#no angst

This was your routine. It had been for months now, ever since you had made it official after one too many late night convenience store runs where he had paid for your strawberry milk and you had teased him about the bruise on his jaw.

"You're quieter than usual today," you said, glancing up at him.

Your voice was soft, the kind that always cut through whatever thought was looping in his head. You wore your uniform skirt a little longer than most girls, blouse tucked neatly, hair falling in loose waves past your shoulders.

Nothing flashy.

Just you.

The girl who waited for him every single day after the final bell, even when he came out with a sleepy face and low mood.

Soo-ho shrugged, flashing you that crooked grin that never quite reached his eyes when he was thinking about trouble. "Just thinking about work later. Boss wants me stacking boxes till nine tonight. Boring stuff." He squeezed your hand. "But I'll walk you all the way home first, like always. Promise."

You bumped your shoulder against his arm. "Good. I was gonna drag you to the convenience Store for those new honey butter chips anyway. You owe me after you ate the last bag yesterday."

He laughed, the sound low and easy. "Yeah, yeah. I'll buy you two bags to make up for it."

You were halfway down the usual backstreet route. It was narrow, lined with parked scooters and carried the faint smell of street food from the corner stall.

That was when Soo-ho's phone buzzed in his pocket. Once. Twice. Then a third time, insistent. He fished it out with his free hand, frowning at the screen.

You watched his face change. It was subtle, but you knew him well enough to catch it. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his jaw set.

"What is it?" you asked.

He looked at you. You could tell he was deciding how much to say. "Bumseok," he said finally. "Sieun's in trouble. Someone paid some guy to jump him after school. Alley behind the old gym... " He paused. "I don't care."

"But... Sieun... He's going to get hurt."

"My love, why would we care?"

She looked at him with obvious eyes, giving him a light tap on his arm. "Because they're crossing the line... Sieun has never done anything wrong, besides, he promised that he would give me chemistry tutoring."

Sooho looked at her, puzzled. "Are you getting tutoring?"

"Yes... Do you remember the last one... That doesn't matter! I'm telling you that you have to go help Sieun".

Another message made the cell phone vibrate. Sooho rolled his eyes looking at the screen. For a moment, his gaze lit up, looking at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he was thinking about whether to tell you what the message said or not.

"What?"

"Nothing, you're right, my love, come on, let's help our classmate."

He squeezed your hand again, harder this time.

"You stay back when we get there. Behind me the whole time. Promise me."

"I promise."

The old gym alley was a ten minute detour. It was dim even in daylight, flanked by chain link fences and overflowing dumpsters. The kind of place where fights happened and no one called the police.

You had seen places like this before. You had never liked them.

Soo-ho spotted them first. He always did. He had eyes for that kind of thing in a way you did not.

Sieun was backed against the wall. His uniform was rumpled and there was a fresh split on his lip. His breathing was hard but his eyes were sharp. Facing him was a broad shouldered guy. Older. Maybe early twenties.

The kind of guy you paid to throw punches without asking questions.

Soo-ho did not hesitate. He let go of your hand and gently guided you behind a stack of crates. "Stay here," he murmured. "Do not move from this spot."

You nodded. You could not speak. Your throat felt tight.

He stepped forward, his shoulders squared. The easy going mask was gone. In its place was something harder. Something you had seen before but never gotten used to. "Hey," he said to the guy. "Back off. He is not fighting today."

The guy turned, sizing him up. "Who are you, asshole?"

"None of your business," Soo-ho shot back. He was already rolling up his sleeves. Bumseok shot him a grateful nod. Sieun's sharp eyes met his in silent thanks.

Then the fight exploded.

It happened fast. The hired guy swung first, a heavy punch aimed at Sieun's head. Soo-ho intercepted, shoving Sieun aside and taking the blow on his own shoulder. You saw him flinch, but he grinned through it.

That was his way. He countered with a sharp hit to the guy's ribs, then a knee to the thigh that buckled the bigger man's stance.

You watched from behind the crates. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears. You hated this. You hated the sounds of fists on skin and the grunts and the way Soo-ho's face went hard and focused. But you trusted him. You had to trust him. He always came back to you after.

But then the hired guy recovered faster than anyone expected.

He roared and lunged wildly. Not at Sieun or Soo-ho. In a blind arc that clipped the edge of the crates where you were hiding. One of the wooden slats cracked and flew. You tried to dodge, stepping back quickly, but the guy's follow through swing missed its target and connected with your shoulder instead.

The impact spun you around. You hit the ground hard. Pain bloomed across your upper arm and collarbone, sharp and immediate. Your bag spilled open. Your notebooks scattered across the dirty pavement. A small cry escaped your mouth before you could stop it.

Everything froze.

You saw Soo-ho's head snap toward the sound. His eyes locked on you. You were crumpled on the ground, clutching your shoulder, your face twisted in pain. You could feel blood trickling down your cheek from where you had scraped it on the fall.

His face changed. You had never seen that look before. It was fury, yes, but something else too. Something worse.

"You son of a—" His voice cracked.

Then he moved.

You had seen Soo-ho fight before. You had seen him angry before. But this was different. This was something you could not look away from. He hit the guy. There was no more holding back. His fist connected with the man's jaw in a sound that made you wince. Another punch to the gut doubled the guy over. Soo-ho grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall hard enough to rattle the fence.

"You touched my girl?," he ask. His voice was low and shaking. "Answer me, you piece of shit."

Bumseok and Sieun tried to pull him off. You heard Bumseok's voice, urgent and scared. "Soo-ho, enough. He is down."

Soo-ho shrugged them away. He landed two more hits before the guy finally slumped, groaning, blood on his lip.

Only then did Soo-ho drop him.

He spun toward you and dropped to his knees beside you so fast that his scraped knuckles left smears on the ground. His hands hovered over you, afraid to touch but desperate to. His face was pale. His eyes were wide.

"Hey," he said. His voice cracked again. "Hey, look at me. Where does it hurt? I am so sorry. I told you to stay back."

You sat up slowly. Everything hurt. Your shoulder throbbed. Your cheek stung. But you reached for him anyway. Your fingers curled into his uniform jacket. You tried to make your voice normal, even though it came out shaky.

"It is okay. Just my shoulder and my cheek. I did not mean to get in the way. I was trying to move."

His face crumpled. The anger drained out of him and left something raw behind. Something guilty. He cupped your uninjured cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing away a tear you had not even realized had fallen.

"No," he said. "This is on me. I brought you here. I should have made you wait at the corner or something." He swallowed hard. "If he had hit you harder—"

He did not finish the sentence. He pulled you carefully into his chest instead. One arm wrapped around your waist. The other cradled the back of your head like you were made of glass. His heart was hammering against your ear, fast and unsteady.

Sieun stood a respectful distance away. He was wiping blood from his own lip, watching both of you in silence. Bumseok hovered nearby, looking guilty himself. "Soo-ho," he said. "The guy is out. Yeongbin will probably hear about this. But Sieun is safe."

Soo-ho did not look up. "I do not care about Yeongbin right now." His voice was low and fierce. Then, to you, softer: "Can you stand? I will carry you if it hurts too much. We are going home. Screw work. The boss can fire me for all I care."

You shook your head against his chest. The pain was still there, but you did not want to be carried. You did not want to feel helpless. "No carrying. I can walk. Just stay close. And do not blame yourself. You were helping. That is who you are."

He made a sound that was almost a laugh but not quite. It came out wet and humorless. "Yeah, well, my girlfriend getting punched because of it was not part of the plan."

He helped you to your feet carefully. His arm stayed around your waist for support. His free hand brushed your hair back, his eyes scanning your face for more injuries. The small cut on your cheek had stopped bleeding, but it would bruise. So would your shoulder.

"We are stopping at the pharmacy on the way," he said. "Ice pack, bandages, whatever you need." A pause. "And those chips. Extra spicy, like you like."

Bumseok gave a hesitant thumbs up. "I will handle everything from here, thanks. Seriously."

Sieun gave a short nod. That was his version of gratitude. Then he slipped away down the alley. Soo-ho barely acknowledged either of them. His world had narrowed to you.

The walk back was slower than the walk there.

Soo-ho kept his pace matched to yours. His arm never left your waist. Every few steps he would glance down at you, checking your expression, muttering apologies under his breath. "Should have told you to go straight home. Should have handled it alone."

You elbowed him gently with your good arm. "Stop. You are my boyfriend, not my bodyguard twenty four seven." You tilted your head up and gave him a small smile, even though your shoulder ached. "Besides, now I get to say I survived a fight. That is kind of cool, right?"

He groaned, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Not funny. I am never letting you near another alley again. We are taking the long way home from now on. Main roads only."

At the pharmacy, he fussed like a worried parent. He grabbed ice packs and painkillers and antiseptic wipes and a ridiculous cartoon bandage with little stars on it. "For the cut," he said when you raised an eyebrow. "It will make it heal faster or something."

The woman behind the counter raised an eyebrow at his bloody knuckles and your bruised cheek. But she said nothing. Soo-ho paid with a quiet "keep the change" and you both left.

Outside, he made you sit on a low wall. He pressed the ice pack to your shoulder himself, his touch light. "Tell me if it is too cold." His voice had gone soft again. "I am sorry. The second I heard you hit the ground, I- I'm so sorry, baby..."

You leaned into the cold press of the pack. Your eyes were half closed. "I know. And I love that about you. Also, I was the one who asked you to go help Sieun." You reached up with your free hand and traced the fresh bruise forming on his jaw from earlier in the fight. "You got hurt too. We are a team, okay? Even if the team sometimes gets punched."

He chuckled. The sound was warm and relieved. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. Then one to the uninjured side of your cheek. He was careful not to press on the cut. His forehead rested against yours for a long moment. His eyes were closed.

"Team," he said. "Yeah. I like that." A pause. "I love you, you know that? even when you feed me broccoli"

"I love you too," you whispered back. You were smiling now. "Now take me home before I make you buy me three bags of chips."

