#lovetoloveseries

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.

The name freezes Yuta’s breath. His heart lurches as he presses the phone to his ear, still blinking sleep out of his eyes.

“Hello?” His voice comes out scratchy.

“Yuta?” His father’s voice is steady, familiar, and it slices right through the haze. “You’re awake, right?”

“Uh—yeah. I am.” He sits up straighter, panic prickling his skin.

Beside him, Minho groans again, he exhales through his nose, rolling onto his side with a frustrated tug of the blanket. “Don’t be loud,” he mutters, the edge in his tone slicing through Yuta sharper than the call itself.

Yuta catches the movement, the set of his jaw. And guilt digs deep, because Minho has been here, night after night, tangled in his sheets, in his life—and his family doesn’t know.

The ache of it squeezes his ribs.

And then the memories rush to him, unbidden —warm and sharp all at once. Cardboard boxes blocking their doorway the day they moved in together, moving boxes up five endless flights of stairs, him laughing at the way Minho's hoodie kept sliding off his shoulder until Minho snapped and tied it around his waist, cheeks burning.

Minho laughing at Yuta's terrible folding technique, and Yuta swearing he didn’t care because the sound of laughter between them filled him fuller than food ever could.

Pizza on the floor that first night, eaten cross legged on the floor, the grease dripping onto napkins they forgot to throw away.

Sunlight the next morning spilling across Minho’s bare shoulder, Yuta thinking with terrifying clarity, 'This is home'. He is home.

And yet here he is, dodging truths like landmines.

But that’s the problem. Because he can’t call it home out loud.

Voices spill into his ear, laughter bleeds through —Somi’s shrill teasing. “I bet he’s with his girlfriend!”

The word detonates in Yuta’s head.

His throat locks.

He flashes back to dinner only a week ago —Minho’s chopsticks clattering against his bowl, voice sharp with hurt when he told him he didn't have to help with the move of his younger siblings.

“Why does it feel like you’re embarrassed of me? You’ve met my parents, my cousins, even my boss. Why can’t I meet yours?”

Yuta, fumbling, defensive, “It’s not like that. "It’s just… complicated."

Minho’s stare, hard and unblinking, “Complicated, or shameful?”

Yuta swallows hard now, gripping the phone tighter.

He forces a laugh now, thin and unsteady. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there.”

His dad’s voice cuts back in, practical and unrelenting. “You better have booked a van. You know your mother and Bee don’t have a single patient bone in their body.”

He smiles at the mention of you, the many nights you'd tell on your father to your mother over dinner when he failed to pick you up from skating practice on time even though he made the promise not to be late and from somewhere in the background, his mom chimes in —light, teasing, sharp around the edges. “Don’t keep us waiting like last time, Yuta!”

He lets out a thin laugh that doesn’t quite reach his chest. “Yeah, I’ll sort it out.”

More voices tumble in —Karina’s this time, calling out over the clamor. “Oh! Jisung said something about apartment hunting yesterday, didn’t he?”

Somi jumps in without missing a beat, mimicking him in a singsong. “What's the point of four walls if she doesn’t like them?’ So corny, right?”

Everyone bursts into laughter.

Despite himself, Yuta smiles—small, involuntary. “Yeah. That’s Jisung. Hopeless romantic. I can’t wait to meet the guy in person.”

You had sent him Jisung's phone number so they could easily communicate about how either of their apartment hunting for you and your friends was progressing on.

The call ends in a flurry of overlapping chatter, laughter, and reminders about bags and patience. Silence crashes back into the apartment, too heavy, too sharp.

Minho sits up, hair mussed, eyes heavy but sharp on Yuta. “You didn’t tell them again.” 

His voice is quiet, but it lands heavier than a shout. Yuta’s chest tightens. He wants to deny, but the truth clings like smoke.

He wants to deny it, wants to say of course I did, but his throat closes on the lie.

“I will,” he manages to say instead.

Minho just looks at him, eyes tired. “You don't have to do it today.”  

His voice low, raking a hand through his hair, voice low. “But Yuta… you can’t keep living like this.”

The words slice him open. Yuta nods though inside, he feels hollow. “I know.”

Inside, the truth whispers mercilessly: I don’t know how.

Instead, he drifts farther back —to a rooftop years ago, bottles sweating between him, Jungwoo, and Jaehyun. His voice firm with drunken gravity, “Rule number three —never date each other’s siblings or relatives.” They’d sworn to it, laughing loud into the night. 

But the real truth? Yuta hadn’t even had the courage to tell them who he wanted, not then. And most definitely not now. Even after everything changed between them, after growing up and knowing better.

Because here he is —breaking promises, building a life in silence, dragging Minho into the shadow of it all.

LATER...

The airport is chaotic.

A wall of sound hits him as soon as he pushes through the sliding doors: rolling suitcases clattering, children squealing, Somi’s voice pitched higher than everyone else’s.

“There you are!” she shrieks across the crowd, flinging her arms so wide she nearly smacks a passerby. Karina grabs her wrist just in time, muttering, “Stop embarrassing us, Som.”

Shotaro and Jaemin piled up together, sleeping on a chair next to the whole family, luggage and boxes all around them.

His father waves from the cluster, phone in ear, talking into the phone with his expression hovering between relief and impatience. His mother was clutching a handbag like it’s a prize jewel.

“You’re late,” his dad says after hanging up with a "I'll tell Yuta to stop by that gas station so that we can all go together," when Yuta finally reaches them.

Somi leans in, eyes dancing. “We only almost missed our flight because she wouldn’t stop hunting for the perfect purse.” She gestures toward his mother dramatically. “She found it, though. What's your excuse?”

He chooses to ignore her with a roll of his eyes.

“Of course I did,” the woman in question replies smoothly, showing it off with a tilt of her wrist. “Do you know how hard it is to find a bag that works for both Seoul and Osaka?”

Karina snorts, rolling her eyes. “She’s only here for one night.”

The group erupts again, laughter overlapping with complaints. You are already tugging on your father’s sleeve, whining about how it would be rude to keep others waiting. 

Yuta stands in the middle of it, half-smiling, half-crumbling inside. Because he loves them, he does. Their chaos is familiar, grounding.

But the entire time, his mind loops back to the apartment. To Minho. To the weight of his silence.

He watches Somi argue with Karina, his father juggle boarding passes and guilt burrows deeper.

Because love shouldn’t be quiet. And yet his is.

And he wonders —not for the first time —how long Minho will wait in the silence before it swallows them both whole..

The van rattled softly as it rolled down the long stretch of road into campus. Outside, the world was wrapped in autumn —trees brushed gold at the tips, a crisp breeze sneaking in through the cracked window, carrying the faint scent of dry leaves and the first real bite of fall. The late afternoon sun glowed honey--warm, painting everything in a film that felt almost too cinematic to be real.

You sat curled in the backseat, fiddling absently with the silver bracelet circling your wrist, thumb brushing over the newest, single charm: a tiny enamel paint palette, its colors soft but bright.

Your chest tightened at the memory of opening the box two weeks ago, phone propped against a mug as Jisung's face filled the screen.

You could still hear his voice from that night’s video call.

“Okay, okay, open it already. I can’t sit here and stare at your confused face forever.” He’d urged, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His hair had been messier then, a little longer already, his voice warm through the pixelated video call.

Your lips had quirked. “Patience is a virtue.”

“Not mine,” he shot back immediately. Rolling your eyes, you had lifted the lid and froze. The bracelet glimmered against the tissue paper, delicate but sturdy, the paint palette charm catching the light just right. “You… remembered,” you whispered, brushing your fingertip across it. “How could I forget?” he teased, leaning closer to the camera as though he could reach through. “You wouldn’t shut up about color theory for an entire hour.”

You groaned. “You make it sound so embarrassing.” “It was adorable,” he cut in smoothly. “Seriously, you looked like you belonged in that gallery.”  Your heart had tripped at the way he said it, the sincerity threading beneath his teasing. “Stop it,” you had grumbled, still disbelieving. Your chest had gone warm, your smile uncontainable. "I can't believe you got this for me." “I mean, unless you’ve got another tall, devastatingly handsome not so secret admirer,” he’d teased, leaning into the camera. “Devastatingly?” You echoed, arching a brow playfully. “I’m quoting you. From the mop incident.” You had groaned yet again, covering your face with your hands. “I hate you.” “No, you don’t.” His grin had been all sharp edges and dimples. “You love me. Look at that smile. Can’t hide it.”

You'd laughed despite yourself, clutching the bracelet protectively in your palm. “It’s… perfect.” He had tilted his head, softened. “Wish I was there to put it on for you.” “Corny,” you muttered, cheeks hot, ear tipping red. “Don’t act like you don’t like it. Admit it. You missed me.” You had tried to brush him off, but ended up blurting, “Fine. Maybe. A little.” He’d leaned back, victorious. “Knew it.” It had ended with you promising to wear it the first time you saw each other again, him swearing he’d notice immediately. And now—

Now, as your thumb circled the charm again, the memory blurred into the present —into the crunch of gravel under tires as the car turned onto the narrow street where your new apartment waited.

Families lined the curb, carrying boxes, voices carrying over the crisp air. And there —standing like he belonged to the scene already was Jisung.

The van slowed, crunching into the driveway of their new off-campus apartment complex. Everyone stirred around you, parents chattering, Somi stretching dramatically —but all you could feel was your pulse hammering in your ears.

Because he was there.

The school jersey stretched across his shoulders, red and black, the fabric snug over his frame. His hair had grown out in the weeks since you’d last seen him, brushing the tops of his brows, a little unruly, like he hadn’t bothered to tame it before showing up. It was longer, grazing his collar and catching the breeze. And the moment your eyes locked on him, the world shifted into slow motion, every sound muffled except for the thunder hammering loudly in your chest.

The sight of him hit you like a stone skipped across water: sudden, sharp, then rippling all the way through your chest.

The van hadn’t even stopped when you pushed the door open, sneakers slapping the pavement as you ran. Your mother’s startled voice warning you to- “Be careful!” barely registered in your mind. 

It was already too late.

The second his gaze found yours, time tripped over itself. His grin bloomed slow and wide, stretching into dimples that made your chest ache.

The sound of your name broke across the yard, Jisung's voice lighting up, warm and incredulous. He stepped forward just in time to catch you, his arms winding around your waist as he lifted you clean off the ground. You squealed when he spun you once, twice, laughter bubbling out of your chest like it had been waiting all summer.

When he sets you down, neither of you let go.

“You…” His eyes swept over you, drinking you in like you were a sight he’d been starved of despite talking to you every other day after you and your friends got back from your trip.

“You cut your hair.” He brushed at the soft side bangs that delicately framed your face, his fingers grazing your cheekbone, hair bouncing loosely in thick curls ending a few inches below your shoulder. “Still long, but...” His grin turned crooked, his voice warm with awe. “God, you’re so unbelievably pretty, Pixie.”

You ducked your head, trying to hide your smile. “You’re just saying that.”

“I never just say anything cupcake.” His thumb ghosted along your jaw. “Especially not about you.”

You flushed, tugging at one strap of your overalls like it might anchor you to earth. “I literally just rolled out of a car. I look like chaos.”

“You look like mine,” he said simply, without hesitation, thumb brushing on the bracelet winking back at him ever so slightly, the bracelet that branded you his. 

His one and only.

You both grinned , yours asking and his replying in the cocky way only he knew how, 'I told you so.'

The world narrowed, blurred at the edge. Barely noticing Karina’s laughter or Somi’s squeal from behind you, or even Jaemin whistling low in mock applause as he tried and failed to carry a box neatly scribbled Karina on the side.

Jisung's hand slid into your hair, warm against the nape of your neck, the other finding your waist as he bent and kissed you —slow, deep, thorough.

The kiss began like a sigh, soft and lingering, before it deepened with all the pent-up ache of two weeks apart.

You clung to him, breath hitched, then gave way, your hands finding the back of his neck, tugging at his long hair. Standing at the tips of your toes barely doing anything to match his height but the kiss only deepened further, his thumb brushed along your jaw as he tilted your chin with a hand splayed seductively on your throat, deepening the kiss until you forgot anyone else existed. The heat of him overwhelming until everything else faded: the cars, the people, the chatter, the September chill.

For a beat, you swear you can still taste the memory of sugar on his tongue, and it sends you reeling in bliss.

Until—

A sharp throat-clearing cut the air.

You broke apart, both flushed, blinking back into reality. Jisung, still half-dazed, managed to grin at you before turning toward the source of the interruption.

Two of the dads, Jaemin's and Somi's, stood in front of you, unimpressed. They had been trailing behind the van with the rest of you and your friends' luggage in a separate van, their mothers included. 

"Damn." Karina's mother fanned herself, face flushed on your behalf, her daughter mirroring her and like the apple she truly- not so truly was, whispered at her with narrow mischievous eyes, "I know...."

Barely flinching at Jeno's tightened grip on her hand. He had just arrived with Jaemin from their university a few minutes earlier. 

The dads pulled apart, revealing your dad standing near the car, arms folded, expression caught between warning and disapproval. Yuta, your older brother, leaned against the van beside him, twirling the car keys while smirking as if he’d been waiting for this spectacle since the day he was born.

And then you caught the look.

Shotaro, arms crossed near the porch, the splitting image of your father especially now that he mirrored the man's stance, his gaze as stern and sharp as it had been that morning outside the cabin.

The engine’s purr cut out as Jisung eased the bike to a stop in front of the cabin. Morning sunlight spilled over the porch, washing the scene in that soft, golden warmth that made everything feel sharper, more alive. "She's not getting off that bike—” You could hear Shotaro’s voice cracking into a growl from the inside. “She is, actually,” Karina shot back with gritted teeth, a little too early for commotion. You slid off the bike, boots crunching against the gravel. Jisung's oversized shirt hung loosely on your frame, the hem brushing the top of the sweatpants he’d worn the night before. Your leather jacket was thrown on top, like armor against the weight of eyes you already felt on you.  A small paper bag of leftovers—ramen cups, candies, half-finished soda bottles—swinging from your hand, your neatly folded dress and intimates tucked inside like a secret.

“Morning!” you call out, forcing brightness into your voice just as the cabin door flew open. Somi practically melts in the doorway, clasping her hands like a fangirl getting her money's worth of fan service. “Oh my God, look at you two —this is so cute I could die!” Karina and Jaemin, however, were preoccupied with holding Shotaro back by the arm. His face was thunderous, like a dad about to deliver an entire lecture series, his slides scraping against the porch as they dug their heels in to restrain him. Jisung dismounted smoothly, tugging off his helmet and shaking his hair into messy strands. He looked completely unfazed by the chaos, leaning casually against the bike like this was a rom-com rather than a crime scene. “You guys didn't tell me he's crazy handsome!” Jaemin mourned, half-amused, half-strained from the effort of dragging Shotaro backward. Jisung took a step closer, his voice lowering just for her. “Got a phone?” Somi squealed so loudly Karina hissed at her to shut up. The girl had ears so sharp she could hear a mouse squeak from the trenches. You blinked, shoving your free hand into your shoulder bag, revealing both your phones, passing yours to him.- you had offered to carry his while he rounded the motorcycle in front of the motel. Your fingers brushed—warm, deliberate—and your stomach flipped. He typed his number fast, then called himself, his phone buzzing against your palm a second later. “Now you can’t ghost me,” he murmured, handing yours back before taking his, tucking it back in the inside of his leather jacket. Behind them, Somi gasped, “This is cinematic.” Karina groaned in agreement, still fighting Shotaro’s dead weight. Jisung leaned down, brushing a stray strand of your hair aside, clipping it behind your ear, big hand resting on your cheek lovingly, staring. Your breath caught, lips parting instinctively, your faces only pulling inches apart— “DONT YOU DARE KISS HER!” Shotaro roared, jerking against Karina and Jaemin’s hold like a wild animal. The words had stung. And though Jisung had only smirked, replying with a teasing, “Relax, I plan to stick around,” you’d seen the flicker of hurt behind his eyes. Because underneath the charm, the teasing, he wanted something real—acceptance into the family, not just your arms. The spell broke. You blinked, looking like a deer caught in headlight. Slight pout forming on your lips. Jisung chuckled softly, close enough that only you could hear it. “Guess I’ll have to wait, then. Can’t risk a lifetime ban.” Your chest tightened at the sincerity beneath his easy tone. So instead of stealing the kiss hanging between you, Jisung only brushed his thumb across your knuckles and murmured, “I’ll be back in your arms later.” “You won’t,” you had whispered back, cheeks flaming. “Wanna bet?” His grin had curved wicked, but he was already swinging onto the bike again. He winked at your friends—Somi nearly collapsing against Karina from glee— wearing his helmet before kicking the stand up. His grin was obvious even through the helmet. The engine growled to life, the vibration echoing in her chest. And as the engine roared to life, he called out over the chaos: “Promise kept!” Then he was gone, the hum of the bike fading into the trees, leaving you standing in his clothes, clutching the bag like a secret. Shotaro had stormed after you all the way inside, but you had bolted, laughing breathlessly as you locked your bedroom door behind you. “You’re grounded forever!” You could faintly hear Shotaro's voice protesting your rebellion. Outside, Jisung steadied the throttle, forcing himself to focus on the winding dirt path ahead. But his mind betrayed him—sliding back to the image of you standing there in his shirt and sweats, leather jacket thrown on top like you'd been his all along. The bag of leftovers dangling from your hand looked like proof of a night that hadn’t been a dream. It didn't even bother him that he was shirtless underneath his own leather ensemble. He bit down on a smile inside the helmet, shaking his head.

“Danger hazard, huh?” he muttered to himself, voice swallowed by the roar of the bike. “More like mine.”

And for the first time in a long while, the thought of heading back into town felt unbearable—because all he wanted was to turn around, knock on that cabin door, and kiss you like Shotaro hadn’t been there to stop him.

The memory faded just as Jisung, ever bold, turned to face the cluster of parents. “Sorry, sir,” he said with disarming charm, holding your hand like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. “I missed her. Won’t happen again—at least not in front of everyone.”

No one said anything.

Yuta stepped in quickly, breaking the tension with a grin. “The house is ready, moms. Everything’s clean, rooms assigned exactly how you wanted. Jisung made sure of it.” He gestured toward the open hall. “Don’t worry—it’s perfect.”

Karina leaned against Jeno with a smug smile. Broad-shouldered and confident, sporting a matching jersey of the neighbouring university, a dark green and white set, leveled a protective stare at the hand still being held securely by Jisung. Then, like something shifted entirely, Jeno's eyes immediately narrowed.

He held out his right hand towards him, pulling Karina with him when he stepped forward.

"Park,” he said flatly, nodding once.

“Lee,” Jisung fired back just as clipped. Hands meeting in a single shake, locked and steady.

Everyone went dead silent for a heartbeat before Somi gasped, “Oh my god, is this… a hockey standoff?”

“They’re literally just saying each other’s names,” Karina deadpanned with a shake of her head beside her boyfriend.

“Exactly!” Somi hissed. “Terrifying.”

“I’m watching you.”

Jisung only smirked, utterly unfazed. “Good. You should. We both know I'm worth watching.”

It was enough to make Jaemin snicker and Somi hide a giggle behind her palm, though Shotaro only shook his head—eyes still sharp, still carrying that silent warning.

“Mmhm,” your father hummed, breaking the hush that had settled after that kiss. He was closer now. His brows arched in that way that made your stomach sink, worry masked in intimidation as he looked at you softly for the reassurance of your safety. “Do you at least know him?”

“Dad—” you started, mortified.

In his defence, you were his only baby girl and you barely ever brought someone home.

Jisung jumped in, charming grin never faltering. “Yes, Mr Nakamoto. Jisung. We met this summer. I helped them find this place—fair rent, safe neighborhood. I figured it was better than the dorms if the girls wanted to stay together."

That got a murmur of approval from the mothers clustered nearby. Yours, even touched her chest like the boy had personally saved her from disaster. “How thoughtful,” she gushed.

“Responsible,” Karina’s mother agreed with a knowing nod.

“Handsome,” Somi's mother whispered just loud enough for her daughter to elbow her.

Your father, however, wasn’t so easily swayed. His eyes flicked between your joined hands and Jisung's too-bright smile. “And when you say you ‘met this summer’…”

“Mommy please make him stop!” you yelped pleading with your mother to defend you, face already red enough to combust.

The group laughed at you when the woman looked away suddenly hypnotized by the trees surrounding the apartment.

You were on your own.

Jisung swooped in with all the confidence of a stage actor, snapping his fingers like he was in the center of a callback day gone wrong. “Relax, relax. Don’t worry. I checked the place myself. Clean as a whistle. Rooms set, four in total, two full bathrooms.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “ Great security, there's even a rooftop. Nothing to stress about.”

“See?”  You said brightly, assuringly and smug. "Told you we could trust him.”

Your mother sighed with a shake of her head fondly. Now she understood why you were so adamant about having a place to live in covered despite her not seeing you bother to tour places online like she had insisted for the past week while you and your friends were visiting your grandparents in Japan.

