#junwritten

you wake up before the sun does.

for a moment, the room is still caught in that hush before daylight—dim and blue-toned, with shadows soft enough to pretend they don’t belong to anything real. the kind of quiet where time feels suspended, like you could live inside this exact moment forever and no one would notice.

kai is still asleep beside you.

his breath is slow, even, the way it always is when he’s actually resting. his face is turned slightly toward yours, lashes fluttering just a little against his cheek. a strand of hair falls across his forehead, and you’re tempted to brush it back, but you don’t.

you barely breathe.

he’s always been beautiful. that much, you’ve known. but this—this version of him, draped in your shared blanket, one hand resting near yours like he was reaching out in his sleep—is something else entirely. something soft and quiet and aching.

you didn’t mean to fall in love with your best friend.

it wasn’t a plan. it wasn’t supposed to happen. but now it’s three in the morning, and you’re lying beside him in a tangle of warmth and cotton, and all you can think about is the fact that he’s right here. inches away. close enough to kiss.

your chest tightens at the thought.

you blink slowly, gaze flickering from the curve of his mouth to the slope of his nose. his lips are parted just slightly, and it would be so easy—so impossibly easy—to lean in. just a little. just enough.

you hesitate.

just a centimeter away, heart thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to break free. your lips hover, close enough to feel the faint warmth of his breath. one inch. maybe less. your fingers curl in the sheets.

what if he wakes up?

what if he doesn’t want it?

what if this ruins everything?

you swallow hard. your nose is almost brushing his. you could close the distance right now.

and then—his eyes open.

not slowly. not in confusion. not with a flinch.

he opens them calmly, as if he’s been awake this whole time. as if he was waiting for you to lean in.

his voice is low and still touched with sleep, but there’s amusement there too. warmth. maybe something else you don’t dare name.

“well if you won’t do it,” he says, one corner of his mouth twitching upward, “i will.”

you freeze.

his hand lifts, slow and unhurried, fingers brushing your jaw. he leans in just enough to tilt his forehead against yours, eyes still locked on yours.

your voice barely comes out. “kai…”

his thumb moves along your cheek, featherlight. “you thought i was asleep.”

“you—you were.”

“i wasn’t.” he smiles wider. “not once you started staring at me like you were in a romance drama.”

you let out a strangled noise and bury your face in the pillow, mortified. “oh my god.”

kai laughs softly, the sound muffled by proximity, and tugs the blanket further up around you both.

“you’re lucky i like you,” he says, voice teasing but thick with something more honest underneath.

“you’re insufferable,” you grumble, refusing to look at him.

“and yet… you were about to kiss me.”

“i was not!”

“you were literally hovering over my face.”

“i—” you start, but there’s no defense. “i hate you.”

“mm,” he hums, brushing your hair back gently. “feels like love to me.”

your heart stutters.

he says it so simply. like it’s always been true. like it is true.

you lift your head just enough to meet his eyes again. they’re warm. steady. kind.

you whisper, “you weren’t supposed to know.”

kai’s smile softens. “but i do."

his fingers trace your jaw again, slower this time, almost like he’s memorizing it.

“and for the record,” he adds, “i’ve wanted to kiss you for a while.”

your lips part slightly.

“so if you still want to,” he says, tilting his head just enough to close the gap, “you don’t have to hesitate.”

you don’t.

you lean in that last inch, just barely, and it’s him who meets you halfway, soft and slow and impossibly careful. his lips taste like sleep and warmth and a thousand unsaid things.

the kiss is quiet. short. but it feels like the beginning of something infinite.

when you pull back, his eyes are still closed for a second too long, like he doesn’t want to let the moment go.

“was that okay?” you ask, voice small.

kai opens his eyes again, gaze lazy and full of something so unguarded it makes your throat ache.

“perfect,” he whispers. “but next time, don’t make me do all the work.”

you laugh, breathless.

“okay,” you murmur, settling back into the pillow beside him. “next time, i’ll wake you with a kiss.”

“good.” he tugs you in closer. “because now i’m expecting it.”

you wake up to violence.

not actual violence. but close enough.

there’s a high-pitched BEEP BEEP BEEP piercing through the apartment like a personal attack, and your eyes fly open, face buried in your pillow as the sound stabs through your half-conscious brain.

you groan. loudly. dramatically. like someone who just got personally betrayed by their own kitchen appliances.

you’re already squinting at the bedroom door when it happens again.

