#sknyuz

it’s always five minutes. those minutes usually stretch until you’re falling asleep alone, the tv flickering on a loop. you’re tired of waiting for a version of him that isn't busy.

you stand up, your joints feeling stiff, and walk over to the tree. you don't start decorating. instead, you start taking the ornaments off. the plastic bin makes a dull thud as you slide it across the floor.

the typing stops. the sudden absence of the sound makes your ears ring.

“what are you doing?” his voice is low, a bit rough from the hours of silence.

“taking it down,” you say, not looking back. your chest feels tight. “there’s no point in having it up if we’re just sitting in the dark anyway.”

you hear his chair creak. then, the sound of his footsteps: slow and heavy, until he’s standing right behind you. he smells like the coffee he’s been drinking since noon and the faint, cold scent of the window glass.

he doesn't give a big speech or do a grand gesture, wonwoo wasn’t like that. he just reaches out quietly—the most wonwoo thing ever—his hand hovering over your shoulder before he finally lets it rest there. his touch is warm, a sharp contrast to how cold the room feels.

“don’t,” he says softly.

you finally turn around. he looks tired. not just work-tired, but the kind of look that comes from realizing you’ve almost lost yourself from all the work. he looks at the half-empty bin and then back at you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

“i got caught up,” he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. his glasses are cold against your skin, but his breath is shaky. “i’m sorry. i know i’ve been... not... here.”

“not present,” he corrects himself, as he finally finds the words.

he doesn't try to justify it with talk about 'the future' or 'the promotion.' he just stands there in the mess of the half-lit living room and holds onto you like he’s trying to find his way back.

the laptop screen is still glowing in the background, but he doesn't look at it. instead, he reaches into the bin and pulls out a small, mismatched ornament—a cheap little star you’d found at a thrift store.

“give me a minute?” he asks. it’s not the 'five minutes' from before. it’s a request.

you watch him get down on the floor, his long limbs looking awkward as he crawls under the tree to find the plug. he messes with the wires, his hair falling over his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, he isn't a silhouette or a corporate slave. he’s just wonwoo.

your wonwoo.

when the lights finally flicker on—warm and gold, reflecting in the window—he stays on the floor. he reaches for your hand, pulling you down until you’re sitting between his legs, back against his chest.

he wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair. he’s quiet for a long time, just breathing with you while the snow starts to blur the city lights outside.

“merry christmas,” he whispers against your neck. he sounds like he finally made it home.

you lean back, letting him take your weight, the gold light of the tree blurring into something soft and forgiving. you feel the warmth from his arms press against your waist, melting into his embrace.

"your backup, apparently," you shot back, stepping over a body. "this was my hit. you poached it."

he laughed—a low, barking sound that sent a shiver down your spine. not fear. excitement. "poached? kid, this rooftop’s open season. if you’re slow, you’re meat."

you should’ve walked away. but his grin, that untamed spark, hooked you. "prove it," you said, dropping your stance.

the fight was electric. he came at you like a storm—fast jabs, a knee to your gut that stole your breath. but you matched him: a hook to his jaw, an elbow splitting his lip. no weapons, just raw fury. he was stronger, but you were smarter, dodging grapples, countering with precision. rain made it slippery; you ended up grappling on the edge, his hand fisting your shirt, your knee pressed to his ribs.

"yield," he snarled, breath hot against your ear.

"make me," you whispered.

he didn’t. instead, he pulled you closer, and the fight blurred—lips crashing, teeth clashing, hands roaming like the violence never stopped. it was messy, desperate, like two strays claiming territory.

that night sparked it all. you met in shadows: abandoned lots, back alleys, away from prying eyes. seongje wasn’t romantic—no flowers, no dates. it was stolen moments between fights. he’d show up at your hideout, bruised from ganghak scraps; you’d patch him up, trading stories. it took him a while, but he started sharing fragments: his shitty home life, no family, and fighting as his outlet. "i’m a wolf, y/n. no pack, no rules." you shared your scars—how you clawed out of a toxic crew and vowed never to be leashed again.

your nights with seongje blurred into a rhythm of raw intensity. you’d crash at his dingy apartment—walls cracked, reeking of stale smoke and cheap ramen—or he’d slip into yours, the door barely locked before hands were everywhere. it was never gentle; seongje marked you like territory, lips and teeth leaving bruises on your neck and chest, dark hickeys blooming as claims that you were his. "mine," he’d growl against your skin, possessive and feral, before slipping out at dawn, when you’d wake to the ghost of his touch, a reminder in the mirror that echoed your own wild streak.

the rare "dates" happened past midnight, well into the witching hours, when the city slept and strays like you roamed every alley. you’d grab takeout from street vendors—spicy tteokbokki steaming in styrofoam bowls, crispy mandu, maybe some kimbap if you were lucky—and climb to a random rooftop, legs dangling over the edge. no words needed at first; just the hum of neon below, the burn of gochujang on your tongue while his shoulder brushed yours. he’d light a cigarette, exhaling into the night, and you’d steal drags, the smoke curling between shared glances. those moments felt almost normal—seongje finally quiet amid the chaos, where vulnerability peeked through. he’d mutter about a recent fight, you’d laugh at his cocky retellings, and for a heartbeat, it was just you two in this mess you've both gotten yourselves in.

the chemistry was undeniable. you balanced him: your calculated calm to his chaos. fights turned to foreplay; makeouts to spars. he called you "babe" with that smirk, like a challenge. for months, it worked—equals, collarless in a world of unions and hierarchies.

by late junior year, you felt the street life grinding you down. fights left more than bruises: doubts about wasting your potential in yeongdeungpo’s underbelly. you’d always been sharp, acing tests when you bothered with school. one night, after a scrap split your lip and left you bruised and battered, clothes ripped and scratched as of by wild animals, you stared at your apartment’s cracked ceiling and decided: enough. no more full-time gang bullshit. it just wasn't worth risking your life for anymore. you're too grown to do it for the thrill, and the dirty money just wasn't appealing to you anymore. you cut back—taking only low-risk jobs, ghosting your crew when they pushed. instead, you poured energy into something real.

you enrolled in a night hagwon* in a quieter district corner, a fluorescent-lit cram school packed with kids grinding for finals and the csat. it wasn’t glamorous: endless mock exams, vocabulary drills, math problems that burned your brain. but it felt smooth. days gained structure—mornings at a convenience store (legal gigs, no shady hustles), afternoons tying up old loose ends, evenings buried in textbooks. your grades climbed; you dreamed of uni—maybe business, law, far from fists and turf wars. life was running smoothly, like you’d finally grabbed the wheel instead of letting the streets steer.

*hagwon = cram school

seongje noticed. at first, he teased, lounging on your bed while you studied, feet propped like he owned the place. "look at you, babe—going full-on scholar. next, you’ll wear a uniform and starting bowing to your teachers." you’d roll your eyes, tossing crumpled paper at him, a warmth in the banter. he’d pull you away for "breaks," lips on your neck, hands reminding you of the wild you were taming.

but the cracks deepened. as you pulled away from chaos, he leaned harder into it. the yeongdeungpo union was expanding, baekjin scouting talent like a predator building his pack. seongje took small union gigs—nothing official, just "testing waters," he’d say. you’d argue during rare meets, your book bag slung over one shoulder, his cigarette smoke thick in the air.

"this union’s a leash, seongje. you join, you’re no better than hyeongshin drones."

he’d scoff, flicking ash. "and you think cramming for csats makes you free? trading one cage for another—exams, jobs, that bullshit boring life."

it stung—you felt it too. the farther you got from the streets, the farther you felt from him. your worlds diverged. you’d come home from cram school buzzing with small wins—a perfect practice test score—while he’d be wired from a union skirmish, eyes alight with feral hunger. stolen moments felt forced; spars turned to real arguments, punches pulling short but words cutting deep.

the toxicity festered. he’d show up late to meets, reeking of blood and smoke, eyes narrowing at your textbooks like they stole you from him. once, after you ditched a fight invite for a mock exam, he cornered you outside your apartment, fresh from a brawl, lip bleeding. before you could speak, he grabbed your face, fingers rough, and forced a kiss on you—metal on his tongue, blood or cigarette ash, bitter and desperate. you shoved him back, heart racing, wiping your mouth.

"don’t," you snapped, voice low. "you don’t get to do that when you’re half-dead from their errands."

he smirked, but his eyes were dark, hurt. "what, i’m not good enough now that you’re playing good girl?"

you’d hesitate before fight invites, prioritizing hagwon over alleys. it hurt—like you were outgrowing the stray he’d fallen for, and he resented you for it. he’d manipulate the guilt: "you’re leaving me behind, y/n. all this getting your ‘life together’ shit’s an excuse to bail." deep down, you wondered during late nights if this smoothness—your new life—was worth the growing distance, the way his touches grew desperate, like he was clinging to a version of you slipping away.

it blew up on a humid summer night in an empty parking lot near ganghak. you’d been ambushed on the way home from cram school—some no-name punks from a rival crew, probably hyeongshin stragglers, pissed you’d ghosted their scene. there were five of them, too many for you alone, even with your newfound focus. they came at you hard: a fist to your jaw sent you staggering, and a kick to your ribs dropped you to the asphalt. your notes scattered, pages catching the damp air, as you tried to fight back. a punch grazed your cheek, splitting skin; another hit your stomach, stealing your breath. you were losing—badly—blood in your mouth, vision blurring, when you heard boots on pavement and a familiar, feral snarl.

seongje appeared like a storm, flanked by three strangers—some new lackeys you’d never seen, their faces hard and unfamiliar. they moved like a pack, precise and brutal. seongje didn’t hesitate: he grabbed the nearest punk, slamming him into a concrete pillar, his fist a blur. the lackeys tore through the rest—knees to guts, elbows to skulls, efficient and merciless. in seconds, the attackers were down, groaning or out cold, blood mixing with puddles.

seongje stood over them, breathing heavy, wiping blood from his knuckles. he lit a cigarette, casual as ever, while you picked upyour scattered notes, avoiding his gaze, your ribs screaming with every breath. he glanced at you, that hungry grin flickering, but his eyes held something new—pride, maybe, or possession.

seongje had accepted baekjin’s offer—official union dog. he told you casually, cigarette dangling, while you clutched your scattered and dirtied notes.

"you’re joking," you rasped, voice flat, spitting blood.

"nah. it’s smart. power, y/n. we could rule together—if you weren’t playing house with textbooks."

"we? fuck that. i left that life—you can't just leash me back up to choke. you’re volunteering for one while i’m trying to get out?"

the argument turned nuclear. words flew like knives: him calling you a sellout for chasing "fake, unrealistic dreams," you calling him a pathetic mutt begging for baekjin’s scraps. it devolved into a real fight—no holds barred. you landed a right hook, drawing blood, your hagwon-honed focus sharpening your strikes. he tackled you to the asphalt, pinning your arms. "stop fighting me!" he yelled, eyes wild, rage mixed with raw fear.

"or what? you’ll sic your pack on me? while i study for a future you can’t even imagine?"

he hesitated—long enough for you to knee him off, scrambling up. "we’re done, seongje. enjoy your collar. i’m done being stuck with your mess. you have no place in the life i'm building anymore."

you walked away, heart pounding, tasting blood (yours or his?), backpack heavy like armor. he didn’t chase. weeks later, you heard he fully dove into union life, swiftly climbing up the ranks to become baekjin’s right-hand man, fighting like he was purging something—maybe you.

but strays always remember home. months later, when he shows up in the territory you're guarding for—bruised lip from your punch, that shit-eating grin and wild eyes—you're hit with the sudden reality that this isn't the seongje you once loved anymore.

you met wen junhui the summer before sixth grade, barefoot on your front porch with an orange popsicle dripping down your wrist. he’d just moved in across the street with his mother. you watched as he set the box down on the porch and wiped his palms on his shorts. the handwriting on the cardboard was messy but clear—written in chinese characters you didn’t recognize then, squinting.

“what’s that say?”

“kitchen stuff,” he answered plainly, the words slow and a little stiff on his tongue. then he added, “my mom writes everything like that.”

his korean was careful—each syllable slightly rounded, like he was still getting used to the way they fit together. you noticed the lilt of something unfamiliar tucked beneath his voice, a faint accent that softened some vowels and sharpened others.

he stuck out a hand like he remembered it was something people did. “i’m wen junhui. but my parents said my name’s supposed to be moon junhui here.”

you blinked. “moon?”

he nodded. “like the one in the sky.” his voice dipped a little on sky, the accent peeking through, and for some reason, it made your chest flutter.

you didn’t quite get it back then, but you liked the way it sounded like something distant and important. so you said it again, quietly to yourself, as he picked the box back up.

“moon junhui, like the one in the sky.”

later that evening, you told your mom that you were going to marry the new boy across the street. she laughed and said, “at least bring him some food before proposing.”

so you did. or, well, your mom did. that week, she sent you over with a plate of mandu, and when jun opened the door, you almost tripped over your words.

“my mom made these,” you said, holding out the container. “she said... welcome to the neighborhood.”

he blinked at it, then blinked at you, taking it with one hand. “cool,”

and just when you turned around, cheeks burning, he added, “tell your mom thank you.”

after that, it became a rhythm. tupperware went out, tupperware came back, always filled with something new, a blend of korean-chinese dishes as your family’s own way of communicating—stir-fried lotus root, soy-sauce eggs, and jujube tea in the winter. your mom would beam, and you always offered to bring it over. sometimes he opened the door, sometimes his mom did. but it never stopped, and neither did you.

you started school that year with a thrill in your chest, already imagining how it would go—new erasers, fresh notebooks, and maybe, just maybe, junhui waving to you in the hallway between classes. that was enough to make your stomach flip.

but nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the moment moon junhui walked into your classroom.

you were doodling in the corner of your planner when the door creaked open and the teacher looked up.

