Outside, the late afternoon sun spilled golden across the cabin path. The air was warm but tempered by a soft breeze, carrying the faint scent of saltwater and sunscreen from the beach. The light dappled through the trees, making the gravel shimmer faintly beneath your boots as you stepped outside.

And there he was.

Jisung.

He swung his leg over the bike like it was second nature.

Helmet first—pulled off with one hand, the other sliding through his hair as it fell in smooth, slightly damp strands across his forehead. He raked his fingers through it, brushing it back with practiced ease, before shaking it loose again.

Karina whistled low. “This is criminal.”

He wore a leather jacket too—his darker, heavier, fitting snug across broad shoulders, opened to reveal a grey shirt beneath that clung just enough to remind you of every bicep curl you’d witnessed in the gym. Faded jeans, boots scuffed in the right places. He looked like he’d been ripped out of some nostalgic summer film where bad decisions looked good.

And worst of all—he was taller than you remembered.

Like, really tall. You barely came up to his chin in your boots, and the thought of standing that close made your stomach flip violently.

Behind you, Shotaro had clearly heard the engine too, because he started pounding on the door. “Don’t you dare climb that bike young lady! I swear, I’ll drag you out of that helmet myself”

Karina and Somi pressed their weight against the wood, holding it shut like soldiers on the front line.

“Stand down, Captain Buzzkill!” Somi yelled.

You swallowed hard, palms damp, as Jisung finally looked up—directly at the window. And smiled.

Shit.

His gaze swept over you slowly—boots, to the miniskirt, to jacket, lingering just long enough to make you want to crawl into the ground—before it softened into something you couldn’t name.

“You took longer than twenty minutes,” you blurted, because your brain was fried.

He grinned, leaning against his bike. “I gave you extra time. Figured you might need it to look…” His eyes flickered over you once more. “Extra special for me.”

Your throat went dry.

“But,” he added quickly, tapping the spare helmet in his hand, you've only noticed it now, “truth is, I was looking for the right one for you. Didn’t want you stuck with a spare that looked like a bobblehead.”

You blinked at the sleek, perfectly fitted helmet. “You got this for me?”

He shrugged, casual, but there was a flicker of something earnest in his eyes. “Couldn’t show up empty-handed.”

Your stomach betrayed you with a flip. “Well… you don’t look too bad yourself.”

That crooked grin again. “Not too bad, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the helmet. “Don’t get used to compliments.”

But the thing was—the helmet didn’t exactly slide on. You pushed, tugged, tried again, but it wobbled uselessly against your head.

Jusung’s chuckle rumbled low in his chest. “Here,” he said, stepping closer. Too close.

He reached for the helmet, his large hands brushing against yours, warm even through the cool evening air. He adjusted it, gently tugging it down until it finally slid into place with a soft click.

“See?” he teased, bending low to meet your eyes through the visor. “Perfect fit. Even if you look like a bobblehead at first.”

You scowled, but your lips twitched. “Shut up.”

And then you realized—how close he actually was.

He was tall enough that even with the helmet on, you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. His chest was right there, close enough that if you leaned forward even a little, you’d bump into him. The leather of his jacket brushed your sleeve, and the faint scent of soap and something warm—and lime—wrapped around you.

You cleared your throat, stepping back quickly. “Thanks. I could’ve figured it out.”

“Sure,” he said, still smiling. “Eventually.”

“Wait,” he suddenly said, tipping his chin toward you, his hazel eyes catching the light. “Where exactly is this gallery?”

“Oh. Right.” You fumbled with your shoulder bag, digging deep for your phone before unlocking it, swiping to the event page you’d bookmarked weeks ago. “Here. It’s downtown, near the harbor.”

Leaning slightly closer, he glanced at the screen, nodding once. “Got it.” He didn’t even bother saving it—like he’d memorized the map in two seconds flat. Then his gaze flicked back to you, mouth quirking. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

You swallowed, glancing between him, the bike, and the faint reflection of yourself in his helmet visor. Ready? Absolutely not. But saying no wasn’t an option anymore.

“Yeah,” you lied.

He quickly put his helmet back on securing the clasp before effortlessly swinging on to the bike again, un-mounting it and waiting on you.

You cleared your throat, stepping back quickly. “Okay. So… how does this work?”

“Easy,” he said,“You climb on, hold onto me, and don’t let go.”

Your hand hovered awkwardly in the air. “Where exactly am I supposed to…”

He patted his shoulder, smirking. “Start here. Or are you scared?”

You hesitated but climbed on—then placed your hands lightly on his shoulders.

“Hold on tight,” he added, his tone teasing but firm.

“I am holding on,” you protested.

He grinned, twisting the throttle. The engine roared to life with a sharp growl, the sudden vibration jolting through you. Startled, you instinctively wrapped your arms around his waist, clutching tighter than you meant to.

“Better,” he laughed over his shoulder, his voice bubbling with amusement.

Behind you, the cabin door burst open just in time for Karina and Somi to drag Shotaro halfway out, both of them waving wildly like they were sending you off to war.

"See you later!"

Jisung lifted a hand, waving back casually before flicking the visor down on his helmet. “I promise to bring her back in one piece!” he called.

And before you could second-guess yourself, the motorcycle surged forward, wind whipping against your jacket, the world blurring as the two of you disappeared down the sunlit path.

The moment the bike shot forward, the world shifted.

The gravel road blurred beneath you, the late afternoon sun exploding into streaks of gold as wind whipped past your face, tugging at your hair from beneath the helmet. The leather jacket that had felt heavy in the room earlier now shielded you, hugging against the sharp rush of air like it had been made for this moment.

You’d thought the ride would feel terrifying, maybe reckless. Instead, it felt… alive.

The steady thrum of the motorcycle beneath you vibrated through your legs, through your arms where they wrapped tightly around Jisung’s waist. The smell of pine and sea salt mingled in the breeze as the cabins faded behind you, replaced by winding roads that cut through the sun-drenched landscape.

“See?” His voice carried back through the rush of wind, teasing. “Not so scary, huh?”

You tightened your grip around him instinctively as he leaned smoothly into a curve, the bike tilting just enough to make your stomach flip. “I didn’t say that!” you yelled back, though your voice cracked halfway between panic and exhilaration.

He laughed, the sound swallowed partly by the roar of the engine but warm all the same.

The road stretched wide ahead, lined with fields glowing in the amber light. Kids chased a soccer ball in the distance, their laughter faint but carried by the breeze. Somewhere further down, the glitter of the lake peeked through trees, the water shimmering like spilled sunlight.

You let your eyes close for a heartbeat, letting the wind sting against your cheeks, letting the roar of the engine drown out every insecurity that had sat heavy all summer. For once, you weren’t sulking in a corner, or being left behind, or second-guessing yourself.

For once, you were moving. Flying.

Your chest swelled with something unfamiliar—something like freedom.

When you dared to open your eyes again, Jisung tilted his head just slightly, his profile sharp beneath the helmet. He must’ve sensed your grip loosening, your hesitation fading, because his voice came back light, playful:

“Knew you’d like it.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” he quipped, revving the engine just enough to make you yelp and clutch him tighter. His shoulders shook with laughter, his tall frame impossibly relaxed even as the world raced past you both.

The road unspooled endlessly ahead, painted in gold and shadow, carrying you somewhere you didn’t know—but for the first time, didn’t mind not knowing.

Because with the wind in your hair, the sun on your skin, and Jisung’s laughter spilling back toward you, it finally felt like summer again.

The world slowed as the streets narrowed, trading wide stretches of countryside for cobblestone sidewalks and neat rows of old-town buildings. The hum of conversation and faint street music drifted in the warm evening air, mixing with the smell of roasting chestnuts from a vendor cart.

The gallery appeared at the end of the block-an elegant, restored warehouse with wide glass windows that glowed from within, light spilling out onto the pavement in soft amber waves. People dressed in easy summer chic filtered in and out: linen shirts, sundresses, sandals tapping against the ground.

Jisung downshifted, the motorcycle easing into a low purr as he pulled up along the curb. You clung tighter instinctively, earning a quiet chuckle from him.

"Relax," he said, kicking down the stand and sliding the bike neatly into place. "I don't usually crash in front of crowds."

"Not funny," you muttered, but your voice shook more from nerves than annoyance.

He flicked his visor up, meeting your gaze with that maddening grin. "You can let go now, you know."

You realized-mortifyingly-that your arms were still locked tight around his waist. Heat rushes to your face as you quickly pull back, sliding off the bike and wobbling just slightly when your boots hit the pavement. The world still buzzed with the echo of motion.

"Careful," the man said, steadying you with one hand at your elbow before dismounting himself in one smooth motion. He tugged off his helmet, hair mussed but effortlessly falling back into place as he shook it loose.

The sight made your chest pinch strangely, and you turned quickly toward the gallery to distract yourself. "We're... here."

"Yep." He dangled your helmet by the strap, tilting his head toward the entrance. "Are you ready to pretend we belong?"

You snorted, tucking your hair behind your ear. "You? Maybe. Me? Not a chance."

"Wrong," he said simply, eyes scanning you once, boots to jacket, like he'd been rehearsing this line all day. "You look like you're about to own the place."

Your heart skipped, though you rolled your eyes to cover it.

Together, you walked up the short stone steps toward the glowing doorway. Inside, laughter and clinking glasses carried out, mingled with the hum of conversation about brushstrokes and light. A banner overhead read: 

Summer Reflections: Local Artists' Collective.

The closer you got, the more your nerves prickled. But just as your fingers twitched at your side, Jisung leaned in slightly, voice low enough to steady the spiral.

"Don't worry. If it gets boring, we'll find a way to make our own fun."

You raised a brow. "Define fun."

He only smirked. "Guess you'll have to trust me."

And against all logic, you almost did.

The gallery air was cool against your skin, a relief after the heat of the ride. The hum of voices wrapped around you, low, thoughtful and occasionally punctuated by laughter. Paintings lined the whitewashed walls, each lit perfectly so the colors bled outward, soft but commanding.

Jisung fell into step beside you, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, gaze flicking over the canvases with a kind of idle curiosity. He didn't look like he belonged here either, but somehow he wore the space better than you felt you ever could.

"So," he said, stopping in front of a massive abstract swirl of blues and yellows. "Do you actually get this stuff, or are you supposed to just nod and look mysterious?"

You bit back a laugh. "You sound like Somi."

"Smart girl," he said. "But seriously. Is this supposed to be the ocean or a very confused omelet?"

The laugh escaped before you could stop it, too loud, drawing a few curious glances from nearby guests. You covered your mouth, but his grin widened.

"There it is," he teased softly. "Knew you had it in you."

You shook your head, embarrassed but oddly lighter. "You're impossible."

"Mm, maybe." His eyes stayed on you, not the painting. "But I think I'm onto something. You're not here for the art."

Your stomach dipped. "What makes you say that?"

"Because you looked more alive dancing with that mop in the gym than you do staring at this thing."

You froze, eyes snapping to him, horrified. "You-"

"Oh, don't worry." His smirk tilted, devilish. "I'll never forget it. The mop was your golf club, right? You were doing..." He snapped his fingers, mock serious. "What was it? That song?"

Your face burned. "Please don't."

"'Bet on it,'" he sang-off-key, deliberately. "You were in full-on Troy Bolton mode. I almost applauded."

You buried your face in your hands. "And I want to evaporate."

He laughed, warm and unbothered. "Relax, I thought it was great."

"Great?" you peeked at him between your fingers.

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Most people just stand around sulking. You? You were putting on a whole show. You've got guts."

That caught you off guard. You lowered your hands, blinking. "Guts? I looked ridiculous."

"And?" He tilted his head. "That's what makes it cool. You weren't worried about who was watching."

You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because the truth was- he wasn't entirely wrong but definitely not right either. It was too early for most people to be up while on vacation.

For a moment, standing there between strangers and art you couldn't decipher, you felt... seen. Not as the awkward third wheel, not as the quiet one Karina rolled her eyes at, but as someone interesting enough for Jisung to still be smiling at.

He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "Besides, if you ever do a full performance, I expect front row seats."

You shoved his shoulder lightly, unable to stop your grin. "You're insufferable."

"Maybe," he said again, "but I'm growing on you."

You both drifted further inside, the noise of the crowd thinning as the rooms narrowed into quieter alcoves. Here, the art was smaller, framed photographs instead of paintings-street scenes, portraits, fleeting moments frozen mid-breath.

Jisung slowed his pace, studying a boy chasing pigeons across a rainy square. His reflection ghosted over the glass as he tilted his head, thoughtful.

"You ever think about that?" he asked.

You glanced up at him. "Think about what?"

"Cameras. Pictures." He tapped the frame lightly with one knuckle. "How some random second of your life gets trapped forever, and you'll never even know."

That landed heavier than you expected. "Kinda creepy," you said, though your voice was quieter.

"Kinda freeing," he countered, eyes still on the photo. "Like proof you were alive in that second. Even if nobody remembers your name."

You didn't answer right away. The words tugged at something in your chest, the same something that had been heavy all summer, the weight you never managed to shake.

He must've noticed, because he turned then, watching you carefully. "Hey," he said gently. "I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's..." You hesitated, words fumbling. "It's just... everyone else seems to know exactly how to live, you know? Karina, Somi, Jaemin...”they're all so loud and certain. And I feel like..."

"Like you're on the sidelines?" he finished.

You blinked at him. "Yeah. Exactly like that."

His smile softened, losing its earlier edge of mischief. "For what it's worth, I don't buy it."

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged, casual but sure. "You've got more going on than you think. Most people wouldn't even step foot in here alone. Most people wouldn't dance with a mop, either. You... do things your way. Doesn't look like the sidelines to me."

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, warmth spread low in your chest, tangled somewhere between embarrassment and gratitude.

"Besides," he added, smirk sneaking back, "you make a mean Troy Bolton impression. That's not exactly forgettable."

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands again. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"Not a chance," he said, laughing. "But hey... it's part of your charm."

Your hands dropped slowly, your heart skipping at the way he said it-like he meant it.

And in that quiet little alcove, surrounded by strangers and photographs of lives you'd never touch, you realized this was the first time all summer you didn't feel invisible.

The hours slipped by inside the gallery without either of you noticing.

At first, you both lingered quietly, drifting through the rooms like strangers who just happened to be walking the same path. But somewhere between the third painting and the first framed sketch, something shifted.

You stopped in front of a panel covered in bold typography and geometric swirls, the kind of piece most people only glanced at before moving on. But you didn't move. You tilted your head, your lips parting as if the colors and sharp angles had tugged the words right out of you.

"I love this," you murmured without thinking. "See how the designer used negative space here? It's almost like... like the empty parts are louder than the actual colors. That's what makes your eyes bounce across it instead of getting stuck."

You spoke faster the longer you went, pointing at little details most people wouldn't even notice- layering, shadowing, font choice.

Halfway through, you realized Jisung wasn't saying anything.

You turned, embarrassed, ready to apologize for rambling.

But his eyes weren't on the artwork at all.

They were on you.

He leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn't teasing. Not really. His gaze was steady, warm, like he was memorizing the way your hands moved when you gestured, or the way your brows arched when you got excited.

"What?" you asked self-consciously, heat creeping up your neck.

"Nothing," he said easily, though the crooked grin didn't fade. "Just... keep talking. You're kind of killing me right now."

Your stomach swooped. You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets and walked faster, pretending not to notice his chuckle as he fell back in step with you.

Later, when you caught him holding up his phone, you assumed he was taking a shot of another painting. But the lens was angled just slightly... toward you.

Your eyes narrowed. "Are you taking pictures of me?"

Jisung didn't even look guilty. "Yeah. You've got this look on your face. Like the art's whispering secrets to you or something. It would be a crime not to capture it."

You crossed your arms, fighting a smile. "That's creepy."

"It's endearing," he corrected, pocketing his phone. Then, as if struck by a thought, he added, "Actually... let's get one together."

"What? No way-"

"C'mon." He was already tugging you toward a large, abstract backdrop splattered with crimson and gold, pulling his phone back out. "It'll be quick. Just one. Proof you didn't spend all summer sulking."

You groaned, but his grin was so expectant, so boyishly hopeful, that you found yourself leaning in despite yourself.

The camera clicked just as he leaned closer, brushing the faintest kiss against your cheek.

You froze, eyes wide.

"Relax," he said, lowering the phone, lips curving with that infuriating ease. "It's just a picture."

You wanted to protest. Instead, you pressed your hand to your cheek, feeling the ghost of warmth he left behind, and muttered, "You're ridiculous."

"And you're blushing," he teased.

You ignored him for the rest of that room. Or at least tried to.

It wasn't until later, when you settled on a bench between two smaller galleries, that you finally asked, "So... what about you? Why are you even here? You don't exactly look like someone who spends his summer staring at watercolors."

He leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "I work at the resort. By the cabins. Mostly gym shifts, some back-of-house stuff when they need it. My cousin owns the place, so he roped me in."

Your brows lifted. "So you're not just some random guy stalking me?"

"Stalking?" He feigned offense. "Wow. And here I thought I was being charming."

You smirked. "Jury's still out."

His laughter echoed softly through the quiet gallery. "Anyway, I'm just here for the summer. My cousin lives nearby, so it made sense. Pay's decent, schedule's flexible."

"Flexible?" you echoed.

He tilted his head toward you, hazel eyes glinting. "Yeah. For the right reasons, I free up my time."

You rolled your eyes, though your pulse quickened. "Bet you say that to everyone."

"Only when I mean it." His tone was playful, but underneath it was something that made your stomach dip.

By the time you'd wandered into the far end of the gallery, you were so caught up in the rhythm of talking and teasing that you didn't notice the uneven step until it was too late.

The sun had dipped low, painting the horizon in shades of violet and pink. The streets buzzed faintly with weekend chatter, music spilling from open-air cafes, the salt-tinged wind carrying the hum of summer.

Your foot caught, and you stumbled forward with a startled gasp-straight into Jisung's chest.

His arm shot out instinctively, steadying you by the waist. The other hand came up to grip your elbow before you could hit the floor.

For a heartbeat, you just froze there, pressed against him. His breath brushed the crown of your head, warm and steady.

"You good?" he murmured, voice low.

You stepped back too fast, nearly tripping again, cheeks blazing. "Y-yeah. Totally fine."

But the grin that spread across his face told you he wasn't about to let it go.

"Danger hazard," he teased, shaking his head. "Do you always walk like you're trying to test gravity, or is this a me thing?"

Your jaw dropped. "Excuse you?"

He leaned closer, smirk tugging higher. "What? I'm just asking if you're this clumsy with everyone... or if maybe..." His eyes glinted, gaze flicking over your face before meeting your wide-eyed stare again. "...I make you nervous."

Your breath hitched, heat rising up your neck. The space between you seemed to shrink until it was almost nothing. His hand lingered a second longer at your waist, fingers curling ever so slightly as though debating whether to pull you closer.

For a second, just a single second, you thought he might actually kiss you.

But then his laugh cracked the tension, low and easy, pulling away with a shake of his head. "Relax. I'm not gonna make you faint in the middle of an art exhibit."

You shoved his shoulder lightly, trying not to smile. "You're insufferable."

"And you're blushing again," he shot back without missing a beat. You chose to ignore that.

"So..." you began after a beat, tugging at your jacket zipper, "are you going back to work after this?"

"Work?" He raised a brow, amused. "You think I'd ditch you for work?"

You shrugged. "Wouldn't blame you if you had to."

He smirked, swinging his helmet from one hand. "Good thing I'm off duty this weekend. And even if I wasn't..." His eyes lingered on you a moment too long. "...I'd make time."

You exhaled slowly, feeling the tug in your chest. It wasn't that you didn't love your friends, or that Shotaro's protective hovering was unbearable. It was just...here, now, you feel different. Lighter. Like you'd finally stepped out of the box you'd been living in without even realizing it.

You hadn't felt this free in a long time.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to tame the smile tugging at your lips. "So what now?"

He glanced up the street, then back at you. "There's a motel not too far from here. Halfway decent beds, decent enough coffee in the morning. I say we don't rush back yet. Just... stay out a little longer."

You raised a brow. "Smooth."

"Honest," he corrected, grin widening. "So what do you say?"

The hum of summer rose around you-distant chatter, muffled music, the soft roar of another motorcycle passing by. And with the night stretching ahead, you realized... you didn't want to go back just yet.

The neon vacancy sign hummed faintly as Jisung eased the bike into the small gravel lot, the crunch beneath the wheels breaking the silence of the summer night. The place wasn't glamorous, with white-painted walls a little faded, potted palms by the entrance, a row of doors lined up like soldiers under buzzing yellow lights.

You tugged your jacket tighter as you slid off the motorcycle, boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. The adrenaline of the ride still hummed in your veins.

"This is..." You trailed off, trying to find a word that wasn't sketchy.

"Charming," Jisung finished for you, smirking as he tugged his helmet off. His hazel eyes gleamed as he shook out his hair, stray strands falling messily into his face. "Come on, it's not as bad as it looks. I told you -the coffee is drinkable."

"Forgive me if drinkable isn't exactly my bar for quality," you muttered, though your lips tugged into a reluctant smile.

He chuckled, leading the way toward the lobby. The glass door jingled  overhead when he pushed it open. A little bell chimed as if announcing trouble as you followed him inside, cool air greeting you, carrying the faint smell of cleaning supplies and instant noodles.

Behind the counter, a woman middle-aged, red lipstick too bright for the dim lights -looked up from her magazine. Her eyes flicked between the two of you, then curved knowingly.

"Room for the night?" she asked, voice dripping with suggestion.

Jisung leaned casually against the counter. "One, please."

Your head whipped toward him. "One?"

The receptionist's smile grew slow and amused. "Ah... only one bed left tonight. It's the weekend, after all." She winked at you like you were part of some joke.

You sputtered, heat rushing to your face. "Oh, n-no, we're not -this isn't-" You turned desperately to Jisung. "Say something!"

But instead of saving you, he was the picture of ease, his grin positively wicked while pulling out his wallet. "One bed's fine," he said smoothly. "We don't mind sharing."

The receptionist's laugh rang out, low and teasing. "Young love," she crooned, sliding the key across the counter. "Don't stay up too late."

"Thank you, ma'am," He replied like a perfect gentleman, scooping up the key.

You gawked at him, mortified, as he held the door open for you. The second you stepped outside, you hissed, "Are you insane?"

"What?" His innocent tone didn't match the devilish curve of his mouth. "I didn't want to be rude."

"She thinks we're-"

"Dating?" He arched a brow, strolling toward the row of rooms. "Oh no. How tragic."

Your face burned hotter. "Jisung!"

He chuckled, unlocking the door and pushing it open. "Relax. It's just a bed." His voice dipped teasingly as he glanced over his shoulder at you. "Unless you are nervous about sleeping next to me."

You nearly tripped over the doorway. "I-what-no! Of course not!"

His grin widened like he'd won something, clearly delighted at your fluster. "Good," he said, tossing his jacket on the chair. "Because I call the side with the outlet."

"Hungry?" he asked, already striding toward the little convenience store you saw across the street.

You blinked. "Now?"

His grin widened. "Unless you want to go to bed starving."

The store across the street was lit with that too-bright neon that made everything feel a little surreal. You grabbed a basket, telling yourself you'd only get water, maybe a snack. Instead, five minutes later, it was piled with ramen cups, bags of chips, bottled drinks, and two different packs of candy you couldn't resist.

"Over packing," Jisung teased, tossing in a soda and a pair of grey sweats for himself. "What are you, prepping for a sleepover?"

You shot him a look. "What are you doing, then?" you countered, nodding at the instant ramen he kept piling in.

"Fuel," he said seriously. "I'm a growing boy."

You rolled your eyes but hid a smile, moving toward the clothing rack tucked by the back wall. A pair of lightweight cotton shorts caught your attention, soft and simple-just enough for sleeping in. You grabbed them, adding travel size toiletries and-after way too long debating, you picked up a pair of plain underwear too.

Your stomach flipped when Jisung's shadow fell across you.

He didn't say anything, just arched a brow at the bundle in your hands, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You bolted for the counter, cheeks hot, fumbling for your wallet in your hand bag but before you could even pull it out, his arm shot past, sliding cash across the counter with easy confidence.

"Wait!" you hissed, tugging at his sleeve. "That's mine -I was paying-"

"Too slow," he said, voice maddeningly casual.

"You can't just-"

"Consider it part of the deal," he cut in, signing the receipt with a flourish salute. "You put up with me, I pick up the tab."

The cashier, amused, handed over the bags. "Cute couple," she said with a grin.

You nearly combusted on the spot. "We're not-!"

The man only smiled, carrying the bags like he hadn't just thrown a grenade at your dignity.

Back at the motel, you sat at the little table, both of you bent over steaming cups of ramen. The noodles were way too hot, your chopstick skills questionable, and Jisung nearly choked laughing when you slurped too fast and burned your tongue.

"You're a hazard," he said between bites, eyes gleaming. "To yourself." He leaned forward just slightly. "I'm convinced now that I make you more than nervous."

Your pulse tripped. You fumbled for a comeback, but he just leaned back again, satisfied when your face went red.

After dinner, you flop onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, the convenience store haul scattered around you like some midnight picnic. Candies, crisp and biscuit packets, drinks—all of it tempting, chaotic, a reminder of how unusual this night has already been. Jisung leans against the dresser, arms crossed, watching you with that calm, teasing grin of his.

“You really need all of that?” he asks, nodding toward the ramen and candy mountain.

“Absolutely,” you declare, waving a hand. “Emergency snacks. You never know when sugar will save your life”

"Speaking of emergencies?" He laughs, the sound low and amused, and steps closer, plucking a candy from the pile. 

"You planning on sleeping in that?" he asked, nodding at your fitting sweetheart top and the shorts you changed into when you cleaned up after dinner.

"It's fine," you said quickly.

Then he lifts his own shirt, the fluorescent motel light hits his back as he pulls the shirt fully over his head, unintentionally revealing his back. 

You glance up, heart skipping. Your eyes widen slightly —there it is —spanning the width of his shoulder blades, is a tattoo of wings. Delicate, yet strong. The edges curve slightly, like both angel wings and the wings of a moth. You notice subtle detailing: tiny hearts hidden in the feathers, a symbol of something bigger. Intricate, feathered lines stretching outward as though they could carry him anywhere. The subtle curve of his muscles beneath the ink catches the light, his skin warm from the day as the muscles beneath flex slightly as he adjusts, veins popping subtly along his arms, you feel your breath hitch and your pulse quickens.

“You… have wings?” you whisper, unable to keep the awe from your voice.

“You’ll look - sleep better in this,” he says, ignoring you completely, holding it out. “Comfy. Even better than the top.”

“I can manage,” you reply, but he shakes his head with mock seriousness.

“Nope,” he says, persisting. “I don’t take no for an answer.”

You reluctantly give in, taking the shirt from his hands with a roll of your eyes but you can’t hide the grin tugging at your lips before heading back to the bathroom. Clearly, the teasing edge in his voice is addictive and impossible to resist.

By the time you came back out again, his shirt draped soft and oversized on , shorts swallowed underneath, Jisung pats in front of him on the bed. "Come on. We're not crashing yet."

And so you did, face to face on the bed, trading candies, sipping sodas, the TV humming faintly in the background though neither of you paid it much attention. You laughed more than you thought possible, your cheeks sore from smiling.

At some point, he snapped a picture of you mid-laugh, the flash on his phone making you flinch. "Delete that!" you squeaked.

"Nope," he said, already saving it. Then, with a mischievous look: "Actually... take another one with me."

You hesitated, but he leaned in close, pulling you in by your wrist. The click of the camera sounded just before he pressed a light, teasing kiss to your cheek. Again.

You froze, breath catching.

He only smirked, leaning back to scroll through the photos. "See? That one's the best."

And somehow, you couldn't even argue.

An hour later, the gummy strips are scattered across the bed, most of the wrappers already crumpled up on the nightstand, the soft hum of the motel AC filling the silence between your laughter. 

“So,” Jisung started, leaning back on his elbows, freshly washed and shirtless in the grey sweatpants he had purchased. They hang too low to be considered decent, his eyes flicking lazily toward you, “what happens after summer?”

The question caught you mid-chew. You blinked. “Uh… college.”

“College?” He tilted his head, smirking. “Which one?”

You swallowed, fidgeting with the corner of a candy wrapper. “Seoul National.”

For a second, his expression stayed neutral. Then his grin spread, slow and inevitable. “No way.”

You frowned. “What?”

“That’s my school,” he said, voice light, like he’d just uncovered the universe’s inside joke.

You stared at him. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie about that?” He leaned closer, brows raised. “Guess it was fate. You were destined to bump into me—even if it wasn’t with a mop.”

You groaned, tossing a gummy at him, which he caught easily between two fingers. “Fate my ass.”

But his smile softened, the teasing melting into something steadier, something that made your chest flutter uncomfortably. “Looking at you right now…”

He studied you for a beat longer than necessary before saying quietly, “you just make sense. White picket fence, two kids and a dog, the whole thing.”

You froze. 

The words hung in the air, heavier than either of you expected.

So you did what you always did—deflected with humor.

You slid off the bed to kneel in front of him, holding out your left hand with exaggerated solemnity. “Then you’ll have to marry me first.”

Jisung's eyes glimmered with amusement as he grabbed one of the long gummy strips left on the sheets. Without hesitation, he looped it around your ring finger and tied the ends in a messy knot.

“There,” he said with mock-seriousness. “We’re engaged.”

And then, without warning, he leaned forward, teeth sinking into the candy where it wrapped your finger, biting it clean off.

The sudden tug jolted you slightly off balance, your pulse races, heat climbing and before you knew it, you were straddling him lightly, his eyes flick to yours, slow, deliberate. Hands sliding carefully along your waist, holding you like you were something delicate yet necessary. 

The laughter that had been bubbling in your chest faltered, thinning into silence. His eyes, warm and hazel, held yours like gravity itself had shifted.

His thumb brushed gently along your chin, tilting your head just slightly, guiding you closer until your lips finally met.

When his lips meet yours, slowly at first—sweet, playful— testing, teasing, savoring, exploratory. You tasted the candy on his lips, a sugar-sweet burn that makes your knees weak. The faint tang of gummy candy lingering on his tongue, mixing with the warmth of him until it made your head spin.

Then he deepens the kiss, urgent, warm, heat building. Pressing you closer. The moment consumes you both and suddenly he’s pulling you over him, hands sliding down to grip your waist firmly. His hands move with a gentle certainty, tracing the curve of your waist. He kisses down your jaw, fingers wrapping around your throat effortlessly. Your arms slowly wrap around his neck and he hums in delight when your fingers tangle in his hair as the kiss only grows hotter.

Your breaths tangle in the dim motel air, the room spinning as his mouth claims yours again, more consuming. Every brush of his lips, every subtle tug of his teeth sent sparks chasing down your skin.

His hands wander lower, settling possessively on your hips, gripping before daring further to your ass. You gasp into his mouth, shivering, before he flips you both, hovering over you as his lips travel down your jawline and the sensitive curve where neck meets shoulder. Then travels back to the curve of your neck, teeth grazing softly at it, a feather-light bite eliciting a soft moan from you.

You gasp, pulling him back to meet your lips, kissing fiercely, passionately, foreheads pressed together. His hands remain on your waist, steady, possessive, grounding you. The world narrows to the feel of him, the taste of candy, and the rush of heat between you.

The heat of the room, the mess of candy and ramen around you, the soft hum of the motel—everything fades until there’s only the two of you, lost in this moment.

Then, just as the heat of the moment threatens to sweep you away, the simmer turning to a boil, he pauses. Foreheads pressed together as you both try to steady your racing hearts. Chests heaving, the tension cracking like static but it doesn’t break.

You let yourself relax against him, grateful, heart pounding in your chest, feeling the unspoken promise in his arms. He knows, without a word, exactly what you need. And for tonight, that’s enough.

His lips brushed yours once more, softer this time. Then he kisses your forehead softly, lingering there, before pulling you closer into his bare chest.

In a way that spoke volumes—understanding, patience, and the unspoken promise of more without forcing it in his arms. 

“Goodnight,” he murmured, his voice low, steady, like an anchor.

And in that moment, it wasn’t rejection or hesitation—it was understanding. Like he already knew where your heart was, even before you did.

You lean into him, pressing your cheek to the skin of his chest, grateful, heart pounding. Tonight, the world feels like it’s just the two of you, tangled in sweetness, warmth, and the quiet understanding of being exactly where you belong without truly knowing how…

The motel room was quiet again, save for the faint hum of the AC. You lay tucked against his chest, his arm warm and steady around you as if he’d been doing it all his life. Your heart still beat a little too fast, your lips tingled, and your head was a storm you couldn’t put into words.

