#scoups ff

The party throbbed like a living thing. Bass slammed against Chaeyoung’s ribs as bodies spun and ground under flickering strobe lights. Laughter cut through the haze of pumpkin spice and cheap vodka, but none of it reached her.

The party was too loud. Too hot. Too much.

Chaeyoung tried to focus on Jaemin's voice, but it was like trying to hold water in her hands. His words slipped through, tangled in the bass and the laughter and the pounding in her head.

"—you're doing it again," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"That thing where you check out." He didn't sound angry. Not yet. Just tired. "You're standing here, but you're not actually here."

"I'm sorry," she said, because it was easier than explaining. "I'm just—"

"Just what?"

She couldn't think of the words. She didn't have the energy to explain that sometimes her own head felt like a cage. That sometimes the noise was too much. That sometimes she felt like she was drowning and no one noticed.

"I just need a minute," she said.

"You always need a minute." His voice was sharper now. "Every time we're together, you need a minute. Every time I try to get close, you need space."

"That's not true—"

"It is." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You know what I needed tonight? I needed my girlfriend. The one who actually wanted to be here. The one who wanted to be with me."

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"Instead," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, "I got someone who looks at me like I'm a chore. Like I'm something you have to tolerate."

"I don't—"

"You do, Chaeyoung. You do it all the time."

She felt the words hit her chest like small stones. Not heavy enough to knock her down, but enough to bruise.

"I'm trying," she said quietly.

“Right. And I showed up for you.” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Whatever. Enjoy standing in the corner alone.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

She stood there for a long moment, the music pulsing around her, the laughter of strangers filling the space where his voice had been.

She needed air.

She needed to stop feeling like she was suffocating.

She slipped down the hallway and ducked into the kitchen, desperate for a moment of silence.

Chaeyoung’s throat tightened. The room suddenly felt too hot, too loud, too much. She slipped down the hallway and ducked into the kitchen, desperate for air.

It was quieter here. Dimly lit. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on the counter beside a spilled bag of gummy worms. The floor stuck to her boots. She leaned against the counter, fingers twisting the rings on her hands, trying to hold herself together.

A door creaked behind her.

She jumped so hard she nearly knocked over the cookie tray.

“Sorry—sorry!” a deep voice blurted.

She spun around and found Kim Mingyu frozen in the doorway, holding a bottle of blue Powerade, eyes wide. Fake vampire fangs (one slightly crooked) glinted when he smiled sheepishly.

“Uh… you okay?” he asked.

Chaeyoung let out a breathless laugh. “You scared the shit out of me.”

His gaze dropped to his own outfit — black tank top with “BITE ME” scrawled in glow-in-the-dark paint, cheap plastic cape, combat boots. “It’s the fangs, huh?”

She took him in properly and snorted. “You look like a rejected boyband vampire.”

Mingyu grinned, loud and unabashed. “Okay, rude. But fair.”

The laugh that burst out of her felt like the first real breath she’d taken all night.

“And what are you supposed to be?” he asked, eyeing her costume.

“Rogue. From X-Men.”

He tilted his head. “Sexy evil elf?”

She stared at him. “You did not just call Rogue a sexy evil elf.”

Mingyu put his hands up. “I see it now! The gloves. The streak. Bad bitch with superpowers. My bad.”

Chaeyoung groaned, but she was smiling. “You’re such an uncultured swine.”

“Hey, this is a classic,” he said, gesturing to his shirt.

“It’s a glow-in-the-dark tank top from Spencer’s.”

“Exactly. Classic.”

She laughed again, softer this time. Mingyu leaned against the opposite counter, big and easy and strangely calming. He didn’t push. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just… existed with her.

“Seriously though,” he said after a moment, “you okay?”

She met his eyes — warm, patient, a little ridiculous with the crooked fangs — and felt something in her chest loosen.

----

Three drinks in, and the kitchen no longer felt safe.

You were spiraling hard. Not cute-tipsy spiraling — full-blown I-will-burn-this-house-down-with-my-mind spiraling.

It had started when you caught Seungcheol staring at Sophie like she was the second coming of sugar and serotonin. His eyes glassy. Jaw slack. Stupid wolf tail wagging behind him like the golden retriever he was.

It shouldn’t have bothered you.

You didn’t even like him.

But Sophie was your sister, and Jihyun-your ex-had left you for her. And you’d spent the last six months pretending that didn’t still feel like a knife in your ribs. 

You watched Seungcheol watch Sophie. Watched his jaw go slack. Watched his tail wag like the golden retriever he was.

And you thought about the last time Sophie had made you laugh.

It was a stupid memory. Inconsequential. The kind of thing that shouldn't still matter.

You were fourteen. It was late — past midnight, probably — and you were both supposed to be asleep. But Sophie had snuck into your room with a bag of stale gummy worms and a terrible idea.

"We're making a shrine," she'd announced."A shrine to what?""To the Ice Queen, obviously. She's the only one who gets us."

The Ice Queen was your shared joke. A fictional figure you'd invented years ago, when you were both still skating. She was the ruler of the rink, the one who decided who was worthy. Sophie used to whisper to her before competitions. You used to blame her when you fell.

You built the shrine out of empty water bottles, stolen ribbons, and a picture of Michelle Kwan cut out from a magazine. Sophie stood back, admiring her work with a dramatic sigh.

"It's perfect," she said. "She's going to bless us."

"What if she doesn't?"

"Then she's a fraud. And we'll start a rebellion."

You'd laughed until your stomach hurt.

That night, you'd fallen asleep on your floor, surrounded by gummy worm wrappers and stolen ribbons, and Sophie had thrown a blanket over both of you.

"We're going to be unstoppable," she'd whispered.

You believed her.

You believed everything.

And now —

Now you were watching her smile at someone across the room. Watching her be the person everyone loved. Watching her pretend the last few years hadn't happened.

You closed your eyes.

You didn't want to remember.

But you couldn't stop.

You downed the rest of your drink in one go.

“Whoa,” a familiar voice drawled. “Isn’t that your third?”

Of course it was Seungcheol. The universe clearly hated you.

"Seriously though," Mingyu said after a moment, "you okay?"

Chaeyoung  met his eyes — warm, patient, a little ridiculous with the crooked fangs — and felt something in her chest loosen.

"Just a stupid fight with my boyfriend," she said, shrugging like it didn't matter. "I don't want to talk about it."

He nodded slowly. "Got it."

"So," he said, "you ever watch Transformers?"

She stared at him. "What?"

"Transformers. The movies. You know, giant robots, explosions, Shia LaBeouf screaming."

"You're talking about Transformers right now?"

"You said you didn't want to talk about your boyfriend."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"...I haven't seen it," she admitted.

He gasped, clutching his chest. "In 2026? You haven't seen Transformers?"

"Is that a problem?"

"It's an epidemic." He shook his head, looking genuinely scandalized. "Do you know how many times I've watched the first one? Like, at least fifteen. The scene where Optimus Prime shows up and everyone's losing their minds? Iconic."

She stared at him.

He stared back, completely serious.

"You're impossible," she said.

"I've been told."

She laughed — a real laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep. The kind that surprised her.

He grinned, clearly proud of himself.

"You're still a dumbass," she said.

"A dumbass who can recite the entire Transformers script."

"That's not a flex."

"It absolutely is."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. The knot in her chest had loosened, just a little.

"God," she said, shaking her head. "You're so—"

"Amazing? Charming? Incredibly good-looking?"

"Dumb."

"I'll take it."

Mingyu studied her for a moment, all the joking fading into something quieter. "Seriously though. You good now?"

She met his eyes — warm, patient, a little ridiculous with the crooked fangs — and felt something in her chest loosen.

"I will be," she said.

He smiled like that was enough.

Then he glanced at her empty hands.

"God, you're drunk," he said. "Let me grab you some water."

He turned and headed toward the door — probably to find the water.

She watched him go, a warmth spreading through her chest that she refused to name.

“Whoa,” a familiar voice drawled. “Isn’t that your third?”

Of course it was Seungcheol. The universe clearly hated you

“You,” you said flatly.

"...Okay." he replied.

“You know, if you’re trying to drink yourself into a better personality, it’s not working.”

"At least I have a personality. You're just a walking furry with a god complex."

He raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Did you come up with that yourself, or did your team of pirates have to help you?"

Now, it was your turn to raise your eyebrow. 

"Aren't you supposed to be dressed like Jack Sparrow?"

"You think you're so funny."

"I don't have to think."

"You're such a pain," you muttered.

"I've been told."

"By who?"

"Everyone. I'm very popular."

"You're very annoying."

"Same thing."

He was still grinning, and you hated how it made something in your chest loosen.

You decided to change tactics. "So. Sophie, huh?"

His grin faltered. "What?"

"Sophie. The blonde girl you've been staring at like she personally invented oxygen."

"I wasn't—"

"You were. Your tail was wagging and everything."

He glanced down at his tail again, betrayed. "It was not."

"It absolutely was."

"I don't control the tail."

"That's not the flex you think it is."

He opened his mouth, closed it, then squinted at you. "Why do you even care?"

"I don't, besides she is my sister."

"You brought her up and you don't seem the type to actually care about who she dates."

"I was making an observation."

"It was a very pointed observation."

"It was a casual observation."

"It was anything but casual."

"You're projecting."

"I'm literally not."

"You're literally a wolf in a cheap costume with a tail that moves on its own. You don't get to judge my observations."

"Oh, I am so scared, Jack Sparrow."

"I AM NOT-"

You opened your mouth for a retort — but then you saw her.

Sophie was weaving through the crowd, heading straight toward you with that same graceful smile you used to admire. The same smile that now made your chest cave in.

You couldn’t do this. Not tonight.

Your eyes darted desperately and landed on Seungcheol. Before you could think better of it, you crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and grabbed him by the front of his stupid wolf costume.

“What the fu—”

“Shut up,” you hissed, pulling him close. “Just shut up and pretend you like me. Right now.”

He blinked. “What—”

“Pretend. For thirty seconds. My sister is coming over and I would rather do this than talk to her.”

You grabbed his face, not kissing him, but close enough. Close enough that your lips nearly brushed his. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath and smell his cologne. Close enough that it looked real.