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

the microwave. it’s the goddamn microwave.

which can only mean one thing.

you drag yourself out of bed, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cape of vengeance, and shuffle into the hallway like a cryptid on a mission.

the kitchen lights are on. so is taehyun. standing there like he didn’t just commit a war crime against your sleep schedule. shirtless. smug. holding a bowl of popcorn.

“you woke me up,” you say, your voice still half-asleep, rough with betrayal.

he looks at you like a deer caught in headlights. except not scared. more like slightly amused. and way too cute for someone who’s just caused irreparable emotional damage.

“you’re so dramatic,” he says, popping a kernel into his mouth.

“the microwave beeped four times.”

“i didn’t know it was gonna be that loud.”

“you’ve lived here for two years. it’s always that loud.”

he shrugs. “i was hungry.”

“you could’ve died.”

he snorts.

you’re still blinking blearily at him, blanket trailing behind you, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes puffy. and taehyun has the nerve—the absolute nerve—to look endeared.

“you look cute when you’re pissed,” he says, clearly not fearing for his life nearly enough.

you scowl. “i hope your popcorn burns.”

“too late,” he says, shaking the bowl a little. “perfectly popped. no casualties.”

you glare at the microwave like you could explode it with your mind. then you turn on your heel and stomp (okay, shuffle grumpily) back to the bedroom.

he follows you a moment later.

“you’re not gonna eat any?”

“i’m not talking to you.”

“you’re literally talking to me right now.”

“that was my last sentence.”

“cool. guess i’ll talk instead.”

he flops down beside you on the bed, bowl still in hand, clearly having the time of his life while you sulk under the covers like the wronged party you are.

you peek out just enough to shoot him a dirty look. “you ruined my dream.”

“was it the one where i was proposing in a grocery store with a ring pop again?”

“…no.”

“it was.”

you grunt. he grins. tosses a piece of popcorn in the air and catches it in his mouth like a showoff.

you hate him. a little. kind of. not really.

“taehyun.”

“mm?”

“i hope the popcorn sticks to your teeth forever.”

he gasps. “you take that back.”

“never.”

there’s a pause. he stares at you for a second. then he leans over and presses a kiss to your forehead, unbothered by your frown.

“you’re really cute when you’re mad,” he murmurs against your skin

you try not to melt.

fail miserably.

“you owe me,” you mumble, voice muffled by the blanket. “for destroying my sleep.”

“what do you want? i’ll pay in snacks or cuddles.”

you pause. peek one eye out from under the comforter. “…both.”

“deal.”

he sets the popcorn down on the nightstand, brushes crumbs off his fingers, and climbs under the blankets like he’s done it a hundred times before—because he has. and even though you’re still technically mad, your body finds his warmth without thinking.

he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his chest. you let him. maybe even nuzzle a little.

“still grumpy?” he asks, mouth close to your ear.

“a little.”

he kisses your temple. “i’ll microwave it quieter next time.”

“there shouldn’t be a next time,” you grumble, but he just smiles. smug. cozy. like he knows you’ll forgive him every time.

it starts with a stupid movie.

“it’s not even scary,” you scoff, curling your legs up onto the couch as a bloodied hand bursts through the screen in a flash of cheap cgi. yeonjun snorts beside you, arm draped casually across the backrest, fingers tapping lightly against the cushion near your shoulder.

“you literally jumped like five times already,” he teases.

“i did not.”

he just smiles—one of those annoying, knowing ones—and you nudge his knee with your own to hide the way your heart stutters. the room is dark, the only light from the tv flickering across his face, casting soft shadows that make everything feel a little too intimate. too close.

you tell yourself it’s fine. friends can sit close. friends can make fun of each other. friends can pretend that their stomach doesn’t twist when he yawns and his shirt rides up just enough to show skin.

you don’t realize until later how fast everything quiets down once the movie ends. how cold it suddenly feels without his laughter filling the space.