“Should’ve been my son,” Jaemin's dad muttered, earning a round of chuckles but a mock frown from Jaemin, his spawn.

Jisung, ever opportunistic, leaned slightly toward your father. “And just so you know, sir… I’ve got nothing but good intentions.” His tone was light, but his eyes didn’t waver.

“Good intentions, huh?” your dad’s voice rumbled low with amusement. He took a slow step forward, folded his arms. “Do those good intentions include condoms?”

“Father No!!” you squeaked, nearly burying your face in Jisung's shoulder. Somi gasped. Karina outright wheezed.

He was practically encouraging Jisung.

Yuta dragged a palm down his face, muttering something about parents having no shame. Jaemin doubled over, caught between laughing and choking.

But Jisung, Jisung just grinned wider, the kind of grin that said he’d been waiting for this. “Mr Nakamoto,” he said smoothly, “I’ll take that as permission to keep seeing her.”

The dads groaned, the moms tittered, and you were convinced that this was the day you died clearly from embarrassment.

Still, Jisung's fingers squeezed yours once, steady and warm, and when you risked a glance at him, the look in his eyes wasn’t just teasing—it was sure, like he already knew where he wanted this to go.

Boxes were already being shuffled out of car trunks, the crunch of gravel underfoot filling the lull after Jisung's bold reply. Moms fluttered around the porch with baskets of cleaning supplies, while dads tried and failed to look useful under their wives’ sharp instructions.

Inside, chaos unfolded.

Karina tugged Jeno by the hand straight toward her room, her grip tight and smug. Somi balanced a tower of pillows bigger than her head, nearly colliding with Jaemin as he wrangled a box marked Kitchen Stuff under one arm.

“Watch it!” Jaemin yelped, stumbling backward into Jisung.

“Careful,” Jisung said easily, steadying him before taking the box himself like it weighed nothing. “Where’s this going?”

“Kitchen,” Jaemin grumbled, brushing his hair back. But there was a flicker of a smile when Jisung clapped his shoulder.

It wasn’t new. The two of them had clicked slowly, quietly, over the reminder of your trip. Somewhere between lazy afternoons at the cabin and late-night rounds of Mario Kart, Jisung had found a kindred spirit in Jaemin’s dry wit.

The memory slid in unbidden, like an unpaused film playing on loop.

Game night, Karina’s laughter was sharp as she wiped the floor with them in Uno. Somi snorted soda when Jisung tried to bluff with a “+4.” You were curled on the couch, trying to hide your smile when he patted his lap and teased, “Seat’s free if you want to win with me.” You had rolled your eyes and told him to shut up. But there was no denying you thought about it. Shotaro hadn’t, though. He’d stormed into the living room, eyes sharp sitting beside you. “If I ever see you trying that again—” “Relax,” Jisung had said with that maddening grin. “I was just being generous.” “Generous?” Shotaro’s voice cracked somewhere between outrage and protective big-brother rage. “Generous with my lap,” Jisung deadpanned.

The girls had howled. Karina nearly toppled off the couch, Somi wheezing as she begged Shotaro to calm down grumbling about how he was worse than you and that they clearly got the wrong twin to 'live a little' .

Jaemin, though—Jaemin had watched the whole thing unfold with the tiniest smile tugging at his lips. And after that, his jokes started landing closer to Jisung's wavelength.

Back in the present, you glanced toward Jaemin now, catching the way he rolled his eyes but didn’t protest when Jisung bumped his shoulder again before setting the kitchen box down.

It was small, but it was theirs. Proof that somehow, over the chaos of summer, Jisung had wriggled into their group—not just into your orbit, but into all of theirs as well.

The spell broke when Yuta strolled up, sunglasses perched on his head despite the fading sun, his hands shoved casually into his pockets.

“Alright, mothers,” he said with that easy grin of his. “You can relax. The house is spotless and fridge stocked.” 

Your mom laughed, tension easing, while Yuta leaned conspiratorially closer to Jisung. “Don’t worry, I’ve already run interference." He shot Karina a wink, "You’ll thank me later.”

Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of new paint and lemon cleaner. It was bigger than you’d expected—an old uptown refurbished for off-campus students, complete with polished wooden floors, wide and an open space that made Somi clap her hands in delight because you knew she was going to turn some corner into a gym.

“The rooftop’s open too,” Yuta pointed out, jerking his thumb to the ceiling. “Perfect for late-night stargazing. Or, you know…” His gaze slid between you and Jisung with a smirk. “...romantic stuff.”

“Yuta!” you hissed, swatting at him, though your cheeks burned.

But your mother was too distracted by the architecture to care about anything else, nodding approvingly but  her wheels turning at the new house projects you were sure she'd rope dad into doing on his own. 

Karina emerged from one of the rooms on one side of the hallway, hand laced with Jeno’s, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

“Hey,” she greeted, voice warm as her gaze flicked to Jisung. “Glad you made it.”

Soon, the house buzzed with the kind of noise only moving day could bring. Boxes cracked open, paper rustled, parents debated over curtain rods while Somi and Karina argued about which shelf should hold the skincare collection, you were for everyone to make their own shelves in their room because Jaemin would steal it all anyway. 

Shotaro—predictably—hovered like a watchdog, intercepting every heavy box before anyone else could touch it.

By late afternoon, things began to settle. Rooms were claimed, the hum of vacuuming replaced by the low murmur of parents catching up downstairs.

You were in your room, kneeling by a half-unpacked suitcase, when a knock brushed at the door.

“Come in,” she called, assuming it was Somi or Karina with another round of chaos.

Instead, Jisung slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. His jersey clung to him in all the right ways, hair falling  messily on his forehead, the grin on his face warm but—somehow—mischievous.

“You’re hiding,” he teased, leaning against the doorframe.

“Unpacking,” you corrected, holding up a tangle of clothes as proof.

He walked closer, hands tucked into his pockets. “Well, if you ever need rescuing, I was thinking…” His eyes flicked over you, softer now. “I could show you and everyone around campus tomorrow. There’s this little café with cats that I go to when I need to study. Feels like the kind of place you’d like. We could go sometime.”

Your heart skipped, stupid and too obvious, but you managed to grin. “Cats and coffee? You really know how to bribe me.”

“Not bribing. Just making sure you don’t forget who’s going to be your favorite tour guide.” He crouched beside your suitcase, picking up a notebook you'd set aside, his fingers brushing yours as he handed it back.

"Just us though. Our little heaven?" Jisung asked in a low voice, hesitant just to make sure you were okay with that and you were, because you nodded with a small smile tugging at your lips.

The air thickened—the kind of silence where every laugh, every look, could tilt into something more. He was close now, leaning in, and you could feel the warmth of him, his cologne just faint on his shirt. Your pulse drummed at the way his gaze dropped—to your lips, your eyes, back again. Daringly so.

Your breath hitched. His hand shifted, almost reaching for your cheek— but someone called your name.

"Have you seen that young man of yours? I can't find him any-'

Your dad’s voice shot through the moment like a thunderclap. The door cracked open, and there he was: standing with arms crossed, expression unreadable. 

"There you are son." Jisung jerked back so fast he nearly knocked into the bedframe, ears flaming red.

Yuta’s grin widened, wicked. Only now noticing him behind your old man. “Well, isn’t this cozy.”

“Dad,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

But Yuta wasn’t done. “Jisung, the men are setting up the security cameras. Why don’t you come help us? Consider it… earning your keep.” His smirk sharpened as he added, “She’ll still be yours after dinner.”

Your jaw dropped, mortified. “Not you too!”

Jisung, though, only ducked his head, hiding his grin. He rose slowly, offering you a quick wink as he moved toward the door. “I’ll be back Pixie,” he murmured low enough only you could hear, before slipping past your dad with a charm so smooth it was impossible to stay mad.

Your father gave you one last teasing look before following him out.

You were left in your room, heart pounding, lips tingling with the kiss that hadn’t quite happened—but almost did.

The lecture hall emptied in drifts of chatter, sneakers squeaking faintly against polished linoleum as students filtered out, laughing, groaning about the syllabus, already forming coffee-fueled alliances.

Jungwoo lingered.

He always did - books stacked neat in his arms, headphones in his pocket though he hadn't played music in weeks. Music meant feeling, and feeling meant cracks. He preferred the hum of autopilot, days lived clean and muted.

"Jungwoo."

He straightened. Professor Kim Seokjin's voice carried the kind of calm authority that always drew stillness out of a room. Today was no different - even though only one student remained.

"Yes, sir?"

"Stay a moment. I want to go over your semester portfolio."

Jungwoo set his books down on the desk. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective panel by the window - posture stiff, expression blank. A ghost going through the motions.

"I want you to do the collaboration journalism piece the school holds every year in partnership with Seoul National."

Professor Kim pulled a manila file from the leather satchel at his side and slid it across the desk.

"Read."

The label was neat, stamped in black:

PARK JISUNG - SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY.

Jungwoo frowned, flipping it open. Inside: glossy press photos clipped from sports pages, stats printed on thick paper, clippings of interviews where his face smiled brightly back at strangers.

"Jisung," the professor said, pacing slowly across the front row, "is one of Seoul National's rising stars. Center forward. You've likely heard of him if you've been near a sports channel- ice hockey, if we have to get into specifics? or social feed in the last year."

Jungwoo nodded faintly. The name was familiar - the kind that floated easily between conversations, tied to goals, tournaments, the weight of expectation.

"What you may not know," Seokjin continued, tapping the desk near the file, "is that he's not only an athlete. He's pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Kinesiology. No easy feat for a student carrying that kind of athletic pressure."

Jungwoo skimmed the documents. Training regimens, academic transcripts, sponsorship deals. The duality was clear - student and star, stretched between two worlds.

"Your task," Seokjin said, voice dropping just slightly, "is to build your junior year portfolio around him. His private and public life. His discipline. The toll. How balancing science and sport defines his performance - or breaks it. You will journal, document - video, and present it. Not just what's seen, Jungwoo, but what isn't."

The words carried weight. This wasn't fluff. This was the kind of assignment that could mark a career.

"Sir..." Jungwoo cleared his throat. It felt foreign to speak more than two sentences. "...why him?"

Professor Kim regarded him, expression sharp but not unkind.

"Because it matters. And because I know you won't give me surface-level work. You understand shadows better than most. Don't you?"

The sentence cut too close, though Jungwoo kept his expression even.

"This will be crucial for your graduating marks next year," Seokjin pressed. "The kind of piece that can either sink you or carry you forward. And I don't want to see you sink, Jungwoo."

Jungwoo shut the file, fingers pressing against the cardboard a second too long.

"Yes, sir."

Professor Kim leaned back against the desk. "One more thing. To balance this project, all seniors in my seminar are paired with Seoul National's freshmen graphic design and art students. I've been... disappointed by how many bright minds waste away their first semester in smog and smoke - weed, cigarettes, endless parties. This way, they build something meaningful. And you - you get support. "

Jungwoo blinked. "Paired?"

"Yes. For visual work, layouts, creative formatting." A brief smile tugged the professor's mouth. "Consider it enforced collaboration. I have given you Miss Suzy's information, she is the art's head professor. She will match you with the artist she sees fit. Might do you some good, too."

Jungwoo nodded slowly, though unease prickled at his chest. He had no space for strangers. No patience for entanglements. He liked his silence, his routine.

Seokjin's gaze softened, almost pitying. "You've been quiet for a long time, Jungwoo. Sometimes too quiet. I hope this brings you out a little."

Jungwoo's throat tightened. He hated when people looked at him like that - like they knew.

Because they didn't.

They didn't know what it was like to still carry the ghost of someone who once laughed with you, sketched little doodles on your notebook margins, pressed her cheek to your shoulder during late walks back from class.

They didn't know what it was like to remember breaking up with you - no warning, no reason, just the cold cut of words that weren't even true. His voice had been steady, but his chest had been bleeding. "I can't do this anymore." He remembered your silence, the single tear that slid down your cheek. The way your hands shook. The way your eyes burned with hurt and confusion, but you didn't beg, didn't cling at least not until Jeno tried getting you away from him. You'd lost it then, begged for forgiveness...told him you could fix it, whatever it was. All he had to do was let you fix it.

There was nothing that needed fixing and he had been living in gray scale since.

Every laugh around him muted. Every achievement is hollow. The autopilot life of a man who had cut off his own oxygen.

He picked the file back up. The picture of Park Jisung stared back at him - confident, bright, alive.

The opposite of the man flipping through his file.

Jungwoo shoved it into his bag.

He didn't know, couldn't know yet, that fate had a cruel way of weaving threads. That the freshman graphic design student paired to help him with this portfolio, the one Professor Suzy would insist on referencing, was you.

The same girl he left without reason.

The one he never stopped loving.

And he was about to collide with your world all over again.

THAT NIGHT...

By the time the sun dipped behind the trees, the chaos of unpacking had turned into something calmer, warmer. Laughter echoed faintly from other rooms.

The house buzzed with energy as everyone unpacked. The place was warm, with wood floors, the main sofa already littered with throw blankets and pillows, cardboard boxes littering the hallways like casualties of war.

The goodbye had been pure chaos: moms clutching their daughters like they were off to war, tears soaking shoulders. Somi’s dad dragging everyone into suffocating bear hugs and then, your own mom whispering just loud enough for the entire room to hear, “Where on earth did you find him, honey? That boy kissed you like he was trying to take your soul. Hanmoon be damned.” You'd nearly combusted right there, face burning while Karina and Somi wheezed into dumplings.

Now, though, with the parents finally gone, it was just them. Free. Leaving only the sound of half-assembled furniture, laughter, and the occasional curse word when an Allen key slipped. It already felt like theirs, imperfect and lived-in, even though they’d only just arrived.

Your room was still half-finished, it was already transforming but already becoming hers: vines draped from the curtain rod and along the frame of your door, fairy lights looped across, framed the windows, the ceiling beams, soft throw pillows scattered across your bed making the bed look like a safe haven. An enchanted, whimsical, warm— it was already her. A fairy-tale den tucked into the corner of a house that had been all sweat and cardboard just hours before.

“Figures. Of course your place looks finished first,” Karina muttered twirling in the middle of your room once she entered, smirking as she adjusted a strand of her hair, “yours looks like a Pinterest board already while mine’s still a ship wreck.”

“Sporty-Spice here doesn’t even have bedsheets yet,” Somi chimed in, plopping down on the rug with her sneakers still on. She squirmed under your sharp glare, fingers reaching to pull them off quickly before you pounced on her.

“IKEA builds character,” Jaemin called from the hall, laughing as Yuta and Jeno cursed over the instruction manual for someone’s dresser.

“Yeah, well, character is overrated,” Jeno grumbled, his voice muffled.

“Don’t start,” Jaemin muttered as he wrestled with a nightstand. “If IKEA wanted me to cry, they should’ve just said so.”

“Tell that to the five screws you forgot,” Jeno shot back, sweat beading at his temples as he tried to force a shelf into place.

“I didn’t forget them, they’re extra!” Jaemin insisted, waving a screw dramatically.

“Extra for your ego, maybe,” Yuta fired back , breezing in like he owned the place, with his usual casual confidence. Your older brother wore a loose cream shirt tucked just enough to show off his waist, a silver hoop glinting at his ear, hair perfectly styled without trying.

He glanced at her vines and fairy lights, clapped once, and nodded. “Alright. That I approve of. Enchanted fairy-tale vibes? Checks out.”

“You’d say that if she decided to shave her head,” Shotaro muttered, arms crossed, hovering like a watchdog near the doorframe.

Yuta simply laughed leaving the room, with Karina and Somi in toe, the latter ruffling his hair as she went and you rolled your eyes but didn’t bother answering. Instead, you plugged in your fairy lights — the room glowed, golden and soft, everything draped in warmth.

"Ani,” Shotaro snapped from across the room, glaring daggers before following after him.

It was just the two of you now.

“See?” Jisung's voice cut in smoothly. He’d been helping you unpack books, now flipping open a sketchpad that lay near where you sat by your bed.

Now he had one open, long fingers tracing the graphite lines of a dragon curling through vines. They skimmed the pencil lines of the drawing — delicate, detailed, a burst of imagination sprawled across the page. He tilted it toward the light, eyes tracing it with quiet admiration. “You’re really good.”

You froze, caught in the way he said it — like it wasn’t casual praise, but something that made his chest ache.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, cheeks heating.

“Don’t what?” His smile was all dimples and mischief. “Appreciate you?”

Your lips parted to retort, but your breath caught when he leaned closer, voice lowering just for you. “I like seeing what’s inside your head.”

Heat flushed through your chest. You turned away — only to shiver when his lips brushed the spot where your shoulder met your neck, so soft it could’ve been an accident. But it wasn’t - you turned back wide eyed, hitting his arm as you looked around blushing.

Jisung straightened instantly, grin playing at his mouth but eyes flickering with innocence. “What? I was helping.”

But then laughter boomed from the hall, Yuta’s voice carrying: “Jaemin, if you hammer one more thing into the wrong hole, I swear—”

You and Jisung stifled a laugh, but the spell broke.

He leaned lazily against your bed beside you, his jersey from earlier traded for the plain black tee that clung to his frame.

You could feel his eyes on you even as you fussed with the stack of sketchbooks and pencils you had laid out neatly to put away.

“What’s this?” His voice carried that teasing lilt you were already too familiar with.

Before you could stop him, he plucked a framed photo from the box behind you. You groaned, reaching for it, but he held it high, grinning.

The picture was of you as a toddler, hand clasped tightly around little Shotaro’s pudgy fingers. Shotaro was mid-suckle on his thumb, hair sticking out in messy tufts.

“Oh, this is gold,” Jisung said, pulling his phone out with his free hand. Click. “Perfect. I’ll save this for when he starts giving me that death glare again.”

“Delete it!”you lunged for his phone, but he danced out of reach, laughing.

“Uh-uh,” he teased. “This is going straight into my ‘in case of emergency’ folder.”

You shoved at his chest, but he only smiled softer as he set the frame back gently, like he understood it mattered.

"You didn't get it from me."

Shotaro lingered with folded arms, keeping an eye on everything like a hawk.

The gang sprawled across the living room like they’d lived there for years. Karina, already in her matching pajama set, had claimed a corner of the living room, her hair pulled back under a spa headband, a mint-colored face mask cracking slightly as she scrolled on her phone and sipped water through a straw.

Next to her, Jaemin knelt in a cat-ear headband, IKEA furniture instructions dangling from his mouth while he wrestled screws into place. “If I die,” he muttered, “tell people it was Jeno’s fault.”

“I told you to read the instructions,” Jeno groaned, but his girlfriend was already tugging him down by the wrist, smearing clay mask across his cheek. “Babe, no—”

“Yes,” Karina said sweetly, clapping her hands. “Couple skincare bonding.”

Jeno sighed but leaned into it anyway, his hand slipping back into hers.

Somi, meanwhile, had transformed the entryway into a sneaker museum. She crouched on the floor in a neon sleep set, carefully lining her sneakers by color while rolling an ice roller across her cheeks. “Don’t step here!” she barked when Jaemin nearly toppled into her row.

“You’re unhinged,” Jaemin shot back, only for Karina to hum, “Says the boy in cat ears.”

It was hours later when the apartment smelled faintly of cardboard and sweetness — cardboard from the boxes they’d demolished, and sweetness from the ice cream cones Yuta returned with after declaring “We deserve sugar after IKEA.”

The sticky sweetness of ice cream cones dripping onto napkins. But no one cared.

Jaemin, sprawled dramatically across the rug, had already gotten brain freeze twice. Karina giggled every time Jeno swore under his breath while trying to keep his cone from collapsing.

Shotaro, on the other hand, sat stiff on the couch, arms crossed tight, sending dagger-glares at one person in particular.

Park Jisung.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, you had on one of Yuta's big old shirts covering your pajamas. The fabric draped against your skin, legs tucked under. The man in question was slouched next to you, a tall frame taking up too much space.  Your knees brushing. His cone was long gone, which might explain why he kept leaning in to steal lazy bites from yours.

“Stop that,” you hissed, pulling your cone out of reach.

“I like yours better.” He leaned forward anyway, lips brushing your fingers as he stole a bite and licked cream from the corner of his mouth, eyes shameless.

Your cheeks flamed. Shotaro nearly choked on air.

Karina groaned, muffled behind her mask. “God, you two are disgusting.”

“Right?” Somi added, already cackling. “Remember when Mom said he kissed you like he was trying to take your soul?” a devilish grin on her face. “Honestly, I agree.”

Karina snorted so hard her mask cracked at the edges. “I thought my mom was about to third-wheel you guys. She was ready to pull up a chair.”

“Parents were mortified,” Jaemin wheezed, rolling onto his stomach. “You should’ve seen Jisung’s face though—blissed out. Like, hello? We’re all still here.”

“Right, seconds away from claiming her soul,” Jeno nodded sagely.

You groaned, hiding your face behind a pillow. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Karina teased, reaching over to flick your knee. 

Before you could retort, Yuta’s voice cut in, calm but sharp enough to make Jisung freeze mid-bite. “Don’t think I’m not watching, Jisung.”