“Minsoo,” he murmured, voice low.

“Don’t move.”

His hands settled on your waist. Steady. Warm.

“You know,” he said softly, “if you wanted to get this close to me, you could’ve just asked.”

“Shut up, Seungcheol.”

You stayed like that — foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling — while Sophie watched from a few feet away. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

After what felt like forever, Seungcheol whispered, “She’s gone.”

You stepped back immediately, like his touch had burned you.

“So,” he said, voice rough, “is this the part where you explain what the hell that was?”

----

The kitchen was quiet.

Too quiet.

Chaeyoung had been standing there for what felt like hours, her back pressed against the counter, her hands gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

She'd almost convinced herself she was okay.

Almost.

The door creaked open.

She tensed.

"Chaeyoung."

She didn't turn around. She knew that voice. She'd been hoping she wouldn't hear it again tonight.

"Can we talk?" Jaemin asked.

She finally turned. He was standing in the doorway, looking tired, his hair slightly disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it.

"What is there to talk about?" she asked quietly.

"Everything." He stepped closer. "I shouldn't have walked away."

"No. You shouldn't have."

"I know." He stopped a few feet away from her. "I was frustrated. I took it out on you. That wasn't fair."

She didn't say anything.

"Chaeyoung." He said her name softly, gently. Like he was trying to coax her out of hiding. "I'm sorry."

Something in her chest cracked.

She didn't want to forgive him. She wanted to stay angry. She wanted to remember the way he'd dismissed her, the way he'd made her feel like she was too much.

But he was here. He was apologizing. He was trying.

"I'm not telling her," she said suddenly.

He blinked. "What?"

"Minsoo. About the board. About what's going to happen." She shook her head, her voice wavering. "It's killing me. I see her every day, and she has no idea. She's working so hard, and I just— I can't—"

"Hey, hey." He stepped closer, reaching for her hands. "Hey. Look at me."

She looked up.

"You're doing the right thing," he said gently. "You're protecting her. If you tell her now, she'll spiral. She'll give up. She won't be able to focus."

"But she deserves to know—"

"She deserves to have a chance to fight." He squeezed her hands. "And she can't do that if she's already given up. You're keeping her in the game, Chaeyoung. That's not betrayal. That's love."

She wanted to believe him.

She wanted to believe that hiding the truth from her best friend was the right thing to do.

"Are you sure?" she whispered.

"I'm sure." He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I know it's hard. I know it's eating you alive. But you're doing the right thing. I promise."

She closed her eyes.

She wanted to believe him.

She wanted to believe that this was love.

"I'm so tired," she admitted.

"I know." He pulled her closer. "I know you are. But it's going to be okay. I've got you."

She leaned into him.

And she let herself believe.

He tilted her chin up, his lips brushing against hers.

She kissed him back.

Mingyu stopped in the doorway.

His hand was still wrapped around the bottle of water he'd gone to find.

He watched them for a second.

Then he set the bottle of water on the counter, just inside the doorway, and quietly backed away.

----

You bolted upright with a scream.

It ripped out of you before you could stop it - raw, guttural, the kind of sound that made Chaeyoung drop her phone and your neighbors probably consider calling the cops.

"WHAT—" Chaeyoung shrieked, nearly falling off her bed. "WHAT IS HAPPENING—"

You couldn't answer. You were too busy staring at the wall, replaying every single second of last night in excruciating detail.

Sophie approaching. The panic. Grabbing Seungcheol. Pulling him close. His hands on your waist. His breath on your lips. The way he looked at you—

You screamed again.

"MINSOO—"

"No," you whispered. "No no no no no—"

You grabbed your phone. Desperate. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you blacked out and none of it actually happened.

One text from an unknown number:

"so... we good?"

You stared at the last one.

You didn't save his number.

You didn't need to.

You knew exactly who it was.

"NO," you said out loud. "NO. WE ARE NOT GOOD."

You threw your phone across the room.

It hit the wall with a satisfying thunk.

You flopped back onto the bed, pulling your pillow over your face, and screamed.

Chaeyoung, bless her soul, didn't even flinch.

"That bad, huh?" she asked from her bed.

"WORSE."

"Worse than the time you accidentally called your professor 'dad'?"

"SO MUCH WORSE."

"Worse than the time you walked into the wrong classroom and sat through an entire lecture on medieval poetry?"

"I WOULD RATHER DO THAT AGAIN."

----

The canteen was buzzing with the usual morning chaos — the clatter of trays, the low hum of conversations, the smell of burnt coffee and slightly questionable eggs.

You sat at your usual table, head in your hands, staring at your untouched toast like it had personally offended you.

Chaeyoung sat across from you, watching you with a mix of concern and barely concealed amusement.

"You're being dramatic," she said.

"I'm being realistic."

"You barely even touched him."

"I touched him enough."

"You touched his costume."

"I touched his face, Chaeyoung."

Chaeyoung opened her mouth — but before she could respond, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"Morning, ladies."

You looked up.

Jaemin.

He slid onto the bench next to Chaeyoung, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. "You look tired," he said to her, soft and fond. "Didn't sleep well?"

Chaeyoung shrugged. "Minsoo woke me up screaming."

Jaemin raised an eyebrow, turning to you. "Screaming?"

You glared at Chaeyoung. "Thanks for that."

"What? He asked."

Jaemin chuckled, leaning back. "Okay, what happened? Did you see a spider? Have a nightmare?"

You groaned, dropping your head back onto the table. "I almost kissed Seungcheol."

Jaemin blinked. "The hockey captain?"

"Yes."

"The one you hate?"

"Yes."

"The one you called a 'horny golden retriever in heat'?"

"I said that to his face."

Jaemin let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's... something."

"I was drunk," you muttered into the table. "I was spiraling. Sophie was there. I panicked. I grabbed him. It was a mistake."

Chaeyoung rubbed her shin, still scowling at you. "Okay, listen. It's probably not that bad. You were drunk. You did some things you didn't want to. It happens."

"You don't understand—"

"I do understand. I literally do. Remember last time Jaemin got drunk?"

Jaemin winced. "Are we really bringing this up?"

"He screamed that he found Shrek hot," Chaeyoung said, grinning. "For like, a solid thirty seconds. We had to physically restrain him from finding a DVD copy."

You stared at her.

"...Shrek?"

"Green, ogre, loves Fiona, iconic."

"I was emotionally compromised," Jaemin muttered, but he was smiling. "The swamp aesthetic was doing something to me."

Chaeyoung laughed, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "We all have our moments, Minsoo. You were drunk. You were vulnerable. It doesn't mean anything.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at her. "It's not the same."

"Why not?"

You didn't answer.

"Okay," Chaeyoung said quickly, filling the silence. "Okay, that's fine. That's also fine. Feelings are complicated. You don't have to figure it out right now."

"I'm not going to figure it out ever."

"That's also fine."

Jaemin studied you for a moment, then shrugged. "Look, if it makes you feel better, you're probably not the first person to do something weird while drunk. And you won't be the last."

"That doesn't help."

"It wasn't supposed to help. It was supposed to be realistic."

Chaeyoung laughed. "He's a pragmatist."

You groaned again.

Jaemin smiled — that easy, charming smile that made everyone like him. "Seriously though. You'll be fine. Just avoid him for a few days. He'll forget about it."

“Well, I can’t because I have to see his face in approximately 10 minutes. We have practice” you muttered. 

Across the canteen, you saw Mingyu walk in with Soonyoung and Jeonghan. He caught your eye, waved, then spotted Chaeyoung and grinned.

Chaeyoung waved back. Small. Tentative.

Jaemin's hand tightened on his coffee cup.

Just a fraction.

You barely noticed.

----

PREVIOUS || NEXT

The rink was buzzing early that morning—not with blades slashing across ice, but with nervous chatter, clipboard shuffling, and the kind of theatrical energy that only comes when athletes are forced to do art.

The skating team had arrived early, sitting along the barrier in tidy rows, some stretching, others sipping coffee, and you with your arms crossed tightly like you were mentally preparing for battle.

"This feels like a fever dream," Eda whispered, leaning toward Chaeyoung. "We're casting a fairy tale. In a sports fundraiser."

"Don't fight it," Chaeyoung replied, tying her hair back into a high ponytail. "Just let the chaos in."

At center rink, Coach Jiwon and Coach Ryu stood side by side, clipboards in hand, trying to maintain some sense of order—though it was becoming increasingly obvious that even they weren't sure how they'd ended up choreographing an ice-based theatrical adaptation of Cinderella starring competitive skaters and hockey players.

"Alright!" Coach Jiwon clapped her hands. "We'll start with the roles for the skating team—"

You sat up straighter, jaw tightening.

"Cinderella," Coach Ryu said, barely glancing at the sheet. "Minsoo, naturally."

You groaned.

"Oh come on," Ruby grinned beside you, nudging your elbow. "You look like a Cinderella. All that tragic backstory and hidden talent and repressed rage—very glass-slipper-core."

"I'll glass slipper someone in the face," you muttered.

"And," Coach Jiwon continued, "stepsisters and stepmother will be Ruby, Amanda, and Eunji respectively."

Ruby fist-pumped. "Yes! I live to be evil and dramatic."

Eunji looked delighted. "Do I get a fake cane?"

"I want a ridiculous hat," Amanda added.

Eda and Chaeyoung were cast as members of the chorus ensemble—delicate waltzes, synchronized group movement, possibly some ribbons. They all clapped, congratulated each other, and then the real chaos began.

Because now it was time for the hockey boys.

The benched players were already standing awkwardly to the side, skates on, arms folded, very much not knowing what they were getting into. You watched with open suspicion as Seungcheol, Soonyoung, Vernon, and Chan shuffled onto the ice.

"Alright," Coach Ryu said cheerfully, like this wasn't the worst idea in recorded history, "we're starting auditions for the male leads."

Seungcheol snorted. "Do we have to dance?"

Chaeyoung, from the sidelines: "Yes. And we'll be judging."

He grimaced.

Soonyoung, bless his overenthusiastic heart, actually tried. He skated to the center, did a dramatic twirl (nearly fell), and attempted a bow. He landed flat on his butt.