⸻

you lie awake for an hour. then two.

every time you close your eyes, the sharp snap of bones or the ghostly whispers from the movie seem to echo in your head. stupid. it was just a movie. but the silence feels suffocating, and the shadows on your ceiling twist into shapes that make your pulse race.

you try breathing exercises. music. reading a fanfic that’s supposed to lull you to sleep—but none of it works.

your phone screen glows when you check the time. 3:12 a.m.

your finger hovers over yeonjun’s name in your messages.

you shouldn’t. it’s late. it’s just a movie. but your chest is tight and you feel like if you stay alone in this silence for one more second, you’ll shatter.

before you can talk yourself out of it, you type:

“you up?”

he replies in less than a minute.

“yeah. what’s wrong?”

you hesitate.

then:

“can’t sleep.”

“movie’s messing with my head. sorry.”

his response is almost immediate again:

“want me to come over?”

your breath catches.

“yes. please.”

⸻

ten minutes later, there’s a soft knock on your door.

you open it to see him in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair a mess, eyes warm. like this isn’t strange at all. like coming over at 3 a.m. because you can’t sleep is just… normal.

you step aside, and he walks in without saying anything. he doesn’t have to. his presence already feels like relief.

“didn’t think it’d get to you that bad,” he says lightly, dropping his bag near the foot of your bed. you shrug, arms wrapped around yourself.

“it’s dumb. i know.”

“not dumb,” he says, gently. “your brain just works overtime sometimes.”

“like you know my brain.”

“i know you.”

you glance away, heart lurching.

he notices. of course he does.

“y/n,” he says, softer now. “hey. it’s okay. you wanna talk about it?”

you shake your head. “just… stay?”

he nods without hesitation. “always.”

⸻

you crawl under the covers first. he hesitates only a second before joining you, sliding in beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like you haven’t been friends for years without ever crossing this line.

his warmth bleeds into your side instantly.

for a while, there’s nothing but the sound of his breathing and the soft rustle of sheets. and you think maybe that’s enough.

but you still can’t sleep. your body’s tense. your heart’s racing. your brain keeps whispering: this isn’t real. he doesn’t feel what you feel. don’t get used to this.

you try to stay still, but he shifts beside you.

“you’re not asleep,” he murmurs.

“how do you know?”

“you’re holding your breath.”

you exhale shakily. “…sorry."

“don’t apologize.”

his hand moves under the blanket, reaching for yours. his fingers brush your knuckles, then gently thread through yours. the touch is warm. grounding.

“do you want to talk about what’s really bothering you?” he asks.

you’re quiet for a moment. then you whisper:

“i hate feeling weak.”

he’s silent.

“i know it’s just a movie. i know it’s not real. but tonight, i can’t make it shut off. and it makes me feel… broken.”

yeonjun turns on his side to face you. his hand tightens around yours.

“you’re not broken,” he says, firm. “you feel things deeply. that’s not weakness. that’s strength.”

you blink hard. your throat aches.

“you always say the right thing.”

“only because i mean it."

you meet his eyes—and it’s like the air shifts. there’s something raw there, something you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist for far too long.

you open your mouth. close it. open it again.

“do you ever…” you trail off, unsure. “do you ever wish we were more?”

he breathes in, sharp.

“every night,” he says.

you freeze.

he reaches up slowly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. his hand lingers near your jaw.

“but i didn’t want to lose what we had. i didn’t want to risk you pulling away.”

“i never would,” you whisper.

“then let me hold you.”

he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like you’re something fragile and beloved. like you’re the only thing that matters in the world.

you press your face into his hoodie and finally let yourself breathe.

his voice is low, murmured into your hair.

“i’ve got you. nothing’s gonna hurt you while i’m here.”

you believe him.

the movie had long since ended, the credits rolling in silence across the tv screen, but neither of you moved. the popcorn bowl was empty, a half-finished blanket fort sagged slightly to your right, and beomgyu’s head rested lazily in your lap like it belonged there.

“you’re staring,” he said, eyes closed, a tiny smile twitching at his lips.

“am not,” you muttered, brushing a crumb from his cheek.

“are too,” he teased, eyes fluttering open just enough to catch your flustered expression. “don’t fall in love with me now, we’ve only built one blanket fort.”

you rolled your eyes, but your fingers didn’t stop carding through his hair. “you’re ridiculous.”

he grinned, full and bright, then reached up lazily to poke at your cheek. “you’re smiling.”