But Jisung didn’t need you to.

With his forehead pressing on yours, he looks at you, his breath still uneven, he whispers again one last time, “Goodnight,” before pressing another kiss into your hair.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to drift into the safety of his warmth, not knowing if tomorrow would change anything—or everything.

And with that, the night folds in on itself, destined to become a memory you’d carry long after summer ended.

----------------

Shotaro stood in the doorway, wide-eyed, frozen, chest heaving as if the world had just collapsed around him.

The silence stretched, unbearable, suffocating.

Then—footsteps.

Karina padded in, yawning. She pushed past Shotaro’s rigid form, muttering, “What’s with all the—” before her gaze landed squarely on you two.

Her steps faltered.

And then, instead of bolting or screaming, Karina kept walking. One step, then another, slow and deliberate, until she was right beside your nightstand, peering down at the two of you. She tilted her head, her messy bun bouncing, as if trying to compute what her eyes were seeing.

You, tangled in sheets. Jisung, shirtless, arm heavy around your waist, blinking like the world hadn’t even started yet.

Karina’s voice came out soft at first, utterly stunned, “…are you serious?”

The air cracked.

Karina’s face transformed, disbelief snapping into glee. She gasped so loudly it echoed. “You two—oh my god—”

“Oh my god,” Somi shrieked from the hall, already halfway through the door. “I knew it!”

"Jeno!” Jaemin's voice bellowed from somewhere behind them. “You owe me twenty bucks!”

“What the hell—” you started, but your twin was already marching forward, red clear up to his ears.

“Out. Now.” Shotaro’s glare could’ve burned holes in steel.

Jisung, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. With infuriating calm, he stretched slowly, like a cat. His arm flexing where it still circled you, muscles shifting golden under the thin morning light. “Morning,” he said smoothly, voice rough and deep with sleep.

“Don’t you ‘morning’ me—” Shotaro’s voice cracked higher, furious. His hands flailed. "What the hell happened to your shirt?”

Jisung groaned, rubbing his eyes like a man inconvenienced by an alarm clock. Then he froze, realizing—too late—he wasn’t wearing a shirt at all.

Karina gasped again, this time louder, circling closer like she’d discovered treasure, “Wait—WAIT. He has a tattoo?! SOMI, HE HAS A TATTOO!”

Her screech was immediately followed by Somi gasping so hard she nearly toppled into the doorframe. “That bitch didn’t tell us he had a tattoo!”

Even Jaemin crowed, tumbling into the room, toothbrush in hand, “He’s got wings?!”

Then he left just as quickly.

“Babe, seriously? Oh my god—” Jeno's muffled voice sounded from the hall.

“Please stop thirsting over her boyfriend.”

Jisung sat up at last, bare back to them all, and there it was—spanning his shoulder blades. 

You didn’t even breathe.

“WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT RULES?!” Shotaro bellowed, voice shaking the air, stomping forward.

“Relax,” Jisung muttered, still maddeningly calm. He grabbed for his shirt on the floor, smirk tugging at his lips. “Nothing happened.”

Karina cackled. “Yeah, tell that to your abs,”

“and your tattoo.” Somi jabbed.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Shotaro was combusting now. “It’s seven a.m.! There are MINORS in this house!”

From somewhere down the hall, Jaemin yelled back, “We’re all adults!” and Karina doubled over laughing even harder as she stomped away with Somi. “Barely!”

Mortified, you yanked the duvet over your head, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

Jisung only chuckled, voice low and shameless, leaning so close his breath warmed your hair. “Guess I’m not sleeping in rocket ship pants tonight.

Your heart stuttered violently.

“Get. Out.” Shotaro lunged, practically vibrating with fury.

But Jisung moved like water—smooth, unbothered and with one last wink at you, slid past Shotaro with the kind of practiced calm that made it obvious he’d survived worse.

Yuta appeared behind Shotaro, arms folded, expression unreadable. Perfectly unbothered. 

He took in the scene: his younger brother seething, his sister buried under a duvet. 

His lips twitched.

“Hanmoon be damned indeed.” Yuta commented sarcastically, quoting your mother from the day before.

The hallway exploded. Somi shrieked again, somewhere a mug clattered to the floor, and Jaemin’s wheeze carried like a dying kettle.

“Not funny, Hyung!” Shotaro barked, mortified. But Yuta wasn’t even looking at him. His gaze flicked to you, as you buried yourself deeper in your covers.

Your twin stormed after Jisung, muttering threats about “rules” and “throwing him out”

“Good morning, princess,” he exhaled once, then softened, “It’s okay. Don’t hide.”

You peeked out from the duvet, cheeks blazing. “…You’re not mad?”

He shook his head, smile faint but warm. “No. Shotaro’s never had to fight for your attention before. Let him throw a tantrum, run in circles a little—it won’t kill him.” He brushed a strand of hair from your face.

“Shotaro will come around. He always does.”

You huffed, but the lump in your chest eased. Slowly, you lowered the blanket further, and Yuta’s eyes softened more. “It’s okay,” he added quietly, voice for you alone. “You don’t need to explain anything.”

He gave your hair a gentle ruffle, a brother’s reassurance. He stood again, before straightening with a sigh. “Now get up. Breakfast is chaotic chaos enough without you hiding in here.”

He left as smoothly as he’d entered, but something in his voice lingered —a weight you couldn’t shake.

Only then did you throw back the duvet completely and scramble up, padding quickly into the hall to find him —because something about last night, that strange phone call he intentionally kept ignoring, still lingered in your mind.

The air was still buzzing from the chaos when you slipped out of your room, the floorboards cold beneath your feet.

Your heart was still pounding from Shotaro barging into your room and nearly combusting at the sight of Jisung shirtless on your bed, but as everyone scrambled toward breakfast, Yuta lingered near the hall way

Shotaro’s voice was still echoing in the loving space, half-angry, half-panicked, trailing after Jisung: “Don’t think this is over, Park Jisung!” Somewhere else, Somi and Karina were shrieking over “the tattoo reveal of the century,” and Jaemin was loudly demanding his twenty bucks from Jeno who had yet to wake up.

You caught his arm gently. “Oppa…yesterday. That call. You got weird after.”

His body stilled, shoulders tightening.

“Was it something important? Did something happen?” Your voice softened, eyes searching his.

For a second, Yuta almost said it—almost admitted the name flashing on his phone. Instead, his thoughts drifted to his boyfriend’s smile, the one that always undid him.

He shook his head, forcing a grin, and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head. “It’s nothing, bug. Don’t worry.”

You ignored him, arms folded. “What’s going on with you?”

"Nothings going on with me."He deflected, brows lifting lazily. “Why would anything be going on with me?”

“Don’t do that,” you pressed, stepping closer. 

“Last night. I heard you. You got a call...another one —at nearly midnight, in the hallwayhall way and you still ignored it. And then you went back to Jaemin's room like nothing happened, but you sounded… different, panicked even.”

“You notice too much,” he said finally, half-smiling, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said at last. “Focus on your own mess. Looks like it’s getting… complicated.”

“But—”

“Go.” He nudged you gently. “Before Shotaro burns the kitchen down and Karina has a heart attack.”

“Don’t change the subject,” you shot back, heat rising to your face. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”

His gaze softened for a flicker, a tiny crack in the armor. “And what would you do with it, hm? You’ve got enough battles. Shotaro. Jisung. Your friends. Yourself. School.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re my brother too, Yuta. I’ll fight for you if I have to.”

For the first time that morning, his lips curved—not in sarcasm, not in dismissal, but in something that almost looked like pride.

You hesitated, but his eyes softened in that older-brother way that told you to trust him. 

“…that’s why you’ll be fine,” he murmured, walking off to join the rest.

Yuta exhaled, phone heavy in his pocket, heart heavier still. The weight of unanswered questions pressing heavier than ever.

The kitchen was bedlam by the time you stumbled in — hair mussed, cheeks still warm from humiliation.

It looked like a food fight waiting to happen. The smell of eggs and toast hit first - Kun's influence hadn't reached this house, but Shotaro was dead serious about feeding people. He moved around the stove like a drill sergeant, spatula in one hand, glaring at anyone who dared get close to his sister.

"Sit. Eat. Don't talk."

Which explained why you were currently glued to his side at the kitchen island, a plate piled high in front of you, like a man possessed, ranting to no one in particular.

“Shirtless! In my house! At seven in the morning!” He waved a spatula like it was a weapon. “What if neighbors saw? What if Mom hears about this—”

“Mom’s definitely hearing about it,” Yuta cut in smoothly, with zero shame. He repeated in sing-song from where he sat on the couch, “‘Where on earth did you find him, honey?’”

Your face hit the table with a groan. “Oppa, please.”

Karina finally cracked, laughing into her bowl. “ Should I call my mum to chaperone?”

That set Somi off into shrieks.

Shotaro whirled. “Not helping!”

"Eat," Shotaro ordered again, sliding into the stool beside you. His eyes cut sideways at Jisung, who leaned lazily against the counter across from you, hair a mess, shirt now on.

Nobody listened.

"I'm not hungry," you muttered.

"You're eating," Shotaro repeated, pointing with the spatula like it was a weapon.

Jaemin was on the bar stool next to you, holding his fork like a microphone and crooning bad love songs just to annoy everyone with zero shame. Somi was perched on the counter itself, balancing her plate on her knees while Karina was peeling her clay mask off, glaring at Somi for dripping yolk down her pajama pants from where she sat on the couch.

"Breakfast is supposed to be civilized," Karina sighed.

"This is civilized," Jaemin argued, voice cracking on a fake high note.

Jeno groaned, “No, this is hell," wandering in still half-asleep, blinkingblinked at the chaos and mutteringmuttered into his mug of coffee as he left to sit beside his girlfriend.

"It's domestic," Jaemin corrected, swaying in place.

"It's gross," Karina deadpanned.

"It's perfect," Somi countered through a mouthful of toast.

Jisung smirked, clearly entertained, and made a show of reaching for the syrup right across your arm. His fingers brushed your skin - subtle, intentional.

Shotaro's glare sharpened to laser-point. "Hands. Off."

"Relax, Taro," Jisung drawled, lips curling. "I'm just after the syrup."

"Yeah," Jaemin cackled, "and yesterday you were after her soul."

The living area erupted. Karina nearly choked on her oats, Somi snorted eggs, and even Jeno cracked a reluctant laugh before muttering, "Too soon."

Your face burned, and you smacked Jaemin with a napkin. "Shut up!"

Your face burned hot, but Jisung only smirked, unbothered. He leaned down just enough that only you could hear: "Didn't hear you complaining."

You sat there, trying not to choke on your orange juice, cheeks flaming but heart impossibly full.

Through it all, Shotaro stayed stone-faced, one arm blocking you from moving away, determined to keep you within arm's reach until Jisung left. Somi demanding more butter, Jaemin stealing bacon

The room buzzed with bickering and laughter, but under the noise, you felt Jisung's eyes on you - warm, unbothered, lingering.

This — chaos, teasing, love wrapped in noise — this was family.

LATER...

The sun filtered in through the thin curtains, painting long golden strips across the living room.

The apartment looked like a battlefield of bubble wrap, discarded screws, empty ice cream cups and a sad IKEA instruction manual that no one had bothered folding away.

Everyone was slumped in the living room—half-awake, half-laughing, the residue of yesterday’s chaos still lingering but tummies full nonetheless.

By the door, Yuta had his arm hooked firmly around Shotaro’s shoulders, dragging him like a misbehaving kid.

“You’re coming with me,” Yuta said, not even sparing him a chance to wriggle free despite the boy’s half-hearted resistance.

Shotaro dug his heels into the floor, exasperated. “Hyung, what about Jisung—”  The younger Nakamoto started, only for the older to shoot him a dry look.

“You’ve done enough interference for one night.” Yuta cut in smoothly, not even slowing his stride. “What if we can’t marry her off now? You think you could handle that responsibility?”

That earned a full laugh from Jaemin, who was sprawled on the long couch, head thrown back.

“Or better yet,” Yuta added, “give the couple a break. God forbid they get to breathe without you glaring at Jisung like he stole your puppy.”

The room erupted. 

More laughter filled the room. Jeno had to throw his head back against Karina’s shoulder, shaking from how hard he was laughing. Somi nearly toppled over their other smaller matching couch, wheezing into her hand.

Shotaro puffed his cheeks and turned his face away stubbornly. “I was just looking out for her,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

“Yeah, very mafia of you,” Somi teased, sipping from her blue mug. “One more death stare and I’d have thought you were auditioning for a Netflix series.”

Ignoring her, Shotaro turned back, hugging you tightly. “I’ll see you at orientation,” he said into your hair, before shooting another dramatic glare in Jisung’s direction.

“I’ll see you at orientation too,” Jisung answered innocently, lips curving into the kind of sly grin that only made Shotaro’s scowl deepen.

That killed the room. Jaemin clapped like he’d just seen an award-winning drama twist of the year, Somi fell sideways against the armrest, Jeno was gasping for air and even Karina was doubled over.

“God, that was priceless,” Jaemin said, tears in his eyes.

“That was so good,” Jeno said between snorts.

Yuta bent down to ruffle your hair, then rested a firm hand on Jisung’s head, giving his hair a quick tousle. “Take care of her,” he said, his tone steady and older-brother firm.

“Always,” Jisung replied, with no hesitationno hesitation in his voice.

Shotaro, meanwhile, clasped hands with Jeno in their ridiculous handshake before muttering something about catching him on the weekend, while Yuta waved casually at the rest. 

Your twin gave the rest a lazy wave, ruffling Somi's hair before Yuta tugged him out the door. 

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving behind an apartment that immediately felt too empty and yet too full at the same time.

Jisung lingered for a moment, watching the door, his mind oddly full. It hadn’t escaped him that he was the new piece to this puzzle, this group of friends, these siblings who had grown up so tightly woven into each other’s lives. He’d been nervous before, wondering if he’d feel like an outsider, but watching Jaemin’s over-the-top laughter, Somi’s sharp quips, Karina’s patient smiles, and Jeno’s dry commentary —it didn’t feel foreign. It felt… like he belonged. Like he’d slipped into a spot that had been waiting for him.

And then there was you.

He looked over at you where you sat on the arm of the couch Somi was laying on, your hair falling loose, tank top strap slipping slightly down your shoulder as you looked at the TV screen. You didn’t even realize how easily you drew him in —like gravity, like a secret he’d never stop wanting to discover. His chest tightened with a mix of awe and disbelief: that you are his, that you chose him, that he could kiss you whenever he wanted.

He had promised himself last night, while moving boxes and trying not to stare too long at the way you smiled, that he wouldn’t fall deeper. But standing there now, your gaze flicking toward him, soft and familiar, he knew he already had.

“Leaving already?” you asked, walking up to him and catching him mid-thought as he bent down to grab his phone and keys from where he left them yesterday, on the TV console.

“Mm,” he hummed, slipping into the red jersey he’d thrown over the back of a solo wooden urban chair.

Your brow arched. “You’re really gonna leave in Jeno’s pajamas?”

He glanced down at the bright blue rocket pants and smirked, tugging you against him with ease. “That way I have a valid excuse to come back.”

Your lips twitched into a mock-smile, fingertips slowly feathering up his arms before settling behind his nape. “Oh, so now you need excuses?”

“Never,” he murmured, leaning down to brush his nose against yours. Your breaths tangletangling in the small space between you.

And then he kissed you.

The world dissolved, shrank to just the two of you.

His hands were everywhere —palming your waist, warm and sure, slipping under the hem of your cropped tank top. You gasped into his mouth, and that only drove him closer, hungrier. One palm slid lower, gripping the curve of your hip, then boldly cupping you, groping your ass with shamelessness, making you cling tighter, standing on your tiptoe, drinking him in.

Your thoughts spun wildly. You liked this boy —the way he kissed like he was afraid of running out of time, the way his hands claimed you like you were something precious, the way he made you feel as though nothing else mattered. Even in front of your friends, you didn’t care. Not when he kissed you like this. Not when every part of you hummed with the knowledge that he wanted to be yours.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly before smoothing down the strong line of his shoulders. You could feel his heartbeat under your palms, steady and strong, matching the steady rhythm of your own.

It wasn’t just a kiss —it was head-spinning, shameless, all-consuming.

That it set the whole gang off into gags.

“Oh my god,” Jaemin groaned loudly from the couch. “Y’all were literally sent by Aphrodite herself to make me horny. And I don’t even have a girlfriend!”

The room burst into laughter. Jeno groaned into a pillow, Karina muttered something about “ this being worse than a drama,” and Somi, of course, with perfect timing, yelled:

“Should I call Shotaro back in here?!”

You both laughed into the kiss, smiling against each other’s mouths until you finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, breathless and dizzy but still tangled in each other’s orbit.

Jisung brushed his thumb over your cheek, kissed you once more for good measure, and whispered, “I’ll text you when I’m back at the frat.”

You nodded, walking him to the door, your hand still brushing against his until he had to let go. He stepped out into the hallway toward the elevator, tossing a wave over his shoulder.

You leaned against the frame, watching him fondly, your heart full in a way that scared you with its intensity.

Then—

“Hey.” His voice called your name.

You turned just in time for him to double back, stealing a quick peck on your lips, his grin boyish and unguarded before you even realized he’d doubled back.

“I’ll see you later,” he said softer this time, walking off. This time for real.

And then he was gone, the sound of his footsteps fading, leaving you standing in the doorway with your pulse racing, his touch and the warmth of him still lingering on your skin. Already, you were counting the hours until later came.

Yuta unlocks the apartment door late the next morning, it clicks shut behind him but he doesn't move right away. He just leans against it, breathing in the faint hum of the fridge and the familiar quiet. He's family's chaos still clings to him —the shouting, the laughter, his mother’s scolding every two seconds because something was not in the order she wanted it to be, the girls too busy giggling at the shameless things that came out of Jisung's mouth to help, putting together the furniture, Somi’s mother darting between shops when he drove the parents back to the hotel they had booked for the night. One night in Seoul and they still managed to make it feel like a festival.

From the kitchen, Minho’s voice floats out, warm but tired. “Shoes off, Yuta. You’re dragging the city in again.”

He obeys without thinking, dropping his sneakers by the door. 

When he steps into the kitchen, Minho is there —damp hair curling from a shower, scrubs top soft and loose, a mug of coffee in his hand. His shift lines are etched under his eyes, but he still looks like home.

Yuta almost says it "I promise to tell them", almost crosses the room, but guilt presses down heavier than his carry-on had.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey,” Minho echoes. He studies him briefly, then turns back to his mug. “You didn’t come home last night.”

Yuta winces, raking a hand through his hair. “I know. I meant to, but…” He trails off, he drops his bag by the couch with a sigh. 

“It was move-in day. Bee and Beetle were bickering before we even left the curb." He started, annoyed but not at all surprised, mentioning his younger siblings using the nickname you and Shotaro have always gonewent with to your family -a nickname he told Minho about in one of their many conversations surrounding family.

Then he visibly grimaces at a memory while dragging a hand through his hair, remembering. "And don’t get me started on the girls—Karina, Somi, she—they packed like they were relocating to another planet I swear, my arms are still vibrating from hauling those bags. She had her entire closet in three separate suitcases and I literally told her not to because she is only going to buy more clothes once she got here but of course not 'it'sits not the same, you wouldn't get it' " using a mocking voice to quote you, soft and very high pitched.

Minho’s mouth quirks, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“And Taro—” Yuta shakes his head mentioning Shotaro. “You know he insisted on moving into a frat. Said he wanted to be independent, whatever that means. This is the same kid who couldn’t sleep without his sister next to him until he was like ten years old.”

Minho chuckles, low and warm. “Didn’t he suck his thumb way past the age he was supposed to?”

"Exactly!” Yuta points at him, heart fluttering at the prospect that Minho still remembered everything he said when they were talking about each other'sothers families, almost relieved at the laughter. “And half the time it was her taking care of him, not the other way around. I give him two weeks before he’s sneaking back to her bed… and then realizing Jisung’s there already. ”

Minho barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head. “Poor Shotaro.”

Yuta’s chest eases a little at the sound, but guilt still lingers in the space between them. He pushes forward anyway. “Speaking of Jisung—I metmet him yesterday. First time. He’s… smitten. Like a dog on a leash, following her everywhere. I kept having to keep an eye on him so he didn’t trip over her suitcase while trying to carry her sketchbooks

Minho’s brows lift. “And how’s she handling it?”

“Better than I thought. She likes him but...something's holding her back.

She’s got the skating scholarship working for her. The one I told you about, remember?"

Minho' lips quirk up in a smile, nodding. 

"Plus the art program. It'sIts a really solid one. She’s excited, even if she won’t admit it out loud.” Yuta pauses, his expression softening. “And Taro—well, he’s over the moon. He hasn’t stopped talking about the dance program. Nearly tripped over a box this morning because he was too busy practicing footwork in the hallway while waking everyone up. The staff at Seoul National don’t know what they’re in for.”

“Sounds like you’re proud.” Minho observes.

Yuta blinks, the words sitting heavy in his chest before he nods. “I am. Both of them... they’re carving out something for themselves. Makes me feel like maybe I don’t have to hover so much.”

Minho hums, sipping his coffee. “So what I'm hearing is basically the parents got them all moved in and then bailed.”

“Pretty much.” Yuta lets out a half-laugh. “As soon as the last box was inside, the security camera set up, and takeout ordered, they had me drivedriving them back to their hotel. Date night. LetLeft me handleme to handle the rest.”

He groans dramatically, but the fondness tucked in it softens the complaint. Minho notices. His lips quirk.

“You’ll survive,” he says.

Silence slips in then, soft but weighted.

“Makes sense you didn't come home last night."

“Not just that.” Yuta sighs, leaning against the counter now. “Jaemin and Jeno decided they could handle the IKEA furniture. Spoiler—they couldn’t. By the time I fixed their mess, it was already too late to head back. I just crashed there.”

Minho tries to fight it, but the laughter escapes him again. 

The smell of coffee is too inviting, though, and he steals Minho’s mug for a sip without asking.

Minho watches him with narrowed eyes but doesn’t pull it back. “You? Building IKEA furniture at midnight? No wonder you look dead.”

“I feel dead,” Yuta mutters around the rim,"Still. Between the endless vines, Taro's dance shoes, and Somi’s obnoxiously large rice cooker, I’m traumatized.”

That earns another laugh, warm enough that it sits in Yuta’s chest like sunlight breaking through. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear it.

For a beat, there’s only the sound of Yuta sipping and Minho’s quiet breathing. Then Minho tilts his head, voice carrying that teasing lilt Yuta both dreads and craves.

“You know, sometimes I think you’re more of a big brother than a boyfriend.”

Yuta freezes, mug halfway to the table. The words aren’t sharp, but they find their mark. He sets the cup down carefully, forcing a crooked grin. “What, because I spent one night fixing IKEA furniture instead of being here?”

“Because you always put them first,” Minho replies, softer now. His eyes don’t waver, though. “The girls, Shotaro, even Jaemin and Jeno when they screw up. You carry all of them on your shoulders. And me?” He shrugs. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m just… last on the list.”

The guilt Yuta had been stuffing down since yesterday cracks wide open. He swallows hard, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. He wants to say no, to reassure him, but the truth lodges in his throat. Minho doesn’t know the half of it—that Yuta’s parents think he’s still dating nameless “girlfriends,” that his family has no idea about the man sitting across from him now.

He forces a shaky laugh instead. “Last night wasn’t about choosing. It was just… I couldn’t leave them in that mess.”

Minho studies him for a long moment, then sighs, some of the tension bleeding out. “I know. That’s who you are. You’d never abandon them.” His lips twitch into a small smile. “Even if it means sacrificing sleep and your sanity over a crooked bookshelf.”

Yuta exhales, relief tangled with self-loathing. He leans back, tilting his head against the chair. “Guess I don’t know how to stop being a big brother.”

“No,” Minho says gently, reaching across the table to brush his fingers against Yuta’s hand. “But maybe try being my boyfriend first sometimes.”

The touch is simple, but it jolts something deep in Yuta’s chest. He threads their fingers together without thinking, the warmth grounding him. He wants to promise he will —loudly, openly, proudly. But the words snag on the secret sitting heavy in his gut: my family doesn’t know about you. About us. About me.

Yuta can’t help watching him, the curve of his mouth, the crinkle of his eyes every time he laughed too hard. The same man who helped him put together IKEA furniture without swearing once, who carried half his boxes when they moved in, who makes space for him even when Yuta struggles to make space for himself.

Love, steady and patient.

Yuta groans into Minho's hand, but his shoulders relax a fraction. He holds onto him, squeezing as if the pressure can say what his mouth still can't.

The space between them feels less sharp, more familiar. Not fully healed, but softening in the way couples sometimes manage after a rough patch —like forgiveness is simmering just under the surface, waiting to be acknowledged.

Jeno kissed her like he meant it.

It was supposed to be one of those rare, uninterrupted moments—his hands warm against her waist, his lips brushing hers, the kind of kiss that promised she didn’t have to think about anything but him. She’d been waiting for this, craving it through the whirlwind of unpacking, new schedules, her dad’s endless lectures about “adulting.”

His hand slid up to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, his breath hitching just enough to make her toes curl.

“This is nice,” Jeno mumbled against her mouth.

“This is perfect,” she whispered back, already tugging him toward her bed.

And then—

“Has anyone seen my charger?!”

The door slammed open.

Karina froze. Her eyes snapped open to find the one, the only, the bane of her existence: Na Jaemin.

The pest. The eternal cockblock. 

Her Step brother.

He stood in the doorway, a picture of infuriating casualness, hair still damp from his shower, hoodie halfway zipped, looking maddeningly unbothered, acting like he didn’t just walk in on his best friend (her boyfriend) and his stepsister (her) about to not study anatomy in a very literal way.

Like he hadn’t just shattered the perfect bubble of privacy she’d fought tooth and nail for.

“White cord, a little frayed at the end. It’s got my initials—” He paused, looking around like this was his house (which, annoyingly, it kind of was now considering he insisted on livingto live with her and the girls), smirk tugging at his lips as his gaze flicked between them. “Oh. Sorry. Don’t stop on my account.”

Karina nearly combusted.

He always said that. Don’t stop on my account. Like it was some inside joke between them, when in reality it was the bane of her existence.

"Are you kidding me?” Karina snapped, pulling away from Jeno so fast she nearly bit his lip.

Jeno, ever the peacemaker, sighed and offered, “Check the kitchen drawer?”

“Already did.” Jaemin’s grin widened, infuriatingly sweet. Utterly oblivious —or maybe not oblivious at all to the tension. "Man, you two are predictable.”

That was it. Karina hurled a throw pillow at his smug face. He caught it effortlessly, laughing, and the sound—light, careless, easy —snapped something in her chest.

Because she hadn’t always hated him. Not exactly. She’d just… hated what he represented.

And like clockwork, her brain yanked her back to where it all crowd —before he was her brother, he was just The Annoyance.

Two years ago. Junior year, Karina should have known better than to let Jeno talk her into this.

The five of them, you, her, Somi, Jeno, and Shotaro were squished into the sea of parents, siblings, and nosy aunties waiting outside the school gates, the jacaranda petals scattering like purple confetti. It was exam season, that sacred time where families waited as though the fate of the nation rested on one teenager’s scribbles.

It was Jaemin’s last high school exam. Jeno had finished his a day prior.

She wasn’t sure why her father insisted on being there —it wasn’t her exam day —but there he was, pacing nervously like Jaemin’s test score was going to affect his life.

And why were they here? For moral support, apparently. Moral support for Jaemin and Jeno, who were finishing high school.

Karina wasn’t buying it. “This is dumb,” she muttered, arms folded. “We’re not their parents.”

“Best friends count as family,” Jeno had declared earlier. Which sounded noble enough except, Karina knew what this really was. His way of wrangling her into being nice to Jaemin.

“Best friends,” she grumbled now. “Not siblings. Not blood.”

You nudged her in the ribs. “You sound bitter.”

She scowled. Bitter wasn’t the word. Reasonable was the word. And besides, something was off. 

What was her dad doing here?

And then she saw it.

Her brain short-circuited.

Wait. No. No, no, no. This is illegal.

The smile. The way his whole face softened when he looked across the crowd.

He kept glancing, smiling, even —at a woman Karina vaguely recognized: Jeno’s mom. And then, like a horror movie twist, she realized it wasn’t just Jeno’s mom. It was Jaemin’s mom.

Her stomach twisted.

Mrs. Na. Elegant, composed, kind in that way Karina both admired and resented. She had a warmth that drew people in, and Karina hated how quickly she’d fallen for it too.

The way he smoothed his shirt. The way he leaned in just to hear her speak.

She wasn’t an idiot —she knew that look. Her dad’s whole face lit up when he saw her. That wasn’t polite, neighborly friendliness. That was her father looking at a woman the way he used to look at her mother. Before everything...

Her throat closed up. The memory rose, unbidden: her mother, the betrayal, the hushed arguments that turned into slammed doors, the realization that people weren’t always who you thought they were. She had built her walls brick by brick after that —and now her father was tearing them down without even asking her permission.

No. 

Absolutely not.

“Why’s your dad looking at her like that?” Somi whispered, eyes wide.

Karina nearly choked with narrowed eyes. “Like what?”

“Like… like Jeno looks at you.”

“EXCUSE ME?!” Karina screeched, earning at least seven stares from other families.

Jeno turned scarlet, pulling his cap down. “Can we not—”

Before Karina could combust, the bell rang. Students spilled out of the gates, sweaty and loud. And then, right as Jaemin came jogging out the gates, grinning like the world owed him something, shirt untucked, her dad and his mom hugged. Hugged.

Jaemin spotted his mom first “Mom!” he waved, beelining toward Mrs. Na, then, without hesitation, clapped her father on the back. “Oh, hey! Nice of you to come, sir.”

Sir. Not awkward. Not confused. He looked happy. Relieved, even.

Karina nearly dropped her water bottle. “What the—”

But before she could reach him, Karina’s father clapped Jaemin on the shoulder like they were already family. “How’d it go, champ?”

Champ?!

Jaemin blinked, then beamed. “Good, sir. Thanks for waiting.”

Karina’s jaw nearly cracked. “Oh hell no!!"

But nobody was listening. Mrs. Na was glowing. Her father was practically sparkling. Jeno was busy laughing at something Somi said, and even Shotaro lookedShotaro, looked charmed.

You leaned close, low voice dripping with drama. “Uh, Karina, I think your dad’s—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—dating his mom.”

“I SAID DON’T SAY IT!”

You tried to soothe. “Maybe they’re just…old friends?”

But then her dad’s hand lingered a second too long on Mrs. Na’s arm. And Karina knew. She knew.

Karina scoffed. “If that’s friendship, then I’ve been doing it wrong.”

Jaemin, meanwhile, caught the tail end of this hug of betrayal and grinned. “You two look so nice together.” He clapped her dad on the shoulder again like they were long-lost war buddies.

Karina gaped. He was fine with it? He was happy?

Meanwhile she was spiraling into seventeen-year-old melodrama:

And then Jaemin, the bane of her existence, had the audacity to smirk at her like he was in on the joke. “Guess you figured it out.”

“Figured what out?!”

“That our parents are together.”

It was so casual, that Karina actually saw red.

“This is literally the worst day of my life!” she shrieked.

Across from her, her father laughed at something Mrs. Na whispered, the sound so carefree that it hurt. He’d found happiness again. And Jaemin, infuriatingly, looked fine with it. Better than fine. Happy, even.

Meanwhile, Karina’s world tilted. Her mom’s betrayal still sat in her chest like a stone —her mom who hadn’t been faithful, who’d broken their family in ways she never wanted to talk about. And now? Now her dad had managed to move on, to find joy again, with Jaemin’s mom of all people.

And the worst part? Jaemin took it better than she did. He leaned into it. He let her dad in. He wasn’t clinging to the past, he wasn’t bitter, he wasn’t jealous. He was everything Karina couldn’t manage to be.

And she hated him for it.

Everything blurred after that. One minute it was exams and suspicion; the next, there were engagement rings and pastel invitations.

The wedding was no better.

They didn’t even give her time to process before suddenly it was white tablecloths, champagne flutes, and vows.

She sat stiffly in the front row while Jaemin adjusted her dad’s tie like he was auditioning for Son of the Year, whispering something that made him laugh. Her father had never looked so at ease. So… happy.