“we have a new student joining us today,” she said, smiling. “this is moon junhui. he just moved here, so i’d like someone to help him settle in.”

your pencil dropped to the floor with a soft clatter, your head jerked up. sure enough, there he was, standing right there at the front of the room—hands awkwardly clasped in front of him, bangs flopping in his eyes, that same worn-out backpack you recognized from their huge stash of things from the moving truck. your mouth fell open, and the boy looked just as stunned to see you, blinking once, twice, like oh.

and then his mouth twitched into what might’ve been a grimace—tight-lipped, slightly panicked—but you, in your hopeless little heart, registered it as a lopsided smile. a charming one, even. your heart did a cartwheel.

“any volunteers to show him around today?” the teacher asked.

your hand shot up so fast your chair wobbled beneath you. “i volunteer!” you squeaked, louder than you meant to.

a few kids giggled. your face burned, but you didn’t care. not when moon junhui was making his way toward the empty seat next to you, the one you definitely hadn’t saved on purpose (except you had, just now, while jun was introducing himself—shooing poor soonyoung away earlier with a whispered, “don’tcha think you’d like that seat by the window better?”).

he sat down quietly, and when the teacher turned to write on the board, you leaned over, trying to sound cool and not like your brain was melting. “you’re in my class?”

he nodded, eyes still a little wide. “didn’t know ‘till just now, either.”

you beamed like it was fate, while he blinked slowly, probably still trying to figure out if the look on your face was excitement or if you were about to sneeze.

either way, you decided right then: this wasn’t just going to be a good year. this was the beginning of something—your little heart didn’t know what that something was quite yet, but it was.

the start of your quiet orbit around moon junhui’s life.

one revolution at a time.

soon enough, jun grew taller. broader in the shoulders, and quicker with his smirks. his voice dropped one day in eighth grade and never rose again. his hair grew out, brown and messy and a little longer than most boys kept it—always flopping into his eyes, brushing past his eyebrows, that kind of effortless boyish mess that made him look like he belonged in a teen drama. he stopped wearing t-shirts with holes and started playing basketball with the neighborhood boys.

you, however, stayed the same—still orbiting moon junhui like he was your personal axis, still finding excuses to knock on his door. sometimes he let you sit on the curb with him after practice, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat and eyes glued to his flip phone as you rambled about school. sometimes he offered you half a banana milk. most days, he barely looked up.

but by freshman year, gravity had started to shift.

jun stopped leaving you the last sip of his banana milk, finishing it in two quick gulps without looking your way. he started walking home with the other boys from the basketball team, voices loud and rough and filled with inside jokes you weren’t part of. when you waved from your porch, he’d give a distracted nod—if he noticed at all. and on the days you gathered your courage to wait for him after school, he’d emerge with someone new at his side, laughter spilling from his lips, eyes already somewhere else.

still, you kept orbiting him—like a lone planet locked in quiet rotation, pulled in by a force you couldn’t name. drawn in spite of yourself, never quite able to land—pathetic, maybe almost embarrassingly, but never enough to stop.

like this morning, when your mom handed you a warm container wrapped in a dish towel and told you to bring it next door, and you didn’t even try to hide how fast you slipped your shoes on.

jun answered in sweatpants and bed hair, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand like he’d just rolled out of bed. he didn’t even greet you, just blinked down at the container in your hands, half-asleep and completely unbothered.

you stood there like a fool on his porch, heart thudding way too loud for how mundane the moment was. he was the cutest boy on earth and didn’t even know it—or worse, didn’t care. you were painfully aware of the way his hair fell into his eyes, the slope of his nose, how his voice came out scratchy when he finally muttered,

“what now?” like he hadn’t seen you just two days ago returning his mom’s glazed sweet potatoes.

your heart does a backflip. damn it.

“d-dan dan,” you stutter pathetically, holding the tupperware of noodles out. “and a note from my mom that says, quote, ‘your mother’s garlic green beans changed my life.’”

his mouth curved, finally. “that dramatic, huh?”

“you know how she is.”

he took the dish, the warmth of his fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than necessary—or maybe that was just your imagination again.

“tell her thanks,” he said, and you waited, just a little, like maybe he’d invite you in or ask about your day or say literally anything else.

of course he didn’t. jun just stepped back, one foot behind the other, and pulled the door halfway closed. “go home before your mom starts thinking we’re dating.”

you pretend it doesn’t sting, your mind racing with something along the lines of “would it really be so horrible?”—instead, you roll your eyes, raise a brow to match his smirk.

“gross,” you shoot back—because it’s easier to play along than to admit you’d probably say yes in a heartbeat.

jun grins at the floor, not at you. and that’s when it hits you—he never really looks at you when it matters. jun is always quick with a joke, always flashing that grin like it’s armor. but never steady, never really enough.

you turn around without pushing further, letting his words hang in the air like always.

and maybe that’s when something inside you shifted, just a little. not a full unraveling, not yet—but a thread pulled loose. not because of what jun said, but because of what he didn’t.

soon enough, summer melted into early fall, and everything started to shift in ways you didn’t have words for. the cicadas quieted, the skies stretched longer in the evenings, and somewhere in the middle of it, you stopped showing up at the moons’ front door. not all at once—but slowly and gradually, the way your feelings turn like fermented tofu left too long, the bitterness deepening day by day.

your little sibling was old enough now, old enough to carry tupperware with both hands and knock politely like your mother taught you. so you let them go in your place, making up excuses and saying you were busy or complained that you were tired.

but really, it just all started feeling kind of stupid—showing up at jun’s doorstep like clockwork when he never looked at you quite the way you hoped. senior year was just beginning, and you weren’t about to waste your last year of high school chasing a hopeless childhood crush—that silly, stubborn thing you promised yourself you’d outgrow by now.

one afternoon, he came to the door the same way he always did—sweatpants, bed hair, and rubbing sleep from one eye. only this time, when he pulled it open, he blinked down not at you, but at the top of someone else’s head.

your sibling squeaked out a practiced greeting, arms stretched out with the side dish your mom had made. jun stared for a second longer than usual, the corner of his mouth twitching like he didn’t know whether to smile or frown.

and maybe—for a beat, no longer—jun wondered where you’d gone. maybe something tugged at his chest, quiet and annoying, like a thread snagged in the fabric of a routine he hadn’t realized he’d grown so used to.

without you even noticing, the first day of senior year comes rushing in. and for the first time in a long time, you weren’t waiting at the door to walk to school with jun or pretending not to time your steps with his. no rushing out in your uniform just to catch up and scold him for walking so fast, no sarcastic “what a coincidence” from him as he adjusted his backpack, smirking without looking at you.

this time, you waited by the window until you saw him head down the street, hoodie thrown over his shoulders, earphones half in. he didn’t look up—not at your window, not at your house—and that should’ve made it easier. it didn’t. maybe a small part of you hoped he’d look back and wonder where you were, wait for you, or even send you a text on his flip phone. but jun simply kept walking, indifferent, until his back disappeared from your view.

you took that as a signal. you slipped on your shoes, the ones with the worn heels, grabbed your headphones and portable cd player, and shrugged into your jacket like muscle memory. your little sibling was still asleep on the couch, and your mom’s voice echoed faintly from the kitchen, but everything else felt unusually quiet.

by the time you stepped outside, the air had cooled just enough to make you wish you’d grabbed a scarf. you kept your head down, trying not to think too much, trying not to glance across the street even though you knew he wasn’t there.

what you didn’t see—what you couldn’t see—was jun leaning against the old oak tree halfway down the block, tucked just far enough behind the trunk to stay out of view. one foot pressed to the bark, hands deep in his hoodie pocket, chewing his bottom lip like he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

and then you passed by. head down, steps steady, walking right past him without a glance. he watched your back as it grew smaller, the morning light catching the edge of your sleeve. that feeling tugged at his chest again—the same one he felt a few weeks ago when you first sent your sibling to bring food over instead of yourself.

jun shifted his weight, exhaled slowly, and pushed off the tree.

you didn’t look back.

you kept your headphones in as you slipped into the courtyard, a half-hearted attempt to seem occupied. a few familiar faces nodded as they passed, but you didn’t stop to talk. not when your heart was still trying to unlearn a pattern it had followed for years.

junhui should be walking with you right now. he should be a step behind, yawning into his sleeve, bumping your shoulder with his on purpose. his friends should be calling out his name from the front steps, tossing lazy grins and half-waved hellos. and he should be answering them over his shoulder, still tugging at the frayed strap of your backpack and telling you your hair looked like a bird’s nest—then ruffling it like that wasn’t the most heart-fluttering, pulse-skipping, can’t-breathe-for-a-second thing he could possibly do to you. ‘fix your ugly bangs,’ he’d mumble, always the same tone—half-teasing, half-careless—and then he’d disappear into the crowd like you hadn’t been walking together at all.

that’s how the first day was supposed to go. it was how it always did, for years in a row.

but today, the only hands in your hair are your own, brushing it down nervously as you stare straight ahead and try not to think about how hollow the space beside you feels.

at the front of the school, students gathered near the bulletin board where class lists were taped up in uneven rows. you hesitated before stepping in, heart skipping like it did every year, eyes skimming the columns faster than they could register names—just one name, really.

there he was: moon junhui, class 3-2.

you dragged your gaze down, your name sitting two lines below his.

same class. again.

you didn’t know whether to sigh or smile. because a year ago, you would’ve been squealing in delight, skipping your way to first period with the kind of giddy, reckless hope that only came from liking someone as loudly as you did him. now, your heart still beat just as fast—but it was different. muddier, a bit conflicted. like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that you were trying to stop feeling this way.

and just when you took a step back, someone brushed past your shoulder, close enough to make your breath hitch.

“ah—sorry,” came a soft voice, unfamiliar and low, tinged with the faintest accent. you turned, blinking up.

he stood tall, maybe taller than jun, with sharp features and dark eyes that took their time looking over the list. his hair fell just slightly into his face, and his uniform hung neat, collar straight despite the morning bustle.

“do you know which one is class 3-2?” he asked, glancing down at you like you might already have the answer.

his lips are slightly pouted, brows pinched like he’s trying to make sense of the board in front of him, and it takes a second for you to register that he’s talking to you.

you blink, heart lurching a little too hard at the sight—because wow, he’s pretty—then quickly jab your finger—maybe a bit too eagerly—toward the list posted on the wall.

“that’s me,” you say, trying not to sound breathless, “i’m in that class.”

your name, still sitting two lines below junhui’s, stares back at you. still there. still in close proximity with the name of the boy you swore you were growing out of. you’ve seen it a hundred times before, but beside someone new, it feels strange—like a thread has quietly shifted in a pattern you hadn’t expected.

he leans in slightly, eyes skimming over where you’re pointing. then he lifts a finger, taps it just beneath yours.

“seo myungho here, but i’d prefer if you called me by my chinese name—xu minghao.” he says, smiling now. “guess i’m right behind you.”

then you finally register it—that subtle lilt in his voice, the way his words land with a soft, rounded rhythm. an accent, warm and unmistakably northern, threads through his speech like a familiar tune from somewhere far from here. it’s not like junhui’s—his had always been rougher at the edges, syllables clipped and pulled from the south, the faint drawl curling around his words. minghao’s, though, settles in softer and more deliberate. and for a second, you forget what you were going to say.

you let out a small laugh before you can stop it, surprised at the way it slips out so easily.

“looks like it.”

minghao steps back, still looking at the list like he’s memorizing it, and you steal a glance—his expression is open and curious, like someone seeing everything for the first time and already wanting to know more.

and maybe it’s just this new feeling of a fresh start you promised to have, or the fact that he spoke to you first—out of all the kids here, he picked you. maybe your teenage brain is overthinking it, spinning meaning where there is none, but you honestly don’t mind the undivided attention for once.

junhui steps into the courtyard a little late, the sleeves of his uniform hoodie pushed up and hair still a bit damp from a rushed morning shower. he scans the crowd, eyes flicking past familiar faces as he adjusts the strap of his bag over one shoulder.

you’re not where you usually are.

a habit he didn’t realize he’d built until it broke—expecting to see you waiting near the bulletin boards or waving him over with some dumb comment about how the first day of school should be illegal. but this time, you’re nowhere in sight.

he shifts on his feet, gaze sweeping again, slower this time—until something fuzzy catches his eye.

your keychain. that stupid fuzzy creature you insisted on keeping, dangling off the zipper of your bag. the fur’s worn now, patchy in spots, the color a little dull from all the years of being dragged around—but it’s still there, bobbing amongst the crowd like a flag. it swings gently as you move, and junhui catches sight of it before he sees you.

he remembers the claw machine in that dingy arcade three summers ago, remembers how you clapped when he knocked the toy into the chute on his second try. jun remembers how you snatched it from his hands before he could even look at it properly, beaming as you said, “you won it for me!” like it was some grand romantic gesture. he’d rolled his eyes and said something about how annoying you were, but he’d let you keep it anyway. didn’t even have the heart to argue.

now, your figure’s nearly swallowed up by someone else’s—someone taller and unfamiliar. raven-black hair and legs that go on forever. and he wonders, bitterly, if the new guy knows that fact. if he even noticed it or asked where that keychain came from. not that it matters. whatever.

his brows pull together as he watches the two of you talking by the list, your head tilted slightly toward the guy beside you, smiling at something he says. it’s subtle, but jun catches the way your posture softens, the way you seem to lean in without meaning to. and for some reason, something shifts in his chest yet again—small and barely there, but noticeable. like a paper cut you don’t feel until after it’s happened, sharp and mildly irritating in the worst way.

he doesn’t know why it bothers him. maybe it’s the way you used to save that smile for him, or maybe it’s just habit that he would be the one next to you by that list, just like every year before this one.

either way, he tells himself it’s nothing. just the first day of school. just a new kid. nothing to think twice about—so he looks away.