“because you’re annoying.”

“because you love me.”

you froze for half a second, just long enough for his smile to falter—barely.

but you played it cool, flicking his forehead gently. “you talk too much.”

“and you blush too easily,” he countered, voice softer now, gaze lingering. “you know… if this were a drama, this is the part where we kiss.”

“good thing it’s not,” you whispered, heartbeat loud in your ears.

“shame,” he murmured, settling back into your lap with a smirk. “guess i’ll just wait for season two.”

you laughed despite yourself, and he smiled like he’d just won something.

it’s raining harder than it was five minutes ago, and your jacket does nothing to help.

the city always looks a little lonelier when it rains. the streets feel quieter, like everyone’s hidden away inside cafes or under the safety of covered bus stops, and you’re the only one left braving the storm. you’d stepped out of the café too late, umbrella forgotten at home, and now you’re pressed against a damp wall beneath a half-broken awning, clutching your phone with fingers starting to shake from the cold.

you didn’t call him. not really. you just texted “it’s raining lol i’m gonna die here”, half-joking, fully resigned.

and yet, twenty minutes later, there he is—yunho, walking through the curtain of rain with a black umbrella tilted against the wind and a quiet determination written across his face.

he doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you like he’s checking for damage, then reaches out and covers you with the umbrella before you can say a word. his sweatshirt sleeves are wet at the wrists. the edge of his hair is damp from where the umbrella didn’t quite reach. he must’ve walked the whole way like that.

you want to say something sarcastic—heroic much?—but it dies on your tongue. instead, all you can manage is, “you didn’t have to come.”

“yeah,” he says, without looking at you. “but i wanted to.”

his voice is steady, like it’s a fact, not a kindness.

you fall into step beside him without asking where you’re going, both of you wordless for a moment. the umbrella’s just wide enough for the two of you, but only if you walk close—closer than usual. your arms brush every other step. at one point, your fingers graze by accident, and you don’t move away. neither does he.

your building’s a few blocks away, but the walk feels shorter with him next to you. or maybe time just slows down around yunho—softens in a way you’ve never figured out how to explain. he always brings quiet with him. not the kind that stifles, but the kind that wraps around you gently, letting you breathe.

you glance up at him as the rain patters around you. “you always do that.”

he blinks, turns his head. “do what?”

“show up.”

he’s quiet for a second, thoughtful. then he gives a small smile, the kind that makes something twist in your chest.

“you always need saving,” he says.

your eyebrows lift. “wow.”

“not in a bad way,” he adds quickly, laughing under his breath. “just… i don’t know. you always pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”

you look away, focusing on the way your shoes splash slightly in the puddles, the soft rhythm of it.

“i don’t like asking for help,” you admit, voice low.

“i know,” he says. “that’s why i don’t wait for you to ask.”

you’re silent again, but this time, it’s full of warmth. you think about how many times he’s done this—showed up with food when you skipped dinner, walked you home after night classes, stood outside your door at midnight with cookies and that boyish grin like i didn’t know what else to do, so i brought sugar.

by the time you reach your apartment building, your clothes are still damp, but you don’t feel cold anymore.

you stop at the front steps. yunho lowers the umbrella slightly but doesn’t move away, doesn’t let the space between you widen.

the rain softens around you, the city muffled and distant.

you look up at him. “do you wanna come in?”

he doesn’t hesitate. “if you’re okay with it.”

you nod, unlocking the door.

once inside, the warm air hits you, and you both take a breath. yunho toes off his soaked sneakers by the door while you peel off your jacket and toss it over a chair. you expect him to follow you into the living room, but instead, he moves toward the kitchen with the familiarity of someone who’s done this before—who belongs.

he pulls out two mugs and starts boiling water. you lean against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching him.

he doesn’t ask where things are. he already knows.

“you want the chamomile or the mint?” he asks, without turning.

“mint,” you say, voice soft. “always.”

he smiles to himself, and there’s something about that smile that makes your throat go tight. not in a painful way. just in that i-could-fall-in-love-with-you-and-i-think-i-already-did kind of way.

he hands you the tea when it’s ready, steam curling into the air between you. you take it from him, fingers brushing again.

you don’t pull away.

he notices, but he doesn’t comment.

instead, he reaches forward and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your temple for a beat longer than necessary.

you freeze—not because you’re scared, but because this feels different.

quieter. closer.