Her stomach twisted. 

She hated that a part of her resented it.

Her dad had always wanted a son, hadn’t he? And here was Jaemin: charming, handsome, helpful, perfect.

She hated him.

Well —she didn’t hate him hate him. But she hated how easy it was for him. How he never seemed to resent anything. How he fit right into her family like he’d been there all along while she still stumbled on words like stepbrother and new mom.

Jaemin, who had lost his dad years ago, seemed to accept this new chapter with open arms. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight. He welcomed her dad into his life like family.

Meanwhile, Karina —who still hadn’t forgiven her mother’s betrayal —couldn’t let herself feel the same. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And yet, Mrs. Na , now her stepmother —kept showing up with tea when Karina studied late. Kept remembering her favorite snacks. Kept asking how she really felt, even when Karina snapped, even when she said she didn’t want to talk about it. Slowly, inconveniently, she was worming her way into Karina’s heart too.

It was infuriating.

It should’ve been simple, quiet, and small. But nothing in Karina’s life was ever simple. You cried so loudly the priest had to pause twice. Shotaro accidentally dropped the rings. Somi muttered commentary like they were hosting a live show.

And Jaemin? Jaemin gave a speech.

A long one. Full of jokes and smiles and heartfelt little anecdotes about “family.” Everyone clapped. Everyone laughed. Karina forced a smile so hard her cheeks hurt, because what was she supposed to do? Stand up and scream, Actually, I hate this. I hate all of you. I’m not ready to move on.

Her dad looked happy. Happier than she’d seen him in years. And she wanted to be happy for him, she did. But every time Jaemin’s shoulder brushed hers, every time their parents shared a look across the aisle, all she felt was swallowed up. 

Replaced.

She was jealous. She was angry. She was guilty for being both.

And Jaemin? He just smiled, as if he’d been waiting his whole life to belong to someone else’s family.

Now, months later, Jaemin was still around. Always around. Too around.

“Seriously, Karina,” Jaemin’s voice cut back through her spiraling thoughts. He was still in the doorway, her pillow tucked under his arm like a trophy, leaning casually against the doorway as if he hadn’t just ruined another moment. “If you want privacy, maybe hang a sock on the door next time.”

She glared, cheeks burning. “This is not a college dorm, idiot!”

Karina glared at him, wishing she could rewind time, back to before their parents were introduced to each other by Jeno's match making mother, back to before she had to call him her brother

“Poteito-Potato,” he grinned, winking.

Jeno chuckled softly beside her, squeezing her knee. But Karina wasn’t amused. Jaemin’s mere existence made her want to scream.

Because this was her life now: no matter how much she wanted her own space, no matter how much she tried to keep her world neat and separate. Jaemin was there. Not just as Jeno’s best friend anymore. Not just as the annoying boy who always teased her.

How had she gone from daydreaming about Jeno to… this?, her dad had actually told her one time to- “Listen to your brother, Karina.”

Brother. The word tasted like lemon juice.

Now he was family. And family was forever.

She buried her face in Jeno’s shoulder with a groan. “I swear, the universe hates me.”

From the hallway, Jaemin’s voice carried back, smug as ever: “Love you too, sis.”

And that, she thought darkly, was the worst part.

She’d thought she disliked him then. She hadn’t known it was possible to dislike him more now.

The campus felt alive in a way it only did at the start of the year. The orientation parade stretched across the quad - freshmen gathered in waves, waving pamphlets and gawking at the booths.

The athlete booth was already a circus before the parade even started.  

Jisung and his crew, the face of the university's sports pride, had front-row seats at the "athlete stand." It was pure bedlam, Jerseys slung loose, medals gleaming.

Freshmen lined up like they were meeting celebrities, teammates were barking over each other about last season's highlights, girls waved dreamily at them from the crowd, and some of the older athletes were already busy scouting the new recruits. It was the usual noise, the usual parade. Too many voices shouting at once.

But Jisung, whoJisung who was the center of it all, looked the part, every inch the star. Wasn't listening.

He was searching.

"Park, sign this -no, with your full name."

"Yo, Park, tell them about the finals last season!"

"Bro, is it true you skated through a whole game with a dislocated shoulder?" One had asked.

"Smile for the freshmen, man, they love that."

Jisung was surrounded. Teammates were jostling him, freshmen recruits were hanging onto every word, and the coach's assistant kept shoving a clipboard into his hands.

He plastered on a polite smile, nodded in the right places, even signed a couple of jerseys shoved at him. But his mind wasn't here. His eyes kept flicking past the crowd of recruits, beyond the banners, scanning.

You were somewhere out there.

A wave of squealing girls surged forward, one of them breathlessly asking if he was free after the booth closed. He muttered a distracted "Sorry, busy," already leaning sideways to get a better view of the lawn.

Chenle caught it instantly. "You're not even listening," he sing-songed under his breath, smirking. "What's got your eyes wandering, Park?"

"Shut up," Jisung muttered, ducking another clipboard shoved at him.

Johnny clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, handing him another with a smug on his face. "Our golden boy's restless. Should we tell the recruits why?"

"Don't you dare-"

But then the crowd shifted, their shouts fell away and he didn't care. Laughter rising from the left side of the lawn, and Jisung froze.

Not far off, half-hidden by a knot of laughing students, he spotted you -Somi tugging you forward, Karina rolling her eyes at something you'd said - and you.

There you were.

Your small figure stood out like you'd been cut out of another world. Your hair glimmered in the sun, clipped with delicate bows and pins that made you look like you'd stepped out of some dreamy sketchbook. Skirt swishing in the breeze, your little black leather backpack slipping down your shoulder, holding onto your friends' hands and his heart did that stupid jump it always did.

You looked untouched by the chaos, like you belonged to a calmer world entirely.

His chest tightened. 

You glowed.

He just ditched the clipboard into Kun's unsuspecting hand and before Jisung even realized, he was already moving.

"Yo, Park, where are you-" Xiaojun's voice cut off behind him. "We're still signing recruits-"

"Bro, we're supposed to stay-"

"Jisung!"

Their voices trailed behind.

Chenle noticed immediately. "Oh no," he whispered dramatically, "he's gone."

"Park-where are you going?!" Johnny yelled

"Dude, at least pretend to care-"

But Jisung didn't hear them anymore. He was already slipping past the booth like it didn't exist, strides cutting fast and deliberate through the parade crowd.

"Is he ditching us-"

"Mid-orientation?"

"Bro!"

Their voices trailed behind him.

His strides cut through the crowd until he was there, closer now. Somi spotted him first, squealing and elbowing Karina so hard she nearly dropped her tote. Karina arched an eyebrow, smirk tugging at her lips before whispering something in her ear.

Jisung reached them and his friends had slowed down just enough to watch with disbelief as Jisung slid into the group like he'd always belonged there.

By the time you turned, Jisung was right there.

"Hey," he said, voice low, a little breathless, softer than you'd ever heard him use in public.

Your lips parted in surprise. "...Hi."

He didn't even give himself time to think -without missing a beat, Jisung tugged the straps off your shoulders, then Somi's, then Karina's, stacking himself down with all their bags like it was second nature before taking their water bottles from their hands. The girls exchanged wide-eyed glances, gushing instantly.

"Jisung-" you started trying to stop him."You don't have to-"

"I got it," he said simply.

The other girls exchanged glances over your head, Karina biting back a laugh, Somi already grinning like she knew everything.

Jisung hugged them both politely - just quick squeezes - but when he reached you, your eyes widened and you gave a startled laugh, the laugh came out soft, nervous, muffled into his chest when his arms slid naturally around your waist, pulling you in for a hug like he hadn't seen you in years instead of hours. 

It was full, warm, unhesitating. Your breath caught as his arm wrapped tight, the scent husk wafting off the dark university hoodie surrounding you. 

Your hands clutching at it.

And then, quiet enough for only you, he teased, "you're really gonna make me find you in a crowd every time?"

Heat flamed across your cheeks. You shoved your face deeper into his hoodie to hide from Somi's gleeful squeals, which only made him chuckle, leaning down to brush his lips at the top of your hair, pressing a kiss there like it was instinct, like it was second nature.

"Shy already?" he teased softly.

You didn't answer, just hugged tighter, which only made him grin harder. His chin dropped onto the crown of your head, resting there naturally, your height difference making it feel like he'd been made for it.

"Is he-carrying all their bags?" Hendery whispered.

"And Smiling about it?"Xiaojun gaped

"Chenle, tell me I'm not seeing things?" Hendery asked again in disbeliefdisbelieve.

Johnny only smirked, arms folded, "Oh no, you're seeing right. Park Jisung is down BAD."

"Did he just kiss her head?" Chenle hissed.

And that's exactly when the guys caught up, stunned into silence, stared like they'd just seen a ghost.

"Holy sh*t," Hendery blurted, skidding to a stop. "Chenle, the girl is not a porno - she's very much real."

"...No way," Renjun muttered, blinking like he needed to reset his brain.

"Not possible," Xiaojun deadpanned, eyes narrowing like he'd spotted a rare animal. "Jisung does not do... hugs. Or girlfriends. Or public displays of..." He gestured vaguely at the cuddle happening before his eyes. "...whatever this is."

"Park Jisung. Midday parade. PDA." Even Johnny, unshakable Johnny, gave a low, impressed whistle. " I thought you'd die single on the rink, bro."

"Didn't think I'd see it in my lifetime."

Even Chenle, who had been the most suspicious, blinked dramatically. "Plot twist of the century."

The hug broke only because you went pink in the face and tried to wriggle out, but Jisung caught your hand, lacing your fingers like he wasn't letting you get away. His smirk was pure trouble when he finally turned to them.

"Guys," he drawled, the easy charm slipping into place, "meet my girlfriend."

Chaos. Pure chaos.

A collective WHAT?! went through the group.

"Girlfriend?!" Hendery yelped.

"You're lying," Renjun accused immediately.

"No, he hired her," Johnny decided, nodding like he'd solved it.

"She's too pretty to date you," Chenle said bluntly.

"Wow," Jisung muttered dryly. "The support is overwhelming."

He ignored it. Instead, undeterred, he gestured like a host on some variety show, wrapping his arms around you again.

"This," he announced proudly, tugging you closer as if you weren't close enough already, "is the artist-slash-figure-skating prodigy who makes me look boring. She's also way too good for me, but lucky for me she hasn't figured that out yet."

Your jaw dropped mortified he wasn't even flinching from how unfiltered he waswas being. "Jisung!"

The guys exploded.

Kun, who'd been standing there holding the abandoned clipboard like an unpaid babysitter, finally stepped forward with his most polite smile. "It's very nice to meet you. I apologize in advance for all of them."

"Oh my god, he's actually serious," Renjun muttered, stillmuttered still not believing.

"She's adorable," Hendery declared. "Are you sure she knows what she's signed up for?"

"Yeah, does she know about your sock collection?" Chenle added with a shark's grin. "Or that you only cook instant ramen?"

"Chenle," Jisung warned, ears turning red.

"Or the time you snored so loud Johnny thought we were being haunted?"

"CHENLE."

You giggled into your hand, bright and helpless, and that was all the encouragement Chenle needed to keep going.

"You're welcome," Chenle said proudly, hands raised like he was giving a public service.

He grinned wider.

"And this-" he pointed lazily at Somi, who immediately posed like she was in a photoshoot, "-is Somi, professional hype-woman and future celebrity."

Somi winked. "Accurate."

"And Karina," he finished, motioning at the girl coolly arching her brow, "the one who will probably fight me if I don't treat her best friend right."

Karina gave a slow, satisfied nod. "Smart boy."

"And this-" Jisung finally gestured to the circle of dumbfounded jocks- "are some of my teammates and fratmates. The loud one is Hendery, the polite one's Kun, the tall menace is Johnny, the skeptical one is Renjun, and the brat-" he jerked his chin at Chenle-"is unfortunately my best friend, Chenle."

You smiled, a little shy but warm, giving each a small nod.

The guys shuffled closer, still buzzing with disbelief. Chenle shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, muttering, "I still can't believe you didn't make her up."

"She's not imaginary," Jisung deadpanned, then with a playful glance down at you "Though if I did dream her up, I'd like to thank my brain."

You smacked his arm immediately. "You're impossible."

"Impossible not to love," he shot back without missing a beat, which only earned him another playful shove.

The group groaned in unison, half laughing, half mortified. Chaos swirled around them, but Jisung didn't budge from your side. His chin rested easily on your head again as you hid in his chest, his hands weighed down with your bags, bottles of water dangling from his fingers.

The laughter hadn't even died down when one of the freshmen volunteers from the athlete booth spotted him across the field.

"PARK JISUNG!" the poor guy bellowed, flapping a clipboard like it was a distress signal. "THE RECRUIT LINE IS OUT THE DOOR-"

"Tell them to draft themselves!" Chenle yelled back before Jisung could answer, earning a chorus of cackles.

"Chenle, shut up," Jisung groaned, but he didn't move. His arm was still looped around your waist like you were an anchor, and his teammates noticed.

"Bro," Hendery whistled low, "you're not even trying to go back."

"Because," Jisung said smoothly, like it was obvious, "the only orientation that matters is hers."

Cue another round of gagging noises as Somi pulled her tote from Jisung's shoulder.

"She's seriously letting you get away with that?" Johnny asked in disbelief.

"Not for long," you muttered, smacking his chest this time harder that it sent them all into bursts of laughter again.

He only grinned wider.

Meanwhile, Somi was digging through her tote for lip balm when a freshman guy with too much gel in his hair sidled up.

"Hey," he said, aiming his best smile. "You new here too? You should check out the basketball booth with me."

Somi blinked. "I literally just told my friend here I hate basketball." 

"She's not kidding," Karina cut in flatly, snapping her gum. "She booed at the NBA finals."

The guy faltered, but tried again, "Well-maybe I can-"

That's when Jisung casually shifted, still hugging his girl but now angling so his gang loomed behind Somi. Hendery cracked his knuckles, Johnny grinned slowlyslow, and Kun's polite smile looked... menacing in context.

The guy muttered something about "another time" and disappeared.

"Team assist," Jisung said smugly.

"Please, he ran because Karina's scary," Somi replied, rolling her eyes.

Karina shrugged, flipping her hair. "I am scary."

A shrill whistle cut through the noise this time. "PARK JISUNG!"

It was the booth volunteer again, practically hyperventilating now. "Coach is going to kill you!"

"Tell coach I'm networking," Jisung shot back without budging.

"Networking?" Chenle barked a laugh. "Bro, you're cuddling like a drama lead!"

But Jisung wasn't paying attention anymore - he was leaning down to murmur something low into your ear, "you look so pretty today cupcake."  that turned your cheeks hot and sent you burying your face in his chest.

"God, he's so gone," Johnny noted, rollingnoted rolling his eyes.

"Lost cause," Renjun muttered.

"Write his obituary," Hendery added with a nod.

Eventually, Jisung relented - only because Somi shoved him her tote again.

"Unbelievable," Chenle whispered. "He's whipped enough to be a pack mule."

"Correction," Jisung said, smug as ever, "I'm her pack mule."

His friends groaned, but your soft laugh gave him away.

And when he pressed a kiss on your forehead - in full view of everyone, no shame whatsoever - you flushed crimson and hugged him tighter, turning your face into his hoodie so no one else could see.

Johnny's jaw dropped. "He's not even hiding it-"

Hendery threw his hands up. "This is history in the making -Park Jisung, tamed."

Chenle shook his head like he was mourning. "She's gonna have him color-coding her sketchbooks by October."

"Wouldn't be the worst fate," Jisung shot back smoothly, chin still resting on your head.

The guys groaned, Somi cackled while Karina muttered, "This circus is my life now," and even Johnny wheezed.

Jisung just smiled like the whole world had stopped moving except for the girl in his arms. He only whispered, "As long as you're laughing, I don't care."

And you couldn't stop smiling, no matter how much you tried.

For the first time, his friends realized - he wasn't pretending. This wasn't an act, or a flex.

He'd crossed an entire parade just to get to her.

You were it.

The rink wasn't loud the way it usually was on game nights. It gleamed like spun glass under the lights, the kind of glow that made everything feel lighter than it was and glowed under the soft floodlights, the kind that made the ice sparkle like powdered sugar.

It smelled faintly of cold metal and cocoa from the vending machine by the entrance.

Tonight it was quiet and playful. The kind of quiet that echoed laughter back to them, multiplying it against the curved glass. 

Jisung had promised them a tour of the school- even managed to sneak Jaemin and Jeno in by using his charisma and charm on one of the guards, which naturally turned into him giving a tour of the ice hockey rink.

He leaned casually on his hockey stick, in casual clothing -the one he wore earlier during orientations -shirt, jeans and one of the university's official hoodie.

He had lazily scored a few pucks already, mostly showing off, the sound of slapshots smacking against the boards ringing proudly. Every time you clapped, he grinned wide enough to show his gums.

"No helmets, no drills," he'd said, waving his stick lazily as he skated backward, grin bright. "Just vibes."

And that’s what it was —pure, chaotic vibes.

The group had sprawled across the bleachers and benches, a tangle of jackets and snack wrappers. Karina and Somi had claimed half the bleachers, leaning against each other, gossiping between bursts of laughter.

Jaemin stretched himself out further behind them like he was king of the bench, providing loud commentary for every puck Jisung shot. 

Jeno sat one row down, hood pulled low, pretending his phone was more interesting though his eyes kept flicking to you whenever you cheered "too hard" for Jisung, in his humble opinion.

You sat closest to the rink, knees pressed to the boards, eyes following Jisung like there was nothing else to see. Hair bows bouncing as you clapped when he scored yet another puck. Jisung skated to your side, motioning you up. "Come on," he coaxed, you didn’t hesitate. Just grabbed the skates that sat patiently on the chair beside you.

"You said you missed the ice."

Your heart lifted as you laced them up, the familiar snugness grounding you. When you stood, Jisung offered his stick like a gentleman's hand, steadying you.

"You're not half bad," he teased once you found your balance.

Your brows arched. “Not half bad? Do you forget who you’re talking to? Scholarship skater.”

He grinned, leaning closer, voice dropping just for you. "Yeah, but you're mine now. Doesn't matter how good you are, I still win."

Your cheeks burned, but you laughed, swatting his arm. The others groaned in unison from the bleachers, Karina yelling, "Save it for your room, you two!"

“Have fun!” Jaemin added dramatically, cupping his hands around his mouth, shouting.

“But not too much!” Somi’s sing-song voice followed.

The girls dissolved into giggles, Jaemin howling along while Jeno groaned, tugging his hood further over his head as if that could hide him from the embarrassment of being associated with this group.

Jisung rolled his eyes at them, but the corner of his lips twitched. He ignored them with ease.

Your laughter echoed off the walls as you skated a slow circle, your skirt twirling, warm tights you had changed into covering your legs, the hair bows bouncing with each careful step. Whimsical. Weightless. Like something pulled straight out of one of your own sketches.

His eyes never leave you.

Then he motions for you to skate closer. When you did, he pulls something from his pocket, a small silver charm shaped like ice skates. 

He clips it onto your bracelet with careful fingers. The metal glinted under the rink lights, joining the other dangling trinket -the paint palette you carried like a memory held dear.

Your chest tightened. 

He kisses your temple quickly, as if daring anyone to call him out.

Your breath caught. 

You brushed your thumb over the new charm, but your mind slipped, like time itself cracked open.

A memory.

Him.

The night he’d slipped behind you in the library, his hands brushing your collarbone as he clasped a necklace around your neck. “Don’t turn around,” he’d whispered, lips grazing your hair.

"It's a surprise." 

You'd laughed nervously, glowing from the inside out, your skin hot where his fingers touched.

He'd pressed a kiss to your shoulder, and you'd thought, I could live here forever.

But forever had ended in a sport's parking lot months later. His face cold, his words clipped, eyes distant, lacking the warmth you thought was only reserved for you. "I don't think this is working anymore."

Your hands had shaken so hard you nearly dropped your skates. He hadn't given you a reason. He hadn't even looked you in the eye.

That was the night you'd sworn you would never let someone walk you into love just to abandon you in the middle of it.

The sting of that night still lived in your bones.

Then your charm lightly jingled again when Jisung gently rubbed on your wrist bringing you back to the real world. 

"Are you okay?"

You exhaled and nodded, smiling up at him.

Jisung saw something flicker in your eyes, "I lost you for a second there, pixiethere pixie."

"I'm good. I promise."

He smiled and nodded before going back to the pucks, sending them thundering into the net one after another while you cheered him on. Choosing to ignore memories of him until they forgot themselves.

Meanwhile, in the hallway just outside, Jungwoo adjusted the strap of his bag and asked the custodian again where the rink was. He'd been directed here by one of Jisung's coaches, who suggested he try his luck now if he wanted to schedule an interview.

The rink door opened.

Everyone turned slightly, assuming it was another staff member. But the figure who stepped in wasn't one of theirs. He walked slowly, scanning the boards, until his eyes landed on the ice. Found him, Park Jisung —the star player he was supposed to shadow, skating with someone. 

He hadn't expected...this.

From across the glass, his breath caught. A girl in whimsical bows and a skating skirt twirling on the ice. For a split second, he didn’t recognize her —just the outline, the glow, the familiarity that punched him square in the chest. The stranger reminded him of you.

And then she turned.

It was you.

Skates.

For a second, he thought he'd gone mad. The fluorescent lights flickered against the glass, but nothing blurred you out. His Skates. His chest lurched as if someone had yanked it with a hook.

The nickname hit him like a slap, dragging years of guilt behind it. He remembered whispering it against your ear once, laughing while you dragged him by the hand onto the rink, the both of you slipping more than skating on one of your stolen afternoons. He remembered the way you glowed then, just as you glowed now.

His throat closed.

His body moved before his brain caught up. One step, then another, his heart pounding with a rhythm he hadn't felt in years

You froze too, looking up at the same moment, lips parting. The name spilled out before you could stop it. 

“Snoopy…”

Not because of any deep intent, but out of pure shock, your sadness flickering across your face like an old film reel -memories of what you were, what you weren't anymore.

The name fell into the silence like a stone breaking water. The sound carried across the ice, sharp enough to silence even Jaemin mid-talking.

Karina's mask of sass shattered instantly, having heard you loud and clear. "Holy shit." She grabbed Somi's wrist too tight.

Somi, usually the first to tease, went dead quiet. Even she couldn't find a joke for this. Her hands twisted in her lap, uneasy. She stared at Jungwoo like he was a ghost pulled straight out of a grave.

Jaemin blinked hard, like his brain had glitched. "Wait...no way. That's-?"

Jeno didn't waste time thinking. He was half out of his seat, jaw locked, fists clenched, protective instinct rising in him like a tide. He knew exactly who Jungwoo was, and his muscles were already twitching to step in.

Your bracelet jingled faintly as you instinctively touched it again. The old memory of when everything went to shit and Jisung's new charm tangled together in your mind, two ghosts pulling at your heart in opposite directions.

Two timelines overlapping and pulling you apart.

Jungwoo stepped forward again. Just once. His body moved like he wasn't in control of it anymore. He saw you, and everything in him screamed to close the distance.

Jisung noticed everything. The way you stiffened. The way this stranger's gaze locked on you like a man who'd been drowning for years.

And then he was there.

One sharp slide across the ice, planting himself squarely in front of you, stick angled like a blade, to be used if needed. His shoulders broad, chin lifted, every inch of him a barrier.

His voice dropped, low, sharp, steady, cold, but protective. "Who are you?" Jisung demanded, eyes narrowing, "and why the hell are you walking into my rink like you own it?"

--------------

If anyone asked how he got here — sprawled on the world’s plushest sorority couch, kissing Hana Kim, junior cheerleader, queen of the Kappa Delta house — Shotaro knew exactly what he’d say.

“I don’t know.”

Because he really, honestly didn’t.

Shotaro’s mind raced faster than his lips were moving. How did he, Shotaro Nakamoto, freshman dance major, orientation barely two days in, end up in this situation?

He could practically hear your voice already,

“You gave Jisung a lecture about being responsible with his feelings, and now you’re tonguing someone you just met? Hypocrite.”

He almost laughed into Hana’s mouth. 

Almost.

Instead, he thought back —rewinding, like someone had hit replay in his head.

It began, like all questionable life choices, with Rize’s welcome party Shotaro hadn’t even unpacked his suitcases when one of the older brothers slapped a lei around his neck and shoved a cup into his hand. Rize wasn’t subtle. They’d plastered posters everywhere: WELCOME, FRESH MEAT.  DRINKS, MUSIC, BAD DECISIONS. “Welcome to the family, Taro! Tonight, you’re no longer a pledge. You’re prey.” “Prey?” Shotaro echoed. “Fresh meat!” the guy corrected, already stumbling toward the beer pong table. He hadn’t even wanted to go — but when you lived in the house, you didn’t get a choice. The living room was chaos. Music rattled the walls, strobe lights pulsed, people yelled every five seconds. Someone had taped a “hydration station” sign over a keg. He tried to keep up. Introductions blurred together. Games piled on top of games. Someone challenged him to flip cup, someone else shoved him into beer pong, and just when he thought he’d escaped — He was dragged into endless games of “never have I ever” with people who clearly had done everything ever. Then came the dreaded spin the bottle. “Seven minutes in heaven!” one of the older brothers bellowed, already drunk enough to slur it into “seben m’nitsn heavennnn.” Shotaro wanted to melt into the carpet. He hated this game.  Hated it.  Hated the pressure, the expectation, the eyes watching. But he couldn’t exactly say no, not when half the frat was chanting, “Nakamoto! Nakamoto!” like he was a gladiator entering an arena. The bottle spun. Slowed. Clinked. And stopped on Hana Kim. Hana, the junior cheerleader who looked like she’d walked out of a teen drama, flipping her hair like it was scripted. “Oh, freshman,” she smirked, her gloss catching the neon lights. “Lucky you.” Shotaro had panicked, of course.  The others shoved them both into the nearest closet, chanting like a crowd at a football game. He swore he heard your voice echoing in his head. “Don’t do anything stupid.” Which would’ve been fine advice, except Hana had leaned back against the door, arms crossed, eyes glittering under the faint light of her phone screen. Inside, it was dark. Smelled faintly like dust and Febreze “Well?” she’d asked expectantly. Shotaro panicked. He blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Uh… I like your shoes.” Her brows shot up. “…My shoes?” “Yeah, they look comfortable for heels,” he said sincerely. Hana stared at him for a full five seconds. Then, to his utter confusion, she laughed. A low, sharp, delighted laugh. “You’re either the worst frat boy alive or the best.” Shotaro shrugged, nervously tugging on his hoodie strings. “I just… don’t really kiss strangers.” “Respectful,” she hummed, leaning closer anyway, testing him like a cat might test a new toy. “Noted.” Shotaro swallowed. His hands fiddled with the drawstring of his hoodie. “Uh… so… what’s your major?” Hana blinked. “…Seriously?” Yup, he was He nodded slowly, entirely serious. The seven minutes passed with him complimenting her nail polish, offering to hold her phone so she'd adjust the shoes, and politely turning his head when she adjusted her top. By the time the door was flung open, Hana strutted out first and, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, she tossed him a smile before disappearing into the party. He thought that was it. A funny story he’d never tell his sister, because God forbid you use it as ammunition.

Except the next morning, a few hours ago, orientation day, he was supposed to meet you, Karina and  Somi to walk across campus together. Supposed to. He’d even left early, backpack slung, earbuds in, determined to be punctual for once in his life — when he nearly ran straight into Hana outside her sorority house.

Tray of cookies in hand. Cheer bow perched in her hair.

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head like she’d been waiting. “Freshman. Come here.”

Shotaro blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Taste test. I need brutal honesty.”

He should’ve declined. He should’ve said he had somewhere to be (which he did). But politeness, curiosity and free food all conspired against him.

So he followed her in.

Cookies led to messy crumbs on his lip. Hana had leaned forward to swipe it away with her thumb. Her thumb led to—

Well.

Here...

Hana pulled back just enough to smirk down at him, her hair tickling his cheek. “You’re a terrible kisser when you’re distracted.”

“I’m not distracted,” Shotaro blurted. He definitely was. “I’m just… thinking.”

Her laugh was low, amused. “About what? Cookies?”

He was thinking about how the girls would destroy him for this.

Somi would never let him live this down.

“Ooooh, look at Mr. Respectful Gentleman, moving fast now!”

Or Karina, rolling her eyes dramatically, “This is why I don’t trust frat boys.” and you'd probably snort back how she was actually date one before crossing your arms, disappointment written across your face glaring at him.

“I cant believe you ditched me for cookies!?"

Shotaro almost laughed into Hana’s mouth. 

Almost.

Instead, he let her tug him closer, the sweet scent of vanilla flooding his senses.

"I can feel you overthinking,” Hana murmured against his lips, like she’d read his mind, brushing his bangs back. "Relax. It’s just cookies.”

Shotaro nodded mutely, cheeks blazing.

He was in trouble. Serious, serious trouble.

He wasn’t in love. He wasn’t even sure if he liked Hana beyond the fact that she was very pretty, very popular, and very much kissing him right now in a sorority living room, orientation binder forgotten in his backpack.

But still — there was something dangerously thrilling about it.

And he had a terrible, terrible feeling this was only the beginning.

The air cracked. No one moved.

Jisung's voice still hung in the cold like a challenge, "Who are you, and why the hell are you walking into my rink like you own it?"

You swallowed hard, torn between the past that just walked through the door and the present standing like a shield in front of you.

Jungwoo's lips parted, but no words came. All he could see was you, the girl he let go, the girl who still wore the light he thought he'd snuffed out.

He blinked once, twice, but he didn't falter. "I'm not just anyone." His voice was low, strained, like it was being dragged out of him. His eyes didn't leave yours, not even to acknowledge Jisung's frame blocking him. "She knows me."

Your knees buckled slightly. You clutched Jisung's back just to stay upright, your throat thick, heart galloping like it was trying to escape. 

Jungwoo. 

His voice sounded the same. Too much the same.

Jisung didn’t flinch. His stick held the line. His arm nudged you slightly back, protective, unshakable.

The air between them was thick enough to choke on.

Karina shot up from the bleachers. "Oh, fuck no." Her voice ricocheted across the rink, sharp and furious. "You have got to be kidding me."

"You've got two seconds to back off," Jeno snapped, voice low and dangerous. He'd move closer, fists clenched at his side.

Somi, who never failed to crack a joke, didn't move. Didn't even blink. Her lips pressed into a line, her usual bright energy dimmed into something heavy.

Jisung shifted his weight, chin tilting, stick lowering just enough to show intent. "If she knows you, she'll say it herself." 

Your breath hitched.

Memories and reality blurred, the air sharp with ice and heartbreak, until it was impossible to tell if you were standing in tonight or in the night he left you.

The necklace around your neck burned against your skin like you suddenly remembered you still wore it all this time.

Jungwoo didn’t move. Couldn’t. His eyes were locked on you like he’d been searching for you in every crowd, in every memory, and now that you were here... right here, he couldn’t believe it. How he left you, two years ago, came rushing back... Jungwoo’s phone buzzed against the dashboard, Yuta’s name flashing bright. He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face before answering. Seconds later, his best friend's grin filled the screen, grainy with bad dorm Wi-Fi but unmistakably his. “Yo,” Jungwoo said, forcing a smile. “Yo yourself.” Yuta’s face filled the screen, messy-haired and wearing that tired grin he always wore after a long study session. “Guess who just attended a first mock trial and crushed it?” Jungwoo chuckled. “Please don’t say you.” Yuta laughed. “Oh, it was absolutely me. Come on, give me my flowers.” Jungwoo raised a fist in mock applause. But even as he joked, his chest already felt tight. The conversation drifted from Yuta’s professors to the stress of his first few months in law school, then to the old days, when it was just the three of them, him, Yuta and Jaehyun- dumb teenagers with ramen cups and big dreams.