The rest of the walk was quiet and comfortable.

By the time you reached your door, the sky had deepened to twilight. Streetlights were flickering on one by one. Soo-ho lingered on the step with his hands in his pockets. He had handed you the pharmacy bag already.

"Text me when you are inside," he said. "And if the shoulder swells or anything, call me. I will come back. Work can wait."

You stepped closer and rose on your toes to kiss him properly. It was soft and lingering. "I will. Go to work, just because Bumseok paid you doesn't mean you have the right to skip work"

Sooho was surprised, watching her smile and give him a kiss on the cheek.

"Go ahead, baby, I'll pretend I didn't see the messages."

He grinned. It was the full one, the bright one that made his eyes crinkle. "Goodnight."

He waited until the door clicked shut behind you. Then he turned and walked away. His shoulders relaxed for the first time all evening.

Inside, you pressed your back to the door. The ice pack was still clutched to your shoulder. A soft smile played on your lips. You pulled out your phone and typed a quick text.

"Work safe. Love you more than chips. See you tomorrow?".

His reply came almost instantly.

"Always, babe. Sleep good. I love you more than bulgogi".

You laughed quietly in the hallway. Your heart was full despite the ache in your shoulder.

Before you read ❗❗❗ There is most likely mischaracterization + I kept switching between present tense and past tense cus I kept forgetting which one I was writing with. Beware of inconsistences and mistakes, read at your own risk uwu

You’re hastily running through the hall, feet hurriedly hitting the ground as your hands clutch the box full of metal pieces and tools tightly—excitement evident when you continue to speed up your pace. After hours of searching and asking around, you were finally able to find the tools your dearest teacher had requested for an experiment. Eager to see the happy expression on Nikola’s face and spend as much time with him as his apprentice before he would be selected for a match, you swiftly make a sharp turn—

—and slam directly into someone.

Due to all that momentum you had built up, you run into the unidentified individual quite hard, the collision causing you to stumble back, trip over your own feet, and crash into him again.

In a measly and unsuccessful attempt to regain your balance, you cause the stranger to fall backwards before he can even recover from the earlier collision, ending with the two of you on the ground in a heap of tangled limbs. The box flies out of your grasp and overturns in the air, causing sharp metal pieces and tools to fall onto you both.

On instinct, you take a protective stance, closing your eyes and bringing your hands over your head to shield it from the rain of screws, bolts and the occasional screwdriver. The stranger lets out a strangled grunt as the sonorous sound of metal hitting the grounds echoes around you. You retract your hands when the onslaught finally comes to a stop, only moving to place your hands on the ground beneath when the feeling of your back being hammered by materials halts.

Slowly, you hesitantly open your eyes, dreading the embarrassment of having to face the stranger and excuse your clumsiness. With the apology already forming on your lips, you look down at the man underneath you, only to pause when your gaze landed on the pretty, caught off guard man underneath you.

A tall, lean, well built, beautiful young man with dark unkempt messy black hair and deep alluring reddish-brown eyes was currently sprawled on the ground beneath you, your hands caging him in on either side of his head. His expression radiated utter annoyance as he looked up at you, his eyes boring into yours while you did nothing but stare. The man at your mercy was currently quite aware of every point of contact between your bodies, extremely desperate for you to move the hell away and stop straddling him as he glared at you.

“Get off.”

“Oh! Right of course! I’m so sorry!” you splutter, flush crawling up your neck and face as realization punches you in the face. You quickly push yourself off from the floor and bolt several feet away from the individual, muttering more apologies and promises of giving him your firstborn when you see him holding a bloodied metal piece in his hand.

“I really, really didn’t mean to I promise,” you continue to blurt. “I’ll make sure to be more careful from now, I swear it on my left pinky toe.” The man only grunts in response, dusting off his robe before looking at you as if he was allergic to your sincerity.

You examine his face, and on further inspection, realize one of the pieces had split open his cheek, a thin line of red now visible on his cheek.

“Ooh, crap. Some of the metal pieces scratched you,” you say as you suddenly reach a hand towards his cheek with an expression of concern. “You’re injured, let us head to the infirmary, I know for certain there’s a first aid kit lying around there.”

“There’s no need,” the stranger mutters and brushes your hand away—his fingers coming up to brush against his cheek where a thin line of blood trickled down. “I have things to do.”

Your hand immediately darts out to grab his wrist, fingers curling tightly around his wrist to prevent him from leaving. “No, I insist, truly. I would hate for you to walk around with untreated wounds, it’s the least I can do.”

“That’s not—”

“Great! We shall head there now! Just, give me a moment,” you decide for him as you scramble to pick up the discarded tools and components. After taking a second to insure you picked up everything, you swiftly grab his hand and drag him along as you skipped off towards the infirmary.

The stranger stumbled behind into the infirmary, (much against his will) his movements stiff and reluctant. He hated how some foolish mortal was fussing over some minor scratch—especially when he had better things to do. If he wasn’t far too fazed by your intoxicating cheeriness, he would’ve made you regret your hands on him in the first place.

He sat on one of the chairs(which you had forced him into) as you rummaged for supplies, his eyes tracking your every movement—waiting to strike if you pulled any funny business.

“This is unnecessary,” he grumbles when you finally turn back to him with a bottle of antiseptic and bandages.

“Oh be quiet, we went through this like twenty times on the walk here,” you say as you pour the liquid onto a cotton pad.

The strange mans brows furrow together when you reach up to disinfect the minor injury. “I can do it myself. I don’t need your hands on me,” he mutters.

“How about you stop being so rude to someone’s who’s currently in the process of helping you? I offered to help and I’m going through with it. If you really have things to do, you would shut up so we can finish faster.”

The man blinks at your sharp tone and opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut at the last moment—gritting his teeth and grudgingly tilting his head slightly to give you better access to the scratch on his cheek. He stays silent as you work. The antiseptic looks like it stings, yet he doesn’t react—not even when you purposefully press harder than necessary out of annoyance.

It was stupid, he was the more experienced one here. He could patch up his own wounds better than you could ever dream of. Yet he couldn’t get the protests out of his mouth—your sickening insistence and the glowing…positivity radiating off of you.

“Hand.”

He blinks at your demand. His hand? Too busy being pissed off about the cut on his face—he hadn’t noticed the scratches on his fingers.

“Just give it here,” you scoff—grabbing his hand. “If I’m going to treat your face may as well treat your hand as well.”

He watches in silence as you carefully wrap the small wound on his finger, your hands gentle. His eyes remained fixed on your face—the way your brows furrowed in concentration, how you bit your bottom lip while you focused. It was a stupid little injury—barely even worth bandaging—but here you were, treating it like it mattered.

His throat suddenly felt tight for some reason that went beyond his control.

“All done!” you say after a minute, grinning at your work.

The man stares down at the bandage tied around his finger, blinking rapidly as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.

There, on his index finger—was a cute little bow.

You had wrapped up his finger and then finished it off with a little tied… bow—a method you deemed efficient for getting rid of the extra bandage without cutting it. His entire body went stiff—face a mix of emotions as he tugged on the bow. “…What is this?” he ground out, voice low and filled with pure baffled confusion.

“A bandage, silly,” you chirp proudly. “The bandage was too long so I tied the remaining length into a bow. It totally suits you.”

Suits him.

The stranger’s eye twitched at your response—you were calling it a bandage as if that stupid little bow wasn’t the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen. He wanted to rip it off immediately, wanted to crush the fabric in his fist and shove it down your throat…but for some goshfrosaken reason, he couldn’t. Instead, he just sat there stiffly with his wrapped finger—his jaw clenched so tight as you chuckled at him like this was all some big joke.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring down at the damn bow like it had personally offended him.

“This is ridiculous,“ he muttered under his breath—but still didn’t move to take it off. He told himself it was because it’d be too much of a hassle to re bandage it. He just sat there, letting you laugh at him with that stupid little ribbon on his finger like some pampered child instead of a god who’s hands were stained with blood.

You find the stranger’s aloof facade quite amusing and adorable, unable to resist the urge to bring your hand down and ruffle his hair, letting out a chuckle when he flinches violently—his entire body locking up in shock at the unexpected touch before giving you a baffled and disgusted expression.

His mind short-circuited when you just stayed there, ruffling his hair like he was some stray pet. His touch starved heart began to hammer against his ribs without his permission, fear creeping up on him at the thought of you possibly hearing it. “Stop…” he choked out weakly, swatting your hand out of his hair.

You let out a soft chuckle—coming to the conclusion that the pretty man was just shy. “Sorry again,” you say as you start gathering your items and prepare to leave. “I’ll be more careful next time, get well soon!”

He sits there bewildered as you scan over the items in your box.

No one ruffled his hair. No one dared to be that casual—that playful—that affectionate with the literal Lord of Flies. Yet you here you were, treating him like some damn puppy—completely unaware of who you were talking to.

“Wait.”

A hand shoots out and wraps around your wrist when you approach the door, stopping you from leaving. ‘He probably wants to thank me for helping him,’ you think confidently. You turn around smugly, already prepared to blurt out a: ‘of course’ or whatever.

“You’re wel—”

“Are you a half blood?”

His question catches you off guard, and for a moment you’re confused.

“What?” you ask slightly annoyed for not getting the thanks you deserve.

“Are you—”

“No what. Look, I’m running late. If it’s not a ‘thanks’ you’re giving me, I best get going. Careful on your wounds, see you around!” you interrupter after glancing at the clock. You quickly pry away from his grip and confusing question before making a run back to your original destination, leaving the stranger standing there blinking at your retreating figure.

You swiftly enter your teacher’s place, passing by a woman and a girl on the way in.

A few hours.

That was the amount of time your beloved teacher had before his upcoming match.

You had prepared yourself for this. Prepared to receive news on how he’d be chosen next to represent humanity. You had readied yourself to see him risk his life—or worse, the reality of never seeing him again.

Just not so soon.