“you’re warm now?” he asks.

you nod. “yeah.”

he looks like he wants to say something else. something bigger. but instead, he just offers a small, almost shy smile and steps back.

“good,” he murmurs.

and that’s it.

no declarations. no confessions. just the soft glow of the kitchen light reflecting off your mug and the sound of rain still falling against your windows.

but something’s shifted.

and you both feel it.

you don’t really mean to fall in love with choi yeonjun.

it just kind of… happens.

it starts in your elective media studies class, where he shows up with fluffy hair, chapstick shimmer on the edge of his cup, and opinions on blogging that make the whole room sit up straighter. you don’t talk to him for the first two weeks. you just write about him.

because, well—your professor made you start a blog. and not just a pretend blog—a real one, with actual weekly entries about digital culture, personal reflections, media consumption, blah blah. most of your classmates do the bare minimum.

but you? you write essays about yeonjun.

not directly, obviously. that would be unhinged. you just refer to him vaguely as “the boy with the soft laugh who sits by the window.” and “gloss boy,” once, which is embarrassing in retrospect.

you write about how he talks with his hands, like he’s painting ideas in midair. how he doodles on the sides of his notes. how he reads blog posts out loud with this half-laugh in his voice, like everything is secretly funny to him.

so when he turns to you one day and goes, “hey, wanna get coffee and study sometime?” you nearly choke on your own breath.

but somehow you say yes. and even more miraculously, it turns into a habit.

starbucks becomes your thing.

you get the same drinks each time—he orders some ridiculous iced monstrosity with extra whipped cream and strawberry drizzle, and you get a boring latte and steal sips from his cup when he offers. he always offers. you always pretend not to want it and then take it anyway.

you work together, side by side, laptops open, headphones half-on. he makes you laugh more than you probably should during a study session. you keep writing blog entries about him, even though your class only requires one a week and you’re way past the limit.

and okay. maybe you’re delusional. but sometimes it feels like he’s writing about you too. not in blog posts—you’ve never seen his, he’s secretive about it—but in the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention. in the way he saves the seat next to him with his jacket. in the way he texts you at midnight like, “send me a pic of your notes i zoned out thinking about waffles.”

you’re so down bad it’s painful.

today’s no different.

he’s waiting for you at the usual table when you arrive, spinning his iced drink between his hands, eyes lighting up when he sees you.

“you’re late,” he says with a grin.

“you’re early,” you shoot back, sliding into the chair across from him.

your laptop’s heavy in your bag, your brain foggy from too many late nights, but something about being here—being next to him—makes everything feel easier. he always does.

you sip your drink, scroll through your notes, make it exactly fifteen minutes before he distracts you again.

“hey,” he says suddenly, glancing at his phone. “soobin just texted. he’s having people over. wanna come?”

you blink. “oh, i thought you were just heading over to his place.”

“yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “but aren’t you coming?”

you pause, caught off guard. you were fully prepared to say goodbye, to sit here alone with your homework and your unspoken feelings.

“well…” you start.

but before you can finish, he’s looking at you with that stupid, goofy smile. the one he only ever really gives to you. and he says, with zero hesitation and all the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely knows what he’s doing.

“i’d be lost without my blogger.”

you freeze.

your heart skips three beats. maybe four. your brain explodes.

“you—” you choke out. “what?”

he just sips his drink, unbothered. smug. “what?” he echoes, voice light.

“you know about my blog?” you hiss, leaning across the table like it’s a secret government mission. “how do you—”

“you write like you think no one’s ever gonna read it,” he says, all soft and honest, like he hasn’t just upended your entire existence. “but i read it. every post.”

you are going to die right here in this starbucks.

“you’re the reason i passed that midterm,” he adds. “your notes? immaculate. your media takes? unhinged but smart. your entries about ‘the boy with the soft laugh’?” he wiggles his eyebrows. “flattering.”

you cover your face with both hands. “oh my god.”

he laughs—actual, full-body laughs—and reaches out like he’s going to tug your hands away, then thinks better of it and just lightly taps your wrist.