Yuta’s voice warmed with nostalgia, “Man, remember our pact? How we swore we’d keep each other on track? No screwing up, no distractions, and family…” His smile tilted into a smirk. “…always off limits. Don't be spending too much time hanging out with my sister." The words hit like ice water down Jungwoo’s spine. "You know she makes the best desserts." "I know, but..." Yuta leaned closer to the screen, half-serious now. “You’ve got my back, right? Always?” Jungwoo’s throat locked. He wanted to tell him. God, he wanted to confess that, "I already broke it. I love her and I don't think I'll stop loving her." He hadn’t told him the truth. He had just smiled, nodded, like a coward. His chest hollowed. The words landed heavy, harder than they had two years prior when he and Jeahyun were sophomores, while Yuta, in his junior year, made rules for themselves over late-night ramen and illegal underage drinking. Back then, it had been easy to agree. Back then, you were just Yuta’s kid sister, someone Jungwoo teased like all older brothers’ friends did. Someone he denied the thoughts of having feelings for, despite him lying to himself even then. But by thenby that phone call, Your laugh lived in his chest. Now he knew the warmth of your hand in his, the way you always tugged his hood over your head like it belonged to you, the way you whispered his name like a secret. He wanted to say something. To lay it bare. To ask, what if he already broke that promise?  How do you tell your best friend—your brother- that the girl you’re not supposed to touch has already stolen every part of you? Instead, he forced the lie past his lips. “Always.” Yuta’s grin returned, easy and trusting. “I knew I could count on you. Don’t go soft on me now, Woo. We’ve come too far.” The call ended. The screen went black. Jungwoo sat in the silence, phone still burning in his palm, until the ache in his chest swelled so sharp it almost hurt to breathe. His heart was pounding so loud he could hear it. How could he look you in the eye after this? How could he hold your hand, kiss you, pretend everything was the same, when he knew the truth, that he had just chosen Yuta over you? He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars, but nothing dimmed the ache. His heart screamed your name, but his loyalty had already stolen you from him. Then, sitting in his car in the ice sports parking lot, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight the skin over his knuckles whitened, Jungwoo’s heart slammed against his ribs. He could still see your face in his mind, tilted up at him from earlier that day, sunlight catching on the baby hairs by your temple as you leaned across the library table, laughing at something dumb he’d said. He’d kissed you then, quick and hidden. You’d squeezed his hand. He could still feel it. And yet—Yuta’s words pressed harder. Off limits. Always has been, always will be. Jungwoo dropped his forehead to the steering wheel, eyes stinging. He wanted to scream. Instead, he just sat there, listening to the tick of the cooling engine, until his chest felt like it would cave in.

When he finally got out of the car, he already knew. It had to end that day. You were waiting where you always did, outside the rink, duffle slung on one shoulder, skates dangling from your hand. You rocked on your toes against the cold pavement, your breath fogging in little puffs under the yellow street lamp. The light caught on your hair, making you glow against the empty lot. You didn’t notice anything was wrong at first. You had smiled the moment you saw him, jogging up like nothing in the world could keep you apart. “There you are,” you teased as you climbed into step beside him, brushing your arm against his as you walked. “Thought you ditched me for a burger run.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Never.” Your grin twisted his insides. “Guess what? Coach actually said I didn’t look like a baby giraffe tonight. Progress, right?” You had beamed. You expected him to laugh. To tease. To kiss you hello, hug you as tightly as he always did whenever he picked you up. But Jungwoo’s chest had felt like glass, splintering with every heartbeat. You continued talking—about your practice, about how your spins were finally coming together, how your coach almost looked impressed. You even mimicked his expression, pulling your face into a ridiculous scowl, and Jungwoo’s lips tugged up against his will. But every laugh you pulled from him tonight felt like a betrayal. Halfway across the empty parking lot, his legs froze. You turned, brows knitting. “What? Locked your keys in the car again?” That night was quiet—no cars, no voices, just the hum of the streetlight overhead filling the silence. The air was cool, sharp. Jungwoo’s heart had thundered so loud he swore you could hear it. His jaw worked, his throat bobbing.  The streetlight made your eyes glow, your lips parted in an easy smile. He had kissed those lips a hundred times. He would give anything to do it again. But instead— “I can’t do this anymore.” The words scraped his throat raw. It was torn from him like flesh. You blinked. “Do what?” “Us.” His voice cracked. “I can’t… I can’t be with you.” For a moment, you just stared at him. Then you laughed, a quick, nervous sound. “That’s not funny, Woo. You’re tired. Your coach has been on your ass all week, I get it. But don’t—don’t joke like that.” His jaw tightened. “I’m not joking.” The silence afterward rang in your ears. “What?” You let out a startled laugh, confusion flashing across your face. Laughing was the only thing your body seemed to be able to do properly. "We...we need to break up." The smile dropped from your face. The skates slid in your grip, the blades clinking softly together. “That’s not funny, Jungwoo.” Your chest tightened, your voice shook. “I told you I'm not joking.” His gaze lifted to yours, and you saw it, something final in his eyes. “But—we were fine. At lunch, in the library, we were fine. You kissed me, you held my hand, we laughed. You can’t just say this without a reason. If something’s wrong, tell me, and we’ll fix it.” “It’s not that simple,” Jungwoo whispered. His hands curled into fists at his sides. His insides twisted. He wanted to scream the truth.  "That you are and will always be everything to me. I love you so much it terrifies me. But I swore, and I can’t break him the way I’m breaking you." “I’m sorry,” he said instead, and it shattered him. “I just… can’t.” You shook your head violently, tears spilling fast. “No. No, you don’t get to do this. Not when you know how much—” Your voice broke. “—how much I love you.”

He flinched; every part of him had screamed to hold you. But he stepped back. God, he wanted to. He wanted to tell you everything, to beg you to wait, to promise he’d find a way to make it work. But Yuta’s voice continuously echoed in his head. Family stays off limits. "Don’t make this harder,” he said, voice breaking.  “Then explain it!” you demanded, stepping forward, clutching the front of his jacket like you could anchor him to you. “We were fine today. You kissed me at lunch, remember? Snoop, how do you go from that to this in a single day- in fucking hours?” But he had given you nothing.  Only silence, and the silence was louder than a scream. Jungwoo’s eyes glistened. His voice dropped to a raw whisper, " I made a promise.” Your hands shook against his chest. “No. No, I don’t accept that. That’s not a reason. That’s cowardice. If you loved me, you’d—” “I do.” His voice cracked, and his hands rose, almost touching your face before they froze midair. He dropped them back to his sides like the contact would burn. “God, I do. And that’s why I have to end it.” You stared at him, your breath ragged, the words had cut deeper than the night air ever could. “Don’t do this, Jungwoo. Please don’t do this to me.” He squeezed his eyes shut.  When he opened them, they were wet. “I do love you. That’s the problem.” You froze. “I love you so much it makes me sick. And if I don’t stop now, I’ll ruin everything—your family, mine. All of it. And I can’t—” His voice broke. He shook his head, stepping back. “I’m sorry.” The words fell like stones between you. His insides twisted. He had wanted to scream the truth. That you are everything to him, and it terrified him.  “I’m sorry,” he said, and it shattered him. “I just… can’t.” When he finally stepped back, pulling from your grip, your hands fell empty at your sides, you thought your heart might split open right there on the gravel, and your knees nearly buckled. “Jungwoo!” Your voice broke into the empty lot. You stumbled forward, ready to chase him, but someone grabbed you from behind. "Stop.” Jeno. He was still in practice gear, fresh from ice hockey, stick strapped to his back, duffle slung over one shoulder. His eyes widened as he took in your tears, Jungwoo retreating. His mouth parted like he wanted to ask questions, but the sight of you crumbling stole every word. Your knees gave out when Jungwoo’s figure disappeared into the dark. Jeno caught you, pulling you tight against him. You twisted, trying to break free, but his arms locked around you, pulling you against him. “Don’t go after him,” he had said, his voice low but firm, shaking with the weight of what he’d just witnessed. "Not like this. Not after the way he just left you.” That broke you. You had collapsed in his arms, the sobs tearing out of you. Jeno sank with you, kneeling on the gravel as your knees gave out, holding you as if he could shield you from the wreckage. You still remember burying your face in his chest, raw and broken. He had held you there, tight, his chin pressed into your hair. Your fists curled into his jersey. His voice was soft, desperate whisper, over and over, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just let it out.” And you did. You sobbed until your throat was raw, until your body trembled against his. He had rocked you gently against the jagged edges of what just shattered. Across the lot, Jungwoo didn’t look back. He walked until his silhouette disappeared into the shadows, every step away tearing another piece of him out. Each step carved him open—but he didn’t dare look back. You remember his silhouette growing smaller, swallowed by the shadows until he was gone. And with him, he took the fragile little world you had built together.

Your charm lightly jingled again, blinking you back to reality and your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Jungwoo stepped forward again. Just one step. His voice cracked calling you, "Skates... it's me."

He took another step forward, desperate, helpless. “You know it’s me.”

Jisung slammed his stick harder against the ice, the crack echoing. He shifted just enough to nudge you farther behind him, his arm brushing against yours like a silent promise.

“Leave.”

Jungwoo’s lips parted. For a moment, guilt ripped through his composure, his chest caving with everything he wanted to say, everything he couldn’t. He’d told himself he’d bury it. Told himself he’d keep living like he was half-alive, coasting through his days.

But standing here, seeing you… his heart wasn’t listening.

“You don’t get to call her that anymore,” Jeno’s voice snapped, venom thick in his tone.

The weight of everyone’s eyes pressed down on you. You couldn’t breathe. Memories fought against the present, your past colliding with Jisung’s steady presence in front of you.

Jisung leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed, voice low enough it cut. “You heard him. That’s not your name for her anymore. Not here. Not ever.”

Jungwoo’s chest heaved. His hands shook. For the first time since that cold night two years ago, he looked like the one breaking. His mouth opened like he had something to say, something to explain—

—but the words stuck.

The overhead lights buzzed louder. The ice seemed to groan under the weight of everything unsaid.

And then, for the first time since Jungwoo stepped through the doors, you finally moved. Your hand touched Jisung’s arm...light, trembling, but firm enough to anchor yourself.

Your voice cracked, fragile but final. “Jisung… let’s go.”

The words hit Jungwoo like a blade. He staggered a step back, breath shuddering.

Jisung’s shoulders loosened only slightly at your touch, but his eyes never left Jungwoo’s. He lowered his stick just enough to turn, skating toward the exit with you in tow, chin high, arm protective.

The bleachers scrambled in chaos behind them, Karina grabbing Somi’s hand, Jaemin blurting nervous jokes that didn’t land, Jeno storming down the steps like he’d fight if Jungwoo so much as breathed wrong.

Jungwoo stood alone at the edge of the rink, the echo of your voice replaying in his head. Not Snoopy. Not Woo. Just one sentence.

“Jisung… let’s go.”

It felt like being left all over again.

And for the first time in years, Kim Jungwoo realized he had no idea how to move forward.

LATER...

The apartment door clicked shut behind them, but the air inside wasn’t any lighter than the ice rink. Everyone shuffled in quietly, shoulders tight, their voices swallowed whole by what had just happened.

No one dared bring up his name. Not out loud.

Karina and Somi dropped onto the couch, clinging to each other like they needed the contact. Jaemin kicked his shoes off with unusual restraint. Jeno paced once, then sat hard on the armrest, fists pressed against his knees.

It was Jisung who broke the silence, tossing yours and his skates into the shoe corner with a little too much force. The sound clattered like punctuation.

Jaemin, trying to fill the heavy quiet, cleared his throat. “Sooo… do we still get the rest of the campus tour, or was that, uh, the grand finale?”

The room turned on him instantly. Karina’s glare was sharp enough to cut glass. Even Somi smacked his arm without a word. Jeno didn’t bother with subtlety—he just groaned and muttered, “Read the room, man.”

Your hands were still trembling. The echo of Jungwoo’s voice—"Skates… It’s me,"—clung to your ribs like a bruise. The weight of everyone’s eyes pressed too heavily on your chest.

You stood suddenly, clutching Jisung’s sleeve like it was the only thing keeping you steady. “We’re—uh—we’ll be in my room,” you mumbled, tugging him toward the hall before anyone could argue.

Jisung didn’t resist. His hand slipped into yours easily, fingers curling firm and warm, like an anchor.

By the time you reached your room and the door clicked shut, you finally exhaled, the sound shaky. You leaned against the edge of your bed, your charm bracelet dangling loose from your wrist, chest still too tight.

Jisung stayed near the door at first, studying you quietly. Then he crossed the room and sat beside you on the bed, close enough for your knees to brush.

“Hey.” His voice was soft but steady. “I wanna say this right.” He rubbed the back of his neck before glancing at you. “I want to be the guy who tells you… you don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to explain a single thing if you don’t want to. But—” He hesitated, his eyes kind but searching. “If you’d let me… I’d like to know. Just so I understand what I just saw.”

Your chest squeezed. His words disarmed you more than any demand ever could.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, trying to laugh, though it came out fragile.

He grinned crookedly, leaning back with fake offense. “Ridiculously charming, yeah, I know.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. You took a deep breath, then reached for his hand, your fingers threading through his. His thumb brushed your knuckles gently.

“That was Jungwoo,” you finally said, your voice low, deliberate. “He’s… my ex.”

Jisung’s jaw shifted slightly, but he didn’t speak, just waited.

You swallowed, then added, “My high school first love.”

He nodded once, like he’d guessed. Like it made too much sense. But you rushed to add, “I was just… shocked to see him again. That’s all. I didn’t expect it. Especially not here.”

Your words spilled faster, wanting him to hear what mattered. “It’s been two years. He’s one of Yuta’s best friends, but—Jisung, it doesn’t matter. I promise you, it doesn’t.”

For a second, he just looked at you. Really looked. Then his smile softened, and he covered both your hands with his, grounding you. “Hey. Relax. I get it. Everyone’s got one of those—first loves that cut deep, you know?”

Your eyes searched his, uncertain. “You’re not… angry?”

His grin returned, sly this time. “Oh, I’m furious.”

You blinked. “Wait, what—”

“A kiss would make me feel better.” His tone was deadpan, but his eyes danced.

You gaped, heat crawling up your neck. “Jisung!”

“What?” he asked innocently, squeezing your hands. “I’m serious.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly. “You are not.”

But then he leaned forward, pulling both your hands to his lips. The brush of his mouth against your knuckles was gentle but so charged it stole your breath. His voice dropped, playful but full of something heavier.

“You’re adorable,” he murmured. “And you failed, by the way.”

You frowned faintly. “Failed what?”

“Failed to make me love you any less.”

Your breath caught. The words were so casual, tossed out like an obvious truth. I love you. Said like it was nothing, like it was everything. Like it had been waiting on his tongue for weeks.

Your chest swelled, butterflies bursting so hard it almost hurt.

Jisung leaned back slightly, eyes steady. “Promise me something?”

Your lips trembled. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll let me love you like this. Loudly. Openly. Proudly. And you won’t care what anyone else says.” His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in it. “Just… let me.”

Your throat burned with the sudden weight of it, but you nodded, smiling through the tears threatening in your eyes. 

And before he could say anything else—before you could think twice—you surged forward, your hands cupping his cheeks. You kissed him with everything you had, fierce and desperate, curling your fingers into the straps of his hoodie to pull him closer.

In your head, a single thought rang clear, I’m falling for him and I don't want to stop.

Because of the way he teased you into laughing when you wanted to cry. Because of the way he noticed your smallest tremors and anchored them. Because of the way he said “I love you” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He stilled for half a heartbeat—then melted into it, his hands finding your waist, pulling you against him. The kiss deepened, hot and breathless, until neither of you remembered where it started, because words aren’t enough. You want him to feel it. You want him to know.

When you finally break apart, breathless, your forehead rests against his. His thumb traces the side of your hand absently, and you realize you are smiling — wide, unrestrained, the kind of smile you didn't think you were capable of anymore.

He looks at you like he knows. Like he sees it too.

And you whisper your answer, barely audible, “Okay.”

Okay to his promise. Okay to letting him in. Okay to falling.

For the first time in two years, it doesn’t feel like a risk. It feels like freedom.

Yuta had left the kitchen to Minho that night. He always did when his days stretched too long, when the law library’s fluorescent hum still rattled in his bones and the weight of statutes clung to his shoulders. Minho, by contrast, thrived in quiet domestic rituals: rice steaming on the stove, the scrape of garlic across the pan, the soft clatter of plates that never quite matched.

They ate side by side at the counter, bowls balanced in their hands, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence that neither of them felt the need to bridge. It was late—the kind of late where the city dulled into a softer rhythm, headlights passing in intervals like a metronome for thoughts best left unspoken.

Minho, as always, was the first to break the stillness.

“How’s the internship?” he asked, voice casual, the question worn from repetition. He didn’t look up from his phone. He never had to, he already knew Yuta’s answer would be measured, contained, the same way he carried himself everywhere these days.

He was always checking messages from home at this hour—his parents, cousins, the occasional emergency from back in Jeju.

Yuta gave it, swallowing a spoonful before answering. “It’s fine. Mostly drafting briefs. Lots of coffee runs. I’ve been shadowing one of the senior associates—she’s sharp. Cuts through arguments like nothing.”

Minho whistled low. “Sounds terrifying.”

“It is,” He admitted, letting a smile tug at hishus mouth. “But good terrifying. Like… makes me want to actually keep up.”

For a while it was just the clink of spoons and the hum of the fridge. It was late enough outside that the city felt muted, the kind of silence where your brain finally slows down.

It could have ended there, ordinary and forgettable. But Minho—who had the gift, or perhaps the curse, of asking when silence had settled too comfortably—set his phone down at last and looked at him with curious eyes,

"Do you ever miss it?”

Yuta’s spoon stilled. “Miss what?”

“Home. High school. All that.” Minho shrugged one shoulder, a lazy gesture. “I don'tdont know, sometimes when I call my mom, it’s like I’m seventeen again, sneaking ramen at two in the morning. Makes me think about everything I left behind.”

The words sat heavy between them, heavier than they should have. Yuta lowered his gaze back to his rice, to the flecks of egg and green onion, but they blurred all the same.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Sometimes.”

Minho smiled, nudging his bowl toward him as if to lighten the air. “So what do you miss most?”

It should have been an easy answer. Family dinners. Summer nights at the river. The smell of rain on the school track.

But before he could stop himself, the name surfaced—uninvited, unguarded.

“The guys. Hanging out after practice. Jungwoo never let us leave the gym without—”

He froze. Chopsticks hovering mid-air, throat closing around the rest of the sentence, the sentence unfinished, dangling like an exposed wire.

He couldn’t shake it. The way the name had rolled out like it still belonged in his mouth. Like it hadn’t been years. Like he hadn’t buried the whole thing under case law and deadlines and pretending.

Minho tilted his head, waiting. “Without what?”

Yuta’s throat tightened. He forced a laugh, too sharp to be convincing, and shook his head. “Nothing. Just… a dumb story.”

The lie settled poorly, an ill-fitting coat draped across his shoulders. The silence that followed was different now—not companionable, but charged. Minho didn’t press, and Yuta was grateful. But the damage was done.

The name echoed in his mind long after the bowls were emptied, long after Minho rinsed them and left them in the sink. Jungwoo. Spoken aloud in a room he had sworn to keep clean of ghosts.

Yuta retreated to their shared room with the excuse of reading briefs, but the textbook lay untouched at his desk. He sat on the edge of his bed instead, staring at the shadows that stretched long across the floorboards. Somewhere in the apartment, Minho hummed along to a song under his breath.

The sound should have been grounding. Instead it reminded him of another voice—one that used to call his name across the court, laugh too loud during late-night scrimmages, lean against his car with the reckless ease of someone who thought tomorrow was promised.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, but it didn’t stop the memory.

Jungwoo never let us leave the gym without a final shot. Without one last promise. Without…

Yuta never finished the thought. Couldn’t.

Instead, he lay back on bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer absolution. His phone buzzed once on the nightstand—an email from his professor, unread. He ignored it.

The garlic from dinner still lingered in the air, sharp and cloying. He hated the way it stuck, the way it reminded him of how long things could cling when you tried too hard to wash them away.

By the time Minho turned off the kitchen light, Yuta had already shut his eyes. Pretending to sleep was easier than admitting he’d ruined another night with a name he wasn’t supposed to say.

The apartment was buzzing even though it was barely late morning. It smelled faintly of burnt toast and coffee when Jeno zipped his duffle closed. The sound cut through the morning. Plates clattered in the sink, Somi shouted from the living room about her missing sweater, you and Shotaro bickering over dishes in the sink and Jaemin’s voice rose to defend himself against an accusation he clearly wasn’t winning. Yet, for Karina, it was the loudest thing in the world.

“Do you hear this place?” he said. “You think I’d survive another night here?”

Karina narrowed her eyes at him, “Oh, don’t act like you don’t love it. Admit it—chaos is your thing.”

“Chaos is Jaemin dropping his mug this morning and blaming the wind,” Jeno shot back, zipping his duffle halfway.

A crash sounded from the kitchen.

“See?” he added, deadpan.

Karina smiled, but it was short-lived. Her gaze lingered on the half-packed bag, the zipper teeth gaping like a reminder. He was leaving. Again

She sat cross-legged on her bed, chin propped on her knees as she glared at the bag like it had personally offended her. “Do you really have to go?”

“If I don’t, my coach will actually hunt me down. And trust me, he runs faster than you think." Jeno laughed softly, tugging on his hoodie, "besides, classes don't wait for anyone either.”

“I don’t care,” she muttered, flopping back onto the pillows. “Tell him you were sick. Tell him your bus broke down. Tell him—”

“That my girlfriend wouldn’t let me leave?” he teased, leaning over her.

“Yes,” she said immediately, dead serious.

For a moment, the banter softened the ache in his chest. But when he saw the way her lips pressed together, her sulk wasn’t just theatrics this time, and he could feel it in the space between them.

The way her eyes flickered with something heavier, his smile faded.

“What’s really wrong?”

He moved closer, crouching so he could meet her eyes.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing her hair out of her face. “Don’t do that. You know I’m coming back.”

She tried to wave it off, but her voice cracked. “It’s just… last year was so hard, Jeno. You were gone and I was stuck finishing high school. Now we’re both in uni, and it’s supposed to be better, but… what if it’s worse? What if we’re so busy we barely exist in each other’s lives anymore?”

Her words punched straight into his ribs. Because the truth was, he’d thought the same thing.

His chest ached. Because she was voicing exactly what he feared—just not the part that haunted him most.

Jeno reached for her hand, thumb brushing against her palm. “Do you remember when I first left Jeonju? You thought that was the end of us.”

The name of their hometown made her chest ache with a bittersweet pull. Her lashes fluttered as the images flooded her mind—

A faint smile curved her lips despite herself. She remembered it clearly—crying at the station as his bus pulled away, her phone buzzing all night with his texts until the battery died.

The night before he left, the two of them sitting on the swings by the small park near the river. She remembered gripping the chains until her palms hurt, trying to memorize his profile against the glow of the streetlamp. “What if it changes everything?” she had whispered, and he’d tilted his head at her with that maddening calmness. “Then we’ll change together.”

She saw herself again, weeks later, curled on her bed with her phone pressed to her ear. The signal kept cutting in and out, but his voice had come through, warm even across the static. “I don’t care if it’s midnight, Rina. Call me whenever. I’ll always pick up.”

Then the memory that always hit the hardest—the first time he came home on break. She had spotted him across the Jeonju station, his duffel slung across his shoulder, and before she could think, she was running. The way his face lit up when she collided into him, arms tightening around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground—she could still feel the way her heart had pounded, the relief that made her cry into his hoodie while he just kept laughing softly, murmuring, “See? We’re fine. We’re still us.”

“You were wrong then,” he whispered. “And you’re wrong now.”

Her throat tightened. “How can you be so sure?”

Because you’re perfect, he wanted to say. Because someone else could see what I see and I could lose you in an instant. 

She didn’t know the way heads turned when she walked into a room. She didn’t see the way people at his campus asked about her and every time he would show a photo of her, they'd make it painfully known that she was out of his league.

The words burned on his tongue, but he swallowed them down. Pushing that fear down where she couldn’t see it.

Instead, he kissed her forehead, grounding them both. “Because I love you. That hasn’t changed, and it won’t.”

Outside the room, chaos exploded.

“WHO ATE MY LEFT OVERLEFTOVER RAMEN?!” Somi’s voice ricocheted down the hall.

“I didn’t touch it!” Jaemin shot back.

“You literally have broth on your shirt!” you accused.

Shotaro retorted with a snort “It’s true, Hyung. You’re busted!”

Then, Somi shrieked your name so loudly someone fell with a thud,  "Did you seriously steal my sweater again?!”

“I didn’t!” Your voice bit back stubbornly.

“You’re literally wearing it right now!”

"Busted!!" Shotaro's laughter followed, so loud it shook the thin walls.

"You are not allowed to breathe until you tell us where you were yesterday during the orientation!" You shot.

"I told you I got lost." 

"Liar!" Somi accused.

Your muffled laugh followed, "I found the sweater in my box so finders keepers So.”

Jeno groaned, dropping his forehead against Karina’s shoulder. “You’re all animals,” he muttered, but she laughed for the first time that morning, and it eased something sharp inside him.

She giggled again, running her fingers through his hair. “It’s character-building.”

“Or trauma-inducing.”

“See?” she teased, curling her arms around his neck. “You can’t leave me here with them. It’s cruel.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him properly. His hand lingered against her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek as if he could anchor her with touch alone.

He smiled, even though his chest still carried the weight of what he didn’t say. “I actually was supposed to leave yesterday,” he admitted softly. “But I stayed… to make sure the princess was okay. After the whole rink thing.”

Her eyes softened as she brushed his cheek with her thumb.

“You always think of everyone else first.”

“Not true,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “You come first. Always.”

Karina blinked hard, refusing to let tears fall. He caught her chin before she could look away. 

“We’re going to be okay, Rina,” he whispered. “I promise.”

And maybe he was saying it for himself too, maybe he was drowning in the same fear she voiced out loud, but it didn’t matter. He kissed her then—slow, steady and sure, with the quiet promise she needed to hear—and she clung to him like the world outside their room didn’t exist.

The door slammed open.

“GUYS.” Jaemin stood there, exasperated, holding a dripping sponge. “Not to ruin the dramatic moment, but can someone explain why the twin's are arguing while the sink is literally flooding?”

Jeno groaned into the kiss, pulling back just enough to mutter, “I’m moving out just in time.”

Karina laughed with a shake of her head “You love it here.”

“Not a chance,” he lied, even as the corner of his mouth tugged up, betraying him.

The registrar’s office smelled of fresh ink and old printer paper, the kind of sterile air that clung to your clothes even after you walked out. It buzzed with the restless hum of a new semester and heavy with the sound of keyboards clicking and names being called across the counters, and the hollow echo of footsteps on tiled floors.

Students filtered in and out with their folders tucked tight to their chests, some smiling with relief, others already buried in complaints about class times while others burst with the thrill of knowing exactly what they wanted.

Somi didn't.

She sat across from the student advisor, her folder open neatly in front of her, the corner of the manila edges pressed so tight against her palms that it left a red line on her skin. She’d smiled when she sat down, polite, measured, maybe even convincing. But the ballpoint pen in her right hand wouldn’t stop spinning between her fingers.

She’d signed her name at the top of the confirmation form but couldn’t make herself look at it. Not when the screen across from her made the truth so obvious.

The advisor leaned closer to the monitor, clicking at her keyboard, the glow of the monitor reflecting in her glasses.

"Okay… let’s see here. Communication Skills. Contemporary Issues. Intro to Psychology. All strong common units.” She scrolled further, then paused. “But…” Her eyebrows furrowed.

"Your program field is empty.”

Somi shifted in her chair, her throat tightened, heart thudded as her hand tightenedtightening around the pen. “Yeah."

She forced out a little laugh, light and brittle, too thin even to her.

“That’s because I haven’t picked one yet.”

She tried to sound casual, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she hadn’t been dodging this question for months.

The advisor looked up, her expression soft but pointed. “So you’re undecided?”

“Pretty much.” Somi shifted in her seat, fingers gripping the folder’s edge. “Everyone keeps asking me what I want to do. My parents, my friends… But nothing feels right yet. So I figured I’d wait. Give it time.”

The advisor folded her hands, steady and calm. Her voice softened, though it carried weight, “That’s understandable. But you should know—by the end of this semester, you’ll need to choose. If you don’t, the system won’t open your required slots. And once you fall behind on program requirements…” She let the sentence taper off, like a warning bell, the weight of it obvious.

Somi nodded quickly. She swallowed, the sound louder in her throat than she meant it to be.

Regardless, she answered honestly, even though her chest felt tight. “I get it. I just—don’t want to pick something I’ll regret.”

“You’re doing the right thing by keeping up with common units. It buys you time.” The advisor smiled, gentler now. “Time runs faster here than you think. Just… don’t run out of it.”

She slid a printed confirmation sheet across the desk. The black ink bled sharp against the white paper. Somi picked it up, her name bold across the top, followed by a neat little list of courses that everyone could take. 

A list without identity. A list that didn’t point forward, only sideways.

A list that said nothing about who she was or where she was headed.

It felt empty, like she’d signed up for placeholders in a life that hadn’t started for her just yet.

“End of semester,” the advisor said, with the tone of someone offering reassurance. “That’s your deadline.”

When she stepped back into the hallway, the noise of the office wrapped around her—students comparing timetables, planning study groups, already full of direction. One girl squealed that she and her roommate had managed to land the same program track. A boy bragged about squeezing in an extra credit course to “get ahead.” Their voices were sharp, eager, forward-facing.

Their voices were confident, sharp with direction.

She hugged her folder tighter to her chest, weaving through the current.

Everyone else looked like they had a destination.

She thought back to her friends, despite being shy, you never flinched like this. You had your focus, your art, your skating —your passion for skating had anchored you like gravity from the moment you knew how to walk and the rest of the world bent around that. 

Karina too, so stubbornly sure of herself, like she’d been born with her path tattooed under her skin as though the future had already unfolded for her. Even Shotaro, with his dance program, at least had something.

And here was Somi, circling the same beginning, every option blurred.

She was the one floating between their certainties, pretending she was fine with “buying time” while the truth gnawed at her: she had no idea what she wanted.

Her stomach twisted. What if she never figured it out? What if she was just the one who lingered behind while the others sprinted ahead?

The slip of paper in her hand suddenly felt heavier.

She was still standing at the crossroads, staring into the empty slot that was supposed to hold her future.

For the first time, Somi wondered if waiting was really the same thing as moving forward.

The semester hadn’t even started, and she was already afraid of running out of time.

The rink smelled faintly of varnish and cold steel, the faint sting of disinfectant clinging to the boards. From the talks around campus, it had only been two years since the school finished building it—polished glass boards, bleachers that still creaked like they were adjusting to their own size, ice so clean it almost sparkled blue under the fluorescent lights. 

It was colder than you remembered. Not in the way that sent shivers up your arms, but in the kind of way that crept into your chest and made every breath fog thicker than it should.

Maybe it was just nerves.

Your stomach swirled with nerves —not from skating, never from skating, but from everything else. First official practice. First impression on the team. First chance to mess it all up.

Your skates dangled from one hand as you trailed the cluster of nervous freshmen funneling onto the ice. The chatter was uneven —some kids too giddy to shut up, others staring at the floor like they’d be sick. You laced your skates tight, then retied them, then retied them again while trying not to think about how heavy your stomach felt. You reminded yourself you’d been chosen for this sport for a reason, but the reminder didn’t help much.

“Alright, freshmen!” A sharp whistle cut through the chatter. 

You all turned as the coach stepped out onto the rink like she owned it —Ms. Han, tall and brisk, her ponytail severe and her jacket zipped up like she was ready to march into battle. “Warm-up laps. Let’s move before your nerves freeze you solid.”

Blades hit ice in a chaotic rhythm as you all scrambled up. You exhaled and pushed yourself onto the ice, the familiar glide under your blades grounding you immediately. Around you, skaters stumbled, laughed, and tried to catch their rhythm.

That was when a voice fell into place beside you. 

“You’re the one I saw yesterday, right?”

A girl with a sleek braid and eyes sharp as glass matched your pace effortlessly. She smiled, not cruelly, but with the kind of polish that made you immediately straighten your posture.

Her voice carried confidence, that crisp kind of friendliness that felt rehearsed.

She smiled, all polite warmth.

“I’m Soojin,” she introduced

“Captain."

Of course she was.

You almost tripped. “Oh. Um. Hi—I’m—”

She cut in smoothly. “I know. Saw you and your friends… with them.” Her tone carried weight, like you were supposed to know exactly who she meant.

Then she tilted her head. “you know...” she added, smoothing invisible creases on her jacket, “with that group.”

Your heart skipped. “What group?”

“The athletes and talents.The ones everyone calls the Legends.” Her tone was amused, like she didn’t take the nickname seriously, but you caught the flicker in her eyes. “Hockey, basketball, track, soccer, swimming, choir. They’re basically the school’s poster boys.”