“jun, you’re in 3-2 too, did you see?”

it’s joshua, already slinging an arm loosely around jun’s shoulder like no time has passed at all since last semester. he’s grinning, waving a folded schedule in one hand.

“i saw your name on the list. looks like we’re stuck together again.”

jun hums something in agreement, sparing one last glance over his shoulder—your fuzzy keychain already vanishing around the corner—before letting joshua steer him toward the hall. their footsteps fall into rhythm, laughter rising easily between them, but there’s a crease in junhui’s brow that doesn’t quite smooth out.

the classroom buzzes with first-day energy—chairs scraping, windows cracking open to let in the crisp air, conversations picking up where summer left off. you step in a little hesitantly, fingers tightening around the strap of your backpack, only to catch sight of a familiar head of tousled brown hair near the center.

junhui.

middle row, third seat from the front—the one he always liked. far enough to nap unnoticed, close enough not to get called on. but maybe more than that, it was more or less the same area where you’d saved a seat for him on his first day, the one you carved out space for him to take when he first moved in. the seat beside him is empty, and your steps falter.

but before the thought can root itself too deep, minghao nudges your arm gently and gestures to the back corner by the windows. “over here?”

his voice comes low and steady, easy to listen to—not pushy, just gently warm, like a quiet invitation you don’t feel the need to refuse.

you find yourself following him without saying much, feet moving first and slipping into the seat by the window as he takes the one beside you. your bag hits the floor with a soft thud. the early morning light spills across your desk, warm against your skin. a breeze stirs your hair.

jun doesn’t turn around.

you tell yourself it’s fine. it is. you’re in a new seat, next to someone new. someone who didn’t grow up with the version of you that tripped over her own feet just to keep up, the version who doesn’t follow jun pathetically like a shadow.

this feels like the change you didn’t know you needed—the breath of fresh air that makes your steps a little lighter, the quiet comfort of minghao by your side softening the edges of everything you thought you knew.

eventually, lunch becomes an unspoken thing between you and minghao.

it’s not planned at first, he just starts showing up—next to you in the hallway, at your desk after class, and in the cafeteria line with his tray angled toward yours. when teachers say to group into pairs, his eyes find yours before anyone else’s even has the chance. and it doesn’t take long before you realize you’re basically attached at the hip.

his presence is quiet, but it holds weight—like gravity, steady and subtle. and somehow, it pulls you in. he doesn’t talk much to others, never the first to speak in a crowd, but he always greets you first. always. like it’s second nature. and maybe your high school brain is reading too much into it—but then again, maybe it isn’t.

junhui notices when you stop waiting for him.

he notices when you stop waiting for him by the front gate. when you don’t pause outside the cafeteria, scanning for his face before heading in. he sees you laughing quietly at something minghao says, the two of you already halfway through your lunch trays before he’s even stepped inside. it’s where you always liked sitting, but now it’s him that’s sitting there with you.

and the kicker? minghao’s chewing on rice cakes that look painfully familiar—your mom’s recipe, the one she always makes in bulk when the ingredients are fresh from the market.

your little sibling had dropped off a container of them last night, waving cheerfully at the door. jun hadn’t opened it—his mom had—but he remembers the smell and how it tasted. freshly made, still warm from the kitchen.

does minghao even know what they taste like fresh?

jun bets he doesn’t.

and then he blinks, the thought catching him off guard. why did that matter? why was he thinking like that? since when did he care who got the first bite?

he tells himself it’s nothing. just food. just your mom’s cooking.

but then jun looks back at the way you’re leaning in, nodding at something minghao says—and he hates how natural it looks. how effortless and how easy.

like that space beside you was never his to begin with.

minghao took the space you’d carved jun out of, like it had always been waiting, like it had always been his.

he didn’t rush to fill it, just slipped in quietly—slid his tray next to yours at lunch, fell into step beside you in the hallways, always found you first when it came time to pair up in class. you didn’t have to ask because he was already there.

minghao noticed. of course he did.

maybe he just pretended not to—kept his gaze steady, let you talk, let you laugh—like he didn’t feel the weight of someone else’s eyes on his back.

the boy with the messy brown hair—moon junhui, was it?—had a habit of staring like he was trying to set minghao’s head on fire with just his eyes. sometimes from across the classroom, or when you were laughing a little too loudly beside minghao’s shoulder. that boy would stare like he was waiting for you to pull away, waiting for you to take your usual seat back beside him in the middle row, like you always used to.

minghao had overheard stories about how you would be one step behind jun, always lingering around him from your classmates. he didn’t bring it up—he didn’t have to, not when your gaze never really wandered, or when he already had all of your attention. maybe a part of him was selfish enough to hold onto it, to keep you looking only at him.

in the blink of an eye, autumn blurred into winter. and suddenly, it was midterm season—gray skies, tired eyes, the weight of your future pressing down in textbook margins and red underlines.

you were hunched over a desk in the corner of the library, highlighter uncapped, fingers tangled in your own hair as you muttered formulas under your breath. there were empty snack wrappers beside your notes, a half-empty bottle of water, and post-it tabs clinging to your fingers like tiny reminders of all the things you have yet to finish.

“you forgot to eat lunch,” came a quiet voice beside you.

you looked at him through tired lashes, heart fluttering with something you couldn’t name—something that didn’t feel loud or sudden, but slow and warm like a shift in the tide.

jun had never been like this. when you asked him to go over notes or lessons, he’d brush you off or give you a distracted nod, like your questions were just background noise to him. he barely gave you the time of day.

but minghao—he didn’t tell you to rest, didn’t hover, didn’t ask questions. he simply set down the kimbap, opened his own book, and settled in beside you, steady and unintrusive. his presence felt like a quiet anchor, like a hand guiding you gently forward without pressure.

somewhere between the rustle of pages and the steam curling from the kimbap wrapper, you haven’t realized you’d been holding your breath.

maybe it wasn’t exactly the moment you fell. maybe it was the moment you crawled out of that hole junhui let you fall into, and quietly fell into a new one—one carved out by minghao. this one didn’t feel as deep or dark, unsure like the former, but warm and inviting.

that night, you and minghao had stayed late at the library, lost in quiet study and soft conversations, the hours slipping by unnoticed until the lights flickered off at eight. 

that night, jun lingered by his bedroom window, waiting. the digital clock on his nightstand glowed 9:42PM—later than you’d ever been home before. he’d almost left the house himself to go find you.

his chest tightened as he watched you and minghao move slowly down the sidewalk, your voices low, your steps in quiet sync. jun watched quietly from where he was, the soft glow of the streetlamp outlining your figure as you walked home. your books were tucked under one arm, and minghao’s hand—steady and sure—held yours in the other. it was a small thing, but jun felt it like a sudden jolt beneath his ribs.

but then, when you paused at your door and tiptoed to press a gentle kiss on minghao’s cheek, it was like his heart stopped altogether.

jun practically ambushed you the next morning, stepping out of his door quick enough to fall into step beside you.

“h-hey,” he said, a little breathless, “did you get home safe last night?”

you blink, caught off guard. “how’d you know i got home late?”

he scratched the back of his neck, cheeks reddening a bit. “uh, your mom was looking for you last night. said she thought maybe you were still out with… someone. or, you know, whatever.” he shrugged, trying to play it cool but failing just a little. “guess she thinks you’re out on a date or something.”

he raised a brow, waiting for your response. you shook your head at this, smiling slightly. “who has time for that right now, junhui? we’re too busy caught up with midterm exams in our senior year.”

he didn’t miss the way you said his full first name, but he only nodded quietly, mostly to himself, a flicker of relief settling in.

as you walked to school together, the old routine seemed to snap back into place—familiar, but tinged with something awkward underneath.

when you get to school, minghao spots you from a few meters away, his pace slowing just slightly. he doesn’t miss the boy walking beside you, eyes flicking to junhui with a polite nod and a quiet, almost casual, “hey, junhui.”

then he steps between the two of you without hesitation, hand resting lightly on your shoulder—gentle, but unmistakably there. “mind if i borrow y/n for a sec?”

junhui blinks, then looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “oh. yeah, sure. just wanted to ask real quick—could you maybe tutor me next week?”

you tilt your head, surprised—jun rarely asked for academic help. he usually got decent grades without much effort. still, you shrug and say, “sure.”

to face him properly, you shift a little, gently nudging minghao aside so you can meet jun’s gaze. “which subjects do you need help with?” the cold air makes your cheeks flush; your breath puffs out in soft vapor. your hair’s a little messy, bangs falling over your eyes—the same bangs jun used to tell you to fix every single time. back then, he never minded. maybe because you were kind of adorable like that, with those messy bangs barely brushing your eyes, and the way you’d finally fix them just so only he could see that slightly windswept look of yours. his heart starts racing faster than usual.

minghao raises a brow, watching the quiet exchange, as jun rambled on about how history has been kicking his ass lately. after a beat of silence, he clears his throat. “hey, i’ve been meaning to tell you. i have a family trip until next week,” he says, voice calm but not unreadable. “i’ll be away for a bit, but you can spend more time tutoring jun. looks like he needs it,” he mutters, an unamused gaze barely meeting the other boy’s own.

his hand stays steady on your shoulder, warm even through the fabric of your coat.

“jun can walk you home, anyway,” he adds, glancing at you with a faint smile. “neighbors’ privilege.”

then, softer—just for you—“sorry,” he murmurs, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. not possessive, just reassuring.

that afternoon, minghao was already gone, a quick text sent your way about heading out early for family dinner, leaving you and jun standing outside the school gates as the sun dipped lower behind gray clouds.

you fell into step beside him without thinking, the familiar rhythm of your footsteps side by side settling around you like an old song. the conversation was quiet—more comfortable than it had been in a long time. the world felt steady again, but your heart didn’t thud like it used to when you were near him. it was softer, calmer, like you were finally seeing jun without the pull of chasing, without the weight of hoping.

that day, jun walked you back to your front porch. your mom’s face lit up when she opened the door, offering him dinner like she used to all those years ago. and, surprisingly—maybe for the first time since middle school—he accepted with a willing nod.

jun went home that night with the tupperware of your mom’s mapo tofu balanced carefully in his arms. jun flashed you a soft, hesitant smile—like he wasn’t quite sure how to carry the moment—with his brown hair still brushing past his lashes, catching the last light of the evening.

you offer him a quiet ‘good night,’ your voice soft like the fading light outside. your eyes linger on him, not closing the door right away—watching until he disappears into his room across the street, the faint glow of his window the last thing you see before you finally step inside.

it feels strange at first—like the world’s shifted its usual rhythm just a little. for the next few days, it’s like everywhere you turn, there’s jun. not the distant planet you once orbited from afar, but somehow closer, like he’s started circling you instead. it’s subtle—the way he lingers near your locker, the way his shadow falls a little too close when you pass in the hallway—but it’s enough to make your heart skip, wondering if maybe the tides have finally changed.

one morning, you find a fresh banana milk waiting on your desk, cool and slightly sweet, just like the ones jun used to share with you after practice. there’s no note, just the familiar warmth of the gesture, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to say something without words.

at lunch, you sit alone, scrolling through your phone quietly. then jun appears beside you, holding a small container of something homemade—pickled radish, your favorite side dish. he shrugs, avoiding your eyes, and says, “thought you might like this.” you look up, caught off guard, but the way he lingers before walking away feels like a silent moment, maybe of hope.

meanwhile, minghao’s been sending you quiet messages every night since he first arrived at their vacation home—small check-ins, a good night here, a joke there. you read them with a smile, the softness in his words a warm anchor. even miles away, he’s somehow still holding your hand steadily and sure.

the day you’d promised to tutor jun finally rolled around, coinciding with the last day of minghao’s family vacation—he’d be back at school the following day. the last bell had already rung, and most of the classrooms had emptied out, the quiet hum of students lingering only in the stairwells and front gates. outside, the sun was starting to dip low, casting the hallways in a soft glow, the ground blanketed with a few inches of snow that made everything feel quieter, like the end of something you couldn’t name.

jun was waiting near your locker, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, the tip of his shoe nudging the floor like he was working up to something.

“ready to go?” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the direction of the library. his voice was awkward, tentative, like he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to say next.

you nodded anyway, falling into step beside him as the last traces of sunlight poured through the windows. your heart flipped just a little when he reached up and brushed a few stray snowflakes from your hair. the touch was quiet—almost familiar—and it made something in your chest pull tight. you shoved the feeling down, steadying yourself before it could bloom into anything more.

no. you couldn’t waste all those weeks of distance, all the effort it took to carve out space between you and junhui, just to feel like this again. not when you were doing so well.

you almost scoffed at this—at the way he slowed his pace, glanced over his shoulder once, then again, just to make sure you were still behind him.

because back then, all you ever saw was the back of his stupid brown-haired head, moving ahead like he didn’t even notice you were trying to keep up. like he knew, knew you’d always be a few steps behind, reaching for something he never quite gave.

soon enough, you reached the library, jun holding the door open for you. you ducked inside from the cold, instantly enveloped by warmth and the faint scent of old books. you didn’t look at him as you passed, choosing instead to pull your scarf a little tighter.

you found a quiet table tucked into a corner, one you used to sit at back in second year, and settled down. he sat across from you, dragging out his notes and a pen, and for the next hour or so, you walked him through formulas and vocab lists. made flashcards. quizzed him. and he answered everything in just a couple of beats.

still, he kept staring.

he watched the way your lips moved when you read out questions, the way your handwriting curved on the paper, the way you furrowed your brows when he got something slightly off. his heart skipped when your fingers brushed as you reached for the same pen, and he watched you quietly tuck it behind your ear, bangs messy over your eyes.

you always left them that way. he used to tease you about it, telling you to fix them so he could see your face. back then, it never really bothered him.

but now… now he thought maybe he told you that because he liked it. because the way you looked with messy bangs, slightly flushed from the cold, lips parted with vapor curling into the air—it was something he didn’t want anyone else to see.

and maybe it was dumb. maybe it was stupid to start chasing and pining after you now, after everything. after he saw you press a kiss to the new guy’s cheek under a streetlamp just a couple nights ago. but junhui was a teenage boy. and teenage boys were dumb.

by the time you were zipping up your bag, it was nearly 7PM, the sky outside dusky and blue. jun watched quietly, fingers resting on his own books, mind still halfway stuck on the way your cheeks pinked from the cold.

and then he noticed it. next to that old, fuzzy keychain he won from the claw machine—a new, brighter one.

a plush froggie, bright green and smug, winking at him like it knew something he didn’t. almost like it was mocking him.

he opened his mouth, the start of a question on his tongue—until you spoke first.