The room erupted. Jaemin practically keeled over with laughter, Somi air-clapped her hands like she’d been waiting for this, and even Karina nearly dropped her cone as she cackled.

Jisung, cheeks burning, coughed into his fist. “Noted, hyung.”

“Good.” Yuta’s expression softened as he licked his own cone. “Carry on.”

The man beside you leaned back after that, but not before whispering out of the corner of his mouth, “I’m doomed.”

You only smiled, nudging him with your knee.

The room erupted again. Jeno dropped his cone onto his jeans, Jaemin nearly rolled into the coffee table laughing, and Shotaro’s glare intensified until it could have burned a hole through drywall.

Before you could die of embarrassment, Karina tossed you a napkin. “At this point, he’s one cone away from mounting a full heist.”

“Don’t tempt him,” you muttered, smacking Jisung’s shoulder when he reached for another bite. The man was relentless.

Jaemin nearly choked on his strawberry cone -his attempt of a third brain freeze, pointing at you with a dramatic gasp. “Domestic! Too domestic! I can’t—”

“Shut up,” Jeno groaned, but his grin gave him away.

Somi was perched cross-legged on the floor, two cones balanced precariously in her hands. “Don’t judge me,” she warned as both dripped onto napkins. “Double scoops, double energy.”

Shotaro looked around the living room, ticking off the boxes in his mind. “We should keep track of which boxes are still full so nothing gets lost.”

Everyone groaned at once.

“Bro,” Jaemin said, half-laughing, “you’re in dad mode again. Chill.”

“Yeah,” Karina agreed, peering at him through her clay mask. “You’re making us look irresponsible.”

Shotaro blinked, confused, hands timidly clutching at his cone. “I’m just trying to help—”

“You’re trying to raise us,” Somi interrupted, pointing with her cone. “Let loose before you start scheduling bedtimes.”

That sent the whole room into laughter, Yuta wheezing as he collapsed onto the couch. “He’s one IKEA instruction manual away from grounding us all.”

Shotaro could only sigh, cheeks pink. “Fine, fine.” He slumped onto the armchair, muttering, “But don’t come crying to me when you lose the utensils.”

“Be grateful,” Yuta added dryly. “You’re not the one who built a table backwards because you refused to read instructions.”

All eyes turned to Jeno.

“It’s stable!” he protested.

Right on cue, the table legs buckled, sending a stack of napkins tumbling.

The room erupted, Jaemin rolling onto the carpet howling, Somi nearly choking on her cone.

“Read. The. Instructions,” Yuta said, tears in his eyes from laughing.

Even Shotaro was doubled over, his neat-dad image ruined as he wheezed into his hands.

Yuta leaned against the back wall, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re all children,” he announced.

“You love it,” Shotaro shot back.

“Correction,” Jaemin added through a mouthful, “we’re starving college students with sugar dependency.”

It felt…right. Warm. The kind of messy, happy chaos that made a house feel like home.

Yuta hummed like he didn’t disagree. But his gaze shifted — briefly, deliberately — to where Jisung sat pressed beside his sister. Their legs brushed. It reminded him of someone...

And that’s when Yuta’s phone started buzzing on the console table.

“Whose is that?” Somi asked through a mouthful of chocolate.

“Hyung’s,” Jeno said, snagging it before Yuta could stop him. “Some guy named—”

“Give me that.” Yuta’s voice cut sharp, sharper than anyone had expected. He snatched the phone, pressed it to his chest, and the laughter quieted for the first time all night.

“Everything okay?” Karina asked, mask cracking as she blinked.

Yuta forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Just…nothing important.” He waved them off and slipped away toward the hallway, phone still buzzing.

Jisung stole licks of your mint cone when you weren't  looking, pretending innocence when you swatted at him. “It’s melting,” he said, shrugging.

Still, your eyes followed Yuta’s back until he disappeared around the corner.

The ice cream disappeared too fast, laughter filling the room until exhaustion crept in. Boxes half-unpacked, shelves still bare — but the house already pulsed with something alive.

By midnight, the apartment had finally gone still. Fairy lights strung haphazardly across the living room blinked lazily, casting soft gold across the tangle of half-unpacked boxes and the IKEA graveyard Jaemin swore he’d fix “tomorrow.”

One by one,  everyone drifted off —

Somi still clutching her sneakers like they’d been stolen. Karina dragging Jeno by the hand to her room with a soft, “C’mon, athlete boy.”

Jaemin sprawled face-down on the couch with a blanket kicked halfway to the floor, Shotaro snoring faintly in the armchair like a single dad who’d given up, grumbling something about “doors locked" and Yuta retreating to Jaemin's room after making sure everyone had brushed their teeth.

Your room was now mostly complete. Granted it looked nothing like the others. A scattering of crystals you stole from Somi — strands of tiny bulbs weaved between lush fake vines and trailing dream catchers. One corner had been transformed into a makeshift studio: an easel angled toward the window, watercolor palettes, brushes -standing like little soldiers in mason jars, sketchpads stacked haphazardly to the wall: soft wings, blooming flowers, a charcoal study desk and chair of your own. The floor make up vanity of a small stack of drawers -a magnifying small gold mirror perched on it, sat next to your full-length mirror on the opposite side of the window. It smelled faintly of lavender and pencil shavings.

You padded barefoot across the rug, tugging at the hem of your cropped tank top, still debating if you should actually wear a proper shirt to unpack more. Your oversized tee from earlier was tossed on the desk chair, leaving you in the smallest of  lilac sleep tanks and matching shorts.

A knock sounded before you could reach for it. Jisung leaned against the doorframe, smirk tugging at his lips. “Cosy,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. His hair was damp from his shower, falling into his eyes, and—

You burst out laughing. “Wait—are those Jeno’s pajama pants?”

He glanced down at the ridiculous, cartoon-print bottoms — bright blue, covered in tiny rocket ships. “What? They’re comfortable.” He plopped onto your bed like it was his. 

“Besides, don’t act like you’re not impressed. I can still pull them off.”

“Pull them off?” you echoed, mock-serious. 

“They look like something my nephew would wear to kindergarten.”

“Good thing you don’t have a nephew,” he shot back, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” you teased, rolling your eyes, hiding a smile as you perched at the edge of your bed. He leaned back on his elbows, gaze sweeping over the room. His eyes lingered on the championship photo propped against the nightstand.

“Still skating,” he said softly.

“Still skating,” you confirmed.

“Scholarship, graphic design, art major.” You gestured at the scattered brushes and open sketchbook. “This is kind of… my whole world now.”

He nodded slowly, like he was memorizing the sight. “Knew you’d end up somewhere magical.”

The sincerity in his voice made your throat tight. You busied yourself with arranging  the coasters you placed on your side of the matching nightstands beside your bed. “You’re just saying that because you’re sitting in a forest.”

“A fairy forest,” he corrected, then tapped the bed beside him. “Come here.”

You gave him a suspicious look but crawled closer anyway. He caught your ankle before you could sit back, tugging your foot gently into his lap.

“What are you—”

“Shh. Trust me.”

And then his thumbs pressed into your arch, firm but careful, and you nearly melted on the spot. “Jisung—”

“Yeah?” he said casually, a smirk hidden in his voice as he worked up to her heel.

“Don’t stop.”

His grin widened, and he didn’t. 

He kneaded the knots from your soles, moving slowly, attentively, the kind of touch that wasn’t just playful but grounding. You leaned back against the headboard, eyes half-closed, trying not to sigh too loud.

“You know,” he murmured, voice dipping, “if we hadn’t met at the cabin or in one of the campus halls, I really think I would’ve run into you on the rink. Probably fell flat on my ass in front of everyone, too.”

You cracked an eye open. “Worth it?”

He glanced up, smiling. “Every bruise.”

“Guess I’ll keep my spot on the team and your personal massage therapist,” he murmured, softer now, eyes tracing your smile.

“Now relax,” he continued easily, fingers brushing against your ankle as if he’d done this a hundred times before. His hands were big, warm, his thumbs pressing careful circles into the knots . You melted back, a low groan escaping your throat.

“See? That’s the sound of gratitude.” His grin was smug, but his touch was nothing short of reverent, like he enjoyed the fact that you were letting him take care of you.

You peeked down at him, hair falling into your face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he murmured, pressing his thumb into just the right spot, “you’re not telling me to stop.”

The air thickened between you.You didn’t notice how your leg shifted, how he leaned closer until your knees brushed. A part of you wanted to reach down, thread your fingers into his hair — to let the moment spill into something you both couldn’t take back.

He leaned forward, lips brushing just under your jaw, then lower, kissing the tender place where your shoulder and neck met. Heat bloomed in your chest, your fingers tangling in his hair before you could think better of it.

The air between you shifted. His hands stilled on your ankle, but his gaze lingered — traveling from your painted nails to your bare legs, to the tank top that slid off your shoulder. You felt it like a slow pull, your chest tightening.

He leaned forward and that made your pulse skip. "I told you it was fate."

You swallowed. “Jisung—”

“Mm?” His breath ghosted warm against her skin.

“You’re dangerous.”

He chuckled, straightening only enough to meet your eyes. “You like danger.”

Your laugh was nervous, breathless. “Maybe.”

Maybe was all it took. Jisung tugged you gently down beside him, the two of you sliding beneath the fairy lights and vines, under your fluffy duvet. You curled into his chest, his arm settling securely around your waist as though it had always belonged there.

“Goodnight, Champion,” he murmured, with a press of his lips into your hair.

You don't remember falling asleep. Just warmth. Just the steady beat of his heart.

----------------

Daylight by Taylor Swift

After them came the student body council, loud and brimming with practiced enthusiasm. They promised open-door policies and big plans, standing shoulder to shoulder like an overly rehearsed choir. Then the clubs made their entrances, some stiff, some already chaotic. The debate society marched out in blazers, handing out flyers, while the art collective strutted through with splatters of paint across their aprons. A martial arts club performed a quick demo that made the bleachers roar. The line between order and anarchy thinned with each announcement, but no one seemed to mind.

And then the sports teams.

Each one had their pocket of fans, banners waving and chants rising from the stands. But when the ice hockey team entered, the noise swelled like a tidal wave. Their jerseys caught the light, the metallic numbering gleaming, blades whispering sharp against the rink as they skated out in formation.

At the front of the line was Jisung.

He looked every bit the part-shoulders squared, expression calm but betraying the smallest tug of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He wasn't just another player anymore; he was the youngest team captain the university had ever had. And he wore it as easily as if it had been sewn into his skin.

"Captain Park Jisung," the announcer boomed. "Sophomore, kinesiology major, and leading the second-year run of our ice hockey team."

The bleachers shook with cheers. Mark, Chenle, and YangYang were halfway standing, pounding on the railing and yelling until their voices cracked. Xiaojun, Kun, and Daeyoung weren't far behind, hooting obnoxiously while some of the guys' girlfriends-Giselle, Luna, Seulgi-laughed, phones out to capture their chaos.

Across the way, Karina and Somi clapped from their section, leaning toward each other. Shotaro sat beside them, rolling his eyes like the drama king he truly was deep down and you, in between them, hiding your face with your hands, a blushing sight barely keeping it together.

"Our girl really went and found herself a famous boyfriend," Somi murmured, eyes following Jisung as he skated to center ice.

Karina smirked at you knowingly. "Welcome to the club, bitch. Jeno's got competition now."

The microphone was passed to Jisung. It felt warm in Jisung's hand, heavier than it had any right to be. He turned it in his hands like it was just another puck, lifted it to his lips, and let a grin curl across his face.

He cleared his throat, eyes darting across the vast crowd of students and faculty gathered in the rink.

"So they told me to give a speech," he said, voice cutting through the arena, smooth with that half-serious tone only he could pull off. "I'm not exactly the pep talk type, but I figured...why not start you all off with a toast?"

The crowd stilled, curious.

"To living, stealing, and cheating," he announced, his voice echoing in the chilled arena.

A wave of surprise rippled through the bleachers. Gasps, laughter, a few nervous glances from the faculty rows. Even the dean raised a brow, unsure if they'd heard him correctly.

Jisung's grin widened, the kind that made even the most skeptical lean closer instead of turn away. He lifted an invisible glass into the air.

He let the pause breathe before leaning in.

"To living, I hope you all live your truest selves here and beyond. Do whatever the hell you want. Be unapologetic."

The applause came like thunder, freshmen stomping their feet, upperclassmen clapping along with a hum of approval.

"To stealing, may we all steal the hearts of those we desire, just like I've been doing to my sensational, utterly beautiful pixie." His chest tightened at the word. He'd whispered that nickname a hundred times into your skin, but never had it left his mouth in front of hundreds. "May we cherish them, love them and be stuck with them like it's COVID-19 all over again."

Laughter burst across the rink, bouncing off the ice and walls.His friends shouted the loudest, catcalling until some of their girlfriends shoved at them to stop.

"And to cheating, may we cheat untimely death every single time, with God's grace on our side."

The arena erupted. Cheers, applause, whistles. Students clapped, hollered, whistled. Even the lecturers clapped, shaking their heads with smiles that said he's reckless, but he's ours. Jisung handed the microphone back like nothing had happened, skating to his place while the crowd still hummed with energy.

As soon as he slid off the ice, Mark was on his feet, smacking him on the back so hard he nearly knocked the wind out of him.

"You absolute menace. Did you just make a pandemic romantic?" Mark laughed, eyes bright. Chenle doubled over. "Freshmen are going to quote you in their Tinder bios by tonight." Johnny, who was also with them leaned in, smirking. "Half the girls in the bleachers look crushed. Congrats on becoming public enemy number one."

"Or hero number one," YangYang corrected, cupping his hands to his mouth to mimic Jisung: 'That's my pixie!' The group dissolved into snickers, and Jisung shoved him lightly before sinking down onto his seat. Kun, ever the voice of reason, shook his head but couldn't hide his smile. "You're lucky the professors found you charming instead of insubordinate. Next time, try not to give the dean a heart attack. But Jisung barely heard them. He only shrugged, leaning back, still high off the buzz of it all.

His eyes were already combing the crowd, searching. He knew exactly where you were supposed to be, tucked between Karina and Somi. His brows furrowed when he found only the two of them clapping politely, your seat glaringly empty. Even Shotaro bore a smug smirk.

Confusion gnawed at him. Where the hell-

When the announcer's voice rang out again, Jisung froze. "And now, to close our ceremony, a performance from one of our very own, freshman of the Graphic Arts and Design faculty. Please welcome..."

Somi and Karina caught his frantic gaze from across the rink and-smiling far too smugly, pointed toward the entrance of the ice. And then you appeared, just as your name rang clear through the speakers.

The world shrank.

Your outfit was a blaze against the stark white of the rink. It shimmered like liquid light. A two-piece ensemble in the boldest shades of crimson and midnight, stitched together into a bodice that gleamed like a thousand tiny stars had been captured and sewn into fabric. Flames embroidered along the hem licked up toward your ribs, golden threads catching every spotlight as though you carried fire itself in your step. The neckline dipped into a daring V, softened by sheer mesh, while ethereal sleeves fluttered with each motion, translucent and light, like wings struggling to take flight.

Not far down the line of skaters that had been waiting for their turn throughout the ceremony stood Soojin. Her arms were folded, chin tipped just slightly as she watched, her expression unreadable to anyone but sharp enough to catch Jisung’s friends in the corner of their eyes. She hadn’t clapped when your name was announced, and though the crowd roared now, her gaze was steady, tight, like she was evaluating more than enjoying. Your skirt-layered chiffon, asymmetrical -flared out with every stride, a flash of gold hidden in the folds, daring to reveal itself when you spun. Scarlet satin laces wound up your skates, tied in perfect bows, while your hair streamed behind you, half-up with black and red ribbons that whipped through the air like banners of war and love.

You were incandescent.You took your opening stride, blades slicing into the frozen surface like a promise. Your chest squeezed tight. It's been months. What if I mess up?

The opening chords of Your Love by Jisoo spilled from the speakers, gentle, aching. You glided onto the ice, your body immediately moving in sync with the music as though you'd been born in this frozen cathedral.

Jisung's lips parted, his jaw dropped.

Holy shit. That's mine. That's her.

That's my girlfriend.

He surged halfway out of his seat. "That's her! That's my pixie!" he hollered toward anyone who would listen, his voice cracking, hands cupped around his mouth. "That's mine-look at her!"

People around him chuckled, amused at his lack of restraint. Kun, mortified, dragged him back down by the collar. "That's cute and all, but shut up-you'll miss it."

But he couldn't look away.

You had told him you didn't get picked for any of the performance slots, but then again, you had been distant all week, brushing off his need to see you and have you by his side, and now he knew why.

This was your secret.

Jisung sat up straighter, as though he'd just been blindsided. He'd seen you in practice before the hockey team was given a no entry ban in preparation for the ceremony, but this-this was something else entirely. It was artistry wrapped in fire, confidence stitched into every bead and ribbon.

Out there, gliding like you and the ice had always belonged to each other, you felt the nerves in your chest unravel. The cold beneath your blades seeped up through your bones, not numbing but awakening. You hadn't realized how much you'd missed this until the summer had starved you of it. Now, as you pushed off, spun, and leapt, your body remembered. Muscle memory laced with passion, your heartbeat syncing with every lyric that echoed in the rink. You curved into a spiral sequence, leg extending sky-high behind you, body stretched into a line of fire against the cold. Each spin tightened, pulling the audience in, winding them into your rhythm. The chiffon skirt fanned out, gold flashing with every revolution.

Your love, your love, your love...

Your heart steadied.

This is it. This is home.

The rink was yours, the music flowing through your veins instead of blood, each twirl and impossible stunt pulled out of your soul and carved into the ice. Jisung leaned forward, his chest aching with pride and awe. You were breathtaking, more radiant than even his overzealous mind could have painted you.

When you launched into a spin most skaters only dared attempt, his entire row of friends shot to their feet, hollering. Mark yelled something incoherent. Chenle screamed like a banshee. Even YangYang's voice cracked. And Jisung? He clutched his chest like it might burst. Soojin’s lips parted faintly at the move, the first crack in her composure. But as quickly as it came, it vanished—her hands tightening against her arms, jaw set as though she had already convinced herself it was nothing special. You heard someone scream from the stands, and though you didn't dare look, you knew it was him.

"That's my girlfriend!" he shouted again, half to the crowd, half to himself.The shout ricocheted through the arena, answered by laughter and claps. Your lips almost broke into a grin mid-spin. The song rose, peaked, you bent low, swept your arm across the ice as though painting the surface, then whipped into a Biellmann spin-grabbing your blade, pulling it above your head in one impossible arc.

Gasps scattered through the crowd, the spotlight glittering against the sweat already dewing your forehead. Your muscles trembled, but the release into the next phrase was pure freedom. Jisung's eyes burned. He wanted to memorize every angle, every glint, every note in the way your body and the song fused into one.

She's not just skating. She's flying. She's-holy hell.

The final crescendo came, and with it, your most daring stunt-triple flip into a split jump, your body splitting the air before your skates clattered safely back to the ice. The arena thundered to its feet. Your lungs screamed, but your soul soared. You let the music carry you into the closing pose -arms raised, skirt flaring, ribbons in your hair unfurling, chest heaving as the last note fell away, cheeks flushed from the cold and the adrenaline, hair sticking slightly to your temple.

Silence.

Then an explosion of applause, cheers, whistles so loud they rattled the rafters. Back in the cluster of skaters waiting for their turn to be dismissed, a wide-eyed freshman leaned toward her teammate and whispered, not nearly quietly enough, “She got a standing ovation.” Another nodded quickly, this time a senior, voice pitched high with awe. “Did you see that spin? She did better than Soojin when she was a freshman—way better.”

There was a ripple of nervous giggles, hushed excitement buzzing through the little group like electricity. Even the junior who usually trailed Soojin’s every step couldn’t hide the grin tugging at her face. Soojin’s expression didn’t shift. Not outwardly. But her shoulders went stiff, her nails pressing into her sleeves as though the fabric might tear. She didn’t answer, didn’t correct them, didn’t remind them how many championships she’d captained since then. Instead, she stood in perfect silence, watching as the spotlight swung across the rink—only brighter now, because it was catching you. And Jisung-ignoring Kun's grip on his sleeve, ignoring Chenle's cackling, didn't even think. He didn't wait. The second your blades stilled, he launched himself from the bleachers, barreling down the steps two at a time, half-falling onto the rink in his sneakers like a man possessed.

From her place near the rinkside, Soojin stiffened, eyes narrowing. The disbelief in her features was almost comical as she watched Jisung skid gracelessly toward you, shouting loud enough to echo through the rafters. Gasps turned into laughter as he skidded to you, arms pinwheeling, before catching himself and racing to your side as you bent into a bow, smiling and nearly toppled over when a tall, lanky body came crashing onto the ice beside you.