You had been told his opponent was quite strong, and with no prior battle experience, you couldn’t help but doubt Nikola’s abilities. You tried to stay optimistic as usual, but without thinking, you had stormed out of his workspace with dread written all over your face, desperate to clear your thoughts. You knew you should cherish the last few hours with him, but your feet wouldn’t move back towards his lab.

As you leaned against the railing of some random balcony, praying for Nikola’s safety, you suddenly felt movement at your side.

“Praying to the gods isn’t so smart when they are your opponents,” you hear a familiar cold voice mutter.

“Thanks, mystery man, real helpful.”

“You have an odd, sickening…glow around you. One I have yet to see in a mortal,” he suddenly states.

Recognition sparks in your eyes as you look back at the horizon, eyes focusing on a passing bird. “The clan I come from once defeated a foul beast.” You explain. “My ancestors reclaimed its treasures—one of them being some holy golden wine that grants us immunity towards misfortune or curses. It’s been passed down through generations and blesses our line with good fortune and luck.” You flash him a halfhearted and partially smug smile. “I’m basically immune to curses and draw in good luck, isn’t that great?”

His eyes widen slightly at your explanation before fading into one of interest. “I see… You’re, immune to curses.” He seems to choke out the last part.

Realizing you don’t have his name, you turn to ask him. “Yeah. Anyways, who—” Only to speak towards air, the aloof individual no longer standing next to you.

“What a weirdo,” you mutter to yourself as you watch him walk away.

Immunity towards curses.

The stranger’s mind was still processing the information you gave him, his interest piqued. What experiments could he conduct on a mortal immune to misfortune? The ideas swirled inside his mind.

What would it be to acquaint himself with someone who would not be affected by his curse? Would he be able to be able to love freely without Satan getting in the way? Those thoughts made his heart hitch slightly.

You can’t help but fidget in your seat as you nervously await for the match to start, eyes glued anxiously to the arena as you prepare to possibly never see Nikola again.

You mentally prepare yourself as you wait for Heimdall to announce the opponent, your leg bouncing up and down in anticipation and fear.

And then—he enters.

The mystery stranger from before.

You watch him walk out—your little bow still tied around his finger and the bandage you put on him yourself still on his cheek. It was the same person from earlier who you had bumped into—no doubt.

That was the stranger you had patched up. He was the guy you had happily bandaged while telling him you were ‘blessed with good luck.’

‘Good luck my ass,’ you think. None of that fortune had come in clutch, you had literally sat down and helped up the enemy.

‘Beelzebub, the Lord of Flies, the one cursed by Satan.’

You sit frozen for seconds after hearing his name—then looking down at yourself, amazed at the fact you were still alive.

You had bumped into Beelzebub, injured the Lord of Flies, then teased him like he was a child—and still somehow survived.

As the round comes to an end, you watch your precious mentor speak his last inspirational words, and then take his last breath with a smile.

You feel like hurling, the sight of watching one of the only people who cared enough to take you under his wing die enough to send you into a panic attack, but you are unable move—much less shed any tears.

You stay there paralyzed in your seat even as the next round progresses and ends, a blank expression on your face during the entire time.

When the ninth round came to a close, you finally gained control of your body again, the grief and sorrow crashing over you in mighty waves. Feeling a strong need for fresh air, (or you’d end up vomiting on someone) you quickly run out of the stadium, your hand clasping over your mouth as hot tears streamed down your face.

Unable to see properly due to the tears fogging up your vision, you end up tripping down a flight of stairs, hitting your head in the process. Unconsciousness taking hold of you as your visions turns black.

You don’t recall much of what happened after—only the faint memory of bandaged arms carrying you off to somewhere.

When you wake, you’re lying on a small cot in some sort of lab, your head pounding in pain and your wrist wrapped in some sort of cast.

“You’re awake. Good,” you hear a voice say almost gently.

“Hey what. Where—hey its you!”

There, standing above you is none other than the Lord of Flies himself.

“You nearly cracked your skull, have a severe concussion, and your wrist is slightly broken,” he informs you motionlessly. “You will stay till you are recovered.”

“W—” you open your mouth to argue, but pause when a sharp pain pangs through your head, causing you to rethink. You were indeed injured, you had nowhere else to go now that Nikola was literally dead, and the stranger was giving you free healthcare. “Okay,” you comply.

Thinking he was just being kind, you agree without much of a second thought, oblivious to his reputation.

During the days of your recovery, you and Beelzebub slowly get more acquainted with each other with every passing day. After being in isolation for so long, your bubbly personality was quite a shift in routine.

At first he had found you annoying. You were just another nuisance, another being in his life who wouldn’t leave him alone no matter how much he scowled at your or mentioned boundaries. You were annoyingly persistent, always smiling at him, always touching his arm, or laughing too damn loud near his ears as if ‘distance’ wasn’t a word in your dictionary. He hated it at first, constantly thinking of ways to get rid of you and use you as the nominee for his next experiment. But as time passed, he slowly took a liking to you.

He hated it, hated how easily your cheerfulness rubbed off on him, hated that stupid little beam whenever he reluctantly acknowledged you. But you kept coming back anyways, and that—mixed with the hope you wouldn’t be affected by his curse, may have sparked something in him.

Slowly—so slow even he, himself didn’t realize what was happening until it was already too late, something inside him began to shift towards warmth instead of coldness around you. His irritation softened slightly whenever your laugh reached his ears, his meals suddenly less bland when eaten with you, his interest piqued every time you face lit up over simple flavors.

When he had realized his feelings may have been slowly begun to morph into affection, he began to fear he may lose you.

After being alone for so long, he couldn’t help but bask in that light you emitted.

He began to notice your absence more, caught himself memorizing trivial details—and most importantly, he began to act how he used to before he had figured out he was Satan. The younger him who had laughed with Lucifer began to slowly unbury itself from his heart.

When he realized he truly admired you, yearned from a distance for so long, yet you were still alive and well, things escalated quickly.

It didn’t take long for your heartfelt confession to be reciprocated.

He’s currently laying on his back with his head on your lap, sulking about something as you played with his hair. He was trying to play it cool, but every time he felt you run your fingers through his hair, his mind went blank for a second.

He was trying to keep his expression even—not show how much he was loving the feel of your hand in his hair—but the way his breathing was coming out a little too ragged gave him away—he was touch starved after so much isolation.

“You were complaining about something earlier, want to talk about it?” you ask.

Beelzebub’s entire body stiffened at the question—his breath hitching as his eyes snapped up to yours. The way your fingers were still tangled in his hair made it damn near impossible for him to form a coherent thought, let alone respond properly. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he finally managed to mutter up something. “Nothing.”

An obvious lie. Earlier, while passing by some minor gods, he overheard them calling him ‘Baalsack’, ‘Beelzeboob’ and some other ridiculous blasphemy. He had been unable to do anything about it besides sulk. He could still see their stupid smirks, hear their stupid voices—just the thought of any of them having the guts to say such things about him made his eye twitch in annoyance.

Though Beelzebub’s heart clenched when he saw the look on your face. He hated that look. He hated that you were concerned, that you were getting all worried over some stupid Beelzeballs bullshit he didn’t want to speak of.

He took another deep breath before looking away with an almost pained expression. “It’s really nothing important,” he insists. “Just some idiots running their mouths.”

“You never tell me anything,” you say frowning.

His breath hitched. Beelzebub knew damn well he was being closed-off, keeping you at a distance when what he wanted to do was just… tell you everything. His hands clenched into fists in the blankets—anything to distract himself from the desire to just give in for a minute. “It’s not like it’s any of your concern,” he finally mutters gruffly.

You go quiet, his words hitting you hard and causing your hand to still in his hair. What an asshole, here you thought you were making progress.

Beelzebub’s gut twisted the moment you went quiet, and he was damn near cursing himself out mentally. He knew it was his damn fault, knew it was his words that had gotten to you—the way your hand had stilled in his hair only made him feel worse.

He wanted to apologize—to say something, anything to bring that gentle smile back onto your face. But that would mean admitting weakness—admitting that he actually cared about all this stuff between you two, and he couldn’t help but fear it would result in your death.

Beelzebub’s hands twitched with the desire to reach out—to grab your hand and… he didn’t even know what he would do. “…Don’t be like that. I just I don’t see a reason to bother you with it.”

“I don’t see a reason to tell you anything either,” you retort, crossing your arms and turning your head to look at anything but him.

His chest clenched—sharp and painful. The way you threw his words back at him made him feel like he’d just been stabbed in the damn heart. You were so damn stubborn, so damn difficult, and—he loved it. He loved the way you pushed back at him like that. He loved the way you never backed down even a single goddamn inch when it came to him. Sometimes he’d still contemplate the experiments he could conduct on you. He had to suppress the urge to just beg you to not shut down like that—to not go cold and distant on him. He wanted nothing more but to pull you against him, to wrap you up in his arms and not let go until you were smiling again.

“Are you mad at me?” he suddenly asks a few minutes later.

“Yes.”

He slowly sits up and blinks at you—unsure of what to do. He didn’t like this, he didn’t like you being pissed at him—he wanted to just… fix it. His hands twitched again before finally giving in, his fingers brushing against your arm lightly, trying to get you to look at him, though you did nothing but turn away.

He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, couldn’t stop his fingers from gently grasping your chin. “…Look at me.” His voice came out rougher than he intended, his grip on your chin almost desperate as he tried to make you look at him. He hated this distance between you—hated the fact that he was the reason for your pissed-off expression.

“Stop this,” he muttered gruffly. “Look at me.” He sounded almost like he was begging at that last part, his voice too soft to sound like his usual aloof distant tone.

“No, I don’t want to,” you say, turning your head away again. “You don’t want to tell me anything, I don’t want to look at you.”

Beelzebub wanted to argue, wanted to force you into looking at him—into listening. Wanted to let you know that he could just snap your neck here and now, but he pushed that thought away.