“hey, junhui…” your voice was quieter now, not cold, but distant. measured. “i… i don’t know what you’re trying to do.”

something in jun’s chest faltered. his heart dropped at the way you said his first name completely—carefully, as it cut through the silence.

you were looking down as you adjusted the strap of your bag, fingers brushing over the keychains before slipping away. “you knew all the answers,” you said plainly, not accusatory—just true. “you didn’t need my help tonight.” 

you met his gaze then, finally, your expression unreadable but steady.

“i think you can study on your own next time, yeah?”

jun didn’t want to admit it, but what you said during your study session a few days ago had been sitting heavy in his chest ever since. it echoed in the quiet moments—in the space between thoughts, his classes, and between breaths. he’d always thought of you as reliable, familiar, and constant.

but he hadn’t realized how far he’d fallen behind until now.

until he couldn’t even pretend you needed him anymore.

he couldn’t avoid the way minghao had greeted you the morning after that tension-filled library exchange, arms full of neatly packed lunch boxes leftover from the last night of his fancy family trip the day before. he watched the way your eyes lit up, how you gasped and clutched his arm, laughing as you peeked inside one of the containers.

“whoa—your family really goes all out, huh?”

minghao just smiled, modest. “my mom got carried away. here, try this one.”

jun looked away.

because he remembered when you used to look at him like that.

when he’d hand you a tupperware his mom made him bring to school—sometimes braised tofu with soy sauce and scallions, sometimes stir-fried egg and tomato, or on special days, hong shao rou with a little too much fat clinging to the corners.

your face would light up just the same. not because the food was fancy—it never was—but because it came from someone like jun, and you like jun—

you liked jun. so much.

and now, you were looking at someone else like that—with that same sparkle and warmth.

and jun couldn’t shake the ache that bloomed in his chest.

because he hadn’t realized how much he missed that warmth, not until someone else had it, someone else slipping into the space he hadn’t even known he’d left empty.

because somewhere along the way—between brushing you off, never texting back, and pretending he didn’t see the way you looked at him—jun had royally, completely fucked it all up.

maybe he’d been too comfortable, too sure you’d always be around.

maybe he was too busy being the guy who never cut his stupid brown hair, even when it kept falling into his eyes, past his eyebrows, because he thought he looked cool like that—too busy being blinded by his own bangs to notice the way you’d started pulling away.

the senior ball was coming up fast—fliers on every classroom door, teachers reminding you to buy tickets, and group chats flooded with dress photos and playlists and gossip. it was the one event that managed to distract everyone from the impending doom of finals week, the looming pressure of graduation, and college applications creeping in like fog under a door.

proposals had started popping up left and right.

confetti in hallways, flowers in lockers, and notes scribbled on whiteboards.

you were definitely in the headspace, clapping and cheering with your friends as your classmates got asked by their dates—screaming when someone said yes, laughing when someone blushed too hard to speak.

and even if you didn’t say it out loud, even if you pretended you weren’t looking…

something in your heart hoped.

hoped that maybe—maybe a certain raven-haired boy would ask you.

quiet, steady, and thoughtful—someone who’d held your hand under the glow of a streetlamp and never made you feel like you were too much. someone who made you feel seen in a way that didn’t burn or overwhelm.

but the next thing you know, a head of brown hair steps into your line of sight.

your breath catches.

junhui.

not minghao.

he’s holding something behind his back, eyes flicking nervously to yours.

and just like that, everything stills.

your eyes flicker to what he’s holding behind his back—a neatly packed bento box, mismatched lid and all, the kind you used to exchange when you were younger. junhui had cooked it himself, you could tell. the rice wasn’t level, the side dishes a little uneven, but something about it made your chest tighten.a quiet, clumsy echo of something you used to share—a ritual buried beneath teenage silence.

your gaze drifts back to him. his eyes are hopeful and uncertain, watching you like he’s bracing for a hit he knows might still come.

“i’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “for making you wait. for being—god—stupid. i should’ve said something sooner. i just…”

you hear the rest, but it’s faint, drowned beneath the roar of your own thoughts—the ones rapid-firing, all jumbled and too much.

you swallow the lump in your throat.

you should want this. should be squealing, saying yes before he could even get the words out. a few months ago, you would have. the you that still clung to every small moment, every glance and maybe, every time he turned and waited for you to catch up.

you’re still standing there, trying to catch up to everything all at once

but now—

now, when jun finally asks, bringing out the bento box from behind him, his voice low and rushed—

“will you go to the ball with me?”

you don’t know what to say.

somewhere behind you, some students that notice pause to watch, someone muttering with a laugh,

“i knew they’d get together one of these days.”

you don’t turn to look, you just stand there, the weight of old memories and new feelings pressing into your chest, unsure which ones you’re supposed to carry forward.

because this—jun’s bento box, his quiet apology, the soft tremble in his voice—it should’ve been everything.

but it wasn’t comfortable anymore, it didn’t feel warm. warm like minghao’s steady presence, not like the quiet way he always made space for you without asking anything in return, or like the way he would greet you first, making sure your presence is acknowledged.

and maybe that’s when you realize—you weren’t still chasing the moon anymore. you’d stopped somewhere along the way without even noticing that you’d started turning toward the warmth of the stars instead.

you swallow hard, the words catching in your throat. jun’s face shifts, the smile faltering—eyes dimming as he reads the hesitation in your expression.

“sorry, junhui… i—”

but you don’t get to finish.

because before the rest can tumble out, there’s already a familiar warmth at your side. a gentle hand finds your shoulder, another wrapping easily around you as a voice cuts through the tension.

“hey,” minghao says, tone light and almost casual, but gaze unwavering as he glances at jun. “sorry, am i late?”

he doesn’t wait for an answer—just guides you forward, slipping past the small crowd of curious onlookers, his grip steady as he steers you away from the fluorescent hallway and the boy still standing in it. the boy whose name sits heavy on your tongue.

you let yourself lean into minghao’s touch, not because it’s easier, but because right now, it feels like the only thing keeping your heart from tumbling out of your chest.

minghao doesn’t say much as he guides you down the quiet corridor, hand gentle at your back until he pushes open the door to an empty classroom. it clicks shut behind you, soft but final. the silence settles between you like fresh snow.

he doesn’t turn around at first, just runs a hand through his hair before leaning against the teacher’s desk, eyes flicking to yours.

“look… y/n,” he starts, voice quieter than usual, but steady. “i don’t know what’s going on between you and jun,”

he pauses, as if waiting for you to say something. you don’t.

“but i know what it looked like. and admittedly, heard from other kids how you had always hovered over him.” his gaze softens, searching your eyes to check if he had crossed any lines, but your quiet nod urges him to go on, “ i can’t imagine how you must’ve felt—watching someone push and pull with you like that.”

his eyes darken, not with anger, but something softer. something more careful.

“and i just—” minghao swallows, the words catching in his throat for a moment. “i just wanted you to know… i could never do that to you.”

he shifts, finally stepping closer, slow and deliberate. his fingers twitch at his sides before he lifts his gaze to meet yours.

“and maybe i was being a little selfish,” he admits softly, voice almost a whisper now. “pulling you away from him back there like that, but…” a breath, his cheeks flushing, “i decided i’ll let myself be. just this once.”

his hand finds yours again, gentle but certain, like he’s been waiting to. “because if there’s even the slightest chance you might choose me… i couldn’t just stand there and watch him take it.”

“you made space for me. and i—i’d never let you chase. never make you guess where you stood.”

the words fall from minghao’s lips so softly they almost miss you, tucked between the silence of the empty classroom and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat. but they land with weight, like the hush that follows a snowfall—quiet, but thick, clinging to every surface inside you.

you blink, the words echoing in your head again and again, as if your heart needs time to understand them. because no one had ever said that to you before, no one had ever wanted to take the guessing out of love. no one had ever promised not to run, not to make you stumble after them, reaching for scraps of their attention like you once did with wen junhui.

your breath catches in your throat, fragile and unsure, and you look at him—at minghao, standing there with the softest kind of certainty, a warm glow. the kind that doesn’t shove its way into your chest but offers a place to rest instead. his gaze is steady, searching—like he means every word he just said, and is willing to wait if you need time to believe them.

it’s not loud or the type to sweep you off your feet, it’s not a movie-scene confession with roses or confetti or a marching band. but it’s real. and it’s everything you didn’t know you’d been aching for.

and suddenly you’re not back in that hallway with jun, fumbling and breathless with disappointment, as if you were lost in space. you’re here, grounded. held in place by the boy who never made you chase, who met you exactly where you were, who had just said he’d never let you question where you stood.

your hands tremble slightly by your sides, and minghao waits. he doesn’t rush or fill the silence with an awkward laugh or joke.

and it’s in that moment you realize—you were never chasing him to begin with.

he’d been walking beside you all along.

you don’t need to say a word. just a quiet step forward, the slight nod of your head, and minghao understands. something in his expression softens—like the knot between his brows finally loosens, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time too.

he gently brings your hand up between you two, fingers curling around yours. your cheeks flush even deeper when he brings your hand to his lips, eyes widening just a little as you watch him in awe. there’s something unhurried in the way he moves, like he’s treating the moment—treating you—with care. it makes your heart flutter, your throat tightening.

then, instead of letting go, he keeps your hand in his, fingers laced through yours as he gently pulls you closer. your feet move instinctively, closing the small distance, until you’re standing toe to toe in the quiet classroom.

his other hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek with the same gentleness he always offered—the kind that you never had to beg for, but simply given to you, no questions asked.

“may i?” he whispers, voice laced with something a little breathless, a little giddy, like he can’t quite believe this is real.

and the small laugh that escapes him, soft and sweet, wraps around you like warmth.

you nod before you can even think about it, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

he leans in slowly, giving you every moment to pull back if you want to—but you don’t. his lips brush yours gently at first, soft and tentative like a question, then deepen with quiet certainty, as if he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

the world shrinks down to nothing but the warmth of minghao’s touch, the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand, and the way his breath mingles with yours.

it’s tender and slow, a promise wrapped in a kiss that feels like the start of something new—something actually real, something that doesn’t make you chase, feelings that are reciprocated and solid.

from the corridor, jun’s grip tightens on the bento box in his hands, his eyes fixed on you through the empty classroom’s window. deja vu hits him hard—the same way he watched from his bedroom window the night minghao walked you home just weeks ago. without a word, he turns and walks away, the bento box slipping from his fingers and landing in a nearby trash bin with a soft thud, discarded like the chances he’d lost.

a soft smirk tugs at minghao’s lips against yours, subtle and knowing. one eye slips open, just barely—a quiet, amused glance over your shoulder.

he sees jun’s back retreating down the hallway, the stiff set of his shoulders, defeated, and the way his grip tightens around the bento box before it disappears into the nearest bin.

minghao only pulls you closer.

his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, thumb brushing gently as he leans in, deepening the kiss just slightly. this time, there’s no hesitation. it’s the clearest signal he could give—like a flashing green light above his head saying go. like a door wide open, no locks, no riddles, no second-guessing.

you finally weren’t chasing the moon anymore, so out of reach. you were here, grounded to minghao and being loved the way you always wanted and deserved to. and with every second that passed, the years wasted on moon junhui—on hoping, wondering, waiting—felt like they were finally, quietly, slipping away as you melted into minghao’s arms.

the space you once carved out for him now met with his own—two halves finally folding into place, like they were always meant to fit together. like the universe itself planned it to.

“i kinda owe you, y’know?” he huffed, the lamest excuse to spend a little time with you. “wanna maybe... grab a meal before i take you home?”

and you said yes. he told his teammates about it the next morning in the locker rooms like it was the biggest win of his life.

now, several years later, you’re sitting beside him in the university library, quizzing him on finance terms you already know by heart.

you’re wearing that same battered varsity jacket—the one with the stitched-on patch from your high school. it’s a little faded now, the sleeves too long with the collar fraying. but it smells like seungcheol and fits like a memory, and he always says it looks better on you anyway.

his arm is draped around your waist, hand resting gently on your thigh as you lean into him. the world outside is cold, deadlines piling up, futures uncertain. but in this quiet corner of campus, you’re just the girl who gave him a pencil, and he’s still the boy who forgot his.

seungcheol glances down at you, eyes full of something warm and familiar. “hey, babe. how long have we been together?” he suddenly pipes up, eyes scanning yours. “like... six years...?” you murmur, eyes still trained on the flashcards you were organizing. “that’s wild.” he whispers, mostly to himself. you smile at this, brushing your thumb against his knuckles. “yeah, and you still haven’t given back my pencil.”

he groans, burying his face in your shoulder. “you’re never gonna let that go, huh?”