You choked on a laugh.

"Great energy, poor execution," Coach Jiwon said, scribbling something on her clipboard.

Chan tried next, but tripped while just trying to skate to his mark.

Vernon attempted a waltz hold with thin air, but ended up looking like he was slow dancing with a ghost. "Was that—was that close?" he asked.

"No," you replied flatly. "That was interpretive agony."

Then came Seungcheol.

He didn't even try.

He skated lazily to center, grinned at the coaches, and executed the most exaggerated, ironic curtsy known to mankind. "Your Highness," he said in a bad British accent. "I am ready to attend your royal ball and prance."

A chorus of groans came from the skating team.

"Coach," you said, eyes wide, voice urgent. "Please. I beg you. Anyone but him."

Coach Jiwon barely looked up from her clipboard. "He has the best balance and center hold posture out of everyone."

"He mock curtsied."

"He didn't fall," Coach Ryu added.

"I will fall. Voluntarily. Off the edge of the rink."

Still, the decision was made. Coach Ryu smiled grimly. "Prince Charming, first half—Seungcheol."

You facepalmed so hard your glove squeaked against your forehead.

"And second half—Mingyu."

Mingyu looked up from where he'd been peacefully adjusting his laces on the bench. "Huh?"

"You're tall, graceful, and we need you to lift someone."

"Oh." He blinked. "Okay. I like lifting things."

"And final third act—the encore, essentially—we circle back to Seungcheol."

You looked like you were experiencing all five stages of grief at once. "I can't believe I have to be saved by Seungcheol. Twice."

He skated over, still grinning, leaning casually on the barrier right beside you. "Don't worry, Cinderella, I'll try not to drop you. Unless, of course, you keep threatening to glass slipper me."

"I will do it."

"I knew you had a thing for me."

"I'm fantasizing about strangling you with your own jersey."

From across the rink, Ruby shouted, "Do we get to design the prince's costume? I vote for puffy sleeves!"

Seungcheol looked mildly horrified. "Wait, what—?"

"Glitter," Amanda added. "So much glitter. Let's make him sparkle."

Soonyoung clapped excitedly. "And a cape!"

"Fuck my life," Seungcheol muttered.

---

The rink was nearly silent, long after most of the team had cleared out.

Just the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the faint, distant hum of a Zamboni finishing its last lazy lap across the far end of the ice.

Chaeyoung’s boots echoed softly as she cut through the hallway behind the locker rooms, clutching her water bottle, muttering under her breath about forgetting her phone—again.

The door to the coaches’ office was cracked.

She didn’t mean to stop.

Didn’t mean to listen.

But something in Coach Jiwon’s tone—tense, clipped, defeated—made her legs freeze before her brain caught up.

“I understand what the board’s saying, but that doesn’t make it right.”

A beat.

The sound of a chair scraping across the tile.

"They’ve already made the call. Even if the showcase goes well—it won’t matter. Skating’s getting cut.”

Chaeyoung's heart plummeted.

She pressed herself back into the wall, half-hidden behind a row of lockers, breath caught in her throat.

“The hockey program brings in more money, more visibility. And with the facility merge next semester—there just isn’t space. We’re not a priority anymore.”

“So what do I tell them?” Coach’s voice cracked. “That everything they’ve worked for, bled for, means nothing?”

“We can’t say anything. Not yet. Let them finish the season strong.”

The silence that followed was the loudest thing Chaeyoung had ever heard.

She backed away slowly, like if she moved too fast the floor might give out underneath her.

The cold felt different now. Like it had seeped under her skin.

Later that night, the wind was sharp as razors when she met Jaemin outside the dorms. His arms were crossed over his curling team jacket, his breath fogging the air as he leaned against a rust-stained railing, watching her approach.

“Hey,” he said, voice light. “You okay?”

She just shook her head, wordless.

He opened his arms without a word, and she stepped into them, letting the heat of his body press against her frozen frame.

“I heard something,” she whispered into his hoodie. “At the rink. I think it’s bad.”

He pulled back, brows furrowed. “What kind of bad?”

“The board… they’re planning to cut the skating team. Even if the showcase goes well.” Her voice cracked. “Coach doesn’t know how to tell them yet.”

Jaemin stilled. Just for a second. Like the gears in his mind clicked sharply into place.

“Are you sure?” he asked, tone softer now. Careful.

“I heard it. I know what I heard.”

He exhaled slowly and reached for her hand, pressing his thumb into her palm. “Okay. Listen to me.”

She looked up, chest tight. “What do I do?”

“You do nothing.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

Jaemin held her gaze—steady, calm, like this was simple math. “You don’t say anything. Not yet.”

“You want me to lie to them?”

“No,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m saying… wait. Give this a few days.”

“But they deserve to know—”

“And if they find out right now, what happens?” he cut in. “They spiral. They stop rehearsing. They give up before they’ve even gotten a chance to fight.”

Chaeyoung’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Jaemin leaned in, his voice soft and persuasive. “Trust me, Chae. I’m on the sports council. I know people. If anyone can shift things—even a little—it’s me.”

She blinked. “You’re on the athletic council?”

“Curling has one seat,” he said with a small shrug. “We don’t usually use it. But if there’s ever a time to pull strings, it’s now.”

“So you can help?” she asked, a glimmer of hope sparking in her voice.

“I’m saying... let me try,” he said carefully. “If you tell Minsoo, it’ll be chaos. She’ll go nuclear. She’ll get the whole rink involved before I even get a chance to talk to anyone. Please, Chae. Let me fix this quietly.”

She hesitated. She knew how Minsoo would react. And Jaemin wasn’t wrong—if they had any chance of salvaging this, it had to be smart. Strategic.

Still, something twisted in her gut. “This feels wrong.”

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s smart.”

He kissed her forehead, gentle and reassuring.

“Trust me,” he said again, smiling like he already had her wrapped tight. “This isn’t betrayal. This is strategy.”

She nodded slowly, unsure.

---

“Okay, if this corset doesn’t kill me before the night ends,” Eda announced dramatically, “I want my tombstone to say ‘Died Hot as Hell.’”

You laughed, trying to adjust your bandana for the sixth time in the tiny mirror taped to the back of the dorm room door. “Honestly? That’s valid. You are giving ‘sex and vengeance’ tonight.

“I always give vengeance,” she said, winking as she struggled with the zipper of her thigh-high boot. “But the sex is new.”

The room was a mess of makeup brushes, fishnets, glitter gel, and empty Red Bull cans.

Someone’s phone was playing a Halloween playlist in the corner, blasting Disturbia between chaotic YouTube ad breaks. You stepped over a tangled curling iron cord to grab your lipstick from the desk.

You looked dangerous tonight, black corset cinched tight, pirate coat draped off your shoulders, and the fake eyebrow piercing catching the light just right. A girl with secrets and a vendetta. You loved it.

Chaeyoung, though?

She sat on the edge of the bed, a glittery silver cat-ear headband resting in her lap. She hadn’t touched her makeup. Her costume, simple, black lace top and leather skirt—was half-done, like she forgot what she was doing halfway through and never resumed.

Eda didn’t seem to notice. She was still fussing with her fishnets and humming along to the music, but you were watching.

Chaeyoung hadn’t said much. At all.

No snide comments, no roasting Eda for misplacing her lashes again, no teasing you about the pirate boots you stole from the theatre department. Nothing.

Just quiet.

Too quiet.

You picked up your eyeliner and stepped beside her. “Turn your face,” you said gently. “I’ll do your liner. Unless we’re going for the ‘haunted girl in the corner’ aesthetic.”

Chaeyoung blinked like she hadn’t heard you. Then, slowly, she turned. “Sorry. Spaced out.”

“Spaced out?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been a ghost for the last hour.”

She flinched slightly. You caught it. So did Eda, who finally looked up.

“You good?” Eda asked, pausing mid-hair crimp. “You’ve been weirdly quiet. Like, even for you. Are you on your period? Is it a ghost? Is this a curse thing?”

“I’m fine,” Chaeyoung said too fast.

You shared a look with Eda.

Eda shrugged. “Maybe she’s just pre-spiral. We’ve all been there.”

You leaned in, applying the liner carefully. “If you’re spiraling, you could at least let me know so I can match your energy and spiral in theme.”

Chaeyoung tried to smile. It didn’t reach her eyes.

There was a beat of silence, just the music pulsing low in the background and the faint pop of Eda’s lip gloss.

You capped the eyeliner.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

She didn’t meet your gaze.

You felt your stomach twist—not into panic, not yet—but into that sharp gut feeling you only got when someone you loved was lying to your face.

“I’m just tired,” Chaeyoung muttered, grabbing her mascara and turning toward the mirror.

That felt like the end of the conversation.

Eda went back to applying temporary tattoos on her collarbone, humming again.

But you?

You were still watching Chaeyoung in the mirror.

Still wondering why her hands were trembling while she painted her lashes.

Still hearing the lie echo in your head: I’m just tired.

You didn’t push. Not yet.

But something told you,

This wasn’t about a costume.

---

The party had already swallowed half the crowd of the campus.

Music thumped from behind the heavy doors of the frat house, something bassy and low enough to vibrate in your bones. The porch lights flickered orange and green, casting spooky shadows over cheap cobwebs and red Solo cups already half-squashed under heavy boots.

You tightened your jacket around your corset and adjusted your bandana.

The air was sharp enough to bite, but your outfit left no room for warmth—just power. Every click of your heels on the pavement was a reminder: You were going to own this night.

Eda was already tipsy from the dorm pregame, dragging you toward the door with a glittery sword in hand like she was leading a pirate invasion.

Chaeyoung trailed behind the both of you, arms wrapped tight around herself. Not cold. Just closed off.

You didn’t like it.

Not because she was quiet—she had quiet days. Everyone did. But tonight, it felt different. She hadn’t made fun of Eda’s plastic dagger once. She was floating behind you like a girl made of smoke, barely touching the world around her.

Inside, the house was a crush of sweat and loud music, flashing lights casting everyone in Halloween chaos. Devils, angels, fake blood, sheer tops, plastic weapons. Bodies pressed close and drinks were already being spilled.