“you’re a good writer,” he says. “and a terrible liar.”

you peek through your fingers. “how long have you known?”

“first week,” he says. “you posted about my ‘strawberry crime against coffee.’ i put two and two together.”

“why didn’t you say anything?”

“i dunno,” he shrugs. “i liked being your secret muse.”

you groan. “yeonjun.”

he tilts his head. “what?”

you lower your hands, exhale, and look at him—really look at him

he’s so annoyingly pretty. he’s so bright, and funny, and stupidly clever, and he’s looking at you like you’re something worth reading twice.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter.

“oh?” he says, smirking. “so you do think i’m cute.”

you shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “are we going to soobin’s or not?”

“only if you sit next to me the whole time,” he says. “i need my blogger.”

“you’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“not a chance.”

you pack up your stuff together, sipping from the same drink, your shoulders brushing as you walk out into the golden haze of late afternoon.

it’s a little ridiculous. a little romantic. painfully soft.

you don’t know what’s going to happen next. you don’t know if this means anything real, or if he’s just teasing, or if you’re dreaming this whole thing up and you’ll wake up in your dorm bed with a dead phone and a missed alarm.

but then he slips his hand into yours without saying a word.

and you think maybe—just maybe—you’re not the only one who’s been writing love letters between the lines.

later that night, when he falls asleep halfway through a movie at soobin’s, curled into your side with his head on your shoulder, you take a picture of him and post it to your blog with no caption.

the next morning, he reblogs it from his burner account.

the tags say:

#i’d be lost without her

#yes this is about me

#no i’m not embarrassed

and you just sit there smiling at your phone like an idiot, typing one final entry for the class.

“there’s a boy i wrote about once. i thought he’d never know. i thought if he did, it would ruin everything. but it didn’t. it made everything better. it made everything real.”

you hit post.

and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re writing for a grade.

you feel like you’re writing for the boy who sees you.

the one who reads between the lines.

and honestly?

it always started like this.

soobin’s apartment. a movie you wouldn’t finish. a blanket that was somehow always too small for the both of you. and him, lying far too close but never close enough.

tonight, it was “your name,” and the screen flickered with bright light and quiet dialogue. neither of you were watching it anymore.

your head was resting against the armrest, legs stretched across soobin’s lap, the blanket bunched around your knees. he was slouched low on the other side of the couch, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands like always, fingers loosely curled around the remote he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes.

“you’re quiet tonight,” he said.

you blinked, slowly turning your gaze toward him. his eyes were soft. not sleepy—just studying you the way he did when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

“just tired,” you murmured.

he tilted his head. “tired tired or… heavy tired?”

your lips twitched into a half-smile. he always knew how to ask. always knew how to read the pauses between your words, like he kept a dictionary just for you.

“a little heavy,” you admitted.

he nodded. didn’t press. didn’t offer advice or force a distraction. he just held out his arm, lifting the edge of the blanket.

you stared at him. “what are you doing?”

“being supportive,” he said simply.

“you’re offering me a cuddle like it’s a prescription.”

“and what if i am?”

you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t resist when he gently pulled you toward him. your legs shifted, knees tucking under your body as you curled into his side. his arm settled around your shoulders, warm and steady, and your head found its place against his chest like it had always belonged there.

“you smell like laundry detergent,” you mumbled.

“thank you,” he said. “it’s the scent of masculinity.”

you snorted.

he didn’t laugh—just smiled, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

you felt his heart beating, even and unbothered, and it made your own ache a little.

you’d been doing this—whatever this was—for months now. brushing fingertips in grocery store aisles. calling each other past midnight just to say nothing. sharing meals, sharing silence, sharing time. sometimes you wondered if he even knew. if he felt the way you did.

you tilted your chin up slightly to look at him. “can i ask you something?”

he blinked, startled, but nodded. “yeah. anything.”

you hesitated. “do you think we’re… weird?”

he raised an eyebrow. “weird how?”