“never,” you laugh, and in your chest, something soft tugs.

because after all those years later, it’s still him. it’s still you and him against the world.

and, baby, even on our worst nights / i’m into you (i’m into you)

it wasn’t a good night.

you were both running on empty—too many deadlines, too little sleep. you had snapped first, voice sharp and exhausted, tossing a sarcastic comment over your shoulder when he forgot to pick up the takeout.

seungcheol snapped back. it didn’t happen often, but when it did, it hurt in ways neither of you liked admitting.

the apartment was quiet after that. he shut himself in the bedroom, while you curled up on the couch with a blanket and a dull ache behind your eyes.

you were halfway through scrolling aimlessly on your phone when you heard the bedroom door creak open.

seungcheol stood in the doorway, hair messy, eyes glassy with his brows furrowed. he looked younger like that—vulnerable in a way he didn’t let the world see. only you.

he didn’t say anything at first. just walked over and sank down beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. you didn’t lean into him—not yet—but you didn’t pull away either.

“i’m sorry,” he said quietly. “i didn’t mean to… y’know, be a jerk.”

you nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen. “me too.”

there was a pause. then his hand found yours beneath the blanket, fingers weaving through automatically, like muscle memory.

his thumb rubbed slow circles into your skin.

“we’re not perfect,” he said, almost to himself. “but… i’m still yours, even when we fight, or when it’s messy. especially then.”

you turned your head, finally meeting his eyes. they were tired, but soft. “me too,” you whispered. “even when you leave the laundry in the machine for three days.”

he snorted, “low blow.” but he leaned in, kissed your temple, and pulled you into his chest. you let yourself melt against him, the warmth of his familiar varsity jacket surrounding you again like home.

some nights were hard, but even on the worst of them—you never doubted the way seungcheol loved you, and he never let you forget it.

recount the night that i first met your mother / and on the drive back to my house, i told you that, i told you that i loved ya

seungcheol had never been the nervous type.

not even back in his first big game, when the whole stadium would hold its breath waiting for the quarterback to make the play, not during final exams, or during his first part-time job interview or the time he accidentally ripped his pants before a group presentation as a freshman.

but tonight?

tonight, now a high school senior, sitting across from your mother at the dinner table, spoon clutched too tight in his hand—he was spiraling.

“you’re sweating,” you whispered while passing him the kimchi, amusement sparkling in your eyes. “you literally played full-contact sports in summer and didn’t sweat this much.”

he shot you a betrayed look, cheeks flushed. “why didn’t you warn me your mom was so intense?”

“she’s not. she’s just... thorough,” you replied, clearly enjoying yourself far too much.

his hands were clammy, he kept adjusting his posture like that would magically make the nerves go away. this was worse than the championship game sophomore year, when the entire school was watching and he fumbled a play.

your mom, across the table, had a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes yet. her tone was kind, but her questions were anything but casual.

“so, seungcheol,” she said, folding her hands. “what exactly are your intentions?”

he blanked. the word ‘intentions’ echoed like a judge’s gavel in his skull. “uh... good ones?” he croaked, as your dad snorted into his drink. you kicked him gently under the table.

“i mean—i’ve been with y/n since we were sophomores,” seungcheol tried again, “and i... i’m really serious about them. always have been.”

your mom raised an eyebrow, making him want to just freaking disappear into the mashed potatoes.

still, she let him take leftovers when you left, in the nice, airtight lock containers, and that was a silent blessing if he ever saw one.

the car ride home was quiet at first. the hum of your shared playlist playing low through the speakers. you rested your hand on his thigh, thumb moving in slow circles.

“you did great, by the way,” you said softly.

“i bombed,” he sighed. “that was worse than any away game. ever. she had me sweating like i was back under the friday night lights.”

you smiled, turning your body toward him as the city lights streaked past the window. “she likes you, cheol. she just needed to see for herself what i already know.”

he glanced over at you, then back at the road. his grip on the wheel tightened, then loosened.

“i told myself i’d wait longer to say this,” he murmured. “but i’m kinda done waiting.”

your breath caught, turning your head fully toward him now.

“i love you,” he said, eyes still on the road but voice sure, steady—like a promise.

then, just as quickly, his bravado cracked, “you don’t have to say it back,” he rushed, hands tightening on the wheel. “i just—”

but you leaned across the console, cutting him off as you gently pressed your lips onto his cheek, and whispered, “say it again.”

seungcheol did. three more times before the red light turned green.

and from that night on, your mom always made sure to pack extra banchan for him “just in case.”

and to your favorite song / we sang along to the start of forever

that dumb summer playlist you made is still saved on his phone.

you pretend to hate it, rolling your eyes whenever “teenage dream” comes on.

but when your favorite track starts, seungcheol always turns the volume up, grinning like it’s some unspoken tradition.

he leans over and kisses your cheek, soft and sure—like he’s marking the moment.

that playlist becomes the background noise of your entire relationship: your fights, your makeups, those late-night fast food runs when neither of you want to be alone.

then one day, without much warning, he’s driving you back to that lake you used to sneak off to in high school.

the playlist is on shuffle, but you know he rigged it—because just as he pulls the car to a stop, your song starts to play.

he turns the volume up even louder, the corners of his mouth twitching into a nervous smile.

“remember this?” he asks softly, eyes locked on yours through the rearview mirror.

you nod, heart fluttering with all the memories: summer nights, laughter echoing over water, secrets shared under the stars.

he reaches over, slipping his varsity jacket off your shoulders and setting it carefully on the seat beside you.

his hand lingers near his pants pocket, fingers nervously tracing the small, worn box tucked inside—edges softened from years of carrying it around, though you don’t see it yet.

“i didn’t tell you where we were going,” he says, voice low but steady, “but this place… this is where everything started, isn’t it?”

you remember the day he took you here before, that nervous grin on his face, chest puffed out like he’d just won a championship, and how, just before driving you back home, he finally asked you out—your heart racing as you said yes.

you glance out at the calm lake, a quiet smile curling your lips as the sky blushes with sunset.

he kills the engine, and the soft hum of the playlist continues through the car speakers.

seungcheol opens his door first and steps out into the fading gold of sunset, the breeze tugging gently at his shirt. he walks around to your side, and for a second, just stands there—one hand on the roof of the car, the other fidgeting at his side.

then he looks at you like he’s memorizing this—your expression lit by the warm spill of twilight, the way the music floats out from the open car, soft and familiar. there’s something tender in his eyes, a quiet awe, like he still can’t believe you’re his.

“come on,” he says finally, voice thick with emotion as he opens your door and holds out his hand.

and when you take it, he squeezes just a little tighter than usual, like he’s holding onto something sacred.

for a moment, the two of you just stand there.

the lake stretches out in front of you, still and familiar, kissed by the amber glow of early evening. the gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you step closer to the edge. seungcheol doesn’t say anything right away—he just watches you, eyes searching your face like he's trying to soak up every detail.

his hand slips from yours briefly, brushing down the side of his jeans. you notice the subtle way he fiddles with something in his pocket, but before you can ask, he draws in a breath.

then, slowly, almost reverently, he lowers himself onto one knee. right there by the water’s edge, golden light spilling over his shoulders like something out of a dream.

your breath catches before your mind even fully registers what’s happening.

you blink—once, twice—like you’re trying to memorize every second, to lock it into place. the lake, the sky, the song drifting from the car, the way his hair glows like it’s lit from within. he looks up at you with that same expression he wore the night he first asked you out—hopeful, wide open, like you hung the stars.

your heart pounds so hard it almost hurts. not out of surprise, but because this moment feels so full, so right, it could spill over. it’s everything at once—past, present, future—folding into one perfect, dizzying breath. and when seungcheol speaks, you can’t help but feel all choked up.

“some things just make sense,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “and one of those is you and i.” he opens the box to reveal a simple, perfect ring.

“not a day’s gone by that i haven’t been into you, so let’s make it forever.”

your breath catches as you feel hot tears start to pool in your eyes, and you reach out to pull him up—nodding eagerly, the start of forever written in the way your fingers find his, unshakable.

let 'em wonder how we got this far / 'cause i don't really need to wonder at all

mingyu’s trying to fix his tie in the mirror, frowning like the fabric personally offended him. “does anyone actually know how to do this right?”

jeonghan laughs from the couch, sipping a bottle of water. “you’re hopeless. give it here.”

across the room, seungkwan is adjusting the boutonnière on seungcheol’s lapel, squinting with all the concentration of a man diffusing a bomb. “stay still, hyung. i swear if this thing falls off during your vows…”

“i’m not even moving,” seungcheol chuckles, but his hands are shaking slightly where they rest in his lap.

“still nervous?” dokyeom asks, nudging his shoulder.

“a little,” seungcheol admits. “but it’s a good kind.”

mingyu glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “can’t believe they’re still putting up with you after all these years.”

“seriously,” soonyoung adds from where he’s scrolling through photos on his phone. “i would’ve bailed after the ramen incident back in freshman year.”

“or the time you mixed up your anniversary date and took them to a haunted house instead of a dinner reservation,” minghao mutters, deadpan.

the room breaks into laughter, recalling you and seungcheol’s moments over the years.

seungcheol just laughs, rubbing the back of his neck as the room buzzes with teasing. “you know what? i don’t even wonder how we got here.”

mingyu raises an eyebrow in the mirror, “no?”

the groom shakes his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “not even a little. they’ve always been it for me.”

mingyu nods slowly, fixing his tie. “yeah… ‘cause they’re the only one who’s ever looked at you like you hung the damn stars.”

jeonghan lets out a low whistle, “look at these guys getting sentimental before the ceremony.”

“hyung’s earned it,” wonwoo says quietly from the corner.

but seungcheol doesn’t disagree. not when he’s about to walk down the aisle to the one person who’s still into him—even on his worst days.

you’re still into each other, and seungcheol never needed to wonder why.

yeah, after all this time / i'm still into you

the music swells, the doors open, and time stutters.

seungcheol forgets how to breathe.

you stand at the end of the aisle, framed by flowers and soft light, looking like something out of a memory and a promise all at once. seungcheol’s breath catches, the nerves from earlier melting into something quieter, deeper—reverence.

soft piano keys ripple through the air, a delicate, heartfelt rendition of still into you filling the room—each note tender, every pause holding the weight of years you’ve shared.

“holy shit,” mingyu whispers beside him, and jeonghan elbows him in the ribs.

but seungcheol doesn’t hear a thing—his eyes are only on you.

each step you take feels suspended in warmth, in years’ worth of laughter, fights, slow study sessions, and late-night drives in his beat-up honda civic that survived highschool and the transition to university. his hands tremble at his sides, jaw tight like he’s holding in everything he can’t say just yet.

when you finally reach him, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as you take his hands. they’re warm and familiar.

the officiant speaks, but it’s background noise. everything else fades away.

all seungcheol sees is you, and all you see is him.

and when it’s time—when the words are said, and the universe feels like it’s holding its breath—he leans in.

the kiss is soft, sure. not rushed. like he knows he has forever to do this again.

and again...

and again.

baekjin has been tutoring you for a few months.

months of sharp pencil taps and hushed explanations about algebra formulas, chemical equations, and the difference between mitosis and meiosis. three months of neatly organized notes, and surprisingly, moving from the library to quiet cafes after school, and the faint scent of worn-out textbooks. and somewhere between “you’re solving this backwards again” and “just memorize the codes by category,” you started to notice it.

it being: baekjin is different from you—not in the way most teenage boys are. he doesn’t tease, doesn’t zone out mid-sentence or start humming the latest pop song stuck in his head, baekjin is the kind of different that feels… heavier.

he doesn’t skip class or doodles in the margins of his notebook. and he definitely doesn’t take mirror selfies or kick vending machines when their drink gets stuck. baekjin doesn’t scream when teachers announce a pop quiz—just flips the page like he’s been expecting it all along.

you notice it especially in the way he walks—like he’s older than the rest of you. like seventeen is just a number he has to wear, not a year he gets to live in.

for you, seventeen is messy. it’s loud and full of mistakes, it’s glittery pens and bad decisions and crushes you won’t remember in two years.

but for baekjin, seventeen looks like duty, like pressure. like everything could fall apart if he dares to slow down.

and then the bell rings—that sharp, metallic echo that usually means freedom.

but baekjin doesn’t flinch with relief, he flinches like he’s bracing for something.

when the bells ring, i become fearful / these days, my heart gets scared first

you’re walking out of the building together, the sky bleeding into early evening. his backpack’s weighed down with papers—union notes, scribbled with surveillance details and plate numbers, things no seventeen-year-old should have to memorize.

he doesn’t bother hiding them from you anymore.

maybe he tried, once—keeping his bruised knuckles in his sleeves during tutoring, glancing at his phone under the table like it wasn’t burning a hole in his pocket. but now, he knows there’s no point, you’ve always noticed more than you let on. maybe you’re not as oblivious as your homeroom teacher thinks you are.

and maybe that’s why he lets the notes spill out so easily now—right next to your math textbook, like they belong there. he doesn’t flinch when your eyes catch the names or the red circles. he doesn’t apologize when he’s late, when his jaw is tense, when there’s dried blood on his collar.

you don’t push, you never ask about it.

and somehow, that quiet understanding—your decision to let him keep his secrets without making him feel like a secret—is more comforting than anything.

it’s not subtle, nor is it normal. but for baekjin, it’s something that feels oddly peaceful.