Eda beelined for the drink table.

You scanned the crowd. Seungcheol wasn’t here yet. Good. You weren’t quite in the mood to be annoyed yet.

But then—

You felt Chaeyoung shift beside you just as a familiar voice broke through the music.

“Damn,” Jaemin said, stepping out of the crowd like he’d been summoned by a spotlight. “I’m supposed to be the dangerous one tonight, but you’re stealing all the attention.”

He was dressed like some kind of gothic vampire—velvet and leather, rings on his fingers, hair slicked back just enough to look like effort without trying too hard. Predictable. Hot. Smug.

Chaeyoung startled at first, then offered a small, uneasy smile. “You made it.”

“You said you weren’t sure if you were coming,” you said, crossing your arms.

“I wasn’t. Then I saw who was attending.” He looked directly at Chaeyoung, not even trying to be subtle.

She flushed. You narrowed your eyes.

Jaemin stepped in closer—too close—and took her hand. “Dance with me?”

You expected her to roll her eyes. Say something sarcastic. But instead, she hesitated, eyes flicking between you and him like she was searching for approval.

That was when it clicked.

The way she looked at him wasn’t just flustered.

It was… nervous.

“Chae?” you said slowly.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” she said quickly, squeezing your arm. “Promise.”

Before you could answer, Jaemin was already leading her into the crowd, his hand on the small of her back, his lips close to her ear.

You watched them disappear between bodies and flashing lights.

Something burned in your chest—not jealousy. Not quite.

But something that tasted a lot like suspicion.

Beside you, Eda reappeared with two cups of something neon. “Where’s Chaeyoung?”

“Gone,” you muttered. “With Jaemin.”

Eda handed you a drink. “God. He’s like a haunted mansion. Looks fun, but you know there’s something rotting in the basement.”

You took a sip. Sweet. Too sweet. “Yeah. And I don’t like the way she’s acting around him lately.”

“Like she’s afraid of making him mad?” Eda asked casually.

You stopped.

“...Yeah.”

Eda arched a brow. “You noticed too.”

And just like that, the bass didn’t feel fun anymore.

It felt like a countdown.

--

The music was already thumping from a block away—heavy bass, high-pitched squeals, that one remix of “Super Freaky Girl” that never died—and Seungcheol was already regretting his life choices.

Especially the one involving his costume.

“Dude,” Mingyu laughed as soon as he opened the door and saw him, already buzzed, already in a way-too-tight firefighter costume. “You actually wore it.”

Seungcheol stepped inside, glaring. “I told you I’d show up. Didn’t mean I’d be happy about it.”

“Is that a tail?” Soonyoung asked, popping into view wearing full vampire makeup and glitter like he was auditioning for Twilight on Ice.

“It’s a wolf tail,” Seungcheol growled. “Don’t ask.”

“You look like a furry,” Jeonghan said dryly from the kitchen, already sipping something suspiciously red from a Solo cup. “Is this a cry for help?”

“Okay, first of all—” Seungcheol pointed a gloved finger, his whole outfit shifting awkwardly as he did—ears flopping, fake claws brushing his thigh, the tail swaying like betrayal.

“Don’t say first of all when there’s only one thing to defend,” Joshua grinned, leaning against the counter in some immaculate angel costume—wings, glittery eyeshadow, smug as hell.

“Y’all are just jealous,” Seungcheol said, flipping them off and grabbing a drink. “I have the range. You? Cowards. No tail, no bravery.”

“Bold of you to say when you haven’t stopped adjusting your fake ears for the last five minutes,”

Jihoon mumbled, scrolling on his phone like he wasn’t dressed like a Roman senator with a laurel crown made of actual plastic basil leaves.

Seungcheol scowled and downed half his drink.

He was late—classic him—and the place was already packed. Wall-to-wall bodies. Every corner was a mess of costume glitter and bad decisions.

Someone had spilled beer on the floor.

Someone else was dancing in a Pikachu onesie.

There were lights hanging from the ceiling and at least two guys pretending to be “sexy professors” who looked like they’d failed Intro to Fashion.

But then—

He saw her.

Across the room.

Standing in the middle of a circle of people.

Laughing.

Sophie.

As Rapunzel.

Her blonde hair braided down her back, woven with tiny ribbons and fake flowers. The little mini corset dress—lavender satin, short as hell, cinched perfectly at her waist—and her heels?

Fucking lethal.

She was radiant. Like, princess-core, angel-glow, “I will ruin your life in three steps or less” radiant.

Seungcheol froze.

Literally—drink halfway to his mouth, brain in buffer mode.

“Oh no,” Seungkwan said, spotting the look on his face immediately. “Not this again.”

“What?” Seungcheol blinked, blinking too fast. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to,” Seungkwan sighed, nudging Mingyu. “Look at his face. He’s in full spiral.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Seungcheol muttered.

“You’re absolutely spiraling,” Mingyu said, slinging an arm around him. “You look like a man watching God herself descend onto a dancefloor.”

“She’s just wearing a costume.”

“A very hot costume.”

“I’m not gonna talk to her,” Seungcheol said quickly, too quickly. “So don’t even try it.”

“No one said anything,” Jihoon called out without looking up from his phone.

“But you were all thinking it,” Seungcheol muttered.

He turned back toward Sophie. She was smiling at someone—some guy dressed like a pirate with glittery gold eyeliner.

Seungcheol didn’t even know who he was.

Probably some artsy theater major with three piercings and a trust fund.

Sophie's laugh rang out again, soft and high and a little breathless.

Seungcheol’s grip tightened around his cup.

He couldn’t stop staring.

Everything about her was unfair.

The dress.

The hair.

The way she held herself like she didn’t know how hot she was—and that somehow made it worse.

She did a little spin for someone, showing off the twirl of her skirt. Her braid bounced. Her heels clicked.

Seungcheol’s brain short-circuited.

“Bro,” Mingyu said gently. “You’re so far gone it’s tragic.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re vibrating. Like a microwave about to explode.”

“I’m not gonna talk to her,” Seungcheol repeated, eyes locked across the room. “She’s probably busy. And I’m not gonna be the idiot in a furry tail who waddles up like, hey Rapunzel, you wanna climb my tower—”

“You’ve thought about that pickup line?” Jeonghan asked, eyebrows raised.

“No!” Seungcheol practically shouted.

Pause. Beat. Sip.

“…Maybe.”

“Holy shit.”

“I hate myself.”

But he didn’t stop looking.

Didn’t move, either.

Just watched Sophie shine under the low golden lights like some cursed fairytale he wasn’t brave enough to walk into.

It was fine.

He was fine.

He wasn’t gonna do anything.

…Right? 

---

PREVIOUS || NEXT

The rink hummed with energy, a combination of sharp hockey sticks clashing against the ice and the graceful swoosh of figure skates carving through it. You, however, weren't feeling the energy in the usual way.

You stood near the boards, drawing invisible circles in the ice with your toe pick, your brows furrowed.

“We need something that slaps,” you muttered. “Like, stops-the-crowd, jaw-on-the-floor kind of thing.”

Chaeyoung glanced up from her sketchbook with a dry look. “Okay, Queen of Vague. You wanna narrow that down for the rest of us?”

“We can’t just do another standard showcase. I’m talking something big. Something they’ll remember when they’re deciding which team to cut.”

That quieted her. And Eda, who skated up mid-spin, eyebrows raised. “What are we thinking?

Flash mobs? Fireworks? Synchronized backflips?”

“No. Bigger than gimmicks,” you said. “We need a story. A real one. Something that hits emotionally.”

Eda’s eyes lit up. “A story on ice. That’s it.”

“You mean like a theme?” you asked, leaning into the idea.

“Not just a theme,” she said, spinning once more before sliding to a stop. “A narrative. A beginning, middle, end. Like... a fairytale. But our version.”

“A fairytale?” you echoed, blinking. “Like Disney on Ice?”

“No—not Disney,” Chaeyoung cut in, suddenly animated. “More dramatic. A twist on something classic. Rivalry, betrayal, transformation. We can act the story through the routines.”

You chewed your lip, nodding slowly. “Okay… but how do we make the hockey guys fit into this? They’re not exactly trained to emote mid-glide.”

“Exactly why it’ll work,” Chaeyoung said. “They bring the chaos. The force. We bring the elegance and storytelling. It’s tension. It’s contrast.”

Eda snapped her fingers. “Think—Cinderella, but the prince is literally fighting for her. Or maybe she’s the one crashing the castle. A showdown on skates. We make it dark, dramatic-ours.”

Something clicked.

“We thread our rivalry into it,” you said. “Make it personal. Real emotions, not just pirouettes for applause.”

“And that rivalry becomes the story,” Chaeyoung added. “It’ll be art and drama. Hell, we could win Oscars for this.”

Laughter rippled through the group—but underneath it, the buzz of possibility took hold.

That’s when Coach Jiwon, who had been lurking like a ghost behind the boards, finally stepped in.

“Sounds like you’re finally aiming higher than just ‘showy,’” she said, folding her arms. “Good. But if you want this to work, every damn movement needs purpose. No throwaway jumps. No empty tricks.”

You nodded, something solid locking into place inside you. “We’ll map it scene by scene. Every spin, every glide, every turn—it’ll mean something.”

“You’re not just skaters in this one,” Coach said. “You’re storytellers. And you better make ‘em feel it.”

The moment Coach walked off, you turned to the team, that heat in your chest finally igniting into something close to determination.

“Alright,” you said. “Let’s write a fairytale. One where we don’t lose.”

The rink shifted. No longer just a practice space. It was a stage. And this time, the performance wasn’t for fun—it was a fight.

“We’ll let the boys know later,” Minsoo added with a grin. “They can catch up after we’ve done the hard part. I am sure they'll love it. ”

---

Mingyu squinted. “Wait. Like… a what?”

“A fairytale,” you repeated, voice calm but firm. “But not the cheesy kind. It’s going to be dramatic. Themed. A full-blown story on ice.”

Jeonghan sat up straighter. “Like Disney on Ice?”

“No,” Chaeyoung chimed in, finally looking up. “More like Cinderella-meets-Game-of-Thrones but with actual choreography. Skating and hockey.”