His hands dropped away completely now, leaving them hovering uselessly between you two before clenching into fists again as if punishing himself for even trying. He was conflicted. Having never experienced these emotions before, he was unsure of what to do.

His fingers twitched again before finally giving in—his voice coming out too soft. “There were just idiots talking shit about me,” he finally admitted.

You turn back to finally look at him, a victorious smile plastering on your face. “See, was that so hard?”

Beelzebub’s chest clenches at the sight of your smile—his entire body going rigid like he’d been caught doing something wrong. His face burning too hot now, his pride warring with the way his heart was near pounding out of his ribs.

He scowled down at you, too gruff to cover up how flustered he was. “Whatever” he mutters under his breath—but there was no real bite to it this time. Just a quiet admission that yeah, maybe telling you things wasn’t so impossible after all.

Beelzebub’s scowl deepens when you dared to laugh at him—a slight pink dusting his ears as he tried (and failed) to look like he wasn’t flustered. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you off this bed right now—” before being cut off by the feeling of your lips on his.

His breath caught—every muscle going tense the second your lips touch his own, though he doesn’t even hesitate before kissing you back—his hand burying itself in your hair as the other grabbed your leg, yanking it over his hip to drag you even closer. His entire body trembles when you wrap your legs around his torso—a ragged, guttural groan slipping from between his lips as he ground you even closer against him. His hands were everywhere—in your hair, on your hips, your waist, your thighs.

Beelzebub suddenly pulled away when he felt you giggle against his lips—his grip on you tightening like he was two seconds away from just flipping you onto your back and pinning you there. His voice came out too rough when he spoke. “You’re enjoying this too damn much.” His hands slide down to squeeze the backs of your thighs, pulling them tighter around his waist as if daring you to laugh again.

He was loving the way you looked right now, with your legs wrapped around him like that—your lips curling into your signature teasing smile. “You think it’d be so goddamn funny if I just… took you right here, hm?”

You watch as he lifts his thumb up your bottom lip, gently pulling it down so you would open your mouth for him, his breathing hitching the second you obeyed. His eyes widen slightly as he stares down at you like he can’t believe you’re real. He continues to look at you with a mixture of lust and something too close to worship.

Beelzebub doesn’t hesitate to slide his fingers into your mouth once it’s fully open. His eyes flickering down to watch the way he did it, a groan slipping out against his will. When you didn’t protest, he let his fingers slide deeper into your mouth, his breathing ragged like he was near suffocating. He was watching the way you took them so easily, holding back the urge to moan at the way your tongue continued to wrap around his fingers—how you sucked on them like that, like you were doing it on purpose just to get a reaction.

Beelzebub’s fingers curled against your tongue, the tip slipping almost into your throat. His eyes closed for a second, like he was trying to hold onto some thread of self control. Beelzebub’s chest was heaving, his breathing too rough as he keeps watching you. His fingers were still curling in your mouth, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the sight of them disappearing between your lips. Still, the crippling fear that he would hurt you weighed heavy on his mind, the hesitance in his actions quite noticeable. He was without a doubt inexperienced—yet still eager to please.

Beelzebub groaned at the way you whimpered—his entire body shuddering as he felt your tongue swirling around his fingers. He pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth, not stopping until he could feel them brush against the back of your throat.

Beelzebub was still staring down at you, his eyes fixed on your face like he was trying to memorize every damn detail—but his eyes kept dropping to your mouth, to his fingers slowly sliding in and out. He sounded like he was having a hard time concentrating right now. He could feel your tongue sliding around his fingers—feel the warmth and wetness as you sucked on them—and it was like pure torture. His entire body was taut like a damn bowstring, all his muscles clenching so hard as his fingers curl against your tongue again.

Then, without thinking, he pressed his thumb onto the center of your tongue and began sending tiny vibrations through his thumb, his finger pad vibrating teasingly soft against your mouth appendage.

You felt the sensation through your whole body, nearly choking as his finger continued to vibrate deeper and faster against your taste buds. (Idk how to describe how this feels stop pls js use your imagination)

Beelzebub watched the way you took his thumb—watched the way your eyes fluttered at the tremors on your tongue, the way your lips close over them, and he damn near whimpered. He almost didn’t know what he wanted more, to kiss you, or to just watch you like this.

His fingers twitched against your tongue, his throat bobbing like he was swallowing back a moan. He couldn’t stop staring at your mouth—at the way your lips wrapped around him so perfectly. It was driving him insane in the best possible fucking way.

His free hand reached down to grip your thigh again, needing to touch you somewhere else to ground him and keep him tied to reality. He whimpered when you sucked harder on his fingers—his entire body tensing up like a live wire about to snap.

“You’re going to kill me,” you hear him choke out hoarsely.

Beelzebub’s fingers pulled out of your mouth, his other hand squeezing your thigh like he was holding onto the last shred of sanity. His breathing had gone completely erratic—short, sharp gasps rather than his usual composed stable ones.

His fingers were slick with your saliva, hovering uselessly in the air where they’d just been inside your mouth for a second before his tongue slides out to lick at them—not breaking eye contact for a second.

He’d give you anything. Anything, if you kept looking at him like that.

His hand suddenly slid from his mouth to grip the back of your neck—yanking you forward until his lips crashed into yours. Beelzebub kissed you like he was starving, like he needed you to breathe—his tongue slipping past your lips in a way that was damn near filthy. His hands grabbing you and pulling you flush against his chest like he wanted to fuse your bodies together. He was practically devouring you, claiming every inch of your mouth like it was his for the taking.

Beelzebub’s entire body shudders when you tangle your tongue with his, his hands roaming a path across your thighs before grabbing the underside of your ass and lifting you against him.

His hands tangle in your hair, holding you in place—not that you needed it, not with how eager you were being. He let out a sharp, rough groan as if you were doing something downright sinful—and maybe you were. What was a mortal and Satan himself doing?

Beelzebub whined—a high, desperate sound that he didn’t even recognize as his own—when you pulled away. His fingers twitched at his sides, still slightly moist with your spit, before he finally forced out a shaky words. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, just need air,” you answer before moving your hands up to ruffle and card through his hair.

Beelzebub flinched at the sudden touch—his entire body tensing before melting into it like a damn cat. His breathing was still too ragged, his chest rising and falling unevenly as your fingers carded through his hair. All the tension drained out of him at once—his shoulders slumping forward as he let out a shaky exhale. He leaned into your hand almost desperately now, chasing the contact like he’d been starved for it.

His hands clenched into fists on the bed beside your hips as if to stop himself from doing something embarrassing like begging for praise or whimpering like a pathetic little mutt.

Beelzebub stayed like that for a long moment—his face pressing against your shoulder, his breathing uneven as he tried to process what the hell just happened. His fingers slowly uncurled from the sheets, one trembling hand lifting hesitantly to brush against your arm… testing if you were still there. Still real.

Noticing the action, you can’t help but lean down and press a few kisses to his face, fingers still softly soothing his tangled locks. When they touch his cheek—his entire body tenses like he wasn’t sure how to react—his face staying buried against you. He still wouldn’t lift his head… too embarrassed by how soft this was making him feel, but his face remained half-buried against you—a quiet hum of peace escaping him. His body had gone slack with contentment, leaning into every stroke like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Beelzebub stayed like that for a long, quiet moment—his breathing slow and steady now, his body pliant under your touch. The tension had bled out of him entirely, replaced by something warm and heavy in his chest… something dangerously close to joy.

For once—for the first time in what felt like centuries—he didn’t feel restless. Didn’t feel like he needed to die or fear or repent.

His breathing slows even further, his lashes fluttering as he practically drowns in the warmth of your affection. His fingers uncurl from their death grip on your arm and instead settle limply at his sides, completely boneless against you as he buried himself fully against you.

Beelzebub didn’t say another word. Didn’t need to. The way his body curls around you—the way his arms lock tight—his face nestling against your skin like he was trying to absorb every bit of warmth—said everything for him.

For once in his miserable existence, Beelzebub wasn’t worried about his bloodstained hands or experiments. He was just… here. Holding onto you like if he let go, the world would collapse beneath him all over again.

Seeing how clingy he had suddenly become, you let out a laugh, eyes crinkling with pure amusement and adoration as you relaxed further into his desperate embrace.

That quiet sound you let out made something in his chest loosen, and after a beat, he huffs quietly against your neck—almost like he was trying to laugh too, but didn’t know how. It came out as more of an awkward exhale than anything, but it was there. A tiny, stifled attempt he’d hone to perfection if you asked.

Beelzebub let himself just be. No experiments. No bloodshed. Just this: your laughter, his arms around you, and the quiet understanding that he’d never trade it for anything. His arms squeeze you again—like even if words failed him entirely, it could convey every word he wanted to say.

“I’m so happy,” he whispers.

You make me so happy.

And then his eyes closed.

When Beelzebub’s eyes reopened, the sight that greeted him filled him with nothing but dread.

You were slumped on the ground.

His hands were covered in blood

Your blood was pooling out from a wound in an area that seemed too dangerously similar to the places where vital organs would be—your face white as a sheet and scrunched up in bewilderment.

His hands were covered in blood, the sticky red substance coating over his fingers and arms as he slowly processed what had happened.

You were pressing down on the wound in your abdomen, trying to stop the blood even though it was useless, you could already feel your heart slowing as your breaths became more labored. You look up at Beelzebub(who was still petrified) weakly, your mind still conflicted with surprise—but your eyes were soft, as if you were expecting this to happening long ago.

With your mind hazy and unable to think properly, you did the only thing you felt like doing—providing comfort. “It’s alright,” you choke out while letting out a teary, strangled laugh. You knew it was practically useless and would not reach deaf ears, but the look on his face made you feel as if you were complied to.

Then he finally processed the scene in front of him.

“No…”

The word tore out of him raw and guttural as he immediately fell to his knees beside your dying body. His hand flew to your face immediately, thumbs brushing frantically at the blood as if he could wipe it away like some bad dream. The other fell onto your hand, helping you press down on the wound hard.