You tried for a shrug, keeping your glide even, “I… know Jisung.”

Soojin’s eyebrow arched. Her smile tilted just enough to make your skin prickle, “Just Jisung?”

Your lips twitched into the smallest smile, nerves bubbling. “Mostly him.”

The freshman to your left—nervous, glasses slipping down her nose—perked up suddenly. “Wait, wait, I heard a rumor.” She blinked rapidly between the two of you. “That you’re his girlfriend.”

The air stilled.

Heat rushed into your cheeks so fast you almost missed your footing and before you could shape a denial, Soojin let out a laugh. Not cruel, exactly—just loud, amused, cutting.

Her laugh cut sharp through the cold. “Jisung?” She arched an eyebrow, pretending to look surprised. “Our Jisung? The one everyone lines up for?” She clicked her tongue, skating backwards now, eyes still locked on you. “Come on. You know how many girls have tried? I’d be shocked if a freshman managed it first. He's untouchable”

A ripple of chuckles spread through the group.

You just pressed your lips together, forcing a breath out through your nose.

Something inside you clenched. The embarrassment burned, but you forced yourself to smile, even if it came out tight. “Maybe that’s the problem. Everyone else tries too hard.”

Soojin’s smile faltered for just a second, just a flicker, before she adjusted it back into something polite.

Her gaze lingered on you, unreadable, before she pushed herself up with a graceful scrape of her blades. “Cute,” she said, skating off to lead the warm-up.

Your chest ached because her words stayed, 

"Our Jisung."

"Shocked if a freshman managed it."

"He's untouchable."

As if.

You touched the man just yesterday!!

The words burrowed under your skin.

You didn’t owe Soojin—or anyone else—an explanation. But still, the laughter clung to your ears, replaying like static.

Because part of you—the doubtful, insecure part—believed her. Jisung was… Jisung. Star of the ice hockey team, science genius -if you could believe it, part of the Legends. He was funny, magnetic, too many people clearly wanted him judging from the campus' cupid bow bulletin online. And then there was you—still fumbling, still figuring out where you fit. How could you deserve him?

Is what you have been asking yourself since the moment you stepped onto campus. How could you—always feeling a step behind, always doubting if you belonged—possibly hold onto someone like him?

A sharp whistle cut through your thoughts. “Gather up!” Ms. Han barked.

All chatter died. Even the scraping of skates dulled as the team huddled mid-ice. You and the others skated into a circle, cheeks pink, breath visible in little puffs.

“Alright, listen up.” She pulled a clipboard from under her arm. “The school’s holding its annual freshman welcome ceremony here in the rink. First one ever in this building, and the administration wants to make a show of it. That means…” She paused, sweeping her gaze across your nervous faces. “You’ll be the entertainment.”

A collective murmur rose. Coach’s eyes glinted. “Yes. Freshmen, that means you’re performing. It’s tradition, new blood entertains the house.”

“The show is divided into sections,” Coach continued. “Each freshman will have a slot. We’ll draw lots for order.” She held out a small velvet bag.

A wave of gasps, groans, and whispered panic passed through the circle. You swallowed hard, throat dry.

“Don’t look so horrified,” she teased, rolling her eyes. “You’re athletes. Performances are just competitions with music.”

You shifted on your blades, trying to ignore the twist in your stomach. A performance. With an audience. With everyone watching.

The hockey boys pressed their faces to the glass, banging it obnoxiously. One of them cupped his hands around his mouth. “Put Jisung last! He’s got the pretty face for it!”

Laughter erupted. You buried your face in your scarf, embarrassed.

“Shut up, Minhyuk!” Coach barked. Then she added with a smirk, “Unless you’re volunteering to wear tights.”

The boys howled louder. Even the hockey coach wandered over, leaning lazily against the boards. “Han, you’d look better in tights than any of them.”

Coach Han rolled her eyes, but the twitch of her mouth betrayed her amusement. “Focus on your own brats, Minseok.”

The girls laughed, tension breaking for a moment. .

"Alright, rookies, let’s see what fate has planned.”

It’s fine. It’s just a freshman performance. Not the Olympics. Not the end of the world.

But when Coach Han cleared her throat, your heart jumped so high you thought you’d choke on it.

“First slot…” she reached in and plucked a slip, the paper unfolding with a snap. “…Eunji.”

A dramatic gasp tore out of Eunji’s chest as if Coach had called her to execution. Someone clapped her shoulder in pity, whispering, “better you than me.”

“I—oh my god. First?!” she squeaked, clutching her chest like she might faint.

She’ll be fine, you thought, but then immediately winced. If she’s fine, what does that make me when my name gets called?

“Second slot… Jun and Hyeon. Pairs.”

Jun groaned so loud the hockey boys pressed to the glass snorted. “We’re doomed,” he muttered, though Hyeon just shrugged with a small smile and a small wave of her hand.

“The audience is going to be eating popcorn while I fall on my face.”

“They’ll cheer for me,” Hyeon deadpanned.

“Over my corpse,” Jun snapped back.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Coach snapped. “You’ll survive.”

The laughter this time was louder, bouncing against the rink’s walls. You smiled weakly, but your insides knotted tighter.

Pairs. At least pairs had someone to lean on. 

Before the sound could die down, a hockey player smacked the glass hard enough to rattle it. “Hey Jun, just scream if you wipe out! We’ll send flowers!”

“Spin faster, maybe the embarrassment will knock you out!” another yelled.

Coach Han whipped around, “Unless you want tights and choreography next week, keep your mouths shut.”

The hockey coach chuckled, leaning against the boards. “Wouldn’t mind seeing them in sequins.”

Coach Han’s glare could’ve melted the ice. “Keep it up and I’ll choreograph your funeral.”

A collective oooooooh rose from both skaters and hockey players alike, like middle schoolers hearing a fight break out.

The skaters cackled, and even you felt a flicker of relief. But it didn’t last long —because the bag still had your name inside it.

“Doyeon and Minji. Midway slot.”

The two girls blinked at each other, then both smiled shyly, cheeks pink —soft, shy, something unspoken passing between them.

Others immediately whistled, clapped, and chantedchanted “so cute!” like they were watching a drama proposal.

You found yourself staring a beat too long. They look so sure of each other. Like they belong. When was the last time I looked at anyone like that in front of people without worrying what it meant? Without having to say anything...

Your heart gave the smallest tug.

"Seungmin. Solo, second act.”

Seungmin dragged a hand down his face. “I’m suing if I fall. Not even joking.”

“Ha! He’s going to trip before the first spin!” someone teased from the cluster.

Seungmin scowled. “I’ll trip over your face if you don’t shut up.”

Laughter spread like wildfire, even Coach Han pressing her fingers to her temple. “God, you’re all children.”

From behind the glass again, one of the hockey players slapped his palms dramatically against the boards. “Spin the bottle, but make it skating!” he hollered.

His friend shoved him, cackling. “No, no —strip skating! That’ll pack the bleachers!”

Coach Han shouted, “I’ll have you scrubbing toilets in tights if you don’t keep quiet!”

The rink erupted. Even the hockey coach leaned on the barrier, grinning. “Can’t say I’d complain about that visual.”

Coach Han glared at him. “Don’t you have drills?”

“Eh.” He shrugged. “Your chaos is better.”

The team’s laughter grew louder, feeding off itself until the air buzzed with a strange mix of nerves and humor. For a second, it almost felt normal, manageable.

But instead of it loosening you, it made you feel smaller, pressed tighter into your skin. 

"Here comes the closing act..."

Silence pressed down on the rink.

Then Coach Han stuck her hand in the bag again. 

Your stomach twisted so tightly it hurt, palms clammy as you watched her unfold the slip and announce your name.

The rink seemed to echo it back.

“Congratulations,” she said flatly. “You’re the finale.”

The echo of it filled the space. For half a second, nobody moved.

The claps around you felt more like shovels of dirt onto a grave. Some tried to cheer, others just looked relieved they weren't freshmen being put through the pressure of performing.

You stood frozen. Finale. All eyes. The last impression.

The air was suddenly too thick, pressing against your chest.

You can’t do this!!!

Closing act. Not just performing, but being the one everyone remembered—or the one everyone pitied if you messed it up.

Your eyes flicked to Soojin, almost against your will. She was already looking at you, her smile soft but edged, like she was savoring something only she understood.

May the best woman win.

The captain’s smile was honey-sweet and acid-sharp. “Well. Guess we’ll see if you can do more than look cute next to the Ice King.”

You bit the inside of your cheek until you tasted iron. You smiled anyway, “Guess so.”

Your chest tightened. Because it wasn’t just about skating anymore.

And then—

A low whistle cut through the tension.

You lifted your gaze.

Jisung.

He stood with his helmet under his arm, pressed casually against the glass. The chaos of his teammates still rang around him, but his focus was steady, locked on you.

Your breath caught.

The world tunneled.

He raised one hand, a simple, almost lazy gesture. Then he winked.

Not the exaggerated, goofy wink one sometimes threw at their friends in between a joke. This was small, quick, meant only for you. Just enough to be felt, not flaunted.

The chaos dulled. The pressure loosened. Your lips tugged into a helpless smile, warmth spreading in your chest despite everything.

Because for one second, it was just you and Jisung and the quiet promise in his eyes that maybe, just maybe you weren’t as undeserving as you thought.

Soojin saw it. You felt the air shift when she skated past, fists clenched so tightly at her sides her knuckles gleamed white. She didn’t break stride, but when her eyes finally flicked to yours, they held a quiet, sharp promise.

Not a threat. A challenge.

As if to cut the tension, Ms. Han snapped her fingers. “And eyes forward, not at the hockey team gawking through the glass. They already think they’re prettier than you—don’t prove them right.”

A ripple of laughter broke through the group. You hadn’t even realized your gaze—along with half the circle’s—had drifted to the group of hockey boys pressed against the window, smirking and waving like idiots.

“Focus,” Ms. Han warned, though there was a playful tug to her lips.

The laughter lingered, easing the knot in your stomach only slightly. But when your eyes found Soojin’s again, the humor drained.

This time, there was no smile. Just that look. 

You lifted your chin, even as your heart thudded unsteadily in your chest.

May the best woman win.

---------------------

The Boy is Mine by Brandy ft Monica

TAGLIST.

Jisung adjusted the collar of his coat and took his seat beside Chenle, trying to blink the fatigue out of his eyes. His focus was supposed to be on the EMG readings for their upper limb kinetics experiment — not on the faint ache in his neck from the night before, or the warmth that rose whenever he thought about you and the memories you made just last night. Chenle nudged him. “Dude. Why are you smiling so early in the morning?”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You’re totally smiling. It’s gross.”

Jisung adjusted the cuff of his lab coat as he scanned the instruction sheet on the desk before him. It was one of those modules that demanded patience—meticulous data collection, focus and coordination. Things he normally enjoyed. Today, though, his stomach felt tight. Chenle leaned lazily beside him, swinging one leg under the counter, a lopsided grin on his face. “Guess who we’re paired with?” he whispered, tone gleaming with mischief before Jisung could even ask, he followed his line of sight—and stilled.

Soojin.

Her hair was tied up in a neat ponytail, wisps falling loose near her temple, safety goggles hanging carelessly around her neck. She was laughing at something another student had said, but when her gaze drifted over and landed on Jisung, the curve of her lips faltered for a fraction too long. It was brief—so brief most people would’ve missed it—but Jisung didn’t. He caught everything.

“The plot thickens.”Chenle muttered frustrated, with a grin that was nothing short of wicked. “The ex situationship.”

Jisung elbowed him lightly. “Don’t start.” But Chenle had started, and Jisung knew it. Jisung’s head dropped forward with a quiet sigh. “Kill me now.”

The sound of footsteps on tile made him glance up, and there she was — Soojin. She didn’t even flinch when her eyes met his. If anything, she looked bored. “Figures,” she muttered, sliding onto the stool opposite him. “My luck’s terrible this week.”

“Morning to you too,” Jisung murmured.

“Let’s just get this over with,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “I have a biomechanics review after this.”

They hadn’t spoken properly in months. Not since… well, since before you came along.

“Bad enough the whole school knows how lovesick you are,” Soojin groaned, sliding into the empty seat across from him with an airy scoff. Her tone was meant to sound light, teasing. It wasn’t. Her gaze flicked to the faint, unmistakable mark on his neck. “Now I have to sit across from you and that?” Chenle nearly choked on his laughter, dropping the pipette in his hand. “You’re just jealous,” he shot back before Jisung could respond. The class snickered. Soojin’s eyes narrowed—not at Chenle, but at Jisung. He exhaled slowly, ignoring the weight of her stare. “Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered, adjusting the calibration on the force sensor. His tone was calm, neutral—unbothered in a way that only made her jaw tighten.

They started in silence, the room filling with the soft shuffle of movement, the metallic clatter of tools. Chenle hummed as he filled the observation chart, throwing glances between the two every now and then like someone watching a slow-motion car crash. It wasn’t that Jisung hated Soojin. He didn’t. He just… didn’t feel anything anymore.

And maybe that’s what made the silence stretch heavy.

“You know,” Soojin began after a few minutes, voice low but cutting through the clatter anyway, “I didn’t think you’d actually fall for someone.” Jisung didn’t look up. He measured a sample, steady hands but a clenched jaw. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what it sounds like,” she said with a faint laugh. “You don’t do relationships, remember? That was your line.”

Chenle went very still.

For a moment, the noise of the lab faded—the conversations, the shuffling, the clinking of glass. All that was left was the soft, rhythmic sound of Jisung’s breathing and the muted rustle of Soojin’s gloves as she fiddled with the clipboard.

Then he set the beaker down and looked up. His gaze met hers, even, steady—nothing sharp, nothing cruel. Just calm. “We agreed,” he said simply. “You wanted something simple. You said you didn’t want anything serious.” Her eyes flickered. “And you didn’t either. But you didn’t have to make it so—” she bit down on the last word, but the damage was already done.

“Cold?” he finished quietly. For the first time, she faltered. Her bravado cracked. “You could’ve at least pretended to care, Jisung.”

He didn’t reply immediately.

Instead, his thoughts drifted—unbidden—to a different afternoon, a different kind of quiet. He remembered the way Soojin had smiled that first time. They’d met a year ago — she’d been a sophomore, he a new freshman with too much energy and not enough sense. She’d been his senior, smart, sharp-tongued, funny when she let herself be. She was the one who’d approached him after lab one evening, her tone light, teasing.

“You’re cute, Park Jisung,” she’d said. “Wanna skip the part where feelings get messy?”

He’d been young and restless, and it had seemed easy then — no strings, no expectations, no heartbreak. Just distraction. He hadn’t thought beyond the surface; he didn’t want to. He never noticed, not right away, that she’d started staying later, asking him about his classes, waiting for him after lectures. When she’d linger, talking about trivial things, laughing a little too softly.

He’d told her the truth more than once. He’d drawn the line once, twice, a dozen times — always gently, always firmly. We agreed it’s nothing. Even when it wasn’t, she’d always replied with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. Of course. I just like the company.

Now, in the sharp light of the lab, he saw it all clearly — what he’d ignored, what she’d buried. But Soojin wasn’t built for indifference. Not really. And Jisung—he wasn’t built for half-hearted things. Now, as she adjusted the electrode on his arm, her fingers brushed his skin — a tiny, accidental touch that made his pulse jump for reasons that had nothing to do with her.

He came back to the present, blinking slowly.

“Hold the sensor steady,” Soojin said finally. Her tone was professional — but the glance she threw him wasn’t. “You’re shaking.”

“Not from nerves,” he replied quietly.

“Then from guilt?”

The words caught him off guard. For a moment, he thought she was joking, but her eyes told him otherwise. He sighed, setting the probe down carefully. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you act like there was something to feel guilty about.” Her lips parted, then closed again. The faint flush in her cheeks wasn’t anger this time — it was something rawer, smaller. “There wasn’t, right,” she said softly. “We made that very clear.”

“I didn’t pretend,” he said finally, quietly. “That’s the point.”

The tension settled between them, dense and still. Chenle cleared his throat, too loudly. “Okay, uh, I think this sample’s ready! Maybe we don’t spill emotional trauma in front of the bunsen burners, yeah?”

It drew a few laughs from nearby tables. Soojin didn’t join in. She was still looking at Jisung, that same ache clouding her features—a longing she didn’t even seem to know how to hide. He sighed softly and lowered his voice. “Don’t do anything stupid, Soojin.”

Her brow furrowed. “Like what?”

“Like saying something that might hurt her,” he said, and this time there was steel in his tone, quiet but unyielding. “She's not the type to start fights, but she’s not the type to lose one either.” That earned the faintest twitch of her lips—a mix of irony and reluctant respect. “Yeah,” she murmured, glancing down at the desk. “I know. She’s my skating junior. I guess you at least have a type? Shy doesn’t mean weak.”

He watched her for a moment, then nodded once. And that was the difference, wasn’t it?

Soojin burned hot—sharp, competitive, full of pride that always demanded to be seen. You… you were steady. Kind in ways that made people want to be better. You didn’t demand space—you simply filled it with quiet warmth. You listened. You understood. Jisung realized, as he adjusted the dial on the equipment, that he’d never had to guard his words with you. He didn’t feel like he was performing. He didn’t feel like he had to keep up. And maybe that was why it could never have been Soojin.

Chenle leaned closer, breaking the silence again with a grin. “So... do we all just pretend we didn’t just watch the most intense emotional breakup sequel in the biomechanics lab?” Jisung rolled his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Focus, Chenle.”

“I am focused,” Chenle said cheerfully. “On your tragic love life.”

Soojin let out a small laugh at that—soft, tired, but real. For a fleeting second, the tension eased. The hum of machines returned, the rhythm of footsteps and conversation filling the air again. It was almost normal.

Almost.

When class ended, Soojin lingered a little longer by the door, fiddling with her notebook. Jisung packed up his things without looking her way, but as he slung his bag over his shoulder, he felt her gaze on him one last time.

“You’re really happy, huh?” she asked quietly. He paused. The corner of his mouth lifted, subtle but certain. “Yeah. I am.”

And then he left—leaving Soojin alone amidst the low hum of lights and the faint scent of antiseptic, the sound of her own heartbeat filling the empty space he’d once occupied so easily.

You wake up to a quiet that hums like warmth. The sheets smell like him — that faint mix of your lavender, detergent, and something bright and boyish that always clings to Jisung. His side of the bed is empty but still warm, the pillow dented in a way that makes your chest ache and your lips stretch into a sleepy smile. You roll onto your back, eyes tracing the soft morning light dripping through the blinds. October light — thin, pale gold, the kind that makes dust motes look like ghosts dancing above your comforter. Outside, the wind whistles and the trees rattle in the courtyard. There’s that early fall bite in the air, sharp and restless, and the faint smell of pumpkin spice candle Karina lit before bed still clings to the room.

You reach for your phone, see the time (9:23 a.m.), and then notice something on your sidetable— a paper napkin folded neatly with his scrawled handwriting on it, sitting beside a breakfast plate covered with foil.

Don’t think I’m ditching you, my little temptress. Early class. Be proud of me for not skipping. You tempt me. Eat your breakfast. I actually used the stove and didn’t burn down your kitchen. (Mostly.)❤️— Hoshi

You laugh quietly, running your thumb over his messy handwriting — a kind of comfort you didn’t know could ache.

When you peel back the foil, there’s a breakfast sandwich stacked neatly beside scrambled eggs, slightly uneven toast, and a few strawberries sliced into tiny, clumsy hearts. Your chest tightens — not painfully, but enough to make you press a hand against it. Jisung’s efforts are always a little chaotic, but they come from somewhere sincere, somewhere that makes you want to tuck him into your ribs and keep him safe forever. You grab a fork and eat a few bites, half because you’re hungry, half because the warmth in your chest demands it. He really tried — there’s a bit too much salt, the bread slightly burnt on one side, but it tastes like something made for you.

When you finish, you pad across your room, the floorboards creaking under your house shoes. You stand in your room for a long moment before sitting on one of your floor pillows and reach for the small jewelry dish sitting infront of you on your floor vanity table. The ring-chain necklace Jisung gave you glints faintly under the light. Looking up at the full length mirror again and Jungwoo’s necklace winks back at you from your neck.

For a moment, you hesitate.

It’s small — the kind of stillness that comes before tears. You trace the old chain with your thumb. Jungwoo’s laughter echoes in the back of your head, the sharp contrast of the past that once meant everything. It’s been so long, yet the ache of familiarity tugs still. But then — the image of Jisung from last night flickers behind your eyes. The way he smiled like you were something gentle, something safe to hold.

So you make the choice — quiet, steady.

You slip off the old necklace, fingers trembling just slightly, and replace it with Jisung’s. The ring hits your collarbone with a soft metallic click.

“Right,” you whisper to yourself, breathing out. “New chapter.”

You grab the white box from under your bed — the one you’d hidden weeks ago under a pile of sweaters in a basket. The ribbon still sits neat and cherry-red, a little wrinkled on one side. Inside are a few small things: the tiger plush you’d found at a thrift store, a silver star boyish chain, a few packets of his favorite snacks and candy, hockey gloves you’d saved up for after overhearing him complain about his worn-out ones. You almost roll your eyes at yourself. “He’s gonna think this is so stupid,” you murmur.

A voice from the living room snaps you out of it. “—If that’s you talking to yourself again,” Jaemin calls, “you need help, babe!” You groan, clutching the box to your chest as you stand up again and step out of your room. “It’s called processing emotions, Jaem.” Karina looks up from the couch, hair in a messy bun, a half-empty mug in her hand. “Good morning, sunshine. You look—” she pauses, squinting at you, “—like you committed crimes of passion.”

You blink. “What?”

Jaemin bursts out laughing, dropping his phone onto the couch. “Oh my god. Look at your neck. Must've been his lucky night!”

You frown, confused, until Karina gestures vaguely at your throat. You scramble for your reflection in the TV screen. That’s when you see them — faint purplish marks scattered along your collarbone and up your jaw and across your stomach from your sleeping cropped tanktop. Your brain goes blank for two whole seconds before you make a strangled sound. “Oh my god.”

Jaemin collapses in laughter, wheezing. “You two sure took your time getting dow—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” You grab a pillow and throw it at him, cheeks burning. “It just happened, okay? It’s not my fault!” Karina sips her coffee, barely hiding her smile. “I’m just saying, Somi left with him this morning. Apparently they share an elective?”

Your head snaps up surprised. “Really?”

“She said he promised to walk her to campus because she didn’t want to go alone,” she continues, inspecting her nails. “It’s cute, actually. He’s... surprisingly reliable for someone who eats instant ramen for breakfast.”

You cover your face. “I’m never showing my face in public again.” Karina snorts. “Oh please, he’s so lovesick he’d tattoo your initials on his jersey if you asked.” Jaemin nods solemnly. “It’s true. I saw him once almost walk into our couch because he was too busy texting and waiting on you to come home.”

You can’t help but laugh, shoulders shaking. “You guys are the worst.” “And yet,” Karina says sweetly, eyeing the white box you’re hugging, “here you are, making him a boo basket like a Pinterest girlfriend in denial.”

You blink at her. “It's not a boo basket and pinterest girlfriend is crazy.”

“It has snacks, a plushie, and sentimental meaning,” Jaemin deadpans. “That’s literally a boo basket.” You groan. “You guys are so annoying.” But when Karina leans forward, her eyes soften. “Hey,” she says quietly, “I’m glad you’re doing this. It’s about time you let yourself be happy.”

You glance down at the box, throat tightening again — because yeah, you’ve been scared. Because letting yourself love Jisung means finally accepting that Jungwoo belongs to a different story. You don’t say anything, just nod a little.

Karina stands and tugs lightly on your hair. “Thank God. Now we can finally move on with our lives. I’m so happy you’re happy, baby.”

You smile, small and fragile but real.

“I think I’m trying,” you whisper. Jaemin flops onto the couch beside you. “Trying is step one to soft-launching your emotional recovery. Next step is maybe not let him give you hickeys that look like horror movie prosthetics.”

You smack him in the arm. “Shut up.”

He grins, unbothered. “You love me.”

But your chest feels full — too full, like if you breathed too deeply, it would spill. You remember the night before, the way his laughter filled the room, the way he said your name like it meant something entirely his. How he’d kissed you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed but couldn’t stop himself anyway. You remember his hands — warm, trembling a little — and how, for the first time in a long time, you hadn’t thought about what you’d lost. You swallow hard, eyes blurring slightly as you stare at the note again.

Maybe that’s why you’d hidden the box for so long. Because gifting it made everything real — and real meant you could get hurt again. Karina’s voice cuts gently through your thoughts. “You okay?” You blink, realizing she’s now standing at the kitchen doorway. Her smile is small but knowing. “You look like you’re in a coming-of-age movie montage.”

You laugh, shaky but genuine. “Just thinking.” She nods toward the box. “You should give it to him soon. Before you talk yourself out of it again.”

“I know,” you murmur, fingers brushing the cherry ribbon. “I just… it feels big. Like I’m giving him a piece of something I don’t know how to take back.” Karina walks over, wrapping her arms around your shoulders from behind. “That’s how you know it’s worth it.”

The words settle quietly between you — no rush, no pressure, just truth.

Then Jaemin’s voice breaks the silence: “Are we done being sentimental or should I start narrating this like a movie trailer?”

You both groan at once.

“Jaemin!” Karina yells.

He grins, unfazed. “Previously on The Sappy Adventures of ice princess and prince ch—” You throw another pillow at him before he can finish. “Youre ridiculous.” Karina’s laughing again, shoulders shaking as she retreats to the couch. The apartment hums back to life — easy, messy, alive. You look back at the box and look down at the ring on your chain that glints in the light warming your skin in ways you never thought possible.

“I think I’ll give it to him this week?” you ask softly, unsure, mostly to yourself. Karina’s voice floats from the couch. “Finally. Just don’t give him a heart attack when he opens it.” Jaemin adds, “he’ll definitely get a heart attack.”

“JAEMIN!”

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling again — the good kind, the kind that makes your chest feel warm. The three of you dissolve into laughter again — bright, unguarded, echoing through the apartment as the breeze slips through the slightly open window.

Outside, the leaves scatter across the sidewalk like tiny bursts of fire. And for the first time, it doesn’t hurt to think about what’s next — it feels exciting. For the first time, the ghosts don’t weigh you down. They just linger — softer now, almost distant.

The lab was nearly empty when he walked in — just the low hum of computers and the faint flicker of the monitor washing your face in blue. You’d tucked one leg under yourself, headphones half-on, hair falling over your eyes, the sleeve of your- Jisung's hoodie slipping off your shoulder. It was the kind of image that didn’t belong in fluorescent light — too soft, too alive.

Jungwoo leaned against the doorway for a second, watching you drag a clip across the timeline. The sound of a hockey puck echoed faintly from the speakers — the sharp scrape of skates, a voice shouting “Go, Ji—!” before the clip cut off.

“You’re early,” you said, not looking up. He smiled a little. “You mean you’re late. You said you’d send the first cut last night.” You sighed. “I got distracted.”

“By?”

You gestured at the screen. “Him. The tiger.”

He rolled his eyes as he sat beside you. “Right. The tiger that’s definitely not Jisung." You didn’t answer, only scrubbed through the footage — Jisung skating fast, shoulders squared, face set in focus. Jungwoo caught the quiet pride in your voice when you spoke again. “You can’t see it unless you slow it down. Look — this moment here, right before he passes. His left shoulder drops, just slightly. He does that when he’s about to fake out an opponent. It’s instinct, not training.”

He blinked. “You noticed that?”

You gave him that look — the one you used to give him back then, when you’d point out things he didn’t think anyone could see. Like the way he fidgeted with his ring whenever he lied. Or how his voice softened when he said your name.

Something in his chest tightened.

“So,” you said, switching tabs. “Here’s what I’m thinking for the narration part. Your voice — your part — it’ll be kind of like journaling. Honest. Simple. Like how you’d talk to someone you can’t see.”

“My part?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. You’ll be narrating the emotional arc. It’s about learning to look at yourself through someone else’s lens. You’ll voice the truth behind what the camera can’t capture but like as a critic in a sense.”

He frowned, leaning back. “You’re making this sound like therapy.” You laughed softly. “That’s kind of the point.”

He was about to argue again when your tone changed — quieter, thoughtful. “The tiger’s voice, though — that’ll be Jisung. His version of the truth. Like, his actual inner thoughts voiced over the animation Hendery’s helping with.”

“Hendery?”

And there it was — the shift. The moment your eyes lit up, not for him, but for the memory behind the name.

“So this is the first edit. YangYang helped with the cinematography— well, technically Luna made him help.” A laugh tugged at your voice, and Jungwoo glanced at you, caught off guard by how easily warmth filled the room when you spoke. “Made him?”

You grinned. “Total chaos. Kun nearly banned me from the house because Luna was threatening YangYang with a frying pan for complaining." His brow lifted curious despite having no idea who the people you were talking about actually were. “What—why a frying pan?”

You tapped the space bar to pause the video, eyes still sparkling from the memory. “Because apparently, he promised her he’d stop volunteering for other people’s projects after whatever last semester’s fiasco was. And when I came to ask, he agreed too fast. So she said—and I quote—‘Either you help her with your whole heart, or you explain to me why you’re sleeping outside tonight.’ Bear in mind she's not even living with him!! Can you believe that?”

Jungwoo chuckled despite himself. “Sounds like domestic bliss.” “Oh, absolutely. Then Chenle started recording it like it was a wildlife documentary. Johnny was narrating. ‘And here we see the rare Luna in her natural habitat—asserting dominance.’ YangYang is right where he wants to be.”

You laughed at the memory, hand over your mouth, and Jungwoo found himself smiling, too, though the feeling twisted deep in his chest. He’d missed that sound—the way your laughter was both soft and alive, like a spark wrapped in velvet.

It was just like old times

Jungwoo blinked, almost dizzy, because he could feel the warmth of that memory radiating from you even now. The way your lips curved when you talked about them, the way your voice softened when you mentioned Jisung — not by name, but in the shape of it. He didn’t know these people, but he could feel them in your tone — the easy laughter, the inside jokes.

“So,” he said finally, forcing a light tone. “You’ve got a whole army helping you with this guy’s hockey documentary.”

“First of all, it's not his. It's ours. Second, it’s not a documentary,” you said. “It’s a story.”

“A story about him.”

“A story about change,” you corrected.

He studied you — the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still fixed on the monitor. You didn’t even flinch when he said, “You talk about him like you—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, sharp but calm. He bit the inside of his cheek, a small, humorless smile tugging at him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I didn’t need to.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the frozen image of Jisung on screen — mid-skate, eyes determined, hair falling into his face. “He’s just another guy, you know. Talented, sure. But you build him up like he’s—”

You turned to him then, eyes steady. “Like he’s real?”

That threw him off.

“He is,” you said simply. “That’s why this works. Because it’s not about the performance, Jungwoo. It’s about him learning to be seen for who he really is — not who people think he is.”

Something flickered across his expression — a shadow of something he refused to name. “You used to say that about me,” he said quietly.

You hesitated. “You used to let me.”

The silence stretched thin between you, sharp with everything unsaid. He tried to deflect, to make it lighter. “So what, I’m just the narrator now? The guy with a voice but no face?”

You smiled faintly. “The voice is what makes people stay.”

He hated that his heart stuttered at that — the same way it used to when you’d say something soft without meaning to. He wanted to say you deserved better than someone like Jisung. He wanted to say you were just infatuated, that you always fell too hard, too fast. But the words died because deep down he knew it wasn’t that.

It was that you’d found something he never gave you — someone who saw you the way you saw everyone else.

So instead, he scoffed, “You really think this’ll work? Him talking as a tiger, me journaling like some sad poet?”

“This is majorly your assignment Woo.” You reminded him with a playful grin, “besides, you underestimate how good you sound when you’re honest.”

“Honest,” he repeated, like it was foreign.

You pressed play again. Jisung appeared, laughing on screen after slipping during practice. You’d kept the clip — raw, imperfect. His teammates’ voices in the background. Your own laughter, faint but audible.

Jungwoo felt the ache twist deeper. You’d kept that moment because it meant something to you — not for how it looked, but for how it felt.

He remembered when you used to look at him like that. When you noticed small, useless details — how his hoodie strings always tangled, how he talked with his hands, how he bit his straw when nervous.

Now you looked at Jisung like that.

And Jungwoo hated himself for realizing it. He leaned back, forcing a laugh that sounded too thin. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You smiled without looking away from the screen. “You’ve told me that before.”

“Yeah.” His voice cracked the tiniest bit. “And I meant it then too.”