"Jisung!" you hissed, torn between laughter and horror, reaching out to steady him. "You're not even wearing skates-" But he ignored your scolding, cupping your face in both hands with no hesitation, squishing your cheeks together with cold, shaking hands. Then, before you could protest again, he pressed a flurry of kisses all over your face, your forehead, your nose, your temples, your chin-muttering between each one, his words muffled and chaotic.

"My-god-pixie-you-" kiss "-actually-" kiss "-killed it-" kiss "-what the hell-" kiss "-you kept this from me?" You burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the ice rink as you tried to shove him off. "Stop! You're embarrassing me!" "This-this is why you've been avoiding me all week honey?" he muttered ignoring you completely, finally resting his forehead against yours. His breath fanned over your lips, warm and dizzying. Breathless, half-laughing, half-scolding. "How are you going to make it up to me, huh? Nearly killed me with suspense."

You laughed, breathless, your chest still heaving from the routine. "This." Gesturing to the rink with your cheeks aching under his hands, " is your surprise!" He blinked, momentarily speechless-then laughed, boyish and crooked, like he'd just been handed the world. He pulled back just enough to glare playfully, then scooped you up in his arms, ignoring you completely when you squealed in surprise.

"Careful J!"

"Best surprise ever!"

He spun you once off the ice before setting you right back on your blades, then groaned dramatically, pressing his forehead to yours.

"But you still owe me."

"Owe you what?" you teased, your voice soft, body still trembling with adrenaline. He smirked, that boyish glint in his eyes you knew too well. "A private encore. No audience. Just me. And maybe snacks."

You shoved him lightly in the chest, laughing, but he only pulled you tighter, whispering, "You're insane, you know that? Insanely beautiful. Insanely mine." From the bleachers, the crowd roared even louder than before, the cheers and whistles thundering until the ice seemed to shake. Embarrassed but still smiling, you tugged Jisung upright again, and together you bowed-his sneakers slipping just enough to make you grip his arm tighter. The noise doubled, a standing ovation wrapping around you like a tide

The announcer's voice crackled back through the mic, slightly hoarse from hours of speaking. "And with that breathtaking performance, ladies and gentlemen, we conclude the official opening ceremony of this year's semester. Thank you all for coming, and may the year ahead be just as dazzling as what we've seen tonight."

It was ridiculous, him in his hockey team jacket, you shimmering under the spotlight in your jeweled costume-but to the crowd, you looked like something out of a storybook. Somewhere behind the announcer’s booth, Soojin shifted her weight, looking away as though she couldn’t bear to watch the intimacy—her fingers flexing against her sleeves, teeth catching on her bottom lip when she remembered the phone call she received from Jisung a few weeks into summer ending what she thought was growing.

Applause thundered once more as students began filing toward the exits, voices buzzing with excited chatter. Some freshmen glanced at you with wide-eyed awe, others with a spark of envy, but all of them had seen it: the girl on the ice, and the boy foolishly, hopelessly in love with her. You tightened your grip on Jisung's hand as you guided his clumsy sneaker-steps off the rink, nearly dragging him toward the rubber mats. He wobbled dramatically with every slip, milking it for effect.

"You're going to break your neck," you muttered, still half laughing. "Worth it," he declared proudly, chest puffed out, hair a mess from the tumble. Jisung, still grinning like an idiot, clung to your hand as if letting go would mean the moment might vanish. "Careful," you murmured when he almost slipped again, and with your free hand you guided him gently off the rink, steadying his clumsy feet on the rubber mat leading to the bleachers.

His friends were already crowding close, faces alight with excitement already waiting the moment you stepped off, loud and merciless.

"Holy shit! That was insane!!!"

Mark hollered, doubled over, reaching you first. He was practically bouncing, "Dude, did you just slide into the rink in sneakers?" Then he paused before tugging Giselle forward with a grin."I'm Mark and this is Giselle, by the way," he introduced quickly, tugging the girl by his side closer. She gave a friendly little wave, cheeks pink with pride.

"Nice to finally meet the person behind his recent stupidity."

Before you could reply, Yangyang cut in right after, arm slung around a beaming Luna. "And this troublemaker is Luna. She almost screamed louder than Jisung." Kun stepped forward, half composed, half fighting a smile. "And Seulgi," he introduced, tilting his head toward the girl beside him, who raised her hand politely, her eyes still sparkling from watching the routine.

Before you could even say anything back, Jisung threw his arms out dramatically, nearly knocking you off balance. "Okay, okay, enough, enough-you guys will talk to her later!" he declared, waving them off with exaggerated panic. "Do you want her freezing to death out here? Not on my watch!"

The boys immediately jumped in, piling onto the chaos. "She's literally glowing, Jisung, I don't think she's freezing." Yangyang laughed.

"Dude, she's wearing sequins, not insulation," Mark countered, nudging him. "You might have a point." Kun just shook his head, fighting a smirk. "What are you going to do, carry her to the locker rooms?"

"Don't tempt me," Jisung shot back, already looping an arm around your waist protectively and tucking his chin on your shoulder. "If any of you want her autograph, you're going to have to wait until she's changed and warm. Otherwise, I'm reporting you for an attempted manslaughter."

The whole group erupted into laughter, voices bouncing over each other as they teased and argued, and through it all, Jisung kept you close, eyes still shining like he hadn't yet come down from the high of watching you. From the edge of the ice, Soojin’s stare lingered. The polite smile she offered to a teammate who caught her eye didn’t reach her eyes, her thoughts hidden behind the practiced calm of someone who wasn’t used to losing ground.

He still couldn't believe you were real, couldn't believe you had just pulled off that performance without breathing a word to him. And when you looked up at him, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes still glittering from the rink lights and breathless from the teasing and the noise, you thought -maybe the surprise had been worth every second of secrecy.

--------------

The day after the opening ceremony, campus still felt like it was living inside an aftershock. Buzz lingered in the hallways like static, clinging to every conversation Karina passed on her way to class. She'd barely stepped into the fashion lecture hall before it hit her—clusters of students hunched together, heads bent close, whispers tumbling like loose change. Yesterday had been a lot. Jisung's speech, your performance, the spectacle of him crashing onto the ice like a rom-com extra...it was all anyone wanted to talk about. Karina didn't join in, not really. She didn't have to. She had the luxury of sitting there with a pen twirling between her fingers, pretending to be bored while secretly enjoying every scrap of gossip.

"They said he shouted it across the entire arena—'that's my girlfriend!'"

"Did you see her spin? No way a freshman should pull that off."

"I heard the hockey captain and the ice princess kissed on the rink after. Like, in front of everyone."

Karina bit down on a grin. God, she loved it here. The drama, the chaos, the way her best friend was at the center of every rumor like the universe had chosen her as its favorite plotline. She tucked her hair behind her ear, smug warmth blooming in her chest. That's my girl.

"I swear, she landed it clean—like, triple flip, no wobble. Who even does that?"

"My cousin in kinesiology said the hockey captain was screaming so loud the dean almost fell off his chair."

"I heard he ran onto the rink in sneakers. Sneakers you guys!!!"

Karina smirked into her notebook. Confirmed. He absolutely did. Another voice chimed in, hushed but sharp enough to carry. "Apparently, the performance wasn't even hers originally. Some senior dropped out, and they threw her in last minute."

Karina rolled her eyes. Yeah, sure. And I'm Beyoncé's secret twin.

Then came the one that nearly killed her. "I heard she only got the slot because her boyfriend bribed the committee."

Her laugh cracked out before she could stop it—loud, unrestrained, echoing in the quiet hum of the room. A few heads turned. Karina slapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Please. If anything, that man nearly tripped into the boards just trying to get to her. Bribe? She could bet her serums he doesn't even know where the admin office is.

"Something funny, Ms. Yoo?" a classmate teased from two rows down.

"Everything," she muttered, still grinning.

Before she could dissolve further, the door opened with a decisive click. Their lecturer strode in, heels sharp against the tiles, the kind of entrance that cut through noise like a blade. Instantly, the room snapped into order.

"Good morning," the lecturer said, dropping a stack of folders onto the desk. "I trust you all enjoyed the opening ceremony?" A chorus of polite murmurs followed. Karina sat straighter, pretending she hadn't just been laughing like a lunatic thirty seconds ago. "Good," the lecturer continued. "Because now it's time to shift gears. Today I will hand you your first project."

"Now, since this is your first assignment, I expect diligence. This will test both your technical skills and your ability to collaborate." The energy in the room perked up. Pens clicked, notebooks opened. Karina's fingers tingled with the itch to sketch, to get started, she was already sketching possibilities in her head.

"You'll be paired with a model. Your task: design three pieces that merge their profession with their personality. Cohesion, originality, and wearability will all be graded. Consider this your first true challenge." Pairs began rolling off her tongue. Some students groaned, others squealed when they recognized the names. Karina only half-listened, doodling the outline of a jacket collar in the margin of her page.

"And finally," the lecturer said, scanning the last sheet. "Karina Yoo—you'll be partnered with Johnny Suh."

The name rang out, followed by a low whistle from the back. Karina froze, pen hovering mid-air.

Johnny Suh... who—?

The question answered itself when the back doors creaked open like a badly timed sitcom gag. A tall figure strolled in like the universe had been waiting for his cue. Hair slicked just enough to look intentional, shirt sleeves rolled at the elbows, confidence pouring off him in lazy waves. He had a grin that could probably talk a vending machine into giving free snacks with swagger that could get him arrested in some countries. His backpack dangled off one shoulder like he couldn't be bothered to wear it properly.

"Sorry I'm late," he said completely unapologetic. Zero guilt. Zero rush. He just... existed, like the room had been waiting for him to show up.

The lecturer nodded quickly and lazily waved him over in Karina's direction. And then—he made a beeline for her row. For her. Sliding into the empty seat beside her like it had been reserved. He slouched back with the ease of someone who had never once worried about being late to class.

"Karina Yoo, right?" His grin widened. "Guess we're partners. Lucky me." Karina blinked. The face was familiar in a vague way, did I dream you? kind of way. "Wait," she said slowly. "You were at orientation. I saw you when Jisung  was introducing us to his friends."

His eyes lit up like she'd just confirmed his lottery win. "Knew I recognized you! You were the girl who was pretending to listen while Jisung was dragging his ice princess through introductions." Karina's mouth twitched. "...I wasn't pretending."

"You were totally pretending." He mimicked her blank face, head tilted, nodding way too earnestly. "'Mm-hm, nice to meet you. No idea who you are, but sure, go off.'"

Heat crept into her cheeks. She shoved her notebook between them like a shield. Why does he remember this so clearly?

Before she could recover, Johnny leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "So... to make this whole partner thing easier, I should probably get your number."

Karina nearly choked on air. She snapped her head toward him, eyes wide. "Excuse me?!"

He blinked, surprised. "What? I just mean—"

"Listen, I have a boyfriend." The words tumbled out faster than her brain could filter them. A few students glanced their way, curious. Johnny froze. Then—very slowly—he pressed a hand over his chest like she'd just shot him point blank.

"...Ouch." His voice was solemn, but his eyes were dancing mischievously. "Devastating. Absolutely crushing. And here I thought fate was finally being kind to me."

Someone snickered behind them. Karina sent them a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "But uh..." He held up his phone, wiggling it. "I just meant, like, for assignment purposes? You know, schedules, meeting spots, you might need to fabric swatch me, that's part of fashion design, right?—basic survival logistics."

Karina's face went nuclear. "Oh my god." She smacked her forehead with her palm. "I thought— I mean—you sounded like— Ugh." Her embarrassment only seemed to amuse him further. He leaned closer, dropping his voice until it was just for her. "Don't worry. Easy mistake. Happens all the time when you're this charming."

A couple of students snickered. Karina ignored them, flipping her notebook to a clean page with sharp precision.

Great. A clown.

"So, what do you need to know about me, partner? Other than the fact that I make the best caramel macchiato this side of campus, oh yeah, I play sax at a jazz bar downtown and I am the swim team's captain."

"...You're a barista. A saxophonist." Her pen froze mid writing as she listed off what she just heard with wide eyes, "and a fish?" Johnny grinned nodding, "without the fins baby." He leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head as though the chair was a throne. "Don't worry, you'll catch up. I'm harmless. Unless we're talking about my charm. Can't really turn that off." She shot him a side-eye. "...Do you practice these lines in the mirror or do they just come naturally?"

"Both." He winked.

Before she could throw her pen at him, he drummed his fingers on the desk. "Oh, and since we're sharing—major's biochemistry." Karina's head snapped toward him. "...What?"

"Biochemistry," he repeated casually, like it wasn't the last thing anyone expected from a part-time barista/saxophone-playing/swim-captain clown. Karina stared in disbelief. "...You. Do. Science."

"Yep." He shrugged. "I mix lattes, I mix molecules, I mix Coltrane solos. Multifaced king, that's me." Karina bit back a groan. "This is going to be a long semester."

The lecturer's voice droned on about deliverables and deadlines, but Karina had stopped listening. She buried her face in her notebook.

Lord give me strength.

---------------

The apartment was still half-asleep that morning. The blinds had only been tugged halfway open, slanting strips of sunlight across the floor, highlighting the mess of half-folded laundry and empty ramen cups that had become the scenery of their living room.

Doyoung sat cross-legged on the couch with his laptop open, glasses sliding down his nose, humming as he typed, the keys clicking like a metronome. Jaehyun was leaned back in the armchair across from him, one ankle balanced lazily on his knee, idly scrolling on his phone but clearly watching Jungwoo out of the corner of his eye. And Jungwoo—Jungwoo was just standing there. One hand tugging absently at the strap of his bag, about to leave for a lecture, even though he wasn't leaving, just... standing. Like he'd been caught in some invisible current ever since that night at the rink.

"Alright," Jaehyun finally broke the silence, voice smooth but sharp with intent, "how long are you planning to keep sulking before you tell us what's going on?" "I'm not sulking." Jungwoo's reply was automatic, clipped.

"You are," Doyoung chimed in without looking up. "You've been staring at the same corner of the wall for two weeks. Either you're in love with it or you're haunted."

Jaehyun snorted. "Definitely haunted." He leaned forward now, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing in that older-brother way he couldn't seem to shake. "Spit it out, Woo. What happened? I thought you told me you were going to Seoul National to find Park Jisung for your project. You came back looking like you'd seen a ghost."

The name lodged in Jungwoo's chest. Park Jisung. He'd gone there looking for the hockey star—his subject, his grade depending on this project. But what he'd found instead...

His hands clenched.

"I did see a ghost," he said finally, voice rough. His eyes flicked up, meeting Jaehyun's. "Her." The shift was immediate. Jaehyun sat straighter, phone forgotten, mouth parting as if the name hung unsaid between them, heavy and obvious. Doyoung paused mid-keystroke, glancing between them, clearly out of the loop. "Wait," Doyoung frowned. "Her? Who's 'her'? Don't tell me you actually—"

"It was her," Jungwoo cut him off, sharper now, like saying it any other way would cheapen it. "At the rink. With him."

The memories crashed into him so fast he had to shut his eyes. The ice glowing like spun glass, the echo of your laughter filling every hollow in him, the sight of you twirling with bows in your hair like no time had passed at all. And then—your eyes locking on him, that split second of recognition before you dropped his name like it burned your tongue.

Snoopy.

And then Jisung, cutting across the ice like a blade, planting himself between them, eyes narrowed, body angled like a shield. "Who are you?"

He opened his eyes again, jaw set. "She looked at me like I didn't even exist. And then she said—" His throat tightened. He swallowed. "She told him, 'Jisung, let's go.' Like I wasn't even standing there." Doyoung blinked. "...Wait, wait, wait." He shoved his laptop aside and sat forward, his voice rising with each word. "Back up. You're telling me you just ran into her—after two years—while she was skating with your project partner?"

Jungwoo dragged a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into every gesture as he finally sat down on a mismatched couch. "I didn't just run into her. She was there. Laughing. Happy. Like everything we had meant nothing." He dragged both hands down his face, elbows braced on his knees. "You know what kills me the most?" His voice was quieter now, like admitting it too loudly might break him. "She didn't even blink when she saw me. Like I was just... another face in the crowd."

Doyoung tilted his head, watching him. "And you expected her to what? Run into your arms?" "No," Jungwoo said quickly, shaking his head. Then softer, "But I thought... I thought maybe there'd be something. Recognition. A flicker. Anything."

He laughed under his breath, bitter. "I keep thinking about that night, senior year. Right before some major exams. I was drowning in practice, couldn't think straight, ready to just crash... and she showed up at the school gate during night prep with tteokbokki she'd hidden in her bag. She'd waited for me to finish, freezing her ass off, just so I wouldn't drive home hungry." His throat tightened; the picture was too vivid. You, shoving the container into his hands, grinning like you hadn't just risked getting caught out late.

"She sat on the swings while I ate, talking about nothing and everything all at once. Exams, her friends, some song she couldn't get out of her head. And I just—" Jungwoo's voice cracked, a small smile ghosting across his lips. "I remember looking at her and thinking, God, this is it. This is the person I want to sit with every night, no matter how bad the day is."

The room was silent, heavy with the weight of it. Jaehyun winced slightly, leaning back again.

He remembered it differently. He remembered senior year Jungwoo — the sudden lightness in his step, the dumb grins he couldn't explain. He hadn't known it was you, but he'd known someone had him by the heart. Then he remembered Jungwoo confessing about your break up crying about how he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

The memories leading up to it with you in mind, sneaking off night prep just to drive you home, the way his voice softened when he said your name. He remembered catching glimpses of your smile when you thought no one was watching, how it was always brighter when Jungwoo was near. He also remembered the fallout. Jeno suddenly pulled back and walked with you around campus like a body guard on double shifts and the way you'd cried behind the library when you thought no one could see. Jaehyun shifted, uneasy. "Jungwoo..." he started carefully, but the other boy was already spiraling.

"I could feel it, Jaehyun," Jungwoo insisted, pacing now, voice rising with every confession. "The way she looked at me—it's still there. I just need to remind her. Remind her how it was before." "Before you broke her heart?" Doyoung said flatly.

The silence that followed was sharp. Jungwoo sharply inhaled like he had just been shot to the heart. Doyoung, oblivious to the sting he'd landed, just shrugged. "What? Am I supposed to lie? You dumped her in a parking lot like you were cancelling a subscription. Don't act like she owes you closure." Jaehyun shot him a warning look, but Doyoung held up his hands. "I'm just saying what everyone's thinking."

Jungwoo's chest ached, but he forced the words out anyway, "You don't get it. She was—she is—everything. We just... we had to keep it quiet. Yuta..." His voice faltered on the name. Jaehyun's gaze dropped at the mention too. Yuta. The pact.

A flash of memory hit both of them—the night before Yuta's graduation, three of them on the rooftop, the city lights painting their faces, laughing too loudly on too much cheap soju. "No dating family," Yuta had said, half joking, half serious. They clinked bottles in agreement. And Jungwoo, drunk on your smile, had already been breaking it because he had wanted you for a long while then.

He could still remember sneaking into your room when your parents were asleep, your fingers tangled in his hair as you asked, "We'll tell Yuta soon, right?" He nodded, kissed you until the world blurred. He leaned back, head against the chair. For a second, the apartment around him blurred. All he saw was you, younger with his hair damp wanting to meet you after his basketball practice. He remembered the way you used to whisper his name like it was a secret only you could keep safe. The warmth of your hand under the cafeteria table. The way you grinned that night he promised — stupidly, recklessly promised — that once Yuta came home for a break, he'd tell him everything.

He'd believed it. For months, he let himself believe he was brave enough. But then the guilt had clawed at him until it swallowed everything. He'd broken up with you in the most cowardly way — no explanation that made sense, just a wall of silence and a look in his eyes you couldn't read. He still hated himself for the way your face fell, like you'd been waiting for the ground to disappear beneath you and it finally had. And now, standing in that rink, watching you choose a stranger's side over his, he realized — maybe this was the punishment.

The guilt sat heavy, but the sight of you on the ice had shaken something loose.

Doyoung exhaled slowly, setting his glasses aside. "You know... you're describing her like she's still that girl on the swings. But people change, Jungwoo. Two years is a long time." "Not for me," Jungwoo said instantly, eyes blazing in a way that made both of them pause. "For me, it feels like yesterday. And seeing her at the rink—" His voice dropped. "I can't just let it end like this. I won't." Jaehyun finally spoke, careful. "But what if she doesn't want to go back? What if... moving on was the only way she survived you breaking it off?"

That silenced Jungwoo for a beat. His jaw clenched, but the fire in his eyes didn't dim. "Then I'll remind her. She might hate me now, but she loved me once. And that means I still have a chance." Doyoung groaned, rubbing his temples. "You're insane." Then, softer: "But at least you're honest about it."

Jungwoo sat back, exhaling like he'd finally admitted a truth that had been gnawing at him.

"I want her back," Jungwoo said, softer now, almost pleading. "I know I messed up, but I can fix this. If I just remind her of what we had—" "Woo," Jaehyun cut in gently, "you didn't just mess up. You broke her. And you didn't just break her. Yuta too."