“No, no, no. I thought—” His voice cracked on every syllable—panicked in a way that was foreign even to himself.

Beelzebub’s hands shook violently as he frantically wiped the blood from your mouth—face—hands—his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—this can’t be happening, you were supposed to be immune,” he choked out helplessly.

But the proof was already there—smeared across his fingers and dripping onto the ground beneath you—the glow that usually hugged your frame had also gone.

“Tell me what to do,” he begged—voice breaking like a child’s. He’d kill gods for this if it meant saving you right now. He’d rip apart heaven and hell with his bare hands just to fix this, but all he could do was hold you tighter between choked words. “I’ll fix you up, you’ll live, you’ll stay,” he stated shakily.

His words were so sincere, and for a moment, you almost believed him.

“It’s alright,” you say again, this time with a more solemn smile. “Don’t hold it against yourself, ’kay?”

Beelzebub froze—his entire body going rigid as he stared down at you, your words not computing for one horrifying second. His breath continued to come out quick—his entire body still shaking with the aftershocks of panic. The blood was still fresh on his fingers, and this image of you wasn’t leaving his skull anytime soon.

He began gathering you up in his arms, ready to make a break for his lab—when you stopped him.

“A minute at most,” you whisper. “That’s how long I have left, I know it. Just stop, I don’t want that minute to be on your operating table while you conjure up something that’ll fail.”

Beelzebub stared at you for a long, silent moment—his expression caught somewhere between devastation and reluctant realization. Then, slowly… his hands curled into fists beside your hips. A muscle in his jaw twitched violently as he swallowed back whatever damning emotion was threatening to spill over. Though he knew one thing was clear.

He couldn’t save you.

He couldn’t cut you open and rearrange your organs.

He couldn’t put you on his operating table and fix whatever pain he caused.

Beelzebub was described to be a very calm and collected yet cunning and apathetic individual, as he would treat other beings as experiments without any remorse or guilt.

But currently, the thought of even touching you made him sick.

For one endless second, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you with eyes that had gone terrifyingly hollow… like the realization had carved something vital out of him and left nothing behind but a gaping wound where his soul used to be.

Then—his fingers dug into your shoulders hard enough to bruise as he shook you once—just once, his voice raw with something too broken for anger. “Liar.” A sob clawed up his throat next, tearing free before he could choke it back down.

Beelzebub collapsed over you—his forehead pressing hard against your collarbone as his entire body shuddered with silent, violent sobs. He didn’t even try to hide it now; the dam had burst, and all that was left was the ugly, gasping wreck of a man who’d just been handed a death sentence for someone he loved more than life itself.

His arms locked around you like iron bands—not restraining, but anchoring, as if letting go would mean watching you slip away right then and there—though you quite literally were.

“Please,” he begged into your skin between shuddering breaths “I’m sorry. I should’ve never even touched you—should’ve scolded you and patched up my own cut that day.”

He let out a strangled sound when you began to disintegrate and fade. A sob ripped from his throat—ugly and guttural—as he crushed you against him so tightly it probably hurt. His entire body trembled with the force of holding back a scream, his face buried in your hair as if he could breathe life into you through sheer proximity alone. His hands were shaking where they gripped your back—one sliding up to cradle the base of your skull like something precious while the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades… anchoring. Desperate. Begging silently—but not praying. He knew none of those gods would ever respond to him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please,” he mutters the mantra over, and over, and over again as tears continued to spill down his bloodstained cheeks.

“Stop,” you command, using the last of your strength to raise your hand and wipe the salty droplets off his cheeks. “It’s okay, really. Just listen to me.”

He looks up at you slowly, lifting his head out of your neck as his eyes bore into yours with desperation.

“I love you, heh.”

Four words.

Those were the last four words you said while flashing him one of those familiar, warm smiles he loves

Those were the last four words you said while the remaining essence of you faded away and was swept off in the rain.

Those were the last four words that escaped your mouth as he watched you disappear in his arms.

Those were the last four words he’d ever hear you say.

Heh

Beelzebub didn’t scream.

He couldn’t. The sound got lodged somewhere between his ribs and throat, strangling itself into silence as he stared at the bloodstained floor—your scent still clinging to him like a ghost.

He collapsed, not in grief—not yet—he hadn’t come to believe you were gone. You were still here, just in another room, ready to kiss away his sorrow and calm his aching heart.

His had legs simply gave out beneath him, the weight of what he’d done crashing down all at once. He hit the floor hard, knees hitting marble with a sound that should’ve hurt, but he didn’t feel it.

Nothing could hurt like this did.

His hands clawed at his own hair instead—yanking until strands ripped free from their roots—a broken noise tore from his throat, half-snarl, half-sob… something too wounded for words.

You were gone.

Beelzebub stayed there for hours—curled on the cold floor, his forehead pressed to the ground like a man in prayer. But he wasn’t praying—none of those selfish deities would ever respond.

He was begging.

Begging some unseen force to undo this, to rewrite reality where you hadn’t left him…where you were still breathing beside him instead of gone. His tears pooled beneath him—salty and endless—as silence swallowed.

Then.

Beelzebub didn’t notice you at first—too lost in his own shattered thoughts, still half-sprawled on the floor like a broken thing.

But the faintest rustle of fabric made his head jerk up.

His breath caught so hard it hurt—his entire body freezing mid-motion as if moving might make this blessing of an illusion disappear.

There you were. Standing by the balcony doors, bathed in golden light from the setting sun… alive. Here.

For one agonizing second, he just stared—his red-rimmed eyes wide and disbelieving, taking in the way the sunset painted your skin gold, how you looked so fragile yet real.

Then his entire body lurched forward like a puppet yanked by its strings—stumbling to his feet with unsteady legs before practically launching himself toward you.

He didn’t know how this was possible—didn’t care. Something had happened, something had brought you back. Maybe something rewound time for him. Maybe nothing had ever happened and he had just woken up from a nightmare. Nonetheless, none of it mattered in the moment.

Beelzebub didn’t stop running.

He crashed into you the second he reached the balcony—arms wrapping around your waist with enough force to bruise(breathing a sigh of relief when he didn’t feel any blood), his face burying itself in your neck like a man starved for air. His breath came in ragged, desperate gulps against your skin—his entire body trembling from sheer disbelief that you were here and alive and real.

He pressed his forehead hard against yours and sobbed. Ugly, guttural cries tore from him as if every second of pain he’d suffered since waking up alone could finally pour out now that you were here again.

His whole body curling tighter around you like a child seeking comfort—pressing himself against your chest so tight anyone would’ve thought he would dig a hole in your chest and stay tucked in your heart. He didn’t even try to stop the tears now; they flowed freely, soaking into your clothes as he clung to you with both hands fisted in your shirt.

His lips found yours then—not in passion but desperation, kissing you over and over like he needed proof this was real. Beelzebub kissed you like he was trying to rewrite the past—each press of his lips a silent plea.

Stay.

Don’t leave again.

Let me keep you.

His hands cradled your face with unbearable gentleness, thumbs wiping away his own tears that had dripped onto your skin… until finally, breathlessly, he rested his forehead against yours and just breathed. In sync with you. Alive together.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered so quietly it was almost lost in the wind.

His arms slid around your waist again—not tight enough to hurt this time, just holding, anchoring himself to you as if he could fuse your ribs together so nothing would ever tear you apart again. His hands then slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he tilted his face down to meet yours properly this time, kissing you with something painfully close to reverence.

It wasn’t hungry or desperate anymore—just slow and aching, pouring every unsaid apology into it.

The kiss deepened—soft, lingering, the kind that felt like a vow. Beelzebub’s hands cradled your face with near worship now, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones as if memorizing every detail all over again. When he finally pulled back, just enough to see your eyes—his own were still wet but steadier than before.

Then, he did something so unexpected even he seemed surprised by it.

He kissed you on the forehead next. A gesture tender and simple, one he’d never given anyone else in his long existence. Beelzebub’s lips lingered on your forehead—a silent prayer against your skin, his breath warm and uneven. When he straightened again, there was something new in his gaze, beneath his lingering grief, because you were here. You’d come back.

But when you didn’t speak a word after—infact you hadn’t uttered a word at all, he began to panic.

“Stop that,” he choked out, closing his eyes and swiping roughly at his own tears with the back of one hand while the other stayed curled possessively around you. “Say something,” he quietly pleaded. Yet his request was only met with your soft unmoving expression.

When he reopened his eyes and removed his hands, he was back on the bloodstained ground.

It was just a dream.

The world as he’d known it, the future he’d dared to believe in…all of it was gone now, snuffed out like a candle in the wind. He didn’t get up from the floor. Didn’t move, didn’t speak. The only sign that he was even still alive was the ragged, shaking breaths he took occasionally and the silent tear tracks trailing down his otherwise expressionless face.

Whether your immunity to curses wore off or you just never had it, there was one truth he was now sure of:

As long as Satan is within him, he will forever harm those he comes to love.

He will drown in self loathing and guilt for the rest of his existence.

A/N: help did yall fr think there was gonna be a good ending

anyways reqs are open and apologies again for mischarztation n mistakes! with exam season here ion have time to throughly edit and i was hella sleep deprived while writing ts 🧍‍♂️ low-key I'm js realising how many unnecessary em dashes I used but can we ignore that pls i had some obsession with em dashes or sum

there will probs be another beel fic but it might be angst idk oops

edit: BRO SOME OF Y'ALL NEED TO STOP ACCUSING ME OF USING AI IDK WHAT IN THIS FIC SCREAMED AI EXCEPT MAYBE THE EXCESSIVE AMOUNT OF EM DASHES BUT I JUST DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO USE THEM BACK THEN😿.

He pulled up to a non-descript apartment building, the kind with long, sterile hallways and identical doors. The delivery was for unit 4B. As he walked down the hall, the sound of his own footsteps was the only thing that broke the silence. He knocked on the door, the knuckles of his hand making a solid, firm sound.