The lab light hummed softly overhead. Outside, the faint sound of wind brushed against the glass. You turned down the volume, murmuring something about color grading. Jungwoo didn’t hear a word of it. He was too busy memorizing the quiet curve of your expression — how focused you were, how alive you looked when you were building something that mattered.

He realized, with a slow, painful clarity, that you weren’t his muse anymore. You were someone else’s reason.

And for the first time, Jungwoo didn’t know whether to hate Jisung — or thank him for loving you the way he never could.

You sat under the canopy of orange leaves that filtered sunlight into soft gold patches over the café tables, your lunch tray untouched. The faint chatter of students swirled around, distant enough that you could pretend you were alone—if not for the very solid, very real presence sitting across from you.

Jisung.

He looked too good for someone who’d just come from practice. His hair still a little damp at the ends, his collar open, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows as he poked at his own food — a plate of kimchi fried rice and a cup of strawberry milk that was apparently 'yours' he’d somehow charmed Johnny into giving him for free. You, however, were still debating whether to look at him or at the sandwich you had yet to take out of your lunch box.

He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, watching you with an almost lazy smile. “You’re not gonna talk to me forever, huh pixie?”

Your throat tightened. “I’m talking now.”

“Barely.” His tone was teasing, but his eyes softened. “You’ve been dodging me since yesterday.” You fiddled with your straw. “I haven’t been dodging. I’ve just been… busy.”

“Busy?” he repeated, leaning back. “With what? Running away?” You shot him a glare, cheeks heating. “Jisung—”

He chuckled, low and warm, and reached across the table while passing you the milk. His fingers brushed your wrist — light, but enough to make your pulse skip.

“You’re cute when you’re shy,” he said, voice gentle now. “But you don’t need to be. Nothing's changed, you know?”

Except everything had.

Except every time you looked at him, you remembered the weight of his hands on your skin, the way his breath had trembled when he whispered your name in the dark. You swallowed. “It’s weird. It’s just—different now.”

He hummed. “Good different?”

You glanced up at him, unable to hide your smile. “Yeah. Good different.”

His grin widened. “Then why are you sitting all the way over there like I bite?”

Before you could answer, he got up and came around the table, sliding into the seat beside you. The table dipped slightly under his upper weight, and you could feel the warmth radiating from him immediately — familiar, grounding, infuriatingly comforting. You tried to scoot away, but his arm found its way around the back of your chair, casual and possessive in that quiet Jisung way. “Better,” he murmured. You muttered something about needing space, but he was already opening your lunch box. “You didn’t even eat. Are you planning to starve just to avoid me?”

“I wasn’t avoiding—”

He held out a piece of your sandwich toward your mouth, one brow raised. “Prove it.” You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” he said, still holding the bite up. “And you love it.”

You rolled your eyes, but leaned forward anyway, taking the bite just to shut him up. He grinned, triumphant.

“See? Progress.”

Your laughter escaped before you could stop it, and the tension dissolved — soft, easy, like exhaling after holding your breath for too long. Jisung shifted closer, knee brushing yours. “There she is. I missed that sound.”

Your smile faltered just slightly. “You really missed me after… one day?” He tilted his head, eyes steady on you. “You think I wouldn’t?” His voice had that quiet seriousness you recognized — the one he used when he wasn’t joking, when his honesty slipped past the easy grin. You didn’t know what to say, so you reached out and nudged the cup of strawberry milk with your finger. “You got milk again and you rarely drink it anyways.”

“Yeah, for you.” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “but it’s your fault for avoiding me. I crave it now.”

You almost laughed — but the look he gave you stopped you. Something gentle, full of everything he didn’t say. And when he leaned in just a little — not enough to close the space, but enough that you could feel his breath against your cheek — you didn’t move away.

“Jisung—”

“Hey,” he whispered, smiling. “I’ve got you.” Then, with the smallest of sighs, he tilted his head and said, “Can I?”

You didn’t answer in words — you didn’t have to. The tiny nod you gave was enough. He leaned in, slow and gentle, until his lips met yours. It wasn’t rushed or loud or hungry — it was quiet, the kind of kiss that felt like understanding.

The kind that said I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

The kind that made your stomach flutter and your heart ache in the same breath.

Then—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! PDA alert!”

You jumped as Chenle’s voice cut through the air. He plopped his tray on the table with a clatter, grinning wide enough to split his face. “Man, I was right,” he said, smirking at Jisung. “You finally found her.”

Jisung groaned. “Don’t start.”

Karina and Somi arrived right behind him, laughing, trays full of bubble tea and fries. Hendery and Seulgi trailed after, deep in some ridiculous debate about which anime deserved a live action movie and Luna was scolding Yangyang for nearly tripping over someone’s backpack.

“Wow, what a sight,” Somi teased, sliding into the seat across from you. “Our lovebirds are having lunch alone.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my goodness!!” Karina gasped dramatically. “Wait, is this about why you were glowing two days ago?”

“Karina—” you started, but she only giggled harder like the menace she truly was. Jisung didn’t even bother pretending innocence — he was smiling like he couldn’t help it, one arm still slung casually behind your chair.

Chenle sat down beside him, unwrapping his burger. “It’s official. My boy’s whipped.”

“Whipped?” Jisung repeated, eyes narrowing.

“You heard me.”

“No one's complaining my boy.” Jisung retorted with a naughty smirk. “I'm creamed up and everything!!”

The table got silent before it suddenly burst into laughter and the shock of his words. Your lips formed an ‘o’ as you turned to look at him baffled, red as a tomato.

He did not just say that!?

“Put him down now!!” YangYang shouted.

"Creamed up is just crazy." Seulgi murmured into her bread with a shake of her head. “You did not just say that!!” Luna giggled into her palms just as embarrassed for you. "Like why?"

“Boys are so gross!” Karina muttered with a look of disgust on her face.

“Never say that again please!!?!”

“My poor ears!” Chenle begged, covering his ears as Somi squealed, always fangirling even in Jisung's cringiest moments. "Cute, but cringe."

"It's straight up cringe, stop lying to him!"

“It's lunch time, we didn't need to know that!” Hendery argued, looking disgusted.

Then Luna perked up. “Hey! We should do something fun this weekend. To celebrate… the growing relationship.” She gestured vaguely between you two. Yangyang nodded. “Yeah, like a hotpot night! On your rooftop.” He pointed at you, Karina, and Somi. “You guys have that perfect view. “I’m bringing the broth.” Luna smacked his arm. “You can’t even boil water properly.”

“Which is why you’ll help me.”

Laughter rippled through the table.

Karina gasped. “That’s actually a great idea! We can do it Friday night.” Somi clapped. “Yes! Fall hotpot. Sweaters. Blankets. Lanterns—oh my god, yes.” Seulgi groaned. “You guys are the worst. My brother’s graduation dinner is Friday.” Hendery leaned back with a smirk. “Just ditch him. It’s not like he’s graduating twice.” “Try saying that to my mom,” Seulgi said flatly, earning more laughter. Jisung chuckled beside you, his fingers brushing the back of your shoulder lightly. “You’ll come, right?”

You looked up at him, at that small, familiar grin — the one that still makes your chest ache in the best way — and smiled back. "It's my rooftop too…”

“Good,” he said softly, voice just for you. “Then it’s a date.”

Chenle immediately pointed his straw at the two of you. “Oh, they’re so done for.” “Shut up, Chenle,” Jisung muttered, but he was smiling — the kind that said he didn’t really mind. And when your laughter joined the rest of the table’s, warm and easy under the golden afternoon light, he leaned back, content — his arm still behind your chair, his heart still where you were.

He reached for the eggs first. Checked the carton, turned it over, placed it carefully in the basket. Minho was beside him, half leaning on the trolley, scrolling through the grocery list on his phone and softly humming.

“Yuuchan, we still need soy sauce and that spicy ramen you like,” Minho said, tilting his head toward the next aisle. Yuta smiled, that small, quiet curve of lips that never quite reached his eyes. “Hai, hai, I’ll get it. You’re the one who eats most of it anyway.”

“Because someone keeps making it too good.”

Minho nudged him lightly, their elbows brushing. For a brief second, the world was nothing but the soft clatter of shopping carts, the hum of air conditioners, and the ordinary tenderness between them. The kind of intimacy that didn’t need to be loud. “Yuuchan,” Minho called again when Yuta drifted toward the noodle section, half lost in thought. “You forgot the tofu.”

“Ah—right, babe, one sec.”

The word slipped out too easily. The way it always did when they were alone — small, casual, real. But here, in the middle of a bright supermarket aisle, surrounded by strangers, it hung in the air longer than it should have.

And that’s when Jaehyun looked up.

The aisle wasn’t crowded, but it might as well have been. The squeak of wheels, the faint music overhead, the murmur of voices — all of it blurred when Jaehyun’s eyes met his.

Yuta froze.

Jaehyun blinked, like his brain was still catching up with what his eyes were seeing. “Yuta?”

The sound of his name felt foreign — familiar but heavy, like an echo from another lifetime. The tomato Yuta had been holding slipped from his hand, rolling across the linoleum until it bumped against Jaehyun’s shoe.

“Ah—sorry,” Yuta muttered, bending quickly, too fast, pretending that he was fine. “It’s really you,” Jaehyun said, smiling — hesitant but warm. “Man, it’s been forever.”

Yuta’s mouth opened, but no sound came. Minho stepped closer, placing the basket on the ground. “Yuuchan?” he asked softly, uncertain now.

And suddenly, Yuta was caught between the two halves of his life — the one he’d built, trembling but his, and the one he’d buried, still haunting him like a heartbeat he couldn’t quiet. He hadn’t expected to see him here, of all places. The last time he’d seen Yuta, his sister had still been crying every night, and Jungwoo couldn’t say his name without that flicker of hurt in his eyes.

And now, here he was — hair longer, face older, softer somehow, like time had carved him down.

“Yuta,” Jaehyun said again, trying to fill the awkward silence. “You look… good.” Yuta gave a weak laugh. “I look like someone who spends too much time indoors.”

“That’s not new.”

It was supposed to be lighthearted, but it hit something in both of them — nostalgia, regret, affection too tangled to name.

Jaehyun’s gaze drifted to the man beside him — Minho. He had the gentle steadiness of someone who understood Yuta well, who probably loved him quietly, patiently.

“Hi,” Minho said, a polite smile, extending a hand.

“Jaehyun.”

“Minho.”

Yuta’s heart pounded. “My—uh—my friend.”

Minho froze. Just barely. His smile stayed, but it didn’t reach his eyes now. “Right,” he murmured. “Friend.”

The silence was thick enough to drown in.

He did hold his hand once — just last week, on the walk home from their tiny favorite hotpot stop. Minho had been laughing about something stupid, and Yuta had reached over, fingers brushing his. Minho hadn’t pulled away. Now, Yuta’s hand ached with the memory, useless and heavy at his side. He wanted to say boyfriend. He wanted to say this is the person who stayed even when I didn’t deserve it.

But Jaehyun’s eyes — warm, curious, so painfully familiar — froze the word in his throat.

“Friend,” he repeated. “We just… live together.” And Minho did not look at him then. He simply shifted his weight and nodded. “We should get going soon. We’ve still got the meat section left.”

The way he said it — calm, quiet — hurt worse than anger would have.

For a second, Jaehyun almost forgot everything Yuta had done — the cutting off, jungwoo breaking up with his sister, the months of silence that followed. All he could see was the boy he used to share everything with.

He remembered the first time he’d realized something was off — summer, gymnasium, the sound of sneakers squeaking on the basketball court.

Yuta had been laughing, breathless, hair damp with sweat. Jungwoo had draped an arm over his shoulders, grin wide and teasing.

“Look at you two,” someone from the team had joked. “Yuta’s practically glued to Jungwoo, huh?”

Jaehyun had laughed. So had Jungwoo. But Yuta — Yuta had gone still.

Too still.

He’d brushed Jungwoo off, muttering something about getting water. Jaehyun had caught the look in his eyes — fear, guilt, something fragile he didn’t understand back then.

Later, he’d found Yuta behind the gym, sitting with his head in his hands.

“You okay?”

Yuta had smiled, small and shaky. “Yeah. Just… thinking I should get a girlfriend.”

Jaehyun had laughed at his incredulousness “Out of nowhere?”

“Yeah. Maybe it’ll fix me.”

He hadn’t known what that meant then. But later — he suddenly showed up during practice kissing his sister.

Now Yuta stood in front of him, the weight of all those choices carved into the quiet slump of his shoulders.

“So… how have you been?” Jaehyun asked. “Busy,” Yuta said, forcing a smile. “Finishing school. You?”

“Same. You still talk to Jungwoo?”

The question hung there, sharp.

Yuta hesitated. “Not really.”

Jaehyun nodded slowly. “He still talks about you sometimes.”

That was a lie — Jungwoo didn’t. Not anymore. But he said it anyway, maybe to fill the space, maybe to see how Yuta would react. Yuta’s throat tightened. “Yeah?” “Yeah,” Jaehyun said softly. “He misses you.”

The air thickened.

Minho shifted beside him, fingers grazing the trolley handle. He didn’t say a word, but his silence screamed. When they finally reached the checkout, everything felt heavier — the baskets, the words they hadn’t said, the years between them.

Jaehyun paid first, fumbling with his wallet. Yuta followed, Minho standing a careful step away. At the exit, Jaehyun turned back. “Hey, Yuta.”

Yuta looked up.

“It’s good to see you again,” Jaehyun said quietly. “Really.”

Yuta tried to answer, but the words tangled in his throat. He only nodded. And as he and Minho walked out — the plastic bags rustling, shoulders barely brushing — Jaehyun stood there, watching. He remembered the laughter that used to fill the spaces between them. The teasing, the warmth.

And Yuta — walking out into the dusk, his hand inches from Minho’s but too afraid to take it — did think about holding it anyway.

He didn’t.

But Minho did hold his hand first. Just lightly. Just enough to remind him that he was still here, waiting for the day Yuta could finally say his name without fear.

The Boom frat house feels like it’s vibrating today—half from the bass someone is blasting upstairs, and half from the way the wind keeps rattling the old windows and scattered everywhere with jackets, textbooks, and the faint smell of instant noodles. Jeno was sat on the sagging couch in the common room, elbows on his knees, head down as he cleaned his sneakers. Late afternoon light poured through the blinds in thin stripes, warming the back of his neck. Haechan is dribbling a basketball inside like someone who has never once heard the phrase rental deposit.

“Bro,” Jeno warns with a sigh, “you break something again and Kai is gonna give you another speech. I don’t have the emotional capacity to watch that.” Haechan grins, sweaty and smug. “Kai loves me. I’m his joy in a world full of disappointment. Also, heads up.”

The ball ricochets off the wall, hits a half-empty Red Bull can, and narrowly misses Jeno’s ear before landing in a trash bag someone left open.

“Three-pointer,” Haechan announces like he’s in the NBA.

Jeno opens his mouth to scold him—again—when the front door slams so hard the whole hallway shivers. “HELLOOOO MY FAVORITES,” Jaemin’s voice booms before he even appears. A gust of cold autumn air followed him in, scattering papers off the coffee table

Jeno doesn’t look up. “We didn’t invite you.”

“You never do,” Jaemin answers, throwing his bag onto the couch and Jeno’s lap in the same motion. “I’m like a seasonal virus. I show up because God allows it.” “You’re a menace,” Jeno mutters while Haechan groans deeply like someone had murdered peace itself. “That’s what my professors say too,” Jaemin says brightly. Haechan snorts. “And your sister. And your roommates. And your parents. And—”

“Okay enough,” Jaemin groans dramatically before collapsing onto the couch beside Jeno, long legs taking up all available space. He smells like cold outside air and someone’s perfume, probably Somi’s by accident from borrowing her scarf again now that the air is getting colder.

Jeno raises a brow. “Rough day?”

“Not at all.” Jaemin grins mischievously. “You know how Johnny came over to help Karina with her project the other day—?”

Jeno’s fingers paused mid-loop.

Not again. Not today.

“…Yeah,” he said, quietly.

Jaemin visibly perked up, oblivious to the tightening in Jeno’s chest. “Bro. BRO. He showed up with pastries—like fresh bakery ones—and he said something about ‘fabric being the window to the soul.’ I swear Karina almost teared up.”

Jeno froze, staring down at his line up of shoes. His heartbeat echoed inside his ears, slow and heavy. Haechan freezes at the same time, but only because he almost knocked over a highly overpriced fruit basket placed on their frat island by one of his frat members for losing a legendary bet.

Haechan burst into a laugh.

“Oh my god. Look at him. He’s jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Jeno said flatly.

“You totally are,” Jaemin sing-songed.

Haechan pointed at him accusingly. “This is your jealous face. I’ve seen it three times. Once when the life guard flirted with Karina that one time. Once when she posted a selfie with that model guy. And now this.”

Jeno rubbed his palms against his jeans, swallowing hard.

“I just—Johnny’s… Johnny.”

“Tall?” Jaemin said.

“Charming?” Haechan added teasingly.

“Stupidly good-looking.” Jaemin supplied cluelessly. “A biochem major with perfect teeth and a saxophone?” Haechan finished narrating the only thing they seem to be talking about lately since his girlfriend’s project started.

Jeno groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“Okay,” he says too fast. “Enough.”

Jaemin slowly turns toward him, squinting. “Why does your face look like that?”

“It’s my regular face.”

“No, your regular face is blank and mildly depressed. This is… something else.” Haechan gasps exaggeratedly. “Is Jeno jealous? THAT’S NEW.”

“I’m not jealous,” Jeno says immediately, which is exactly what a jealous person would say. “Oh my God,” Haechan groans dramatically. “He’s jealous. This is better than what they're putting out on Netflix.” Jeno slams the laptop shut. “I’m not jealous. I’m just… curious.” Jaemin leans his chin on his hand. “About?”

Jeno hates that his ears are warming. He hates even more that both of them notice.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Bro,” Jaemin says softly now, dropping the theatrics. “Talk.”

The word sits heavy in the room.

The house buzzed around them—footsteps on the stairs, someone yelling about a missing hoodie, the fridge slamming in the kitchen. Boom frat was loud in a comforting way, but today every sound pressed against Jeno's skull.Jeno exhales slowly, staring at a crack on the coffee table like it’s the easiest thing to confess to. “It’s just… Karina hasn’t been texting much today. And you mentioning Johnny—”

“Oh my God,” Haechan whispers, “is the guy like tall tall? Because even I would fold.” Jaemin throws a couch cushion at him. “Not helping.”

Haechan catches it one-handed. “Just being supportive.”

Jeno drags a hand down his face. “I know Karina and Johnny are just working on a project. I know she likes me. I know.”

The words sound less convincing out loud.

Jaemin nudges him gently with his knee. “Karina adores you. She literally talks about you like you invented oxygen.” For a moment, Jeno’s breath eases—until Jaemin adds, with a playful grin, “Even when you act like a walking beige flag.”

Jeno groans into his hands.

"I'm supposed to be your best friend."

"You are and the plan is to make you my brother-in-law."

But Jaemin’s voice softens again, quieter now, meant only for him.“She’s into you, Jeno. Seriously. Don’t let Johnny’s perfectly symmetrical face get into your head.”

“It’s not just his face,” Haechan mutters. “His jawline… ugh.”

“Lee Donghyuck,” Jeno warns.

“What?? I’m appreciating the human form from our stalking yesterday!” Jaemin rolls his eyes and throws his arm casually over the back of the couch, posture lax but gaze sharp. “Look. You’ve been in your head since the semester started. But Karina chose you, okay? And she keeps choosing you. If you’re nervous, tell her. She’ll probably make fun of you and then kiss you until you calm down.”

Jeno’s chest squeezes, equal parts ache and affection.

He wants to believe that.

Before he can speak, Haechan leans forward suddenly, squinting at Jeno like he’s remembering something earth-shattering.

“Wait. Speaking of romance—what's princess Nakamoto doing these days?”

“Hm?” Jeno blinks confused for a second. “You know...” Haechan wiggles his eyebrows. “My precious Hani?”

“You mean your crush?” Jeno interpreted making Jaemin’s head snap around. “YOU WHAT?”

“Oh please,” Haechan scoffs. “Everyone had a crush on her at some point.”

“Not everyone,” Jaemin protests. “I respected her like a sister.” “You literally tried to flirt with her until you found out she was best friends with your soon to be step-sister who you hated,” Haechan fires back.

"First of all, Karina is the one that started the 'hate thing'. Second, it was TWO YEARS AGO AND I COULDN'T HELP IT. IT WAS INFATUATION SHE IS ADORABLE AND BECAUSE KARINA WAS A MENACE AND I WONDERED HOW THE TWO EVEN BECAME FRIENDS IN THE FIRST PLACE."

Jeno snorts. “Haechan, you are worse because you had a crush on everyone when you were twelve.”

“False,” Haechan says proudly. “Only her. And that one barista. And the family dentist.”

“The WHAT?”

“Hey, good teeth are hot, I won’t apologize.”

Jaemin throws his head back laughing. “God, I missed this frat.” Haechan plops himself between them, draping his arms over both their shoulders dramatically. “Anyway, don’t worry, Jeno. I’m over her now. Emotionally healed. Completely unattached.” “Good to know,” Jeno mutters dryly. "Park will kill you otherwise."

Haechan pauses. “Though if she ever becomes single—”

“Haechan,” both Jeno and Jaemin warn. "We actually like Jisung!"

“I’M KIDDING!?!”

(He is absolutely not kidding.)

Something unknots in Jeno’s chest.

The chaos, the noise, the dumb banter—it steadies him in a way he didn’t realize he needed. Jaemin nudges him again. “Seriously, though. Talk to Karina tonight. And stop spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You are literally spiraling right now.”

Haechan gestures around grandly. “This whole conversation has been a spiral.”

Jeno exhales, head thudding back against the couch.

“Fine. I’ll talk to her.”

“And then kiss her,” Haechan adds. “And then apologize for being insane,” Jaemin finishes.

Jeno sighs. “You both are the worst.”

They grin at him, matching and chaotic.

Outside, the wind rattles the windows again. Inside, the frat house hums with life—messy, loud, comforting. And in the middle of all of it, Jeno finally feels like he can breathe.

The late afternoon wind nips at Somi’s cheeks as she climbs the outdoor steps to the university’s animation building, her tote bag knocking against her hip with every determined step. The sun is low, honey-bright, tinting the air with a warm haze that feels oddly comforting despite the cold. She pushes the door open, and the warmth inside hits her immediately—soft yellow lights, the faint earthy smell of paper and wood shavings, and a low playlist of instrumental beats drifting from a small speaker by the window.

Hendery is already there, hunched over the massive screen tablet like it’s a living thing he’s coaxing into existence. His hair is messy in that art-student way that looks accidental but somehow perfect, and the stylus spins lazily between his fingers as he lifts his eyes. When he sees her, he brightens—not dramatically, just subtly, in the corners of his eyes and the slight curve of his mouth.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm but teasing. “Chief Stylist.” Somi rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide her smile. “If I’m the chief, that makes you what? Assistant to the stylist?"

“Oof.” He presses a hand to his chest. “I guess I deserved that.”

She laughs and sets her tote on the table, pulling out her assortment: color palettes, printed references, scrap fabrics she borrowed, even two toy tiger mascots she impulsively bought because they felt like they might help.

Hendery whistles under his breath. “Wow. You brought a whole Safari.” “It’s not a safari,” Somi mutters, though her cheeks warm. “It’s… options.” He leans forward, studying everything she’s laid out. “Well, Jisung’s inner voice is a tiger, so honestly, the props are on theme.”

Somi snorts as she removes her jacket. “Only you would defend me buying children’s toys for a university project.” “What can I say?” Hendery shrugs lightly. “I appreciate commitment.”

A while later, the room glows with late sunlight, the windows catching streaks of gold that stretch across the floor like long threads. Dust floats lazily in the air. It’s quiet here—soft, focused—and Somi feels herself settle into that space easily, too easily, like she’s stepping into a version of herself that makes more sense. They begin working—Somi spreading fabrics and sketches across the table, Hendery adjusting brushes on the tablet.

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “has your girl told you about the date she's taking Jisung to?” Somi looks up sharply. “What date?”

Hendery raises a brow. “You live with her. How do you not know?”

“She didn’t say anything about taking anyone on a date.”

He turns his tablet around, revealing a rough sketch of the tiger in a hoodie. “Jisung was practically floating around the frat house this morning. Like levitating. Renjun caught him staring at his phone smiling so hard his face looked like it was glitching.” Somi rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Oh my God.” “Kept replaying a voice note over and over,” Hendery adds, tapping the sketch. “Like he was studying it for an exam.”

"She's dumbed him down I swear." Somi snickers. “But that sounds like him.” “You’ve seen him around her,” Hendery says as he begins sketching again. “He’s like… a baby hamster with a crush. Trying to act cool but immediately tripping over his own claws.” Somi laughs into her sleeve. “Last week he tripped over thin air when she asked him if he wanted soup.”

Hendery freezes, then bursts into laughter so strong his pencil nearly falls. “No. No way.” “I swear.” She wipes her eyes. “He ran into the fridge door.”

“Oh, that’s bad.” Hendery shakes his head. “That’s like… diagnosable levels of crush.”

“They are so in love its sickening.”

Somi feels warmth settle into her chest—fondness for you, affection for the gentle mess Jisung is, and comfort in sharing this moment with Hendery.

“Okay,” Somi says, clearing her throat. “Let’s talk tiger.” “Let’s,” Hendery agrees, shifting back into work mode. “Personality first?” “Mhm.” She thinks. “The tiger should be… Jisung, but not too Jisung. More confident. More grounded.” Hendery nods, adjusting the posture of the sketch. “So, like, Jisung if he actually believed half the good things people say about him?”

Somi blinks slowly. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

He glances at her. “You’re good at this, you know. Defining a character like this.” She shrugs, suddenly shy. “It just makes sense in my head.” “That’s what I mean.” He tilts the screen. “Most people don’t think like that.” Somi fidgets with a patch of fabric. “Maybe I’m just… used to micromanaging everyone.” Hendery smiles faintly. “I think it’s more than that.” He doesn’t push. He doesn’t explain himself. But the softness in his voice lingers.

And she feels it.

As they work, the sun dips lower and the room shifts from gold to a cool, twilight blue. The change feels like turning a page.

Hendery sketches while Somi places fabric swatches next to the screen, adjusting, swapping, rearranging with careful precision. He watches her work like her movements are part of the art itself—not in awe, but in quiet respect.

“You organize your thoughts through color,” he says after a moment.Somi looks up. “What?” “Every time you think out loud, you move the colors around.” He gestures to the fabrics. “You sort ideas by shades. Differences. Contrast. It’s very… director-like.”

Somi freezes, her chest tightening for a reason she doesn’t immediately understand. “Director-like?” she repeats softly. “Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s obvious. “You see the whole picture, not just the pieces.”

She swallows hard, staring at the palettes.

Directing.

She’s never considered it seriously. Never allowed herself to.

It feels too big. Too bright. Too full of expectation.

But the idea hangs in the air like dust in sunlight—soft, weightless, oddly beautiful. “You really think… I could do something like that?” she murmurs. Hendery looks at her—not intensely, not flirtatiously. Just… steadily. Kindly.

“If you wanted to,” he says, “you’d be incredible.” Something in her chest opens. Slowly. Carefully.

Like a door left ajar. She breathes in, shaky and deep. “Thank you,” she says quietly. He nods once. “Anytime.”

They fall back into the work, but something is different. Somi feels grounded, but lighter. More certain, yet more curious. The tiger begins taking shape—soft edges, warm stripes, eyes that hold more confidence than Jisung ever shows. Hendery’s hand moves in steady strokes, and when he leans in to match a shade she’s holding, their arms brush lightly.

Not deliberate. Not dramatic. Just warm.

Somi doesn’t move away immediately. And neither does he. Outside, the wind whistles softly against the window. Inside, the room holds an almost fragile warmth—something growing quietly between collaboration and comfort. Somi lets the moment sit. Let it breathe.Let it exist.

Not a romance. Not yet.

Just a beginning. And beginnings, she thinks, are enough.

The hallway outside the studio smells faintly of varnished wood and something citrus—someone must’ve cleaned recently. Shotaro breathes in once, deeply, trying to settle the static ringing under his skin, but it follows him anyway. It has followed him all day.

Mr. Hoseok’s voice still echoes in his head: “For the mid-semester collaborative, I’m pairing you two. I want something fluid. Intimate. Trust-based.”

And then the look he gave both of them—calm but knowing—like he meant to stir something up.

Now Shotaro stands outside the studio, palm on the metal door handle, hesitating like it’s forbidden. He can already hear her inside. Soft footfalls. A breathless exhale. The squeak of rubber soles pivoting against the floor.

Mina.

He pushes the door gently.

The studio lights are low—late afternoon sun slants through the wide windows, painting gold stripes across the mirrored wall. Dust floats lazily, suspended like it’s listening. The air is cooler here, touched by the autumn breeze leaking in from an open window. Outside, students chatter faintly on their way home; leaves rattle like quiet applause.

And there she is.

Standing in the center of the studio, one headphone in, the other dangling against her collarbone. Her hair is tied up but messily, strands escaping and curling at her temples. She’s wearing a black fitted crop top and loose grey joggers rolled at the waist, exposing the soft dip of her hips. A sweatshirt lies abandoned near the speaker, like she got too warm practicing. She doesn’t notice him yet—she’s focused, a slight frown between her brows as she runs the same eight-count again. Soft. Sharp. Soft again. Her movements are fluid, like she’s dissolving into the music one second and cutting it apart the next.

Shotaro’s breath catches. Again. This has been happening too often.

He clears his throat.

Mina startles, whipping toward him—eyes widening, cheeks tinging pink. “Oh—Shotaro. You’re early.” He steps inside, letting the door click shut behind him. “You’re earlier.” She shrugs, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t sit in my dorm. Too quiet. And I… wanted to get the sequence right.”

He nods, dropping his bag beside hers. His chest feels tight, like something inside is close to spilling out. He’s used to this—dance studios, partners, choreography—but this is different. Mina is quiet, observant, soft in a way that makes him want to lean in closer without even thinking.

And Hana—Hana is wildfire. Laughing, teasing, bold hands pulling him into late-night rendezvous, texting him that she’s bored and he needs to fix that immediately.

Two different worlds. Two different pulls.

He’s in trouble.

“Can we run it from the top?” Mina asks, pulling him back to the present. He nods. “Yeah. Just—show me the timing again?”

She walks toward the speaker, taps a few buttons, and a low, slow instrumental fills the studio. Something with deep bass and soft piano. The kind of song that begs for closeness. Hoseok must’ve planned it that way. Mina walks back to him. Close enough that he can smell her vanilla lotion. Close enough to see the small mole below her left eye. Close enough that his heartbeat feels stupid in his chest.

“Ready?” she whispers.

He should be.

He isn’t.

But he nods anyway. The music rises gently. Mina lifts her hand, palm up—a signal. Shotaro places his hand in hers. Her fingers are warm. “Okay,” she says softly. “One… two… three…”

They move. It’s clumsy at first—he’s thinking too much, aware of where every inch of her is. The brush of her wrist. The subtle press of her back when he guides her into the turn. The breath she releases when she lands against his chest for the lift.

“Sorry,” he murmurs when she stumbles. “That was my fault.” “No,” she shakes her head, looking up at him. “I hesitated.”

Their faces are close—closer than they should be. Her lips part just slightly like she’s about to say something else, but she doesn’t. Instead, she steps back.

“Let’s try again,” she whispers.

They do.

And the second run… flows.

Mina relaxes into him, trusting him to guide her. Her movements are delicate but certain, lines clean, expression soft. Shotaro forgets about the stress, the messy feelings, the guilt creeping in from Hana’s last text:

Don’t forget tomorrow. Just us. Like a date… but not a date. Unless you want it to be😉

He shouldn’t think about that now and he especially shouldn't think about Mina like this either.

But she turns, steps into him—and his hands land on her waist. Not part of the choreography. His fingers spread slightly, feeling the warmth through her shirt. She tenses. He does too.

The music swells.

She looks up. He looks down.

Everything slows.

Her lips are so close. Her breathing is shallow. Her hands slide tentatively up his arms, not quite touching, but close enough that heat rises through his skin. “Shotaro…” she whispers.

He doesn’t know if it’s a warning or a question. He doesn’t know if he should step back.

He doesn’t.

The next move calls for a dip. He supports her weight, guiding her backward—her hair brushing her shoulder, her throat exposed. When he pulls her back upright, she ends up right against him, chest to chest.