“do you even like being in high school?” you ask suddenly. your voice is light, but your heart’s not.

he doesn’t look up, just keeps writing something in his notebook as he walks. “…that’s not the point.”

i want to be alone, but i don’t want to be alone / i don’t get myself either…

“what is the point, then?” you lean closer, not letting him off that easily, “if you’re not having fun now, when will you? when you’re dead or dying?” you snort, but baekjin tenses up.

his pen stalls, the tip presses too long into the page, leaving behind a blot of ink. you watch it bloom like something bruising.

he lifts his eyes to you, just for a second, and there’s a flicker of something there—something soft, almost unsure, like a door left ajar. like he wants to say something, but doesn’t have the words for it yet.

so you smile at him, and that’s when you decide: if baekjin can’t find the fun in seventeen, then maybe you’ll just have to bring it to him yourself.

you take him to a photo booth after school.

you pile silly props onto his head—mismatched glasses and floppy bunny ears while he tries to duck out of the frame.

“baekjin,” you say, tugging his sleeve. “just one picture. c’mon.”

he hesitates, so you squint into the lens and say, “if you don’t smile, i’m writing ‘DNA is my myers-briggs personality type’ on our next biology exam.”

his head jerks toward you, scandalized—and that’s when the camera flashes, catching the sound of his startled laugh mid-escape.

in this suffocating world / i smiled for a moment at something small…

you wait for it to print and tuck it into your pocket.

baekjin doesn’t ask for a copy, but you catch him glancing over your shoulder as you look at it again later. just once. like he wants to remember what that felt like. maybe he wouldn’t mind seeing himself like that again.

the next monday at school, baekjin finds the photo booth strip tucked inside his notebook.

the following week after tutoring, you drag a grumbling baekjin to the ice cream shop next to your academy. you hand him a cone that’s too bright, too blue, too artificial-looking. he stares at it like you handed him a grenade.

“just try it,” you say, already halfway through your own.

he takes a bite, flinching with a subtle grimace, eyes narrowing at the cone.

“this tastes like melted bubblegum,” he says flatly.

you laugh, “good! you’re supposed to taste your childhood.”

he opens his mouth—maybe to say childhood?, like it’s a foreign word. baekjin doesn’t remember much sweetness in his. only the kind of silence that swallows whole, the kind of pain that you outgrow only in size. there were no ice creams or photobooths, only cracked knuckles, bitten lips, too many nights where the only thing he tasted was copper and fear.

but now, he’s still in his youth, isn’t he? he’s still got time. maybe this—this ridiculous, artificial bubblegum flavor—can be the new taste of it, maybe it can fill in the blank spaces where laughter should’ve been, maybe it can be the one thing that finally overtakes the taste of blood in his mouth and ache in his chest.

so he doesn’t complain again. just finishes the whole thing, sticky fingers and all.

it just so happens we’re facing today for the first time / even if you hate yourself more from the deeply hurtful remarks you said / let’s not worry about it…

a few weeks later, something shifts in baekjin.

he shows up to tutoring with a split lip and silence clinging to his shoulders like a second jacket. he doesn’t offer an explanation, and you don’t ask—not yet. but you notice the way his eyes stay fixed on his notes like he’s trying to disappear into the margins. how the pen in his hand presses too hard, like he’s holding back something that wants to claw out.

you don’t like the way he flinches when someone laughs too loud outside the café window. or how he doesn’t touch his drink, just lets the ice melt.

so you slam your notebook shut and say, “we’re going out.”

baekjin blinks. “…what?”

“noraebang.”

“no.”

“yes.” your voice is firm, but you smile. “you can sit in the corner and sulk if you want. but you’re not going home like this.”

he sighs like he hates that you notice things, but he follows you out the door anyway.

the karaoke room is smaller than you expected, the mic a little too echoey, the screen slightly lagging behind the beat. still, you’re already queuing up songs while baekjin stands awkwardly by the couch like he’s considering making a run for it.

“i don’t sing,” he mutters, eyes scanning the laminated songbook like it might bite.

“good thing i do,” you grin, clicking on a familiar intro—the kind of upbeat, fluttery track you know he’d never pick.

you toss him the tambourine, and he catches it without thinking. “what am i supposed to do with this?” he asks, gaze flicking up to you—quizzical, unimpressed.

“participate in your youth!” you say, already grabbing the mic as the first verse starts.

he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t leave. a minute later, he’s still there—half-heartedly tapping the tambourine against his palm as you belt out the chorus, your voice cracking with enthusiasm more than skill.

we should be solving quadratic formulas right now, he thinks. and you probably will flunk your next test at this rate. he sighs with the thought—but that also means he’ll have to tutor you again next week.

his eyes drift toward you—they don’t leave.

with our voices, wherever we are, let’s sing—cheers to youth…

baekjin doesn’t sing, that part was true. he doesn’t even hum. but there’s a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth, barely there. his eyes stay on you like the rest of the world has gone quiet.

and for once, the union feels a little less close. like in this cramped, echoey karaoke room—with you laughing off-key under dim lights—it’s somewhere far away, out of reach.

it’s raining when you step out of the karaoke room. not a drizzle—a full, angry downpour, bouncing off the pavement and pooling along the curb.

“perfect,” you mutter, tugging your bag over your shoulder. you forgot your umbrella—again—but baekjin didn’t.  he sighs, pulling out a small umbrella from his backpack. “you always forget yours.” this wasn’t the first time you forgot your umbrella.

“i like to live on the edge,” you grin, ducking under his. he stiffens a little as your shoulder brushes his.

your place is only two blocks away. you insist it’s faster than waiting, and baekjin, though visibly reluctant, walks beside you in the downpour. the umbrella doesn’t quite cover both of you. but he doesn’t complain when your shoulder brushes his, or when his other one gets soaked in the rain.

he should be with the union right now, there’s a meeting and he knows it, feels the weight of it tugging at the edges of his mind like a leash. but your warmth is close, and the rain is loud, and somehow… baekjin’s legs move before he thinks.

a few minutes later, you pause at your doorstep, rainwater slipping from your sleeves as you fumble with the key.

“your parents… probably wouldn’t want me staying,” he says, clearing his throat. his voice is steady, but his eyes flick to the street like he’s searching for a way out. he shifts back a step, fingers tightening on the umbrella still dripping at his side. “i should head out.”

but he knows it’s just an excuse. he noticed it earlier—how he softened without meaning to, how stepping inside your world felt like crossing a line he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

“i live alone,” you say, quiet but certain.

not many things surprise him, but that piece of information might have made him feel it. maybe because you always seemed like someone who’d come home to a warm meal and soft smiles, the kind of person whose energy felt… loved. lived in. he never imagined you turning the lights on to silence—never pictured you being alone in the same ways he is.

a flicker of concern bubbles in his chest—unfamiliar, uninvited, but not unwelcome.

it settles beside the rest of the feelings he hasn’t named yet.

he hesitates… then steps inside.

your apartment is small, a little cluttered, but warm. the kind of place with mismatched socks drying on the heater and cereal boxes stacked on top of the fridge. baekjin’s eyes scan the room like he’s trying to memorize it, but he doesn’t say much. just sets his shoes neatly by the door and follows you inside.

you hand him a towel. he takes it with a quiet nod, his gaze flicking toward the small, but comfortable mess of your space before he looks away.

later, he lies beside you on the floor under a ceiling of glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck up last summer. they’re uneven, a few peeling at the corners, but still glowing faintly above your heads like they’re trying their best. baekjin doesn’t ask why you put them up. but he thinks about how you probably put them up alone—no one else around to help. and for a moment, he almost can’t stop a faint grin from tugging at his lips as he imagined how clumsy you would’ve been, but it’s swallowed by the dim light and his unsaid thoughts.

the rain hasn’t let up, tapping soft against the windows like it’s afraid to interrupt. you’re both wrapped in different ends of the same blanket, quiet now. your breathing steady, his a little more uneven.

in this trivial warmth of the cozy blanket that wrapped around me / i fall asleep waiting for tomorrow again

baekjin doesn’t talk about himself, not at all. he’s the kind of boy who folds in on silence, who carries things so quietly you forget they weigh anything at all. but tonight, something in that boy shifts.

he turns toward you, eyes catching the stars for a second too long.

then, his voice comes out softly, the quietest and most hesitant you’d ever hear him speak: “i don’t think i ever let myself feel like this.”

you blink. “like what?”

he shifts his weight, a small, frustrated sigh escaping his lips. “like it’s okay to just… live like this.” he doesn’t say it outright, but you understand. his voice cracks, just barely.

you roll over to face him and your eyes meet in the dim, “it is okay, baekjin.”

he stares at you for a long moment, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to believe you.

then he exhales. “i want to hate myself a little less than yesterday.”

the loud alarm that rings every morning / i want to hate a little less than yesterday…

he doesn’t say much when he leaves in the morning. just a short nod and a glance that lingers at your door a moment longer than it should. but later, at school, you notice something new.

after a big test, maybe—one that baekjin had crushed, as usual, without breaking a sweat.

a photo strip—creased from being carried around, tucked into the clear back pocket of his phone case. you in heart-shaped sunglasses and his startled smile, next to his test marked 100.

he doesn’t hide it when you see, doesn’t pretend it’s not there.

“you worked hard,” you say softly, voice quieter than usual.

and you’re not just talking about the test score, not really. it’s the way he’s finally letting himself live—if only for a few moments here and there. letting himself be a kid, even if it’s just with you. that’s the secret you hold dearly.

his gaze shifts, and his chest lifts a little at your words. he knows exactly what you mean. it’s not about the paper, not at all.

“it wasn’t easy,” he echoes, voice low, as if the weight of it hasn’t quite settled in yet. “but it wasn’t so bad.”

as i’m heading home, ‘you worked hard’ / that it wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t so bad…

and maybe that’s how it starts—an ice cream cone, a bad karaoke duet, and a quiet night under plastic stars.

baekjin doesn’t let people in easily. but after your tutoring sessions, it slowly becomes routine. a few steps slower on the way home, maybe a shared drink at the corner store with his hand brushing yours once, then not pulling away the next time.

he starts showing up without being asked, and starts staying a little longer each time. and eventually, you stop counting how many times he lets himself be part of your world.

and then one afternoon—weeks later, a sky still pale from winter light—you pull out a paper you’ve been hiding all day: a perfect score. red ink, circled on the 100. you hold it out to him sheepishly while he lounges on the floor of your apartment, flipping through a children’s comic book like it’s riveting literature.

“what’s this?” he asks, taking it. his eyes scan the paper, and for the first time since you’ve known him, his eyes that usually held such a stoic, piercing gaze widens, genuinely stunned.

“you—” his voice breaks off, and then suddenly he’s up, paper still in hand, arms wrapping tight around your waist. you let out a startled laugh as your feet lift off the ground.

“you actually did it,” he says, half in disbelief, half in something that sounds suspiciously like pride. “you—god. you did it.”

you blink down at him, never before seeing him so animted. “was that… enthusiasm? from na baekjin?”

he doesn’t let you go, just presses his forehead to your shoulder with a quiet laugh.

“shut up.” but his smile doesn’t fade—not for a long time.

everything will be good, because it’s me…

and from that moment on, na baekjin finally, fully lets you in.

not just as the person who makes him laugh at photo booths or forces him into glittery karaoke rooms, or as a distraction from the union, from the weight he always carries so carefully on his own.

but as something more.

you become his outlet not just for stolen youth, but for something completely new to him—affection.

the kind he never knew how to ask for. the kind that’s soft and lingering, tucked into things like packed snacks on long study days, or the way he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you even ask.

na baekjin doesn’t say much, he was never the one for long explanations or complicated conversations.

but when he starts reaching for your hand without thinking, when he leans in a little closer on the bus station as you wait for your bus home, when he lets his gaze linger just a beat longer than it should—you know.

you’re not just something he’s letting himself want, you’re something he’s letting himself have. in the midst of re-discovering his youth, na baekjin discovers you.

cheers to youth

note: i had wayyy too much fun writing this, and creating the gifs !! do you notice how the spark gets stronger? i hope everyone appreciates this little glimpse into what life was like for our before the storm couple. hopefully this healed something in the readers of before the storm, lol. consider this my apology for the pain that bts caused >~<

back then, baekjin still tried to protect you. even when his nose was bleeding or his eye already bruising, he’d shove you behind him with those tiny fists up like he was invincible. he gave you his sleeve to wipe your nose, even if his own was dripping. when kids teased you, he stood in front with shaky legs and that same proud tilt to his chin, like he dared them to try.

baku was the loud one—your shield and baekjin’s, yelling and swinging while baekjin threw himself in with blind punches and more heart than strength. the two of them were a mess of scraped knees and stubborn pride, and you were the kid sister they never let out of their sight.

and then, soon enough, baku couldn’t stand watching baekjin take hit after hit like that—so he taught him to fight. said he had to, if baekjin was gonna keep throwing himself at people twice his size. he refused to teach you, though, said it was "too dangerous" with a scrunched-up nose and crossed arms. but baekjin would sneak you little updates when it was just the two of you, whispering about the stances baku showed him or how he finally landed a clean hit. eventually, the two of them were unstoppable—baku loud and wild like a storm, and baekjin quiet but sharp, always backing him up without missing a beat. and you were still there, watching them grow into a force no one dared mess with.

until their momentum was stopped on the day that baekjin disappeared. one day he was walking home beside you, shoulder brushing yours, and the next, his desk was empty. like he’d been swallowed up by the world without a trace.

no explanation. no goodbye. just gone.

but somehow, you felt like your older brother knew more about baekjin’s sudden exit from your lives than he let on.

the next time you saw baekjin, it didn’t feel real at first. it felt more like a memory that hadn’t faded properly.

you saw him before he saw you—head low, hair longer than you remembered, standing across the street outside that run-down bowling alley where rumors always clung like smoke, grunts and cries of pain could be heard from inside. your heart stuttered. the world didn’t stop—but you did.

he looked different. older. meaner. like life had moved too fast for him to keep up.

but his eyes—when they finally lifted and locked with yours—were the same.

like no time had passed.

like you weren’t strangers again.

you didn’t speak the first time, you could only stare at the tall figure. and then, he looked away and broke the gaze you shared first, walking back inside like it hurt too much to hold.

you kept seeing him after that—in the background. behind buildings, in passing cars, once on the rooftop of the cram school across from your own, cigarette burning down to the filter, eyes fixed on nothing. it was like the city was trying to show you he still existed. still breathed.

and then came the underpass.

you hadn’t meant to take that route. it was just late, and you were tired, and it had been a long day. you thought you could handle it—you weren’t a kid anymore. you could fight. baku finally taught you. baekjin taught you, too, just by existing.

but those boys—the way they leered. the way they used baku’s suspension as leverage against you.

and then him.

he didn’t even raise his voice. just said “that’s enough,” and it was like gravity remembered what it was supposed to do. the boys scattered like dry leaves. and you—god, you didn’t even realize you were shaking, fists already up and your stance ready to throw them at the boys that surrounded you just a second ago, until he stepped closer, brow furrowed, voice low.