You, on the other side, had just finished a long night of studying. Your textbooks were spread out on the floor, a tangle of Korean vocabulary lists and grammar notes. The knock on the door startled you slightly, a momentary break in the quiet solitude of your new life in Seoul. You were still finding your footing in this city, a stranger in a strange land.

The door opened, and Suho's world came to a halt.

You stood there, framed by the warm glow of your apartment light. Your hair, damp from a recent shower, was a dark contrast against your soft, casual clothes. Your eyes, accustomed to the silence and isolation of your apartment, met his with a look of simple indifference. To Suho, however, they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. The rain-streaked fluorescent hallway and the smell of the night faded away, replaced by the warmth of your presence. He felt an unfamiliar knot form in his chest, a flutter he hadn't experienced before.

He held out the plastic bag, a jumble of fried chicken and condiments. "Uh... your delivery," he managed to stammer, his voice a little rougher than he intended.

You tilted your head slightly, a small frown forming on your lips. The Korean words were still new, often sliding right past your comprehension. "Pardon?" you asked, your voice soft and clear, the accent from your country, Y/C, an unfamiliar but beautiful melody to his ears.

He felt his cheeks heat up, a blush he couldn't control. This was a new and completely unexpected situation. He had never been at a loss for words, but here he was, fumbling like an idiot. He took a breath, slowing down, and repeated the words, "Your delivery. It's here."

You nodded, the frown disappearing as the meaning finally clicked. You reached for your wallet, your fingers brushing against his as you took the bag. The brief contact sent a jolt through him, a strange electric shock that left his skin tingling. He found himself staring at your hands, then at your face, unable to tear his eyes away.

You saw him staring and felt a little awkward. "Thank you," you said, a small, polite smile on your face. You were about to close the door when he spoke again, a sudden, almost desperate question on his lips.

"Where... where are you from?" he asked. The question was unprompted, unprofessional, but he couldn't help himself. He just needed to hear you speak again.

You paused, your hand still on the doorknob. You weren't used to people asking you questions like this in Seoul. "I'm from Y/C," you answered simply, the name of your country feeling like a piece of home you could share. "I'm here for university."

Suho nodded slowly, a genuine, if slightly dazed, smile spreading across his face. "Ah. That's... cool," he said, the word feeling utterly inadequate. He wanted to say more, to ask what you were studying, what you thought of the city, anything to prolong the conversation. But he saw the look in your eyes, the quiet exhaustion, and knew he was keeping you from the rest of your night.

The moment stretched on, a silent space filled with unspoken thoughts and the sound of rain. He knew he had to go. The next delivery was already waiting. He took a final, long look at you, trying to commit every detail of your face to memory. He'd never forget your eyes, your voice, the way the light caught in your hair.

As you finally closed the door, a soft click separating your two worlds, Suho found himself pulling out his phone. He typed your apartment number, 4B, into his notes, a simple act that felt monumental. It was an anchor, a piece of information that tethered him to this moment, to you. He knew he'd be back. He'd make sure of it. His next delivery, and the one after that, would be to unit 4B.

The next morning, the city was washed clean. The rain had passed, leaving behind a crisp, cool air that carried the faint scent of blossoming trees. Suho's usual restless energy felt muted, replaced by a strange, quiet hum that seemed to resonate with the city's new atmosphere. He wasn't thinking about the next delivery or the fight that was brewing in the back alleys. His mind kept replaying the image of a dimly lit hallway and a girl with eyes like a calm sea.

He was sitting in the high school canteen, the usual cacophony of students' chatter and clanging trays a distant noise. Sieun sat across from him, his head buried in a book, a textbook on philosophy, of all things. Beomseok was beside him, picking at his food with a look of quiet contemplation. The two of them were the constants in Suho's life, the anchors in a sea of chaos.

"Hey," Beomseok began, his voice soft, "you're really quiet today. Everything okay?"

Suho just sighed, pushing his food around with his chopsticks. He couldn't bring himself to eat. He was too full of... something he couldn't quite name. Longing? Hope? He didn't know. He just knew he was different.

Sieun, without even looking up from his book, spoke with a dry, sarcastic tone that was uniquely his. "He's probably fallen in love. That's the only thing that could make him this pathetic."

Suho's head snapped up. "It's not pathetic! And I didn't fall in love, not yet anyway," he grumbled, a blush creeping up his neck.

Beomseok gave a small, awkward smile. "So, what happened? You met someone?"

"Last night. On a delivery," Suho said, the words tumbling out like a confession. "She was... she was beautiful, man. Like, really beautiful. The most beautiful person I've ever seen. She was from some other country, here for studies."

Sieun finally lowered his book, a look of mock seriousness on his face. "A foreign girl? Wow, Suho, you're really expanding your horizons. Did you get her number? Or did you just stare at her like a lost puppy?"

Suho scowled at him. "I didn't get her number! She's still learning Korean, I barely even talked to her. And I didn't stare like a lost puppy!" He knew it was a lie, but he had to say it. "I just... I don't know, man. There was just something about her. The way her eyes looked, the way she spoke... It was just her. She was the one."

Beomseok tried to be helpful. "Well, do you know where she lives? Maybe you can find a reason to go back?"

Suho's eyes lit up. "I do! I wrote down her address. I'm going to make sure my next delivery is to her place. I'll even ask for that route if I have to."

Sieun shook his head, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. "He's lost. We've lost him. To some girl he met for five minutes and now he thinks they're destined to be together." He picked up his book again, as if the conversation was too much for him to handle.

Suho ignored him, his gaze distant, seeing not the crowded canteen but a single, brightly lit apartment door. The knot in his chest from last night was back, but this time, it felt less like a knot and more like a hopeful, fluttering warmth. "It's her," he whispered, mostly to himself. "I know it is.”

The phone screen was a constant source of agony, a digital mirror reflecting Suho's growing frustration. For three days, his fingers had automatically refreshed the delivery app, scanning a sea of addresses for just one specific unit number. He was in a group chat with Sieun and Beomseok, his thumb hovering over the keypad, a new complaint forming on his tongue.

[Suho]

Still nothing. Not a single delivery to that apartment complex. It’s like she just vanished or something.

[Sieun]

Maybe she's not ordering in anymore. Or maybe she found a boyfriend and is eating home-cooked meals. Lol.

[Beomseok]

Don't say that, man. She's probably just busy with school. You know how it is.

[Suho]

Yeah, maybe. But I'm starting to think I just imagined the whole thing. The light, her eyes... it all just feels like a dream now.

He was about to put his phone away, a heavy sigh escaping his lips, when a notification flashed on the screen. A new batch of orders. He swiped to open it, his heart not even bothering to quicken its pace. He was prepared for the familiar disappointment. But then, as he scrolled, a line of text seemed to leap out at him, a beacon in the digital darkness.

Unit 4B.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, but the words remained, clear and vibrant. It wasn't a dream. It was real.

[Suho]

GUYS. I FOUND IT. I HAVE HER ADDRESS. IT'S HER!!!

A moment of stunned silence from the group chat, then Sieun's message popped up.

[Sieun]

Don't have a heart attack, Romeo. Go get her.

Suho didn't even bother to reply. He shoved his phone into his pocket, the screen still glowing with his moment of victory. His eyes found the package, a simple brown bag with her name on it, sitting innocently on the counter. He snatched it up, the paper warm against his cold hands, a new kind of energy coursing through him.

The bike roared to life, the sound a powerful, angry growl that matched the rhythm of his beating heart. He sped through the city, but this time, his focus wasn't on getting the deliveries done as quickly as possible. Instead, he found himself meticulously planning his route, a new strategy taking shape in his mind. He would do all the other deliveries first, the ones that didn't matter. He would save hers for last.

Every other drop-off became a stepping stone, a hurdle to clear before he could finally see you again. A burger to an old woman, a pizza to a family, a box of fried chicken to a group of rowdy high schoolers. Each one felt like an eternity, a pointless task standing between him and his goal. With each ring of a doorbell, with each exchange of money and a nod, his anticipation grew. The world outside his little bubble of hope and anxiety seemed to slow down, the city's usual chaos muted and distant.

Finally, the last delivery was made. The last package was gone. All that was left was the bag for you, nestled in his insulated delivery box. He took a deep breath, the cold night air filling his lungs. It was time. He took off again, the city streets a blur of neon and headlights. He found himself at the familiar apartment complex, the same sterile hallway, the same door. He was back where his world had been turned upside down.

He walked to your door, the package held tightly in his hands. He took a moment, staring at the number 4B, to compose himself. He wasn't the fumbling, stuttering delivery boy from three nights ago. He was Ahn Suho, a guy who knew what he wanted and was determined to get it. He knocked, a firm, confident rhythm, and waited. His heart, however, was a frantic drum solo against his ribs.

His confident facade shattered the moment the door clicked open. You were standing there, just as he remembered, just as beautiful. But this time, a soft, small smile touched your lips when you saw him. A flicker of recognition in your eyes. That simple, genuine smile was all it took to turn his carefully constructed composure into dust. The confident Ahn Suho who had meticulously planned his route and rehearsed his lines was gone, replaced by the stuttering boy from three nights ago.

"Hi," you said, your voice a little more familiar now, a little less cautious. "You again."

He held out the bag, the paper rustling in his trembling hands. "Your... your delivery," he managed to say, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.

You chuckled softly, a sound that made his heart skip a beat. "I know. It's the same thing as last time. I guess I have a bad habit of ordering this late." You reached for your wallet, your fingers brushing against his again as you took the bag. The shock was still there, but this time, it was a little sweeter, a little less surprising.

"No, it's fine," he said quickly, the words a messy jumble. "I mean, it's not bad. It's... good."

You looked at him, a genuine look of amusement in your eyes. "Are you okay? You seem a little nervous."

"I'm fine!" he blurted out, then immediately regretted it. He took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. "Sorry. I'm just... tired. Long night."