That’s when it exploded.

“Nope,” Jihoon said immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Seungkwan stared, slack-jawed. “I thought you meant we’d, like, do some lifts or background stuff. Not… not some sparkly ice theatre show.”

Joshua blinked like he was trying to wake up from a dream. “Why are we doing so much for a halftime? Just play a normal classical music! ”

“That was the plan!” Seungcheol said, voice rising. “We agreed to a charity game followed by a quick demonstration with the skaters. A few lifts. Some twirls. Fifteen minutes tops. This is not what we signed up for.”

“It’s not twirls,” you snapped. “It’s choreography. It’s a story. And it’s the only shot we’ve got at pulling this off—unless you think a basic match and a few clumsy dips are going to convince the university to fund both teams.”

“You want us to act out a fairytale,” Mingyu said slowly, like he was still processing. “On ice. In gear.”

“You don’t have to wear a crown,” Chaeyoung muttered under her breath.

“I’m not doing this,” Jihoon said again. “This isn’t hockey. This is a musical.”

Jeonghan, for once, looked genuinely baffled. “Who even came up with this? You should’ve told us before you storyboarded an entire frozen telenovela.”

Eda rolled her eyes. “We wanted a complete concept before bringing it to you. We figured if we came with something solid, you’d actually listen.”

Soonyoung raised a cautious hand. “Okay, wait—can we just clarify? What exactly are we supposed to be doing? Like… skating alongside you?”

“Yes,” you said. “And being part of the story. Some of you play the villains. Some of you are romantic leads. Some are part of the fight sequences. Think stage show, but on ice. With blades. And impact.”

“And possible concussions,” Seungkwan muttered.

“This is ridiculous,” Seungcheol said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re hockey players. Not actors. Not dancers. Not props.”

“You’re athletes,” you shot back. “Elite ones. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you. We’re not asking for ballet. We’re asking for energy. Drama. Movement. And yeah, maybe a little openness to doing something bold for once.”

There was a pause.

Taunt-filled silence.

Soonyoung blinked. “Wait… I kinda want to be the prince.”

“You want to wear tights and act on ice?” Jihoon asked, horrified.

“If there’s a sword fight, maybe.”

Seungcheol stood, pushing off the bench. “This is out of control. We’re not doing a halftime fairytale musical battle on ice. We’ll look like idiots. This was supposed to be a collaboration, not a damn ice drama.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re just scared.”

Seungcheol turned, slowly. “Of what?”

“Of letting go of your ego for two seconds and doing something that actually takes vulnerability. Because guess what, Seungcheol? You can hit a puck. Congratulations. But can you tell a story without hiding behind a helmet?”

The room went silent.

Chaeyoung was sipping her water dramatically in the background.

Jeonghan whistled under his breath. “Oof.”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t reply right away.

You took a step forward. “This is bigger than both our teams now. We’re not just trying to win points—we’re trying to show them something unforgettable. Something that proves both sports matter. And yeah, that means getting out of your comfort zone. So what’s it gonna be?”

Mingyu shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Couldn’t we just… wear matching jerseys and call it unity?”

“No,” you said firmly. “This isn’t just about showing we can work together. It’s about showing we can create something better together.”

Jihoon groaned. “I swear to God, if I end up being some enchanted frog I’m quitting.”

“You’d be the frog prince,” Chaeyoung offered. “With a tragic backstory.”

“NO!”

You crossed your arms. “You don’t have to decide now. Just… sit with it. We’re starting choreography with or without you. But if you back out, don’t expect to skate on with us when the crowd’s on their feet.”

You turned sharply, motioning to the girls. They left the room, leaving a stunned group of boys behind, equal parts horrified, furious… and maybe, just maybe, a little intrigued.

---

You were walking fast.

Too fast, maybe, but you didn’t care. The edge of the blades on your skate guards clacked with every step on the tile, a sharp, angry rhythm that matched the pounding in your chest.

Behind you?

The unmistakable sound of Seungcheol’s heavy-ass footsteps.

Of course.

“Did you just say I have fragile masculinity?” he called out.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Because what did he expect? A sticker? A trophy for not punching a wall after being called out?

“Seriously?” His voice echoed down the corridor. “You’re just gonna throw that out and walk away?”

You shoved through the double doors at the end of the hallway, but of course, he caught one and followed you through like a very angry shadow.

“Minsoo,” he said again, sharp this time. “Answer me.”

You stopped.

Spun around so fast your hair whipped over your shoulder. Your eyes met his, hot and locked.

“What do you want, Seungcheol?” you snapped, voice high and tight with frustration. “An apology? A cookie? Should I kneel and kiss your skates for wounding your delicate man pride?”

His eyes narrowed. “I want you to take it back.”

You stared at him.

And then—god help you—you actually laughed.

It was short. Bitter. Unbelieving.

“You’re unbelievable,” you said. “We’re out here trying to save both our teams from getting wiped off the university map, and this is what you care about? One comment bruised your ego and now you’re chasing me down a hallway like it’s life or death?”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to make the air around you shift.

“I care about my team,” he bit out. “Not looking like idiots during what’s supposed to be a hockey match. Not getting dragged into some—ice fairytale spectacle where we’re side characters in your little theatre show.”

“You’re not being dragged into anything,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re being invited. And if your first reaction is to say no because it doesn’t revolve around your stick and puck, maybe I was exactly right about what I said.”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t even know me.”

You stepped forward once. Just enough.

“I don’t have to,” you said, voice lower now. “You walk into every room like the rink owes you something. You lose your shit the second you’re not in control. You call anything emotional ‘drama’ like it’s a slur.”

His nostrils flared. “I’m not afraid of performing.”

“Then why are you acting like it’s a death sentence?” you shot back. “You heard ‘story’ and immediately clutched your manhood like someone was going to make you wear tights and cry on cue.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

So you turned again, steps slower now, controlled.

But then his hand caught your elbow—not rough, not forceful. Just enough to make you stop.

“Don’t walk away again,” he said, and his voice wasn’t loud anymore. It was low. Heavy. Sharp.

You didn’t flinch.

You looked right at him.

The heat of it all hit you square in the chest. That look in his eyes. The tension in his jaw. Like he didn’t know if he wanted to fight you or kiss you just to shut you up.

And you hated how much your stomach flipped at that thought.

“You’re not fragile, right?” you asked softly, biting it off. “Then prove it. Do the routine. Be a part of something that’s not built for you. Something that doesn’t hand you the spotlight.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

One breath. Two.

And then you pulled your arm from his grip.

“Or,” you said with a shrug, turning your back to him again, “you can keep pretending your masculinity’s made of glass and hope no one taps it too hard.”

You walked away before you could see the look on his face.

But you felt it.

Burning into your back.

And like thousands time before, you knew you’d gotten under his skin.

Deep.

---

The boys room smells like Tiger Balm, instant ramen, and frustration.

Seungcheol had been pacing for the past twenty minutes. Shirtless. Hair a mess. Rage vibrating off him like heatwaves from asphalt.

“I have fragile masculinity???” he exploded, voice echoing off the walls.

Mingyu didn’t even look up from where he sat cross-legged on his bed, eating ramen with chopsticks and the patience of a monk. “Still on that, huh?”

“Fragile masculinity,” Seungcheol repeated, throwing his arms up like he’d just been personally slapped by the word fragile. “Bitch, I can bench you and your emotionally repressed family tree. What the fuck does that even mean?”

Mingyu slurped a noodle. “Pretty sure it means you got a little too upset about a fairytale.”

Seungcheol spun toward him, scandalized. “I didn’t get upset. I got… logical. You heard what she said. Skating through a ‘story’ like it’s Broadway on Ice. She wants us to be villains. Villains, Gyu.”

Mingyu looked entirely unfazed. “You are kind of a villain.”

“What does that mean!?”

“Dude,” Mingyu gestured vaguely with his chopsticks, “you walked into that meeting with your arms crossed like a mafia boss and told them we weren’t doing shit. Then you stormed out. You’re textbook Disney antagonist.”

“I did not storm,” Seungcheol hissed, resuming his pacing. “I left with conviction.”

“Right.”

Seungcheol muttered to himself. “Her ego is even bigger than my fucking dick. What is her issue? Like, sorry I don’t want to ice-dance in a fucking metaphor.”

Mingyu didn’t flinch. “I mean, it is a good metaphor.”

“I am not fragile,” Seungcheol growled. “I’m not. I’m just—I’m just not into interpretive skating, okay? Is that illegal now? Are the thought police coming for me?”

“Cheol.”

“What?”

“You’ve said ‘fragile masculinity’ twelve times in the last five minutes. You’ve counted. Out loud.”

Seungcheol groaned and flopped face-first onto his bed like a man who had just lost a war. “Why did she even say it like that? All smug and condescending. Like she knew it would get under my skin.”

“Because it did get under your skin,” Mingyu said flatly. “You haven’t stopped talking about her since you got back.”

“I don’t talk about her.”

“You just ranted about the tone of her voice.”

Seungcheol dragged a pillow over his head. “It was so—smug, bro. Like, like she knew she’d won something. Like she enjoyed putting me in my place.”

“…Did she?”

“Don’t fucking say that.”

Silence.

Then, muffled from under the pillow: “Okay but like… what if I did it.”

Mingyu blinked. “Do what?”

Seungcheol peeked out from the side of the pillow. “The fairytale.”

Mingyu stared at him for a beat.

“Bro.”

“I’m just saying,” Seungcheol mumbled, trying and failing to keep his voice casual. “If I did do it. It would shut her up, right? Like, if I committed? If I nailed it? She’d have to respect that. It’d be like, checkmate.”

“You’re literally considering doing emotional interpretive skating just to one-up a girl who called you emotionally fragile.”

“Exactly,” Seungcheol nodded, deadly serious.

Mingyu put down his chopsticks. “This is the most masculine thing you’ve ever done.”

Seungcheol sat up like a man possessed. “I’d be so good. Like, I could be the villain. Dark prince. Brooding, misunderstood. It’s giving anti-hero. I could skate angry. That’s on brand, right?”

“You’re spiraling. Cinderella doesn't have a dark prince.”