A shiver runs through both of them.

Her voice is barely audible. “You’re shaking.” He swallows. “You’re close.” She flushes. “It’s part of the routine.”

“Not this close.”

Her breath catches.

Silence stretches. The studio feels too warm. The air too thick. Their heartbeats too loud.

Mina’s gaze flickers to his mouth.

And that’s it.

He leans in.

Slowly, like he’s giving her every chance to stop him. She doesn’t. She tilts her chin up, eyelids fluttering.Their lips brush—

Soft.

Warm.

Barely there. And it ruins him.

Shotaro deepens the kiss gently, one hand sliding to the back of her neck, the other gripping her waist. Mina melts into him, fingers curling into his shirt. Her lips are hesitant but eager, matching his pace, like she’s afraid of wanting this too much.

His mind is chaos. Mina’s scent. Hana’s laugh.

The text he never replied to. The way Mina is kissing him like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. He pulls away first, breathing unevenly. Her eyes stay closed a second longer—like she’s memorizing the moment. When she finally opens them, they’re glassy, confused, full.

“Shotaro…” she whispers again, but this time—there’s an ache in it. “I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

He steps back. Just a small step, but it feels like ripping himself away from something fragile and warm and addictive.His chest tightens.

He likes her.

He really, really likes her.

And Hana— Hana is waiting. Hana cares. Hana looks at him like he hung starts she didn't know existed.

He is in danger. He is in trouble. He is split clean down the middle, and everything is starting to unravel. Mina wraps her arms around herself, suddenly unsure. “We should… keep practicing,” she says softly.

He nods.

But the space between them isn’t the same anymore. The dance isn’t the same. He isn’t the same. Because now he knows.

He wants both. For different reasons. In different ways.

And pretending otherwise? He can feel the lie cracking already.

Friday night...

The rooftop smells like broth long before anyone sits down. Steam coils up from the pot, thick and fragrant, fogging the air just enough that the city lights below blur into soft halos. It carries through the open balcony doors, curls into the night air, settles into the fabric of hanging clothes of some of the residents of the apartment building are strung along one side of the railing — hoodies, towels, a forgotten scarf fluttering gently like it belongs there and a pair of socks that no one ever claims. The city is loud somewhere below, but up here, everything feels softened, like the world has agreed to speak quieter for the evening.

The hotpot station sits in the corner you, Somi and Karina made Jaemin and Shotaro carve out earlier, burners are lined neatly, ingredients arranged with care that betrays how long you spent prepping. Thin slices of meat stacked like petals. Vegetables washed, dried, plated. Sauces portioned into little bowls you labeled with a marker that’s already smudging. Dumplings lined in neat rows. You had done this earlier together, music playing from the record player, moving around each other without thinking as you talked about everything and nothing all at once, the kind of domestic ease that only happens after living together long enough to stop narrating it and knowing each other practically your whole lives.

“You think we overdid it?” she asks, nudging a tray into place. You glance at the table — long, crowded already with burners and bowls and sauces — and smile. “We always do.”

She hums, satisfied.

The door opens again. Voices spill in.

Hendery walks through first, loud and familiar, carrying soft drinks like he’s performing a service for the people. Somi follows, already complaining about the stairs she had to use because someone had been hogging the lift "all this time it'scrazy", shoes kicked off halfway inside. Yangyang and Luna come together, hands brushing, shoulders touching — close in a way that feels private even in a group. Then Jeno steps through, and Karina straightens without realizing she’s doing it.

Their eyes meet briefly.

He smiles. She smiles back. It’s easy — practiced — but there’s a pause there, a fraction too long, like both of them are checking the ground beneath their feet before stepping forward. Jeno sets down trays of neatly diced pork belly and mushrooms someone handed him, probably Jaemin who was still in their apartment on blanket duty and reaches for Karina’s wrist, just to tug her closer for a second. His thumb brushes her pulse. Intimate. Controlled. Like he’s reminding himself she’s real.

She lets him.

Chenle barrels in, dramatically out of breath. “I climbed six flights of stairs for this,” he announces, dropping drinks onto the table. “If the broth isn’t life-changing, I’m suing.” “You took the lift,” Jaemin says instantly behind him. Chenle pauses. “That’s not the point, I'm still suing.”

Laughter ripples through the group, easy, familiar. Collapsible chairs scrape. Yangyang pulls Luna closer without thinking when they sit, their knees fitting together like they’ve always belonged there. Their smiles soften. Whatever they’re talking about doesn’t need an audience. Somi and Hendery sit shoulder to shoulder, not touching, but close enough that their elbows keep knocking, both of them pretending it’s accidental.

Karina moves back and forth between the table and the pot, one last time, unconvincingly so, checking things, adjusting. Jeno watches her every time she passes by where he settled down. She looks beautiful tonight — relaxed, hair loosely tied back, wearing one of his shirts without comment. That should be enough to calm him.

It doesn’t.

From the corner of your eye, you see Jisung setting down a big jug of water and a few of your acrylic tumbler cups on the table. He’s quiet as he moves toward you, taking both your hands into his, slipping into your space like he knows it’s always been his. “You did all this?” he asks. He glances at the trays, the arrangement, the care mostly you and Karina put into it because Somi got kicked out halfway through with all the nibbling of supplies she had been doing. You nod, sighing weakly despite the smile plastered on your face. “Earlier.”

“This is amazing work, cupcake.” He muses while leaning down to place a lingering kiss on your lips before pulling back to look at you like that means something more than food. Like it means intention. Home.

“Thank you.” You gush, cheeks heating up under your skin as you let go of his hands to greet everyone round the table with a warm smile and hug, “Hello guys.” before Jisung pulls you down on a chair in the middle of he and Chenle. When he reaches for the ladle, your fingers brush, and neither of you pull away immediately. Just a beat longer than necessary.

Shotaro notices.

He was already on the roof helping you and Karina transport all the food. Now he was leaning against the railing, arms crossed, watching everyone arrive like he’s counting exits. His smile comes easy — it always does — but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes tonight.

He watches Jisung move for you without thinking. Watch you soften into it. Something in his chest tightens as he sits besides Jaemin directly across from you.

It reminds him too much of certainty.

The pot begins to steam...

“Okay,” Chenle announces, clapping his hands together. “No one touches anything until we all sit. I’m serious.” “No you’re not,” Jaemin says, already reaching for a sauce bowl. Karina takes the seat beside Jeno. Not leaning into him. Not pulling away either. Just… there.

The burner clicks on.

Steam rises.

The broth begins to bubble.

Jisung is smooth with it, sleeves rolled, hands steady as he begins separating the meat. He moves like he belongs in this space — not loud, not imposing, just present. He eases slices into the pot carefully, watching the color change. You sit beside him, knees brushing, your shoulder occasionally leaning into his arm when someone reaches across you. He begins plating the meat, slow and deliberate. He separates slices carefully, easing them into the broth, watching the color change. When he reaches for the chili tray, he pauses, glances at you, then quietly slides it farther down the table and replaces it with mushrooms instead.

You notice.

Your chest tightens in that quiet way — the kind that doesn’t ache, just glows. Chenle sees it too. “Wow. Tragic. True love is dietary accommodation.” “Shut up,” you say, laughing, elbowing him lightly.

Shotaro doesn’t laugh. He sees everything.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp in a way that doesn’t match the warmth of the night.

Because suddenly he’s remembering you sophomore year, sixteen— not the details, just the distance. The way you stopped coming home on time. The way your skates gathered dust. The way you smiled less. The way you were present in all his dance competitions but lifelessly smiling in all the pictures framed all over the house around that time.

He didn't know why.

Jeno had.

And now he watches you tilt your head toward Jisung, smiling softer than you ever smiled back then.

His fear tightens.

Jeno watches you now, laughing softly at something Chenle says, and the memory flickers sharp and unwanted.

He remembers sitting on the edge of the couch in your room a few years ago, watching you stare at nothing, phone face-down, hollowed out by a breakup no one else knew about.

Jungwoo.

He swallows.

Karina feels the shift beside him. She didn't know the full story then but she remembers how you used to retreat into yourself — quieter, smaller — and how she couldn’t quite reach you then either.

Somi remembers differently.

She remembers knocking on your door and getting no answer. Remembers how you’d still show up, still smile, but like you were acting yourself from far away.

Shotaro’s voice cuts through the moment while stabbing harshly into a ready steamed dumpling, Jaemin had out in his bowl as he looks at you. “You know,” he says casually, too casually, “it’s funny how fast some people settle into playing house.”

The table quiets — not fully, but enough.

Jisung looks up, confused but calm. “What?” Shotaro shrugs, eyes still on you. “Just saying. You barely know him.”

Something in your chest tightens.

You straighten, turning a bit toward Shotaro. Your voice stays steady, but it’s firm now — no softness cushioning it.

“Stop.”

The word lands clean.

Shotaro blinks. “I’m joking.” “No,” you say. “You’re not. And you don’t get to talk about him like that.”

Jisung’s hand freezes mid-movement.

The city hums below you. The broth bubbles louder in the silence. Shotaro’s jaw tightens. “I’m just looking out for you.” “I didn’t ask you to and I don't know what's going on with you...” you reply. Not angry. Clear. “But I won’t let you take it out on Jisung.”

That hits.

Because he is taking it out on Jisung.

Because Jisung is everything he isn’t right now — certain, grounded, sure of his heart. Because Shotaro is stuck between Hana’s quiet pull and Mina’s sudden spark, trapped by his own indecision, angry at himself for letting it get this messy.

And that’s what gets to Shotaro. Not arrogance. Not entitlement.

Certainty.

The way Jisung doesn’t hesitate. The way he knows what he’s doing. He’s angry at himself. So it leaks sideways.

“Careful,” Shotaro says lightly. “You’ll spoil her.”

The table laughs. You stiffen slightly. Jisung glances at you before responding. “She spoils me too.”

Shotaro smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks at you then — really looks — and the fear spikes sharp and sudden. You are falling.

Hard.

And in his head, love is always the edge of loss because two years ago, he almost lost you to a heartbreak he didn’t even know existed.

Jeno watches the exchange, chest tight.

He remembers you back then — remembers piecing it together too late. Remembering Jungwoo had been the reason, and hating himself for not protecting you sooner.

Karina notices Jeno’s silence immediately.

She shifts closer, their knees brushing under the table, her hand resting lightly on his thigh — intimate, careful, restrained. There’s warmth there, but also distance.

She feels his tension and doesn’t understand it. In her mind, they had already talked this through. In his worry, it has teeth because Johnny’s name also flickers through Jeno’s thoughts like a warning light. He hates that it does.

Even Jaemin’s smile fades slightly. He remembers taking photos of you,

He remembers the way the pictures lacked your warmth despite you smiling like everything was fine, while slowly disappearing.

Yangyang squeezes Luna’s hand, needing to ground himself in whatever twin telepathy argument the hotpot has turned into.

You straighten.

“Taro,” you say slowly, warning already in your tone. He ignores it, eyes fixed on Jisung now. “You don’t even see it, do you? You decide things so fast. You fall fast.”

The broth bubbles.

You slowly hand Somi the salt shaker she had been making grabby hands at the entire time, hands steady even though your chest feels tight.

Something snaps — not loudly, but cleanly. You turn fully toward him. “Don’t.”

The word lands firm. Shotaro blinks. He’s not used to that from you.

“I don’t know what you think you’re protecting,” you continue, voice steady but tight, “but this—” you gesture between you and Jisung, “—is not your call.”

Jisung opens his mouth. You lift a hand, stopping him gently without looking.

“This is my relationship,” you say, eyes locked on Shotaro now. “You don’t get to imply he’s temporary or unsafe or something I’ll regret. Not at this table. Not ever.”

The silence stretches.

Shotaro’s anger folds inward, sharp and messy. Because he’s not angry at Jisung — not really. He’s angry at himself. How unsure he is. At how he’s tangled himself between two girls without even coming to the realisation himself. At how Jisung can look at you and know. He looks at you and sees how deeply you’re already gone.

That terrifies him.

“You don’t understand,” he mutters. “I understand enough,” you say softly, but your boundary doesn’t soften. “And I need you to trust me.” Jisung finally speaks, voice calm. “I’m not here to hurt her.”

Shotaro looks at him then — really looks. And that’s the worst part. Because he believes him. Because Jisung is telling the truth. His truth, while he barely even acknowledges that he needs to start thinking about his own.

Chenle clears his throat loudly. “Okay! Wow! Hotpot got spicy and not in a fun way.” Jaemin jumps in immediately after. “Does anyone want more beef? Emotional beef? Literal beef?”

Laughter breaks the tension — awkward, grateful. You exhale slowly, fingers curling into Jisung’s sleeve. He turns to you, thumb brushing your knuckles once, grounding. Yangyang leans toward Luna, murmuring something that makes her smile softly — intimate but contained, their world quiet and separate from the chaos.

“Okay but,” Hendery says around a mouthful of noodles, pointing his chopsticks at Jisung, “why does your girlfriend have a custom plate?” “It’s not custom,” Jisung defends himself.

“You literally separated vegetables,” Yangyang muses knowingly.

“My little rabbit loves her carrots,” your boyfriend says easily with a grin, making both Jaemin and Chenle groan in disgust.

“That’s worse.”

Jaemin laughs so hard he nearly tips his bowl. “He knows her preferences. Let's get them married.” You nudge Jisung with your knee, scolding. “Stop it. This is your fault now; they won't shut up.” “I can’t,” he says, smiling. “They’re loud.” Making everyone laugh as the night slowly resumes its rhythm.

But under the table, Shotaro’s hands shake just a little. Because he knows now — you’re not hovering on the edge anymore.

You’re choosing.

And he has to learn how to let you...

Later, the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, soft but final, and for a second the room feels too quiet after everything—the laughter, the clatter of dishes, the sharp edges of words that hadn’t meant to cut but did anyway.

Steam still clings faintly to your skin as you step out, curling into the cooler air of your room, your robe loosely tied, damp hair curling against your neck. There’s a towel draped over your shoulders, catching droplets before they can slip down your spine. The scent of your soap lingers—clean, faintly sweet, familiar.

Your fingers are still slightly wrinkled from the heat of the water, your thoughts even more so—softened, but tangled.

Shotaro’s face lingers. The way his jaw had set. The way your name had sounded in his mouth—tight, unfamiliar.

You don’t notice the door opening behind you.

You don’t notice him.

Not at first.

Your thoughts are too loud.

They follow you out of the bathroom, wrap around your shoulders, settle somewhere heavy in your chest. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the towel as you step further into the room, gaze unfocused, fixed somewhere past your vanity, past your bed, past the present.

But he sees you.

Jisung stands just inside your room, hand still resting on the door like he forgot why he came in.

And then—

You shift slightly under the light.

Water catches along the curve of your collarbone, slides slowly, and disappears beneath the soft fold of your robe. Your hair clings to your cheeks, curling faintly at the ends, framing your face in a way that feels unguarded. Your skin looks… new. Fresh. Like something untouched by the chaos that had just lived in the apartment minutes ago.

And something in him pulls tight.

Hard.

You still haven’t looked at him. You’re still somewhere else, and that— that does something to him. He crosses the room before he can think. You look up and see Jisung is already there. Standing just inside your room, chest rising a little too fast, eyes locked onto you like he’s been holding something in for too long and doesn’t know where to put it anymore.

For a second, neither of you moves. You’re still half inside your own head. He’s entirely outside of his. Then he closes the distance.

Fast.

His hands come up—both of them—cupping your face, fingers warm against your damp skin, thumbs brushing just under your ears as he pulls you into him and kisses you.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

It’s everything he didn’t say downstairs.

Your breath catches, hands instinctively finding his wrists, but you don’t push him away—you just… hold there, suspended, as his mouth moves against yours with something that feels like relief and urgency tangled into one.

His lips are warm. Insistent. A little messy. Like he’s still thinking about it. Like he’s still hearing it.

You. Defending him.

“My relationship is with Jisung. Not anyone else.”

Your chest tightens. He kisses you deeper. Then, suddenly, you’re moving—because he’s moving—one hand sliding from your face to your waist, gripping, pulling you closer as he steps forward and you step back without thinking.

Once.

Twice.

The back of your knees hit the edge of the bed.

You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes it, tilting his head and slipping his tongue past your mouth to meet yours, kissing you again like he’s chasing the sound. Your fingers slide up his arms, then into his hair, slightly damp from earlier, and you tug—just enough to ground yourself.

“Jisung—”

He hums against your lips, not pulling away. Not yet. His hand shifts—slips under the edge of your robe, palm settling warm against your thigh, thumb brushing once, slow, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

That this is real.

You inhale sharply. Your other hand presses against his chest—not pushing, just… pausing him. He stills.

Barely.

Just enough to pull back an inch, his breath fanning across your lips, eyes half-lidded but searching. “Say it again,” he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges. “What you said downstairs.”

Your stomach flips. You shake your head a little, breath uneven. “You’re being—” “I’m serious,” he cuts in softly, a grin threatening at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are still too intense for it to be just teasing. “You—”

He leans in again, brushing his lips against yours, not quite kissing, “—defended me.” Your face warms instantly, “That’s not—”

He kisses you again.

Short this time.

Quick, but it lingers.

“You did.”

For a second, you’re both just… close. Breathing. Looking, and then something shifts again—playful this time. You push lightly at his shoulder and, before he can react, you shift, turning him, pressing him back just enough that you end up hovering over him instead.

He blinks up at you.

Surprised. Then amused, eyebrows raised and telling.

“Oh?” he murmurs. “Don’t,” you warn, already feeling your composure slipping. His hands settle at your waist again, steady, grounding, thumbs brushing absent patterns against your sides.

“You were saying?” he prompts, far too pleased with himself. You narrow your eyes. “I was not saying anything.”

“You defended me,” he repeats, softer now, but no less smug. “Against your twin brother.”

You groan, dropping your head briefly against his shoulder. “Jisung—”

“I think,” he continues thoughtfully, one hand sliding slightly under the edge of your robe at your waist, warm against your bare skin, “that makes me your favorite person.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m right.”

And you kiss him again. This time, you set the pace.

Slower.

Deeper.

Your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt without thinking, palms pressing lightly against the warmth of his skin, anchoring yourself there like you need to prove he’s real. He exhales sharply at that. His head tilts back just slightly, giving you space—letting you take it—before his hands slide higher along your thighs, stopping just at the edge of where your robe gathers.

Not pushing.

Just there. Just holding. Something in your chest twists because this—this is steady. It is not rushed. This is not something that will disappear the second you blink, and yet, the world tilts again, but gently now, like something easing into place instead of knocking you off balance.

When you pull back, it’s not far.

Your nails lightly dig into his skin, and for a second, you’re back there...

To a few minutes after your hotpot night. The kitchen was chaotic with steam still fogging the windows. The front door cracked open just enough to let the cold October air slip in. Plates stacked too high in the sink.

“Why are there so many bowls?” Hendery is complaining loudly, sleeves rolled up as he stands at the sink, staring at the pile as though it personally offended him. “Because you ate out of three,” Yangyang shoots back from beside him, elbow-deep in soap suds. “Don’t act brand new.”

“I needed options!”

“You needed discipline.”

Chenle is laughing somewhere behind them, nearly dropping a stack of chopsticks. “No, because why did you keep changing broths like it was a personality trait?” Somi is perched on the counter, swinging her legs, holding a half-eaten skewer. “Let him live, oh my God.”

Karina is wiping down the table beside you, movements a little too precise, like she’s thinking about something else entirely. Jeno stands a few steps away from her, drying plates, but his eyes keep flickering toward her like he wants to say something and doesn’t know how. Jaemin—Jaemin—was by the doorway, stacking empty trays, watching all of it with quiet amusement. “If this place floods, I’m blaming all of you.”

“It won’t flood,” you say absentmindedly, stacking the last of the plates.

From the living room, Chenle’s voice cuts through—“IF ANYONE TOUCHES MY DRINK, I’M SUING.” Luna laughs too loudly while lazily scrolling through the TV. “You don’t even know what suing means.”

“I know it means consequences.”

And then, you feel it. That shift. When you turn, Shotaro is already looking at you, not angry anymore. Just… tight. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands. Or his words. So he busied himself with folding the extra blankets you guys ended up using to warm yourselves up as you ate.

There’s a beat. Then another. Before he finishes and steps forward. You do too, because it is time for everyone to go home. The hug is— awkward. Not unfamiliar.

Just… unfinished.

His arms wrap around you, firm, protective even now, but there’s hesitation in it. Like he almost pulls back halfway through and then decides not to.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he, but his grip tightens for a second. Just once before he lets go. “I’ll… see you,” he mutters, not quite meeting your eyes.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

There’s more. There’s so much more, but it stays there. Unsaid.

For now.

“Oi!” Chenle calls out, breaking the moment instantly. “If you two are done being dramatic, someone help me find the lid for this—why do we even own this?”

“That’s not ours!” Karina calls back, exasperated with a groan.

“It is now!”

Luna giggles at that while hugging YangYang, who had pulled her to sit on his lap. “Who the hell is we?” Jaemin asks, genuinely confused, while putting on a record on your shared player in the living room from where he was sitting on the floor. “ I'm part of this family, mate, try to keep up.” He argued back.

“When did that consensus happen?”

“Jisung and I are a 2 for 1 package deal.”

“Speak for yourself.“ Jisung scoffed from where he sat on the couch scrolling through his phone earning a look of betrayal from his best friend who then turned to you with pleading eyes.

“Ain't no way the ice princess is abandoning me, right princess?”

You only rolled your eyes amused only to earn laughter from the others as jackets begin to get pulled on and shoes get half-stepped into.

“Text me when you get home!” Somi shouts at Hendery as he head out after Yang Yang and Luna

“We’ll see each other tomorrow!”

“Text me anyway!”

The door opens.

Closes.

Voices fade.

Your breath stutters as the memory dissolves. Jisung is still right there. Still looking at you like that. Like he hasn’t come down from it yet. His hand shifts at your waist, grounding you back into the present.

You blink.

Your forehead rests briefly against his. Your breath comes back uneven. You swallow, “…you’re a lot right now.” He huffs a quiet laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. “You made me like this.”

“I made you—”

“You sat there,” he says, softer now, but no less intense, “in front of everyone, Your brother and you didn’t even hesitate.”

Your chest tightens. Something in your throat shifts. You look at him properly now, and the words come out before you can overthink them.

“I’m sorry.”

He blinks,that throws him more than anything else. He stills, “What?” Your hands slide up to his shoulders again, holding there, steady but unsure.

“For taking so long,” you say quietly. “To say it like that. To… be that sure out loud.” His expression softens immediately, “hey.” His hand comes up, gentle this time, brushing damp strands away from your face, cupping your jaw again, tilting your face so you have to look at him, “you don’t get to apologize for that.”

“I made you wait.”

“I would’ve waited longer.”

It’s immediate. No hesitation. No performance. Just truth.

Your chest tightens painfully. “Jisung—”

“I mean it,” he says, quieter now, but firmer. “Nothing about this changes because you took your time. I wasn’t going anywhere.”

Your eyes search his. He doesn’t look away.

“I’m still not,” he adds, softer. The room feels smaller. Like everything has folded inward just to hold this moment in place. Warmer. It settles something deep in your chest, and before it can get too heavy, he exhales, shaking his head lightly, a smile creeping back in.

“…still,” he adds, quieter, a little smug again, “I’m not complaining.”

You blink. “About what?”

He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, “having a girlfriend who scares people for me.” Your jaw drops slightly, and you narrow your eyes. “You’re very bossy today.”

“And you’re very damp,” he shoots back as he shifts slightly beneath you, then—In one smooth motion, his hands slide under your thighs, and he stands. You gasp softly, instinctively grabbing onto him as the world tilts for a second, your height shifting, your body lifting with his.

You feel it more. The difference. The way you now have to look down slightly instead of always looking up at him to meet his gaze.

The way his grip adjusts automatically to keep you steady.

“Careful,” you murmur, half-breathless.

“I’ve got you,” he says winking, like it’s obvious.

Like it’s always been obvious.

He turns.

Gently lowers you back onto the bed, slower this time, more deliberate, making sure you’re settled before he lets go. Then he steps away, just enough, and reaches for your blow-dryer on the vanity. The cord drags softly across the surface as he picks it up, plugs it in near the outlet by your bed, his movements unhurried, like he’s not trying to fill space—just existing in it with you.

You huff, but you sit straighter anyway, legs folding onto the bed as you watch him grab your blow dryer, plug it in near the bed, and come back.

The hum fills the room. Warm air follows. His fingers move through your hair carefully, lifting sections, drying them slowly, like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.

The tension fades. Little by little.

“Turn,” he murmurs.

You do. His hand brushes the back of your neck, steadying you as he adjusts, focused, gentle in a way that feels… grounding.

You watch him from the corner of your eye. The concentration. The softness. The way his lips press together slightly when he’s focused.

Your chest tightens again—but differently this time.

Quieter.

Fuller.

When he’s done, he sets the dryer aside, fingers combing once more through your now warm, dry hair.

Then, he leans in. Kisses you. Slow this time. Deep, but unhurried.

Your hand slips under his shirt without thinking, palm pressing against warm skin, and he exhales softly against your mouth, one hand finding your waist again, anchoring you.

It’s softer now.

Not less.

Just… steadier.

When he pulls back, it’s only to rest his forehead against yours.

Breath shared.

“Still think I’m insufferable?” he murmurs.

You smile, just a little. “Yeah.”

He grins and kisses you lightly again.

“Go shower,” you whisper.

He huffs. “You just want me gone.”

“I want you clean.”

“That hurts.”

You laugh quietly, pushing his shoulder. “You smell like all types of broth.”

He steals one more kiss anyway. Then another, making you giggle before finally pulling away with a reluctant sigh.

“Don’t fall asleep without me.”

“No promises.”

“I’ll be fast.”

“You won’t.”

“I will tonight.”

You smile despite yourself as he disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks, and water starts. The room settles again. You change into another set of matching pajamas, one of Jisung’s hoodies, and comb through your hair one last time before settling back on your side of the bed. You reach up instinctively—fingers curling around the chain at your neck, the small weight of it grounding, familiar.

Your thumb brushes over it slowly.

Breathing. Thinking. Jungwoo flickers in the back of your mind—distant now, like a memory that doesn’t quite belong to you anymore.

What you had. What it took from you.

What you almost became...

And then, Jisung. Warm. Certain. Steady in a way that doesn’t ask you to huide to be loved.

You exhale.

When he comes back, hair damp, shirtless in sweats, changed and moisturized, he doesn’t say anything—just slides into bed beside you, pulling the duvet over both of you before tugging you into him like it’s instinct.

Your head finds his chest.

His arm wraps securely around you.

Safe. Easy.

His lips press softly to your forehead., “goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The rain starts not long after. Soft at first. Then steady. Tapping gently against the windows. His breathing evens out beneath your ear, but your eyes stay open a little longer.

Your fingers still curled around the chain.

Your thoughts quieter now—but not gone.

There’s still uncertainty somewhere in the distance; it still echoes with things you haven’t said.

But here, in this moment with him holding you like this, with his heartbeat steady under your cheek, with the rain filling in the silence instead of breaking it— you don’t feel like you’re losing yourself. You feel like you’re finally standing still, and maybe that’s enough.

For now.

Her husband, Mr. Lee, sat at the table, glasses perched low on his nose, the newspaper opened before him. She moved with purpose, though her husband had learned long ago that purpose often meant trouble disguised as domesticity.

“He hasn’t called since last week,” she said, more to herself than to her husband. “Did you try calling him?” Jinwoo asked without looking up from the newspaper.

“Why should I?” “You said you wanted to know when he's coming home for Christmas. Honey, you have a phone for reasons like these.” She didn’t answer immediately. The spoon clinked against porcelain like a ticking clock. “He calls regularly so maybe he’s busy, Yeonja.” Her husband tried to reason again because the silence meant she was close to boiling over and he did not want to be on the receiving end of it.

“You said so yourself—he’s doing well. Let him be.”

“I am letting him be.” Her tone wobbled between offense and affection. “I just want to see my son. Christmas is two weeks away, and he hasn’t even asked about dinner. That boy used to camp out in my kitchen every December." Jinwoo finally looked up, the corners of his mouth softening to tease. “You mean before he started having a life?” She swatted his arm. “You make it sound like he’s forgotten us.”

“Not forgotten,” he said gently, folding his paper. “Just… grown. Maybe he’s spending Christmas with someone.” Yeonja froze. “Someone?” He shrugged, taking a sip of his tea. “Maybe he has his own plans.”

“Plans?” She pouted into her cup as if the steam would spell out an explanation. “As in many? With who?” “A girl? He is already past that age.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Just the sounds of birds filled the air. Then she laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Over my dead body.” She shook her head with a frown as if he had just slapped her across her rosy cheeks. He chuckled softly, the sound half amusement, half warning. “You’re not planning to—” “—interfere? Of course not,” she said, eyes flicking to the window. “Just… check in.” “Without calling first." She looked offended. “I’m his mother. I don’t need an appointment.”

“You should call.” “I could call.” “You won’t call.” “Exactly.”

He sighed, already used to her dramatics. “You do if you don’t want to walk in on something.” “Oh, please,” she scoffed, waving her hand. “Taeyong doesn’t date. He married his camera before he graduated university.”

There was silence for a moment, then her husband said mildly, “You know, if that’s true, I’d say it’s about time.” She stared into her tea, muttering, “He couldn't possibly cancel Christmas traditions—for a girl?” But something in her husband’s look unsettled her—quiet, knowing, patient. The way he folded his paper and said, “Just call him first, if you’re going. Don’t just show up.” She ignored that part and only glared at him while he lovingly smiled back.

When she grabbed her coat and the infamous holiday casserole, he didn’t stop her. He only called out as she slipped on her shoes, “If you find him in bed with someone, don’t come home traumatized.”

“He’s not twelve!” she shot back. “That’s exactly why I said that,” he replied, but she’d already slammed the door behind her. Outside, the air was bright and sharp, carrying the promise of snow. Mrs. Lee tightened her scarf and muttered, “A girl. He cancels family Christmas for a girl.”

Her indignation, righteous and ridiculous, kept her warm all the way to his apartment.

—-------

You woke to the sound of him breathing against your neck and the lazy hum of a heater that hadn’t yet decided whether to work. The curtains were half-drawn, spilling sunlight across the sheets, and Taeyong’s arm was heavy around your waist. He was always warm in the mornings. Always quiet, too, the kind of quiet that made you forget about blueprints and contracts and client meetings stacked into your calendar like dominos.

“Morning,” he murmured, lips brushing behind your ear. You smiled. “Barely." He hovered over to look at you, hair a mess of sleep and soft chaos, like a halo over your annoyingly handsome boyfriend. “You’re staring.” you murmur with closed eyes. “Occupational hazard,” he says nuzzling your chin. “Photographers analyze everything.”

“Even me?” “Especially you darling.”

You grinned, the kind that made you feel a little stupidly shy of yourself, “Dangerous hobby.”

Taeyong's hands wondered to your waist under the duvet covers, a lazy smile curling up his lips when you didn't fight him pretending to be coy, so he pushes a little further, slinging one of your hip over on his and grinding slow on your boy short covered core as he settled in snugly in between your legs turning you to face him fully. “This is nice.” He hummed while kissing your lips and then he lazily trails down your jaw, nipping and sucking on your throat the way he knows you like. A gasp leaves your lips when you tilt your head to give him better access and you know he's going to go out of his way to leave love blooms on your skin.

Your hands slip up his arms before intertwining around his shoulders. With his hands all over you, his hands slip under your- his shirt, the one you like to wear to sleep in when you're not together that you always carry with you even though you have some of your clothes and toiletries with you in his house, tracung fingertips on the swell of your breasts. In seconds, Taeyong abruptly sits on his knees to pull your sleep shorts and panties off all in one go. He grabs at your waist, curling hus hands on the shirt before yanking the material up and over his head.

“Taeyong.” You plead, for what? You have yet to figure it out. His hands slid up your sides, around your lower back before grabbing handfuls of your arse. His mouth sucked on your collarbone before he moved lower to suck on one of your nipples. “You're so pretty Darling.” Your boyfriend moans while touching your silk folds. Taeyong pulls you into his body and ruts his hips against your drooling mound. The hard bulge makes your heart threaten to leave its cage and causes a soft tingle to start up your spine.