“just—” you shrugged, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. “we do all this stuff that people usually only do when they’re, like, together. dating. doesn’t it ever feel weird to you?”

he didn’t answer at first. just looked at you, lips parted slightly, like he was thinking.

then he said, “i don’t think it’s weird. i think it’s us.”

you swallowed. “us?”

he sat up a little, shifting to face you properly. “can i tell you something?”

your heart skipped. “please."

he took a breath. “i think i’ve been in love with you for a really long time.”

the room went still.

your body froze—thoughts too loud, heartbeat too fast. you stared at him like the words hadn’t landed yet, like they were still hanging in the air between you.

“what?” you said softly.

his voice didn’t shake. “i’m in love with you.”

you stared.

he looked scared, but not the kind of scared that wanted to run. the kind of scared that hoped. the kind that waited.

you licked your lips. “why didn’t you tell me?”

he exhaled. “because this… whatever we have… it’s the best part of my life. and i didn’t want to risk losing you if you didn’t feel the same.”

you blinked back something suspiciously close to tears.

“soobin,” you whispered, he reached out, fingers brushing your wrist gently. “it’s okay if you don’t. i just couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”

you shook your head. “you idiot.”

his brows furrowed. “what?”

“i’ve been in love with you since the day you gave me your last strawberry candy in the rain.”

he laughed. stunned, quiet, a little shaky. “are you serious?”

“dead serious.”

and then—finally—you leaned in.

your nose bumped his, soft and tentative, and your lips met his in a kiss that was barely there. slow. patient. almost reverent.

his hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

when you pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together.

“so…” you said, smiling.

“so,” he echoed.

“what now?”

“we watch the rest of this movie,” he said seriously, “and then i walk around all day tomorrow bragging about having the prettiest girlfriend in the world.”

you rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “we haven’t even gone on a real date yet.”

“okay,” he said, already grinning. “then tomorrow we go on the dumbest, most disgustingly romantic date ever. and then i brag.”

you laughed against him, the weight in your chest finally gone. you kissed him again—quicker this time, easier.

“deal.”

he squeezed your hand beneath the blanket. “good.”

you stayed like that, curled into each other, the movie long forgotten. the city outside went quiet, and the glow from the screen softened everything.

you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arm around your waist, feeling, for the first time in forever, like nothing was missing.

because nothing was.

he was already yours.

⸻

the fight starts small.

a careless word. a look too cold. a silence too long.

but yunho doesn’t back down tonight. and you — you’re too tired to keep swallowing your hurt.

“you always do this,” you mutter, arms crossed, heart bruising beneath your ribs. “you shut down. you pretend like nothing’s wrong.”

he exhales, sharp. frustrated. “and you always make it worse.”

your stomach turns. “wow. okay.”

“you twist everything i say, y/n. every single time. i can’t even breathe without you thinking it means something else.”

you flinch. not because he’s loud. but because this version of him is unfamiliar — cold where he used to be warm, distant where he used to reach for you.

“i wouldn’t have to twist anything if you were honest,” you snap. “if you actually told me how you feel instead of shutting me out the second things get hard.”

“things are always hard with you.”

the silence after that feels like a punch.

he sees it. the way you stiffen. the way your eyes flicker, just for a second, like something cracked open.

you swallow it down. the sting. the shake. you always do.

“fuck you, yunho,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “that’s not fair.”

“none of this is fair,” he fires back. “do you think this is easy for me? being with someone who keeps expecting me to fail them?”

“i don’t expect you to fail me,” you say, lower now, hurt bleeding through. “i just stopped expecting you to show up.”

his expression falters. for a second, you almost see the boy you love. almost.

but he looks away. again. always.

“i’m tired,” he says.

“so leave,” you breathe. “that’s what you’re good at.”

you expect him to protest. to fight back. to tell you he’s not going anywhere.

he doesn’t.

he turns. walks toward the door.

your breath catches. not again. not like this.

“don’t you dare walk away from me,” you call out, voice breaking. “not again.”

he pauses. hand on the knob.

your voice cracks in the hollow space between you.

“you don’t get to walk away this time.”

he turns, eyes rimmed red, but unreadable.

“you already left, y/n. long before i did.”

the door shuts behind him

and all you can do is stand there. chest open. hands shaking. grief spilling from a place that still wanted to be loved.

you don’t cry.

you’ve done that before.

this time, you just stand in the wreckage.

quiet.

empty.