The memory stung. Jaehyun had spent hours on that same rooftop with Yuta, dreaming about the future, swearing they'd stay brothers no matter what. Then college came, and suddenly Yuta wasn't there anymore. No fight, no closure—just distance.

The room fell quiet again, only the buzz of the fridge filling the silence. Jaehyun shifted, uneasy. He didn't understand why Yuta had cut him off all those years ago — the timing never lined up, and Yuta had never explained. But now, hearing Jungwoo's story, he wondered if maybe there were more threads tangled in this mess than he realized.

"He still won't even look me in the eye, and I don't know why. One day he just...pulled away." Doyoung watched them both, brows raised. "You guys really suck at keeping secrets. You do realize you drunkenly told me all this last semester, right? The whole story. The dumb pact, the breakup. I had to carry Jaehyun to bed after he started crying about 'losing his other half.'" Jaehyun groaned into his hands. "God, kill me."

Jungwoo scowled. "Why do you even remember that?" "Because of trauma," Doyoung deadpanned. Then, softer: "Look, man, if you really think chasing her is a good idea, I won't stop you. But...don't expect her to be waiting where you left her. People change. She looks happy. Do you really want to ruin that again?"

The question hung heavy. Jungwoo didn't answer. Couldn't. Because the only thing louder than Doyoung's warning was the echo of your voice in his head, soft and sure as it used to be.

"Snoopy."

And the ache in his chest whispered back, She's still mine. She just needs to remember.

---------------

She pressed her notebook shut as the classroom emptied, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of feet echoing in the lecture hall. Around her, students were already laughing with each other, exchanging socials, clumping together in easy groups like they'd all rehearsed this before. She stayed rooted in her seat. Staring blankly at her closed notebook, pen tucked between her fingers like she couldn't decide whether to pack up or not. She knows she should move. Everyone else already has. But her legs feel glued to the chair.

"Are you planning on renting the seat?"

Her head jerks up, blinking, startled. Mr. Jeong was standing at the front, sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose like he'd ditched formality the second class ended. His tattoos peeked out with every movement, black ink curling down the line of his forearm as he stacks stray papers into a neat pile. He didn't look like he belonged in front of a classroom. Too young, too easy-going — he looked like someone who should've been in the back row, not lecturing at the front. The silver hoop in his lip glints under the fluorescent lights, so out of place on someone who just commanded a room full of students.

Somi fumbles with her bag. "Sorry, I was just—"

"—thinking really hard?" His brow lifts. "You've got that look." She laughs weakly, hugging the strap tighter to her chest. "Is it that obvious?" "Only to someone who's made the same face," he says easily. Then he leans against the desk, folding his arms, watching her with the kind of patience that doesn't push but doesn't look away either. "So, what's got you stuck?"

Somi stares down at her notebook, throat tight. She hated how the words always got stuck there, how heavy it felt to admit she didn't know what she was doing. The words don't want to come, but she forces them anyway. "I just... I don't know what I'm doing. Here. At school. Everyone else seems to have a plan, and I don't. I thought maybe it would click today, but..." She shrugs helplessly. "It hasn't."

For a moment, she braces for silence. Or worse, pity. Instead, Jungkook exhales a low laugh, shaking his head. "That's funny."

Her cheeks flush. "Thanks—"

"No, not at you." His grin is crooked, almost sheepish. "Just—between you and me? That was my first lecture. Ever. As in, first time standing up here and pretending I know what I'm doing."

Her eyes widened. "Seriously?" He lifts a hand like he's swearing in court. "Hand to heart. Half the time I was just hoping I wasn't sweating through my shirt."

The image makes her laugh—loud enough that it echoes embarrassingly in the empty hall. She covers her mouth, but the knot in her chest loosens a little.

"Point is," Jungkook says, softer now, "none of us really know what we're doing at the start. Some of us fake it better than others. And that's fine. You don't need to have it figured out today. Or tomorrow." Somi looks at him, unsure. "Then what am I supposed to do?" "Start somewhere small." He hops up to sit on the edge of the desk, legs swinging. "Clubs, activities, whatever catches your eye. You don't have to marry it—you just test-drive. See what sticks. And if it doesn't? Cross it off the list. You're allowed to figure it out as you go."

She bites the inside of her cheek, mulling it over. "Clubs sound... overwhelming." "Good overwhelming or bad overwhelming?" he asks, tone teasing but not mocking.

"Both?"

"Perfect. That's the best kind. Means you'll actually learn something about yourself." He leans forward, conspiratorial. "Plus, rumor has it some of them bribe new members with free pizza. I'd join a club for less."

She laughs again, softer this time, but genuine.

"Look." His voice settles, steady and reassuring in a way that doesn't feel rehearsed. "You're not behind. You're just starting. And that's okay. Everyone starts somewhere. Even me." He gestures vaguely at the whiteboard with a smirk. "And you saw how shaky my start was." Somi smiles, really smiles, the weight on her shoulders lightening.

"Clubs," she repeats, like she's trying the word on her tongue.

"Clubs," Jungkook confirms. "Worst case, you quit. Best case, you find something that makes this place feel a little less big. I'll count it as extra credit."

And somehow, that makes it feel possible.

-------------------

The mirrors reflected everything.

Every wobble in his balance, every too-sharp angle in his arms, every stray thought that pulled him out of the choreography. Contemporary Technique was supposed to feel free, fluid — but Shotaro's head was too full. He adjusted his hoodie, shook out his wrists, and glanced around the studio as the instructor clapped to start the routine taught.

That's when he noticed her.

Two weeks into the semester, he'd already clocked the quiet girl in the corner — always early, always stretching by the barre, headphones in, eyes down. She never volunteered to go first, never joined the louder students in their gossip. She was just... there. Like a shadow that kept up with every movement but never made noise.

Until today.

The instructor split them into pairs for improvisation drills. Most groaned or joked; the quiet girl didn't flinch. She stepped forward, rolled her shoulders back, and when the music started — she moved. Not perfectly, not polished. But there was something raw about it, a sudden burst of light from someone who usually dimmed herself. Half a laugh slipped from her when she spun too fast and nearly collided with the mirror, and Shotaro, watching from across the room, froze.

He'd never heard her laugh before.

When the drill ended, he was still staring.

And, because Shotaro was Shotaro, instead of shutting up like a normal person, he walked right over, still slightly breathless. "That was... really cool," he said, earnest as ever. She blinked, startled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "...Thanks." "I mean it," he added quickly. "You move like—like you're not scared of messing up. Most of us are, but you just... went for it."

Her mouth twitched, like she wasn't sure whether to smile or brush him off. "I usually don't. But I figured... why not today?" Shotaro grinned, that easy grin that gave away too much of what he was thinking. "Good choice." He stuck out his hand like an idiot. "I'm Shotaro." Her eyes flicked to his hand, then back up. "I know."

Oh. Right. He'd been living loudly in the dance department without realizing it. His ears burned. Before he could scramble for another word, his phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket. He pulled it out absentmindedly — and froze at the name lighting up the screen.

Hana Kim 💋 "You free after practice, freshman?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. He shouldn't smile. He also shouldn't feel the warmth in his ears. Hana had that effect—loud, confident, unapologetic. The kind of girl who didn't ask if she could take up space; she just did, and somehow you found yourself making room. She tilted her head, almost amused at his sudden shyness.

"You okay?" she asked.

Shotaro forced a nod, shoving his phone deeper into his pocket. "Yeah. Just... figuring things out."

"Aren't we all?"

She gave him a small, knowing smile before walking off to a group he assumed were her friends.Then his phone buzzed. This time, Shotaro almost dropped the phone.

Hana Kim 💋 Did you not miss me?

Shotaro's thumb brushed the edge of the screen before sliding the phone face-down on the bench beside him. Across the room, the girl he'd just introduced himself to was laughing at something another dancer said, the sound bright and surprising. For a second, he caught himself staring — not at her face, not even at her laugh, but at the way it made the air in the room feel lighter.

Not loud like Hana. Not showy.

Just... small, real.

His chest tightened. Not in a bad way. Just—different. Their eyes met — just a flicker, nothing more — he felt that same spark of curiosity tugging at him.

Another buzz. This time, he ignored it.

"Good work today, guys!" The instructor clapped, breaking the quiet, and voices rose around him as people trickled toward the door. Bags zipped, sneakers squeaked, water bottles clattered. Shotaro stood, slinging his own backpack over his shoulder. Someone bumped him playfully and he laughed, tossing back some half-formed reply, but his head wasn't in the joke. His head was in two different places—his phone, still buzzing faintly in his pocket, and the girl slipping quietly out the door like she hadn't even been there. It wasn't bad. It wasn't wrong. It was just... two different songs playing at the same time, each one pulling him in a different rhythm.

And if he wasn't careful, he knew, eventually the beat would catch up to him. It probably already was.

-----------------

The projector light hummed against the quiet of the late morning, flickering across the half-dozing faces of first-year students. You'd been half-listening, half-sketching on the corner of your notebook, the thin graphite of your pencil smudging the soft outline of a figure that looked suspiciously like a pair of ice skates tangled in ribbons.

Mr. Kim Taehyung leans against the desk at the front, arms crossed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that made him look effortlessly put together—almost too put together for someone who spent his days surrounded by turpentine fumes and art students. There was always something a little theatrical about him: the kind of professor who could make a lecture about brush strokes sound like poetry.

"Alright," he said finally, closing his laptop with that satisfying snap that meant class was over. Heads perked up like a flock of startled birds. "Before you all escape to wherever you go to pretend you're doing coursework, I have one last announcement." Groans filled the lecture hall. You smiled quietly to yourself.

He grinned—there it was, that glint of amusement behind his glasses. "I'm assigning you something different this semester. A collaboration. Each of you will be paired with a journalism student from Haneul University. Think of it as a... creative exchange. You'll help them visualize their feature projects through art and visuals." Someone in the back muttered something about "extra workload." Taehyung ignored it with the patience of someone who'd taught enough freshmen to know resistance was futile.

Mr. Taehyung's gaze drifts across the class, pausing briefly on each student before landing on you. "I'll send out the official pairings via email tonight. But..." He smiles, that half-smirk that carries equal parts mystery and trouble. "Some of you I'll need to speak to personally." There's a low murmur. The bell rings, a soft metallic echo, and everyone starts to gather their things. You're halfway up when you hear it —

"Stay behind for a moment."

His tone is kind, but leaves no room for debate.

Your head snapped up. "Me?"

He smiled. "You. Don't look so alarmed, you're not in trouble—yet."

Laughter rippled through the room. You tried to laugh too, though your stomach did a small uneasy twist. He'd been at the opening ceremony—the night you'd performed on the ice with the art school's logo projected around you like northern lights. It had felt surreal then, but now his mention of it made warmth crawl up your neck. As everyone packed up, chatter echoing, you gathered your books slowly. The last of your classmates disappeared out the door. Mr. Kim motioned for you to follow him.

You nod, slinging your bag over your shoulder and following him. The hallway is bright, clean, humming with muted echoes of other classes. You trail behind him, catching faint traces of bergamot tea and graphite — the scent that clings to artists who spend more time in thought than anywhere else.

"You did well at the opening ceremony," Taehyung says, unlocking his office. "Your performance was breathtaking." His office feels like a contradiction — part studio, part reading nook, all personality. Canvases lean against the wall, brushes in a coffee mug, photos taped up haphazardly. A tiny cat figurine guards a plant that's barely surviving.

You blink, caught off guard. "You watched?"

He smiles over his shoulder. "Of course."

"That routine — the lights, the choreography — it was moving. You have precision most people only dream about. It's rare to see that kind of focus at your age." The compliment lands heavy and soft all at once. "Thank you... sir." You don't know what to do with it, "It was... nerve-wracking."

"That's art — make them see grace, even when you're falling apart." You almost laugh. "That's... comforting sir." He chuckles, shaking his head. "Taehyung. Calling me sir makes me sound like I need a cane." You're about to reply with a laugh when he gestures for you to step inside. You do — and freeze halfway

Because someone's already there.

The boy turned slightly, light from the large windows catching the curve of his cheek, the familiar slope of his nose. His hair was shorter now, more mature, but that smile—soft, tentative—was the exact one that used to undo you in crowded high school hallways.

Jungwoo.

He sits on the opposite side of Taehyung's desk, sleeves rolled neatly, posture too careful. Your heart doesn't know what to do first. Skip? Stumble? Stop entirely?

The air between you folds inward.

Taehyung doesn't notice, or pretends not to. "Perfect timing," he says lightly. "Jungwoo, meet one of our students. She's very promising in the Graphic and Arts Design program." You don't hear the rest. You only see Jungwoo looking at you, a flicker of something like recognition and disbelief crossing his face.

"...And you'll be working closely together," Taehyung finishes. There's silence — not loud, but thick. Then, his voice again. "You two know each other?"

"Yes," Jungwoo says softly.

"Unfortunately," you answer, just as softly, and Taehyung raises an amused brow.

It's quiet for a moment. Taehyung blinks once, twice, his brow lifting. "...Right. I see this will be... productive." You can't tell if he's fighting a smile or a headache.

"That should make collaboration easier."

It won't. It makes your stomach twist. He starts explaining the project again — tone smooth, deliberate — but the words start to slip away.

Your mind begins to drift, unspooling toward another place just yesterday. The hum of the school's library, quieter than this office, filled with sunlight and dust motes. The air smelled of paper and lemon sanitizer. A chair squeaks softly — you glance up, and Jisung's there, slouched beside you, pretending to study Anatomy but very obviously doodling a tiny stick figure holding a hockey stick. His tongue pokes out as he concentrates — it's ridiculous.

You try not to laugh. You fail. He glances up, eyes glinting. "Don't distract me."

"You're the one drawing stick men."

"They're muscle diagrams," he insists, but his grin betrays him. You lean in to see the page and he leans closer too — too close. You can feel the warmth of his breath near your cheek, the faint smell of peppermint gum. "You're hopeless," you whisper.

"So are you," he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips before he looks away. His hand brushes yours, slow, unhurried — and somehow that's worse than any bold move. It's deliberate. Intentional. Like he's testing the gravity between you. And then he kisses you. Not in a rush, not reckless — soft, careful, as if he's afraid you'll vanish if he moves too fast. It tastes faintly of nerve and sugar from the boba tea he got you earlier that day. You feel his fingers at the back of your neck, his thumb tracing a line that makes your heart do strange things.

The page between you crumples. The sound of your own laugh vibrates against his lips before melting into something quieter, hungrier. He smiles mid-kiss, because of course he does — he always smiles when you're about to fall apart. Your bracelet — his bracelet — presses cool against your wrist. The growing charms glint against the light.

The memory hits too sharply, and suddenly you're back in Taehyung's office.  Jungwoo's faint cologne — cedarwood, familiar, dangerous. The same faint cologne... the kind that once clung to your sweaters long after he'd left. He's watching you. Not smiling now, just studying. You know what he's thinking — because you remember too. Another library, different year. It was dark that day, rain tapping the windows. You'd snuck in during lunch break, laughing about something stupid. He'd pinned you gently against the shelf, books wobbling behind your head as you tried not to giggle. The taste of chocolate milk on his lips, his fingers in your hair, the breathless thrill of being caught and not caring.

You'd whispered his name once — "Snoopy." — and he'd said yours like a promise. Then the sound of a teacher's voice down the hall. Both of you freezing mid-kiss. You'd bitten your lip, fighting a laugh, while he whispered, "Don't breathe."

It felt like the world stopped for you then — young, stupid, infinite. It's that same stupid ache that curls now, low and uninvited. Taehyung rifles through some notes and says, almost casually, "Your subject's an athlete — the captain of the university ice hockey team. Park Jisung."

Your spine stiffens. You blink hard, once. Twice. "I'm sorry—what?"

He looks up, oblivious. "Mr. Park Jisung. Your partner's covering his story. You'll be working together to design the visual concept and videography for it."

And the universe laughs. Loudly.

Jungwoo sits up straighter, eyes darting to yours. The muscle in your jaw tightens. You feel heat crawl up your neck. "I—uh—Professor Kim," you start, hands already waving, "I think there's been a mistake. A serious one."

He looks amused. "Mistake?"

"I can't work with him," you say quickly, gesturing toward Jungwoo. "Please. Anyone else. Literally anyone else. I'd rather—stick pins in my foot or drink paint water." "Charming visual," he muses. "But no. The lists are official. The other university's already paired their students. I can't swap you."

"Please, sir—"

"Why?" His voice is gentle, curious. And before your mind can stop your mouth — "He's my ex."

The silence that follows is biblical. Then, Taehyung sighs slowly,pressing his palms together like he's praying for patience. "Of course he is." The silence stretches and after a beat, your professor replies,"that's... complicated."

You sigh. "Understatement of the century."

Jungwoo's lips twitch like he's fighting back a smirk, and that only makes you more flustered. "It's fine," he says lightly. "We're mature now." "You broke my—" You catch yourself, inhale sharply. "You're not helping."

"And," you add quickly looking at your professor, panic bubbling, "I'm currently dating Jisung."

That stops everything.

Jungwoo blinks, slow. Taehyung's eyes widen before he covers it with an incredulous chuckle. "Well, how could I forget the man's charming declaration." He says dryly, "that adds some... artistic tension."

"Artistic tension?" you echo, horrified. He nods, all warmth and mischief. "You'll be fine. Art thrives in discomfort. You've proven you handle pressure gracefully — I saw it on the ice. Now let's see if you can channel it elsewhere." You groan softly, slumping in your chair. "I hate this semester already."

Taehyung smiles kindly, the mentor mask softening. "You can always come to me if it gets too heavy. And—" his voice lowers, thoughtful— "maybe remember, sometimes the best way to move forward is learning to stay still in what hurts."

You don't know why, but that lands. Too close. Then Jungwoo chuckles, arms folding. "Guess fate wanted a sequel." You glare. "Guess fate ran out of ideas."

Taehyung snorts, shaking his head. "Alright, I'll let you two... catch up." He waves toward the door with a knowing smirk. "Try not to kill each other before the first draft."

Outside, the hallway feels colder. You walk fast, trying to outpace your own heartbeat, when fingers brush your wrist — tentative, but familiar.

"Wait," Jungwoo says softly.

"Can we talk?"

You turn halfway, the word like an exhale. "We have nothing to talk about." He steps closer, eyes glinting with that mix of nerve and nostalgia. "We have a project."

"Then talk about the project," you murmur, voice steady but soft. "Not us." He tilts his head, a half-smile. "You really think you can just separate it? After everything?" You want to say yes. You want to sound sure. But the truth is, his voice still sounds like old songs and unresolved goodbyes.

"I have to," you whisper instead.

His laugh is quiet, sad. "You're still wearing it." His gaze drops to the silver chain around your neck — the one he gave you at the start of your relationship.

You freeze. "It doesn't mean what you think."

"Then tell me what it means."

You can't. You touch it anyway — not because it reminds you of him, but because it's a habit, a nervous tick, a thread you forgot to cut. The pendant is cool against your skin, and beneath it, the bracelet Jisung gave you glints softly — the one that actually anchors you now.

His eyes soften. "You haven't changed." You meet his gaze, calm, almost kind. "You have no idea."

The look in his eyes is too familiar — that small, hopeful tilt, like he's remembering the same late nights and stolen kisses you swore you'd buried. The hallway blurs for a moment, replaced by another memory of a different corridor — one lined with lockers and bad lighting, your back against cool metal as Jungwoo kissed you breathless, laughter dying on your tongue when someone walked by, you had both skipped class then.

And yet, even as that memory stings, another overlays it — Jisung's hand against your cheek in the quiet of his team's locker room hours after practice. You straddling him, the soft scrape of his thumb against your jaw, his breath against your lips before you pulled him closer. The way he whispered your name like a promise.

That memory glows warmer, brighter — the kind that stays. You glance down now at the charms adorning the bracelet on your wrist — the one Jisung gave you long before you even knew what he'd mean to you. It grounds you. Keeps you here.

Jungwoo's voice brought you back. "You still do that," he said softly. "Play with your jewelry when you're nervous." You looked up, meeting his eyes. There was sadness there — but also something like stubborn hope.

"You shouldn't read into things," you said.

"Can't help it."

He stepped closer, just enough that you could feel his breath. "Do you ever think about us?" You blinked, forcing the memory of Jisung's smile to the front of your mind like a shield. "Not the way you want me to."

He flinched, just slightly. "We were good once."

"So are fireworks," you said, voice steadier than you felt. "They still burn out."He laughed softly — brokenly. "You always have a line ready."

"And you always talked like you'd never run out of time."

A silence stretched between you — not empty, but heavy with everything you weren't saying. He looked at you, really looked, and for a second, you could almost see the past pressed over the present: him at seventeen, smiling through messy hair and reckless decisions..

But those memories don't belong to you anymore.

Now there's Jisung — his warmth, his teasing, the way he holds you to sleep, the way he loves being around you, the way he kisses you like you are something new every time. And you're realizing, with a strange ache, that your heart stopped living in the past the moment he started making it feel seen again.