You nodded, a knowing look on your face. "I get it. I'm trying to finish my assignments, so I'm not sleeping much either. That's why I need the food." You paused, then added, "Thank you, by the way. For the delivery."

The conversation felt a little more natural this time. You weren't a stranger anymore, but not quite a friend either. He was desperate to keep the moment from ending. "So," he started, "how's... how's studying? The Korean, I mean."

"It's hard," you admitted with a small laugh. "The grammar is so confusing. I think my brain is going to melt."

"Yeah, it's pretty tough," he agreed, a small, genuine smile on his face. "But you're doing good. I can understand you."

You beamed at him, a warmth spreading through his chest. "Thank you. That actually means a lot."

The silence returned, but this time it wasn't awkward. It was comfortable, a shared space between two people who were no longer strangers. He knew he had to go, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. He had to take the risk. It was now or never.

He took a deep breath, his hands balling into fists inside his pockets. "Hey," he began, his voice a little lower, a little more serious. "I know this is weird, but... would you be willing to give me your number? I could help you with the Korean, or we could just... talk. If you want." The words came out in a rush, a clumsy, honest plea.

You looked at him for a long moment, a gentle, thoughtful look in your eyes. The smile returned, and this time, it was different. It was a little shy, a little hopeful. You reached for your phone, unlocking it and holding it out to him. "I'd like that," you said simply, your voice soft and clear. "I'd like that a lot.”

The next day, the high school canteen was loud and boisterous as usual, but to Ahn Suho, it felt different. The air tasted sweeter, the chatter of students sounded like a celebratory anthem, and even the bland lunch tasted like a gourmet meal. He was practically vibrating with an energy he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

He sat with Beomseok and Sieun, barely touching his food, a wide, goofy grin plastered across his face. He kept pulling out his phone, staring at the new contact he had saved. Y/n. Just her name, but it felt like a whole world.

Sieun, ever the perceptive one, looked at him with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. "What's with you? You look like you just won the lottery."

Suho couldn't contain himself. He practically shouted, "I did! I got her number!"

Beomseok’s face lit up with a genuine smile. "Seriously? That's great, Suho! I told you it would work out."

Suho nodded enthusiastically, a ball of nervous energy. "I know, right? I just... I had to ask. And she said yes! I was so nervous, I almost screwed it up. But she gave it to me." He held up his phone, showing them the contact, as if it were a trophy.

Sieun just shook his head, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips. "You know, for someone who can take down a whole gang of guys without breaking a sweat, you really crumble when you see a pretty girl."

"It's different!" Suho shot back, not even bothering to be offended. He was too happy. "This is... she's different. I don't know, man. It just feels... right."

Beomseok leaned in, his smile soft and warm. "So, what are you going to do now? Are you going to text her?"

Suho's expression turned serious for a moment. He looked down at his phone, his thumb hovering over her name. "I don't know what to say. 'Hey, it's the delivery guy?' That's lame."

Sieun let out a dramatic sigh. "Okay, let me give you some advice, you clueless romantic. Just say hi. Ask her about her studies. Be yourself. Not this hyper-caffeinated maniac version of yourself."

Suho ignored the jab, his mind already racing. "I could ask her if she needs help with her Korean. We talked about that. Yeah, that's it. It's the perfect excuse." He looked up at them, his eyes sparkling with newfound purpose. "I'm going to text her. Right now."

He put his phone down on the table, a new, determined look on his face. The energy that had been buzzing in his veins settled into a focused resolve. It was a new kind of fight, a new kind of challenge, and he was ready for it.

The lunch tray in front of Suho remained untouched. His focus was entirely on the phone in his hands, his thumb hovering over the conversation with Y/n. He had sent a simple "Hi, it's Suho," and was now waiting with a level of anticipation that was completely out of character.

"Eat something," Sieun said, pushing a piece of meat from his own tray toward Suho's plate. "You're going to pass out from a lack of food and an excess of infatuation."

Suho barely registered the gesture. "I can't," he mumbled, his eyes glued to the screen. "I'm talking to her."

Beomseok smiled. "Did she reply?"

Suho's face lit up as a new message notification popped up.

[Y/N]

Oh, hey! I wasn't sure if you'd text.

"She replied," Suho announced, his voice a breathless whisper. A wide, uncontrollable grin spread across his face as he began typing.

[Suho]

I had to. Just wanted to make sure you were real and not a figment of my imagination.

"Seriously?" said Sieun, shaking his head. "You're going to embarrass yourself before you even get to the first date."

"No way. It's funny. She'll think it's funny." Respond Suho with a smirk on his face, his eyes never leaving his phone.

A moment later, his phone buzzed again.

[Y/N]

Haha, I promise I'm real. Just finished studying, actually. My brain is officially fried.

Suho's eyes widened, a new plan forming in his head. This was his opening.

[Suho]

That's what I figured. I'm no expert, but if you ever want help with Korean, I'm a pretty good tutor. You can get me to help you out if you want.

Sieun groaned. "You're not a tutor. You barely pay attention in class."

"Shhh," Suho hissed, his fingers flying across the keypad. "I can teach her what I know."

[Y/N]

That's so nice of you! I might have to take you up on that sometime. My textbook is a little confusing sometimes. Thanks!

Suho let out a triumphant "Yes!" and finally reached for his chopsticks, taking a large, satisfied bite of food.

"See?" he said to Sieun, his mouth full. "Smooth. It's all about being smooth.”

A few days had passed, filled with a steady stream of text messages that quickly moved from the nervous and awkward to the comfortable and easy. You and Suho had talked about everything from your classes to his job, and the promise of a "study session" had finally turned into a plan. The meeting spot was a small, cozy cafe just a few blocks from your apartment building, a place Suho had never been to before.

He was there early, a large tumbler of iced coffee sitting untouched in front of him. He felt ridiculously out of place, surrounded by students hunched over laptops and soft music playing from unseen speakers. He wasn't in a back alley, he wasn't on his bike, he wasn't in a classroom. He was in a cafe, waiting for you, and his heart was a frantic drum solo against his ribs.

He was just about to text you to ask if you were on your way when the little bell over the door chimed. He looked up, and for the second time in his life, the entire world seemed to blur, leaving only you in sharp focus. You were wearing a simple sweater and jeans, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and the biggest, most genuine smile he had ever seen.

"Hi," you said, walking over to his table. "Sorry I'm a little late. I got caught up with an assignment."

"No, it's fine!" he said, suddenly finding his voice. "I was just... uh, waiting. I'm glad you came."

You sat down across from him, pulling out a heavy Korean textbook and a notepad filled with notes in your language. The scent of your shampoo filled the air around them, and Suho found it hard to focus on anything else.

"Okay," you said, opening the book to a dog-eared page. "So this part here... I just don't understand it at all. The sentence structure is so confusing."

He leaned in, his eyes scanning the page, the words a familiar blur of characters he had learned his entire life without a second thought. But now, with you beside him, they felt new and important. He took a deep breath, trying to be the tutor he had so confidently proclaimed himself to be.

He started explaining, breaking down the grammar rule into simple, understandable pieces. You listened intently, your brow furrowed in concentration. He noticed the way your pen would pause in mid-air as you thought, the way your eyes would light up when something finally clicked. He found himself more engrossed in watching you learn than in the actual lesson itself.

"Oh! I get it!" you suddenly exclaimed, the sound of your voice a triumphant melody. "So it's like this..." You wrote a perfect example sentence in your notebook, the characters a little shaky but correct.

He looked at the sentence, then at your face, a proud smile spreading across his own. "Yeah," he said, his voice soft with genuine admiration. "Exactly like that. You're doing great."

You laughed, a joyful, bright sound that filled the small cafe. "I think you're just a good teacher."

The conversation drifted away from the textbook, moving to small talk and shared laughter. The iced coffee melted into a watery mess, and the pages of your textbook went unread.

The real lesson that day wasn't in grammar or vocabulary. It was in the simple, quiet magic of two people connecting.

The walk back to his bike was colder than the walk to the cafe had been, but Suho barely noticed. The world had gone from a series of routine tasks to a vibrant, living thing, and he felt a part of it in a way he hadn't before. He had spent the entire afternoon with you, the hours melting away as you talked about your life in Y/C. He learned about your family, your traditions, and the small, unique details of a life lived a world away from his.

He was still replaying the sound of your laugh in his head when he unlocked his front door, the small, cramped apartment a stark contrast to the cozy cafe and the endless conversation they'd shared. The fluorescent kitchen light flickered on, and he pulled out his phone. A flurry of notifications from his group chat with Sieun and Beomseok lit up the screen.

[Beomseok]

Hey, where'd you go? You disappeared.

[Sieun]

Did you die on your way to see her? Is this a ghost typing?

[Beomseok]

Suho? Are you okay?

Suho grinned, the tired ache in his muscles forgotten. His fingers flew across the keyboard.

[Suho]

I'm alive. I'm more than alive. We met up. It was perfect.

[Sieun]

And? What happened? Did you talk? Or did you just stare at her like a goldfish?

[Suho]

We talked for hours. She's from y/c y'know. It's so different. She told me about her family and the way things are there.

[Beomseok]

That's amazing, Suho! I'm really happy for you.

[Suho]

I know. She talked about everything. And I just... I kept thinking about how different her life is from mine. I've always just been in this one place, doing the same things. But she comes from somewhere else, with all these different experiences. It's so cool.

[Sieun]

You sound like you've been brainwashed. Did she join a cult?

Suho laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the silent apartment. He ignored Sieun's message, his mind already drifting back to the afternoon. He remembered the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your home, and the way you laughed when he tried to explain some of the strange slang he and his friends used. The difference between your lives wasn't a wall between you; it felt like a bridge. It was new, exciting, and he felt a pull toward you that was stronger than ever.

He sat on his bed, the phone resting on his lap. He wasn't just attracted to you; he was fascinated. He had a million questions he wanted to ask, a thousand things he wanted to know. He realized that this feeling was different from anything he'd ever experienced. It wasn't just about a pretty face or a quick crush. This was about a connection, a window into a world he never knew existed.