“y/n… you shouldn’t be here.”

you wanted to yell at him, hit him, maybe even hold him.

you did none of that.

you walked home in silence, his presence beside you heavy like a storm cloud. at your door, he paused—hands still buried in his hoodie, the lamplight softening his jaw.

“you grew up,” he murmured.

“you didn’t say goodbye,” you replied.

he winced like that hurt worse than any punch.

but when you hugged him tight and whispered “don’t disappear again,” the only thing baekjin could do was nod.

after that, it was slow, cautious. like learning to walk across glass barefoot.

he never touched you first or let his hand linger—except that one night it rained so hard the streets blurred into silver streaks, and you forgot your umbrella.

you were trying to wait it out under a bus stop, shivering, soaked halfway through—when he appeared beside you, quiet as ever. didn’t say anything, just pressed a black folding umbrella into your hand like it was obvious he’d been looking for you.

“you’ll get sick,” you said, blinking.

“i’ll be fine,” he replied, stepping back into the storm without waiting for a thank you.

and the way he looked at you before he left—like he couldn’t believe you were real, like this was some dream he didn’t want to wake from—that’s what really started it.

a glance turned into a habit.

a walk turned into a routine.

late nights turned into a secret.

one evening, you found him waiting on the rooftop of an old building near your school, knees drawn up, a book balanced across them. his hair windswept, and he was squinting against the wind to read.

you laughed. “you’re such a nerd.”

he looked up, brow raised. “you still let your heart do the stupid stuff first.”

“and you still act like you don’t have one,” you shot back, sitting beside him.

that night, he kissed you.

that was the first time baekjin kissed you, he said your name like it was the only thing holding him to this world.

you weren’t a kid anymore. and neither was he.

but neither of you were ready for baku to know. not after everything baekjin has been through and is tied to now. you knew it was dangerous, but it was a risk you were willing to take.

and after that—well, you stopped pretending there wasn’t something between you.

even if it meant keeping it from baku. even if it meant dodging questions, meeting in alleyways, changing contact names and never walking too close in daylight.

even if it meant lying.

because what you had with baekjin—it wasn’t just a childhood crush or some thrill in the shadows. it was real. and it felt like it was yours.

something worth protecting.

you thought you were careful.

you were careful.

no texting unless it was code. no eye contact when baekjin stopped by the café you worked part-time in after closing just to catch a glimpse of you. no lingering touches, no flinching when you saw each other when you would walk back home from your own cram schools. baku didn’t suspect a thing.

until he did.

you didn’t even know he’d seen baekjin’s text, didn’t know he’d followed you out that night. you thought it was just another quiet moment, the first few drops of rain starting to fall—baekjin waiting for you by the convenience store, back leaned against the wall, eyes flicking up like they always did when you arrived.

you smiled. he smiled back, barely there, soft and crooked, and only you got to see it.

and then he reached out, thumb brushing a raindrop from your cheek. his touch tender, familiar.

you didn’t even hear baku coming.

just the sharp sound of footsteps—fast, angry—and then crack.

baekjin’s head jerked to the side from the impact, the sound of the punch echoing off the concrete like thunder. he stumbled but didn’t fall, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth.

“baku!” you gasped, stepping forward in instinct.

but your brother’s hand was already on your arm.

“let go—!” you cried, trying to yank free, but he wasn’t listening.

his grip was tight—furious—and the next thing you knew, he was dragging you across the empty street, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt to speak.

“you’re coming home,” he snapped.

“baku—stop—” your voice caught in your throat as your shoes scraped against the asphalt. “you’re hurting me!”

he didn’t let go.

not because he wanted to hurt you—but because he didn’t know how else to stop you. everything in him was burning. you could feel it in his grip. his silence. the way his shoulders trembled with each step.

behind you, baekjin didn’t follow. he didn’t call after you. he just stood there as the rain started pouring heavier, watching.

you looked back only once.

he was holding his chest like it ached, blood smeared across his lip, eyes locked on you with something devastatingly soft.

but he didn’t move.

not even when you disappeared around the corner, your brother’s hand still wrapped around your wrist like a leash.

the walk home was silent—if silence could be loud, teeth-bared, vibrating with fury. baku didn’t look at you once. not when the rain soaked through your clothes, not when your breath hitched from trying not to cry. but the second the apartment door clicked shut behind you, something inside him snapped.

“what the fuck were you thinking?” he exploded, voice rough, cracked from holding it in too long. “are you out of your goddamn mind?”

you flinched. he didn’t notice. or maybe he did, but he was too far gone to stop.

“him? him?” he shouted, pacing now, hands raking through his hair like he needed something to tear. “after everything—after he left, after he ghosted both of us, after he joined them—you thought that was okay? to sneak around with baekjin?”

“baku—”

“don’t,” he snapped, pointing at you. “don’t even try. you don’t get to play stupid now.”

the apartment was too small for his anger. it filled every inch of it, clung to the walls like smoke. your father wasn’t around—was never around—but even if he had been, baku wouldn’t have cared. he was beyond reason, seeing red, heart pounding like it wanted to burst through his chest.

“he’s dangerous, y/n,” he shouted, voice breaking for real this time. “you think i don’t know what he’s capable of? you think this is some romance? it’s not—it’s not safe. it’s not right.”

his chest heaved, breath ragged. and when he looked at you—really looked—it wasn’t just rage in his eyes. it was fear. worry. the kind that ran deep, that made his voice crack not from anger, but from something more helpless. something more brotherly. out of love.

“you don’t know what you’re getting into,” he muttered, quieter now, but no less sharp.

you opened your mouth to speak—but he shut that down before you could.

his chest rose and fell like he couldn’t catch his breath. and when he looked at you, really looked, it wasn’t just fury etched into his face—it was fear. raw and rattling, buried beneath every word he couldn’t say right.

“baekjin isn’t the same kid we knew,”

your fingers tightened around your phone.

he noticed.

his eyes flicked down to it, then back up to you. and this time, his voice didn’t rise. it sank—low, tired, final.

“i’m not gonna force you,” he said. “but if you’re keeping him... if this is what you’re choosing—then choose. tonight.”

and then he turned, walked away, the air between you thick with everything he didn’t say.

and you just stood there—phone still in hand, your heart stuck in your throat—knowing, without him saying it, that whatever you chose tonight... would change everything.

not just with baekjin, but with your own brother.

and all you could do was stand there, dripping rain onto the floor, feeling like a kid again. like no matter how much you’d grown, you’d never be more than his little sister.

later that night, long after the door slammed behind you and baku locked himself in his room, you sat on your bed with your knees pulled tight to your chest. your phone buzzed once.

you stared at the message. your wrist still ached from how hard baku had pulled. but your heart ached more.

you didn’t answer right away.

but you opened your drawer, dug through old notebooks, and pulled out the umbrella—the same black one he gave you that night it rained.

you still hadn’t returned it.

your fingers brushed over the fabric, tracing the edges like they held answers.

you thought about the way he looked at you—always like he wasn’t sure you were real. like he didn’t believe he deserved to be near you but couldn’t stop coming back anyway.

you thought about the silence he kept between you, not because he didn’t care, but because he did too much.

you thought about how he never pushed. never asked for more than what you gave. never made promises he couldn’t keep—but still showed up when it mattered.

he was here now.

in his own quiet, stubborn way—he chose you.

and the thought of losing him again, of watching him disappear without fighting to keep him this time—it felt like a second heartbreak you weren’t sure you’d survive.

your thumb hovered over your screen.

a thousand ways to say i’m sorry, or this is too much, or i can’t.

but none of them were true.

so you typed back slowly, quietly.

you pressed send, watching the messages pile up, delivered. and for the first time all night, you breathed.

whatever came next—whatever fights, secrets, screaming matches waited—you weren’t gonna let baekjin fade away from your life.

not again.

you were willing to argue, to plead, to fight your brother if you had to—but you weren’t going to lose baekjin twice.

note: i edited this bc it wasnt proofread when i posted it lol, plz bare with me i fixed repeat paragraphs i forgot to edit 😭

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juntae was the type of person who made space for you without ever making you feel like a burden. he brought you snacks during lunch and showed you where to hide out when the hallways got too loud. he also talked a lot about his friends, and one afternoon—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he said, “oh, you should meet sieun. you’d like him.”

you did. he was quiet and careful with his words, but funny in a dry way that caught you off guard. he’d glance at juntae like you really brought them here? but still offered you a spot at the table. he even let you steal a fry. so you counted that as a win.

after that came baku—loud, sunny, fast-talking. he practically tackled you into a high five and said, “juntae’s new bestie? you’re in good hands,” before dragging you into some debate about what counts as a sandwich.

somehow, you ended up kind of... just around. like a ghost that turned real. people knew your name before you introduced yourself. baku waved whenever he saw you. sieun always made room for you on the bench. and juntae, sweet as he was, forgot to formally introduce you to one person.

“yo,” gotak called, wiping sweat from his neck as he tossed the basketball to baku. “who’s that?”

baku looked up from tying his shoelace. “huh?”

“over there,” gotak nodded toward the sidelines, where you were doubled over laughing next to sieun and juntae. “they’ve been hanging around a lot.”

baku blinked, “that’s y/n.” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

gotak simply stared, as baku tilted his head. “you know them. don’t you?”

gotak looked back at you. you were teasing juntae about something, eyes crinkled, whole face lit up. juntae said something back that made you shove his arm, half-laughing, half-gasping.

gotak frowned, “i’ve never met them.”

baku paused. “wait. what? i thought juntae introduced you already—he told everyone else. dude. even sieun knows her.”

gotak narrowed his eyes. “so why didn’t he tell me?”

“damn,” baku grinned. “someone’s feeling left out.” as he threw the ball to his chest, a little too roughly to snap his friend out of it.

“shitty pass,” gotak muttered under his breath, passing the ball back to him.

baku snorted. “you sure you’re mad about the ball and not the fact that your bestie got a new bestie?”

gotak didn’t answer. but later that day, when he caught you waiting for juntae outside the gym, he slowed down.

you waved, and he waved back. maybe a little delayed, a little thoughtful.

maybe a little curious.

he hesitated like he was deciding something, then crossed the space between you with that awkward confidence some people carry when they’re not used to starting conversations but do it anyway.

he scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking down before landing on yours. “hey. uh... y/n,”

you smiled. “hi.”

he nodded, like that helped him keep going. “i’m also juntae’s friend, in the basketball team. with baku.” you tilted your head. “oh yeah—go hyuntak, right?”

he blinked.

you shrugged. “baku mentioned you once. and you were on the court earlier.”

gotak looked a little caught off guard, like he hadn’t expected you to know his name. then his mouth twitched, the smallest upward curve. “...right. that’s me. call me gotak.”

you stood there for a beat, quiet.

“it’s nice to meet you,” you said.

he glanced up, then back down, like he was working through a million thoughts at once. “yeah. you too.”

just then, the gym doors creaked open behind you.

“y/n!” jun-tae called, jogging out with his bag slung over one shoulder. “sorry—got caught up helping the coach—oh, hey gotak!”

gotak stepped back half a pace, nodding. “hey.”

juntae looked between you, confused for half a second. “wait—did i never introduce you guys?”

you and gotak both said, “no.”

juntae blinked. “...oops.”

you laughed. gotak didn’t, but his shoulders relaxed a little as he looked over at you again.

after that, he finally had an excuse.

or maybe it was just that now you were officially introduced—he started showing up more. like how he always just happened to walk by your classroom when it let out. or how he’d offer to carry your stuff from your locker even if it wasn’t heavy. he’d still act casual about it—mumbling something about "heading that way anyway"—but the look in his eyes always lingered a little longer than it used to.

you started showing up to practices more too. usually with a water bottle in hand. eventually, two.

then four.

baku started calling you their "hydration manager" and gotak rolled his eyes every time, but he’d take the bottle from your hands like it meant something, every time you handed him his bottle, your fingers would brush. lightly. deliberately. like a habit you weren’t in a rush to break.

he wasn’t loud about it, but as the days passed, he found himself looking for you more often than he meant to—your voice across the court, your laugh when juntae said something stupid, and the way you stuck around even when no one asked you to.

he didn’t say it out loud, but your presence became something he... liked. something that made the world feel a little softer when you were around.

and sometimes, when you laughed a little too hard at juntae’s jokes, gotak would glance over without meaning to. once, he got so distracted that baku shot the ball clean over his head and it smacked him right in the back.