“She said I was scared of emotion. I’ll give her fucking emotion. I’ll cry on ice. Watch me.”

“You need to go to sleep.”

Seungcheol flopped back again, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. “She’s just so—infuriating. All confident and smug and… expressive.”

“You mean hot.”

“I did not say that.”

“You meant that.”

Seungcheol groaned into his pillow. “Fuck.”

Mingyu went back to his noodles. “So… practice starts at seven?”

“Shut the hell up.”

---

PREVIOUS | NEXT

The wall behind his head was cold.

Seungcheol didn’t notice it at first—just felt the pressure where his skull met the plaster, the steady thud of his pulse echoing behind his eyelids.

He wasn’t asleep. He hadn’t slept.

Not since the night of the crash.

The hallway reeked of bleach and despair. The kind that clings to your clothes no matter how many showers you take. He didn’t remember the last time he left the hospital. Just that he couldn’t. Not yet.

Not while she was still inside that room, wires in her skin, machines breathing for her.

The silence around him wasn’t peaceful. It was loud.

The clock ticked. Someone coughed. A nurse laughed too brightly somewhere down the corridor.

And then— A shift. A quiet one.

Someone sat beside him.

The air changed. Just slightly. Like it exhaled.

He opened his eyes.

You are staring straight ahead, as if looking at the same nothing he was. No makeup. Tired eyes. Vending machine coffee clutched between both hands like you were afraid it might disappear.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But your presence didn’t feel like an intrusion. It felt like… company.

The kind you don’t realize you need until it’s there.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. He wondered what brought you here. Wondered if it was worse than what brought him.

“Long night?” you asked, voice soft, almost hesitant.

He blinked. Nodded.

“Yeah.” A pause. “You too?”

You gave a breath of a laugh, humorless and low. “Been a long week.”

Your fingers tapped against the cup, rhythm like a heartbeat. He noticed the way your knuckles were red, raw in some places. You hadn’t been sleeping either.

“Family?” he asked.

“Grandmother,” you said. “Yours?”

He swallowed. “Girlfriend. Car accident. Three days ago. They’re still not sure if she’ll—”

He didn’t finish. He couldn’t.

You didn’t push. Just nodded like you understood. Like you didn’t need the end of the sentence to feel the weight of it.

And they sat there again. In silence. In something heavy and unsaid.

---

You didn't cry.

That was the first thing he noticed.

There was a glassiness in your eyes, sure. A kind of far-off fog that only people in hospitals seemed to wear. But no tears. Just a tightly held composure, like if you let go even a little, you might unravel.

“She was diagnosed last year,” you said after a while, still looking ahead, not at him. “Stage four. It came fast.”

Seungcheol didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

“She raised me,” you added, like that explained everything. And maybe it did.

He shifted slightly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The vinyl of the hospital bench creaked under him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it.

You nodded, like you'd heard that a hundred times already. “It’s okay. Or it’s not. I don’t know anymore.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a heart monitor beeped steadily.

Neither of them looked at the other. But neither moved away, either.

It was you who broke the quiet again.

“You’d think after three nights of this, I’d learn not to buy the coffee,” you said, wrinkling your nose as you sipped. “But here I am. Still pretending it helps.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. It was the first one in days.

“Try the tea,” he said. “Tastes like cardboard. But at least it smells like something real.”

That got a soft huff from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.

They fell back into silence again, the kind that started to feel less like strangers and more like a truce.

And then—

“I’m Seungcheol,” he said, quietly.

You turned to look at him for the first time. Her eyes were a soft brown, tired but warm. Your lips twitched into something like a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Seungcheol.”

But you didn’t offer your name.

---

The second night, you brought the coffee.

Seungcheol was in the same spot. Same posture. Same wall holding him up. Eyes closed, head tilted back, pretending for a moment that if he stayed still enough, time might stop moving without him.

Then the scent hit him.

Not bleach. Not hospital.

Coffee. Cinnamon. And… something soft. Vanilla, maybe.

He opened his eyes.

You were there again. Sitting beside him. This time, you were the one holding two cups.

“I upgraded us,” you said, offering him one. “The café on the second floor has actual espresso. A miracle in this place.”

He took it with a quiet thanks, fingers brushing yours. Warm skin. Cold fingertips.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, voice still rough from disuse.

“Me neither,” you replied honestly. “But here we are.”

He took a sip. It was actually good. Strong, a little bitter, the kind of taste that settled in your chest like something solid.

They sat in the same silence, but this one felt different. Familiar. Comfortable, almost.

“I found her talking to the air yesterday,” you said softly. “My grandmother. She thought I was my mom.”

Seungcheol turned to you. Your jaw was clenched, throat tight with the weight of the memory.

“She kept calling me by her name. Begging me not to leave again.”

He didn’t speak. Just listened. Really listened.

“I never met my mom. She left when I was a baby. Gran raised me alone. She’s… the only real family I have.”

Your voice broke on the word only. You blinked quickly, but didn’t wipe the tear that finally escaped.

Seungcheol shifted closer. Not touching you, just… near.

“I haven’t gone home in three days,” he said after a moment. “I sleep in the waiting room. My parents keep telling me to rest, but how do you rest when you don’t know if she’ll ever open her eyes again?”

Your head tilted slightly. “You love her a lot.”

“I do.” He stared at the floor. “But I don’t know if she knows it. Not the way I should’ve shown her.”

And just like that, the air between them cracked open. Two strangers, stitched together by grief, regret, and stale hospital air.

You held out your hand—not for a handshake, but just to hold.

No name. No promise.

Just presence.

And this time, Seungcheol took it.

---

The room was too quiet.

Not the kind of silence that brought peace—but the kind that screamed in his ears.

Machines beeped in a steady rhythm, too steady. A reminder that the only thing keeping her breathing wasn’t her.

Seungcheol sat beside the hospital bed, fingers curled into a loose fist on his lap. He’d been sitting there for an hour. Maybe more.

She looked the same. Pale. Still. Like a painting that hadn’t been finished. Like if he blinked too fast, she might disappear altogether.

His throat ached with all the words he hadn’t said.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bed.

“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s me.”

He let the silence answer. Let the emptiness respond.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say anymore,” he admitted, voice cracking. “They tell me to talk to you, that maybe you’ll hear me, but I…”

He trailed off. Swallowed hard.

“I miss you,” he said finally. “I miss your laugh. The way you’d tease me when I left dishes in the sink. I even miss your bad singing.”

His eyes burned. He looked away.

“I wish I’d held you longer that morning. I wish I’d told you not to rush out. I wish I—”

He stopped. Breathed.

And then, like a thread pulled loose, something surfaced. Your voice. Not his girlfriend’s—

Yours.

The girl from the hallway. “You’ll break if you keep holding everything in.” “You don’t have to be strong every second. You’re allowed to fall apart.” “Let her feel your love, not just your guilt.”

Seungcheol closed his eyes.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t guilt that guided him.

“I love you,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. “I’ve always loved you. I just… didn’t say it enough.”

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“I’m saying it now. I’m here. And I’ll keep being here. Just… if you’re somewhere in there, please… come back to me.”

The machines kept beeping. Steady. Relentless.

But for the first time, his heart felt a little lighter. Not because things were better— But because he wasn’t holding it all alone anymore.

---

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and wilted flowers.

It was the kind of day where time felt sticky—too slow to bear, but too fast when you blinked.

Seungcheol sat outside Room 203, the plastic cup of coffee cooling in his hand, untouched. He hadn’t gone in yet. He didn’t know if he had the strength.

Then he heard it.

A voice.

Soft. Steady. Familiar.

He turned slightly, just enough to peek through the glass panel in the door across the hall.

You were in there—curled in a chair beside your grandmother’s bed, knees tucked to your chest, a worn book in your lap. The afternoon light spilled through the window, gold and forgiving, catching in the strands of your hair.

You were reading aloud.

Not loudly. Not for anyone but the two of you—yourself, and the woman who couldn’t speak anymore.

“‘And even in the darkest parts of the woods,’” you read, your voice barely above a whisper, “‘the girl remembered the sound of home. Not a place. A person. The way they said her name, the way their hand lingered on her back before a goodbye.’”

Your voice cracked slightly, but you didn’t stop.

Seungcheol didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He just… couldn’t walk away.

It was like her words reached through the walls and found something buried inside him—something aching and wordless.

He closed his eyes and listened.

“‘She missed them every day, even when she swore she’d stopped. Even when the world told her to move on. But grief doesn’t work that way. It’s not a thing you carry. It’s a thing that lives with you.’”

You stopped. He could hear the turn of a page. Your breath shaking. Your grandmother didn’t move, didn’t respond. But the you smiled anyway, like maybe that silence still meant something.

After a while, you spoke—not from the book, just from your heart.

“You’d hate this hospital, Gran. The tea tastes like sadness and cardboard, and they keep the lights on too bright.”

A pause. A sniffle.

“But I found someone,” you said, her voice suddenly gentler. “Not in that way. I mean… maybe. I don’t know. He’s hurting, too. Quietly. Like you used to say I did when I was little. Like he's trying to keep everyone else from seeing him bleed.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the book, knuckles white.

“I think I want to be around him. Is that wrong? I feel guilty for looking forward to anything when you’re…” You stopped again. Swallowed. “When you’re going.”

You laughed suddenly. Broken. Real. “God, I sound like a cliché. Falling for someone in a hospital hallway while my world’s falling apart.”

And still, Seungcheol listened. Still frozen. Still holding onto a breath he hadn’t meant to take.

Your voice dropped lower, softer.

“I don’t want to forget how your voice sounded when you laughed. Or the way you made pancakes shaped like dinosaurs even when I was fifteen. Or how you braided my hair when I was too tired to get out of bed.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Something shattered quietly inside him.

Before he knew it, his legs moved. His hand touched the door frame.

You looked up. Startled. Eyes wide and glassy.

“I—” he said, throat thick. “I wasn’t trying to… listen. I’m sorry.”

You wiped your cheek, fast. “No, it’s okay. You’ve probably heard worse here.”

Seungcheol stepped into the room slowly. His voice barely carried. “Your voice... it’s steady. Like a melody.”

You gave him a small, sad smile. “It’s how I learned to survive.”