You exhaled slowly. "We'll meet for project work next week," you said. "Public place. No nostalgia." Jungwoo nodded. "Sure." But his voice was soft, almost hopeful. "It's still nice seeing you again."

You pull free, finally, and his hand lingers midair, empty. You turned before he could see the small, conflicted smile that crept up anyway.

"Goodbye, Jungwoo."

As you walked down the hall, sunlight spilling across your path, the bracelet glinted at your wrist — a reminder not of who broke you, but of how far you'd come since. Behind you, Jungwoo watched, his hand resting over his chest where his own pendant once hung. The ghost of warmth clinging like memory, mistaking your quiet for hesitation instead of peace.

He smiles — not happy, but certain. "You're still wearing it," he murmurs again, almost to himself. "That has to mean something."

And maybe that was the tragedy of it — he thought the story was starting again.

You already knew it had ended.

The library was alive with quiet chaos, the kind only law students could manage. Pages flipped, pens scratched, someone at the back sneezed and immediately cursed under their breath about precedent. Yuta sat at the corner table, shoulders squared, laptop open.

Across from him, Taeyong was a fortress of discipline, hunched over his stack of casebooks like a hedgehog's quills with a rainbow of highlighters in reach. His posture was sharp as though discipline alone could anchor the world. Ten, predictably, had abandoned all pretense of studying; he was leaned back in his chair trying to balance a pen on the tip of his nose and failing spectacularly. Still, his grin wide as if exams were a game he intended to lose beautifully.

"Concentration is a skill," Taeyong muttered without looking up.

"Concentration is a prison," Ten countered, the pen rolling off his face and clattering to the floor. He groaned dramatically with a wicked grin as he turned toward Yuta," Hyung, back me up. Tell him the human brain was not designed for this much Latin." Yuta smirked, eyes flicking over his screen, lost against his will. "You'd know about prison if you sat through your lectures instead of skipping them."

Then he added, "besides, your brain wasn't designed for much at all." Ten gasped in betrayal, clutching his chest. "A knife, straight to the heart!" "He's not wrong," Taeyong deadpanned, highlighting another line like his life depended on it.

"You both wound me," Ten sighed, leaning back with theatrical despair already reaching down for his pen. "Unbelievable. You two deserve each other," Ten muttered when he came up again, leaning back on his chair with his arms crossed. "You know this is useless, right?" Ten murmured, now flipping his pen between his fingers. "None of this will matter when we're all crying during finals."

"Speak for yourself," Taeyong muttered with an obnoxious roll of his eyes. "I plan on surviving." "You plan," Ten said dryly, "but then Yuta here will save your ass like he always does." He nudged Yuta with his foot under the table. Yuta smirked faintly, though his eyes didn't leave his laptop screen. "Don't drag me into your academic failures."

"Failures?" Ten gasped. "Excuse me, I'm thriving. I'm an artist." He held up his notebook for proof, revealing a sketch of Taeyong slumped under a pile of books with the caption Here lies Taeyong, killed by negligence law. Taeyong sighed, long-suffering. "You're insufferable."

"And you love me," Ten shot back, grinning.

Yuta chuckled under his breath, fingers tapping over the keyboard. It felt good, normal. The steady beat of banter, the rhythm of work. A rhythm that didn't hurt. For a moment, it almost erased the weight that had been pressing on his chest for months.

Almost.

Because it only took Ten leaning across the table to yank one of Taeyong's books and flip it open upside down, grinning, "What even is this? Do you guys ever stop?" Taeyong snatched it back, muttering, "Give me that before you spill coffee on it—"

Ten cackled, holding it just out of reach, his laughter bouncing against the shelves like a ricochet.

And that was when it happened.The sound split something open. Too sharp, too familiar.

Yuta froze.

Because suddenly he wasn't in the library anymore. He was seventeen again, pressed into the corner of his family's study room, watching as Jungwoo snatched a notebook from Jaehyun and waved it above his head. Laughing so hard he nearly knocked over his drink. So unrestrained, boyish, a burst of joy that made the room feel too alive.

The sound had been sharp and alive, filling every crack of silence Yuta didn't know he had. He recalls pretending to be annoyed but unable to stop the curl of a smile tugging at his lips. Shotaro egging him on. Jaemin laughing so hard he fell sideways in his chair, Jeno throwing a balled-up page at you with a shy smile over something you'd told him about Karina.

You had been there too, cheeks flushed from your own laughter, looking at Jungwoo like he was the only star you wanted to follow. The sound had been sharp and bright, so loud it filled every corner of Yuta's chest.

It had been easy then. Effortless.

The memory pressed against Yuta's ribs until it hurt. He could still feel the shadow of that night so many months later —coming home early from university, stepping out of a taxi only to catch sight of Jungwoo's vehicle parked by the curb. His sister leaning in through the passenger side window. Jungwoo kissing you like he didn't care who saw. And Yuta standing there, invisible, with fear clawing its way up his spine. Fear that Jaehyun's sister might tell. Fear of his own secret leaking. Fear of what it meant that he liked Jungwoo too, if he liked Jungwoo too.

Fear that made him do the one thing he could never take back. The pact. Family is off-limits. A sentence he knew broke two hearts but saved his pride. It echoed still, except now it came hollow.

Now it was gone.

"Hyung?" Ten's voice pulled him back. His grin faltered when he caught the faraway look on Yuta's face. "You spaced out. You good?" Yuta blinked, once, twice. He straightened, fingers tightening on his keyboard, knuckles pale. He forced them loose. He nodded once, quickly, "I'm fine."

"Mm," Ten hummed with a tilt of his head unconvinced.  "Fine like 'I aced the exam' fine, or fine like 'I'm two seconds from losing my mind' fine?" he asked carefully, studying him now instead of the book. "Fine like 'stop talking and study,'" Yuta said evenly, though the smile tugging at his lips didn't quite reach his eyes.

He forced his voice steady, steady enough that Taeyong barely glanced up. Taeyong, oblivious, muttered, "Finally, someone who gets it," before returning to his notes. Ten rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath while flopping against the table, "Robots, the both of you."

But Yuta wasn't a robot. Not when his chest tightened at the ghost of a voice, not when the memory of Jungwoo's laugh lingered sharp in his chest, refusing to dissolve. Not when he still remembered how gravel crunched under the tires that night, how the sight of Jungwoo's hand brushing your cheeks had nearly knocked the breath out of him. He was a man who carried a laugh that didn't belong to him anymore, a laugh that never truly belonged to him in the first place. A sound that reminded him what he'd ruined—not just for himself, but for his sister too.

He definitely wasn't a robot, not when the library's silence was suddenly too loud, every shuffle of paper echoing against what was missing. Not when the cursor on his screen blinked like it knew what he refused to admit.

Ghosts didn't knock before entering.

Ten slumped back in his chair, "I was thinking, funny how we build all this pressure around grades, but five years from now, are we even gonna remember these cases?" "Of course we will," Taeyong argued.

"They'll haunt us in our sleep."

Ten snorted. "You're already haunted."

But Yuta didn't join in the laughter this time. He bent his head over his laptop, the clack of keys loud in the hush of the library. If he typed fast enough, maybe he could outrun the memory. Maybe he could believe the life he built here—between statutes and long nights and friends who had no idea—was enough. But the truth clung, Yuta sat there with Jungwoo's laugh still ringing in his ears—like a ghost that refused to leave.

A laugh you once loved.

A laugh he'd silenced.

The smell of vanilla still clung to the apartment, sweet and warm. The cheesecake gleamed like a crown jewel under the kitchen light. You had just finished dusting it with powdered sugar, arranging strawberries and curls of chocolate like they belonged in a glossy magazine, when the faint clink of a knife against porcelain made you whip around.

There was Jaemin—knife in hand, shoulders hunched like a raccoon caught digging through trash, mid-slice into your masterpiece.

"Na. Jaemin." Your voice cracked like thunder.

He froze. "...hi?"

You lunged, practically rugby-tackling him away from the counter. The knife clattered harmlessly against the plate. "Are you insane?! This isn't yours!" He clutched his chest dramatically. "Insane? Me? I'm literally saving us from starvation. You're hoarding snacks like Gollum hoards rings. What's one slice?"

"It's not just a slice," you snapped, guarding the cheesecake in your arms like a newborn. "This is for the Neo frat house. Do you know how long it took me to decorate this?" "Not long enough, apparently, since I found it unguarded."

"Jaemin!"

He jabbed a finger at the cake. "Why do you even need to take them dessert and a giant jar of kimchi? Who even does that? Are you offering Jisung's groom price? Should we throw in some cows while we're at it?" You gawked. "What is wrong with you? My mother raised me right, that's what. You don't show up empty-handed."

"Yeah, but cake and fermented cabbage? You sound like someone trying to bribe the village elder."

Heat rose to your cheeks. You opened your mouth to argue, but the truth slipped in like it always did, you weren't just bringing food out of politeness. You were nervous. This was your first official party with his people, and you wanted—needed—them to like you. What if they thought you were boring? What if they thought you didn't belong with Jisung? What if they laughed behind his back for dating the girl who was shy and awkward all the time?

The cheesecake wasn't just dessert. It was your insurance policy.

"I just..." you muttered, eyes darting away, "I want them to see I'm trying. That I'm not just... tagging along because of Jisung." Jaemin tilted his head, squinting at you in concern. "You're seriously overthinking this."

Maybe you were. Probably you were. But the thought of walking into that frat house empty-handed made your stomach twist.

And then another memory pushed in—Jisung, leaning against the campus gate just yesterday, eyes wide like a puppy when he asked, "Will you come with me to the party? Please? I don't wanna go without you."

The way his hand had hovered, unsure, before lacing through yours when you said yes. The grin that had burst across his face, unfiltered, unguarded. Like you were his world. The memory alone made your chest ache in the best way. You wanted to belong, if only for him.

"Fine," Jaemin said, interrupting your spiral. "Take your little peace offerings. But don't come crying to me when they think you're proposing marriage."

You smacked his arm with the dish towel, earning a loud laugh.

"Touch it and die."

Before he could argue, Karina swept in like a tornado, eyeliner wing sharp enough to kill, hair half-done but already gleaming. She took in the scene—Jaemin pouting, you practically straddling the cheesecake like a bodyguard—and rolled her eyes. "Jaemin, leave her alone. She'll bite you," Karina muttered, then grabbed you by the wrist. "You—up. Now. Jisung's going to be here any second and you're still in pajamas!"

"I'm wearing shorts!" you cried as she dragged you toward her room.

"Those aren't clothes, they're fabric suggestions."

"Wait—the cake—"

Somi appeared from the hall like backup, already munching on chips. "I'll babysit the cake. Go before she rips your arm off." Jaemin, of course, yelled after you as Karina dragged you down the hall, "Don't forget the kimchi dowry!"

"Shut up, Jaemin!" the three of you chorused.

Karina's room looked like a battlefield of beauty products. Palettes lay open like wounded soldiers, curling irons hissed faintly from the outlets, and Somi sat cross-legged on the bed scrolling her phone, surrounded by a minefield of lipstick tubes.

Karina shoved you into her vanity chair. "Sit. Now."

The space smelled like vanilla body mist and fresh laundry, sunlight cutting across her siren blue drapes. You raised your chin. "For the record, I can do my own makeup when I decide to."

Karina arched a brow. "Mmhm."

You scoffed, already reaching for your makeup bag, when did she even get this in here?

"Please. I know how to do my own face. I've survived prom season. I've watched enough YouTube tutorials to qualify for a license and a PhD in contouring." Somi grinned. "She's right. I've seen her eyeliner. Girl's got a steady hand." "Fine," Karina conceded, tossing you the mirror. "But if you mess it up, I'm intervening."

"Over my dead body," you muttered, unscrewing your foundation pump. Somi peeked up from her phone. "If she does, let me record it for the group chat."

"Traitor," you said, dotting concealer under your eyes, Somi only rolled her eyes with her tongue out playfully. The three of you fell into rhythm—Karina curling her own hair, you blending foundation, Somi occasionally holding up outfit options and making faces. The conversation unraveled as naturally as mascara clumps. The motions were familiar, grounding. Almost enough to keep your thoughts from spiraling again.

Almost.

Somi glanced up from her phone. "So... are we gonna talk about your skating captain, what was her name again?  Did she say anything after your performance? Is she still doubting your capabilities? or are we supposed to ignore that?"

You hesitated, dabbing at your cheeks. "...I don't get her."

Both girls leaned in.

"She acts like she doesn't care about Jisung or his friends, like they're beneath her. But the way she talked about him..." You trailed off, biting your lip. "It felt like she wanted him. And she's... she's good. Gorgeous even, lowkey they could be the perfect match."

The words tasted bitter, and you hated yourself for even thinking of them despite nothing being certain.

"What if he realizes he wants better?" you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Silence.

Then Karina scoffed, tossing her curling iron aside. "Please. He looks at you like you are the reason for his existence on earth. Soojin or anyone could skate at the Olympics and he'd still only have eyes for you." Somi nodded firmly. "Exactly. If anything, she's the one who should be jealous."

Their certainty didn't erase the knot in your chest, but it loosened it just enough.

"Today would have been perfect if Jeno were around. It's the weekend for God's sake!" Karina suddenly groaned, picking up the curling iron again and  tugging it through the bits of undone hair remaining. "Where even is Jeno?" you asked, blotting your mascara. She waved the curling iron like a sword. "Some engineering field trip. Or sightseeing project. Honestly, he explained it like he was defusing a bomb." Somi snorted. "He's probably just building Lego for credit."

"Don't expose him like that!" Karina howled, and the three of you broke into laughter.

When the giggles calmed, Somi tilted her head. "So... what about you? How is school?" You groaned dramatically, reaching for your setting spray. "Fate is against me at this point. That's the only explanation."

Both girls perked up.

"Spill," Karina demanded curling iron carelessly thrown aside again you were sure if it had feelings it would've already broken up with her over the negligence. "I got roped into being Jungwoo's graphic designer for his project," you said, spritzing your face.

Immediate twin winces.

"Oooooh," Somi hissed.

"Yikes," Karina muttered.

"And to make it worse? My subject is Jisung."

Somi slapped her forehead. "That's... messy."

"So messy!"

"You think?" you cried. "It's like the universe is playing connect-the-dots with my misery." There was a pause. Somi fiddled with a tube of gloss, then asked softly, "If Jungwoo wanted you back... would you say yes?"

The air thickened. You capped your setting spray, staring at your reflection.

"No," you said at last. "I've healed. I'm not doing that again."

But your voice trembled just enough for both girls to catch it.

The door creaked, and in walked Jaemin with a half-empty cereal bowl, plopping down on Karina's rug like he'd been invited. "So," he announced, milk sloshing, "what shade of lipstick are we committing to? Because I have opinions."

"Out." Karina threw a hair clip at him.

"Nope," he said cheerfully, dodging it. "I'm one of the girls. Also, you're out of snacks, and someone"—his eyes landed squarely on you, "defended a cheesecake like it was the crown jewels. This cereal is all I have." "I baked another one and it is cooling in the fridge!!" You defended with your hand up disbelieving the whining big baby cradling cereal like it was his last meal.

"Jaemin, you are my stepbrother," Karina deadpanned, mascara wand mid-stroke. "You don't get to weigh in on my lipstick. Or hers." "Exactly because I'm your stepbrother, I'll be honest. No bias." He turned to you, eyes scanning. "You have the kind of face that can pull off both bold red lips and a soft pink gloss. It depends: femme fatale, or approachable girlfriend?"

Somi smacked him with a pillow. "Why are you like this?"

He cackled, milk nearly spilling.

Later, as the three of you applied the final touches, Jaemin munching on the chips Somi left, cereal still drowning in milk—lipstick, earrings, hair—you noticed Somi had gone quiet and was picking at the hem of her skirt.

"What's wrong?" you asked gently. Somi shook her head, though her smile wobbled. "Nothing, I'm just not sure of anything these days." Her words were softer, heavier. And when we all turned to her, she fiddled with her sleeve. "I still haven't chosen a course. I've been joining clubs, trying to find something, but—" her voice cracked—"I feel like everyone else already knows who they are. And I just...don't."

Her eyes brimmed, and the two of us immediately abandoned our brushes, lipsticks, everything. You wrapped your arms around her first, Karina following right after.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," you whispered into her hair. "you're going to be okay." Karina tightened the hug.  "You're not behind—you're exploring. That's brave." "And confidence?" you added softly. "That's not something you're born with. It's... pretending you're the main character until one day you start believing it. Personally, I imagine Beyoncé narrating my life."

That actually got a laugh out of her, shaky but real.

"Beyoncé?"

"Yes. Who else could carry my inner monologue?" you said with mock seriousness. Karina chuckled harder, pulling away to carefully dab Somi's cheeks dry with a tissue, daring not to mess with her makeup. "She's right. You'll figure it out. And we'll be here for every step." You squeezed Somi's hand. "And if you want... I'll sign up with you. Whatever clubs you're trying. We'll figure it out together."

Her eyes softened. "You would?"

"Of course."

Her answering smile made your chest ache in the best way.

"See?" Karina said firmly. "You're going to figure it out. And we're here until you do. Every step." Somi sniffled, smiling weakly. "You guys are the best." "And so am I," Jaemin cut in, arms wide like he expected to be included in the hug. "Don't forget about me, ladies."

Karina threw another pillow at his face. "Shut up."

Regardless, he got up from the rug and pulled you all in.

The room dissolved into laughter again, warm and chaotic, like we'd spun a cocoon against the rest of the world. For a moment, even with all the uncertainty simmering beneath your skin, you felt...safe. By the time you stood again, your hair fell in loose waves, your makeup glowed, and Karina tossed you the short red dress you bought with her over a summer retail day. You hesitated in the mirror, but when you slipped it on, it felt like stepping into sunlight. The skirt flared just above your thighs, the neckline framed your collarbones, and the shade of red made your lips look fuller, your skin warm.

The room actually fell quiet. Karina and Somi both blinked at you, wide-eyed, and even Jaemin let out a low whistle. "Damn," he muttered, cereal spoon frozen mid-air. "If Jisung doesn't worship the ground you walk on tonight, I will and he'd be clinically insane."

"Wow," Karina breathed.

Somi clutched her heart. "Jisung's jaw is going to hit the floor."

For the first time that night, you felt almost... enough. Heat rushed up your neck, you forced a laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before taking a brush to tame your wild hairs. "Okay, enough. We're not starring in The Bachelor."

But even as the teasing picked back up, your nerves returned. Because being beautiful didn't guarantee belonging and despite him declaring you were his girlfriend to the whole school, he technically still hasn't asked you yet. And then, as if summoned, Somi glanced up from putting a clay mask on Jaemin when he threw a fit about wanting it. "So...are you really okay with working with Jungwoo? Like, what if he...you know. Tried something?"

The brush in my hand stilled.

"Stay still or you'll mess up Karina's bed then she'll disown you." Somi scolded, hitting his arm when Jaemin tried to reach for his cereal bowl. "I already do." Karina deadpanned with a roll of her eyes.

For a moment, the room blurred—the memory of his face at the rink flashed, the way he'd looked at you like you were oxygen and he'd been holding his breath for years. The way your chest had twisted, torn between anger and the ache of something that still lived in your bones. Would he want you back? God, the thought had clawed at you every night since.

And what terrified you most was that you didn't know how you would respond.

"I wouldn't..." your voice faltered. You cleared my throat. "I wouldn't take him back. Not after the way he left me." "You sound unsure," Somi said gently, not accusing—just noticing.

You pressed your lips together, staring at your hands. "It's just...Like, what are the odds I'd be shoved back into his orbit like this? Him as my project lead, me as his designer. And then there's Jisung."

At his name, your heart pulled tight. "He makes me so happy. But sometimes..." I exhaled shakily. He's so different in the best way possible guys!!!" You laugh at yourself a little, not really sure what you were trying to say, "he's so bright and honest and bare. I've never had that. Do I deserve that? Do I deserve him?"

Jaemin pouted and Somi sighed.

"You do and so much more my love," Karina said, holding you at arms length while rubbing your shoulders reassuringly.  "Embrace everything. All of it. And if Jungwoo can't handle the fact that you're not his anymore, that's his problem."

LATER...

The night air is sharp with autumn chill, and the further you, your brother, Jisung and your friends walk toward the Neo frat house, the more alive the campus feels. Music is already pulsing faintly through the ground, bass thudding like a heartbeat, laughter spilling into the street.

Jisung is next to you, one hand wrapped around the cheesecake box like it's made of gold, the other holding your hand firmly. Shotaro trudges just behind you, the giant jar of kimchi balanced in his arms, muttering under his breath about how stupid this looks. Karina and Somi trail a little behind, their voices overlapping in fast, nervous chatter. You tug at the hem of your red dress. Your small black purse knocks gently against your hip as you walk. Your heels click on the pavement, steady, even though your heart isn't. You keep thinking about how foreign this feels—loud music, frat house lights glowing like a beacon ahead. This is Jisung's world, not yours. And yet, with his fingers laced through yours, it makes it feel familiar, like you belong here, too.