“yo!” baku shouted, rushing over. “you good?!”

gotak muttered, rubbing the side of his head, “i wasn’t looking.”

“clearly,” baku huffed. “what were you looking at?”

gotak didn’t answer. just glanced back toward the sidelines, where you were sitting, completely unaware.

you weren’t exactly subtle either.

at first, it was just a glance. maybe two. maybe three, if you were feeling brave and he was too focused on the court to notice. there was something about the way he moved—steady, grounded, all quiet strength and furrowed brows. you’d never really watched basketball before, but suddenly it was your favorite part of the afternoon.

whenever he scored, you clapped a little louder. a little quicker. maybe even stood up once, under the excuse of stretching.

juntae caught you once. leaned over and whispered, “you cheer louder for him than for baku.”

you blinked. “no i don’t.”

he grinned. “yes you do.”

you smacked his arm. “shut up.”

but the next time gotak glanced toward the benches after a point, your hands were already mid-clap, eyes already on him.

he met your gaze.

just for a second.

you looked away first.

the more you saw of gotak, the more you saw him. it started with the little things—running into him by the vending machine after class, both of you reaching for the same pack of chips at the same time. you laughed, unsure of who should take it first.

“you can have it,” gotak said, smiling, though you could swear there was a flicker of something in his eyes. something that felt... not exactly like embarrassment, but not entirely casual either.

"no, it’s fine, you take it," you said, holding your hand out. "you reached first."

he paused, just staring for a second, before he gave a small shrug and grabbed it. “you sure?”

“yeah.”

you both took your snacks and stepped aside, awkwardly aware of how close you’d been. as you tried to avoid eye contact, you were almost certain your heart was racing. had he been looking at you like that... or was it just your imagination?

the awkward encounters started happening more often, though. a lot more often.

you’d bump into him in the hallway. near the library. at the school gates. suddenly, you felt like you were always in his orbit—and not just you. everyone noticed.

“you two are weirdly always in the same place at the same time,” juntae pointed out one day while you were grabbing lunch. “it’s like you’re following him around.”

you choked on your drink. “what? no. no, i’m not. i—he just happens to be there. i’m—just minding my business.”

juntae fixes his glasses, shrugging it off with a playful grin, though you could tell he wasn’t completely convinced. “alright, y/n. totally.”

and of course, baku caught on too. one day, while you were standing at the sidelines during practice, watching gotak and baku scrimmage, he glanced over at you, then at gotak, then back at you. then gotak. then you. he raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious.

“hey,” baku said casually, tossing the ball to gotak. “you two are like, besties now, huh?”

gotak froze, looking at him, and then glancing over at gotak to avoid meeting baku’s gaze. “what? no. we’re not—”

“uh-huh,” baku grinned, spinning the ball on his finger. “sure, and i’m top of the class.”

during practice one afternoon, it happened.

gotak went up for a dunk, but his foot slipped awkwardly when he landed, and he crumpled to the ground with a loud thud. your heart dropped as you watched him clutch his ankle, wincing in pain.

“gotak!” you shouted, rushing to his side.

he grimaced, leaning against the floor, clearly in pain.

“dude, what happened?” baku called out, rushing over too. “you good?”

“i’m fine,” gotak muttered, trying to push himself up, but his face twisted in discomfort. “just sprained it, probably.”

sieun was quick to appear by your side, his usually calm demeanor shifting slightly as he assessed the situation. without missing a beat, he turned to you, a rare glint of something in his eyes. “maybe y/n can take him to the infirmary? we still have to clean up here.”

you blinked, unsure how to respond. “huh?”

sieun shot a pointed look toward baku, who was still oblivious to what was going on. his lips curved in the smallest, lopsided smirk. “baku doesn’t need your help right now,” he said, almost too casually, before giving a side glance at you.

you noticed baku didn’t catch the hint, just furrowing his brows at the situation. “wait, what? you seriously want y/n to drag him to the infirmary? you do realize that guy’s gonna crush ‘em under his weight, right? y’know gotak’s been having too much chicken—”

sieun’s eyes flickered with something that might’ve been amusement, though his expression stayed neutral. “go on,” sieun said, motioning to gotak, tone soft but firm. “help him out.”

you looked down at gotak, who was still struggling to stand, and it dawned on you that he was huge—much bigger than you. and the thought of dragging him all the way to the infirmary alone? absurd. awkward.

but you couldn’t exactly say no, not when everyone was watching and not when he was looking at you like he needed your help.

“you okay to walk?” you asked, kneeling down next to him.

“i think i’ll survive,” he grumbled, clearly embarrassed by the situation.

you offered him your hand. “come on, let’s get you there.”

he took your hand, and you tried not to notice how big his hand felt wrapped around yours. you both started walking, and although you tried to make it seem like a casual walk, every step felt like you were carrying the weight of his entire body.

sieun watched you both for a second, his gaze unreadable. the smallest of smirks tugged at the corners of his mouth.

the walk to the infirmary wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be, though you were still struggling to act normal when you finally helped gotak sit down on the clinic bed. his ankle was already wrapped up, but he kept fiddling with his fingers, looking down at his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

you sat across from him, the silence stretching for a moment as you both just sat there, waiting.

“uh, thanks for this, y/n,” gotak mumbled, his voice quiet in a way that was almost unlike him. he kept glancing at you, then back at his hands.

you tilted your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “no problem, seriously. i told you, i’m happy to help. anything for you,” you said, maybe a little more casually than you intended, your heart racing just a little.

he met your gaze then, eyes wide and slightly soft, a subtle smile playing at his lips. “anything?” he asked, teasing, but there was a hint of something more in his tone.

“well, yeah,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt. “you’re my friend. i’ve got your back.”

there was a beat of silence as you both just looked at each other. gotak’s gaze lingered on you, his fingers still fidgeting, though a little more nervously now.

“you’re…you’re a really good person, y/n,” he said softly, his eyes lowering to his hands again, as if he was unsure of how to put his feelings into words.

you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks warm at the sincerity in his voice. “thanks, gotak. that means a lot coming from you.”

the moment stretched longer than it probably should have, but neither of you seemed to want to break it.

finally, he cleared his throat, looking up at you with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “so, uh…if you’re willing to do anything for me…”

you raised an eyebrow. “yeah?”

he shifted a little, suddenly a little more serious, though his usual playful grin still tugged at the corners of his lips. “you think you could—i don’t know—not make me fall for you?”

your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you swore you didn’t breathe. his words hung in the air, the playful edge still there, but there was something different about the way he said it. something that made your heart flutter in that puppy-love way that only people in the early stages of affection could understand.

“w-what?” you stammered, unable to hide the rush of warmth that spread across your cheeks. “you’re—you’re falling for me?”

he raised both eyebrows now, the teasing gone from his voice, replaced with something more earnest. “maybe,” he said with a small, sheepish grin, his gaze never leaving you. “maybe it’s too late for that. i think i’m already halfway there.”

you blinked at him, unsure how to respond, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. the air between you was suddenly thick with something you didn’t quite know how to define.

you broke the silence with a nervous laugh, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “well, i guess it’s not so bad to meet you in the middle if you’re already halfway there.”

gotak chuckled, his lips curving into that genuine smile you’d come to look forward to. “yeah, i guess it’s not, huh?”

if u liked this, a reblog would be greatly appreciated to help my work reach other people as well >><< !! thank u thank u

⤷ yeon sieun

he doesn’t say a word when you kneel, just watches you with that intense, unreadable stare. it’s not until your lips wrap around him that his breath hitches—barely audible, but sharp. his fingers curl into the arm of the couch, the only giveaway that he’s actually unraveling.

you go slow, wanting to see what kind of reactions you can pull from him. he swallows hard. his thigh twitches. then, finally, a sound—low and breathy: “don’t stop.” he doesn’t guide you. doesn’t push. but when his hand cups your jaw, there’s something raw in it—like he’s grounding himself with you. he finishes with a tight exhale, eyes fluttering shut, and when he comes back down, he murmurs, “come here,” like he’s desperate to hold you, to take back the control he just gave up.

⤷ ahn suho

he watches you kneel in front of him, his expression shifting from surprised to almost amused. “you sure about this, baby?” he asks, voice still calm, but you can hear the hint of anticipation beneath it.

but the moment your mouth wraps around him, his teasing demeanor fades. “f-fuck—wait—” his hand flies to your hair instinctively, not rough but firm, guiding you just the way he wants. his hips buck upward just a little as he tries to hold himself together, but it's clear he's losing it.

"shit, you feel so good," he groans, voice thick with need. “y-you’re gonna make me—” he cums with a sharp gasp, eyes fluttering shut, his grip tightening in your hair as he shudders. afterward, he pulls you up into his arms, kissing the top of your head with a soft laugh.

“you have no idea what you just did to me,” he whispers, his breath still unsteady, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

⤷ park humin (baku)

“oh my god, wait, wait—holy shit—” he’s already whining before you even start, half laughing, half panicking. you press your mouth to his length and he melts, one hand flying to his hair like he needs to pull it to stay conscious.

he talks through the whole thing—loud, flustered, ridiculous. “you’re so hot, oh my god, i can’t—babe, babe—your mouth is actually insane—” he keeps trying to look down at you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second. every time you suck a little harder, he moans like he’s being possessed.

“i’m gonna cum, oh fuck, i’m—ah, shit—” he whimpers, hand flying down to cover his mouth as you take all of him in. afterward, he lies flat on the bed, panting. “i literally saw god. was that even real? or did i hallucinate?”

⤷ go hyuntak (gotak)

he doesn’t say a word—just watches you silently, jaw clenched. when your lips wrap around him, he inhales sharply through his nose, gripping the edge of the couch so hard his knuckles go white. his voice comes out low and strained—“don’t tease. if you’re gonna do it, do it.” and when you take him deeper, a groan rumbles out of his chest—so deep it makes your thighs clench.

he doesn’t fuck your throat, doesn’t move much at all—but you can feel the tension in his body like a live wire. he cums with a stifled grunt, holding your head there as he spills down your throat. afterward, he leans back, breathing heavy, eyes glazed. “…fuck. that was something else.”

⤷ seo juntae

he looks like he might pass out when you kneel—eyes wide, hands flying up like he’s about to protest but forgets how. “w-wait, you don’t have to—i mean, if you want to, i’m not gonna stop you, but—” and then your mouth is on him and he chokes on a gasp. his hands hover awkwardly in the air for a second before he grips the blanket, knuckles white.

“ohmygod—th-that feels—” his voice is high, barely coherent, broken between moans and shaky breaths. you glance up and his face is flushed, lip caught between his teeth, eyes behind his glasses already watering. he cums with a whimper, hips bucking up with his thighs trembling, immediately covering his face. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to go that fast, i just—holy shit, you’re really good at that.”

⤷ na baekjin

he doesn’t speak when you kneel, but his expression changes—sharpening, almost curious. maybe a little hungry. he stays perfectly still as your mouth wraps around him, but his breathing falters, eyes darkening as he watched his length disappear against your lips, hand twitching once before it settles gently on your head. he groans—quiet but intense, jaw clenching every time your tongue swirls around him. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, hand tightening in your hair.

you feel his thighs tense under your touch, and his voice breaks when he tells you, “just like that.” his body shivering as you hollow your cheeks. he cums with a gasp, hips barely jerking, breath catching like he didn’t expect it to hit so fast. after, he helps you up, kisses you slow and deep, he touches your jaw gently and pulls you into his arms, forehead to yours and whispers, “thank you, darling.” like you just saved his life.

⤷ geum seongje

he smirks the moment you drop to your knees, eyes glinting with something dark. “damn, baby. didn’t think you had it in you.” but when your mouth sinks down on him, that smirk vanishes—replaced by a look that’s feral.

his hand fists your hair, not rough at first, but when you moan around him? he pulls—hard. “fuck—keep doing that,” he growls, “you look so good like this. fuck, you’re mine.” keeping you there as his hips twitch forward. he pulls—not to hurt you, but to keep you there, like he needs it. his other hand wraps around the back of your neck, firm and possessive, holding you close as he thrusts shallowly into your mouth.

“look at me,” he growls. “i said—look.” his pupils are blown wide, gaze locked on yours like you’ve got him under a spell. “you’re fucking perfect like this,” he pants. “mine. you get that? mine.”

“fuck, you’re gonna make me—” he cums with a sharp gasp, head tilting back as his muscles tighten, breath ragged. the moan he lets out is raw, needy, almost desperate—the kind that lingers in your ears long after.

and afterward, he yanks you into his lap, kissing you sloppily, breathing you in like he needs you to live. “don’t ever do that for anyone else,” he whispers against your lips, “i’ll lose my fucking mind.”

⤷ oh beomseok

he stares when you kneel in front of him—eyes wide behind his glasses, mouth slightly parted like he can’t believe what’s about to happen. “a-are you… really gonna—?” his voice is so quiet, it barely comes out. he shifts back on the bed like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. but he doesn’t stop you—he can’t. and the moment you wrap your lips around him, he breaks. “f-fuck—wait—” his head falls back instantly, a choked gasp punching out of him as his fingers grasp at the sheets.

his glasses slide down a bit, his breath stuttering as the heat rushes straight to his face. he whimpers when you take him deeper, soft and sharp, his thighs trembling slightly as he tries so hard not to move. “you look so good like this,” he pants. “fuck, you’re gonna make me—” he cums suddenly, hips twitching up into your mouth before he can warn you. it’s high-pitched, needy, almost embarrassed as he moans through it—his glasses fogged, his whole body tensed and shaking. afterward, he reaches for you with trembling hands, pulling you against his chest like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “how am i supposed to act normal after that?” his usually deep voice is slightly higher now, still recovering from the high.

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