The days turned into a blur of text messages, late-night phone calls, and shared moments that solidified the budding connection between you and Suho. He found himself thinking about you constantly—not just as the beautiful girl from the apartment, but as someone who genuinely listened to him, someone who made his world feel a little bigger. His friends, Sieun and Beomseok, were the only ones who truly understood the extent of his newfound happiness. He would talk to them about you constantly, sharing every small detail of your conversations and every laugh you shared.

[Beomseok]

So, did you tell her about the time you almost got hit by a bus trying to save a stray dog?

[Suho]

No, not yet. I don't want her to think I'm crazy. You're the one that almost got hit.

[Sieun]

She probably already thinks you're crazy. You've been talking about her for weeks and we still haven't met her. Are you sure you didn't just make her up in your head?

[Suho]

I didn't make her up! She's real. And you're going to meet her. Today.

Sieun's teasing was a constant, but Suho knew his friends were genuinely happy for him. They had been there for all the boring, lonely days, and now they were there for this. He had made up his mind. It was time to introduce the two most important parts of his life to each other. He was going to introduce you to his best friends, and he was going to introduce his best friends to the girl he had been longing for.

The meeting spot was a small, bustling noodle shop, the air thick with the scent of spices and conversation. Suho arrived first with Sieun and Beomseok, the two of them a familiar, grounding presence on either side of him. He was a nervous wreck, his usual calm demeanor replaced by fidgeting hands and a racing mind. This wasn't just a date; this was a test, a merging of two separate worlds he had kept apart for so long.

"What if you guys don't like her?" he mumbled to Beomseok, his voice tight with anxiety.

Beomseok gave him a reassuring look. "We already like her, Suho. We've heard all about her."

Sieun, ever the silent observer, just watched the restaurant door, a faint smirk on his lips. "Let's hope she's as real as you say she is."

Just then, the bell over the door chimed, and every ounce of Suho's anxiety vanished. You were standing in the doorway, a small, tentative smile on your face as your eyes scanned the room. The bustling noise of the restaurant faded into a distant hum. You were wearing a simple sweater and jeans, a little out of place in the chaotic atmosphere, yet you were the only thing he could see.

Your eyes met his, and the smile on your face brightened, washing away the last of his fears. He stood up, a genuine, relieved grin spreading across his face, and walked over to you.

"Hi," you said softly, a hint of shyness in your voice.

"You're here," he replied, as if he still couldn't quite believe it. He gently took your hand and led you back to the table, his friends watching their every move.

The introductions were a mix of awkwardness and warmth.

"Y/n, this is Sieun," Suho said, gesturing to the silent, observant boy. Sieun gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes studying you carefully.

"And this is Beomseok," Suho continued, his hand resting on Beomseok's shoulder. Beomseok offered a wide, kind smile. "It's so nice to finally meet you. Suho talks about you all the time."

You laughed, the sound putting Suho at ease. "I've heard a lot about you guys too. He made it sound like you're his two best friends."

Suho's heart swelled. He looked from you to his friends, a silent, thankful look passing between them. For a moment, the three most important people in his life were all in one place, their separate worlds finally connected. And it felt exactly as he had always hoped it would.

The initial awkwardness of the introduction quickly melted away, replaced by the easy flow of conversation. You, Sieun, and Beomseok found common ground surprisingly fast. Beomseok, with his gentle nature, was a natural at making you feel comfortable, asking about your studies and life in Korea with genuine curiosity. Sieun, despite his initial standoffishness, proved to be an astute observer, interjecting with a witty comment or a sharp question that made everyone laugh.

Suho, for his part, was content to just watch, a quiet smile on his face. He’d never seen you interact with his friends before, and it was a revelation. Your laughter was a bright, clear sound that filled the small space around their table. You told them stories about your country, and they listened, captivated by a world so different from their own.

"So, you're the reason Suho's been acting like a lovesick puppy for the past month," Sieun finally said, a mischievous grin on his face.

Suho's cheeks flushed, but you just laughed. "Is that what he's been telling you?"

"Something like that," Beomseok chimed in, a fond look in his eyes. "He said you were the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen."

Suho shot them both a glare, but his heart was pounding with a mix of embarrassment and happiness. The words were a testament to the way he felt, and he was glad you could hear them. He found himself looking at you, a silent question in his eyes. You looked back at him, your smile soft and your eyes holding a warmth that made him feel like the only two people in the room.

The afternoon ended as the sun began to set, casting a warm orange glow over the city. They walked you back to your apartment building, the conversation a comfortable, quiet hum. As you stood at your front door, the same one where this all began, Suho found himself struggling for words again.

"Thanks for today," you said, a genuine warmth in your voice. "It was really nice to meet them."

"Yeah," Suho said, his hands in his pockets. "They liked you. A lot."

You smiled, a soft, beautiful expression that made his heart skip a beat. "I liked them too. They're good friends."

You were about to go inside when you turned back to him, a sudden thought crossing your mind. "Hey, do you want to... walk me to school tomorrow? My university is close to your school, right?"

Suho's eyes widened, a rush of pure joy shooting through him. "Yeah," he said, the word coming out a little breathless. "Yeah, I'd like that. A lot."

As you disappeared behind the door, Suho stood there for a long moment, a wide, genuine grin on his face. The cold, lonely nights of deliveries were a thing of the past. A new chapter had begun.

Weeks had blurred into a rhythm of shared walks to school, late-night texts, and quiet study sessions. Suho’s world, once a series of monotonous deliveries and silent classrooms, was now painted with the vibrant colors of your presence. He knew he was in love. The feeling wasn't a sudden storm but a steady, quiet sunrise that filled him with warmth and purpose. The ache to tell you, to put a name to the feeling that consumed him, had become a dull roar he could no longer ignore.

He was sitting with Beomseok and Sieun at their usual lunch table, but his food sat untouched. This time, his quietness wasn't a sign of nervousness, but of a fierce, determined resolve.

"I'm going to tell her," he announced, his voice low but firm.

Sieun looked up from his book, a rare expression of genuine surprise on his face. "Tell her what? That you secretly follow her home and watch her from the shadows?"

Beomseok smiled, a mix of hope and concern in his eyes. "Tell her you like her, you mean?"

Suho nodded, his gaze distant as he thought of you. "No. More than that. I'm going to tell her that... I think I'm in love with her. I can't keep it inside anymore. I feel like I'm going to explode."

Sieun finally closed his book, giving Suho his full attention. "You really are serious, aren't you? After all this time, you're finally going to do it."

"Yeah," Suho said, a new, nervous energy sparking in his veins. "I have to. I have to know if she feels the same. If she doesn't... at least I'll know. But I can't keep pretending."

His friends gave him their silent support—a firm nod from Beomseok, a rare, un-sarcastic look of encouragement from Sieun. They knew what this meant to him.

That same evening, the city was draped in the soft glow of streetlights, the air cool and calm. Suho was on his final delivery of the night, a single, unassuming paper bag in his hands. He had meticulously planned his route, just like that first night, but this time, the order was for you. This delivery was a pretext, a final, necessary ritual before he took the biggest step of his life.

He walked up to your apartment door, the familiar number "4B" a beacon in the quiet hallway. His heart, usually a steady drum, was now a chaotic rhythm of fear and hope. He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, and knocked.

The door opened, and you stood there, a soft, warm light from your apartment framing you. Your eyes widened a little when you saw him, a smile beginning to form on your lips.

"Suho," you said, your voice a soft, beautiful melody. "I wasn't expecting you."

He held out the bag, the words he had planned so carefully catching in his throat. He looked at your face, at the gentle warmth in your eyes, and all his rehearsed lines vanished. He just saw you. The real you.

"Y/n," he began, his voice a little shaky, "I'm not here for a delivery." He put the bag down on the floor, his hands suddenly feeling heavy and useless. He took a step closer, his eyes pleading with yours. "I'm here because... I can't keep doing this. I can't keep pretending I'm just your friend, or your delivery guy, or your study partner."

He took another deep breath, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "Y/n, I'm... I'm in love with you.”

A breathless silence hung between you, a heavy, beautiful weight. Suho’s confession had been a raw, unfiltered rush of emotion, and now all he could do was stand there, waiting. The fluorescent light from the hallway seemed to flicker, and the world held its breath.

You looked at him, your eyes wide with surprise, a mix of emotions playing across your face that he couldn't decipher. Fear, hope, confusion—he saw it all. The silence stretched on, and a cold dread began to seep into his bones. He was ready for a fight, for a verbal sparring match, but this silence was a new kind of terror. He braced himself for the worst, for the polite rejection that would shatter the world he had so carefully built with you.

Then, a slow, gentle smile began to form on your lips.

It started small, a shy curve that quickly blossomed into a radiant, genuine expression of pure joy. The tension in the air vanished, replaced by a warmth that was uniquely yours.

"I wasn't expecting that," you said, your voice a soft whisper.

"I know," he managed to say, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry, I just... I had to."

You took a small step forward, closing the distance between you. Your hand reached up, your fingers gently touching his cheek. The contact sent a jolt through him, a powerful, electric shock that he had felt from the very first time you met.

"You don't have to apologize," you said, your eyes shining with a mixture of tears and laughter. "Because I'm in love with you too."

The words were a cascade of light and music, a beautiful sound he had been longing to hear for weeks. The world snapped back into focus, brighter and clearer than ever before. He wasn't just a delivery boy anymore, or a student, or a friend. He was yours. And you were his.

He leaned down, a silent question in his eyes. You nodded, a small, encouraging gesture. He gently closed the final distance between you, and in the soft light of your apartment hallway, he kissed you. It was a kiss that held all the fear, all the longing, all the hope of the past few weeks. It was a new beginning, a quiet promise made in a simple hallway, a promise that had started with a delivery and ended with a confession. The world kept turning, but for Suho, it was finally turning in the right direction.