He looked at the book in your lap. “Would you… mind reading in her room too? For my girlfriend?”

You blinked. “Me?”

He nodded. “Your voice feels like… home. And I think she’d like that.”

Your eyes searched his for a long moment. Then you nodded.

“Okay,” you said, standing, holding the book close to your chest. “I’ll read for both of them.”

---

It’s late.

That kind of late where the vending machines hum too loudly and the only light in the hallway flickers like it’s tired too. Seungcheol stands near the window down the corridor, one hand braced against the glass, the other holding his phone like it weighs more than it should.

He should be sleeping.

Instead, he dials.

Again.

The phone rings twice, and then—

“Hi! You’ve reached Haeun. I’m probably dancing somewhere or stealing Seungcheol’s fries, so leave a message after the beep and I promise I’ll get back to you… eventually!”

Beep.

He doesn’t speak.

He just closes his eyes and breathes. Listens to that sliver of her voice that still exists, somewhere safe, somewhere untouched by tubes and machines and the cruel silence that’s overtaken Room 203.

Call ended.

He dials again.

Same ring. Same smile in her voice. Same beep.

Still no words.

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Maybe for her to pick up. Maybe for the universe to reset.

By the fourth call, his hands are shaking.

By the fifth, he finally speaks.

“Hey.”

It’s hoarse. Barely there.

“I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I just… I miss you.”

His voice breaks on the last word. He coughs, wipes at his face like it’ll make a difference. The hallway is empty. He’s glad. No one should see this.

“I brought the stupid green grapes today. The ones you hate but pretend to like because they’re healthy. I even peeled them. Like you always wanted me to. They’re still in the fridge.” A bitter laugh. “I don’t know why I did that.”

He hangs up.

Redials.

Sixth call.

“Hi! You’ve reached Haeun—”

He doesn’t wait for the beep this time.

“I had a dream last night. You were wearing that yellow dress you said made you look like a banana, and we were dancing in our kitchen. No music. Just your laugh.”

He pauses.

“God, I’d kill to hear you laugh right now.”

He ends the call.

But he dials again.

Seventh.

Eighth.

By the ninth call, he’s on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, phone pressed against his ear like it’s all that’s keeping him together.

Beep.

His voice is quieter now. Smaller.

“Please.”

Just that.

Just please.

Please come back. Please wake up. Please tell me how to keep going.

He doesn’t say it all. He doesn’t have to.

The phone slips from his fingers. His eyes are red. There’s no sound in the corridor except for the faint buzz of electricity and the way he breathes like the air hurts going in.

And then a whisper, almost like a prayer.

“She’s not dead. She’s not dead. She’s not dead.”

He repeats it like maybe if he says it enough, the universe will make it true forever.

But the truth is— She’s not alive either. Not in the way he needs her to be.

And maybe the worst part of it all isn’t that she’s gone.

It’s that he’s still here, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

---

It was late again.

The hospital lights were dimmed to a muted hum, the world outside the windows blurred into inky blue. Seungcheol had just returned from Room 203, hands shaking, heart heavier than his footsteps. He turned the corner toward the waiting room, expecting silence.

But there you were.

Curled in on yourself on the narrow couch, knees pulled tight to your chest, arms hugging them like you were trying to hold yourself together. Your face was buried, but the tremor in your shoulders gave you away.

You were crying.

No—you were breaking.

He froze in the doorway.

"Hey..." he said softly, unsure if he should come closer. "Are you okay?"

A stupid question. You didn't look up.

So he sat down beside you, far enough not to touch, close enough to offer warmth.

You wiped at your eyes, but the tears just kept coming.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “God, I’m sorry, I just— I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“You’ve seen me like this,” he murmured.

That got a small, bitter laugh from you. But it faded fast.

Then you said, quieter than before, “I left her.”

He turned, brows furrowed.

“My grandmother,” you clarified, breath catching. “Before all this… before the cancer... I stopped coming around.”

He waited. Didn’t push. Just listened.

“I was busy. I moved to another city. Work was stressful, and I kept saying I’d visit next weekend, next month, next—” You swallowed hard. “But she always called. Always left voicemails. She'd tell me she made pancakes, the ones with blueberries, the kind I used to beg for as a kid. And she'd say she was waiting. Just... waiting for me to come home.”

Your voice cracked.

“I didn’t come.”

His chest ached.

“I told myself she was fine. Independent. Strong. I told myself I was allowed to live my life.” Your eyes welled again. “And now I come every single day. Now I sit next to her bed like if I do it long enough, she’ll forgive me. But she can’t even say my name anymore.”

Seungcheol reached out then—tentatively—placing a hand over yours. You didn’t pull away.

“She used to sit by the door,” you whispered. “Like clockwork. Every Sunday morning. Dressed in the sweater I bought her three Christmases ago. Just waiting. Because she thought... maybe today I’d come.”

The tears wouldn’t stop.

“I was dancing at some bar. Laughing. Kissing someone I don’t even remember. While she sat by the door making pancakes for no one.”

Your voice broke open then, sobs slipping through like glass cracking beneath pressure. Ugly and honest and full of a grief that had nowhere to go.

Seungcheol turned toward you fully, pulling you into his arms. You fought it at first—because that’s what guilt does—but he held on.

“You came back,” he murmured. “You’re here now.”

“But what if it’s too late?” you sobbed into his chest. “What if she never knew how sorry I am?”

He rested his chin against your head, eyes burning.

“She knew,” he said. “She knows.”

They stayed like that. In the stillness. In the mess. In the pain.

Two people broken in different ways, holding each other like they could keep the world from falling apart again. No promises. No solutions.

Just presence.

And sometimes—that was everything.

---

The hospital room was too white. Too quiet. Even the ticking of the clock felt like an accusation—steady and cruel. A reminder of every second you had not been there.

You sat beside the bed, your hands wringing the hem of your sweater. The chair creaked beneath you, but your grandmother didn’t look.

She was staring out the window. Blank. Soft. Eyes that used to twinkle with laughter now just... drifted.

“Hi, Grandma,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

No response.

You leaned in, trying again with a gentle smile. “It’s me. I brought your favorite. Blueberry pancakes. From that little diner you like.”

Still nothing.

You swallowed down the lump rising in your throat and set the small to-go container on the bedside table. The smell of syrup and warm sugar floated through the air, but your grandmother didn’t even flinch.

Silence. Thicker now.

“I remember when you used to wake me up with the smell of these,” you tried, eyes burning. “Every Sunday. You’d hum while you cooked. Said blueberries were brain food.” A sad laugh slipped out. “Guess they weren’t enough, huh?”

The silence felt like punishment.

You reached out slowly, brushing a strand of silver hair from her grandmother’s forehead. She used to braid that hair. Used to play salon with it as a child, while her grandmother pretended she was being pampered in a palace.

“You used to wait for me,” you whispered. “Every week. In that old cardigan I bought you. Remember that one? With the missing button?”

Nothing.

And then—finally—your grandmother blinked, slowly turning toward her. Her eyes focused on your face.

Hope rose, sudden and aching. “Grandma?”

The old woman tilted her head. Confused.

Then, softly: “Are you... the nurse?”

It felt like being stabbed.

You forced a smile to your lips, even as your heart shattered. “No... I’m—”

Your grandmother smiled faintly, distant and kind. “You’re very sweet, dear. Just like my granddaughter. Beautiful girl. Works too hard. Never comes home, though.”

The breath caught in your throat. Your vision blurred instantly.

“She... she sounds great,” you managed, voice trembling.

“She is.” Your grandmother looked out the window again, a ghost of a smile on her face. “She used to sit on the porch and sing while I made breakfast. Blueberry pancakes. Said they were her favorite.”

You clutched the side of the bed, your knuckles white. “Do you remember her name?”

“No,” your grandmother said, softly. “But I know I love her. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

A sob escaped before you could stop it. You covered your mouth with your hand, shoulders shaking.

Your grandmother turned again, blinking slowly. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. You’ll make me sad.”

You shook your head, biting down on your lip. “I’m okay,” you choked. 

And in that moment, you didn’t care that your grandmother didn’t know who you were. Didn’t care that your name was gone, that their memories were tangled and buried.

Because the love—that was still here.

Even if it was misdirected. Even if it was broken.

You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around the frail woman, holding her tightly, burying your face into her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so, so sorry I left.”

Your grandmother patted your back, gentle and absent-minded. “There, there. You’re a good girl. I can tell.”

You cried harder.

And outside, the day went on like nothing had changed.

But inside that room, everything had.

---

It was late. Past visiting hours.

But the little courtyard garden behind the hospital didn’t care about time. It was overgrown in places, the stone bench cracked, the flowerbeds mostly dirt now—but there was a kind of comfort in its forgotten state. Like it belonged to the night. Like it understood people who didn’t fit in the daylight anymore.

You sat on the bench, your knees tucked under your chin, a paper cup of hospital coffee cradled in your hands. Seungcheol joined you without a word, sitting close enough to feel the same night breeze, but not enough to crowd you.

For a while, they just sat. Listening to the wind brushing through brittle branches. The distant siren of an ambulance arriving. The faint hum of machines behind walls.

Then, quietly, you asked, “What was she like?”

He looked down at the cup between his hands. “You mean... before?”

You nodded.

He took a breath. “Loud. In the best way. She used to sing to the radio even if she didn’t know the lyrics. And she’d burn toast every morning because she always forgot it was in. Once, she put our house key in the freezer because she thought it was her phone.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds chaotic.”

“She was.” He laughed a little, and then the sound faded. “But she made everything feel... alive. Like the world was just a little brighter because she was in it.”

The silence settled again, heavier now.

“She sounds like someone I would’ve liked,” you said, softly.

He nodded.

“What about you?” he asked. “What were you like before all this?”

You let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the cracks in the stone path.

“Busy,” she said. “Too busy. I thought I had time. That I could always go visit later. I kept putting it off. ”

Seungcheol didn’t speak, but she felt him listening.

Your voice broke, raw and exposed.

“And now she doesn’t even know my name.”

You turned your head, wiping your cheek roughly with the sleeve of your hoodie. “I was so selfish.”