"Are we seriously bringing kimchi to a frat party?" Shotaro grumbles, hugging the jar tighter. His hood is up, his voice muffled but loud enough for everyone to hear. "She looks amazing, but then she's hauling fermented cabbage like she's catering —do you hear yourself?"

Before you can snap back, Jisung beats you to it. "No, dude, you don't get it," he says, his tone full of mock seriousness, but his eyes are already sparkling.

"Kimchi is a peace offering. It's a declaration of alliance. No more fights over the stolen stash in the fridge. And cheesecake, cheesecake is the hangover cure for tomorrow. If it'll last till tomorrow that is. Trust me, she's saving lives." That earns him a laugh from Karina, who tosses her hair. "You're so dramatic."

"Not dramatic, visionary," Jisung shoots back, and you can see he's enjoying this far too much. You bite back a nervous smile. What if they laugh? What if they don't take me seriously?  You glance at him carrying it like a baby now, muttering curses in Japanese. He notices you watching and shakes his head. "You're really doing too much."

"Don't listen to him."Jisung raises your joint hands to quickly place a kiss at the back of yours. His voice is low, warm."Cupcake, the guys are going to love you. They'll be too busy fighting Kun for a slice to even breathe."

Your lips twitch despite yourself. You roll your eyes, but the heat in your chest is impossible to ignore. The frat house looms ahead, three stories lit with string lights crisscrossing the porch. The yard is full of students, red cups flashing in their hands, music spilling out every time the door opens. Someone's already trying to climb onto a friend's shoulders for a better view.

And then—like a firecracker—Chenle bursts out the door. "THEY'RE HERE!" His voice slices through the music, arms flailing like he's announcing royalty. "JISUNG BROUGHT HIS ICE PRINCESS!"

You nearly drop dead on the spot.

Heads turn. People cheer. Someone wolf-whistles. Jisung, of course, thrives. He puffs out his chest like a proud idiot and lifts the cheesecake box higher, like he's showing off a trophy, hand never leaving yours. Shotaro groans loudly behind us, "Kill me now."

Xiaojun races down the steps, grinning like a menace. His gaze locks on the jar. "Wait. Is that—" He gasps, pointing. "KIMCHI?!" The crowd reacts as if you brought a celebrity. Suddenly half the frat is surrounding you, their eyes bouncing between the box and the jar. Hendery actually gestures to the bowl in his hand. Something that looks suspiciously like leftover pasta. "Would it be wrong if I... mixed?"

"ABSOLUTELY NOT," you yelp, clutching Shotaro's arm before he can drop the jar in horror.

The laughter explodes around you, voices overlapping. Someone shouts, "Protect the kimchi!" Another adds, "Kun's gonna lose his mind." As if summoned, Kun appears in the doorway, Seulgi by his side. His eyes narrow, suspicious, but then land on the cheesecake box. His entire face transforms. "Is that... sugar?"

All heads swivel.

You open your mouth to answer but Xiaojun beats you to it, staring at you like you were some rare species he just discovered over Kun's shoulder. "You made it?" His voice is reverent, almost accusing. "Like actually?" "Uh..." you nod, clutching your little black purse tighter against your side, suddenly aware that you are on some weird stage. "Yes?"

Suddenly, the whole group groans like they've been personally betrayed.

"Where has she been all our lives?"

"She's not real."

Jisung chooses that exact moment to step behind me, "Back off," he says smugly, bending low and dropping his chin on your shoulder. His voice is light, touch light but possessive. "She's taken."

The groan is deafening. "BOOOO." "I'm gonna puke." "Get a room!"

Your face burns hot, but Jisung just presses a quick kiss to the nape of your neck, unbothered. Like he's trying to stamp ownership on you before anyone else can steal you away.

It makes the whole circle of guys erupt.

Your heart does that thing again —the one where it stumbles like it's learning to run.  "Ewww," Chenle clutches his half-empty red cup like it's proof he's in emotional pain. "I'm blind, I'm blind!" He stumbles dramatically, almost knocking into Yangyang, who has to sidestep with his bowl of chips like a man guarding treasure.

"Bro, did you just—?" Renjun chokes on his drink, eyes wide, half horrified, half gleeful. "That was so gross. In front of us? Really?" "Ah, he's down bad," Hendery singsongs, twirling the questionable fork he still has from earlier like a conductor in charge of everyone's mockery. "Mr. Hockey has fallen. The ice princess got him good."

The chaos is too much, too loud. You feel your cheeks heat, not just from the kiss or his touch but from how instantly the frat has turned this into their newest sport. Jisung doesn't even flinch. If anything, he pulls you into his chest, sliding his arms more firmly around your waist like it's a badge of pride. "Yeah," he says, calm as ever, smug in a way that makes you want to pinch him. "What about it?"

That sets everyone off again —groans, fake gagging, someone clapping like it's a drama scene. Shotaro clears his throat obnoxiously loud. "Cute. Really. But look at the desperate mess you've created." He jerks his head at the counter behind us, where the cheesecake and kimchi have been placed like sacred offerings. "She's bribing you people with food. Tragic."

"I wouldn't call it tragic," Kun says seriously, already cutting into the cheesecake with a plastic knife. "I'd call it divine intervention." The room erupts again, plates being pulled from nowhere, half the frat clamoring for a slice. Someone yells, "Kun's not sharing!" and another voice, "Protect the kimchi from Hendery!"

It's chaos—warm, loud, dizzying chaos.

Through it all, you are standing there trying not to let your knees buckle. This is his world. It's overwhelming, but... somehow, you are smiling. Karina slips away, called over by a friend across the room. Somi announces she's going to hunt for punch and disappears with determination. Shotaro —traitor that he is —spots a group of upperclassmen from his own frat and waves a bunny at you —your signature goodbye signal since you were babies, before ditching.

And then, chaos doubles. It's just you and Jisung in the middle of the storm. Because Kun, who's been suspiciously quiet while licking cheesecake crumbs off his fork, suddenly goes, "Wait, wait, wait —I still can't believe you made this yourself."

Even Seulgi is humming beside him in disbelief while licking crumbs off her thumb. You simply nod with a shy smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your burning ear. Kun straightens immediately, fork still in hand like a weapon of truth. "No wonder it tastes better than anything I've had in this house."

"Hey!" Chenle shoots up from his fake death to protest. "What about the ramen nights I made—"

"No one counts your ramen nights, Chenle," Renjun cuts in flatly. "She made cheesecake," Xiaojun repeats, still looking like he's trying to rewire his brain around this fact. For someone who's supposed to be the culinary major, it clearly does something to his pride. "You really—like —you baked it? With your own hands?" "Yes," you say again, a little sharper this time because what is with them? "It's just cheesecake."

Kun shakes his head, pointing his fork at you with absolute seriousness. "Not just cheesecake.' This is..." He shoves another bite in his mouth, eyes fluttering shut like he's about to cry. "This is art. This is—" "Okay," Hendery interrupts, waving his fork like a referee flag. "But what about the kimchi? Because, uh—"

"You'll get food poisoning!" Jisung and Renjun snap at the same time, cutting him and his wild ideas off. The whole room cracks up. Hendery pretends to sulk but puts the fork down, muttering something about "fine, keep your sacred cabbage." "It's not sacred, it's just—" you start, but Xiaojun gasps again like you were confessing murder.

A light bulb seemed to have gone off in his head.

"Wait. Don't tell me you made the kimchi too."

This time, your laugh comes out before you can stop it. "No, that's my mom's. I just... stole it." "You what?" Yangyang nearly chokes on a chip. "From the apartment stash," you admit, biting your lip to keep from laughing harder. "It's —technically it belongs to all of my friends' and I. But I stole it."

For a moment, there's silence. Then,

"Marry me," Kun blurts with his mouth full of cheesecake. "I'm sure Seulgi wouldn't mind me having a second wife." The laughter that explodes after that shakes the whole living room. Seulgi is playfully hitting him on his arm, Chenle doubles over on the couch, Johnny slaps Kun on the back like he's lost his mind, and Jisung... Jisung just hugs you tighter against his side, shaking his head but grinning like he can't help it.

"She's not available," he announces proudly, loud enough to rise above the noise. "She's mine."

The scene is messy, overwhelming—everyone moving, laughing, tossing words and jokes so fast you can barely keep up. And through it all, you feel that ache of strangeness and belonging tangled together.This is Jisung's world—loud, chaotic, shameless—and for the first time you are right in the middle of it, not just hearing about it after.

The chaos doesn't even dip, it just shifts.

Three unfamiliar faces step up then—bright-eyed freshmen. Jisung gestures proudly. "Cupcake, these are your fellow rookies. Riku, Sion, Dayoung —a few of our newest chaos recruits. Guys, this is her." They light up like they've been introduced to a legend. Riku bows a little too formally, Sion blurts, "You're even prettier in person," and Dayoung just beams so wide his dimples could split his face.

You laugh, nerves softening. "Nice to meet you guys."

And that's when the girlfriends swoop in.

Seulgi, Luna, Giselle, already radiant in their own right, surround you like it's a mission. "Finally!" Giselle claps her hands together, eyes sparkling as she comes up behind you with Seulgi and Luna flanking her. "We've been waiting to steal her all night."

"About time," Luna adds with a grin, looping her arm casually around your shoulders like you've been friends forever, knocking off Jisung standing next to you. Seulgi grins, her eyes mischievous. "Jisung, you hog her too much. We've been dying to talk to her properly."

"I am not," Jisung protests immediately, trying to pull you closer like a kid clutching his favorite toy. "You so are," Luna says, laughing as she points a finger at him. "Let her breathe. Some of our friends are dying to meet her."

"Exactly," Giselle nods, already slipping her arm through your free one that held onto your purse. "You've had her all week, give her up."

"No," Jisung says, dead serious, tightening his hold. "Mine." It's so childish it makes you snort, but the girlfriends only laugh harder.

"Mine, he says," Seulgi echoes, shaking her head. "God, you're worse than Kun with snacks."

Jisung is about to protest but Giselle leans in, eyeing your lashes completely ignoring his existence. "Okay, first question. What mascara do you use? Because those lashes—unfair." The crowd cackles at Jisung's pout. "Wait, no—" He tries to tug you back, but Luna smacks his hand away. "Share, Jisung. She's ours for the night."

"Hey," Kun muffles around another forkful of cheesecake, but no one spares him a glance. "Come on, Ice Princess," Giselle tugs gently. "You're coming with us. We've been dying to talk to you without any interruptions."

"I—" you glance at Jisung, who looks like someone's threatening to cut off his oxygen supply. "I'll be fine."

"No, you won't," he mutters. "I'll die."

The whole group cracks up again. Even Johnny, who's been leaning casually against the counter this whole time, finally joins in with a snort. "You know she's getting the gist of all your past rendezvous tonight, right?" he teases, grinning wickedly.

Jisung freezes.

"...what, no way?" he says dismissing him with a wave and a nervous smile with a hand running through his hair. Mark, who's been quiet up to now, sighs. "He's not lying."

"Aint no way." Jisung turns to him, serious. "That's crazy right?"

"Trust me," Kun says before Mark can even answer, mouth still full. "Every single misbehaviour."

"But—"

"Every. Single. One," Mark cuts him off firmly.

"You are so screwed after tonight." Johnny winks laughing. "She's gonna have you wrapped around her little finger."

It's Chenle turn to snort, "as if she doesn't already. Jisung glares around, scandalized, while the girls tug you gently toward the stairs, now fussing over your dress.

"You can't have her for too long."

And then you're swept upstairs, your heels clicking, laughter echoing behind you, the smell of kimchi and sugar already lingering in the frat's chaos.

-------------------

"...and seriously," Luna is saying, her phone buzzing for the third time in her lap, "if you think he's clingy in public, you should see him when it's just us—"

The door to Kun's room creaks, and there he is. In a hoodie, hair a little messy from the heat and noise downstairs, eyes sharp the second they land on you. "I want my girl back," Jisung announces, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place.

The girlfriends exchange looks. Seulgi lifts a brow. "Excuse you—"

"She came to a party ladies," he cuts in, voice firmer than usual. "So she should actually party." A beat of silence. Then Giselle laughs, shaking her head. "He's so dramatic."

"Let him be," Luna sighs, already grabbing her buzzing phone. "My man's probably dying without me anyway." She gets up, flashing you a wink. "Besides, he's right. You didn't dress up to sit in here and gossip all night."

One by one, the girlfriends untangle from the conversation, pulling you into quick squeezes or whispering "we'll steal you again later" promises before heading out. Seulgi makes sure to ruffle Jisung's hair on the way past him, muttering, "Don't mess this up."

And then it's quiet.

Kun's room hums with the muffled bass from below. Your little black purse rests forgotten on the edge of his neatly made bed. You stand by it, fiddling with your bracelet between your fingers, nerves pressing in now that the attention has thinned out. Jisung closes the door behind him and walks over, slowly. He doesn't speak right away. He just steps close enough that you feel the warmth radiating from his hoodie, one hand brushing over yours to still the fidgeting.

"You're nervous," he says softly, tilting his head to catch your eyes. You nod before you can stop yourself. "It's... a lot. Your world is loud." His lips twitch like he wants to smile but holds it back. "Yeah. Loud. Annoying. Messy." He slips his fingers through yours, firm. "But I won't survive without you in it."

The words settle in your chest. He studies your face a moment longer, then leans back just enough to scan you head to toe again, that teasing glint sparking alive. "Still thinking about the outfit?"

You look away. "Maybe."

He chuckles under his breath. "You look insane. In the best way. Do you know how many people I'm gonna have to fight off tonight?" His free hand gestures vaguely, like the idea alone exhausts him. "Everyone's staring already."

"I don't want them to."

"Too late. I know you dolled up all pretty for me." His tone is playful, but his eyes soften.

You don't deny it.

"Doesn't matter anyway. You're doing great. And if not..." he squeezes your hand, leans closer until his forehead brushes yours, "Pixie, I got you." The pout forming on your lips is gone before it can fully set—he kisses it away. Quick, light, a brush that leaves you blinking at him as if the bass from downstairs has followed him in. He grins when he pulls back.

"Better?"

You don't answer, just stare until he holds his hand out, palm open, steady. You start to reach for it—but he's suddenly digging into his hoodie pocket, eyes flicking up at you, almost shy now. "I was gonna wait until later," he murmurs, "but since we're already here..."

Your brows knit. "What are you—"

He opens his palm. Sitting in it is a thin silver chain, a small ring threaded through it. The ring catches the low light, simple but gleaming. You blink at it, then at him. "Jisung, what—" He grins, leaning his head to the side. "You remember the motel after the gallery? You said I can't have my White Pickett dream without marrying you."

You remember holding out your hand teasing him. How he looped the gummy strip around your ring finger, "There." before biting it off saying, "We're engaged."

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "You can't be serious." "Oh, I was serious. Let me be your boyfriend, officially?" His tone drops an octave, still playful but edged with something deeper.

"Despite me having declared it to the world before asking you."

You blink, caught between disbelief and warmth as he holds the necklace up. The ring slides down the chain and glints again under the dim light. "What do you say cupcake. I'm yours for the taking and only for the taking."

Your chest blooms, hands shaky as you nod enthusiastically. Your boyfriend smiles.

Your boyfriend.

Jisung is your boyfriend?!

"This is so that the real thing has something to look up to," he continues simply. "You don't have to wear it on your hand yet. Just... around your neck, maybe. So it's close."

Then your chest tightens, and for a second, Jungwoo's face flickers at the edge of your thoughts — his voice, his promises, the necklace you're still wearing now. The one that once meant forever before it turned into goodbye.

You hesitate, fingers brushing the chain at your collarbone. "I... I love it. I really do." You force a small smile, eyes flicking up to meet his. "But maybe later? I already have one on."

Jisung notices the faint tremor in your voice. His gaze dips to the necklace glinting at your throat, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. But he doesn't push. "Later, then," he says quietly, closing your fingers around the chain. "Just don't forget it's yours."

His thumb lingers against your palm a second longer than necessary.

"I'm yours."

And even though you don't put it on yet, the weight of the chain in your hand feels heavier than it should — a promise and a question all at once. When you finally look up again, Jisung's grin is back, softer this time. "You still owe me a dance, fiancé."

You roll your eyes, laughing in spite of yourself. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you."

You groan, but he's already leaning in again — another kiss, slower this time, tasting like the faint sugar of your lip gloss and the ache of things you're not ready to say. He holds out his hand again. For real this time.

"Come on," he says, softer now.

"Party's waiting."

You place yours in it with a smile. He leads you out and down the stairs, his grip unyielding even as the volume swells. The frat house is alive. Music thrums, laughter spills from every corner, neon lights flash against moving bodies. The smell of smoke and spilled beer tangles in the air. The moment you step into the living room again, people notice.

"Jisung!" someone shouts, waving a cup high in the air. A few others greet him with handshakes, slaps on the back, easy camaraderie. He never lets go of your hand, just shifts you closer each time someone tries to pull him into conversation.

And then—attention turns to you.

"Yo, that's her, right?" a voice says somewhere to the left. "She really came," another answers. There are smiles, nods, a couple of waves thrown your way. It makes your cheeks warm, your chest tight. The weight of it all—the curiosity, the recognition—presses down until you glance at Jisung, and he just gives your hand the tiniest squeeze.

You breathe again.

Outside, the backyard hums with another kind of chaos. The chill hits first, cool night air brushing your skin, the smell of wood smoke and cheap beer weaving together into something unmistakably frat. The bonfire spits sparks into the air, a living centerpiece everyone seems to orbit around.

Already, the backyard is divided into its own little worlds. Karina's right by the steps, cup in hand, hair tumbling around her shoulders as her friends tug at her sleeve. "You have to come meet him!" one of them insists, but Karina just laughs, head tipped back, the sound carrying clear over the crowd. When she spots you and Jisung, her eyes light up. "Yah, Jisung!" she hollers, voice sharp and playful. "Show her off, then! Don't be shy!" She claps her cup against her friend's, foam spilling down her fingers. "Go on, spin her, make it worth the noise!"

Somi is tucked into the circle by the fire, perched cross-legged on a low chair. Mark strums lazily on his guitar, Giselle right beside him clapping to the beat, her smile soft and knowing like she's seen this play out a hundred times. Somi leans forward, her chin resting on her palm, eyes bright with that same awe she always carries when she's caught in a moment she doesn't want to leave.

A circle of girls lean in to listen, swaying with the rhythm.

Across the yard, Shotaro has somehow already blended himself into a knot of RIZE frat members. One of them offers him a drink; he takes it with both hands like it's a ceremonial exchange, earning a roar of laughter. Johnny's got some girl pressed against the wall near the back porch, their silhouettes lit up by the glow of the fire. The crowd doesn't even bother pretending not to notice —his antics are background noise at this point.

Hendery and Xiaojun are weaving through the chaos with plastic cups, egging each other on. You catch Hendery trying to convince someone to swap shoes with him "for science," while Xiaojun has a half-empty bag of chips tucked under his arm like contraband. Chenle? He's leaning against the fence with a smirk, his voice pitched just loud enough for the girl beside him to keep giggling between sips. You don't even want to know what line he's running, but it's working.

It's chaos. Actual chaos.

Closer to the flames, Yangyang has Luna perched on the edge of his chair, his arm looped around her waist while she scrolls her phone lazily. Kun is crouched by the snack table again, already sneaking another bite of cheesecake while Seulgi pretends not to notice.

Laughter bursts here, music swells there, someone's already yelling about losing at beer pong. It's chaos, pure and untamed. And right in the middle of it, Jisung pulls you closer, steady hand at your waist.

"It's time to pay your deus milady."

It's not a request this time—it's his territory, his claim —serious, a little hopeful, with that boyish edge still clinging to him—makes your stomach flip. He spins you once, your dress catching firelight, and the nearest circle erupts in hoots. Karina shrieks with them, her laughter tumbling out unrestrained. "That's it!!" she crows, her free hand cupped around her mouth like a megaphone. Her friends join in, echoing her cheers. For a second, she looks like she's having the time of her life—eyes wide, mouth split in a grin, beer spilling carelessly over her knuckles.

You're about to protest, to remind him you don't exactly thrive under this kind of spotlight, but he doesn't let you. He spins you again with one hand, steady and sure, catching you against his chest like it's the easiest thing in the world.

"Ohhh, Jisung's showing off!" Riku hollers.

"Man's in love," someone else teases.

But then, when the laughter dies just a little, her gaze lingers. On Jisung's arm tight around your waist. On the way he twirls you like the rest of the world doesn't exist. And something shifts. She lifts her cup again, like she's just wetting her lips, but really it's to cover the hollow in her chest. The ache is sudden, catching her off guard—because if Jeno were here, he'd be beside her. He'd be the one tugging her into the circle, not letting her fade behind the noise. He'd be spinning her until she couldn't breathe from laughing, holding her steady when her drink sloshed too much.

Jisung ignores them all, his hand steady at your waist as he tugs you close. The music pulses through the speakers set up on the porch, and for a second it feels like the party bends around the two of you, just heat and laughter and the grounding weight of his grip.