“Taeyong please.” You moan softly with your hands reaching into his boxers, fumbling with the strands of the sweatpants keeping you away from him. You shove the loose material down his thighs and he is quick to take the hint because he pulls back to wrestle them the rest of the way off. A pearl of precum greets you and you swipe the tip with your thumb. Taeyong shudders under your touch and he pushes you down on the ved to nestle back between your legs.

"So pretty my darling." He whispers with a shake of his head as though he can't believe his luck. He grips on your hips aligning himself to the warmth of your slick core. His long fingers slide up your inner thigh to slide up your folds. He circles your clit softly before sliding his middle finger into you, stroking your pussy in firm sweeps. With a grab of your hips again, he pulls your hips forward so that your lower back is on his thighs before feeding his cock into you until he is fully seated. Your spine curves and you moan his name desperately when he holds one of your legs to his chest such that it is angled up straight in the air. Taeyong thrusts like a mad man. The pleasure is blinding, with his cock pressing ok every nerve as he strokes every sweet spot inside of you with wicked force.

"Ooh god!" You yell out, your fingers curled painfully on your pillow case as the smacks of your bodies together only gets better with each shuttering thrust. Taeyong pushes your leg down against your stomach to kiss you, it's sloppy, wet...you love it. You love him, before he pulls away to look down to where your bodies meet, watching his cock slide in and out of you, shining with your juices on each withdrawal. His hand slaps your arse, making you clench and quiver and he groans at the feel of you before plunging balls deep. His brutal thrusts send you over the edge quickly, your pussy clentches down around him so hard that he makes a deep groan in his throat as he spills inside of you. Taeyong whispers your names, with his lips on yours, he gives long, slow thrusts to keep your after shocks going.

"I love you so much." He sighs as he releases your leg, allowing you to wrap them around his waist. He brushes your hair  out of your face and cups the back of your neck while pressing his mouth hard to yours again. Your heart swells, "I love you more." Because it's true, like you love him a little more even though that may seem impossible. The way your boyfriend makes you feel about him is beyond you, so instead, you kiss him back just as desperately as you would like him to know.

You reached up, tracing the faint ink beneath his collarbone. “You still haven’t told me what this tattoo means.” “Patience,” he whispered. “I’ll tell you when I finish the sleeve.” You rolled your eyes. “You’ve been saying that for two years.”

“Then maybe you should stick around for the ending.” The phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the moment. He sighs, pulling out of you in a shiver before grabbing his phone on his side of the bed.

“That’s the agency,” he said, scrolling through a few messages. “They need the winter shoot files before noon.” You groaned looking up at the ceiling as the world reminded you of your adult duties. “It’s barely ten.”

“I’ll be back before breakfast.” “You’re making breakfast?”

He raised a brow teasingly. “You can’t cook.” “Then you buy food and pretend I made them.” you play along smiling.

“Good girl.” You threw a pillow at him, laughing. “Go, before I change my mind about letting you leave.” He leans down, kisses you slowly, and mumbles against your lips, “I love you.” You smiled, half-asleep again. “Love you more.”

When he left, the quiet filled the space he’d vacated. You lay there for a while, breathing him in, the scent of cedar and warmth still clinging to his shirt—his shirt that you’d stolen because it was soft and because you liked how small it made you feel. The apartment was peaceful, golden, domestic in a way that scared you a little. You weren’t used to this kind of calm.

—--------

The drive into Seoul was long, but she loved the way the snow fell heavier the closer she got to the city. When she arrived at Taeyong’s townhouse, her fingers tingled with anticipation and cold. She fished for the spare key he’d given her “for emergencies only” and smiled. A mother visiting her son wasn’t an emergency—unless you counted a holiday without him as one. The house was quiet when she stepped inside, that familiar hush of a home still half-asleep. But it wasn’t quite how she remembered it.

There was a scarf draped over the arm of the sofa—not Taeyong’s, too feminine in color, soft and perfumed. A faint scent of vanilla and cedar lingered in the air, clinging to the cushions, the curtains. His shoes were still by the door, but another pair—red bottom heelsl—sat neatly beside them.

Yeonja frowned.

On the dining table, there was a mug of tea gone cold and a sketchbook open to an unfinished drawing. Architectural lines and curves—precise, clean, detailed. She brushed a gloved hand across the page, tracing the name signed faintly at the corner. Just an initial and a flourish. The house wasn’t messy, exactly. It was lived-in. There was a throw blanket on the couch. A hair tie on the counter. A faint lilac electric toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. A photograph caught her attention—one she hadn’t seen before. Taeyong and a woman, blurred and laughing, her face turned away, a hand half-covering his while he adjusted the camera. The shot wasn’t staged. It was intimate. Yeonja pressed her lips together, the confusion rising slowly in her chest. She began to tidy—more to keep her hands busy than because the place needed it. She folded a blanket, stacked some stray papers, and wiped an already clean counter. Her heart thumped oddly with every small domestic discovery.

When she heard movement from the hallway, she straightened, expecting her son.

But it wasn’t Taeyong.

You turned the corner, barefoot and bleary-eyed, one of his oversized shirts hanging off your shoulder. The morning light kissed your face, soft and unguarded, and for a moment you didn’t see her standing there—your focus was on the humming coffee machine.

Then your gaze lifted.

And time froze.

You blinked, half in disbelief, half in horror. She blinked back, her hand still on the counter, lips parting slightly. "Oh,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Oh,” she echoed, clutching her pearls like a cliché come to life. Neither of you moved.

Then, in perfect tandem—

“I—I’m so sorry—” “You—who are you—” You scrambled backward, your bare legs almost tripping over the rug, mortified. The hem of Taeyong’s shirt barely reached mid-thigh, and you were certain your face was on fire. You could still smell him on the fabric—his cologne, his warmth—and that made everything worse.

“Um—I thought—he said he’d be back—” you stammered, trying to remember if you’d seen a jacket or blanket anywhere in the living room you could use to hide behind. Yeonja just stood there, stiff-backed, eyes darting between you and the mess of details suddenly making sense around her. The toothbrush. The scarf. The reason her son didn’t want to come home for Christmas.

A woman.

—---------

The snow had stopped by the time Taeyong came back, replaced by the soft hiss of sleet sliding down the window. You heard his keys before you saw him—the familiar jingle, the short click of the lock—and every muscle in your shoulders eased, if only for a moment He stepped inside with paper bags and wind-chilled cheeks, hair damp at the tips, and a sweater stretched at the wrists. You smiled before you could stop yourself. But then his mother turned from the counter, and the warmth in the room tilted.

“Oh,” she said, her voice too calm. “You went out." "Umma what are you doing here?" Taeyong asked in shock, Yeonja gave him a piercing gaze to which he blinked. “Yeah. I had to drop something off at the studio. You… cleaned?” Her hands, elegant and sure, rested on the edge of the counter. “Your house needed it.”

You stayed by the table, wishing you could melt into the pine-needle garland coiled across it. “I tried to help,” you said quietly. Yeonja’s eyes flicked to you, polite as a blade. “I see that. Thank you.” Taeyong’s brows drew together—just enough to notice if you were looking for it—and he set the bags down. The scent of lunch unfurled: pepper, sesame oil, something sweet underneath. He pulled out dishes one by one, stacking them carefully. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, glancing at his mother. “You could’ve called me.” "I wanted to surprise you,” she replied, and smiled. “Though it seems that it is I that has received enough surprises for one morning.”

You felt that one land.

He looked at her for a beat too long, then turned to you, voice softening again. “Come sit. You must be starving.” You obeyed, mostly to have something to do. You folded your legs neatly under the table and reached for the rice bowl he pushed toward you. He sat beside you—too close, too protective—and his mother across from you, her posture perfect, her hands folded, as though this was an interview you hadn’t prepared for.

“So,” she began, the word landing lightly. “How did you two meet?” You blinked. “Um—at a gallery. I was consulting on a project nearby and wandered in.” “A gallery,” she repeated. “How fitting." Taeyong smiled a little. “She’s an architect, Umma.” Her brows rose. “Oh? I thought you said realtor.”

“I used to be,” you said quickly. “Then I shifted to—well—design work.” Yeonja’s smile was small and immaculate. “I see. So you design… houses?” “Mostly commercial work right now,” you said, fingers tight around your chopsticks. “But yes. Houses too.” “How lovely,” she said. “Designing homes, but not having time to keep your own tidy.” You froze. Taeyong’s head snapped up. “Umma,” he said warningly. She blinked, pretending innocence. “I’m only joking.” But the silence that followed told both of you that she wasn’t, not really. You tried a laugh that sounded wrong in your own ears. “I’m—uh—not very domestic, I guess.”

“Of course not. You’re busy,” Yeonja said, as though it were a compliment. “You’re what, mid-twenties?” “Twenty-six.”

“So young.” She smiled again, and it wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t gentle either. “My Taeyong always did like ambitious people. Though sometimes ambition… pulls focus from other things.” “Umma,” he said again, voice lower. She looked at him this time, eyes softening just slightly. “You were always the sentimental one. You get that from your father.”

You glanced between them, wishing you could be invisible. The food sat cooling between you all, untouched. When you finally lifted your spoon, your hand trembled just enough that you set it down again. Yeonja’s gaze followed the motion. “Nervous, dear?” “A little,” you admitted, because pretending seemed worse. “That’s honest of you.” She paused, tilting her head. "You seem very honest.” “I try to be.” Her lips curved. “It’s… refreshing.”

The pause that followed made it clear it wasn’t entirely a compliment. You were nervous. You’d thought dressing comfortably might help, but the minute her eyes flicked to your bare legs you felt ridiculous—like the shorts shouted every insecurity you had. If you could’ve traded them for a blanket, you would have. Taeyong reached for your hand under the table, thumb tracing slow circles. “You’re fine,” he murmured. You nodded without looking up.

“I must say,” Yeonja went on lightly, “I was surprised when Taeyong called to say he wouldn’t make our family Christmas this year. He’s never missed one.”

The air thinned instantly.

Your breath caught. You looked at Taeyong, then at her, then down. You wanted to say something—anything—but every word felt like it might sound wrong. So you smiled, small and unsure. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” Yeonja’s response was instant. “Of course not, dear. You couldn’t have known.”

The implication sat there, thick as steam.

“Umma,” Taeyong said again, and this time it wasn’t a warning. It was a plea.She looked at him— really looked—and for a second, something unguarded crossed her face. A flicker of guilt, maybe, or nostalgia. But it was gone before either of you could name it. You pushed your chair back gently. “Excuse me. I should… make a call.”

Neither of them stopped you.

You went down the hall, the sound of your heartbeat filling your ears. You didn’t even make it to your phone—you just leaned against the wall and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

In the living room, the silence stretched. Then Taeyong spoke, soft but firm. “I’m the one who changed the plans, Umma. Not her. I wanted to spend Christmas with her.”There was a pause. The kind that shifts the air in a room. Yeonja looked at the untouched food, at the half-empty chair, at her son’s quiet defiance. She’d come to reclaim Christmas, but now all she could feel was that she might’ve just stolen his instead. You hadn’t meant to listen. At first, you just needed air — space away from that dining table where every glance felt like a test. You stood in the hallway, the faint hum of the heater filling the silence, the smell of sesame and pine still clinging to you.

But voices carried in this house.

Especially his.

“I told you, Umma. It was my idea.” His tone was soft, but you could hear the edge in it — that thin wire of frustration he rarely let anyone else hear. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.” “Taeyong, you’ve never missed Christmas with us. Not once. Not even when you were abroad.”

You closed your eyes. You could almost see them — her sitting perfectly straight, him half-leaning forward like he always did when he was trying to make someone understand.“It’s not about missing it,” he said quietly. “It’s about starting something new.”

“With a girl you barely know?” “I know her. She's been my girlfriend for almost two years now Umma”

“You think you do.”

The next silence hurt worse than the words. You shouldn’t have been listening. You knew that. But his voice softened again, and you couldn’t make yourself move.“She’s not who you think, umma. She’s— she’s not after anything. I asked her to stay with me because she makes this place feel like home.”

That’s what cracked you. Not the defense, not the tenderness — the way his voice broke just slightly at the word home. And before you could stop yourself, your mind slipped back to the night he’d asked.

It had been raining then, the early kind of December rain that still smelled like autumn. You were in your apartment packing — your laptop, your camera, a stack of plans for the Dubai hotel project you were supposed to oversee along with spending the holidays with your family. Taeyong had been sitting on the floor by your feet, a mug of cocoa between his hands and his hair still damp from a shower. He watched you fuss with your suitcase for a long time before saying anything.

“Do you really have to go?” You laughed. “It’s work, Tae. I’ll be gone for twenty days.”

“Twenty days is Christmas.” He debated, you paused. “You make that sound like a crime.” He smiled a little, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Kind of is.” You sat beside him, bumping your knee against his. “You can come with me. I’ll show you the world’s most overpriced hotel breakfast.”

“I don’t want Dubai,” he said, so softly you almost missed it. He turned the mug in his hands, watching the steam twist and disappear. “I want to do Christmas here. With you. I don’t know— bake cookies we’ll burn, fight over tree decorations, wake up late…” You blinked at him, surprised by how serious he looked. “You hate baking.”

“I’d learn.” You stared at him for a long moment, your heart doing that quiet lurch it always did when he said things like that. And before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d said, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Uou shrugged, pretending it was no big deal. “I’ll tell my parents I’m skipping the trip. My brother will survive the fancy hotel without me.” He’d gone very still. “You mean that?”

“Yeah.”

And then he’d grinned, that wide, boyish grin that made every part of him light up. “Then I guess I have to figure out how to make Christmas actually good.” You’d laughed, pressing your forehead to his.

“You already did.”

The memory faded with the sound of your own name — his voice again, just a room away. “You don’t see her like I do,” he said now. “You came here thinking you’d catch her doing something wrong. But she’s been here trying to make this house warmer while I was out freezing my hands off for photos you’ll never hang up.”

There was a pause, long and heavy.

“You think I don’t want you to be happy, Taeyong?" “I think you want me to be your version of happy.”

You heard a chair scrape. Footsteps. And then his mother’s voice again, lower this time — not sharp anymore, but tired. “You’re still my son. I just don’t want you to regret choosing wrong.” “I won’t,” he said simply. Something in his tone made your chest ache. Because you knew he meant it — not as a defense, but as a quiet promise.

You pressed your back to the wall, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. The heater hummed louder, drowning the rest of their words. And you stood there, somewhere between guilt and gratitude, realizing that the thing he’d wanted most — the simple, messy, together kind of Christmas — was already being tested before it even began.

—------

You didn’t mean to end up in his room. You’d only mean to step away—to breathe, to let the air settle back into your lungs—but somehow, your feet brought you here. The room smelled like him; a mix of pine soap, film developer, and something faintly sweet you couldn’t name. The curtains were still open, the sleet outside catching pale light and scattering it across the floor in soft, broken patterns.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling your knees up and wrapping your arms around them. The heater hummed faintly. Somewhere, a clock ticked. You stared at the camera on his side of the nightstand, the one you’d gifted him last month, and tried not to cry. You heard him before you saw him—soft footsteps, a door clicking shut, the sound of someone exhaling the kind of breath that comes after choosing not to argue anymore.

“Hey,” he said gently.

You looked up. He stood at the doorway for a moment, as if giving you space to run if you needed to. Then he crossed the room in a few quiet steps and knelt down in front of you. His sweater sleeves were still pushed to his elbows, his palms rough from work, his eyes full of that same mixture of apology and devotion you didn’t know what to do with.

“I’m sorry,” he said first. Not defensive, not dramatic—just soft, like a truth that’s been waiting to be spoken.“I’m sorry she said those things. She doesn’t mean half of it—she just doesn’t know you yet.” You shook your head, your voice small. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” His tone stayed steady. “Because you didn’t deserve that. You were just being yourself.” You let out a shaky breath. “She hates me.” He smiled a little, sad and fond all at once. “She doesn’t. She’s… confused. She’s used to thinking I’m still her boy who follows every rule. And then you showed up—”

You frowned. “Like a problem?”

“Like a mirror,” he said. “You tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. She doesn’t know how to deal with that yet.” You looked at him for a long moment, the light catching on the silver ring in his ear, the soft fall of his hair into his eyes. He looked tired, but not defeated. Just… full. Human. Yours. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” you whispered. He smiled again, shaking his head. “You didn’t darling. You just made things real.”

Something about the way he said it broke the last bit of tension in your chest. You reached out before you could stop yourself, fingers brushing against his hair, smoothing it back. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch.

“Hey,” you murmured. “Yeah?” “You’re cold.” “Then warm me up,” he said, a half-laugh in his voice. It made you smile, just a little. He leaned forward until his forehead rested against your knees, breathing you in, grounding himself there for a heartbeat. Then he looked up, eyes meeting yours. “Don’t let her change your mind,” he said quietly. “About us. About Christmas. About staying.” You swallowed, the words catching somewhere between your ribs. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”He cupped your face then, thumb brushing over your cheek, a gesture so gentle it felt like an apology all on its own. You leaned into it without meaning to. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or hungry—it was still.The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything, only offered reassurance: you’re here, I’m here, we’ll be okay.

Outside, the sleet softened back into snow. The world quieted. And for the first time that day, the house didn’t feel divided anymore—it felt like the start of the home he’d promised you.

—---------

It had been four days since she walked into her son's house unannounced.Four days since she found you in his hallway — barefoot, in his clothes. Four days since she let her hurt pride speak before her heart could understand. Yeonja hadn’t apologized. Her son did, for their argument. She hadn’t even considered it, but Jinwoo had. He was standing now in their quiet living room, hands tucked in his cardigan sleeves, watching his wife rearrange already- perfect throw cushions.

“Yeonja,” he said gently. “You need to at least… call him. Not about Christmas. About how you spoke to her.”

She stiffened. “I did not speak. I commented.”

“You attacked,” he corrected softly.

She didn't deny it.

Instead, she smoothed the fabric of the cushion, not because it needed it — but because she needed something to do with her hands. “I’m his mother,” she said finally. “I’m allowed to ask questions about people he lets wear his clothes.” “You didn’t ask questions,” Jinwoo replied, unafraid. “You proded and pocked.”

Silence.

She didn’t look at him. Because she remembered saying that. And worse. She remembered the way Taeyong had stood up for you. How his tone had changed.Not loud, but firm. Not rebellious… but protective. She had left shortly after that — after the argument she had with her son, very rare but it happened all the same.But she had felt it then, something had shifted.

Jinwoo sat beside her, gently. “You are not losing him.” Her throat tightened. Irritated. Vulnerable. “I don’t want to lose him," she said quietly, "but I won’t have my traditions replaced. Not for some girl who doesn’t even understand our family.”

There it was.

The real reason.

Not cruelty, fear.

Jinwoo heard it too. And for the first time, he did not comfort her. He nodded, “You don’t have to approve of her yet,” he said softly. “But you do have to behave with the dignity you expect fromz, your son.”

That landed.

Her eyes watered — not with softness, but with clarity.

She inhaled slowly.

“I can apologize,” she said, voice carefully composed now. “But I want to speak to him first.”

Jinwoo paused. He heard it — the tone.

Apology? Or strategy?

He didn't know. Maybe both.

He handed her his phone anyway.

📞 FACE TIME

Taeyong answered half a ring in. Warm light behind him — dusk filtering through his apartment windows. A soft shadow across his cheek from the window blinds.

He looked… tired. But softer. Jinwoo smiled first. “Working?”

“Kind of,” Taeyong said, turning his laptop slightly — a messy coffee table, open notebooks, photos loaded on editing software. He moved too quickly to hide the screen, but not quickly enough. Because Yeonja saw, she only saw it for half a second.

But it was enough.

It was your face, unposed, unpolished, slightly blurry — you were laughing, hair messy, eyes squinting like the sun had caught you mid-smile. He wasn't editing for work, he was keeping a moment. Yeonja felt her stomach go still. Not angry, just quiet. She folded her hands. Carefully.

“You look well,” she started. Calm. Too calm. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you. About… the other day.” Taeyong's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt. “I may have been…” she paused, choosing her words like chess moves. “Blunt.”

Jinwoo glanced at her. That was the apology?

Taeyong waited.

She inhaled, she softened — just enough to pass as sincere. “I would like to speak to her,” she said. “Properly. Just the two of us.”

Taeyong’s silence was immediate. Heavy. Jinwoo felt it and Yeonja noticed him hesitate — just slightly — before he said:

“…Why?”

There it was. He didn’t trust it and that hurt her more than she expected. Still, she didn’t show it.

“Because,” she said carefully, “if I am going to accept that my son is… invested in someone, I should meet her as myself. Not as a… shocked mother walking into her son's already claimed house.”

Jinwoo blinked. That was—actually good.

Taeyong did not speak.

She added softly, “You defended her, Taeyong. That's not something you do carelessly. I… would like to understand why.” That silence was different. Not stiff, not tense. Just… thoughtful. He exhaled slowly. “She’s important,” he said simply.

He didn’t elaborate, he didn’t need to. Yeonja nodded once. Not smiling, not agreeing. Just… acknowledging. “Then I would like her number,” she said quietly. “To apologize. Properly.”

Taeyong looked at her through the screen — slowly, steadily.

Not suspicious, but careful. Minutely observant. “But not for Christmas plans,” he warned. “Not to change anything. We’ve… already made decisions.” Yeonja’s jaw tightened. Pain flickered — so fast it barely existed.

But she answered evenly,

“No. I won't discuss Christmas. I will only apologize.”

That was the first lie.

Jinwoo felt it. Taeyong felt it, but they both saw something else too. She was trying. Strategically, maybe. Not perfectly, but trying.

Taeyong nodded — slowly.

“I’ll ask her,” he said. “If she’s okay with it… I’ll send it.”

He didn’t promise he would. Only if you agreed.That was new, that was respect.

For you.

Yeonja only nodded, her voice calm. “That’s all I ask.”

But privately, inside?

She thought:

I will be kind. I will be composed. But I will not let her take my place. This is still my Christmas.

And on his end —

As Taeyong ended the call, he paused. Hand hovering over your photo on the editing screen. He sighed. A little anxious, a little hopeful. He whispered into the empty room, "Please don't let this be a mistake."

—---------

You always knew when Taeyong was home before even seeing him.

First, it was the quiet thunk of his camera bag dropped gently — always in the same spot by your shelf of books he pretended to understand but never actually read. Then came the soft rustle of his jacket — hung beside yours on the one hook he’d claimed months ago. Then, his voice — low, warm, not announcing himself, just existing in your space like he had always belonged there. Tonight, you didn't even look up at first. You just said, without turning from the couch, “I smell fries.”

You heard the grin in his voice before you saw it. “And chicken nuggets.”

“And?” “A milkshake.” You turned then, raising an eyebrow, “For me or for you?” He kicked the door closed, smiling. “Who do you think I am?”

You looked at him.

White hoodie. Hair fluffy, underdressed for the cold, hands full of crumpled takeout bags, camera strap hanging off his shoulder because he never remembers to take it off first. His keys— your spare keys — jangling from your entry table because he also doesn’t like to put them away. Comfortable, too comfortable. Your heart warmed. He set the food down on your coffee table — the table he built for you after claiming your old one was “emotionally unstable” — and kicked off his shoes without checking if they ended up straight.

They didn’t, they never did. But you didn’t fix them, not anymore. It had been nearly two years and Taeyong still didn’t technically “live” here — but his sweatshirt rested over your desk chair, his loose film rolls sat in your small porcelain bowl that used to only hold your everyday jewelry, his charger was permanently tangled between the couch cushions, and his cologne- that warm-cedar-and-soft- winter scent —had now become how your home smelled. He sat beside you, thigh pressed to yours, warm, comfortable, familiar. Every Friday, for months now, you shared fast food and movie nights, sometimes with the movie long forgotten in the heat of light touches and grabby hands that held you as if his world ended with you, tangled and quick pulses, sometimes with music instead, sometimes just talking until the fries went cold in their paper bags.

You could feel something was slightly different tonight — not tense, not bad — just sitting quietly between you, waiting. He passed you a nugget box before saying anything. “You look nervous,” you murmured. He had that sheepish look then — the one that always came before he said something important.

“I spoke to my mom today.”

Your fingers paused mid-reach.

There it was, air shifted. He watched your face — not anxiously, but gently, like he knew this was delicate. You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Oh.”

He reached for your other hand, the soft squeeze grounding, “Hey— don’t do that thing where you shut down first before I even get to explain.” You breathed out slowly, you didn’t mean to do that. You didn’t mean to brace yourself, but you had. You nodded, quietly.

“Okay. Tell me.”

He hesitated — choosing his words, not because he was afraid, but because he cared. “She wants to apologize,” Taeyong said softly. “Properly. To you. She said she didn’t like how the first meeting happened.” You looked away then, not because you didn’t believe him — but because you wanted to.

“She doesn’t… like me,” you said quietly. “Not what I wore or how I looked or… how comfortable I seemed in your space.” “She was overwhelmed,” he murmured. “She didn’t expect… us. She didn’t expect you.” You pressed your lips together. “She practically said I was undeserving of her son.” He flinched, almost imperceptibly.

“I know,” he admitted. “And she was wrong.”

Silence then — not heavy, not angry — just honest. He lifted your chin so you would look at him. “You don’t have to forgive her. You don’t even have to like her. But if you're willing…” He paused. His eyes softened. “She wants your number.” Your heart dropped a little. “And you think I should give it to her?”

“No,” he said immediately. “I think you get to decide.” You looked at him — really looked. At the familiarity of him in your space. His warmth on your couch cushions. The framed photo of both of you — him holding you mid-laugh — that he took himself and you let him print and hang on your own wall. The little succulent he bought for your windowsill, claiming it "looks lonely."

You thought about Christmas.

About his mother. About love, and how it sometimes meant opening doors even when you weren’t sure what stood behind them. “I don’t think she likes me,” you admitted softly. “I don’t think she understands you,” he corrected gently. “And I think you scare her a little, because I’ve never defended anyone to her before.”

You blinked.Quiet, still. “I defended you,” he said simply. “Before I even knew I was doing it.” Something in your chest softened. Slowly, quietly. You reached for a fry, more to buy time than hunger. Then you nodded — not forced, not pretending — just honest.

“Okay,” you said softly. “She can have my number.” Taeyong breathed out—relief, gratitude, something warm. You squeezed his hand once.

“But if she humiliates me again,” you added gently, “I’m switching off my phone through Christmas.” He laughed softly — not at you, but with warmth, understanding.

“Fair.”

He shifted a little closer, his voice lower now. “You’re still staying with me through Christmas, right?” Your heartbeat picked up. “I’ll stay,” you whispered. “If you keep the fries warm, and the blanket ready.”

He grinned.Then leaned in, soft kiss. Slow. Quiet. No rush, just the kind that made time move gently. You let it linger — face warm, heart calmer. When you pulled away, he handed you the milkshake.

“You’ll see,” he murmured, confident, hopeful. “It’s going to be okay.”

—---------

It happens on a Wednesday.

It’s nearly 11:00 AM—your busiest time, right when everything is constantly ringing, moving, needing approval, signatures, revisions, decisions, you. The soft tapping of keyboards. The occasional polite laugh. The low murmur of emails being rewritten three times before sending. A place where things were controlled, curated, appropriate.

Until a woman in a cream overcoat walked straight through the glass lobby like she’d been invited.

She hadn’t.

You were leading the weekly presentation when you saw her — through the glass partition — standing too comfortably in your world. Her posture regal, chin lifted, refined in a way that made the office suddenly seem small. Less like a workplace. More like a waiting room. It took your brain two long, clicking seconds to realize—

Yeonja.

Here. Not a call, not a message. Not a warning. Just a mother entering the battlefield her son didn’t know existed. She didn’t look at you first, she looked at everything around. One of your colleagues stands to greet her automatically, mistaking her for a client. She smiles sweetly, politely.

“Hello. I’m—just here to see someone.”

Her gaze finds you. Your coworkers glance at you, curious. Some glance at her designer watch, her perfect earrings, her polished posture—and then back at you.

Comparing.

She waited until she had an audience. Then she smiled — perfectly, flawlessly, like this was a scheduled inspection.

“I’m here to see…” Pause. Delicate. Destructive. “…my son’s friend.”

Not girlfriend. Not partner.

Friend.

You felt your coworkers glance back at you. You felt your blood react before your mind did. You stepped forward, masking shock with a brittle professional smile.

“Mrs. Lee. You’re—here.”

She looked at you with the pleasant politeness of someone meeting a bank teller.

“I was in the area,” she said, even though your office was on the other side of the city from where you knew her son lived. You motioned toward the hallway. “Would you like to talk somewhere private?”

But this—this was not a woman seeking privacy. This was a woman seeking witnesses.

“Oh no,” she assured, smiling sweetly. “This won’t take long.”

And then she looked at your colleagues — openly. As if to say: Stay. Watch. Learn. A few lingered in doorways, pretending to check printers, pretending to send faxes. She took a slow, assessing look at your workspace — the small plant, the photo strip of you and Taeyong pinned half-hidden beneath a calendar, the mug with his handwriting. Her gaze stopped there. You saw her notice it. You saw her file it away. She didn’t comment, she didn’t need to. Instead, she said something worse.

“I heard your Christmas plans changed,” she said, voice sweet as tea left too long in the cup. “Taeyong won’t be coming home. He must be very… occupied.”

She smiled.

Your coworkers stilled, you felt heat crawl up your neck.

“He wanted to spend it here this year,” you replied lightly, carefully. “With—”

You hesitated. Not with me, not in front of her. She watched you flounder. Gently. Almost kindly.

“That’s very generous of you,” she said, faux thoughtful. “Taking care of him like that. City life must be… different. Not everyone is used to it.”

It slipped under your skin like a needle. She wasn’t insulting you, she was classifying you. Too urban. Not elegant, not his home. You wished she had just been rude, you could have defended yourself against rude. One of your coworkers — Hannah — stepped forward, trying to be helpful, offering tea.

And Yeonja, in that silk-dipped voice, said:

“Oh, thank you, dear. But I don’t want to keep her from her work. I’m sure this job is very important to her.”

The room held its breath. Not him, not their relationship.Not their future.

This job.

You felt something silent snap. She turned to you once, gently, almost softly. “You have my number now,” she said. “Call me. I’d… like to get to know you.”

But her eyes were steel. Your coworkers watched her leave like someone had just turned off the central heating. The silence after her footsteps faded was too loud.

Then, a whisper.

“She called herself his mother but called you his… friend?”

You swallowed.

That was the moment, that was the crack.

And it didn’t break yet. But it started.

—----------

Your apartment feels different tonight.

Not because of the dimmed lamps or the smell of soy–ginger glaze from the stir-fry you made. Not because there's jazz humming from your kitchen speaker or because Taeyong is standing in your kitchen in his socks, washing dishes like he lives here. It feels different because every detail in this space already has traces of him— His notebook on your coffee table. His sweater folded over your reading chair. The spare camera batteries he carelessly left in your fruit bowl. A mug from his favorite café sitting next to your espresso machine.

He belongs here. And that scares you more than anything his mother could say. You pick at your food, untouched for the past fifteen minutes— your appetite lost somewhere between embarrassment, anger, and the ache of feeling misunderstood. Taeyong glances over his shoulder from the sink, eyebrows lifting. “You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs. You don’t answer. He finishes rinsing the dishes and comes to sit across from you—but pauses—then drags his chair to your side instead.

You feel his knee brush yours lightly.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he says gently. “Work was rough?”

You almost laugh.

Work wasn't rough. Being ambushed at work by his elegant, polite, deliberately composed mother… that was rough. You don’t tell him that she showed up without warning. That she smiled at your colleagues so gracefully while subtly tearing apart your character— Not your wealth, not your accomplishments, not your status. No—she didn't care about those.

She questioned your values. Your influence, your place in her son’s life. But you don't tell him.

Instead—

You swallow and ask, cautiously casual:

“How did your mom know where I work?” He pauses—startled. “She didn’t… tell you she was coming?”

You shake your head.

His jaw tightens. “I gave her your number because you said you were willing to talk to her. I thought—” He exhales, “I thought that meant you were comfortable with it. I didn’t think she would just—show up.”

His guilt is real. But your silence is heavier.

“I mean,” he continues carefully, “She knows your family. Everyone knows your family. It wouldn’t have been difficult to find your office. I just didn’t think she'd go without asking.”

He's not wrong. Your name carries that kind of reach—Not because you flaunt it, but because you’ve spent your whole life trying not to. And maybe that’s what hurts most. You don’t fear losing status. You don’t fear being seen as “beneath” someone. You fear being seen as insincere. As someone who could love him for the wrong reasons.