“No,” Seungcheol said immediately, turning toward you. “You were living. That’s not a crime.”

“But I left her behind.”

He looked at you then, really looked. “You came back.”

You didn’t reply.

He reached over slowly, fingers brushing your. Not holding. Not pushing. Just offering.

And you let him.

Their hands stayed there, barely touching, as if the warmth between them could rewrite time. Could pull them out of the past and plant them firmly in the now.

After a moment, you murmured, “I used to love dancing.”

He blinked. “What?”

You smiled, sad and sweet. “Just... before all this. I’d dance in my kitchen. In my socks. Spill coffee, stub my toes. I haven’t done that in forever.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “You should. You should do that again.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy.

“What about you?” you asked. “What’s the one thing you miss most about yourself?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear:

“I used to dream.”

The words hung between them like fog.

You turned your hand, finally holding his.

And under the pale light of the moon, with bruised hearts and paper coffee cups, two people who had lost everything began to find something again—

Not peace. Not yet.

But maybe the possibility of it.

---

It was just after midnight when the nurse called him.

"Mr. Choi? She's... she's showing signs. You should come."

Seungcheol had stared at his phone for a full minute before he moved. Then he ran. Down the silent corridors. Past the quiet night-shift desk. Past the vending machine and the courtyard and everything that had held him up for weeks.

Room 203.

His hands shook as he pushed the door open.

She was there. As always. Pale. Fragile. But her fingers were twitching. Her lips parted slightly, a rasping breath falling from her throat that sounded like a word caught halfway to being born.

He stepped in slowly, as if afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too fast.

“…Seung…cheol?”

He froze.

Her voice.

So faint. So broken. But there.

“Yeah,” he choked out, stumbling forward and falling to his knees beside her bed. “Yeah, I’m here.”

She blinked slowly. Her eyes were heavy with confusion, still swimming in a haze, but they found him. Like she was clawing her way back to the surface and he was her anchor.

His hand found hers, trembling. “You’re… you’re awake.”

She gave the smallest nod. Barely there. But it was everything.

And he wept.

Outside the room, you sat on the hallway floor with two cups of coffee—yours long cold. Your legs were cramping, your back sore, but you didn’t move. You had watched him go in and hadn’t followed.

He needed this moment.

And even though your heart ached—throbbed, even—as the sounds of his voice broke through the crack in the door, you stayed. Because you knew what it meant to finally get a piece of someone you thought you’d already lost.

You lowered your head, pressing your forehead to your knees.

And when he came out an hour later, his eyes swollen, cheeks streaked with tears—but smiling for the first time since you met him—you looked up and gave him one back.

It was small. Wobbly. But real.

“She said my name,” he whispered.

You stood slowly, offering the cup to him.

“I’m so happy for you, Cheol.”

He took it, their fingers brushing, his smile faltering just a bit.

“And your grandma?”

“She’s…” Your voice caught. You cleared your throat. “She’s getting worse.”

The silence held everything that couldn’t be said. A strange mirror. One of them rising. One of them falling.

Seungcheol reached out and touched your wrist. Gently. “You’ve been so strong.”

You looked down at the floor, then back up, your eyes shimmering. “I’m trying. It’s like... I don’t want her to go, but I also don’t want her to keep hurting. And I don’t know how to exist when she’s not in the world. So I stay. And I hope she sees me, even for a second.”

He nodded, his heart splitting open at the seams.

You looked at him, then—really looked. At the hope blooming behind his tears.

You smiled through your grief. “I think she would’ve liked your girl. The way you love her. It’s rare.”

Seungcheol's lips parted, a thousand emotions crashing into each other. “You helped me hold on. Even when I didn’t want to anymore.”

Your breath hitched.

“You held me, Cheol,” you whispered. “When I needed it most.”

He stepped closer.

The air between them was thick with everything they hadn’t said. And everything they couldn’t say.

Because this wasn’t a fairytale. It wasn’t about choosing. It wasn’t about perfect timing.

It was about love in its rawest form—grief, joy, loss, connection—all tangled together in this broken little hallway.

“I don’t want you to disappear now,” you whispered.

“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”

You took his hand, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

And in the silence, there was music. No instruments. Just hearts— Beating beside each other. Still aching. Still healing. Still hoping.

---

Seungcheol stood in the stairwell.

It was quiet there. Sterile concrete, humming fluorescent lights, the faint clinking of a janitor’s cart on a lower level. The kind of place where you could fall apart and no one would notice. Maybe not even yourself.

He ran a hand down his face, the skin beneath his eyes raw from crying, not just today but for weeks. And now—she was waking up. His girlfriend. The love of his life. The person he had sat beside, begged, bargained for.

And he felt like a fucking traitor.

Because all he could think about… was her.

Not the girl in the bed, trying to find her voice again. But the one who sat beside him at 3AM with vending machine coffee and bruises beneath her eyes. The one who whispered broken memories about pancakes and absence and a grandmother who forgot everything except love. The one who never asked anything from him except presence. And somehow that made him want to give her everything.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his chest. Right over the place it hurt most.

What if she knew?

What if the woman inside that hospital room opened her eyes fully, smiled at him with her old self again, and realized—

That while her world had been on pause, his had kept moving.

And somewhere along the way…

He’d started to fall.

The guilt came in like waves. Sharp. Unrelenting.

He thought of your laugh—that small, sad, brave thing you'd let slip in front of him that day in the courtyard.

He thought of you telling him, “You held me.”

He thought of how you never reached for him first, never asked for comfort, never once tried to cross the invisible line between grief and want. And yet he was the one who blurred it, every time he caught himself staring too long, hoping too hard, wishing things were different.

A voice broke into his thoughts.

“Cheol?”

He turned.

You stood there in the stairwell doorway, hoodie sleeves pulled over your palms, hair a little messy, eyes a lot sad.

You.

Of course it was you.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

You stepped in slowly, not expecting anything. Not demanding anything. Just there.

Like always.

“I’m happy for you,” you said softly.

“I know.”

A beat.

“You don’t look happy.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “I should be. Right? This is what I prayed for.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“I feel like I’m… cheating on her,” he finally admitted, voice cracking. “Even just standing here with you. Even thinking about you when I’m with her.”

Your gaze fell to the floor.

“I never meant to,” he said. “It just… it happened.”

You nodded. “I get it.”

“No, you don’t—”

“I do, Seungcheol,” you said, meeting his eyes. “You don’t owe me anything. I knew this wasn’t real. I knew I was just… the wrong place, the wrong time.”

He stepped forward, something desperate in his expression. “You were the only thing that felt right.”

Your breath caught.

“I just don’t know how to live in both,” he whispered. “The before and the after.”

Silence settled between them.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said. “I don’t want to lose her. But losing you—”

He broke off, choking on the words.

You blinked back tears, chest rising and falling with the weight of every unspoken thing.

“I won’t ask you to choose,” you said gently. “But I won’t lie either. You matter to me. And if this is all it is—a hallway, a few coffees, a handful of broken nights—then I’ll take it. And I’ll let go.”

Your voice cracked like glass.

“Just don’t pretend it meant nothing.”

Seungcheol stepped closer, eyes shining. “I could never.”

And then—

A breath.

A heartbeat.

His forehead dropped to yours, just barely, as if touch alone might anchor him to something real.

Neither of them kissed.

But something inside them did.

And it broke. Quietly. Beautifully.

Right there on the stairwell steps of a hospital neither of them wanted to be in.

---

The hospital smelled the same as always—like antiseptic, old coffee, and waiting.

Seungcheol moved slowly down the corridor, step by step, clutching the small plastic bag of belongings the nurses had packed for his girlfriend. Discharge papers tucked beneath his arm. A bouquet of tulips from her mother poking out the side.

She was getting better.

She was going home.

And still… he felt like he was leaving something behind. No—someone.

He paused at the end of the hallway, where two paths met. One to the exit. One to the oncology wing.

The bag crinkled in his grip as he stood there, torn in a silence that pressed into his ribs.

He hadn't seen you since that night on the stairwell.

You.

The one who’d cracked his chest open and shown him he still had a heart, even while it bled.

The one who sat beside him when his world was ending, and gave him pieces of her own shattered one just so he wouldn't drown alone.

He’d meant to go back.

He wanted to go back.

But life has a way of moving without asking if you're ready.

The next morning, the room was empty. Your name scratched off the whiteboard. No answers. No goodbye.

He’d asked a nurse. She looked away. "I'm sorry. The patient in Room 204 passed away in the night. Family discharged shortly after."

And that was it.

Just like that, you were gone.

And he never got to say goodbye.

Now, days later, as he stood there at the fork in the hallway, everything in him screamed to turn around. To check. To hope that maybe somehow, somehow, you'd still be there.

But you weren't.

You had left.

And so had your grandmother.

All that remained was the memory of that last vending machine smile—the one with the tears hiding just beneath.

The sound of your voice when you said, “Just don’t pretend it meant nothing.”

God, if you only knew. If you knew what you meant. If you knew what you took with you.

“Seungcheol?” his girlfriend called softly from behind, her voice weaker than he remembered but full of cautious hope.

He turned slowly.

She was standing just outside her room, hair brushed back, wearing the soft hoodie he used to sleep in when she first went under.

Her eyes searched his face. “Are you ready?”

He looked at her.

This girl he’d loved. Still loved, maybe. But not in the same way.

Not in the way that twisted and broke and healed. Not in the way that made him want to live again.

He offered a small nod and walked toward her.

They exited the hospital slowly, carefully, like the world was something they weren’t sure how to re-enter.

Outside, the sky was a dull gray.

A car waited at the curb.

He placed her bag in the trunk, then helped her into the passenger seat.

But before he closed the door, he glanced back.

One last time.

Toward the entrance. Toward the hallway. Toward a girl who wasn’t there.

And in that one look… everything ached.

You would never know how often he still looked for you in crowds. How sometimes he woke up wanting to tell you something, only to remember he couldn’t. How even in someone else’s recovery, he felt like he lost something irreplaceable.

He closed the door gently.

And with it, their story.

Not with fire. Not with fanfare. But with a quiet kind of sorrow. The kind that lingers.

The kind that asks, What if?

And never gets an answer.