But of course, the guys don't let it slide.

"Hey, save some moves for the rest of us!" Chenle calls from across the yard, earning himself a middle finger from Jisung without him missing a beat. "Bro, you're killing me," Hendery groans dramatically, throwing an arm around Xiaojun. "Do you see this? This is what love looks like. I'm sick." "Then close your eyes," Xiaojun shoots back, though he's grinning wide.

Johnny actually breaks away from his make-out long enough to shout, "Careful, Jisung! You keep this up and we're charging her rent. She's officially one of us now."

That only earns more laughter, more whistles.

And Jisung? He thrives on it. His grin turns sharp, boyish pride glittering in his eyes as he twirls you again, dipping you slightly just to make the crowd groan louder. When he pulls you back up, he leans in close enough for you to feel his breath against your ear.

"They're jealous," he murmurs, smug, "They're idiots. Every single one." His grin softens, turning something private as he adds, "But they're happy for me."

Your cheeks are already warm, from the fire, from the music, from all the eyes on you. "You're impossible." He smirks, presses a quick kiss to your temple just to rile everyone up again, and sure enough the gagging noises roll in immediately.

"GET A ROOM!" Chenle yells, cupping his hands around his mouth.

The music shifts again, bass thudding hard enough to rattle in your chest. Jisung is still spinning you lazily, letting the hem of your dress flare like he's putting on a show just for them. The circle is eating it up, throwing commentary like a live sports broadcast.

"Look at him—man's choreographing!" Xiaojun yells, chips still tucked under his arm. "Yeah, choreographing his way straight to—" Hendery doesn't finish, just waggles his eyebrows and points upward toward the house.

The implication lands fast. The roar that follows is even louder than before. You bury your face against Jisung's chest for a second, half hiding, half laughing. The teasing—it's overwhelming, but his arms around you keep it from spinning out of control.

The teasing doesn't stop, though.

"Yo, does this mean she gets the tour?" Chenle shouts.n"She already had the tour," Jisung fires back. "Not the campus tour—the frat tour!" Hendery's voice cracks with laughter. "Kitchen, lounge, basement, and—" "His room!" Xiaojun stupidly crows the joke again, finishing it for him.

The circle erupts again, a messy chorus of whistles, clapping, and fake gagging. Johnny doesn't even bother hiding his smirk as he pulls away from the girl at his side just long enough to throw out, "Careful, captain. She's already more popular than you. At this rate, we'll kick you out and keep her instead."

The guys cheer like it's a real option.

Jisung only tightens his arm around you, tilting his head with a smirk that's pure challenge. "Good luck. She's not going anywhere." And when he dips his head, pressing a kiss to your cheek just to drive the point home, the entire circle loses it.

"OH MY GOD, SOMEONE STOP HIM!" Chenle yells.

Kun's voice cuts through at last, mock-exasperated. "Jisung, quit riling them up before I ban you from dessert for a week." The threat is enough to hush the noise, if only slightly. The mention of dessert reminds everyone of what's sitting inside—the remaining cheesecake.

It's overwhelming—the firelight, the music, the circle of rowdy voices. A world so loud, so unabashed, so open. You're not used to being seen like this, not after a relationship that lived only in shadows.

And yet Jisung holds you steady through it, his hand never slipping from yours, his gaze never once leaving your face.

---------------

The party has thinned out, but the backyard and the frat's first floor are still buzzing. The fire outside is burning lower, glowing embers now. Cups are scattered everywhere, and someone's half-eaten pizza slice sits abandoned on a chair like a casualty of war.

It's that part of the night where everything tilts —half the room mellow, the other half doubling down on the chaos. The music is softer now, some half-hearted playlist still running from the porch speakers, and most of the crowd has thinned out, leaving the stragglers, the loyal ones, and the ones too drunk to leave.

And of course, Johnny's to blame.

You've found yourself in the middle of the girls, somehow. One second you were sipping something Johnny shoved into your hand with the promise of, "Trust me princess, you won't even taste the alcohol, it's even gonna look so fancy in the plastic wine cups we have."

Talking about how he was the bottled messiah and that if anyone wanted to drink safely they should listen to him and the next second your face is hot, your head is light, and you're yelling about rules to a game you don't even understand.

That was two hours ago. Now, his girl of the night is on his lap, both of them tipsy and tangled up in a way that earns groans from anyone sober enough to notice. The game started with Karina daring Somi to shotgun her drink, then Giselle insisting there needed to be order, which turned into Seulgi dragging Luna in and declaring it an "official round." There are half-empty cups in the grass, mismatched rules, and absolutely no consistency, but none of you care —you're laughing too hard to breathe.

At some point, you're half on Karina's lap, Somi is dramatically draping herself across both of you, Giselle is shouting "penalty drink!" at no one in particular, and Luna is leaning against Seulgi like she's about to confess state secret. Giselle is already laughing, her arm snaking around Luna to pull her away from Seulgi. "Lulu, drink with me!" Luna, cheeks already pink, tries to decline, but Yangyang—sweet, terrible Yang—shrugs like what's the harm? and tops her off with his own bottle of raw soju anyway.

From the sidelines, the guys just watch.

Sion's doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach in pain from laughing too hard. Chenle's got his phone out, gleefully recording. Shotaro's not helping anyone—he's cross-legged in the grass, holding his beer like it's his only child, nodding solemnly at the nonsense unfolding in front of him.

The rest of the boyfriends, though?

Mortified by the sight unfolding before them.

"Yeah, Giselle's definitely going to make me go on that double date now." Mark mutters, topping off his beer with a sigh while standing next to Jisung, a hand on his waist looking like a single dad with no nanny.

A while later with the guys having dragged you back inside, you, Shotaro and the girls only seem to be getting worse because now, Karina is perched between Somi and Luna on the long couch, her eyeliner smudged from how hard she's been laughing. She's clinging to Somi's arm like it's the only thing keeping her upright. "No, listen—listen—if Jeno were here? He'd...he'd tell me to stop drinking, but guess what? Guess what, Somi?" She hiccups dramatically. "He's not here!" Somi is no better, nodding with wide, over-serious eyes as if Karina has just announced a universal truth. She leans across Karina to stage a whisper to Seulgi who is sitting on a solo chair beside them, "She's free. Untamed. A wild horse."

"Untamed!" Karina repeats, then nearly falls off the couch laughing. Seulgi, cheeks pink from her own rounds, leans over slightly and pats Karina's knee like she's the drunk whisperer. "That's right, baby. Wild horse." Kun, standing behind her, just sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is exactly why I said no more shots."

"Oh, come on, let them live a little," Johnny calls from across the room, not even looking up from the girl pressed against him. "They're bonding!" "They're wasted," Kun counters, though there's no bite left in him.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he carefully plucks Seulgi's plastic wine cup from her hand when she's not looking. On another couch, Giselle has somehow curled herself into a ball, her cheek pressed to Mark's shoulder as she's trying to convince him—loudly —that she could've been a DJ if she wanted.

"You don't understand. My Spotify playlists? Legendary. People weep." "Babe," Mark says, patting her hair like he's trying to calm a small dog, "no one wept at your Spotify Wrapped." "Yes they did!" she wails, smacking his chest with the back of her hand before dissolving into giggles.

On the floor, Shotaro is half sprawled against Xiaojun, cheeks bright pink, grinning at nothing in particular. "You're my favorite RIZE member," he tells Xiaojun very seriously. "Don't tell Sungchan. Or Woobin. Or—wait, how many of you are there again?" "Too many," Xiaojun deadpans, trying not to laugh. Hendery is already doubled over beside them, wheezing.

"You guys are insane," Jisung mutters from the couch, half laughing, half mortified, watching you choke on a sip that burns way too much to be harmless from where you sat on the floor in front of him. He tries to reach for the plastic wine cup you've held onto since you started drinking. "Cupcake, no more of that—" But you clutch it dramatically to your chest. "Mine."

The guys roar. Hendery falls off the arm of the sofa, wheezing. "She said mine! Jisung, you've lost control!"

Jisung only groans, dragging a hand down his face. Mark pops up first, halfway through a round of "never have I ever." Giselle, pink-cheeked and giggly, clapping when Xiaojun admits to something embarrassing. "Okay, okay," Mark tries, patting her back as she leans harder against him. "Giselle, babe, ramen. Want ramen? I'll make you some. Real ramen. With an egg. Please, Giselle, I'll put two eggs in it."

Her eyes widen like it's the best bribe she's ever heard. "Ramen now?" "Yes, ramen now," he sighs, herding her gently toward the kitchen while the rest of you heckle him. "Whipped!" Xiaojun crows from the other side of the room, holding up his cup like it's a trophy. "Hyung can't even make eggs!" Riku bemuses incredulously earning a laugh and fist bump from Chenle in agreement.

A few minutes later, it's Seulgi's turn to collapse.  Kun nearly drops his phone. "We're in the living room!" His voice cracks. He practically dives across the coffee table to where she had migrated to on the floor in front of the TV, wrapping her in his jacket back around her shoulders..The girl had begun peeling the jacket off like it was a full gown ready for bed. Hendery almost chokes on his drink. "Bro, she thought the living room was your room?"

"Shut up!" Kun barks, red in the face as he tries to pull her upright. Meanwhile, Luna tips sideways mid-round and just... doesn't get back up. Yangyang stares at her sprawled across the carpet like she's betrayed him.

"Great. Amazing," he mutters, crouching to poke her cheek. No response. He sighs heavily, muttering in Chinese under his breath before looping her arm over his shoulder. "Guess who gets to carry a deadweight princess upstairs. Me. Always me." When she slurs something incoherent, he groans louder. "She's not even helping! You guys see this?"

The frat bursts out laughing as Yangyang hoists her fireman-style and trudges toward the stairs. Chenle is too busy laughing to care. Jisung's half-laughing, half-dying secondhand embarrassment as you crawl across his lap to dramatically accuse Somi of cheating. By the time Jisung patiently tries coaxing you into drinking water with you still sitting prettily on his lap. You insist you already drank one, then gesture proudly at your beloved wine cup. He pinches the bridge of his nose and fishes his phone out ready to call it a night.

He scrolls quickly, thumb pressing Jaemin's contact like it's muscle memory.Johnny lifts his fist high, smirking at the mess. "This is what happens when you leave me in charge!" "Exactly why you're never in charge," Mark yells from the kitchen, Giselle's giggle echoing right after.

It doesn't take long. The front door swings open with more force than necessary, and in stalks Jaemin, looking every bit the put-together one in contrast to the chaos. He freezes in the doorway, eyes sweeping over the wreckage like he's walked into a crime scene. Cups. Chips ground into the rug. Johnny making out on the couch like it's prime time TV. The whole room freezes like kids caught sneaking cookies. His expression shifts from worry to disgust in seconds flat. "What the hell happened here?"

"Johnny happened," Kun accuses, not even looking up from Seulgi.

"I swear, if Karina—" Jaemin's eyes land on Karina, who is draped dramatically over Somi like they've been in battle together. Both look up at him with identical, tear-pricked smiles. "Jaeminnieee," Karina whines, stumbling forward. "You came!"

Somi reaches for him too, nearly dragging Karina down with her. "We missed you," she says, words half swallowed by a laugh. "I'm doomed," Jaemin mutters. Then Somi bursts into laughter out of nowhere from the floor, pointing dramatically. "JAEMIN! You're—oh my god—you're—" she squints, swaying, "—you're glowing."

"I'm glowing?" Jaemin repeats, his voice flat with disbelief."Shiny," Somi nods, reaching for him.

"Shiny," Karina echoes mournfully, as if this is the most beautiful truth she's ever heard. Jaemin's gaze flicks around the room, Shotaro is trying to balance a chip on his nose while Xiaojun cheers him on.

His nose wrinkles like he's inhaled a bad smell.

"Oh my god," he groans, running a hand down his face. "I leave you guys for one night. ONE. And this is—" He gestures at the room with a sweep of his arm. "—this is what happens?" Hendery, ever unhelpful, claps him on the back as if he's known him for years and not just met him for the first time."Welcome to hell, brother."

"Bet ten bucks Karina cries before they hit the driveway!" Sion calls from his laughing fit, tossing popcorn into his mouth. "Deal." Chenle agrees, sealing it off with the frat's weird handshake.

"I got you," Jisung says, already peeling you gently off his lap. He'd shed his hoodie somewhere during the night and was just in his shirt now, and somehow he looks even more at home, the long sleeves of it pushed to his elbows, hair a little mussed. He gives you a quick squeeze before moving toward Jaemin. "We'll get them loaded."

And somehow, you believe him, even as the next ten minutes descend into slapstick comedy. It takes Jisung, Hendery, and Xiaojun together to peel Karina and Somi off each other long enough to steer them toward the door. They cling to each other like they're reenacting a tragic K-drama goodbye.

"Don't take her from me!" Karina cries sniffling dramatically with real tears in her eyes, her grip on Somi iron-strong.

"We're literally going to the same place," Jaemin says flatly.

"You don't understand!"

"I really don't want to." He deadpans in exhaustion.

Shotaro refuses to move at first, insisting the "frat throne" is his, until Jaemin drags him down bodily, muttering curses the whole way. The loading of the taxi is its own disaster.

Karina refuses to get in until Somi does, Somi refuses until she's sure you're "safe," and you keep twisting back to grab their hands, making the whole shuffle like a drunken daisy chain. Shotaro lumbers in last, still clutching his beer like it's allowed to come with him. The three of them—Somi, Karina, and Shotaro—end up being hauled into a taxi like it's a group exile.  Shotaro is singing off-key about kimchi and Karina is insisting Jaemin is the "prettiest boy in the universe," he lets out a small laugh because she will deny that claim tomorrow.

The driver looks like he's rethinking every choice he's ever made. By the time Jaemin wrangles Somi, Karina, and Shotaro safely into seatbelts, he's sweating like he ran a marathon. He turns back to Jisung, glaring.

"Are you sure you can handle this one?" He jerks his chin toward you, still clinging to Jisung's side, your eyes glazed but smiling soft. "She's fine," Jisung says, calm and certain. His arm tightens around your waist, steadying you when your heel wobbles on the step. "I've got her."

Jaemin squints. "If she's hungover tomorrow—" "Are you sure you can handle them?" Jisung asks instead, half serious as Jaemin tries to stuff Karina's purse back into the car. "I don't have a choice, do I?" Jaemin shoots back. His gaze flicks to you again, clinging to Jisung's arm.

Something softer enters his tone. "Just... be careful with her." "I've got her," Jisung repeats, firmer this time.

Finally, Jaemin exhales, ducking into the cab with the others. The car peels away, Somi waving dramatically out the window. You wave back wildly from Jisung's arms, teetering on your feet. "Bye! Love you too! Don't die!"

---------------

The house is quieter inside, the thrum of the party muffled by walls.

It's just you and Jisung. "My feet hurt," you whine softly, shifting in your heels. Jisung looks down at you, lips curving into something unbearably fond. "C'mere." Without hesitation, he crouches, offering his back with a grin. "Hop on."

You blink. "You're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" His smile tilts crooked.

And so you climb onto his back, arms looped around his shoulders, cheek pressed against his hair. He hooks his arms under your thighs with practiced ease. He smells like lime and smoke and something distinctly him, and your chest swells in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol. He carries you up the stairs like it's the easiest thing in the world, the both of you catching snippets of laughter from rooms still lit. By the time he pushes into his own, he nudges the door open with his foot, stepping into a space that is surprisingly neat for a frat boy. It feels like another world.

His room smells faintly of laundry detergent and something clean you can't quite place. Posters line the walls, his desk cluttered with notes, headphones dangling off a peg board in front of his desk. He sets you gently on the edge of his bed like you're fragile, kneeling in front of you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Let's get these off."

Steady hands undo the buckles of your heels. He doesn't fumble, doesn't rush. Each strap loosened with care, like it matters. The first shoe slips off, his thumb brushing lightly against your ankle before applying pressure to massage the bottom of your feet. You release a small sigh you didn't even realize you were holding. The second one follows, and when both shoes are finally off, both feet carefully rubbed, you stretch your toes against the soft carpet, relief spilling through you. Your hand falls into his hair without thinking, fingers curling gently at the nape of his neck. He looks up at you from his knees, breath caught for a moment in his chest.

That's when you tug gently until his eyes meet yours. It's subtle, a tiny pull that tips his face closer.

You lean in.

He hesitates, like he's making sure but he doesn't hesitate long because he leans in, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that starts soft, careful. Heat curling between you as he responds, hands sliding to steady you. He rises, shifting until he hovers over you, his weight careful, his touch respectful but sure. His hands brace on either side of you, not pulling, not demanding, just holding the world steady as he leans into you. He kisses you back with a heat that steals your breath. His lips are warm, testing, every move is deliberate, measured, giving you the chance to pull back.

You don't.

Instead, you tilt forward, pressing harder, your hand coming to cradle his cheek. His palm shifts to your hip, grounding you as your legs open up to slot him in the middle. He exhales on your lips before the kiss deepens further, slow but heavy, like he's pouring every unsaid thing into the press of his lips. Your breath hitches when his tongue brushes against yours, tentative, restrained. He pulls back a fraction, searching your eyes, but the way you lean closer, chasing him, is all the answer he needs. Heat coils low in your stomach, your fingers curling tighter in his hair. You shift without thinking, sliding forward until you're straddling his lap.

The move draws a sharp breath from him, but his hands stay respectful. He kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand slides up your spine to anchor you against him, the other ghosting along your thigh but never gripping too tight, his thumbs tracing circles against your hips through the fabric of your dress. It's heated, but it's careful. Like he's memorizing you with restraint carved out of pure willpower.

He kisses you like he's savoring, breaking away just to let his mouth trail along the edge of your jaw, back to your lips, slow and lingering. You moan at the euphoric shiver running your spine. Every time you try to speed it up, he steadies it again, keeping you both suspended in that balance of want and restraint. When you finally pull back, cheeks flushed, your forehead rests against his. Both of you are breathing hard.

"I had fun," you whisper, your voice small, honest.

His lips curl into a smile that's almost boyish. He presses a quick peck to your mouth, like he can't resist.

"Me too."

You start fumbling with the zipper at your back, muttering, "It's too tight." He stills, then gently wraps his arms around your waist, nimble fingers trail lightly up the zipper, pulling it slowly, careful, eyes never once leaving your face. "Hey. I've got it." He stops once it loosens, then sets you down on the bed to grab the oversized hoodie from his drawer. Handing it to you in an almost ceremonial flourish. He turns away while you change, only glancing back when you laugh at him.

"Respectful, huh?"

"Always," he shoots back, though his ears are pink.

Soon you're swallowed up in it, your dress and a pair of bra folded neatly to the side. He places them on top of his dresser and disappears for a moment, only to return with your purse and a pack of Seulgi's makeup wipes, then places a bottle of water and medicine on the nightstand like he's done this before. You're perched cross-legged on his bed now, wiping your face while he rummages for a brush. "Sit still," he orders softly, untangling strands of your hair with the kind of focus that makes you laugh.

"Who knew you were good at this?"

"Survival skill," he deadpans.

The brush snags once, and you yelp, smacking his arm. He grins, kisses the top of your head in apology, then finally sets everything aside. Later, when he finally crawls into bed in sweatpants, shirtless, his skin warm from the shower he took minutes ago. He slips under the covers, and you immediately curl up against him like a koala, your cheek pressed to his chest, your legs tangled with his.

"Tell me a story," you mumble into him, your voice muffled.

"Seriously?"

He chuckles, flopping onto his back. "A story? You're not five." "Don't care." You roll to face him, blanket pulled up to your chin. "You promised."

"I didn't—"

"Jisung." Your pout is lethal.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, like it's a burden. "Once upon a time, there was this cupcake—" "That's me," you interrupt immediately, lifting your head just enough to grin at him.

"Yes, cupcake, it's you. Anyway—"

"What flavor cupcake?"

"Uh... vanilla—"

"Boring." You pout against him. "Okay, fine," he says, rolling his eyes but smiling. "Red velvet. With sprinkles. And, like, edible glitter or something."

"That's better," you hum, satisfied, snuggling back down. Then you mumble pouting, "but I like a carrot cake" "Pixie..." Jisung scolds with a smile but still continues.

"So this cupcake thought she was plain, even though she was the prettiest dessert in the bakery." "Wrong," you say, sitting up a little again. "Cupcakes don't live in bakeries. They live in boxes. With...cute paper wrapping. The crinkly ones."

"Okay—fine—she lived in a box with cute crinkly paper. Happy?" "Yes." You lay your head back down.

"Anyway, one day this boy walks in—"

"Which boy?"

"Me," he says flatly.

You laugh, smacking his chest lightly. "You're supposed to say 'a prince' or something!" "Nope. Just me. Regular guy. Messy hair, big hoodie, dumb sneakers. Walks into the bakery and sees this cupcake and thinks... wow. That's the prettiest thing I've ever seen."

You sigh dramatically. "You're bad at this."

"Do you want the story or not?"